Philharmonia/Schiff - Mozart, 18 November 2021

Royal Festival Hall

Piano Concerto no.9 in E-flat major, KV 271
Symphony no.36 in C major, KV 425, ‘Linz’
Don Giovanni, KV 527: Overture
Piano Concerto no.20 in D minor, KV 466

Philharmonia Orchestra

András Schiff (piano, conductor)

‘A feast of Mozart’ is how this concert was advertised—and indeed in many ways it was, not least for those of us unlikely to be able to attend (yet again) Salzburg’s Mozartwoche next January. It was, though, a somewhat inconsistent feast, though and oddly planned at that, a piano concerto followed by an unrelated symphony making for a strange first half. The second half—rather less than half, in minutes taken—was more impressive, although there were certainly things earlier on to admire and enjoy. It was nonetheless difficult to resist the conclusion that, nowadays, the best of András Schiff’s pianism is to be heard on period instruments and certainly not on a modern Steinway; in addition, it is difficult to credit him as much of a conductor.

The opening of the miraculous E-flat major Piano Concerto, KV 271, augured well, the Philharmonia’s playing crisp and cultivated, Schiff’s tempo well chosen. And there was sometimes, if not always often enough, a willingness to yield. More concerning was an intermittent disinclination to phrase, ends of phrases merely left hanging, cut off abruptly. That was especially odd given an evident ability to phrase where so inclined, for instance in the passage for crossed hands. Why Schiff felt the need to play piano continuo throughout the opening tutti and beyond, I do not know; it added little other than distraction. Here, perhaps more than anywhere else, I gained the impression the pianist would be happier playing a fortepiano. Fair enough, but in that case, why not do so? The slow movement was taken swifter than Schiff would once have been likely to, but had more in the way of dynamic contrast. His dogged continuo playing continued to irritate, but that is clearly now his way. The music’s restlessness was often well conveyed, but again a reluctance to yield was concerning. An ebullient finale seemed less hidebound by determination to eschew Romanticism: not because Schiff’s approach was notably different, but more on account of its intrinsic qualities. Again, passages for crossed hands were beautifully taken. The central episode was honest and unfussy, if hardly seductive, the Philharmonia offering some lovely orchestral playing nevertheless. 

The first movement of the Linz Symphony proved a disappointment. A broad introduction tailed off at its close, dissipating the energy required for the main Allegro spiritoso to burst forth as surely it must. The impression was of flatness, and of an inability quite to settle on the right tempo. It took until the recapitulation to do so. Period trumpets with modern horns (and other instruments) made for a strange compromise; perhaps there was reason behind it. The second movement, together with the finale the most convincing, flowed with greater coherence. There was something of an edge to the Philharmonia strings, but that seemed to be an interpretative decision. A graceful minuet gave way to a slightly distended trio, small-scale (with radically reduced strings) rather than intimate. Momentum was restored in the finale, well pointed, nicely directed, and full of life and direction. Schiff largely left the players to play: a distinct improvement on earlier, fussy intervention. Taking the closing repeat is doubtless justifiable, but here it offered little beyond repetition for its own sake. 

The Overture to Don Giovanni was much better. Its introduction taken unfashionably in four, and all the better for it, was grander than anything heard hitherto, but more to the point offered due sense of expectation, fulfilled in the main body of the overture. It duly fizzed, crucially emerging from what had gone before. Again, Schiff wisely left the musicians largely to play for themselves. Although Schiff held up his hands to forestall applause, wishing to move straight into the D minor Piano Concerto, many applauded anyway. 

The concerto’s first movement was similarly ‘traditional’, but also more focused than anything we had heard in the first half. Schiff seemed more at ease with himself and with the Philharmonia. The opening tutti was exemplary, articulation integral to the musical drive, not a strange end in itself. If there were still occasions when his playing seemed more suited to an older instrument, they were fewer and less glaring. And the Philharmonia by now seemed to know when not necessarily to follow the arms waved around from the keyboard. Schiff used Beethoven’s cadenza. The Romanze was on the swift side, though not unreasonably so; better that than laboured. Focus remained, in a performance nicely sung and without fuss. During the central G minor episode, Schiff’s care to voice every note—not always the case in the first movement—went to show just how essential each of them is. The movement as a whole was well shaped, which is to say there was no overt shaping at all; it sounded just ‘right’. Mozart’s treacherous opening to the finale was despatched without fear, the orchestral response wondrous in diabolical grandeur. This was properly Catholic Mozart. Indeed, there was a keen sense of solo/tutti versicle and response, melting where necessary into chamber music. That is Mozart, of course, but it requires understanding and communication in performance too. The cadenza may have seemed a good idea in the abstract, opening with material from Don Giovanni before returning to music from the concerto itself, yet ultimately it failed to convince. It would surely have needed something more Mephistophelian, more Lisztian (a composer Schiff has long disdained), and less disjointed. Still, the coda, full of energy, offered a proper release. As an encore, we heard an unpretentious account of the Adagio from the extraordinary late B-flat major Piano Sonata, KV 570.

Staatskapelle Berlin/Schiff - Bach, 6 December 2019

Pierre Boulez Saal

Orchestral Suite no.2 in B minor, BWV 1067

Piano Concerto no.3 in D major, BWV 1054

Orchestral Suite no.3 in D major, BWV 1068

Piano Concerto no.1 in D minor, BWV 1052

Claudia Stein (flute)

Staatskapelle Berlin

András Schiff (piano, conductor)

Celebrating its 450^th anniversary next year, the Staatskapelle Berlin traces its proud history long before Bach: be that its ‘own’, Carl Philipp Emanuel, his father, Johann Sebastian—‘Gentlemen, old Bach is here!’—or indeed any family member whom we know as a composer. It is a sad state of affairs to report that, on the similar brink of another anniversary, the 70^th of the great Bach year of 1950, in whose wake Theodor Adorno wrote his coruscating denunciation of authenticist ideology, we still live so much in its baleful shadow that a concert from this ancient orchestra in which it performs only relatively ‘alte Musik’ should remain so remarkable a thing. Whatever reservations I may have felt, then, concerning András Schiff’s direction of this wonderful orchestra—a few, alongside many positive observations—I remain grateful indeed for the experience, for the reminder that it is still just about possible to hear Bach played by a modern orchestra without compelling its players to sound like an end-of-pier band, or indeed simply to hear Bach from a modern orchestra at all. To see Daniel Barenboim in the Pierre Boulez Saal audience, moreover, was encouraging; dare we hope for some more Bach from him, whether as pianist, conductor, or both?

For the B minor Orchestral Suite, with Claudia Stein as the excellent flute soloist, Schiff, conducting rather than direction from the keyboard, called on a very small string orchestra (4.4.3.2.1) plus harpsichord (Schaghajegh Nosrati). The opening to the Overture, like its counterpart in the D major Suite later on, sounded clipped and inhibited. The main body of the movement came as a significant relief: not only a sensible tempo, so rare nowadays in this music, but with no attempt to inflict weird, egotistical mannerisms upon it. Rhythms were nicely sprung. Crucially, that sense of line strangely lacking earlier on was present throughout. It was initially not clear to me that Schiff’s hand-waving had much bearing on the excellent playing, other than setting the parameters within which it would operate, but entries were well pointed, so perhaps it did after all. The Rondeau and Sarabande proved graceful, without some effete, allegedly French idea of ‘grace’ becoming an end in itself. Once again, the lack of breakneck, attention-seeking tempo was greatly appreciated, also enabling the first Bourrée to come as a vigorous contrast that yet did not neglect its fundamental musical worth. The second, played only by soloists and with darker tone, offered a more relaxed foil. The martial qualities of Polonaise rhythm were communicated, yet again without ‘style’ being taken for idea. Stein’s playing in particular highlighted rhythm in revealing, generative fashion. A further solo foil, this time from flute and continuo, proved idiomatically and emotionally refreshing in the Double. A courtly Menuett led to a Badinerie that was swift without taking speed to fashionable excess, Stein’s agile musicianship matched by a highly responsive orchestra.

