Posts Categorized: The Piano Files

It is a sad truth that there are many great pianists who never had the career that their artistry warranted. For some it was management, for others luck, and yet for others, there is the sad reality of medical issues.

The great Polish pianist Mieczysław Münz was one such pianist. A pupil of Leschetitzky’s assistant (and wife) Annette Essipova, Münz would go on to be part of Busoni’s inner circle. He created a strong impression in Berlin at the age of 20 when he played three concerted works in one evening (the Liszt E-Flat, the Brahms D Minor, and Franck’s Symphonic Variations). Shortly after his New York debut two years later, he decided to move to the US. A particularly memorable experience came in 1925 when Münz decided to attend Ethel Leginska’s recital at Carnegie Hall: when by 9pm she had not shown up, he offered to play instead and received multiple ovations for his “precision, grace and flexibility.”

Münz was in demand as a teacher. Josef Hofmann brought him to Curtis, and over the course of several decades he also taught in Cincinnati, New York, Baltimore, and Tokyo.
Alas, his career as a pianist would be more limited. In the early 1940s, focal dystonia in his right hand forced him to abandon playing.

There are very few recorded examples of his playing – he made far more piano rolls than disc recordings, and never recorded a large scale work in the studio. There is some silent film footage of him playing in 1929 that is fascinating to watch:

Yet while he would not play much for the last 30+ years of his life, he clearly was a magnificent performer and in demand. This October 17, 1940 concert performance of Mozart’s Piano Concerto No.20 in D Minor K.466 with Frank Black conducting the NBC Symphony Orchestra is a case in point: Münz was the first pianist invited for the inaugural series of concerts dedicated to the concerto repertoire (as per the announcer’s preamble before the concert). His playing is marvellous, and we can appreciate Münz’s wonderfully clear sonority, precise and even articulation, transparent voicing, and beautiful singing line. It is worth noting that Münz plays the Hummel cadenzas in the first and last movements, in addition to a Hummel Eingang at 1:42 in the finale.

The performance which follows may have been Münz’s final public appearance: a December 8, 1941 concert performance of Rachmaninoff’s Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini with the National Orchestral Association conducted by Leon Barzin. Münz’s style is different than the modern view of Romanticism, with a more chaste rubato and strongly defined line than one might hear today in works that often receive overly sentimental readings, yet there is plenty of emotion expressed through his tonal and dynamic shadings (notice how the two go hand-in-hand), as well as through his soaring phrasing.

While it is tragic that such a great pianist was silenced due to medical issues, his influence as a teacher was profound. He had a great number of successful students across the globe, among them Emanuel Ax, Felicja Blumenthal, Sara Davis Buechner, Rinaldo Reyes, and Ann Schein. Ax stated that “For me, simply no other teacher was necessary.” Sara Davis Buechner is effusive in her praise of Münz, having studied with him just over a year until his death in 1976: “I rather adored that man – he was the Dad I didn’t have enough time to get to know. Phenomenal musician and teacher. He gave off quite a Buddhistic aura, too, like he knew everything.”

Buechner describes Münz’s exercises (learned from Busoni) to make anything at the keyboard possible (‘magic tricks’): “He was a great proponent of rhythmic variants as thorough technical practice and training. Such exercises made the practicing of a two-minute Chopin etude take up to 2 hours, to go through thoroughly. And you understood that to master such a piece, you’d work on those rhythmic variants every day. That kind of slow, detailed work puts your mind into a Buddhistic zone of concentration, but it trains the fingers remarkably and the results are powerful. You can hear the easeful fluency in Münz’s playing… The point for me, as a pianist, is that when I faithfully executed Münz’s many technical exercises, I felt wholly secure at the piano, with the freedom to just interpret without even thinking about technical demands, on stage.” She describes his playing during lessons: “The tone just opened up and swallowed the room in velvet sonorities. The sound of his gigantic paws roaring out the finale of Chopin’s Third Sonata — my God, that was an orchestra. He made it all look easy.”

A man who led a difficult life – his wife leaving him for Artur Rubinstein, losing family in the Holocaust, and having his performing career end due to hand problems – Münz nevertheless relished his teaching and his students, as demonstrated, appreciated him tremendously. He is an artist whose name deserves to be remembered… and pronounced properly. To which end, an excerpt from the Florence Times Daily, Florence, Alabama USA, December 5, 1940:

It is not necessary to sneeze when you pronounce the name of Mieczyslaw Münz, the celebrated Polish pianist, who will appear at the Sheffield High School Auditorium at 8:15 o’clock tonight under the auspices of the Muscle Shoals Cooperative Concert Association. The pianist assures everyone that it is quite easy. The last name is pronounced “Mince,” like the well-known pie. The first name (it is the name of a Polish national hero, by the way) does offer some difficulty to American tongues, but this too becomes simpler upon analysis. “Mee-aich-chis-laff,” accented on the second syllable.

During the first visit of Münz to America — several years ago — one of his admirers who had mastered both pronounciations, was so carried away by the brilliant Münz art — and name, that he addressed his letter to the “Variations” column of the Musical Courier:

“Dear Variations:

I will not Münz matters, but come to the point at once. Mieczyslaw was soloist with the orchestra today, playing the difficult Liszt Piano Concerto in A major. It was pie for the boy — Münz pie. The most astonishing piece of Münzstrelsy heard in the state of Münz-sota in some time or I am greatly Münztaken.”

The Polish pianist, who knows English very well, took pen in hand:

“In spite of beseechings and hints
That plays upon words make me wince,
My friends take my name
And make puns on the same.
“Woe is me!” cried Mieczyslaw Münz.”

The Israeli-American pianist Natan Brand was one of the most fiery of pianists, a towering talent with a mercurial temperament that fuelled his impassioned conceptions. When he died in 1990 at the age of 46, he was known to a handful of musicians. In 1992, the APR label released a two-CD set of concert performances that garnered some rave reviews but which sold poorly, and in 2004, the label Palexa issued some of the same performances along with some other live recordings, and Brand’s name started to spread more. As the internet became more of a music-sharing resource, Brand became known to a wider audience than he had had in his lifetime.

What struck most listeners was Brand’s magnificent interpretations of Schumann. In particular, the complex Kreisleriana receives perhaps its most boldly inspired readings in the hands of Brand, with soaring phrasing, a glorious palette of tonal colours, and a simply massive sonority. Leonard Bernstein had heard the pianist play it at Tanglewood and proclaimed that Brand played it better than Horowitz. Years later when they met again, Bernstein immediately remembered Brand and his passionate playing. (It is worth noting that Horowitz had no greater fan than Brand, who would slide birthday cards and Christmas greetings under the legendary pianist’s door every year – Horowitz wrote back very cordial messages. The two never met.)

