The Complete Raoul von Koczalski, Vol. 3
Commercial Recordings & Radio Performances, 1930–1948

54007-2 (4 CDs)  | $ 63.00
PIANO

 

The Complete Raoul von Koczalski, Vol. 3
When we announced volume 1 of Raoul von Koczalski, we invited you to judge how Koczalski stacked up against other noted Chopin interpreters of the “golden age.” Why was he not better known? After all, in addition to his towering talent, one of Koczalski’s teachers was a student of Chopin. After years of requests for more of this extraordinary pianist and the emergence of new recordings, we are finally issuing volume 3 of this series.

The set begins with two recently discovered marvelous sides recorded for Homocord in 1930. We also are including four unpublished takes of 1938 Deutsche Grammophon recordings, held by a Berlin archive, which differ markedly from the issued versions on our second volume. Following these are twelve sides made in 1948 for the short-lived Polish label, MEWA, which had distribution only in Poland and today are rarely seen. The remainder of the set comprises performances from 1945 and 1948 recorded by German and Polish radio (although some of these have been available on two Polish CD issues, we have gone to original sources to achieve optimum sonic quality over the previous versions). Finally, there are also a number of stunning performances that have never been released, including Chopin’s Ballade No. 1 in G minor and Karl Tausig’s arrangement of Johan Strauss’s “Man lebt nur einmal.”

The booklet essay has been written by Jakub Puchalski, the Polish musicologist whose specialty is the study of pianists of the past. His essay explores the controversy surrounding Koczalski’s interpretations and discusses the pianist’s connection to Nazi Germany and his return to Poland after the Second World War.

CD 1 (77:15)

Homocord

Recorded Milan, ca. September 1930

SCHUBERT-LISZT

1.Der Lindenbaum, No. 5 from Winterreise, S. 561, No. 74:09
2.Ständchen, No. 4 from Schwanengesang, S. 560, No. 74:27

Deutsche Grammophon/Polydor

Recorded Berlin, 1938

CHOPIN

3.Berceuse in D-flat, Op. 574:03
4.Impromptu in F-sharp, Op. 365:02
5.Fantaisie-Impromptu in C-sharp Minor, Op. 665:00
6.Waltz in A-flat, Op. 34, No. 14:27

Mewa (Poznańska Fabryka Płyt Gramofonowych)

Recorded Poznań , February 1948

CHOPIN

7.Waltz in C-sharp Minor, Op. 64, No. 23:08
8.Prelude in A, Op. 28, No. 70:52
9.Berceuse, Op. 574:16
10.Grande Valse Brillante in E-flat, Op. 184:17
Three Ecossaises, Op. 72, No. 3
11.No. 1 in D0:54
12.No. 2 in G0:37
13.No. 3 in D-flat1:03
14.Mazurka in F, Op. 68, No. 31:25
15.Waltz in A-flat, Op. 34, No. 14:29
16.Waltz in A Minor, Op. 34, No. 24:23
17.Nocturne in E-flat, Op. 9, No. 24:03
18.Nocturne in B, Op. 32, No. 14:32
19.Prelude in D-flat, Op. 28, No. 15 “Raindrop”4:48
20.Prelude in A-flat, Op. 28, No. 173:31
21.Nocturne in F-sharp, Op. 15, No. 23:41
22.Nocturne in G Minor, Op. 37, No. 14:04

CD 2 (60:06)

German Radio

Recorded Berlin, 1945 and 1948

Note: The 1945 recording sessions took place in Berlin at Haus des Rundfunks, Masurenallee, Saal 2, for Berliner Rundfunk, the broadcasting organization under Soviet control.
The 1948 recordings were made in Berlin at Funkhaus Heidelberger Platz, Studio 1, for Nordwestdeutscher Rundfunk, the broadcasting organization of the British Zone.

CHOPIN

1.Fantaisie in F Minor, Op. 4912:39
2.Etude in C Minor, Op. 10, No. 12 “Revolutionary”2:39
3.Prelude in B Minor, Op. 28, No. 61:53
4.Prelude in D-flat, Op. 28, No. 15 “Raindrop”5:00
5.Prelude in A-flat, Op. posth.0:54
6.Grande Valse Brilliante in E-flat, Op. 184:18
7.Nocturne in B, Op. 32, No. 14:39
8.Ballade No. 1 in G Minor, Op. 239:05

CLEMENTI

9.Toccata in B-flat, Op. 114:10

PADEREWSKI

10.Menuet in G, Op. 14, No. 13:47
11.Mélodie in G-flat, Op. 16, No. 23:58
12.Nocturne in B-flat, Op. 16, No. 43:15

MACDOWELL

13.An Old Love Story from Fireside Tales, Op. 61, No. 12:08
14.Of Br’er Rabbit from Fireside Tales, Op. 61, No. 21:39

CD 3 (72:20)

German Radio

Recorded Berlin, 1945 and 1948 (continued)

TCHAIKOVSKY

The Seasons, Op. 37A
1.June – Barcarolle4:15
2.October – Autumn Song4:24
3.December – Christmas4:07

RUBINSTEIN

4.Romance No. 1 from Soirées de St. Petersbourg3:08

MUSSORGSKY

5.Duma (Rêverie)3:53
6.Intermezzo in modo classico3:52
7.Intermezzo in modo classico3:42

RACHMANINOFF

8.Polichinelle from Morceaux de Fantaisie, Op. 3, No. 44:18

SCRIABIN

9.Prelude, Op. 11, No. 11:04
10.Prelude, Op. 11, No. 51:43
11.Prelude, Op. 11, No. 201:08
12.Prelude, Op. 11, No. 241:11

