Posts Categorized: The Piano Files

When I began my Facebook page The Piano Files with Mark Ainley ten years ago, I had no idea that it would grow to the extent that it has – that wasn’t the intention. It all started rather innocuously: a friend commented on a post on my personal page asking whether I would list some recommended recordings for people like him who didn’t know much about classical music. I had joined some groups on Facebook, then in its early years, so I decided to create a piano group myself. The name The Piano Files was one I had come up with a few years earlier when proposing a piano-themed radio program to the CBC (unsuccessfully in one way, not in another: a producer called from head office in Toronto to tell me that mine was the best proposal they’d received in many years but that it was too ‘specialized’ for their perceived audience). This simple play on the word ‘pianophiles‘ was one that stuck with me that I decided to keep ‘on file’ for later use, and this online forum seemed to be a suitable opportunity.

I started the Piano Files group and soon after noticed that there was a ‘fan page’ format that Facebook offered which seemed to be easier to manage. I tried to delete the group so that I could simply run the Piano Files ‘page’ instead, but Facebook wouldn’t allow me delete the old group. In order to get people to join the correct forum when searching for ‘the piano files,’ because both would show up, I made the title of the page a bit different by adding my name – and thus The Piano Files with Mark Ainley was born. It was a few months before I could finally delete the original group, and then at this point Facebook wouldn’t allow me to change the name of the page! And so my own name stayed attached to it.

Back before Facebook started limited posts with algorithms, everyone who had joined the page received each post, and while that changed over the years, membership grew and engagement has stayed high and in fact has increased. At a time when the term ‘social media’ was not yet being used and the platform consisted primarily of silly cat videos, the page was a hub for lovers of fine piano playing, and fortunately that has been a constant these ten years as Facebook has grown into a medium that seems indispensable in modern life.

I still remember when we hit 500 as it seemed like such a milestone (and I suppose it was) … and just recently we crossed the 9000 barrier, which was a remarkable threshold to cross. But it’s never been about the numbers but rather having a community of piano fans who appreciate the historic recordings that have been my musical focus since my teens.

And what a community it is: while I have been active and well-connected in the classical music scene for some time before Facebook, through this page I’ve had the opportunity to connect with the descendants of great pianists I had not previously been in contact with, among them the children of Witold Malcuzynski, Rudolf Firkusny, Jakob Gimpel, Rosa Sabater, Ozan Marsh, and Franz Josef Hirt, as well as Artur Schnabel’s granddaughter. I have also had a chance to correspond with and meet pupils of Jorge Bolet, Sidney Foster, Rudolf Firkusny, Marian Filar, Mieczysław Munz, Bruce Hungerford, and others, and managers and assistants to Youri Egorov and André Tchaikowsky. It was through this page that I met Zsolt Bognar of Living The Classical Life, who invited me to be the guest on an episode of his acclaimed interview series, and that’s how my work became known to pianist-lecturer Lisa Yui, who offered me an opportunity to present a guest lecture in her class about historical piano recordings at Manhattan School of Music. Decca in London offered me the chance to host an exclusive preview of a Benjamin Grosvenor video prior to an album launch, and Eloquence in Australia commissioned me for some liner notes after reading my posts.

The page has also provided an opportunity to connect with pianists whom I hadn’t previously had personal contact with: Michel Dalberto, whom I remember from my early years of listening to recordings, commented on some of my Facebook posts; Kirill Gerstein met up with me when passing through town, having seen my posts for some time; and I recently received an email from Sergio Tiempo thanking me for what I articulated in my recent article on interpretation. Even more of a surprise was meeting the brilliant young pianist Andrew Tyson in Vancouver a few months ago: I spoke with him after his post-recital Q&A session (during which he had professed his love of Cortot, something that was obvious in his playing), and when I introduced myself, he said, “Wait, are you Mark from The Piano Files? I’ve followed your page for years.”

So when people complain about Facebook and how it is ruining communication, culture, and society, I most certainly beg to differ! Like anything in life, how you use something is as important as what it is that you are using.

A lot happened over the year quite independently of the Piano Files page due to my previous work in the field of historical recordings. After some thirty years of researching Dinu Lipatti recordings, which led to the first publication of a number of rare items between 1995 and last year, I was invited to give presentations in his home country of Romania for the first time, and that was most certainly a dream come true. Additionally, a contact I’d met years back in London connected me with Benjamin Grosvenor, whom I consider to a pianist who plays in the great Romantic tradition, which led to numerous interviews and being able to attend a number of events (including one in London at which I met his teacher). I’ve also had a chance to present again on James Irsay’s radio program decades after my first 1992 appearance (some can be heard on my HearThis page – thought it must be said that most of our communication takes place via Facebook (again, those who think it’s ruining communication…).

Due to my commitment to post daily on the page (except when offline on retreat or on major holidays – I even posted when in the hospital a few years back), I have had to expand my own knowledge of pianists and as a result have discovered some marvellous pianists I had never heard of before. Thanks to the efforts of YouTube uploaders and other fans of great piano playing, I have in the last decade come across some great performers for the first time: Sidney Foster, Jakob Gimpel, Aline van Barentzen, Franz Josef Hirt, Ozan Marsh, Hans Henkemans, Maryla Jonas, Albert Ferber, Agnelle Bundervoët, Jacqueline Eymar, William Murdoch, and several others are pianists whose playing I first encountered while searching for recordings to post on my Facebook page.

I have in the last decade also developed the website you are currently reading in order to add some longer articles and create an online resource: it has recently received a significant upgrade thanks to sponsorship on my Patreon subscriber page, and once the funds are raised, my Dinu Lipatti website will be getting a similar makeover. And I have also been adding to my YouTube channel, where I’ve uploaded a number of videos of rare recordings or fine transfers of 78rpm discs: several of the latter have been provided by Tom Jardine (who happens to be friends with Ward Marston), who has generously allowed me to share the beautiful transfer work he does as a hobby. And I have for the last year or so been posting on the HearThis site my own audio programs, the production of which is supported by subscriptions at my Patreon page.

And so for this anniversary, I want to acknowledge and thank all of the enthusiastic participants who have read, listened, clicked, and shared; those who have invited their friends to join (some have added hundreds to the page over the years); and those who have contributed via Patreon. Some of the first 100 members are still very active participants on the Facebook page. I’ve learned so much from the comments of many members over the years, and I have been delighted to see people from all over the world, of all ages, and from all walks of life come together to appreciate some inspired music making. Long may we continue, as Jascha Spivakovsky said, ‘to seek what they sought.’