Moving to the relative major, a slightly augmented string section (6.6.4.3.2) accompanied Schiff in the D major Concerto, BWV 1054, directed—without harpsichord—from the piano. The first movement’s opening was bright and clear. Just when I was longing for greater variegation of piano tone, Schiff offered some, though I could not help but wish we had heard a little more in that respect. Such is his way, however, as his refusal to use the sustaining pedal; we should all be wary of claims that there is only one way. Light piano ornamentation proved stylish and did not obscure the fundamentals. An eminently musical account of the slow movement permitted depth to come from the notes, as opposed to being some thing applied to them. Command of the long line was here crucial—and unfailing. Some may well have found Schiff’s tempo for the final movement too slow; it is, after all, marked ‘Presto’. For me, his relatively unhurried approach had much to be said for it, permitting the music to speak, with no fashionable sense of harrying it.

The larger string band was retained for the second half, joined of course by two oboes, three trumpets, kettledrums, and harpsichord for the D major Orchestral Suite, not least in the main body of the first movement. It was taken fast, but far from unreasonably so: music and players could take it. What cultivated string-playing we heard, trumpets in particular enhancing the sense of the festal. If my ears took a minute or so to adjust to a more ‘period’ sound for the kettledrums, I soon ditched my prejudice in the light of such intelligent, rhetorically and harmonically expressive playing from Stephan Möller. Apparent determination to wrest the ‘Air’ from ‘on the G string fame’ left it in a curious state: skated over, with most uncharacteristic vibrato-lite playing. Nosrati’s continuo playing, however, proved a delight. Following a pair of Gavottes that were lively and vigorous, if somewhat short-breathed, the Bourrée and Gigue sounded a little too much as if translated from the keyboard, fine orchestral playing notwithstanding.

The D minor Concerto, BWV 1052, opened in forthright fashion, Schiff’s tempo choice spot on. (Not that there is a ‘correct’ answer here, but rather that it should work within the context of the performance—which it did.) There was energy enough, but also space. I may have wished it to breathe more at times; again, however, it would be folly to insist upon one’s own aesthetic being applied to everything, for on its own terms, this worked well. A greater problem for me was a lack—at least on certain occasions—of piano legato and a certain heavy-handedness which may have led some to doubt the role of a Steinway in this music. The slow movement, similarly to the Suite’s Air, seemed haunted by a fear of ‘romanticising’; what we heard instead sounded oddly unengaged, Schiff’s piano tone often unforgiving. The finale, however, came off much better: tempo, clarity, and dynamism all just right. Most important of all, it possessed a sense of grandeur such as Bach demands and yet all too rarely receives. Old Bach, it felt, was truly here: not in Potsdam, still less in Leipzig, but in Berlin.

OAE/Schiff - Haydn, 4 July 2018

Queen Elizabeth Hall

Symphony no.94 in G major, ‘Surprise’

Piano Concerto no.11 in D major, Hob.XVIII/11

Harmoniemesse in B-flat major, Hob.XXII:14

Charlotte Beament (soprano)

Helen Charlston (mezzo-soprano)

Nick Pritchard (tenor)

Dingle Yandell (bass)

Choir of the Enlightenment

Orchestra of the Age of Englightenment

András Schiff (fortepiano, conductor)

Many of the ingredients for a memorable concert were there, or so they initially seemed to be. Alas, ultimately what we learned more clearly than anything else was that the Orchestra of the Age of Enlightenment’s new Principal Artist, András Schiff, is no conductor. It is not clear that he is much of a pianist any more either. The latter surprised me: not because my recent encounters with him in the concert hall had been positive, far from it, but because various friends had thought highly of his recent turn to the fortepiano. (He has long played older instruments as well as the modern piano, but seems to be doing so rather more at the moment.) When one of them lent me a CD of Schiff playing Schubert on a period instrument, I shared some of that enthusiasm. The deathly seriousness of his recent piano playing, often not helped by bizarre programming more suited to recording of box sets than to the concert hall, seemed to be gone. Schiff seemed liberated by the possibilities, rather than restricted by the shortcomings, of the older instrument. Whether that were due to recording trickery, or whether this concert were an off-day, I do not know. However, I could not help but think that the other musicians would often have made a better show of things without him (and with another soloist). 

Each of the three works on the evening’s programme opened with great promise, the introduction to the Surprise Symphony’s first movement dark with potentiality. (The Creation’s ‘Representation of Chaos’ was not itself an act of creatio ex nihilo; it is inconceivable without Haydn’s symphonic introductions.) That came from the players, though, Schiff’s conducting either ineffectual or restrictively four-square. Oddly, or perhaps not so oddly to those more closely acquainted with the period-instrument scene, the willingness of the OAE’s players truly to play out, rather than to condescend to Haydn, had them sound closer to performances by the likes of Eugen Jochum or Colin Davis than to many more recent ones. Alas, however, the lack of formal dynamism and even control of the players soon made for a wearing experience. The Andante was on the fast side, yet far from unreasonably so. Otherwise it was business as usual: the more Sturm und Drang passages sounded magnificent in their way – they would have done still more so with a larger band – yet unduly regimented. The scherzo had Schwung, for which one could overlook a few too many intonational lapses. Soon, it became a bit too same-y, though: where was the development? Such was still more the case for its trio and for a merely hectic finale.

If the D major Piano Concerto opened with somewhat mannered string articulation, such is often the way now. I have heard far worse – whether from modern or period instruments. Quite why Schiff sometimes played continuo and sometimes did not is anyone’s guess. He certainly made things far worse as soloist, his phrasing often barely worthy of the word. Balance between the hands was sometimes straightforwardly odd; there is, of course, a greater difference between registers on such an instrument, but even so. His cadenza, based upon the Symphony’s Andante was thought hilarious by some, but they had reacted similarly the first time around too. In the slow movement, Schiff struggled to form a cantabile phrase at all, let alone to shape it meaningfully. The OAE was much better, needless to say. Episodes in the finale were weirdly unconnected; I was quite shocked how little harmonic understanding was on show here. Surely Schiff used to be better than that? The audience loved it, though, and was rewarded with an encore of the entire movement.

The introduction to the ‘Kyrie’ of the Harmoniemesse, surely one of Haydn’s very grandest, indeed awe-inspiring passages, sang with all the promise, perhaps even more, of that to the Symphony. Even here, though Schiff’s phrasing was often pedantic; the less he did, the better. Grainy woodwind reminded us why this mass has the nickname it does. Vocal quartet and choir alike offered consummately professional singing, often rather more than that: beautiful, if not especially mitteleuropäisch in style. Not that there is anything intrinsically wrong with an ‘English’ performance of Haydn: better that than unconvincing ventriloquism.


The ‘Gloria’ began, as many of the movements – I know we should not really call them that, but never mind – did, at a surprisingly slow tempo. I have nothing against that, quite the contrary, but much of it was a bit of a trudge. Charlotte Beament’s bell-like soprano was attractive here and throughout. The ‘Gratias’ section sounded too fast: more likely in relation to what had gone before than intrinsically. Indeed, proportional tempi were notable only by their absence. That said, nothing here can really mask the vigour and rigour of Haydn’s thematic working out; if that is not ‘symphonic’, then I do not know what out. Moreover, nothing did mask it. A four-square conclusion was less than overflowing with joy.

There was an old-fashioned Handelian sturdiness to the opening of the ‘Credo’: far from out of place, necessarily, in Haydn’s evocation of the Church as Rock of St Peter. Without greater forward impetus, though, such an approach will sound merely staid, as it did here. If you are going to adopt a Klemperer-like tempo – what it might have been to have heard him conduct this mass! – then it may help actually to be Klemperer, or at least more of a conductor than Schiff. Gorgeous woodwind in the central section, ‘Et incarnatus…’, was alas, supplanted, by increasingly wayward solo noises from ‘Ex resurrexit’ onwards. That would have mattered less, had there been more in the way of formal and/or theological insight from Schiff. Alas, it was by now clear that such would not be forthcoming.

