Vladimir Horowitz

A Century Later: A Critical

Appraisal
By John Bell Young
September 2003

Many years ago, in the luxurious Upper East Side

townhouse of Vladimir and Wanda Horowitz,
Constance Keene, a prominent young pianist and a
member of their inner circle, asked, after a game of
bridge with her hosts, if she could play something
for the maestro. Gracious as always, the dapper,
nattily dressed Horowitz, his patterned silk bowtie
and matching pocket square slightly akimbo,
consented.
Taking her seat at the Steinway grand in their
elegant drawing room, awash with the fragrance of
fresh roses, she launched into a performance of one
of Rachmaninoffs most difficult works. She had
chosen to play his prelude in E flat minor, which is
comprised in part of a continuous string of rapid
double notes in the right hand alone. Looking for a
reaction, and perhaps a critique of her performance,
she waited for the masters verdict. After all, not
only was Horowitz considered by many to be the
greatest living pianist, but he had also been a friend
of the composer.
It was wonderful, he said in the thickly accented
English he seemed to value as distinctive ever since
leaving Russia in 1927, but you should speed up at
the end.
But why? Ms. Keene asked timorously.
Rachmaninoff doesnt indicate any such thing in
the score!

Ah, whispered Horowitz, a sardonic grin crossing

his face as if he were imparting to her a remarkable
new discovery. Good box office!
Perhaps it was this heightened awareness and
understanding, so in tune with the pulse of
audiences, that endeared Horowitz, who would have
been 100 years old on October 1, to the public for
most of the twentieth century, and distinguished him
from virtually every one of his colleagues. While to
some it might have seemed evidence of a cavalier
streak, for Horowitz it had musical legitimacy, too.
And yet ask anyone who heard him in person, or is
familiar with recordings, and they will tell you that
there was far more to the Horowitz mystique than
that.
Indeed there was. Horowitz, to an extent that few if
any of the most celebrated concert artists could
claim, was more than a pianist, or even a musician,
on stage and off: he was an event. He had an acute
sense of what stimulated the public. His
meticulously planned long absences from the stage
only contributed to the publics collective excitement
and anticipation.
He was something of a showman, too, albeit a
discrete one who, once offstage, was perfectly willing
to spin the myths about him his idiosyncratic
tastes, his seemingly supernatural technique, the
tragic and somewhat mysterious death of his only
daughter at age 40, his homosexuality, his nervous
breakdowns like nobodys business. He enjoyed his
celebrity, and exploited it to the fullest.
Tall and slim, he had become, by the end of his life, a
kind of New York fixture, frequently seen about town
on his walks or at concerts, rather like Garbo
without the hats and sunglasses. Sometimes,
astounded onlookers would spot him wearing
earplugs amidst the din in risqu nightclubs, as I did
once at the notorious Studio 54 back in the 1970s in
the company of my date that evening, Eartha Kitt.

And yet, some 15 years after his death from a heart

attack in 1989, the Horowitz myth continues
unabated. Nothing of the sort, or at least on such a
large scale, occurred in the years following the
deaths of his no less esteemed and gifted colleagues,
such as Claudio Arrau, Arturo Benedetti
Michelangeli or even the immensely popular
Sviatoslav Richter. So what is it about Horowitz that
compels pianists, critics, archivists, biographers,
broadcasters, producers and even music theorists to
continue debating the merits of his musicianship as
well as his legacy so energetically?
The answer, beyond all the extra-musical hype that
surrounded him, is clear, as it goes to the heart of
what really made him a star: his piano playing. This
week Sony Classical celebrates his life and art with a
series of events, including the re-release of his 1965
and 1966 Carnegie Hall comeback recitals, though
this time, the recordings are unedited. The wrong
notes and errors which Columbia Records
surrepetiously discarded and then replaced with
corrections, with the pianists approval, but without
disclosing as much in one of the juicier record
industry scandals at that time -- provide a kind of
visceral excitement that brings the listener into the
anticipatory mood in the hall. In addition, four films
about Horowitz, including the Maysles brothers
touching documentary The Last Romantic. as well
as a new ten-minute segment of outtakes, will be
presented in a special public screening in New York.,
followed by a panel discussion attended by his
friends, producers and a several renowned
musicians.
What ultimately made Horowitz irresistible to the
public, explains Sony Classical president Peter
Gelb, who was also Horowitzs manager towards the
end of his life, was his unrivaled technique
combined with a completely spontaneous
interpretive approach that made each of his concerts
an event of utter and unparalleled excitement. His
was a tradition that was rooted in the grand
romanticism of piano performance in the early 20th

