Posts Categorized: The Piano Files

Yet another pianist I’d never heard of showed up in a YouTube upload recently and I was stunned by the playing. The artist was one Hilda Bor, a pupil of Tobias Matthay and then Vivian Langrish when Matthay retired from the Royal Academy of Music. Bor later taught as a member of Matthay’s staff and arranged wartime concerts at the Royal Exchange at the same time that fellow Matthay pupil Myra Hess arranged her more famous events at the National Gallery. Among Bor’s pupils were Prince Charles and Princess Anne (the job had originally been offered to Hess but she preferred not to teach children).

The British pianist produced only two 78s for the Columbia label in the late 1930s, totalling a mere 12 minutes.  The first was a July 16th 1937 disc featuring a Chopin Waltz and Prelude on one side, and two dazzling ‘bee’ works on the B-side (no pun intended): Mendelssohn’s Bee’s Wedding (aka Spinning Song) and Rachmaninoff’s arrangement of Rimsky-Korsakov’s Flight of the Bumble-bee. The second disc with three Grieg Lyric Pieces was set down on January 24, 1939. Both are presented here courtesy of Jonathan Dobson, who transferred and made them available for this upload and to whom we offer our sincerest thanks.

Bor’s playing throughout these selections features remarkable clarity of articulation and rhythmic precision in rapid passages while sustaining mindful phrasing, poised balance not only between hands but within the voicing of chords, and gorgeous ringing tone throughout. Her left-hand voicing is superb, as evidenced in the Chopin Prelude, and she maintains steadiness of rhythm and deftness of articulation in the first Grieg number even at the substantial speed that she chose (a colleague of mine stated that it was so brisk that it might be considered a shotgun wedding). In addition to her evidently polished technique, she also demonstrates fine musicianship in these rare performances.

Hilda Bor: The Columbia 78s

Chopin: Waltz in F Minor Op.70 No.2
Chopin: Prelude Op.28 No.3
Mendelssohn: Bee’s Wedding (aka Spinning Song)
Rimsky-Korsakov arr. Rachmaninoff: Flight of the bumble-bee
(recorded July 16, 1937)

Grieg – Three Lyric Pieces:
Wedding Day at Troldhaugen Op.65 No.6
Papillon Op.43 No.1
Oisillon Op.43 No.4
(recorded January 24, 1939)

 

On YouTube there is also an excerpt from a BBC transmission disc in which Bor plays Bartók’s Román kolindadallamok (Romanian Christmas Carols). Despite the prominent crackle from the record, we can appreciate her beauty of tone (not a given in readings of Bartók), burnished voicing, clarity of texture, and rhythmic vitality:

Bor lived until 1993 and quite why she faded from memory is a mystery (likely the lack of commercial records was a contributing factor) – a fate that has befallen too many great artists.

There’s a mini documentary that’s been produced by her great-nephew that also includes an excerpt of a BBC broadcast (a Chopin Waltz not on her 78rpm disc above) – here’s that link:

 

One hopes that more of this great artist will be found and made available – she was clearly a remarkable musician!

 

Yet another pianist I’d never heard of showed up in a YouTube upload recently and I was stunned by the playing. The artist was one Hilda Bor, a pupil of Tobias Matthay and then Vivian Langrish when Matthay retired from the Royal Academy of Music. Bor later taught as a member of Matthay’s staff and arranged wartime concerts at the Royal Exchange at the same time that fellow Matthay pupil Myra Hess arranged her more famous events at the National Gallery. Among Bor’s pupils were Prince Charles and Princess Anne (the job had originally been offered to Hess but she preferred not to teach children).

The British pianist produced only two 78s for the Columbia label in the late 1930s, totalling a mere 12 minutes.  The first was a July 16th 1937 disc featuring a Chopin Waltz and Prelude on one side, and two dazzling ‘bee’ works on the B-side (no pun intended): Mendelssohn’s Bee’s Wedding (aka Spinning Song) and Rachmaninoff’s arrangement of Rimsky-Korsakov’s Flight of the Bumble-bee. The second disc with three Grieg Lyric Pieces was set down on January 24, 1939. Both are presented here courtesy of Jonathan Dobson, who transferred and made them available for this upload and to whom we offer our sincerest thanks.

Bor’s playing throughout these selections features remarkable clarity of articulation and rhythmic precision in rapid passages while sustaining mindful phrasing, poised balance not only between hands but within the voicing of chords, and gorgeous ringing tone throughout. Her left-hand voicing is superb, as evidenced in the Chopin Prelude, and she maintains steadiness of rhythm and deftness of articulation in the first Grieg number even at the substantial speed that she chose (a colleague of mine stated that it was so brisk that it might be considered a shotgun wedding). In addition to her evidently polished technique, she also demonstrates fine musicianship in these rare performances.

Hilda Bor: The Columbia 78s

Chopin: Waltz in F Minor Op.70 No.2
Chopin: Prelude Op.28 No.3
Mendelssohn: Bee’s Wedding (aka Spinning Song)
Rimsky-Korsakov arr. Rachmaninoff: Flight of the bumble-bee
(recorded July 16, 1937)

Grieg – Three Lyric Pieces:
Wedding Day at Troldhaugen Op.65 No.6
Papillon Op.43 No.1
Oisillon Op.43 No.4
(recorded January 24, 1939)

 

On YouTube there is also an excerpt from a BBC transmission disc in which Bor plays Bartók’s Román kolindadallamok (Romanian Christmas Carols). Despite the prominent crackle from the record, we can appreciate her beauty of tone (not a given in readings of Bartók), burnished voicing, clarity of texture, and rhythmic vitality:

Bor lived until 1993 and quite why she faded from memory is a mystery (likely the lack of commercial records was a contributing factor) – a fate that has befallen too many great artists.

There’s a mini documentary that’s been produced by her great-nephew that also includes an excerpt of a BBC broadcast (a Chopin Waltz not on her 78rpm disc above) – here’s that link:

 

One hopes that more of this great artist will be found and made available – she was clearly a remarkable musician!

 

With the advent of the CD in the 1980s, historical recordings began being made available at a faster rate than ever before, and as a result we are today able to hear more great artists of the past than at any other time. Now with the internet and YouTube, we are able to enjoy the playing of musicians who have been overlooked by the recording industry but whose music-making warrants attention.

Since starting my Facebook page in 2009, I have discovered many pianists whose artistry I hadn’t previously known simply by scouring YouTube and other sites that feature uploads of recordings, both commercial and unissued. I still recall my impressions when one day I came across a performance of Chopin’s Etude Op.10 No.4 by a pianist that I’d never heard of before, one Sidney Foster. I was blown away not only by the impeccable dexterity and clarity of his playing but also by a truly incredible personal touch: the addition of some notes in the left hand that continued the melodic line of Chopin’s composition – a truly brilliant, insightful, and musical adjustment to the score (heard starting at 1:07 in the clip below).

 

There were a few more Foster uploads on YouTube and I found all of them to be extraordinary. With a bit more searching online I discovered that the International Piano Archives at Maryland had issued a 2-CD set of concert recordings by the artist; anything produced by IPAM would obviously be of the highest standard, so naturally I ordered the set and once it arrived was absolutely thrilled by what I heard. Even in works as overplayed as Beethoven’s Appassionata Sonata, Foster could make things sound new without any exaggerated nuancing or indulgences: you could take dictation of the score from his performance, yet it was fresh and alive.

While many criticize Facebook for its negative impact on society and communication, for me it’s been a truly amazing vehicle to connect with wonderful people in the music field; one of these is Foster pupil Alberto Reyes, himself a wonderful pianist whose performing career was placed on the back burner while he worked for decades as an interpreter at the United Nations. On my 2014 visit to New York, Mr. Reyes invited me to lunch and we had a truly engaging and insightful conversation about music-making and his beloved mentor, whom he continues to idolize (rightly so) and about whom he has spoken and written with great eloquence. Reyes was the driving force behind an incredible production that has since been released on the Marston Records label: a centenary tribute to Foster featuring 7 CDs of concert and broadcast performances, every single one of which is top-tier. In addition to these ten hours of stunning pianism the set has the added bonus of the superb booklet notes by Reyes, which not only explore Foster’s life, character, and career but also details his musical and pianistic approach, with some jaw-dropping insights as to the technical means by which Foster created some of his extraordinary effects at the keyboard.

Here is the promo video that I produced for the Marston release, set to Foster’s exquisite account of Moszkowski’s Guitarre Op.45 No.2 from a concert performance of June 30, 1968.

