The 2006–2007 season was typical in that many performances
were bad, many more were mediocre—and some were magically
right. There’s no point in dwelling on the bad or mediocre;
let them return to dust. We will instead recall and salute
the magically right. In our September issue, I had a piece
called “Who’s Good?” The theme of the present piece may be
rendered, “Who was good in the 2006–2007 season?” Needless to
say, there will be some overlap—some surprises, too.

Begin with orchestras and conductors. I heard a great many
of these, from all over the world. But most of the
performances I wish to mention came from Lorin Maazel and
the New York Philharmonic. Maazel is an excellent “French”
conductor, and he makes whatever orchestra he directs an
excellent “French” orchestra. One evening, he conducted
Ravel’s opera L’Enfant et les sortilèges, followed by
Saint-Saëns’s “Organ” Symphony. The former was playful,
fizzy, arresting; the latter was unapologetically grand and
glorious. On another evening, Maazel conducted the Suite No.
2 from Roussel’s Bacchus et Ariane, and this was
positively dazzling. Months later, he conducted another
Suite No. 2: from Ravel’s Daphnis et Chloé. Can music so
familiar
be fresh and exciting? In the right hands,
yes.

One work outside the French repertory: the Final Scene from
Strauss’s Salome. Maazel absolutely staggered and
electrified you with this. Who was the soprano? I’m afraid
it doesn’t really matter. (Nancy Gustafson.) Maazel owned
this piece, conducting it within an inch of its life.

I will mention one other conductor, James Levine, who
directs two orchestras: the Boston Symphony Orchestra and
the Metropolitan Opera Orchestra. The latter sometimes
leaves the pit for a concert stage. With the BSO, Levine
conducted a major French work: Berlioz’s Damnation of
Faust. In it, he displayed his typical combination of
discipline and imagination, common sense and musical élan.
Particularly memorable was Berlioz’s horse ride into hell:
gripping. Then, toward the end of the season, Levine led the
Met band in Mozart’s “Jupiter” Symphony. In a nutshell,
Levine recalled the man under whom he apprenticed, George
Szell: one of the great Mozarteans. Levine is there with
him.

Spend some time with pianists, beginning with Louis Lortie.
I did not mention him in “Who’s Good?” and I will not make
that mistake again. He gave a magnificent recital, featuring
several works of Liszt. This was some of the best Liszt
playing you can ever hope to hear. It was virtuosic, yes,
but astoundingly beautiful, too. Also giving a magnificent
recital was Piotr Anderszewski. He played the three
Métopes of Szymanowski, and these were extraordinary:
wizardly, weird, and wondrous. He later played one of the
largest and most demanding works in the literature:
Beethoven’s “Diabelli” Variations. In these, Anderszewski
accomplished a feat of pianism.

His fellow Pole, Krystian Zimerman, played a concert with
Gidon Kremer, the Latvian violinist. They played the Brahms
violin-and-piano sonatas. You know the expression “Loved
her, hated him” (or vice versa)? Well, Kremer had a
miserable night, but Zimerman played superbly, which is why
I include him here. Leon Fleisher appeared several times in
New York, and I must single out his traversal of Debussy’s
Cathédrale engloutie. Fleisher has never been known as an
Impressionist, but a better rendering of this touchstone
piece I have never heard. He also distinguished himself in
Mozart’s Concerto in A, K. 414 (with the Philharmonic and
Maazel). This is often a kid’s piece, favored by talented
little girls in pink dresses, but Fleisher played it with
the maturity of a master.

Another master—Fleisher’s exact contemporary—played with
the Chamber Music Society of Lincoln Center. This was Gary
Graffman, who participated in Korngold’s Suite for Piano
Left Hand, Two Violins, and Cello. He also played something
on his own: Leon Kirchner’s Music for the Left Hand.
Graffman showed the strength, command, and flair that won
him his worldwide reputation many moons ago. Another pianist
with the Chamber Music Society was Gilles Vonsattel. A
newcomer, Swiss-born, he had just won the Geneva
Competition. And the judges had chosen well: Vonsattel is a
solid, smart, and tasteful musician, reminding me some of
the young Perahia.

I have mentioned a couple of pieces for the left hand. Know
too that Jean-Yves Thibaudet played Ravel’s lefthand
concerto, and did so electrically. (The orchestra was the
Los Angeles Philharmonic, led by Esa-Pekka Salonen.)
Thibaudet provided a reminder of what this concerto can do.
And I will end this section on pianists with an unusual
tale—although not so unusual, if you know Daniel
Barenboim. He is one of the most uneven musicians on earth.
With Levine and the Boston Symphony, he played not one, but
two concertos: the Schoenberg and the Beethoven G-major. In
both of these works, Barenboim was pretty bad: sloppy,
indifferent, vulgar. I was leaving the hall disgusted. But
the crowd was going crazy, and I stuck around in the back,
in case there was an encore to report.

