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A Command of their Instruments New York
Merkin Hall, Kaufman Music Center
02/05/2025 -
Leos Janácek: Pohádka
Francis Poulenc: Sonata for Cello and Piano
Boris Papandopulo: Rapsodia Concertante
Johannes Brahms: Cello Sonata No. 2 in F Major, Opus 99
Timotheos Gavriilidis-Petrin (Cello), Alexia Mouza (Piano)
A. Mouza, T. Gavriilidis‑Petrin (© Samuel A. Dog )
“There are limits to how much sound a cello can make.. Finding what those limits might be, and then trying to suggest perhaps even the illusion of going beyond is part of that kind of effort.”
Yo-Yo Ma
“Don’t ever analyze my music. Love it.”
Francis Poulenc
When the Hellenic-American Cultural Foundation presented two youthful artists last night, the recital was augmented with three surprises. Outside of the Brahms Second Cello Sonata, we had a trio of very rare cello‑piano works, and one prolific Croatian-Jewish-Greek composer whose music, so far as I know, has never been performed in America.
Boris Papandopulo was born in the Austro-Hungarian Empire in 1906, and died 85 years later, with hundreds of works, from early nationalist homages to jazz and dodecaphony in his later years.
I would imagine his Rapsodia Concertante was written in his youth. The three short movements progress from a short cadenza Wieniawski style to movements which could have been written by Enesco or any East‑European or shtetl‑Jewish fiddler.
Original? Hardly. But Boris Papandopulo offered a rhythmic paean to his homelands. (What were Richard Wilber’s words from Bernstein’s Candide? “I am so easily assimilated”). Less Central European, than modal East European–even Wieniawski was Polish–, the work was a stellar piece, over too soon.
For such a work, the two Greek artists here–cellist Timotheos Gavriilidis‑Petrin and pianist Alexia Mouza let their fingers fly. (Correction: Ms. Mouza is half‑Greek, half‑Venezuelan).
The remaining three works showed both musicians with a sure sense of their instruments. Mr. Gavriilidis‑Petrin was hardly stolid. From the first pizzicati in Janácek’s Fairy Tale to the Gallic melodies of Poulenc’s Sonata, he was dramatic, he moved to the music, and was a stunning performer. And while youthful in movements and age, he already has his own Music Festival for young artists, on the Elysian Greek island of Samos.
Ms. Mouza was more the technician, less the actor, but when necessary, she easily commanded her Steinway.
Like all Janácek, A Fairy Tale was jolting. (And not to be confused with that other fantastic Czech Fairy Tale by Josef Suk.) Apparently, it is based on a Russian story, but Janáček hid the meanings with music motifs that cusped on speech.
Mr. Gavriilidis‑Petrin knew this instinctively. Like any fairy tale, he was gentle, withdrawn, ready to take on all the full cello palette. The beginning pizzicato was graceful enough, yet he could be sharply strike his bow. The surprise in the last movement was a discreet folk dance, though Janácek broadened it out, then withdrew it.
Nobody can ever predict the Janácek modus operandi.
Ms. Mouza’s first ostinatos were sensitive, she launched into melodies, relented and let the cello continue its work.
The reverse of the unpredictable Leos Janácek was Francis Poulenc. One knew from the first melody that this was 1920’s Paris, a joy of tunes and twirls, Ms. Mouza atarted off with a bang, and the cellist continued with lyrical good humor. With Poulencian insouciance, he played with board strokes, playful treatment and a filigreed partnership with the staccato piano accompaniment.
That rare Poulenc inner soul is shown mainly in his operas. In the Cello Sonata, he offered it in the second movement Cavatina. On his lowest string, Mr. Gavriilidis‑Petrin was never desolate, always thoughtful, his songs weren’t of the music-hall but the Platonic philosophy school Sometimes nostalgic and sometimes–as in the last measures–a bittersweet lullaby.
The final movement was splendid for both players. Ms. Mouza played the dissonant chords with–can I say this??–acidic sourness. Mr. Gavriilidis‑Petrin played a recitative (including surprising harmonics), and the remainder was almost circus hall. Save that the opening recitative was repeated. Perhaps the composer saying that he was more than the happy melodist.
After these three contrasting pictures, the final Brahms Second Sonata was disappointing. The piece is symphonic, sweeping, exciting. These two played with precision, tension when necessary, but more restraint than excitement. An exception was the slow movement, with a high‑register cello, a genuine pianistic resonance and that Brahms’ emotional depth.
The encore, Granados’ Spanish Dance, was less Iberian than danceable, yet the duo gave it an unalloyed lilt.
Harry Rolnick
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