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BRAHMS PIANO CONCERTI

Concerto No. 1 in D-minor, Opus 15 Comparative Survey: 88 versions evaluated December, 2012

Concerto No. 2 in B-flat, Opus 83 Comparative Survey: 83 versions evaluated March, 2013

(Updated: February, 2014)

Piano Concerto No. 1 Recommended Recordings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . page 2

Survey Results (Ratings) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . page 4

What the Critics Have Said . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . page 6

Multiple Versions: Which One is Best? . . . . . . . . . . . page 9

Interpretive Analysis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . page 15

Table of Surveyed Recordings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . page 36

Piano Concerto No. 2

Comparative Overview . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . page 38

Interpretive Analysis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . page 40

Flawed Favorites . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . page 44

Top Contenders . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . page 48

Reference Recording Pick . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . page 57

Table of Surveyed Recordings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . page 58

© Graham Reid 2014. All Rights Reserved

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Recommended Recordings - Brahms Piano Concerto No.1

Piano Enthusiast Reference Recording

Alternative Perspective

Daniel Barenboim with Sir John Barbirolli conducting the New Philharmonia Orchestra.

This recording, dating from the late 1960’s, was first released on CD as EMI 63536, then remastered in 1998 for improved sound quality. The sound is now, in fact, considerably better than many of the more recent recordings in this survey. A more fervent performance of this work has never been recorded. Both soloist and conductor give 100% to every measure of the work, rendering all the romantic-era ardor and passion appropriate to convey the emotional intensity of this symphonic-sized saga. Given that the orchestral part is just as important as the soloist in this work, every conducting student should make mandatory study of Barbirolli’s contribution here because he brings forth many felicities in balance and phrasing that go largely unobserved by other conductors. The orchestra plays with rapt attention and great beauty. Barenboim’s more recent recording with Celibidache is similar in approach, but the conditions of the partnership with Barbirolli is in a class by itself. The current EMI release has this packaged together with the Second Concerto which is interpretively more idiosyncratic yet considered indispensable by many collectors. The two-CD set also includes fine performances of the Tragic Overture and the Academic festival Overture, and typically sells for under $15. EMI 72649 (2CD)

Leon Fleisher with George Szell conducting the Cleveland Symphony Orchestra.

Ferocious intensity from Szell and the Clevelanders with clean

lines and vigorous physicality from Fleisher. This rendering may

fall short on warmth and expressive nuance, but the dynamic,

unsentimental view of Brahms has won fans over time and again

since its first release over forty years ago. Sound is a bit abrasive

but that only adds to the intensity of the conception. The Rondo

finale is one of the most exciting ever committed to disc. Sony

63225 (2 CD) paired with the Second Concerto.

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For the Collection

Ashkenazy/Haitink. It is really Haitink and the wonderful Concertgebouw that

makes this performance superb. The recorded sound is gorgeous, strings are silky,

and woodwinds are perfectly intoned. The second theme (beginning measure 26) is

rendered with heartbreaking poignancy. This is why I consider the Concertgebouw

one of the top three orchestras in the world. Ashkenazy gives 100% and projects the

piano part robustly and with fulsome weight. This budget 2-CD set also comes with

a fine rendering of the second concerto. The Handel Variations are not the solo

piano version we usually hear, but the orchestrated version by Rhubra, a delightful

rarity that makes ownership of this set a must for collectors.

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Survey Results:

The Shelf-Pullers

Great Performances - Great Sound. The Best of the Best. These are the go-to recordings for your listening enjoyment.

Barenboim/Barbirolli/Philharmonia. EMI. Piano Enthusiast’s Reference Recording Gelber/Kempe/Munich. EMI.

Connoisseurs Choice

Great Performances in less-than-ideal sound quality.

Solomon/Kubelik. 1952. Testament. Serkin/Ormandy/Philadelphia. 1961. Bearac Reissues BRC-2012

Arrau/Rozhdestvenski/Moscow. 1968. Doremi.

Other Noteworthy Performances

Of interest to the collector or serious student.

Ashkenazy/Haitink/Concertgebouw. Decca. Kovacevich/Colin Davis/London. Philips.

Kovacevich/Sawallisch/London. EMI. Lupu/de Waart/London. Decca.

Rubinstein/Haitink/Concertgebouw. EuroArt. Schiff/Solti/Vienna. Decca

Zimerman/Rattle/Berlin. DG

Alternative Perspectives

Great Performances with non-mainstream interpretations

Horowitz/Walter/Amsterdam. 1936. AsDisc. Fleisher/Szell/Cleveland. 1958. Sony.

Gilels/Jochum/Berlin. 1972. DG.

Far Fringes

Too Extreme to Take Seriously

Horowitz/Toscanini. 1935. Crazy fast; a pure rush of adrenalin. Gould/Bernstein. Sony. Crazy slow and schizoid.

Tirimo/Sanderling. EMI. Ponderously slow and morose.

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Ten Most Memorable Movements of the Survey

In the Interpretive Analysis section I’ve listed which performances were the most or least effective in

each movement based on various interpretive options. Having surveyed 88 performances (plus a few

non-commercial versions not counted) that means I’ve sat through some 264 movements of this work.

Here is a short list of performances that stood out at the time and continue to resonate in my memory…

1. Solomon/Kubelik: Maestoso 2. Barenboim/Barbirolli: Maestoso

3. Serkin/Ormandy: Adagio 4. Solomon/Kubelik: Adagio

5. Barenboim/Barbirolli: Adagio 6. Arrau/Rozhdestvensky: Rondo

7. Barenboim/Barbirolli: Rondo 8. Schiff/Solti: Rondo

9. Horowitz/Toscanini: Rondo 10. Fleisher/Szell: Rondo

One to Watch For

Based on a YouTube posting I saw with Evgeny Kissin and Yuri Temirkanov in St. Petersburg, I would

look forward to hearing a commercial release with Kissin. Though the collaboration with

Temirkanov was good and might produce a worthy commercial recording, I feel that perhaps another

conductor and orchestra would yield even better results. Haitink would be a natural choice given his

experience of producing so many great versions (Arrau, Rubinstein, Ashkenazy), but I know that

personal rapport trumps professional credentials every time, so perhaps Sir Colin Davis would be a

good partner. They really did a great job with the Schumann Concerto. I can tell by Kissin’s

conceptualization of the work that a recording by him would be no replacement for the dark

romanticism of Barenboim/Barbirolli, or the anguished passion of Serkin/Ormandy, or the chiseled

classical approach of Fleisher/Szell, but I think he has a good balance of all of those disparate

elements and thus demonstrates the potential to produce one of the great modern recordings. The

choice of conductor and orchestra will be critical. And my plea to Kissin: please, for this work get

yourself a good piano with some solidity in the bass. Maybe it’s the engineers and not the piano, but

many of your recordings sound seriously undernourished in the bass; this tends to give a slightly

harder edge to the music without the cushion of harmonics generated in the lower half of the

keyboard.

Comments From the Peanut Gallery

I’ve seen many video performances of this work and have heard the work live many times. Only once

was I ever bothered by how somebody appeared while playing this, and that was the televised

performance with Emanual Ax at the 2011 Proms Concerts in London. First off he appears so relaxed

and congenial, smiling at the conductor or members of the orchestra, and looking around at various

things as if of idle curiosity. One can never really know what another person is feeling, but based on

the evidence I saw, he certainly is not feeling the same emotions that I feel, or that 99% of other

musicians feel when they perform or listen to this work. A tragic and turbulent concerto written in

memory of a dead friend, and he’s looking at the floral arrangements and smiling at the players? I

just find that slightly disrespectful.

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What the Critics Have Said

I have perceived an ever-so-slight bias among reviewers depending on which country they

live in. This bias for home-team players is most evident with the major newspapers—New

York, London, Paris, Berlin—which tend to talk about pianists that have been active in

their own local music programs. That is only natural given the assumption that they are

responsible to report on matters of interest to their local readership. However, I find even

the major music review magazines, while being more international in scope still tend to

allow more space and featured reviews to pianists that are native to, or active in, their own

country. In the Italian, French and German magazines I see feature articles and glowing

reviews for pianists that most Americans will have never even heard of. With the

American press, there is a strong built-in bias for “cultural icons” – pianists or conductors

who have made a lasting impression on the American musical consciousness and defined

the very parameters by which greatness is measured. Indeed, these classic names have had

a deeply ingrained formative impression on many of the now grey-haired reviewers who

grew up with these performances and who continue to compare all newcomers to these

standard bearers. As for the Brahms Concerto, the American press (of which I include all

the on-line review sites that I know of) can hardly see beyond anything Szell conducted:

the Fleisher/Szell version being the perennial favorite, the Serkin/Szell also highly

respected, and in a pinch a deferential nod of the head to that Englishman, Clifford Curzon

– prompted to greatness by, of course, George Szell. You may ascertain, and correctly so,

that I’m not a big fan of George Szell. One may also find peripheral discussion of Van

Cliburn, or Rubinstein’s classic RCA Living Stereo recording with Fritz Reiner and the

Chicago Symphony Orchestra. The fact of the matter is, however, that none of these

versions are considered definitive anywhere but in America. The rest of the world all has

its own favorites. Okay, let’s dig a little deeper to try and discover some unbiased

consensus.

The American Record Guide in their Brahms Overview seems to consider more latitude in

interpretive perspectives, recommending not only recordings long familiar to Americans –

the classic Rubinstein Reiner on Living Stereo re-issue, the Serkin/Szell and the

Clibrun/Leinsdorf – but also acknowledged being impressed by the Askenazy/Haitink and

Kovacevich/Sawallisch. They also dismissed some of the least effective recordings for the

same reasons that I do. But it’s hard to characterize those differences in their brief two-

paragraph summary, not to mention the fact that the reviewers all had entirely separate

listening experiences, often recommending performances the rest of the group hadn’t

heard. But it was a worthy attempt.

The Brits appear to be very objective in how they describe different approaches, but they

do make a point of talking about performers who are popular with the London concert

crowd, and that’s usually pianists who were English by birth, or who took up British

residency and have been active before the London public. The Penguin Guide recommends

Brendel, Barenboim, Ashkenazy, Kovacevich, Solomon and Curzon. Gramophone’s

Recommended Recordings guide lists the two versions with Kovacevich (with Sawallisch

and Colin Davis), and the Curzon/Szell as favorites. Noticeably absent are any Americans:

Serkin, Fleisher or Rubinstein. Gramophone recommendations are based on number of

positive reviews and citations. However, in the November 1997 issue of the monthly

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magazine, the editor gave writer Stephen Plaistow free reign to write an extensive five-page

comparative review which surveyed some forty different versions. His conclusion was that

Solomon/Kubelik, Curzon/Szell, and Gilels/Jochum were the three all-time supreme

interpretations. As I read along, I found myself agreeing almost item by item with

everything he said. Although I was in complete accord with his assessment of the classic

Solomon recording, I was dismayed that he only considered Serkin’s version with Szell, and

not the superior version with Ormandy. Yes, I agreed with all of his criticism of the

Serkin/Szell version and why he dismissed that as a serious contender, but all those issues

were rectified with the version with Ormandy. Upon further reflection, I had to re-read

the article again, because I was perplexed by the (to me) startling conclusion that he had

discussed virtually none of the parameters which I feel constitute the most important

interpretive issues which define this work. All the issues we agreed upon were very

peripheral matters of not much consequence one way or the other.

To me the abiding concerns are for the psychological implications of the work, not the

surface details. What are the psychological implications of maximizing the degree of

contrast between the first and second themes? Where is the fine line between too much

and too little? Why does flattening the degree of contrast seem to suggest a state of

despondency? Why would we even use the word “despondent” or any other specific

descriptor of psychological state? Is one way good or bad, or are they just different? What

did Brahms intend? These are the issues I explore in depth in the interpretive analysis

section. Needless to say, the exploration of these issues forms the basis of conclusions

which are significantly different from reviewers who look at only the surface details.

After reviewing 88 recordings, I confess that I struggled myself in overcoming some

preconceptions that I had when I first undertook this survey. Going in to the proceedings I

was confident that my usual go-to recordings would come out among the top

recommendations. Since I keep Post-it notes on every CD to keep track of how often I

listen to them, I knew that about every three out of four times I listened to this concerto I

put on the Gelber/Kempe recording, and one out of four times, when I wanted a little more

inwardness, I put on the Lupu/de Waart. But, alas, neither of those figured as my final, top

recommendation. Of course, I had to be certain that I wasn’t just throwing away old

favorites for something new and exciting, or that I wasn’t unduly swayed by some small

new revelation in a performance that wouldn’t otherwise wear well with repeated listening.

So I played the top versions over and over again, on my primary audio system—at full

concert levels, and at background levels—I listened via headphones, I listened on the car’s

Alpine system, and I even played some of the CDs on an old 1991-vintage Sony boom box. I

doubt many reviewers have gone to such measures to get the full measure of what a

recording has to offer. Actually, I was recently stunned to read that a reviewer for a well-

known online review site uses only a portable CD player for his reviews, and he insinuated

that pre-occupation with sound quality per se was esoteric and not really the purview of

the reviewer. Wow. Please read my separate essay, Piano Enthusiast Reviewing Method-

ology, with the sub-section on why the quality of sound is a fundamental part of musical

aesthetics. If concert halls are designed for good sound, artists select specific pianos with

the kind of tone they like, orchestral players make every attempt to play their instruments

with beauty, and the recording engineers have all kinds of expensive equipment to try and

capture all this beauty as much as possible, you don’t just play the recording back on any

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old cheap system and have the temerity to think you’ve experienced what the artists were

trying to convey. This is also a key argument I have against collectors who prefer old

scratchy historic documents and disdain anything produced in the last half century.

Maybe the performances were great, but so are many more recent performances. Brahms

would give himself a side-ache from laughing so hard to learn that some “serious

connoisseurs” prefer scratchy thin sound over experiencing the full dynamics and tonal

luster of his orchestrations.

One thing that became crystal clear to me when immersing myself into this survey was

that there is a quite discernible division in psychological temperament among artists and

listeners that falls into two camps: The Classicists and the Romanticists. None of the

reviewers has ever addressed this very fundamental issue. But, really, it is nothing new.

When we go back to the time of Brahms, we find the Verdi-Wagner schism, when we move

forward in time to the post-world-war modern era, we find the Toscanini-Furtwangler

schism, and even today, even among professors, concert artists, professional music critics,

and avid listeners, we find a very definite preference for either Classical or Romantic

perspectives in performance. Unfortunately, each only considers their own point of view,

without understanding the broader context of issues. I explore this schism in-depth in the

Interpretive Analysis section.

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Multiple versions: Which One is Best?

This concerto is a tough nut to crack, that is, to find just the right balance to be convincing

to an audience. Just about any other concerto from Mozart to Rachmaninoff can be put

pretty much on autopilot and most of the audience will love it anyway. Not so the Brahms

First. The first movement is really like a symphony with some awkwardly imposed piano

writing that doesn’t always make the pianist’s job all that flattering. The second movement

can seem an interminable bore if the listener is not drawn into the proper psychological

perspective. The third movement, with its catchy Hungarian-style Rondo, is the most

accessible, and often played as a stand-alone movement on radio broadcasts. But even

here, too much laxity in the tempo or articulation can render a ho-hum reception from the

audience, despite the soloist being breathless and dripping in perspiration. The entire

work is a marathon of physical endurance.

Over the decades, certain artists have aligned themselves with this concerto, and

conductors and concert managers sought out these “specialists” for engagements. Either

by sheer willpower and determination or luck of intuitive providence, they had a

reputation for making this concerto come to life for an audience. Many of their

performances have been captured on radio broadcasts or multiple studio recordings. But

not all of these performances live up to the reputation of the performer. They had their off

days, and on occasion, the artists and conductor just didn’t view the work in simpatico. As

much as I love the Solomon/Kubelik recording, the Solomon/Maazel recording is

atrocious. Really, I am so angry that such a poor recording could be foisted on the

collector as an “important historical document” that I want my money back! So, here’s the

low-down on multiple versions so that you will know which ones are worth adding to your

collection. See the Table of Recordings Evaluated for complete listing of recordings used in

this survey.

Arrau. I was able to get ahold of six of the seven performances that are available. The

recordings range from 1947 to 1971, and though the timings gradually became broader

(some would say more ponderous) the inflection and general psychology remained the

same from the start. There are two versions that I will keep in my collection. The famous

version with Haitink and the Concertgebouw I’ll keep because Philips did a great job in

capturing the wonderful sound of the orchestra (and piano). Haitink in general, whether

with Arrau, Ashkenazy or Rubinstein, offered superlative support, such that I consider him

and Barbirolli to be the two best conductors for this work. The other version is taken from

a live 1969 performance from the Great Hall of the Moscow Conservatory, with Gennadi

Rozhdestvensky at the helm. This recording may be hard to track down, it is a

transcription from an old Soviet-era LP, and is available on the Doremi label. The first two

movements are similar to Arrau’s other performances from this time period, but the

conductor and Moscow ensemble are no match for the refinement of Haitink and the

Concertgebouw. However, in the final movement Arrau comes to life with the energy of a

possessed man. I heard him several times live and have all the famous recordings, but I

have to say I never heard him let loose like this. Several moments in the proceeding

actually gave me goose bumps from the extreme emotional intensity, and his nearly

pounding the Steinway to a pulp in the final solo peroration (measures 503-507).

