Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart's Piano Concerto # 20 in d minor, K.

466 is the
most historically popular and influential among his keyboard concertos.
In this appraisal, we review the history of the genre, the reasons for the
importance of the 20th concerto and Mozart's own style of playing, and then
provide a selective survey of some historically important recordings,
concluding with some sources for further information.

Nowadays, it seems that everyone loves Mozart, whose genius spanned all
genres from opera and symphony to chamber music and solo sonatas. Yet,
those with the most sophisticated taste tend to revere his piano concertos
above all else. Among the 23 he produced in his prime, none has aroused
as much enthusiasm through the ages as the Piano Concerto # 20 in dminor, K. 466. Pianist Charles Rosen called it "as much a myth as a work of art:
when listening to it, it is difficult at times to say whether we are hearing the
work or its reputation."
The term "concerto" refers
generally to a work that displays the
possibilities of two different instrumental groups, both individually and together.
The earliest arose in Italy and were built on the contrast between solo strings (the
continuo) and the full ensemble (the ripieno). Their form followed
that of the four-movement symphony but without the customary
dance movement, which seemed unsuitable to the central feature of
contrasted elements, thus leaving a substantial opening movement, a
restful interlude, and an energetic finale. To the first movement (and
often the last as well) was added a cadenza, an unaccompanied
stretch during which the soloist was afforded an opportunity to
embellish the thematic material and to display his technical prowess.
These simple elements resonated deeply within listeners' psyches to popularize the
genre. Sir Donald Tovey notes that the essential form of the concerto, based on
opposite, unequal masses of instruments, reflects the basic societal drama of an
individual versus the crowd. John Culshaw traces the appeal of the concerto to its
roots in the opera aria, in which, after an instrumental introduction, a solo voice
carries the melody and dominates an entire orchestra. He goes on to invoke the
inherent drama of conflict and reconciliation between opposing forces as symbolic
reflections of the tension that shapes society. He further credits the soloist's
virtuostic display as arousing an audience's empathy to root for the underdog in an
imbalanced contest of wills. C. M. Girdlestone summarizes the net impact as
creating a satisfying psychological drama of strife and competition that ends in
collaboration and reconciliation.

From that perspective, the piano concerto has special appeal as Alfred Einstein
observed, unlike in concerti for strings, brass or wind instruments, the piano's
percussive sound and wide tonal range surpasses the ability of other solo
instruments to create an effective sense of balance against the massed ripieno
(especially in Mozart's time, before instruments were engineered for greater power,
pitch became raised for greater brilliance, and the sheer size of orchestras grew).
Mozart surely recognized this while he wrote numerous concertos for other
instruments, including violin, horn and flute, only a single late clarinet concerto
approaches the sophistication of his mature piano concertos.
In Mozart's hands, the concerto took on special qualities. His earliest works in the
genre were arrangements of largely derivative sonata movements and other pieces
that aspiring composers presented to the boy genius, but soon Mozart perfected and
personalized the form. Once the period of juvenilia had passed, aside from a
simplistic triple concerto for lady amateurs all of his mature piano concertos have
been acclaimed as masterpieces. Many commentators have
noted that Mozart transcended rigidity and adherence to
convention by investing the basic form he inherited from
Bach and Vivaldi with extraordinary variety suited to the
different character of each of his works. Perhaps in defense
of his own taste, Girdlestone insists that the superficial
uniformity that we at first encounter disappears, and upon
scrutiny each concerto emerges as charged with a distinct
personality of its own.
Girdlestone attributes this inexhaustible spring of delight, as
well as substantial emotional complexity, to Mozart's turning
Mozart in 1785
to the piano concerto as the primary vehicle through which
Loschenkohl silhouette
he found afresh the radiance of his inner life, even while
being overworked and underappreciated. Indeed, Richard Westerberg asserts that
the key to Mozart's humanity, as reflected in his music, is that every happy musical
idea contains sadness and all the sad ones bring a measure of hope. It is this
overriding humanity that has resonated in seasoned musicians and novices alike
through the ages (that is, at least to those sensitive enough to perceive and respond
to the message as Andr Gide once observed, Mozart speaks in whispers, whereas
the public tends to hear only shouts.) Thus, Schubert saw Mozart as giving us a
picture of a better world, and H. C. Robbins Landon finds in Mozart nothing less
than "an excuse for mankind's existence and a small hope for our ultimate
survival."
Nowhere in Mozart's canon does this exceptional devotion arise as often as in his
piano concertos. Among the techniques which critics cite for their affection is the
creation of dialogue among the instruments rather than treating the orchestra as a
monolithic block, varying the rhythmic motion within the basic pulse to create a
sense of excitement, the richness of the wind writing, constant transformation of the
basic thematic materials, the soloist "teasing" the orchestra by appropriating and
embellishing its themes, and an overall complex relationship with the orchestra to
enrich the solo personality. As Joseph Kerman notes, the effectiveness of this
approach is immeasurably enhanced by Mozart's creation of a dialogue in which
piano and orchestra speak essentially the same language, thus enabling them to
invest repetitions of basic material with variation and nuance.
Perhaps the quality that recurs most often in the commentaries is the sheer
perfection of form that is intimately tied to an overriding discretion. As Girdlestone

