CityLife

Andrew Wilde: Concert for Chopin

Andrew Wilde
Bridgewater Hall
May 25, 2010
 
Andrew Wilde's Concert For Chopin was one of the best solo recitals I have heard him give.

And that’s despite the fact that he had to start it twice, after an annoying high-pitched sound was clearly audible during his opening piece, the Impromptu in F sharp op. 36. Whatever it was, it had stopped by the time he began again, and maybe the episode helped break the tension that inevitably accompanies a taxing solo appearance. He played with amazing assurance from that point on.

The Impromptu itself had exactly the atmosphere of improvisation one hopes for: tiny pauses and breathing-spaces in the rhythmic flow, the opening a little melody-and-accompaniment in itself for left hand, followed by an impassioned build-up amid the peace and serenity.

He followed with the second sonata – known for its ‘Funeral March’. The first movement was gloriously free and song-like, with the pulse infinitely variable and the phrase shaping masterly. There was storming virtuosity and power in the scherzo’s beginning, while the trio was pure and appealing and the reprise both controlled and passionate.

The Funeral March itself was saved from lugubriousness by a steady – and highly effective – pace, and the finale heavily pedalled ... but why not?

He was on a roll and waved away the applause to embark on the Scherzo no. 2 (maybe feeling it makes a better finale to the sonata than its own). It is one of the greatest things Chopin ever created, and he caught its kaleidoscope of moods with imagination and vision – a vision at times verging on the unattainable … but it was well worth being with him in the attempt.

The Three Mazurkas op. 56 were cleanly and precisely played, though I must admit I long to hear more of the rubato Chopin reportedly used to such effect in his own playing in that genre. The Berceuse in D flat was delicate and finely spun – a gentle foil for the Sonata no. 3 in B minor.

It is another masterpiece and was played more brilliantly than I think even Andrew Wilde has achieved before. There was subtle variety in his handling of the repetitions of the first movement, with touches of heart-melting poetry, and the textures of the scherzo were beautifully clarified. The slow movement was the high point of the whole evening, tender and poignant, and the finale a burst of fireworks that was incredible even for this pianist’s fingers of iron.

He did not need to do any more, as the house erupted in bravos and congratulatory whistles. Andrew Wilde loves his Chopin, and his love had been shared. He rarely evinces emotion on the platform, but he allowed himself a broad grin as he left it.

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