London Journal April 13-27, 2009
Monday Morning April 13, 2009
Yesterday (Sunday), the government declared a state of emergency and troops and tanks were on the streets as I left for the airport at 9:30 AM in a taxi. My neighborhood was virtually deserted and quiet, and there were no reports on the Internet or over TV, of travelers having problems leaving Bangkok. No flight cancellations or delays were reported either.
An American friend of mine was scheduled to leave BKK an hour before me and I called him in the early morning and asked him if he would act as a scout for me. He was delighted to do so and I called him on his cell phone several times during his trip to Suvarnabhumi over the same route I would be traveling, and he was able to assure me that he was experiencing a smooth journey on Bangkok’s streets and on the toll road to the airport. With this intelligence, I relaxed.
I got a metered taxi to pick me up at my apartment, and because of the absence of Bangkok’s normally nightmarish traffic, I was speeded to the airport in record time. On the way to the airport, from the highway, I saw a thick black cloud of rising smoke, either a burning bus or tires set on fire by the rampaging protesters. Upon arrival at Suvarnabhumi, I had the impression that the taxi driver had jiggered the meter inasmuch as the fare was quite a bit higher than I was used to paying. I complained to him, but didn’t try to do anything about it. Frankly, I was happy to be at the airport even if it cost me about 25% more than it should have; no big deal under the circumstances.
The airport was quiet, almost deserted. It was a pleasure sitting in the Thai Air lounge and having the beautiful facility almost to myself. My challenge was avoiding eating 1,000 calories or more, from the large selection of free food, which I managed to do by drinking three cans of diet Coke, or was it four? My plane took off on time.
London Journal 2---Thai Air Flight 916 to London Heathrow Airport
Monday Noon April 13, 2009
Even though the Boeing 747 was completely filled, it’s still my favorite plane for comfort, and although Thai Air does not have the best reputation among Asian carriers, Singapore Air and Cathy Pacific being much better regarded, I’ve had consistently excellent experiences on every of the many Thai Air flights I’ve taken, this one being no exception. On this flight, the cabin crew was not young or particularly comely, but their standard of service, including graciousness, was of the highest. In contrast, I think back to the old bags populating United Airlines’ long-haul crews and their surliness and unwillingness to do anything except slap a meal in front of you. I can’t imagine why anyone who is given a choice, would fly on an US carrier, and middle-agers take note of Thai Air: you, too, can rival your younger brethren in service.
The plane took an interesting route over India, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Turkmenistan, Caspian Sea, Russia (North of Georgia & Caucasus Mtns.), Poland, Germany, and into London via the Netherlands. I landed on time at 6:30 PM London time (12:30 AM BKK time). Flying time: 12.5 hours.
Monday Night, April 13
This was my first trip into London on the Heathrow Express, a new airport train link to Paddington Station. It was amazingly fast at just 15 minutes. Definitely the way to go for me from now on. But, I had to get a taxi to from Paddington to my hotel because the Finchley Road underground station was closed for the day for repairs. Oh, well, if it’s not one expense, it’s another.
The Swiss Cottage Holiday Inn Expess was ready for me on arrival, and I was pleased with my room and the facilities; there were no surprises because of the extensive pictures posted by guests on tripadvisor.com, a site I always check before reserving a hotel room. However, I couldn’t connect my netbook computer to the modem in my room, even though I tried everything I knew how to do and which I have done many times before. I already had made one trip to the front desk to obtain an adapter I needed to plug the netbook into the electrical outlet in my room. This time I called the front desk, but I had no hope that a night clerk could figure out my computer/modem problem. How happily wrong I was! Qi Cao, a Chinese student, had just graduated from a UK university with a degree in computer science, and she talked me through solving the problem, which required us to do something with the registry files, which, for some reason, had lost the needed information, or something like that. I finally got the netbook to work, checked my email and the political situation in Bangkok, and went to bed happy at about 1:00 AM.
London Journal 4---A Nostalgia Trip to Canfield Gardens
Tuesday April 14, 2009
I don’t know if it was exhaustion from the long trip or jet lag, but I was content to spend my first full day in London in my hotel and exploring the immediate neighborhood. Here’s why I made the improbable choice of spending two weeks in the Finchley Road area of north London, rather than in the central part of the city.
