Category: Reviews – Concerts

Martin Rummel, cello and Stephen de Pledge, piano in highly successful programme for Wellington Chamber Music

Posted on by Lindis Taylor

Beethoven: Cello Sonata in C, Op 102 No 1; Schnittke: Sonata No 1 for cello and piano; Stravinsky: Suite Italienne; Shostakovich: Cello Sonata in D minor, Op 40

Ilott Theatre, Town Hall

Sunday 10 June 3pm

It sounded as if De Pledge and Rummel had decided to keep the best till last – the best rehearsed, that is. The second, third and fourth items were excellent.

Beethoven’s C major sonata is unusually short (about 15 minutes) and has an unusual shape; the cello opens alone, presenting a sad, descending motif that, as the piano joined, became a sharing of intimacies between the two; it had real charm. But as that passage drew to a close and the much more forthright Allegro vivace took over, there was an uncomfortable disconnect between cello and piano, the latter seeming unaware of the imbalance that resulted from its impact. Often the two instruments echo each other, at other times the two are almost at odds and care has to be taken to assure a unity of feeling, rather than what I felt to be the piano tending to assert its primacy.

Perhaps the lid should be down, but in the later pieces where the balance was perfectly measured, De Pledge showed that he could get quiet and sympathetic sounds with the lid on the long stick.

Added to that was an occasional smudge or missed note in the piano.

The second movement, particularly the final section, another Allegro vivace, was affected in the same way, with the piano dominating, making too much, for example, of the sudden fortissimo chords that recur. Though, in a spirit of fairness, I wondered whether the cellist should be sharing the blame, I concluded eventually that the cello was following the composer’s intentions scrupulously.

Having gone on at undue length about the first quarter hour, I must now exclaim about the excellence of the rest of the afternoon. I have not been completely won over to Schnittke’s poly-stylistic vein, but the first cello sonata suggests the styles of different eras in a coherent, integral way. Again, the cello makes its entry alone, somewhat anguished, which the piano soon picks up. The two instruments seemed in warm accord, hearing each other with complete understanding; I enjoyed the rhapsodic cello passage with discreet punctuations by the piano.

The stark dynamic contrasts between cello and piano in the second, Presto, movement were splendidly pronounced; the piano often had a more commanding role here, too, but the sense of a carefully prepared approach was always evident. So it was with the cello’s upward, singing line in the concluding Largo and the piano’s exquisite pianissimo phrases. In their hands, the last movement was a most interesting, engaging experience.

Martin Rummel entertained the audience with some piquant anecdotes about Stravinsky, making comparisons with between the written language employed by him and Prokofiev; I forget the pretext, but the matter was interesting, even amusing: Prokofiev abbreviated to the point of eliminating all vowels while Stravinsky’s language was always meticulous.

The Stravinsky suite, drawn from his ballet Pulcinella, could have been originally written for these players and indeed, one could feel that the music of Pergolesi’s contemporaries which was then thought to be by the latter, was Stravinsky’s natural idiom. Here again, balance between the two instruments was admirable, and they conveyed in a fluent, warm manner, the dancing spirit that imbued most of the pieces, even through the unruly rhythms of the Tarantella. Stravinsky was never a composer to follow tradition slavishly and in the Minuet the players stretched normal expectations in a way that was both cavalier and sentimental.

Shostakovich’s cello sonata, from the early 1930s, is one of his best known chamber works, well-furnished with melody as well as with its constantly interesting developments and the opportunities that Rummel and De Pledge grasped to make the most of the great variety of articulation and expressive devices that Shostakovich provides. The vivid and lively scherzo-style second movement came off particularly well, enriched by the combination of a traditional framework in an idiom that could not have existed before the advent of Stravinsky and Prokofiev. It rather overshadowed the following Largo. In the finale, both instruments had their moments of supremacy but the running was pretty evenly balanced, with marcato cello passages giving way to careering scales in the piano.

So ended a splendid programme in which the only 19th century piece emerged as rather less successful and memorable than the three works from the 20th century.

 

 

 

Remarkable performance of a noble work: Mozart’s Requiem

Posted on by Rosemary Collier

Mozart Requiem by candlelight

Voices New Zealand Chamber Choir, Vector Wellington Orchestra, Morag Atchison (soprano), Bianca Andrew (mezzo-soprano), Bonaventure Allan-Moetaua (tenor), Shane Lowrencev (bass), Douglas Mews (organ), conducted by Karen Grylls

St. Paul’s Cathedral, Hill Street

Wednesday, 6 June 2012, 7.30pm

Hearing a performance of Mozart’s great Requiem, (completed by his pupil Süssmayr) is always an event; it seems a pity that this presentation came so soon after the Bach Choir’s performance of the same work (see Middle C review by Peter Mechen, on 31 March).  Bianca Andrew was the mezzo-soprano on that occasion also.

Prior to the performance, there was a talk by Peter Walls.  He traced the history of the myths around the work’s composition, Mozart’s premonitions of death, and of the various hands that contributed to the completion of the work, at the request of Mozart’s widow, Constanze.

Peter Walls had a timeline of when each event occurred, and a table showing which composer ‘had a go’ at which sections of the work.  He concluded that for well-argued reasons, Süssmayr’s was the most satisfactory completion, although the latter apparently lacked confidence in counterpoint (he was only 21), and in writing for trumpets and timpani, and ignored some of Mozart’s writing.

Some other notes from the talk are worth recording: the work incorporates elements of opera, drama, and rhetorical ideas.  The work is both ceremonial and personal.  The instruments accompany the choir; they do not have much scope for ‘doing their own thing’.  The orchestration is spare, being for strings, organ, basset horns and bassoons, plus brass and timpani.  The basset horns give a plangent, reflective sound.  Some of the writing echoes Handel, and also plainchant, not to mention the material that Mozart was working on at the time of commencing the Requiem: the operas La Clemenza di Tito and Die Zauberflöte (The Magic Flute).

It was gratifying to see a ‘Sold Out’ sign in the Cathedral foyer, but not so pleasing to see that numbers of the reserved seats remained unoccupied, and that several rows at the front, not reserved, were largely empty, with no-one ushering people into them.

What struck me first about the choir was its comparatively small size; six to each part made for a well-balanced choral sound, but initially I considered the choir too small for this work.  It is the size of the choir (men and boys in his case) used by Mozart for his 1789 arrangement of Handel’s Messiah.

With the orchestra, notably the brass, in front of the choir, the sound at first was too quiet and not focused – it didn’t speak out.  After the mournful opening orchestral phrase, the basses’ entry in the Introit was strong; the tenors’ less so.  By the Dies Irae opening of the Sequenz, the sound was being projected better, and I realised that rehearsals would have taken place in an empty cathedral; the sound would have carried well compared with the performance, when several hundred bodies were soaking up the wavelengths.

