A fine balance

The word ‘virtuoso’ is often bandied about. Stephen Pettitt explains what it means to him

Serious music critics — and I do not except myself from the breed — have many tendencies that mark them out from the rest of society. One of them is the habit of bandying around the word ‘virtuoso’. We know what it means, or at least we think so. A virtuoso is a musician who can play with panache a score of seemingly impossible technical difficulty. A virtuoso performance — for, yes, our word can be used adjectivally — is one in which said virtuoso, or ensemble of virtuosi, has succeeded in demonstrating that panache. A good thing, too. What could be more thrilling than a virtuoso performance of a glittering orchestral showpiece, a tormentingly challenging Romantic concerto, an extravagant piano study or violin caprice? The north face of the Eiger has been conquered. The musician has, once again, triumphed over impossible adversity. Let us all pay homage with riotous applause, especially if we are at the Proms and the telly people are in.

Fair enough. A significant part of the musician’s craft has to do with the acquisition through many hours, many years of arduous, repetitive practice of a very particular athleticism, one that enables the accurate playing of a large number within a small amount of time while still making a pleasing sound. Virtuoso playing is a high-wire act, and the sensation it delivers to the audience similar. Surely he’s going to fall off at that speed, we think. But he knows that he won’t. After all, he’s done the same thing thousands of times before without mishap. Yet when he gets to the other side intact we still think it a miracle.