Hall One, Kings Place
Beethoven – Piano sonata no.1 in F minor, Op.2 no.1
Beethoven – Piano sonata no.2 in A major, Op.2 no.2
Beethoven – Piano sonata no.3 in C major, Op.2 no.3
Beethoven – Piano sonata no.4 in E-flat major, Op.7
Jean-Bernard Pommier (piano)
Daniel Barenboim’s selection of piano sonatas from throughout Beethoven’s œuvre to form a series of varied programmes is not Jean-Bernard Pommier’s way. His Kings Place cycle, of which this recital was the first instalment, will be strictly chronological, although, like Barenboim’s, it will be limited to the thirty-two ‘canonical’ works. There is something to be said for either approach and little, it seems to me, to be gained by lamenting that the other one has not been chosen – although this did not prevent low-level carping from the odd sour critic determined to knock Barenboim from his pedestal. Pommier’s cycle is to be taken at a slower rate than Barenboim’s, a recital a month. I make this initial comparison not out of an obsessive regard for Barenboim, but because they will naturally be in many listeners’ minds, following the great ‘event’ of Barenboim’s cycle.
And, of course, the venue is different: Kings Place, newly opened, rather than the Royal Festival Hall. I can say that the acoustic of the shoe-box-shaped Hall One, completely soundproof and lined with the wood of a single, five-hundred-year-old German oak, is excellent, if unsparing. There is nowhere for the musicians to hide, likewise for the audience, although this did mean that the sound of incessant fidgeting was magnified. Why were so many people shuffling, dropping, and picking up papers, or engaging in mysterious rubbing or goodness knows what? This is not a criticism of the hall in any sense but it is certainly a criticism of certain members of the audience.
The first half of the programme, consisting of the first two Op.2 sonatas, was in many respects disappointing. In an introductory note, Pommier cautioned us: ‘The important thing to remember is that these works do not start off in a “minor” way.’ Very true, but that is not necessarily the impression gained here. The first reading of the F minor sonata received a classical, neo-Mozartian reading, perhaps inspired by the opening ‘Mannheim rocket’, but also, it seemed, by Mozart’s great C minor sonata, KV 457. Whereas Mozart is straining at the bounds of what his material allows, Beethoven here sounded a touch reticent, which is hardly a Beethovenian quality. The Adagio displayed a commendable control of line and clarity but lacked magic. Pommier caught nicely the metrical ambiguities of the Menuetto, though his reading lacked mystery; a dash more pedal would not have done any harm. On the other hand, the contours of the trio were clearly felt and communicated. The Prestissimo finale was over-pedalled, some of its furious triplet figuration obscured. I wondered whether Pommier was taking the movement too fast, or at least too fast for him; the music sometimes seemed to run away with him, slowing sounding motivated by technical rather than musical considerations. This was not a problem later on and the movement concluded with real fire, but it was all a little late.
At the outset of the A major sonata, Pommier sounded more at home, attuned to the quirkiness of Beethoven’s writing. Yet his reading soon stiffened, lacking the flexibility that many players have brought to this work. The openings of the development and recapitulation brought a welcome sense of rejuvenation, although this was not altogether successfully sustained. Structure, however, was eminently clear. If the pianist brought a gruff nobility to the Largo appassionato, he was sometimes simply plain and charmless. Likewise, the line between pressing onwards and sheer relentlessness was crossed more than once. I liked the reappearance of a quirky mood in the scherzo; Pommier displayed a good rhythmic sense throughout. The rondo’s theme should sound melting, heart-rending even; here it sounded disconcertingly matter-of-fact. Beethoven marks it – unusually – grazioso. I found myself longing for a little mannerism, some sign of personality, even if it were imported from without. It was not to be. Pommier’s reading also lacked dynamic differentiation, although this became more pronounced as the movement progressed. Again, however, it was rather too late.
I do not know what was put into Pommier’s half-time oranges but the third of the Op.2 sonatas sounded as if the music had been brought sharply into focus. There was real Beethovenian character here: humour and vehemence from the opening bars. The music-making was more differentiated, more yielding. I still often missed a greater lightness of touch in the first movement, but it was not entirely lacking. There was certainly a greater sense of mystery than had previously been communicated, not least in the great cadenza and the approach thereto. The Adagio flowed but was not too fast. Pommier displayed a fine sense of harmonic and rhythmic momentum, aided by far more sensitive dynamic contrasts than had been heard during the first half. Lines sang more freely; there was even the odd presentiment of Schubert. With the scherzo came a greater lightness of touch than we had heard hitherto; I even thought once or twice of Mendelssohn. The whole was built upon a clear rhythmic security, without stiffness. Such attributes also shone through in the closing Allegro assai, joined by a sense of fun, especially at the opening statement of the principal theme. Pommier could still be a little heavy-handed but this was much less of a problem than before. His trills were excellent.
The Op.7 sonata marked something, I am afraid, of a retreat, though not entirely. The first movement started well, with a splendid sense of life. However, the syncopations at the end of the exposition – and their reiterations – could have told more, sounding rather limp. There was nevertheless considerable virtuosity on show here, virtuosity that never sounded as if it were being applied for its own sake. The slow movement was dignified but earthbound. I could not discern those great metaphysical vistas opening up, such as is the case in great performances of this work. The scherzo dragged at times, partly on account of a lack of lightness where required. However, the trio exhibited a winning Romantic vehemence, presaging Schubert and Schumann. It was very good; the rest of the movement was somewhat plain. Unfortunately, the magic that can sound from the very opening of the rondo – it certainly did in Barenboim’s performance – was simply not there. Forthrightness is all to the good, but it is far from the only quality the music demands. The C minor episode was splendidly dispatched but there was not nearly enough contrast when we needed repose. Too much of this movement sounded as though it wanted to be the opening of the Emperor concerto but could not. I shall pass over the frankly inappropriate encores.
Showing posts with label piano sonatas. Show all posts
Showing posts with label piano sonatas. Show all posts
Saturday, 25 October 2008
Sunday, 17 February 2008
Daniel Barenboim, Beethoven sonatas, 17 February 2008
Royal Festival Hall
Beethoven – Piano Sonata no.9 in E major, Op.14 no.1
Beethoven – Piano Sonata no.4 in E flat major, Op.7
Beethoven – Piano Sonata no.22 in F major, Op.54
Beethoven – Piano Sonata no.32 in C minor, Op.111
Daniel Barenboim (piano)
What a wonderful and unexpected programme for Daniel Barenboim to select to complete his Beethoven cycle! To include two ‘early’ sonatas underlined what should long have been clear from these performances, namely that these works should in no sense be seen as preparatory to middle- and late-period Beethoven. They are stunningly original works, with roots in Mozart and Haydn – and what is wrong with that?! – but which could have been written by one man alone. There may actually be a case for accounting the young Beethoven as one of the most underrated of great composers. The two-movement Op.54 sonata is a relative rarity, which again can only have benefited from its placing in this final recital. And then, it would surely have been folly to have ended with any work other than Op.111, but more on that below.
