INKPOT#98 CLASSICAL MUSIC REVIEWS: RACHMANINOV Piano Concertos Nos.1-4. Ashkenazy. LSO/Previn (Decca)

Sergei RACHMANINOV (1873-1943)
Piano Concerto No.1 in F-sharp minor, op.1
Piano Concerto No.2 in C minor, Opus 18
Piano Concerto No.3 in D minor, Opus 30
Piano Concerto No.4 in G minor, Opus 40

VLADIMIR ASHKENAZY piano
London Symphony Orchestra
conducted by Andre Previn

DECCA Double 444 839-2
2 CDs [135:28] budget-price

Rachmaninov’s piano concerti have been received in about as many different ways as possible by the classical critics of this century. The First (Opus 1, his graduation project from the St. Petersburg Conservatory) was lauded and respected by pianists and listeners alike. The Second (Opus 18, written with the aid of psychologist Nikolai Dahl after a lengthy depression) was even more popular. The Third (Opus 30) puzzled listeners and pianists alike, who were dismayed by the technical difficulties and the lush, chromatic music fitted over the enormous scale of 45 minutes. The Fourth (Opus 40) was generally trashed as incomplete, poorly scored, and simply bizarre. Yet all four works have remained in the concert repertoire as staples (with the possible exception of the Fourth, which has its staunch apologists and even stauncher critics) since their inceptions.

There are numerous recordings of the complete set of four, and among the most publicly available and well-known are the performances done by Vladimir Ashkenazy with Andre Previn and the London Symphony on various dates from April 1970 to November 1971. Extant in various forms and permutations (Concerto 1 & 4 . . . 2 & 3 . . . 1 & 3 . . . 2 & 4 . . . et. al.), I will consider the double-CD set released in 1989 of all four at once; furthermore, I will only argue Ashkenazy’s performances, and not the concerti themselves. Note that this set was reissued in 1996 on Double Decca, as well as in the Decca Capbox series.

Ashkenazy’s treatment of the First Concerto is a very straightforward, no-nonsense approach. Not very daring, not very unique, it’s still a good, decent, solid recording. More electrifying accounts have been recorded (see Byron Janis or Sviataslov Richter or Howard Shelley) but certainly much duller have been recorded also (see Abby Simon and Tzimon Barto). Much of the problem here is Ashkenazy’s affected sense of timing; often he will apply a rigorous, full tempo rubato to the piece, which blurs the intent, wrapping the music around Ashkenazy and not vice-versa.

The result is a concerto which is more Ashkenazy than Rachmaninov – sure, the notes are Rach’s, but the emotion and control and motives behind the playing are all obviously Ashkenazy. Some sections, in contrast with Rachmaninov’s own recording, are strangely bombastic and overblown (see 3'57 in the first movement with its anomalous dynamic change from soft to LOUD, and the blaringly insistent trills for an example).

However, Ashkenazy’s adoption of this piece isn’t all that bad – he is a fantastic pianist, and applies his talents to full-effect here. His fingers are more than up to the challenge, and the playing is never muddled or unclear. The cadenza is fast and furious, and his fleet, strong fingerwork expresses the music very well, although it comes across so quickly one might wish for a slightly slower tempo to get the full feeling of the gigantic crashing chords and quicksilver arpeggiations.

The second movement is very sublime and bucolic, with strong oriental flavours abound. His glowing piano tone (which is a little thin and lacking in substance throughout both discs, more the sound engineers fault than the pianists) is superb and effective here, filled with languor and nostalgia. The orchestra follows along nicely, although the sound is curiously thick, a painful contrast to the lean piano timbre mentioned earlier; there is little or no equality between the two.

The third movement, with its huge crashing introduction between orchestra and piano, is curiously lackluster here. There is little sense of urgency or drama, as seen in other recordings. Ashkenazy plays this entire movement with more relaxed sense of tempo, accenting instead the piano writing rather than the emotion. Unfortunately, all throughout the glorious finale, the LSO overshadows the piano and I was left with a clearly inverted feeling that Ashkenazy is accompanying the symphony, and not the other way around.

The Second Concerto, probably one of the five most popular piano concerti in the world (the other four being the Beethoven Fifth, the Schumann, the Grieg, and the Mozart Twenty-First) is here done justice by a strong and successful mixture of profound pathos and glossy Romanticism.

The famous opening is brooding and gloomy, and Ashkenazy does well to let the lower registers of the piano naturally boom forth and underline the orchestra’s theme. However, he tends to lean a bit hard on the pedals, and sometimes this results in a muddied passage or two (see around 1:11 how unclear the bass notes are and how they tend to blur together); yet when the beautiful second subject in introduced, this overriding darkness is cast aside for a more bittersweet melancholy theme, in E-flat, which Ashkenazy plays without too much sugary sweetness, and just the right amount of emotion. There are portions here when the slender piano sound is again detrimental to the emotional content, but only truly fussy audiophiles, who have listened to scores of recordings of this piece, will cast this recording in a negative light because of it.