notes, Mozart's concertos are discrete not because he has little to say but because he
speaks with moderation in an extraordinary blend of simplicity and profundity that
a more forceful tone would dispel. Robert Harris agrees, noting that Mozart's
concertos were a reflection of his society that cherished order, balance, grace,
elegance and proportion (at least aspirations among the nobility upon whose
patronage he depended), and that Mozart transcended this mundane base with deep
yet always subtle emotional daring. Thus, overt drama, including such latter-day
practices as extreme dynamics, tempos, pauses, modulations and textures, are
simply alien, both to the expectations of the time and to Mozart's own aesthetic
personality. The magic, then, of Mozart's sublime work is how he managed to
fundamentally respect social conventions even while transcending them through his
incomparable ingenuity. Mozart himself may have foreseen this intricate balance
when he wrote to his father: "Here and there are things that only connoisseurs will
be able to appreciate fully, but I have seen to it that those less knowledgeable will
also be satisfied without knowing why."
Despite the
complexity of his
oeuvre, the
particular appeal of Mozart's Concerto in d minor, K. 466, is easy to pinpoint it is
only one of two written in a minor key, and the most overtly dark, dramatic and
impassioned. Historically, these were essential ingredients, as they appealed
directly to the romanticized taste of the nineteenth century, which dismissed nearly
all his other work as those of a trite rococo stylist. As Charles Rosen observes, it
and only a handful of other work (mainly Don Giovanni and the Symphony # 40 in
g minor, K. 550) cemented a perception of Mozart as the harbinger of the coming
age of romantic composers at a time when his outward grace obscured his power,
even though by comparison it tended to push his other work (as well as nearly
everything by Haydn) into the background, and even eclipsing all his other concerti
that we now revere as well. As late as 1945 Abraham Veinus pronounced in his
survey of The Concerto that the 20th was really the only popular Mozart concerto.
Why? In contrast to the prevalent, if misguided, perception of his other work as
refined, decorative, tedious, smooth and uninvolving, its persistent minor tonality,
rumbling discontent, rich orchestration (including trumpets and kettledrums),
stormy outbursts and pungent textural contrasts spoke forcefully to the coming age
of revolution, freedom and individuality. Friederich Blume pinpoints its unique
historical importance as the
moment in which the
decisive turn to the modern
concerto took place. For
Blume, K. 466 was the very
Mozart's autograph of the opening of K. 466
first concerto in which
as inscribed in his personal catalogue of works

conventionalisms cede to the

spontaneous expression of artistic
individuality and "the language of
the heart."
The impulse for Mozart to have
created the 20th is curious indeed
and perhaps forever beyond our
knowledge. While it is tempting to

