Dinu Lipatti’s Columbia recordings are of legendary status. Critically acclaimed best-sellers even before the pianist died at the age of 33 in 1950, these performances have been reissued worldwide in the seven decades since they were made, consistently held up as desert-island interpretations of the too-few works that this fabled artist put on disc. The pianist produced only about three hours of published records for the label—far too few for a musician of his calibre—though these have fortunately been supplemented by a handful of concert, broadcast, and private recordings. Lipatti’s commercial discography—‘small in output but of the purest gold’, in the words of his recording producer Walter Legge—has anchored his place in the pantheon of pianists, but the artist’s somewhat star-crossed relationship with the gramophone has been largely misunderstood and misrepresented.

Dinu Lipatti and Columbia Records
Lipatti was signed to EMI’s Columbia label in January 1946 after their Swiss agent Paul Jecklin discovered that Decca hoped to add the pianist to their roster. Armed with the knowledge that their competitor had plans to arrange a tour in England and make a large number of recordings of the artist in a two-month period, Columbia approached Lipatti and were successful in negotiating a contract. The pianist may very well have been unaware of Decca’s interest (there is no evidence indicating otherwise) and he was delighted to be with Columbia, writing to his fiancée that this arrangement provided him better opportunities than would EMI’s HMV label:

His Master’s [Voice], some 20 years older than Columbia, already has in its catalogue almost the entire piano repertoire, recorded by all the old artists as well as the new, such that if I were to propose this piece by Chopin or that piece by X, they might be reluctant to accept, already having it in their catalogue, sometimes with two pianists … whereas Columbia has only recorded orchestral works extensively, and for piano the field is virtually empty, as they have signed Egon Petri … and … no one else. So with them I can record all that I want, without having to consider HMV’s catalogue.

Lipatti was clearly enthusiastic about embarking on a recording career, so it must have been a disappointment that his first session only took place six months after he had signed his contract and resulted in no usable discs. In Zürich in July 1946, Lipatti recorded Chopin’s Waltz in A flat major, Op 34 No 1, and two works by Liszt, La leggierezza and Sonetto del Petrarca No 104. However, EMI was experimenting with new material at the time and the masters warped en route to London; transfers effected on 15 October revealed the records to be unsuitable for release. Prior to any discs being issued, the pianist had begun publicizing his association with the label, a December 1946 Lausanne concert programme stating at the bottom ‘Mr Dinu Lipatti records for “Columbia” records’ [M. Dinu Lipatti enregistre sur disques “Columbia”]. With the failed attempts at Zurich behind him, he was no doubt enthusiastic to travel to London to finally produce some discs and boost his standing as an international pianist.

Lipatti made only three visits to London that included sessions at Abbey Road Studios, the first one being over a year after he had signed his contract. In February and March 1947, he recorded the D flat Nocturne (LB63) and the B minor Sonata (LX994/6) of Chopin and Scarlatti’s Sonata in D minor, L413 (LB113/LC30), in addition to making the first few of several attempts at the Bach-Hess Chorale Jesu, joy of man’s desiring. September 1947 saw him record the Grieg Concerto in A minor with the Philharmonia under Alceo Galliera (LX1029/32), as well as the Sonetto del Petrarca No 104 (LB68), Chopin’s A flat Waltz, Op 34 No 1 (LX1032), Scarlatti’s Sonata in E major, L23 (LB113), and the Bach-Hess Chorale—the sixth of seven takes of the latter was issued along with one of the Scarlatti Sonatas (LC30). In April 1948, he recorded a tremendously successful Schumann Concerto in A minor, Op 54, with the Philharmonia with Herbert von Karajan (LX1110/3), the Chopin Barcarolle (LX1437), and his stupendous account of Ravel’s Alborada del gracioso (LB70). Lipatti’s widow Madeleine later recounted a tale that the pianist had played the latter spontaneously at the end of a session and that the engineer had switched on the recording apparatus, but this is not the case: the recording had been scheduled and he made two takes of each side.

