I've been seeing Nicola Eimer in name or person everywhere for the last couple of weeks: with Remus Azoitei at the Royal Academy, on fliers at Schott's and at the Wigmore, and most recently last night at St-Martin-in-the-Fields where she played a programme of Haydn, Schubert, Brahms, and Chopin amidst the din of screams, sirens and squeaky pews. How she did so is beyond me, and I could see her stiffen when a bang disrupted a beautiful legato phrase in Brahms' Intermezzo in A major Op. 118/2. I admire musicians who can play at St Martin's, just as I admire listeners who can sit there in peace. Sadly, I fall into neither camp. Nicola will once again play in the Annual Jacqueline du Pré Charity Concert at the Wigmore, which will take place on March 27th and will see the pianist join forces with the Carducci String Quartet.
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« December 2006 | Main | February 2007 »
Sunday Sounds
I noticed that a small crowd had gathered along the left hand side of the stage rail and, not having much else to do, wandered over to investigate. The attraction in general terms was a piano tuner giving the wrenches to a fortepiano, but it was the fact that he had slid out the keyboard and had it spread out in front of him like a writing desk that drew relatively widespread fascination. He tinkered around with this and that, giving a deft jostle to a peg or a quick sanding to a key, all the while sitting with his legs crossed at the knee and broadcasting a look of sheer patience. It had already been a busy day for him, and it was apparent that he was pacing himself.
His charge was a pretty looking fortepiano, Cherryish in colour and finicky in temperament, which squatted low on the stage like a goose incubating eggs. It was the instrument of choice for Robert Levin -- ace pianist, Harvard professor, famed improviser of Romantic cadenzas -- who was in town to work through a selection of variations and the entire cello sonata output of the revered Spanish composer, El Beethoven. Levin's companion in the endeavour was Steven Isserlis, a widely admired cellist in these parts who, aside from being topped by the most incredible nebula of hair, is also one of the cello world's more acute wits. His talents emerged in high relief during the Airliner Instrument Scare of 2006, when he declared "Last I heard, Osama bin Laden’s performances of the Bach suites were receiving terrible reviews." As regards the coquettish fortepiano, he very sensibly noted that its use would imbue the performance with a certain amount of excitement impossible to conjure on a Steinway. Sensing the audience was a bit disappointed with this, he flashed the Isserlis smile and added, "it's supposed to set your teeth on edge!" Levin grimaced and tried to get out something in the way of a comeback but was drowned out by the audience's laughter. I felt sorry for him, and imagined that he was thinking how nice it is that no one ever pulls this kind of crap at Harvard.
The duo was making a day of it at the Wigmore, beginning with an hour-long Coffee Concert at 11:30 am, and resuming their effort with an unhurried afternoon performance that began at 4:00 and ended some time around nine. The math involved is misleading: Beethoven only composed five sonatas for cello and piano, which, assuming each one clocks in at roughly thirty minutes, works out to two-and-a-half hours. Nothing to sneeze at, but hardly the marathon slog one might get with a performance of, say, the complete piano sonatas. Or Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg, which will typically begin somewhere in the vicinity of 5:30 and end the following Thursday. Another example of pleasant musical endurance is the wave of Orgies on WHRB, which pop up a couple of times a year, and happen to be in full swing at this very moment, precipitating such strange experiences as my getting a voicemail from my mother in which she announces that she's just phoning to say hello and is spending a pleasant afternoon at home, her feet up on the ottoman, listening to Anna Russell going at it in an orgy, and giggling her head off.
