Schubert…..makes tears catch at the edge of my eyes; such fragile hope, such powerful emotions.

Ian McMillan, poet (via Twitter)

I was reminded of Ian McMillan’s quote while listening to the final lunchtime lockdown concert from London’s Wigmore Hall, a devastatingly beautiful, austerely unsentimental yet profoundly poignant rendering of Schubert’s late great song cycle Winterreise, performed by tenor Mark Padmore with pianist Mitsuko Uchida. Music so fitting for these strange days, with its narrative of loss, longing and separation.

Schubert is the composer for our corona times. Listening in isolation to performers playing to an empty hall, this acccount of isolation, its chill frequently tinged with the tenderest poignancy, seemed particularly appropriate. We are at home, but we are separate, living in our “bubbles”, unable to hug our family and friends, yet finding a sense of closeness, warmth and solace through music.

That same sense of isolation is evident in the Andantino from Schubert’s penultimate piano sonata, or the bare “horn call” first subject of the F minor Fantasie, D940, the fearful tread of the second movement of the Trio, D929, or the haunting opening measures of the unfinished sonata D 571. There are numerous other examples, of course….

In both the Andantino of D959 and the D929, it is those unexpected modulations into the major key, when the sun comes out to warm one’s skin and the chill of winter momentarily recedes, that make this music so magical, so breathtakingly extraordinary in its harmonic and emotional volte-faces. And then, only a few bars later, the melancholy and the sorrow flood back…. Often even more tragic in the major key, it is as if Schubert recognises the darkness visible, acknowledges and accepts it.

No one does chiaroscuro quite like Schubert: he mixes light and dark more subtly than any other composer and colours his musical palette with an elusive hue of mystery. Light and dark, levity and depth all reside in close proximity in Schubert’s music, perhaps even more so than in Mozart’s (and Mozart too is a master of light and shade).

I’ve loved Schubert’s music, and, more specifically, his later piano music since I was a child. I grew up listening to my parents’ recordings on LP of the ‘Trout’ Quintet, the Unfinished and ‘Great’ Symphonies, the string quartets, and The Shepherd on the Rock, which my father would play on the clarinet – and, when I became a more competent pianist, I would accompany him. When I was about 12, still a fairly novice pianist, my mother gave me an Edition Peters score of the Moments Musicaux and both sets of Impromptus – works which portray in perfect microcosm the breadth and variety of Schubert’s artistic vision and emotional landscape. I stumbled my way through these works, mostly too advanced for me at the time, though there were fragments of each which I could actually play. I took the A-flat Impromptu to my then teacher and instead of ticking me off for trying to learn music which was far in advance of my capabilities, she helped me find my way through the score. At this time, in the late 1970s, Schubert was regarded as the poor relation to Beethoven, his melodies sweet as sachertorte, his structures incoherent, and his emotions too introverted. Then I had little knowledge about Franz Schubert beyond the notes on the page, but there was definitely something that drew me to his unique soundworld….

Much as I love Beethoven, his gruffness and uncompromising spirit, as I’ve grown older I turn more and more to Schubert’s introspection, his tenderness and his intimacy. He speaks more softly, more personally than Beethoven for me. His unmatched gift for melody enables him to spin the agony of desire, melancholy and sorrow, and the joy of living  – and a whole gamut of emotions in between. He has a remarkable ability to switch rapidly between terror and lyricism, from the darkly tragic and melancholic to golden transcendence or joyous other-worldliness, all rendered in music of incredible, almost revolutionary inventiveness. Often this is achieved through the most miraculous modulations, an unexpected sonic shift and, for me, as a synaesthete who sees the musical keys in colour, a completely new luminosity.

His other great skill is in managing rests and pauses. Silences abound, freighted with poetic imagination and who knows what, suspending time and offering pause for reflection, while also clarifying the structural expansiveness of the music, his “heavenly length”. In addition, Schubert’s use of dynamics is often ‘psychological’ rather than purely physical, suggesting an intensity of feeling rather than volume of sound. As pianists, we shouldn’t play Schubert as if you would Beethoven (though some do!). Even in his grandest gestures, for example the fff passages in the first movement of the Sonata in G, D894, there’s a restraint. His generous use of pianissimo in particular creates an ethereality in his music as if hovering between different states of mind.

