NB: May
also include non-opera classical venues, but who’s really complaining?
(Spoiler, the following disgruntled punters are).
I think the
provenance of the opera [Adriana Lecouvreur] is rather remarkable. [After being
pressed] – I mean, Mascagni is just genius!
For
non-opera geeks, Adriana Lecouvreur was the brainchild of Francesco Cilea not
Pietro Mascagni.
If it’s not
Callas, I just don’t care
Words of a
person who I cannot understand being inside any opera house at all post 1964.
Those
rather bright lights in the second act [Woolf Works] were rather intriguing.
What are they called? The disco-like flares! Ah, yes – lasers.
You’d think
they would have promoted Yuhui by now! That vision scene pas de deux was
so luscious, if I were Kevin O’Hare, I’d promote her to principal at the end of
the show.
Issued
during the interval of a Sleeping Beauty performance starring Japanese
principal Akane Takada, not the (admittedly overlooked and deserving of
promotion) first soloist Yuhui Choe, who is her compatriot. #everydayracism
#checkyoprivilege #oratleastchecktheprogramme
And then
Harriet got so squiffy when her daughter failed to get into White Lodge yet again[NB: the Royal Ballet’s lower school]. It’s those broad shoulders, you
see. You’d think Harriet would know full well the poor girl’s limitations,
seeing as the bulldog physique comes from the maternal line…
I just don’t
believe that Giorgio Germont really had a daughter.
This is not
so much funny as it is depressing and begrudgingly possible. What if, instead
of being society’s creature much like Violetta (as I always read it), old
Germont was just a huge bastard? It rather shatters the romantic ideal I – and
a good chunk of the classical world – always held La Travs to.
This is the
pallid horror I get in return for asking a casual opera-goer for their opinion. But it is precisely
this sort of discourse that convinces me puritans are the worst things to
happen to any art, ever. Open mind, folks. Open mind.
I’m rather
surprised I wasn’t bored. I was expecting to be bored. In fact, I’m rather
upset I’m not bored.
My surprised companion at the end of a six hour Wagner opera.
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 26th,
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 ofthematic 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.
