1. The mountain-climbing cellist
I was dead wrong when I thought that Rome was not a very musical city. Here I was, having, in less than two weeks, heard Gidon Kremer and Nelson Freire, and on my way to a concert-lecture by a cellist I did not know, having already secured tickets to hear Alfred Brendel speak and Martha Argerich play – that is enough music to satisfy even the insatiable Onkel Heinz.
The day after hearing Nelson Freire give Brahms such a grand treatment, I was back in Piano’s Santa Cecilia hall to hear the first of a series of recital-lectures on the Bach Suites by a cellist called Mario Brunelli which, to my intense shame, I had never heard of. Nevertheless, what he proposed to do had an irresistible appeal, I must say that it was Oboe who spotted the announcement for this series on the Freire concert programme, and for this I’m very grateful to him. This was billed as a “family concert”, “Discovering the 6 Bach suites”. There were few families there, and that did not surprise me. The suites are not easy listening, and the kids, on a sunny Sunday morning, had much rather be prancing around Villa Borghese, I’m sure.
But I would not miss this for anything, although I was, with my usual arrogance, quite prepared to demolish this poor man who had the pretension to lead us on a discovery trip into one of the greatest monuments of instrumental music. I must say that when he stepped on the stage, alone with his Maggini cello, I had already changed my expectation somewhat, as, to my complete surprise, this gentleman I had never heard of happened to have won the 1986 Tchaikowsky competition, which was proof that a) he could play the cello and b) he was certainly not young and inexperienced and was entitled to have his say on the Suites.
After hearing him play the First, although I did not agree with everything he did, I was quite ready to listen to what he had to share. This was obviously a knowledgeable and articulate musician, worthy of the greatest attention. He started out by comparing the Suites not to a monument, but to a mountain, the greatness of which is visible, but the depth of which is not. Whence his invitation to try to discover what these apparently arid and scholarly pages actually contained. He stated the fact that Bach produced three collections of pieces that can easily be mistaken for simple exercises, one for violin, the Sonatas and Partitas, one for the keyboard, the Preludes and Fugues, and one for cello, the 6 Suites. These three “didactic”achievements alone would situate Bach at the acme of his profession. It is very humbling indeed to realize that this is only a small part of his huge production.
Brunello went on to explain how he viewed the 6 Suites, each one enlightening a particular aspect of Bach’s intentions. A little too neat to stomach? I thought so, but as I listened I realized that this approach was very appealing. How was he going about it? He came in and played the First suite in its entirety. He then spoke and explained what he saw and heard in the music. He presented the 6 Suites as a journey into the mountainside. The First we had just listened to, he said, was to be the Map. And he proceeded to discuss the inexistence of an original manuscript and how cellists had to rely on copies, the most famous of which is Anna Magdalena’s, the accuracy of which is supposed, but not certified.
Then he discussed and debated the available manuscripts and printings, with the help of members of the audience he called on to represent each source. With a great sense of humor, he placed a young man behind all the others and left him empty-handed. “You, he said, are the original manuscript we have never seen!” He then thanked his manuscripts and played the Suite again. Very effective, as the two auditions were completely diverse experiences, not that he played differently, but that I, and I suspect the rest of the audience, listened differently. During the first audition, we were listening according to our own ideas and expectations. For the second hearing, our mind had been broadened by the performer’s comments and we opened up to new aspects that we had not necessarily grasped on our own. Chapeau, Signor Brunello, I wish you were my teacher.
I’m sorry I have to miss the second part of this expedition, as I will not be in Rome for the Second suite, the poignant one in D minor. I will do my best not to miss the Third majestic C major Suite as I am sure Mr. Brunello will have many interesting things to say. I hope I will have a chance to overcome my shyness and ask him a few questions, as I’m curious about a new trend (maybe it’s not so new, but I have only been aware of it for the past two or three years) – playing on a modern cello with a Baroque bow. I have now seen Natalia Gutman, Antonio Meneses and Mario Brunello, to mention only the most notable, do it and I’m anxious to buy a Baroque bow myself. My longing is definitely dampened by the fact that I already have a lot of trouble handling a modern bow, so I question the wisdom of trying out something new before I have mastered the traditional. I also would like to question him about his frequent use of the upbow at the beginning of a phrase, although common sense tells me that he actually has a very strong point there, when the phrasing demands a growing intensity. Downbows should be reserved to phrases which do the reverse and need to die down. Elementary, my dear Watson.
