Beethoven Piano Sonata Cycle Journal

giovannimusica

Commodore de Cavaille-Coll
Hi todd,

Is this a CD review or a live performance review? Thanx for sharing these your thoughts.

Giovanni
tiphat.gif
 

Todd

New member
Andrea Lucchesini – Addendum

I was very impressed with Andrea Lucchesini’s complete LvB cycle when I first heard it last year. Repeated hearings of both the complete cycle and specific sonatas has only made me think more highly of Mr Lucchesini’s talent. Indeed, when I get a hankerin’ to hear my beloved Op 27/1, his is now the one I consider first. But the ’99-’01 live cycle was not Lucchesini’s first recording(s) of Beethoven. Rather, it was his third, as far as I can tell. In the mid-80s he recorded the Moonlight and Hammerklavier for EMI and in the mid-90s he recorded the Cello Sonatas for Stradivarius. Since I’m not keenly interested in another recording of the Cello Sonatas at the present time, I figured I’d like to try his EMI stuff. It’s long-deleted, though. But wouldn’t you know it, the good folks at BRO got it in, and his Chopin Preludes and Impromptus, too, so you know I had to buy ‘em.

Lucchesini has improved with age. His EMI recordings (which also includes a Liszt recital) were made (relatively) shortly after he won the Ciani prize in 1983, and all date from his early-20s. My experience with piano recordings and performances suggests that pianists need a bit more seasoning before they really start delivering the goods. Lucchesini is no exception. That’s not to say he’s bad.

The Moonlight comes across as a more youthful endeavor. The opening Adagio sostenuto is more biting and colder than his later recording, yet even thorough that and the slightly glassy and steely sounding recording and piano, Lucchesini plays with an at times warm and appealing tone. Even with the extra bite, his playing doesn’t sound as moody or dark as it does in the Stradivarius recording. The Allegretto is sunnier and less driven than his later effort, and the Presto agitato lacks the enviable forward drive of the later recording. While Lucchesini is no banger to begin with, his playing is softer in parts here, which makes the tension droop a bit. And the piano and recording sound steely at times. So, this is a decent recording with some fine things in it, but it’s not as good as Lucchesini’s second go-round.

The same holds true for the 106. My opinion of Lucchesini’s live recording has improved with repeated hearings, though I still don’t count it among my favorites. Overall, it’s warm, big, though never dull sound makes for an easy, enjoyable and always compelling listen. This recording, though, doesn’t. The opening Allegro starts off strong enough, but the young Lucchesini follows that up with playing that sounds too soft. His playing never sounds as flowing, either, and it lacks the musical impact of the later recording. The Scherzo is well played, but lacks the accelerated playing of the later version and sounds kind of flat at times. The Adagio sounds slightly more somber and serious here, and it’s not as lyrical, and the tension doesn’t hold up as well. The final movement opens with a somewhat cold, distant Largo and moves into a straight-forward, somewhat light fugue that just isn’t as involving as in the later recording. As with the preceding work, Lucchesini sounds better after another decade and a half of seasoning.

I’m still glad to have heard this recording if only to better appreciate how his playing matured and improved with time. Now I’ll have to sample his Chopin, and perhaps I’ll get lucky and hear his Liszt.
 

Todd

New member
Alfred Brendel (Philips, 1970s)

I’m not a big fan of Alfred Brendel. Try as I might – and I have tried – I’ve just not been able to get into too many of his recordings. The last two of his three recordings of Schoenberg’s Piano Concerto aside, and perhaps some of his Mozart paired with Mackerras as well, I’ve always found at least as much to dislike as like about many of his recordings. When it comes to Beethoven sonatas, I’ve found the earlier the better. Up until now, I’ve never undertaken a complete Elveebee cycle by the usually grumpy looking Mr Brendel. I’ve heard a decent amount of his digital cycle, a bit of his first cycle on Vox, and only a couple things from his middle cycle on Philips, and then only on the radio and quite a while back. My overall impression is that early in his recording career Brendel was more impetuous and fiery if hardly a paragon of heated romanticism. As he has aged, he has seen fit to infuse more and more of his ideas into his playing. That can be great. It can also suck. Even though Mr Brendel hardly ranks among my favorites, I felt I should give him a try in all thirty-two works. Whether or not one likes him, he is a major pianist of the age, and, more to the point, he’s a major Beethoven interpreter. Plus, his recent Gramophone interview contained some unflattering remarks about Rachmaninov’s music – something of a positive to me. So then the question came down to which cycle to try in its entirety. That ended up being easy; curiosity became my arbiter. Since I’ve heard so little of his second cycle, that was the one for me. Here goes:

The opening few seconds sound stodgy. Bad news, I thought. A stodgy 2/1 will not do! But only a few seconds later things improve markedly. Brendel does pretty much everything right: the overall tempo is nice, his dynamic transitions are smooth, his rubato non-tic-y. It is all quite serious, though. That’s not say it’s heavy or anything. The Adagio again has a nice tempo and Brendel plays with an appealing though admittedly not especially broad tonal palette. The on-going seriousness here manifests itself as detached emotion, if you will; there’s something there, but Mr Brendel doesn’t want to indulge it too much. The Menuetto gets the straight treatment though the part playing is quite distinctive with some rather appealing right hand figures. The concluding Prestissimo sounds a bit thick, but its forward momentum is unstoppable. I guess some phrasing in the middle section is stiffer than ideal, but overall this is better than I was expected.

The same goes for the second sonata. The Allegro vivace opener sounds quite chipper and fun, and perhaps a bit mischievous. (Is it vivacious or mischievous? You be the judge.) Even the more “dramatic” passages sound puckish. The only quibble I have – and it’s only a quibble – is that some of the playing is too hazy, with Brendel using the sustain pedal too much for my liking. (It could be the acoustic / recording, too.) The Largo appassionato ends up sounding more like an energized Adagio, Brendel takes it at such a breezy clip. It never sounds rushed, and Brendel makes the piano sing. (Well, almost.) This isn’t something I normally associate with Brendel. I can’t really say that the movement sounds passionate, but I’m more than happy with what it does sound like. The concluding Scherzo and Rondo, while perhaps not ideally flowing, sounds decidedly quirk-free (or at least quirk-lite) and well paced and is a, well, serious joy.

With the third sonata Brendel makes it three for three. The Allegro con brio opener is as straight forward as that indication requires, and sounds flowing, clear, reasonably attractive, with nothing forced of out of place, and with some superb runs near the end. The Adagio is likewise uncluttered and direct. It’s also rather serious – one could almost think of it as an aural frieze – and possessed of a nice, deep, tight lower register. The Scherzo sounds rather sternly driven, punchy, and remarkably free from interpretive artifice. The concluding Allegro assai is light, crisp, with charming staccato (yes, charming staccato) and rather seriously driven, as seems to be Mr Brendel’s wont. I guess some (or many) may prefer a lighter, more youthful and even sunnier approach to these works, but I rather enjoy them as is, and I enjoy them for what they’re not – excessively quirky, as a number of Brendel’s later recordings sound. The set’s off to a good start.

The Op 7 sonata is mixed. The Allegro molto e con brio opens in a vigorous manner and can best be described as straight and detached with some creative sustains adding individuality. The Largo is slow (and definitely sounds like a Largo), steady, and distant. It can also sound a bit hard at times – the repeated three note figures being a good example – and some may no doubt want a bit more warmth. The Allegro is suitably lighter, with a nice rolling bass, but also sounds a bit stiff at times. The Rondo more or less continues along similar lines, with some slightly overdone passages that sound too stiff and deliberate. The playing also assumes a gruff mien at times. Overall, the sonata is well played, but it also sounds a bit rough and hard – musically, at any rate; Brendel never really produces an ugly sound. Perhaps Brendel tries to make more of the work than is there, and at times some of the ideas don’t work as well as others.

The first of the Op 10 is back to good and straight forward. The Allegro molto e con brio open is definitely fast – faster than I was expecting – but it’s not especially strong or explosive. I still rather dig it. The subsequent theme is surprisingly rounded and attractive, and sounds that way every time it reappears. The Adagio molto is played with surprising warmth and even delicacy even if it lacks what I would call true emotion. Brendel does introduce some of his quirks, here confined to uniquely executed pauses and sustains, but fortunately they work. The concluding Prestissimo in clean and clear (though not of Barenboim clarity) yet deliberate – but deliberate in a good way. Indeed, this work and the preceding works all sound deliberate. They all sound thoroughly thought-through. Brendel’s Beethoven is in the intellectual, classical style, if you will: Brendel has thoroughly analyzed each score and plays every work with an eye to both textural clarity and architectural integrity. That means that it can sound detached and perhaps even antiseptic at times. It certainly doesn’t sound romantic or romanticized. For people who want that style of Beethoven, this set will not do.

It should then come as no surprise that the 10/2 sonata ends up sounding a bit clinical and detached if still rather appealing. The Allegro is quick and driven hard, and lacks charm, but I still rather like it. The Allegretto, while having a “bigger” sound, sounds austere if not bleak. And the Presto (with repeat!) is energetic yet not buoyant. Hey, what can I say, I like Pollini’s take, so I like Brendel’s too.

The final sonata in the set follows a similar path. The opening Presto is spry, with a nice rounded tone in the quieter passages and not a little zing in the louder passages. It’s fun and it’s serious at the same time. The Largo ends up sounding a bit distant, cold, bleak, and stinging. It’s controlled and takes the long, architectural view, and when one combines that with its sting, it seems to foreshadow the Adagio of the 106. Perhaps it’s too much heft for this early work, but I like it. The Menuetto offers a reprieve from the (good) bleakness: it’s fun and relaxed. The Rondo ends the work in vigorous fashion, and the coda is downright joyous, or at least joyous for Brendel; it’s as though he’s happy to be done with what he considers an important task. Again, some may be turned off by the somewhat aloof, measured style, but I rather enjoy it. My only complaint is the rather noticeable pre-echo that the Philips engineers allowed to seep in.

I approached the Pathetique prejudiced. Brendel’s style up to this point doesn’t really work well in this piece. And so it proved to be. The opening Grave is slow, with extra-long sustains used to make the music sound more dramatic. The following music is too stiff and overemphatic, as if to underscore every obvious element in the score. When the movement transitions to the Allegro di molto e con brio it assumes a quick and nimble yet somewhat soft, rounded sound, and Brendel’s quirkiness shows up. The Adagio cantabile is way too hazy, due in large part to the muffled recording, and while superficially decent doesn’t really do much. The middle section is quick but curiously soft. Same with the Rondo. The whole work is too small, too insubstantial, and too unpleasantly recorded to be effective.

To the two Op 14 ditties. Here are works that can certainly wilt under intense playing, but they can also suffer if played too analytically. Alas, the first of the two does suffer a bit from Brendel’s style. The opening Allegro opens in a pleasantly relaxed way, with a floating left hand offering nice support, and some deliciously spiky forte chords thrown in to mix things up. A somewhat formal feeling permeates the playing though, making the music sound almost too serious. The Allegretto tends to lean, occasionally fierce playing, including some rather abrupt notes and foreshortened phrasing near the end. The concluding Rondo fares best, with a light, flowing sound that is broken only by the aggressive playing in the middle section. The recording isn’t a bust, but I can’t say that it quite matches up to my favorites.

Much better is the second sonata. I’m beginning to think that I just prefer the second work more, and it seems that more pianists fare better here than in the first one. Anyway, Brendel again opens with an Allegro that sounds pleasantly relaxed and benefits from a basically perfect overall tempo. Brendel’s playing also sounds just right for the work: a nice attack is followed by a rounded, appealing decay, and the tone, while not as ingratiating as Lucchesini’s or as richly varied as Barenboim’s, still tickles the ear. The Andante is quite chipper – too much so for a movement so indicated? Dunno. – and assumes a fun march-like quality while still remaining fluid to the end. The concluding Scherzo is a bit stiff at times, but overall it sounds fun and slightly warm, at least in the context of Brendel’s playing. So, good, very good, but not a world-beater.

One consequence of listening to so much Beethoven over the last ten or so months has been an increased appreciation of the 11th sonata. I’ve always enjoyed the Op 22 sonata, but it always seemed to me to be immediately followed by more interesting works, and so I listened to it less frequently than I should have. Now, though, I look forward to this work to see how a pianist handles “late” early LvB and to listen for clues to how they might approach subsequent works. Brendel handles it quite well, though I have some minor reservations about it. Well, not so much reservations as observations. The Allegro con brio certainly opens nicely enough. Brendel plays it fast, clear, and open, and it has an irresistible forward drive to it. In some ways it could be considered straight and undistinguished, but the overall energy level and strength of Brendel’s playing really work. And the pianist’s vocalizing shows that he really digs the music, so it’s not surprising that it sounds so good. Perhaps Brendel was having so much fun playing and recording the piece that he forgot to slow down for the Adagio, because it sounds more like an Allegretto or Allegro at times. Of course, Brendel’s playing is purposive. The movement is uniquely tense and incessantly driven. This will not be to everyone’s taste, and it’s certainly not what I generally prefer, but here it works. The Menuetto is likewise tense and unyielding. The opening of the Rondo seems to offer something different as it opens in a more relaxed fashion, but soon Brendel is right back at it, not letting up. In demeanor, it reminds me of some of St Annie’s playing or even some of Seymour Lipkin’s playing, and I like it! This is not an easy listening Op 22; this is a hard-driven, thought-provoking version.

Perhaps even harder to pull off to my satisfaction is the Op 26 sonata. There are many valid approaches, though I tend to prefer one centered around a big, solemn, funereal funeral march. Sounds reasonable enough, but not everyone sees it that way. Brendel is one of those people. The Andante theme that opens the work comes across in a most pleasing, lyrical way, and the variations that follow benefit from Brendel’s occasional quirkiness. The faster variations especially benefit. Here’s one time when underscoring a novel phrase or poking the listener in the ear with a uniquely accented chord pays dividends. The slower variations can be a bit too heavy on occasion, but overall the effect is nice. The Scherzo is forceful and biting to the point of being dour, but it works reasonably well. The funeral march – so important for me – here sounds neither especially funereal nor especially march-like. Yet what Brendel brings to it works well. His playing is small-scaled but quick. The middle section is terse and sharp and unyielding. It’s un-nice Beethoven. It’s pissed off Beethoven. That works, too. The concluding Allegro sounds stiffer than I prefer, but it also sounds grander than the march. On balance, this is a so-so reading I guess, but it’s one with some unique insights.

On to the increasingly important 27/1. Each time I relisten to this sonata I like it more, so it has become almost as important as the critical Op 31 sonatas in assessing a pianist’s achievement. Brendel fares better than I would have originally expected, but as is often the case, his approach doesn’t yield world-beating goodness. The Andante opens the work rather briskly, but it’s also smooth and relaxed and rounded. The tension increases as the Allegro nears, which when it arrives is played in a purposely hazy manner with plenty o’ sustain and pulled back bass chords. Brendel never thumps away. The return of the lovely Andante is a bit straight and almost stern. It’s a sort of by-the-book Fantasy, if you will. The Allegro molto e vivace displays more purposely hazy playing, more restrained bass, yet maintains a nice rhythmic pulse. No, he can’t match Gulda here, but that’s quite all right. The Adagio sounds like a darkened, altered return of the opening material and has some upper register zing. The Allegro vivace opens in a prancing yet slightly restrained manner and offers a nice contrast to the dreamier (if that’s the right word in the context of this recording) music before a nice recapitulation and a zippy conclusion. All told, this is quite good, if not a top contender.

The Mondschein, not too surprisingly, sounds similar in that it presents in somewhat stern view of a somewhat fantastic work. The opening movement is very direct, with clean staccato playing married to a depressed sustain pedal. The overall effect is a bit cold, but that’s okay. The Allegretto is strong and striking, with some near-brittle (in the best possible way) sounding playing, and the concluding Presto is quick and straight. I can’t say that this rates among my favorites of this work, but it is good and much less fussy than I thought it would be.

Time for another biggie. How I admire the Pastorale. It’s among the most immediately appealing of all the 32 and in a good recording never fails to improve my mood. Once again I approached the work at hand with some reservations. Right out of the gate Brendel assuaged my reservations. His playing flows and sounds nicely lyrical with only a few instances of stiff left hand playing, but hardly enough to detract from enjoying the music. The runs are fast and nearly shimmering, and in the middle section Brendel plays with a nicely urgent sound. Not all is uninterrupted sunniness. Brendel plays the Andante comparatively swiftly with superb part playing – one can hear and savor the bass and the melodies in equal measure – and again adds some significant bite to the faster middle section. He also manages to infuse the playing in the fast section with subversive wit. The Scherzo finds Brendel playing in a calculated yet successful manner. He alternates quick figures and slight but noticeable pauses to good effect. The brief pauses almost make it sound as if the pianist is joking around. Go figure. Throw in a pointed and decidedly fun middle section, and, well, one has a fine movement. The Rondo ends the piece similarly to the opening movement, and here he uses the halting pauses again, though the effect isn’t as successful. It just sounds a bit mannered. Indeed, throughout the movement (and the sonata, for that matter), one can detect Brendel’s quirkiness, but it’s not so pronounced as to detract from the music. So, a qualified success.

And so it is time for that critical trio, that batch that if poorly done precludes a cycle from scaling the heights. Brendel opens the first sonata well enough, playing with speed and, appropriately enough, some vivacity, and even an approximation of fun, though only of the unsmiling variety. He also throws in some notable power on occasion and does a good job right through. The Adagio grazioso, though, isn’t as satisfying. It opens with a stiff left hand underlying flat, antiseptic trills. Brendel also plays in a quirky manner. Some love it, some hate it, some are more indifferent, but it’s there. His rubato, his playing style, his little tics, all come to the fore, for instance when he uses quick, clear staccato to play the runs in a manner that interrupts the musical flow. The middle section suffers from more stiffness, yet there’s a solidity to the repeated left hand chords that sounds almost like proto-rock music. Some reasonably beefy but unclear bass trills aside, the end is lighter in tone. The Rondo again sounds stiff in places, with some choppy playing appearing here and there, yet nothing sounds forced or unpleasant. Indeed, that’s the overriding impression of the whole work. Brendel has thought it out thoroughly and plays with a dearth of spontaneity and genuine fun, if you will, but it still sounds decent. But that’s more or less it.

The Tempest comes across in a similar way, with a relative lack of quirkiness the primary (and beneficial) difference. Brendel opens with a suitably slow Largo, though it sounds a bit flat, and then moves onto an Allegro that is suitably quicker though not especially fast, and he never really builds up any strength, either. As a result, the contrasts inherent in the music are largely absent. It sounds straight, mostly emotionless, and decidedly calculated. The almost clinical result is still interesting, but hardly enriching. The Adagio is pretty much the same, only slower. The concluding Allegretto, while not really offering much in the way of emotional playing or garish virtuosic display, benefits from inexorable forward momentum and decent lower register heft while suffering a bit from some stiff phrasing. Again, it’s decent, but hardly top-flight.

Fortunately things pick up with the last of the trio. While played straight, the opening Allegro finds Brendel’s tone assuming that nicely rounded sound so prevalent early on, and Brendel sounds more at home with the upbeat, witty tenor of the piece. He never lets loose, but nor does he indulge himself too much. The Scherzo opens with Brendel scampering along in proper fashion, in a musically deadpan manner, which makes the passages where he slows down – in a most serious fashion – just to pound the keyboard and the play in a rushed manner all the more enjoyable. The Menuetto is well paced, comparatively lyrical, yet also a bit dark. Brendel ends the work with a Presto con fuoco played in a reasonably quick, decidedly pointed, rhythmically satisfying, yet sometimes flat manner. Given the relative successes he conjured up before, I had hoped for more in these works. Brendel does okay, I suppose, but I also find that his quirkiness and coolness don’t help out. I’ve heard worse in all of the sonatas, including most recently Ciani’s disappointing takes (especially the awful 31/3), so I guess I can say both better and worse are out there.

Moving on the delightful little Op 49 trifles finds Brendel more or less carrying on as before, at least initially. The first of the two is direct and while warmish in color, it’s cool in delivery. There’s nice energy, but little fun. The second is more successful, and Brendel vocalizing seems to indicate that he likes it quite a bit more, too. It opens much like the first sonata except that it’s more lyrical. The second movement actually includes a bit of charm, too. So, a nice interlude, if you will.

Given Brendel’s overall style, I didn’t come to the Waldstein with the highest expectations. This piece definitely benefits from a looser, more emotive style, though alternative takes can succeed fabulously. Alas, Brendel’s approach does not succeed fabulously. He opens with a quick and surprisingly light Allegro con brio. I expected more bite or oomph or muscle, that’s for sure. Brendel also plays within a narrow dynamic range, never veering much from the basic levels set early on. At least the part playing is interesting, with a clear right hand supported by a smoother legato from the left. The Introduzione, while being played within similarly narrow bounds as the opener, is more successful. Brendel’s coolness and sparing use of various interpretive devices yields a somewhat flat yet strangely appealing uninterpreted interpretation. The concluding Rondo opens with an attractive right hand melody superimposed over a subdued left hand, but as things heat up, Brendel stays too cool and some of his phrasing becomes a bit stiff. So this ends up being another okay recording but nothing special.

The Op 54 is more successful. The opening movement starts off somewhat softly and sounds reasonably lyrical. So far, so good. But then Brendel transitions to playing in a punchy, angular manner while not adding much sting or bite. It sounds pretty good. It’s pretty straight forward, unflashy, and unweird. The second movement is suitably slower and is characterized by a flowing right hand playing over a somewhat stiff left hand accompaniment. While that shouldn’t work, it sort of does here. The overall conception ends up sounding big, and when Brendel does loosen up to play the ending in quick, vibrant fashion, it is most welcome and caps off a good recording.

