Let me indulge in a personal memory from the mid-70s. I was a young stage manager at the Lausanne Chamber Orchestra, in same city in which Radu Lupu lived until his death. I remember this gentle giant, bearded and dishevelled, arriving on the stage of the Beaulieu Theatre for the dress rehearsal of a concert conducted by Árpád Gérecz. He nonchalantly hung his jacket on the Steinway stand before sitting down to commence Beethoven’s Concerto No. 2 in Bb major. After the joyous orchestral introduction, he attacked the beginning of the work with exceptional authority and stunningly supple and melodic phrasing.
The sound of a dream
It was this full, fluid sound that made Radu Lupu’s style so special; even though his interpretations were sometimes a little clumsy, they were always thoroughly expressive. He imbued the very essence of his flair into the work of the small number of composers whom he played tirelessly: Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert, Schumann, Brahms, Bartók and Franck were his undeniable favourites, though he was also known to play Debussy, Janacek and Berg. He was an affable man, but he preferred to stay under the radar, and after the 90s he didn’t enter a recording studio again. He preferred to offer his art to the public through the fleeting nature of live concerts. However, his appearances would become rare and shows would often be cancelled due to his precarious health. Radu Lupu also refused to allow his concerts to be published without his approval, a decision that has clearly deprived us of a number of marvels—the wishes of a performer don’t always coincide with the wishes of their admirers. His honeyed sound was, however, captured by Decca, the record label he worked with most frequently. Thanks to these publications, we’re able to savour the artistry of this talented pianist without the presence of a crowd.
Create a free account to keep reading
