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Al-Ahram Weekly 6 - 12 April 2000 Issue No. 476 
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Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 |
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Al-Ahram Weekly 6 - 12 April 2000 Issue No. 476
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| Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 |
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Egypt Region International Economy Opinion Culture Summit Features Focus Travel Living Sports Profile People Time Out Chronicles Cartoons Letters A touch of the devil
By David Blake
Piano recital, Wael Farouk, Cairo Opera House, Small Hall, 28 March; Cairo Symphony Orchestra, Olga Bolgari (soprano)
Wael Farouk's piano recital gave more than a nod to the dark angel who was undoubtedly present at these concerts. With the performance of Don Wetzel as well, we had two showings of the marvellous, metamorphic, orgiastic composers of the latter part of the late 19th and early 20th century Russian piano school.
Every listener has his own favourite maniac. Farouk's was the Rachmaninov of Sonata No.2 in B minor, which ended his storm-threatened concert. What was imminent finally burst upon us. Before it there were enough hints and predictions of unease. The concert began with Bach's Partita No.2 in six sections.
Bach resembles Leonardo da Vinci -- a startling, immense mind always at work, weaving, conceiving and mostly shocking. But the Leonardo surface, like Bach's, is often so beautifully limpid it almost lulls us into acceptance of what is coming.
Wael Farouk is very good at suggesting this angst in the music. Whether there or not, he probes it. The notes make his technique and he makes clear the almost invisible. This is the art of being a true musician, going behind the notes. As the Bach sections broke off from the parent architecture, the mood was almost sacerdotal, the lamps of reason glowing brightly, but then there was a gasp, a pause, a string of eventful hesitations.
As Farouk played, it was like an unexpected rap on one's door late at night. Bach goes the entire way -- even the dances had a shadow across them. Each of the six pieces rocked gently back and forth. It's all OK, there is nothing to get disturbed about. Yet there was never anyone at the door when the knock came. So the Partita was the rhythm of an interrupted dance.
Mozart is special. Melodies, surfaces and colours flip by as easily and untroubled as a summer day. But then comes something -- not the zephyr from a beloved landscape, but a cool, sharp breath from Don Giovanni's evening prowls. Mozart does all these things, yet keeps the surface unruffled. So many pianists miss the point: all we get is "jolie Mozart". But Wael Farouk's Mozart is often Manichean. There is the touch of the devil somewhere in the air, mocking the beautiful silence. So began the Fantasia No.1 in C minor -- the Mozart pieces that are Farouk's chosen ground.
Wael Farouk
Farouk's touch is delicately deadly. The tone is of dazzling clarity, each note gleaming and fitting into the measure under scrutiny. He has a hunter's eye for detail, near or far, and the strength to allow streams of runs to issue from his hands with a laconic ease which positively shocks. And the sound is so light, silver-tipped, with a metallic centre. Does the key fit the lock of the door this time? Farouk speeds on through the dark. This Fantasia was a revelation of what can be done with the piano -- and a passing breath from the visiteur du soir.
The following sonata in D major was difficult to adjust to. The Fantasia had wandered into the 20th century and was close enough to Webern. The sonata was formal classic and belonged in Haydn's era. Through all these three movements, the statue rose until it ended in a majestic greeting for times past, with Amadeus slipping one foot into the 20th century. All these changes and technical jests were played by the pianist with a clear, unbiased view of their daring and technical skill.
What came next was shocking, deliberately so. Gone was Mozart and his reasonable century. We were to have a frontal view of fire, flood, revolution and total loss. Rachmaninov's large hands drew a nerve-wracking and uncomfortably real hell, slashed only occasionally with his melting melodic gift. Wave upon wave of murky colour, decible after decible of piano-role frenzy reared up through a hall too small to accommodate it. How do pianists play Rachmaninov? They do and they don't. The music of this sonata falls short of inspiration. It is eroded by the effort needed to play it. Many a brave body floats away on the blood-curdled waters of the Volga, without even a funeral march to send it to where keyboard heros go.
But not Farouk. Blood-spattered he was but fighting to the end. He kept his clarity and sense of overview in spite of Rachmaninov's often bombastic tidal waves of messily written material. Not quite good Rachmaninov, but stunning nonetheless.
Don Wetzel (piano soloist), Ahmed El-Saedi, Cairo Opera House Main Hall, 25 March
This concert introduced another Russian demon, Glazunov, and a Viennese angel, Mahler, to balance the musical fare, as well as Ravel's piece, Rhapsodie Espagnole.
Whispers in the dark -- and then the Ravel gush of orchestral sound which is his genius. Through the first two movements, it gradually mounts to a climax of full orchestral impasto flowing like rivers converging then twisting into the expected Spanish dance -- the Malagueno -- and then, with a slide, like an exaggerated cabaret pas de deux goes into a habanera, ending with full fiesta fireworks. Ravel may have got sick of Bolero, but he stuck around with the Spanish dance long enough to allow him to make all his alluring and fascinating rhythms.
Came next Glazunov Piano Concerto No.2 in one movement. Unlike the other composers of the Russian lunatic fringe, Glazunov was simple, straightforward and from this piece rather short on imagination. It begins with a solemn catchy tune, rather like somebody's national anthem, and surprisingly he sticks to it for the rest of the concerto.
The decorations for keyboard virtuosity are quite alarming. It never stays still for even a few clear workouts. The constant piano coloratura dashes and sparkles without stop. It is madness. Thank god for Schubert. This strange, spangled tropical fish was played well by Don Wetzel, without any whiff of showbiz or body histrionics. He went for straight-through waves of runs and double everythings. The piece sounded very salon -- well behaved and accurate. But was this the intention of Gluzanov.
And then, at last, the angelic balm of Mahler's Symphony No.4. Mahler's melodies are for life. Never do they tarnish, and since many come from the magical place of childhood, stored in his dream cabinet they have the heart-rending freshness of a child's direct approach to sorrow or joy.
Until the Second World War Mahler was an elitist musician, after it he became everyman's composer. Whatever befalls us, we all find that he has been there before. He had no need to write an opera for the theatre. He was opera -- a stream of activities and events not even Wagner could surpass. One sings Mahler in the shower, in the car and on all the highways of life.
And what was El-Saedi's approach to all this. He is a great Mahler man. He understands the aura and the myth and how to mix the colours. The Cairo Symphony Orchestra was in perfect form, the audience responsive.
Symphony No 4 begins rather like Richard Strauss's opera Die Frau Ohne Schatten -- with the sound of the cry of the falcon. For the first two movements El-Saedi drove the orchestra so quickly the effects of the simple songs were lost, the tone went nervous and edgy. The sweetness was lost, and the tenderness. There were touches of brassy flamboyance, the strings were put to rout. It seemed like a sad farewell for Mahler's Symphony No 4.
Then, after the third movement, the entire event moves slower as it melts into the adagio, and of all things the maestro found his way, the sky cleared and there was room for all Mahler's funeral marches, bells and the rainbow waves of the celestial tune which had haunted the work from the beginning. We were there in the forgotten garden among the last roses of summer. El-Saedi brought tears of joy and relief -- he had got the measure of the work, and the soprano, very beautiful, simple and radiant, came in at the last to sing us Mahler's paradise message until it all evaporates into the blue.
