The fever has abated; I am calm again, and if you asked me I would not say that Enrique Granadoes (Enrique who?) is one of history's half-dozen greatest composers. But if you had asked me a little after 10 on Saturday night, as I was leaving the Kennedy Center, I probably would have put him right up there with Mozart and all those people those names begin with "B."
This is a form of madness that strikes on those too-rare occasions when pianist Alicia de Larrocha comes to town. I am not its only victim; there was a whole concert hall full of them Saturday night, shouting and clapping for more after she finished the "Escenas romanticas" and three pieces from "Goyescas." She finally appeased them by playing a bit of Manuel de Fala as her second encore.
I'ts absurd, of course; the music is pretty salon stuff with occasional passages of high-voltage keyboard technique, pleasant enough but not electrifying. So, if we were electrified, you have to blame the pianist.
She also explored the non-Spanish repertoire she has been playing more in recent years: a Schubert sonata and Poulene's playful-archaic "Suite francaise," She does this music as well as anyone, but nobody else plays Spanish music the way she does.