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Barenboim. The first recording was with Barbirolli, and that turned out to be the overall

reference recording from 88 versions evaluated. The later recording with Celibidache is

worth a listen, but as a video production I don’t care to watch it, and as an audio recording

there are several aspects that compromise Barenboim’s erstwhile efforts. Firstly is the

cavernously reverberant acoustics of the Erhlangen Staadtshalle, which is about as

obfuscatory to textural detail as a large cathedral. Secondly, the microphones above the

piano pick up a metallic resonance that is most unpleasant when Barenboim plays above

mezzo-forte in the upper melodic range. Thirdly, Celi is about as animated as a manikin,

and loses his place in the score on two occasions. Perhaps the orchestra was used to this

and they worked out all the details in rehearsal, but the end result is that I don’t hear much

contribution at the level of Barbirolli. There are two other versions with Barenboim that I

have not yet heard, the one with Sir Simon Rattle and the Berliners on tour in Athens,

Greece could be of interest, but given the unfamiliar venue I doubt the recording engineers

elicit first-class results; of the version with Zubin Mehta and the Israel Philharmonic I am

quite dubious – I have never been much impressed with recordings from this conductor

and ensemble. I don’t know whether he still has the energy to have another go at it, but I’d

welcome a new recording with either of the two top-rate Berlin ensembles, and Steinway

has one of their best concert technicians there to insure Barenboim gets the best possible

piano. Meanwhile, I’ll make a point of adding the Rattle version in a future update.

Brendel. The Penguin Guide has considered the Brendel/Abbado version a valid, if not

definitive, interpretation and gave it a three-star rating. One of the radio stations in my

area likes it enough that it is their go-to whenever they program the Brahms D-minor

Concerto. With musicians of this caliber the resulting performance is not going to be

without some degree of interest and refinement. But as with the Fleisher/Szell recording,

one can admire the proceedings from a purely pianist point of view, or as interesting

music, but for very different reasons neither Fleisher nor Brendel offer up an authentic

Brahms experience. Brahms first sketched ideas on this work after Schumann’s attempted

suicide, and the second movement was written as a sort of Requiem-like Benediction after

Schumann finally died. Brahms was said to have pulled his hair in utter anguish at the loss

of his mentor. Yet to hear this version by Brendel, it’s like a sunny and quiet stroll through

a field of wild flowers. The score is full of meaty, thick sonorities, lots of pedal, lots of

fortissimos, yet Brendel and Abbado give a lightweight rendering that makes it seem idyllic

and carefree. Brendel’s first recording with Isserstedt seems more to the spirit, at least as

concerns the broader outlines of the work, but a closer look at the details reveals a strange,

almost schizoid persona in Brendel. It’s as if his emotions and intellect are battling right

before us. Just to cite one example: in the cadenza quasi fantasia in the final movement

(measures 376-409) Brendel starts with a bang – a big, sonorous, low-A octave in the bass,

like a flashback to the stern, defiance of the first movement - but within three measures he

drops the pedal sonority and draws back everything to a quiet inwardness, like when a shy

person speaks out at a party and suddenly finds everybody looking at them, and then they

retreat back into their turtle shell. Then he tries to rally some nervous tension in the right

hand, and then that too is drawn back. The whole episode is positively schizoid. There

were some indications of this temperamental dichotomy elsewhere in the concerto but it

came to its fullest expression in this cadenza. As for the conductor, I know a lot of people

have sentimental feelings about this recording since the conductor died just a few days

after this session, but the fact is, the playing of the orchestra is really shockingly poor when

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you consider how superbly this very same group of players performed this same concerto

in the recording with Haitink and Rubinstein. Just compare the orchestral introduction of

both recordings and you will hear a huge difference. In any case, I don’t consider Brendel

the right kind of performer for this work, or Brahms in general. I find Brendel’s somewhat

schizoid tendencies work best with Schubert and Schumann. Even his Beethoven is quirky

and fussy for me. Like I say, sometimes artists can be great chameleons; otherwise you

match the temperament of the composer with the temperament of the performer.

Kovacevich. I like the earlier version with Sir Colin Davis better than most reviewers.

There is a clarity to the Philips recording that I prefer over the darker, duller perspective of

the later EMI recording. Without question, Sawallisch is noticeably better in the first two

movements, but both Davis and the younger Kovacevich turn in a really rousing finale.

The EMI recording is perplexing to me. I enjoy the performance more when listening on

headphones, or when I listening on more forward projecting audio systems. For example,

it really came to life on a friend’s Magnepan/Audio Research system but sounded flat and

uninvolving on my Soundlab/OTL system. One oddity seems to stem from the microphone

placement and the relative volumes of each feed into the final blend. Overall the piano is

just slightly bumped up in volume over a more realistic balance with the orchestra,

however, the lower third of the keyboard seems recessed and more distant. I can tell by

the change in harmonic profile when Kovacevich is really laying into the Steinway, yet this

added intensity doesn’t bring forth more weight and power in the overall balance. The

only other recording to be this perplexing was also an EMI recording: the Gelber/Kempe

performance from 1966. On both recordings I keep turning up the volume to get a greater

sense of involvement, but it never really works. The Gelber version I also have on LP, and I

get much more micro-dynamic energy from that than I do the CD, and not because I have

a “rising hi-frequency” moving coil cartridge (I have a SOTA Nova/SME-V/Benz system).

Therefore, because of this hit-and-miss dependence on a particular kind of sound

reproduction, I have not put either recording among my highest recommendations. I know

some seasoned collectors are quite fond of the Kovacevich/Sawallisch, but even with the

most flattering playback conditions, I just don’t hear Kovacevich offering the same range of

expression as I hear from Solomon/Kubelik, Serkin/Ormandy, or Barenboim/Barbirolli.

Just to cite one example: in measures 123-130 in the first movement Kovacevich lets the left-

hand figurations dominate over the right-hand melody (which is not duplicated by the

orchestra, and is therefore the solitary source of this thematic expression). Even the

somewhat “roughhewn” Serkin balances this passage and others with much greater care.

Pollini. I’ve evaluated three commercial recordings from Pollini, spanning from his

earliest with Böhm and Vienna in 1979, to the later re-make with Abbado and Berlin in

1998 to the most recent version with Christian Thielemann and the Staatskapelle Dresden,

all on the Deutsche Grammophon label. I also listened to two live concert postings on

YouTube (London and Salzburg). I don’t consider any of them to be top contenders, but at

least Böhm allows a more natural rise and fall of phrases and the Vienna group plays with a

good deal of color. Pollini is merely competent. Abbado reigns in the expressive range of

the players, keeping phrases uniform throughout, almost a tiered dynamics approach.

Thielemann is roughhewn and doesn’t elicit finely-calibrated balances; his timpani peaks

too soon (and wildly) then backs off awkwardly, the tuba lays raspberries all over the stage,

and the strings often have clipped phrase endings. And Pollini is choppy and less

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competent than when he was younger. This work requires enormous stamina. The live

recordings demonstrate nothing new from Pollini and have poor, distant (amateur?)

recording techniques. In my opinion, DG would have done better to give Barenboim

another shot, not Pollini. But they did do right by giving Zimerman a remake. Such new

releases are very costly for any major record company, and I’m hardly privy to know all the

marketing decisions that determine who does what and when.

Rubinstein. The first time I ever heard this work was a live broadcast on Great

Performances with Rubinstein and Haitink. Since I had just purchased the complete

Schirmer Library of piano scores, I gathered my virgin and unmarked score before me and

waiting anxiously for the maestro to appear on television. The only thing I remember

musically was how poised and noble Rubinstein looked, except at measure 321 in the first

movement where he appeared to stand up from the bench and put all his weight into this

one massive chord. During this survey I came across the same old video posted on

YouTube. Of course I take away much more from it now, starting with how Haitink would

turn and stand quietly to watch Rubi during his solos. Conductors these days tend to

ignore the performers and hardly ever look at them (even during extended cadenzas like

the Rock III – they just fix their gaze straight to the back wall). It seems most fans consider

his version with Fritz Reiner to be the best, and it certainly has a solidity and authority

about it (the new Living Stereo SACD sounds pretty darn good for 1954!). But I really think

Haitink’s contribution and the wondrous playing of the Concertgebouw make that version

my preferred recording with Rubinstein. I could mention a few nitpicks and fall back on

the old “not bad for his age” commentary, but I think this is a performance where the sum

is greater than the parts. It has a cumulative power to it. I will say this: many comments

on YouTube praise Rubinstein for his poise, lack of histrionics, clean and minimal

pedaling, and direct and unaffected conveyance of the music’s natural flow. But, I can’t

help but thinking that it might have been an even better performance if it did have some of

those missing elements. A little more pedal would have giving more weight and sonority,

and let’s be honest, this isn’t a Mozart concerto, to make it all the way to the end of this

monster without any hint of perspiration indicates that maybe this “noble poise” is holding

back some of the drama that this tortured and tormented work really demands. So, none

of his versions quite make my highest recommendation, but every collector and serious

piano student should at least be familiar with either the Reiner version, or (because of the

wonderful orchestra) the Haitink version.

Serkin. I evaluated four recordings: with Reiner and Pittsburgh (1946), Munch and Boston

(1957), Ormandy and Philadelphia (1961), and Szell and Cleveland (1968). The critical

consensus is for the Serkin/Szell collaboration. However, there is a vocal minority of

collectors (myself included) who prefer the version with Ormandy. The Ormandy

recording is a much more spacious and natural recording than the Cleveland session which

has too many obvious spot-mics and tweaking (which don’t always flatter the string

sound). I will discuss the details of the interpretation in the Interpretive Analysis section,

but in brief: Szell was a classicist who ran a tight ship, his approach is all angularity, clarity

of phrasing, and very little bass foundation, while Ormandy a little rounder, blending

phrases together, and much fuller in the bass foundation, to me, a much more stylistically

appropriate sound for Brahms. While both Szell and Serkin shared a similar conception of

the ferocity of the opening movement, they differed significantly on how to approach the

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more inward and reflective moments of the work (the Adagio especially). Beyond all that,

Serkin is an entirely different person in the Philadelphia recording. I’ve heard from a

clarinetist who worked with the Serkins that apart from Marlborough, Rudi always felt

more comfortable with the Philadelphia musicians than with anybody else. That statement

could very well be true given that Serkin later became the Director of the prestigious Curtis

Institute of Music in Philadelphia. In any case, this is supreme music making here, and

Serkin soars without his wings being clipped by Szell. All three movements are faster in

timing than the later collaboration with Szell, yet despite the stronger rhythmic vitality,

they are also far more expressive. The Adagio in particular, I don’t think I’ve ever heard a

more passionate rendering by any other pianist. This movement was one of the most

memorable moments of the survey and is on my list of Top Ten Moments (above). I would

urge Sony to find the master tapes and give us a top-rate remaster on CD. At the moment

all we have is a LP-to-CD transfer from Bearac Reissues, BRC-2012, paired with the Second

Concerto and selling for 20Euros (+shipping), by direct mail order. By the way, the Second

Concerto is a completely different animal, and for that work I do slightly prefer the

collaboration with Szell (survey forthcoming).

Zimerman. When I was a conservatory student in the 70’s I idolized Bernstein, and read

and listened to his Harvard Lectures many times. But over the years, I’ve begun to be more

critical, and at the very least I would say he was rather inconsistent. His Brahms from this

period seems hit and miss; I really love what he did with the First and Second Symphonies,

but less so with the Third and Fourth. His concertos were even further off the mark. Poor

young Zimerman, doesn’t dare do much but follow along and try to play as best he can. I

never did care for the Bernstein/Zimerman recording in Vienna, and listening again in this

survey just proved to me again how disappointing it was. However, the new version with

Sir Simon Rattle almost seems to go too far in the other direction, namely, Zimerman is

now the boss and Rattle seems merely a “yes, sir” man on the podium. Obviously,

Zimerman is a much more serious thinker now than he was back in 1983, and he wouldn’t

sign off on any new recordings unless they were up to his high standards. Indeed, many

sections and phrases are sculpted to what I would consider perfection. The piano entry in

the second movement (measures 14-18) are as superbly voiced and speak with the same

kind of poignancy as Solomon’s classic version, yet Zimerman has the advantage of a

modern recording, and a piano with a lovely sustaining quality. The G at the top of the

phrase in measure 16 hovers wondrously and seems to suspend time, and Zimerman’s

phrase melding and voicing are beyond reproach. However, elsewhere, such as the piano

entry in the first movement, he seems overly fussy and the articulation and phrasing of the

entire sequence from measure 102 – 108 seems artificially imposed upon the natural flow of

the music. Just listen to the natural expressive arch that Gelber achieves, smoothly building

as the music approaches the outburst beginning at measure 109. These few moments of

Zimerman holding back and putting the brakes on the natural discourse are not, by

themselves, enough to be considered an interpretive fault, yet when combined by Rattle’s

frequent obsequiousness, it’s enough to instill a certain sense of lacking deep emotional

engagement. Now, I’m no fan of Rattle, and rarely pull any of his recordings off the shelf

for enjoyment, so I’m just glad he didn’t do anything too eccentric to spoil the party, but

when you compare his contributions to some of the great conductors you begin to see

what’s amiss. The first few times I listened I couldn’t find any fault with what he was

doing, yet I felt strangely uninvolved in the proceedings. One listen to Barbirolli or

14

Haitink and I quickly realized how much emotional intensity was being sapped from

Rattle’s approach. To give just one example, measure 35 in the opening of the first

movement has a dynamic drop to pianissimo and the indication con sordino (which means

the violins place a three-prong device on the bridge of their instrument to dampen

overtones and mute the overall dynamic output). The Berliners achieve one of the most

amazing pianissimo massed string sounds I’ve heard, with all of the voices in perfect

balance, yet instead of creating a momentary sense of mono-stasis, this section just moves

along like some aimless New Age ambiance. Barbirolli gives greater expressive range to the

celli (not marked for muting) and Haitink allows the violins greater use of vibrato to still

maintain an underlying emotional intensity. Kempe hardly has the silky string sound of

the Berliners at his disposal but the emotional intensity never wavers. With Rattle, it just

dies. Throughout the concerto, whole sections just seemed to go “dead.” It is those

moments that more than undo the wondrous achievement of his fugato section in the third

movement, probably the finest ever recorded. In short, there is much to admire for study

purposes, but the performance as a whole, despite the wonderfully clear, dynamic, modern

recording technology, does not stir the emotions like some of the other versions I

recommend. I don’t know about you, but if I spend an hour of my time immersed in this

turbulent drama Brahms has created, I want to engage the responses of mind, emotion and

spirit to the fullest degree possible.

15

Brahms Piano Concerto No. 1: Interpretive Analysis

Before we talk about issues of tempo, of technical fluency, of balance between soloist and

orchestra, or details of texture and phrasing, or even the quality of the recorded sound,

there is one issue that divides opinion between performers and listeners alike, and this one

characteristic accounts for at least 90% of one’s perception of, and receptivity to,

interpretative perspective, and that is this: is the performance Classical or Romantic in

conception? So many times reviewers are dismissive of a performance then make

alternative suggestions as being superior without clarifying the overall conception. If the

performance that gets the dismissive review is Classical in conception, and the reviewer

prefers a Romantic interpretation, he then suggests only performances that are Romantic,

and vice-versa. You may well ask: what exactly is the difference, and how did such a

divisive schism develop?

Here is my pragmatic definition: Classical refers to an emphasis on structure and form,

with minimal imposition of emotional “interplay.” In the case of this specific concerto a

Classical rendition would have less use of pedal (for a cleaner, more transparent texture),

top-dominant sonorities (melodic and thematic components dominant over harmonic

foundation), and generally more rhythmic alacrity and metric propulsion. Romantic refers

to an emphasis on emotional engagement, telling a story or creating a “mood,” with less

emphasis on structural form or textural clarity. In this particular concerto that translates

into more pedal (for greater weight and depth of sonority), more bass foundation as a basis

of underpinning emotional states, and generally freer use of rubato, agogics or tempo

manipulations if it suits the artist’s expressive purposes.

Now here’s the thing: I believe any true masterpiece can be subjected to a variety of

interpretive perspectives and reveal various meaning and enjoyment to different listeners.

That’ why collectors can become so obsessive about amassing so many different versions of

the same work. However, I’m careful to also consider that some listeners are not going to

be so self-possessed as to make a life’s study out of every significant composition in the

standard repertoire. They may be just starting to explore, or maybe they don’t yet like the

work so much as to go and buy several recordings in order to explore the range of

perspectives that are possible. Of course, YouTube can be a great tool in allowing listeners

to explore numerous options without putting out a great outlay of money. The problem

with YouTube is that sometimes the commentaries can be extremely biased and sometimes

totally off base. Therefore, as open-minded as I am to different perspectives, when it

comes time for me to consider which recording becomes the Piano Enthusiast Reference

Recording, I ask myself if the performance is suitably authentic to its time period. It

might be interesting – even enjoyable - to hear Bach played with rubato and generous use

of the pedal, or conversely, with dry and acerbic textures and phrasing like Glenn Gould,

but neither of those approaches has anything to do with how Bach would have played or

conceived the music. When I hear a Mozart symphony, I don’t really want to hear a

Mahler-size orchestra trying (but not quite succeeding) to render deft articulations with

clarity. When I hear Romantic era works I don’t really want to hear pristine textures and

emotionless absolutism. So where does that leave us?

