In Praise of the Twelve

They are unique. Naturally, every symphony orchestra has its cello section. But nowhere else in the world have the deeper, larger strings joined together to form an independent ensemble - an orchestra within an orchestra - meeting with success after success. That is why every music lover knows immediately where the "12 Cellists" come from, even if they cannot name their orchestra. They are an institution. They have played together since 1972, appearing as an ensemble, occasionally in Berlin, often elsewhere, and quite often traveling great distances. Even their premiere concert, with its evening-long program, took place not in Berlin, but instead in Tokyo, the Japanese capital, a city with which they are still closely associated. The group's personnel has changed over the years; founders have entered retirement, and younger colleagues have also moved on. Continuity and renewal have formed a productive alliance in the history of the 12 Cellists - as you can hear for yourselves.

Early History

The Twelve have realized that which others had only dreamed of. At least two great names symbolize the pre-history of an idea which - although it now appears quite obvious - no one, for so long, dared to actually realize. Both of these forefathers were great virtuosos of their instrument.

The Prehistory & Background of an Idea

Pablo Casals is said to have dreamt of an orchestra consisting exclusively of cellos - an unusual idea, but not an entirely novel one. In fact, it is evidence of his strong historical memory. For during the era of what we now refer to as "Early Music", that is to say, three or four hundred years ago, there were the so-called "consorts of gambas", small ensembles consisting of only that tender-sounding cousin of the violoncello, namely the viola da gamba, the viol that is positioned between the legs while being played, rather than held in the arms.

Well and good: but these many-stringed instruments, with their nasal tone-quality and fretted finger-boards were constructed in various sizes and diverse registers. A gamba consort thus included higher and deeper instrumental groups, and this distinguishes them from the pure cello ensemble. But its tone-color was, in its basic character, similarly uniform.

Pablo Casals undertook several initiatives in order to see to it that his dream of a pure "knee-viol" ensemble would be realized. The great Spanish cellist knew his instrument and its possibilities with precision, and certainly understood that a mono-instrumental orchestra could be successful only with a group of deeper strings. Serious competition in this area is hardly a danger. Just imagine a stage full of violinists, with no other instruments whatever. The musicians would have much to offer: their violins might be jubilant and sparkling, and they might well propel their virtuosity in the higher register all the way to the limits of the perceptible, or soothe it into a tender web of sound - they might even charm a true kaleidoscope of sound-images from their devil's instrument by plucking, knocking, tapping, muting, and forcing. But sooner or later, the listener would come to miss the fundament, and this display would thus only have succeeded in intensifying a desire for the musical capacities of the deeper voices. And even the violas cannot fulfill this desire. That leaves only the contrabasses, but in their high range, they lack the necessary penetrating power, that little pinch of mordancy always possessed by the cellos, even when they approach the tonal areas of the flutes and violins. Our everyday speech has thus far only discovered the sharper, higher, and louder instruments for its image-world. Heaven may be "hung with violins", as the saying goes, yet this operetta-like celestial experience was conceived for people who have both feet on the firm ground of reality.

It is the cello itself, however, that is responsible for the "grounding" of musical enjoyment, for it even stands with three feet on solid earth: one of its own, and the two human ones supporting it.

No doubt about it: the cello really represents the universal among the instruments of the orchestra. It is at home in all areas of the wide tonal, audible spectrum, from the sonorous depths to the shrill heights. Its cantilena is distinguished by its unique charm, and when it is set against the full orchestra, one is always witness to a special phenomenon. In the drama of a musical score, the cellos often fix the exclamation point. From the most beautiful tone to the most muffled stroke, from the noblest singing all the way to the most irritating haze of noise: for them, everything is possible, and their well-formed bodies always provide excellent resonance for a wide diversity of musical effects.

Pablo Casals was perfectly conscious of the cello's hidden talents. He promoted the instrument with his own composition - appropriately, a dance piece - his 'Sardana' whose homeland is Catalonia. He scored it for an orchestra of cellos consisting of at least 32 members. That was in 1927.

The Beginnings of "The 12"

Seven years earlier, another master of the instrument had already prepared the way with a preliminary work in the realm of chamber music. In 1920, Julius Klengel, the cello virtuoso, teacher and composer, wrote his 'Hymn' for twelve cellos; together with eleven of his chosen students, he is said to have presented it to his friend Arthur Nikisch (principal conductor of the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra from 1895 to 1922) as a serenade for the latter's 65th birthday. Two years later, the work had its first - and for a long time last - performance: the solemn movement with its bold opening was played at Nikisch's funeral in late January of 1922. But fifty years later, this curiosity of the Leipzig virtuoso and composer made possible an historical event. With the rediscovery of Klengel's work began the history of the Twelve Cellists, a history now encompassing 25 years.