Peter Walls suggested that the first movement, Introit, with its walking , might be seen as journey towards death.

The fugal Kyrie was taken fast, as was the Dies Irae.  The organ was employed for almost the entire work, but while it obviously provided a continuo basis to the texture, it was seldom heard through the other instruments.

Apart from a short earlier passage from soprano Morag Atchison, the soloists came into their own in the Tuba Mirum.  Both tenor and bass proved to have exciting voices, though that of bass Shane Lowrencev from Melbourne was not particularly rich, and good projection.  Bianca Andrew sounded fine; Atchison’s voice had a little too much vibrato for my taste, but her tone and accuracy were very good.  All put over the words clearly and accurately.

It might  have been useful to leave a gap in the printed programme between the various parts of the Sequenz, to assist the audience to find their places, since following the words gives infinitely more meaning to Mozart’s word-painting.  However, the concert was advertised as being by candlelight, in which case the printed words would not have been of much use.  In the event, the lights were not lowered until after the start of the Benedictus.  Whether this was deliberate or simply forgotten earlier, I do not know; certainly the choir had their mini-torches on their music folders lit from the beginning.

The Rex Tremendae section started in thrilling fashion from the men of the choir, while the women’s Salva Me was beautifully done.

Recordare began with the basset horns giving a wonderful almost spooky sound, followed by the soloists’ parts intertwining appealingly.  Confutatis again featured marvellous contrast between the male voices and the ethereal women’s voices.  All was delineated carefully, with just the right tone.  Indeed, attention to detail and variation of vocal tone were common denominators through most of the concert.

How wonderful the Latin language is to sing, especially when set by a genius like Mozart!  All those pure vowels!  It hardly needs to be said that in this choir everyone makes the vowels in exactly the same way.

The orchestra, too, was unified.  The strings made their anguished sounds here and in the Lacrimosa.  The players were in good form throughout the performance, although there was not the bite that an orchestra of Mozart’s time would have had, with narrower bore brass instruments, and smaller timpani.

The Offertorium provides contrasts between the legato words against the running strings accompaniment.  The music reflects the words so well that there is a case for having surtitles, as the Tudor Consort did at a concert not so long ago, so that the audience can really tie words and music together, and learn why the composer set the words as he did.  The soloists sang splendidly in this section

Then comes the Hostias; my favourite part of the whole work.  This is heavenly and sublime, with wonderfully gentle clashes and contrasts, before the rapid repeat of ‘quam olim Abrahae promisisti’.

The Sanctus (the first of the three movements thought to be written entirely by Süssmayr) was sung in robust fashion.  Then the beautiful melody of the Benedictus, sung first by the mezzo-soprano, enchanted.  It was well executed, the wonderful chromatic phrase having full impact.

The poignant, even anguished Agnus Dei exploited dynamic contrasts to the full.  The setting of the words ‘luceat eis’ never fails to move, the whole being quite thrilling.  The basset horns and bassoons underlie the pleading tone, while the chords of ‘sempiternam’ give a positive cadence to the ending.  The Communio ‘Lux aeterna’ creates an exciting build-up to the repeat of the fugue from the beginning of the work.  The powerful, intricate polyphony of ‘cum sanctis tuis’ is the dramatic ending.

As an encore, following prolonged, enthusiastic applause, Karen Grylls conducted the choir in an exquisite performance of Mozart’s motet ‘Ave Verum’, also written near the end of his life, but harmonic in structure, rather than contrapuntal.  It was the perfect conclusion to a remarkable evening of hearing one of the noblest works of the choral repertoire.

 

Megan Ward launches 2012 Hutt lunchtime series with Bach on viola

Posted on by Lindis Taylor

Megan Ward – viola, B Mus honours student at New Zealand School of Music

Bach’s Cello Suite No 5 in C minor, transcribed for viola

St Mark’s Church, Lower Hutt

Wednesday 6 June, 12.15pm

The long-standing series of lunchtime concerts at Lower Hutt has started; they run through till the end of October.

Bach instructed players of his fifth cello suite to tune the A string down a whole tone, to G, so the score shows notes that would be played on the A string a tone higher than they actually sound. The viola is tuned exactly an octave higher than the cello, so A is also the viola’s highest string.

The suite normally lasts about 25 minutes, but Megan Ward used the balance of the three-quarters of an hour to talk about the work and to pause after each movement to comment on the next. Thus there was clapping after each movement, which would have been conventional at the time of composition. That convention matched Megan’s approach to the playing which she explained was to follow aspects of baroque practice, though not slavishly. I don’t think she played on gut strings, but she did draw attention to the baroque bow, its convex shape, which produces different sounds at its heel and toe from those at the middle.

And she reminded us that all movements but the opening Praeludium had their origins in dances, but that most had moved some distance from being suitable for dancing.

Megan also drew attention to her use of ornamentation, an essential element in baroque performance. The effect, evident from the beginning of the Praeludium, was of playing that was more fluctuating, more suggesting the unevenness of human breath, in tone and dynamics; these characteristics also led the player to greater freedom of tempo, responding to the shapes of phrases as well as the hints implicit in her ornamentation.

She invited us to hear the next movement, Allemande, as song rather than dance, and the combination of a very slow pace (I’d guess around crotchet = 40 rather than the more common 55 or 60) and fluctuating rhythms left that in no doubt. It was also an opportunity to notice the generous acoustic qualities of this high-gabled church that enhanced the sustained lyrical quality of the movement.  Her ornaments sounded as if written down by Bach himself.

The Courante ran a bit faster than I expected, and Megan’s baroque interpretation meant a certain irregularity, even jerkiness, of rhythm, but there was no loss of beauty in her tone and clean articulation.

Many movements of the cello suites have attracted film makers over the years; the Sarabande gained some fame among connoisseurs when it was used on the sound-track of Ingmar Berman’s last film, Saraband. Megan approached it scrupulously, slowly, exploring its melancholy character, in a tempo that was almost too unvarying; she used no ornamentation, but she varied her dynamics artfully.

The two Gavottes offered a lively contrast, in the first, perhaps over-emphasing the first beat in the bar and passing up some of the phrasing details. The second Gavotte involved much fast fingerwork, very accomplished, but lacked the last degree of clarity.

It was a bit like her speech which was inclined to be too fast and not always clear.

Introducing the final movement, Gigue, she set our minds at rest by saying she was not striving for authenticity above all, but just to have a good time, and that was clear from the tumbling, fun-loving variety that avoided monotony.

She filled the last few minutes with an equally accomplished performance of the Sarabande from the second suite.

Not only does Megan Ward show impressive talent as a violist, but she has also a talent for talking intelligently and interestingly about things.