Brahms was considered one of the most conservative composers of his day; in fact even

more conservative than his mentor, Robert Schumann. Brahms worked in traditional

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forms such as sonatas, theme and variations, and a symphonic style that took up the

mantle of Beethoven’s legacy. Although Schumann dabbled in unstructured forms and

programmatic suggestion, Brahms never did. But issues of form, structure and

compositional process aside, both Brahms and Schumann felt out of touch with the

sometimes phantasmagoric allegory and programmatic extremes of Berlioz, Wagner and

Liszt. However, let’s look closely at the style that Brahms did emulate: late Beethoven.

Although much of late-Beethoven pushes the boundaries of what was the accepted musical

style of the time, most of it still has an unerring sense of underlying structure (e.g. the

adagio of the Hammerklavier). Many of Brahms’ fugal episodes are cut of the same cloth as

Beethoven’s late sonatas. By evidence of some unorthodox free-style episodes (Sonata,

Opus 110, late string quartets) I believe Beethoven proved himself to be the more forward-

thinking composer (whether by dint of hearing loss, or innate creative impulse). But

leaving all of that theoretical discussion behind, the primary take-away from all of this is

that Beethoven created a sound world that pushed emotional expression to the limit of

what non-programmatic, structure-based composition could allow. In this sense, Brahms,

Bruckner and Dvorak stayed pretty close to the parameters already established by

Beethoven. It wasn’t until Mahler that structured composition saw further evolution in

terms of color and emotional range.

Beethoven’s Ninth can be viewed in strictly classical analytical terms, but there is no

question from the orchestration that this is very dramatic music. Neither Haydn nor

Clementi came close to imagining this kind of dramatic power in music, though I believe

Mozart came very close in his most dramatic opera, Don Giovanni, and in some of the

soaring transcendence of Requiem. But whereas Mozart touched on this level of emotional

expression a couple of times, Beethoven made it mainstream. The point to remember is

that Beethoven’s orchestration and poundings at the piano were not merely tools to make

the music louder or project to a larger audience, they were methods by which to increase

the dramatic and emotional power of music. You could triple the size of an orchestra

playing a Haydn symphony, but it would still not have the same emotional power as

Beethoven’s symphonies (at least the big ones, 3,5,7 and 9). It’s true, a few interpreters

have played late-Beethoven in more or less the same style that they would play his early

sonatas, that is, very clean, minimal pedal, minimal rubato or agogics, emphasis on

structure instead of tone color, etc. Kempff is a good example of that style. And this fits in

with the description I drew at the beginning of the discussion between the Classical and

Romantic approaches.

My point is that while Brahms may not have been the arch-type romantic composer, he

was nevertheless, completely comfortable in taking the baton passed on by Beethoven.

And the emotion and power in Beethoven’s Hammerklavier or Ninth Symphony clearly

takes us well beyond the range of what is considered the Classical-era style. It is for that

reason that I find Kempff’s reading interesting, and even enjoyable to a certain degree, but

really quite far off the mark in terms of dramatic power. Brahms may never have had the

temperament to beat his piano to a pulp like Beethoven (and Beethoven was pretty

aggressive even before his hearing loss), but he was completely comfortable in

superimposing structure and emotional power, just as was Beethoven. To summarize thus

far: those practitioners who see Brahms in the Classical style have gone too far back and

stripped away too much of what was already established with Beethoven’s Ninth. If you

17

view Brahms in terms of a more classical persuasion, then at least it should go no further

back than this point. So let’s dig even deeper in order to clearly define the differences

between Brahms the Classicist, and Brahms the Romantic.

Looking at the Brahms D-minor Concerto specifically, probably the best example of a

performance in the Classical style is by Leon Fleisher and George Szell. Fleisher clearly

modeled his performance on his teacher’s (Schnabel), almost to the second in the timings

of the outer movements. Szell conveys the appropriate stern ferocity in the opening

segment, right in keeping with the Classical drama of Beethoven’s Ninth. However, the

second theme is rendered with a steady pace and clear-eyed lack of sentimentality, which

is at odds with the indicated espressivo. Even going back as far as Bach, you would not

hear any respected violinists play the Chaconne in strict tempo mesure. Szell’s rendering

may not be outright wrong, but it sits right on the border of what is stylistically

appropriate. The thing is that Fleisher only reinforces this emotional reticence with a dry

piano tone (minimal pedal), little if any expressive give and take, and always a clear

emphasis on the stoic heroic figure rather than hint at any inward sensitivity. I believe that

takes us further back than late-Beethoven. Szell and Fleisher view this work as Mozart on

steroids, just a louder version of some late-classical Sturm und Drang. But already in

Beethoven’s middle period sonatas, let alone late period, we see much more use of color

and sonority (pedal as an expressive tool), and indications written in the score to prompt

the performer towards more expressive feelings.

Remember that Brahms’ primary objection with his contemporaries Berlioz, Wagner, Liszt,

was a perceived lack of discipline in compositional craft, and his position that music has

sufficient dramatic power without superfluous programmatic concepts. That doesn’t mean

he was an ascetic, inexpressive person. The world Brahms lived in had already seen

Chopin’s complete life come and go long before this work was even conceived. All the

luscious Chopin Nocturnes and Ballades and Concerti preceded the Brahms concerto by a

decade. The two archetype Romantic works –the Liszt Sonata and the Schumann

Fantasy—also predate this concerto. Could Brahms really have been that conservative, that

emotionally inexpressive, that none of that rubbed off? Although Brahms continued to

look to the past for inspiration—the classically-styled variations on Handel and Haydn—he

was also capable of writing quite expressively, even as early as the Andante espressivo of his

F-minor Sonata, Opus 5.

That brings us to the specifics of the circumstances under which this concerto was

conceived. The first movement was sketched in response to Schumann’s attempted

suicide. Brahms was beyond himself (pulling his hair in despair according to some stories)

and penned this most turbulent and troubled movement. Originally conceived as a

symphony, then as a Sonata for Two Pianos (much like the stormy F-minor Sonata that he

did write), eventually it came to final form as a somewhat unusual concerto. It really is the

most symphonic concerto in the repertoire. The second movement was written after

Schumann died in the asylum. Brahms conceived of the movement in much the same way

he did when he wrote his German requiem upon his mother’s death. Specifically, he

envisioned it as a Requiem Benediction, a paean of human love for his lost friend and

mentor. Now, does any of that sound remotely like the kind of work that would be

classified as Classical in nature? Yes, Mozart also went through some extreme emotional

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distress, culminating in Don Giovanni and the Requiem. But the orchestration here, and

the sheer robustness of the piano writing go far beyond that.

Yet, there are listeners who prefer a cleaner, more sober (less emotionally manic)

rendering. Such listeners tend to rally behind the various Szell recordings, with Serkin,

Fleisher and Curzon. I’ll admit that Fleisher and Szell give the Rondo finale of this concerto

an exhilarating ride. And I can enjoy it in the same way I’d enjoy a fine rendering of a

Beethoven or Mendelssohn concerto. It is still a fine piece of music. But I say it has no real

bearing with how Brahms conceived this work. As I said, this work came after many of the

great weepy romantic works we all know, and even if Brahms was truly a reactionary nay-

sayer about all this, we still can’t really roll the clock back any further than late Beethoven.

Take the latent emotional and expressive markers of Beethoven’s Ninth (written some 30

years earlier) and compound and amplify those by Brahms’ own turbulent emotional state

in response to the events with Schumann. That’s where we need to be.

There have always been people who were not comfortable embracing the full emotional

foundation of Romantic music. Even during that period there were musicians, professors

of music, even some notable concert artists who were more comfortable with the more

structured and absolute styles of the past. Beethoven is about the last composer where

both camps can meet on the same ground. During Brahms’ time there was the noted

schism between the Wagner and Verdi followers, later on it was the schism between

Impressionism (external) and Expressionism (internal), and after the Second World War a

kind of emotional numbness combined with a serious and sober view of life which rejected

any capriciousness or overt emotional display in musical performance. This spawned the

division between Toscanini and Furtwangler, the two titans of the podium. (Their

respective styles, and completely different temperaments, were well established pre-war,

but it wasn’t until after the war that listeners began to really align themselves with one or

the other). Toscanini was lean and mean, even angular, rhythmically bracing and brisk in

tempos, though his manic energy carried its own kind of emotional charge. Furtwangler

was more ruminative, more expressive, slower and more measured, and preferred rounder,

more harmonized textures. Both were emotionally demonstrative, but Furtwangler was

definitely more inward looking. It’s purely a matter of innate psychology as to which type

of performers listeners respond to.

Intelligence has nothing to do with the equation. Intelligence can reside equally with either

disposition. I would characterize Brendel and Arrau and Bernstein as strong intellects, yet

they all demonstrate clear emotional investment in their performances. I would charac-

terize Fleisher, and Curzon, and Gould as strong intellects, yet they are all emotionally

reticent in temperament. All of that is as it should be. What I’m saying is that Brahms

was emotionally distraught when he conceived this tortured and tormented work,

and any authentic rendering of this particular work would be best fulfilled by a

performer with a similar emotional disposition.

I will further break down specific manifestations of each school, Classical or Romantic, as I

evaluate the details of each separate movement.

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I. MAESTOSO

Fastest: 16:49 (Horowitz) Slowest: 25:48 (Gould)

First off, numero uno, is the word “Maestoso.” That means majestic, or with dignity.

There’s no way in Hell that the Horowitz/Toscanini performance fits this description.

They rip it off a full five minutes faster than your average rendition. Yet, there are those

who are saying in discussion forums that here is “finally, somebody who doesn’t believe

Brahms has to be slow and morose.” Granted, these are listeners (not musical scholars)

who don’t care what is written in the score, and they are responding honestly to how the

difference in tempo affects their perception of the music. But, to suggest that Brahms

should be made to get up and boogey, because it’s more exhilarating that way… well, that’s

why they came up with the whole “Hooked on Classics” stuff with symphonic classics

subjected to disco beats. Okay, something for everybody. But that’s not what Brahms

wanted. Frankly, Toscanini lost a lot of credibility with me for this travesty. I mean, does

such a manic, nervous, onslaught sound like how a person would feel when they’ve lost a

loved one?

Okay, I assume everybody is with me so far, that Maestoso doesn’t do well as a manic jig,

but really requires a more measured and expansive tempo. However, that does not give

latitude for overly ponderous meanderings. Glenn Gould and Martin Tirimo are way out in

left field, and even perversely slow for Bruckner. Let’s assume a good, middle-range tempo,

somewhere between 20 and 23 minutes. The next important point to realize is just how

important the orchestra is in the first two movements. Everybody talks about Serkin-this,

Arrau-that, Rubinstein-something else, but to me that is almost pointless. I seriously gave

just as much importance to the conducting and orchestral playing as I did the piano soloist

when I made my evaluations. If the conductor and orchestra don’t put me in the proper

frame of mind in those first three minutes of the orchestral introduction, then the scales

are already tipping to the negative side as to how I’m going to rate the performance. Let’s

look at those first few vital minutes, and view it as if it were a symphony, because this is

really so much more telling than any little details of how the pianist articulates this or

phrases that.

Varying moods can be conveyed depending on the balance of three key components:

tempo, degree of metric profile, and intensity of articulation. But beyond that most basic

blend of interpretive tools there is a deeper psychological determinant: hermeneutic

expression. I’ll try to restrain myself here, because I’ve outlined a textbook I hope to get

around to writing sometime in the future dealing with the topic of the intervallic theory of

hermeneutics. This book will take each interval, ascending and descending and show

various expressive implications depending on whether dynamic levels are equal, increasing

or decreasing, legato or staccato, and show by various music samples what this all means to

the interpreter and listener. As pertains to our discussion here, the very thematic gesture

of the opening can suggest different emotional interpretations depending on the type of

phraseology and/or articulational emphasis. Observe the markings of the first line:

20

Fig. 1 Measures 1-5 of the opening Maestoso movement.

I’ve used the two-piano reduction for clarity of discussion, but the Dover reprint of the C.F.

Peters Edition full score has three accents followed by two staccatos, and later on in more

densely scored sections, all five notes of the motive in accents. I leave all that for the

Urtext scholars to debate, what I’m concerned with is how many different permutations

these five notes can take depending on dynamic stress. Why does this even matter? Well,

even the casual non-musician listener will perceive different emotional moods in different

performances, and may describe these moods variously as tragic, gloomy, ominous, sad,

pensive, forlorn, angry, defiant, fierce, stern, tormented, turbulent, scary, nightmarish and

many others. These terms and the emotional associations they conjure are not just

arbitrary. Let me take just three possible permutations and describe why each conveys a

different emotional response.

The first three accented notes of the theme usually have some degree of separation

between them since they are not connected by an overarching phrase and the fact that

accents require a distinct emphasis on each individual note. But the degree of separation

may be lesser or greater depending on how the conductor asks the players to articulate

them. That in itself will convey a subtle difference, but what I want to look at is the

following two upward leaping gestures (the last two notes of the five-note theme). Some

conductors allow for slightly more metric emphasis on the note that falls on the downbeat.

Others play them with equal weight, and a few give greater emphasis on the final upward

gesture (like springing upward off a diving board). Again, the last two notes may be

interpreted as staccatos or wedges, and this difference in articulation will give a different

impression to the listener. So, for our first two scenarios let’s compare this five-note theme

in two hypothetical interpretations.

The first conductor/orchestra plays the first three accented notes (chords actually) with

minimal break between them, almost as a tenuto, but with clear emphatic change in

bowing to differentiate each. Already this gives the impression of weight and solidity, like

the momentum of an unstoppable heavy mass. They then follow this up with the final two

upward notes played with equal loudness (no discernible metric stress on the downbeat,

nor on the final “lift off” note). However, there is a subtle difference in how they articulate

the two notes: the first is very clearly articulated, with a sharp wedge interpretation, while

the final note is a softer staccato, almost a tenuto. Everything about this rendering

downplays metric propulsion and nervous tension. Instead it conveys a sense of carrying a

heavy burden with a slight subliminal clue that perhaps there is some inner turmoil

(because of the difference in articulation between the crisp downbeat and the softer,

“clinging” or “hanging on” final note). Such a rendering would doubtless fall into the

Romantic style of interpretation, and would bring to mind the preferred style of

Furtwängler or Klemperer.

21

The second conductor/orchestra plays the first three accented notes with more separation

between them, the first two chords being of equal dynamic weight while the third is

rendered almost as a wedge, with slightly less dynamic weight, then following up with the

two upward notes being very sharply articulated and with the last “lift off” note given the

greatest dynamic energy. This is a much more emphatic rendering than the first group,

and also conveys a sense of decisiveness that would not suggest any inner doubts or

conflicts. Such a rendering could be taken right out of any Mannheim gesture from

Mozart. Clearly Classical in conception, it brings to mind Toscanini and Szell.

Now, you would never find a mix of styles where a conductor would do one phrase in a

Romantic style and another in a Classical style, but sometimes the conductor and pianist

are not on the same page of music, and one senses the lack of interpretive cohesion. Even

more basic than that, and to get to our third hypothetical, let’s take version number one

and look at how in the corresponding phrase that follows the five-note thematic gesture,

two conductors have a slightly different take and thus bifurcate a common beginning into

two subliminally different stories.

Brahms consistently notates the accents on the five-note thematic gesture throughout the

score. However, the following two phrases are consistently left without indication of

accents or articulation. The first gesture may be viewed as a bold statement or a defiant

challenge, while the two follow-up phrases may be considered in the traditional sense of

statement and response (or question and answer), and thusly, with less emphatic

articulation or dynamic intensity, or they may be viewed as extensions of the thematic

gesture itself, and given equal intensity. Let’s say conductor number one continues the

intensity so that all three phrases have the same psychological impact, while conductor

three softens the phrases (and probably closer to what Brahms was thinking).

How would I as a reviewer describe these three different permutations? First off, I would

want to use consistent language, that is, if I ascribe a certain characteristic to a certain

perceived psychological reaction, I would want to call forth such an association with other

renditions having the same characteristics. Nearly all musical gestures have a hermeneutic

implication, and these tend to be universal. One can never unravel all the psychological

implications in music because there are so many interwoven complexities inherent. But,

for example, a shriek of terror would more likely be rendered musically as an abrasive or

strident tone or tones in the upper register, whereas a moan of despair would be assigned

to tones in the lower register. According to an expert on Russian opera that I know, the

Russians consider the low tones of despair to be of more psychological intensity than

shrieks of terror, because the latter is merely a physiological reaction to an external

circumstance, and may merely be a momentary disturbance that can be overcome with

heroic action, whereas the former indicates a state of hopelessness and despair that

assumes that heroic action has been defeated. As for the thematic gesture of the Brahms,

hermeneutical associations would indicate the following: an upward gesture with clear

articulation and dynamic emphasis on the “lift off” would indicate a sense of fist-shaking

defiance (determination if the passage was written in the major key). Why this is so has to

do with whether the energy of the gesture increases or abates as it progresses; spent energy

would indicate that one is reconciled to the outcome of the circumstance, increased energy

would indicate resistance to undesirable outcome. If all three phrases are rendered with

steady dynamic energy and emphatic articulation that would indicate an active state of

22

delirium, or defiant anger. If the two phrases following the thematic gesture are of lesser

intensity then that indicates a more passive state of reflection—a rhetorical gesture

followed by grumbling ruminations.