century when artists felt greater freedom in their

interpretations."
Born in Kiev, Ukraine, on October 1 1903, Horowitz
had an exceptionally savvy ear from childhood. Not
limited either by his remote location or the habits of
less dedicated musicians, he devoted himself, even at
that young age, to studying the whole gamut of the
musical literature. By the time he was a teenager he
could play by memory transcriptions of whole
symphonic works and operas, and was already
intimately familiar with much vocal and chamber
music.
As a young man, Horowitz wore his hair long and
bore an uncanny resemblance to Chopin. With
virtually no money in his pocket, he abandoned
Russia to find success early on when he nailed down
an important engagement in Hamburg. His
electrifying performance there of Tchaikovskys
famous B flat concerto brought the house down, a
feat he repeated in New York in 1928, setting the
press and music world on fire virtually overnight.
Not since Liszt had anyone heard blistering octaves
like they did that evening, or whole strings of notes
purring in the ravishing pianissimo that would
become his hallmark. Nor had the piano music
devotees ever been exposed to bel canto phrasing so
exceptionally deft and liquid that it that seemed to
transform 88 keys into a chorus of voices and other
instruments. Gelb likens him to a great and
charismatic athlete who goes for broke; he made his
unfettered performances feel like a joy ride for the
public.
From that moment on the public, at a time when
classical music had lost neither its prestige nor
respect among young people, awarded him with
celebrity normally reserved for rock stars. No
classical pianist before or since, save perhaps Van
Cliburn, has commanded such idolatry on stage or
off. At virtually every one of his sold out recitals in
New York and elsewhere, thousands of fans would
sleep on the street in front of Carnegie Hall so as to

compete for the few remaining tickets made

available at the box office.
Certainly, he was the greatest of all pianists in
emotional comprehension and technical wizardry,
says David Dubal, a close friend of the pianist and
author of Evenings with Horowitz. There was
always more color and such tremendous
communicative power. Never in his playing was there
a fossilized moment.
Horowitz was, in effect, a freak of nature, not only
for his breathtaking technique, but also for his
ability to duplicate in his piano playing the range,
nuances and mellifluous qualities of the human
voice. This he did to such an extraordinary degree
that, at times, the two were indistinguishable.
Indeed, in his hands the piano became a reservoir of
vivid acoustic possibilities, belying its construction
from wood and metal.
The most important thing is to transform the piano
from a percussive instrument into a singing
instrument, he insisted. A singing tone is made
up of shadows and colors and contrast. The secret
lies mainly in contrasts.
His was an exceptionally transparent sound world
where bold, rhetorical declamation mingled with the
most privately articulated intimacies. Though hardly
a scholar, his philosophy was simple: play from the
heart, but let the intellect be the guide. He could
stretch the limits of good taste, ignoring the
demands of a score or the conventions of period
style, and yet play with the warm, affective simplicity
of a storyteller at the hearth. I have no idea what I
am doing, but I know when it is wrong, he
confessed only days before his death to fellow
pianist, Mordecai Shehori It is all by intuition!
At other times, his playing could be extreme,
combining high drama with diabolical abandon.
Such radical pianistic behavior shook listeners to the
core, as if they were in the presence of Zeus hurling
thunderbolts. For Horowitz, silence in music was

