On September 27, 2020 I had a wonderful conversation about piano performance and interpretation with Jennifer West, artistic director of the local Muzewest Concerts and a big piano aficionado. Our conversation covered a lot of ground in its 53 minutes. Here is a YouTube link to the discussion and below that are some of the recordings that I mention in our conversation.
I mention the profound experience of first listening Josef Hofmann playing Beethoven’s Waldstein Sonata in recital in 1938 and how it was a completely life-changing event, how nothing I had read about Hofmann’s playing could prepare me for what this performance was actually like. That experience shifted my perspective of what is possible interpretatively (and to be clear, I’m not saying one should or shouldn’t emulate this) and how descriptions of playing cannot fully communicate what an artist does.
Here is the recording of Rachmaninoff playing Chopin’s famous Nocturne Op.9 No.2, which I mention some university students having been surprised by because it didn’t match their perception of how the work should be played. And yet Rachmaninoff was born less than 25 years after Chopin died, so he was much closer to the culture of Chopin’s music than we are.
In our conversation I mentioned how I think the sound of newer recordings is not like what we hear in concert, and that some earlier recordings capture piano tone better than new ones. Here’s an example of a recording from the 1920s – 1928 to be precise – with what I think is wonderful sound … and the playing is absolutely divine too:
Here is an example of Bach played on the piano with beautiful pedal effects, dynamic gradations, and tonal colours, by a sorely forgotten artist:
Jennifer asked me about the restoration of historical recordings. Here’s the video I mentioned that shows how I splice together different parts of an early recording made on 78-rpm discs, each of which would hold only 4 to 5 minutes of music, which meant that longer works were spread apart several records (just like YouTube used to cut videos into shorter segments). I explain this a little bit and show how I do this kind of editing on computer.
This is the wonderful recording by Egon Petri of Liszt’s Un Sospiro that sounded so incredible when an original 78rpm disc was played on my old player in my basement in Montreal. I wish this transfer sounded as good, but it’s still pretty amazing (despite the crackle), and the performance is wonderful.
I mention how the producer Bryan Crimp played me a transfer he had made of the great Ignaz Friedman’s recording of Chopin’s 2nd Impromptu on giant speakers. While this won’t sound the same as that experience, this performance is certainly one that needs to be heard by all piano lovers.
I also mentioned how easy it is to hear and see so many amazing recordings now and how difficult it used to be – I gave, as an example, the film footage of Francis Poulenc playing his 2-piano concerto with Jacques Fevrier. If you even knew it existed, you had to fly to Paris and pay to see it at the national library… but now you just have to click a button… right here!
I referred to a specific listening experience from some 30 years ago of Swiss pianist Edwin Fischer playing a specific Bach Prelude & Fugue – the space I was in at that particular moment, I heard the music in a particularly dimensional way that I still recall decades later. These kinds of experiences can happen when we listen attentively as opposed to passively.
A story I referred to in the conversation: the great Arthur Rubinstein recounting how some pianists used to talk to each other on stage while in performance. He was a great story-teller and this particular tale tells us how different the concert experience used to be.
An example of Dinu Lipatti’s sumptuous pianism, from that legendary ‘last recital’ that caught my eye when I first saw his name:
Near the end of the talk, I referred to Alfred Cortot, the legendary pianist, teacher, and writer, who many young pianists nowadays have fortunately heard of. He is one of my all-time favourite performers: here is one of my favourite recordings of this great artist.
Pianophile and recording historian/researcher Allan Evans passed away on June 6 at far too young an age. Evans played a particularly active role in bringing attention to the playing of the great Polish pianist Ignaz Friedman, producing the first ever comprehensive reissue of the pianist’s recordings and penning a biography of the artist. On his label Arbiter, Evans also highlighted artists who were frequently overlooked and presented performances that showed a different side to an artist’s capabilities than was generally known, in addition to exploring world music on his Arbiter World label.
The author with Allan Evans in New York in April 2018
Despite having had communications online since the late 90s, I only met Evans for the first time in 2018 when I visited New York. The get-together was coordinated by Artur Schnabel’s granddaughter Ann Mottier, a close friend of Evans who believed that we would get along wonderfully – and that we did. Together with our mutual friend James Irsay (whom I first met in New York in 1992 when I was invited to appear on his program on WNYC courtesy another mutual friend, Gregor Benko), we spent hours dining together and discussing many musical matters. Any differences of opinion that we had had in online conversations evaporated as our enthusiasm for our shared passion of inspired music-making drove our conversation – as can be clearly seen in photographs that Mottier snapped on the occasion.
Evans and I met one more time on that trip, for a Thai dinner at a hole-in-the-wall restaurant that he adored – as with his music, Evans preferred a down-to-earth unfussy authenticity versus dressed-up, dolled-up presentations that lacked the grittiness of robust aliveness. Over the course of our dinner, I remember us discussing in particular the pianism of Ilona Eibenschütz and how the playing of those who knew Brahms ruffled the feathers of academics, about whom he uttered a line that I will always remember and use myself: ‘they want their playing embalmed, not alive.’ That incisive directness and down-to-earth clarity epitomizes Evans’ approach to and fascination with music, and all art forms, and life: real, robust, unconventional, in-the-moment.
After his passing, for one week I posted a performance daily on my Facebook page that related to his research, whether an artist he appreciated or a recording that he released on his Arbiter label or on the Pearl label prior to Arbiter’s founding. His contributions in this field were so profound that it made sense to gather them here, along with a few others, for permanent reference.
Ignaz Friedman
My tribute to Evans must begin with Friedman, the artist about whom he was the most passion and who had provided the impetus for his exploration of historical recordings. A Romantic of the highest order, Friedman had a beautiful singing sound, a rich tonal palette, and complete mastery of the pedal, while voicing creatively and phrasing with wonderful rubato fused with sensitive dynamic shadings.
Allan’s requested playlist to friend and radio host James Irsay in 1972
Friedman’s rhythmic emphases in the mazurkas is the stuff of legend and startles the conservatory crowd, though Friedman’s having danced the mazur as a child lends his approach a certain level of authenticity that the current musical climate claims to aspire to but which they can find off-putting because it doesn’t match their picture of what Chopin playing should be like (they would do well to read of the composer’s argument with Meyerbeer over the rhythm he wanted in these works). This brings to mind that line of Evans quoted above about performances being alive as opposed to embalmed.
Well, this is certainly very alive playing – there is a vibrancy and vitality that are mesmerizing! And it is this recording that led to the long friendship between Evans and James Irsay: back in 1972 when Irsay had another program on WBAI, he played a 78rpm disc of Friedman playing Chopin’s A-Flat Polonaise – the first occasion that Evans heard this artist’s playing – and over their shared love of this robust pianism a deep friendship between the two was born. On the right you can see a note that Allan wrote to James soon after with requests for broadcast (though interestingly he mistakenly put Friedheim’s name instead of Friedman’s in the first number)!
I am also not suggesting everyone run out and imitate Friedman – but whenever one is ‘offended’ by a musical choice made by an artist trained in the 19th century, it is worth looking at what belief is being challenged, what stylistic preference is so strongly held, and why. It is not necessary to change one’s preferences or style of playing, but not questioning where these come from and why they are so important to you does not create space for accurate scholarship and musical study.
This truly is essential listening for any lover of great piano playing and we do indeed owe Evans tremendous gratitude for his work in bringing this artist more to the foreground.
Ignace Tiegerman
A pianist rescued from obscurity by Evans was Ignace Tiegerman, a pupil of Ignaz Friedman. Having lived in Cairo for his health and never made commercial recordings, Tiegerman evaded international recognition and was basically unknown to pianophiles until Evans released all the recordings he could find.
While Tiegerman’s character and approach are clearly quite different from Friedman’s, the amateur home and radio recordings we have demonstrate some fine pianism – unfortunately most suffer from very poor sound but this 1965 account of the Brahms Capriccio in B Minor Op.76 No.2 is clearer in fidelity than most. Tiegerman’s tone is absolutely gorgeous, with seamless legato phrasing and transparent textures helping one hear the beauty of Brahms’s writing – and what buoyancy in the accompaniment while sustaining lyricism in the melodic line. Marvellous playing!
