Originally recorded in 2007, Burkard Schliessmann’s superb performance of Bach’s Goldberg Variations has now been reissued in Dolby Atmos format. Lossless and with an Apple Digital Master, the sound feels perfectly ‘placed’ so one hears every nuance of Schliessmann’s playing. And there is no doubt his reading has developed over many years: listening to it feels almost intimate.

Right from the outset the Aria and Variation 1 reveal Schliessmann’s textural clarity. His finger-strength is remarkable, each line perfectly articulated. Playing on his own Hamburg Steinway, he allows himself some leeway with ornamentation, exuding spontaneity without ever losing the underlying pulse. As the performance unfolds, we meet the entire human condition, from humour (Variation 23) to the dark introspection of the so-called ‘Black Pearl’ (Variation 25). Schliessmann’s performance is carefully calibrated on both macro- and micro-levels. This, coupled with an understanding of Bach’s gesture and rhetoric, makes this reading absolutely compelling – as is Schliessmann’s highly-informed booklet note.

So it is that the return of the Aria (heard after a noble quodlibet) holds great emotional power. Superb.

If we didn’t know better, we might have imagined that Johann Sebastian Bach wrote his great Goldberg Variations with the foreknowledge that it would be performed several centuries later on by an artist with the temperament and patience of Burkard Schliessmann. Certainly, our German contemporary comes well equipped for the task, being a dedicated musical scholar as well as possessing the mature keyboard technique needed for the Goldbergs. As I remarked of this artist some time ago, he is the last sort of pianist you would expect to just play the notes as written, and without comment. That is important because Bach’s approach to the Variations, while exhaustive, was not perfectly intuitive.

Nor was it intended to be. As he did in his Well-Tempered Klavier, Bach was working from a theory of harmony that was well in advance of the music of his day, with clear guideposts as to what the future held in store. The Goldbergs consist of thirty variations on an Aria da capo that is essentially a slow Sarabande. It is an emotionally moving, highly ornamented melody in three-quarter time with a descending arpeggio midway through that always gives me goose bumps, as often as I’ve heard it. These variations are also unusual in that they are built on the bass line of the aria, rather than its melody, a procedure that yields high dividends harmonically.

The variations themselves occur in groups of three, with the third being an imposing canon in which the melody in one hand is imitated by the other in a succession of ever-increasing intervals, from a canon at the unison (Var. 3) to a canon at the ninth (Var. 27). Of particular interest is the way the variations in the second position in each group of three (Nos. 5, 8, 11, 14, 17, 20, 23, 26, and 29) may be taken to constitute what Baroque scholar Ralph Kirkpatrick described as “arabesques.” Performing them requires feats of prestidigitation, involving much hand-crossing and considerable freedom and flexibility of arms, hands, and fingers.

Starting off with a stately French Ouverture in dotted rhythms, there is a lot of musical treasure to be absorbed in the Goldberg Variations in terms of harmonic theory, technical challenges for the performer and sheer auditory pleasure for the listener. The latter may rightly sense there is a compelling drama unfolding here, without knowing exactly how or why. We leave that to a skilled interpretive artist of the calibre of Burkard Schliessmann. Suffice it to say these variations never fail to intrigue, in many ways. For many, the emotional deep point of the Goldbergs will be Variation 25, which famed harpsichordist Wanda Landowska described as the “black pearl” of the set. Its message of solace and consolation for a weary world is as much in need as ever in our time. Another is the repeat of the Aria da capo at the very end, a moment that always bring a lump to my throat. As Schliessmann rightly surmises, the notes are the same as we heard at the beginning, but there’s a difference. They are sadder, softer, wiser. We feel we have been on a long journey.

This performance was recorded in 2007 (there was an interview and review around it in Fanfare 31:3); this is the 2022 remastering, available also on Dolby Atmos. I have followed Atmos since launch, and feel it is a force for good; and if anyone needs convincing, this release will do the trick. The sound here is anything but “floaty” (a frequent criticism of Atmos); it just feels perfectly positioned. We hear everything as Schliessmann intends; this review auditioned both via Atmos and the physical Super Audio Compact Discs, and it is Atmos that feels the most involving. The sound feels purer, more crystalline; if there is a visual analogy, it is like one’s first upgrade to Bluray from DVD. The aim of all of this – recording ,transmission medium, player, piano – is to make us forget they are there and to bring us to Bach via Schliessmann, Divine Art and Dolby Atmos conspire to come closer to this ideal than anyone else. On a purely musico-emotional level, I derived more pleasure from the Apple Music Atmos medium.

Schliessmann’s decision to play Bach on the piano might lose some purist listeners, but it would be their loss. The intellect that has gone into this realization is huge; similarly, the emotional range. As one listens, it feels as if the wisdom of centuries is somehow filtered down via some sort of alchemical distillation into the theme. Schliessmann gives the theme pace (one can hear the shadow of a slow dance in the background). The Aria also demonstrates the superior quality of his own Hamburg Steinway (the recording was made in Teldex Studio, Berlin). That “his own Hamburg Steinway” is significant, as Schliessmann knows this instrument inside and out; it is an extension of himself. Listen to the glistening clarity of “Variatio I," and his way with the ornaments, free and improvisatory, and yet the pulse remains ever intact.

It is the freshness of the play of voices that impresses so much; dialogues proliferate (listen to the ever-so-civilized one in Variatio 3). This approach also enables a real sense of humor (Variation 23). Schliessmann’s touch is impeccable; so much reminiscent of that used by Argerich in her classic DG recordings. Yet his rapport with Bach is if anything closer. By bringing a sense of play to this performance (and with it, light), Schliessmann almost invites us to reframe Bach’s intricacies as expressions of joy. This is the pair opposite of the lumbering high seriousness of Lang Lang’s disaster of a traversal (DG). Tempos, even when he reinvents a variation (as in the Tempo di Giga, Variatio 7), feel perfectly judged. There is no hunt of awkwardness that even the best can bring (I think particularly of Variatio 8) where even Angela Hewitt (either Hyperion version, or even in a live performance I attended in Manchester, UK) can sound just a touch off-track; the same could be said of Schliessmann’s cat-and-mouse way with Variation14.

