The Shchedrins have been in town for last night's UK premiere, chez BBC Maida Vale, of Rodion Shchedrin's Concerto Parlando for violin and trumpet, written for Philippe's festival in St Nazaire in 2004 and now recorded by said violinist, trumpeter Martin Hurrell and the BBC Symphony Orchestra conducted by Mikhail Agrest for future broadcast on BBCR3 and, we hope, an eventual CD.
I'd have posted something ahead of the concert, but it was already chockablock and about 40 people were turned away at the door. For future ref for those within easy reach of Little Venice, it's worth keeping an eye on the Maida Vale studio concerts because they offer world class music free on your doorstep, if you book in quickly...
This morning I went to interview Shchedrin, who is not only charming but utterly fascinating (more of this in due course). His wife, Bolshoi prima ballerina assoluta Maya Plisetskaya, kindly autographed one of her DVDs that I'd brought along.
For ballet nuts like me, Plisetskaya is basically God. Here she is in Maurice Bejart's Bolero, choreography as startling and elemental a force as she is herself. (It's only viewable on Youtube in two parts, but at least it is viewable.)
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Barenboim at last
So Sunday morning a blog comment pops into my inbox from our Ozzie-in-London reader Anne, offering a ticket for Barenboim's last Beethoven recital that afternoon. I dropped everything (indeed certain people would be justified in not talking to me for a while) and ran.
It was indeed a remarkable occasion.
Got there to see banks of seats in the foyer where usually there are none: the box office area looked like hospital outpatients, with around 40-50 people sitting in wait for returns. On the ballroom floor, a big screen was ready to relay the concert to the overflow - at first there were about 20 seats in front of it, but many more appeared as if by magic as time wore on.
In a boxed-out area near the Mandela door, a film about Barenboim was being screened, so I went to have a look. He talked about how his grandparents arrived in Buenos Aires from Russia and got married on the boat, how there was always music in the apartment because everyone who visited was there for a piano lesson with his parents, and how the Argentinian capital was a melting pot of religions and nationalities over which nobody worried for an instant. Then someone's mobile rang and instead of soaking up the maestro's words of wisdowm we were all treated to her bellowed conversation: "I'M IN THE ROYAL FESTIVAL HALL WATCHING A FILM ABOUT BARENBOIM, IT'S ABSOLUTELY FASCINATING..."
No mobiles in the concert, though. A saintly silence prevailed, except for coughing between movements. Barenboim strode on to huge applause. At the risk of upsetting fans here, I'd say he could give us all a lesson in how to make the most of an entrance. He stands, holding the attention for a good while, gazing about, before bowing; he generously turns his attention to each section of the audience in turn - left, centre, right, and everyone sitting behind the piano...
Rather than placing the three last sonatas together, Barenboim had chosen to mix the early, middle and late works in each programme. This one consisted of Op.14 No.1, Op.7, Op.54 and Op.111. Several points stood out a mile. One was how anybody could make the harmless little Op.14 No.1 sound like a masterpiece. The next was how Op.7, which I love and have learned, but seemed to be hearing for the first time, could suddenly shine out as the Eroica Symphony and Fidelio rolled into one. And a third: Barenboim literally made the piano sound like an orchestra. Every phrase seemed to be assigned an instrumentation, and by some bizarre alchemy the sound of that instrument came gliding out of the Steinway. No doubt about it: the final phrase before the last deep trill of the introduction of Op.111 was a trio of French horns. Don't ask how he does it: I've no idea.
Later a record producer friend remarked to me: "Normally, if I heard someone play the piano like this, I'd say he ought to become a conductor." And in terms of velocity and accuracy Barenboim's technique, to be frank, ain't what it used to be. Anyone who doesn't allow for pianists to play wrong notes or occasional unevennesses wouldn't have been happy. But if musicianship of old-fashioned, idealistic grandeur, seriousness of purpose and deep, complete assimilation of not just the music but the kernel of its spirit still counts for anything in this mad world, this was the proof.
