Berlin Festtage (5) - Lupu/Staatskapelle Berlin/Barenboim: Brahms, Schoenberg, and Beethoven, 12 April 2017

Philharmonie

Brahms: Variations on a Theme by Haydn, op.56a

Schoenberg: Five Orchestral Pieces, op.16
Beethoven: Piano Concerto no.5 in E-flat major, op.73

Radu Lupu (piano)

Staatskapelle Berlin

Daniel Barenboim (conductor)

Brahms and Schoenberg always complement each other well; they certainly did so here, Daniel Barenboim and his Staatskapelle Berlin past masters in the music of both composers. Barenboim seemed to choose just the ‘right’ tempo – not to say that there are not others – for the Theme in Brahms’s Haydn Variations, and indeed for each of the variations that followed, the work very much conceived of and communicated as a whole. Pauses (or not) between movements were very much part of the overall conception in a deeply considered reading that lacked nothing in (apparent) spontaneity. Lightness of touch and depth were revealed as two sides of the same coin, with wonderfully ‘true’ – never more so than in the opening statement of the Theme – Harmoniemusik. Moreover, the string tone we heard in the first variation and beyond simply, or not so simply, sounded just right for Brahms, its darkness undeniable yet never overshadowing. Classicism and modernism, Gemütlichkeit and violence: all manner of dialectics were in play, just as they would be in Schoenberg, albeit with at least a greater pretence at reconciliation. The pathos of the minor mode seemed to look back to Mozart’s Pamina, whilst swifter, more impetuous (yet still controlled) movements, pulsating with life, however mediated, evoked Mendelssohn, Elgar, even, in the eight variation, will-o’-the-wisp Webern. The nobility of the cumulative sweep found true fulfilment in the closing passacaglia. Its victory was not easily won, yet it was undeniable. Magnificent, then, and deeply moving – and yes, the triangle made me smile.

 

Barenboim also conducted Schoenberg’s Five Orchestral Pieces without a score (as he would, unsurprisingly, the Beethoven concerto in the second half). The first movement opened in medias res, Brahms’s developing variation further developed, as it were, albeit with an almost Straussian transformative technique also in play (or so it sounded). What writing this is, and what playing this was from, a huge orchestra! It thrilled, seemingly concentrating the action from an entire operatic scene into its brief duration. The second piece brought seemingly necessary contrast: not exactly relaxation, but a change of pace, at least until its own developing variation gathered its own pace. Schoenberg’s sonorities, whether soloistic or, more often, in combination, beguiled as if they were Mozart’s; moreover, they continued, more than a century on, to surprise. A Mahlerian sense of purpose in performance, married to Brahmsian involvement – in more than one sense – brought a mesmerising experience indeed. The Klangfarbenemelodie of the third movement had one realise quite how far we had come from Brahms, not least in the opening wind chords, which one could hardly fail to compare and contrast with the opening of the Haydn Variations. The occasional slightly awkward ‘join’ is almost inevitable; others were, it seemed, effected by sorcery. Tendencies from earlier movements united and reacted in the fourth and fifth. Violence and its aftershock were very much the order of the day in the close of the former, whilst languor and urgency somehow seemed to coexist with, even incited, each other in the latter. Here there is a phantasmagoria at least as impressive as anything in Strauss, but with a thoroughly Brahmsian grounding. Draining yet exhilarating. Judging by his personal applause for the orchestra, Barenboim was rightly appreciative of his players’ work.

 

Radu Lupu joined the orchestra for Beethoven’s Fifth Piano Concerto. This was not an easy ride, but even when it edged towards – and arguably, on one occasion in the finale, beyond – catastrophe, Beethovenian spirit was ever-present. Beethoven, after all, should never be easy. Lupu’s opening flourish sounded almost extemporised: not arbitrary, but free. Its little smudges did not matter, at least not to me. And what touch! What orchestral weight and clarity, moreover, Barenboim marrying once again tendencies with roots in Klemperer (with whom he recorded this work) and Furtwängler, now so internalised that they seem entirely his own. For he and Lupu undoubtedly understood that the work’s foundation, almost by definition, lies in its harmony. There was something almost Cortot-like, errors and all, in Lupu’s playing: magic in the right hand, of course, but it was the left hand that perhaps intrigued more, the very locus of Beethoven’s struggles. Neither Lupu nor Barenboim was afraid of rhetoric; if you are, this is certainly not your piece. Such rhetoric, however, grew out of the music rather than being imposed upon it.

