Tchaikovsky at Wigmore Hall review – a triumphant star-studded performance
Last Friday, Wigmore Hall brought to life a sublime work of art. From a collection of Tchaikovsky songs sung by the mezzo-soprano, Alice Coote, to Russian poetry readings by Lermontov, Pushkin and Fet. Plus, there were juicy bits of Tchaikovsky’s personal correspondence, sensitively intoned by the actor, Ralph Fiennes. Tinkling the ivories there was someone the programme claimed was called Christian Balkshaw (sic.) – Blackshaw. It was an experience with its own identity.
There have been plenty of excellent recitals and performances in empty halls during the Covid-19 pandemic. The difference here is that Wigmore pounced on the poignantly empty auditorium, dragooning it as part of the total performance, adding rich pathos to the whole shebang.
Tchaikovsky’s letters were particularly startling, laying bare his anguished soul. Meanwhile, the songs were carefully selected to reinforce the themes of the letters. Camera angles were astute, often tracking behind the performers, using the dark space beyond for a bleak effect. The melding of the songs with the letters and Tchaikovsky’s favourite poetry elevated a potentially pleasant enough occasion to a minor Wagnerian Gesamstkuntswerk – complete art form.
I tuned in for the piddling price of a glass of Met Opera interval Champers in a “Hum, ho, here’s another worthy lockdown recital” sort of mood. I love Wigmore Hall, much admire Alice Coote, and I was intrigued that “M” had been reduced to treading the boards to make ends meet, pending the much-delayed release of No Time to Die. I thought it was time to pay attention to the songs, with which I was only vaguely familiar.Duty called.
Within minutes I was discombobulated, engaged and transfixed. I was in a trance until the last song died away, the camera tracked back in funereal silence from the motionless artists, the lights dimmed, then faded to credits. Applause would have broken the spell. For once, Covid-related solitude proved a blessing.
I was agog that a well-known composer whose work I casually enjoyed had hidden a hinterland of doubt, introspection and unfulfilled yearning from his public so successfully (I know, I know, read any decent biography – I haven’t). I was amazed that a repertoire of engaging, crowd-pleasing music could pour from that tortured soul during a relatively brief life – Tchaikovsky died of cholera in 1893 at the age of 53.
The selected songs are of deep introspection and perceptively book-ended by one of his first – Moy geniy, moy angel, moy dru (My genius, my angel, my friend) c.1855, and his last, Snova, kak prezhde, odin (Again, as before, alone,) 1893. Tchaikovsky ends up musically where he always feared he had been headed. Alone.
There is a conscious and successful effort in the mixed programme to create a narrative, praising nature, reflecting on love, the familiar Net, tolk’o tot, kto znal (None but the lonely heart) 1869, contemplating the end, Smert’ (Death), 1869 and falling head over heels in love at first sight, Sred’shumnovo bala (Amid the din of the ball), 1878. Some frustrated Eugene Onegin themes lurk here.
The songs are lyrical and are of great beauty but do not aspire to the intensity of, say, Schubert’s Wintereisse song cycle. Individually they seem casual, creations of Tchaikovsky’s passing moods and fancy. To meld them into a credible cycle was a stroke of genius. But, sadly, nowhere in the programme notes are we told who was responsible for artistic direction.
I suspect the hand of the Wigmore’s John Gilhooley somewhere at work. Give whoever it was credit, please. There is a helpful link to the words of the songs, but not the text of the poems, presumably because Mr Fiennes handles the Queen’s English capably.
The poets featured are Mikhail Lermontov, Alexander Pushkin and Afanasay Fet, whose works Tchaikovsky much admired. Introspection rears its inevitable head again in most: I have outlived desires (Pushkin), The Prophet (Pushkin) and Not a Word will I Utter (Fet).
Letters are to Pyotr Ilyich’s brother, Modest, Nadezhda Von Meck, the bonkers business-woman benefactress who supported him for thirteen years – on the curious condition that they should never meet – and Alexander Glazunov, fellow Romantic composer and friend.
They become increasingly intense in tone and together form a curious canon of the inconsequential juxtaposed with the apocalyptic. “Took a carriage this morning. The coachman had bad breath. Vladimir no longer sighs for me. Oh, woe! May jump into the Volga before lunch”, sort of thing.
Well, perhaps that’s a bit of a trivialisation. But they do come across as totally honest, uncontrived and touching. As the lights dimmed, I reflected how deplorable it is that a composer who has created happiness for so many through his music self-evidently found little joy himself — the great artist’s burden.
There were engaging idiosyncrasies along the way. For example, what was Ms Coote’s right shoulder up to? She stood, serene, statuesque, in a long, black chiffon-sheath dress, silk straps extending upwards right and left to each shoulder from a black silk rose pinned in the general region of her left chest, occasionally resting her right hand on the piano.
Her left shoulder was tastefully revealed, strap and chiffon never destined to meet. Au contraire, the right shoulder was a model of discretion, shrouded in black chiffon. Then, the right shoulder rebelled. It came out! It opted for a transition. Not to be outdone, some way into the recital, it fought its way free from chiffon in a feisty show of independence intent on mirroring the left. Yet, in the next shot, the rebellion seemed to have been quelled. The chiffon had reasserted supremacy.
The hand of Ms Coote, which had presumably done the trick, was never revealed. It was a masterstroke delivered by the hidden continuity director behind the camera, jumelée avec Ms Coote’s imperturbable sang froid. The battle raged throughout the performance.
A seasoned pro, Ms Coote remained detached and seemingly oblivious as shoulder-wars were waged. Of course, she wasn’t oblivious. She misses nothing. Alice Coote is as renowned as a meticulous artist on the concert platform as on the opera stage. She is highly tuned to everything around her, including the tall glass of water lurking precariously on the floor, dangerously close to her right foot. Her fabled conviction and subtlety of perception were to the fore during this tour de force. The water remained undisturbed.
It’s almost impossible to find words that suitably reflect the sound of any human voice, let alone Ms Coote’s warm, well-tempered mezzo, but I will settle for “plangent” in this performance.
Ralph Fiennes played the parts of poem narrator and letter writing composer pitch-perfectly. One of the letters to Pyotr Ilych’s brother, Modest, was embarrassingly detailed in its frank description of Peter Ilyich’s lustful feelings for his nephew, Vladimir, but could never bring himself to express in full physical lovemaking. Mr Fiennes convincingly summoned up demons.
Christian Blackshaw is a master of sinister and skittish and frequently accompanies Ms Coote. He has long mastered the art of the truly skilled accompanist, in being crucial to the performance without diverting attention from the singer. Their mature partnership and his intuitive ability to match every impromptu tempo change seamlessly were delightfully on display.
Let’s not leave it there. This Wigmore triumph deserves an outing before a live audience when distancing regulation permits. Perhaps, even a regular slot in the repertoire, with one caveat. Audiences, as they have grown accustomed to standing in disciplined ranks at the first crashing chord of Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus, should remain silent as the last line of the last song, Ya za tebya uzh molyus (I am already praying for you) fades. Nothing less would sufficiently acknowledge, in reverence, the conclusion of the Wigmore’s epitaph to a great.