Young musicians prove Britain’s got classical talent, plus the best of November’s classical and jazz concerts
Music for Youth Prom/ Royal Albert Hall ★★★★☆
While music in state schools withers and traditional forms of extra-curricular music like school orchestras and bands suffer from lack of funds, the work of Music for Youth becomes ever more vital. It’s a charity that organises events for young musicians and mentorship schemes for talented individuals, in every style of music across the country. Once a year they bring 3,000 children and young adults from every corner of Britain to the Royal Albert Hall to take part in two Music for Youth Proms.
You might have expected the first Prom to start off with something rousing and spectacular; an orchestra of box beaters playing Peruvian rhythms, say, or a band of saxophones, brass and percussion playing drivingly energetic music by Nigerian musician Fela Kuti, or a huge orchestra playing some thrilling film score by Hans Zimmer. We did in fact get all of those, plus 10 other groups ranging from a duo of violin and marimba from Aberdeenshire to a grime quartet from south London. Music for Youth also gave a platform to disabled musicians from St. Martin’s College in Stroud, who played specially adapted laptops in lieu of standard musical instruments.
However what launched the evening was something unexpectedly quiet and mysterious: a lovely unaccompanied sacred melody by the 12th century abbess Hildegard of Bingen, sung with affecting rhythmic suppleness by a young singer and echoed from one side to the other by massed choirs, while little lights waved by the singers in the darkness added to the sacred atmosphere.
This was one of many signs that Music for Youth has its ear to the ground for cultural trends. Here the trend was for ‘spiritual music’, a feeling that during the evening came back more than once, blended with the idea we must care for the planet—an idea expressed with touching fervour by the Cross Keys Choir from Portsmouth. Another theme was kindness, which was the theme of the newly composed piece The Colour of All Things constant by Cassie Kinoshi for massed choirs and orchestra.
Taken as a whole the show was dazzling, with acts big and small streaming on and off that famed platform with slick precision, all compered with smiling energy by jazz musician YolanDa Brown. Though every performance blazed with the youthful fervour, some really stood out. The saxophonists and trumpeters of Youthsayers in Lambeth were wonderful together, but a little shy when it came to improvising; apart from one trumpeter, who let fly with a jaw-dropping riff. But he wasn’t the only possible star in the making. The four rappers of London group Spit Game summoned up a street energy, while at the other end of the spectrum, the Rossignol String Quartet from Huddersfield played two Danish folk-flavoured pieces with a smiling charm that had the audience completely rapt. IH
For more info on Music for Youth visit mfy.org.uk for tickets for tonight’s Music for Youth Prom visit royalalberthall.com
A Child of Our Time, Glasshouse, Gateshead ★★★★★
When professional orchestras and choirs invite amateur musicians to join them for a performance of a big choral-and-orchestral blockbuster – an increasing trend these days –caution in terms of technical demands normally rules. You can imagine an amateur choir being given the big sturdy hymn tunes in a Bach Passion; the complex fugal movements are probably best reserved for the professionals.
On Sunday at Gateshead’s Glasshouse International Centre for Music, the Royal Northern Sinfonia and Chorus threw caution to the winds. They invited hundreds of amateur musicians, including many who cannot read music, to join them in a performance of one of the most demanding oratorios of the 20th century: Michael Tippett’s A Child of Our Time. The piece is a dark meditation on human beings’ horrible propensity to project all their dark, loathsome aspects onto a scapegoat. In this case, the scapegoat was the Jews during the Second World War: “the one race than stands for all”, as Tippett’s own libretto says.
That dark theme drew from Tippett a language of troubled dissonance, the angular melodies and scurrying fugal chases a metaphor for humanity’s anguished search for salvation. It’s hard enough for professionals, but only one concession was made to the amateurs among the 200 singers; some four-part passages were rewritten as three. Apart from that, they performed every last note, as was made clear in the list of performers in the programme note, where the professionals’ and amateurs’ names were mingled together.