relate it to a newfound maturity or

dark events in his life, biographers
caution that such efforts are
deceptive Mozart wrote many of
his most upbeat works at times of
depression and searching ones
during periods of contentment.
Indeed, he often wrote his piano
concerti in pairs and the very next
one, # 21 in C Major, K. 467, given
The opening of K. 466 from the printed score
only weeks later, is among his most
delicate and affirmative. (Its middle movement was used in the 1967 Swedish
romantic movie Elvira Madigan, by which title the work has since become known.)
In any event, Arthur Hutchins warns that since we don't know how long a given
work gestated before it appeared, a precise set of stimuli is impossible to trace.
The mature Mozart piano concertos share a common general structure. The first
movements feature four ripienos that bracket two solo segments and the cadenza,
through which the forces engage in a complex interplay of competition and
cooperation, challenging and feeding off each other's themes, harmonies and
rhythms. The second movements are andantes, slow, relaxing respites often led by
the piano in which the former strife is supplanted by lustrous calm and fluid grace.
The finales are rondos, in which orchestra and solo alternate sections in a
collaboration that moves toward an invigorating and fully edifying finish.
The splendor of K. 466, though, is how it generally respects this scheme even while
charting new paths and teasing our expectations. As analyzed by Alfred Einstein,
Mozart's sharp distinction between
solo and tutti in the first movement
remains strongly contrasted without
The opening piano theme
compromise or resolution; indeed,
after an especially forceful introduction the piano enters with a gentle tune that it
never shares and with good reason its wide leaping intervals are uniquely suited
to the keyboard and would sound awkward on any other instrument. A further point
of distinction is that
the movement ends
not in customary
The theme of the romanza
elation but gently,
as if the contestants were exhausted after their uncommonly taxing exertions. The
second movement is a strophic romanza whose customary tranquility at first seems
reinforced by its B-flat major key and the support that piano and orchestra provide
each other by passing around and even completing each other's phrases, but then is
torn by a strong central agitated section in g-minor. The rondo intensifies the
passion chromatically
right up to the cadenza,
after which the work
The opening of the rondo
delivers its final surprise
by wrapping up in D major with a notably trite tune, an uncanny and perhaps snide
bow to audience expectation, as if Mozart had finally given them their simplistic
upbeat ending. (Mozart's only other minor-key concerto, # 24 in c-minor, K. 491,
never leaves the minor mode.)
The offbeat pattern is set at the very outset as the celli and basses repeat an abrupt
growling phrase while the other strings throb with persistent syncopation that

constantly points to d minor and only slowly grows to a climax that pounds out the
minor key tonality and four-square rhythm; as Hutchings aptly observes, it vibrates
with nervous energy that remains as a smoldering fire beneath all that follows.
Throughout the rest of the first ritornello, the orchestra alternately teases with soft,
alluring phrases, only to reject its own suggestion of calm with brash outbursts of
snarling fanfares and assertive figures. Thus the stage is set for a challenging and
complex relationship before the piano is even heard.
Alone among the Mozart concertos, the 20th cast a strong and lasting influence.
Veinus notes that it served as a springboard for the turbulence of Beethoven's
capitulation to the tragic muse which, in turn, revolutionized serious music as we
know it and
paved the
way to the
music of the
next
The start of Beethoven's dramatic cadenza
century.
Indeed, it comes as no surprise that Beethoven played the work, going so far as to
write out his own cadenzas which, as reflections of his own overpowering
personality, exploit the dramatic implications of the material at the expense of its
inherent elegance and occasional charm, bearing less stylistic similarity to the
cadenzas Mozart left us for other of his concerti, which tended to be bright and
often a brief fantasy built on a subsidiary theme.
Mozart never wrote out cadenzas for this work, as he had for his nine prior
concerti, for a simple and practical reason preparations for the February 11, 1785
premiere were so rushed that the copyist was still working on the orchestral parts as
the audience arrived, and so Mozart improvised on the spot. (Nor did he get a
chance to rehearse the rondo, so even with the usual allowances for first
performances of unfamiliar music, this one must have been especially rough.) As
most concerts of the time boasted new work, and as this one was an academie
part of a subscription series in which Mozart introduced his music to well-heeled
patrons Mozart may have never performed the 20th again but merely moved on to
introduce other concerti in subsequent concerts. Indeed, John Culshaw has
suggested that the thinness of the solo part in the andante is deceptive, as it may not
reflect the full piano role that Mozart had intended and actually played, but rather is
a mere outline that he planned to flesh out during the performance and never
bothered to complete. Even so, we know that at least one member of the audience
was hugely impressed the next day, Joseph Haydn, the most respected musician
of the time, proclaimed Mozart to be the greatest composer he knew.
Other composers would go on to develop the piano concerto into a vehicle for a
wide range of individualized expression, emphasizing drama (Beethoven),
symphonic elements (Brahms), lyricism (Chopin), wit (Poulenc), satire
(Shostakovich), deep emotion (Bartok), beauty (Rachmaninoff) and even jazz
(Gershwin). But rather than view Mozart's work as a primitive forebear of all that
was to follow, or even to hail it as the generator of so many possibilities, perhaps it
is better to accept it on its own terms as a unique moment when all its components
fit together without any one threatening to dominate the others. The great
musicologist and Mozart scholar Alfred Einstein perhaps best summed up this view
by regarding the Mozart concerti as the end of the line a perfect fusion of
elements that created a higher unity and still raises listeners to a higher level, an
achievement "beyond which no progress was possible, because perfection is
imperfectible."