Unfulfilled potential
There were more recordings planned for what would be Lipatti’s final visit to London. An ‘Instructions for Recording’ sheet dated 15 April 1948 lists the Barcarolle and Alborada (mistyped Alborado, as it was on the label of some editions of the disc), as well as two Scarlatti sonatas, Debussy’s La soirée dans Grenade, and Falla’s Ritual Fire Dance. Two of the four scheduled session dates are crossed out, and it is not known if Lipatti made attempts at the Falla, Debussy, or Scarlatti works. No individual recording sheets have been found to indicate that he did, yet the chronological recording log at EMI’s archive is missing six months’ worth of pages (quite inexplicably, they were torn out), including those from this period. It is therefore impossible to know exactly what took place at these sessions.

The focus on shorter compositions at the Abbey Road sessions has been perceived as being due to Lipatti’s illness and has contributed to his being seen as a ‘small-scale pianist’. However, there is a socio-economic factor that has often been overlooked: materials were scarce in the post-War years and England had austerity measures in place, so it was more commercially viable to produce more affordable single-disc offerings and fewer multiple-disc sets. Cortot, Moiseiwitsch, Solomon, and other long-established artists also recorded primarily shorter compositions at this time, usually with only one larger-scale solo work and/or concerto per year; this has often been overlooked because these artists each have more substantial discographies made over the course of decades. This is likely the main reason that Lipatti’s Abbey Road offerings consist primarily of shorter pieces, the Chopin B minor Sonata being the only multi-disc solo composition that he recorded there.

This is most unfortunate, as at the time of these sessions Lipatti was playing Beethoven’s ‘Waldstein’ Sonata, Schumann’s Études symphoniques, and Ravel’s Le tombeau de Couperin in his recital programmes (indeed, he had broadcast the ‘Waldstein’ for the BBC the day before his last Abbey Road session on 21 April). After these sessions, Legge wrote enthusiastically in a memo: ‘Lipatti has made a particular request to record the Schumann Études symphoniques. This does not exist at all on Columbia and is one of the best of Schumann’s works for piano solo. No-one would do it better than Lipatti, and de Jongh, to whom I have already talked, promises immediate and enthusiastic issue in Paris.’ Handwritten notes indicate that the proposal was ‘approved by Repertoire Conference’, but the recording never took place. In this case it is almost certain that Lipatti’s illness was to blame, as his health took a downturn the following month and he never made it back to London. When recording equipment was sent to Geneva in July 1950 to capture his playing in the final months of his life, Lipatti recorded his ‘less tiring programme’ of Bach’s Partita No 1, Mozart’s A minor Sonata, and Chopin’s waltzes; his performances are marvellous but the selection is somewhat unfortunate given that he was experiencing increased vitality as a result of cortisone injections and likely could have recorded the larger-scale works in his repertoire.

The belief that Lipatti’s small discography was due solely to his illness and perfectionism is a natural conclusion given statements made by Legge in a February 1951 Gramophone magazine tribute. Inaccuracies from this piece were for many decades quoted in liner notes accompanying reissues of the pianist’s recordings, resulting in a distorted view of his artistry and mindset. Legge stated that he was able to offer ‘a repertoire for recording for which many another pianist would have sacrificed his wife and family’ but that Lipatti ‘would not be deflected from his devoted approach’, noting that he required three years to prepare the Tchaikovsky Concerto and four for the ‘Emperor’. The evidence indicates otherwise.

In a memo dated 23 February 1948, Legge wrote that ‘Lipatti has his heart set on doing a Beethoven Concerto in 1949’. This led to a series of memos discussing which work to record based on what was currently in Columbia’s catalogue. It should be noted that Lipatti had played the ‘Emperor’ twice in Bucharest in the early 1940s, so the work wasn’t new to him and he would not have required years to prepare it: he quite quickly reworked the Schumann Concerto, which he had prepared in 1945 but not yet performed in public, once Legge asked him to record it on less than six months’ notice.

