Music: Backhaus for Your House.

Daniel Barenboim just completed a cycle of Beethoven piano sonatas at Carnegie Hall. That is, he played all 32 sonatas, over eight recitals. In so doing, he became only the fourth pianist to perform this cycle in that historic hall. The first was Artur Schnabel, in 1936. Then came Alfred Brendel, almost 50 years later. Then Maurizio Pollini. And now, Barenboim.

The Beethoven sonatas may be considered the summit of the piano literature. They are almost written on tablets. Of course, another summit is Bach's Well-Tempered Clavier (if we can speak for the keyboard in general, rather than the piano in particular). It's pleasant to reflect that Beethoven imbibed The Well-Tempered Clavier -- both books -- while learning in Bonn. Bach soaked into his brain, serving him well, forever.

I have written about Barenboim extensively (elsewhere), and don't intend to repeat myself now: but I will not resist a comment or two. He is a mighty musician, of course, now better known as a conductor than as a pianist. But he is not always a successful pianist. As he proved in those eight recitals, he is shockingly inconsistent, capable of superb playing in one sonata, and outright amateurish -- disgraceful -- playing in another sonata. He often bulls his way through, not caring what he wrecks. And, at this stage of his career, he may suffer from a lack of practice time.

And yet he thinks he has a lot to say about Beethoven, and we should not contradict him. He has recorded the complete sonatas three times, and he has played the cycle of sonatas many times, all over the world. Listening to him in Carnegie Hall, one thought a lot, naturally, about Beethoven, and about Beethoven pianists, past and present. I happen to like pianists in Beethoven who are not necessarily known as Beethoven pianists. Artur Rubinstein, for example, was extremely good in Beethoven, no matter his reputation as a Romantic. I cherish an anecdote told about Malcolm Frager, a fine all-purpose pianist. Apparently, he turned to one orchestra, before rehearsing a Beethoven concerto, and said, "As I'm not a Beethoven specialist, I think we should take this at the proper tempos." There is a store of wisdom in that crack.

The market offers many boxed sets of complete Beethoven sonatas. You can get the historic -- Schnabel (always), Wilhelm Kempff, Annie Fischer; you can get the contemporary -- Richard Goode, John O'Conor, Ian Hobson. But, in recent weeks, my mind has gravitated to Wilhelm Backhaus, the great pianist who lived from 1884 to 1969 -- and who performed continually for all but the very first of those years. You might say that, in listening to Barenboim batter Beethoven, I was driven to Backhaus, seeking relief.

He is -- was -- a German pianist, commonly grouped with Kempff and Edwin Fischer. These are thought to be avatars of intellectual, contained, almost professorial pianism. But Backhaus was much broader than merely the Germanic pianist (as were the others), and he was capable of anything. A Germanic grounding, however, never hurts anyone.

A brief biographical rundown, before getting to some recordings: Backhaus was born in Leipzig, when Brahms was still going strong -- hell, when Liszt was still alive. He studied with Alois Reckendorf at the local conservatory, and then with Eugen d'Albert, the titanic Liszt student. In 1905, he won the Anton Rubinstein Competition, in which Bela Bartok finished second -- an outcome with which the great Hungarian was none too pleased. Backhaus would devote his entire life to piano playing, appearing to some as a kind of musical priest, having little "life" outside of his instrument, but taking his craft and his calling with the utmost seriousness. (This is not to say that music doesn't have its fun, which Backhaus well knew.)

He loved recordings, and the idea of recording, and took to it early. He was in the studio as early as 1908, when singers like Caruso had barely gotten their arias out. (Singers went before all others, being best suited to the acoustical horn.) Backhaus was the first pianist to record many works: the Chopin etudes; the Brahms D-minor concerto; the Grieg concerto. Sage though he was, he had an almost superhuman technique. He was, in fact, a virtuoso, although this did not dominate his art. He liked to say that he kept in shape with scales, arpeggios, and Bach -- the basics. He thought the public deserved a trim technique, in addition to musical revelation.

