András Schiff - Lunedi 24 Novembre - Genova - Teatro Carlo Felice

Ebbeni si, finalmente ci siamo... Dopo tante volte che ci è "scappato" di mano anche colui che personalmente considero uno dei piu' importanti e bravi pianisti contemporanei finalmente si è fatto " prendere". E' cosi'che Moonlightrecords sara' presente al concerto che lo stesso Schiff fara' a Gevona lunedi.

Ricordiamo che per l'occasione sara' possibile acquistare l'intera discografia di Schiff su Ecm.

Notes on the Program

Not Only Evidence of the Heroic Style
Beethoven’s Sonatas, Op. 31 and Op. 53
András Schiff in conversation with Martin Meyer

Martin Meyer: As far as the piano sonatas are concerned, Beethoven’s so-called middle period, which has so readily been identified in his output as a whole with his “heroic” style, begins with the triptych of Op. 31. Yet within this group of works there is scarcely any evidence of the heroic monumental style.

András Schiff: That’s true. Even the very new worlds of expression opened up in the famous “Tempest” Sonata, Op. 31, No. 2, have absolutely nothing to do with the usual definition of heroism, which proves that labels of this kind, or attempts to lump things together, are for the most part misleading—which is probably true with most great artists. Of course, the Third Symphony, with its title of “Eroica,” embodies to a certain extent a “heroic” pathos, and the related “Eroica” Variations for piano, Op. 35, are similar in mood. In addition, we could mention other works that are powerfully extroverted in character, or even show evidence of a monumentalized style, if you like—the Fifth Symphony, for example, or the “Emperor” Concerto. But if we think of other middle-period works, it immediately becomes clear that there are also strongly opposing characters, especially in the realm of chamber music. And, as we have already mentioned, the three Piano Sonatas, Op. 31, resist any kind of simplification, as any performer or listener who has studied them closely will know.

Carl Czerny recorded a remark the composer made to the Bohemian violinist Wenzel Krumpholz, to the effect that he was dissatisfied with what he had accomplished up to that time and wanted to follow a new path, one that was connected to the three sonatas of Op. 31.

We need to take that with a grain of salt. Czerny’s treasure chest of anecdotes contains some jewels, but upon further examination, a number of them have turned out to be purely speculative or hopelessly wide of the mark. We have only to think of the “story” of the event that gave rise to the finale of the “Tempest” Sonata. Supposedly, Beethoven was standing by the window one night when suddenly a rider passed by in a wild gallop. But this third movement isn’t a gallop at all: In its “rocking” Allegretto motion, it’s much closer to a perpetuum mobile in that it is both lyrical and dramatic. For the rest, Beethoven is a composer of the new par excellence, but that holds true right from the start—in the case of the piano sonatas, ever since the F-Minor Sonata, Op. 2, No. 1, onwards, and then with virtually every single step forward.

Even so, it’s possible to perceive demarcations, some of them stronger than others. For instance, the A-flat-Major Sonata, Op. 26, marks a new way of thinking and writing for Beethoven, and much the same could be said of the two “Fantasy” Sonatas of Op. 27.

Certainly. And here, around the time of Op.26 and Op. 27, we find the beginnings of the middle period, which of course also manifests itself as a further development of what has gone before: there is no break. In any case, in composing the triptych of Op. 31, Beethoven gathered together three works under a single opus number for the last time in his piano sonatas. After that, the dialectic of individualization moved in the direction of single works each time, whereas here it still manages to make itself felt in a collective form. Unfortunately, the autographs of all three sonatas have been lost, which presents additional problems, especially for performers, because the first editions, issued by the Zürich publisher Georg Nägeli between April 1803 and early summer 1804, contain several misprints.

How could we distinguish the overall characteristics of these three works, which are so very different in mood and form?