 

I regularly explore in my postings how not all great pianists have great careers, and that many who had careers of note are not well remembered after they die, and unfortunately Foster seems to fit into both categories. He died of myeloid metaplasia (a bone marrow condition) at the age of 59, having made only a few commercial records that do not fully reveal his genius. He performed and toured widely, playing with major musicians and considered a peer by other great American pianists such as Jorge Bolet and Abbey Simon, but is the least remembered amongst this trio of pianists who had studied with David Saperton (Godowsky’s son-in-law). It is remarkable that the youngest pianist to be admitted full-time to the Curtis Institute and the winner of the first ever Leventritt Competition (the prize that would launch the careers of Van Cliburn, John Browning, and Gary Graffman) should fade into obscurity. Fortunately, the current unparalleled access to recorded performances by this exceptional musician can posthumously remedy this situation so that Sidney Foster can rightly be remembered as one of the most astounding American pianists of the 20th century, and one of the greatest in the international pantheon.

Born Sidney Finkelstein in Florence, South Carolina on May 23, 1917, he was four years old when his musical inclinations became clear. He auditioned for Josef Hofmann at age 10 and then became the youngest pupil to be enrolled full-time at the Curtis Institute of Music (Ruth Slenczynska was younger, but she was not a full-time student with a full course load like Sidney). Foster trained with the legendary Isabelle Vengerova and then for several years with David Saperton before winning the 1938 MacDowell Competition. This was followed by the 1940 Leventritt prize, which afforded him a debut performance with the New York Philharmonic under Barbirolli of Beethoven’s Third Concerto (with his own cadenza in the first movement). The enthusiastic New York Times critic Noel Strauss reported that Foster ‘proved himself a richly gifted performer’ as he ‘gave the concerto a reading in the grand manner.’

Foster’s career was launched, and with regular performances at Carnegie Hall and with major American orchestras and conductors, his playing was very well received. His appearance as one of ten international pianists on the Ed Sullivan show on October 18, 1953 is indicative of the esteem in which he was held at the time and the envisioned trajectory of his career. In this remarkable footage – alas, the only known filmed performance of Foster – we can see him (starting around the 2:25 mark) playing Chopin’s Polonaise in A Major, Op.40 No.1 simultaneously with Ethel Bartlett, Alexander Brailowsky, Gaby Casadesus, Eugene List, Moura Lympany, Guiomar Novaes, Rae Robertson, and Beveridge Webster, with the great Rudolph Ganz as conductor (though he sits down and joins in the fun at one point) – an event that was a precursor to a Steinway Centenary celebration the following night that would feature 34 pianists (Foster among them).

 

His playing was also recognized beyond the confines of his native country: Foster played throughout Europe, Israel, and Japan, and when the Soviet Union began to open up in the 1960s, he was among the first American artists to play there, in a tour consisting of some 22 concerts in 30 days. However, health challenges would begin hinder his career: he had suffered a heart attack at 39 (in the late 1950s) and by 1962 he was diagnosed with the disease that would take him from us 15 years later.

The self-effacing musician was not one to seek the limelight in any case, and his attention would become increasingly focused on teaching. After a few years at Florida State University, Foster was a beloved teacher at Indiana University for nearly a quarter century, from 1952 until his death on February 7, 1977 at the tragically young age of 59. He continued to play while tenured there, his 1970 Carnegie Hall recital rapturously reviewed by eminent pianophile Harold C Schonberg, who called it an ‘exhilarating experience,’ referencing Foster’s ‘singing tone, an ability to take liberties in a phrase without distorting the line, and a steady rhythmic momentum… He makes music in an alert and exciting fashion.’ He played less widely as his condition deteriorated, though he would continue to devote himself tirelessly to his students; Reyes had been unaware of the seriousness of his condition until the last year of Foster’s life, as he did not draw attention to himself. As insightful and inspired as Foster was in his teaching, his modesty prevailed there too: he asked Jorge Bolet to coach Reyes in Prokofiev’s Second Concerto as he knew the work better than him (having made its first recording), something the equally modest and congenial Bolet – also teaching at Indiana – was more than willing to do. The standards he held for himself as a teacher were as high as they were with his playing, and he was as lionized by his students and colleagues as he was by audiences and critics for his concerts.

Foster’s Recorded Legacy

As a pianist who was aware of the ephemeral nature of musical performance, Foster was not particularly enthused by recordings, leaving behind only a disc of two Mozart Concertos in addition to the complete Clementi Sonatas, but these pale in comparison to the pianism of his live performances. Fortunately he played regularly at Indiana University, where a single microphone hanging in the auditorium preserved recital performances that now form the bulk of his discography. There are a few live concerto recordings from New York, Tokyo, Salt Lake City, and Boston – Beethoven Third, Schumann, Tchaikovsky, Bartok Third – though not nearly as much as an artist of his stature warrants, and one hopes that more will be located. Two discs of recital recordings were issued in IPAM’s 1993 set ‘Ovation to Sidney Foster’ before Marston’s glorious 7-disc set of solo and concerto performances was released in 2018, and both of these sets reveal in every moment pianism of the highest order.

Foster was a virtuoso who played on a wider landscape than how the term is generally used, as his mastery of the piano was not just in the technical sense of having a total command of precision that allowed for thrilling performances; rather, his playing was fuelled by an intelligence and understanding of the music and pianistic technique that went beyond the purely physical requirements of a performance. With an inner compass unwavering in its quest for truthful interpretation, his thorough mastery of tone production, articulation, projection, and all other elements required for an insightful interpretation were fully at the service of the music. There is a multidimensionality to his playing that one can glean from these recordings, though the effect in person would clearly be much more impactful – likely one of the reasons that Foster would not be particularly enamoured with the mechanical process of producing recordings in a studio.

His repertoire spanned from Bach to Prokofiev, and in each performance we hear the same intelligence and clarity of tone serving the musical content while clarifying the structure of the work, in a symbiotic fashion. His deftness of articulation, transparency of texture, beautiful sonority, and steady rhythm are all in evidence in this majestic March 29, 1955 performance of the Bach-Liszt Fantasia and Fugue in G Minor.

 

As often as one might have heard Beethoven’s Appassionata Sonata, there is a freshness and vitality in Foster’s approach that makes it sound new without any contrived attempt at originality being externally imposed on it. Here is the first movement from a June 30, 1968 concert performance, where Foster plays with a phenomenal sense of architecture, articulating with tremendous clarity and phasing cohesively without ever sounding boxy, while also exhibiting boundless passion, impeccable timing, and impressive tonal and dynamic control.

 

In virtuosic repertoire, Foster’s musicality is still evident: this staggering 1965 concert performance of Mendelssohn’s Etude in F Major Op.104b No.2 features impressive dexterity and evenness of articulation, astoundingly clear and consistent voicing, and marvellously polished tone throughout. What striking layering of the primarily melodic content in relation to the dazzling fingerwork!

 

For all his technical prowess, Foster’s proficiency at the keyboard was wholly at the service of the music, and in works rich in emotional content his interpretations were probing and revealing. This April 27, 1952 performance of Chopin’s Fantasy in F Minor Op.49 features a long burnished melodic line that is mindfully shaped with articulation – not only fluid or only detached, but a subtle combination that mirrors the variety and shaping of human speech. There is gorgeous singing tone throughout, and particularly impressive is a transparent bass sound that travels through all registers without obscuring any of the other lines, an effect that is one of the hallmarks of his playing and which stands him apart from many of his better-known colleagues.

 

The refinement in Foster’s playing was such that on first listen one might easily overlook the absolute mastery on display. In this 1968 account of Finnish composer Selim Palmgren’s ‘May Night’, his luminous tone and seamlessness of phrasing are evident and admirable; however, most miraculous is the skillful balance between voices, a chime-like effect being produced by the flawless weighting of chords, impeccably poised so that the intervals create just the right tension. That he could achieve this while playing with such fluid legato, clarity of the primary line, and luminous tone is absolutely jaw-dropping.

 

In contemporary music, Foster achieves what modern composers themselves aimed to do but which is so often not accomplished by most pianists: playing with consistent beauty of tone without banging when there is harmonic dissonance. This October 2, 1961 performance of some Prokofiev Visions Fugitives (Numbers 1, 3, 10, 11, 14, 15, 8, and 18) is as mindfully phrased, beautifully nuanced, and flawlessly characterized as Foster’s readings of works by any other composer. His timing, attentive use of varied articulation, and rich dynamic and tonal palette serve to individualize to perfection each of these works.

