# concert vignettes



## SCHLEMO

Superstars are Human After All
I have attended many concerts featuring celebrated pianists. Most of the performances were flawlessly executed, at least according to my standards at the time. The two pianists whom I admired the most were Jorge Bolet and Rudolf Serkin, Bolet for his humility at East Carolina University, Serkin for his persistence at Kent State University. Just a few minutes into Lizst’s B-minor Sonata that I thought he was playing masterfully, Bolet suddenly stopped, got up, and jolted the audience with this remark: “You certainly have not come here to see me make mistakes. I’m going to start again.” He didn’t specify what he had done incorrectly. It could have been anything from sloppy phrasing to a wrong note. Whatever the error, Bolet wasn’t satisfied with his performance at that moment; and he wasn’t too proud to publicly admit his lapse. He resumed playing without any further interruptions. When he was done, I clapped furiously, applauding his honesty as much as his talent.

Rudolf Serkin showed a different kind of character while performing Beethoven’s Waldstein Sonata. I was seated in the front row, so I was able to see the incomparable maestro at work. But being so close was a mixed blessing. Within a minute or two, I noticed that Serkin had a runny nose that he automatically wiped on his sleeve—without missing a beat or a note. His nose continued to drip a bit more as the sonata progressed. But Serkin wasn’t rattled. His sleeve may have been soaked, but his concentration was undisturbed. How could the man have so much composure in the midst of so much mucous? If Serkin was worried that his hands might get sticky and foul up his performance, he didn’t show it. He persevered, and he triumphed, only one errant drip away from disaster. If I had been further back, I probably would have missed the show within a show. 

You never know what to expect at a live concert. How else would I have seen how ably Jorge Bolet and Rudolf Serkin confronted such different kinds of unanticipated challenges? 

Crying When Listening to Classical Music
I have weeped during a performance of a slow movement of a late Beethoven string quartet and during Puccini arias sung by amateur but polished sopranos. In these cases, I tried to pinch myself hard so that I'd stop crying, but to no avail.

Yesterday, to wow my son and his fiancée, I had them watch parts of the Met's I Puritani (the two long arias sung by Netrebko at the end of Act 2 and soon after the beginning of Act 3). After the second ovation, I didn't clap, but I sure wept a little. This time I didn't hide my feelings; after all, it was my birthday: I was entitled.

Interpretation Conundrums
How “accurately” Rachmaninoff interpreted his own piano pieces also applies to how authoritatively poets address their own works. When I was teaching American literature, I played a recording of Theodore Roethke’s rendition of his “My Papa’s Waltz”. I and my class were not impressed. Roethke spoke in a monotone throughout the poem. A robot could have been more expressive. The poem can be read from many perspectives: naïve nostalgia, bitterness, wistful regret, jubilation, disgust, ironic praise, or bits and pieces of each feeling as the poem progresses. Roethke was of no help whatsoever. Go figure!

Papa at His Best
Last week, I attended a piano concert given by Dimitri Papadopoulas at a small Parisian church. The acoustics were excellent, the setting was intimate (I was in the front row), and the performance was spectacular. Papadopoulas masterfully played Beethoven's Appasionata Sonata and some Chopin and Lizst. He was attuned to every fiery or subtle nuance in each piece, whether his fingers were pouncing and pounding on multitudes of notes or wistfully caressing the keyboard. It is not enough for any musician to give a flawless performance; it must also be riveting. Papadopoulos excelled in both categories.
If you ever get a chance to see and hear him up close, you will be in for a treat. Save up your bravos; you will need them.

A Spectacular Recital
The free Wednesday noon classical music concerts at St. Andrews Church in Honolulu are exceptional. Last week, the young pianist Calin Clark played two sonatas with grace and grandeur: Scriabin’s Sonata No. 3 and Rachmaninoff’s Sonata No. 2. These works were not familiar to me, but Clark’s commanding performance gave me an intimate glimpse into their intricacies. Clark doesn’t hum like Glen Gould; he doesn’t shake his head like Rudolf Serkin; he doesn’t have the aristocratic bearing of Vladimir Horowitz. He has no outstanding mannerisms, no quirks, and no tics. But with the utmost aplomb, he plays so brilliantly that I can’t imagine how any renowned pianist could rival Clark’s mastery of the Scriabin and Rachmaninoff sonatas. Clark had a refined, delicate touch in lyrical movements (the Scriabin “Andante”); yet when the music demanded sheer force (in Rachmaninoff’s “Allegro Agitato”), he was unequivocally aggressive. If Clark plays other piano pieces in various eras as impressively as he handled the two Russian compositions in his recital, he will be a superstar. 

