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MORE PRELUDES TO CHOPIN

KENNETH HAMILTON 

(PIANO)

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MORE PRELUDES TO CHOPIN         KENNETH HAMILTON (PIANO)

Frédéric Chopin:

1. Prelude in c minor, op. 28 no. 20 (1’38”)

2. Nocturne in c minor, op. 48 no. 1 (5’58”)

3. Prelude in e minor, op. 28 no. 4 (1’44”)

4. Waltz in a minor, op. 34 no. 2 (4’38”)

5. Prelude in E major, op. 28 no. 9 (1’04”)

6. Polonaise-Fantasy, op. 61 (13’03”) 

7. Prelude in bb minor, op. 28 no. 16 (1’12”) 

8. Nocturne in Eb major, op. 55 no. 2 (4”36’) 

9. Prelude Db major (“Raindrop”), op. 28 no. 15 (5’18”)

10. Prelude in c# minor, op. 28 no. 10 (0’30”)

11. Waltz in c# minor, op. 64 no. 2 (2’52”)

12. Prelude in Bb major, op. 28 no. 21 (2’08”)

13. Nocturne in Eb major, op. 9 no. 2 (4’20”)

14. Prelude in F major, op. 28 no. 23 (1’00”) 

15. Brilliant Variations on the Rondo “Je vends les scapulaires” from Ludovic, op. 12

(7’37”) 

16. Prelude in C major, op. 28 no. 1 (0’50”)

17. Ballade No.1 in g minor, op.23 (8’42”)

Also available on Prima Facie

Kenneth Hamilton plays

Ronald Stevenson Vol. 2

(PFCD087)

Preludes to Chopin

(PFCD084)

Kenneth Hamilton plays

Ronald Stevenson Vol. 2

(PFCD050)

Back to Bach (PFCD061)

www.primafacie.ascrecords.com

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I was delighted, encouraged and touched by the popularity of the first album of Preludes to Chopin. More Preludes

to Chopin is the second instalment of what will eventually be a three-CD cycle, presenting all of Chopin’s preludes

as prefaces to longer pieces. As with the original CD, this new recording shares its inspiration with that of my book

After the Golden Age: Romantic Pianism and Modern Performance (Oxford University Press), namely a fascination

with the performance styles of the so-called “golden age” of pianism from Chopin and Liszt to Paderewski–from

around 1830 to 1945–and an abiding interest in how Romantic and late-Romantic approaches might be adopted or

adapted in a modern context to enrich our own playing. I argued in the book that our aim should not be a direct

imitation of earlier players, or an attempt somehow to recreate historical recordings with modern technology, but to

open ourselves to a range of interpretative possibilities (from Chopin’s own day and the generations thereafter) that

challenge current conventions. And of course, we should first find out how the musical score itself would actually

have been read in Chopin’s time. In several respects, the meaning of the notation has changed significantly over nearly

two centuries. It is easy, therefore, for us to think that we’re being “faithful” to Chopin while inadvertently being the

exact opposite.

In relation to the repertoire recorded here, this once again means that the entire production team–pianist, piano

technicians, producer and editor–has worked hard to ensure that that the Steinway used (although it is a modern piano,

and not a historical instrument) could produce the silken “singing tone” so prized by Chopin and his immediate

successors, rather than the more cuttingly metallic sound often heard today. Moreover, reading Chopin’s scores from

what would probably have been the perspective of his contemporaries means in practice that I have freely applied (or

“indulged in”, for those who don’t like the effect…) various types of chordal arpeggiation and dislocation between

the hands for expressive intensification. Markings such as sostenuto (sustained), espressivo (with expression), and

leggiero (lightly) have been treated as referring to tempo as well as character, the first two implying a slightly slower,

the third a slightly quicker tempo. The same goes for hairpin markings. These are now commonly regarded as signs

for crescendo or diminuendo, but in Chopin’s day, and for nearly a century afterwards, were indicative of small-scale

tempo fluctuations and agogic intensifications.

