[LJ2ME] And The Ben Played On
If I felt guilty oogling and perving at the post-pubescent boy on public display, who was showing the crowds just what he could do with his hands to turn them into quivering anticipation, I didn't even bother to disguise it. Ephebophilia. There's a word for you. Go look it up.
Benjamin Grosvenor is all of 17 going on 18, and already has a legion of fans lapping up his firebrand virtuosity with fervent and rabid ardour. Sandwiched among other more experienced colleagues in this installment of the Singapore International Piano Festival, he nonetheless held his own in a talent pool bubbling and boiling over. Dare I say it, but his programme possibly outstrips the others in ambition and idealism, if not virtuosity and theatricality.
Anchored by two massive missives that tested and crossed boundaries in their time, the Liszt Piano Sonata and Ravel Gaspard de la Nuit were veritable showstoppers that silenced the critics and wowed the fans alike.
For all its sprawling wealth of ideas, the Liszt is perhaps a little polarising, where bouquets and brickbats are equally shared. Some find the unfettered unconvention alienating while others appreciate the freedom of expression so far removed from straightjacketed conformity.
Grosvenor treated the work with a quasi-religious reverence, his treatment of the subdued opening a picture of foreboding and dread. However, it wasn't long into the work that the cracks in the varnish appeared, his reading of the warhorse a work-in-progress that hinted at a yet-to-be-transcended etude. Grosvenor stuck to his guns and surmounted the difficulty of the piece as he tackled the contrasting ominous presence and fleeting optimism of the material.
As much practice put into the piece, there was something beyond Grosvenor's control. The "beep beep" of a message tone from a cell phone put to paid the tender lyrical subject at which the pianist barely flinched but whose concentration was thrown. While on the topic, let's catalogue the symphony of snoring, coughing and page-turning enough to warrant irritation.
At face value, this was a powerhouse performance albeit with a superficial mastery of the work's facets and layers. The young pianist lacked conviction of tone, barely breaking the surface and yet to plumb the depths of the fount of physical and mental investment although he powered through with grit and determination.
I apologise if I sound like I disliked the reading, for how ungrateful would I be if so, the last outing some two years ago by a master older and wiser. Any live performance of the sonata is to be appreciated for its worth and here I forget that Grosvenor is all but a teen and just project five years into the future for how the same work would play out.
Grosvenor picked three miniatures as a nod to the Chopin theme, the Nocturne Op 15 No 2 taken with a feather-light delicacy and rippling reflection. The Scherzo No 3 contrasted agitated chord sequences with stirring, exquisite and sterling fingerwork. The simpering affected portrayal of the posthumous Nocturne was hard to divorce from its image from the movie, The Pianist. Starting the evening was a trio of studies by Kapustin where the audibly jazzy infusion recalled atmospheric lounge or elevator music, despite the innate technical challenges.
A magical moment was enshrined with a deftly controlled glissando in Gaspard de la Nuit, where the impressionist images were conjured up with cliched rippling and sparkling effect. Unlike the animated exaggeration or absorbed meditation of two other famous and not-so-young-by-comparison pianists, Grosvenor's eyes were engaged and expressive.
These "Satanic visions of the night" were less nightmares than dreamscapes, haunting in their stark sparseness at once hypnotic, mesmerising and arresting. It was only in the climax that the show got on the road with a skittish skirmish of a bag of tricks. However, this virgin exposure to this terrifying terror revealed that the reputation is mere hyperbole than manifest and more style than substance.
Two encores put the icing on the cake with a scintillating variations on the Tritsch-Tratsch Polka sending the house into raptures. Bravo!
Benjamin Grosvenor is all of 17 going on 18, and already has a legion of fans lapping up his firebrand virtuosity with fervent and rabid ardour. Sandwiched among other more experienced colleagues in this installment of the Singapore International Piano Festival, he nonetheless held his own in a talent pool bubbling and boiling over. Dare I say it, but his programme possibly outstrips the others in ambition and idealism, if not virtuosity and theatricality.
Anchored by two massive missives that tested and crossed boundaries in their time, the Liszt Piano Sonata and Ravel Gaspard de la Nuit were veritable showstoppers that silenced the critics and wowed the fans alike.
For all its sprawling wealth of ideas, the Liszt is perhaps a little polarising, where bouquets and brickbats are equally shared. Some find the unfettered unconvention alienating while others appreciate the freedom of expression so far removed from straightjacketed conformity.
Grosvenor treated the work with a quasi-religious reverence, his treatment of the subdued opening a picture of foreboding and dread. However, it wasn't long into the work that the cracks in the varnish appeared, his reading of the warhorse a work-in-progress that hinted at a yet-to-be-transcended etude. Grosvenor stuck to his guns and surmounted the difficulty of the piece as he tackled the contrasting ominous presence and fleeting optimism of the material.
As much practice put into the piece, there was something beyond Grosvenor's control. The "beep beep" of a message tone from a cell phone put to paid the tender lyrical subject at which the pianist barely flinched but whose concentration was thrown. While on the topic, let's catalogue the symphony of snoring, coughing and page-turning enough to warrant irritation.
At face value, this was a powerhouse performance albeit with a superficial mastery of the work's facets and layers. The young pianist lacked conviction of tone, barely breaking the surface and yet to plumb the depths of the fount of physical and mental investment although he powered through with grit and determination.
I apologise if I sound like I disliked the reading, for how ungrateful would I be if so, the last outing some two years ago by a master older and wiser. Any live performance of the sonata is to be appreciated for its worth and here I forget that Grosvenor is all but a teen and just project five years into the future for how the same work would play out.
Grosvenor picked three miniatures as a nod to the Chopin theme, the Nocturne Op 15 No 2 taken with a feather-light delicacy and rippling reflection. The Scherzo No 3 contrasted agitated chord sequences with stirring, exquisite and sterling fingerwork. The simpering affected portrayal of the posthumous Nocturne was hard to divorce from its image from the movie, The Pianist. Starting the evening was a trio of studies by Kapustin where the audibly jazzy infusion recalled atmospheric lounge or elevator music, despite the innate technical challenges.
A magical moment was enshrined with a deftly controlled glissando in Gaspard de la Nuit, where the impressionist images were conjured up with cliched rippling and sparkling effect. Unlike the animated exaggeration or absorbed meditation of two other famous and not-so-young-by-comparison pianists, Grosvenor's eyes were engaged and expressive.
These "Satanic visions of the night" were less nightmares than dreamscapes, haunting in their stark sparseness at once hypnotic, mesmerising and arresting. It was only in the climax that the show got on the road with a skittish skirmish of a bag of tricks. However, this virgin exposure to this terrifying terror revealed that the reputation is mere hyperbole than manifest and more style than substance.
Two encores put the icing on the cake with a scintillating variations on the Tritsch-Tratsch Polka sending the house into raptures. Bravo!