Time was, or perhaps still is, though my friends long ago learned to behave, that a cutesy gift to musical acquaintances was a long, narrow notepad with the words ‘Chopin Liszt’ printed at the top and decorated with clefs and notes, free-floating and unplayable without a stave to anchor them.
Stories from a Book of Liszts
by John Spurling, read by Jonathan Keeble and Jilly Bond; piano played by János Balázs (Chrome Audio, 3CDs, 3hrs 16mins, £ 17.99, www.chromemedia.co.uk)
Time was, or perhaps still is, though my friends long ago learned to behave, that a cutesy gift to musical acquaintances was a long, narrow notepad with the words ‘Chopin Liszt’ printed at the top and decorated with clefs and notes, free-floating and unplayable without a stave to anchor them. This witticism relied tenuously on the mispronunciation of Chopin as shoppin’ or, though it doesn’t quite work for the purpose, choppin’. No doubt many musical folk are delighted to attach these handy smilers to their shoppin’ trolleys to prompt them on the grocery trail.
Liszt, at least, is always list, and this is the forgivable wordplay John Spurling, playwright, novelist and critic, uses for the title of his novel The Book of Liszts (Seagull Books, £14), inspired by the Hungarian composer who singlehandedly epitomised the Romantic Age. In a CD note Spurling describes how he suffered a sudden, enduring attack of ‘Lisztomania’ six years ago after a chance encounter with a recording by the pianist Steven Osborne.
That expression — Lisztomania —was coined by Heinrich Heine as early as December 1841, when Liszt began a ten-week residency in Berlin, playing before the King of Prussia and being heaped with honours. The pianist-composer’s fame was at its height. Europe was in his thrall. He, together with his hero, the devilish violinist Paganini, invented the idea of musical celebrity. Aged 30, he was virile and godlike in appearance. Women fainted at the sight of him. His fervour, religiosity and extravagantly chaotic behaviour, forgetting in which drawer he might have hidden his earnings, merely added to his mystique. Little wonder that his lost manuscripts still turn up in salerooms to this day.
He was also a musical revolutionary, playing his own works and those of his friends, often in transcription — a neat way of introducing operas by Verdi or symphonies by Beethoven in pre-gramophone days. Even his groupies must have tired at the marathon length of his programmes. Another novelty, the solo recital, was born. Through his own tonal adventures, Liszt paved the way for Wagner and eventually for Bartok, Stravinsky and the harmonic upheavals of the 20th century.
This year marks the 200th anniversary of his birth. Long the object of scorn, he remains an acquired taste, written off as vulgar and only now rehabilitated, thanks to the likes of Alfred Brendel and Stephen Hough, formidably pianists and Lisztians, who see beyond the blizzards of notes to the serious musician. The connoisseur might wish to work his way through Hyperion’s 99-disc box-set of piano music, recorded over nearly a quarter of a century by that loyal devotee, Leslie Howard. For newcomers, Naxos has issued a 2-CD sampler of the music, accompanied by a 50,000-word biography, as liner note, by Malcolm Hayes.
This Chrome Audio set is a hybrid in comparison. One disc is music only, played by a fellow Hungarian, the pianist János Balázs. The other two consist of four ‘stories’ from Spurling’s novel, read by Jonathan Keeble and Jilly Bond, the former soberly, the latter theatrically, which combines well. It is a difficult, however, to work out how these stories relate to the whole. As an insight into Liszt they are vivid, if piecemeal.
Many will find rewards in the taster-style combination, but in my opinion there is not enough of Spurling — who clearly enjoyed his subject and tells Liszt’s story with spirit. It just leaves one hungry for more. Or Hungary, if you prefer.
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