I shouldn’t be surprised by my uncharacteristic passion for Quatuor Danel’s six-hour and twenty-minute Dmitri Shostakovich: The Complete String Quartets. Reading Jeremy Eichler’s Time’s Echo: The Second World War, The Holocaust, and the Music of Remembrance primed the pump last year. The study schooled me about the constraints imposed upon and the compromises made by the Russian composer. Secondly, a methodical investigation of all forms of classical music put Wigmore Hall on my radar during the pandemic. Attending performances at the hallowed institution last month felt like a celebratory graduation ceremony. Immediately upon returning to Kansas, a livestream of Quatuor Danel at Wigmore Hall made me aware of the ensemble’s latest release. I was finally prepared to receive a large dose of Shostakovich. Thorough social and political histories of Russia in the twentieth century are contained in Quatuor Denel’s vehement new interpretation of Shostakovich’s string quartets.
Concert Review: Joe Lovano, Marilyn Crispell and Carmen Castaldi at Wigmore Hall
Original image by There Stands the Glass.
I’ve addressed numerous items on my proverbial bucket list during a whirlwind visit to London. Yesterday, I sat in the top front seat of a red double-decker bus after taking in my first Premier League match. Attending a concert at the world’s premier venue for chamber music meant even more to me. Given my predilections, it’s apropos that I heard a jazz trio on my first visit to Wigmore Hall.
I relish the three albums the grouping of saxophonist Joe Lovano, pianist Marilyn Crispell and drummer Carmen Castaldi recorded for ECM Records. Hearing them in perfect clarity amid an audience of about 500 was dreamy. Suffering from jet lag, displeased with Lovano’s sartorial choices and unwilling to continually crane my neck to watch Crispell’s fingering from my $50 seat in the center of the room, I occasionally closed my eyes.
With torrents of improvised sound akin to spray from a fire hose, the musicians’ lack of inhibition often overwhelmed me. Once or twice, I was reluctant to open my eyes for fear I had somehow slipped out of my chair and had passed out on the floor of Wigmore Hall. Three days later, I’m still reeling.