It came about like this: certain well-informed and resourceful Salzburg producers had uncovered this music-historical singularity in an archive. They asked the most important festival orchestra of their city, the Berlin Philharmonic, whether its cello section would be available for a public radio broadcast recording of the dedication hymn. The musicians agreed. The undertaking was a resounding success, and it called for a continuation. But two important preconditions still had to be fulfilled: pieces for a repertoire, and a manager for concert appearances.

A New Repertoire

This first precondition was facilitated by, among other things, one of those happy accidents that often likes to accompany success and vigorous initiative. Anyone who has followed the history of the Twelve Cellists even casually must know the authentic anecdote about the fifteen-year-old daughter of a composer who was hitchhiking her way through Berlin in rainy weather, and was brought to the very door of her house by someone well acquainted with her address, and with the prominent figure residing there. By way of thanks, her father composed a piece for the cello group of the Philharmonic Orchestra: thus came into being in three installments one of the works that have come into the permanent repertory of the Twelve, also becoming one of the most beloved works of its "inventor": 'Blues, Espanola and Rumba Philharmonica' for twelve solo cellos by Boris Blacher, a three-part dance suite that pays an avant-garde visit to three passionate centers of the dance: Afro-American in the USA, Spain and South America.

Further extensions of the repertoire came about through commissions. Here, both of the unequal cities then sharing the burdens and honors of a German capital, were notably prominent. Confident of their Europe status, each of them commissioned works from a neighboring western nation, namely France. Berlin was the first. The Festival management requested a piece from Jean Francaix, the original, self-willed neo-classicist, who rejected artistic schools and stylistic constraints. In his 15-minute 'Morning Serenade', he had been inspired by George Sand's letters from abroad. He promised a great deal: "the finale of my 'aubade' has the instruments droning - just like the cars in a 24-hour run from Le Mans, my town of birth - so loudly that even deaf listeners will applaud, spurred on by the sight of cello bows moving at lighting speed, and by the demonic faces of the twelve virtuosos." Here, the theatrical aspect of music. The premiere performance of the cheerful and high-spirited Serenade took place on September 30th 1975 in Berlin's New National Gallery - their first evening-long concert before a local audience.

Bonn engaged lannis Xenakis, the rationalistic sound-magician, who, of Greek origins, but born in Rumania, has made Paris his adopted home. In his "8-minute thriller" (Wolfgang Stresemann), this architect, mathematician, and composer calls for nearly every effect that can be produced by cellists in terms of tone quality and teamwork. Virtuosity is required on all levels: technically, in the comprehension of the whole, as well as in terms of listening and musical response. The premiere took place on the 20th of November 1976 in Bonn, in the presence of Walter Scheel, then President of the Federal Republic.

Additional works followed. In 1975, Michael Braunfels, the Cologne composer, wrote his 'Symposium' for the Twelve, in 1976 Marcel Rubin composed his 'Concertino' to a commission from the Vienna Festival, and Helmut Eder composed his 'Melodia-Ritmica' for Salzburg. Günter Bialas' 'Assonances' was the product of a commission from the Schwetzing Palace Festival, and for the Lucerne Festival, Rudolf Kelterborn developed his 'Scene for 12 Cellists', while Wolfgang Fortner turned in 1983 back to the ancient genre of the madrigal. The Twelve's first appearance in the GDR was associated with Udo Zimmermann's 'Canticum Marianum', performed at the Dresden Music Festival. A rich repertoire, and a modern one: in this respect, the Twelve enjoy advantages even when compared with the dramatic impact of the assembled Philharmonic.

Each anniversary of the Twelve has brought something new. In 1992, on the occasion of his 40th birthday - and the Cellists' 20th - Wolfgang Rihm presented his 'Augenblick' ('Moment'). In 1997, Brett Dean's birthday greeting arrived in the form of a musical score, his 'Twelve Angry Men'.