The sheer variety of touch on display is remarkable. Variatio 13 seems to demonstrate this aspect of Schliessmann’s performance in microcosm. At the heart of all of this seems to be an awareness of Affektenlehre; listen to how the sighs of the Variatio 15, of the grand gestures of the Ouverture that opens the second part (Variatio 16). The remarkable Variatio 25 (sometimes called the “Black Pearl” variation) becomes the emotive heart of Schliessmann’s account; just shy of ten minutes’ duration, he makes sure we hear the sheer modernity of Bach’s writing. Interestingly, the decorations of Variatio 26 feel modern after that, ahead of their time (as Bach was, of course), as does Variatio 28 (with its neighbor-note oscillations that explode into joyful lines).  Yet the nobility of Variatio 30 is absolutely of its time.

The return to the beginning, the Aria, at the end has the effect of closing this cycle of a Universe co-created by Bach and Schliessmann. This is important, as it means that what we experience in this traversal is exactly what variation form brings: the examination of an object (the “Aria”) from a multiplicity of viewpoints.

The booklet note is extensive, a university-grade lecture, and cherishable in its own right.

In 2009, the original release from Bayer (100326) made my best of the year list. I found the SACD recorded sound to be about as perfect as technology allows and Schliessmann’s playing comparable to the intellect and control of Gould without his eccentricities or vocal embellishments. Here, with Divine Arts new release, the sound quality moves up a notch and the recording becomes readily available again. Newly remastered in 5.0 Dolby Atmos audio, it is available in both two channel HD stereo (my review copy) and offered as a hybrid 5-channel SACD/CD. I enjoyed having a reason to revisit this and my opinion has not changed in 14 years. It is still one of the top Goldberg Variations. I also refer readers back to an intriguing interview and superb review of Schliessmann’s original Bayer release by James Reel in FANFARE 31:3 (Jan/Feb 2008). 

The title page of the first edition of the Goldberg Variations (1741) begins with Clavier Übung (Keyboard Practice). This was the fourth publication of Bach’s to carry this title and all were published during his lifetime. The first was the six Partitas, second was the Italian Concerto and French Overture, the third was an odd collection of organ pieces including a Prelude and Fugue, 21 Choral Preludes and 4 Duets. A host of great pianists have played and continue to play these harpsichord pieces on a single 88-note keyboard. Bach’s music defies whatever medium it is played on. Yes, there are significant difficulties in doing so and great pianists like Schliessmann overcome these without drawing attention to those difficulties. 

I am consistently impressed with the phrasing and delineation of the voices under Schliessmann’s fingers. He draws the listener into Bach’s world of counterpoint. These variations can get quite complicated and are often in at least three voices. Keeping these distinct, especially on one keyboard requires detailed and difficult attention to the phrasing of the inner voices. His tempos are a little more relaxed than Gould’s and of course there is no low level singing in the background. I have enjoyed this recording for quite some time now and will continue to with this new Divine Art release.

In the Jan/Feb 2022 Fanfare (45:3), I reviewed At the Heart of the Piano, a three-disc release from Divine Art (DA), showcasing Burkard Schliessmann in music by Bach (arr. Busoni), Schumann, Liszt, Scriabin, and Berg. For the greater part, these are reissues of recordings previously released on the Bayer label. I summarized my appreciation for Burkard Schliessmann’s artistry:

Schliessmann plays all of this challenging repertoire with an impressively assured technique that is always at the service of the music. Schliessmann is a pianist who avoids such exaggerations as italicizing passages to showcase his virtuosity, extremes in tempo, or an excessive application of rubato. That said, Schliessmann’s interpretations exhibit a convincing ebb and flow, and the ability to draw upon a wide range of colors and dynamics to create the appropriate sound world for the work at hand. Schliessmann is also an artist with a keen sense of pacing. Both the Bach/Busoni and Schumann Symphonic Etudes are notable both for the accomplished and expressive way Schliessmann executes the variations, and the manner in which he connects one variation to the next.

A new release from DA (again, a reissue of a Bayer recording) presents Schliessmann in the Everest of solo keyboard variations. In the Jan/Feb 2008 Fanfare (31:3), James Reel interviewed Schliessmann, and offered a most positive review of the initial Bayer release of the pianist’s recording of Bach’s Goldberg Variations:

For the most part, Schliessmann presents this as music of optimism and joy, the exact opposite of much of Simone Dinnerstein’s recording, reviewed in the previous issue. Oh, Schliessmann does know when and how to get serious, as in the extended (though not distended) traversal of the 25^th variation (discussed in the accompanying interview). Yet even here, the playing is not self-consciously weighty; he doesn’t try to make Bach sound like Beethoven… if you want something more in the tradition of Glenn Gould’s first recording, minus some of the peculiarities but plus the repeats, Schliessmann’s account is highly satisfactory.

I share James Reel’s enthusiasm for this recording. The admirable qualities I noted in my review of At the Heart of the Piano are evident here as well. And Schliessmann does a superb job of realizing Bach’s all-embracing musical and emotional journey. In such episodes as the opening and closing Aria, and the aforementioned Variation No. 25, Schliessmann adopts a strikingly expansive, introspective, and poetic approach. But when the occasion merits, there is also a welcome lightness of touch, and even playfulness. In his extensive and thought-provoking interview with Reel, Schliessmann notes how essential the jeu perlé technique is not only to Mozart and Chopin, but Bach’s Goldberg Variations. And Schliessmann’s combination of precision and elegance in fleet passagework is most gratifying throughout this recording. The Super Audio CD sounds quite impressive on my conventional two-channel stereo system; Schliessmann’s Steinway D-274 concert grand emerges with richness and clarity. The pianist’s superb liner notes further enhance this admirable release. Recommended.

Divine Art reissues Burkard Schliessmann's July 17-19, 2007 recording of Bach's epic Goldberg Variations, remastered in 2022 at the Teldex Studios, Berlin in a process dubbed Dolby Atmos. The broad approach to Bach's construct, an Aria and 30 Variations, including repeats, stretches the performance time to some 83 minutes, more competitive with the 1995 St. Petersburg traversal by Rosalyn Tureck than that of  Schliessmann's professed affinity for the strictures of Glenn Gould, whom Schliessmann quotes extensively in his florid, booklet commentary. Unlike Gould, Schliessmann does not attempt to compromise his Steinway Grand Piano D-274 with touches approximating harpsichord sonority. Rather, the close resonance of the keyboard recommends this high flown, intellectual performance, in modern sound, as a distinct musical entity in the Bach performance canon. Kudos to Recording Producer Friedemann Engelbrecht and Sound Engineer Julian Schwenkner for the vivid imagery their collaboration has fixed for this survey.

