CD1
Back in the days of
the dear old LP one would sometimes
put on a disc and sit back and relax,
only to find an uncomfortable, pressurised
feeling dawning upon one, as the disc
proceeded, that something was wrong;
it was all a bit too fast and lacking
in deep bass. And sure enough, investigation
would prove that some unredeemed younger
sister in the family had been playing
her pop records (and probably ruining
the stylus into the bargain) and had
left the gramophone switched over to
45 rpm. The curious thing was, though,
how much music one could listen to before
realising.
The reason was, I believe,
that tempo is not an absolute thing.
If the phrasing, the breathing and the
general expression of the music fit
perfectly into the time-frame provided
by the tempo, then the tempo sounds
right. It therefore follows that if
the speed of the disc is increased from
33 rpm to 45 rpm, then not only the
tempo but also the phrasing and the
breathing and the expression are speeded
up, so they still slot convincingly
into the time-frame. Only gradually
does one come to find a lack of body
in the sound (because the pitch has
been jacked up too) and, more importantly,
since the human heart goes on beating
at the same speed (with maybe a slight
apoplectic spurt ahead when the younger
sister’s involvement became apparent),
one feels breathless even if the players
do not, because something is going against
nature.
The relevance of this
is that the tempi employed by Horowitz
and his fearsome father-in-law Toscanini
in this performance of the first Tchaikovsky
concerto must be around what you would
get by taking an LP of a "normal"
performance and playing it at 45 rpm
(without an increase of pitch, of course).
Such is the pianist’s lightning technique
and the conductor’s iron control of
the players’ phrasing and breathing,
which slot naturally into the given
time-frame, that you might not immediately
notice just how fast it all is. And
yet, gradually it all starts to sound
wrong, with the more agitated passages
sounding ludicrously frantic, the climaxes
blatantly aggressive, and in the lyrical
passages all Tchaikovsky’s yearning
and passion has been squeezed out (hear
the second subject of the finale).
Is it all Toscanini’s
fault? Well, you can hear Horowitz playing
the finale of this concerto in a live
performance given in Copenhagen in 1934,
with the Danish Radio Symphony Orchestra
under Nikolai Malko, on DANACORD DACOCD
303. In 1941, with Toscanini, the movement
took 6’ 06". In 1934, with Malko,
it took …. 6’ 06"! But it was different
in the earlier performance, accents
are less banged out and there is a feeling
of a joyful dance, and as Malko ushers
in the second subject he finds time
to give it a certain balletic grace,
to which Horowitz responds. I’m not
trying to claim Malko was a greater
conductor than Toscanini but he was
arguably a much better accompanist,
and left Horowitz free to unrein his
own fancy. The Horowitz/Toscanini is
one of the great burn-ups of recorded
music, but don’t think it has much to
do with Tchaikovsky.
I’d be very reckless
indeed if I similarly claimed that the
Rachmaninov 3 hasn’t much to do with
Rachmaninov, for the composer felt Horowitz
played it better than he did himself
and, though he consented to record it
in 1939, he remarked of it (referring
to Horowitz’s 1930 recording with Coates)
"it’s Horowitz’s".
Fortunately, it is
evident from the gentle unfolding of
the opening theme that we are in a different
world altogether. There is plenty of
coiled-spring virtuosity when called
for, but also poetry, grace and warmth.
It so happened that I heard this at
about the same time as Reiner’s "Rosenkavalier"
from the Met, which I shall be reviewing
shortly. I was impressed there by the
way in which Reiner could maintain absolute
control over ensemble, yet give the
singers all the breathing space needed.
His contribution here does not draw
attention to itself, but I think that
in the same way he provided Horowitz
with a perfect back-drop against which
to work.
Critics have pointed
out that the piano unduly dominates
the sound picture. Not so fast, please!
I remember following several seasons
of the Scottish National Orchestra sitting
in the choir seats. Good for studying
the conductor, but in piano concertos
the pianist was often inaudible. Except
when Shura Cherkassky played this same
concerto and I heard every note. Even
in the closing pages where most pianists
get swamped, he dominated the texture.
