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Trifonov Conquers Russian Rarities New York
Isaac Stern Auditorium, Carnegie Hall
12/13/2025 -
Sergey Ivanovich Taneyev: Prelude and Fugue, Opus 29
Sergei Prokofiev: Visions fugitives, Opus 22
Nicolai Myaskovsky: Piano Sonata No. 2 in F‑sharp Minor, Opus 13
Robert Schumann: Piano Sonata No. 1 in F‑Sharp Minor, Opus 11
Daniil Trifonov (Pianist) 
D. Trifonov (© Dario Acosta/Deutsche Grammophon)
“Russian music could be described as ‘light serious’ or ‘serious light’. Above all, it must be tuneful, simply and comprehensibly tuneful, and must not be repetitious or stamped with triviality.”
Sergei Prokofiev
“Some think music is made to tickle the ear. Others treat it like arithmetic. I still think music is the ideal music of the soul.”
Robert Schumann
Adjectives? Metaphors? Similes? Similitudes? Begone, begone, begone, begone!
This was a recital by Daniil Trifonov, and that says it all.
To say the “world’s best living pianist” is folly, of course. Yet Mr. Trifonov is obviously singular. First of all, he has a composure like no other. He almost ran on stage between the overflow audience around the Steinway. His dress was informal-inconsequential, his smile and bow were perfunctory, he sat down and simply played.
His choices were anything but usual. Two Russian composers virtually unknown in America. One Russian composer whose work last night was never played in its entirety, And an early enigmatic piece by a Romantic master.
Mr. Trifonov didn’t need to milk applause. His opening work by Sergei Taneyev was spectacular, but he stood for a moment and launched into the 20 Prokofiev epigrammatic Visions fugitives, and when the audience didn’t realize the Lento irrealmente was the final section, he didn’t bother to get up: he simply started the Myaskovsky Sonata, and walked off.
Was this coldness or contempt? Quite the opposite. One heard the music, one could almost forget the player, Mr. Trifonov has fingers which whirl over the keyboard. He speaks volumes with his dynamics, and makes even the amorphous Schumann First Sonata cohesive.
Sergei Taneyev is almost unknown these days. But as teacher, theorist (not one of the Russian Nationalists) and–above all–pianist, he was esteemed. His Prelude and Fugue (the only work for which he gave an Opus number), Mr. Trifonov started with, what could have been, a variation on Chopin’s “Raindrop” prelude. The fugue, though, was a three‑minute cataclysm of voices played at breakneck speed.
Mr. Trifonov worked the brilliant clarity, that I couldn’t believe his minimal pedal‑work.
Yet the following Prokofiev 20 works (inspired not as doodlings in his notebook, but a poet’s quote “turning fugitive visions into verse”) were a thesaurus–no, an Oxford OED Dictionary–of every Prokofiev substance. They were sarcastic, mystical, grimacing, glowing, fiery. Each bijou lasted about a minute. Yet somehow, Mr. Trifonov transformed each minute into a complete expression, impression until the final “Slow and unrealistic” vision.
His uninterrupted start of the Myaskovsky Second Sonata could have been a continuation of his friend Prokofiev. Instead, at my initial hearing, it was evident that Myaskovsky’s fabled 27 symphonies were concealing one of the great piano works of the century.
S. Taneyev/N. Myaskowsky
Musically, it could have been a syncretic combination of Medtner, Scriabin and Rachmaninoff (including a continuous motive of the latter’s Dies Irae. Thematically, like Prokofiev’s 20 Visions, this single 13‑minute movement was sporadically passionate, crazed, tense and even menacing.
So swift the tempos, so unassumingly powerful the virtuosity that I was flummoxed by the structure. Never mind: the Day of Fire, Day of Wrath motive and fugue were enough to keep one’s ears tied to every note.
These rare Russian works (even the Prokofiev is hardly ever played in its entirety) were followed by the rarely played Schumann First Sonata. (I believe even Martha Argerich never recorded it.) Crazed by his early love for Clara, written with crazed episodes, it is a spider’s web of challenges.
Daniil Trifonov didn’t attempt to make it “eloquent” or “beautiful.” He leaped into the blazing opening measures, and, save for the prayer‑like Aria, retained this incendiary tempo until the very last measures. Here, he almost paused to bring back the first-movement theme, but that pause became the orange ember which burst into flaming consummation.
After which came Tchaikovsky encores, played beautifully but–sadly by my prejudice–let the audience calm down.
Yet enough. I feel guilty for writing every image or simile or comparison. One had to be in Carnegie Hall last night. Words can lie: ears don’t mislead. And Mr. Trifonov had the audacity and expertise to take our aural receptacles into undiscovered spheres of music.
Harry Rolnick
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