Unfortunately, I can find little positive to write about the Appassionata. It’s not that Brendel botches it technically; rather, his playing just doesn’t seem right, and it certainly does not sound in any way passionate. The Allegro assai opens in a too subdued fashion, and even the terse staccato playing just sounds bland. Even though the piano is very closely miked, the sound lacks bite and intensity, even in the faster portions. The whole thing sounds bizarrely limp. The Andante suffers the same fate. The few positive things I can write apply to the closing movement. Indeed, it has many ingredients that if properly blended with other elements can result in a satisfying musical experience, specifically well-judged overall tempo and clear or clear-ish articulation. Those other necessary elements are not there. The playing lacks passion and intensity. This is definitely a weak spot in the cycle.

After a disappointing Op 57, the subsequent works were bound to sound better, and they do. The Op 78 Adagio cantabile opens with a well-judged tempo and a round, soft tone. The second movement sounds appropriately chipper and nicely smooth. The Op 79 Presto alla tedesca is bright, forward moving, sunny and downright fun. I suppose the second movement may be a bit too cool, but it’s still decent, and the final movement is direct and lyrical with just a smidgeon of tension and bite thrown in. Neither recording is a world–beater, but both make for a good listen.

The Les Adieux makes for more than that. As with Op 53 and Op 57, I approached this sonata with reservations, but here Brendel succeeds. The opening movement opens in a poised and lyrical yet morose fashion, and as the music swells, Brendel keeps it all under control. While it sounds “big,” it doesn’t assume the quasi-orchestral dimension that many bring to it. Rather, it’s played on a more personal level, more akin to how Paul Badura-Skoda plays it. But it’s also constrained; Brendel never lets loose. It doesn’t seem to matter, though. The middle movement ends up a lonely, personal lament, with nothing metaphysical attached to it. The final movement opens with in happy if not ebullient fashion and stays somewhat small. Again, it’s a personal conception, not a grand one. To tickle one’s ears, Mr Brendel offers some hypnotically steady left hand playing and keeps the whole thing moving along with nice rhythmic snap. Here’s a recording that works better than I anticipated and actually compares favorably to other versions.

Now, the Op 90 is something else entirely. I’ve long admired Brendel’s Vox recording of this piece, but I think this one may be even better. Everything about it not only works but works incredibly well. Brendel opens the piece in a rich, grand manner, yet he also infuses the playing with an almost mysterious sound – how and why, I don’t know, I just know I like it. It also sounds simultaneously urgent, lyrical, bitter, and unsettling; it manages to sound both comfortable and uneasy at the same time. The listener is in experienced hands, that’s for sure. Anyway, the middle section is fast and stinging, and the way Brendel draws out the ending is unique and captivating. The second movement, in marked contrast to the first, is a non-stop stream of beautiful music. A bit of more intense playing in the middle section notwithstanding, Brendel sounds his most beautiful and compelling here. A superb reading.

One experiences a diminution in quality with Op 101. But not too much. The opening Allegretto ma non troppo sounds lovely, thoughtful, and, somehow, both grounded and dreamy. It never sounds otherworldly or anything like that, yet it still sounds good. The march opens with curiously clouded chords, which reappear later, but overall sounds nicely march-like and is strong where it should be. The Adagio sounds serene and contemplative and personal in nature, and ends with a crisply played trill that segues to an incisive, lucid final movement. Some of the playing sounds slightly stiff and staggered, but the pointed playing is the point. The movement is sharp and clear, and Brendel unleashes some significant power for once. At times the playing sounds a tad brittle, but overall everything works relatively well.

Yet another decrease in quality can be heard with the Hammerklavier. The first thing I noticed is how small scaled the playing seems. Most pianists do their best to make the opening movement sound quasi-orchestral. Brendel does not. Don’t get me wrong, Brendel does some things right – he plays with a nice overall tempo and creates musical momentum – and a small approach can work, as, again, Paul Badura-Skoda demonstrates, but Brendel just never creates an especially compelling sound in the two opening movements. The great Adagio fares better. Brendel’s playing is flat – that is, he introduces little in the way of overt “interpretation” – and he creates a suitably desolate sound world. But it doesn’t really capture one’s fancy. The final movement starts with a cool, distant Largo and then transitions to a measured yet somewhat quick, reasonably clear fugue. Some beefy bass adds sonic allure to the mix, but the whole thing sounds uninspired and uninspiring.

The same cannot be written about the Op 109. Indeed, this is the pinnacle of the cycle. The Vivace ma non troppo is fast, clear, bright and wholly unfettered by unnecessary gestures. It sounds a bit lean, perhaps, but that only adds to the allure. The Adagio section is much calmer and more contemplative and possessed of all that late LvB goodness. Brendel plays the Prestissimo in electric fashion, angrily hammering out the music in a most satisfying way. And the center of the work, the glorious Andante and variations, works, too. The Andante theme itself is meticulously delivered and has that transportive quality common in the best versions of the work. Then the variations come, and success follows success. The slow variations are quintessentially late LvB in every way. The quicker ones are deliberate and quirky, but here Brendel’s quirkiness actually works. Most important and impressive of all is how the whole thing jells. Brendel takes the long view of the piece and his delivery makes it difficult to really dissect it in great detail; after all, one wants to greedily hear all that music. A remarkable recording.

After such an extraordinary recording it came as no surprise that the following recordings are not quite as good. The 110 opens with a Moderato cantabile molto espressivo that is generally well done, benefiting from forward momentum, moderately clear playing (some amorphous lower register playing in a few passages notwithstanding), and an attractive tone. Brendel’s playing never sings, though. The Allegro molto is really good, with Brendel’s playing taking on a hard-hitting, vigorous and unsmiling mien. But as with the preceding work, it’s the last movement that matters most. The Adagio ma non troppo opens with a bleak, ascetic sound. The sense of gloom permeates the entire opening portion of the movement and really works well. The initial fugue starts gently, builds up in tension and volume rapidly, and unfolds with admirable directness and decent clarity. The second stab at the opening material sounds much the same as before, which is fine, but the ending chords are surprisingly feeble. The inverted fugue, not surprisingly, sounds much like the original fugue overall. Brendel chooses to end the piece in bold, strong fashion, though others end the piece more titanically. Overall, the 110 is a success, and complaints are minor.

Ditto the 111. Again, Brendel plays the whole thing in a refreshingly direct, largely quirk-free way. The darker music of the latter half of the opening movement sounds more mischievous than malicious or ominous, but the unyielding forward drive and striking way Brendel plays the quasi-contrapuntal music is really invigorating. And Brendel once again demonstrates an ability to surprise by playing the Arietta in sublime fashion. Subdued and beautiful and static, he really nails it. The subsequent variations sound very good for the most part, and the long trill is steady and clear and offers a fine musical baseline. But. But Brendel never really achieves the same transcendental qualities that the best do. Overall, though, this is a fine recording and better than I expected. I’d say it’s a toss-up between this and the Vox recording. That’s good news to me.

Time to sum up. Somewhat contrary to my expectations, I rather enjoyed this cycle. Brendel is certainly uneven, but at his best – Op 22, 90, 109 – he is extraordinary. At his worst, he’s far more tolerable than I thought he would be. He doesn’t sound as quirky and mannered as he does in his more recent Beethoven recordings. On the downside, he doesn’t sound as impetuous and invigorating as in his Vox recordings, or at least the ones I am familiar with. One thing I noted as I listened to the cycle was how comfortable it sounded. By that I mean that Brendel’s take is a serious, “intellectual” take on the works, and he doesn’t try to dazzle with unnecessary pianistic pyrotechnics, and he respects and even loves the music and is thus focused on presenting his ideas on the music rather than something less important, so I could just sit and listen and enjoy. In some ways the cycle reminds me of Claude Frank’s, though it’s not as accomplished technically or musically. There’s no doubt that many people do or would like this cycle more than I do, and it’s equally certain many do not or would not. Brendel’s take is “classical” in overall approach, and is definitely shorn of pretty much any hints of romanticism. At times his playing borders on the coldly analytical, and many simply can’t stand that. Even when I don’t especially care for Brendel’s playing, I must admit that he always has original ideas about the music, so if you want a stimulating cycle, this one could definitely fit the bill. I certainly cannot rate this cycle among my favorites, but it easily trumps a number of lesser sets. It has also made me want to buy the remaining volumes of his Vox cycle to hear how he fares. I may even give his digital cycle a try at some point. Miracle of miracles, I can sit through a big batch of Brendel and enjoy myself and least some of the time. Whoda thunk it?

To sound: ‘Tis variable, but on the good side. Some of the recordings, particularly from 1975, have more hiss and a less attractive sound that some of the other recordings. The 1977 recordings all sound superb.
 

Todd

New member
Georges Pludermacher

I’ve had good luck with French pianists in Beethoven. I just like the way they sound. I can’t say that I would make any French pianist I’ve heard a first choice for the complete set, though in specific sonatas they do shine, like Op 22. Robert Casadesus is one of my favorite pianists generally, and though I find him at something less than his very best in Beethoven, he does provide some fine readings of the sonatas I’ve heard from him, the Appassionata especially. Yves Nat is superb in a number of sonatas, but I’m not wild about his late sonatas, and much the same can be written about Jean-Bernard Pommier. Eric Heidsieck has thus far provided me with the most consistently enjoyable complete or substantial set of sonatas by a Frenchman, with his interventionist approach paying dividends in unexpected ways. (I certainly hope that the fabled Alfred Cortot cycle is more than a mere fantasy and one day makes it to disc, though I doubt it – both its existence and the probability of it being released if it does.) So why not try another take? As luck would have it, I hunted down Georges Pludermacher’s cycle for a very reasonable 70 Euro and decided to give it a shot. Pludermacher is yet another pianist I’ve only read about until now, just like the other two pianists whose cycles I’m now traversing. Most of the references I’ve seen about him have been flattering with regard to his technical ability, his musical ability, and his creativity, and he’s worked with some august musicians during his career. He always wants to approach works differently, or so goes the copy. That’s a good thing, and certainly Elveebee’s sonatas can sound just fine under such circumstances. (As is the case with Heidsieck.) So Mr Pludermacher is an adventurer; he likes to do things differently.

What’s different about this cycle? The piano, for starters. Pludermacher doesn’t use a regular piano. No. He uses a Steinway modified to include a new pedal. A “Harmonic” pedal. A pedal that allows the pianist to alter the sustain and volume and, well, according to the notes, a whole lot of things in a whole lot of ways. It’s possible (and clearly audible) to sustain only a few notes in a phrase. It all has to do with how deft a pianist is at using his feet. (I can only ponder what Walter Gieseking may have been able to do with this piano.) Also slightly different, at least for some listeners, is the fact that this cycle was recorded live during a series of concerts given in Reims in the summer of 1998.

Enough preamble; time for the music. Right from the first few notes it’s clear that Pludermacher will take the listener on an individual journey. The opening Allegro of Op 2/1 starts off sounding deliberate if not quite stiff. Barely a moment passes before Pludermacher injects speed and his own unique rubato into the mix. Arpeggios will be dashed off dazzlingly quick, then he’ll slow down, savor a phrase just a bit, and then change back. Dynamics and tonal shadings are constantly in flux. To this he marries notable weight and admirable clarity – but not of the sometimes merciless X-ray kind present in the Sheppard set. (It must be stated that Pludermacher is closely-miked, too.) The effect of the new pedal can also be heard, with novel sustains and sounds. The Adagio continues along the interventionist path. The overall sound is somewhat superficial – in the best Giesekingian way – and ends up being an extended lesson in glorious, somewhat light, but impossibly variegated sound production. Pludermacher infuses the playing with his idiosyncratic touches everywhere and all the time. Just when one settles in for a shimmering, light approach, he throws the listener a curve. The Menuetto starts off in a deliberate fashion, but it still sounds peculiarly dance-like. Sort of like a minuet, in fact. Then he throws in some seriously powerful playing. It remains remarkably clear, to boot. The Prestissimo is played fast, with huge dynamic swings, and utterly unique phrasing and accenting in every bar. The playing has an irresistible motoric force, but it doesn’t really have the type of rhythmic groove that I would have expected. But it is exciting and unique.

Things stay that way with the second sonata. The Allegro vivace is fast, clear, cleanly articulated, with superb dynamic variations and pronounced but never obtrusive rubato. Pludermacher nonchalantly dashes off the ascending scales with ease, and then proceeds to hammer out some of the playing with aggressive intensity. Unlike Kovacevich, who is also aggressive in the early works, Pludermacher never sounds hard or (even somewhat) vulgar. The Largo comes off as sometimes march-like, sometimes thundering, but always clear and usually lean, though some tonal richness appears as appropriate. The movement is very serious but not exactly passionate. Gallic detachment is married to power in a most appealing way. The Scherzo opens with quick, light figures and then transitions to a simultaneously fiery and detached middle section, only to return to the opening material in a most satisfying way. The Rondo is again fast – Pludermacher loves to play fast – with all his tricks on display and an unyielding forward drive. As if to demonstrate that he can do even more, Pludermacher plays in a pulverizing fashion – more so than Sheppard – yet even then one is pleased by the sonic assault. In some ways the playing is very superficially exciting. Pludermacher certainly does not offer a great deal of emotionally enriching playing, but what is there is both technically assured and viscerally exciting.

The final sonata of the opening trio finds Pludermacher pulling out all the tools at his disposal. The Allegro con brio opener actually opens somewhat conventionally in terms of tempo and overall mood. Pludermacher quickly transitions to very fast, lean, and powerful playing, with pedaling, rubato, and dynamic shifts all obviously present. The more pressed nature of his playing means that the astounding flexibility of the first sonata is dampened somewhat (he apparently uses the new pedal less), but it’s still flexible. The Adagio opens with a somewhat detached feel, but all that nice tonal and dynamic variability remains. For some reason, the left hand notes and chords, even when played forte, sound somewhat undernourished. Must be that pedal again. The overriding effect of the first few minutes of playing is of pseudo-tragic music; Pludermacher approximates emotion. Then the broad chords after 5’ are much stronger, and that new pedal adds some unique color. As if to make up for lost time, Pludermacher dispatches the Scherzo with almost breathlessly fast and intense playing. The concluding Allegro assai opens with light, clear, yet colorful ascending scales, and then Pludermacher’s big, beefy left hand playing joins in. He almost races through the music at times, generating superficial excitement. There’s definitely a lot to enjoy in the opening sonatas.

For the fourth sonata, Pludermacher again opts to open the piece quickly. Allegro molto e con brio the opener most certainly is, but even then the pianist sees fit to pick up the speed and ratchet up the tension after a brief period of merely brisk playing. The playing is remarkably fluid and even has a nice rhythmic snap to it, but it’s all superficial. It doesn’t really delve beneath the surface, as it were. That’s fine, but there it is. The Largo is comparatively slow, with immaculately timed pauses. Rarely have I heard them used so expertly; Pludermacher maintains a high degree of musical tension; there is never even a hint that the musical line may be breached. When it comes time to play with power, Pludermacher does so without any hint of strain or without overdoing anything. The Allegro starts off in a somewhat slow and deliberate manner, at least for Pludermacher. All the notes have pronounced, clear attacks, and that nifty new pedal is used artfully to sustain only select notes in an appealing (if perhaps a bit contrived) manner. Pludermacher also does something he hasn’t done up to this point: he makes the music sing a few times, but only in bursts. The middle section has a nice rolling bass that is nicely unclear, most likely on purpose. To close the piece, Pludermacher again makes the piano sing, but this time in an almost delicate way. But he also has more serious things to do as when he belts out the middle section in blazing fast fashion. What’s perhaps most surprising is how Pludermacher manages to pull of this off within relatively conventional overall timings. None of the sonatas are freakishly long or short. What Pludermacher does within the time parameters parameters is what’s most impressive. That’s the case here.

Moving on to the next trio reveals more surprises. Pludermacher opens the first sonata Allegro molto e con brio not fast but rather slow, or slow-ish, and in a rather measured way. The first return of the opening theme definitely sounds faster and stronger, and at times it seems like things are poised to get heated up, but then the pianist pulls back and plays lyrically. Then the whole process gets repeated. The specific effects and sounds don’t really sound that great, but the transitions between the styles are graceful and fluid. The Adagio molto, as with some prior slow movements, sounds detached but lovely, with musical tension retained throughout, and with Pludermacher finding the time to play some passages in a discreetly virtuosic manner. To close, Pludermacher opts to start off in a measured way only to end up playing in a robust, nearly dazzling fashion with plenty of oomph. It’s good fun. The second sonata opens with a plucky, clear, and quick Allegro complete with Pludermacher’s distinctive rubato and accenting. Again, it’s surface playing, but it’s good surface playing. The Allegretto is attractively dark, but, yep, it’s superficial. And again, the closing movement starts off relatively slowly only to pick up steam, but just when things get going, they’re over. No repeat is on offer here. Darn. The final sonata is the most successful. Momentum and rhythm characterize the Presto, with all the tricks deployed thus far showing up again, and in just the right mix. The Largo occupies a different sound world entirely. From the outset it sounds bleak, and some of the repeated chords almost anticipate Le Gibet more than the 106. Most of the quick take on this movement is superficial, though deft use of the lower registers and a marked shift in style between 6’30” and 7’ results in a tragic outpouring of rage and anguish, albeit through clenched teeth, if you will. In contrast, the Menuetto and Rondo both sound quite chipper, with Pludermacher relishing the little gestures in the music and using his bag of tricks most tastefully.

How would Pludermacher do in the Pathetique? His somewhat cool, detached style seemed to portend a less than heated version, though his technical acumen seemed to insure a well executed one. And that’s what Pludermacher delivers. The Grave opens with a strong but not overwhelming chords, then moves on to some quicker playing, and then the thundering playing comes before the Allegro. The Allegro itself is a model of quick, clear, detached playing, with some nearly dazzling fast playing and some decent heft. The Andante cantabile opens with a beautifully lyrical sound, but it’s hardly the paragon of romantic playing. The Rondo ends the work in a similar fashion to the opening movement – generally quick and clear and definitely detached. All told, it’s a good reading, and certainly a well played one, but it’s not a world beater.

The two Op 14 sonatas both sound good. The first sonata Allegro and Allegretto both sound too solemn. The playing itself is light and clear, with some left hand chords floated nicely in the opening movement, and some lovely playing in the second. But it sounds almost depressing at times. The Rondo sounds more vigorous and upbeat. The second sonata sounds more appealing, with the opening Allegro benefiting from dazzling runs, a generally swift overall tempo, and all those little tonal variations that Pludermacher so effortlessly delivers. The Andante and Scherzo both sound curiously vigorous yet nonchalant and decidedly charming.

Finishing up the first batch with the Op 22 finds another French pianist doing well. Pommier, Heidsieck, and Nat all do very well here, and Pludermacher’s success seems to indicate that the French may have learned the secrets of the piece better than most. The Allegro con brio follows the now familiar pattern of a measured open quickly transitioning to quick, pointed, and (now) groovy playing with some serious low-end heft. Throughout, Pludermacher will accelerate, decelerate, play loud, play soft, and otherwise do whatever seems to tickle his fancy, and he does it in such a way as to sound fluid, graceful, strong, and compelling all in equal measure. The Adagio, on the other hand, is all about slowness. This is one time when Pludermacher does adopt an extreme tempo – he extends the movement to over 10’. At times musical tension is sacrificed, and the emotional payoff isn’t really there; the emotion is contrived. Well, it sounds that way until Pludermacher pounds out some chords in the middle section. An outcry of pain in a sonata where it’s not really needed, perhaps? Anyway, it still works. The Menuetto is more chipper, as one would hope, but it also sounds reasonably rich and nicely articulated. The Rondo continues on in a similarly comfortable manner until the fiercer middle section, when Pludermacher turns on the speed before easing up. This is indeed a good reading, but the out of place Adagio prevents me from rating this version among those by the other French pianists. I still like it.

So, a big helping of Mr Pludermacher’s Beethoven has been devoured. Me like. With reservations. That Pludermacher is technically proficient is clearly beyond doubt. That he can play with taste and energy equally so. But his playing is sometimes too concerned with surface gloss and momentary effect for me to say it’s up there with the very best. (Had he focused more on momentary feeling, it might be another story.) Truth to tell, I find the quadrapedal piano something of a novelty, and a pretty flimsy reason to record the sonatas in itself. Perhaps such a device would have more value in Debussy, but here it just adds some interesting effects. I’d like to here Pludermacher play Beethoven on a standard piano, that’s for sure. Don’t get me wrong, I really like what I’ve heard so far. Pludermacher definitely brings some unique ideas to the music, and makes for a fine potential alternative version, and that’s how I’m going to approach the rest of the set.




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I rather enjoyed the first eleven sonatas in Pludermacher’s cycle. He brings unique insights and adventurous playing to most of the works. His playing is also a bit superficial at times. The former set of traits could serve the next batch very well, the latter trait not so much. Unfortunately, the latter trait predominates. The problems start immediately with the Op 26 sonata. The Andante is flat, not especially lyrical or attractive, nor is it serious or introspective. It’s just there. And while Pludermacher previously brought admirable clarity to the part playing, here his hands aren’t synced up. It’s not that he plays in an old fashioned, purposely desynchronized manner, it’s that nothing jells. The first variation exposes more problems. It’s stiff and disjointed. Is that due to “interpretation” or a memory lapse? I think it’s the former because all of the subsequent variations are likewise stiff and disjointed. There’s no flow to the opening movement. Same goes for the Scherzo. The funeral march fares best; it’s a slow, somber march that at times benefits from huge, thundering climaxes and creative use of the new pedal. The work ends on a less than positive note. Pludermacher’s clear part playing returns, thankfully, but he never shakes that disjointed feel from the first two movements. A disappointment.

