Wigmore Hall
The
Well-Tempered Clavier,
Book One, BWV 846-69
Having heard Pierre-Laurent
Aimard play The Art of Fugue in
this very hall a few years ago, I was, despite very mixed feelings concerning
that performance, keen to hear this always interesting, ever-thoughtful artist
in Book One of the pianist’s Old Testament. Again, my reactions were not
uniform, but it would surely be a truly extraordinary performance – whether
good or bad – in which they would be. A degree of the heavy-handedness I noted
in 2008 manifested itself again, especially earlier on, and especially during
the fugues, but it seemed to fade away, as did the state of affairs in which
the earlier preludes tended in general to fare better than their companion fugues.
Perhaps most importantly, there was a true sense, understated though it may
have been, of progress, of a ‘journey’, to try to reclaim a word that has
perhaps become clichéd beyond repair. Bach’s tonal cycle in the end amounted in
performance to very much more than the sum of its parts, which parts I shall now
attempt to summarise.
The C major Prelude was,
intriguingly (a nod to its clavecinist
roots?), slightly uneven: very different from the almost belligerent
presentation of The Art of Fugue. There
was a sense of expectancy in what was quite a slow account. Its fugue, by
contrast, exhibited an unevenness that came across as a little unsteady; a
little pedal would not necessarily have gone amiss here. The C minor Prelude
came across in relatively ‘neutral’ fashion, which did not preclude a strong
sense of harmonic motion. Aimard’s decidedly non legato approach to the C minor Fugue, however, wanted charm.
Much more ingratiating was the C-sharp major Prelude, which also benefited from
its prelude-predecessor’s sense of direction. Its companion fugue sounded ‘neutral’
in the positive way of apparently letting the music ‘speak for itself’, however
much art may be required for such an impression to take hold. Moving to the
tonic minor, there was struck a note of almost nostalgic sadness, harking park
to the opening Prelude. There was a stronger sense than in earlier pieces of reimagining,
not entirely unlike a more Teutonic Tombeau
de Couperin. Rhetorical spreading of chords made their point without
overstatement. After a short break to return to the dressing room to collect
missing music, Aimard continued with a C-sharp minor Fugue of grave, though
decidedly un-Romantic dignity. As often, though not always, in this recital,
counterpoint rather than harmony proved the driving force. There was, however,
an element of heavy-handedness towards the end, which somewhat marred the
impressive earlier sentiment.
D major brought a brisk,
lively Prelude and a rather unyielding Fugue, which nevertheless, so long as
one could take its underlying anti-Romanticism, had a strong stylistic sense of
the Baroque Overture. D minor encouraged greater warmth, or at least less chilliness.
There was a sense in the Prelude of a Bach edging at times harmonically toward
the slightly surprising destination of a Schubert Lied. (Or at least, so there
was in my aural response!) Oddly, the Fugue seemed a little lacking in the
direction which was generally a strong suit for the pianist. Again, the E-flat
major Prelude was relatively ‘objective’ in its presentation. Likewise its
fugue, albeit with more than a nod to its slightly awkward – in the sense of
character, that is – angularity.
Moving to E-flat minor,
Aimard confounded expectations. The Prelude unfolded in high-Romantic (or
thereabouts) fashion: beautiful, profound, without a hint of self-regard; the
Fugue continued in similar vein, with a stronger impression of ‘belonging’ to
its Prelude than previous pairs had shown. The E major Prelude and Fugue, by
contrast, were themselves nicely contrasted with each other. In the E minor
Prelude, I could not help but think that greater legato would have assisted its
progress. Aimard’s no-nonsense approach to its Fugue worked well, though,
without shading into anonymity. Much the same – the no-nonsense bit – could fairly
be said of the F major Prelude and Fugue. The F minor Prelude was taken
surprisingly slowly – to its advantage, both in terms of the harmonic
implications of Bach’s counterpoint, and yes, its pathos. Bach’s chromaticism
in the F minor Fugue benefited in similar fashion: what a relief it was that it
and he were given time to speak!
After the interval, Aimard
offered a playful yet muscular F-sharp major Prelude: an individual, though not
eccentric, reading. The Fugue was more variegated than many of its
predecessors, setting a note in general for this second half. It was rock
solid, without that in any sense implying dullness. Aimard’s combination of
harmonic direction and dynamic variegation was near-ideal in the F-sharp minor
Prelude, after which the Fugue was presented in stark, almost desolate fashion,
with more than a hint of the Passion settings, not least in the driving force
of the continuo-like bass line. The G major pieces scintillated, the G minor
Prelude registering all the more thereafter as labyrinthine, suggestive of Berg,
though without less to its temporality. Its fugue was forthright, but this was
a forthrightness with light and shade. A brisk A-flat major Fugue permitted a
sense of broadening out for its Fugue, whilst the G-sharp minor Prelude and
Fugue displayed a very well-judged combination of forward direction and
chiaroscuro. The Prelude in particular gave an impression of dialogue such as
one might more readily find in the Keyboard Suites – though not, of course,
only there.
A lively, alert A major
Prelude, again with the requisite dynamism of development, led to a Fugue whose
non legato style here registered as
genuine, meaningful contrast, consonant with its character, rather than
interpretative oddity. It almost flirted. I initially thought the A minor
Prelude unyielding, and perhaps it was, but kinship with Mendelssohn was
perhaps part of the payoff for that. The stark nature of Aimard’s performance
of the A minor Fugue was less convincing, its clockwork style missing the piece’s
beating heart. Was the B-flat major Prelude a little on the Czerny side?
Perhaps, but there was no great harm in giving the fingers such a work-out;
Bach’s genius still shone through. A very fast tempo for the Fugue, combined
with sovereign technical command, had similar rewards, though something also
seemed to be lost.
Swiftly though it may have
been taken, however, there was no less of depth to the B-flat minor Prelude,
that greater second-half chiaroscuro aiding its passage. The Fugue, by
contrast, was quite unhurried, its majesty permitted to unfold without fuss. It
was not the most Romantic performance, but it was not anti-Romantic either.
Pianistic subtlety, devoid of narcissism, enabled a performance of great
distinction. After that, the B major Prelude came as light(-er) relief, with
fine but not fussy attention to detail and direction. Likewise its Fugue. The B
minor Prelude was taken in decidedly anti-Romantic fashion, not entirely to its
benefit, the repeat of the first section coming across as charmless and heavy
of hand. As indeed did quite a bit of what followed, although the repeat of the
second section was considerably more yielding. So was the B minor Fugue, Bach
at his most Bergian, for all that Aimard kept the music moving on in relatively
swift fashion – at least until a big ritardando
at the close. The long silence of communion at the end told its own tale.