As was already the case with Op. 2 or Op. 10, we really do hear and notice an enormous diversity. Quite apart from the fact that with the exception of the “Hammerklavier” Sonata, Op. 106, the third sonata is Beethoven’s last to be cast in four movements, the following would roughly hold true: the first sonata of Op. 31, in G major, is an extremely witty work, and perhaps Beethoven’s wittiest sonata altogether. It is also virtuosic and extroverted, and full of surprising inspirations. The second sonata, in D minor, carries the not-inappropriate nickname of “The Tempest.” It is altogether dark in tone and its effect is highly dramatic, with a “literary” mood throughout. And the third sonata, in E-flat major, is probably the hardest to paraphrase in words: on the one hand it seems tender, entreating, and pleading, with a lyrical basic mood strongly in evidence; and on the other hand, in the scherzo and finale it maintains a high-spirited and urgent sense of motion. Any pianist who programs all three works together—as, for instance, in a performance of the complete cycle—has to be particularly careful to bring these differences out.

The G-Major Sonata is, then, driven by humor and irony. Even so, it would surely be wrong to present it purely as an example of unbridled lightheartedness.

On the contrary, we have to bring out the nuances of its textures with the greatest accuracy. In the first place, that concerns dynamics. In my opinion, it would be quite wrong to play the beginning of the first movement forte. The whole piece, with its chords and descending scales, begins piano—almost gropingly, and, in view of the rhythmic displacements and the tension between the left and right hands, a touch hesitantly. We immediately find ourselves in the tonic key, without any circuitous introductory bars. After that, the procedure is repeated, as though it had to be “scrutinized” again, a whole-tone lower, in F major, which of course helps make the thematic procedure clearer. In this connection I should point out that Beethoven later uses the same kind of repetition shifted up or down at the beginning of a sonata, in both the “Waldstein” and the “Appassionata” Sonata, Op. 57.

But whereas earlier sonatas such as Op. 22 or Op. 28 show an increasingly compact design, time is now stretched out—and it’s additionally broadened through virtuoso repetition—before the second subject is finally allowed to appear.

Yes, Beethoven deliberately foils our expectations here. That is part of music’s inner psychology, so to speak, as we already know from Haydn. At the same time, this second theme, which is both dance-like and lyrical, is given a good deal of space, both for polyphonic growth and for tension-filled changes of mood between major and minor. In this, it almost anticipates Schubert, who was very familiar with this G-Major Sonata.

A repeat of the exposition is indicated: does it have to be observed in every single performance?

Absolutely. In the first place, it allows the weight of the material in relation to the individual sections of the movement to be represented correctly; and, secondly, it gives the performer the opportunity of introducing additional colors to what has already been expounded. On top of that, the wonderful second subject gains in presence—because you have to take note of the fact that it doesn’t appear at all in the development section. Here, Beethoven concentrates exclusively on the main subject, presenting it in continually new modulations, and—as far as the unison cascades of scales are concerned—with powerful “inner” waves, which should be perceived more from the large-scale harmonic point of view, than as individual notes. The recapitulation finally bursts in deciso, you could say, and this time fortissimo—as though the main subject had gained in self-confidence. It’s also worth mentioning the extensive coda, where pauses, syncopations, and split chords bring wit to the fore once again, until the two hands at last find each other and come together in two staccato piano chords.

Beethoven marks the slow movement of Op. 31, No. 1, as an Adagio grazioso, which is almost a contradiction in terms.

Here we find wit and parody: The Italian bel canto operatic style and declamatory rhetoric with many ascending and descending scale-like passages are continually present, although they alternate with other material. The grazioso, along with the 9/8 rhythm, lends the piece a hint of narrative style. What’s important here is the imagery of the sonorities. At the beginning we can imagine the plucked sound of a mandolin accompaniment, above which the melody hovers with its expressive trills. The whole thing sounds very richly decorated, iridescent, and playful. By way of contrast, the middle section, with its chromaticism and minor-mode inflections, introduces a certain dramatic intensification, though I would see it more as a “storm in a teacup” than any significant darkening of the mood. After it, the opening section returns in a still richer form. What’s new about it is that the concept of musical time is presented quite differently—in lavish profusion, as though Beethoven never wanted the movement to end. That becomes still more striking in the coda, with its wonderfully song-like duet interjections.

