Return Visit by a Master Musician

There is, to me, something pleasurable about an orchestra tuning before a concert - it is a signal that great music is to be played. When one knows that the person leading the concert is a consummate musician and a master conductor, that pleasure is doubled.

Conductor Kazuyoshi Akiyama made one of his annual returns to Vancouver last night in a programme of Sibelius and Beethoven, plus a world premiere of a work by composer Marcus Goddard.

Taaliniq, the new work by Goddard was, according to the composer’s own programme notes, inspired by Inuit throat singing and folk melodies. Not being an aficionado of Inuit throat singing, I would grant the composer the benefit of the doubt. On first hearing, the work shows Goddard to be a composer of not just great skill, but imagination as well. The work is pretty much a miniature concerto for orchestra, exploiting fully the colours and texture of a full symphony orchestra. Particularly memorable was a pensive and beautiful middle section for strings. The composer could not have found a more ideal champion than Akiyama, who brought out all the kaleidoscopic colours of the opening and closing sections, and the beauty of the string writing in the center of this brief work.

I have always thought that Sibelius’ Nordic soundscape is very suited to our Canadian imagination. In the composer’s Violin Concerto, Ray Chen had chosen a difficult work to make his debut with. On top of its monumental technical difficulties, the violin part is so interwoven into the orchestral texture, that it is hard for a soloist to impress, in the traditional sense of the word, an unfamiliar audience. Yes, the violin writing is brilliant, but it is subsumed within the sounds of the orchestra. I have heard it said that it takes a virtuoso to be more than a virtuoso. A virtuoso Ray Chen certainly is, with his beautiful, sweet tone in the high register of the instrument, and a luscious sound in the lower register that particularly suited the Sibelius. Chen and Akiyama succeeded in evoking the bleak, grey colours of the music, especially in the slow movement. Akiyama is one of the few conductors I know that makes me so aware of the pulse, and not just the beat, of the music, so crucial in this Sibelius work.

In one of Leonard Bernstein’s groundbreaking television programmes, the conductor began an episode addressing rhythm in music with the image of a human heart beating on the screen. Gradually the image dissolves into the orchestra playing from the opening of the vivace section in the first movement of Beethoven’s Symphony No. 7. Indeed, rhythm plays such an important role throughout this familiar work by the master symphonist from Bonn. From the masterful transition from the poco sostenuto to the vivace in the first movement, to the beautiful string tone Akiyama drew in the second movement, to the incredible lightness of the third movement, and to the incredible energy the conductor summoned in the breathless fourth movement, there was nothing to suggest that it was anything less than a great performance.

To watch Kazuyoshi Akiyama conduct is to witness poetry in motion.

The conductor’s baton technique, especially his incredibly expressive left hand, is such that no orchestra, I wager, could mistake his intentions. He is not a rigid tempo man, but allows the music to breath, and always finds the pulse of the music behind the notes. Although he does not look it, Mr. Akiyama is now a man in his seventies. The Vancouver Symphony Orchestra should try and continue to claim his time and talent, and that he would always retain his affection for the city and the orchestra to return regularly.

An Afternoon of "Might Have Been"...

Pianist Joseph Moog came to town yesterday to make his debut with a highly unusual but always interesting programme. The young artist has been making a name for himself for rediscovering rarities and gems from the early 20^th century, virtuosic transcriptions as well as concerti by less-than-household names such as Scharwenka and Moszkoswki.

While there is nothing surprising for us to hear Beethoven’s popular Sonata in C Minor, Op. 13 (Pathétique), the work has been appearing less regularly in piano recitals, mainly because artists have lately been gravitating toward the profundities of the later sonatas. It is easy for us to forget what an original and startling composition this sonata is – the extreme dynamic contrasts of the introduction, the stormy 1^st and 3^rd movements, as well as the heavenly slow movement, an early example of the “three-handed effect” (the right hand having to play both melody and accompaniment) so favoured by later composers (Chopin employs the exact same texture in his celebrated Etude in E Major, Op. 10, No. 3). While the work was extremely well played, the artist seemed to have been somehow inhibited, as if he was emotionally ambivalent about the music. I missed the contrast in sounds and colours called for in the outer movements, and even the beautiful slow movement was lacking in a sense of repose, of transcendence. One admires the pianism, but there was a curious lack of conviction in the music.

I had the same impression in Moog’s performance of Liszt’s Réminiscences de Norma. I admired the craft of piano playing in his performance, for it was extremely well played, but there was missing a sense of fun, of joy, of élan.

