So often we're given a set of dances or marches or Moments musicaux or something of the kind just as fill-up after a Schubert sonata. But Andras Schiff chooses to devote a whole disc to shorter pieces, as if to remind us just how much the miniatures always meant to a composer who died young enough to have known ''nothing but the rapture and poignancy of first sensations''—if readers will forgive me for quoting the late Richard Capell's unforgettable observation yet again.
First, the C minor Allegretto, especially written for Schubert's ''dear friend'', Ferdinand Walcher, on his departure from Vienna in 1827; its minor-major bitter-sweetness is caught by Schiff with a disarming simplicity. Next, the Drei Klavierstucke of the following year, again played without a trace of disruptive point-making or inflation of any kind, despite a spirited response to the allegro assai of the first and the mercurial playfulness of the last. For beguiling central relaxation we're given the 12 Landler of 1823, apparently lost to the wider world until the manuscript came into the possession of the Schubert-worshipping Brahms, who arranged for its publication in 1864. Here, Schiff's nonchalance is infinitely preferable to Schmalz, but I still think he could have enjoyed stronger mood contrasts in the course of the journey—if only in response to the composer's own daring key sequence. In particular I would have liked a more assuagingly slow final lullaby.
To counter-balance the disc's four opening pieces, Schiff ends with the second set of Impromptus, now in every aspirant's repertoire though (according to John Reed in the accompanying booklet) left dust-covered and silent until 11 years after the composer's death. For No. 1 Schiff chooses swifter tempo than we often hear, rejecting all expansive dramatic gestures for a simpler, self-effacing lyricism. Nor is sentiment allowed to impede the easy flow of No. 2, even if its middle section brings a few unexpectedly forceful points of emphasis. Though the Rosamunde theme borrowed for No. 3 is lightly launched, the ensuing variations also include moments of ripe enough ardour to quash my initial inclination to liken Schiff to the spring-like Perahia. But how winningly he responds to the scherzando qualifying the Allegro of No. 4. Despite what sounds like closely-placed microphones in a resonant venue (the Mozartsaal in Vienna's Konzerthaus) Schiff delights with his light-fingered and (for the most part) limpid texture. But I still think his 1988 anthology of Mozart miniatures ((CD) 421 369-2DH, 10/88) just that bit more distinctively stylish.'