Lisztomania

Louis Lortie: after playing for nearly three hours, still gave us an encore.

Each individual in a concert audience responds to the performance in their own way, but it usually falls among certain behaviors. Some, both those familiar with the music and those hearing it for the first time, actively listen. Their focus is on either the music itself--whether its emotional effect, or its compositional aspects--or on the performer; typically, I would imagine, some combination of all these. Some listen less actively. Some occupy themselves with reading the program, checking their phone, dozing, re-reading the program, dozing, wondering what the person sitting next to them is thinking, remembering the past, wondering what the person across the room looks like naked, worrying about the future; but they still listen to the music by sheer dint of being in the room. Theirs may be a more passive connection, but they are undeniably in the presence of music. No level of engagement is better than the other.  

Depending on the concert, my engagement vacillates between active listening, passive listening, watching the performers, occasional dozing, and thinking about my life (despite the fact you’re at a production of an auditory art, classical concerts offer a rare, “quiet” opportunity for contemplation and reflection.) Sometimes, however, I’m rather actively engaged with the performance throughout and, as in the case of Saturday’s concert, just don’t stop thinking.

I didn’t anticipate this, though. My initial interest in the Liszt production was to witness a feat of endurance as well as see rarely produced event. Three hours … one man at a piano … an epic solo work composed over the majority of a life-time: for me (I’m such an odd kid) that was enough to commit the majority of my Saturday evening. And yet despite this, I still anticipated possibly being bored at times (when the music either took a turn toward the twee or saccharine or repetitive or challenging), and considered it likely I’d doze off about 40 minutes in. How wrong I was.

So, this Franz Liszt guy was a freakin’ rock star: the Elvis of the 1840s, if you will, but with the virtuosity of Hendrix. Not only was he probably the best pianist of the 19th Century, but he took his show on the road around Europe and caused a sensation. I probably should have realized that compositions by someone who spawned a manic condition wouldn’t be boring.

Louis Lortie performed Liszt’s suite for solo piano, Annees de pelerinage (“years of pilgrimage”)—a reflection of both Liszt’s travels and his development as a musician. As he explains in his program note, composer David Lang chose this piece to be featured as the “Travel” segment of his “collected stories” festival at Carnegie since the first two segments were inspired by countries visited by Liszt in his touring days: Switzerland and Italy. These country-inspired sections were originally published under the name “A Traveler’s Album”, but Liszt re-published them under the current title when he added a third section (“year”) late in his life. Written well after his celebrity days, Year Three exhibits less technically-demanding passages, but includes more experimental musings. Lang believes both the composer’s age and his reaction to Wagner’s ascendance contributed to the stylistic shift. And the final section, Lang rightly observes, reminds listeners Liszt takes us on a journey not only across Europe but thirty-four years as well: “It’s not the miles, but the years.”

And now I’ll take you on a small, possibly boring, journey through my thoughts and observations over those three hours—a journey that will do no justice to the actual experience of this concert or the quality of Mr. Lortie.

Written in the years following Liszt’s touring heyday, Premiere Anee: Suisse is a full virtuosic display, as well as a journey around the Swiss countryside. Passages are titled after specific locations/events (lakes, storms, church bells), and the music evokes these settings and moods surprisingly well. Or does the listener, knowing the title, fit the music to the suggested scene rather than arriving at what Lizst envisioned independently? I guess some people chose not to read the program titles and experienced the music objectively, without contextualization. And surely they enjoyed it. And very possibly they felt just as I did when I heard the past evoked by the darkness and depth of the opening “Chapel of William Tell”, or the gentle and bright sounds that brought to mind water in “Lake Wallenstadt”. It was hard to mistake the thunderous rush of music midway through the Swiss journey as anything other than a violent tempest, even if you didn’t know Orage means “storm.” (Although from the way that Steinway was shaking, you’d be forgiven for thinking it meant “earthquake” or “explosion.”) And I even found myself mistaken in my interpretation—but no less moved. The Tour de Suisse ends with a heavenly chord that just lingers in the air, and to me sounded exactly like a choir. I’d read the title and knew it referred to night in Geneva, but didn’t know cloche means “bell” (which should have been obvious considering the shape of the cloche hat). And, in hindsight, I can certainly see how that final chord was bell-like. Thinking it a choir didn’t hurt, though. After all, my reception of the music is as defining a feature of the music as Liszt’s (or Lortie’s) intentions. This, of course, you could say applies to all art. And I’ll leave that at that.

