Despite a few high points as a soloist, the reclusive English pianist Clifford Curzon should probably best be remembered as a chamber musician. Many of his performances with string ensemble are not to be missed, particularly those of late-Romantic composers’ works with the Budapest Quartet (the Franck and Dvořák quintets with that group are incomparable).
Regarding Curzon’s much-raved-about Mozart and Schubert recordings, it makes sense to me that these everyman interpretations would be lauded as his greatest achievement in an age in which such faceless drones as Alfred Brendel or Murray Perahia also have been praised in this repertoire. With a few possible exceptions, the more casual classical-music listener could probably afford to skip over Curzon’s recordings of these composers’ works altogether, though his Mozart’s usually a little better than his Schubert and a few of his takes on the former’s concertos are at least worthy of attention. Likewise, I wouldn’t advise going out of your way to listen to Curzon’s Beethoven or Schumann on the whole, though I wouldn’t overlook his Emperor concerto with Pierre Boulez or his later video version of the Kinderszenen. And his Liszt playing is mostly a pleasant surprise, especially in the live recital from Edinburgh.
Curzon seems to have an affinity for Brahms, though the quality of these interpretations varies considerably—from revelatory in the monumental third piano sonata to lobotomized in the intimate E-flat major intermezzo (Op. 117/1). Both the studio and live performances of Brahms’s iconic second piano concerto with Hans Knappertsbusch are probably where one should begin: the former, a bit cautious but well-structured; the latter, wild and experimental. Besides his live recording of the Brahms second with Knappertsbusch and of that same composer’s first with Bruno Walter and Enrique Jordà, few of his other many recordings for piano and orchestra are likely to make it into any long-term playlists of mine, though his two Grieg concerto performances are a dark-horse pick for this crowd favorite (especially the one with the native Norwegian conductor Øivin Fjeldstad) even if they can’t quite compete with Sviatoslav Richter’s magisterial account of the concerto with Lovro von Matačić. I might also suggest consuming the wonderfully silly scherzo from Henry Litolff’s fourth Concerto symphonique on New Year’s Day along with some morning champagne to start the year in a bubbly way.
Solo Interpretation (10/20)
Clifford Curzon was much revered as a chamber-music performer, and rightly so, but his solo discography is relatively small. The vast majority of his solo recordings were made for the Decca label and run a wide gamut in quality, regrettably tending toward vapidity. He does tend to get things off the ground far more in his live performances (mostly recorded for the BBC at various venues in England), though these recordings are few and far between.
Schubert and Schumann
It seems unfortunate that Curzon would have made his biggest case as a soloist for Schubert, given how bland most of these performances are. Generally speaking, his sound in this music is colorless, with spotty attention to the composer’s dynamic nuances (especially in bringing across the subtle modulations), polyphonic complexity, and expansive structures. In general, his tempi are also too fast and watery (one notable exception being the brisk, gypsy-ish finale of the second book of impromptus, which is conversely clunky and labored). In addition, his phrasing in this music tends to melodically throb over a wimpy bass and his touch can be either sodden or tinkly depending on whether he’s playing a slower cantabile or an allegro, respectively.
