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SEEN
AND HEARD CONCERT REVIEW
Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, and Schubert:
Alfred Brendel (piano). Royal Festival Hall, London, 27.6.2008 (MB)
Haydn – Variations in F minor, Hob.XVII/6
Mozart – Sonata in F major, KV 533/494
Beethoven – Sonata no.13 in E-flat major, ‘Quasi una fantasia,’ Op.
27 no.1
Schubert – Sonata in B-flat major, D 960
Alfred Brendel’s final recital in the city that has become his
adopted home could never have failed to be a very special occasion.
The warmth of his reception and of the almost innumerable standing
ovations at the end attested to that. There is no need to worry
oneself asking how this would have stood up to scrutiny had it been
‘just another recital’; it was not. Yet, circumstances
notwithstanding, Brendel delivered piano-playing and musicianship of
the highest order – that is, at a level quite different from the
relatively disappointing performance of Mozart’s
C minor piano concerto with the LSO and Bernard Haitink earlier
in the month.
Then I had felt that Brendel only really came into his own in his
encore; here, we were treated to a fine account of Haydn’s F minor
variations, which captivated from the supremely well-judged rise and
fall of the opening theme (and its repetitions) onwards. The use
Brendel made of its dotted rhythms in itself provided a master-class
in attention to detail: not merely articulated for their own sake,
but also providing subtle rhythmic impetus and highlighting motivic
connections. In this, he was aided by impeccable control of line,
the sole upset being a nervous-sounding slip during the second half
of the first theme. Rubato was more present than one might
have expected, yet never drew attention to itself, serving instead a
greater strategic plan. The maggiore theme – this is a
masterly set of double variations, in F minor and F major – brought
an exquisite grace, especially in Brendel’s handling of its
characteristic septuplets, and also a sense, which penetrates to the
very heart of the Classical style, that oscillation between tonic
minor and major presents two sides of the same tonal coin. To that
end, pathos was not overdone in the return to F minor for the
syncopated first variation; it nevertheless shone through with
dignity. The trills of the first major variation told melodically:
there was no question of Haydn’s variation form being merely
ornamental. When in the left hand, these trills formed a strong
foundation for the right hand’s developmental flights of fancy.
Likewise, the arpeggios at the close of the second minor variation
were given their true melodic worth rather than being treated simply
as figuration. Brendel’s wonderfully-judged fermata when the
repeated minor theme broke off to introduce something quite new, in
the guise of the variations’ finale, pointed to an unerring sense of
dramatic timing. He similarly brought a heart-stopping moment of
stasis immediately before the noble coda.
In the Mozart sonata, the opening Allegro had a fast tempo
indeed: faster than I might have preferred, although I admit that it
never sounded merely rushed. There was also a commendable
flexibility when required. Brendel imparted a duly Bachian quality
to Mozart’s decidedly ‘late’ counterpart, without sacrifice to what
turned out to be the complementary rather than opposing demands of
the Mozartian cantilena. It was clear, moreover, that Brendel
was able and willing to relate the style of the piano sonatas to the
rest of Mozart’s œuvre. There was a true sense of orchestral entry
to the left-hand chords (beginning in bar 82) underlying the triplet
runs. During the exposition repeat, I felt that we had entered into
the world of opera, through Brendel’s sharp characterisation of the
themes and their presentation. The left hand’s presentation of the
first subject announced the arrival on stage of a buffo
baritone somewhere between Figaro and the Count. And the world of
the concerto returned with the opening of the development section,
reminding us that Mozart’s style is always dramatic. That difficult
final chord of the development was disappointingly anti-climatic,
but the fresh impetus of the recapitulation – no mere repetition
here – more or less straight away made one forget such a niggardly
complaint. The counterpoint was integral to the dramatic flow, never
sounding ‘additional’. A wonderful sense of exaltation in the
closing triplet arpeggios brought the movement to a close. The
Andante, quite rightly, brought not repose but emotional
intensification in a movement of extreme chromaticism. (A watch
alarm irritated but could not unduly disrupt.) Relative relaxation
had to wait for the brief moment of the opening of the second
subject. The exposition repeat had considerable ornamentation
lavished upon it, including some entirely convincing syncopation. If
one is going to do this, this is how it should be done. Duly vocal
leaps at the conclusions of the exposition and recapitulation
reminded us once again of the proximity to Mozartian opera, as did
the sense of yearning in the return of the second subject. In
between, however, Mozart – and Brendel – had taken us, during the
development, very close to Tristan, with even greater
harmonic instability, and yet expert hands leading us towards the
climax. With the recapitulation, we could relax somewhat, although
the sometimes heavy – yet never unduly so – ornamentation provided
its own intensification. The rondo finale began in contrasting
fashion with a telling suggestion of the music box. Semiquavers
flowed, as Mozart demanded, ‘like oil’, yet with a winningly impish
quality too. Heightened drama came with the turn towards the
relative minor. Syncopation was truly made to tell through Brendel’s
underlying rhythmic security. In the lead up to the cadenza, we were
once again – unsurprisingly – reminded of Mozart’s piano concertos.
The control and mastery of both composer and pianist was then
displayed in its flowering of mock-fugal counterpoint. After this,
the clarity and grace of the deceptively straightforward coda –
extremely difficult to voice satisfactorily – rounded off a very
fine performance.
