Alexandria Le (Mike Rocha photo)

On Saturday evening, January 21, a hardy band of music lovers trudged through a blanket of freshly fallen snow to take in a solo recital performed by the young American pianist Alexandria Le in the warm confines of Longy School’s Pickman Concert Hall. Less hardy souls had another option: this concert was also streamed live on the Web. Very 2012.

As the 2011 recipient of the prestigious Pro Musicis International Award, Le has just embarked on a series of concerts both here and in New York. This evening’s recital marked her Boston debut. The mission of Pro Musicis (“For Musicians”) centers on sharing, as envisioned by its founder, Capuchin-Franciscan priest and musician Eugène Merlet. Pro Musicis shares its resources and connections with talented musicians, in exchange expecting recipients to share their musical gifts not only in mainstream musical venues but also in hospitals, prisons, homeless shelters, substance abuse treatment centers, and inner city schools. Very admirable; very Saint Francis of Assisi.

From the first moment of the concert, it was abundantly clear that Le embodies the spirit of sharing that is at the core of the Pro Musicis ethos. Raised in Las Vegas, a graduate of Eastman, and currently pursuing her Doctorate of Musical Arts at SUNY/Stony Brook, Le seemed utterly at ease onstage. She prefaced each piece with informative and engaging introductory remarks, exuding a warm, outgoing, and ebullient personality.

The program was highly varied and downright kaleidoscopic, featuring both familiar and lesser-known works that were consistently challenging for the performer, and occasionally so for the audience. Four works in total: two rarely heard and two old chestnuts, utilizing fantasies as programmatic bookends. The first half charted relatively exotic musical territory, opening with Ludwig van Beethoven’s Fantasy in g minor, Op. 77. This is Beethoven at his most mercurial, a highly spontaneous-sounding work that seems a window unto the composer’s formidable improvisatory gifts. Commissioned by Muzio Clementi, this piece veers abruptly through myriad meters and tonal centers, with paroxysms of virtuosity juxtaposed with ephemeral lyricism. Through it all, Le demonstrated both grace and power, playing deep in the keys and tossing off the more technically demanding passages with aplomb.

After that wildly extemporaneous ride, the highly cerebral and carefully constructed Musica Ricercata (“Researched Music”) by the Translyvanian contemporary composer György Ligeti (1923-2006) was as deliberate as the Beethoven was spontaneous. Ligeti crafts a series of eleven brief pieces, the first of which utilizes only two different tones; the second, a total of three, and so on, until a final fugue that encompasses the entire diatonic scale. Like the Beethoven, this composition features a dizzying number of contrasts, as the young Ligeti sought to develop his own musical dialect. The listeners’ ears are tickled with music that ranges from whimsical to jazzy to angular to shimmering to propulsive to caustic, with general approachability increasing with the number of pitches. The first few minimalist sections bring to mind abstract expressionists of the time, such as Mark Rothko; the penultimate piece was quite reminiscent of the music of Alberto Ginastera. Le deftly handled this physically and intellectually demanding music with focused playing and unwavering concentration, drawing us into Ligeti’s multi-hued soundscape with a spell-binding rendition.

The second half of the program found us back in more familiar territory. The Two Rhapsodies, Op. 79 of Johannes Brahms (1833-1897) were penned when the composer was well into middle age and are the ultimate in lush, passionate Romanticism. These mature works are in equal parts virtuosic and lyrical, with an introspective bent that plumbs psychological depths. For the sunny and extroverted Le, this might not have seemed a particularly good fit, but she managed a convincing rendition. No. 1 sounded just a skosh rushed; in the second, Le coaxed some achingly sweet tones from the growly Steinway. To these ears it also sounded as if the music didn’t quite breathe enough, resulting in a bit of opacity. In her introductory remarks, Le likened this piece to “eating rich chocolate cake”; guess this must be of the flourless variety!

The juiciest was saved for last. If the Brahms can be likened to a treacly dessert, Franz Schubert’s Fantasy in C Major, D. 760 (“Wanderer”) is more like a full four-course meal at a five-star restaurant. This massive pianistic tour de force takes the listener on an epic journey, scaling windswept mountains and sweeping through verdant meadows in search of fulfillment.  Alexandria quoted a salient line from Der Wanderer, the song from which the piece is derived: “Wherever you are not, there is happiness.”  Le was an excellent and savvy tour guide, navigating through great forests of notes and coming through unscathed. She certainly had the chops to handle this incredibly challenging music, though not without the inclusion of a few notes that weren’t in the score (In all fairness, even Schubert himself said he couldn’t play the bloody piece properly.) In addition, Le’s phrasing could have been a bit rounder, and perhaps a tad more nuanced. But I quibble. (Also from the Quibble Corner: the tapping of  Le’s hard-soled shoe on the damper pedal proved to be somewhat distracting at times.) But let’s not lose sight of the fact: overall, it was a truly exhilarating journey.  Le did herself proud and was rewarded with a well-deserved standing-O.

We were treated to one encore: Alberto Ginastera’s Dance No. 2 (“Dance of the Beautiful Maiden”) from his Danzas Argentinas, which made for a piquant palate-cleanser.

Alexandria Le is a warm, animated, outgoing, confident, hypertalented young pianist whose greatest asset is her incomparable power to communicate; in short, the quintessential musical ambassador for Pro Musicis. In her opening remarks, Le mentioned her desire to take audiences on a journey, and she certainly did just that, magically transporting us from snowy Cambridge to sunnier climes. Saint Francis no doubt would have approved.

Michael Rocha is a self-described “long-ago” music teacher, a long-time music enthusiast and pianist, and a short-time Web designer: http://www.cobaltocumulus.com.  He has an MS in Meteorology from MIT.

Bach’s plate consistently overfloweth, no more so than during his long tenure in Leipzig (1723 until his death in 1750), during which he served as music director for several prominent churches. In addition to his myriad liturgical duties, which included cranking out a cantata a week, he was also charged by the town council with creating secular music for various and sundry municipal, as well as royal, occasions. Not surprisingly, Bach fell into the practice of incorporating these single-event secular works into liturgical pieces that could be reused annually. This pragmatic bit of recycling, known as ‘parody,’ was used to great effect in his Christmas Oratorio, a six-part work in which each section was written for one of the major feast days of the Christmas season, utilizing material originally conceived for two birthdays and an anniversary. This evening’s concert consisted of the first three sections, which form a tidy triptych denoting the birth of Jesus, the annunciation to the shepherds, and the adoration of those same incredulous shepherds.

Maestro Kevin Leong (who, given his doctorates in both Choral Conducting and Biophysics, should perhaps be referred to as Dr. Dr. Leong), led the affair with an assured baton and a fluid, no-nonsense conducting style featuring no superfluous motion. He set the pace with an energetic tempo right out of the gate in an opening chorus that was pure, unalloyed joy and pure, unalloyed Bach. The massive chorus, now in its 32nd season and whose members span an impressively broad age range, didn’t quite sound as big as they looked, but certainly filled the hall with a vibrant, focused tone. The Pro Arte Chamber Orchestra, now in its 33rd season and one of only four cooperative orchestras in the country (meaning both musicians and conductor decide what music they will perform), played with competency and verve. There’s nothing like Bach in a good mood.

All of the vocal soloists were seemingly short on years yet long on experience, a dynamic combination. Their performances were clean and polished, demonstrating admirably clear diction of the German text. Tenor and Evangelist Lawrence Jones proved to be the spark plug of the group. His pure, lyrical voice glowed with warmth and his dramatic — downright operatic — readings of the recitatives in the middle section were memorable. Also memorable was the Duet Aria in Part III, featuring soprano (and very angelic-appearing Angel) Brenna Wells and baritone David McFerrin. The gossamer, sweet tones of Wells were complemented by McFerrin’s resonant voice. The result was an engaging performance in which both artists shone. Countertenor Douglas Dodson was consistently affable, albeit without a great deal of inflection. One minor shortcoming was the balance between the orchestra and the higher voices, with the former tending to overwhelm the latter.

In terms of overall effect, while the tempi of the outer, more upbeat sections were appropriately brisk and high-octane, the middle section flagged perceptibly, as conductor Leong opted to emphasize the pastoral aspect of the work with rather sedate tempo selections. That said, the performance as a whole was well crafted and professional, as the performers took us on a joyous ride celebrating new life and the miraculous.

Wells, Jones, Leong, Dodson, McFerrin (Mike Rocha photo)

Michael Rocha is a self-described “long-ago” music teacher, a long-time music enthusiast and pianist, and a short-time Web designer: http://www.cobaltocumulus.com.  He has an MS in Meteorology from MIT.

Thomas Martin and Andre Previn, piano (Michael Lutch photo)

Two decades ago, Boston Symphony Orchestra violist Mark Ludwig founded the Terezín Music Foundation. Named after an infamous Nazi concentration camp, this nonprofit organization is dedicated, in broad terms, to celebrating the indefatigability of the human spirit, both by commissioning new music and by showcasing pieces created by Terezín composers. On Monday evening, November 14, the TMF celebrated its twentieth anniversary with a gala concert in Symphony Hall featuring the intriguing combination of music premieres and musical luminaries.

Founding Director Ludwig’s heartfelt and informative opening remarks described, in general as well as personal terms, the healing and inspirational transcendence of music. By featuring new works along with a generous helping of piano music, this concert, he explained, was crafted to evoke the spirit of Terezín. This particular camp had a high concentration of artists, whose talents were used by the Nazi propaganda machine to promote its disingenuous message.

Back-to-back premieres got the evening off to a fresh and spirited start. Never before performed on American soil, André Previn’s Sonata for Clarinet and Piano featured the BSO’s Thomas Martin on clarinet and the composer himself at the keyboard. Now in his early 80s, pianist, conductor, and wide-ranging composer Previn seemed nothing less than the embodiment of human indefatigability as he slowly approached his instrument with the help of a walker and plunged right in. The quickly shifting colors of his jaunty, syncopated, downright puckish sonata emphatically demonstrated that the creative flames within Maestro Previn still burn brightly. His tonal language was accessible without being overly straightforward: palatable, yet pleasingly piquant. Actually, the more introspective sections (tempo markings Slow and Very Slow), seemed to be shot through with dark veins of Brahmsian yearning, tenderly realized in the creamy, rounded phrases of clarinetist Martin. This reviewer is tempted to add that the piano rendition seemed perhaps a tad overly subdued at times, but, given that the composer was also the performer, it really makes no sense to second-guess! Both instrumentalists scampered through the final movement (marked Fast, of course) with a free and unfettered spirit that conjured images of birds in flight.

This new piece was followed by an even newer one: another work by Previn, another premiere, this time the first performance on the planet of his Quintet for Clarinet and String Quartet, performed by clarinetist Martin and the Hawthorne String Quartet, a top-drawer chamber group consisting of BSO members Ronan Lefkowitz and Si-Jing Huang, violins; Mark Ludwig, viola; and Sato Knudsen, cello. Maestro Previn’s three-movement creation was essentially light-dark-light: an animated, highly energized, somewhat choppy first movement was followed by a somber, subdued middle section with more flowing lines and occasional whiffs of Copland; the piece concluded with a blinding burst of kineticism. The autumnal tones of the second movement evoked monochromatic images of Terezín itself, while the final section seemed to resonate with human pluck, industriousness, and buoyancy. The playing was precisely synchronized and burnished, with the musicians sounding far more familiar with the music than they possibly could have been.

Back in more familiar territory, pianist Garrick Ohlsson, a giant of a figure both musically and physically, took command of the stage and regaled us with a shower of notes from the pen and quill of Sergei Prokofiev (1891-1953) and Frédéric Chopin (1810-1849). Prokofiev’s Four Pieces, Op. 4 are succinct, colorful works, whose highly evocative natures make their section titles (“Reminiscence,” “Elan,” “Despair,” “Diabolic Suggestion”) almost redundant. In Ohlsson’s capable paws, the sepia tones of Reminiscence were carefully rendered; the fiendishly difficult eruption of notes in “Diabolic Suggestion” (sounding very much like a Lisztian “Mephisto March”) handled with grace and subtlety. The musical term maestoso seems an apt description Ohlsson’s musical persona as he projects an aura of majestic sophistication and mesmerizing elegance while teasing out melody lines and catching each facet of the music in the brilliant light of understanding. His rendition of Chopin’s Sonata No. 3 in b minor, Op. 58 was as powerful as it was delicate, though, it must be said, fleetingly verging on overly legato. The final presto crackled with creativity and optimism, precipitating an immediate and sustained standing ovation, a fitting ending to an uplifting and life-affirming evening.

Michael Rocha is a self-described “long-ago” music teacher, a long-time music enthusiast and pianist, and a short-time Web designer: http://www.cobaltocumulus.com.  He has an MS in Meteorology from MIT.

Renee Krimsier, flute with the COB (Mike Rocha photo)

The Chamber Orchestra of Boston’s inaugural concert of the 2011-12 season was equal parts intrigue and instruction. Presented Saturday evening, November 5 in the live, relatively intimate venue of First Church in Boston, the thematically-based program, “Evening in the Palace of Reason,” was essentially a musical realization of the eponymous book authored by James R. Gaines. A colorful double-biography, the incident at the core of this work was an incendiary meeting between a venerable composer and a young monarch. In this corner: Johann Sebastian Bach (1685-1750), highly acclaimed yet anachronistic musician representing the passion, mystery, and complex filigree of the Baroque period. In the opposing camp: the King of Prussia, Frederick Hohenzollern, aka Frederick the Great (1712-1786), rational proponent of the simple, logical new Galante Style. Apparently, Bach arrived at the king’s court in 1747 unaware of the volatile cultural implications of his visit. Given that one of his sons, Carl Philipp Emanuel, was a chamber musician for FtG, Herr Bach was most likely anticipating a pleasant family reunion of sorts. Instead, so the story goes, he was immediately whisked before the king, at which point Frederick threw down the musical gauntlet by presenting him with a rather convoluted 21-note theme (possibly created by son CPE) and demanding that he improvise a three-voice fugue on the spot. Much to King Frederick’s chagrin, Bach was more than up to the task, though he then demurred when asked to create a virtually impossible six-voice composition (responding two months later with his towering Musical Offering, BWV 1079).

