Comparative recordings:
Piano Concerto No. 1 Tamás Vásáry/Bamberg
Symphony Orchestra/Felix Prohaska (LP, DGG Heliodor 2548 235)
Piano Concertos, Totentanz Joseph
Banowetz/CSR Symphony Orchestra/Oliver Dohnányi (Naxos 8.550187)
Hungarian Fantasia – George Bolet
(radio broadcast, other performers and recording details not
known)
I was sorely tempted
to start with a cheery, “Four war-horses on one CD – now that’s
what I call value for money!” However, a little-used corner
of by brain quickly counselled caution: “Best not get carried
away - after all, it is really only three war-horses.” Just
so - even with the best will in the world, you’d hardly describe
Liszt’s Second Piano Concerto as anything more than
fringe repertoire. Certainly, in concerts it’s much less common
than its more brazen stable-mate, and even its relative popularity
on CD is illusory – invariably, it’s found hanging onto No.
1’s shirt-tails.
However, that’s
by the by, because really I’m more interested in the concertante
sense of “war-horses”, as works that have become fodder for
the vanity of flashy virtuosi. There – now I’ve gone and laid
myself a minefield. Methinks I’d better tread carefully. Careful
step number one: I’m by no means trying to imply that everyone
who plays war-horses is necessarily a flashy virtuoso. Careful
step number two: by their very nature, war-horses require
a virtuosic technique. Step number three is relatively reckless:
how often do we come away dumbfounded by a dazzling display
of digital dexterity, but with a growing realisation that
we didn’t hear any music?
This sort of argument
may be all well and good when we’re thinking about, say, the
likes of Beethoven or Brahms, but not Liszt. To a large extent,
Liszt actually set out to create war-horses. He wrote
his concertante pieces for his own use, expressly to show
off his own formidable technique – in order to put the wind
up the menfolk with his precision machine-gunning of the piano
and – choosing my words carefully - to turn the ladies weak
at the knees with his keyboard caresses. In Liszt’s case,
then, the question is: did he put any music into these
pieces?
As we could argue
about that until the cows come home, it’s best settled through
direct demonstration at the hands of a thoughtful virtuoso.
Yet, even that isn’t as straightforward as it seems – if showmanship
is the devil and thoughtfulness the deep, blue sea, just where
in between do you pitch your tent? Well, there’s no lack of
pianists prepared to snuggle up to the devil whilst, on this
recording, Oleg Marshev for one seems to allied to that rarer
breed who are inclined to hug the shoreline.
Marshev has built
himself something of a reputation as a “thoughtful virtuoso”.
Basically this is because, whilst he has all the prerequisite
firepower, he deploys his weaponry strategically and with
an unusual degree of circumspection. As his many recordings
for Danacord amply demonstrate, Marshev can mix it with the
best of them when it comes to Rambo-like assaults on the keyboard,
yet his fingers also possess extraordinary finesse. At either
extreme he maintains what seems to me an exceptional clarity
of articulation.
However, I feel
that Marshev’s most outstanding attribute is his enviable
musical sensibility - a torch that illuminates in the music
qualities that often flicker but dimly under the candles of
many others. One (dare I say?) shining example is his
recently-issued set of the Prokofiev Piano Concertos (see
my review).
Here, amongst plenty of other things, he mined a seam of playfulness
that, with hindsight, we all knew should be there but rarely
experienced. I’m prepared to bet that, if you sample some
of his many MusicWeb International reviews, you’ll find them
sprinkled with similar revelations. I find myself wondering
if Serendipity has been at work – the long delay in issuing
the Prokofiev set has rendered effectively consecutive two
releases of the concertos of two outstanding composers-cum-virtuoso
pianists. Is this to be a happy coincidence?
For a representative
sample of Marshev’s approach, we need look no further than
the opening movement of the First Concerto (track 1).
Here, I might seem to be putting the cart before the horse,
so please bear with me while I first consider my selected
comparisons. The Banowetz CD is one of Naxos’s very early
issues, from the days when – according to legend – the company
was supposedly minimising its costs by, inter alia,
paying its Eastern European recording artists in “cabbages”.
Actually, this was the first Naxos disc that I ever owned.
During those not-so-halcyon days when most CDs cost a packet,
I bought it “on spec” after a friend had tipped me off that
“Woolies” (Woolworth’s) were selling classical CDs for comparative
peanuts. It was the best bag of peanuts I ever bought
- not because it was incredibly good, but because it opened
the door to tripling my buying potential!