The sonic immediacy of the remastering follows Schliessmann in his essentially harmonic approach to this monumental conception, essentially an ouroboros whose beginning and end, the Aria, encloses itself. The bass line provides the impetus to the entire structure, the various melodies and dances a mere accompaniment and elaboration of the bass. At every third variant Bach introduces a contrapuntal gambit, inserting a series of canons that graduates in spatial intervals as the music proceeds, from the unison to the ninth degree. Bach then resorts to his Homeric sense of humor, applying his polyphonic mastery to what he calls a quodlibet, a combination of profane, popular tunes that, by Bach's musical alchemy, achieves timeless nobility.

The cleanliness of articulation, perhaps tending to the dry and pungent, manages to add a decisive, rhythmic spice to such events as the Variation 7 in Gigue tempo. The overt virtuosity of Variations 14 and 15 rings with dexterous authority, while the tragic Variation 25 in its minor mode elevates us to another world whose veil has been lifted. The sense of an evolving structure appears foremost in Schliessmann's concept, as we move through elaborations and ornaments, determined, geometric forms to a higher sensibility that Bach always regarded less as an aesthetic exercise, but as a moral imperative.

The intricacies of Bach's stunning achievement here, in the "Keyboard Practice" of 1742, have been well documented by commentators and scholars. That the music transcends explanatory pedantry poses the challenge for any performer technically equipped and intellectually intrepid in the face of consummate, creative mastery. Schliessmann joins those blessed with the mission to deliver Bach's vision in that fusion of ratio and eros, intellect and intuition, that endows the realization with poetic mystery. An hour-and-one-half spent on hallowed musical ground might suffice for a Sunday service.

The original here:

After his 3-CD box set “Chronological Chopin”, which was released in 2016 and was highly acclaimed by the media, Burkard Schliessmann is now presenting a new collection of three CDs on Divine Art, entitled “At the Heart of the Piano”. It is an attempt to approach the piano as an instrument and to wring one’s deepest emotions from it. The title addresses the philosophical question of whether the piano, a first glance the most non-physical of all instruments, consisting largely of wood and metal, which produces a perfect tone by simply pressing a button without physical effort, can convey and express feelings at all, has a heart. Burkard Schliessmann wants to prove this with a very intimate repertoire that means a great deal to him and that brings together various aspects of the piano literature on three CDs). These are exclusively older recordings from the years 1990 (Scriabin), 1994 (Bach/Busoni and Berg), 1999 (Schumann Fantasy and Liszt) and 2000 (Schumann Etudes), which have either never been made or only in a small edition and regionally restricted have appeared, and they shine with new mastering in fresh splendor, so that they are now given the soundworld they deserve. Schliessmann used his own grand piano for all recordings; as a Steinway Artist this is a Steinway Piano D Concert Grand.

Burkard Schliessmann describes himself in his detailed accompanying text for the triple CD, which reveals both facts and personal views on the pieces, as a representative of the “great romantic tradition”. “Technical mastery is of course important, but my interpretations remain essentially intuitive. I don’t think about it and I don’t worry about the implementation of my interpretation.” Although this may certainly be true for the moment of the performance, he is thereby concealing the immense work that he had previously – must have had – with the works. Because it is unmistakable that Schliessmann has thought carefully about what he wants to say with the works and how his personal voice should flow into the notes. In the recordings he shows himself to be a pianist with a strong character who knows how to shape the works according to his ideas and thus tailor them to him. Schliessmann interprets the famous Chaconne in D minor by Johann Sebastian Bach in the virtuoso transcription of Ferruccio Busoni as an attempt to synthesize a baroque and an early modern style of playing. He saves the tempo rubato for special moments in order to maximize expression there.

Schumann is played by Burkard Schliessmann truly appassionato, taking the fantasy in a comparatively more classical way in order to be able to make the symphonic etudes all the more romantic and lively – but this impression may also be partly due to the different reverberation, because here the ambience is more apparent  in the etudes (while on the other hand the acoustics flatter the piano sound very clearly and clearly in the other recordings). In both pieces, the pianist uses clear tempo contrasts and rubato for a strong effect, separates individual passages from each other and thus gives the music a vivid, spontaneous, almost improvisational aspect. He plays with the reverberation of the pedal to develop orchestral sonority, although I would argue that he does not see the “symphonic” nature of the etudes in the imitation of certain orchestral instruments, but purely in relation to the differentiated tonal colors of the piano. Schliessmann also experiments with the relationship between the voices, which is clearly evident in variations four and sixteen: the melody remains clear, but always has to assert itself against the seething secondary voices, which makes for extremely exciting listening.

Franz Liszt’s daring Sonata in B minor, which was only recognized late by the public, presents Burkard Schliessmann in a quite aggressive manner; he lets the sound soar to unimagined heights and even takes the liberty to present some highlights violently – probably just like the great virtuoso and showman Liszt might have played it at the time to more deeply polarize the effect. But the fact that this is not Schliessmann’s top priority is shown by the deeply musical development of the themes and their modifications in the course of the piece, whereby he lends the main theme in particular an eerie, oppressive presence. In this way, he succeeds in creating an overall impression of a sophisticated psychological nature that appears to be unified and consistent in itself.

In the works by Alexander Scriabin, Burkard Schliessmann presents a program across all the composer’s creative periods, from the Etudes opp. 2 and 8 and the Préludes op. 11 to the Sonata in F sharp minor op. 23, which shows more individual writing, to the late Dances op. 73 and Préludes op. 74, which appear absolutely independent in the history of music in their spiritual appearance and the complex extended harmony. The flowing, freely presumptuous forms are in the instinctive playing of the pianist, who brings the individual moments to bloom while knowing how to hold the overall form together. The rhythmic polyphony between the hands or their individual voices spurs him on to maintain a high degree of delicacy, even in grandly triumphant passages. Schliessmann pushes the contrasts to extremes and thus shows even the early Scriabin as a modern, progressive composer.