Given this historical backdrop, the COB’s music director, David Feltner, crafted a program highlighting works composed by the associated cast of characters: Frederick the Great, CPE Bach, Johann Joachim Quantz (FtG’s flute teacher), and J. S. Bach, as well as interjecting a contemporary piece also derived from the book, penned by Libby Larsen (b. 1950).

Frederick the Great was actually an ardent music lover and quite an accomplished flutist, much to the consternation of his militaristic father, who just couldn’t relate to his gay offspring’s aesthetic sensibilities. It’s a familiar tale, which in this case involves a beheading (long story; you’ll have to read the book). Frederick’s Concerto I in G Major for Flute, Strings and Continuo got the evening off to a frothy start. Translucent, effervescent, and upbeat, this well-crafted work is quintessential Galante fare, with straightforward structures and instrumental interactions that pleasantly tickled both ear and cortex. Though as a composer he may have only been Frederick the Quite Good, this music was nonetheless surprisingly satisfying. Flute soloist Renée Krimsier deftly handled the brisk passages with a sweet tone, shapely phrasing, and clean ornamentation. She projected a warm, friendly persona that complemented this sunny music. Feltner’s conducting was graceful and gently precise as he propelled the group along with energetic tempi. He exuded positive energy, as did the entire group; all seemed to genuinely enjoy sharing this music. The conductor’s insightful and engaging comments prior to each piece augmented the audience’s understanding and appreciation of the works.

Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach’s (1714-1788) Sinfonia III in C Major had a decidedly different flavor. This music was distinctly more complex than FtG’s, featuring a fistful of jarring musical twists and turns of phrase and sinuous melodic lines. CPE apparently had a penchant for the unexpected, even tossing in the B-A-C-H motif, though as an homage to his father or himself is anyone’s guess. Ostensibly in the shiny new compositional style, there were more than a few threatening clouds scudding across the azure Galante skies of this moody and changeable work. The COB players adroitly handled Bach’s musical peregrinations with solid, though at times fleetingly asynchronous, playing.

The sun burst forth in full radiance in the Concerto in G Major for Flute, Strings and Continuo of Johann Joachim Quantz (1697-1773). Considered the premiere flutist of eighteenth century Europe, Quantz was also an extremely fecund composer, churning out in excess of 300 concerti! He was also Frederick the Great’s flute instructor, secretly providing lessons behind Frederick’s father’s back. Ah yes, more intrigue. This music was positively giddy: high-voltage, lyrical melodic lines, virtuosic passages, and a Presto that buzzed along like a hyperactive honeybee. Once again flutist Krimsier’s playing was buoyant and sure-fingered (not to mention sure-lipped), despite a wildly swaying pendant-style earring that seemed at times to swing perilously close to her instrument.

After the light-dark-light structure of the first half, the post-intermission offerings were a juxtaposition of new and old. Libby Larsen’s Evening in the Palace of Reason (there’s that name again), composed in 2007 and given its Boston première this evening, interweaves Frederick the Great’s twenty-one-note challenge to J. S. Bach, the familiar B-A-C-H theme, and much more musical juiciness in a clever work that grabs the listener’s ear and doesn’t let go. This dark chocolate music was the antithesis of Frederick the Great’s puff pastry. Fascinating to hear centuries-old themes refracted through a contemporary musical lens. Larsen’s twenty-first century vocabulary is spiky and edgy, with playful, rippling interplay between instruments. The COB’s performance was extremely coherent and precise, as they capably handled passages replete with note-bending and percussive effects.

And then there was the Orchestral Suite II in b minor by the Master himself, Johann Sebastian Bach. Standing head, shoulders, and torso above his musical contemporaries, his exquisite musical lines and understated sophistication exist in their own transcendent realm. Even in this relatively sweet suite of dance movements, there is depth and complexity. Both playing and conducting were graceful and elegant; I did have a slight quibble with tempo selections, as the slower movements tended to drag ever so slightly. The final Badinerie (roughly equivalent to a Scherzo), however, was pleasingly frisky as we boogied down with Bach.

All told, an immensely satisfying experience that left both heart and mind sated. (As for the stomach, the COB even provided a generous German spread at the après-concert reception. Jawohl!) Thoughtful program selection, accomplished playing, helpful commentary: this event was engaging on multiple levels, and very warmly received. Flute soloist Renée Krimsier was actually presented with not one, but two colorful bouquets. And now to finish that book …

Michael Rocha is a self-described “long-ago” music teacher, a long-time music enthusiast and pianist, and a short-time Web designer: http://www.cobaltocumulus.com.  He has an MS in Meteorology from MIT.

Mike Rocha photo

New England Conservatory’s Jordan Hall was filled with the warm, round tones created by breath and fingers Sunday afternoon, September 25, as flutist Paula Robison and pianist Katherine Chi collaborated in a Faculty Artist Recital. Robison has occupied NEC’s Donna Hieken Flute Chair since its inception in 2005 and is currently celebrating her fiftieth performance year. Canadian Katherine Chi matriculated to the prestigious Curtis Institute at age ten and has recently received her D.M.A. from New England Conservatory, where she currently teaches. These two accomplished solo artists made for a formidable musical duo.

Sunday’s program featured works by Griffes, Lanier, Taffanel, and Franck. Sounds wall-to-wall French, but Charles Griffes and Sidney Lanier actually hailed from the U.S. In addition to sharing American roots, these composers both led tragically abbreviated lives, with neither living to see age 40. By comparison, Frenchmen Taffanel and Franck were downright long-lived, making it into their seventh decades.

Given his brief life filled with numerous hardships and distractions (poor health, supporting his widowed mother, a dead-end teaching job, dealing with his closeted homosexuality), Charles Tomlinson Griffes (1884-1920) produced a surprisingly significant corpus of musical works. Robison and Chi brought his Poem for flute and piano to life in an impassioned performance. This music is toothsomely impressionistic, reflecting the flavorful influence of Debussy, seasoned with a dash of Scriabinesque harmonization. Griffes’s musical poetry describes a rather somber and darkly beautiful emotional landscape. Ms. Robison was a glowing vision of amber and honey, with golden hair, dress, flute, and shoes. Her warm, shimmering physical presence matched her stage personality, which was engaged and inviting. Her playing was fluid and pure as she drew the audience into Griffes’ ethereal auditory world, expressing emotion not only with her instrument but also with her eyes and flowing body movements. Yin to Ms. Robison’s yang, Ms. Chi’s piano accompaniment was appropriately controlled and subdued.

In Griffes’s Three Tone-Pictures, Op. 5 for solo piano, Katherine Chi demonstrated a solid tone, very deep in the keys. This exemplary technique was perhaps not ideally suited to the diaphonous nature of the music, though the evocations of the subject matter suggested by the titles (The Lake at Evening, The Vale of Dreams, The Night Winds) shone through. Ms. Chi was especially adept at consistently teasing out the melody line from the cascade of notes in the final piece. Sobering to realize that Charles Griffes was gone by age 35, just as he was gaining the recognition and respect that had so long eluded him. Taken by complications from influenza, he was one of the estimated 50 to 100 million who perished in the The Great Flu Pandemic.

Following this solo piano work, Ms. Chi yielded the stage to Ms. Robison, who explored a piece by another American, Sidney Lanier (1842-1881). His Wind Song for solo flute did not, to this listener, compare all that favorably to the Griffes compositions. While this work contained a smattering of impressive virtuosic passages, adroitly handled by Ms. Robison, the overall effect was somewhat academic, with a lack of flow. This was certainly due in no part to the performer, however. A more apt title may have been Bird Song, as this piece seemed to consist of relatively distinct bits and bobs. That said, Wind Song was not without its moments of haunting beauty. Interestingly, Lanier was also an accomplished poet and oscillated throughout his short life between penning words and musical notes. Like another, more well known Romantic composer, he succumbed to tuberculosis at the painfully young age of 39.

Hopping across the pond, the final two pieces on the program originated from nineteenth-century French composers. Prior to launching into Paul Taffanel’s (1844-1908) Fantasy on Themes from Weber’s Der Freischutz, Ms. Robison crossed herself and blurted out “It’s my first time playing this piece!,” endearing her all the more to the rapt audience. Fantasy is a rollicking, dramatic, jaunty, toe-tapping, tuneful romp that showcases piano as well as flute. Both artists performed this challenging work admirably, flutist Robison exhibiting impressive breath control and dramatically wiping her brow after a particularly demanding riff. Great deal of whooping and hollering as the final notes died away, performers responding with blown kisses. Let the lovefest begin!

Saved for last, the Sonata in A Major by César Franck (1822-1890) was the pièce de résistance of the afternoon. This lush and majestic composition, presented as the wedding gift of all wedding gifts to Belgian violinist Eugène Ysaÿe, was transmogrified from violin/piano to flute/piano by none other than Paula Robison herself. Rich and highly demanding, this quintessentially Romantic music was deftly handled by both performers. Robison’s playing was colorful and assured; Ms. Chi tossed off the large, growly piano sections, featuring both cross-unders as well as cross-overs, with aplomb. (Only slight reservation being that the flute/piano balance became slightly skewed towards the latter as the piece drew to its dramatic conclusion.) Even a slight technical malfunction could not deter the indefatigable Ms. Robison: when a small section of her mouthpiece fluttered to the floor between movements, she calmly replaced it and soldiered on (the five-second rule apparently applying to the Jordan Hall stage).

Our sustained and enthusiastic ovation was rewarded with a succulent encore: Maurice Ravel’s Piece in the Form of an Habanera, a fitting ending to a performance that showcased both artistic beauty and humanity.

Michael Rocha is a self-described “long-ago” music teacher, a long-time music enthusiast and pianist, and a short-time Web designer . He has an MS in Meteorology from MIT.

Jennifer Frautschi, Mihae Lee and Julie Albers (Mike Rocha photo)

On Saturday, August 13^th, a large Cantabrigian crowd eschewed the lure of a pleasant summer evening and flowed into the caramel confines of Longy School’s Pickman Hall for the second of four Hamel Summer Series concerts presented by the Boston Chamber Music Society.  The BCMS, now in its thirtieth season, consists of a core group of eight musicians, led by Artistic Director and violist Marcus Thompson.  This evening’s concert featured one of these members, inestimable pianist Mihae Lee, and three giga-gifted guest performers.  The musical offerings spanned three centuries and myriad musical genres.

In and of itself, the music of Igor Stravinsky (1882-1971) spans myriad musical genres, and the first composition on the program, Three Pieces for Solo Clarinet (1918), written in the waning days of World War I, seems nothing less than a microcosm of his diverse stylistic output.  This succinct set consists of flavors ranging from Russian folk to neoclassical to jazz and got the evening off to a multifaceted and upbeat start.  Clarinetist Romie de Guise-Langlois produced tones that ran the gamut from silky to impish, projecting an aura of centered calm while deftly handling the rapid musical turns of phrase.  Her technique was nimble and squawk-free; her presentation refreshingly straightforward.

Next up, we were treated to one of the sources of Stravinsky’s neoclassical experimentation, the music of J. S. Bach (1685-1750).  The Chaconne from Bach’s Partita No. 2 in d minor for Solo Violin (BWV 1004) made for quite the fascinating juxtaposition with the Stravinsky; the former a study in puckish brevity, the latter, a massive work of unparalleled musical depth and complexity.  Of the three partitas Bach penned for unaccompanied violin, only the second contains a chaconne, and this final movement is more than double the length of the four previous sections combined.  In this theme and variation tour de force Bach presents a four-measure subject and goes on to craft a grand total of 64 variations.  The truly jaw-dropping aspect of this work is the way in which JSB manages to intricately weave together a repeating four-note bass line and an overarching melody, this on an instrument with decidedly limited harmonic capabilities.  The result is a lofty piece of musical architecture that pushes the violin and its performer to their limits.   Fortunately, soloist Jennifer Frautschi was more than up to the challenge.  Her playing was poised and well-articulated, with a sweeping dynamic range and a minimum of errant mouse squeaks from her cooperative 1722 Stradivarius.  Her tempo seemed to flag a tad in the D Major middle section, but I’m nitpicking.  All told, a masterful rendition that precipitated a standing ovation, complete with whistles and even a smattering of enthusiastic whoops.  It seems borderline miraculous that a sound tapestry of that profundity can come from the pen of one man and the performance of one musician on one small instrument.

With barely enough time for her Strad to cool down, Ms. Frautschi was back onstage with clarinetist Romie de Guise-Langlois and pianist Mihae Lee, tucking in to Bela Bartók’s (1881-1945) Contrasts.  Written specifically for compatriot Hungarian violinist Joseph Szigeti and American jazz clarinetist Benny Goodman, this piece admirably showcases the two disparate instruments while exploiting their delectable combination of crunchy and buttery tones.  Contrasts more than lives up to its name, with bipolar mood swings covering the spectrum from edgy to brash to downright frenetic.  Not surprisingly, Ms. Frautschi continued her high caliber of play, and de Guise-Langlois was spot-on as well.  Relegated to a supporting role, pianist Mihae Lee nonetheless shone through as rock-solid and unflaggingly attentive, seemingly enjoying the dashes of musical paprika Bartók included in the form of interspersed glissandos.  The overall effect was one of coherent and vibrant musicality, ending with horsehairs flying.