There was. It was a Schubert impromptu, the one in A flat,
D. 935, No. 2. And ladies and gentlemen, it was beyond good.
It was heavenly, golden, sublime. I have never heard better
Schubert playing, from anyone. It was as though Backhaus had
come back to play for us once more. You simply never know,
at least where Barenboim is concerned.

The 2006–2007 season saw scads of violinists, and very good
ones—we are in a rich period for violinists. But I will
mention just four to you. Two of them played the Berg
Concerto: Leonidas Kavakos and Anne-Sophie Mutter. Kavakos
played with the Philadelphia Orchestra and Christoph
Eschenbach, and Mutter played with Maazel and the
Philharmonic. Their performances were not identical, but
they were both first-class, bringing out the strange genius
of Berg’s concerto. Christian Tetzlaff played the Ligeti
Concerto (with the Philharmonic and Alan Gilbert). This is a
brainy, compelling work, and Tetzlaff is a brainy,
compelling work himself. Concerto and soloist were a
splendid match.

I had heard Lisa Batiashvili, the young Georgian violinist,
play once before, and she was all right: respectable, but
nothing to write home about. So I was unprepared for how she
played Shostakovich’s Concerto No. 1 (with the Philharmonic
and Sakari Oramo). She did not put a foot wrong, and she did
everything right. Like most critics, I suppose, I have heard
all the violinists of my time play this concerto, and I know
all the significant recordings. I cannot remember a more
moving, more rattling, more fulfilling performance. You
could have shaken, right there in your chair. I doubt I will
ever forget it.

Miklós Perényi is a Hungarian cellist, born in 1948. With
his fellow Hungarian, András Schiff, he played Beethoven’s
music for cello and piano—all of it (over two concerts).
Perényi is not nearly as famous as Schiff, but he left a
lasting mark. He played his Beethoven with tremendous wisdom
and mastery. You sensed you were in the presence of a
cellist—a musician—who had reached a kind of mental or
spiritual summit. A superstar cellist, Yo-Yo Ma, played
Shostakovich’s Concerto No. 2 with the New World
Symphony,
conducted by Michael Tilson Thomas. That was a commendable
rendering—but I include him here for the encore he played:
an arrangement of Tchaikovsky’s Andante cantabile (drawn
from the String Quartet No. 1). It was perfectly beautiful,
free of all sentimentality.

The biggest mistake I made in “Who’s Good?” was the omission
of Alisa Weilerstein. What a huge mistake, what a thunderous
omission! Weilerstein is a twenty-five-year-old cellist, and she had
not quite crossed my radar when I wrote that piece last
summer. I know better now, to say the least. With the New
York Philharmonic and Zubin Mehta, Weilerstein played the
Elgar Concerto, and she played it supremely. The work had
its maximum impact. More than a few cellists dropped the
Elgar from their repertory when Jacqueline du Pré recorded
it (with Sir John Barbirolli and the London Symphony
Orchestra). Ladies and gentlemen, I don’t mean to offend the
dead, and I don’t mean to make nostalgists faint. But if
anyone has ever played that piece better than Alisa
Weilerstein …

Have a wind player—a clarinetist. Jose Franch-Ballester, a
young Spaniard, played a recital, and he showed every gift:
smarts, style, technique, charm. It is a rich age for
violinists, and it is a rich age for clarinetists (not that
they matter so much): Franch-Ballester is a sparkling
addition to the pack.

There seemed to be a vocal recital every other day, and one
of the most gratifying ones was that of Angelika
Kirchschlager, the Austrian mezzo: She sang Schumann on her
first half, and Schubert on her second. She sang with
insight, beauty, and skill, and her accompanist, Malcolm
Martineau, nicely matched her. Michael Schade also gave a
lieder recital, and he, as usual, was wonderful—and
Wunderlichian. (Schade too was accompanied by Martineau, a
busy man.) Diana Damrau, the German soprano, was not feeling
well the night of her recital—she announced so before she
began. But she still sang winningly, as she cannot help
doing, whatever her condition.

You may not think of Juan Diego Flórez as a recitalist—he
is the king of Rossini tenors, or of bel canto tenors at
large. But he proved a boffo recitalist, wowin’ ’em into the
night. One of the most distinguished and cherishable
evenings of the entire season was provided by Joyce
DiDonato, the American mezzo. She sang a recital of Bizet,
Rossini, and a trio of Spaniards: Granados, Falla, and
Montsalvatge. The lady has technique and personality to
burn, and she practically burned down—burned up?—Weill
Recital Hall.

