Cover story:
Niccolò Paganini
What was it about the violinist that so astounded his audiences? Julian Haylock explores a phenomenon
PAGANINI’S MUSIC sat at the cutting edge of what was then considered physically possible, embracing groundbreaking techniques in dazzling combinations that left onlookers bewildered. Among the most visually striking of his techniques was a ricochet bow-stroke caused by striking the strings and controlling the resulting energy as a series of rapid, bounced notes in the same bow. Another was a high-velocity, left-hand pizzicato in which the note you hear is plucked by the spare finger above, interspersed with ‘thrown’ bow strokes. His most theatrical stunt was to dazzle an audience with a piece on all four strings, then reduce the available number with the aid of a pair of scissors until all was left was the lowest (G), on which to perform his high-wire musical antics.
Difficult though it is to believe today, Paganini’s revelling in ghostly multiple harmonics – a glassy sound created by touching the strings very gently – sent members of his admiring audiences into a swooning feint. Other specialities included quick-fire chains of thirds, sixths, octaves and finger-stretching tenths in an upward and (even trickier) downward direction, playing a melody with one finger while the others fluttered an accompaniment around it at the same time, and emulating other instruments (especially horns and flutes) and in one particular case (Il Fandango Spanola) farmyard animals.
So novel were some of his technical effects that Paganini kept a unique set of orchestral parts for his concertos, handed them out for rehearsals and then collected them back afterwards for fear that someone might discover his secrets. In the case of his First (D major) Concerto, he cast the accompaniment in E flat, then matched it by tuning his violin up a semi-tone to enhance the brilliance and clarity of his sound due to the tighter strings.
He meanwhile turned the world of musical semantics inside-out by ruminating on slow, cantabile melodies with nerve-shredding intensity, whilst making even the most fiendishly intricate passages appear effortless. It was this tantalising combination of burning heat and ice cool during his 1829 Berlin debut that inspired the poet and music critic Ludwig Rellstab to reflect: ‘Never in my whole life have I heard an instrument weep like that… I never knew that music contained such sounds! He spoke, he wept, he sang! Paganini is the incarnation of desire, scorn, madness and burning pain.’
Paganini was born with a unique musical talent and a profound sense of his own destiny. Such was his astonishing rate of progress – based on 12 hours-a-day practice – that even the finest teachers in his native Genoa were at a loss to know how to tame his firebrand natural facility. ‘His principles often seemed unnatural to me,’ despaired Paganini of renowned violinist Antonio Cervetto, ‘and I felt no inclination to adopt his style of bowing.’ As a result, he left home in his mid-teens seeking expert help from the cream of European pedagogues, including the
legendary Rodolphe Kreutzer. Yet it was largely the same story – so unconventional was his genius that traditional teaching methods were rendered virtually useless.
Part of Paganini’s performing allure was his distinctive playing stance. His bowing elbow was kept unusually close to the body, so that most of his bow strokes were activated by the right wrist and fingers rather than the full arm. His left hand was if anything even more peculiar in that it boasted unusually long third and fourth fingers and, due to his suffering from Ehlers-danlos Syndrome, was infinitely flexible. This helped him negotiate not only spectacularly wide intervals and awkward displacements, but also rendered position-changing up and down the finger-board virtually unnecessary. Little wonder that as early as 1813, following his Milan debut, a visiting Leipzig critic reported: ‘Paganini is without doubt the foremost and greatest violinist in the world. His playing is truly inexplicable. He performs certain passages, leaps and double-stops that have never been heard from any violinist.’
Such a gift required music of a highly specialised nature to help Paganini fulfil his potential, so taking Rossini as his stylistic mentor, he began composing pieces designed to stretch the violin’s expressive and technical capabilities to their outer limits. Yet underlying even the most fiendishly complex figurations was a profound instinct for singable melody in the Italian tradition. This gave his music an expressive narrative that combined with Paganini’s theatrical on-stage persona to create the impression of a drama unfolding in the commedia dell’arte tradition. No wonder his appeal, which paved the way for the modern deification of rock stars, crossed all social barriers, from lowly, back-street dwellers to crowned heads of Europe. As composer Giacomo Meyerbeer (who knew a thing or two about opera) memorably put it: ‘Paganini begins where our reason stops.’