The E major sonata, Op.14 no.1, received a splendid performance. Such judgement as to how one might shape staccato or semi-staccato articulation within phrases (e.g., first movement: bb.23-4, 50-54) is rarer than one might think. Rhythms were buoyantly sprung and the balance between rhythmic and harmonic momentum was judged to mutual benefit. The clarity of part-writing was notable, especially during the second movement, although never at the expense of expressing the music’s vertical dimension, especially its beautiful chordal writing. I especially liked the suggestions of how the music would lend itself to string-quartet writing – Beethoven subsequently arranged it, up a semitone in F major (Hess 34) – without any misguided attempt to imitate or to prefigure. The interplay between parts was attended to, but so was the sheer pianistic pleasure of the semiquaver figuration in the first and third movements. Sforzandi were not underplayed, but were relatively gentle, as befits the character of the piece. In the final movement, I entertained a suspicion that the syncopation of the rondo theme’s final statement was anticipated in bars 82-3, but then wondered whether my ears had been playing tricks upon me. Whatever the truth of the matter, it worked rather well.
A grander canvas is prepared for the sonata in E flat, Op.7. Indeed, the drive with which Barenboim opened the Allegro molto e con brio almost looked forward to the Eroica symphony. The perfect balance between harmonic and contrapuntal concerns could all so easily be overlooked, but without it work and performance would have seemed a far lesser achievement, and would also almost certainly have seemed longer in duration. Syncopated dissonances sounded fun as well as harsh, which is at it should be, for there is a great sparkle to this movement, or at least there is when it is well performed. The Largo is again written on a grand scale, and presents the performer with a profound – in every sense – challenge in terms of its numerous silences. Needless to say, Barenboim, an experienced conductor of Bruckner, had their measure. The rests punctuated but also belonged to the melodic line. Whatever Beethoven’s music may be, it is not pointillistic. Barenboim’s skill at presenting Beethoven’s part-writing was once again to the fore in the third movement; this enabled the harmonic surprises to stand out without sounded forced. The arpeggiated Minore trio possessed an almost Schubertian beauty: not just or even primarily a matter of touch, but also of understanding its harmonic progression. And rarely if ever have I heard the Rondo sound more magical. Barenboim’s basic tempo seemed spot on, as if it were the only correct solution, which is how a ‘right’ tempo will sound, even if there are in reality several ‘correct’ choices one might make. The texture of the rondo theme sounded like ‘filled-in’ Mozart, delicate yet also rich in harmonic possibilities. Although the tempo would subtly shift for different episodes, there was always a sense of being welcomed home for the return of the rondo theme: both the same, and yet transformed by its new context. The pianissimo conclusion could not have sounded more beautiful, nor more apt. Barenboim’s performance was utterly at one with Beethoven’s music: a Romantic farewell to the eighteenth century. The Rondo was certainly grazioso, but this was a fond grace such as could only result from the dusk at which the owl of Minerva spreads its wings.
By the time we reach the minuet-style opening of the first movement of Op.54, the owl has flown some distance. For this is definitely a recollection of the eighteenth-century minuet: fond, but standing at a distance that permits humour without condescension. Barenboim once again presented the gracefulness required without sounding precious. He also presented the somewhat alarming double-octave triplet contrasts with a surety and vigour that yet managed to console, for we knew that our guide would see us safely to the other side. The concluding integration of the two themes, aptly characterised in William Kinderman’s programme notes as feminine and masculine, was achieved so as to make the combination more than the sum of its parts. There was no loss of character, but there was also something surprising, something new, and a proper sense of necessity for the following Allegretto to resolve their differences. Here, as so often in Beethoven, the dialectic between rhythmic and harmonic momentum is the key to understanding and to performing. Barenboim both understood and performed. He once again proved a trustworthy guide to the movement’s tonal plan and its spinning perpetual motion. The Più Allegro coda duly thrilled without undue haste, and its sforzandi bit, though never gratuitously so. There was a true sense of arrival as the music reached its conclusion, which could only have arisen from a profound understanding of where it had been heading all along.
The last time I had heard the Op.111 sonata had been in January, in a recital given by Stephen Hough at the Wigmore Hall. That had been a creditable performance, with a number of positive attributes, but now, faced with an indisputably great performance, I realised just how insufficient ‘creditable’ is in this music. (More suitable programming helps too.) As the inevitable culmination to the cycle of thirty-two sonatas, this was always going to be something special, both for performer and audience (even for those of us who had not been fortunate enough to attend all eight concerts). I was nevertheless quite unprepared for what was to come. This performance was symphonic and personal, orchestral and instrumental, summing up and looking forward. Let there once again be no doubt that Barenboim’s piano technique is more than adequate to face any of the challenges Beethoven hurls his way, even in what is probably, with the exception of the Hammerklavier sonata, the most technically difficult of the late sonatas. Yet whilst Barenboim has command over his instrument, this is not the command that is generally called ‘pianistic’ in terms of drawing attention – intentionally or no – to pianistic matters. Beethoven’s music is presented first as music, second as music written for and performed upon the piano. At the same time, the hushed tones of the Arietta’s leggieramente passages were as beautifully conceived in purely pianistic terms as one could imagine; they were never, however, merely ends in themselves.
