Whang Bang No Thank You Lang²

Andreas Ottensamer, the recently appointed principal clarinetist of the tremendous Berlin Philharmonic and his esteemed colleague Wenzel Fuchs play a sublime introduction to Prokofieff’s Third Piano Concerto. Their playing only grows more mythic in one’s memory.

Next, the strings with a glorious crescendo buoyantly hustle in the superstar of the galaxy, THE pianist of the moment, in this sumptuously produced release from Sony, coupled with Bartok’s Second Concerto. Enter stage right Lang Lang, striding in wearing spandex and sneakers; or, is he in flight, suspended by invisible wires?

   From the opening bars, what detracts from his bustling athleticism
is his impetuous rhythm and erratic phrasing, his fast notes clumped together like locusts on the last ear of corn. Soon enough, Mr. Lang’s signature becomes apparent: willful, and comprehensible not as the efforts of an adolescent, but as a young child disciplined enough to control its tantrums. Perhaps this explains Sir Simon Rattle’s brittle, though enthusiastic, partnership.

   It could be argued that Lang Lang has a technique of some brilliance, but this chronicler finds it a disgrace to his trainers and handlers that at this stage of his prodigious career he will likely continue with barely a nod
to the decorum, civility, and propriety of this art we call fine, much less delve into matters of taste, tradition or aesthetics. 

He conjures a personality akin to Kim Jong Un; an irresponsible powerhouse impossible to ignore for his very expensive toys: submarines, satellites, nuclear missiles, impoverishing his people.

   Mr. Lang can create splashing sounds, like a toddler in its bath. He can produce structures small and middling, as a five year old in a sandbox. His scales are as effortless as descending a slide with hands in the air; his octaves have the energy of a sugar-fueled kid on a jungle gym. The Bartok cadenza is executed with merciful rapidity.

   A feature of Mr. Lang’s performances is that there's always some vicarious (though
upsetting) thrill to hear this piano player beat the living s**t out of his instrument. In this recording it happened only once, in a reprise of the theme in the middle of the last movement of the Bartok. Why was the Prestissimo of the 2nd movement so measured? (Ah, but the dialogue between piano and timpani - how often can one thank the timpani player for his foreboding and menacing artistry?) Honestly, it would be more entertaining to hear this performer unfettered; it could have the fascination of observing a traffic accident, or Judy Garland.

   

This pianist mostly distracts from the Berlin Philharmonic, one of the living Wonders of the Western World, except when his poor percussive playing in the opening movements of both works makes the
castanets and snare drums sound fantastic - how often can one thank the auxiliary percussionist? 

With consistently astonishing playing from the orchestra and its principals, is there an app to remove the clattering soloist from this recording?

~ CrackCritic