Most notable of Paganini’s works was an iconic set of 24 solo violin Caprices that at the time redefined instrumental virtuosity. Schumann remarked ‘they contain many pure and precious qualities’ and went on to compose two sets of concert piano studies based on them, alongside a complete set of piano accompaniments. Liszt, who also produced a set of ‘Paganini’ Etudes, was in awe of the Italian, and even the difficult-to-please Berlioz conceded that his melodies are ‘full of passionate ardour, found only on the best pages of his country’s composers.’ And this was only the beginning. The main theme of Paganini’s indelible 24th Caprice inspired several sets of further variations, most famously those by Brahms (two books of finger-crippling prestidigitation for solo piano), Rachmaninov (his Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini for piano and orchestra), Lutos awski (Variations on a Theme of Paganini for two pianos) and Andrew Lloyd Webber – a set of variations in a dazzling array of popular idioms, composed for his cellist brother, Julian.
That said, Paganini was also a born performer who knew exactly how to showcase his talent to produce the maximum impact. As if his actual playing wasn’t enough, he created an on-stage persona designed to inspire gasps of disbelief before he had even played a note. Tapping into the popular public psyche, he presented himself as a musical apparition, floating onto the stage cloaked entirely in black, looking intentionally dishevelled, unshaven, long-maned and painfully thin (the result of contracting syphilis).
He stood determinedly with his shoulders mis-aligned, one leg slightly raised, which would occasionally stamp along with the music to keep the orchestra in time, while his face appeared mildly distorted due to a botched operation that had left him without any teeth. Little wonder
‘Paganini performs passages that have never been heard from any violinist’
that he seemed barely human and sparked off wild rumours about his being a Devil worshipper. Additionally, many onlookers claimed to have experienced a strange sense of being held in his power as if by some mystical force – what Paganini himself referred to as an electrical surge that flowed through him and galvanised his audiences. Seeing him in action felt like the embodiment of the supernatural forces unleashed in countless popular Gothic horror stories of the period.
Another important element in Paganini’s on-stage potency was his irresistible animal magnetism – he reputedly possessed an insatiable libido – which inspired a veritable catalogue of sexually-charged metaphors (‘heaving’, ‘panting’ and ‘surging’ were especially popular) from those trying to convey the impact of his playing in print. Even in death the theatricals continued. Having not received the final sacrament and bearing in mind his ‘diabolical’ reputation, Paganini’s corpse was initially deposited in a cellar in Nizza (now Nice) until in
1845 his formal interment was officially authorised. Some 30 years later, his remains were moved to Parma by his descendants, who then had them reinterred in 1896 in a new local cemetery, the Della Villetta.
This is a rare case of the truth being stranger than fiction – the
(mostly) spurious goings-on in Franz Lehár’s eponymous 1925 operetta and the British filmed musical The Magic Bow (1946) are far less sensational and gripping than the real thing. This is borne out by the Liverpool critic who in 1832 reported ‘You draw a deep breath after he has departed and ask yourself if what you have just seen and heard be not a dream.’
Yet perhaps the most surprising fact about this most iconic of all instrumentalists is that Paganini was nearly 46 before making his European debut outside Italy – an 1828 concert in Vienna that made such an impact the Emperor presented him with the honorary title of Court Virtuoso. His 1831 Paris debut was greeted by cries of swooning ecstasy, not least from Liszt – ‘What a man! What a violin! What an artist! What sufferings, what misery, what torture in those four strings!’ the Hungarian cried in adulation, and henceforth determined to become the ‘Paganini of the piano’. In his influential Journal des débats, French musicologist and critic Castil-blaze reflected ‘if he had played his violin like that 200 years ago, he would have been burned as a magician.’ Yet just three years later, having achieved unprecedented celebrity and notoriety in Great Britain (see p34), his glory days were effectively over as continuing illhealth began sapping away at his executant powers. However, as a result of Paganini’s tantalisingly brief yet crucial period in the European spotlight, music would never quite be the same again.