CENTRAL OREGON — The heat wave that baked much of the Pacific Northwest for a few days last week was in full force as the final concerts of the 48^th annual Sunriver Music Festival began. Taking place in the rustic charm of the Sunriver Great Hall, which was once the officer’s HQ at Camp Abbott during the Second World War, the festival took us from Leipzig to Vienna with some strange stops in between.

The Great Hall is essentially a huge log cabin, and it still smells deeply of pine resin, a scent that takes me back to many such buildings that I knew in this area growing up. Atop a spiral staircase that wraps around one immense log with the circumference of a dinner table, there is an immense wrap-around balcony with a short series of risers at that back, as well as seating all around and behind the orchestra along the railing. This unusual arrangement yields some fascinating vantage points, but unfortunately my first seats were directly above the horn section, which tended to drown out the strings, although my friend who was with me (who happened to have played the horn all throughout high school) loved the spot and stayed there all evening, so go figure.

Monday the 11^th was “The Leipzig Connection,” and opened with Schumann’s Manfred Overture; an interesting factoid was that Robert and Clara’s great-great granddaughter was in the audience that night. There was plenty of sturm und drang during the Manfred, and I did my best to hear over the oft-featured horns and woodwinds. The strings were rich and woody, somehow appropriate to this venue as if in a strange “like to like” principle, but it was hard to get a sense of the whole orchestra.

The usher kindly allowed me to move to some empty seats at the back of the balcony for the remainder of the evening, and so I was able to hear Mendelssohn’s iconic Violin concerto in E Minor, Op. 64 quite well. Yi Zhao, concertmaster, was the soloist, and her cantabile portions were fantastic, while the difficult multi-stop sections had some issues. She leaned into the sentimentality of the opening movement, and her scalar passages were well-constructed as she was ably supported by the orchestra. The attacca bassoon into the second movement was a delight, and being delighted by the first bassoonist Anthony Georgeson was to become a regular feature of my time here. Zhao wrung the pathos out of the lower registers, sounding very viola-like. The tutti serenade was beautiful, although later the violins were pitchy at precisely the wrong time, when they were the main instruments supporting the soloist. The finale was appropriately spritely and dancing, and Zhao really shone here, as her rapid-fire sautillé toward the end positively sparkled. I’m not sure what the classical music scene as a whole is like in Central Oregon these days, but since the demise of the Cascade Festival of Music, I imagine there are not many other chances to hear tremendously important works of this caliber in the region.

Earlier in the first half, conductor and Artistic Director Brett Mitchell (read his interview with Matthew Neil Andrews, and get more detail on the festival and venue here) mentioned that anyone who achieved a certain level of piano aptitude likely learned some of Mendelssohn’s Songs Without Words at some point in their playing career. Those ones escaped me, but us little Baroque boys instead sometimes learned a piano transcription of the work that opened the second half, the now-(though not always)-famous Toccata and Fugue in D Minor BWV 565 by good old Uncle Bach, the great Johann Sebastian. Originally composed for the organ (though there is apparently some argument as to whether Bach himself actually composed it), the work languished in relative obscurity until Leopold Stokowski’s famous orchestral transcription appeared in Walt Disney’s Fantasia about the time the Sunriver Great Hall was being built. Mitchell pointed out that the number of musicians required to play that particular transcription might be almost equal to that night’s orchestra plus all the members of the audience, so the rendition played here was Australian composer Luke Styles’ brilliantly scaled-down version for percussion, strings, and a small wind section. 

A startling simultaneous trill on tambourine and triangle underpinned an abrupt and almost comical exposition of the famous toccata theme by the winds at the opening. The huge, menacing chords built from the ground up by the winds were fantastic, and the woodblock chattered behind arpeggiating strings. Gently the strings carried the majority of the fugal opening, and the descending scales were parted out to various instruments in clever salvos. The percussion accents were various and vital, and all in all this work with its light touch and deft instrumentation was a breath of fresh air for those (like me) who consider Stokowski’s version weighted and a bit stodgy.