Mostly, he trudges through both books of impromptus (the 1941 and 1952 studio recordings) as if he were walking the plank—with a few exceptions, such as his later 1964 BBC version of the dulcetly singing G-flat impromptu from the first opus, in which he finally devotes some attention to shaping his phrases. As for Curzon’s takes on the moments musicaux? I’d call these moments ennuyeux in Curzon’s hands. Probably the worst is his 1964 recording of the Gasteiner sonata (D major, D. 850), one of Schubert’s most ambitious and technically difficult works (approaching Beethoven’s “Hammerklavier” in its epic scope). Curzon’s is a cautious, fussed-over rendition that misses the forest for the trees: it sounds as though he hasn’t yet internalized his conception of the massive work and is still obsessively working out the details in the studio, resulting in disjointed tempo shifts, phrasing, and rubato even at these rather crawling tempi. His video version of the composer’s B-flat major sonata (D. 960) from a few years later is an equally tedious slog evocative of little but a rat, not exactly on account of the playing but because Curzon’s nasal twitchings and sniffings bring small furry creatures to mind. Surprisingly, however, his audio-only recordings of the B-flat sonata are a vast improvement and, in fact, probably represent his best Schubert playing—especially the 1972 version, which, while still opaque-textured and rhythmically staid at times, has a more Viennese waltzing flavor (e.g., in the airy, mercurial scherzo aptly marked con delicatezza). There’s also a turn of phrase every now and then in the more lyrical moments of the impromptus (the later ones from the 60s tend to be better). And his Wanderer-Fantasy has moments of heroism, but the maladroit keyboard writing often bogs him down—all in all, he doesn’t seem quite up to the challenge of conquering this visionary masterwork’s superhuman technical and musical demands. (Incidentally, there’s also an early recording of Curzon playing the transcription of this piece for piano and orchestra by Franz Liszt; Curzon sounds much more relaxed here, doubtless aided by Liszt’s cagey recasting of some of Schubert’s dense, finger-breaking chordal patterns between the pianistic and orchestral components.)
Curzon’s Schumann also has ups and downs. Generally it’s more satisfying than his Schubert, but he recorded very little of it, just a couple of performances each of the Kinderszenen and the Op. 17 fantasy. As with his Liszt sonata (see below), the live performance of the fantasy is more inspired than his studio one (which is still halfway decent). In particular, I like the passion in the ecstatic melodic lines in the first movement and the wispy rubato in the numinously introspective third movement. Sometimes his texture and rhythm can be turbid, especially in the robust German-style march of the second movement, where he also struggles with the hairier passages (there are scads of slips in the treacherous skips of the final bars—here he sounds a bit like an awkward child trying hard but failing to win at hopscotch). His dotted rhythms and pedaling in this movement are also often sloppily executed, particularly in the extended developmental episodes, though I do like some of his offbeat, jazzy accents. Curzon’s interpretation of this piece may not vie with Anda’s or Backhaus’s, but the live one displays at least some sense of the fantastic, which is far more than hot-house gofers like Maurizio Pollini, Richard Goode, or Martha Argerich could do. Likewise, the later 1959 video recording (at BBC studios) of the Kinderszenen is more considered than his dull 1954 walk-through of the same piece. The dynamic shadings are transparent, and he successfully brings across Schumann’s Innigkeit in the serene selections like the “Träumerei” (“Daydream”) and “Aus fremden Ländern und Menschen” (“Of Foreign Lands and Peoples”). Sometimes, however, he falls into the common trap of thoughtlessly allowing his fingers to run away with him on some of the quicker pieces such as the “Am Camin” (“At the Fireside”), “Ritter von Steckenpferd” (“Knight of the Hobbyhorse”), and “Fürchtenmachen” (“Frightening”). Overall, though, this video recording is actually among the better performances I’ve heard of this notoriously tricky set of miniatures. Granted, it may not have the contemplative, childlike earnestness of Vladimir Horowitz’s best performances of the work, but it’s a thought-provoking interpretation nonetheless.
Brahms and Liszt
Curzon seems most comfortable in Brahms as a soloist. His concrete conception of the third sonata is reminiscent of Sviatoslav Richter’s titanic readings of the first two Brahms sonatas. For me, this is hands down Curzon’s best solo recording, the ideal work to exhibit his burnished-as-marble tone. Here he displays a vast musical vision as he does in the best of his concerto performances, exhibiting a wide dynamic range from whispering pianissimos to lofty fortissimos (but he never pounds). This towering sonata should be featured more often on the concert programs of those with the physique for it. My favorite movement, both the playing and the piece, is the creepily lumbering scherzo that sounds to my imagination like dancing bears in a menagerie controlled by a sorcerer.