One almost never finds Chopin’s Sonata No. 1 in C Minor, Op. 4 in recital programmes. I had heard it once before in a recital by Lilya Zilberstein. It is a work that has much beauty and originality. What is missing is a sense of organic unity so evident in the later works of Chopin. It is remarkable that the composer’s Op. 6 and 7 Mazurkas, the Op. 9 Nocturnes, and the groundbreaking Op. 10 Etudes, are so far ahead of this sonata, in terms of both compositional skills and originality. Still, we must be grateful to Joseph Moog for performing this rarely heard work for us. I thought that his playing of the Larghetto movement, remarkable for its 5/4 time signature, was especially beautiful, the kind of beauty missing in the slow movement of the Beethoven.

Gabriel Fauré’s elusive Theme and Variations in C-sharp Minor, Op. 73, is also a rarity in piano recitals, probably partly because of its extreme difficulty and an inner beauty that is difficult to convey. It made perfect sense, as the pianist told us after his recital, to combine Chopin and Fauré in the same programme, for Fauré really is a spiritual descendent of Chopin. In spite of the pianist’s skill in navigating the many difficulties of the work, one misses the glow, the aforementioned inner beauty, of this music.

The recital ended with a blistering performance of Anton Rubinstein’s Fantasy on Hungarian Melodies, arranged by the pianist himself. Once again, I had the impression that the playing was incredible, but, as in the Liszt, there was missing a sense of élan, flamboyance, and flair.

Incredibly, all the things that were missing in the “planned” part of the recital, I found in the two encores - a transcription by 19^th century virtuoso Carl Tausig of Scarlatti’s Sonata in D Minor, as well as a transcription of Charles Trenet's En Avril, a Paris by Bulgarian-French pianist Alexis Weissenberg. In these little gems, the pianist, to me, came alive, and was completely in his element. What was missing in the Liszt and Rubinstein, were there, in spades, in these two performances. There was also a charm, and a sense of joy in the playing of these two miniatures.

The Vancouver Recital Society website quoted a statement from the Denver Post, saying that, “This is a pianist with all the ingredients for a significant career.” Playing a solo recital is an act of courage that should be applauded. Joseph Moog does have a great deal of talent, and he is still at the beginning of his journey of discovering both the music and himself as a musician. I would like to hear this young pianist again in a few years, to see what time and experience would do for his music-making.

A Debut with Bach and Beethoven

One of the hallmarks of a successful musical performance is when, on top of the visceral excitement the music generates, an artist draws the audience into the emotional and spiritual world of the composers. Andras Schiff did this masterfully in his recent recital here, and I knew that Nelson Goerner, making his Vancouver debut last night, would have a, shall we say, a tough act to follow.

J. S. Bach’s Partita No. 6 in E Minor, BWV 830, has the largest canvas of the six, large in scope as well as in emotional range, and the most technically difficult. Goerner’s performance of this great work was certainly a pianistic tour de force, but unfortunately not more than that. In the opening Toccata, the pianist failed, to my ears, to fathom the profundity and the gravity of the music. It also lacked a certain feeling of spaciousness, and of musical tension. I believe that the artist could have made greater use of the brief moments of silence in between musical ideas, especially right before the arrival of the fugue (m. 26). In the great fugue, I do commend Goerner in the clarity of the voices and textures, but again, it was not a spiritual journey, such that with the return of the opening musical idea (m. 89), it did not evoke a sense of great emotional release.

I do not believe that the repeats in the dances should be observed just for the sake of observing them. Goerner observed every repeat in the dances, but played them exactly the same way as he did the first time.  I feel that repeats should be played only if the artist has something different to say about the music.

Goerner displayed an incredible deftness and lightness of touch in the Corrente as well as the rhythmically tricky Tempo de Gavotta, but it sounded more like, forgive me, Scarlatti rather than Bach. Even in the great Sarabande, it became like a series of beautiful notes, rather than a sense of time standing still. The artist very successfully navigated the incredible complexities of the fugue-like Gigue, and it was truly stunning piano playing. Mr. Goerner is a young man; he has all the time in the world to plunge the depths of Bach. To me, he is at the beginning of this incredible journey.

Of all the “great” composers, Felix Mendelssohn is a figure that sometimes puzzles me. The composer of the great Violin Concerto in E Minor, the Overture to A Midsummer Night’s Dream, the Piano Trio in D Minor, and the joyous Octet in E-flat Major, music that are, to me, divinely inspired, also wrote a lot of music that are merely effective. The Fantasy in F-sharp Minor, Op. 28, the so-called Scottish Sonata, is one such piece. To my ears, it is a piece, written by a great pianist, reveling in the act (and joy) of playing the piano. To that end, Goerner succeeded admirably, and the playing was one of great sweep and panache. Musically and pianistically, it was a more successful performance than one given by Murray Perahia years ago.

