Tabea Zimmermann Wigmore Hall 12 June 2014

Bach: Sonata No. 1 for Solo Violin

Kurtág: Three pieces from Signs, Games and Messages

Reger: Suite in G Minor op. 131d/1

Hindemith: Sonata for Solo Viola op. 25/1

Bach: Cello Suite No. 3

Tabea Zimmermann this evening gave a whistlestop tour of major contributions to the solo viola repertoire down the centuries. Bach has long been a member of that pantheon, despite not having written any works for solo viola. But by framing the programme with transcriptions of Bach’s violin and cello works, Zimmermann was able to show just how influential they have been in this repertoire. That provided a useful handle on the more recent works, some of which is fairly demanding on the listener. Yet nothing ever seemed a challenge, thanks largely to Zimmermann’s engaging but unassuming musicianship, and to her warm and always engaging tone.

The Wigmore Hall acoustic is ideal for many instrumental combinations, but it’s not usually put to the service of a solo viola. As it turns out, the sound here is about as ideal as could be imagined for this alto-cum-tenor instrument, particularly in Zimmermann’s hands. Her playing style is very definite, and often strident. The acoustic picks up the details of her quiet playing, sharing the intimacy to all present, but amplifies and projects the louder passages, particularly in the lower registers, which it imbues with a rich, cello-like sonority.

That was as true of the Bach Violin Sonata as it was of his Cello Suite, perhaps more so. No mention was made it the programme of how much transposition had taken place in the arrangement for viola, but plenty of this music was in the instrument’s lowest register. Zimmermann’s performance was gutsy and visceral, with plenty of rubato shaping the phrases. The only clue that the work was not originally for viola was the presto finale. It’s a fingerbuster on the violin, but on the larger viola the challenges are even greater. Yet Zimmermann made no concessions, playing it as fast as any violinist, and with just as much clarity and grace.

The three pieces from Signs, Games and Messages are typical Kurtág: short, aphoristic, but otherwise almost impossible to describe in words. The second of them had been written for Zimmermann, and listening to her performance of all three, it was clear why her playing of his music had inspired the composer. When he writes pp ornaments, wholly disembodied and appearing in the very highest register, for example, she dispatches them with ease. His guttural glissandos retain their edge under her bow, but seem as natural as any other playing technique. And her ability to switch between the absolute extremes of dynamic from one bowstroke to the next gives her the advantage over almost any other player approaching this repertoire.

In any other context, the Reger Suite would seem to be music of extremes, but following Kurtág it seemed positively genteel. In fact, the more useful comparison here was with the Bach that opened the programme, and not only for the similarities. It is a commonplace to say that Reger’s solo string suites are modelled on Bach, but in fact there is more going on. Zimmermann emphasises all the Baroque counterpoint, but also acknowledges the music’s late Romantic dimension, all those lyrical lines and chromatic transitions. But there is plenty of counterpoint (or pseudo-counterpoint) in here too, which she presents with clarity and zest. Like the Bach Sonata, Reger’s Suite ends with a fast movement, and the technical virtuosity here was extraordinary.

Anybody who has heard Zimmermann’s recent recordings of Hindemith’s solo viola works will know that this is music in which she particularly excels. The Op. 25/1 Sonata that opened the second half was the highlight, and the focal point, of the programme. However appropriate the music of the other composers may have seemed to the viola’s qualities, it was clear from this work that Hindemith had the clear advantage of actually playing the instrument himself. The music is often brash, and often austere, but there is a beguiling beauty to it as well, and Zimmermann perfectly captured its many paradoxes. Hindemith writes big-boned, muscular music for the viola, which is ideal for Zimmermann as that is exactly the style in which she excels most. She’s capable of subtlety and nuance as well, of course, but the very forward, direct and honest style of Hindemith’s mature music brings out all her best qualities.

That was really the climax of the recital. It ended with Bach’s Third Cello Suite, but that felt more like an epilogue. The dimensions of this music are smaller and more intimate, and Zimmermann made no effort to expand it to the scale of the previous works. Instead, we heard a performance of great agility and refinement. The sound of the bow against the strings occasionally crept in under the narrower tone, and the attacks on notes became as important as their pitches. For the final movement, the Gigue, Zimmermann adopted a positively rustic tone, folky and earthy, with the music propelled by an insistent underlying rhythm. 

