Artur Schnabel was
born in 1882 in Lipnik, a small village
in Bohemia. After study with Theodore
Leschetizky in Vienna, he left for Berlin
in 1898 where he pursued a career as
a soloist, chamber musician and composer.
By the 1920s he had achieved the reputation
as the leading authority on the sonatas
of Beethoven, performed the complete
cycle in series of concerts in several
major cities. He also published a rather
over-edited and idiosyncratic edition
of all the scores, which is still in
use today. Reluctantly, he went into
the studios of HMV and put down all
thirty-two of the sonatas as well as
the five concerti on wax. They were
sold in subscription, and covered 204
78rpm sides. Schnabel had always been
leery of the microphone, and it was
most likely for economic reasons that
he finally agreed to enter the studio,
as Europe at the time of these discs
was in the throes of depression and
the looming threat of Nazism hung overhead
like a great cloud. That a record company
would risk so extensive a project that
covered a good deal of less than popular
repertoire spoke to the pianist’s standing
at the time.
Modern digital recording
technology has enabled musicians to
create note-perfect recordings with
the help of sophisticated studio editing
techniques. This perfection is the standard
that the buying public has come to expect,
so much so, that the pressure on artists
to recreate these false perfections
on stage is sometimes overwhelming,
often to detriment of spontaneity and
inspiration in live performances. It
is somewhat shocking then, to our ears
attuned to digital cleanliness, to hear
a legendary artist like Schnabel make
a bit of a mess out of the last movement
of Beethoven’s Moonlight sonata. Does
his blurring of passagework and frequent
dropped notes detract from the quality
of this performance? Well, yes and no.
A couple of things
need to be kept in mind here. First,
in the thirties, editing was in its
infancy, if it existed at all. The most
likely scenario would be for an entire
movement (or the portion of which that
could fit on the four and one-half minute
side of a twelve-inch 78) to be played
straight through. Given that the material
to make recordings was scarce and expensive
in the 1930s, only the most egregious
of errors would be re-recorded. One
might therefore get a somewhat sloppy
performance of a piano sonata, but such
were the expectations of the day.
In spite of this, there
is much to praise in these performances.
Where Artur Schnabel shone brightest
was in his remarkable sense of the structure
of a work, and his ability to make that
structure crystal clear to even a first
listener. His ability to choose the
exact pace at which a movement should
go, as made evident in the breathtaking
andante of Op. 28, and his simple,
no nonsense approach to the oft hackneyed
and over-romanticized opening of Op.
27, No. 2, show this artist in his finest
form. In faster movements, such as the
Rondo of Op. 31, No. 1, we are carried
along at a rollicking clip without ever
being made breathless. Schnabel’s virtuosity
was always in service to the music and
not for self-aggrandizement. And, lest
my earlier comments about the Moonlight
finale indicate otherwise, he was perfectly
capable of carrying off some keyboard
acrobatics with accuracy and precision.
A careful listen to the above-mentioned
Op. 31 Rondo will prove my point.
Mark Obert-Thorn, whose
name is already well known in the field
of historical restorations, has done
an outstanding job here, managing to
bring out the piano’s sound to the fullest,
and reducing noise to the point of enjoyability
without compromising the dynamic range
of the music. Brian Thompson provides
excellent program notes, taking the
more interesting approach of putting
the recordings themselves into historical
context in addition to commenting on
the music itself.
Recommended highly
to lovers of historical recordings,
and students of performance practice
alike.
Kevin Sutton
See also review
by Colin Clarke
Artur Schnabel, piano 
