10/03/2022
Collaborative Artists’ Zpace: Jeremy Chan
Last week, I went to see one of the legendary pianists, Maurizio Pollini, live in action. The concert was not only enjoyable, it prompted some musings on what it means to be a performer, and how this has changed. The passage below is more than just a concert review.
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It’s been four days and I still can’t believe I got to see Maurizio Pollini live! He is one of the pianists whose recordings I grew up listening to, believing them to be the definitive recordings whenever they pop up on YouTube, just like Ashkenazy and Zimerman. Reliable and authoritative. And so, for me, he’s acquired legendary status, one endowed upon great men by epitaphs, a reputation that can only grow as time passes and waxes stronger as nostalgia for a golden age settles on the future generation…basically, in my mind his reputation is so legendary one cannot believe he is still alive (no offense!).
‘Twas a treacherous day to travel for Londoners, as the city-wide Tube strike struck us at full force, assisted by the relentless rain (typical British weather). Nevertheless, Southbank Centre was still bustling with people as I arrived breathless and soaking on my bike. The Royal Festival Hall, already massive, never seemed so filled, and the lonely piano onstage never seemed so small. It was incredible how many people came to watch one man play a piano. The crowd seemed excited, not really to hear incredible music, but more so to see the man himself, the legend whose name carries with it echoes of others already consecrated in the hall of fame: Artur Rubinstein, Arturo Benedetti Michelangeli, Vladimir Horowitz, Claudio Abbado…Phones were at the ready. I cannot say I wasn’t one of them.
The man who walked out of the stage door was a small, tottering old man wearing a suit. He seemed to be walking on the balls of his feet, leaning so far forward it almost looked like he was stumbling. For some reason he reminded me of a penguin.
But the applause that greeted him was tremendous. It was a grand mixture of excitement, love and respect. Nevertheless, being well-trained in the art of listening to classical music, I decided to separate the reputation from the music itself, and listen to what the grand master had to offer.
To be very honest, the first half wasn’t that amazing. Perhaps it was because I was sat far away; but then again, Pollini’s playing was so crisp and sonorous, especially with sounding the top voice, that I had to problem discerning the melody even in such a massive hall. Hats off to him. Nevertheless, I thought the Schumann Arabeske rather boring and straightforward, unchanging in tone colour. The Schumann Fantasie was better; there was great narrative drive in his playing–never did he once compromise the voicing of the melodies, even at technically treacherous bits–and I thought the last movement of the Fantasie was beautiful played at the rather brisker-than-normal tempo and devoid of sloppy sentimentality. There was peace and assurance in his playing.
Pollini with applause raining down on him
For me, the second half was the highlight. I met a friend during the interval and decided to join her at the choir stalls. What a weird position to be in, where you can see things from the vantage point of the performer, looking out into row upon row of spectators that stretch well into the dark!
Pollini tottered out amid a thunder of applause and began playing Chopin’s Sonata No. 2. It was incredible! I was on the edge of my seat, at times praying for him that he would not lose control at the really challenging bits such as the scherzo, at times just marvelling at how this 80-year-old man manages to play with such energy and passion. Yes, there were bits where he didn’t seem in control, and he had to make compromises by missing a few notes, but never did he once lose the melody or show signs of slowing down in order to accommodate his technique. He always adjusted his technique to the demands of the music; he would allow some flexibility with time, but never did he once lose the pulse. He was wholeheartedly serving the music he was playing; it was humbling to watch! Even though he might be on the edge at some points, it was actually really exciting to watch. It just goes to show that being in control doesn’t always make the best performances. Sometimes playing at the edge of your ability can also push the audience to the edge of their seats.
The funeral march was played with great passion, but it was the finale that really made me catch my breath. The fluidity of the melody, the clarity of the notes amid washes of una corda and sustain pedals created an incredible effect I had never heard before. In this performance I caught glimpses of the full force of Pollini’s technique at his prime; it wasn’t just flashy, it was mesmerizing. The whole concert hall gave a long standing ovation just to show how much in awe we were of him.
Royal Festival Hall at capacity, waiting for Pollini
Just to prove that his technique had not failed him at his age, Pollini played the Heroic Polonaise and the First Ballade, two very demanding pieces. That left-hand octave passage in the Polonaise was spot-on; I was so shocked! He played the Ballade at breakneck speed; I would never play it like that, but I suppose it was to get that crowd-pleasing effect requisite of encores, and pleased the crowd it certainly did. All of us were on our feet, clapping till our hands were red and puffy, marvelling at the miraculous feat that this old man had just performed and exhilarated by such a legendary performance.
I came away feeling excited. It wasn’t so much the music but the performance of it. I mean, these were pieces we’ve all heard a thousand times, so popular and clichéd that most young pianists will steer clear of putting all of them in one concert. But it was seeing how Pollini played, a style that is so different from those of other pianists, which really made the performance one to remember. I think it was the affinity of his straightforward style to recordings of Rubinstein and Horowitz which made me come away from the concert thinking: this would’ve been what it was like to see Horowitz perform at Carnegie Hall. Of course, I say this knowing full well how different these pianists are. I just mean in terms of their surprising lack of kitsch sentimentality by modern standards. I would never play like that, and just the acknowledgement of this fact indicates a gap between my generation and Pollini’s. Nevertheless, it was exciting to witness the remnants of an older tradition of playing.
As I stood clapping after the final encore, I realized I really wanted to keep hearing him play. Even though I didn’t agree with a lot of things he did in the music, or at least wouldn’t do them myself, I was extremely intrigued by Pollini’s voice, and I would definitely sit there and listen to him play and play. That, I believe, is the charisma of the pianist, one who has found his voice in the music he plays, and can charm his listeners with it in spite of his humility and occasional flaws. That should be what we aim for, not a note-perfect performance which seeks to show the greatest contrasts in order to demonstrate “musicality”, an unnoticeable pitfall which I have admittedly fallen into more than a few times. But this charisma I see in Pollini’s playing comes with years of experience, and I’m in no hurry to emulate that.
I might be academically mistaken in aligning Pollini with an older tradition of piano performance, but that’s what I felt listening to him. What a night to remember.
Jeremy Chan
Designer 🎨: Aki Wu
