365 Ways With Words

Misha Maisky's Soul at the Reduta

Like sermons at weddings and eulogies at funerals, concert reviews can be tiresome things. You know they have to be done, and they probably bring to mind something important (and something you most likely missed), but they're something to skip over to the more satisfying comic strip page.

That is, unless you know someone in the concert. Then you might even cut out the review and keep it. If that isn't the case, then the eye might only dwell if the concert involved a famous name, or the review was of a seminal work you may have heard once upon a time. Even rarer still would be a concert review about a musician you didn't know performing something you hadn't heard before. Such, in all probability, is this review. But stick with it: I'd not heard of Misha Maisky either...

 

The evening kicked off with Smetana's Richard III. I'm a bit ambivalent when it comes to old Smetana (an opinion I am bound to keep to myself round these here Czech parts), but the Moravian Phil did their very best with this rather romantic symphonic poem. It's all a bit lush for my liking, but conductor Petr Vronský kept them together and pulled off what felt like a good romp. It was entertaining stuff even in the standing room only section overlooking the stage, I can tell you!

That Mischa Maisky, the esteemed Latvian cellist, is a master instrumentalist you can have no doubts. It's not that he's note perfect, he even looks the part of a virtuoso, with his long shaggy grey locks that mysteriously don't interfere with his left hand high upon the neck. He and the very excellent Korean violinist Jeongah Kim, in a long red silky number (see top pic), performed the mad Brahms double concerto with such aplomb (panache, style, grace, technical skill and however many other terms you like to throw about) that it sounded uncannily like the epic 1965 Albert Hall performance by Rostropovich and David Oistrakh. It was of no surprise, therefore, to learn that Maisky was tutored under Rostropovich at the Moscow Conservatory.

 

The two conversed with the ease of a long-married couple, synchronised like one mind, threw exciting ideas at each other as if they were opponents on debating teams and were tireless throughout like a team of two prized horses. Oh yes, and the Moravian Phil were in the room and helped out a bit too...

 

The second half was of Dvořák's cello concerto – you know, the famous one that goes daaah da-da daah, daaah da-da daaah! Again, Maisky put it all together with such consummate precision, that it felt that the orchestra were very certainly led by the towering performance of this little maestro. Not much more can be said other than it was perhaps the best performance of this piece to ever happen anywhere in the history of the world. Well, perhaps in the history of Olomouc.

Four encores later, he sat down again and performed the most exquisite jewel, the rarest gem, of the multi-faceted Bach cello suit no 2 (the Sarabande). The Youtube, although excellent, does not really do it justice – Maisky's come on a bit since it was recorded. He tore a portion of his very soul away and cast it with angelic grace into the audience. Long and weighted, he gave this demanding piece a devastating honesty and daring that transfixed the concert hall into a room of spiritual ecstasy. Real tears fell.

 

So, there you have it; a concert review about someone you may not know performing something you may never have heard before. This evening will stick in the memory, but not because of the stunning evening gown, the Smetana, Brahms or Dvořák, but because of the stunning working of Bach by the wonderful 66-year old. Oh yes, and I met him briefly afterwards to shake his hand and tell him as much.

Sublime Haydn

 

The heart beats consistently, but will skip a beat when beauty is beheld.

Picture St Wenceslas cathedral, splendid in neo-gothic finery: all blue ceilings and stars, painted flowers adorning the walls. Upon the ebony-esque dark pews and hastily assembled folding chairs crowding the central aisle sat the coated audience recently hobbled in from the cold. Facing them are orchestra and choir, black tailed, black jacketed, black polyester topped, their focus upon the imminent creation of the Creation. And staring down upon all assembled is John Sarkander, the piercing gaze from his emotionless, unmoving brown skull  – tortured saint, local boy and golden reliquary inhabitant.

And then the music begins; Haydn's masterpiece, the culmination of fluid thought, of majestically crafted themes within dynamic forms. With The Creation he fully demonstrated his capacity to form in the mind a painted landscape to convey vigorous ideas, but in so doing moved the heart and appealed to the spirit.

The first promising outing in the local Autumn Festival of Sacred Music, the cathedral's echoing shell generously allowed each note of each phrase sufficient reverb to blend and combine. The Czech Philharmonic Choir, South Bohemian Philharmonia under direction of Hungarian István Dénes and accomplished soloists soprano Michaela Šrůmová, tenor Jaroslav Březina and ponytailed Slovakian bass Martin Gurbal melded into the firey sword of Haydn's deft handywork (see Youtube above – very similar, although our performance was arguably better and the libretto was German). For the incidental solo in the last movement the alto crept up on the soloists like she'd missed the bus and the conductor played the recitatives on what looked like a bontempi organ.

It was after hearing some of Handel's works performed forcefully with massed ranks of musicians and choristers that Haydn decided to bring The Creation into being. After two year's gestation, it immediately revealed itself to be an extraordinary piece of music, of the sort that demonstrates what great heights man is capable of attaining. In response to rapturous applause the ageing Haydn with characteristic modesty pointed upwards – "Not from me—everything comes from up there!" In response to our performance, a 10-minute standing ovation, the only reaction possible (without the usual whooping and hollaring that is all-pervasive elsewhere) and a dumbfounded homage not only to performers but also to the composer.