In repeating sections of the score, I have mostly tried to achieve interpretative variety rather than the “structural”

uniformity usually advocated in the last decades of the 20th century, when many musicians were keen to sweep away

what they regarded as “corrupt” Romantic performance traditions. Listeners will notice, for example, that, in some of

the repeats of the second section of the op. 64 no. 2 Waltz, I gently (I hope) bring out the lower line of the arpeggio

figurations, and occasionally extend the final scale chromatically after the manner of Paderewski. I have, I confess,

actually added a repeat of the initial section of the C-major Prelude, following the example of Liszt and Busoni. In

this longer version, the piece forms a weightier preface to the g-minor Ballade that closes the CD. Additionally

inspired by Busoni is the rendition of the central section of the “Raindrop” Prelude as a continuous crescendo. 

Both Preludes to Chopin and Stevenson Volume 2 entered the UK Classical Charts. The Chopin disc was particularly

popularstreamed online nearly a million timesand has attracted intense attention for the originality of its

performance style. For Dr. Chang Tou Liang of the Singapore Straits Times it offers “a new way of listening to

Chopin.” Stefan Pieper (Klassik Heute) commented: “Hamilton’s approach to Chopin ignores the pianistic fashions of

today’s music market, challenges the dogmas of historical performance practice, and offers an entire palette of new

and intriguing experiences”, while James Manheim (AllMusic) wrote: “The commercial success of this release shows

how strongly audiences hunger for fresh interpretations of mainstream repertory, and a fresh interpretation is exactly

what you get.“

Kenneth Hamilton is Head of the School of Music at Cardiff University in Wales, UK. He is a leading expert on the

history of piano performance in general, and on the music of Chopin and Liszt in particular. He completed a doctorate

on Liszt at Balliol College, Oxford (he is indebted to his tutors, Hugh Macdonald and John Warrack, for any scholarly

skills he might have), and was commissioned to write the 2011 bicentenary article on the composer for the New York

Times (a “fine, unsentimental appreciation” according to Alex Ross). His ground-breaking work, After the Golden Age:

Romantic Pianism and Modern Performance was a Daily Telegraph Book of the Year in the UK, a recipient of an ARSC

award, and a CHOICE Outstanding Academic Title in the US. It has been translated into Italian, Hungarian and

Mandarin. As a teacher and mentor himself, Hamilton enjoys passing on the flame to aspiring pianists. He has been a

visiting artist and guest professor at many institutions worldwide, including the Franz Liszt Academy in Hungary and the

St. Petersburg Conservatory in Russia, and gives regular masterclasses in China and the Far East.

Recording Engineer and Producer: Steve Plews

Recording Editor: Phillip Hardman

Piano Preparation: Ulrich Gerhartz

Piano Technician: Kait Farbon

Piano by Steinway & Sons, Hamburg

Recorded 25/8/18 and 26/1/19 at Cardiff University School Music, Wales

Cover Portrait: Caspar David Friedrich (1774-1840), Sonnenuntergang (Sunset)

Photographs of Kenneth Hamilton : Andrew Bi

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I have also tried to take into account the apparent intention of Chopin’s original pedal markings–contradictory

though they may be in the various editions published during his lifetime–although I do not consistently follow them

in detail, as the modern piano frequently demands a very different use of pedalling. To give just one example, I’m

fascinated by the “colouristic” pedalling that one of the original editions indicates for a few bars near the end of the

wild and hectic Prelude in bb minor. This reduces the clarity of the figuration for a couple of seconds (even on a

piano of Chopin’s day) and produces an effect of desperate, almost chaotic abandon.

