Only rarely does a concert review make me sorry I missed the event. The other day in the New York Times was just such a review of a pianist playing a Brahms concerto (one of my all-time favorites) with the NY Philharmonic. It was the kind of review that made me wish I had been there.
So why had I not gone?
I am so afraid that what I will hear does not begin to touch my feeling about a piece I love so deeply that I prefer to stay home. (Once I was dragged practically kicking and screaming to hear a performance of the Brahms Requiem by the Chicago Symphony under Georg Solti--another piece about which I had such strong feeling that I would have preferred not to test myself in that way: It turned out to be an unforgettable experience. But, oddly or not so oddly, the thing about it that was so remarkable was that Solti balanced the chorus with the orchestra as indicated in the score, for which he was soundly criticized by the press.)
So what kind of publicity would it have taken to get me to this particular concert?
The only answer is the kind that would have made most ticket-buyers stay home. That would never do, I realize. So the real nature of the artist, the real gift, has to remain a close-kept secret until some discerning reviewer has the courage to speak up and name the essence of the artistry.
Next time that pianist comes to town I will make it a point to go hear him.
