As a nice sort of tit-for-tat
for all those records emanating from
the UK with notes in English only, this
one has notes only in French. It is,
in fact, the authorized French edition
of Michelangeli’s Vatican recordings.
Late in life, in 1991,
the Maestro requested tapes of all the
concertos and recitals he had played
in the Vatican. They were delivered
the following year and here they are,
duly mastered and in general well engineered,
though with a consistent tendency over
the years to zoom in a bit too closely
to a pianist whose sound had a massive
carrying power anyway. All these performances
have long been circulating on various
labels, presumably taken off the air,
and indeed I have home tapings myself
of the Beethoven and Schumann concertos.
Those who have been making do with this
sort of thing can be assured that this
official release is firmer in profile
and brighter in sound. It is a pity
that the booklet opts for pseudo-philosophical
waffle rather than nitty-gritty. It
would have been nice to have known more
of the background to these performances,
and also why it is that they are not
complete. The recital containing the
Debussy Preludes began with Brahms’s
Four Ballades op.10, which have been
issued by Hermitage, and a Mozart K.466
given in the Vatican in 1966 has also
been circulated. Were the original tapes
missing or damaged? Did the Maestro
not wish those particular performances
to be released?
I must say I am surprised
that DG, for whom Michelangeli recorded
during his last two decades, did not
move heaven and earth to obtain rights
over these recordings, especially considering
the fact that only the Beethoven concerto
and all the Debussy works actually duplicate
repertoire he recorded for them. However,
a bit of browsing on the internet reveals
that alternative versions of all the
works here have been issued, how officially
and how tolerable to the ear I cannot
say. The "Emperor" is one
of at least ten surviving versions dating
from 1947 (Turin/Rossi) to 1982 (LSO/Celibidache)
and including collaborations with Smetacek
(1957), Steinberg (1966) and two others
with Celibidache (1969 and 1974) as
well as the famous studio recording
with Giulini (1979). The op.2/3 sonata
is the latest of at least eight, beginning
with a studio performance recorded in
Milan in 1941.
The Andante Spianato
et Grande Polonaise was not among
the works included in Michelangeli’s
famous DG Chopin recital, but it is
the penultimate of at least eight surviving
versions, ranging from 1949 (Buenos
Aires) to 1990 (London). Michelangeli’s
DG recordings of Debussy are legendary;
his 1971 recording of the two books
of Images was preceded by tapings
in Turin (1962) and Helsinki (1969)
and followed by performances in Berne
(1975), the present one of 1987 and
his final concert, entirely dedicated
to Debussy, in Hamburg (1993). Performances
of individual numbers from the Images
go back to a 1941 performance of Reflet
dans l’eau (Milan). The Vatican
version of the first book of Préludes,
on the other hand, seems to be the earliest,
predating the DG recording by about
a year. Later tapings exist from 1982
(London, now on BBC Legends) and that
final recital of 1993. Gaspard de
la Nuit never got a studio recording
and the Vatican performance marks a
late return to a work of which four
tapings exist between 1959 (London)
and 1969 (Helsinki).
The Liszt Totentanz
was virtually a one-off; a performance
under Kubelik in Turin the previous
year seems to be the only other. Whereas
the Schumann concerto exists in at least
ten versions, beginning with the 1942
Telefunken recording (La Scala/Pedrotti),
followed by live tapings with Mitropoulos
(New York 1948), Gracis (Turin 1955),
Rowicki (Warsaw 1955), Rossi (Turin
1955), Scherchen (Lugano 1956, two performances),
the present one with Gavazzeni and two
with Celibidache (Stockholm 1967, Munich
1992).
But what do these Vatican
performances actually have to offer?
The 1987 recital was
a gruellingly long programme – 96:34
of music, so with interval and pauses
(and encores?) it must have lasted two
hours at least. Not the least of the
many mysteries surrounding this pianist
regards the Beethoven sonatas he chose
to play – op.2/3, many times, op.7,
op.22, op.26 and op.111. The first three
of these tend to be the preserve of
pianists who go in for complete Beethoven
cycles since they have the reputation
of finding Beethoven at his most grandly
monumental, his most formal, but his
least human. I wonder what drew Michelangeli
to them? Not, on this showing, a conviction
that the usual opinion is mistaken,
nor a burning zeal to reinstate them
in popular estimation. There is plenty
of grandeur, with firmly sculpted lines
and full textures, but the monument
seems illuminated by the pianist’s intellectual
curiosity rather than any great warmth
or humanity. At this stage his technical
command occasionally faltered and those
who find themselves in a similar predicament
may like to note how he cunningly makes
a wrong note sound like an intentional
appoggiatura – a rare instance of spontaneity.
The outstanding moment
of this recital is the Chopin. Michelangeli’s
patrician coolness and fine sculpting
of line are predictably just what the
Andante spianato needs, but the
Polonaise is also a splendid display,
the pianist’s rigorous control a genuine
alternative to Rubinstein’s joi de
vivre.