Curzon’s interpretations of the introspective late Klavierstücke are not as successful and include a prize-winningly plodding rendition of the E-flat intermezzo from Op. 117. Not a shred of Germanic hope or lyrical beauty here, I’m afraid. Instead, I hear a zombie mindlessly compressing the keys with nary a dynamic inflection, inching forward with as plodding a regularity as a casket bearer in a funeral procession. He’s a bit better on the E-flat minor (No. 6 of Op. 118) and C major intermezzi (No. 3 of Op. 119): I like his dark mysticism on the former and his light touch on the latter would be commendable if only he didn’t also sound as tightly wound as a rubber band stretched to the snapping point (where’s the carefree charm of this unusually lighthearted entry in the Brahmsian canon?). At least in his early recording of the B minor capriccio from Op. 76, the cracker-crisp bite of the skipping staccato thirds is impressive enough to compensate for his overly rigid rhythm.
Interestingly, Curzon seems quite at home in most of the Liszt he plays, too. His live version of the Liszt B minor sonatais significantly more convincing than the studio one, though it’s not for the more cautious listener. In this adrenaline-charged performance, Curzon’s nerves sound as if they’re about to electrocute him. Despite the distracting overstraining at times, this is one of the more ardent performances I’ve heard of this vaunted archetype of the late Romantic cyclical sonata. The only caveat is that, with the number of superlative performances of this seminal work out there—by Barere, Levy, Ponti, Horowitz, Gilels, and Richter to name a few—presenting it convincingly in front of a concert audience normally requires a virtuoso with a capital rather than a lowercase “v.” But Curzon’s resolve to forge his own path, polish be damned, is almost enough to make me forget about the slew of wrong notes as well as the frequent smears and desperate rushing in places (not to mention the huge memory lapse in the last movement). When the dust from the carnage settles, the listener is left with a courageous statement on this sacred-cow sonata that could have been one of the greats, I think, had Curzon drunk just one shot of chilled vodka beforehand.
Most of Curzon’s other Liszt interpretations are similarly recommended with reservations. The weakest, though not a total bust, is the Gnomenreigen concert etude, which is admirably clear but unfortunately lacking in any sense of the grotesque or oneiric. Of course, when you’ve heard Rachmaninoff’s godlike fluidity or Barere’s flair for the freakish on this etude, more procedural performances such as those by Curzon simply won’t do. On the other hand, his early recording of the more ubiquitously performed first Mephisto Waltz is an unexpected success—I’d take this massive and robustly accented version of Liszt’s virtuoso staple any day over contest-winning assembly-line products from the likes of Ashkenazy or Kapell. But Curzon achieves his greatest successes, both technically and musically, in the slower, nocturne-like Liszt pieces such as the Sonetto del Petrarca 104 (from Book II, Italie, of the Années de pèlerinage), the Berceuse, and the famous third Liebestraum. His take on the Berceuse in particular—not one of Liszt’s better-known works—is notable for its dreamlike filigree, velvety touch, and unforced rubato. Both versions of the Berceuse are excellent, but the dynamic shadings come across much better in the sonically superior studio version (his later studio Liebestraum also seems preferable to the earlier one for similar reasons). Would that he could have brought similar reverie-like qualities to his Schubert moments musicaux. On the other hand, the eerie lilt of the live version of Curzon’s first valse oubliée (from the same recital as the Liszt sonata) is vastly preferable to the perfunctory drudgery of the studio version (the brisker tempo helps).
Concluding Thoughts
Ultimately, one could criticize Curzon’s solo discography just as much for what he didn’t record as for what he did. The fact that he set to disc only one piece of Chopin matters little—judging from his disjointedly phrased, emotionally distant performance of the posthumous C-sharp minor nocturne, Chopin wasn’t his thing anyway, and that’s just fine. But for a pianist who has often been commended for his more cerebral conceptions, it’s odd that he left posterity no Bach, no Beethoven or Haydn sonatas (though he did record a fair but soggy set of the former’s Eroica variations as well as a cogent but maddeningly erratic performance of the latter’s F minor variations live), and only one sonata of Mozart (a clunky live performance from Salzburg). In any event, in solo classic-period repertory, Curzon offers little challenge, either quantitatively or qualitatively, to German-school pianists such as Clara Haskil, Wilhelm Backhaus, Walter Gieseking, or Edwin Fischer.