The released 1983 concert recording is indeed one of the most amazing performances of the work one could hope to hear:

On a trip to New York City in July 2014, I had the opportunity to visit Brand’s widow Lori, who was delighted to know that Brand’s name and interpretations are still known and admired. I was curious what other performances of this great pianist might exist, having heard from the producers of both the APR and Palexa sets that there was more and having obtained a few odd recordings here and there. As we chatted, Lori said, “I had all the videotapes of Natan transferred. Would you like to see some?” My jaw dropped – why had I not thought about the existence of filmed performances? Of course I wanted to see them!

We looked through a few of the videos, some of which were filmed practice sessions and lessons, but there were some live performances as well – the quality was not terrific overall, but of course the opportunity to see this pianist in action was worth it (I’m used to listening to ancient recordings, so I didn’t mind at all). Lori hoped that some of these could be shared with a wider public but wasn’t proficient at how to do it on YouTube. I offered to help and she was happy to share the videos with me. After my lunch appointment that day (and before my flight back home that evening), I returned armed with a portable hard drive and copied the bulk of the films.

Among the treasures therein are two that I believed were the top priority to share as soon as possible. The first is a filmed performance of the entire Kreisleriana (minus a few measures), a different concert performance from the one that was released on both APR and Palexa (some film footage of what appears to be that reading does exist, but it is incomplete). The original footage was quite dark and murky, and YouTube gave the options of brightening it somewhat, which creates a rather surreal colour palette that is not inconsistent with the otherworldly nature of Brand’s playing, but the benefit of seeing more of his hands and pedalling makes it worthwhile. Like commercially released recording, this performance is overflowing with passion:

The visual and audio quality of the next video are both infinitely better, and the contents will be of particular interest to Brand fans, as this features a composition of which no recording by the pianist is known to exist: Schumann’s Carnaval. This film is of a practice session in an auditorium in which Brand reads through most of the work, and there are some terrific shots of his hands. It is remarkable to see how he can bring such power into a single finger to produce such an enormous sound without ever sacrificing the quality of tone or the legato line (his reading of the ‘Chopin’ section just after the 14-minute mark is divine). It is most unfortunate that his reading of the entire work was not filmed (and we’re looking into whether there is a complete audio recording of Brand playing it). Nevertheless, what follows here is a treat both for admirers of Brand and all fans of great Romantic piano playing:

These are some highlights of what is a more extensive archive of Brand performances than has been publicly available. Stay tuned to this website and our Facebook page for more Natan Brand videos and for other news related to his recordings and future CD releases as we seek to preserve and share the legacy of this unique musician.

Benjamin Grosvenor’s new album ‘Dances’ launches on August 4, 2014 in the UK and a few weeks later in North America. I am delighted to have had the opportunity to write the booklet notes for this CD, which features a wonderful array of piano music inspired by various dance forms, from Bach through to Morton Gould. The program:

Bach, Johann Sebastian
Partita No. 4, BWV828
1 I. Overture
2 II. Allemande
3 III. Courante
4 IV. Aria
5 V. Sarabande
6 VI. Menuet
7 VII. Gigue

Chopin, Frédéric
Andante spianato et grande polonaise brillante in E-flat major, Op. 22
8 I. Andante spianato in G major
9 II. Grande polonaise brillante in E-flat major

Chopin, Frédéric
10 Polonaise no.5 in F sharp Minor Op. 44

Scriabin, Alexander
Ten Mazurkas Op. 3
11 No. 6
12 No.4
13 No.9

Scriabin, Alexander
14 Valse in Ab major Op. 38

Granados, Enrique
Valses Poeticos
15 Preludio: Vivace molto
16 I. Melodioso
17 II.Tempo de Vals noble
18 III. Tempo de Vals lento
19 IV. Allegro humoristico
20 V. Allegretto (elegante)
21 VI. Quasi ad libitum (sentimental)
22 VII. Vivo
23 VIII. Presto

Schulz-Evler, Adolf
24 Concert Arabesques on themes by Johann Strauss, “By The Beautiful Blue Danube”

Albeniz, Isaac arr. Godowsky, Leopold
25 Tango, Op.165, No.2

Gould, Morton
26 Boogie Woogie Etude

Decca have kindly agreed to allow subscribers to The Piano Files an exclusive sneak preview of the album with a free download of a digital bonus track. Grosvenor recorded more music than can fit on a conventional 80-minute CD, so there are a couple of bonus tracks available for download if purchasing a deluxe edition of the album on iTunes (after the release date). Subscribers to this page are offered a free mp3 download of Grosvenor’s thrilling reading of Liszt’s ‘Gnomenreigen’. You can listen here:

If you go to the link below, you can sign up for a Benjamin Grosvenor mailing list in order to receive a download link to the track (you can unsubscribe after the first email and you don’t need to opt in to the other newsletters on the page):

Download link

Enjoy the recording, and do check out the album – brilliant piano playing of a wide range of repertoire!

It is always interesting how some pianists’ reputations continue to grow after their death while others’ do not. The French pianist Alfred Cortot, for example, is still known by present-day piano lovers more than 50 years after his death – doubtless due not only to the great number of recordings he made but also the marvellous editions he produced of scores by Chopin and other great composers. And yet other pianists who were his colleagues and fine artists themselves have names that are all but forgotten.

One of these is Robert Lortat. He was, like Cortot, a student of Louis Diémer at the Paris Conservatoire, and was also a friend of Fauré’s, performing many of that composer’s works yet strangely not recording a note of his music. He did record Chopin, however, putting down a cycle of the Etudes Opp.10 and 25 a couple of years before Cortot recorded his legendary sets. Lortat’s readings demonstrate a sense of adventurous and impulsiveness that he shared with Cortot yet with impressive technical precision and other admirable individual touches.

After some poor reissues of his recordings in the 1990s (the Etudes were badly pitched), there is a new release of some of his great Chopin playing on the Canadian DoReMi label that features some of his impressive recordings. His Chopin Preludes – presented below from an earlier reissue – are marvellous, featuring his full-bodied tonal palette, rhythmic drive, clear lines, interesting asynchronization of the hands, imaginative voicing, and some very impulsive touches despite a polished technique – exciting, musical playing by an artist well worth rediscovering!

The celebrated British pianist Benjamin Grosvenor has released the second CD in his much-publicized contract with Decca. After last year’s critically lauded solo disc featuring compositions by Chopin, Liszt, and Ravel, his new release focuses on works for piano and orchestra, giving listeners at home an opportunity to hear Grosvenor performing with an instrumental ensemble, in this case the Royal Liverpool Philharmonic conducted by James Judd.