Mozart was widely considered the greatest

pianist of his time. How did he play his own
work? While others' descriptions often are
partisan, vague and of varying reliability, fortunately Mozart left us copious
correspondence in which he freely praised and disparaged his colleagues and thus
provides a remarkably full portrait of his own ideals, which presumably he
followed when performing himself. (After all, he wrote nearly all of his piano
pieces for the purpose of personal performance, and so clearly they suit his own
aesthetic intentions and exhibit his own strengths and inclinations.) As catalogued
by Harold Schonberg, Mozart straddled and served as a transition between the rigid
mechanics and florid ornamentation of his Baroque forebears and the expressive
freedom and permissive inflection of the Romantic age that was to follow. While he
insisted upon technical accuracy and precision, he had no tolerance for virtuosity
unless it was to be applied with moderation and taste and placed at the service of
the music. Yet, the result was not to be dry or mechanical, nor slavish adherence to
the written score, as Mozart was known for liberally embellishing his own work
during performances as a famed improviser. He sat
at the center of the keyboard and maintained a calm
demeanor without facial gestures. Tempos were to
be strictly maintained, with no speed or slowing for
emphasis or variation in repeated sections. All
legato was to be in the right hand, and then
temperate and regulated, so the notes "flowed like
oil" without distending the basic pulse. Each
extended note was to be held for its full value,
without emphatic clipping.
Translating all these ideals into an authentic
modern performance presents a fundamental
Fortepiano after Stein by D. Jacques Way,
challenge, dependent upon the availability of
Stonington, 1986
suitable instruments. Mozart himself preferred
courtesy Carey Beebe Harpsichords
Stein pianos for their ruggedness, the quality of
their workmanship and the purity of their tone no "jiggling or vibration" when
notes were struck. Mozart wrote his mature concertos for the fortepiano, an early
version of the piano we now know. While it supplanted the uniform, delicate
plucked sonority of the harpsichord with hammers and an escape action, it had a
light wooden frame, leather hammers, and plain brass and iron wire strings that
produced a far more delicate sonority, more restrained dynamics and a smoother,
singing tone than the cast-iron frame, felt hammers and copper-wound and
chromium steel strings of the modern concert grand, which encourages flashier and
more muscular playing.
That, in turn, raises the question of approach. As Girdlestone notes, a graceful
delicate style tends to belittle the piece, while an overtly daring method leaps over
its depths. A special concern is the matter of continuo. Mozart "conducted" from
the keyboard amid the orchestra, not with the manual gestures of today but by
playing chords throughout the orchestral sections. While a necessity at the time to
ensure cohesion, now the continuo tends to thicken the texture and lessen the
distinctiveness of the solo passages and, while included in the published scores, is
rarely if ever used. Yet, the fact remains that Mozart wrote all his keyboard concerti
in the expectation that the continuo would be played and heard. (Although modern
printed versions generally omit the continuo part altogether, Mozart reportedly
indicated "tasto solo" at certain junctions of his manuscript to indicate when he was