The program closes with Alban Berg’s Sonata op. 1, a showpiece of early modernism and especially of free tonality, which however always reveals tonal relationships. Schliessmann creates a bridge between the second Viennese school and the ecstatic Scriabin, brings out a certain volume in Berg too and allows himself tempo-related liberties in order to underline the density of the polyphony. In this way, this stylistically uniform and yet versatile presentation of Schliessmann’s pianistic work succeeds, which, through the pianist’s highly personal views, brings us closer to masterpieces from different eras in a very human way and invites us to explore them.

The original here:

“At the Heart of the Piano” is a 3-CD collection of dynamite recordings by Burkard Schliessman that really define him in terms of his distinctive profile as a pianist. The native of Aschafffenburg Germany has often been noted for his passion for using all the resouces of the instrument to get to the heart of the music and bring it out in all its expressive power and beauty. In that respect, he reminds me of the fondly remembered American pianist Earl Wild (1915-2010), especially in his accounts of the Romantics.

Speaking of which, his Schumann recordings call for special recognition. As I said of Schliessmann in a review some years ago, “he is the last sort of pianist you would expect to just play the notes as written, without comment.” The composer would certainly have approved. In his account of the Symphonic Etudes, which Schumann described as “etudes in the form of variations,” Schliessmann incorporates the five “posthumous etudes” that Brahms published after the composer’s death, carefully distributing them for best effect to fill out the harmony. That is no easy task, but carefully placed, these etudes add much in the way of searching, introspection, and exaltation to a work that is already distinguished for its wealth of color and for Schumann’s notable mastery in blending, contrasting, and superimposing timbres. Schliessmann takes all these issues in stride, making this an eminently satisfying account of one of the most difficult works in the repertoire.

He also does a fantastic job in Schumann’s Fantasia in C Major, Op. 17, a work marked by rhapsodic lyricism occasioned by trill structures, which are typically in downward motion, in the opening movement. It is succeeded by a march in the middle movement that culminates in sensational back-rhythms and syncopations that still have the power to astonish us today, and a finale whose harmonic structure conjures up the image of a star-filled night of which Schumann was doubtless thinking when he subtitled this movement “Crown of Stars.” The reader will note how the composer reversed the usual order of this slow movement, marked “thoroughly fantastic and sorrowfully laden” (Durchaus fantastisch und leidenschaftlich vorzutragen) and what then became the middle movement with its thumping fortes in the afore-mentioned march.

There follows Franz Liszt’s wonderful Sonata in B Minor, in which the dramatic tensions, and releases of the same, are in part a direct function of an unusual structure in which all the elements of sonata-allegro form (exposition, development, lead back, and recapitulation) are encompassed by a single movement, played continuously. Any pianist less knowledgeable than Burkard Schliessmann might easily end in disaster in a work that has also been unified by a considerable application of cyclical form, making it imperative to think ahead to where you are going. Carefully considered pauses, allowing the music room to breathe, powerful climaxes, hard-won struggle, and then a devotional atmosphere based on high, bright harp-like chords, and then a radiant conclusion sinking softly into near-inaudibility: all these and more contribute to the effectiveness of the B Minor Sonata in an informed interpretation. Schliessmann’s is one of the best, an inspiring triumph of faith and art.

The program actually begins with J S Bach’s famous Chaconne from Violin Partita No. 2 in the piano transcription by Ferruccio Busoni which is the first track on CD1. In retrospect, it seems as much of a work of Busoni as it is of Bach. Certainly, the changes of tonal color, dynamics, and increasingly dense harmonic effects are more easily accomplished and more effective than they would have been on the harpsichords available to Bach, as is Busoni’s extensive use of the pedal. On the other hand, Schliessmann has to work harder to achieve its demon pacing and high-energy rhythms on his modern Steinway D. The moments of calm and reflection that accompany heart-stopping key changes at about 7:10 and 10:55 in this performance have all the effect anyone might desire.

CD3 is dedicated solely to two composers whose work was absorbed in speculations about the future of music, Alexander Scriabin (1872-1915) and Alban Berg (1885-1935). They could not have been more different. Scriabin, the Russian, showed only the most casual reverence for received musical tradition. He was a visionary, in his quest for ever more brilliant tonal expression as well as in his own spiritual orientation, based on the Theosophy of Madame Blavatsky but going beyond that in his embrace of enraptured musical tones. His Sonata No. 1 in F-sharp minor, Op. 23, represents an early breakthrough, particularly in his choice of an extraordinarily rich and difficult key with no fewer than six sharps in its signature. The work has the requisite four movements of a classical sonata, to which it pays homage, but clearly Scriabin is interested in something other than thematic development. The final movement, Presto con fuoco, ends suddenly without a decisive finish, as if Scriabin had finished digging all the brilliantly colored musical ore in this particular mineshaft.

It would be easy to dismiss so many of this composer’s musical explorations as mere incontinent rhapsodizing (as some observers have continued to do to this day), but that would be to miss the point of what this composer was all about. In a 66-minute selection including Preludes, Etudes and Dances, Schliessmann presents Scriabin as a man on a quest for transcendently beautiful tonal expression in large forms as well as small. Using chains of thirds and transposable fourths, he created musical structures of great beauty. In the process, he also showed other composers what could be done with rich and rare keys they had generally avoided, such as G-flat major (six flats) and E-flat minor, also six flats. (Its enharmonic parallel is a more accessible F-sharp major). All this he did in the interest of music expression that might be darkly glowing, melancholy or ecstatic.

Someone like Scriabin is obviously a hard act to follow. So, what are we to say of the Austrian composer Alban Berg, whose 11-minute Piano Sonata, Op. 1, concludes the program? At the opening, flickering shy lights take the place of the dramatically compelling or quietly understated introduction we might have expected. As in the Liszt sonata, all the structural elements are subsumed in a single movement, but the thrust is quite different. We have here music that is still basically tonal, leading to musical structures in which melody and harmony are subjected to constant variation and interweaving. In Schliessmann’s sensitive performance, I found a down-to-earth warmth of human emotion that I had not expected to discover in a composer who was to be associated with the 12-tone music of the New Viennese School. For yours truly, that was a nice revelation. 