The choice of works and presentation of the disc as a whole is an unusual one: Saint-Säens’ Second Piano Concerto, Ravel’s G Major Concerto, and Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue, each followed by a solo ‘encore’ by the respective composers. The Ravel is an interesting bridge between the two works – he was French like Saint-Säens and his Concerto includes jazzy elements at times similar to Gershwin – but as an overall flow it is not the kind of programming that would necessarily encourage all-at-once listening, nor is a quieter solo composition after each larger concerted work ideal on the ear, with their different sound levels having one reaching for the volume control.

Personally, I’d have loved to hear the Saint-Säens with the Liszt Second that Grosvenor performed so magnificently at last year’s Proms, as well as with the Schumann Concerto (I’ve heard a stellar broadcast performance that was astonishingly mature). Whatever the reason for the repertoire choices, entitling the disc ‘Rhapsody in Blue’ when the Gershwin is the shortest concerted work featured seems a bit misguided, since all of the works here are equally worth hearing. However, when presented with what are profound and dazzling interpretations of great music, such objections and considerations are soon overlooked.

Grosvenor’s style, as I commented when reviewing his solo disc last year, blends an unusual degree of refinement and precision with old-school impulsiveness and ‘edge’. Regardless of the work he is performing, his sound is beautifully polished and refined, even at its loudest never becoming hard (the promotional videos filmed during sessions give the impression of brittleness, no doubt due to the mic’ing on the video cameras), and his phrasing is elegantly crafted, always with a sense of line and forward momentum.

The Saint-Säens is newer in Grosvenor’s repertoire – it seems hardly coincidental that the CD was released the same week that he performed the work at the Proms (surely a sign of Decca’s marketing machine at work). If this is a concerto that he hasn’t played as often as the Ravel (which he has performed since age 11), Grosvenor has clearly given his interpretation much thought and consideration – not that his playing seems to lack spontaneity or impetuousness. If midway through the first movement he opts for some stronger accents than I might have liked, the playing is never less than musical or effective. The first-movement cadenza is remarkable for its poetic phrasing, brought about in part by masterful pedalling and magnificent tone production. In the second movement, Grosvenor achieves great buoyancy while maintaining clear voicing and sparkling tone, while the finale features tremendous drive and the sense of risk-taking despite the phrasing never being uneven and tone never being harsh. Truly thrilling playing.

Ravel’s brilliant Concerto in G (1932) receives here one of its finest recorded interpretations. Grosvenor is the only pianist other than the legendary Michelangeli who I have heard create the uncanny effect of somehow enunciating the trills in the first movement such that one appears to hear notes between the semitones, like a zither or musical saw. He navigates through the first movement’s lyrical and virtuosic passages with a seamlessness that is stunning. The sense of flow in the second movement is impressive, with long lines and unobtrusive articulation, and the rapidly paced third movement poses no technical or musical challenge for Grosvenor as he brings the concerto to an exciting close.

For the disc’s title work Rhapsody in Blue, Grosvenor and members of the Royal Liverpool Philharmonic – who provide admirable support throughout the disc but especially here – use the original 1924 orchestration by Gershwin’s colleague Ferde Grofé (which can be heard in the composer’s own abridged recording made the same year). The atmosphere in this more compact version is even more free-wheeling than usual, and here Grosvenor demonstrates that he is a master of whatever work he chooses to perform: an extraordinarily sensitive and refined an artist in ‘serious’ repertoire, he brings a jazzier, more popular work like this to life without lowering his musical or pianistic standards. Grosvenor unaffectedly fuses the work’s unique combination of jazzy and classical elements, with infectious vitality in his rhythmic drive, incredibly suave sensuality in lyrical passages, and crisply articulated passages flawlessly contrasted with fluidly phrased melodic lines. The measures leading into the famous secondary theme near the 9:30-mark may be the silkiest, most beguiling on record, and the subsequent rapid-fire repeated notes are technically brilliant while retaining purity of tone. This performance without a doubt ranks among the all-time greats.

The solo ‘encores’ presented between the major works are no less impressive. Godowsky’s arrangement of Saint-Säens’ The Swan is a perfect showpiece for Grosvenor, whose transcendent technique and Romantic sensibility enable him to bring out the transcription’s full potential: a primary melodic line that soars above the accompanying tracery, melting harmonies beautifully layered yet audible, timing wonderfully pliant and expansive. Ravel’s rarely-played Prelude in A Minor receives an exquisite reading that finds the composer’s experimental harmonies beautifully highlighted through Grosvenor’s delicate phrasing. The final solo, Gershwin’s Love Walked In, is one this young pianist has played for years. The trills, the balance of harmonies, and the incredibly supple phrasing are a marvel and provide a gorgeous closing to Grosvenor’s latest offering.

In short, this disc features performances as glorious as one could hope for. There is no doubt that the CD will be showered with justly-deserved praise, and hopefully sales will encourage the decision makers at Decca to record Grosvenor even more frequently, as one disc a year isn’t nearly enough for an artist of this calibre.

Alfred Cortot’s name is sometimes uttered with disdain for his technical ability at the keyboard. It is indeed a fact that some of Cortot’s performances have wrong notes, something that our sanitized ears today are not used to in an age of digital editing and soulless perfection aimed more at satisfying competition juries than touching the heart of a listener. Certainly one need not aim for wrong notes in order to imbue a performance with passion, but if in the heat of the moment a performer misses a note, should the interpretation be discounted and the pianist’s skill be called into question? I think not.

As was clearly articulated in Harold C Schonberg’s classic tome ‘The Great Pianists’, Cortot was an active teacher, school administrator, active performer, and prolific recording artist – with all this on his plate, how much time did he have to practice? There is no doubt as to his well-grounded technical capacity when one merely glances at his book of piano exercises, ‘Principes Rationnels de la Technique Pianistique’, or his study editions for great keyboard works of Chopin, Schumann, and Liszt, which contain brilliant exercises designed to make performances of these works easier on a physical level (in addition to adding great insight on other levels of awareness).

Indeed, Cortot’s digital dexterity was so brilliant that Horowitz made a trip to Paris hoping to learn the French master’s fingering for the treacherous ‘Etude en Forme de Valse’ of Saint-Saens, his 1919 recording of which the young Russian pianist had heard. (Cortot did not tell him.) Here is that amazing performance:

Unfortunately, while one can appreciate the great Cortot’s digital wizardry, there is less of an opportunity to recognize the beauty of his tone in these early recordings, which were made using the acoustical recording process (whereby a paper horn as opposed to a microphone captured the performance). From 1925, recording techniques improved considerably (microphones came into use), and in 1931 Cortot recorded the same work again – still brilliant fingerwork, though perhaps not quite as seamless, but with that gorgeous, rich mahogany tone that is instantly recognizable:

Despite a few splashy moments, the performance is brilliant on many levels. One accepts Cortot’s wrong notes, as Schonberg wrote, ‘as one accepts scars or defects in a painting by an old master’: it is worth experiencing a work of art so beautifully expressed even if there are a few superficial flaws.