to fall silent, or when he was to play just the bass note rather than build a chord,
mostly to avoid disrupting the delicate wind-dominated segments.)
By design, the closest approach to Mozart's ethos lies
in the many original instrument recordings using
historical performance practices. Typical are the first
two the 1990 Nimbus CD by Christopher Kite with the
Hanover Band conducted by Roy Goodman and the 1991
EMI CD by Melvin Tan with the London Classical Players
conducted by Roger Norrington. The most striking feature
to modern ears is the sound of the solo instruments,
fortepianos modeled after authentic examples of the time
precise articulation, sharp impact, rapid decay, modest bass
and no blurring of mid-range tones. Their overall texture is
readily distinguishable from all the other instruments,
affording a wide range of interplay and combinations that
enliven the score and put Mozart's ingenuity on display. The
The Hanover Band
orchestras, too, have a sound distinctive from modern
ensembles, with fewer and softer strings, rasping but light brass and mellow but
emphatic tympani that really punctuate the texture. While the winds are largely
similar to their modern counterparts, the balance between them and the strings,
which dominate current orchestras, give them a far more conspicuous role and
restore the careful balance Mozart achieved between what were then relatively
comparable forces. Beyond its intrinsic interest as being simply different from the
symphonic sound to which we are accustomed, the overall effect enlivens the score
with a level of textural fascination that many "big band" renditions with a concert
grand cannot achieve.
An added feature of the Nimbus recording is that the fortepiano, functioning not
only as solo but continuo, plays along with the orchestra nearly throughout. While
the effect at the very opening seems to mitigate its dark, nervous mystery, the
discrete chords soon become barely noticeable, adding a slight reminder of the
pulse and a mild percussive boost to the texture. (The impact from a modern piano
would be far more severe and thus wholly out of place.)
Ironically, the most recent performances give a better indication of Mozart's own
aesthetic, whereas the older ones reflect the view of the
19th century when what little attention that was paid to
Mozart tended to mold his work into the far different
outlook of that time. While several recordings of Mozart
symphonies were made during the acoustical and early
electrical eras, the piano concertos apparently were
considered a less saleable commodity. The earliest
recording of K. 466 that I've encountered is from
November 1933, in which Edwin Fischer plays and
conducts the London Philharmonic. A specialist in Bach
and Mozart and known for his smooth, gentle touch,
Fischer brings a moderate romantic sensibility with constantly varying tempos and
gentle but evident transitions; thus the restless central section of the romanze is
forceful yet effortlessly integrated into the surrounding lyricism. Fischer provides
his own highly inventive and thoroughly tasteful cadenzas; the one for the rondo, in
particular, condenses into 75 seconds an extraordinary voyage from cascading
strength through supple contemplation that fully fits the character of the entire