It is difficult to believe that we would be hearing Beethoven Hammerklavier twice in one season (Steven Osborne gave a wonderful performance of this work a few weeks ago). Goerner was a different pianist in the Beethoven, and it was a performance of total commitment, and of great beauty and depth. He understood and realized the construction and architecture of the 1^st movement, resulting in a performance of grandeur and excitement.

In the Scherzo, the pianist understood the unique humour in late Beethoven, the pregnant pauses, the Prestissimo scale-run at m. 112 and brief tremolo that follows (m. 113-114) were particularly effective as well as truly humourous. I was particularly moved by Goerner’s playing of the tremendous Adagio sostenuto, which was certain, as Beethoven instructed, Appassionato e con molto sentimento. Here, the artist succeeded in drawing us into the emotional core of the music. The final three-voice fugue was played with absolute confidence and conviction, and stunning trills! To me, the performance of this great work was masterful, and completely satisfactory.

After a well-deserved ovation, the Goerner gave us two items for “dessert”, a Ignacy Jan Paderewski’s rhythmically intriguing Nocturne, and Felix Blumenfeld’s (Vladimir Horowitz’s teacher) Etude for the Left Hand. The performance of the Blumenfeld was truly breathtaking. One would almost be tempted to say that Mr. Goerner has the greatest left-hand in the music world. It was an incredible feat of pianism.

We are truly fortunate to have the Vancouver Chopin Society as well as the Vancouver Recital Society to keep the solo recital alive in our community. We await the joys of further musical discoveries in the next few months and coming concert seasons.

Making Magic

Yesterday afternoon, the air within the Chan Centre for the Performing Arts in Vancouver seemed more rarefied during Andras Schiff’s magnificent recital.

There are for me, two kinds of musician, ones that draw our attention to his or her incredible physical ability at the instrument, and a small and select group, to which Sir Andras Schiff belongs, that transcends his or her instrument, so that the audience is aware of only the beauty of the message, and not the medium. The former group of artists gives us excitement, but the latter brings us into communion with the inner, spiritual realm of the music.

Schiff began his programme with the three principal notes of the C Major chord, in Haydn’s Sonata in C Major, Hob XVI:50. Alfred Brendal once said that during a performance, an artist should lose and find oneself at the same time. Schiff was completely absorbed into Haydn’s sound world; yet the performance was one of wholeness, where the first notes led inevitability to the last chord. Every note was like a pearl within a perfect necklace. Every pause and fermata, even the brief time in between movements, held us in breathless suspense until we hear the next sound. In Alfred Brendel’s lecture on humour in music of the Classical period a few years back, the pianist discussed the third movement of this work at length, highlighting the rambunctiousness of the music. Schiff’s playing of the movement did indeed bring out the humour, but in a way that inspires not a belly laugh, but a gentle chuckle.

I had heard the pianist play Beethoven’s Sonata in E Major, Op. 109, before, in Seattle, where he generously gave us the entire sonata as an encore to his performance of the Goldberg Variations! (This brings to mind the story of Rudolf Serkin playing the entire Goldberg Variations as an encore, at the end of which about four people remained in the audience.) For me, yesterday’s performance towered even over that Seattle performance. In the third movement, one rarely hears one variation leads so seamlessly and logically into the next. In the theme and variations, Schiff, I feel, came as close to Beethoven’s markings – Gesangvoll, mit innigster Empfindung – as I have heard. There were a few particularly magical moments in the performance (which is saying a lot) - the final diminuendo at the end of the first movement, the beginning of the B section in the final movement’s fourth variation (m. 106), and the almost unbearably beautiful refrain of the theme at the end, which gave me the feeling of returning from a long and incredible journey. At the end of the sonata, the audience appeared to have been in a trance, not daring to break the magic of the moment by applauding.

Mozart’s Sonata in C Major, K. 545, has been slaughtered by so many piano students, that it really takes a truly great performer to remind us of what a jewel this deceptively simple piece really is. Years ago, I heard a magnificent performance of this sonata by Radu Lupu. Schiff’s performance yesterday was equally beautiful. Schiff observed all the repeats in the sonata, but interjected many tasteful and deliciously beautiful ornaments in the repeats, including a little cadenza at the fermata (m. 52) of the third movement. Schiff really highlighted the beauty of the second movement, and reminding us of its harmonic adventurousness.