During the first half of 1959, I lived in the Swiss Cottage area, near Finchley Road, for most of the year. I was a 20-year old student at the London School of Economics and lived in four different places around London, but I spent most of my time in the Finchley Road area because I found cheap accommodations and other students there. I had fond memories of it and thought that I would be happy to spend another two weeks there 50 years later.
Of course, 50-year old memories are a risky thing, but I had a clear picture in my mind of what it was like around where I used to live, and the question was whether I or Finchley Road had changed the most. The verdict: I’ve changed more.
The Finchley Road/Swiss Cottage area looks pretty much the same as it did in 1959 and has the same feel. To be sure, there are some new buildings, but considerably less than one might expect there to be after five decades of explosive real estate growth and change in London. I easily navigated through the local streets and landmarks by memory, which connected automatically to the long-buried and stale software of my brain.
There were enough changes, however, to prevent a sense of déjà vu setting in. Starbucks, fast-food outlets, cell phone stores, a supermarket, and other signs of the long passage of time, prevented me from being transported back to my student days as in a time capsule. Staying in a Holiday Inn Express across from a newly-built small mall, and my troubles getting my netbook computer connected to the Internet, were reminders to me that time had indeed made its inexorable journey.
I was eager to locate my old lodgings one block from the Finchley Road underground station, and I walked there directly, no wrong turns, but I did forget the name of the street I had lived on, Canfield Gardens. From the head of the street, Canfield Gardens is a pleasant-looking residential block. It hasn’t changed at all: no new construction, no remodeling of facades, no modernization, and no additions to the row houses that have been in their present state for well over 100 years. I wasn’t able to determine the exact house I lived in because I don’t have the street address and the houses look much the same. I was, however, able to narrow it down to one of three contiguous houses, and that’s close enough for me.
I moved into Canfield Gardens in January 1959 after returning from my first trip to the continent and North Africa. Before leaving London in early December, 1958, I had packed my belongings in a camp trunk and stored in with a friend. It was unthinkable to pay rent anyplace while I was away touring. During my absence, a fellow student at LSE, Thomas Barkany, a recent refugee from the 1956 Hungarian revolution (does anyone still remember that pivotal event?) was charged with searching out and securing a room for us to share for the remainder of the school year. He found a bed-sitter in Canfield Gardens, at the right rent, the amount of which escapes me, but which I doubt was more than $25 per week.
Perhaps my most enduring memory of Canfield Gardens is of the Hungarian family living on the same floor as Thomas and I. They shouted at each other constantly, but I didn’t understand the fights because they were in Hungarian. For some reason, I remember the son’s name, Peter, and it didn’t help matters that the three of them were living in one room. In Hungary, from where they had fled only two years previously, the father was a professor of mathematics; now he was doing day labor when he could get it. I imagined that they argued about whether they made the right decision to leave Budapest, where the professor, a civil servant under the Communist regime, would have had an assured livelihood and a roof over his head. Their teenage son was not doing well, due in part, I’m sure, to his not knowing English, and the wife and mother spent all of her time sitting in their one room, replaying her life to no good effect. No one had a TV in those days, but I’m not sure that the distraction provided by the mindless programming would have helped.
I disliked my room at Canfield Gardens, but I accepted it as a part of student life, and I knew that I would return to better in Arizona in six months. The room itself, which was on the second floor, was quite large and of a sufficient size for Thomas and me, and besides, I spent very little time in my lodgings in those days. The room had a sink with running cold waterwith a gas heater attached, and if I wanted hot water, I would have to feed coins into the meter, like a parking meter. For heat, there was either a gas or an electric space heater; likewise, I had to feed it with coins to keep it operating. I remember the room being very cold that winter as you could easily spend more money on gas and electricity than you spent on rent. No refrigerator, of course; just put milk, etc., out on the window ledge.
There were three rooms on my floor, the other two being occupied by families. We all shared the same bathroom, which I don’t remember as being particularly dirty or clean. Hot water for a bath was by way of coins in the gas meter.
Canfield Gardens was an important lesson for me. Although I was a student, my neighbors were adults with children. I didn’t know their stories and I can’t say that, at the time, I cared. All I knew was that I didn’t want to end up like them, whatever it took. In my mind that meant studying hard, getting into law school as fast as possible, and making an economic success of my career. Under no circumstances did I want to end up back in Canfield Gardens.
