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Note-worthy Giants New York
David Geffen Hall, Lincoln Center
10/04/2024 - & October 5, 6, 2024
Ludwig van Beethoven: Symphony No. 7 in A major, Opus 92
Johannes Brahms: Piano Concerto No. 1 in D Minor, Opus 15
Víkingur Olafsson (Pianist)
New York Philharmonic Orchestra, Manfred Honeck (Conductor)
V. Olafsson/M. Honeck (© Ari Magg/Todd Rosenberg)
“Beethoven has indulged in disagreeable eccentricity... Altogether, it could be called an enigma. Or even a hoax.”
The Harmonium, on the Seventh Symphony, 1825
“Brahms? A gutless bastard! The music lacks grand sweeping ideas and is deficient in sensuous charm.”
P. I. Tchaikovsky
The world has a dozen so-called Valleys of the Giants, my personal being Algeria’s, Tassili N’Ajjer National Park. Last night Lincoln Center gave us another literally note‑worthy Valley of the Giants.
Four to be exact. Beethoven’s Seventh, of course. Brahms’ First Piano Concerto (George Bernard Shaw and Tchaikovsky notwithstanding.)
Next came the volcanic conductor Matthew Honeck, whose long directorship of the Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra makes him a musical “Man of Steel”.
Physically the tallest was Víkingur Olafsson, whose name and Icelandic nationality give him the title of Viking. Pianist Olafsson was Viking in another sense, since his resplendent playing has helped him conquer the world. As he apparently conquered the audience last night in the second of two jumbo‑sized works.
Obviously, this was a “safe” program, the audience in front of and behind the New York Philharmonic packed to the highest rafter. Whether it was the familiar choices or the gigantic reputation of Mr. Olafsson, the enjoyment was infectious. Nobody coughed, no heads reluctantly listened to an alien work. (Though this writer would have loved to hear Mr. Honeck doing some of his fabulous Janácek.)
And yes, the Seventh Symphony was a joyous festival for the Phil. One could have mistaken the opening for a Haydn first movement. Mr. Honeck played that mysterious introduction with passion, that passion transformed into the lively rhythms, with all the repeats taken.
Little was eccentric in Mr. Honeck’s Beethoven. Oh he accentuated the brass and percussion whenever possible. Where trumpets and trombones usually support the strings in the outer movements, he gave them first place, making for some unique coloration.
That second movement is one of the most enigmatic in all music. Mr. Honeck conducted it without undue rubati, with tensile meters, allowing it to speak for itself.
The Presto third movement was echoed in a Presto finale, but this didn’t faze the Phil at all. Their alacrity was stunning, their commitment to the music and conductor was apparent. I have heard it with more electricity, more volatility. But the conductor and the Phil allowed the pacing to end in an Elysium whirlwind, rather than electrifying dance.
Pianist Víkingur Olafsson’s entrance after the intermission was that of a lanky, somewhat ungainly Viking. Could such a youthful personna take care of Brahms’ First Concerto?
Well, obviously it could. This Brahms was not the blockbuster which, say, an Ax or Trifonov could have achieved. Mr. Olafsson was more the poet than the Prometheus. His strength was reserved for the last‑movement cadenza and the climax of the second movement.
Instead, his hands created a poem from the amazing octaves of the opening movement. How anybody can create a song out of the double‑trills is beyond comprehension. Or how a pianist almost reluctantly can offer a few notes in the Adagio and have them create, imperceptibly, a silken‑smooth climax from those notes, is an artistry above words.
Mr. Olafsson’s technique was always astonishing, but he and Mr. Honeck played a finale which was both fire‑breathing and pellucid, an unlikely combination, here a reality.
Did I really want to stay for an encore? Mr. Olafsson’s started to speak, and I was mesmerized. Briefly, he had arranged a piece from Rameau’s Les Boréades dedicated to his pianist friend, Anna Gudný Gudmundsdóttir, who had died of cancer. The work, The Arts and the Hours, was–even for futuristically-sounding Rameau–absolutely heartbreaking.
Art is long, life is short, said Mr. Olafsson. Here, the art of his arrangement was personal, singular (somehow melding the 18th and 21st Century) and will be long remembered.
Harry Rolnick
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