And then there’s the question of rhythm–I’ve also tried to respect 19th-century custom here. It was common

practice to assimilate triplet rhythms between melody and accompaniment, or at least to have the option to do so,

unless otherwise indicated (it simply saved time to write things out in what is to us a “misleading” fashion). The

normal way of “otherwise indicating” was to do exactly what Chopin did in the E-major Prelude. Here he double-

dots the melody towards the end of the piece, when parts of the tune should be played in a differentiated rhythm–in

other words, after, not with, the triplet accompaniment–to create a notable rhythmic intensification at the close of

the Prelude. In the same fashion, the melody and accompaniment in the “grand opera chorus” finale of the

Polonaise-Fantasy was almost certainly intended to be played in uniform triplets. To do otherwise turns what should

be a grand and noble span of melody into an oddly jerky polyrhythm.

I am certainly not arguing that any of the specific approaches mentioned above are unique in modern performance,

but I do hope, taken together, that they represent an intriguing–and convincing–divergence from common practice.

Listeners will notice a particular difference in pieces like the famous Nocturne op. 9 no. 2, where I have “preluded”

according to the custom of Chopin’s day by first playing the accompaniment for a few bars on its own before

bringing in the tune; have arpeggiated many of the left hand chords (they should be harped “like a guitar”, according

to Chopin’s pupil Wilhelm von Lenz, who studied the piece with the composer); have treated the direction Rubato

as indicating a subtle dislocation between melody and accompaniment (Chopin’s usage of the term), and played

some of the exquisitely ornate melodic variants that Chopin himself wrote by hand into the scores of several of his

pupils. There is no doubt that a performance of this Nocturne merely “as printed” would have been acceptable in

Chopin’s day, but perhaps no more than that. “Finished artists” were expected freely to ornament the melody, and

the variants show us exactly how the composer himself did this.

The title of the CD itself, More Preludes to Chopin, refers to the general custom of preluding mentioned above.

Chopin’s Preludes were not intended as isolated pieces, nor to be played as a complete set, but to be used as preludes

or introductions to longer works. They are treated as such here, with one exception (discussed below). In Chopin’s

day, and for a century or so thereafter, pianists would perform a prelude before each concert item. Chopin’s

wonderful set of 24 Preludes, op. 28, gives an example in every key for exactly that purpose.

The preludes were designed to attract the audience’s attention (concert audiences could be a chatty and distracted

world-wide by Deutsche Welle Channel. He is a familiar artist on BBC Radio 3, Radio 4 and the World Service,

and a keen communicator, enthusiastically promoting the understanding and appreciation of music. His most recent

BBC Radio 3 broadcast, in the series The Essay: My Life in Music, was described by Sir Nicholas Kenyon in The

Observer as “Revelatory […] touching […] a personal story of loss and death that reaches out from the radio. That

is what broadcasting is all about.“

Impatient with many of the tediously elitist formalities of the classical concert world, Hamilton enjoys addressing

his audiences directly from the concert platform, informally presenting his programmes “with energy and wit”

(Anthony Tomassini, New York Times). During his student days he supplemented his income by improvising in

cocktail bars and for ballet companies. The former taught him about melodic projection, and the latter about

rhythmic flexibility. Away from the keyboard, alas, his singing and dancing remains atrocious.

His recordings for the Prima Facie label: Volumes 1 and 2 of Kenneth Hamilton Plays Ronald Stevenson, Back

to Bach: Tributes and Transcriptions by Liszt, Rachmaninov and Busoni, and Preludes to Chopin have enjoyed

outstanding reviews: “played with understanding and brilliance” (Andrew McGregor, BBC Radio 3 Record

Review); “an unmissable disk […]; fascinating music presented with power, passion and precision” (Colin Clarke,

Fanfare); “precise control and brilliance” (Andrew Clements, The Guardian); “thrilling” (Jeremy Nicholas,

Gramophone); and “a gorgeous recording and excellent performance” (Jack Sullivan, American Record Guide).

Hamilton’s most recent release, before the present disc, was the first recording of John Casken’s Six Wooded Pieces

on the CD Stolen Airs.

