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REVIEW: Steve Crowther’s verdict on Clare Hammond, Sir Jack Lyons Concert Hall, University of York, 23/10/2024

Clare Hammond: “Emotional control: nothing showy, flashy”

I THINK  I should preface this review with a huge sense of gratitude to French musicologist Jérome Dorvial, who discovered and researched the music of composer Hélène de Montgeroult and introduced this remarkable body of work to pianist Clare Hammond.

Hélène de Montgeroult has a quite remarkable CV: an aristocrat who married a Marquis, carried out secret diplomatic missions to London, was arrested but kept her head by improvising an emotional set of variations on the Marseillaise. De Montgeroult was a radical and this was very evident in the advanced language and Romantic style of these studies.

The first study (No. 62) sounded Chopin-esque – a  beautiful right-hand melody crossing over a rippling accompaniment, almost like a love duet. The sensitivity of Ms Hammond’s playing was exemplary.

No. 67 had echoes of Mendelssohn’s Songs without words. The swirling accompaniment feature was still present, but the soaring melodies were more animated. No. 104 was characterised by quickly articulated, rhythmically driven playing. To be sure, these works are pedagogical, but they are musical gems first and foremost.

No. 110 and back to Chopin. The shaping of the gorgeously ornamented bel canto melody was sublime. In No. 111 it was Schubert, for me anyway. Forceful, driving and a great way to sign off.

Dorvial described de Montgeroult as the “missing link between Mozart & Chopin”, and listening to this insightful performance of the studies, it is hard not to see why.

Despite declaring that she “once felt the soul of Beethoven in Bonn”, Cécile Chaminade’s music positively eschews any radical trends. She said of Debussy that “his music is to my ears . . . well, grey, a bit grey”. And yet I did feel the soul of Debussy in the opening Impromptu Op. 35, No.5.

And, when performed as wonderfully as this, I am sure he’d have been as thrilled as myself. The Etude Romantique, Op. 132 was a delightful rollercoaster ride full of joy and dazzling brilliance.

Here the influence of Chopin was so palpable, it could have been an homage to the great man, but I also heard a snapshot of Wouldn’t It Be Loverly? from My Fair Lady. Maybe.

What struck me when listening to Ms Hammond’s performance of the two Fauré Nocturnes was how technically demanding they are. In the Nocturne No. 8 in Db major the rhapsodic melody sang quite seamlessly in and out of all three registers, producing a gentle but intriguing experience.

The opening Nocturne No. 12 in E minor could not have been more different. Talk about the cry of a tortured soul, this was it. But you cannot have the dark – the anxiety was palpable – without the light, a sensual, rich-flowing tenderness, and, mercifully, Clare Hammond’s interpretation expressed both.

I have never heard Beethoven’s Sonata in C# minor, Op. 27, No.2 (“Moonlight”) live and Ms Hammond’s performance was just remarkable. It is easy to forget how radical the first movement is. It completely turns expectations, the laws of thermo-driven dramatic precedents, on their head.

We still get the same structural blueprint, but it is transformed into a Zen-like meditation. The playing was hypnotic and the thread mercifully maintained through the diminished 7th chords to the close.

The second movement Allegretto, which Liszt christened “a flower between two chasms”, was charm personified; the music danced. Ms Hammond’s adherence to Beethoven’s dynamic and articulation markings were integral to this. The syncopated rhythms of the Trio delivered contrast rather than any dramatic intent.

This, of course, belongs to the blistering helter-skelter drive of the closing Presto agitato with its now familiar sudden dynamic and expressive gear shifts. What really struck me here was the emotional control: nothing showy, flashy. There was an understated control.

The performance as a whole, and this final movement in particular, reminded me of the great Richard Goode’s approach to the Beethoven Sonatas. The youthful exuberance of the opening Allegro con spirito of Mozart’s Sonata in D, K. 311 was brilliantly refreshing.

Clare Hammond: “Evoking the musical imagery of a storm”

The playing was crystal-clear with the dynamic shaping of the driving semiquaver passages and the tapering-off of the musical phrases impeccably nuanced: a distinctive feature of the recital as a whole.

