THOUGHTS ABOUT MUSIC

Evening Star, Issue 20510, 14 June 1930, Page 25

THOUGHTS ABOUT MUSIC

[Written by L.D.A., for the ‘Evening Star.’]

/’ Music gives tone to the universe, wings to the wind, flight to the imagination, a chairn to sadness, gaiety and life to everything.”—Plato.

My musical recollections date back lor exactly forty years. This is not inclusive of certain childish attempts at composition and playing at an age when nursery rhymes form the average faro of the budding intellect. It was in 1890 that I began a career of concert going which enabled mo to hear almost every artist of note during the followmg two decades. But it is a most interesting fact that the first pianist of distinction whom I heard perform was a Now Zealander who hailed from Dunedin.. Is there, perchance, any reader of this column who can remember local musical events of 1888-90? If so, he or she will inevitably recall that remarkable pianist, Ralph Stuart Hood, who, forty years ago, left this, his native city, to try his luck in London. T leel fully warranted in asserting that, had his character been as .strong as his talent, young Hood might have risen to almost any height of fame—conceivably ho could have challenged even the great Paderewski himself, who, in the same year, made Ids initial bid for public favour.

. lu several respects the two men were similar; each had a romantic, fiery temperament, immense musical ardour and insight, combined with a phenomenal command of the keyboard; whilst the heads of both were _ encompassed by a mass of red-gold hair that in the case of one of them paved the way to international notoriety. But here their physical resemblance ceased, and the moral likeness never began—for surely, than Ralph Hood, no musician was ever more pronouncedly the victim of what has been cuplnustically' termed the eccentricity of genius. The hypersensitive, sympathetic nature of the musical temperament seems to be particularly vulnerable to attacks from undesirable impulses unless securely lodged within the stronghold of impeccable self-con-trol, and history records that erratic tendencies aro not the solo prerogative of musical proclivity. “ Physician, heal thyself,” would seem to be an axiom more especially applicable to the idiosyncrasies of supreme talent.

Hood gave several pianoforte recitals in the Prince’s Hall, London, during the spring of 1890, and but for the unfortunate coincidence of Paderewski’s first appearances in the same season no doubt lie would have achieved a much bigger success than that actually recorded. As it was, he made a most favourable impression on the London critics, and seemed in a fair way to bo launched upon a very promising career ; but his natural instability proved his undoing. After a few more sporadic concerts he subsided into teaching, until his general weakness and unreliability caused even that resource to fail him. Ultimately sinking into oblivion. Ralph Stuart Hood died miserably, in the Folkestone Workhouse, at the agp of thirty-five. Personally, I owe his memory a debt of gratitude, for it was he Who first awakened in me the appreciation of pianoforte virtuosity, and revealed to my young susceptibilities the manifold beauties of Chopin, whose music he was by nature peculiarly endowed to interpret. In fact, I can honestly say that, although 1 ha ve since heard many much greater pianists, no artist in niy recollection over gave such absolutely satisfying performances of the Polish master’s compositions.

Of Ralph Hood’s early life in New Zealand I have no knowledge. He told mo he came from Dunedin; but where, or with whom, he studied I have not the least idea. At the time of his departure from this city he was about twenty-three or four years old, and it is most probably that ho gave recitals here before leaving, so that _ there should exist some records of his performances, in print at least, if not in living memory. At all events, _ 1 can assure those who take pride in tho artistic ■‘achievements of native sons and daughters, that Dunedin produced—in tho person of Ralph Stuart Hood—one of the most gifted and remarkable personalities it has been my lot to en-counter-—one who, with the grace of God, might have attained to an _ honoured position in the galaxy of international stars. “Ah uno disce omnes.

This is a year of musical anniversaries. May 27 was the ninetieth of Paganini’s death, whilst on November 6 next Paderewski will celebrate his seventieth birthday. The centenaries of Hans von Bulow and Anton Rubinstein also occur this year; and on July 27 that eccentric .veteran, Vladimir do Pachmanu, will be eightytwo not out, and still alternately delighting and convulsing huge audiences by his antics at the piano. I have often wondered why do Pachmann’s recitals are not designated as “ novelty turns.” There is a gentleman in Wellington who occasionally obliges at Sunday night concerts under that heading, his speciality taking tho form of playing tho piano whilst standing upon his head, an effort which, if not overwhelmingly artistic, at least arouses enthusiastic applause from the musically invertebrate. Do Pachmanu does not go quite so far in the direction of acrobatics, but his facial contortions and soto voce interjections have added much to the gaiety of nations.

When I look back down the years the glory of departed days becomes increasingly hallowed. Despite the frequency of such appellations as “ The world’s greatest pianist,” or “ The finest living violinist,” 1 am inclined to tho opinion that, with one or two exceptions tho level of virtuosity, is not so high to-day as it was thirty years ago. Taking pianists first, such players as Paderewski (at his best, not as he is now), Siloti, d’Albert, Rosenthal, Sauer, Sapellnikofi', and Madame Carreno have few, if any, equals among tho present generation. Of course, I shall be told that tho “ great ” Backhaus is a living proof to tho contrary, but, notwithstanding the vogue of this performer, and tho assiduity of his Press agents, I cannot accept tho extravagant estimate of his powers held by some admirers. I have listened most carefully to his performances, both on the platform and from the gramophone, and 1 fail to discover in them —judged on the highest plane—the omnipotence one would expect after reading newspaper eulogies. When last in Dunedin, Backhaus essayed, op one of his programmes, Brahm’s ‘ Variations on a Theme by Paganini,’ an enormously difficult work, composed especially for Mom Rosenthal, probably the finest technician since Liszt, whose memorable playing thereof made Backhaus’s struggles with it almost puerile by comparison. » • * • It must not bo imagined that I am decrying the modern artists, within their limitations they perform sometimes very finely, bub qf present; day

pianists T should place only Rachmaninoff among the mighty ones I have named—and even ho is not a young man—whilst of violinists wo may perhaps regard Hcifetzf, Rode, Spivakowsjii, and Menuhin as being solely representative of the younger school worthy to rank with Joachim, Ysaye, Surasate, Wilhel], and the pre-war Kreisler—that is, in point of view of technical attainment. Intellectually, I believe Ysaye, old as he is, would still hold his own against any of them. Listen to his record of Kreisler!s ‘ Caprice Viennois,’ and you will perforce acknowledge the truth of this asseveration; whilst, among records of departed players, Surasate’s ‘ Zigcunerueisen ’ still stands as a supremo monument to the art of the violin virtuoso.