Ladies and gentlemen, Yefim Bronfman is quite simply one of the best pianists in the world. And if that’s not saying enough for you—and it may not be—he is a very fine pianist for any age.

He confirmed the point in an outing with the New York Philharmonic, under the baton of guest conductor Christian Thielemann. The concerto was the Mozart in C minor, K. 491. This is an excellent test of any pianist’s worth, requiring head, heart, and depth. Everything about Bronfman’s performance was tasteful and beautiful. He was pristine, yet not prissy. He adhered to the letter of the score, while reflecting its spirit. There wasn’t a hint of a wrong accent, and the breathing was right. Bronfman offered bravura when called for, but indulged in no flash. Matching between left hand and right was exceptionally good.

Bronfman played his own cadenzas—which is somewhat unusual in these times—and they were interesting and appropriate, complementing the piece, not distracting from it. The “song” he “sang” in the middle movement managed to be both sprightly and serious. It was somewhat nostalgic, and extremely Mozartean. Bronfman has some of the qualities of Clara Haskil, or of the early Murray Perahia—yet he can hurl thunderbolts, too, capable in any repertory. In the Mozart, he deployed just a bit of rubato, always knowing how far to go, never straying beyond. He was super-crisp where he should have been, elegant and limpid when that was desirable. His playing was aristocratic yet not distant, correct—“impersonal”—but not merely dutiful or mechanical.

Covering the entire performance was high musicianship, and a high pianism. This was nearly ideal Mozart. Every member of the orchestra applauded Bronfman vigorously—a relatively rare thing. As I have complained before about the paucity of worthwhile, to say nothing of great, pianists on the scene today, I especially owe it to point out these truths—these gratifying truths—about the Russian-Israeli-American wonder Bronfman.

Michelle DeYoung is a youngish American mezzo-soprano with a big and burgeoning career: concert dates, operatic roles, recordings, the works. So it was with some anticipation that I attended her recital in Weill Recital Hall (part of the larger Carnegie complex). It could be that DeYoung did not put her best foot forward that evening.

She began her varied and well-chosen program with some lieder from Robert Schumann. DeYoung does not feature a beautiful sound, or at least she did not on this occasion. It was an unclean sound, having some fuzz around it. Nor was her technique steady: intonation was faulty, phrasing was awkward. Also, she must work to take some of her breathiness away. Musically speaking, she presented the Schumann songs in a rather bland, unprobing way. She took a biggish, quasi-operatic approach: but this did not mean added excitement or drama. In songs of Henri Duparc, DeYoung did not fare much better. Again, she took too big an approach, with no payoff. These lovely little pieces were not spun out, finely; they were sung almost as though by a belter. The singer displayed little control, contributed little nuance. This is not a matter of inability; DeYoung is obviously able. Perhaps it is a question of focus and dedication. So too, many of her syllables and words were unclear, and some of them were just plain mispronounced.

Beginning the second half of the program were Six Songs on Poems by D. H. Lawrence, composed for this singer by the young Daniel Sutton. These items are rather pleasant if not memorable. A couple of them are a bit more than pleasant, having some communicative power. Given that the songs were written for her, it’s curious that DeYoung had not memorized them. (Maybe they’re unmemorable to her, too.) Yet she sang them with competence and appreciation.

And it was good to take in some of Lawrence’s poetry, including the beguiling “Night”: “Now that the night is here/ A new thing comes to pass, eyes close/ And the animals curl down on the dear earth, to sleep./ But the limbs of man long to fold and close upon the living body of another human being/ In shut-eyed touch.” Words a treat to compose to, to be sure.

Speaking of the night, Samuel Barber’s “Nocturne” is one of the most beautiful and most sensual songs in the entire American repertory, and beyond: yet DeYoung barely laid a glove on it. Then it was Charles Ives’s “Charlie Rutlage,” one of that composer’s nutty scenas, followed by his “Berceuse.” Unfortunately, DeYoung simply lacked the support—the technical wherewithal—to give this gentle second piece the quietude and smoothness it requires. To close was Barber’s “I Hear an Army,” which had a decent rigor, but was made into an opera aria, and not a very good one.

Michelle DeYoung must have something on the ball for the vocal world to have responded as positively to her as it has. But these winning qualities were not to the fore in her recent recital.