Pietro Scarpini
An unsung pianists who fascinated Evans was Pietro Scarpini, a largely overlooked figure whose playing was both robust and intelligently crafted. While Evans did not release a great deal of the artist’s performances, the disc he did put out included this truly marvellous 1952 concert performance of Beethoven’s Piano Concerto No.4 with Scarpini and legendary conductor Wilhelm Furtwängler. The atmosphere features that unique combination of divine inspiration and down-to-earth directness that was so much a part of Evans’ character and musical aptitude.
Egon Petri
An incredible discovery Evans made was a truly remarkable broadcast recording of Busoni’s pupil Egon 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.
Allan 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 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.
Petri could at times be uninvolved and detached (more so in the recording studio than in the concert hall) but that’s far from the case here: 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 phenomenal document of tremendous historical importance!
Madeleine de Valmalète
Another artist whom Evans adored was the French pianist Madeleine de Valmalète, who had been admired as a child prodigy by Saint-Saens and Widor and by Ravel and Cortot when a developed pianist. While she performed with important conductors across Europe, she never toured the US and didn’t care for recognition, so while she lived to 100 years old she was largely overlooked. This 1928 recording of Liszt’s Hungarian Rhapsody No.11 that Evans issued on his tribute disc to the artist captures her fiery yet refined pianism marvellously well, with some truly idiomatic rhythmic adjustments in the final section.
Marius-François Gaillard
Another artist more recently championed by Evans was a French pianist who became a conductor and lived as late as 1973 – largely forgotten despite having been a major proponent of Debussy’s piano music during and soon after the composer’s lifetime: Marius-François Gaillard.
Evans was the first to reissue Gaillard’s obscure Debussy piano recordings – I don’t think they ever made it onto LP – and they are significant documents unjustly overlooked: Gaillard was the first to play Debussy’s then-complete piano works in three concerts in 1922. A review at the time stated that “Among the illustrious interpreters of this incomparable musician [Debussy], Marius-Francois Gaillard has proved to be the most truthful, the most inspired, the one whose action is most striking to an audience.”
His playing in his 1930 recording of Debussy’s ‘Pour le piano’ presented here is absolutely magnificent, with a wonderful balance of pedal and clarity, sumptuous tonal colours, a refined dynamic palette, and marvellous phrasing.
Severin Eisenberger
Evans was often in the right place at the right time, connecting with just the right person to ensure that something was preserved. The recordings of Severin Eisenberger are a prime example: the Leschetizky pupil seems to have made no recordings but Evans ensured the preservation of some, among them this superb May 14, 1938 concert of the pianist playing Chopin’s F Minor Concerto with the Cincinnati Conservatory Orchestra under Alexander von Kreisler.
He told the story of how this and other broadcasts were rescued from oblivion: “After his passing in 1945, his widow received a mysterious box by the custodian of their Manhattan apartment house: the pianist once intended to throw it away. He told the custodian that it contained records made of his radio recitals and that he was displeased with the mistakes. The custodian realized his mistake and kept the box, returning it to his widow after the pianist’s death. For a major pianist who never recorded, the box contained more than a mere idea of his art.”
How fortuitous that that box of broadcasts was preserved, as the pianism captured is indeed stupendous. Eisenberger plays with an exquisitely refined sonority, magnificently shaped phrasing (what a natural rise-and-fall, as if spoken by a skilled actor), wonderful clarity of articulation and rhythmic pulse, and pedalling that never obscures the clarity of texture and the line.
Mieczysław Horszowski
Another example of recordings saved from destruction that show another side to the artist are some performances Evans issued of the Polish pianist Mieczysław Horszowski. In addition to a number of live recordings of the artist, Evans managed to rescue some 1940 Vatican radio recordings that were made at a time when the pianist was not making commercial recordings. An archivist at Vatican Radio transferred the Horszowski tapes just as they started to fall apart, and Evans was able to obtain and release these historically invaluable performances. Here is a stunning reading of Liszt’s Legende No.1, St. Francis of Assisi preaching to the birds.
Ilona Eibenschütz
This pupil of Clara Schumann was also a favourite pianist of Brahms, who chose to privately perform his Opp.118 and 119 for her alone. Evans released two sets of historical Brahms recordings and was very taken with the vivacious, unpretentious style of the fiery Eibenschütz, heard here in a performance captured when she was around 80 years old. What a soaring melodic line, rhythmic propulsion, expansive rubato, and clarity of texture – truly spirited yet sensitive artistry by a remarkably important figure in late Romantic pianism.
Leo Sirota
Another tremendous artist whose scarce recordings Evans released was Leo Sirota, an utterly fascinating pianist. Paderewski had hoped to teach the young Russian but the boy’s parents thought him too young, and he would later go on to study with Busoni in Vienna. He then lived in Japan for a period of 16 years starting in 1929, becoming a major figure in Western classical music in the country. However, being Jewish he was interned during WWII. Once the conflict had ended, his daughter moved to Japan as one of the few Americans fluent in Japanese and would help draft the new constitution, having a role to play on equal constitutional rights being granted to both genders.
This 1963 performance of Chopin’s Nocturne in B Major Op.62 No.1 comes from Sirota’s farewell concert tour of Japan and features lovely Romantic pianism, with 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.
You can read more about Sirota in recollections by his daughter on Allan’s website here:
As it was Schnabel’s granddaughter Ann Mottier who arranged for Allan and me to meet in New York two years ago, it seemed appropriate to end this tribute with this superb and rare recording that I was totally unaware of until just after Allan’s passing. This performance was released by Evans some 30 years ago: a November 17th 1947 concert recording of Artur Schnabel playing Beethoven’s Piano Concerto No.4 in G Major with Izler Solomon conducting the Columbus Philharmonic Orchestra. This rare broadcast performance was released on disc only once, on a Pearl CD set also featuring Schnabel’s 1930s studio accounts of the complete Beethoven Concertos with Malcolm Sargent conducting. Schnabel would rerecord Concerti 2 through 5 in the late 1940s in London, as well as 4 and 5 in 1942 in Chicago. A 1945 concert performance of the Third Concerto conducted by Szell circulated quite widely but the Pearl set is the only release I know of featuring this traversal of the Fourth.
The performance was recorded privately for the conductor on yellow-labeled lacquers. Because the discs had suffered some water damage on account of poor storage, several portions were unplayable. For those sections, Evans and transfer engineer Seth Winner patched the gaps with the relevant sections of Schnabel’s 1942 RCA recording with the Chicago Symphony. It is worth noting that the slow movement in this concert performance is significantly longer than in Schnabel’s studio accounts: 6:50, whereas the 1942 RCA version is 5:29 and the 1946 EMI version is 4:55. This gives an idea of how the time constraints set by the limited length of 78rpm discs impacted some of the pianist’s interpretative inclinations.
Schnabel’s playing throughout is glorious, with a truly luminescent sonority, marvellous pedal effects, rhythmic vitality, and wonderful interplay with the orchestra – a truly heartfelt and inspired performance.
Our thoughts are with Allan’s widow Beatrice, son Stefan, and their extended family and friends. Allan’s website Arbiter Records at arbiterrecords.org will be maintained and his extensive collection of materials will be preserved – no details are available at the moment but do stay tuned. RIP Allan and grazie mille for all your brilliant work.
I recently had a wonderful conversation with Leila Getz of the Vancouver Recital Society. She has run this organization for over 40 years, featuring both established and the latest up-and-coming artists. Leila has always had a nose for fresh talent, throughout her entire career booking artists for their Canadian debuts when they were not yet famous or on the international radar.
I’ve attended VRS recitals since moving to Vancouver in 1999 and I have always enjoyed catching up with Leila before, during (at intermission), and after concerts. I knew that she had an appreciation for Dinu Lipatti because – a little surprise we didn’t discuss in our filmed conversation – she once had a cat named Dinu.