Looking at my old house on Canfield Gardens from across the street, I feel satisfied that I accomplished what I set out to do. I believe that Thomas Barkarny moved to Canada. I don’t know what happened to the Hungarian family, but I hope that Peter has fulfilled the dreams his parents had for him and for which they valiantly struggled. May God bless them all.
London Journal 5---Lunchtime Recital at St. Martin-within-Ludgate
Wednesday Noon April 15, 2009
One nice feature of London musical life, is the lunchtime concert held at various churches around the city. A not so nice feature is that the music is almost always mediocre or worse. The musicians don't get paid and the concerts are free. I think that it is supposed to be a relaxing experience in the middle of a busy day, held in a contemplative atmosphere; the music is secondary.
Mignonette Aarons' piano recital at St. Martin-within-Ludgate was consistent with the genre: it was pretty awful for a public performance of classical piano music. Aarons, a frumpy woman in her 60's, I would imagine, presented a 45-minute program of Bach, Beethoven Mendelssohn and Rachmaninoff, played on an aged Bechstein, in a chuch more suited acoustically to organ reverberation than to classical piano. To her credit, for the most part, Aarons played easy music suited to her level of technical accomplishment, and when, as in the Rachmaninoff, she strayed into more complex technical demands, it didn't matter much as the 35 of us who had gathered to listen, were already used to her playing and looking forward to it ending. Still, she played well enough that I must say that, on some level, I enjoyed the visit and was glad I came.
St. Martin-within-Ludgate is billed as a Christopher Wren church, but it was quite drab and ordinary, and all I could think of while I sat listening and observing the undistinguished interior, was that even a creative genius like Christopher Wren is entitled to a bad day, or maybe he didn't get paid and was seeking revenge.
London Journal 6---Sleeping Through “Dancing at Lughnasa”
Wednesday Night April 15, 2009
It was easy to do. “Dancing at Lughnasa,” a revival by the Old Vic, of an enormously successful 1990 play by Irish playwright Brian Friel, takes place entirely in one room, among eight characters who do very little except talk to each against the background of 1936 rural Ireland. The movement is static and the plot minimal. Coupled with my still-existing jet lag, I slept on-and-off through much of the play.
This is one of those plays where all depends on the acting, and it that regard, this production excelled. It would be difficult to imagine finer acting and ensemble work anyplace. I can well understand why this production has been critically acclaimed and has been playing to sold-out houses.
As for the play, it has won numerous awards including, for the Broadway production, the 1992 Tony Award for Best Play, and in London, the 1991 Laurence Olivier Award for Best New Play. In 1998 it was adapted for film starring Meryl Streep. So, I concluded that I made a mistake by being put to sleep by “Dancing at Lughnasa,” that it must be something better than a somnolent. Thursday morning I bought the script to the play and am now reading it. Maybe I’m a glutton for punishment, but so far, the written play is quite enjoyable. I’m glad to have this second chance.
I suspect that it has as much to do with what you bring to it, maybe more, than what takes place in the concert hall itself. I brought a lot to this evening’s performance at the Royal Festival Hall. I wasn’t disappointed.
First, there was the pianist, Nikolai Lugansky. I heard him perform in Singapore two years ago and was enormously impressed with his playing, which reminded me of Mikhail Pletnev’s, not surprising since these two Russians were trained in the tradition of the renowned Moscow Conservatory piano faculty. I bought Lugansky’s CD of Chopin’s etudes and it is among my favorite CDs. Because I spend so much time in BKK, I wasn’t expecting to hear Lugansky again in person. My anticipation of this fortuitous turn of events was palpable. Then, there was the anticipation of hearing Rachmaninoff’s Second Piano Concerto. Never mind that I’ve heard it many times before, I love it and I was quite sure that Lugansky would play it superbly. Then there was the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra to look forward to, and its 2nd half performance of Stravinsky’s Firebird. For me, all was in place for a wonderful evening. Add to this the fact that I was going to be seated in one of my favorite venues, the Royal Festival Hall, which I first visited 51 years ago, and I was confident of a very special experience, but I’ve been disappointed before.
