Goldberg (Live) - Deljavan
This month brings a new recording of the Goldberg Variations, BWV 988, performed by Italian pianist Alessandro Deljavan.
Too many recordings, for me, tend to be bland—shaped by how artists (typically soloists) have been taught to interpret works. I’ve recently been watching a guy on YouTube document his journey as an emerging pianist, sharing lessons with different professors. He’s getting some useful feedback, but more than once he’s been told how to interpret a specific piece—not just with regard to musical history and what’s on the score, but according to a tradition that dictates what’s acceptable.
I remember my own audition to test out of a piano proficiency requirement for my degree. I played all the notes correctly, but was scolded on the spot for not playing it the way the professor did when he played it back to me. Sure, I could have chosen better fingerings, but his phrasing style didn’t match what I’d grown accustomed to hearing from harpsichordists. My bold, twenty-year-old opinion was that playing Bach on the piano should eschew some of these traditions in the spirit of finding your own voice.
I can’t say how Alessandro Deljavan thinks—but I nearly rolled my eyes: “Another Goldberg?” Yawn. But oh no. He’s out to actually perform this work with his own interpretive ideas. This is the kind of thing I long for. Buckle up!
The first sign? The repeat of the first variation. The way he sticks some of those notes—like there’s gum on his fingers, or tacky tape? Then plays an alternate figure? The light, almost staccato later? The ornaments? He’s not tossing out Baroque performance practice, but he’s also not ignoring what’s possible on a modern piano. In some ways, it’s a “best of both worlds” approach.
The last pianist I recall diverting from the score like this was Vladimir Feltsman. Deljavan might be even better, to my ears—more willing to alter smaller phrase structures that Bach would have understood, rather than just manipulating the larger arcs so often favored by modern pianists.
Listen to how he changes the flavor of the third variation—from the opening to the repeat. The shift in articulation is clever. It gives the sense that he’s intent on showing us all the little nooks and crannies in Bach’s writing—using dynamics, articulation, and note length to draw our ears in.
Some of these interpretive choices—like in the fourth variation—might feel a bit artificial to some. It depends on whether you want each variation to be its own microcosm. Clearly, he does.
Another thing to note, listening track to track, is how he connects the tempos across variations. The tempos seem anchored by a master clock, rather than approached individually. This may seem to contradict my earlier point about phrasing, but there it is—the thread tying them together might just be that overarching pulse.
Variation seven? So relaxed. And after the first repeat, it’s as if the right hand becomes a dancer atop the piano.
Bach’s contemporaries would have changed the tonal character of their instruments by manipulating stops or couplers; here, in variation nine, Deljavan starts an octave higher—doing something similar in spirit. Yes, Feltsman did this too, but it still comes off as clever.
The voicing in variation twelve is excellent—bringing out clarity among the contrapuntal lines.
Variation sixteen opens strong, and I liked the ornamental insertions in the repeat. But for me, the tempo lags just enough to almost lose the French overture character.
The drop in intensity from variation nineteen to twenty feels like a bit of a loss—but the dynamic control between the hands improves noticeably in the repeat. He doesn’t make the music sound hard, but for those watching or listening closely, the hand interplay is a treat.
The so-called Black Pearl, variation twenty-five, clocks in at eight and a half minutes—but it doesn’t feel overly drawn out or too slow. I like how he keeps the right hand’s articulation and dynamics more present than the left. I can easily imagine the right hand being sung.
Listen to what he does in the repeats of the Quodlibet! The ending of the movement mimics the sound of a music box—one that might wind down just as we fall asleep.
I don’t fault him for not repeating the final Aria da capo. Still, he seems to enjoy this simple piece to the end, restraining any strong dynamic variation. I almost get the sensation that this one is for the performer—just after the boss has finally dozed off. The opening Aria is repeated and lasts five and a half minutes! The independence he achieves between his hands is striking—they aren’t in perfect synchronization, and that’s part of the charm. Their independence shines especially in the repeats. This tells me he’s a pianist first, but by no means ignorant of historical performance.
Though billed as a live recording, there’s no audience noise and no applause. The miking is close—pedal sounds crop up now and then—and it leans a bit bass-heavy, but overall the piano sounds excellent.
Overall? I found this a highly engaging performance. He never goes Gould-fast on any variation—which, sometimes, I like—but there’s consistency in his approach (aside from maybe speeding up a bit in variation thirteen?). The clarity, both between voices and between the hands, is remarkable. This is a thoughtful, creative musician who refuses to be a slave to the score alone. It says as much about Bach as it does about Deljavan. I found myself hearing these variations anew more than once: “Oh, listen to how he did that?” or “Huh—I hadn’t noticed that before!”
Great stuff. This may not become your all-time favorite Goldberg, but there’s no denying that this pianist is content to get into the weeds. And we’re all better for it. To be blessed with not only technique, but a strong concept of the work being performed? The ninety minutes fly by—and you will be rewarded.
