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Rating: I see myself as a child. The room is full even though the people are not visible. Tom enters, a pianist of a certain stature, with a certain confidence, a slightly sly air and a touch of haughtiness if you will. The applause is obligatory, warm, heartfelt. Obvious, I'd say. With a graceful movement that you would never attribute to him, he effortlessly frees himself from the swallowtail terminal of his jacket. When he places his gloved fingers on the keyboard, there is no tremor to interrupt him.
The hammers strike the strings, spreading an absolutely splendid motif. Everything proceeds regularly until, perhaps too soon, a group of innocent hammers suddenly discovers with startling abruptness Jerry, who had no other place to set up his temporary bed. The war between the cat and the mouse begins with truly hilarious situations, but there is something that leaves an important mark on my soul. That motif. Following a consultation with my generator, I discover it is the Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2 by a certain Franz Liszt. He, too, was Hungarian.
I carefully run my right index finger over my father's vast record collection and discover a version performed by Michele Campanella, a sumptuous Neapolitan pianist. Paisà, I listen to you.
Decidedly longer than the one heard in the cartoon, I let myself be captured by the beginning, sharp, confident, well-articulated. The motif insinuates itself into a rather dark sonic dome that alternates, however, with latent lush peaks, quickly swept away by the prevalent atmosphere in the first section of the piece. Tiny ants run towards a safe hiding spot, scrutinize the situation, judge low risk of danger, and reappear even while jumping. The motif becomes cheerful, grows in intensity, the darkness dissolves concurrently with the nourishment of the cheerfulness in a rapid crescendo when near the midpoint of the fifth minute, a true hammer blow, sweeps away every muffled sound with a resplendent festive phrase of rare beauty. I must admit that among the many versions listened to, by sheer chance, Campanella's appears to me as the best. Dark, deep, nerve-wracking in the first part, energetic, overwhelming, joyful in the second. The famous "hammer blow," to my dismay and by pianists of notable excellence like Vladimir Horowitz, Roberto Szidon, or Jung Lin, is often softened or mixed as a logical consequence to the lively crescendo. Not Campanella. He splits, almost as a surprise, divides the piece into two segments with mastery, ensuring a stunning effect. Listen to believe.
The second piece, in my opinion, must be performed by a woman. Martha Argerich's version has no equal in poetry and emphasis. Beautiful woman, by the way. Liebestraum No. 3 is a tactile veil that rests on marble. A butterfly dancing on a crystal clear mirror of water. You can feel it swirling in the calm of a non-existent lake, among the fresh scents of uncontaminated flora.
It seems that the butterfly wants to touch the water, even knowing the risks it would face. The water is cold and with each leap, it retreats into the sky. It needs to find a more welcoming spot. At times the wings beat with a certain vehemence, at others, it seems like you can hear it walking despite not having the capability. Around the second minute, the butterfly becomes impatient and dives completely into that wonderful mirror so longed for. The wings are weighed down, but it does not matter. A poignant gust of wind to free itself from the water in thousands of droplets. As in a miracle, the wings are intact, and the magic of the sound allows it to fly again.
Argerich's hands envelop it in gentle warmth and lead it to the shore. In reassuring silence, the piece dissolves leaving a trail in the heart more powerful than any brand.
The invitation to listen to these two pieces is worthwhile to get to know Liszt. And to fall in love with him.
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