While I’d hardly classify the scene at the Wigmore on Sunday as orgy-like, there was a certain sparkle in the atmosphere, and everyone seemed to be in high spirits. The evening concert was set up as follows: Cello Sonata in F Op. 5 No. 1, Cello Sonata in G minor Op. 5 No. 2, 30-minute interval, Cello Sonata in A Op. 69, 1-hour-plus interval, Cello Sonata in C Op. 102 No. 1, and finally Cello sonata in D Op. 102 No. 2. All of the intervalling gave people ample time to mingle, and the fact that the second interval was a “supper interval” certainly didn’t hurt any. Most everyone adjourned downstairs to the restaurant or the Bechstein Room, and leisurely dined as Isserlis and Levin rested and the piano tuner tuned. I found myself at a table with an elderly man who’d lean clear over his lamb whenever he’d speak, and would tap his fork on the rim of his plate if he felt he was making a point that needed more emphasis than he could provide with his voice alone. People were really going at their feed and, I noticed, partaking pretty liberally of the house red. It therefore came as little surprise that the audience suffered considerable attrition once seats were re-taken. I was reminded of a particular brand of winter party, perhaps unique to New England, which one begins on a whim one sleepy Saturday afternoon with the intention of seeing it through to early the next morning. People arrive in great number and with infinite pep, happy to be rid of their boredom and keen to be among friends. Drinks are consumed, stories are swapped, fires are lit -- all with the greatest enthusiasm. Gradually, in fact so much so that you don’t notice it, people fade into the night and you’re eventually left with small pockets of guests huddled around tables or tucked into sofas, oblivious to the time or the goings on outdoors. Everyone enjoys themselves at these parties, even those who’ve left early, and when people look back on the time they had, they do so with fondness. It was in this vein that Steven Isserlis and Robert Levin entertained the Wigmore audience.
Lewis van Beethoven
Seen in profile, Paul Lewis bears a passing resemblance to Beethoven. The older, wild-haired 1818 Ferdinand Schimon version, not the youthful, peppy Willibrord Joseph Mähler model of 1804. It's tempting, given Lewis' immersion in the composer's work, to formulate a working theory of aesthetic parallels between author and artist -- a sort of people-looking-like-their-pets thing for musicians. There are, of course, a few easy marks -- Pablo Casals and JS Bach (minus the wig), Alexander Markov and Paganini, Renée Fleming and Korngold -- but the model sadly falls to pieces under the slightest scrutiny. Juan Diego Florez, for instance, looks not at all like Rossini. Still, it's fun to think about such things on the Tube, which is exactly what I did last night on my way home from listening to Paul Lewis at the Wigmore Hall.
The pianist has been on a Beethoven tear for the past few years, recording the entire cycle of sonatas and then taking them on tour throughout Europe and the US. Lewis is in the midst of a Beethoven series at the Wigmore and stopped in last night to provide the latest installment in the form of Sonata in F Op.54, Sonata in Eb Op.27 No.1 ('Quasi una fantasia'), Sonata in C#minor Op.27 No.2 ('Moonlight'), and Sonata in Eb Op.7. He emerged on stage and made a beeline for the piano, at which he sat without flourish, and upon which he began to play immediately. Things got off to a conservative, almost motoric start, with Lewis doing more tinkling than tickling, but after twenty bars or so of Op. 54 he loosened up and began to allow some air into the music. Lewis' playing is confident, and it's obvious that he's spent a good deal of time with these pieces, a detail that accounts for both the abundant positive, and rarefied negative aspects of his performance. For starters, he's a marvelous technician who manages to explore and illuminate a piece's inner voices without sacrificing melodic clarity. Additionally, he enunciates well in staccato passages -- as was seen in the third movement of the 'Moonlight' sonata -- and plays with a remarkably even tone across the keyboard. The downside, at least with regard to the Beethoven sonatas, is that his familiarity with the pieces naturally comes from his having played them countless times, and there were a few moments last night when his musicality took a brief hiatus. These were fortunately few and far between, and arguably offset by Lewis' skillful shaping of entire movements. His transitions were particularly suave, and I admired his overt sensitivity to the great care Beethoven took in constructing the music. Examples of such were abundant, but in particularly high relief in the opening movement of the 'Moonlight,' which Lewis played terrifically thanks in large part to his wise choice of tempo and his voicing of the famous theme, which was played straight and without the bathos that haunts many renditions. Rather than a moonlight-tinted lament, Lewis gave us a stirringly vivid account, which left me feeling as though a stranger had laid a hand on my forearm and, finding himself on desperation's doormat, insisted on telling me his story.
