The buzz in the audience subsided as the lights dimmed.
The introductions had informed the audience that the recital pieces were part of the performer’s piano associateship program – astonishing for a 14-year old. A concert grand dominated the low stage. The hall was intimate, set up with round tables, encouraging a relaxed interactive experience. A bar at the top of the stairs welcomed the audience with a respectable selection of Niagara wines. A number of paintings were displayed on easels – the creations of the pianist. A very talented young lady!
The audience chatted, sipping on drinks, awaiting the start of the recital. Numerous friends and family had collected, and young children chattered, running in and out. Parents tried to tone down their enthusiasm before the playing began but not entirely successfully.
The tall, lanky Asian girl stepped up to the concert grand piano, turned to face the audience and bowed stiffly. A ringlet of hair hung down her face, the rest was piled tidily on her head. Big glasses, dark rimmed, accented her face. Her look was serious, lips slightly pouted. She was elegantly dressed, a black evening number that belied her age. The back was open, the skirt short. Tan brown sandals, high-heeled and laced half-way up her shin, finished the outfit.
She sat down on the bench, adjusting it slightly, placed her hands over the keys – a momentary pause, her right foot hovering over the pedal. The pianist stroked the keys, breathing life into an exquisitely dynamic performance – technically impressive but also emotional – forceful, lyrical. Just the right use of rubato. She wrapped – hands poised briefly where she had finished the piece, dropping into her lap as she turned to acknowledge the applause.
Sitting sideways on the piano bench, knees touching awkwardly, she looked out at the room.
“Thank you. That was one of my favorite composers, the great pianist and composer, Chopin. One of his “heroes” is the composer of the next piece, Johann Sebastian Bach.”
She tucked her short skirt against her bare legs as she reseated herself for the next piece. This one didn’t reflect the same passion as the Chopin. Her playing seemed wooden. Her execution of the Fugue never captured the intricacies of the theme, the right-hand parts persistently dominant. The youth of the pianist perhaps, not able to internalize and then execute the complex voicing.
A couple of the younger audience members fussed audibly but the performer appeared oblivious. More intrusive, a police siren whined and echoed from the street. The building, nearly 150 years old, was not sound proof and the neighborhood was not the most desirable. Family sat at the front row tables, applauding enthusiastically. Dad had a video camera on a tripod. Minutes into the Bach, Dad’s car keys fell out of his pocket, clattering noisily on the floor.
The pianist picked up the microphone again and introduced her next work, a piece by a relatively unknown composer and performer from France, Pierre Sancan. She commented on its similarity to Debussy’s work. “Pierre Sancan was a great admirer of Debussy’s harmonies and frequently performed Debussy works. I hope you enjoy this composition of Sancan’s, Toccata.” Turning back to the keyboard the young performer delivered a smooth, emotive interpretation of the piece.
Then the performance did the changeup. The pianist’s instructor had told the audience that a young singer would also be part of the evening. Stepping onto the stage, an electric guitar cradled in her arms, the singer nodded to the audience, long blonde hair trailing down her back and over the strings of the electric guitar, reminiscent of Joni Mitchell. The program indicated that she and the pianist were band members. Apparently, the blonde usually played the drums and sang. The pianist played the guitar.
Tonight, the singer played her own guitar. The pianist provided additional accompaniment on the piano. The singer’s voice was soft, folksy. Unfortunately, the tones of the electric guitar were jarring, the amplification edgy in the acoustics of the hall, drowning out her words. She sang three songs – an eclectic collection. First was a contemporary piece “The Magician” composed by Andy Shauf, a Canadian. Second, “Zombie” by the Irish band, The Cranberries. The last song, composed by the pianist, was the most successful and resonant – no guitar, just the piano.
The contemporary “Joni Mitchell” bowed, thanked the audience and retreated to a front row seat joining a group that looked like classmates.
The noise level in the audience increased after the applause for the singer ended.
The pianist stood quietly in front of the bench waiting for the crowd to settle. “The next piece is 25 minutes and there will be no break – so hang in. It is one of Beethoven’s best-known sonatas, the Tempest.”
Turning again to the keys, she tucked her skirt tightly around her thighs. Her foot rested gently on the pedal. She tackled the piece with energy and musicality. Until the last movement when a memory hiccup momentarily interrupted the flow. The audience was largely oblivious.
She took the opportunity to regain her composure by a few calm breaths at the end, her hands still touching the keys. Turning, she addressed the room. “Thank you. Except for the blooper in the last movement….”. A wry smiled touched her lips. Several members of the audience cringed – don’t apologize – you recovered – no performance is perfect.
“The next piece is…” She hesitated. Her instructor called out from the back of the room. “Jazz”. Looking myopically through her glasses towards her coach she said “Whatever! Right. The piece is a mix of jazz and…. polytonality. Actually the composer, Francois Morel, died quite recently.”
Members of the audience stirred, looking puzzled. Polytonality? As the pianist charged through the piece it became obvious the extent to which major and minor keys were overlaid. Technical, somewhat jazzy, very modern.
The final piece. “This is another of my favourite composers. Sergei Rachmaninoff. A romantic and dramatic.” She soared through the piece – her affinity for this era of music very obvious.
The audience clapped enthusiastically. She stood, bowing several times, and then walked off the stage, joining the table of classmates, giggling and waving her hands.
A protégé, maybe even a genius and still a “kid”.
