birdwatcher | Wiener Philharmoniker (1 Oz)

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Mozart
     Piano Concerto No. 9 in E-flat Major, K. 271 (Jeunehomme)
Haydn
     Symphony No. 96 in D Major (The Miracle)
Mozart
     Piano Concerto No. 27 in B-flat Major, K. 595

Дирижировал и исполнял на фортепиано Джеффри Кахане.

В программке нехарактерно захватывающая статья аннотатора Чикагского Симфонического оркестра Филипа Хушера:

Мozart was the greatest pianist of his time, yet we have very little idea of what it was like to be in the audience when he performed. We can hear Brahms playing his own music on record—the sound is faint and scratchy, but we can tell how he shaped a phrase, how he let a melody flow, how much give-and-take he allowed in the tempo—but no one can tell us how Mozart sounded. There are, of course, the stories of Mozart as a child performer: how he could sight-read, improvise, and play with a facility denied most musicians of any age; how he excelled at the stunts his father devised— playing with a cloth draped over the keys, for example—to amuse royalty. But once the child prodigy matured into a true genius—a more unsettling commodity—and abandoned entertainment for art, it becomes difficult to put our finger on precisely what set Mozart's playing apart from all others.
The eyewitness reports are uniformly enthusiastic but short on facts. We don't know how he looked when he sat at the keyboard—whether he leapt at the keys, as the movies suggest, with adolescent delight. There's scarcely one comment as revealing as Mozart's own about a colleague: "She stalks over the clavier with her long bony fingers in such an odd way." There are other vivid remarks scattered throughout his letters about pianists who grimaced and flopped about while playing, or distorted the music with freewheeling use of rubato, and he once advised his sister to play with "plenty of expression, taste, and fire"—characteristics that apparently governed his own performances. There's one particular phrase of his—"it should flow like oil"—that has helped musicians recognize that discretely picking at Mozart's notes is all wrong. But of technical matters, there's very little; on one occasion Mozart wrote to his father that "everyone is amazed that I can always keep strict time. What the people cannot grasp is that in 'tempo rubato' in an adagio, the left hand should go on playing in strict time." Few musicians whose opinions we might still value have left us detailed descriptions. Muzio Clementi, the famous pianist who was once pitted against Mozart in a contest, later recalled simply that he "had never heard anyone perform with such spirit and grace." Mozart realized his concertizing was a digression, anticipating—as too few of his contemporaries did—the day when he would be known instead for the music he wrote. "I would rather neglect the piano than composition," he told his father in February 1778, "for with me the piano is a sideline, though, thank God, a very good one." Indeed, it was his best source of income for many years, and the neighbors regularly watched, sometimes as often as every other day, while his piano was lowered from his window and carted off to his next engagement.