Things improve slightly with the first of the sonatas quasi una fantasia. The opening Andante combines slow-ish repeated chords with fast everything else, including some sweet accelerations from slow to fast playing. The Allegro is faster yet, but because the opening Andante was relatively quick, the contrast between the sections is muted. The Allegro blends seamlessly into another fast Andante. The Allegro molto e vivace is a bit clearer than the preceding sections, but again, the contrast is muted. The whole thing sounds homogenized up to this point. Fortunately, the Adagio is quite nice. Pludermacher slows down a bit and plays quite lyrically, even tenderly at times, though some metallic tinge can be detected. As might be expected, the Allegro vivace is fast and powerful, and has better dynamic contrasts than the opening portion of the work, and also sounds nicely groovy at times. The return of the main slow theme offers a nice, brief rest before a strong ending. So, an okay recording, but not a top-notch one.

For the Mondschein it appears that Pludermacher makes it a point to “reexamine” everything, including the use of the sustain pedal, because the movement isn’t as hazy as it should be. Plus it’s quick surface playing only. It’s Melancholy Lite, if you will. The Allegretto is direct and has nice lower register playing – and relatively more sustain – but it mostly acts like a direct bridge to the ending Presto agitato. Pludermacher takes this movement fast, scurrying around the keyboard in an agitated state. (Imagine that!) It’s vigorous, muscular, and decidedly virtuosic. For those who favor the type of approach outlined above, this recording will thrill. Me, well, let’s move on.

It’s back to reexamined playing for the Pastorale. That means a very long (>12’), very slow, ponderous opening Allegro. It sounds more like an Adagio. There’s little to no musical tension, and it takes on a blocked or episodic feeling. As one might expect, it doesn’t flow. There are some good things, though. The middle section, here starting around 7’ in, is tumultuous, with a powerful left hand and a searing right. Things improve with the Andante, which actually flows and even sounds a tad leisurely. Pludermacher reintroduces subtle use of all his interpretive tricks described in the first review, and he shakes things up on occasion, favoring punched out bass notes to do that. The Scherzo is jauntier and more fun, but the Trio has the same unsynchronized playing that hampered the Op 26 sonata. To end, Pludermacher plays a nice Rondo. It starts a little on the slow side, with some nicely pronounced bass (no one can accuse this set of being upper register dominated), and decent musical flow. Pludermacher is at his best in the louder and faster music. The climaxes are big ‘n’ beefy, and the coda is the epitome of modern virtuosity. A mixed bag, then, but one tending toward the disappointing side of things.

Tending toward the more pleasing side of things is the first of the critical Op 31 sonatas. Pludermacher opens with a fast and puckish Allegro vivace. Once again Pludermacher displays his not inconsiderable power, though here he knows when to back off, too. It’s gripping if perhaps not very probing. The Adagio grazioso sounds quite inviting, with quickly dispatched, accelerating trills played over a limpid left hand. The middle section starts with some strong chords and then is characterized by lyrical right hand figures floated over an insistent left hand. The trills on the aft side are more fluttering and yet remain distinct. Must be the fourth pedal. What’s most remarkable about the movement is how Pludermacher makes the long movement – here around 11’40” – float by so effortlessly. It’s over before one wants it to be. The work closes with a quick, energetic Rondo most notable for its dazzling fingerwork. Pludermacher can play anything he wants.

It’s nice to report that the Tempest remains on the pleasing side. The Largo alternates rapidly dispatched notes and nicely done pauses that make it more intense than dark. The Allegro is quick, with Pludermacher darting across the keyboard, deploying his remarkably dexterous fists ‘o music to create some powerful playing. Perhaps it’s too powerful on average, because that nice, contrasty sound I crave goes missing much of the time. It’s surface playing again. But still, when he fades to silence at 4’30”-ish and then erupts, it’s electric. The Adagio sounds nicely moody and nimble, if perhaps a bit shallow. (He’s like Gieseking in that regard, but Gieseking brings something extra that no one else does.) To close, Pludermacher offers up an Allegretto that’s well played, with predictably solid lower register playing and urgent repeated treble figures. Good stuff. Not great stuff.

The trio ends less impressively. The Allegro opens on the slow and soft side, though Pludermacher picks up the pace – but not the volume – at around 1’18” in. Despite my misgivings about the delivery, I just couldn’t resist, not entirely. A few patches of hefty lower register playing aside, this movement ends up being more about subtle nuance than overt showmanship. That’s okay by me. The Scherzo is appropriately faster, with a prominent (but not heavy) bassline. Pludermacher keeps things quieter than normal, especially for him. Oh, sure, the small, humorous outbursts are nice, but one’s left quoting Clara Peller: “Where’s the beef?” The Menuetto continues along similar lines. The work closes with a vigorous, fun ‘n’ groovy Presto con fuoco that still remains on the light side. So, less good stuff, but good stuff nonetheless.

The Op 49 sonatas briefly sum up what has come before: they’re a mixed bag. The first sonata opens with a fast Andante that sounds faux-dramatic because of the speed, unsubtle rubato, and bunched chords. The Rondo is rubato heavy, somewhat choppy, and suffers from exaggerated dynamics. The second sonata is more successful, with a brisk, strong, yet lyrical Allegro ma non troppo and a brisk, tuneful Tempo di Menuetto.

The second batch of sonatas is different from the first. Pludermacher was very compelling in some of the early works, but here he doesn’t really offer a great deal. The Op 31 sonatas have some nice things to recommend them, the first one in particular, but overall I was left dissatisfied with the entire batch. In that regard, he’s the anti-Sheppard, who only improved in the second batch. I hope the remaining works fare better.




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Thus far Georges Pludermacher’s cycle has been mixed. The early sonatas were generally very good and characterized by technically polished, colorful, but somewhat aloof playing. The same things characterized the second batch of sonatas. Unfortunately, more is needed to make the middle and (especially the) late sonatas sound their best. So it should come as no surprise to learn that this batch of six sonatas ends up faring about as well as the second batch did. That is, they are very well played – there’s no denying that – but ultimately not the most satisfying recordings out there.

The Waldstein ends up being something of a microcosm of the entire batch. The Allegro con brio is brisk and firm, clear and colorful, and boasts a steady left hand supporting a nimble right hand. Pludermacher deploys his technique and the piano’s expanded abilities to create a “large” sound and plays with superb articulation. But it is detached and cool. It’s a somewhat (or maybe predominantly) unengaging, virtuosic take on the piece. The same thing holds true for the Introduzione, though here the big, beefy bass adds some undeniable sonic allure. The Rondo alternates between somewhat restrained, lovely, colorful playing, and swelling, staggeringly powerful climaxes with thundering bass, and coruscating right hand figurations. It becomes a virtuosic showpiece, though to Pludermacher’s credit, it succeeds for what it is.

Pretty much the same thing can be written for the Op 54 sonata. The minuet portion of the In tempo di menuetto becomes increasingly ornamented with each reappearance, culminating in some really sweet trills in the third pass, and the more powerful second section is fast, occasionally strident, and beefy. The concluding Allegretto ends up sounding more Allegro (at least), with nimble fingerwork, punchy bass, and high energy the predominant traits. It’s decent, and superbly executed, but after Silverman, well, it just doesn’t satisfy the way it should.

Same goes for the Appassionata. Silverman’s blockbuster recording makes both Sheppard and Pludermacher seem somewhat uninteresting – Pludermacher more so than Sheppard. I expected Pludermacher to really let loose here and just overwhelm me with power and speed. Instead, I got a recording where Pludermacher alternates slow-ish (for Pludermacher), somewhat subdued passages with immensely powerful yet somewhat contained passages. Sure, there are some dazzling trills and flourishes to tickle one’s ears, but it sounds episodic and contrived, and not very passionate. Things improve with the Andante con moto, which sounds lyrical and offers more than surface playing. The work ends with an Allegro, ma non troppo that is indeed all about speed. And power. The brief slower, softer sections sound a bit forced, but if one wants a cooking finale, this recording certainly offers that.

For some reason, though, Pludermacher makes the Op 78 work well. The cantabile designation in the Adagio cantabile is definitely adhered to: Pludermacher makes this part sing, if with a quick cadence. The Allegro ma non troppo is played very fast, with breathtaking articulation (the man has speedy fingers!), and an attractive tone. Searching or moving it may not be, but it is muscular and fun. Pludermacher makes the concluding Allegro vivace sound like a continuation of the preceding section and brings the piece to a satisfying conclusion.

The Op 79 sonata doesn’t fare quite as well. The opening Presto alla tedesca is unrelenting in its speed and intensity – almost as much as in Pollini’s recording. That means that the more dazzling aspects of the score sound fine, but the repeated ‘cuckoo’ figure and off-key ending are nearly crushed at times. In contrast, the Andante is quite serious, more measured, and quite attractive. It comes out of nowhere, really; it seems like it’s from a different performance. (It’s not.) As one might expect, the Vivace ending is fast, big, and vigorous and generally enjoyable.

That leaves the Les Adieux. It more or less ends up in the same category as the other two named sonatas in this batch: well executed but detached. The Adagio sounds attractive, is taken at a nice pace, and has expertly used silences. The Allegro section is fast, clear, and vigorous. What’s missing? Well, it doesn’t really seem as though anyone is bidding farewell to anyone else. It’s just sort of there. The second movement is beautiful, sounds almost moving at times, but doesn’t evoke any feelings of sorrow, regret, loneliness, or anything. Not really. The Vivacissimente is grand and fast and superficially exciting, but where’s the ebullience at the return of the admired friend? It’s not there.

This batch is pretty much a continuation of the prior batch. If you want a well played but cool cycle, this may be the one for you. Just don’t expect a lot beyond that.


cont'd . . .
 
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Todd

New member
...cont'd


I came to the late sonatas with reduced expectations. Of the three pianists whose cycles I’ve been listening to, Pludermacher might possibly be the most technically accomplished, but his cycle has also been the least satisfying overall. Undeniable surface polish is no substitute for a more secure grasp of the underlying musical message. That’s not to say Pludermacher’s cycle has been bad; it’s just not up to the standard of the other two cycles, or a number of others. And I anticipated that the late sonatas would be the least satisfying of the cycle overall. In some ways they are.

That’s evident in Op 90. Pludermacher opens the first movement with somewhat muted contrasts and a rather resigned air. Things start to pick up after 45”, and then Pludermacher adroitly deploys his formidable technical ability: runs dazzle; lower register weight impresses; all sounds clear. In between the more dazzling passages Pludermacher creates a static soundworld, and the overall result sounds somewhat unfocused. He’s playing with little evident purpose or aim. That same feeling remains in the lyrical, and strangely youthful (as in it sounds more like early LvB) second movement. It’s well played, but it doesn’t engage as it should.

The Op 101 opens in a markedly more successful manner: the Allegretto, ma non troppo is superbly judged, with a timeless, transportive sound created right from the start. Characteristically powerful climaxes serve only to punctuate ideas and never become obtrusive. The whole thing jells! The Vivace alla marcia works, too. It’s bold, bright, strong, and rhythmically snappy. The middle section is more vigorous than the outer sections and sound almost chipper. Then things head south. The Adagio is slow and detached – which isn’t necessarily a bad thing – but here it just doesn’t work. Pludermacher doesn’t sound engaged; he sounds almost as though he’s sight-reading. Again, it’s well played, but something major is missing. The same thing largely holds true for the concluding movement (or section, depending on the recording at hand). It’s fast, it’s strong, it’s clear, but that’s it. Pludermacher just seems to be racing through the music. So a promising start gives way to a flat ending.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise that the Hammerklavier displays many of the same traits. But it is also a bit more successful. Pludermacher takes the opening Allegro at a brisk overall tempo, and every brief slower part becomes a somewhat pale rest before the next energetic section arrives. Make no mistake, Pludermacher plays the piece well. His fine articulation, clear, bright part playing, and general forward drive make for a superficially exciting movement, but not much else. The Scherzo is slightly slower but otherwise much the same. The Adagio is a bit unusual. It’s desolate, sure, but in a cool and detached way. The playing lacks great emotional depth. Yet it still sounds oddly effective. In its coolness it achieves a sort of hardened, emotionless feel. It’s hardly my ideal interpretation, but it is better than I expected. The piece ends pretty much as one might expect. The Largo is slow and detached, the fugue fast, clear, powerful, and (mostly) effortlessly dispatched. On a superficial level, this is a decent recording, but it isn’t one for the ages.

The Op 109 is probably the highlight of the last six sonatas. Pludermacher opens the Vivace, ma non troppo by playing in a notably deliberate manner for a few moments before switching to predictably fast, colorful, clear, and dynamically and tonally variable playing. Rather than superficiality, Pludermacher succeeds in creating a fluid, slightly dreamy, yet peculiarly concise movement that even evokes, if only a little, a transportive quality. Unsurprisingly, the Prestissimo is exceedingly fast and strong, but it never sounds rushed or forced, but nor does it sound especially involving. The Andante sounds attractive, but clipped. It never really flows like it should, and so that late-LvB ethereal sound goes missing. At first it seems the whole movement might sound that way, but Pludermacher slyly and stealthily blends the erstwhile missing element in. The work sounds its most moving and engrossing in the gorgeous first variation. After that, he plays a couple fast variations – the third one breathlessly so – and then switches back to a more conventional late Beethoven soundworld. By the time the work is over, one has enjoyed a somewhat earthbound but still (somewhat) compelling reading.

Things revert to pre-109 style with the 110. The Moderato cantabile, molto espressivo is fast, variegated in every regard, and superficial. The Allegro starts off somewhat stiffly then converts to fast ‘n’ clear ‘n’ strong. Then the Adagio arrives and one hears that detached, cool playing that elsewhere may be forgiven, but here just sounds dull. The fugue displays all of Pludermacher’s traits typically displayed in fast, complex passages. The second pass at the Adagio is pretty much like the first, with the repeated chord transition played in a mechanically effective but dispassionate quieter-to-louder progression. The second fugal section is well played, and the whole thing comes to a virtuosic end. Yet another well played but too superficial reading.

Time to wrap this one up. That crowning glory known as the Op 111 is not glorious enough. Oh sure, Pludermacher plays the opening movement in strikingly powerful fashion, with substantial bass weight, but the whole thing sounds too bright and happily energetic. The Arietta is nicely played but sounds more dutiful than beautiful. The variations progress as one might expect, especially the dazzlingly fast third, and while a few nice touches are there to be heard, chief among them the sweet trills, the whole thing just doesn’t sound as compelling as this work should.

Overall, I’m still glad I got to hear this cycle. Pludermacher’s playing is certainly technically accomplished, and the novel new piano he uses offers some interesting aural delights. But there’s not enough below the surface. This doesn’t matter much in the early sonatas, and that’s where Pludermacher shines. The opening three sonatas are well worth hearing multiple times, for instance. Move further into the cycle and serious doubts arise; something goes missing. Depth. This cycle is one of the “shallower” ones I’ve heard, where presentation becomes the primary end in itself. Such an approach can be more successful than here, but it’s never ideal. I would only suggest this cycle for people who really want to hear a whole lot of Beethoven, good or not so good. As to Pludermacher’s artistry, I find it more compelling in other composers’ works, like Debussy’s. He’s a fine pianist, he’s just not a great Beethovenian.


 
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Todd

New member
Craig Sheppard

Over the past several months I’ve read some positive reviews and comments about Craig Sheppard’s Beethoven cycle, so I figured I should probably try it out at some point. When the opportunity arose to acquire the set in a most affordable fashion (thanks Harris), well, there was no reason to not give it a listen. Sheppard is a name I’d only seen once or twice before reading about the Beethoven cycle, and then only when scouring ancient reviews in Gramophone. Mr Sheppard has been around for quite a while, it turns out. He placed second to Murray Perahia in the 1972 Leeds competition, and has made a variety of recordings of a reasonably wide-ranging repertoire on a number of labels. One of his early Liszt recordings was cited for fine virtuosity, so between that and the competition result, it would seem he should be able to deftly handle the technical aspects of the music. The fact that he studied at the Curtis Institute and Juilliard and worked or studied with Claude Frank and Rudolf Serkin also bodes well for his ability. So I came to his cycle expecting something at least well executed. Sheppard’s cycle was recorded live during a series of concerts in 2003 and 2004 in Seattle in the Meany Theater, so it’s up to date and modern, with whatever one wants to associate with that. As an aside, Sheppard’s website has an unusual error: it states that his is the only live cycle on the market today, leaving out Yukio Yokoyama’s, Andrea Lucchesini’s, and Georges Pludermacher’s to name three. It’s not really material; it’s just an odd and inaccurate selling point. Anyway, time for the music . . .

Way too close. The sound is way too close. The sound is dry and claustrophobically close – almost to the point of being oppressively in your face. It’s like one’s head is stuck under the lid of the piano. That was the very first impression I got, and it never abated. Tonally the sound is fine, though dynamics suffer a bit as will be mentioned later on. Beyond the too-close sound there is much to admire.

The first sonata opens with an Allegro marginally slower than I usually prefer, though the pace quickly picks up. It sounds a bit deliberate, but Sheppard will just dash off an arpeggio or otherwise impress with small touches of virtuosity. He never resorts to excesses of any kind. The part playing is also very distinct – aided by the close recording – with unique left hand accents frequently evident. The movement sounds a bit intense, a bit nerve-wracking at times. It’s not especially youthful or upbeat. The Adagio opens more smoothly, but then it’s back to a more intense, fraught approach. Sheppard deploys a number of little tricks here, like when he’ll cut short a chord for dramatic effect. Again, there is a nervous energy that permeates the playing. The Menuetto comes across as well-played, quick, with more of the tension evident in the first two movements, but still basically straight. The concluding Prestissimo starts with a finely judged overall tempo, bite, and growl. Here that’s most certainly a good thing. The section immediately after the opening material slows down and assumes a somewhat waltz-like beat audible in the left hand. The tension that has thus far been part of the recording remains, and Sheppard throws in some nice, purposely choppy playing that only increases the tension some more, especially in the repeat. Perhaps this isn’t my favorite take on the opening sonata, but everything works very well indeed.

Sheppard opens the second sonata in much the same way as the first. That is, the opening Allegro vivace opens just a bit on the slow side but quickly picks up, with Sheppard utilizing pauses and his rubato in a most successful manner. And again the bass line is quite distinct and steady. At times Sheppard veers toward an over-thought approach, but he always stops just shy of playing in an over-calculated fashion. The one drawback with the recording is the length; Sheppard takes the repeat, and he can’t make it work. It’s just too long. The Largo appassionato opens rather briskly, with an almost march-like left hand underpinning the music. Sheppard’s tone remains nicely rounded and appealing, despite the close sound, and the playing remains clear and never sounds hard. At times, Sheppard speeds up quite a bit and plays with great power in an impressive virtuosic display. Unfortunately, the too-close sound prevents his crescendos from assuming the heft and scale they deserve. The Scherzo is fast and sharp to open, with Sheppard maintaining a nice, pointed but not too sharp staccato much of the time thereafter. The middle section is fast and driven with more clear and choppy (in a good way!) playing. The ending Rondo benefits from all of Sheppard’s strengths, but sounds just a bit stiff at times. So, like the first sonata, this is very good if not quite one of my favorites.

The final sonata of the opening trio shows up the problem in the recorded sound again. Some of the playing in the Allegro con brio opener sounds almost blocky. That is, each chord is distinct and as a result the music doesn’t jell as well as it should – it’s an aural X-ray that reveals everything. After the opening bars, things do improve, and Sheppard once again displays impressive drive and power. The Adagio is taut and light at the open, with Sheppard moving the piece along with surprising tension. Low notes strike like thunder here (I was listening way too loud, I admit) yet they never sound even remotely hard or harsh. Beyond that, Sheppard’s ability to vary every aspect of his playing all at once really captivates. The man can tickle the ivories, that’s for sure. The Scherzo is quick, pointed, and jaunty, with a slightly malevolent air creating a sense of vigorous fun. The middle section is the thing here, though. Sheppard plays the bass part with massive, ponderous, and crushing power with an acid right hand burning one’s ears. It is pulverizing, but Sheppard never pulverizes the music. Sweet. The concluding Allegro assai is quick but not soaring (perhaps it’s the sound again), has some jolting (micro-) halts, and ends with a muscular display of pianism. This is the best of the opening trio, and one I know I’ll return to.

Moving on to the fourth sonata finds Sheppard opening with a very fast Allegro molto e con brio characterized by a scampering, almost twitchy right hand. The crescendos here sound fuller than in the earlier sonatas, and they are somewhat rich, as well. The playing just after 4’20” sounds feathery light – it’s really captivating – with the music that follows sounding more testy. One gripe is that the bass chords around 5’30” sound too spread out for my taste, but ‘tis only a quibble. The Largo is fast – at least when notes are being played. Sheppard uses the pauses expertly, and the quickness of the notes makes the pauses sound comparatively long even though they’re not. It’s a nice trick. The fiercer middle section is exactly that: Fierce. The Allegro, in contrast, sounds chipper and (for Sheppard) leisurely. The middle section has a nice rolling bass and Sheppard makes his Hamburg Steinway growl near the end. Sheppard ends the work with a Rondo that sounds at once lyrical and pointed. As things progress, the punchy left hand and taut right hand sound groovy, but in a slightly blocky way. The coda, though, flows along and ends the work in beautiful fashion. Four for four.

