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Prokofiev’s Third Piano Concerto: a century of recordings – from the composer to contemporary mavericks

David Gutman

Thursday, April 17, 2025

Prokofiev’s most popular concerto has inspired a range of interpretations since the composer’s own 1932 recording. David Gutman picks the finest from a burgeoning discography

Still radiant: the 1967 recording by Martha Argerich and Claudio Abbado dominates the catalogue (Ilsa Buhs / DG)

Sviatoslav Richter, a great admirer of Prokofiev’s work who considered its creator positively dangerous, left us with a vignette of the man at his worst. ‘One day a pupil was playing him his Third Concerto, accompanied by his teacher at a second piano, when the composer suddenly got up and grabbed the teacher by the neck, shouting: “Idiot! You don’t even know how to play, get out of the room!” To a teacher! He was violent. Completely different from Shostakovich, who was forever mumbling “Sorry”.’ Richter, who played Prokofiev’s Fifth Piano Concerto under the composer’s direction at his last Moscow concert in March 1941, avoided the Third, a piece more readily accepted on both sides of the Iron Curtain than almost anything else he wrote. Its discography has grown exponentially since the 1950s but is not without its own black holes and unanswered questions. Prokofiev may have contributed more new music to the standard repertoire than Schoenberg and Stravinsky but his motivation remains a puzzle. The brute who delighted to offend was also a traditionalist in search of a good tune who rarely strayed beyond hand-me-down classical forms. Like Beethoven he completed five concertos for his own instrument, losing interest once he no longer had to play for a living yet continuing to produce sonatas.

By now a peripheral member of the Diaghilev set, Prokofiev spent the summer of 1921 on the French Channel coast in upbeat mood assembling a calling card for his idiosyncratic pianistic brand. The juxtaposition of material from long ago (the sharp-witted subject of the Concerto’s second movement dates from 1913) with later ideas, including some intended for an aborted ‘white-key’ string quartet, reinforced that familiar fondness for ‘stepping on the throat of his own song’. Literally international – Prokofiev was entering his fourth year of peripatetic semi-exile – the music has remained fresh for more than a century, its balancing act between the lyrical and the circus constantly renegotiated. On a purely technical level, pianists have become increasingly adept at the acrobatics, orchestras ever more meticulous in support.

Sergey Prokofiev completed his Third Piano Concerto – the most popular of his five – in France in 1921 (Tully Potter Collection)

There are the usual three movements in which the solo part fairly bristles with innovation. That said, the story begins in a nostalgic dreamworld which performers either interpret as a temporary distraction or indulge with a heavier hand. Apart from its lissom clarinet theme, the Andante – Allegro’s material consists of a first group of aerobic exercises, a contrasting wrong-note gavotte and an aggressive tarantella-like passage which unexpectedly pitches us back into a full-throated recall of the opening.

The second movement is a theme and variations, launched in Prokofiev’s ‘neoclassical’ vein, the theme titivated by precisely notated, frequently ignored slurs, dots and accents. How far the variations should stray from the theme is moot. There are five plus a return to the main idea, gently guyed by the pianist’s clipped staccato chords, before a coda. It may have been a mistake to mark the first variation L’istesso tempo. Some pianists ignore the injunction altogether, anxious to avoid the impression that we are listening to a reiteration rather than a makeover. Most of the variations offer what were once insuperable and inspiring technical challenges – Oscar Levant reports that George Gershwin kept the score close by him. If the soloist is so minded, Prokofiev’s fourth variation locates a deep space of nocturnal stasis. The movement’s plagal cadences and mainly instrumental appendix can either be brushed aside or suggest a longing for home implied by the Molto meno mosso and espressivo markings.

The finale mixes extrovert display with a degree of emotional uncertainty. Its slower central section gives us a ‘big tune’ even if, as in the Second Piano Concerto, all may not be quite what it seems. Some performers give the theme the full-on Hollywood treatment, others highlight the pianist’s querulousness as endorsed by muted violins and squawking woodwind. The last pages encode a famously gymnastic sprint to the finishing line, one designed at least in part for its dazzling visual impact. Those who shy away from audiovisual recordings of non-operatic music will miss out on some distinctive readings showcasing the younger generation.

