Brendel on pianos
Beethoven's piano works pointed far into the future of piano building. Decades had to pass after his death before there were pianos -- and pianists -- equal to the demands of his Hammerklavier Sonata, Op. 106.
If one tries to play on Beethoven's Érard grand of 1803, which is kept in the instrument collection at the Vienna Kunsthistorische Museum, one thing becomes evident at once: its sound, dynamics and action have surprisingly little in common with the pianos of today. The tone of each single note has a distinct 'onset'; within its intimate confines, it is livelier and more flexible, and also more subject to change while it lasts. The difference in sound between bass, middle and top register is considerable (polyphonic playing!). The treble notes are short-lived and thin, and resist dynamic changes; the treble range is not conducive to cantilenas that want to rise above a gentle piano. Even in the clear and transparent, somewhat twangy bass register, the dynamic span is much narrower than on our instrument. One begins to see the reason for the permanent accompanying piano in the orchestral textures of Beethoven's piano concertos -- even though, admittedly, the orchestral sound of his period cannot have been much like ours. If I had to compare the demands the Érard and the modern Steinway make on the physical power of the player, I would tend to think in terms of those made on a watchmaker and on a removal man!
A few years later, with the pianos of Streicher and Graf, a new, more rounded, more even and neutral sound came into being which, while dynamic scope continued to increase, became the norm throughout the nineteenth century. This sound is more closely related to the piano sound of today than to that of the older Hammerklavier, whose timbre was still derived from that of the harpsichord and clavichord. But by the time this new sound had become established, Beethoven had already composed a large portion of his piano works, and was afflicted by deafness.
We have to resign ourselves to the fact that whenever we hear Beethoven on a present-day instrument, we are listening to a sort of transcription. Anyone still having illusions about that will be disabused by a visit to a collection of old instruments. The modern concert grand, which I naturally used for my recordings, not only has the volume of tone demanded by modern orchestras, concert halls and ears; it also -- and of this I am deeply convinced -- does better justice to most of Beethoven's piano works than the Hammerklavier: its tone is far more colourful, orchestral, and rich in contrast, and these qualities do matter in Beethoven, as can be seen from his orchestral and chamber music. Some of the peculiarities of a Hammerklavier can only be approximated on a modern grand -- for instance the sound of the una corda and even more the whisper of the piano stop. (In the studio, however, finesses of this kind did not always turn out as I wished, either because damping noises obliged me to change my style of playing, or because the technical specifications of the microphone did not permit me to go below a
certain dynamic level.)
One must translate other characteristics of the Hammerklavier as best one can. The octave glissandi in the Prestissimo of the Waldstein Sonata, for example, were easier to execute on the older instrument: on the deep, heavy keys of a Steinway they can be brought off only by the use of brute force, which causes
them to lose their scurrying pianissimo character. Very conscientious pianists, who cannot bear an untidy note, curb the tempo here and play wrist octaves. The only safe method of preserving the pianissimo character of this section without the help of a piano stop lies in imitating the sliding progress
of the glissandi by distributing the passages between the hands, while reducing the bass octaves to their lower part.
If one tries to play on Beethoven's Érard grand of 1803, which is kept in the instrument collection at the Vienna Kunsthistorische Museum, one thing becomes evident at once: its sound, dynamics and action have surprisingly little in common with the pianos of today. The tone of each single note has a distinct 'onset'; within its intimate confines, it is livelier and more flexible, and also more subject to change while it lasts. The difference in sound between bass, middle and top register is considerable (polyphonic playing!). The treble notes are short-lived and thin, and resist dynamic changes; the treble range is not conducive to cantilenas that want to rise above a gentle piano. Even in the clear and transparent, somewhat twangy bass register, the dynamic span is much narrower than on our instrument. One begins to see the reason for the permanent accompanying piano in the orchestral textures of Beethoven's piano concertos -- even though, admittedly, the orchestral sound of his period cannot have been much like ours. If I had to compare the demands the Érard and the modern Steinway make on the physical power of the player, I would tend to think in terms of those made on a watchmaker and on a removal man!
A few years later, with the pianos of Streicher and Graf, a new, more rounded, more even and neutral sound came into being which, while dynamic scope continued to increase, became the norm throughout the nineteenth century. This sound is more closely related to the piano sound of today than to that of the older Hammerklavier, whose timbre was still derived from that of the harpsichord and clavichord. But by the time this new sound had become established, Beethoven had already composed a large portion of his piano works, and was afflicted by deafness.
We have to resign ourselves to the fact that whenever we hear Beethoven on a present-day instrument, we are listening to a sort of transcription. Anyone still having illusions about that will be disabused by a visit to a collection of old instruments. The modern concert grand, which I naturally used for my recordings, not only has the volume of tone demanded by modern orchestras, concert halls and ears; it also -- and of this I am deeply convinced -- does better justice to most of Beethoven's piano works than the Hammerklavier: its tone is far more colourful, orchestral, and rich in contrast, and these qualities do matter in Beethoven, as can be seen from his orchestral and chamber music. Some of the peculiarities of a Hammerklavier can only be approximated on a modern grand -- for instance the sound of the una corda and even more the whisper of the piano stop. (In the studio, however, finesses of this kind did not always turn out as I wished, either because damping noises obliged me to change my style of playing, or because the technical specifications of the microphone did not permit me to go below a
certain dynamic level.)
One must translate other characteristics of the Hammerklavier as best one can. The octave glissandi in the Prestissimo of the Waldstein Sonata, for example, were easier to execute on the older instrument: on the deep, heavy keys of a Steinway they can be brought off only by the use of brute force, which causes
them to lose their scurrying pianissimo character. Very conscientious pianists, who cannot bear an untidy note, curb the tempo here and play wrist octaves. The only safe method of preserving the pianissimo character of this section without the help of a piano stop lies in imitating the sliding progress
of the glissandi by distributing the passages between the hands, while reducing the bass octaves to their lower part.
[This message has been edited by Chris (edited 03-10-2001).]
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