Conversation with Zoltán Kocsis at the Bartók Memorial House

Press conference of the National Cultural Fund on the occasion of the publication of

the 10^th CD in the Bartók New Series

3 February 2009

Kocsis: Greetings to all of you. The idea here was out to do something different. The initiative originally came from Péter Nádori who couldn't come today. The series was created not as an improvement on the old complete works published by Hungaroton, the one in green boxes.

Mácsai: Péter Nádori may not be here, but he is with us in spirit. He gave me a call to tell us not to use the term “complete works.”

K.: I'd be inclined to say it's in a way more “complete” than the old series in that the old complete works was not a critical edition. For example, it did not include that earlier version of Suite No. 2. Allow me to digress. At least four versions of the Suite No. 2 are available. We had a close look at Bartók's version originally published by Universal Edition, and eventually recorded movements 3 and 4 in the form they appear in that edition. Which is a good thing because a different form of the same work affords a different approach. At least it struck me how the orchestra was able to be more creative with the older form. Which lost currency ages ago, since Bartók re-worked it in 1943. Going back to the initiative, it was not my idea but perhaps Péter Nádori's or Géza Kovács's or perhaps everybody's wanting something better, wanting to break loose from the terrible doctrinaire attitude of the Sixties' spirit. In any case, at the very outset I insisted that the old Bartók's complete works could not be revamped on account of the fact that it included not only questionable productions but some that were downright shoddy, such as my recordings of the Piano Concerti No. 1 and 2 which I cannot identify with. It is a known fact that this style cannot be approached via the spirit of Fifties' and Sixties' musical education. I clearly recall when the first recording of the Piano Concerti No. 1 and 2 came out as part of that old complete works of Bartók, László Somfai called my attention to the fact (only not in these words) that they lacked the Bartókian idiom that made the performance of Bartók's own works so characteristic; that is, an alertness, the presence of parlando-rubato that is so striking about Bartók's piano-playing, or the system of accentuation which naturally creates a hierarchy in the sounding reality. He was completely right, and it took me, or took us (I'm not alone in this, thank god!), a good couple of years in the field to realise that there are three very specific sources that can be taken as points of reference in redressing the balance in the Bartókian tradition: the works Bartók left us, his writings on music and the recordings of Bartók playing Bartók. The recordings where Bartók plays Bartók have to be considered as part of the critical edition, since the composer overwrote the music with his performance, making for the composer's alternative renditions that the editors of modern editions hasten to insert into the score. All of this was very welcome indeed, but it has to be said that the return to the Bartókian idiom was naturally a very gradual process. I'm addressing this to the previous speakers [László Harsányi, Máté Hollós] because I'm aware that spectacular results would be great, but our task is rather to establish a long-term course – genuinely long-term, meaning decades or centuries – because we are by no means advocates of an elitist standpoint. By calling them “standard-setting performances” we don't necessarily mean they're the best available versions, but at least they pave the way towards the Bartókian tradition. After all, two elements of this idiom are rapidly decaying; one is folk music, by which I don't only mean Hungarian folk music. Kodály is an easier matter in this respect in that he didn't collect anything else but Hungarian folk music – with the exception of a few Romanian soldiers' songs and the Slovakian collecting trip that fell to him as a result of the distribution of locations between Bartók and him. Bartók, however, went to Turkey and Algeria, and soaked up folk music in Bulgaria, too. He went to all of the distant lands whose folk music was provably related to the most ancient layers of Hungarian music. In effect, then, everything is related to everything. That is exactly what Bartók's music reflects. It is not a conglomerate, but a truly peerless blend of different styles of folk music. There is no other such music in the world. Having some awareness of the complexity of this and of the astonishing demand his music makes on us, performers, I can say that it takes a very long time indeed to digest. The performer of Bartók's music has to have profound knowledge of a great many things. His music cannot be a mere foray for the performer. Where the performer regards it as a foray, he or she will not create anything lasting.

M.: Forgive me for straying from the complete works, but talking about setting standards, can I ask you to what extent do the recordings of Bartók playing Bartók help or hinder the performer? Meaning the piano recordings, of course. How much are they inspiring or disconcerting?

K.: It would be very tempting to analyse a few of Bartók's recordings. I think that listening to most of his recordings instantly reveals the irresolvable contradiction between Bartók on the surface and Bartók on the interior. Here's a grey-haired little bespectacled professor wearing a hat, carrying a briefcase, but listen to a recording that makes a great demand on the performer, such as the last of the Nine Little Piano Pieces, “Preludio – All'ungherese” – which is a late recording, by which time Bartók's shoulder was probably unwell and he was no longer in possession of his full technical armoury either – but nevertheless he starts out the little professor and ends an erupting volcano. The way in which the piece writes itself in the course of the recording is unprecedented in the history of music. It is clear that he is out to play to eternity, but in the fifth second the music makes you forget that. Also, he does not exaggerate his idioms. I mean that his renderings only sound unusual to the extent that he seeks to adjust his idioms to his own physiological characteristics. It is certain that, as always, the musical intention comes first and then the performer's rendering. We are looking at crystallised performances that rightfully intimidate the performer. Take for example “Tambourine” (Csörgő-tánc) which is just perfect as it is, and it only occupies one side of a 10-inch Durium-Pátria record that would hold three works by the composer. Or there's the HMV recording of “A bit drunk” which is staggering. We were recording Hungarian Sketches (and here I take it to be an open secret that Divertimento, Music and Hungarian Sketches are the next to follow) the same question kept coming back, whether the Bartókian idioms could be made to come through in an orchestra, and the answer is clearly that they can, as long as one makes an effort to do so. A routine orchestral attitude won't do much, and neither will it help to just play what's in the score. It is widely held that with certain composers, such as Schubert, it is enough to play the music. Well, I don't know. While there is plenty to argued about, I believe that there is no music without an underlying context and there is probably no music without its own system of agogics and accentuation either. And that applies to entire music history. I think it is wrong to believe that it is enough to render pre-Classical music (going back to the very beginnings) in a metrically perfect form, as it appears in the score. Bach, too, has his agogic system, as does, I believe, every kind of music. What sets Bartók apart is the fact that he requires awareness of very many things indeed, including, on a basic level, earlier Hungarian music and entire music history. However we look at it, Bartók, Schoenberg and Stravinsky are all rooted in Romanticism. Also, one has to be familiar with Bartók's early career, Dohnányi, etc., and all of the Romantic roots of his music, and also with Central and Eastern European folk music, Stravinsky and a lot more, including piano technique. We must never forget that we're dealing with a pianist-composer whose orchestral works are evocative of a piano-music fabric to a greater extent than those of the other pianist-composer, Rachmaninov.

Many of the trends that have come to be identified with us, Hungarians, and that have gained currency in the great concert halls around the world, would make Bartók and Kodály turn in their graves. We can take on this heavy artillery with well-targeted gunshots. But that isn't enough. This adds double significance to this series which, like I said, does not lay claim to being “number one,” but merely wishes to show the way in a terrible world that is, particularly in musical terms, chaotic. Musical education, many of whose representatives are here today, assumes a crucial role. Musical education, too, has its problems, on many levels. The significance of this series cannot be overestimated, not even if it admittedly has mistakes and defects. What's certain is that we are trying to do our best.