All Pleasure, No Guilt - Gerard Souzay and other classical musicians

National Review, Oct 15, 2001 by Jay Nordlinger

The world is bursting with good young violinists-of every nationality, every temperament, and each sex-and one of the best of the lot is Maxim Vengerov, a Russian. His latest album is a humdinger called Vengerov & Virtuosi (from EMI Classics). The virtuosi in question are actually a group called Virtuosi, a Russian-Israeli ensemble of eleven violinists. That's a lot of violinists, of course, almost as many as there are Yale Cellos. There is precedent for this sort of group in Russia. Vengerov, in the liner notes to his album, tells a story about Stalin (yes, Stalin). It seems the old dictator once attended a concert being given by a string quartet. He demanded, "Why do you have just four musicians playing? Wouldn't it sound better if you had more?" To that, one could only reply, "How many would you like, Boss?" Stalin said, "At least ten!" So that particular ensemble was beefed up considerably.

(Those in power have long dictated to musicians, with varying degrees of success. Andre Previn titled his memoir of Hollywood No Minor Chords. Why? Because Irving Thalberg, of MGM, once heard something in a film score that didn't sit well with him. "What the hell was that?" he asked an aide. The aide, bewildered, said, "I dunno, sir. I think it was a minor chord." Whereupon Thalberg issued a memo saying, "Henceforth there shall be no minor chords in an MGM picture.")

Maxim Vengerov with the eleven violinists and an excellent piano accompanist, Vag Papian, turns out to be a very good idea. The program is showpieces and old favorites, intelligently arranged by the Virtuosi leader, Mikhail Parhamovsky. And the strength, of course, is Vengerov, whose gifts as a violinist are practically complete. He has a gorgeous, adaptable tone, a prodigious technique, and loads of musical talent- than which it's hard to ask for more. He is a bit of a showman, when he wants to be, and that, naturally, is part of the violinistic package: No sense in doing showpieces without a little showiness, though always in musicianly fashion. Vengerov is the sort of guy who obviously revels in his own talent, a player who probably has as much fun in his own practice room as in a glittering concert hall seating thousands.

He begins with Rachmaninoff's "Vocalise," which has been the object of- and the victim of-every kind of transcription imaginable. You don't think you can bear hearing another one, but the one here is a winner. Vengerov is melting, transporting. And then there's Manuel Ponce's old "Estrellita," which, in the young man's hands, is saucy and charming and achingly lovely. Fritz Kreisler would only beam and approve. Brahms's "Hungarian Dances" are soulful and unbridled, with Vengerov and friends clearly having a ball. Violinists, perhaps more than most musicians, enjoy letting their hair down: Even the (relatively) austere Jascha Heifetz recorded with Bing Crosby (though the money must have been good, too). The Dvorak "Humoreske" is fetching, but the best transcription of all time belongs to Art Tatum, who absolutely slew the piece. Vengerov concludes with Vittorio Monti's "Csardas," an emblematic item for this instrument: Every violinist, no matter where he's from, no matter what his training, is part Gypsy, somehow.

When I first noticed this album, I sort of groaned: These schlocky things again? But Vengerov makes them new and thrilling, and he joins the ranks of the finest exponents of what you might call the Old World repertory. It had occurred to me to describe Vengerov & Virtuosi as a "guilty pleasure." But then: There's no guilt necessary.

One musician about whom there is never any guilt, only satisfaction, is Zoltan Kocsis, a Hungarian pianist especially known for his advocacy of Debussy and Bartok. These composers may not seem like natural twins-but they have much in common, and Kocsis, in any case, is a pianist for all seasons, and men.

He has just completed his traversal of the complete works of Bartok, offering up the seventh and final volume of his series (on Philips). The pianist has all the tools for playing Bartok: He is a master of the "dry" and "hard" sounds (for beauty of tone isn't necessarily an aim in this music, as it is not in Prokofiev, another composer Kocsis handles exceptionally well). He has great rhythmic sense, never straying or lapsing. He has the ability-not so common in pianists-to play coarsely, percussively, without banging. And he boasts tremendous clarity, in addition to ample color: His gift for Debussy is not irrelevant here, as there are Impressionistic touches in Bartok, to go with gleaming, or stark, Modernism. Always, this playing is intelligent and persuasive. Kocsis is quite simply one of the greatest champions Bartok has ever had, along with his (their) countrymen Lili Kraus and Geza Anda. (Can a non-Hungarian play Bartok? Of course-viz., Horowitz.)

For its authority, Kocsis's complete Bartok stands as one of the best such "completes" in the piano discography (one thinks of Robert Casadesus's traversal of Ravel as well). He has rendered to Bartok-a versatile, ingenious, and often misunderstood composer-a genuine service.