 

Another masterful performance of 20th century repertoire is this March 5, 1959 reading of Bartok’s Suite Op.14, which clarifies this remarkable work with his phenomenal transparency, gorgeous tonal colours, deft articulation, and rhythmic vitality – a terrifically exciting account that reveals the work’s incredible depth and richness of emotional content.

 

To close this tribute to this superb artist, a 1959 performance of Albeniz’s Evocación from Iberia that captures Foster’s splendid tonal colours, magnificently sculpted phrasing (notice how the ornamentation is incorporated in the line), magical pedal effects, phenomenal dynamic control (the pianissimos are breathtaking), and immaculate timing. As with all of these performances, every phrase – every note – is a sign of absolute musical and pianistic mastery. Long may we continue to hear and appreciate Sidney Foster’s artistry!

 

 

 

How could it be that a pianist whom Busoni said was one of his greatest disciples should be virtually forgotten today? Leo Sirota was not just one of his three favourite pupils – alongside Egon Petri and Ignaz Friedman (although the latter’s primary teacher was Theodor Leschetizky) – but was also esteemed as a friend and colleague. Yet despite a major international career spanning six decades, the previously revered Russian pianist is far less remembered today than many of his contemporaries.

As is so often the case, one major factor is quite simply the lack of recordings: he made barely an hour’s worth for the Homochord label in the mid 1920s (including the first ever complete account of Schumann’s Etudes Symphoniques) and another half hour in the 1930s while in Japan (including the first ever complete Petrouchka Suite), but he did not produce a single disc in the LP era, despite his having lived until 1965. Fortunately the relatively recent availability of some 1950s and 60s broadcast recordings has enabled his playing to reach a new audience and has brought awareness of the art and life of a man who played a major role in the dissemination of classical pianism in the first half of the 20th century.  

Early Years

The Russian pianist seemed destined for greatness from a very young age. Born Leiba Gregorovich Sirota on May 4, 1885 in Kamenezk Podolsk, Russia, he was attracted by the playing of the pianist Michael Wexler, who lived in the same home and to whom the young boy would gravitate whenever he practiced. After some lessons at home, he was taken to the Imperial Music School in Kiev to study with Chodorwski (Horowitz’s future teacher Tarnowski was in the same class). He gave his first tour at the age of ten and so impressed Paderewski that the legendary Polish pianist invited him to Paris to study with him, an offer that was declined because the boy’s parents found him too young. Glazunov took him under his wing and upon Leo’s graduation, the famed composer wrote a letter of recommendation to Busoni with the suggestion that the young man train with the legendary Italian composer-pianist in Vienna.

And so in 1904, the 19-year-old Sirota set off for Vienna – but he wanted to decide for himself who he should study with. He played for Hofmann, Paderewski, Godowsky, and Busoni: all four accepted him and he chose Busoni, and when Sirota belatedly presented him with Glazunov’s letter, the Italian is said to have stated, ‘What need is there for this? I have heard you play!’ The high esteem in which he was held by the composer is evidenced by a tale that after Sirota played the Don Juan Fantasy at a master class, Busoni shut the piano lid and stated that he did not wish to listen to anyone else play that day; he then took a copy of his recently-published Elegies from his desk and inscribed it, “To my young colleague from Kiev, for the Don Juan Fantasy on May 4th, 1908 in Vienna … Herzlich [cordially] … Ferruccio Busoni”. The date indicates that this was the pianist’s 23rd birthday, and the legendary composer’s use of the word ‘colleague’ was understandably moving to the artist as well.

Here is a broadcast recording of Sirota playing that work nearly 50 years later, a mere 6 weeks before his 70th birthday, still demonstrating a wonderful fusion of virtuosity and musicality:

 

Auspicious Debuts

Sirota’s solo Vienna debut took place on December 27, 1909 in a recital that included the Hammerklavier Sonata and ended with the Don Juan Fantasy. On February 8, 1910 he made his Berlin debut with a programme that sounds as though it was the same as his Vienna recital:

Beethoven Hammerklavier Sonata

Brahms Paganini Variations

Chopin: Two Etudes Op.10, Nocturne Op.48, Mazurka Op.59, Ballade No.1 [the selections in each opus grouping are unclear]

Mozart-Liszt Don Juan Fantasy

Despite rave reviews and the fact that he was already successfully performing, Sirota chose to enter the Anton Rubinstein Competition in St. Petersburg that year; Arthur Rubinstein was a participant and in his memoirs singled out Sirota, Edwin Fischer, Leff Pouishnoff, and another as pianists who ‘depressed me – they played too well. All four had the kind of technical polish which I never possessed. And they never missed a note, the devils.’ None of them would win a prize – Alfred Hoehn came out on top – and as we know, these artists went on to highly successful international careers, though it is Fischer and Rubinstein, both of whom recorded extensively, who are most remembered today.

One of the landmark concerts in Sirota’s career took place later that year at the Musikvereinsaal, in December 1910 – a massive and rather unusual programme: Sirota played the Don Juan Fantasy before joining Busoni for a performance of the Two-Piano Sonata in D Major, and then he played the titanic Busoni Piano Concerto with the composer conducting the Tonkünstler Orchestra with the Männergesangverein Chorus participating in the fifth movement’s choral performance.

Sirota wrote of the event, “How I came to play Busoni’s Concerto is rather an interesting story. I had planned to make my debut in Vienna under the baton of the of the noteworthy conductors of that time. Since Busoni was not only my former master but also a most excellent conductor, and because of his immense popularity throughout the European continent, I decided that I must persuade him to come to Vienna. I, therefore, quickly wrote to him, offering to perform his Concerto, which had never been performed before at a concert in Vienna. Busoni quickly replied, making all the necessary arrangements, and indicating any specifications he had in mind. It was September and the performance was slated for early November [sic]. I immediately set to work, practicing eight hours a day during the entire six weeks before the concert, and when the night arrived, I walked out onto the stage without so much as a single rehearsal. Busoni was overjoyed at the success. We received sixteen curtain calls.”

The pianist would travel around Europe but continue to be based in Vienna, continuing to work with Busoni throughout the war while studying philosophy, law, and music history at the University of Vienna. He helped his friend Jascha Horenstein, then training to be a conductor, by playing for him on Sundays and would eventually be introduced to the conductor’s sister Augustine. At a dinner the pair attended at Busoni’s home, while Leo spoke with Mrs. Busoni, the composer spoke highly of Sirota to Augustine, telling her what a nice man and wonderful musician he was. They were married soon after.

Sirota traveled extensively throughout Europe, at times in a Rolls Royce built for the King of Romania, and he was so well known in Vienna that mail addressed to ‘Leo Sirota, Vienna’ would be delivered to him. While performing throughout Russia, he was invited to give a tour of Manchuria: he took the Trans-Siberian railway and upon arrival was greeted by a special train elaborately decorated with greenery and adorned with posters of the pianist, complete with his own salon car and two additional carriages for attendants, plus another car with a Steinway. There are differing accounts as to how he met Japanese composer Kosaku Yamada while on that tour, but what is clear is that he made a previously unscheduled visit to Japan in the autumn of 1928 (not 1929 as has been reported) and gave more than a dozen concerts over the course of a month that were rapturously received.

The Far East

Sirota made such an impression in Japan that after his return to Europe he was offered to head the piano department at the Ueno Imperial Academy in Tokyo, while offers for concerts in the US were arriving. Instead of visiting the new world, Sirota opted to move to Japan with his family – surely not anticipating when he accepted the six-month post that he would remain for sixteen years. He became a beloved teacher, one of two major European pianists teaching there (the other was Leonid Kreutzer), and both his teaching and playing were highly acclaimed. Interestingly, Sirota was the first to play a Yamaha piano in concert – the brand-conscious Japanese had a preference for the more established European instruments – and he so significantly helped the company establish their reputation that they furnished him with pianos wherever he went.

Rave reviews were common, such as one in the Japan Times in 1933 that stated, “for him, no difficulty exists: he does with the piano what he wishes. The instrument like a faithful slave obeys and expresses every shade of his feeling, showing to his listeners whole series of tone pictures.” There were, however, signs that not all were aligned with Sirota’s aesthetic: occasionally a review might criticize his ‘passion’ while advocating ‘calm objectivity’, and critic Junji Kakei noted in 1937 that the Russian pianist represented more of the ‘old school’ of personal interpretations rather than the emerging preference for a more objective approach to performance:

Mr. Sirota’s expression lacks the freshness to lead and enlighten us. It lacks elastic naturalness. The rhythms are sometimes distorted by his arbitrary individualistic flourishes. I have no doubt that Mr. Sirota has the technique of a maestro but maybe he imagines he cannot be a signpost for us of the younger generation … This evening’s Liszt concert was a superficial success. If we feel any dissatisfaction about it, however, I think the chief reason was that Mr. Sirota failed to look back at every aspect of this great pianist Liszt from a modern point of view.

