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....