One of the greatest pianists of his generation who bestrode the musical world for six decades
In the postscript to his 1998 book of poetry One Finger Too Many, the pianist Alfred Brendel cites among his muses an elderly woman who stopped in front of the bench on which he was sitting at New York’s Museum of Modern Art, pointed at him and asked: “Are you Woody Allen?”
The fact that he could be confused with the American actor and director is not in itself surprising: with his puckish face, quizzically raised eyebrows and thick-rimmed Eric Morecambe glasses, Brendel, who has died aged 94, did have the air of a comedian. It was an aura he relished and cultivated in his quirky poetry and it goes to the heart of his personality.
For Brendel’s art was characterised by a paradox. On the one hand lay an intellectual discipline, academic rigour and search for perfection; on the other a delight in the absurd. He once listed “laughing” as his favourite occupation and was fond of observing that “humour is the sublime in reverse”.
In a performing career that spanned six decades Brendel commanded a respect that came, especially in the later years, to border on reverence. His authoritative interpretations of the classical repertoire – primarily Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven and Schubert – were second to none, though in his earlier years he was also a fine Lisztian and helped to establish Schoenberg’s Piano Concerto in the concert repertoire.
