The opera season over, the Met Orchestra played a concert in Carnegie Hall on Saturday night. On the program were two works: the Schumann Piano Concerto and Schubert’s Symphony No. 9 in C major, the “Great.” The conductor and the soloist were two Russians who have often worked together: Valery Gergiev and Daniil Trifonov. They are generations apart—the conductor in his sixties, the pianist in his twenties—but they seem to be kindred spirits, musically.

I’ll tell you something funny about the Schumann concerto: I could not hear Trifonov’s first note—that quick chord, with an E on the top. I only heard the second note, the longer chord, with the F on the top. What happened to the first, I’m not entirely sure.

Gergiev shaped the initial pages superbly (and the subsequent pages as well). He brought out both the tenderness of the music and its storminess—a storminess that is sometimes more like brooding (or a storm brewing). The first movement was stamped with his musical intelligence. There was a little sloppiness, including some malcoordination between orchestra and soloist. But this mattered little.

Trifonov was thoughtful and imaginative—but not overly so. He did not recompose Schumann’s piece. He was faithful. Trifonov applied his usual concentration, playing as though he was engaged in the most important thing in the world.

In the past, I have faulted him for a certain superficiality, not of mind but of touch—pianistic touch. He has often played on the surface of the keys, rather than into them. I have wanted more solidity, or more richness, from him. He demonstrated just this solidity or richness in the Schumann.

He emphasized a few dissonances or accidentals that make a difference. And he brought out inner voices that, frankly, I had never heard, in a lifetime of listening to this concerto. The cadenza was downright thunderous, and thrilling.

Often, this concerto is precious or perfumed—la-di-da. I am tempted to say “lady-like.” Trifonov and Gergiev invested it with a rare robustness.

When the first movement ended, someone in the audience went “Ooooo.” There was a little chuckling—but there was no applause. Recently, I have been writing about applause at the end of movements (here, for example). Sometimes, concert etiquette is nuts. It is weird—positively insane—not to applaud at the end of the first movement of Schumann’s piano concerto. I think the composer himself would say, “What, you didn’t like it?”

By the way, the first movement was originally written as a stand-alone piece—making the absence of applause all the crazier.

Schumann’s second movement is often namby-pamby. Not from this pair—not from Trifonov and Gergiev (and the Met Orchestra, I should say). The music had an unabashed, and right, Romanticism. Schumann says “Andantino grazioso,” in describing this movement. Sure, but don’t overdo it (I say).

After the first two movements, I had the feeling I was listening to the best performance of the Schumann Piano Concerto I could remember hearing.

The third and last movement? It was fine, just fine. (How could it not be, right?) But it seemed that the air had been let out of the balloon. The movement had surprisingly little impact. It was well read through.

Now to the Schubert “Great.” If I said that the performance was “meat and potatoes,” would that be insulting? I don’t mean it to be. First, I like meat and potatoes. Second, this was very good meat and potatoes. There was nothing screwy about this performance. It was basically what the Schubert “Great” ought to be.

The horns began with stability and beauty—that’s a good sign. Gergiev followed the musical line, which is indispensable. He conducted with what I’d like to call “controlled abandon.” Also, he was in for the journey. What I mean is, he knows that this is a long, long song, and he kept the whole map of the piece in mind as he conducted.

Incidentally, not clapping after the first movement? That, too, is strange. Crazy, frankly. Applause is cried out for.

Schubert’s second movement is marked “Andante con moto”—and Gergiev did not forget his “moto,” which was nice. More than nice: necessary, because otherwise the music would have dragged. The chorale in this movement (or what I think of as a chorale) was warm and beautiful. At the end of the movement, the musicians did not release their sound at the same time. I couldn’t tell whether this was interesting or an error, or some combination of the two.

The Scherzo was rightly jagged, and emphatic, and its trio was rightly jolly. The Finale should have, perhaps above all, tingling anticipation—anticipation and electricity. It did, pretty much. That Gergiev did not make more of the final pages, I was surprised. They were fine, but not all that different from the preceding pages. I suppose I was wanting more of a climax, or more of a peroration.

At any rate, the Met Orchestra was conducted by a great musician, in great music, and you can ask for hardly anything more. I should say, too, that the Met Orchestra is pretty good for a little ol’ pit band.

Schubert’s “Great” is indeed a long, long song. Schumann praised it for its “heavenly length” (one of the most famous comments in music history). Don’t tell anyone—and I revere this work as much as the next guy—but I’m not convinced it’s not too long, and never have been.

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