A varied programme then, but one that showed off many aspects of Zimmermann’s prodigious talent. The Wigmore acoustic served her well, although the sheer confidence and body in her tone suggested that she’d sound good anywhere. The recital didn’t fill the hall, or even come close, which was a shame, but was received with rapt attention and rapturous applause by the small but enthusiastic audience.

Melnikov Shostakovich Wigmore Hall 4 Feb 2014

Shostakovich: Preludes and Fugues, book 2

Alexander Melnikov (pn)

Alexander Melnikov’s recorded Shostakovich is a known quantity – accolades for his CDs of these works take up half his programme bio – but nothing prepares you for the live experience. Melnikov is able to perfectly express the paradoxical mix of introversion and intensity that characterises this music, while carefully shaping the dramatic arc of every movement. He takes the music to the dynamic extremes that Shostakovich specifies, but without ever compromising the evenness of his touch or the roundness of his tone. And he finds myriad ways of expressing the composer’s inner world, the insecurities behind the bluster, the intensity behind the lyrical lines, and the directness of expression behind the most complex of fugal intrigues.

Melnikov’s technique, at least as presented here, is profoundly Russian, but never to the point of cliché. Every note is a statement, and whatever poetry he might express through his playing, it is always based on a very defined relationship with the keyboard: the beginning and end of each note is always very clear. Much of this music is very loud, but the thundering dynamics never compromise Melnikov’s tone. As the dynamics rise, often through very long crescendos, Melnikov just keeps putting in more power, yet his body movements hardly change. Wherever this intensity comes from, it produces a clean, unlaboured fortissimo that fully justifies the composer’s many extended passages at this dynamic.

On paper, many of these Preludes and Fugues look surprisingly simple, with open diatonic harmonies and foursquare rhythms. But under Melnikov’s hands the music becomes considerably more complex. His rubato is often extreme, although a regularity is maintained through his ability to apply the same amount of give and take through the entire course of a long movement. He is also able take the dynamics right down to a whisper, and still fill the hall with sound, such is the roundness and warmth of his tone. He doesn’t run the works together into a cycle, but rather treats each as a separate unit of expression, requiring its own palette of colours and range of internal contrasts. Shostakovich will often begin a prelude with a jolt, an emphatic statement of the theme or a bracing introductory flourish. Melnikov presents these directly and without interpretive extravagance, the better to surprise the ear. Then, as the movement progresses, it gradually becomes clear that not everything is as it seems: simple and direct textures take on dark overtones, extreme rubato breaks up repeated figurations, and thematic statements bubble up from the middle of the texture to unexpectedly dominate.

Melnikov’s is an extreme reading in many ways, particularly in terms of the dynamics and rubato, but it is a confident and carefully controlled one too. He cites Richter as an inspiration, and many of the Richter’s finest traits find their way into his playing, particularly the focussed intensity and the dark poetry that the two pianists find in Shostakovich’s work. The Wigmore Hall is the ideal venue to hear Melnikov in this repertoire, the roundness and richness of his tone are well projected by both the piano itself and the hall’s warm acoustic. Drier and more formal readings of Shostakovich’s Preludes and Fugues also have a place, but Melnikov’s readings seem truer to the spirit of the music, and to the complex and inscrutable character of the composer himself.

András Schiff, 48 Book 2, Wigmore Hall 18.12.13

Bach: Well tempered clavier book II

András Schiff, piano

Wigmore Hall 18 December 2013

András Schiff picked up the 48 more or less where he left off with the first book at the end of November. Now, as then, he gave a focussed but flowing account, balancing his habitually detached touch against the legato impulse in his voice leading. Extremes, both of tempo and dynamic, were avoided (as was the sustain pedal), and contrast between the movements was achieved through subtle gradations of touch and tone. This time, though, it didn’t all add up, at least in a significant minority of the movements. And, as it turned out, the (relative) failures proved far more revealing than the outright successes.

Schiff clearly takes risks in live performance: even just the atmosphere that his playing generates demonstrates that. And usually it all comes together, the gambles pay off, and balance is achieved between the independent and concurrent forces seemingly given free rein, until Bach’s cadential formulas intervene and bring everything back into line. On several occasions this evening, though, that didn’t quite happen, and suddenly all the workings in Schiff’s delicate equations were laid bare.

