Mozart’s music, behind its splendor and harmonic grace, wields a profound resonance with humanity’s essential emotions. Like a flawless mirror reflecting the performer’s mind and the listener’s heart, it balances clarity with nuanced sentiment.
For nearly a decade now, Kun Woo Paik has regularly performed in Taiwan, frequently pairing the recitals from his DG solo recordings. Over the past year or so, he has been recording Mozart in a three-part album series; so, it seemed only natural that, as with last year, this season’s recital spotlighted Mozart. When I first saw the program, I paused momentarily—having already heard Paik’s Mozart recital last year (albeit with different repertoire), should I carve out a busy evening for another concert?
Still, the live performance experience—irreplaceable no matter the quality of a DG studio recording—and the fact that K. 545 was on the program clinched my decision. I have always loved hearing pianists interpret that piece.
For those who have studied piano, K. 545 should be more than familiar. In fact, it is often deemed “basic” or “simple,” making it a popular practice piece owing to its deft use of scales and arpeggios. Striking the correct notes is easy enough, yet playing it with true poise requires both solid technique and a deep understanding of the music—a quest for crystalline purity and meaningful musicality. It is precisely because of its familiarity that one can better appreciate the finesse of a pianist’s interpretation and technique: contrasting how one’s own amateur performance measures against the artistry on stage brings fresh insights.
Paik’s K. 545 radiated a sense of unforced dynamism: the opening was poised yet never lacking fullness, followed by a smoothly escalating tempo that felt neither urgent nor abrupt. The result was a serene, flowing soundscape. Though not as forceful as pieces in the second half, his rendering revealed the music’s lyrical appeal and brilliantly transparent tone.
He followed up with the K. 511 in a minor. This piece, with its minor-key melancholy, also retains a dance-like rhythmic pulse. In Paik’s interpretation, one could sense how Mozart leveraged a rondo form to expand melodic invention and layer subtle textures.
The subsequent K. 280—like K. 545—was delivered in a restrained, gentle style. But “gentle” here does not imply insubstantiality; for me, K. 280 brimmed with a quiet vitality, the logical continuation of the latent energy hinted at in the previous rondo. Originally, the program indicated K. 332, so I briefly wondered if I had mistaken “2” for “12.” Although missing my anticipated K. 332 was slightly disappointing, the substitution formed a natural bridge into the F-major finale of the first half—a lovely arrangement indeed.
The second half opened with a piece originally written for the glass harmonica. I recall Paik similarly opened last year’s second half with a composition intended for a keyboard instrument other than the piano, though I’m even less versed in the glass harmonica’s repertoire. Lacking deeper knowledge, I can scarcely comment on how a pianist might cleverly adapt such a piece. Nonetheless, I could detect a different sonic palette and a more elongated feel in the right-hand melody.
In stark contrast to that airy poignancy, the Little Funeral March in c minor—short though it is—conveys a solemn weight through its dotted rhythms, presaging the shifting dynamism and tension of the second half.
K. 330 then carried listeners from its bright, nimble first movement through a grounded second movement. While the lines may appear unremarkable on the page, the subdued bass line and meticulous control of volume birthed a sense of lyrical singing, aptly fulfilling the score’s Andante cantabile directive. The third movement’s sonic brilliance was especially striking: dynamic transitions, changes of register, and textural intricacies showcased the piano’s capacity for both vibrancy and depth.
From the lingering tension of K. 330, we moved into K. 475, whose dramatic interplay between forte and piano—as well as its half-tone tinges and elusive chords—might, in other contexts, feel abrupt. Yet against the backdrop of the concert’s prior pieces, it formed a natural platform for shifting emotional states. Its quicksilver mood swings ultimately resolved into a state of calm and warmth: like a storm briefly relenting, then returning with showers, then gently receding once more. This cyclical evolution, under Paik’s hands, felt seamless—forceful ascents sounded tender, and the climactic upper register rang with both power and steadfast tranquility.
In Paik’s piano lines, you sense a forthright representation of his innermost self, drawing the audience into his musical realm. According to the presenter’s social media, Paik took a relaxed outing in Maokong after arriving in Taipei. That image reminded me of the poem “Ding Feng Po” and its line referencing “the sound of wind and rain in the forest,” leading finally to a place of equanimity: “It is neither storm nor shine.” So too, his performance exuded a tranquil acceptance—riding each crest and lull in the music, but no longer bound by either.