A review of the concert on December 17, 2003 by Dr. Thomas Wendel.

The Steinway Society has done it again. Once more it has brought to San Jose an emergent artist of stunning pianistic power. Alexander Tselyakov is, in a word, overwhelming. Next month he will be appearing in Carnegie Hall (Weil) in much the same program he presented at Petit Trianon; this reviewer will be amazed if even New York’s tough critics are not ecstatic. Incidentally the Carnegie concert will be dedicated to the victims of September 11; proceeds will go to the Red Cross Liberty Fund.

Alexander Tselyakov, at nine years of age, started his concert career in the then Soviet Union. Winner of several prestigious piano competitions, including the Tchaikovsky, young Tselyakov moved to Israel in 1991, and thence in 1994 to Canada where he now resides. He has appeared in recitals and with orchestras around the world, always to wild acclaim.

And wild acclaim it was at Tselyakov’s San Jose appearance. It was an all- Russian program; every work demanded incredible virtuosity. Just as at times it is difficult to believe one’s eyes, here it was difficult to believe one’s ears. What one was hearing was simply not possible. And it was not just a matter of an impeccable technique, but also of musicianship. This was clear from the lovely opening of the first work of the program, Tchaikovsky’s F-major Variations. The Slavic theme was most affectingly rendered with well-timed rubato. The following twelve variations, some stormy with Lisztian figurations, always adhered to the warm romanticism of this early and significant Tchaikovsky work.

Then came Scriabin: two poems, Opus 32, nos. 1 and 2 plus an Album Leaf from Opus 45 and finally an Etude, Opus 8. The two works from Opus 32 were a study in opposites. Number 1 is an atmospheric, Debussy-like, impression, while the second work, beginning with a sonic explosion, is a wild, frantic, outburst of passion. Opus 45 and Opus 8 also were exact opposites: the former a Schummanesque reverie, the latter closer in style and spirit to Chopin’s Revolutionary Etude. Scriabin, in particular, demands a smoothly drawn legato line, and here as in his overall technique, Tselyakov proved himself the master.

The composer who both closed the first half of the recital and opened the second half was Rachmaninoff. Before the intermission, Tselyakov played the Prelude in G major; Elegie, Opus 3; an Etude Tableaux, Opus 39, no. 3; plus a Moment Musical, Opus 16, no. 4. These works plus the grand Sonata, Opus 36, no, 2 in B flat minor that opened the second half of the program presented a fine overview of this Russian master of the piano. They varied from the nocturne-like Opus 32, no. 1 to the incredibly virtuosic Opus 16, no. 4. Opus 3, which blossomed radiantly before its stormy downward-scale finale.

Here I would insert just a scintilla, a suggestion, of a possible criticism about which I am admittedly unsure. The pianist now and then milks the damper pedal, it seems, for all it is worth. The downward-scale passage just mentioned is a case in point; it was very heavily pedaled so that the result was something of a blur. Now, is this the effect for which the composer asks? Or is it an effect desired by the interpreter? Or is there a possible technical flaw within the pianist’s overall wizardry? I really do not know. It is a slight criticism, in any case. For the most part I have no disagreement, pedal or other-wise.

The Rachmaninoff Second Sonata (revised edition) is of course one of the Great Works for piano. It has a magnificent sonata-form first movement that gives the lie to critics who claim that Rachmaninoff knew naught of form. The slow movement develops out of a beautifully harmonized Venetian-boat-like theme to reach a terrific climax followed by a blur of chords — once more the pedal effect, though this time highly appropriate. And of course just at the dramatic pause before the end, audience members chose to sneeze and cough. Could they not have waited?

My notes for the opening of the third movement read “Good lord!…utterly hair-raising. How could he surpass the virtuosity already displayed? Well, he did.” We could now understand how Liszt’s interlocutors must have felt during a physically impossible, yet tangible performance. It was a grand finale to a very great work.

And at last a modern work, Rodion Shchedrin’s Sonata No. 1 composed in 1962. This is a brilliant sonata in three movements, the first reminding me of Petrouchka, the second a fascinating study in counterpoint, and the last a toccata whose difficulty would seem even to top that of the Rachmaninoff finale. Tselyakov himself describes the mood of this movement as reflecting the catastrophe of the Second World War, and by extension, for the pianist, the destruction of September 11.The music indeed is terrifyingly savage.

Standing ovations brought out three encores. The first was announced as an “Aria” by Domenico Scarlatti. “Aria” or not — Scarlatti compilers notoriously misnamed and misnumbered his works — the little piece was the perfect serene offset to the storms through which we had passed. The next encore was pure good fun: The Flight of the Bumble Bee: in Rimsky-Korsakov’s imagining, and of course under Tselyakov’s fingers, the bee busily buzzed. It was over all too soon. The third and final encore was a fiery and brilliant rendering of the Revolutionary Etude of Chopin.