 

Flute, oboe and cello give delightful lunchtime recital at St Andrew’s

Posted on by Rosemary Collier

Bach: Sonata in G major, BWV 1039
Beethoven: Variations on ‘La ci darem la mano’
Ginastera: Duo for flute and oboe
Haydn: Trio no.3 in G major

Nikau Trio (Karen Batten, flute; Madeline Sakofsky, oboe; Margaret Guldborg, cello)

St Andrew’s on The Terrace

Wednesday, 6 June 2012, 12.15pm

Another day of atrocious weather in Wellington, nevertheless the audience was of a reasonable size at this delightful concert.

Despite using modern instruments, the trio managed to make an almost baroque sound in the Bach sonata – quite gorgeous. The slow-fast-slow-fast movements all had their appeal, particularly the third, adagio e piano, which had a pastoral quality. The players were notable for their absolute accuracy and very good cohesion.

Beethoven made an arrangement of Mozart’s well-known aria from his opera Don Giovanni that might have amazed the original composer, with its inventive variety.  Though Beethoven’s original combination of instruments was not what we heard, it has been performed by numbers of different combinations of three instruments.

The theme was stated in a lovely pianissimo, followed by the dance-like first variation with its dotted rhythm.  The second variation featured flowing cello quavers as accompaniment to the other two players, in mellifluous harmony.

The variations were successively fast and slow; in all, the writing for the instruments was delightfully interwoven.  One in a minor key developed the theme in interesting harmonic ways.  Then there was a variation in syncopated time.  The ingeniousness of Beethoven’s ways of varying the theme was astonishing.  Some sounded quite modern, with stresses on passing notes, and humorous treatments, such as in the last variation, with its mock-serious ending.

This trio’s spot-on ensemble was notable again in the Ginastera work in three movements: Sonata, Pastorale (serene but with a plaintive quality), and Fuga (a dance-like movement; sprightly, with a jokey ending).  A leading Latin American composer, Ginastera died as recently as 1983.  He incorporated folk melodies in his neo-classical music such as here.

Haydn’s trio was originally written for two flutes and cello, but lost nothing in its arrangement for this combination.  One of Haydn’s ‘London’ trios, this was thoroughly charming in what Karen Batten described as ‘a sunny key’.  The Spiritoso first movement was indeed spirited, but also lilting and tuneful.  The Andante that followed was more serious; the players were in beautiful accord.  The Allegro finale was cheerful, exploiting the instruments brilliantly, revealing the range and variety of timbre of each instrument.

The entire recital was one of wholly engaging and enlivening music.

 

New Zealand School of Music guitar students’ interesting recital at Old St Paul’s

Posted on by Lindis Taylor

Guitar students: Jamie Garrick, Nick Price, Cameron Sloan, Mike Stoop

Music by Bizet, Bach, L K Mertz, Daniel Bacheler and Adnrew York

Old Saint Paul’s, Mulgrave Street

Tuesday 5 June, 12.15pm

These students, plus one other, had played at St Andrew’s on The Terrace in the previous week, with a largely different programme. I missed it, as did my Middle C colleagues. I gather that they played mainly as a quartet then; at Old Saint Paul’s they played two ensemble pieces, and four solos.

A suite from Carmen opened the concert. The programme note remarked that the opera had had a rough beginning (actually, the nature of its reception has been rather distorted; it had about 30 performances in the three months between its premiere and Bizet’s death – more than any other opera at the Opéra-Comique that year, 1875; there was a great deal of popular and critical acclamation – just one or two churlish reviews; and already the Vienna Court Opera had made an approach for it to be produced there).

The performance by the quartet here began well, carefully, capturing the Spanish air that pervades it from the start, and the attractive arrangement gave each player bright solo opportunities while the others provided nicely contrasted accompaniments, rhythmically and dynamically acute, and placed on the lower strings of the instruments. However, some of the later dances did not capture quite the same charm or character, and by the time of the Toreador’s song slips occurred more often. But the Entr’acte was well done and the Gypsy Dance  was quite a delight.

The audience seemed unfamiliar with applauding customs, clapping after every section of the Carmen suite, and even more surprising between the two parts of the Prelude and fugue from Bach’s Lute Suite, BWV 997, which was played without the score by Michael Stoop. His dynamics were nicely judged and phrasing expressive. The fugue is quite long and it was no small achievement to have got through it without noticeable mishap.

Cameron Sloan played two pieces, again from memory, by one Johann Kaspar Mertz, a 19th century composer: Fantaisie originale and Le gondolier, from his Op 65; they sounded influenced by the piano music of his age – of Weber, Schubert and Schumann. Though he played these two attractive pieces very well, his spoken introduction had been inaudible. Given a composer probably unknown to most, as it was to me, a few words would have been interesting. New Grove does not list him, but Wikipedia does: named as Hungarian guitarist and composer, born in Bratislava (Pressburg or Pozsony when the city was in Austria or Hungary respectively).

Later players decided against introducing themselves or commenting on their pieces. A little coaching in the art of speaking in a medium size auditorium would be a good idea.

Equally attractive was a piece called Monsieur Almaine by Daniel Bacheler, a theme and variations. Again, I had not heard of him; moderate-sized dictionaries were of no help, though I found him in New Grove, and of course the Internet never fails. It appears that recent scholarship has brought some 50 lute pieces to light and some have been recorded.  He was born in 1572, the same year as Ben Jonson and Thomas Tomkins, around the dates of John Bull, Monteverdi, Frescobaldi. Dowland, Weelkes … With the confidence afforded by using the score, Nick Price played with a good ear for style, phrased and articulated a clearly difficult piece very well, with only minor slips.

The last soloist was Jamie Garrick who played another Bach Lute piece, the Prelude and Fugue from BWV 998; he played thoughtfully, maintaining fluent rhythms in both parts, though with occasional hesitations. The Fugue, with an attractive melody, starts slowly which demanded considerable care in its meandering passages, and in the fast passagework as it accelerated towards the end.

Finally the quartet reassembled to play a rather delightful piece by contemporary American composer, Andrew York, Quiccan. It was fast and rhythmically lively in a gently Latin-American manner. Judging by the adroit fingerwork evident in all players, it was well rehearsed and well liked.

I had not noticed that the concert was running over time, which suggests that, in all, it had proved most enjoyable.

Olivier Latry and Shin-Young Lee brilliant at Cathedral of St Paul organ

Posted on by Lindis Taylor

New Zealand Organ Conference

Cortège et litanie (Dupré), Petite rhapsodie improvisée (Tournemire – scored by Duruflé), Two parts of L’ascension (Messiaen), Feux follets and Carillon de Westminster (Vierne) and Le sacre du printemps (Stravinsky – arr. four hands)

Olivier Latry and Shin-Young Lee – organists

Cathedral of Saint Paul, Wellington

Sunday 3 June, 3pm

For those, like me, who missed the NZSO concert on Friday where Olivier Latry played Poulenc’s Organ Concerto, this recital was pretty good compensation.

