Although Sergei Rachmaninov considered himself first and foremost a composer, the last two decades of his life found him knee-deep in his “second career” as a touring concert pianist and recording artist. In 1992, RCA Gold Seal brought out all of Rachmaninov’s recorded performances in a 10-disc set, now reprinted as a space-saving budget box. Astute collectors will note the absence of composite “alternate take” performances of the Beethoven Op. 30 No. 3 sonata with Fritz Kreisler and Rachmaninov’s own Second Concerto (both released on Biddulph), as well as an earlier, rejected recording of the Bach/Rachmaninov Preludio that eventually came to light in a later RCA compilation. However, the most glaring gaffe concerns the total absence of discographical information that RCA generously provided for the 1992 set and its 1973 LP precedent. This is inexcusable. How can a listener peruse the table of contents and try to ascertain the provenance of works Rachmaninov recorded more than once? A reprint is in order, and not soon enough.
Aside from his justly famous, intensely idiosyncratic renditions of the Chopin Second Sonata and Schumann Carnaval, Rachmaninov’s recorded solo repertoire mostly consists of short, encore-type works that fit comfortably on one or two 78-rpm sides. This had more to do with marketing than art. Whereas RCA Victor’s British affiliate HMV busied itself with projects such as Schnabel’s Beethoven Sonatas, Fischer in Bach’s Well Tempered Clavier, or complete Chopin and Schumann cycles with Cortot, it’s a shame that U.S. Victor didn’t preserve Rachmaninov’s interpretations of the large-scale works with which he triumphed in concert (Beethoven’s Op. 111 and the Liszt Sonata, for example).
It’s also known that Victor turned down Rachmaninov’s suggestions that his last concert tour be recorded, and that he and Vladimir Horowitz record his Suites for Two Pianos. On the other hand Rachmaninov’s services did not come cheap, nor did his perfectionist attitude toward the recording process. Yet whether in great or small works, just about every performance attests to Rachmaninov’s powerful recreative personality and titanic workmanship. Whose jaws have not dropped upon hearing his casual dispatch of Henselt’s murderous double-note etude, “Si Oiseau J’Etais”? What other pianist nails the treacherous skips in the Scherzo of Chopin’s B-flat minor sonata with such unassailable authority? Who else can hurl the octaves in Chopin’s C-sharp minor Scherzo with the same subjective intensity (maybe Argerich, but just maybe)?
Listen to Liszt’s Gnomenreignen or E major Polonaise to sample Rachmaninov’s trademark left-hand thrusts and motoric drive, or hear the two Mendelssohn Etudes for unflappable speed and rock-solid assurance. The “iron hand in a mink glove” cliché aptly applies to Rachmaninov’s perpetually singing tone and aristocratic phrasing that allowed him to shape melodic lines with more authority than many singers. His Schubert song transcriptions bear this out, as well as his infallible support in the three collaborations with Kreisler.
Naturally Rachmaninov’s frequently unorthodox conceptions will unsettle modern listeners in regard to liberties with tempos, dynamics, and sometimes the notes themselves. Yet you always infer that Rachmaninov’s so-called “Romantic” devices are channeled toward specific musical ends. His interpretive “whims” usually sound inevitable rather than capricious. I’m thinking about the Chopin C-sharp minor Waltz, where the rubato appears to be meted out in measured increments, and the middle section is painstakingly yet gorgeously voiced. The pianist’s cannily orchestrated tempo fluctuations throughout Beethoven’s C minor Variations make you regret that the work was abridged to fit across two 12-inch sides.
I often sense that Rachmaninov lavished his most creative interpretations on composers other than himself while playing his own music relatively straight–indeed, indifferently in the Third Concerto (he makes big cuts in the third movement, and strangely jettisons that sublime chromatic sequence eight bars before number 11 in the first movement). Conversely, Rachmaninov conducts his Third Synphony and The Isle of the Dead, obtaining surging brio and textual transparency from the usually lush Philadelphia Orchestra strings.
A great deal of care and restoration savvy went into Ward Marston’s 1992 transfers. Marston told me that his tapes subsequently were processed (not by him) via the CEDAR noise reduction system. They sound fine in and of themselves, but I’ve since heard Rachmaninov transfers boasting more brightness and dynamic impact (Naxos’ edition of the concertos, for example). Notwithstanding my editorial carping, no one who cares about the piano, or the history of early 20th-century performance practice, can ignore Rachmaninov’s imposing, priceless recorded legacy.
