Arriving at the penultimate recital in András Schiff’s chronological
recordings of the complete solo piano sonatas of Ludwig van
Beethoven, and the chances are you will have already ‘had a
go’ with one or other of the previous
volumes, or at least have considered whether or not you
are currently interested in exploring this particular series
based on reviews or the contents of your no doubt already overstocked
shelves.
Finding myself
more than usually daunted by the idea of reviewing these particular
recordings of the later Beethoven sonatas, I first had to
ask myself ‘why?’ My initial reason has to be that, being
likely to come out with some rapturously positive descriptions
and statements on the subject, my basis for such conclusions
were always going to be founded on a good deal less comparative
experience than many of my fine colleagues, and quite possibly
many of you good readers. Not having lived and breathed dozens
of illustrious recordings – I’ve ‘had’ no more than three
complete sets and can only add a few supplementary live performances,
I more or less decided to ditch my usual references and work
with the original text. Equipped with a bulky urtext edition
of the Klaviersonaten, Band II, I’ve been having a
go at unravelling some of the magic which I feel András Schiff
creates with these pieces.
The first thing
to mention is that these are very much ‘live’ performances.
This is not to say that there is anything much in the way
of audience noise, and Schiff’s accuracy as a performer is
pretty much legendary and fully validated in these recordings.
My point is that, projecting into a real auditorium, the touch
can appear, or just is different to someone who is
performing in a studio to a set of microphones at close level.
Some phrases and passages can come across as more heavily
articulated, some of the upper ranges pushed harder than you
might expect or be used to. The sense of contrast and drama
is often heightened in this way, with breathless, almost silent
passages making the listener focus and tune their hearing
as if adjusting to the ethereal strum of a clavichord, and
then being blown away by the full force of a modern concert
grand. This we all experience from close too, our ears finding
themselves positioned as microphones, rather than at the safer
distance of the auditorium. For me, it is this very sense
of confrontation with this ‘reality’ of a performance which
makes these recordings extra special. I’ve often worked as
a page turner, and know what power a great pianist can generate
with a concert grand from close quarters – even when my attention
is more fixed on standing at the right moment, not turning
two pages at once, and whether my tie is preventing the player
from reading a vital F#. Mr. Schiff does not need a page turner
in this repertoire, I hasten to add.
Almost from the
start of the remarkable Sonata No.27 op.90, Schiff
lays his expressive fingerprint on the score. The essential
compactness and reserved drama of those opening chords promise
a great deal of high-grade content, but my ear was first drawn
to the almost Eroll Garner-like lateness of the right hand
in that limpid second section in the theme. This is a characteristic
of Schiff’s playing in these melodic sections, and almost,
almost extends to micro-spreading of the functionally
melodic chords in the right hand of the first movement of
Op.101. Like well considered vibrato his application of such
techniques is however judicious, and my pointing this out
is in no way to been seen as a negative comment.
Schiff is alive
to the fact that many of the most striking moments in this
music are to be found in the quietest passages. The transition
which starts at 2:44 in the first movement of Op.90 and runs
on until 3:00 has a Ligeti like feel; exploring three or four
notes in an extraordinarily modern way. These explorations
of sonority and texture with a minimum of means is something
to which Schiff seems particularly attuned, and there are
dozens of similar moments which he gives the kind of improvisatory
quality which you might in isolation associate more with someone
like Keith Jarrett. Again, this is not to imply a break with
idiom or any kind of bizarre eccentricity which may immediately
impress and subsequently grate on the ear. These are all part
of the exquisite symbiosis which Schiff seems to generate
between himself and a composer no longer with us, but not
so very long dead for all that.
The luminous lyricism
of Op.90 is impregnated with generosity of warmth and expression
here, but Schiff never over-indulges us with artificial rubato
or heart-on-sleeve romanticism. These are pieces whose toes
still balance on the shoulders of Haydn and other giants,
and Schiff performs that tricky balancing act of giving us
the revolutionary and the romantic spirit of Beethoven without
tarring the music with sticky sentimentality. The opening
of the Sonata No.28 Op.101 appears almost as an extension
of Op.90, the song-like shapes of its opening theme a surprising
continuity two years on from its predecessor. More radical
is the second movement, whose rugged rhythmic interruptions
all too often result in a lumpy, non- Marschmässig forward
impetus. Schiff gives us maximum contrast, finding a rare
beauty in the sustained pedal marking of the quiet central
moment in bars 30-34, but playing Beethoven’s gruff musical
arguments as written, which is powerfully peculiar enough.
