VENERATED by fellow pianists, the Romanian Radu Lupu has acquired mythical status. Now in his 70s, he no longer records, shuns interviews and rarely performs in public.
The Royal Festival Hall was sold out for his date with the Philharmonia Orchestra to play Beethoven’s Piano Concerto No 4, conducted by Paavo Järvi, in a concert that included a soul-baring, virile performance of Rachmaninov’s Symphony No 2.
Lupu’s upright chair rather than piano stool, and his lack of showy gesture, are hallmarks. He takes his seat, body relaxed, head tilted back a little, as if submitting to a barber. Instead he’s surrendering, as far as humanly possible, every vestige of self to become a vessel for the music.
The solo opening of the concerto, hushed, poetic, sinewy, heralded an account of daring intimacy, dense with risk. Lupu allows nerve-shattering pauses. This has no connection with the missed notes or insecure passagework or, in one instance, a time lapse between soloist and orchestra.
He has always played with an improvisatory quality, as if taking aural dictation from the ether. As a younger man, flowing black hair and beard, he seemed like someone from a Russian novel. Now he’s the hermit, frail beyond his years, down from the mountain bearing wisdom.
Järvi, upright, like a bandmaster, yet responsive to line and phrase, was a sympathetic accompanist, the orchestra lithe, supple, unfazed by this familiar music’s new adventures.
First published in The Guardian, Australian Edition, February 10, 2019
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