John O’Conor Plays Beethoven
Posted by: Todd A on 21 August 2005
Since I’m taking a brief hiatus from buying new Beethoven sonata cycles, I figured I should go back and reconsider some of the cycles I’ve owned for a while. But which one? Well, I figured I should just start where I started. John O’Conor’s cycle is the first complete sonata cycle I purchased many moons ago. I bought it early into my two corresponding hobbies: high-end audio and classical music collecting. Telarc had a supposedly magical reputation among the high-end cognoscenti, and I was already familiar with some of the Cleveland Quartet’s excellent Beethoven string quartet recordings, so it seemed a natural choice. I’m no longer concerned with purist audio concerns – thankfully – but at least Telarc ended up recording some fine musicians. O’Conor is certainly no exception. Now I know there are some out there who believe that first recordings hold special sway over a person’s taste. That’s not the case with me. I’ve dumped off a number of first recordings in favor of more satisfying second, third, or n recordings. Yet I’ve held on to O’Conor. Indeed, his cycle survived a brush with the Questionable Pile. After buying Schnabel and Annie and Kempff, I figured I didn’t need a no-name pianist like O’Conor anymore; he’s not a heavyweight pianist; he’s not a legend. It’s not that I disliked his playing, it’s just that I didn’t need so many recordings. (Yes, I went through that phase, too.) But I did the only acceptable thing: I listened to the set again before selling. After listening, I knew I couldn’t sell it. It’s just too good. So it would be good to revisit now, I figured. This is actually the second time this year I’ve listened to it. Early this year I was going to do comparative listening to O’Conor and Schnabel. After about five sonatas it changed into an all O’Conor pursuit. But that was a dozen new cycles ago; how would the cycle sound now? Well . . .
Right from the outset, O’Conor’s traits become evident. While he opens the first sonata at a brisk pace and plays with fine articulation, it’s his tone that is most striking. It’s light, colorful, and a bit soft-edged; O’Conor never plays an ugly note, and he can and does vary dynamics and tempi and color with subtle ease. He’s not flashy. He’s not showy. He’s fluid and graceful and, well, poetic. This is reinforced in the lovely Adagio: O’Conor’s relatively unpercussive playing and gentleness invite the listener to savor each note and phrase, to relish the nuance the Irishman brings. The third movement perhaps lacks the bite necessary to make it a top contender, but O’Conor’s remarkably smooth playing and the relatively distant recording make for a wash of colors and sounds that’s attractive in its own right. The final movement comes off as a bit too reticent and controlled at times, but within the broader interpretation, it fits right in.
The same traits are to be heard in the second sonata. But there’s also a sense of comfort, if you will, a sense that O’Conor is enjoying himself, and if he never lets loose, he never, ever struggles, either. It’s the musical equivalent of a leisurely stroll. If that reads like damning praise, it is most certainly not meant to. To an extent, his playing is similar to Lucchesini, though the Italian uses an even smoother legato to O’Conor’s restrained staccato. (But even his staccato has rounded edges.) The final movement sounds similar overall. The Largo is gorgeous: languid, lazy, definitely low-impact, it still maintains enough feeling to satisfy, and the Scherzo is a tad jaunty and more pointed, though O’Conor plays not one unpleasant note.
It shouldn’t be surprising that the third sonata is much the same. Some may want more heft, more gruffness in parts, but I don’t. In the lovely, fluid opener, one gets to hear something quite impressive. O’Conor does build up the volume to quite satisfying levels, but there is still a soft-ish, rounded sound to the tone, and the softened initial attack fades away quickly into wonderful sounding decay. No other pianist I’ve heard achieves quite the same effect. The Adagio is simply gorgeous, though here O’Conor manages to impart a very slightly ominous tone to some of the lower register playing. The Scherzo is a bit darker in tone and boasts some articulate playing. The final movement displays O’Conor’s tendency to play the opening bars slowly only to build up to a more standard basic tempo shortly thereafter. And again there is a lightness, and gentleness to much of the playing. Some – many – will want more, um, assertiveness, but me, I like it quite a bit.
O’Conor’s Op 7 sonata is a highlight of his cycle and remains one of my favorite versions. In the opening movement he manages to play both quickly and with a sort of laid-back, pastoral feel. That and he keeps the whole thing upbeat and joyful; more assertive, heroic readings of the opener are out there, but none are really more satisfying. (Well, maybe Michelangeli and Kempff are.) The great Largo is here delivered with such gorgeous sound and such deft use of pauses and tempi variations as to be almost hypnotic. Really, the entire work is so wonderfully played that I can’t come up with a single substantive criticism of it. Add to that some really amazing sound (this 1993 recording was the final installment of the cycle) and this is not only a winner, but one of the very best out there.