movement.
Another revival of Mozart's own tradition of conducting from the keyboard came
from Bruno Walter and the Vienna Philharmonic in
May 1937 (Lys). Although primarily known nowadays
for his late genial remakes of the symphonic repertoire,
Walter's earlier career had been as an ardent romantic,
and here he crafts a marvelous opening of atmospheric
tension leavened with charm which his sensitive yet
ardent solos extend, despite a skewed recording balance
in which the piano incongruously tends to overwhelm the
full ensemble. A fascinating complement is found in a
November 1939 Walter broadcast with the NBC
Symphony (AS Disc) that's swift, crisp and taut no
wonder, as this was Toscanini's orchestra, accustomed to casting sentiment aside in
sharp response to his demanding baton. What a difference two minutes (and clipped
articulation) makes! Compared to his Vienna studio recording, the NBC outing
startles with coiled tension and driven momentum, constantly throwing off sparks
of dynamic vigor in the first movement so that the delicate romanze affords a huge
sigh of relief. At a mere 26 minutes, it's by far the fastest recording I've
encountered and illuminates a fascinating side of Mozart not the old-fashioned
naf of the prevalent stereotype of Walter's time but a bundle of invigorating, and
even exhausting, energy.
Jumping ahead for a moment, a striking contrast was
presented by Daniel Barenboim in 1967, playing and
conducting the English Chamber Orchestra (EMI).
Although hailed at the time of its release for its strong
drama, the impression was due almost entirely to its
32-minute pacing rather than rhetorical devices. By
adding a over a minute to the routine timings of each
of the first two movements, Barenboim created a
serious, even severe aura through tempo alone, as the
sonority is bright, the ensemble light and the playing agile, if gently inflected with
mildly emphatic pauses (except for an ample deceleration to prepare for
Beethoven's first movement cadenza, which sounds appropriately dark and probing
in such a setting) more like commas than semi-colons to suggest rather than mark
the structure. After a similarly thoughtful romanze, the normally-paced finale
sounds breathless.
Two other early advocates of the Mozart piano concertos recorded K. 466 only late
in their careers. Artur Schnabel brought the same sober
intellect to Mozart with which he had built a formidable
reputation as a Beethoven specialist. Yet, there's nothing
methodical or dry in his approach. Rather, his 1948
recording with Walter Susskind and the Philharmonia
(EMI) reflects careful shaping of phrases and
considerable inflection to organize the musical materials
into a cohesive and compelling logical flow as well as
the blurred runs and occasional missed notes that his
bemused fans came to accept as the price of a musician
more concerned with theory than practice. Walter
Gieseking had recorded the ninth and 23rd concertos in a single day in 1936, but
didn't tape the 20th until August 1953, with Hans Rosbaud and the Philharmonia

(EMI). Earlier that month he had recorded all the Mozart

piano sonatas in a single week (and within a year would
complete his survey of the other solo pieces and songs), an
extraordinary pioneering achievement. While part of a
generation that treated Mozart only occasionally and then
with kid gloves, Gieseking's playing is leisurely and
sensitive, with a light touch and subtle expression.
Incidentally, although we tend to assume that only artists
wizened with decades of experience are capable of
plumbing the depths of K. 466, let's not forget that Mozart
was a mere 29 when he wrote it, and so some youthful
exuberance is hardly out of place. In one of the few recordings that seem to reflect
this, Frederich Gulda constantly surges ahead of the Vienna Philharmonic led by
Claudio Abbado (DG) with bold, assertive phrasing.
Among other distinctive recordings by mature artists is
a magnificent one by Clara Haskil, made only weeks
before her death in 1960, with the Lamoureux
Orchestra conducted by Igor Markevitch (Philips). A
woman whose life was plagued by medical misfortunes,
Haskil was able to identify with both the delicate and
tragic aspects of K. 466. From her pure and self-effacing
playing emerges her own short, stunning first-movement
cadenza, shuddering with forbidding bass trills and only
a bare glimmer of grace and sun to penetrate the gloom.
For the finale she adopts an invariable unhurried pace and omits a cadenza
altogether, as if to deny anything to celebrate. While her gesture is extreme, it
extends the usual emphasis upon the first movement cadenza; in contrast, the 1941
recording by Jean Doyen and the Conservatoire Concert Society Orchestra
under Charles Munch (Lys) challenges that expectation with a perfunctory 30second first-movement cadenza, while augmenting the finale with a far longer and
more adventuresome one.
A May 1954 Lugano concert by Yvonne Lefbure and the Berlin Philharmonic
led by Wilhelm Furtwngler (Ermitage) presents a fascinating melding of two
different outlooks. Lefbure had recorded the work in 1951 with the Perpignon
Festival Orchestra led by Pablo Casals, with whom she was a close colleague,
and whose muscular vigor she accommodated. (Although it eventually appeared on
a Sony CD, Columbia never released it at the time, ostensibly for lack of an LP
companion.) Her sole collaboration with Furtwngler was forged at the last moment
when Edwin Fischer, a long-time colleague of the conductor, cancelled due to
illness. As Pierre Rattalino notes, her playing is fundamentally balletic, his deep
and ruminative. Yet, despite a bizarre jangly and impressionistic first movement
cadenza (and a mere arpeggio for the finale's), their interpretation presents a
complex and sweeping portrait of the sweet but pensive composer who himself was
buffeted by the conflicting demands of his patrons and his artistic vision here, the
forces blend beautifully, Lefbure playing with elemental toughness and
Furtwngler lightening the accompaniment to avoid overwhelming her. (The same
concert produced an exquisitely gracious "Pastorale" Symphony where Furtwngler
perhaps reined in the depths of his mystical soul. The result is to reverse the usual
attempts to relate the two composers rather than paint Mozart as a harbinger of
Romanticism, Furtwngler relates Beethoven back to the prior classical era of poise
and refinement, at least in the first two nature-inflected movements things pick up