Nevertheless, despite such outlying reviews, he was very successful and was certainly beloved by his pupils. Despite some inherent linguistic barriers, Sirota was able to demonstrate effectively at the keyboard how they could improve their playing and they achieved noticeable results. However, things would take a turn during the Second World War. As Beate left in 1939 to go to college in California, the Japanese secret police began keeping tabs on foreigners living in Japan. The Sirotas made a visit to the US in mid 1941 and returned to Japan that November, setting sail on the last ship that left the States prior to Pearl Harbour being bombed. Their absence raised questions as to their allegiance and Leo was interrogated as to why he had mailed letters in the US on behalf of a friend. German officials in the country had all Jews in prominent positions removed from their posts and Sirota was thus barred from performing and broadcasting.

Leo and Augustine were with other expatriates sent to the mountain village of Karuizawa, a drastic change from the more luxurious conditions in which they had previously been living: their rural home was very cold (minus 15 degrees Celsius in the winter) and food was scarce. One day, a farmer recognized Sirota as he had not only attended one of the pianist’s concert years earlier but been so moved that he had brought home one of the posters of the event. Although local residents were to have no contact with interned foreigners, at great personal risk the farmer provided the Sirotas with extra food and helped them as much as he could.

In 1945, three secret police agents came to arrest Sirota but a colleague of theirs intervened and said they would be back the following week; Sirota believed he would be taken to be executed. Within days, the atomic bombs were dropped and the war ended. Beate, as one of the few Americans completely fluent in the Japanese language, got a job with the Foreign Economic Administration working for General MacArthur and was able to go to Japan to find her family and ensure their safety. She was tasked with helping draft the new constitution of the country and played a significant role in the inclusion of a clause regarding legal equality between men and women, which endeared her to the Japanese for the rest of her life (read more here).

The New World

After a few farewell concerts (and a polite refusal to resume his teaching post), Sirota and his family moved to the US in 1946, initially settling in New York. In 1947 the master pianist finally gave his Carnegie Hall debut – almost four decades after his European debuts. He was invited to St. Louis and accepted a post on the piano faculty at the St. Louis Institute of Music, taking over from another Busoni pupil, Gottfried Galston. Over the course of the next 15 years or so, Sirota gave many broadcasts on the radio – including the complete piano music of Chopin and Schumann, the complete Beethoven Piano Sonatas (the first pianist to do so on radio in the US), and a Liszt series – but he made no commercial recordings.

At the age of 78, Sirota finally acquiesced to requests that he return to Japan and in late 1963 he gave a farewell tour where he played solo recitals and conducted concerto performances in which his students appeared as soloists. The three-week trip was described by the pianist as ‘like a wonderful dream.’ Alas, it was to be his last tour. Plans were underway to celebrate his 80th birthday in May 1965, but he fell ill a few months earlier, complaining of tiredness in early February. Within weeks, he died of liver cancer and aggravated diabetes, on February 24, 1965.

Rediscovering A Legend

Sirota made about an hour’s worth of recordings for the Homochord label between 1924 and 1926 (Gieseking also recorded for them) and also made some discs for Japanese Columbia within a year of his arrival in the country in 1929. These were all but forgotten until the mid 1990s, when the Dante label produced a reissue in their series devoted to historical piano recordings. The Japanese label Green Door came out with a 3-disc set that included some of these 78s together with later recordings of unknown provenance. Pianophile Allan Evans would befriend Sirota’s daughter Beate, who made available to him a number of private tapes that were taken from both American broadcasts and the pianist’s 1963 farewell tour of Japan. He included a few tracks in two Busoni and his Circle CDs on the Pearl label and then issued three discs entirely dedicated to Sirota on his own Arbiter label. It appears that more remains to be released and it is to be hoped that they will see the light of day (you can be assured that I am on the case).

Among the pianist’s official recorded output is one important world premiere: the first complete account on disc of Schumann’s Etudes Symphoniques Op.13, including posthumous variations. Despite the lamentable sound – perhaps the recording, the remastering, or a combination thereof – we can appreciate the pianist’s nobility of conception, refinement of tone, deftness and consistency of articulation, combination of power and musicality, and clarity of voicing.

 

It was Sirota who premiered Stravinsky’s Trois mouvements de Petrouchka when Arthur Rubinstein, the pianist for whom the composer had penned the work, found himself unable to master the suite’s technical challenges (Rubinstein never recorded it commercially but a 1961 concert recording exists). Sirota put the work on disc for Japanese Columbia in his early years in Japan, demonstrating great dexterity yet always playing with beautiful tone, his rhythmic pulse steady without being rigid – the musical content is always primary.

 

Despite the faded sound in these early recordings, we can recognize some true brilliance and mastery in Sirota’s playing. His 1924 recording via the acoustical process [with a cone-shaped horn instead of a microphone] of the Glinka-Balakirev ‘The Lark’ reveals a gorgeous singing tone, seamless phrasing, magnificent pedalling, and magnificent nuancing. What glistening runs and poised presence!

 

Fortunately there are some later recordings of the pianist in vastly better sound that help us appreciate the full extent of his artistry. If he was past his prime – as might be expected when he was in his 60s and 70s in these performances – he nevertheless maintained his impressive dexterity and, more importantly, demonstrated depth of musicianship that was both innate and the result of his wealth of experience in a career that had that point been over half a century.

Because Sirota recorded primarily shorter works (with the exception of the Schumann Op.13 and Stravinsky Petrouchka) in his studio sessions, hearing him in larger scale repertoire from a range of historical periods gives us a greater idea of his interpretative capabilities. This performance of Beethoven’s Sonata No.18 in E-Flat Major Op.31 No.3 from his farewell tour of Japan finds the 78-year-old playing with tremendous command both technically and musically, and we get a glimpse into another world of piano playing. Sirota was still decidedly ‘old school,’ though his individual touches are not as overt as some from his generation or soon before; there are, nevertheless, some fascinating nuances such as gentle timing adjustments at transition points.

 

Sirota had the entire Chopin solo works in his repertoire (it is to be hoped that his 1950s broadcasts are preserved and will be issued) and the composer’s music provides the ideal vehicle for his brand of individual pianism. In this 1952 broadcast, he plays the opening measures of the Fantaisie F Minor Op.49 with a wonderfully full and transparent bass sonority, presenting the themes with disarming simplicity and beauty of tone, eschewing bombast as the work builds in tension while still playing with remarkable strength and power. A terrifically exciting yet musical performance!

 

As the Chopin Fantaisie above, this 1954 broadcast of Liszt’s Après une lecture du Dante: Fantasia quasi Sonata features grand and noble playing by the 69-year-old Sirota, powerful and impassioned without being overbearing or sentimental, his massive sonority and broad gestures never compromising musical content and clarity.

 

It is often in works that are seemingly simple that we can recognize an artist’s mastery. These two short works from Stravinsky’s Three Easy Pieces are delivered with a wonderful lilting rhythm, mindful use of articulation and dynamics to highlight the quixotic nature of the music, an absolutely gorgeous sonority, and magnificent phrasing. What a whimsical performance!

 

There is only one recording of Sirota playing with orchestra that has been made public, a recent and precious upload to YouTube: a June 24, 1955 St. Louis concert performance of Weber’s Konzertstück Op.79 with his brother-in-law Jascha Horenstein conducting. Sirota’s astounding pianism is readily discernible despite the sonic limitations of the recording: a month after his 70th birthday, he plays with incredible fire, with a depth of tone that never devolved into harshness in louder passages while also going down to a whispering pianissimo without losing its singing quality, and with remarkable rhythmic vitality and beautifully shaped phrasing. It’s also quite meaningful to hear these two musicians together some forty years after they met, especially given their familial connection.

 

To close this tribute to this remarkable pianist, a performance of Chopin’s Nocturne in B Major Op.62 No.1, from Sirota’s 1963 farewell concert tour of Japan. This reading features fluid phrasing, amazing dynamic shadings, incredible pedalling, and truly spacious pacing: what freedom in his shaping and timing of the melodic line and how it interacts with the accompaniment.