The ‘Sanctus’ was spacious and less static, Schiff’s slow tempo notwithstanding. It too, however, was blighted by too much dodgy woodwind playing. Perhaps the players were tiring; it certainly sounded like it. It was no bad thing in the circumstances to have a swift ‘Benedictus’, although it verged perhaps on the silly. Nicely imploring invocations of the Lamb of God, as much orchestral as choral, gave way to bizarrely heavy, joyless cries of ‘Dona nobis pacem’. A pity.

Prom 59 - Schiff/Gewandhaus/Blomstedt: Beethoven, 29 August 2016

Royal Albert Hall

Overture: Leonore, no.2, op.72a

Piano Concerto no.5 in E-flat major, op.73
Symphony no.7 in A major, op.92


András Schiff (piano)
Leipzig Gewandhaus Orchestra
Herbert Blomstedt (conductor)


Never having heard Herbert Blomstedt live, I rushed to buy a ticket for this Prom as soon as tickets went on sale. The Leipzig Gewandhaus Orchestra was not an unattractive proposition either, of course. András Schiff: well, whatever has happened to him…?

Before coming to Schiff’s contribution, though, I should say something about the Leonore 2 Overture. Try as I might, I cannot hear it ‘in itself’; I hear it almost as a sketch for no.3, fascinated, but unable to hear what might be preferable in it. Insofar as direction can be afforded it, Blomstedt certainly did. The Gewandhaus Orchestra immediately announced itself with deliciously dark string tone – ‘old German’, if ever there were such a thing – and equally outstanding solo woodwind. Digressions were given time to speak, and sounded less digressive than they usually would. 

My reception of Schiff’s performance in the Fifth Piano Concerto was not unique, but it certainly did not seem to be shared by the greater part of the audience, which roared with approval. What I heard in Schiff’s first entry was what I heard more or less the whole way through: something that somehow married pedantry to mannerism, incapable of evenness in passagework (or at least unwilling to play evenly), either unphrased or with phrasing that was bizarrely unmusical, and peppered with equally unmotivated articulation. He did not seem to listen to the orchestra, with whom he fell out of sync more than once, leaving Blomstedt to put things right, and indeed seemed utterly (and undeservedly) self-regarding throughout. The orchestra sounded splendid on its own terms, and Blomstedt proved a sure enough guide, insofar as he could, although I found his handling of the first movement’s tutti passages a little foursquare at times. The slow movement started better; indeed, it almost sounded recognisable; it was not long, though, before Schiff’s perversities set in again. The finale offered more of the same, a terrible pity, given that the orchestra’s playing exhibited all the virtues it had in the overture. His piano, it seems, was a Bösendorfer; maybe so, but it did not sound like one. Is it perhaps the case that he is now more at home on period instruments? A recent Schubert disc sounded far more successful than his recent work with modern pianos. And, although strangely flashy, the Schubert encore (Impomptu, D 899/2) was considerably more convincing.

With just the orchestra and Blomstedt, the performance of the Seventh Symphony proved much more successful. The first movement introduction sounded full of tonal possibility, a worthy successor to Haydn. Orchestral clarity and tonal depth were revealed to be two sides of the same coin, the one enhancing the other. If I have heard more exciting transitions to the exposition proper, this was eminently musical, a proper continuation. Blomstedt’s way was not the knife-edge approach of Carlos Kleiber; indeed, it proved more Apollonian than Dionysian throughout the symphony. If it were not necessarily the way I think of the work, it was a perfectly valid alternative, from which much could be learned. The slow movement – yes, I know it is not a slow movement really, but it annoys the right people to call it that – was taken swiftly, and indeed almost without a break. That ‘following on’ intrigued, and proved highly successful; if only the bronchial brigade had been listening. A processional that might have fascinated Birtwistle ensued: played pretty ‘straight’, but certainly none the worse for that. The depth of string tone – depth, not necessarily volume – was truly a thing of wonder, but there was nothing narcissistic about this: all was at the service of the music, as the cliché goes.

Blomstedt took the scherzo very fast indeed; I am not sure I have heard it faster, although doubtless some ‘authenticist’ will have managed to cross the line in half the time, having ‘discovered’ that Beethoven’s dog had eaten his metronome. Or something. If I missed the darker urgency, the sense that the future of the world was at stake, one would hear from, say, Daniel Barenboim, there was no doubting the accomplishment of the playing; and, as I said, it is a good thing to hear alternatives, so long as they are not unutterably perverse. I found the lack of relaxation for the trio a pity – one does not have to go to the lengths of a Leonard Bernstein here to feel that some such response is helpful, even necessary – and felt puzzled by a subsequent ultra-slowing for the transition back to the scherzo the second time around, but it made me listen. The finale worked uncommonly well, I thought. Too often, it comes to sound harsh, inhumanly driven: what could be less Beethovenian? Here, though, it proved almost graceful. Lower strings and timpani proved ample harmonic grounding, whilst above, the dancing continued.

What seems to be a genuinely sunny disposition on Blomstedt’s part displayed itself also in the encore, the Egmont Overture. Not at the beginning, of course, in which the Gewandhaus Orchestra sounded still darker than it had earlier; perhaps more to the point, each note in that extraordinary introduction was invested with meaning. Here we moved closer to a ‘traditional’ reading. The rejoicing that followed returned us, howeverm to that earlier Apollonian disposition. And what playing we heard from the orchestra: to match any in the world!

Schiff - Bach English Suites, 14 December 2013

Wigmore Hall

English Suites, BWV 806-11

András Schiff (piano)

 

András Schiff is certainly not one to give himself an easy life. This concert is part of a series at the Wigmore Hall in which much of Bach’s piano music will be performed, culminating in a performance of both the Goldberg and Diabelli Variations. Unfortunately, Schiff’s completist zeal does not necessarily transfer so well into satisfying programming. I encountered a more extreme case a few years ago, in which far too much Schubert – and not the most complementary Schubert – meant that often excellent performances were reduced to less than the sum of their parts. What works for a CD boxed set is rarely the best plan for a concert. Here, however, whilst a performance of the six English Suites made for a longer than usual performance, that was in itself less the problem, than the alarming unevenness of the performances as such; had they all been at the level of that of the F major Suite, the length would have justified itself.  

 

I was surprised at the piano tone as Schiff opened the A major Suite. Though I do not know enough about such matters to be able to say what had been done, there sounded to be something unusual about the regulation of the instrument. It seemed to marry well with Schiff’s performance, but alas I found it very difficult to warm to the latter. A strongly detaché approach soon became wearisome; perhaps more alarming was the frequent heavy-handedness with which certain entries were hammered out, and the pianist’s lack of sensitivity towards phrasing. This all sounded very different indeed from Schiff’s splendid old Decca recordings. In the Prelude, there was a degree of flexibility, but it sounded arbitrary. The Allemande offered greater involvement, but phrasing continued to be a problem, here as elsewhere offering little sense of refinement, of tapering, of shape. However, the Courantes marked a definite improvement: more animated, and not just in terms of tempo. Ornaments sounded winningly ‘French’, and the doubles actually drew me in to the performance as a performance, nicely intimate, for the first time. Alas, the ensuing Sarabande tended towards the pedantic, with little sense of meaning conveyed; fussy articulation of ornaments was the abiding impression. Sewing-machine Bach, like a parody of 1950s German chamber orchestras, came unwelcomely to the fore in the Bourrées: one might say Gould-like, but quite without eccentricity, and far heavier of tone. The playing had nothing of the Canadian pianist’s perverse brilliance; this was just remorseless, likewise the grimacing Gigue.

