There are some discographic 
                counter-factuals that really grip. How, 
                for instance, would we have looked on 
                the performance histories of the Beethoven 
                Piano Sonatas if Rachmaninov, not Schnabel, 
                had set down the first complete cycle 
                for HMV in the 1930s. He was certainly 
                asked and just as certainly turned down 
                the idea; he wasn’t daunted by the prospect 
                so much as disappointed by the fee. 
                Schnabel was cheaper (and no great idolater 
                of the Russian either). And how about 
                the Elgar and Debussy recordings he 
                could have made as a conductor; what 
                would Rachmaninov’s take have been on, 
                say, La Mer or the Enigma 
                Variations? 
              
 
              
Thankfully Rachmaninov 
                on disc is not really a study in frustration. 
                Since the RCA Red Seal 10 disc set is 
                currently languishing, out of print, 
                in the vaults we do not, at the moment, 
                have a Complete Edition derived from 
                source material. So Vista Vera are serving 
                admirers well with this set which restores 
                to circulation the majority of his discs 
                (no acoustic Second Concerto for example 
                and none of the Edisons) in transfers 
                that – see below for more details – 
                I think are at best serviceable but 
                will do only as a stop-gap. 
              
 
              
The leonine aristocracy 
                of Rachmaninov’s playing, the perception 
                that this is playing unfettered by limitation 
                either digital or technical, is present 
                throughout these discs. They reflect 
                an aesthetic that is frequently personalised 
                to a remarkable degree, most especially 
                in Mozart and Schubert, but that can 
                be channelled with remarkable imagination 
                and flair when joined by a personality 
                of equal stature – in this case Kreisler 
                in their sonata recordings. 
              
 
              
His Victor-RCA recordings 
                were made over a twenty-three year period, 
                from 1919 to1942. The clarity of his 
                voicings in Bach was legendary, the 
                absorption of the violinistic by the 
                pianistic in the Partita BWV 1006 a 
                marvel of creativity and suggestibility. 
                Yet when he moved from elevated Bach 
                to hyphenated Scarlatti-Tausig his capricious 
                rhythm was equally captivating and his 
                Harmonious Blacksmith, another plaything 
                for Golden Age pianists, emerges as 
                deliberate and clear and not at all 
                hammered out, gathering strength as 
                it goes, reaching that single apex of 
                Rachmaninovian intensity. His Mozart 
                (two movements from K311) is gloriously 
                romantic, full of sly humour and utterly 
                indefensible - with a Rondo alla turca 
                that defines the word emphatic as well 
                as any dictionary. The Gluck-Sgambati 
                is beautifully done and without much 
                pedal (as is the temptation) – though 
                it doesn’t, for me, efface Egon Petri. 
                And yet as if to confound the issue 
                his 1925 Beethoven-Rubinstein Turkish 
                March does use quite some pedal but 
                manages effortlessly to highlights the 
                saucy humour. 
              
 
              
It’s impossible to 
                pick highlights from amongst these eight 
                discs but let’s try his Liszt Hungarian 
                Rhapsody No.2 with Rachmaninov’s own 
                cadenza. There’s some exceptional half 
                pedal, perfectly audible in this 1919 
                acoustic, with swathes of colour and 
                virtuosity, incredible glowering bass 
                and a daredevil drama a-plenty. His 
                Gnomenreigen grows inexorably to become 
                all enveloping, his Kreisler transcription 
                of Liebesfreud comes complete with thunderous 
                rococo charm, bass extensions and an 
                air of naughtiness and he teases Liebeslied 
                similarly, not least the left hand line. 
                He animates Debussy’s Golliwog’s Cakewalk 
                with teasing rubati and fulsomeness 
                and brings Scarlatti to bear on Paderewski’s 
                Minuet. His Chopin is full of freedom, 
                metrical and, it must be said, textual. 
                Not everyone will respond wholeheartedly 
                to his playing, but even those who shy 
                away from Rachmaninov’s personality-rich 
                playing will surely be captivated by 
                something, by some detail or subtlety. 
                The strata of tone colours and rubati 
                of the Third Ballade, for instance. 
                Or the lullaby-like E flat major Nocturne, 
                with its unimpeachable trill, the tied 
                bass notes and his control of piano. 
                The F sharp major may have some 
                idiosyncratic things amidst the magnificence 
                of the decorative runs but, as so often 
                with Rachmaninov, doubt is stilled; 
                for all the personalisation, it makes 
                sense. There’s hardly any pedal in the 
                Waltz in E flat major – the mechanism 
                is under perfect clarity and control 
                at a relatively sedate tempo (and hear 
                the piano "laugh" so suggestively). 
                For Rachmaninov, truly, each note has 
                its meaning. Throughout his Chopin recordings 
                one feels Rachmaninov’s articulation 
                and rhythm as indissoluble components 
                of his true greatness in the repertoire. 
                Indeed colouristically and textually 
                he is fascinating – try the A minor 
                Mazurka – even when he is at his most 
                capricious and the locus classicus of 
                that is his 1930 recording of the B 
                flat minor Sonata. Here he extends the 
                finale in a way not sanctioned – shall 
                we say – by Chopin but the result is 
                one of uplifting power, with Rachmaninov 
                sculpting waves of impetus and not an 
                undifferentiated mf all the way 
                through. For all its recasting his performance 
                of the sonata embraces all its moods, 
                all its power and all its romance. 
              