But perhaps among the early sonatas the Op 10 works best show off the benefits of O’Conor’s style. The first sonata displays all of the traits described before, but includes a bit more bite when needed. The opening of the first sonata is quick and strong, the opening explosions notable for their power, but also contains immediate shifts in dynamics, tone, and volume that offer most satisfying contrasts. The Adagio is just lovely. O’Conor takes his time and lavishes perfect tonal and dynamic gradations on each note. The final movement once again opens a bit slowly, but then picks up from there. The shifts in volume and tone and, to a lesser extent, mood seem to presage the upcoming Op 13. It’s quite effective. So, too, is the second of the batch. O’Conor adopts a flowing, slower than normal basic tempo for the opener, and plays with some nice but never overwhelming heft, and his tone is rich ‘n’ ripe. (And his soft playing is a wonder, as at just before 4’30”.) The rest of the work has the same, deliberate but gorgeous sound, and if perhaps the final movement is heftier and more serious than ideal, any complaints are minimal. The third sonata continues the same basic approach, though he throws in some variation. The opening movement is somewhat heavy and serious, though always beautiful, and the Largo gorgeous (O’Conor seems to particularly enjoy Beethoven’s Largos). But the Menuetto is disarmingly sweet, and the concluding Rondo is outright fun. This sonata encompasses a broad range of moods and devices, and O’Conor plays them all superbly.
Let me be clear: O’Conor doesn’t play at the same level as the very best out there. He’s certainly not of Annie-Gulda-Kempff-Backhaus quality, but he’s far from a slouch. Indeed, his beauty and restraint and glorious tone and variable touch all combine to make for a most satisfying musical experience. Perhaps it should come as no surprise to learn that O’Conor studied briefly with Kempff, because in some regards his playing is reminiscent of Kempff’s: O’Conor is, for lack of a better word, poetic, much like Kempff. But his playing is freer and more technically assured. (And besides, he apparently studied only briefly with Kempff, and I think too much is made of artists’ teachers anyway.) Perhaps the best contemporary comparison for O’Conor is Andrea Lucchesini. Both produce streams of beautiful sound and considered interpretations. Lucchesini is the more architectural and intellectual pianist, O’Conor the more rhapsodic and gently romantic one. I prefer Lucchesini’s overall approach a bit more, but O’Conor is unquestionably satisfying. But as with the Italian, I must emphasize that O’Conor demands more patience and care when listening; those wanting to be wowed and dazzled should certainly listen elsewhere. But I’m definitely hanging on to this cycle. Going forward I only find it appropriate that I should take a more leisurely approach in listening to this cycle; O’Conor is in no real hurry, nor am I.
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Posted on: 25 August 2005 by Todd A
The Pathetique can, of course, flounder if played too softly. Mr O’Conor’s overall style thus far can hardly be called hard-hitting, so it would seem this work would not succeed. But there is more to O’Conor’s playing than has been described. The opening chord and pages are perhaps a bit softer than ideal, O’Conor using restraint to create an anticipatory effect. If you like it hard out of the gate, this won’t satisfy. But then he speeds up quite a bit after the open, displaying admirable digital dexterity, and never sounding rough or gruff. If he’s not intense enough, he also never sounds ugly or strained and he creates a nice sense of drama. The second movement benefits from Mr O’Conor’s approach; his playing is beautiful and touching, and almost tender at times. The final movement is reasonably fast and definitely clear; O’Conor never sounds rushed, allowing himself some breathing room to let the music flow. It’s perhaps not ideally fiery, but the cumulative effect is very positive. The 20-year-old sound is remarkably good, if a little resonant, no doubt thanks to Tony Faulkner’s “assistance.” (Jack Renner ain’t no slouch as an engineer, though.)
