At alternate turns, it’s implausible and then incontrovertible that Groh is an ‘originalist’ in his interpretations (that is, his playing aspires to faithfully render the original intent of the composer). His superb
performance in the Friends of Chamber Music’s Master Pianists’ Series last night provided an excellent opportunity to assess this. He played Brahms’ Op. 1 and Op. 119, followed by Liszt’s Sonata in B minor. First, listen to his playing. Then, if you get a chance, by all means speak with him about it.
Groh’s performance of the Liszt Sonata last night was thrilling, rich with meaning and implication but never descending into sentimentalism or over-the-top theatricality. In this, Groh was the epitome of a dry ‘Romantic’s Romantic’ for the appreciative Kansas City audience attending the concert at the Folly Theater.
In 1844, Heinrich Heine heard Liszt play in Paris, as did Henri Blanchard. They wondered at the ‘frenetic enthusiasm stemming from disturbances pressed on the nervous systems’ of the audience and the performer and wrote that such enthusiasm must owe more to pathology than to aesthetics (Gooley, p. 208). Yes, Groh’s playing is fervent—at times, frenetic, even. But by contrast to variable public reception of Liszt’s playing, the listeners’ response to Groh’s reserved, controlled interpretation is empathetic and fully invested. The aesthetic pendulum swings. If, say, Liszt’s was a frenetic reaction to the dryness of Czerny’s playing, a renunciation of the style of his teacher—then Groh’s account of Liszt may be a renunciation of self-indulgence, extravagance, and narscissism—of whatever qualities Liszt displayed in the performances that earned him the bad marks.
The appropriate fusion of sadness and tranquility is there. And the vehemence and fervor are there when they should be. But Groh’s playing is not self-referential. His account of the Sonata is, essentially, an extroverted one: one conveying complete immediacy—touching his audience, inviting us to enter into the music, not withdrawing from the world or carping about unrequited attentions and alienation.
‘Originalism’ in the law takes each construction to mean what it would have been understood to mean by any intelligent but ordinary person who was a contemporary of the author/composer—any ordinary person familiar with then-current legal issues and the background of common law. That doesn’t mean taking everything hyper-literally, though, because such over-strict constructions will not turn out to match how the ordinary person would have understood it. As in the law, so it is in music with Groh’s rendering of Liszt. His scholarship regarding the biography and psychology of Liszt is impressive, but he doesn’t wear it on his sleeve. Despite his burgeoning career and critical acclaim, Groh modestly presents his views on what the passages mean to him. He argues from evidence, cogently and patiently—this despite a long day’s travel, an ambitious and exhausting performance, and the diplomatic demands of an after-concert dinner.
L iszt’s reception in Paris requires an occasional turn to the narrative historical mode. His relationship to the French capital extends from 1824, when he arrived as a prodigy, to at least 1845, when he tried to make an impact with his Beethoven Cantata. His struggle to maintain a reputation in Paris over this long period is a tormented narrative, filled with upswings and downswings, ill-willed plotters, heated confrontations, and an outcome with a nearly tragic protagonist. This narrative is valuable for challenging the myth of Liszt’s easy victory over contemporary audiences and critics. The Parisian story reveals just how self-consciously he was managing his public identity. He tailored his repertory and ticketing practices to particular audiences... The Liszt that emerges from the Parisian narrative is a strategist, working within the constraints of a skeptical public to maximize his impact as a virtuoso.”
— Dana Gooley, p. 12.
Liszt, Groh says, undoubtedly had his different moods. He surely must’ve changed his mind from time to time. “Everyone has this right. The crossed-out bars in the original ending of the Sonata, for example. When were these crossed-out and replaced with the subdued ending as we know it today? Who now can really be certain whether this change was [a result of interior thoughts or whether, instead, a response to audience reaction to early performances]? I am more conscious of the latter possibility since my association with Michal Schmidt in New York. The importance of careful calibration of public image and communication with one’s audience cannot be over-emphasized.”
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