(((O))) Live: Gleb Kolyadin – Piano Smithfield

Piano Smithfield has an unassuming entrance, tucked around the corner from the Barbican tube station. It wasn’t the tube but the bus that had very regretfully made me about ten minutes late. Hurriedly making my way in, I found that Gleb Kolyadin had already begun. Descending the stairs to the venue, then, was a complete and immediate submersion; the room was all low mood lights, plush red velvet, brocade, and the grand piano’s voice filled the room as if it were a natural source of light itself. Within these ten minutes (though I suspect even before he had sat to play), Kolyadin had the audience rapt. I noticed the enthralled silence broken only by the respectfully gentle clinking of glass – the bar was directly behind my seat. 

Gleb Kolyadin. Photo: Leon Barker

This gig was to be a launch of his latest album, Mobula – the fourth released under his solo name – though it wasn’t to be a straightforward playthrough. Mobula includes much collaboration, so to play the songs all as recorded would be impossible here. But the supposed limitation of (at first) a lone piano, didn’t at all seem limiting. It would be a trivialisation to say Kolyadin knew his way around the instrument – he plays bent into a crescent, almost in prayer over the ivories, moving with the sweeps of the music as a plant moves in the breeze. At one point, he reaches into the belly of the piano with one hand to pluck the strings, whilst the other hand remains on the keys, rippling. The light on the underside of the piano lid exposes these plucked guts to the audience; it’s intimate and deeply connective.

Gleb Kolyadin. Photo: Leon Barker

This was the first act, and now, an interval: fans, friends, artists and organisers all commingle. There are no interpersonal barriers to navigate around; London Prog Gigs seem to have forged a genuine sense of warmth and community to gather in this underground place. Kolyadin is ceaselessly thankful to all who approach him in this break. 

The performance resumes, and we sit as the first guest is introduced to the stage – percussionist Evan Carson. His bodhrán drumming, atop Kolyadin’s piano, at once grounds it and lifts it up. There’s a particular earthiness to the bodhrán sound, but also a playful bounce. Playfulness spreads: with percussion to disguise the noise a little, the bar staff are now able to shake cocktails – and do so in near-perfect rhythm with Carson. The next piece adds Charlie Cawood on acoustic guitar to the ensemble. All three musicians weave their playing around each other as a golden three-stranded braid. There is no lead. They work together as naturally as if they were physically connected somehow, through the threads of sounds they spin and plait. 

Marjana Semkina. Photo: Leon Barker

Marjana Semkina then joins, and iamthemorning are reassembled, much to the crowd’s delight. Semkina offers to take charge of the between-song chat, and the endearingly shy Kolyadin accepts with much relief. Their stage partnership feels, as with the other musicians present, almost startlingly natural. Though apparently battling a sabotaging cold, Semkina’s voice joins perfectly. It is as if it is made of the same fibres as her flowing, angel-sleeved dress – floating, gauzily fluid. Not only are the musicians sonically complementary, but also attentive in giving each other their due spotlight. In instrumental breaks, Semkina, the only one standing rather than sitting on stage, ducks down so as not to obscure any of the others to the audience. Though engrossed in their own instruments, it’s clear Kolyadin, Carson, Cawood and Semkina are intuitively aware of and in touch with one another.

L-R: Marjana Semkina, Gleb Kolyadin, Evan Carson, Charlie Cawood. Photo: Leon Barker

The night ends with several Kolyadin-solo encores that astonish us again with their artistry. He flits between time signature and mood changes as effortlessly as turning the pages of a book; every shift is a continuation, an evolution, rather than a cut or break. Everyone here is not just witness to Kolyadin’s performance but intrinsically connected to it; touched by its beams and sunned by its rays.

Gleb Kolyadin. Photo: Leon Barker