Given the lack of concerts this year and the move to virtual events and streaming, Leila had started having filmed conversations with various performers and critics. We’d previously discussed doing an event where we feature historical recordings – especially as these have come up in post-concert Q&A sessions with Joseph Moog and Andrew Tyson (two marvellous pianists with a strong knowledge of and appreciation for these old recordings) … and so at least having a preliminary conversation online about these recordings and the issues they reveal around interpretation and musical culture seemed appropriate.
Leila and I had a great time discussing some important topics – there’s always more to discuss about these matters than most people have the attention span for, so we kept things to the essentials here, and hopefully we will be able to film another discussion in the near future.
Having only just realized that today is the 70th anniversary of the death of Rosa Tamarkina, I am quickly preparing this commemorative post with some representative recordings and basic biographical information that will then be expanded into a tribute more worthy of such a supreme artist.
Tamarkina’s death of cancer at the age of 30 on August 5, 1950 – four months before Dinu Lipatti’s untimely passing – was a tragic loss to the musical world. At a young age, her talent was abundantly clear, as evidenced by some very early recordings of the artist: here she is playing Liszt’s Rigoletto Paraphrase and Hungarian Rhapsody No.10 in 1935, at the age of 15.
A pupil of the great Alexander Goldenweiser who would later work with Konstantin Igumnov, Tamarkina was already played publicly in her early teens. In 1937 she participated in the 3rd International Chopin Competition in Warsaw, where at the age of 16 she was awarded second prize (her compatriot Yakov Zak came in first). Neuhaus wrote about that occasion that “Rosa Tamarkina made a real sensation on the competition – not merely because of her age. Despite her young age, she is beyond doubt a perfectly matured, perfectly conscious pianist. Backhaus shouted to me: ‘This is marvelous!'”
Some film footage shortly after that competition was made when she was back home in Russia: here we see her playing Chopin’s ‘Black Key’ Etude with a combination of refinement and inspired virtuosity. You can see you can see Yakov Zak, Nina Yemelyanova, and Heinrich Neuhaus sitting behind her in the opening sequence. What bold yet poetic playing, with sparkling and full-bodied tone, clear fingerwork, and attentive voicing.
Here she is again shortly after that win, aged 17, in Goldenweiser’s classroom, playing a Chopin Mazurka with a soaring line, wonderful dynamic shadings (appreciable despite the poor sound), and marvellous rhythm:
Tamarkina had a performing career that was very successful but later limited by both her teaching at the Moscow Conservatory and illness. She was diagnosed with cancer at the age of 26 and with treatment was able to survive a few more years, the period from which the bulk of her recordings (both commercial and concert) derive. Her playing was notable for its combination of power and sensitivity, with grandly-shaped phrasing that was never angular, strength that never crossed the edge into aggression, her tone deep and powerful yet never harsh or aggressive.
Tamarkina’s success at the Chopin Competition has led to her name being inextricably linked with that composer, and she was indeed a sensitive yet bold interpreter of his music. Chopin’s Polonaise-Fantaisie is an ideal vehicle for her beautiful blend of sensitive lyricism and bold declamatory style, with rhythmic propulsion that isn’t overly driven, and featuring dramatic emphasis without any loss of tonal integrity (despite a substandard piano), her subtle pedalling never compromising clarity of texture:
She was equally at home with other Romantic composers, and several recordings of works by Schumann and Liszt demonstrate her fine pianistic and musical attributes. This 1948 reading of Schumann 3 Phantasiestücke Op.111, despite its rather restrictive sonic framework, showcases her rhythmic momentum, wonderful voicing, lyrical legato phrasing, and natural timing.
Of course Tamarkina was at home in the music of her native Russia, her few recordings of Rachmaninoff being exemplary. This 1948 concert performance of Rachmaninoff’s Second Concerto is a grand reading that demonstrates her robust sonority, beautifully shaped lines, rhythmic certainty, and wonderful balance between hands.
Had Tamarkina not died so tragically young, she surely would have enjoyed an international career that would have seen her recognized as one of the supreme pianists hailing from her country. She and Emil Gilels had been married from 1940 to 44, and when one considers the reach of Gilels’ decades-long career, it is almost painful to imagine how rapturously she might have been received by international audiences in concerts and recordings for major labels – alas, it was not to be. For now, we have just a handful of precious recordings and snippets of film that are all in need of skillful restoration. But what timeless and inspired music-making we can appreciate of what remains – and the gratitude we should feel that we have what we do.
A new CD set featuring Lipatti’s London studio recordings and some rare treasures
A new CD set has come out that is the culmination of an early discovery at the beginning of my research into unknown recordings of the pianist Dinu Lipatti – a production I am thrilled to have helped with and to which I contributed extensive booklet notes.
The first letter I received from EMI’s London office in 1989 mentioned a set of unpublished recordings that the legendary pianist had made with the cellist Antonio Janigro, stating that they had been in the collection of Elisabeth Schwarzkopf – widow of Lipatti’s recording producer Walter Legge – but they had been taken and not returned. Nobody in the well-informed piano recording underground had heard about the existence of these performances and I was naturally intrigued – especially as one of the works they recorded was the first movement of Beethoven’s Third Cello Sonata.
I had not yet discovered the extent to which it was a myth that Lipatti did not play Beethoven until the last two years of his life – this was a complete fabrication by Legge, 100% untrue, easily provable now with the material that I have gathered. Since no other recordings of Lipatti playing Beethoven have surfaced – yet – this one with Janigro is of great importance.
Read on for the excerpt from the booklet notes of this new APR release, in which I explain the backstory of these recordings, which are now issued on CD for the first time. As is usually the case with Lipatti, even more new information came to me in the last month since the production went to print – truly, this always happens with Lipatti! – but these new details will have to wait for the book that I’ll have to write on his recordings.
The excerpt below picks up after my discussion of the fact that Lipatti had agreed to record both a Beethoven Concerto (the pianist had requested to do so) and the Tchaikovsky Concerto (which Legge had requested) – despite the producer having famously stated that Lipatti had refused to record either, a lie that has been perpetuated ever since his oft-published 1951 Gramophone magazine tribute to the pianist (I have copies of signed memos written by Legge while Lipatti was alive that prove that his published statements are false).
So here, on to the recordings with Janigro:
Unreleased treasures
The recording sheet of the first of six sides recorded by Lipatti and Janigro in May 1947
What might be even more surprising than these revelations is the fact that a set of records that Lipatti actually did produce was never issued by Legge either during the pianist’s lifetime or afterwards. Lipatti was touring Switzerland with cellist Antonio Janigro in May 1947, playing recital programs of sonatas by Bach, Beethoven, and Brahms to great critical acclaim. On 24 May they went to the Wolfbach Studio in Zürich to record six 78-rpm discs, among them the first movement of the Beethoven A major Sonata, Op 69. The session sheets for these records – matrix numbers CZX 221 through 226 – have at the top of each page the words ‘Test for Mr. W. Legge’.
It is surprising that the producer did not, at the very least, issue these discs posthumously, given the pianist’s great fame and the dearth of available recordings. One possible reason for his not having done so comes from a testimonial by Steven Isserlis, who studied with Janigro in the mid-1970s. The master cellist was speaking mournfully to his student about the lost opportunity of making records with Lipatti and when asked why they had not, Janigro said with the utmost bitterness in his voice, ‘because Mister Walter Legge didn’t like the cello’.
No correspondence by Legge or Lipatti discussing these recordings has been found so it is not known for certain how the session came to happen. However, a 1970 letter to EMI’s David Bicknell by Madeleine Lipatti states: ‘This was a private recording which was sent to Columbia by Lipatti’s wish, but this ‘test’ recording was not followed up.’ She added that she and the cellist wished to issue the recordings as part of a charity project for the 20th anniversary of Lipatti’s death that year and asked if ‘the matrix is still in Columbia’s archive’, but no reply was on file and her project never came to fruition.
