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A tribute to pianist Alfred Brendel (1931–2025), celebrating not only his legendary musical legacy but also his incisive, absurdist poetry that skewered concert etiquette, musical dogma, and the human condition with equal flair.
Alfred Brendel, widely considered “one of the greatest pianists of all time”, died last week at the age of 94. He had played his last public concert in 2008. I consider myself fortunate to have heard him perform several times during my years in England before this.
I remember being intrigued to find, in addition to his recordings, his many books on sale before the concerts and during the interval. This is how I learnt that “next to music, literature is Brendel’s second life and occupation.” At the time, my job required me to move every year or less from one poky accommodation to another, so I had to be careful to keep my possessions under control. Luckily, wherever I went, the council libraries were well-stocked, and even if they didn’t have the latest releases, one could requisition them—and they would be procured very quickly.
I remember ordering Brendel’s One Finger Too Many from my local library soon after it was in print. I found his witty, wickedly funny and often also simultaneously profound poetry in a class by itself. His zany brand of humour was something I had not imagined, judging from his stage presence as a respected pianist. The poems were translations from the original German, and I was able to enjoy them in both languages. It was interesting to observe how the translations (by Richard Stokes), rather than being literal, took artistic liberties in order to retain the essence of the poems in English.
Playing the Human Game (Phaidon Press, 2011) is another compilation of Brendel’s poems. They can be savoured on their own, but quite a few of them make references to earlier poems in One Finger Too Many. For instance, Brendel makes a wry comment about what a performer has to endure when we are introduced in One Finger Too Many to the Coughers and Clappers in “The Poet of the Keyboard”:
“No one / ever dared open the windows / Fresh air / might harm the poetry / the music’s aroma / to be savoured undiluted / by ears flared like nostrils / craving nuances previously unfathomed.
But not mocked as viciously as the coughers and sneezers – to be found at all performances: / Attempts by unfeeling artists or impresarios / to question such privileges / have led to a Coughers and Clappers initiative / Members are required to applaud / immediately after sublime codas / and cough distinctly / during expressive silences”
In Playing the Human Game, we hear of the Coughers and Clappers again:
“The Coughers of Cologne / have joined forces with the Cologne Clappers / and established a Cough and Clap Society / a non-profit-making organisation / whose aim it is / to guarantee each concert-goer’s right / to cough and applaud.
Distinct coughing is of paramount importance; / to stifle or muffle it / forbidden on pain of expulsion / Coughers of outstanding tenacity / are awarded the Coughing Rhinemaiden / a handsome if slightly baroque appendage / to be worn dangling from the neck.
The C&C’s recent merger / with the New York Sneezers / and the London Whistlers / raises high hopes / for Cologne’s musical future.”
He can be self-deprecating while being funny, as in My Twin (from One Finger Too Many):
“My twin / if I had one / identical or doppelgänger / confusingly alike / my twin or mirror image
Could make life easier for me / joking on TV / putting up with draughts / lugging books about / cooking // practising.
In exchange / he could acknowledge applause / reap rewards titles decorations / be recognised in the street / charm ladies / smile coyly / or exude optimism.
One would need / to keep him happy though / lest he steal my socks / overdraw my account / blurt out my secrets / or even try his hands at Beethoven sonatas
Heaven forbid / he might even / drive people like me / out of business.”
His shorter poems appeal more to me. Take Brahms (I), for instance:
“When at dead of night the ghost appears / and starts prowling round the piano / then we know / Brahms has arrived.
It wouldn’t be quite so bad / if his cigar smell / didn’t stink out the music room for days on end.
Even worse though / is his piano playing / This wading through chords and double octaves /
wakes even the children from their deep sleep / ‘Not Brahms again’, they wail / and stop their ears.
Out of tune and smoking / the piano stands there / when Brahms gets up / ‘Brahms’ he says several times / in a plaintive tenor / before leaving through the kitchen door.”
He makes a reference to another of his books (Cursing Bagels, 2004) in the poem titled Beethoven:
“In the hereafter / we can make up / for all we missed in life.
Beethoven for example / can be retrieved / as a baker
With his customary fury / he hurls his dough into the oven
The resemblance of his sonata to pretzels / was first remarked upon by Tovey
but it was Schenker’s acute ear / that perceived the late bagatelles / as poppy-seed cake
The deceased master’s most recent composition / his ‘Cursing Bagels’ / curse / when you sink your teeth into them.”
Brendel, among other things, seems to be making a dig at musical analysis here; Donald Tovey and Heinrich Schenker were noted musical analysts and theorists.
He loves wordplay as well. In the above poem, bagatelles are compared with bagels. In another poem, when writing about ‘piano devils’, he gives one the name Stechbein, which is the reputed piano firm Bechstein in scrambled form. He has a field day with Steinway as well. Its first part means “stone” in German, so there are references to “stony path” (“Steinweg” in the original German) in one poem. In scrambled form, it gets transformed into Weinstay, a drink that the piano devils love to get intoxicated with on Sundays.
His biting (there are several references to biting and being bitten in his poems) humour can have a dark side too. I’ll leave you with his poem Everything (II), a sober comment on the times we live in and our unquenchable thirst for retribution:
“We’re everything / We’re against everything / Everything must end in the end
The beginning of the end / must be a new beginning / the beginning of a new end /
we fervently long to begin.
No we don’t want a new end / Our beginning / does not end
What it in the end begins / is final
No we don’t want a new beginning / but what we do want / is to kill”
This article first appeared in The Navhind Times, Goa, India.
Source:https://serenademagazine.com/alfred-brendel-playing-the-human-game-with-wit-and-wisdom/