The first movement, with its Maestoso opening, diminished sevenths crucial, leading into the Allegro con brio ed appassionato, inevitably recalls the Pathétique sonata, but it is equally clear that something more is at stake. Barenboim’s vehemence was not only audible, but clearly visible. He did not try to conceal the enormous physical effort Beethoven requires, which perhaps bonded performer and audience still more closely. The fugato was clearly and powerfully projected. This counterpoint is not neat, and Barenboim did not present it as such; it is, rather, superhuman, which is how it sounded. Inner parts were not only heard but sang, whilst the composer’s C minor daemon drove onwards, the counterpoint working – and worked out – as much through blood and sweat as through intellectual rigour. (Note ‘as much’: I have no desire to elevate the ‘emotional’ over the ‘intellectual’, an irredeemably false distinction. However, I do wish to deny any notion of the hermetic to late Beethoven.) The subdominant colouring of the coda was wonderfully tender, leading with inexorable sadness to the non-triumphant C major of the final bars, and thus preparing the way for the Arietta. ‘Sublime’ may be a word over-used, but is entirely apt for both score and performance. Beethoven’s marking Adagio molto semplice e cantabile informed and infused the spirit of Barenboim’s reading. One was left in no doubt that the harmony, which is often very simple indeed, could not be other than it was, that Beethoven could now speak, or sing, with such noble, powerful simplicity, that we stood on the verge of something noumenal, both ineffably human and yet unutterably divine. The rhythms of the extraordinary ‘boogie-woogie’ variation were precise without any loss of warmth, never losing sight of the humanism that pervades this movement even at its most celestial. And ‘celestial’ is certainly the word to characterise the closing pages, with their awe-inspiring trills, insistent yet as far from hectoring as could be conceived. The swelling counterpoint above and beneath sounded perfectly in harmony – in every sense – with the magic of the arpeggiated accompaniment. No wonder that, for once, the conclusion met with true silence, followed by the inevitable rapturous standing ovation.
Beethoven – Piano Sonata no.9 in E major, Op.14 no.1
Beethoven – Piano Sonata no.4 in E flat major, Op.7
Beethoven – Piano Sonata no.22 in F major, Op.54
Beethoven – Piano Sonata no.32 in C minor, Op.111
Daniel Barenboim (piano)
What a wonderful and unexpected programme for Daniel Barenboim to select to complete his Beethoven cycle! To include two ‘early’ sonatas underlined what should long have been clear from these performances, namely that these works should in no sense be seen as preparatory to middle- and late-period Beethoven. They are stunningly original works, with roots in Mozart and Haydn – and what is wrong with that?! – but which could have been written by one man alone. There may actually be a case for accounting the young Beethoven as one of the most underrated of great composers. The two-movement Op.54 sonata is a relative rarity, which again can only have benefited from its placing in this final recital. And then, it would surely have been folly to have ended with any work other than Op.111, but more on that below.
The E major sonata, Op.14 no.1, received a splendid performance. Such judgement as to how one might shape staccato or semi-staccato articulation within phrases (e.g., first movement: bb.23-4, 50-54) is rarer than one might think. Rhythms were buoyantly sprung and the balance between rhythmic and harmonic momentum was judged to mutual benefit. The clarity of part-writing was notable, especially during the second movement, although never at the expense of expressing the music’s vertical dimension, especially its beautiful chordal writing. I especially liked the suggestions of how the music would lend itself to string-quartet writing – Beethoven subsequently arranged it, up a semitone in F major (Hess 34) – without any misguided attempt to imitate or to prefigure. The interplay between parts was attended to, but so was the sheer pianistic pleasure of the semiquaver figuration in the first and third movements. Sforzandi were not underplayed, but were relatively gentle, as befits the character of the piece. In the final movement, I entertained a suspicion that the syncopation of the rondo theme’s final statement was anticipated in bars 82-3, but then wondered whether my ears had been playing tricks upon me. Whatever the truth of the matter, it worked rather well.
A grander canvas is prepared for the sonata in E flat, Op.7. Indeed, the drive with which Barenboim opened the Allegro molto e con brio almost looked forward to the Eroica symphony. The perfect balance between harmonic and contrapuntal concerns could all so easily be overlooked, but without it work and performance would have seemed a far lesser achievement, and would also almost certainly have seemed longer in duration. Syncopated dissonances sounded fun as well as harsh, which is at it should be, for there is a great sparkle to this movement, or at least there is when it is well performed. The Largo is again written on a grand scale, and presents the performer with a profound – in every sense – challenge in terms of its numerous silences. Needless to say, Barenboim, an experienced conductor of Bruckner, had their measure. The rests punctuated but also belonged to the melodic line. Whatever Beethoven’s music may be, it is not pointillistic. Barenboim’s skill at presenting Beethoven’s part-writing was once again to the fore in the third movement; this enabled the harmonic surprises to stand out without sounded forced. The arpeggiated Minore trio possessed an almost Schubertian beauty: not just or even primarily a matter of touch, but also of understanding its harmonic progression. And rarely if ever have I heard the Rondo sound more magical. Barenboim’s basic tempo seemed spot on, as if it were the only correct solution, which is how a ‘right’ tempo will sound, even if there are in reality several ‘correct’ choices one might make. The texture of the rondo theme sounded like ‘filled-in’ Mozart, delicate yet also rich in harmonic possibilities. Although the tempo would subtly shift for different episodes, there was always a sense of being welcomed home for the return of the rondo theme: both the same, and yet transformed by its new context. The pianissimo conclusion could not have sounded more beautiful, nor more apt. Barenboim’s performance was utterly at one with Beethoven’s music: a Romantic farewell to the eighteenth century. The Rondo was certainly grazioso, but this was a fond grace such as could only result from the dusk at which the owl of Minerva spreads its wings.
By the time we reach the minuet-style opening of the first movement of Op.54, the owl has flown some distance. For this is definitely a recollection of the eighteenth-century minuet: fond, but standing at a distance that permits humour without condescension. Barenboim once again presented the gracefulness required without sounding precious. He also presented the somewhat alarming double-octave triplet contrasts with a surety and vigour that yet managed to console, for we knew that our guide would see us safely to the other side. The concluding integration of the two themes, aptly characterised in William Kinderman’s programme notes as feminine and masculine, was achieved so as to make the combination more than the sum of its parts. There was no loss of character, but there was also something surprising, something new, and a proper sense of necessity for the following Allegretto to resolve their differences. Here, as so often in Beethoven, the dialectic between rhythmic and harmonic momentum is the key to understanding and to performing. Barenboim both understood and performed. He once again proved a trustworthy guide to the movement’s tonal plan and its spinning perpetual motion. The Più Allegro coda duly thrilled without undue haste, and its sforzandi bit, though never gratuitously so. There was a true sense of arrival as the music reached its conclusion, which could only have arisen from a profound understanding of where it had been heading all along.