After four vigorous, muscular readings, I expected more of the same in the second trio of works. Instead, the first of the Op 10 sonatas offers something slightly different. The opening Allegro molto e con brio opens at a comfortable pace. It’s not slow, it’s just not shot-from-a-cannon fast like Claude Frank offers. The entire first movement sounds somewhat leisurely – by Sheppard’s standards – and if it assumes a quasi-orchestral scale, it still lacks some oomph. It does offer more of Sheppard’s unique pointed-yet-tonally variegated playing, though. The Adagio molto, while very strong when needed, sounds surprisingly warm and relaxed. Dynamics are somewhat muted overall, and it’s somewhat quick. Things end with a warmish, clear, rollicking, and fun Prestissimo. Not bad. For the second sonata of the group, Sheppard opts to play it light. Mostly. The Allegro is fun yet tightly controlled, with tasteful rubato and nice clarity. The Allegretto is tight, and somewhat quick, and the Presto (with repeat) opens at a sensible pace only to build up in both speed and power, though the coda doesn’t have enough snap. The second trio ends with the best performance of the bunch. Sheppard opens the work with a fast, pointed, and literal Presto. He doesn’t play with great breadth or depth yet plays seriously, to the point of sounding stern. Generally, that would be bad news, but not here. Sheppard forces the listener to believe! The Largo comes across as dark and bleak, which is good, but it never assumes a proto-106 Adagio feeling. Instead, it is unrelenting in its bleakness. That’s fine. The Menuetto benefits from big, rich bass playing and fleet right hand playing. To end things, Sheppard plays the Rondo fast, with some chords jack-hammered out, and ends the whole thing strongly.

Time for the perennially popular Pathetique. Not surprisingly, Sheppard opens with a pounded out chord to start off the Grave. The following music is hard-hitting, fast, urgent, intense, and angry, if not quite as loud as the opening announcement. The Allegro, also predictably, is played very fast, but it is also surprisingly unclear, at least by the standards set forth thus far. Some of the playing is diffuse, the runs somewhat soft and muddied, yet nervous, angry tension remains. It sounds like Sheppard may just get up and pimp-slap someone. Just before the coda, Sheppard plays more reflectively, more sorrowfully, and then he unloads on the listener. The Adagio sounds like a lament. It’s immediate and touching to start and switches over to a more idealized sound thereafter. Sheppard concludes the work with a direct, forward-moving, serious Rondo. Overall, this is an excellent version, yet it doesn’t quite match up with the very best. That’s hardly a condemnation.

Given Sheppard’s overall approach up to this point, I approached the Op 14 sonatas with a bit of trepidation. His muscular, pointed style, while compelling, could potentially make these pieces whither. That doesn’t happen. The first sonata opens with a quick, usually light, but sometimes meaty Allegro, moves to a somewhat lyrical but sometimes slightly too serious Allegretto and ends with a fast and serious but still fun Rondo. A world-beater it may not be, but it makes for fun listening. Better is the second sonata. Sheppard plays the Allegro in a warm, lyrical, and at times outright charming fashion. The Andante is pointed and poised, with the playing varying nicely between slightly quick and vigorous and soft and alluring. Sheppard ends the work with a light, lyrical Scherzo dashed off with panache. More good stuff.

But it is surely the meatier fare that matters more, and so I listened with keen interest to the Op 22 sonata. The Allegro opens in a generally fast and somewhat light manner, but Sheppard allows himself a lot of latitude here, really letting ‘er rip a few times and holding back ever so slightly – via shortened notes or chords or softer volume – at other times. The Adagio is again fast and light, with minute tonal variations and an insistent but never overpowering left hand underpinning. Overall, it’s dispassionate, but it is very well executed. As to the Menuetto, well, it seems that Sheppard likes to play this piece fast and light, and here his tone is quite ingratiating and his overall tempo, too, with the stronger middle section offering a nice contrast. Things come to a conclusion with an energetic Rondo, with some slightly cloudy playing offering a break from the X-ray treatment. It’s rather lyrical, too, and Sheppard brings the thing to a thundering close. Again, another fine performance, if not a front-runner.

The first eleven sonatas reveal Craig Sheppard to be an extremely talented pianist. He certainly has no difficulty playing the music the way he wants to. And what he wants to do is largely very interesting. His style is lean and pointed and muscular, and largely devoid of emotional excess. He’s classical and occasionally aggressive and always compelling. Indeed, he hasn’t delivered even one dog up to this point. That’s a good sign. I can easily hear why this set has received good reviews and praise from many people. However, Sheppard’s cycle is one of three modern cycles I’m listening to at present (the other two will be covered shortly) and I enjoy the other two even more. That I can write that just goes to show that LvB fans are not starved for choice.


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I guess I should have expected it. Sheppard’s set up to this point has been a serious, completely thought-through and rethought-through affair. Such an approach doesn’t always benefit the earliest sonatas. To be sure, Sheppard’s take on the first eleven sonatas offers some fine listening, but the next eight are altogether better. That much is evident starting with the Op 26 sonata. Sheppard opens the Andante in a clear, lyrical, and surprisingly warm way. Sheppard’s playing to this point has had an appealing tone – somewhat surprisingly given the oppressively close recorded perspective – but this piece sounds even more immediately appealing. Anyway, the variations all sound very good, the fast ones delivered in groovy fashion, the slower ones in more colorful fashion, and all of them display micro-dynamic and micro-tonal variations. The Scherzo opens more softly than I expected, has all them micro- variations again, and then proceeds to build up in tension and speed quite nicely. (Alas, the extra-close miking means that one can hear Sheppard stomping on the pedals too clearly.) The funeral march opens with a nice, brisk cadence and sounds deadly serious if not especially funereal. (There’s little in the way of overt emotion; it’s quite formal and somewhat detached.) Sheppard gradually builds up the power in the movement to near thundering levels. To end the work, Sheppard plays the Allegro in clear, quick, plucky fashion and alternates dynamics nicely. The work ends on a vigorous note. Overall, this is an excellent recording.

Moving on to the important Op 27/1 finds Mr Sheppard playing at a high level. He opens the work with by playing the Andante in a generally light, sweet, and slightly brisk manner, and the second go-round of the Andante after the Allegretto sounds the same. The second theme is much the same but introduces a steady and clear but never obtrusive left hand accompaniment to add the groove factor. The Allegro, in contrast, is punchy, with the cascading notes a sheer delight. The Allegro molto e vivace sounds clear and pointed in Sheppard’s best style, but he also holds back a little to start with so he can then build up to the powerful, bass-rich climax, which then fades slowly and beautifully into the gorgeous Adagio, which sounds more about lovely surface playing than deep exploration. That’s quite alright here. Alas, the concluding Allegro vivace sounds just a smidgeon too deliberate – where’s the fantastic element? – and detracts slightly from Sheppard’s overall achievement. That quibble aside, the playing is forceful and quick and pointed – the lovely slow middle section obviously aside – and the rolling bass that introduces the final section is powerful ‘n’ rumbly. (After that, though, does Sheppard throw in an extra note in the first ascending figure? No matter.) Overall, this is a fine version and again indicates that Sheppard is more at home in middle period stuff than in early stuff.

That impression is cemented with the Mondschein sonata. Sheppard opens with a somber, dark, somewhat subdued and perfectly paced Adagio sostenuto. It sounds somewhat straight and shorn of interpretive artifice – and it works! Same with the Allegretto, which is suitably quicker, brighter, somewhat warm, but not quite sunny and cheery. To close, Sheppard lets loose. Sort of. While his playing is indeed very fast, he doesn’t tear into the piece; rather, he starts off somewhat softly, with superb micro-dynamics, and even when he does play louder, he keeps it all under control. Exciting control. Dynamics remain somewhat constrained and never does the sound bite or glare, but who cares? This is a superb reading.

The Pastorale reaffirms the positive impression made by the 27/2. The Allegro opens relatively briskly, with a gently rocking left hand and supremely lyrical right hand. The overall sound is somewhat relaxed – for Sheppard – but still nicely taut, and Sheppard’s superb dynamic and tonal variations just add to the allure. Throw in a massive climax near the end, and the work gets off to a solid start. The Andante opens with a slightly stiff left hand accompaniment, though the right hand playing is most attractive. The middle section is more pointed and stronger, yet still jolly, and the return of the opening material is lyrical yet slightly cool. The Scherzo opens quite slowly, picks up both speed and volume with the third and fourth iteration of the material, and then reverts back to the opening style. The whole thing sounds a bit contrived and overthought, but I still found myself enjoying it a lot. Sheppard ends with a lyrical Rondo that displays some more noticeable rubato, but it flows along nicely. The middle section finds Sheppard playing powerfully, and the conclusion ends in a nice, rocking fashion. Perhaps this doesn’t scale the heights to challenge, say, Kempff (but then no one else’s does, either), but it is fine version in its own right.

Crunch time. Could Sheppard pull off a successful Op 31 trio? I, for one, hoped so. Things got off to a promising start. Sheppard opens the first sonata with an Allegro vivace that is suitably fast but also light – his fingers glide across the keys. Then he’ll hammer out some notes just to return to the lighter style of playing. He alternates these styles to the end, throwing in numerous unique touches along the way. The overall effect sounds something like an analytical dissection of the music – but it is a most enlightening and entertaining dissection. Sheppard brings this style to the Adagio grazioso. One notices it first with the trills: they sound crisp but not entirely uniform. Sheppard adds all manner of variations to them. All the while, his left hand is playing a brisk, uniform repeated figure. The middle section sounds much stronger, as is appropriate, and then the return to the trills finds playing much like in the opening, but the left hand playing is even better: it’s amazingly clear (aided by the close recording), rhythmically solid, and utterly enjoyable. The big, bold ending just makes it more attractive yet. To close, Sheppard plays the Rondo in a simultaneously fun and stern fashion. It’s vigorous. It’s muscular. It’s analytical. Yet I found myself quietly whistling along. Superb.

Musical dissection seems to be the main approach in the Tempest, too. Sheppard opens the Largo with a muddied arpeggio. A slip, I thought, but then he does it again. Not a slip, I thought. It doesn’t really set the mood ideally, but rather creates a simple yet solid platform from which to launch into the Allegro. The Allegro itself is constrained. The dynamic contrasts become more about micro-dynamic contrasts than macro-dynamic ones, and this constrained approach actually works to create a pervasive sense on unresolved tension. The middle section finds Sheppard slowly ratcheting up the tension some more – and pounding out chords so powerfully that some minor break-up can be heard in the right channel – for ultimate release I thought, but no. Even as he winds down he sounds wound up. The brisk Adagio largely maintains the tension, though in a different form. Here it’s suppressed anguish. (Are those small, subdued right hand figures repeated whimpers of desperation? You be the judge.) Sheppard releases all that built-up tension in the concluding Allegretto. The repeated figures are front-loaded – strong start, weaker end – and Sheppard piles on the bass power as things speed up. The torrential outpouring of notes ends up bringing the work to a wholly satisfying conclusion. Sheppard takes the piece apart and reassembles it into something unique and interesting. Again, Sheppard may not be up there with the very best, but his playing is superb.

The trio closes with a solid 31/3. The Allegro opens with a deliberate sound but quickly segues to superbly paced, energetic, and clear playing laced with subtle rubato. Even so, it sounds purposely constrained. The Scherzo is a bit odd. It’s slower than I prefer, there’s no doubt of that, and it’s too deliberate. These traits sap some of the energy from the music, though Sheppard infuses life into the music with his other traits. The Menuetto is likewise measured, but it’s so lovely and lyrical, that I just don’t care. It also boasts some huge fortissimo climaxes. (At least I hope they’re fortissimo; anything louder would cause deafness.) The Presto con fuoco closes with more musical dissection. Pretty much every note is very clearly and precisely rendered. If’n you’re after somethin’ more relaxin’, this ain’t gonna do. Even with such remarkable clarity and detail, the playing boasts outstanding momentum and forward drive and remains upbeat and energetic. Very good.

The little Op 49 ditties both fare well. The first opens with an Andante that is rich, beautiful, and serious (too serious?), with dashes of well place virtuosity for good measure. The Rondo is taut and charming. The second sonata opens with a vigorous and lyrical Allegro ma non troppo and ends with a slow, delicate, charming, and almost salon-ish Tempo di Menuetto. While these hardly rate as my favorite LvB works for solo piano, Sheppard does his formidable best to make them more substantial than normal.

My second helping of Sheppard was more interesting and satisfying than the first. His style is better suited to the more substantial works of the middle period. I wonder what the next batch will bring . . .


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Mr Sheppard’s cycle is one of those interesting ones that gets better as one progresses through the works. At least that was the case with the first two batches, with Mr Sheppard’s serious, meticulously prepared playing more amenable to great middle period works than the earlier works. I assumed he would do well in the third batch. I was right.

Things get off to a good start with the Waldstein. Sheppard plays the Allegro con brio fast and solid to start, with an unyielding forward drive married to his nicely rounded and variable tone. Never does he sound hard or harsh or ugly, no matter how heated the playing. His playing is remarkably precise and controlled; his playing isn’t “free,” if you will. It is here that his contained, purposeful virtuosity pays big dividends. He’s doesn’t play fast just because he can; he does so to bring forth elements of the score while actually downplaying his own formidable ability. As if to show he’s about more than amazing control of every aspect of his playing at the fast ‘n’ loud end of the spectrum, he’s equally satisfying when he backs off. His softer playing is just as precise and controlled. The Introduzione again sounds controlled, this time sounding restrained and distantly contemplative. Stoic, even. The Rondo opens somewhat softly, with gently varied tone, then starts to build up slowly, with the long transitional trill leading to a massive sounding lower register led crescendo. His ability to play at widely different volume levels with each hand is certainly impressive, and then he adds to that by speeding up while continuing to play huge sounding fortissimo chords. He then backs off as appropriate, and then he alternates styles until the positively sizzling end. It’s superb, and one of his best performances up this point.

The Op 54 is likewise very strong. The In Tempo di menuetto has a nice overall tempo and is almost as (quasi-) danceable as Silverman’s take. The second section is clear and snappy, with deep, rich bass, and everything sounds relaxed yet taut. The second appearance of the minuet is faster and more lyrical – hell, it’s almost radiant – and that’s followed by a brief return of the second theme that is fast and strong but not overpowering. Sheppard ends the movement with a final shot at the minuet that is nicely drawn out and quick and snazzy, but never flashy. The Allegretto is a bit different. Sheppard opens in a restrained and lovely manner, as if he’ll just play a smooth, sunny closer, but then just after 1’ in switches to thundering, amazingly powerful, yet fully controlled playing that almost threatens to smother the music but never quite does. He plays within this broad range through the end. Another winner.

I came to the Appassionata with tempered expectations. There’s no doubt that Sheppard could deliver a blistering account if he wanted, but I didn’t think he would, and after Robert Silverman’s superb take, not doing so would mean this would be a merely excellent recording. And so it is. The Allegro assai opens in a slightly subdued but most definitely tense fashion – like a snake coiled and ready to strike. When it came time for the first fevered outburst, I was expecting some heat, but instead Sheppard plays things down a bit. Oh sure, he plays louder, but he keeps everything under wraps, if you will; the rest of the movement is played within a confined dynamic range, but one that maintains tension very well. The Andante con moto offers a respite of sorts, with lovely and direct playing allowing one to prepare for the closer. And it is in the closing movement where Sheppard finally unleashes torrents of impassioned notes, or damned fine approximations thereof. His playing is sharp, tense, and biting. The crescendos are aural tidal waves, and the whole thing comes to a powerful, positively growling conclusion. That’s three for three.

The Op 78 and 79 sonatas both come off well, too. The Op 78 opens with an Adagio cantabile that’s direct and lean. I guess it could be more lyrical, but what’s there is nice enough. The Allegro ma non troppo sounds comparatively “compact” – ie, played within strictly limited parameters – but is still reasonably lyrical. The Allegro vivace is pure, mischievous fun. The Op 79 opens with a somewhat gruff (obviously purposely so) Presto all tedesca that is nonetheless upbeat and occasionally warm. Sheppard also opts to handle the ‘cuckoo’ figures quite gently – like a revered joke he doesn’t want to overdo – and ends with a nicely emphasized off-key section. The Andante is somewhat faster than normal, with each chord and phrase hurriedly dashed off. The cumulative effect is actually quite serious and searching. To end, Sheppard plays the Vivace in a sunny, unforced manner. Perhaps these little works sound a bit less impressive than the preceding three, but they’re still excellent.

The last batch of sonatas ends with a superb Les Adieux. Throughout, Sheppard maintains a somewhat formal air, but that may just help things out. The Adagio opening is disconsolate and contemplative, as one might hope for, yet it is also a bit tense and uneasy. The subsequent Allegro section is very formal and serious, but it is instilled with fondness – think of it as the musical equivalent of buddies dressed in suits nudging each other in an otherwise stifling social setting. A bit of vigor pops up, but Sheppard keeps everything under perfect and calculated control. The Adagio cantabile sounds slightly agitated and nervous, and more angry than sad at the friend’s absence. The Vivacissimente opens with an effortless upward cascade of notes and quickly transforms into an ebullient, grand, yet still formal celebration. A nice touch is when Sheppard makes the piano ‘skip’ at around 2’30” and after – a touch unlike anyone else’s – and he ends the piece with grandeur and strength. That’s a fine way to end it.

And that’s a fine way to end another batch of fine performances. I eagerly await the last six sonatas.

cont'd . . .
 

Todd

New member
. . . cont'd

I came to the last six sonatas in Sheppard’s cycle with high hopes. Sheppard improves as the sonatas progress, so I was eager to hear what he could do. My hopes were met. The Op 90 gets things off to a solid start. Sheppard opens the Allegro with bracing yet rounded playing, and makes the work sound serious and “big,” like a mini musical epic. There’s a nascent otherworldly feel, portending good things for the later sonatas, and if Sheppard can sound just a tad stern in places, the overall effect is such that complaints are fleeting quibbles. I’ve seen various commentaries on the ending movement that describe it as proto-Schubertian with its repetitive lyricism, and whatever one may think of such an analysis, it seems that Sheppard at least partially agrees with it, because his playing is the most Schubertian I’ve heard. (That brings to mind the fact that I’d like to hear Sheppard play some Schubert.) The playing is lyrical and soft, with superb diminuendo playing and delicate piano and pianissimo playing of the most precise yet endearing kind. The movement is one long stream of beautiful music and caps off a fine reading.

The 101 also receives a fine reading. Sheppard opens the first movement with a taut overall tempo, makes it a point to dispatch much of the movement speedily but also with subtle touches, all while maintaining an attractive tone. The overall feeling is direct rather than ethereal, but it’s still good. The Vivace alla marcia is fast and vigorous, but his beat isn’t really march-like. When one considers the formidable power Sheppard uses on occasion, and the thorough control, complaints are minor. The Adagio sounds somber, and somewhat restrained. Sheppard is holding something back. What? Why? This is never really answered, not really, but that only adds to the allure of the playing. Especially when the Allegro opens in such a jubilant mood. It’s loud and boisterous and celebratory. It has a snappy beat. It is infectious. Sheppard deftly utilizes pauses to buttress the overall mood; it’s subtle and unique and effective. The fugue is serious and fastidiously played, with deep, rich bass and supreme clarity throughout. Overall, the piece never quite attains that otherworldly sound that I ultimately prefer, but what’s there is to a very high standard indeed.

In some ways Sheppard’s cycle is like Daniel Barenboim’s EMI cycle in that the first twenty-eight sonatas can be viewed as a grand build-up to the mighty Hammerklavier, with the last three sonatas becoming an extended dénouement, though Sheppard’s dénouement is more interesting. For the 106, Sheppard adopts generally brisk tempi throughout, and that makes for an at times thrilling reading. The opening Allegro is quick and strongly characterized and posseses striking strength. Perhaps the most immediately impressive thing about the playing is that despite the speed and strength, Sheppard seems to have plenty in reserve. If he wanted to make the piano roar and play at lightening speed, he could. As it is, the playing sounds, if not effortless, than at least easy. That means plenty of precisely controlled forward momentum and uncommon clarity are on display. Maybe it’s not the deepest reading around, but it is quite simply a treat to hear. The Scherzo is likewise swift, striking, and grand, and a bit stern, too, with some nearly crushing playing near the end. Sweet. Then comes the great Adagio, taken here at a brisk pace. Sheppard’s playing makes the movement sound decidedly more intense and urgent than is often the case. At times it is desolate, and at other times it sounds as though Sheppard is suppressing anger and anguish to the best of his ability, with said emotions threatening to boil over into a searing outpouring. But then he cools things down quite a bit between 5’ and 6’ or so, and the music sounds serene and resigned. It’s truly a breath-holding minute. After that, the playing becomes notably tense. It nags at the listener. It gnaws on the listener. It is a personal take. It is similar in some regards to Paul Badura-Skoda’s exceptional take (on Gramola), and that’s saying a lot. The final movement offers the perfect conclusion. The Largo is comparatively (but not absolutely!) slow and anticipatory – something’s gonna happen, you just know it. Then comes that something, the fugue, and it is everything one might expect. Sheppard’s playing is exceedingly clear – it’s among the most sonically transparent readings of the fugue I’ve heard – so one can follow each musical line with delightful ease. Again, it seems as though Sheppard plays with ease, and as a result, the music sounds almost aggressively giddy, as though Sheppard just can’t wait to play the next section for the listener. He just knows the listener will enjoy what’s coming as much as he does. The quasi-baroque passage offers soothing, calming musical balm in the midst of the great fugue, and then Sheppard returns to his aggressively giddy way to bring the work to a thundering climax. A corker!

To the big ol’ dénouement. The 109 reverts to the relatively direct yet high standard playing of the 101. The Vivace, ma non troppo sounds fast but easy, with a beautiful tone and a slightly ethereal sound. In addition to gliding across the keys, Sheppard also manages to keep everything under precise control, as one would expect at this point. The Prestissimo is fast ‘n’ clear, muscular ‘n’ wide ranging, pretty much like it should be. Now, the Andante, it offers something else: beauty defined by ultra-precise microtonal and microdynamic variation. So the movement gets off to a good start. The first variation is even lovelier, and incredibly soft. The second variation is clear, choppy, and precise to open, and smooth and beautiful to finish. The third variation is magnificently virtuosic and controlled, and the concluding variations actually remain a bit more muscular than is usually ideal. Overall, the work is not as otherworldly as some, but it is gripping.

