Brendel thoughts #2

My second installment of reflections on the Orchestra's week with Alfred Brendel focuses on the relationship between a player and their instrument. Most orchestral musicians (except perhaps for percussionists) own their instruments, as do solo artists (although I suppose you could argue that those who play expensive string instruments provided for their use by wealthy philanthropists, consortiums and various organizations don't actually "own" their instruments - although they play, use and travel with those instruments as if they were their own).

The one exception are pianists, who, by practical consideration, are for the most part unable to always perform with their personal pianos (unless, say, all concerts took place in their living room/studio). It is neither ideal nor really pleasant (sometimes) to show up to a concert venue and play a keyboard which may simply not be suited to you or, worse still, not a good instrument. The mechanism of the piano is easily manipulated so that the keys may be weighted or lightened (affecting the "touch") and certain registers brightened. Soloists have definite preferences as to what works best for them, so of course, the optimal option is to always have your own instrument, which is adjusted to your liking...

...which Mr. Brendel does (and at considerable expense to the presenter!). And what an instrument! With a tone that is crystalline without any sense of brittleness, fluid and honeyed but with the greatest clarity, it is a lovely medium for Brendel's finely-honed musicianship. And it is clearly HIS instrument - you can tell by the way he rests his hands on it for several moments before beginning to play, the sureness with which he draws sound from the different registers. It is an intimate relationship that an artist has with their instrument; it is not enough that an instrument is beautiful or that a player is exquisite - there is an alchemy in the right combination that creates an extraordinary whole.

During tonight's concert I had fleeting thoughts of my childhood instrument - a Baldwin grand, a very serviceable, if unextraordinary, instrument - that, for many years, I faced for at least 3 hours a day. I knew that piano inside and out - the low F# that always spoke a split second late no matter how many times the technician tried to adjust it, the way the pedals engaged about half and inch depressed, the slight pingy-ness of the highest register. It was imperfect, but with a wonderful roundness of sound; it was the instrument that I lived and breathed music with for over 12 years, until I had to turn away from a life at the keyboard. But I still remember the comfort it gave me when I rested my hands on its keys, and the delight it gave me when I knew how to draw its best sound. In an odd way, that Baldwin grand was my first true love, and as they say, true love lasts a lifetime.