Thoughts on Ervin Nyiregyhazi
Lost Genius, Kevin Bazzana’s biography of pianist Ervin Nyiregyhazi, was recently released. It must be quite the popular book, because I had to wait over a month for it to be available at my local library.
Bazzana’s book is not the first to be written about the Hungarian pianist. In 1924, Geza Revesh published The Psychology of a Musical Prodigy, which focused on Nyiregyhazi’s childhood and early gifts. But Bazzana’s book is the first to document the rest of Nyiregyhazi’s life in detail, from the spectacular 1920 Carnegie Hall debut, his early flameout a few years later, and his bizarre resurrection in the 1970s.
During the middle period of his life, previously undocumented, Nyiregyhazi relentlessly indulged dual addictions for alcohol and sex. Aside from composing doggedly old fashioned works with silly titles (Dorian Gray Sonata, Drink is the Curse of the Working Man, Nyiregyhazi versus Killer the Cat), Nyiregyhazi’s activity in the musical community ground to a halt. He did not practice, nor did he even own a piano. The last was understandable because he seldom had a stable residence. Bazzana has chronicled these winter years roughly 1925-1972 (although the pianist did some rewarding work with the WPA in the 1930s) in great detail. Nyiregyhazi married ten times. Although Bazzana mentions all his wives, it’s not easy keeping the chronology in sequence because the author goes back and forth between time periods. Perhaps a chart would have been helpful!
I first heard of Nyiregyhazi while reading a book about this history of Carnegie Hall in 1987, the year the pianist died. There were only the briefest references to the pianist’s Carnegie Hall debut and the “highly eccentric” recordings he made in the 1970s. But I was sufficiently fascinated that when I happened upon his records in a second hand shop in 1989, I purchased them without hesitation.
Listening to Nyiregyhazi compels attention on several levels. First of all, he could play incredibly loud. When the recordings were first released skeptics claimed they had been souped up to make the pianist seem louder. (In fact, they were compressed). Even at full volume, however, the tone is remarkably non-harsh. Nyiregyhazi freely doubles bass notes, so the melody is always floating on a cradle of rumbling lower notes. His tempi are slow (even by today’s standards), and his playing is rhythmically free even when compared to 19th Century pianists such as Hoffman, Rachmaninoff and Paderewski.
But I was also bothered by several factors: there were fistfuls of wrong notes, at times the piano was simply being banged, the pedal was constantly held down. While fascinating to hear, I also felt as if I were watching a train wreck in progress. One just had to get out of the way. Over the years, I’ve returned to those records, and have tried to get my hands on every other Nyiregyhazi recording I could find (there are a number of amateur recordings from private concerts). But I’ve never been able to listen to his playing for more than half an hour without getting a headache.
Bazzana does not pretend to be objective. He believes that Nyiregyhazi belongs in the pantheon of great pianists, and complains that the Hungarian, also a “great pianist,” was not afforded the 1903 centennial celebration that was given to Claudio Arrau, Vladimir Horowitz, and Rudolf Serkin. Bazzana seems to be particularly obsessed with Horowitz, taking trouble to note that Nyiregyhazi was “not very much impressed” with his contemporary and seeming perturbed that Nyiregyhazi perished with a mere $2,000 to his name while Horowitz’s estate was valued at between $6 and $8 million. Horowitz’s opinion of Nyiregyhazi is unknown. Other musicians’ opinions of Nyiregyhazi ranged from “an amateur” (Vladimir Ashkenazy) and “the biggest piece of baloney” (Earl Wild), to “pure expression” (Arnold Schoenberg).
When he reemerged in the 1970s, Nyiregyhazi was touted as a true 19th Century Romantic. But from the recorded evidence of true 19th Century pianists (that is, those born and trained in the 19th Century), it’s likely that his playing would have been controversial even in that freer era.
No doubt, there are compelling factors in Nyiregyhazi’s playing. It’s not just that he can play tremendously loud. There is a desperate need to communicate the pianist’s conception of the music, and on rare occasions, the playing can be lyrically beautiful. In certain works, such as Liszt’s Nuages Gris or the pianist’s arrangement of themes from Wagner’s Rienzi and Lohengrin, everything seems to come together. More often, however, one has to listen through a mosaic of wrong notes to get to Nyiregyhaza’s “message“.
While much has been made of Nyiregyhazi’s treatment by the music industry (in 1925, he was compelled to sue his manager), it becomes apparent reading Bazzana’s book that the main reason for the collapse of Nyiregyhazi’s career was the pianist himself. He was loathe to play standard repertoire, especially in the later years, because he feared comparison with other pianists. The fact that he refused to practice, even when provided with a piano, did not help his playing.
I had the opportunity several years ago to read a photo copy of a letter written by Nyiregyhazi in the 1970s. In it, he lambasted several minority groups in the most offensive language and railed against welfare cheats. He seemed willing to overlook the fact that he spent most of his life sponging off of others. Or perhaps he felt that because of his great gifts was entitled to others‘ help. But it’s not just having talent that makes one great, it’s what is done with the talent. Nyiregyhazi largely wasted it. The loss is his, and ours.
© Hank Drake, 2007
