There is something fascinatingly clinical about a set of variations – the original prompt being dissected, expanded, compressed, reversed, inverted and transformed until its kinship to the initial material is all but unrecognisable. That this subtle, harmless torture should bring us pleasure is often justified by observations about the structural perfection of the genre, where a perfectly organised universe stems from a single element. Is the composer a scientist, a magician, or a sadist, then? In his latest concert at the Berlin Philharmonie, Fazıl Say left that for the audience to decide, offering a programme where arguably the most famous set of variations in music history – Bach's Goldberg Variations – and some of Say’s own works were paired in a strenuous solo recital.
Say’s mannerisms – especially in this piece – inspire obvious comparisons with Glenn Gould. However, I found Say’s gestures entirely different and individual. His heavy stomping, hand-waving, singing, and turning to the audience seemed to encourage us to participate, rather than suggesting the mischievous introversion of Gould.
His verve readily transferred to his interpretation. Malleable phrasing and an unabashedly catchy sense of rhythm prevailed over the transparent, rational approach that is often associated with Bach’s music cathedrals. Tempos were kept flexible and sometimes pushed to the extreme. Dynamic choices mostly veered towards the forte, making the few moments of piano and pianissimo all the more significant, such as the yearning melody of Variation 25. Often, the right hand flew on the higher end of the keyboard in quick, feathery passages, while the left hand pressed vehemently, almost in a conflict of timbres and harmonies. Whether Bach intended his Goldbergs to sound like this, we can’t know (probably not) and perhaps we don’t really care. At this point of the not-so-long tradition of recorded music, the Goldbergs are as much a creation of Bach as they are Say’s, Gould’s or others.
The second half of the evening was dedicated to Say’s own works, as the programme notes stated, “à la carte”. Among the nine pieces for piano solo, covering more than twenty years of activity, there was a fair balance between fully original compositions, such as Kara Toprak (Black Earth), and jazzy reworkings of famous tunes like the Paganini Jazz. Admittedly, some of the pieces were more convincing than others. Say seems to find inspiration in poetry (Nazim, dedicated to the Turkish poet Nâzım Hikmet, and Kara Toprak), current events (Ses inspired by the Sivas Massacre of 1993), or familiar scenes, such as Winter Morning in Istanbul, exhibiting an ease for melody that is refreshing, if sometimes naive.
I found Say at his most fascinating in the Yeni hayat sonatı (New Life Sonata) and Kara Toprak, where timbral experimentation, including stroking and plucking piano strings, created beautiful effects of reverberation and mixture between registers. The short ballad Kumru (Dove), with its perfectly contoured, cantabile theme, was as good an example of contemporary tonality and lyricism as it gets.
For a peppy sign-off, Say brought his Summertime Variations, based on the Gershwin standard, and jazzed-up versions of two ear-worm-worthy classical pieces – Mozart's Rondo alla Turca and Paganini’s Caprice no. 24 in A minor. It is against my very principles to not enjoy some good ragtime, and the experiment of playing Mozart and Paganini in Scott Joplin manner was at least fun as a crowd-pleaser. The Gershwin was more interesting, thanks to Say resuming the ductility and creativity shown in Bach to transfigure the score into a new charming, virtuoso piece.