One of the two sides located in the 1990s in Dr. Gertsch’s collection and released on the archiphon label in 1995
I became aware of the existence of these recordings in 1989 when Keith Hardwick of EMI responded to my inquiry about unpublished Lipatti recordings: he informed me that these discs had been borrowed from, but not returned to, the collection of the producer’s widow, Elisabeth Schwarzkopf. Investigations at EMI’s archive revealed that the masters no longer existed, but a few years later, pressings of two of the six sides were found in Dr Marc Gertsch’s collection in Bern, Switzerland, records he had received when Madeleine Lipatti died in 1983. My colleague Werner Unger and I issued these on Unger’s label archiphon as part of a 2-CD set featuring unpublished Lipatti recordings largely culled from Gertsch’s collection.
A private cassette of Lipatti’s discs with Antonio Janigro produced by his pupil
I finally made contact with Janigro’s daughter in Milan in 2008 and she introduced me to the cellist’s pupil Ulrich Bracher in Germany: he had five of the six discs and had in fact put the recordings out on a private cassette devoted to Janigro which had somehow never made its way into the hands of Lipatti fans. He graciously shipped the original acetates to Unger, who transferred and issued them in a digital release in 2014 and who has made them available for this present set.
The current release is the first published CD of these recordings to be made, over 70 years after the studio sessions. Unfortunately, the Chopin Nocturne in C sharp minor (CZX 224) that the artists recorded has not been located: it wasn’t mentioned in Madeleine’s letter, so it is possible that the disc was never pressed. The artistry of both musicians here is stunning, these records revealing, in the words of Isserlis, “such wonderfully sensitive, imaginative playing, and such mastery. A truly magnificent duo!” These performances’ absence from the catalogue both during the pianist’s lifetime and afterwards is most regrettable, but fortunately they are now available – a significant addition to the pianist’s discography.
It is hard to imagine a time when multiple recordings of the most popular classical works were not available at a moment’s notice. However, even as bulky shellac 78rpm discs gave way to long-playing records around 1950, many of the great masterpieces were unavailable or underrepresented in the catalogue. It may come as a surprise to even the most ardent piano fan that the first cycle of Chopin’s twenty Nocturnes was recorded by the Philips label in 1954 featuring Jan Smeterlin, a Polish pianist largely unknown today.
Leopold Godowsky recorded twelve Nocturnes in 1928, and then the legendary Arthur Rubinstein produced the first ever volume of nineteen in 1936–37, followed by a second version in 1949–50. Smeterlin was the first to present twenty Nocturnes on disc. Guiomar Novaes and Nadia Reisenberg also featured twenty in their 1956 cycles, as did Stefan Askenase in 1957, but other mid-1950s accounts by Peter Katin and Alexander Brailowsky only had nineteen. (The Opus posthumous Nocturne No. 21 appears not to have been included until Ingrid Haebler’s 1960 Vox set.) Smeterlin’s small discography has surely contributed to his not receiving the enduring adulation afforded his compatriot Rubinstein, and his less charismatic delivery was also possibly not as appealing to the general public. There is no doubt, however, that this release of Smeterlin’s Chopin reveals top-tier pianism.
He was born Hans Schmetterling in Bielsko, Poland on 7 February 1892, changing his name to Jan Smeterlin in 1924. He had his first lesson at age seven, and the following year played a movement of a Mozart concerto in public, performing Liszt’s Hungarian Fantasia two years after that. Although his father had him study Latin and Greek, he also pursued music training with Theodore Vogel, an organ pupil of Bruckner, who hoped that the young boy would become a conductor. His lessons consisted largely of playing through two-piano reductions of symphonies, operas, and chamber music, which surely helped him develop his lyrical approach at the keyboard. Smeterlin attended lots of concerts and stated that listening to singers deepened his awareness of fluid phrasing and organic timing, while hearing orchestral music brought an appreciation of texture and colour.
Vogel was not the only one with firm ideas about Smeterlin’s path: the boy’s father wanted him to follow in his footsteps as a lawyer, so he sent the seventeen-year-old to Vienna to study at the university there. In doing so he unwittingly helped his son with his own goal of becoming a musician: Jan had already hoped to go to that city to study with the legendary Godowsky, so once there he auditioned and ‘miraculously’ was accepted in his master class. The small group of fifteen included others who would go on to great careers, such as the great Russian pianist and teacher Heinrich Neuhaus and conductor Issay Dobrowen. Marvelling at how Godowsky had not two hands but ten fingers that served him faithfully, the young pianist learned an approach to polyphony that fortified his earlier training with orchestral scores.
Photo IPAM Smeterlin Collection
Though he performed at Bechstein Hall (later Wigmore Hall) in London alongside other Godowsky pupils in 1912, his career would be stalled until after World War I, during which he served in the Polish cavalry. Smeterlin survived that ordeal, as well as some health challenges, before his 1920 debuts in Warsaw, Vienna, Berlin and Paris. His tours would take him around Europe as well as through North America, Latin America, Java, Australia and New Zealand. He settled in London with his British wife Edith (Didi), a cello pupil of Felix Salmond. Their home was furnished with exotic souvenirs from his tours and became a gathering place for visiting musicians such as Arthur Rubinstein, Edwin Fischer, and the Schnabels. After his October 1930 debut at Carnegie Hall, Smeterlin would continue regular tours across America for some 30 years, living in New York for some time before returning to London shortly before his death on 18 January 1967 at the age of 74.
While he came to be seen as a Chopin specialist, Smeterlin stated that Beethoven’s Hammerklavier Sonata and Bach’s Goldberg Variations were his ‘musical bible’, adding that he ‘would feel greatly impoverished if I had to live without Schubert, Mozart, Haydn, Brahms, and many impressionist composers’. Early in his career, he had embraced the oeuvre of his contemporaries Szymanowski, Scriabin, Stravinsky, Debussy, Ravel, Dukas, and Albéniz, premiering many of their works locally and receiving dedications. As he performed more extensively in major venues worldwide, critical acclaim for his Chopin led to his including more of the composer’s works in his programs.
Recording sheets showing the pressing information for the 2nd vinyl of Smeterlin’s account of the Nocturnes
By the time he recorded his cycle of Nocturnes in 1954, Smeterlin was internationally known as a Chopin pianist. An Australian critic’s comment that he had ‘the Chopin touch’ aroused a spirited ongoing discussion in the local media as to what the term meant. The artist himself responded that although many believe that there is a fixed sound to each instrument, it is in fact the interpreter who creates his unique timbre. Even more important than the physical skill required to crafting one’s tone was ‘to come away from the keyboard; leave pianistic problems alone for a while and think how you wish a work to sound … touch begins in the mind, the heart, the musical consciousness. It cannot be mastered through piano practice alone’. However, his writings make it clear that he had a remarkable understanding of the actual mechanics involved in producing a beautiful sound. The combination of his masterful technique and musical imagination yields a magnificent array of sonorities put to intelligent musical use.
The Epic label’s edition of Smeterlin’s Nocturnes featured cover art by Andy Warhol
Smeterlin’s Nocturnes are like watercolour paintings, colourful without being garish, atmospheric without being overly impressionistic. His tonal palette is varied and skilfully polished, his textures transparent. His interpretations have an incredible sense of spontaneity: one never knows if he will play softly or loudly, whether he will slow down or accelerate, but his choices always sound natural, each phrase fluidly forged like a master actor shapes words into sentences filled with meaning in order to express the depth of the text being communicated.
He was not one to shy away from burnishing a melodic line, yet at no time does Smeterlin’s playing sound forced even when at its most impassioned. Never is his inflexion exaggerated, his tone harsh, his nuancing extreme. Some of the naturalness in his playing comes from his striking balance of time and rhythm. He stated that ‘too automatic an adherence to time is apt to kill the more important quality of rhythm’, which he defined as ‘freedom within time: one note is shortened, another prolonged’. He so seamlessly adjusts pacing and the balance between melodic line and accompaniment that the rigid bar lines of the text dissolve in the fluidity of his rubato and suppleness of his phrasing (some particularly fine examples can be found in his delivery of the Nocturnes Op. 9 No. 3, Op. 32 No. 1 and Op. 62 No. 1). This expressive device commonly employed in the nineteenth century, and which can sound idiosyncratic in the hands of lesser pianists, seems completely natural here. One can also easily overlook the fact that Smeterlin often plays with dynamic markings opposite to those in the score, never sensing he is disrespecting the spirit of the work under his fingers. As Dinu Lipatti said, ‘If you carry yourself well, you can put your feet on the table and no one will think anything of it.’
