Just quietly, I think the pianist cheated. (Jean-Efflam Bavouzet was his name, and the Concert Hall of the Sydney Opera House was his place.) It’s not that I’m suggesting there was a player piano hidden inside the body of the grand one on the platform, and that there was some sort of quasi-homage to Beyonce-at-the-inauguration going on. Nor I am implying that he was tricking the other members of the orchestra with shifty legerdemain in some bizarre on-stage poker game – no. Rather, I’m more than a tad concerned that he used his right hand – it was Ravel’s Piano Concerto for the Left Hand, after all. Yet perhaps I’m being a bit too particular, a bit too pedantic about it all, because his spare limb wasn’t actually involved in playing any notes. Instead, on at least one occasion (I was seated on the non-keyboard side of the Hall, so my view of his arms wasn’t a very good one) he used his right hand to brace himself against the piano, grabbing the curved woodwork at the end of the keys for a part that presumably required a bit more stability, or power, or speed off the blocks, or whatever it is that a pianist needs.
The concerto was commissioned by Paul Wittgenstein (brother of Ludwig Wittgenstein, the philosopher), a man who entered the First World War in toto but departed the conflict with a distinct lack of flesh protruding from his right shoulder. Wittgenstein, determined not to let this dextral mishap be the end of his performing life, decided to continue his career as a concert pianist, and commissioned many a left-handed work to expand his repertoire. So when one observed Bavouzet leaning on his right arm, one felt the twinge of an advantage being taken, like smuggling glue into an egg-and-spoon race.
Nevertheless, arms (or arm) aside (or in front, or behind) this was a fantastic performance. It was Bavouzet who was the star, though conductor Vladimir Ashkenazy pulled a fine, if not entirely perfect, rendition from the Sydney Symphony. There was a lovely resonance to it all, a wholly transporting mood, which, when it comes down to it, is what one wants most of the time from music – to blow warm air into that empty nub inside all us, to fill the void with a little bit of light. It was, for this critic at least, a rather special moment.
After the interval came Sibelius’ Kullervo Symphony, Op.7, involving not only the symphony, but the Men of the Sydney Philharmonia Choirs, soprano Helena Juntunen, and baritone Ville Rusanen. Both soloists gave very fine performances in this story about Kullervo and his frightfully unfortunate sister who unexpectedly finds herself in an incestuous mess, spurring both her suicide and her brother’s. (The work, like Sibelius’ Lemminkainen Suite played earlier in the month by the Sydney Symphony, is based on the Finnish epic poem Kalevala, a poem that provided much inspiration for the composer.) Rusanen proved a powerful presence, descending from swagger to soul-torn, while Juntunen’s solo turn was a highlight. There was a bit of the bloat about the piece as a whole, but Ashkenazy brought out an inertia that held it together quite well. It wasn’t the most epic of epics, but it was no small mountain either.
Rating: 4 stars out of 5
A Finnish Epic
Sydney Symphony
Conductor: Vladimir Ashkenazy
Soloists: Jean-Efflam Bavouzet (piano), Helen Juntunen (soprano), Ville Rusanen (baritone)
Men of the Sydney Philharmonia Choirs
RAVEL – Piano Concerto for the Left Hand
SIBELIUS – Kullervo Symphony, Op.7
Concert Hall, Sydney Opera House
16 February