The last time I had heard the Op.111 sonata had been in January, in a recital given by Stephen Hough at the Wigmore Hall. That had been a creditable performance, with a number of positive attributes, but now, faced with an indisputably great performance, I realised just how insufficient ‘creditable’ is in this music. (More suitable programming helps too.) As the inevitable culmination to the cycle of thirty-two sonatas, this was always going to be something special, both for performer and audience (even for those of us who had not been fortunate enough to attend all eight concerts). I was nevertheless quite unprepared for what was to come. This performance was symphonic and personal, orchestral and instrumental, summing up and looking forward. Let there once again be no doubt that Barenboim’s piano technique is more than adequate to face any of the challenges Beethoven hurls his way, even in what is probably, with the exception of the Hammerklavier sonata, the most technically difficult of the late sonatas. Yet whilst Barenboim has command over his instrument, this is not the command that is generally called ‘pianistic’ in terms of drawing attention – intentionally or no – to pianistic matters. Beethoven’s music is presented first as music, second as music written for and performed upon the piano. At the same time, the hushed tones of the Arietta’s leggieramente passages were as beautifully conceived in purely pianistic terms as one could imagine; they were never, however, merely ends in themselves.
The first movement, with its Maestoso opening, diminished sevenths crucial, leading into the Allegro con brio ed appassionato, inevitably recalls the Pathétique sonata, but it is equally clear that something more is at stake. Barenboim’s vehemence was not only audible, but clearly visible. He did not try to conceal the enormous physical effort Beethoven requires, which perhaps bonded performer and audience still more closely. The fugato was clearly and powerfully projected. This counterpoint is not neat, and Barenboim did not present it as such; it is, rather, superhuman, which is how it sounded. Inner parts were not only heard but sang, whilst the composer’s C minor daemon drove onwards, the counterpoint working – and worked out – as much through blood and sweat as through intellectual rigour. (Note ‘as much’: I have no desire to elevate the ‘emotional’ over the ‘intellectual’, an irredeemably false distinction. However, I do wish to deny any notion of the hermetic to late Beethoven.) The subdominant colouring of the coda was wonderfully tender, leading with inexorable sadness to the non-triumphant C major of the final bars, and thus preparing the way for the Arietta. ‘Sublime’ may be a word over-used, but is entirely apt for both score and performance. Beethoven’s marking Adagio molto semplice e cantabile informed and infused the spirit of Barenboim’s reading. One was left in no doubt that the harmony, which is often very simple indeed, could not be other than it was, that Beethoven could now speak, or sing, with such noble, powerful simplicity, that we stood on the verge of something noumenal, both ineffably human and yet unutterably divine. The rhythms of the extraordinary ‘boogie-woogie’ variation were precise without any loss of warmth, never losing sight of the humanism that pervades this movement even at its most celestial. And ‘celestial’ is certainly the word to characterise the closing pages, with their awe-inspiring trills, insistent yet as far from hectoring as could be conceived. The swelling counterpoint above and beneath sounded perfectly in harmony – in every sense – with the magic of the arpeggiated accompaniment. No wonder that, for once, the conclusion met with true silence, followed by the inevitable rapturous standing ovation.
Friday, 15 February 2008
Daniel Barenboim, Beethoven sonatas, 15 February 2008
Royal Festival Hall
Beethoven – Piano Sonata no.16 in G major, Op.31 no.1
Beethoven – Piano Sonata no.14 in C sharp major, Op.27 no.2
Beethoven – Piano Sonata no.6 in F major, Op.10 no.2
Beethoven – Piano Sonata no.31 in A flat major, Op.110
Daniel Barenboim (piano)
It has been interesting to note the response of the press since the previous concert I attended from this cycle. If there has been an unenthusiastic voice, I have missed it. Daniel Barenboim has even appeared on Newsnight to be interviewed by Jeremy Paxman: what a welcome exchange for the usual dissembling politicians! (The sight this evening of a disgraced former Conservative Cabinet minister, far too self-important to engage in the plebeian business of applause, ostentatiously departing from the hall the moment both halves of the recital had finished, did not edify.) Yet in these reviews, I think it proper to concentrate upon the music – as Barenboim has constantly bade us do – rather than to discuss those activities which, to any person of sanity, would unreservedly commend him for a Nobel Peace Prize. I happen to think that politics and music are more awkwardly connected than Barenboim would have us believe, but this is a debate for another occasion.
That the press reaction has been so uniform is interesting in itself, for I should wager that a cycle of the Beethoven symphonies from him would have been more controversial. This has little or nothing to do with a difference in approach from Barenboim, and more or less everything to do with an unimaginative, doctrinaire attitude from more ‘authentically’ inclined critics when it comes to orchestral music. There will doubtless somewhere have been some sectarian gut-and-metronome obsessive fulminating against the use of a modern piano and issuing fatwas concerning Werktreue and the Urtext. For once, however, no one else cares.
Barenboim truly had the measure of Op.31 no.1. An understandable temptation in this sonata would be to underline the almost neo-classical exaggerations in the work, what William Kinderman in his excellent programme notes referred to as ‘a hint of sophisticated mockery’. Barenboim showed, however, that this playing with expectations, for instance in the excessively operatic roulades of the Adagio grazioso, needs to be balanced by a strong sense of the tradition on which such exaggeration is based. This is emphatically not Stravinsky; it may, however, have something in common with the Mahler of, say, the Fourth and Seventh Symphonies. Structural command becomes all the more crucial, not in the sense of imposing a formal straitjacket upon the work, although its form was commendably projected, but through allowing thematic development to inform the recounting of all other aspects of the work’s progress, not least the performer’s finely judged tempo fluctuations. This should not be taken to imply that there was a lack of attention to detail: syncopations were spot on; dynamic contrasts were carefully though never pedantically drawn, and the filigree, almost Chopinesque decoration was spun like gossamer. The pianissimo chords at the end of the finale were breathtaking, but this was as much on account of their placing within the whole as for themselves, which is as it should be.
The C sharp minor sonata was just as much a revelation. We are clearly stuck with the epithet Moonlight, whose saving grace that it is so absurdly inappropriate that it does little harm. Liszt’s description, quoted in the programme, of the second movement as ‘a flower between two abysses’ is far more apposite, and certainly was to this reading. I have often heard performances in which each movement simply appears to present a different mood, but here there was a clear progression from the all-too-celebrated arpeggios of the first movement to their raging equivalent in the Presto agitato. The harmonic direction of the opening Adagio sostenuto was never in doubt, and the biting right-hand minor ninth dissonances (bb. 52, 54) told as so rarely they do. This was owed in equal part to that sense of direction and to the careful balance between legato tone for the upper part and the disturbing implacability below. The phrasing in the Allegretto was a joy to hear: a master-class in true Classical style, and a true ‘flower between two abysses’. (Sadly, all too many members of the audience reacted angrily to Barenboim following Beethoven’s marking attacca subito il seguente, retorting with a barrage of bronchial commentary.) The final movement was duly Presto and duly agitato, but never ran away with itself. Barenboim’s pedalling – not at all easy to get right in this movement – was here every bit as impressive as his fingerwork. Everything moved inexorably towards a truly tragic conclusion.