Not this time, however. The beautiful, indeed dramatic, way Lugansky played the opening solo chords of the Rachmaninoff concerto, signaled that I was beginning a magical journey. At the end, I contributed mightily to the thunderous applause. I was surrounded by a lot of Russians, and I joined them in foot stomping also.
Philharmonia Orchestra
Jukka-Pekka Saraste conductor
Nikolai Lugansky piano
Rachmaninov The Isle of the Dead
Rachmaninov Piano Concerto No. 2
Stravinsky The Firebird Suite
London Journal 8---When Grand Opera is Really Grand
Friday Night April 17, 2009
There are only a few great opera houses in the world, not because of a lack of talent, but because of the 100s of millions of dollars it takes per year to keep one of them open and running on a grand scale. The Royal Opera House at Covent Garden is one of those elite houses; you know it immediately when you pay, as I did, $280 for a single seat. Why did I pay it?
It was not the opera being performed, Verdi’s Il Travatore, which I’ve seen at least twice before, nor was it the expectation of seeing a spectacle, inasmuch as Elijah Moshinsky’s production was not touted for its large production values. No, it is the chance to listen to great singing, a great cast that only a few opera houses can assemble. I was not disappointed. Here’s the cast:
Sondra Radvanovsky ---Leonora
Dmitri Hvorostovsky---Count di Luna
Manrico---Roberto Alagna
Malgorzata Walewska---Azucena
Conductor---Carlo Rizzi
London Journal 9---So Many Good Pianists
Saturday Night, April 18, 2009
I used to think that really good piano playing was a rare commodity, but I’ve changed my mind about that. Tonight’s piano recital at Wigmore Hall proves the point. Charles Owen? Who ‘s he? His is certainly not a name that would occur to one contemplating today’s well-known performers. The fault lies not in his playing, but in the economics of concertizing and trying to make a living as an international performer. There’s room for very few; the audience is not there and those who do break into the charmed circle, have big publicity machines behind them and careers that require intense and constant management. Nothing is left to chance. Today, a spot on CNN, CNBC or the BBC (I’ve seen Lang Lang and Midori on all three) is far more important than a good next-day review in the newspaper, of which there are very few anymore anyway.
Needless to say, the top pianists, the household names, are all supererb. You can’t fool the public that attends classical concerts and the numerous commentators who dissect every note. But the point I’m trying to make is that there are so very many countless others who bring flawless technique and interpretive insight and beauty to the music, who give listening pleasure every bit as great as the great ones do.
Charles Owen, who now teaches piano at the Guildhall School of Music in London, has won some notable competitions, but none of the big ones. His several discs of somewhat obscure works of Faure, Poulenc and Janacek have been critically well-received, but I suspect haven’t sold very well, and if he dared stray into the better known repertory to compete with the organization-driven performers, I suspect he would sell even less. He does concertize internationally.
Owen’s Wigmore Hall recital Saturday night was a more than satisfying evening of music. It was simply excellent at all levels. The cheering audience, myself included, had to be content with only one encore, but we wanted more. Had Owen played all night, I dare say the audience would have gladly stayed for breakfast.
I particularly liked Bach’s Partita No. 5. I’ve been brought up on Glen Gould’s recording and I have to put it aside and not judge other performances in reference to Gould’s. Owen, to his credit, has his own approach and the technique to realize it. I heard lines and voices that I hadn’t heard before. For me, the Bach was the highlight of the evening. The Faure, Debussy and Chopin which followed were uniformly both sensitive and exciting. I can’t say it as well as a reviewer said it following Owen’s recital at the same Wigmore Hall venue last year:
“There was no one special moment for every moment was special in this recital. Sitting at the piano, looking straight ahead, sometimes to the right, sometimes to the left, seeing the music in his mind’s eye as he played, eschewing all signs of overt show and display, Owen gave us the music pure and simple, appearing astonished, at the close of a work, to discover us sitting there listening to his playing. And that was what this recital was all about: close and private communion with the music.”
Bach Partita No 5 in G
Faure 3 Barcarolles
Debussy Images Book 2
Chopin Piano Sonata No 3
London Journal 10---What Happened to the Bookstores?
