It is said that, on the way from New York, weather fronts often make a stop in Toronto. Alas, that’s far less common for international orchestras, so it was no surprise to see a near-capacity turnout for the revered Czech Philharmonic and their Music Director, Semyon Bychkov, in the first of two concerts in Koerner Hall. The visit followed their appearances at Carnegie Hall, rounding off their Year of Czech Music, a tradition that goes back to 1924 and the centenary of the ‘Father of Czech music’, Bedřich Smetana. Since then, it has been celebrated (with a few exceptions) every decade in years ending in 4, because so many milestones end with that numeral – Smetana’s death (1884), Leoš Janáček’s birth (1854) and Antonín Dvořák’s death (1904). All three composers were featured in New York, but sadly Janáček’s Glagolitic Mass (as well as Dvořák’s beloved Cello Concerto) did not make the cut for Toronto.
Still, there was plenty to rejoice over, not least the opportunity to hear Dvořák’s rarely played Piano Concerto in G minor, brought to life in a spellbinding performance by Daniil Trifonov. This was the greatest surprise of the evening for me, having heard Trifonov (or rather a shadow of him) last season in Brahms’ First.
Dvořák’s concerto is a strange beast: an endless repository of tuneful melodies, full of the composer’s typical joie de vivre, yet almost completely lacking in memorability. A quick glance at Trifonov’s hands was sufficient to confirm the work’s reputation for being awkwardly unpianistic. Yet the Russian made everything seem magically effortless. The concerto’s debt to Beethoven, Schumann and, above all, Brahms is undeniable; but Trifonov brought to it an almost Slavic, untamed fervour. There was also plenty of charm (the delightfully dancing second subject of the first movement), mischief (the spritely finale), and heart-breaking fragility and nostalgic serenity (the Andante sostenuto second movement, where conductor and pianist conspired to make time stand still). In a perfect meeting of minds, Bychkov and Trifonov gave the music’s episodic nature its due, accepting rather than merely justifying or apologising for it. The audience’s uproarious response was rewarded with an encore from Tchaikovsky’s Sleeping Beauty, in Mikhail Pletnev’s coruscating arrangement.
Few musical works can rival Smetana’s Má vlast as an epitome of national pride; and no other ensemble has this music as deeply embedded in its DNA as the Czech Philharmonic. What was most poignant in their performance of the first three of the six symphonic poems was the degree of naturalness and commitment. Nothing was exaggerated, everything flowed, and the whole was suffused with such dignity and regard that it was impossible not to share a degree of pride in being a part of the humanity that can create such wondrous music.
Balance and ensemble were borderline miraculous – I had to stretch from my seat to verify that there were indeed two harps at the start of the Vyšehrad. The architectural build-up of Šárka was spine-tingling, as the searching clarinet (one of numerous delicious woodwind solos) pointed the way towards the terrifying climax. Between these came the evergreen favourite Vltava – subtle, supple and endlessly magical. The central polka was charmingly rustic, while the exquisite mermaids’ dance in the shimmering moonlight was simply breathtaking. A Slavonic Dance encore brought the evening to a celebratory conclusion.