A bit better is the 110. The Moderato cantabile, molto espressivo starts off pretty much where the 109 left off, though not quite as physically powerful. While not as heavenly as some versions, the playing starts off and stays in another realm, as it were. Sure, Sheppard plays with muscular virtuosity at times, but he always knows when to rein it in for the good of the piece. Needless to say, his tonal and dynamic control are superb. The Allegro is potent, fast, incredibly clear, and superbly controlled (a few minor slips be damned). The movement segues attaca to the Adagio, which sounds anxious, indeed, almost twitchy at times. It’s not emotive or searching, but it is compelling. The first appearance of the fugue is a model of contrapuntal clarity and composure, and the playing remains very formal. The return of the Adagio is more touching, and almost vulnerable, if you will, and at times sounds confused. (I mean that as a strong compliment.) The chord build up signaling the arrival of the inverted fugue is unusually fast and wide ranging, from soft to thundering, and the second pass at contrapuntal playing is again clear and formal. The whole thing comes to an intense, powerful ending – so intense and powerful, that this listener was clenching his teeth. Sweet!

But for the superb 106, I’d say that Sheppard saves his best for last. The 111 is superb. Everything about it is superb. Sheppard opens the Maestoso with excess nervous energy, a compressed dynamic range, and barely contained volatility. It’s big, it’s heavy, it’s dark, it’s forceful, and it is most certainly intense. But there’s Sheppard’s control. Even when the playing is ferocious – and it blessedly is at times! – it is meticulously controlled. Seemingly contradictory traits blend together near perfectly, and the intense opening sets the stage for the glorious finale. Another attaca transition to the closer arrives at an Arietta of almost Zen-like serenity. It is very slow and deliberate, yet it is immediately moving, and does nothing less than establish, perfectly and completely, that otherworldly sound so common in the best readings of the work. The first variation, too, is quite beautiful, but it has a unique, well, fumbling sound. Sheppard is grasping unsuccessfully for something, something the listener never can divine, yet he delivers a successful variation. The quicker, more focused second variation gives way to vigorous and groovy third variation, and both are very good if not quite perfect. Then comes the fourth variation. It is characterized by irresistibly feathery, delicate playing miles away from the opening movement. This is perhaps the most succinct, definitive transition from (barely) earthbound Beethoven to decidedly heavenly Beethoven I can imagine, and it succeeds fabulously. As things progress, one approaches those Elysian Fields referred to by various prior commentators. The long trill in the second half of the movement serves as a sonic baseline for even greater, more transcendental ornamentation that transports the listener away from silly little earthly concerns. Even the reappearance of more powerful playing seems otherworldly. The piece then trails off into the musical ether as one could only hope for. It is one fine reading, that’s for sure.

And that brings another cycle to a close. Sheppard started off comparatively slowly. His meticulous, serious, exceedingly well-prepared style can overwhelm some of the early sonatas – though they are still very good – but his approach is just what’s needed in the later works. If a pianist is going to peak in only a few sonatas, it is definitely best to do so in the late sonatas. That’s what Sheppard does. Really, the already mentioned early sonatas aside, there is little to complain about; this is a fine cycle, and one I know I’ll return to again. Okay, I guess I do have one complaint. The sound is too close. I wish the set had been more distantly recorded, if only to gain an even greater appreciation of Sheppard’s superlative dynamic and tonal range. Other than that, this is a fine set.
 

Todd

New member
Robert Silverman

First some facts. This cycle, on Orpheum Masters, was not recorded in a normal fashion. That is, this set is not a compilation of concert performances or multiple studio sessions. Rather, the cycle was recorded using a Bösendorfer 290SE reproducing piano to playback recordings previously prepared by the pianist. This piano is basically just a standard Bösendorfer grand with an elaborate and accurate computer control system added. And it apparently isn’t cheap. At the time the recordings were made, only 32 of them existed, and two of them were owned by the benefactor of this recording, one Aaron Mendelsohn, in whose home the whole process took place. Silverman recorded and prepared the sonatas during 1999 and then over one weekend the set was committed to tape.

This cycle was engineered by John Atkinson, the Editor-In-Chief of Stereophile, so sound quality is in the forefront this time around. I wanted to see, or rather hear if his idea of good sound matches mine. But I had to make some allowances. First of all, the concert grand was confined to a two-story, 20' by 50' room in Mr Mendelsohn’s home, not exactly the ideal size venue for such a large piano. But that didn’t seem to matter. In stark contrast to the closely recorded cycles by Georges Pludermacher and (especially) Craig Sheppard, this set actually allows one to hear the surrounding space. Truth to tell, it’s actually a little more spacious than I usually prefer, but the quality of the sound is superb. Mr Atkinson’s credo here seems to be truth in reporting. This sounds very much like a big piano being played in a relatively small space. The sound is tonally and timbrally accurate, and never hard. Of course, this is a recording of a Bösendorfer, so the sound is different from a Steinway. The lower registers are weighty and bold, and the upper registers are tangy ‘n’ tart, bright (but not Fazioli bright) and somewhat bell-like. Even though the microphones were close to the piano, the sense of space one hears means that one does not always experience aural X-ray clarity; sometimes in louder passages the sound becomes blended, just like in recital. Again, truth in reporting. Mr Atkinson most definitely would not be a good engineer for an American Idol reject to use, much to his delight, I’m sure. More information is available at the Stereophile website for those who are interested.

To the pianist himself. Like both Pludermacher and Sheppard, Robert Silverman has been around the block a few times. He’s been ensconced in a teaching role at the University of British Columbia for over thirty years. He’s made a number of recordings for small labels covering mostly standard repertoire (Brahms, Liszt, and Rachmaninov, for instance), as well as other recordings on the Stereophile label, including a forthcoming set of the Diabelli Variations, which I’m fairly confident I’ll buy. He’s done the concert and recital circuit for years and has collaborated with a number of notable artists, and received various awards. So he’s got the experience and a serious background.

But what about the music? Well, from the first notes it was clear that this set is something wonderful. The opening Allegro sounds fresh and clean, with wonderful and subtle dynamic variations – more so than most recordings I’ve heard – and a natural overall feel. By that I mean that the music just unfolds before one’s ears. Silverman doesn’t rush, he doesn’t make it a point to underscore everything. He just plays. Throw in a rich lower register that is both clear and occasionally prominent with Silverman’s penchant for providing a flowing, rhythmically solid underpinning that doesn’t sound forced, and, well, one just sits and enjoys the music. The Adagio shows more of what is to come. It sounds touching and unforced. There’s some emotion in the playing, but not too much. Same with the Menuetto, which also benefits greatly from essentially perfect tempo choices, perfect use of pauses, and a flowing, comfortable feel. The piece ends with a Prestissimo that again displays expertly judged tempi and an emotionally satisfying approach. The playing is intense and cutting at times, and sounds superb. It’s been a while since I so enjoyed the first sonata.

Much the same can be written about the second sonata. Silverman opens the Allegro vivace in crisp, clean fashion. The first return of the opening material is even faster and noticeably louder, with superb dynamic gradations clearly evident. The next return of the material is softer and warmer. The runs and scales sound superb; they’re clear and well done, but not an example of ice-cold perfection (which has its place!). Then Silverman throws some passion into the mix. His playing is definitely on the romantic side. The Largo is superbly played from start to finish. Snappy bass is married to searching right hand playing. I confess to just sitting and taking it in without much concern for every little detail. The Scherzo opens with quickly dispatched figures and has a rich, darker middle section. The whole thing is richer and more varied than is often the case. The Rondo offers more of the same, though some of the playing almost sounds (but never quite becomes) stiff, but not in an unpleasant way. The middle section is rough and boisterous – right on!

The third sonata makes it three for three. The Allegro con brio is fast and sharp to open (the latter trait due to the Bösendorfer’s upper registers), with unique and exciting accents. The hefty lower register adds to the playing, and the whole thing just grooves, man. Silverman puts on a non-virtuosic virtuosic display; he plays everything well but doesn’t overdo anything. The Adagio sounds more tonally graceful, and Silverman again utilizes pauses in a most satisfying manner. The Bösendorfer’s quick decay helps render the music simply and directly effective, and when Silverman ratchets up the tension, the sharp upper registers just help things along. The Scherzo sounds vigorous and beefy, with softer interludes offering nice contrasts. Throw in a suitably tumultuous middle section, and how can one resist? Silverman ends the work with a light, almost soaring Allegro assai that veers into an almost songful style at times. It’s fun and weighty and groovy, but never rushed but also never sluggish. Why, it’s just right!

Comfortable. That’s how the opening Allegro molto e con brio of the fourth sonata sounds. Silverman takes the movement at a comfortable pace – which is not the same thing as a sluggish pace – and adds flavor by throwing in some piquant notes and chords and some hefty, venue-filling crescendos. The playing flows and sounds laid back, but not in a mushy way; it’s comfy and rugged. Nifty. The Largo is slow, as it should be, and Silverman proves adept at utilizing pauses for dramatic effect. More of that Bösendorfer weight combined with some tersely punched out three note figures make the whole thing quite fine. The overall sound is a bit less overtly romantic than some of the previous playing, and the tension does weaken at times, but not enough to harm the piece. The Allegro opens smoothly and richly, and somewhat leisurely, before soaring in a pleasant way. The middle section sounds appropriately darker, with prominent bass. To close, Silverman plays the Rondo with a slightly laid back demeanor and more or less cruises along to the end. Yes, there are brief interruptions where things get a little tougher, but the whole thing just moves along comfortably. Silverman’s four for four.

Moving on to the second trio finds Silverman in even better form. The Allegro molto e con brio opens the first sonata with a powerful opening chord and well-paced (not too fast, not too slow) rising arpeggios with a fluid transition to the subsequent, lyrically played material. The Adagio molto sounds lyrical and beautiful. The rising flourishes sound captivating – they’re soft and delicately nuanced, but never weak or soggy. The at times spiky left hand playing just helps matters. It’s big, warm, and ingratiating, too. To close, Silverman plays the Prestissimo in an initially restrained manner just to pick things up and to deliver huge crescendos. The distant, unfettered recording really lets the dynamic swings shine. Throughout the movement, Silverman resorts to an almost Pludermacher-like deployment of pianistic tricks. He’ll hold a chord just that little bit longer, tweak a note here, and cut short another there. It all sounds natural and unforced and never obtrusive. Another winner.

The second sonata of the bunch extends the streak. Again, Silverman opens with an Allegro taken at a comfortable pace, and plays with a sense of fun and lyricism that makes the end sneak up on the listener. One doesn’t want it to end. The Allegretto sounds rich, dark, and slightly urgent to open, and has a sharply played, strong ending. The Presto opens at a nice clip, just to pick up a bit more. Silverman never sounds hurried, though; instead, he lets the good times roll with some endearing bass weight and articulation. Bless his heart, he includes the repeat, and ends the work on a strong note.

So far Silverman has nailed every sonata. Nary a dog is to be heard. But his best sonata to this point comes in an amazing reading of Op 10/3. The Presto opens slightly slower than I usually prefer, only to speed up handily while Silverman also deploys his rubato in a most captivating fashion. The development section is smooth ‘n’ groovy, and things just seem to get better right through to the end. Subtle variations in almost all aspects of the playing really spice things up. It is the Largo, though, that separates this recording from so many others. A number of pianists make this movement sound like a precursor to the great Adagio of the Hammerklavier, but Silverman does one better. He makes it sound like a brother to the great movement. The movement opens in a dark fashion, with sadness practically oozing out via cutting treble tears. The anguished, angry outbursts that follow sound emotionally painful. Silverman makes the piece weep, complete with pauses that sound like the musical equivalent of gasps for breath. The effect is mesmerizing and moving, and draining. The Menuetto thus sounds like an upbeat tonic to make one get over the trial of the second movement. That lower register goodness so prevalent in recordings of Bösendorfers remains, and the sound is nicely blended. Even sunnier is the Rondo, which brings the sonata to a cheery conclusion. This is a remarkable recording.

A few hours prior to listening to Silverman’s take on the Pathetique, I revisited Ivan Moravec’s recording, which has been one of my favorites for a few years now. Silverman is at least as good. Maybe even better. His take is most certainly different. The Grave opens with drawn out chords and then transitions to faster playing with nice flourishes and beefy bass playing. There’s a nice, long pause before the Allegro, which ends up being slightly slower than I usually prefer, but is still successful. Silverman again deploys his rubato in a satisfying manner, and he makes the intensity of the music undulate between softer playing and loud, swelling crescendos. The Adagio cantabile is rich, grand, touching, and moodily songful. The middle section is predictably more intense, and just as moving. The concluding Rondo is less intense and moody than the opening two movements, but its romantic overall feel and huge dynamic range really hit the spot. Outstanding.

After hearing so many different takes on the Op 14 sonatas, I was starting to think that the first sonata just isn’t as good as the second. Silverman to the rescue! The opening Allegro is open, free, and downright fun. Silverman never rushes anything, but he never sounds too slow. He just lets the music unfold. The middle section is more serious, as it should be, but it’s still lyrical. After that, Silverman dispatches the scales nonchalantly and brings the movement to a charming close. The Allegretto is taken at a slow-ish pace and sounds bittersweet but not overburdened by “deep” playing. The concluding Rondo is quick and jovial, with pretty much everything done just right. Silverman reaffirms my faith in the piece’s quality.

The second sonata is also very good. The Allegro opens in a lovely, laid back, and warm ‘n’ cheery manner, and floats along thusly, interrupted only by a beefy middle section and fine, quick runs. The Andante opens in a slow, deliberate fashion and almost sounds clumsy, though purposely clumsy. Silverman picks up the pace so that he can end with a distinct, loud final chord. To close, he plays the Scherzo in a light, punchy way to open only to decrease the volume precipitously while still playing fast. A neat trick. The final third of the movement is played mostly straight and ends strongly.

The final sonata of the opening batch witness a slight diminution in overall quality. Silverman opens the Op 22 sonata with an Allegro con brio that cruises along at a brisk but not driven clip. There’s some nice left hand accenting and some powerful, swelling playing where needed, and a few times he holds a note a little longer than one expects, rather like a singer ending a phrase with a sustained note thrown in for flavor. The Adagio is softer, quite lovely, and characterized by a fine overall tempo. The playing is somewhat dispassionate to start, though the terse middle section and lyrical ending add a bit of emotion to the playing. The Menuetto is clear and direct, and the concluding Rondo opens in a soft, singing manner and then proceeds to end the piece in a leisurely manner, with only the beefy middle section to offer contrast. This is a good reading, but it doesn’t quite match up to what came before it. No matter, I like it.

I’ve known about this cycle since it first came out, but I didn’t get around to hearing it until now. That was a mistake. There is a whole lot to savor in this set. Everything sounds right. Silverman’s playing is all about the music. He’s not out to show how loud he can play, or how fast, or how he can twist the music into virtuosic slop. Rather, he chooses to use his technical ability to let the music speak for itself. His playing does have personality, that’s for sure, but this is more about Beethoven than Silverman. Of the three cycles I’m working through right now, I have no doubt that this is my favorite and the one I’ll turn to most often, at least in the opening eleven sonatas. (I’ll be surprised if the same doesn’t hold true for the remaining 21 sonatas.) The Bösendorfer takes some getting used to – perhaps twenty to thirty seconds or so – but after that, it’s smooth sailing.




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I got back underway expecting good things from the Op 26 sonata. Don’t know why, specifically, though Silverman’s direct, unforced style seemed to portend good things. I was right. But in ways different than I expected. Silverman opens the piece with a poised, very formal Andante. Sure, it sounds tonally appealing and rather beautiful, but its formality makes it sound earnest. Then each subsequent variation is played more or less the way they seem they should be played. The fast variations are fast and articulate, but never flashy, and the slow variations are slow and attractive and there to be savored. Silverman utilizes his by now familiar interpretive devices perfectly. He uses an appealing accent here, and truncated chord there, and whatever else seems right elsewhere as needed. The Scherzo offers more of the same, though here the primary emphases are on speed (though not too much) and large dynamic swings. The funeral march – the heart of the work – is splendid. Silverman again plays in a formal manner, with his serious approach adding gravitas to a movement requiring it. His playing certainly sounds funereal and crisply march-like, with powerful, cutting crescendos adding angst when and where appropriate, and the middle section is notably powerful. The work winds down with Silverman playing the Allegro quickly and articulately with a nicely intense middle section flanked by comfortably dispatched outer sections. A superb recording, and one that compares favorably to the best I’ve heard and certainly surpasses most.

As I’ve written before, the first of the two sonatas quasi una fantasia is one of my favorite LvB sonatas, and it has become increasingly important to me in assessing a pianist’s overall achievement in this music. Silverman’s achievement is notable. The piece opens with an Andante that is simultaneously relaxed in overall feel but taut in delivery. There’s a subdued anxiety there; something’s going to happen. And that something is the Allegro, which bursts into being with powerful bass coming out of nowhere. The return of the Andante is much like its first appearance, but more lovely since the Allegro is out of the way. Silverman plays the Allegro molto e vivace in a somewhat measured way, but he plays with huge dynamic swings and delivers a rollicking middle section. The Adagio con espressione sounds like a somewhat somber reprise of the Andante, appropriately enough, and as such is rich, moody, and beautiful. Silverman ends the work by opening the Allegro vivace quickly, with a rocking rhythm, and large dynamic swings and bite, and, most importantly, good old fashioned oomph! One just revels in the powerful build up and final, towering chord before the return of the Andante theme and the super fast, super strong end. Yowza! A corker.

Less important to me is the Mondschein. Too many players try to do too much with this piece, often turning it into a showboat piece. (“How fast can the Presto agitato be played?” often seems to be the question.) Blech. Silverman comes reasonably close to not interpreting the work at all; he just plays the music and lets Beethoven’s writing provide musical sustenance. The opening Adagio sounds serious and solemn, almost barren, and Silverman does an admirable job of riding the sustain pedal while still providing treble playing with a clear attack for each note. Silverman keeps the Allegretto serious and pretty much straight with only some brief pauses before the bass chords thrown in for variety. To end the piece, the Presto agitato is delivered in swift fashion, with rolling, powerful bass, and sharp treble. The energy and intensity levels are judged just right. The whole thing is just right.

Even righter is the Pastorale. Silverman opens the piece with an Allegro taken at a somewhat brisk tempo and plays with an insistent and solid left hand that remains prominent but not obtrusive throughout. Silverman spins out the melodies with his right hand and otherwise plays in a most tuneful manner, but he keeps things taut, too. The middle section is more biting and substantial, and then he plays through to the end with a most appealing tautness. The Andante opens with the tension of the prior movement mostly in tact, with the Bösendorfer’s bright upper registers adding a dash of urgency to this otherwise genial movement. The middle section is plucky fun – it sounds as though Silverman makes the piano laugh, almost as though he’s telling a somewhat naughty joke and chuckling while doing so. But then the opening music returns and comes to an end with a strong coda that seems to impart a sense of drama. The Scherzo comes off as nothing less than a vigorous, jaunty poke in the eye – or ear, I guess. The concluding Rondo brings the work to a wonderfully lyrical conclusion. Each movement sounds distinct, and Silverman plays superbly throughout, but what is ultimately most impressive about this reading is how the whole thing coheres; it just moves along flawlessly from start to finish. Superb.

Time for the critical three. Surely Silverman should do well here given how well he’s done up to this point. That’s certainly what I hoped. I was not disappointed with the first sonata. The Allegro vivace opens at a nice pace but in a somewhat soft manner. It’s good, but not especially unique or insightful. Then Silverman proceeds to play the piece in a fashion indicating that he reexamined the piece afresh and reveals insights into everything. Rubato abounds, myriad dynamic gradations tickle one’s ears; Silverman basically offers subtle, unique playing that makes everything sound new. He’ll play a bit slow for a while, then fast. He’ll play with a buttery-smooth legato then with a sharp, pointed staccato. He’ll alter the emphasis of a phrase, cut short a note, vary dynamics within an arpeggio. His touches are everywhere apparent. In that regard, he reminds me of Anton Kuerti in this work, and he’s just about as successful. This variable goodness extends to the Adagio grazioso. The first thing one notices is the trills – they’re different. Rather than just launch into them, he plays the first note, takes a (relatively) long pause, then proceeds to the rest of the trill, which he varies in terms of tone. All the while, Silverman plays with a nearly bel canto left hand that somehow manages to offer rock-steady rhythm. Sweet! The middle section is fast and strong and vivacious – it’s just superb. The return of the opening material finds Silverman playing more vigorously than before, but he never pushes anything to hard. The piece ends with a Rondo that’s at once leisurely and lyrical, and brings to mind an image of a good old boy sitting in his favorite chair, sippin’ some whisky, and strumming a guitar with disarming and unexpected technical acumen while impressing more with musical fun rather than showmanship. Translate to the piano (sans the whisky, I’m guessing), and you have one fine ending. It’s hard to point out any one or two or ten standout parts; it all blends perfectly.

I guess after four straight knockout or near knockout performances Silverman was bound to deliver something less impressive. That happens with the Tempest. The works opens with a slow, rich, somewhat plain Largo. The Allegro is suitably faster and more intense. One benefit of the more distant recording perspective is revealed by the dynamic contrasts in Silverman’s playing. The contrast is there, but it’s not exaggerated; it sounds unforced. Silverman uses the pauses well, heightening the drama, and then plays the long two-note figure in a clear, sharp way highlighting the contrast between it and the left hand tumult down below. The Adagio opens with a rich, hazy arpeggio before moving on to playing that is both lyrical and melancholy. The concluding Allegretto is played in a measured but flowing way, and sounds more tragic than the preceding movements, with at times cutting treble helping in this regard. Silverman also uses the Bösendorfer’s powerful bass to help accentuate the dynamic contrasts. Over time, the repeated theme takes on a desperate sound that works quite well. Overall, I do enjoy this recording quite a bit, it’s just that it’s not quite up to the level of the immediately preceding recordings.