Artur Schnabel is said to have quipped, “My concerts are boring both before and after intermission.” By that he meant that he liked to program serious, weighty music from beginning to end. Other great pianists have taken different approaches. Arthur Rubinstein—who loved to dine—likened his programs to a menu: first you have an appetizer, then a main course, then dessert (with various other courses sprinkled in between). Rubinstein would even offer something like an after-dinner mint: perhaps Villa-Lobos’s “Prole do bebê” as a final encore.

The Romanian pianist Radu Lupu comes from the Schnabel school. He is a worthy—if sometimes eccentric and willful—player of Beethoven, Schubert, Brahms. In Carnegie Hall he presented a recital of Schubert, Beethoven, and his countryman George Enescu. To begin was Schubert’s Impromptu in C minor, Op. 90, No. 1, with its bold, sustained introductory note. Lupu perfectly proclaimed that note, setting the tone—almost literally—for the entire evening. The Impromptu was beautifully weighted, with Lupu having a keen awareness of how sound carries (which is related to weightedness in piano playing). Lupu is especially good in severe or dark music; he can be less good in music requiring a smile, some warmth—but he is always interesting.

After the Impromptu came Beethoven’s Sonata in E minor, Op. 90, a seldom played work. (Every piece on the program, incidentally, was in a minor key—a typical Lupu touch, even if unconscious.) Lupu was not especially lyrical in the melodic line, and he has the problem of failing to sound some of the notes he depresses. But he showed a firm sense of the arc of the sonata, according it a tension. No matter what he plays, Lupu is a solid pianist, imparting a feeling of sturdiness, of having a firm foundation, of being a purposeful builder. I might note here that the Beethoven E minor happens to be a most Schubertian sonata—or is it Schubert who’s Beethovenian?

The Enescu on the program was the Sonata No. 1 in F-sharp minor, not the Sonata No. 3 in D major, of which another Romanian pianist, Dinu Lipatti, made a famous and much-cherished recording. Here Lupu proved to be the possessor of many colors. He is also an adept pedaler, often seeming on the verge of overpedaling without actually doing so. He gave a performance of acute sensitivity, practically Debussyan. I, for one, have had my doubts about Lupu from time to time, but this was inarguably first-rate playing. And so it was with Schubert’s Sonata in C minor, D. 958, which composed the second half of the recital. Lupu is a probing and committed musician, demanding the listener’s attention and respect, no matter what our conclusions may be.

At the end of January, the Orchestre de Paris visited Carnegie Hall, with its music director, Christoph Eschenbach, the German who is set to assume the leadership of the Philadelphia Orchestra. They brought with them the French pianist Pierre-Laurent Aimard, who has received some of the most rapturous reviews of the recent period. What was all the fuss about? Was it truly for his pianism, or did it have to do with his steadfast devotion to new music (Aimard has long been a soldier in the army of Pierre Boulez)?

On the basis of his performance of Ravel’s G-major concerto, enthusiasm about Aimard—as pianist—is misplaced. This performance contained many strange and frustrating things, including the fact that Aimard was sometimes inaudible. His opening, for example, was extremely hard to hear; his glissandos—which cap this opening—were negligible. Throughout the first movement, his playing was muddy—not coloristic, but simply muddy, poor. Inner voices were muted, if not, again, inaudible. Ravel’s wonderful, jagged rhythms were obscured, and if you don’t get the rhythms (or the colors) right, you might as well lay off this piece. The cadenza had some charm, but Aimard hardly touched the delights of this movement.

The Adagio was worse. Aimard failed to sing out, and, more damaging, he failed to sustain the song. His line was uneven, without legato—thumping. His playing was grossly mannered, as if to ask, “Isn’t this movement adorable?” And the answer is, “No, not played like that.” The music had no flow, breaking down at several points (and in this respect Eschenbach was no help). The closing Presto—toccata-like—was limp, characterless, without snap or dash. Aimard would merely pick at the keyboard, with little sound—little of the concerto—coming out. It is not too much to say that the playing was amateurish—this, from a toast of Carnegie Hall.

Just possibly, Pierre-Laurent Aimard’s duties to contemporary music have earned him, in certain quarters, a pass.

But now for something truly special: Hilary Hahn’s traversal of the Shostakovich Violin Concerto No. 1, with the Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra, Riccardo Chailly conducting. I have spoken before about the profusion of terrific young violinists. Hahn, a twenty-two-year-old Baltimorean, is one of them, and near the head of the pack.

