Nimble Tread

Associational Aggravation

The other day I was listening to Jean-Yves Thibaudet's cd, The Chopin I Love, and was reminded of something I've been meaning to write about for a while.   The disc opens with the so-called Heroic Polonaise, a well-known and widely-loved tune that, despite its merits, torments me whenever I hear it.  It has a terrific theme that swells from the recitative and climbs into high drama, where it lingers for some time thrilling the masses and invigorating the children.  The trouble is that all I've been able to hear for the past few years is the story of Oliver Cromwell as sung by Monty Python.   As the music crescendos, John Cleese lets loose a psychotic wail: "Oooooooliver Cromwell, Lord Protector of England..." and once you get that in your bean, there's quite frankly no going back. 
Other pieces have been ruined for me as well.  A short list, drawn off the top of my head, includes the following: Victor Borge's take on Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto #1, in which he not only meanders through tunes such as For He's a Jolly Good Fellow and My Darling Clementine, but also does a little dissonant exploration in the neighborhood of Db major; the overture to Il Trovatore which I now expect to have morph into Take Me Out to the Ballgame, thanks to the Marx Brothers' efforts in A Night at the Opera; Ride of the Valkyries = Kill Da Wabbit, courtesy of Elmer Fudd; and many efforts by Alan Sherman, most notably his famous parody of Ponchielli's Dance of the Hours in the form of Hello Muddah, Hello Fadduh.  There are non-comedic examples as well, particularly those involving mistakes that I've heard so many times I've come to accept them as the correct way to play the piece.  Take for instance Fritz Kreisler's flat Db half-way through his transcription of Tchaikovsky's Andante Cantabile.  Or Gil Shaham botching the fifth note of Korngold's Concerto for Violin and Orchestra in D major.  I'm sure that with enough time and inclination I could come up with a fairly lengthy list, but I have no intention of doing that.  If anything, I'm trying to purge my memory of these things in the hope that I might someday sit through Il Trovatore without seeing Harpo Marx stick a piece of sheet music to the back of a violinist's head with a piece of chewing gum.   It could happen.  I just hope it does so sooner rather than later.

Till Fellner's Merry Pranks

I capped off a longer than expected run of Wigmore concerts with a nice treat.  After listening to a string of exceedingly talented but somewhat weighty-fingered pianists, it was nice to pull up anchor and ascend into Till Fellner's region of the atmosphere.  The Viennese musician uses a more subtle dynamic palette than most and relies on relatively small gradations in intensity to communicate the music's peaks and valleys.  I enjoy his style, and if pressed to employ an analogy, would say that Fellner is to Andreas Haefliger as Fred Astaire is to Gene Kelly: they're both terrific, just in markedly different ways.  And speaking of Haefliger, Radio 3 is streaming his recent Schubert recital here.  Why not have a listen?

P.S.: For those of you who keep track of these things, Fellner played Beethoven's Piano Sonata No. 16 in G Op. 31 No. 1, JS Bach's 15 Inventions BWV 772-786, Elliot Carter's 90+, and Schumann's Kreisleriana Op. 16.   

Goode

Richard Goode is fantastic.  He set quite the scene last night, showing up at the Wigmore in white tie and dimming the stage lights so low that he looked to be in a sepia photograph from from the late 1800s.  He played Haydn's Piano Sonata in D HXVI: 24 with such a light touch that it sounded as though he were tiptoeing across the keyboard.  Brahms' 7 Fantasias Op. 116 came off terrifically thanks to Goode's remarkable ability to waft from one mood to the next, and his splendid control over dynamics.  There's no doubt that he had a topographical map of the piece in mind and he made it manifest in as seamless a manner as you're likely to see.  He sang along at times and was clearly enjoying a bit of body English, particularly with regard to the falling motif, which he illustrated by lifting his left hand high into the air and sweeping his upper body to the left as the notes rolled into the bass like droplets over a waterfall. 
He followed the Brahms with a moon-soaked rendition of Fauré's Nocturne No. 6 in Db Op. 63 and  rounded out the programme with Debussy's Préludes Book II, a piece that lulled the audience into a trance which remained unbroken until the last prélude, Feux d'artifice, blasted it back to reality.  It was a great night, and made me nostalgic for good ol' Marlboro, Vermont, where Goode is thankfully still the co-Artistic Director of the School and Festival along with Mitsuko Uchida.  Now that's quite the twosome.   And speaking of rare twosomes, be absolutely sure to get to the Queen Elizabeth Hall on May 31, 2008 to hear Goode and Jonathan Biss.   The two will be playing Schubert's Allegro in A minor for piano duet, D.947 (Lebenssturme) , Schumann's 6 Etudes en forme de canon, Op.56 arranged by Debussy for 2 pianos, Beethoven's Grosse Fuge in B flat, Op.134 arranged for piano duet, Stravinsky's Agon for 2 pianos, and Debussy's En blanc et noir. 