The finale of the evening was Bach’s Orchestral Suite No. 3 in D Major BWV 1068, the perfect piece for a summer music festival, right up there with Handel’s Music for the Royal Fireworks or his Water Music suite. Mitchell led the orchestra deftly in a marvelous rendition of the “Overture,” this gem of stylized Baroque grandeur at its finest with its succinct trumpet fanfares set one after another in a filigree of majestic fortissimo timpani rolls. In the second movement, whose main theme is sometimes known as the Air on the G String, the strings played this timeless melody in a broad, handsome largo. In the Gavottes the interpolations from the principal trumpet Jeffrey Work ended with breathtakingly gentle terminal trills, in opposition to the wide, bold cadential trills he delivered later in the Gigue. The evening left me excited for more of the festival, and ready for whatever peregrinations would lead us to Vienna for the final evening.

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Effervescent nobility of spirit

I wrote at length here at OAW earlier this summer about the great adventure I had going to see the Van Cliburn International Piano Competition, which is too long to say every time you turn around so it’s usually just called The Cliburn. Having grown up playing piano and having been a (somewhat) serious musician for most of my life, it was quite something to attend what is sometimes called “the Olympics of the piano” and see and hear firsthand, night after night, what some of the greatest artists and practitioners on this shining blue dot are capable of. 

I was only there for the finals, so all six pianists I heard night after night were phenomenal and at the top of their game, but Vitaly Starikov stood out immediately: firstly for his boldness in choosing one of the most mind-bogglingly difficult pieces in the repertoire to open his finals (the Bartók 2, the famous “finger breaker” according to András Schiff); and, secondly, just how well he pulled it off. It immediately caused a buzz among the cluster of critics and journalists gathered at the event, and his Schumann was just as phenomenal following two nights later, so it was expected (at least among those of us with enough hubris to make predictions), that he would medal. So, his silver medal at arguably the world’s most prestigious piano competition was no surprise, and it was a great thrill for me when I found out he would be playing the final two nights of the 48^th Sunriver Music Festival. [Note: he played each work from his SRMF performance at The Cliburn this year, so I have included links with marker references below. I highly recommend listening to every one.]

The worst of the heat was gone by the evening of August 12, though it was still a warm one in the balcony of the Great Hall in Sunriver, where I sat directly above and just to the left of Starikov. He had displayed his facility with and deep understanding of Schumann at The Cliburn, so it was no surprise that he chose to open with Schumann’s Symphonic Etudes, Op. 13.

Simultaneously growling yet gentle in the bass, Starikov infused the work with a depth of feeling, crowning the gravitas with tenderness. The expectation-defying dynamics found me catching my breath at the ascending decrescendo motives. The sighing bass line that he picked from among the dense grain of the harmony with a spidery, hopping staccato was playful yet somehow unsettling. His left hand strode about, imparting a scarcely heard yet thunderously important theme. His whispering, powerful cantabile acciaccature were extraordinarily difficult textures to achieve, and yet he did so seemingly effortlessly, segueing into a grumbling legato bass. The audience kept wanting to explode into applause at the end of each etude, yet Starikov held us at bay with an upheld hand, poised with all the beauty and fury of a striking snake. [Watch him perform these etudes in his quarterfinal recital at The Cliburn here, beginning at mark 14:49.]

The opening of Liszt’s transcription of Schubert’s Du bist die Ruh (one of 56 Schubert lieder that Liszt transcribed for piano solo) featured gentle crossings of the right hand, while the left caressed the keys and did the lion’s share of the work at the opening. Starikov’s ability to articulate voice-leadings is a true gift. Hearing this stunning beauty made me feel grateful to be alive at this particular moment, just so I could hear this, and it brought back deep feelings of why I am still so attached to this instrument even after years of neglect on my part. Neither the tempo nor the brevity of this work should belie its value, nor the artistry Starikov displayed here. “A thing is not beautiful because it lasts,” as one mechanical man once said to another mechanical man, as he spoke about the inevitable downfall of humanity. “It is a privilege to be among them,” he went on, remarking on his dizzyingly brief sojourn amongst humankind.

(These were the last words spoken by The Vision to Ultron in Avengers: Age of Ultron.)

