It must have seemed like a good idea at the time. A big Prokofiev blockbuster with Yuja Wang followed by an even bigger Tchaikovsky blockbuster with lots of gongs, cymbals and drums, bookended by low energy mood pieces by William Marsey and Thomas Adès. And put Adès himself on the podium. Here's how it worked out.
Prokofiev’s Second Piano Concerto was the star of the night. It has become quite a spectacle to see young athletes on the prowl for the most testing of repertoire to take on this piece. And this most overly athletic superstar didn't lose one beat as she hammered relentlessly away and didn't try to make it more polite for even an instant. If the music’s original intention was shock and awe, Yuja Wang gave exactly the right performance. And besides, with K-pop licking their chops on classical music's horizon, the animé visuals of Yuja Wang taking on Prokofiev Two seems an entirely mainstream proposition.
In the concerto’s monumental cadenza, sprawling, inwardly at first, then terrifyingly public, Wang seemed momentarily lost in Prokofiev’s own thoughts, composing the music as she was going along before the orchestra crashed back in. She was still going strong after the Scherzo’s 1,500 strokes and, with Adès whipping the troops on full speed in the finale, Wang was angular and exhilarating, hair-raising at triple forte.
In an oasis of encores, Adès joined Yuja Wang for a sexually-charged, four-handed Manière de commencement from Satie’s Trois morceaux en forme de poire; Wang then held the audience breathless in Glass’ Étude no. 6 and charmed them with the magical, sylvan sounds of Mendelssohn’s Song Without Words, Op.67 no.2.
After a short intermission, Adès stormed back and took no prisoners in Tchaikovsky’s Francesca da Rimini. The moans from Dante's Hell were urgent, the wind and rain rough and ready, the brass loud. Even the clarinet solo had no soul, but the mass of first and second violins sang their hearts out. Adès emphasized intensity over contrast and yet he judged it so that the final violent shock of the lovers’ murder landed with magnificent force, a brutal orchestral blow that finally aligned excess, drama, and narrative inevitability.
The afternoon had opened with William Marsey’s Man with Limp Wrist, in which the solitary figures and suspended domestic scenes in a series of paintings by Salman Toor assume a shadowy life, whether lower strings building cathedrals of sound, or fleeting folk dance feints and gestures. Later sections grow longer and more substantial. At the end, the music’s resolution is signaled by a solitary trumpet call. Perhaps the paintings would have shed more light on the music.
Adès’ own Aquifer closed the program with its great assortment of grinding monochromatic noises and other splashing inspired by the power of water. Seven or eight percussionists entered the fray, joined by harp and piano banging away. For long stretches it felt like an endless bog. Only late on did the music begin to show sunlight through fog and clouds, before one last buildup. Having given so much for so long, over four rather dour pieces, the orchestra somehow gave more and finally, slurring strings led to a conclusion that felt patiently earned.
