THE SILENCE OF MUSIC

(Symphony Hall - Boston, Google Images)

Hunched over, cane in hand, he hobbled along the stage, with an aide holding his right arm. Music had been placed on the piano rack and an additional sturdy cushion on the bench for the performer's frail body. During the man's slow advance some audience members gasped in awe until eclipsed by the majority who clapped and cheered.

The musician readied himself, nodding to the waiting conductor who stilled the orchestra and then directed the opening tempo of Mozart's "Piano Concerto No. 27 in B-flat, K.595."  Hands in perfect attitude, though pale and bruised with aging, the pianist began to play with command and subtlety. More legato than often interpreted by other soloists, the master performer seemed to treasure every note, with a flourish of fingers here and there--maybe to accentuate his passion and/or possibly to flex his stiffening muscles.

My friend and I sat in the Second Balcony, stage right overlooking most of the Boston Symphony Orchestra (BSO) with a clear, view of the pianist. At first distracted by the player's bald spot and wisps of gray/white hairs, I inwardly slapped myself to concentrate on the music, sometimes closing my eyes to listen to each phrase and movement, only adjusting my pained body for brief relief during pauses.

The first Allegro enlivened my spirits, for, like many I imagine, I clamored for escape from the world's unwelcome noise. The musician seemed to have anticipated this need from his audience as he played with gusto. The second movement, Larghetto, elicited more ardor from the soloist: each finger produced brilliant sounds, underscoring every note with intoxicating richness. The final Allegro movement set my adrenaline into overdrive. My heart beat faster as I watched the pianist's hands scurry across the octaves and produce effortless glissandos. Then, coordinated silence: the conductor, soloist, orchestra and audience exhaled the resonance and inhaled, for nano-seconds, the calm.

A nod to the seasoned orchestra and assistant conductor, Moritz Gnann, who did what they should by supporting the great musician's performance yet not interfering with it. Earlier, the Boston Symphony had re-affirmed their own well-deserved reputation with an opening piece--the Overture to "The Hebrides" by Mendelssohn. Later, they would go on to impress with their individual solos and seamless unity performing Dvorak's "From the New World," Symphony No. 9 in E Minor, Opus 95.

(Front -Menahem Pressler - Google Images)

Nevertheless, the afternoon belonged to a man who with his parents had escaped Nazi Germany to grace us with his gift. A soon-to-be 93-year-old (not kidding, skeptics), Menahem Pressler, wooed his audience who lovingly demanded an encore (Chopin's Mazurka, No 4, Opus 17).

My touched friend, a woman whose life-spirit shares Pressler's boundless energy, predicted what I believe to be true: that what we had seen would no doubt be one of Pressler's final performances (he would play once more with the BSO but his website doesn't list future dates at this time). And when, after his last bows, the virtuoso exited stage left, a younger woman embraced him and kissed his cheek. Whether she was Pressler's daughter, I don't know; however, the gesture moved this writer.

I could elaborate on Pressler's "soft" hands, a compliment. Or, I could mention a few tentative notes and his facial ticks (I suspect more of a distraction for those in the orchestra seats, though judging by their instantaneous eruption and ovations, not an issue). But to latch onto the deconstructionist trend by some reviewers would be to assume the professional critic's mantle, in classical music, not my forte. Instead, I'd like to end with this observation: since that stellar afternoon at Symphony Hall, I continue to hear Menahem Pressler's notes or see his hands hovering above the keyboard during rests. In essence, he creates music even in silence.