You’ve heard Tchaikowski’s 1st Piano Concerto. Even if only in the back ground of Woody Woodpecker cartoons. It is one of the most intense pieces of work out there — and it stuns me how an audience of three thousand can just sit at Avery Fischer Hall and simply listen attentively. How can these people not rock out?
I was the one banging my head as Trpceski flew up and and down the scales, knocking out these killer phrases. It, and the First Symphony that followed, were nothing short of kick-ass.
The New York times put it thusly, “Mr. Trpceski has formidable technique and energy to spare. He dispatched volleys of thick, crashing chords with steely tone and power, and conveyed contrasting passages of scampering runs with clarity and lightness. He tore through the double- octave outbursts with arm-blurring speed and no sense of strain. Yet in tenderly lyrical moments he caressed the phrases, playing with naturalness, never milking anything.”
That’s a drawn-out way of saying “kick-ass,” right?
