8 - 14 November 2001
Issue No.559
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Al-Ahram Weekly Online 8 - 14 November 2001 Issue No.559 |
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Barking across the great steppe
David Blake finds a prickly piano in hot pursuit
Richard Strauss, Don Juan; Prokofiev, Piano Concerto No.3 in C-major; Tchaikovsky, Pathétique: Cairo Symphony Orchestra; cond. Ahmed El- Saedi; soloist, Wael Farouk, Cairo Opera House, Main Hall, 27 October
Prokofiev's snow and ice resemble not at all that of Tchaikovsky. Prokofiev's belong to the murkier world of brown ice, the slushy, sleety storm while Tchaikovsky's is the real, sparkling thing.
Prokofiev is never bright. There is something too 1917 about him. Poor Prokofiev, he lagged behind the others only to find himself caught in the netherworld of trying to belong to both sides. He managed the swings, but only at the cost of balance.
This concerto, supposedly the best, is like a child from a badly arranged marriage. As a piece of music it always sounds like a spoilt brat. Prokofiev uses the piano in this concerto as if on a skating rink. The slides and slithers always end in a skid. Dangerous driving is not just permitted but positively encouraged. And even at the end, when there is a possibility of the emotions bending towards something warmer, it is ignored. No wonder he used to be called prickly.
Prokofiev presents every kind of difficulty for the hands of the pianist. He presents a fascinating bouquet of poison ivy to any player taking on the No.3, which really calls for three hands rather than two. It survives only because there are some pianists who enjoy difficult mountaineering. Wael Farouk must be one of these: he revels in a rough, dangerous climb.
And that is what he got. El-Saedi set off from bar one like a space rocket. Nothing could impede Prokofiev once he got going. And thankfully, nothing can impede Wael Farouk once he is in motion.
Prokofiev's times were a little like the ones we are in at present -- enigmas on all sides. The colour is that of a storm, the atmosphere troubled.
No.3's opening instructions read andante. But out on the great steppe anything goes. Andante might as well have spelled catastrophe.
Swipes and sways of sand all end with a stop -- a single note. The entire first movement proceeds as if in the aftermath of something extremely unpleasant. Farouk's playing departed from his usual: since no room was left for tone something else was required. Crisp, icy, brittle arcs of sound replaced Farouk's usual warmth. But the sounds seemed to fit with what both composer and conductor wanted.
After the second movement had explored the rougher sides of andantino via Russian folkloric songs, the tunes of which gave us a last glimpse of a grand manner in which pianists forever delight, we finally had a ray of Russian sunshine, allowing old prickly Prokofiev to send the Cairo Symphony Orchestra, soloist and conductor, up in a champagne fizz finale. It brought down the house.
The Prokofiev had followed Richard Strauss's tone poem Don Juan, which opened the concert. It is a very young work. The strength and clarity of its muscular frame are almost too much for even Don Juan. Surely he was never such a monster. What keeps leaping out from the huge Strauss orchestra is a world force, no mere erotic element. Only Mozart in his opera has coped with the incubus side of the legend of Don Juan better.
It begins with a crack of brass, the blast of horns and the braying of the rest of the orchestra, creating a noise so disturbing that one is forced to wonder if Don Juan could ever have been quite such a giant. Whatever, this is the tone poem that launched Strauss, the tall Bavarian, into his triumphant life. He became one of the enrichers of music, with an appeal as strong as Verdi. Indeed, his last years, like Verdi's, were as heady as the scent of hyacinths.
Such swaggering joy in the showing of one's own gifts has too easy a ring about it for most musicians. Strauss, as a consequence, was called vulgar. This was mean and small and totally untrue. As the middle section of this work slides into the current it becomes positively oceanic. The Byronic monster gleams in silver moonlit splendour. So it is big and shows its power, but what the hell.
We ended with Tchaikovsky -- Symphony No.6, the Pathétique. Tchaikovsky never forgot anything. From best, worse to unbearable, he remembered. All his holes were black except for those he found in the garden. He must have adored flowers: real or artificial, he loved them all. Tchaikovsky's music could do all the rest, could do everything except perhaps provide the escape afforded by a black tulip in a bowl of white violets or a hand-picked bundle of field thistles. This symphony smacks of the sleeping poppy. It is deep red and after a single sniff you are out wandering in the wasteland of Tchaikovsky's personal life.
Tchaikovsky did his best with the striking moment that is really all the sixth symphony comprises. But he falters at the end. The whole edifice stops.
El-Saedi did this shocking bit as if it were a heart attack. For Tchaikovsky the words of the prophets would hold: make haste rush to the port and board. Your ship of solace is about to leave.
The poor musician did his best. Or did he? Anyway, as history knows, he missed his ship, and the rest is the rest. Yet even the sixth, in all its tatters, makes every single snowflake white.
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