 

A bardic quality to Lupu’s declamation – Wagner would surely have approved – was also apparent in the slow movement: a reverie more directed, and yet seemingly also more spontaneous, than its counterpart in the previous night’s Violin Concerto with Anne-Sophie Mutter. Lupu touched and charmed, seemingly creating the music before our ears; the Staatskapelle Berlin offered a solemn, dignified ‘backdrop’ that nevertheless wanted nothing in life. The beauty of the transition to the finale might almost have been effected by Liszt himself, the sense of release somehow postponed until the coming of the orchestral tutti, liminality extended. Here one had to overlook a good deal technically, and I can understand why some might not have been able to do so – not that there seemed to be any such reaction in the audience – but even in catastrophe, there was the truest of authenticity. Moreover, whatever shortcomings there may have been in the despatch of the piano part, the electricity of the orchestral performance – how, for instance, motivic development worked itself through the different string registers – was, even by these players’ standards, quite something indeed.

Barenboim/Lupu - Schubert, 8 March 2017

Pierre Boulez Saal

Sonata in B-flat major, D 617

Fantasia in F minor, D 940
Divertissement sur des motifs originaux français, D 823

Radu Lupu, Daniel Barenboim (piano)

Schubert’s works for piano, four hands, make in some ways for strange concert music. It is certainly not what they were ‘intended’ to be, although we need not worry ourselves unduly about that; nor was much of the solo piano repertoire. An intimate space such as Berlin’s Pierre Boulez Saal (682 seats) works well in this respect: no need for grandstanding, every possibility of scaling down intimacy of response (for performers and audience alike), and perhaps even something not so very far away from the treat of overhearing a fine, ‘domestic’ performance. Not that most of us would have Daniel Barenboim and Radu Lupu in our drawing rooms, of course, but anyway…

The first of the programmed works here was the B-flat major Sonata, D 617, a piece I played many times as a teenager with friends (such is really the idea of these pieces). The pianists alternated between primo and secondo roles, Barenboim here the former, Lupu the latter. Barenboim’s opening flourish (and its repeat too) showed that there was plenty of room for a little showmanship; Schubert offers us here a mini-cadenza on the traditional dominant seventh, after all. I could not help but smile. But then, the music, in performance and score, retreated to a more intimate world; we might almost have been in a parlour, at least if we closed our eyes. The superlative acoustic certainly aided clarity, but an acoustic can only do so much; this was the players’ achievement too. Moreover, the way in which one heard phrases sigh and fall was unmistakeably theirs – and Schubert’s. The composer’s wonderful modulatory surprises thus registered, did their developmental work, without any need for exaggeration. Andante con moto is not a marking peculiar to Schubert, far from it, but it is perhaps particularly associated with or typical of him. Here, Barenboim and Lupu judged it perfectly: sad, rather than tragic, and with resolve. (It is perhaps as much a matter of mood as of speed, arguably more so.) Such preparation had Schubert’s later contrasts surprise us again – however much we might have ‘known’ what was coming. The strangeness of the harmony at the opening of the finale duly disconcerted. (When first playing the piece, I presumed I had misread it!) Just as important, it prepared us for the often surprising moods and paths to come. The movement’s gait, very tricky, was effortlessly well judged, or so it seemed. Episodes revealed their secrets neither too soon nor with too much delay, soon integrated into a broader aural canvas.

