nothing ever comes here

(to leipzig, that is) except classical star pianists. yesterday we had daniil trifonov, and he played us a medley of scriabin pieces with sufficient emotion to sink half a dozen titanics. heavily arpeggiated music, interpreted as a constant state of levitation where the pianist doesn't play a single measure in straight rhythm, hesitatingly thinking about playing the next note (come on, you know you're going to have to play that note, it's in the damn score, don't pretend you have a choice), then ambling forward in quick resolution ... he wasn't showboating at all, always extracting unfamiliar textures from the familiar material, hearing unheard voices in the busy stuff, kneading masses of notes like putty under his fingers (i really need glasses yet i safely assume) ... and still, even in the few well-placed eccentricities (and i love me an irreverent reading, why else would you still play the old music) he never left the affirmative gesture of quietly heroic pianism. so i was already overstuffed and dreaded the next scriabin piece, the so-called  black mass sonata, but all fell into place here, the short, contrasting episodes were perfect for him, handling transitions, blending textures, dropping into moods at the turn of a quaver. then i got ample eccentricities as he switched into beethoven's op. 110 without even taking a breath, started the slow movement almost nodding out over a quavering high note, took the returning fragment of a folklike melody completely out of context like quick crosscuts to a pastoral scene. but then again, it's difficult to get into a beethoven who can't be simple and can't be stubborn but always so elaborate. after the break, it went on like that, some borodin (with some surprisingly modern chilly atmospheres) and prokoviev (ok, i got my straight beats here, but he never rocked out), and two rachmaninoff encores ... throughout, trifonov kept bathing in the sound, finding new voices, submitting stride piano passages to the logic of the pondering arpeggio, and turning thundering arpeggios into fine-grained organic matter, and i can't remember a concert where i so often went back and forth between the inward groan and rapt fascination.