rossover classical superstars are rare birds these days but Italian pianist-composer Ludovico Einaudi is just that: his 2015 album Elements became the first classical release in 23 years to reach the top 15 of the charts. But it’s tough to enjoy his success during this witless sold-out show.
Joined in a rock venue by an accomplished band playing percussion, strings, guitars and electronic effects, Einuadi casts himself as the antithesis to the stuffy conservatoire – but then plays music that is less adventurous than your average indie band’s. The Elements material has spots of loveliness, as when Four Dimensions whirrs like a well-oiled grandfather clock, but this is beauty that is interested only in itself. All Einuadi can conjure is the dashed-off poignancy of an Instagrammed sunset or emailed condolence; his endless minor chords recall the emotional illiteracy of an unfaithful spouse pleading for forgiveness.
Einaudi compounds this by being a mediocre pianist. He can finesse a phrase, but is proudly anti-virtuosic, playing only simple arpeggios and limpid four-note melodies. A solo section is an impressionistic series of miniatures, like a songwriting bootcamp for James Taylor or Adele where the top lines haven’t been worked out yet; it’s the balladry of Westlife but without their clarity of purpose.
Sentimental piano-playing is an underrated art, and performers like Keith Jarrett, Ryuichi Sakamoto or Ketil Bjornstad understand that you need a wry wit to offset it. Einaudi is too busy pondering dew on a rose petal. He apes the techno pulse of Pantha du Prince with the plasticky sound of a car indicator, and the mathematics of Steve Reich but at a Key Stage 2 level. He’s patronising too: an ambient piece imitates water with a gong in a tank alongside the sound of drips. Einaudi has created a Thomas Kinkade painting in sound: a dishonest, disconnected fantasy that has nothing to say about how our lives are lived.
Resource: http://www.theguardian.com/
Joined in a rock venue by an accomplished band playing percussion, strings, guitars and electronic effects, Einuadi casts himself as the antithesis to the stuffy conservatoire – but then plays music that is less adventurous than your average indie band’s. The Elements material has spots of loveliness, as when Four Dimensions whirrs like a well-oiled grandfather clock, but this is beauty that is interested only in itself. All Einuadi can conjure is the dashed-off poignancy of an Instagrammed sunset or emailed condolence; his endless minor chords recall the emotional illiteracy of an unfaithful spouse pleading for forgiveness.
Einaudi compounds this by being a mediocre pianist. He can finesse a phrase, but is proudly anti-virtuosic, playing only simple arpeggios and limpid four-note melodies. A solo section is an impressionistic series of miniatures, like a songwriting bootcamp for James Taylor or Adele where the top lines haven’t been worked out yet; it’s the balladry of Westlife but without their clarity of purpose.
Sentimental piano-playing is an underrated art, and performers like Keith Jarrett, Ryuichi Sakamoto or Ketil Bjornstad understand that you need a wry wit to offset it. Einaudi is too busy pondering dew on a rose petal. He apes the techno pulse of Pantha du Prince with the plasticky sound of a car indicator, and the mathematics of Steve Reich but at a Key Stage 2 level. He’s patronising too: an ambient piece imitates water with a gong in a tank alongside the sound of drips. Einaudi has created a Thomas Kinkade painting in sound: a dishonest, disconnected fantasy that has nothing to say about how our lives are lived.
Resource: http://www.theguardian.com/
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