 

The Second, A minor, Suite, offered similarly mixed results. The Prelude was taken very fast : not in itself a problem, but again in the context of non legato playing, very soon became wearisome. Schiff’s unyielding approach there contrasted with the relief of, say, the Sarabande, in which weight emerged without ponderousness. Alas sewing machines once again came to the fore in the Bourrées. There was at least a far stronger sense (than in the First Suite) of gigue rhythm in the final movement, though again it proved too unyielding.

 

Greater light and shade were on offer from the opening of the G minor Suite, though it remained an excessively vertically-minded performance, a longer sense of line frustratingly absent. (It is, after all, just as crucial here as in Beethoven, Brahms, Wagner or Mahler.) Detaché mannerisms continued to irritate. The Allemande, however, was beautifully shaded and often, though not always, more yielding. A lively Courante gave way to what, in context, sounded as a Romantically-conceived Sarabande – though Schiff’s perverse, latter-day refusal to use the pedal was especially unfortunate here. (Why play this music on the piano if you are unwilling to use the capabilities of the modern instrument?) The Musette was splendidly characterful, without idiosyncrasy, and the Gigue benefited from a degress of involvement only sporadically present in its predecessors. It was a pity, then, that a very odd, matter-of-fact ending robbed the dance of much of its impetus.

 

The opening of the Fourth Suite, in F major, was not without heavy-handedness, especially in the left hand, but at least there was a sure sense of line. Its Allemande offered a good degree of chiaroscuro, whilst following dances were equally well characterised: a courtly Courante was followed by a stately, if at times slightly static, Sarabande. The closing Gigue was boisterous and would have benefited from greater flexibility; however, Bach’s thematic invention and working were commendably clear and meaningful within the sense of a greater whole.

 

There was a proper sense of direction to the E minor Suite, yet phrasing (especially at the close of phrases) was sometimes alarmingly crude, particularly when playing at forte. The Allemande offered a rare and very welcome sense of charm in its delicacy, likewise the Passepields. However, the two intervening movements both curiously lost their way roughly half-way through; maybe the marathon approach was taking its toll. Sadly, the Gigue, which ought surely to offer an invitation to a well-nigh Bergian labyrinth, instead served as incitement to further un-phrased heavy-handedness.

 

It was welcome, then, to experience a sense of direction in the final Prelude similar to that of its predecessor; here there really seemed to be something at stake, though again line was far from unbroken, Schiff’s approach ultimately proving too sectional. Alas the following two movements were disappointingly prosaic, throwing into greater contrast a lovely account of the Sarabande, given proper time to breathe and to develop, despite the odd awkward corner. A fleet first Gavotte prepared the way for a successor imbued with a radiance I could only wish I had encountered more often. The loud Gigue, sadly, seemed petulant rather than vehement. Bar lines were far too audible, again a poor substitute for telling phrasing. All was not, however, over, for Schiff elected to give an encore: a rambling account of the Chromatic Fantasia and Fugue, whose effect was to have me longing for Edwin Fischer.

 

 

A new Brahms piano piece to be performed by András Schiff

A Brahms album leaf (Albumblatt) discovered by Christopher Hogwood when looking through a music collection in the USA, is to be given its first performance on BBC Radio 3 by András Schiff. Both Schiff and Hogwood will be interviewed for the 21 January broadcast of Music Matters (12.15 p.m.). I suspect - though who knows? - that the piece is unlikely to prove a lost masterwork, coming as it does from 1853, when Brahms was but twenty years old; by the same token, however, it is equally unlikely to be without interest, especially for those of us who consider ourselves to have an especial interest in and love for Brahms's music. Intriguingly, the theme is said to be a forerunner of that to the Trio to the second movement of the Horn Trio, op.40, composed twelve years later. Following the broadcast, a 'behind-the-scenes video' of the recording will be available on the Radio 3 website. In the meantime, here are the Scherzo and Trio from Itzhak Perlman, Daniel Barenboim, and Dale Clevenger:

Holl/Schiff - Schumann, Brahms, and Schubert, 29 May 2011

Wigmore Hall

Schumann – Dichterliebe, op.48
Brahms – Vier ernste Gesänge, op.121
Schubert – Schwanengesang, D 957: Heine Lieder

Robert Holl (baritone)
András Schiff (piano)

Having arrived relatively early at the Wigmore Hall, I heard from outside the very end of the artists’ final rehearsal. I was a little surprised to hear 'Der Doppelgänger', but thought it might have been prepared as an encore; I was still more surprised to hear a voice that was not Thomas Quasthoff’s. All was revealed when I collected my ticket from the box office: Quasthoff had been replaced at very short notice by Robert Holl, with a complete change of programme. Out went Strauss and Mahler; in came Schumann, Brahms, and Schubert. I mention this only really because what I had expected to hear lingered in my mind somewhat, so that I was perhaps more alert than usual to the Mahlerian presentiments in at least the songs by Schumann and Schubert. András Schiff remained the pianist.

Schumann’s Dichterliebe was performed with an excellent sense of a cyclical whole and of progression within that whole. Schiff announced himself immediately, in the prelude to ‘Im wunderschönen Monat Mai’, as a pianist rather than an ‘accompanist’; there can be few cases where that is more beneficial than in Schumann’s songs, the poetry at least as present in the piano part as in the verse, for which confirmation might be found in the pianist’s light-fingered response to ‘Und wüßten’s die Blumen’. Holl’s care with diction and the depth of his baritone likewise immediately announced an unusual dark (Mahlerian?) and almost Wolf-like text-based perspective upon the cycle. There is something about his German that inevitably reminds one of his Dutch nationality: not only the greater care taken than one might expect from a German, but also occasional aspects of the pronunciation. Given the clarity, one arguably benefits as an audience member, never more so than in verse by Heine, whose bitter-sweet irony one may therefore readily savour to the full. ‘Die Rose, die Lilie, die Taube’ was accorded an agitated reading from both musicians, whilst ‘Im Rhein, im heiligen Strome’ sounded properly stentorian, Schiff’s sharpness of grip upon the rhythm proving crucial, as had his telling, yet never attention-seeking, voice-leading in ‘Ich will meine Seele tauchen’. A gestural quality that would inform much of Holl’s performance, both here and in the second half, was readily apparent in ‘Ich grolle nicht’. But this was not merely a performance in which baritone and pianist shone individually, far from it; Holl’s touching vocal delivery in ‘Hör’ ich das Liedchen klingen’ was finely complemented by Schiff’s harmonic command, whilst the intensification of its concentrated emotional drama was pursued in tandem. There were occasions when Holl’s tone was somewhat less than burnished; it proved a little dry, for instance, in ‘Allnächtlich im Traume’. However, this could sometimes be put to good use, as for instance in the appropriately and surprisingly wan delivery of the final line of ‘Am leuchtenden Sommermorgen’: ‘’Du trauriger, blasser Mann’ (‘You sad, pale man’). The anger without hysteria of the concluding ‘Die alten, bösen Lieder’ was spot on, Schiff’s postlude as painfully beautiful as Heine’s words.

The Brahms songs continued, indeed intensified, the recital’s serious mood, though I felt that Holl’s performance did not quite plumb the metaphysical depths as I once heard Quasthoff do in Salzburg. Schiff, however, proved a far more interesting pianist than Quasthoff’s accompanist had. Holl nevertheless proved an adept guide to the extraordinary texts Brahms selected from Scripture, the Apocrypha included. The import of the words was permitted to speak for itself. One could hardly fail to think of Ein deutsches Requiem, nor indeed in the motivic working – especially during the final, Pauline ‘Wenn ich mit Menschen’ of Brahms’s place in a great German tradition extending at least as far back as Schütz and at least as far forward as Schoenberg, arguably to Stockhausen too. Yet timelessness, doubtless rather than real, was equally apparent, just as in the extraordinary final chorale preludes, the only pieces Brahms would write after these songs. If Holl’s head voice were at times a little imprecise, frailty was powerfully, movingly conveyed when the Preacher tells us that all is vanity.

