Eloquent, understated poetry: Llyr Williams, at the Wigmore Hall, reviewed

Imagine being a concert pianist and choosing your own programmes. All those possibilities; all that power! ‘I am the orchestra!’ declared Hector Berlioz, imagining himself inside the head of Franz Liszt. ‘I am the chorus and conductor as well. My piano sings, broods, flashes, thunders.’ The heart lifts when a pianist thinks a little differently about their recital programmes and tries to make connections and tell stories beyond the familiar tramlines of Bach, Beethoven and late Schubert. Don’t get me wrong; the Austro-German big boys are a healthy part of a balanced musical diet. It’s just that – well, you know. There is a world elsewhere.

Llyr Williams played Bartok, Chopin, Albeniz and Peter Warlock, and he made them sound as if no combination could possibly be more natural. If there was a unifying theme, it was the influence of folk music, but Williams didn’t labour the point and certain elements of the programme seemed to have been chosen as much to emphasise differences as similarities.