The delightful Op 14 sonatas both come up well under Mr O’Conor’s fingers. The first sonata opens on the slow side, but O’Conor plays with such a light, graceful, flexible, and poetic ease that one cannot resist being charmed. The second movement is firmer, but even here a pervasive aural beauty charms. The final movement is decidedly upbeat, a bit quicker, and occasionally weighty, but this movement and indeed the entire work is basically perfectly judged. It sounds, well, natural. The second sonata doesn’t quite sound so natural; it sounds more refined. The opening movement is taken at a leisurely overall tempo, but the delicate, limpid playing of the main theme is so captivating that one can do little else but praise O’Conor’s choices. The second movement is more brisk, possessed of a more pronounced (but never intrusive or abrasive!) staccato, but it’s still more about charm than anything. As the variations unfold, this overall feeling is only reinforced. The final movement starts slowly, which in this take only serves to heighten contrast with the faster passages. Overall, these two little gems come off extremely well. The works may be smaller in scale and ambition, but they’re a joy to hear.
The Op 22 sonata is a work where I’ve grown to appreciate faster speeds and a lighter touch. While O’Conor definitely displays the latter in abundance, he can tend to slower speeds. So it is here in the opener. It’s certainly beautiful and energetic, but it’s just a bit slow, and sounds a bit blocked or clunky at times. It just don’t flow. The second movement is tauter and tenser, and though quite beautiful, seems a bit quick for an Adagio. The Menueto is superb. There’s a bit of fire and prankishness. The concluding Rondo is a bit curious. It’s lovely and lively, but on the smallish side. It’s as though O’Conor is channeling Mozart. That works here, but it doesn’t have that oomph that makes this piece really work. It’s still an excellent take on this sonata, but my preferences have changed.
The Op 26 sonata is one where a bit more drama is needed to pull it off, especially in the funeral march. Drama hasn’t been O’Conor’s strong suit up this point, though the Op 13 sonata shows he can do it. And here he does. The opening Andante theme is perfectly paced and played with admirable dynamic control. He doesn’t go for a breakneck pace, and he doesn’t try to hammer anything out. It just seems to fit. The variations are all superbly done. He can and does play quick when needed, and he adds some heft where appropriate. But he also remembers to play beautifully at lower volumes. The Scherzo is direct and relatively forceful and acts as a perfect lead into the march. Here Mr O’Conor imparts not inconsiderable drama to the proceedings: while never quite funereal or march-like, his playing is pointed and strong, and the rather abstracted presentation of the music – as opposed to an overtly emotional approach – makes the whole thing all the more successful. The final movement is strong and motoric, but some may find it just a bit too upbeat. Overall, any reservations are minor quibbles at best; this is a fine reading.
The two sonatas quasi una fantasia find O’Conor playing at a very high level – but not the very highest. The first of the two works finds Mr O’Conor clearly relishing the delightful and simple opening theme; he’s light, smooth, graceful, and jolly. The middle section builds up to a nice, reasonably powerful, but never hard and overly percussive crescendo. The Scherzo is quick, strong, and, perhaps somewhat surprisingly, rich. The sound is dense and meaty, but never thick or opaque. He ends the movement with a perfectly judged chord: he holds it just long enough, letting it fade some but not all the way, before moving into the Adagio. O’Conor is basically at home here, his now familiar strengths deployed wonderfully. The final movement opens in a slightly restrained manner, but the irresistible forward momentum of the movement is clear from the start. If O’Conor lacks that last degree of pianistic abandon and is less than ideally clear (including some almost completely inaudible notes at abut 56” in), he still builds the piece up and ends on a strong note, as it were. The Mondschein is fairly standard in conception and excellent in execution. The opening movement is hazy – the sustain pedal sees some heavy use – but it’s not very dark or sad. The second movement offers little relief, which is welcome. A sunny second movement is out of place. The final movement is dispatched reasonably quickly and with nice weight, and a notably rocking bass underpinning.
Now, the Pastorale should be an unqualified success. O’Conor’s overall style and specific strong points all seem a perfect fit. But he does something a bit unexpected. He’s not as laid-back as one might assume. This especially holds true in the first two movements. The opening movement definitely sounds beautiful, but there is an urgency, a nervous tension in his swift-ish tempi. One doesn’t get to just wallow in glorious playing. The second movement is pretty much the same, though the middle section is more jovial. The last two movements are more in line with expectations. The third movement is more leisurely and fun. And the final movement is gorgeous and warm and rounded. It’s nicely laid back. I’ll say that this works overall, but it can’t quite scale the heights.
So another batch down and my prior impressions of Mr O’Conor have been largely reinforced.
