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SEEN
AND HEARD CONCERT REVIEW
Beethoven
Piano Sonatas - Final Concert:
Daniel Barenboim (piano) Royal Festival Hall, 17.2.2008 (MB)
Beethoven – Piano Sonata no.9 in E major, Op.14 no.1
Beethoven – Piano Sonata no.4 in E flat major, Op.7
Beethoven – Piano Sonata no.22 in F major, Op.54
Beethoven – Piano Sonata no.32 in C minor, Op.111
What a wonderful and unexpected programme for Daniel Barenboim to
select to complete his Beethoven cycle! To include two ‘early’
sonatas underlined what should long have been clear from these
performances, namely that these works should in no sense be seen
as preparatory to middle- and late-period Beethoven. They are
stunningly original works, with roots in Mozart and Haydn – and
what is wrong with that?! – but which could have been written by
one man alone. There may actually be a case for accounting the
young Beethoven as one of the most underrated of great composers.
The two-movement Op.54 sonata is a relative rarity, which again
can only have benefited from its placing in this final recital.
And then, it would surely have been folly to have ended with any
work other than Op.111, but more on that below.
The E major sonata, Op.14 no.1, received a splendid performance.
Such judgement as to how one might shape staccato or semi-staccato
articulation within phrases (e.g., first movement: bb.23-4, 50-54)
is rarer than one might think. Rhythms were buoyantly sprung and
the balance between rhythmic and harmonic momentum was judged to
mutual benefit. The clarity of part-writing was notable,
especially during the second movement, although never at the
expense of expressing the music’s vertical dimension, especially
its beautiful chordal writing. I especially liked the suggestions
of how the music would lend itself to string-quartet writing –
Beethoven subsequently arranged it, up a semitone in F major (Hess
34) – without any misguided attempt to imitate or to prefigure.
The interplay between parts was attended to, but so was the sheer
pianistic pleasure of the semiquaver figuration in the first and
third movements. Sforzandi were not underplayed, but were
relatively gentle, as befits the character of the piece. In the
final movement, I entertained a suspicion that the syncopation of
the rondo theme’s final statement was anticipated in bars 82-3,
but then wondered whether my ears had been playing tricks upon me.
Whatever the truth of the matter, it worked rather well.
A grander canvas is prepared for the sonata in E flat, Op.7.
Indeed, the drive with which Barenboim opened the Allegro molto
e con brio almost looked forward to the Eroica
symphony. The perfect balance between harmonic and contrapuntal
concerns could all so easily be overlooked, but without it work
and performance would have seemed a far lesser achievement, and
would also almost certainly have seemed longer in duration.
Syncopated dissonances sounded fun as well as harsh, which is at
it should be, for there is a great sparkle to this movement, or at
least there is when it is well performed. The
Largo
is again written on a grand scale, and presents the performer with
a profound – in every sense – challenge in terms of its numerous
silences. Needless to say, Barenboim, an experienced conductor of
Bruckner, had their measure. The rests punctuated but also
belonged to the melodic line. Whatever Beethoven’s music may be,
it is not pointillistic. Barenboim’s skill at presenting
Beethoven’s part-writing was once again to the fore in the third
movement; this enabled the harmonic surprises to stand out without
sounded forced. The arpeggiated Minore trio possessed an
almost Schubertian beauty: not just or even primarily a matter of
touch, but also of understanding its harmonic progression. And
rarely if ever have I heard the Rondo sound more magical.
Barenboim’s basic tempo seemed spot on, as if it were the only
correct solution, which is how a ‘right’ tempo will sound, even if
there are in reality several ‘correct’ choices one might make. The
texture of the rondo theme sounded like ‘filled-in’ Mozart,
delicate yet also rich in harmonic possibilities. Although the
tempo would subtly shift for different episodes, there was always
a sense of being welcomed home for the return of the rondo theme:
both the same, and yet transformed by its new context. The
pianissimo conclusion could not have sounded more beautiful,
nor more apt. Barenboim’s performance was utterly at one with
Beethoven’s music: a Romantic farewell to the eighteenth century.
The Rondo was certainly grazioso, but this was a fond grace
such as could only result from the dusk at which the owl of
Minerva spreads its wings.