Latry is one of the three organists at Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris (the position at French churches is known as a titulaire). Thus he’s one of the very finest organists now alive. Such is his fame that not only was the NZSO concert a full house, but the Anglican Cathedral too was well filled.

One hears occasionally, from those more technically knowledgeable than I am, denigrating remarks about the character of the cathedral organ; perhaps from those for whom music stops more or less with J S Bach.

But for those who have listened to organ music, as music, and not as some sort of rarified and recondite technical practice, organ music runs through the musical experience of virtually every country touched by the traditions of western music, and through every era, though often carried by composers who did not work much in other spheres.

After the great baroque era dominated by Bach, the school of organ composition that seems to me, and some others, to be of great importance and delight is the French school inspired by César Franck.

Latry’s recital celebrated that; and even the evident intrusion of an arrangement of a ballet score by a Russian composer, could be seen as falling in the tradition of organ composition and organ building that was developed in France.

One of the problems of the organ repertoire is that many, most, of the names are not those of the greatest composers of the 19th and 20th centuries. Some rate, like Liszt, Franck himself, Saint-Saëns or Messiaen, as respectable 1st division composers of orchestral, choral or chamber music and some, enjoy a slightly enigmatic place in the pantheon.

Marcel Dupré was more famous as a performer than a composer, though he’d been one of the more brilliant winners of the Prix de Rome. He composed in the tradition set by Franck and Widor rather than in the impressionist or tonally ambiguous character of those who followed Vierne. He succeeded Widor at the great church of Saint-Sulpice.

The Cortège et litanie is one of his most popular pieces, opening prayerfully and building impressively as the Cortège emerges grandly (some hear a Russian influence from his friend Glazunov) with its confident theme that corrects the impression of fluttering mysticism in the Litanie. Its performance lifted it from perhaps second class to music of considerable imagination and emotional honesty.

Charles Tournemire’s improvisation entitled Petite rhapsodie improvisée was recorded as he played it in 1931 on the great Cavaillé-Coll organ at Sainte-Clotilde (Franck’s organ). In 1958 Maurice Duruflé took it down, along with several other pieces by Franck and himself, from that recording and it has now found its way on to You-Tube where you can dial it up.

What we heard on Sunday was a great deal more red-blooded and arresting than the dim and shallow 1931 recording (though it’s enough to vindicate Tournemire’s reputation). It’s a short piece marked by remarkable powers of invention, clearly justifying Tournemire’s fame as an improviser. Played here on an organ capable of great brilliance, Latry’s performance seemed to magnify its musical and colourful inspiration. He found a myriad of fluttering bird-sounds, underpinned by firm pedal notes; if the occasional tremolo didn’t seem very appropriate, the whole performance demonstrated other aspects of this versatile organ and Latry’s way of exploiting it; and it acted as a good link between the Dupré and the two Messiaen pieces that followed.

These were two of the four parts of Messiaen’s L’ascension, first written for orchestra in 1932 and then rewritten for organ a year later, when Messiaen replaced the third part (Alleluia sur la trompette, alleluia sur la cymbale) with Transports de joie d’une âme devant la gloire du Christ qui est la sienne.

The first part played was Section II, Alleluias sereins d’une âme qui désire le ciel, and there is a kind of serenity, but rather strong evidence of a ‘belief’ that is concrete, highly visual and audible, somewhat distant from the feeling inspired by traditional protestant religion.

There are times when I wonder about the immediate recognisability of Messiaen, whether it suggests that he’s merely writing the same stuff over and over, with minor variations.

I was intrigued to know what had led Messiaen to write another Part III and found a recording of the orchestral original. It is quite un-organ-like: exuberant, slightly jazzy, using an orchestra that hints at Ravel, perhaps Roussel or Koechlin.

The organ version of III is also vigorous and assertive, and Latry must have rejoiced in the great trumpet stops that are available on the cathedral organ; certainly, they would have thrilled the audience which could almost see the long horizontal pipes crying out over the left of the Choir.  Here was the blazing show-piece of the first half of the concert: great clusters of riotous runs and multi-coloured Messiaenic chords that created a triumphal peroration.

Two pieces by Vierne led to the Stravnisky ballet score which was to end the concert.

Feux follets, Op 53 No 4 and Carillon de Westminster, Op 54 No 6 are two of the 24 Pièces de fantaisie that Vierne wrote to play during a fund-raising tour of the United States in 1927.

These were well-placed as pieces lying somewhere south of Messiaen, and certainly more modest accomplishments than what followed. Latry adorned Feux follets with rare combinations of stops that created hollow sparklings, lightning flashes, a bit like Ravel’s Jeux d’eau or Debussy’s Ce qu’a vu le vent de l’ouest.

The Carillon is one of the organ’s famous showpieces, based on the uninteresting Westminster chimes, but transformed by means of harmonic colouring and surprising stop combinations, a great deal of it the contribution of the performer.

Finally came the one of the most extraordinary exhibitions of the arranger’s imagination and the organist’s (organists’) mastery of an instrument.

But how does this piece by a Russian qualify for this concert of French organ music? Stravinsky had worked in Paris from the time of The Firebird in 1910, and lived there periodically from then on, taking French citizenship finally in 1934; much of his most important music was written for French performance, and the influence of the French cultural aesthetic was as important as that of Russia.

Stravinsky had made a piano four hands arrangement of Le sacre du printemps, so the composer had sanctioned that much tampering with the nature of his work. This was the basis of the performance which then became an exercise in restoring as far as possible, the colours that were in the orchestral original, and that, through the inspired and imaginative choice of registrations, was entirely the work of the players – in this case Latry and his partner (in both senses), Korean organist Shin-Young Lee.

It was strikingly clear from the first notes that the work lent itself uncannily well to an organ arrangement. Perhaps it actually captured the essence of The Rite, a degree of violence in the dehumanising of primitive religious ritual, that allows the music to become even more phenomenal and awful in the hands of a machine with reserves of power that exceeded what any orchestra could create.

The task of making a machine produce from this music, beauty, excitement and awfulness was a supreme challenge and the result was utterly astonishing.

The re-creation of the unearthly introductions to both sections were extraordinarily vivid; what a brilliant transformation of the crunching rhythms of the Dances of the Adolescents, and the furious speed of the Dance of the Earth! (It certainly makes sense to employ four hands on an organ – after all most have multiple manuals – this one four: why leave so much of the keyboards unemployed for most of the time?).

Nevertheless, there were times when, for example, the throbbing beat during the Jeux des cités rivales became too cluttered but the final climax was reached with a power and terror, with triple fortissimo, or more, as the most formidable stops were brought to bear.

The large audience had judged well of the likely overwhelming musical experience to be had in St Paul’s this afternoon, and even their prolonged ovation hardly did the event justice.

