Royal Festival Hall
Schubert – Sonata in A minor, D 784
Brahms – Three Intermezzi, op.117
Liszt – Sonata in B minor, S 178
Arcadi Volodos (piano)
Though I have long been aware of his
reputation, this was the first time, whether on disc or in the concert hall,
that I had heard Arcadi Volodos. I suspect that it will turn out also to be the
last. There were peculiarities, which is arguably to put it mildly, to the
first half, but I had assumed that Liszt would play more to Volodos’s strengths;
as it turned out, I should have been better advised to have left at the
interval.
The first movement of Schubert’s A minor
sonata, D 784, added up to considerably less than the sum of its parts, even
when the parts were often distinctly odd. There were fine moments, such as a
beautifully quiet opening, though the sonority seemed more suited to
Tchaikovsky than to Schubert. Moreover, Volodos showed himself alert to, or at
least suggestive of, those weird foreshadowings of Mussorgsky’s Pictures at an Exhibition. However, one
often, for instance at the opening of the second group, had a sense of him
holding back, afraid – doubtless not without reason – of unleashing his
firepower upon a composer whose temperament might seem somewhat less than an
ideal match. That said, there was certainly little holding back in the
development section, which sounded, if hardly idiomatic, at least impressive.
Volodos, from his outward appearance, was clearly committed to what he was
doing, apparently lost in his own reveries. But as for what Schubert’s music
might mean, let alone how it might add up… The slow movement had ultra-Romantic
tone lavished upon it, and I can imagine that many would think it drawn out.
Yet at least – and certainly by comparison with its predecessor – it had
purpose and coherence. It sounded rather like a Liszt transcription of a
Schubert song: not quite right, perhaps, but not so bad either. The finale had
a surprisingly Brahmsian tone to its opening, not at all unfitting. Melodic
oases were exquisitely voiced, moving in their way, though it was really too
late by now.
The Brahms Intermezzi, op.117, received
an individual reading by any standards, yet arguably provided the highlight of
the evening. Each of the three pieces followed a similar trajectory: voicing as
exquisite as that mentioned in the final movement of the Schubert sonata, with
half-lighting – or perhaps rather less than half – wondrously evoked. I am not
sure that I have ever heard the opening of the E-flat intermezzo so meltingly
beautiful. Were the performances distended? Almost certainly, yet they
intrigued rather than infuriated. Brahms sounded closer to Chopin, and in the
central section of the third, to Liszt, than to Schoenberg; however, there was
at the end a sense of loss, of aching longing, that stood not entirely unrelated
to Brahms.
The Liszt B minor sonata opened with
great promise, the piano sound apparently just right. Unfortunately, even that
soon descended into bludgeoning, the delicate passages coming off much better.
Why, however, I soon asked myself, all the agogic accents? Why the inserted
pauses? Why was everything pulled around to no apparent purpose? This of all
works, certainly the most extraordinary piano sonata in formal conception between
Schubert and Boulez, requires a musician who will project both its overall
structure and its motivic cohesion. Volodos turned the work into something
resembling an over-extended operatic paraphrase. He did not deserve the minute
or so when an audience member declined to answer the telephone, just as he had
not deserved the barrage of coughing here and in the first half, but this was
as uncomprehending a performance of Liszt’s towering masterpiece as I have ever
heard. That many members of the audience could greet it with a standing ovation
for me simply beggared belief. Whatever would they do, were they, to cite two recent
outstanding performances on the South Bank, to hear Maurizio Pollini or
Pierre-Laurent Aimard perform the work? Here, alas, there was not the slightest sense
of an Idea. Most of the recapitulation was simply brutalised. Oddly, the first
encore, Liszt’s En rêve sounded, if a
little sugary, at least conceived of in a single breath. As for the other
encores, I think I have said enough already.