BARTÓK

13.Three Sketches from Vázlatok, Sz. 44, Op. 9B, Nos. 3, 5, and 63:11
14.Nineteen Small Pieces from For Children, Book 1, BB 38, Nos. 1–7, and 10–2111:26

SZYMANOWSKI

15.Etude, Op. 33, No. 51:56

KOCZALSKI

16.Impromptu in A, Op. 1246:29
17.Czarownik (Der Zauberer) from Śmiełów Suite, Op. 132, No. 72:38
18.Scherzo from Piano Sonata in D-flat, Op. 1002:41

JOHANN STRAUSS II, ARRANGED BY KARL TAUSIG

19.Man lebt nur einmal, No. 2 from Nouvelles Soirées de Vienne7:10

CD 4 (45:03)

Polish Radio

Warsaw, 1948

21 February 1948, recital at Belweder Palace, Warsaw, on the 138th anniversary of Frederic Chopin’s birth
This recital was performed on an 1847 Pleyel piano (serial number 13823), owned by Chopin’s pupil, Jane Wilhelmina Stirling, and played by Chopin in 1848 during his trip to Scotland. The piano eventually found its way into the collection of Edouard Ganche of Lyon, and was appropriated by the Nazi authorities governing in Cracow in 1942, and brought there during the war. It was transported to Warsaw for this broadcast, and now resides back in Cracow at the Jagiellonian University Museum. On the occasion of this broadcast concert, the piano was tuned to A = 428 Hz

CHOPIN

1.Prelude in C Minor, Op. 28, No. 201:19
2.Nocturne in D-flat, Op. 27, No. 25:15
3.Mazurka in B-flat, Op. 7, No. 12:04
4.Berceuse, Op. 574:18
5.Fantaisie-Impromptu in C-sharp Minor, Op. 664:56
6.Grande Valse Brilliante in E-flat, Op. 184:13
Ballade No. 1 in G Minor, Op. 23
Concluding radio announcement in Polish by Tadeusz Bocheń ski
Translation: Raul Koczalski played works by Chopin on Chopin’s piano. This is Belweder Palace, the seat of the president of the Republic of Poland. We are completing the broadcast of the ceremonial celebration of the 138th anniversary of Frederic Chopin’s birth.

October 1948, public concert, Klub cinema hall

BEETHOVEN

Sonata No. 14 in C-sharp Minor, Op. 27, No. 2 “Moonlight”
9.Adagio sostenuto5:11
10.Allegretto2:10
11.Presto agitato6:03
 

 

 

Producers: Ward Marston and Scott Kessler

Audio Conservation: Ward Marston and J. Richard Harris

Photos: Carsten Schmidt provided photos from Koczalski’s estate preserved at Staatliches Institut für Musikforschung Preußischer Kulturbesitz, Berlin

Booklet Coordinator: Mark S. Stehle

Booklet Design: Takeshi Takahashi

Booklet Notes: Jakub Puchalski

Major sponsors: Tito Autrey in memoriam of Robert L. Autrey, II, record collector and opera lover; John W. Lambert;
Donald E. Manildi

Marston would like to thank Raoul Konezni for his assistance in obtaining digital transfers of the four unpublished DGG takes on CD 1, Tracks 3–6. We also would like to acknowledge his help in locating the included photographs.

Marston would like to thank Sławomir Dolata, curator of the Leon Wyczółkowski District Museum in Bydgoszcz, Poland for help in locating two of Koczalski’s MEWA recordings.

Marston would like to thank Donald Manildi and Maxwell Brown of the International Piano Archives at Maryland for the loan of original discs for CD 1, Tracks 1, 2, and 7–20.

Marston would like to thank Sigrid Berr and Martin Kautzsch of the Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Musikabteilung for making digital transfers of the unpublished Deutsche Grammophon test pressings found on CD 1, Tracks 3–6.

Marston would like to thank Michael Waiblinger for providing some of the audio material from German Radio as well as biographical assistance on Koczalski’s activities during the Nazi era.

Marston is grateful to the Estate of John Stratton (Stephen Clarke, Executor) for its continuing support.

RAOUL VON KOCZALSKI:
IN THE SHADOW OF A DISCIPLE

by Jakub Puchalski, ©2025

The worst Chopin I know is played by so-called Chopin specialists” remarked Claudio Arrau, recalling his pre-war Berlin years (Joseph Horowitz, Conversations with Arrau). Arrau continued: “In Germany, a man named Koczalsky [sic] was an idol. He played only Chopin. It was awful.” Indeed, Raoul Koczalski had enjoyed great success in Germany and played mainly (although not exclusively) Chopin. Arrau was not alone in his negative judgment—there were similar opinions during the 1930s, especially in Poland. Artur Rubinstein could not forgive him for the orders, medals and ribbons he wore as a child prodigy, as evidenced by the disdainful mention in Rubinstein’s memoir My Many Years. Critics, both older ones who remembered him as a much-hyped child prodigy, as well as younger ones who admired the modern, neo-classical spirit of pianists like Egon Petri or Robert Casadesus, would write dismissively that “Koczalski is a pianist of yesterday.”

What particularly bothered them was his salon-like rhythmic freedom and “excessive” rubato, which they considered to be a pseudo-romantic affectation, while the elegance of his playing led them to think it superficial. A much more “modern” Polish pianist, Zbigniew Drzewiecki, described Koczalski’s playing as being based “on excellent instrumental métier and a predominance of smoothness and fluidity of musical phrasing, superseding any delving into deeper layers of expression.”

