Let’s try a little piano recital again. I thought I’d try and make use out of Kings Place, seeing as I’m there all the time, and they have concerts on four or five nights a week and there’s me, you know, trying to be cultural, or at least find things to do that aren’t Twitter. So, a piano recital it was, this one given by William Howard, playing some Schubert and Bach spliced between two modernist sets from the composer Howard Skempton. Howard the lads, as they say up north.
I wasn’t in a great mood when I got there, an hour early, and sitting in the art gallery reading about Kierkegaard didn’t really help, so my first impression of the crowd waiting outside the hall was a) Christ, everyone’s so old; old people should chop all their fucking hair off so they don’t look so fucking old; and b) Lord almighty everyone’s very, very posh. Horrendously posh. So posh it made me want to go and vote for Brexit.
But anyway. Once the music started, my alienation abated and I enjoyed the first Skempton piece, a set of sketches called Reflections. The first few were quite ambient, using the piano more for its sound-design qualities than its melodism, then it turned a little plinkyplonky, more like Philip Glass. All the pieces were very short, and would stop abruptly, as if someone had lifted the needle off a record.
It turned out that Skempton was in the audience and Howard got him up to take a bow, and they had a conversation that I read as Skempton saying: “Marvellous playing, William, magnificent.” I don't know what else he'd have been saying, unless they were arranging to buy drugs.
Following that he played Schumann’s Four Impromptus. Up to now, Schumann has only been associated in my mind with the moody pianist in Peanuts, but it turns out he’s a lovely romantic with impassioned, rolling, playful music that put me in mind of a cat toying with a ball of wool. Somewhere between Chopin and Debussy, I’d venture, if I was feeling cocky; the heart and emotion of Chopin with added impressionism. But I might retract that, when it inevitably turns out that Schumann was before Chopin, and way before Debussy. (Quick Wikipedia break: they were contemporaries.)
After the break it was three of Bach’s prelude and fugue pairs, which were, obviously, great. I can't really say anything about them; it would be like critiquing the psalms. And then on to the second Skempton set, a London premiere of his attempt at 24 preludes and fugues. Most of these came in at the 30-second mark, so we were back to the abrupt stopping. In fact, even more abrupt than with Reflections, where the pieces were at least able to get out the blocks before being ruthlessly cut down. These were more like listening to the radio on a very windy day. Just as you were beginning to get into the mood or texture of the piece, it vanished. I know that Satie was adamant you should never bore your audience, but this seemed extreme. I began to resent the fact that I knew when I gave my ears up to the pieces (which were all lovely) they would too soon be snatched away (the pieces, not my ears). It got to be like going on Tinder knowing that everyone you connect with will immediately ghost you; it becomes difficult to allow yourself the emotion. Furthermore, I wasn’t sure why they had to be cut. It wasn’t obvious to me what was so great about outlining a lovely melody or rhythm and then yanking it from under you. I’m sure there’s a very clever reason, but frankly that was part of the problem. Brexit again, you see.
