Uniquely among classical music compositions, it has its own website. There is an extensive series of podcasts devoted to it. Wanda Landowska recorded it on harpsichord in 1933 and the American jazz legend, Keith Jarrett, on piano in 1989, with hundreds of other recordings also available. Of those, the iconic monoliths of Glenn Gould’s twins are possibly the best known, astonishingly different from each other and with 26 years between them. Last year, Icelandic pianist, Víkingur Ólafsson, not only released his own album of Johann Sebastian Bach’s Goldberg Variations, but also decided to take it on an 88-concert (one for each key on the piano) worldwide tour across season. On Tuesday, it was Sydney’s turn, and the excited expectation that filled the Opera House’s Concert Hall was almost tangible.
Ólafsson walked with casual calm on stage in a simple but elegant black suit and sat at the piano as if getting ready to do ordinary business, rather than to play a 74-minute long, continuous, heart-warmingly beautiful yet complex, Baroque edifice of an Aria and its 30 Variations. The opening theme’s tender, almost hesitant intimacy immediately offered an indication of the depth of his imagery and then, after the first section and a reflective pause, he repeated it even more softly. He had his audience utterly absorbed and if anyone would have dropped a pin, it could have been heard – but nobody did.
Some variations opened with boisterous energy, others, such as No. 6, with attractive hesitation. The repeats, such as in No. 2, often sounded more introverted, while gaining volume and muscle at other times, as in Variation 15. Soon it became apparent that his interpretation could not be second-guessed. This particular performance proffered its own idiosyncratic characteristics, largely similar to those familiar from his recording but by no means merely mimicking them. A pertinent example for this was Variation 25, which took even longer to evolve, clocking up in excess of ten minutes, while elaborating its intricate chromatic details, evoking a hypnotic state, reminiscent of some magical Messiaen movements (composed two centuries later).
Yet, Ólafsson generally chose faster tempi than usually heard, but repeating every section. His mastery of handling the modern keyboard was as eloquent as it was joyful, with no discernible technical difficulties. His interpretation was so versatile in every minutiae that any of the usual questions of whether his playing was influenced by historical performance practices or not would have been meaningless. Variation 7 lilted like a Baroque Gigue, and the so-called French Overture (16) exhibited his understanding of contemporaneous performing practices; not as a demonstration, but simply as a by-product of his utter musicality.
Some variations, for example 18-21, were performed without the slightest pause between them; elsewhere, there was a contemplative silence in between. His judicious use of the pedal (typically, with rapid alterations according to harmonic changes) emphasised his elegant legato. In several variations, the right hand has to play two independent voices and Ólafsson delighted in bringing out a different one when playing a section the first time and the other upon the repeat.
His faultless technique allowed some variations, such as 23 or 26, to proceed at breakneck speed and the brilliance of his double-handed trills in No. 28 foreshadowed those at the ecstatic end of Beethoven’s Op.109 sonata.
As Bach requested, the variations finish with a repeat of the opening Aria, in cathartic, dreamlike fulfilment. The standing ovation paid respect both to Ólafsson’s humble musicality and artistic endeavour at its best.