Of the Debussy, I enjoyed
the first book of Images much more than
the second. Michelangeli’s spotlighting
of every note brings Reflets dans
l’eau closer to the sparkle of Ravel’s
Jeux d’eau than do more distanced
performance in the Gieseking tradition
but it is evocative in its own way,
while the abstract titles of the other
two pieces (Hommage à Rameau
and Mouvement) mean that the
pianist’s concentration on the intellectual
construction of the music does not collide
with any poetic images which Debussy’s
titles might arouse. In the second book,
I’m afraid I found his manner quite
at odds with the music. The mechanism
of Debussy’s bells may be investigated
with fascinating precision, but half-heard
through the leaves they are not, the
"temple that was" seems caught
in the glare of a spotlight rather than
pallid moonbeams and the goldfish, if
not quite leviathans, have swollen at
least to dolphin-size.
Such an approach might
seem more suited to the meticulous Ravel
yet, while admiring the technique of
a pianist who can despatch Ondine
with the clarity of a Scarlatti
sonata, who can ensure that the bell
tolls implacably through the multi-tiered
textures of Le Gibet and who
is so totally unconcerned by the hair-raising
difficulty of Scarbo, I have
to say the first seems singularly unseductive,
the second four-square and the third
curiously stolid. A more distanced recording
might have given a different impression,
but I get the idea that at this late
stage in his career Michelangeli’s obsession
with the perfection of every single
note was getting in the way of long-term
communication.
Turning from his 1987
Beethoven to the concerto recorded in
1960 one immediately has the impression
of a more imperious overall sweep and
the opening bars promise an outstanding
performance. Following this, Toscanini-protégé
Massimo Freccia, the orchestra’s principal
conductor at the time, leads a brilliant,
fiery, straight-down-the-line exposition
which, if orchestrally fallible in places
(very flabby horns), does nothing to
disappoint our expectation. Then Michelangeli
enters and promptly slows the tempo
down. In spite of many splendid moments
he is generally too wayward to create
a convincingly Beethovenian effect and,
with Freccia returning to his original
tempo whenever he can, our discomfort
is complete. The best thing is the slow
movement, where the pianist’s fine sculpting
of the line is again in evidence. In
the finale he himself sets off at a
brisk tempo which he slows down considerably
at several points; so perhaps he wanted
Freccia to conduct the first movement
in that way. The many magisterial moments
of this performance tend to remain in
the mind, however; though far from ideal,
it is difficult to set it completely
aside. This, by the way, is the recording
famous for the violent Roman thunderstorm
heard to break out in the quiet wind-down
before the final coda – another recording
with the same orchestra and conductor,
given as part of the RAI’s concert season
a couple of weeks later, presumably
without the thunder-clap, has also been
circulated.
A comparison of the
1987 Debussy with the Préludes
of ten years earlier again comes out
in favour of the earlier Michelangeli.
Overall, the impression is that the
music is illuminated rather than spotlit.
If Puck is an oddly serious fellow the
Girl with the Flaxen Hair, while unremittingly
full-toned, has warmth and surprising
spontaneity and the Interrupted Serenade
is a miracle of subtle timing and tonal
shading – a wonderful performance. The
same sense of humour is not quite caught
in "Minstrels" but overall
this is a performance of the first book
to be set alongside other classic accounts
in the catalogue, including Michelangeli’s
own.
The real treasure of
the set, though, is the Liszt, a scorching,
demoniac performance to rank with the
greatest Liszt performances on disc,
and with the pianist’s own greatest
concerto recordings, such as the Ravel/Rachmaninov
coupling. Perhaps the slightly earlier
performance under Kubelik was a shade
more volatile still – Kubelik was in
sizzling form, though Gavazzeni provides
plenty of vitality here – but, unless
this should also achieve an official
release based on the master tapes, the
present version is much better as a
recording.
Gavazzeni could be
an unpredictable Schumann conductor
– his fourth symphony combined some
of the fastest tempi I’ve ever heard
with some of the slowest – and his playing
of the opening wind chorale sounds strangely
disengaged. But thereafter he provides
warm and punctual support for a performance
which alternates natural romantic phrasing
with the odd manhandling of certain
phrases. There is a genuine overall
surge – to which the conductor certainly
contributes – that overrides the occasional
excessive concentration on single phrases.
The Schumann and Liszt
are separated by almost a minute of
surreptitious tuning and less surreptitious
coughing. I can’t begin to think why
they were thought of sufficient historic
moment to be preserved. Is there reason
to believe that some of the coughs emanate
from His Holiness Pope John XXIII himself?
Are they supposed to have therapeutic
value? My own seasonal ailments continued
unabated, but then I’m not very receptive
to that sort of thing.
When all is said and
done, Michelangeli is Michelangeli,
and since he chose to record less and
less, any issue in adequate sound is
to be accepted gratefully for the light
it throws on an enigmatic musician.
It is not, I think, an issue for the
casual collector.
Christopher Howell
Orchestra Sinfonica di Roma della RAI/Gianandrea
Gavazzeni 
