Rostropovich’s life combined glory, sorrow

It is easy to know where to begin with Mstislav Rostropovich.

He made his debut in 1940, at 13, playing Saint-Saens’ Cello Concerto No. 1. Thirteen years later, he recorded the concerto with a dutiful Soviet orchestra from the All-Union Radio. The score is moderately lightweight, especially in comparison to the spiritually rich music Prokofiev and Shostakovich had already written for this remarkable young musician, still in his 20s.

The conductor Grigory Stolyarov fades pretty easily into the background on this disc, which has just been reissued on Deutsche Grammophon. He knows his and his harsh-sounding orchestra’s place.

How could he not? Rostropovich plays like a god.

His cello tone communicates the ideal balance between substance and airiness. The instrument glows, as if bathed in a magical radiance. Rostropovich does nothing fancy, yet no bow stroke sounds superfluous. His youthful spirit takes wing while, at the same time, he brings to Saint-Saens an unexpected rich, soul-filling expressiveness. This is, quite simply, a perfect performance.

Rostropovich, who died Friday in Moscow at 80, went on, of course, to become one of the most celebrated musicians of our -- or any other -- time. Not only were some 240 pieces written for him, but he was a major political figure. Larger than life, he was Slava to the world.

But Rostropovich cannot be left out in any study of the vagaries of fame. I hope history is kind to him. His early achievements easily outweigh the musical immoderation of his over-the-top years. He left behind enough great music and music making for any lifetime.

He also leaves us with the example of political courage. As a prominent dissident in the Soviet Union, he risked his life for artistic freedom, as all the obituaries must rightfully remark upon. Compare that with major musical figures in America today who may hold strong views but dare not express them in public for fear of offending, say, an orchestra board member.

Who really was Rostropovich? I only met him a time or two. He was warm and effusive toward me, as he was toward everyone. He loved getting attention and loved lavishing it. He thrived on his celebrity.

But he seemed an almost tragic figure. The second act of his career, after he left Russia in 1974, did not come close to equaling the first. He jumped excitedly onto the international stage. His playing became increasingly exaggerated. He was a passionate guy, and by this time he had considerable life experience. But in Russia, his listeners felt what he felt. Everywhere else, he had to somehow explain through the cello what music could mean.

He took up conducting, becoming music director of the National Symphony in Washington, D.C. The appointment was brilliant. The orchestra needed a lift onto the world stage. But Rostropovich wasn’t a gifted conductor. His English was poor. As an interpreter, he was all expression all the time. A phenomenal master of his instrument, he could pull that off on the cello, but not with a second-rate orchestra. No one could challenge the authority he brought to Prokofiev and Shostakovich symphonies, but the National Symphony needed an orchestra builder.

In his later years, Rostropovich did not know when to stop playing the cello. Nor did he know when to say no. His cello playing became almost painful to hear, and he turned up at all the wrong places: witness his bizarre presence conducting Deborah Drattell’s disastrous “Nicholas and Alexandra” at Los Angeles Opera in 2003.

But he had his triumphs as well. I remember Rostropovich conducting the premiere of Alfred Schnittke’s opera “Life With an Idiot” in Amsterdam some years ago, and he was amazing. Schnittke had him not only lead the orchestra but play a cello solo and perform a tango on the piano.

In his last years, Rostropovich’s most impressive moments were conducting Shostakovich. Not much was needed for him to channel the composer, whom he had known so well. Shostakovich’s angst had become Rostropovich’s sorrow.

In these performances he seemed to be asking us not to forget what he had suffered, what he had been. Fortunately, he left behind more than enough greatness that we have no excuse forgetting.

mark.swed@latimes.com