Even more surprising is a 7 June 1948 memo with the heading ‘Tchaikowsky Concerto for Columbia’ in which Legge wrote: ‘I have found what I am sure you will agree is the ideal solution for this problem. Lipatti has agreed to record this work in 1949 in London with Karajan. That should be a best seller for ten years.’ (One cannot criticize Legge for not anticipating that Lipatti’s recordings would be best sellers over half a century later, but the irony is rather striking.) Handwriting on the memo shows why the project did not proceed: ‘Discussed at Rep[ertoire] Meeting 8/6/48. Decided not to record in view of [illegible] recording from America by Oscar Levant. Also, Legge had discussed doing this work with Małcużyński.’ It was therefore Columbia and not Lipatti that put an end to the possibility of his recording the Tchaikovsky Concerto.

In light of these internal memoranda, Legge’s assertion that ‘only his illness is to blame for the comparatively small number of records he made’ seems disingenuous at best. There is no doubt that Lipatti’s illness limited his travel to London to complete some projects; however, Legge’s assertions have contributed significantly to a perception that Lipatti was a weak pianist who only played short works and was reticent to record more substantial compositions. This was not the case, and unfortunately it was both management and health issues that seemed not to align with his wishes.

Unreleased treasures
What might be even more surprising than these revelations is the fact that a set of records that Lipatti actually did produce was never issued by Legge either during the pianist’s lifetime or afterwards. Lipatti was touring Switzerland with cellist Antonio Janigro in May 1947, playing recital programs of sonatas by Bach, Beethoven, and Brahms to great critical acclaim. On 24 May they went to the Wolfbach Studio in Zürich to record six 78-rpm discs, among them the first movement of the Beethoven A major Sonata, Op 69. The session sheets for these records—matrix numbers CZX 221 through 226—have at the top of each page the words ‘Test for Mr. W. Legge’.

It is surprising that the producer did not, at the very least, issue these discs posthumously, given the pianist’s great fame and the dearth of available recordings. One possible reason for his not having done so comes from a testimonial by Steven Isserlis, who studied with Janigro in the mid-1970s. The master cellist was speaking mournfully to his student about the lost opportunity of making records with Lipatti and when asked why they had not, Janigro said with the utmost bitterness in his voice, ‘because Mister Walter Legge didn’t like the cello’.

No correspondence by Legge or Lipatti discussing these recordings has been found so it is not known for certain how the session came to happen. However, a 1970 letter to EMI’s David Bicknell by Madeleine Lipatti states: ‘This was a private recording which was sent to Columbia by Lipatti’s wish, but this ‘test’ recording was not followed up.’ She added that she and the cellist wished to issue the recordings as part of a charity project for the 20th anniversary of Lipatti’s death that year and asked if ‘the matrix is still in Columbia’s archive’, but no reply was on file and her project never came to fruition.

I became aware of the existence of these recordings in 1989 when Keith Hardwick of EMI responded to my inquiry about unpublished Lipatti recordings: he informed me that these discs had been borrowed from, but not returned to, the collection of the producer’s widow, Elisabeth Schwarzkopf. Investigations at EMI’s archive revealed that the masters no longer existed, but a few years later, pressings of two of the six sides were found in Dr Marc Gertsch’s collection in Bern, Switzerland, records he had received when Madeleine Lipatti died in 1983. My colleague Werner Unger and I issued these on Unger’s label archiphon as part of a 2-CD set featuring unpublished Lipatti recordings largely culled from Gertsch’s collection.

I finally made contact with Janigro’s daughter in Milan in 2008 and she introduced me to the cellist’s pupil Ulrich Bracher in Germany: he had five of the six discs and had in fact put the recordings out on a private cassette devoted to Janigro which had somehow never made its way into the hands of Lipatti fans. He graciously shipped the original acetates to Unger, who transferred and issued them in a digital release in 2014 and who has made them available for this present set.

The current release is the first published CD of these recordings to be made, over 70 years after the studio sessions. Unfortunately, the Chopin Nocturne in C sharp minor (CZX 224) that the artists recorded has not been located: it wasn’t mentioned in Madeleine’s letter, so it is possible that the disc was never pressed. The artistry of both musicians here is stunning, these records revealing, in the words of Isserlis, ‘such wonderfully sensitive, imaginative playing, and such mastery. A truly magnificent duo!‘ These performances’ absence from the catalogue both during the pianist’s lifetime and afterwards is most regrettable, but fortunately they are now available—a significant addition to the pianist’s discography.

