Berlin to London

It's the last weekend of January. A twelfth of the new year is already over. How fast it happened – yet again. Must have something to do with aging. Who doesn't still remember the days of childhood when birthdays were ages apart, months wouldn't end, and the summer holidays didn't come around forever? Now everything happens at the same time and coalesces into a big blur retrospectively.

What have I done in January? I already don't know anymore. This blog is of not much help – there are only five posts so far this year, and they don't say much. At least they are a reminder of my resolution not to put so much verbal prolixity online anymore. Another resolution was to train hard for the marathon. This one I've kept to a similar extent, going out frequently but not so much as to freeze rigid in the snow and ice that still abound. I'm slowly getting into shape.

Right now, I'm sitting in my living room looking out. The sun's shining strongly and it promises to be a brilliant (though very cold) weekend. My new Nikes are bouncing up and down with excitement, trying to break free from their containment in the lowest shelf of my shoe cabinet, but before I take them out for a run, I'd like to commit last night to memory.

I was a the Royal Festival Hall for the kick-off of a four-concert mini-residence of the Berliner Staatskapelle. Over the course of a week, the famous orchestra is giving four performances, playing all five of Beethoven's Piano Concertos. The quality of the orchestra and the clear musical focus would be enough to sell out the hall, more or less. But why were all tickets months in advance?

What made this series so special and the tickets the hottest in town was the fact that Daniel Barenboim doubled as conductor and soloist. Barenboim is the Bono of classical music, the biggest name on the stage, a visionary in many ways but primarily an artist: one of the best conductors and one of the most renowned pianists in the world.

About a year ago, I had witnessed this second part of his artistic persona when attending two concerts of Beethoven's piano sonatas, also at the Royal Festival Hall. The music was sublime, but the experiences contained so much more. Seeing him play quiet parts with his left hand while his right grabbed the towel hanging over the side of the piano and then dried his forehead was special. Feeling the power of the maestro, how he held an audience of nearly three thousand motionless in rapt attention was magical. There was just a little piano on the big stage in the far distance, and a little man working the keys. Sometimes caressing, sometimes pounding, magic was created.

I expected magic last night, and I was not disappointed. When the orchestra took their places, something odd became obvious: Instead of the rostrum, all musicians faced a piano positioned centrally at the front of the stage. A few minutes later, Barenboim entered, walked over to the piano and just stood there. With a wave of his hands, the music started. He was conducting.

But at some point, the first solo part started. Barenboim sat down and played, but kept conducting, either with his eyes and head, or with his hands. Most incredible were the times, sometimes mere bursts, when only one of his hands had notes to play. The other would immediately jump into the air and give directions to the musicians. It was a visual feast, even from my cheap seat in one of the last rows.

Unfortunately I'm no expert and can't say whether it was also an acoustic feast, commensurate with the hype. All I can say is that the music was wonderful and that I enjoyed it tremendously, as did the rest of the audience, judging by the applause after the concert. Barenboim himself was quite visibly delighted during the curtain call. Chest swollen with self-admiration, he strutted back onto the stage like a proud peacock to receive his ovation.

I'm looking forward to giving him another, on Tuesday after the concluding concert of the series, but before I can enjoy that, I have to suffer a little. It is three degrees outside, but my trainers are getting anxious. They want to be taken running, and I should do so before the sun vanishes and nothing is left to distract from the miserable cold.