United Kingdom JS Bach: Vikingur Ólafsson (piano). Wigmore Hall, London, 13.4.2025. (CSa)
JS Bach – Goldberg Variations, BWV.988
A serious eye infection, an unsuccessful surgical operation on his right cornea, and a debilitating bout of family flu left the celebrated Icelandic pianist Vikingur Ólafsson with insufficient time to prepare for his original and eagerly anticipated recital of late Beethoven Sonatas. After alterations to the original published Wigmore Hall programme, he decided to park the Beethoven – at least for the time being – deciding instead to reprise a work with which his name is inexorably linked: Bach’s Goldberg Variations. Ólafsson, who has sometimes been compared to the late Glenn Gould, has performed this monumental composition nearly 100 times around the world, and his 2023 live recording on the Deutsche Grammophon label, noted for its clarity, emotional depth and innovative interpretation, recently earned him a GRAMMY award for Best Classical Instrumental Solo. All these attributes and more were on full display at the Wigmore Hall, making his heartfelt explanation at the conclusion of the evening entirely unnecessary. ‘I should not have to apologise for [playing] such a great work’, claimed Ólafsson – a veiled reference perhaps to the young South Koran Yunchan Lim who had played the Goldbergs in the same hall just four days earlier – ‘but no performance is the same, even when I play it’.
Those lucky enough to have been present at one of Ólafsson’s earlier Goldberg concerts in a larger venue or who have listened attentively to his CD version, will no doubt have agreed. They would have recognised the dazzling virtuosity, intense rigour and deep sensitivity he invariably brings to Bach’s masterpiece. They would however have noticed some subtle differences of shading, shaping and tempo during this intimate and acoustically superior performance. The lines of Bach’s ‘musical architecture’ to adopt Glenn Gould’s metaphor for these variations, were sharper and more contemporary in feel, and Bach’s spiritual journey from joy to sorrow felt more immediate. There was also something else: an improvisational quality which gave many of the 32 movements an added freshness and spontaneity – as if reading a familiar and cherished book for the first time.
Legend has it that in 1741 Bach’s insomniac patron, Count Keyserling, in need of musical entertainment to help him pass his sleepless nights, commissioned some clavier pieces from the composer to be played by the court’s resident harpsichordist Johann Gottlieb Goldberg. If true, Goldberg, who was 13 or 14 at the time, would have required prodigious keyboard skills and exceptional physical endurance well beyond his years to tackle this terrifyingly complex and demanding work.
After what seemed like an interminable wait in the dimmed auditorium, Ólafsson, over 6 foot and still boyish at 41, entered and quickly took his place at the piano. Passing his long fingers silently up and down the keyboard, he appeared to be measuring the enormity of Bach’s monumental musical voyage before embarking on the Aria, a stately, graceful sarabande. This introduction has sometimes been compared to a gentle stroll around a vast Gothic cathedral, pausing to marvel at different aspects of its intricately decorated interior. Ólafsson began gently but purposefully, occasionally lingering before embarking on the First Variation – a high-spirited contrapuntal dance in which right hand and left hands – rhythmically independent – interrogated and answered each other with diamond-tipped precision.
Each of the 10 sets of variations begins with a dance which Ólafsson infused with impish joy. Variation 4, a passepied full of triplets and cascading runs woven deep into its contrapuntal fabric, was dispatched with courtly elegance, while the lilting gigue in Variation 7 teased and tripped playfully. Ólafsson’s sensitive use of melodic and rhythmic rubato in the slow movements, such as Variations 13, 15 and 21, liberated them from rigid structural constraints, and imbued them with an intimate and aching tenderness. If the sleep-deprived Count Keyserling had expected a little musical Melatonin to help him through the long nights, then Ólafsson’s high-wire, hand-crossing skills and lucidly articulated flourishes in Variations 14, 17 and 20 would have had precisely the opposite effect. These fierce bursts of virtuosity positively crackled with energy. By contrast Variation 25, known as the ‘Black Pearl’ offered a sanctuary of tranquillity and contemplation. Gould referred to this movement as a ‘weary, wistful cantilena’. Ólafsson’s sad and soothing rendition glowed like a lustrous gem.
The last few variations oscillated with nervous brilliance. None more so than a shimmering account of No. 28. The final variation, No. 30 nicknamed Quadlibet (Latin for ‘whatever you please’) positively took wing, soaring up to the fan vaulting, and beyond to the Cathedral’s belfry where it rang out triumphantly like peeling bells. A reprise of the opening aria – unadorned and softly played – was more than enough to bring this transcendental musical evening to an end, but Ólafsson, ever generous, offered up Sigvaldi Kaldalóns’s Ave Maria, a ‘small prayer’ as he put it, to send us on our way.
Chris Sallon