nothing to ponder, nor dynamics an occasion for

contemplation. Nor was lighting-fast speed in
passagework an opportunity to squander. On the
contrary, he treated these as intensely visceral
energic events worthy of harvesting for their
expressive content, at times at the expense of their
structural function. These he conveyed in any case
as matters of life or death. While certainly
stylistically informed, with a technique that knew no
limits, his playing was never cerebral or driven by
intellectual analysis, but inspired by instinct and his
gut. He was, as Wanda was fond of saying, both
angel and devil.
Even those who loathed his playing, which could
sometimes be indulgent and aesthetically indifferent
to the demands of the score, admired him, if for
nothing else than for his uncanny ability to find in
whatever he played something wholly new,
fascinating and absorbing. Even so, his approach
was anathema to the academic crowd and a few
critics (no one more so than composer and critic
Virgil Thompson, who was merciless in his attacks)
evidently intimidated by his audacity and in their
view, irreverence.
Shrinking violets and pedants have always been
repelled by aspects of Horowitzs art, but it was
impossible for him to give a conventional or bland
performance, notes Dubal, speaking from his office
at the Julliard School, where he teaches.. He was a
great master of the fleeting, imprisoned mood that
you would otherwise not even know is there;
everything he did was a kind of refurbishing.
Horowitzs stage manner was not glamorous, but
elegant and unobtrusive. Suavely sauntering across
the stage several minutes after the house lights were
lowered, he would take his seat, survey the public
and then make it wait some more. He was virtually
motionless when he played, even stoic. Unlike one
famous young pianist nowadays who is more about
hype than talent, he knew that mooning and
posturing was no substitute for the discipline,

musical issues and the real work that public

performance demands.
On stage you are the king and you should try to
look like one, he once mused. The public pays
money and they want to see something esthetic.
But whatever one thought about his interpretation,
Horowitz never gave it less than his all; his readings
were invariably thoughtful, considered and pristinely
thought out.
Perhaps what Horowitz cultivated above all was
charm. Beyond the music, for which he had the
greatest respect (its not true, as some would have it,
that he wildly distorted every score he got his hands
on; on the contrary, he usually followed a composers
directions meticulously) he exploited the potential of
sound for its own sake, engaging a kind of sonorous
sorcery. Never mind his peculiar habits, such as his
insistence on performing only on Sundays at 4PM; or
his self imposed 12-year exile from the concert hall
following a nervous breakdown in 1953. His
objective was never simply to impress an audience,
but to disclose whatever he discerned in music that
was capable of enchantment.
In much of the classical repertoire, particularly
Mozart, for example, he refused to conform to the
kind of gestural restraints and specific interpretive
restraints imposed on it by the conventions of the
classical period, Let me tell you a secret, he
confided in Mordecai Shehori. You know Mozart is
not a good composer. Only the signature is good.
Haydn is much better! Yet in spite of that evidently
playful dismissal, his Mozart betrayed a kind of
songful, even childlike simplicity that made it far
more beguiling, and ironically authentic, than the
technically precise, historically correct readings
favored by academia.
Shehori also reports a most amusing incident.
Asked by Tom Frost, Horowitzs record producer at
Sony Classical, if he was available to rehearse a
Mozart concerto with Horowitz in Steinways
basement, Shehori recalls his first meeting. Asking