Curzon’s videos confirm what his audio recordings hint at: the guy was a nervous wreck whose arm flapping and rodentlike mouth movements sometimes interfered with his music making. Nevertheless, his best playing, especially in the one-and-done world of live performance, reveals that even this bespectacled accountant lookalike could occasionally unleash the beast inside.
Collaborations (7/10)
String Ensemble
On the whole, Curzon appears most in his element as the pianist in a chamber-music ensemble: he seems to feed off the energy of the other group members and spring to life in a way he rarely does in his solo performances. Nowhere is this more evident than in the over-the-top fury of his Franck F minor quintet with the Budapest Quartet (live from the White House), one of the most edge-of-your-seat chamber performances I’ve ever heard. This performance (and piece) has everything a diehard romantic could ask for—volcanic explosions, tear-inducing lyricism, menacing shudders. The normally reserved Curzon is osmosed into the passionate style of this magnificent quartet. Curzon’s studio performance of this quintet with the Vienna Philharmonic Quartet is also excellent even if it isn’t quite as knock-‘em-dead. In listening to the two side by side, one is struck by the differences in sound of the two groups of string players—the Vienna players have a sweeter, more refined sound, while the Budapest’s sound is slightly harder and edgier (though never harsh). The Dvořák A major quintet performances serve as further evidence for this comparison: the plaintive Czech folk melodies in the soulful second-movement Dumka are wonderfully sung by both the Viennese and Budapest quartets, but the Budapest players seem to have a greater understanding of the work’s rhythmic verve and expressiveness, while the Viennese group often sounds a bit lethargic.
In addition to teaming up with Curzon on the Franck and Dvořák quintets, the Budapest Quartet joined him for a red bull–infused performance of the youthfully vigorous Schumann Quintet (the archetype of the Romantic piano quintet that heavily influenced later essays in the form). The cellist in this performance is the highlight for me, eliciting rich, warm tones from his instrument that are reminiscent of the great Mstislav Rostropovich’s bowing. While their rhythm is taut and their ensemble euphonious, they could occasionally let the faster tempi breathe more (especially the scherzo, which is phenomenally precise but could have more give and take—it shouldn’t sound as if they’re on a coke high). The group’s first two Mozart quartets with Curzon suffer from similar problems, the tempi tending toward skittishness and the sound becoming strained at times owing, possibly, to their overly purple phrasing in such classic-period music (they excel more in the late-Romantic repertory). Curzon’s playing is also too nervous, and he sometimes awkwardly lurches forward as he tries not to fall behind the others in the race to the finish line.
The third chamber group with which Curzon had a strong association is the Amadeus Quartet, whose sound can be scratchy and thick-textured compared with the other two. What they lack in refinement, however, they make up for with bullish aggression. Their live recording of the Brahms F minor quintet from the 1970s tends toward the vulgar, but it displays machismo in spades. Curzon is at his most intense here—galloping, charging, thundering. This quartet’s testosterone-driven approach doesn’t suit the Franck quintet as well: I love their extroversion, though their playing here seems more percussive than passionate, failing to convey the spiritual fervor that either the Budapest Quartet or the Vienna Philharmonic Quartet does. Still, despite these quibbles this is a must-listen, too: the tornadic codas of the outer movements sweep the audience up in a vortex of sound, and Curzon attacks the piano with superhuman force as if he were Jove hurling boulders at the titans storming the heavens.
Far less convincing is the Amadeus Quartet’s video performance of the Schubert “Trout” quintet. It’s direct, too much so, and Curzon sounds like a dangling rope that’s ready to snap under the weight of a piano attached to it. The group’s faults here lie in the opposite direction from the usual “sensitive” mooning associated with most weak Schubert playing. While their driving rhythm can be exciting at times, they often squeeze their phrases on the pot, hoping to pinch out music. Add to that the visual repellence of caveman-like mane-shaking from the first violinist as well as Curzon’s spastic digital contortions, and you have a recipe for indigestion. Surprisingly, his version with the Vienna Octet players doesn’t fare too much better in terms of evoking the carefree charm tinged with melancholy one might associate with Schubert’s home city. For one thing, the tempi are even more pushed and mechanical than with the Amadeus Quartet. (Does the scherzo need to be this frenetic?) Admittedly, it’s been hard to find a performance of this challenging quintet that satisfies me, though one that immediately springs to mind (at least one that comes closer) is Paul Badura-Skoda’s 1950s performance with the Vienna Konzerthaus Quartet.
