Listening to Shura Cherkassky and Leopold Ludwig perform the Tchaikovsky First Concerto is rather like watching the squire's mischievous son run off to play while the incredulous butler stands at the doorway, tight-lipped and with arms folded. Ludwig and his orchestra give an orderly show, with fine playing, centred phrasing and generally sedate tempos. Cherkassky, on the other hand, indulges every colouristic trick in the book, whether hopping staccatissimo, softening his tone to a distant echo, allowing a bass note to resonate, rushing, broadening, bringing out salient left-hand material or generally playing to the gallery. It is the most bewitching display, at its most provocative in the first movement, though no one could pretend that Cherkassky's octaves have quite the demonic force of Horowitz's under Toscanini. The sum effect is playful in the extreme but deeply musical, whereas the second and third movements are marginally less provocative.
DG's sound is warm, even a little tubby, but the later Second Concerto recording has the brighter top. Here Richard Kraus proves a somewhat more sportive sparring partner than Ludwig, which makes for a more balanced interpretation. Tempos this time tend towards swiftness and the second movement is cut, but the finale goes off like a rocket, a joyful exclamation though never excessively intense. The nearest 'historic' comparison is with Noel Mewton-Wood, newly reissued by Dante, whose bull-in-a-china-shop virtuosity is quite different to Cherkassky's pianistic dandyism. DG's Originals release of the Cherkassky sounds similar, but Philips adds the Litolff Scherzo under Boult, a brilliant though brittle reading with all repeats and some approximate orchestral support (least tidy among the woodwinds).
The solo disc is equally characteristic, but Schumann's Etudes symphoniques are performed with a seriousness of purpose that suggests active parallels with Beethoven's Diabelli Variations (something that has never occurred to me via any other performance). Here, Cherkassky's consistency of approach helps focus the 'other side' of his interpretative character, whether in terms of musical architecture, the spiralling drama of the Second Etude (with both repeats played, and played differently each time), the well-honed nuances of the Eighth and 11th Etudes, or the unforced dramaturgy of the finale. So often this music is slammed out or over-projected, but not here. Kreisleriana is set at a marginally lower voltage and takes time to bed in, but once into the fray, Cherkassky offers a performance that is scarcely less considered than the Etudes, especially in the eighth and tenth movements. The Johann Strauss arrangements are affable and just occasionally effortful. Cherkassky's reading of the Schulz-Evler isn't a patch on Josef Lhevinne's (also included in Philips's series), but it does include the introduction (which Lhevinne omits) and has an easygoing demeanour that suits the music. Godowsky's re-hash is lovably extravagant, and Cherkassky does it proud.
By now you can probably tell that I have been thoroughly enjoying this set. And while not pretending that it will suit all moods - or indeed all tastes - it does serve as a showcase for one of the most charismatic and distinctive pianistic talents of the recording era, and as such cannot be recommended too strongly.'