Incredibly good
it isn’t, but neither is it at all bad – listening to it again
after some considerable time, I was pleasantly reminded that
much of it is very impressive. Joseph Banowetz, born in the
USA and (presumably) remunerated in a currency other than
cabbages, is no mean musician. In 1992, only a few years after
making this recording, the Hungarian Liszt Society awarded
him their top honour for his services to the cause. The start
of No. 1 finds Banowetz storming the barn, generating
bags of excitement in the time-honoured virtuoso manner. However,
he allows his enthusiasm to get the better of him, taking
his runs a bit faster than his hands can manage, so that the
joins are showing, and then laying into the second subject
like a heavyweight contemplating a first-round knockout.
What about Vásáry,
then? Renowned as a Liszt specialist, his credentials are
immaculate – in fact, anyone who’s been presented with a Steinway
by Kodály must surely have what it takes! Well, what Vásáry
takes is exactly the same tack as Banowetz, although the rather
more experienced Hungarian is mindful of the bounds of his
dexterity. Nevertheless, even Vásáry seems a trifle impatient
with the second subject, urging it upwards and on almost before
it’s caught its breath and found its feet, and crowning the
crescendo with a no-punches-pulled climax. Both seem to be
pushing against the limits of their capabilities, wringing
the music for every last drop of its virtuosic potential.
I’m not saying that there’s anything wrong with this: simply,
it represents the “traditional” approach to playing this music.
Right – now let’s
consider Marshev! His entry into the first-movement fray is
massive yet measured - exuding authority, laden with portent,
and lacking only in ostentation. In fact Marshev, clearly
playing well within himself, seems to be studiously shunning
sheer showmanship. Rather than tearing up and down the music’s
terraces, hell-bent on challenging the track record, he gives
every impression that he’s carving out those terraces from
the musical mountainside with his bare hands.
Yet, when the
music melts into the tender second subject, he slips seamlessly
to the opposite pole, pinpointing the filigree with such unexpected
and extreme delicacy of touch that I imagined the wafting
of fine-spun lace shirt-cuffs over the keyboard. The icing
on the cake is that Marshev resists that apparently overwhelming
temptation to “milk” the crescendo and ensuing climax. By
keeping the rising passions in proportion, he
consolidates the second subject’s overall feeling of liebestraum.
As with several
previous issues, I get a distinct impression that Marshev
is looking after the music, and letting the virtuosic showmanship
look after itself – or, viewing it from a different angle,
here there is a different kind of virtuosity at work.
It isn’t unique to Marshev but, nowadays, when it seems that
the public expects ever more spectacular pyrotechnics even
when just opening a book, it is becoming increasingly rare.
Moreover, the
sample is indeed representative. Nevertheless, a quick resumé
is called for. In the second movement, Marshev again seeks
that aura of liebestraum. Ignoring the “quasi” in favour
of an unqualified “adagio”, he creates an almost “ad lib.”
feeling, as if musing at the keyboard, and again declines
to overcook the climax. Surprisingly, in the subsequent “Tchaikovskian”
episode Marshev, although not lacking piquancy, is laid-back
rather than cheeky – largely because he’s saving it for the
Allegretto, where he unerringly winkles out a real sense of
rhythmic “bounce”. The finale’s initially quite relaxed tempo
is cranked up by degrees, with Marshev showing superb agility
and pin-sharp, even-handed articulation - yet at the end,
quite unaccountably, he suddenly seems to take a back seat.
This is one disc
where the Second Concerto comes off rather better!
I should point out that Danacord have split the first and
third movements into two tracks apiece, in line with Liszt’s
sectional tempo markings. The first movement moves
from expansive, with Marshev piling on the power in his climax,
to rudely diabolic in the subsequent, more jagged music –
and whilst the dramatic impetus is impressive, its sudden
dissipation is even more so, Marshev managing to sound, if
anything, “puzzled”. As in No. 1, he takes the second
movement significantly slower than the marking suggests, giving
himself room to indulge in some delicious caprice flecked
with bursts of proportionate passion.
It just gets better.