When the New York Philharmonic performed Handel’s Messiah,
three soloists were superb (which, considering that there
are only four, is a great average): A Canadian soprano named
Dominique Labelle sang purely, interestingly, and
touchingly; the famed mezzo Stephanie Blythe sang with
conviction and soul; and a Welsh bass-baritone named Neal
Davies sang rivetingly. I must also put forward the name of
Brenda Patterson. A Seattle-born mezzo, she sang three Bach
cantatas with the Orchestra of St. Luke’s, conducted by Mary
Dalton Greer. Patterson is the real McCoy: a genuine Bach
singer, making her a treasure among musicians.

In the field of chamber music, two different ensembles
played Shostakovich’s Piano Trio No. 2 in E minor, within
three weeks of each other. The first ensemble consisted of
Lilya Zilberstein (piano), Maxim Vengerov (violin), and
Alisa Weilerstein; the second ensemble consisted of Yefim
Bronfman, Gil Shaham, and Lynn Harrell. Shostakovich’s trio
is an eerie masterpiece—typical of him—and each group
did it justice. A young string quartet called the Daedalus
played Webern’s Langsamer Satz startlingly well. Frankly,
it was perfect. And the Miró Quartet played a concert of
extremely high quality. On the program were two familiar
composers, Dvorák and Shostakovich, and one less familiar:
Juan Crisóstomo Arriaga, known as “the Spanish Mozart,” who
died just shy of his twentieth birthday, in 1826.

The Chamber Music Society put on a four-concert festival of
English music from the first third of the last century. I
heard several fine performances in this festival, and I will
single out the one of Frank Bridge’s Phantasie Trio in
C minor for piano, violin, and cello—played by Ani
Kavafian, Anne-Marie McDermott, and Efe Baltacigil, a young
Turk (pardon the expression).

I very much wanted to include a section on new music—I
heard dozens and dozens of new pieces in the 2006–2007 season.
Looking back at the nine months in question, I had trouble
coming up with a single piece I have a noteworthy desire to
hear again. A blunter comment on the current state of
affairs, I cannot make. And I make it with no pleasure
whatsoever and considerable frustration.

Turn, now, to the opera house, and in particular to the
Metropolitan Opera. James Levine had many tremendous
operatic outings, as you might expect. I spoke earlier about
his Mozart: and in Idomeneo and The Magic Flute he was
exemplary. He also led a stunning—an exemplary—performance
of Verdi’s Don Carlo. Still, what may take the palm is his
work in Il Trittico, Puccini’s triple bill. In the first
opera, Il Tabarro, Levine brought out a tension that was
hard to bear. The score had murder written all over it. And
the third opera, Gianni Schicchi, Levine made an
orchestral tour de force. He and the Met band were colorful,
crackling, and almost jazzy.

Diana Damrau had a big season in New York: There was her
recital, and also her turn as Rosina in the Met’s Barber of
Seville. Damrau is a splendid Rossini singer, as she is a
splendid singer of much else, and she made a delectable
Rosina. She was also a dazzler as Aithra in Strauss’s
Egyptian Helen. Joyce DiDonato, too, had a turn as Rosina,
a role the composer would have written for her, if he had
known her. And, speaking of The Barber, who can top Juan
Diego Flórez as Count Almaviva?

I happened to hear a hit-or-miss tenor, Ben Heppner, in peak
form as Idomeneo. Two other singers shone that night as
well: Dorothea Röschmann, one of the great Mozart singers of
our time; and the excellent mezzo Kristine Jepson. Anna
Netrebko strutted her stuff—vocally and theatrically—in
I Puritani (Bellini). She is surely the most hyped singer
in the world, and she usually manages to live up to it.
Outstanding in Verdi’s Simon Boccanegra were Thomas
Hampson and Ferruccio Furlanetto, two formidable singing
actors. Angela Gheorghiu was no slouch in that opera either.
The Russian bass Ildar Abdrazakov made an elegantly evil
Méphistophélès
in Gounod’s Faust. Matthew Polenzani showed
tenorial freshness as David in Wagner’s Meistersinger. And
Heidi Grant Murphy sang angelically in Gluck’s Orfeo. She
ought to have, because she portrayed Amor, or Cupid.

