This is an interesting inclusion in EMI’s GROC series. 
          They have chosen the present recording over the other obvious contender 
          from their archive, Itzhak Perlman’s highly praised version from 1972. 
          Having listened through the disc, I can only applaud their choice, for 
          whatever the Perlman’s merits, this is a very special document from 
          a very special performer. 
        
 
        
To those of us keen on music generally, but not particularly 
          violin aficionados, Michael Rabin was as much a name referred 
          to by other violinists as anything. The fact that it was referred to 
          with the utmost respect, not to say awe in certain quarters, always 
          made me keen to hear what all the fuss was about, and this legendary 
          recording of the Paganini Caprices is the best possible memorial 
          to his art. It has been available before, but has surely now found its 
          true home in this series. 
        
 
        
Rabin was born in 1936 into an intensely musical family. 
          His father was a long-serving first desk violinist with the New York 
          Philharmonic, and his mother a respected pianist who taught at the Juilliard. 
          His talent was obvious from the start, and he had a lot of high profile 
          early exposure, debuting at age 9 and even recording a number of these 
          very Caprices at the tender age of 12. He went on a punishing 
          schedule of tours in his twenties, embarked on a series of recordings 
          for EMI in the 1950s (of which this is one) and was effectively burnt 
          out by the 1960s. The critical acclaim cooled, the ill health that had 
          dogged him got worse, and there were even allegations of drug abuse. 
          The tragedy ended in 1972, when he died following a fall at his New 
          York home. He was 36. 
        
 
        
Hearing him at the peak of his powers, in 1958, gives 
          one an idea why so much was expected of him. The technical control is 
          truly astonishing, and it is allied to a keen intellect and such a passion 
          for the music that criticism is almost useless. He is incapable of producing 
          an ugly tone, even in the most fiendishly difficult passages – and there 
          are many in these works. When Rabin made his recording, playing the 
          set as a whole was a fairly recent development. They were generally 
          given in small groups, played as encores, or even spiced up with piano 
          accompaniments. But they make excellent listening as a whole cycle, 
          such is the variety and marvellously dare-devil invention on display. 
          It needs a performance to match that invention, and Rabin revels in 
          the virtuosity. Examples abound throughout; indeed, every single piece 
          has something about it that makes you sit up and take notice, and Rabin’s 
          tonal palette and bowing ensure that monotony never sets in. Listen 
          to the fiery scale work of No. 5 in A minor and the way he copes with 
          the difficult turns in No.14 in E flat. This is a true master at work. 
          The set rounds off with another A minor, the most famous of the lot 
          and the piece that inspired a whole generation of composers (Liszt, 
          Brahms and Rachmaninov among them) to adapt it in various guises. It 
          makes a fitting conclusion to a stunning recital. 
        
 
        
Recording quality is extremely good, with only a trace 
          of tape rumble and faint pre-echo to show its age. Informative notes 
          are by Tully Potter. There is much competition now in the catalogue, 
          with the above-mentioned Perlman, as well as Salvatore Accardo, Leonidas 
          Kavakos and Naxos’s excellent Ilya Kaler being highly praised. But Rabin 
          is special, and there can be no better tribute to one of the century’s 
          most gifted, and ultimately most tragic, musical prodigies. 
        
          Tony Haywood