Liszt’s First Piano Concerto

Dinu Lipatti recorded only two piano concertos for EMI – the Grieg and Schumann Concertos, both in A Minor, and both mainstays of the repertoire. While the Grieg has its more virtuosic side, somehow Lipatti’s lyricism and musicality have overshadowed his more stunning technical feats in this performance, leaving pianophiles with the impression that he wasn’t the kind of pianist who could play real showpieces. In the digital age and through this blog and other publications it is becoming more known that Lipatti played 23 works for piano and orchestra of all kinds. One of the works that figured in his repertoire for the longest was Liszt’s First Piano Concerto.

Lipatti first played the work in 1933 in Bucharest, and famously performed it with Mengelberg a decade later. Apparently when Lipatti came on the stage for the first rehearsal, Mengelberg said “Das ist kein Liszt-spieler” (“That is no Liszt pianist”) – but once the pianist started playing, the conductor soon revised his assessment. Despite his rather slight appearance, Lipatti had strength in spades, and even though his approach to playing was always musical, he was capable of fireworks.

The last time that Lipatti played the work was on June 6, 1947 in Geneva, with the Radio Suisse Romande orchestra conducted by Ernest Ansermet, at a charity concert for the Red Cross. It came to my attention in 1991 that this performance had been recorded and preserved on a set of acetates owned by Lipatti’s widow. I could not fathom at the time – nor can I still – why she possessed this recording yet seems to have made no effort to have it issued: there is not a shred of correspondence relating to its existence in EMI’s archive. Nevertheless, along with other private recordings, these discs found their way into the hands of Dr. Marc Gertsch, a Lipatti fan in Bern who had come to the rescue of Mrs. Lipatti when the Chopin Concerto scandal had erupted (Gertsch had a recording of an authentic performance and let EMI use it once it was discovered that the recording they had released was not of Lipatti). After Mrs Lipatti died in the early 1980s, Gertsch was allowed to go into her collection and take the records he wanted; he did not take them all at once, and when he returned, those he had left were gone… meaning that there are potentially more private recordings that exist in private hands.

The copies of the Liszt Concerto were well worn, having been played multiple times, and the first record was cracked. While there was a backup reel tape, the sound was not very good on it. My colleague Werner Unger of the archiphon record label met with Gertsch in 1992 and took the recordings to remaster them. He spent hours and hours declicking and splicing the first record into an accurate representation of the performance (having heard the unedited transfer of the disc, with the needle jumping and skipping, I am in utter amazement at how he managed). We released the performance for the first time on archiphon’s ‘Les Inedits’ box set release, which featured other unissued Lipatti performances from Gertsch’s collection. Alas, some of the final mastering by one of Unger’s colleagues removed some of the full-bodied sound that had previously been present in the Liszt.

In 2000, Unger and I were in discussion about Lipatti matters and I suggested he ask EMI what they had prepared for the 50th anniversary of Lipatti’s death so that we could release our own commemorative CD. When it became evident that they had completely missed the occasion and not planned to issue anything, they asked us what we had that they could use, and I proposed the Bach-Busoni, Liszt, and Bartok Third Concertos as a single disc. The CD was eventually issued in early 2001, so this glowing performance of Liszt’s First Concerto is now part of Lipatti’s official discography. (I offered to write the booklet notes for the CD but was told that one of their regular writers would do so, and they thanked me for my interest in their project.) Alas, EMI also continued to fiddle with the engineering after we’d approved of one fine transfer, further compressing and deadening the sound.

Regardless of sonic restrictions, the performance reveals some staggering playing on Lipatti’s part, displaying his unique synthesis of thorough technical command and profound, poised musicality. He has a massive dynamic range (recent digital transfers of the Grieg Concerto give a better idea) and plays with peaked phrasing, crisply defined articulation, dramatic emphasis, and elegant rubato. His tempi would be considered spacious by modern standards: in 1930s Paris, he heard Liszt’s pupil Emil von Sauer play both concertos and was impressed with his slower tempi and refined approach. In the third movement, Lipatti achieves the remarkable ‘bounce’ heard on his legendary disc of Ravel’s Alborada del Gracioso, and the cadenza in that movement (starting around 13:07 on the YouTube clip below) is the most convincing I’ve heard: he slows down and plays with a rumbling bass, arching the phrasing of the melody in a truly sinister fashion that seems so natural and obvious that I can’t understand why other pianists haven’t considered this approach.

