Memories of late Beethoven at Midnight

In which Igor Levit concludes his Beethoven sonata cycle at the Wigmore Hall

We did not begin until ten o’ clock at night.

The crowd was buoyant, cheered by dinner and wine.

I, arriving with one newly close and full of Chassagne-Montrachet, instinctively felt that things were as they ought. The pale navy overhead, the grand dames wrapped in summer shawls emerging with their husbands from the Venetian restaurant down the way, the burnished scent of Cubans lingering about the awning.

I turned to him and I said: “This feels right.”

He, who knows a lot about old world charm but understands little of the contrapuntal or the 30^th’s intrinsically wonderfully free adaption of the sonata form, gave a little smile.

I did not need him to understand but it mattered not.

It was in the late Beethoven sonatas – the very items that comprised his programme tonight – that I first heard the ideas of Igor Levit; the imagination, the surety, the intellect and surprising riposte. I lay in garden quad rooms at Merton, reading Vernon Subutex in a pool of scholar’s gold on hardwood flooring. I listened, agape and piqued, with increasing astonishment at the new subtexts of the Hammerklavier were made apparent with prideful ease never before unveiled. I sat upright, book forgotten, as he approached the 30^th, that mark of intimacy which tugs more deeply on my subconscious than all others combined and – oh! The gesangvoll exposed its full lyricism like it had never done before.

The late recital at the Wigmore Hall exposed all this marvellous ingenuity, in a manner that is all too rare. How is it that few young performers are inclined to foray into the realm of late Beethoven, preferring instead the shores of the technically easier early sonatas or the soaring power of the middle-aged great Romantics? Levit exposes how very foolish this oversight is. He has an affecting manner of reaching inside himself, slightly lewdly pressed against the keyboard, and unravelling fascinating intellect together with imposing posture.

I did not realise until a pressed handkerchief was nudged atop my clasped hands that I was silently weeping.

“I’m sorry,” I apologised. We stood on the north side of Wigmore Street, which was still balmy in summer heat. It was nearly midnight. “I had no idea I was.”

With a serious expression, he looked at me directly. “It’s alright. I think I understand. It’s the cerebral collective. This is your world. Come,” – he offered me his arm – “let’s walk.”

Yulianna Avdeeva Astounds at St John's Smith Square

I last saw Yulianna Avdeeva in September at the Wigmore Hall but in truth, I spied her mere weeks ago, amongst Elton’s muses in the Radical Eye exhibit at the Tate Modern. I cannot remember the photographer’s name, but its subject was a young woman arching away from the camera, with the supplest neck and quiet humour. Avdeeva herself has one of those tempestuous auras, replete with a gamine countenance and such expressive eyes. Her very presence exudes a radiance that is almost otherworldly; and, luckily for us all, this inwards glow translates ardently to her music.

Avdeeva is an artist who can inspire the most violent reactions from my person. The combination of her soft deftness an immense academic understanding of the keyboard’s possibilities make me lose my mind entirely. The 2010 International Chopin Competition birthed three immensely successful medallists who have all gone on to forge notable careers. In fact, I have had the wondrous luck of hearing all three perform in the past four months. It is odd to call the winner of (arguably) the most prestigious piano competition in the world a maverick character. Yet this is a label that has plagued Avdeeva since the prize, the award of which was accompanied by considerable controversy. But there is a candour in Avdeeva’s playing and a modern ferocity that turns my head more than any other. The virtuoso and curious charisma of Daniil Trifonov is now applauded worldwide and Ingolf Wunder constantly astounds with brazen technique. Avdeeva, however, is arguably the most rewarding to behold and when she connects with the stool, the possibilities are endless.