Having not been familiar with the keyboard art of Burkard Schliessmann, I approached his chosen program of “transcendence, vision, and personified aesthetics of effect” with some skepticism, if not a predisposition for cynicism. The recordings, previously unknown to me, derive from sessions made 1990–2000, here remastered by Paul Baily. To my sustained delight, Schliessmann reveals himself as a Romantic temperament deeply motivated by both intimacy and intuition, sustained by a wholesome and astonishing technical resource. His capacities in contrapuntal music assert themselves fully and without pedantry in Busoni’s transcription of Bach’s Chaconne from the Partita No. 2, the Schumann Symphonic Études and Fantasie, and in the heroic, stratified figures in the Liszt Sonata, even before he wrestles with the intricacies of Scriabin, whose miniatures often prove more mechanically daunting than his larger forms. The placement and order of the assembled works no less contributes to the cumulative effect of the evolution of a Romantic ethos, an increasingly subjective outlook that subsumes reality into an affirmation of selfhood.

What proves consistent in this traversal of essentially Romantic repertory emanates from the pianist’s sense of space and of individual coloring. Much in the tradition of Cherkassky and Michelangeli, Schliessmann allots each of the evolving musical lines its own breadth, which becomes instantly apparent in the various permutations in the Bach piece and in virtually every line in the Schumann Fantasie. The art of applying silence between notes and distinct musical lines never fails to make or to undo a dramatic performance. In this regard, I find Schliessmann eminently theatrical in style, compelling in the grand line he assumes for each of his endeavors. The Schumann Symphonic Études enjoy their proclaimed “symphonic” ambitions, certainly. But in incorporating the full set of Schumann’s posthumous and various appendices Schliessmann burdens himself with the problem of musical and dramatic continuity, having to sustain a canvas that now spreads out well beyond established time parameters, at almost 40 minutes.

If my remarks seem to suggest a highly “contrived” sensibility, let me assure possible auditors of the miraculous power of spontaneity that permeates these realizations. The Liszt Sonata regains much its shocking originality, its tempestuous and outrageous shifts of mood and musical means, especially in the manipulation of its Grund-Gestalt, its through-composed opening motifs and the subsequent harmonic audacities that follow. The Schumann Fantasie and the Liszt Sonata, works coincidentally dedicated reciprocally by each composer, occupy the same disc, providing an hour’s unrelenting display of controlled, intelligent passion in the same paradoxical moment. The immanence of the urge to poetry suffuses every musical impulse. We sense as we move to the music of Alexander Scriabin and the “new” school of Alban Berg that the keyboard instrument has gained an increased sense of liberation in its power to express subjective reality, even as traditional harmony breaks down. True, we have skipped over the contributions of Beethoven and Chopin, a substantial break in the history of keyboard transcendentalism. But in compensation, Schliessmann turns in disc 3 to a concentrated survey of the Russian mystic Scriabin, all too easily dismissed as an eccentric, musical solipsist who always spells Reality with a capital I.

Schliessmann opens his Scriabin sequence with the 1898 Third Sonata, meant to express the composer’s flights of the soul toward liberation. The oceanic imagery Scriabin invokes for the last two movements, no less based on cyclical motifs and transposable fourth chords, intensifies the paradoxical sense of unity in the midst of free-fall. Schliessmann provides a pungent, searching sonority to the music’s nervous rhythms and ardent declamations. His third movement Andante finds a moment for childlike simplicity. Schliessmann’s left hand helps catapult the last movement, Presto con fuoco, to a Tristan-inspired paroxysm of energy, the “uproar of life,” fraught with fervent rebellion. The taut, forward motion may remind auditors of the classic Horowitz approach. As in his Schumann, Schliessmann applies a canny soft pedal, when required. Schliessmann concedes to popular taste for the moment, performing the two most famous études, those in C♯ Minor and D♯ Minor, with the op. 2/1 providing an immediate contrast to the emotional throes of Sonata No. 3. The famed D♯-Minor returns to the primal passions, insistent and voluptuous. Schliessmann then turns to the variegated world of Scriabin’s 90 preludes, of which the op. 11 set (1888–96) follows Chopin in his arrangement in the circle of fifths, and varying the form of these pieces as nocturnes, études, and mazurkas. A fine example occurs in the E Major, No. 9, in which Scriabin avoids the tonic triad until the end, and Schliessmann’s attentions to designations rubato, ritardando, and accelerando create a poised nocturne tinged by mazurka rhythm. The use of parallel motion in sixths in No. 13 reminds us of Bach as well as Chopin. The pattern of sixths informs the Andante cantabile, op. 16/3, to create its restrained angst. The preludes of 1900, op. 27, reveal a new and rich assertiveness. The Prelude in B Major, op. 27/2, from Schliessmann has a luxuriant abandon, a fertile reverie. Schliessmann plays the Prelude in A Minor, op. 51/2, Lugubre, which the composer avoided in his public performances. The music imparts an eerie atmosphere, somewhat in the manner of late Liszt. Scriabin called it “a ghastly piece!” Fluttering motives define the Dance languide in G Major, op. 51/4, which hesitates and then ends as one of Schliessmann’s riddles.

This commanding, almost regal selection of recordings from Burkard Schliessmann was recorded 1990–2000. It is a shining example of integrity and intelligence in music, welded to a technique of gargantuan proportions. There is logic guiding in the programming also: The Liszt Sonata and Schumann Fantasie bear mutual dedications, while the worlds of Scriabin and Berg are hardly a million miles from one another. This is the first digital issue of all tracks on this set.

The three-disc set therefore posits one route from Bach (in Busoni’s granitic hands) to Scriabin and Berg. The Bach/Busoni Chaconne is a fine performance, big-boned and captured in superb sound that really allows one to enjoy the strength of the bass of Schliessmann’s Steinway piano. In this context, the sober, chordal opening of the Schumann could almost be by Busoni; as the variations unravel, the piece could only be by Schumann. Schliessmann includes the posthumous variations in what becomes a panoramic journey through myriad vistas: Schliessmann’s ability to utilize tone color within stylistic bounds is something any pianist could learn from profitably. Textures are always carefully considered (the tremolos of Variation 16 being a case in point), while the finale is as brilliant as its indication requires, and, most importantly, properly cumulative in context, ending in what amounts to a pianistic pealing of bells. As Schliessmann pointed out to me in an interview once, no less a figure than Brahms included the posthumous variations, so it makes sense to do so.

