In 2006 I gave a mixed review to Boris Giltburg’s solo debut CD, while indicating my desire to hear the pianist again. My hunch paid off, for Giltburg’s artistry and career have positively progressed. Along with his first-prize victory in the 2013 Queen Elisabeth Competition in Brussels came a stunning solo Prokofiev disc, followed by an equally impressive Grieg E minor, Liszt B minor, and Rachmaninov B-flat minor sonata compilation. One would think that the power and poetry distinguishing Giltburg’s recent work would spill over into Robert Schumann’s volatile sound world. But not on his Naxos debut recital.
The playing is polished and precise, to be sure, yet generally too careful and polite for consideration in a competitive catalog. He pacifies Davidsbündlertänze’s quirky mood shifts and dynamic surges, and attempts little characterization beyond playing the notes. Take the “stride piano” eighth piece, for example, where András Schiff’s joyful momentum and Paolo Giacometti’s lighthearted lilt leave Giltburg’s foursquare accuracy behind. Or notice how No. 18’s block chords acquire more of the composer’s intended humor through Mitsuko Uchida’s unpredictable legato inflections and Claudio Arrau’s slower, more pinpointed articulation. In Papillons, Giltburg gauges No. 7’s music-box-like lyricism and brings out No. 9’s sharp contrasts beautifully, but he clips No. 3’s octaves and lingers over No. 4’s melodic leaps to mincing effect.
If modern-day Carnaval recordings from pianists like Freire, Lazaridis, and Lifschitz evoke the colorful cast of characters depicted in each short movement, Giltburg’s relatively rounded-off interpretation transforms Schumann’s wild party into a genial afternoon tea. While the Preambule takes off at an appropriately fast tempo (albeit without the abandon of Rachmaninov, Weissenberg, Freire, or even the subpar 1983 Horowitz), Giltburg’s tapered phrases give the plot away, so to speak.
If Eusebius is akin to a Schumann “flower piece”, Giltburg’s prosaic reading wilts and dies on the vine. He misses the agitated undertow in Schumann’s depiction of Chopi, and nails Paganini’s treacherous leaps more like an earnest marksman than a diabolical fiddler. Giltburg makes his coy and super-slow-motion conception of Aveu work, as opposed to Arrau’s heaving rhetoric. It barely hints at the powerfully energized and rhythmically incisive finale up ahead. Where were these qualities earlier, when we needed them? By playing safe with Schumann, Giltburg sells short both the composer and his own considerable pianistic gifts.