 

 

Anniversaries the pretext for chamber organ recital for Organists’ Congress

Posted on by Rosemary Collier

Wellington Organists’ Association – New Zealand Association of Organists’ Congress
Sweelinck to Stanley

Sweelinck: Ballo del granduce; ‘Flow my tears;’  Onder een linde groen;  Fantasia Chromatica;
Charles Stanley: Voluntary IX in G major Op.VII;  Three Songs from ‘The Muse’s Delight’; Solo III for flute and basso continuo, Op.1;  Voluntary VIII in D minor Op. V;  Song: The Blind Boy
Handel: ‘Sweet Bird’ (from L’Allegro, Il Penseroso ed Il Moderato)

Douglas Mews (organ, harpsichord, virginal), Rowena Simpson (soprano), Penelope Evison (baroque flute)

Adam Concert Room, Victoria University of Wellington

Saturday, 2 June, 7.30pm

As part of ‘Wellington 2012’, the Organists’ Congress, this concert was offered to participants and the public as something involving the organ, but more intimate than the Friday Symphony Orchestra concert with the Poulenc Organ Concerto, and the recital at Wellington Cathedral of St. Paul the following day, both featuring eminent French organist Olivier Latry.  The composers were chosen because of their anniversaries this year: 450 years since the birth of Sweelinck, and 300 years since the birth of Stanley.

Clarity of instruments and voice was the hallmark in the relatively small, but acoustically alive Adam Concert Room.  The two-manual and pedal Reil Dutch organ is set in the room, not in a special organ chamber.  To my mind, some of the ranks are harsh and even abrasive in this acoustic.  However, the flute stops employed in some of the Sweelinck (1562-16211) variations on an Italian dance tune that Douglas Mews, Artist-in-Residence for the Congress, played first, gave a mellow and liquid sound that was most attractive.

Next, the versatile Mews played virginal for Rowena Simpson’s first song, ‘Flow my teares’ by John Dowland, following which we heard Sweelinck’s keyboard variation  upon the melody, ‘Pavana Lachrymae’.  The dark, sad mood of both was eminently well conveyed.

A song in Sweelinck’s native language, Dutch, was sung by Simpson, before the four variations were played, this time on the organ.  With study in The Hague behind her, Simpson sang the words fluently and clearly – as indeed she did in all her items.

‘Fantasia Chromatica’ on the organ displayed the skill of the composer in intertwining melodies along with a chromatic theme.  It was an interesting example of music of the period conveying changes of mood, as well as demonstrating Douglas Mews’s great skill in playing organ music of this period.

Charles John Stanley (1712-1786) was a prolific English composer for the organ.  The first items, the three songs, were interspersed between movements of the flute piece (really a sonata).  Here, Douglas Mews accompanied on the harpsichord.  Penelope Evison’s expertise on the transverse flute (wooden, of course) was a delight to hear, while the songs, with their commentary on men, maids, and the pros and cons of the two getting together, were interpreted with flair by Rowena Simpson.

The second voluntary was quite a vehement piece compared with the earlier one, and more demanding on the skill of the performer – a demand that was fully met.

Stanley had very restricted vision for most of his life, so the song of the blind boy was quite poignant, though the poem (by Colley Cibber) ends on a more positive note, explaining that the boy can ‘bear a loss I ne’er can know.  Then let not what I cannot have my cheer of mind destroy: Whilst thus I sing I am a king, although a poor blind boy.’  Accompanied on the virginal, the song was sung in an appropriately touching manner.

The recital ended with soprano, flute and organ performing Handel’s ‘Sweet Bird’, to introduce the association between Handel and Stanley, the latter having conducted Handel’s operas and oratorios.  This song from Il Penseroso (words by John Milton) represented sadness, enlivened by the flute imitating the nightingale.

Thus ended an evening’s pleasant entertainment, demonstrating the musical arts of two periods in which the organ was eminent.

 

 

 

STROMA – Percussion/Action in small but compelling doses

Posted on by Peter Mechen

STROMA – Soundbytes III

Works by Beat Furrer, Manuela Meier, Andrew Ford and Toru Takemitsu

Lenny Sakofsky / Jeremy Fitzsimmons / Bruce McKinnon (percussion)

Adam Auditorium, City Gallery, Wellington

Saturday 2nd June 2012

Stroma’s 2012 concert formats are taking in both larger, standardized happenings called “Headliners”, which feature well-known performers and works by established composers, and briefer, concentrated concerts of less than an hour’s duration called “Soundbytes” – the group’s publicity referred to these events as “aural degustations”, a term which had me reaching for my dictionary, illiterate peasant that I am, to be summarily enlightened – and yes, these in this “Soundbyte” under consideration, were tasty sound-snacks indeed!

New to me, though open since 2009 (where has this reviewer been, of late?) was the venue, a space called the “Adam Auditorium” located on the ground floor of the Wellington City Gallery. I loved being in the space, and thought the acoustic and ambience served the music-making well, marrying sound and sight with pleasing directness. Because of the pronounced auditorium “rake” almost everybody in the audience could clearly see what the players were doing to conjure up their panoply of sounds, giving the concert something of a specific gestural, or even choreographic, element.

Being a determined advocate for the audio-only listening experience, I’m surprised to find myself stressing this aspect of the presentation, though the relative novelty (when compared to one’s normal concert-going experiences) of encountering percussion ensembles means that one is more than usually interested in what is actually happening on the concert platform. Our three percussionists on this occasion didn’t disappoint, with plenty of variety of sound and movement served up for our delight by way of whirling us through four very distinctive musical experiences in an all-too-brief concert.

Actually, I thought the brevity of this “Soundbyte” experience had the positive effect of leaving us with appetites sharpened for more, which the “degustation” definition certainly implies. I confess to not really coming to grips with the first of the items, however, finding Beat Furrer’s sound-world a mystery, one which gently repulsed any kind of construct or attitude I strove to place around the sounds I heard along the way (I was pleased to read in the program afterwards of the composer’s “predilection for refinement and restraint”, qualities I found in the music almost to a fault!).

Not that I was overly worried about indulging myself in enjoyment of the sounds, but afterwards wondered how I could convey something of the experience of Beat Furrer’s Music for Mallets in words – it felt as if a patient, gradually unfolding soundscape grew from the first few minutes of the work, with sudden impulses of tone precursors of more frequent irruptions of energy which enlivened the textures somewhat, even if the music’s pulsing spent a lot of the work “underground”. A freer, more volatile episode followed, rapid glissandi and other figurations, staking out the land, though the sense of something restrained, evanescent and mysterious remained, embedded in the music’s character, and making a lasting impression.