And so, as a celebration of ten years of The Piano Files on Facebook, ten uploads:

 

1. First, my latest podcast episode, which features the playing of 7 ‘unsung pianists’, artists who are worthy of more recognition than they generally receive(d). Ever since I came across Joseph Villa’s artistry in 1991 (I have two episodes devoted to him on my HearThis page), I have been interested in pianists who for some reason never had the recognition their artistry warranted. In this series of podcasts, I will present great performances by such pianists. In this first episode, I feature seven remarkable artists, most of whose playing I first encountered while running my Piano Files page on Facebook.

 

 

2. The pianist Marian Filar is one I first heard of via a longtime subscriber to my page who studied with him, pianist Beth Levin. I only recently heard an early LP of Filar and was absolutely blown away. Levin’s colleague Charles Birnbaum studied with the Polish pianist as well and recently sent me a number of recordings, including this transfer of another early LP (ca.1950) featuring Chopin Nocturnes, as well as the lovely photograph reproduced in this video I made. In these exquisitely beautiful performances, Filar plays with remarkably clear textures, an incredibly pure singing tone, a soaring melodic line phrased with extraordinary suppleness, and a steady rhythmic pulse fused with natural timing. With Levin’s and Birnbaum’s assistance, I will be preparing a tribute article and further uploads of this marvellous artist, and offering a giveaway contest of a CD of the pianist.

 

 

3. A performer I don’t recall coming across prior to my operating my Facebook page was Jakob Gimpel, a wonderful Polish pianist who somehow never fully got his due despite having made several records for the high-profile Electrola label in the 1950s and playing the piano part in the Academy Award-winning Tom & Jerry cartoon Johann Mouse. I’ve featured this great pianist several times on my page, in both earlier and later concert recordings. This unpublished 1970 concert recording of Chopin’s Nocturne in E Major Op.62 No.2 was shared with me by the pianist’s son and is made available here for the first time (check my YouTube channel for other Gimpel performances, including two more from this recital). In this reading, we hear Gimpel’s beautifully forged singing line, mindful pedalling that never obscures the texture or line, and incredible nuancing: notice his timing at transitional points between phrasing and how he adjusts dynamic levels as well…  and if you listen closely you can also hear Gimpel humming along a bit with the performance.

 

 

4. Natan Brand was a pianist I first encountered thanks to Bryan Crimp, founder of the APR label that produced the first memorial set devoted to this pianist back in 1991. A second set would later be produced on the Palexa label by a Montreal-based friend whom I’d known back in the late 80s and early 90s when we were both young piano fans (Jean-Pascal Hamelin, now an esteemed conductor). When in New York in 2014 to film my episode of Living The Classical Life, I called up Brand’s widow and she enthusiastically invited me to visit her and generously shared a number of precious recordings and videos with me (some uploaded in this post I produced about Brand). The performance below of Chopin’s Ballade No.1 in G Minor Op.23 has never been shared before and is especially moving because it comes from the pianist’s final recital, given in Amherst on July 16, 1990. This impassioned reading is filled with creative voicing, soaring phrasing, and Brand’s full-bodied singing sonority – a remarkable performance!

 

 

5. André Tchaikowsky was a true original of the keyboard who also left us far too soon, dying of cancer at the age of 46 (the same age as Brand). His commercial recordings are far too few for a pianist of his incredible capabilities and fortunately a remarkably comprehensive memorial website has been set up which features incredible documentation and concert performances. The Bach Concerto in D Minor BWV 1052 performance below hails from a July 24, 1973 London concert and finds the pianist playing with his usual rhythmic buoyancy, crystal-clear tone, and creative nuancing.

 

 

6. The last few years I have been mesmerized by the playing of Jascha Spivakovsky, whose playing was completely unknown to even the most ardent collectors because he never produced a solo recording, unlike his famous violinist brother Tossy. When his family began releasing private and broadcast recordings on the Pristine Classical label in 2015, my colleague James Irsay in New York (on whose radio program I very nervously first appeared in 1992) wrote to me raving about the playing and I immediately knew there was remarkable pianism of great historical interest here. I have since visited the family in Australia – this tour of his music room gives great insight into his story – and I have since been writing the notes for all of the Pristine releases, in addition to publishing an overview of the pianist’s life and art in Clavier Companion magazine.

Schumann’s now-seldom-played Piano Sonata No.3 played a key role in Spivakovsky’s life: this work was the ‘quick study piece’ that he had to prepare without the aid of a teacher for the 1910 Blüthner Prize (which he won at the age of 13 – the final-round judges were Busoni, Gabrilowitsch, and Godowsky) and he programmed it throughout his entire career. This 1963 broadcast recording from over half a century after his competition win is overflowing with passion, featuring soaring phrasing and deeply forged baselines, while discreet pedalling and the skillful use of finger legato serve to burnish melodic lines.

 

 

7. A pianist whose playing I still don’t know particularly well but have been enjoying in the last year or so is the obscure German pianist Erik Then-Bergh. APR has released his complete Electrola and Deutsche Grammophon recordings, and an Eloquence CD transfer of his Reger Telemann Variations has absolutely mesmerized me. This 1955 concert broadcast of Beethoven’s Fourth Concerto captures the German pianist’s playing at its most robust, with a blend of earthy vivacity and reverential refinement that suits Beethoven’s masterpiece perfectly.

 

 

8. The Australian pianist William Murdoch is one who escaped my notice for a long time – I’ve never seen an LP devoted to him, and I have only one CD of his playing that I’ve come across (collectors can look forward to something more comprehensive very soon, I’m happy to report) – but his playing is absolutely magnificent, revealing a strong character and mindful musician. The clip below features Murdoch’s 1932 Decca recording (K.682) of two Waltzes by Chopin, the Waltz in G-Flat Major Op.70 No.1 and the Waltz in D-Flat Major Op.64 No.1 (the “Minute Waltz”). These two works are despatched with tremendous rhythmic vitality, sparkling tone, beautifully defined articulation, and attentive voicing. Marvellous playing by a sadly overlooked figure in pianism.

