Horowitz once expressed a wish to make a record of a single work—Chopin's G minor Ballade, for example—in performances ranging over a wide period of time. That way we could hear how an artist's conception is modified and, hopefully, enriched with the years, its character and radiance altered as if by some subtle prism. The same is certainly true of Cherkassky for, to a greater extent than any other pianist, his performances are infinitely varied, shedding fresh light on even the most familiar corner-stones of the repertoire. These recordings (dating from 1984-87) are living and vital proof of his spontaneity and, in Kreisleriana in particular, even the most immovable Beckmesser may well find himself abandoning pencil and paper to listen enchanted to Cherkassky's magical idiosyncrasy.
His Etudes symphoniques have already appeared twice live from Decca, an embarras de richesses, and now here on Nimbus he is in unusually thoughtful and speculative (though never subdued) mood, with all the repeats offered as a golden opportunity to switch focus and emphasis. The solid tramp of No. 4 modulates with unforgettable subtlety into the light-fingered scherzando of No. 5. No. 9 is a gentle alternative to Schumann's Presto possible and the finale is surprisingly circumspect. Yet, throughout, there is a continuous sense of how Cherkassky's tide of feeling takes him in virtually any direction, a quality of the most life-affirming freedom and generosity. Time and again his playing generates its own ideas and convictions and, even when spinning an arbitrary or, rather, provocative line in the Franck, his playing is so volatile and unpredictable that you take it on its own terms and end haunted and bemused by the richness of his imagination; a quality far above and beyond mere caprice. The recordings (particularly in the Franck) are hardly models of refinement, but the performances are beyond price.'