PERSPECTIVE — There is a unique satisfaction in uncovering recorded performances that have remained unknown or suppressed for decades and bringing them back into the light. Each rediscovered recording is a missing piece of our cultural history, helping us better understand the artists, traditions, and musical values of the past.
From as far back as 1962, I have enjoyed tracking down, listening to, and broadcasting those sound documents labeled “historic recordings.” Not only 78-rpm discs, classical 45s, and vinyl LPs but also any number of broadcast and private transfers of elusive recordings or live performances outside of commercial contracts. I often captured live performances on cassette tapes, and only in recent years have I had them transferred to the CD medium by companies such as Rhine Classics, Forgotten Records, and St-Laurent Studio where they could be assured a far longer shelf life.
I was not alone in my quest to preserve — and to share — the musical insights and exquisite excitement of talented artists whose style and refined technique virtually embodied “an age” of musical thought and interpretive nuance. I discovered Music Masters on 43rd Street in Manhattan, whose (expensive) selections included transfers of piano masters Josef Hofmann, Jorge Bolet, and Benno Moiseiwitsch and those conductors whose work had merited high value, like Guido Cantelli and Victor de Sabata. Such a specialty shop didn’t really compete with mainstream retailers Sam Goody and The Record Hunter.
Already the notions of “rarity,” “scarcity,” and “unusual artistic merit” buzzed around those sources for the work of cherished artists whom the standard record companies had failed to access, grant permissions, or simply exploit. I recall, many years later into my career as a music critic, asking pianist Leonard Pennario, with his crystalline technique and vast repertoire, why he had recorded no Mozart or Schubert. “Complain to the A&R division of Capitol Records, but damn them all!” stood as his reply.
For this article, I have conferred with experts in the art of restoring and preserving the art of historic musicians in otherwise elusive or suppressed appearances in concert and on records. By no means has my canvas been exhaustive, for hardly a week passes by when Richard Caniell of the Immortal Performances Recorded Music Society, or Pristine Audio, SOMM, or independent music groups such as Marlboro Festival or Music@Menlo do not publish documents from their respective archives, all welcome and greedily consumed by lovers of gifted musicians.
By the late 1960s, pirate recordings were abundant. While the sound quality could often be dubious, the idea of possessing concert performances by Koussevitzky, Rodzinski, Stokowski, Mitropoulos, Celibidache, and Karajan offered a temptation that — to quote Oscar Wilde — could only be overcome by yielding to it.
In 2008, Alain Deguernel founded Forgotten Records, drawing on a rich personal collection of unpublished recordings. The enterprise steadily expanded and now encompasses nearly 2,000 catalog numbers, enabling listeners to discover or rediscover artists from around the world. Since modern recordings have also found their place within the series, more than half a century of musical interpretations — presented within a broad historical perspective — is now available to audiences everywhere.
The success of such an undertaking rests largely on two essential factors: the discernment guiding the selection process and the constant updating demanded by technological advances required for the meticulous restoration of often fragile sound carriers. The effort by Forgotten Records has been a rescue mission for the musical memory of an era, one that uncovers hidden treasures of emotion while making a substantial contribution to knowledge. For my part, it is this latter aspect that I wish to emphasize: an ethical dimension that cannot fail to impress.
Many concert artists have taken a dim view of the recording process. I recall Josef Hofmann’s offhand remark that recordings merely preserve one moment in an ongoing development of creative execution — and thus deny us, if not a progression of artistic evolution, at least the few, otherwise transient moments of their interpretation of a singular piece of music.
Mark Ainley, founder of The Piano Files — about to celebrate its 17th anniversary — maintains a lively enthusiasm for his mission to share his sense of musical discovery: “I get excited that I’m also able to experience something new and exciting — the way I felt when I first discovered these recordings decades ago — and I delight in being able to provide others with the possibility of the same.
“We all expect things to be similar to what we already know (in all areas of our lives), and when we come across something of quality that is so moving, it makes us realize that more is possible — that what we’ve known until now is not the limit. So, in terms of pianists, Marian Filar is an example. Joe Villa and Marcelle Meyer were always the same for me, and many whom I discovered only in the last decade or so, like Victor Schiøler and Muriel Kerr — both astounding and so little known.”
Ainley recently posted a rare sound document from Mieczyslaw Munz (1900-1976), the Polish-born virtuoso and pedagogue whose artistic career, cut short in the 1940s due to problems with his right hand, received scant recognition from the major record labels. As Ainley notes, “Munz’s single official recording is a 10-inch, 78-rpm disc on the Homochord label in 1928 (which was also released on Decca), in which he plays the Scriabin Etude in C-sharp minor, Op. 2, No. 1, and Ravel’s Pièce en forme de Habanera. His playing here is superb: beautiful tonal colors (appreciable despite the age of the recording), impeccable voicing, natural timing, and sumptuous nuancing.”
Ainley’s assessment is a perfect example of the veneration that informs his sense of musical scholarship. The musical public discovers and audits an unearthed treasure set in an academic but accessible context.
