It is all too easy for the fastidious highbrow to dismiss Glenn Gould. For a start, his Canadian origins must count against him. According to the canons of the strictly Eurocentric ruling culture, Canada stands in about the same class as Switzerland - whose main contribution to Western civilisation, as Orson Welles reminded us, was the cuckoo clock. It is not even clear what Canada's cuckoo clock might be, unless the Royal Canadian Mounted Police can be regarded as a kind of living sculpture in the tradition of Gilbert and George.
Neither did Gould do much to endear himself to the prevailing coterie, which had very decided opinions on what a pianist - even of genius - could and could not be or do. Instead of the brilliant prodigy, early photographs show a gauche young man, the sort that would routinely inhabit a blue anorak today. The later pictures show the angular hermit's body grown old, the unkempt hair thinner and greyer, the face gaunter, but the eyes burning with the same unswervable conviction. Even his undoubted gifts as a pianist were vitiated by tiresome eccentricities - the impossibly low piano stool, which made him look like something out of Balzac; his refusal to give live performances, since he preferred instead to memorialise his playing on records; his almost belligerent choice of repertoire, which combined a dedication to Bach with an eschewal of any fashionable 'authentic' keyboard practice; and his distracting habit of singing along with the music - as if the audience were not there.
And yet anyone who has ears to hear knows that Gould's performances are a revelation. This is no mere cliche: Gould's unique pianistic style seems to strip bare the music, literally revealing it to even the most jaded of listeners. And it is this overwhelming sense of a singular personal vision which makes all the incidental details of his life irrelevant.
Take the Goldberg Variations for example. In many ways it is probably the perfect work for Gould - which may be why he recorded it twice and chose it for his debut recording. Like many of Bach's works, it represents a summation of Baroque compositional practice; and yet unlike other great keyboard works such as the Well-Tempered Clavier or French Suites, it is a totally organised creation. Gould's response to this kind of masterly control in Bach's music seems to have been particularly rich.
Indeed, note-by-note control is what characterises his own playing. Listening to it, you feel, as with no other pianist, that Gould has thought out every sound of every note of a piece. Which is why his performances blaze with an unmatched clarity; you can hear every line as it is built up. And yet that process is never cold or clinical, or merely academic, but is informed by a passion for the music, and for the act of playing the piano. The latter is a crucial part of Gould's magic: his sounds - be they silky legato, spiky staccato or previously unheard-of varieties between - are instantly recognisable and totally personal.
As is the singing. It is Gould communing with his playing, a muffled, ecstatic hymn to the composer and to music. But it is also the sound of angels joining in, as they recognise the ageless music of the spheres.
(4.8.87)
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: only a member of this blog may post a comment.