The rondo finale, on the other hand, sets off quite confidently, even though it again has much cantabile intimacy. Schubert avant la lettre once more?

Certainly. We can call to mind the finale of Schubert’s great A-Major Sonata, which has the same contrapuntal inflections, excursions into minor keys, changes in voices and registers, and, in addition, the alla breve tempo. But of course Beethoven is more concise, and the heart-rending lyricism is lacking. The passages, which, in their decisive character, evoke Bach, and the rhythmic alternations between quarter-notes, eighth-notes, and triplets lend the movement a focused energy—although the coda, with its many tempo changes, breaks the material down as though into fragments, until finally the whole work progresses towards its final chord by way of an outburst of trills and a cascading, up-and-down figuration that recall the opening of the first movement. In this manner the music comes full-circle in a very humorous way.

With the Sonata in D Minor we enter altogether different territory: darkness and sudden outbursts, dream-like recitatives, and, in the finale, an almost continual twisting and turning of the theme. Beethoven’s allusion to Shakespeare’s The Tempest is authenticated, but what light can it shed on the music for us?

We shouldn’t draw too much out of this reference, and Beethoven himself went no further than a mysterious allusion. To put it another way, we shouldn’t imagine anything specific, such as passages of monologue or dialogue, that might perhaps bring Prospero to mind, and come to the fore with increased rhetoric. I must limit myself to a few essential points, though the sonata would of course invite extensive analysis. In the first place, what’s revolutionary is that Beethoven allows the piece to begin not on the tonic, but with a rising chord of A major, which immediately sows the seeds of uncertainty over what is to come. But beware: this beginning already forms part of the main subject, and is not an introduction, as is quite clearly indicated by the “answer” in the bass from bar 21 onwards, which presents the same rising figure in an accelerated form. Moreover, huge psychological forces are seething away, for instance in the relentlessly propelled dialogue between contrasting registers, which is continually striving for wider intervals; or in the second theme, which doesn’t take us into different worlds or moods, but instead drives the despair still further.

Altogether, this movement encompasses an enormous amount, both as far as its content and its form are concerned, and yet the whole thing seems extremely concise.

The exposition presents a powerful and violent concentration of statements, and yet it is over in a flash. And Beethoven is just as economical with his argument in the development, until the hurricane’s rage has abated and it comes to rest in the bass register—a penseroso moment that seems to anticipate Liszt and his B-Minor Sonata. But exactly at the point where the recapitulation could actually be reached, as in classical form, Beethoven once more does something new. He inserts two recitatives, the first restrained, simple, and noble in tone, and the second with bolder intervals, mysterious, pale, and whose tonal properties are veiled. In the recapitulation the composer compresses his material once more, and as a result the effect of the blurred ending deep in the bass seems all the more remote: not a resolution, but a shadowy vanishing after terrifying eruptions.

The slow movement arises out of the final fermata – an almost solemn, or at least chorale-like, Adagio in B-flat major.

Everything is calm to begin with, and only the short bass figures in demisemiquavers, which should sound like timpani, allow the impression of a storm in the far distance to arise. The sustained chords of the chorale have the character of a sarabande, but gradually events multiply, and more and more questions are put, and that’s why it’s important for the performer to be able to distinguish between “sung” and “spoken” sections. The second theme appears to continue the calm, and to lighten the solemn tread a little. But soon the drum rolls intervene again, and this time they pave the way for the cascades of demisemiquavers that are to follow later, and that are contrapuntally written to cover all registers of the instrument. The declamatory and cadenza-like elements of the large-scale coda in three sections immediately provide us with the breadth of a “heaven and earth” feeling. Incidentally, the last bar has to be played strictly in tempo, without any ritardando.

After that comes the detailed Allegretto in 3/8 time—a finale that has often tempted pianists into excessive haste and cold-blooded mechanical virtuosity.