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Whatever becomes of us humans eventually, it is music like this, and performances of this caliber, that make me agree wholeheartedly. [From mark 35:00 to mark 40:33 at his semifinal round recital at The Cliburn]

As if to present a startlingly different vision to the effervescent nobility of spirit of the Schubert/Liszt, Starikov launched attacca into Shostakovich’s brutal Piano Sonata No. 1, Op 12. Often described as dissonant, virtuosic and “abrasive,” it is a through-composed exercise in modernism with no breaks of any kind – one that, unlike many of his other works, Shostakovich himself loved all throughout his life. This explosive 12-minute work, described rather ungraciously by one of Shostakovich’s former piano teachers as “a sonata for metronome accompanied by piano,” was played by Starikov as part of his preliminary round at The Cliburn. I’ve always been a Shostakovich cheerleader, but I was unfamiliar with this particular piece; however, I’ve been wildly enthusiastic about it ever since I first saw the video of Vitaly playing it. 

At the SRMF, as at The Cliburn, his intense articulation of the left-hand melodic themes at the opening as the right-hand chords sway wildly was simply exhilarating. As the work slows down into (dare I say) a scherzo-like andante, Starikov delivered portions of this dense, churning work like an inside joke by the composer that is too clever for the rest of us. He hopped about, hitting notes one after the other with the same finger, expositing the brutal humor with exploding chords from out of the surprising sparseness of the slower part, even hammering on the black keys with his fists in the basso profondo range of the instrument. The strange and mystical peripatetic portion toward the end gave me the feeling of being lost in a vortex that sojourned through undetermined locales in primitive deep time, only to drop me again with a thud right back where I started as the growling motives quickly morphed into a snarling staccato pounding in the soprano range. The piece almost feels like the composer giving everyone the finger, as in “choke in this!” And I only mean that in the best way possible; this is like transgressive punk rock 50 years before anyone else thought it up, and Starikov was ready, willing and more than able to charge it with every bit of aggressiveness required. A brilliant choice by the performer; the rapidity, accuracy and, indeed, “abrasive” techniques required to play this work are scarcely to be believed: you should just see for yourself. [He played this as part of his preliminary round recital at The Cliburn; begin here at mark 30:45.]

The second half was more Romantic grandeur, beginning with Liszt’s Les jeux d’eaux á la Villa d’Este, one of the scenes from his third Années de pèlerinage suite. Depicting the fountains at the famous garden in Tivoli, its incandescent tremolandi and softly sparkling arpeggios require the most delicacy of touch, and Starikov again displayed the incredible depth of emotion that he gives in every performance I’ve yet seen by him: nothing is left on the table, no nuance is wanting, no corner of the heart is unexplored. [See his rendition here at his quarterfinal recital, from the 5:50 mark to 14:34.]

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There were many highlights from his performance of all the entirety of the Op 25 Études by Chopin. The opening etude (“The Aeolian Harp”), much like the preceding Liszt work, required impossibly nuanced and dizzyingly rapid arpeggios. The famous third etude (“The Horseman”) featured a galloping ebullience indeed, and once again showcased Starikov’s ability to pull melodic lines from out of a ponderous texture with the greatest of accuracy. In number 5 (the “Wrong Note” etude) not a single note was lost (or wrong), and the grandiose theme, like the singing of a lover’s heart, he played with swooning and unfeigned enthusiasm.

It’s impossible to overstate the difficulty of Number 6, the “Double Thirds,” which is considered among the most virtuosic works in the Romantic repertoire. The devilish speed and gossamer deftness simultaneously required are merely the beginning: after that one must still expound the musical ideas and pull the melody out of this seemingly impossible welter of notes, and no surprise, Starikov was able to master this challenge as well. The 7^th etude, sometimes called “The Cello,” requires a cantando baritone that seemed second-nature to him. The “Winter Wind” (No. 11) with its frightening bass melody that thunders across the lower keys as the right hand descends in a dizzying chromatic figure showcased Starikov’s boldness, fire and exactitude simultaneously. The somber “Ocean” etude closed out the set, as if to say, “see here, I can still top everything you’ve just heard.” [Vitaly opened his Cliburn semifinal recital with a performance of all 12 of these etudes; you can see it here.]