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The Ballade in g minor is, therefore, telling us some sort of story. In fact, the opening theme–preceded by a short

“pay attention!” introductory passage–features a series of harp-like sweeps, as if some imaginary bard is

accompanying himself as he sings his epic tale. Extensions of this theme lead via a passage of increasing agitation

to an outstandingly lovely outpouring of song in Eb major, one of Chopin’s most unforgettably touching tunes.

These two melodies provide most of the material for the rest of the Ballade.

Analytically minded listeners will notice strong resemblances in the opening pages of the first Ballade to the

exposition of a sonata, namely the broad contrast of two distinct themes and key areas. Nevertheless, similarities to

sonata form become less obvious as the piece progresses–at least in terms of tonal structure. The impassioned central

section could indeed be thought of as the “development” of a sonata, but if so, the second theme definitely returns

in the “wrong” key (Eb major, whereas in a sonata we would normally find G), and the focus of the Ballade’s final

pages is not the expected recapitulation of the first theme, but rather a tragically tumultuous coda. This is,

admittedly, actually in the “right” key–the tonic g minor–but mostly uses new material. The whole approach is

stunningly powerful, and resolutely unconventional.

Less analytical listeners will not lose anything at all if they completely ignore the paragraph above, and simply

enjoy the music. Were arcane knowledge of complex key schemes necessary to understand Chopin, then he would

be utterly, and rightly, forgotten.

Notes by Kenneth Hamilton

Kenneth Hamilton

Described by the Moscow Kommersant as “an outstanding virtuosoone of the finest players of his generation”, by

the Singapore Straits Times as “a formidable virtuoso,” and by Tom Service in the Guardian as “pianist, author,

lecturer and all-round virtuoso”, Kenneth Hamilton performs internationally as a recitalist and concerto soloist. He

is also well-known as a recording artist and writer. His CDs have attracted critical acclaim and a large number of

listeners worldwide; his award-winning book, the Classical music best-seller After the Golden Age: Romantic

Pianism and Modern Performance (Oxford University Press), was welcomed as “full of wit and interest, and written

with passion” by Charles Rosen (Times Literary Supplement), and as a “deft and sympathetic account of the old

school virtuosos” by Alex Ross (The New Yorker).

Hamilton is deeply grateful for his pianistic training in Scotland with Lawrence Glover and Ronald Stevenson,

experience that later informed his recordings of Stevenson’s music. He has appeared frequently on radio and

television in Britain, the US, Germany, France, Canada, Australia, Turkey, Singapore, Thailand, China and Russia,

including a performance of Chopin’s first piano concerto with the Istanbul Chamber Orchestra on Turkish

Television, and a dual role as pianist and presenter for the television programme Mendelssohn in Scotland, broadcast

bunch in the 19th century), to prepare the key and complement the mood of the piece to come, and (in an age of

unreliable instruments) to test out the piano. I’ve modified this approach a little–by, for example, taking a more

liberal attitude to the tonal relationships between prelude and subsequent piece than was common in the 19th

century, but I have adhered to the introductory spirit of the earlier practice, either by anticipating the mood of the

subsequent piece (for instance, the elegantly lyrical Bb major Prelude is followed by the equally songful Nocturne

op. 9.no. 2) or by setting up a direct challenge to it (the wildly passionate bb minor Prelude is followed by the

consolatory Nocturne op. 55 no. 2). The one exception is the famous “Raindrop Prelude”, op. 28 no. 15, presented

at the centre of the CD as an independent piece. This, in my view, is the only prelude in the entire set of 24 that is

of an expansiveness to justify such treatment.

Although Chopin never indicated which specific pieces his preludes might be paired with, some preludes have

such a strong similarity with the opening of other pieces in the same key that they seem destined to be together.

