Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto No. 1—a classic so iconic that it’s almost a given: anyone performing it at a concert will at least deliver a solid rendition. But this particular performance? Hands down, it was one of the absolute best piano concertos I’ve ever heard at the San Francisco Symphony Hall. By halfway through the first movement, I was so thrilled I could’ve jumped out of my seat. The balance between the piano and orchestra was perfection. Their coordination was flawless to the point of magic—there were moments where the timbres of the piano and woodwinds blended so seamlessly, they felt like one single instrument.
My chamber music teacher once said, “You know, as a pianist, you are hated by the string players—yes, HATED—because the piano sounds so different from strings.” But this performance was the only time I’ve ever felt the piano and orchestra were so intimately connected, as if they were whispering sweet nothings to each other. The dynamics, tone control, fluidity, and clarity were all otherworldly.
And the rhythm? Oh, I have such high standards for rhythm—I can’t stand it when performers rush through rapid passages or slow down because they lack the technical chops. (This is why I can’t get used to most of Barenboim’s Beethoven sonatas.) But this performance? Absolute bliss. Not a single rushed note, not a single moment of dragging—everything was masterfully controlled, effortlessly natural. And his octave runs? How can they be that clear?!
For an encore, he played his own arrangement of Over the Rainbow. I’m not super familiar with jazz, but wow, it was lovely.
When I got home, I looked him up. Turns out, he started sneaking into his sister’s piano lessons at just 18 months old, went home, and played by ear! He gave his first solo recital at 4 years old and had his concerto debut at 8. Incredible. He’s also collaborated with ballet companies, which might explain the heightened drama and expressiveness in his Tchaikovsky.
The other two pieces on the program were by British composers (the conductor was British too, with a proper BBC English accent—so charming). The first was a suite of three dances, which was nice but got a bit lost live. The main melody was often drowned out by the accompaniment, and the dance rhythms didn’t stand out much, so it felt a bit muddled.
The second half was Elgar’s Enigma Variations. It was my first time hearing it live, and I was so excited—and it absolutely lived up to my expectations. The eighth variation, Nimrod, moved me to tears once again—it’s just so gorgeous.
Each variation in the Enigma Variations is inspired by one of Elgar’s friends, capturing either their personality or a shared experience. For example, the sixth depicts a stormy hike in the forest with a friend, while the first is about his wife—it even weaves in a four-note whistle motif that Elgar would play every time he came home and opened the door. Elgar insisted the piece could be enjoyed on its own, but reading these little stories beforehand really adds a layer of charm to the experience!
