![]() ![]() In the 1950s, Rabin signed a recording contract with EMI that allowed him to produce classic accounts of many concertos of the Romantic era, along with numerous shorter works. ![]() For Mitropoulos, he was “the genius violinist of tomorrow, already equipped with all that is necessary to be a great artist.” George Szell said that the boy was “the greatest violin talent that has come to my attention during the past two or three decades.” More important than the glowing criticism was the reaction of the musicians with whom Rabin worked. “Hear Rabin and know that the Gods have not forgotten the violin,” read the headline of one New York Times review. The work on the program was another finger-breaker: the Concerto No. 5 at Carnegie Hall, and he appeared at that same venue two years later, this time with the New York Philharmonic and Dmitri Mitropoulos. At 13, he played Henri Vieuxtemps’ Violin Concerto No. Two years later, he recorded 11 of the Paganini Caprices. At the age of 10, he performed the fiendishly difficult Wieniawski Concerto No. So he sought out one of the finest pedagogues of the day, Ivan Galamian, with whom Rabin flourished. ![]() His father gave him his first lessons-and quickly realized that he was well out of his depth. This routine became even more rigid when Rabin switched to the violin. Her demands, Feinstein writes, were clear: “the relentless pursuit of excellence, the drive for perfection, the expectation of long, exhausting hours dedicated to practicing music.” She was unable to brook dissent, and displayed a ruthlessness when it came to enforcing her will.” She had lost her first son, who had shown great promise as a pianist, to scarlet fever, and perhaps because of this, she was all the more determined to make something of her younger son’s talent. Anthony Feinstein writes in his biography of the violinist that the “force of her character demanded obedience and gratitude. At the age of three, Rabin demonstrated perfect pitch, and soon he was taking piano lessons with his mother, a larger-than-life figure whose Olympian standards were exceeded only by her work ethic and drive. He was born on this date in 1936, into a highly musical Manhattan family, his father a violinist in the New York Philharmonic, his mother a piano teacher who had studied at Juilliard. He was, to be sure, one of those candles that burn twice as bright but half as long, an all-American violinist in an age dominated by the European virtuoso. In my household, his name carried a certain mystique, an almost mythical aura. I knew he’d lived a troubled life, that he had been a phenomenal child prodigy who died at 35. But there was more to the Rabin story than his artistry. Over the years, I wore that cassette out, and I was equally taken with the violinist’s recording of Niccolò Paganini’s 24 Caprices, which my father had in his collection. When I was nine or 10 and living in Illinois, my violin teacher had given me a cassette recording with Rabin playing some popular showpieces, including a red-blooded version of Camille Saint-Saëns’s “Introduction and Rondo capriccioso” that remains, to this day, my favorite interpretation of that piece. The violinist was Michael Rabin, an artist I used to revere, for few others had so opulent a tone, such finesse, or the ability to play the most difficult passages with insouciance and aplomb. I was a teenager at the time, fond of pieces like the Wieniawski, that is, heroic, romantic, virtuosic repertoire, and that particular recording left me in awe. The weather added a frisson of danger to a performance that was itself tempestuous, and the confluence of the two-the sounds coming out of my cheap portable music player mingling like magic with the noise of the storm-helped make the experience unforgettable. I remember how quickly the sky blackened, lightning flashing in the distance, miniature waves churning up in the pond out back, rain driving in angled sheets. 1 came on the air, just as a nasty thunderstorm moved in-the kind of late-afternoon storm typical of a Florida summer. ![]() One afternoon some 30 years ago, I was listening to the radio in my bedroom, when Henryk Wieniawski’s Violin Concerto No. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |