May 19, 2023

My final PSO program of the season was a doozy: Grieg's A minor piano concerto and Stravinsky's Rite of Spring. The Grieg concerto I'd never heard before, though I instantly recognized its opening measures, which are one of those musical snippets that like the opening of Beethoven's fifth symphony have entered the DNA of our culture. I found the entirety of the first movement gripping, and the soloist, Alice Sara Ott, just spellbinding. Watching her vacillate effortlessly between lightning runs, her left hand sometimes hovering a foot over the keys as if summoning the very ghost of the instrument to show itself, and percussive attacks that she threw her whole diminutive body into, was breathtaking, literally -- towards the end of a long cadenza late in the movement, I literally caught myself not breathing, as if her hovering left hand had stolen the spiritus/air from me. And a sparse, soft encore after an extended standing ovation left me in tears. (The gal next to me, who had opera glasses, confirmed for me that Ott performed barefoot, which made me love the whole piece even more.) The Rite of Spring is one of my favorite pieces, and hearing it performed live again, I was reminded of how percussive so much of it is, like the throb of a wild, wild heart, and how prominent a role the woodwinds play (as a former first clarinet in my high school band, I'm kinda biased). I wanted the climactic sonic barrage to be even more fortissimo -- fffffff v. merely ffff -- but the journey there was magical nonetheless. What a wonder of a piece. (NB: The photo is of the orchestral set up for Rite, viz. the 603 kettle drums in the back.)

 

P.S. When I arrived at Heinz Hall last night, I realized that the sole of my right shoe had come partly detached. And I had a long walk back to the garage after the concert. I wound up parking in the convention center garage, which is technically four blocks (6th to 10th Street), but the distance between 9th and 10th streets is closer to three blocks. The situation deteriorated over the course of the return walk: by the time I'd walked maybe a block, I had to lift my right leg, push it forward, and try to drop it so that the sole landed squarely under my foot, which it did maybe 50% of the time. I'm sure I looked like I was rehearsing some weird mime routine. When I arrived home, I took off both shoes the second I entered my apartment building and walked barefoot up the three flights of stairs, and poured myself a glass of Irish whiskey as soon as I closed my apartment door.