Paradoxically, at the same time that Koczalski’s playing was dismissed as old fashioned, a legend arose surrounding the pianist—that he was a stylistic “grandson” of Chopin himself, through his lessons with the composer’s student, Carl Mikuli. Perhaps that made a greater impression abroad, for it did not help his reputation much with critics and academics back home in Poland—at least until the end of the Second World War.

For us today the negative impressions of those contemporary critics are not supported, nor justified, by the vast majority of Koczalski’s recordings. This is especially true about the entire series of Chopin recordings made in Berlin between 1938 and November 17, 1939 (i.e., just after Poland was occupied by Nazi Germany) for the Deutsche Grammophon Gesellschaft/Polydor label. Those were part of the company’s never completed project, interrupted by the war, to record all of the Polish composer’s works as performed by Koczalski. Before the grand project was interrupted, they had managed to record Koczalski in complete sets of the études, preludes, and ballades, as well as a selection of waltzes, a few nocturnes and two impromptus.

Apart from those German recordings, in 1937 he had recorded some other Chopin selections for Electrola/His Master’s Voice—the Scherzo in B-flat minor, Polonaise in A-flat major, Nocturne in F-sharp major, Op. 15, No. 2, Mazurka, Op. 68, No. 3, and Ecossaises, issued on Marston’s Koczalski Vol. 2. This new volume’s core consists of recordings made after the War, from 1945 and 1948. Supplementing those are six recordings from the earlier days of Ko­czal­ski’s recording career which have not yet been published on CD, including two marvels of pianistic refinement for the Homocord label, and four examples from sessions for Deutsche Grammophon.

Despite the naysayers, Koczalski’s recordings were highly regarded by some critics in the international press, receiving significant acclaim in Germany and in France. If Koczalski’s set of Études, Op. 10, did not appeal to a Gramophone magazine reviewer in 1939, it was not because of an excess but rather a lack of poetry, even coldness, while the magazine’s owner and editor, Compton Mackenzie, was enchanted by the recordings and, unusually, responded in defense. There seems to be no press opinions of these records from Koczalski’s native Poland, perhaps due to their limited distribution and the scarcity of Polish record criticism at the time.

Today’s scholarship reveals that on those pre-war recordings, pianist Koczalski was an artist whose art was more classical than purely romantic, a player of the highest elegance and grounded culture, although we do find many characteristics of nineteenth-century style. His playing mirrored the era in which he began his career and received all his pianistic schooling. His education was apparently completed by the age of twelve, in 1897 (or even earlier, as Mikuli died that year on the 21st of May, at the moment when the summer lessons were supposed to begin). Details of late nineteenth-century pianism present in Koczalski’s playing are well summarized in the article by Mark Arnest available on the Marston website: https://www.marstonrecords.com/products/koczalski2. Another source for such details is the foreword by Jean-Jacques Eigeldinger to the French and Polish editions of Koczalski’s 1936 book (more on that below). Features of the style of that time included rolling (or “strumming”) chords, playing the left hand ahead of the right, and other various types of rubato. In Ko­czal­ski’s playing these stylistic features are far less intense than those of many other pianists who were widely celebrated by critics in the 1930s (for example, Ignaz Friedman, not to mention the older Moriz Rosenthal and Ignace Paderewski—or ... Béla Bartók).

Koczalski proves to be a master of miniature forms on his recordings: all the short pieces receive the most accomplished performances. Sometimes in the études he may seem a bit cautious and emotionally cool, but always utilizing technique for musical values and never flaunting superficial virtuosity. Each piece is characterized by an almost perfect balance, superbly executed cantabile, and clear textures, with very sparing use of the pedal. In conventional tempos there are never any hints of aggression, but that does not mean a lack of expressive power, especially in the Ballades. Moderation and elegance prevail. Few other performances are as completely harmonious. Koczalski’s art can in fact be described best by Chopin’s own words, when he praised the pianism of Kalkbrenner: “It is difficult to describe his calm, his charming touch—unparalleled evenness and that mastery evident in every note of his.”

In larger works, however, Koczalski also displays a competently constructed musical architecture, perhaps with the exception of the recordings for Electrola/HMV, where a lack of powerful fortissimo playing and deeper dramaturgy are noticeable in both the Polonaise in A-flat major and Scherzo in B-flat minor; on the other hand, the pianist thought this Scherzo
to be humorous, and apparently tried to present it that way. So why then was Koczalski considered by modern critics to be a pianist who overdid expressive means inherited from the nineteenth century?

(UN)FAITHFUL DISCIPLE

According to his own account, when Raoul was born in Warsaw in 1885, he was already destined in the cradle by his parents for a life dedicated to art. He was named after the tenor protagonist in Meyerbeer’s opera Les Huguenots. (“Raoul” is a rare name in Poland, where his name has traditionally been spelled “Raul”). Only three years later, after less than a year of lessons, he showed the musical abilities that his parents had hoped for, and they began his career as a child prodigy. Their intense promotion of him, however, caused distaste among Polish critics, who were eager to reproach little Raoul, or rather his parents, for the various shortcomings of the toddler’s musical education. He was better treated abroad, where he received laurels from reviewers and the many orders and titles in the form of medals from the aristocratic courts where he was presented. These distinctions cost their presenters little, but served his parents well for further promotion, which in turn perpetuated negative reactions among some critics.

