“A unique selection of magical piano moments that have shaped Khatia’s life,” reads the sticker on what appears to be a gimmicky concept album, but in fact turns out to be a carefully crafted program of 17 mostly short, introspective pieces by as many composers. Although the music embraces a wide and diverse stylistic range, the selections flow in and out of each other easily and integrate extremely well. More importantly, Khatia Buniatishvili reveals a capacity for calm, sensitivity, and focus light-years removed from her customary “pit bull in a china shop” approach to virtuosic fare like the Liszt B minor Sonata.
She begins with a fluid and translucently-voiced reading of the Bach/Petri Sheep May Safely Graze transcription, followed by “October” from Tchaikovsky’s The Months, which is somber and contained in contrast to, say, Shura Cherkassky’s big singing line. Her dry and rather glib F-sharp minor Song Without Words Op. 67 No. 2 dashes from the starting gate, paying little heed to the composer’s “leggiero” directive, while a languid Clair de lune finds Debussy’s basic pulse barely clinging to life in the opening section.
What sounds like a gorgeous Michel Legrand movie theme harmonized by Bill Evans or Keith Jarrett is actually Giya Kancheli’s gorgeous main theme from Lana Gogoberidze’s film When Almonds Blossomed. In the seventh piece of Ligeti’s Musica Ricercata cycle Buniatishvili projects the steady detaché left hand more firmly and briskly than in Sony’s recent recording with Kit Armstrong. Buniatishvili’s Brahms B-flat minor Intermezzo Op. 117 No. 2 shapelessly swoons and sighs; it would have benefited from the Liszt Wiegenlied’s sustained austerity and controlled nuances, or the Ravel Pavane’s intelligent textural balances.
A lovely Dvorák E minor Slavonic Dance for piano duet features Buniatishvili’s sister Gvantsa, while Khatia makes three pieces associated with Vladimir Horowitz (Chopin’s C-sharp minor Etude Op. 25 No. 7, Scriabin’s C-sharp minor Etude Op. 2 No. 1, and Scarlatti’s E major Sonata K 380) absolutely her own. A tender Grieg “Homesickness” leads into the traditional song “Vagiorko Mai” in Buniatishvili’s own transcription that starts simply and concludes with Rachmaninov on steroids. Lastly, Buniatishvili slows the Menuet from Handel’s G minor Suite down to Satie-like stillness, then quietly slips into Arvo Pärt’s Für Alina. The sparse phrases and individual notes flicker, fade, and disintegrate to the point where you’re not sure if the music actually has stopped. Hannah Dübgen’s gushing booklet notes convey the candor and substance of fan club flattery and paid advertising.
