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The Joy of Shostakovich Lunacy New York
David Geffen Hall, Lincoln Center
01/07/2026 - & January 8, 9, 10, 2026
Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky: Piano Concerto No. 1 in B‑flat Minor, Opus 23
Dmitri Shostakovich: Symphony No. 4 in C Minor, Opus 43
Behzod Abduraimov (Pianist)
New York Philharmonic Orchestra, Gianandrea Noseda (Conductor)
EDITORIAL NOTE: JANUARY 7, 2026: “So they kidnap the wretched Maduro, and Trump seizes oil and oil tankers. And added to the New Year’s poisoned stew are drones and bombs and at least 100 civilian deaths and baloney and a drunken War Minister from an Orwellian Ministry of War, and the endless Me‑me‑me‑me‑me and I‑I‑I‑I‑I and meaningless marches and fear and menace and doubt and disorder.
“Can we stuff all this venom in a garbage compactor? Can we press the button, so blades crush the remains of Venezuelan/American power‑Caesars to plunge down bottomless pit?
“Yes, except for one ray of light. As large as the New York Philharmonic, as tiny as a universe.
“For you Gustavo Dudamel, ‘Mil gracias’... No, ‘Infinitas gracias’.
“Maestro, an artist may try to save us from evil by blessing us in your own way. So may your prayers be clothed in tones of Mahler and Mozart and Schubert and Stravinsky. May you turn human venality and mendacity into the measures of... Dare we say ‘hope’?”
B. Abduraimov (© Evgeny Eutykhov)
Why is Milan-born Gianandrea Noseda so attuned to Russian music? He had spent some time in Georgia, he reportedly speaks Russian. Most essential, he seems to have has inhaled classical Russia’s color, the eccentricities and the oriental idiosyncrasies.
This week, Maestro Noseda is performing two contrary Russian works with the New York Philharmonic. The second work was most popular, most familiar and (for some) tiring concerto in the entire piano repertoire.
Not that this deterred Maestro Noseda and the Uzbek virtuoso Behzod Abduraimov from tackling Tchaikovsky’s warhorse the B‑flat Minor Concerto, with more than mere success.
Mr. Noseda hardly pushed the New York Phil hard. He left the starring role to the stolid Mr. Abduraimov. And for good reason. The pianist has two virtues which could put him in the front ranks. He played those frequent two‑handed octave runs with feathery swiftness. They were feverishly demanding, yet seemed to be of one whole (silken?) cloth. At times in the first movement, he seemed to be biding his time for those muscular passages.
Mr. Abduraimov’s other asset was the sheer poetry of his reading. This was most apparent, in the Andantino section of the second movement, played in partnership with First Chair flutist Robert Langevin. That poetry was so elegant that one was happily ready to forgive his needless dramatic pauses in the opening movement.
The finale gave us the usual fireworks, and Mr. Abduraimov gave us his very unusual deft fingerwork. This was not the overwhelming volcano of an Argerich of an Ax, nor did the serious pianist think it worthy of an encore. But for yet another reading, it was satisfying and even enjoyable.
G. Noseda (© Stefano Pasqualetti)
Nothing, though, could prepare myself or the audience with the Shostakovich Fourth Symphony. The fact that it was banned from 1935 to Stalin’s death could be merit enough. But to hear it for the first time live was one of the exciting, mad, eccentric, disjointed pieces in the whole Shostakovich canon.
Why it so rarely played? A few mundane reasons. It lasts more than an hour. It has no canon, no Babi Yar style story. If it did have any secrets motifs, they were hidden. The structure is–at least–covert, more likely non‑existent. And my old exhaustive book Twentieth Century Music doesn’t even touch the work.
But most essential, the Fourth take a cosmos (not mere world) class orchestra. An orchestra where every player can blare, toot, or, in the case of the kettledrums, bang out each measure. This, though was not a cataclysm of sounds. Each measure, each movement, each group of notes, gave us fanfares, laughter (yes), those most horrifying schmaltz passages and almost an uncomfortable pianissimo ending to each movement.
After, I wondered how two other composers would have heard it. Gustav Mahler would have given his life to live 20 more years to compose such a variegated masterpiece. In fact, it was almost Shosty’s paean to Mahler.
But wait! Toward the end of the opening march-movement, Shostakovich launches into a five or six‑voiced long fugue. And Johann Sebastian Bach, who might have hidden away for the opening, would have dashed down from his organ loft to hear that fugue.
“How on each or in heaven,” he might have thought, “did my precious music give birth to such a monster?” And then would have added, “By the way, I’d love to hear it again!”
As would I. Not only Maestro Noseda but every first chair and consort played their hearts out. And while more careful scribes might pick holes in the performance, its outlandish bizarre and frankly loco composition easily jolted, unnerved and gave utter inexplicable joy.
Harry Rolnick
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