 

To learn more about Sirota, there is an English translation of a Japanese book available on Amazon (print-on-demand or instant Kindle download) which is a very enjoyable and insightful read. Some of the Arbiter CDs may still be available but apparently some are out of print (you can check to see if iTunes/Apple Music will work for you) – there is certainly some worthy reading about him on the Arbiter website. The pianist’s daughter Beate wrote a marvellous book detailing her role in drafting the Japanese constitution, which also gives some fascinating biographical background about the family. Let us hope that more of the pianist’s playing and personal history will be made available!

 

 

There was quite a bit of excitement when a Youtube upload was made of a 1927 test pressing of Alfred Cortot playing the Dance Russe from Stravinsky’s Petrouchka Suite. Those who didn’t read the details on the upload missed the fact that this had been put out by Marston three years ago. I have a bit of background into the story, so thought it’s as good a time as any to share it.

In October 2007 Gregor Benko (co-founder of the International Piano Archives) told me that this Cortot test pressing showed up on eBay. The photo of the label showed it to be an HMV test pressing and certainly looked authentic. Marston of course wanted to secure it for a release, and resources were somehow pooled to ensure that their bid would be the winning one – and fortunately it was. I was asked to keep information about this quiet, which I did. [Unfortunately I can’t find a photo of the label, which I thought I’d saved from the eBay auction but evidently not.]

In May 2008 I went to New York, at which time Gregor and I paid a visit to Ward. This took place the day after Gregor and I had visited someone in Brooklyn who had obtained what appeared to be private recordings of Dinu Lipatti when this collector had cleared out an estate sale in Geneva. Gregor and I saw that the records were clearly authentic, with Lipatti’s distinctive signature on them. As Gregor tried to explain to the somewhat cagey fellow, the real value of the records would only be known once the playing had been extracted from their surfaces (some of which were peeling off), and otherwise they simply had autograph value. He told him that we were going the following day to visit the best transfer engineer and extended the invitation to join us so that he wouldn’t need to leave the records out of his sight, but he declined. (We eventually only got the records when the fellow died – another long story.)

So, back to the Cortot. The next day we visited Ward and we went up to his studio that had massive shelves of records, very organized. When he asked if there was anything I wanted to listen to, the first thing I said was ‘THE CORTOT STRAVINSKY TEST PRESSING’, not having forgotten that he had obtained the recording. So he sauntered over to the shelves, felt along the sides of the record stacks (if you didn’t know, Ward is blind), pulled out a record, walked to the turntable, put it on – and then I had the privilege to be one of the first people to hear this performance.

I was, to be honest, not initially overly enthused. I am most definitely a great Cortot admirer and I don’t generally have too much of an issue with his dropped notes but in this case I found that too many of the bass notes being missed were more impactful (I wasn’t concerned as much with the upper drops). Of course as a Cortot fan, I agreed that it should be released for its historical interest (far worse Cortot recordings have been issued) and they both agreed (Gregor loves the performance, while Ward shared some of my apprehensions). And listening again, there is for sure much to appreciate, his glistening tone in the upper registers and the beautiful tone with the clearly forged melodic line among them.

Another note: when the Cortot Anniversary Edition came out on EMI France – the great producer Rémi Jacobs came out of retirement to produce it – it did not include this recording for the simple reason that there was no sign that a pressing existed in EMI documents. Unfortunately, Jacobs did not reach out to the piano collectors underground (I’d met him a few times previously and we got on famously), as if he had, I would have connected him with Ward and they could have negotiated its inclusion in the set. I also would have let him know that the two Mazurkas on the set are definitely not Cortot – they come from a Japanese CD that used the Concert Artist cassettes ostensibly of Cortot playing the Mazurkas: that’s the label that released the Joyce Hatto recordings, not one to be trusted. If anything, these might actually be Joyce Hatto – they sound nothing like Cortot and do not appear to be professionally played or recorded.

If some other Cortot recordings were to be found, my hope would be for his 1935 Schumann Fantasy, a 1939 Gaspard recorded on a day when he was in very fine form (the recording sheets suggest that there was a technical glitch on one of the discs), and his 1940s Chopin Polonaises and Scherzi. He also did record the Chopin Mazurkas in the 1950s – there is a letter I’ve seen in which he discusses this – but there was no trace of them in the EMI archives when Rémi Jacobs looked for them when producing the anniversary set. I’d first come across news of the Gaspard in 1991 when I was allowed in the EMI Archives and given free access to all the documentation I’d wanted for my Lipatti research; I asked to look at the Cortot files and you can imagine how I was almost trembling holding the recording sheets for the Gaspard. Alas – no pressing has ever been found. It’s not impossible that a copy coul be found – certainly no one expected that the 1927 Stravinsky take would be! (I can’t recall if I had seen the session sheet for that one when searching his file – it’s 30 years ago and I had to focus my attention on Lipatti.)

But the recording found an ideal home in the first volume of Landmarks of Recorded Pianism produced by Marston in 2018. Those interested in the set including this amazingly rare recording can find it by clicking this link. 

And here is the performance itself:

 

 

 

 

Many pianists lived fascinating lives whose biographical details are forever fused to their legacy. Sadly, for several artists it is sometimes the circumstances around their deaths for which they are most immediately remembered. One such case is the tremendous Russian pianist Simon Barere, who died partway through a performance of Grieg’s Piano Concerto at Carnegie Hall on April 2, 1951, aged only 54.

I first heard of Barere from my high school physics teacher, who used to assign a problem for the class to solve and then chat with me while I stood at his desk, telling me about which pianists I should listen to and why. It was he who told me about Barere’s tragic death and that I needed to hear his Don Juan Fantasy – a work I had not yet encountered. It wasn’t long before I found a few of Barere’s LPs in the second-hand shops: one of his Remington LPs and a Turnabout Vox vinyl with his Liszt Sonata from Carnegie Hall. Although I would have to wait before I would get his Don Juan Fantasy, I could tell right away that this was a supremely powerful pianist, with technique to burn but also more than just fingers.

A year or two later, I would go to the McGill University Library (I wasn’t a student there but was able to get in) and go through their amazing collection of 78s, with a listening station that included a turntable with a fantastic pickup that fit the grooves of these old shellac discs perfectly. While recording cassettes using the connected player, if you timed the lift of the pause button well, the machine would somehow do a perfect crossfade to join sides of the records (this could be considered my early DJ training). They had an impressive array of piano recordings, among them Barere’s HMV disc of Balakirev’s Islamey (another work new to me). I was able to effect a flawless transfer and listened over and over to the cassette – the playing blew my mind.

I had visited the UK in the summer of 1987 and seen an LP release of Barere’s 1930s HMV recordings (including that Islamey) but they were priced out of my student-budget range (as were most things in England) so I hadn’t purchased it. Little did I know that the producer of that ‘Archive Piano Recordings’ release would soon become a very close ally: Bryan Crimp, who would rename the label Appian Publications & Recordings (APR, as it is currently known), who over the course of the coming years provided tremendous support to my Lipatti research. Soon after our correspondence began in 1989, he released recordings of Barere Live at Carnegie Hall, which I ordered (along with those HMV recordings) and listened to voraciously. I was hooked.

It appears that Barere’s son was making recordings of his father’s annual Carnegie Hall recitals, which the pianist paid for himself (the real way to Carnegie Hall isn’t just practice, it’s an open chequebook). While a few of these had been issued on LP (such as that terrific Liszt Sonata), the vast majority remained unheard until APR got involved around 1990. Hearing Barere in a vaster array of repertoire than he recorded commercially – and in live performance – one can appreciate a good deal more of his artistry. Barere’s playing was greeted by rapturous ovations, but his career sadly had long gaps of inactivity.

It is almost inconceivable to us that a pianist of such astounding talent should have had such a hard time making a career but sadly that is the case. Born in Odessa on September 1, 1896, Barere was recognized for his brilliance by the composer Glazunov, who reportedly had him play for two great teachers – Anna Essipova and Isabella Vengerova. The colourful tale states that things got quite heated between the two ladies due to their profound desire to teach the young musician. Essipova had won that feud but upon her death in 1914 Barere would train with pianist-composer Felix Blumenfeld (whose other pupils included Horowitz, Neuhaus, and Grinberg). Glazunov – who said that “Barere is an Anton Rubinstein in one hand and a Liszt in the other” – was a great support to the young pianist during his seven years at the St. Petersburg Imperial Conservatory, making it possible to sidestep limitations that his Jewish roots might have caused and also helping him avoid mandatory military conscription.