One plus of the audio engineering is that while the piano may sound distanced and slim, whenever Ashkenazy plays a complex chord all the notes can be distinguished, which can often serve to help highlight the harmony. The repeated struggle between episodes of darkness and episodes of sweetness continue until the very final measures.

The second movement begins with a short and rustic orchestral opening, then gives way to a sweeping and intimate set of figurations played by the piano. Ashkenazy plays them in a very understated way, which I found charming although sometimes a bit too quiet, because the orchestra again here is recorded too loudly and tends to overpower him. The tender second subject isn’t treated with an abundance of sensitivity (as Richter and Entremont tended to do) but is exquisite and wistful nevertheless. The cadenza is played very masterfully here, with a tasteful fading of the arpeggiated chords leading to the trills, and a thoughtful well-played denouement. The highly dramatic right hand chords in the finale of the second movement are played well, and the movement finishes with a strong sense of closure.

The third movement, with its playful orchestration and bursting piano figures, is again done with a strong and unmitigated sense of rubato which here actually serves to accent the emotively significant highpoints of the score. The illustrious second theme is treated very calmly here, an approach which I like. Too many pianists tend to gloss this section up and make it a huge glaring symbol for all piano romance, a move which defeats its own purpose; the beauty here is to be found in its simplicity and plaintive nature, which Ashkenazy understands well. As he continues through the movement, his piano is again overwhelmed by Previn. The volume of the orchestra and the volume of the piano are sadly out of alignment, though not terribly so; still, a casual listener will notice this as he strains to make out what the left hand is playing, or even sometimes both hands together pounding away.

Another questionable artistic move is to almost halt the movement at about 7'45, which creates a tedious and wooden atmosphere, where I wanted to say “COME ON, ALREADY!” The finale of the concerto, however, contains a great deal of movement and somewhat makes up for this strange lack of tempo. The final four beats (standing for “Rach-man-in-noff”) are powerful and conclude a strong, albeit curious, performance of the concerto.

This 1972 performance of the Third Concerto is far poorer than Ashkenazy’s debut recording with Fistoulari conducting, but is still B quality. Avid Rachmaninov fans will want to look for the Horowitz/Reiner pairing from 1951 (available at mid-price on RCA/Victor) or the harder to find but equally intense, demonic, frenzied performance of Alexis Weissenberg with Peitre conducting. But this recording does have a few appealing qualities.

A major flaw is the sound engineering (as noted earlier); the piano tone is too thin and reedy, even with the big lush chordal segments. This poor transfer to CD is a serious detriment to the recording, and even casual listeners will notice some breakup in louder passages and lament the skinny and glassy piano sound. Additionally, Previn is a bit too zealous here, playing at a faster tempo than that which Ashkenazy sets, and also tends to overpower him also. Sadly, this occurs through all three movements. But the interpretation is very thoughtful (as most Ashkenazy is) and many of the slower sections benefit from this extensively; however, the speedier passages, requiring fleet fingers, are very thick and ponderous and perhaps would benefit from a less cerebral reading.

A brief note must be made about the cadenza – Ashkenazy opts for the grandiose and very thunderous ossia which Rachmaninov added later, to fit in with the epic scope and mood of the movement. Many performers choose this (including the legendary Van Cliburn rendition, well worth a listen), but Ashkenazy’s is markedly lacking in depth – there is a small amount of pathos, but most of it falls victim to his curious phrasing and strange rhythms. Rarely is there a unified drive to the music, as found elsewhere.

The second movement, as in the corresponding movement of the Second Concerto, opens with restless strings playing a lovely wistful melody nestled quietly in a fertile garden of full orchestral accompaniment. Ashkenazy enters with the famous downward chromatic octaves at 2:32, and plays the ensuing arabesques with a beautiful tender affection. This section is what benefits the most from his thoughtful insights and tender view, and even the poor piano sound does not detract. The third movement is broad and lush, but here the keyboard resonance is worst of all, especially in the finale, around 14:00 and thereafter, it’s pitiful that Ashkenazy’s noble playing is downgraded by such pitiful sound.

The Fourth Concerto, long regarded as a poor, weak, underdeveloped, overly edited work, is given a good treatment here, and the only real setback is the piano sound and the unusually slow tempi taken by Previn; Ashkenazy can be heard to struggle against the sluggish orchestra at times.

In summary, Decca/London’s absolutely horrid piano sound sets this otherwise recommendable collection back a great deal, pushing it into “for rabid Ashkenazy fans only.” Maybe people wanting to collect every known recording of the Rachmaninov concerti will also want this, but that’s about it; sadly, Ashkenazy’s insightful, thoughtful performances are badly hampered by an overpowering orchestra, and his own idiosyncrasies tend to distract the listener rather than enhance the listen. Fans of the pianist or the composer will want to look elsewhere: this pairing, with some exception, is sadly sub par.

Evan Stephens wrote this while simultaneously conducting all nine Mahler symphonies in succession – no easy feat!