Don't be fooled by New Ross. This quiet Irish country town on the tidal River Barrow with narrow medieval streets, hilly terraced houses and Norman churches has always been outward-looking. Wine casks from Gascony rolling onto the quay and iron from Lübeck clanging its way onto riverside carts were sounds the outside world first brought to this 13th century inland port town. The Irish exports might have sounded duller - large sacks of grain thudding onto decks from the arms of grunting labourers, or, like wool, may have made no sound at all.
For the past 20 years though, each September, worldly sounds have been rolling downhill in New Ross. More tonal, melodious and organised than the brute din of medieval trade, they are just as much a product of exhausting physical labour. The nourishment they bring is as vital as the warmth from wool and calories from grain. These are the sounds from the New Ross Piano Festival whose world-renowned performers garland the town with dulcet (and sometimes dissonant) bouquets.
Dida Condria gave Friday's noon concert at Saint Mary's Church of Ireland. Built in 1813 on the ruins of a 13th century Early English Gothic church, the spire is an integral part of the New Ross skyline. Walking the shrub and tree-lined steps from the town up to the church gave a visual feast before the aural one.
And what a feast it was! Condria chose an eclectic mix. She puts her love of piano down to the “range of possibility of the instrument... the range of colours and sounds and effects”. “I can be a solo violin and also an orchestra at the same time.” This was demonstrated by her choice of Kempff and Busoni transcriptions of two Bach chorales and Leopold Godowsky's thickening of Schubert's “Litanei”. She clearly relished the polyphony and dense chords of these pieces, particularly the simultaneous deep bass octaves and contrapuntal left-hand split of “Litanei”.
It was the same with Sibelius's Impromptu Op. 5 No. 5, a fiendishly difficult piece that strains the wrist with continuous 32nd note accompaniment from the beginning and throughout the first section. This legato pianissimo pushes hand coordination to the limit but you wouldn't know it watching Condria play. In fact, through some of the most taxing parts of her programme, she kept her head up and focused on the east wall above the piano, slightly swaying as if in philosophical contemplation of the piece her hands were playing, without missing a note. I was not surprised to learn later that Condria was a Keyboard Category Finalist in the most recent BBC Young Musician of the Year Competition and has performed at the Wigmore and Carnegie Halls.
As she stood and introduced each piece to the audience, I noticed something that would become more apparent as the festival went on. The pieces were often preceded by personal testimonials from the pianists, some quite matter-of-fact, that brought the audience that but closer to performance and performer. Condria informed us that she discovered Ukrainian composer Valentin Silvestrov online and radiated enthusiasm when she described his Bagatellen II and VI.
She ended her introduction with “It's very minimalist", then played the simple triads that begin the piece, rolling into the melancholic melody that the pedal blurs into oblivion. By the time she played the pedal-stretched notes of VI, it became obvious that her comment on minimalism was less a warning and more an invitation for deeper listening. Her final piece was Rachmaninov's Variations on a Theme by Corelli. In her introduction, she shared the story of Rachmaninov's doubts about this piece. Writing to Nikolai Medtner, he explained that he gauged the audience's boredom by their coughing during performances. The more coughing, the more variations he skipped. Condria played a selection, flawlessly executing the jazzy harmonies, tempo accelerations and staccatos. Nobody coughed.
The next event was the piano masterclass in St. Michael's Pastoral Centre, a nice 10 minute walk from medieval hillside New Ross through the bustling town and back uphill to a residential area. Jean-Efflam Bavouzet withdrew at the last minute due to unavoidable circumstances, and was replaced by the equally esteemed and ultra-credentialed Professor Markus Groh of the University of the Arts, Berlin.
Ríona Scahill (16) who dominated Feis Ceoil competitions last year, winning three distinct categories was first up. She played the "happy" parts of Tchaikovsky's Dumka Op. 59 with aplomb, deftly handling the tempo and mood changes. The sharp contrast gave the mournful finale an added touch of pathos. She knows this piece inside-out but doesn't take this for granted. Her eyes never left the score and keys.
Scahill is no stranger to masterclasses with serious figures in the piano world, including Rolf Hind and Joanna MacGregor. Still, it's not easy to subject one's playing to critique, albeit constructive, in full view of an audience. And Groh did critique. He spoke about excessive fidelity to notes leading to “automatism” of the fingers. Such automatism comes at the cost of thematic coherence and expressiveness. This work is not just a score on a page for Scahill though. When asked by Groh how she envisaged the piece she gave quite a detailed description of a wintry Russian landscape.