Having given the Concerto its premiere on December 16, 1921, with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra under Frederick Stock, Prokofiev performed the piece on numerous occasions, first in New York, later in Paris and London. Not everyone enthused. The Musical Times wrote off the existing concertos in no uncertain terms: ‘None but the composer has yet been known to play one [sic]. In a way it is infantile. You think of a singularly ugly baby solemnly shaking a rattle. But no; it is not so human as that …’

The earliest recordings

A pity that such distinguished past collaborators as Serge Koussevitzky, Albert Coates, Henry Wood and Eugene Goossens were passed over when HMV set down Sergey Prokofiev’s ‘definitive’ interpretation of the work at Abbey Road in 1932. The task of holding things together went to Milan-born Debussy specialist Piero Coppola, the artistic director of the company’s French branch, supposedly instrumental in luring the composer into the recording studio for the first time. Be that as it may, the composer’s diaries confirm that he was uncomfortable with the process and, although the recording gives us a good idea of his distinctive timbre and insistent rhythmic drive, it may disappoint today. Presumably unwilling to compromise on tempo, Prokofiev often races ahead. And with no consistent pulse established for the main body of the first movement, its first group is recapitulated at an unrelated (faster) speed. In the second movement transitions between variations are fraught. Prokofiev simplifies the dynamics at the arrival of Var 2, rushes Var 3’s syncopated deconstruction of the theme and fails to agree an exit strategy from Var 5. He tends to operate continuously at one dynamic level before hopping to another. For sceptical listeners the Concerto is in danger of turning into a frantic cartoon, a caricature of itself.

On his first return visit to Russia in 1927 Prokofiev performed the Concerto with the ideologically inspired conductorless orchestra Persimfans, initiating an unlikely sub-category of renditions without conductor in the West. Barring exhaustive rehearsal the dangers could only multiply, despite which the work’s second commercial recording was made under just such conditions by Dimitri Mitropoulos with Philadelphia Orchestra players during their off-season summer series. Certain passages muddled by Prokofiev and Coppola go well; much is scrappier. Mitropoulos, as undisciplined at the keyboard as he sometimes was on the podium, slams on the brakes at the very end of the finale. While he is not alone in this, it makes no sense. Van Cliburn, who made his official studio recording in Chicago (RCA, 8/61), risks fewer deviations directing from the keyboard in a lo‑fi Soviet-era telecast. The trumpets get lost entirely in the theme and variations but the band’s timbral specificity, the pianist’s straightforward manner and his full tone offer their own rewards. In recent tours Lahav Shani and the Rotterdam Philharmonic Orchestra have included such renderings with results as clean and polished as any. No commercial audio recording, though.

Arriving at the tail end of the 78rpm era, William Kapell’s 1949 account is a significant marker, outpacing even Prokofiev’s ‘fingers of steel’. Antal Dorati’s Dallas Symphony Orchestra prove fallible, unable to manage the transition from Var 5 to the return of the main theme, but Kapell’s blistering technique heralds an era in which an ill-starred generation of American pianists would remake the Concerto as a vehicle for their own prodigious talents. Kapell himself died in a plane crash aged 31, Julius Katchen was taken by cancer aged 42, while Byron Janis and Gary Graffman suffered incapacitating problems with their hands; Cliburn merely suffered burn-out. The first American to tour Russia on a cultural exchange, Janis’s subsequent recording was the first to be made there using Western equipment and technical staff imported for the occasion. Having Kirill Kondrashin’s expert Moscow Philharmonic in support adds character without the poster-paint crudity commonly associated with Soviet orchestras. Without the benefit of close-up Mercury stereo on 35mm film, Kondrashin had previously collaborated with the great Emil Gilels on a mono LP barely distributed in the West. Home-pressed releases from the likes of Samson François (Columbia, 3/54) and Leonard Pennario (Capitol, 11/54) also failed to last long in the catalogue. Moura Lympany (HMV, 9/57) is in early stereo but hampered by Walter Susskind’s stodgy treatment of the second-movement theme. A few years later, on the other side of the pond, Gary Graffman would have the support of George Szell’s Cleveland Orchestra in prioritising clangorous rigour over intimacy and humour. Katchen’s remake with the LSO and István Kertész (Decca, 5/70) arrived posthumously, by which time a rather different approach to the Concerto was making waves.

