Sergei Prokofiev, a Russian composer who does not know how to play the "trick of power" at all.

More precisely, it is a misunderstood man.

He did not belong to any school of thought and never followed any popular trend.

But his music never fits into a rut, and whenever one tries to reduce it to an easy-to-understand blueprint, there are constantly 'surprises' and surprises.

To this day in the 21st century, more than 50 years after his death, various interpretations of him are still the talk of many pianists.

Was he an active modernist or a reactionary in classical music?

Accounts differ and opinions vary.

Due to the sturdy classical structural design and traditional tonality of his works, his music is still classified as a conservative old-row style by some avant-garde composers.

And to a neutral audience, his discordant modernist style is so obvious.

And in He Jing's opinion.

Prokofiev is just a man who expresses his point of view in silence by playing drums with music.

His work, Instant Art, is also a commentary on art.

It's like a person who is a cold observer of this complicated world, and lives in it.

He Jing can always find something between the lines in his music, and these traces have a kind of forward resonance with her thoughts.

Thereupon.

When she first listened to Piano Concerto No. 2, she knew it would be on her personal list.

There is no particular reason for this, just the moment when the lyrical piano lines of the first movement come out.

She decided.

The stage lighting of the Nanyin Concert Hall did not shine like gold, and it was a little darker.

However, the warm yellow halo also softened He Jing's three-dimensional facial features.

The Andante slowly pulls out the piano's sound in the two-bar prelude to the string pizzicato clarinet.

He Jing leaned over and gently pushed his arms, his hands as if he had adjusted his posture countless times, and chanted out the soft melody in his mind.

Rustic sound, but with a rich sound.

Just three bars of musical development reveal Prokofiev's hidden motives in a complex musical fabric.

At the backstage door, Qin Jian stood upright in a daze, listening to the music full of Russian national customs in his ears, and thought of Rachmaninov again.

The music of the two sounds like they are connected by a special bond.

But in reality, there are many differences.

If Rachmaninov is a purple lilac blooming under the eaves.

Naprokofiev is more like a silent wasteland of wildflowers.

The former is dark and emotional, haunted by dreams.

The latter sobbed secretly, igniting the black spring.

What he didn't know, however, was that Rachmaninov had gone to a foreign country and never returned.

And Prokofiev, under the controversy, resolutely decided to return to his homeland in order to escape from the strange circle of life in Paris.

But what did it not occur to Prockefev was that this move did not improve his loneliness.

It's as if even when all the orchestra players stop their hands, the majestic solo piano fragments still sound out of place in the hall.

Stripped of the difficult tricks under the hands on the keys, all that remains is a rustic line.

In the final theme of the first movement, He Jing's ten fingers are getting slower and slower.

Getting slower and slower.

Finally, in a hopeless silence.

"Whew. ”

As the first movement ended, Qin Jian wiped the fine sweat that had risen from his forehead.

The backstage of this Mayday should not have been hot.

...

From a certain point of view, Prokofiev's Piano Concerto No. 2 does inherit the unique style of Russian music.

It has the style of Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto, a novel chord orchestration and a strong personal style.

But the deep roar and panic and depression hidden in the keyboard warrior can't be concealed.

Second movement, wittic.

The entire concert hall was filled with the frantic plucking of string groups.

Like a swarm of bees.

A swarm of modern chimneys suddenly appeared, causing chaos on the stage.

Hardly a single melodic line inside the piano can be heard.

However, in the sharpness of this transient, He Jing once again showed his powerful finger function.

Where her ten fingers passed, there was no pause, like a dragonfly touching water.

The sound effect of the string percussion like infinite movement brought an extremely shocking visual and auditory experience to the audience.

Strong finger skills are another dream of every piano learner.

It's just that at this moment, no one will think about the things behind such a hand speed.

In the middle of this storm, suddenly the orchestra and musicians came to an abrupt halt.

Quiet.

Xia Dong picked up a handkerchief and wiped the sweat on his forehead, and breathed a sigh of relief.

Last night's ending that didn't always close neatly was perfect today.

Xia Dong raised his baton again and looked at Erquan.

Erquan exhaled deeply, tightened the timpani hammer in his hand again, and then nodded at Xia Dong.

The next second.

The baton of summer and winter fell in an instant.

"Knock ——————"

"Knock ————"

"Knock ——————"

"Knock ————"

In the thick string music, the timpani sound slowly came from one long and one short.

It was like a giant stepping deep and shallow, stepping forward from the back of the stage, with a momentum of destruction.

All the audience's eyes were focused on the drumstick held by Erquan in his hand.

And then the chaotic orchestra is more like decorating the stage like an abandoned steel factory.

The grin of the clarinet is like a rusty machine tool, and the viola is like inky smoke rising from a chimney.

And at this very moment.

In front of the piano, there was a passionate and ambitious scream.

Suddenly I heard it.

It's like a nursery rhyme full of banter.

But when the camera hits He Jing's facial features, her difficult expression seems to tell that everything is not the case.

Intense scratching, grainy scales, everywhere.

Finally, in the cacophony of woodwinds and the overtones of the first minor that fell into madness, they were in full force.

He Jing's expression returned to indifference again.

She swiped her left hand slightly.

This third movement, full of 'humor and absurdity', is crossed.

Prokofiev never denied his absurdity, and his humor was always cold and mean.

Sometimes it's like a slapstick drama, and sometimes it's sad and touching.

He gives the player maximum room for expression and never tells the same joke over and over again.

After taking off the mask of rhythm and surging energy, it is not difficult to find that his sketching of traditional melodies has never disappointed.

And the source of thoughts buried under this melody is the wind far away, the winter of the north farther away than the wind.

fpzw