2. The stiff-upper lipped humorist.
As advertised, on February 27th, at 6 pm sharp, the phenomenal and now retired pianist Alfred Brendel appeared on the Santa Cecilia stage, where a chair, a music-stand, and a Steinway and bench awaited him as anxiously as the audience did. But before Mr. Brendel put in his expected appearance, applause erupted and I wondered what had provoked it – the few minutes that had elapsed after the announced moment? Not very Italian. The bare stage? Not much reason for that, as we had all been staring at it for quite some time. Then I understood, as the diva waved to the cheering, adoring crowd and modestly begged for silence. This was not her moment, but still, a number of autograph seekers further retarded the beginning of our music lesson. Martha Argerich finally sat down in the first row and shook her silver mane, no, no, not now, please. Let the maestro begin.
So in walked Brendel, bushy haired and browed, slouching a little (years at the piano are bound to curve your spine), carrying a sheaf of A4 sheets which he set on the music stand in front of the chair. Nothing on the Steinway, which led me to think, erroneously, that we were not to be treated to musical samples. I should have known better, it’s obvious that Brendel does not need the notes to play from. But, it seemed that he did need to rely heavily on his written text, as he proceeded to read from the sheets, in a totally humorless fashion. So Brendel droned on, trying to make his point that Haydn, Mozart and Beethoven could indeed be very funny. He is completely right, but the spoken voice is not his medium and he was totally unconvincing in his explanations, until he sat at the piano to illustrate them. He played the pieces he had mentioned, first in a “straight” fashion, leaving out the original notes or cadenzas which actually added humor to the piece and then as written. In this way, through his fingers, he was able to convey all that which his stiff and slightly somnolent demeanor could not possibly yield. I imagined how different such an explanation could have been if delivered by Leon Fleisher or Gary Hoffmann, who master the spoken word as brilliantly as they do their respective instruments. Yes, you will say, but Mr. Brendel’s mother tongue is German, so he is probably not completely comfortable having to speak in English. That might account for some of his humorlessness, but did he really need to reprimand some people who were coughing, telling them that he could not concentrate with that noise. I doubt that Haydn, Mozart or Beethoven themselves would have been so stern.
As I listened to his lecture (so much for my concentration) I couldn’t help reflecting on what humor in music means to me. Yes, the unexpected twists and turns introduced by Haydn, Mozart and Beethoven into their scores are a very high form of musical humor, one which, I believe, can only be truly appreciated by those who are extremely familiar with music and musical theory. The introduction of a sudden modulation into a foreign key can hardly send your normal audience into fits of laughter. On the other hand, there are more recent examples such as Shostakovitch, Prokofiev, Stravinsky and Bartók who have written truly funny pieces, immediately recognized as so by anyone. Think of Shostakovitch’s concerto for piano and horn and Stravinsky’s Petruschka, for example. As to the latter, a marvelous explanation by Msitslav Rostropovitch, then principal conductor of the NSO in Washington, DC, did full justice to the humorous side of Petruschka, if only because of the delicious Russian accent with which the explanation was delivered.
There is yet another form of humor and classical music, and that is that in which it is not the music itself which is funny, but the way it is used and performed. I am thinking about some extraordinary humorists with a very solid musical background: the whimsical Dane Victor Borge, a marvelous pianist who realized that there was probably far less competition in comedy, and who built an amazing and unique career using his musical skill to make us laugh; the hilarious Argentine quintet called Les Luthiers, whose name was derived from the fact that they loved to invent instruments (all of them working) out of mundane objects such as toilet seats or sewer pipes; the grande dame of classical humor, Anna Russell, whose irreverence toward Wagner I positively cherish; and, although he was not a musician, one who could be funny in any medium, Sir Peter Ustinov. Well, could they have been as funny without the help of the great composers? I don’t think so, but I also believe that those who inspired them would have been simply thrilled with their understanding of their music. Alfred Brendel, that giant musician, did well to stick to a serious career, as he certainly has trouble persuading the audience that music can be truly funny.