The performance of the F major sonata, Op.10 no.2, was perhaps not on quite so exalted a level. For one thing was what sounded suspiciously like a brief memory lapse, albeit well covered up, during the F minor second movement. Its cross-rhythm sforzandi were splendidly presented, however, as was its unassuming lyricism. Whilst it was always clear where the outer movements were heading, I sensed – or imagined – a slight impatience, as if Barenboim were understandably anxious to reach the more rarefied world of the final work to be performed. The phrasing and articulation of the final Presto was nevertheless deeply impressive, and there was never any doubt about Beethoven’s slightly gruff humour during this work.
The sublimity – and let us not be shy about this word, for Beethoven’s music practically defines it – of Op.110 was projected for all to hear: both public and confidential. Tovey wrote of the opening dynamic marking: ‘The word sanft (added to the MS. by another hand, probably at Beethoven’s dictation) is intended to translate con amabilità. It does not mean “soft” but, as nearly as may be, “gentle” in the most ethical sense of the word.’ This ethical sense was present throughout: a product of Beethoven’s and Barenboim’s humanity and a rare beauty of touch and sustenance of melodic line. A couple of unfortunate smudgings slightly took the edge off what Tovey aptly described as ‘externally the clearest and most euphonious [movement] in all the last sonatas’. The closing bars, however, were truly magical, the final crescendo and diminuendo perfectly judged so as to portray without exaggeration the swelling and subsidence towards and from the dissonant F flat, duly resolved. Rhythmic definition was the key to the Allegro molto, whose secret Barenboim therefore unlocked. The syncopations of the coda, which can sometimes be lost, were wonderfully present here. No one could have been in any doubt, as Barenboim spun the recitative of the following Adagio ma non troppo, that here was a great opera conductor. Yet he proved himself – as if proof were needed – equally a great pianist, through the surety and beauty of his melodic tone. The transition to the Klagender Gesang opened out the chord of A flat minor like the German Romantics’ proverbial blue flower against the backdrop of a wintry landscape. (If ever anyone doubted a modern instrument’s ability in this respect, this performance ought to have led him forever to hold his peace.) Yet the flower’s arioso lamentation ultimately gave us hope not desolation; there was no attempt to turn this into late Schubert. This was partly, of course, owed to the consolation of the fugue, at first unable to prevail, yet persistent enough to attempt to return – and to succeed. Its stealthy una corda return was breathtakingly handled, with both mystery and certainty. Thereafter, the sheer obstinacy of Beethoven’s counterpoint was powerfully presented. With Barenboim’s performance, it clearly registered that the secret of the fugal victory, to quote Kinderman, ‘arise not naturally through traditional fugal procedures, but only through an exertion of will that strains those processes to their limits’. We may question whether such a musico-ethical victory does not partake in the highest sense of the political, but that question, as I said earlier, may await another day.
Beethoven – Piano Sonata no.16 in G major, Op.31 no.1
Beethoven – Piano Sonata no.14 in C sharp major, Op.27 no.2
Beethoven – Piano Sonata no.6 in F major, Op.10 no.2
Beethoven – Piano Sonata no.31 in A flat major, Op.110
Daniel Barenboim (piano)
It has been interesting to note the response of the press since the previous concert I attended from this cycle. If there has been an unenthusiastic voice, I have missed it. Daniel Barenboim has even appeared on Newsnight to be interviewed by Jeremy Paxman: what a welcome exchange for the usual dissembling politicians! (The sight this evening of a disgraced former Conservative Cabinet minister, far too self-important to engage in the plebeian business of applause, ostentatiously departing from the hall the moment both halves of the recital had finished, did not edify.) Yet in these reviews, I think it proper to concentrate upon the music – as Barenboim has constantly bade us do – rather than to discuss those activities which, to any person of sanity, would unreservedly commend him for a Nobel Peace Prize. I happen to think that politics and music are more awkwardly connected than Barenboim would have us believe, but this is a debate for another occasion.
That the press reaction has been so uniform is interesting in itself, for I should wager that a cycle of the Beethoven symphonies from him would have been more controversial. This has little or nothing to do with a difference in approach from Barenboim, and more or less everything to do with an unimaginative, doctrinaire attitude from more ‘authentically’ inclined critics when it comes to orchestral music. There will doubtless somewhere have been some sectarian gut-and-metronome obsessive fulminating against the use of a modern piano and issuing fatwas concerning Werktreue and the Urtext. For once, however, no one else cares.
Barenboim truly had the measure of Op.31 no.1. An understandable temptation in this sonata would be to underline the almost neo-classical exaggerations in the work, what William Kinderman in his excellent programme notes referred to as ‘a hint of sophisticated mockery’. Barenboim showed, however, that this playing with expectations, for instance in the excessively operatic roulades of the Adagio grazioso, needs to be balanced by a strong sense of the tradition on which such exaggeration is based. This is emphatically not Stravinsky; it may, however, have something in common with the Mahler of, say, the Fourth and Seventh Symphonies. Structural command becomes all the more crucial, not in the sense of imposing a formal straitjacket upon the work, although its form was commendably projected, but through allowing thematic development to inform the recounting of all other aspects of the work’s progress, not least the performer’s finely judged tempo fluctuations. This should not be taken to imply that there was a lack of attention to detail: syncopations were spot on; dynamic contrasts were carefully though never pedantically drawn, and the filigree, almost Chopinesque decoration was spun like gossamer. The pianissimo chords at the end of the finale were breathtaking, but this was as much on account of their placing within the whole as for themselves, which is as it should be.
The C sharp minor sonata was just as much a revelation. We are clearly stuck with the epithet Moonlight, whose saving grace that it is so absurdly inappropriate that it does little harm. Liszt’s description, quoted in the programme, of the second movement as ‘a flower between two abysses’ is far more apposite, and certainly was to this reading. I have often heard performances in which each movement simply appears to present a different mood, but here there was a clear progression from the all-too-celebrated arpeggios of the first movement to their raging equivalent in the Presto agitato. The harmonic direction of the opening Adagio sostenuto was never in doubt, and the biting right-hand minor ninth dissonances (bb. 52, 54) told as so rarely they do. This was owed in equal part to that sense of direction and to the careful balance between legato tone for the upper part and the disturbing implacability below. The phrasing in the Allegretto was a joy to hear: a master-class in true Classical style, and a true ‘flower between two abysses’. (Sadly, all too many members of the audience reacted angrily to Barenboim following Beethoven’s marking attacca subito il seguente, retorting with a barrage of bronchial commentary.) The final movement was duly Presto and duly agitato, but never ran away with itself. Barenboim’s pedalling – not at all easy to get right in this movement – was here every bit as impressive as his fingerwork. Everything moved inexorably towards a truly tragic conclusion.