Sunday April 19, 2009
The weather was beautiful today and I rode in a convertible car with the top down. An English friend, who lives much of the year in BKK, but is now in London, where he works as a well-known professional photographer, picked me up at my hotel, accompanied by his beautiful (outside) and lovely (inside) Thai girlfriend, who happens to be on a short visit to London. We spoke some Thai together, but it was short lived. After driving around Hampstead, we ended up near Kensington High Street, at a café, where we could talk and I could have a mid-afternoon lunch.
When we parted, I decided to take advantage of the fine weather and walk around the city in areas I already knew well. I was particularly interested in visiting Earls Court because of the presence of a favorite bookstore, which I was last at seven years ago. But, alas, it was gone, having been replaced by a Marks & Spencer’s mini-grocery outlet. The day before, I had gone to another bookstore I liked, this one being on James Street, just off Oxford Street. That, too, was gone, having been replaced by several clothiers. I guess that, as in the U.S., the bookstore is an endangered species. I understand that neither Borders nor Barnes & Noble are doing well financially. I certainly don’t help matters inasmuch as I buy at least 50% of my titles from Amazon.com and its related used book sellers. I guess I can’t complain. At any rate, on Monday, I found a wonderful book store on Hampstead High Street and bought a volume of Chekov short stories.
London Journal 11---The Lang Lang Circus Has More Than Three Rings
Monday April 20, 2009
This is Lang Lang week in London. Classical music’s master showman didn’t just arrive in London to play three concerts. No, not at all. His week ‘s residency is sponsored by USB, the giant international bank, and includes an all-day “Piano Extravaganza!” on Saturday, a “UBS Soundscapes” featuring Lang Lang: Dragon Songs on Thursday, and an “Artist Conversation” on Friday, both live and on-line. I’ve tickets for his two appearances with the London Symphony Orchestra and his one solo piano recital. I’ll skip the other events. But, while three traditional-type events might be quite enough for me, it is not enough for Lang Lang’s adoring London fans, for this pianist, who is updating classical music for all of us, is returning to London on July 11, for a concert with Herbie Hancock and the Philharmonia Orchestra. And anyone who will grieve his absence can console himself by buying Lang Lang’s autobiography, which is for sale in the Barbican bookstore.
As I figured out last night, my first audience in the eminence’s presence, the music is beside the point: this is a happening and Lang Lang sets the terms. Although Lang Lang has a pair of sneakers designed for him by Adidas (“ The extremely stylish and music-linked limited edition of the successful adidas Originals iconic model Gazelle is worn by the artist himself,” proclaims the company’s press office), he refrained from wearing them Monday night. Nor did the Mao-style jacket he wore make a particular fashion statement as he has done on other concert occasions, but he nonetheless refrained from conforming to the orchestra’s formal attire. And he left behind the bright red Steinway concert grand he played on in New York City this past summer.
After acknowledging the audience’s applause, he seated himself at the piano without adjusting the seat, unbuttoned the top button of his jacket, thereby signaling that he was ready for business, and while playing, he swooned, shifted, turned, twisted, raised a cupped hand above his head in a ballet like gesture, propelled himself off the seat, projected facial expressions appropriate to the mood of the music, and at one point, in a gesture I’ve never seen, he turned to look at the audience (most pianists look only in the opposite direction, at the conductor). I felt like yelling to him “Don’t worry Lang Lang we’re all still here. You’re going great.” The applause that greeted the end of the work was substantial, but not overwhelming; no encore was played. I assume that El Stupendo left the hall in the chauffeured BWM limo provided by UBS, well-satisfied that he had upheld the Lang Lang brand.
Oh, the music. I almost forgot the music. Yes, he’s a very good pianist. He played Bartok’s Piano Concerto No. 2 about as well as it can be played, with the percussive power it requires, as well as sensitivity in the quiet passages. Every bit of excitement of the score was captured and amplified. I’m used to Maurizio Pollini’s recording, and there are differences, but they are well within the realm of individual artistic choices. Lang Lang’s more hardened and pounding sound suits both him and the music well.
After the interval, we were treated to a simply gorgeous performance of Bruckner’s Fifth Symphony, a work I don’t know well, but want to hear again. Conductor Daniel Harding convinced me that he had the music in hand, and led the London Symphony Orchestra through the long score, with both intensity and feeling. Both the audience and I were convinced: the applause and cheering, lacking somewhat after Lang Lang finished, showed that this audience knew how to cheer.
