After those rich and productive years in Berlin, where music flows as freely as water from a fountain, I moved to Rome. The culture shock was enormous and silenced me for a long while. Why, will you ask, for after all, I am a native of Cremona and should feel entirely comfortable in my own country. Not so. First of all, Rome is very different from the north of Italy. Here, the further south you go, the more chaotic things become. I have not yet ventured to go to Naples, Sicily and Sardinia, for instance, because I’m still trying to come to terms with the Fellinian atmosphere of Rome. Yes, it is arguably the most beautiful city in the world. Yes, you absorb Art just by breathing every day. Yes, there is a major work of art on practically every corner. Yes, the small shops are the most sophisticated on the planet. Yes, the pasta, pizza and risotto are to die for. But also, it is probably the filthiest city in Europe (I dare not say the world, as there is so much of it I don’t know). And the traffic is simply horrendous thanks to reckless drivers and swarms of motorcycles one has to dodge even when the lights are apparently in one’s favor (forget one way streets, the huge bugs go in whichever direction pleases them). And the noise level makes Rio de Janeiro and Madrid seem like the bottom of the ocean. And, to top it all, the tsunamis of tourists drown you whenever you try to walk from one place to another, everywhere, not only on Piazza Navona and Piazza di Spagna. Like flash floods, they seep into every little street they can find, so if you don’t get caught by a motorino in the street, you get run down by groups of chattering, screaming and clicking tourists on the sidewalk (when there is one).
So it took me a while to muster up enough courage to decide to buy a concert ticket (fortunately you can do that by phone) and to find a cab, the driver of which maybe friendly and considerate or a cousin of that daredevil motorino operator, and tough luck if it’s your turn to get that one. But the appeal of the ad in the Corriere was irresistible. My old and cherished friends from Kronberg, Gidon Kremer and his Kremerata Baltica, were to perform the following day at the Teatro Olimpico. Not the Parco della Musica, where I have already been once or twice, the new home of the Academy of Santa Cecilia, but this other place I had never heard of. Never mind, I would go anywhere to listen to this marvelous ensemble. So off I went, without even paying attention to what they were going to play. On the way, I reread the ad, which said it was to be an “Omaggio a Glenn Gould” – obviously then a blissful evening of Johann Sebastian Bach, what else? When I arrived at the theater, I thought the charming and well-mannered driver (it was one of my lucky days) had made a mistake. But no, this was it, the Teatro Olimpico – and the marquee read, in huge letters, “SUPERMAGIC 2011- CAST INTERNAZIONALE DI PRESTIGIATORI ED ILLUSIONISTI AI MASSIMI LIVELLI”! I have often refered to Gidon Kremer as a magician, but I was speaking metaphorically. What on Earth was he doing as part of a magic show? The answer is simple. The magic show was on another date, and this theater is a multifunctional one, hosting whoever is willing to pay the rent. And it is used by the Accademia Filarmonica Romana, a concert organization I had never heard of before but which I only have reason to be extremely thankful to. They charge an extremely reasonable price, even by Berlin standards, for the best tickets and the programme is free. The venue, I must add, is quite substandard – a small, shabby, plain looking theater – the rent must be very reasonable. But I shouldn’t be so bitchy, even if the Accademia is short on cash, it still brought its audience this very special treat.
Having thanked the usherette for handing me the freebie, I sat down to wait and find out what I had come for. Bach, yes, but….oh well, sort of! First part – a Richard Strauss sextet arranged from the overture to “Capriccio” and “Twilight”, a piece written in 2005 by Giya Kancheli (1935). Second part – the omaggio proper, or, as the programme said, “The Art of Instrumentation”, a cycle of Bach transcriptions dedicated to Glenn Gould. As I read the names of the composers, I felt butterflies in my stomach. The only one I knew was the above mentioned Kancheli, heard and appreciated more than once in Kronberg. The others being Valentin Silvestrov (1937), Georgs Pelecsis (1947), Alexander Raskatov (1953), Carl Vine (1954), Victoria Poleva (1962), Leonid Desyatnikov (1955), Stevan Kovac Tickmayer (1963), Raminta Serksnyte (1975) and Victor Kissine (1953). Fortunately, no one born after 2000. But still, what was I to expect from one born in 1975? Certainly the most frighteningly esoteric kind of music, more like whining, screaching and hooting, as are so many of today’s creations. The sort of music that for a person of my age, born in Cremona in the XVIIth century, is as scary as a Friday the Thirteenth movie! It can make me jump right out of my wrinkled skin! But I am no musical sissy, nevertheless, and I simply worship Kremer and Kremerata, so I stayed in my seat bracing myself for the unpleasantness ahead.
The minute the healthy looking members of the Kremerata, with their tennis-player good looks, started streaming onto the stage, my stomach began to settle. It was wonderful to see them again, although I recognized only some of them. There must be quite a turnover in this group as the super-talented youngsters move on to soloist careers of their own. Without Kremer, they launched into a perfect rendition of the Strauss, which I’m ashamed to say I didn’t know, being more familiar with Ariadne and, especially, the Rosenkavalier – but which I will immediately incorporate into my CD collection. Then it was Kremer’s turn to step in, and apprehension turned to total elation. How I love this man (mind you, I have never met him) for his absolutely superb craftsmanship, great intelligence, self-effacing manner and yet, extraordinarily personal and innovative interpretations. He is equally comfortable reading Bach or Piazzolla, Mozart or Schumann, Beethoven or Schnittke… and I was thinking this before he started playing! With him came another Sharapova-like violist, brace yourselves: Ula Ulijona Zerbriunaite. With a name like that, either she knew her business or she would immediately be catapulted into oblivion (and I don’t mean the Piazzolla piece which Kremer plays so well). Fortunately, Kremer chooses his partners very judiciously and they both, together with the Kremerata, were simply dazzling in this superb piece by Kancheli, Twilight, mostly whispers with occasional outbursts of ferocity or joy, another gem I will add to my possessions. I commented to the lady sitting next to me (I had to speak to someone!) that music like this was a thousand times more difficult to play than the most virtuosistic Paganini capriccio, and that we had just witnessed sheer magic – so they did belong in that show after all! All that pianississimo playing of which not one note was lost, bows drawn like feathers seemingly on one hair, the phrases stretched out without ever losing their direction and the incredible dialogue between the instruments, especially the two soloists, so uncanny that it was often impossible to know who was playing what. Viva Kancheli, and viva the Kremerata!
After a very short intermission, the omaggio began. Again, it gave me goosebumps. The compositions were all beautiful string renditions of familiar Bach opuses which Gould recorded. Two different interpretations of the Goldberg Aria, I couldn’t say which was best. Several preludes and fugues, the slow movement from the 5th piano (clavicembalo rather) concerto, and an original composition using Bach themes, Bridges to Bach, again Kancheli, and probably the one I enjoyed most. But in order to affirm anything, I would have to listen to the pieces carefully over again, so you can imagine my dismay when, rushing to my computer as soon as I got home, I found that they have not recorded any of this. Only a momentary oversight, I hope, as the magic must live forever!