In the 1930s, Cortot recorded a great many of Chopin’s works, among them the Sonatas, Etudes, Waltzes, and Impromptus. His recording of the Third Impromptu – hardly the most commonly played of Chopin’s works – has always struck me as one of his greatest and as the most successful of the work, with soaring phrasing, remarkably fluid timing that fits with the structure of the unusual figurations, and a varied tonal palette. This is the kind of playing that reflects the depth of Cortot’s essence:

Cortot recorded so many of Chopin’s works that one has the mistaken impression that he recorded them all. But while he recorded the Sonatas, Etudes, Preludes, and Waltzes multiple times over the course of three decades, in addition to a few other works, he did not record the complete Scherzi, Polonaises, or Nocturnes (Artur Rubinstein did) – although according to one discographer he made attempts at all of the Scherzi and Polonaises in the 1940s and the complete Nocturnes in the 1950s. My source at EMI France – a great Cortot fan himself – assures me that no traces of any of these exist in the archives.

Which brings us to the point of this post: a rare recording made in his twilight years while on tour of Japan of a work he regrettably did not record earlier. In 1952, Cortot gave an extensive tour of Japan that involved 18 performances in 13 cities, with four different programs. These photos of the elegant program booklet (photos copyrighted – credits at bottom of post) show that among the works he played was Gaspard de la Nuit, a work of which no Cortot recording has been found. (He did in fact record it at the same 1939 EMI session that brought us the wonderful Weber Second Sonata, but it was never issued, the masters have been destroyed, and no copies have been located.) Apparently it was obvious to even the less musical listeners that the treacherous ‘Gaspard’ was beyond the aging pianist’s capacity, though it would still be fascinating to hear if a broadcast recording were ever to turn up.

During this visit, Cortot spent two days at RCA Victor’s studios in Tokyo making a series of records that were only issued in that country. There is no doubt that he was past his prime, and the recordings feature playing with less cohesiveness than his earlier performances, but there is some value to be found in some of them. This series of discs has been issued twice on CD in Japan, the more recent issue featuring fine transfers from the original source material. Of particular interest is Cortot’s recording of Chopin’s Second Scherzo, which despite a few splashy moments and occasionally less fluid phrasing than was his norm at his peak, features some very poetic playing and gives us an idea of how he might have played the work in his younger years. (The Third Scherzo, sadly, is tough even for Cortot admirers to sit through.)

Listening to this performance might make us wish that he had recorded it a couple of decades earlier – hearing the Third Impromptu above gives us insight into how he might have played this Scherzo in the 1930s. How wonderful nevertheless to be able to hear him in this work, even if his playing was a shadow of his former glory.

To leave with a perhaps more unified impression of his art, here is what might be the last solo recording that exists of the artist: a 1957 Munich radio broadcast of Chopin’s Berceuse Op.57, in which his rich, penetrating tone and evocative pedalling help him create a truly wonderful dream world.

Photos of Japanese concert programme courtesy of Sumie Ueno, retired seasonal lecturer from the Osaka College of Music. Program courtesy of Hiroshi Fukuda, Professor Emeritus from Hiroshima Prefectural Women’s University. Thanks to Chihiro Homma for making these available for this posting.

Rudolf Firkušný had the air of a warm-hearted diplomat. His elegant demeanour and refined presence came through both his playing and his interactions with the people in his life. The Czech pianist studied with the composers Suk and Janáček in his native land, and with the great pianists Alfred Cortot and Artur Schnabel, a combination which helped him fuse his love for the music of his country and European classics with an aristocratic and noble air.

As a pianist he had a wide repertoire that ranged from Mozart, Beethoven and Schubert through to the more Romantic Chopin and Brahms, and into the 20th Century with Debussy and as far forward as Barber. And yet more of his fame was due to his dedicated diligence in promoting the music of his Czech compatriots Smetana, Dvořák, Janáček (whose complete piano works he recorded), and Martinů (who wrote a number of works for him).

In his performances of music from his native land, he fuses impeccable charm and brio with his masterful technique to bring to life some lovely vignettes, as in this performance of Smetana’s Czech Dance No.10, “Skočná”.

But while artists could be in danger of being typecast as a performer of music from their country, Firkušný was recognized as a distinguished performer of the standard repertoire as well. His resonant piano tone, probing rhythmic pulse, and peaked phrasing brought everything under his fingers to life. His 1959 recording of Chopin’s Piano Sonata in B Minor, Op.58 reveals these qualities in his playing, with a strong sense of line and inner momentum.

Firkušný was remarkably human. As a teacher in New York (he had escaped there from Europe in 1940 and stayed there for the rest of his life), he exuded warmth and true concern for the well-being of his students. Sara Davis Buechner states that he was a “warm, encouraging mentor with a beautiful smile and gentle laugh” who was the epitome of aristocracy. “He was as affable and charming in person as he was commandingly noble on stage.” In his lessons, Buechner recalls, “he spoke to me in a relaxed manner as a colleague and that elevated our dialogue to the highest and most important level.”

This level of respect and connection in his personal life seems to have extended to the connection he forged with his listeners and with the composers whose music he played. Never does he appear to play a note that is less than important, and yet nothing sounds cold or academic, his tone always being beautifully burnished and his phrases as impeccably presented as he was in person. Later in life he played with a level of conviction and precision that belied his age. This 1989 concert recording of Schubert’s Klavierstücke No.1 D.946 is brimming over with an inner propulsion that never interferes with the lyrical phrasing, beautiful tone, and architectural and harmonic structure.

For all the distinguished nobility that Firkušný brought to the concert platform, his down-to-earth humanity was ever-present – he apparently had a fondness of Burger King Whoppers. In 1990, at the age of 78, he appeared in a Nike TV commercial with David Robinson in which he clearly excelled at piano and not at basketball. His rationale for his good-natured appearance? “I think it was good that for once serious music was put together with sports. Music needs all kinds of encouragement.”

In the hands of Rudolf Firkušný, music was indeed encouraged. His performances seem to have been propelled by an inner force such that they never seemed externally driven, giving phrasing a suppleness and enabling him to maintain a full-bodied tone. He was a favourite with audiences and critics alike. Alas, upon his death his name seemed to fade, and there is now a younger generation who seems less aware of his legacy. It is to be hoped that an enterprising producer will reissue his recordings (EMI had a Firkušný Edition in the 1990s) to help give his artistry the recognition it so clearly deserves.

Benno Moiseiwitsch was an aristocratic pianist : he had flair. Despite his poker-faced demeanour at the keyboard, he brought warmth, elegance, and beauty of colour to his interpretations. Born in 1890 in Odessa, Benno always had a dry disposition and modest character, as exemplified by a conversation one morning over breakfast when his parents asked their nine-year-old son who had won the prestigious Rubinstein Prize at the Imperial School of Music the previous day. “I did,” the young lad replied, his mouth full of egg.