Lipatti played the Chopin Andante Spianato and Polonaise at the same concert but a recording of that performance has not been found. It is to be hoped that it is among those that went missing from Mrs Lipatti’s collection and will one day be recovered. But fortunately we now have this amazing performance of Liszt’s First Piano Concerto readily available on CD, at iTunes, and on YouTube for all to enjoy.

Dinu Lipatti’s Final Essay – On Interpretation

Below is a draft from May 1950 of a presentation for an Interpretation Course to be held at the Conservatoire de Geneve. Lipatti had planned to give the course with Nadia Boulanger in the Spring of 1951. The text below was found in his papers after his death, and gives a good glimpse of his views towards interpretation.

It is unjustly believed that the music from one era or another must preserve the imprint, the characteristics, and even the vices prevalent at the time this music was created. In thinking this way we have a peaceful conscience and find ourselves incapable of any dangerous misrepresentation. And to reach this objective, for all the effort, for all the research done in the dust of the past, for all the useless scrupulousness towards the ‘sole object of our attention,’ we will always end up drowning it in an abundance of prejudices and false facts. For, let us never forget, true and great music transcends its time and, even more, never corresponded to the framework, forms, and rules in place at the time of its creation: Bach in his work for organ calls for the electric organ and its unlimited means, Mozart asks for the pianoforte and distances himself decisively from the harpsichord, Beethoven demands our modern piano, which Chopin – having it – first gives its colors, while Debussy goes further in presenting through his Preludes glimpses of Martenot’s Wave [i]. Therefore, wanting to restore to music its historical framework is like dressing an adult in an adolescent’s clothes. This might have a certain charm in the context of a historical reconstruction, yet is of no interest to those other than lovers of dead leaves or the collectors of old pipes.

These reflections came to me while recalling the astonishment that I caused some time ago when I played, at a prominent European music festival [ii], Mozart’s D minor Concerto [K. 466] with the magnificent and stunning cadenza that Beethoven made for this work. True, we could sense that the same themes appear differently under Beethoven’s pen than under that of Mozart. But this is exactly wherein lies the appeal of this interesting confrontation between two such different personalities. I regret to say that other than a few enlightened spirits, nobody understood this marriage and everyone suspected that I had composed this vile and anachronistic cadenza!

How right Stravinsky is in affirming that ‘Music is the present’!

Music has to live under our fingers, under our eyes, in our hearts and in our brains with all that we, the living, can offer it.

Far be it for me to promote anarchy and disdain for the fundamental laws which guide, along general lines, the coordination of a valid and pertinent interpretation. But I find it a grave mistake to lose oneself in researching useless details regarding the way in which Mozart would have played a certain trill or grupetto. As for myself, the diverse markings provided by excellent yet incomplete treatises compel me to decisively take the path to simplification and synthesis while immutably preserving some four or five fundamental principles of which I think you are aware (or at least, I suppose you are), and for the rest I rely on intuition, that second but no-less-precious intelligence, and to in-depth penetration of the work, which, sooner or later, ends up confessing the secret of its soul.

Never approach a score with eyes of the dead or the past, for they may bring you nothing more in return than Yorick’s skull [iii]. Alfredo Casella rightly said that we must not be satisfied with merely respecting masterpieces, but we must love them.

This translation © Mark Ainley 2003

End notes

i. An invention by Maurice Martenot (1898-1980) based on his discovery that the recently invented radio tubes produced a certain ‘purity of vibrations’. He presented his unique instrument at the Paris Opera in 1928 (he had started his research in 1919) and a number of composers, particularly French, wrote works for it.

ii. Lipatti performed the Mozart D Minor Concerto at the Lucerne Music Festival on August 23, 1947, with Paul Hindemith conducting.

iii. This refers to the scene in ‘Hamlet’ where the protagonist finds the skull of his favourite clown from his childhood. Lipatti is most likely stressing that in searching for the exact style of interpretation in the past, we may end up with something that once contained life but no longer does.