Into the modern era

In 1967 we arrive at one of Martha Argerich’s most celebrated recordings, and it is here that the modern performance history of the Concerto really takes off. After so much unyielding tone she brings unprecedented light and shade to the work, proving that it can be lyrical and whimsical as well as barnstorming. Gramophone’s critic, who should perhaps remain nameless, made reference to ‘abundant signs of femininity in wonderfully delicate, clear passagework and the most elegant phrasing’. The Karajan-era Berliners adapt well to Claudio Abbado’s feline proclivities; Argerich’s steadier Montreal version with Charles Dutoit (EMI, 10/98) feels weightier. There have since been many more remakes, official and unofficial given the pianist’s permissive attitude to sharing music online. BBC footage from 1977 in which Argerich is the guest of André Previn’s LSO popped up on DVD in 2012 and remains accessible via video streaming platforms. Sound may not be top-notch but old-school mise en scène focuses on her hands to spellbinding effect: there’s no cheating towards the end!

Vladimir Ashkenazy’s 1974 account with André Previn still holds firm (Photography: Suzie Maeder - Bridgeman Images)

By now the first cycle of all five concertos was under way in Boston, though neither John Browning nor Erich Leinsdorf sound much engaged by the Third, which they had previously taped in London (Capitol, 3/62). As so often the main theme of the second movement is smoothed over. Also unstylish though more boisterous are Alexis Weissenberg and Seiji Ozawa in Paris (HMV, 9/71). Moving forwards to perhaps the most durable of the complete sets, Vladimir Ashkenazy and the LSO under Previn elicit an emotional variety missing elsewhere. Dry, close-miked castanets in the first movement feel like a throwback to 1932. Elsewhere the approach is Russian and/or Romantic, as in the very free treatment of the second movement’s Var 1. Ashkenazy is no shrinking violet, the opening of his third movement notably impactful. Jon Kimura Parker, also with Previn (Telarc, 12/86), offers similar solutions in less dramatic, perhaps less ego-driven fashion. The same might be said of Michel Béroff with Kurt Masur, whose Leipzig musicians sound timbrally distinct from their West European counterparts in another first-rate 1970s cycle.

Rediscovered: a poised Maurizio Pollini (Interfoto - Alamy Stock Photo)

Those who find Argerich too flippant shouldn’t look to Maurizio Pollini to restore the machine-age thrust of Italian futurism, his take on the score being essentially poised and aristocratic. A studio recording released during the years when he was playing the Concerto in public (qv Turin footage online) might have changed the way we hear it now. As it is, the belated release of a Tokyo broadcast allows us to savour his wonderfully pure, crystalline tone. There is surely no pianist one would rather hear play a long trill followed by a glissando-like run up the keyboard. Ivo Pogorelich is the one major advocate whose interpretation remains officially unavailable. His spacious, ultra-sensitive way with Var 4 is very special.

Another outlier in compromised sound is Terence Judd, taped at the 1978 Moscow Tchaikovsky Competition, in which the British pianist came joint fourth. Ecstatic drive tempers steeliness in this prime souvenir of a star whose career was cruelly cut short aged 22. The competition was won by Mikhail Pletnev, whose own later studio recording seems cold (DG, 6/03). Glenn Gould once cited Prokofiev’s ability to achieve ‘maximum effect for minimum effort’. That comment doesn’t make much sense until you hear Pletnev using his transcendental gifts to coast. Nikolai Lugansky is another Russian whose lucidity and control compensate for an adrenalin deficit (Naïve Ambroisie, 1/14).

The Concerto comes home

Most all-Russian recordings adopt a heavier style, sometimes attributable to the broader ideological priorities of music-making in the Soviet era and beyond. Viktoria Postnikova’s 1985 cycle with Gennady Rozhdestvensky’s USSR Ministry of Culture Symphony Orchestra (Melodiya, 9/96) unfolds as if determined to subvert reductive gender stereotypes. Vladimir Krainev’s first recording (HMV Melodiya, 9/79), a cult classic, is currently more elusive than his Frankfurt-made remake, part of a second complete set again under Dmitry Kitaenko. Unforced errors aside, Krainev rather brutalises his very first entry, playing its final note fortissimo rather than letting the line recede into the orchestral texture as implied by the mezzo-piano marking. Treating the end of the first movement more precipitately than anyone else until Daniil Trifonov, Krainev goes to the other extreme in the next with his other-worldly take on Var 4. Alexander Toradze is more consistently pugnacious in his Mariinsky cycle with Valery Gergiev, Denis Matsuev ultimately exhausting in a hard-driven one-off issue with the same forces (Mariinsky, 4/14).