The last of the trio finds Silverman playing at almost the same level as in the first of the batch. The Allegro opens in a somewhat leisurely fashion. Silverman seems to be smirking, if you will; the listener expects something more vigorous, something more boisterous. It’s not to be, at least not at the outset. As things progress, though, Silverman does become more animated. He relishes pounding out the boisterous bass notes when they come, and he impishly plays the long trills, then he reverts back to his sly, smirking style. His style is subdued and subversive. A novel and compelling approach, to be sure. Another nice touch comes at around 5’ when the playing takes on a somewhat annoyed, snarky feel. The Scherzo opens with a scampering left hand played in tight, controlled fashion – almost as though the pianist is hunkered down ready to pounce – with some nice right hand playing that just cruises along. Then Silverman pounces, pounding out the hilarious outburst, then he returns to the opening material again. The Menuetto, by contrast, opens beautifully – almost tenderly – and remains so with only the forceful middle section acting as a musical poke in the ear. The work concludes with a fast, flowing Presto con fuoco that benefits from a solid left hand underpinning. Another fine reading, and one sure to get repeated listens in these parts.

This batch of sonatas ends with the Op 49 works. The first one opens with a rich, substantive Andante tinged with resigned retrospection. Who’d a thought this movement could be so serious yet fun? (Well, others do manage it.) The Rondo is a sunny, vigorous good time. The second sonata opens with a solid yet fun Allegro and ends with a quick, emphatic, strong yet fun Tempo di Menuetto. Both works come off slightly better than normal.

The second batch of sonatas is, if anything, even better than the first. Silverman has yet to deliver a recording that I dislike. At his best he can withstand comparison to just about anyone, and at his less-than-best (because I can’t write “worst”) he’s excellent.




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After twenty recordings ranging from good to great my hopes were high. The third batch of sonatas has some biggies. Silverman more than meets any expectations, starting with the Waldstein. Brisk and firm to start, Silverman makes the piece sound big from the start. The first slow down in the playing takes on a wistful feeling, and then when he speeds up again Silverman plays even quicker than before, and he expands the scale of the music, too. The return of the opening material is quite something. The overall tempo, dictated by the left hand, is not especially fast. Indeed, it’s slow-ish, but Silverman spins off notes swiftly and precisely with his right hand. It’s got that clear part playing thing going on. Silverman’s cycle is hardly a virtuoso fan’s delight, but here he shows that he can play with dazzling precision when needed. Here it’s needed. Anyhoo, the Introduzione is spot-on; it’s pensive, it’s restrained, it’s uneasy, it’s almost angry at times. It’s just right. So far, so good. Then comes the Rondo. It opens in a nearly dream-like fashion, quiet and subdued and a bit ambling, but then it climbs to near ecstatic heights than expands into a large-scale feast for the ears. The long transitional trill starts off small then gradually speeds up, becomes bigger and more powerful, and then Silverman throws the weight of the Bösendorfer behind it and plays loudly yet in controlled fashion. He alternates the dreamy and grand playing to perfect effect through to the end, and makes the piece sound grand and massive and purely enjoyable. Hot damn.

The little Op 54 sonata can sometimes (and maybe often) be something of a let down after the Waldstein, especially one as well done as Silverman’s. Not this time. Silverman opens the In tempo d’un Minuetto in a somewhat restrained yet almost literally danceable fashion. His beat is relaxed, his playing incisive, the effect charming. Until he launches into the meatier second section, which sounds cutting and most decidedly vigorous. Small, nothing! The opening minuet returns in more gilded fashion just like it’s supposed to, and then the powerful second section returns for a brief, pointed, invigorating run through before the final appearance of the minuet transmogrifies into a trill laden exercise in musical ornamentation. Spiffy. How to follow such a strong opening movement? With an equally strong closing movement! Silverman plays the Allegretto in perpetual motion fashion; that is, he just lets the notes flow in a most natural and unforced (though occasionally forceful) manner. It’s lyrical, it’s jaunty, it’s just plain fun to listen to. Hot Damn!

Then comes the Appassionata. Somewhat quiet and tense to open, the piece explodes into an intense, passionate outpouring of emotion translated to the ivories. Silverman delivers all with superb control, room pressurizing weight, and fine clarity (given the realties of the instrument and recording style). Then things slow down, and Silverman opts to elongate certain phrases just a smidgeon for effect. All the better to offer maximum and satisfying contrast for the powerful, throbbing playing that follows. It is in this piece that one really begins to appreciate how much more dynamic a slightly more distant sounding recording can sound. Silverman’s range is huge, yet small dynamic gradations are easily (and greedily!) heard. The peaks-and-valleys approach works both sonically and musically. The Andante con molto offers a needed rest, especially for the listener, and Silverman again delivers. This ain’t no mushy middle movement though. The playing is calmer than in the opener, but it’s firm, too. The overall tempo is perfectly judged, and that means that everything unfolds in a most satisfying manner. Then Silverman speeds up dramatically at the end and launches into the concluding Allegro ma non troppo with a sharp, piercing chord and a rumbling lower register. Things ease up a bit but remain notably tense until about 1’32” or so when Silverman just unloads. This goes on for twenty or so seconds, then Silverman regroups for a brief while, then unloads again. The movement alternates thusly until the end, when Silverman pounds out a thunderous coda to this top-notch recording. Hot Damn!

After three amazing recordings in a row, one might be tempted to think the Op 78 and 79 sonatas might get short shrift. That ain’t the case – not even close. Silverman opens the Op 78 sonata in a rich, dark hued, almost haunting fashion. It’s more substantial than one might expect. The piece transitions to a perfectly paced Allegro ma non troppo, which, while not as heavy as the opening, maintains a sense of urgency married to sadness until it gives way to a more upbeat tone. This is one meaty (yet brief!) musical journey. But that’s not all! The Allegro vivace closer is vigorous ‘n’ vivacious and ends the piece in sunnier fashion, and with a nifty flourish. The Op 79 is more substantial than normal, too. Silverman opens with a Presto all tedesca that is swift, firm, but unabashedly fun. Beethoven liked the little two-note joke he wrote in the opening piece, and Silverman seems to, too. He loves to tell it, retell it, refashion it a bit, and then retell it yet again. Is it Beethoven or Silverman I write about? Hard to tell, really. The “off key” ending is fun and caps off a fine starting movement. In the Andante, Silverman maintains a gently rocking left hand throughout to offer support to a lamenting, crying right hand. It definitely occupies a world closer to the late sonatas than is often the case. Silverman ends the piece with a sunny and bright Vivace, as one might expect. That’s five for five in this batch so far.



cont’d . . .
 

Todd

New member
. . . cont’d

The streak ends at five. That’s not to say the Les Adieux is poorly done – it’s actually pretty good – just that Silverman doesn’t play it at the same level as the preceding works. If anything, that just serves to underscore how good the preceding recordings are. Silverman opens with a slow, sad, almost processional Adagio before playing the Allegro in a small-scale, light manner. There’s little heft; the piece takes on an intimate feel. The protagonist is bidding a fond farewell to a close friend in a non-ceremonial fashion. It reminds me of Paul Badura-Skoda’s take in some ways. The Adagio cantabile sounds like nothing other than a personal lament at the friend’s absence. It’s not especially intense, though there is a slightly stinging feel to it at times. It is in the concluding Vivacissimente that Silverman finally expands the scope of the piece to quasi-orchestral dimensions, and it is here where he delivers a striking and ebullient feeling. Overall, this is very good, but there are a number of others I prefer to this one. I do believe I’ll be listening to this one again, though.

Silverman just keeps getting better. If the remaining six sonatas are of the same overall quality of the six just covered, I’ll be happy indeed.




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Up to this point Silverman’s cycle has been pretty much all I could ask for. He hasn’t bombed even once, and his best interpretations compare to anyone’s. So I approached the last six sonatas quite enthusiastically. So enthusiastically that I thought I should try to hear even more of Silverman’s Beethoven. As luck would have it, my local CD hut still had a copy of Silverman’s 1990 Rouvain Recordings disc of the last three sonatas. I dutifully snapped it up. Somewhat like the Orpheum cycle, these recordings were made on a special piano, though here it is a truly unique piano. Silverman played on Steinway #500,000. To commemorate the special piano, the Steinway Company had a custom sculpted case made and then had it emblazoned with the signatures of hundreds of Steinway artists, Mr Silverman included. Sonically it sounds like a Steinway. The only other item of note is that the recordings of all three sonatas were made in one day, so only a limited number of takes could be used. Anyway, these recordings will be covered in due time. For now, it’s time for the Op 90 sonata . . .

It’s predictably good, but it also extends the streak of only very good recordings to two. (How I wanted a great one.) There’s nothing really wrong with it, it’s just that it doesn’t sound as relatively good as what Silverman achieves elsewhere. In the opening movement, Silverman mixes the Bösendorfer sound and some tightly dispatched chords to create a sense of urgency during the bolder, louder sections, and elsewhere he plays with notable speed and a pointed ‘n’ groovy style. The second movement is characterized by some careful, deliberate, slow playing that veers dangerously close to syrupy lyricism. It’s beautiful and calming, and the whole sonata sounds nice enough, but it doesn’t scale the heights.

Imagine my dismay when the op 101 extends the streak of only very good recordings to three. What’s going on here? (Okay, I wasn’t really dismayed; I just wanted more. Again.) The Allegretto, ma non troppo is on the slow, relaxed side, with Silverman not really pushing anything (except for a brief passage centered around 3’35”) and achieving a serene, almost transportive quality. The Vivace alla marcia is strongly characterized and delivered with a wry smile (or so it seems). This is serious, late Beethoven – but not too serious, a darker, world-weary middle section aside. The Adagio sounds slow, somber, and decidedly introspective. You’re hearing someone working things out musically in terms you can never fully understand – after all, it’s not you. It sure is good to hear, though. A wonderful trill leads into an Allegro that is sharp, pointed, and fast, but that soon gives way to a beautiful reappearance of the opening material. It is here where the music slowly but perceptibly morphs into that meditative, transportive late LvB that I so enjoy, and it takes on a jubilant overall sound. The fugue is taken at a somewhat measured pace, but still sounds quite nice. Overall, there is a lot to enjoy here – but I just wanted more.

And now it’s time for the Hammerklavier. Can you believe this recording makes four only very good recordings in a row? What gives? The work opens with an Allegro taken at a broad tempo – all the better to make the work sound large scale. Silverman’s grand conception results in less forward drive than in some other versions, but the trade-off is that there is architectural cohesion. Everything has its place and is put in said place just right. All of Silverman’s previously mentioned traits are there, and he throws in some nice individual touches (as in the opening pages when he will let a chord decay just that itty bitty bit longer than one expects), but they and a romantic overall feeling are all less important that the overall arc of the piece. The Scherzo is more along the lines of what one might expect. Silverman again adopts a somewhat broad overall tempo, but the dynamic range and rolling bass and undulating sound all sound pretty nifty. The great Adagio comes off quite well, but doesn’t quite compare to the very best out there. It opens with a desolate sound, but Silverman’s playing quickly assumes a sense of subdued, resigned desperation. He’s more engaged than at the open, but for what? It’s tragic but not hysterical. The protagonist has accepted his fate. But then, roughly mid-way through, there is an outpouring of anguish. It’s not fevered or exaggerated, but it’s there. The subsequent music is less tragic and less obviously emotive, but it is moving in a way words cannot adequately describe. To end the work, Silverman opts to play the Largo in a slow, slightly ambling way, as though waiting for the grand fugue. And grand it is. Silverman plays with speed and vigor not present in the rest of the sonata, with superb part playing, and notable strength. No, the playing does not achieve aural x-ray clarity (in distinct contrast to Craig Sheppard) – because of a combination of the instrument, the playing style, and the recording – but what is there is clear enough and certainly gets the message across. This is a very fine, big-boned, long-breathed performance, that is certain.

Silverman gets his groove back with the Op 109 sonata. By that I mean he plays at the highest level and delivers a recording that can be compared to anyone’s. I decided to listen to the Orpheum recording first, just because. The Vivace, ma non troppo opens in reasonably brisk fashion but sounds supremely smooth, then slows up a bit so that some strong, sharp forte chords can receive appropriate attention, and the transitions back to quick ‘n’ smooth. The contrasting themes and their delivery very quickly create that transportive, meditative quality that is so essential in these works. As things progress, Silverman throws in some delicate, almost precious playing, but it sounds sublime. The whole thing does. It’s a world in 4’12”. The Prestissimo is not especially thundering or fast, but it sounds ominous and unsettling. In stark contrast is the Andante, which sounds gorgeous and revives the transportive quality of the opener. Silverman plays with a broad tempo, but it doesn’t sound slow. It sounds timeless. Then come the variations, and Silverman improves on his earlier playing. The first variation is more beautiful than the theme, the second spiky and pointed but measured, and the third fast and strong and dynamically variable. The final variations return to a more ethereal sound world, the last one sounding transcendental, if you will. And finally, the restated theme beguiles with its beauty. Everything is played just right, and in one continuous thread. One continuous, devout thread. The earlier Rouvain reading is a bit more straightforward. Obviously the sound is different. The treble is smoother, the bass less pronounced, and more subtle tonal color can be easily divined. More important are the interpretive differences. Or similarities. Silverman plays in a similar way overall, but doesn’t achieve quite as much refinement and wholeness, if you will, as in the later recording. It’s a bit tauter and faster, with more and subtler coloring, and even more impressive diminuendo playing, at least in the opening movement. The second movement is more direct and has less contrast than the Orpheum recording. The final movement is again much the same, but it’s not as effective, or as devout. It’s still very good, though. But I prefer the Orpheum recording.

The 110 is likewise superb. Again starting with the Orpheum recording, it’s clear that Silverman knows this piece well and has devoted substantial time to his interpretation. Right from the get-go, Silverman extracts every last bit of transcendental goodness out of the simple yet profound Moderato cantabile molto espressivo. Every note, every dynamic shift, every everything is perfectly judged. Silverman dispenses with interpretive clutter and baggage and plays in an effortlessly ethereal way – he knows the music and is entirely comfortable with its soundworld and makes the listener equally comfortable. He’s not too soft, not too hard, not too fast, not too slow, not too anything. It’s superb. As good, and as well judged, is the vigorous Allegro molto. Take what I wrote about the opener and it applies here. But as with the other late sonatas, it is the last movement that matters most, and Silverman knows it. The Adagio ma non troppo is touching in its sparseness. The lonely contemplation, accentuated by the near silent pianissimos, and the unknowable questioning of the protagonist are quietly moving. It’s not sad or melancholy, it’s searching, desperately searching, and one wants to listen to every last bit of it. The first appearance of the fugue sounds like a sort of idealized, positive response to the imploring opening section, and it is meticulously delivered. Again, everything is judged just right. The return of the Adagio theme then becomes forlorn, exhausted, and inconsolable. Why go through it all again? The repeated chords that signal the transition back to the contrapuntal music are masterful. Silverman uses striking sforzandi and truncated decays followed by deftly deployed pauses for each chord, and he builds the volume up from quiet to very loud in perfect, almost theatrical increments. The inverts fugue and reversion to the original fugal material is tauter and faster than before and the work ends on a triumphant note. It’s an outstanding recording – one of the best I’ve heard. The Rouvain recording is also very good, but it’s not up to the Orpheum recording. The opening movement is more direct, with less dynamic gradation, but greater clarity. The second movement is faster, stronger, with some stomping playing. The final movement is drier, yet also sounds desolate and ethereal as appropriate. It’s not as searching and bleak in the slower sections, and the fugues are more direct, clearer, and faster, and not quite the same type of musical responses to the preceding material. The chord build up is more conventional, too. So, I must give the nod to the later recording.

As good as the preceding two works are, I wasn’t quite prepared for what Silverman does with the 111. His Orpheum recording is without question one of the finest I have ever heard and can be compared to anyone’s. I can think of none that are better. The only difference is in style and delivery, not quality. And that’s apparent from the start. The opening Maestoso opens in a sharp, striking manner, verging on outright fierceness. It is incredibly intense and dark, with unique and subtle variations in tone and beat. The second section starts with harsh, ferocious bass playing that quickly becomes thrilling, aggravated, fiery playing that is both frightening and growling. I use the word ‘frightening’ in an almost literal sense. For me that word can usually only be used in a figurative sense when applied to music. But here the playing is almost literally frightening at times. It is unyielding. But that’s not all there is. Silverman knows how and when to ease off, quickly and smoothly, to let all concerned rest – before attacking the piano again. As intense as the opening movement is, everything is perfectly judged with relation to everything else. How to top that? With an amazing second movement! The Arietta is quite firm, but still lovely, and it is immediately transcendental. The listener enters another world. That becomes more evident in the even more beautiful yet somewhat detached second half of the Arietta. The first variation marries both halves of the Arietta in a measured yet totally satisfying way. The second ratchets everything up a bit and reclaims just a taste of the urgency and intensity of the opener – but not even close to too much. The third variation is biting and quick and groovy, and the fourth and then the last two variations transform the work into the transcendental work of genius it is. The playing is gentler, the rubato at once more noticeable yet subtler, the effect more intimate. Time begins to melt away. The wonderful long trill, here sounding just a bit cutting and blurred – adds to a sense of moving further away from the crass material world and into a more wondrous realm. The piece concludes in glorious bliss. Since the Rouvain recordings of the 109 and 110 were not of the same quality as the Orpheum recordings, I assumed the same would be true here. I was partially correct. The Rouvain recording is not quite as good, but it is still superb and has its own formidable strengths. The opening movement is not as ferocious as the Orpheum recording, but it is still ominous. There is less contrast, too, as one would expect, but the playing is generally swifter and nimbler. Doesn’t sound especially impressive, huh? Well, the second movement is where the action is. The Arietta here is calmer, more serene, and more beautiful than in the later recording, especially in the first half. The second half sounds nearly static and truly sublime – among the most moving I’ve heard. The variations are less pronounced and contrasty, with the first two sounding more flowing, the second more tuneful, and the last variations lighter and smoother yet somehow nearly as transcendental. No, the Rouvain recording is not quite as good as the Orpheum recording, but it is still one of the better recordings I’ve heard of the piece. I guess if a pianist is really gonna nail one sonata, this is the one. Amazing.

Robert Silverman’s Orpheum cycle reinforces the reason why I keep buying complete cycles. I keep hoping to find that one (or more!) pianist who does everything right. Silverman pretty much does. He’s not in peak form for every sonata, but he’s always at least very good and interesting. At his formidable best he is much, much more than that. He’s got Beethoven in his blood; he loves the music and wants to share that with listeners. Of the twenty new cycles I’ve heard in the last twelve months, there is no doubt that Silverman is right up there among the very best. I’d put him in the top five, I guess. But he brings something unique to the music. He doesn’t grab hold of the listener, then manhandle and force the listener to hear things afresh in the way Friedrich Gulda does; he doesn’t play with utter indifference bordering on (utterly irresistible) musical nihilism in the same way that Wilhelm Backhaus does; he doesn’t beguile with trickery and an endless supply of nuance in the way that Eric Heidsieck does; and he doesn’t seduce the listener with ravishing tone and fluid grace the way Andrea Lucchesini does. No! He’s his own man. He’s sort of just out there, playing the music the way he sees fit. The listener must come to him. And when that happens, the listener will experience something unburdened by overanalyzation, excessive ego, or a need to impress. Silverman focuses on Beethoven. That’s the way it should be.

 

Todd

New member
Anton Kuerti – Addendum



One of the bigger disappointments in my exploration of Beethoven piano sonata cycles is Anton Kuerti’s mid-70s cycle. While Kuerti definitely has the chops to play what he wants the way he wants, what he wants is often unpleasant and occasionally perverse. Generally slow tempi and an obsessive focus on detail do not add up to a maximally satisfying – or even partially satisfying – listening experience. About a month or two ago I revisited the cycle, and my initial impressions were largely reinforced. To be sure, my unfavorable opinion regarding a few of the sonatas softened just a bit, but in other instances my opinion hardened – the Pastorale is just plain awful. Anyway, this cycle was recorded long ago and Mr Kuerti has seen fit to record LvB again, so I figured I might as well try a newer recording. Rather than lay down the long green for his most recent traversal of the last five sonatas, I opted to ante up little money to sample his 1989 live recordings of the Mondschein and Hammerklavier sonatas.

Kuerti morphed into a different pianist in the intervening years. His superb control of every aspect of playing remains intact in these recordings, and his focus on details is still obvious, but gone are his annoying mannerisms. Instead one gets to enjoy more spontaneous music making and more interesting insights. The disc opens with the Mondschein, and a fine one it is. Kuerti plays the opening Adagio sostenuto faster than in his earlier recording, yet the playing is still appropriately slow, tastefully restrained, and decidedly dark and solemn, to the point of almost being downright grim. Kuerti manages the neat trick of obviously riding the sustain pedal while still making the attack of the notes sound deliciously piquant, particularly in the treble. The Allegretto is refreshingly direct and has a nice rhythmic drive, but it also sounds hesitant and unsettling. No easy listening this. Gone is the almost inhuman microdynamic gradation at the low end of the scale, but the overall effect is even more interesting. As in his first recording, Kuerti takes the Presto at a fast pace, though it’s a smidgeon slower here. One superb touch is when he builds up the rolling lower register playing to end in terse, sharp chords. This being a live recording, some slips can be heard, but the overall effect is more invigorating and tense and satisfying than the earlier recording.