The performances
This present collection of recordings is an extraordinary tribute to the artistry of Dinu Lipatti, capturing him in solo, chamber, and concerto repertoire while he was at the peak of his powers. Conditions at the Abbey Road studios in particular were extremely supportive: Steinway No 299 was an exceptionally responsive and well-regulated instrument and EMI technicians captured the pianist’s tone wonderfully. Unfortunately, reissues of these recordings have restricted the pianist’s dynamic and tonal range—particularly on LP in the US and worldwide on CD—which has hindered listeners’ capacity to wholly recognize the grand nature of his playing. In these remasterings which have gone back to the original 78s, we can more readily appreciate the manifold qualities that have led to Lipatti being revered as a supreme pianist: his rich array of colours, precise touch, refined dynamic gradations, poised voicing, masterful pedalling, and impeccable timing.

Scarlatti was a key fixture in Lipatti’s recitals, and he plays the Sonatas in E major and D minor with exquisite elegance and clarity. His rhythmic pulse, deft articulation, and judicious use of the pedal provide an ideal balance of warmth and precision. Myra Hess’s arrangement of Bach’s Jesu, joy of man’s desiring is the work that has become synonymous with Lipatti’s name, having been the first piece he played at his first recital in Paris (in memory of his recently deceased teacher Paul Dukas) in 1935 and the last one played at his legendary final recital in Besançon shortly before his death in 1950. Lipatti was apparently not fully satisfied with this 1947 account but consented to its limited release in France and Switzerland due to popular demand. The Abbey Road studio and Steinway supported a broader resonance and range of tonal colours than can be heard in the more famous July 1950 version. (Lipatti’s final recordings were made in a Radio Geneva studio with a dry acoustic and possibly on a sub-concert grand piano—he had two pianos available for these sessions and it is not 100% clear which he used, but those recordings consistently have less bass presence.) Particularly fascinating in this earlier reading is his approach to the coda, with a beautifully voiced descending line in the upper register.

Lipatti is most known for his Chopin performances, though his highly acclaimed 1950 cycle of waltzes recorded in the aforementioned Geneva studio lacks the depth of tone and power that are in full abundance in his earlier recordings. The D flat major Nocturne is a model of poise, his full singing sound impeccably balanced with sensitivity of phrasing. Melodic lines are flawlessly shaped, tempo shifts beautifully coordinated, dynamic layering skillfully achieved. What a remarkable contrast is his heroic traversal of the Chopin Waltz in A flat, Op 34 No 1, which served as the ‘filler’ for the 78-rpm disc set of the Grieg Concerto. This was his most frequently programmed waltz, the one he was too weak to play at his last recital, and this earlier recording is a vibrant, vivacious reading that is radically different from the quainter traversal of 1950. With dashing runs and dramatic pauses, sparkling tone and sumptuous phrasing, this bold account is incredibly seductive. Rarely issued in long-play format, this performance at once shatters the image of Lipatti as a weak, demure pianist and shows the grand nobility of his pianism.

The Chopin B minor Sonata was the only large-scale solo work Lipatti recorded at Abbey Road and is justly celebrated as a reference recording. Awarded the Grand Prix du Disque, this towering performance showcases Lipatti’s fullness of tone, boldly forged phrasing, mastery of pedal, and remarkable clarity of texture, the pianist’s transcendent technique and expansive vision creating a reading of extraordinary power. Equally impressive is Lipatti’s sole surviving Liszt disc, an impassioned Sonetto del Petrarca No 104 (the pianist unfortunately did not re-record La leggierezza after his failed attempt in Zürich, though a broadcast performance survives). Lipatti’s affinity with Liszt is evidenced by his declamatory accents, atmospheric pedalling, and innate timing, highlighting to perfection the stark contrast between the sensual and heroic moods of the work.

The first of Lipatti’s two Columbia recordings with orchestra was the Grieg Concerto in A minor, Op 16, with the Philharmonia under the baton of Alceo Galliera. Lipatti had been playing the concerto since 1933 so by the time he put it on disc in September 1947, he was very well acquainted with its subtleties. His massive sonority, superbly balanced chords, and dramatic timing make for a truly majestic reading, with the first-movement cadenza being strikingly powerful—another demonstration of Lipatti’s tremendous strength and admirable use of transcendent virtuosity to serve the score.