Symbol and Practice, or the Indispensable

Twelve is a mythical number, standing for perfection. Twelve months complete the year, twelve half-tones make an octave, and day and night each complete their respective cycles in two-times-twelve hours. Twelve tribes composed the ancient peoples of Israel, twelve disciples accompanied the founder of our customary religion, carrying his teaching across nations, and twelve gates lead to the Heavenly Jerusalem, the visionary city of a free humankind. Twelve cellists are members of the Berlin Philharmonic - the number has its hidden meanings, but this bare, myth-free statistic, however, also poses many practical difficulties, calling for ingenuity. For when the Twelve is involved in its own activities, the rest of the orchestra can simply pack up, unless wind music is scheduled, which is seldom the case. There is certainly an orchestra literature without violins, but virtually no works without cellos. No matter how one looks at the matter, the cellos have a key function to play: they are simply indispensable. Their appearances as a group are thus possible only during orchestra vacations, when neither concerts, recording sessions, nor rehearsals appear on the calendar. Their concerts must therefore be planned well in advance, as must recording sessions, while rehearsals can be altered in the short term. The Twelve are thus always obliged to include a special clause in their contracts, of a type usual only with reference to acts of God: they are only available with the approval of the entire Philharmonic, since service in the orchestra takes precedence over side activities - however exclusive and image-building these may be. While there have been no serious conflicts in the history of the Twelve, there have been a few ticklish situations, a number of which have entered into the orchestra's collection of anecdotes.

When, for example, an act of God in the form of a heavenly weather service put the plans of the Philharmonic's cellists very much on ice, the greatest organizational creativity was called for. It was the first Sunday in December 1986, the day on which a hailstorm arrived. The Cathedral in Frankfurt am Main was the agreed upon setting for a benefit concert under the sponsorship of then mayor Walter Wallmann. Everything had been perfectly organized. The trip was to have been by airplane, while the return had to be with the night train, for on the following morning there was a rehearsal under Herbert von Karajan. The train, the only one in that era of the divided Germany, left nightly at 10:30 PM, and there was little time to spare, so timing was professionally meticulous. In late afternoon, however, the hail began to fall in Berlin. It scrubbed the town, at least in terms of traffic and transport, spick and span. All flights from Berlin were canceled. What was to be done? In this case, the only help to be had was through the clever cooperation between international and personal connections. A Pan Am pilot, a friend of one of the Twelve Cellists, achieved the virtually impossible: permission to take off in a machine which he personally flew to Frankfurt, with the musicians on board. The announced commencement of the concert was no longer possible when permission to land in Frankfurt was given. And this too was achieved only with the greatest effort, since heavy fog hung over the metropolis on the River Main: most flights were re-routed to Stuttgart. The pilot, however, found a fortunate opening and landed safely. Ten of the Twelve quickly left the airport for a hurried trip to the cathedral. The other two waited for them there, informing a by now fascinated and excited public of the location of the others. When they finally entered, they were greeted with a burst of applause, and when they concluded their necessarily abbreviated program, they were bid good-bye just as enthusiastically. This applause was intended, as usual, for their artistic prowess - but in this case, for their organizational performance as well.

The High Value of Diplomacy

Nothing is more difficult to write about than the history of a continuing success. On paper - in drastic contrast to in reality - it has a slightly monotonous effect, thereby converting the actual quality of an event into its opposite. Musicians abroad are measured by the strictest of standards, all the more so should they come from Berlin: they are viewed as ambassadors of their city, even of the nation. The Twelve Cellists have never had any difficulties with this role, one they have played to perfection. When it is a question of the diplomatic status of musical ensembles, they may well constitute an undisputed acme. How often have they received invitations to presidential receptions? They are even expected to accompany heads of state on official visits. Who else would have been invited to give concerts in the most sacred and most exalted location of the Japanese state, the Imperial Palace in Tokyo? The Twelve have been invited five times already, and were even accompanied on the piano by her Royal Highness, the Empress Michiko. They were among the entourage in 1988 when Richard von Weizsäcker 1988 made an official state visit to Sweden. They have their devotees and their lobby among the highest levels of this Republic, they enjoy both recognition and trust, and people often turn to them when it is a question of rapidly organizing effective assistance. They gave a benefit concert for the victims of the earthquake in Japan's Kobe; at Frankfurt am Main, they contributed proceeds from a concert to the battle against multiple sclerosis, dedicating a performance to the great Jacqueline du Pré, who died of this terrible disease; and they have performed in Potsdam for the benefit of the Court Theater of the New Palace.

(Habakuk Traber)