MUSIC REVIEW : Vladimir Feltsman Makes Modest Debut at Pavilion

The first half--the lazy half--of the pension-fund benefit played Monday by the Los Angeles Philharmonic need not detain us. For ritual openers at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion, Andre Previn merely reheated some staples from recent subscription programs:Vaughan Williams’ “Tallis” Fantasia and Mendelssohn’s “Italian” Symphony.

The action, clearly, was supposed to come after intermission. It was supposed to come with the much ballyhooed West Coast debut of Vladimir Feltsman.

The gentleman, in case you happen to have been out of the universe lately, isn’t just a pianist. At 35, he is a media phenomenon, an instant hero of the masses, a celebrated glasnost beneficiary and, as such, a potent political symbol. He is, after all, a Jewish refusenik who spent eight years as a non-person battling the Soviet bureaucracy in his quest to emigrate.

His bravery and his art have been celebrated in such cultural strongholds as “60 Minutes” and People magazine. The world, obviously, is his.

Advance hype led one to expect, at the very least, a miraculous fusion of Horowitz, Rubinstein, Paderewski and Rachmaninoff. What we got, however, was just plain Feltsman.

That isn’t bad. He obviously is a very competent pianist. He commands an alert mind and a fleet technique. He plays with taste that keeps the flair in check.

It is nice. It isn’t exactly earth-shattering. At least it wasn’t on Monday.

His vehicle, the Third Rachmaninoff Concerto, suggested the cliche of ethnic type-casting rather than a demonstration of his personal priorities. Not all Russians are happiest playing Russian music.

For his first American recital, at Carnegie Hall in November, he had chosen a program of Messiaen, Chopin, Schubert and Schumann. For his debut with the New York Philharmonic in February, he had turned to Brahms.

Why had he ignored the heritage of his erstwhile homeland?

“Listen,” he told an interviewer, “we’re in a free country. I don’t have to play that.”

Perhaps he shouldn’t have played it on Monday either. Rachmaninoff demands heroic drama. The limited evidence at hand suggests that Feltsman excels in lyricism and intimacy.

His lucid, modest tone tended to get blanketed by orchestral onslaughts. The problem could be blamed only partly on Previn’s generally insensitive accompaniment.

Feltsman proved that his fingers can move very fast when agitation is required, and the accompanying loss in precision is minimal. He is much too refined to indulge in any dynamic bludgeoning, much too restrained to permit any sentimental ooze.

He plays the notes, and plays them well. Sometimes that is enough. Sometimes it isn’t.

On this occasion, his poised and polished phrasing inspired admiration. But it engendered little excitement. He remained stubbornly polite just when one wanted him to be a little bit wild. He was merely thoughtful when one longed for him to be soulful.

Undaunted, the audience roared push-button approval and mustered an instant standing-ovation at the end. The response probably said more about Feltsman’s persona than his pianism.

Beginnings are never easy.