The Lorin Maazel Show

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The New York Sun

On Saturday night, the New York Philharmonic had not just one guest soloist, but two: Leon Fleisher, the legendary American pianist; and Nancy Gustafson, the American soprano, who is not a legend, but perfectly respectable all the same. Lorin Maazel was on the podium — and he was at his wizardly, masterly, brilliant best. You just never know with that fellow. He is an enigma.

Mr. Fleisher began the concert, with Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 12 in A, K. 414. Mr. Fleisher plays this concerto a lot. Indeed, it may be a Linus’s blanket of a piece for him. If you want to hear him play it again, you may do so in March, when he appears with the Stuttgart Chamber Orchestra at the Met Museum. But he is not a one-concerto man: He will play the Brahms First later this month in Carnegie Hall, with the New York String Orchestra. (What, no brass?)

On Saturday night, he played the Mozart concerto superbly. He brought his accustomed dignity, and his rhythmic acuteness. The Andante had extraordinary nobility, and simplicity, and warmth. And the closing Allegro was filled with beauty.

That has become Mr. Fleisher’s chief characteristic: beauty. Whereas he once might have been prized for virile virtuosity, he is now an uncommonly beautiful pianist. And it was interesting to hear what may be considered a concerto for child pianists played by a grand master: in a grand master’s fashion.

As for Mr. Maazel, he was utterly behaved in K. 414, committing no nonsense. And tempos were pleasingly brisk.

Mr. Fleisher continued the concert with music for the left hand — a recently discovered Wittgenstein commission. The one-armed pianist Paul Wittgenstein asked Paul Hindemith for a piece in 1923. The composer responded with the simply titled Piano Music with Orchestra, Op. 29. Strangely enough, this work was not heard until two years ago (when Mr. Fleisher premiered it in Berlin). Wittgenstein declined to play it; and it was buried until 2002.

It’s a neat piece, pure Hindemith, with unremitting logic and ample wit. It has four sections, and if the composer doesn’t want to call it a concerto, fine. But it can certainly be construed as a concerto: with an opening movement, a slow movement, a scherzo, and a hard-driving finale. (Sounds like a concerto to me.)

Mr. Fleisher handled the work with the authority we expect. Woodwind players contributed winning solos, and the brass did well (in a real Hindemithian workout). Mr. Fleisher has called Piano Music with Orchestra one of the composer’s best pieces. I can’t disagree with him. Evidently, Wittgenstein disliked the piece — a misjudgment on the part of a great man.

By the way, Mr. Fleisher uses sheet music for all his performances now. And he really uses it — turning pages and everything. It’s not mere security.

Post-intermission, it was the Lorin Maazel Show. First, he led the Philharmonic in the Suite No. 2 from Roussel’s ballet “Bacchus et Ariane.” This is tremendously colorful, beguiling, exciting music, and Mr. Maazel conducted the bejesus out of it. He was what he is when wide awake: sophisticated, surprising, dazzling. He oozed Frenchness from every pore, as he can.

Only rarely in life do you hear an orchestral performance like this. When Mr. Maazel is on, no one surpasses him, including the frizzy-haired guy across the plaza at the opera house.

I should mention, too, that a couple of Philharmonic string principals played first-rate solos in the Roussel: Cynthia Phelps, violist, and Glenn Dicterow, violinist.

The evening ended with the Final Scene from Strauss’s “Salome,” which I’ve always called “the mad Liebestod.” Ms. Gustafson came on for that, really, really seductively attired (which is not irrelevant to the piece). We were lucky she didn’t bust out (or unlucky?). And she sang the scene with due theatrical understanding. But she suffered from a lack of volume, of sheer vocal oomph.

If you’ll forgive me, the soprano was virtually irrelevant to this performance, because it belonged to the conductor. Mr. Maazel knows his Strauss — and he knows his exoticism — and he was absolutely electric. The orchestra played its wicked heart out for him, and it wanted to give much, much more at the climax: “Ich habe deinen Mund …!” But Mr. Maazel tamped them way, way down, lest the singer be drowned out. I was saying, “Go ahead, drown ‘er, Lorin — let it all hang out.”

But he was right, and I wrong.

Incidentally, before the playing began, we heard a spoken introduction, orienting us in the story. The introduction was written by J.D. McClatchy and read by William Parry. The writing was excellent, and the reading heartfelt — maybe a little too heartfelt. I’m afraid the whole thing struck the audience as melodramatic and comical. There were titters — which surely no one wanted.


The New York Sun

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