I've recently been reading a book by Swami Omananda Puri, a.k.a. the second Mrs John Foulds (real name Maud McCarthy) which is filled with extraordinary soundbites of eastern philosophical wisdom. She asserts that Beethoven kept a copy of the Upanishads on his desk. I can't say whether or not this is true, but hearing Barenboim play the second movement of Op.111, I could believe it.
Who can interpret what lies behind late Beethoven? Yet to me it has never seemed clearer that the variations follow a mystical pattern. Simplicity and purity; growing life that builds to full tilt (if a somewhat stately version in Barenboim's hands); subsiding into exhaustion and the temptation of death's freedom; transformation of the soul beyond the body; heaven; and finally a descent into the simplicity and purity of rebirth. Too much of a mystical absorption to allow for tears, but later I compared notes with a friend who, like me, has lost much close family - we had both experienced lingering thoughts of them.
You may think all this is tripe, of course, but it's a true reflection what went through my mind listening to this concert - so take it or leave it.
Something about the afternoon felt deeply valedictory. All right, it was the last concert of a very intense series, but I know I wasn't the only person present wondering whether we will ever see Barenboim play these pieces again here. There's no particular reason to believe that we won't - but this felt like a farewell, the end of an era.
There was a good ten-second silence at the end. Then the clapping, and everyone stood up straight away. Was the applause for Barenboim's playing, or his personality, idealism and downright statesmanship in being one of the few public figures who talks any sense about the Israeli-Palestinian situation? I suspect the split was respectively about 40% to 60%.
I still prefer his old recording from the 1960s. But I'm glad I was there.
It was indeed a remarkable occasion.
Got there to see banks of seats in the foyer where usually there are none: the box office area looked like hospital outpatients, with around 40-50 people sitting in wait for returns. On the ballroom floor, a big screen was ready to relay the concert to the overflow - at first there were about 20 seats in front of it, but many more appeared as if by magic as time wore on.
In a boxed-out area near the Mandela door, a film about Barenboim was being screened, so I went to have a look. He talked about how his grandparents arrived in Buenos Aires from Russia and got married on the boat, how there was always music in the apartment because everyone who visited was there for a piano lesson with his parents, and how the Argentinian capital was a melting pot of religions and nationalities over which nobody worried for an instant. Then someone's mobile rang and instead of soaking up the maestro's words of wisdowm we were all treated to her bellowed conversation: "I'M IN THE ROYAL FESTIVAL HALL WATCHING A FILM ABOUT BARENBOIM, IT'S ABSOLUTELY FASCINATING..."
No mobiles in the concert, though. A saintly silence prevailed, except for coughing between movements. Barenboim strode on to huge applause. At the risk of upsetting fans here, I'd say he could give us all a lesson in how to make the most of an entrance. He stands, holding the attention for a good while, gazing about, before bowing; he generously turns his attention to each section of the audience in turn - left, centre, right, and everyone sitting behind the piano...
Rather than placing the three last sonatas together, Barenboim had chosen to mix the early, middle and late works in each programme. This one consisted of Op.14 No.1, Op.7, Op.54 and Op.111. Several points stood out a mile. One was how anybody could make the harmless little Op.14 No.1 sound like a masterpiece. The next was how Op.7, which I love and have learned, but seemed to be hearing for the first time, could suddenly shine out as the Eroica Symphony and Fidelio rolled into one. And a third: Barenboim literally made the piano sound like an orchestra. Every phrase seemed to be assigned an instrumentation, and by some bizarre alchemy the sound of that instrument came gliding out of the Steinway. No doubt about it: the final phrase before the last deep trill of the introduction of Op.111 was a trio of French horns. Don't ask how he does it: I've no idea.
Later a record producer friend remarked to me: "Normally, if I heard someone play the piano like this, I'd say he ought to become a conductor." And in terms of velocity and accuracy Barenboim's technique, to be frank, ain't what it used to be. Anyone who doesn't allow for pianists to play wrong notes or occasional unevennesses wouldn't have been happy. But if musicianship of old-fashioned, idealistic grandeur, seriousness of purpose and deep, complete assimilation of not just the music but the kernel of its spirit still counts for anything in this mad world, this was the proof.
