66 ❧ chapter three
effi cacy and become disturbing in the course of the reiterated hearings that
are possible with recordings. In a live performance, one has a certain amount
of control over the psychology of the public, but in a recorded performance,
absolutely none. On the whole, I prefer not to conjure up in imagination
the various circumstances under which my recordings are sometimes heard.
Perhaps the fate of books is more noble than that which awaits music on
records. It is diffi cult to read a book while cooking, housecleaning, or mak-
ing love. Furthermore, the materials of which records are made appear to be
totally useless. Printed matter at least can serve for lighting fi res, wrapping
packages, equipping outhouses, and even for recycling.
A good example of my own feeling about the difference between a perfor-
mance and a recording was furnished by the Goldberg Variations. Since I believe
in presenting them as a unifi ed whole and not as a collection of separate
pieces, I feel that the span from one end of a performance to the other can
only be held together by a certain amount of restraint, of under-playing in the
earlier variations, so that the increase in variety and excitement of the later
variations may be heard in such a way as to round out the great arch. But the
kind of under-playing that I know to have worked for years in live performance
will not work on a recording, especially if record sides have to be changed. It
is merely dull. Twice I have had to alter my performance of the Variations in
order better to suit a recorded version, especially in the fi rst half. At least once
I have tried transferring the recorded version to a performance, but I thought
it quite unsuccessful.
Of my Scarlatti recordings in 1954 in the Thirtieth Street studio of Columbia
Records, I have written elsewhere. I seem to recall, always with feelings of guilt,
that there was rather a lot of splicing. These records were made monaurally
but have since been transferred to some sort of imitation stereophonic sound
to which I have never bothered to listen, since there is nothing further that I
can do about them anyway. This last statement is revealing of my basic attitude
about recording as compared with writing. Although I have avoided hearing
the Scarlatti records, I have many times turned with pleasure the pages of my
Scarlatti book. Yet writing has caused me no less suffering than recording. One
is perhaps justifi ed in asking the question which I cannot answer, “What does
this mean?”
In the spring of 1956, I made my fi rst recording for Deutsche Grammophon,
that of the English Suites, the fi rst, as it turned out, of a long line of recordings
embracing the complete keyboard works of Bach. It was fashionable then to
use large halls for recording everything, even the harpsichord, and Herkules-
Saal in Munich was taken over for the purpose. Although I have given many
recitals in this hall (always, however, with the benefi t of slight amplifi cation), I
do not consider it suitable for recording harpsichord sound. Since the hall was
occupied by rehearsals and concerts during most of the day and early evening,
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rick simeone
(Rick Simeone)
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