We then returned to our first poet, with Schubert’s Heine settings from Schwanengesang. Schiff again immediately announced himself an expert pianist in the composer’s style, the opening song, ‘Das Fischermädchen’, proving both urgent and infinitely touching, its modulations especially well handled. ‘Am Meer’ came next, Holl imparting a sense of loneliness such as one might experience when viewing a Caspar David Friedrich landscape, Schiff increasing the tension nicely in the second stanza. Bitterness and anger, doubtless of a somewhat different variety for Schubert than for Heine, were the destination. ‘Die Stadt’, which followed, again demonstrated the benefit of having a concert pianist, Schubert’s will-o’-the-wisp figuration almost but not quite dissolving upon the horizon, whilst the unresolved nature of the song’s conclusion peered forward to those eternal kinsmen of the composer: Schoenberg, Berg, and Webern. ‘Der Doppelgänger’ was properly harrowing, Holl proving quite willing to make an ugly sound upon ‘Mir graust es’. The major-minor dichotomy of ‘Ihr Bild’ really told, prior to a final rage against the dying of the light in the drama of ‘Der Atlas’. It really seemed as though Holl wished to bear the whole world of sorrow of which the poet spoke. As an encore, ‘Der Taubenpost’ proved just the ticket, with nothing throwaway to a performance that took as great care over words and music as had the recital itself.

Kožená/Schiff - Janáček, Dvořák, Mussorgsky, and Bartók, 6 February 2010

Wigmore Hall

Janáček – Selection from Moravian Folk Poetry in Songs
Janáček – In the Mists
Dvořák – Biblical Songs, op.99
Mussorgsky – The Nursery
Bartók – Village Scenes

Magdalena Kožená (mezzo-soprano)
András Schiff (piano)

The diacriticals are out in force, making this not the easiest of reviews to type on an English keyboard – but what a minor inconvenience from so welcome a change. The Wigmore Hall’s programme is jam-packed with Schubert and Schumann songs, as are other halls’ schedules, yet how often are we treated to performances of songs by Janáček, Dvořák, Mussorgsky, and Bartók? The problem is in good part linguistic. Nevertheless, matters are rather different in the world of opera, so why not in the recital hall? The milieux and repertories do not call upon identical strengths. An estimable opera singer may or may not be equally gifted as a recitalist – I nearly said Lieder artist – and vice versa.

It would be good, then, to hear a wider range of singers tackle such repertoire, yet, on this occasion, there could be no gainsaying the authority of Magdalena Kožená’s contribution. In Janáček’s Moravian folksong settings, one heard the sadness and joy in life, two sides of the same coin: true humanity, both profound and commonplace. Through Love, Promise, Uneasy, Carnation, Tears of Comfort, and Musicians – there seems little point in employing the original language titles on this occasion – she never aestheticised the music, nor did she attempt to sound like a ‘real’ folk-singer. András Schiff’s playing was perhaps surprisingly muscular, though the insistence of his part permitted one to hear the composer’s suggestions of other instruments in his writing.

Schiff’s contribution became more problematical in the solo set of four pieces, In the Mists. It was a strange mix: sometimes a parodically rigid, heavy-handed near-Teutonism, sometimes playing of impressionistic delicacy. Janáček’s twists and turns were loving traced in the opening Andante, but the intriguing echoes of Chopin in the second movement were marred by soon being hammered out. I had expected to hear Schiff more in sympathy with Janáček's style than proved to be the case.

The rest of the first part was devoted to Dvořák’s ten Biblical Songs. I fear I found this too much of a not-so-good thing. This had nothing to do with the performances, but in these settings, Dvořák’s voice does not seem to me at its strongest, a suspicion confirmed by the contrast with the performers’ first encore, a deeply-felt Songs my Mother Taught Me. Here, much, though not all, tends towards the anodyne or insipid; Brahms’s Four Serious Songs these are not. Nevertheless, Kožená sounded committed, from the splendidly declamatory opening of Clouds and Darkness are Around About Him onwards. Schiff in general made the most of piano parts, which sometimes too openly aspire towards the orchestral, though a little more Lisztian Romanticism would have benefited Hear my Prayer, O Lord my God! (Schiff has spoken more than once of his contempt for Liszt, unusual for a Hungarian, though no more creditable for that.) Delicacy was better served than abandon. Kožená, however, proved winningly operatic in her projection. I liked the pastoral quality both artists imparted to God is my Shepherd. And the conviction Kožená brought to the final line of Turn Thee to me and Have Mercy – ‘Nebot’ v Tebe doufám’ (‘… for my hope is in Thee’) was unmistakeable.

With Mussorgsky’s cycle, The Nursery (or Detskaya), we were in very different territory, the voice of the composer immediately apparent. Kožená was very much in her element here, vividly characterising, both vocally and visually. (More puritanical Lieder-devotees might well have disapproved, but these are not Lieder.) She seems to have a particular connection to the world of children’s imagination, having shone in a similar way during a Berlin performance of Ravel’s L’enfant et les sortilèges. In the Corner showed how readily she could switch ‘character’, very much the old crone and equally much the insolent child, whilst The Beetle left one in no doubt how much apparently little things can matter to a child. With the Doll proved a compelling lullaby, Schiff etching the rhythm unerringly, permitting Kožená to weave her magic above. Nanny’s love for the little monster of the nursery came through in Hobby-horse Rider, as did Schiff’s delineation of the accompaniment’s ‘character’. This was a fine account.

Finally, we returned to folksong, for Bartók’s setting of Slovak songs, Village Scenes. Once again, and even though the melodies are not his, the composer’s voice was unmistakeable from the opening. Schiff truly revelled in Bartók’s extraordinary piano writing, not least the harmonies. The way he shaded into nothingness at the end of At the Bride’s was an object lesson. Kožená’s wild peasant cry in Wedding was quite something, subtly taken up in the piano part thereafter. Lullaby was, rightly, mysterious and troubling: what might sleep bring? Yet with such a compelling narrator, sleep must nevertheless win out. Once again, Schiff imparted just the right character to the final Lads’ Dance, a strong rhythmic profile ensuring that both artists’ contribution would culminate in the requisite frenetic abandon.

Perényi/Philharmonia/Schiff - Haydn, 25 June 2009

Royal Festival Hall

Symphony no.80 in D minor
Piano concerto in D major, Hob.XVIII:11
Cello concerto in C major, Hob.VIIb:1
Symphony no.103 in E-flat major, ‘Drum Roll’

Miklós Perényi (violoncello)
Philharmonia Orchestra
András Schiff (piano/conductor)

All-Haydn programmes remain regrettably rare. Although the bicentenary of the composer’s death has given something of a fillip to his fortunes, it is by no means certain how they will fare in 2010. András Schiff is a great Haydn enthusiast; he recently masterminded the Wigmore Hall’s weekend celebrations for the weekend of the anniversary itself, his solo recital providing a fitting conclusion. On this occasion, as part of his ongoing collaboration with the Philharmonia Orchestra, we heard two symphonies and two concertos: a generous programme, which, with interval, stretched over two-and-a-half hours. Rarely if ever do I feel sated with Haydn, but a rush to the doors at the end of the Drum Roll Symphony suggested that some in the audience might have felt otherwise. Schiff’s fondness for repeats played its part here.

