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09/09/2018
Meggi
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Meggi
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It was already night when he opened the big door to the old aristocratic hall, which a hundred and fifty years ago had become the Philharmonie. The heavy portal could be moved surprisingly easily and almost silently. A gentle breeze streamed towards him like the breath of history. This place embodied more than any other the former St. Petersburg. Here the tsar had opened balls, Pushkin had been a regular guest, Tchaikovsky appeared a few days before his death for the last time.
And Rachmaninov had given his second piano concerto. In the artist's box stood still the same lacquered piano on which he had recorded himself. Of course he had been sitting at the piano himself - in the tradition of the old masters, compositional art, orchestra conducting and virtuosity had formed an indissoluble unity for him.
That was the work they recorded today. After all, Mariss knew the Leningrad Philharmonic well from his time as assistant to Yevgeny Mravinsky, who had led the orchestra for fifty years and formed it into one of the best ensembles in the world with iron discipline and rigour. And so the recording session had almost turned into a concert, for which the magnificent hall, on the threshold of which he was now standing, had been the appropriate setting.
When he entered, he literally thought he smelled the long gone feasts. A waxy-vanilla sweetness, an opulent, elderly, even morbid flower smell. Even the generously applied make-up of the high-born ladies seemed to be in the air. And even the fumes of the later part of the evening, hidden in intimate separées all around, he could guess in his imagination. Where lush scents were no longer able to mask excessively human scents of heated bodies.
But within seconds the picture had evaporated. He switched all the chandeliers very brightly, stepped towards the piano, sat down and began to play. At first he tried a few bars of Chopin until his fingers slipped into the delicious Adagio sostenuto of Rachmaninov. At first hesitating, then increasingly powerful, the solo part came out of his fingers, while the spirit added the orchestra with practiced musicality. The floating triplet waves, to which the flute and clarinet were allowed to perform the melody, quietly bubbled.
The musicians had asked him earlier to postpone his departure for a few days for two spontaneous concerts together. Him, the former enemy of the people and dissident. In the years of his exile he had vaguely imagined such an experience as a kind of triumphant return. But now he didn't feel that way. He just felt joy and gratitude to spend a little more time with great musicians.
After the last note had faded away, he looked up and saw that he had had a listener. An old Babushka sat quietly on a stool in the corner.
He smiled at her and she smiled back.
"Would you like a cup of tea?"
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Based on: Michail Rudij writes about the recordings of Tchaikovsky's first and Rachmaninov's second piano concerto with Mariss Janson and the (at that time still) Leningrad Philharmonic in December 1990 - https://goo.gl/images/JtsWo5.
I thank Can777 for the rehearsal.
And Rachmaninov had given his second piano concerto. In the artist's box stood still the same lacquered piano on which he had recorded himself. Of course he had been sitting at the piano himself - in the tradition of the old masters, compositional art, orchestra conducting and virtuosity had formed an indissoluble unity for him.
That was the work they recorded today. After all, Mariss knew the Leningrad Philharmonic well from his time as assistant to Yevgeny Mravinsky, who had led the orchestra for fifty years and formed it into one of the best ensembles in the world with iron discipline and rigour. And so the recording session had almost turned into a concert, for which the magnificent hall, on the threshold of which he was now standing, had been the appropriate setting.
When he entered, he literally thought he smelled the long gone feasts. A waxy-vanilla sweetness, an opulent, elderly, even morbid flower smell. Even the generously applied make-up of the high-born ladies seemed to be in the air. And even the fumes of the later part of the evening, hidden in intimate separées all around, he could guess in his imagination. Where lush scents were no longer able to mask excessively human scents of heated bodies.
But within seconds the picture had evaporated. He switched all the chandeliers very brightly, stepped towards the piano, sat down and began to play. At first he tried a few bars of Chopin until his fingers slipped into the delicious Adagio sostenuto of Rachmaninov. At first hesitating, then increasingly powerful, the solo part came out of his fingers, while the spirit added the orchestra with practiced musicality. The floating triplet waves, to which the flute and clarinet were allowed to perform the melody, quietly bubbled.
The musicians had asked him earlier to postpone his departure for a few days for two spontaneous concerts together. Him, the former enemy of the people and dissident. In the years of his exile he had vaguely imagined such an experience as a kind of triumphant return. But now he didn't feel that way. He just felt joy and gratitude to spend a little more time with great musicians.
After the last note had faded away, he looked up and saw that he had had a listener. An old Babushka sat quietly on a stool in the corner.
He smiled at her and she smiled back.
"Would you like a cup of tea?"
----------------------------
Based on: Michail Rudij writes about the recordings of Tchaikovsky's first and Rachmaninov's second piano concerto with Mariss Janson and the (at that time still) Leningrad Philharmonic in December 1990 - https://goo.gl/images/JtsWo5.
I thank Can777 for the rehearsal.
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