Stephen Hough stakes no claims to the fastest, slowest, loudest, softest, or most anything Liszt B minor Sonata on record. But for those attuned to his restraint, his account must surely be counted one of the more satisfying. Everything he does is intelligent and finely shaded, temperamentally well balanced rather than brazenly rhetorical, not calculated to produce swoons in the gallery, but therefore all the more likely to produce nods of assent from the discerning listener.
The opening scales are delivered effectively with full sustaining pedal, and when the virtuoso demands start to hot up, Hough, unlike so many, refuses to allow ends of passages to be engulfed in a lather of pseudo-passion. At 3'31'' the first D major climax, marked grandioso, has poise and nobility. All this is admirable, but for many I suspect it will all seem too low-key, even stand-offish, as it becomes apparent that deftness, clarity and respect for the text are in danger of registering as ends in themselves rather than as means towards strong dramatic individuality. For passionate sweep and risk-taking we are better served by the classic rival versions listed above. All the same, there is undeniably something distinctive in the Englishman’s approach – this is a Liszt that never has to compete for attention or to break into a sweat, Liszt as a more glamorous version of Mendelssohn, Liszt defended against the Lisztians.
Both Polonaises are likewise finely built, with every rubato eminently justified. Hough steers a judicious course through the conflicting demands of rhetoric and structure, making the C minor Polonaise melancolique seem less rambling and inconsequential than I remember (though Liszt’s conclusion still sounds like one of his less effective ideas) and achieving a real dancing lilt in the E major.
The First Ballade is, again, above all, flowing and supple, and it’s hard to suppress a smile at the sheer evenness of Hough’s scales. In the more imposing Second Ballade he keeps his distance from the hobgoblins and siren voices, or whatever they are, and instead takes pleasure in observing their play. Despite making mellifluousness his priority and playing apparently well within himself, he can still allow climaxes to expand with orchestral fullness. His choice of the more modest, more purely reflective version of the Berceuse is again symptomatic of an admirable urge to confide rather than impress.
The warm ambience of St George’s, Brandon Hill, Bristol, is pleasantly captured and Tim Parry’s essay is as thoughtful and well-balanced as the playing itself.'