The results could frankly have been dire, with uncertain pitching and rhythms. In fact, it was a triumph. Much of the credit for this must go to the two chorus masters, Tim Burke and Audrey Lawrence-Mattis, who’ve been rehearsing the singers since early September. The orchestra, bolstered by amateurs, had been rehearsed since early October by assistant conductor Sinead Hayes.
The reward for them and the packed, raptly attentive hall was a performance that sounded utterly secure and focused. Because everyone had the music in their bones, conductor Dinis Sousa was able to plumb the music’s depths in daringly slow tempos. Tippett summons a “universal voice of humanity” in this piece through five spirituals, which blazed here with special fervour. The performance was also blessed with four superb soloists, who were tellingly contrasted. Bass-baritone Willard White was bleakly disillusioned, tenor Nicky Spence impassioned and bewildered as the persecuted boy, Sarah Connolly sorrowful and compassionate as the Mother. Floating over them all with seraphic beauty was South African soprano Masabane Cecilia Rangwanasha.
Though the soloists’ diction was uniformly good, surtitles or a libretto (a proper printed one, not the online one on offer) would have helped everyone grasp the meaning of Tippett’s often obscure words. But somehow the work’s compassion and wisdom still shone out. Beyond that, the performance was a magnificent riposte to the fashionable idea that to be inclusive, any work of music must also be “accessible”. Tippett’s troubled oratorio is far from accessible – but it welcomes anyone willing to give it the necessary time, attention and love. IH
To see this concert for one month via the orchestra’s YouTube channel, go to theglasshouseicm.org/what’s-on/child-of-our-time
Take Me to the River, Barbican, London EC2 ★★★★☆
The rhythms and colours of Mardi Gras came to wintry London, as Martin Shore’s Take Me To The River All-Stars brought a joyous evening of New Orleans music to the Barbican Hall.
Louisiana’s “Crescent City” can claim to be the birthplace of blues, jazz and funk, and Shore, who won a Grammy for his restoration project, had assembled a crack team dedicated to bringing its early/mid-20th century traditions alive.
If the line-up was short of star originals – best known was Cyril Neville, conga player with ’60s-’70s funk overlords The Meters (most key players are deceased or retired) – the Anglo-American cast made up for it with exceptional commitment to getting a street party started within the Barbican’s hoity-toity environs.
“Awl-right London, are you ready to get funky?” Shore enquired, to modest assent, first introducing elite-class British-born pianist Jon Cleary, who expertly conjured the “N’Awlins” boogie-woogie of James Booker and Jelly Roll Morton.
Soon, the stage was overtaken by the walking, barking riot of feathers, brocade and pink sticky-back plastic that is Big Chief Bo Dollis Jr, scion of Mardi Indian tribal dynasty, The Wild Magnolias. Historically, these tribes erred on the side of gang warfare, but Dollis Jr was soon cheerily handing out feathers to kids and singing with a powerful Otis Redding rasp.
As a taut young interracial funk quartet, featuring Cyril Neville’s nephew Ian on guitar, nailed down whip-smart grooves, the room temperature soared when Anjelika “Jelly” Joseph took over the mic, her sweet soul voice ranging from a seductive purr to an earth-shaking scream on a righteously empowered Yes We Can Can.
After the interval, a trio of Nevilles, completed by Cyril’s son Omari on hip hop MC-ing, struck up a short but irresistible set of silky Meters funk. Though originally a sideman, Cyril, in a feathered fedora, black sparkly jacket and matching shoes, sang with that exquisite Nevilles clarity on classics including Hey Pocky A-Way, No More Okey Doke and Cabbage Alley.
Your correspondent could’ve raved to another hour of Meters bangers, but the show was already in its final stages, with Cleary tinkling forth a twinkly Such A Night, commemorating the late Dr John.