The third movement opens with a satisfying blend of Handelian
pomp and rumbustiousness. Marshev, choosing this as his moment
to cut loose, dispatches his chordal runs brilliantly, capping
them with a thunderous climax. He thereby intensifies the
crescendo leading to the return of the main theme (track
9), which positively bristles with added swagger, by contrast
leaving the movement’s contemplative tail sounding impressionistic.
Quite possibly Marshev feels that this main theme reprise
is also the work’s climax: the brief finale is spiky, rippling
and glittering, but the conclusive reappearance of the pompous
march by no means “tops” that swaggering third movement reprise.
To some ears, holding anything back at all here may sound
suspiciously like anticlimax. I’m inclined to agree, but I’ll
hold my horses on that for a bit.
For me, there’s
a big question mark hanging over Totentanz. Because
of Symphonie Fantastique we are in the habit of thinking
that there’s something inherently diabolic about the Dies
Irae. However, in spite of his work’s title (“Dance of
Death”) I’m not at all sure whether Liszt was picking up where
Berlioz left off, or invoking the melody’s proper association
with the Day of Judgement. Is Totentanz meant to be
daemonic, or just fearsome? Marshev, possibly bucking the
trend, seems to incline towards the latter. His opening has
such terrific, crushing weight that I feared, if not for my
immortal soul, then certainly for the structural integrity
of the piano. Yet, at around 4:00, we find Marshev as cool
as a cucumber, oozing classical poise, nudging a “religioso”
variation in the direction of some ephemeral, moon-lit Chopin
nocturne. Once more, very loud as it is, the coda seemed a
tad anticlimactic. I’m still hanging onto those reins.
I recently heard
a recording in which George Bolet was the soloist in the Hungarian
Fantasia, and it seemed like perfection on legs! The music
itself, untrammelled by the rules and regulations of concerto
form, at least inasmuch as the innovative Liszt takes any
notice of them, is a god-send to any pianist with a penchant
for musing, whimsy – and simply showing off his dazzling digital
dexterity. If my memories of Bolet’s playing are reliable,
then I can say that Marshev – who also possesses the said
penchant - runs him pretty close.
Marshev’s first
entry is both dreamy and scintillating, imbued with some lovely
keyboard colouration. His first forte, preparing the main
theme, packs a fair old wallop, whilst his playing - buttons
duly loosened! - is fully alive to the shifting moods and
modes of the music. Yet again, my hackles responded best to
his gossamer touches and his ability to “lift” the rhythm:
if the composer offers him even a half-chance of putting a
spring in the music’s step, Marshev rarely misses it.
In the romping
finale, though, Marshev turns a trick that I can’t honestly
say I’ve ever heard before. Into the opening phrase of the
jittering theme he injects a distinct little rubato. This
invites any number of comments, not least of which is that
it seems to be a singularly sneaky snippet of sheer showmanship.
However, the important question is: does it work? Well, I
first I thought not, but this was probably because having
my gob smacked had temporarily affected the proper functioning
of my lug-holes - on a second hearing I changed my mind! It’s
part and parcel of Marshev’s considerate approach; even in
this out-and-out showpiece, he’s mindful of the music. That
the tempo is a bit too relaxed for maximum voltage is, I think,
not so much that he can physically accommodate that sneaky
rubato, but more because he’s well aware that this is a dance
– and a folk-dance at that. Consequently, at the expense of
visceral thrills we get the relatively unaccustomed thrill
of actually being able to sway in time to the music.
More’s the pity, then, that yet again the piano somehow gets
lost in the noisy closing pages.
I can feel the
reins slipping, so perhaps it’s time to attend to those “held
horses”. On this disc, it seems that there are problems with
both the orchestra and the recording. The Aalborg Symphony
Orchestra, whose strings sound sweet but slender, generally
play competently and with feeling, yet sometimes they don’t
– or Matthias Aeschbacher doesn’t - seem to sympathise with
Marshev’s particular approach. For instance, their opening
salvo (track 1) sounds decidedly lightweight, lacking the
baleful emphasis that would complement Marshev’s entry. They
needed to take a leaf out of the Naxos book. Both the orchestras
in my comparative recordings are much beefier - but the CSRSO
is also much, much sterner of accent.
