Monumental Messiaen: Steven Osborne at Queen Elizabeth Hall

Olivier Messiaen’s monumental and profound work Vingt Regards sur l’enfant-Jésus (Twenty Gazes on the Infant Jesus) is one of the greatest works in the pianist’s repertoire, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with such titans as Bach’s Goldberg Variations and Beethoven’s Piano Sonatas in terms of its scale. It is one of the most extraordinary and ground-breaking works in twentieth-century piano repertoire, a work which has accrued iconic status and deep respect. That such a work was created at a time of great human suffering, and personal privation (it was composed in 1944, when the German occupation of Paris was in its closing stages), and yet expresses such joie de vivre, conviction, love, hope and ecstasy makes it all the more remarkable.

It is, above all else, an expression of Messiaen’s deeply-held Catholic faith – even more so than the Quator pour le fin du temp – a faith which involved sound and silence, beauty and terror, joy, love and an all-embracing sense of awe. It is music that puts listener and performer in touch with something far greater than ourselves, and yet one does not have to have religious faith to appreciate the enormity and emotional breadth of this work. Messiaen has an unerring ability to “ground” the music in a way that makes it more accessible through his use of recurring motifs and devices, in particular his beloved birdsong. These elements also give this tremendous work a cohesive, comprehensive structure – and it is only by hearing the work in one sitting, as opposed to listening to individual movements from it, that one can fully appreciate Messiaen’s compositional skill and vision. Like a great symphony, the work moves inexorably through its movements towards a gripping finale.

The Vingt Regards sur l’enfant Jésus is Messiaen’s highly personal celebration of the Nativity, and, as a devout Catholic, the significance he placed upon Christ’s birth. It is not the stuff of cheery Christmas carols and chocolate-box cards: in it, Messiaen draws on the iconography of Medieval and early Renaissance religious art and literature in the telling of the Christmas Story in which the birth of an extraordinary infant is marked with joy, love and awe tempered by a portentous sense of what is to come in adulthood. The individual movements, with their special titles, and Messiaen’s own short, poetic explanations, are like staging posts in the great theological story, musical “stations of the cross”, if you will, leading to a conclusion which is both terrifying and redemptive.

All twenty movements are constructed around three distinctive themes. The first, the Theme of God, a slow-moving chordal motif, heard first in the opening Regard (Regard du Père/Gaze of the Father). It recurs in V, XI and XV, and is always sonorous, luminous and profound. The second theme, the Theme of the Star and the Cross, first appears in Regard II. Turbulent and fractured, it signifies the beginning and the end of Christ’s life. The final theme, the Theme of Chords, is a sequence of four chords which are used in various ways throughout the entire work, most obviously in Regard XIV. In the final movement, all three themes are brought together.

Silence also plays a significant role in the music, never more so than in the penultimate movement where the sonorities, resonance and sound-decay of the modern piano are utilised with highly arresting effect. In some movements, the silences are like breaths or moments of hushed contemplation. Birdsong plays a meaningful part in many of the movements too (Messiaen was a devoted ornithologist), with chatterings and squawks, trills and shrills in the upper registers, yet always used melodically rather than for pure effect. There are even references to Gershwin’s ‘I Got Rhythm’, a joyous, jazzy outpouring in Regard X (Regard de l’Esprit de joie/Gaze of the Spirit of Joy), and later a hint of ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’.

Another important aspect is Messiaen’s “flashes”, colourful chords and clusters of notes or fragments which reflect Messiaen’s belief that it was only possible to comprehend the totality of God in “flashes”. To me, these are akin to the lines of stigmata found in paintings of artists such as Giotto, as well as the golden halos and symbolic devices found on Greek and Russian Orthodox icons. In the music we also hear tolling bells and carillon chimes, complex rhythmic motifs, and references to devotional texts, numerology, and Hinduism, as well as deeply portentous passages, suggesting Jesus’s fate. These aspects informed much of the composer’s thinking and became recurring elements in his later works. It was the last piece of sacred music Messiaen would write until 1960, and is the only sacred work he wrote for solo piano. It also holds the rather special distinction of being the longest piece of solo sacred piano music ever written (Liszt’s Harmonies poetiques and religieuses is the next longest, at 90 minutes).

The composer gives very clear directions and markings in the score to help the performer understand both the context of the music and the kind of sound he envisaged. For example, the recurring themes are marked each time their appear, and Messiaen indicates particular instruments too: the xylophone Regarde de la Vierge, bells in Noel, and the tam tam (a gong-like instrument) and oboe in Regard des prophetes, des bergers and des Mages.

At two hours in length, it is not for the faint-hearted, and it takes a special kind of performer who has the physical and emotional stamina to undertake such a task for it places immense technical and musical demands on the pianist. The expressive sweep of the work is vast, from the intimate, aching tenderness of Regarde de la Vierge (IV) to primal brutality of Par Lui tout a éte fait (VI) and the concentrated stillness of Je dors, mais mon coeur veille (XIV). As a consequence the work is rarely performed in full.

British pianist Steven Osborne has been playing this work for around 20 years now (and has made an acclaimed recording of it as well for Hyperion) and believes that it should be played without interruption to create “a deeper sense of engagement with the work as a whole, for both myself and the listener.” Becuase of his long association with the music, Osborne plays with an assured “settledness” and his deep understanding of the work enables him to create a cohesive whole. As a listener, one feels at once totally at ease with him on this epic musical and emotional voyage yet also acutely alert, as he is, to every shift in harmony and tonal colour, every nuance and emotion. Thus, the music feels freshly wrought, as new sonorities, new meanings are revealed.