Rounding out the evening was the earthy and visceral music of Antonin Dvorák (1841-1904).  Preternaturally active violinist Frautschi and pianist Mihae Lee were joined by Julie Albers on cello as they recreated the “Dumky,” aka Piano Trio in e minor, Opus 90.  This unusually crafted piece consists of six sections (dumky), each dumka being an original work based on that Bohemian folk form.  All of Dvorák’s dumky contain alternating plaintive and rollicking sections, resulting in a rather dizzying emotional ebb and flow.  While the soulful laments could bring a tear to one’s eye, the unbridled enthusiasm of the accompanying dances made it difficult to stay seated.  With soulful tunes and hummable melody lines, Dvorák paints a vivid moodscape.  Frautschi shone yet again; Lee was secure and crisp on piano, and cellist Albers had a consistently round tone and smooth phrasing.  This was an impassioned performance that might have had old Antonin dancing in the aisles.

Overall, a stimulating spectrum of music vividly brought to life with consistently top-drawer playing.  Definitely worth spending a perfect summer evening indoors. … And the mini-creampuffs at the post-concert reception weren’t so bad either!

The two remaining concerts of the Boston Chamber Music Hamel Summer Series take place on Saturday, August 20 and Saturday, August 27.

Michael Rocha is a self-described “long-ago” music teacher, a long-time music enthusiast and pianist, and a short-time Web designer: http://www.cobaltocumulus.com.  He has an MS in Meteorology from MIT.

As most readers are no doubt aware, the allure of Tanglewood extends well beyond the auditory. The warm glow and sweet fragrance of Ozawa Hall’s teak and pine interior (enhanced this evening by more than a whiff of citronella), as well as the idyllic tableau of music patrons lounging and picnicking on the expansive lawn visible from the open rear wall of the hall, conspire to enrich one’s concert experience. The building humidity of the unconditioned air seemingly did nothing to dampen the anticipation of the near-capacity audience.

Thibaudet cut an angular, dashing figure as he strode assuredly across the stage and, with virtually no preamble, gave voice to the waiting Steinway. Now on the cusp of fifty, Thibaudet has been intimately intertwined with the music of Ravel for well over four decades. In fact, in terms of teacher-student lineage, Jean-Yves is a ‘grandson’ of the composer, as his first piano instruction was given by Lucette Descaves, one of Ravel’s students. Mme. Descaves actually presented her gifted young pupil with many scores annotated by the composer himself. Prodigy Thibaudet first performed his fellow Frenchman’s Piano Concerto in G at age eleven and had mastered all of Ravel’s solo piano works by the time he was fifteen.

Given this musical pedigree, it was certainly no surprise that Thibaudet’s recreations were insightful and complex, featuring a kaleidoscopic range of pianistic color. He performed with aplomb and panache, incorporating a deceptively relaxed style in which his fingers scampered gracefully over the keys and a touch that ranged from gossamer to rugged. In addition, his spare use of the damper pedal (as instructed indirectly from Ravel himself via Mme. Descaves) added to the jewel-like, multifaceted clarity. Jean-Yves “tickled the ivories” in the best sense of the phrase.

Ravel’s music is ingeniously crafted, composed with precision and more than a dash of sardonic humor as well as the occasional pinch of irreverence. His solo piano works were written over the span of approximately two decades; this recital included one of the earliest, the impetuous Sérénade grotesque (initial marking: “très rude”), penned when the composer was still in his teens, as well as his last, Le Tombeau de Couperin, completed during the upheaval of World War I. This programmatic juxtaposition underscored just how quickly Ravel’s musical language had matured: by age eighteen his piquant harmonies and syncopated flourishes were already in full flower. Le Tombeau gave an added gravitas to this compositional vocabulary as Ravel crafted a stately and hypnotic six-movement memorial to French Baroque music. In the final Toccata, Thibaudet’s prodigious technique was on full display as highly articulated finger action and feathery touch combined to lend a preternatural lucidity to the hand-blurring sequences.

The evening’s works ranged from the simple and elegant Prélude, written as a sight-reading exercise for Conservatoire students, to the substantive, highly evocative Miroirs (“snoitcelfeR”), whose five movements feature “Noctuelles” (“Night Moths,” with fistfuls of notes as demanding as any étude) “Oiseaux tristes” (“Sad Birds” — which included an accompanying birdsong outside the Ozawa Hall as the plaintive notes died away) and “Une barque sur l’océan” (“A Boat on the Ocean,” with startlingly apropos musical realizations). The penultimate movement, “Alborada del gracioso” (“Morning Song of a Jester”), is particularly challenging, featuring arpeggiated outbursts and glissandos as well as syncopated, puckish rhythms that foreshadow the works of Ginastera. Thibaudet tossed off these riffs with grace and a heightened rhythmic sense no doubt enhanced by his multiple forays into the jazz realm. The final “La vallée des cloches” (“Valley of the Bells”) conjured up impressionistic visions of Monet’s majestic Rouen Cathedral.

It is indeed a rare and revelatory treat to experience a concert in which composer and performer share such a strong, nearly lifelong connection. That Thibaudet has a profound understanding of Ravel’s music is an understatement. Actually, I’d venture that Jean-Yves and Joseph-Maurice would have gotten on famously.

Though the program was of reasonable length (beginning at 8 pm and ending at 9:25 pm, by my watch, including an intermission), the entire recital seemed to pass in a blink. Clamoring for more, our lusty standing-O was rewarded with a single encore. More Ravel, you may guess? No, after brief contemplation, Thibaudet settled on Nocturne in E-flat, Opus 9, No. 2, exquisitely crafted by another transcendent French composer, Frédéric-François Chopin. Très magnifique!

Michael Rocha is a self-described “long-ago” music teacher, a long-time music enthusiast and pianist, and a short-time Web designer: http://www.cobaltocumulus.com.  He has an MS in Meteorology from MIT.

Michael Rocha photo

On Bastille Day 2011, in an idyllic New England coastal village, on a picture-perfect summer evening featuring a refreshing bit of chill in the air and a nearly full Buck Moon, the Borromeo String Quartet offered a wide-ranging concert as part of the Rockport Chamber Music Festival.

The RCMF, celebrating its thirtieth season, moved into a new home just over a year ago when it migrated from the Rockport Art Association building to the freshly minted Shalin Liu Performance Center. (Ms. Liu is a Taiwanese philanthropist now living in the Boston area.) The SLPC, erected on the site of the 1845 Haskins mercantile building, features a pleasantly quaint Second Empire exterior and a posilutely stunning interior. Walls of textured granite brick and a balcony of interwoven wooden slats frame a massive window behind the stage overlooking Rockport Harbor. The overall effect is warm and intimate, with the natural materials reflecting both sound waves and rocky shore, and the space still retaining a tangy whiff of that “new car” fragrance. It truly looks too magical to be real. Actually, this architectural gem is quite evocative of Tanglewood’s Ozawa Hall (albeit with a capacity of just 330), which should fail to surprise, given that they share the same architectural and acoustical parents, Epstein Joslin Architects and Kirkegaard Associates, respectively. Hands down a multifaceted aesthetic triumph.

Speaking of multifaceted aesthetic triumphs, the Borromeo String Quartet is at the top of its game. Formed over two decades ago and still consisting of two of the original members (husband and wife Nicholas Kitchen, violin and Yeesun Kim, cello), the eight-handed, 40-fingered Borromonster is an elegant beast that breathes musical fire. Despite the group’s longevity, these musicians are decidedly twenty-first century and were early adopters of digital musical scores. Alas, there was an unfortunate drawback in this particular venue: screen glare necessitated the drawing of the woven wooden screen behind the stage prior to the start of the concert, depriving the audience of a glowing sunset over the harbor. Pity! Someone definitely needs to suggest anti-glare filters for the group’s computer monitors. (Trivia corner: In case you’re wondering, the Borromeos take their name from the Borromean islands in Lago Maggiore, northern Italy, where they performed their inaugural concerts.)

Once the capacity crowd had settled into the cushy-comfy seats, the dulcet sounds of Mozart wafted through the auditorium as the Borromeos plunged in to his String Quartet No. 18 in A Major (“The Drum”). The penultimate in a set of a half-dozen quartets dedicated to his friend Franz Joseph Haydn, this is music at the pinnacle of the Classical period. Apparently, despite his reputation for tossing off fully formed works, Wolfgang struggled to craft these quartets ‘just so’ for the highly respected Haydn, and the original manuscripts contain numerous uncharacteristic strikethroughs and rewrites. We were thus treated to music penned by a composer at the peak of his creative powers and recreated by instrumentalists at the apex of their craft. Light, airy melodies soared through the lofty space as we were enveloped by this gentle, refined, exquisitely woven aural tapestry. Subjects passed seamlessly from player to player in a crystal-clear dialogue that sharply delineated the inner structures of the music. Violinist Kitchen was as rock-solid as the coastline, playing with Federer-like coolness. Meanwhile, his instrumental counterpart Kristopher Tong sawed with great gusto and animation. Stoic, relatively undemonstrative Yeesun Kim effectively transmogrified her cello into a drum during the third movement Andante (from which the piece obviously derives its sobriquet), and sweet-faced violist Mai Motobuchi tenderly cradled her instrument while spinning flawless melodic accompaniment.

Michael Rocha photo

And then everything changed. With a click of a mouse, we were hurtled from 1785 to 2005, and the sweet melodies of Mozart were replaced by the tart imaginings of contemporary American composer Daniel Brewbaker. Quite the juxtaposition, as the musical palette went from NECCO pastels to graffiti fluorescence. As explained in illuminating introductory remarks by Kitchen, Brewbaker’s Dance for My Fathers (String Quartet No. 2), commissioned for Juilliard’s centennial, is a four-movement homage to a selection of the composer’s mentors, musicians Roger Sessions, Gordon Binkerd, and Vincent Persichetti, as well as Brewbaker’s own father. Overall, this was the sort of music that was challenging for both performers and listeners, with angular melodic lines and jarring harmonies. “Roger’s Session” was tense and high-strung, featuring scampering pizzicato riffs; “Gordon’s Garden” sounded like a garden of thistles; the third movement tribute to the elder Brewbaker was somewhat mellower and pensively nostalgic; the final movement tribute to Persichetti was darkly frenetic and hyper-demanding. Surprised the performers’ instruments didn’t burst aflame as they blazed through this edgy work. Their playing was virtually flawless, with nary a stray squeak. Consistently musical, consistently passionate, consistently precise, they played as one. This is especially impressive given their clearly distinct musical personalities: suave Kitchen, energetic Tong, motherly Motobuchi, steady Kim.

Appropriately enough on this Bastille Day, the final work of the evening was Frenchman Claude Debussy’s single contribution to the string quartet genre, his Opus 10. Written in 1894, when the composer was in his early 30s, this is one of the few works to which Debussy ascribed a tonal key (g minor). Shimmery, noble, festooned with whole-tone and pentatonic scales, this piece featured an entirely new and rich soundscape consisting of shifting colors and glittering waves of emotion as the composer forged a new path. Once again, the Borromeos were more than up to the task as they swayed rhythmically in a complex dance during which the instruments became extensions of themselves.

Actually, after hearing the Borromeos deftly handle each of these disparate compositions with grace and seemingly effortless precision, I came to the conclusion that they could make Colonoscopy in Z minor by “Weird Al” Jankovic sound compelling. There’s seemingly nothing in the string quartet repertoire that is beyond their wide-ranging grasp.

And so the evening, aesthetically pleasing in every way, drew to a close. If you’ve yet to experience the passionate elegance of the Borromeo String Quartet, what are you waiting for? And the new home of Rockport Music is not to be missed. The Shalin Liu Performance Center features events year-round.

Michael Rocha is a self-described “long-ago” music teacher, a long-time music enthusiast and pianist, and a short-time Web designer: http://www.cobaltocumulus.com.  He has an MS in Meteorology from MIT.

Rafael Fruhbeck de-Burgos and Simon Trpceski (Stu Rosner photo)

Piping-hot servings of passion and musicality were ladled out to a large Symphony Hall audience Thursday evening, April 28, as guest conductor Rafael Frühbeck de Burgos led the Boston Symphony Orchestra in an exuberant program featuring piano soloist Simon Trpceski.

Aside from phonetically challenging surnames, soloist and conductor share near-birthdays (within three days, though some 46 years apart) and a musical joie de vivre that’s infectious. They combined forces with another high-octane musician, soon-to-be-bicentenarian Franz Liszt, in a rollicking rendition of his second piano concerto. Trpceski (repeat after me, Trrrrp’CHESky; informative BMInt interview here), a meteorically rising star from Macedonia, beamed out from the stage prior to plunging in, making an immediate connection with both audience and orchestra. This engaged and engaging performer seemed completely at ease as he bounded through this virtuosic romp. His playing was assured and highly energized, almost a tad too much so in the early going, as his initial approach to the thunderous passages made it seem as if he were translating fortissimo to mean “attempt to break string.” After pounding the yelping Steinway into submission, Simon (SEE-mon) settled in and treated us to a buoyant rendition that featured seemingly effortless hand-blurring technique and a tone ranging from feathery to fiery, as Liszt’s score explored the lyrical in addition to the bombastic. The communication lines between conductor, soloist, orchestra, and audience were all wide open, and the not-unexpected standing-O rivaled the performance in terms of enthusiasm. Once again: Trrrrp’CHESky. You may want to practice that until it rolls off your tongue.

