Stephen Kovacevich is introduced to this series by Beethoven and Beethoven alone. This is not the mature and latterly magisterial playing of the currently familiar and developing EMI Beethoven cycle, but Philips’s own intrepid explorer of the 1970s. Fair enough: that, after all, is the Beethoven which defined Kovacevich, and it has not hitherto been available on CD. The second of Kovacevich’s two appearances as Great Pianist will focus on Chopin, Brahms and Bartok; but where, oh where is Schubert? Whether, down in the murky minefield of what could or could not have been made possible in this series, Kovacevich’s Schubert came under consideration I simply don’t know. But on the basis of his D959 and D960 Sonatas alone (EMI, 7/95 and 1/96) posterity will certainly find the true greatness of Kovacevich’s artistry there every bit as much as in his Beethoven.
But to the music in hand. The Pathetique is like an introductory emblem to this illuminating two-disc extended recital. The performance epitomizes aspects of Kovacevich’s Beethoven which are to be revealed consistently throughout the five years of playing represented here: a fusion of vibrant, immediate physicality and intellectual poise; and a balance of fullness of imagination with leanness of muscle and an uncompromising lucidity of vision.
In this dryish, no-nonsense acoustic, and to ears accustomed to less disciplined, more indulgent playing, this latter characteristic could at times be mistaken for a somewhat cerebral approach. The Allegretto finale of the Tempest Sonata, for instance, is moderate to a fault, and the Allegro molto of the Op. 110 dispatched with a briskness that is almost brusque. But this sense of inner bracing is integral to Kovacevich’s vision of Beethoven: in the Op. 111 Sonata it reaches its apotheosis in the intensely dark compression of an appassionato which rages as few others know how, before Kovacevich’s perfectly paced finale.
This selection of sonatas also reveals the greatness of Kovacevich’s still small voice. Listen to the intense quietness and clear-speaking of those ‘recitatives’ in the Tempest; to those three ascending notes at the start of its Adagio; to its control of degrees of piano and pianissimo. It’s a pity that the Op. 101 Sonata had to be split between the two discs. But when you hear the Gesangvoll finale, even this minor annoyance is forgotten. Few pianists approach it with so little self-consciousness, so much simplicity.
This intense inner concentration reappears in the opening song of the Op. 110 which is so beautifully revealed through the diffused light of Kovacevich’s even fingerwork. In the recitatives of the Adagio Kovacevich seems to hear the implication of harmonic distances stretching out as far as those in the Ninth Symphony, before they refocus almost imperceptibly into fugue.'