Piano Concerto No.2 in G minor Op.16

Prokofiev’s Second Piano Concerto in G minor is not the Second Piano Concerto in G minor with which the student composer scandalised the St Petersburg audience at Pavlovsk in 1913. The score of the original, scandalous version was never published. It was lost in St Petersburg during the Revolution and the reconstruction which Prokofiev made in Paris in 1923, two years after the completion of the Third Piano Concerto, is naturally very different: “I have so completely rewritten the Second Concerto,” Prokofiev said, “that is might almost be considered the Fourth.” It is probably safe to assume however, that the comparison he made between this work and its predecessor in D flat major – “The charges of superficial brilliance and a certain ‘football’ quality in the First led me to strive for greater depth of content in the Second” – is reflected in both versions.

Certainly, there is no hooliganism in the first movement, least of all in the opening theme presented by the piano after a brief orchestral introduction. This Andantino first subject is in two parts: the poised, clear song in octaves high in the pianist’s right hand and, when the orchestra falls silent, a more passionate theme rising in even crotchets in the middle register. The Allegretto second subject, preceded by Rachmaninov-like prepatory figures on woodwind and first heard on piano over a staccato bass, is comparatively dry and might even have a hint of parody about it. But, as we know from his own statement, Prokofiev is striving for “greater depth of content” in this work. When he has extended and varied his second subject, he abandons it. In a supreme effort to avoid any suspicion of superficial brilliance, he brings the cadenza forward from its conventional position and presents it in the form of an extended and intensely serious development section. It is devoted exclusively to the first subject, which is magnified to heroic proportion in rhythmic augmentations and enormous handfuls of bravura figurations. The orchestra eventually forces it way back but there is little left to say at this stage and the movement ends with a quiet echo of the opening melody on piano.

In a Scherzo a modicum of superficial brilliance is surely not out of place. The piano races along the surface in nothing but semiquavers and nothing but octaves, while the orchestra is engaged in brief thematic exchanges and rhythmic gymnastics round it. Instead of a slow movement, Prokofiev offers a highly unconventional Intermezzo. It may only be the anticipation of warring Montagues and Capulets in the openng bars, or the piano’s later echo of Petrushka, but it is difficult to believe that Prokofiev was not drawing on some unused ballet material at this point. It is a ternary movement, athletic or even slightly “football” in the outer sections but graced by a melodically attractive if slightly sinister quality on woodwind in the middle.

The Finale is scarcely more conventional. The Allegro tempestoso elements, vividly characterised though they are, are no more than a framework. The heart of the movement lies in the distinctively Russian song introduced by the soloist after a broad outline of its rhythm by violas and lower woodwind. The song is developed at length and in different tempi in what amounts to a series of variations. These include another unfrivolous piano cadenza and a final winding down of the impetus over a low trill on the clarinet – leaving a vacuum to be filled by the allegro tempestoso material in a splendid coda.

Prokofiev’s Second Piano Concerto in G minor is not the Second Piano Concerto in G minor with which the student composer scandalised the St Petersburg audience at Pavlovsk in 1913. The score of the original, scandalous version was never published. It was lost in St Petersburg during the Revolution and the reconstruction which Prokofiev made in Paris in 1923, two years after the completion of the Third Piano Concerto, is naturally very different: “I have so completely rewritten the Second Concerto,” Prokofiev said, “that is might almost be considered the Fourth.” So there is no point in being surprised, like Prkofiev’s official Soviet biographer, Israel Nestyev, that the work “prefigures the expressionist excesses of the Prokofiev’s style in the ‘20s.” There is similarly little point in describng the melancholic disposition of St Petersburg in 1913. True, Miaskovsky said, “I have felt so morbid lately that if it were not for my work I would hang myself.” True, too Prokofiev dedicated the concerto to the memory of Max Schmidthof, who had recently committed suicide. But the most relevant statement, at least as far as the 1923 version of the concerto, is the comparison Prokofiev himself made between the First and Second Concertos: “The charges of superficial brilliance and a certin ‘football’ quality in the First led me to strive for greater depth of content in the Second.”

There is nothing unbearably melancholy or excessively expressionistic about the opening theme, which is voiced by the piano after the introductory minor thirds in the orchestra. This first subject of the Andantino is in two parts: the poised, clear song in octaves high in the pianist’s right hand and, when the orchestra falls silent, the more passionate theme rising in even crotchets in the middle register. The Allegretto second subject, beginning with Rachmaninov-like till-ready figures in the orchestra, is almost playful, The new theme itself, introduced by the piano over a staccato bass, even has a hint of parody about it. But, as we know from his own statement, Prokofiev is striving for “greater depth of content” in this work. When he has extended and varied his second subject, he abandons it, at least for this movement. In a supreme effort to avoid any suspicion of superficial brilliance, he brings the cadenza forward from its conventional position and presents it in the form of an intensely serious development section. It is devoted exclusively to the first subject, which is magnified to heroic proportion in rhythmic augmentations and enormous handfuls of bravura figurations. The orchestra eventually takes the opportunity to augment its own introductory thirds in a similarly broad gesture, which means that the only sensational effect left to end the movement is a quiet echo of the opening melody.

In a Scherzo a concerto composer is no doubt allowed a modicum of superficial brilliance. In this short Vivace movement the piano races along the surface in nothing but semiquavers and nothing but octaves, while the orchestr is engaged in brief thematic exchanges and rhythmic gymnastics round it. Instead of a slow movement, Prokofiev offers a highly unconventional Intermezzo. It may only be the anticipation of warring Montagues and Capulets in the openng bars, or the piano’s later reminiscence of Petrushka, that makes it difficult to believe that Prokofiev was not thinking of a ballet score at this point. It is a ternary movement, athletic in the outer section but graced by a highly atrtractive if slightly sinister female character (on oboes and bassoons) in the middle.

The Finale is scarcely more conventional. The Allegro tempestoso elements are no more than a framework. The heart of the movement lies in the Russian song introduced by the soloist after a broad outline of its rhythm by violas and lower woodwind (suggesting, incidentally, a kinship with the abandoned second subject of the first movement). This song is developed at length and in different tempi, in what amounts to a series of variations. These include another unfrivolous piano cadenza and a final winding down of the impetus over a low trill on the clarinet, so allowing the allegro tempestoso to assert itself in a splendid coda.