Structure, it turns out, is a subsidiary concern. That’s probably not such a surprise, as he usually seems to be living in the moment. A fugue, for example, will start out with a slow and deliberate statement of the theme, and then rapidly accelerate into the development. The ending eventually imposes order, as if by some external force. In some of the fugues this evening, the ending seemed almost arbitrary. Schiff was so involved in the counterpoint that it seemed he wanted to continue uninterrupted for another ten minutes, yet Bach was calling time after just two or three. That sense of over-arching unity, that held together the two-hour span of the First Book in November, was revealed here to be the result more of his continual concentration and focus than on any specific structuring of the music.

Counterpoint is one of the most interesting features of Schiff’s Bach. He often brings in new voices as if they’re from a completely different work. In some of the preludes, we’ll hear a running semiquaver line in the left hand, over which a new melodic idea is introduced in the right. But the tone, dynamic, and even tempo of the two will be completely separate. Then, by some undisclosed magic, they will swiftly but deftly merge them into a contrapuntal synthesis. Occasionally this evening that didn’t happen, and Schiff found himself playing in two different styles and at two different speeds. The only solution was to abandon both and abruptly switch to a new texture, often at the expense of a split-second hesitation. The effect was like listening to a recording and suddenly coming across a bad edit between takes.

Admittedly, these episodes were few, and in a performance that lasted almost three hours, the sheer quantity of perfectly executed music made them a marginal concern. But in Schiff’s traversal of the First Book, a greater consistency was maintained, allowing him to keep the secrets of his musical magic concealed. So what is different this time round? A charitable view might have it that Schiff is simply taking greater risks with this Second Book, a less charitable one that his punishing recital schedule this last month (he has been giving these Bach marathons in Brussels, Frankfurt and Berlin as well as London throughout December), is beginning to take its toll.

Or perhaps Schiff is saving his interpretive energies for the weekend. His next appearance will be at the Wigmore Hall on Saturday, a recital of the Diabelli and Goldberg variations organised to mark his 60^th birthday. No doubt the temptation then will be to play it safe, but it’s unlikely Schiff will succumb. He’s a habitual risk-taker, so expect the unexpected.

Bach Partitas András Schiff Wigmore Hall 26.11.13

After the solemn ritual of András Schiff's 48 Book 1 on Saturday, this evening's Bach Partita cycle seemed a more playful affair. The lighter textures allowed him to demonstrate better the fine nuances of his graceful technique. The freer structure gave him more space to pace and structure according to his own, very narrative approach. And the wider stylistic variety between the works, and between the movements, meant that contrasts between colours, textures and moods, all expertly conveyed, could be articulated at all levels of the music.

There were many similarities as well, of course. Like Saturday's two-hour marathon, this too was an incredible feat of stamina and technical precision. This time we got an interval, but the concert ran to almost three hours, and Schiff never dropped a beat. The interpretive insights of his performance are what sticks in the memory, so much so that it is easy to forget the sheer technical precision and keen artistic focus upon which they were all based. And again he performed everything from memory, and with a fluid, supple touch that made it look like the music was coming out of him as naturally as breathing. The interpretations he gives are distinctive and accomplished, but they're founded on a pianism that very few of his colleagues could even approach.

Schiff performed the Partitas in the order 5, 3, 1, 2, 4, 6. This gave a key structure similar to that of the 48 performance, with the key centre gradually rising through the works. Performing the Partitas in this order gives the key sequence: G, a, Bb, c, D, e. But, unlike on Saturday, the focus this evening was almost always on the movement at hand. Within the Partitas, the movements followed on closely from one to another, but this seemed intended more to highlight the contrast from one to the next than to create any sense of large-scale structure.

The faster dance movements found Schiff at his most playful. Here, the Übung aspect of the music really shone through, not in challenging his technique, of course, but rather in demonstrating its many facets. The hand crossing passages were delivered with real panache, but a sense of independence governed the relationship between the two, even when with the left hand on the left and the right hand on the right. Schiff finds both clarity and sophistication in every texture Bach presents. So simple, two-part passages are given with different colouring in each hand, for example a rich lyrical melody in the right over a pizzicato rhythmic bass in the left. But even when Schiff uses staccato articulation and louder dynamics to pick out bass lines or inner parts, the round, richness of his tone prevents anything from ever sounding harsh. The final movements of the First and Second Partitas, the first a Gigue, the second a Capriccio, were real highlights, and while both are well-known, Schiff was always able to inject an element of unpredictability into the music.

