Dvořák’s Concerto for Piano and Orchestra, Op. 33—his only in the genre—has been lambasted for being both too difficult and insufficiently virtuosic, as if its effect as a star vehicle is not worth the technical challenge required to put it together. While it has begun to be played more often, its popularity pales in comparison to the composer’s other, more beloved concerti for violin and cello. The first movement sounds like a lively but disjointed conversation between the Classical and late Romantic; Mozart references abound. The finest moments come in the second movement, which releases the past in favor of gentle ruffles of lyricism. Throughout, the soloist emerges and recedes from the orchestra, less of a star player than the leader of a relay, culminating in the passionate exchanges that characterize the final movement.
Russian virtuoso Daniil Trifonov is the latest to tackle this difficult but somewhat underwhelming piece, which appeared with Leoš Janáček’s Glagolitic Mass on the final evening of a week of concerts celebrating Czech music at Carnegie Hall. I found Trifonov’s playing almost glass-like: lucid and solid, but also delicate and slightly chilly. In contrast, his physical presence was warm and very engaged. After the close of a phrase, his hands arced in a slow pattern over the keyboard as if resisting the urge to begin conducting before migrating upwards to brush a lock of hair away from his eyes, which often closed in a grimace of passion. But for all the visible feeling and audible precision, the emotional impact of Trifonov’s playing got a bit lost in translation, leaving a performance that was undeniably beautiful but just shy of stirring. He received four ovations, however, during which it was also revealed that the Czech president Petr Pavel was in the audience. The encore, a charming, brief arrangement of Tchaikovsky’s “Silver Fairy” from Sleeping Beauty displayed a wry humor and felt more genuinely spirited.
Semyon Bychkov led with a relaxed focus throughout. While Dvořák is the Czech Philharmonic’s bread and butter, they sounded more scattered on that composer’s piece; the violin section had occasional lapses in synchronization, and there were a few moments of off-kilter tuning that blurred a bit of the sheen. After intermission, however, the ensemble took on both energy and precision.
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This may be the result of the difference of piece. While the Dvořák has moments of intense excitement, its uneven quality makes any imperfections more glaring. Janáček’s vigorous, spiky Glagolitic Mass, on the other hand, has a fervent immediacy quality that the Piano Concerto lacks. Written by an atheist composer two years before his death, it sounds as much like a refusal of the Mass as it does an embrace of its rhythms. It’s fitting then that Janáček omits the “Dona nobis pacem” from the Agnus Dei; little true peace can be found here. Instead, it moves swiftly between bursts of triumph and terror, even bouts of insubordinate anger, intercut with moments of mystery, flashes of acceptance and shouts of “Amin!” One hears an artist who is railing against death, ambivalent towards the almighty but insistent on elevating folk melodies to the heights of holiness. It includes a shockingly original organ solo with a hymn-like theme that is constantly interrupted by rattles of brass, expertly played by Daniela Valtová Kosinová. The piece closes with an Exodus movement titled “Intrada”—Entrance—as if the mass is only the prelude to another spiritual experience that cannot be contained within the genre’s rigid forms.
It’s been over a decade since this work last appeared at Carnegie Hall. I certainly hope we don’t wait so long to hear it again; even excellent recordings do not capture the full force of its doubt and passion. Together, Bychkov and his ensembles proved it should come to American stages more often.