The Shostakovich concerto is a cerebral, technical, and musical challenge, and Hahn was up to it in totality. She has always exhibited confidence in her playing, and that confidence is well justified. She carries herself as she plays: with extreme poise and self-assurance. She knows what she is doing, and she knows—if I may—that she knows what she’s doing.

From the first notes, she was arresting. Her sound was elegant, aristocratic, and remarkably smooth. Her playing was clean and clear, but also substantial, rich. She played with beauty, but without giving the music a plushness that wouldn’t suit it. She conveyed the strangeness and sadness of the first movement—Nocturne—with zero emoting, instead using self-restraint. Her reserve made the music all the more affecting. There was an almost impossible purity in her playing, allowing for a transport, a ghostliness. Her control of dynamics—an important aspect of doing justice to this concerto—was extraordinary. Here is a woman who can do quite simply whatever she likes with her instrument.

She knew to accord the Scherzo a Russian roughness, fiddling a merry, biting, Shostakovichian dance. She rode the rest of the concerto home with her customary rhythmic sureness, tonal judgment, and musical engagement. One sat amazed. The entire performance—while having that wise restraint—had huge vitality and quivering, obvious intelligence.

Do you remember the headline, “Menuhin Fiddles While Orchestra Burns”? This appeared after the young Yehudi played an encore following a concerto. In Carnegie Hall, Hahn did the same, with no (apparent) burning from the orchestra. What she offered was the Siciliana from the Bach Sonata in G minor—and it was marked by the poise, correctness, and musicality that are by now expected from Hahn. She is only twenty-two (which, speaking of Menuhin, is not terribly young in violinistic terms), but there’s no waiting around: she is the genuine article.

The next night, the Concertgebouw and its longtime leader, the Italian Chailly, had the stage all to themselves, for Mahler’s Symphony No. 2 (the “Resurrection”). The Concertgebouw is a formidable orchestra, and Chailly is plainly gifted: but he is one of those conductors who manage everything—every bar, every phrase—from the podium. “What’s wrong with that?” you may ask. “It’s the conductor’s job to manage.” Well, yes: but there’s the kind of managing that directs the players to perform something naturally and faithfully, and there’s the kind of managing that draws continual attention to the conductor and smothers or distorts the music. Chailly falls prey to the erroneous kind.

The opening Allegro was adequately done, as Chailly kept the Mahlerian fist shaking. Technical precision was not exactly the name of the game here: there was some clumsy playing, some clumsy entrances. But the Concertgebouw forces were impassioned, and they are obviously skilled. Chailly took some odd liberties with tempo, and a few of them were not unsuccessful. But the movement’s great chromatic ending—a downward scale—was unnatural, stilted, almost experimental-seeming: as though a talented but wayward student were trying out a new idea, to be corrected by a patient, appreciative, but conscientious teacher. Alas, there was no teacher.

The second movement felt a bit heavy, not sufficiently grazioso. And it was cluttered and unclean. It was also slow and labored, as Chailly continued to indulge himself. There was about an hour and a half between the final two notes of the movement, pretty much wiping out Mahler’s own idea. The third movement was deprived of its insinuating quality, and it was warped by further rhythmic experimentalism. The two singers for the evening—the mezzo-soprano Petra Lang and the soprano Janice Watson—were placed on a riser to the extreme left of the stage, an unusual move. In the “Urlicht,” Watson delivered some good, controlled singing, but it lacked emotional power. She was unfortunately hostage to Chailly’s slow tempo and ponderousness.

In the last movement, Chailly personalized and stretched everything to unacceptable extremes. When he actually allowed the orchestra to play a phrase—sometimes two or three in a row—naturally and unidiosyncratically, it came as a great relief. The Westminster Symphonic Choir (of which the local New York Philharmonic makes frequent use), however, was superb. Their opening notes were hair-raising. Chailly, oddly enough, had them seated: but we eventually found out why. He had them stand suddenly on their final “aufersteh’n” (rise again)—one last gimmick in a gimmicky, exasperating performance. In fact, this stunt—with the choir—was one of the most vulgar things I have ever witnessed in a concert hall. If there is any piece that can do without such tactics, it is the thoroughly honest Symphony No. 2 of Mahler.

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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 20 Number 7, on page 50
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