Albeniz: Iberia
Miller Theater, NYC
http://www.millertheater.com
December 11, 2003

by Steve Koenig

There was an old joke in Mexico, when we needed gasoline. “Should we stop at Pemex, Pemex or Pemex?” There was an old joke in Spain, which spread to the rest of the world, when we needed to hear Issac Albéniz’ piano suite Iberia. “Should we listen to De Larrocha, De Larrocha or de Larrocha?” Well, as Antonin Dvorak was reported to have once said in the streets of New York, “It’s a new world, baby,” and muttered something about wampum.

From the northland we call Canada, came a warmfront named Marc-Andre Hamelin who had technique to spare, but plenty of feeling, and he tackled the new world where it started to be new: Ives, Alkan, Busoni. Of course, great explorers are known only for their grandest turf, not all the by-ways and getting-theres.

Iberia is a piano suite, published in four books of three pieces, each named after a different Spanish city. Others have played it, of course, but the 1962 Hispavox recording by Alicia de Larrocha became the touchstone, and she re-recorded Iberia the following two decades as well. Few if any dared to compete, at least on disc, for some time. I bought that Hispavox and was impressed for about a minute; it wasn’t very interesting. Most of the pieces sound alike after a few have passed. To generalize: they contain lilting, near-dance phrasing with melodramatic ritards and melodies that sound like, and may be, from the folk of the pertinent regions. They often end on a two note stamp, cueing the listener that this is the end. Ta-da. Having recently played (and greatly enjoyed) his Alkan CDs again, I heard that the good winds were bringing Hamelin to town. “What would he do with these pieces I haven’t heard for decades,” I asked myself, and off to Miller Theater I went.

Hamelin started with Navarra, not part of the four books, which William Bolcom completed in 1965. Romantic waves of complexities nearly avant-garde in rhythm passed by in dance-like rhythms with a melody nearly like a more Romantic Minute Waltz. This, and the first book, Hamelin played from memory. A long, thoughtful silence, and then Evocation. It was so hushed and delicate. “Damn,” I wrote in my notes, “I hear Keith Jarrett’s Köln Concert!” about a segment in the middle. The piece offered some Spanish trills diluted in watercolor, followed by a coda a bit treacly. Fête-Dieu à Seville fragmented a dance in creeping phrases, tendrils of melody.

The score was brought out for the following books. Rondena was cute, an adolescently bursting torero song stretched out into a hushed prayer. Alméria rode on shifting plates of sound. Triana was a little precious, so I daydreamed thinking of the ferocious flamenco-rock group of the same same, on a Spanish Columbia LP, probably never silvered.

Hamelin tried to stir things up a bit by presenting Book 3 after Book 4. Malaga was nimble and strong but by the time we hit Jerez, I wanted to drink some. Although it was cloudlike, suspended, nonetheless at this point the pieces all sounded too much alike for one sitting. Each would make a brilliant encore piece, I thought, although most pianists wouldn’t want to spend the eight minutes. Eritana was the one closest to a Debussy prelude, but with a Spanish tinge, seemingly the simplest, yet the liveliest. In Book 3, during El Albaicin, I wrote in my notes, “the Terry Riley of his time. Minimalist fragments.” El Polo (no, not a chicken) at the end, against its will turns into a waltz.

Home again, I found I’d discarded my Hispavox LPs, but had De Larrocha’s 1972 Decca in the massive 200 disc Great Pianists of the 20th Century suitcases from Philips. (Each 2 CD folio is available separately.) I tried it, I snoozed. Hamelin was able to tie these folkish but virtuosic works (the dynamic range for each ranges from pppp to triple forte), published between 1905 and 1907, to a world balanced between tradition, Romanticism and modernism. He brought the entire house with him. Each time a piece slowed, so did audience respiration. Although each city had virtuosity, folkdancing, a soft pause before the climax, each time he took us through the emotion within. Only Claudio Arrau, in Book 1, recorded in 1947, seems to have the touch, powerful to modern ears, making the most of this material.