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Posted on: 27 August 2005 by Todd A
The current batch is a wee one in number of sonatas, but big in importance. The Op 31 sonatas are a proving ground. Would O’Conor prove himself? Obviously I already knew the answer: Yes. With some minor reservations. And almost all of those come in the first sonata. O’Conor certainly brings his finesse to the work, with some lovely, soft playing that manages to remain just vivacious enough, and in the opener he maintains a nice, raucous if not too ribald sense of humor, but he lacks just that last little bit of energy and enthusiasm. It’s not a big problem, but it’s there. The second movement, though, is a hit. The long trills sound absolutely delicious under O’Conor’s fingers. Each note gets just enough weight and duration, and each has that wonderful tone and lightness to make them breeze by. So there’s no sense at all of any angst; this is a pretty much upbeat take. It works. The final movement also suffers from just a little too little energy. Again, it ain’t much of an issue, but it’s there. Even so, this is a fine recording.
Perhaps surprisingly given O’Conor’s style, I not only have no misgivings about the Tempest, but find it a highlight of the cycle. The opening movement has a dark-ish, rich sound, though the mood never becomes too dark. But O’Conor shows that he can with a wonderful sense of drama and a broad dynamic range, both when considered overall and in the wide contrasts in the first movement. Indeed, O’Conor highlights those contrasts wonderfully, and he never sounds strained or hard when playing loud nor weak when playing soft. His tempi are well-judged, too; he never plays too fast, rather choosing to let things unfold naturally, and he never sags. The Adagio is of course slower and softer, but it, too, avoids excess darkness or grimness. It’s somewhat aloof and resigned. And it’s effective. The final movement is relatively quick and full of forward drive and energy – and a sense of urgency. Perhaps he risks making the Allegretto sound more Allegro in a few places, but it’s all to the good. Throw in some more high quality early digital sound from Messrs Renner and Faulkner, and this here’s a winner.
But even it’s not as good as the last of three. Start to finish this one is upbeat. Sure, a few moments of Menuetto sound more reserved, but otherwise this is a good time translated to the ivories. The opening movement is quick and high spirited, with a bit of (faux-) drama thrown in for good measure. Even more than in the preceding sonata, O’Conor’s wide range comes to the fore, especially in the opener: he can and does play with some heft, but he never sounds hard or ugly. The Scherzo is lively, but sounds a bit softer than the open, but it only offers a nice contrast. (It also sounds more distant. Different recording date, perhaps.) Moving past the previously mentioned Menuetto finds a concluding Presto that’s all about a good time. While some better versions are definitely out there, I not only have no complaints about this one, I can thing of very few that are really a whole lot better.
I finished off with the little Op 49 sonatas. O’Conor doesn’t bring anything new to the works, but he does play them splendidly. His light approach actually sounds very appealing, and the conclusion to the second sonata is charming.
So, another batch down, and O’Conor’s proving to be every bit as good as I remembered. And there are some doozies still to come.
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Posted on: 10 September 2005 by Todd A
I love O’Conor’s recording of the Waldstein. It’s been one of my favorites since I first heard it, and it remains so today. Everything fits together perfectly. He opens the work swiftly and with a light touch, his fingers gliding across the keyboard. When O’Conor’s wonderful tone and coloring combine with the slightly reverberant recording, the effect is a wash of color and sound that is most enticing. When this combines with a wide dynamic range and feeling of constant forward motion, well, the whole opening movement becomes irresistible. The second movement slows way down, and takes on a darker sound, with a tinge of sadness that contrasts nicely with the more rambunctious opener. All of O’Conor’s strengths coalesce into near perfection: tasteful restraint, beautiful tone, perfectly controlled and nuanced dynamics, and a slightly aloof feel – Oh Yeah! The final movement is a glorious outpouring of beautiful sound, meticulous playing, and expectant restraint until the eruption of joy just a ways in. Fortunately, O’Conor never plays in a mushy or syrupy way, and he resists all temptations to play the conclusion too fast. The movement – the work – becomes pure poetry in his hands.
The Op 54 sonata seems perfectly suited to O’Conor, and in many ways it is. The opening movement benefits immensely from O’Conor’s poetic, lyrical touch. He judges tempi well, and he plays forcefully when needed, but never – not once, not even close – does anything hard or unpleasant enter into the (sound) picture. It sounds the perfect mix between unrestrained lyrical beauty and fitful outbursts. The second movement is more directly forceful, of course, and O’Conor doesn’t shy away from that, yet his lovely tone keeps everything sounding attractive. A few times the playing takes on a blocky or bunched sound, though that hardly matters, and the ending is rousing, quick, and strong – perhaps more so than some of the preceding playing would seem to warrant – but ultimately complaints are minor. No, this recording doesn’t match with the very best, but really, very few versions sound much better to me.
