Andreas Staier, Wigmore Hall, London

In his illuminating new survey of Bach’s life and works, published by Faber in its deceptively titled “Pocket Guide” series, Nicholas Kenyon describes the composer as “one of the most mysterious, accomplished and protean creative geniuses our civilisation has ever produced”. He then goes on to quote a string of eminent figures, from Tchaikovsky to Thomas Beecham, Bernard Levin and Stephen Hough, who claim never to have “got” Bach.

The work around which such opinions swirl most furiously is the “keyboard exercise” known to posterity as the Goldberg Variations – and few performances could be better calculated to keep alive the opposing arguments than this one by German harpsichordist Andreas Staier. The Goldberg Variations are indeed a set of exercises – incredibly elaborate and challenging ones, with an inner design and outer architecture that only someone of Bach’s exceptional ingenuity could combine. But since the 1950s, and especially in the past 30 years of “period” popularity, they have been elevated to a pedestal so high, so full of spiritual/metaphysical significance, that encounters with them in the recital hall can create a sense of let-down rather than catharsis.

So it was on Sunday. An experienced musician with scholarly credentials, Staier gave a stylistically up-to-the-minute account that provided intermittent illumination, especially in the richly embroidered genre pieces that follow the canons (ie every third variation), but fell short of the ultimate distinction. This was not simply because, to modern ears, the harpsichord can seem a pale cousin of the piano, or because a baroque specialist brings less showmanship to the platform than a star performer.

Of Staier’s virtuosity there could be no doubt. He rattled through the intricate studies that precede the canons with a speed that was breathtaking – and sometimes self-defeating, because the tempo tended to swallow up the music and smooth over the structure, notably in variations eight and 17. The canons themselves were unwrapped with dextrous aplomb. It was all a shade on the dry side, as if Staier was giving an objective appraisal of Bach’s technique rather than a subjective guide to his greatness.

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