Lammermuir Festival: Coffee Concert VII

Holy Trinity Church, Haddington - 15/09/22 

The church is overall white inside with touches of gold, enhanced by the sunlight through the south windows. The piano is a Bösendorfer; I’m wondering if each pianist brings his own, or at least states his preference. The woman serving coffee is a specialist in coffee’s links with classical music, telling me she has drunk the dark liquid in Leipzig, at the Café Baum, linked to Bach’s ‘Kaffeekantate’. 

Schubert, Impromptu D935 

1 

I thought I knew this piece well, having heard Alfred Brendel many times on CD. But already the opening notes sound quite different. Even the quiet bits fill my ears. From my front row seat I see Till’s hands reveal the shape of the music, the effect reinforced by the reflection of his movements in the piano’s bright varnish. 

2  

Begins with a tune that could be a plaintive song, a simple melody repeated in many shapes and sizes; now flowing river, now flight of birds, then back to the song. Then quieter; held notes, pauses presage the end. 

3  

The opening, a Third Programme theme tune when I was a schoolboy, calls us to listen like an invitation. Then a decorated version of the call; then in carefree mood; then heavy with full volume in the lower range and Till’s face reveals the pressure, the power. We take flight again, the original theme still discernible but we’ve moved far from my youthful Third Programme. A moment of delight in rills and frills, so back to the original song but more solemn. Till’s hands float above the keyboard for a few pauses that hold us briefly in suspense before the conclusion.

4  

This opens like a prancing horse ranging across the whole keyboard. There’s a hint of a smile from Till as he seems to pull music out of the instrument: popcorn popping in a pan, flowers opening in time-lapse, and a final traverse of the keyboard.  

He gives us a full smile as he stands to bow. 

Beethoven, Piano sonata in C major, Op 53 (‘Waldstein’) 

Till has gone offstage for the briefest moment, returning as if he just can’t get enough of playing. Beethoven’s mood is quite different. There’s a sense of urgency, of pushing to the limits: but what limits? to what end? Till’s face darkens a little, his eyes, which scarcely ever leave the keyboard, show a hint of anger. Grand chords, hard-hitting notes abound. Quiet moments seem to exist simply as a platform for the loud ones.  I picture Beethoven dedicating his Eroica to the master of the “whiff of grapeshot”, Napoleon; then angrily scratching out the name when he crowns himself emperor. 

Till stands before us, now with a boyish grin. At rest, his hands reveal not the long fingers of a Liszt; they are thick, well-muscled, strong. 

By chance, we exchange a word after the concert:  

“Is the Bösendorfer yours? Your preference?”  

“Oh no, one really must work it too hard, especially on the treble.  Much prefer a Steinway.” 

“You’re playing again in 3 days: will you take the chance to see other concerts?”  

“Not at all. Tomorrow I must practise. And the next day - rehearse. No rest.”