The Bach-Busoni D Minor Concerto

Dinu Lipatti is justly celebrated for his performances of Bach. He had a seemingly unique capacity to vary the attack used by different fingers even within the same hand so that the voicing of each line was thoroughly consistent. Contrapuntal parts therefore sounded as though they were being played by different instruments, each line sounding like an individual voice with its own unique timbre, together highlighting the structure of the score in stunning detail while infusing it with warmth and life.

Lipatti himself spoke to Bach’s music being the closest to his heart, and it is most unfortunate that he did not record more than his miraculous take of the B-Flat Partita and four transcriptions. He was in fact scheduled to commit to disc four Preludes and Fugues from the Well-Tempered Clavier at the Geneva sessions in July 1950 that produced the aforementioned recordings, but he sent the engineers home two days early, ostensibly because he wanted to give the EMI technicians a break, but most likely because he himself was exhausted from the ordeal of 10 days of recording as the temporary effects of the cortisone being used to treat his Hodgkin’s Disease started to fade.

There are few fans of Lipatti’s playing who would not wish for more recordings of him playing Bach, and there have been tantalizing leads. A rather disturbing one is the story that Lipatti’s biographer Grigore Bargauanu was at a Swiss radio station where the card catalogue showed that a studio-made disc of a Prelude and Fugue was in the collection, but when he and the archivist went to get it, it was missing from the stacks.

In 1973, Opus Records released an LP of Lipatti performing the Bach D Minor Concerto with the Amsterdam Concertgebouw Orchestra conducted by Eduard van Beinum on October 2, 1947. The flip-side of the disc was Lipatti’s 1937 recording with Nadia Boulanger and her troupe of singers of Brahms’ Liebeslieder Waltzes Op.52, which had never been issued in LP format by EMI. No notes indicated the provenance of the live recording.

Opus label releases were produced by the International Piano Archives, which was run by Gregor Benko, who informed me that he had obtained the tape of the performance in an exchange with a Swiss collector by the name of Marc Fleury. At the time that they traded tapes (though the Bach was originally recorded on acetates), Benko was unaware of the fact that Lipatti had played the Ravel G Major Concerto at the same concert (Lipatti had in fact played the same program on both October 1 and 2). He lost touch with Fleury and so it is unknown if the Ravel performance also survived in his collection – the prospect of that recording existing, given Lipatti’s exceptional commercial disc of Ravel’s Alborada del Gracioso, is an exciting one. Despite the Dutch radio archives having a remarkable collection of their concert history preserved on disc, even the Bach seems not to exist in their collection.

The Bach Concerto recording itself is one of the most unusual Lipatti recordings to have surfaced, as it reveals aspects of Lipatti’s artistry that are inconsistent with how he is usually perceived. Lipatti is often held up as a pianist who held the score as sacrosanct, despite the fact that he made changes to the score in his Alborada disc and his concert performance of Schubert’s E-Flat Impromptu. He himself stated that fidelity to the Urspirit of a score, as opposed to the Urtext, was his priority: “Far be it for me to promote anarchy and disdain for the fundamental laws which guide, along general lines, the coordination of a valid and pertinent interpretation,” he wrote in notes for a planned Interpretation course to be co-presented with Nadia Boulanger. “But I find it a grave mistake to lose oneself in researching useless details regarding the way in which Mozart would have played a certain trill or grupetto…wanting to restore to music its historical framework is like dressing an adult in an adolescent’s clothes. This might have a certain charm in the context of a historical reconstruction, yet is of no interest to those other than lovers of dead leaves or the collectors of old pipes.”

