Among the ranks of those who, sincerely or insincerely, see ecstatic visions at the drop of a Rameau and consider Liszt slightly indecent, it is considered not quite proper to approve of Vladimir Horowitz. They sneer at this programs and at his private life, and scrupulously avoid his concerts. The days of Von Bulow, Busoni, and Rachmaninoff are gone, and Horowitz, the virtuosa of the new technique, is something of an anachronism.

In the true tradition of Franz Liszt, the performer is the main attraction; instead of being awed by the grandeur of Beethoven, his audiences leave the recital babbling of the magnificence of Vladimir Horowitz. This is all great fun; whether it is a good thing from an aesthetic point of view is a sore point. At any rate, Horowitz has the most flawless technique of anyone alive, is quite aware of the fact, and plans his programs and performances accordingly.

The recital invariably begins with an obeisance to the forces of classisicism and/or ingenuousness. This seldom comes off very well because of the contradiction between the nature of the music and of the performer. Sunday it was a Haydn Sonath and a Schubert Impromptu, both of which suffered from the prevailing atmosphere of a Prometheus bound within too-narrow emotional limits. The pieces were both miscast as an overture, but that was the role they were forced to play.

Musically the most interesting was Horowitz's Chopin. By choosing the Nocturnes in E Minor and F Sharp Major and the Ballade in G Minor, he faced the ticklish problem of making three rather schmalzy examples of Chopin appear credible. And his success was immense. In the Nocturnes, especially, the gently charm with which he played was a welcome change both from the rather brittle tone he usually uses and from the gooey-tear-stained manner in which Chopin's Nocturnes are too often played.

The Ballade was loss satisfactory. The piece itself is too long, too repetitions, and despite its extraordinary beauty, exaggeratedly dolorous. Horowitz, by underplaying it, made it, perhaps, more acceptable to his audience, but thereby failed to get the idea across. Furthermore, his rubato was rather unorthodox and his left hand, at times, too prominent, thus creating the episodic effect of a Classical Rondo, rather than the flowing contimity so typical of Chopin.

But with the appearance of his new version of "Pictures at an Exhibition," Horowitz, completely the master of his instrument, of his audience, and of the music he played, was magnificent. It was an orgiastic reincarnation of Franz Liszt holding all Europe spellbound with his fustian brilliance. And from there on the concert retained that atmosphere. The last ensore, Horowitz's own variations on Mendelssohn's Wedding March--a composition completely Lisztian in its blend of bombast and puckishness--was the perfect bravura curtain line for the whole exhibition. Horowitz the genius; Horowitz the ham.