Daniil Trifonov, the young Russian sensation, played a recital in Carnegie Hall last Wednesday night. His instrument is the piano. His program was all-Schumann on the first half, all-Russian on the second. The Russian composers were two greats of the twentieth century, Shostakovich and Stravinsky.
Trifonov began his recital with Schumann’s Kinderszenen, the Scenes from Childhood. To play these pieces, you ought to be child-like—not childish, but child-like. Horowitz, a great player of this work, had that quality in spades. Trifonov?
He was okay. He laid on the first note, as pianists do, to get started. This is a bad habit (when the first note should not be laid on). Trifonov made some lovely, pure sounds, as always. Sometimes his pianos—his soft sounds—did not carry. Some notes, at whatever dynamic level, did not sound at all. Some notes were outright missed.
Speaking of Horowitz, I thought of something said about him, when I was a kid: he missed notes in Clementi sonatas. Which was comforting to lesser pianists (i.e., almost all others).
Continuing on this theme of Horowitz: “Träumerei” (“Dreaming”), from Kinderszenen, was a famous encore of his. From Mr. Trifonov, it was a little self-conscious, a little mannered. Not bad. He soon got to “Ritter vom Steckenpferd” (“Knight of the Hobby Horse”), the most delightsome piece in the set, and one of the most delightsome pieces in the entire piano repertoire. It was okay.
Going forward, Trifonov sometimes used too much pedal, causing too much of a blur. Also, he was sometimes too plodding. One could see, and feel, the bar lines. This was a pedestrian account of Kinderszenen, I’m afraid.
Next on the program was Schumann’s Toccata, which ought to be (a) fast, (b) precise, and (c) electric. It was okay. The notes were there, although not perfectly articulated, and Trifonov is probably never going to lay an egg on you. But the music was deprived of its electric charge.
There is a Cult of Trifonov—a widespread and intense admiration of him—and one can well understand it. But the cult was not justified at this point of the evening.
Last on the first half was Kreisleriana. And here I must return to Horowitz, if you’ll forgive me. Christoph Eschenbach, the pianist and conductor, told me that Horowitz played privately for him once. It was Kreisleriana. “How was it?” I asked. Answer: Darn good.
Trifonov was good too. He showed some authority and panache (often hunched over the keyboard like Montgomery Burns of The Simpsons). He hit his stride.
And he was even more in his stride, more in his groove, after intermission, when he sat down for Shostakovich’s Preludes and Fugues. Not all of them. Five of them, which is to say, five pairs. Outstanding was the Prelude and Fugue in A major. It was dreamlike, played with delicacy and fondness. Then there was the Prelude and Fugue in A minor. The prelude is a toccata of sorts, and it was Trifonov’s best toccata of the night (if I may). In the fugue, he played with a detachedness that reminded me of Gould, playing Bach. Very effective.
In all, Trifonov played these pieces with a devotion, and a charisma, that made me want to know the Preludes and Fugues better—all twenty-four of them.
Last on the printed program was Petrushka, the famous three movements from that Stravinsky ballet, arranged by the composer for Artur Rubinstein. Trifonov was something to see. He rose from the bench as he was playing and crashed back down. I think the music was sometimes more interesting to see than to listen to—but Trifonov showed formidable fingers, as well as commitment—almost a desperate commitment—and I like something that a friend of mine said later: “He transformed the keyboard into a marionette theater.”
How about an encore? It occurred to me that Trifonov should play a true encore, meaning a piece that he had already played: namely, “Träumerei.” It would be (a) surprising, (b) pleasing, and (c) a little homage to Horowitz. But he played a Fairy Tale by Medtner, and then another one. And these pieces were perfectly beautiful.
Trifonov is a composer as well as a performer—he likes to roll his own. I hope we will hear his own pieces as encores. His colleague Marc-André Hamelin is one pianist who does this. Hamelin has been known to place his pieces on the program itself (if I remember correctly). So has Stephen Hough.
The great Schnabel, evidently, wanted to be known as a composer more than anything else. But he would not play his own music. “It would be an abuse of my position,” he explained: his position as one of the most famous and beloved concertizers in the world. People were paying to hear him play Beethoven, not Schnabel.
Ah, mores.