Dollis Jr rematerialized in a turquoise leather suit, enthusiastically cross-stepping to Big Chief by another NOLA piano legend, Professor Longhair, and there was scarcely a seat still occupied as Joseph led into Take Me To The River’s eponymous anthem – actually an Al Green gem from Memphis, TN, but no-one was quibbling. The heedless abandon of arguably the world’s greatest music city ultimately prevailed. AP
The EFG London Jazz Festival concludes tonight with Anohni at the Royal Festival Hall, London SE1 (efglondonjazzfestival.org.uk)
Crosscurrents, Barbican ★★★★★
The incredible musical jamboree of the EFG London Jazz Festival is our yearly reminder that the jazz scene has never been more various. And if that brings in its wake the question “yes, but is it really jazz?”, that’s all to the benefit of the genre. Jazz fans enjoy a good argument almost as much as they enjoy the music.
This year’s festival is strong on British talent, which last year received a massive shot in the arm from Ezra Collective’s Mercury Award. But if there’s ever a lesson to be learnt from the jamboree, it’s that jazz is now truly global. Among the international artists appearing are an Israeli trumpeter, a Tamil singer, a Palestinian pianist and a host of South African bands – as well as top-drawer Americans like Pat Metheny.
Last night’s gig at the Barbican seemed at first glance to fall into the “global” category. It launched with the Mongolian singer Enji whose short set, charming though it was, showed the perils of trying to fuse jazz and a remote musical culture. Four of the five songs were her own, and had a perfectly turned but somewhat bland quality, with supporting harmonies from bassist River Adomeit and guitarist Paul Brändle etched in too delicately. You could just about discern that Enji has a remarkable voice, but only once did it blaze out with untrammelled power, in the Mongolian folk-song Sevkhet Bor. For a moment we were offered a heart-stopping glimpse of some ancient tragedy. If she could only harness that power in her jazz songs, Enji could really be something.
The evening’s main event, a long set from the trio Crosscurrents, was also meant to fall into the “global jazz” category. The venerable British bass player Dave Holland and the hardly less distinguished American saxophonist Chris Potter were supposed to be joined by Zakir Hussain, the Indian percussionist whose list of musical collaborators stretches back to George Harrison. He’s not well, so a fine jazz drummer, Eric Harland, stepped into the breach.
Given that the event was originally conceived of as a marriage of Indian ragas and a jazz spirit, this must have involved a very thorough rethink, done at speed. You would never have guessed that from the set, which was as free and easy as if these three had been playing together forever. It was also cunningly crafted, with six very distinct numbers which provided a specific stimulus for six long, engrossing improvisations. Chris Potter’s Sky seemed brightly major-key, until some minor-key digressions wrong-footed us. Holland’s Triple Dance had a winding chromatic energy, occasionally running against the obstacle of a fixed note which he and Harland pushed against, amusingly.
With lesser players, this careful pre-planning would have put a break on any improvisational spirit. But these three are among the very best, so that spirit was actually released, and magnificently. Their 70-minute set was an astonishing display of musical intelligence, playfulness and sheer stamina, which proved the ancient truth that nothing stimulates a true artist so fruitfully as limitations. IH
The EFG London Jazz Festival continues until November 24; efglondonjazzfestival.org.uk
Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra, Lighthouse Poole ★★★★☆
When a new Chief Conductor makes their debut, there’s any number of ways they can “make their mark”. They can challenge us with something modern, intrigue us with something little-known, dazzle us with a conductor’s showpiece such as The Rite of Spring. The BSO’s previous chief conductor, the Ukrainian Kirill Karabits, often did all three in one evening, and gained a national reputation for the orchestra’s daring programmes, which often included music from his homeland.
He was a great asset to the orchestra, but my hunch is that Mark Wigglesworth will prove a worthy successor in every way. For his first concert as Karabits’s successor, he stuck to the tried-and-tested format of overture followed by concerto followed by symphony, and the three works by Wagner, Ravel and Walton were firmly mainstream.
Some might say that was a bit tame, but the great advantage of hearing familiar works is that it makes the conductor’s particular qualities shine out all the more clearly. The orchestra already sounds different: less bright and vividly coloured, more fine-detailed and soft-grained. Admittedly, there wasn’t much opportunity for softness in the evening’s major work, William Walton’s First Symphony. It’s a work that can often deafen and browbeat the listener, and that was a particular danger in the Lighthouse, which has a glaringly bright acoustic.
