In an essay published in Etude magazine in 1955, Benno Moiseiwitsch noted a shift in the prevailing focus of pianists. The 65-year-old lamented an emerging emphasis on technique for its own sake: ‘In discussing pianistic values, it is common practice to deal with “technique” and “musicianship” opposing one to the other as if they were mutually exclusive. The fact is, they are not.’

This alignment of musical purpose and technique was fundamental to Moiseiwitsch’s own evolution as a pianist half a century earlier. Having been rejected by the Royal Academy of Music in London at the age of 15 because they believed he was too advanced to teach, he auditioned for the legendary Theodor Leschetizky in Vienna, but his attempt to impress the famed pedagogue with Chopin’s Revolutionary Étude backfired spectacularly. ‘I can play this better with my left foot,’ admonished Leschetizky, adding that ‘there are a hundred delicate nuances in the piece which you’ve sacrificed for effect. I don’t want bravura or exhibitionism.’ He told the aspiring artist to try again in a couple of months when he had ‘mastered real control’. After practising eight hours a day with a different intent, Moiseiwitsch returned two months later and the master was duly impressed with the change and accepted him as a pupil.

After four years of tutelage, Leschetizky told the young man that there was nothing more he could learn in lessons, that he needed to hone his craft on stage. Over the course of a 50-plus-year career Moiseiwitsch certainly became a master in his own right, celebrated worldwide for performances that were frequently described as patrician, elegant, refined, noble and majestic. The artist’s poised demeanour at the keyboard was reflected in his playing, his facial expression and posture never changing whether he played slowly and poetically or dispatched cascading octaves in the most demanding showpieces: the energy required to physically show an emotion was instead channelled towards its authentic expression in his interpretations.

The roots of his close friendship and musical alliance with his compatriot and idol Rachmaninov illustrate the astuteness of Moiseiwitsch’s musical intuition. When the pianist told the composer that he was a great admirer of his music, Rachmaninov asked which of his works he preferred, and Moiseiwitsch replied that it was the Prelude in B minor, Op 32 No 10, which the composer then said was his own favourite as well. The pianist asked if Rachmaninov had had a ‘programme’ in mind when he penned the work, as Benno had imagined a story being told in the piece, but Rachmaninov stated that there was no such thing in his own mind, just a single word. Out of curiosity, the composer asked his younger colleague to tell him what he had imagined, and Moiseiwitsch hesitatingly began, ‘My impression is the return of …’, whereupon Rachmaninov’s arm shot out, his deep voice interrupting him with a grave, ‘Stop!’ Moiseiwitsch asked what was wrong, and the composer replied, ‘That is my “programme” – “Return”!’ Rachmaninov would thereafter refer to Moiseiwitsch as his ‘spiritual heir’.

It is this knack for intellectually and emotionally grasping the essence of a work, combined with his ability to express his conception with uncanny directness and apparent ease, that lies at the heart of Moiseiwitsch’s pianism. His flawless technique comprised not just impressive dexterity but also exquisite tone in every note – no matter how rapid or how soft – along with beguiling timing, sumptuously shaped singing lines and impeccable clarity. His readings of all the composers he played demonstrate a remarkable synthesis of both classical and romantic inclinations: in fact, he noted that ‘the romantic pieces Leschetizky told me I ought to play in a classical style, and the classical pieces, by special indulgence, in a romantic fashion’. Always playing with consummate poise and integrity, Moiseiwitsch did not indulge in extremes, the result being a fusion of intellect with warmth, objectivity with personality: he always played with good taste and respect for the music.

For over half a century Moiseiwitsch recorded for EMI’s label HMV, but two years before his death he would produce three LPs – his final discs – for Decca. For some reason, over the past 60 years EMI (now Warner) has never issued a box-set devoted to the pianist’s significant discography on either LP or CD, only occasional single-disc offerings in both formats; it is hard to fathom why there has never been any attempt at a comprehensive release or even a general overview of his artistry, and it is a grave injustice. The APR label brought the artist back into the catalogue in the late 1980s, with subsequent efforts by Pearl and other independent labels being followed by licensed releases issued by Testament of the artist’s later recordings. The most well-conceived compilations are now on Naxos, yet there is still nothing as unified and comprehensive as the great artist’s pianism warrants.

