The Serkins, Rudolf and Peter, pianist father and pianist son, constitute something special in the music world today. Since their technical proficiency has been demonstrated time and again, more purely musical matters engross their listeners. It is in the areas of intellectual questioning, emotional attraction, and stylistic stance that both Serkins provide exceptional - though contrasting - stimulation.
A fortunate coincidence brought both Serkins to New York's Carnegie Hall this past April. On April 3, Peter made his Carnegie Hall recital debut. Despite the fact that his name is widely known among musicians, he has until this year chosen to perform in other New York venues, such as the 92nd Street "Y" and the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Perhaps because Peter will turn forty this year he has chosen to mark the occasion by claiming full artistic recognition at Carnegie Hall.
On April 8, less than a week after his son's debut, Rudolf returned for his annual Carnegie Hall recital. The proximity of these recitals afforded a unique opportunity to compare these two extraordinary pianists.
Rudolf Serkin brings the full weight of the Viennese classical tradition to his playing. Even in his person he embodies the achievements of the city. A student of Schoenberg, Serkin performed for years with members of the legendary Busch family. He married Irene Busch, the daughter of violinist Adolf Busch, and was a close associate of conductor Fritz Busch. A decade of living and teaching in Basel after his student years in Vienna preceded his American debut in 1936. He eventually moved to the United States, settled in Philadelphia, and took over the direction of the piano department of the Curtis Institute.
The elder Serkin has a reputation as a stern, intellectually formidable pianist. This was more than upheld in his April appearance. From his first steps onto the stage, one was aware of formality and rigor. He gave a deep and gracious bow to the capacity audience in the seats - and a nod, not quite but almost condescending, to the hundred-or-so listeners seated onstage behind the piano. The evening's playing consisted of numerous such subtle distinctions and shadings, delicate weight added to a fugal theme to bring out a canon, a detail carefully put aside when something more important was under way.
Serkin is a man of amazing strength. At eighty-four, he possesses the power of a player half his age, but in an effortless way that makes it all the more astonishing. He rests his hands on the keyboard as though he were merely sitting at his desk copying out a letter. Overall, his manner is unaffected and almost disengaged, allowing the listener to attend to only the music.
A Traditionalist's Dream
And what music it was! A traditionalist's dream - the last three Beethoven piano sonatas, Opp. 109, 110, and 111. This is not a program that could be convincingly undertaken by a younger, less seasoned performer; these works are the great "roles" of the master pianist's repertoire, the King Lear and Hamlet of the Canon, and need the weight of years for fullest presentation to an audience.
The opening measures of the Op. 109 gave a fair idea of what was
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