Music, of course 4.0: A Russian awakening many years ago…

The other day, a scene came to mind: a concert in Cincinnati MANY years ago. As a faithful symphony enthusiast, I had attended scores (pardon the pun) prior to the concert I have in mind, but few since have had such a deep impact. It was the holiday season in Cincinnati. I had heard the Rachmaninoff 2nd piano concerto dozens of times.

I had found it to be adequate.

It is a Russian work- brooding, emotionally manipulative, overwrought, sentimental, and virtuoistic…like I said, Russian. I didn’t think much of it.

Jean-Yves Thibaudet is an excellent performer at the top of his game. His technique is flawless, his interpretations are solid, and his stage presence is commanding. He strode out onto the stage, sneering at the audience. To be honest, it was more of a glower- very offsetting. He took up his position, in white tie and tails, at a nine foot Steinway grand, and then turned his body so he faced down the audience. For what seemed like an eternity, he just stared at us…and kept staring. With the slightest hint of a smile, he gave a quick tug on his pant-legs, hiking them up a few inches to reveal:

Bright red socks.

With Santa Claus faces on them.

Oh yes, and he played also.

After the initial gasps from the blue hairs in their regal box seats (worst sound quality in the hall, by the way- I guess money never has bought good taste) and a few sniggers from the rest of us, the concerto started. The opening chords were soft, muted, and distant; they were perfect. As they rose in intensity, an emotional roller coaster took off that ended only after the audience was completely exhausted.

And so was Thibaudet.

By the coda he was drenched, pouring every bit of his power into the flaring double-octave runs that dominate the ending. It was horrific and intoxicating simultaneously. His arms were flying as his hands crashed down on the keys from nearly nine inches in the air so forcefully that the entire massive piano was literally shaking under the strain. When he finished, the audience erupted: shouts of bravo and furious clapping raised a furor in the hall.

He looked utterly wasted by the effort.

Pale and somewhat unsteady on his feet, he nonetheless returned to the stage for a dozen calls. When he finally retired to the Green room, I noticed something: I liked Russian music on some discernable level. I don’t know what the true catalyst was. For a while I thought it was pure sensationalism, but I had seen him play Mozart before with no such theatrics. I finally figured it out; this unassuming man, capable of humor in the most formal of settings, had shown me the true depth of passion and art in Russian Romantic period compositions.

Damn it. I thought I knew everything.