Bookending the Lisztian centerpiece were two other crowd-pleasers: the seldom-heard Variations and Fugue on a Theme by Mozart, Op. 132 by the underappreciated, short-lived-yet-highly-prolific late Romantic Max Reger, and Ravel’s Boléro. The Variations, utilizing the highly recognizable opening theme from the Piano Sonata in A, K. 331, are admittedly a bit of Mozartian marzipan (slathered in corn syrup), as sweet as the Royal wedding cake and not recommended for musical diabetics. Reger’s über-Romantic treatment of the melody line is highly evocative of a film score; one expected Katie Hepburn and Humphrey Bogart to materialize at any moment. Still in all, Herr Reger’s transmutations are quite clever and can be appreciated on numerous levels. Under Frühbeck de Burgos’s steady baton (no score required), the phrasing was exquisite, the BSO strings as coherent as these ears have ever heard them, and the overall effect extremely lush and polished.

Boléro was very Boléro, weirdly mesmerizing for all its simplicity; the sort of music one imagines the likes of Steve Reich and Philip Glass must have heard time and again and time and again and time and again in their cribs. As minimalist as a Rothko exhibition, yet somehow captivating. FdB’s tempo was pleasingly brisk; the numerous featured soloists flawless, most especially a surprisingly sinuous and sensuous saxophone lick. The audience remained rapt throughout and, following the outrageously orgasmic climax, rose to their feet for a second time. Given Ravel’s animosity towards this piece, he may well have been annoyed at this response.

All told, a triumphant and uplifting evening of music-making featuring a conductor crowding 80, collaborating with a kindred musical spirit nearly a half-century his junior and a trio of much earlier composers. The BSO was firing on all cylinders as they turned on a peso in response to Frühbeck de Burgos’s full-blooded and full-bodied conducting style, which included a particularly expressive left hand, fingers fluttering to tease out that extra scintilla of sound. Both conductor and soloist exuded music from every pore. Refreshingly, given that all of the evening’s works were essentially extended single movements, the audience was denied a Symphony Hall tradition: the opportunity to accompany the music with various inter-movement hacking and spluttering. Excellent choice of programming!

Michael Rocha is a self-described “long-ago” music teacher, a long-time music enthusiast and pianist, and a short-time Web designer: http://www.cobaltocumulus.com.  He has an MS in Meteorology from MIT.

Tomšic, who has been performing for all but the first five of her seventy years, has given upwards of 4,000 recitals, a truly staggering number when you do a bit of back-of-the-envelope scribbling (an average of considerably more than a recital per week for well over half a century). At the urging of pianist Claudio Arrau, she emigrated to the United States at age twelve, matriculating at Juilliard and earning her Bachelor of Science and Diploma in Piano while still in her teens. Following her Carnegie Hall debut, legendary pianist Artur Rubinstein took her under his wing as his only protégé. Shortly after completing her studies, Tomšic returned to her native Ljubljana, where she still makes her home. Some thirty years would pass before her next visit to the States.

Looking resplendent in a shimmering floor-length outfit of gold, green, and black, Tomšic presented a physically and psychologically demanding program. Beethoven’s Sonata in D minor, Op. 31, No. 2, the “Tempest,” got things off to a dark and stormy start. Written during a tempestuous period in Ludwig’s life as he struggled with dispiriting hearing loss, chronic digestive discomfort (possibly associated with lead poisoning), and an unsuccessful affair of the heart, this is a piece that wears its emotions on its sleeve, as Beethoven segued from Classicism to Romanticism. Tomsic’s approach seemed to harken back to the Classical as she opted for refinement over raw emotion, restraint over fiery freneticism. This was especially apparent in the final Allegretto, which, with its relatively gentle opening and controlled tempo, was an unusually elegant rendition, where pathos and yearning replaced the usual anger and fist-shaking. As it happens, just six days prior, this reviewer was in this very venue, from a nearly identical vantage point, for a performance of the same piece by the young Japanese pianist Nobuyuki Tsujii (review here). This made for an intriguing juxtaposition. Tsujii took a decidedly more romantic tack, featuring a great deal more percussive force and translating Beethoven’s notes into something much more emphatic. This is music on the cusp of two periods, with a wide range of potential interpretations. Beethoven’s not talking.

Similarly, LvB’s “Les adieux,” Sonata No. 26 in E-flat Major, Opus 81a, also straddles two interpretive worlds. Its conception is seemingly emotionally charged, based as it is on the fleeing of one of Beethoven’s patrons and students, Archduke Rudolph, ahead of the invading French troops as they stormed Vienna, and the sobriquets Beethoven assigned to each movement (“Farewell,” “Absence,” and “Return”) are certainly ripe with feeling. Unlike most artists, however, Tomšic downplayed this inherent sentimentality, favoring nobility and polish. The Beethovenian plosives and fricatives of the first movement sounded surprisingly dignified; the giddiness of the final Vivacissimamente held in check. All told, she demonstrated the stately side of Herr Beethoven, something more readily apparent in his earlier works. Her playing was seemingly effortless, with her square-jawed and patrician countenance betraying little emotion and bordering on the dispassionate. There was little wasted motion as she generated a clear, bell-like tone with her powerful hands and wrists. Interestingly, she appeared to be looking almost straight ahead, as opposed to down at the keyboard, with a stoic, sometimes faraway expression.

The music of Frédéric Chopin oozes refinement and elegance. Though quintessentially Romantic, Chopin’s works are highly polished jewels, raw emotion having been burnished and channeled into shapely phrases and soaring melodic lines. Not surprisingly, Tomšic’s interpretations of his four Ballades (No. 1 in G minor, Opus 23; No. 2 in F Major, Opus 38; No. 3 in A-flat Major, Opus 47; No. 4 in F minor, Opus 52) generally seemed more appropriate than those of the Beethoven. These wide-ranging works, featuring disparate thematic elements, a massive dynamic range, and knuckle-busting virtuosic passages, were tossed off with disarming grace and aplomb. If anything,  Tomšic made them seem almost too easy. One wished for a bit more emotional abandon at times. Ballade No. 1 was perhaps a tad too deliberate; No. 2 exuded depth, passion, and uncanny technical prowess; the jocularity of No. 3, analogous to the final movements of both Beethoven sonatas, was held somewhat at bay; No. 4 was hyper-elegant and lush, the jewel in the crown.

As we rose to our feet, cries of “Brrrava, Dubrrravka!” rang out. Our enthusiasm was generously rewarded with four encores: Liszt’s Valse oubliée No. 1, “Forgotten Waltz,” Chopin’s misnamed “Minute” Waltz; Liszt’s Étude de concert – “Gnomenreigen” (“Dance of the Gnomes”) and Liszt’s Étude de concert – “La Leggierezza.” For this pair of ears, these encores glittered and sparkled as brightly as Tomšic’s attire, as she seemed at last to let go and lose herself in the music. Her exquisite phrasing, nuanced interpretations, and a textural range from diaphanous to thunderous were all on display. Appeared as if she could have spun seamless melodies and knocked off crashing octave runs well into the night.

Dubravka Tomšic is indisputably one of the most accomplished pianists of her generation. Though highly successful and astoundingly prolific, her recognition in the West tends to be relegated to Classical music connoisseurs, possibly due to her long absence from North America prior to the fall of the Iron Curtain. Fortunately, in the past twenty years, she’s made numerous well received visits. To witness an artist of her caliber is a rare and thrilling treat. That said, this performance was not without flaws. Though generally rock-solid, her playing was definitely not note-perfect and included a couple of disarming, though well-camouflaged, memory slips. In addition, her reserve seemed to dampen the expressivity of the music at times. Having recently lost her husband, composer Alojz Srebotnjak, one wonders if that loss is still reverberating in her music making. All nit-picking and speculation aside, however, this was a fantastically impressive and stimulating concert. Tomšic plays with wisdom and depth, sounding, in the best sense, like a performer who has been making music of the highest quality since Truman was in office. Brrrava, Dubrrravka!

Michael Rocha is a self-described “long-ago” music teacher, a long-time music enthusiast and pianist, and a short-time Web designer: http://www.cobaltocumulus.com.  He has an MS in Meteorology from MIT.

Michael Rocha photo

Buzz and curiosity were palpable as a large audience dotted with musical luminaries flowed into New England Conservatory’s Jordan Hall Saturday evening, April 9. A highly anticipated Event was about to take place —a solo recital by the Japanese pianist Nobuyuki Tsujii, presented by the Foundation for Chinese Performing Arts.

Tsujii (“Nobu”), whose congenital microphthalmia denies him the sense of sight, has become a worldwide musical sensation since capturing the gold medal at age twenty in the 2009 Van Cliburn International Piano Competition. He has amassed a formidable repertoire, including large-scale concerti, accrued almost exclusively by ear, albeit with occasional help from Braille scores. From single-hand recordings made by his teacher, Nobu first learns the right- and left-hand parts independently, then somehow conflates the two into a startlingly coherent whole. Absolute pitch no doubt helps (neurologist Oliver Sacks estimates that some one-third to one-half of the congenitally blind have perfect pitch); little Nobu at the age of two can be seen  accompanying his mother on a toy piano here. In case you’re curious, for concerti, Tsujii takes his cues from the conductor’s breathing.

Nobuyuki’s Saturday evening program progressed chronologically from Classical to early Romantic to mid-Romantic, with his interpretive success following an upward trajectory. Nobu has a cherubic, almost cuddly, stage presence, which is in stark contrast with his approach to the piano. His playing is firm and percussive, with an emphasis on precisely articulated legato. After quickly orienting himself at the keyboard, his hands stay close to the keys. Notes are never pulled from the instrument, rather, they are emphatically pushed. The considerable power he generates seems to come primarily from his fingers, with body and arms remaining quite still. Aside from his highly active hands, Nobu’s shaggy head is the most animated part of his anatomy, rotating forcefully and frequently to and fro, perhaps allowing him to hear the music from different angles as it reverberates around the hall. His aural palette leans towards the primary and opaque; not much subtle pastel or limpid translucency in his soundscape. Interestingly, Nobuyuki explains that he imagines colors as he plays: “I like blue and orange, so I visualize those colors when I perform. I try to think which color would go with which piece.”

This sort of forceful, Beethovenesque approach fits some works very well, while being highly inappropriate for others. Alas, the opening selection, Mozart’s pellucid Sonata No. 10 in C Major, K. 330 requires an entirely different flavor of interpretation. In Nobu’s powerful hands, the result was decidedly robust, with an unfortunate dearth of lyricism and phrasing. Guessing this might have actually startled Herr Wolfgang. Fortunately, immediately on the heels of this piece was quintessential Beethoven: the aptly named (though not directly by Ludwig himself) “Tempest” sonata, No. 17 in d minor, Op. 31, No. 2. This fit Nobu’s hands like the proverbial glove, at least the outermost tempestuous movements. Fiery and highly energized, the first movement Largo-Allegro and final Allegretto crackled with verve and excitement, and showcased Tsujii’s astonishing accuracy and immense technical prowess. We won’t mention the second movement.

Modest Mussorgsky, a larger-than-life Russian who succumbed to the ravages of alcoholism at the age of forty-two, created his most well-known piano work, Pictures at an Exhibition, in a paroxysm of composing following the similarly premature death of his friend, artist and architect Viktor Hartmann. This suite of movements aurally portrays an imaginary tour of a retrospective collection of the artist’s works. Nobu Tsujii’s recreation of this evocative and colorful music proved to be the highlight of the evening. Passages ranged from delicate to athletic; from playful to sinister; from majestic to frenetic. Tsujii explored a broader tonal spectrum and displayed a near-flawless burst of keyboard pyrotechnics. The music sparkled.

Following an enthusiastic standing-o (which hopefully the performer could sense), Tsujii obliged the highly receptive audience with three encores: two of his own compositions and a well-known Chopin bonbon, Prelude, Op. 28, No. 15, the “Raindrop.” Nobu’s own music is sunny and straightforward, and he obviously enjoyed sharing it with us, as evidenced by his beaming smile. The pastels of the Chopin were lacking, though a much sweeter and more intimate interpretation may actually be found on his website here. This version makes one wonder as to how much of Nobu’s heavy tone was a function of venue and instrument. Perhaps there was a bit of overcompensation for the hall? Perhaps the overly-bright tone of the piano was a factor?

Nobuyuki Tsujii is a captivating, albeit enigmatic, musician. He is the embodiment of optimism and perseverance; an inspiring and ebullient example for us all as he conquers challenges and acknowledges no obstacles. The fact of his prodigious musical accomplishment is a testament to preternatural talent, hard work, neural plasticity, and an indomitable spirit. He’s also a curiosity, and this no doubt factors in to his meteoric rise to fame. The possibility of a sustained and meaningful career certainly exists, if Tsujii can succeed once the public’s initial curiosity is sated. Playing to his strengths by focusing on repertoire appropriate to his approach and technique would undoubtedly help him down the path of a long-lived and fulfilling musical journey. I wish him well.

Michael Rocha is a self-described “long-ago” music teacher, a long-time music enthusiast and pianist, and a short-time Web designer: http://www.cobaltocumulus.com.  He has an MS in Meteorology from MIT.

The Forces arrayed (Michael Rocha photo)

On the cusp of both the Vernal Equinox and the 326th anniversary of Johann Sebastian Bach’s birth, the Freisinger Chamber Orchestra brought to life one of the composer’s most profound and fulfilling works, his Mass in B minor, BWV 232, performed in the cozy confines of Old South Church’s Gordon Chapel on March 19.

That a devout Lutheran should endeavor to create a setting of the Catholic Latin Mass might initially seem somewhat perplexing; perplexing, that is, until one takes a generous mental step backward, at which point the bigger picture comes into focus. It actually might be more appropriate to interpret this piece as both the glorification of the concept of a supreme being by a supreme human being and the culmination of a lifetime of transcendent music making. As it turned out, a bigger-picture perspective was also necessary to fully appreciate this particular realization.