Those are just the simplest examples of what could easily be a dissertation-length essay on

hermeneutic psychology. Suffice to say, whatever “mood” is conjured by the manner of the

performance will be tempered as the secondary theme unfolds beginning in measure 26

(yes, there’s an elision of the two in measure 25, but I always speak in terms of what the

listener would notice, not what scholars might say), and then as each section leads to the

next. Are the sections given minimal or maximum contrast to each other, and do they all

form a cohesive progression of moods and emotions in the listener? For example, the

secondary theme may be rendered with minimal dynamic inflection (what I call mono-

stasis) and thus create a sense of numbed despondency, or if with minimal rise and fall of

dynamics but expressive vibrato in the instruments, a sense of bittersweet reminiscence, or

the passage may be imbued with full expression and soaring swells to the peaks of phrases

thus conveying a poignant, quietly weeping sadness. All of this is determined in the first

three minutes of the orchestral introduction!

Now, the piano can be a part of this unfolding story, or it can disrupt the natural flow of

the music. In this survey of 88 versions, I was surprised at how few piano entrances are

seamless with the proceeding exposition by the orchestra. So, let us now turn our

attention to the pianist, and discover the many ways they can screw it all up.

Piano Entrance. Beginning at measure 91. The most successful renderings maintain the

tempo and flow of the preceding measures. Brahms writes espressivo here, but slowing of

the tempo is perceived by listeners as the pianist’s inability to keep a steady tempo going,

and any attempt at rubato seems like the pianists was just waiting for the first measure

where they can spring center stage and chew the scenery. So this espressivo indication is

tricky. Personally when I play this I try to make the line more expressive by use of dynamic

contour, not any fiddling with the tempo. Interestingly, in Arrau’s collaboration with

Haitink, he slows down here and creates a disconnect of purpose between orchestra and

soloist (or fate and the protagonist in the more romantic conception), yet, in the live

concert version with Gennadi Rozhdestvensky, he keeps the pace and tension moving right

along and suddenly everything else he does (voicing, agogics, phrasing) makes much more

sense. That’s another reason why all Arrau fans should hear this exceptional performance.

The second mistake pianists make is to try and voice the top of the right hand chords so

there is more of a traditional melodic projection. But these are Brahmsian chords and will

never be melodic in the same way as Chopin. Best to focus on phrasing and not let that left

hand motion recede too much. I recall a live performance with Gelber and the Cleveland

Symphony Orchestra where his left hand was so fulsome and smooth (not detached and

clattery like many pianists) that I thought the celli and double basses were continuing their

figurations – but alas, I looked over and it was just Gelber and his Steinway (I was sitting in

the first row with the underside of the piano right in front of me, so that may have played

into the illusion). One thing is for certain, the best performances sculpt and contour these

first fifteen measures, and I don’t care if they do it dry like Kempff (with little or no pedal),

or with the full sonority of the pedal (like Gelber and Barenboim), but it quickly becomes a

blocky and inexpressive bunch of chords if the pianists does nothing. Gilels loses me here.

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Jochum gives a pretty good orchestral introduction (hey, this is the Berliner

Philharmoniker) but Gilels is extremely reticent, almost like Gould, and instantly severs all

continuity with the preceding drama. At first I blamed the recording engineers because his

piano sounds so diminutive and thin-toned, but elsewhere the balance is suitably realistic.

I’ve read much about the circumstances of this recording session, and I discovered that

Gilels really had in mind a more gentle and lyrical approach to this concerto, and at that he

does succeed. But by every bit of evidence that I outlined before, this is not a passively

melancholy work with a pastorally idyllic adagio and a gentle-spirited finale. I understand

those listeners who hold his performance in high regard. It certainly is well executed and

full of artistic refinement, I just find his overall conception of the work flawed.

A Trilling Experience. Everybody talks about how so-and-so has great trills, or as one

YouTuber wrote: “the ferocious trills sent a shiver up my spine.” I know Arrau made a big

deal of playing actual trills instead of the ossia octave tremolos. But honestly, in all 88

versions I evaluated I didn’t hear anybody with noticeably sub-standard trills, and the few

that did catch my ear were those who played the octave version. Either way, for me,

whether piano or orchestra, the trills were not a decisive matter compared to other issues.

The other thing listeners need to be aware of is that record producers tweak the balances

here and there, so what some people may actually be responding to is that some engineer

gave the piano a 2 db boost in that passage, while another recording hade a more recessed

(and natural) microphone feed.

Soaring Ethos or Pensive Rumination? Measures 131-140. It is surprising how differently

this small section is played by various artists and the consequent mood that this creates.

Some just pass over these measures as insubstantial transitional material until the start of

the triplets in measure 142. But others use these measures to bring forth some poignant

self-reflection. Most emphasize the right hand octaves to differing affect, though Arrau

emphasizes the left for a more grounded sense of emotional stability. A firm touch and

minimal rubato conveys a sense of inner determination, almost stoic fortitude. A supple

sensitivity coupled with an agogic emphasis on the upward leap of a major sixth (the

“optimism interval”) conveys an inner conviction of hope and optimism. Slight agogics on

descending intervals conveys more a sense of loss and sadness, and dynamic slurring on

the upper octaves further emphasizes this mood with heavy sighs. I use this section when I

test pianos, because I always look for pianos which have more resonance in the upper

treble. But one has to play with enough emphasis to bring forth these resonances, and

when that happens it seems to open up the music from the here and now (a pianist and a

big black piano) to an almost infinite expansiveness. I suppose on a metaphysical level this

would be like taking one’s inner torment and giving it over to an almost mystical

sublimation. In the survey I was happy to hear a few other pianists also strive for this

expansiveness. But these are all matters of half-full or half-empty personal outlook; I didn’t

mark up or down anybody’s playing based on these differences.

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Fig. 2 Smooth transition or awkward “extra beats” in measure 156?

Triplets to Duplets Diminution. Measures 155-156 just before the chorale-like cadenza.

This is one of my pet peeves: pianists who render an awkward metric transition. So many

get carried away with their impetuous surge forward that the momentum carries them too

close to the start of the chorale which really requires a clear break in mood. Worse yet are

those who slow down abruptly and find themselves noodling back and forth on the

duplets, seeming to create a few extra beats in the measure. Either way is just awkward,

yet fewer than half of the surveyed performances had a seamless transition here. See, to

me, this is far more irksome than if somebody plays real trills or octave tremolos (because

either way, they serve the same terrorizing purpose psychologically) whereas disruptions in

flow pull the listener out of the stream of vicarious dramatic immersion.

Fig.3 Schiff, Serkin and Pollini do some subtle re-voicing in measure 160

Chorale Cadenza. Measures 157-175. Some are expressive by pushing forward, others by

pulling back, some voice to the top, other have more bass… and any of the variations are

acceptable. Schiff, Serkin and Pollini (latest version) even do some subtle re-voicing in the

form of left hand octave doublings for a richer chorale tone. Zimerman doubles the C but

not the F. What I don’t understand is why somebody would do absolutely nothing. Playing

these straight and unaffected is about as boring as sipping tepid tea while reading the

Sunday paper (or checking the news on your laptop). This is the pianist’s solo moment to

say something while the orchestra sits quietly and awaits some sort of artistic epiphany.

This is why “artists” are hired to perform instead of college students. Even more

confounding is why would somebody would record and commercially release a

performance where the pianist seems indifferent to the proceedings. The second half of

this solo passage has the right hand melody interwoven between harmonic figurations in

both hands. Most build to a fortissimo climax at the peak of the phrase (measure 171), and

some like Lupu and Moravec add the low C to anchor the harmonic foundation as the

figurations subside in intensity. Kempff is in his own dream world reverie, and plays so

lightly and delicately that he makes it sound like a John Field Nocturne! Maybe not exactly

Brahmsian, but I’d still take that over somebody just somnambulating their way through

another heartless performance.

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Fig. 4 Measure 226: pianists dread this measure so much that they then fulfill their worst fears

Look before You Leap! Measure 226. Good God! I can’t believe how many pianists blow

this measure. It seems like a good third of the performances I evaluated have split notes

here (where the pianists hits an adjacent note along with the intended note and creates a

glaring clinker). I suppose it is because these upper treble octaves lay at the outside range

of the pianist’s centered vision. Besides the issue of split notes, many pianists jump the

gun before the orchestra’s resolution tapers. True, there is an overlay of an eighth note,

but from the listener’s perspective it sounds like an awkward elision if the pianist comes in

too soon (especially if shooting off like a rocket). After that, the following measures can

either be done dry and staccato and sound like a clattery pianistic machine gun, or the

pedal can help spread the sonority across the soundboard and thus have more orchestral

weight. I like how Barenboim (Barbirolli version) does this sequence best. Gilels is also

good, if you prefer more clarity (less pedal). Interestingly, Arrau’s live concert version with

Kubelik has him deliver a few resounding clinkers on the aforementioned octave leaps. So

what does he do? Draw back and lick his wounds? No. He charges forward with an abrupt

increase in tempo and pounds (and nails) every octave for all he’s worth! Very much like

Josef Hofmann used to do when he became angry with himself: he played louder and faster

in order to force himself into a state of increased concentration. Anyhow, it was a recovery

worthy of the bravest soldier.

Fig. 5 Measures 288-290: come on conductors: let’s hear the thematic line, not the fluffery!

Who has the melody? Measures 287 -295. I’m not sure who to blame here, the conductor

or the recording engineer, because the problem is certainly no fault of the pianist. What

I’m talking about is that the orchestra has the melody, and the piano is just doing some

lightweight arpeggiations and scampering staccato octaves. I can understand if an

undersized orchestra from some tiny country lacks the appropriate compliment of string

players to balance a big nine-foot monster Steinway, but I hear the same problem with

some of the famous “top ten” orchestras. Maybe it’s just some misinformed engineer in the

recording booth who thinks that piano students, geeks and enthusiast want to hear every

last insignificant do-dad the pianist plays while the melody gets buried under all the

fluffery. My motto is always: nutrition over empty calories. (Like I tell my wife: pumpkin

pie has some good fiber!)

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Tit for Tat Tête à Tutti. Measures 306-309. Horowitz and Toscanini take such an

incredible tempo that the orchestra literally cannot articulate the triplet figurations! That

should have been a clue right there that they were traveling beyond the speed of light, and

beyond the point of reason. Another weird thing I heard was a pianist who played

pizzicato chords with no pedal for added sonority. Good way to show the piano at its most

shrill and percussive.

Sneak Attack or Rush the Defenses? Measure 444. Charge straight ahead or start with

some trepidation? Brahms writes Tempo primo poco più animato which would indicate

that he wants a sudden attack of vitality, and then più agitato when the octaves commence

in the middle of measure 446. The thing is, if you charge right in you have nowhere to go,

nothing with which to build further excitement. True, Horowitz just bowdlerizes us with

blasting octaves and we know better than to look for nuance, we’re looking to duck our

heads and take cover! But generally, I believe a little bit of easing in to the tempo in these

first two measures gives a more satisfying result to the listener. Gilels does just that and to

great effect. He’s like the reluctant hero who must make a terrible choice between two

possibilities, both equally untenable and terrifying. It’s a moment of great tension before

he finally springs resolutely into action, like the soldier charging up the hill of against all

odds of survival.

Fig. 6 Measures 465-467 Take your Smooth Move™ and go with the flow!

Turgid or Tempestuous? Measures 461-473. Serkin’s intensity (Ormandy version) in

measure 461 gave me goose bumps. His strong metric accents give the coda a sense of

propulsive urgency. Meanwhile, Arrau (with Giulini) heaps agogic upon agogic and then in

measure 465 an expressive rallentando with the biggest agogic yet on the downbeat of

measure 466. It sounds like he is battling one of the worst cases of pianistic constipation.

Considering all these issues, probably the least successful overall was the

Horowitz/Toscanini travesty which is so breathlessly fast that motivic ideas barely register.

Horowitz’ version with Bruno Walter is also fast, but about a minute slower overall and

that allows just enough elasticity for a more musical characterization.

These are the versions I found most successful:

Ashkenazy/Haitink. It is really Haitink and the wonderful Concertgebouw that makes this performance (they are also superb in the recordings with Rubinstein and Arrau). The second theme (beginning measure 26) is rendered with heartbreaking poignancy. The strings play with great beauty and expressiveness. This is why I consider the Concertgebouw one of the top three orchestras in the world. For his part Ashkenazy gives 100% and doesn’t do anything to screw things

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up. His playing and the voicing of his piano gives a robust and masculine sound, which I prefer over, say, Gilels’ more elegant and reticent piano tone.

Barenboim/Barbirolli. From the very first menacing eruption of sound, this is a full-on Romantic rendering, with every phrase wrung for as much expressive meaning as possible. Barenboim is much darker in tone and temperament than the others, and this gives the listener a completely different impression than what they would hear from the more aggressive Ashkenazy or Serkin. The balance and clarity on the recording is incredible; it puts you right atop the conductor’s podium, right in the middle of all the action. It’s a total immersion experience!

Serkin/Ormandy. Ormandy is much underappreciated as a conductor. He gives us more contrast between the first and second themes than Szell. With Szell we get the stern, angular side of the drama but miss entirely the tragic undertones which Ormandy brings to full expression. Not only that but the Philadelphia string sound is smoother and more spacious in the violins, and with a deep resonance in the celli and double basses. Serkin’s entrance shows that he was just biting at the bit to join in, he is so full of latent pent-up energy. In measures 171-175 of the chorale cadenza he imbues each of the five phrases with its own separate expressive arch (Brahms has each phrased separately). Nobody else does that. Most see this as one receding line after the climax at the beginning of measure 171. Small details like this abound, but this is hardly a didactic performance. This is one of the most ardent and engaging renderings I’ve ever heard. As I mentioned above, measure 461 gave me goose bumps, such was the intensity of his playing.

Solomon/Kubelik. This was the only performance in the survey that I listened to twice in a row. True, some like Horowitz or the Serkin/Ormandy are so intense I felt almost too drained to go on to the second movement. But with this performance, the first time around I filled up two pages of notes just on the first movement, as every page was full of masterful touches. So, I put the pad down, turned off the lights and listened again. The opening is one of the most gripping I’ve heard: absolutely ominous, foreboding and fearful. I’ve not always been a big fan of Kubelik but this is a once-in-a-lifetime performance. He is totally on fire. Solomon tempers some of that electric charge, but in a way that does not set up a schism between the two; it’s like the interplay of light and shadow – each by itself cannot be fully realized. Solomon’s tone has more clarity and focus than Barenboim’s, while being more regal and cultivated than the more aggressive Serkin or Ashkenazy. The recorded sound, while not so bad for 1952, is not as full and satisfying as the other tops picks here, so it won’t be my go-to every time I want to listen to this work. But it will always hold a place of reverence on my shelf, waiting for just the right moment when I can turn out the lights again and then utter my most profound verdict: “wow!”

II. ADAGIO

Fastest: 11:12 (Badura-Skoda) Slowest: 16:26 (Tirimo)

As discussed before, Brahms conceived this movement as a sort of hymn-like benediction

in memory of his dear friend and mentor, Robert Schumann. The mood and orchestration

bear some resemblance to the Requiem Brahms later wrote after his mother’s passing. In

fact, Brahms even inscribed “Benedictus qui venit in nomine Dominus” atop the manuscript

of this movement. It should be obvious that an impatient let’s-get-on-with-it approach

would be supremely insensitive to the heartfelt paean that was Brahms’ intention.

Badura-Skoda’s emotionally-stunted efficiency dispatches this movement with all the

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warmth and humanity of a cold fish. (Don’t get me started on Badura-Skoda: I once

attended a master class of his where every student sounded worse after his pedantic

promptings.) At the other extreme, Martin Tirimo seems asleep at the wheel, as if sleep-

walking in slow motion.

Three performances stood out in mind: Barenboim, Serkin, and Solomon. Besides these

three, the version with Haitink is also noteworthy, but mostly because of the wonderfully

sensitive and expressive playing of the orchestra. The way they play it reminds me of the

final movement of Mahler’s Third Symphony, also a paean of love. But Ashkenazy does not

play this movement to the same level as the other pianists I cited. The Barenboim-

Barbirolli collaboration is a bit of Heaven on Earth: there is a rapt hush, indeed reverence,

that had such a grip on me that I didn’t dare move the entire time. The power of such

moments on record, though rare, are proof enough to nay-sayers like Sokolov and

Celibidache that the medium is not without its redeeming aspects. The celli play with

wonderful expression for Barbirolli (himself an accomplished cellist) and Barenboim’s tone

is like the comforting warmth that emerges from the glowing embers of a fading fire.

Fig. 7 In Serkin’s hands the harmonic clashing of the dissonant seconds imparts a sense of gasping sobs.

Serkin’s rendering of this movement was one of my top ten moments during this survey.

The conception is completely opposite of Haitink/Ashkenazy and Barenboim/Barbirolli in

that it is not a quiet and reverential moment, but full of anguish and sobbing, and some

residual grief and guilt. This is emotionally potent material here. Just to give a specific

example, in measures 21-27 Serkin really brings out the dissonance (and psychological

tension) of the clashing seconds, and at measure 24 these clashes sound like the equivalent

of gasping sobs. Interestingly, the recurrence of this idea in 74-79 is usually the more

emotional of the two passages due in part to the fuller density of chords and low D octave.