By contrast, Stroma administrator Manuela Meier’s 2012 work Cada bristled with movement and impulse, throughout, the antiphonal exchanges between the two percussionists a delight to the senses. Again, the seating configuration allowing us to really “get involved” with the players’ physical gesturing and form a relationship between different sounds’ cause and effect. The composer treated us to a plethora of timbres and colours and what seemed to our “insectified” ears like a stunning range of dynamics, from the whisperings of wood against a smooth metal edge to the harsh complaints of friction-making textured metal surfaces worked upon by the same hard sticks. It all had the feeling of some kind of inner reality, akin to the flowing of blood, impulsings of a nervous system or an intelligence network processing sensory responses. This was the piece’s first-ever performance in public.

Andrew Ford’s Composition in blue, grey and pink for solo percussionist gave Lenny Sakofsky a chance to demonstrate his considerable performance skills. Taken from a larger work for flute and percussion and arranged as a stand-alone movement, it places the performer at a kind of drum-kit arrangement as if in control of the flight-deck of an enormous flying machine. Content-wise, the piece is extremely theatrical in its soliloquy-like structure, completely in accordance with a certain improvisatory air (intended by the composer, who leaves certain decisions to the player, such as the choice of drumsticks, and the dynamics throughout).

The opening episode is almost like a jumble of thoughts, as if emotion is trying to sort out an order of saying or a coherent overall shape – so we get fast and chatty sequences, but within a fragmented discourse. Slow and sinister follows, a different view of the material, or else a change in its ambient surroundings, contrasting with a sequence of brittle scintillations, whose short, questioning coda concludes with a final flourish. Both sounds and the player’s choreography of performance were totally absorbing, with never a void moment.

One doesn’t have to be a camp follower of percussion concerts to encounter the music of Toru Takemitsu, as this same work, Rain Tree, was heard during a concert given by the NZSO Soloists in March of this year (the same concert which featured Shchedrin’s entertaining, reworked and re-orchestrated take on Bizet’s Carmen). On that occasion I remember the music being somewhat marred by excessively-projected lighting of each instrumentalist – the systematic spotlighting was meant to synchronize with the music, but for me it was all too visually “loud”, and thus proved a fatal distraction. Significantly, Takemitsu himself is on record as having supervised a performance of his work with similar lighting, but then commenting afterwards that he found the effect “too distracting”.

Here, most thankfully, there were no such lighting manipulations, the musical impulses allowed to speak for themselves throughout the piece. Again, the characteristics of the auditorium enabled us to connect directly with the three players and their instrumental gesturings – Takemitsu’s title for the piece, Rain Tree refers to a tree described in a novel by Japanese author Kenzaburo Oe The Ingenious Rain Tree, one which, because of the thickness of its foliage “stores” water from rain and continues to water the ground long after the rain itself has ceased. The work reflects this process, the raindrops depicted by use of the crotales (antique cymbals) build up towards a cascade, with the marimbas alternating the whole while, and the vibraphone providing a kind of underlying foundation. Some of these were gorgeous sounds, both when isolated (the crotales) and when interactive – the marimbas woody and solidly ambient, the vibraphone all air and water.

The evening’s music and its performance, along with the venue and its warmly attractive ambience, all came together beautifully to make this Stroma concert yet another one to remember with great pleasure.

 

 

 

Spellbound by NZSO and the organ of Olivier Latry

Posted on by Rosemary Collier

Spellbound: magic and mystery

Dukas: The Sorcerer’s Apprentice
Poulenc: Organ Concerto
Rimsky-Korsakov: Scheherazade, Op.35 (1. The sea and Sinbad’s Ship; 2. The Kalender Prince; 3. The young prince and the young princess; 4. Festival at Baghdad – the sea)

New Zealand Symphony Orchestra with Olivier Latry, organ, conducted by Rossen Milanov

Wellington Town Hall

Friday, 1 June 2012, 6.30pm

This was a spectacle of aural colour, the entire concert being made up of works that threatened to bleed the aural palette dry.  To those of us who play the organ, it was a thrill to see the Wellington Town Hall almost full of people who had come to hear our instrument.

According to Olivier Latry, in his entertaining, informative and well-attended question and answer session with the conductor prior to the concert, Paul Dukas did not compose more music because he was so heavily involved in teaching at the Paris Conservatoire, where he was eventually followed by the rather similarly-named Jean Roger-Ducasse.  That he had the ability to be a more eminent composer is amply demonstrated by his well-known Sorcerer’s Apprentice.

The pre-concert session focused on the Organ Concerto of Poulenc, and some humorous exchanges took place.  Milanov likened the organ to a large truck – the ‘driver’ could only see him by means of his rear-vision mirror.  He said he dared not overtake such a large vehicle!  Olivier, in answer to a question from the floor, said he thought the nature of the piece was ambiguous: was it religious, secular, or a bit of both?  He related how in Paris a performance of the organ concerto at Notre Dame had rated a higher decibel level than the Concorde!

Before returning to Dukas, I want to air (again!) one of my pet gripes.  Why are we not allowed to read the programme during the concert?  I could just make out the words, but the lady next to me obviously had poor vision, and had brought a magnifying glass with her, but had to give up.  In the United Kingdom, the Arts Council pays for large-font printed programmes at plays, opera and concerts.

A concert that was book-ended by Dukas’s work and Rimsky-Korsakov’s made for a certain symmetry: they were a good match.  The French composer’s The Sorcerer’s Apprentice was inspired by a ballad by a German (Goethe), based on a second century story by a Greek.  Certainly it included a huge variety of colours.  The music was perhaps some of the most inventive ever written for orchestra.  There were shades of Stravinsky, whom he influenced, and Messiaen, whom he taught.

The eerie opening was carefully conducted by Bulgarian conductor Milanov, an elegant and precise but poetic conductor to watch.  He conducted both this work and the Rimsky-Korsakov without use of the score.  The bassoons’ announcement of the theme was accompanied by wonderful sorties on the strings and horns.  A spooky rise in the drama follows.  The composer’s cataclysmic orchestrations and development leave one gob-smacked.  Drums and cymbals with full brass precede a quiet introduction to the romantic ending.  This features a viola solo being the apologetic apprentice who has wrought so much havoc, plaintively performed by Julia Joyce with harp interjections, before the closing bar spurts at us, double forte, to despatch the apprentice.

After quotations from  J.S. Bach at the opening of Poulenc’s organ concerto, I fancied I could hear some thematic links with Dukas in the more lyrical passages from the organ.  The orchestra followed at a respectful distance.  When some of the tonal qualities surprised me, I was reminded of Latry’s remark in the pre-concert session, when asked about the Town Hall organ, that ‘This organ speaks English!’.

The seven movements were played without any breaks.  The opening andante proceeded in a very restrained fashion after the initial outburst; gorgeous quiet tone from both strings and organ.  However, a crashing volume from the organ interrupted the reverie: we were into the allegro giocoso, and then the familiar theme of the concerto arrived.  Some of this music seemed to foreshadow minimalism.

