United Kingdom Bach, Beethoven and Schubert: Vikingur Ólafsson (piano). Wigmore Hall, London, 10.9.2026. (MB)
Bach – Prelude in E major, BWV 854; Partita No.6 in E minor, BWV 830
Beethoven – Piano Sonata no.27 in E minor; Piano Sonata No.30 in E major, Op.109
Schubert: Piano Sonata in E minor, D 566
Three sold-out Wigmore Hall recitals, of which this was the first, marked the end or better, climax, of Vikingur Ólafsson’s tour with this programme. Intervention of a stray hearing aid reached the level of an announcement being made, the stage cleared, and a pause scheduled in what was otherwise a recital without break, for the owner to put things right. As Ólafsson disarmingly owned, he had not been too happy about it at the time, but in retrospect, taking a break and returning to Bach’s E minor Partita was an interesting experience, not least because it was what he had been doing with the programme as a whole over this tour. He thus showed himself not only an outstanding musician, but a good sport — and indeed estimable diplomat.
It was the first time I had managed to hear Ólafsson as a soloist. He clearly divides opinion, as the cliché has it. I can imagine some may not have liked his way with this music. Indeed, I had my doubts concerning the deliberate approach to the opening Bach prelude (E major, Book I). Once my ears had settled, though, crystal-clear counterpoint told its own story. There is nothing routine to his interpretative stance, which seemed, moreover, very much to have been directed towards the programme as a whole: a demonstration, as he described it at the close in eloquent as well as word-perfect English, of what tonality can do, of how late Beethoven can and should be approached not only from Romantics such as Robert Schumann and Brahms, but also from Bach, his dizzying array of contrapuntal techniques, and their emotional instantiation as music.
Beethoven’s Op.90 E minor Sonata followed, with similar, quite extraordinary clarity, although this time Ólafsson allowed himself a little pedal. I was struck by the first – and indeed second – movement’s intellectual, emotional, and sheer physical immediacy in a performance that captured to a tee this work’s position on the threshold of the ‘late’, not unlike the Op.95 String Quartet. A direct performance nonetheless opened up other possibilities, without mannerism, towards the close. Its companion movement came as a breath of fresh air: contrast, yes, but above all response. Whilst strikingly different in tempo and (relatively detached) touch from how I hear the music, I found it compelling indeed. Not, I hasten to add, that it was without beautifully voiced legato, far from it, but it was not the default. Above all, there was a freshness to the conception that put me in mind, however different the results, of some of the early occasions I heard Igor Levit in this repertoire.
Bach’s E minor Partita received a rich, commanding performance, of similar clarity, its Toccata gathering pace through dynamic counterpoint. There was no question of imitating the harpsichord; this was emphatically piano music, but rethought, never quite as I had heard it before. Likewise the Allemanda and Corrente, splendidly consequent and forthright, more Klemperer than Furtwängler. The former’s harmonic deviations were well served without exaggeration, the latter characterised by a paradoxical vehement insouciance that seemed already to presage Beethoven. The Air had a sense of rightness with which it would have been pointless to argue. A dark, introverted Sarabande and rapt Tempo di Gavotta, whose complexity of form suggested Robert Schumann, prepared the way for a final Gigue finely sprung in conventional and harmonic rhythm, its fugue a climax that itself must climax — and did.
Schubert’s early E minor Sonata was given in two-movement form, Ólafsson vigorous and, to my mind, quite justified in that preference. Performance is, of course, ultimately the justification or otherwise, with no otherwise here. The first movement’s lilt was as much a harmonic matter as anything else, laying the foundations of all to come, spun from a single thread. Its second movement offered, like its Beethovenian counterpart, a response, albeit here properly one of greater ambiguity.
Beethoven’s E major Sonata, Op.109, registered with due contrast, ambiguity and ambivalence replaced with dialectics. Apology was neither required nor received for its difficulty. Its first movement in particular sounded as a synthesis of so many strands in the recital. The following Prestissimo plunged us back to earth in battle royal, unrelenting in the best sense. Balm, not snake oil, was the mission, movingly fulfilled, of the theme to the finale. There was consolation to be felt here, but there were no easy answers. Again, haunting from the previous works could be heard, fancifully or not: Beethoven taking Schubert at his word in the first variation and Bach in the second, emboldening himself – and us – to take directions that could only be his. (This is not intended in any sense to suggest influence, but rather the coherence and meaning of programme and performance.) As the variations continued and developed, however challenging the route, thread, guide, and spirit emerged quite unbroken, quietly strengthened. Such is Beethoven and such remains his ethical force.
As an encore, we heard a transcription, Ólafsson’s own, of Bach’s so-called ‘Air on a G-string’, which he had presented to György Kurtág on his hundredth birthday. An act of love, subtly, finely arpeggiated, it was noble, direct, and ravishingly beautiful.
Mark Berry