However, with Serkin, the second appearance is more heroic, as if the sobs of anguish have

been worked through to a resolute and near glorious transformation. Ormandy closes the

movement with profound poignancy: the timpani beats are like the faded memory of a

beating heart which finds eternal rest on the final chord.

Fig. 8 Measures 14-16: When voiced and pedaled properly these simple chords can be poignantly transformative.

Besides Solomon’s classic account, Zimerman’s new version seems to suspend time.

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As for Solomon, this is something special to me as a pianist, because so often pianists are

the weak link in the chain, being so thin and clattery compared to the wonderful color and

sustained sonority of the orchestra. But here the tables are turned. After the exuberance

and adrenalin rush of the first movement, Kubelik proceeds with perhaps a little less

sensitivity than our other top contenders here. Certainly, the playing is cultivated, but it

doesn’t tap into that indefinable core of whatever makes a performance truly great. Then

enter Solomon in measures 14-18 [Fig. 8]. This is another one of those “wow” moments of

my survey. It is like he was completely oblivious to the mundane introduction from the

orchestra and now catapults us upward to a much higher plain. This is one of the most

heartfelt and poignant piano lines you will ever hear. In those few measures he really put

the orchestra to shame. When the orchestra resumes again it is like they have been

transformed and inspired by his playing, and now they play on an altogether different

metaphysical level. (Zimerman also achieves poignant expression here in his newest

recording with Simon Rattle, assisted by a piano with a lovely sustaining quality.)

I should also point out for fans of the Gilels/Jochum recording that I found Gilels especially

poignant in the offset melody of measures 37-43 and that in measures 44-57 where the

piano plays arpeggiations in the mid-bass while the orchestra plays delicate woodwind

phrases. They play as one, with a breathless intimacy that is well-nigh perfect. In general I

found Gilels “gentle flower” approach to this concerto more suitable to the second

movement.

Fig. 9 Ormandy draws the work to a close with timpani beats that are like fading heart beats which find

eternal rest on the final chord.

So there you have it. My top picks for this movement: Barenboim/Barbirolli,

Serkin/Ormandy, Solomon/Kubelik. (Runner-Ups: Ashkenazy/Haitink, Gilels/Jochum)

III. RONDO: Allegro non troppo

Fastest: 9:06 (Horowitz) Slowest: 14:13 (Jandó)

This movement is even harder for me to pare down to just a few favorites. Part of the

reason may be that this music is more resilient to a broader range of interpretation than

the others movements which seem to require just the right balance of elements to be

convincing. Part of the reason is that there are fewer interpretive pitfalls. Part of that may

be that there is less emotional interplay at work here, and the music can appeal at a

simpler level of understanding. Because of this, most of my criticisms center on technical

matters: clarity of phrasing, metric delineation, balance of voices, etc. That was certainly

not the case with the other movements, where mere technical perfection gets you nowhere.

Let’s look at those few aspects which tend to differentiate the great from the merely good

performances.

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The first thing that effects the characterization of this movement is tempo. Although

Brahms writes Allegro non troppo (fast, but not excessively so) I believe he does so with a

practical eye toward a reasonable tempo that can be sustained by the performer. By all

accounts of his premiere of the work in 1859, Brahms himself was not exactly a crack-whip

technician at the piano. I don’t believe he would have even considered something like what

Horowitz does as humanly possible. But as for the marking, he desires any reasonable

tempo that can be sustained with control and expression without getting bogged down in

the more demanding sections. Musically, this movement can withstand a little more speed

than it can tolerate too lax a tempo. Obviously our fastest and slowest performers,

Horowitz and Jando, are at extremes which go beyond sensible consideration.

The next thing is the degree of emphasis on metric contour and articulation, and this goes

hand in hand with the perceived vigor of the performance. Again, I believe the music

stands up better to a little too much “pokes and jabs” (accents) than it does too relaxed a

contour. Then there is the issue of whether to play staccato or tenuto on the third beats of

measures 3 and 4. Brahms doesn’t indicate one way or the other, though the corresponding

orchestral part has a staccato. But whether staccato or tenuto, the degree of off-beat

emphasis defines the overall character of the movement. Obviously these issues effect how

the listener perceives the character of the work, the staccato being more jaunty, and

without accent even happy-go-lucky; the tenuto being more determined and resolute.

Many of the negative comments in my listening notes center around issues of articulation,

vigor and metric contour: “sticky fingers” (Dichter), “rash and manic scrambling” (Kapell),

“superbly articulated but too gentile and lacking energy” (Moravec), “good micro dynamics

but lacking in macro dynamic vigor” (Peter Serkin), “poor pedaling - textures blurred”

(Pollini/Thielemann), “light and delicate – great if this was Mendelssohn” (Freire).

Fig. 10 Light, gossamer trills work better than deeply-etched renderings.

There aren’t really any make-or-break issues (in my opinion) until rehearsal letter D

(section beginning at measure 206), and even this is relatively minor. What I look for here

is a true leggiero, and gently flowing cascade of trills [Fig. 10]. Some performers play too

deeply into the keys here, and seem obsessed to render each change of trill with clarity.

Barenboim is good here.

Fig. 11 Many performers ignore- or lack the sensitivity to render - a true dolce.

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More importantly is that the unison octaves passage beginning at measure 226 not be too

heavy and clunky. I tend to favor those performers who can render a gentle (not emphatic)

slur on the two note phrases [Fig. 11]. Schiff is excellent here (helped no doubt by the

lighter touch of his Bösendorfer).

Fig. 12 Clarity of voice-leading in the fugato: the downfall of many orchestras!

The famous fugato begins at measure 238. I don’t want to get off on a detailed analysis of

articulation and metric contour here, but suffice it to say, very slight differences in

emphasis can make a big difference when you start adding density to the counterpoint [Fig.

12]. What may seem like a good fugal disposition may in fact become too obfuscatory later

on. I was surprised at how many “great” conductors really let this section slide by with just

minimal attention to contrapuntal clarity. Some of the best renderings were from relatively

obscure conductors and “second-rate” ensembles. Case in point: Arthur Rother and the

Bavarian Radio Symphony Orchestra (with Katchen in 1961). Who would have imagined

they would do better than Szell and his Clevelanders? The best modern version I’ve heard

was by Simon Rattle and the Berliners (Zimerman’s new recording) but they are slightly

less emphatic in characterization than the Arthur Rother. Konsitschny (Kempff recording)

is so light and gentile it sounds like Moscheles or early Mendelssohn. Incidentally, Peter

Serkin (not Rudolf) plays a B-flat in the bass at the downbeat of measure 238. This

provides a logical resolution to the passage, but I’ve never heard anyone else do this, and it

is not in either of my scores. Was this a suggestion by Clara Schumann or a student of

Brahms that I don’t know about?

As for the two cadenzas, one thing that perturbs me is when artists can’t decide between a

decisive frame of mind (either resolved of the self-reflective issues from the first two

movements or still with some lingering pangs of passion) and give a somewhat schizoid

impression. I already discussed Brendel’s weirdness here, jumping in with a resounding

low A octave and proceeding with forceful resolve only to suddenly go sullen and try to

make this into an introspective intermezzo. Sokolov is another who hasn’t decided how

the “character” should be played. I consider Sokolov one of the ten most important artists

alive, but that doesn’t mean everything he does is a veritable edict from God. I find him

irresolute here, starting strong then suddenly pulling back and trying to be expressive.

This is not the place for that. Keep the momentum going, or make it a final ruminative

reflection of the first movement – one or the other – but don’t send mixed messages to the

listener.

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Summary Impressions of Top Performers:

Some of the least effective were Jando (way too slow) and Badura-Skoda (lean-toned and

pedantic beyond belief). But let’s focus on the good ones. I’ll describe a few of the most

effective performances which show a pretty good range of musical possibilities.

First off, even though I think it is musically absurd, every serious piano student should be

familiar with the Horowitz/Toscanini performance. It is sometimes posted on YouTube

so you can hear it for yourself without spending money on the CD. Or buy the CD and

have it on hand to amaze your piano friends. If you know the music and have heard more

standard performances this one will literally be a jaw-dropper. Horowitz tosses off these

treacherous difficulties like a run-of-the-mill Czerny warm-up. He doesn’t tinker with

anything or editorialize, it’s just a straight away pedal-to-the-metal adrenalin rush.

Fleisher/Szell is another exciting rendering, but musically far more sensible. Fleisher

clearly models his performance after Schnabel’s (his teacher), but has the technique (or the

practicing discipline) to pull it all off with complete technical mastery. Szell is just the

right partner for this kind of conception: brisk, well-delineated metrically, and with good

clarity and balance of the orchestral line. Interestingly, the famous orchestral fugato,

measures 238-274, is good but not great (compared to some other versions I surveyed).

Barenboim/Barbirolli is probably closest in conception to how I would choose to play the

work. At 12:39 it is on the slower end of the scale, yet it is vigorously articulated and with a

strong metric delineation. As I’ve listened to it over and over again, I never tire of how

natural it seems, with a complete lack of eccentric touches that would draw attention away

from the music. Barbirolli is also masterful in crafting nuanced and expressive playing

around the piano. Barenboim’s cadenza is quite unlike anybody else’s, with a dark, deeply

ruminative opening that gives us a flashback to the turbulence of the first movement. He

begins with a pianissimo low-A octave awash in distant sonority as if in a disturbed dream

state. The next phrase again dips down to the lowest foundation of the piano’s bass but

builds more intensity, until the barriers holding back repressed emotions (and memories)

have been opened up, and a torrent of passion ensues. His live version with Celibidache

just jumps straight into the full-blown torrent with resounding low-A octaves at the start of

every phrase. Part of that is probably in reaction to Celibidache’s staid and lumbering set-

up.

Fig. 13 Kovacevich’s feet slam the pedal lyre in a surge of adrenalin

Kovacevich/Davis at 10:57 clocks in half a minute faster than his later remake with

Sawalisch. Although in the first two movements I prefer the added insights of his later

version, this earlier version of the final movement is more clearly articulated, the orchestra

is more metrically contoured, and the recording itself (Philips) has more clarity. The piu

animato section is especially energized with Kovacevich releasing the pedal so that it slaps

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against the pedal lyre right at the moment he pounds out his accented downbeats in

measures 490, 492, 494 and 496 [Fig. 13], a clever way of increases the amount of noise the

piano makes to hold its own against the full orchestra! I wouldn’t count this among my top

reference versions of the movement, but I imagine I’ll cue up this movement every now

and then for a bit of excitement.

Fig. 14 Arrau (Moscow) creates a stomach knot of tension as he builds ever more feverishly to the peak

Arrau/Rozhdestvensky (live Moscow performance) is not the most refined and perfectly

nuanced rendition out there, but is really quite compelling as a live performance

document. As I noted in the discussion of multiple versions above, I have never heard

Arrau let loose like this in any other recording, or in any of the live concerts of his I

attended. Having a good idea of his temperament, this performance registered more than

a bit of “shock and awe” to me. The con passion section beginning at measure 348 is a

great moment: without dissipating the intensity of the preceding orchestral tutti, he seems

to fill his chest with air and stand before the troops with full voice urging heroic action.

Yes, Horowitz may be twice as fast here, but it’s just fast notes. Arrau conveys twice the

power and meaning. The long trilling sequence is extraordinary, rendered with such

intensity it gave me stomach knots. When later the same evening I heard Ax play this

section he sounded like a schoolboy half-heartedly reciting some incomprehensible poetry.

Arrau creates a sense of seething tension and arduous heroic struggle as it works its way to

resolution [Fig. 14], building all this tension, then masterfully floating the final climactic

note on the downbeat of measure 406, suspending it in mid-air for a breathless second

before the tension is released and the piano line descends down to its point of resolution.

At the piu animato section beginning in measure 463 Arrau takes off with such vehemence

and drive that it takes the conductor and orchestra a full four measures to catch up! The

climactic peroration of the final cadenza was so intense at measure 503 that it gave me

goose bumps. Arrau nearly pounds that Steinway to a pulp! Frankly, there have been all

kinds of comments of YouTube about this performance, saying that maybe he was angry

about something and was venting at the piano, or that he felt he had to prove himself to

the Moscow audience (Gilels was present at this concert and went backstage afterwards to

express his awe of the performance), all I know is that here is a performance which takes

most of the best ideas of Arrau’s experience with this work and amps it up to an incredible

fever pitch of intensity that is really an unforgettable experience.

Schiff/Solti provide an exceptionally delightful finale. I was somewhat disappointed that

these two didn’t hit higher marks in the first two movements, but here, these two

Hungarians seem to have a handle on the Hungarian inspiration behind this rondo. Now,

mind you, if you are looking for Horowitz or Fleisher-level excitement, this is not going to

interest you in the slightest. Indeed, at 12:59 this is on the leisurely side of things. But, if

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you are keen on a more witty and delicately nuanced rendering, this demonstrates some

superb playing all around. On nearly every page I found something interesting and

noteworthy. Right from the start the articulation and phrasing are infectiously

invigorating. And, although not specified in my score, Schiff finds multiple layers within

somewhat generic left hand passagework where in measure 17 the C-sharp and D on the

first and second beat are phrased legato (upper voices staccato) while the E and F on the

third and fourth beat are staccato. Arbitrary fun? I don’t think so; this perfectly mimics

the articulation of the opening thematic material and the phrasing that Brahms indicates

on the sixths which as it happens is a perfect diminution of the phrase we are talking

about! This kind of “scooping out” phrasing occurs time and again. Again, at measures 66-

98 we find the passage superbly characterized with multiple layers of articulation, texture

and dynamic nuance. The overall mood is more good humored than frentic, but Schiff can

also give us the Brahmsian heft when absolutely required, such as measures 503-517 in the

coda which are not only powerful but also keenly shaped and perfectly paced. Just writing

this down and remembering how much fun it was makes me want to put the CD on right

now and cue it to the rondo movement. I sort of wish that Schiff will someday have

another go at this work, finding more weight and turbulence in the first movement, while

retaining the wonderful buoyancy in the final movement. I would also suggest he find an

orchestra with a bit more weight in the lower strings to counter his tendency for a lighter

more transparent piano tone. Berlin? Amsterdam? Philadelphia? And, maybe lose the

Bösendorfer in favor of a more Brahmsian Hamburg Steinway or Borgato piano.

Final Thoughts:

I’ve talked about who was the best and worst in each movement, and I’ve explained fairly

thoroughly the reasoning behind various interpretive stances. I stand behind my

recommendations. But by means of defending my old sentimental favorites—Gelber and

Lupu—I want to hit upon one final idea, and that is that even “perfection” can become

stagnant when it becomes overly familiar and taken for granted. There were several

performances in this survey which didn’t hit the highest marks in each movement, but

which were in a close second group, and still others, harder to rate, which had a

cumulative power over the course of the work. Of the first category I would site Israela

Margalit whose straight forward intensity avoids all the schizoid tendencies of more

famous players like Brendel and Sokolov, and it is such a fine performance that any of us

would be lucky to hear such a rendering in a live concert. This is available as a budget

release on Chandos.

The other category, harder to define, makes me wonder to what degree familiarity and

sentimental attachment play. After all, though I conducted several of these comparative

surveys blind (not knowing who the performers are) I don’t do that often (because it

involves enlisting somebody else’s help) and I didn’t do it here. I think I have been

objective enough to place other performances ahead of my long-held favorites, but still I

wonder about impressions we develop when we grow up with one performance, heard over

and over again, until that becomes the de facto presentation of what the work should

sound like. The other idea is that frankly, our senses and cognitive reasoning need to be

jarred every now and then in order to come back and appreciate “perfection” again. That

means an occasional foray into a more slanted interpretation, that is, more introspective

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and ruminative or more extrovert and exuberant from the more balanced performances. I

know that when I had daily access to a wonderfully sensitive Bösendorfer Imperial, it

sometimes helped me to play on my old Yamaha Clavinova for an hour or two, or maybe to

play some Bach on the Harpsichord, then go back to the fine piano with renewed

appreciation. For me, my shelf-pullers are now going to be primarily the Barenboim-

Barbirolli and the Serkin-Ormandy, but every now and then I’ll have to throw into the mix

Gelber, Lupu, or Fleisher. There is no such thing as perfection in musical interpretation. I

suppose that is why collectors amass so many versions of their favorite works. Just check

out the Liszt Sonata survey: over 180 versions compared! At least twenty of those I couldn’t

bear to be without. Someday maybe I’ll open up a discussion forum on this topic. They say

math and music are strongly related, yet the one thing that provides endless fascination for

me is that with music there are no absolute answers, no mathematical proofs. With music

1 + 1 may very well equal 3.

© Graham Reid 2014. All Rights Reserved

www.PianoEnthusiast.com

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Table of Recordings Surveyed

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38

Brahms Concerto No. 2 in B-flat, Opus 83

Comparative Survey, February 2013

In terms of concert programming and radio play, the second concerto is slightly more

popular than the first, though neither is as popular as the perennials of Tchaikovsky, Grieg

and Rachmaninoff. I see from my own listening logs that I put on the second more often

than the first, but that’s because it makes for more pleasant background music than the

first, with its gut-wrenching emotional intensity. The drama and passion of the second is

more reflective than the raw, present-tense turbulence of the D-minor. When I really,

purposefully, sit down to listen, I usually put on the D-minor and crank it up. When I want

something with a more tempered sense of humanity I put on the second. It’s all a question

of mood.

