The following are excerpts from a wonderful autobiographical memoir by Alexander Kok, a South-African cellist who was in the Philharmonia Orchestra when Lipatti recorded the Grieg and Schumann Piano Concertos. This incredible first-hand account describes the sessions and also an experience Kok shared with Lipatti during a break in the recording studio as the pianist was practicing Chopin’s Etude Op.10 No.2, a work which one of his students said he played in an ‘electric’ way, ‘like a snake.’ This chapter has been published in the Winter 2011 edition of Classical Recordings Quarterly – back issues can be ordered here
Nobody was late for the session, evidence that members of the orchestra had already demonstrated its recognition of genius before Lipatti entered the studio and was introduced to us. When Lipatti struck the piano A for the orchestra to tune to, on this occasion it was all done quickly and quietly instead of the usual contradictions of pitch and the inevitable mayhem of discordant instruments being tuned at the same time.
Normally the piano A is hammered out simply to attract the orchestra’s attention, but on this occasion what my colleagues and I heard was altogether new – those nearest to Lipatti could hear that even the octave A played had a sonority not heard before in that somewhat unsympathetic studio.
Walter Legge wrote in his tribute to Lipatti that the softness of Lipatti’s sound came through strength. For me and like everything else that happened on that unforgettable afternoon and evening, an expectation of what is possible in the performance of the Grieg Piano Concerto was changed forever. In those two recording sessions everyone was caught up in Lipatti’s personality: his world of spirituality, gentleness and modesty. It was as if all present had been introduced to a living saint.
From where I was sitting at the concert I had been unable to see him play, but when we recorded the Grieg concerto I could see and marvel at this frail little figure: at his large head and pale face with its philosopher’s brow, deep in concentration; at his disproportionately large hands and fingers, as they ranged over the keyboard, bringing life and significance to each note and every phrase.
Everything Lipatti played had character and for me, the listener, to have heard it meant that Lipatti must already have recognised, given thought and presented it in such a way that any criticism was forestalled – there could be no other way. Before he felt able to focus on a performance, he had first to feel confident that he had achieved his ultimate in the physical and technical aspect of the work to be performed. He focused on a total economy of movement, leaving him free to follow the dictates of a sensitive aristocrat of the highest calibre, never hindered by uncertainty, incapable of vulgarity in thought or deed. With everything in control, there would be no wasted energy.
…
Before the interval I had been fascinated by his keyboard stance. I now had a half-profile of Lipatti as he played, his head bowed over the keyboard with a concentration that was frightening to witness. His hands were large, with fingers that looked as if they were made of rubber that never seemed to hesitate as they roamed over the piano keys with absolute assurance, or chased their own shadows with sudden illogical movements.
Watching him play, I was fascinated by the grace with which the left-hand chord sequences in the second Etude by Chopin, a work I knew well, having been introduced to a large section of the piano repertoire by Jean Machie, a gifted pianist and friend at the Academy. Lipatti’s finger movements appeared to be singing a song in the bass I had never heard presented in that way before.
But somehow I must have disturbed him: he stopped for a moment, as if waiting for me to say something. Overcome with embarrassment I mumbled a muted apology and tried to explain that I had been so entranced that I had forgotten my manners. I told him that what had mesmerised me was the effortless lucidity of the left-hand progression: that I had heard the Chopin practised and performed often enough at concerts but that until that afternoon, the Etude always sounded difficult, looked impossible and had not made much musical sense anyway.
The opening of the Brahms D Minor Concerto was quite a different matter – or so Rudolf Serkin told me in Prades in 1956. “In this work” he explained “the music has technical difficulties that are deliberately written to look as difficult as they sound!” With his large and enormously strong hands and fingers, I wonder how Lipatti would have coped with those chords. No doubt he would probably have mastered the technical difficulties like he did in every other work I heard him perform.
“Do you want to practise?”
The question was so unexpected that my initial reaction was to lighten the question by saying that if I was to keep up with the music he was making I certainly needed to. Fortunately, I thought better of it and, apologising again, began walking to the door. A sudden sense of loss made me stop in my tracks and turning round I saw that Lipatti was still looking at me, so I asked if he had minded my being in the studio and listening to him practise. I had been particularly fascinated by the liquidity of movement in his left hand in the Chopin Study, adding that I had never realised that the study could sound like that. Looking at me, he played the notes written for the hand on their own.
“You see” he said, “the wrist, hand and lower arm must move as if they are making a circle or rather an oblong that is slightly curved. Also, the speed of the movement must be consistent. In this way you can make the chords sound like a melody: the notes played by the right hand are the accompaniment.”
So much had happened since I had joined the Philharmonia. I had worked with, been taught and encouraged by so many great talents. They all did their best to show me the deeper significance music must awaken in the listener if it is to serve any purpose. I don’t think it is an exaggeration to say that something in Dinu Lipatti’s sound went beyond anything I have ever heard. Near the end of my life I am still wondering whether I was wrong.
I asked Lipatti again if I could stay and listen.
“But of course” he replied.
He spoke the words in the endearing way in which some of my recent colleagues and acquaintances from Europe spoke English, as Pierre Fournier had done, in 1947, when I asked him whether he would teach me.
Many thanks to Alexander Kok for allowing me to post these incredible excerpts! Please visit his website and consider purchasing his book, ‘A Voice In The Dark, The Philharmonia Years’, which discusses encounters with many other great artists. Updated ordering information to follow shortly.