Groh (pictured right) told her to forget about her fingers and concentrate on her arms - “that's where the expressive power comes from". Holding his thumb downward at a ninety-degree angle from his forefinger, he explained that the expressive power of the arm is steered by the thumb before being distributed to the rest of the hand, as he gracefully unbent his elbow. Now this is elite level piano instruction that is rare to witness in person. This was in a classroom setting, not an auditorium, and admission was free of charge.
Scahill, armed (literally) with Groh's instruction sat back down and began to play. Groh interjected and repeated his admonition about fingers. Scahill got up, Groh sat down and played smoothly textured notes that lingered without compromising the melodic integrity.
A lesser talented pianist might have wilted under the exposure, but Scahill went back to the piano, the expressiveness breaking through as she played with vigour. Groh stopped her again - “You're slurring” - and he demonstrated what he meant. “Between staccato and slurring there's a whole spectrum of expression."
He sat back down. On her left, Groh, laden with decades of awards, recordings and honours, stood, watched and listened. On her right, the audience bore their attention upon her. She played fearlessly. He interjected. She played again, more and more animando. This was intensely moving to witness. With this gutsy determination one can see why Scahill has won so many prizes and is surely destined for many more.
Just when does a prodigy become a virtuoso? Impossible to pinpoint, but Dylan Keane (13, pictured above) is well on his way and fastly approaching the terminal, almost as fast as he sent the skeletons back to their graves prestissimo e crescendo in a full-throttle, full-throated Saint-Saëns/Liszt Danse Macabre. If Markus Groh had his fill of staccatos from Tchaikovsky, they came back to haunt him with a vengeance here! Keane's mastery of the rapid staccatissimo and extreme blind double-octave leaps of the skeletal dance was hypnotic. The left-hand's rocking oscillation swirled itself into the waltz and relentlessly drove the rhythm. This prolific international prizewinner kept us rapt.
Skeletal movements jumped from the mythic into reality during the Dies Irae, when Keane slammed a colossal full keyboard chord, perhaps following Vladimir Horowitz in adding an f to Liszt's ff marking, jolting the audience upright. The upper register trills that inaugurate the end of the piece were played tenderly and quietly before Keane, knowing the deception in store, unleashed the loud chromatic run down the keyboard. Slamming two fortissimo chords, he was done. The dancing skeletons were back in their graves, their silence joined by the stunned audience until broken by tentative applause which became rapturous
For a moment it seemed as if a coup had been launched and we were now in a masterclass with Dylan Keane. After around 10 seconds of silence Groh said, “that was just excellent. Really excellent”. The only critique he could muster was that in some parts it might have been a little over the top. Keane, like Scahill before him, accepted it with good grace. I hope he records this Danse Macabre in the future. It deserves to be heard.
The masterclass put the rest of the Festival into perspective. We got to eavesdrop on elite pianists in quite vulnerable moments, and come away with an appreciation for the nuances of technique. It was a fantastic primer for the concerts to come.
The first piece of the evening was the world premiere of Gerry Murphy's The Essential Isness of Being, performed by Finghin Collins. Such a title invites either profound philosophical reflection or Clintonian avoidance - “It depends on what the meaning of the word 'is' is.” Gerry Murphy is very much the former.
Murphy was the long-time Head of Music at Gonzaga College, Dublin, who counts Collins among his past pupils. His frequent appearances on radio have endeared him to a much wider audience, showing him to be cerebral and sensitive. These two qualities are evident in the programme note written by Murphy. For him, the “Essential Isness of Being” is the term left when the profound questions of existence are stripped of their redundancies and condensed. He advised Collins to spend half his college time in coffee shops discussing “life, the universe and everything”. “By mulling over these matters, in bracing company, we can establish our own beliefs.”
If Murphy (pictured right discussing Schubert at the Kilkenny Arts Festival) is describing the totality of and reasons for Being with this music, the very fact of existing is frantic, spooky, jazzy, and a bit waltzy. Or perhaps it's the coffee shop discussions on Isness – the rollicking ups and downs we go through in trying to answer such questions, jostling against the beliefs of others, the fads, rejection, false erudition, and pretension. Then hopefully the shedding of tautologies and cliches. This work is replete with enigmatic pauses, chromatic exploration and virtuosic bursts. I detected what sounded like modal shifting and a blues-like inversion. It is an interesting and complex composition that Collins played flawlessly. The ending is sudden but cadential. Murphy, appearing delighted, and ascended the stage to loud applause.
Next, Markus Groh, with Rachel Roberts (viola) and Robert Plane (clarinet), played Schumann's Märchenerzählungen Op. 132. This was a historic performance both for the quality of the music and the sheer presence of three instrumentalists at the very top of their leagues. Roberts and Plane are longtime collaborators who adore each other. The third movement's duet between viola and clarinet was a joy to behold. Roberts and Plane smiled and nodded to the other each time their melodic lines were answered. Groh knew the piano's place during this intimate movement and provided the rocking 16th note arpeggios throughout. Ruhiges Tempo, mit zartem Ausdruck – Quiet tempo, with tender expression. Indeed.