Our appreciation for Jan Smeterlin is bolstered here by the first ever release of a BBC recital and an unpublished Decca recording. His BBC appearance on 17 April 1949 includes six Mazurkas, the kind of works that his intimate pianism serves best. In his native Poland, Smeterlin had seen the mazur folk dance performed excitedly in rural settings and elegantly in ballrooms, which surely contributed to his idiomatic sense of rhythmic impulse and accenting in these charming but deceptively difficult works. We also have a rare opportunity to hear him in two of Chopin’s most heroic compositions, the First and Fourth Ballades. Smeterlin eschews any excess without sacrificing grandeur, playing boldly but without brashness, sensitively without lapsing into sentimentality.
An unpublished 1946 Decca test pressing, now available for the first time. Photo IPAM Smeterlin Collection
At two June 1946 sessions at Decca’s West Hampstead Studios, Smeterlin cut a few Chopin records that were never issued. The music recorded at these sessions included three Mazurkas, two Waltzes, two Études and the B-flat-minor Scherzo. All were presumed lost until a single test pressing of one side was uncovered in his collection at the International Piano Archives at Maryland. This reading of the F-major Étude and the Mazurka, Op. 63 No. 3 (Smeterlin segues the pair) are characterised by the same grace, nobility and refinement as the other performances on this collection, making these discoveries a welcome addition to his discography.
We live at a time that the esteemed Chopin and Liszt biographer Alan Walker has dubbed ‘The Age of Anonymity,’ adherence to the text being so ingrained in our musical culture that many performers limit the range of expression in their readings, while a handful impose their persona such that it risks overriding musical content. With a style that was paradoxically individual and unobtrusive, Jan Smeterlin brought sumptuous and highly personal nuancing to his playing while avoiding even a hint of ostentatious showmanship. The recordings issued here are a model of sensible, sensitive pianism that shows that personality need not eclipse a composer’s creation – a balm to soothe the soul of the 21st-century Chopin lover.
And a bonus upload: a 1966 Mace label LP, released in the last year of Smeterlin’s life, featuring more Chopin recordings – a very rare release, never reissued. While his dexterity was slightly more compromised at this time, the playing is extraordinarily poetic and his tone is absolutely marvellous. Many thanks to Mike Gartz for digitizing this vinyl and to Neal Kurz for the noise reduction.
A phenomenal series of uploads has just been made to YouTube: 3 clips of the legendary Chilean pianist Claudio Arrau in a 1935 Mexican movie in which he portrays Franz Liszt! The film ‘Sueños de Amor’ – or ‘Liebestraüme’/’Song of Love’ – was directed by José Bohr in 1934 and released the following year. I had never heard of the film before, let alone seen it; the colleague who alerted me to its existence told me that it was only rediscovered a few years ago, in 2017.
While the soundtrack has some warble that results in unstable pitching, we can still appreciate some magnificent playing by the great pianist in his young years.
This opening sequence shows Arrau’s name along with the rest of the cast, and features the pianist playing Liszt’s Un Sospiro:
There is also this glorious performance of the Paganini-Liszt ‘La Chasse’ Etude, with some truly dazzling fingerwork:
Last but not least is a truly impassioned reading of Liszt’s everpopular Liebestraum No.3
A remarkable discovery providing tremendous insight into Arrau’s artistry. One hopes that the audio will be improved so that we can even better appreciate the pianist’s playing but as it stands this is still a a truly fascinating find!
On the 25th anniversary of the death of the great American pianist Joseph Villa, I am creating this page dedicated to him and his artistry. The passing of this great pianist on April 13, 1995 at the age of 46 as a result of AIDS-related complications was a tragic loss to the musical world. A level of recognition worthy of Villa’s prodigious musical abilities had eluded him, and he was mostly admired by some of the cognoscenti of the piano and a handful of famous musicians such as Alicia de Larrocha (who attempted to help him get more bookings) and Jessye Norman (who had Villa play at the opening of the concert venue in her home and on other occasions – one of which he left the hospital in order to play). My own introduction to Villa – both as a pianist and as a person – had a huge impact on me at a formative time in my exploration of great piano playing.
In 1991, I received a cassette from Gregor Benko, founding co-president of the International Piano Archives. On the one side was a recording I had been expecting with great anticipation: the great Josef Hofmann performing the Beethoven ‘Emperor’ Concerto with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra in the 1930s, at that time only available on an expensive multi-disc set available from the orchestra and never otherwise made available. The other side of the cassette had a live recording made in 1991 of Rachmaninoff’s Second Sonata played by a pianist unknown to me called Joseph Villa. I had never connected with that work and had never heard of the pianist, and while I had hoped for something historic in nature, I thought it must obviously be interesting playing if Gregor had seen fit to include it on this cassette. I had no idea what I was getting into.
I listened to the tape and didn’t quite know what to make of the music (it wasn’t one of my favourite works at that early stage in my exploration of piano recordings) but it became clear as I listened that this was some stupendous playing. I found myself unable to multi-task as I listened, as the playing was so magnetic, intense, and intoxicating – I could barely grasp what was happening, but I knew that it was something extraordinary. The faded, muddled recording had been made at a concert held on a barge off the Brooklyn Bridge by someone who had had the foresight to set up a microphone with a Walkman and captured a performance that might have disappeared into the ethers. Instead it opened up the world of a pianist who might have continued to be even more unknown to the musical world than he already was.
A cassette the author received directly from the pianist of this now legendary recording
I listened dozens of times to the tape, poring over nuances that seemed impossible to achieve by hand. I was reminded of Dinu Lipatti’s incredible glissandi in Alborada del Gracioso; there were technical feats in this live Villa performance that made the hair on my neck stand on end. He could hold a melodic note as a flurry of other notes cascaded downwards, and a few moments later tie that note over to the last note in that flurry without breaking the line of the melody or the filigree passagework (5:52 to 5:56). Like Lipatti, Villa was capable of phrasing a note so that it fit into both the accompaniment and the main melodic line, so that you could hear its simultaneous function (4:09 to 4:12, among others). He could highlight the palpable difference in vibration between different chords, and handled harmonic shifts with uncanny timing and nuancing (3:49 to 4:05). His accenting was phenomenal, with an ability to provide a subito that did not break the line (7:24). He not only had a comprehensive architectural overview of the work, but had technique to achieve what seemed impossible and yet which might easily go unrecognized by the listener (the descending 6-note motif is consistently voiced throughout the work). And then there is that volcanic sound, discernible even through the less-than-perfect of the amateur recording.
Fortunately this performance the Rachmaninoff Second Sonata has been on YouTube for a decade, whereas during Villa’s lifetime actual cassettes needed to be mailed from person to person to be able to access this amazing performance, and as a result his name and this incredible performance are now better known by a wider range of piano lovers than was the case during his lifetime. I have now uploaded a transfer of the cassette that Joseph himself made me so that the sound quality is rather improved. This is certainly a reading that is not for the faint of heart: it is an intense piece of music and the performance is of incredibly raw emotional expressiveness and probing musical depth, and the sound is not ideal, but it is eminently worth examining if you are a fan of the piano. Of the thousands of hours of piano recordings that I possess, this is one of the few that amazes me time and time again – supreme playing of a musician of the highest order, in my opinion one of the greatest piano recordings ever made.
After listening to the cassette a few times, I excitedly called up Gregor, who raved about Joseph’s playing, stating that he was one of the greatest Liszt pianists ever and was languishing without a career, despite the adoration of luminaries like Alicia de Larrocha and Jessye Norman. I couldn’t understand how such an incredible musician, a real throwback to the ‘golden age’ of pianism, could be unknown – it simply didn’t compute.