the great man if he preferred to rehearse only his

entrances, Horowitz insisted on hearing every note
of the orchestral reduction.
An so I asked him, recalls a still bemused Shehori,
Maestro, what tempo do you want for the last
movement? to which he shot back Very
conservative! Then he took off like a missile!
For all his strengths, Horowitz was hardly immune,
in substantive and even measurable ways, to the
criticism that he manipulated the relationships
within certain works in a manner that could be
legitimately viewed as excessively inventive or even
perverse. His Liszt playing was, overall, brilliant,
incisive, and tremendously exciting, but also
enamored of the musics most superficial dimensions
at the expenses of its frequently literary and
philosophical aesthetic subtexts.
Where Arrau, for example, reveled in the opulence of
Liszts wholly operatic sensibility (in the B minor
sonata and the Vallee dOberman, for example)
Horowitz dwelt on the internecine rhetorical dramas
that made of some very good music little more than
clich. In his hands octaves and passagework were
played principally for display, in a kind of rapid-fire
martellatto rather than in service of more probative
aesthetic musical values. Horowitz had no interest
in infusing them, as Arrau did, with either the
breadth of resonance that real singing, to speak
nothing of the composer, demands.
In Scriabin, his playing was nothing if not vivid and
sensual, just as the composer implicitly demands,
but again, it often drifted, as it did in the Poeme Op.
32 and even the 5th Sonata, into a world where sound
effects prevailed over far richer expressive
possibilities. Where Vladimir Sofronitsky could milk
every strand of Scriabins counterpoint while
availing himself no less imaginatively of sonorous
contrasts, illuminating the relation ship of every line
and motivic fragment to another, Horowitz settled
for pleasing the listeners ear, rather than alarming
it.

Elsewhere, he excelled in Chopins smaller works,

especially the mazurkas, to which he brought an
unusual lapidary refinement not equaled since
Friedman. His handling of the larger pieces,
especially those where narrative played the
predominant role, such as the ballades, the
Polonaise Fantasy or the B flat sonata, was
inconsistent. Some performances fare better than
others, depending on his mood or the particular
period of his career. (in fairness, I must point out
that he was reliant on medication, for example, when
he played for Prince Charles in London and later in
Japan, thus compromising his efficacy and
concentration). . But here again, on the whole,
Horowitz more often than not favored the exquisitely
wrought, beautifully shaped and invariably pleasing
sound effect over the destiny of a works
innumerable compositional relationships, which he
declined to illuminate intelligibly. For Horowitz, the
principal melody that dominated a texture was
paramount in any work; any emphasis on functional
structures such as pedal points and motivic motors
that he could have harvested to lend greater
rhythmic and harmonic tension, thus allowing a
work to satisfy its own rather than his concept, were
frequently jettisoned.
On the other hand, his Scarlatti and Clementi
playing was a marvel in every category. Perhaps
because of the relatively spare textures in
combination with their Italianate sensibility, the
contrapuntal complexities that seemed to evade his
interest in his readings of Scriabin and Chopin never
became an issue. Here, his playing was scintillating,
rhythmically vivacious and absolutely loyal to both
the rococo spirit of the era and to the letter of the
musical document.
In Beethoven, a composer with whom he had little
sympathy, the entire bag of Horowitzs bag of tricks
failed him. Its not that he couldnt navigate through
the thorny physical difficulties of any Beethoven
and it is reported, by Bryce Morrison, that he played
the all 32 sonatas but that he failed to grasp the
larger and in most cases, the smaller picture that

drives the idea behind the notes. Horowitz disdained

the expressive and formal role of dissonance in this
music, and attenuated the pugnaciousness and
philosophical implications that this repertoire must
above all convey. His tempi were often conceived
without any consideration for either the demands of
form or content, and in music where superficial
display is cruelly turned back on itself for what it is,
that posed a special danger. Much the same can be
said for his unusually aggressive approach to
Debussy, whose music is no less sufficiently complex
and demanding as to spurn anyone who would
eviscerate it of its mystery. Even so, who could
disparage Horowitz for one of the most endearing
Debussy performances of all time, the Serenade for
a Doll, to which he brings such immeasurable
subtlety in his November 16, 1975 Carnegie recital?
Schumanns extraordinary world of nervous
fragmentation and abundant melody would seem
ideally suited for Horowitzs no less neurotic
temperament, and in many ways, it was, that is, until
one takes a deeper look at Schumanns scores. The
composers debt, both acknowledged as much as
unconscious, to the compositional procedures and
language of the baroque era is well known, but
Horowitz could have cared less about any of that. He
was in heaven when playing Schumann, whose music
he loved dearly. And despite the aesthetic naivet of
his stimulating and often thrilling readings, which
often leave the music threadbare, that devotion
communicates anther, perhaps no less valid
dimension of musical experience emotional, if not
affective intimacy -- that is not so easily dismissed by
the sanctimonious posturing of the musical purists.
No one who has heard Horowitz in Traumerei could
fail to be touched by its heartbreaking sincerity and
reflective melancholy.
In Russian music, he was fairly incomparable. No
one could argue that his famous (and several
recorded) readings of Tchaikovskys evergreen B flat
concerto, the Rachmaninoff 3rd concerto (and
anything else of Rachmaninoff for that matter),
Mussorgskys Pictures at an Exhibition, Prokofieffs