As he entered his sixties, Bach’s eyesight was rapidly failing, rendering him all but blind by the time of his death at age 65. Doggedly he persevered, and in his final few years somehow managed to pen his monumental Mass. Truth be told, this was more an exercise in consolidation than in creation, given that most of the music (with the exception of the Credo) had been composed years, if not decades, earlier. Unfortunately, but not surprisingly, Bach did not live to hear its performance. In fact, this music languished in obscurity through the latter eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries; a rendition of the full Mass not taking place until 1859, more than a century after the composer’s death. Today, of course, it’s recognized as one of the preeminent pieces of Western classical music and has become a staple of the repertoire.

The recreation of this Mass, massive in both scope and complexity, is a daunting undertaking for a group of any size and caliber. That conductor Peter Freisinger managed to pull it off with just a small chamber orchestra and only eight singers is a testament to optimism, dedication, talent, and resilient vocal cords. In addition, the small, live space of Gordon Chapel, replete with the highly reflective surfaces of stone and wood, was the perfect small-scale venue for this small-scale group and this very large-scale composition. Cascades of notes reverberated pleasantly in the bouncy acoustic and easily filled the space.

Maestro Freisinger exudes congeniality both on and off the podium. His conducting style appears to be of the ‘broad brush’ (or ‘broad baton’) variety, with sweeping, balletic gestures and barely contained enthusiasm. (Oddly enough, he was actually baton-less during the first two sections.) His tempi were consistently brisk, energetic, and appropriate; his innate musicality readily apparent. An accomplished pianist, organist, violinist, and violist, Herr Freisinger appeared at times as if he were about to reach out and actually play some of the notes himself.

Solo voices were uniformly clear and polished; highlights included the gloriously rich, smooth performance of soprano Heidi Freimanis in the Laudamus te of the Gloria; the velvety dialogue between mezzo Christina Calamaio and oboist Nathan Swain; the exuberant tenor Eric Christopher Perry in the Benedictus, and the impassioned, delectably yummy-plummy tones of mezzo Jacque Eileen Wilson in the Agnus dei. The Gloria also featured a sweetly sung duo by soprano Margaret Felice and tenor Eric Christopher Perry. And here’s something you certainly don’t see every day (or year, for that matter): baritone James Dargan striding briskly from chorus to orchestra, grabbing a violin and casually tossing off the Laudamus te, after which he quickly tucked back in with his fellow singers. As if he didn’t have enough on his plate! Baritones James Dargan and James C.S. Liu shared more than Christian names: their voices were both somewhat on the light side, with little evident gravitas, though highly precise and effective.

Of course, given that the entire chorus essentially consisted of soloists, it’s not terribly surprising that blend was sometimes an issue, and vibrato tended to be a bit too amplified. Balance was also tricky, with instrumentalists (and occasionally just the continuo) overpowering the vocalists at times. The players were a tad shaky, especially in the early going, with the strings being just a whisker out of phase, as well as the occasional brass clam. Ah, but this is where it’s important not to dwell too much on the details, for therein the devil lies. Pulling back slightly, the overall effect is revealed to have been extremely musical and uplifting, a triumph of highly spirited and passionate music making. Certainly a treat to experience such an energetic rendition of such unparalleled music in such an intimate venue. A truly fine birthday gift for Johann.

Michael Rocha is a self-described “long-ago” music teacher, a long-time music enthusiast and pianist, and a short-time Web designer: http://www.cobaltocumulus.com.  He has an MS in Meteorology from MIT.

Nai-Yuan Hu, violin, Ning An, piano and Bion Tsang, cello (BMInt staff photo)

Three syllables’ worth of surnames added up to a startling amount of musicality at New England Conservatory’s Jordan Hall Saturday evening, February 12th. The Foundation for Chinese Performing Arts presented Nai-Yuan Hu, violin, Bion Tsang, cello, and Ning An, piano in a riveting recital entitled “Instrumental Minds.”

Compositionally speaking, this program had a certain straightforward logic: a solo piano work preceded a duo for the rarely heard combination of violin and cello; following intermission, the three instrumentalists combined forces. The reasoning behind the mix of composers – Sergei Rachmaninoff, Zoltán Kodály, Anton Arensky —was a bit harder to fathom, though Arensky was actually one of Rachmaninoff’s professors at the Moscow Conservatory. This spicy Hungarian sandwich on Romantic Russian bread did, however, make for a piquant combination.

Ning An, the young upstart of the group, is a formidable keyboard talent. His rendition of Rachmaninoff’s Variations on a Theme of Corelli, Op. 42 featured strikingly precise articulation and a graceful virtuosity. In Rachmaninoff’s hands, these twenty variations, based on a set of variations of the familiar Folia theme by Baroque composer Arcangelo Corelli, are positively etude-esque in scope and construction. Their wide-ranging emotional spectrum arcs from majestic to impish to rollicking to introspective, all moods lucidly conveyed by An. His approach is one of controlled passion: refined, deliberate, emotionally charged. An cast a rather regal, elegant bearing onstage, his lanky frame swaying gently as his Rachmaninoffian-sized hands adroitly capered over the keys. A captivating performance.

Kodály’s Duo for Violin and Cello, Op. 7 is one of a regrettably limited number of pieces crafted for this instrumental combination. Somber and angular, this work, penned at the start of World War I, seems to reflect the dark mood of the time. Kodály, along with compatriot and contemporary Béla Bartók, was an inveterate ethnomusicologist who ferreted out and catalogued multitudinous Hungarian folk songs. This is readily apparent in his Duo, which, with its generous use of pizzicato technique and modal key structure, evokes a decidedly Eastern European flavor. This impassioned, declamatory, melodically acerbic and technically demanding music was handled with sophistication and reverence by the instrumentalists. Violinist Nai-Yuan Hu, the elder statesman of the group, performed with a high degree of stern-faced competence; Bion Tsang spun a warm, full tone on the violin’s larger cousin. Both players clearly communicated the yearning and pathos of the piece, painting a desolate music landscape with a passionate performance. And, what’s this? Almost as impressive as the music-making was the decided lack of coughing and spluttering between movements, reflective of a highly absorbed, attentive, and/or healthy audience. Refreshing!

Sergei Rachmaninoff, Zoltán Kodály, Anton Arensky (Michael Rocha triptych)

Anton Arensky is the only composer I know to have a glacier named after him, the Arensky Glacier in Antarctica, a rather odd tribute bestowed by the USSR Academy of Sciences in 1987. Musically, Arensky’s output during his brief life was anything but glacial. Case in point: his Trio No. 1 in D minor, Op. 32, a lush, energetic, rhapsodically Romantic work that envelops the listener in a warm blanket of sound. Hu, Tsang, and An combined to weave a flowing, shimmering soundscape with melody lines that rippled through the instruments. The second movement “Scherzo” flowed by in a froth of notes; the nostalgic “Elegia” appropriately paid tribute to cellist Karl Davidov, in whose memory the work was composed. Not surprisingly, the cello figured prominently, and Bion Tsang played with intensity and bravura. All told, hard to imagine a more stirring, glittering performance of this late Romantic gem, a highly appropriate choice for the eve of the eve of Valentine’s Day. Though only their second collaboration, the musicians played as if the Hu-Tsang-An Trio was a long-established entity.

This concert turned out to be much more than the “Instrumental Minds” title suggested. These performers wore their hearts on their sleeves.

Michael Rocha is a self-described “long-ago” music teacher, a long-time music enthusiast and pianist, and a short-time Web designer: http://www.cobaltocumulus.com. He has an MS in Meteorology from MIT.

Kadar Qian plays Chopin's Piano Concerto No. 2 (Michael Rocha photo)

Generous dollops of love and warmth were doled out Friday evening, January 28th, at Harvard University’s venerable Sanders Theatre, when the Boston Landmarks Orchestra presented its ninth annual Winter Concert, aptly entitled “Love’s Muse.” Though the BLO’s founder, Charles Ansbacher, passed away last fall, his labor of love lives on in the Free For All Concert Fund, created by the Maestro in the final year of his life. Tonight’s free concert, sponsored by this new foundation, keeps Ansbacher’s dream of making orchestral music accessible to all very much alive.

The glowing confines of Sanders Theatre filled rapidly to capacity, as music-lovers poured in to the warm hall, leaving the winter chill behind. The caramel-colored wood of both hall and instruments looked good enough to eat. Appropriately enough, we were treated to the musical equivalent of a box of pre-Valentine bonbons. And our emcee for the festivities? WCRB’s warm and effusive morning host, Laura Carlo, of course. What’s not to love?

The hyper-familiar though most definitely neither moth-eaten nor moss-covered Overture to the Barber of Seville, composed by the irrepressible Gioacchino Rossini (1792-1868), got things off to a rollicking start. Guest conductor Ronald Feldman, whose precocious musical career began with his appointment to the Boston Symphony cello section at age nineteen, led the orchestra in a precise, if somewhat reserved, rendition. Tempi were a bit conservative; this realization seemed to lack Rossini’s inherent freneticism, urgency, and propulsion. Indeed, the menagerie of Loony Tunes cartoon characters that this piece inevitably conjures in my mind’s eye appeared a tad less frantic than usual. Though well played, with clear delineation of instruments — especially the woodwinds, the overall effect was a bit sedate. Maestro Feldman’s elegant and graceful conducting style was not particularly well suited for the likes of this hyperactive opera buffa overture. Still, an amusing romp; just a somewhat staid amusing romp.

Our next musical confection was Frédéric Chopin’s Piano Concerto No. 2 in F minor. Written when Chopin was just nineteen and premiered with composer as soloist shortly after his twentieth birthday, this is a lush, quintessentially Romantic work showcasing the lyrical possibilities of the intrinsically percussive pianoforte. Tonight’s soloist was one of Greater Boston’s own: the disarmingly youthful Kadar Qian, who hails from the exurb of Westford. At the tender age of thirteen, Qian  has already compiled a startling number of concerto performances and successful competitions. His realization of Chopin’s masterwork was technically impressive, though somewhat lacking in lyricism. Kadar’s approach seemed to be fundamentally analytical, which manifested itself in a bit too much portato, an underutilization of the damper pedal, and a minimum of phrasing, all attributes more suited to the works of Bach. The compositions of the great Romantics require the expression of elegant, long lines and call for the performer to really “dig in” to the instrument, characteristics that were not apparent in this performance. Undoubtedly these musical attributes will come with maturity. At this stage of his development, Master Qian would be better served focusing on works that play to his prodigious technical and analytical strengths, specifically creations from the Baroque and Classical eras. This Wunderkind obviously has formidable and multifaceted gifts; it will be fascinating to chart his path across the musical firmament. As in the opening piece, this work featured solid playing by the orchestra, with coherent strings and clear winds. Feldman’s tempi were again on the conservative side, and the final Allegro lacked playfulness. All that said, it was indeed a rare treat to witness this admirable performance by a bona fide piano prodigy. In response to an enthusiastic standing ovation, Master Qian rewarded us with a sweet lullaby, Chopin’s Berceuse, Opus 57.

And finally, what heart-shaped box of musical sweets would be complete without a bit of Mozartian marzipan? Symphony No. 36 in C Major, K. 425, the Linz, rounded out the evening’s offerings and actually proved to be the artistic high point. Feldman seemed to be in his element here: tempos were pleasingly brisk; the overall energy level noticeably higher. After a slightly ragged first fistful of bars, the strings settled in and the piece really got rolling. As the tidal wave of notes was washing over us, it gave me pause to contemplate the fact that this large-scale work was created by the newly-married Herr Mozart in a mere four days. Without a MIDI! After a warm and appreciative ovation, Feldman and crew generously offered us one more savory: the luscious Valse from Tchaikovsky’s Serenade for Strings. My blood sugar was through the roof at this point, but who cares?

Cozy, honey-lit hall full to bursting with music-lovers; a succession of Laura Carlo’s Greatest Classical Hits: all quite delectable. Definitely warmed both cockles and cochleae. Heartening to see that Charles Ansbacher’s dream lives on. What’s not to love?

Michael Rocha is a self-described “long-ago” music teacher, a long-time music enthusiast and pianist, and a short-time Web designer: http://www.cobaltocumulus.com. He has an MS in Meteorology from MIT.

Ben Fox, Sebastian Chaves, Akiko Sato, and Cameron Kirkpatrick (Michael Rocha photo)

There’s a new chamber music group in town: The Boston Zelenka Project performed its debut concert Thursday evening, 20 January 2011, in the warm and pleasingly resonant confines of St. John’s Episcopal Church in Jamaica Plain, as part of the J.P. Concerts series.

Oboists Cameron Kirkpatrick and Ben Fox, bassoonist Sebastian Chaves, and harpsichordist Akiko Sato are young, fresh-faced, dynamic, enthusiastic, and highly capable proponents of Baroque music. The eponymous composer of their nascent musical collaboration, Jan Dismas Zelenka (1679-1745), was a Czech musician whose name today is generally unfamiliar to even the most well informed classical music aficionados. Born in Bohemia, Zelenka spent his adult life toiling in relative obscurity in the city of Dresden, churning out a large body of work while never marrying or fathering any offspring. That he is largely unknown today is due to a confluence of factors, none of which has anything to do with the actual quality of his compositions. His focus on large-scale, difficult liturgical works tended to make him inaccessible to the amateur musicians of his day; after his death his oeuvre languished behind the Iron Curtain until its rediscovery in the 1950s. As the BZelP members themselves put it, this is “rockin’ Baroque music” that’s not exactly “consumer-friendly.”

Not surprisingly, given their name, the BZP’s mission is to shine a bright light on the vastly underappreciated works of J. D. Zelenka. Specifically, they’re creating a series of concerts showcasing his six trio sonatas—the sum total of his secular output. In addition to the first of these sonatas, Thursday’s inaugural event featured works by two of Zelenka’s contemporaries, Johann Joachim Quantz (1697-1773) and Georg Philipp Telemann (1681-1767).