 

Our guides proved just as wise, and just as capable of surprising us with what we knew already, in the F minor Fantasia. Many of Schubert’s works for four hands may be overlooked, but there has never been any denying the greatness of this work. Lupu now took the upper part, Barenboim providing a typically sure harmonic foundation, with much interest in inner parts too, of course, from both of them: when Barenboim voiced a melody in the tenor, or Lupu in the alto, there was something of the soft-spoken sublime to what we heard, what we felt. Taken relatively swiftly, though far from unreasonably so, the music seemed to create its own insistency and unease, born both from rhythmic insistence and harmonic necessity; at any rate, there was no sense of insistence being applied to it. Its extraordinary tonal plan was navigated with just the understanding the eavesdropping listener requires to find his or her bearings – and to keep them. The mystery in those strange eruptions was not argued away, but it was never merely arbitrary. Strange, liminal passages made sense after the event, after new vistas had opened up before our ears in not entirely un-Mahlerian fashion. There were occasional smudges, but nothing to worry about; the overall direction was what really mattered. The fugal section showed just how misplaced were Schubert’s own fears – he considered taking a refresher course in counterpoint shortly before his death! – of inadequacy in that front; this was lived counterpoint, dynamically creating form. And yes, we were left in no doubt whatsoever that this was Schubert’s greatest work for piano, four hands.

 

After the interval came the Divertissement sur des motifs originaux français, D 823, Barenboim returning to primo, Lupu to secondo, the latter’s left-hand providing the most exquisite foundation for the musical activity above. There was, though, a grander, more public style in evidence too – rightly, given the nature of the music, often straining towards the orchestral, without that precluding the pianistically yielding. The players did not try to turn this music into something that it is not, yet nevertheless, through the excellence of largely unassuming advocacy, enlarged our ideas of what it might be, or perhaps better, of the value of what it is. The Andantino second movement showed a definite kinship with its counterpart in the Sonata. There was much to absorb and simply to enjoy in the inner parts, in the harmonies, but never at the expense of onward tread. (It seems almost impossible, at least for me, to write about Schubert’s music without using the phrase ‘onward tread’ at some point or other.) Until, that is, the strange, contrasting material made its presence felt. The lilt of the final movement was splendidly judged; it charmed without needing to try too hard. Again, a few slips did not detract from the overall view, and if the music, perhaps not always showing Schubert at his most inspired, goes on a little, one can live with those ‘heavenly lengths’. A delightful account of the Rondo in A major, D 951, proved a well chosen, greatly appreciated encore.

Schubert looms large in the programming here. His Der Hirt auf dem Felsen was given in the opening concert (by Barenboim, Jörg Widmann, and Anna Prohaska). Barenboim will shortly be performing Winterreise with Christian Gerhaher, as part of a multi-year project for different artists to perform all of Schubert’s songs at the hall. The indefatigable pianist-conductor-world citizen will also soon be performing all of the piano sonatas and, later this year, will conduct the West-Eastern Divan Orchestra in the complete symphonies. Watch this space for some, at least, of those fruits…

[P.S. A review of the opening concert will appear here on Saturday, a slightly longer version of a piece I have written for VAN Magazine, to be published there later today.]

Salzburg Mozartwoche (5): Kremerata Baltica/Lupu - Mendelssohn, Mozart, and Weinberg, 31 January 2016

 

Images: (c) ISM Wolfgang Lienbacher

 

 

Grosser Saal, Mozarteum

 

Mendelssohn – String Symphony no.7 in D minor

Mozart – Piano Concerto no.27 in B-flat major, KV 595
Weinberg – Sinfonietta no.2 in G minor, op.74
Mozart – Piano Concerto no.23 in A major, KV 488

Kremerata Baltica

Radu Lupu (conductor) 

 

