Among the many fine musicians not performing at the Wigmore Hall this year, one whose absence is the most disappointing is the young Austrian pianist Till Fellner. His recitals at the Wigmore, centred on Book II of Bach's 48 Preludes and Fugues, were as distinguished as any given in London last year. A pupil of Brendel, Fellner has inherited the elder's imaginative respect for the music, and combines this with a technique that is second to none. Although he has perhaps been most associated so far with Bach and Beethoven, his technical command and unusually keen sense of pianistic colour make him ideally suited to perform Liszt—indeed, Brendel himself has said that Fellner already plays the first series of the Années de pèlerinage as well as he ever expects to hear it played. It should be exciting news, then, that the Liszt sonata is in his recital repertoire this year, except that you would have to go to America to hear him play it. Next year he is booked to perform as part of the international piano series at the Queen Elizabeth Hall, so yet again we must be grateful to the South Bank for stepping in to engage a musician who has had an important presence in Wigmore Street.
It is all the more welcome, too, that the Philharmonia has engaged Fellner twice this spring—to perform Beethoven's 4th concerto at the beginning of March and Brahms's 2nd concerto in the middle of March, the latter as part of Charles Mackerras's Brahms cycle. The first movement of the Beethoven begins, famously, with a statement of its theme by the piano, and it was clear from Fellner's very first notes that his was to be a masterly account of the work: the chords perfectly voiced yet properly piano, and phrased with a lyricism that was underpinned by the most subtle rhythmic impulse. It was aristocratic playing—which, unfortunately, the accompaniment under Vladimir Ashkenazy, was not. One was reminded just how responsive to its conductor the Philharmonia is. Ashkenazy is an energetic conductor, but too much of the energy is unfocused, and so can easily confuse rather than galvanise the orchestra. Under Dohnányi or Mackerras, the Philharmonia could have easily provided Fellner with an accompaniment that was as flexible and transparent as he deserved, but with Ashkenazy, it was as if there were two performances going on at the same time, at very different levels of accomplishment. One expects no such difficulties with the Brahms under Mackerras, however, and this promises to be an unmissable performance of this greatest of all piano concertos.
Spluttering at Mozart's sexism
In advance of Mackerras's Brahms cycle, which will certainly be one of the major events of the musical year, there has been a chance to hear his reading of Mozart's Die Zauberflöte in the latest revival of David McVicar's production at the Royal Opera House. In contrast to its lamentable revival of Così fan tutte in the autumn, which was indifferently cast and had no coherence of musical style, this was musically tremendous. No one has thought harder about how Mozart's operas should be performed and sung than Mackerras, and he proved a master of its emotional and expressive possibilities. Though his speeds naturally tended to the quick rather than the slow, his reading lacked nothing in grandeur. On the evening I went, however, the flu that has been laying waste to London had struck the cast. Will Hartmann had to cancel as Tamino and was replaced by the production's First Priest, Robert Murray, who sang valiantly but not always very beautifully. More problematic, one suspects were those who might have cancelled but did not. Jan-Hendrik Rootering as Sarastro lacked any nobility of sound and at least one of the three women had intonation problems, which made the close harmonies Mozart gives to them rather closer than was comfortable. Only Erika Miklosa as the Queen of the Night and Simon Keenlyside as Papageno were vocally flawless. Rebecca Evans as Pamina, who herself had to cancel the previous performance, sounded out of sorts in Act I but managed to husband her resources after the interval to give a marvellous reading of "Ach, ich fühls," which at Mackerras's swift tempo was intense rather than ponderous. For a singer with a cold to risk singing high notes pianissimo was brave, since there is a real chance that nothing will come out except a squeak, but her courage was rewarded—except by the audience, many of whom treated her to a background chorus of unstifled coughing. It is one of the problems with the opera that when people have paid so much for their tickets, they are less likely to do the decent thing when ill and stay at home. Almost as irritating were the hoots that greeted any expression of 18th-century sexism. No doubt the idea that a woman cannot be fulfilled unless married to a man is objectively risible, but the knowing giggles of the audience at such views showed an extraordinary failure of historical imagination, as if Schikaneder's text was not a product of the Viennese Enlightenment but had been freshly written for a sitcom. Some audiences seem to deserve the kind of insensitive updating that is such a feature of the modern opera stage—something that, ironically, David McVicar's production itself almost entirely avoided. The ROH's next production is Die Walküre, and it will be interesting to see whether the audience cackles its way through the less PC parts of that.
