It’s twenty years since Earl Wild set down these recordings of 
                a composer not perhaps much associated with him – though surely 
                a Rachmaninovian of such distinction should enjoy similar stylistic 
                assurance in a composer Rachmaninov esteemed higher than any of 
                his contemporaries. It was originally issued on Chesky 
                and reissued on that label [AD1] in the late 1990s. 
              
Wild brings a lexicon 
                  of pianistic skill and sensitivity to bear on these works. In 
                  the case of the Sonate-Idylle he also brings his accustomed 
                  sensitivity and leonine power. He’s been accorded a rather cavernous 
                  acoustic, to which I happen to be antipathetic, but there’s 
                  not much to be done about it now, and remastering can’t ameliorate 
                  the problem. It does at least confer a slightly distant, halo 
                  effect to the music making. Compared to a contemporary klaviertiger 
                  such as Hamelin we find that Wild is altogether more straightforward 
                  and linear in his approach. Hamelin’s rubati are distinctive 
                  but somewhat invasive in the opening Pastorale, though the clear, 
                  detailed sound is a definite plus for those who prefer greater 
                  clarity and texture. I do prefer the greater warmth Wild brings 
                  to the second of the two movements; he stresses the wholesomeness 
                  and nobility of the writing and despite the swimmy acoustic 
                  I find that his refusal to fuss over details – as Hamelin can 
                  and does – pays rich dividends.
                
The charming portraits 
                  enshrined in the Second Improvisation reveal Wild the colourist 
                  and painterly wit, almost as much as they do the composer. The 
                  bell chimes are subtly evoked in Meditation where luminous 
                  voicings course throughout the brief span, whereas the sturdy 
                  march of Fancies contrasts nicely with the dynamism and 
                  fervour of The Tumult of the Crowd. The Orthodox Church 
                  saturates Incantation – very Mussorgskian and grand - 
                  and there’s ferment in Bad Weather. All these miniatures 
                  are played with tremendous verve and assurance. 
                
Finally there is 
                  Vergessene Weisen (Forgotten Melodies) written c.1920. Rachmaninovian 
                  – maybe that should be Medtneresque - chordal power is unleashed 
                  in the first of them - the control of the ascents and descents 
                  of the music, and its wave-making incessant beauty, is spellbindingly 
                  done. Wild takes a reflective line in the Romanza, much 
                  more so than Hamelin, though he never loses the spine of the 
                  music. The melodic lines of Primavera are brought out 
                  with rich succour. Hamelin is good here but he doesn’t sing 
                  out as effusively as Wild and his rubati are more obviously 
                  explicit once again. Just the right sense of intimacy and warmth 
                  – all very naturally phrased – informs the Canzona. Both 
                  Geoffrey Tozer (Chandos) and Hamelin (Hyperion) take different 
                  points of view from Wild in the Sonata tragica. The former two 
                  see things more decisively and intensely whilst Wild is more 
                  content to stress the melancholia and is therefore slower and 
                  less explicitly exciting. 
                
Throughout Wild 
                  proves a formidable champion of Medtner’s music. True the recording 
                  is a handicap but the musicianship frequently convinces us of 
                  his identification with the caprice, the power, the legend, 
                  the introspection and the fancy of these pieces.
                
Jonathan Woolf