Tuesday’s piano recital by the young British pianist Benjamin Grosvenor at the new SFJAZZ Miner Auditorium may have been a portrait of the pursuit of perfection. As Antoine de Saint-Exupéry wrote: “Perfection is attained, not when there is nothing more to add, but when there is nothing left to take away.” Nothing could be truer. Indeed, perfection is an occupational hazard for artists. It is particularly difficult for performing artists, as they must walk onto the stage to exhibit a fleeting snapshot of their pursuit, not the final product, which will never come to full fruition. Perfection drove Glenn Gould away into the solitude of a recording studio, and it led the legendary pianist Arturo Benedetti Michelangeli to cancel many concerts at the last minute.
What is a perfect performance, anyway? It is quite possible to perform all notes “perfectly” as written by the composer, and certain compositions require little more than that. Yet, when one tackles intricate and often emotional programs, including compositions by Bach, Beethoven, Scriabin, and Chopin, the definition of perfection seems far from certain.
Grosvenor began his recital with a collection of transcriptions of non-keyboard Bach works. In each of these, Grosvenor projected clear voices that defied the reality that he was performing on a single instrument. Assigning distinct colors to each of the voices, even in the Saint-Saëns transcription of the Largo movement of the Sonata No. 3, BVW 1005, for solo violin, he decisively explored these works’ polyphony.
One pervasive aspect of Grosvenor’s playing was his clear lyrical lines. Not only did the melody float well above the svelte accompaniment, but also intricate counterpoints in Bach’s and Beethoven’s music were clearly laid out. I was able to follow any of the threads with ease, and I could focus on details at times, or immerse myself in the grand landscape at other times. Further, by bringing down the accompaniment parts to a hushed voice when needed, Grosvenor clearly illustrated the outline of the melodic motifs, inviting the audience to explore the works more deeply.
His movement was utterly fluid and focused, as if all his energy and intentions were directed at creating music.
Beyond his performance, even Grosvenor’s demeanor was remarkable. His body stayed still, with his facial expression constant and his eyes constantly scanning the span of the keyboard. His hands moved efficiently, with none of the flamboyant gestures too often seen in piano soloists. His movement was utterly fluid and focused, too, as if all his energy and intentions were directed at creating music.
Such otherworldly existence did not rob the music of an emotional journey, however. Rather, Grosvenor’s careful and deliberate delivery was accompanied by vibrant signs of life — the heartbeat, the breaths, and all the biological and physiological signs proving the presence of life itself. Every phrase and motif possessed direction, purpose, and reason. Microstructures were also reflected in the macrostructures, forming an organic, fractal form. The level of details present at all levels built continuity and enhanced the cohesiveness of the overall architecture.
Heavenly Clarity
Grosvenor’s mastery of intricacy was evident particularly in Scriabin’s Valse. This work is often pedaled into the oblivion of a dense fog, yet Grosvenor is the only pianist I have ever heard who successfully laid out the work’s harmonic and rhythmic complexity with such heavenly clarity. Dare I say that this Scriabin almost sounded like Bach? Given the transparency he brought, this is not too much of a stretch.
His savant-like approach to details and his unspoiled clarity may be unexcelled among today’s ranks of piano artists.
Some in the audience may have perceived Grosvenor’s approach as being overly intellectual, perhaps even cold — a criticism that both Gould and Michelangeli often received. Even in the dramatic Chopin Polonaise, he maintained a sense of security throughout, and not a moment felt as if it was on the verge of a collapse, though the staccato chords were brutally sharp at times, perhaps not like a scalpel but more like a sharply honed guillotine. In the Scriabin Valse, too, there was no frenzy of madness, but light humor and charming laughter were prevalent in Scriabin’s Mazurkas and Schulz-Evler’s transcription of The Blue Danube. The level of control that Grosvenor possesses over every detail deserved the trust of the audience, allowing him to reach into our central nervous system and manipulate our heartbeat, breaths, and emotions.
Grosvenor is a most atypical artist. His savant-like approach to details and his unspoiled clarity may be unexcelled among today’s ranks of piano artists. His performance may have been nearly entirely cerebral and not at all visceral, but that may have meant that he has achieved Saint-Exupéry’s definition of perfection: There was no more notes than were needed, and there was more than plenty of music within.
Grosvenor offered two encores: Mendelssohn’s Song Without Words, Op. 85, No. 4, and Morton Gould’s Boogie Woogie Etude, perhaps as a nod to SFJAZZ, which first roused the audience to laughter and then brought them to their feet.