Moiseiwitsch emigrated to England and toured all over the world, eventually becoming friends with his exiled compatriot Sergei Rachmaninoff. The two hit it off, bonding over a shared understanding of one of Rachmaninoff’s compositions, as Moiseiwitsch recounts in this interview later in his life:

Moiseiwitsch’s mastery of Rachminoff’s idiom is evident from the wonderful recording he made of this work in 1940, with a beautiful tonal range that included a brooding bass and rich singing treble, an uncanny ability to balance voicing between hands, and an unusual melting effect he creates that adds even more melancholy to his performance:

Fortunately, Moiseiwitsch made many recordings, and they are being issued systematically on the Naxos label for incredibly reasonable prices and in the best possible sound. One of the most famous – and justly so – is his performance of Rachmaninoff’s transcription for piano of the ‘Scherzo’ from Mendelssohn’s ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream.’ It is a treacherous work that requires phenomenal fingerwork to play successfully. In the early days of recording, choosing what work to record was subject to many conditions, not least of which was what other performances had been issued on other labels. Because Rachmaninoff had already recorded the work on RCA, Moiseiwitsch’s label HMV (the UK sister-label to RCA) was reluctant to record a performance that would compete with the composer’s own. One day, at the end of a recording session, the producer informed Moiseiwitsch that he’d completed his session with some time left on the clock and suggested recording a short work to keep on reserve. The pianist, being quite tired, didn’t particularly want to play anything else – and he’d already started putting the collar back on his shirt (as one did in the day) – so he suggested the Rachmaninoff Mendelssohn arrangement, thinking the producer would refuse. The producer called his bluff and accepted on condition that Benno make only one take – thinking of course that the pianist couldn’t do it and so they wouldn’t have to issue the recording. (In those days, works were recorded in one 5-minute segment, unedited. Rachmaninoff made at least six takes of the work in his sessions to produce a version that satisfied him.) The pianist no doubt smirked at the challenge, sat down, and made the most flawless recording of his career: a resonant tone even in soft passages, remarkably even fingerwork, and incredible consistency of articulation and speed. It is considered better than the composer’s own performance and Benno himself stated that he thought it was his greatest recording.

Moiseiwitsch’s demeanour at the piano was one of immovable certainty. We live today in an age of exaggerated showmanship, where many less cultivated pianists believe that they must show their emotions rather than convey them through their playing. This illustration of Moiseiwitsch shows the extent to which his controlled appearance was well-known, showing the same facial expression for 16 different tempo markings in a piece of music.

A treasure of recorded pianism comes in the form of a 1954 BBC broadcast, fortunately preserved and finally released on DVD (though as an appendix to a disc devoted to another artist). The work is the treacherous Liszt arrangement of Wagner’s Tannhauser Overture, a work so challenging that the composer himself used to take a break midway through. The performance here is shot with one camera that zooms in slowly over the course of the 15 minutes, and one can watch in amazement as the 64-year-old Moiseiwitsch overcomes the considerable technical hurdles of the piece without a single grimace. While it may not be note-perfect by today’s standards, one will not find a performance today that has this level of tonal range, grandeur, and abandon (and every commercial recording you hear will be made up of multiple edits sliced together). Never an unnecessary movement (some of the more dramatic arm drops are for tone production) – pure economy of gesture, but a full emotional range! And at the end, a farewell message that demonstrates his suave character. A gentleman and aristocrat.

We live today in an age of exaggerated showmanship, where many less cultivated pianists believe that they must demonstrate emotion rather than convey it directly through their playing. The demeanour of Benno Moiseiwitsch was, by contrast, one of unpretentious certainty: he was an aristocratic pianist who, despite his poker-faced appearance at the keyboard, brought warmth, elegance, beauty of colour, and depth of emotion to his interpretations.

The illustration on the right shows the extent to which his controlled appearance was well-known, the great Russian pianist depicted with the same facial expression for 9 different tempo markings commonly found in music. Not that he ever played a composition the same way, but his appearance did not reveal what he was communicating – that was for your ears to hear. With a career that spanned half a century and many hours of recordings made over nearly the same period, Moiseiwitsch was a pianist whose artistry has stood the test of time and is still very much appreciated today.

Humble beginnings

Benjuma Moiseiwitsch was born in 1890 in Odessa, the birthplace of so many great pianists (Cherkassky, Barere, Grinberg, Pouishnoff, de Pachmann, and Feinberg, for example). His was a large family – 6 brothers and 2 sisters – and it was his mother who first became aware of his musical talent. When the boy was spontaneously playing melodies on the piano, she told him that there was a way to read the songs he liked at the piano and asked if he’d like to learn – and the answer was an enthusiastic yes. He could recognize and articulate the emotional character of music to the degree that his mother decided he must have a better teacher. His father put him to a test that might have been a first step in developing the confidence he demonstrated on stage: if he were to agree to pay for lessons, Benno had to play him something, but he began to do so nervously. His father told him that he needed to play confidently: “Play that piece again and this time forget that I am judging you. I am of no consequence if what you say is right and you believe in it.” Benno’s second performance was altogether different, convincing his father to arrange for his private lessons to start the next week.

Dedicated individuality

The young boy’s confidence was now such that his teacher soon complained that he played things that weren’t written and not always the same way. The young Benno argued, “You can say things different ways, can’t you? The same words can have different expression. It’s dull doing them always the same way… Some things seem to be me different on different days.” When his father argued that the composer put certain things in the score for a reason, Benno mindfully answered, “But he’s different from me. He may have felt it one way; I feel it my own way. I would like to play always just the way I feel is right.”

This does not mean that the young musician did not recognize that there was more to music than his personal sense. When he first started playing Mozart, he was aware that something was missing in his approach. Benno found Mozart’s music to be like a man skating on ice: “He makes figures, and the figures get more and more complicated; but he does it all for a reason.” The family entered into a great debate as to which approach he should take, his engineer brother suggesting he just let the music play itself, his mother feeling the emotion was the key. The next morning Benno’s playing woke up the whole family – the maturing musician had figured it out.

For all his dedication to his craft, Benno’s combination of nonchalance and good humour was a predominant characteristic trait from a young age – not always to his advantage. He got in trouble early on for making fun of his first piano teacher (he composed little ditties that imitated how he spoke) and in school he was constantly being reprimanded for his practical jokes. But he certainly excelled in his schoolwork with a casualness that belied his family’s more emotional nature. When he was at the breakfast table and his parents asked who had won the prestigious Rubinstein Prize at the Imperial School of Music the previous day, the young lad replied, between bites, “Oh, I forgot to tell you – I did!” His apparent indifference was in stark contrast to the emotional eruptions that ensued amongst the family. He had won for his “brilliant and individual playing,” qualities already evident at the beginning of his lessons and that would be hallmarks of his performances for decades to come.

