Yefim Bronfman, the pianist, is a presence here at the Salzburg Festival. On Monday night, he played a concerto with the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra in the Great Festival Hall. I will write about that concert in my forthcoming chronicle for the magazine. On Wednesday night, Bronfman played a recital at the Mozarteum. Why don’t I write about that here and now?
Readers may recall that Bronfman played a recital in Carnegie Hall in April. (My review here.) That program featured three Beethoven sonatas. He played two of them here in Salzburg—beginning with the Sonata No. 7 in D major, Op. 10, No. 3.
The first movement, Presto, was . . . okay. Bargain-basement Bronfman, I would say. Nothing special. But the second movement, the famous Largo e mesto? Top-rate and very special. It was full of drama—not imposed or artificial drama, but naturally unfolding drama. Also, Bronfman was singer-like, in his right hand. He put on a clinic in cantabile. And you heard a snaking accompaniment in the left hand. Bronfman exploited Beethoven’s chromaticism, learned from Bach.
What about the rest of the sonata? I will jump to the final measures. They ought to have a combination of matter-of-factness and charm. And that is exactly what they had.
Next, Bronfman played Beethoven’s Sonata No. 23 in F minor, Op. 57, the “Appassionata.” Writing about Bronfman’s recent Carnegie Hall recital, I asked, “Can you hear this work again, after a thousand hearings?” The answer: “You can—especially if it is well played. Beethoven does not stale.” I then said, “Bronfman was superb in this sonata.” And so he was again, last night.
The sonata begins with fairly simple unison notes. But these are not necessarily easy to bring off. Bronfman gave them the right suspense. There was a right suspense all through the opening movement. Dynamics had potency—whether they were loud or soft. One second, the playing was oceanic; the next second, it was on little cat feet. That is Beethoven, often.
As Bronfman played, I heard things I had never quite noticed in this sonata. And I was reminded: Many years ago, I sat in on a Bronfman master class. He was teaching a couple of pieces I knew very well—or thought I did. After he was through with them, I had an enlarged understanding.
Beethoven’s middle movement, in the “Appassionata,” is an ingenious beauty in D flat. Bronfman played it richly, deep into the keys. At the same time, he was glassy, putting on a clinic in evenness—evenness being one of his specialties. The transition to the final movement, he negotiated cannily.
This final movement had due suspense, due drama, then, finally, fire—a fiery release. When Bronfman brings the heat, he brings the heat. Once the sonata was finished, the audience at the Mozarteum thundered (much as Bronfman, and Beethoven, had).
The second half of the printed program comprised Bartók and Chopin. The Bartók was his Suite for Piano, Op. 14. In these pieces (four), you want light pedaling. Acute rhythm. A certain spikiness. I think of an oxymoron: “refined coarseness.” In any event, Bronfman provided the necessary ingredients. Here was an intelligent composition, intelligently played.
After Bartók came Chopin’s Sonata No. 3 in B minor, Op. 58. Bronfman did his best playing in the final movement. The preceding slow movement had been a little dry-eyed, for my taste. This is one of the glories of the piano literature. Maybe I am a little sentimental about it. But that finale? It was just as the doctor ordered, or Chopin ordered: wizardly, beautiful, alluring.
In April, at Carnegie Hall, Bronfman played two encores: Chopin’s Nocturne in D flat, Op. 27, No. 2, and that same composer’s “Revolutionary” Étude, in C minor. He played the same étude after his concerto on Monday night, in the Great Festival Hall. And he played the nocturne and the étude at the Mozarteum.
The nocturne was beguiling—so glassy, so beautiful. Toward the end, a woman in the audience let out a loud sigh, in appreciation. And the étude was both accurate and stylish.
I figured that this would be it: Bronfman had played his two encores. But the audience kept applauding, with vigor, and Bronfman shrugged and said, “Okay.” Then he sat down to Schumann’s Arabeske. Here was Old World playing, with model phrasing. Bronfman sang like a pro all through, including on his final E. What a wonderful note.
This pianist admired Emil Gilels, hugely. I think Gilels would have heard this Arabeske and said, “That’s the way.” Schumann too.