Within a year – May 1992, to be precise – I made a visit to New York and Gregor arranged for me to meet Joseph. I went to his apartment on 54th, around the corner from where David Letterman’s late night show was filmed, and was greeted by Joseph with a very warm but calm demeanour, and welcomed into a small living room in which a piano was in prime position in front of the seating. The details about the specifics of the conversation are hazy – this is almost 30 years ago – but I recall that we talked a lot about interpretation and performance, and about his performance of the Rachmaninoff Second Sonata. He had learned the work for a concert for Bargemusic, an organization that presented small concerts – a stupid move, he said, since the work was fiendishly difficult and he was only going to play it three times. He had also researched the various editions of the work and sought to find the best approach to the work, eventually arriving at the same conclusions as Horowitz, and hoped that people wouldn’t think he just copied Horowitz because he hadn’t.
We talked about many pianists and saw eye-to-eye (and heard ear-to-ear) on all the greats. We had a moment listening to Lipatti where I became aware of his ear for detail and our aligned points of view: there is one spot in the live recording of Chopin’s First Concerto where Lipatti accents the offbeat in a bar featuring a massive run of notes – an unusual nuance I’ve never heard anyone else do – and as we were listening to this passage, and immediately after that accent, Villa turned to me and said “Ooooh, niiiice…”. No one I had played this recording for had ever shown that they recognized that particular effect that Lipatti achieved. Villa’s playing was full of that attention to detail, but was more wildly passionate than Lipatti’s more controlled approach: he had a combination of Lipatti’s architectural overview, Hofmann’s explosiveness, Friedman’s singing line – and the comparisons could go on, but essentially he was unique interpreter with the individuality and manifold pianistic qualities that one heard amongst the legendary pianists of the past.
A Bargemusic program that Benko had signed by Villa for the author
Fortunately I had the opportunity to hear Joseph at the Bargemusic concert being held during my visit to the city, although he played no solo music at that performance, only chamber music. His playing was of course wonderful but the repertoire did not provide the full opportunity for his titanic pianism to shine. To think that this had been the same Barge where that incredible concert had taken place – how I wished I could have traveled back in time!
We got together another couple of times that visit: once to visit the Frick Collection together with his partner Steven – an occasion when I got to witness more of Villa’s attention to detail as he spoke so eloquently about the artwork we observed – and again just prior to my departure (by car) back to Montreal when he came to say goodbye. (I know we took a group photo at the time but I haven’t been able to find it.) Every year until he died, he sent me a Christmas card and the occasional note while I was living in Tokyo, and Benko had him sign Bargemusic concert programs for me when he attended. I had another opportunity to visit him in New York – I believe it was the Spring of 1994 – together with a Finnish collector friend who was visiting the city at the same time; once again, generosity in spirit and elegance in demeanour. Alas, also once again he resisted our gentle suggestions that perhaps he would consider preparing the Liszt Sonata, which surely would have been an interpretation for the ages; being rather young and not knowing him well enough, we did not feel that this was a point that we would press (we knew others had raised it with him and simply hoped that if a few more made the suggestion, he might consider it) … the fact that he never played or recorded this work is a significant loss to posterity.
Joseph at dinner with Stephen Hough (far right) and friends
Joseph died of AIDS-related complications not long after that last visit I made to New York, on April 13th, 1995, at the age of 46 (his New York Times Obituary is still online). Stephen Hough wrote a beautiful tribute to him on his website and has continued to speak of Joseph in glowing terms – the two artists can be seen at a dinner in the photo on the left.
Given the dearth of the artist’s musical output, I am creating this page of YouTube uploads of concert and studio recordings – both audio and film – as well as audio programs devoted to the pianist as a reference point for those who wish to appreciate the artistry of this incredible musician.
First off, here is dedicated feature podcast-style episode that I produced in honour of Joseph, telling in more detail some of what is above, interspersed with some recordings:
And an episode of The Music Treasury on KZSU Stanford in which host Gary Lemco and I presented Villa recordings and discussed his playing. While I’d previously made a number of appearances on Lemco’s program by telephone, on this occasion I was in the studio in person and can attest to the host’s visceral response to Villa’s pianism: he had never heard the pianist play before and on several occasions while the music was airing, he would shiver and occasionally almost jump out of his seat in amazement at the sheer power and musical depth of Villa’s artistry.
While the Thursday night performance of the Rachmaninoff Sonata No.2 from Bargemusic – on April 25, 1991 – has reached legendary status, it was as I stated one of three performances. The Sunday afternoon concert performance of April 28, 1991 was captured by Ray Edwards, then manager of the classical department of Tower Records in New York. He had heard talk of Villa’s glorious traversal of the work a few days earlier and set up some better equipment to capture the Sunday afternoon performance. I recall listening to a few moments of this reading with Joseph himself when I visited him in 1992 – when we heard more audience noise, he commented, ‘It was the Bloody Mary Sunday crowd’ – and while he admitted that it was not as volcanic or ‘together’ an interpretation as the Thursday night reading (which was his first public performance of the work), there is certainly some outstanding pianism to be heard, and the sound quality, while still distant, captures more of Villa’s glorious piano tone than the more known recording. This performance overall features a broader, more expansively phrased lyricism than the one from a few days previously while still featuring stunning feats of virtuosity, magnificently coordinated voicing, and incredibly impassioned pianism.
Villa had a particular affinity for the music of Scriabin, recording two CDs of the composer’s music for the Dante label in France (he ended up being very disappointed by how things were managed by the label – I don’t recall the details but I remember him being quite incensed about how things had transpired). The recordings (at least for some of the performances – including the one below) were made in a small church in upstate New York at night. When he was playing this mystical ‘White Mass’ Sonata, there was reported a certain “charged” feel to the atmosphere in the church that evening, and toward the end of the recording of the Sonata, lights did flickered quite mysteriously, spooking the technicians, but in a strange way reassuring Joseph of a job well done.
Joseph sent me two cassettes of concert recordings, all of which I have uploaded to YouTube. One of the performances that I remember him being very happy with was a July 1990 performance of the Tchaikovsky Piano Trio in A Minor, together with William Preucil on violin and John Sharp on cello. In this excellent fidelity radio recording, we can hear all musicians’ tone with great clarity, as well as the remarkable synergy between the three musicians, and this reading showcases Villa’s rich, full-bodied tone, impassioned musicianship, and lyrical phrasing.
Concerto performances of Villa were rare – he was simply not well enough known to be regularly booked for such events – though he did give a few and there are some stupendous recordings, albeit not in great sound. Two captured on tape were given to me by the pianist himself, one of them a titanic performance of Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No.1. Although this too is an amateur recording made from the audience, it captures the excitement and musicality of Villa’s thrilling playing, with stunning runs, massive dynamic range, and impassioned phrasing. Villa was delighted with this particular reading and I am delighted to have been able to share it to YouTube:
The other concerto recording that Villa gave me on cassette is an April 24, 1984 concert performance of Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto No.1 Op.23 with the Berkshire Symphony Orchestra conducted by Julius Hegyi. Again, the sound is not that of a professional recording – it was made from the audience – but the pianism is phenomenal, with Villa’s massive dynamic range, lushly Romantic phrasing, attentive voicing, rhythmic propulsion, daring tempi, and staggering technical proficiency all in full abundance.
And now we have at last the opportunity to see Villa in filmed performance, with the first ever availability of some terrific performances. First is a 1984 concert of Joseph Villa playing Chopin’s F Minor Concerto Op.21 with the Youngstown Symphony Orchestra, with Peter Leonard conducting. Villa was booked the night before the performance to fill in for a major pianist (one friend of the artist believes it was Claudio Arrau) and he gives an absolutely stupendous performance, demonstrating the musical gifts that were hallmarks of his pianism: a rich tonal palette, refined nuancing, and remarkable dexterity, his technical proficiency fully at the service of the music.