In January 1934 he caused such a sensation with his Aeolian Hall debut in London that he was immediately invited to EMI’s studios to begin a series of recordings under the watchful eye and ear of legendary producer Fred Gaisberg that would span two years. We can see the pianist, producer, and engineers together in this remarkable photograph of the pianist in the studio, preparing to record his stunning account of Blumenfeld’s Etude for Left Hand, one of the gems of his discography.

An invitation by the Baldwin piano makers would take him to the US, where he would settle after his great success at his Carnegie Hall debut in 1936. The war would not make things easy and although he lived in a musically rich culture, Barere’s career did not fully take off (indeed, despite having been brought to the country by a piano manufacturer, Barere never owned a piano of his own). Things started to improve towards the end of the 1940s, including an Australiasian tour in 1947 (there’s a New Zealand radio interview and he visited Jascha Spivakovsky’s home in Melbourne and signed the piano there), but this kind of international success was rare.

Barere seems to have had few opportunities to play with orchestra (although a few live recordings of these rare appearances exist) and it was sadly during one of these few occasions that he perished: a performance of the Grieg Concerto in A Minor with Eugene Ormandy conducting the Philadelphia Orchestra at Carnegie Hall on April 2, 1951. It has been said that on the day of the concert he had been rehearsing with Guiomar Novaes (who was playing the orchestral part) and complained about not feeling well; he debated whether he should cancel, but Novaes convinced him to play, saying that it could be the break that he wanted and that he needed the income. Alas, partway through the first movement at the concert, he suffered a cerebral hemorrhage and collapsed on stage. Novaes never forgave herself, for decades carrying the guilt for having urged the pianist to keep this engagement.

Critic Olin Downes was at the concert and described what transpired: “Mr Barere seemed to be in top form. His entrance solo was brilliantly delivered. But presently this writer was puzzled by the pace of his performance, which seemed excessively fast. Then comes the passage after the violin-cellos have announced the second theme of developments discoursed between the piano and the orchestra. A moment later it seemed as if Mr Barere were bending over to one side, listening with special attention to the instruments as he matched his tone with theirs. In another moment his left hand fell from the keyboard and in another second he fell senseless from the stool to the floor. The orchestra stopped in consternation, someone shouted from the stage for a doctor, and with some difficulty the unconscious man was carried from the stage.” An intermission was called while they attended to the pianist, but Barere died backstage. The audience was called back in and told that the rest of the concert was canceled; the Nielsen 5th Symphony was to be featured in the second half and they rescheduled it for a month later. (Another detail: apparently, Barere’s last words to the conductor were,”Mr. Ormandy, this is the first time that we are playing together. I hope it won’t be the last.”)

While the nature of Barere’s premature passing is forever linked to his name, it is his artistry that should be front and foremost. The fact that he had such an astounding facility at the keyboard has led to his being dismissed as ’empty’ and ‘just fingers’. The fact is he could indeed play pretty much everything faster than anyone else, and in a few works he got ahead of himself and the results are not terrific (the Schumann Toccata, for example – Horowitz asked him why he played it so quickly, to which Barere responded, “I can play it even faster.”) But listening to the bulk of his recordings one is aware of mastery that extends far beyond speed and agility. His tonal colours were exquisite and his dynamic gradations as precise as his fingerwork, while his lyrical phrasing was marvellously refined and beautifully timed. While a good deal of his studio repertoire consisted of more impressive showpieces, there are works that demonstrate his astounding sensitivity, such as the Liszt Sonetto del Petrarca No.104 and the Blumenfeld Etude for Left Hand.

In honour of the anniversary of Barere’s tragic death, a selection of recordings that demonstrate his remarkable artistry – not comprehensive, of course (for the bulk of his recorded output, investigate APR’s release of his HMV and Carnegie Hall performances), but a worthy tribute to this incredible pianist.

First off is that Don Juan Fantasy that my physics teacher had spoken of so highly, with agility that seems to defy the laws of science. This performance is notable not only for its stunning pyrotechnics but also for the lovely singing lines and attentive voicing in lyrical sections, as well as marvellous rubato and dramatic climaxes. Most certainly, when it comes to passages requiring dexterity, Barere certainly takes things to another level, with the most dazzling runs, filigree fingerwork, and towering octaves, all accomplished, it should be noted, with a clear, full-bodied sonority (even in the loudest fortissimo, his tone doesn’t ‘crack’). Miraculous!

 

Barere’s October 10, 1935 account of Chopin’s Scherzo No.3 in C-Sharp Minor is my favourite interpretation of the work and one of his finest recorded performances. Certainly thrilling pyrotechnics are in full abundance, but it is his delivery of the opening sequence that is most arresting to me, so beautifully conceived with creative timing telling a story with the repeated figurations. Barere’s light octaves are attentive to voicing, the middle section is lyrically presented with sumptuous tone and masterful pedalling, and his proportioned rubato is beautifully coordinated with his elegant phrasing.

 

Barere’s account of Balakirev’s knuckle-busting Islamey referred to above is as legendary as his Don Juan Fantasy. He plays at a breakneck pace well beyond what most virtuosos can manage, yet with absolute clarity (something his son said he did without even trying). Despite the extreme speed, he has a remarkably light touch and always plays a wonderful singing tone. I’ve often said that if a pianist can play quickly but not with beautiful tone, they actually don’t have good technique, that it is dexterity together with beautiful tone production together are a sign of good technique. As with the previous recordings, as thrilling as his virtuosity is, the lyrical middle section – with a beautifully formed melodic line, elegantly shaped phrasing, and lush timing – is clear evidence that he was not ‘just fingers.’

 

Barere’s October 2, 1935 HMV reading of his former teacher Blumenfeld’s Etude for Left Hand is thoroughly remarkable in many ways: not only is the pianist able to navigate the keyboard at a tempo that makes it all the more challenging to believe that he is playing with one hand (and he certainly was – there’s also a live recording of him playing this at the same tempo), but he does so while voicing with incredible consistency and poetry, with a gorgeous burnished sonority, marvellous pedal effects, and lyrical phrasing. Astonishingly beautiful!

 

Chopin’s Andante Spianato and Grande Polonaise Op.22 is a perfect vehicle for Barere’s sensitive musicianship: this February 7, 1949 Carnegie Hall traversal reveals  fluid phrasing, magnificent timing, gorgeous colours, and refined nuancing – the gorgeous glow in the opening section, with that soaring burnished line, is just magical.

 

One of the highlights of Barere’s discography is his thrilling account of Liszt’s Sonata in B Minor, recorded at his November 11, 1947 Carnegie Hall recital, one of the concert performances that was issued on LP soon after he died. He plays here with a varied tonal palette and seemingly effortless facility, his dramatic gestures and sensitive nuances serving his grand vision of this titanic work. The grand recitativo delivery of the main theme in the opening section is extremely effective and in wonderful contrast to the fleetness of the section that immediately follows. A mesmerizing performance!

 

And this is quite a treasure: a January 31, 1949 home recording of Barere practicing a number of compositions. We hear the great Russian pianist playing (at times while speaking and singing!) excerpts of the Liszt First Piano Concerto, Gounod-Liszt Faust Waltz, Scriabin Etude Op.42 No.3 (a work of which no other recording by Barere is known to exist), Chopin Etude Op. 10 No. 5 and the Andante Spianato & Grande Polonaise. At the beginning of the clip, I thought for a moment it was Art Tatum playing before I was able to recognize Liszt’s writing! The lush phrasing of some lyrical excerpts from the Faust Waltz demonstrates his sensitivity and refined nuancing. I’m not sure of the provenance of this recording but it appears to be a wire recording of some people listening to the original private disc (we can hear them give their assessment of the playing after Barere finishes playing and refer to the wire recording). Fascinating stuff!

 

One of his few American performances with orchestra was a Carnegie Hall reading of Liszt’s Piano Concerto No.1 with David Brockman conducting New York Philharmonic Symphony Orchestra. Barere’s son Boris recalls that this concert took place without a rehearsal: the conductor went over to Barere’s apartment, they talked it over, and then they played the concert. When Barere heard the private discs his son had recorded, the self-deprecating pianist listened to it and said, “You know, I think the best part of the whole concerto is the applause…” The reading is a pretty wild one, but despite the tremendous speed – just under 16 minutes! – there is plenty of poetry at the right times.