An impresario came soon after expressing interest in a tour but Benno’s father quickly saw a flaw in his approach that led to the family’s initial enthusiasm changing tone: the pianist was booked on the basis of his prize win but the agent didn’t ask to hear him play. “He’s not really interested in my son. He’s interested in a newspaper story.” And so Benjuma’s performing career would be somewhat delayed – as was his schooling. While Benno was still getting in trouble as a practical joker, things took a more serious turn when he was falsely accused of a more serious indiscretion – which, for a change, was actually not his doing – and as a result he was expelled. The 15-year-old was sent with his eldest brother to London to apply to the Royal Academy of Music – but once there, he was not admitted because he was too advanced! But the trip was not without merit, as the head of the school – one Dr Cummings – was considerate enough to refer him to the great Theodor Leschetizky in Vienna.

Studies with Leschetizky

Benno’s uncle Sasha – his sister’s husband – arranged for the teen to play for the legendary master in Vienna but his first audition did not go well. Benno had chosen to include Chopin’s Revolutionary Etude, but the master was hardly complimentary: “I can play this better with my left foot. There are a hundred delicate nuances in the piece which you’ve sacrificed for effect. I don’t want bravura or exhibitionism.” He told Benno to go practice for a couple of months and to return when he’d “mastered real control.”

Although Benno was dejected, Uncle Sasha astutely pointed out, “We haven’t come all the way from London to Vienna in order to be told that you play perfectly. What would be the point – from a teacher?” Encouraged by his uncle’s wisdom, Benno worked eight hours a day for the following two months and when he went to play for Leschetizky again, he was immediately accepted: “You’re no longer a ‘gifted amateur,’ young man. You’re beginning to hear yourself seriously.”

Benno’s four years with Leschetizky formed him as an artist, teaching him to listen to himself accurately. In an interview decades later, Moiseiwitsch stated that the Viennese master’s reputation as a great teacher of technique was not quite precise: “With him, it was colour, and he tried to instil musicianship into the artist … naturally you have to have a certain technique as a means to an end, and that he kept emphasizing.” Leschetizky also encouraged this particular “natural-born Romantic” to approach different composers with the appropriate mood, which led to Benno playing with a more detached, less sentimental style. His natural tendency had been to “see music in emotional terms – storms at sea, great dramas, sad events, tender love, lingering farewells, and so on. [Leschetizky] corrected this tendency and at the same time gave my playing an extra dimension, an awareness or recognition of what may be called intellectual passion.”

Beginning his career

When Leschetizky decided he had nothing more to teach Moiseiwitsch – that anything else he needed he had to learn on his own – the young Russian man joined his family in London to arrange his debut. They knew nothing about how to go about this and wryly noted that the only people going to debuts were “relatives and enemies.” Uncle Sasha suggested Benno’s scientific brother John approach the problem with his unique perspective and he came back with a solution: that the pianist give a joint recital with an established artist – one who was not a pianist. The one they decided upon was the famous singer Dame Nellie Melba, who appears to have been very impressed by the young pianist at the social event at which they were introduced. It appears that this joint recital took place before a small audience in Reading on October 1, 1908.

Benno’s own actual solo debut took place at the Bechstein Hall (now Wigmore Hall) on February 8, 1910: he had programmed a few ‘easier’ pieces early on in order to let himself get comfortable, which was a good idea as he was immediately struck by the strong lights, which led him to perspire a great deal. The programme was quite an impressive one: Bach’s Chromatic Fantasia and Fugue, Beethoven’s Appassionata Sonata, Schumann’s Carnaval, Chopin’s Sonata in B Minor, and Brahms’ Paganini Variations (a selection he would repeat 25 years later at a concert at the London Palladium celebrating his quarter century on the stage). The concert went very well, the reviews the next day were very positive, and Moiseiwitsch’s career was launched. That year, he would give his first Promenade concert under the baton of its founder, Sir Henry Wood, and he would be a favourite of the series, playing a total of 95 times from his first invitation through to 1962, the year before he died.

In 1914 Moiseiwitsch married Australian violinist Daisy Kennedy. The two were a fine match not only because of their musical abilities but due to their sense of humour and a range of character traits. They had been introduced in Vienna by friends who thought they would make a fine couple and they hit it off from the get-go. They had two daughters (Tanya [1914-2003] and Sandra [1922-1996]) but the couple drifted apart: Benno enjoyed going out in the evenings to meet his friends, and Daisy had given up her performing career for family life. She began to meet with a different circle of friends, through whom she met and then fell in love with English playwright and poet John Drinkwater.

Their divorce was a blow to Moiseiwitsch, who abstained from dating for some time, despite many suitors. His approach to relationships, while definitely rooted in older traditions, was still philosophical and musical in nature: “One tries to make a work of art with a human relationship, which is after all the most sacred thing there is. Sometimes it can only promise to be a minor work… but one thing one learns from experience is that all preconceived notions as to how to play the score are useless.” He eventually met his second wife, Anita, whom he would marry in China in 1929 and whose son Boris [b.1932] became a New Zealand broadcaster. Benno remained very devoted to Anita until her death from cancer early in 1956 – a loss from which he would never fully recover.

Worldwide success

Moiseiwitsch would remain in England and tour all over the world for decades: at least twenty visits to the US, six to Australia and New Zealand, four to South America, three to the Far East, and he was very warmly received by audiences and critics alike. Publicity material from his agents in the 1920s state that “Minneapolis is hardly notorious for its excitability but the ovation accorded Moiseiwitsch there on his last American tour resembled a riot. Even after the great pianist had played innumerable encores, the crowd followed him to his car, and the press of the excited, milling mob was so terrific that the windows of his car were broken in.”

Strangely, Benno was never invited as soloist with the New York Philharmonic, although he gave frequent performances in the city (his US debut was at Carnegie Hall, and his recitals there featured some jaw-dropping programming). How a pianist who was as respected by Hofmann (who invited him to be on the faculty at the Curtis Institute) and Rachmaninoff should not be invited by the major symphony orchestra in a city he regularly played in is virtually incomprehensible.

It was in fact in New York – in 1919 – that he would first meet his idol Rachmaninoff, whose music he loved and played with great success. He was in awe of his older compatriot, who also admired Moiseiwitsch’s playing of his music, and the two developed a tight bond when they discussed a work of the famed composer that it turned out was a favourite of both musicians. Moiseiwitsch recounts the tale in this interview filmed in the last decade of his life:

 

Moiseiwitsch’s mastery of Rachmaninoff’s idiom is evident in all of his recordings of the composer’s works – indeed, Rachmaninoff called him his “spiritual heir.” His 1940 recording of the Prelude that forged their connection is truly marvellous: his magnificent tonal palette includes a brooding bass and rich singing treble, and he balances voicing between hands with remarkable skill, creating a melting effect with his emphasis and phrasing that adds even more melancholy to his performance.