Which completely misses the point! The piece is written in sonata form, with an exposition, development, and recapitulation, and it needs to occupy a special position within the work as a whole—perhaps even, as is the case with the “Moonlight” Sonata, the main weight. That makes it all the more essential correctly to realize the proportions, the sonorities, and the rhythmic energies that bind the whole thing together, as well as that half-melancholy, half-dramatic tone that runs through it. You really have to hear everything, and that wouldn’t be possible with too fast a tempo. In this connection I would point to the long development section, whose contrapuntal passages are reminiscent of Bach’s D-Minor Two-Part Invention. No less significant is the coda, in whose latter half the theme finally returns in full orchestral garb, before (following a chromatic fortissimo scream) the piece collapses like the first movement without a ritardando or fermata, with a D-minor arpeggio played piano, and descending to the bottom of the keyboard. In short, a highly dramatic work!

On the other hand, the last sonata of the Op. 31 triptych, also composed between 1801 and 1802, is in an E-flat major that is at once bright and soft. Brilliance and lyrical assurance are found together in a very relaxed way.

Yes, it’s no use looking for the “heroic” gloom, if I can put it that way, of the “Tempest” Sonata. Great tenderness—as for instance in the pleading phrase of the first bar, at the very beginning—is mingled with humor, as we can see in a very fruitful form in the development section of the scherzo. And the finale provides really spectacular bravura, demanding great pianistic energy. But this sonata, too, should not be played too quickly or hurriedly. In the opening movement the irregular runs in semiquavers and demisemiquavers give the tempo, and in addition there are many ritardandos forming transitions that have to be precisely shaped. The charming, song-like second subject above a simple Alberti bass accompaniment lends support to the questioning introductory phrase, which you could actually characterize as “Liebst du mich?”

The floating lightness of the piece also arises out of the fact that the home key of E-flat major is only established at bar 17, and that everything that comes before seems somewhat improvised and questioning.

Absolutely, although the material of the third and fourth bars already carries a lot of weight. This motif in repeated chords runs through the whole movement like a basic pattern or binding force—in fact, it is found again, appropriately modified, in the following movements. In the development section of the opening movement, things become somewhat stormier, the lyrical mood broadens into comedy, and the energy level is raised by the skipping intervals, whose tension owes a good deal to the crossed-hands motion. In addition, there are strong dynamic contrasts, and textures that expand the purely pianistic writing into trio or quartet-like associations.

For his scherzo Beethoven has in mind an Allegretto vivace. More Allegretto, or more Vivace?

Both. The Allegretto is less of a tempo indication than a mood: what’s required is dance-like lightness. On the other hand, we should also be conscious of a certain energy, which makes itself felt at the latest with the outbursts of fortissimo chords. The design of the whole piece is a sonata-scherzo, by which I mean that we have an exposition that absolutely has to be repeated, a development on a notably large scale, and a reprise. A good deal of it breathes the air of opera buffa. The beginning is amusing, even downright comical, with the right hand establishing a chorale-like melody and the left hand plucking out a staccato bass. Finally, the performer has to vary the tempo like a good director, joining the fermatas and ritardandos to the a tempo in a meaningful way. And if, for instance, we really bring out the battle that rages in bars 90 onwards, we encounter a truly furious extroverted character.

Instead of following this with a genuine slow movement, Beethoven is satisfied with a short minuet.

That’s certainly very unusual, and so is its character: Moderato e grazioso suggests a degree of contrast within itself. Nevertheless, it shows Beethoven, in opposition to every cliché, as a wonderful melodist. On the other hand, the trio—on which Saint-Saëns based a set of variations for two pianos, and which seems to anticipate one of the episodes in Schumann’s Faschingsschwank aus Wien— is in a pure chordal style. Only the coda, with its eerily chromatic tinges, evokes a hint of melancholy or darkness.

And so to the finale: a Presto con fuoco of an indisputably pianistic nature. Here at last we meet with the gallop which Czerny wrongly ascribed to the finale of the “Tempest” Sonata.

