San Francisco Classical Voice

It was a strange, remarkable event on Sunday afternoon in Berkeley's Zellerbach Hall as Vladimir Spivakov conducted the Russian National Orchestra on tour, with the orchestra's founder, Mikhail Pletnev, as soloist. They played like tired old hacks, they played like angels — same musicians, different times. Each time they got exactly the same delirious reception from the audience, which didn't seem to care what or how the folks played as long as they, and the music, came from the old country.

Pletnev — who is up for a run of big recording assignments (which could make him the Jennifer Lopez of the piano world, ubiquitous and acclaimed beyond reason) — played the Tchaikovsky Second Piano Concerto in a wooden, uncaring, rough, and loud manner . . . still good for a standing ovation, of course.

But the surprise was the orchestra, a fine group of musicians, including outstanding string sections. You cannot but fix the responsibility on Spivakov, a violinist, who has been conducting a great deal while cutting a dashing figure on the podium. Whatever the cause, the opening of the concerto, the entire first movement, was about as bad as I have ever heard it played. Overblown, bombastic, a veritable Tchaikovsky parody, this was painful music, made worse by Pletnev's distracted banging at the keyboard.

And then came another weird happening: "Piano Concerto Saved by Violinist!" No, not Spivakov, but rather the concertmaster, Alexei Bruni, whose lyrical solos in the second movement turned around this disaster in the making. He was joined by principal cellist in some sensitive and beautiful music-making that had been notably missing until that point.

Then came the Shostakovich Fifth Symphony. Big surprise: In a steadily building performance, Spivakov and the orchestra produced not merely a good Fifth but a great one, certainly better than their own recent recording (see the note at the foot of the review) and, in the second half of the work, a flawless, memorable reading.

This is the kind of event that justifies all the trouble you have go through to attend a live concert — to see and hear good musicians play badly and then turn around and produce a miracle. The first movement was straightforward, error free, and well played, if somewhat short on drama, lacking the palpable feeling and expression of suspense, breath not quite caught and held but getting close. The Mahlerian Scherzo was excellent, if — again — a bit short on feeling, this time lacking in the right kind of humor and resembling more the surface mirth of Prokofiev than the proper bite of Bartok. Bruni came to the fore again, with gorgeous solos, lifting the violin and viola sections to new heights.

But the "miracle" came with the Largo, surely one of the most moving pieces of contemporary music. Spivakov and the orchestra played as if transformed. They sustained the music, the feeling, the cathedral-like arch of the whole movement, delivering, well, if not perfection, something very close to it: I cannot imagine the music being played better.

And then came the last movement: another rare and wondrous happening, though often anticlimactic after the Largo. With patience and authority, Spivakov conducted the slow, long development through its tricky tempo changes and steady build. Then it came again, the ovation, the difference this time being that I was part of it, gladly.