The Pied-Piper of Berlin
Emmanuel Pahud, so conspicuously absent from Wednesday's concert (or was he? couldn't see from my nosebleed seat) made his belated local debut this evening with the SSO. Perhaps the biggest name of his art and craft, the Swiss flautist presented a first-half programme of Mozart's Flute Concerto No 2 and Borne's Carmen Fantaisie, both vehicles providing more than ample opportunity to exhibit his virtuosity.
I remember my first exposure to the man, not-so fleeting but more lingrering shots of his beautiful face, when he played among the ranks of the Berliner Philharmoniker in Beethoven's Triple Concerto and Choral Fantasy alongside Perlman and Ma with Baremboim at the helm. My God! Who is that man?! My man! Who is that God?!
It is thus sad to report that the years haven't been kind and age has caught up with this "Principle Flute who looks like Superman" as one guest soloist once remarked. The hairline has receeded, the cheeks have filled out and the complexion is more ruddy than rosy, the five-o-clock shadow not helping the cause. Most disturbingly, there was a all-too-visible paunch (and not even just a hint of one, but a real one) that peeped out from beween the folds of his jacket. Eschewing formality, the black tee he wore may have been a slimming colour but couldn't hold in the spread.
Luckily, there was still the undeniable and not inconsiderable talent of the man with the golden flute. At once, all visual distractions and mental obstacles were forgotten when he started to play. At once, the quality of his technique and instrument were brought to ther fore. Not long into the opening, he couldn't disguise a plumped-up look of satisfaction when he despatched a phrase that went on on end and had me open-mouthed at his Caballe-esque breath-control.
Instrumentalists have been told to remember to breathe so that they would play as they would sing. Nowhere would this be more apparent than the present example. How he made his flute sing! Perfect tones at once sweet and clear ran the gamut of emotions. At the lower register, the tones were rounded and warm, at the higher register, they were brilliant and sharp.
The Mozart was just a warm-up where Pahud stepped up to the plate in the Borne with a most ear-pleasing reading, the music at once all-too-familiar, and half the battle already won. The operatic quality of the flute part was discernible where it replaced the human voice in fleshing out the parts. When the Habanera came along, the words to the aria were subconsciously mouthed as the lissome and sylvian melody wormed itself into consciousness. As an encore, Pahud trotted out the neglected gem of Syrinx by Debussy where the short solo piece conjured up images of nymphs and sprites.
This is by far the best blow job I've had!
Posted via LjBeetle
I remember my first exposure to the man, not-so fleeting but more lingrering shots of his beautiful face, when he played among the ranks of the Berliner Philharmoniker in Beethoven's Triple Concerto and Choral Fantasy alongside Perlman and Ma with Baremboim at the helm. My God! Who is that man?! My man! Who is that God?!
It is thus sad to report that the years haven't been kind and age has caught up with this "Principle Flute who looks like Superman" as one guest soloist once remarked. The hairline has receeded, the cheeks have filled out and the complexion is more ruddy than rosy, the five-o-clock shadow not helping the cause. Most disturbingly, there was a all-too-visible paunch (and not even just a hint of one, but a real one) that peeped out from beween the folds of his jacket. Eschewing formality, the black tee he wore may have been a slimming colour but couldn't hold in the spread.
Luckily, there was still the undeniable and not inconsiderable talent of the man with the golden flute. At once, all visual distractions and mental obstacles were forgotten when he started to play. At once, the quality of his technique and instrument were brought to ther fore. Not long into the opening, he couldn't disguise a plumped-up look of satisfaction when he despatched a phrase that went on on end and had me open-mouthed at his Caballe-esque breath-control.
Instrumentalists have been told to remember to breathe so that they would play as they would sing. Nowhere would this be more apparent than the present example. How he made his flute sing! Perfect tones at once sweet and clear ran the gamut of emotions. At the lower register, the tones were rounded and warm, at the higher register, they were brilliant and sharp.
The Mozart was just a warm-up where Pahud stepped up to the plate in the Borne with a most ear-pleasing reading, the music at once all-too-familiar, and half the battle already won. The operatic quality of the flute part was discernible where it replaced the human voice in fleshing out the parts. When the Habanera came along, the words to the aria were subconsciously mouthed as the lissome and sylvian melody wormed itself into consciousness. As an encore, Pahud trotted out the neglected gem of Syrinx by Debussy where the short solo piece conjured up images of nymphs and sprites.
This is by far the best blow job I've had!
Posted via LjBeetle