A gallop, yes, and also the atmosphere of the hunt with prominent horn-like accents. The music’s powerful energy and rhythm have led the French to give it the nickname of “La Chasse.” Once more, the 6/8 rhythm has something of a perpetuum mobile abut it, but in contrast to the Allegretto of the “Tempest” Sonata or the finale of Schubert’s great C-Minor Sonata, the mood here is one of unclouded, high-spirited joy. The long development requires additional virtuoso energy; the changes in register and the dialogue-like passages at the start of the large-scale coda bring into play an expansive, almost landscape-like spaciousness; and, following a protracted ritardando, the blunt closing bars provide a suitable concert-ending.

Only a short time later Beethoven produced the C-Major Sonata, Op. 53, which dedicated to his patron and friend Count Waldstein. But the expressive worlds it encompasses leave everything that came before it far behind.

The “Waldstein” Sonata is certainly an overwhelming work that was not only of great significance to the composer, but also occupies a special place in the history of piano music. Its spatial dimensions alone are enormous, and were only exceeded later by those of the “Hammerklavier” Sonata. And then Beethoven takes a giant stride forwards in respect of new-found pianistic sonorities, at the same time creating a huge “tone poem.”

It would have been even larger if Beethoven had used the slow movement he originally composed for it, instead of replacing it with a short introduction to the rondo finale.

According to Beethoven’s pupil Ferdinand Ries, one of the composer’s friends objected that the sonata in its original form was too long, which at first enraged Beethoven, though he later found that there was indeed a much better solution. The fact that he removed the slow movement and issued it independently as an Andante favori, works strongly to the advantage of the sonata as a whole. As things stand now, the proportions are right, and the rondo can emerge out of the extraordinarily mysterious mood of expectation generated in the introduction’s final bars. We already find transitions of this kind in the Sonata, Op. 27, No. 1.

At the same time, for some music lovers the “Waldstein” Sonata bears the banner for extreme extroversion and somewhat superficial brilliance.

Quite unjustly. It begins, as do most of the sonatas, quietly—indeed, pianissimo. Then, the second subject, in E major, leads us into an intimately lyrical world: It doesn’t need to be played with a slackening of the tempo—the larger note values in which it’s written are quite enough. Finally, Beethoven shades the entire work with a large variety of effects in which the pedal plays a significant role. To put it in a nutshell, you could say that it’s only by chance that the sonata was written for piano. But needless to say, it exploits every expressive possibility, and seems to take into account future developments of the instrument beyond Beethoven’s own lifetime in an inspired way.

The first movement begins with its well known repeated-note motif. We feel rhythm and we hear something almost like noise, with nothing melodic actually appearing.

The orchestral writing already begins here, and the tremolando that follows heralds a new kind of technique. The position of the registers is very important: the motion is drawn upwards, from darkness into the sun—a process that’s repeated over and over again and becomes particularly meaningful in the rondo—which is why the French call the sonata “L’Aurore” (“Dawn”). As already mentioned, the second subject has chorale-like dignity and tender beauty, but it’s gradually expanded with brilliant decorations. The first fortissimo outburst, in bar 62, again engenders a sort of percussive sonority, and soon after it we find the first long trills—written-out trills, not in the sense of decoration, but of heightened expressiveness. The rondo raises the trill to the level of a foreground element, and places it firmly in a developmental line that would lead to the late Sonata in E Major, Op. 109, as well as the “Arietta” of Op. 111.

In the development the material appears in concentrated form, as though in fragments, not only pointing forwards to the “economical” Beethoven, but also investing the music with a newfound urgency.

There of course, in the conflict-driven, energetic passages that pass through wide tonal regions, the heroic style, if you like, finds expression. A special moment is reached at the point where the arrival of the recapitulation is imminent: we seem to hear timpani and double basses in the rumbling 16th-notes in contrary motion: they convey something like a natural phenomenon, though of course in a positive sense. Then there are the short phrases that rise progressively higher, in which the bass line that moves from C to C-sharp to D really has to make itself felt. Moments like this, as well as the eighth-note chords of the recapitulation, have a tremendous effect that still makes itself felt today. Altogether, the entire movement, with the brilliant cadenza in its coda, offers a limitless panorama of ideas and transformations.

