Julius Katchen - Great Pianists of the 20th Century (1998)

I grew up with, and have always loved, Katchen’s 1960s recordings of the Brahms sonatas, but for some reason I had never heard his 1949 F minor, which BM’s excellent essay claims was the first ever piano LP. I hope I can be excused for being so totally bowled over by it now. I was prepared for the fieriness and poetry of the first movement (how splendidly the octaves ignite at the beginning of the development!) and for a compelling vision of the whole. But the slow movement’s combination of beguiling sound, airborne phrasing and symphonic paragraphing was a revelation, as were the waves of passion which engulf the finale. In fact Katchen plays each of the five movements as to the manner born, calling to mind Schumann’s eulogy: “We heard the most genial playing, which made an orchestra out of the piano. There were sonatas, more like disguised symphonies ….”
I wanted to grab the nearest person off the street and make them listen with me. But I wonder if this colossal performance spoiled me for the rest of the programme. It all has immense character, but apart from the Brahms at the end nothing quite hit the spot. Katchen certainly makes a good case for Ned Rorem’s Sonata, a pastiche-Gallic affair which in less temperamental and skilful hands would almost certainly sound merely insipid. Elsewhere I sense a tendency to go for extremes for their own sake rather than out of inner conviction. It’s like riding with the owner of a six-litre car who’s happy to demonstrate its near-inaudibility and super-smooth road-holding at speed but can’t resist aggressive lane-jumping in normal traffic.
The Mendelssohn Prelude and Fugue eventually tips over into Wagnerian hyperbole, while the Introduction and rondo capriccioso is treated (enjoyably, I don’t deny) as a pretext for flash-fingered display, as is, more justifiably, the Liszt Rhapsody. Not many pianists would dare to deliver Islamey with such delirious abandon, and the central section is fabulously atmospheric. Whether the last few pages come off depends on personal tolerance levels, however; at these tempos they’re inevitably something of a smash and grab affair.
The Franck Prelude is unfolded patiently and with marvellously natural rhetorical presence; but the Choral blares out very fiercely, as if challenging the instrument to stay in tune (which it doesn’t). Similarly the two Chopin pieces have the feeling of one-off, showstopping encores designed to bring the house down, rather than considered interpretations for repeated listening.
In these instances the recording quality must be partly to blame, because the Brahms Variations sound immediately warmer and less concerned with effect. They are all the better for Katchen’s letting the climaxes grow organically rather than screaming them out. And the Hungarian Dances are pure joy: Brahms without the beard, with a spring in his step and a twinkle in his eye.
What all this means, I feel, is that Katchen played music on his own terms rather than the composer’s. He was a big enough artist to get away with that most of the time, and when the temperamental affinity was particularly strong, as with early Brahms, the results were well-nigh incomparable.'