While the evocative nature of the music wasn’t surprising, I didn’t anticipate how well Liszt deviated from runs and flourishes to delve into more sanguine moods with slower tempo sections. And in these sections, as the pace slackened and pauses emerged, there was never a sense of unraveling or slipping through one of the gaps. But it was as the story of his travels required. In the Second Year: Italy, we encountered more literary sources rather than natural. Amidst the cultural heart of Europe, Liszt delved into roots of the Renaissance and took inspiration from Dante and Petrarch—even citing specific sonnets. I wondered whether these passages mirrored the sonnet form with their musical structure, or if they reflected their respective poem’s content. Or rather, more likely, they were composed in reaction to reading Petrarch’s poetry. And it was around this time, that I wondered if I would ever stop thinking and actually join the present moment—if I would ever release and relax. And maybe I did, because I can’t seem to recall the rest of this piece. (Or else maybe I was distracted by the impending intermission and delicious drink options.)  

And it was about this time I noticed that the variety of tones and textures seem to derive also from the demands of a piece for a solo instrument. Limited in this way, a composer must yet create a compelling arrangement of melody, harmony, and rhythm. Solos are often encountered in the midst of works for ensembles, whether a concerto or a jazz standard. But in this case, there is no supporting cast. Fortunately, the 88 keys of the piano seem especially suited to providing expressive and entertaining music without additional input. (But of course the piano is not unique; numerous instruments, including the human voice, have prodigious solo repertoires.)

As an aside, I would like to point out at this time that the theater organ is perhaps even more suited for solo performance than the piano. I recently saw a production of Buster Keaton’s classic silent film Steamboat Bill, Jr. with organ accompaniment by Mark Herman, a young gentleman playing beyond his years. The pipe organ in the Landmark Loews Jersey (and other theaters around the country) was designed to place an entire orchestra and range of sound effects at the fingertips (and toes) of a single, very talented person. Now that is virtuosity. Mr. Herman watched the movie and, having previously established a firm sense of the themes and sound effects that correspond to each scene, played with no music in front of him. He was beholden to no composer, yet we did not witness pure improvisation either; guided by the film, he kept his freedom of interpretation. And this yielded a unique collaboration: Buster Keaton and the Mr. Herman joined in an incredible performance, each displaying musical sensibility, comedic timing, imagination, and physical stamina and dexterity.

Louis Lortie is no slouch, either. Although at times he seemed on the verge of tears or that a drop of sweat might fall from his forehead to tarnish the ivories, he was in command of himself, the piano, the music, the story, us.  Of course each person notices different details but these struck me in particular: his volume control, the intensity of his forte and the subtly of his pianissimo; his astounding clarity and precision within both chords and running passages, nothing muddled or obscured, each note resounding in its due course; and rather than feeling a sense of cold professionalism in such exactness, there was no doubting just how much emotion he imbued in this piece. He walked off to our applause nearly in tears after each installment. But he summoned incredible strength and stamina throughout. It might come as no surprise that I was enthralled by a man alone on stage with his machine. He was as attached to the piano as a cyclist on his road bike. And the similarity to a monologue was uncanny—this was a storyteller on stage, his script in notation, his voice . The concert was truly a feat of passion and endurance. And while his talent was obvious, I was awed (as always when I encounter such figures in art or literature or athletics) by the inherent dedication and discipline to achieve something like this. And while Liszt had sketched the blueprints, it was Lortie’s commitment that demanded my engagement. As he traveled the length of the keyboard, we followed—a journey more literal than I expected.

In the third and final “year”, Lortie played with more vigor than surely the aged Liszt would have. However, in this period of his life, Liszt showed the extent of his experience as he composed with wisdom and deep inquiry, if less directness and intricacy. But that made it no less compelling. The ability to adapt one’s performance in later age, to shy from diminishing strengths and feature remaining capabilities distinguishes the truly great in their attempts to prolong their output and longevity. The arc of development of this project—over the three hours, over the professional life of Liszt—came to a culmination in these reveries: as the “travels” of the final section, as one might expect, become a reflection on time, life, aging, and mortality. Though such themes may seem remote, their musical expression still could bring you to tears—testimony to the universal humanity within all great art.

Conclusion: never turn down a free concert ticket.