MUSIC REVIEW : New Maestro From Kirov in L.A. Debut

His name is Valery Gergiev. If there is any justice in the wild and weird world of so-called serious music, you will be hearing it often.

During the twilight decade of the Soviet Union, his renown was muffled by an iron curtain. Insiders knew of his triumphs at the Kirov Theater in Leningrad, where he eventually inherited the top baton from his more eccentric colleague, Yuri Temirkanov. America didn’t get to see him, however, until he made his Boston Symphony debut in the summer of ’90.

Northern California caught up with Gergiev last fall, when he led the celebrated San Francisco Opera production of Prokofiev’s “War and Peace.” Wednesday night at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion, it was Los Angeles’ turn.

Although he chose a curiously unrewarding, and in some ways unrevealing, all-Russian program, Gergiev, 39, made the most of that turn. With minimal fuss and virtually no choreographic embellishment, he allowed the Los Angeles Philharmonic to sound like the great orchestra it can be--but too seldom is.

In Liadov’s sentimental miniature, “The Enchanted Lake,” he reminded us--and his responsive players--that less can be more, enforcing the rare power of a perfectly blended, shimmering pianissimo. In the same minor composer’s “Baba Yaga,” he whipped up a fine, boisterous clangor, with no sacrifices in poise or precision.

At the end of the program, he succumbed to the banal temptations of Mussorgsky’s “Pictures at an Exhibition,” as orchestrated by Ravel. Although he sometimes came close, he did not beat the war horse to death. Instead, he concentrated on the theatricality of violent dynamic contrasts, vivid character delineation and crisp articulation of even the tiniest counter-detail.

The Philharmonic responded with ever-flexible brilliance to his elegant beat. In the climactic outbursts, the brass--enjoying the acoustical advantage afforded by the new wooden risers on the Pavilion stage--made a noise so mighty that one feared for the assembled eardrums.

The centerpiece of the program took the rambling, convoluted, thorny form of Prokofiev’s Sinfonia Concertante for cello and orchestra. Completed in 1952, this autumnal exercise tries valiantly, if not always successfully, to balance macabre wit with lyrical indulgence while the frenetic soloist demonstrates his command of every virtuosic trick of the cellist’s trade.

Ronald Leonard, principal cellist of the Philharmonic, surmounted the hurdles with cool composure, technical finesse and abiding musicality. It was a formidable achievement.

He did not muster the sheer force, the demonic compulsion or the feverish excitement implied by a challenge designed for the young Mstislav Rostropovich. (Who, other than the young Rostropovich, could?) Still, one had to admire the careful aplomb with which he untied the linear knots, and one had to applaud his bravery.

Gergiev provided thoughtful, propulsive support. Unlike many a celebrated podium hero, he seems to know exactly when to follow and when to lead.

Next time . . .