The Introduzione, by way of contrast, encompasses a mere 28 bars, and although lyrical ideas surface from time to time, prose predominates.

A kind of “speech song” should unfold only from bar 9 onwards; before that, the music gropes its way in comparatively abstract gestures from the bass into the middle register. This transitional piece should probably not be thought of as a movement at all; rather, it rises up like an island between two landscapes, or almost like no-man’s land. But that’s really a question of its function, and when the individual lines and voices later branch out as though in a string quartet, and finally ascend into the descant with increasing fervor, their goal is never self-contained: When the flute hovers alone on a fermata on the top G, it becomes apparent that everything has been calculated with the beginning of the Rondo in view.

As an Allegretto moderato the finale in no way leads one to suspect that its tenderly lyrical theme soon gives way to passages in an orchestral virtuoso style.

Yet it is a sonata-rondo with contrasting episodes, and for that very reason the “stories” that unfold in them have to be correspondingly weighty. I should stress that the rondo theme—rather like a mountain dweller’s song—already begins on an eighth-note on the low C: The later reprises and variations make that absolutely clear. So we have to find colors and shadings that will differentiate the “rustic” or demonically wild passages of the two episodes from the shoots that grow out of the rondo theme in all its lyrical gentleness. Occasionally, one has the impression, both as performer and listener, that the piano is almost too restricted for the type of music that is striven for and found here. I’m thinking, for instance, of the rushing 16th-note triplets in the reprise of the first episode, or some of the moments in the coda.

How should the notorious octave glissandos be played?

Exactly as Beethoven notated them—and, in the case of Op. 53, his manuscript has survived. It’s true that it isn’t easy, and was a little more comfortable on the fortepiano of Beethoven’s day, but the required effect can only be obtained in that way. And, for the coda’s apotheosis, in trills you naturally need to produce as magical and shimmering a sonority as possible. In short, I absolutely agree with György Ligeti: The “Waldstein” Sonata is a milestone in musical history, and one that opened up new and imaginative sound worlds.

Venerdi 21 Novembre 2008 : Stefano Bollani con i suoi Visionari

Stefano Bollani, fra i massimi talenti jazzistici internazionali, esordisce professionalmente a quindici anni. Si afferma nel jazz collaborando con grandissimi musicisti (R. Galliano, G. Barbieri, P. Metheny, M. Portal, P. Woods, L. Konitz, H. Bennink, P. Fresu, M. Vitous, T. Horta, J. Abercrombie, K. W. G. Osby, M. Solal...) sui palchi piú prestigiosi del mondo (Umbria Jazz, Festival di Montreal, Town Hall di New York, Scala di Milano). Musica jazz lo proclama miglior nuovo talento del 1998. Nel 2004 la rivista giapponese (Swing journal) gli conferisce il premio New Star Award riservato ai talenti emergenti stranieri, per la prima volta assegnato a un musicista non americano. Nel 2006 per la rivista Musica jazz e' il musicista italiano dell' anno. Il referendum dei giornalisti della rivista americana Downbeat nel 2007 lo vede ottavo fra i nuovi talenti del jazz mondiale e terzo fra i giovani pianisti. I critici della rivista Allaboutjazz di New York lo votano fra i 5 musicisti più importanti del 2007. Nello stesso anno a Vienna gli viene consegnato l'European Jazz Prize, premio della critica europea, come miglior musicista europeo dell' anno. I Visionari sono il quintetto che il pianista ha già presentato in varie occasioni ed è formato da Mirko Guerrini (sax), Nico Gori (clarinetto), Ferruccio Spinetti (contrabbasso), Cristiano Calcagnile (batteria).

Sabato 22 - Teatro Comunale Casalmaggiore - Stefano Bollani - I Visonari

Moonlight Records, dopo la propria presenza in quel di Monza ( dove x ovvie ragioni storiche gioca in casa ) bissa il giorno dopo il quel di Casalmaggiore dove i Visionari presenteranno il loro spettacolo veramente unico.

Ricordiamo che per l'occasione sara' possibile acquistare presso di noi tutti i cd di Stefano.