The central G major Andantino con espressione was just lovely: delicate with a dream-like quality. The longer Rondeau: Allegro returns to the exuberance of the opening movement. The young Mozart’s evolving powers of expression are evident here, as are the characteristics of the Mannheim style of composition: sharp dynamic and textural contrasts. The playing had a natural, instinctive flow; it oozed panache.

I was really struck by Clare Hammond’s performance of Clara Schumann’s Drei Romanzen, Op.21. They really are standout pieces; wonderfully crafted miniatures with a depth suggesting a larger canvas.

The influence of Brahms was obvious, particularly in the opening Andante with its ‘sombre Brahmsian melody’. By contrast, the short Allegretto: Sehr zart zu spielen did indeed bring out the delicate, playful nature of the ‘light-hearted semiquavers’. The closing Agitato proved to be a quite an energetic signing off. Impressive piece, impressive performance.

Then, out of nowhere, American composer Jeffrey Mumford dropped in to say hello. I really like Jeffrey Mumford, who says: “Being a black composer is itself a very subversive act because you offend both sides.” And I really like his music. The compositions invariably have beautiful aphoristic titles – such as tonight’s Of Ringing And Layered Space.

Clare Hammond performed the first of these five movements, Jenny – for pianist Jenny Lin, which delivered a static, dream-like atmosphere. Yes it was (quite) complex and modern – whatever that means now, but seductive and very accessible.

The recital closed with another set of five studies: Chopin’s Etudes, Op. 25, Nos. 1, 2, 4, 11 and 12. No.1 (‘Pollini’) is a study focusing on arpeggios and tone colour. Ms Hammond’s light-touch legato playing was, unsurprisingly, impeccable – the beautiful right-hand melody singing out of and with this gorgeous accompaniment.

No. 2 (‘The Bees’) came across buzzing with a continuous stream of rhythmic cross-accents – right-hand  quaver triplets counterpointed with left-hand crotchet triplets and syncopation to great effect. The moto perpetuo legato playing, with very little pedal support, was flawless.

No. 4 (‘Paganini’) came across as delightfully quirky: left-hand leaping staccato quavers accompaniy the right-hand singing melody. In No. 11 (‘Winter Wind’) the lefthand was dominated by a dotted rhythm march with the right hand chromatically covering much of the piano keyboard. This was, amongst other things, an exercise in sheer stamina. It also (surely) referenced the famous Revolutionary Study.

The set and programme ended with the seriously challenging study No. 12 (‘Ocean’). As with No. 2, we heard cross-rhythms, syncopation, loud, dramatic sforzando accents. It came across as also richly contrapuntal.

Clare Hammond’s playing did indeed evoke the musical imagery of a storm, the pianist clearly relishing the unrelenting, almost elemental nature of this remarkable study.

Review by Steve Crowther

A footnote:

WE know that Liszt was a dedicated lover who had many relationships. We know he was attracted to Chopin’s lover, Amantine Lucile Aurore Dupin de Francueil, aka George Sand, which never bodes well. We know that Chopin had dedicated these Op. 25 Etudes to Franz Liszt’s mistress, Marie d’Agoult. And, after having just listened to Ms Hammond’s tortuous, passionate performance of the final C minor Etude, “the key of pathos”, I think I can see why.

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REVIEW: Martin Dreyer’s verdict on Paul Lewis, Sir Jack Lyons Concert Hall, University of York, January 14

Paul Lewis: ” A strain of melancholy threaded through the evening but the result was riveting”

PAUL Lewis is among Britain’s finest pianists. So to have him visit York at the invitation of the British Music Society – which is enjoying a bumper season – was a special privilege.

He presented two of Beethoven’s better-known sonatas, the ‘Pathétique’ and the ‘Appassionata’ (not names assigned by the composer), which framed a Debussy suite and Chopin’s Polonaise-Fantasy.

A strain of melancholy threaded through the evening but the result was riveting. The opening Grave of the ‘Pathétique’ was exceptionally spacious, with chord-resolutions delayed to the absolute maximum, so that the succeeding Allegro, taken at lightning pace, felt even quicker by contrast.

The accompanimental figures in the slow movement were rich and dark, which lent the main melody, beautifully sustained, an autumnal fireside warmth. In contrast, the rondo theme in the finale was surprisingly light and frisky at first, becoming progressively more urgent until its resolute last appearance, which recaptured the intensity of the very opening of the work.

