Not that the orchestra itself sounded like his. Dohnányi brought out gorgeously shaded colors in Lutoslawski's Funeral Music (yes, this piece, too, was decided on long ago). Waxing and waning, threaded with tritones (a musical interval precisely, if unsettlingly, halfway between the octave), the piece memorializes Bartók without imitating him. It was a smart way to pay homage to the orchestra's strings, especially at a climactic moment of great color: like a genie rushing back into his lamp, a cluttered, divided part gathers chaotic energy before gathering into a terrific unison.
Dohnányi likes to keep his ensemble lean, a core philosophy that suited Mozart's Piano Concerto No. 20, K. 466 - the dark "D Minor." With a transparent sound and soft attacks, Dohnányi's accompaniment left open an ample canvas for Buchbinder.
And what colors. In tasteful, crisply articulated gestures, the pianist used only the slightest flexibility in tempo, and the slightest was all he needed to make his points. He stretched a bit more in a piano-only section of the second movement, but there he made an important point - that no matter how much you veer, the inner beat should always be discernible. When Dohnányi looked back at Buchbinder after the third-movement cadenza, presumably to check in about tempo, the pianist looked as delighted as a birthday boy.
If Dohnányi and Sawallisch shared anything as musicians, it is surely their ability to convey authority and a certain appreciation for holding drama in reserve.
These qualities informed every inch of Beethoven's Symphony No. 3, the "Eroica," whose first movement Dohnányi approached as a powerful, closely regulated engine. The famous moment of great dissonance arrived with no special announcement; its radicalism spoke for itself. The second movement, "Marcia Funebre," was built of the same inevitability contained in all of the conductor's work, which, in the ears of at least one listener mulling the full meaning of Sawallisch, echoes still now and still loudly.
Contact Peter Dobrin
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