Pietro Beltrani, Tommaso Ussardi, Orchestra Senzaspine - Rachmaninov: Piano Concerto No. 3, Barcarolle in G Minor, Liebesleid (2021)

Seemingly, the three works recorded in this Da Vinci Classics album may be thought to have in common just their composer, Sergej Rachmaninov. Indeed, it would be difficult to find three more different works in his entire output: the most gigantic of his Piano Concertos is juxtaposed to two much shorter pieces, one of which is a transcription and the other is a youthful composition.
Yet, there is an important element binding the three pieces, and one which endows this CD with a meta-textual quality: all three of the pieces recorded here have been recorded also by the composer himself.
Until the late nineteenth century, it was the rule – rather than the exception – for a famous composer to be also a great virtuoso of his or her own instrument, or at least a performer of a professional standing, capable of premiering many of their own works. In the field of pianism, the names of Chopin or Liszt come immediately to one’s mind; but even though few other composers could boast such a pianistic proficiency as that of these two musicians, most were capable of successfully playing at least one instrument on the concert stage.
Throughout the nineteenth century, this identification between composer and performer began to fade, and several of the great Romantic composers abandoned the performing career very early, in order to dedicate themselves primarily or exclusively to composition.
This paradigmatic shift was also determined by the unique circumstances of Beethoven’s life and by the myth which soon came to surround his figure. The Romantic era identified Beethoven with the creative genius par excellence; however, as is well known, his deafness forced him to retire from his activity as a virtuoso pianist, and to entrust many premieres of his piano works to some of his pupils and colleagues.
In his wake, many exponents of the great Romantic symphonic tradition could be the protagonists of the first performances of their orchestral works, but would not attempt to seat on the piano stool for the premieres of their Piano Concertos.
Thus, a curious phenomenon can be observed: in parallel with the development of the recording techniques, which (from piano rolls to the first disks) allow us to study the performance practices of the past, the recordings of piano works interpreted by their composer are comparatively sparse. Still, many valuable recordings remain available, dating both from the pioneering era of music recording and from the later decades, when recording techniques became increasingly sophisticated.
Their availability has now reached a previously unimaginable dissemination, since a very high percentage of these early recordings are easily found on the internet. As a consequence, the question is often asked about the status of these documents not only “as historical witnesses”, but also as artistic paradigms. Should a composer’s performance of a piece be considered on the same plane as the score? Or even as more important than the written text? Or else as just one performance among all others?
In the case of composers whose performing skills were below the concert standard of their times, the question is more easily answered; it becomes more pressing, however, when the pianist is an extraordinary performer such as Sergei Rachmaninov.
Indeed, Rachmaninov can be said to have shared the fate of Ferruccio Busoni, another of the last great virtuoso pianists cum composers who lived in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century. Both, in fact, felt their fame as excellent concert musicians to be a doom rather than a boon. Both constantly strove to be recognized for their gifts and skills as composers; audiences and critics alike, however, constantly compared their feats as performers with those as composers, to the detriment of their written output.
In Rachmaninov’s case, this dualism had shown itself very early. A very gifted and promising boy, Rachmaninov at first lacked the discipline needed in order to succeed in the musical life. Therefore, he was entrusted to the – almost military – care of Zverev, a famously strict and demanding piano teacher in Moscow, under whose guidance Rachmaninov acquired the formidable technique for which he would become famous. However, after years of discipleship, Rachmaninov and Zverev quarreled precisely because of the young musician’s growing interest in composition, a discipline he was studying under the expert supervision of Sergey Taneyev and Nikolay Arensky.
The young musician completed his studies in piano and in composition almost in parallel, and some of his early works attracted the attention of audiences and professionals alike. His Prelude in C-sharp minor, written approximately at the time of his graduation in composition, immediately rose to the fame which it still enjoys; moreover, some of Rachmaninov’s most ambitious youthful works earned him the wholehearted appreciation of no less a musician than Tchaikovsky. The increasing friendship between Tchaikovsky and Rachmaninov, and the constant championing of the junior composer’s works by his senior, had tempered even the sadness experienced by Rachmaninov on the occasion of Zverev’s death. However, in November 1893 Tchaikovsky himself would die, depriving the panorama of Russian music and culture of its reference figure, and young Rachmaninov of a benevolent and powerful godfather.
In spite of this, Rachmaninov would soon find the right mood for composing his seven Morceaux de salon, written between the end of 1893 and the beginning of 1894. Their very title reveals their conception as pieces seeking popularity: their premiere was given by Rachmaninov himself on January 31st, 1894, side by side with the much more intense and structured Second Piano Trio, possibly intended as a homage to the recently deceased Tchaikovsky. At their heart is the G-minor Barcarolle, of which – as previously said – a performance by the composer has been preserved in recording. Although the title’s reference is openly Chopinesque, the choices in texture and scoring are markedly different from those of Chopin, and the evocation of water suggests some proximity between Rachmaninov and the aesthetics of some “Impressionist” composers. Still, the clear intensity of the underlying tune is much more defined than those found in the coeval French tradition; indeed, the simple and singing tune proposed in the beginning seems to come from the same mold as the extremely famous opening theme of the much later Third Piano Concerto.
It is to the Viennese tradition that Rachmaninov pays homage with his transcription after Fritz Kreisler’s extremely successful Liebesleid, published by the violinist as the second of his three Alt-Wiener Tanzweisen. In the original version, the “joy” of love (Liebesfreud) is contrasted with love’s pangs (Liebesleid), and both are followed by the delightful Schön Rosmarin. Kreisler and Rachmaninov were friends and frequently performed together; indeed, Kreisler realized a successful transcription after the second movement of Rachmaninov’s Second Piano Concerto, calling it Preghiera.
In fact, the religious dimension should not be downplayed within Rachmaninov’s output. Among the greatest masterpieces issued from his pen are certainly the Liturgy of St. John Chrysostom and the Vespers, magnificent examples of Russian liturgical music. Yet, arguably, a religious strain can be identified even in the most spectacular of the “secular” pieces he wrote, such as the Piano Concertos. If Kreisler’s Preghiera is inspired by the Second Concerto, also in the Third (particularly in the Finale) it is possible to identify elements which might refer to a hymnodic structure. Even in the folklike-style of the opening theme of the first movement there is a hint of “religious” modalism, although the most obvious reference is to Russian folklore. Doubtlessly, however, the Russian folk tradition is hardly distinguishable from the Orthodox imprint of Russian country life, whose religiosity intertwines inextricably with daily experiences.
It comes as no surprise, therefore, that the Russian premiere of this mammoth and extremely demanding Concerto was more successful than the world premieres, given by Rachmaninov during his tour of the US in 1909. The work’s composition had taken place during the summer months of the same year, in the estate of his wife’s family at Ivanovka. The composer had clearly tailored the piece to his own pianistic skills (to the point of favouring this Concerto over the preceding one, generally less difficult but, in the composer’s words, somewhat more “uncomfortable”). He premiered it in New York, on November 28th, 1909, with the New York Symphony Orchestra under the baton of Walter Damrosch; less than three weeks later, he would perform it again in the same city, conducted by one of the greatest composers of the era, Gustav Mahler. Mahler, who was probably the most important living symphonists, was clearly appreciative of the compositional skills of his younger colleague, and demonstrated his high professional interest in the work by rehearsing the Concerto painstakingly and meticulously. In spite of this, the American reception of the Concerto was mixed: only later, thanks to Rachmaninov’s own performances in Russia, and to the championing of this masterpiece by younger pianists (such as Vladimir Horowitz) would the Concerto achieve the immense popularity it still deservedly enjoys.

Chiara Bertoglio © 2021