There was something both ritualistic and vertiginously theatrical in the concert that Sergej Krylov and Fazil Say offered at the Auditorium of the Museo del Violino in Cremona, as part of the STRADIVARIfestival.

It was an encounter between two ardent personalities — two interpreters for whom music is not only a primordial language, but also a vital gesture, a civic commitment, and an act of presence in the world.

The program — Beethoven, Wagner, Say — unfolded like a dramaturgical parabola: from the heroic struggle of the Kreutzer Sonata, through the amorous dissolution of Tristan, to the contemporary catharsis of the Sonata No. 2 “Kaz Dağı – Mount Ida”, in which the destruction of nature is transfigured into a rite of hope; a journey that traversed three centuries of human unrest.

The opening chords of Beethoven’s masterpiece, with the solo violin cutting through the auditorium’s space with sculpted density, presented the sound of this incomparable Stradivarius—making its debut in the Arvedi Auditorium—in the finest possible way: a pure, three-dimensional sound that immediately fused with the piano in the following measures. In Beethoven’s Sonata Op. 47, Krylov’s energy and Say’s percussive force met in perfect balance.

The opening Presto, ignited by an almost symphonic gesture, found in Say a pulsing, rhythmic, nervous—yet deeply musical—engine, and in Krylov a raw, sulfurous song, with metallic, seductive sheen. The violinist’s flamboyance, well known to the Cremonese audience, was far from narcissistic—it became dramatic substance: the bow like flame in his vertical leaps, like velvet in lyrical phrasing, his body a natural extension of the sound.

In the Andante con variazioni, the two musicians reached a rarefied communication, built on shared breaths and the small miracles of phrasing. The theme-and-variations form allowed the overflowing personalities of both artists to emerge individually in the moments of prominence that Beethoven’s genius grants to each part. In the Finale, rhythmic tension—never mechanical—dissolved into a free, radiant dance.

This was not a “classical” Beethoven, but a fully theatrical one: Say, whimsical “conductor of himself,” whenever one hand left the keyboard, accompanied his playing with a dancing gesture; Krylov, exuberant to the point of breaking a string just a few bars before the Finale’s close. An interpretation to be read more in the register of a consummate storyteller’s art than in the composure of an architect’s rational design.

In Wagner’s Prelude and Death of Isolde, reimagined by Say, the piano became an orchestra, and Wagner’s harmony bent to the breath of the duo. Say, an adept composer, sculpted the chromaticism of the iconic and enigmatic Tristanakkord as the symbol of an ever-open question, suspended between eros and annihilation. Krylov entered with a feverish, almost vocal tone, seeking in the violin line the fragile thread of waiting. The intensity was never shouted—rather luxuriant: sound as both physical and spiritual substance. It was a reading that, without renouncing pathos, restored Wagner’s harmonic ambiguity as a metaphor for the human condition: desire that never finds fulfillment.

With his Sonata No. 2 “Kaz Dağı – Mount Ida”, Fazil Say led the audience into his poetic universe, where musical language becomes an ethical declaration. Composed in 2019 in response to the environmental devastation of Mount Ida, the work is both a cry and a prayer.

In the first movement, Doğa Katliamı (“Decimation of Nature”), the piano erupted in telluric, almost tribal rhythms, produced by direct action on the piano strings—plucked or muted by bare hands—while Krylov seemed to embody the voice of wounded nature: sharp sounds, daring gestures, exploring the entire range of the violin’s timbral possibilities—harmonics, col legno, pizzicato, sul ponticello, extreme octaves—a scenic representation that filled the hall.

In the second movement, Yaralı Kuş (“Wounded Bird”), the violin intoned a torn, heart-rending melody, interrupted by musical onomatopoeias—trills, bow whispers, pizzicato-breaths—that evoked the wingbeats of an injured bird, gliding into the blackbird’s warbling.

Here Krylov, with his feverish phrasing and visionary control of sound, reached the peak of interpretation: a poignant lyricism, suspended between energy and sorrow. It was the musical representation of what happens when the logic of money refuses to stop even before the outrage of felling ancient trees—heedless of the magical moment when, in the secret warmth of nests, eggs crack open to the chirping that heralds life.

The final movement, Umut Ayini (“Rite of Hope”), closed the circle in a mystical crescendo: a cyclical rhythm over an obstinate melodic pattern, with modulations that seemed to breathe with the audience in a collective rite of rebirth. Here, Stravinskian echoes became evident—almost a reverential tribute to the undisputed priest of ancestral sacrifice. This is music that is not merely listened to—it is lived.

Krylov and Say do not form a duo in the traditional sense: they are two magnetic poles that attract and repel each other in a constant exchange of energy. Say, with his vibrant presence and intense gestures, controls time and space; Krylov ignites it, makes it vibrate, translates it into physical gesture.

The result is music that transcends the score—almost a three-act sound drama: love, death, and rebirth.

In the silence after the final note, the memory of Wagner’s Tristanakkord still seemed to resonate—unresolved, like life itself, yet transfigured into hope.

A concert that reconciled intellect and instinct, technique and poetry: sound, at last, as a form of truth.

Repeated ovations were rewarded with the final two Romanian Dances by Bartók—the fiery Poarga Românească and Mărunţel—a fitting conclusion to a concert beyond all measure.

Next event: Friday, November 7, with the accordion of Richard Galliano.

Photos by Francesco Sessa Ventura