As Yefim Bronfman walked to the piano on Sunday afternoon, I thought, “This is one of the most familiar sights in New York”—or the classical-music division of New York. Over the last twenty-five years, has there been a more frequent soloist in this city (whether in concertos or recitals)? Tied with Bronfman, perhaps, is his friend and fellow pianist Emanuel Ax.
Bronfman played a recital in Carnegie Hall yesterday. It began with Schubert: his Sonata in A minor, D. 784. This is one of the mysterious, gently painful pieces that mark his later years.
Yes, “later years”—Schubert was in his mid-twenties when he wrote this one.
Bronfman started the sonata very, very softly. He was in his own world, or Schubert’s world. I was wishing we were in a smaller hall—a more intimate hall. But Bronfman made Carnegie Hall intimate enough. As usual, he observed the musical line and applied the right weight—the right weight to each note as the music proceeded. Chords were together.
Is that even worth mentioning? Don’t professional pianists play their chords together? And evenly? Not as reliably as you might think.
Schubert’s first movement has some A-major pages, which, in these hands, were simple, pure—angelic.
If Bronfman had played nothing beyond the first movement of D. 784, patrons would almost have gotten their money’s worth.
In the middle movement, Andante, he was utterly songful. I thought of something he told me several years ago in a podcast. It was accompanying singers, he said, that really taught him how to play Schubert.
At the beginning of the last movement, he was spooky and blurred. This was effective, and a little unnerving. Later on, he conveyed a suppressed urgency (which is characteristic of Schubert). I thought of a phrase from American literature: “quiet desperation.”
Bronfman took his bows, left the stage, came back, and sat down to work. That’s what he does: sit down to work, without fuss or ceremony. He gets right down to business. He says, in effect, “This is what I do. This is what we’re here for.”
The second piece on his program was by Schumann: Faschingsschwank aus Wien (Carnival Jest from Vienna). Bronfman played with solid Romanticism—a kind of Classical Romanticism. Romanticism with a spine. He manifested savoir faire, with nothing overdone. He was almost British, I thought. Myra Hess would have smiled in approval.
To the Finale of the piece, I objected. I like it headlong, a little nuts. From Bronfman, it was all too sober, too subdued, in my judgment.
After intermission, he sat down to a piece by Esa-Pekka Salonen. Bronfman has worked with this composer-conductor for many years. The Salonen piece in question was Sisar, composed in 2012. Our program notes quoted Bronfman as saying, “It’s just six minutes, but it seems like an hour.”
I thought that was hilarious. Is that a compliment? It reminded me of an old line: “I spent a month in the country with her one weekend.”
When I heard the piece, I knew what Bronfman meant. Salonen packs a lot into that piece. Brainy noodles. A bit of jazz. Big, stentorian statements (in the left hand). A bit of Impressionism. (I thought of Debussy’s goldfish.) Beauty. It is an ever interesting piece, and Bronfman played it interestingly, and beautifully.
Let me mention, too, that he used sheet music—I mean, on paper, not on a computer tablet. Bronfman turned the pages, as of old.
He took his bows, left the stage, and came back for the next piece. Now, why am I making a point of this? Isn’t this an ordinary, prosaic thing to do? No. The fad, these days, is to run pieces together, with no separation. One piece to the next, one composer to the next—no separation. I can’t wait for this fad to fade out.
Bronfman sat down to a nocturne by Chopin—the one in D flat, Op. 27, No. 2. He got the motor running, with his left hand. Then he began to sing, with his right hand. He was amazingly limpid in this piece. And his pedaling was very shrewd, as is necessary. I have never really thought of Bronfman as a Chopinist—maybe one should.
One definitely thinks of him as a Prokofiev player—and he ended his printed program with Prokofiev’s Sonata No. 7 in B flat (the one that concludes with the Precipitato). From the opening measures, Bronfman was sovereign. The first movement was riveting, sometimes demonic. The cradle song of the middle movement was a relief. And the Precipitato? Propulsive, overwhelming, with Bronfman making his big, fat sounds.
When it was over, the audience leapt to its feet, and I had to leap out the door to the airport. I’m sure there was a slew of encores. Damn plane.