The Composer Who Tangled with an Umbrella Stand

He’s a composer who doesn’t have listeners, but rather fans. As in fanatics…

Proof, you ask?

“Alkan’s piano trio is probably the greatest ever written,” wrote one customer reviewing a CD.

Well, I’m listening to the work as I write this, and yes, it’s impressive. It’s inventive and fresh—but is it better than the Archduke of Beethoven, the opus 8 of Brahms (don’t let the low opus number throw you—it’s a mature work)? There are a lot of great piano trios out there.

And Alkan writes both wonderfully lyrically for the strings and fiendishly virtuosically for the piano. In fact, that may be part of why Alkan is so little known—most pianists fear that he’s a composer only for the most technically gifted. And really, if you’re going to go to the trouble of learning a truly fearsome piece, wouldn’t you choose the Liszt B Minor, and not some devilish piece by an unknown?

(Speaking of Liszt, he once remarked to a Danish composer that Alkan possessed the greatest technique he—Liszt—had ever known….)

At any rate, the piano trio is a knockout—check it out below.

But Alkan composed a lot of pieces that are haunting—and not at all difficult. Here’s one—Le Temps qui n’est plus—that even an average pianist could easily play….

Then there’s a wonderful nocturne that rivals anything that Chopin produced… 
   

Alkan had an interesting life. He was born into a Jewish family--his grandfather was a printer who printed the Talmud--and remained a practicing Jew all his life. But more than that, for a period of time, he retreated from society and translated into French from the original languages the Old and New Testament.

And why did he retreat? He had, after all, been a child prodigy, he enjoyed friendships with Berlioz, Liszt, and especially Chopin, who gave him a manuscript to complete on piano technique. That was the first blow; the second was not being appointed head of the piano department at the Paris Conservatory. It went to a man with better connections, and a gentile as well. And so from 1848 to 1872, Alkan essentially withdrew from society, and from the concert stage.

And then--just as mysteriously--he reappeared for the last fifteen years of his life. And his death? The legend is that a tall bookcase crushed him, as he endeavored to replace a volume on an upper shelf. The reality appears to be that he may have had a heart attack, reached out for support to a very tall umbrella stand / foyer mirror, which fell and toppled onto him.

At any rate, he languished as a composer, and became a very much niche interest. You knew him and loved him or you didn't. Nothing in between.

Well, except for me. Here isthe first movement of Alkan's Cello Sonata--you decide....

Beautiful Wrong Music

“Every note was wrong, and every note was beautiful,” said one musician about a performance he or she had just attended.

Which is how I feel about the piece below—the Bach sonata in C major. And why, you ask, is it wrong?

Well, it violates the current thinking about what is known as “historically informed performance.” And that is?

Well, start with the instruments. The modern violin is much louder and more strident than its baroque equivalent. More, it would have had gut strings, unlike the modern steel or whatever metal strings. The bow would be shaped differently, and held differently as well. Obviously—no piano, as in this performance from 1951, but instead a harpsichord.

The tuning would be different, as well—the benchmark A of 440 vibrations per second would fall to about 420, and that would produce a more mellow sound. There would be much less vibrato—the wavering sound produced by a violinist slight shaking of the fingers. Long, sustained notes would start relatively softer in volume, swell slightly, and then diminish to the volume it started. The beginnings of notes—called the articulation—would be different. And in historically informed performance, there would be much more ornamentation—trills, grace notes, shakes—than in so-called “traditional” performance.

So here you have two of the great 20^th century violinist—the father and son team of David and Igor Oistrakh strong-arming their way through Bach.

And then, eight years later, the Oistrakhs had another go at it—and you can tell that somebody had gotten to them. Gone was the piano, in was the harpsichord. But is it really better? To my mind—no. The keyboard is fully the equal in this piece, and not some background accompaniment. But the piano you can hear, especially in the fast movements; the harpsichord get lost, it’s no match for these two heavy handed violinists.

But you be the judge: 

OK, here’s the piece as performed in an “historically informed performance.” And you’ll want to know—what’s the instrument the guy in the middle of the trio playing?

Well, it turns out that it’s called a viola de spalla, and if you didn’t know of it until now, don’t worry: neither did I. In fact, it was just re-discovered in 2004, and the gentleman—who looks as if central casting was having a spectacular day—playing it in this clip is the venerable Sigiswald Kuijken, one of the great names in historically informed performance.

OK—will I go to musical hell for saying this? It may be correct, but it’s missing something. The fast movements are fine—they’re fun and rollicking. But the slow movements?

Look, a piece of music is not a pill, something to be swallowed to make you better. And there’s a place for lyricism and musicality in any age, and in any way you play it. And however incorrect the Oistrakhs were, their slow movements were—well, moving. In this performance, the slow movements were only correct.

Oh, and guess what? The piece isn’t Bach, but a student of Bach—Johann Gottlieb Goldberg.

Name ring a bell? Yup—he gave his name to the Goldberg variations……