A Fatherland in Sound – Anima Eterna Brugge & Václav Luks honour Smetana

With the integral performance of Má Vlast by Bedřich Smetana (1824-1884), Anima Eterna Brugge set up a musical monument on Saturday, September 13 in the Concertgebouw Brugge, under the direction of Czech maestro Václav Luks. The sound was so authentic and empathetic that you felt transported to a Prague concert hall. A personal prelude When I first saw the ensemble Collegium 1704 conducted by Václav Luks in Händel's Messiah in 2019, I was immediately sold by the authenticity of these Czech master musicians. In 2021, in the middle of the pandemic, that same Collegium performed Má Vlast during the Prague Spring Festival. Once again I was blown away: What a rebirth of a score that so often falls into routine! So, when I heard that Luks would perform this masterpiece again with Anima Eterna Brugge, I didn't hesitate for a moment: I had to witness this. And that it would be not a repetition, but a rediscovery, became clear already during the warm-up rehearsal I was able to attend that afternoon. What I heard – and saw – there gave the later concert even more weight. The art of storytelling Václav Luks is not a conductor who seeks spectacle. What he does is tell a story – in sound, in colour, in breath. His approach to Má Vlast – six symphonic poems about the landscape, legends and spirit of Bohemia – breathed transparency and natural flow. He never forced anything, always felt. Luks knew when to sustain, when to let go. Under his hands, Anima Eterna Brugge opened up into an orchestra that not only performed, but sang, spoke and whispered. The use of historical instruments – gut-string strings, woodwinds with a warm, muted tone, brass without modern shrillness – made this evening a sonic journey back to the Prague and Bohemia of the late 19th century. During the rehearsal earlier that day, we were given a special insight. Anima Eterna Brugge first sought out the right instruments, discussed tuning, strings and playing style. Only then did the real work begin the following week. For many musicians, this was their first encounter with this enchanting score. It felt as if they themselves were playing the premiere – with curiosity, wonder and respect. Six movements – six faces of a fatherland Vyšehrad – the castle as a sound monument The cycle opened with an evocation of the mythical Prague castle Vyšehrad. The arrangement of the two harps – left and right on stage – created a fascinating stereo image. They outlined the contours of the ancient walls, memories in stone and strings. The solemn brass tones served as sentries at the gate, while the strings glided like mist over the Vltava. Luks let the orchestra play like a fresco: restrained, dignified, a silent tribute to the past. Vltava – a river with a soul Anyone expecting Vltava as merely a recognizable melody was surprised. Luks stripped the work of all routine and bombast. The two flutes spoke like springs coming together, and soon the stream grew into a musical landscape full of imagination: hunting fanfares, a peasant wedding, nymphs dancing by moonlight on the water. The river shimmered, flowed – never mechanically, always alive. The flutes glittered, literally and figuratively. At the end, the Vyšehrad theme returned, as a poetic gesture: the river carries the past with it. The cliché was unraveled; the music sounded reborn. Šárka – revenge in the forest Šárka led us into a dark forest, where the legend of the bellicose maiden who murders her seduced victims came to life. The opening passages sounded brooding, ominously threatening underneath. When Šárka set her trap, the orchestra burst forth: rhythmic, sharp, cutting. This could easily have sounded grotesque, but under Luks it remained dramatically layered. A tragedy without words, told with musical precision. Notable detail: why an intermission was inserted after this third movement remains a mystery. You're in the middle of the story – and suddenly pulled out of the novel. Fortunately, the power of the performance quickly brought you back into Smetana's universe after the break. Z českých luhů a hájů – hymn to the land Literally: From Bohemian meadows and forests. This pastoral movement became, under Luks, a sun-drenched miniature opera. The woodwinds whistled like birds, the strings wove light through the trees, the brass sparkled like dew on open fields. The orchestra excelled in transparency: every voice was given space. The climax – an almost dance-like fugue – was an explosion of joy, clear and natural. Rarely did a pastoral sound so fresh. Tábor – bellicose and stern With Tábor began the concluding duo of the cycle, in which the Hussite song Kdož jsú boží bojovníci takes centre stage. This 15th-century battle song calls for courage and faith in the struggle for justice:

Ye who are warriors of God and of his law, pray for the help of the Lord and for his grace. Followers of Jesus Christ, be brave in the fight!

The sound was angular, stubborn, resolute. No bombastic volume, but inner strength. The song theme was repeated, distorted, recalcitrant, like a struggle that drags on. Luks built the arc of tension slowly, towards an unfinished ending – as if the struggle was not yet over. The orchestra played here with slender strength, without romantic heaviness. Blaník – hope in the heart of the mountain Where Tábor ended in threat, Blaník offered redemption. The Hussite song returned, transformed into a hopeful motif. The knights from the legend sleep in the Blaník mountain, waiting for the moment of need. In this final movement, the Hussite song sounded again, but now transformed into a hopeful, almost triumphant theme. The music took flight. Luks made it both a prayer and a victory march. The return of the Vyšehrad theme brought everything together: the homeland as memory, as promise, as dream. No screaming finale, but a closing chord full of solace – the homeland was sung, remembered and healed. The power of preparation What sounded so effortless during the concert was the result of intensive and thoughtful rehearsal. During rehearsal I saw how Luks works: no authoritarian gesture, but an open dialogue. He gave focused instructions, about tone colour, phrasing, rhythm. He consulted the concertmaster, spoke with musicians, felt the orchestra. Striking: Luks normally conducts without a baton, but for this Romantic repertoire he chose to use one. "It's simply clearer for the orchestra," he told me. He follows Smetana's notes meticulously – something that rarely happens. "There are so many indications in the score. He was deaf when he wrote Má Vlast, and yet it sounds as if he heard everything." Luks' tempi are often fresher than usual. He based them on the first recording by the Czech Philharmonic under Václav Talich from 1929. "There you hear an enormous freedom in the music-making. That is authentic for me: investigating how it must have sounded then, not how we are used to it now." Colour richness and balance What truly distinguished this performance was the colour. No massive blocks, but transparent layers. The strings played with natural articulation and light portamento, which subtly evokes folk music. The brass played not for strength, but for character. And the woodwinds – oh, the woodwinds – drew contours as never before. No museum piece, but living music Smetana's homeland is not a geographical place, but an idea, a longing, a memory. Anima Eterna Brugge and Václav Luks made Má Vlast not a dusty museum piece, but living music. The historical performance tradition was not treated as a limitation, but as a source of creativity. For Luks it was refreshing to play this music with an orchestra that is not rooted in the Czech tradition. Má Vlast is after all not flat patriotism, but has a universal character that can touch everyone. And so it came to pass. Má Vlast became a gripping musical portrait that gripped you by the throat. Smetana's dream sounded again – not as memory, but as living force. A homeland in sound: with respect, with depth, with fire.