My visit to this year’s Salzburg Mozartwoche ended in style with Kremerata Baltica, augmented for the Mozart works by wind players from Concerto Budapest, and Radu Lupu. The festival’s Mendelssohn theme was honoured with a stunning performance of his Seventh String Symphony, in D minor, quite the best I have heard of any of these absurdly early works. Was Mendelssohn perhaps an even greater prodigy than Mozart? The musical equivalent of the nouveau riche loves to disparage Mozart’s juvenilia, keen to show that it can tell the difference between Bastien und Bastienne and The Magic Flute. Yes, thank you; we all can. Nevertheless, despite the riches to be found by those with ears to listen in Mozart’s early works, Mendelssohn’s achievement is at least as extraordinary. The players (led by Džeraldas Bidva) captured to a tee, in all its excitement and life, the strange and delightful blend of Baroque and Mozart to be heard here in the first movement. (One would not necessarily want to hear many of these ‘symphonies’ together, but as an extended overture, there is much to enjoy.) Clarity and dynamism were as one. The key of D minor was surely recognisable from Mozart’s own writing; Gluck’s Don Juan came to mind too. Mozart was also strongly echoed in the Andante, even if here the echo is slightly bland. Intelligently phrased, with its modulations relished, it is difficult to imagine the movement coming off better. There is greater originality in the minuet and trio, not least in the lower strings, and so it sounded, even if it does not sound like the mature composer. A few parts of the finale do, I think, even if most still do not. At any rate, the performance was excellent, highly convincing throughout. Mendelssohn’s contrapuntal learning served him and the players well.

The absolute highlight of the concert for me was Mozart’s final piano concerto, for which, of course, the players were joined by Lupu. Despite an ever-so-slightly shaky opening bar or two, the performance soon settled down. The opening ritornello sounded more vernal than autumnal; here and throughout, there was a true sense of chamber music writ large. Lupu ornamented his line from his first entry, but it never sounded anything other than ‘natural’. And what a touch he has, having one feel humane depth as well as melodic delights. Lupu showed how his playing can twinkle without sacrifice to the harmonic implications of Mozart’s score. The oscillation between tonic major and minor, so crucial to much mature musical Classicism, and never more so, surely, than in this work, proved so in performance too. If the orchestra offered spring, Lupu’s playing seemed more of an Indian summer; at times ghostly, yet always gorgeous of tone and characterful too. One very noticeable fluff (if I remember correctly, a wrong bass note) perturbed no one, likewise a slip at the end of the cadenza. This was very much a tale of an elder sage and his younger disciples. The opening to the slow movement registered divine simplicity, the warmth of the orchestral response enchanting and consoling. That major-minor oscillation sounded, and yes felt, truly heartbreaking. I do not think I have heard the piano line sound so simple and yet so inimitable as here: as close, it seemed, to unmediated Mozart as one would ever hear. And that was despite considerable ornamentation, to which it was a delight to hear the woodwind soloists respond in kind. The sheer ‘rightness’ of the opening piano statement in the finale, likewise the orchestral response, set the tone for what followed. Every note in Lupu’s part sounded both properly weighted and yet integrated into the longer line. Is there anything sadder than to know that this would be Mozart’s final essay in the genre? Well, yes: the sadness of his major-mode smiling through tears, here captured to perfection. One felt the fragility of happiness, of beauty, of song, of harmony: yet, onwards Mozart continued.

Kremerata Baltica in rehearsal

I had previously been less than bowled over by the music of Mieczyław Weinberg, although I know he has his fervent admirers. This performance of the G minor Sinfonietta, op.74 (1960) came closer to winning me over than any other has done. I think it was a matter both of work and performance, the latter rarely, save, perhaps for the third movement Adagio, overstaying its welcome, the performance as committed as the work will surely ever receive. The first movement opened in vehement, even frightening mode, the string orchestra sound making me think of wartime Honegger (the Second Symphony). The second movement sounded close to Shostakovich and, more interestingly, Prokofiev in ghostly clockwork mode. Kremerata Baltica’s strings really dug in throughout, perhaps still more so in the third and fourth movements. Solos were splendidly taken, but it was the ensemble as a whole that impressed most of all.