This is especially true of the Prelude in f# minor and Polonaise in f# minor, which will appear in the third and final

volume of this CD cycle, and of the Prelude in c minor and Nocturne in c minor, which begins the present disk. In

fact, the latter two pieces are so self-evidently “twins” that they were often paired by 19th- century pianists. Other

similarities are difficult to ignore: the mediant harmonies of the E-major prelude directly foreshadow those of the

opening of the Polonaise-Fantasy, the harmonic sideslips of the Bb-major Prelude are akin to those used in

transition passage of the Nocturne op. 9 no. 2, and the intense lamenting of the e-minor Prelude seems to be a

perfect preface to the sorrowfully resigned lilt of the a-minor waltz. Listeners might reasonably point out that by

adding yet another prelude to the “preludial” introduction I have already included with the op. 9 no. 2 Nocturne

(mentioned above), I have basically produced a prelude to a prelude. But although this practice might seem oddly

redundant to us, it was common in Chopin’s musical world, and does have (I think) a piquantly charming effect.

And now a little more on the pieces themselves: The title “nocturne”–literally “night-piece”– was first used by

the erratically talented but consistently inebriated Irish pianist-composer John Field to describe short lyrical pieces

of subdued mood. Chopin was a committed admirer of Field’s music, and he proceeded to adopt his style with even

greater harmonic daring and a much more fertile melodic imagination. The earliest Chopin nocturnes, especially the

famous op. 9 no. 2, are obviously derived from Field in texture and atmosphere, but the later pieces depart

significantly from their model in complexity, subtlety and sophistication. For that reason, the profusion of

ornamentation considered appropriate by the composer to the op. 9 no. 2 Nocturne would be out of place in the

sensuous “duet” Nocturne op. 55 no. 2.

The powerfully dramatic nocturne op. 48 no. 1 is easily the most magnificent of Chopin’s works in the genre.

Although it is in a simple three-part form, the range of emotion and the implied narrative elements break all

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sequel presenting two themes–one angular, the other gracious–with a polonaise accompaniment, a contemplative

nocturne/barcarolle episode, and a swaggering finale that transforms the nocturne tune into an almost bombastic

French grand opera chorus. But Chopin deliberately blurs the edges of this straightforward outline by the recall of

the opening improvisation before the nocturne/barcarolle has come to a close, and by the sudden, whimsical intrusion

of a more tranquil passage into the polonaise section’s stormy development. The final surprise is the brusque

fortissimo chord that closes the piece, just as we think the music is winding down to a quiet conclusion.

The Variations on a theme from Ludovic by Hérold and Halevy is a completely different type of “fantasy” (as such

variations on opera airs were sometimes called): a sparkling piece on a then-popular tune, in the standard style of the

1830s. Nevertheless, it does have a few jeweled features that are decidedly Chopinesque, not least the delicate

restraint of the virtuoso passages (Chopin never goes completely over the top, as Liszt sometimes does), a nocturne-

like slow variation, and a finale imitating the Krakowiak, a syncopated Polish dance. Ironically, although Chopin’s

Variations are (obviously) still played today, Ludovic itself is utterly forgotten, as is the actual song that Chopin used,

“Je vends les Scapulaires” (“I sell (ecclesiastical) vestments”–not exactly a catchy text). Liszt himself once heard

Chopin play the Variations in a Parisian salon. He recalled: “Such a poetic temperament as Chopin’s never existed,

nor have I ever heard such delicacy and refinement of playing. The tone, though small, was absolutely beyond

criticism, and although his execution was not powerful, nor by any means fitted for a larger concert hall, it was still

perfect in the extreme.” I have prefaced the Variations with the rippling Prelude in F-major, and also added a brief,

decorative transition passage of my own at the fermata (pause) of the slow variation, as would have been expected.