By the time we reach the minuet-style opening of the first
movement of Op.54, the owl has flown some distance. For this is
definitely a recollection of the eighteenth-century minuet: fond,
but standing at a distance that permits humour without
condescension. Barenboim once again presented the gracefulness
required without sounding precious. He also presented the somewhat
alarming double-octave triplet contrasts with a surety and vigour
that yet managed to console, for we knew that our guide would see
us safely to the other side. The concluding integration of the two
themes, aptly characterised in William Kinderman’s programme notes
as feminine and masculine, was achieved so as to make the
combination more than the sum of its parts. There was no loss of
character, but there was also something surprising, something new,
and a proper sense of necessity for the following Allegretto
to resolve their differences. Here, as so often in Beethoven, the
dialectic between rhythmic and harmonic momentum is the key to
understanding and to performing. Barenboim both understood and
performed. He once again proved a trustworthy guide to the
movement’s tonal plan and its spinning perpetual motion. The
Più Allegro coda duly thrilled without undue haste, and its
sforzandi bit, though never gratuitously so. There was a true
sense of arrival as the music reached its conclusion, which could
only have arisen from a profound understanding of where it had
been heading all along.
The last time I had heard the Op.111 sonata had been in January,
in a
recital given by Stephen Hough at the Wigmore Hall. That had
been a creditable performance, with a number of positive
attributes, but now, faced with an indisputably great performance,
I realised just how insufficient ‘creditable’ is in this music.
(More suitable programming helps too.) As the inevitable
culmination to the cycle of thirty-two sonatas, this was always
going to be something special, both for performer and audience
(even for those of us who had not been fortunate enough to attend
all eight concerts). I was nevertheless quite unprepared for what
was to come. This performance was symphonic and personal,
orchestral and instrumental, summing up and looking forward. Let
there once again be no doubt that Barenboim’s piano technique is
more than adequate to face any of the challenges Beethoven hurls
his way, even in what is probably, with the exception of the
Hammerklavier sonata, the most technically difficult of the
late sonatas. Yet whilst Barenboim has command over his
instrument, this is not the command that is generally called
‘pianistic’ in terms of drawing attention – intentionally or no –
to pianistic matters. Beethoven’s music is presented first as
music, second as music written for and performed upon the piano.
At the same time, the hushed tones of the Arietta’s
leggieramente passages were as beautifully conceived in purely
pianistic terms as one could imagine; they were never, however,
merely ends in themselves.
The first movement, with its Maestoso opening, diminished
sevenths crucial, leading into the Allegro con brio ed
appassionato, inevitable recalls the Pathétique sonata,
but it is equally clear that something more is at stake.
Barenboim’s vehemence was not only audible, but clearly visible.
He did not try to conceal the enormous physical effort Beethoven
requires, which perhaps bonded performer and audience still more
closely. The fugato was clearly and powerfully projected. This
counterpoint is not neat, and Barenboim did not present it as
such; it is, rather, superhuman, which is how it sounded. Inner
parts were not only heard but sang, whilst the composer’s C minor
daemon drove onwards, the counterpoint working – and worked out –
as much through blood and sweat as through intellectual rigour.
(Note ‘as much’: I have no desire to elevate the ‘emotional’ over
the ‘intellectual’, an irredeemably false distinction. However, I
do wish to deny any notion of the hermetic to late Beethoven.) The
subdominant colouring of the coda was wonderfully tender, leading
with inexorable sadness to the non-triumphant C major of the final
bars, and thus preparing the way for the Arietta. ‘Sublime’ may be
a word over-used, but is entirely apt for both score and
performance. Beethoven’s marking Adagio molto semplice e
cantabile informed and infused the spirit of Barenboim’s
reading. One was left in no doubt that the harmony, which is often
very simple indeed, could not be other than it was, that Beethoven
could now speak, or sing, with such noble, powerful simplicity,
that we stood on the verge of something noumenal, both ineffably
human and yet unutterably divine. The rhythms of the extraordinary
‘boogie-woogie’ variation were precise without any loss of warmth,
never losing sight of the humanism that pervades this movement
even at its most celestial. And ‘celestial’ is certainly the word
to characterise the closing pages, with their awe-inspiring
trills, insistent yet as far from hectoring as could be conceived.
The swelling counterpoint above and beneath sounded perfectly in
harmony – in every sense – with the magic of the arpeggiated
accompaniment. No wonder that, for once, the conclusion met with
true silence, followed by the inevitable rapturous standing
ovation.
Mark Berry
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