It is easy to point out the fortepiano’s shortcomings, especially in the middle to late works of Beethoven. It isn’t simply that the tone – somewhere between a small upright piano and a harpsichord – takes a lot of getting used to. There’s the limited sustaining power – pitifully limited in the singing high notes of the first-movement Allegro of Les adieux, or the lilting Menuetto of Op. 10 No. 3. Could this really be the sound Beethoven heard in his head, or was his imagination already straining ahead of its time? Surely that has to be the case in the great Adagio sostenuto of Op. 106, the Hammerklavier: if ever an instrument sounded out of its depth ...
But the instruments included in this set were the kind of pianos at which Beethoven played and composed. He knew their capabilities and limitations better than we do. There may be good reasons for preferring the modern concert grand, but reject the fortepiano utterly and you miss revelations. For a start, some passages sound surprisingly beautiful: the ethereal trills and pulsations in the finale of Op. 111; the ecstatic final climax (again trill-dominated) of Op. 109. The players – respectively Tom Beghin and Malcolm Bilson – deserve a lot of the credit, of course, but these moments do show how responsive fortepianos can be, even in late Beethoven.
Then there are passages where Beethoven’s instrument actually scores above the modern piano. The clarity of the bass register, even with the sustaining pedal down, means that rapid low writing doesn’t blur, as it often does on a big concert grand. In fact, textures like the racing left-hand quavers in the Scherzo of Op. 26 can be transformed – I don’t think I’ve ever heard this sound so incisive and gripping. Then there’s the so-called una corda (“one string”) pedal, which turns the usual percussive brightness into something duller and more mysterious. Beethoven clearly asks for this in the slow movement of Op. 101, requesting a gradual return to full strings in the slow cadenza writing at the end. The sound of the piano in the slow movement itself is fascinating, even if Malcolm Bilson’s playing doesn’t quite live up to Beethoven’s marking sehnsuchtsvoll (“full of longing”). The return to all the strings at the end was a little disappointing – but what followed wasn’t. The first-movement theme returns, as expected, but after the muted tone of the Adagio, it positively shines; the effect is like stepping into a new world. And all credit to Bilson for bravely taking Beethoven’s instructions in the first movement of the Moonlight (Op. 27 No. 2) at face value (“pianissimo throughout and with raised dampers”) – the result is, well, at least interesting.
Claves have arranged things so that you have to take the leaflet out of the box to find out who is playing, or consult the thick booklet – a minor nuisance for the listener, perhaps, but an advantage for the critic. It meant that it was easy to listen to the whole set without knowing who was playing, and therefore avoid any prejudice. Still, it was striking how often the performances I admired most for character or musical intelligence turned out to be by Malcolm Bilson. Tom Beghin and Ursula Dutschler were also consistently impressive. Certainly they’re never dull; and however quirky Bilson can be on occasion, he avoids the affected rubato of some of his colleagues, which tends to sound as though the players might just be trying to compensate for the instrument’s expressive shortcomings. Recording tone varies, suggesting very mixed venues, from relatively spacious rooms to intimate salons. Fortunately, none of the recordings is too close to the instrument – the last thing one wants is to have the sound of the mechanism enhanced. Not a Beethoven sonata set to treasure for all time maybe, but one that offers unique illuminations.'