Glazunov, Chopin, Dvořák:  Maria João Pires (piano); Philharmonia Orchestra/Vladimir Ashkenazy. QEH, London,  31. 05.2007  (CC)

 

Maria Pires is a much-loved visitor to London. Her performances always exude the most appealing sensitivity; and yet there is a core of inner strength and, above all, an integrity that shines through everything she does (Imogen Cooper and Mitsuo Uchida, in their different ways, share these self-same qualities). Pires has a self-effacing humility that even extends to her dress. It was as if she wished us to concentrate solely on Chopin, and to ignore her.

The idea of pianist-conductor accompanying established pianist is an intriguing one (in the early eighties I seem to remember Ashkenazy accompanied Pollini in Chopin). Ashkenazy is not the most inspired of accompanists, though. His opening tutti was rather rushed, contrasting with Pires' dramatic stance. In fact, Pires seemed to be presenting a heartbreaking narrative (that sometimes contained more steel than one normally associates with this pianist). The orchestra seemed to transform itself, on Pires' entrance, the strings providing at times a luscious bed of sound for her to spin her lines upon.

Pires dared the most intimate of pianissimi, leaving the audience to hang on every gesture. Nowhere was this more evident than in the dream that is the Larghetto. True, she could be guilty of over-projecting but this is a small caveat. 'Recitatives' were hypnotic, while the finale was distinguished by superb half-voice leggeiros.  The soliloquy that glides over the col legno strings was less playful than is often heard, perhaps in eeping with the seriousness of her reading. Pires' recording of this piece with Previn on DG (437 5852) is justly famous; but perhaps here she topped even that achievement.

The concert's opener was two excerpts from Glazunov's Chopiniana, two delightful orchestrations of Chopin works (the Nocturne in F, Op. 15/1 and the Tarantella in A flat, Op. 43). If Laurence Davies' horn solos in the Nocturne were a little clumsy when it can to clean slurs, there was much to delight here (the stormy middle section became even blacker in orchestral guise). The Tarantella whirled with an imposed Russian abandon, ending in a blaze of light. More, please.

Finally, a Dvořák Eight that ranked with Alsop's recent Seventh in the same hall as eminently forgettable. A noisy, restless audience seemed to disturb the serenity of the opening, but actually it was not so. The serenity, it appears, would not have been there in the first place, and neither would the glow. This was a reading in which point-making overtook affection. Admittedly, there was drama aplenty to the first movement's devopment and the brass at that movement's close was respendent; but why, oh, why, did the descending staccato string lines in the Adagio so steadfastly refuse to laugh?. Affection was in short supply here, despite the best efforts of a pair of the Philharmonia's clarinets. At least some affection crept into the Allegretto grazioso (including some attempts at light string portamento!). The finale brought a return to the drama of the first movement (horn trills not too elephantine); the final burst of energy was enough to rouse the audience to cheers but came as too little, too late for this particular critic.

 

Colin Clarke