 
              
Schubert can be problematical 
                with Rachmaninov. The Impromptu is very 
                fluent, too much so, but his Schumann 
                is often touched by the Gods, for all 
                its idiosyncrasy. Der Kontrabandiste 
                is dazzling and his Mendelssohn scintillates; 
                the Scherzo from A Midsummer Night’s 
                Dream rivals Moiseiwitsch’s legendary 
                performance. But the greatest focus 
                of interest in the Schubert-Mendelssohn-Schumann 
                axis that forms Volume 8 in this series 
                is on Carnaval. For all that he may 
                appear to exaggerate emotive states, 
                to plunge headlong into the dance, to 
                tease and taunt, Rachmaninov always 
                remains humanly alive to Schumann’s 
                inspiration. His Preamble is powerful 
                but quick, with lashings of subtly inflected 
                rubati, the accents in Pierrot tough. 
                Eusabius pleads insinuatingly but with 
                delicacy, Florestan is riven with leonine 
                drama – the constant accelerandi and 
                slowings down dizzying in their complexity 
                if not always naturalness. Coquette 
                here is no easy flirt; the rubati are 
                positively aggressive and insistent 
                and Rachmaninov includes Sphinxes – 
                truly sinister and horribly prescient. 
                Chopin is nobly aloof, the Valse allemande 
                truly witty and the concluding Marche 
                resplendently triumphant. For all that 
                you may take against it, or resist it, 
                or find it stretched beyond normal bounds 
                this is a Carnaval for all recorded 
                time. 
              
 
              
All this of course, 
                without mentioning Rachmaninov playing 
                his own works though here I think much 
                less is needed. The Concerto performances 
                are still the fons et origo for pianists, 
                which they must either internalise, 
                absorb or reject. The performances demonstrate, 
                by their compelling control and sense 
                of architecture, just how to release 
                those moments of romantic effulgence 
                that most pianists spend their lives 
                sentimentalising. It was a musical gift 
                his poker faced compatriot and colleague 
                Moiseiwitsch absorbed and that Rachmaninov 
                so admired in him. Stokowski is an adept 
                marshal in the Second – that glorious 
                Philadelphia string cantilever in the 
                first movement, the wind counterpoint 
                in the slow movement. Then there are 
                those lessons in weight and rhythmic 
                control in the finale – the naturalness 
                of propulsion that was so inherent a 
                part of his musical mechanism. Then 
                there’s the sheer savoir-faire of the 
                Paganini Variations, the lissom drama 
                and nobility enshrined within. The First 
                Concerto similarly has the most acute 
                sense of direction, drama and lyricism 
                held in perfect balance whilst the famous 
                Fourth’s tempestuous drive is nevertheless 
                accompanied by the unravelling of the 
                beautiful wind writing (in Rachmaninov’s 
                performances time becomes elastic). 
                The Third has a bright, steady and not 
                at all introverted opening – nothing 
                self-conscious or specious at all. The 
                peaks of phrases sound unarguably right 
                as we listen and the clarity of passagework 
                in the slow movement is Olympian and 
                flawless. Especially valuable in this 
                respect is Volume 7 in which, apart 
                from the single and superb playing of 
                Scriabin’s Prelude Op.11 No.8 we hear 
                essentially all-Rachmaninov and some 
                of the Preludes and Etude- tableaux 
                in particular. The rapt and starkly 
                romantic Melodie Op.3 No.3 is an object 
                lesson in narrative tension (he plays 
                the revision) – a quite wonderful performance 
                by the way full of myriad subtleties 
                – and the famous Polka de V.R. shows 
                how nudge-nudge playing, beloved of 
                some, is no substitute for the finesse, 
                control and a kind of aristocratic aloofness 
                that the composer displays here. Throughout 
                these recordings voicings, colour, depth 
                of lyricism and digital command are 
                all harnessed to optimum effect. Declamatory 
                and leonine power flow throughout the 
                Prelude Op.32 No.3 but really it’s invidious 
                to single out any particular performance. 
              
 
              
The authorial voice 
                we hear conducting the Isle of the Dead 
                is intensely purposely but dramatic, 
                powerful and tense. This famous recording 
                and that of the Third Symphony show 
                what we have missed through the restrictions 
                on his conducting for RCA Victor. But 
                enough remains to make a study of this 
                body of work both necessary and important 
                – both for students of Rachmaninov and 
                for admirers of the repertoire and great 
                pianism. As I said the transfers leave 
                something to be desired. Too much top 
                has been excised leaving a rather bland 
                uniformity of sound. In an attempt to 
                mitigate the sound limitations of the 
                late acoustics in particular Vista Vera 
                has removed shellac hiss at the expense 
                of treble frequencies, The Concerto 
                recordings, too, lack the brightness 
                and immediacy we now expect from these 
                discs (see Naxos). I can’t necessarily 
                recommend these discs then on those 
                grounds – we must wait for a recommendably 
                transferred set from authoritative source 
                material - but a pianophile without 
                Rachmaninov’s recordings should not 
                really sleep at night. 
              
 
              
Jonathan Woolf