The first half of the programme was entirely devoted to Beethoven, with his Sonatas 26-27 curiously inverted in order. The 26^th, the Piano Sonata in E Flat Major (‘Les Adieux’), was miraculously realised, drawn tightly together by an inner surety. Avdeeva’s instinctive fecundity is one of her defining traits; it cast a grave filter over the adagio of Das Lebenswohl, realising the dark drama behind the composition’s creation. Too often is the third movement (Das Wiedersehen) taken with brazenly meaningless joy, but on Avdeeva, its natural vivacissimente is accompanied with real introspect, the interplay of subjects between hands telling of the politically programmatic intention Beethoven endowed it. Yet, her labours aren’t imposingly obvious and her interpretation can soar on even a superficial level of mere radiance – such is the roundness of her tone and archness of her phrasing.

But the chief reason I had rushed so impatiently through my day was in anticipation of the final item on the programme; Liszt’s Piano Sonata in B Minor, the only piece he wrote in pure sonata form. It is the finest example of Liszt’s greatest legacy on composition; the concept of thematic transformation, which purports to undertake the listener through a constantly evolving metamorphosis of motifs and themes, in a much freer form fashion than the classical variations which preceded it. It is a sonata in a single movement – thirty minutes of unbroken “blind noise” (as Clara Schumann disparagingly said) – which nevertheless contains distinctly divisible parts and the traditional scheme of exposition, development and recapitulation. Structure aside, its visceral power has held me in thrall since my first hearing; it has Liszt’s trademark virtuosity but also desperate Romantic gentility, paradoxical conflict and ravishing passages. For all those who find Liszt unaccountably bolshy and meaninglessly indulgent – I direct them to this carriage into the sublime which is, in the words of Wagner, “beyond all conception”.

Such is my endless admiration for the composition that I have listened to nearly every recording made. Where many exponents suffer is in conflating Romantic rush with haste, a heinous fault to befall any Liszt composition. It is one of those pieces in which the contrast between its youthful and wizened interpreters is magnificently intriguing. Claudio Arrau’s late recording is perhaps the most complete, with a stateliness and roundness of tone that endows the delirium with contemplation.

Avdeeva’s reading is much more eager and premised on the vehemence of youth and febrile reasoning. She courts the dangerous rumble of the opening Allegro Assai with such hedonistic abandon that, when the climatic Grandioso is reached, the opening chord is perversely almost ‘sotto voce’. It is a mark of instinct against form, of journey over destination. The same treatment is applied throughout. Lyricism flirts with grandeur and the ebb of the thematic transmutations is dispatched with such glee that it snatches wickedly. But, as ever with this pianist, nothing is ragged nor rushed. It is not the most elucidating rendition, but it is quite consistently brilliant, with such exquisite taste championing reckless feeling. Avdeeva’s Liszt Sonata is so charmingly accessible that the very rise and fall of the Dolce passages were instinctively mimicked by the collective worldly sigh of the audience, who succumbed to sheer purity of feeling. Deceptively simple, it is a wise reading – too many young exponents have attempted to impart grand, sonorous themes upon this layered creature. Yet, their keenness belies haste and exposes a psychological want and lack of gravitas. Avdeeva’s currently dabbles with the precipice of abandon rather than opulence – and I look forward to hearing its evolution over time, if I should be so lucky.

It was under such enchantment that I gave what was only my second standing ovation in a recital hall this season – alongside, it seemed, everybody else. Our gratitude was handsomely repaid with a return to Chopin, whose genius first thrust this young phenom into public consciousness. The aching simplicity of the Nocturne in C Sharp stood in stark contrast to the twisted splendour of Liszt that preceded it, deployed with a free hand and murmuring rubatos. Yet, there was more garlanded wonder to come, with a ferocious and glowing Polonaise in A Flat Major (Heroic). Curious comparison can be made to Ingolf Wunder, the silver medallist at the 2010 contest, who played the same piece in the same hall, a mere four months earlier. The Heroic was projected shamelessly then, flamboyant and concrete. Male, tense and percussive, it coaxed its applause from awe but left without a sense of Chopin’s warmth. Once so disarmingly 'bel canto', his understanding of the composer has faltered since those competition days. But – oh, Avdeeva! Here is a Heroic Polonaise that breathes, that exudes synergy and thought amongst its very great brilliance. It is a testament to her style, vivacity and depth of consideration – and of course, to Chopin himself. And to think that the critics once cruelly disparaged hers as “a vision of Chopin [which] takes a step back to the concept of Chopin as a composer of ladies’ music – ladies who are as rich as they are talentless.”

