Not so long ago I reviewed
the Heiftez release in Living Era Classic’s
pot-pourri selections – other players
include Rubinstein, Casals, Paderewski
and Kreisler and amongst conductors
Weingartner, Stokowski, Walter, Constant
Lambert et al. They’re not quite the
commonplace compilations you might imagine
from the somewhat generic typeface and
"cosy charm" look. Someone
has clearly gone to some trouble to
compile reasonable and cogent programmes
that will appeal principally to the
generalist but which will also appeal,
at least to a degree, to the more committed
listener.
This one for instance
is devoted to Horowitz’s arrangements,
revisions, variations, and adaptations.
The recordings derive from a nine-year
period either side of the Petrillo ban
and they include some of his best-known
recital and encore fodder, as well as
his cataclysmic Pictures At An Exhibition
arrangement. This may not be as molten
or as volcanic as the later live Carnegie
Hall performance but for a studio performance
it’s positively sizzling. Of contemporaries
probably only Richter lashed into it
with anything like comparable adrenalin,
and then Richter never essayed Horowitz’s
edition, which I’m not aware has even
been published. Russian Aristocrats
such as Moiseiwitsch, who recorded the
more properly encountered edition at
around the same time, and with conspicuous
excellence, must have looked on aghast
at Horowitz’s battery of reinforcements,
extensions and bell chime excesses;
the Great Gate resonates with typhonic
force and the galvanic effect of this
is not far short of incendiary. Not
having heard the studio performance
I was prepared for lesser voltage but
it sent shock waves out of my speakers
half way down the road and left me floundering
in heart-bursting, vein-popping after-burners
of sheer exultation.
There’s nothing else
quite as exhaustingly magnificent as
this – if only because the other pieces
are more concentrated. His own Bizet
variations are swaggering and saucy,
whilst his Saint-Saëns has a brilliant
fugal section. His Mendelssohn features
roulades of spun brilliance and his
Liszt tends to incinerate lesser rivals.
In this kind of mood only a fellow incendiary
pianist such as Barere could survive
the comparison. The chordal flourishes
of the Rákóczy March are
triumphant and blistering. To finish
we have the gloriously camp Sousa.
As a collection of
Horowitz’s own arrangements from his
prime these are brilliant documents.
The virtuosity is unremitting, the transfers
good, the notes rather generalised.
To be taken with a glass of vodka, straight,
no ice.
Jonathan Woolf