A performance like this is difficult to put into perspective; if one hasn’t been to an elite level recital like this (and I haven’t been to nearly enough) there’s really no basis for comparison with anything else: it feels so intimate, so personal. To hear these masterworks presented one right after another by someone who is capable of it – that in and of itself is an incredible thing. But when it’s permeated by such a phenomenal level of artistry, imbued with such deep and real emotion – well, it’s difficult to describe, but I guess I’ve done my best to try. 

Miracles

The final night of the festival took us as promised to Vienna, after the ethereal and mystical stops of the previous evening. The evening opened, appropriately enough, with a work by Haydn, Symphony No. 96 in D Major, Hob. I:96, also nicknamed the “Miracle.” The opening was appropriate because the other great Viennese masters Mozart and Beethoven were also programmed this evening, and Haydn was at one point Beethoven’s teacher, and was a friend and mentor to Mozart for most of the latter’s life, with Mozart even dedicating six of his string quartets to “Papa Haydn.”

While the alleged miracle that gave this symphony its nickname actually happened during the performance of a different Haydn symphony, the name has stuck. This was the 4^th of his 12 “London Symphonies,” composed during his sojourns to London between 1791-1795; when the great man arrived in Calais in mid-December of 1790, it was the first time the 58-year-old, land-locked composer had ever seen the sea. He crossed the English Channel on New Year’s Day, 1791, and while he had been wildly popular in London for years at that point, greater fame yet was to come: some of his most famous symphonies comprise the London group, though even this sizeable contingent of 12 is only a small part of the (at least) 106 symphonies he wrote during his life.

The SRMF’s performance featured some magical moments. Principal oboe Lindabeth Brinkley was absolutely top-notch: her delicacy of phrasing, her ability to combine the sweet with the powerful during the opening “Adagio” made me wish that movement would never end. The winds generally were fantastic while I was there; the little trios and quartets that manifested themselves here and there were constantly among the highlights of any performance. The fine tutti sections in the finale were strong, punctuated without being overblown, and the finesse required from the brass and winds to deliver a first-rate performance was everywhere in evidence.

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Much as it had been at The Cliburn earlier in the summer, it was a true pleasure to hear Vitaly play multiple concerts in one week, and his back-to-back performances at SRMF were a highlight of my year. He chose the Piano Concerto No. 17 in G Major, K. 453 to play at the SRMF. (This is not the same one Vitaly played in the semifinalist’s Mozart Round at The Cliburn this year, though an examination of the delightful Piano Concerto in A Major, K. 488 that he played there, as well as the Allegro in B-flat Major, K. 400, that he played at the opening of his quarterfinal recital, are instructive as to his style of Mozart interpretation.)

K. 453 was a fascinating choice for several reasons; principal among them to a bird lover like me is its association with Mozart’s beloved pet starling. There are a few possibilities as to how the bird came to learn one of Mozart’s tunes. Wikipedia has a fascinating article, complete with details about Wolfgang’s elaborate funeral for the bird as well as a bit of doggerel he composed in its memory. 

Starikov’s opening legato in the “Allegro” was fantastic; he made the repetitive Alberti bass figures something worth paying attention to. Precision and accuracy are watchwords regarding his playing, and he animated the gentlest phrases in the Mozart with as much passion and energy as he gave to the most fiendishly difficult passages in the Chopin and Schumann etudes the night before. He imbued the mezzo-staccato, in which he barely appeared to be lifting his fingers from the keys, with as much grace as the legato before it, and imparted an almost Romantic sentiment to the cadenza.

In the “Andante” the woodwinds again showed their caliber: the very highest. They displayed unity and precision in an almost uncannily unified timbre to come from such disparate instruments; if I have ever heard a more dulcet bassoon than Georgeson playing the Mozart that evening, I can’t remember when it was. The soloist played mysterioso, giving this movement everything we love about a Mozart andante; it was soulful and hauntingly melodic. He has a sensitivity to his attack, a way of leaning into the instrument and bringing his hands down in such a way that it feels like he is going to disgorge some frightfully loud chord – and then he puts all that tremendous energy into the softest cantabile imaginable.

