Daniil Trifonov

As the lights dimmed last night, I was talking to a pair of musician friends sitting in front of me. “We’ve never heard him play,” they said. I replied, “He makes beautiful sounds, especially when quiet. He is subtle, nuanced—a colorist and caresser. Where he has trouble is in making a big, substantial sound. He is not very bold.”

About three seconds after that, he began the evening with a crashing G-minor chord. And was plenty bold after that. Never have I been contradicted—shown up—so quickly.

The fellow in question was Daniil Trifonov, the young Russian pianist. He played a recital in Carnegie Hall. And he began with a rarity, or at least a very old-fashioned piece: Bach’s Fantasy and Fugue for Organ in G Minor, BWV 542, transcribed by Liszt.

After that crashing chord, the fantasy portion of the piece was gorgeous. (So was the chord—deep into the keys.) It was liberally pedaled and blurred. That was all right: Trifonov wasn’t playing a Bach organ piece, he was playing a Liszt piano piece. Good for him for knowing the difference.

The inner voices were beautifully clear, in the main. The music was beautifully and thoughtfully sculpted. This playing reminded me of that of an older Russian, Grigory Sokolov.

And the fugue, that ingenious thing? It began subtle, ingratiating, and beautiful—and stayed that way. Now, I would have preferred more body out of the piano. Something a little more solid. The fugue was slightly too slinky and sinuous for me. But Trifonov had his own way, and a fine way it was. (Fine way on a Steinway?)

Moreover, I admire him for playing this piece. Let me tell you why. When I was coming of age, music such as Liszt’s transcription was verboten. It was impure, gaudy, a Romantic travesty. All honor to this young man for embracing this music. I get a kick out of his getting a kick out of it.

By the way, Carnegie Hall had its first performance of this particular Liszt transcription in 1893. The pianist was Paderewski.

Next on Trifonov’s program came the holy of holies: Beethoven’s last piano sonata, No. 32, in C minor, Op. 111. This raises two questions. 1) Should a person so young as Trifonov be playing this sonata? Shouldn’t he be old and wizened before attempting it? And 2) Shouldn’t Op. 111 be the last thing on a program? Nothing can follow it, right (including an encore)?

The truth is, I have heard young men play Op. 111 well and old men play it badly. The question is not so much one of age as of wisdom. Of course, the two may be linked. As for the second question, Op. 111 ended the first half of the program—we had a break, an intermission, after—so that was kosher.

From young Trifonov, the opening of the sonata was very well defined. It was also very well pedaled (which can be a tricky business). Trifonov made many beautiful sounds in this first movement, of course—beautiful sounds are virtually his specialty. He seems incapable of banging, incapable of making an ugly sound. (I wonder whether he could work up some harshness for Prokofiev.)

Some of his passagework was labored, which was surprising. This kid has a major technique. Some of his rubato—his license with time—struck me as wrongheaded. He was even a little sloppy, in some of his playing. Yet here was a gifted young man loving a great piece.

At the same time, he was not afraid of it. Do you know what I mean by that? He did not approach the music with trembling awe. He relished it, and played it like a man—not a wispy angel. You can hear fear or hesitation in playing. Usually, this is no good.

There are two movements in Op. 111, the opening one (which has two sections) and the Arietta. Trifonov took very little time before beginning the Arietta, which was commendable: It made musical sense.

The main question for the Arietta, I think—any performance of it—is, “Did it cast a spell?” For me, it took a while last night. Some of Trifonov’s playing in this movement was a little clumsy. It was short of purity, and of singing. Beethoven marks this movement cantabile. He calls for simple singing. Sometimes, Trifonov did not live up to this direction.

By the end of the piece, the spell did take hold—at least for me. The final pages were especially effective. Here was a man in balance: balanced in his mind and in his hands. I’m talking about Trifonov. Of course, Beethoven is in balance too. In fact, the Arietta is one of the highest examples of the balance I’m talking about.

Just as Trifonov finished, a cell phone rang, repeatedly. That might have spoiled the atmosphere. Strangely, from my point of view, it did not.

The second half of the program was devoted to one piece, or series of pieces: Liszt’s Transcendental Etudes (the twelve of them). The performance of these pieces, complete, is a feat of stamina. Also, Trifonov put on a feat of technique—his is stupendous.

He has wet spaghetti for arms, enabling him to do anything. There is no tightness, no tension, no restriction. Nothing gets in his way. He played the etudes with “unseemly ease,” as they say. In fact, I was wondering whether he was making them look too easy. Would he get credit for his stupendous technique? Did people realize he was not playing the slow movement of a Clementi sonatina?

Some of the etudes were better than others. Permit a generalization: Anything leggiero, soft, or nocturne-like was wonderful. Anything requiring a big, bold, virile sound was less wonderful. In this, as in other things, Trifonov resembles another young pianist, Yuja Wang.

Oddly enough, she is playing her own recital in Carnegie Hall tomorrow night.

Now and then, I was dying for more character and variation from Trifonov in the etudes. A certain sameness set in. But Trifonov has a clear affinity for these pieces. He knows them well, and he has a Romantic spirit.

For many years, different pianists have been labeled “The Last Romantic.” We have had ten, twenty, thirty Last Romantics. There will never be a last one. The Romantic spirit is unkillable. Kids come out of conservatory—or enter conservatory—with it.

At this point, I would like all Liszt lovers to cover their ears—because I’m going to knock the Transcendental Etudes, a little. I find them musically unsatisfying, as a set. Unnourishing. Even wearisome. They offer a platform for technique, no doubt. Otherwise . . . (I think of an old line: “Did Liszt get paid by the note?”)

So, what do you play for an encore when you’ve played an hour of encores—namely the Transcendental Etudes? Daniil Trifonov sat down and played a piece I did not recognize: a Romantic piece in A major, beautiful and singing. Trifonov was entirely reasonable in it, letting it be simple, for one thing. The piece dreamed in a lovely uncomplicated way.

This morning, I consulted the Carnegie Hall press office: an item from Medtner’s Forgotten Melodies, Op. 38, namely “Alla Reminiscenza.” Tuck it into your repertoire, if it’s not already.

A Message from the Editors

Your donation sustains our efforts to inspire joyous rediscoveries.