Think of Wilhelm Backhaus and you may well think of 
          his Brahms and Beethoven. Noble, occasionally granitic recordings from 
          the 1950s they were replete with a rugged and unsentimentalised clarity. 
          But the D’Albert pupil was, in his youth, something of a discographic 
          pioneer and far more the colourist and technician than he may have appeared 
          from his stolid appearance toward the end of his performing life. 
        
 
        
Backhaus was born in 1884 and his training had pretty 
          much finished by his mid-teens. He made his British debut in 1900. His 
          admiration for Rachmaninov and Debussy – two composers not especially 
          associated with him – was in his early years strong and his musical 
          sympathies broad. He was signed by Fred Gaisberg very early, in 1908, 
          to record for the Gramophone Company. In a catalogue bursting with stellar 
          names – Grunfeld, Pugno, Pachmann, Paderewski, Godowsky, Hoffmann and 
          Grainger – Backhaus’s was the youngest and maybe the most glamorous. 
          Though these discs chart his complete British acoustics they omit the 
          German acoustics (Schallplatte Grammophon – ten sides from 1916) but 
          these can be found on Biddulph LHW38. The set does include a series 
          of Backhaus’s early electrics and it was around this time, in the later 
          1920s, that his repertoire contracted to the Austro-Germanic one familiar 
          from the last three decades of his life. 
        
 
        
These discs are studded with felicities of a highly 
          personalised kind. Technique is allied to imagination though nothing 
          is ever taken to excess. It’s often forgotten that it was Backhaus – 
          not Cortot – who made the first recording, in 1928, of the Chopin Etudes 
          and the composer is liberally to be found in the first disc. There is 
          much to admire; the fierceness of the Chopin Prelude op 28 No 1, the 
          pearl dazzling tone of the op 10 etude that follows, the dazzling rubato 
          of the Liszt Liebestraum or his Weber. If you think him staid listen 
          to this 1908 Perpetuum mobile – it’s very, very fast with vigorous bass 
          accents, strident gallops, almost out of control and a breathless excitement. 
          Listen too to the singing tone of the Paganini-Liszt La Campanella with 
          its sportive, risk-taking rubato and strong dynamics. Maybe the Bach 
          Prelude and Fugue is slightly lumpy in the left hand but the two following 
          Chopin Etudes are consistently convincing. The Grieg Concerto was the 
          first ever Concerto recording, abridged to six and a half minutes. The 
          orchestra comprised Stroh violins (fiddles with horns attached to direct 
          the tone toward the recording horn; even soloists regularly used them 
          at the time) and the recording was obviously one of some historical 
          significance remaining the one such piano concerto until Lamond recorded 
          the Beethoven Concerto in 1922. Backhaus’s rubato in the Op 70 No 1 
          Waltz is precisely judged even if there is a slight lack of optimum 
          clarity at the start of the succeeding opus posthumous Waltz. Possibly 
          some slightly out of scale chording at the end too. 
        
 
        
It’s true that very occasionally elements of heaviness 
          are apparent – in the first of the Scarlatti sonatas, though he was 
          an early proponent of the composer on record. The earlier Moment Musicale 
          – the electric remake is included – is a little strait laced as well. 
          But no one should underestimate his sheer rhythmic verve – listen to 
          the Smetana Polka, full of buoyancy and striding animation or the elegance 
          of the Delibes-Dohnanyi, for all the triviality of the piece. His Don 
          Juan Serenade is delicious, and the electric remake even better though 
          maybe his Schumann lacks a requisite ecstasy (not a Backhaus strong 
          suit, then or later). One of the really high points on these discs – 
          and there are, as can be seen, many – are the Brahms Paganini Variations 
          from 1925 – rearranged slightly in ordering for 78 and omitting repeats. 
          This was the only Brahms he recorded in the early years and presages 
          the Brahmsian titan to come. 
        
 
        
Transfers are by Seth Winner and notes are by Donald 
          Manildi. These two discs, utilising good, quiet copies, transferring 
          them with discreet skill, presents the first twenty years on record 
          of a talent far too easily taken for granted. These records will show 
          you why his contemporaries held him in such esteem and why he continues 
          to hold a sovereign place in the history of the piano. 
        
 
        
        
Jonathan Woolf