Mixed casting continued to attract the record companies. Cécile Ousset (EMI, 12/83), another really big player but no speed merchant, is paired with Rudolf Barshai in Bournemouth. Soviet-born Israeli-American Yefim Bronfman recorded his accomplished cycle with Zubin Mehta and the Israel Philharmonic, lacking only the last ounce of personality to set it apart. Moscow-born at least, Yevgeny Kissin joined Claudio Abbado’s gilt-edged Berliners for the second and best recorded of his three versions. Kissin is masterly, the orchestral response oddly pale as could be the case with Abbado in this period. Then again, the pianist himself offers few magical half-lights in Var 4 and refuses to rush the end of the finale.

The 1990s brought a bargain-basement series from Kun-Woo Paik (Naxos, 11/92) and a fancier one from Nikolai Demidenko with Lazarev and the London Philharmonic (Hyperion, 11/96). Acclaimed in the 2010s was a Gramophone Award-winning set from Jean‑Efflam Bavouzet in which, as Rob Cowan noted, the pianist displays a chameleon-like response to the disparate personalities of each piece rather than imposing his own template across the board. The Third becomes a slightly low-key neoclassical entity, its first movement almost dapper, the second notable for the super-attentive contribution of Gianandrea Noseda’s BBC Philharmonic. There’s a degree of motoric abstraction in music that need not be sugar-coated. A similarly sophisticated orchestral backdrop is a feature of Simon Trpčeski’s rendition with Vasily Petrenko’s RLPO (Onyx, 8/17). Andrew Litton provides warmer but finely detailed support for Freddy Kempf and Stewart Goodyear. Both enjoy top-notch sound engineering beside which older favourites risk coming across as dated.

Prokofiev’s secco writing suits Olli Mustonen (Heikki Tuuli)

A keen individualism informs the work of four 21st-century mavericks, the first two being Graffman pupils. Yuja Wang, closer to Argerich in style, has a natural empathy for Prokofiev. Caught early in her career in a relay from the 2009 Lucerne Festival, she dazzles – of course – while admitting a certain whimsicality in a reading that never runs counter to Abbado’s re-engaged, essentially anti-Romantic conception. Is that why the audience response, like the balance accorded her instrument, is curiously muted? Lang Lang opts for a broader canvas that some might find unnecessary although there is certainly a case for it. Memorable is the free cadenza-like treatment of Var 1. Less happily, the finale’s big tune goes way over the top, with Simon Rattle’s Berliners rather gloopily sentimental in support. Daniil Trifonov takes us back to Russia with a brilliant, radically intense account filmed as part of Gergiev’s Prokofiev binge of 2016. These 125th anniversary celebrations had the imprimatur of Putin himself and the orchestral playing is perhaps statelier than the music warrants. Or is the upscale treatment all Trifonov’s idea? He imparts the shock of the new regardless of tempo, perennially open to original voicings. Particularly extraordinary is the middle section of the finale, where un-Lang Lang-like anxiety never wholly dissipates.

Olli Mustonen pushes still further into unknown territory, remorselessly crisp and non-legato with an aversion to the sustaining pedal. It’s as if fresh characters have invaded a familiar narrative, stalking the text in a language we can’t quite read. Many will reject the experiment although, being paradoxically gentler than usual, the results bring us closer to the ‘fairy-tale’ Prokofiev of the First Violin Concerto.

These disparate readings confirm that in what remains Prokofiev’s most popular piano concerto the story need not end with Martha Argerich, unparalleled though her engagement with the score has been. Our survey does so, but then you were expecting that all along!

Scriabin’s Color Symbolism in Music

by Ursula Rehn Wolfram, Interlude

In my last article I discussed Čiurlionis’ genius, single-handedly introducing Symbolism to his native Lithuania. Alexander Scriabin (1872-1915) in contrast, lived and worked within well-established artistic traditions in Russia, in which the various avant-garde movements in music and art from Western Europe had flourished. By 1893, the works of Verlaine, Mallarmé, Maeterlinck, Poe, Ibsen, Strindberg had been translated into Russian as had Schopenhauer’s work ‘Die Welt als Wille und Vorstellung’ (The World as Will and Presentation). Kant and Nietzsche were also widely read in Russia at that time.

Alexander Scriabin

Initially a literary-philosophical movement, Russian Symbolism grew from these western European roots, and took different forms in the musical circles of St. Petersburg and Moscow. St. Petersburg, always more directed to and open towards the west — Czar Peter the Great had founded the city as a ‘Window to the West’ — produced many great operatic composers, such as Glinka, Mussorgsky and Rimsky-Korsakov, whose opera ‘The Golden Cockerel’ can be considered to follow the Symbolist tradition. The Moscow School, more oriented towards ‘Old Russia’ and its mystical past, primarily focused on instrumental music with composers such as Scriabin, Tchaikovsky and Rachmaninoff. Scriabin wrote mainly for the piano, with — among his oeuvre — ten sonatas, 83 preludes, 101 piano pieces; five symphonies, one piano concerto. He frequented the Symbolist literary circle in Moscow, whose greatest theoretician was Andrej Belyi.