 

 

9. One of the amazing things about historical recordings is that you get to hear the playing of artists from a complete different generation. Francis Planté was born in 1839 and actually heard Chopin play, and he played chamber music with performers who had performed with the composer himself. His only recordings were made on two days – July 3 & 4, 1928 – on his Érard piano at his home in Mont-de-Marsan. Planté and Vladimir de Pachmann are the only two pianists born during Chopin’s lifetime to have made electrical (aka microphone-amplified) recordings. Aged nearly 90 at the time these discs were produced, Planté was obviously not at his most dextrous in these performances, and yet there is much to appreciate in his playing: a robust sonority, attentive balance of left and right hands, natural timing (his rubato could in no way be considered extreme), and beautiful tonal colours. We owe Tom Jardine a debt of gratitude for providing this exceptional transfer from his own copy of the disc.

 

 

10. One of the first recordings that I read about as a student exploring early discs – and therefore a fine one with which to end this anniversary post, with an exceptionally fine transfer superior to all that I’ve heard – was Josef Lhévinne‘s magnificent reading of the Schulz-Evler Arabesken über ‘An der schönen blauen Donau’ von Johann Strauss, aka The Blue Danube Waltz. Lhévinne’s recording has been so universally praised and played that many were and still are unaware that he played a rather truncated version of the Schulz-Evler transcription in order to fit the work onto the two sides of the 12-inch RCA 78rpm discs. This popular record was the Russian pianist’s first disc for RCA, set down on May 21, 1928, yet Lhévinne would not produce another recording until 1935, and his total studio discography totals about an hour. This glorious reading features the artist’s remarkably polished sonority, taut rhythmic bounce and pulse, sumptuous phrasing, and incredibly refined nuancing – a performance that continues to delight listeners 90 years after it was made. Many thanks to Tom Jardine for providing his fantastic transfer of the performance from an original 78rpm disc for use in this upload.

 

I hope that you have enjoyed these postings. We are truly living at an amazing time, when great historical recordings are more accessible than ever before. I am grateful that my Facebook page has been such a wonderful hub for likeminded piano fans to gather and enjoy glorious piano playing, and I hope it will continue to be for many years to come.

 

 

 

“My earliest reaction to music, as far as I can recall, was one of fascinated terror.” It seems amazing that a pianist who produced one of the loveliest sonorities ever captured on record would have this initial response to the art form to which he would dedicate his life, but so said Harold Bauer in the opening of his autobiography Harold Bauer: His Book. Fortunately for posterity he overcame that adverse reaction and became a performer and teacher of great distinction, as well as a recording artist who left behind a small but precious discography of remarkably beautiful performances.

Bauer was born near London on April 28, 1873 and would soon overcome any fear he had of music: on his fourth birthday he composed a polka and would soon after have piano lessons from his aunt and violin lessons with his father. It was the latter instrument that was his prime focus for many years, and he was not the only pianist to have started with this instrument: Dinu Lipatti, Clara Haskil, and Egon Petri all began with the violin before becoming pianists. The great Joseph Joachim took an interest in Bauer when the ten-year-old boy wrote him a letter asking him to play a certain Bach Prelude and Fugue as an encore “because I play that piece too.” Joachim wrote back with an interest in hearing him play, and when he did, he encouraged him to study at the Royal College of Music; however, Bauer’s father instead had him study with the great teacher Adolph Pollitzer, with whom Bauer would learn the entire violin repertoire.

On the advice of Paderewski, Bauer moved to Paris to get ahead in his career as a violin soloist. Once there, he worked as a piano accompanist to make some extra money, leading to an opportunity to tour Russia accompanying the singer Louise Nikita at the piano. He had already performed admirably in London, with programmes including Liszt’s Feux Follets and St. Francis Walking on the Waves, and when he became more visible accompanying other musicians at the piano, this instrument would become his focus. He stated that he had “become a pianist in spite of myself, yet I had no technique and I did not know how to acquire it,” but he was soon engaged by Paderewski’s London manager to play two concerts in Berlin, the first of which consisted of Beethoven’s Emperor Concerto, Saint-Saëns’s G Minor Concerto, and Liszt’s Hungarian Fantasia – “a thoroughly conventional program, typical of those days,” he wrote of something that would be inconceivable for a pianist today, let alone for a musician for whom this was their second instrument. The performance was a great success and Bauer’s trajectory as a professional pianist was set.

While he made quite a career as a soloist, Bauer was still active as a chamber music player and he toured Brazil with Casals in 1903. The following year, they met with Ernest Schelling in Rio and it appears that critics had divided themselves into two camps, those who preferred Bauer and those who proclaimed Schelling the superior pianist. To take advantage of what they viewed to be ‘ridiculous but amusing,’ they created a huge musical event together with the local pianist Arthur Napoleao at the Opera House: “We engaged the entire Opera orchestra, and each of us played and conducted alternately, using every possible combination of duet and trio throughout the evening.” Reproduced here on the left, courtesy the Brazilian Piano Institute, is the programme of the remarkable event, which I’ve never seen published before. Artistically the concert was a success, though a scuffle broke out between a Bauerite and a Schellingite in which Schelling himself intervened – ironically, he was the one who got punched and a bloody nose. Despite this whole situation, Bauer and Schelling remained very good friends (years later they would both serve on the Artist Auxiliary Board at the Manhattan School of Music) and when they ended up on board the same ship taking them home shortly after this concert, they “astonished the passengers by the magnificent duets [we] played upon any and every musical instrument obtainable on board.”

As an interpreter, Bauer played without excess although he was not one who worshipped the text and the intention of the composer over individual performance. Although he would look attentively to the score – indeed, he edited a great many works for Schirmer – he believed it was important not to bring one’s own intelligence to one’s reading of it. “The ordinary man who fails to realize what lies in the music beyond the printed indication is just…an ordinary man.” After relating a tale about how examining various editions and the manuscript of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata led him to adjust his approach, he stated that, “the composer, as a general rule, cannot be regarded as the most reliable guide to the interpretation of his music. The best proof of this is that in those rare cases where the composer is a fine executant and plays his music as well as it can be played, it is not difficult, if the performance is compared with the printed page, to find literally hundreds of details where the two fail to correspond.” Listening to his playing, however, we do not hear an excessive display of individuality but rather a respectful balance of personal style with the music being played.

Like many pianists of the time, Bauer produced player-piano rolls and he was in fact one of the most prolific pianists in this medium, making over 100 such rolls. Unfortunately he did not make as many records: he began recording in 1924, making only two discs with the acoustical recording process (whereby the instrument was amplified with a cone-shaped horn) before the new technology of electrical recording (with the use of microphones) was employed. He also made an early film appearance and we can see him in this April 2, 1927 footage accompanying violinist Efrem Zimbalist in the last movement of Beethoven’s Kreutzer Sonata, a piece that would have meant a great deal to him: he wrote enthusiastically about Joachim’s performance and how the last movement needed to be repeated as an encore. In this amazing footage we can see Bauer’s effortless technique and fluidity of movement. On the same occasion he apparently recorded Chopin’s Polonaise Op.53 but that footage has regrettably not been made available – one certainly hopes that it will!