The closing “Allegretto” saw Starikov switch to a surprising ferocity of attack, and he had a fascinating way of approaching the ornamentation, holding on to the principal note just a bit longer than expected and then exploding into the ornament like a sudden accelerando into prestissimo trills and mordants, but which never bled into pushing the overall tempo of the movement – it was bracing and original, such that when I sensed an ornament coming I kept getting little thrills of excitement. Toward the end there is a part where the soloist plays a bold chordal theme, but Mozart, genius that he was, denies the soloist (and the audience) the satisfaction of the piano – which has developed the whole theme – resolving the cadence: the ultimate resolution is reserved for the orchestra. There is an inherent humor in this if the soloist wants to find it, and Starikov did, leaning forward as though he were about to resolve the cadence, and then pulling back to let the tutti finish the job. A chuckle ran through the audience at that, and though I was seated behind him and couldn’t see his face, I can only imagine that he wore the wry, impish smile I have seen him give several times. 

I said of Starikov at The Cliburn that he possesses an “ability to combine an almost fanatical attention to accuracy and detail with true artistry; a profound insight into the work coupled with the ability to infuse his performance with true emotion, and yet at the same time somehow have a blast while doing it.” His time at the SRMF only served to reinforce that impression, and I will go see him play whenever I get the chance.

My friend Jon was with me for both the Leipzig and Vienna concerts. He is a musician himself, and we shared our insights with one another throughout the week. He commented that he thought a really great soloist can raise the level of the orchestra, and I agreed with him, and in this case, I thought that two things were going on; that is to say there was a feedback loop between soloist and orchestra, as though each kept upping their game, as if each were daring the other to do better. The orchestra was spectacular in this work, and I was as impressed with Starikov’s Mozart as I was with his solo work, which is about the highest praise I can think of.

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Talk about your all-time festival favorites, what better way than to round off the festival than by playing Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5 in C Minor, Op 67. Not much needs to be said about one of the foundations of Western music, but a few interesting tidbits about its composition stand out: written between 1804 and 1808, it was composed at the same time he was working on Fidelio, the “Razumovsky” quartets, and the “Appassionata” sonata, among others of his seminal works. It was finished and premiered when Vienna was under occupation by Napoleon’s troops – Napoleon that conqueror whom Beethoven had once revered as a republican and whom he now despised.

The opening four notes are maybe the most famous four notes in music history, and their execution is something of a matter of personal choice by the conductor. Mitchell chose here to launch straight into it with no fanfare, no ritardando or undue accenting: he simply played them as they were written: the opening bit of an “Allegro con brio,” and this worked really well. Let’s not milk it, I thought, there is so much other great stuff here, and we will get to hear this motive many more times tonight. The brisk tempo was also a great choice, and the strings were obviously having great fun – this was their chance to shine, and the phrasing was nuanced and intelligent, with sensitive piannisimi, giving the music plenty of room to grow dynamically.

I began to note various things live that I maybe don’t pay as much attention to when I listen to a recording. Things like the bitter battles between strings and winds, the importance of the bassoon as an anchor to the harmonies, the small but vital horn entrances on which the ensuing parts hang. In the “Andante con moto” I noticed just how difficult the contrabass parts were, and how much fun the double bassists Jason Schooler and Clinton O’Brien had on their fortissimo cadential endings, the one-note whomps! they got to play at the end of a phrase (just for some (very extreme) fun and by way of example, check out these excerpts played as solos). I heard how the cellos and violas sounded at times delightfully like a collection of woodwinds; their ability to change color, chameleon-like in this fashion is something I don’t note unless I’m sitting there, reveling in the glory. The sudden and surprising crescendi, the tootling piccolo hits in the “Scherzo” – the list goes on and on.

As the Beethoven ended, I pondered the incredible possibilities and synergies that develop when performers and audience gather at the same time, to participate in the ritual, the very real magic known as live music. Though this was my first time attending, the Sunriver Music Festival, in its 48^th year, feels like the gift that just keeps on giving. Here’s to 48 more.