The recordings of Frederic Lamond (1868-1948) exist as compelling and unique testimony of a rare link not only to Liszt, but Hans von Bulow, Anton Rubinstein and Brahms. Each composer-pianist helped structure Lamond's playing, which developed its strong and innate individuality by working with these vital founders of traditions.
Tradition is that which is handed down. Some musicians and too many musicologists seek to recreate tradition by emphasizing the details which survive a long deceased master while slighting their oral and aural legacies. In Liszt's case, we have several accounts by pupils which corroborate how he imparted tradition. Far more important than Liszt's charisma, insight, his wit and noble comportment, were the moments when he sat at the keyboard. While Emil Sauer disclaimed being a bona-fide Liszt pupil, Liszt's young assistant Arthur Friedheim wrote of Sauer's reaction to Liszt's playing, which sent him into turning cartwheels and shouting in paroxysms of wonderment and awe. This transforming experience, which several pupils have described, becomes an epiphany in one's life (a "peak experience" in psychological terms). In this manner Liszt's musical spirit entered into the artistic bloodstreams of those who were receptive and didn't bother with imitating or recreating his playing, but rather integrated and synthesized into their minds and emotions the way in which he expressed music. Their own individual reactions, predilections and personalities when combined with mature and lengthy reflection took this experience and refined it any number of ways: the shock of recognizing and perceiving music's essence became the tradition which Liszt imparted to his students.
When Lamond came to the elderly Liszt in 1885, he was already a mature musician, despite his mere seventeen years. A native of Glasgow, Lamond at first studied violin, piano, organ, and had experience playing oboe and clarinet. Considered a wunderkind in Glasgow's music circles, he was advised to further his studies abroad. He had hoped to gain acceptance to Clara Schumann's classes but failed to do so, as Schumann only accepted recommended pupils.
At the newly founded Raff Conservatory in Frankfurt, he was under the guidance of Max Schwarz, a pupil of Bulow and Liszt, and played for Bulow himself, who was lecturing on Beethoven's Sonatas. Lamond wrote:
"My teacher, Schwarz, desirous that I should make use of the Beethoven lectures, had asked me to choose a sonata. Ambitious ( and Schwarz not objecting) I decided on the most difficult and longest of Beethoven's pianoforte works, the Hammerklavier sonata opus 106.
"At one of the Beethoven lessons, Bulow asked me: 'What are you going to play for me?' I answered: Opus 106.' He replied angrily: 'Impertinent boy! Wait years before you attempt such a work.' I had no time to study a new piece. Schwarz stood too much in awe of Bulow to intervene. At the next lesson, Bulow again inquiring: 'What are you going to play for me?' I answered, 'Opus 106.' This time he stamped his foot, teachers, colleagues, looking at me terrified. Shortly before the course came to an end, Bulow asked me for the third time: 'What are you going to play for me?' I answered, desperately, nearer tears than anything else: 'Sonata, opus 106.' He laughed: 'I will hear the Scherzo.' I played the Scherzo. . . Bulow, with that irresistible smile of his, clapped me on the shoulders, 'Bravo. The next lesson we will commence with the opening Allegro.' And so I played the Hammerklavier . . ."
With Bulow, "I had studied Brahms, Paganini Variations, Handel Variations and his Scherzo opus 4 - how much I learned from Opus 4." (He later championed the Second Piano Concerto.) Any disparity between Brahms and Wagner meant little to the young Lamond: having won the conservatory's first prize with Saint Saens' Second Concerto he was awarded a trip to Bayreuth to hear Parsifal (all the more remarkable from a Conservatory where Bulow taught.)
How fortunate that Lamond wrote a detailed account of his meeting with Liszt, and of his entry into Liszt's circle:
" Since the early days of my youth, which I spent in Scotland, I have been an enthusiastic admirer of Liszt. This love for the great composer was first aroused in me by my eldest brother. Then Hans von Bulow gave a series of pianoforte concerts in Scotland, and in none of his programmes did he omit Liszt's name. Moreover, in the winter season of 1876-77 Bulow fulfilled a four month's engagement as conductor in my native city of Glasgow and created a sensation when he produced Liszt's symphonic poem Les Preludes . The opposition against Liszt's works set on foot in those days certain musical circles in England and Scotland merely served to strengthen my partiality and enthusiasm for the master.