What curiously unfitting censure! Warsaw Voice, eat your stolid little heart out – we’ll keep her gladly.

(NB: Excellent reading on thematic transformation for all Liszt boffins)

Edit: Many thanks to a Samaritan commenter, who has brought this (potentially illegal) recording of Avdeeva's Liszt Sonata to my attention!

New Russians: On the Cult of Trifonov and Discovering Kozhukhin

NB: Covers

• Trifonov with Philharmonia, 08/10/2015
• Kozhukhin, International Piano Series, 13/10/2015
• Trifonov with Philharmonia, 15/10/2015

Daniil Trifonov with the Philharmonia, conducted by Hrusa, 15/10/2015

"Here he comes - like a five year old boy!" was the jovial cry of the patron on my right, banging his hands together in frenzy. He had just spied Daniil Trifonov emerging onstage from our lavish second row seats.

Those around him smiled and chuckled in shared understanding at the good gentleman's exclamation, a mark of the initiated. Trifonov's somewhat gauche stage mannerisms are now well-known and, inexplicably, part of his immense charisma.

A mainstay of the international piano circuit since his resounding triumph at the 2011 International Tchaikovsky  Competition, Trifonov, aged only twenty-four, is a formidable force, as well as a walking paradox. His rise has been astronomical, garnering the kind of critical adulation and popular acclaim that is rarely seen in this age of musicians. Just over a year ago, in the September of last year,  I attended a solo piano recital at the Royal Festival Hall, lured by a 'platform seat' that would place me within five feet of performer. The programme informed me that the pianist was 'supreme young Russian, Daniil Trifonov', accompanied by a shot of an awkward looking boy and a list of competition accolades. Ah - another Russian virtuoso, I mused, unexpectant. I sat back and awaited the drama, the stoic confidence and - forgive me - the Bolshoi. 

Daniil Trifonov, Solo Recital, September 2014

Instead, I was humbled. There is something that immediately piques the attention about Trifonov; from his unchangingly awkward scurrying jog onstage, he defies categorisation. Seemingly so painfully aware of the crowd when bowing, he suddenly seems to forget us all upon connecting with the stool and transforms into music itself. Argerich famously described his playing as 'demonic', and I must insist that there is no term more fitting. On that evening, I sat transfixed as he brushed aside Rachmaninov's Chopin variations with fascinating depth and proceeded to unravel Liszt's devilish Transcendental Etudes with such purity of tone, rapture and deference that I was quite changed. That recital, performed to a half empty hall, remains the the finest concert I have ever attended.

It thus gave me great pleasure, upon entering the same hall on both the 8th and 15th of this month, to see it packed to the rafters, and most punters having travelled there with the sole purpose of seeing Trifonov, so unlike my clueless stumbling in a year prior. Had I not yet been initiated, I would never have gained entry.

The theme of his two week London residence was Rachmaninov. Very rarely have the composer's works been so articulately and imaginatively told of late. For instance, take his Russsian compatriot, Denis Matsuev, who two weeks ago and on the same stage presented Tchaikovsky's first concerto but whom I have also heard attempt Rachmaninov. Both pieces he dispatched with a compellingly haughty righteousness - a Russian playing the Russian - and industrially sound percussive technique, but all the delicacy of a grape. It is this bravado we have come to expect over the last decade or so, from the Matsuevs, Kissins and, more divisively, Pogorelics of the piano world.

