The Un-Cookie Cutters.

November in New York saw two unusual recitals by two unusual pianists: Alicia de Larrocha and Ivan Moravec. Each has been performing for as long as most concertgoers can remember. Each is an example of "supreme individuality"-to use a critic's cliche-at the keyboard. Each plays the general repertory, while placing special emphasis on the music of his own country. Each has a multitude of fans, who amount to a cult following.

To hear them both, in the space of about a week, was to be reminded, indeed, of an age of "supreme individuality," before the cookie cutters got to work. You can turn on the radio these days and not be able to tell one pianist from the next; but de Larrocha and Moravec-for better or worse (and generally better)-are recognizable in the first few bars.

De Larrocha has had the "bigger" career: Her fame is wider, she has made many more recordings, and she has slogged through many, many more tours. In fact, de Larrocha is one of the hardest-working people in the business, a tour-oholic, someone who seems to have spent as much time on stage as off. Her career has been devised and managed by the legendary and notorious Herbert Breslin, who has also "agented" Luciano Pavarotti.

Born in Barcelona in 1923, de Larrocha was a star at an early age, a student of Frank Marshall, who in turn had been a student of Enrique Granados (along with Isaac Albeniz the greatest composer to emerge from Spain). De Larrocha is not the only Barcelona girl to have made good: The soprano Victoria de los Angeles is a lifelong friend. For many years, de los Angeles/de Larrocha duo recitals-all-Spanish-were one of the great, exotic treats of the concert scene.

De Larrocha has played everything: Mozart (gobs of it), Beethoven, Schumann, the French Impressionists. A tiny woman with modest hands-only in terms of size-she has nonetheless taken on the most virtuosic works, not excluding the fearsome Rachmaninoff Concerto No. 3, which she recorded with Andre Previn (an album that is now, sadly, "nla"-the cruel music- world indicator of "no longer available").

It is for the Spanish repertory that she is best known and most appreciated, however, because it is through her that we-most of us- actually know the Spanish repertory. Arthur Rubinstein played some of this music, as he, of course, played some of everything. He championed Albeniz and Manuel de Falla and Federico Mompou. He was wildly popular in Spain, and throughout the Spanish-speaking world. There is even a famous photo of him in a matador's costume.

But it is mainly through the tireless Alicia de Larrocha that we have heard the works-major and minor-of Albeniz and Granados, not to mention a hundred lesser composers, such as Joaquin Turina, Carlos Surinach, Xavier Montsalvatge, and Oscar Espla (plus the exquisite Baroque master Antonio Soler). This is a repertory that should be mined and exploited by serious and imaginative pianists. But the awful question comes: Who will play these works when de Larrocha is "nla" to do so? Are we to be left at home with our de Larrocha recordings? Fortunately, there are a lot of them.

On November 19 at Alice Tully Hall, de Larrocha presented an all-Granados program, featuring that composer's magnum opus, Goyescas. This work and Albeniz's Iberia form the heart of the Spanish literature for the piano. De Larrocha has championed Goyescas all her life, and-although too much can be made of this sort of thing-she stands today as a true Living Link: from the composer, to his protege Frank Marshall, to herself. Her playing of this music is sometimes called definitive; but that is no reason other pianists should shy away from it, even as they would not shy away from a Rachmaninoff concerto-after Rachmaninoff has played it, for heaven's sake!

De Larrocha is, as always, stately and dignified as she makes her way-a little slowly now-to the piano. Her once Spanish-black hair is now a handsome white. Her playing? It remains de Larrochian, only more so: that is, her mannerisms have become more pronounced, as tends to happen to every musician. De Larrocha has a big, robust, "fat" sound. Her playing is generally detached-not legato or limpid-and it can be percussive, even harsh; but it is always in balance (as one note relates to another), and it always makes musical sense.

In Spanish music, rhythm (along with color) is everything, and de Larrocha-in whatever she plays, Spanish or no-has fabulously good rhythm. So too, she has always been known for the clarity and "snap" of her playing. These qualities are still in evidence-but the fingers are a little sluggish now, and the clarity can sometimes turn muddy.

In choosing Goyescas to play, she certainly didn't make it easy on herself, technically. This is ferociously difficult music-Lisztian, practically-and the pianist simply cannot manage it as she once did. The playing often seemed tired and effortful. Yet when the music was calmer, less demanding, her musicianship came through, and she was more like her old self. The famous Maja y el ruisenor was beautiful, touching, lovingly shaped. The final item on the printed program was El pelele, a showpiece and long a surefire de Larrocha killer. She got through it all right-but it lacked its typical sparkle. One had to wonder whether de Larrocha still enjoyed her work, after too many thousands of concerts to count. When we stood for her, it was more for the career than for the evening.

But de Larrocha came very much to life for her three (Granados) encores. The first was a little piece she learned "when I was six or seven." It was sweetly and nobly rendered. Then came a couple of Danzas espanolas, which were full of the old rigor, and clarity, and snap. And then with a little wave, and a satisfied expression, she was off-to the next engagement, no doubt.

This pianist has her obdurate critics as well as her fiercely adoring fans. But no one disputes that for well over a half-century now she has been an utterly distinctive pianist, and probably-unfortunately- irreplaceable.

Our other pianist, utterly distinctive-Ivan Moravec-was born in Prague in 1930. He has had a somewhat quiet career, except to his worshipful fans, for whom he is a roaring lion of the keyboard, if an exceptionally reflective one. His records-most of which were made for off-the-beaten- path labels-are treasured as models of graceful, spiritual pianism. He is known-here comes another cliche-as a "poet of the piano." There is truth in this: Moravec has an intimate sound, and his interpretations-of Chopin, in particular-can be rather personal. He is a pianist of great elegance and refinement, a bit of an intellectual, a bit of a philosopher, a man with something to say, musically.

He is best known as a Chopinist, and, secondarily, as an exponent of the Czech repertory (which is both smaller and more ignorable than the Spanish-don't tell the Czechs). His November 27 recital at Carnegie Hall began with Janacek and ended with the 24 Preludes of Chopin. From the beginning, Moravec was in total command: of himself and the music at hand. For all his poetry, this is not a prissy or fussy pianist. The Janacek was the Sonata 1.X.1905 (From the Street), a "sonata" (though it is one in name only) that tells a haunting story. The images that Moravec was able to conjure up were almost frightening. This was an emotional reading, but not overly so, because Moravec would be incapable of that-because it would be unmusicianly.

The Chopin Preludes give a pianist the chance to show off virtually everything he has. Moravec has plenty, including a still-fluid technique and that gift for expression. He is both nimble and powerful. His dynamics are superb, and his use of the pedal is equally so. He knows where the melody is, and how the composer has embroidered it. He has clearly thought about everything he does-nothing is uncertain. Yet the playing is never studied or "programmed"; it simply flows, persuasively.

Moravec's first encore was a C-major mazurka-Chopin, of course-and it fairly danced through a sunlit Polish field. His second was Brahms's B- minor Capriccio, and it was as characterful and endearing as you will ever hear it-and everyone plays it. Moravec seems to sum up Old World wisdom and flair. He is a kid of 71, but he has the sensibility and self- possession of piano masters in the generations before his. They were not cookie cutters-and to come face-to-face with supreme individuality, over a couple of engaging hours, is to remember why you loved and marveled at music in the first place.