The expertly handled rise and fall of the left-hand phrases in the
opening theme of the Beethoven sonata pointed to the connection with
Haydn. Even the ringing of a mobile telephone – let us hope that the
culprit will have something very nasty in store during the
after-life – could not detract from what was once again a supreme
display of thoughtful musicianship. Climaxes were not merely
exciting but, more importantly, rapt in their sublimity. Brendel
proved himself alert to the subtitle, ‘Sonata quasi una fantasia’,
for the C major outburst imparted a sense of (controlled)
improvisatory fantasy and, indeed, of formal boundaries already
beginning to break down: there is much that is ‘late’ in earlier
Beethoven. A fierce passion, allied to unerring and rhythmic formal
control, characterised the second movement, leading us surely into
the sublimity of the Adagio con espressione. Once again, the
rise and fall of phrases was expertly judged, as were their
integration into the formal whole and harmonic momentum. The tension
thereby produced became almost unbearable until the music sounded
transmuted by trills, which in turn led us into the fourth movement.
This brought a perfect sense of release, and also gave voice to
Beethoven’s and Brendel’s twin senses of humour, not least in the
voicing of the counterpoint. Sterner moments lacked nothing,
however, in necessary weight. The arpeggios were here as exultant as
they had been in Mozart, although they sounded, quite rightly, more
complex in Beethoven’s fuller textures. The return of the sonata’s
opening theme marked a return to that earlier rapt sublimity – and
also a sense of true homecoming, the opening of the fourth movement
now understood in retrospect as a false culmination. The Presto
coda rounded things off perfectly. Almost everything had been said;
now everything had.
With Schubert, we came to the second half – and to the final member
of Brendel’s quartet of Classical gods. Schubert’s final sonata
could not fail to impart something of a valedictory quality to
proceedings, but Brendel was determined that this quality should not
be exaggerated. The opening Molto moderato was certainly not
fast; nor, however, was it an existentially devastated,
overly-laden-with-pathos counterpart to Winterreise. Instead,
it emerged as remarkably clear-sighted. There was stoical vehemence
in the forte restatement of the first subject, as we were led
into the second, but there was nothing hysterical to it. It was left
to the second subject, in F-sharp minor, to impart a sense of the
tragic, albeit without a hint of anything maudlin. The development
section brought with its triplets an appropriate sense of strenuous
working out. We had a sure guide, however, to its wondrous harmonic
explorations, the pianist’s rhythmic command as crucial in this
respect as his tonal understanding. The left hand trills were clear
and yet brooding, their positioning truly made to tell. And the
second subject emerged defiant in the recapitulation, before
yielding to what Brendel, quoted in the programme note, has aptly
described as a feeling of being ‘blissfully fatigued’.
‘Clear-sighted melancholy’ (Brendel again) characterised the second
movement. There was, however, also a sense of something very close
to the unfolding of tragedy, which emerged through that very quality
Brendel cited. Brendel refused to linger, always heading forwards.
The central section was songlike, yet it sang defiantly. That most
miraculous of Schubert’s modulations, from C-sharp minor to C major,
heralded, as it must, the opening up of a new world before our ears
– and perhaps our eyes too – unbearably tantalising in the brevity
of its epiphany. We were thereby, however, enabled to reach some
sort of peace in the justly equivocal C-sharp major conclusion. In
the programme notes, Nick Breckenfield characterised the Scherzo
as reintroducing ‘the hustle and bustle of daily life’. This was
certainly how it felt on this occasion. One could almost see, let
alone hear, the operatic chorus of maids chattering and attending to
their business, by way of contrast to the previous dramatic and
metaphysical revelations. Brendel’s description – ‘soaring and
playful’ – was equally true of his reading. Yet I am sure that I
heard – perhaps even despite his efforts – darker undercurrents,
which simply could not be banished. This is a weak B-flat major, not
unlike that of Mozart’s final piano concerto. The Trio was
‘muffled and obstinate’ (Brendel), the pianist’s handling of its
sforzandi reinforcing its strange obstinacy. The finale, unlike
the other movements, followed without a break. That defiance on
which I remarked earlier was once again present, yet so too was a
rare beauty through grace: a word, which may here be appropriately
understood in a theological as well as a secular sense.
I shall quote in
full Brendel’s summary: ' "Fatigue and resignation"? No, rather:
graceful resolution, playful vigour. Ironic twinkle; generous
singing line; stubborn pugnacity. Surmounting of C minor fixation
after the ninth assault: precious moment of self-abandonment.
Assertive coda.’ This Schubert, then, would not go quietly into the night. Yet there
was also, as there had to be, a profound ambivalence, a reluctance
or indeed inability to sound a note of Beethovenian triumph.
Schubert and Brendel here looked into the abyss and somehow also
managed to console. And then, in the coda, they laughed too.
In normal circumstances, such would have been quite enough. Here,
however, we were treated to no fewer than three encores. The slow
movement from the Italian Concerto reminded us of Brendel’s
all-too-infrequently credentials as a Bachian. In its unending
melody and its unrelenting tragic nobility, it was as if Edwin
Fischer were once again amongst us. Liszt’s Au lac de Wallenstadt
was beautifully controlled, reminding inded us of the sterling
efforts Brendel has made throughout his career to restore Liszt to
the position that is rightly his. It was a hymn to the Romantic
conception of Nature, whose final note faded as exquisitely as the
previous voice-leading. To conclude, however, we simply had
to hear Schubert’s G-flat Impromptu, and we did. The bass
undercurrents reminded us of the trills in the first movement of the
Schubert sonata. Romantic passion was present in the central
section, yet it was not unbridled and was all the stronger for not
being so. The return of the opening material was ineffably moving.
There was no need to attempt to dissociate performance from
occasion, for the two were as one. So too were composer and pianist.
Mark Berry
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