Fiddler on the rooftop going "heeeeeeyyyyy"
Nadja the violinist with the strong Brooklyn accent and the gruff demeanor. I'd seen the documentary deeming her a "Devil-child." I'd read how critics rebuked her impatient, insistent timing. I knew she would be explosive. But I wasn't prepared for exactly how that would feel like.
She was playing at Orchestra Hall in Minneapolis. I'd been looking forward to this for weeks. J and I had nabbed 8th row tickets, aisle seats on the left section, center. I avoided drinking beverages a good 30 minutes before so I wouldn't have to sneak away to the ladies' room.
As the orchestra's tuning faded away, she led the orchestra's director on stage. She had a swagger to her walk. Her head, barreling ahead of her body, looked straight into the audience, a half-cocked smile on her face as if to say, "So it's time. Here I am."
The first movement eradicated all the reviews I had read about her. That she was impatient. That she had no regard for the conductor. The piece was composed by Shostakovich, a Russian composer who had written this piece during the Cold War. The first movement was a nocturne. She played with an achingly soft bow-hand and a languid vibrato. Her eyebrows raised and fell, her eyes half-closed and teary though making eye-contact with the conductor the entire time, it was a beautiful intro to the piece.
The next movement was the scherzo. Fast. Irratic. Her fingers flew over the black fingerboard. Her head was bobbing so hard and fast it looked like she being shaken like a rag doll in a tantrum by a 6-year-old. The next movement, andante? can't remember but it was slower, heavier than the scherzo and with a loooong solo. And that solo, wow. With strong confident bow hands, she spread her legs far apart for leverage, looking like a 13th century Highland warrior in the midst of battle. She hunched over her violin, she banged out her solo in an almost possessed fury, though her winks and smiles to the crowd proved she was still in control. A visible piece of horse-hair popped in half as she was playing, and it clung to the glinting bow like a flailing bull-rider on a raging bull. I understood what the reviews meant when they referred to her "demonized" performances. Because she was. She was on fire. Exquisite.
The last movement was slower but the orchestra grew more bombastic. It ended loud and explosive, and three encores later, she waved good-bye and it was time for intermission. And that was it. The next piece was by another Russian guy, Rachmaninoff, and with no Nadja, the music just wasn't the same. [The MN Orchestra's conductor, Osmo, was thrilling still, definitely worth staying for.]
She was playing at Orchestra Hall in Minneapolis. I'd been looking forward to this for weeks. J and I had nabbed 8th row tickets, aisle seats on the left section, center. I avoided drinking beverages a good 30 minutes before so I wouldn't have to sneak away to the ladies' room.
As the orchestra's tuning faded away, she led the orchestra's director on stage. She had a swagger to her walk. Her head, barreling ahead of her body, looked straight into the audience, a half-cocked smile on her face as if to say, "So it's time. Here I am."
The first movement eradicated all the reviews I had read about her. That she was impatient. That she had no regard for the conductor. The piece was composed by Shostakovich, a Russian composer who had written this piece during the Cold War. The first movement was a nocturne. She played with an achingly soft bow-hand and a languid vibrato. Her eyebrows raised and fell, her eyes half-closed and teary though making eye-contact with the conductor the entire time, it was a beautiful intro to the piece.
The next movement was the scherzo. Fast. Irratic. Her fingers flew over the black fingerboard. Her head was bobbing so hard and fast it looked like she being shaken like a rag doll in a tantrum by a 6-year-old. The next movement, andante? can't remember but it was slower, heavier than the scherzo and with a loooong solo. And that solo, wow. With strong confident bow hands, she spread her legs far apart for leverage, looking like a 13th century Highland warrior in the midst of battle. She hunched over her violin, she banged out her solo in an almost possessed fury, though her winks and smiles to the crowd proved she was still in control. A visible piece of horse-hair popped in half as she was playing, and it clung to the glinting bow like a flailing bull-rider on a raging bull. I understood what the reviews meant when they referred to her "demonized" performances. Because she was. She was on fire. Exquisite.
The last movement was slower but the orchestra grew more bombastic. It ended loud and explosive, and three encores later, she waved good-bye and it was time for intermission. And that was it. The next piece was by another Russian guy, Rachmaninoff, and with no Nadja, the music just wasn't the same. [The MN Orchestra's conductor, Osmo, was thrilling still, definitely worth staying for.]
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