Klare und wunderschöne Interpretation dieses romantischen Meisterwerks im gut phrasierten Tempo mit perfekt artikuliertem Klang und völlig effektiver Dynamik. Echt genialer Virtuose!
Thank you/Спасибо Imagine you're there, in Moscow in 1965. Maybe its cold - MOSCOW COLD - outside. And you're in the Soviet Union, probably "rich" if you're at this recital. Or connected. There's maybe a terror deep within you as you realize how precarious your life is, politically. Sure it was "Slow motion Stalinism" under Brezhnev by '65, but you maybe still remember the disappearances of the earlier decades and you don't know they've slowed down. Sit back, enjoy the music. Don't think about outside. D.A., NYC
My grandfather, an ordinary school teacher, had attended a myriad recitals at the Great Hall of the Conservatory and the Tchaikovsky Hall, including those by Gilels, Richter and Oistrakh, without being "connected" in the least. Why do Americans love coming up with those corny, patronizing fictions about the Russkies so much? You imagine that you must sound knowledgeable and compassionate, but in reality this shit sounds a lot like the musings of M. Emmet Walsh’s private detective from Blood Simple.
![Schumann - Waldszenen, Op. 82 (Audio+Sheet) [Kempff]](http://i.ytimg.com/vi/RpdOSbEJSqY/mqdefault.jpg)
Klare und wunderschöne Interpretation dieses romantischen Meisterwerks im gut phrasierten Tempo mit perfekt artikuliertem Klang und völlig effektiver Dynamik. Echt genialer Virtuose!
Clear, sensitive, impatient but somewhat restrained, warm. Schumann is entirely in this performance. Farewell is perfect
Thanks Schumann beautifully and sensitively played
Thank you. 1965! This is glorious Schumann, beautifully played. Every note clear, with perfect phrasing. Many thanks.
what a giant on the piano, almost forgotten.
Absolute poetry.
Ich liebe Schumann ❤🎹
GREAT.
Спасибо
Thank you/Спасибо Imagine you're there, in Moscow in 1965. Maybe its cold - MOSCOW COLD - outside. And you're in the Soviet Union, probably "rich" if you're at this recital. Or connected. There's maybe a terror deep within you as you realize how precarious your life is, politically. Sure it was "Slow motion Stalinism" under Brezhnev by '65, but you maybe still remember the disappearances of the earlier decades and you don't know they've slowed down. Sit back, enjoy the music. Don't think about outside. D.A., NYC
My grandfather, an ordinary school teacher, had attended a myriad recitals at the Great Hall of the Conservatory and the Tchaikovsky Hall, including those by Gilels, Richter and Oistrakh, without being "connected" in the least. Why do Americans love coming up with those corny, patronizing fictions about the Russkies so much? You imagine that you must sound knowledgeable and compassionate, but in reality this shit sounds a lot like the musings of M. Emmet Walsh’s private detective from Blood Simple.