The performance of KV 488 was again very much on a chamber scale, but that did not mean that it lacked orchestral contrast. Tutti passages were not only beautifully played but were possessed of a kenn, unforced sense of drama. Lupu sounded much as before, which is not in any sense intended to convey a lack of enthusiasm, simply to indicate that I am in danger of running out of superlatives. Occasionally, orchestral phrase endings were a little abrupt, but that should not be exaggerated. Again, it was sheer ‘rightness’ that ruled for the most part in this first movement. Lupu’s opening solo in the Adagio straightforwardly compelled one to listen. It was a proper Adagio too; one often hears this movement taken too fast. Orchestral chiaroscuro was spot on throughout, contributing beautifully to a dignified sadness that felt no need of histrionics. Lupu’s awareness of the ways in which the piano line both is and is not ‘vocal’ impressed; perhaps surprisingly, given his way with KV 595, he left it without ornamentation. The finale was playful, spirited, but of course not without sadness. Again, there was not the slightest sense of performance imposing itself upon the music. This was a delight from beginning to end.

Performances of the Year, 2014

Again, I have limited myself to twelve: an arbitrary number, with a number of exclusions very difficult or impossible to justify, though I suppose there is a Schoenbergian satisfaction in such limitation. (I am tempted to cheat, by mentioning other performances in passing here, but shall resist!) The ordering is purely chronological.

My first selection comes from the Wigmore Hall, home to many a happy evening in 2014 and indeed in other years. Renaud Capuçon and Khatia Buniatishvili offered a scintillating programme of Bartók, Beethoven, and Brahms. Looking back, I see that I was so carried away as to conclude by writing: ‘It was difficult not to think that a great Beethovenian such as Daniel Barenboim, even Furtwängler, would have approved.’

English National Opera offered a Peter Grimes that definitively rid the work – far from my favourite opera, but that perhaps enhances the significance of its selection – of any ‘Campaign for Real Barnacles’ taints. David Alden’s staging, poised dramatically rather than distractingly, between the time of composition and episodes of heightened expressionism, perfectly complimented the finest musical performance I have heard at ENO for some time: the best I have heard from Edward Gardner, and, from Stuart Skelton, the best assumption I have ever heard in the title role.

A few yards away, the Royal Opera not so long after gave anniversary-boy Strauss his full due in a terrific Frau ohne Schatten. Semyon Bychkov showed not only what a great Straussian he is, but what a great orchestra the Covent Garden players can be under the right conductor. Comparisons with the very finest Continental orchestras were not remotely amiss on this occasion. My first act upon returning home from the first night was to buy myself a ticket for a subsequent performance.

Maurizio Pollini continues to astonish with his depth of insight. His Royal Festival Hall performance of Beethoven sonatas offered tension and excitement that would have been incredible in a pianist half his age. Not least of the virtues of this recital – largely misunderstood, I fear, by critics who believe there is only ‘one way’ to perform a masterpiece – was the rethinking so characteristic of ‘late’ or rather ‘latest’ Pollini. In theory, I, especially as one not generally inclined to swift tempi, should have been shocked by the speed of the Hammerklavier’s slow movement; in context, it made perfect sense, indeed recreated the piece anew.

Another of the greatest pianists of our time, Radu Lupu, performed Schumann and Schubert at the Semperoper in Dresden. My first hearing of Lupu in the flesh – when will he again play in London?! – was a truly memorable experience. Again, the depth of insight and the individuality, though never for its own sake, of interpretation marked this out as a very special evening.

The Barbican’s ‘Birtwistle at 80’ season provided riches aplenty. My choice of its opening concert (if I remember correctly) is perhaps arbitrary, since all the performances I attended were greatly to be valued, but this concert performance of Gawain packed an unforgettable punch, taking me back to my first ‘live’ experience of the composer’s music, the same opera at Covent Garden (only my second visit to the Royal Opera House). I now never want to hear the work without the reinstated full version of the Turning of the Seasons again.

As greatness in twentieth-century opera goes, things do not get much greater, of course, than Moses und Aron. Welsh National Opera bravely mounted Schoenberg’s unfinished, unfinishable masterpiece and deserved every plaudit thus gained. The choral singing simply had to be heard to be believed.

Back to Strauss – and back to Bychkov. His Proms Elektra once again offered Londoners the very finest of Straussian understanding. This was a musico-dramatic reading that needed no elaborate staging for the work to make its shattering impact. Christine Goerke excelled in the title role.

