Norwegian-born Hakon Austbo won the Olivier Messiaen competition back in 1971 and is a well-established artist now resident in Holland. Still, I confess to not having heard of him before now, and it was something of a shock to hear Scriabin-playing that can stand comparison with the finest on record. His is easily the finest of the three issues under review, and in these works there is good reason to prefer him to Ashkenazy (on two mid-price Decca CDs).
The very first impression is of a slightly swimmy acoustic; but that is pretty soon scotched by the quality of the playing. Austbo conveys states of feeling which are arguably indispensable to Scriabin—a kind of lightheadedness, shading into insubstantial wisps at one extreme and delirious abandon at the other, the whole continuity having the unpredictable yet irresistible force of fire. And he proves conclusively that those states are present as early as the First Sonata. The performance is not beyond criticism—textures are occasionally too light in the left hand, chord-colouring is a little arbitrary at the beginning of the second movement—but the sense of empathy is very strong, and a wonderful quasi niente in the finale sets the seal on an altogether remarkable performance.
The later sonatas have all had brilliant advocacy at one time or another. Austbo cannot match Sviatoslav Richter's classic DG account of No. 5—his presissimo articulation is choppier and more circumspect—and there are passages in Nos. 4 and 7 which lack a degree of incandescence or an ounce of stentorian grandeur. But the ear is constantly ravished with nuances of colour and rhythm, and Austbo's total belief in the music is reflected in numerous fascinating undertones. The Ninth Sonata is an outstanding achievement. Initially a little square compared with Vladimir Horowitz on CBS, it disarms criticism by an exquisite withdrawal into scented languor (around 2'15'') and always knows where it is going—not necessarily forward, but inwards, upwards, into mystic dimensions where performance suggestions such as ''avec une douceur de plus en plus caressante et empoisonnee'' seem perfectly natural. I look forward with the greatest interest to the companion CD.
Maybe it is hard on the other new issues to have to stand comparison with Austbo. But my high hopes of Boris Berman were only halfway realized, and although Robert Taub obviously feels deeply for the music his fiery performances lack a degree of sophistication. Berman's piano, though quite warmly recorded, is out of tune around F in the second treble octave—a fairly critical area for Scriabin's singing lines—and his highly accomplished pianism is ultimately too level-headed, too emotionally stable. Harmonia Mundi have given Taub a drier recording quality and his piano is tinny at the very top; he certainly appreciates the febrile quality of Scriabin's inspiration, but his channelling of it is less imaginative than Austbo's—ultimately more spasmodic than feverish—and in the Sixth Sonata he lacks Ashkenazy's outstanding control of dematerialized textures. Nor is his selection of Preludes so breathtakingly poetic as to convert the sceptical.'