In Tchaikovsky’s First Piano Concerto, Fazil Say’s brittle, steel-edged engraving of the notes suggests little of Martha Argerich’s long-limbed ferocity or Van Cliburn’s tonal differentiation. Just compare the latter’s nuanced phrasing of the Finale’s main theme to Say’s crass banging; or pit Say’s machine-like traversal of the first movement’s slurred two-note phrases against the shapely, imaginative readings by Ashkenazy, Richter, Gilels, Wild, Horowitz, or even Oscar Levant, for heaven’s sake! The piano is miked in a close-up, dryish fashion and seems to occupy a different space from that of Yuri Temirkanov’s well-drilled orchestra. I can’t say I care for the Liszt Sonata’s hollow, bloodless miking, nor the pianist’s callow, finicky conception. He impatiently plows through the tender D major theme as if its overt lyricism were a source of embarrassment, and drops a beat each time before he launches into the exposition’s infamous octave section. What’s more, his characteristic moans and groans now exceed the official porno movie limit. Considering all the great Tchaikovsky Ones and Liszt B minors in the catalog, you won’t miss much by ignoring this release.