It is fascinating how, while being part of a larger whole, each individual disc operates as a cycle within itself. So, one has the Bach/Busoni and the Schumann above, perfectly contained and with a real sense of inevitability of continuity; the second disc has those pieces of mutual admiration, the Schumann Fantasie and the Liszt B-Minor Sonata, both major masterpieces of the Romantic era. The sense of grandeur we heard particularly in the Bach/Busoni recurs in the first movement of the Schumann Fantaise, while the tricky second movement holds no perils for Schliessmann (and he maintains the indication Durchaus energisch: energetic throughout). One of Schliessmann’s core properties is that he can bend his sound and way with tempo to each individual composer perfectly, and we certainly feel that here. He creates two separate sound worlds: Schumann’s is full of fantasy, as if trying to escape the world’s strictures and limitations to ascend Heavenwards (one certainly feels that is how the songful finale operates, with those themes ascending ever upwards, garnished with delicious celestial decorations in the high treble), while Liszt’s sublimity is more sensual, more demonic. One hears the prefiguring of the dark nights of Liszt’s very late works in the sonata’s opening, and this colors the octave explosion: yes, we hear virtuosity, but it is part of an over-riding diablerie. While Schumann ascends radiantly, Liszt struggles with his inner demons to do so, and Schliessmann leaves us in no doubt of the power of that struggle. The fine piano he plays on is part of this; it is clearly a majestic instrument, sublimely prepared. Schliessmann’s slower sections have a distinct simmer underneath them, ready to explode into headier regions. It is this mix of visceral excitement combined with a tour guide who always has the end in sight that is so impressive, so that when the end comes, we feel we have come full circle and the journey can begin again. Both the Schumann Fantasie and the Liszt B-Minor sit up there with the greats: Pollini’s DG accounts of both are classics, another pianist with a fierce musical intellect, but Schliessmann offers an alternative that is just as engrossing.

At the Heart of the Piano, a three-disc release from Divine Art, presents German pianist Burkard Schliessmann in a recital of works by Bach (arr. Busoni), Schumann, Liszt, Scriabin, and Berg. The Bach/Busoni Chaconne and Berg Sonata receive their first release on this set. All the other recordings were previously issued by Bayer. The included Scriabin works were recorded in July, 1990, the Bach/Busoni Chaconne and Berg Sonata in 1994, the Schumann Fantasie and Liszt B-Minor Sonata in September 1999, and the Schumann Symphonic Études in March 2000. The new Divine Art set features 2021 remasterings by Paul Baily of all the included material. In the CD booklet’s extensive and informative liner notes, the uncredited author (Schliessmann, perhaps?) states: “Although at (a) glance the works offered here do not share any direct common ground, if considered more closely there are certain common factors with regard to their genesis over time and their conception….” Indeed, there are many elements that connect the works, and in an intriguing fashion. The composers appear in order of their birth years (if we use the “Bach” in “Bach/Busoni” as our start). Within that time progression, each of the three discs explores particular aspects of musical expression. Disc 1, comprising the Bach/Busoni Chaconne and the Schumann Symphonic Études, focuses on theme and variation structures. The second disc pairs the Schumann Fantasie in C Major with the Liszt B-Minor Sonata. Each of the composers dedicated his work to the other. Here Schumann and Liszt, in addition to writing music demanding a virtuoso of the highest order, explore the structural boundaries of the traditional piano sonata (and for that matter, sonata form). The final disc charts the trajectory of Scriabin’s increasingly daring harmonic world, a gateway to Berg’s atonality.

Burkard Schliessmann is one of the currently most appreciated and interesting German pianists at an international level and already boasts a large discography, mainly focused on composers who belong to the European Romantic school. Even his latest recording, a box set comprising three CDs published by Divine Art, does not differ from this principle, as the title itself, “At the Heart of the Piano”,  demonstrates,  The set presents Bach’s Chaconne in D minor in the transcription by Busoni, the Symphonic Studies Op. 12 and the Fantasia in C major Op. 17 by Schumann, the inevitable Sonata in B minor by Liszt;  we have from Scriabin the Sonata in F sharp minor Op. 23, two Studies from Op. 8 and Op. 12, Preludes from Op. 11, Op. 16 and Op. 37 and the Two Dances of Op. 73 and the Five Preludes of Op. 74, ending with the Sonata Op. 1 of Berg.

Considering this program more carefully, on the basis of Schliessmann’s aesthetic vision, one can easily realize how the works and composers can be seen as an explanatory map of musical Romanticism, based not so much on a philosophy to be proposed through the overall sound, but more by  rigorous formal study in which the key content of Romantic thought can be expresed without entering into contrast with what is exposed by the form itself. In this sense, Bach’s famous Chaconne, revised and enunciated by Ferruccio Busoni, is already symptomatic; the choice that Schliessmann makes is not in exalting the transcendental dimension with which this piece is usually presented, but by involving more the immanent aspect, that is the sensitive perception of the artist who performs it. The Chaconne, therefore, seen not in the Bachian vision mediated by Busoni’s technicality, but through the (late) Romanticism of the composer and pianist from Empoli, detaching himself from the pure spiritual dimension that inevitably invests Bach’s music, shapes the primeval matter according to the modalities and the urgencies of one’s time. From here, the technique itself becomes a form of transcendentality with which to draw the prerogatives of a vision, the Romantic one or at least of what remains of it, which observes, reflects and offers itself to the ear, heart and brain of those who listens.