Work With Other Instrumentalists
In addition to his string ensemble collaborations, Curzon teamed up with the English composer Benjamin Britten for some two-piano works. (Britten was a facile and rhythmically dynamic—but technically amateurish—pianist best known in that capacity for his duo work with Sviatoslav Richter and Mstislav Rostropovich.) My tepid ratings for the duo’s playing of Britten’s own “mazurka elegiaca” and “rondo burlesca” perhaps reflect more the pieces than the performances, though the latter leaves a fair amount to be desired as well. Both pieces are meandering, dreary slabs of dissonant modernity. If Britten’s objective was to evoke the walls of a prison cell, he did that admirably. The mazurka is marginally more interesting than the rondo, but the work hardly seems evocative of this dance form as conceived of by a master craftsman like Chopin or even other modernist menial laborers in the style such as Karol Szymanowski or Ignaz Friedman (in his capacity as a composer); Britten’s mazurka sounds more like a C-grade emulation of a Shostakovich prelude and fugue. On a brighter note, the two Englishmen work well together on the Mozart sonata for two pianos, K. 448. While the performance by Britten and Curzon may not exhibit the technical finesse or seamless elegance of the interpretation by Josef and Rosina Lhévinne from the 1930s, the former is a bit more devil-may-care, eschewing superficial perfection in favor of raw energy.
Those who relish the taste of sugary pastries may also wish to check out Curzon’s collaboration with Yehudi Menuhin on the three pieces for violin and piano by the little-known and (literally) short-lived composer Lili Boulanger, who died of tuberculosis at just 24. Any death is sad, of course, but I can’t say I cry too much over any potential lost works if these saccharine trifles are any indication; this plebeian French conservatory fodder seems a (very) pallid imitation of Fauré. Yet the (surprisingly) strong playing does make these worth a listen, I must admit. Menuhin’s string tone seems less Klezmer-whiny than usual and is buttressed by Curzon’s firm-backboned accompaniment.
Mozart and Beethoven Concertos
Curzon’s concerto performances are more of a mixed bag than his ensemble work. By and large, his Mozart concerto recordings are criminally overrated. In this repertoire, he seems not remotely approaching Clara Haskil and not on the level of Sviatoslav Richter, Géza Anda, Wanda Landowska, or Walter Gieseking either—or perhaps even Guiomar Novaes or Maria João-Pires. Curzon’s blankness in these works is more reminiscent of nebbishes like András Schiff, Mitsuko Uchida, Murray Perahia, Ingrid Haebler, or Christoph Eschenbach.
Curzon recorded most of the late, great Mozart concertos, including the C and D minor (K. 466 and K. 491) and Coronation (K. 537) concertos, and the artistic quality can vary considerably depending on the conductor (he recorded the vast majority of these concertos multiple times). Generally plodding ones include those with Benjamin Britten, Rafael Kubelik, Josef Krips, and István Kertész. Of these, the listless collaborations with Britten on the D minor and B-flat major concertos disappointed me the most, since I admire Britten’s nuanced readings of, for example, the Bach Brandenburg Concertos or the Mozart G minor and Schubert unfinished symphonies. As another aside, I remain mystified by Kertész’s wunderkind reputation. Perhaps it’s just because of the mystique surrounding him since, like the pianists Dinu Lipatti and William Kapell, he died prematurely (in Kertész’s case, in a drowning accident), possibly crushing the hopes and dreams of his fanboy base. I also had higher hopes for Curzon’s C major concerto, K. 467, with Armin Jordan, who has sometimes been praised for his lean, historically authentic Mozart performances; I found only sluggishness and opaqueness here. Moving from the generally uninspired to the downright ugly, I find Daniel Barenboim abhorrent as both a conductor and pianist. As one might expect from such a mud-wallowing warthog, his version of No. 27 with Curzon is little but hooves stampeding and anvils clanging. Even worse is the pair’s sumo wrestling match in the E-flat major concerto (K. 365). Brighter notes among Curzon’s Mozart concerto collaborations include those with Bernard Haitink (C minor); Pierre Boulez (nice nobility and verve in the Coronation); Claudio Abbado (generally an excellent Mozart conductor); and, occasionally, George Szell, whose sound can sometimes be strident but who at least tends to have the requisite energy and precision in Mozart. I also shouldn’t forget to mention the early recording (1945) of the A major concerto (K. 488) with the rather obscure English conductor Boyd Neel, which has a rhythmic pointedness that appears absent from so many of the Mozart concerto recordings Curzon set to disc later in life. Though it may not have the individuality of Haskil or Horowitz, this early Curzon performance is brightly accented and well-articulated in the fast movements. This may, in fact, be the Mozart concerto performance that puts Curzon in his best light as a soloist; the other decent ones tend to owe their success more to the conductor than to Curzon himself.