What enormous strength of character the young pianist must have had, for when he reached a more mature age he abandoned all the previously hyped propaganda and contrived gimmicks that had been imposed by his parents. When his career as a pianist faded in the period before World War I, he took up serious work and created a new field of activity for himself. Taking advantage of the uncertainty about the date of birth of the composer most important to him, Frederic Chopin, he prepared a series of lectures on Chopin’s work illustrated by his playing, and already in 1909, a year before others, he began to celebrate its hundredth anniversary. These lectures, which he presented until the end of his life, found their final summary in a book published by him in German in 1936: Frédéric Chopin: Betrachtungen, Skizzen, Analysen; it is significant that it was not published in Poland until 2020. In the book he discusses in a “poetic” way the character of selected pieces by the master, also giving some detailed tips and instructions for performance.

He also emphasizes that the Chopin tradition was passed on to him by Chopin’s “favorite” student, Carl Mikuli, who, due to his love for the great composer, became a kind of Chopin monk. According to Koczalski, Mikuli even went so far as to avoid music by other composers, because any sympathy toward someone else would be tantamount to betrayal for him. Koczalski built his late teacher’s reputation so consistently, soon becoming the main source of information about him, that he taught us to look at Mikuli through his own eyes—or the way he wanted us to see him. After all, Mikuli’s absolutely unique position also legitimized Koczalski as the heir to this exceptional Chopin legacy.

Little Raoul came to Mikuli most likely in 1893 and took very intensive lessons during the summer months, from May to September, until the master’s death in May 1897. He was apparently already quite well prepared by a short course with a former teacher, Ludwik Marek, who was Mikuli’s competitor in Lwów, where both were active. He had been a Mikuli student himself, before going to Liszt, and later became Mikuli’s rival; they were actually declared opponents. It seems to be a significant bit of propaganda on the part of Koczalski to have highlighted only Mikuli’s influence on him, without almost any mention of Marek. Koczalski’s biographer Stanisław Dybowski, however, emphasizes the excellent preparation provided by Marek, which was acknowledged and appreciated by the Koczalski parents as well as some critics. If Marek hadn’t died after one year, it is likely that Koczalski would have never come to Mikuli, who was apparently a second choice.

On the other hand, Mikuli at that time was retired from his professional duties as a teacher at both the Lwów Conservatory and his private music school. Although he was notorious for his strict and rather difficult character, he eventually agreed to teach the boy intensively in the summer months; the rest of young Koczalski’s schedule was taken up by concerts. There is no reason to doubt that the aged master became a true oracle and prophet for the boy. One may doubt, however, whether this opinion was shared by anyone else. Carl Mikuli, born in Czernowitz in the eastern province of the Habsburg Empire, was Chopin’s pupil from 1844 to 1848. Koczalski erroneously claimed that Mikuli’s lessons with Chopin lasted seven years. Also, according to Koczalski’s account, we learn that Chopin had such great confidence in Mikuli and trusted him so much that he allowed him to listen to the lessons of other pupils, and that he even entrusted his manuscripts to him for transcription.

In fact, we do not know of any manuscript copies made by Mikuli’s hand. Attending lessons with other people was a common practice for Chopin as well as for many other masters including Liszt, Rubinstein and von Bülow. (This is confirmed by the recent sensational discovery and publication of truly important letters penned by Friederike Müller, another of Chopin’s pupils.) Mikuli’s name does not appear at all in Chopin’s correspondence (nor anywhere in George Sand’s nor that of any other friends), so perhaps no one other than he himself noticed his special role in the composer’s musical life. It is also possible that Koczalski made it up. That said, Mikuli had undoubtedly carried out extensive work to establish Chopin’s performance tradition when preparing his edition of Chopin’s works (Kistner, Leipzig 1880). He included his own notes from lessons, and also utilized the help of several other pupils, but Mikuli’s edition was not a huge success.

Critics focused mainly on his unusual and problematic fingerings. Although we are unable to verify the fingerings Koczalski used, we can state with certainty that he often did not follow Mikuli’s dynamic nor pedal markings, and himself recommended an individual approach, in accordance with the well-known variability of Chopin’s own ideas and concepts. He in many cases undoubtedly used Mikuli’s edition (he probably learned from it in childhood), as we can hear for example in the Polonaise in A-flat major, Op. 53, where at certain spots he plays full chords, as printed by Mikuli, instead of incomplete ones, as in other editions. However, in the controversial and significant case of the changes in the text of the theme of the Op. 28 Prelude in D minor, Koczalski, on his Polydor/DGG recording, opted for the traditional version, for at the end of the theme he plays the notes B-flat–A, and not the repetition of the note A as specified by Mikuli (i.e. A-A).

In addition, in a recording from around 1928 of the Nocturne in D-flat major, Op. 27, No. 2, we hear him play the tenutos from Raoul Pugno’s edition, which was competitive with Mikuli’s. It was based on Pugno’s own lessons with another of Chopin’s pupils, Georges Mathias (Marston The Complete Raoul von Koczalski Volume One, CD 2, track 26, at 1:42 to 1:46, specifically bars 29–30). However, Koczalski paid tribute to Mikuli by introducing to the record market his published variants of Chopin’s own ornaments in the Nocturne in E-flat major, Op. 9 No. 2 (in both of his pre-war recordings, 1924–1925 and 1938, found in Marston The Complete Raoul von Koczalski, volumes one and two). In the earlier recording he added a few ornamental trills of his own and did not play all the changes; the later version is more precise and consistent with the text.