Brahms doesn’t provide much of a platform for virtuoso showmanship in either concerto.

These concertos are all about the symphonic argument, and the piano is just a part of the

musical dialog. The Brahms Second is one of the most substantial concertos in the

repertoire. Its demands are so well infused into the overall texture that most listeners don’t

appreciate the difficulty and sheer stamina involved in pulling it off. The demands are not

just physical, but also mental, due to the level of concentration required to keep all the

subtle interchanges on track. This is one reason why it’s hardly ever heard at piano

competitions: lots of risk, little reward.

For the listener at home, the rewards are plentiful. It helps that modern recordings capture

all the fine felicities of the pianist’s touch and tone that in the concert hall tend to get

buried by Brahms’ fulsome orchestration. That said, the lovely third movement Andante is

really like an extended chamber music work, starting out like a cello concerto and then

becoming somewhat of a double concerto when the piano enters. And the finale is all

lightweight buoyancy which completely eschews the bold timpani and trumpets featured

in the first two movements. In describing the Allegretto grazioso finale musicologists often

cite a Schubertian lilt and elegance combined with a piquant pinch of Hungarian paprika.

Various performers tend to emphasize one aspect or the other. Compared to the searing

pathos of the first concerto the overall mood of the Second Concerto is wistful and

nostalgic.

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I recently re-read all the books and critical reviews of the Brahms Second, and I have to say

that I think that virtually all of the critics have failed to properly address the issues of

interpretive intent and performance realization. This is becoming a leitmotiv in these

surveys which have to act as a counterbalance to many unspoken, undefined assumptions.

Most critics focus on ensemble, whether the soloist and conductor are musically of the

same accord, and issues of recording balance. Those are important to know, but they don’t

define the character of the performance. In talking to pianists and music lovers over the

decades, none of these issues are the primary driving forces behind why one listener likes

this performance and another likes that performance. You can get a more comprehensive

background on listener psychology in my essay, Listener Psychology: How we Perceive

Music. At issue are matters of macro versus micro energetic inflection.

Briefly stated, performers with macro inflection prefer the long line, equanimity of touch

and tone over the duration of integral musical episodes (a throwback to Baroque concerto

aesthetics), and micro-oriented performers prefer variety of touch and tone, and some

dynamic interjection or metric delineation of the line. In writing these surveys I always

have in the back of my mind the need to balance basic information for the beginner, with

more detailed observations that will interest the experienced collector. The assumption I

have made is that beginners will want to explore performances that more closely align with

their own temperament. Thus, I’ve been very cognizant of pointing out macro or micro

interpretations, which is many cases seems to be the invisible line drawn in the sand. But

the truth is that probably more seasoned listeners read these essays, and seasoned listeners

tend to appreciate a variety of approaches. Myself, I’ve said before that if I had to choose,

my own preference leans more in the direction of micro-dynamic performers, but that’s the

beauty of collecting—we don’t have to settle for just one version. Depending on mood, I

can enjoy quite a range of interpretive perspectives. But it is the critic’s duty to understand

the underlying psychology that motivates various interpretive characteristics.

The current posting on Wikipedia for this concerto concludes with a listing of 28 “Notable

Interpretations.” This list includes some very dull and substandard performances (i.e.

Biret/Wit, Gutierrez/Previn…) so I wonder if this was merely a listing of recordings the

author found to be available on the market?

Far more responsible in reportage was the overview of some 30 different versions by Jeremy

Beadle, writing for Classic CD Magazine, who settles on Gilels/Jochum version as his top

choice, and also profiles three other runner-ups: Barenboim/Barbirolli, Rubinstein/Krips,

and Pollini/Abbado. Those are all excellent picks, well characterized in his review. But his

choices are all decidedly macro in conception. It was interesting to read the reasons why

Richter didn’t make his top recommended list: “…wayward perversity; he finds staccato

where he shouldn’t, makes room between notes where Brahms doesn’t ask him to, and he

just about brings it off, thanks to some highly sympathetic conducting.”

As concerns this concerto, with long episodes and sequences of undifferentiated material, a

macro-dynamic conception more closely reflects what Brahms has indicated in the score,

and that will certainly appeal to a listener who likes to float along the arch of the musical

line, but it will bore to death a person looking for more active drama and variation in

textural color. I believe both Brahms and Clara Schumann were likely macro-dynamic

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performers, but we shouldn’t completely disregard a performer who makes a compelling

case for micro-dynamic inflection.

Let’s take a look at some of the more salient points of performer interpretation which tend

to define the resulting character of the music as heard by the listener.

I. Allegro non troppo

Anybody who listens to several different performances of this work will wonder why some

seem to have a slow introduction before the entrance of the soloist’s quasi-cadenza, and

others start right off a tempo. Many of the notable recommended performances have a slow

introduction. Moravec is probably the slowest of all, the two exchanges between the horn

and piano like two yawning stretches from a deep slumber. Richter is also slow and

ruminative before the entrance of the fully-awaken agitation of the cadenza. These slow

tempos are well below the final tempo which is firmly established once the orchestra

begins its exposition. Others, like Serkin or Fleisher (both with Szell) find a middle ground

that is somewhat relaxed in the opening but close to what the final tempo will be. I tend to

like that solution the best. The other option is to just charge right in like Rubinstein or

Brendel in his version with Haitink.

There are no indications from Brahms, whatsoever, to indicate any difference in tempo.

Yet, the versions that start a tempo seem to uncomfortably push the music along. There are

two issues to explore here: do most listeners prefer a relaxed introduction because it is a

performance tradition that has over time been engrained into our subconscious, or are

there music (structural) reasons which seem to make more sense to the listener when the

final tempo is reserved for the entrance of the orchestral exposition, 29 measures into the

movement? Well, both.

The use of “introductions” before the start of a proper thematic idea or tempo has been

explored by numerous composers. The opening bars of Beethoven’s Fourth Concerto is a

classic example. The extensive opening cadenza of Saint-Saens G-minor concerto is

another. Among solo works, Chopin’s F-minor Ballade comes to mind, with its

improvisatory explorations which are like a story-teller setting up stage and feeling out the

mood of the moment before the storytelling begins.

In this case, the horn carries an abbreviated version of the proper thematic progression,

while the piano interjects with chordal arpeggiations as a sort of extemporaneous florid

embellishment. No matter what tempo, the listener will not perceive these back and forth

two measure snippets as a proper beginning to the dramatic discourse that follows. The

moment of arrival, after the piano’s forceful cadence on the dominant, is when the

orchestra enters ben marcato at measure 29. So, even when a pianist opts for a

straightaway tempo from the start, the listener will not perceive the movement as having

properly begun until measure 29. But that still leaves the question of whether the

introduction should be ruminative and exploratory, or with a more assured and confident

stride from the start.

I have to imagine that since Brahms didn’t give any indications for tempo adjustments,

either in the opening, or in subsequent corollary passages, that he probably started a

tempo, or with just a subtle relaxing of tempo as befits the “sempre dolce” indication which

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he wrote in the parallel passage later on. Nevertheless, this doesn’t mean that a slow

introduction is musically incorrect. Once a composer’s work is published and the music is

performed by musicians of varying temperament, the music takes on a life of its own.

Sometimes the composer’s original conception is degraded by the vulgarities of artistic

liberty, but other times artists will hit upon some clever solutions or felicities of nuance

that escaped the composer’s own myopic view. Brahms himself confessed that the ordering

of his Handel Variations was not written in stone, and left it to Clara Schumann to divine a

proper ordering. Composers as recent as Copland and Morton Gould have expressed

delighted surprise at performances which bring out details and “hidden genius” which they

didn’t even realize were there.

How do performance traditions start? We might look at an analogy with sports, where a

player may do a celebratory dance or gesture after making a hoop, or scoring a touchdown.

If the athlete is a minor player, not very well liked by fans or fellow teammates, such a

gesture would be shrugged off as stupid and forgotten as quickly as possible. However,

should the star player—the one everybody likes and respects—do some new move or

gesture, then the crowd smiles at the delighted display of “personality,” and soon enough,

other players are emulating the gesture. In musical terms, if a Backhaus or Busoni does

something that people like, it begins to work its way into the collective psyche of

performance tradition, if some unknown, provincial player does something new, it is

criticized as inappropriate indulgence. The thing with artistic liberties is whether they

make sense in terms of organic application to the thematic structure of the work. I’m

thinking of Cortot’s extravagant cadential indulgence at the beginning of the third

movement of Schumann’s concerto. We accept it because it’s part of an introductory

sequence, before the proper beginning of the movement.

So, all that to discuss just the first ten measures of the work. Next up, have you noticed

how some pianists play the quasi-cadence with a clear, detached articulation, and other

play with a legato touch, or with a healthy dose of pedal sonority? Anda and Richter-

Haaser are very clear and articulate, Barenboim uses a lot of pedal for a kind of blurred

wash of sonority. The manner of articulation makes a big difference in how the listener

perceives the emotional climate of the work. What did Brahms write? Brahms is very clear

in distinguishing between the single-toned rising left-hand sextuplets written with a legato

phrase mark, and the abrupt, right-hand octaves with their own stems and staccato marks.

Only Brendel and Arrau observe these distinctions, yet neither is musically convincing.

Here we go again. Part of the reason why neither one seems convincing has less to do with

how they observe Brahms’ textural delineation, and more with other added inflections.

With Brendel we get the a sneaky sotto voce start (not written) and almost impish lightness

of touch (not convincing); with Arrau we get a solid robust tone, but halting agogics

between each gesture which sounds overly labored and lacking in musical fluency

(awkward, ungainly). Personally, I like an abrupt and startling contrast between the

relaxed mood of the horn introduction and the start of the cadenza which suddenly

awakens with a jolt, just as Brahms has written.

One thing I’m fussy about is phrases being self-contained expressive units, with a natural,

breathing arch and organic rise and fall of tempo. Many pianists clip the phrasing, vary the

apparent tempo from gesture to gesture, or like Osorio, ride each phrase over the top of

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the next, ignoring the overall arch of the long line. Agogics are fine in the appropriate

places, such as anchoring the dominant tonality at the downbeat of measure 17.

The ending segment of the quasi-cadenza has some very awkward writing that has forced

many pianists to adjust the tempo downward, or else risk missing notes (or just leaving

them out, as Backhaus does). So many versions I heard were completely inorganic. If the

pianist has to back off the tempo to get the notes right (and they shouldn’t have sped up to

begin with if they couldn’t keep the pace) then make it a gradual tapering to an elongated

and grand rallentando. But don’t hesitate here, speed back up, slow here again, and then

dash to the finish. That kind of seesaw tempo is completely inorganic.

Well, I could go on measure by measure, but I think these opening pages fairly well

indicate how a performance will precede. After this it’s mostly a matter of orchestral

balance, color, and the subtle give and take of soloist and conductor. The remaining details

of pianistic contribution I discuss in the individual reviews of the recommended

performances. So, onto the next movement.

II. Allegro Appassionato

Tempo is the big factor here. Most performances clocking in at over nine minutes are

likely to be perceived as lacking energy and vitality, Brendel being one of the few

exceptions at 9:18 which through vigorous articulation and metric drive sounds convincing.

But I really think Serkin at 8:34 has hit upon the sweet spot in terms of tempo. The reason

why pianists might opt for a more cautious tempo is that some of the writing, such as at

measures 62-66, and the corollary passage at measures 487-492, are exceedingly awkward

to play at a fast clip, simply because the left hand has to jump back and forth over nearly

the whole range of the lower half of the keyboard. I suspect that those who pull it off at

brisk tempo are doing some redistribution of the hands to minimize the most problematic

leaps. Although I agree with Arrau that in some cases a composer has intentionally written

in difficulties so that the music sounds more strained and stressed, I have to believe that

the overall organic flow of measures 56-67 is unduly disrupted if the pianists is thrashing

about and adjusting the flow of the overall line. Arrau carefully gives every left hand chord

its full weight, but at the expense of tempo and frisson overall. Even so, while not a

reference version, Arrau is still worth a listen for his other masterful insights. In terms of

chordal technique, Arrau handles the final pages of the movement better than just about

anyone, with rock-solid weight and metric drive right up to the finish line.

Another place that tends to be problematic musically is the dolce drawdown in measures

96-112, just before the repeat. Here Brahms has written a favored type of idiosyncratic

phrasing first seen in his Sonata, Opus 1. It’s a long note given emphasis mid-measure

followed by a short note at the end of the phrase mark on the final beat of the measure.

One might think that a sort of quick catch-breath type of effect is desired and therefore an

indication to clip the ending of the phrase (indeed, Richter’s Leinsdorf version sounds like

a tipsy hiccup!), yet Brahms writes dolce, which means sweetly, or gently, like a cooing

rocking lullaby.

Brahms composed and performed on Steichers, Bösendorfers and Bechsteins, and as far as I

know, never performed on the newly designed Steinway D, introduced in 1888. The sound

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of those pianos is quite different from the sound of the Steinway, and given the lighter

overall harmonic richness, and the reverberant character of the shoebox concert halls of

the era, I believe it was easier to make the phrase more tapered and musical, with a gentler

let-off, than what is possible on a Steinway with the microphones up close to capture every

detail. So, I understand the inclination of performers to avoid the clipped phrasing, and to

try and gently taper off the final note. But some succeed better than others. Ashkenazy

properly observes the phrasing as indicated, but sounds too clipped and insensitive.

Barenboim takes the opposite extreme and completely distorts the line by slowing down to

a near stopping point as Barbirolli’s beats try to deftly apply the brakes and keep the

pizzicato strings together with the pianist.

The big moment for the orchestra is the triumphant interlude in D-major, measure 292,

about halfway through the movement. None have made more of the apotheosis than Szell,

good in the Fleisher version, but perfected in the later version with Serkin. Karajan is also

very effective in his earlier version with Richter-Haaser, but his later version with Anda

shows his developing tendency to let the brass blare too harshly in context with the rest of

the orchestra.

III. Andante.

This is a much-loved slow movement, showing Brahms at his most masterly with

orchestration. Apparently conceived originally as a movement for a cello concerto, its final

form here is like an enlarged chamber music work, with the piano sort of responding to

and embellishing what the cello and orchestra put forth. Obviously, the quality of the cello

soloist will make or break this movement, no matter how good the pianist is. Case in point

is Arrau (the Haitink version), who is masterly, but the cello soloist has a thin, whiny tone

with a nervous vibrato that really ruins the whole undertaking. The cellist for the

Barenboim/Barbirolli recording has a vibrato that sounds like the quaking and quavering

voice of an old man in fervent prayer. I also do not like how in the final descending line to

the tonic resolution, a piacere, the cellist gives individualized articulation (bowing) on each

note, like the last quiet gasps of a dying person. I understand the intention, but it’s

overdone and inorganic. Another cellist, with the Gewandhaus Orchetra for the

Freire/Chailly recording, has good phrasing and vibrato, but either because of recording, or

the instrument used, has no depth or richness of tone, and sounds as if playing on a ¾ size

cello. At the opposite spectrum from the Gewandhaus cellist, Vladimir Atapin (with the

Asturias Orchestra) has nice phrasing and vibrato, and has a good instrument which

sounds even richer and more fulsome due to a slight bass boost of the recording

equalization. But, in considering all the performance aspects—tone, vibrato, phrasing, and

integration—my overall favorites are the Serkin/Szell, and Moravec/Belohlavec.

There is a magical moment in the middle of the movement where the developed passion of

the andante tempo subsides to a slower Adagio, ppp e sempre dolcissimo. Some pianists,

like Backhaus, are more sober here, while others, like Serkin, create a real transformative

moment of apotheosis. Interestingly, Serkin begins with rather matter-of-fact dispatch in

measure 56, but then Szell responds with an otherworldly ethereal pianissimo that changes

the whole mood. Serkin responds in measure 58 with a much more subdued tone, and

awestruck transformation. The entire episode proceeds with remarkable give-and-take, a

testament to Serkin’s years working in collaboration with other instrumentalists in

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chamber music performance. He allows for the natural breathing point between measures

62 and 63, where others pianists maintain a steady pace and hope the conductor keeps

everything together. He is really listening to the other musicians, and they to him.

IV. Allegretto grazioso.

Desirable here is a spritely articulation, rhythmic spring, and buoyant lift to the phrasing.

Many pianists, even perfectly capable virtuosos, seem reluctant to let the music play, as if

to say “I’m a grown man, I’m jolly well not going to skip along like a school boy.” The

result is sticky articulation, flat-footed rhythmic contour, and lack of sparkle overall. What

I perceive as recalcitrance to fully embrace the character of the work, at least one other

critic reads as “magisterial nobility.” Oh, well. Here we see the division of preference for

macro and micro at its most obvious. The first and third movements I can understand a

more macro approach, the second needs a bit more dynamic vitally and metric impulse,

hence more micro inflection, while the final movement positively demands an infusion of

active and spirited—rather than passive and ‘stoic’—delivery. When I see indications such

as leggiero, and scherzando, given the overall designation of grazioso, a stiff upper lip or

“aristocratic poise” don’t seem a natural fit of character. Many listeners have the idea that

the rotund, cigar-chomping, bearded Brahms can’t have his fun side, too. Well, there’s

something for everybody in this concerto: you have monumental/heroic, passionate, and

tender for the first three courses, but one should leave some room for a more lightweight

serving of Viennese Schlagobers (whipped cream dessert) for the final dish!