Title Page For Scriabin’s – Symphonie Prométhée

In 1904 Scriabin participated in the Fourth Philosophical Congress in Geneva, whose main topics were the works of Fichte and Bergson. In his annotated notes of the various lectures, Scriabin focused on the ideas of Schopenhauer and Nietzsche, in particular on Nietzsche’s ‘Zarathustra’ and the concept of the ‘Űbermensch’ – Nietzsche’s ‘Superman’. In his later years, he would see himself as a ‘Superman’, who would lead like a prophet, evoking Baudelaire’s concept of the role of the poet, and would liberate humanity through the ‘mystery of music, color, dance, and scents’ – through the experience of true ‘synesthesia’. Artistic creation for him became a state of ‘mystical ecstasy’ similar to a divine revelation. His symphonies from then on carry titles such as ‘poèmes/poems’ e.g. ‘Le divin poème/The divine poem’, Symphony No. 3; ‘Le poème de l’Extase/Poem of Ecstasy’ op. 54’, Symphony No.4, 1908; ‘Prométée/Prometheus’, ‘Le poème du feu/Poem of Fire’, Symphonie No. 5, 1911 for piano, choir and color piano. 

With this Prometheus composition, Scriabin enters the realm of the ‘Gesamtkunstwerk’, the concept of the ‘total work of art’, where music, colors (the predominant force), word elements and philosophy all work together. The piano in ‘Prometheus’ embodies the Promethean spirit, which shows man defying the gods in bringing fire to the earth, for which Scriabin invented a new tonality, the so-called ‘Promethean or mystic chord’ – a six-note synthetic chord, outside of major and minor chords. Many of his subsequent works include the use of this chord, with derivations emerging from its transpositions.

Many composers of the 20th and 21st centuries also have used this chord in various ways, especially as the use of dissonant sonorities became more prevalent.

Colors then, in the Color Piano are assigned specific roles, i.e., as the tones change, the colors also change. For example: F# is not just a chord assigned the color ‘blue’, but at the same time a mood, voilé, mystérieux/veiled, mysterious; ‘yellow’ not only uses the chords of D, G#, C, F#, B, E, but conveys a happy mood, plus animé, joyeux/more lively, happy. ‘Red’, voluptueux presque avec douleur/voluptuous almost with distress, is the color of ecstasy. Scriabin’s choices of colors were not by happenstance, but followed the color-theory of Rudolf Steiner (1861-1925), who had based his theories on Johann Wolfgang von Goethe’s ‘Farbenlehre/Color Theory’, published in 1810.

Scriabin’s Color Piano Keys

Inspired by his Prometheus, Scriabin continued to explore the ideas of a ‘mystery’, linking music, poetry, and dance, leading to the redemption of humanity through a symphony of sound, light, color, and scents which would envelop the listener and bring him to a state of ecstasy. For Scriabin, colors had become the means – color as sound-intoxication and color-intoxication as sound. In the final analysis, he did not become a painter-composer like Čiurlionis, Schoenberg, Satie or Hindemith, or a composer like Mussorgsky with his ‘Pictures at an Exhibition’ – but remained a philosopher-composer.

Elsa Esnoult - Souviens-toi [CLIP OFFICIEL]

Qui n’a jamais connu un amour de vacances… c’est le thème du nouveau titre d’Elsa Esnoult, « Souviens-toi » extrait de son album « 5 ». Avec beaucoup de sensibilité et de sensualité, Elsa nous chante les regrets d’une histoire d’amour trop courte. Tourné sur les plages de Love Island, ce clip nous ramène en vacances pour notre plus grand plaisir…

The Blues and Classical Music harmonics...

My next-to-last instalment on Harmony, this time exploring the blue harmonies of George Gershwin, and their effect on Classical Music. _________________________________________________________________ Gershwin Rhapsody in Blue:    • George Gershwin -...   Gershwin Piano Concerto:    • George Gershwin P...   Porgy & Bess:    • Bess, You Is My W...   Debussy Petite Negre:    • Debussy "Le petit...   Ravel Piano Concerto:    • Ravel: Piano Conc...   Shostakovich Jazz Suite No 2:    • Suite for Jazz Or...  

