Writing of Zoltan Kocsis’s Philips recital of solo Rachmaninov works in the March issue I celebrated performances “gloriously free-spirited and of an immense pianistic brio and command” and looked forward to the reissue of his 1983-5 recordings of the piano concertos and the Paganini Rhapsody. Few if any readings spark or scintillate with such daredevilry and are of such unapologetic virtuoso voltage. And even when they recall the young Horowitz in their outrageous brilliance and aplomb they are of the most individual, sharply etched style and profile; a far cry, indeed, from other recent more circumspect, intermittently stylish recordings.
True, Kocsis can sometimes be more voluble than poised, breezing through the Third Concerto’s haunting opening theme at the fastest flowing tempo and – for lovers of the ever-romantic Variation No. 18 from the Paganini Rhapsody, in particular – sometimes sacrificing heart’s-ease for high-octane bravura. Again, you may question his near allegretto spin through the Second Concerto’s central Adagio, where, like Shakespeare’s straining greyhounds, he tugs at the leash, eagerly glimpsing so many dazzling athletic opportunities ahead. Even so, try him in the Third Concerto’s cadenza (the slimmer and better of the two) and you will hear it topped and tailed with a ferocious and almost palpable aplomb. Listen to him snapping off phrase ends in the intricate reel of the Paganini Rhapsody’s Variation No. 15 (Piu vivo indeed!) or flashing fire in the Allegro leggiere (1'06'') from the finale of the First Concerto and you may well wonder when you last encountered such fearless brilliance, pace and relish. Even those attuned to a darker, more introspective Rachmaninov (Decca’s recent Ashkenazy/Previn reissue for example) will surely pause to wonder. Edo de Waart and the San Francisco Symphony Orchestra are no match for the LSO (their occasional failure to co-ordinate with their volatile soloist is understandable but the strings’ lack of sheen and glamour in the sunset coda of the Second Concerto is less easily forgivable); yet, overall, this is the most propulsive and exciting modern set of the complete concertos. Kocsis’s whirlwind tempos even allow him time for an encore – his own ardent elaboration of the Vocalise, a performance sufficiently ecstatic to set even the least susceptible heart a-flutter.
Augustin Anievas’s musicianly and well-mannered performances suffer cruelly by comparison. One of many American pianists to achieve a brief celebrity during the 1960s, his overall command rarely suggests sufficient flavour or panache to arrest the listener’s attention. True, his genial tempos often allow for a greater sense of breadth or breathing space than those of Kocsis, but his emotional diffidence makes something notably tame out of the Third Concerto’s finale (particularly in its champing piu mosso second subject). The aforementioned Allegro leggiere from the First Concerto’s finale provides another instance of well-schooled pianism rather than memorable music-making, or the sort of transcendental feats that are clearly second nature to Kocsis.'