The performance of the F major sonata, Op.10 no.2, was perhaps not on quite so exalted a level. For one thing was what sounded suspiciously like a brief memory lapse, albeit well covered up, during the F minor second movement. Its cross-rhythm sforzandi were splendidly presented, however, as was its unassuming lyricism. Whilst it was always clear where the outer movements were heading, I sensed – or imagined – a slight impatience, as if Barenboim were understandably anxious to reach the more rarefied world of the final work to be performed. The phrasing and articulation of the final Presto was nevertheless deeply impressive, and there was never any doubt about Beethoven’s slightly gruff humour during this work.
The sublimity – and let us not be shy about this word, for Beethoven’s music practically defines it – of Op.110 was projected for all to hear: both public and confidential. Tovey wrote of the opening dynamic marking: ‘The word sanft (added to the MS. by another hand, probably at Beethoven’s dictation) is intended to translate con amabilità. It does not mean “soft” but, as nearly as may be, “gentle” in the most ethical sense of the word.’ This ethical sense was present throughout: a product of Beethoven’s and Barenboim’s humanity and a rare beauty of touch and sustenance of melodic line. A couple of unfortunate smudgings slightly took the edge off what Tovey aptly described as ‘externally the clearest and most euphonious [movement] in all the last sonatas’. The closing bars, however, were truly magical, the final crescendo and diminuendo perfectly judged so as to portray without exaggeration the swelling and subsidence towards and from the dissonant F flat, duly resolved. Rhythmic definition was the key to the Allegro molto, whose secret Barenboim therefore unlocked. The syncopations of the coda, which can sometimes be lost, were wonderfully present here. No one could have been in any doubt, as Barenboim spun the recitative of the following Adagio ma non troppo, that here was a great opera conductor. Yet he proved himself – as if proof were needed – equally a great pianist, through the surety and beauty of his melodic tone. The transition to the Klagender Gesang opened out the chord of A flat minor like the German Romantics’ proverbial blue flower against the backdrop of a wintry landscape. (If ever anyone doubted a modern instrument’s ability in this respect, this performance ought to have led him forever to hold his peace.) Yet the flower’s arioso lamentation ultimately gave us hope not desolation; there was no attempt to turn this into late Schubert. This was partly, of course, owed to the consolation of the fugue, at first unable to prevail, yet persistent enough to attempt to return – and to succeed. Its stealthy una corda return was breathtakingly handled, with both mystery and certainty. Thereafter, the sheer obstinacy of Beethoven’s counterpoint was powerfully presented. With Barenboim’s performance, it clearly registered that the secret of the fugal victory, to quote Kinderman, ‘arise not naturally through traditional fugal procedures, but only through an exertion of will that strains those processes to their limits’. We may question whether such a musico-ethical victory does not partake in the highest sense of the political, but that question, as I said earlier, may await another day.
Thursday, 7 February 2008
Daniel Barenboim, Beethoven sonatas, 6 February 2008
Royal Festival Hall
Beethoven – Piano Sonata no.5 in C minor, Op.10 no.1
Beethoven – Piano Sonata no.11 in B flat major, Op.22
Beethoven – Piano Sonata no.19 in G minor, Op.49 no.1
Beethoven – Piano Sonata no.20 in G major, Op.49 no.2
Beethoven – Piano Sonata no.23 in F minor, Op.57, Appassionata
Daniel Barenboim (piano)
If only I had been able to attend all eight recitals in Daniel Barenboim’s Beethoven sonata cycle. Still, three may well prove to be the least bad alternative: seven would simply be perverse; five or six would be tantalisingly close; four would be frustratingly half-way there; one or two would be nowhere enough. At least this is what I shall try to tell myself by way of consolation, for this was a marvellous concert.
To begin with, I was rather surprised to find the dynamic contrasts a little constrained: the last thing one would expect from Barenboim, one of the most ‘orchestral’ of pianists. However, I think this may have been at least in part a product of where I was seated: further back in the stalls than I have been since the Royal Festival Hall reopened. At any rate, my ears soon more or less adjusted, although Barenboim did seem, consciously or no, to be holding something in reserve at least during the first movement of Op.10 no.1. There were also a few minor smudges: nothing to worry about, but enough to show that even great musicians sometimes need to warm up. With the Adagio molto, any reservations evaporated, never to return. The true profundity of Beethoven’s slow movements, even – indeed in some senses, especially – in his earlier sonatas, is one of the most difficult things for a pianist to express and appears to come only with experience. This is something Barenboim certainly possesses, and it shows: not only experience of Beethoven piano sonatas, but of vast swathes of the piano, chamber, orchestral, and operatic repertoire. Only connect – and he does, laying claim to the mantle of the great German-European humanistic tradition. The noble simplicity of the opening, which lies as much in the weighting of the chords as in the sustaining of line, was perfectly judged, and the progress of the sustained melodic line was vocally rapt, though never at the expense of lightness of touch in filigree decoration. In the final A flat chords, the pianissimo whispered confidence was at such a dynamic and emotional level that time could have stood still. Unfortunately, that must have been too much for some of the audience, since a barrage of coughing disturbed Barenboim’s attack of the third movement, although it failed to disrupt his urgency. For once, Prestissimo did not seem an exaggerated marking: the music verily hurtled by, yet with no shortness of change for contrapuntal clarity and breadth of tone where required (e.g., bb. 80-84). The humour of the ‘wrong’ chord just before the end registered and could be savoured just long enough before the properly quiet conclusion.