 

Having lived in London for so many years, Benno became a British citizen in 1937 and was made Commander of the Order of the British Empire (CBE) in 1946 for his active role in playing not only at Dame Myra Hess’s wartime concerts at the National Gallery but also some 800 other performances for servicemen and charities.

In addition to his professional activities and family life, he enjoyed fine dining, horse races, and poker. Jascha Spivakovsky’s son Michael recalls that when Moiseiwitsch visited the family in Melbourne in the 1950s, he practiced on the music room Steinway with the racing papers propped up on the chair next to him. Benno also regularly played cards with his friend and colleague Solomon, whose career had come to an untimely end due to a stroke in 1956.

Having a discerning appreciation of cigars and drink (creme de menthe was apparently his secret weapon for playing the 19th variation of Rachmaninoff’s Rhapsody so well), Benno’s health was not always robust and heart issues became more troublesome in the last decade of his life, at which time some lapses in his previously flawless pianistic precision became evident; his exhausting schedule was also beginning to catch up with him. However, he could still pull out the stops and play tremendously well, as he did at his last Royal Festival Hall performance of March 6, 1963, when he gave a rousing performance of Beethoven’s Emperor Concerto (issued by the BBC) that demonstrates undiminished strength and sensitivity. He died less than a month later, on April 9, 1963 at the age of 73.

Moiseiwitsch’s pianism

Fortunately, Moiseiwitsch made a great many recordings and they are being issued systematically on the Naxos label at very reasonable prices and in wonderful sound. Having set down recordings over a fifty-year period – plus a great many unofficial concert performances having been issued – Moiseiwitsch has a more comprehensive recorded legacy than many of his contemporaries and he is one of the most satisfying pianists on record. His performances are overflowing with elegant phrasing, creative highlighting of melodic and harmonic content, exquisitely refined nuancing, and magnificent tonal colours, appreciable even in earlier discs with much less sonic fidelity than those made later in his career.

His technique was utterly remarkable but also completely transparent, dexterity never a goal unto itself but always at the service of the music: as he said in a 1950 essay entitled ‘Playing in the Grand Style’, “technical matters … can be learned at any hour of the day. The problem facing the young pianist is not how to play faster and louder, but how to play music in moving and musicianly fashion. This he can accomplish by breaking away from a preoccupation with mechanics, and by concentrating earnestly, devotedly, independently upon musical thought- as was the habit in the ‘grand’ days.”

Moiseiwitsch did not win over all critics, however: at times his patrician approach was too cool for those who wished for more overt displays of passion, as in his traversals of Tchaikovsky’s First and Second Piano Concertos. There was an added factor due to which Moiseiwitsch seemed not to garner respect from all: in the UK, his HMV records were issued on the Plum label, reserved for local artists, and there were those who saw it instead as signifying that he was not a performer of international standing – which of course was far from the truth.

The pianist’s poised interpretations are a result of a wonderful balance of intelligence and emotion, a point he articulated quite beautifully in the aforementioned essay: “I am startled, occasionally, to find “intelligence” used as the antithesis of “feeling”, as though the two played against each other. Nothing could be further from the truth. No intelligent interpretation is lacking in emotional values. What this probably means is that, depending on gifts and degree of maturity, some natures emphasize brain over heart. Where such an imbalance occurs, it must be corrected by conscious and concentrated application to emotional content. If an interpretation is unduly cerebral, liveness and colour can be infused into it by attention to whether the theme is now in the right hand, now in the left; whether it is supported by an accompaniment which has significance of its own, or merely hums along.”

Moiseiwitsch began making records in 1916 and was with the HMV label until 1961, when he produced three stereo discs for Decca while in New York, records which were noted by some critics to show signs of imprecision and aging; nevertheless, these do feature some fine playing (they are certainly more stable than most of Cortot’s later recordings) and present him in some works that he had not previously recorded, such as Schumann’s Carnaval and Beethoven’s Les Adieux Sonata.

His earliest records consist mostly of shorter compositions that fit on one side of a 78rpm disc (between 4 and 5 minutes), although he did attempt what would have been the world premiere recording of Chopin’s Preludes across several discs but it was not to be: he made attempts at the set in 1921, 1922, and 1924, but none of these takes were issued and he would not actually set down an account until 1948/49 – about a quarter century after his first attempt (as it turns out, it’s one of the greatest cycles on record – though the contemporary Gramophone review was rather tepid in its assessment).

One wonderful early acoustical (pre-microphone) recording is reading below of two works rarely heard today, Palmgren’s Finnish Dance and Leschetizky’s Arabesque in A-Flat, put on disc on September 19, 1921. (It’s interesting that his name is spelled ‘Moiséivitch’ on the label, as it was on a few early records.)

 

Once electrical technology (i.e. the use of the microphone) came into effect in 1925, Moiseiwitsch began recording a few longer compositions, setting down readings of Schumann’s Kinderszenen and Brahms’ Variations on a Theme of Handel in 1930 (he’d attempted the latter twice in 1925 – once acoustically, the second electrically, but neither issued and no copies of these have been found). The latter is in particular a stunning performance (his 1953 version is stupendous as well), filled with fire that is tempered by his refined phrasing and beauty of tone: he never sacrifices purity of sound for power, creating a booming effect in the bass by producing a deep but not loud sonority with a texture so transparent that travels through all registers, resulting in a greater sense of strength and grandeur that many lesser pianists attempt to achieve through external force alone. His fluidity of phrasing and the burnished singing quality of his touch are absolutely mesmerizing:

 

Although known for his readings of Romantic repertoire, Moiseiwitsch did explore a few of his contemporaries’ works, playing a few shorter compositions by Ravel, Debussy, Prokofiev, and Stravinsky (it’s remarkable to think that this was new music at the time he was playing it). His 1928 reading of Prokofiev’s popular Suggestion Diabolique Op.4 No.4 is a terrific performance, played with vitality and gusto, with rhythmic freedom and less incisive articulation than we often hear today – similar to how the composer himself played it:

 

Beethoven was close to Benno’s heart and he regularly programmed his concertos and sonatas (and recorded some too). His approach to the composer’s oeuvre can be clarified in this wonderful quote, with his usual tongue-in-cheek slyness: “The romantic pieces, Leschetizky told me I ought to play in a classical style, and the classical pieces, by special indulgence, in a romantic fashion. Now Beethoven is both; but as some pieces are more romantic than classical, these I play in my classical-romantic style; whereas those that I are more classical than romantic I play in my romantic-classical style. You’ll forgive me if I get a little confused sometimes and just play the way I feel.” This concert recording of the last movement of the Waldstein Sonata comes from a private source given to me in Tokyo in 1992, recorded during Moiseiwitsch’s 1958 tour of Japan – the rest of his performances have not been found and this has not been issued anywhere. Although his technical certainty wanes at moments, the beauty of his performance and the magic of hearing this pianist in concert outweigh any lapses in precision:

 

One of his most famous recordings – and justly so – is his March 17, 1939 account of Rachmaninoff’s transcription for piano of the ‘Scherzo’ from Mendelssohn’s ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream.’ It is a treacherous work that requires phenomenal fingerwork to play successfully. In the early days of recording, choosing what work to record was subject to many conditions, not least of which was what other performances had been issued on other labels. Because Rachmaninoff had already recorded the work on RCA, Moiseiwitsch’s label HMV (the UK sister-label to RCA) was reluctant to record a performance that would compete with the composer’s own.

