Par 1
The 27th of this month marks the hundredth
anniversary of the birth of Pachmann, celebrated
pianist of a bygone age and the eccentric idol of
hysterical women. It is an event of importance
to gramophiles, for no one can deny that the
instrument has matured a stage further when for
the first time in the history of the gramophone,
we can treasure the electrical recordings of a
pianist whose birth took place a century ago.
Par 2
For long Pachmann was without rival as a
Chopin player. The expositions of other
pianists were as interesting exceptions to the
rule created by this specialist. In boyhood I well
remember how the illustrious Paderewski was
regarded as the concert pianist par excellence,
but always Pachmann was the Chopin exponent,
the expert whose style was unique in an epoch of
master-performers.
Par 3
History will record how diligent was his pursuit
of the immaculate presentation of his beloved
composer who was still alive when Pachmann
was born. It was a free interpretation, shapely
and poetic, light-fingered and airy, and stamped
with the hallmark of genius. This was just how
one might well imagine Chopin
played — particularly when extemporising;
nothing forced or distorted, just gossamer
loveliness. That is the impression I receive from
the earliest Pachmann acoustic recordings in my
collection for, alas, I was too young to have
heard him firsthand at his best.
Par 4
Perhaps these old recordings (and what an
astonishingly large number there are, too !), for
all their imperfections, provide a truer guide to
his methods than the later, electrically-recorded
H.M.V. discs where we find some of the
peculiarities of the eccentric old gentleman
projected strongly into his interpretations.
Beautifully clear pedalling has given way to
blurred splotches as in the G flat Waltz of Opus
70, and pathetic rambling as in the one in A flat
from Opus 64. These penultimate records
reflect the twilight of a glorious career.
Par 5
It is a sorry but inevitable paradox that his
best work went on to wax when the industry was
young and its methods were very imperfect,
while the later improved recordings caught
nothing more imperishable in their grooves
than the senile caricature of a once great artist.
Par 6
Stories of his odd behaviour and
pronouncements are legion and were once told
with relish by a host of unpaid publicity agents,
unconscious though they were of the fact. I
have a feeling that quite half of the phenomenal
and ecstatic audiences which Pachmann
attracted went as much out of curiosity as
anything else. Usually they were not
disappointed. Indeed, Hollywood itself would
have had difficulty in
making more of him than he himself was
capable of achieving.
Par 7
With the passage of time, advancing age
dimmed the subtle beauties of his art but not his
reputation which had grown to legendary
proportions by the time his death was announced
from Rome in January, 1933. I well remember
that Sunday morning when the tidings were
announced in the newspapers
.
In those days of
copious columns there was scarcely an editor
without space to record the fact together with a
long biographical note generously sprinkled with
a selection of those anecdotes about Pachmann
which had endeared him to two generations.
Par 8
His death was the first of a series which has led
to the total eclipse of a golden age of pianists;
one by one the others have followed Pachmann —
Leopold Godowsky, Emil Sauer, Moriz Rosenthal,
Harold Samuel, Ossip Gabrilowitsch, Josef
Lhevinne, Paderewski, Rachmaninov, Arthur de
Greef and, only recently, Frederic Lamond.
Par 9
The veteran pianist had passed over, and with
him had faded in importance the ridiculous old
alpaca coat, the fussing with cushions on piano
stools, and the declaration that Godowsky was
the second greatest pianist. The music and the
quaint voice were left — on records, but gone was
the personality with all its foibles and
capriciousness. Posterity may well be puzzled,
therefore, at the affection in which he was held,
for an essential part of his musical make-up is
now missing. They will surely wonder (as I do),
at the doubtful taste displayed by the publication
of that last, pathetic record of the Chopin Etude
in G flat from Opus 10 when age had all but done
its worst to him artistically.
Par 10
The Gramophone world may well, however,
take pride in its past efforts to perpetuate the
art and genius of Vladimir de Pachmann, wherein
it can offer a comparatively faithful reflection,
even though nothing earlier of his playing than
full maturity is represented. To play over these
discs is to experience once again an old
longing — if only the evolution of recording had
taken place fifty years before it did!