Johann Sebastian Bach - Mischa Maisky
Suites Per Violoncello 1-6

Premise

What follows does not claim to be a review, and therefore, given its length, it seems only right to offer at least a guideline for those who may not have the time or inclination to continue reading. Well, the 6 Suites for solo cello by Bach are indeed a musical heritage of humanity. In this or other interpretations, they deserve at least a listen, whoever and however you are. That said, I will try to narrate the singular coincidences that bind me to this album, hoping they allow me to achieve a double result: to circumvent the titanic obstacle represented by the attempt to review such a work and, at the same time, to spark at least a little curiosity among those who do not yet know it. It must be said that my acquaintance with the masterpieces of "classical" music has always been sporadic, occasional, anything but part of a well-thought-out path. I am, in short, a decent ignoramus, but rather curious and willing to discover. But let's move on.

From Darkwood to Bach 

It had been some time that the thing kept repeating: every time the voice of a cello made its appearance, it captured my attention. Even if I was listening distractedly to a record, on the radio, or watching the screen in the dark of a cinema, as soon as it appeared, that sound went straight to the center of my listening. That sound was enough for itself: and it was probably my sound.
During that time, I happened to listen to an album, one of the happy encounters with the ECM catalog. The album in question, Darkwood by David Darling, is a solo cello album, dark and fascinating, which, instead of quenching it, increased my thirst. That thirst would find its way to the only source capable of quenching it. What follows is the tale of how, through singular coincidences, the encounter took place.

Coincidences

The first coincidence involved meeting a pianist. I met her just as I was plunging into this growing passion for the cello, further nurtured by listening to Darkwood. I asked her, who was amazed by such a fervent immersion in that album, where I could savor the essence of what seemed to be my nectar. "You must absolutely listen to Bach's Suites for solo cello" she replied, "There are many precious interpretations of this work. But if it's the sound you seek, you must listen to Mischa Maisky…". Yes, it was the sound of that instrument that I wanted. I was (and am) incapable of expressing technical and critical evaluations. I needed the sound.
That very day, I gifted it to myself, and the double CD, recorded in 1985 for Deutsche Grammophon by the Russian musician, began to possess me. Yes, literally a possession. Perhaps it is only worth adding that at the time, I was in a position to indulge it, not denying myself listening even during daily activities. I carried the album with me and, whenever possible, allowed it to work its magic: I absorbed every particle of that vast creature, and it did the same with me.

The six suites, composed by Bach in the early 18th century (1723 is considered a reliable date) with the intent of exploring and developing the technical possibilities of the instrument, represent a testing ground for both the technical skills and concentration capabilities of the performers, resulting in the most significant work for solo cello ever conceived. With which all the greatest virtuosos have engaged, from Casals to Fournier, from Rostropovich to the splendid performances of Yo Yo Ma. In Mischa Maisky's performance, (one of the most renowned cellists in the world, a student of Rostropovich) an unusual and eccentric character capable of provoking radical and clear divisions among the public and critics, the usual interpretive canon, considered philologically correct, gives way to an approach that favors exploring the possibilities of structure and sound, even into every single rhythmic and melodic fragment, allowing for accelerations and "doublings" of speed considered, by some, arbitrary and disrespectful. For my untrained ears, though, it was an absolute delight: a rich, deep sound, capable of a dizzying range of colors, of abysses and ascensions, both agile and powerful at the same time. I felt like I was dealing with a performer who was, in reality, a sound explorer. And that was what I wanted.

Perhaps a couple of weeks passed, all in full immersion, and a second coincidence occurred, this time from the pages of a newspaper: that evening, at the auditorium of my city, with the orchestra performing a repertoire that also included one of Bach's suites, Mischa Maisky was the guest soloist. It seemed like a small gift from fate: having just acquainted myself with Bach's Suites and that double CD, I had the chance to listen to their performer live. I set aside the usual tasks that kept me past closing time and headed towards the tram stop. That day, I hadn't gone to work by car, opting for public transport for once without any particular reason: a practically rare thing which constituted an additional coincidence.