“That’s What Friends are For” by Elton John, Gladys Knight, Dionne Warwick and others.

Live at the amfAR New York Gala 2011 Learn more and donate: https://www.amfar.org amfAR, The Foundation for AIDS Research, kicked off fashion week with its annual New York Gala on February 9, 2011, raising more than $1.5 million for AIDS research. President Bill Clinton, Diane von Furstenberg, and amfAR Founding International Chairman Dame Elizabeth Taylor were honored with amfAR Awards of Courage for their vital and distinctive contributions to the global struggle against HIV/AIDS. Awards were presented by Chelsea Clinton, Barry Diller, and Sir Elton John, respectively. The black tie benefit marked 25 years of amfAR, and featured a special reunion performance of “That’s What Friends are For” by all of the original artists: Elton John, Gladys Knight, Dionne Warwick, and Stevie Wonder (see video below). This marked the first time the four had performed the song together since the 80s—they originally recorded it in 1985 as a benefit single for amfAR, raising $3 million for the Foundation. The evening also included performances by David Garrett and Karen Elson. Also in recognition of amfAR’s 25 years, special tributes were made to the Foundation’s co-founders, Mathilde Krim, Ph.D., and Dame Elizabeth Taylor. amfAR Chairman Kenneth Cole, Hublot CEO Jean-Claude Biver, Richard Gere, Rosie O’Donnell, Julianna Margulies, Alan Cumming, Maggie Rizer, and Michelle Yeoh also participated in the program. The evening was presented by Hublot, and co-sponsored by M*A*C Viva Glam.

Lisa Marie Presley, daughter of Elvis and Priscilla, dead at 54 – reports

Published January 13, 2023, 10:02 AM

by Robert Requintina

Priscilla Presley (left) and daughter Lisa Marie (Instagram)

Rest in peace.

Singer Lisa Marie Presley, daughter of music icon Elvis Presley and Priscilla Presley, died following a cardiac arrest on Jan. 12. She was 54.

Hours before her demise, Priscilla took to Instagram to ask for prayers for her daughter after she eas rushed to the hospital on Thursday. Her post read: 

“My beloved daughter Lisa Marie was rushed to the hospital. She is now receiving the best care. Please keep her and our family in your prayers. We feel the prayers from around the world, and ask for privacy during this time. – Priscilla Presley”

Lisa Marie Presley (Facebook)

Fans prayed for Lisa Marie, the only child and daughter of Elvis and Priscilla.

Lisa Marie had four children. She was married and divorced four times, including pop star Michael Jackson and Nicholas Cage.

Elvis Presley and daughter Lisa Marie in her younger years (Facebook)

It was TMZ, a popular entertainment website in the US, which initially reported about the death of the musician.

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“TMZ broke the story … Lisa was rushed to the hospital after her housekeeper found her unresponsive at her Calabasas home. Her ex-husband, Danny Keough, was there and performed CPR on her until paramedics arrived and took over — they administered at least one dose of epinephrine during resuscitation efforts,” TMZ reported.

Elvis and Priscilla with baby Lisa Marie (Facebook)

Lisa Marie debuted in the music scene with her album “To Whom It May Concern” in 2003. It reached No. 5 in the Billboard Hot 100 album chart.

The Prodigal Pianist

 by Frances Wilson, Interlude

Alan Rusbridger

The adult ‘returner’ pianist

I’m a returner pianist – and maybe, if you’re reading this article, you are too and therefore what follows will resonate with you. Or perhaps you are thinking of taking up the piano again after a long absence (as I did), in which case you should definitely read on…..

I played at a piano club recently and during the coffee break someone asked me if I was “a professional pianist”. This gave me a momentary glow of pride and ego – evidently I had played well and “made an impression” – and I know that many amateurs dream of reaching the dizzy heights of ‘professional standard’ in their playing. It’s one of the things that keeps us motivated to practice; alone with that box of wood and wires we dream of playing to a full house at the Wigmore or Carnegie Hall.

So I replied that no, I was an amateur pianist, an adult ‘returner’ and that I had given up the piano at the age of nineteen when I left home to go to university, returning to it just shy of my fortieth birthday with an all-consuming passion for the instrument, those who play it and its vast and varied literature.