Quantz, another accomplished musician whose name has faded over time, was an innovative German flutist and flute designer as well as a prolific composer, who authored over 300 flute concerti. He crossed paths with Zelenka in Dresden, studying counterpoint with the elder composer in 1717. His Trio Sonata in G Major got the evening off to an uplifting start. The clear, contrapuntal dialogue between the oboes and the steady, succinct continuo of the bassoon and keyboard combined to pleasing effect. The BZP members performed this relatively straightforward music expressively, with smooth phrasing that breathed life into the notes.

George Philipp Telemann … now there’s a familiar name! The antithesis in terms of renown to the other two composers on the program, Telemann was well known, wealthy, long-lived (like Saint-Saëns, making it to age 86), and massively prolific (both musically and paternally, as he sired ten children). His Bassoon Sonata in F minor, TWV 41:f1 is a virtuosic showpiece that’s not for the faint-lipped or faint-lunged. Sebastian Chaves is apparently neither, as he plunged in with gusto and performed the hell out of the piece with a lively, lyrical, and full-bodied interpretation. At times his bassoon took on the aural characteristics of the town busybody in full gossip mode.

With the music of two of his counterparts still reverberating in our ears, the pièce de résistance of the evening, J. D. Zelenka’s Trio Sonata No. 1 in F Major was almost startling in its complexity and virtuosity. It should be noted that musicians of the Dresden court were only required to play a single instrument, resulting in a generally higher level of proficiency. This, perhaps, is at least a partial explanation for the challenging nature of Zelenka’s compositions. This is extremely well crafted, tightly woven music that, especially in the fugal second movement, is actually quite reminiscent of the output of J. S. Bach. The “Baroque sewing machine” in all its contrapuntal splendor was on full display. The intricate, glittering passages were handled with ease and musicality by oboists Kirkpatrick and Fox; the continuo deftly woven by bassoonist Chaves and harpsichordist Sato. Quite the ride.

All in all, most definitely a pleasant and enlightening way to spend an early evening. Myriad notes were packed in to a mere forty minutes of music-making. The exuberant and highly capable BZP are certainly worthy ambassadors for the undeservedly obscure Jan Dismas Zelenka. Their vivacity and chops emphatically blew away centuries of dust. The second of their Zelenka Trio Sonata Series is scheduled for February 22.

Michael Rocha is a self-described “long-ago” music teacher, a long-time music enthusiast and pianist, and a short-time Web designer: http://www.cobaltocumulus.com. He has an MS in Meteorology from MIT.

David Schulenberg (Michael Rocha photo)

On December 16, 2010, the 240th anniversary of Beethoven’s birth, harpsichordist David Schulenberg presented an all-Bach noonday recital at the First Church in Boston (timing obviously unintentional). 2010 does, however, mark the tercentenary of Johann Sebastian Bach’s eldest son Wilhelm Friedemann (1710-1784), and Dr. Schulenberg quite deliberately programmed a recital featuring works of both father and son, with an emphasis on the latter.

J. S. Bach was both a prolific composer and progenitor. Of his twenty offspring, Wilhelm Friedemann was Sebastian’s second-born and first son. He was also the first of four sons who would go on to have careers as composers. Unlike his younger brothers, however, Friedemann enjoyed little success, and his relatively modest extant output is infrequently heard today. This is certainly not due to any lack of ability, however: Friedemann’s compositions tend to be complex and well-crafted. Theories abound, but it seems as if a combination of a relatively obstreperous personality, a possible tippling problem, the propensity to improvise as opposed to penning compositions, and the tendency to produce works that were perhaps too convoluted for their own good, conspired to mire Friedemann in relative obscurity. Hats off to Schulenberg for resurrecting some of the long-neglected compositions of this intriguing musician.

After opening with two brief J. S. Bach Praeludia (C Major, BWV 924 and e minor, BWV 932), the remainder of the program was all Friedemann. This instructive Bach-to-Bach juxtaposition of two musical generations served to illustrate both the many similarities as well as the few key differences between father and son. Of Sebastian’s four composer offspring, Friedemann’s style was considered most like that of his father. Generally speaking, the younger Bach’s works tend to maintain the contrapuntal nature of J.S. (though not to the same degree of complexity), while incorporating more expressivity.

Schulenberg packed a fascinating and wide-ranging sampler of W. F. Bach’s music into a scant half-hour recital. The opening Praeludia were followed by L’imitation de la chasse (The imitation of hunting), F. 26, featuring multifarious challenging hand-crossings; La Reveille, F. 27, a rousing piece quite evocative of the keyboard sonatas of Domenico Scarlatti; three selections from Eight Fugues, F. 31 (no. 4 in d minor, no. 1 in C Major, no. 6 in e minor), each reminiscent of his father’s monumental works in this genre, though without the elder Bach’s intricacy; two Polonaises (G Major, F. 12/11, c minor, F. 12/2), both featuring chromatic flourishes, and the March in E-flat Major, F. 30, Friedemann’s only existing foray into this style.

Ah, but the juiciest was saved for last: the third movement (Vivace) from WFB’s Concerto in g minor, F. deest, originally written for strings and keyboard. This solo keyboard version, à la instructions in the original manuscript, segregated the strings to the lower keyboard and solo passages to the upper, which made for quite a dynamic, virtuosic, demanding, and compelling work, featuring an arpeggio-laden orchestral section and lightning-fast transitions to the solo riffs. Piques one’s curiosity as to the sound of the original orchestral incarnation.

Schulenberg’s playing style was direct and no-nonsense; very little in the way of flow or gesture. This straighforward approach, though generally accurate and effective, came across as a bit dry, a tad tight, and somewhat academic at times. The instrument was overly bright and rather “buzzy” (jack rail noise?) and had been tuned to some sort of tangy temperament. This in combination with the rather challenging music created an overall effect that was a bit harsh to this listener’s ears. That said, this was a thoroughly absorbing performance, with a thoughtfully crafted program. How often does one enjoy a smorgasbord of the works of a heretofore little-known yet brilliant composer during half of one’s lunch hour? Polyphony on pumpernickel to go, please; hold the ostinato!

Dr. Schulenberg’s newly-published book, The Music of Wilhelm Friedemann Bach, explores this enigmatic composer’s oft-neglected works in rich detail here. We can only hope that Schulenberg’s efforts will result in more ears being exposed to Friedemann’s musical legacy.

More information on First Church Boston’s Thursday harpsichord recital series may be found here.

Michael Rocha is a self-described “long-ago” music teacher, a long-time music enthusiast and pianist, and a short-time Web designer: http://www.cobaltocumulus.com. He has an MS in Meteorology from MIT.

For the past two decades, pianist Murray Perahia has dealt with a series of debilitating, and no doubt highly frustrating, hand injuries, including a recent setback. Thus, it was pinch-hitter Garrick Ohlsson who took the stage at Symphony Hall Sunday afternoon, November 14, for Perahia’s Celebrity Series recital. Quite the formidable pinch-hitter! At 6’ 4” and some 260 pounds, Ohlsson is a bear of a man. With Big Papian dimensions and Rachmaninoffian paws (a span of a 13th in his left and a 12th in his right), this performer was the physical antithesis of the sole composer on the program, Frédéric Chopin (under 5’ 7”, 100 pounds). Strange bedfellows. In this bicentennial year of Chopin’s birth, Ohlsson is presenting a series of these all-Frédéric events.

Ambling onstage with a nimbleness that belied his size, Ohlsson’s deliberate and composed musical demeanor was evident before he played a single note. Gathering himself, he gently eased into an unhurried and extremely relaxed, fluid rendition of the Nocturne in F Major, Opus 15, No. 1. His vast dynamic range was also soon apparent as the piece veered rapidly from its sweet beginnings to tempestuous middle section to sedate conclusion. A handful of the Opus 25 études followed: the shimmery, impressionistic No. 1; the gossamer, rocking No. 2 (“Lullaby”) ; the sour, tangy, plucky horseback ride of No. 5; blustery No. 6, and moody No. 7. In all, Ohlsson’s default approach was to caress and softly stroke the piano; the big Steinway purred in response. His realizations were strikingly gentle, genteel, Chopinesque; the lucidity of his tone was, ironically enough, quite reminiscent of Murray Perahia’s. Phrases were beautifully wrought, and his carefully accentuated, clear voicing had a way of guiding the listener’s ear to the melody line through a blizzard of notes. Now, these études are by no means pieces of cake, but Ohlsson did a virtual cakewalk through this highly demanding material. He played with a startling and deceptive sense of ease and aplomb that made the Steinway appear almost diminutive and these challenging works mere child’s play. This performance was a classic example of “the art that conceals art.” As with all truly gifted musicians, Ohlsson transcended mere technique and hovered well above it in the vast interpretive realm. I’d say he’s more than ready for some meta-études.

And then came the Polonaise in f-sharp minor, Opus 44. So much for gently stroking the big old Steinway. Ohlsson attacked this dark, meaty, proudly menacing piece to the point where one worried that the instrument would end up as kindling. As the piano growled, Garrick’s complexion became markedly more florid. This was a muscular and highly passionate rendering marred briefly by one mini-splat in the right hand, just to show that he’s human.

The Mazurka in a minor, Opus 17, No. 4 and Scherzo No. 1 in B minor, Opus 20 rounded out the eclectic first half. Surprisingly, given its Polish roots, the mazurka seemed evocative of nothing more than a rainy day in Paris. Polish folk music filtered through a polished Parisian lens, apparently. The Scherzo was crackling, electrifying, and perhaps a tad muddy at times.

The second half opened with a relatively early and lesser-known work, Variations brillantes in B-flat major on “Je vends des scapulaires” from Hérold’s Ludovic. Written in homage to the operatic composer Louis Hérold following his premature death just shy of age 42, this piece is based on one of Hérold’s operatic themes. This source material is somewhat akin to salon music, and, as such, strikes one as decidedly un-Chopinesque. In this composer’s capable hands, however, it’s quickly transmogrified into a lighthearted, frothy, virtuosic romp, tossed off with unfettered panache by Ohlsson.

The final selection, Sonata No. 3 in b minor, Opus 58, is a wide-ranging, large-scale work. Ohlsson’s fingers skittered lightly across the keyboard in the Scherzo; things got a tad monchromatic and dragged ever so slightly in the too-long Largo, and then the train took off from the station in the Finale. Garrick swept us away in a torrent of octaves and runs as his complexion again ranged high into the florid zone. He rewarded our sustained standing ovation with three encores: the dark yet sprightly Mazurka in e minor, Opus 17, No. 2; the pyrotechnical extravaganza Étude in C minor, Opus 10, No. 12 (“Revolutionary”), and Polonaise in A-flat Major, Opus 53 (“Heroic”), the antithetical companion piece to the earlier Polonaise in f-sharp minor, Opus 44 (to paraphrase the performer, who thoughtfully introduced each encore, complete with opus numbers). Ohlsson let ’er rip in this final selection of the afternoon, ending his performance on a proverbial (and literal) high note.

Though there were more than likely quite a few in the audience who were disappointed at once again being deprived of the dulcet tones of Murray Perahia, Garrick Ohlsson certainly proved to be a more than worthy replacement. Chopin, ever the thoughtful composer, no doubt would have approved of Ohlsson’s passionately fastidious re-creations.

Michael Rocha is a self-described “long-ago” music teacher, a long-time music enthusiast and pianist, and a short-time Web designer: http://www.cobaltocumulus.com. He has an MS in Meteorology from MIT.

BMInt Staff Photo

Austrian pianist Till Fellner is a musician on a mission: For the past two years he’s endeavored to explore and perform the entire set of thirty-two Beethoven piano sonatas. More than 100 far-flung concerts later, his musical odyssey is winding down this fall. A packed house in the relatively intimate yet vertically capacious (and somewhat toasty) confines of Boston Conservatory’s Seully Hall was treated to his detailed and nuanced interpretation of the final three of these works, Opus 109-111, on a balmy Native American Summer evening, October 12.

Beethoven conceived of his final three piano sonatas as a set. Composed in the early 1820s, these are the works of an ailing composer in his early 50s. Indeed, work on this project was interrupted for a considerable period of time by an attack of jaundice, as well as other symptoms of his inadvertent and insidious lead poisoning. He was also by this time deaf as a haddock. These considerations only serve to make his achievements that much more astounding.

Till Fellner is a boyish 38. Decked out in tails, he cuts a serious presence on stage, with sober countenance and ramrod-straight posture on the bench. This positioning results in a slightly unusual but highly effective angle of attack, with forearms oriented a bit downward. No-nonsense approach; plunges right in. Very legato tone, with liberal use of the damper pedal. At times, he actually seems to pull the notes from the instrument, an illusion reminiscent of Michael Jackson’s ‘moonwalk’ dance step.

Think of it: Thirty-two large-scale works for solo piano. Certainly a great deal of music to have under one’s belt (or fingers), between one’s ears, and in one’s soul. These pieces in particular are uniquely challenging, spanning Beethoven’s groundbreaking journey from Classicism to Romanticism. More emotionally than technically demanding, the latter sonatas especially emulate the entire spectrum of the human psyche, most specifically Beethoven’s. Indeed, the profound and introspective final three should be rated R for Romantic; definitely for mature audiences (and players) only.

Op. 109, in the ebullient key of E-Major, seems at the outset to be quite accessible: the Vivace first movement is lilting, flowing, almost shimmering. But in true Beethovenian fashion, the Prestissimo is much more forceful and rhythmically driven. The final movement is a set of variations that redefines the genre: the sweet, languorous theme is morphed into pleasantly volatile, multifaceted mutations. Forget ebb and flow, ebb and tsunami is more like it. Fellner is more than up to the challenge of these twists and turns, however, as his hyperprecise approach colors each note. Indeed, it truly seems as if he, undoubtedly like the composer himself, has weighed and considered each and every tone.