Trifonov retains the pride and haughtiness of the modern Russian school, but marries it with humility. In his every touch is a conversation, a searching deference to the composer. He seeks guidance, he ponders the phrasing of every fleeting passage so deeply that he nearly always unearths, from deep within, something so wondrously imaginative it astounds. Such was the case, most clearly, with Rachmaninov's second concerto. Taken at a tempo a breath slower than most, Trifonov was unafraid to strike chords stridently, with a commandingly percussive ring, but also retreated and ebbed to a somewhat internal voice, convincingly poetic. The first movement rendered him unusually sombre, sat back straight, stripping back the layers of rolling melodies for a naturalistic and striking portrayal, commanding in its respect. The same pious offering to the composer was touchingly displayed in the second. Slow and measured, head up and eyes tightly shut, Trifonov seemed embroiled not with the sonorous theme, but a higher discourse. Yet, it is not mindlessly submissive nor onerously devout. His eccentric persona leaks through, sometimes at the expense of linear melody, culminating in some magnificent rubatos and a possessed third movement. The beast reared its fearsomely fascinating head as he hunched, channelling lewdly through the shoulders in the manner of the similarly wilful Gould, and he snatched at the strident chords with perverse glee, lifting his entire body off the stool. It was magnificent. It was Rachmaninov before his association with motion picture. It was grand, it was effacing, it was destined, all in one harrowingly ecstatic sob. Bravo indeed.

But perhaps the most remarkable thing to note of Trifonov's two concerts is that, once the last note has been triumphantly dispatched, he reverts immediately to that endearingly gauche young boy with the pale and pinched face. Yet, it is not the same. His audience have been touched; their eyes, both spring and wizened, hold a drop of the supreme rapture that is only now beginning to diffuse from him countenance. They are perplexed, but much gladder for it, even if their newfound icon seems to start from the piano bench, surprised by sudden reappearance of such frenzied crowds. He had not exhibited his world; we had trespassed in. 

The cult of Trifonov, I wager, is very real. What is truly extraordinary is that the artist at its heart constantly forgets that we are here.

Onwards. There is more good fortune to relay. As always, the good concerts seem to all arrive at once, making schedules fearsome to behold. On the Tuesday between the two Trifonov dates, sandwiched alongside a slightly grating appointment with Strauss' Ariadne auf Naxos, a bitter October day found an unlikely hero. 

That evening, the close of a very long day, saw the quiet and unassuming Denis Kozhukhin descend upon a dreary looking Westminster as the second item on this year's International Piano series. A name known to me only very distantly, I arrived chiefly to hear Liszt's crystalline Bénédiction and instead, uncovered glory.

I knew not what I expected from the cherubic blond pianist, but it was not a superior reading of Haydn. I have rarely heard Haydn more attractively presented, with the exact balance of gravity and light precociousness that found a comfortable home in the B minor sonata. There is the ardency of a student that surrounds Kozhukhin still, a sense of study and constant strive for betterment. But it is flattering on him; it casts a sincere filter over his fleet and crisp music, the nimbleness of his touch allowing an array of sympathetic nuance.

A whole other piece could be written on Kozhukhin's Liszt. Bénédiction de Dieu dans la solitude is perhaps the composor's most enlightened creation; dulcet, lingering and possessing a subdued introspection that escapes so many Liszt compositions. Kozhukhin's delivery was a myriad of compulsions, attracted not to overarching rapture, but the luxuriant contrast of sweeping ravishment, to the pensive and self-chastising. Underlying it was a supreme sense of calm surety; while not taken as stately slow as Arrau's famous reading, there was no haste marring the lyrical cry of the piu sostenuto quasi preludio, just as the subdued decline into the nothing was a resolute hum  that lingered in the chest, long after the evening had passed. In Kozhukhin, we found a pianist of most marvellous judgement and impeccable capability who, if things transpire as they ought, has great capacity to become a London favourite, for he is already one of mine.