Under Wigglesworth’s direction, we were neither deafened nor browbeaten. The constant ratcheting up of tension in the first movement was achieved very subtly, so one always felt there was power to spare. The amazing seat-of-the-pants urgency of the second movement was thrilling, and Wigglesworth made sure we noticed the brief lyrical efflorescence in the third movement, amid all the film-noirish glamour.
In Ravel’s Concerto for the Left Hand, Wigglesworth proved an alert and sensitive accompanist to soloist Nicholas McCarthy. He has overcome what you might think would be an impossible obstacle to being a pianist: being born without a right hand. Since graduating from the Royal College of Music McCarthy has carved out quite a career for himself. As he reminded us in his post-performance chat from the platform, McCarthy is actually the second one-handed pianist to perform this piece with the BSO; the first was the pianist who commissioned the concerto from Ravel, Paul Wittgenstein. McCarthy found the craggy nobility of Ravel’s great work as well its nostalgic tenderness, and for an encore played Skryabin’s well-known Nocturne for the Left Hand with exemplary grace.
All this was hugely enjoyable; but the most interesting music-making actually came in the place you’d least expect to find it: the overture. Wagner’s Meistersinger curtain-raiser is so solid and good-humoured and four-square – how could it yield something new? Wigglesworth showed how, by making it flowing and flexible, more a mighty river with little eddies and whirlpools than a pompous Germanic parade. He is a fine thoughtful musician, and as this concert shows he has a fire in the belly too. Over the coming years, that should stand him and the BSO in good stead. IH
Watch this concert for one month at bsolive.org. Hear the BSO play this programme on November. 21 at Bristol Beacon; bristolbeacon.org
Academy of Ancient Music, West Road Concert Hall, Cambridge ★★★★☆
“The past is never dead. It’s not even past.” Great performances of classical music show the truth of William Faulkner’s line every time, but it’s especially true of performances from an orchestra such as the Academy of Ancient Music. Its mission is to delve into long-lost music, and, by restoring its original colours and playing styles, the ensemble makes it seem as if it’s being born right now, before one’s very ears.
Wednesday night’s inspired act of revival was prompted by a historical event: a quartet party in Vienna sometime in 1784, where four great musicians played, chatted and probably drank a bit. Two of them, Joseph Haydn and Wolfgang Mozart, we know well. The other two, the Bohemian composer Johann Wanhal and the splendidly named Carl Ditters von Dittersdorf, we hardly know at all.
This prompted the thought: why not put symphonies composed in that year by all four side-by-side? It was a fascinating exercise, requiring only a teensy bending of history, and the results reminded us that no musical culture is ever monolithic; it is full of cross-currents and contrasts.
Take the symphony in D by Wanhal, which began in a mood of dusky, muted mystery, as if Romanticism was casting a backward shadow to 1784. The finale’s rushing, motoric figures, thrown off with hair-raising vigour by the orchestral strings, pulled us back with a jerk to the 18th century. In the slow movement flautist Rachel Brown spun a beauteous melody which seemed to bend the tempo gracefully, even though the hushed, high-stepping plucked chords in the strings kept up their perfectly even tread.
That was one of evening’s lovely moments of individual artistry. The other came in Dittersdorf’s Symphony in F, which portrayed a story in Ovid’s Metamorphoses where the hero Perseus rescues the Ethiopian princess Andromeda (these composers knew their classics). Oboist Leo Duarte portrayed the languishing princess in plangent tones, the string players matching his drooping tenderness, before the Perseus came riding to the rescue, horns rasping in triumph.
Compared with all this, the blazing good spirits of Mozart’s “Linz” symphony seemed straightforward, though the way he blended wit with pathos in the slow movement still seemed miraculously subtle. Finally came Haydn’s Symphony No 80, which for sheer bizarre originality knocked everything else off the stage. The slow movement combined serene spaciousness with nervy intensity, a combination you might think was beyond even Haydn’s genius. And the finale, with its single-note emphasised on the wrong part of the beat, was inspired buffoonery.