The Appassionata, by its very nature, seems to be a work that O’Conor isn’t meant to play at the very highest level. Outright intensity and passion aren’t his strongest points. But he does do a quite admirable job. Sure, the opening is a bit tentative, creating a nice sense of suspense, and the crescendos have solid weight and velocity, but that last bit of intensity is missing. No matter, or at least little matter – it still sounds fine. The second movement predictably fares better. O’Conor’s beautiful playing does lack the bite and tension that generally are heard in my favorite versions. And of course, the third movement is quite similar to the first; filled with passion and tension, O’Conor does his best to deliver the goods, and while he again does an admirable job, he falls just a bit short. The ending of the movement does catch fire, though. This is a good, solid reading, though it does fall short of the best. No one bats a thousand, so that’s hardly a problem.
The Op 78 and 79 sonatas both end up sounding good if not quite great. The first of the two opens with a big, rich sound, though it still manages to sound a bit slight. The second movement is perky and energetic, and benefits from O’Conor’s fine tone. The second little late work opens in staggered, blocky fashion that doesn’t flow well enough , and it’s taken at a somewhat relaxed overall tempo. But it does have a singing, playful quality to it. The Andante is downright gorgeous even if it sounds a bit superficial. The piece ends in decent if not great fashion. Perhaps coming after Backhaus doomed these recordings to sounding like works recorded just to complete the cycle, but they’re still pretty good.
The Les Adieux, however, is quite good. Really, there’s not too much to write about it. O’Conor’s conception is appropriately big and quasi-orchestral in conception, and the appropriate emotions are displayed in each of the three movements, and all is delivered with a finely judged mix of beauty, power, and well judged tempi. It’s excellent.
The Op 90 sonata is even better. Here’s a “late” work (or, more properly, a hard to classify work) which seems to demand O’Conor’s style of playing. The opening movement boasts strong, sharp chords blended with nearly flawless (and seamlessly quick) diminuendo playing of remarkable beauty. In other words, the piece contains extremely well played and highlighted contrasts and an appealingly wide dynamic range. The second movement finds O’Conor even more at home. Pure poetry and lyricism again become the hallmarks of the recording. O’Conor plays the right hand figures and melodies with disarming grace, and he plays the continuous left hand accompaniment in perfect fashion. This is one of the highlights of the cycle and immensely enjoyable and definitely a contender.
Now to the late sonatas proper. Or at least the first one. The Op 101 sonata has always been a relatively tough one for me to get into. The quirky nature of the work proves a challenge to many pianists, and only a few really make me eagerly want to spin this. (This doesn’t mean I don’t like the work – I love it. When played a certain way.) O’Conor does a good job here. The opening movement has a singing quality to it that really ingratiates the piece to this listener. The second movement is a strongly characterized march, and O’Conor does a fine job playing with strength and contrast. He’s not as strong or incisive as some, and he maintains a certain lyricism throughout. The Adagio is a thing of beauty, if perhaps not as deep as some. And the finale is nicely motoric and rhythmically satisfying. (I found myself tapping my toes a bit.) Still, this recording doesn’t quite scale the heights. But it’s better than some (or many, I guess).
So another healthy batch of sonatas shows that O’Conor, at his best, can really deliver the goods, but that he, like everyone else, can’t nail every one.
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Posted on: 16 September 2005 by Jim Waugh
Posted on: 16 September 2005 by Todd A
quote:
Originally posted by Jim Waugh:
Give this a listen:
In due time. Volume 1 from Andras Schiff is a higher priority.