Even before this filmed performance, Bauer’s first large-scale recording was of chamber music: on December 21 & 23, 1925, he made the first recording of the Brahms Piano Quintet Op.34 with the Flonzaley String Quartet, with whom his close friend Ossip Gabrilowitsch would record the Schumann Piano Quintet Op.44 two years later (they had recorded a truncated account of the latter work in 1924). Bauer’s integrity as a musician shines through in his collaborative approach, never overpowering the musicians he plays with in this spirited performance.

Harold Bauer’s 1935 recording of Schumann’s Fantasiestücke Op.12 is the first of the work (the second would be Arthur Rubinstein’s 1949 account). While Bauer had made his earlier recordings for Victor in the US, in this case he set down this reading at their sister company EMI’s Abbey Road Studios on their Steinway piano. The pianist was evidently in good form at the session, as 5 of the 8 sides required only a single take, the remaining 3 receiving no more than a second attempt. Throughout this account, we hear Bauer’s sumptuous singing sonority, fluidly phrased legato line, purity of tone at all dynamic levels, and balance of primary and secondary voices.

Very few broadcasts of the pianist have been located and none have been made commercially available, but fortunately some are on YouTube. A performance of the first movement of Beethoven’s Emperor Concerto is unfortunately marred by the incorrect ordering and poor splicing of the acetate discs (something I am working to correct), all the more regrettable as there are no other known recordings of Bauer with orchestra. This May 24, 1936 broadcast of Bauer playing Chopin’s Third Scherzo is also of great interest, as it is a work he never recorded commercially. His wonderfully clear sound, refined dynamic and tonal colours, and magical pedal effects are a marvel to behold.

Bauer is today better remembered for his readings of the German and Romantic repertoire, yet he also played the new music of the time, giving the Paris premiere of Debussy’s Children’s Corner suite and the New York premiere of Ravel’s Concerto in G Major. Those who are surprised by this might be even more amazed to know Ravel dedicated Ondine from his now-legendary suite Gaspard de la nuit to Bauer – alas, although Bauer played it the world over for decades, he never recorded it. In one of his two recorded performances of Debussy, the lesser-known Reverie, we hear his glorious singing tone and mastery of the pedal helping mould the colours and dynamic gradations called for by this music.

Bauer’s last recordings were made on January 8 and 9, 1942 of works by Grieg, another composer whom he knew after having met the Norwegian in Amsterdam at the home of their mutual friend Julius Röntgen. For some reason most of these performances were unissued, among them the three Lyric Pieces presented here (The Butterfly Op.43 No.1, Valse Impromptu Op.47 No.1, and Nocturne Op.54 No.4):

Bauer would retire soon after this session, spending his remaining years in Miami. He was tired of the performing and touring life and stated in his autobiography, “I am never going to practice the piano any more.” Yet he stayed active in musical arenas, as he had his whole life. Having emigrated to the US during World War 1 (he was naturalized in 1917), he was founder-director of the Beethoven Association of New York (1918-1941) and president of the Friends of Music of the Library of Congress. For years Bauer had headed the piano department at the Manhattan School of Music (he was founding member of their Artist Auxiliary Board in 1918 and gave his first master classes at MSM in 1924) and beginning in 1941, he taught master classes each winter at the University of Miami while serving as Visiting Professor at the University of Hartford Hartt School of Music from 1946 until his death in 1951 at the age of 77.

Despite his relatively small discography for an artist of his stature and a reputation that waned even during his lifetime, RCA produced two LPs that featured his 78rpm discs in the early years of the new medium, an honour also granted Rachmaninoff and Paderewski but not Levitzki or some other great pianists to have recorded exclusively in the 78 era. Years later, the International Piano Library (later Archives) produced an LP featuring some of his rarer recordings, including the Brahms Third Sonata recorded for the lesser-known Schirmer label. Today, his complete solo recordings are now available on a marvellous 3-CD set on the APR label (it does not include the Brahms Quintet). While we may wish for more recordings – and perhaps some more broadcast performances will turn up and be made available – we should be grateful that we do have what we do of this superb musician. Not only are his recordings required listening, his autobiography should be required reading for insight into the universal issues facing musicians and even society as a whole.

If there is one recording for which Harold Bauer should be remembered, it is the Valse from Arensky’s Suite for Two Pianos Op.15, recorded with Ossip Gabrilowitsch at the other piano. The two pianists did at least 13 takes over the course of four sessions at Liederkranz Hall in New York between June 13, 1928 and September 19, 1929, with the issued take being the final one (matrix number CVE 45630-13). This is one of the most charming piano recordings ever made: Bauer and Gabrilowitsch play with a gorgeous full-bodied sonority, fluid legato phrasing, beautifully refined dynamic shadings, silky pedal effects, wonderfully defined articulation, and a delightful rhythmic lilt, all of which make this such an infectiously joyous performance, a testament to his inspired music-making and glorious pianism.

The YouTube link at the bottom of this page presents a remarkably clear transfer from a British pressing of a Columbia 78rpm disc featuring Dinu Lipatti’s legendary April 17, 1948 recording of Ravel’s Alborada del Gracioso. This is the only Ravel work and sole contemporary composition he recorded commercially for EMI during his few years under contract with them and has long been hailed as one of the greatest piano recordings ever made.

A myth circulated after Lipatti’s death – perpetuated, oddly enough, by his widow – that the pianist had spontaneously sat down to play the work without having touched it for 6 months and the engineer happened to turn on the machine to start recording him. Here is a recording of an interview in which Madeleine Lipatti recounts this tale in colourful detail:

Three facts supported by printed documents, however, disprove the rather colourful story:

1) Lipatti had played the work at his Wigmore Hall recital two weeks earlier, on April 4, 1948

2) Alborada had been listed on an Instructions for Recording sheet dated April 15, 1948 (reproduced here), two days before the session, meaning that Lipatti had been prepared to record it

3) the recording sheet from the April 17 session indicates that the pianist made two takes of each side of the record, which in 78rpm-disc times means that he did not play through the work uninterrupted

Tantalizingly, Lipatti had also been scheduled to record Debussy’s La soirée dans Grenade and Falla’s Ritual Fire Dance, but there is no evidence to indicate that he did. That said, the chronological recording log at EMI archives that detail exactly what transpired in each session is missing for a 6-month period in 1948, including the date of this session, so we cannot be certain that no attempts at these titles were made.

