THOUGHTS ABOUT MUSIC

Evening Star, Issue 22953, 10 May 1938, Page 13

THOUGHTS ABOUT MUSIC

[By L.D.A.]

Music gives tone to the universe ; wings to the mind; flight to the imagination j* a charm to sadness; and gaiety and life to everything.—Plato. The great majority of pianists throughout the world, and, probably, also the majority of music lovers, are of opinion that Franz Liszt was the master pianist of all time; in addition, it is generally taken for granted that he wrote the most difficult and brilliant music for the piano, invented many of its technical complexities, and was chiefly responsible for enlarging its scope and pushing to the extremes of practicability its executive resources. While I still believe in the first of these propositions, my faith in Liszt as the pioneer of purely virtuoso piano music has been rudely shattered by a recent article in a London paper. The writer of this makes it quite clear that Liszt was to a large extent an imitator and follower rather than an originator, aiid that the man whom Liszt imitated and followed was a great French pianist and composer named Charles Valentin Morhange, who was born in 1813 and died in 1888. For some strange reason not explained, however, he elected to be known only by the assumed name, Alkan. * * * * • Here are some of the things that were said and written about Alkan during his lifetime by competent judges: “He is an outstanding genius whose neglect and obscurity form one of the queerest puzzles in the history of music.” “He has a mind comparable with that of Berlioz.” “ He ranks with Chopin, Schumann, and Brahms as a composer for the piano.” Yet, with all this, Alkan is little more than an inconspicuous name to a vast proportion of present-day musicians. Now and then one sees a short piece by Alkan on a pianist’s programme, but it is usually one of the less important works, such as ‘Le Vent’ (‘The Wind’), a concert study which I remember hearing Baxter Buckley play years ago. Beyond that, I myself have never neard a note of Alkan’s voluminous compositions, notwithstanding my years-long experience of concertgoing in Europe. We now learn, on the authority of the London writer aforesaid, that in 1903 a number of Alkan’s smaller works were played m Berlin by Busoni. But until 1938 no pianist has been found with the capacity and. courage—not to mention physical endurance —to perform _ Alkan’s big, representative compositions; and this pianist is, perhaps needless to say, Egon _ Petri. A few weeks ago British listeners were thrilled and astonished by a broadcast of this marvellous music from the hands of the world’s now admittedly foremost pianist. No wonder the London critics have been saying that “Petri stands head and shoulders above every living exponent of the piano.” But to return to Alkan. He, undoubtedly, was a pioneer. In the ’2o’s and ’3o’s of last century continued improvements in keyboard mechanism, and pianoforte construction generally, produced a.crop of wonderful executants, among whom the leaders were Thalberg, Moscheles, Ci’araer, and Tausig; but Liszt towered above them all; moreover, he turned out shoals of piano “fantasias” and “etudes” which seemed to have all the elements of novelty and which, conseqently, attained much popularity. Actually, however, he was even then merely copying the example of Alkan, who had previously published a work, or series of works, called ‘ Concerti da Camera,’ wherein appeared most of the technical devices since identified solely with Liszt—bravura octavo passages, interlocking trills in chords, and widespread, sweeping arpeggios. But this was only a beginning. In his later works Alkan developed the digital expediency of the piano to limits never reached before or since. His transcriptions for the piano of orchestral works are said to be even richer in effect than those of Liszt, and certain of his studies present difficulties, according to a leading authority, “ nowhere else to be found, effects peculiar to the piano, and carried to the very verge of impossibility.”

So it would seem that Alkan is unquestionably a unique technician. Nobody disputes his supreme eminence as a composer of works which only one pianist in a generation is able satisfactorily to perform. Whether Alkan stands equally high from the purely musical standpoint is another matter. Opinions differ about this. One critic writes of Alkan’s “ bold tone-painting, structural purity, depth of imagery, and Mojairtinn precision,” and calls him the “ Berlioz of the piano while another asserts that “ Alkan’s creative powers are insufficiently abundant, being speculatively inventive rather than spontaneously creative, and happier in the presentation of ideas than in their conception.” Another writer is equally convinced that “ Alkan’s music has an elemental driving power, and contains an unusual harmonic vocabulary, vivid description, and huge, highly-coloured and imaginative frescoes . . . There is drama in his music, sometimes tragedy. And there is occasional commonplace. Too often his expansion of the technical means at the expense of the basic idea results in a certain hollowness that approaches perilously near to mere bombast.” • 0 • • • Well, “ yer pays yer motfey, and yer takes yer choice.” I. think we may safely leave the erudite critics to fight out these abstruse matters among themselves. What we do know for certain, after reading the reports of Egon Petri’s recent performances, is that Alkan has written some astounding masterpieces. Anyone with an eye for musical effect on paper will find his hair standing on end as he contemplates the pages of Alkan’s monumental ‘ Twelve Studies in Minor Keys ’ and ‘ Twelve Studies in Major Keys.’ The former are the more important; they fill two largo volumes, and are truly terrifying in their bristling array of prodigious technical demands. But considerations of mere technique are by no means their sole “raison d’etre”; numbers 4-7 of the first set make up a consecutive work in sonata form, which, it is said, transcends anything else of the kind—even Liszt’s titanic B minor sonata. Then, in numbers 8-10, wo find a concerto, wherein the soloist plays with an imaginary orchestra which is heard through the same medium—viz., only 10 fingers are employed to reproduce both solo and accompaniment. “ This,” says the commentator, “ is probably the most difficult piano score in existence.” The first movement alone runs to 72 pages, “ filled with every imaginable, and unimaginable, pianistic obstacle, and callihir Tor almost superhuman mechanical perfection besides' oxhaustless powers of bodily endurance.”-,

The extraordinary thing about all this previously never-heard music is that so little is known regarding its composer. Even Grove’s 1 Dictionary ’ tells us next to nothing of Alkan, the man. We learn that at 17 he was considered an accomplished virtuoso, and that before he reached 30 he was deemed worthy of comparison with Liszt and Chopin, ns an executant; but the record practically ends there, and be does not seem to have played anywhere publicly after 1840. Of course, we know that Liszt, too, withdrew from the career of virtuoso at about the same period, but he still remained much in the public eye, whereas Alkan apparently vanished into strict seclusion, though he lived to the age of 75. Since he died, his music, as I have indicated, has remained firmly shelved—and for a very good reason, seemingly; no pianist, until this year, has been found capable of playing it in its entirety. Now Egon Petri steps boldly into the arena and demonstrates triumphantly to a world incredulously agape that this impossibly difficult piano music is not beyond human endeavour. Having thus vindicated his right to be classed as the world’s greatest living pianist, let ns hope it will not be long before Petri’s magnificent genius attracts attention trom touring impresarios and radio authorities. We want to hear, and see Egon Petri in Australia and New Zealand very soon.