London Joural 12---Loudest and then Still Louder
Tuesday Night April 21, 2009
Loudest and then louder. “Impossible” you say, or at least grammatically incorrect. Not so, however, if you’re Tan Dun and Lang Lang, today’s musical equivalent of China’s economic juggernaut. In a platform speech preceding Europe’s first hearing of Tan Dun’s Piano Concerto “The Fire,” the composer and tonight’s conductor explained that he not only wrote the concerto for his friend Lang Lang, but that he had written it with Lang Lang, who would shortly appear to show us the result of the collaboration. Oh, is there nothing this 25-year old El Stupendo can’t do?
After the first five minutes of Piano Concerto “The Fire,” we had heard it all; the next 30 minutes of the concerto were repetitions of the bombast of the opening. If there was structure, I couldn’t tell you what it was. “Slushy, schmaltzy, shabby…” intoned the Daily Telegraph’s critic the next day. I don’t disagree.
But, it made for good listening and fun viewing. Tan Dun is an absorbing conductor to watch guide musicians through his very different and intricate scores. He piles it on with marimba, xylophone and vibraphones, and to make sure that the pianist isn’t left behind with some 18th century performing conventions, Lang Lang uses his fist, palm, elbow and forearms to pound the piano into submission. Strangely, it seems to all work. I would assume that the part with the arms on the keyboard didn’t require a lot of practicing, but who knows what was required as this is unfamiliar territory, at least for me.
So the large orchestra, augmented with many percussion instruments, playing at full volume, could be expected to generate a lot of decibels, but Tan Dun required more. Now, enter the tire rims or break drums taken off automobiles. The large chrome things you see in custom auto shops, or on low riders. These auto parts were found by Tan Dun (he doesn’t tell where or how he searched) to produce the notes C, A and E when struck, and they were hanging from a metal rod in the percussion section of the orchestra, ready to be struck by one of the London Symphony Orchestra’s percussionists. There you have it: Lang Lang banging away with his arms, and the steel brake drums ringing forth to guarantee a sound louder than the loudest. It was a romp
I like Tan Dun’s music. I know that it’s showy, but what’s wrong with that? This was the second time that I’ve seen him conduct. The first was last year at the Metropolitan Opera for a performance of his “The First Emperor,” starring Placido Domingo. I had seen the opera previously on the Met’s wonderful live at the Met broadcast, which are shown in movie theatres throughout the world. When I happened to be in NYC last May and “The Last Emperor” was being performed again, I eagerly grabbed a ticket. It was thrilling to see this spectacular production in person, and to hear Placido Domingo for the first time, and probably for the last time inasmuch as it is rumored that he will retire soon.
This evening’s program began with Tan Dun’s “Internet Symphony” in its European concert premier. Only five minutes long, but with the traditional four movements, it is surely the shortest symphony in existence. I wish it were longer. I’m sure it was written to be a crowd pleaser and it succeeded with me, and judging by the applause, with the rest of the audience too. It was commissioned for the YouTube Symphony Orchestra project and performed over the Internet from Carnegie Hall on April 15, 2009. If the brake drums can be found in other cities, I think that this work will be performed often, but remember, it can’t be any old brake drums, they must produce the notes of C, A and E, but then again, if they don’t, will anyone notice?
The second half of the program was taken up by Mahler Symphony No. 1, which I know well and love. But, after being driven into the hypersphere by the two Chinese expats (both Lang Lang and Tan Dun have resettled themselves in New York), I was in no mood for the birth, death, and beyond of Gustav Mahler. It was just too much for one evening.
London Symphony Orchestra
Lang Lang piano
Daniel Harding conductor (Mahler)
Tan Dun conductor (Tan Dun)
Tan Dun Internet Symphony ‘Eroica’
Tan Dun Piano Concerto ‘The Fire’
Mahler Symphony No. 1
Wednesday Afternoon April 22, 2009
Freud's Beautiful House in the Hampstead suburb of London
the couch, behind the patient, who could not see him
The best part of the visit for me was to view home movies of Freud and his family, both from Austria and in England. It is clear that Freud is terribly ill from cancer and heart problems, and, in fact, died a little over a year after arriving in London. The house has an air of expectancy of death; not a happy place.