The same passion for the possibilities locked in historic performance resounds in the extensive contribution of 78experience.com, the internet address for William St-Laurent’s eponymous label St-Laurent (not to be confused with the famous fashion designer). St-Laurent’s pathway in the music business world follows a trajectory from the 78-rpm acoustical and electrical record media:
“It all started in 2009, when a friend, a conductor and pianist, asked me to transfer a 78-rpm box set of Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherazade conducted by Artur Rodzinski,” St-Laurent said. “And then I experienced a profound shock! How could these grooves contain so much information without anyone having had access to it before? The resurrection of historical recordings happened early in the 33-rpm era. The transfer of the old 78s had to duplicate the comfort the vinyl grooves offered to the listeners and in doing so, flattened the climaxes to avoid distortion, shaved off the harmonics and emasculated the sound itself. Only by recalibrating my settings for each side of the 78s was I able to finally understand why all the historical transfers had never touched or moved me. So much information lies hidden beneath the background noise.”
St-Laurent decided that any kind of “editorial improvement” to the original sound patina only compromised the effect. He abandoned the CD medium per se, intent on establishing his St-Laurent Studio label, in Quebec, devoted to the faithful restoration of rare and historic interpretations, which for him and his clientele delivered generous rewards:
“Recordings on 78 rpm records stand out positively from so many modern recordings. The three-dimensionality of sound has been captured in these grooves. The background noise, present in the material itself, serves as a foundation upon which our sonic perception can quantify and appreciate the interpretive magic. We don’t feel suffocated by this artificial void so often chosen today. Ergo the massive return to 33-rpm records. Another immeasurable advantage of the live recording resides in the fact there is no editing that disrupts the emotional and musical linearity. Everything is risky and happily imperfect. It’s LIVE, ONE TAKE, REAL! No photo-shopping!”
The rationale behind St-Laurent’s studio at 78experience.com, as well as the independent label Rhine Classics — which each offer performances from the past from antique sources but also contemporary live concerts from major musical ensemble archives — raises the issue of copyright and music-union demands. Alain Deguernel at Forgotten Records worries about copyright infringements, limiting their selections to some 70 years prior to the present. St-Laurent and Emilio Pessina (of Rhine Classics) seem less concerned. For my part, I cannot understand the greed of both record companies and symphony organizations, who hoard historic performances and allow them to languish unheard. The players’ unions likewise appear unsympathetic and avaricious, refusing to relinquish their archival material except as radiothon or fund-raising events, as occurred in Chicago and New York.
By sheer serendipity, I wrested an Atlanta Symphony broadcast — already shelved for oblivion — from WABE of the 1987 North American premiere of Reynaldo Hahn’s Violin Concerto with soloist Henryk Szeryng and conductor Louis Lane, now made available on Rhine Classics. I had already made it available on Con Moto, a specialty label of Dimitrios Antsos.
My radio program The Music Treasury, over KZSU-FM, Stanford University (2010-2025), delighted in neglected performances of rarely heard artists and repertoire. When any listener to the program would ask, “Why have I not heard this artist or this piece before?” my heart would dance with joy, feeling that I had avoided anything like “complacency” in my programming.
Each of these commentators and producers has replied more substantially than quoted in my article. I invoke the names of Tully Potter and Mark Obert-Thorn, Thomas L. Clear, Leslie Gerber, Lani Spahr, and Richard Canell of the Immortal Performances Recorded Music Society as another group of tireless devotees of rare and historic performances.
Lance G. Hill’s radio program of a half-century, Music and the Artist, found inspiration in my SUNY Binghamton version of The Music Treasury over WHRW-FM (1966-68; 1970-75). My program on Artur Schnabel induced his phone call to me in 1966 with the query, “Where are you getting your records?” Since then, both as radio host and master piano tuner at SUNY-Binghamton, Hill has remarked on numerous encounters with the young musicians who frequent the rehearsal studios and enjoy.
“How many times I find piano students are either ignorant or totally naïve about performance practice,” Hill said. “For instance, one student is rehearsing Beethoven’s Op. 111, and I remark on the wonderful documents left by Clara Haskil and my own personal favorite, Solomon. ‘Who?’ Time and again, whether a student is a vocalist, pianist, or some other instrumentalist, the conversation proceeds the same way! ‘Who’s Jussi Bjoerling?’ or ‘Toscanini, who?’ So never mind Willem Mengelberg, Thomas Beecham, Nikolai Malko, Yevgeny Mravinsky, or Myra Hess. Their sense of performance practice embraced a world of giants! What you and broadcasters like you are doing becomes very important, if anything like a ‘cultural legacy’ is going to endure. Frankly, it’s sad and a bit scary. All of us are fading away.”
Let us hope not. As the CD medium diminishes at an astounding pace, we collectors will be left with few substantive media that allow for program notes, illustrative booklets, and visual accoutrements to the sound experience. Spotify may serve for the quick music-jolt, but it seems soulless compared to the 78-rpm set, the LP jacket, and the CD jewel-case that complemented the discs whose contents beguiled and educated generations of music lovers.
I recall audio restorer’s Emilio Pessina’s words: “I often feel like a musical archaeologist. I believe we can only build a meaningful future if we remain aware of our past. For this reason, I consider the biographical essays, historical documentation, and rare photographs accompanying each of my releases to be just as important as the recordings themselves. They provide the essential context that allows these performances to be fully understood and appreciated.
“This is also why I remain deeply committed to physical editions. A carefully produced CD or boxed set is far more than a carrier of sound: It is a permanent historical document, preserving stories, images, and knowledge that might otherwise disappear into oblivion in an increasingly ephemeral digital world.”