La Gioconda (Ponchielli) requires six strong singers, and
the Met had six good ones. Especially good were the women:
Violeta Urmana, Olga Borodina, and Irina Mishura. They stood
and sang, or, better, stood and delivered. This was grand
opera in the grand fashion, the way it should be. Giordano’s
Andrea Chénier brought a similar night. Heppner and Urmana
starred, and they were in decent shape. But the baritone,
Mark Delavan, was absolutely smoking, and so was the
conductor, Marco Armiliato. In my experience, this maestro
had always been sort of routine—not this night.

When I caught her, Renée Fleming was sensationally good as
Tatiana in Tchaikovsky’s Eugene Onegin. She was simply at
her best, which is an enviable best. And Ramón Vargas made a
creamy and convincing Lenski. Many people said that the cast
of the year was Don Carlo’s, and it was top-notch, indeed.
How do you beat Johan Botha as Carlo, Dmitri Hvorostovsky as
Rodrigo, Borodina as Eboli, René Pape as Philip, and Samuel
Ramey as the Inquisitor? As good as they were—and they
were marvelous—the soprano singing Elisabetta nearly stole
the show: Patricia Racette.

I must mention, too, a pair of evenings furnished by the
Opera Orchestra of New York, whose founder and conductor is
Eve Queler. The first of these evenings gave us Donizetti’s
last opera, Dom Sébastien; the second gave us
L’Arlesiana, by Francesco Cilea. These operas are
immensely worthy, and they deserve to be known by a wide
public. Queler assembled interesting and capable casts for
these shows. Dom Sébastien featured Vesselina Kasarova,
the Bulgarian mezzo-soprano, whose voice is one of the
wonders of the world; L’Arlesiana featured Giuseppe
Filianoti, the ardent Italian tenor, and Marianne Cornetti,
an American who is a classic Verdi mezzo: booming and
scorching. These evenings provided great operatic
satisfaction.

So, what were my favorite musical events of the year? That
is pretty much impossible to say, but I’ll tell you what
especially sticks with me: that Shostakovich violin
concerto, performed by Lisa Batiashvili; and Alisa
Weilerstein in the Elgar Cello Concerto. And, if we’re
talking about favorites, I need to mention two other musical
events—they fall into sort of a special category.
Chanticleer gave its annual Christmas concert, in the
Metropolitan Museum of Art. This twelve-man choir can exude
a spiritual joy that is practically transforming.

Then there was this young woman named Latonia Moore. A
soprano from Houston, she appeared in a couple of operas,
including L’Arlesiana, discussed above. But I wish to
single out her recital. Talk about exuding spiritual joy: It
is almost impossible to stop smiling when this young lady is
singing. She loves it so, and you must love it, too. Near
the end of her program, she sang a song by James East called
“He’s So Wonderful.” Sample lyric: “I’ll trust him to the
end. My Jesus, what a friend!” Latonia Moore sang with a
sincerity, a directness, that was over-
whelming. I believe
her recital was the happiest musical event of the year.

Before I sign off, a word about Slava. Mstislav Rostropovich
died on April 27. He was, of course, one of the greatest
musicians of our times. He was probably the greatest cellist
who ever lived; he was also one of the greatest
instrumentalists. People say that he did more for the cello
than anyone has ever done for any instrument—and that may
well be true. He was responsible for much of the cello
repertory that we have now: Composers counted it a privilege
to write for him. He was an excellent conductor, if an
uneven one. He had no baton technique to speak of, but he
could communicate his meaning. He was also a very good
pianist, as he demonstrated when he accompanied his wife,
the soprano Galina Vishnevskaya, and when he accompanied his
cello students. Speaking of those students: He was a
magnificent teacher. And I understand that he could compose,
too (rounding out the résumé). I have not heard any of his
music, but I trust a source who has.

My two strongest Slava memories: I heard him play
Prokofiev’s Sinfonia concertante—written for him, of
course—in Boston, at the time of his (Rostropovich’s)
sixtieth birthday. That was in 1987. This was
one of the most awe-inspiring performances I have ever
heard. And I will never forget his conducting of the
complete Romeo and Juliet (Prokofiev again) in Washington,
about a decade later.

You know that he had courage, too: He sheltered Solzhenitsyn
at a time when it was dangerous and costly to do so. The
author chronicles this in his masterpiece of a literary
memoir, The Oak and the Calf.

Finally, I ask a question: What is the greatest recording
ever made? An absurd question to ask, of course … but,
gun to my head, I would blurt out an answer: Rostropovich in
the Bach Suites. He delayed making this recording for many,
many years, wanting to be musically, mentally, and
spiritually ready. He was. The best, Rostropovich, rose to
meet the best, Bach.