He has a restrained virtuosity which puts the music front and centre, and his every gesture is freighted with meaning. He creates an extraordinary range of colours and tone – translucent filigree arabesques, shimmering, flickering trills, brilliant chirruping birdsong, plangent bass chords, rumbling, rolling Lisztian arpeggios….. And all despatched with an almost effortlesss sprezzatura. The performance was perfectly paced, Osborne’s clear sense of continuity allowing each movement to be heard as a statement in its own right, while also contributing to the extraordinarily powerful cumulative and architectural effect of the whole. The rapture and ecstasy of Messiaen’s faith was captured in a profoundly concentrated performance that reverberated with passion, spirituality, awe and joy. The long silence at the end before the applause, as we meditated on what we had heard, was a mark of our respect for performer, music and composer, further confirmed by a standing ovation.

Vingt regards sur l’enfant-Jésus – Olivier Messiaen

Steven Osborne, piano

6 November 2019, Queen Elizabeth Hall, Southbank Centre


FW

Maurizio Pollini proves he still has the hunger

Whenever Italian pianist Maurizio Pollini comes to London there are the gainsayers who declare that he is now “past it”, that his technique is “not what it once was” (he’s in his 70s, so we can’t really expect the nimble fleet-fingers of a man half his age!). But go to one of his concerts and you’ll discover why people still flock to hear him and why he commands enthusiastic applause and standing ovations for his clarity, commitment and musical intent. He’s a virtuoso in the old-fashioned sense of the word – modest (he allows the music to speak for itself), adventurous (in his programmes), noble and generous.

For his second programme at the Royal Festival Hall to mark his 75th birthday this year he performed works by two composers with whom he has a special affinity – Schoenberg and Beethoven. Two composers poised on the cusp of change, separated by a century, whose music was, in its own way, adventurous, revolutionary, forward-looking and distinctive. Not many people can pair Schoenberg with Beethoven to create a convincing whole, but Pollini can, and this performance showed why, at 75, he is still a master of the piano. He scurries across the stage, bird-like, bent forward, and gives the briefest of bows to the audience, as if he can’t wait to get on with the performance. And once he begins to play his quiet body language, free of unnecessary gestures or fussy mannerisms, focuses one’s attention entirely on the music, not the man. Which is how it should be.

Schoenberg’s Three Piano Pieces, Op 11 were composed 100 years after Beethoven’s Op.78, and these works opened the concert. It is a great skill by any performer to open with miniatures such as these – intimate and softly-spoken, they are some of Schoenberg’s most personal works, along with the Six Little Piano Pieces, Op 19 which followed them.   Despite a noisy infant in the corridor and much bronchial throat-clearing in the stalls, Pollini seemed impervious to these interruptions and played with concentrated focus. His bespoke Fabbrini Steinway has a bright, clean tone which suited this repertoire, and he highlighted the music’s intensity, its fleeting writing, the hints of tonality and ambiguous emotional landscapes. The Six Little Piano Pieces, Op.19, are even smaller in scale, aphoristic and emotionally charged (in particular the final work, written shortly after the death of Gustav Mahler), to which Pollini brought clarity, intimacy, wit and poignancy. Rather than focus on the cerebral nature of this music, as some performers tend to, Pollini revealed the piquant harmonies and shifting colours in these works. This is not the easiest of music, for the listener, with which to open a concert programme, but Pollini’s ability to draw the audience into Schoenberg’s unsettling soundworld was convincing and compelling.

The Pathétique Sonata, one of Beethoven’s most popular, felt rather unsteady. There’s no doubting Pollini’s technical assuredness: at 75 he is still nimble and agile across the entire range of the keyboard, but the first movement seemed rushed, though it did not lack dramatic bite, and there were a number of muddy passages. The songful slow movement felt rather four-square and I craved more cantabile in that long-spun melody. The finale was a breathless gallop, not always secure, but audacious and sincere nonetheless.

Between the turbulent edifices of the Pathétique and the Appassionata came the modest two-movement Op.78, A Thérèse, which combined lyricism with intimacy and to which Pollini brought grace and charm, particularly in the first movement.

The haunting opening measures of the Appassionata recalled the Schoenberg in their concentrated intensity before the music broke free into a movement of fearless drama. Now Pollini took the music by the scruff of the neck: no uncertainty here, he tore through the movement with a taut single-mindedness, creating a movement of tension, power and savage momentum. The passagework glittered, trills had a fleeting elegance, and a sense of the overall narrative was clear throughout. The stately second movement, a theme and four variations built on a simple chordal motif, grew in statue as the note values got progressively smaller, a favourite device of Beethoven to create a sense of increased momentum. Pollini handled it with nobility and grace, his weighty style in keeping with the sonorous character of this music. The transition into the finale was masterful – control before the storm – before a tumultuous eruption sound and energy. A febrile, urgent moto perpetuo of edge-of-the seat excitement and drama. That movement alone was enough to convince that Pollini still has the hunger: assured technique underpinning a clear sense of the music’s narrative, its drama and contrasts. To quote a fellow Twitterer who attended the concert, “note-perfect upstarts take note” – which I take to mean perfection is not a prerequisite when one hears such clarity of vision and musical intent.

Two Bagatelles from the Op 126 formed the encores – the first an ethereal chorale, like the first movement of the Op 110 in miniature, Beethoven at his most philosophical and refined.

FW