Why, given the seemingly indestructible popularity of the B flat Piano Concerto, should Tchaikovsky's solo piano music be so little heard? Well, of course that may be a misleading question; it depends where you live. A Russian pianist would be just as likely to carry the G major Sonata in his or her repertoire as any Schubert Sonata, for instance. And some of the simpler pieces are perennial pedagogic favourites as well as being decently represented on CD—The Classical Catalogue lists five current versions of the Album for the young and seven of The Seasons, one being Postnikova's on a separate Erato CD. But take away those, the Theme and Variations, Op. 19 No. 6, the C sharp minor Sonata (a juvenile piece which would surely not merit a hearing were it not by Tchaikovsky), and the odd bonbon (such as the Dumka which Horowitz played and recorded), and that still leaves some six or seven hours of music that only specialists ever get to hear.
The problem may not be so much to do with instrumental idiom as you might think. The solo works are no less gratefully written than the concertos—if anything they tend to suit the instrument rather better—and it is only at times in the later pieces, when Tchaikovsky looks self-consciously towards Lisztian layouts, that embarrassment ensues. Nor can the blame be laid at the door of Robert Schumann, the model for an overwhelming proportion of the writing (''alla Schumann'', the eleventh of the Op. 19 Variations, must count as one of the most supererogatory markings in all piano music). No, for every piece which fails to pay back its Schumannesque overdraft there is another which invests and repays the debt with interest.
In fact the problem seems to be more that, without the colouristic resources of contrasting instruments to fall back on, as soon as Tchaikovsky wants to extend a miniature time-span into something dramatic he has a tendency to rant; the prime symptom of this is plain harmonic material repeated and sequenced by means of extravagant textures. The tendency is there from the first of the Op. 1 pieces (a ''Scherzo alla russe'') and it disfigures many of the lesser-known works (try the Potpourri on Themes from the opera ''Voyevoda'').
Of course, not all these works had elevated artistic intentions. Some, like the Potpourri, were obviously pot-boilers, some, like the last cycle, Op. 72, were written frankly for financial gain after the loss of Nadezhda von Meck's patronage. It would be absurd to expect consistency of inspiration here. And yet there are surprisingly few instances of zero musical interest. Even that dreadful Potpourri gives us an instructive snapshot of Tchaikovsky's early operatic style (the opera itself he destroyed); and in every cycle of shorter pieces there are items to be treasured. I approached this nine-hour marathon very much in the spirit of self-education, but in the end I derived much more satisfaction from it than that.
This I attribute in no small measure to Victoria Postnikova. She brings to every single piece a virtually ideal blend of affection, respect and intelligence, not to speak of virtuoso command. Not only does this give the textures the best possible chance to 'come off the page', she also has the instinct for inflexions which get us to the heart of Tchaikovsky's individual moods. By this I mean, for example, that the fourth of the Op. 19 pieces, marked sentimentale, evokes a Chekovian lassitude, and the Aveu passione an Onegin-ish painful intensity, while ''May'' and ''October'' from The Seasons are the epitome of thankfulness and wistfulness, respectively. Sophisticated tastes that tend to baulk at Tchaikovsky's prevailing tone of domestic warmth should remember just how much longing attaches to that state of mind for Russians—and this too I find amply conveyed in the subtlety of Postnikova's playing (as, I should add, in that of her husband who joins her in the lovely folk-song arrangements for duet).
There is a down-side, unfortunately, and it's to do with the recording. Volumes 1 (early pieces) and 4 (The Seasons and the C sharp minor Sonata) plus the G major Sonata in Vol. 3, are recorded in Paris's Salle Adyar, which from the dry, constricted sound on disc must have a singularly unappealing acoustic. Otherwise the piano tone is generally fine, though the Op. 72 pieces, recorded in Switzerland, seem to me rather glassy. This remains a highly desirable library acquisition for all Tchaikovskians and serious lovers of the piano repertoire.'