Many of the same criticisms of Curzon’s Mozart concerto recordings apply to his fourth and fifth (“Emperor”) Beethoven concertos as well, particularly the torpid, heavy-handed renditions of both with Kubelik. Those with Hans Knappertsbusch (a streaky conductor, I have found) are only slightly less of a listening chore. Curzon does fare a bit better with the Emperor, which makes sense given his evident penchant for weightier compositions. As in his Mozart concertos, it appears a puppetmaster like Szell was at least able to light a big enough flame under Curzon’s often-too-passive rump to achieve the right amount of rhythmic tension. The version of this concerto with Boulez is a bit more to my liking, however, seeming more quintessentially Beethovenien: while the Szell performance has greater drive, Boulez’s interpretation is more broadly shaped with a fuller sound, at times bringing the stark augustness of the pillars at Stonehenge to mind (e.g., the granitic parallel octaves in the first movement). The duo does occasionally milk the phrases too much for my taste, however, especially in the nostalgic middle movement. And the last movement (probably my favorite Beethoven concerto movement) is properly enthusiastic and militaristic but Boulez’s orchestral balance and Curzon’s tone production are unfortunately both a little on the thick side. I do love Curzon’s fiery accents, though, as well as his general evenness in the passagework. Not to mention that the pair shows us the meaning of “no-holds-barred” at the conclusion.
Curzon’s participation in the seldom performed choral fantasy (Op. 80) is an unheralded high point of his few Beethoven recordings, though this is more of an orchestral work with the piano featured as part of the mix. Sometimes Curzon fusses over touch, but he solidly dispatches the virtuosic piano passages in this swashbuckling quasi-operatic fantasy of Beethoven’s whose strains of brotherhood in the chorus presage the ninth symphony.
Brahms Concertos
As in his solo recordings, Curzon saves some of his best concerto interpretations for Brahms. Both performances of his Brahms second with Knappertsbusch are monolithic readings, but the live performance from Salzburg (on the small Orfeo label) stands out for its spontaneity and grandeur. While some of the more furious moments tend toward the panicky, Knappertsbusch engulfs the audience in breakers of sound while Curzon rips into his solos with the ferocity of a tiger pouncing on a deer. The later studio version, while more polished, lights a dimmer candle than this live one in terms of electric excitement, and Knappertsbusch’s protracted tempi at certain points contribute to a turgid impression. Nevertheless, even if it lacks the extra spark of its live counterpart, the studio recording is still a solid effort that ranks fairly well alongside performances by the likes of Fischer, Gilels, Anda, Richter, and Backhaus.