Next up is the mighty 106. Kuerti trims about six minutes or so off the earlier recording, with the Adagio about four minutes shorter. Still, I came to this recording with some trepidation. How happy I am to report that my concerns were unfounded. The recorded sound makes Kuerti sound “small,” but that cannot smother the obviously grand conception of his interpretation. The opening Allegro is taken at a moderately quick pace, but benefits from unyielding forward momentum and clean articulation. More bungled passages can be heard, but they matter not one bit; the dramatic forward thrust of the playing sweeps away any concerns. The Scherzo is largely like the opening movement, with the exception of a fast, pointed middle section. Now to the 21 minute Adagio. Here’s where Kuerti really stumbled in his first recording. Like the earlier recording, the opening section is remarkable. Here, Kuerti plays in a slow, despondent, and tragic manner, with unresolved tension. After just over three minutes Kuerti moves into the second section which here succeeds fabulously. The sense of tragedy pervades Kuerti’s playing as he creates a great pianistic dirge. It’s more personal, more stinging, more spontaneous. As the movement continues, it does seem to be just a bit too long in places, but it doesn’t seem to go on forever. To end the work, Kuerti opens the final movement with a delicate, gently colored, (quasi-) mysterious Largo that builds up to a brief, frenzied end, with both hands undulating wildly, before moving into a precise, teasingly controlled fugue. Kuerti’s playing is not as clear as in the earlier studio effort, but it’s tauter and more energetic. More slips show up, but as before are of limited significance. Overall, this 106 is much better than the earlier one.

Indeed, Kuerti’s playing is much better overall than before. He still dazzles with superb control of every aspect of his playing, but he’s freer and more spontaneous than before. The earlier recordings sound more deliberate, slower, more purposely “serious,” while the later recordings sound more concerned with the music than extra-musical effects. Kuerti’s playing is thus elevated from annoying, self-conscious manipulation of the music to musically satisfying playing of a much higher order. While I can’t say that either recording ranks among my favorites, I can say that I’m much more interested in hearing his most recent Beethoven recordings. I’m also more interested in hearing how he handles other music. Brahms perhaps.
 

Todd

New member
Russell Sherman



Domo arigato, Mr Rubato.

Russell Sherman’s cycle is one I equivocated over for a few years. On the one hand, I wanted to hear it; on the other hand, I was unsure whether to proceed given the set’s reputation. For me at least, few cycles have more baggage to prejudice one’s listening. Some people love the playing and some hate it – and I’ve seen relatively few in the middle – but every comment I’ve ever seen, pro or con, acknowledges that the set is downright willful and as about unorthodox as is possible. That can lead to near tragic results (Anton Kuerti) or it can render something wonderful (Eric Heidsieck). Where would Mr Sherman fall in the crappy-to-brilliant spectrum I wondered? He ain’t crappy, that’s for sure.

One can pretty much hear a microcosm of Sherman’s style in the first sonata. But that doesn’t mean his playing all sounds the same. More on that later. Anyway, the rather nifty F minor cycle opener begins with an Allegro that starts at a nice clip, but also sounds, rather obviously, just a bit restrained. Sherman builds on this by picking up the pace and tension as he progresses, and he does something that he does with either delightful or maddening regularity for the rest of the cycle – he toys with tempo. All the time. Sometimes it’s subtle, sometimes it’s not, but it’s always unique. He’ll dash off a figure or arpeggio, seemingly for no immediately apparent reason, then he might slow up – or he might not. He often goes for relative extremes. Why go slow when one can go really slow? Same applies to going fast. Sorta makes sense if you want to stand out. Another trait that is readily apparent is Sherman’s enormous dynamic range. He’ll play wonderfully at the lower end of the spectrum and then positively erupt in forte passages. His tone is always attractive, if perhaps a smidgeon of hardness creeps in during the most deafening portions of his playing. The splendid recording, with lotsa Audiophile® Raumklang (I just love that word), makes the most of Sherman’s dynamic tendencies. Anyway, moving on to the Adagio, one hears some really slow playing – them extremes again – enlivened by the boundless nuance Sherman throws in. One also hears a bass line that is both steady and flexible, as well as dark and richly sonorous, underlying a searching right hand. The Menuetto displays much in the way of Sherman’s rubato and (not so) heavy-handed intervention. The long pauses can be considered contrived, yet they are affective. Sherman’s phrasing is notably accented, and usually front-loaded, if you will, and some may not find as much to like. The work closes with a decidedly flexible (or manhandled) Prestissimo, where nary a bar goes by without some type of fidgeting, and where Sherman makes the lower registers growl nicely, save for a surprisingly tender middle section. He’s all over the map – and it’s a new map – and it works!

So, too, does the second sonata. Sherman again sees fit to push a pull the music to and fro. He starts off ever so slightly slowly, then he accelerates noticeably. He lengthens and shortens passages and pauses to fit his purposive style. He’s thoroughly examined everything and wants it to show. Again, Sherman’s dynamic range is very much in evidence, which, in some ways, off-sets the minuses of his style. If minuses they be. The Largo sounds a bit un-Largo-esque. It’s just a bit too sprightly in manner, a bit too plucky in the bass. Heavy and dark it’s not; rich and vibrant it is. Yet, somehow, it works, and Sherman does see fit to add a bit of dark intensity to his playing between around 5’10” and 5’40”. His overall tempo stays pretty solid for the movement, which isn’t the case for the Scherzo. He notably rushes some arpeggios early on, then he slows things down – with minor delays and pauses embedded within other delays and pauses – in the middle section, before returning to his style at the outset. Yet it all works very well. The Rondo brings the overall quality of the recording down just a bit. At times Sherman just rushes straight through some music where other pianists make sure to add tonal and dynamic variation. (Is Sherman merely being antithetical to be antithetical?) Things really pick up in the middle section. Too much so, in fact. It sounds too pressed to be maximally effective. Then Sherman plays in a most idiosyncratic manner as the end approaches. But, for what it is, it works.

The final sonata of the opening trio often takes things too far. This was the last sonata recorded for the cycle, so maybe Sherman wanted to impart even more of his ideas than earlier on, who knows? What I do know is that aside from a rather conventional (and good) opening 20-25 seconds, Sherman’s copiously deployed devices detract more than delight. Surely the music should swell and flow more smoothly than here. Some flashes of brilliance appear, but more often Sherman opts to play even standard passages like the ascending and descending runs in overly interventionist fashion. The Adagio is more successful. At times, especially after 1’20,” Sherman seems to strip away all his stylistic artifice and play in a purposely unfocused yet engrossing style. He’s wandering the wilderness, if you will, despondent and alone, but then menacing bass interrupts the progress, and forces the pianist back on the more standard musical path. It’s rather nifty. The Scherzo, like the opening Allegro con brio, starts in more or less standard fashion, and maintains a nicely constant overall tempo, with clear part playing, exemplified by the obvious scampering of the left hand. So far, nothing too out of the ordinary. The middle section sounds both hazy and sharply punctuated, which creates a few nice effects, even if they seem more novel than profound. To close the work, Sherman plays the opening ascending runs with great energy and clarity, but then he reverts to his overly mannered style thereafter. At times he sounds like he’s emulating a freer style. It’s sort of faux improvisation if you will. The description reads a little fuzzy, doesn’t it? Imagine how it sounds.

So a mixed if good opening trio left me a bit concerned about what to expect for the fourth. Worries weren’t necessary. Sherman opens the Allegro molto e con brio with a light, brisk touch, then he punctures that soundworld with some loud middle register playing of not a little power before returning to playing of nearly cloudy softness. The fortissimo blasts can seem like overkill at times, but they’re really not. Then one becomes aware of something wonderful. Despite (or perhaps even because of) his little tempi changes (and here they’re less intrusive than elsewhere), the whole movement possesses a most attractive rhythmic underpinning. The Largo is grand and very weighty, with sharply truncated chords to end phrases and well timed pauses – here sounding shorter than average and lending a more urgent, propulsive feel to the music. Overall it’s a bit somber, which is good, and it’s also, well, theatrical. A mini, piano-only opera, if you will. The Allegro manages something unique in my listening experience: it sounds deliberate and lyrical and flowing at the same time. Sherman can’t resist throwing in nice touches beyond even that, like the rich rolling bass punctuated by strong ending chords in the middle section, and manages to end the movement with a hint of, well, mystery. The Rondo again manages to marry seemingly opposite styles: the surprisingly direct and upbeat sound seems to be aloof and abstract, too. The middle section is contradictory, too; it sounds both smooth and almost biting. How, and why, does Sherman do all these things? Dunno. But I like it. A lot. It may even be among my favorites.

Things continue on nicely with the first of the Op 10 trio. Sherman opens the first sonata with an Allegro molto e con brio characterized by strong and reasonably swift ascending arpeggios. A bit more bite would not have been unwelcome, but Sherman follows with a slow second theme that mixes downright beautiful passages with more vigorous ones. It’s sort of a sophisticated He-Man approach. In achieving this, Sherman inserts many Shermanisms, but not only do they not matter, they help. The Adagio molto is perhaps a bit too slow for some, but that is caused by unusually long sustains rather than general sluggishness. Sherman again offers some beautiful playing as well as broad dynamic and textural contrasts. As happens with some regularity in this cycle, these contrasts create more of an intellectually rather than emotionally satisfying experience. The work ends with a Prestissimo that sounds more Presto than is ideal, but the sheer scale of the playing and the beefy, growling bass and slightly edgy upper registers make it a wholly satisfying experience. Good stuff.

The second of the trio is also good stuff. The Allegro is brisk and surprisingly upbeat (I expected something different), and contains only minor Shermanisms. The most pronounced mannerism is Sherman’s tendency to really hammer out the loud music. It almost sounds overdone at times, the nearly oppressively loud left hand especially. The Allegretto is more imbued with individual touches, and they mostly work. One thing is sure: many of the interpretive tools are more subtly deployed than elsewhere in the cycle. The repeat-included Presto (always a plus for me) is bouncy and fun, and also a bit on the muscular side.

The great Op 10/3 sonata can be turned into a veritable pianistic meal, and Sherman does just that. The Presto is rich and warm to open, yet it also contains plenty o’ pep and, especially, weight. Extraordinarily clear part playing adds to the sense of Big Idea pianism, and all of the tempo fluctuations seem to work. The great Largo opens in a gloomy, dark and thick ‘n’ slow (in the best sense of that phrase) way. At 1’12”, the tragedy sets in. Sherman accents sharp treble notes ever so noticeably before bending the tempo to his will to achieve a soundworld of exasperated desperation, and near savage inner turmoil. Perhaps now I’m overdoing it, but I don’t think so. Sherman proceeds to make repeated chords sound almost thrummed as he tosses in a sense of utter emotional exhaustion into the mix. It’s melodramatic; it’s excessive; it’s compelling. Next, Sherman plays the Menuetto with surface relaxation that never quite masks the tension below the surface. His rubato is more intrusive here than in the first two movements, but it still works. Perilously close to not working is the Trio, which here sounds almost like a bitter parody of sorts, with Sherman tossing it off with disdain. The Rondo is quite something, filled to the brim with musical chicanery. Sherman likes to play the fast portions fast, but he’ll also play ‘em soft – quite soft – only to then slow way down, to a lazy yet pranksterish tempo (like between 3’10” and 3’20”) seemingly to throw the listener off. Sherman really pulls out all the stops, but something is ultimately missing: Sherman never makes the conception jell. The individual parts are far more than the sum of the parts. That’s fine, but that limits just how highly one can rate this recording.

How does a pianist approach the Pathetique nowadays? It’s so played, so recorded. Of course, anyone undertaking a cycle must figure out some way to play the work, and so Sherman does his (presumably) best. The Grave has his imprint. First, the opening is huge, explosive, and fortissimo, with the decay is cut short. It’s interesting, unique even. But is it proper? It is dramatic in a theatrical sort of way, but it lacks emotional depth. The following Allegro molto e con brio is a bit on the slow side of Allegro and a bit on the heavy side of con brio, but it works for the most part. Sherman does play around with tempi quite a bit, though, so anyone wanting a straight-shot approach will cringe. The Adagio cantabile sounds warm and rich, with a nice, enveloping, grand sound. Any sense or urgency goes missing, as does true cohesion. In place of those, one gets incredible clarity with respect to the left and right hands. Each musical strand is complete in its own right. It seems a fair tradeoff. The Rondo is afflicted with ubiquitous shifts in tempo and wavering and undulating accents, but it has the same massive, crashing chords as the opening movement, and as the end approaches, Sherman plays with crushing intensity. So, how do you like your Pathetique? This is a unique one, for sure, but . . .

The little Op 14 sonatas, fine little piano divertimenti if ever there were any, don’t really stand up so well to Sherman’s approach. The first, in particular. Sure, the Allegro is quick and light to open, but it doesn’t take long for Sherman to build up the power to a point where the music starts to wilt a bit. Offsetting this is clear part playing, and, as a wild card, the left hand playing is amazingly insistent and “pokey,” by which I mean played staccato with Shermanesque accenting. The Allegretto is just too: it’s too slow, too serious, too obvious an attempt at individuality. The Rondo finds Sherman laying his rubato on thick – too thick. No two notes seem to flow ideally, and a clumpy sound develops. It’s not awful, but it’s not great or even especially good. The second sonata fares a bit better, not that one could guess that right off. The Allegro here finds Sherman resolutely refusing to just let the simple, beautiful melody flow. Them little tricks of his, they do obtrude. The sound Sherman extracts from his instrument is quite fine, though, and the runs are quick and light, and the clarity superb. The Andante, in contrast, is just plain good. Sherman takes it with a slightly broad tempo, but he maintains an upbeat, perky, and delightfully quirky mien. In the Scherzo some phrases are too rushed, some too loud, but by this time it doesn’t matter. It’s a fine, fun recording, but not a monumental one. (And who really wants that?)

Over time the Op 22 has really grown on me. I’ve always liked it – is it possible not to? – but now I really like it. So, apparently, does Sherman. The opening Allegro con brio is right on target: it’s well paced, clear, with comparatively little in the way of tempo tomfoolery. Most of said tomfoolery occurs in slower passages, where Sherman can sound a bit stiff and hardened (between 6’ and 6’08,” for instance), but otherwise he’s spot on. The Adagio con molto espressione sounds lovely. Sherman’s playing is rich and warm, and he plays it straight, throwing in only minor (indeed micro) touches. The Menuetto pulls off the same trick from the same labeled movement from 10/3 – the surface sounds relaxed, but tension exists below the surface, which manifests itself every time Sherman interjects a bit of power into the playing. The middle section is fast and intense and well articulated. The closing Rondo is mostly sunny, with Shermanisms largely reserved for the bass at the beginning and the harder hitting middle section. Something nice happens with this sonata: while clearly possessed of all of Sherman’s thought-provoking, “intellectual” traits, one can actually just sit back and (really) enjoy this one. A whole lot.

Alas, that’s not really possible with the Op 26 sonata. Sherman opens the work with a lovely Andante that flows nicely enough, but he can’t resist indulging himself in the variations. Stilted rhythm, off-beat accents, (sort of) wild man rubato, attention grabbing stiffness (though only in short, um, bursts), blocky phrases: all show up at least once. The effect sounds far from awful, but it also sounds far from normal or truly compelling. The Scherzo ends up notable for relatively pronounced tempo tinkering, though mostly with the right hand. Sherman plays too fast, then too slow, almost creating an even whole, all while maintaining a reasonably solid left hand base. The more forceful music shows off Sherman’s power to nice effect, so not all is lost. The Funeral March, well, where to begin? It has a decidedly march-like cadence, though not of the martial sort. It’s more beatnik in nature. Sherman starts off somewhat softly only to increase the volume of his playing to offer dynamic contrast, almost to the point of excess. The middle section sounds odd, more like a parody of serious music than serious music itself. To close a unique take on this work, Sherman decides to close uniquely, opening the Allegro with a brilliant, blurry, undernourished flurry, only to pick up both strength and clarity as he proceeds. There’s a whole lot of interesting parts, but they make for a somewhat baffling whole.

Now to the great first sonata quasi una fantasia. The first bar or two are solid and straight forward, but then it’s back to Shermanisms. First things first: he adds lengthy pauses. Don’t know why, and it don’t really work, but for some reason he front loads this device; as the music proceeds such oddities become less pronounced. (Or I got used to them.) The Allegro announces its arrival with a crashing chord and some nimble fingerwork, but extended pauses also reappear, muting the beneficial effect. Something about the playing sounds forced. The music becomes episodic rather than flowing. Things finally seem to click with the Adagio con espressione, which sounds like a richer, more ruminative version of the wonderful Andante theme largely shorn of the peskier points of contention. Sherman does make the lower register act like something akin to a musical poke in the eye a few times, and while I’m not sure why he does it, it doesn’t detract from the proceedings. Sherman wraps up the work with an Allegro vivace that sounds scarily straight, complete with drive and mostly minor deviations in tempo. The huge crescendo near the end is truly massive, and the rousing conclusion caps off a good, but too-unusual-to-be-great recording.

Now to the second sonata quasi una fantasia. The opening Adagio sostenuto seems almost tailor made for Sherman in some ways. It’s moody and gloomy and mysterious, and very receptive to interpretive license. Sherman does his best to create a moody and gloomy and mysterious feel, and the warm-ish sound, sustained tension, and comparatively few tweaks all combine to make for a strong open. The Allegretto is striking, with Sherman’s rubato deftly deployed and his usual fine dynamics on full display. The movement ends up being something of a stand-alone piece rather than an integrated musical bridge, but that’s fine. The Presto agitato is fast and intense right out of the gate, with a rolling thunder effect in the bass. There are pauses and fits-n-starts and such, but they add an agitated, unsettled quality to the music that works well. But it lacks coherence and ends up being the relative weak link in a good version of the work. Had it been just a bit tighter, it would have been a splendid version.

Up to this point, Sherman’s cycle is generally (very) good but unsteady, and always thought provoking. Would Sherman ever have a string of Big Hits? Yes! It starts with the Pastorale. The work opens with an Allegro characterized by extended sustain (with room sound enhancing the effect) that creates an enveloping, comfortable sound. Sherman moves ahead at a leisurely pace more akin to a nice Allegretto than Allegro, and his tell tale left hand clarity and insistence forms a strong basis for the music. Again, his huge dynamic range plays its part, but here the forte passages seem, well, organic: they flow naturally from the music and never gratuitously overpower the material. Just after 6’20” or so, the playing assumes some real urgency for a brief time, before fading back to more leisurely music in a most satisfying way. In many places, the tolling bass is both hypnotic and reassuring. The Andante manages to pull off some contradictory feats with aplomb. The tempo is slightly broad, but there’s a surprisingly urgent feel to the music and the liltingly beautiful music conveys inner anguish. (Think inner tears, if you will.) To offer maximum contrast, the middle section is more upbeat, but in a fidgety, unsettled way. The Scherzo finds Sherman deploying his normal tricks, with loud, striking playing offering contrast to slow, quiet playing which has a few sudden decelerations and pauses. The Rondo, well, somehow I just knew Sherman would take things to extremes, slowing things way down, exaggerating the music for overall contrast. He does that, but he makes it work extraordinarily well. Quite a feat. Throw in some striking individual effects – the massive crescendo and diminuendo after 3’, say, and what one is left with is a top flight, albeit odd, reading of this great sonata.

But it’s not as good as what follows. Indeed, Sherman’s traversal of the three great Op 31 sonatas is uniformly superb. Great, actually. Here, the peak is the first of the trio. It’s not like Sherman really changes his approach or anything. Indeed, the Allegro vivace utilizes the same interpretive combinations familiar from prior sonatas to create a light yet occasionally beefy sound. The playing is alert and dexterous, yet it’s never pressed for any reason. The second theme is unique: it’s dense and, well, earthy and folksy, in an intellectual sort of way. For some reason, the image that popped into my head while listening was that of a stuffy college professor downing a few, shedding said stuffy decorum, and getting down. It’s fun and sophisticated, refined yet bawdy, and gracefully condescending, all while tacitly and silently admitting various shortcomings. The Adagio grazioso opens with somewhat blurred trills which then give way to faux refined playing full of charm. The middle section is brisk, with Sherman favoring a more punchy, pokey staccato, which seems to add weight to the proceedings, though in a slightly begrudging manner, almost as if Sherman is saying “This music is light fun, damn it, so keep it that way!” As the movement progresses, Sherman pushes and pulls the tempo, and truncates or elongates notes and phrases in a marked style, but it all works. The bass trills near the end are extremely weighty and pronounced and somehow humorous – silly, even. To close, Sherman plays the Rondo in a deliberate, almost formal fashion, and lays his tricks on thick. Hardly a bar seems to go by without some type of heavy-handed intervention. But when one combines superbly clear part playing, delightfully distorted pauses, and seemingly arbitrary accelerations and decelerations, it just proves too much to resist. Interestingly, Anton Kuerti’s cycle peaks very high with this work, so maybe Sherman’s take just proves that a heavy interpretive hand pays big dividends here. Whatever the case may be, this ranks among my favorites.

Sherman’s strengths lend themselves to a second sonata of not a little distinction. He opens with an extended and almost artificially slow Largo, and immediately after the opening arpeggio ends, the music changes, hinting at a tempestuous movement to come. Dynamics, drama, and powerful bass all work together to deliver the goods, but it can and does sound a bit contrived. This is what Sherman thinks dramatic music sounds like. It’s not fully engaging emotionally. “So what?” I say, because when Sherman leads off some phrases with an almost breathless left hand, the effect is exciting. The Adagio is, as one would expect, altogether calmer and more beautiful. The bass again grabs one’s attention, for its superb clarity if nothing else. (There’s something else, though.) Extended pauses and deliberate phrasing won’t be to everyone’s taste, and the thoroughly thought-through style means that, as with the opener, emotion goes missing at times. It all works, though. To close, Sherman opens the Allegretto with urgent, unsettled middle register notes before pounding out short ‘n’ sharp bass notes, a pattern he then repeats, resulting in a sort of ceaseless nervous energy, with the almost twitched out upper register notes only enhancing the effect. The overall conception is decidedly unorthodox – some would say weird – and I can see some people hating this one. I love it.

