The modern men no longer write
concerti. When they introduce a pianoforte into the orchestra, they
either, like Brahms, treat it as the premier instrument, and write
symphonies, or, like Scriabine and Strawinsky, reduce it to the common
level. But M. Rachmaninoff has not participated in this change of
attitude. He is still content with music that toys with the pianoforte.
And he writes concerti of the old type. He writes pieces full of the old
astounding musical dislocation. Phrases of an apparent intensity and
lyricism are negated by frivolous and tinkling passage-work. Take away
the sound and fury signifying nothing from the third concerto, and what
is left? There was a day, perhaps, when such work served. But another
has succeeded to it. And so M. Rachmaninoff comes amongst us like a very
charming and amiable ghost.
For that, however, let us not fail to be duly grateful. Let us not fail
to give thanks for the fact that setting forever is the conception of
music as an after-dinner cordial, a box of assorted bonbons,
bric-a-brac, a titillation, a tepid bath, a performance that amuses and
caresses and whiles away a half-hour, an enchantment for boarding-school
misses, an opportunity for virtuosi to glorify themselves.
One of the curious things about M.
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