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CD Review

Summary for the Busy Executive: Leon the Lion.

Szell recorded the Brahms concerti with at least four pianists: Schnabel, Fleisher, Curzon, and Rudolf Serkin. The Brahms d-minor concerto with Curzon (London/Decca 25082) remains my favorite recording of the work by anybody. Fleisher, however, seemed Szell's preferred pianist for the Romantic repertoire. Together they recorded the five Beethovens, both Brahms, Grieg, Schumann, Rachmaninoff's Paganini rhapsody, and Franck's Symphonic Variations. Among the warhorses, they seemed to have missed only the Tchaikovsky first and the Rachmaninoff second and third.

Fleisher considered himself a student of Schnabel, and he seems to have inherited Schnabel's ability to convey a work's architecture and direct portrayal of the Austro-Germanic classics. You won't find overblown excess in his playing or the annoying jive of Interpretation (with a capital I). Unlike Schnabel, he also had fabulous technique – he could get through this repertory without Schnabel's double-fistsful of clams. On the other hand, he plays far more soberly than Schnabel, simply one of the most rhythmically exciting pianists I've ever heard, clunkers and all. Still, like Schnabel, Fleisher never won you over by eccentricity or flash. The goal is to present the work as close as possible to the way the composer thought of it – to present an interpretation which is no interpretation at all, but the thing itself. Listening to a successful Fleisher account, one thinks of the composer, rather than of the pianist.

The two Brahms concerti come from the beginning and near the end of Brahms' career. Emotionally, they lie leagues apart, and only a rare pianist does both well. The first is young man's music, full of energy, rage, and extreme tenderness. According to Tovey, Brahms had more trouble with this concerto than he did with even his first symphony. It actually began life as a symphony, but in two-piano sketch. When Brahms began to orchestrate, he (with Joachim's help) had found that virtuoso pianistic writing had crept in, not easily translatable to orchestra alone. The sense of struggle with the form seems to penetrate into the emotional world of the concerto, although in Tovey's opinion this is one of Brahms' most successful large-scale essays. The second eschews storm and stress for the kind of dialogue one finds in Brahms' late chamber music. The concerto doesn't lack emotion, but what's there comes to us from a meditative distance. Indeed, the distance for some listeners was so great, that they began to apply the label "enigmatic" and "difficult" to the piece. It is probably only in the past sixty years or so that the work has entered standard rep, along with such other jawbreakers as the double concerto and the last two symphonies.

Many writers have characterized the concerti as the "Dionysian" first and the "Apollonian" second – a rather crude division, but one with some point. Yet we sometimes learn new things when the "wrong" artist records a particular work. Richter, with a stunning second, as far as I know never recorded the first – something you would have thought him a natural for. Yet, the ferocious energy of the pianist unlocks in the second more sheer power than one expects from this piece. Curzon, a pianist to whom the word "Apollonian" certainly applies, doesn't seem to have recorded the second. His first is weighty indeed, and we get strength without, this time, a touch of Romantic hysteria. This account reminds me most strongly of the Beethoven third – commanding, but with a classical dignity, and indeed Tovey (I found out later) points out the influence of Beethoven's third on this concerto. Serkin does better in the first, although he's fine in the second. Yet he gives a somewhat "faceless" reading. Most of the energy of that recording comes from Szell and the orchestra.

As far as Szell and the Cleveland contributions go, this recording of the first concerto is one of the most electric on record. One senses an enthusiasm in the performance that the later one with Serkin trades in for a more classical sobriety. The sobriety here comes from Fleisher. Those who prefer greater contrast between the furious passages and the tender, melting ones should stay away from this account. Fleisher gives a controlled, powerfully sustained reading, which avoids the cliches of "Romantic" playing. In this regard, I'd point out his handling of both cantabile themes in the first-movement exposition, where he achieves poetry without smarminess. His individual sense of rubato – he never slows where you anticipate – nonetheless convinces. Fleisher has obviously thought his account through. The big moments are big enough without making you drop your jaw, but Fleisher's playing succeeds most in moments that normally just go by, at places like cadences and transitions from one period to the next. Yet, these passages hold the key to success in this movement, since they're the glue. The great moment, as far as I'm concerned, in the movement is the recapitulation, where the piano and the orchestra switch their exposition material. This bold, brilliant stroke clinches the equality of the concerto-partners. Not only does it provide high drama, it makes really puzzling the often-heard criticism that Brahms didn't orchestrate very well. Brahms switches the material and makes it sound "inevitable" no matter which partner executes. Fleisher and Szell negotiate an intricate dance in which both soloist and orchestra shine out like heroes, without the entire texture turning to mud.

