San Francisco Classical Voice

Concluding the first half of the concert was the op. 12 set of eight Fantasiestücke (fantasy pieces) by Robert Schumann. The fantastic dream images of Schumann are worlds away from the probing severity of Bach, and here one sensed that the elements of passion and fantasy are not Hamelin's natural métier. In spite of impeccable pianistic control and many lovely sounds, they offered a mixed bag, some of them excellent, some less so. In the first piece, “Des Abends” (At Evening), Hamelin's habit of constantly delaying the downbeat impeded the natural flow of this simple yet touching melody. Still, the beautiful tone and hushed mood offered its own rewards. The textures of “Aufschwung” (Soaring) emerged with astonishing clarity, yet the piece remained earthbound. The stormy fury of “In der Nacht” (In the Night) was kept at bay, but “Fable” emerged with a quirky unpredictability that was most effective. “Traums Wirren” (Tangles of Dreams) was dazzlingly brilliant, but the final piece, “Ende von Lied” (End of the Song) fell a bit flat. On the plus side, Hamelin's approach, if somewhat detached in expression, was always thoughtful and well-considered. His playing was never ponderous or willful, and the music emerged with a noteworthy clarity and technical polish that was often quite beautiful.

After intermission, and in the tradition of many great pianists of a bygone era, Hamelin performed several of his own compositions: four short pieces from a suite of miniatures entitled Con intimissimo sentimento (With most intimate sentiments). The opening album leaf left little impression; the second evoked a modern-day music box (a nod to Liadov's similarly titled work); and the fourth was Satie-esque (think Gymnopédie) in its sparseness. The most interesting was the third piece, an outrageously dressed-up transcription of the old Italian melody “Se tu m'ami,” attributed to Pergolesi but actually written in the nineteenth century by Alessandro Parisotti. Hamelin took this little ditty, which is sung by nearly all singers in their early stages of training, and dressed it up in swirling configurations and Godowsky-like harmonies, giving it a delightful fin-de-siècle decadence.

The final work on the program is one of Hamelin's specialties, the Symphonie for solo piano by the French composer Charles-Valentin Alkan, who was a friend and neighbor of Chopin and reportedly one of the few pianists whose prowess was such that even Franz Liszt felt nervous when playing in front of him. Alkan spent his entire life in Paris teaching, performing (although on occasion the hiatus between concerts could be as much as 25 years!), and writing some of the most difficult music in the piano repertoire. His magnum opus is the massive op. 39 Etudes in the Minor Keys, the Symphonie comprising numbers 4 to 7 of the set. With the title of Symphonie, Alkan seeks to impose a symphonic structure and seriousness of purpose on material written originally for the piano, while evoking orchestral sonorities at the keyboard.

For those not familiar with his style, Alkan can be initially surprising and perhaps confusing. Although a contemporary of Chopin, Liszt, Mendelssohn, and Schumann, (he lived from 1813 to 1888), he avoids the sensual “romantic” expression typical of 19th century. The music is often severely classical in its approach, or so forward-looking that it sounds as though it were written much later than its actual time. His output is uneven, but the best of Alkan's music (the Symphonie certainly falls into this category) is definitely worth hearing more than once.

To comment that the Symphonie is difficult to play is like saying that the Pacific Ocean contains a great deal of water. It takes a pianist of exceptional abilities to navigate Alkan's treacherous writing with such ease, and it is no surprise that Hamelin is probably the greatest exponent of Alkan's music before the public today. His performance of this piece was remarkable not only for its technical ease but for its structural clarity and tonal control. The first movement is constructed with a Beethovenian sense of logic that builds to a shattering and torrential climax in the final pages; here Hamelin showed his breathtaking power and sweep. The second movement is a sinister and grim Funeral March, which in the words of the Alkan scholar Ronald Smith seems to express “public rather than private grief.” Here Hamelin's tempo seemed a shade fast to capture the true depth of this expression. The third movement, while marked Tempo di minuetto, is actually more of a grisly Scherzo, which Hamelin played to the hilt, with the beautiful trio section offering a gentle and effective contrast. The pianist pulled out all of the stops for the whirlwind Presto finale, which was technically stunning, and exhilarating in its rhythmic propulsion.

But in some ways the most astounding playing came in the first encore. Hamelin offered a ravishingly hushed and beautiful rendition of Debussy's Reflets dans l'eau (Reflections in the Water) that was built with a seemingly infinite tonal variety of pastel hues. I imagine that Debussy himself would have admired this cool objectivity (totally appropriate here) and impeccable control. On the basis of these remarkable five minutes of Debussy playing, one longs for more in the future. Two Russian morsels followed the Debussy: a wry Humoresque by Shchedrin, which had the audience laughing out loud, and the first of Prokofiev's Sarcasms, which Hamelin tossed off with flair and obvious enjoyment.