Despite this ambiguous practical attitude, Koczalski regularly presented his master Mikuli as the highest authority on Chopin’s style. Alas, it did not prevent his Polish colleagues from expressing their doubts, although Mikuli was undoubtedly recognized as a bearer of the Chopin tradition. Aleksander Michałowski, an accomplished virtuoso, came to Mikuli specifically to learn some hints about how to play Chopin; yet when Mikuli had directed the conservatory in one of the most important Polish cities at that time, Lwów (known officialy as Lemberg, now Lviv, Ukraine), none of the prominent pianists completed a master’s course with him. In addition to Koczalski, Mikuli did have one more famous student—Moriz Rosenthal, who came from Lwów, but he studied with him only at the very beginning of his educational path, later moving on to Rafael Joseffy and Liszt.

His reputation for Chopin did not save him when the composer Władysław Żeleński ruthlessly reprimanded Chopin’s pupil in a review, after Mikuli presented a thoroughly tasteless (this was the unequivocal tone of the review) transcription of one of Chopin’s preludes for female choir, solo soprano, piano, harmonium, violin and ’cello. This accusation raises a question mark at least about the purity of the cult that his Lwovian follower built around Chopin.

Mikuli’s own music is today performed more and more often, and in piano pieces sometimes it shows influences from Schumann, rather than Chopin; this observation is another that is contrary to Koczalski’s opinion. Concerning music for orchestra and choir—it would have been difficult for him to base it on Chopin. Mikuli probably also did not deny himself the opportunity to get to know Brahms’s works, since the latter visited him during his visit to Lwów. And of course, this is not an accusation against Mikuli—rather quite the opposite.

It seems that the further from Poland and, over time, the longer after Mikuli’s death in 1897, the more the propagandistic power of having been a student of one of Chopin’s supposedly favored pupils resonated with Koczalski’s audiences. This might have become even more pronounced because it was supported by some modern aesthetic principles expressed in the pianist’s lectures—general moderation, abhorrence of every kind of virtuosity, respect for the text (but not for dynamic markings, which was mentioned above). Let’s consider what he wrote about rubato (the underlining is mine, it states that Koczalski was against playing both hands asynchronically):

The famous tempo rubato, which has been so widely discussed, is nothing more than a rapid and violent change of tempo. While the right hand plays the melody in a moderate, slow, or fast manner, the left hand must maintain a consistent speed and follow the right hand. The musical phrase should be divided so that each note or chord struck by the left hand corresponds to a certain number of equal notes played by the right hand—so that both hands can always play in the same time signature. Only in a few instances, for example when the right hand performs long grace notes or when—driven by the fire of emotion that expresses in indecision or in determination—it attempts to free itself from the left hand, can a barely perceptible difference between the touch of both hands occur. Such cases, however, are extremely rare and should be approached with the utmost caution. This is precisely how Chopin understood tempo rubato, and any other explanation—even if propagated by Liszt—must be considered incorrect and failing to meet the Master’s [Chopin’s] requirements.

The concluding words clearly emphasize Mikuli’s authority as a bearer of the tradition (against Liszt), which did not, however, prevent Koczalski, at least in his final years, from using during a lecture Liszt’s metaphorical definition (the immovable tree trunk and the swaying branches), as we know from a press report.

In this way Koczalski found his largest audience in Germany. He regularly gave lectures and then concerts there, becoming a favorite Chopin interpreter in the 1930s. In 1934 he moved to Berlin and even held a quasi-official position as a representative of Polish culture in the Third Reich. The Polish government frequently supported his efforts in organizing concerts there, with at least one attended by both the Polish ambassador and the Reich’s Minister of Propaganda, Goebbels. He sought this support, taking advantage of the cultural exchange between Poland and Nazi Germany, which up to a certain moment hoped to secure Poland as an ally. Although his success in Germany was notable, he did not achieve unquestioned adoration there, and certainly not in Poland.

Perhaps we can discern something about musical circumstances by making a comparison of his German commercial recordings from the late 1930s with his post-war recordings—especially the live ones. The post-war examples include studio recordings made for German Radio, and then both some live and commercial recordings made in Poland. These are presented here, as well as on the Music & Arts set CD-1261 Koczalski Plays Chopin. The two releases complement each other precisely, together presenting all known Koczalski’s recorded legacy from his final years, 1945–1948.

WHAT THE RECORDINGS REVEAL

These recordings testify to the breadth of Koczalski’s repertoire, encompassing not only the salon music with which he was commonly associated but also, among other things, the complete Beethoven sonatas and a selection of modern works, extending to Bartók’s miniature pieces. The opportunity for comparative study, however, is provided by the works of Chopin, to whom the overwhelming majority of the pianist’s recorded legacy is devoted.

We have four recordings of the Nocturne in B major, Op. 32, No. 1. The earliest from 1939 Polydor/Deutsche Grammophon (Marston Volume Two). This performance seems to be a nec plus ultra, reaching a pinnacle in its extraordinarily clear texture. We discover a multitude of details rendered with delicate cantabile and enlivened by subtle rubato, in a fluid, swift tempo. In contrast, two German Radio recordings from 1948 (from February 9 on the Music & Arts set and from April 5 on this album, both very similar) appear significantly slower and much freer. The texture and all details remain clear on both, the lyrical quality surpassing the 1939 commercial version. The pedal usage is somewhat more generous, though always restrained and precisely controlled, and various types of rubato make it almost difficult to define the fundamental, basic tempo of the nocturne. Each of these gestures, however, is entirely subordinated to the rhetoric of the music: for example, the vanishing of the triplets in the repetition of the note F before the coda (measure 62) creates an architectural projection that concludes the phrase. The entire coda sounds different from the earlier version: in the 1939 recording, the coda begins more at a mezzo forte rather than forte, whereas in the 1948 performances bold loudness evokes awe; furthermore, the recitative of the eighth notes in 1939 is at a soft dynamic—now it remains in forte, carrying the titanic force of the devastating conclusion of the piece. The slightly slower and perhaps even freer April version presented here seems to be a bit more captivating. In both renditions, however, the Nocturne is sung with a lyrical quality—and in this light, the lively precision of the Polydor/DGG recording now seems almost academic. The postwar studio recording from Poznan´ for the Mewa label adheres to the same concept but with a less vivid presentation, which is likely at least partly due to the significantly inferior technical quality of the recording, and perhaps partly to Koczalski’s caution, considering the negative reactions from the Polish musical community.