Laurence Cummings didn’t overemphasise the buffoonishness, and in fact throughout his vision of the music avoided the extremes of speed and manic energy that some “period performance” orchestras go for. Sometimes it seemed too restrained; the way Haydn pushes against the triple time of the first movement with a two-beat pattern should seem startling, but here it felt muted. On the whole, the sensitivity and stylishness of the performances was a joy, and in the slow movements Cummings and the orchestra showed those four periwigged gentlemen could touch the heart as well. IH
Hear the AAM play this programme on November 14 at Milton Court, London EC2; barbican.org.uk
LSO/Klaus Mäkelä, Barbican, London EC2 ★★★★★
One of the less lovely traits of the English is a resentment of overly conspicuous success. Every now and then, this resentment pops up in the classical music world, especially around conductors. When a brash young man appears who hoovers up awards and recording contracts well before they’re 30, a feeling gathers that they Need Taking Down A Peg Or Two.
One certainly gets that feeling from classical twitterati and – dare I say – one or two critics, in connection with Klaus Mäkelä, the 28-year-old Finnish conducting phenomenon. But most classical fans can’t get enough of him. He already leads the Oslo Philharmonic and the Orchestre de Paris, and in three years’ time takes over at two even more prestigious orchestras, in Chicago and Amsterdam. Any concert he gives is packed out and abuzz with excitement, as was shown last night at the Barbican.
One thing soon became clear: the orchestra loves him. The London Symphony Orchestra’s sound is always superbly vivid and full, but on this occasion it seemed especially so. Mäkelä cuts an incredibly exuberant figure on the podium, his slender frame bending and gyrating like a coiled spring. It’s mesmerising for the audience, but I did wonder whether his balletic acting-out of the music’s ebb and flow might actually be quite hard for the orchestra to follow.
But the results were wonderful, which in the end is all that counts. Admittedly, the programme was exactly right for him: two bleakly thrilling masterpieces evoking ancient deities by Sibelius and Stravinsky, separated by delicate charm from Prokofiev. The opening piece, Sibelius’s Tapiola summons up the pagan god of the Finnish forests, “brooding savage dreams”. At times, it seems becalmed in utter stillness, the harmonies circling in a way both drifting and sinisterly purposeful – a dichotomy this performance caught superbly.
Just when we’d got used to the drifting, the god woke up. Hurricanes broke out in the strings, galvanised by Mäkelä’s slashing beat, and the brass and percussion erupted savagely. It was a foretaste of the Russian pagan spirits in the Rite of Spring, which we would hear later.
Between them, in Prokofiev’s 2nd violin concerto, the LSO reminded us that it can do lyric grace every bit as well as savagery. The soloist Andrej Power is actually the orchestra’s recently appointed leader, but he yielded nothing in terms of poised control and rhythmic exuberance to more famous names. Behind him his colleagues, above all clarinetist Sérgio Pires, conjured the music’s ambiguous colours with delicate artistry.
Finally came the Rite of Spring, a piece that evokes the savagery of Russian paganism in a musical language that is often sumptuously beautiful. Mäkelä made sure the orchestra relished every opportunity for beauty, especially at the opening which was taken with luxuriant slowness. But this was only to set the poundingly rhythmic sections in relief, so they seemed more orgiastic than ever. The contrast was epitomised in the performance’s final seconds. Mäkelä sent the flutes’ despairing flourish aloft like a pirouette, and held them there for a moment, smilingly. For a moment, we could have been in Tchaikovsky’s world. Then came the crack of doom. IH
No further performances
West-Eastern Divan Orchestra/Barenboim, Royal Festival Hall ★★★☆☆
The packed Royal Festival Hall on Monday night was in a fever of anticipation for Daniel Barenboim’s appearance. The great pianist, conductor and musical mover-and-shaker made his Festival Hall debut in 1956 at the age of 13. Now the 81-year-old maestro was about to appear in front of the orchestra he co-founded 25 years ago with the Palestinian-born scholar and activist Edward Said, to bring Arab and Israeli and Iranian musicians together.