I've recently been reading a book by Swami Omananda Puri, a.k.a. the second Mrs John Foulds (real name Maud McCarthy) which is filled with extraordinary soundbites of eastern philosophical wisdom. She asserts that Beethoven kept a copy of the Upanishads on his desk. I can't say whether or not this is true, but hearing Barenboim play the second movement of Op.111, I could believe it.
Who can interpret what lies behind late Beethoven? Yet to me it has never seemed clearer that the variations follow a mystical pattern. Simplicity and purity; growing life that builds to full tilt (if a somewhat stately version in Barenboim's hands); subsiding into exhaustion and the temptation of death's freedom; transformation of the soul beyond the body; heaven; and finally a descent into the simplicity and purity of rebirth. Too much of a mystical absorption to allow for tears, but later I compared notes with a friend who, like me, has lost much close family - we had both experienced lingering thoughts of them.
You may think all this is tripe, of course, but it's a true reflection what went through my mind listening to this concert - so take it or leave it.
Something about the afternoon felt deeply valedictory. All right, it was the last concert of a very intense series, but I know I wasn't the only person present wondering whether we will ever see Barenboim play these pieces again here. There's no particular reason to believe that we won't - but this felt like a farewell, the end of an era.
There was a good ten-second silence at the end. Then the clapping, and everyone stood up straight away. Was the applause for Barenboim's playing, or his personality, idealism and downright statesmanship in being one of the few public figures who talks any sense about the Israeli-Palestinian situation? I suspect the split was respectively about 40% to 60%.
I still prefer his old recording from the 1960s. But I'm glad I was there.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Today's article
I have a piece in The Independent today, exploring - in the wake of Barenboimania - why profundity is good box office at the moment.
Thanks to doughty reader Anne, who offered me her spare ticket for Barenboim's last recital on Sunday afternoon, I was present at the final installment of the Danny-&-Ludwig Show. I am preparing a detailed post about it, but have had One Of Those Weeks and as yet no chance to finish the thing. Check back soon.
Thanks to doughty reader Anne, who offered me her spare ticket for Barenboim's last recital on Sunday afternoon, I was present at the final installment of the Danny-&-Ludwig Show. I am preparing a detailed post about it, but have had One Of Those Weeks and as yet no chance to finish the thing. Check back soon.
Friday, February 15, 2008
Eddy Duchin's 1930s Music Blog
After months, nay years, of hoping and hunting, I finally found something I always hoped must exist: film of Distant Cousin Eddy Duchin at the piano with his band, dating from 1936. OK, we could have done without the roller-skaters, but long-lost coz seems adorable: full of charm, fun and musicality.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Had a good trip recently?
Violinist David Garrett fell down some stairs and smashed his Strad, the 'San Lorenzo'. Ouch.
Perhaps I'm thick or something, but I hadn't come across this guy before. The article in yesterday's Indy linked above says he's one of the country's foremost young performers, previously a child prodigy and now 'the David Beckham of the violin' (hmm, given the photo I'd say that's being unfair - he's actually rather dishier, n'est-ce-pas? And playing the violin is a far sexier thing to do than screwing up the penalty shootout....[fanfanfan]). Of course, it's not impossible that the reason I haven't heard him play is that he does stadiums, and I don't tend to go to them, preferring the up-close-and-personal experience of places like the dear old Wiggy. Sample the video on his site and don't be put off by the woolly hat - in the interview he says he's a disciple of Ida Haendel.
Guess what, his new album 'Virtuoso' is being released in the UK on 24 March. It also turns out that he's at the Barbican tonight. Playing, uh, Valentine's Day Love Classics (ie, the Bruch) with the London Concert Orchestra and conductor Robert Stapleton, promoted by Raymond Gubbay.
I don't recommend breaking your violin, ever, for any reason - but hey, it's great publicity, and the timing couldn't have been handier.
On other occasions, I regret to say I've come across fiddlers (no names) who've had reason to collect on the insurance on their valuable instruments and enjoyed the resultant pleasant change of lifestyle.
Yours truly, being a confirmed fiddle fetishist, is now heading for a cold shower. Happy Valentine's Day to one and all.
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