The next andante was very beautiful and even languid.  Bird sounds from violins and violas played against solid cello and organ tones.  Its lustrous ending made its mark, mesmerising, but with growing intensity, before the music moved on to the molto agitato fourth movement.  All is suddenly amplified and accelerated.  There is great excitement as the organ rushes through rapid paces, increasingly loud, then the quietude returns with mellow sounds on the organ followed by a solo on a reed stop.  This is the slow fifth movement: “Très calme. Lent.”

The return of the familiar quick theme was there suddenly, on the organ, accompanied by the orchestra in this sixth movement: “Tempo de l’Allegro initial”.  Chords many layers thick are played before Bach returns.  Then all is stilled in silvery tones, followed by another viola solo, accompanied by pizzicato from all except the first violins; the solo is repeated on the principal cello as pizzicato, with slow chords on the organ to herald the final (seventh) movement: “Tempo introduction. Largo.”  A huge unison for organ and orchestra ends the work.

The concerto is not only for organ and string orchestra: there is a large and challenging role for the timpanist.  It is sometimes known as the concerto for organ, timpani, and strings.  Certainly here (and also in the Rimsky-Korsakov work) Laurence Reese had more than enough to do.  When moving down from the organ to take his bow, Latry shook hands with Reese.

Latry played with great accomplishment and immaculate technique and musicianship.  As well as immense appreciative applause from the audience for the soloist and for the modest conductor, Julia Joyce and Andrew Joyce, principal viola and cello were  singled out.  A return curtain call for Olivier Latry was thoroughly deserved; he in turn showed his pleasure at the reception.

After the interval we were treated to a marvellous performance of Rimsky-Korsakov’s very virtuosic Scheherazade (or more usually Sheherazade).   Among many outstanding features were the violin solos of Sultana Scheherazade’s theme, played by Vesa-Matti Leppänen and Ingrid Bauer’s wonderful harp accompaniment to that theme: the combination was simply stunning, as indeed were the strings, especially in their pianissimos, throughout the work.

The exotic themes are now familiar to many (and the movements have been played on radio, on separate days recently), but must have been remarkable at the first performance (it was written in 1888).  The  work could be considered a symphony by its length and its four movements, but in no way is it a standard symphony.  In the pre-concert talk, conductor Milanov described it as the first concerto for orchestra; it was easy to see why.

A little ‘fluff’ from the horn early on did little to detract from the fine playing of the entire orchestra throughout the work.  An enchanting oboe solo accompanied by solo cello, another violin solo, and then all the colours were thrown at us, while the timpanist was flat out.  Sinbad certainly struck some storms!  But then things calmed down, and the waves sparkled by, before the next outburst.  There was a magical ending to the first movement, with a return to the music played at the beginning: violin solo and harp.

Bassoon and oboe were splendid in music that evoked the exotic – markets, harems, silken draperies – as we meet the prince in his fabulous setting, in which spices and strange odours abound.  How is it that the oboe seems exotic, yet in another context it seems the epitome of English pastoral landscapes?  Of course, it is all in the writing of skilled composers.

Brass now had the opportunity to come to the fore, followed by thrumming pizzicato with the lone clarinet theme.  Cor anglais, flute and piccolo get their turns at solos against the thrumming – marvellous.  Layer upon layer of sound emerged – or perhaps rather, the intricate woven design of a Persian carpet.  The orchestra was splendid, here declaiming, there speaking sotto voce.

In the fourth movement we hear the familiar themes, but now the Scheherazade theme played by Vesa-Matti Leppänen was double-stopped, with oriental-sounding harmonies.  While there was a lot of repetition of themes in the Rimsky-Korsakov work, there was huge variety of treatment.  All comes together in a mammoth explosion of exuberance, followed by the final repetition of Scheherazade’s theme, joined by the deep theme of the Sultan.  As Milanov explained prior to the concert, this is a catharsis – adding significantly ‘We change at the end’.  As the violin solo was played for the last time, the conductor looked at Leppänen with obvious appreciation.  (Indeed, he told us before the concert that this was a world-class orchestra.  Certainly, it excelled itself in this concert.)

The final pizzicato was not together, but this could hardly detract from such a massive and wonderful performance, full of fabulous settings.  Solos from violin, viola, cello, horn, clarinet and other woodwinds, not to mention the prominence of the fabulous harp, enlivened this gorgeous work.

What a thoroughly exotic and colourful evening we had!  French music based on a German poem based on a Greek story, a rare organ concerto from the twentieth century, and now a Russian writing oriental music.  It was a lively and engrossing programme; there was so much going on, visually as well as aurally.  The percussion had a field day.

A feature of the printed programme was the very full and well-written notes.  Each work commanded much more detail than we have become accustomed to.

The nearly full hall, and the very enthusiastic reception to the concert, and to Olivier Latry in particular, perhaps proves what I heard Paul Rosoman say in an interview on radio regarding the Queen’s Birthday Weekend’s Wellington 2012 Organ Congress, that interest in the organ has rekindled recently, compared with the situation over the last couple of decades.  This was demonstrated by 11 entries in the Congress’s performance competition, compared with 3 or 4 in previous years.

Let’s hope that Latry’s sensitive and brilliant performance will have inspired more to take up the ‘King of Instruments’.

 

 

Romance with elegance – Jian Liu plays Schumann and Liszt

Posted on by Peter Mechen

New Zealand School of Music

Jian Liu (piano) in concert

SCHUMANN – Carnaval, Op.9 / LISZT – Piano Sonata in B Minor

Adam Concert Room, NZSM Kelburn

Wednesday 30th May 2012

What a delight for piano-fanciers! – here at the Adam Concert Room was a free recital featuring two of the cornerstone works of Romantic piano literature served up for us by pianist Jian Liu, currently the co-ordinator of classical piano studies at the New Zealand School of Music. Both works fully tested the player, producing in each instance a strongly-etched interpretation from an obviously well-equipped musician who possessed an abundance of skill, endurance and creative imagination.

On the face of things pairing Schumann’s and Liszt’s music made a logical enough coupling of works, though their close proximity here highlighted the nineteenth century’s most significant musical controversy – the conflict between tradition and innovation which burst into open conflagration between the conservatives, who clung to classical ideals and the progressives, who wanted to explore new ways of doing things. As so often happens, the debate became excessively nasty at times, with casualties on both sides, though at the time, more so on the part of the progressives such as Liszt, whose music, was systematically trashed by mouthpieces of the conservative establishment, such as the influential critic Eduard Hanslick (though the latter greatly admired Liszt as a pianist).

