Everyone’s a critic. Music history is littered with stories of now-famous compositions that were initially dismissed or excoriated at their premieres. César Cui derided Rachmaninoff’s first symphony as comparable to all 10 plagues of Egypt rolled into one and suggested that it was only fit to be heard by the inmates of a conservatory in hell. Reviews of the premiere of Beethoven’s late string quartet, Op. 130, referred to the last movement, Grosse Fuge, as “a confusion of Babel” and “an indecipherable, uncorrected horror.” More recently, a Boston music critic in 1900 suggested that egresses in the new Boston Symphony Hall should be labeled “Exit in Case of Brahms.” While each of these criticisms is memorable to be sure, none compares to the reception that Tchaikovsky received when “test driving” his new piano concerto for his colleague, famed pianist Nicolas Rubinstein. Rubinstein had been supportive of Tchaikovsky’s music in the past, and the 34-year-old secretly hoped to dedicate the concerto to Rubinstein and have him premiere the work.
It was Christmas Eve 1874 when Tchaikovsky proudly played the concerto for Rubinstein. Tchaikovsky described the experience in a letter a few years later: “I played the first movement. Never a word, never a single remark. Do you know the awkward and ridiculous sensation of putting before a friend a meal which you have cooked yourself, which he eats—and then holds his tongue? Oh, for a single word, for friendly abuse, for anything to break the silence! For God’s sake say something! But Rubinstein never opened his lips.”
When Rubinstein eventually spoke, he didn’t hold back. Tchaikovsky continued” ‘“Well?’ I asked, and rose from the piano. Then a torrent broke from Rubinstein’s lips, gentle at first, gathering volume as it proceeded, and finally bursting into the fury of a Jupiter. My concerto was worthless, absolutely unplayable; the passages so broken, so disconnected, so unskillfully written, that they could not even be improved; the work itself was bad, trivial, common; here and there I had stolen from other people; only one or two pages were worth anything; all the rest had better be destroyed. I left the room without a word. Presently Rubinstein came to me and, seeing how upset I was, repeated that my concerto was impossible but said if I would suit it to his requirements, he would bring it out at his concert. ‘I shall not alter a single note,’ I replied.”
To his credit, Tchaikovsky did not alter a single note. Rather, he looked for another pianist willing to tackle what he had written. The German pianist/conductor Hans von Bülow eagerly accepted the challenge, and agreed to premiere the work on an upcoming American tour. Thus, on October 25, 1875, the concerto was premiered in Boston with von Bülow at the keyboard. The performance was a triumph, and marked the beginning of a succession of American performances that served to increase Tchaikovsky’s popularity on this side of the Atlantic.
The first movement, marked Allegro non troppo e molto maestoso, is a majestic masterpiece. Heroic horns boldly get our attention before the piano enters with thunderous chords. This short, yet dramatic introduction leads to a glorious theme presented by the unison string section. This unapologetic, heart-on-the-sleeve melody has become one of the most beloved in the repertoire. Following the string presentation, the piano takes center stage with its own version of the tune, culminating in a dramatic cadenza. The orchestra then returns with the theme as the pianist embellishes dramatically. Oddly enough, this gorgeous opening melody is not heard again, and the movement continues with completely different melodic material. After an almost funereal chant by the brass, the first of three additional themes is presented: a chirpy tune based on a Ukrainian folk song. Following this nervous melody, the clarinet introduces a more tender theme, which is then taken up by the soloist. There is a third melancholy theme first introduced by the strings, and the remainder of the movement is devoted to orchestra and soloist trading these three melodies back and forth as the pianist is pushed to ever greater feats of virtuosity. Stormy orchestral interludes lead to tender solo piano episodes as Tchaikovsky takes these three melodies and presents them in myriad ways. A final, lengthy piano cadenza gives the soloist a chance to show off both their lyrical and technical skills before the orchestra rejoins in a dramatic and muscular conclusion.
Following this grandiose opening movement, the second movement is arresting in its simplicity. Hushed pizzicato strings introduce a solo flute playing a tender melody. The piano takes up the tune, eventually sharing it with cello and woodwind solos. There is a skittish middle section where the pianist’s technical skills are pushed to ever-increasing heights while the orchestra plays a new melody beneath the acrobatics. Eventually the opening tender music returns, played gently by the soloist, then shared with the oboe. The movement ends like a lullaby, gently soothing us to sleep.
The final movement opens with a jaunty tune full of syncopations that rather quickly leads to a more regal melody introduced by the violins. These two contrasting themes alternate, putting the soloist through their paces with almost non-stop racing up and down the keyboard. A short orchestral interlude gives the soloist a brief respite before the grandest of finales, full of pianistic fireworks and almost guaranteed to elicit an enormous reaction from a breathless audience.
The audience at the Boston premiere responded as one would expect, with thunderous applause and demanding an immediate encore of the last movement (which must have left von Bülow exhausted)! The reception at subsequent performances was equally enthusiastic, and eventually even Rubinstein grudgingly came to admire the work. Tchaikovsky, despite his initial defiance, also did eventually revise the concerto a bit, completing the final version in 1889. Two years later, Tchaikovsky himself conducted the piece before a rapt and appreciative audience at the inaugural concert that opened Carnegie Hall. Tchaikovsky stuck to his guns and found success, reminding us of the wisdom of composer Jean Sibelius’ advice, “Pay no attention to what the critics say. A statue has never been erected in honor of a critic.”
Program notes by © Betsy Hudson Traba 2025