Next are two filmed performances of Villa playing Liszt, from a June 21, 1990 concert at the La Festival de la Grange de Meslay in Tours, France, on June 21, 1990, which was also La Fête de la Musique in Europe, the first day of summer. In these two superb readings (more was played, I’m not sure how much more was filmed) before an audience of about a thousand, we hear Villa’s marvellous combination of refined nuancing and heroic intensity, with a wide dynamic range, impressive array of tonal colours, natural timing, and declamatory phrasing. Apparently, during the performance, the lower portion of his thumb near the palm on the left-hand went numb; Villa continued his performance and described it as playing the last quarter on “auto-pilot” with a hand nearly paralyzed, yet there were no signs to anyone in attendance that anything was amiss. First here is a performance of the Invocation, S.172c:
Then is a glorious and heroic traversal of a work that he played regularly, Harmonies du soir – a work that he played in concert for the bulk of his career and t0 which he brought his very personal combination of depth and passion:
There are more performances of Villa that are available on YouTube and well worth exploring, and other unpublished recordings have not yet been made available – and more might be added to this page at a later date. Fortunately, unlike the time when I first encountered his playing and met him, technology now allows for the wider public to be able to easily access this artist’s performances and experience directly the incredible power of his music-making. Long may his artistry be appreciated and remembered, and serve as inspiration.
This celebratory day is held on the 88th day of the year (nice idea, since the piano has 88 keys), which is usually March 29 – but since we had Leap Year in 2020, February 29 shifted the date this year and it takes place on March 28.
On my Facebook, Patreon, and Twitter pages today I’ve shared a couple of interesting links – both of which I’ve featured before (and will add further down this page). But I also decided to have my first Facebook ‘Live’ Video presentation, a live talk that I gave via computer with subscribers to my page. I had a few topics I wanted to discuss and also answered a few questions that subscribers were typing in the feed on Facebook. Here is the video (and don’t worry – you don’t need a Facebook account to watch it):
Today was also Rudolf Serkin’s birthday – he was born in 1903 – so I featured a recording to celebrate him. He was never one of my favourite pianists, to be honest – there’s a nervous quality to most of the records that I’ve heard… but about a decade ago, a colleague alerted me to a CD of private recordings issued with his biography that show a very different side to his playing: bold, passionate, intensely Romantic, with monumental rhythmic propulsion and soaring phrasing. The readings on that CD are simply beyond anything I’ve ever heard of this pianist… Enjoy this stellar performance:
And there’s no better day than today than to celebrate the best documentary featuring historical pianists to have been made thus far, The Art of Piano. Unfortunately the upload of the complete documentary has been geo-blocked on YouTube, but this upload features a chunk of it: this cut unfortunately doesn’t include the Edwin Fischer and Alfred Cortot sections). While I don’t agree with all of the choices made in the film, it is the finest of its kind to have been made thus far. I met the director/producer in London a couple of times over the last decade (a very interesting man who has also written a comprehensive biography about Roald Dahl) – he explained that Lipatti was not included because there was no film footage of him (there is silent footage of Rachmaninoff, even though he isn’t playing in it), though I don’t agree that this was strong enough a reason to exclude him, as photographs could have been used just as effectively. We met again a bit over a year ago and I showed him the newly discovered Lipatti footage, which he was thrilled to see (and there are steps being made to get that presented in a documentary – steps currently slowed by CoVid, unfortunately…)
So while this film and this particular edit of it might be less than perfect, this is absolutely worth watching and owning – a great tribute to the piano and some of its greatest proponents: Paderewski, Hofmann, Rachmaninoff, Moiseiwitsch, Hess …
Happy Piano Day! And long may we enjoy this instrument and its greatest performers!
Our perceptions of many artists are formed by the recordings we’ve heard, biographical details that have been publicized, and photographs that we’ve seen – and as always, while these can give us a snapshot of who someone was, these are always but a fraction of who they truly were. When it comes to the great British pianist Dame Myra Hess, two points are among the most shared: her wartime concert series at the National Gallery in London and her arrangement of Bach’s beloved chorale prelude Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring. Her thoroughly brilliant idea to create daytime concerts at the National Gallery did a great deal to raise the spirits of the general public in war-torn England, endearing her to people of every demographic. One oft-repeated tale illustrates how wide a public she reached: a man sharing a train with a soldier whistling the Jesu, Joy chorale asked if he enjoyed Bach’s music, to which the soldier replied, “That’s not Bach, that’s Myra Hess.”
Early years
Julia Myra Hess was born into an Orthodox Jewish family in the Hampstead area of London on February 25, 1890. The youngest of four children, she first piano lessons took place at the age of five and she went on to enter the Guildhall School of Music and in the autumn of 1903 won a scholarship to the Royal Academy of Music, where she would study under the legendary British pedagogue Tobias Matthay. She had two lessons a week with ‘Uncle Tobs,’ who also taught her childhood friend Irene Scharrer (who was not, as has been reported Hess’s cousin).
Her official debut (which she funded herself) took place on November 14, 1907 at Queen’s Hall: she played Beethoven’s Piano Concerto No.4 and Saint-Saëns’s Piano Concerto No.4 with conductor Thomas Beecham (then aged only 29), in addition to a group of solos. Beecham was still not well known, and Matthay wrote to Myra, “Who is this fellow Beecham? If he doesn’t accompany properly, I shall come and do it myself.” The performance was well received and her solo debut followed soon after, a January 1908 recital at Aeolian Hall, where an audience of 312 was serenaded by her performances of Schubert’s Wanderer Fantasie, Franck’s Prelude, Chorale, and Fugue, the Bach-D’Albert Organ Prelude and Fugue in D Major, and pieces by Brahms, Chopin, and Matthay.
American success
Hess in 1925
Hess would build her career and become a major international artist, going to America virtually every year from 1922 with the exception of the war years. Her first performance took place in New York five days before her Aeolian Hall recital of January 17, 1922, a preview ‘intimate recital’ was to introduce her to local managers and concert society directors. Alas, only 66 people showed up for the actual debut (the capacity was 1200), which was apparently normal for newcomers, but the reviews were wonderful, the Tribune review stating that
She is every inch an artist; every fibre in her comely and well poised body is musical. Her knowledge, instincts, technical skill are of the highest order. She possesses not only fancy but the higher gift which is imagination. Her expositions are not merely intellectual, they are poetical also. The book of music is open to her.
Hess would become a local favourite in a short period of time, touring widely in both recital and concerto appearances. During her 1937 tour to the US, she gave a broadcast on March 7 on the Ford Sunday Evening Hour in which she played the first movement of the Grieg Piano Concerto, two Chopin Etudes, and a Bach Gigue. When in discussions to finalize the terms of the broadcast, the pianist was offered the sum of $3000. She was stunned that the fee should be so high, and said “Why, that’s ridiculous!” Misinterpreting the tone of her surprise, the agent responded, “All right, then. Make it $4000!”
After a challenging rehearsal, the broadcast itself almost turned into a disaster. Hess had booked an elegant hotel room thanks to her high fee, but the door to her suite got jammed. She eventually got out and made it to the hall on time, and was seated on a chair on the stage while the first work on the programme was played. As she started to walk across the stage for her appearance, the tympani roll of the opening of the Grieg Concerto started – evidently conductor Victor Kolar had not waited for her to get to the piano – and she is said to have made ‘a running dive for the keyboard,’ managing to get there just in time to play the opening chords. All things considered, it’s remarkable how well she played! Most of the works in this broadcast are not in her commercial discography: while she had recorded the Schumann Concerto (twice), she never set down the Grieg with which it is so often paired, and there are no Chopin Etudes amongst her studio recordings either.
The National Gallery Concerts
Hess is particularly remembered today for having created a series of concerts Wartime concerts at the National Gallery in London “to give spiritual solace to those who are giving all to combat the evil.” The first concert was 10 October 1939, a piano recital by Hess herself (“in case the whole thing is a flop”) and over the following six and a half years (they continued after the war while the country continued to heal), there were 1,968 concerts seen by 824,152 people; Hess personally played in 150. Each artist, regardless of status, was paid 5 guineas.
Hess addressing the audience at a National Gallery concert
Hess put her listeners at ease and the experience did the same for her – so much so that she allowed herself to break from convention by using scores rather than playing from memory. While she usually had a photographic memory – to the degree that she would actually see the notes on the printed page in her mind – under times of stress, this was naturally compromised: “We’ve trained the public to think we’re infallible when there are… days when some of us can’t remember our own telephone numbers.” She additionally created a more informal atmosphere by speaking directly to the audience between works: she would ask if they were comfortable, invite them to have a good cough before she began the net work, or even acknowledge that she’d lost a sheet of music before stopping playing to search for it on the floor.
