Lang Lang

Lang Lang concerts have the ­hallmarks of celebrity: a capacity crowd, a later-than-­advertised start, camera flashes, ­applause in the wrong places, and a young man who lollops and glides like a pop idol. For the Chinese pianist's only British date of his ­current tour, Lang's ­performing ­technique was as ­glittering as the ­sequins on his shirt, but his ­programme suggested that ­showmanship may no longer be his highest ­priority. One can only hope. In the week Daniel Barenboim was such a presence in London, it was ironic that Lang, who cites him as a ­mentor, should offer Beethoven's Op 57 ­Appassionata sonata, the subject of their DVD masterclass. Lang appeared to have taken little of the great man's advice: his performance entirely lacked emotional depth and intellectual rigour. If one hand isn't actually on the keys, it is ­gesturing ­elaborately as though ­conducting the other; his fingers flutter as though sprinkling fairy dust; notes hang poised in the air, drawing ­attention to their eventual placing. Yet this adds nothing to the sound: the tone was ­shallow, with ­dynamics alone ­providing shading. The Sonata in C, Op 2 No 3, was similarly disappointing, with no clear sense of structure. Lang's second half made some amends. Book one of Albéniz's Iberia was moody and atmospheric, the histrionics more ­tolerable; Prokofiev's Seventh Sonata was a ­suitable vehicle for some iron pumping. But, while Lang is ­pointing in the right ­direction, display has the upper hand. The ­evidence is that he's not quite ready to make the ­transition to serious artist.