Don’t Give up After the First Half 
A few days ago, my wife and I attended a piano recital performed by a candidate for the master of music degree at the U of Hawaii. We were very disappointed during the first half of the concert. I was upset because the graduate student hit a few wrong notes and had egregiously sloppy phrasing in the Beethoven Piano Sonata, Op. 110. And his Prelude and Fugue in D-sharp minor, BWV 877, from Bach’s second volume of The Well-Tempered Clavier, was just as defective. My wife had another concern: he didn’t seem to be fully engaged. I was ready to leave before the second half of the program began, but my wife persuaded me to stay put. I am glad I listened to her. 
The first piece after the intermission was Ligeti’s Etude No. 13, Lescalier du Diable. Much to my and wife’s unexpected delight, the pianist played with devilish glee. Nothing was lackadaisical here, no lack of confidence either—as in the Beethoven and Bach selections. He was in complete control, supercharged, and on target. Of course, his new-born passion could have been roused only for contemporary composers like Ligeti. The last piece on the program, Robert Schumann’s Symphonic Etudes, would test how well he related to a quintessential Romantic composer. 
The graduate student performed the Etudes brilliantly, whether pounding the keys authoritatively or ever-so-intimately gliding over them. He played with exceptional virtuosity: each section was impeccably crafted. The etudes were a tour de force. I had never heard them before, so I don’t know how traditional or innovative his interpretation was. But I can’t imagine any well-known pianist outshining Mr. McCoy, who was the real McCoy after all. 


Familiarity: Friend or Foe?
Last week, I went to a concert featuring Honolulu’s Galliard String Quartet. The first selection, Prokofiev’s String Quartet No. 1, I was not familiar with; in fact, I had heard it only once before. The Galliard ensemble performed the work convincingly, effortlessly transitioning from vivacious exclamations to subdued, melancholic reflections. 

I enjoyed the Prokofiev, but I was expecting the next piece, Beethoven’s String Quartet, Opus 131, to be even more impressive. I had listened to the Beethoven many times and was particularly fond of the Yale Quartet’s version back in the 60’s. But watching it being performed would surely be a special treat.

How wrong I was. The Galliard group played tentatively at a slow, plodding tempo as if they were not fully in control—as opposed to their mastery of the Prokofiev string quartet. Even the more lively sections were too deliberative. Perhaps the ensemble needed more practices, or perhaps they thought that the seven movements were to be played in various stages of lugubrioso. Now, if I were hearing this Beethoven quartet for the first time, would I have been disappointed? Maybe I wouldn’t. In fact, I might have been delighted. In any case, I stayed throughout the performance and clapped perfunctorily at the end.

I can remember a long time when I wasn’t as tolerant during a concert. A pianist who had often accompanied Isaac Stern was to perform a Schubert sonata that I was very fond of—thanks to the inspired recordings of Alfred Brendel and Vladimir Horowitz. What I heard that night at East Carolina University however, was a hodgepodge so twisted out of context that I scarcely recognized it. What a travesty! Outraged at this charlatan, I walked out of the concert hall before the end of the first movement. 

I guess I have matured since then. I try to be more open-minded. However, I still dislike, for example, any rendition of the Verdi Requiem that is not as fast paced as Toscanini’s live recording in 1959. 

At least for me, being familiar with and conditioned by the way a particular piece of music is interpreted sometimes can boomerang when I hear a different version. 


Bach Is Alive and Very Well
Every Sunday at 5:00 p.m. there is an organ concert at Eglise St. Eustache in Paris. The church's organ is the largest one in France, and it has such a stupendous sound that Mozart saw to it that his mother's funeral (accompanied by organ) took place at that venue. The first selection that my wife and I heard was the inimitable Bach Toccata and Fugue in D Minor (BWV 565). I have always enjoyed listening to many recordings of this war horse played on increasingly sophisticated equipment. But nothing so far can match the tonal intensity and fiendish intricacies of the work as played by the incomparable organist at St. Eustache. The Toccata and Fugue felt like a sonic boom at the beginning and the end; and the cascading middle sections were playfully exuberant. The rest of the concert consisted of some awfully dissonant music by an easily forgettable composer. But even amid that horrendous ultra-modern piece, I was content because the god-like force of Bach was with me.


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