In a masterclass, when Murray Perahia was working with a student on the first movement of Schubert’s Sonata in C Minor, D. 958, the pianist commented that this work really belongs to the emotional and sound world of Winterreise. Schiff’s performance of this sonata reminded me of Perahia’s comment. Of all of Schubert’s late sonatas, this work is surely the darkest, angriest, and most demonic. Schiff’s playing of the first movement really highlighted the contrast and constant shifting between the highly dramatic and the extreme lyricism. His voicing of the chords, particularly in the first two movements, was particularly beautiful. In the extended fourth movement, from its gently rollicking opening theme to the determined C Minor perfect cadence that ended the work, Schiff held our attention throughout and made us forget the “heavenly length” of the movement, and the work.

Other than the incredible pianism, musicianship, and a lifetime of musical thinking that went behind the performance, Schiff’s programme was so well thought out that, from the first notes of the Haydn to the end of the Schubert, the entire performance felt like one long breath. As we walked out of the hall after the performance and breathed in the winter air, the world seemed like a better place. Once again, in this age of ready-made music, where we can have classical music, as our local radio station reminds us constantly, “on demand”, performances like yesterday’s remind us of the magic of live music. How fortunate we are that this great artist has chosen to make Vancouver one of his musical homes.

2016 seems like such a long time to wait until Andras Schiff visits us again.  

Patrick May

The Infinite Variety of Beethoven

Well, this appears to be the year for late Beethoven.

Steven Osborne, in his wonderful recital at the Chan Centre for the Performing Arts in Vancouver, gave us the composer’s Op. 90, Op. 101, and Op. 106 sonatas. Next Sunday, Sir Andras Schiff will perform Op. 109, then Nelson Goerner will essay the Op. 106 again, and Paul Lewis will return in May to play Op. 109, Op. 110, and Op. 111.

Beethoven’s Sonata in E Minor, Op. 90 is truly an unjustly neglected work. It is a work of great contrast and beauty and, strangely enough, much of it reminds me of the sonatas of Schubert, in how the materials unfold and in its melodic invention, especially in the slow movement. Osborne certainly made a strong case for this, probably really the first of the “late” piano sonatas. There were some magical moments in his playing, namely, in the final ritardando before the end of the first movement (m. 233), and at the end of the second movement, the ritardando (m. 281) followed by the accelerando that ends the work. In the slow movement, Osborne managed to make each return of the theme beautiful and convincing. Anton Rubinstein reportedly moved audiences to tears with his playing of this movement. I thought Osborne’s performance of this work was just as moving.

Between the two sonatas of Beethoven, the pianist performed Schubert’s little Klavierstück in A Major, D. 604. Like a sorbet between two main courses, this miniature, exquisitely played, was just what the audience (and maybe the pianist as well) needed to “clear the palate”.

I feel that the Sonata in A Major, Op. 101 is, pianistically speaking, the most difficult of the sonatas after the Hammerklavier. Other than technically challenging, it is terribly difficult to capture the constantly shifting moods of the music. Other than more than rising to the technical challenges Beethoven set for the pianist, Osborne successfully gave us a coherent account of the work, giving us a sense of the organic unity of the music. His playing of the march in the 2^nd movement, to me reminiscent of the march from Schumann’s Fantasy, Op. 17, was blistering. More than the excitement the dramatic moments of this work can generate, what stayed in my mind with Osborne’s performance of this work, indeed for the entire concert, were the intimate moments, like the slow movement of this sonata (Langsam und sehnsuchtvoll), especially with the return of the 1^st movement theme at m. 24.

Any performance of Beethoven’s Sonata in B-flat Major (Hammerklavier) is an event. Lasting 40 to 45 minutes, the challenge, other than the superhuman technical hurdles, is for the artist to hold all the disparate elements. I felt that Osborne more than rose to the challenges in every aspect of this great work, not neglecting any details in the score, but also clearly seeing the way ahead of him, and aware of the larger structure of the work. Osborne’s playing of the Adagio sostenuto movement, the emotional core of the entire work, was rapturous. In the final fugue, where Beethoven emancipated the trill as a mere ornament, Osborne succeeded in making the texture of this rather wild and dense movement clear and tremendously exciting.

I would have thought it impossible to follow such a work with any encore, but upon the urging of the enthusiastic audience, Steven Osborne granted us a little morsel, Brahms’ Intermezzo in E-flat Major, Op. 117, No. 1, a work as intimate as the Hammerklavier was dramatic, and played it as a benediction and thanksgiving for the afternoon of great music.