This disc of Alborada – perhaps the only recording with which Lipatti was ever fully satisfied – at once puts to bed the myth that he was a weak and conventional pianist: it is filled with staggering virtuosity, from the rapid-fire repeated notes through those unbelievable graduated glissandi, and is played with tremendous power and bravura, with remarkable rhythmic bite, towering fortissimos, and glistening tone.

It is of course most regrettable that Lipatti did not record the other works scheduled for the same sessions, as they would have surely – like this disc – given us a very different perspective of his pianism and musicality. Walter Legge wrote that in Lipatti’s Wigmore Hall performance of Falla’s Ritual Fire Dance two weeks before this recording was made, “the crescendo he made in the opening bars rose to such a fortissimo (but still without hitting through the tone) that I expected the Steinway to part in the middle and let him through like the Red Sea at Moses’ behest.” However, we are certainly fortunate that this Ravel performance was recorded, as it gives us a glimpse into a different aspect of Lipatti’s artistry, one that reveals his tremendous power and brilliant musical mind.

Many thanks to collector Tom Jardine for sharing his exceptionally well accomplished transfer of this magnificent performance!

The distinguished Canadian pianist Robert Silverman and I share a deep admiration for the British pianist Solomon. Over the course of our regular mealtime meetings in Vancouver, we spend hours discussing a wide array of musical topics and pianists (great and otherwise); recently when Solomon came up, Maestro Silverman told me he had many years ago produced a documentary for the CBC in tribute to the artist. The five episodes included interviews with many who knew Solomon, but for reasons that are clarified in his notes below, the project’s scope was limited by the pianist’s wife. My eyes lit up when he said that he not only had these programmes on cassette but had had them digitized. I thought that something of this nature should be available for lovers of the great pianists of the past and offered to upload them if he agreed – and fortunately he did.

Below are the five one-hour episodes that feature some biographical information by Silverman, and interview snippets with musicians and friends of the artist. And of course there are many representative recordings by the great pianist.

Here are some introductory notes giving important background information to the series by Robert Silverman himself:

In the golden years of the CBC, before men in suits replaced creative music programming with packaged short selections for daytime listeners, producer George Laverock and I came up with an idea of a five-programme series devoted to the artistry of the British pianist Solomon. Then in his mid-seventies, Maestro Cutner (his actual surname) had been pianistically silent for about two decades, due to a debilitating stroke he’d suffered at the height of his powers.

The project was approved, and even expanded upon to the point where George and I were to travel to London to interview distinguished musicians such as Clifford Curzon and Gerald Moore, important BBC and HMV producers, and others who had worked in various capacities with Solomon. Those interviews were to be interspersed with some of his greatest recordings. Naturally, I also wrote the artist asking whether he and his wife Gwendolyn would agree to add a few words.

Responses came quickly. To say we were excited is to state the obvious.  Not only did Sir Gerald Moore immediately agree enthusiastically, but he sent directions about how to find his home in his out-of-the way village. However, I also received a note from Gwen, asking that we not bother his friends; they had contributed to a BBC documentary to celebrate Solomon’s 70th birthday, and there was no need to impose further upon them. But she would be happy to receive me at their home.  I responded that I would be delighted to meet her, and that she needn’t worry about any imposition on their friends: judging from the responses we’d received, they were extremely enthusiastic about talking about Solomon. In addition, the focus of the programmes was to be on his artistry, not his biography.  (In other words, we weren’t coming there to snoop around for gossip.)

George went to London a couple of days before I did in order to prepare for the interviews and set up recording sessions with the guests. Upon my arrival, George informed me that to a person, all the artist’s close friends had cancelled their interviews.  No Curzon, no Moore, who wrote an apology saying that he’d truly wanted to do the interview, but that he simply could not go against Solomon’s wishes.

George was insistent that we carry on with the project. He arranged alternate interviews with other musicians, such as Denis Matthews, with connections to Solomon. Also, the BBC made available to us their 70th birthday documentary from 1972, so I ended up recording several questions that fit the answers that the BBC interviewees had provided for that occasion so that we could incorporate them into our tribute.

As for the meeting at their home on Blenheim Road in St. John’s Wood (the address and telephone number were in the phone book), not only was Gwendolyn Solomon, as she called herself, present, but so was Solomon.  I had not expected this, and the entire afternoon remains much of a haze, so excited was I at finally meeting the person who has come closest to serving as my artistic deity.  He would not discuss his artistry — he seldom did, even when healthy — and when Gwen started to complain about how unfair life seemed to be, he shushed her.

Afterwards, I understood why she had tried to hinder our project. In the earlier BBC interview she had revealed somewhat more than she’d intended about her personal bitterness over the stroke. Furthermore, both of them did not want it known that the stroke’s effects were more serious than anyone had let on at the time.  He had serious speech difficulties, and what he did say mostly made perfect sense, but not always.  However, I can attest that he did know how to make a great gin and tonic.

Here, courtesy of Maestro Silverman, to whom our greatest thanks, are the five parts of the 1976 CBC documentary he so lovingly produced.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

 

After a friend’s piano recital last year, a post-concert conversation amongst a few attendees took a fascinating turn. A teacher mentioned hearing students state a preference for interpretations that are ‘clean.’  We got into an amazing discussion of various things that both students and scholars tend to overlook, such as portamenti in string playing, rubato, and the shaping of phrasing. Some of what is found in early recordings can sound unusual to present-day listeners, yet it is remarkable to me how many trained musicologists, professors, and performers consider such means of expression ‘dated’ – a truly comical choice of words when speaking of music which, having been written a hundred or more years ago, is by definition dated. We discussed the challenge of bringing music to life without injecting something into it but rather by drawing something out of it, not blindly copying what was done in the past but being informed of what was the norm and what options are available today.

I recounted how when I presented historical recordings at the local university, some students balked at Rachmaninoff’s use of rubato when playing a Chopin Nocturne, despite his having been born in the century in which the music he was playing had been composed. It fascinated me that the students’ response indicated a subconscious belief that their perspectives on what rubato was appropriate was more ‘correct’ than that of a legendary pianist from the 19th century – why else would the students find the playing this old record ‘strange’ if they did not hold the belief that their way was the ‘right’ way? It was all the more fascinating when considering that these were students who loved and played Rachmaninoff’s own music – and yet they had reservations when the beloved composer-pianist’s playing differed from their own vision.

