San Francisco Classical Voice

It's fascinating and often gratifying to see a famous performer change and grow over the years. (And what courage it takes for an artist to undergo this metamorphosis under the gaze of a vast attentive audience of kibitzers!) At times in the past I have found pianist Garrick Ohlsson to be positively vice-presidential in his stiffness, and sometimes simply too athletic. So it is a pleasure to report that in his all-Chopin recital last Sunday at Davies Hall, Ohlsson demonstrated immense growth and a richness of purpose culminating in a stunning performance of the second Sonata in B-flat minor, Opus 35.

The stiffness was gone, rhythm now remarkably free, his legendary technique was enriched with an ear for Horowitzian inner voices and truly imaginative pedalling. It must also be reported that this artistic triumph was achieved via a somewhat circuitous route in the first half of the program, which was sprinkled with mannerisms and odd exaggerations, something I've not previously noticed. Nonethless, it must be reported that the sold-out hall was rapturous throughout the evening, and it is easy to see why: Garrick Ohlsson is one of our most dependable artists, powerful, accurate, absolutely clear in the message he is sending, never neurotic or veiled or cunning,and spectacularly virtuosic.

But for me the mannerisms were troubling. From the very first piece, the Waltz in A-flat Major, Opus 34, No. 1, Ohlsson indulged in formidable tempo fluctuations and dynamic swings from super-loud to super-soft that confused this listener about the nature of waltzness. Attempts to be charming didn't quite fly. The Waltz in a minor, Opus 34, No. 2, in particular suffered from distended ritards, rubatos and exaggerations of dynamics and tempos.

The mannerisms, which persisted throughout the first two-thirds of the program, consisted of a favorite Rachmaninoff affectation--starting phrases loudly, then tapering off as if sighing-- and an overuse of the "Special Moment," as I call the quite legitimate device in which performers create a hush and suspend time to express a moment of great intensity or intimacy. If this Moment occurs too often it becomes like the Boy Who Cried Wolf. Simply put, I am complaining about too much rubato and too many exaggerations of dynamics. But in writing about a major artist of our time, it is hard to dismiss his artistic choices too easily. One had to keep listening, and thinking.

The two Polonaises (Opus 40, No. 1 in A Major, and No. 2 in c minor) fared better, perhaps because of their tighter rhythmic frame. The Berceuse in D-flat Major, Opus 57, began with an intriguingly strict tempo but just as I was welcoming the concept of the strict structure and wondering where it would lead, Ohlsson broke the pattern with a fairly indulgent agogic sigh. Then he caused the music to rush in upward movement or lag when downward.

The momentum of very fine playing in the Barcarolle, Opus 60 and the fourth Ballade, Opus 52 was similarly interrupted at times. The first half of the program consisted of many smaller pieces, which really ought to be simply things of beauty. Ohlsson toyed with them relentlessly, albeit artistically, until almost every piece became confessional and dramatic in nature, equal in weight to every other piece. This leads me to a central thesis: that Garrick Ohlsson is best when Garrick Ohlsson is busiest.

The second half of the program was, surprisingly, an entirely different matter. After adjusting to Ohlsson's muscular style, there were many wonderful and luminous moments. It was as if Ohlsson's demon (the masterful cat toying with the music) could be suppressed if he was busy enough, as in the coda of the ballade, the nocturnes, or the sonata. There (excepting the luckless E-flat Major Nocturne) the pianist's muscularity became simplicity, urgency and eloquence, and we waited avidly for the revelation and timing of each new sound.

The sonata was a marvel of simplicity and power, each movement improving on the last. The funeral-march movement had great, grave rhythm and a simply weightless central section, while the fourth movement presto was one of the finest I have ever heard: the speed, voicing and imaginative use of pedal were a humbling lesson for every pianist in Davies Hall.

The enthusiastic audience elicited three encores, all in C-sharp minor: the Mazurka, Opus 30, No. 4, a breathtaking traversal of the Etude, Opus 10, No. 4 and the familiar Waltz, Opus 64, No. 2 which vacillated between being entrancing and a self-conscious fritto misto (how many ways can I serve thee the piu mosso?). The standing ovation was certainly deserved by this increasingly complex artist.

(Mack McCray is a concert pianist and a member of the faculty of the San Francisco Conservatory of Music.)

©1999 Mack McCray, all rights reserved