But pay attention to an aspect that distinguishes the path of the program chosen by the German pianist, namely that there is a red thread that links each work in the recording to the next, not taking into account the chronological discrepancies of the program itself. Therefore, the Busoni who mediates and “actualizes” Bach is very close to that technical transcendentality evoked by both Schumann and Liszt, that is, by two custodians of the “sacred” Romantic vision. That is why, in the name of this “transcendentality”, Schliessmann continues his exploration of the Romantic genre, first with Schumann’s Symphonic Studies and Fantasia and then with the Liszt Sonata. And how does he deal with these pages? The Symphonic Studies undergo dilations and restrictions in the metronome, but this must not cause scandal, as the German artist bridges the possible time lags by frescoing the theme and the variations of this composition with a due passion, such as to give life to a sort of “story” (the “imaginative” Schumann that makes the art of sounds cross over into narrative and literary structures) that unfolds with a coloristic sagacity given to each of the twelve Studies, a color that Schliessmann exalts above all by emphasising the play of tonality given by the chromatic keys and the technique to be used on the basis of the same indications provided by Schumann, which leads to giving life to a timbral fresco that for some may even be exaggerated in its final result (there is effectism, pathos, emotional impetus; but, by God, are we or are we not in the heart of piano Romanticism?) This all however fully falls within the vision that Schliessmann wanted to impose here, which shows how this pianist does not at all suffer from a lack of personality, on the contrary. Hence, abundant monumentalism (Track X – Variation IX), but also soft, rounded brushstrokes, made crystalline (Track XI – Variation X and Track XII – Variation XI), that is, in the very heart of Op. 13, to better highlight the bipolar antagonism of the Schumannian personality, with Florestano and Eusebio going into the ring to give them a blessing.

Such monumentality and delicacy are consistently maintained also in the Fantasia Op. 17, which, as we know, is above all (see the first movement) a passionate and heartfelt act of love towards Clara Wieck and which Schliessmann explores with powerful, full, open, solemn sounds, giving an “architectural” identity to his pianism, in order to solidify the image of the “phantastisch”, as per Schumann’s indications. But also in this case the projection is valid, the “throwing-forward” with which the German artist permeates the entire program in question, that is, preparing the listener for the irruption of the Lisztian Sonata (chronologically, the Fantasia dates back to 1836, while the Sonata in B minor is from 1852 and is dedicated to Schumann). Schliessmann, therefore, ideally builds a bridge, a connection between the passion that seeks to be form, given by the Fantasia op. 13, with a form, precisely, that throws his cloak to the winds to rise to the most free, free from the impositions given by the classicism of the genre; he does it to remember once again how in just sixteen years, those that separate the two works, two worlds that while reconciled in their creative intentionality, are at the same time like two galaxies destined to expand and move away in space.

Here, too, the German pianist does not deny the characteristics of his program, since the reading of the Lisztian Sonata is devoted to yet another “look-ahead”, prefiguring, anticipating, acting as a precursor to what will come after and what Schliessmann justifiably identifies in Scriabin. But let’s go in order. The vision that the German pianist brings to the surface of Liszt’s Sonata is not only devoted to monumentality of form (an element inherited from the past, especially Schumann), but is based on a sound that is increasingly circumscribed in it, that is, enhancing the single sound as a self-referential datum, as a completely autonomous cell that compares itself with the other cells that precede it and with those that follow it. A sound, therefore, decidedly devoted to a modernity that if on the one hand will be deepened by Brahmsian pianism (the one that will fascinate Schönberg), on the other hand it will be faced by Scriabin’s visionary nature.  Scriabin, whose pianism, together with that of Debussy, explores up to essence of the cellular element given by the harmonic conception which is transformed acoustically into a dimension in its own right and which at the same time manages to interpenetrate the other timbral dimensions that surround it and of which it is necessarily part.

And here we come to the third and last disc of this set and which I personally consider the most intriguing and stimulating. Schliessmann has included Sonata no. 3 Op. 23, the Etudes no. 1 Op. 2 and no. 12 Op. 8, the Preludes nos. 1, 3, 9, 10, 13, 14 Op. 11, nos. 3 & 4 Op. 16, nos. 1 & 2 Op. 27, nos. 2 & 3 Op. 37 and nos. 2 & 4 Op. 51;  the Two dances Op. 73 and, finally, the Five Preludes Op. 74. If, in the words of Francis Bacon, the Schumannian Fantasia is given by the pars construens provided by Clara Wieck, the Sonata by Scriabin is modeled on the pars destruens of Vera Isakovic, the unfortunate consort of the Russian composer, who realized ever since his nuptial trip to Paris in 1897 of having made a tragic mistake in marrying her. Thus, if the Fantasia is musically a unifying part, the Sonata on the contrary is devoted to a disintegrating dimension. This disintegration is already an attempt to flesh out the sound, to make it closed in itself through a process of timbral legitimisation in which the phrasing already tends to fragment, to “sectorize”, as well as being, although in its emotional arrogance, more and more diaphanous, rarefied, almost suspended over the abyss of nothingness.

In his interpretation, Schliessmann instead tends to recover a formal legitimacy that allows one to still manifest a sort of “hope”, so that the phrasing is more fluid, less “bumpy”. This does not mean that a rethinking of the vision of “looking forward” is taking place in his interpretation, but it represents a reconsidering in perspective what will come in Scriabin’s musical poetics. Thus, the German pianist takes the Sonata no. 3 so that he draws a line of demarcation between what is still Romanticism and its passing phase, which in the Russian composer cannot be accurately defined as Late Romanticism per se. The disintegration, in this sense, materializes in the exposition and in its development and at last, in the  “Presto con fuoco” which is the tenuous explosion of a continuity that is linked to what was stated at the beginning of the Sonata. And it is here that Schliessmann’s “reconsideration” transforms the “Presto con fuoco” into a launch pad through which to launch a missile whose expressive consistency is represented by the other works by the Russian composer included in this set.

And this has happened since the two included Etudes, in which the sound matter already manifests a change in progress in anticipation of what is destined to take place if it does not come true, that is, that Scriabin would have reached the archipelago of atonality by following a path different from that of Schönberg and the others belonging to the Second Vienna School. This happens from the Étude in C sharp minor which belongs to the Three Pieces of Op. 2 (dating back to 1886-89) and the last of the twelve Études op. 8 which are from 1894-95. These are two Studies that for Schliessmann evidently belong to that process of planning that lays the foundations for starting that specific alternative path to modernity, a modernity, mind you, which does not, however, deny what happened previously.