I am not saying we should imitate what was done in earlier eras, but should we not at least know what musicians of the past really did by listening as opposed to simply reading descriptions? I recall that the students’ objections came to a very sudden end when I asked, ‘And what if we found a recording by Chopin and you didn’t like the way he played? What would the implications be?’ Their jaws dropped and I could see their minds instantly open as they realized that their stated goal of doing justice to ‘the composer’s intent’ was at odds with their attitude towards playing that varied from their expectations, which were themselves formed by what is the norm in our era. They were far more receptive and engaged to what they heard in subsequent recordings.

One of the most important recordings to have come to light and been released (very recently) is a fascinating one appropriate to this discussion. It may be the rarest piano recording ever and I think it is one of the most remarkable: a disc recorded ca. 1921 of the forgotten composer-pianist Josef Labor playing part of a Beethoven Sonata. Labor was born in 1842, a mere 15 years after Beethoven died, and was a celebrated pianist, organist, composer, and teacher. His more famous pupils include Arnold Schönberg, Alma Mahler, and Paul Wittgenstein, and he was a close friend of Brahms, Richard Strauss, and King Georg V of Hannover. He was also blind since childhood due to smallpox. While he was revered in his time, he has largely been forgotten by musical history … as was the fact that in the early 1920s, close to age 80, this man raised in Viennese culture not far removed from Beethoven’s time made two records on the obscure Union label of Austria. Gregor Benko of the International Piano Archives had never heard of Labor until the sole known copy of one of the discs found its way to him a few years ago; he tells the tale of its discovery, along with an assessment of its importance, on the Marston Records website page for the compilation on which it was released.

In Labor’s playing, we hear the fascinating use of timing, accents, and dynamic shifts to bring more dimension to this slow movement of Beethoven’s Sonata No. 7 in D Major Op. 10 No. 3. (Because only one of the two records Labor made has been found, the opening of the movement is missing.) This performance has been met by more academic-minded listeners with less enthusiasm – and that is certainly their right – and I am not suggesting that we emulate this kind of playing. However, listening – and more than once – is essential: when listening for the first time, our reaction to what is different from the norm and our preferences can prevent us from neutrally and accurately hearing and assessing what is happening, so our biases can limit the full apprehension of what is actually taking place. The more one listens, the more one hears. I recently played this recording for a Japanese violinist and his eyes widened as he said, ‘He’s revealing his soul and the soul of the music.’ This is indeed playing that needs to be heard more than once – and, keep in mind the question: if a recording were found of Beethoven playing, is there any guarantee that you would like it? And if not, what would that mean when it comes to your preferences and the role of the performer?

How incredible that in 2019, we can hear pianism preserved nearly 100 years ago of a man who was born almost 180 years ago. The playing is not just radically different in style from what we hear today but in intent. It is important to remember that there was a time when music was inextricably linked to live performance: because recording technology did not exist, if people wanted to hear music, they played it at home or went to a concert… they did not listen to music ‘in the background’ – it was a conscious, lived experience. The listening to and playing of the music were part of the same event, and the performer was expected to bring the work to life in an individual way. The notes and markings were a guide, but the music needed the interpreter to interpret it. Several kinds of inflections and means of expression were not marked in the score because such ‘touches’ were the norm at the time. Composers also did not need to dictate (or micro-manage) every nuance, nor would they have thought this worthwhile, as doing so would go against the nature of music and performance as they knew it.

Another Beethoven performance that some university students attending my presentations had initially found ‘extreme’ was this glorious 1936 broadcast of Josef Hofmann playing Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata (available here): they couldn’t imagine playing Beethoven with such rubato. But when one listens to rubato separate from tonal colours, dynamics, the balance with other voices, and musical structure, of course it can sound extreme – people tend to listen to one plane of expression alone as opposed to the multi-dimensional fabric of which the tempo is but one thread. But when adjusting timing simultaneously with dynamics, colour, and texture, it is not a one-plane shift in musical expression but a multifaceted one.

Hofmann’s individual music-making is absolutely fascinating, harkening back to an age when performers who were both skilled and informed not only expressed their individual perspectives but were expected to. We don’t go to the theatre to hear the words of a script dictated, and it isn’t the blueprint alone that makes a house a home but how it is brought to life by the individual expression of those inhabiting it. Just as earlier styles of fashion and design can seem archaic in the present day, what is done today will one day be subjected to similar derision (although one need certainly not wait to disagree with contemporary norms). Whether one likes Hofmann and other performers of his generation or not, attempting to play music from previous centuries without hearing actual recordings by the greatest artists of the past borders on negligence.

It was the fact that Rachmaninoff recorded his own music that woke me up to the existence and importance of historical recordings some 30+ years ago (read more here) but this doesn’t mean that a composer’s way is the only way – or that composers even had only one approach that they never deviated from. However, the existence of recordings which preserve ‘fixed’ interpretations has bred into our culture and mindset the belief that there is one unwavering way to play a piece of music and that any artist should have such a fixed perspective, which would make each concert but a photocopy of each other performance they give. But great performers and composers such as Rachmaninoff were not so rigid in their own readings, even if there was a general conception that they had of a work.

Rachmaninoff made his recordings in the era of 78rpm discs, which did not allow for precision editing (every 4-to-5-minute segment was recorded ‘as is’), so multiple versions were made of each ‘side’ so that the best of each could be chosen for the commercial release; concertos usually consisted of four or five two-sided records (for Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No.2, for example, it was five discs comprising ten ‘takes’). It seems that starting in the 1940s, RCA had been repressing some earlier recordings from their catalogue using existing alternate takes instead of those approved by the artists, apparently doing so to avoid overusing the ‘master’ metal stamper.

In the case of Rachmaninoff’s 1929 traversal of his own Piano Concerto No.2, it became apparent in the 1980s that all republications of the recording, from the 1940s right through the LP era, had used alternate takes for 9 out of the 10 sides – amazingly not only the initial 1950s LP transfers on RCA but also their 1973 centenary The Complete Rachmaninoff collection! Incredibly, the first long-playing release of the approved takes was RCA’s 1987 CD release! The upshot of this is that there are essentially two different performances of Rachmaninoff playing this work – and, naturally, not every nuance is exactly the same. So even in the case of a composer’s performance, not every reading was the same.

