There are some Bach performers who strive to impress by parading sensationally unorthodox approaches, however eccentric or egocentric (no names, no packdrill, but you know who I mean) ; some who adopt a hagiographical attitude, as if Bach’s music had just been gingerly brought down from Mount Sinai; there are others who genuinely do excite the listener by a combination of musicianship, stylistic insight and fresh vitality - like Angela Hewitt; and there are those whose initial impact may perhaps be less striking but whose musical integrity, mature judgement and consummate keyboard mastery are ultimately deeply satisfying. Bernard Roberts is a shining example of this last category. He neither seeks for effect nor sounds academic; the outstanding feature of his playing of the 48 is its superb contrapuntal clarity (which betokens great clarity of thought). Sparing in his use of the pedal (often not employing it at all) , he illuminates, though without exaggerating, each strand of the most complex texture - a case in point is the E flat minor Fugue of Book 1. He contents himself with a comparatively limited dynamic range, within which, however, are subtle nuances. And his general rock-firm but not inflexible rhythmic flow is often softened by subtle hesitations before, or lingerings on, a note. The other outstanding quality of his playing is its remarkable control: small-value notes are never glossed over, ornaments are perfectly formed, and his tonal evenness in running passages (the Book 1 D major Prelude, for instance) is exemplary. Notable, incidentally, is the care he takes (unlike some otherwise good interpreters) to phrase uniformly all entries of a subject.
If challenged to sum up Roberts’s performance in a single adjective, I would suggest ‘seigneurial’ - authoritative, with a natural poise, ease and dignity. In the best tradition of well-bred society, emotions are not worn on the sleeve: Book 1’s F minor Fugue is expressive but not maudlin, its B flat minor Prelude (which is not allowed to dawdle) quite unsentimental; he is tempted by the chromaticisms of Book 2’s A minor Prelude, but capitulates only (as who could resist doing?) in Book 2’s sublime F sharp minor Prelude. He tends to sobriety (unusually so in Book 1’s F major Fugue, which he treats legato, and Book 2’s G major Prelude, and its B minor Prelude is scarcely Allegr o) ; but he often produces delicious leggiero (Book 1, E flat and E major Fugues, Book 2, F major Fugue) , some light-hearted hopping (Book 1, F sharp major Prelude and A major Fugue, the latter splendidly fluent) ; on a couple of occasions he even lets his hair down and conveys real gaiety (Book 1’s G major Prelude and Book 2’s A major Fugue). He double-dots liberally, but is not altogether consistent in assimilating contradictory rhythms in the D major Prelude and E minor Fugue of Book 1.
All in all, a notably rewarding issue which makes me wonder why Roberts has not (as far as I am aware) made any previous Bach recordings; but this was worth waiting for. An immense 5,000-word booklet-essay by Wilfrid Mellers, concerned as much with aspects of theological symbolism (and bringing in the support of English mystic poets) as with the music and the instrument on which to play it, seems to have strayed in from some university lecture room.'