Above: pianist Behzod Abduraimov
~ Author: Ben Weaver
Tuesday December 10th, 2019 - A few weeks ago I heard young pianist Behzod Abduraimov play Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto No. 1 at Carnegie Hall and thought it was one of the most exciting performances of that familiar work I’d ever heard. Hearing Mr. Abduraimov in a solo recital - also at Carnegie Hall - presented another opportunity to see if that Tchaik 1 was an anomaly or if it signaled arrival of an exciting pianist.
The good news is that Mr. Abduraimov, born in Tashkent, Uzbekistan just before the fall of the Soviet Union, was as exciting in his solo recital as he had been in the concerto. What strikes me about Abduraimov’s playing is the virility of the sound he produces. He’s not shy, he makes no excuses for his playing. He believes in what he’s presenting. This confidence was especially welcome in Mussorgsky’s Pictures at an Exhibition, composed for piano in 1874. Ravel’s famed orchestration is probably how most people know the work, so everyone must compete with an orchestra. Abduraimov - in the big moments, like the closing Great Gate of Kiev - conjures up waves and walls of sound that could fight an orchestra. But he’s not all about waving his virility around - he can scale down the sound when he deems necessary. The Catacombs sounded like they were creeping up from under ground and the Ballet of the Unhatched Chicks skipped like a bunch of unruly children.
Claude Debussy’s Children’s Corner - a suite of six whimsical and lyrical movements composed by Debussy for his three-year-old daughter - showed off Abduraimov’s gentler side. And Frédéric Chopin’s 24 Preludes, Op. 28 span the gamut of moods and feelings. The set is rarely performed in its entirety in concert (though often recorded). Pianists will generally choose their favorite selections. Abduraimov played the 24 through, sometimes without pausing. The effect was effective, the differing moods rarely clashing, Abduraimov managing to create an unwritten link between each movement. So the yearning B-minor Prélude flowed naturally into the A-major, written in the style of a mazurka, which is followed by a passionate Molto agitato of the F-sharp minor.
Standing ovations these days are somewhat overrated; it seems like everybody gets one. But in the case of Abduraimov the crowd was not faking its enthusiasm (except one crabby Russian lady next to me who declared the recital a disaster, Mussorgsky unrecognizable, and Abduraimov just another empty showman.) The rest of the audience called the pianist back for three encores: a mesmerizing Tchaikovsky Lullaby in a piano arrangement by Rachmaninoff; a dramatic “Mercutio” from Prokofiev’s Romeo and Juliet; and a hair-raising/breathtaking Etude No. 3, “La campanella,” by Liszt.
This last piece is one of those deranged pieces of music that only a madman like Liszt could have written and only someone seriously not afraid of falling flat on their face would play live. Abduraimov’s performance showed no traces of fear. The mere presence of this work as an encore made the Russian lady next to me angry and she stormed out complaining that this was all the proof we needed that an brainless robot was now pounding on the keyboard. There was, indeed, a brainless robot in our midst and she was angrily leaving Carnegie Hall. Behzod Abduraimov, on the other hand, brought his dazzling recital to a head-spinning conclusion.
~ Ben Weaver