In those moments, his music makes you feel as if you are the last person in the universe…..

How does one explain Schubert? The simple answer is – one can’t.

Steven Isserlis, cellist

 

 

 

Horse races run on empty courses, Premier League football matches played in cavernous deserted stadia, tennis tournaments “behind closed doors”, concerts performed into a void of silence. Without the roar of the crowd, the cheering and the applause, the collective experience of these activities is severely diminished, the punters, the fans and the audiences forced by social distancing in these times of coronavirus to engage via a TV set or computer from their sofas, living rooms and kitchens.

The people, the crowd, create atmosphere. At football and rugby matches, closely-packed bodies and loud unison chanting and singing produce a heady atmosphere that’s hard to resist. While football matches are being played behind closed doors due to the coronavirus pandemic, TV companies are using technology to create “atmosphere”, with recordings of the roars and cheers of the crowd from earlier live matches. Fortunately, at the Wigmore Hall’s lunchtime livestreamed concerts, “canned” applause is omitted; instead at the end of each piece, the performers are greeted with silence.

In live classical music performances – and indeed in nail-biting tennis matches – the silence of the audience indicates intense collective concentration. There is an almost inexplicable silence which occurs during a particularly absorbing performance, when it seems as if the audience is listening and breathing as one, or that special quiet at the end of a particularly arresting performance before the applause comes. It’s as if there is a universal exhale as tense bodies held in suspended stillness by the power of the music, gradually relax and unwind. This is particularly potent at very large venues, such as the Royal Albert Hall, home to the Proms, and the performer or performers who can hold an audience of some 5500 in rapt attention, or shrink a concert hall such as the Royal Festival Hall (capacity c2000) to the size of an intimate salon, is surely a powerful and charismatic one.

Not only does a hall full of people have a different acoustic, but a living, breathing audience creates “a very active involvement in the music, and I think a performer senses this, the energy…and that quietness, when people are listening and attentive, and you feel an electricity there that you cannot replicate” (Stephen Hough, concert pianist).

Performers are very aware of the atmosphere in a concert hall and many would agree that the it enables them to play better, while also creating a special bond of communication with the audience, who then become complicit in the performance as active participants. Playing in a recording studio can be sterile and limiting, requiring the performer to attempt to recreate the atmosphere of a live performance through the power of their imagination.

While concert halls (and sports stadia) remain empty for the time being, audiences and performers must create their own atmosphere. Livestream performances cannot replace “the real thing”, but there is something powerful, and also profoundly poignant, in watching a live performance from an empty auditorium. The Wigmore Hall livestream lunchtime concerts have received huge acclaim, both from critics and reviewers, and also audiences sharing their reactions (often very thoughtful, honest and emotional) on social media. We have enjoyed exceptionally fine performances, in which musicians still give their all despite or perhaps because of the circumstances, and there has, via the networks, been a palpable sense of people listening appreciatively and attentively. In addition, there is a sense of quenching a great thirst after a long period of drought and also an certain optimism in the hope that we can soon return to our beloved concert halls and enjoy music collectively once again.

 

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(photo Susie Knoll)

The Croatian pianist Dejan Lazić first came to my attention, perhaps for the wrong reasons, when I read about his 2014 fracas with The Washington Post over the “right to be forgotten” in Google searches. He asked for a review from 2010, which he felt was unfair, to be removed. The incident sparked a lively debate across the networks about whether artists should respond to negative reviews or make such requests, and whether critics and reviewers need to be more careful about what they say. To me, it was a rather neat example of “there’s no such thing as bad publicity”: I read about Lazić, my curiosity was piqued and I wanted to hear him live.

I missed his Queen Elizabeth Hall concert in winter 2014 so I was pleased to see him on the roster of the Wigmore Hall’s lunchtime concerts. And how glad I am that I decided to go to the concert, for he presented an imaginative programme of music: two greats of German music – Haydn and Schumann – were juxtaposed with dances by Shostakovich and Lazić himself, all of which revealed his strengths.

Anyone who makes me smile in Haydn gets my applause……

Read my full review