We get the slow movement for once without drooping lilies. Brahms, according to Tovey, conceived it as a requiem for Schumann and went so far as to inscribe the words of the Benedictus over the main theme. From Szell and Fleisher we get a noble, dignified grief, which – if we're lucky – will happen at all our funerals. The final rondo tears out of the gate at the opening bars, with Beethoven energy. This seems to me the movement most influenced by Beethoven – not only the rondo of the third piano concerto, but also by the earlier man's "pastoral" manner. There's plenty of Brahms left over, however. Szell and Fleisher not only generate power, but also great refinement in the delicate fugal episode. Where Brahms scores with great transparency, this performance lets in shafts of sunlight through the mainly stormy clouds. It's a reading of great dignity, all in all.

I confess I prefer Brahms' Variations and Fugue on a Theme by Handel in Edmund Rubbra's orchestration. The piano original tends to sound thick to me, particularly in such places as the thirteenth variation ("Largamente"), the twentieth, and the fugue, usually due to Brahms' fondness for closely-spaced chords in the middle and even the low registers and to his fondness for complex counterpoint. Fleisher does wonderfully well with the cards Brahms deals him. Fleisher delivers a bounty of color and touch – amazing strength without pounding in variations 4, 7, 9, 14, 15, and 23 through 25, great delicacy in numbers 12, 21, and 22 – and I hear more subsidiary lines in his account than in any others I've heard. Fleisher also shapes the piece so that you hear not only individual variations, but larger groupings of them as well. There's an awesome joining of variations, especially numbers 14 through 18. The fugue subject is nearly intractable. It proceeds in short chops, which at one point Brahms emphasizes by setting the subject in thick block chords. Fleisher, however, gives you a sense of the music continuing through the breaks. Instead of the music hobbling and stumbling along, as happens in so many accounts, Fleisher gives us a combination of deliberation and impetuosity. The breaks, in short, become expressive, like the deliberately unfinished torso of a statue.

The second concerto comes off a bit mixed. On the one hand, Szell and the Cleveland sound a bit too restrained, their normal rhythmic excitement nowhere in view. Even the ensemble comes off slightly ragged. Principal horn Myron Bloom, for example, almost but not quite flubs the attack on his opening solo phrase. The passion comes from Fleisher. On the other hand, the quieter passages come off as almost unearthly, nocturnally beautiful, as do the exchanges between Fleisher and Szell – reminding one of Szell's ideal of symphonic music as chamber music on a grand scale. Still, for me the main feeling of at least first two movements is one of effortless, buoyant power, and the account simply doesn't soar. The last two movements come off best, with the slow third and its opening cello solo the highlight of the performance. The fourth movement use to puzzle me, at least. The daffy tripping first theme seemed emotionally inconsequential compared not only to the previous movements, but to the weight of the other ideas in the same movement. I've read lots of commentaries on it, all of which allude to "Attic grace" and Mozart concerto finales, but they never convinced me. A remark of Tovey's began to bring the movement into focus for me:

… it has, as far as I know, never been suggested that this finale was too light-hearted for the rest of the work. In the same way it has never been suggested by even the most sacerdotal Wagnerians that Die Meistersinger is in any way a slighter work than Tristan.

But, of course, that's exactly what I was suggesting about the Brahms. Still, the allusion to Meistersinger, probably my favorite Wagnerian opera, started me thinking. I now believe – and it was Szell who convinced me – the finale a tremendously bold stroke. Brahms takes, I believe, a deliberately fey idea and gives it great weight in the course of the movement, so that the "tripping through the tulips" quality completely disappears by the concerto's end. The "meaning" of that theme changes, and it surprises because it does indeed change.

I know that at least some, if not all, of the Op. 39 waltzes exist for piano duo as well as piano solo. Fleisher has such strength that you don't really miss the extra player. The music shows us Brahms at his most relaxed, as in the Liebeslieder-Walzer or the Hungarian Dances – a magician in his apparent ability to pull one gorgeous tune after another out of the air and set it down. Of course, it's not as easy as he makes it out. Fleisher plays with the same deceptive ease, lovingly shaping phrases, presenting trills and other ornaments with crystalline articulation, and giving the same care to each waltz's architecture as he spends on the more difficult concerti and variations. Philistine that I am, I admit my favorite of the waltzes is the fifteenth in A Major, the most popular of the set, but they're all wonderful – superb concentrations of Brahms' art in a small space and miracles of clear piano writing which nevertheless sounds. I think particularly of the goofy syncopations of #6 in C#, the suave arcs of #9 in d and 10 in G Major, and the aristocratic singing of #12 in E.

Sony's Masterwork Heritage re-releases have so far been outstanding, both in terms of performers and new production. The engineers have done wonders with the original sound – which made the Cleveland Orchestra's very velvety tone sound parched and tinny. Here, the players meet the ear pretty close to what you can still hear live. Even the mono recordings sound superb. If the booklet hadn't told me so, I doubt I would have picked up on the fact that Fleisher's solo Brahms recordings were indeed mono.

I loved Fleisher's playing then and think he's gotten even better, even with only his left hand. But it's probably the most expressive left hand in the business. Despite my reservations, I do highly recommend this disc.

Copyright © 1999, Steve Schwartz

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