Debussy’s Children Corner suite is not kiddies’ music, either for players or listeners. Lewis offered the pretence that it was, touching in the details of these character-pieces with a delicate brush while keeping their droll humour to the fore.

Jimbo’s clumsy lullaby, the doll’s clockwork serenade and a snowy white-out were but preludes to the loneliness of the little shepherd and the Golliwogg’s self- satisfied strut (with a moment of self-doubt thrown in). It was hard not to smile throughout.

Chopin’s Polonaise-Fantasy Op 61 in A flat. which dates from 1846, three years before he died, is one of the most forward-looking pieces he ever penned. It belonged next to Debussy in this programme exactly because it is so impressionistic.

Its dance element – the polonaise section of the title – only really becomes clear towards the end, after a considerable stretch of varying, improvisatory ramblings. Lewis excelled in differentiating its many changes of colour, where lesser pianists can get lost in its brambles. In his hands it became a ballade, often tinged with melancholy, with the third of its three main sections building persuasively into dramatic closure.

By now, Lewis’s adrenaline must really have been flowing: volatility was the name of his game in Beethoven’s ‘Appassionata’, Op 57 in F minor. Where there was some cloudiness in the first movement’s bass line, its very detail endowed the central variations with a marvellous nobility, stoically underpinning the increasingly taxing decorations.

He preferred to gloss over the ‘ma non troppo’ (not too much) of the third movement’s Allegro – which added to its fearsome frenzy but left little acceleration in reserve for the closing Presto. No matter: it still became a tragedy of Shakespearean proportions, daringly delivered.

Review by Martin Dreyer

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REVIEW: Martin Dreyer’s verdict on Stephen Hough, Sir Jack Lyons Concert Hall, University of York, October 6

Stephen Hough: “A hungry lion newly released from his cage”

THE resumption of the University of York’s Live Concert series was greeted with a full house on Wednesday. No wonder: we were there to welcome a titan of the keyboard.

Stephen Hough was in pugnacious mood, as well he might be after prolonged lockdown, a hungry lion newly released from his cage. He had chosen to satisfy his appetite on meaty chunks of Schumann and Chopin, leavened by two British composers, Alan Rawsthorne and Hough himself.

Rawsthorne’s Bagatelles, his first serious piano music that coincided with his first international recognition in 1938, launched Hough straight into a tempestuous whirlwind, although that was soon moderated by more pensive lyricism, a skittish interlude and a sad duologue between the hands, as if looking back at what might have been these past two years.

Forward-looking Schumann, stretching tonality as far as he ever did, came with Kreisleriana, dedicated to Chopin but written in 1838 with Clara Wieck in mind, in the long run-up to their marriage two years later.

The two sides of Schumann’s personality, fiery Florestan and easy-going Eusebius, actually mirrored the eccentric conductor Kreisler (a figment of E T A Hoffmann’s imagination), who is pictured here in eight “fantasies”, in G minor or its relative major, B flat.

In truth, it was Florestan who had much the upper hand in this account, with the forte passages cumulatively becoming an angry tour de force and the slower melodies tending towards moodiness. But there always a keen sense of shape, even when Schumann was at his most temperamental.

Hough’s own five-movement Partita, written only two years ago, proved a substantial treat. The martial opening of its Overture returns in driven style after a flightier Trio (such as every march should have), before a cute little coda.

A jittery Capriccio and two eloquent song-and-dance routines inspired by Mompou, the one very high, the other elegiac, preceded a hugely demanding Toccata, which could not help recalling Widor’s eponymous movement from his Fifth Symphony. It reached a breath-taking climax.

Finally, to more familiar Chopin, which was greeted with rapt attention. Ballade No 3 came across as an entity, rather than a series of episodes and its continuity was wholly convincing.

Hough’s unique ability to sustain a melody had really begun to emerge. In two nocturnes we were in piano heaven, with the most delicate of decorations in the F sharp (Op 15 No 2) and a gorgeously restrained, barely audible ending to the E flat (Op 9 No 2).

There was considerable urgency in the Second Scherzo, in B flat minor, which meant a mildly garbled ending when it accelerated, but by now Hough could do no wrong. This virtuoso lion was taking no prisoners – and we loved him for it. What a return!

Review by Martin Dreyer