How does one go through life as Jan Brady when there's this other more perfect person just dominating everything?
Whatever. We went to see Martha on Oct. 7th at Carnegie Hall with the Philadelphia Orchestra. It was the typical ridiculously transporting experience. I know, time after time, that I keep wanting to see her but I forget why; well, I remember intellectually but not emotionally. After a few bars, sitting in the front row this time, I remembered (again). It may well have been the proximity, which was too close to enjoy the perfect acoustics of CH, but which afforded an intimate view of her hand/finger movements. Her deft accuracy and the speed she plays at is truly astonishing. Honestly. There is a quality to it that is difficult to wrap your mind around. She does things that seem physically impossible. Literally. But this is what's difficult to describe...imagine you go to the zoo and the elephant starts talking to you about St. Thomas Aquinas. No, that's not it. It's not supernatural. And it's not like a sports figure just being "in a zone" - like Tiger Woods just sinking putt after putt or Manny Ramirez hitting three home runs in one game. It's like watching someone build a sand castle at the beach and they create this beautiful sculpture out of nothing, their hands gliding over the sand and it just stops in the perfect formation, no longer subject to the laws of gravity and the weight of its own physical properties. Out of the sand comes this creation that reminds you of your childhood home, or the face of a long-lost friend perfectly recreated from a moment frozen in time 20 years ago transporting you back to a different place that only your heart and soul recognizes, yet instinctively.
OK - that was really abstract. Beyond that emotional experience there's that old feeling of being around something I know makes life worthwhile. You know, a sudden validation of all the bullshit - the bad (but well-paying) job, the back-and-forth commute, all the inescapable committments of life; they all become worth it. Your child smiles, the sunset dazzles, the ocean humbles and restores, and Martha, the artist, the painter of instant musical masterpieces admits you into the company of pure beauty. It's a small wonder Bill is whooping it up and hollering, pounding on the stage. Why not?
The NY Times said this:
An added benefit of the Philadelphia’s connection with Mr. Dutoit is that he brings a longstanding creative partnership with the pianist Martha Argerich, a mercurial talent who seems incapable of offering an unmoving performance. Ms. Argerich, formerly married to Mr. Dutoit and still closely allied with him musically, brings an allure of her own: part elusive mystery, part prodigious artistry.
She brought out a youthful exuberance and prickly intensity in Prokofiev’s Piano Concerto No. 1, performed before intermission. Her playing in Shostakovich’s Piano Concerto No. 1, which followed the break, was on an even higher level.
Time and again she surpassed what seemed humanly possible, calmly producing flurries at speeds that verged on the humorous, for instance, as cellos and basses strained to keep up.
Her real magic, though, came during slow, glowing passages in which each note seemed to have its distinct weight and hue. Other pianists have played the central Largo as beautifully, but I can’t remember another account filled with so much feeling and pathos.
Ms. Argerich and Mr. Dutoit barely made eye contact during the performances, yet in each case his accompaniment was deftly attuned to her conception. The audience response to both concertos was thunderous. After the Shostakovich Ms. Argerich was
repeatedly recalled to the stage for ovations, which she generously shared with David Bilger, the orchestra’s principal trumpeter and a saucy soloist in the
piece.
When the tum lt finally died down, Mr. Dutoit turned the spotlight back to the orchestra.
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