And here the Preludes taken into consideration, those belonging to Op. 11, Op. 16, Op. 27, Op. 37 and Pp. 51, appear to be nothing short of idiomatic in the choice of the German artist and represent a miracle of “oscillation”, a pendulum that passes alternately between what is still past (Op. 11 no. 9 – Op. 16 no. 3 – Op . 27 no. 2 – Op. 37 no. 3) and what is already future (Op. 11 no. 3 – Op. 27 no. 1 – Op. 51 nos. 2 & 4). Faced with such a choice that intends to show the Scriabinian two-faced Janus, it can and must appear completely obvious that the great final step is represented for the German pianist by the two last piano compositions of the Russian composer, namely the Deux Danses Op. 73 and the Cinq Préludes Op. 74, both dating to 1914, that is to say a year before his death. These two works are, as we know, intimately connected and represent, as Schliessmann points out with his reading of him, the ultimate offshoots of that romantic tension conceived within his aesthetic tradition.

Of course, especially the Op. 74 necessarily refers to the contemporary Six Pieces Op. 19 by Schönberg, an emblem of that process of harmonic dissolution that will inevitably lead to the concretization of seriality, but neither Op. 73 or Op. 74  boast the same purposes, as Scriabin, beyond the mystical intentions to which these last two piano works were designed, are extensions of a past that certainly looks ahead, but is not yet the future, as is perhaps the Schönberg Op. 19. This is why the interpretation made by the German pianist follows this “prudential” line, never pushed into formal excesses, and this is especially true for the Cinq Préludes, since their enunciation aims at least to be “nostalgic”, that is to say, of a past, in his tradition, which senses the moment of change, of passing away, of an end that can no longer be postponed (in this sense, the timbre dimension that Schliessmann provides in the second Prelude Op. 74 is exquisitely evocative).

Nostalgia has been stated. So, to conclude his program dedicated to Romantic transmutation in the piano, a transmutation with an alchemical flavor at times, Schliessmann puts his hand to Berg’s Sonata, which, just to underline the aesthetic purposes of the recording in question, is not addressed in its “radicality ”, but as a sign of something that has by now been lost, a footprint of an ancient stone that wants to be a milestone, that is, to act as a watershed between the (late) Romantic vision and the post-Romantic one. Following this path, I find that Schliessmann, at a piano level, does not differ from what Karl Böhm did at the directorial level by addressing Berg’s ‘Wozzeck’, therefore not considering it as an expressionist creature, a suspended bridge towards ‘Lulu’, but as the ultimate expression of a late Romanticism that was struggling to exhale the last breath.

From here, those who are familiar with the readings made, among others, by Glenn Gould of this Sonata, get ready for a performance by the German pianist in which the few motivic cells that animate it are never exaggerated, or brought to a point of tension close to rupture, but his reading is conceived as a repudiation of fragmentation, a look forward with a look backwards, also because Op. 1 itself is basically an act of gratitude towards that tradition (the Sonata dates back to the two-year period 1907-08, only to be revised by the author in 1920) which at that time is beginning to fall apart (and in this we follow the coeval path taken in parallel by Scriabin himself in that first decade on a sonatic level). Schliessmann thus uses the palette of a passion which, however, now smacks of consummation, a supreme act, a corollary that ideally closes the circle of his journey towards the funeral of Romanticism, returning an unsuspected evocative sweetness, a very fine shroud with which to wrap the corpse, so as to be able to preserve it from the corrosion of time and memory. So be it.

The recordings were made at three different times by as many engineers (ranging from 1990 to 2021), but we do not notice timbral and dynamic imbalances in the use of the piano, rigorously always a Steinway Piano D. Therefore, the dynamics always turns out to be strong, but at the same time sensitive and careful in restoring the necessary nuances of microdynamics; the sound stage adequately reconstructs the instrument at a discrete spatial depth, restoring a pleasant height in the sound, as well as filling the space between the speakers. Even the tonal balance and detail do not fail, with the first always precise in making the low and medium-high register always distinct and never blurred, and with the second showing a remarkable materiality in the physical rendering of the piano.

The Original here:

All of the pieces on this impressive triple album aim at some sort of transcendence. The Bach/Busoni Chaconne is at once a tribute to Bach and a pinnacle of the Romantic piano virtuoso repertoire. Schliessmann's account is noble yet kaleidoscopic. As Busoni pulls Bach into his orbit, so the piano seems to expand into a protoorgan. Schliessmann's intuitive grasp of the work's structure allows him to mould it naturally while retaining the underlying form. Its outsized ending leaves the listener feeling replete.

The limpid, descending phrase that opens Schumann's Symphonic Studies comes as balm to the soul after such high drama. Schliessmann's commanding performance is beautifully variegated. He is right to follow Brahms' approach by including Schumann's posthumously published variations. Grandeur meets tenderness in a performance that suggests Schliessmann's complete resonance with the spirit of Schumann. The coupling of mutually dedicated works on the second disc works well. Schumann's Op 17 Fantasie and Liszt's Sonata in B minor are like two sides of the same Romantic coin. Schumann's writing is utterly individual and Schliessmann's performance is gloriously unbuttoned. The Liszt also receives a fine performance, unrushed in the slower sections, playful and diabolic when the tempo picks up. Schliessmann's technique is rock solid, his command reminding me of Daniil Trifonov in the music's stormier sections. He masterfully navigates the expansive lyricism that lies at the heart of Liszt's masterwork.

The crowning glory of the set, though, is Schliessmann's Scriabin. His performance of the composer's Third Sonata (F-sharp minor Op 23) is magnificently powerful, while the six excerpts from the Op 11 set of Preludes are exquisitely moulded. The two Danses Op 73 and five Op 74 Preludes resonate in perfect harmony with Scriabin's elusive late style. Schliessmann conjures a glittering yet liminal space, supported not only by his fine Steinway but also by the Divine Art recording and piano technician Georges Ammann, who Schliessmann describes as 'the best in the world, and the most prominent piano technician from Steinway' (Ammann only collaborates with five pianists, of whom Schliessmann is one).

The Berg Sonata arises from the fire of Scriabin's Op 74/5 like a phoenix soaring in a post-Tristan world. Schliessmann's considered, polished reading, impeccable in its realisation of complex textures, is a model of its kind. This, coupled with a prevailing crepuscular tendresse gives Schliessmann's reading warmth and academic integrity, bringing his thought-provoking album to a perfect close.