My favourite moment of the evening came during the third movement of Sonata 4 (Eb major, Op.7). There's a wonderful moment in the Eb minor section of the Allegro when the bass, which had been boiling along in triplets leaving us wondering how Beethoven will ever get himself out of the mess he's created, suddenly falls silent and the notes in the right hand slowly float us back to the movement's opening theme and the home key of Eb major. All of a sudden everything makes perfect sense and, with order restored, the music runs unimpeded to its end. Lewis obviously recognized the suspense inherent in this moment and used rubato to great advantage by exercising good judgment and a good ear, two attributes that marked this Wigmore performance and served to ensure another full house for the next one, which, incidentally, he'll play on March 28th.
Nota Bene: The concert was recorded and will be broadcast by Radio 3. More information on when to come.
Bach to the Future
If any of my dear readers feel they've been neglecting Bach's Chaconne, a chance to restore the balance is on the horizon. The nice people at J&A Beare are sponsoring a competition to be held at the Bishopsgate Institute in which contestants from far and wide -- assuming they're qualified and under 30 -- will play contrasting movements from a Sonata, Partita or Suite for stringed instruments of their choice and vie for a £500 booty. I trust the judges will be subjected to countless Adagios from Sonata I, plenty of Allemandes, Correntes and Sarabandes from Partita II, and of course a full complement of the Chaconne. I'm hoping for a performance of the Toccata and Fugue, knowing full well it's a long shot, but I'm by nature an optimist. The competition's on the 24&25 of March, so be sure to register soon!
Gubaidulina
It's been Sofia Gubaidulina week at the Barbican, where the composer herself, dressed in black and full of pluck, has been joining audiences in listening to a selection of her mid-to-late, though hardly widely known, works. Last night's concert presented three of her pieces, Fairytale Poem, Offertorium, and Pro et contra, the last two of which which were explicitly tied to Bach both through the composer's use of thematic material and, to a lesser extent, by the programme notes, which over-egged the Bach pudding a bit, though I imagine intentionally, and for the purpose of helping the audience get a handhold on the music.
Also involved in audience aid were the conductors Michail Jurowski and Michael Francis (who happens to be a double bassist in the orchestra), both eleventh-hour replacements for Valery Gergiev, who was home sick. The two shared the billing and like conservatory conducting class students sweetly and with varying degrees of success took turns at the LSO's helm.
Francis, who with his blonde curls and pleasantly open features looked young enough to still be in conservatory, was first on the podium and led the orchestra in Gubaidulina's 1971 piece, Fairytale Poem. Francis conducts without a baton and puts his hands to good use, moving them to manifest the shape of the sound he's after and, at more precise moments, sweeping them through rigid duple or triple time figures. His movements are usually graceful and very clear -- both desirable attributes in a guest conductor; he seemed relaxed and in control of the score, but played things pretty safe, which given the last-minute nature of the situation is understandable. His conservativism actually proved to be less of a problem than you might think, at least where Fairytale Poem was concerned. It's a piece that, for me at any rate, is remarkable chiefly for its incredible production of sounds. It's a programme work and tells the story of a piece of chalk cooped up in a classroom and subject to a despotic teacher who insists on using it to describe ghastly arithmetic figures on the blackboard. Like anyone, this piece of chalk has a dream, and that dream is to enjoy itself in the great outdoors, breathing fresh air and drawing pictures of castles, garden pavilions and the sea. As it happens, the chalk gets its wish thanks to a young boy's kleptomaniacal tendencies and ends its days in freedom, scribbling its castles and thanking its lucky stars.
Gubaidulina is a supremely skillful composer, and makes the most of this plot to explore the contrast between the oppressiveness of the indoors and the giddiness outside the classroom walls. There were moments -- quite a few, in fact -- where I hadn't a clue which instrument was producing a particular sound and had to scan the orchestra until I alighted on, say, a violist sneakily imitating a swirling breeze by bowing almost a quarter of the way up the fingerboard.
The story isn't clearly described by the music, but rather hinted at and outlined. It was composed to score a children's programme, The Little Chalk, on Moscow Radio, and with the text removed came across as being very abstract, which I found rather pleasing. That said, I would love to have a listen to the programme and hear what Russian kids were listening to to pass the time in 1971.