One is unlikely ever to experience a poor performance from Bernard Haitink and Mitsuko Uchida. I certainly did not in a ravishing LSO account of Mozart’s twenty-second piano concerto: one in which the still greatly lamented Colin Davis would surely have delighted. Brahms’s Fourth Symphony and perhaps the best performance I have ever heard of Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune made for a truly splendid, wonderfully ‘old-school’ symphonic concert.

Debussy also did extremely well in a superlative concert staging of Pelléas et Mélisande, the Philharmonia and Esa-Pekka Salonen playing this miraculous score to the manner born. Stéphane Degout and Sandrine Piau headed a remarkable cast.

Salonen has, of course, worked with Patrice Chéreau, but it was Simon Rattle I heard in the pit of the Berlin Staatsoper for Chéreau’s From the House of the Dead. Everything you have heard about this great staging is true. London, for reasons I simply cannot imagine, continues to ignore Janáček; Berlin did him, and Chéreau, proud. The cast had not a single weak link and the orchestra, the great Staatskapelle Berlin provided the most richly post-Romantic Janáček I have heard, without any loss of bite.

And finally, a third Strauss opera. Back to the theatre, for the Semperoper’s Rosenkavalier. Conducted by Christian Thielemann, the ‘other’ Staatskapelle – and yes, I know that there are many more – played Strauss with a familiarity that spoke not of contempt but of the greatest fluency and understanding. Anja Harteros’s portrayal of the Marschallin was for the ages.

Radu Lupu - Schumann and Schubert, 16 April 2014

Semperoper, Dresden

Schumann – Kinderszenen, op.15

Bunte Blätter, op.99: selection

Schubert – Sonata in A major, D 959

I expect limited sympathy from readers elsewhere, but a sadness of London musical life is that Radu Lupu hardly ever seems to visit. Prior to this concert in Dresden, I had heard him once ever, and that as a concerto soloist. Suffice it to say, the long wait to hear Lupu in recital, whilst regrettable, was worth it.

The first half was given over to Schumann, first the Kinderszenen. ‘Von fremden Ländern and Menschen’ made for an opening of disarming simplicity: inflected, certainly, but with the impression of ‘natural’ inevitability sustained, however problematical those terms might be in the abstract. It was as if, to borrow from the final piece of the collection, the poet spoke: or, perhaps better, the poets, both Schumann and Lupu, spoke. Sprung rhythms, allied to the deepest understanding of Schumann’s harmonies, characterised the following ‘Curiose Geschichte’. ‘Bittendes Kind’ was lovely indeed, music seemingly melting in the air, Lupu’s exquisite touch and rubato seamlessly blended into one voice of musical expression. The voice-leading of ‘Glückes genug’ similarly beguiled. ‘Träumerei’ emerged as the heart in more than one sense of the cycle; the way Lupu’s playing drew one in – even from the Third Circle, though the Semperoper’s excellent acoustic here also played a role – simply had to be heard to be believed. This was playing that compelled one to listen, not merely to hear, but also seduced one into doing so. The pointing of rhythms in ‘Am Camin’ pointed the way nicely to a miniature Faschingsschwank aus Wien in ‘Ritter von Steckenpferd’. Brahmsian half-lights haunted ‘Fürchtenmachen’, yet without the ‘lateness’ of the later master; this was Schumann through and through. And yes, for ‘Der Dichter spricht’, the poet(s) spoke still more movingly, with a directness so touching that it hurt.

Twelve of the Bünte Blätter followed, nos 12 and 13 omitted. I hardly ever noticed the undeniably four-square nature of Schumann’s writing, and it certainly did not matter. Mendelssohn sprang to mind in the lyricism of the first of the ‘Drei Stücklein’, but extended in a way that was utterly personal, haunted by shadows of German Romanticism. The second was vehement yet variegated, whilst Schubert seemed to be recalled in the horn-calls of the third. The first of the ‘Albumblätter’ was intimate yet radiant, followed by Brahmsian involvement in the second, which yet managed to be very much of the moment. If the fourth was as sad as it was slow, perhaps still more so, the fifth offered consolation of a sort in its poetic eloquence. The final four pieces (nos 9, 10, 11, and 14) all benefited from the most beautifully-judged of rubato. Sometimes Chopin came to mind, for instance in the left hand of the Novelette, but again, it was Schumann’s voice that spoke, despite some irksome electronic interference (a hearing aid?)

