Sometimes, long-venerated musical superstars decide to pull out all the stops, as if to proclaim their continuing greatness (and relevance): to tell us they are still here. Others just show up in all their understated glory, making us know they are still here: no telling required.
True, operatic soprano Renée Fleming chose to wear two diva-worthy gowns — one claret red; one burnished copper; both boasting long trails — for her hometown lieder recital on Wednesday evening at the Kennedy Center. But that was the sole nod to surface glitter in what was a quietly powerful chamber recital with her friend, equally venerated virtuoso pianist Evgeny Kissin.
After a slightly faltering start, at the beginning of Schubert’s “Suleika I”, they soon hit a vein of conversational truth with the barest of raw materials — a human voice, some piano keys, poetry, music — that was to build in subtlety, intensity, drama and depth over the course of the evening. And we were reminded that, when ingredients such as those are executed like this, there’s almost nothing more musically satisfying than a small, intimate, gemlike Lied.
The concert contained great humour, with Schlegel’s human-scoffing avian flock in Schubert’s “Die Vögel”, and great melancholy, with Liszt’s goosebump-inducing setting of Victor Hugo’s “Oh! quand je dors”. Phrasing, colour and tempi were chosen with intention, and artfully drawn, never over the top. In Schubert’s “Rastlose Liebe”, Fleming reminded us of her skill as singer-actor, imbuing flair into Goethe’s affecting words (“forward, always forward!”). She exhibited this instinct elsewhere, including in Liszt’s “Freudvoll und Leidvoll”. When, in Rachmaninov’s “A Dream”, she sang the line “It has magic stillness”, I thought: agreed. Or Liszt’s “Im Rhein, im schönen Strome”, when we were transported from the Potomac to Cologne without moving from our seats. Some feat, that.
Meanwhile, in Kissin’s solo interludes — including Liszt’s “Sposalizio” and “Valse oubliée” — we were treated to his superb grasp of chromaticism. His touch, it seemed to me, was somehow improved since the last time I saw him in live performance, pre-pandemic, and there was no trace of the almost frantic intensity which I had found off-putting. Instead, he seemed relaxed, cheery, receptive to the audience, while his command of dynamics, discord and resolution was masterly.
Of course, there were the usual keyboard pyrotechnics, proving that he’s still “got it” — in case anyone was wondering — but what impressed most was the delicacy and spareness of his playing. Almost as if, at 51, he has taken a few steps back and found a new quietude; a meditative perch from which to observe this world, and breathe. In these moments, the audience had a chance to exhale, too.
This was a beautiful recital, devoid of gimmickry. After the duo had performed Schubert’s “Ave Maria” as their first encore, Fleming addressed us directly. “It’s like the old good days,” she exclaimed, apparently genuinely moved. “It’s such a joy.” She added, “Feel free to leave, but we have a few more encores to do for you.”
Nobody left. There was more Rachmaninov, and then a contemporary number, Kevin Puts’s yearning-laced “Evening”. (Puts composed The Hours, which was premiered by the Metropolitan Opera this season, co-starring Fleming.) A certain note of shimmering wistfulness in the text seemed to reflect the moment perfectly. “Even though the stars are so far away.” Are they? I wondered. Then — looking at these retreating stellar musicians, hand-in-hand — I decided: not here. Not yet.
★★★★☆
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