San Francisco Classical Voice

This could have arisen from Solzhenitsyn's initial discomfort with the Herbst Theater Steinway, a piano whose buzzing upper register grows more harsh and clanging with every passing season. (Too many scalar passages were marred by an abrupt, jarring shift between registers; surely the time has come for a judicious revoicing of this piano.) But it also stemmed from Solzhenitsyn's portrayal of the later works — Schumann's Three Fantasy Pieces (op. 111) and Beethoven's Sonata no. 31 in A-flat major (op. 110) — mainly as a kind of stylistic endpoint or introspective summation. His finely graded touch and sensitive rubato kept the more lyrical passages beyond reproach: the A-flat major Fantasy Piece (op. 111/2), and the Klagender Gesang (song of lament) from the third movement of the A-flat major Sonata, demonstrated that without a doubt. Granted, there was a wonderful rhythmic freedom that kept his performance well outside the pedestrian. Certainly, a more literal rendition of the Schumann would have undermined much of its melodic and rhythmic quirkiness.

Nevertheless, Solzhenitsyn's unruffled view of these late works rarely overstepped the narrow bounds of decorum, thereby reducing their expressive power. One unfortunate example of this involved the outer sections of Schumann's opening C-minor Fantasy Piece (op. 111/1). Produced with very little rhythmic or dynamic inflection, the piece sounded fast but not frenzied, loud but not turbulent.

Even more problematic was the Beethoven A-flat major Sonata. While Solzhenitsyn's meditative approach may not be entirely wrong-headed with the outer movements, the exceptionally frenetic tempo taken in the second movement (Allegro molto) was dangerously precipitate, and even tasteless. I found his clackety, near-prestissimo rendition of the running eighth-notes in the central section reminiscent of a train speeding across a wooden trestle. His startling arpeggiated passagework in the first movement was unpleasantly dry and brittle, with too many thumb-to-hand crossovers awkwardly thumped out. Worst of all, however, were the fugues in the last movement. This is Beethoven at his most spiritual. It is the emotional crux of the entire sonata. But Solzhenitsyn's insistence on simple, uninflected dynamics somehow left the piece earthbound, and it lost its sense of striving towards the eternal. Although his understated performance was serene, it never quite attained the seraphic.

All of this made Solzhenitsyn's post-intermission transformation so bewildering. His delivery of Beethoven's E-major Sonata (op. 14/1) was, quite suddenly, nothing short of brilliant. A delightfully jaunty, swaggering opening Allegro; a deeply affecting, pathos-filled Allegretto; a breezily insouciant Rondo — now here was verve, wit, life! I was completely taken with his ability to characterize each shifting mood by delaying an entrance, or exaggerating an accent, or emphasizing the articulation, or layering the dynamics. Which is not to say that Solzhenitsyn was over the top, either. He maintained a marvelous lightness of tone throughout that kept the piece from falling into grotesque caricature.

If Solzhenitsyn was only slightly less successful in his traversal of Schumann's Kreisleriana, it was partly because he was willing to risk more with their interpretation. In fact, many pianists ruin these pieces (and most other works by Schumann) by refusing to project the extremes of characterization demanded: fast movements are quickly reduced to mere sound and fury; slow movements become meandering and aimless. It was easier to forgive Solzhenitsyn's stumbling lack of rhythmic clarity in the faster movements (such as nos. 5, 7 and 8). If he occasionally pushed the tempo too far, it almost always served the music and its ability to express an emotional state. The sole exception was his flat, etude-like rendition of no. 1.

There was ample proof that Solzhenitsyn has given a great deal of thought to this cycle. In particular, his conception of the slower movements (no. 4, no. 6 and, to a lesser extent, no. 2) — by far the toughest pieces to convey to an audience — stands next to, and probably outstrips, some of the finest Schumann interpreters on record. This is because Solzhenitsyn's greatest gifts as a pianist are contemplative. He understands, probably more than any other pianist I've had the privilege to hear, the power of inwardness, the necessity of delay, the vital importance of the pause, and, most crucially, the art of silence. One of the greatest moments in Saturday's performance came at the midpoint of no. 4, which involves a long, downward dissolution of the opening theme into a fermata rest. And anyone who can dismiss "the art of silence" as so much pseudo-mystical hooey has not yet experienced the mastery of a Solzhenitsyn, able to invoke that awe-inspiring moment of pin-drop silence when time comes to a standstill and an entire audience holds its breath. Moments like this are rare musical gold.

So I am left in doubt and confusion. Solzhenitsyn needs to address the uneven quality in his playing and the inconsistency of his musical acuity. Even his encores revealed this odd disjuncture — his dashingly brilliant romp through Beethoven's C-minor Bagatelle (WoO 52) was deflated by a cool, unprepossessing "Träumerei" (Reverie) from Schumann's Kinderszenen (Scenes of childhood, op. 15). Clearly, Solzhenitsyn is a fine pianist, but I suspect he could become a great one. I only hope he proves me right.