The performance of Schubert’s late A major sonata was perhaps more individual still. I can imagine some finding it wilful, but only if they heard rather than truly listened; for, however unconventional some of the increasingly intimate communion with the score, a convincing line could always be traced, and more to the point experienced. The quasi-orchestral opening to the first movement, its chords surprisingly Beethovenian, soon mellowed in a way that could only be Schubert’s. Likewise the expressive experience – as opposed to mere outlining – of the movement’s form, just as mysterious as late Beethoven, yet very different. Much here and later seemed intriguingly to strain towards the fragmentary, suggestive, consciously or otherwise, of Schubert’s legacy to the Second Viennese School. To describe that process as centrifugal would be to simplify unduly, but the twin tendencies of disintegration and integration were equally apparent – again, so long as one listened. And what a touch: such as words fail, or at least fail me. Cross rhythms were imbued with dark meaning; above all, the music was made strange, none more so than the closing bars, which peered forward to Liszt. That rendering of strangeness also informed the slow movement’s ghostly tread: somehow almost depersonalised, as if the piano were playing itself, and yet at the same time utterly subjective. That subject, moreover, still had strength, however difficult it found its self-willing into existence. There was bitterness, yes, resignation, yes, fury, yes, but also at times something close to the beatific. Lupu’s performance was rhetorical, yet not at the expense of highly tortured form.

The delicacy of the scherzo’s high-lying would-be high spirits seemed to defy gravity. Unity was mysteriously achieved through contrasts of (almost but not quite) Beethovenian magnitude. The opening theme of the finale sounded both as a long-lost friend and as a new character in the unfolding drama. Its elaboration offered ineffable inevitability whilst maintaining the ability to surprise: modulations could – and did – still take one’s breath away. Was it too late, then, for reconciliation? Certainly in any Mozartian sense. Yet as one stared – or rather listened – into Schubert’s abyss, form and expression offered their own variety of experiential unity.

Radu Lupu piano recital, 19 April 2008

Gewandhaus, Leipzig

Schubert – Piano sonata in D major, D850
Debussy – Préludes, Book I

Radu Lupu (piano)

This was a concert of two halves, consisting of an intriguing, albeit often perplexing performance of Schubert’s D major piano sonata, D850, followed by a straightforwardly excellent account of Debussy’s first book of piano Préludes. Most of the Schubert sounded more akin to eavesdropping upon a private musing than to a conventional public ‘performance’. Relatively rarely did the dynamic level rise above piano; rarely indeed did it reach forte. In terms of the interpretation’s withdrawn Romanticism, I do not think I have ever heard Schubert sound so close to Schumann – and to late Schumann at that. This was a disturbing reading, to which there was no consolation, although perhaps this is as it should be, at least on occasion. Sometimes I wondered whether the extreme tempo fluctuations were taken too far, but they were never taken so far as to lose my attention. This was particularly the case during the first two movements and parts of the third. Having said that, the scherzo began with a rhythmic and metrical precision, which in context was quite startling. The same could be said of each statement of the finale’s rondo theme, wonderfully playful in its presentation but never distended. The quotation from Schumann in the programme notes, referring to a satire on the style of Pleyel and Vanhal, was spot on for this reading, for there was by now a winning, wry humour to Radu Lupu’s interpretation. I had no reservations at all concerning this movement, its final bars an exemplar of the beauty of Lupu’s pianissimo touch. However, I did wonder whether there might have been more of an opposing tendency earlier on.