His approach to the D Minor Concerto is so radically unconventional that it paints Lipatti as more of a firebrand than his somewhat staid reputation as a literalist and pianist of ‘purity’ might indicate. Lipatti uses some of the variants in Busoni’s edition of the concerto, among them passages where arpeggios occupy two octaves instead of one (or answer in a higher octave a statement in a lower one) and bass register notes are played lower than Bach wrote them. Lipatti’s rhythm is remarkably steady and his accenting pronounced, though the emphasis never breaks the line. His articulation is varied, he is more liberal with the pedal and the highlighting of left-hand figurations, and he makes some rather dramatic ritardandos.

The first movement is among the most fascinating performances that exist by Lipatti, with a number of passages in particular demonstrating his unusual conception of this work. The section from 5:22 to 5:44, where arpeggios are extended and played with the most delightful inner rhythmic pulse, is magnificent. Perhaps the most incredible moment begins at 6:39, where he starts a phenomenally graduated decrescendo that brings the audience to complete silence as he highlights a downward chromatic progression, creating a melting effect until his playing goes down to a whisper at 7:02 – miraculous.

This concert recording captures Lipatti’s playing at its peak (he was in relatively good health) and it is an important part of his discography. Despite its early appearance on IPA’s Opus Records label and subsequent releases on Jecklin and Turnabout/Vox, EMI did not issue the recording as part of Lipatti’s official discography. They had explored the possibility in 1981 but, as they often did, shied away from negotiations with orchestras and conductors signed to other labels. Finally in the year 2000, when they had realized that they had not prepared a commemorative release for the 50th anniversary of the pianist’s death, they accepted a proposal I had initially made in 1991 to release this performance with the Liszt E-Flat and Bartok Third Concertos. The disc was issued early in 2001 and these three concerto performances are now part of Lipatti’s official EMI discography.

Let us continue to hope that the recording of the Ravel G Major Concerto will surface, as it will surely be a stunning performance that also paints a different portrait of Lipatti’s pianism and interpretative genius.

La Leggierezza

Dinu Lipatti signed his contract with the Columbia label of EMI in January 1946, and at his first session at a studio in Zurich that July he recorded three works: Chopin’s Waltz in A-Flat Op.34 No.1, Liszt’s Sonetto del Petrarca No.104, and Liszt’s La Leggierezza. (The exact date of the session is unknown: Lipatti wrote prior to the session that he was scheduled to make a series of recordings from July 4 to 6, but only recorded these 3 titles and so likely it took place on one of these days.) Columbia was experimenting with a new recording material, and the masters which were pressed warped while in transit to London. Engineers attempted to press the records, but they were unsalvageable. While Lipatti would once again record the Chopin Waltz – as a filler for the Grieg Concerto – and the Sonetto del Petrarca, both on September 24, 1947 at London’s Abbey Road Studio No.3, he did not make another attempt at La Leggierezza. While pitch-correcting technology could be used today to repair the damage to the 1946 recordings, no test pressings have been found and the record pressing master stampers have been destroyed. The recording sheet reproduced here lists October 15, 1946 as the date for a recording made at Abbey Road, but this is incorrect (as the handwritten note ‘Recorded in Switzerland’ indicates) and is undoubtedly the date of the attempted pressing of the disc.

Fast-forward to 1991. I was in London hoping to find more Lipatti recordings and paid a visit to the National Sound Archive, which was then located on Exhibition Road in Kensington. I searched through their card catalogue, which is what one did in the days before the internet, but there was nothing under Lipatti. I then had a hunch to search through the composers he’d performed just in case something was not properly cross-referenced – and sure enough… under Liszt, there was listed a recording on tape 101W of Dinu Lipatti playing La Leggierezza. It said that it had been recorded from a BBC broadcast by one D Steynor and obtained by the British Institute of Recorded Sound on October 21, 1958. I requested to listen to the tape, and was flabbergasted by the playing. The opening few measures were missing and there was a big pitch fluctuation near the beginning of the recording, but other than that and the somewhat restricted tonal range, one could clearly hear Lipatti’s unique pianism.