Groh awakened the piano from its slumber for the final movement where sweeping octaves drive the German march. The syncopations and downbeats gave a jaunty feel. Oh, and it was loud and expressive. Groh practised what he preached at the Masterclass. Viola and clarinet still dialogued adoringly. The three glanced at each other, their instruments sang the same tonic chord in the home key, and that's how it ended – as poised and balanced as how it began.
Groh left, Roberts and Plane remained, and Finghin Collins returned for a sumptuous, lyrical account of Mozart’s “Kegelstatt” Trio. A broad spacious tempo was set by Collins from the beginning, avoiding the pitfalls often encountered from the 67 64thnotes in the first movement. Collins's four-note clusters dropped weightlessly. He knows the acoustics in Saint Mary's extremely well, and knows Mozart even better. This left generous room for the viola and clarinet who used it to full effect.
The moody second movement taxed Roberts with continuous triplets and furious bowing as the piano and clarinet played light and airy, enjoying a carefree party while the viola stayed in the kitchen cutting lemons.
Benjamin Zander likes to repeat that everything in Mozart is an aria, and it sounded like Collins, Roberts and Plane agreed. The clarinet opened the theme of the final movement, a sweet cantabile, and passed it to the piano where it was richly ornamented by Collins. The viola's triplets returned and Roberts was ready and waiting with dutiful, slightly furious bowing that birthed a “this is my lot, so I'd better accept it” sound. All three got sweeter towards the coda. After a few scalar solo runs, Collins seamlessly slotted back into the ensemble for the simultaneous crisp staccato end. The physics and the chemistry were perfect.
Then came Anna Fedorova and Beethoven, propelling what was already a world-beating piano festival into the stratosphere. The “Appassionata” Sonata is standard fare for her. This performance was more febrile than her others online. An arpeggio opens the work and provides the theme. She spills arpeggios up and down the keys. Sometimes it sounds as if she's thundering down extra ones, unilaterally changing the programme – the world premiere of Arpeggionata. Not the case. She calls out the lush and resonant walls of sound already present within the piece with unrivalled pedal skill and left hand tremolos.
The notes themselves are a nonentity. She's interested in their limits, tensile strength, how long they linger, how can they make the floor rumble. She already has the vision from the score and bends physical reality to make it happen. She's left mechanical brilliance behind for pure atmosphere. Schrödinger's fingers – both liquid and solid. That's why it's so hard to write about what she's doing. One's left in a heap of inarticulateness. By the time I've identified half-pedalling, she's already throwing her upper body weight into a fortissimo. The best you can do is let the atmosphere engulf you and try, however futile, to make sense of it later.
Fedorova treated us to whoosh and animal-like guttural sound effects throughout. First movement rumbling dialogues in the bass remained in my mind well into the second where low register baselines continued to unnerve even after accompaniment shifted to the upper-middle. Tumbling explosions and a stomping dark F minor presto finished it. In return, the audience bombarded Fedorova with their own thunderous cracks and booms. She had virtuosoed a relatively shunned part of the piano and I was reluctant to leave for higher climes.
The denouement: Mussorgsky's Pictures at an Exhibition. Written as a personal tribute to his artist friend Viktor Hartmann, its clanging church bell dissonances, harsh percussion, raw block chords and anthemic finale has historically made it an ideal set-piece for Russian exceptionalism.
Mussorgsky was devastated by Hartmann's early death and the loss of talent it entailed. Kyiv native Fedorova is no doubt aware of this mournful aspect. She knows she's playing a composition by a man who could not fathom, never mind abide, a Ukraine independent of Russia. She knows that the finale, “The Great Gate of Kyiv”, refers to Hartmann's design sketch for a huge Russian style stone gate complete with a Russian Orthodox chapel, a bogatyr helmet shaped cupola and the Russian imperial double-headed eagle.
Ukrainians have taken back their mythic warriors, the bogatyrs, from Russia's literary thievery. The Ukrainian Orthodox Church tore itself from Moscow's ecclesiastical imperium. Every day brave Ukrainians give up their lives to eject a viscous predatory occupier. Here in New Ross, Anna Fedorova played the piece, laden with elegy, Jewish modes and pentatonic melodies, as if to say “Thanks for the gift, I'll take the music, you can keep the imperial stuff”.