 

There is only one other concerto of which we have a recording of Barere: Rachmaninoff’s Second Concerto, another reading that features his deeply emotive playing. In addition to his lovely singing tone (appreciable despite the amateur recording), Barere plays with an individual rubato, wonderfully highlighted voices, and beautifully shaped phrasing. The exact date of the recording is unknown, though Barere’s son believed that this was a 1944 performance.

 

After Barere made his 1934-36 series of discs for HMV, he produced no more studio recordings until a session for the American label Remington 15 years later, in the month prior to his death. The label would issue these performances, as well as some of his Carnegie Hall recordings, soon after he died. These final recordings are just as staggering as the earlier ones, with rapid-fire fingerwork that needs to be heard to be believed but also a wonderful sonority throughout. Here in one clip is the sum total of those studio performances, a matter of weeks before his untimely passing.

 

While it is impossible for Barere’s sad and shocking death not to be part of how he is remembered, it is to be hoped that the incredible richness of recordings now available – a good deal more than was ever the case in the LP era – will allow the pianist’s playing to stand more prominently, and not for the superficial perception of his astounding dexterity (which admittedly in a few cases got the better of him) but for the full power of his music-making.

 

 

The German-born Dutch pianist Egon Petri has been a favourite of mine from my earliest years of collecting records. The APR label had put out the bulk of his 78rpm recordings on three double-CD sets and I was particularly mesmerized by his Liszt and Schubert-Liszt performances; my high school physics teacher, from whom I had learned a ton about historical piano recordings (but precious little about physics), had waxed rhapsodic about Petri’s Mazeppa and Ricordanza.

However, it was experiencing some of his 78s on an old turntable with built-in tube-amplified speakers that made me realize the power of his playing. A pianophile friend was visiting from Europe and we put on one of the Petri 78s I had on this system and it felt like Petri was in the room; the beauty and grandeur of his tone were more apparent to us than ever, despite the fact that we were both familiar with the recordings we listened to.

The more I explored Petri’s discography, the more I became aware that some of his studio discs were far more inspired than others and that his concert recordings seemed to capture his playing at its impassioned best. That said, he could still deliver stunning performances in the studio. This page will feature, in celebration of the pianist’s 140th birthday, a selection of his finest commercial and concert recordings.

Here are his first commercial discs, made at a studio session for German Electrola on September 17, 1929, and featuring some dazzling pianism. As I wrote about these performances in the booklet notes for the APR reissue of Petri’s entire 78 discography and first LPs (a commission for which I was truly honoured and grateful), ‘throughout, one marvels at his even articulation, sparkling tone, subtle pedalling, and gloriously shaped phrasing.’

 

The 78rpm disc that I consider his most successful is his glorious September 27, 1938 recording of Liszt’s transcription of Schubert’s lied ‘Gretchen am Spinnrade.’ What exquisitely-shaped phrasing, a beautifully sculpted line, wonderful layering, impassioned climaxes, and gorgeous nuancing – the long arc of his trajectory in this performance is magnificently achieved.

 

A few days before setting down that account, the pianist made on September 22, 1938 a recording of Liszt’s Piano Concerto No.2 in A Major, with Leslie Heward conducting the London Philharmonic Orchestra. This is a reference recording for this work and also one of Petri’s more successful studio efforts, with a wonderful balance of passion and sensitivity on display thanks to his beautiful sonority (his tone in lyrical sections is exquisite), broad dynamic range, refined phrasing, and impressive technical capacity (his octaves are terrific!).

 

As great as that studio recording is, the live account below shows how much more intensity he could bring to his playing in concert and makes for a fascinating comparison. I was less familiar with this live 1945 performance that circulated on a bootleg LP that eluded me for a long time, and now that it’s online, I can say that this version could well supplant Petri’s superb studio account in my estimation.

This performance has all the elegance, refinement, and dazzling technical mastery of his wonderful commercial recording with the bonus of more unbridled passion and propulsion. Aged 64 at the time of this reading, Petri sculpts his lines with burnished tone, mindful use of dynamics, and impeccable timing so as to highlight the emotional content of Liszt’s score – even though he lingers in lyrical passages, the faster sections are taken at quite a clip, resulting in a reading that’s a two minutes shorter than his commercial account and more animated and dramatic too.

 

Some magical broadcasts from 1930s reveal even more passion and vitality. Here is Petri playing the fourth movement of the Busoni Piano Concerto from a 1932 concert, with the Frankfurt Radio Symphony Orchestra conducted by the great Hans Rosbaud. Petri was a disciple of the great Busoni – one of the pianist-composer’s three favourites – and so this recording is of particularly great historical importance.

Allan Evans, who discovered this performance and released it on his Arbiter label, recounted that he went to Melodiya’s offices in 1987: “Waited for a meeting room to be prepared (someone hurried inside with a reel of tape – not so subtle.) Met their archivist who claimed the entire 1936 broadcast [of the same concerto] existed minus the 1st movement, in a private collection. The Red Army took everything in 1945. Two years later during Perestroika the 1932 Busoni movement and most of Totentanz emerged. The 1936 performance seems to be missing unless an army officer will ‘fess up. Took a while to get them. Worth the effort.”

Worth the effort indeed. It is staggering that a 1932 broadcast should exist at all and in such amazing sound, and one shudders to think of the whole performance played this way by this great student of the composer; the 1936 Totentanz (with the opening missing) referred to above was also released by Allan on one of his Arbiter CDs and features equally stunning pianism (as shall be heard below the Busoni clip). This is absolutely thrilling playing, with the easily surmounting the technical challenges of this work despite playing at breakneck speed – what octaves, with incredible voicing and rhythmic vitality. A truly remarkable document!

 

And here is that other supremely important discovery by Evans, a stellar 1936 reading by Petri of Liszt’s Totentanz, again with the great Rosbaud on the podium. The first 78 transcription disc was not in the archive when Allan Evans rescued the rest of this performance from oblivion, but what a performance it is: thrilling passagework, massive tone, and rhythmically and emotionally charged playing.

 

One of Petri’s granddaughters told me that in the late 1950s, the pianist had gone to Switzerland in the hopes of teaching as his career was not going at its best, but that enrolment for his masterclasses was disappointingly far less than had been expected: it is sad and staggering to consider that only three students enrolled (one of whom was John Ogden). This recital given before those classes shows no sign that the pianist was in his late 70s at the time: his tone is rich and lush, articulation clear and precise, phrasing beautifully shaped, and timing natural and spacious.

 

Below is another marvellous concert performance of Petri late in life, a glorious account Beethoven’s Piano Concerto No.4 in G Major Op.58. This recording was originally issued on a private LP Encore PHS-1277 which gave no date nor indication of the orchestra or conductor – a kind commenter on my YouTube upload has stated that it is the Carmel Symphony Orchestra, with an unidentified conductor, from a December 8, 1959 concert.

Petri put a few concerted works on disc in the 1930s and 40s, and several Beethoven Sonatas in both the 78rpm and LP eras, but he never recorded any of his concertos. A performance of the Emperor Concerto circulated much more widely than the interpretation of the Fourth below, which is a fascinating and insightful performance worthy of attention despite the unfortunately harsh sound of the amateur recording of this concert reading. His left hand voicing in the first movement cadenza, for example, is wonderfully highlighted with a level of robust dramatic inflection, in addition to a few personal touches that highlight the emotional depth of the work. Throughout the entire performance, we hear Petri’s bold emphases tempered by fluid legato phrasing, refined nuancing (what a wonderful pianissimo), and attentive voicing (notice the balance of his chords).

 

If Petri wasn’t always at his peak in the studio, it does not mean that his studio performances are not worth hearing. This 1956 account of Beethoven’s titanic Hammerklavier Sonata Op.106 for Westminster (for which label he produced several LPs) is a grand and noble reading, capturing with great fidelity the pianist’s gorgeous tonal palette (including a massive bass sonority), transparent voicing, and refined nuancing.

 

One of the greatest recordings we have of Petri is one that could very well have disappeared into thin air: a 1950s practice session of Alkan’s treacherous Symphony for Solo Piano Op.39 that was captured on tape in a Mills College practice room by his pupil Daniell Revenaugh, who told me about the experience when I met him about a decade ago. Revenaugh had to pull the microphone away from the piano partway through the first movement because the levels were peaking due to Petri’s volcanic playing.