"When, in July 1885, I concluded my studies at the conservatorium in Frankfurt-am-Main, my teacher, Max Schwarz, said to me: 'Now you are an artist, and can set out on a pilgrimage to Liszt at Weimar. I am giving you a letter of recommendation to him and I advise you not to put off your journey, for he is already advanced in years and it is said his health is not what it used to be.'
"I was given another letter to take along with me; it was from Carl Stasny, a former pupil of Liszt's. It was addressed to Arthur Friedheim, an enthusiastic disciple of the master. Friedheim was on very intimate terms with the great man, and acted as a sort of amanuensis for him.
"I got under way immediately, and arriving one Saturday in the rather sleepy-looking but beautiful city of Weimar, went with my letter of recommendation to Friedheim. I had felt so overawed at the prospect of meeting Liszt that Stasny had suggested to Friedheim that he should conduct me personally to the master and hand him Schwarz's letter. Great was my disappointment when, knocking at Friedheim's door, I was told that he was not at home and would probably not be back until late. I returned to my modest quarters in the Hotel Chemnitius and shut myself up in my room. What was I to do now? I knew that on the following day, a Sunday, Liszt was giving a reception - and I was not to be of the company! I was much downcast.
"Then someone knocked at the door and into the room came an engaging young man wearing excessively long hair and a tie-pin with a photograph. He bowed ceremoniously and said: 'My name is Friedheim. I have read Stasny's letter. May I invite you round to visit me this evening in the Hotel Russischer Hof? You will be able to get to know all your confreres as well.' And without waiting for me to reply, off he went.
"Delighted with this surprise I had sprung to my feet and was standing there when suddenly came a second knock at the door. This time there entered a thin and serious-looking youth, his hair still longer. He, too, was doing the proper thing by wearing a tie-pin with Liszt's portrait. He bowed solemnly, like a mandarin, and said: 'My name is Conrad Ansorge' - and all of a sudden he, too, had gone.
"There came a third rapping at the door, and a third young man entered. This one had a head of hair like an orang-outang and looked terrifying. That he was a human being I realised on noticing Liszt's portrait on his tie-pin. For the third time a solemn bow, and : 'My name is Karl Schroeder.' Like his predecessors he stayed for no answer, but disappeared.
"The same evening at the Russischer Hof I made the acquaintance of the coryphaei of Liszt's 1885 class. As well as the above-mentioned Ansorge and Friedheim there were present the highly gifted Bernard Stavenhagen, Alexander Siloti and Moriz Rosenthal. It is enough to mention the names of Eugen D'Albert ( who was with Liszt in about 1882), Alfred Reisenauer and Emil Sauer to indicate that the years from 1882 until 1886, when the master died, formed a brilliant period of the Liszt school.
"I called for Friedheim at eleven o'clock on Sunday. When we came to mount the spiral staircase in the house where Liszt was living, and which later on was converted into the Liszt Museum, I felt more devout than if I had been entering a church. The master put in an appearance straightway.
"The dream of my childhood and of my youth had become reality. I stood before the man who, in his own boyhood, had received the dedicatory kiss from the sublime Beethoven. This was the man who had kept the entire musical world in breathless admiration by his unexampled triumphs as a pianist. I stood in front of the legendary personality who had been Chopin's friend and Berlioz's, who had broken a lance in defence of Richard Wagner, who had collaborated in the great achievement of Bayreuth. There before me stood the creator of the tremendous Faust Symphony , the Graner Messe and so many other glorious works.
"An old man, wearing the apparel of a priest, his white hair hanging in long locks, his face covered with warts, he stood before us, gazing at us with earnest eyes. Friedheim stepped forward, kissed the master's hand and said 'I am bringing you a young Scotchman, Frederic Lamond. He has a letter from Max Schwarz of Frankfurt-am-Main for you.' Liszt took the letter, turned his back upon us, and after glancing through it, came up to me, gripped my hand firmly and said: 'Schwarz writes that you can give a good rendering of Sonata Op.106. Very well! Tomorrow afternoon, at four o'clock, let me hear you play the fugue!' Then he hummed the theme of the fugue, which sounded from his lips like the growl of a lion, and gave me a slap on the shoulder, and I was dismissed - dumbfounded, overwhelmed with joy, and so dazed I was unable to utter a word.'