Mussorgsky's inspiration was firmly terrestrial – agrarian and personal – with little patience for abstract ideals. He admired Ukrainian traditions and folklore, showing a deep respect in his opera, The Fair at Sorochyntsi. An artist as sensitive and moral as Fedorova surely empathises with Mussorgsky's tribute to his dead friend, no matter the subject matter of some of the paintings. Over 17,000 of her fellow citizens have been killed since 2022, and millions, including her parents, have fled. She has raised hundreds of thousands of euros for the displaced, and provided financial support and masterclasses to refugees at her academy in the Netherlands. All of this weighs heavy on her concerts irrespective of her technical mastery. They don't detract from her brilliance but they add something elusive that defies description. It might just be that she is, in the words of David Nice, “not only a fine human being... but also a remarkable artist”.
She sat down, smiled, slightly grimaced as she played the first notes, shook her head at the first strong rhythms of the opening promenade, and breathed heavily as the music heaved a bit. She crumpled into the keys as the music lurched and her shoulders hunched.
Then she sprang up and hammered! This is supposed to be about a stroll through an art exhibition, with a repeated promenade melody that signals walking and gives a cyclical structure to an otherwise disjointed piece. Fedorova is bringing us with her, sometimes dragging us around. It's as if she's rushing to get somewhere, and I think I know where.
Then she slows down, plays very sweetly during the third section – about a now lost painting of children playing and quarrelling in a garden. Then the music becomes almost funereal. The teasing falling thirds stopped. The children's game has ended. Fedorova is weeping. More sauntering, thrashing, sharp accents, jarring and jaunty ditties, clipped and crisp. Pedalling is fairly minimal in this piece. Sharpness and clarity prevail. She's not a singer and this piece obviously has no lyrics. but it's as if she wants to say something. She can only use the piano and the tension can be felt. Fedorova beautifies this music. During the concert I thought to myself, “why listen to Ravel's orchestration again when this exists”.
Fedorova wept again during the Catacomb section. Droplets of trills got softer and softer until they sounded like a harp. She sustained them without any audible signs of lagging. And then we arrived at the Great Gate of Kyiv (Hartmann's design pictured below).
She wasn't too percussive, but played it with dignity rather than bombastic triumph. Kyiv has been pulverised enough. The coda was business-like. Ringing and heavily sustained chords thwacked down brought to abrupt quarter note rests. Fedorova works these silences well. Then, with a massive E-flat major triad, she brought down the Great Gate of Kyiv, and the house.
Jerry Murphy, sitting in the third row, was first on his feet, clapping as soon as her hands left the keyboard. He didn't seem to care at all whether others joined him. But we all did.
The concert ended at 10pm Irish time, midnight in Kyiv. The air raid sirens had already sounded by the time we filed out of the church. That night, 173 jet-powered attack drones bombed Fedorova's city. Walking down the hill into the dark of the silent town, I felt I was at more than a concert. I hope someday soon I can say it was a rehearsal for Fedorova's performance in Kyiv to celebrate victory – thunderous piano, not buzzing drones. New Ross, not Novorossiya.
On Saturday I got chatting with a fellow concertgoer, Jacqueline from Brittany, who was at the first Festival in 2006 and has returned every year since. One of her highlights this year was folk-classical composer Jamie Duffy and his quartet (pictured below). She mentioned that Duffy preceded each piece with a talk on what inspired it, painting vivid pictures of the meaning of pieces just before they were played. Through word and music, he brought the audience into his upbringing in Glaslough, County Monaghan, right on the border with Northern Ireland.
Jacqueline shared my marvel at the global nature and genre diversity of the Festival's repertoire and the educative ethos that pervades it. She was looking forward to Grammy-nominated jazz pianist Judy Carmichael's concert later in the day.
New Ross is a friendly place whose people haven't yet lost the wonderful Irish custom of a quick nod and hello as you pass them on the street. It was clearly evident that they cherish the Piano Festival. I witnessed this as I walked through the town to each concert. Festival programmes and leaflets adorn the windows of local businesses and banners festoon the narrow streets. Goodwill built up over 20 years revealed itself in some passers-by asking me about the concerts upon seeing the programme in my hand. Staff in two local cafes asked if I was there for the Festival and reminisced about previous years' concerts. The owner of The Cracked Teapot cafe, a regular attendee, even postponed her holiday for the Festival.
Festival founders John Kissane, Connie Tantrum and Finghin Collins have created something truly unique – an entertaining, educational and emotionally fulfilling annual event with loyal attendees, efficient volunteers and world-class musicians, embedded in a close-knit scenic community that has made it its own. While the skill of the pianists might be a wonder, it's no wonder why the New Ross Piano Festival has thrived for 20 years. Anyone who has felt their heart stilled or thrilled by this instrument should attend. Like Jacqueline, you'll probably come back.