The case of the Ballade in G minor is particularly intriguing as it potentially opens up the issue of the Chopin tradition more fully. Koczalski recorded the work three times: first in 1939 (for Polydor/DGG), then twice in 1948, once in Berlin for German Radio and once during a recital on a century-old Pleyel piano in Warsaw, in the presidential palace of Belweder. Both of these later recordings are on this album, and although they do not differ in concept, the Berlin version is distinctly more vivid. The historical piano does not allow the pianist the same degree of extremes; however, it is notable how skillfully Koczalski handles this much more sensitive instrument!

Let’s examine the introduction and the group of the first theme (Largo and the beginning of Moderato). In 1939 (Marston Koczalski Volume Two), Koczalski starts the introduction in a measured manner, adhering to the score, gradually slowing down, extending the penultimate note, and shortening the last one—yet the triplets generally maintain their character, and the group of the first theme enters with regular eighth notes at a new, faster tempo (Moderato). There is structural rubato, push-pull, but it fits within the visible rhythmic outline of the text. The ensuing dialogue between quarter notes and the eighth-note group is introduced by this regular motion and maintains that impression, even though the quarter notes are greatly extended as they approach the eighth-note group, and the eighth notes are longer and also varied among themselves. Strictly speaking, the section of the first theme is played at a variable tempo, but the differences are so slight that the sense of measure is still preserved.

The beginning of the Ballade, however, sounds very different in 1948. The first triplet in the introduction maintains its value, but the second becomes such a profound rallentando that it completely changes the character of the music: it slows down, creating a tension of anticipation (further amplified by an even deeper extension of the penultimate note and the shortening of the last one), rather than accelerating with electrifying effect. More importantly, in this slowed tempo, the first exposition of the eighth-note phrase from the first theme also appears—this then speeds up only afterward, as if the change from Largo to Moderato occurs one measure later than written in the score. In the Mikuli edition there is nothing similar: Moderato begins before the theme, in measure 8, as in almost every other edition. There is one exception: an edition that, as noted above, starts Moderato in measure 9, “to complete the phrase” (as the edition’s commentary states) after the first group of eighth notes. It clearly represents a practical approach: this is a recording of textual interpretation, and that edition of the text was authored by the previously mentioned outstanding Polish pianist, Aleksander Michałowski, a virtuoso who also studied the Chopin tradition—let me remind you—with Chopin’s pupil Carl Mikuli.

Therefore, it seems pertinent to ask, since we find the same characteristic gesture in the playing of two performers who drew on their studies with Chopin’s pupil Mikuli, whether this might be evidence of some interpretative possibility passed on to Mikuli by Chopin? This question cannot be answered definitively, but it is worth raising, especially since we know the composer’s own words often suggest its validity, as noted in these words recorded by Friederike Müller: “You have no idea how I suffer seeing my music printed. I can hardly find my thoughts in it; nuances, the sense of phrases cannot be notated, and that irritates me.” And also: “Look at what I do: I write, change, and in the end, cross everything out. That’s just how I am.”

After introducing the first theme, Koczalski seems to play the entire section as if it was something apart from the regular flow of the music. Some of the accompaniment quarter notes are shortened, and some lengthened, as they approach the eighth notes. Those eighth notes, in turn, also completely change their values, sounding even longer than the quarter notes, emphasizing the melodic rise in a purely vocal manner. The first is extended, then again the third (most notably), and again the subsequent highest note, ending with a radical shortening of the fifth, penultimate, note. The phrase ends, played as if it were written in a dotted rhythm. In the subsequent iterations, this pattern evolves further, which can be described, according to Mark Arnest, as an “evolving interpretive gesture.” Importantly, this entire passage is subordinated to drama and rhetoric: it is not merely a fragment of the Ballade in G minor, played well or not, but rather the beginning of a great musical narrative filled with tension and surprises. In this interpretation, the Ballade in G minor primarily becomes a striking narrative. We must admit: it is where the sense of the genre of the ballade lies.

Nothing similar is present in the earlier Polydor/DGG recording which, from this perspective, seems restrictively ordered—even though in measure 194, when the theme returns meno mosso, Koczalski suddenly slightly extends the highest notes and shortens the penultimate one. This pattern is barely marked, as if the performer momentarily forgot to keep track.

These observations provide a logical explanation for the reason there are important differences in the playing between the Deutsche Grammophon recordings from 1939 and the Radio Berlin recordings, the earlier recordings, and the live performance in Poland from 1948. Deutsche Grammophon’s Chopin edition was intended not only to showcase a popular pianist, but was also to be a commemorative, serious, and “correct” presentation, and there was certainly no room for interpretative freedom. One can almost feel the presence of a supervisor, perhaps the recording producer, closely monitoring the performer’s adherence to Chopin’s printed text. In the 1939 commercial recordings, Koczalski did adhere as closely as possible, including even to dynamic markings, which he generally had not treated as decisive and final, as he emphasized in his book. We can also imagine that in that special situation: being a Pole in Nazi Germany, especially after the fall of Poland, he was not in a position to complain or discuss. He was probably scared and felt subordinated, as he even accepted an engagement (on October 1, 1939) to play for the German troops in occupied Poland!