London Journal 14---A Wonderful Discovery
Wednesday Night April 22, 2009
Pianist Imogen CooperIt turns out that Imogen Cooper, a London-born pianist, now age 58, is finally making an international splash after a long, distinguished performing career just below the firmament. Judging by what I heard, her refined and proportionate playing places her among the best of today's performers.
Classical music is different from any other audience event I know of: it makes requirements of, and demands commitments from the listener, and these are most in evidence in a program like the one Imogen Cooper chose to play. Come, it says, but be prepared to concentrate and be quiet for about two hours. Just sit still and commit yourself to no talking, no rustling or reading the program, no shifting around in your seats, no sips of water from your hand-held bottle, no discreet smooching with your seatmate, no checking your messages (I know you turned off the cell phone), and so on. It sounds simple, but many people, so easily bored, are unable to devote themselves to anything for this length of time. But if one makes the investment, it is possible to reap big returns, as one reviewer of Cooper’s recital, said so well:
“ What a pianist Imogen Cooper is, and what a fine Schubert player. There are no pianistic histrionics with her, she simply sits at the keyboard and plays, no throwing around of the hands, indeed, no excess movement at all, sitting stock still at the keyboard she delivers the music to us with an authority which is almost beyond belief.
“A packed QEH [Queen Elizabeth Hall] quite rightly went wild at the end…” and I was among the wildest.
Imogen Cooper (piano) Queen Elizabeth Hall, London
Schubert: 16 German Dances, D783
Piano Sonata in G, D894
6 Moments Musicaux, D780
Piano Sonata in C minor, D958
Thursday Night April 23, 2009
Helen Grimaud is very beautiful and this doesn't distract from her music at all.In fact, a few errors would be more than forgivable.
I was left without much of an impression of Grimaud other than that she's very pretty, a quite beautiful presence at the keyboard. Yes, she plays very well, but this was far from an exciting performance. I would call it competent and well-played. I would like to hear Grimaud play again, but I'm hard-pressed to say exactly why.
After the intermission, the Philharmonia Orchestra under Phillipe
Philharmonia Orchestra
Philippe Jordan, conductor
Helene Grimaud, piano
Mendelssohn, Overture "The Hebrides (Fingal's Cave)
Brahms, Piano Concerto No. 1
Schumann, Symphony No. 2
London Journal 16---London Intl. Piano Competition Raises an Important Question
My trip to
I think I'm correct in saying that the London International Piano competition is not one of the world's premier arenas for launching major international careers, on a par, say, with the Tchaikovsky, Van Cliburn or Queen Elizabeth competitions. Thus, when I had a Saturday night free, having rejected a performance of Mahler's First because I had heard it played the week before, I decided that I'd rather take a chance on the semi-final round of the London Piano Competition, than go to some West End show that would cost me multiples of a competition ticket to Queen Elizabeth Hall.
Well, I was astounded by what I heard. Each of Saturday's three semi-finalists was a remarkable artist: mature, musical, insightful, technically flawless and brilliant, visually appealing, physically quiet at the keyboard, and above all, producing beautiful music. Ranging in ages from 18 to 25, they walked to the piano with something akin to an air of nonchalance, bespeaking a confidence which they may or may not have had, but which enabled the audience to relax and concentrate on their music-making, a program of about 45 minutes for each contestant. After listening to pianists from
My confidence that I would experience a repeat of the previous night's extraordinary piano playing was not misplaced. I heard three more young pianists, this time from Italy, Korea and Uzbek (yes, Uzbek). Although any attempt to pick a highlight of these stunning performances is highly subjective and not particularly helpful, I was most transfixed by Behzod Abduramimov's (the Uzbek) playing of the Paganini Variations of Brahms. The fact that he whizzed through the technical challenges as if he were eating lunch, was less impressive than the cohesion of his vision of the music, the fact that he had definite musical ideas, and that, by the end of his performance, we had been treated to a musical whole and not merely a set of 28 separate compositional vignettes. I learned four days later, without surprise, that Behzod had taken first prize in the competition, his performance of Prokofiev's Third Piano Concerto with the London Philharmonic Orchestra, having assured him this honor. Although I had heard only six out of the nine semi-finalists, I had luckily heard all of the three prize winners.
