Listening to Beethoven, Whereas Strolling the Canine and Dodging Vehicles
Pierre-Laurent Aimard, the French pianist, was staring up on the stunning blue sky on Tuesday morning and taking part in the solemn strains of a Beethoven sonata.
Staring up out of my telephone, that’s. I had put it down flat on a gnarled tree root whereas I fished out a plastic bag with which to handle my canine’s unmentionables. There have been occasions in my reviewing profession once I felt like I used to be dealing with refuse, however by no means had the feeling been so literal.
The proximity of Mr. Aimard’s lucid, passionate virtuosity to the waste of my toy poodle, Gus, happened due to an experiment. I needed to strive, for the primary time because the coronavirus pandemic largely closed down stay performing arts worldwide, to evaluate a live performance taken in the way in which I’ve most music since March: whereas working in Prospect Park in Brooklyn, ducking into the bodega for milk, strolling Gus, residing life.
Would earbuds convey a musician’s delicate intentions? Would distractions — honking automobiles, texts, telephone calls — enable me to observe a sustained prepare of inventive thought? Might a performer and I nonetheless enter into the form of implied dialogue out of which criticism arises?
Sure? Properly, kind of. I consumed Mr. Aimard’s recital, which was introduced by the Gilmore, an eminent keyboard competition primarily based in Kalamazoo, Mich., as a sequence of episodes, as fragments somewhat than a cohesive entity. A lot — certainly, virtually every thing — was misplaced by way of my focus. However Mr. Aimard’s overarching agenda, connecting Beethoven’s music, in his 250th birthday yr, to strands of Twentieth-century modernism, got here by way of with readability, testifying to the energy of his imaginative and prescient and the savvy of his juxtapositions.
I deliberate to observe the live performance because it was streamed stay from Berlin on Sunday afternoon, New York time; in characteristically scattered 2020 style, I forgot. However it’s out there till Wednesday, so on Monday night I set out on a jog towards Prospect Park, glancing down on the display once I may to see Mr. Aimard develop sweatier over the hourlong program. (Don’t do this at residence; I had some shut calls with automobiles making tight turns within the gathering darkish.)
This system felt, in these environment, appropriately nocturnal, the park’s forested paths a mirror of the moody depths and cautious, milky, moonlit glints of Messiaen’s “L’Alouette Lulu” (“The Woodlark”), from his “Catalogue d’Oiseaux” (“Catalog of Birds”). From the start, Mr. Aimard’s taking part in was a research in reverberation; it was perceptible even by way of slipping headphones how the music expanded in house and time. I solely remorse that, simply as he moved from “L’Alouette Lulu” into the traditional, slowly unwinding first bars of Beethoven’s “Moonlight” Sonata, I by accident turned off my telephone.
Regardless of that unwelcome pause, Mr. Aimard’s level was clear: Messiaen’s forlorn but slyly assured sounds have been Beethoven’s, too. The transitions have been essential on this presentation; I believe that by paying shut consideration to these, I skilled a lot of what Mr. Aimard needed me to, even when I misplaced different elements of the efficiency whereas making an attempt to maintain a midway first rate working tempo.
The roiling, abrupt ending of the “Moonlight” led, with out pause, to the darkish, moist sounds — just like the autumn leaves I used to be crushing underfoot — of one other part from Messiaen’s “Oiseaux,” “La Chouette Hulotte” (“The Tawny Owl”). The ferocious ending of Beethoven’s “Appassionata” Sonata was instantly adopted by the equally pounding opening chords of Stockhausen’s “Klavierstück IX.”
I had saved the “Appassionata” and “Klavierstück” for Tuesday morning; what might need been weighty the evening prior to now appeared, as I strolled with the canine, virtually sunny — the Beethoven coming throughout as an try to rise above darkness, somewhat than succumb to it. (It was on the noble starting of the second motion that Gus determined he wanted to go: a collision of the sacred and the profane on President Road.)
The Stockhausen is greatest recognized for that relentless starting, however I used to be extra struck in Mr. Aimard’s efficiency — and on this specific stroll — by the sensual, dawnlike curlicues close to the tip. When he completed, this excellent pianist bowed to the empty studio and walked offscreen, his footfalls echoing as his tones had. I didn’t hear him below splendid situations, however so little is right as of late. I heard him, is what issues, and he was very, excellent.
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