A couple of years later when I returned to London, I met with the staff to discuss the recording. As Werner Unger of archiphon records and I were formulating plans to obtain and release some lost Lipatti recordings, we wanted to discuss the possibility of obtaining a copy of the tape. The staff of the NSA were very accommodating, and we listened to the recording together. Their engineers, with their incredibly trained ears, could recognize the acoustic as being a BBC studio, whereas I had thought this might still be a broadcast of a test pressing of the unpublished EMI recording. Later research revealed that Lipatti did in fact broadcast the work from the BBC studios on September 25, 1947. The staff at the National Sound Archive said that if we could obtain permission from the BBC, they would be able to copy us the tape (we needed to show that the broadcast took place before July 1957 – something that was easy since Lipatti died in 1950). Unger handled that side of things, and the BBC were – rather surprisingly, given the stories that I’d heard – gracious not only in allowing us to have a copy of the NSA’s tape but also in consenting to its commercial release. In late 1994 we issued it on the archiphon CD set ‘Les Inédits’, its only authorized CD release to date.

The playing in this performance is phenomenal, and there are a few nuances that are particularly worth noting. Throughout the work, the bassline is remarkably clear, something that all Romantic pianists did in their playing – scores did not indicate that a line in the bass with step-wise progression should be highlighted because everyone at the time knew that it should be done. At 1:13 to 1:17, Lipatti voices the chords in the right hand such that the atonal quality of the harmonies stand out, highlighting the avant-garde nature of Liszt’s writing. In the section beginning at 2:52, as Lipatti moves from ascending to descending runs, he accelerates as he ‘goes around the corner’, so to speak, which produces a wonderfully ‘light’ effect. And then at 3:41-3:44, where every pianist that I’ve heard slows down and plays a decrescendo, Lipatti does the exact opposite, speeding up and crashing into a fortissimo in a grand, heroic gesture.

While we can lament the lack of more Liszt recordings by Lipatti – if only he’d played the Sonata! – we do have a greater idea of his approach to this great composer through the recordings that have come to light, among them an early test recording of Gnomenreigen, a 1947 concert recording of the First Concerto, and this current recording. (There will be other posts to follow on Gnomenreigen and the First Concerto.) We can keep our hopes alive that a broadcast recording of Liszt’s Second Concerto, which he played in concert many times, will one day surface. In the meantime, enjoy the one BBC broadcast of Dinu Lipatti that has come to light: the September 25, 1947 broadcast of Liszt’s La Leggierezza.

(Note that the recording date listed on this YouTube video is inaccurate)

Bartok’s Third Concerto

One of the misperceptions about Dinu Lipatti is that he had a small repertoire. Because he only recorded two piano concertos for EMI – Schumann and Grieg’s sole concertos, both in A Minor – and because (inaccurate) stories circulated that he required three and four years respectively to prepare the Tchaikovsky and Emperor Concertos (absolutely not true – details in the Prince of Pianists article), there is the idea that he played very few concerted works. But before his death at the age of 33, Lipatti had in fact publicly performed twenty-three works for piano and orchestra (including works not classified as concertos, like Stravinsky’s Capriccio) and had a larger private repertoire that included works like Ravel’s Left-Hand Concerto – his copy of the score at the Geneva Conservatory is laced with fingerings from his student days in Paris in the 1930s. (He was in fact scheduled to record the Bartok Third with Karajan and the Philharmonia in November 1949, but the session was canceled due to Lipatti’s inability to travel to London).

Hints of hidden treasure
I first heard of his having played the Bartok Third Concerto when reading in the late 1980s a commemorative text written by his student Jacques Chapuis in one of the memorial books published by Labor et Fides (available here), in which he spoke about Lipatti’s premiering the work with Ansermet at a concert for which the orchestral scores had arrived the day of the concert (this was in fact the Swiss premiere of the work, not the world or European premieres, and took place in November 1947). Of course the thought of Lipatti performing a modern work from the standard repertoire was enthralling to say the least. I wondered if a broadcast might exist of this performance. And so the search began.