There was a considerably greater dynamic range to the Debussy Préludes, although the louder passages never sounded strident. They, just as much as the softer music, truly sounded as if the piano were an instrument without hammers. For instance, the tension mounted in La cathédrale engloutie, in a fashion that put me in mind of La mer, until the cathedral bells truly rang forth: Mussorgsky was not far behind. ‘Atmosphere’ – a dubious word without elucidation, I know, but I shall take a chance – was judiciously chosen and developed in every piece. Nor did this exert any detrimental effect upon precision, as was clear from the opening of the very first prelude, Danseuses de Delphes. Lupu’s shaping of the climaxes in Ce qu’a vu le vent d’ouest was exemplary, although this had a strange knock-on effect upon the next piece, La fille aux cheveux de lin. Its opening note was strangely loud, as if a hangover from the previous prelude, although thereafter there was no such problem. Perhaps La sérénade interrompue was a little too peremptory, too interrompue for my taste, but taste rather than anything more fundamental is probably the operative word here. The series came to a sparkling end with Minstrels; the sprung rhythms of the opening promised well, and such promise was delivered with interest, without anything of the showily ‘virtuosic’ to compromise this eminently musical account.

Lupu/Philharmonia/Muti: Beethoven, Schumann, Mussorgsky, 2 December 2007

Royal Festival Hall

Beethoven - Overture: Die Weihe des Hauses, Op.124
Schumann - Piano Concerto in A minor, Op.54
Mussorgsky (orch. Ravel) - Pictures from an Exhibition

Radu Lupu (piano)
Philharmonia Orchestra
Riccardo Muti (conductor)

This celebratory concert, long sold out, marked the thirty-fifth anniversary of Riccardo Muti's first engagement with the (New) Philharmonia Orchestra, which also culminated in Pictures from an Exhibition. After the great success of that concert, Muti was immediately signed up as Principal Conductor. Thirty-five years might not be the most significant of anniversaries, but as a pretext it serves well enough.

The Beethoven overture was well performed, though not unforgettable. At times the orchestra was driven quite hard, but never breathlessly, and there was greater flexibility in Muti's reading than his Toscanini caricature would have one believe. The brass was probably the strongest part of the orchestra, with the strings sounding at times a little watery in tone.

Radu Lupu is a far from frequent visitor to London concert halls, rendering the prospect of hearing him in the Schumann concerto rather mouth-watering, not least since his self-imposed exile from the recording studio. For a concert mounted in Muti's honour, this was very much the soloist's show, with Muti and the Philharmonia largely relegated to an accompanying role, following the sometimes extreme variations in Lupu's account. Some passages were truly magical, never more so than when, defiantly un-score-bound, Lupu pulled the tempo right back to what seemed akin to half of what would be expected, in sections of the first movement. Such rêveries were truly heart-stopping, although at other times phrases seemed almost casually tossed aside. Some of the orchestral detail was beautifully etched, the quieter passages having the virtue of truly making one listen. The lower strings sounded wonderfully German during the second movement. This was an interesting if not utterly coherent performance.

However, the second half presented what sounded like a different orchestra. The marriage of precision and colour was staggering, as was the sharpness of characterisation. Sometimes I have entertained doubts as to whether Ravel's orchestration adds anything to the piano original; here such questions never occurred. I have never heard a superior account of Pictures from an Exhibition and offhand, can only think of Carlo Maria Giulini as matching this. The sheen of the strings and the variety of woodwind coloration might have taken one's breath away had that honour not already been granted to the astonishingly assured Philharmonia brass. This exhibited all the prowess of Chicago, yet without the slightest hint of brashness. Muti imparted a true sense of progression and unity to the work, though this never clashed with the individuality of each movement, in which great instrumental virtuosity was exhibited. 'The Market at Limoges' was a veritable Babel of activity, whilst the mysteries of the Paris catacombs duly chilled. The 'Great Gate of Kiev', pealing bells and all, seemed an inevitable culmination rather than a final distinct picture. Ravel returned with interest the crucial Russian influence upon early twentieth-century French music. The dividends accrued from Muti and the Philharmonia's performance were, if anything, greater still.