When you tell people you’ve taken up the piano again they always ask, “Are you any good?” And I never know quite what to say. Some days when my spirit and fingers are in sympathy with each other, I think I make a reasonable sound. On other days, spirit and fingers aren’t on speaking terms and the result is fumbling, dismal, depressing.
– Alan Rusbridger, journalist and amateur pianist

The world of the adult amateur pianist is a curious one – at once rich, vibrant and varied, but also obsessive, anxious and eccentric and when I put out a call for contributions to this article, I was deluged with responses as varied, fascinating and moving as the literature of the instrument we play. What follows are just a few of the responses, but what they demonstrate is that, while there are some obvious common threads, the reasons for returning to and playing the piano are often deeply personal and hugely meaningful, and that a passion for the piano is all-consuming. Never forget that the word “amateur” derives from the Old French word meaning “lover of” from the Latin amator: all the amateur pianists I meet and know play the piano because they love it and care passionately about it. Love drives commitment to the instrument – amateur pianists are possibly the most dedicated practicers – and many amateurs are absorbed by a compelling need to get better, to progress, to master. It’s a lonely road to travel, but those who commit to the journey do so willingly, and it’s an ongoing process, one which can provide immense satisfaction, stimulation and surprising creativity.

Amateur pianists at La Balie piano summer course

That is not to say that professional pianists don’t love the piano too – of course they do, otherwise they wouldn’t do it, but a number of concert pianists whom I’ve interviewed and know personally have expressed a certain frustration at the demands of the profession – producing programmes to order, the travelling, the expectations of audiences, promoters, agents etc, which can obscure the love for the piano. Because of this, professionals are often quite envious of the freedom amateur pianists have to indulge their passion, to play whatever repertoire they choose and to play purely for pleasure.

Now, back to those inspiring adult returners…..

My primary reason for returning was that both my parents had lived the last ten or twelve years of their lives with advancing dementia, as well as some second degree relatives. I thought the best way to really work my brain was to go back to playing music. The secondary reason was to help relieve stress which was something my piano teacher had told me I would need at some point in my life……For me, having started to suffer the lacunar strokes in my family history which have a type of dementia related to them, I keep hold on the fact that the part of the brain that works with music is usually the last to fail. I still feel that playing the piano is probably one of the best avenues to take to keep working the brain. Apart from that I simply love playing again.
– Eleanor

It was the death of an uncle which prompted me to return to the piano. He was very musical, and after he died my other uncle asked me whether I would like his piano, a rather fine Steinway grand which had been in the family for ages. However, grand pianos are somewhat incompatible with the three bedroom semi in which I live, but it did remind me how much I’d enjoyed the piano. I was lucky enough to be left some money in his will, and with that I bought a Yamaha upright with silent system fitted. I wanted a proper acoustic, but I have young children so a silent system means I can practice at night after they are in bed. I have lessons once a fortnight and they are completely indispensable for my enjoyment.
– Sarah

I studied music at university and did two years of a performance major but struggled with various chronic injuries and dropped out as a result (I had two operations and had seen many medical specialists in attempt to resolve these problems). I then “sold my soul” to capitalism and started a business, following which I continued along a corporate career. I had always dreamed of getting back into playing but my schedule was punishing and not at all conducive to playing. I started to play again and unfortunately ended up with RSI (tennis elbow) which swiftly ended my return to playing. Then a few years later I managed to extricate myself from the corporate world and…..I managed to start playing again and although I had some niggles from the RSI, was able to play around 0.5 – 1 hrs a few days a week. I also started going for lessons with [a teacher who] focussed very much on reducing tension…..and I realised how much of my injuries came down to poor technique and tension. I wish a greater emphasis had been placed on this when I was a music student because while [my teacher] helped me find a much more natural, comfortable way to play, it was already too late and my RSI flared up again to the point where a few minutes of playing would leave me in agony for days. It was devastating after so long of trying to be in a position to have the time to play that I wasn’t able to. A few years later (whilst consistently seeing medical specialists and trying various approaches) I managed to have a breakthrough in which I was able to slowly start playing again, a few minutes every second day and was able to gradually build up. This was a useful exercise in that I had to be more focussed on practising effectively given the limited time available. Despite being told by numerous doctors that I wouldn’t play again, I’m now able to play for up to an hour on some days. This has been sufficient to learn some new repertoire and to perform in some amateur meet-up groups which has really been a wonderful experience. In fact, once I was able to let go of the inner critic (as a former music student, the inner critic remains highly developed even though one’s technical ability wanes without practice!), I couldn’t believe how much I enjoyed playing. It would have never have occurred to me all those years ago when I dropped out of university that I’d be able to derive so much enjoyment out of playing as an amateur.
– Ryan

