On Hearing András Schiff Play The Goldberg Variations

I was feeling not at all well yesterday, so unwell that I considered not going to the evening’s Bach concert by András Schiff. But I also felt unwell the day before, and I still made the four hours’ round trip to White Rock to keep my appointment there. I tried a nap, but as naps and I have never cohabited, it was a few desultory winks at most. So after a while I got up and went back to work on a local government matter until it was time to dress and leave. I took the bus to Granville Street and walked from Davie to the Orpheum. The short walk helped. The theatre was packed.

The concert itself was comprised of the Italian Concerto BWV 971, the French Overture BWV 831, then intermission, and in the second part the Goldberg Variations BWV 988. Each was preceded by an introductory lecture by Schiff. I do not understand the keyboard pieces as well as I understand the cantatas; they are different genres with different structures, and the three compositions on the programme are for the keyboard solo. Schweitzer writes that “[i]t is impossible to take to the [Goldberg Variations] at a first hearing. We have to get to know it, and to understand the music of Bach’s last period, in which the interest resides not so much in the charm of this or that melodic part, as in the free and masterly working out of the ideas.” This perspective I understand fully.

I had found out of the Schiff concert entirely by accident—an advertisement on Facebook—and had only a week to prepare for it, even though I’ve been acquainted with all three works for many years. I prepare for all performances, but I didn’t have much time to prepare for this one. I did listen to three of Schiff’s discussions of the work and of Bach, listened with score to the three works programmed, and re-read Geck’s and Schweitzer’s observations.

The programme is long, and ran some three hours. One must concentrate. The music is complex and Schiff’s playing supernal. By good luck my seat provided an excellent view of the pianist and his hands, even though I was far back in the hall. I had brought the pocket score of the Goldberg with me, but the theatre was too darkened to read it. I had no difficulty, however, knowing which variation was which and the main structural element in each of the sets of three: pensive, virtuosic, canonic. Now, here’s the strange thing: the further one is into the hearing of the variations the more one is drawn in, and when the 25^th variation, the black pearl, arrives one is drawn in even more fully; so much so that the ensuing four variations, especially the enormously complex and difficult 28^th and 29^th variations, become moving, and the aria da capo that concludes the work, infinite and otherworldly. I thought this is not only because of the transmutation of the bass line upon which the variations are based but also because the aria in which it is found was composed by Bach for his wife, Anna Magdalena, and I find succinct and sublime references to the melody as well in the final variations. Love of God, love of life, love of and with another: they seem identical in Bach. And, as for me, I have long felt that in Bach there is no difference between the secular and the sacred, the other and the now.

At the conclusion of the variations Schiff kept his hands for some time on the keyboard and complete silence enveloped the theatre for several magical moments. When he finally let his arms drop to his side the audience stood up as an entity and went wild in an eruption of applause and shouts of amazed appreciation. I’ve never seen anything like this at a classical concert.

Schiff is not only a great pianist and musician, he is also generous, for it was a benefit concert for the Vancouver Recital Society.

When I got home I couldn’t sleep for hours, not, for once, because of my poor sleep, but because the music continued to fill my mind.

There is something inexplicable about the power of art. And artistry.