Even when Haydn does crop up upon concert programmes, an absurdly small number of works tends to be drawn upon, so it was a delight to hear the splendid D minor symphony, no.80, written in 1784. I was surprised – most pleasantly – by the size of the orchestra for: larger than those to which our balefully ‘period’-influenced times have accustomed us. The string section ran from fourteen first violins to six double basses, and never sounded like anything other than an impeccable section of modern instrumentalists. It was all the more surprising then to see, and all the more unwelcome to hear, natural horns, whose rasping sound was evident throughout the concert. I suppose we should be grateful that mobile telephones were restricted to the first movement of this symphony. The twin demands of drive and grace were successfully contrasted, opposed, and then, in the finale, reconciled, in a generally winning performance. The D minor of the first movement recalled Gluck’s Don Juan ballet music, whilst also looking forward at least on occasion to Mozart’s essays in this key. Schiff gave the mysterious pauses their due. Moreover, this was an occasion upon which use of antiphonal violins, on the conductor’s left and right, did not reflect mere fashionable tokenism, but paid off handsomely in clarification of imitative and responsive passages. The rich, perhaps surprisingly operatic, nature of the slow movement was amply conveyed in an expansive yet dramatic reading. The structure was admirably clear: phrases, answers, paragraphs, all in their allotted places, without descending into the realms of the bureaucratic. I especially liked a contribution from wonderfully bubbling bassoons at the end. The minuet proved equally successful, its minor-mode Sturm und Drang retaining a fine sense of swing. I wondered, however, whether the welcome relaxation for the trio’s chamber music was overdone. It did, however, mean that one felt true urgency upon the full orchestral reprise of the minuet. The finale was certainly taken Presto, with great fizz, but never hard-driven. The jerky syncopations were made forcefully to count, as it were. Strings sounded splendidly rich but there were some nasty sounds from the horns.

For the D major piano concerto, Schiff cut down the orchestra to a more typical ‘chamber’ size group. The fourteen firsts were now eight and the basses were but two in number. One certainly heard the fewer strings in the lighter tone that characterised both this and the following cello concerto. Again, the splitting of strings brought antiphonal benefits. Schiff lavished his typically beautiful, pearly tone upon the solo part, which was well articulated without a hint of mannerism. The cadenza to the first movement brought a quotation from the Surprise Symphony, which amused many, but to me it sounded a little too obvious. When it came to the slow movement, its orchestral introduction sounded a bit laboured: not so much a matter of tempo as of Schiff’s excessive moulding of the part. Matters improved once he had the piano part to attend to; much of this sounded beautiful indeed. Both piano and strings proved duly attentive to Haydn’s dissonances and their harmonic implications. I felt the lack of (relative) string weight more keenly in the final Rondo all’Ungarese, but this remained a sparkling account. The ‘local colour’ was for my taste excessively underlined, although the audience clearly lapped it up. Fun though it was, less might have been more in this context.

Miklós Perényi has been a long-time collaborator of Schiff’s; one could certainly sense the musical understanding between them, likewise the respect of the orchestral musicians for the soloist. Perényi brought a cultured, ever-musical tone and line to everything he played, if the outer movements in particular lacked the last ounce of ‘personality’ in the manner of a Rostropovich or a Du Pré. (Some readers, I appreciate, will doubtless respond, ‘Thank goodness for that.’) Not only the aria-like slow movement but also its predecessor received a properly ‘sung’ account. The cadenza to the Adagio was magical in its dreamlike quality. A fine sense of style from all musicians was continued into the finale: lively, yet not rushed. There were times when I thought the orchestra was pushed too much – by Schiff rather than Perényi – into an ‘accompanying’ role, whereas earlier, the soloist had emerged as first among equals, even playing the bass line in the first movement’s opening tutti (and not just there).

The Drum Roll Symphony welcomed back to the platform a larger orchestra, indeed the largest of the night, trumpets (keyed, as I suppose they would be...) and all. The ‘drum roll’ itself was taken with a sudden fortissimo and diminuendo, followed by a properly dark introduction from bass instruments, which reminded us of the likeness of Haydn’s theme to the Dies irae chant. Some of the exposition and recapitulation sounded a little too genial, but there was compensation in the contrapuntal interplay of the development, leaving us in no doubt of the composer’s astonishing invention. The horns brayed in the coda. After a slightly sour opening, what I might call the ‘directed chamber music’ of the slow movement blossomed and gained character. Again, Haydn’s glorious inventiveness shone through. The extended solo of leader, Zsolt-Tihámer Visontay was superbly performed, exquisitely sweet in tone. When we finally heard the full orchestra, it sounded full indeed, followed by the balm of the Philharmonia’s woodwind. Schiff alternated between one and three beat(s) to a bar in the minuet. This often sounded a little too driven and unsmiling, though the audience found humour (unintended?) in the sound of the horns. As in the earlier symphony, relaxation for the trio was unduly exaggerated. The orchestra made a truly beautiful sound here but the music sometimes lacked a sense of the vital. A little more kinship between minuet and trio would have been welcome. Sadly, the unreliability of natural horns was there for all to hear in the finale’s opening call. (Some would doubtless consider this ‘characterful’; I simply found the intonational difficulties painful.) Otherwise, there was a resplendent full orchestral sound, almost Karajan-like. The movement’s performance was in many respects very good; certainly the orchestra was on top form. However, in the final analysis, Schiff’s reading was a touch on the sectional side, without quite the developmental necessity I heard from Zubin Mehta and the Vienna Philharmonic in this week a few years ago at the Proms. That, however, was the finest account of a Haydn symphony I have ever heard ‘live’ and there was much to admire here.

András Schiff Haydn anniversary recital, Wigmore Hall, 31 May 2009

Capriccio in G major, Hob.XVII:1
Piano sonata in G minor, Hob.XVI:44
Fantasia in C major, Hob.XVII:4
Piano sonata in E minor, Hob.XVI:34
Variations in F minor, Hob.XVII:6
Piano sonata in E-flat major, Hob.XVI:52

András Schiff (piano)

31 May 2009 marked the two hundredth anniversary of Haydn’s death. This Wigmore Hall commemoration, the final concert in a weekend of chamber music, was devoted to works for piano solo, performed by András Schiff. Schiff’s imagination seemed more obviously fired by some works, or indeed by some movements, than others, although this may have reflected decisions over the ‘public’ or ‘private’ nature of the music. Even if the pianist’s outwardly communicative qualities varied, nothing was less than good, and much was a great deal more than that.

In addition to three sonatas, Schiff selected three other piano pieces, those three works described by James Webster in the New Grove as ‘the most important’ amongst the non-sonata works: two capriccios, in G major and C major, and the great set of double variations in F minor/major. The first of the capriccios is based on a theme from a folk song, Acht Sauschneider müssen sein. Often I find myself bemoaning preciousness in performances of eighteenth-century music, so I was a little surprised here to wonder whether a little more lightness of touch might have been in order. Perhaps this was a matter of having become somewhat accustomed to hearing Schiff on a Bösendorfer; here, the Wigmore Hall Steinway sounded rather forthright. But this was certainly a performance of ‘public’, ‘concert’ music rather than a case of eavesdropping upon a private chamber. Clarification of part writing and, more importantly still, of Haydn’s wide-ranging tonal plan was exemplary. In true freedom lies organisation, perhaps the greatest lesson of modern German musical and intellectual history. The second capriccio was also treated in ‘public’ fashion, but with greater panache – perhaps partly a matter of the musical material itself. Haydn and Schiff delighted in the varied use of the keyboard. Apparent eccentricities, not least the long, held bass notes, were not tamed but nor were they too heavily underlined. Perhaps Schiff’s greatest virtue throughout was to allow the music to speak for itself, although the danger, not always entirely avoided, may then be of anonymity. No such problems here however: there was abundant vitality, sometimes lacking in aspects of the sonata performances. The conclusion was triumphant, a real example of gathering musical threads together and transforming them into something old but new.

The variations, Hob.XVII:6, benefited from an almost wondrously beautiful touch throughout, although the performance sometimes tended towards the matter of fact. Only sometimes, since the repeated version of the opening F minor theme exuded far greater warmth than the first hearing had commanded, and the trills in the first major variation proved both well voiced and an integral, melting part of the melodic line. The voice-leading in the second minor variation looked forward, as it should, to the Romantic writing of Schubert and even Chopin. But there were other occasions when inwardness seemed almost a matter of Schiff speaking to himself; an audience may or may not be desirable but, should it be present, it needs to become part of a conversation. The coda, by contrast, proved highly dramatic, treated to an exemplary performance. In some senses, however, it was a little late; it did not quite grow out of what had come before. These variations are the fruit of development rather than outright contrast. I was left, a little wistfully, recalling Alfred Brendel’s spellbinding Royal Festival Hall performance last year.