I originally started piano lessons aged 13, of my own volition; I’d had one of those 80s electronic keyboards that were all the rage back then, and wanted to progress to something more substantial. My progress was very slow, however, and ultimately not very fulfilling. I managed to pass my Grade 1 but found the exam experience stressful. I think a lot of it had to do with the prescriptive way children are typically taught: everything was just scales, sight reading and set pieces that weren’t especially fun or engaging to play. Nearly twenty years later, I was in a piano bar on holiday, and the pianist was playing modern music set to piano. It was beautiful, and I felt a sense of regret that I had abandoned such a beautiful instrument. On returning home, I did a spot of research and found that digital pianos had come on a long way in the intervening years and were now touch-sensitive with weighted keys and even a sustain pedal. I took the plunge, ordered a decent model (the Yamaha P115) and signed up for lessons with a local teacher. It’s been a wonderful decision, and I have fallen in love with playing. It’s still small steps, but I practice regularly and have actively witnessed improvement in my own playing.
– Colin

I discovered classical music as a teen (Bach) and started taking lessons. I wanted to be a composer, and eventually became a composition major at a local university. Having started late, and not having received family support and good advice from those who did support me, I let my insecurities defeat me, and I ended up getting a degree in English. Decades later, we inherited a spinet from a relative, and I found my passion once again. I finally have a good teacher, and am making progress toward being the pianist I wanted to be.
– Bob

My piano journey has been relatively straightforward compared to some of the accounts of other adult returner pianists, but we are all on our own personal path, some of us supported by teachers, others choosing to “go it alone”, but all driven by a common, consuming passion for the piano.

Forgotten records: How Beethoven Lost a Symphony

Witt’s Jéna Symphony

by Maureen Buja 

  

Friedrich Witt

In 1909, in the papers of the Academic Concert of the University of Jena, the music director found complete parts for a Symphony in C. Written on the 2nd violin part was ‘par Louis van Beethoven’ and, on the cello part, ‘Symphonie von Beethoven.’ This followed what Beethoven himself had written – that he had once attempted a Symphony in C major modelled on Haydn’s Symphony No. 97 before he wrote what we now know as his Symphony No. 1. This work fit that description perfectly.

The work was published under Beethoven’s name by Breitkopf und Härtel in 1911. It wasn’t until the discovery of another copy of the work by the scholar H.C. Robbins Landon that the situation became clear. The work that Robbins Landon discovered in Göttweig Abey was clearly signed by Friedrich Witt and he used that to convince the world that Witt was the composer, and not Beethoven. A second copy of the work found at Rudolstadt, also signed Witt, helped confirm the identification.

Walter Goehr (photo by Julia Crockatt)

Friedrich Witt (1770-1836) was a composer who was born the same year as Beethoven and had his own career as a composer and a cellist. From 1789 to about 1796 he was in the orchestra of the Prince of Oettingen-Wallerstein. While Witt was at the court, Haydn sent copies of his Symphonies Nos. 93, 96, 97, and 98 to Wallerstein, thus giving Witt material for the Jena Symphony. After he wrote his oratorio Der leidende Heiland, the Prince-Bishop of Würzburg appointed him as Kapellmeister in 1802. From 1814, when the court chapel was dissolved, to 1836 he was Kapellmeister at the Würzburg theatre and wrote operas for them, of which few survive.

The Jena Symphony probably dates from sometime between 1792-93 when Haydn’s symphonies arrived at Wallerstein and 1796.

When you listen to the work with Beethoven’s name attached, you immediately hear in the opening the characteristic rhythmic emphasis that Beethoven had in so many of his works. However, as the work continues, we aren’t so convinced. The work has been described as ‘a splendid example of symphonic writing from a time when this form was achieving both prestige and popularity with a growing music-loving public.’ We really have a work that reflects the state of the symphony after the death of Haydn and before Beethoven’s innovations in his Eroica symphony.

Friedrich Witt: Symphony in C major, “Jéna” – I. Adagio – Allegro Vivace

This recording was made in 1952 with The Netherlands Philharmonic Orchestra led by Walter Goehr. Walter Goehr (1903-1960) studied with Arnold Schoenberg in Berlin and became a conductor before being forced to leave Germany in 1937, becoming music director for the Gramophone Company (later EMI). He was a busy conductor for EMI and, after the war, for other European recording companies. He also taught conducting, was a music arranger, conducted for the BBC, and was a composer in his own right, including writing film scores.