Throughout, in
fact, the ASO’s contributions are a bit variable. When they’ve
a mind to, for example in the Second Concerto’s second
movement - or indeed the third movement (track 9), where they
are flute-flavoured - those sweet strings can charm the birds
out of the trees. Yet once or twice, as in the “storm clouds”
of the First Concerto’s third movement or the Second
Concerto’s first movement, those slender strings tend
to get lost in the undergrowth. Really, this shouldn’t happen
at all, never mind once or twice, because the bass brass,
lacking real weight and solidity, tend to seem almost as slender
as the strings. This I find very curious - after all, brass
sections as a whole are hardly renowned for their similarity
to shrinking violets, are they?
On the one hand,
the woodwind can also be charming, as in the clarinet’s conversation
with the piano (track 1), which is done to a delicious turn,
or the neatly-blended oboe and flute (track 7). On the other,
for example, the bassoon’s playing of the First Concerto’s
first subject (track 1) seems strangely somnolescent. This
variability seems to permeate the entire ensemble. Whilst
both the orchestral processional in Totentanz (at about
11:45) and the end of the First Concerto feel woolly
and under-emphasised, on other occasions the orchestra’s belly
catches fire - as when swaggering along with Marshev (track
9), or crunching cacophonously at the start of Totentanz.
I found myself feeling a bit flummoxed – surely the orchestra
and conductor couldn’t be this inconsistent? What is
going on here?
The answer may
lie in the sound. Within the sound-picture, the piano seems
almost as “wide” as the orchestra. In itself, this comes as
no surprise: Jesper Buhl is notorious for favouring a big
“piano image”. As he’s the company MD this choice is, of course,
his prerogative. I’m not that keen on it myself, but unless
you’re a habitual headphones user, it is of relatively little
consequence. We also have plenty of warmth and resonance within
the space occupied by performers, but a lack of air and ambience
in the space beyond, and reverberant tails that go on for
a reasonable few seconds but sound oddly remote.
At first I thought
maybe the microphony was simply too “front-focused”: setting
up to create a big “piano image” and bolster the slender
strings could well leave the boys at the back starved of substance.
But then I remembered those occasions where the strings get
submerged anyway, or where the normally “up front” piano recedes
into the woodwork, and these in turn reminded me of the clarity
of the tingly triangle (track 3) and the warm booming of the
bass drum (track 12).
To me, it starts
to seem as though this is the result of a microphone setup
that is basically flawed. However, instead of putting the
basic setup right, it has been successively supplemented to
compensate for consequent imbalances. Finally, in an effort
to tie up the loose ends, the sound engineer has resorted
to temporary fader tweaks – and overdone them. I may well
be wrong, but that’s what it sounds like – and it leaves us
with the possibility that most of what seems wrong
with the contributions of the ASO and Aeschbacher could actually
be put right by judicious re-balancing of the original, multi-track
masters.
The presentation
and booklet notes are well up to Danacord’s usual standard,
although the colourful art-work that had become almost a trade-mark
of Marshev concerto releases has here been set aside in favour
of a photograph. I’m no fan of “performer-led” covers: for
one thing, they often lead to controversy over “bosom-revelatory”
poses - although (sadly) there’s no chance of that sort of
carry-on here! However, I do like the CD label itself,
featuring as it does an absolutely cracking picture of the
composer. The booklet note by Colin Anderson, whilst coming
over all coy when alluding to the composer’s sexual shenanigans,
is nevertheless a nicely informative, compact and well-balanced
essay that makes a good case for the music. There are also
detailed notes about all the performers.
With the best
possible justification, many people regard these works as
virtuoso showpieces, pure and simple, and will therefore consider
anything with less than maximum virtuoso voltage as a metaphorically-mixed
damp squib. However, even though Liszt hadn’t intended them
as a bequest to posterity, they have nevertheless survived
– and thrived. That alone is reason enough to at least consider
treating them as something more than “toys for very clever
boys”. All it needs is a pianist prepared to sacrifice virtuoso
brownie points. That’s “all” – yet, in today’s commercially
driven, fiercely competitive climate, that’s asking an awful
lot. Let’s face it: Marshev could so easily have joined the
crowd and, as he is well able to, scored brownie points by
the shovelful - but he hasn’t, and I commend him for his courage
and integrity.
Alright, it’s
mildly regrettable that the venture is flawed, but in spite
of what I’ve said please note that the flaws are far from
fatal. Inevitably, Marshev does not electrify the listener
in the way more traditional readings do, but that doesn’t
matter. What matters is that Marshev presents an alternative,
musically more thoughtful view. He has something interesting
to say, and it deserves to be heard.
Paul Serotsky
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