The London International Piano Competition ended once and for all, my life-long belief that extraordinary piano playing was a gift from God, a rare commodity reserved for a comparatively few geniuses in each generation. Before London, I had seriously question this view (I just couldn't believe that there could be more than one Rubinstein allowed on earth once every 100 years or so), and now I had to abandon it totally, although my nostalgia for Rubinstein, Gilels, Richter, among others, will always remain.
The question is: where is all this talent coming from? How can so many performers from all over the cultural landscape achieve so much? I found what I think is a satisfying answer in a column penned by David Brooks in the New York Times of May 1, entitled "Genius: The Modern View." (Click here to read Brooks’ column.) Brooks perfectly describes the views of a romantic like me:
"Some people live in romantic ages. They tend to believe that genius is the product of a divine spark. They believe that there have been, throughout the ages, certain paragons of greatness — Dante, Mozart, Einstein — whose talents far exceeded normal comprehension, who had an other-worldly access to transcendent truth, and who are best approached with reverential awe."
Modern research shows this to be hocus-pocus, says Brooks. After observing that "Mozart was a good musician at an early age, but he would not stand out among today’s top child-performers," Brooks goes on to explain how Mozart developed into, well, Mozart. "The key factor separating geniuses from the merely accomplished is not a divine spark. It’s not I.Q., a generally bad predictor of success, even in realms like chess. Instead, it’s deliberate practice. Top performers spend more hours (many more hours) rigorously practicing their craft."
Brooks develops this theme with evidence which I find persuasive. And, he carries a message of hope to any of us who are trying to accomplish something, regardless of the field of endeavor. We can no longer excuse our shortcomings by pointing to a lack of innate talent or ability or accident of birth. Just keep on working, and it will come. Lack of endeavor and laziness are the enemies, not a failure of God to treat us less munificently that he has treated some others.
London Journal 17---Lang Lang's Solo Recital
Sunday Night April 26, 2009
Lang Lang as a young Liberace
During the five days since I last heard Lang Lang perform, he's been occupied being chauffeured around London. As the Audi publicity release says: "Lang Lang has been associated with Audi as the cultural ambassador since the year 2006. He is chauffeured across the globe in luxury Audi cars." Presumably, he's wearing a pair of the $200 Lang Lang special edition Adidas trainers. Also, during these same five days, (1) Audi announced that to celebrate its 100 anniversary on July 16, it would hold a party for 2,500 guests, including German Chancellor Angela Merkel, with a performance by pianist Lang Lang, with fireworks as a finale; and (2) Lang Lang and jazz pianist Herbie Hancockl announced that they will begin a joint world tour, culminating in an August performance at the Hollywood Bowl. As for Hancock, he's taking playing with Lang Lang very seriously. “Herbie has been practicing up to five hours a day — as serious as a heart attack,” Quincy Jones said. (There's a simile for you). It's remarkable that El Stupendo had time to perform his scheduled recital at the Barbican on Sunday night.
Schubert’s A major Piano Sonata, D959 was thoughtfully played. Absent were Lang Lang's characteristic extravagant gestures and self-indulgent dress and mannerisms. I think he would have labeled this first half of the program: "Lang Lang Plays Beautiful." You know, like "Chopin for Lovers." Things heated up with a fiery performance of Bartók’s Piano Sonata, followed by several Debussy pieces. But the real reason his many fans came to cheer, applause and whistle was saved to the end---Chopin's "Heroic" Polonaise. It was the most tasteless performance of a classical work I've ever heard. Picture this: Professor Harold Hill leading the River City band down Main Street, with Lang Lang seated in front of a red Steinway atop a float, playing Chopin's "Heroic" Polonaise in an arrangement by John Philip Sousa.
With the final chord, the young man sitting in front of me, bored until the polonaise began, who had taken his shoes off and put his feet up on the balcony wall at the beginning of the recital, was motivated to stand, put his shoes back on and stomp his feet in approval. The mostly young audience, which included many Chinese, joined him.
Schubert Piano Sonata No 20 in A, D959
Bartók Piano Sonata BB 88 Sz80
Debussy Selections from Preludes Books 1 & 2
Chopin Polonaise, Op 53
posted by Buzz at 4:48 PM
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"London Journal" is Buzz Singer at his best.
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