The una corda instruction for the opening of the third
movement is like the effect of muted strings. I have known
players who refuse to follow this instruction, feeling the
sound too muffled, but Beethoven knew what he was about, and
he and Schiff introduce us to a mysterious and enigmatic world
from which the reprise of the opening theme can emerge like
a ghostly reminder of a lost love. The joyous 2/4 Presto
of the finale, with all its dancing counterpoint, comes
as more of a surprise on the strength of the transition which
precedes it, but the often dark sonorities which in which
Beethoven keeps the registers of the piano prevents much in
the way of witty sparkle. The deep dissonances in the left
hand at 4:51 come less as a shock and more as a logical progression,
but Schiff holds nothing back, weighing in with full impact
– the fright of such fury softened by the gentle dynamics
of most of the final pages.
So, to the Hammerklavier,
which rightly holds a position as the highlight; or focus
of most difficulties in any complete set of Beethoven’s Sonatas.
Schiff observes the newfangled metronome markings given by
Beethoven, which in their own right provide enough impetus
to prevent needless wallowing in the huge structures of the
piece. Schiff provides plenty of clues and pointers in his
booklet comments, as usual for this series presented in the
form of an interview with Martin Meyer. He notes intervallic
relationships, both the forward and backward-looking aspects
of the music – as far back as Bach with the fugues, as well
as a reference to something like a ‘czardas’ in the 2/4 Presto
which follows the 3/4 main theme and first development
section of the Scherzo second movement, as well as
forward to the final Sonata Op.111.
This piece is
mind-mangling enough to follow as a listener let alone to
learn from memory as a player, and I’ve always found it a
hard nut to crack. I’d love to be able to tell you how he
does it, but András Schiff somehow manages to crack the nut
for me at every level. I think part of the answer is, as with
the other sonatas, the approach to sonority. Many pianists
see the vast architecture of the music as paramount, and the
attempt to express this in the nature of a symphony can result
in the creation of an impenetrable monument which one can
only admire at a distance. Schiff opens the doors of the music,
reaching out by placing true emphasis on the expressive and
the beautiful as well as the enigmatic, and the overt and
sometimes harshly dramatic elements. Schiff himself doesn’t
make this as an observation, but to my ears the music is presented
here more in the way of an opera rather than a symphony. There
is a great deal of complicated narration and the memory is
always going to be challenged to make sense of vast tracts
of ‘difficult’ music in the Hammerklavier. Schiff’s
characterisation of certain aspects of the piece provide extra
points of reference however. If you can hear the ‘voices’
of each character returning and growing, or can visualise
gestures and scenarios in the drama, then the seeds of appreciation
of this incredible piece may well be planted or enhanced.
There is of course a great deal of abstraction in the music,
but Schiff knows where to find wit and points of contact where
Beethoven relaxes for a moment. We can gasp at his technical
prowess in those ‘unplayable’ trills in the finale, but Schiff
doesn’t make the music sound easy in any superficial way.
His observation of sforzando accents and dynamics bring
out every conceivable aspect of Beethoven’s almost deranged
imagination. This is a performance which is simultaneously
exhausting and exhilarating, which is the way it should be.
Just to ensure
that I wasn’t running away with my own imagination, I had
a re-listen to the young Daniel Barenboim’s 1970 EMI recording.
This too is a remarkable achievement, but I don’t hear the
same clarity of voicing in that final fugue. Schiff might
be accused of over-emphasising some markings, but often with
so much else going on at the same that over-emphasis is the
equivalent of effective stage direction: the action and message
otherwise running the risk of becoming lost. Elsewhere in
the work I prefer Schiff’s pedalling and articulation in the
more full-frontal passages, characterised in that opening
fanfare which Barenboim spouts like a grand erupting fountain,
where Schiff’s opening is very much more the rise of the curtain
on a very big stage. I find the connectedness of Schiff’s
drama with the surrounding passages more convincing as well.
Barenboim is slower than the metronome mark in the first movement,
and gives the impression more of stopping and starting rather
than flowing in a single tempo with subtle rubati.
With ECM’s superlative
piano recording, this has to become a top recommendation for
these pieces whatever the competition. Beethoven’s late piano
sonatas present their own magic and problems, and in setting
the relatively benign Op.90 and lyrically appealing Op.101
sonatas against what Schiff agrees is “probably the hardest
work in the whole repertoire of the piano”, both player and
record label have a winning programme which can stand on its
own, beyond the context of the entire set. The combination
of absolute technical mastery and the spirit of improvisational
exploration make these performances pulsate with vibrancy
both latent and instant. If your tastes are anything like
mine, your spirit will remain restless until you do have
the entire set however – especially after hearing this.
Dominy Clements
András Schiff
(piano) 