Seventh Sonata, and a host of glittering encores

were object lessons in pianistic decorum.
And yet, if there is one thing that made Horowitz
tower above all other pianists, and contributed to his
uniqueness, it is the grandeur of his playing that
seemed to transcend his lapses of taste and
intellectual refinement. No matter that, at times, his
performances of Chopins G minor Ballade or
Scriabins Poeme Feuillet dAlbum are awash in a
litany of mannered, tapered phrases and sentimental
indulgences, and sidle up to something resembling
cocktail music: In the final analysis, what does it
matter? What Horowitz brought to music, without
ever quite going over the top into distortion, was a
kind of delicious decadence that placed a premium
on pure, aural pleasure. Thus did he communicate
something of the white hot, efflorescent sexual
sensibility of a vanished era. If there is something
just a wee bit lascivious about that, so be it.
Certainly the music can withstand it, and at times,
even benefit.
Of the hundreds of recordings he made over his long
career (most available now on Sony Classical and
RCA-Red Seal), and in spite of his 25 Grammy
awards, not one, save perhaps the LPs he made for
RCA Red Seal in the 1950s, did justice to the quality
of his sound. In contrast to the bright, even edgy
sound conveyed by his recordings, particularly now
on CD, in concert his tone was sweet, alluring, and
even seductive. There were no real hard hedges to it,
but a kind of luxurious patina that drew the listener
into his unique world as if by stealth. He could
project even the most discreet pianissimo with power
and clarity to the most distant seat in any hall.
Though more than one pianist will claim disdain for
Horowitzs flamboyant, highly charged Technicolor
playing, no one could claim not to have been
influenced him. Any pianist who protests otherwise
would be lying. Though as pianists, each of us
eventually goes his own separate musical way,
developing an individual approach, Horowitz, for the
majority of us, was our first major inspiration. He

opened our ears to the innumerable possibilities of

our chosen instrument and what we might do with
it.
The distinguished impresario Jacques Leiser, whose
clients included other 20th century musical giants
such as Richter, Michelangeli and Berman, agrees:
His playing was absolutely electrifying,
spellbinding. His sound went to the last seat.
Horowitz knew how to project sound, and he also
commanded hypnotic attention from his audience.
From the moment he walked on stage, he had
already seized the audiences attention before he
touched a note. His playing was always
unmistakable, and could not be compared to any
other pianist. It had a distinct personality; you would
know it couldnt be anybody else.
That much is sure: Vladimir Horowitz was nothing if
not a force of nature, and one as inimitable as he is
irreplaceable. Thank you for coming to us, Maestro.