That, in no small part, was a result of his interesting rubato, a feature of almost every movement. Schiff seems to treat this music as a story to be told, with gradual tempo changes intensifying the mood as phrases develop, and sudden downward tempo shifts switching the mood from one phrase to the next. Many of the faster movements will begin at a brisk pace, and then, as the passage work and runs get underway, he will gradually increase the speed even further. For the listener, it feels like a dangerous game, but Schiff is always in control, and when a new statement of the theme or some countertheme comes in, he will suddenly drop the tempo and move to a cooler tone colour.

All this happens in the slow movements too, and it is here that Schiff's approach to tempo, timbre and articulation really pay off. The Aria and Air movements in these works are dominated by graceful and free melodies, all played out over skilfully constructed harmonies and bass lines. Schiff always allows the melody to lead, his tempos elastic but never capricious. Rubato shapes the lines, but he always avoids sentimentality. He accelerates into rising arcs, and pulls back into cadences. Yet nothing here is sentimental or predictable, and although continually changing, his tempos always relate to an underlying pace and an intuitive sense of proportion and structure: Exquisite beauty achieved through the perfect combination of freedom and form.

András Schiff Well-tempered Clavier Book 1 Wigmore Hall 23 Novemeber 2013

A sense of ritual pervaded András Schiff’s Bach performance last night. The audience, clearly expecting something transcendent, was already hushed and attentive long before he took the stage. When he did, he cut a slight and unprepossessing figure, and his stage manner was straightforward and unflamboyant: a brief bow and then straight to the bench. Yet he seemed to have an aura about him, of authority and experience, lending weight and significance to his every move, like the celebrant in some secular observance. Then he performed the First Book of the 48, in its entirety and from memory, pausing only briefly between each work and never breaking his concentration in the entire two-hour span. And the audience hung on his every note, as focussed on the music as he was, and, remarkably, almost as able to maintain the intense concentration required.

But despite the sense of reverence, from the audience for the pianist, and from the pianist for the work, there was nothing dull or dour about this performance. Schiff brought light and colour to every one of the short movements. His touch at the keyboard is lively and nimble, his small hands scurrying around the keys with lightness and grace. His articulation, while always varied, is based on a clean but flowing portato; the individual notes and lines presented with rare clarity, but never at the expense of the music’s flow or of the overall form. He studiously avoids the sustain pedal, allowing the articulation of his fingerwork all the more clarity and focus. And the sound he draws from the Wigmore Hall’s piano is clear yet warm, attractive but never so comfortable as to detract from the detail of the music.

Typically, Schiff will begin a movement with a straightforward statement of the opening idea, then very gradually allow it to open out into the passagework and counterpoint that is the main substance of most of these works. He often emphasises the main theme in the more involved contrapuntal textures with a combination of louder dynamics and more pointed articulation. Under lesser hands, this could sound excessively literal or even patronising to the audience, but Schiff’s aim is always for clarity and interpretive focus, and the hierarchies he presents in the voice-leading serve only to extend the distinctive presentation of the melodic lines in the simpler passages.

Tempos are often brisk, but never to the point of trivialising the music. Schiff often gives the feeling that five, or even ten, minutes of music form a single, arching paragraph, gradually becoming more emotionally involved as it goes on. But then he’ll snap the audience out of it with a brisk and bracing reading of the more energetic movements, the E-Minor Fugue for example, or the G-Minor Fugue – given a surprisingly lively reading here.

Presenting the whole book as a single, unbroken musical statement risks projecting ideas onto the music that it won’t support. But in fact, Bach’s music proves remarkably adept to this treatment, even if it is a long way he from what he himself envisaged. Stylistic variety between the successive preludes avoids monotony, while the greater similarities between the fugues maintains a consistency too. That old pop producer’s trick of keeping a song interesting by raising its last chorus by a semitone happens throughout the 48, with the tonal centre rising a semitone every other piece to ensure a perpetual sense of freshness.

But András Schiff deserves as much credit for that as Bach. In fact, his conception requires him to play down the contrast between successive works, but the result is more subtle interactions between them, as the memory of the contrapuntal intrigues of a previous movement are continually roused by those of the one you’re listening to. Schiff also works within a fairly narrow range of dynamics and articulations, preferring contrast through minute gradations rather than overt extremes. It is an approach that requires listeners to focus in on every detail he presents, and to maintain their concentration for very long periods. Fortunately, that is exactly the reception his performance got from the Wigmore Hall audience, which augers well for his subsequent appearances in this series, which could yet tax and challenge listeners even more, but also offer similarly satisfying rewards.