Posted on: 17 September 2005 by Todd A
Time to finish this one up. I’ve known for a while that O’Conor’s Hammerklavier is not among the elite recordings of this work. It’s not bad; it’s just not great. The same strengths that serve the pianist so well in some other sonatas don’t perform magic here. The biggest short-coming, in the first two movements, is the relative lack of power. It’s not that O’Conor can’t play with the power I usually prefer, it’s just that he chooses not to. The opening movement is actually taken at a nice pace – it’s definitely not too slow, but nor does he rush it. But the lack of real drive and the somewhat muted contrasts overpower the obviously meticulous and attractive playing. Same with the second movement. Moving to the Adagio finds O’Conor in more friendly territory, but then he does something different. This isn’t merely a beautifully played Adagio; it’s tense, agitated, quicker than most, and possessed of a searching, forlorn sound. Indeed, I hesitate to call it “beautiful” in the standard sense. O’Conor plays with a tone that never grates, but the unabashed beauty he brings elsewhere is absent. And it works. Then O’Conor turns to the finale. The opening Largo actually maintains the tension of the Adagio, and then he plays in a manner that would have worked better in the opening two movements: there’s some bite, some heft, some power. On top of that, he keeps the contrapuntal lines clear. Yep, this is a vigorous closer. So, some fine things are to be heard here – in the Adagio especially – but this isn’t one of the greats.
Moving on to the first of the last three finds O’Conor relying on his more predictable style of playing. The piece opens with a somewhat laid-back feel, though he manages to infuse enough oomph while always providing ample beauty. Even in this dense, compact open, O’Conor manages to muster a nicely, well, transcendental sound. Or at least one capable of transporting the listener. The second movement is of course played more quickly, but it maintains the relatively light, easy-going feel of the opening movement. The real good stuff comes in the long ending movement. It’s tender. It’s beautiful. Hell, it’s gorgeous. Yes, he revs things up here and there as needed, but that’s not the focus. The upshot? The best I can describe it is that O’Conor somehow manages to fashion an unmistakably alluring but strangely static sound world. As he progresses through the variations on the opening theme, it feels less like he’s exploring the logical musical outgrowths of the music, and more likes he’s expounding one continuous, glorious, ultimately indescribably brilliant and moving idea. The idea – impossible to put into puny, frail words – requires everything, every note, every silence. It requires Beethoven’s pen. Yep, it’s a good ‘un. And the highlight of the last sonatas in this cycle.
The 110 is successful, but ultimately not quite as successful as its predecessor. The opening is predictably beautiful, and here O’Conor has no trouble spicing up the quick arpeggios with an attractive mix of verve ‘n’ clean articulation. A constant forward motion is audible, but rather than going deep, O’Conor keeps things relatively jovial. The second movement, it’s nimble and strong, boisterous and funny – sort of a nifty, nearly transcendental joke. Well, I guess it is a late Beethoven Scherzo. Go figure. The final movement offers significant contrast: it opens with a disconsolate feel, and that’s maintained without let up until the fugue, which O’Conor plays with fine clarity, speed, and, on occasion, power. He alternates the two styles again with just enough difference in style to make it even more interesting than it already is (that is, extraordinarily interesting), and when O’Conor plays the massive chords building up to the return of the fugue, it is extremely strong. No, this doesn’t match up with the best of the best out there, but it’s still a fine recording of this masterful late sonata.
The last sonata is unfortunately the weakest of the bunch. The opening movement is taken too slowly at the outset, though the pace quickens a bit later on. The dark, rich sound is nice, and O’Conor wallops out them ominous chords when appropriate, and his approach makes the quasi-fugal writing more apparent than some. Of course, O’Conor plays exceptionally well in the softer passages, offering nice contrast to the opener. It’s reasonably successful overall. The second movement falls into the reasonably successful category, as well. The Arietta is predictably beautiful, and the variations begin with a sumptuous, gorgeous first one harking back to his approach to 109. As the variations progress, though, the relative lack of depth becomes more apparent. Surely this movement of this sonata must assume an almost (or perhaps even definitely) philosophical feel, and O’Conor never quite does that. A bit of technical uncertainty at around 13’ in doesn’t help, either. This is another case where O’Conor does well, but he just doesn’t scale the heights. And a successful 111 means a lot, at least to me.
Anyway, conclusion time. I rather fancy John O’Conor’s cycle. As I stated in my review of Andrea Lucchesini’s cycle, this set (with Alfredo Perl’s the third) proves that some exceptional Beethoven playing is still to be heard from living, breathing pianists. Oh, sure, Andras Schiff’s cycle gets underway later this month (!!!), and Murray Perahia has promised to start his, but one needn’t wait for the big names; some lesser known pianists have a lot to offer. Okay, forced to choose just one for the intrepid listener wanting to move beyond dead pianists, I’d say Lucchesini is the way to go, but for those out there who want even more options – and certainly everyone should want more – I say this is a fine set. It can usually be had for a decent price, and it yields some musical riches. I’m glad it never worked its way out of my collection; this is a superb set.
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