This is indeed some utterly stupendous pianism here, the kind that gives us a much better idea of Petri’s true capabilities. The playing throughout features soaring phrasing, grandly shaped lines, clearly balanced voicing, wonderfully weighted chords, and rhythmic dynamism. The dramatic content and progression of the first movement is absolutely mesmerizing, and I’ve often listened over and over to that single section of the work in absolute awe. And this was simply a practice session – and at a time when Alkan’s music was not being widely played at all (this is before Raymond Lewenthal helped revive interest in the composer’s works). Stunning pianism by a grand master!

 

To close, Petri playing two of his own Bach transcriptions in a 1958 recording that showcases his beautiful full-bodied tone, fluid phrasing, and transparent voicing – a master musician at work, one whom we are fortunate to be able to appreciate in so many hours of superb recordings.

 

 

The German-born Dutch pianist Egon Petri has been a favourite of mine from my earliest years of collecting records. The APR label had put out the bulk of his 78rpm recordings on three double-CD sets and I was particularly mesmerized by his Liszt and Schubert-Liszt performances; my high school physics teacher, from whom I had learned a ton about historical piano recordings (but precious little about physics), had waxed rhapsodic about Petri’s Mazeppa and Ricordanza.

However, it was experiencing some of his 78s on an old turntable with built-in tube-amplified speakers that made me realize the power of his playing. A pianophile friend was visiting from Europe and we put on one of the Petri 78s I had on this system and it felt like Petri was in the room; the beauty and grandeur of his tone were more apparent to us than ever, despite the fact that we were both familiar with the recordings we listened to.

The more I explored Petri’s discography, the more I became aware that some of his studio discs were far more inspired than others and that his concert recordings seemed to capture his playing at its impassioned best. That said, he could still deliver stunning performances in the studio. This page will feature, in celebration of the pianist’s 140th birthday, a selection of his finest commercial and concert recordings.

Here are his first commercial discs, made at a studio session for German Electrola on September 17, 1929, and featuring some dazzling pianism. As I wrote about these performances in the booklet notes for the APR reissue of Petri’s entire 78 discography and first LPs (a commission for which I was truly honoured and grateful), ‘throughout, one marvels at his even articulation, sparkling tone, subtle pedalling, and gloriously shaped phrasing.’

 

The 78rpm disc that I consider his most successful is his glorious September 27, 1938 recording of Liszt’s transcription of Schubert’s lied ‘Gretchen am Spinnrade.’ What exquisitely-shaped phrasing, a beautifully sculpted line, wonderful layering, impassioned climaxes, and gorgeous nuancing – the long arc of his trajectory in this performance is magnificently achieved.

 

A few days before setting down that account, the pianist made on September 22, 1938 a recording of Liszt’s Piano Concerto No.2 in A Major, with Leslie Heward conducting the London Philharmonic Orchestra. This is a reference recording for this work and also one of Petri’s more successful studio efforts, with a wonderful balance of passion and sensitivity on display thanks to his beautiful sonority (his tone in lyrical sections is exquisite), broad dynamic range, refined phrasing, and impressive technical capacity (his octaves are terrific!).

 

As great as that studio recording is, the live account below shows how much more intensity he could bring to his playing in concert and makes for a fascinating comparison. I was less familiar with this live 1945 performance that circulated on a bootleg LP that eluded me for a long time, and now that it’s online, I can say that this version could well supplant Petri’s superb studio account in my estimation.

This performance has all the elegance, refinement, and dazzling technical mastery of his wonderful commercial recording with the bonus of more unbridled passion and propulsion. Aged 64 at the time of this reading, Petri sculpts his lines with burnished tone, mindful use of dynamics, and impeccable timing so as to highlight the emotional content of Liszt’s score – even though he lingers in lyrical passages, the faster sections are taken at quite a clip, resulting in a reading that’s a two minutes shorter than his commercial account and more animated and dramatic too.

 

Some magical broadcasts from 1930s reveal even more passion and vitality. Here is Petri playing the fourth movement of the Busoni Piano Concerto from a 1932 concert, with the Frankfurt Radio Symphony Orchestra conducted by the great Hans Rosbaud. Petri was a disciple of the great Busoni – one of the pianist-composer’s three favourites – and so this recording is of particularly great historical importance.

Allan Evans, who discovered this performance and released it on his Arbiter label, recounted that he went to Melodiya’s offices in 1987: “Waited for a meeting room to be prepared (someone hurried inside with a reel of tape – not so subtle.) Met their archivist who claimed the entire 1936 broadcast [of the same concerto] existed minus the 1st movement, in a private collection. The Red Army took everything in 1945. Two years later during Perestroika the 1932 Busoni movement and most of Totentanz emerged. The 1936 performance seems to be missing unless an army officer will ‘fess up. Took a while to get them. Worth the effort.”

Worth the effort indeed. It is staggering that a 1932 broadcast should exist at all and in such amazing sound, and one shudders to think of the whole performance played this way by this great student of the composer; the 1936 Totentanz (with the opening missing) referred to above was also released by Allan on one of his Arbiter CDs and features equally stunning pianism (as shall be heard below the Busoni clip). This is absolutely thrilling playing, with the easily surmounting the technical challenges of this work despite playing at breakneck speed – what octaves, with incredible voicing and rhythmic vitality. A truly remarkable document!

 

And here is that other supremely important discovery by Evans, a stellar 1936 reading by Petri of Liszt’s Totentanz, again with the great Rosbaud on the podium. The first 78 transcription disc was not in the archive when Allan Evans rescued the rest of this performance from oblivion, but what a performance it is: thrilling passagework, massive tone, and rhythmically and emotionally charged playing.

 

One of Petri’s granddaughters told me that in the late 1950s, the pianist had gone to Switzerland in the hopes of teaching as his career was not going at its best, but that enrolment for his masterclasses was disappointingly far less than had been expected: it is sad and staggering to consider that only three students enrolled (one of whom was John Ogden). This recital given before those classes shows no sign that the pianist was in his late 70s at the time: his tone is rich and lush, articulation clear and precise, phrasing beautifully shaped, and timing natural and spacious.

 

Below is another marvellous concert performance of Petri late in life, a glorious account Beethoven’s Piano Concerto No.4 in G Major Op.58. This recording was originally issued on a private LP Encore PHS-1277 which gave no date nor indication of the orchestra or conductor – a kind commenter on my YouTube upload has stated that it is the Carmel Symphony Orchestra, with an unidentified conductor, from a December 8, 1959 concert.

Petri put a few concerted works on disc in the 1930s and 40s, and several Beethoven Sonatas in both the 78rpm and LP eras, but he never recorded any of his concertos. A performance of the Emperor Concerto circulated much more widely than the interpretation of the Fourth below, which is a fascinating and insightful performance worthy of attention despite the unfortunately harsh sound of the amateur recording of this concert reading. His left hand voicing in the first movement cadenza, for example, is wonderfully highlighted with a level of robust dramatic inflection, in addition to a few personal touches that highlight the emotional depth of the work. Throughout the entire performance, we hear Petri’s bold emphases tempered by fluid legato phrasing, refined nuancing (what a wonderful pianissimo), and attentive voicing (notice the balance of his chords).

 

If Petri wasn’t always at his peak in the studio, it does not mean that his studio performances are not worth hearing. This 1956 account of Beethoven’s titanic Hammerklavier Sonata Op.106 for Westminster (for which label he produced several LPs) is a grand and noble reading, capturing with great fidelity the pianist’s gorgeous tonal palette (including a massive bass sonority), transparent voicing, and refined nuancing.

 

One of the greatest recordings we have of Petri is one that could very well have disappeared into thin air: a 1950s practice session of Alkan’s treacherous Symphony for Solo Piano Op.39 that was captured on tape in a Mills College practice room by his pupil Daniell Revenaugh, who told me about the experience when I met him about a decade ago. Revenaugh had to pull the microphone away from the piano partway through the first movement because the levels were peaking due to Petri’s volcanic playing.

This is indeed some utterly stupendous pianism here, the kind that gives us a much better idea of Petri’s true capabilities. The playing throughout features soaring phrasing, grandly shaped lines, clearly balanced voicing, wonderfully weighted chords, and rhythmic dynamism. The dramatic content and progression of the first movement is absolutely mesmerizing, and I’ve often listened over and over to that single section of the work in absolute awe. And this was simply a practice session – and at a time when Alkan’s music was not being widely played at all (this is before Raymond Lewenthal helped revive interest in the composer’s works). Stunning pianism by a grand master!

 

To close, Petri playing two of his own Bach transcriptions in a 1958 recording that showcases his beautiful full-bodied tone, fluid phrasing, and transparent voicing – a master musician at work, one whom we are fortunate to be able to appreciate in so many hours of superb recordings.