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If I'd been looking for adventurous classical musicians,
Jean-Yves Thibaudet might have caught my eye at the Metropolitan
Opera, acting a role onstage in Giordano's faded but irresistible
old warhorse Fedora. Or I might have noticed him
performing Schubert impromptus in the film version of Portrait
of a Lady. Or I might have been intrigued by his latest CD,
on which he plays music by jazz great Bill Evans.![](images/onepix.gif)
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So on April 20 I was at Avery Fisher Hall, to hear
Mr. Thibaudet play his biggest New York recital yet. He sat at the
piano, hesitated briefly with his hands over the keys, and then
traced a sound that could have been a pencil sketch of a shimmer
in the air. This was the start of Debussy's second book of
Preludes, a courageous opening for a concert in such a huge
space.
Mr.
Thibaudet's courage paid off; unassumingly, he drew the space
toward him. But after the second prelude, there was a sound like
muttered thunder, the footsteps of late arrivals pounding to their
seats. The pianist seemed to glare, restrained himself, and then
resumed -- luckily the third prelude is assertive, and gave him
energy -- only to be interrupted twice again. His quiet clarity
helped keep the music's spell intact, though here I missed the
sound that's not in his Rachmaninoff. I would have liked a kind of
golden poetry that might have brought each of the dozen preludes
into a world of its own. I could hear Mr. Thibaudet shaping
separate worlds, but they emerged in black and white. I wanted
color.
But
what got my attention was his 1995 recording of Rachmaninoff's
Third Piano Concerto. Normally that piece is played by romantic
piano titans, and in some ways Mr. Thibaudet is one, at least in
firepower. He commands the instrument, exploding huge cascades of
notes, apparently with little effort. Yet at the same time he's
restrained, almost intellectual. What makes his performance work
(apart from its bracing virtuosity) is focus and intelligence,
along with a disarmingly delicate, almost innocent touch when the
music gets quiet.
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The next work -- more Debussy, L'Isle Joyeuse
-- was livelier, and gave the audience some action. Mr. Thibaudet
was dressed in a fine gray designer suit and sharp red socks, the
socks being his trademark, a symbol, I thought, for an inner
little boy who loves to play the piano flashily. That little boy
romped through L'Isle Joyeuse, and got shouts of "bravo"
in return.
After
intermission came works by Liszt, who sometimes shimmers, too,
though unlike Debussy (who writes music without any traditional
harmonic anchor), Liszt soon resolves the shimmer into pure
pianistic rock 'n' roll. I wouldn't want to suggest that Mr.
Thibaudet played irresponsibly, either in Liszt's Les Jets
d'eau à la Villa d'Este or in his Ballade No. 2,
but nobody should think he didn't enjoy himself.
He
finished his program with sonic candy, three of Liszt's pianistic
re-creations of operatic excerpts, and, even if the crowd jumped
screaming to its feet, I'd quarrel mildly with what I heard. I
thought Mr. Thibaudet played these delights as piano works,
divorced from their operatic origins, especially Liszt's
paraphrase of the quartet from Verdi's Rigoletto. The
quartet has a dual climax, an arching phrase for Verdi's soprano,
answered by the tenor and the baritone. Mr. Thibaudet played the
baritone's response almost as an afterthought, something
impossible in real opera, because the music lies too high in the
baritone range. Nobody could sing it so casually.
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When I asked Mr. Thibaudet about that, he answered,
almost with a playful giggle: "I like sopranos better. I'm
prejudiced!" There's no question that he's an opera fan,
quite apart from his appearance at the Met. He has given joint
recitals with singers, among them the equally theatrical Cecilia
Bartoli, and insists that he "thinks always of the voice"
when he plays the Liszt transcriptions. I guess I'll just agree to
disagree.
On
other points, he proved refreshing. "I was so mad," he
said about the interruptions during his Debussy. "I should
have said 'no.' I should have started 15 minutes later."
Explaining his unusual way with Rachmaninoff's concerto, he cites
a remarkably cerebral recording by the composer himself. "It
reassured me," Mr. Thibaudet said, with disarming
honesty.
About
jazz, he doesn't see "why we should always have musical
closets," why music needs to be trapped in categories. The
idea for his Conversations With Bill Evans CD came from
an executive at Polygram, Mr. Thibaudet's record company (he's
signed to Polygram's London label), who thought the two pianists
shared some stylistic traits. "Bill Evans's dynamic range is
rich in the soft register," says Mr. Thibaudet, giving an
example, though he also cites what's immediately apparent when you
play the recording: Bill Evans sounds like a cousin to Ravel and
Debussy. Or at least he does when Mr. Thibaudet plays him. The
album sounds more like an expansion of the classical repertoire
than an excursion into jazz. In effect, the music loses Mr.
Evans's cigarette (hanging from his lip in many photographs) and
adds a new, though perfectly reasonable, sheen of formal
introspection, as if Mr. Evans were trying on a suit from Mr.
Thibaudet's couturier.
Which
brings me to Mr. Thibaudet's appearance in Fedora at the
Met, where he came onstage in antique tails, looking boyish and
delighted. His character was supposed to be Chopin's nephew, a
pianist and a part-time spy, though essentially Mr. Thibaudet
played himself, rejecting extravagant compliments from other
characters with a personable, self-deprecating pantomime. It was
Giordano's inspiration to introduce this virtuoso at a bustling
Parisian party, where his playing becomes the sole accompaniment
to the opera's first dramatic confrontation. That made Mr.
Thibaudet the partner of two seasoned vocal veterans, Plácido
Domingo and Mirella Freni, and he did his job with wit and force.
In fact, he outplayed anything the orchestra did that night,
proving himself the perfect musical adventurer. You can take him
anywhere, and he'll find a way to be himself.
Something
that wasn't in the review: Thibaudet thinks he might record
another jazz album, this time of music by the ultimate jazz piano
virtuoso, Art Tatum
You can hear
Thibaudet play Rachmaninoff
on my Rach 3 page.
Wall
Street Journal, April
28, 1997
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