Backhaus was associated with what was called "die neue Sachlichkeit" ("the new objectivity"). He was faithful to the score, trying to serve the composer as best he could, while not denying himself altogether. Walter Frei, in a 1992 essay, referred to his "beautiful unobtrusiveness" -- a beautifully apt phrase. Vladimir Horowitz paid him a kind of compliment when he said that Backhaus was "a wonderful pianist, not really representative of the German style [ahem]. He was far more relaxed than most of them." He was almost an ideal combination of head and heart, erudition and instinct, obedience and freedom. It seems clearer every year that he was a surpassing musician.

He recorded the complete Beethoven sonatas twice. The second cycle came when he was in his 80s, because his label -- Decca -- wanted him to lay down the sonatas in stereo: Everything that had been recorded before had to be re- recorded, using this marvelous new method. So these Decca discs (which are easily available) show Backhaus in his autumnal years. His powers are still formidable, even if some -- just some -- of his fire has dimmed. What you get from Backhaus, above all, is honesty: honesty of expression. Backhaus lets you hear through "interpretation" to the essence of the music itself.

Given that he was more than a Beethoven pianist, I should mention a CD from Pearl, belonging to its Piano Masters series. This features Backhaus in a variety of music, recorded in the 1920s and '30s. He plays two pairs of preludes and fugues from Book 1 of The Well-Tempered Clavier, including the very first, in C major. What music could be simpler, humbler, purer, greater? Backhaus merely allows it to be. His playing is mature, understanding, and balanced -- one might even call it "well tempered." He also plays Liszt's transcription of the Schumann song "Widmung," as was once popular. In his hands, it is sweet and sincere, with no melodrama. And a Moment musical (Schubert) is especially touching: a souvenir from a long-ago era.

The Naxos label -- very cheap -- offers an all-Brahms disc, which includes Backhaus's traversal of the Variations on a Theme by Paganini. This is one of the most difficult works in the repertory, but Backhaus evinces no strain -- he was as adept as any Russian barnstormer. But the primary miracle of this performance is musical, not technical. He reveals the Variations as Brahms himself might have, if he had had the fingers for it. (I myself have my doubts!) The Naxos disc also provides that first recording of the D-minor concerto, with Adrian Boult -- a magnificent Brahmsian in his own right -- conducting. Together, Backhaus and Boult are impassioned, controlled, and enthralling.

A very nice compilation comes from Andante -- a set of four CDs purveying early recordings, including those initial efforts in 1908. It takes a while to get used to the hiss -- these cuts date from the Theodore Roosevelt administration, remember -- but Backhaus easily wins out. His Chopin etudes are both stylish and startlingly accurate -- and we should bear in mind that Backhaus benefited from no touching up, as later, lazier, less capable pianists would. Some morceaux of the age include a Smetana polka (not terribly Germanic, believe me) and Moszkowski's Caprice espagnole (likewise). There are Beethoven concertos, too -- the Fourth and the Fifth - - and they are noble, feeling, and right.

Perhaps the best taste of Backhaus, however, comes on his Great Pianists of the 20th Century discs. I refer to his two-CD installment in the mammoth series issued by Philips five years ago. We hear Backhaus in five Beethoven sonatas, performed in 1954, when he was, arguably, at his very best; we hear him -- almost incomparably -- in the Brahms Second Concerto; and we hear him in a group of small pieces he would use as encores.

There is a Schubert impromptu, and Schumann's "Warum?" -- so gentle and inquiring -- and a Chopin etude, and Brahms's C-major intermezzo (a reliable encore of the Austro-German pianist for generations). But the piece I would like to single out is "Soirees de Vienne," which is "Liszt after Schubert," as we say. In music, some things need to be heard, as they are indescribable in words (which is why we have music, apart from speech). All I can tell you -- or allege -- is that, when Backhaus plays this piece, he conjures up a former, and better, world: Central Europe before 1914, before 1933, before 1939, when all seemed sane and good and lovely. The longing and nostalgia in that playing is almost unbearable. It is hard to stop listening to.

There are plenty of pianists who can play today. (Well, not "plenty.") As I frequently say, there is no need to retreat to recordings. Past-worshiping is to be avoided. But the likes of Wilhelm Backhaus are thin on the ground, and he has much to teach us, through the documents he took care to leave.