I was all the more motivated when reading through Judith Oringer’s book ‘Passion For Piano’, where in the section of recommended performers for different composers, she had in the Bartok section ‘Any recordings by the Rumanian pianist Dinu Lipatti or the Hungarian Gyorgy Sandor.’ I was stunned, as few people knew that Lipatti had played the Bartok and certainly none of the well-connected collectors that I knew had heard a recording of Lipatti playing anything by the Hungarian composer – and this included Gregor Benko (president of the International Piano Archives) and a number of European record collectors. (Oringer, in response to an inquiry while this article was in preparation, stated that she cannot recall how she heard of Lipatti’s name in relation to any recordings of Bartok compositions.)

In late 1989, I obtained a copy of Lipatti’s biography, a somewhat poorly translated effort of the Romanian original by Grigore Bargauanu and Dragos Tanasescu, and the back section of the discography listed a recording of Lipatti performing the Bartok Third Concerto in May 1948 with the Südwestfunk Orchestra conducted by Paul Sacher. There was a note that stated ‘The recording was never issued because the conductor did not consider it satisfactory.’ I stared at the page in disbelief: even if the conductor was not satisfied, if the recording was known to exist, how is it that even well-connected collectors didn’t have a copy?

Detective work
In these days before the internet, it wasn’t as easy to track down people and information. The first order of business was to contact the Südwestfunk – so I called up the German consulate and obtained the address (that’s what one did in the days before Google). I wrote to the SWF with the information I had from the biography, and waited. Three months later, I received a sheet of paper in the mail that had my address on it, a return address at the Südwestfunk, and some stamps on it – and nothing else. It appeared to be the label of a package, but the package was gone! I went to the local post office but they agreed that it looked as though it was a label that had come off a package. We filled out a form to hunt for the lost package, but they were not optimistic.

As there was a name on the return address, I called the radio station the next day (having obtained the number from the consulate) and spoke with that woman – she didn’t speak English, my German was basic, but we soon figured out that we both spoke French. “Oh yes, we sent you the recording,” she informed me. Well, it hadn’t arrived. I was devastated. I didn’t get the impression that they could be counted on to send me another copy, but I told her I was planning to go to Europe a few months later, and she invited me to stop by to see her at the station to obtain a copy.

And so I did. After a few days in Paris, I went directly to Baden-Baden, home of various spas and a radio station where Lipatti had performed Bartok’s Third Concerto 42 years earlier. It took a while to figure out how to get to the Südwestfunk by public transport, and by the time I got there, it was getting late in the day – and it was a Friday afternoon, so I was concerned about being too late at the end of the work week. It took a bit of running around from one building to the next to find my contact – despite their reputation for being organized, no one seemed to know where I should go, and after my bad luck with the lost package, I was worried at the prospect of not getting the tape. But finally, sweaty in the May heat, I met the lady whom I had spoken to on the phone some months before and she kindly handed me a cassette – letting me know, however, that for copyright reasons, a gap of a second or two had been inserted in each movement to prevent the recording from being illicitly issued.

Hands on
After leaving the SWF on the bus, I listened excitedly to the tape on a basic Walkman and was surprised by the performance – not in the way that I’d expected. It was a much slower performance than usual – the first movement lacked the frenetic momentum that one usually heard – and the orchestral playing wasn’t quite together. Additionally, there were some electronic bleeps midway through the first movement. The second movement, however, revealed Lipatti at his best – transparent chordal playing, beautiful voice-leading – and the third movement had beautifully layered voicing in the fugue, just like Lipatti’s legendary Bach. The unmastered sound quality was perhaps the best of all discovered Lipatti broadcast concerto performances, being the only one recorded on professional equipment.

I visited London a few weeks later and went to EMI’s headquarters, having been introduced by Bryan Crimp of the APR label. Charles Rodier, the legal man, was very kind and gracious and introduced me to Ken Jagger, who was in charge of historical releases. He asked if I could leave them a copy of the cassette so that the team could listen to it more attentively, and said they would be in touch with me.

A year later, I visited Europe again, and London was my first stop. I phoned up EMI and asked Mr. Jagger what they had decided about the Bartok. He appeared a bit flustered and asked me if I would mind calling back in a few days once he had the time to review the situation with his colleagues (in other words, he had completely forgotten). When I did call back, he stated that they found the playing substandard and that it would be a disservice to Lipatti to issue the recording.