For reasons that have always eluded me, Op.22 has often been something of a Cinderella amongst the Beethoven sonatas. Barenboim certainly made no apology for it and it requires none. Sir Donald Tovey rightly pointed out that the third bar, with its necessary freedom of the right forearm, is more difficult technically than anything else in the sonata, but one would never have known. The single-line echo of this in the left hand (b. 11-12) was quite dazzling. I mention this, since one sometimes hears a great deal of nonsense about Barenboim the pianist (supposedly past his best, since he now ‘conducts too much’), just as much as about Barenboim the conductor (supposedly never quite as good as he is a pianist). True, one does not consider him primarily as a great technician, but that is because he is a great musician, his technique always at the service of the music. One would not catch him playing crowd-pleasing virtuoso fripperies, but nor would one Maurizio Pollini, and I do not think anyone has ever doubted his virtuosity. Small minds cannot conceive that one man could exhibit greatness in all of these respects – and more; so much the worse for them. The syncopated chords of the second group during the recapitulation were not only rhythmically precise but presented with great fullness and beauty of tone, and the abrupt dynamic contrasts of the coda duly told. I do not know why, but it always seems to take me a little time to accustom myself to the compound triple time of the slow movement. The understated implacability of those eighteen repeated E flat major chords in the left hand assisted greatly, as did the way Barenboim began to spin his melodic charm above. The first statement of the songful melody sounded a little neutral, but that is really as it should be, for the music needs time to breath and to bloom. Beethoven’s two final movements are amongst his loveliest creations, which is how they sounded here. There was a wonderfully poised swing to the minuet, whilst the allegretto of the Rondo was again perfectly judged. This beautiful movement, which in mood and harmony has a great deal in common with the ‘Spring’ Sonata for violin and piano, Op.24, can rarely have flowed so effortlessly. Each statement of the rondo theme sounded like the presentation of a new tale in an intimately connected anthology, with Beethoven – or should that be Barenboim – playing the role of the master story-teller. Every time, it was the same but different, a subtle product of context and progression. Like the Arabian Nights, one wished each tale would never end.
There should be no condescension toward the two so-called ‘sonatinas’ amongst the canonical thirty-two, for it takes a great musician to perform them meaningfully, just as it does in any of the other thirty sonatas. Barenboim presented both Op.49 works with a clarity of purpose that would have been a master-class to any young – or not-so-young – pianists embarking upon their exploration of Beethoven. The Mozartian textures and passage-work of the G minor sonata were never mere finger-exercises; to play them with perfect accuracy was but the prelude to making music. Quite rightly, the expressive contrasts were not exaggerated, but nor were they under-played. Likewise for Op.49 no.2, whose minuet, with its origins in that of the Septet, Op.20, once again had a wondrously joyous swing to it. Beethoven is not merely profound; he is also great fun.
But the best was yet to come: a truly great performance of the Appassionata. From the chillingly mysterious F minor octave arpeggios of the opening, it was clear that this would be an enthralling journey. I use the word ‘journey’ intentionally, not, I hope, in thrall to the banal language and preconceptions of modern reality television, but since the Beethovenian explorations of which Beethoven was our guide at times put me, rather to my surprise, in mind of Schubert, not least his Winterreise. This was a journey both physically scenic and metaphysically draining, which never strayed into the realms of false emoting, nor of ham virtuosity. Schubert sometimes – though not nearly so often as one might expect – sounds like Beethoven, but the converse is rarely the case, and I should not wish to exaggerate in this instance; nevertheless, Barenboim’s tragic sense, whilst not without its vehemence, also possessed a harrowing fatal resignation. The purely pianistic element was jawdropping; no one hearing the crossed hand arpeggios of the first movement or the tumultuous Presto conclusion to the third could ever doubt Barenboim’s technique. Yet the tone was so full of quasi-orchestral colour – ’cello-like richness on the sculpted bass line of the second movement’s theme, dashing high flutes and piccolos in the fury of the finale – that rarely if ever did one think of this as ‘pianism’. The programme notes quoted Igor Markevitch telling the young Barenboim’s father that his son played the piano orchestrally. There is a great deal of truth in this and, whatever his envious detractors might say, Barenboim was clearly born to conduct. Yet at the same time, this concerns at least as much his conception of pianism for purely musical ends as his destiny to lead an orchestra. Just as we rarely think of Beethoven as a great orchestrator, since his musical thought is so inextricably tied to its orchestration, so we understandably tend to forget the instrument as such when Barenboim plays.
After the tumult, which occasionally verged upon existential despair, of the first movement, the emotional heart of the sonata came with the second movement’s theme and variations. A vision of hope, however, fleeting, was set before us. If the slow movement of the Hammerklavier Sonata is, in the unforgettable words of J.W.N. Sullivan, like ‘the icy heart of some remote mountain lake’, then this was rightly different. It was more akin to having reached the quickening waters lake in the foothills, the surface ripples bathed in sunlight, yet barely concealing something more troubled in the depths. But of course, as is so often the case with middle-period Beethoven, the slow movement’s function is also to serve as a prelude to the finale. Barenboim’s rage was never unduly wild, but not did it pull any emotional punches. Those fatal rhythms tolled – and told, allied as they were to a profound understand of the movement’s harmonic direction. Beethoven’s vehemence was bluff and trenchant, yet also sang to us, reminding us through – in every sense of the word – the piano cascades of the narrative thread by which work and performance were conceived. It is a while since I have heard such a thrilling conclusion to any piano work, all the more thrilling on account of our wayfarer-performer’s refusal to countenance any but the most arduous path. The standing ovation could hardly have been more richly deserved.
Beethoven – Piano Sonata no.5 in C minor, Op.10 no.1
Beethoven – Piano Sonata no.11 in B flat major, Op.22
Beethoven – Piano Sonata no.19 in G minor, Op.49 no.1
Beethoven – Piano Sonata no.20 in G major, Op.49 no.2
Beethoven – Piano Sonata no.23 in F minor, Op.57, Appassionata
Daniel Barenboim (piano)
If only I had been able to attend all eight recitals in Daniel Barenboim’s Beethoven sonata cycle. Still, three may well prove to be the least bad alternative: seven would simply be perverse; five or six would be tantalisingly close; four would be frustratingly half-way there; one or two would be nowhere enough. At least this is what I shall try to tell myself by way of consolation, for this was a marvellous concert.
