Martucci's Second Piano Concerto had at one time something of an international reputation (it was taken up by D'Albert and Horszowski, among others, and was conducted by Anton Rubinstein, Toscanini, Weingarther and Mahler, often with the composer as soloist), and of his larger-scale works it is perhaps the most readily approachable and the one most likely to lead to a revival of interest in him. Writing for his own instrument (and for what, by all accounts, was a prodigious technique) seems to have led Martucci towards a more direct late romantic utterance. It is a highly pianistic piece, indeed, very big-gestured and often enjoyably flamboyant, and if it lacks something of the quirky originality of his symphonies it has much of their confident assurance. It is a big work (40 minutes, with the first movement taking up more than half of it), but it is so resourcefully worked (including, in that first movement, an adroit handling of three well-contrasted ideas instead of the customary two) that it seems not a moment too long. Not even in the slow movement, where at first the main idea seems attractively pensive but a bit plain. Here a characteristic touch of Martucci's individuality does come in; his way of subtly transforming a theme until you are surprised that you didn't notice its inherent beauty earlier.
Nor is the virtuosity mere empty flamboyance; it has steel and fantasy to it, as well; in the finale even wit. In short, of the two classes of romantic virtuoso concerto (those you are glad to have on record but would honestly not cross the town actually to hear, and those that you are rather irritated with the world's virtuosos for not having taken up before) this is firmly in the latter category, and it is good to have such an assured and authoritative performance of it.
The six little miniatures, despite disparate opus numbers, fall into two diminutive suites. Light music, all of them, and perhaps without the effortlessly memorable melodic distinction of the very best light music, but each piece has some other quality to persuade you to play it again; an oddly quiet ending (most of them end quietly), an elusive melodic twist (like the curiously effective Momento musicale, built from fragments of scales, no more), a touch of sophisticated craft lavished on a trifle. They are very Martucci, in short, and you may well find that you don't treat them as mere makeweights, to be listened to once in a while, if you have time, after the concerto. They are affectionately performed and, like the concerto, recorded in a pleasingly warm but slightly woolly acoustic.
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