First attempts
That same visit, I went to the EMI archives in Hayes with Bryan Crimp and came across correspondance that gave more background into the label’s history with this recording. It seems that in the 1960s, Lipatti’s producer Walter Legge was alerted to the existence of this Bartok recording while he was looking into another broadcast recording, that of the Chopin E Minor Concerto (described in more detail here). On July 4, 1963 Legge wrote to the German branch of EMI, the Electrola Gesellschaft mbH, to see if they could obtain the recording “from Frankfurt Radio they have under number 52 A 913 (Lautarchiv) M381/II + III (Baden-Baden) and Bela Bartok: Konzert nr 3 fur Klavier und Orchester Dinu Lipatti Südwestfunk-Orchester, dir: Paul Sacher (26’05”). I shall be most grateful if you can induce them to let you make a copy tape of this recording and if you will send it to us with a view to publishing it in disc form. I shall have no difficulty in obtaining permission from Lipatti’s widow or from the conductor.”

Famous last words. It took six months to get a tape – Lipatti’s widow Madeleine and conductor Paul Sacher had to send letters of consent for the radio stations to provide EMI with a copy, though Madeleine reported (in French) in a letter dated October 17, 1963 that “Paul Sacher believes that the recording will not be satisfactory and wishes to hear the tape.” When a tape did arrive, it was marred by the same electronic bleeps found on the cassette in 1990. Peter de Jongh wrote on June 3, 1964 that he had left a laquer (pressing) with Michael Allen of EMI and that in his opinion, “the performance by Lipatti is of the greatest interest. His incomparable musicianship, touch and vitality are all there.” On July 28, 1964, H.R. Stracke of Electrola wrote that “on principle, the orchestra agrees with the release. Price: DM 4.500, — provided that the regeneration (sic) is acceptable.” By October 13, the costs had been tallied as DM 4500 for the orchestra, DM 1560 for Boosey and Hawkes (DM 60 per minute), and DM 100 for the tape; by February 25, 1965, the radio station had asked for DM 2500 for the tape. On September 27, 1965, Dr Strojohann of Electrola wrote that “We have to guarantee the Baden-Baden Radio Station not to use the name of the Baden-Baden orchestra. It has to be “Ein Symphonie-Orchester” or “GroBes Symphonie-Orchester” or “Orchestra cond. Paul Sacher”.” That became a moot point: an undated handwritten note at the bottom of the memo says ‘Tape considered unsatisfactory for issue.’

The matter was picked up again in 1970, but David Mottley of EMI wrote in a memo dated October 12, “Having listened to the tape of Lipatti playing Bartok’s 3rd Piano Concerto, I do not think it would be in the interests of anybody to attempt to issue this recording on disc. Not only is the reproduction quality very poor indeed but also the playing of the orchestra is of a low standard generally. Christopher Parker also confirms that there is nothing that can be done to improve the quality of sound on this tape.”

Back to the future
Fast-forward to 1991. EMI has once again, through Ken Jagger, issued the same opinion. Then, in 1992-1993, I introduced the Lipatti fan and collector Dr Marc Gertsch of Bern to Werner Unger of the German historical recordings label ‘archiphon’. Gertsch presented enough private Lipatti material to issue a two-disc set, and so the matter of the Bartok Concerto was raised again. In an attempt to force Sacher’s hand, we had a colleague request the Südwestfunk to broadcast the recording, in the hopes that he would consent to an authorized release once the tape began to circulate privately in order to prevent an illicit release. He didn’t budge, though he did say that he would approve of issuing the second movement, as that was very beautiful. And so that movement was issued on a set entitled ‘Dinu Lipatti: Les Inedits’ . (This set has some items not released elsewhere and is currently available on iTunes here).

In May 1999, I was at the airport in Tokyo en route to Thailand when I read in Time magazine that Paul Sacher had died. I wondered how long it would take for the Bartok to come out, as it was more than 50 years after the performance and was therefore in the public domain. Not long later, the Italian label Urania issued the complete concerto – complete with the electronic bleeps that had marred the first movement. (The previous summer, Werner Unger and I had edited out the bleeps quite easily on a computer program.)

