The genius of Leipzig-born Wilhelm
Backhaus (1884–1969) — the last exponent of that city's
celebrated piano tradition — is captured in these
interpretations of Chopin, Brahms, Liszt and Beethoven.
Wilhelm Backhaus holds a place among pianists
roughly comparable to that of Everest among mountains. Backhaus had it all
— majesty and subtlety, intellectual probity and superhuman technique,
presence and grace. His career spanned 70 years and his influence may yet be
found in the playing of some of the finest pianists of the present day
— notably in the work of Maurizio Pollini, who has always credited
Backhaus as one of his greatest influences.
The present collection features the early Backhaus — ranging from the startlingly clear and vital 1908 recordings of Rachmaninoff, Liszt, Weber and Chopin to a rhapsodic interpretation of the Schumann Fantasie which dates from 1937. In short, these discs reflect almost 30 years of Backhaus' musical life — and there would be another 30 to come, during which he would record Beethoven's complete piano sonatas not once but twice.
Backhaus was not an especially demonstrative performer. As the scholar Walter Frei once put it: "His modest demeanor and unparalleled concentration when playing were the outward manifestation of his sincerity; his natural talent was devoted to a single task — dedication to the musical work, and to its recreation for the listener." This self-effacement may be one reason why success in the United States eluded Backhaus until he was almost 70. As the pianist himself complained after one of his several failed American tours: "A little show of bravura will turn many of the unthinking auditors into a roaring mob. This is, of course, very distressing to the sincere artist who strives to establish himself by his real worth."
He was always venerated in Europe, of course, where his later concerts inspired the sort of awed pilgrimages we more readily associate with Bayreuth. He seemed to be a permanent fixture in the music world, and lived to perform a beautiful recital at Salzburg in the summer of 1966, when he was more than 80 years old.
What impresses us today about Backhaus' recordings is their absolute musical assurance. The technical command was spectacular, yet it was always yoked to a supreme musical intelligence that precluded any attempt to "wow" the audience. Indeed, as indicated above, Backhaus abhorred showy vulgarity, yet his pianism was never pedantic or humorless. He was not a purist in the strictest sense of that word, for he occasionally would depart from the printed score when he felt that some additional clarity or emphasis was required. Still, in Backhaus' hands, these never seemed to be embellishments or digressions; instead, it was as if the pianist had somehow divined the means of Platonically finishing and perfecting whatever he played. Has anyone else made the magnificently abstracted final Beethoven sonatas sound so seamless and inevitable?
Some critics have suggested that Backhaus had the tendency to weigh down with too much seriousness compositions that fell short of being cosmic masterpieces. Yet the unexpected grandeur we find in Backhaus' recording of the Grieg Concerto coexists cheerfully with the score's modest charm. And the 1928 version of Chopin's Etudes, Op. 12, brings out musical qualities that are often overlooked by pianists attempting merely to fight their way through these works. In Backhaus' hands, the Etudes are as richly poetic as the Nocturnes or Preludes. Such is the mark of the greatest interpreters.
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