Curzon is just as dynamic in his best readings of the less traversed first Brahms concerto—especially the collaborations with Bruno Walter in 1951 and Enrique Jordá in 1946, which bristle with intensity for the duration, building into grand monuments by the conclusion. The musical chemistry between Curzon and Walter seems especially strong, with Walter’s spontaneous, passionate expressiveness complementing Curzon’s taut rhythm and broadly arched phrases. With blockbuster Brahms playing like this, it’s a headscratcher that so many of Curzon’s anemic Mozart concerto performances seem much better-known. Curzon’s strength in the first movement in both the Walter and Jordá partnerships is unmatched (the clarionlike trills sound like a blacksmith forging a sword), easily outgunning Backhaus, Malcuzynski, or even Horowitz or Gilels. Also notable are the mystical phrasing in the second movement and the overpowering vigor in the rondo, which has a Hungarian friska feel. Curzon’s collaborations on this concerto with Szell and Eduard van Beinum are solid but inconsistent: the one with van Beinum commences with a gargantuan first movement but loses steam as it progresses, while Szell’s lean, dictatorial approach doesn’t jibe well with Curzon’s (and, I daresay, Brahms’s own) freer conception
Other Works for Piano and Orchestra
Curzon’s Tchaikovsky first and Rachmaninov second aren’t terrible, but they fail to stand out from the pack in any way. Like too many other pianists to count, he would have done better to leave these undeniably appealing but over-aired crowd pleasers alone, not just because they are outside his emotional range but because of the multiplicity of seminal performances of the Tchaikovsky by the likes of Horowitz and Gilels and of the Rachmaninov by such old-time greats as Benno Moiseiwitsch and, of course, the composer himself. The Rachmaninov second with Sir Adrian Boult is missing this composer’s sense of elegiac tragedy, while the Tchaikovsky first with Georg Solti reeks of gravitas. On a more positive note, Curzon’s performance of the Tchaikovsky first with Szell has far greater energy than that with Solti; Szell’s unadorned precision, however, seems at odds with the sentimental Russian composer’s sweeping lyricism.
As for other works for piano and orchestra, Curzon unsurprisingly champions earlier-generation English composers. Can’t say I care much for the Delius concerto, composed in a treacly Romantic folk idiom and largely forgotten except by obscurantists. But Curzon gives it his all: nice virtuosity, verve, and expressiveness. The even more obscure Rawsthorne concerto is, not to put too fine a point on it, a steaming turdpile of modernity, with scattered quasi-tunes and aimless basslines that float off blindly in various directions like dead insects blown by the wind. Curzon produces a creditable rendition, I suppose, but I’m not sure what a performer can be expected to do with such depressing amorphousness.
The unaggressive Curzon seemed to enjoy being a voice in the chorus, participating as he did as the pianist in a couple of other principally orchestral works. One is “Symphony No. 3” by Willem Pijper, who’s described on Wikipedia as “among the most important Dutch composers of the first half of the 20th century”—maybe that means something in certain circles, but I’d say such a classification relegates him to around the same level of significance as the world grand master at tiddly winks (hardly any of his many works even have an entry on the “free encyclopedia”). Be that as it may, this is a theatrically convincing impressionistic-sounding work, culminating in what sounds like the cinematic score to accompany an intergalactic battle (though God knows what Pijper really had in mind). The piano part in the Spanish composer Manuel de Falla’s tone-poem-like Nights in the Gardens of Spain is a bit more substantive. As a work with enough string gushings, harp swishings, and flute flutterings to function as the score for a silent Arabian nights–type film like the Thief of Bagdad, it seems an odd choice for a rather strait-laced pianist like Curzon. Unsurprisingly, his plunking out of the dance themes in the “Gardens of the Sierra de Cordoba” (the third piece) is as monotonously regular as a pacemaker. The sweeping glissandi and other Liszt-like orchestration of the “In the Generalife” suit him better, however. And the transparent conducting of native Spaniard Enrique Jordá does help the listener sort out the nuances within Falla’s veritable dictionary of novel orchestral effects.
Concluding Thoughts
With limited exceptions, Curzon’s anemic Mozart concerto playing—sadly his largest and most celebrated body of collaborative work—might be suitable as music to have on in the background while dusting the house or going for a Sunday drive, but it’s not likely to awaken any dormant brain cells. I can only guess that Curzon’s tepid approach to this music stems, as it so often does, from a desire to please the droves of risk-averse critics whose careers depend on making much ado out of performances that don’t encroach upon the herd safety of the status quo. Nevertheless, for those of us who expect a little more from public performers, there’s luckily enough else to enjoy among Curzon’s other collaborations—particularly his fabulous playing with string ensemble groups—that a few horse apples don’t stink up the whole pasture.