His discography is among the most satisfying by any pianist, from the faint early discs of 1916 through to his final stereo efforts of 1961, his sizeable output of sanctioned releases supplemented by a handful of broadcast and live recordings from the 1940s to his final concert appearance (in Beethoven’s Emperor Concerto) a month before his death in 1963. Many of these unofficial accounts are even better than his superb commercial versions. If there’s a recording of Moiseiwitsch playing something, it is always worth hearing.

Moiseiwitsch’s first decade of acoustical recordings features primarily smaller-scale works (a Schumann Carnaval and Chopin Preludes cycle were never issued), ranging from the poetic to the dazzling. In the electrical recording era, Moiseiwitsch produced on 78rpm discs many more big-scale works, including a towering 1930 reading of Brahms’s Variations and Fugue on a Theme by Handel (which he re-recorded in 1953), some Beethoven sonatas and marvellous accounts of Schumann, Chopin, Rachmaninov and many others. In this period he recorded about a dozen concerted works, among them Beethoven’s Third and Fifth Concertos, Saint-Saëns’s Second Concerto, Liszt’s Hungarian Fantasy, and Rachmaninov’s First and Second Concertos and Paganini Rhapsody.

The LP era saw Moiseiwitsch produce more recordings of substantial repertoire, among them what may be the finest Schumann Fantasie on record, along with a superb Fantasiestücke and Brahms Handel Variations, and retakes of Rachmaninov’s Second Concerto and Paganini Rhapsody. His final efforts on Decca include important additions to his discography in the form of Beethoven’s Les Adieux Sonata and Schumann’s Carnaval and Kreisleriana, impressive readings despite his being in his final years.

The pianist’s own favourite recording is a four-minute miracle with an enchanting and rather amusing backstory. At the end of a March 1939 recording session, producer Walter Legge noted that there was some time remaining on the clock and suggested Moiseiwitsch record another work. The pianist didn’t particularly feel like it, so he proposed Rachmaninov’s arrangement of the Scherzo from Mendelssohn’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, a suggestion that Legge had previously declined because he didn’t want the label to compete with the composer’s own recording. After some good-natured banter, Legge complied with the pianist’s request but set the condition of only one attempt, convinced that the result would be unusable given that the technically accomplished composer himself had required six takes (common in those days before precision editing). Benno agreed to the challenge, sat down, and in one fell swoop delivered the most flawless, jaw-dropping, devil-may-care, edge-of-your-seat performance that one could possibly imagine: miraculously deft fingerwork, impeccable voicing, gorgeous tone (even the most rapid notes), feathery dynamic shadings and breathless momentum. It is one of the most magnificent examples of recorded pianism of all time.

The existing film footage from Moiseiwitsch’s final decade is an important yet somewhat neglected part of the pianist’s legacy: his 1954 and 1963 BBC TV broadcasts were issued on DVDs primarily focused on other artists (the full interview from the latter occasion – two months before his death – has not been released). These are of extraordinary musical and documentary value and are certainly worthy of a dedicated release, along with seven minutes of him playing excerpts from Rachmaninov’s Second Concerto in the 1943 movie Battle for Music. Justly legendary is his filmed 1954 performance of the Wagner-Liszt Tannhäuser Overture, a work so taxing that Liszt himself used to take a break halfway through. Shot in one take with a single camera gradually approaching the pianist as the work progresses, this reading is a magnificent testament to Moiseiwitsch’s mastery. To witness both the 64-year-old pianist’s poetic lyricism and his astounding virtuosity – his rapid-fire octaves delivered without any hint of strain in his visage or composure – is a masterclass in music-centred pianistic artistry.

In an age when the concept of technique has become synonymous with digital precision and when displays of showmanship have become more overt, the noble pianism of Benno Moiseiwitsch continues to demonstrate that individuality need not be antithetical to intelligent and emotionally aligned interpretations or to respect for the score. His artistry continues to communicate his own intent of ‘a style of playing which penetrates deeper than the physical conquering of the piano’, which ‘concerns itself with the release of music’. We are fortunate that technology affords us the possibility to appreciate so much of this exceptional pianist’s music‑making. 

This article originally appeared in the Summer 2024 issue of International Piano. Never miss an issue – subscribe today