By 1858, Brahms had his First Piano Concerto ready for performance. He was then only 25. Beethoven had died three decades earlier. Try imagining a 25-year old composer today. Stravinsky–a figure of our time comparable to Beethoven in terms of novelty and influence on subsequent composers–died only 30 years ago. His personality still weighs on today’s new music, and you can still hear echoes of his typical rhythmic signatures in plenty of recent works written by young composers. As mature and striking as it may be, Brahms’ First piano concerto is nonetheless a youthful work, and it conveys his insecurities at the time of its composition, along with his deep devotion to composers of the past. A certain flair for rhetoric inherited from Baroque music and an underlying drama similar to what Mozart expresses in his feverish D minor concerto or Beethoven in his own C minor are just a few of the possible sources of inspiration that hang over Brahms’ Op. 15. It conveys all at once the urgency, exaltation, anguish, and utopian aspirations of youth, combined with a power of invention and “bigger-than-life” dramatic stamina that only a young genius such as Brahms could imagine.
As suggested in the excellent liner notes of this stunning new recording, a personal, human struggle is at work in the piece, and permeates every note of it. How many performances convey that? Too often, in the hands of musicians who have elected routine as an everyday rule, the work becomes a lazy exercise in rewriting, making the music sound like late Brahms: slow, heavy, fat, ceremonious, and, yes, tedious. Monumentality–the concerto does sound monumental–shouldn’t exclude tragic sentiment, care for detail, and pungency. Completed in 1881, the Second concerto had an uncomplicated genesis. It is a fully mature work, combining grace with fully assimilated classicism. Its grandiose breadth, softened by a hint of nostalgia, still requires special treatment: neither too pompous nor too decorative.
Rudolf Buchbinder and Nikolaus Harnoncourt essentially attempt to do for both of Brahms’ masterpieces what Krystian Zimerman has so successfully achieved with the two Chopin piano concertos. They propose performances cleared of any trace of convention, never taking anything for granted, questioning the texts and putting the music back in the right cultural and biographical context. And they don’t simply adjust necklaces of finely chiseled notes: they find answers.
Harnoncourt doesn’t change anything in the score. He just gives every detail, including those usually overlooked, its rightful place in the overall trajectory of the performance. As a specialist in music of the Classical Period–his complete Haydn sonatas for Teldec still count among the best ever recorded–Buchbinder fits well into this conception, offering playing at once bold, well-articulated, and dramatic, but sensitive to sound and balance. Tempos are carefully chosen–spacious in the outer movements but with tension to spare, and on the (relatively) fast side in the central movements to avoid excessive sentimentality and the risk of boredom.
The opening of the First concerto says it all: marvelously assisted by the dark-toned orchestra, Harnoncourt takes a daringly slow tempo and goes on stretching the terrifying first theme like some vision of Dante’s Inferno, savagely underlining the harsh dissonances and the strange clashes between registers and dynamics. Painfully sustained chords in the woodwinds, fierce accents and sudden crescendos from the brass, an intense, lullaby-like lyrical theme played by the strings without vibrato: all of these carefully-drawn details merge into an expression of pain, despair, and suffering, ideally preparing for the entrance of the piano solo. Buchbinder’s rock-solid, no-nonsense, and ultimately introspective playing confers on the music a strong sense of nobility. The effusive Adagio never drags, starting the healing process with a sense of inwardness that again recalls Mozart–note especially the bittersweet moment in a minor key at the movement’s core. The robust, sharp-edged melody of the final Rondo allows the performers a more direct, straight-to-the-point approach. Their pugnacity enlivens Brahms’ rhythmic zest with an almost folksy ruggedness. Swift but not rushed, strong but not heavy, they communicate the young composer’s urge to buoyancy and optimism. This is perhaps the liveliest and most gripping performance of the First concerto committed to tape since Fleisher and Szell’s furious, grandiose, legendary recording.
The same perfect alchemy is at work in the Second concerto. Here the interpretive questions are less problematic–Brahms’ intentions are more transparent–and their realization is closer to perfection. But Buchbinder and Harnoncourt don’t let their attention fail. Again, the conductor uses the interplay between motives and registers to sustain the pulse and give the phrases the right bounce, presenting the orchestral fabric in all its varying facets. The Scherzo offers energy without brutality, while the Andante refuses to surrender to sentimentality, thanks to a comparatively brisk tempo and to the dignified sound of the solo cello. In the final Allegretto grazioso, Buchbinder manages to transform his tone into something lighter and more ingratiating. But be warned: these well-recorded live performances are not for the faint-hearted or the conservative. Those who listen without prejudice, however, will find them endlessly fascinating, moving, and incredibly rewarding. [Editor’s Note: These two concertos are now available on separate single CDs, in couplings with the Two Rhapsodies Op. 79 and Four Ballades Op. 10.]