Other than attitude and enough reserve energy after the first three intensely concentrated

movements, the only potential technical problem usually encountered comes in un poco

piu presto section toward the end. Here one sometimes hears a cautious tempo or a

delivery that is not 100% clean in terms of the repeated notes, as for example, Barenboim,

who bobbles some of the repetitions, or Arrau who delivers all of them but sounds strained

in doing so.

Flawed Favorites

As usual, YouTube and the various piano forums are rife with bellicose commentary from

rabid fans of this or that pianist. I don’t want to lend space to legitimize silly posturing, but

as regards some notably acclaimed performances, I feel it my obligation to explain why

they didn’t make it among my top recommendations.

First among these would be the Gilels/Jochum recording. Many critics and fans continue

to cite this among the top handful of performances, but there is a vocal and vociferous

minority who are not buying it. I’m afraid I’m among the minority on this one. Somehow, I

always find Gilels more convincing when I can watch a video of his performance;

something about the way he looks off into the distance, his big shock of red hair and

granitic face, and his seemingly ungainly big bear paws negotiating the thorniest passages

with ease. Although quite the barnstormer in his youth, by the time his recording career

with DG took hold he had mellowed into a gentle giant. I find his approach in solo works

such as the Beethoven Sonatas captivating, but somehow I don’t find his top-tone

dominant voicing appropriate for Brahms. In this concerto specifically, there are several

issues that work against him, each relatively minor and forgivable, but taken together a

45

significant deterrent to my enjoyment. First off is the recording which is thin sounding and

lacking weight in the bass, with not especially flattering tone from the violins (which

Jochum always seems to emphasize over important inner details from the woodwinds or

brass). Second is that Gilels does not impart enough weight to the harmonic foundation of

the textures, always his tone is voiced to the top, as one

would for Chopin, but even then it’s not an especially

singing tone. Third, Jochum keeps thing together well

enough, but he is simply no match for Szell or Karajan or

some of the other masters who bring out so much more

color and inner detail to the textures of the scoring.

Fourth, as concerns the interpretive profile, I find Gilels

oddly manic-depressive in these Berlin recording sessions,

and I follow up in the next paragraphs with some

particulars.

In the first movement, measures 70-71 blaze forth with fiery muster, then a measure later

are all relaxed and devoid of any tension. This is just not a natural progression of emotional

tension and release; most performers taper the intensity by reducing the sonority in the left

hand but allowing some residual elevation of tension to be evident in the projected right

hand. This trend continues, brief spurts of manic intensity and then long sections, whole

pages, in fact, that are so aloof and disengaged that they sound like sonic wallpaper.

Richter may not be an ideal Brahmsian pianist either, but he never drifts off into aloofness.

In the second movement, the entire secondary thematic episode (in particular measures

55-112) sound like the Brahms Lullaby. Other pianists find ways to draw down the

passionate intensity and driving metric impulse of the first theme, while not quite losing

the sense of Spannung (inner intensity). Gilels is just too relaxed.

In the third movement, Jochum starts out at a normal tempo (the orchestral balances and

cello soloist decent, but not great), yet by the end Gilels has consistently dragged the

tempo down so that this ends up being the second slowest on record. In the piu Adagio

section Gilels is too steady and undifferentiated in the left hand, while the right hand is

oddly recessed and does not soar above the line. The result is static and Earthbound,

hardly the transformative apotheosis of Serkin/Szell, or Moravec.

In the final movement even the elder 84 year old Rubinstein has more snap and pizzaz

than Gilels. Too relaxed and too slow. By the way, the earlier version with Reiner has

some nice details from the conductor and orchestra but finds Gilels on a thin and clattery

piano which is made even more acerbic by his steadfast insistence on playing passagework

dry and without any pedal sonority.

My overall verdict as concerns Gilels is that his rendering must appeal to listeners who

generally don’t care for Brahms. If you don’t like weighty sonority, and dislike emotional

A statistical favorite among critics, Gilels offers

a superbly played but somewhat revisionist

interpretation of Brahms emphasizing lyrical

poetry over traditional Sturm und Drang.

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turmoil (heroic struggle and resolution) then you may very well find Gilels more enjoyable

than Serkin or Rubinstein, but just know that this is hardly an authentic Brahmsian

experience.

Richter fans and Argerich fans are some of the most unyieldingly loyal pianophiles. Dare I

even speak anything negative about Richter, one of the greatest pianists of the Twentieth

Century, who “should not be compared in the same breath as any other pianist” as one fan

puts it? Well, the good news is that I find Richter more satisfying, or at least engaging,

than Gilels, and I listen to his versions with Leinsdorf and Maazel on occasion, and

generally find much to enjoy. But in the survey, carefully comparing side by side over 80

versions, and looking afresh at the performances without preconception of any “legendary

status” I find that Richter persuades more by pianistic charisma than by any deep or

authentic expression of Brahms.

The 50’s recording of Richter with Geoescu is dreadful on all accounts: terrible sound,

terrible, tinny piano, and a rash, reckless, undisciplined Richter at his schoolboy worst.

The highly lauded recording with Leinsdorf works reasonably well, though I can hardly

imagine a more unsuitable match of temperaments between the studied Leinsdorf and the

hi-strung Richter. The first three movements are flawed but carried by Richter’s charisma.

The final movement is an unqualified success that, despite a slowish tempo, is superbly

characterized and thoroughly enjoyable from start to finish.

The version with Maazel is my favorite, though there are pros and cons here as well. The

sound of the EMI recording is better and more colorful than the earlier RCA recording with

Leinsdorf, and the piano is pretty good and well balanced. But, the real weakness here is

Maazel. In one turn he applies a masterful stroke of insight, in the next he gets the balance

all wrong, and/or finds it impossible to hide the weaknesses of the less than stellar Paris

ensemble. Frequent problems are prominent clarinets that are not especially good, or

violins that are too weepy and sappy sounding for Brahms. The entire slow movement

sounds like a long-lost String Symphony by Tchaikovsky.

As for Richter, well, there is clearly much good playing, especially from a pianistic point of

view. But some interpretive concepts are just not convincing, as in the turgid second

movement, or the surprisingly pedestrian (anti-virtuosic) piu presto of the finale. Even

considered just on a level of pianistic excitement, I’d have to say both the tempestuous ’56

Serkin and the Richter-Haaser recording are even more impressive. Even so, there is an

organic flexibility of tempo (which varies significantly section to section if you clock the

tempo with a metronome) and a sense of personality that engages more than most

performances (especially compared against the more passive Gilels). Final verdict:

interesting and captivating throughout, but not a top contender.

Gina Bachauer with Antal Dorati conducting the London Symphony Orchestra is another

strong performance that is somewhat underappreciated. I have both the old LP and the

CD re-master on Chesky, and the sound is still one of the best among all I surveyed. I like

to put this on my main audiophile system and crank up the volume to realistic levels. All

parties involved give a thoroughly committed performance that is always convincingly

Brahmsian in character. We would all be so lucky to hear a live concert performance of this

caliber, but in a collection of over 80 versions, competition is fierce, and this recording just

47

barely misses the final cut of top recommendations. The reasons are so slight as to seem

niggling, but Bachauer lacks the strength of Rubinstein when sonority from low bass

octaves is called for, and the slow movement, without any obvious “flaws” just doesn’t

touch the deepest levels of transformative apotheosis as do Serkin and Szell. In any case, I

would consider this performance more authentically Brahmsian than anything offered by

the Slavic pianists, Gilels, Richter, or Horowitz.

There are a handful of good performances, like the Bachauer, which will do well enough in

a collection, such that there should be no urgent need to run out and buy something

“better.” Among that group I’d also add the Zimerman/Bernstein. Zimerman shaped the

piano parts with superb natural instinct, and though the piano sound is a bit hard edged

(typical of many of DG’s piano recordings from the early digital era) I cannot fault the

young artist on any particular detail, and was especially impressed with his bristling piu

presto in the finale. What keeps this performance from the top tier is Bernstein’s waffling

on the overall arch, at some points seemingly engaged and roused with a burst of adrenalin

he pushes along more in step with the young pianist’s energy level, at other times he seems

to be merely following along passively, and then most deleteriously, he often actively

interferes with Zimerman’s forward urgency by pulling back the energy level for a

momentary daydreaming dalliance. Still, these are very subtle misdirections that many

listeners won’t even notice. If you don’t mind the somewhat thin sound of the recording

(lacking in bass warmth) you may be perfectly happy with the performance.

Sometimes, when undertaking these comprehensive surveys, I make the pleasant discovery

of a musical talent that is new to me. In this case it was Jorge Federico Osorio in a

recording with the Asturias Symphony Orchestra led by Maximiano Valdes. The Asturias

S.O. is a medium-sized 70-piece orchestra heralding from the Green Coast of Northern

Spain. They play with great warmth and loving attention to phrasing and ensemble. Valdes

and Osorio are in perfect rapport, and the conductor assures a supple interchange between

soloist and orchestra. I suspect the recording (Artek label) has had some bass EQ because

the piano is very deep and fulsome—almost too good to be true. But this kind of sound

works well for Brahms and should work well for listeners who have smaller speakers that

could use a bit of bass boost. Previously I noted that Osorio’s opening cadenza displayed

phrasing that sort of ran each gesture one atop the other. But after that, I was really quite

taken with the organic phraseology, the solid tone that is never bangy, and the ability to

swing between robust and tender as the music demands. He is a natural pianist for

Brahms, reminding me somewhat of Julius Katchen. In any case, now that he is on my

radar I will be looking forward to hearing him live in concert to gain a fuller appreciation of

his artistry.

On the other side of these voyages of discovery, there are the unpleasant encounters. As

with all surveys, there is usually one performance that earns my “Hall of Shame” Award,

and in this case the honors for most egregious performance goes to the recent recording by

Berezovsky/Liss on Mirare. Most music students can recall some silly stunts they played at

music school like who can play the fastest, or slowest, or even play the music backwards.

But it’s hard to imagine an internationally acclaimed artists playing such games and getting

paid to do it. Berezovsky breaks speed records in three of the four movements, but has to

settle for a mere second fastest in one movement. Can you imagine the tender andante

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movement clocking in at under ten minutes? It usually takes between twelve and thirteen.

Or the finale, which clocks in at a ludicrous 7:58. Bad Boy!

The other performance that is marginal, though certainly the intent is more serious than

with Berezovsky, is the Biret/Wit performance on Naxos. It’s not an entirely unmitigated

travesty like the Berezovsky, but Biret has to contend with a poor piano, poor orchestral

intonation, and poor recording sound, and conceptually the interpretation is rather

generic.

There were many cases where otherwise fine musicians couldn’t seem to come to a

collaborative harmony, with the musical results being inconsistent. There were also a few

cases where a fine pianist simply has a misguided conception of the work (as in Gilels

trying to transform the work into a lyrical idyll). And then there are some old farts who

insist that all the best versions were by past pianists who recorded 50 years ago or more.

Two of my favorites stem from 1956 and 1957 in relatively good sound, but older than that

and there is just too much sacrifice to the overall sound quality. As interesting, and even

captivating, as Schnabel, Hess and Solomon are, I wouldn’t say that they are so completely

transcendent and superior to more recent performances that one should feel obliged to

give up modern sound quality. But enough of that. Rather than dwell any further on issues

of unsatisfactory sound, or also-ran performances, let’s focus on some standout

performances, some macro, some micro, each with a different take on what the music has

to say.

Top Contenders

None of my top picks here are off–the-wall choices; they have all been recommended

before by other critics through the decades (with one new performance to add to the

vetted champions), but perhaps I can offer some new insights as to how they distinguish

themselves, based on macro or micro inflection.

Leading the pack of my personal favorites is the version from the underappreciated

German pianist, Hans Richter-Haaser. This is about as micro-infused as possible in terms

of dynamic contour, tone color and articulation. Far from the image many have of German

pianists being stodgy and monochromatic in tone, Richter-Haaser is more in the Gieseking

school of pianism: highly-spirited and finely-nuanced in touch and tone. There are also

moments that remind me of Kempff at his best. On a scale of one-to-ten, when I first heard

this performance I was so stunned that I would have given it an “11” simply because it far

exceeded anything I could have imagined possible with this music. This was the only time

I’ve actually listened to the same performance of this work twice in one sitting, one after

the other. If it weren’t for the dated sound (an EMI recording from 1957), this might very

well be my top pick. Certainly, any student learning this score needs to make obligatory

listening of this remarkable performance. The last movement is, especially, a jaw-dropper

of prismatic color, metric play, and articular variety; really, the best I’ve heard. The Berlin

Philharmonic is led by Karajan, who brings all his natural understanding of Brahms’

idiosyncratic rhythmic phrasing together with the loving and even warm playing from the

Berliners. This recording captures him before his tendency to allow the brass section to

overpower the rest of the orchestra in climaxes (as witness his later, more bombastic

version with Anda). Anyway, it’s a win-win-win with pianist, orchestra and conductor all in

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top form. So far as I know, the CD (EMI 66093) is now

available only as an on-demand reissue from

Arkivmusic.com.

Swinging back in the opposite direction of macro conception, we have Artur Rubisnstein.

Any short list of favorites among collectors would have to include Rubinstein. The question

is which one? We have classic recordings with Albert Coates, and Rubi’s friend and

frequent collaborator, Josef Krips, as well as several live concert recordings. My favorite is

the last version he did with Ormandy and the Philadelphia Orchestra when he was 82 years

old. Although the version with Krips is probably the most serious attempt at a definitive

‘statement’ and is more tightly-coiled and focused than his other versions, there’s just no

denying that in going for a more intense approach Rubinstein ends up being a second-

place player, because nobody can match the intensity and focus of Serkin. By the time he

partnered up with Ormandy, Rubinstein’s approach was more mellowed, and he was

content to simply enjoy himself and enjoy the

music. Paradoxically, this relaxation and

letting the music pour forth naturally makes

Rubinstein’s playing seem more fluid and full

of color (the kind of tone and color I

remember from hearing him live about this

same time period). The sound of the 1971 RCA

recording is also superior to the earlier

versions, and the Philadelphians are fit as a

fiddle. I notice, too, that Ormandy’s approach

and understanding of the score had improved

over his earlier versions with other pianists.

The microphones have the piano a bit forward, and this combined with Rubinstein’s

playing of this period precludes any real pianissimo intimacy, so about the best we hear is a

mezzo-piano. The fortissimos are almost startlingly robust considering his age, but the

sheer mass of the Philadelphia ensemble (at 111 players, one of the largest at that time) keep

a good balance with Rubi’s full-throttle Steinway.

The recording is a bit of a guilty pleasure for me, because I know, objectively, it has just as

much Rubinstein as it does Brahms. But the fact is I enjoy it so much it’s hard to resist. The

sound is so good and pleasing to the ears, the performance is so full of wit and charm and

Hans Richter-Haaser: the

best aspects of Gieseking

and Kempff, with the

support of Karajan at his

finest, pre-bombastic stage.

The sound is a bit dated,

but the performance is a

jaw-dropper!

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characterful inflection, it really captures a wonderful moment near the end of Rubinstein’s

artistic journey. I’ll take this over Gilels’ passiveness any day.

The first movement starts out rather matter of factly, with the same headlong rush

exhibited in all of his versions. While I prefer a bit more poetry here, rather than simply

starting apace, Rubi was always anxious to get to the meat n’ potatoes. Once he gets to the

main course, there’s no denying his command and charisma. With this kind of playing, one

doesn’t focus on details, because the music carries one along so thoroughly “in the

moment.” One isn’t stuck thinking about whether you liked or didn’t like what just

happened because the musical momentum carries you along its wave.

The second movement, allegro appassionato, is probably the weakest link in the recording,

though Rubi displays a wonderful singing tone in the lyrical episodes (i.e. measures 344-

359). The andante movement is probably the best he ever played it, though, as I said, the

microphone balance precludes any real sense of hushed intimacy. The final movement is

superbly characterized, and dispatched with colorful and fluent technical aplomb. We

don’t need to qualify our enthusiasm by saying “pretty good considering his age”—no, this

is outstanding for a pianist of any age, a fact made clear in how much better it is than the

versions by many younger virtuosos. Case in point, have you ever heard the tricky leggero

double thirds in measures 333-338 sound this good, and without fudging on actually

playing all the notes? And swashbuckler Rubi obviously delights in romping his way

through measures 287-293 with a solid low B-flat octave that has visceral punch to the

listener. I tell you Rubi has infectious enthusiasm and really gets a groove on with his toe-

tappin’ swing. As good as the Richter/Leinsdorf version is for this movement, Rubi’s got

him beat.

For those who may find Richter-Haaser’s metric drive too much, and Rubinstein’s

dynamics painted with too broad a brush, there is Anda who finds a happy middle ground.

Conceptually, Anda is closer to Richter-Haaser, but Anda is content to let a long line form

its own natural arch rather than impose micro-nuances within every measure. I know

everybody talks about the Anda/Karajan version, but forget that one. His best version, by

far, was with Fricsay. I say this for a variety of reasons. First off, the version with Karajan

already sees the maestro’s predilection for letting piercing brass fortissimos override the

music. I just can’t take that in Brahms; maybe a little in the dramatic first concerto, but

not in this one. Secondly, it is obvious that the Anda/Karajan version has more Karajan in

the blend than Anda. With the Anda/Fricsay version

there is a congenial harmony of shared intent. The

version with Kubelik is similar to the version with

Fricsay, but it is less polished, and the Bavarian

ensemble from that period was no match for the

refinement of the Berliners.