Because on the rather empty Number 18, given the hour, it was impossible not to notice the man dressed in dark, leaning against the voluminous case, who looked much too similar to the one portrayed on the cover of the double CD I carried with me. Yes, the maestro was on the tram with me, and he noticed my gaze. I waited almost until the last stop and then overcame my hesitation: "Mr. Maisky, I am a very recent admirer of yours and I would like to thank you for having recorded this album." My English is a kind of idea of English, a fantastic construction, a funny language that may sound like English. I do not know what Mischa understood. But near the entrance, as I took my leave of him and headed towards the ticket office, he stopped me, saying I shouldn't pay a ticket to listen to him, and that he was honored to perform Bach for such an enthusiastic listener. With a nod to the deferential attendants, he invited me to follow him.

Before the concert, we talked for a while, mainly regarding his recording of the Suites. He told me he was going to measure himself against them again, feeling that over the years, he had developed a new sensitivity, an approach even closer to the spirit of the author, whom he revered. I witnessed the deference surrounding him, the genuine respect from the orchestra members towards him, and, while in the dressing room, I observed the splendor of the cello (an 18th-century Montagnana, gifted to him by some wealthy admirers) and the devotion with which an elegant lady, accompanied by her young children, presented a bouquet of flowers to the musician. Maisky revealed to me that she followed him for every Italian date, and often abroad, for years. I remember an excellent concert and some almost perfect moments, including the cello suite, which seemed even more "free" than the one I had practically devoured during that time.

After the concert, we dined at a small place I knew, next to his hotel. Here, with the help of wine, we overcame the difficulties posed by my poor English, and the conversation expanded. It amazed me to discover that in some countries, particularly in the East, for example, in Japan and especially in Korea, he was the subject of a cult similar to that of a rock star, complete with fan assaults, screams, and ambushes from admirers of all ages, constant sold-out shows, and unscheduled encores. His concert schedule was already practically full until 2002, (and it was 1997) including two evenings in my city for the complete performance of the Suites.
At the end of the evening, late at night, we parted, a bit tipsy, after a final exchange of words about the philological "correctness" with the courteous promise from the maestro to get in touch for the execution of Bach's masterpiece.

In the presence of sound

Perhaps even more surprising than the unexpected encounter on the tram was receiving, I believe a year later, his phone call inviting my lady and me to attend, front row, the performance of the six suites for solo cello.
We accompanied him to the theater. I remember that together, with makeshift tools, we fixed the platform on which he was to perform, which during rehearsals, creaked and squeaked under his unpredictable movements, sometimes almost covering the cello's sound. No one, among the many attendants, had even thought of fixing it. Then, we took our seats and waited for the magic to begin.
And on those two evenings, thanks to a truly stunning Maisky, I saw the Sound. His relationship with the instrument, seemingly visceral and histrionic in gestures, is actually driven by the need to extract from his splendid tone every minimal possibility, every surprising solution.
At the end of the second evening, we remained almost stunned, in a state of bliss. This accompanied us even as, saying goodbye to the maestro, we declined, with all possible tact, the invitation to dinner with the swarm of city authorities, cultural assessors, and assorted event-goers that soon enveloped and engulfed him.
I have listened to other recordings, probably more correct, less "anarchic," perhaps more beautiful. Maisky himself recorded another version of the Suites in 2000. But it would not be difficult to understand why this remains my favorite. And No. 18 is the bus line I prefer.

In concluding this verbose narration, I feel it is my duty to offer my apologies, in order, to you, dear reader, to J.S. Bach, and to M. Maisky. And I give myself the liberty of one last piece of advice, in case you, stoically, have reached this point: if you have the chance, give yourself a gift, insert the CD, shut out the world, turn up the volume. And may the sound be with you.