Power Play

With his stocky, fast-twitch constitution, Renaud Capuçon looks more like a high school linebacker than an increasingly famous violinist.  His head seems to sprout directly from his shoulders, and when his collar's worn open it cuts a neat line even with his upper lip.  He's a very physical player but mostly restricts himself to small movements, many of which appear slightly jerky, almost tense, and are reminiscent of another neckless violinist, Isaac Stern.
There's a certain grace to Capuçon's technique, but by and large he's guided by economy of motion rather than fluidity.  He certainly knows his strengths better than anyone, and tailored his most recent concert at the Wigmore to stand them in high relief.  The French violinist selected a trio of power pieces, Schumann's Sonata No. 1 in A minor, Op. 105, Grieg's Sonata No. 3 in C minor, Op. 45, and Brahms Sonata No. 3 in D minor Op. 108, and teamed up with American pianist Nicholas Angelich to bring them to a boil.  Listening to so much build up and release would have been exhausting if they  hadn't managed it with such finesse and variation.   Capuçon can play explosively at will, but can also rein in the thunder and produce wonderful cantabile lines when necessary.  Above all, he has a great sense of form, and does a very nice job of keeping the music fluid from start to finish.  Who's to say when he'll be back in London, but I imagine it'll be before long, so keep your eyes peeled.   

Relax, Everything's Hahn-der Control

People often level the accusation that Hilary Hahn plays like a machine, by which I suppose they mean to imply that she's a wonder technically, but fiddles with all the passion of Ralph Nader on Percocet.  I think a lot of her trouble comes down to her Vuillaume.  A different violin would do wonders for her sound -- I'm hardly alone in believing that -- but switching instruments is no small thing, and she's clearly not ready to take the plunge.  In the meantime, the RoboHilary contingent will continue its criticism, as happened last night in the interval of her concert at the Wigmore.  I heard the word "technique" and its derivatives more times than I could count, and yet I was far from convinced.  I thought Hahn played Janáček's violin sonata and Mozart's Sonata in A K. 305 with terrific precision and limited passion, which I'll admit had me worried, but then she came out of her shell for the Devil's Trill section of Tartini's Sonata in G minor and never looked back.  She nailed Ysaÿe's Sonata in A minor Op. 27 No. 2 for solo violin and rode the momentum through Beethoven's Kreutzer sonata.   The latter had a few odd dynamic transitions, and there were times when Hahn seemed to disappear into a piano phrase, but she does Beethoven well, and on the whole the piece was nicely played.  She capped off the concert with Paganini's Cantabile, which seemed a good choice for someone looking to bridge the divide between technique and expression, and I suspect a few converts might have been created from the local cynics. 

L'Opéra imaginaire

My mother sent me a link to this delectable short from a collection of opera-inspired animations called L'Opéra imaginaire.  In addition to La Traviata, the collection touches on Lakmé, La cenerentola, Tosca, La Nozze di Figaro, Carmen, Rigoletto, Faust, I Pagliacci, and Die Zauberflöte.  Most of the shorts are cartoons, and a few are waaay out there, but definitely worth a look.  You can find a list of them on YouTube here.  My mother and I share a favourite, and I bet you'll agree with us.   