Hess in performance at a National Gallery concert
Hess played with remarkable calm even in the most arduous circumstances. At her July 21, 1943 recital she was playing the Schubert Impromptu in B-Flat Major D.935 when she heard a bomb approaching. “I made a tremendous crescendo to cover the noise of the bomb as it flew over the gallery, and as it passed over, an equally unauthentic diminuendo. The amusing thing was that the crescendo synchronized so completely with the horrible noise overhead that no one was conscious of what I had done” – though she added that if anyone had walked in in the middle, they’d have thought she was playing the Brahms B-Flat Concerto!
This video excerpt captures some of Hess’s playing during a National Gallery performance of a Mozart Concerto, plus an excerpt of the first movement of Beethoven’s Appassionata Sonata (would that the whole thing were released!)
Postwar Accolades
Hess had been made a Dame Commander of the Order of the British Empire by King George VI in 1941 (she had been made CBE in 1936). After the war, she was given an honourary degree at the University of Manchester for her having ensured that ‘among this people, the sound of music should never be silenced by the din of war,’ and she was further celebrated at a gala evening held at the Savoy Hotel in London on June 14. She then resumed touring both Europe and North America to continued acclaim.
On her return to New York, she gave a November 24, 1946 concert of Beethoven’s Piano Concerto No.3 with Arturo Toscanini conducting the NBC Symphony Orchestra. Hess had originally been engaged to play the Emperor but found the conductor’s tempi at the first rehearsal two days before the concert were so quick that she discreetly suggested that they play the C Minor instead (“everyone plays the Emperor…,” she told him). Despite the program having already been announced (and it being so soon before the performance!), he agreed – and while his tempi are brisk in this account too, it was much more manageable for the soloist.
At the second rehearsal, Toscanini – conducting from memory – brought the orchestra in four measures too early during the piano’s solo introduction in the slow movement. Hess wasn’t sure how to broach the subject with the fiery maestro but was her usual charming self. The melody played by the piano in two of the measures accidentally cut by Toscanini is very similar to a song sung by the title character in Gounod’s Faust, so she asked the conductor in a sweet tone of voice, “Maestro, when we play tomorrow night you will let me sing my ‘Salve! Dimora caste e pura,’ won’t you?” The conductor looked stunned and then burst out laughing … but then went into a nervous state as he realized his error and how he did not meet his own standards (“I say terrible things about other conductors but I cannot conduct myself!”).
During the concert itself, Toscanini adopted Hess’s tempo for this movement, slower than the one in his performance 2 years earlier with Arthur Rubinstein – a true sign of the esteem in which he held Dame Hess.
Hess continued touring in addition to producing more recordings in the 1950s – a process that did not delight her. She hated the red light and felt that the lack of an audience limited her ability to communicate the best of her ability. This might appear stunning to those of us who know Hess through these recordings, including glorious readings of Beethoven’s Op.109 and Op.110 (under pressure, she her Carnaval and 109 “weren’t that bad.”)
Precarious health
Unfortunately, Hess had health issues that would deteriorate and put an end to her performing career. Having suffered a heart attack in 1960, Hess saw things only get worse on her tour of America the following year: from the very beginning, she suffered headaches on the boat crossing that dampened her mood significantly and rendered her incapable of working. Bruce Hungerford stated that she complained of stiffness and numbness in her left arm and hand while practicing prior to her New York recital. Headaches continued and her technical certainty waned, the recital suffering from some issues with coordination. She then had a cerebral thrombosis while at her hotel but the gravity of her condition was kept under wraps, being described publicly as an attack of the flu. Brain surgery was suggested but rejected, and Hess was confined to dark quarters from February through March, finally being well enough to sail home in April.
Her final public appearance was an October 1961 performance at the Royal Festival Hall of Mozart’s A Major Concerto K.488 with Sir Adrian Boult conducting. For years, Hess had resisted the idea that Mozart had expected the soloist to fill in the blanks left by large intervals; after discussions with Howard Ferguson in the 1940s, she did so in many cases, but not in the slow movement of this concerto. (Ferguson had said, “If you are doubtful about the additions don’t do them, for in that case they’ll never sound convincing.”) On this occasion, however, she used additions provided by Denis Matthews in the Adagio, and the effect is absolutely revelatory – all the more poignant given that this was to be her last concert.
In this interview recorded two years before she died, we can hear that she still retained her wit despite not being quite as animated as she was not long before. She shares some wonderful details about her life and views of music:
Her final years were challenging, as she lacked the energy to teach at a time when playing was no longer possible; she told visiting doctors that she was so miserable that she wanted to die. She suffered from worsening rheumatism and friends believed that some brain damage from the stroke might have caused changes in character. Her condition progressively worsened and she died at home on November 25, 1965 at the age of 75.
Recorded Legacy
Hess at the piano
In addition to the tales of her heroic music-making, today’s piano fans know of Hess from her recordings – a significant legacy that is nevertheless but a shadow of her capabilities. With only 5 CDs’ worth of official solo and concerto recordings (there is more chamber music), the repertoire on these discs is a fraction of what she played for the public in her extensive career. She herself did not like the recording process – she dreaded the red light – and it is something for the present day listener to consider when one hears that Hess herself did not find her recordings representative of her playing, since they are considered today to be exceptional; those who heard her in concert say the same thing. Fortunately we have a significantly greater number of concert and broadcast recordings than studio accounts, which show her more in her element, although it has been said that the richness of her tone could not be faithfully captured by the microphone.
Her first recording took place in the United States: a December 1927 account of Schubert’s Trio in B-Flat D.898 with Jelly d’Arányi on violin and Felix Salmond as cellist. This spirited performance is presented here with her February 16-17, 1928 recording of Schubert’s Sonata in A Major D.664:
While Hess came to be known for the German repertoire, she had a much broader range of works in her repertoire, as evidenced by this glorious February 17, 1928 account of three works by Debussy Poissons d’or, La fille aux cheveux de lin, and Minstrels, played with gorgeous tonal colours, skillful pedalling, and refined dynamic control.
Hess recorded very little for piano and orchestra in her 30 years in the studio: two versions of the Schumann Concerto (1937 and 1952) and a 1941 Symphonic Variations of Franck, the latter seldom seldom reissued (a Mozart C Major Concerto K.467 from 1942 was unpublished until decades after her death). She not only played 21 Mozart Concertos (all at the National Gallery during the war), but all the Beethoven, both Brahms, and many others. Fortunately there are dozens of concert recordings of her in a wide array of these works, performances which can be at odds with the perception one might have of her based on her studio discs. There are two concert recordings of the Brahms D Minor Concerto that have been issued in recent years, which show the truly titanic nature of her playing – here is her 1955 New York performance with Dimitri Mitropoulos conducting:
Perhaps even more legendary than this reading is her stunning Brahms B-Flat Concerto Op.83 with Bruno Walter, from a February 11, 1951 concert, which captures her big-scale playing and full-bodied sonority to perfection.
Of course Hess was remarkably refined in her pianism as well. Unfortunately she recorded very little Chopin – only the ubiquitous Nocturne Op.15 No.2 (everyone of her generation seems to have recorded it) – but the Polish composer figured regularly in her concert repertoire. This 1948 concert recording of the Nocturne in C Minor Op.48 No.1 captures remarkably forged phrasing and sumptuous nuancing at an incredibly spacious tempo:
For all the dramatic power and refined sensitivity that Hess brought to her performances, she will forever be tied to the Bach Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring chorale that she famously arranged. She recorded it at her first solo session on January 17, 1928 and at her final session on October 12, 1957. The latter performance is presented here, together with the score of her glorious transcription, revealing her stunningly beautiful singing tone, fluid phrasing, and reverential music-making. If these three minutes were all we had of her, we would be well aware of her position in the pianistic pantheon. Fortunately, we have many hours of recordings to enjoy of this supreme artist – long may we continue to appreciate her glorious contributions to the art of music.
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