What, then, of the sonatas? The first, in G minor, is an exquisite work, which received an exquisite performance. Both movements were underpinned by a strong sense of rhythm. Haydn’s chromaticism in the first almost approaches that of Mozart, but the melodic figurations and textures, as Schiff well understood, could only indicate Haydn, likewise the surprises and C.P.E.Bach-like rhetorical flourishes. Schiff, rightly in my view, presented the second movement Allegretto more as a follow on than a contrast to the opening Moderato. There were times when I wondered whether this account was becoming a little too inward but there could be no doubting the pianist’s identification with the music.

The beauty of Schiff’s touch, allied to unerring musical judgement, also characterised the performance of the E minor sonata. That restless obstinacy of the first movement’s opening was voiced to perfection: somewhere between Scarlatti and Beethoven. This persisted throughout, albeit without becoming unduly relentless. Schiff’s control of the Adagio’s long melodic lines managed to retain a certain improvisatory quality; again, his tonal command was second to none. My only reservation concerns the music of this movement itself, which I find myself unable to consider as Haydn at his most inspired. However, the transition to the finale was perfectly judged, the finale itself a model of style: sometimes insouciant yet careful to acknowledge the compositional depths.

The final work was the great E-flat major sonata, composed for Therese Jansen-Bartolozzi. In this performance, I sensed a microcosm of the public-private dichotomy that characterised the recital as a whole. The first movement seemed a little too neutral, somewhat under-characterised, partly a product of what seemed to me an unduly fast tempo. I should probably add that I almost always find the tempo of this movement too fast, hankering after an Emperor concerto-like grandeur that rarely, if ever, materialises. Still, what some might think undersold, others might find understated. And once again, Schiff’s control of the harmonic structure was faultless. The final chord, however, sounded odd, almost as if he had elected to make it sound more dramatic than had changed his mind and had therefore pulled back, a little late. Schiff’s skill at sustaining long, vocal lines was once again to the fore in the Adagio. This was allied to a far stronger dramatic sense than had been apparent in the first movement, not only at the harmonic climaxes but also in general, in a more sharply etched projection. The finale was a Presto not only in speed but also, more importantly, in its playful mood. Schiff was not afraid to relax on occasion, though never disruptively. He employed ornamentation too – and why not? This was a fine conclusion to the Wigmore Hall’s anniversary tribute.

Hanno Müller-Brachmann/András Schiff recital, 8 January 2009

Wigmore Hall

Schubert – Willkommen und Abschied, D 767
Schubert – Versunken, D 715
Schubert – An Schwager Kronos, D 369
Schubert – Meeres Stille, D 216
Schubert – Prometheus, D 674
Mendelssohn – Variations sérieuses in D minor, op.54
Busoni – Fünf Goethe Lieder
Wolf – Drei Gedichte von Michelangelo
Brahms – Vier ernste Gesänge, op.121

Hanno Müller-Brachmann (bass-baritone)
András Schiff (piano)

Hanno Müller-Brachmann certainly manages to attract excellent pianists. The previous recital in which I had heard him was in Berlin, with no less an ‘accompanist’ than Daniel Barenboim: part of an all-Busoni chamber and Lieder concert prefacing a spellbinding Staatsoper performance of Doktor Faust. Now we were treated to András Schiff, again offering an all-too-rare opportunity to hear Busoni, for me one of the highlights of a fine programme.

However, it was with Schubert that the recital began. There is no greater Schubert pianist alive than Schiff and he did not disappoint. From the galloping echoes of Erlkönig in the opening Willkommen und Abschied, we were in eminently musical hands. Müller-Brachmann proved equal to the challenges not only of Schubert’s line but also of Goethe’s verse, for all of the first half’s songs were settings of the German master. When ‘The moon gazed from a bank of cloud/mournfully through the haze,’ (Richard Stokes’s translation, both here and for the rest of the programme) there was just the right degree of hanging back upon the haze of ‘dem Duft’. Likewise, the pause after the revelation of a lovely face and the exclamation ‘ihr Götter!’ was perfectly judged, followed by a marvellously hushed ‘Ich hofft’es, ich verdient’ es nicht!’ (‘This I had hoped but never deserved!’). Schiff supplied a magically handled modulation midway through the final stanza, as he would for the line, ‘Da fühl ich mich von Herzengrund gesund’ (‘the depths of my heart are healed’) in the second song, Versunken. Those depths certainly sounded healed and this song was full of hope, fantasy, and expectation (I thought of the German Erwartung, with its prophetic glances towards Schoenberg) from both performers. An Schwager Kronos brought an urgency that was not confused with undue haste, as much from the piano as from the voice and indeed I heard distinct echoes or, perhaps better, foreshadowings of some of the piano sonatas in Schiff’s performance. The extraordinary Meeres Stille, its piano part restricted – for once, to Goethe’s approval – to thirty-two arpeggiated semibreve chords gave a paradoxical and/or dialectical sense both of suspended time in its quasi-recitative style, and of the utmost urgency. Prometheus¸ in whose words Goethe lays down an almost Young Hegelian gauntlet to Zeus/God, provided a splendid opportunity for Müller-Brachmann not to hector, but to display his dramatic skills. ‘Ich kenne nichts Ärmeres/Unter der Sonn’, als euch, Götter!’ (‘I know nothing more paltry/beneath the sun than you, gods!’) had the unanswerable force of ‘There it is; I have said it.’ And perhaps it also offered the invitation of ‘do your worst!’ The lines immediately following, in which the paltry nature of the gods’ majesty is delineated, looked forward to Wagner’s Ring in their subtle arioso – and in their content. Schiff’s piano part provided punctuation and formal construction, keeping this defiant monologue just within the bounds of song. Whatever Goethe may foolishly have believed, Schubert knew how to let words and ideas speak for themselves. So, on this evidence, did Müller-Brachmann and Schiff.

Upon my last hearing of Mendelssohn’s Variations sérieuses, I had voiced my doubts concerning the strength of the work; this time, I happily recanted, for which thanks must go to a superior performance. I liked the interesting pre-sentiments of Bach-Busoni in the canonical first variation and indeed the Bachian end to the Thalberg ‘three-handed’ means in the thirteenth, a combination that put me in mind of Chopin. We heard echt-Mendelssohnian gracefulness in the fifth, yet never was it divorced from structural and dramatic meaning; likewise, the lightness of the ninth variation was never glib, expressing instead a powerfully contained passion. The turn to D major for the chorale brought an inevitable reminder of the Bach – or Bach-Busoni – Chaconne, even if ultimately it could not but lack Bach’s sublimity. Schiff’s performance overall impressed upon us that Mendelssohn’s classicism did not equate to mere gentility.

With Busoni, we returned to Goethe, to the five (out of nine) settings from the composer’s later years that were published in 1964 as Fünf Goethelieder. The Lied des Brander was suitably sardonic, followed by a fine performance of the Lied des Mephistopheles, which subsequently found its way into Doktor Faust. Schiff proved ever responsive, both to the score and to Müller-Brachmann, the piano part acquiring greater intensity – not to be confused with hurrying – as the vocalist span his false narrative. Once again, we heard echoes of Bach in the piano part of the Lied des Unmuts. Schlechter Trost unsettled with its nocturnal ghosts, without any vulgar melodramatics; the means were always musical, although Müller-Brachmann’s face, here as elsewhere, was wonderfully expressive in itself. In the final Zigeunerlied, the wolves’ refrain, ‘Wille wau wau wau!/Wille wo wo wo!/Wito hu!’ was rendered almost meaningful – as if we had gained a momentary insight into some arcane tongue – by the singer’s artistry. And in the final stanza, we again heard a touch of the operatic, albeit once again without overstepping the bounds of Lieder-singing.

