So an indie kid went to see some classical music. OK, I flatter myself, I'm not really a
kid. I'm 28.
In terms of the room's demographic, though, I certainly feel pretty young and
alternative music does feel like much more of a comfort zone. But this shouldn't read as
bad as all that.
After all, attempts were made to ween me on the more refined stuff from an early age,
and it didn't completely fall on deaf ears. And so, with Manchester International Festival
reawakening my appreciation for many different forms of culture, I excitedly take to my
seat at a fit-to-bursting Manchester Art Gallery for an intimate night of Johann
Sebastian Bach.
"Art gallery?" I think to myself. It feels more like I'm Number 6 and Russian violinist Alina Ibragimova is Number 2. So who's Number 1, then? Still, no one knows.. I make
myself comfortable and simply gawp at my surroundings. The set, designed by the
world-renowned Zaha Hadid Architects team, swoops about and envelops the audience, its white fabrics offsetting the blackness of the room. Made from a single, careening
canvas ribbon that wraps itself around both the stage and a neat grid of futuristic black
chairs, it feels like I'm caught in a snapshot of swirling, colliding ship sails.
It's hard to put a finger on the set's artistic and stylistic origins. Modernism?
Post-modernism? Deconstructivism? Futurism? There is a feeling of fluidity and of a
controlled chaos. The mood is both still and close-to-overwhelming. The chamber, like the
music it hosts, is meant to challenge, inspire and enchant. A little different from my
usual territory of student unions and beer-swilling punters, then.
At times, it feels like I'm playing a bit-part in a particularly surreal moment from a
Kubrick film, which purposefully juxtaposes the modern with the classical. And then, I can
almost imagine Jean-Luc Picard switching the room on with a touch of a button, before
settling down, cross-legged, for a moment's respite from Enterprise duties. He'd have
certainly enjoyed what came next.
Alina Ibragimova enters the stage wearing a beautiful, long black gown. Her tall,
slender figure hardly fills the dress as she addresses the audience with a half-smile and a
flick of her pulled-back blonde hair. My admittedly unsophisticated attire is, thankfully,
balanced by Ibragimova's simple and beautiful elegance. The interval separates the night
into two moods. Before the break, Ibragimova plays Sonata No. 2 in A minor and Partita No.
2 in D minor. She plays expertly.
The long and famously complex ciaconna movement is played with remarkable precision.
Ibragimova's mesmerising arpeggios are semi-hypnotic; its a challenge to pull my gaze away
from her blurring fingers as they unerringly negotiate the fingerboard of a 1738 Pietro
Guarneri of Venice violin.
Both design and performance are the night's likeliest plaudit winners, and with good
reason. Yet ironically, it is the space's sound that will remain largely unsung. Perhaps it
is because the acoustics are of such precise quality - balancing the need for atmospheric
reverberation and the correct amount of absorption - that this audience is unlikely to
think of their importance.
But this is the kind of night that dazzles on all fronts, as a fortunate audience enjoys
the second half's Sonata No. 3 in C major and Partita No. 3 in E major. The former's slow
and peaceful adagio opening, which gradually stacks notes together, is still considered one
of the most important landmarks for violin technique. It is a pleasure to hear it played
with such devotion and in such a devoted environment.
While I'll be lucky to experience music in such an extraordinary setting again, I won't
be afraid to break out of my comfort zone and remind myself of the power and significance
of music, as it was. And I imagine the organisers of Manchester's International Festival might
be quite pleased with that.
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