A musical instrument should, by its definition, be a means to an end. Playing it is one thing; using it to get at something more meaningful is quite another.
By the time Steven Osborne had rounded a scintillating Friday programme with a tectonic reading of Rachmaninov’s second sonata, it would have been difficult to convince a thrilled Lyons otherwise: here was a pianist who not only fully understood his own capabilities but also those of the instrument in front of him.
Beyond mere keyboard dexterity, Osborne’s is a virtuosity of sound rather than of ability. Not that he lacks technical prowess - he demonstrated that in spades, dispatching the most florid passages with unnerving accuracy. But with a stage presence so utterly devoid of pomp, it was a struggle to tell if it was taxing him at all.
Ever the anti-diva, he stepped gracefully into two Prokofiev finger-breakers with improvisatory ease, deftly teasing out quicksilver character changes.
A sunny disposition was on show in the 1917 collection Visions fugitives, skittish dances and quirky marches giving way to dreamlike meanderings.
The schizophrenic Sarcasms showcased a more volatile side, tender flashes meeting with gruff dismissals, darker outbursts unleashed with self-destructive force.
Ravel’s Miroirs revealed a different colour palate, sharp angles replaced by fluid arcs and blurred textures.
Pacing was exquisitely judged - his ebb avoided bombast, his flow evaded understatement.
The upwards gear-shift into the blistering Rachmaninov confirmed Osborne’s stunning versatility. York was lucky to have him for the evening.
- Richard Powell
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