Hobgoblins abound

There have been big doings on the South Bank this bank holiday weekend.  Construction on the Royal Festival Hall was on hiatus, but the rest of the Centre was abustle with activity.  For starters, the Queen Elizabeth Hall and the Purcell Room were playing host to the London International Guitar Festival, which essentially consisted of several concerts, workshops, and live performances in the foyer that were loud enough to shake plaster from the ceiling and fillings from teeth.  There's nothing quite like listening to highly amplified music in a concrete bunker: the particular sensation of feeling my anvil, stirrup, and cochlea clanging around in my head is not one I relish.  Accordingly, I escaped the hubbub and hit the bricks, taking a stroll along the river and doing my best to spot as many of Antony Gormley's bronze men as I could.  They're perched on rooftop corners and seem oblivious to the hazard involved in their watch.  The figures were drawing a considerable amount of interest from pedestrians, particularly the ones mounted in the distance.  While the sculptures hold little mystery up close, they are wonderfully enigmatic from afar, and to my eye kept vacillating between looking stoic like sentries and appearing as unstable as pending suicides.  I've taken a quick shine to the fellas, and feel they offer a benevolent presence to the city.  They naturally have an air of the idolic to them, and I expect that they'll be drawing soliloquies and hosannas before long.  It takes a hard sort of person to give a tight-lipped inanimate object the cold shoulder.
After counting fifteen bronze men I ambled back to the Purcell Room, where John Jorgensen and his quintet were set to play what was billed as an evening of Django Reinhardt-inspired music.  I had made a mistake in buying the ticket, which is to say I confused my Scandinavian-named manouche guitarists and thought I was seeing someone I'd seen a couple of years ago at the Quecumbar, a gentleman named Nils Solberg.  Being the sport I am, however, I entered the auditorium in a receptive mood and thought all would be well until I spotted a small drum kit squatting behind the rhythm guitarist's chair.  I'm a minimalist when it comes to gypsy jazz, and believe that drummers, however gifted, are best left out of the equation.  Your standard issue rhythm guitarist keeps time with such remorseless precision that he's essentially a percussion section, only he can play harmony as well.  Drums only serve to obfuscate the intricacy of the guitar work. 
  Jorgensen is American, but has been schooled in European swing guitar technique, and even enjoys dabbling in "authentic" Django noodling by tucking his ring and pinky fingers into his palm and only using the two digits that were available to the Maestro.   Such was his practice during the Quintette du Hot Club de France tunes Dinah and Appelle directe, which Jorgensen played note-for-note like the recordings.  They were fun to hear, and I'd have liked it if he'd played a concert full of old Django tunes, but we got instead a diverse mix of musical styles ranging from New Orleans jazz to pseudo-classical, the latter coming in the form of Grieg's Norwegian Dance.  It was an intrepid outing, but a bit all over the place and, I thought, somewhat tiring to listen to.  I find it difficult to shift from one upbeat style to another without settling down for a while, and after a few tunes I began to get worn down by the sheer number of notes played.  I can only take so many runs, and by the time the interval rolled around I felt as though I'd been through a half marathon.  I had to go home and listen to Arvo Pärt's Spiegel im Spiegel a few times to balance myself out.
  On another note, I'd like to mention how terrific the bfi SouthBank (formerly the National Film Theatre) looks these days.  They did a great job with the renovation last year, and I've already spent quite a few hours in the Mediatheque breezing through the archive.  The place is a far cry from how it used to be, although I'm happy to say that the foremost attribute of the erstwhile National Film Theatre is still alive and well, namely the prohibition on eating and drinking in the theatres.  It's nice to be able to watch a movie without having to suffer through popcorn being munched and wrappers being crinkled.  Now if they can figure out a way to eliminate the insane coughing that's been haunting London's concert halls these past few months, we'll all be in aces.

Arcanto

The Arcanto Quartet put on quite a show at the Wigmore last night, playing Schubert's String Quartet in Eb, D.87, Mozart's "Dissonance" quartet, K. 465, and Shostakovich's String Quartet No. 15, in Eb minor, Op. 144, which just so happens to be one of my all-time favourite pieces of music.  The ensemble is made up of four outstanding young musicians who are each highly regarded soloists in their own right, but who dovetail so seamlessly that one gets the impression they've been playing together for decades.  The Arcanto seemed a fairly democratic ensemble, and the two violinists, Antje Weithaas and Daniel Sepec, took turns leading, the former carrying the baton for Schubert and Shostakovich, and the latter accepting the pass for Mozart.  They did a fine job of breaking down the wall that can sometimes exist between the violins and their larger cousins in the ensemble, and maintained a high degree of sensitivity to the clever bass lines that cellist Jean-Guihen Queyras crafted over the course of the evening. 
Any string quartet that takes a crack at Shostakovich No. 15 has to be pretty sure of itself and its ability to produce dynamic tones and true harmonies if it's going to stand a chance.  The piece leaves every member of the ensemble exposed and there's accordingly very little margin for error.  When it's pulled off, however, the music is just dynamite.  Its textures are fantastic, and serve to create a sense of air flow in the music that's absolutely captivating.  I had a ball listening to violist Tabea Zimmermann's tone, and recall thinking that maybe the viola isn't so bad after all, which, I have to tell you, doesn't happen very often.  The group showcased a great variety in mood, and they complemented that with the ability to shift from one idea to the next with amazing speed and fluidity.  They were even kind enough to throw in a nail-biter halfway through the Shostakovich.   The musicians were using large format scores with a couple of pages divided like Dutch doors, one of which had an errant lower half that kept flopping over while Antje Weithaas tried to read it.  There were a few tense moments when she'd shake her head and quickly flash a hand down to turn it back only to have it once again breeze over.  I think everyone in the audience was holding their breath and hoping that she'd be able to remember enough of the music to pull it off.  There's no faking a forte harmony after all.  We were all very relieved when she finally came to the end of the page and let it have its way at last.  No major mistakes registered.  I was reminded of a video clip of Jack Benny and Isaac Stern playing Bach's double at Carnegie Hall.  Benny was all business, wearing reading glasses and everything.  He was doing just fine until a slight gust of wind turned a page in his score and derailed him.  People in the audience yucked it up, as they were accustomed to his gags, but you can tell that he was disappointed.  Every time I watch the video I feel sorry for him: Jack Benny and his magic violin playing at Carnegie, with Isaac Stern, and a dumb whistle of wind takes him down.  He made up alright, but I'll bet he kept a sharp eye out for subtle flutters a long while after that.