Here is Rachmaninoff’s ‘alternate’ reading:

There is at least one musicologist who thought that Rachmaninoff’s recordings should be disregarded because he deviated from the score… the score that he himself wrote. Let that sink in a little bit and consider the insanity and repercussions of that perspective … especially when one ponders the reasons a composer might choose to do things differently. Some insight in this regard comes from a pianist who strongly believed that the score was not sacrosanct: Jorge Bolet. The Cuban-born pianist was present for the rehearsals prior to Rachmaninoff’s first performance of his Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini, and he saw the composer realize in the course of playing with orchestra for the first time that certain things did not sound the way he had imagined. Rachmaninoff made revisions on the spot, but those changes were not incorporated into printed editions of the score because it had already been published. Therefore, the score as printed does not accurately convey the composer’s true wishes and those who follow it are actually not doing what the composer wanted – how’s that for irony? ‘So much for Urtexts,’ stated Bolet when recounting this tale and showing his own annotated score to his pupil Ira Levin.

The great pianist elaborated on the role of the performer in realizing a composer’s intentions in this brilliant interview (starting 2 minutes in this clip, after a fine performance of a Chopin-Godowsky Etude):

Bolet advised being faithful to the music more than to the score, a position shared by the legendary pianist Dinu Lipatti. Held up as a pianist who respected the score – and he did – Lipatti is often considered a proponent of more ‘objective’ playing, but he was not averse to making changes to the text. However, he did so in the same vein as Bolet, referring to the UrSpirit as being more important than the Urtext. This might seem to be at odds with the writing that follows, which was part of a draft for a master class on interpretation that Lipatti was to give together with Nadia Boulanger in the Spring of 1951 (alas, he died a few months earlier), but in fact it is not. His writing here reveals some fascinating concepts, though not the whole picture of his perspectives:

It is unjustly believed that the music from one era or another must preserve the imprint, the characteristics, and even the vices prevalent at the time this music was created. In thinking this way we have a peaceful conscience and find ourselves incapable of any dangerous misrepresentation. And to reach this objective, for all the effort, for all the research done in the dust of the past, for all the useless scrupulousness towards the ‘sole object of our attention,’ we will always end up drowning it in an abundance of prejudices and false facts. For, let us never forget, true and great music transcends its time and, even more, never corresponded to the framework, forms, and rules in place at the time of its creation: Bach in his work for organ calls for the electric organ and its unlimited means, Mozart asks for the pianoforte and distances himself decisively from the harpsichord, Beethoven demands our modern piano, which Chopin – having it – first gives its colours, while Debussy goes further in presenting through his Preludes glimpses of Martenot’s Wave. Therefore, wanting to restore to music its historical framework is like dressing an adult in an adolescent’s clothes. This might have a certain charm in the context of a historical reconstruction, yet is of no interest to those other than lovers of dead leaves or the collectors of old pipes.

These reflections came to me while recalling the astonishment that I caused some time ago when I played, at a prominent European music festival, Mozart’s D minor Concerto with the magnificent and stunning cadenza that Beethoven made for this work. True, we could sense that the same themes appear differently under Beethoven’s pen than under that of Mozart. But this is exactly wherein lies the appeal of this interesting confrontation between two such different personalities. I regret to say that other than a few enlightened spirits, nobody understood this marriage and everyone suspected that I had composed this vile and anachronistic cadenza!

How right Stravinsky is in affirming that ‘Music is the present’!

Music has to live under our fingers, under our eyes, in our hearts and in our brains with all that we, the living, can offer it.

Far be it for me to promote anarchy and disdain for the fundamental laws which guide, along general lines, the coordination of a valid and pertinent interpretation. But I find it a grave mistake to lose oneself in researching useless details regarding the way in which Mozart would have played a certain trill or grupetto. As for myself, the diverse markings provided by excellent yet incomplete treatises compel me to decisively take the path to simplification and synthesis while immutably preserving some four or five fundamental principles of which I think you are aware (or at least, I suppose you are), and for the rest I rely on intuition, that second but no-less-precious intelligence, and to in-depth penetration of the work, which, sooner or later, ends up confessing the secret of its soul.

Never approach a score with eyes of the dead or the past, for they may bring you nothing more in return than the image of Yorick’s skull. Alfredo Casella rightly said that we must not be satisfied with merely respecting masterpieces, but we must love them.

Lipatti was not saying that it is a waste of time to research how Mozart was played in his era: he states that is a ‘grave mistake to lose oneself in researching useless details.’  I would add that one should not lose oneself in useful details either, as details alone do not paint the full picture and ‘losing oneself’ would render any potentially useful details useless. Lipatti was certainly historically informed, yet he also played in a very present-time way – how else to explain his radically unconventional approach to Bach’s D Minor Concerto BWV 1052? He not only incorporates some of the variants that Busoni had penned for the work but uses dynamics and voicing in a fascinating way: pay particular attention to the magnificent decrescendo in the first movement (from 6:39 to 7:02), where he reveals the magic of Bach’s writing by highlighting the chromatic progressions while also reducing the volume in a way that seems absolutely logical.

There are those who believe that Bach should not be played with such dynamic variation because this was not possible on the harpsichord. However, several of Bach’s keyboard concertos were transcribed for violin and for oboe; the composer himself transcribed these compositions so they could be played not just on the harpsichord but also on instruments capable of adjusting dynamics and lyrical phrasing. That should make it obvious that he would be happy if his keyboard music were played on a keyboard capable of more lyrical and dynamic expression as well. It’s incredibly shortsighted and unimaginative to believe that this is not the case – and Bach himself was hardly shortsighted and unimaginative!

There is no one correct approach to the issue of how one should perform the music of the past. It was all once new and now it isn’t; indeed, the composers whose music we still play today likely had no idea that we would still be listening to and performing their music centuries later. So many factors have changed – not just the instruments but the size of the spaces in which the music is performed and heard, as well – and one cannot recreate the past, and nor should one want to. It is up to the performer to find their way and lead the listener home to the heart of the music. I am convinced, however, that composers would not want performance to simply reproduce the printed notes on the page but rather to bring the music to life. How best to do that is the art of interpretation … which is certainly more than just the skill of reproducing notes.

One thing is certain: we are fortunate that so many incredible historical recorded performances are now so readily available. Long may we listen, learn, and enjoy!

It is truly astounding how some of the most amazing pianists are not as well remembered as some of their colleagues. It is a fact that while many great artists had notable careers, others did not pursue aspirations to tour internationally or record extensively. And yet the names of some very popular performers can easily fade from public consciousness after they die, particularly if their recordings become harder to come by (if any were made at all).

