If the late Walter Legge had done nothing else but invite Dinu Lipatti into the EMI recording studios, his name would still be remembered with gratitude. And how splendid that these cherished performances are gradually being transferred to CD. Obviously a reviewer must guard against sentiment in the face of so tragic a tale. Yet every time they come my way—and there have been several LP reissues over the years—I marvel at so rare a blend of imaginative susceptibility and keyboard control. It's not hard to understand why Legge once described this artist as a ''chosen instrument lent to the world by God for too brief a space''.
Played in a pleasing sequence of Lipatti's own choosing, the Waltzes were recorded in a Geneva radio studio in June 1950, when the leukaemia which was to kill him in only six months seemed momentarily halted by injections of the then recently discovered cortisone. Though I love Rubinstein's last RCA recording of these pieces (CD RD89564, 10/85) no less than Ashkenazy's recent Decca one which has yet to be reviewed, it would still be Lipatti that I'd take to my Desert Island.
We know him to have been one of the world's most meticulous preparers. Yet each waltz comes up with the spontaneity and joyousness of a new discovery. Every individual note is alive, glistening with pinpoint clarity when dancing, or glowing in more nostalgic song—as in the early A minor Waltz, Op. 34 No. 2. Only in the so-called ''Farewell'' Waltz in A flat, Op. 69 No. 1, did I wonder if mood contrasts were too sharp (i.e. in terms of tempo change) for overall coherence. But always he goes all the way with Chopin in transforming dances into dance-poems. The 'hi-fi' minded might accuse the recording of a certain boxiness. But the sound is ripe and warm, and capable of reproduction at strength without distortion or background of any kind.
The C sharp minor Mazurka, whose harmonic daring and contrapuntal cunning Lipatti savours to the full, was recorded during that same invaluable summer. The Nocturne and the Barcarolle date back to 1947 and 1948 respectively, during his only four visits to England—and to the EMI studios in Abbey Road. We're told that he consented to the Barcarolle's release with a gnawing feeling of dissatisfaction. But like the sleeve-note writer, I'm aware only of the immaculate control and unerring balance underpinning its poetry and passion. At high-volume level there's just a trace of surface noise here and there. But for artistry of this kind I'd willingly put up with even a distant electric drill.'