The final sonata also succeeds fabulously. The Allegro finds Sherman putting on a show. He’ll notably elongate a chord, quickly tinkle out a phrase, or otherwise do what he wants. Why? Why not?! When the music picks up, so does Sherman, doing all the same things, just a bit more quickly and vigorously, as with the staggering crescendo at about 4’40”. In some way, all this jiggery-pokery ought not to work, but it does. Surely this sonata begs for it. And that’s a good thing, because the Scherzo is even worse in terms of Sherman’s intervention. The bass line is sonically hunkered down most of the time, waiting to not so benevolently jump up and box the listener’s ears. The right hand melodies are staggered and uneven and unruly. It’s all terribly mischievous, in a drunken goblin sort of way. Things relax a bit in the Menuetto, though even here Sherman just can’t seem to not play with the score. For instance, he’ll be playing things nicely enough, then he’ll rush a passage or pull back for no reason. Again, why not?! The whole thing comes to a most caricatured end in the Presto con fuoco. Sherman bobs and grooves, stops and starts, and even lollygags. Such unevenness may unnerve some listeners, but when one throws in the irresistible drive and energy, one can’t resist. I know I shouldn’t like this one as much as I do, but I can’t help myself.

Now to that delightful pair of sonatinas known as Op 49. Sherman continues to throw in his normal tricks, but he knows not to make too much of these works – that would court disaster. The first sonata opens with a relatively straight Andante. It’s mostly tender and attractive, with the comparatively small outburst there for textural contrast. The Rondo ends up sounding like a wash of sound, aided by the relatively distant recording, and when that combines with the perfectly judged amount of pep (the interpretive cousin of the ever so important oomph), one gets a delicious musical bon-bon. The second sonata opens with a light, fun, and attractive Allegro ma non troppo, though the middle section boasts flashes of angst. The Tempo di Menuetto closer finds Sherman incapable of restraining his tempo-altering tendencies, so plenty of off kilter pauses can be hard. Some may find it a bit too contrived, though I find it just about contrived enough. Great? Nah. Doesn’t need to be.

The Op 53 should be, and Sherman approaches (and maybe achieves) greatness. The Allegro con brio opens at a nice, brisk pace, though the overall sound remains somewhat subdued. The bass, especially, sounds restrained, almost as though the piano is a giant, coiled musical snake poised to strike at the right opportunity. As the music moves into the second section, Sherman applies his rubato more liberally than before (when he wasn’t exactly paleoconservative), and then in the long ascending passage leading into the first long run, Sherman plays jackhammer chords while pushing and pulling the music to and fro. Here’s where extremes start to come in: Sherman plays the fast music very fast, the slow music very slow, and forte and louder passages in a crackling and pounding manner. Some may find it impossibly mannered – which it most certainly is – but that doesn’t mean it’s not refreshing and invigorating – because it most certainly is that, too! Yes, yes, it’s an overwrought showboat approach, and generally I dislike that, but here I’m defenseless; I love it. The Introduzione sounds very slow and very powerful and very labored. That’s not to say Sherman struggles with the music, but rather that he creates the aural illusion of a protagonist carrying some overwhelming emotional burden, sullenly resigned to his inner turmoil. The whole movement carries on like that until an extremely long final note fades to a lovely, more mature, and more accepting of fate Rondo, where the long transitional trill offers a stable, somewhat subdued base for the thundering eruption of power that accompanies it. If one never senses joy in the playing, then at least one hears relief after the sullenness of the middle movement. So it goes as the music waxes and wanes, between quiet spells recalling prior music and throbbing, violent playing offering musical catharsis, until a towering end. Yes, it’s heavy handed, but what can I say, it’s stupendous.

cont'd . . .
 

Todd

New member
. . . cont'd

After such a stellar performance, it’s only natural that the next work, a possibly “lesser” work, wouldn’t be as impressive. Sherman opens Op 54 with an In Tempo di Menuetto that sounds somberly dramatic and fully satisfying if perhaps not very menuetto-like in the opening, lyrical section. The octaves are beefy and loud, yet seem, well, soft at heart – sort of like a big, burly, scary lookin’ dude who’s really a softy. It makes for nice contrast and tension. It should come as no surprise that the next appearance of each section finds Sherman trotting out Shermanisms, here to excellent effect. The opening section has rubato lathered on, and the octaves section is more strident than before – not too much, mind you, but enough. The last portion of the movement gradually dissolves into wonderful trills before the whole thing lazes away. The Allegretto sounds comparatively fast and mightily manipulated when it comes to tempo, but it retains a slight softness and lacks overwhelming intensity. (As it should.) It’s sort of a soft-core virtuoso display, with only the more biting coda sounding more standard. So it’s not as impressive as the Waldstein. It needn’t be.

The great Appasionata follows and offers some interesting things. It also seems to miss a few things. The Allegro assai starts off dark and tense and restrained. The first excursion into more powerful music, while not lacking in power, is likewise somewhat restrained. The dark hue remains. Something’s gonna happen. Something sinister? While one waits for whatever that something is, one can (and does!) revel in fine articulation and control, even while at high speed. The flight into the upper registers just after 4’ is simply masterful, the crescendo after 4’30” towering, and the successive upward thrusts after 5’30” punchy in a Roy Jones Jr kinda way. Everything conveys controlled passion. Nothing sinister here. But wait, what about the last part? Oh, there’s good stuff there: the final ascent to high tension music around and after 8’ keeps one on the edge of one’s barcalounger, and Sherman pounds out the bass notes and exorcizes out the high ones, before the final (near) eruption leads to an exhausted coda. Whew! But the listener may not really work up a musico-emotional sweat. The Andante con moto offers some needed (?) rest. It’s warm and surprisingly gracious. Only the occasionally halting rubato may offer fits for some – or delight for others. Don’t let that warmth and graciousness fool you, though: Sherman keeps the music taut, especially during the fast variation. The ending Allegro ma non troppo opens with fierce, stiff, gallop-y notes, then speeds up while quieting down. Then, pow! Sort of. Blunted bass notes restrain the first outburst, but the tension has risen. It rises some more. Just after 7’, the good stuff comes. Sherman starts hitting the ivories hard, then very fast, and it all culminates in a thrilling end. So what’s missing, you may be wondering? Abandon and true passion. It seems overthought. No biggie, not really. I like this recording.

The fine little Op 78 sonata fares quite well. The Adagio cantabile is definitely beautiful and singing, and the Allegro ma non troppo finds Sherman injecting all his standard traits, though here it’s mostly in his sly left hand which supports his flight-of-fancy right. A few hints of steel are the only negatives (if negative they be) to be heard. Sherman positively makes a meal of the Allegro vivace. It becomes an edgy Scherzo under his fingers, as he pushes the overall tempo, deploys exaggerated accelerations, and bunches phrases. It becomes Beethoven-Meets-The Marx Brothers. That’s a compliment.

The next nice little late work opens with a Presto alla tedesca that’s suitably quick, but the movement has an overarching waltz-like rhythm to it, with rubato aplenty. The cuckoo motif is pushed and pulled around, but never too much. It seems to take on a modern sound – rather like some of the early 20th Century homages to music from centuries past. The Andante sounds more pressed than most, losing a bit of gravitas as a result, but also gaining some dramatic impact. The Vivace is rushed through, generating fun and excitement, though some may very much dislike Sherman’s manhandling of the music.

Jumping right into the Les Adieux finds Sherman opening the opening Adagio with long, sustained chords that sound a bit contrived. He’s trying too hard to put some emotion into it. The rest of the Adagio is similarly contrived, though never overwrought. The Allegro is quicker and sounds downright chipper and giddy. So is this a sad farewell or a drunken going-away party? Well, despite some swelling crescendos that sound big (or at least big-ish), nice contrasts throughout, and Sherman’s pushing and pulling of the music, the answer is I don’t know. It is a smaller scale, more intimate take on the piece, though. The Andante espressivo actually manages to sound “bigger,” and Sherman tries to make it sound sad, but it seems a bit artificial. Nicely played bass darkens the sound world nicely though. The Vivacissimamente keeps things on the small side at the open, but there’s a sense of anticipation, which then blossoms into a celebratory, jovial, and just a bit boisterous welcome back. Here it seems that the individual details are more interesting than the whole, but the whole is still interesting, if not a world-beater.

The Op 90 sounds better. The first movement starts with brooding, dark, and heavy – but, perversely, in a good way! – chords which set the stage for a movement of drama and heft. The faster passages are clean and hard-edged, left-right clarity is superb, strong contrasts abound, and the whole thing has an intense feel. Throw in some superb interpretive tricks, like a tolling bell effect created by repeated notes around 2’ in, and one has a fine opener. The second movement sounds flowing, graceful, and decidedly lyrical, though some louder notes have a slightly astringent tinge to them, which adds some variety. (I think I should investigate Sherman’s Schubert.) Anyway, this is a winner.

Things get even better with Op 101. But they also sound a bit different than normal. The Allegretto ma non troppo opener sounds warm and autumnal, if you will, and Sherman plays it relatively straight tempo-wise. The music just flows, and that late Beethoven sound world pops into being. Pronounced, almost gaudy bass notes intrude around 2’ in, but they seem to be nothing more than fleeting gestures, though they return in even grander form around 3’30”. As a whole, the opening movement is concise and moving, somewhat unexpectedly. The Vivace all Marcia sounds grand and bold, as befits the music, but there’s also a somewhat disjointed feel. Sherman seems at sea sometimes, just drifting along. The middle section has an even more disjointed feel, yet it sounds friendly and playful and almost childish, in a most becoming way. Then it’s back to the somewhat off-kilter opening material. Why played thusly? Why not? The Adagio ma non troppo, con affeto is drawn out and lovely, lyrical, and searching, and it remains comparatively light. The closing movement starts with a bright, celebratory, very dance-like, and buoyant Allegro. Sherman keeps his distance, though. The fugue arrives with a thundering open and is deliciously fluid and inviting throughout. There are also some superb little things in the music, such as some wonderful little repeated figures on either side of 5’30” that I never paid much attention to before. This is a unique reading of the work, and one that manages to pull off several tricks at once. It definitely evokes the late LvB sound world the music needs, but it also sounds wonderfully flexible and tonally variable. It’s not just musical granite; it’s more, well, human. What a fresh, beautiful take on the work.

The great Op 106 opens with a fast Allegro which itself has accelerated passages, and other tempo tomfoolery is in bountiful supply. While the music certainly sounds grand at times, it seems more a Herculean pianistic effort here; the piano is being manhandled to be manhandled. Sherman definitely has fine technique, but given what he opts to do, he sounds like he’s working a bit harder than normal. Still, the energy and excitement levels remain high, almost like it’s a middle aged man’s last hurrah. He’s gonna show them kids what’s what. At times it seems like Sherman is only gliding along the surface of the music, though, and not really plumbing the depths, but then something will come along – the massive outburst at 7’32”, say – to remind the listener who’s playing. The Scherzo, in contrast, is taken at a slower – but not slow! – tempo, and Sherman likes to front-load his phrases, with strength and speed instantly switching to something more drawn out. What sounds to be some near-slips can be heard, but the overall energy level and some occasional beefy playing make for a fine movement. But it’s surely the great Adagio where Sherman leaves his mark. It opens in an unusually tense fashion, and is un-slow (at 17’38”, I’d hesitate to say it’s really fast), with the tension making it seem faster than it is. There’s below-the-surface seething and anguish, and that doesn’t let up as the second section starts. Indeed, it’s as unrelenting as the opening section. Something goes missing in this slightly undifferentiated approach, but something is gained with this stylistic sameness. Around 6’ in things change. A sense of calm despondency descends on the playing for a short while. Still, the movement remains uncommonly tense and anguished right on through to the end. The concluding movement opens with a Largo that maintains the preceding tension in a most un-Largo-like fashion – it’s a bit quick. Really, though, it merely serves as a bridge to the great fugue, which starts with expected strength and oomph. As it continues, it’s clear that this is not the clearest, not the fastest, and not the most intense fugue around, but enough of these traits are there to satisfy, and when they combine with what sounds like not a little delight derived from unfurling the music, the whole thing works. This is very much a non-standard take on this work, and I have a feeling that people will either love it or hate it. I love it. It’s smaller, more personal, and more direct than many readings, and reminds me of Paul Badura-Skoda’s take in that regard. But Sherman’s more cavalier treatment of the music makes it quite different.

That leaves the final trio of sonatas, and here I must say that Sherman’s style results in less satisfying recordings, though they still satisfy in their own way. Op 109 opens with a Vivace ma non troppo with that nice late-LvB sound, though Sherman’s penchant for tempo tinkering starts to erode the solidity of the music. That written, Sherman’s massive power during the towering crescendos adds philosophical weight as well as physical weight to the music. The Prestissimo opens with bone-crushing power and, due at least in part to the more straight-forward delivery – is more successful. The final movement opens with a lovely, slow, and deliberate Andante theme that sounds most decidedly transportive. But then it turns exaggerated and excessive – just like that – with the first variation. It’s just overdone. Sure, it evokes what it’s supposed to evoke, at least to some extent, but the effect is not exactly fully endearing. The same can be written about the second variation. The third stays exaggerated, but since it is exaggerated compared to the others, it works better. Suffice it to say, the Shermanisms displayed through to the end lessen the work’s impact. It’s not bad, but it could have been better.

Alas, things don’t improve with Op 110. In fact, or at least in opinion, things sound less compelling. The Moderato cantabile, molto espressivo sounds quite nice at the open, and boasts a gently prancing left hand, but then Sherman’s mannerisms some to the fore and sound too precious and saccharine. Again, it’s not bad, but it’s not ideally compelling. The Allegro molto sounds predictably strong, but it also sounds unpredictably thick and drab. The Adagio ma non troppo sounds just a bit too cold. Yes, it’s desolate music, or can be, but ideally it should be a little less cold than this. The fugue is very formal and serious and deliberate, but somehow distant, and the repeated chords prior to the inverted fugue start off stiff and deliberate, but quickly build up in volume and power, but they never quite pop. Given Sherman’s penchant for power, I expected more. The inverted fugue is much like the original one, and the ending is powerful indeed. It’s hard to really describe what’s wrong here. Much of the playing is superb, and some flashes of brilliance are there, but it’s all just a bit too distant and forced.

The cycle closes with an Op 111 that betters its two immediate predecessors, but that ultimately can’t quite compete with the very best out there. The Maestoso, after a brooding open, sounds biting and dark, but not especially fearsome or imposing. As the music becomes fiercer, Sherman’s playing does become more biting and sinister, but in an almost caricatured way. It sounds almost darkly comic, as though Mephistopheles is playing a rather brutal practical joke, if you will. It’s not without merit, but it’s not what I generally prefer. The Arietta sounds weighty and peculiarly direct. It’s beautiful, but not too beautiful. It’s also not especially transcendental; it’s more ambulatory and questing, until the second half, when it becomes quietly urgent and does a much better job of establishing that late-LvB sound world. The segue to the first variation is fluid and uneventful, as is the variation itself. It’s resigned to whatever will come. The second variation has greater tension and more urgency, but is still somewhat resigned. The third variation is fast and boisterous and not especially jazzy. Then things go flat. The long chains of trills sound curiously uninvolving, and the entire post-third variation sound world sounds plain and direct and earthbound. Sure, it’s well played, and it’s better than 109 and 110, but something important goes missing. One always hopes for a stunning closer to the great thirty-two, but one doesn’t always get what one wants, now does one?

I really like this cycle. In some ways I guess I shouldn’t. It’s not very proper after all. Sherman is about as cavalier a pianist as I’ve heard. He throws in individual – or idiosyncratic if you prefer – touches everywhere. He doesn’t maintain a common stylistic approach for all of the works, or within a work, or even within a movement sometimes. He’s not overly devout; he’s utterly irreverent. He’s self-indulgent. Yet for the most part his approach works. Sure, his late sonatas hardly match up to the best out there, but at his best he brings unique insight and vitality to the music. I’m not sure I’d say his playing is revelatory, as the uncommonly well-advertised producer Gunther Schuller writes, but it offers more than enough musical food for thought. At least on the first go-round (and even the second and third), one doesn’t really know what expect next. Subsequent listens simply reveal something missed the last time. That’s a very good thing. But it is also, well, weird, at least in this case. I’ve referred to Alfred Brendel as Mr Quirky, and he is, within the context of mainstream pianists. Sherman falls well outside of the mainstream. His playing is engaging, probing, tonally attractive, and he makes one approach the works afresh. That’s another very good thing. In the idiosyncratic pianist sweepstakes, he’s much, much more to my liking than Anton Kuerti in his 70s cycle and approaches Eric Heidsieck in overall quality. Yes, I’m very glad I got this cycle, but it most certainly will not be to everyone’s liking. For those who crave something new and unique, get it now. This set is an experience.

(My obvious thanks to Dennis DeYoung.)
 

Kel

New member
Hi Todd,

I've just joined the site and want to congratulate you for your running commentary and insights to the numerous LvB cycles. I think you have brought the LvB cycle to a very wide readership. Excellent job!

Have you done a review on Annie Fischer's cycle on Hungaroton? Overlook this question if you have. I just purchased this set after staying a few years with Kempff's (mono DG), Schnabel's EMI, John Lill (which I think is quite revelatory in numerous aspects), the Gulda 1967 (now on Brilliant Classics), The Backhaus DECCA set and the Baremboim 1960s EMI. IN fact, as I write this, I'm going through the recent DVD release of his Berlin recital which I think so far (up to concert 7) tops his earlier EMI set. Mayvbe it's the 'live' performance that has made the communicative difference which has a certain immediacy.

But I will be interested in your take on Fischer's performance. Many positive reviews have come in and a couple of negative ones which I find hard to pin down. One in particular referred to her performance as making the sonatas "sound dull"! I couldn't quite believe when I read this, after listening to the E flat Op. 26 sonata (which I have personally named the fin de secle sonata, for obvious reasons of its composition date). I myself think her playing unearths aspects (nooks and crannies) of the sonatas that I have not heard previously. Her inventive use of, particulalry, the una corda pedal when playing piano/pianissimo passages is quite brilliant. although inconsistent at times, the natural feel of her pedaling brings a certain truth to particular passages. Her opening bars of the Pathetique, with imaginative use of rest notes, are just mesmerizing (to me at least).

anyway, I can't say much as I'm only at the 22nd sonata, but I would love your take (even if it is a summarised one) of Fischer's version.

Cheers to you for numerous review jobs of the LvB cycle well done.

kel
 
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Contratrombone64

Admiral of Fugues
My god man (at least I assume you're male). What an effort!! Do you sleep?

I'm a fan of the Beethoven and will, if I ever get time, read your comments through. My favourite Sonata is No. 29, it's just so quirky and involving.

I notice you've avoided Alfred Brendal, any reasons?
 

Kel

New member
Hmmm, Brendel...

I have a love/hate relationship with Brendel. Nothing personal. I grew up with his VOX cycle but it doesn't do much for me these days. I have selections of his first Philips cycle of LvB sonatas but I find it difficult to resonate with his tempi and his voicing. Now this could be my problem bec. of my not owning state-of-the-art listening equipment. I still love the ol' vinyls! Coming back to Brendel, his Liszt B minor sonata, however, and the annes de pelerinage (first 2 books), and his Schubert late sonatas, particularly D960, are a different thing altogether. I think the're brilliant.

But I find watching Brendel live more satisfying than listening to him on recordings. Brendel's communicative abilities on the stage are second to none.

But Brendel's LvB will always keep me honest, I think! Although a little too cerebral for my liking...
 

Contratrombone64

Admiral of Fugues
Kel - yeah - Brendal's often been accussed of being cerebral, however, I read a comment he made about himself that he's just an average, hard working guy who happens to be a pianist ...
 

Kel

New member
No doubt about Brendel being hard-working and a pianist, and a damn good one too! I find, however, that artists have quite a different opinion of themselves as do the public of them. That's fine, I feel, as long as the latter's opinion doesn't get hostile. It makes for the diversity of art and the availbility of a wide range of expressing one's feelings.

I think if Brendel presented himself with less of an afront as a 'pianist-thinker' in his informal interviews and chats, listeners might be more open to other aspects of his playing, which are certainly there, esp. in a 'live' performance. I stress that it's a listening (comminicative) thing, and perhaps not Brendel's fault but how we choose to approach his performance individually.

I see as a contrast to Brendel a certain Charles Rosen. Now here's a brilliant mind on and off the piano, and I'm not just going by the fact that he is an accomplished academic and writer. It's just that when he talks informally about music (and I mean outside of his vastly famous books), you hear something of the 'heart' speaking and not the mind. And his playing of LvB's late sonatas comes across similarly. Cliched though, but it's cliched bec. it's somewhat truth.

But your point regarding Brendel is certainly noted. Thanks for your time! :smirk:
 

Kel

New member
HI ALL,

Anyone out there interested in Bach's Sonatas and Partitas for Solo violin?

I recently acquired Johanna Martzy's 1950s recording on EMI Korea of these works to add to my Heifetz, Perlman, Modtkovitch, Mullova (selections), Hahn (selections), Kyung Wah Chung (selections), Sholo Mintz, Ida Haendel, Szigeti, Monica Huggett, Szeryng (his earlier SONY mono version) etc collection.

Martzy's version is difficult to find these days. But they're well worth the effort. Her playing, generally, is in between Szerying and Haendel, at least with regards to tempi. She favours a wide range of tempi (though not as wide as Haendel who probes thru' the famous Chaconne in just over 18 mins.!). But what was surprising was the sound...full-bodied (in 24 bit), beautiful altho mono. I have to spend more time on it before I'll say anything else.

But contributions/insights will be appreciated!
 
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