Just got out of Prokofiev's second piano concerto and Rachmaninov's second symphony at the SFS.
Have to say I preferred the Prokofiev. There's something about some late romantic composers that is too saccharine, too syrupy, to "cute" to be entirely decent. Perhaps because as an adolescent I was captured by the thrilling but facile bombast in for example some of the russians, I cringe not merely at the music but at the embarrassing memory of my own uneducated enamorment thereof. Mike has exhorted me to listen to Mahler 2, and I am, but even my favorite Mahler (5) has moments in the last movement of such perfect lightness and whimsy, playfulness and humor, as to preclude the spirit of the work from entering the severe domain of Wagner. Perhaps one's 20s are merely a later phase of adolescence and I will mature to appreciate the spirit of the late/post Romantic for what it is. Nevertheless, something captured especially in Rachmaninov is the reanimation of the corpses of Brahms (and his contemporaries) with ever-increasing technical exigency as the years between the old master's first piano concerto and present lengthened. Harmonically, what does Rachmaninov do that Tristan and Parsifal do not exceed, fifty, sixty, eighty years prior?
A musicologist I knew once asked, rhetorically, whether music would have been different had Brahms never lived—as opposed to Wagner and Bruckner, innovators #2 and #3 of the nineteenth century after Beethoven. He has a fair point, but I give Brahms the pass I do not give Rachmaninov because (1) he was born forty years earlier and (2) his music doesn't 'wear its heart on its sleeve,' to euphemize the Russian's chief defect.
Taste is naturally a personal thing and my distaste for emotional excess may bias me against technically proficient work that my ear finds stylistically repulsive. (This is not to say that I dislike emotional work—Wagner, in the night of love, Tchaikovsky, in the final duet of Eugene Onegin, indeed even the finale to Rachmaninov's own third piano concerto are all both satisfying and not childish.) I am, as my father's oncologist always quipped, a sample group of 1. (My father is alive and healthy.) However, despite my active interest in moving beyond Wagner to the C20, I have had little success falling in love with Mahler, Debussy, Schoenberg, Stravinsky, Shostakovich, and indeed even Prokofiev, though I continue to attempt to.
My life in music is unfinished, though consciously frenetic.