Pierre-Laurent Aimard is justifiably celebrated for the range and enterprise of his repertoire, from tradition to innovation, from, say, Beethoven to Messiaen, Boulez and Ligeti, and with a speciality in Debussy and Ravel. His style is immediately recognised, not through idiosyncrasy but through an iron discipline, the rigour associated with the French ecole severe.
But when it comes to Bach, he poses more questions than he answers. Not surprisingly 'the father of all music has provoked widely, indeed violently opposed theories regarding performance. Intolerance is at a premium provoking remark such as ' you play Bach your way, and I'll play Bach his way.'(Landowska) Yet such is his unique stature that there can never be one way, or 'Bach's way.' And returning to recordings, whether early and celebrated or more recently for discussion, you are lost in wonder at the infinite variety of approaches and determinedly held attitudes associated with music of a tireless and unique status and variety. I recall Roslyn Tureck's recording of the 48, made before 'the high priestess of Bach'( a description more limiting than flattering) changed her playing from illumination to pedantry. 'Why play anything else when there is Bach'(Tureck) suggests that her chosen repertoire was under nourished by contrast. Gould's Bach remains a source of celebration and outrage. Taking everything to extremes he again provoked a vivid response from Landowska regarding his first and legendary recording of the 'Goldberg Variations;' 'I hate it, but it's wonderful.' From Russia there was Samuel Feinberg, and the playing of a free and truly recreative artist as opposed to the greater severity of Sviatoslav Richter. Tatiana Nikolayeva is fondly remembered for her special communicative warmth, and later there was Andras Schiff(with his defiant declaration, 'Bach is the most romantic of all composers'), Ashkenazy and Barenboim, The list will doubtless continue for ever.
In saying this I would like to place Aimard in such a context. His Bach is puzzling largely because it divides theory and practise. Writing his own tribute, he tells of 'infinite variety,' of 'characterization,' and of how each prelude and fugue demands specific interpretive choices of the expressive needs of each piece.' Yet his performances of the 48, with rare exceptions, suggests the opposite, of too little beyond 'clarity is all' rather than 'against dryness'(philosopher and novelist Iris Murdoch). Again, it has been pointed out that forsaking the use of the sustaining pedal, the need for its subtle and discriminating use in Bach, leads to a lack of colour and texture, an absence of a lyricism that lies at the heart of Bach's polyphony. While not looking for a romanticised Bach( or the hyphenated Bach loved by many Russian pianists) Aimard makes you long for a more luxurious less spiky sense of texture or, as one writer put it, 'yes, there is a little play of colour, but blink, and you may have missed it.' How alien he makes Liszt's description of a virtuoso as one 'who breathes the breath of life,' who 'conjures scent and blossom. Bach requires a broad and special notion of virtuosity, of an expression above and beyond correctness. Forceful and direct, Aimard is gnarled and monochrome. Ravel may have commented sarcastically, ' it is sufficient to play my work' having been subjected to a lavishly interpreted performance of his 'Pavane pour une infante defunte,' but he would surely have admitted the limitation of what amounts to a puritanical view of music. Bach should not amount to the equivalent of an academic thesis.
Aimard's approach to Bach is as resolute as it is distinctive and I very much doubt whether he would alter or modify it. He is understandably irritated like many others, by Gould's Bach, by what he sees and hears as an insulting egotism and self-interest. And yet his own approach, while radically different, is limited by its immaculate avoidance of the personal, by its chilling exclusivity. Bach without humanity is not Bach.
Bryce Morrison