Victor Schiøler, a remarkable pianist whose name I first encountered in the last few years thanks to the internet, was a Danish musician who studied with two of the greatest legends of the piano, had a noteworthy career, and made many recordings. However, it was Schiøler’s own pupil Victor Borge who became the ‘great Dane’ of the piano, known the world over for his brilliant musical comedy, although when playing seriously (which he did on rare occasions), Borge was capable of the most exquisite pianism – no doubt due at least in part to the training he received from Schiøler. The comedian’s fame would eclipse his great teacher’s position as Denmark’s pre-eminent pianist, although Schiøler was quite well-known and very respected internationally in his lifetime, and is still remembered in his native land.

He was born into a musical family on April 7, 1899. His mother Augusta Schiøler was a pianist and her son’s first teacher, and his father was composer and conductor Victor Bendix. After beginning his studies with his mother, the young Victor would train with two of the most revered pianists of the time, among the most admired pupils of the great Leschetizky: Ignaz Friedman and Artur Schnabel. Schiøler’s debut took place in 1914 (he was only 15 years old) and he began touring as a soloist in 1919 – he also worked domestically as a conductor, appearing on the podium for the first time in 1923 and being conductor and musical advisor at the Royal Opera in Copenhagen from 1930 to 1932.

Schiøler toured internationally to great acclaim—America in 1948-49, Africa in 1951, and Indochina and Hong Kong in 1952-53—but his career was not limited to music. In addition to concertizing and recording, he also received a degree in medicine and practiced psychiatry! He had long been interested in medicine but had delayed studying it in order to follow Schnabel’s advice that he give concerts in Germany. When he stopped playing in that country due to Hitler’s ascent to power in 1933, he began the formal study of medicine. He spent the last two years of the War in Sweden, and would not return to Germany until after the War.

By his own admission, Schiøler had ‘a tendency to have too many irons in the fire – irons of the most different kinds.’ In addition to his concert and recording career, obtaining his degree in medicine, and professional psychiatric practice, Schiøler worked in other arenas of the musical scene: he was chairman of a committee to help performing artists with matters of contracts, royalties, and copyright. In his later years, he had a TV program in Denmark called ‘From the World of the Piano,’ and chose to limit his concert activities: as he wanted to spend as much time as possible with his family, he travelled only if his wife and son could accompany him.

He died in 1967, not long before his 68th birthday, leaving behind a significant number of recordings spanning a four-decade period. His first disc dates back to 1924 for the Nordisk Polyphon label – Chopin’s Berceuse and Valse Op.64 No.2 – and in 1925 he made his first record for HMV in England. Over the years he also recorded for Columbia, Sonora, and TONO, with several discs recorded by HMV and many of his performances being issued internationally on Mercury and Capitol.

His 1945 recording of Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto No.1 on the TONO label would for a time be the best-selling classical record in Denmark. It was apparently the first Danish recording of a piano concerto, but its popularity was largely due to the opening of the work being used in a Barbett razor blade commercial screened at all Danish cinemas around the time, leading the theme to be locally known as the ‘Barbett Concerto.’ (The first record of the 4-disc set sold about ten times as many copies as the entire set as a result of its use in the commercial.)

With several hours of recordings on a variety of international labels under his belt, Schiøler ought to be better known today, and yet with the exception of the release of two double-disc sets on the Danacord label from his home country, he has been largely ignored by the recording industry. All of his performances feature the qualities that are the signs of a truly great pianist: a rich vibrant sonority, a mindfully shaped singing line, attentive balance of harmonic support in lower registers (his chords are also beautifully voiced), rubato coordinated with musical architecture, and refined use of dynamic layering and pedalling. His recordings reveal style and individuality but never at the expense of the music – he seems to have always brought dignified discernment to his interpretations.

This 1929 recording of Schiøler playing two Scarlatti Sonatas arranged by Tausig – the once-popular Pastorale and Capriccio – captures the pianist’s beautifully burnished line in the treble register, precise and even articulation, judicious use of the pedal add an extra sheen to tonal colours, and marvellous sense of rhythm.

A fine example of Schiøler’s unerring good taste is this 1942 recording of Chopin’s famous A-Flat Major Polonaise Op.53, a work that is often delivered with bombast and self-centred virtuosity. In his reading, Schiøler does not shy away from power while emphasizing the nobility of conception and beauty of Chopin’s legendary work. What a full-bodied sonority, incisive rhythmic pulse, and transparent textures! Note how the bass sings through with great presence yet without obscuring the content of upper registers… superb!

Schiøler’s 1951 HMV recording of Liszt’s Piano Concerto No.1 (available on the first Danacord retrospective) features the same tasteful but thrilling playing, the Danish pianist’s sumptuous sonority, refined dynamic layers, and elegant phrasing all serving the musical content while still delivering excitement where the score calls for it.

Schiøler’s approach to the classical repertoire is no less mesmerizing, his glorious recording of Beethoven’s Sonata in C Minor Op.111 being a particularly fine example of his refined and noble artistry. His majestic phrasing, varied tonal palette, subtle nuancing, and magnificent voicing are a wonder to behold: particularly appealing is his manner of letting the bass sonority sing loudly without being brash or overpowering, without ever obscuring the melodic content (as is the case in the Chopin Polonaise featured above).

This film footage of Hansen from Danish television is a wonderful opportunity to see the pianist in action – and to hear him speak (all the better if you understand Danish). In this tribute to Schubert, the pianist first accompanies singer Ib Hansen in a reading of Der Wanderer before giving a brief lecture and launching into his own performance of Schubert’s Wanderer-Fantasie. Throughout, Schiøler demonstrates the same attention to tonal beauty, clarity of articulation, poised voicing, and fluidity of phrasing that characterizes all of his recorded performances.

The latest double-disc set from Danacord includes the pianist’s glorious 1956 traversal of Schumann’s Carnaval, a magnificent reading that captures to perfection the composition’s varied moods, with his long singing line, poised voicing, rhythmic bite, and marvellously proportioned rubato.

 

While it is a shame that Schiøler is not as lionized as many of his contemporaries, we are fortunate that at least some of his recordings are available on CD and via YouTube, and one hopes that a complete reissue of this fine artist’s performances will one day be produced. He is most certainly an artist worth hearing again and again in his many hours of recordings, all demonstrating truly intelligent, insightful, inspired pianism.