The mere fact of his presence seemed miraculous, as Barenboim has been seriously ill with an unnamed neurological illness for two years. When he emerged gingerly onto the stage, grasping the occasional orchestral player’s chair for support, one felt a surge of affection for that frail, frosty-haired figure. The unspoken question hung on the air: might this be the last time we would see him?
It wasn’t just Barenboim’s health that cast a shadow over the evening. The orchestra was founded to create a dialogue between the two sides in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, but reconciliation between the two sides has never seemed more distant. A statement in the programme expressed sorrow at the extreme escalation of violence and called diplomatically for “the safe return of all hostages and unlawfully held detainees”.
Despite the shadows, it was an uplifting evening, because one became aware that a profound reversal of roles has taken place. Barenboim in his prime was a domineering figure, who was quite capable of intimidating players during rehearsals. Now it felt as if the players were supporting him, and looking as much for the pulse to the orchestral leader Michael Barenboim – son of the maestro – as they did to Barenboim himself. In the opening piece, Mendelssohn’s radiant, joyous Italian symphony, Barenboim senior took on the role of the gentle overseer. He surveyed the players benignly, occasionally emphasising an important moment with an emphatic gesture.
Perhaps I am being fanciful, but the overall sound seemed more soft and fine-grained than in the orchestra’s early years. There was some especially fine playing from the wind players, especially the two flautists, who intertwined a tender counterpoint to the main melody in the “Pilgrim’s March” of the second movement. But there’s no doubt the absence of a strong guiding hand took its toll. The opening movement should leap up to the skies; here it felt too stately for that.
In the other work, Brahms’s Fourth Symphony – conducted from memory, like the first piece – Barenboim seemed more deeply engaged, and sometimes one saw flashes of his old self. The way the opening eased tentatively into being was a lovely moment. As for the tremendous finale, a kind description of its shaky ensemble and uncertain tempos would be “careless grandeur” – because there was undeniably a craggy magnificence to it. But it was also simply not that good, technically speaking.
At the end, Barenboim and the players received a standing ovation, which one could hardly begrudge them. The performances didn’t deserve it, but the nobility of the orchestra’s mission and the indomitable spirit of their conductor certainly did. IH
Yo-Yo Ma & Kathryn Stott, Barbican Hall, London ★★★★☆
In his almost 60-year career, Yo-Yo Ma has clocked up many “firsts”. The American is the only cellist to have played all six of Bach’s cello suites at the Hollywood Bowl, holding thousands of people spellbound. He’s the only classical performer to have appeared in an Apple commercial; he once graced an episode of The Simpsons. He has played with Metallica and Ennio Morricone and Sting and Diana Krall; he has performed for presidents and royalty.
So you might imagine that when Ma appeared last night at the Barbican with Kathryn Stott, his duet partner of 40 years, he would hog the limelight. Not a bit of it. Although this was billed as the last time they might play live together – Stott is retiring from the concert platform – Ma clearly thought of the evening as a tribute to her. They’re amusingly different in temperament: she punctures his on-stage flights of fancy with a bit of Manchester sarcasm, something he enjoys. Ma wanted us to applaud Stott, not him, and insisted the evening’s programme was “all her idea”.
It was indeed a nicely contrived programme, which saluted the music that has meant most to them over the years: the charm of Brazilian composer Sérgio Assad, the nostalgia of Dvořák’s Songs My Mother Taught Me, and above all the music of French composers Gabriel Fauré and Nadia Boulanger (which has a personal connection to them both, through one great French teacher they shared). Alongside these bonbons were two big works: Shostakovich’s early, surprisingly lyrical Cello Sonata in D minor, and César Franck’s yearningly romantic Violin Sonata (in an arrangement for cello).
Ma and Stott had that wonderful freedom that comes when two performers know each other’s foibles as well as they do their strengths. Stott knows that Ma likes to wring the maximum intensity from an expressive moment – which he did, as ever, and just occasionally it seemed a bit much. But the co-ordination between the two at those moments when Ma lingered over Franck’s top notes was so instinctive and subtle that you couldn’t help warming to it. Ma in turn understood that Stott needed space as well as time, in the finger-twisting complications of the second movement. The music’s perfume, redolent equally of the organ-loft and the boudoir, came over with intensity.