But after the war he, and not the record producer, held the cards. There was no one any longer to tell him how to play Chopin’s music. Now Koczalski played his way, as he used to play Chopin’s music to his live audiences. Here we are in effect dealing with live recordings, although in the case of radio recordings, with a microphone instead of an audience, and we get a completely different picture of the interpretation compared to the controlled studio recordings.

The conclusion that the restrictive precision found on the later Polydor/DGG recording sessions was somewhat unnatural for Koczalski is also confirmed when comparing them with earlier recordings. This is less striking in the études (where regular motion is often the essence of the piece), but when comparing records such as the A-flat Prelude recording from around 1930 or the A-flat Prelude from 1928 (Marston Koczalski Volume One), with the later DGG records, it becomes clear: they are much freer than in the later 1939 complete set.

Chopin’s Fantasy in F minor is a work which Koczalski never recorded commercially, but there are two broadcast recordings, one from 1945 (on this album) and one from 1948 (on Music & Arts). In this case, it is the later recording that is characterized by a far-reaching correctness, a kind of fundamentality, whereas the earlier 1945 one displays great interpretative and expressive freedom. In the 1948 version, the Fantasy begins with a striking march, while in 1945, it begins with a poignant, much slower funeral march (as suggested by Koczalski himself in his description of the piece), with syncopations stretched to the limits of maximum tension. The entire performance is as dramatic as the Ballade, although Koczalski uses the pedal much more extensively here, unfortunately blurring some details and dramatic pauses that are perfectly audible in the 1948 recording. He also frequently rolls chords and breaks his hands in creating a truly epic poem. As is usual with Koczalski, the freer and more expressive interpretation is slower than the more correct one, which pays close attention to the musical text. Factors enhancing expressiveness also include tempo contrast. Since elegance never allowed Koczalski to overdo speed, the deepening of contrasts had to be achieved through slowing down of already slow tempi.

An important part of the radio recordings is the selection of pieces by composers besides Chopin. Among these, modern works stand out, such as Szymanowski’s Étude (though still strongly late romantic; Koczalski repeated the short piece, playing the whole text twice), and especially Bartók’s modal folk music, which receives faultlessly accurate, though moderately expressive treatment. An exceptional tribute is paid to Paderewski: his famous Minuet in G major, played in the first half of the 20th century by most pianists, receives a dazzling and so perfect an interpretation, elegant but bold in precise phrasing and “classical” texture, that it easily surpasses all others – including Paderewski himself.

GRAND FINALE

Koczalski spent World War II in Germany, living in Berlin. Although he was soon banned from public performances and, apparently, his bank accounts were seized, he found himself under a protective umbrella, possibly due to the influence of admirers, including Goebbels. From 1939 to 1945, he survived by teaching and performing privately, and devoting himself to composition.

Despite Koczalski’s repeated requests to withdraw their ban, the Reichsmusikkamer (Reich Bureau of Music) continued its prohibition against him performing in public; perhaps this was only for Germany as we find him in Serbia in May 1942. The complex situation concerning Koczalski during the war, balancing his desire to be accepted by the German authorities while not wanting the rest of the world to consider him a Nazi, remains an open field for research.

After the war, he was ready to resume his career immediately and began performing in Berlin right after the end of hostilities. He appeared several times with the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra under the baton of Sergiu Celibidache, which is why we have a radio recording of Chopin’s Piano Concerto in F minor (in the Music & Arts collection). He also started performing for the radio, and it is likely that, as mentioned, his relationship with the producers changed significantly from the late 1930s.

While keeping his Berlin apartment he soon moved to Poland, to the city of Poznan´, which (more than Warsaw) was willing to accept his unclear position, perhaps due to its long historical connection to Germany and Prussia. In Poznan´, he found employment as a professor at the Higher School of Music (the equivalent of an academy) and also found new audiences. During the years of occupation, Polish society had been cut off from access to culture, both its own (for example, the performance of Chopin’s music was forbidden) and, of course, from the global mainstream. The latter was not to return to Poland for many years to come, and the pre-war concerts of Petri or Casadesus, and even the Polish pianists Josef Hofmann and Arthur Rubinstein, were a distant memory. Polish stages lacked, and would lack for a long time, world-class pianists. In this situation, the old disputes related to the aesthetics of performing Chopin’s music apparently turned out to be of little significance, and Koczalski’s top-class pianism could, without prejudice, begin to triumph on the stages of his homeland. (The very great pianist Zofia Poznan´.ska-Rabcewiczowa also achieved similar late appreciation in the Polish musical environment, unfortunately without bequeathing posterity similar recordings).

Koczalski thus became then one of the most highly valued and beloved Polish pianists in his homeland, even if some reviewers had doubts about his rubato (as did his sometimes accompanist, conductor Zygmunt Latoszewski, because it complicated his work). Everyone agreed that he was an authentic and captivating performer, especially in Chopin’s music. Under these conditions, the 60-year-old pianist flourished. He still visited Berlin regularly, but he also taught in Poznan´ and was about to start teaching in Warsaw. He traveled performing concerts across the country, undertook and planned international tours (in 1948 a Swiss critic of “Die Tat” expressed a desire to hear Koczalski on a regular basis) and decided to present a cycle of all the Beethoven’s sonatas. Six Beethoven recitals were held in Poznan´ and, in 1948, the six were planned for Warsaw. Józef Kan´ski, the doyen of Polish critics, confirmed that three of them had taken place and were recorded by Polish Radio. Unfortunately, it seems that the pre-war aversion of musical elites re-emerged: the musical director of the station at that time, Roman Jasin´ski, once a pianist and later a renowned and respected musical chronicler, decided either not to transfer the originals, or perhaps to erase Koczalski’s recital recordings because of a shortage of blank tapes. This decision was probably not difficult for a man who had never once mentioned Koczalski’s name in his nearly three thousand pages of writings documenting seven decades of Warsaw’s musical life.

