Sentimental people, ill-fated and very dangerous, say that music is the last refuge from the world's hardships. I must admit that, with the passage of time, my rationalist pride has yielded a bit and I can even admit that common spirits are right. Last Thursday I felt my soul terribly constricted; in Barcelona we have been idiotic for a week due to the visit of an absolute monarch in a white toga who claims to be the incarnation of divinity and who, for now, has only given us inconveniences throughout the neighborhood (I will have the misfortune of sleeping a few meters from his lair). On the other hand, the city has also been dyed yellow, not because the perfidious ribbons are back, but due to the persistent citrine of some teachers who, happily, have reminded the Govern (and its pathetic union representatives!) that they are not striking to fill their pockets with money, but to work with minimal guarantees. But the administration has a rather creative sense of democracy and has told the teachers that thanks for their opinion but that we will continue to do whatever we want.
With all this dreadful panorama behind me and my head crippled by the noise of the world, I took refuge in the Palau de la Música, where the Fortuny Trio was ending a three-year residency in Can Domènech i Muntaner. There is only one pleasure superior to discovering a piece for the first time; the joy of rediscovering it later and being even more overwhelmed. This is how I was once again stunned by this monumental beast that is the Andante con moto from Schubert's Trio D929 (yes, the one from Kubrick's Barry Lyndon!), a movement that -in itself- would justify entry into the Olympus of composers of all time. It's somewhat ironic, because the tempo used in this brutal piece -the pace depends on the historical and contextual situation of each individual- marks the pulsations of a specific era. In the classic recording by Serkin and the Busch (1953), with its sad post-war aura, the wandering is agonizing and the movement lasts 11 minutes; as time accelerates, we see how the walk turns towards capitalist optimism; the Grumiaux (1972) go down to 10.07 and the Florestan (2002) knock out the invention in 8.33.
I wasn't so nerdy as to count the minutes that violinist Joel Bardolet, cellist Pau Codina, and pianist Marc Heredia wove together. However, I would say that the Fortuny positioned themselves right in the middle of the extremes to give a sense of stoicism to the movement, but with a certain Mediterranean temperament. This is a Catalan formation, and we are rather morbid people, so the main theme—what a sound Pau gets from his beautiful instrument!—felt funereal, but it also had that sexy grace of Schubertian phrases. But well, all this is anecdotal, because today's Punyalada wants to state that playing this trio, Schubert's second, requires a first-world formation, and I have the kindness to affirm that the Fortuny are already one of the best trios in Europe and that the concert I attended could succeed in any chamber hall in the world. That's why it was painful to contemplate the small hall of the Palau de la Música, with that poor acoustics typical of socialist builders, so empty of people. Barcelonians, you must learn to neglect the superfluous in order to embrace the most transcendent.
The Fortuny are an ensemble of overflowing musicality. Most trios on the planet devour the Allegro of this canonical work too quickly, to make a sonic statement; but ours served it with the calm that the score demands. Joel is a phenomenal violinist, and his ability to manage vibrato without sacrificing immaculate precision in tuning is out of this world. Pau, as I said before, has brought back this greatness, so characteristic of our homeland, to the cello (far from the out-of-tune "vegetables" of the Capuçon type and more musculature from the Gary Hoffman school; very much in favor). And Marc Heredia's playing also has a lot of charm, because our pianist is a true gentleman from Barcelona but trained in the Russian school, which saves you from any effeminate nonsense when playing and ensures a harmonic backbone sculpted in marble. All this was especially noticeable at the beginning of the Passacaille in A minor by the great Ravel, an extremely difficult work that the Fortuny devoured with a flamenco joy (I won't talk about the other interlude in the program, because it's not worth it).
"The Fortuny are an ensemble of overflowing musicality"
We must once again commend the work of the Palau programmers, in this case under the impetus of Mercedes Conde Pons, who have accustomed us to the best sound programming in the city (to the xul, if I can be picky, I would only ask for even more chamber concerts, because sessions like this show that in this repertoire lies the best of the best). Before, I spoke of music as a refuge and, in weeks like this, an evening like this not only calms your spirit, but allowed me to leave the Sant Pere neighborhood with a clean soul. Last Thursday night, after the beautiful version of the lied Morgen that closed the concert as an encore, I was so happy that, as a militant ciutatvellí as I am now, I left can Domènech i Muntaner to fly straight to bar Conesa where, still with this Andante con moto in my head, I sent the diet to hell thanks to a sausage sandwich with tender garlic (my joy became such that I even have to confess that I dipped the potatoes in a small dish of alioli). I hope Franz and the Fortunys forgive me for so much pornography, but music excites me greatly.
I say it and write it again, that so much anecdote can perhaps make us forget the essential. There is the Barcelona of sordidness, of pomp and the continuous parade of religious and secular vedettes; but then there is the city where one can attend first-world concerts, where only the apathy of fellow citizens fails when it comes to caring for the soul with what truly suits them. I demand that this trio return soon to our halls and that you do the damn favor, Barcelonian brothers, of rendering them the servitude they deserve.