Jean-Philippe Collard looks his age in person, with a bleached mane so unlike his publicity shots. We both thought he bears more than a passing resemblance to Cindy Crawford's former paramour.
I am probably spoilt by messrs Wild and Pletnev's whirlwind renditions, and so found his delivery a little lacking in fire, while the tutti support was for the most part pedestrian and workman-like. But there were still plenty of moments to wallow in, soaked in slavic sentimentality, thanks to our exile's consumate ability to induce heaping waves of melody, even in his youth when madness and melancholy had not yet defined his marque.
The guests were lacklustre, mustering insufficient enthusiasm to induce a hoped-for rendition of Fauré, where Collard's refined Gallic sensibilities really come to their fore. After the break, Kamu in chinoiserie directed a worthy encore in C, scaling down the would-be revolutionary's first symphonic effort to a Haydnesque ensemble without losing his distinctive musculature.
After the chicken wings, I changed my mind about taking the bus and dipped my duck into the withering drizzle, only to find that come just three minutes past the witching hour, even on a secular Sabbath, the gates to a world-class ride through the island's granite veins are firmly shut.
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