Only one sonata recording survived: the C-sharp minor Sonata, Op. 27, No. 2, “Moonlight”. More elegant than mysterious and dramatic—one can only imagine how Koczal­ski’s velvet touch and precisely articulated performance could have brought the brilliant Op. 2 sonatas to life, or perhaps the fugues in Op. 110, for which Koczalski received critical acclaim.

Koczalski had achieved one of the highest and officially established positions in Polish musical life. Despite initial doubts about his wartime experiences (he was accused of collaborating with the Nazis but was cleared of the charges), he was the pianist designated to perform a radio broadcast recital on the 138th anniversary of Chopin’s birth, on February 21, 1948 at the Belweder Palace. For this occasion, a Pleyel piano, which Chopin had played during his 1948 trip to Scotland, was made available. It was tuned to 428 Hz, a quarter tone below today’s standard 440 Hz tuning. Pianists today who aspire to perform Chopin’s music on historical instruments should listen to this recording carefully: the soft and colorful Pleyel under the fingers of the artist proves to be a plastic instrument offering nearly equal possibilities for constructing musical architecture as modern pianos. Different types of legato and pedal techniques in these interpretations should be the subject of contemporary studies, as should the unforced yet always resonant touch—something that challenges musicians transitioning from heavier modern keyboards. It is a fact that Koczalski preferred the soft and light action of Blüthner pianos over the heavier Steinways or Bechsteins (indeed, many of the recordings in this set are likely from a Blüthner, as can be heard in the technically excellent German Radio recordings).

Koczalski did not live to complete the Warsaw series of Beethoven sonata recitals. On November 23, 1948 he was preparing for a performance in Poznan´ with a student when he fainted in the artist’s room. Despite immediate medical assistance, he did not regain consciousness and died the next day. Although he suffered from diabetes and pancreatic cancer, the cause of death was a heart attack.

A solemn funeral, costs for which were later reimbursed by the state, took place on November 29 in Poznan´; in 1959, the pianist’s remains were moved to the Cemetery of Meritorious on St. Adalbert Hill in Poznan´..

Koczalski’s extensive plans for 1949, the centenary of Chopin’s death, remained unrealized. These were to have included recordings, as he intended to record all the works of Chopin for the Poznan´ private label Mewa. Koczalski was Mewa’s only classical artist, and what is presented in this release constitutes all that remains of this aborted series. Soon the Mewa label, which had been successfully operating in the field of light music despite supply problems, was nationalized by the communist state and its equipment, matrices, and remaining records were deliberately destroyed in an effort to erase all traces of private activity. Mewa’s recordings with Koczalski are rare today, as are all pre-war Polish piano recordings.

For some time Koczalski’s art fell into oblivion. Perhaps these Marston and Music & Arts releases together will recall his performances to life on the international scene, and help return him to public attention and acclaim—and not just as a Chopin’s pupil’s pupil, but as one of great pianists who transmits some romantic traditions—yes, perhaps some of them inherited from Chopin—into modern times, so far from this way of playing and understanding music.

The author would like to express his gratitude to all those who contributed, directly or indirectly, to this essay, especially to Gregor Benko, Michael Waiblinger, Johan Falleyn, and Raoul Konezni.

This third and final Koczalski volume comprises recordings from the pre-war and post-war periods. The two Homocord sides from 1930 that begin the first CD were unknown when we issued our second volume, hence their inclusion here. The transfers were made directly from the disc which was offered in a 2021 auction, and is now held by the International Piano Archive. Likewise, the four unpublished 1938 takes made by Deutsche Grammophon are also direct transfers from the original discs held by the Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Musikabteilung. We have included them because the performances are strikingly different from the published takes. The twelve sides from 1948, recorded by the Polish Mewa label, are extremely rare as they had virtually no distribution outside of Poland. We are fortunate to have located all the original discs so that we can offer first-generation digital transfers. These discs are well-recorded but were pressed on poor quality material which produces a high level of surface noise. Previous transfers of these sides have employed too much noise reduction so that the piano sound is severely compromised. I have decided not to use digital de-noising technology so as to preserve Koczalski’s delicate touch and tone.

The German Radio material in this set was recorded on magnetic tape with generally excellent results. It is not known if the original tapes still exist or whether we are hearing preservation copies made later. The original recordings vary in pitch, but we assume that this is due to slight variations in tape speed and not the tuning of the piano. Therefore, I have corrected the pitches to A = 440Hz. Finally, it should be mentioned that the Polish Radio material dating from 1948 was recorded using the Philips Miller film recording system invented in the mid 1930s by American J. A. Miller and licensed to the European Philips company. Sound was recorded using a vibrating stylus to etch a continuous groove on to moving film. Playback was accomplished by the kind of optical method used in playing back conventional films. The original films were copied to magnetic tape in 1951 and then destroyed. Therefore, the sound heard is from a second-generation copy. There is considerable distortion, especially in the “Moonlight” Sonata, but it is impossible to determine if this was present on the original recording or perhaps introduced when the copy to tape was made. In any case, we are fortunate that these broadcasts were preserved as they are Koczalski’s only known recorded performances before an audience.