To begin with, I was rather surprised to find the dynamic contrasts a little constrained: the last thing one would expect from Barenboim, one of the most ‘orchestral’ of pianists. However, I think this may have been at least in part a product of where I was seated: further back in the stalls than I have been since the Royal Festival Hall reopened. At any rate, my ears soon more or less adjusted, although Barenboim did seem, consciously or no, to be holding something in reserve at least during the first movement of Op.10 no.1. There were also a few minor smudges: nothing to worry about, but enough to show that even great musicians sometimes need to warm up. With the Adagio molto, any reservations evaporated, never to return. The true profundity of Beethoven’s slow movements, even – indeed in some senses, especially – in his earlier sonatas, is one of the most difficult things for a pianist to express and appears to come only with experience. This is something Barenboim certainly possesses, and it shows: not only experience of Beethoven piano sonatas, but of vast swathes of the piano, chamber, orchestral, and operatic repertoire. Only connect – and he does, laying claim to the mantle of the great German-European humanistic tradition. The noble simplicity of the opening, which lies as much in the weighting of the chords as in the sustaining of line, was perfectly judged, and the progress of the sustained melodic line was vocally rapt, though never at the expense of lightness of touch in filigree decoration. In the final A flat chords, the pianissimo whispered confidence was at such a dynamic and emotional level that time could have stood still. Unfortunately, that must have been too much for some of the audience, since a barrage of coughing disturbed Barenboim’s attack of the third movement, although it failed to disrupt his urgency. For once, Prestissimo did not seem an exaggerated marking: the music verily hurtled by, yet with no shortness of change for contrapuntal clarity and breadth of tone where required (e.g., bb. 80-84). The humour of the ‘wrong’ chord just before the end registered and could be savoured just long enough before the properly quiet conclusion.
For reasons that have always eluded me, Op.22 has often been something of a Cinderella amongst the Beethoven sonatas. Barenboim certainly made no apology for it and it requires none. Sir Donald Tovey rightly pointed out that the third bar, with its necessary freedom of the right forearm, is more difficult technically than anything else in the sonata, but one would never have known. The single-line echo of this in the left hand (b. 11-12) was quite dazzling. I mention this, since one sometimes hears a great deal of nonsense about Barenboim the pianist (supposedly past his best, since he now ‘conducts too much’), just as much as about Barenboim the conductor (supposedly never quite as good as he is a pianist). True, one does not consider him primarily as a great technician, but that is because he is a great musician, his technique always at the service of the music. One would not catch him playing crowd-pleasing virtuoso fripperies, but nor would one Maurizio Pollini, and I do not think anyone has ever doubted his virtuosity. Small minds cannot conceive that one man could exhibit greatness in all of these respects – and more; so much the worse for them. The syncopated chords of the second group during the recapitulation were not only rhythmically precise but presented with great fullness and beauty of tone, and the abrupt dynamic contrasts of the coda duly told. I do not know why, but it always seems to take me a little time to accustom myself to the compound triple time of the slow movement. The understated implacability of those eighteen repeated E flat major chords in the left hand assisted greatly, as did the way Barenboim began to spin his melodic charm above. The first statement of the songful melody sounded a little neutral, but that is really as it should be, for the music needs time to breath and to bloom. Beethoven’s two final movements are amongst his loveliest creations, which is how they sounded here. There was a wonderfully poised swing to the minuet, whilst the allegretto of the Rondo was again perfectly judged. This beautiful movement, which in mood and harmony has a great deal in common with the ‘Spring’ Sonata for violin and piano, Op.24, can rarely have flowed so effortlessly. Each statement of the rondo theme sounded like the presentation of a new tale in an intimately connected anthology, with Beethoven – or should that be Barenboim – playing the role of the master story-teller. Every time, it was the same but different, a subtle product of context and progression. Like the Arabian Nights, one wished each tale would never end.
There should be no condescension toward the two so-called ‘sonatinas’ amongst the canonical thirty-two, for it takes a great musician to perform them meaningfully, just as it does in any of the other thirty sonatas. Barenboim presented both Op.49 works with a clarity of purpose that would have been a master-class to any young – or not-so-young – pianists embarking upon their exploration of Beethoven. The Mozartian textures and passage-work of the G minor sonata were never mere finger-exercises; to play them with perfect accuracy was but the prelude to making music. Quite rightly, the expressive contrasts were not exaggerated, but nor were they under-played. Likewise for Op.49 no.2, whose minuet, with its origins in that of the Septet, Op.20, once again had a wondrously joyous swing to it. Beethoven is not merely profound; he is also great fun.
But the best was yet to come: a truly great performance of the Appassionata. From the chillingly mysterious F minor octave arpeggios of the opening, it was clear that this would be an enthralling journey. I use the word ‘journey’ intentionally, not, I hope, in thrall to the banal language and preconceptions of modern reality television, but since the Beethovenian explorations of which Beethoven was our guide at times put me, rather to my surprise, in mind of Schubert, not least his Winterreise. This was a journey both physically scenic and metaphysically draining, which never strayed into the realms of false emoting, nor of ham virtuosity. Schubert sometimes – though not nearly so often as one might expect – sounds like Beethoven, but the converse is rarely the case, and I should not wish to exaggerate in this instance; nevertheless, Barenboim’s tragic sense, whilst not without its vehemence, also possessed a harrowing fatal resignation. The purely pianistic element was jawdropping; no one hearing the crossed hand arpeggios of the first movement or the tumultuous Presto conclusion to the third could ever doubt Barenboim’s technique. Yet the tone was so full of quasi-orchestral colour – ’cello-like richness on the sculpted bass line of the second movement’s theme, dashing high flutes and piccolos in the fury of the finale – that rarely if ever did one think of this as ‘pianism’. The programme notes quoted Igor Markevitch telling the young Barenboim’s father that his son played the piano orchestrally. There is a great deal of truth in this and, whatever his envious detractors might say, Barenboim was clearly born to conduct. Yet at the same time, this concerns at least as much his conception of pianism for purely musical ends as his destiny to lead an orchestra. Just as we rarely think of Beethoven as a great orchestrator, since his musical thought is so inextricably tied to its orchestration, so we understandably tend to forget the instrument as such when Barenboim plays.
After the tumult, which occasionally verged upon existential despair, of the first movement, the emotional heart of the sonata came with the second movement’s theme and variations. A vision of hope, however, fleeting, was set before us. If the slow movement of the Hammerklavier Sonata is, in the unforgettable words of J.W.N. Sullivan, like ‘the icy heart of some remote mountain lake’, then this was rightly different. It was more akin to having reached the quickening waters lake in the foothills, the surface ripples bathed in sunlight, yet barely concealing something more troubled in the depths. But of course, as is so often the case with middle-period Beethoven, the slow movement’s function is also to serve as a prelude to the finale. Barenboim’s rage was never unduly wild, but not did it pull any emotional punches. Those fatal rhythms tolled – and told, allied as they were to a profound understand of the movement’s harmonic direction. Beethoven’s vehemence was bluff and trenchant, yet also sang to us, reminding us through – in every sense of the word – the piano cascades of the narrative thread by which work and performance were conceived. It is a while since I have heard such a thrilling conclusion to any piano work, all the more thrilling on account of our wayfarer-performer’s refusal to countenance any but the most arduous path. The standing ovation could hardly have been more richly deserved.
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