Schumann and Liszt were in fact good friends at first, but the differences which developed between them unfortunately turned into issues, exacerbated by people such as Schumann’s wife, pianist Clara Wieck, who disapproved of what she called Liszt’s “empty, vulgar compositions”. Despite all of this, Liszt in 1854 dedicated his Piano Sonata to Schumann, certainly in return for the latter’s earlier dedication to Liszt of his wonderful Op.17 C Major Fantasia, and perhaps also in a spirit of reconciliation – though by this time Schumann was beyond reach, having become increasingly beset by the mental instability which was to contribute to his death in 1856 at a mere forty-six years old.

So we were presented with two very different but equally potent and wholly characteristic manifestations of musical romanticism – though the conflicts and animosities which flowed between the worlds represented by these two pieces continue to this day to divide opinion and polarize musical sensibilities. At the recital I sat next to and talked with two people, one an enthusiastic admirer of Liszt and his music, and the other who, when the Sonata was finished, said “I made myself stay to listen to Jian play – but oh! – how awful that music is!”. Evidently, the spirit of the disapproving Clara Wieck lives on in today’s world.

One of the recurring characteristics of Jian Liu’s playing throughout both works was the generous flexibility of his phrasing, giving the notes space in which to breathe at all times, so that nothing seemed hurried or sounded incoherent – within these spaces his sensitive detailing, never fussy or contrived, was always accompanied by the feeling that he was drawing out from the notes themselves what sounded like an infinite variety of voicing, shadings and colorings. So, it was no surprise that he was able to constantly entertain and charm our imaginations with his portrayals of Schumann’s moods and characterizations throughout the composer’s richly-conceived parade of personalities, “Carnaval”.

Right at the beginning the opening fanfares had just enough rhetoric to arrest the attention without losing the declamation’s urgency and excitement, the following animato building up its energy and exuberance, before breaking off and beginning the whimsical procession of characters and emotions that give the work its never-ending fascination. From so many finely-drawn characterizations, I thought Liu’s Pierrot particularly vivid, the phrasing free rather than metrical, and with some lovely, subtle voicing, the repeat emphasizing the dreamy, self-communing aspect of it all, with even the emphatic repeated three-note phrase drawn into the world of wonderment. The Valse Noble enabled us to hear how Liu’s left hand beautifully varied its emphasis, the different voicings bringing a strand of meaning to the music far above that of mere accompaniment.

Spontaneity in performance is a risky business (Liu’s Papillons, though exciting, was a bit of a scramble, as were some of the left-hand figurations in the treacherous Paganini), but that sense of throwing caution aside was so worthwhile, so imbued with spirit and impulse as to drive away any sense of routine. And with that spirit applied to the work as a whole, Liu was able to present the music to us as sounding freshly-improvised – Chopin, for example, coming across here as a spontaneous-sounding tribute from one romantic to another, the music seeming to almost lose itself in its own reverie, here, towards the piece’s conclusion.

So, there was poetry and elegance aplenty; and excitement, too, with the right-handed repeated-note scintillations of Reconnaissance followed by the agitations of Pantalon et Colombine, energies shared across both hands in the latter to stunning effect. The final March of the League of David against the Philistines had plenty of swagger, and the ensuing stretta swept our sensibilities along towards the final triumphant if battle-scarred chords. Liu’s playing again caught a sense of the occasion, of the composer’s Don Quixote-like questing spirit, complete with fully-imagined triumph at the end.

But what of Liszt and the B Minor Sonata? Side-by-side with Schumann and with Jian Liu’s finely-honed sensibility brought to bear on the music, the work’s visionary scope and searing focus seemed as if newly-wrought for this occasion, with nothing about the performance left to “play itself” or convey anything of Clara Wieck’s charges of emptiness or vulgarity.

Liszt-lovers like myself are all too aware of the abyss of disapproval mined by all those nineteenth-century conservatives beneath the composer’s feet – and carried onwards in the twentieth century by agenda-ridden character assassins such as Ernest Newman. No other major composer, with perhaps the exception of Wagner, has had to endure, both throughout his lifetime and posthumously, such torrents of criticism and outright hostility regarding his music (let alone his grossly-distended reputation for extra-musical exploits). Fortunately, the advocacy of musicians such as Louis Kentner, Alfred Brendel, John Ogdon and Georges Cziffra, and a host of present-day pianistic giants, among them the redoubtable Leslie Howard with his staggering survey of the composer’s keyboard output for Hyperion Records, has effectively given the lie to the Clara Wiecks of this world regarding the music’s interest and worth.

Whether Jian Liu aligns himself with the believers or the skeptics in the matter of Liszt’s music, he plays it with the care and commitment of a true advocate, with no detail left to chance or unexplored. As with his playing of Carnaval, I was taken by the extent to which his piano-playing speaks across the hands, with what I had previously thought of as mere accompanying figures having something interesting and significant to say. Of course, the Sonata, with its amazingly-layered reworking of the principal themes needs a player alive to those different voices and their characters, and Liu didn’t disappoint, investing every episode with a kind of organic flow that constantly led the ear of the listener onwards. Even during the couple of instances where the music’s complexities momentarily clouded his bearings, he was able to seize upon the severed strands and quickly pull them together and continue – heart-stopping moments, indeed, but their resolution further evidence of the player’s quality.

For me one of the highlights of Liu’s performance was his playing of the fugue – Elgar’s description “a devil of a fugue” relating to his own Introduction and Allegro for Strings would as well apply to LIszt’s diabolically-conceived lines, the latter’s use of the work’s themes demonstrating compositional mastery of an almost indecent kind! Here, these were set in motion by the pianist as part of an ever-burgeoning torrent of impulse whose progress evoked a kind of demonic pursuit through the mind’s most shadowy and sulphurous realms of fancy. By contrast, and perhaps fittingly enough, another moment of magic was generated by Liu over the work’s last few pages, with whole worlds created between the hands, and as beautifully-timed a final low B as I’ve ever heard.

All I wanted during the performance of the Liszt was (should I be ashamed of admitting to this?) a touch more rhetoric in places, mostly in the form of bigger, more resonant tones at one or two cadence-points. Liu’s playing treated the music entirely on its own merits throughout, and was as faithful an account of the score as given by any other pianist I’ve heard – but everything I’ve read of Liszt’s playing indicates that he was no literalist, and that he wouldn’t hesitate to “heighten” whatever mood or feeling the composer indicated (accounts suggest that Liszt and his contemporaries had a more “creative” attitude to the printed score than we ourselves allow performers in this day and age).

Unlike that of his great contemporary, Chopin, the music of Liszt has a “larger-than-life” aspect which, in some instances invites performer-involvement of a kind that reflects the spirit of the work rather than one slavishly following the letter of the score. Without adding notes or radically changing tempi or dynamic markings, I feel it’s still possible to convey something of that “beyond the notes” feeling that marks a truly great and visionary performance of this repertoire. Jian Liu had for me something of this quality in his soft, inward-sounding playing – had he allowed a few more degrees of lingering romantic resonance in the bigger moments the performance as a whole would then have utterly knocked me sideways.