Comparing again to Richter-Haaser, the sound of the

Anda/Fricsay is smoother in the fortissimo passages,

and has a wonderfully panoramic soundstage. When I

hear the orchestral passages I imagine being the

conductor up on a step ladder surveying across the

soundscape of my kingdom. At present, this

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performance is available only as part of a comprehensive boxed set, but the price is

reasonable, or you can always wait and see if they re-release the performance as a single

disc. Or you can just download a digital file if you don’t mind some loss of fidelity.

The first three movements are excellent by any measure: Anda gives us ruminative poetry,

magisterial command, and wistful nostalgia in equal measure. The fourth movement is

rather understated and not as exciting as some (Richter-Haaser/Karajan, Richter/Leinsdorf,

or Rubinstein/Ormandy, for example). How to sum up the listening impression? Well,

Rubinstein/Ormandy are likely to get your toes tapping or arms doing some “air

conducting.” An action-adventure film. The versions with Serkin (’56 or ’66) are likely to

be emotionally intense, both in terms of anguished heroic struggle and also with sublime

tenderness in the andante. A heart-tugging drama. The Anda/Fricsay is more aristocratic

and refined, less obvious in its exploration of extremes, which is why I said it finds a happy

middle ground. It’s like a fine, thought-provoking foreign film which touches upon

vaguely exotic and ineffably feelings of having ventured into a distant and past time.

Most artists have a very consistent viewpoint of a work that changes only in slight details

over the years or decades. This is because a performance reflects the innate psychological

temperament of a performer. Brendel’s version with Abbado completely rethinks the

performance concept from his earlier recording with Haitink. That’s good, because the

Haitink version is as quirky and unconvincing as they come. But it still amazes me the

utter transformation of conception. I suppose that is a testament to Brendel ’s inquisitive

nature, and willingness to re-think what works and doesn’t work in performance. Needless

to say, I am very much impressed with the Abbado re-make or I wouldn’t be talking about

it here. The only caveat I have is that in the very opening sequence Brendel still seems to

be experimenting with ideas that are different

from virtually any other performance. In this

case, he inflects each left hand upward figuration

with a vehement dynamic surge. It’s way better

than what he did before, but still not completely

convincing, not to mention that Brahms doesn’t

give any such indications for crescendos on each

gesture. But once you get past that, the rest of

the performance is powerfully compelling.

Abbado and the Berliners prove to be powerful allies to Brendel’s energetic conception.

There is never any question that they are merely providing a supporting role, for the

interplay of soloist and orchestra is like a hero riding a warhorse into the fray of battle. The

Allegro appassionato, especially, grabs one by the jugular and doesn’t let go until the final,

defiant D-minor chord. If all of this sounds like I’m describing so much unrelenting pedal-

to-the-metal noise, then I have misled you, for both Brendel and Abbado find moments of

poetic reprieve and allow for some lovely expressive playing from the Berlin principals. But

at work here is the concept of Spannung (inner tension) which is like a gripping novel that

Behind the bookish exterior Brendel harbors great

passion and energy. Brahms’ epic drama is given a

powerful and riveting performance with vigorous

support from Abbado and the Berliners.

52

you can’t put down because you become so involved with the events surrounding the

characters that you simply must carry on to find out how it all turns out. In this case, the

emotional catharsis of the venting second movement and the subsequent conciliatory third

movement lighten up in the final movement. The allegretto grazioso is comparatively less

intense, but it is not the lazy, frolicking tacked-on anticlimax that you sometimes hear in

other performances, for it is wonderfully characterized and keeps the listener’s attention

not just to the final note, but beyond, where you find its jaunty rhythms lingering in your

memory.

Although the Penguin Guide speaks highly of this performance, and at least in my area it

receives frequent radio play, there is a feeling among pianists that Brendel isn’t strong

enough, or temperamentally suited, for Brahms, that he is best thought of as a pianist for

Schubert, or perhaps, Early Beethoven. I may have come to that very same conclusion

based on the earlier recording with Haitink, but certainly not in this riveting performance.

I have found virtually no positive mention of this performance in the piano discussion

forums or on YouTube, but I urge all to give it a listen.

With Moravec and Belohlavek we swing over to the more personal and poetic side of

Brahms, but unlike Gilels’ and Jochum’s exploration of this pastoral side of Brahms, here

the individual inflections and overall mood are quite different. For starters, the very first

notes may startle some listeners as the

horn solo is played with a quavering

vibrato, as is common in Russian and

former East-Bloc orchestras. I don’t mind

this in Tchaikovsky, but for Brahms it just

doesn’t sound right to me. The opening

exchange between horn and piano is one of

the slowest on record, and creates a

ruminative feeling. The quasi-cadenza is

properly emphatic and articular, and

between the two poles, ruminative

reflection and struggling vigor, we have

delineated the emotional range of the

unfolding saga.

In the allegro appassionato the metric accents of the celli and double bass are almost too

vigorous, as if something out of an angst-ridden Shostakovitch symphony. But rather that

than indifferent pabulum. The secondary theme is played with fluency and exceptional

nuance by Moravec. The andante movement is well-paced, and again, Moravec is masterful

and communicative, especially in the piu adagio. The final movement is buoyant, and full

of felicitous nuance at every turn. The only drawback for me is that the recording doesn’t

quite capture orchestral color and balance in the finest light. Even so, Penguin liked it

enough to distinguish it with a rare Rosette Award. In my opinion, not a reference version

of the concerto, simply because of its conceptual stance, but more convincing than Gilels

for those who like their Brahms a little less rugged. As an alternative perspective, every

collector or student should give it a listen.

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Thus far all of the recordings we’ve been talking about have been around for some time.

However, I was delighted that at least one more recent recording was distinguished enough

that I should profile it among my top recommendations. It is the new recording of both

concerti by Stephen Hough with Mark Wigglesworth conducting the Mozarteum

Orchestra on Hyperion (the two CD set sold for the price of a single CD). There are several

positive attributes that stand out right away, the first being the wonderfully realistic

recorded sound which captures every color and texture of the instruments within a very

flattering acoustic soundscape. I’d certainly put this up with the Bachauer/Dorati on

Chesky or the Rubinstein/Ormandy on RCA as the most enjoyable sounding recordings,

and this may very well be the best of the

bunch. Secondly, Hough’s instrument is

very well- voiced and played with expert

knowledge of its tonal modulation. Thirdly,

the balance between soloist and orchestra is

different because the Mozarteum’s medium-

sized ensemble has about 65 players, which

is probably more in keeping with the size of

orchestras Brahms would have performed

with. Also, the smaller proportion of massed

strings, played with less wide vibrato than

favored today, allows the contribution and

character of the woodwinds to emerge from the dense textures. This alone gives the music

an entirely different feel, and the listener will hear many details from an entirely new, and

enjoyable, perspective.

The next big revelation for me was just how much Hough has matured, from his previous

cute and capricious manner that catered to the ‘winks and nods’ crowd, to an artist of

depth and sensitivity that has a more lasting resonance with the listener. Within this

conceptual framework of the Brahms Second as an enlarged chamber work, more in

character with the Second Symphony or the Violin Concerto, and less of the heavy serving

of meat and potatoes, there are of course some trade-offs. In the allegro appassionato

movement one might ideally want more weight and undulating drive from celli and double

basses, but that’s a reflection of the size of the ensemble. In the finale, Hough’s inflections

are what I’d call meso-dynamic, or middle-of-the-road, neither too broad and without

nuance, nor fussy and over-intrusive to the long line. Those who like the bristling

excitement of Hans Richter-Haaser, or Khatia Buniatishvili (very popular right now on the

discussion forums), will find Hough rather gentile and urbane. But I’m glad they didn’t try

and push the finale any harder because within the overall conception, I think the rendition

is well-nigh perfect as it is. In reading online commentaries I noticed nearly all listeners

were hitting upon the same impressions that I had, so there seems to be something here of

merit that has struck a deep accord with listeners.

By the way, the companion D-minor concerto also has its interesting insights, but I think

the overall concept here works much better for the less ferocious Second Concerto. In any

case, these performances eclipse, by far, Hough’s earlier recordings on Virgin which were

just another undistinguished statistic among unnecessary recordings.

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Well, we now arrive, at long last, to the final recommended performance which receives

the top honor of being the Piano Enthusiast Reference Recording. We’ve explored some

pretty impressive performances, each with a slightly different take on what the Brahms

Second should communicate to the listener, but if ever there was a performance that could

be considered definitive, both in terms of authentic expression and performance

realization, it would have to be the classic Serkin/Szell recording from 1966.

From the very first entrance of the French horn with its smooth and burnished tone

(Myron Bloom) we know we can settle in for a very special performance. In this exchange

between horn and piano, most pianists either romp along a tempo (like Rubinstein), or

start with a slight hesitation and then proceed with more forward motion. But Serkin has a

completely unique inflection which starts resolutely, has a momentary diphthong that

reflects the horn’s relaxed triplets, and then finishes in tempo but with a perfectly tapered

and expressive dynamic slur. Those few measures could be the basis of a master class.

Once the quasi-cadenza starts we are fully aware of just how potent this performance will

be in exploring the dichotomy between these opposing elements of stern and tender. As

we’ve discussed (I count you, dear reader, as part of the ‘we’ because I can’t imagine just

talking to myself), there is some room for debate as to just how much tension this work

should exhibit. I believe that the greater the tension, within what we understand as proper

Brahms performance (in other words, without any Rite of Spring kind of savagery), the

greater the sense of victory once resolution is achieved. At the opposite extreme from

Serkin/Szell we have Gilels and Jochum, and many respectable critics have landed on that

side of the argument. One of the few dissenting opinions that finds the Serkin/Szell

overwrought is Donald Vroon of the American Record Guide, who insists that the work

needs “power, vigor and brilliance” but without the kind of tension that Serkin and Szell

bring to it. I understand that many listeners respond negatively to overt tension, and it is

for this very reason that many listeners avoid dramatic works from the romantic era (we

Two masters at the peak of their

powers: Serkin and Szell in a classic

performance of near-perfection.

55

won’t even get into Wagner). It’s all a question of how much is appropriate for this

concerto given that most will acknowledge that the D-minor Concerto should be the more

tense of the two. As I said, I think the experience is more enriching for exploring the

deepest mood swings. As with actors in great films, do you prefer complexity and intensity

of delivery (Klaus Maria Brandauer comes to mind, or Daniel Craig, more recently), or a

more unambiguous, relaxed and congenial disposition (Alan Alda or Scott Bacula)?

The Serkin/Szell may not be the version that everybody can comfortably embrace, but for

those who do open themselves to the fullest range human expression, the Serkin/Szell

satisfies like no other. Even so, sometimes when I’m in an upbeat mood, I’d rather put on

the Rubinstein and keep my spirits high, or if I’m tired and not receptive to full-blown

romantic vigor, I might put on the Moravec. I also enjoy Richter-Haaser, or the new

recording from Stephen Hough. That’s the value of having multiple versions that you like.

But we’re talking about why the Serkin/Szell is being singled as out as the Reference

Recording pick.

As much as I enjoy some of the other versions, I never quite forget who the performers are.

With the Serkin/Szell I rarely think about who’s performing, and am completely swept up

by the music. In the Allegro appassionato movement, for example, when I hear the

excitement of the Brendel/Abbado version, I’m caught up in the mood of the adrenalin

rush, but I’m riding along vicariously and sharing the excitement with them. With the

Serkin/Szell, I’m not even cognizant of who I am (and all that bundle of opinions and life

experiences), so I’m certainly not thinking about how Serkin manages this or that at the

keyboard; I’m simple in a Zen-zone of riding the raw experiential wave of the music. In

listening to the entire performance my blood pressure and heart rate change substantially

in response to the mood of each movement. With other performances I remain more

centered and objective.

For the purposes of writing a review I have to pull back and listen again for objective

signposts of how and why the performance works. So I’ll make a few observations. First

off, as concerns Serkin, he seems to have found the perfect middle ground between his

fiery 1956 recording and the more relaxed and expansive 1960 version with Ormandy. The

1956 is another favorite of mine, which is pianistically about the most exciting of any

version in the entire survey—in my opinion more visceral and commanding (at very brisk

tempi!) than even Horowitz or Richter. The first movement clocks in at 15:46 compared to

the later version at 17:05. But the mono sound is dated, and Ormandy misses many

pertinent details (which he later gets right in his 1972 version with Rubinstein), but even

worse is his passionless accompaniment in the Allegro appassionato movement which is

rather flat and lacking metric impetus (while Serkin gives it his all). The 1960 version seems

experimental in the sense that he is looking for ways to emphasize the more reflective

aspects of the score, but many passages seem inorganic. As I said, he finds that perfect

Golden Mean in the final version, and all of the passagework is organic to the long line.

We mustn’t overlook what George Szell brings to the table. The sounds and balances he

brings forth from the Clevelanders is very similar to what he did with his earlier recording

with Leon Fleisher (another recording that many listeners are fond of), but in directly

comparing the two, even disregarding the superior sound and color of the later recording

with Serkin, you see how in passage after passage he has really perfected every nuance and

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balance. At this level of refinement nobody has beat Szell, and very few even get close.

Nobody has gotten the triumphant D-major section of the second movement better than

Szell, just one of many exuberant and spirit-lifting moments.

Speaking of the recording, the microphone placement is a bit closer to the action than

what was typical of the time among the European recording companies, so there is less

apparent hall ambience, but never is the sound dry and claustrophobic, and of course, the

advantage of having the microphones a bit closer is that you can capture such wonderful

color from the various instruments.

Epic first movement, passionate second movement, tender and transformative third

movement (which I talked about in the interpretive analysis section). Those are perfect 10

performances. The last movement dips down to an 8 or 9 because Serkin seems to be going

for a ‘rough and tumble’ approach that lacks for finesse and variety of tone and

articulation. He also plays many passages without any pedal, and the result is just too

blunt. The end result is that the final movement is merely serviceable, but hardly the great

rendering it could have been compared to what we know he could do in the earlier

versions. Still, three 10’s aint bad, and that’s enough to put the Serkin/Szell at the top of the

list.

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© Graham Reid 2014. All Rights Reserved

www.PianoEnthusiast.com

Piano Enthusiast Reference Recording

Rudolf Serkin · George Szell · Cleveland Orchestra · Sony (CBS) 1966

As near-definitive as any recording can be, this classic performance still

commands respect even in a survey of over 80 recordings. Serkin and Szell

were at the peak of their powers, and both had had the experience of previous

recordings to ferret out any lingering imperfections—in the case of Serkin it

was the earlier recording with Ormandy, in the case of Szell it was the earlier

recording with Fleisher. This performance explores the full range of human

emotion, from fierce determinism to tender transformation. The recorded

sound is excellent, with the microphones up close to the conductor’s podium

to capture every color and nuance of the soloist and the outstanding support

from the Clevelanders.

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Table of Recordings Surveyed 83 performances compared – recommended versions in bold

Anda/Fricsay

Anda/Karajan

Anda/Klemperer

Anda/Kubelik

Arrau/Gibson

Arrau/Giulini

Arrau/Haitink

Arrau/Markevitch

Ashkenazy/Haitink

Ax/Haitink

Bachauer/Dorati

Backhaus/Böhm (1939)

Backhaus/Böhm (1967)

Backhaus/Karajan

Backhaus/Schuricht

Barenboim/Barbirolli

Barenboim/Celibidache

Barenboim/Mehta

Berezovsky/deWaart

Berezovsky/Liss

Biret/Wit

Brendel/Abbado

Brendel/Haitink

Bronfman/Mehta

Buchbinder/Mehta

Buniatishvili/Israel

Cliburn/Kondrashin

Cliburn/Reiner

Curzon/Knappertsbusch

Curzon/Szell

Dichter/Masur

Fischer/Furtwängler

Fleisher/Szell

Freire/Chailly

Gelber/Kempe

Gieseking/Heger

Gilels/Jochum

Gilels/Reiner

Grimaud/Nelsons

Gutierrez/Previn

Guy/Berglund

Hamelin/Litton

Hess/Walter

Horowitz/Toscanini

Hough/Davis

Hough/Wigglesworth

Jandó/Rahbarti

Katchen/Ferencski

Katsaris/Inbal

Kovacevich/Davis

Kovacevich/Sawallisch

Leonskaja/Jarvi

Moravec/Belohlavek

Ney/Fiedler

Ney/Konwitschny

Ogdon/Barbirolli

Ohlsson/Loughran

Oppitz/Davis

Osorio/Valdes

Ousset/Masur

Pollini/Abbado

Richter/Georgescu

Richter/Leinsdorf

Richter/Maazel

Richter/Munch

Richter-Haaser/Karajan

Rubinstein/Coates

Rubinstein/Dohnány

Rubinstein/Krips

Rubinstein/Munch

Rubinstein/Ormandy

Schnabel/Boult

Serkin, P./Abbado

Serkin, P./Shaw

Serkin, R./Ormandy ‘56

Serkin, R./Ormandy ‘60

Serkin, R./Szell ‘66

Sgouros/Tabakov

Sokolov/Saraste

Solomon/Dobroven

Watts/Bernstein

Weissenberg/Chailly

Zimerman/Bernstein

59