The Grieg Concerto recording was such a success that Lipatti was soon asked to record the Schumann Concerto the following April. Having learned the work in 1945 but not yet played it in public, the pianist requested a programme switch to an orchestral appearance in Basel in order to perform it prior to the studio sessions. The studio recording was made 9 & 10 April 1948, with a Royal Albert Hall concert performance taking place on 11 April. Lipatti wrote that he felt that the ‘super-classical’ Karajan’s brisk tempi held him back from some more tender nuancing, and the story goes that as Lipatti was leaving the studio on the first day, he said in a deliberate stage whisper something along the lines of ‘perhaps he’d like to try that tempo at the keyboard’. Nevertheless, the performance has been critically acclaimed since its release, Lipatti’s burnished phrasing and glistening sonority being especially captivating.

Lipatti made two more recordings at Abbey Road after the Schumann: Chopin’s Barcarolle and Ravel’s Alborada del gracioso. The Chopin was not approved for release (it came out soon after the pianist’s death), which is astonishing considering the fact that this reading is widely considered to be the standard by which all others are assessed. Lipatti’s weighting of chords, attention to the decay of tones within the phrase, elegant rubato, and delicate dynamic nuancing are all admirably achieved.

His astonishing account of Alborada del gracioso is rightly considered peerless, standing apart from all other Lipatti recordings for its stunning display of transcendent technique and musical creativity: it is apparently the only disc with which he was fully satisfied and is certainly one of the greatest piano performances ever recorded. If his rapid-fire repeated notes, incredible buoyancy, and orchestral tonal palette weren’t impressive enough, the hair-raising graduated double-note glissandi are so masterfully controlled, with a breathtaking decrescendo on the final one, that they reveal in an instant Lipatti’s stature as among the most technically proficient and musically inspired pianists to have been recorded.

The surviving recordings from 24 May 1947 of Lipatti accompanying Antonio Janigro give us a greater understanding of the pianist’s musical sensibilities while also showcasing the cellist’s glorious artistry at its best. As a collaborative musician, Lipatti truly plays with the soloist, never taking centre stage yet also not simply remaining in the background. The existence of the first movement of Beethoven’s A major Cello Sonata, Op 69, provides a tantalizing glimpse into the pianist’s approach in that composer’s oeuvre—it is the only Beethoven recording of Lipatti to have been found thus far—with metrical precision tempered by beautiful rubato, a glistening sonority (his trills are exquisite), and a balance of lightness of touch and depth of tone. The cellist’s burnished phrasing, rich singing sonority, and dynamic control are also remarkably beautiful here, as they are in the Bach-Siloti Andante, which finds Lipatti’s textured chords and dynamic balance providing wonderful support. In Fauré’s Après un rêve and Ravel’s Pièce en forme de habenera, Janigro’s emotively forged phrasing is complemented by Lipatti’s evocatively pedalled accompaniment, while Rimsky-Korsakov’s Flight of the bumblebee features exquisite lightness of touch and impressive dexterity from both musicians.

Conclusion
Every recording featuring the playing of Dinu Lipatti is of tremendous artistic value, his musical integrity bringing insight and inspiration to each performance. The pianist’s earliest Columbia recordings are especially satisfying for their combination of youthful vitality and mature musicality, having been made while the artist was both experienced as a concert artist and in a more robust state of health than in his final two years. In Lipatti’s playing we hear a musician not only serving the score and the composer but music itself, which infuses his playing with a sublime quality that continues to fascinate listeners of all generations. In his recordings, we can hear, in the words of Herbert von Karajan, ‘no longer the sound of the piano, but music in its purest form’.

(Mark Ainley would like to thank Bryan Crimp, Grigore Barguanu, Werner Unger, Ulrich Bracher, Damir Janigro and Nicole Janigro, the late Dr Marc Gertsch and family, Orlando Murrin, Matei Banica, Philippe Roger)

Mark Ainey © 2020