Music’s Notorious Canceler Makes an Appearance

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The New York Sun

Ivo Pogorelich played a recital at the Metropolitan Museum on Thursday night. That may not seem a remarkable statement, but it is: The Croatian pianist is the most notorious canceler in music. He makes Martha Argerich look like Old Faithful. I believe I have been scheduled to hear Mr. Pogorelich four times, starting in the early 1980s; I had never heard him before Thursday night.

When Ms. Argerich shows up at a concert, there is terrific excitement, because the question has been, “Will she or won’t she?” She elates the room just by appearing. And her many eccentricities and failures are forgiven, because the public thinks,”Ah, she’s a genius — and probably misunderstood.”

She intimidates the public in a way — and she intimidates many critics, too — because she seems to say,”How dare you question my habits, musical and professional! What do you know about stormy and deep artistry?”

Mr. Pogorelich benefits from some of the same conditions and attitudes. At the Met Museum on Thursday night, there was great anticipation. The hall was sold out, and part of the audience sat on the stage. About 15 minutes past the appointed hour, Mr. Pogorelich still had not appeared; I wouldn’t have bet the ranch that he would. But he finally emerged from the wings, to a huge, even ecstatic, ovation — just as expected.

He has the Argerich mojo working for him: Just show up, and you’ve won the evening. Someone like Stephen Hough — a great pianist — is fully expected to appear (just as his contract says). He wins no points for it. Why should he?

As Mr. Pogorelich was setting up his music at the piano, someone onstage took a picture of him — a flash picture. Mr. Pogorelich rebuked this violator, understandably.

He rose to fame when he was eliminated in the third round of the 1980 Chopin competition. This was the most famous competition loss in world history. Martha Argerich, who was on the jury, stormed out in protest. No one said that Ms. Argerich was a lousy juror for quitting, just because her fellow jurors didn’t agree with her. She was universally praised for her daring, her artistic vision, blah, blah, blah.

Mr. Pogorelich was immediately a star, making records left and right. With his Byronic looks — and copious hair — he brooded out from the album covers. The public was enthralled.

Today, Mr. Pogorelich has a shaven head, but he still has a smoldering face. And he came to the Met to play a program of Beethoven, Scriabin, and Rachmaninoff. The first half of the recital consisted of two Beethoven sonatas: No. 24 in F-sharp major, Op. 78, and No. 32 in C minor, Op. 111. That second sonata is Beethoven’s last, and one of the holiest — and strangest, and farthest-seeing — works in the entire piano literature. Many pianists won’t attempt Op. 111 until late in life.

And, when they do program it, they tend to schedule it last, because one can hardly play anything after Op. 111. It is kind of a final word (even a benediction). Mr. Pogorelich was scheduled to end the first half of his recital with it, which is odd enough. But, at the last minute, he decided to begin with Op. 111: Op. 111 first, Op. 78 second.

Maybe someone, in history, has begun a recital with Op.111, but I doubt it.

Readers, I have thought long and hard about what to say to you. I have asked, “What is my duty as a critic, and as a kind of reporter? What does conscience say?” I will not review this recital (and I heard only the first half of it). I will say only this: If the people around Mr. Pogorelich have any influence at all, they should dissuade him from playing in public. If they are actively encouraging him, they are doing a grave disservice.

In the Beethoven sonatas, Mr. Pogorelich was beyond unconventional, or eccentric, or even interestingly bizarre: He was … well, as I said, beyond. He did not fall within even the most generous musical bounds. What we heard was not Beethoven; it was a talented man acting on some unfathomable interior impulses.

The audience, of course, sat reverentially, supposing that they were hearing something visionary. At least that was my impression. And if people are saying to Mr. Pogorelich,”Ivo, you are a genius, and the unimaginative can’t possibly understand you,” they are lying to him — they are badly ill-serving him. Ms. Argerich at her most extreme never played like this; neither did Glenn Gould.

I could give a blow-by-blow account of what Mr. Pogorelich did in the Beethoven sonatas, and it would probably be entertaining. But what would be the point? I have seen Ivo Pogorelich in the flesh — for the first time ever — but I still haven’t heard him. Not really. I don’t believe that Mr. Pogorelich’s true self was onstage Thursday night. And I look forward, one day, to hearing him: to hearing the brilliant pianist who rocked the world back in 1980, when he was 22, and pulsing with promise.

***

Well, now that I’ve spent so much time not reviewing something, why don’t I spend a little time reviewing something? On Friday night, the St. Lawrence String Quartet — a Canadian ensemble — played in Weill Recital Hall. They are responsible for one of the best chamber recordings in recent memory: of three Shostakovich string quartets (on EMI Classics). Their concert on Friday night was not so fine, but still meritorious.

They began with a Haydn string quartet, and one of his most pleasing: the Quartet in G major, Op. 77, No. 1. In sound, the players were beyond appropriately rustic into rough. Furthermore, they missed notes, and their intonation was awful. But they had a Haydnesque spirit. They were bouncy, playful, and alert. They were also robust, meaty, and heartfelt — this was not dainty, drawing-room Haydn, thank goodness.

The players next turned to a work by a Canadian composer they champion: R. Murray Schafer. (Wasn’t he the fellow who played Salieri in that Mozart movie?) This was Mr. Schafer’s String Quartet No. 3, composed in 1981. Ten years ago, they played this same piece, in this same hall. As first violinist Geoff Nuttall said on Friday night, “We believe in Murray.”

Mr. Schafer’s quartet contains some good music, but also several gimmicks. The cellist begins the quartet, alone onstage. He performs a mournful, perturbed monologue. The other musicians are spaced around the hall, and eventually they join the cellist onstage. Before we know it, the players are shouting, groaning, and doing other weird things with their mouths. At least one other Canadian composer, Christos Hatzis, writes this way too. Must be something in the air up there.

The closing movement is, like the first, mournful and perturbed — that combination is a hallmark of our musical age. And, in a final gimmick, the first violinist walks off the stage, while the other players are singing and droning.

Through it all, the St. Lawrence played with clear commitment and affection.

And they ended the evening with one of the greatest chamber works ever composed: Ravel’s String Quartet in F major. The opening movement, I would have preferred far lighter, and more transparent, and more beautiful. But the players were never dumb. The scherzo, while technically imperfect, came off with style and panache. The slow movement had due mystery and understatement. And the players attacked the last movement with a savagery that managed to remain Gallic.

Well done.


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