There were many other moments to savour, such as the deliciously sweet major-key melody that breaks like sunlight into the first movement of Shostakovich’s sonata. Here, Ma and Stott pulled back the tempo back to a degree some might say was indulgent, but to me felt exactly right. There was the sheer wildness of the finale, which came as such a shock after the cheerful insouciance of the opening. (Ma is especially good at cheerful insouciance.) There was the elfin dancing of Fauré’s Papillon (Butterfly), and the almost-whispered charm of Dvořák.
Most spellbinding of all, though, were the slowly wheeling star-shapes of Arvo Pärt’s Spiegel in Spiegel (Mirror within a Mirror). Here Stott made the unvarying tread seem both perfectly regular and tending towards stillness, as if eternity were folding the music into its embrace. Ma’s long notes were lovely, but his applause for Stott told us he knew it was her who really nailed the piece – and we knew it, too. IH
No further performances
Víkingur Ólafsson & Yuja Wang: Two Pianos, Royal Festival Hall, London ★★★★☆
Bringing the world’s two most in-demand classical pianists together for a duet recital tour (and eventually a recording) was a brilliant but also mischievous idea, born, one suspects in the brain of some canny recording executive. They seem so perfectly unmatched it would be like mixing two combustible chemicals and standing back to watch the fireworks.
The flamboyant Yuja Wang, as famous for her Louboutin heels and short skirts as for her pianism, made her break into stardom well before Víkingur Ólafsson, despite being three years younger than him. While the bespectacled, neatly confident Icelander was a penniless student in New York, the Chinese-born Wang had already won a string of prizes and undertaken her first triumphal tours.
As for their pianistic styles, it really is a case of chalk and cheese. Wang has become famous for the easy way that she tosses off titanically difficult concertos by Prokofiev and Rachmaninov, energy and grace perfectly in balance. Ólafsson shot to fame through the uncanny delicacy and clarity he brought to Baroque music, particularly the tenderly evocative character pieces of Rameau. They were the perfect antitheses: extrovert and introvert, yin and yang.
But which way round? The moment they started to play last night the neat antitheses fell away. Wang showed us in numerous passages in Schubert’s well-known Fantasia in F that she can make a sound as delicately far-away as Ólafsson’s. In Rachmaninov’s Symphonic Dances, Ólafsson showed a steely yet joyous virtuosity that was positively Yuja-like in its flamboyance.
Another quality that kept our appetite keen for two and a half hours was the ingenious programme. It began with the tiny regretful falling phrases of Luciano Berio’s Wasserklavier (Water Keyboard) from 1984, sounding like bits of half-remembered romantic music, which faded without pause into Schubert’s Fantasia. Later came the witty rhythmic dislocations of an arrangement of Conlon Nancarrow’s Study No. 6 for player piano, where these two human performers brilliantly evoked the machine’s attempt to be engagingly human. We had surprisingly old-fashioned melodic charm from that master of musical anarchy John Cage, and a gentle kaleidoscope of harmonies wheeling around a fixed tolling note from Arvo Pärt. Then came the magnificently sustained hammering of John Adams’s Hallelujah Junction, sounding as if joyous hymn-singing had somehow been crossed with bellringing.
All this was brilliantly conjured by the two pianists, though the best playing came in the final piece, Rachmaninov’s Symphonic Dances, where the sinister dance-of-death of the second movement shone out with jet-black glamour. It deservedly brought the house down, as did the six encores that followed. So why not five stars? Because although Wang and Ólafsson shone in music that was somehow strange and “marginal”, the deep pathos of Schubert’s Fantasia – which ought to have been the evening’s heart – somehow eluded them. Admittedly Schubert’s piece may have suffered from being in such odd musical company. One thing is for sure; as a display of pianistic mastery, from two artists at the top of their game, this concert was utterly spellbinding. IH
No further performances