RECOMMENDED RECORDINGS
Horowitz recordings span some six decades, from
the late 1920s through 1989. Sony Classical and
RCA-Red Victor own and issue most of his
recordings, including several live performances,
though there are several older, historic
performances, recorded in concert, issued by Music
& Arts and other independent labels. Several of
these are historic, and reveal the young Horowitzs
technical wizardry.
I suggest that anyone building a collection of
Horowitz discs assemble recordings from every stage
of his career. The recordings he made during his
self-imposed sabbatical in the 1950s and early 1960s
are perhaps the best, and most artistically satisfying.
But several of his later recordings, made in concert,
are also worthy for their fire, and sometimes their
excess as well. For an insiders view of the great
pianist, I recommend David Dubals enormously

entertaining memoir Evenings with Horowitz, just

reissued by Amadeus Press with an accompanying
CD of Dubals talks with the pianist.
Sony Classical has recently issued a comprehensive 9
CD set that retails for . $221.. Individual CDs from
the set are available at about $19 a piece. For more
info and a list of all the recordings, go to:
sonyclassical.com; rcaredseal-rcavictor.com;
musicandarts.com
Of particular interest are:
The Historic Return: 1965-66 Carnegie Recitals.
Sony 53461 (3 CDs) This is the doctored version;
Sony has also just issued this set as a centennial
edition with Horowitzs mistakes restored (Sony
93023)
Vladimir Horowitz: A Reminiscence. Sony 89669 A
compilation of encore pieces, including works of
Scarlatti, Scriabin, and Chopin.
Horowitz Rediscovered. The 1975 Carnegie Hall
Recital RCA Red Seal CD 8287650749. RCA Jon
Samuels engineering tries to capture the more
intimate, softer side of the Horowitz sound. Includes
Horowtizs most affecting performance of
Schumanns Traumerei .
Toscanini conducts Brahms Piano Concerto No. 2.
Music and Arts 1077. Music and Arts 1077 Horowitz
in a thrilling, if hardly idiomatic live performance
with his father-in-law, the great Italian conductor in
October 1948.
Vladimir Horowitz: Discovered Treasures. Sony
48093 Several unusual items here, not released in
Horowitzs lifetime. A remarkable performance of
Medtners Fairy Tale, the only recording of this
composer he made.
Horowitz at the Met. CD 09026633142 Recorded live
at New Yorks Metropolitan Opera House. A
smoldering performance of Liszts B minor Ballade

Horowitz. The Last Recording Sony 45818

Horowitz at his most indulgent, recorded only days
before his death. Works of Wagner-Liszt, Chopin, and
Haydn.
Rachmaninoff: Concerto No. 3. Two interesting CDs
here. RCA 09026636812 with Ormandy and the
Philadelphia Orchestra, a memento of VHs mid
1970s comeback with orchestra; and Music & Arts
CD 965, in a blistering (but not so pristinely
recorded) performance with Serge Koussevitzky and
the Hollywood Bowl Orchestra (also coupled with the
Tchaikovsky Concerto in B flat Concerto under Wm.
Steinberg)
Horowitz: The Celebrated Scarlatti Recordings. Sony
53460 A must have for Horowitz collectors.
Scintillating.
Horowitz plays Rachmaninoff; RCA 7754-2CD. A
white hot reading of the B flat minor sonata,
recorded live in 1980, as well as an exceptionally
rich performance of the Concerto No. 3 with Fritz
Reiner and the RCA Victor Symphony (1951)

VIDEO
Horowitz: A Reminiscence. Sony Classical A
marvelous look back at the pianists life and career,
with abundant musical samples and conversation
Horowitz in Moscow. Sony Classical A moving tribute
to Horowitz upon his return to Moscow in 1986., his
first visit there in more than 60 year. Includes the
complete recital at Moscows Bolshoi Hall.
Horowitz: The Last Romantic. A film by the Maysles
Brothers. A revealing look at the maestro at home
and in his daily and concert life.
Horowitz plays Mozart Here the pianist gives in to
his love of Mozart in rehearsal at home and l with
conductor Carlo Maria Giulini

For more information about the screenings of these

films in New York, go to: filmlinc.com
Copyright 2003 John Bell Young. This article may not be
reproduced, copied, distributed, cited in whole or in part
without the express written permission of the author.

John Bell Young can be reached at:

molodoi@tampabay.rr.com