"Now began the happiest time of my life. Four times a week I was permitted to call on Liszt, and in the few weeks that I spent with him at Weimar I played to him my whole repertory. Later on I was again with the master in Rome, and then again, with Stavenhagen, in April 1886, in London."
Lamond heard Liszt play on several occasions:
". . .he himself would sit at the piano, and a magic charm went forth from his fascinating personality that was indescribable. I can never forget his performance of the last variation but one [ G Sharp minor] in Schumann's Symphonic Studies . . .No other pianist - and I have heard them all - ever got that sighing, wailing, murmuring accompaniment in the left hand, and certainly no other pianist played the noble melody in the right hand with such indescribable pathos as Liszt did. Then the so called 'Firlefanzen' [flourishes], the cadenzas and embroideries in his own opera fantasias and rhapsodies, he played in a way unparalleled by anyone, not even Rubinstein. Brahms once said of Rubinstein: 'When Rubinstein is at his best he reminds me of Liszt.'
"Today, when I look back over a long life, I thank my Creator that I had the privilege of knowing that unique personality, Franz Liszt, and that it has been granted to me, through my life, to follow out his teachings."
Lamond went to Vienna in February 1886 to give a rather daring all- Brahms recital. Few concerts exclusively devoted to Brahms had been heard before. In one evening he played:
Bulow had prepared him well for Brahms' music. Brahms himself came to Meiningen for the premiere of his Fourth Symphony. Lamond attended all the rehearsals which Bulow prepared and witnessed Brahms' own conducting. Lamond met Brahms, who coached him in his own works and Mendelssohn's first Song Without Words . He recalled "Bulow's style was quite different from Brahms', and Brahms did not care for Bulow's playing, but I can still recall the B minor Caprice as played by Bulow - clear, clean, little pedal, unforgettable." Lamond's own recording closely fits his own description, documenting Bulow's influence on him; it remains one of the few accounts of the work underscoring the droll capriciousness of the piece which is so often heard as a serious, humorless klavierstuck .
On his final visit to London in April 1886, Liszt helped launch his pupil. The concert took place in St. James Hall on April 15th, its program stating: "Dr. Liszt has kindly consented to be present." Harold Bauer was in the audience:
"The day of the concert came, and the hall was crowded to the last seat. After some delay Lamond came from the artists' room into the body of the hall with the Abbe Liszt leaning on his arm. What a great moment! We all stood up and cheered for ten minutes while the old man bowed. Finally he signed to Lamond to go up the steps to the stage and start the concert." The dismayed public wanted only to hear Liszt. Lamond played:
Lamond gave another London concert that year. The impression he made at age eighteen, was penned by the Morning Post's critic: "His octave playing in the [Paganini] variations of Brahms was simply astounding, not only for accuracy but for phrasing and artistic meaning." The critic then described the characteristic essence of Lamond's art, already evident: " . . there is an undercurrent of poetical expression which can never be attained by those who are not born musicians."
Tchaikovsky came to Germany to conduct: Lamond heard his performances and met the composer, as Bulow was championing him. Lamond spent time in St. Petersburg and frequented Anton Rubinstein, hearing him as both pianist and conductor. "No one living has heard Chopin play, but I have heard Anton Rubinstein. After Liszt's retirement Rubinstein towered head and shoulders above all other pianists of his day, as, for that matter, over those of succeeding generations. Now 'subjective' and personal though he was in the use of rubato, no one could be stricter in tempo, less unbending in rhythm, than he was in Chopin." Lamond's detailed descriptions of Rubinstein's interpreting Handel and Schubert provide vivid glimpses of this mythic unrecorded pianist.
In 1896, Lamond asked Tchaikovsky for permission to play his concertos. News came of Tchaikovsky's death followed by a letter from Vassily Safonov the conductor (and teacher of Josef Lhevinne) inviting Lamond to play Tchaikovsky's First Piano Concerto in Moscow. He attended a memorial service to the composer where he saw Scriabin looking ashen with grief. It is uncertain whether Lamond became acquainted with him but he performed Scriabin's Sonata Fantasia no.2 op.19 and taught the Fantasy op.28 to Gunnar Johansen. He later discovered that one of Tchaikovsky's last tasks was to have Safonov engage Lamond in his concerto. (Incidentally, Lamond spoke some Russian, Turkish, perfect French, German, with several of its dialects, and in later years studied Gaelic.)
