Emil von Sauer (1862–1942), born in Hamburg to a musically gifted Scottish mother, received serious musical training from an early age. Hearing Anton Rubinstein proved decisive: he later wrote that “something seemed to break within me,” fixing his path as a pianist. Rubinstein sent him to study with his brother Nikolay, and after 1881 Sauer began touring widely, eventually working with Liszt in Weimar. Although he later downplayed Liszt’s influence, his playing and advocacy told another story. From the late 1880s he built a major international career, including American tours in 1899 and 1908. He taught extensively in Vienna and Dresden, recorded prolifically, and produced enduring editions of Brahms, Chopin, Mendelssohn, Schumann, and Liszt. Married twice and father of eleven, he was knighted in 1917. As a composer he wrote polished, virtuosic music, untouched by modernist trends, and published nothing after 1932.
The Second Piano Concerto in C minor is in four movements played without a break. There is much cross‑referencing of themes between and amongst these movements, lending the feeling of a tightly conceived work. There is also a perceived complexity borne out of simplicity, and vice versa. The work opens quietly with a tune from a solo oboe. There is a definite oriental feel to this, which crops up here and there throughout the work. The piano steals in with a quiet cadenza; however, the intensity soon starts to build. There is a strong chordal passage for piano in dialogue with the orchestra, then an attractive duet between the soloist and a solo trumpet. The pressure slowly builds with much exciting writing for soloist and band. A more reflective passage offers a little relaxation before the trumpet and piano return. Then comes a glorious romantic moment — the sort of thing that makes a ‘romantic’ concerto all that one imagines it should be. There is a reprise of the oboe’s musings before the movement closes with a short chordal coda.
The second movement is a Scherzo,
presented as an interesting argument between piano and orchestra. Soon a lovely
little sequential tune appears before a much harder theme takes the stage. This
is a kind of clog‑dance folk tune, reminding me of something part‑way between
Grainger’s Handel in the Strand and Ketèlbey’s The Clock and the
Dresden Figures. Throughout this movement we are conscious of a perfect
dialectic between soloist and orchestra. A ‘big’ tune is introduced in the last
minute or so before the clattering returns, yet the piece ends quite
delicately.
The composer drops into the third
movement without a pause. This is quite definitely the heart of the concerto.
Soon a big tune announces itself — at first in the orchestra. This is stunning.
There are a few comments from the woodwind before the piano enters the scene to
discover the tune for itself. This is perfect romantic piano music, wearing the
heart on the sleeve. A lengthy section for the soloist follows; after nearly a
minute the band creeps in. It is sustained and restrained but soon builds,
under control, into a lovely climax. A quieter, more reflective section
precedes the fine, powerful reprise of the main theme. The piano supports this
with complex arpeggios. There is a definite Tristan feel to this overwhelming
music. It is music to lie back with and let wash over you. Then the tension
eases. The composer brings a number of reminiscences of past music before the
listener. Soon the preparation begins for the transition to the last movement.
I have no doubt that this movement is one of the hidden gems of the piano‑concerto
genre. If people only knew about it, it would be top of the Classic FM Pops. It
is as good as anything, and better than most, in presenting sheer musical
enjoyment, passion and emotion.
The final movement is not the
most impressive follow‑on after having been to heaven and back in the previous
one. Yet the character of the first theme is simple and forthright in contrast
to what has preceded it. A new romantic theme is introduced before the
orchestra takes a long section without the soloist. Then the piano begins
summing up the concerto; I am not sure how effective this is. There is an edge
to this music that jars slightly with what has gone before. Material is tossed
back and forth, full of allusion to and quotation of earlier material. A powerful
cadenza leads to a conclusion that nods to the opening pages of the work. I
feel that the inspiration has run out. This movement is not of the same quality
as those that have preceded it.
This concerto is a good example
of the Romantic Piano Concerto. I am against excerpting movements from
works; nonetheless, I feel that the slow movement would stand alone as a
classic example of its genre.
Sadly, Oleg Marshev’s recording is not offered on YouTube. However, the splendid edition by Simon Callaghan and the Sinfonieorchester St. Gallen under Modestas Pitrenas, is available, here.
