On Saturday night, the New York Philharmonic played a concert that some critics would curl their lip at. The program consisted of two “warhorses”—two very familiar pieces—namely the Tchaikovsky Piano Concerto No. 1 and the Shostakovich Symphony No. 5. Where was the “imagination”? Ah, but these are two very imaginative pieces, and great pieces.
Also not to forget: there were undoubtedly people in the audience who had never heard those pieces before—one or both. Why should they be deprived of an introduction to them? Not on YouTube or Spotify, but live and in the flesh?
Conducting the Philharmonic was its music director, Jaap van Zweden, and the piano soloist was Beatrice Rana, the young Italian. In March, she played a recital in Carnegie Hall. (For my review, go here.)
The first thing the pianist does in the Tchaikovsky concerto is play some D-flat-major chords. In these, Ms. Rana went deep into the keys, with some spring. That is the way to play those chords. In the first movement at large, she was a tigress: a measured, civilized tigress. Which is the way to be in this movement.
She was very, very accurate, with her looseness of arms—her wet-spaghetti arms. There was no tightness to hinder her. She could go as fast as she wanted, without sacrificing any accuracy. Sometimes, she wanted to go faster than the conductor, but there was no serious disunity. There are slow passages in this movement. These tended to be too deliberate, in my judgment, bordering on static.
In the cadenza, Ms. Rana played the blizzards of notes, of course. But she also excelled in the delicate parts, sounding almost like a French Impressionist.
The first movement ends with a bang—with glorious panache. One audience member went “Woo!” Yet no one applauded. People have been taught—mistaught, I would say—not to applaud between movements. Sometimes this is right; sometimes it is wrong. It is unnatural—and perverse—not to applaud after the first movement of Tchaik One. It requires an act of will: dumb, unnecessary, and ahistorical will.
Tchaikovsky’s middle movement begins like a flute concerto. Alison Fierst did the honors, with the right simplicity and purity. There is no need to gild the lily that the composer has brought forth. Carter Brey, the principal cello, also contributed a solo. His instrument was directly behind the back of the piano, so that he was playing into the piano. This was not ideal, but it was also not a big deal.
I should mention that the concert was in the hall at Jazz at Lincoln Center. Perhaps the stage is not quite big enough for the forces required when this concerto is programmed. The formal name of the hall is “Rose Theater at Jazz at Lincoln Center’s Frederick P. Rose Hall.” This may be the most awkward phrase in the English language.
The middle movement went well—but I have this complaint: I could have stood it more “organic,” having more of a flow.
Before the last movement—Allegro con fuoco—Beatrice Rana fluffed back her hair, then pounced on the music. Attacked it like a tigress. The music had its folky character, its slancio, and frightening accuracy.
Speaking of frightening accuracy: the pianist played an encore, one of Debussy’s études, and every snowflake in the blizzard was in place. Also, she provided a model of evenness: evenness in piano playing.
After intermission: Shostakovich Five. What do you want in this piece? For one thing, fear. Underlying fear. Russian orchestras typically have no problem with this. How about the New York Philharmonic, under Jaap van Zweden? These players had no problem either. Fear, tension, and other important qualities were in evidence, or were felt.
The first movement has plenty of the martial, and so do other movements. Van Zweden is very, very good at the martial. And the climaxes of the first movement were heart-stopping.
At the beginning of the second movement, the low strings were thrillingly savage. Later, Anthony McGill did some jaunty playing on his clarinet—very Shostakovich-like. Near the end of the movement, the oboe has a key passage, and Van Zweden drew vivid dynamics and accentuation out of his player, Liang Wang.
The entire performance—the entire symphony—was vivid, in fact. This is one of Van Zweden’s outstanding qualities: aliveness. Shouldn’t it be de rigueur in a conductor? Yes, but it is not, in practice.
With his Largo, Shostakovich created one of the most beautiful slow movements in the entire symphonic literature. The Philharmonic played it beautifully. And the finale was marked by elegant savagery. The timpani beats that end the work were perfectly timed.
There is a debate about the concluding pages of the symphony. Should they reflect triumph? Should they be exultant? Or should they convey grim resignation, a determination to slog on? Van Zweden followed the latter course.
When the music ended, I was thinking about recordings. Bernstein recorded just about everything he conducted. Same with Neville Marriner. Same with others. But the recording industry is different today. (Is there a recording industry?) Van Zweden’s Shostakovich Fifth with the New York Philharmonic ought to be memorialized. So should his tenure as a whole. I hope that it will be possible, somehow.