Although the Ballade–a strophic narration set to music–was a staple of the operatic world of Chopin’s era, it was

he who first had the idea of writing Ballades “without words” for piano. Parisian audiences would have been

especially familiar with sung ballades such as that from Meyerbeer’s hit-opera Robert le Diable (1831), which

desperately tries to make comprehensible the convoluted background of its ridiculous plot. Although some sort of

broad narrative seems to lie behind each of Chopin’s ballades, and although the writings of the Polish poet Adam

Mickiewicz have been shown (by Jonathan Bellman) to have influenced at least one of them, Chopin never

mentioned any detailed programme as the source of his inspiration. This is all the more noteworthy in that his era

abounded in programme music, from Berlioz’s Symphonie Fantastique, with its autobiographical preface in purple

prose, to Alkan’s admirably detailed piano etude “Conflagration at the Neighbouring Village”, which even includes

a passage depicting the welcome arrival of the fire brigade. The reticent Chopin recoiled from such

cinematicallyspecific stories; listeners to his ballades are instead left to construct a plot for themselves. We can say,

however, that the tales are mostly tragic, for only the third Ballade ends in anything other than despair.

expected boundaries and encroach on the world of the ballade, or even of the operatic scene. We first hear a noble,

contemplative melody in the minor key, strongly recalling the arias of Bellini. (Chopin’s student Wilhelm von

Lenz, cited above, gave a detailed account of Chopin’s advice on the performance of part of this theme–I’ve tried

to keep this in mind here.) The contrasting central section is of genuinely bardic scope and grandeur, with a new

major-key theme in widely spread arpeggiated chords sounding like a chorus singing to harp accompaniment. As

the tale grows more triumphant, the tune alternates with defiant cascades of double octaves–an assertive, virtuosic,

and utterly unexpected passage in a nocturne. The tragic return of the opening minor-key melody springs another

surprise. Instead of a straightforward repeat, Chopin combines the tune at double speed with an agitated chordal

accompaniment in triplets, as if composure has now toppled headlong into outright despair. The piece has always

reminded me of an operatic hero contemplating his impending execution, like a premonition of the last act of

Puccini’s Tosca.

The two waltzes are completely contrasting in character. The a minor, op. 34 no. 2, was erroneously published

as a “brilliant” waltz. It is far from brilliant, but ruminative, haunting and melancholic, with a brief hint of a smile

towards the end. The well-known op. 64 no. 2 is a memorably quirky piece that seems to want to become a

mazurka–or at least, the sporadic emphases on the second and third beats of the bar in the opening theme strongly

give this impression–and I’ve accordingly played the relevant passages with this idea in mind. I’ve prefaced this

waltz with the equally quirky and volatile c#-minor Prelude.

The Polonaise-Fantasy is Chopin’s last major work for piano solo, and one that many of his contemporaries

found especially difficult to comprehend, owing to its sudden changes of mood and complex chromaticism. With

hindsight, we can see the former as an attempt to emulate the capriciousness of an improvised fantasy, and the

latter as foreshadowing many of the futuristic harmonic traits of Liszt and Wagner. Ironically, Liszt himself found

the Polonaise-Fantasy a hard nut to crack. In old age he wrote:

“In 1849 I did not yet understand the intimate beauty of the last works of Chopin, the Polonaise-Fantasie and

the Barcaroll–and had some reservations regarding their morbid tone. Now, I admire them totally–despite the

pedantry of a few cloth-eared critics who fail to appreciate them. […] They are not only very remarkable, but also

very melodious, nobly inspired, and artistically proportioned, in all respects on a level with the enchanting genius

of Chopin. No-one else should be compared with him–he shines alone and unique in the artistic heavens. His

emotions, grace, grief, power, and transports are unique to himself. He is a divine aristocrat, a feminine archangel

with prismatic wings! Forgive me for expressing my thoughts in so bizarre a manner.”

Chopin had initially intended simply to call the piece “Fantasy for Piano”, before he added a polonaise rhythm

to the main theme and reflected this in the change of title. For all its subtle sophistication, the piece falls easily

into four main sections: a hazily atmospheric opening segment designed to suggest improvisation, a vigorous

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