The second half left Goethe behind but certainly did not embrace the frivolous, for the music was now unremittingly serious in tone. I did not feel that the performances in this section of the programme always matched the level of those in the first, but that was partly because the bar had been set so high. The first of Wolf’s Michelangelo settings, ‘Wohl denk’ ich oft,’ was all the more keenly felt for not trying so hard to be just that, although here – as elsewhere in the set – there were occasional intonational slips in Müller-Brachmann’s performance. The very words that open ‘Alles endet, was entstehet,’ put me in mind of Wagner’s Erda, and whilst Müller-Brachmann is obviously no contralto, his depth of tone on low notes such as those for ‘vergehet’ had a similarly other-worldly effect. The word ‘Leblos’ likewise was surely painted, devoid of meaningless earthly life, or rather existence. I was impressed by the almost Lisztian – despite Schiff’s oft-voiced disdain for his compatriot – hope voiced in both piano and vocal parts during the dream or vision of ‘Fühlt meine Seele,’ whilst the final lines sounded almost Tristan-esque in their longing.

With the opening of Brahms’s Four serious songs we were immediately plunged into that world of sounds and ideas voiced earlier in Ein deutsches Requiem and perhaps even faintly in the composer’s early organ works. (Arguably, we are taken back as far as Schütz.) The opening stanza of the first song, ‘Dann es gehet dem Menschen,’ had a powerful sense of all being preordained, everything being as it must be, both in the musical form and in its expression. I wondered whether a little more understatement would have benefited ‘Ich wandte mich,’ but there was an undoubted sense of existential tragedy to its conclusion. In ‘O Tod,’ however, I felt the lack of a darker voice, recalling a superlative Salzburg account of these songs by Thomas Quasthoff (admittedly with a lesser pianist than Schiff). I did not, moreover, feel that the final ‘Wenn ich mit Menschen’ quite captured the stentorian Pauline voice of the writer of the First Epistle to the Corinthians: a tall order, but a feat that Hans Hotter was certainly able to pull off. Despite my reservations, largely confined to the final set, this remained a distinguished recital, and the encores – more Schubert and that Brahms lullaby – provided a winning, heartfelt au revoir.

András Schiff, piano recital: Schubert, 14 May 2008

Schubert – Four Impromptus, D.899
Schubert – Six Moments Musicaux, D.780
Schubert – Three Klavierstücke, D.946
Schubert – Four Impromptus, D.935

András Schiff (piano)

This was a frustrating recital. András Schiff, it goes without saying, is an extremely fine musician, who has perhaps always been most at home in the Classical repertoire (and Bach). His touch, as once again displayed here, is almost unfailing beautiful, not for its own sake, but at the service of the music. His beloved Bösendorfer piano serves his approach supremely well: infinitely yielding, never strident, at one with the music. One cannot fault his musical seriousness, his absolute lack of empty showmanship, nor the evident fondness of his advocacy for Schubert.

What, then, was the problem? Sad to say, it lay in the programme itself. What could be wrong with an all-Schubert programme? Nothing, but the organisation of this particular all-Schubert programme was unfortunate. To perform the first three sets of pieces prior to the interval made for a very long ‘half’: an hour and a half. For much of the Three Piano Pieces, D.946, a large part of the audience seemed restless and even Schiff seemed at times a little tired. Doubtless the heat did not help, but I suspect the upshot might have been similar even in the dead of winter. It was telling that a number of audience members did not return after the interval – which was a great pity, since there were musical riches aplenty to be heard. However, it was not simply the length of the recital, which, beginning at half-past seven, did not end until about ten past ten. The concentration of so many Schubert pieces, without a single sonata, or indeed movement in sonata form, had the extremely unhappy consequence of making them sound too similar, especially those in ternary form. I am not convinced that the Moments musicaux are heard to best advantage as a set, but they were certainly not in this context; I rather think the programme would have been better without any of them, save perhaps as an encore or two. What might have made very good sense in a recording, namely collecting a good number of non-sonata works by Schubert, does not necessarily work as a recital programme.

I had heard the C minor Impromptu, D.899/1, in the same hall, six nights previously from David Fray. Schiff’s was a different performance, less Romantically volatile, but at least as fine. His subtle rubato was exquisitely tuned to the twists and turns of the music, whilst the Erlkönig-like triplets were suitably implacable. Inner voices, where they existed, were projected powerfully, to what was perhaps a surprising extent; so too were bass lines. The lightness of touch with which Schiff opened the second impromptu provided a great contrast from the outset, without precluding sterner minor-mode moments, even within the opening material, let alone in subsequent sections. Left-hand dissonances later on were keenly projected, in almost Bartókian fashion. Throughout this set, though especially in the second and fourth pieces, I was impressed by the lack of any vain attempt to hide the sectional nature of Schubert’s writing; instead, Schiff made a structurally contrasting virtue of it. Fray had also performed the G flat impromptu, no.3. If his performance had put me in mind of Mendelssohn, then Schiff’s did even more; there were even shades of Bach, in the near-complete obliteration of any distinction between melody and harmony. Here was a voice of great experience, yet an experience in no sense weary.

The Moments musicaux started well and, if the truth be told, continued well; my doubts concerned the programming rather than the performances as such. With the first, Schiff started extremely promisingly, providing a contrasting, quirkier Schubertian voice, married to an intensely lyrical middle section. A truly impassioned outburst performed a similar structural-expressive function in the second. Rhythms were nicely sprung in the celebrated – and considerably shorter – third piece, in F sharp minor. But by the time we reached the fifth, the only truly quick piece in the set, the relief was palpable, this despite great success purely on its own terms in projecting the quicksilver mood swings of the fourth. The sixth piece, sadly, sounded more like a reversion than anything new.

It was with the Three Piano Pieces, D.946, that even Schiff himself began to seem a little tired: not that there were inaccuracies, but dynamic and rhythmic contrasts at least appeared a little dulled at times. The first piece suffered least in this regard; indeed, its mood-swings were very well captured. When it came to the second, the barcarolle sections were achingly beautiful, but I felt that the first of the minor-key episodes was somewhat under-characterised, with the consequence that it came to sound prolix. There was no such problem with the second of these episodes, whose metrical change registered truly magically, exhibiting a pathos all the finer and truer for its complete lack of exaggeration. Audience restlessness, married to an undeniable similarity of mood between the first and third pieces, resulted in a sense of relief that the interval had finally arrived.

Duly refreshed, I felt in a much better position to enjoy the D.935 set of impromptus. There could be no doubt that Schiff was in his element here. Without attempting to wield the pieces closer together than their character could bear – Schumann was surely incorrect to dub them as a sonata in disguise – a looser unity, born of contrast as much as similarity, was confidently forged. The great strengths of Schiff’s technique and musicianship were allowed to shine, without the marring fatigue that had set in during the first ‘half’. For instance, although the second impromptu, in A-flat major, is rather similar in character and indeed in piano-writing, to some of the Moments musicaux, here it gained from its placing with more contrasted pieces. The grand manner of the opening of the first was surely contrasted with the most tender lyricism that followed. During the third, a truly exquisite set of variations, there was a sense of proliferation, of variety, rather than of undue regimentation, which suited Schubert’s brand of variation-writing perfectly. The anguish of the third variation was the more telling for developing, rather than being imprinted upon Schiff’s reading from the outset. And the quirky Hungarian style of the fourth suited him equally. The ambivalence and complications of metre were married to an exquisite legato in the more lyrical sections. There was no lack of virtuosity in the passage-work, but the word seems almost beside the point in describing so utterly musical an account. What a pity, then, that the impact of such a performance remained somewhat blunted by its overall context.