The middle sonata, Op. 110 in A-flat, similarly takes listener and player on an emotional roller coaster, from the refinement and sophistication of the opening Moderato to the controlled energy release of the Allegro. The closing fugue, meanwhile, is intellectually as well as emotionally challenging. This is an emphatic, Romantic fugue, actually not a fugue but a fugue!, as only LvB could pen. Fellner’s attention to detail was showcased as his consistently clear voicing allowed the subject line to sing out.

And then there’s 111, in the musky key of C-minor. Gott im Himmel! With this work, Beethoven breaks through to another plane altogether. This two-movement piece is 28 minutes of shockingly modern-sounding music, featuring Lisztian, Schumannic, and even Glassian overtones. The volcanic Maestoso is music for the hearing-impaired; LvB seems to revel in the percussive nature of the piano. The music changes color and emotion on a dime [or, more appropriately, pfennig], and once again Herr Fellner was more than up to the task, turning Beethoven’s raw outbursts into elegant paroxysms. The deceptively simple Arietta drifts and meanders and seems, at times, to be the musical realization of Beethoven’s introspective mutterings. Despite his admirable attention to detail, Fellner did not lose sight of the forest for the trees, as he proved more than capable of presenting this piece as a coherent whole. As the final subdued tone died away, a passionate and sustained standing ovation washed over the artist. No encore was offered; the ending was already perfect.

Will Farrell, Bill Hall, Till Fellner: just a few of the folks with double-double-l’s. Only one of these, however, can pull beautiful music out of a big black box. Till Fellner plays with sophistication and maturity; his interpretations far transcend mere technique. As his exploration of Beethoven’s piano sonata oeuvre draws to a close and he sets his sights on more contemporary and orchestral projects, one is left wondering two things: (1) Does he have any plans to record the Beethoven sonatas, and (2) Is there any possibility of a collaboration with our own BSO? Both are exciting to contemplate. . . . .

Michael Rocha is a self-described “long-ago” music teacher, a long-time music enthusiast and pianist, and a short-time Web designer: http://www.cobaltocumulus.com. He has an MS in Meteorology from MIT.

The angular, contemporary confines of the First Church of Boston, in the heart of Back Bay, were filled with the eager susurrations of Mother Russia early Mothers’ Day evening, 9 May 2010, as a large audience gathered for a concert presented by the Chamber Music Foundation. The full house was in for an impassioned musical journey featuring works by Ludwig van Beethoven and Jakov Jakoulov.

Mike Rocha photo

Beethoven’s Piano Trio in G, Op. 1 No. 2, the middle work of his Opus 1 triptych, actually got things off to a relatively light and airy start. Groundbreaking in their day, the Opus 1 trios, published when Beethoven was in his mid 20s, feature greater emotional depth and more balanced interplay between instrumentalists than earlier works for the genre. The middle trio is the most congenial of the set, with an unfettered compositional approach and a sound reminiscent of colorful dinner party repartee. Ellina Blinder, piano, Lili Muchnik, violin, and Sergey Antonov, cello, maintained a balanced, clear dialogue as the music ranged from delicately Mozartian to friskily Haydnesque. While Blinder deftly handled the required ebb and flow, and Muchnik’s playing was secure and musical, it was the cellist who stood out. Antonov (who bears more than a passing resemblance to Harry Potter actor Rupert Grint) created a warm, enveloping tone highly evocative of the human voice. All told, a clean and expressive performance featuring wall-to-wall high-caliber play.

Now for the drama. The remainder of the concert was devoted to works by the prolific contemporary composer Jakov Jakoulov, former Muscovite and current Bostonian. Three Hildegard’s Songs, a collaboration of sorts with the 12th-century Christian mystic and pre-Renaissance Renaissance woman Hildegard von Bingen, utilizes her original text and single-line melodies augmented with Jakoulov’s rhythms and harmonies. The resulting composition for voice and piano is a powerful work that convincingly reflects the content of von Bingen’s paeans to the Virgin Mary as well as the yin-yang of divine ecstasy against a backdrop of Medieval hardship. This philosophical dynamic was lucidly expounded upon by the composer in his introductory remarks, after which he took to the piano bench, providing an accompaniment that was simple, direct, growly, forceful, and highly percussive. Mezzo-soprano Miranda Loud’s earthy, passionate interpretation more than lived up to her surname in the final ecstatic verse with a well-rounded tone that reverberated pleasingly in the live acoustic. The overall effect was one of drama and mystery, with perhaps a whiff of the Middle Eastern, presumably owing to the modal tonality.

The final two pieces were more personal and took listeners to an even darker realm. Sonata for Viola and Piano No. 1, written for and dedicated to Jakoulov’s friend, the Boston Symphony violist Michael Zaretsky, featured Zaretsky himself in this particular performance. This acerbic, probing work is constructed of a musical architecture as harsh and angular as that of First Church itself, and conjures images of bleak, desolate landscapes populated by prickly, decidedly threatening creatures: the soundtrack of nightmares. Mr. Zaretsky gave a virtuosic, intentionally scratchy, tone-bending rendition; pianist Yelena Prizant played quite capably within the limited expressive confines of the percussive accompaniment.

And, finally, we were treated to a world premiere: Jakov Jakoulov’s La Musica Leggera, La Musica Eroica, written for cello, piano, and string orchestra. This highly personal work, just completed this year, was written in memory of Jakoulov’s close friend, Russian-Israeli poet Michael Gendelev, who died in 2009 at the far-too-young age of 58. As reflected in the title, the piece is in two sections: Light Music, the title of a Gendelev poem, and Heroic Music, written specifically for cellist Sergey Antonov. At this point we were light-years away from the dulcet tones and pastel shades of the Beethoven. Though Light Music is ostensibly a children’s lullaby, this sort of music seems more conducive to night terrors than blissful, dream-filled slumber. After reading Gendelev’s poem in its original Russian, Jakoulov took to the podium and guided the ensemble through an intense, heartfelt performance. A lilting triple meter evoked the sound of a lethargic calliope: poignant music infused with a youthful melancholia. The Eroica was dark and powerful. Once again the piano part, competently performed by Yelena Prizant, was highly percussive, with a dynamic range seemingly from forte to fortissississimo (ffff). Cellist Sergey Antonov’s thoughtful, attentive playing was white-hot and emotionally charged. Quite the dramatic evening; certainly far from your typical Mothers’ Day fare.

Michael Rocha is a self-described “long-ago” music teacher, a long-time music enthusiast and pianist, and a short-time Web designer: http://www.cobaltocumulus.com. He has an MS in Meteorology from MIT.

During this season of conductor James Levine’s Spine of Discontent, we’ve been treated to a formidable succession of guest conductors. The much-respected and eminently capable octogenarian Bernard Haitink, BSO conductor emeritus, rounded out this impressive group as he took the podium for the first of three performances of the orchestra’s final program of the ’09-’10 season Thursday evening, April 29 at Symphony Hall.

The Hall’s half-moon clerestory windows were glowing Maxfield Parrish blue, and the afternoon’s gale force winds gradually subsiding as things got underway. A full house of appreciative patrons was treated to a hearty musical goulash consisting of generous dollops of Beethoven and Bartók. Ludwig van Beethoven’s “Leonore” Overture No. 2, actually the first of four he wrote for his only opera Fidelio (yes, it’s a bit confusing), got things off to a dramatic start. The longest of Beethoven’s overtures, such a massive, rhythmically emphatic piece would certainly be a hard act for an opera to follow; fortunately, it was never actually used for its original purpose. As a stand-alone piece it works quite admirably, and Maestro Haitink’s crisp, energetic conducting guided the orchestra in an elegant rendition. One senses that Beethoven struggled mightily to keep this pseudo-symphony from bursting its overture-ian britches; amusingly, he resorted to using a pair of trumpet fanfares to rein in the nearly out-of-control development in the orchestra.

After whetting our appetites, more Beethoven was on the menu. Piano Concerto No. 4 in G, Opus 58, written during a white-hot creative period when he was in his mid 30s, featured the inestimable Emanuel Ax at the keyboard. Amazingly, this piece was given its public premiere as part of a four-hour program featuring, among other things, Symphonies 5 and 6 as well as selections from the Mass in C. There was also more than a touch of poignancy, in that it was to be the last concert featuring Beethoven as soloist, due to his rapidly deteriorating hearing. Mr. Ax certainly knows his way around a keyboard and was more than up to the task of filling Beethoven’s shoes. This concerto features an extremely talkative piano, and Ax made its voice sparkle and breathe like a living thing. He played with a firm legato that resulted in ringing tones and a melodic line that stood out in sharp relief as his fingers spidered nimbly up and down the keyboard. Guessing, however, that Beethoven’s rendition might have been characterized by a tad less in the way of control and reserve; if only we had a recording of the original event! Soloist, conductor, and orchestra combined forces to yield a polished re-creation that precipitated a protracted standing-o.

Fast-forward a century and a third: Hungarian composer Béla Bartók, exiled and miserable in New York, is given a commission by BSO conductor Serge Koussevitzky for an orchestral work. Thus is born his Concerto for Orchestra, one of his most accessible and, not coincidentally, most popular compositions. Written near the end of his life, this piece’s softened edges reflect a somewhat mellowed, though still quite angular, Bartók. As an orchestral concerto, all animals in the musical zoo get a chance to squeak, squawk, quack, purr, and roar. This is actually quite the exotic menagerie: not exactly Peter and the Wolf; more along the lines of Béla and the Platypus. The exposed instrumental parts and exquisitely schizophrenic nature of the melodies are a challenge for both players and conductor alike. Bernard Haitink’s precise conducting style proved highly effective at navigating the orchestra through the sinuous twists and unpredictable turns of the music, and the instrumentalists were more than up to their individual challenges. Woodwinds sang sweetly; the brass was coherent and confident. After a heavy shower of fourths in the opening Andante, the “Giuoco delle coppie” (Game of the couples) is Bartók at his analytical best, featuring an intriguing progression of isolated wind pairs in succession, each with its own particular interval. Shadowy equations and variables swirled about the stage; the underlying mathematics were palpable, and surprisingly palatable. There’s sarcasm too, as the penultimate movement, a soothing Intermezzo, is jarringly interrupted by a parody of a theme from Shostakovich’s Symphony No. 7. Never a dull moment; all handled with aplomb and panache by Haitink & Co. After the enthusiastic standing ovation, one was left wondering if the winds outside Symphony Hall could be interpreted as the winds of change …

Michael Rocha is a self-described “long-ago” music teacher, a long-time music enthusiast and pianist, and a short-time Web designer: http://www.cobaltocumulus.com. He has an MS in Meteorology from MIT.

The Borromeo String Quartet, faculty quartet-in-residence at the New England Conservatory, shared the Jordan Hall stage Sunday evening, March 7, with three student award-winners and one guest artist. In addition to showcasing the 2010 Guest Artist Award recipients, this concert was the Borromeos’ third of an eight-part series featuring the complete string quartet cycle of local contemporary composer Gunther Schuller. A countable number of listeners were in the audience; perhaps attendance was compromised in part by the concurrent Academy Awards ceremony. I’d say the concertgoers definitely made the right choice!

Brahms Sextet in G Major with Guest Artist Award winners (photo by Mike Rocha)

Mozart’s Oboe Quartet in F Major, K. 370 (1781) got the festivities off to a light and effervescent start. The pastel tones of this sweet bon-bon, light as cotton candy and evocative of a soft Spring day, were performed in playfully elegant fashion, with graceful, dance-like phrases and gestures. Oboist Amanda Hardy spun sinuous, silky tendrils of sound, featuring clearly articulated ornamentation and smooth, ultra-expressive dynamic comings and goings. String players Kristopher Tong, violin, Mai Motobuchi, viola, and Yeesun Kim, cello played delicately and expressively, providing a perfectly balanced accompaniment. The overall effect was one of gentle precision. Refreshingly, there was nary a cough or splutter between movements; the audience was rapt (and apparently healthy).

And then … what’s this? … some sort of solar flare, or was it perhaps a volcanic eruption? Gunther Schuller’s powerful String Quartet No. 3 (1986) was a jarring and riveting musical antithesis of the Mozart, an emphatic yang to Wolfgang’s yin. Airy pastels were replaced by dense burgundies and steely grays; we had definitely entered film noir territory. Herr Schuller instructs players to perform the first movement, Maestoso, “with great intensity,” and the Borromeos certainly took him at his word! Passion and gravitas were dripping all over the stage; tensions built and erupted. This music was dark, sinister, low-pH, and high-energy, and the Borromeo members played with a simmering fury.  In contrast to the dramatic solar flare of the Maestoso, the Canzona’s auditory solar eclipse came across like the inner voice of a tormented soul. Extremely exacting playing by the quartet members; fastidious attention to detail; exquisite sensitivity and grace; serious countenances all around. The final Allegro imparted a sense of dark urgency, where the negative space between sounds carried at least as much weight as the notes themselves. Challenging for performers and audience members alike, this captivating, tightly wound, palatably harsh piece grabbed listeners by the heart, ears, and brain and never let go. Intriguingly, could have sworn I caught a whiff or two of Mozart and Beethoven in the midst of the twelve-tone structure. Perhaps it was just my imagination. Actually, it should be noted that the Borromeos are in the midst of recording all of Schuller’s string quartets — definitely something to look forward to. An added treat: the composer himself was in attendance, and made his way to the foot of the stage to share in the warm accolades.