And if "just" Cherkassky could
do this, what of Horowitz, who could
command a colossal tone well able to
dominate any orchestra and penetrate
to the farthest reaches of the largest
hall? Considering that there are also
moments in this recording where the
piano nestles into the orchestra much
as we would expect, I suggest that it
gives us a pretty good idea of what
a concerto played by Horowitz sounded
like. It is surely the finest of the
three recordings of an interpretation
whose definitive nature was recognised
by the composer (even if in 1976 Horowitz
opened out the traditional cuts made
by Rachmaninov himself and virtually
never made today).
CD 2
Quite what the rhyme
or reason behind the sequence of pieces
on this second disc is escapes me (later
stereo recordings are grouped towards
the end but the earliest 78s do not
come at the beginning). Actually this
matters not a jot, for Horowitz brings
such a sense of discovery to each new
piece that one does not seem to be hearing
a sequence at all; one’s listening begins
afresh with every new beginning.
I could leave it at
that. But since many of these pieces
were recorded in alternative versions
down the years by Horowitz, comparisons
raise some illuminating points.
The Polonaise-fantaisie
seems to have reached its highest point
in the late 1960s (a CBS LP without
recording dates but published in 1971).
This 1951 performance has some wonderful
poetry together with the expected fire
and brilliance, but sounds a shade skittish
alongside the 1971 LP, where the pianist
allows himself time to unfold the great
structure with warmth and nobility (13:05
compared with 11:26). A 1982 live performance
took similar tempi (13:02) but here
the pianist’s desire to find something
new in every bar is unsettlingly close
to the grotesque.
There are signs, then,
that this pianist’s art reached its
apex in the late 1960s and early 1970s,
when a new depth was added to his incredible
technique; in his last years, on the
other hand, he could lapse into self-parody.
As one of the encores to the recently
rediscovered Carnegie Hall Recital of
November 16th 1975 (RCA 82876
50754 2, reviewed by me for the site)
you can hear him relishing the humour
of Moszkowski’s "Les Étincelles"
with a sense of delight which surpasses
the dapper brilliance of the 1951 recording.
Fizzing technique might seem all that
his own "Variations on a Theme
from ‘Carmen’" call for, yet in
a Carnegie Hall recital of 1st
February 1968, issued by CBS, he took
that little extra time to extract an
astonishing display of colour from it.
Not everything points
this same way, though. In that same
rediscovered recital of 1975 he can
be heard worrying and nudging the line
of "Träumerei", where
in the 1950 performance, extracted from
a complete (and wonderful) "Kinderszenen",
he finds the right childlike simplicity.
Best of all, however, is a 1968 live
version (CBS) which finds him in quite
incredibly relaxed form. Differences
are small between the present op. 30/4
Mazurka and a live one from 1965, but
such as they are it is the earlier recording
which has the greater poise, its wide-ranging
rubato managing not to go over the top
as the later one occasionally does.
The 1975 recital also
provides near contemporary comparisons
for two pieces here, and both favour
the present versions. He extracts a
range of drama here from the Rachmaninov
G major Prelude that most of us didn’t
even imagine could exist; the 1975 performance
seems merely a blueprint for it. The
Schumann movement has greater warmth
and naturalness here. Surprisingly,
this 1976 recording begins with some
moments of wow, but it has more bloom
to it than the more clinical 1975 tape,
which may also affect one’s reaction
to the performance.
Lastly, while in 1982
Horowitz’s Scriabin op. 18/12 Study
wasn’t quite so clean round the edges
as in 1968 (CBS), he invested the opening
pages with a valedictory glow beside
which the earlier version sounds more
conventionally barnstorming, while the
close in 1982 still lacked nothing of
the old fire.
I should add that,
though it is highly recommendable for
you to build up duplicate Horowitz performances
and so get a more rounded portrait of
him, all the remaining pieces which
I have not mentioned (having no comparison
to hand) I enjoyed unreservedly, and
I should think anyone who has just these
versions will scarcely believe that
the master himself was able to surpass
some of them. Horowitz was a legend
indeed and practically everything here
tells us why. Be careful with the Tchaikovsky,
though.
A black mark for the
presentation which gives only the year
of each recording, without the location
and without distinguishing between live
and studio recordings. Applause is only
heard after the last two tracks, but
various coughs reveal a number of the
others to be live too. The notes by
Richard Freed are good, however.
Christopher Howell