With the story of the chalk behind us, it was time to get to the meat of the programme, and, as an introduction to such, Leonidas Kavakos strolled on stage to play the Sarabande from Bach's Partita II in D minor. Kavakos is an alarmingly capable musician and when on stage is a very serious individual. He's splinter thin and seems to be constructed from hollowed out bones, like a bird. Accordingly, his touch is feather light, and he uses it to create long lines of floating notes that few others can manage. His legato is silky smooth and when watching him play, I get the impression that his fingerboard is made of highly polished glass.
Kavakos' Bach was of the ethereal variety, which might not be to everyone's taste, but he played the Sarabande extraordinarily well and carefully crafted the vocal lines, perhaps with a thought to foreshadowing the Offertorium to come. I typically find these snippets of the Sonatas and Partitas an unforgivable tease, but in this case it served as a prelude to the Gubaidulina piece that followed.
With a handshake, Jurowski joined Kavakos and the LSO on stage and the group quickly got the show on the road with Offertorium. My familiarity with the piece is extremely limited. In fact I've only heard it once, and that was at home listening to Gidon Kremer (for whom it was composed) play it with the Boston Symphony under Charles Dutoit. Compared to that version, last night's felt a bit disjointed. The band played well, particularly in early tuttis, but the piece dragged a bit and suffered at transitions, which Jurowski repeatedly muddled and twice conspicuously elongated by bringing the band in late.
Kavakos, on the other hand, was fantastic. His playing was very secure, and he did a nice job of listening to the orchestra as he played. He struggled a bit with intensity during a couple of moment's, but made up for this by playing a jaw-dropping cadenza, which he made look so easy and sound so good that violinist Carmine Lauri kept shaking his head and looking at Gordan Nikolitch with eyebrows raised and furtive smile dancing on his face. I was sad to see Kavakos go, but consoled myself in the knowledge that I'll be seeing him again soon, when the Wigmore hosts him on May 28th.
One thing I gleaned from last night's concert was what a skillful orchestrator Gubaidulina is. She demonstrated her considerable talents throughout, but laid them on thick in Offertorium and Pro et contra, where she kept her listeners on their toes by inserting clever touches into the music: a run and climbing glissando on strings gets capped by a delicate bell chime; the bass and tuba commandeer the music and inspire abject terror. This is exciting stuff, and crackles when it's played well, which it mostly was. Michael Francis was back on the podium for Pro et contra, and resumed his staid leadership of the band. Part I went well, as did most of Part II. The main trouble that popped up was one of expression rather than technique. There's a strings passage around the middle of the movement that's meant to feel off-kilter: the notes gradually become top heavy and the strings scramble, and then run, in an attempt to regain balance, never quite managing it, and finally tipping over into the next passage. As it happened last night, it was more of a restrained jog and gentle faint. Francis' caution was also felt in Part III, where the dynamism of the movement wasn't remotely exploited. This was most apparent at the very end, where the build up to the final key change didn't do enough to establish tension, the result being that the poignant ascension of E natural wasn't sufficiently felt.
On the whole it was an enjoyable evening, and I left feeling sorry that I hadn't managed to get myself to the other concerts in the series. Gubaidulina got a cheering response from the crowd, which she deserved, all the more so for being a late bloomer in a landscape of prodigious youths.
Razzmattazz
The Razumovsky Ensemble was on hand at the Wigmore last night, where they first delighted the packed house with Mozart's String Quintet in C Major, K.515, and then astonished it with an fine rendition of Schoenberg's Verklärte Nacht. It's a devilishly hard piece to play, especially in its sextet form, but the band was superb, and I really enjoyed myself. On a side note, I was mightily impressed by David Alberman's 1736 Del Gesu, and won't deny experiencing a spell of covetousness that only mostly passed when I forced myself to face the reality of his superior talent. Oleg Kogan did a fine bit of casting this time 'round. For those of you who keep score, the Ensemble consisted of Winfried Rademacher and David Alberman on violins, Krzysztof Chorezelski and Philip Dukes on viola, and Oleg Kogan and David Cohen on cellos.