In 2000, I was focused on producing a memorial edition for the 50th anniversary of Lipatti’s death. Unger and I approached EMI and offered them a remastering we had made of Lipatti’s Chopin Concerto performance which was far superior to anything issued by the label (we had access to Gertsch’s original tape, which EMI had not touched since 1981). They declined, stating that they were satisfied with what they had, and they gave us permission to issue it ourselves. I suggested Unger ask EMI what they were doing for the Lipatti anniversary – and the response was something along the lines of, ‘Um… what do you suggest?’ They had neglected to prepare a commemorative release for this universally loved and best-selling artist. I proposed that they issue the Bach-Busoni D Minor, Liszt E-Flat, and Bartok Third concertos on a single CD – something I had suggested back in 1991 shortly after learning of the existence of the Liszt Concerto in Dr. Gertsch’s collection. Now they finally agreed. When I wrote to them to ask about contributing the liner notes, they wrote back that they had already assigned it to one of their writers but ‘Thank you for your interest in our project.’

[A side note: for a commorative issue, Unger and I had hoped to issue the Chopin Concerto – from 1950 – with three radio interviews from the same year, but Tahra issued two of the three interviews, so we opted instead to produce a release that spanned the whole of Lipatti’s recording career, from 1936 to 1950: ‘Cornerstones’. Like the previous archiphon set, this release has some otherwise unissued Lipatti recordings and is available on iTunes here.]

In early 2001, EMI’s release of three concert performances by Dinu Lipatti of piano concertos that he had not officially recorded and spanning three centuries of the repertoire was finally made available to the general public. (Available on iTunes here and on CD via Amazon here, as well as in this 7-disc set of his EMI recordings.) Critical acclaim of the performances was immediate – no one felt that the substandard orchestral support in the Bartok was an issue, and EMI used the edited version of the tape that Unger and I had prepared so that the bleeps were not an issue. (Unfortunately, the sound of the issued disc is worse than the masters we provided them, particularly in the Bach-Busoni and Liszt.)

The performance
As to the performance itself: Lipatti takes the first movement at a slower rate than Bartok’s metronome markings, and as can be seen in this photograph from his own score of the work, he adjusted the marking from 88 to 76. While Lipatti is seen as having considered the text as sacrosanct, the fact is that the energy of the composition took priority, and a number of musicologists have spoken to Bartok’s tempo indications often being too fast. His slower pace in this movement highlights the melancholic experience the composer was going through as he wrote this work. Lipatti phrases fluidly rather than frenetically, emphasizing the lyrical and harmonic rather than the overtly rhythmic.

The second movement is one of the most profoundly moving examples of Lipatti’s art. His voicing in the chorale is sublime: every chord is weighted such that primary and inner tones ring in perfect balance, each successive collection of tone clusters resonating at its own particular vibration, fading seamlessly into its successor. Never have both the vertical and horizontal lines of this chorale been so flawlessly executed. The middle section of the movement is beautifully played (it is eerily like the middle section of the third movement (of four) of Lipatti’s own Concertino in Classical Style), and builds magically to the final cadenza of the movement, which Lipatti plays with tremendous force: again, he voices with incredible attention, observing the composer’s pedal markings meticulously so that certain chords create a sonic envelope in which others are found.

The third movement, while suffering from some sloppy orchestral ensemble, features magically transparent voicing from Lipatti (particularly in the fugue, from 19:16 to 20:17), incredible accenting, amazing pedaling, and fantastic tonal effects. While the pianist may have been held back somewhat by the rather unskilled accompaniment, he nevertheless gives a thoroughly profound performance.

It is incredible to consider how we now have such easy access to a recording that was once unknown and considered the stuff of legend. Technology now enables music lovers the world over to listen to a performance that may well have lain dormant in the archives. May this recording serve to give more insight into Lipatti’s art, and may other lost recordings be added to his discography.

Bartok Piano Concerto No.3
Dinu Lipatti, piano
SWF Symphony Orchestra
Paul Sacher, conductor
May 30, 1948