One day, at the end of a recording session, producer Walter Legge informed Moiseiwitsch that they still had some time left on the clock and suggested recording a short work to keep on reserve. The pianist, being quite tired, didn’t particularly want to play anything else – and he’d already started putting the collar back on his shirt (as one apparently did back in the day) – so he suggested Rachmaninoff’s Mendelssohn arrangement, thinking Legge would refuse… but the producer called his bluff and accepted on condition that Benno make only one take, thinking of course that the pianist couldn’t do it and so they wouldn’t have to issue the recording. (In those days, performances were cut directly into wax and could not be edited. Rachmaninoff made at least six takes of the work in his sessions to produce a version that satisfied him.)

The pianist no doubt smirked at the challenge, and then sat down at the piano and made a truly jaw-dropping traversal of the piece, note-perfect and pianistically magnificent: a resonant tone even in soft passages, remarkably even fingerwork, and incredible consistency of articulation and speed. It is generally considered to be even better than the composer’s own account and Benno himself stated that he thought it was his greatest recording.

 

For all of the incredible discs that Moiseiwitsch made, he didn’t particularly enjoy the recording process, finding the pressure of the red light and need to produce a ‘perfect’ 4-to-5-minute take restrictive (though he certainly managed to do so more often than not); while he felt there was some improvement with the possibility of tape editing, he still preferred complete performances – he was one of the many musicians whose artistry was even more communicative while in concert performance. The 1946 BBC broadcast below of Rachmaninoff’s Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini is better than both of his studio efforts and is a truly special performance.

This recording is particularly close to my heart and has quite a background story. I obtained this on cassette in the late 1980s in a trade with a fellow in the United States. Although Benno’s two studio recordings of the work are quite wonderful, this performance is truly on another level, with nuancing of such utterly exquisite refinement that it leaves the listener breathless. I sent a copy to Bryan Crimp, who had at that time released two sets devoted to the pianist on his then-recently-formed APR label: he was so taken with it that he sent it to the pianist’s daughter Tanya, who declared it the greatest performance of her father in the work that she had heard. I also sent it to Gregor Benko of the International Piano Archives, who was equally effusive in his praise (he recently stated that it is one of his favourite recordings of anyone playing anything).

In 2011 the performance was issued on the Testament label, and it turns out that my cassette was the source: Ward Marston had provided his copy of the performance, which was derived from Benko’s copy, which came from me (this was unknown to Ward and the producers, who credited Ward in the booklet). Fortunately, master source material has since been located and the recording is now available in truly pristine sound quality (for a 1946 off-the-air broadcast!) on Marston’s own label, in the 3-CD set that features the recently discovered recording of Rachmaninoff playing in Eugene Ormandy’s living room (click here) – a release that I cannot recommend highly enough (as would be the case even if just for the performance below).

 

Despite his reticence about recording, Moiseiwitsch still created discs of astounding beauty, revealing his mastery in readings of works that can be played technically perfectly by far lesser pianists but not with the fully multidimensional approach he brought to his interpretations. This Chopin Nocturne recorded in 1952 is one of the more ‘simple’ ones of the genre – commonly played by students – but what mastery we hear in every second of this reading, with a beguiling singing tone and sumptuous nuancing. One never knows how or when he will adjust dynamics, timing, or colour, but whenever he does, one marvels both at the beauty of Chopin’s writing and the mastery of Moiseiwitsch’s pianism – a perfect union between composer and interpreter, an ideal balance between objectivity and personality. Every note sings and every phrase is lovingly shaped in a performance that is jaw-dropping in its beauty:

 

Schumann was Moiseiwitsch’s favourite composer, and each recital featured at least one of his compositions. While he did not make grand undertakings of his works in the studio in the 78rpm era – Kinderszenen and some shorter works only – in the 1950s he set down stellar accounts of the Fantasie and Fantasiestücke for EMI, followed by readings of Carnaval, Kreisleriana, Kinderszenen, and the Arabeske in his 1961 Decca sessions. (He had played Carnaval, Kreisleriana, and the Etudes Symphoniques in New York recitals around the time of these sessions.) While those final recordings and recital performances do not capture his playing at its most refined (the studio versions are still quite fine), his EMI accounts most certainly do, the Fantasie being particularly admirable for its stunning tonal colours, soaring phrasing, and refined dynamic layering and pedalling – a titanic traversal set down in a single July 20, 1953 session by the 63-year-old pianist:

 

Fortunately Moiseiwitsch lived long enough to be filmed, though we regrettably do not have as much as we might hope. He made his first BBC television appearance on March 14, 1938 and filmed another broadcast that November, in addition to several the following year – including a performance of the Mendelssohn-Rachmaninoff Scherzo just a few weeks before making that famous record discussed and linked above. After the war, his appearances resumed with one legendary performance linked below and more appearances that unfortunately seem not to have survived, among them complete traversals of Carnaval in 1956 and Pictures at an Exhibition in 1957.

Fortunately his November 3, 1954 BBC broadcast was preserved and released on DVD (though as an appendix to a disc devoted to another artist). The piece he played is the treacherous Liszt arrangement of Wagner’s Tannhäuser Overture, a work so challenging that the composer himself used to take a break midway through. The performance here is shot with a sole camera that zooms in slowly over the course of the 15 minutes, and one can watch in amazement as the 64-year-old Moiseiwitsch overcomes the considerable technical hurdles of the piece without a single grimace. While this reading may not meet today’s standards of clinical note-perfection, one would struggle to find a performance that has this level of tonal range, grandeur, and abandon – keep in mind that every modern commercial recording that you hear is made up of multiple edits sliced together. There is never an unnecessary movement (his dramatic-looking arm drops are for tone production): he plays with pure economy of gesture, but also with full emotional, tonal, and dynamic range. And at the end, a farewell message that demonstrates his suave character. A gentleman and aristocrat, at the keyboard and in life.