Following the emotional intensity of the Schuller, our psyches were assuaged by the warm aural tapestry of Johannes Brahms, specifically his Sextet in G Major, Op. 36 (1865). Featuring three Borromeo members juxtaposed with their Guest Artist Award winner/special guest counterparts (Nicholas Kitchen and winner Audrey Wright, violins; Mai Motobuchi and guest Dimitri Murrath, violas; Yeesun Kim and winner Holgen Gjoni, cellos), this performance brought to mind the Marlboro Music Festival, featuring as it does a potent blend of established music professionals and talented up-and-comers. From the shimmering tones and soothing triple meter of first movement to the busy, urgent phrases of the final Poco Allegro, this expansive work was performed with ambrosial perfection. The round, full-bodied tones of guest cellist Holgen Gjoni were especially notable. Unfortunately, it seemed, to this pair of ears at least, as if the playing of violinist Audrey Wright was obscured somewhat by the indefatigable Nicholas Kitchen, and guest violist Dimitri Murrath was relegated to playing an inordinate amount of pizzicato (which he did quite admirably). No matter: the overall result was music of the highest caliber. Though each instrumentalist appeared to be intently focused on their particular part, with little discernible interaction, they sounded as if they played and breathed as one.

In the inordinately rich and vibrant musical scene of Boston, the Borromeo String Quartet is a true stand-out. Is it possible to play with more passion? Is it possible to play with a higher degree of technical prowess? With a greater sense of sharing? And all without music scores! (OK, they actually use laptops with foot controls.)  And then there’s octogenarian composer Gunther Schuller, one of the shining lights of contemporary music. And the myriad talented music students pouring into our city from around the world. An embarrassment of riches. Next time, consider forgoing the Oscars.

Michael Rocha is a self-described “long-ago” music teacher, a long-time music enthusiast and pianist, and a short-time Web designer: http://www.cobaltocumulus.com. He has an MS in Meteorology from MIT.

It takes a great deal of talent and an impressive dollop of chutzpah to stride across an empty stage with just a small violin and proceed to fill a large hall with music. At least a solo pianist has an imposing and multifaceted beast of an instrument for an onstage companion, and cellists a wide-ranging, almost human-sized musical counterpart. German violinist Christian Tetzlaff used his deceptively diminutive instrument and prodigious musical skills to envelop the confines of NEC’s Jordan Hall in a complex web of sound on Sunday, January 31, 2010.

In addition to the technical and psychological demands the solo violin places on performers, its relatively narrow musical palette poses even more of a challenge to composers. The genius of Johann Sebastian Bach was more than up to this challenge. His works for the instrument seem almost to defy logic: how can a single melodic line, with the occasional double-stop, sound so rich, so contrapuntal? The first half of Herr Tetzlaff’s program was devoted entirely to the music of Bach, specifically Partita No. 2 in d minor, BWV 1004 and Sonata No. 3 in C Major, BWV 1005. These two works are part of a set of six in which the odd-numbered pieces are sonatas; the evens, partitas. The Teutonic creator-recreator duo of Bach-Tetzlaff proved to be a powerful one: from the first bar, the music was mesmerizing. Tetzlaff’s introspective style drew the listener in; his smooth bowing, clear articulation, and delicate pianissimos helping to breathe life and complexity into the deceptively simple single line. His serious demeanor was belied by his dancelike dips and gyrations as the music flowed out of him. The final movement of the Partita, the Chaconne, has got to be one of the most profound examples of Western music ever created. A testament to its profundity are the numerous transcriptions that have stemmed from this single melodic line, including full orchestrations. Prior to plunging in to the depths of this movement, Herr Tetzlaff quite deliberately paused and gathered himself. He then took us on an emotional rollercoaster featuring all manner of double-stopping and sophisticated bowing. Unfortunately, there was a bit of a bow malfunction in the form of an errant horsehair, which led to some intermittent squeakiness. It certainly did not detract from the powerful overall effect of the piece, however. The sonata was somewhat jauntier in character, ending with an Allegro assai that sounded like a good old-fashioned hoedown, fingers and bow flying.Yee-haw, that boy can sure play the fiddle! This first-half performance precipitated some vociferous hooting and hollering from the large and appreciative audience that had braved the midwinter cold.

The second half showcased music by György Kurtág, Eugène Ysaÿe, and Niccolò Paganini: a veritable smorgasbord of diacritics! Four pieces by contemporary Hungarian composer Kurtág (“Perpetuum mobile,” “Hommage à J.S.B.,” “Doloroso,” “Zank—Kromatisch”) were a late and worthwhile addition to the program and got things off to a tangy start. Extremely brief, playfully acerbic, whimsically disconsolate, these musical vignettes (or, in this case, violinettes) defy description. Hiccup and you missed them. The Hommage sounded rather like Bach on controlled substances; the Zank was itchy-scratchy-buzzy. Ysaÿe’s Sonata was certainly more traditional with its late Romantic passion, though it was a bit fragmented melodically and seemed to consist of a great deal of virtuosic flourishes that didn’t quite hold together. Certainly no fault of the performer, however.  Four of Niccolò Paganini’s caprices (Nos. 16, 6, 15, 1), from his set of 24, Opus 1 were almost frightening in their technical ferocity, and this listener’s ear could scarcely keep up with the cascade of rapid-fire notes. Interestingly, prior to the penultimate piece, Tetzlaff was moved to stop and explain to the audience that there was such a cold draft onstage he was finding it difficult to perform! The show must go on, however, and he soldiered admirably ahead, with his virtuosic bowing making the final caprice sound like the flutter of hummingbird wings. He was rewarded for his efforts with a warm and effusive standing ovation, and, cold hands be damned, he in turn rewarded us with two contrasting encores: Bach’s sweetly pellucid Gavotte en Rondeau from Partita No. 3 in E Major, BWV 1006, and one more Kurtág piece: In memoriam Tomas Blum, a haunting and plaintive miniature.

In less capable hands, 90 minutes of solo violin music runs the risk of becoming austere and somewhat monochromatic. The immensely talented Christian Tetzlaff, with the help of some immensely talented composers, amply demonstrated the startlingly broad emotional and technical range of this restricted musical medium. As I sat in awe listening and watching his pyrotechnics, an image came to mind: Tetzlaff and his near-exact contemporary, fellow violinist Joshua Bell, performing together. Bell and Tetzlaff:Dueling Violins ~ could it happen?

Michael Rocha is a self-described “long-ago” music teacher, a long-time music enthusiast and pianist, and a short-time Web designer: here.  He has an MS in Meteorology from MIT.

Apparently requiring no light, ivory-tickling warm-up piece, Dr. Bass immediately plunged into J.S. Bach’s Partita No. 2 in c minor, BWV 826. This meaty work is one of a suite of six, the third and final set of dance movements Bach composed, following the English and French Suites. The partitas are mature, complex compositions featuring JSB at his contrapuntal best. Bass’s performance was nuanced and elegant, with sophisticated, soft-edged interpretations that appropriately reflected the depth of the music. Purists may have taken umbrage with his somewhat liberal use of the damper pedal, as well as his broad tonal range that took full advantage of the myriad colors of the modern instrument, but I’m guessing Johann would have approved. Bass’s tempi were generally somewhat relaxed, and he did have a predilection for a very legato sound. This lack of portato occasionally resulted in a slight muddying of brisk passages, though this was somewhat offset by his extremely clear and exacting voicing.

Our ears were required to quickly shift gears as Dr. B. next presented us with a large dollop of Chopin, specifically Ballades 2 and 4, op. 38 and 52, and four of the 60 Mazurkas, op. 24. The ballades were solidly performed, highlighting Bass’s very secure technique. The playful mazurkas could have been a bit lighter and crisper; they tended towards the opaque. A few more dashes of rubato might also have spiced things up. Odd to say when speaking about works by Chopin, but this performance seemed almost too elegant. Or perhaps just a tad too studied.

As we moved into more contemporary territory, Bass seemed more in his element. His propensity for a legato sound and his “emotionally intellectual” approach were both more effective and more apropos in his realization of Claude Debussy’s Estampes (Prints) as was his well-delineated voicing and precise phrasing.

The hands-down highlight of the evening for this listener was the final piece, Samuel Barber’s Sonata, op. 26. This virtuosic work, composed in 1949, utilizes 12-tone serialism tempered by Barber’s signature lyricism. Angular yet melodic, with more than a passing whiff of Ginastera, this multifaceted sonata was given an exciting rendition in the capable hands of Bass. The heavily syncopated final Fuga was especially electrifying, and Bass tossed it off with aplomb. Throughout the technical fireworks, his talent for accentuating the melody line never wavered. Performer, audience, and Steinway were given a thorough workout, leaving the performer beaming, audience reveling, and Steinway quivering. This musical exclamation point was followed by a full-stop encore: Chopin’s “Cello” etude, op. 25, no. 7.

Michael Rocha is a self-described “long-ago” music teacher, a long-time music enthusiast and pianist, and a short-time Web designer: http://www.cobaltocumulus.com. He has an MS in Meteorology from MIT.

Robert Kapilow is a man on a mission. With a missionary’s zeal, this musician of Promethean talents seeks to take classical music appreciation to the next level by engaging his audiences in active listening. A large gathering at New England Conservatory’s Jordan Hall was on hand Saturday evening, November 7, as Mr. Kapilow joined forces with the Borromeo and Ariel String Quartets in an installment of his What Makes It Great? series, now in its thirteenth season.

Rob Kapilow in action. Photo by Mike Rocha

There was but a single piece on the program, Felix Mendelssohn’s Octet in E-flat Major, Opus 20. As Kapilow put it, this was “Exhibit A” of evidence for the claim that Mendelssohn was the actually the greatest of all classical musical prodigies, eclipsing even the exalted Mozart. Though he didn’t actually begin composing until the relatively advanced age of ten, Mendelssohn’s early works demonstrate an unparalleled complexity and maturity. By the age of twelve he’d already completed some thirty three-part fugues, and we’re all familiar with the sparkling set of string symphonies produced in his very early teens. The Octet, created as a birthday present for his violin teacher and written when Felix was all of sixteen, is considered by many to be one of his greatest masterpieces. On February 3 Mendelssohn turned 200, though he doesn’t look a day over thirty-eight. In this anniversary year, a program dedicated to giving a deeper appreciation of this composer’s creations was more than appropriate.

After veritably bounding onto the stage, Mr. Kapilow plunged immediately into an extremely dynamic, well-choreographed, whirlwind analysis of this pinnacle of Mendelssohn’s oeuvre. The general presentation format involved Mr. Kapilow’s using the piano to demonstrate relevant snippets of the music, followed by a brief rendition of the theme by the double-quartet members. His explanations were precise and rapid-fire, peppered with musical definitions as necessary. The torrid pace put both audience and musicians through their paces; it definitely kept one on one’s toes (and ears). This listener found it more than a bit challenging to internalize the myriad enlightening interpretations. Overhead conversationette: “He makes me feel so smart! Now I can really appreciate all the compositional techniques.” “He makes me feel so dumb! It’s so fast, I can’t remember very much.” So there you go. Though utterly absorbing, it did seem as if concepts were flying by at warp speed, or as Kapilow put it, “magic moments that pass at the speed of light.” Actually, what we could have used was some form of slow-motion instant replay. Better yet, a supplemental DVD.

That said, I found his high-octane, highly entertaining, eminently quotable, erudite-yet-accessible analysis to be invaluable. A sampling of pertinent takeaways: Mendelssohn’s extensive training in fugal and contrapuntal composition was reflected in his predilection for inverting themes and weaving them seamlessly together; gained an appreciation for the way in which he exploited the dramatic effect of going from major to minor or forte to piano; Mendelssohn had a propensity for adding textures, truncating or embellishing themes, making minute modifications on each repeat, and passing a given theme through each of the individual parts. An extremely salient point made numerous times by Kapilow is that “the difference between good and great is both enormous and minuscule.” He illustrated this to great effect by playing a selected passage twice: first, what might be considered the run-of-the-mill, uninspired version; second, Mendelssohn’s actual score. What an ear-popping difference!

Following our hour-long “class,” we were treated to an uninterrupted performance of the Octet. I heard the different themes! I heard the inversions! I heard the dissonance of the paired scales in the second movement! And on and on. Seems as if quite a bit of Kapilow’s analysis actually sunk in. Greatly enhanced the listening experience; was much more attuned to the individual parts and various compositional techniques. Also helped having an absolutely top-flight ensemble: the Borromeo and Ariel String Quartet members are all musicians of the highest caliber, and they performed exceptionally well together.  Every one of the instrumentalists played with a virtuosity and youthful exuberance apropos of both piece and composer; Ariel’s cellist Amit Even-Tov was particularly animated. Was afraid her instrument might burst into flames at any moment. Actually, between the hyperenthusiastic Kapilow and the impassioned double-quartet members, we have an untapped energy source: could light the entire city for a week!

Mendelssohn’s Octet is a truly phenomenal composition. From the soaring themes of the opening Allegro to the abrupt mood change of the somber Andante to the gossamer, shimmering textures of the quintessentially Mendelssohnian Scherzo to the astonishingly technical eight-part fugal counterpoint of the final Presto, this piece is a compositional tour-de-force. Thanks to Rob Kapilow’s engaging and enlightening analysis in combination with the brilliant Borromeo-Ariel realization, I now have a significantly deeper understanding of and appreciation for this stunning work. Mr. Kapilow’s enthusiasm is most definitely contagious; one can only hope to be infected by the R1K1 virus! I’ll leave you with the overarching theme of the evening, attributed to Igor Stravinsky, and quoted more than once by Rob Kapilow: “Creativity begins with observation.”

Michael Rocha is a self-described “long-ago” music teacher, a long-time music enthusiast and pianist, and a short-time Web designer: http://www.cobaltocumulus.com. He has an MS in Meteorology from MIT.