considerably once the peasants begin their dance.)

The character of the accompaniment, and the
importance of its role, is illustrated by three
recordings made by Rudolf Serkin within a single
decade. In a 1953 New York Philharmonic
concert led by Guido Cantelli (AS Disc), Serkin
plays with considerable interpretive freedom, while
the orchestra tends to follow his lead, perhaps in
part because the conductor was half his age and
respected his authority (although, as a Toscanini
protg, Cantelli displayed an assertive personality
in some of his other concert recordings of the
time). In a 1958 studio recording with the Marlboro Festival Orchestra under
Alexander Schneider (Columbia LP), Serkin's playing is lithe, bright and
animated, an appropriate complement to the sharp, vibrant chamber sonority of the
ensemble (as well as a reflection of their intimacy, as Serkin was a founder of, and
Schneider a prime participant in, Marlboro). A 1962 recording with the Columbia
Symphony led by George Szell is slower, more steady and even a bit bland, so as
not to upset the mellow, balanced restraint of the orchestra. Yet, Serkin adds a
fascinating human touch by occasionally rushing his phrases, a hint of frustration in
having to resist the urge to move forward.
While several piano superstars have tackled the 20th,
the results aren't always as stimulating as one might
have hoped. Artur Rubinstein saw Mozart as a
painter of vast musical canvases and professed to
deeply love him, but his enthusiasm may have lapsed
into the sort of respect that can stifle creativity. While
conductor Alfred Wallenstein keeps a fairly brisk
pace, their 1961 recording with the RCA Symphony
(BMG) is in the dubious tradition of a respectful but ultimately shallow view of
Mozart, with massive string sonorities dominating the ensemble and a steadfast,
mellow tone attenuating the effect of the solo passages. The sound, if not the dearth
of personality, belongs squarely in the era between Mozart's time and ours.
Yet, rather than a mere disappointment, Rubinstein's (and others') thick textures
raise the fascinating question of how (or even if) Mozart would have structured and
scored K. 466 (and much of his other work) had he lived a generation or two later
not in the classical era which he epitomized, but rather in the heart of the Romantic
era which he anticipated and enabled in so many ways, and never as much as with
his 20th piano concerto.
Of primary value in preparing this piece were Alfred Einstein:
Mozart - His Character and His Work (Oxford, 1945),
Abraham Veinus: The Concerto (Doubleday, 1945), Charles
Rosen: The Classical Style (Norton, 1971), C. M. Girdlestone: Mozart's Piano
Concertos (Cassell, 1948), Harold Schonberg: The Great Pianists (Simon &
Schuster, 1963), Arthur Hutchings: A Companion to Mozart's Piano Concertos
(Oxford, 1948) and the article "Mozart's Piano Concertos and their Audience" by
Joseph Kerman in James M. Morris (ed): On Mozart (Cambridge Press, 1994).
Also helpful were the introduction by Friederich Blume to the Eulenberg edition of
the score, Philip Radcliffe: Mozart's Piano Concertos (BBC Music Guide)

(University of Washington Press, 1978), Donald Francis Tovey: Essays in Musical

Analysis (Oxford, 1939) and Robert Harris: What to Listen for in Music (Penguin,
1948).

Copyright 2008 by Peter Gutmann

For a note about the illustrations, please click here.

copyright 1998-2008 Peter Gutmann. All rights reserved.