It was an evening of miracles: and for me, on more than just one level. I speak of last Tuesday evening’s appearance of Leon Fleisher and his wife, Katherine Jacobsen-Fleisher, in the season opener of the College of Charleston’s International Piano Series at the Sottile Theatre. I’d been looking forward to it keenly for weeks.
Although he never knew it, Leon Fleisher and I go way back – like nearly 50 years back. I never got to tell him that ‘til after the concert. Nearly half a century ago, he burst upon the classical scene as one of America’s most brilliant home-grown pianists. I first heard his recordings in the 1960’s as a giddy young piano student in Vienna, Austria who dared to dream for awhile of a life devoted to great music.
Later, in college, I latched onto his still-definitive recordings of the Beethoven piano concertos with George Szell and the Cleveland Orchestra. I’ve long since worn out the original LP’s, but now the music is mine forever on CD. This man was one of my seminal musical influences: he first brought some of the world’s greatest music to life for me, and taught me what made for a truly classy performance. Yeah, as far as I was concerned, Leon was bigger than Elvis.
Then, all of a sudden, we stopped hearing from him – or about him. I didn’t learn until years later that he was suffering from a mysterious malady that had completely crippled his right hand. What more crushing fate could ever befall a pianist? All I could imagine was that it must’ve been like Beethoven losing his hearing. But he soon found salvation of sorts by directing his musical gifts into other channels – like conducting and teaching (our own Enrique Graf is one of his prize protégés). He also became perhaps the 20th Century’s greatest exponent of the limited repertoire of piano music for the left hand.
Then, a few years back, the arts world went abuzz with the news that Fleisher was poised for a two-handed comeback. His condition had finally been diagnosed and given a name: focal dystonia, a neurological affliction. Once you know what’s wrong, you can begin to treat it – in this case, with regular botox injections. And so it happened for Mr. Fleisher. It’s not a cure – but an ongoing way to control the condition.
And so, in the twilight of his years (he’s pushing 80), Fleisher’s career has come full circle, and he’s now back to performing and recording with both hands. Like I said, he’s hardly cured, and there are certain pieces he still can’t manage. Yet he’s able to apply the musical understanding and insights of a full lifetime to the music that he can play. What an unimaginable blessing – both for him and for us. And his artistry remains on the kind of exalted plane that’s taken for granted before they even think of considering you for Kennedy Center Honors – for which Fleisher has been selected this year.
Tuesday night’s performance, delivered in front of a nearly full Sottile Theatre, was truly an affair to savor and cherish. He appeared alone for the program’s first half, offering mostly a succession of beloved works by the great J. S. Bach. The only exception was Messages I, a fascinating and mysterious piece written for him a few years back by Dina Koston. But it was the mostly familiar Bach items (Sheep may Safely Graze, Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring, Chromatic Fantasy & Fugue in D Minor, and Chaconne) that made it special. As familiar as some of these pieces were, Fleisher recreated them with the kind of reverence and fathomless profundity that only a true musical master could possibly muster. Especially in Johannes Brahms’ magisterial transcription (for left hand) of the towering Chaconne, he delivered a searching, emotionally taut reading that I’ll never forget.
Enter Ms. Fleisher after intermission, joining her husband for two masterpieces for piano four hands. First came a deep and delicious interpretation of Franz Schubert’s Fantasie in F Minor – one of his heart-rending final works, and long a favorite of mine. It just may be the loveliest and most lyrical music ever written for piano four-hands. Pure bliss. Then they brought things to an emphatic close with a four-hand arrangement of Maurice Ravel’s smoky, swirling La Valse: supposedly the composer’s attempt to offer a French take on the Viennese waltz. Our accomplished duo delivered it with great finesse and sensual atmosphere, inspiring a noisy and spontaneous standing O, the likes of which hasn’t happened at the Sottile for quite some time.
I can hardly find the words to tell you how much it meant to me to see and hear one of the musical heroes of my youth up there on the stage, just a few feet away. From there, he fed my heart and soul with sights and sounds I never thought I’d ever get to experience in the flesh. And afterwards, I even got to (very gently) shake that resurrected right hand and make a feeble attempt to tell him to his face what he and his art have meant to me over the years. It was an evening that will live on in my memory for as long as I do.