Technique (5/10)
While Curzon’s technique easily dispatches classical repertoire, such as Mozart and most Beethoven and Schubert, he sometimes struggles with more virtuosic fare. Generally, his playing of scales and other close-to-the-keys passagework is fleet and fluid, even if it’s not always optimally clear. For instance, he exhibits fantastic control in his mad sprint through Beethoven’s jocular Rondo a capriccio (“Rage over a Lost Penny”), but his clarity deteriorates as the performance progresses: he could have done more with the details at a more musically reasonable pace. On the other hand, Curzon’s Mozart concerto performances are more than creditable technically and, generally, tempowise as well; it’s just too bad that so many of these interpretations constitute little more than adequately dexterous finger twiddling.
On bigger repertory, Curzon lacks the physique and facility of Richter or the nervous system of Horowitz. He can get bogged down at the highest levels of difficulty—certain chordal passages in the Liszt sonata come to mind—sometimes resulting in over-exertion and tempo lagging. However, his early rendition of the Mephisto Waltz reveals no mean octave technique. And he seems to have no problem beating the Brahms concertos into submission: while his performances of these apexes of the concerto canon may not be quite at the technical level of a Gilels (whose are?), he scales the mountains without impaling himself too bloodily on their craggy peaks.
In listening to (and watching) Curzon, I can’t help thinking that he could have used his excellent hand position so much better if he had just relaxed a little. Sadly, I believe his grotesque contortions and facial grimacing at the piano frequently tended to restrict his freedom and result in automaton-like music making.
Versatility (3/5)
Around half of Curzon’s discography consists of the German classical and romantic masters, and his mediocre renditions of Mozart and Schubert are wasted space on his pianistic résumé despite the occasional amethyst in the rough. The late-Romantic repertoire, however, apparently stokes his emotional fires in a way the classicists don’t. In addition to wrestling many of Brahms’s mighty structures to the ground, Curzon sometimes reveals himself as a master orchestrator in Liszt. Given his apparent affinity for the eagle of the piano, it’s also not surprising that he’d bequeath to us one of the more theatrically convincing Grieg concerto performances—particularly the collaboration with the Norwegian native Øivin Fjeldstad, which exudes an irrepressible Nordic nationalism. The un-ostentatious virtuosity of this performance is indeed reminiscent of some of Curzon’s Liszt such as the first Mephisto Waltz (Grieg was heavily influenced by Liszt).
Curzon also deserves recognition for his fine playing of works by composers like Delius and Rawsthorne from his mother England: he interprets their concertos with a fine sense of impressionistic color even if the works themselves are drab. Far more to my taste, though, is a harder-to-locate recording from Curzon’s earlier years of a wistful “fairy tale” by the underrated Russian composer Nikolai Medtner, a contemporary of Rachmaninov and Scriabin. The puckish scherzo from the Litolff fourth Concerto symphonique (accompanied by Adrian Boult and the London Symphony Orchestra) is another gem that reveals a playful side of Curzon, generally well hidden from view: before I heard this, I was beginning to fear the years of strain before the public had robbed him of his sense of humor.
Legacy (2/5)
As English pianists go, Curzon is moderately well known—at least to piano enthusiasts—perhaps as familiar a name as Solomon or Myra Hess. However, the latter two achieved greater success with their solo recordings. Curzon’s best-known recordings, those for the prominent and ongoing Decca label, are usually available in various releases on Amazon and other sources as a complete, or at least a partial, set. Unfortunately, many of Curzon’s very best recordings were made for labels like BBC Legends that have since gone defunct, making them difficult to find on disc. In particular, some of his A-list live performances—such as those of the Liszt sonata and the Delius concerto on the Orfeo and BBC labels, respectively—are tough to come by, though many of them appear used from time to time on sites like ebay, albeit often for an inflated price.