Berlin became Lamond's home and he was busy as a teacher at his home on Fasanienstrasse, opposite the Hochschule fur Musik. Among his pupils were Jan Chiapusso, Erwin Nyiregyhazi and Victor Borge. Gunnar Johansen left Copenhagen for Berlin in 1921 at age sixteen to study with Lamond. Although he admired Lamond as a pianist and heard him perform many times, lessons were taxing. Johansen told this writer: "You would play four or eight bars. He would sit down and illustrate. Then you would continue in this way. He told you so much that by the end of the lesson, you had forgotten everything." Lamond aimed for his pupils thoroughly mastering Bach's Well Tempered Clavier (for its form) and the Henselt Etudes before their delving fully into the literature.
Lamond was considered to be the authoritative interpreter of Beethoven before Schnabel. Hugo Riemann wrote of his playing the Opus 106: "He was the first to make this sonata appear as not intrinsically difficult. His complete mastery of technical difficulties enabled him to bring out the melodic line and clarify the relationship of themes and their development into an architectural whole." He is the first pianist to have recorded the complete Emperor Concerto and a good many of the Sonatas.
Breitkopf and Hartel published Lamond's edition of the thirty-two sonatas, which is based both on the urtext and Bulow's edition. Lamond prints Beethoven's dynamic and expressive markings in normal type, while his own suggestions appear in smaller case. This forgotten edition is invaluable for Lamond cites many examples of Bulow's own playing in the footnotes, for example - how the ornaments in the Opus.81a "Les Adieux"'s slow movement were played by Bulow on the beat.
When the Nazi's invaded Czechoslovakia, Lamond was in Prague giving recitals. Three weeks later he left Middle Europe for England, leaving behind many belongings, including a novel nearing completion. A friend recounted Lamond's departure at the border in Eger: "A Gestapo officer insisted on seeing his passport. 'You can see it, he said, 'but I will not allow you to take it into your hands.' The officer then asked him 'Are you an Aryan?' to which Lamond replied: 'No, I am a monkey!' Lamond was a courageously outspoken man who would stand no nonsense."
Till his death in 1948 Lamond continued giving lengthy programs, teaching and carrying on with his intellectual pursuits. One 1944 Glasgow recital demonstrates his generosity and strength:
Many of the works present on this disc were indispensable parts of Lamond's repertoire. With the exception of his Beethoven, we have selected one example of each work Lamond recorded. (The British Institute of Recorded Sound possesses a tape of Lamond's last 1941 session at which he played two Chopin Mazurkas [unissued]. We sincerely hope that one day they will permit its publication.)
The Sospiro and Gnomenreigen were recorded several times by Lamond. This is exemplary and revelatory Liszt playing. The emphasis given to detail, the sculpting of sound and his luxuriating in polyphony (especially in the Waldesrauschen ) attest to a level of musicianship no longer heard. Lamond creates a perspective in which the melody projects above all else, while the passage work refracts and creates a multitude of reflections of the lyrical theme, the virtuosic flourishes are charged washes of color supporting a cantabile theme which unhurriedly unfolds in time.
Gunnar Johansen considers the Tarantella from Auber's Muette di Portici most characteristic of Lamond's playing and tone. Lamond bore an intimate affection for the Feux Follets. Our discovery of an unpublished take of the work from 1935 gave us hope that it would show how the pianist varied his interpretation: alas, a technical hesitation heard in the earlier version becomes rampant here. Instead two accounts of the Sospiro are better illustrations of how Lamond's solid conception remains firm while subtle changes occur in the details and phrasing, resulting from his momentary responses to the work.
The Chopin Nocturne is an unusually frenetic work for the composer. Lamond plays the final appearance of the theme (blurring groups of five notes against the left hand's three) with a rubato and sense of dissipation that surprisingly alludes to descriptions of Chopin's own playing written by his pupils and friends who tried to describe the dichotomy in his playing: that of a classical pose subtly governing free unstructured expressivity. Lamond's treatment of the final phrases of the Nocturne conveys this, making it one of the most significant moments in Chopin playing ever committed to disc.
One senses diverse influences present in both Brahms and Rubinstein selections, echoing his memories of their own and Bulow's playing. Glinka's song The Lark, transcribed by Balakirev, demonstraties Lamond's interpretive art at its delectable height.
© Allan Evans, 1996