Listening to Ballista–Canino, one has the impression that their duo is a miniature orchestra, whether they are playing Stravinsky or interpreting Beethoven.

Years ago, when I heard them for the first time, I had a real coup de foudre: from then on it became a monthly habit for me to listen to the Sacre and Beethoven’s Ninth in their original versions or in the transcriptions performed by the duo (on Amazon in mp3 or on Spotify).

Ballista and Canino have long been among the very few in the world to have in their repertoire Liszt’s transcription for two pianos of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. You will not find it trumpeted to the four winds, nor will you read about it on Wikipedia.

A few quick notes after their concert at MiTo Settembre Musica on 10 September 2020. The opening of the Ninth transcribed by Liszt is dry and concise; it allows us to concentrate on the structure of the score. There are no families of instruments that might enchant listeners with the many colours of their sounds in an attempt to seduce them: here everything is taut muscle, a tingling frenzy from the very first pages, recalling the caged lion’s urge to leap, or the bear described by De Vienney.

Liszt’s “Ninth” has less sonic gigantism than the transcription for solo piano of the Fifth Symphony (here in Glenn Gould’s celebrated interpretation). It seems that the ease of unfolding the orchestral score over two instruments instead of one allows him to take a small step back. In Liszt’s “Ninth” there is all of Beethoven, note for note: Liszt gently takes him by the hand and brings him closer to us, but this time without placing himself in the foreground. All the inner parts are clearly distinguishable in this Ninth, as if Beethoven–Liszt had learned Bach’s lesson, infused it into the orchestra, and then brought it back to the piano (two, in this case).

The Adagio molto (third movement) sounds tonight like a Bach chorale: it is pure, essential song, to the point that one struggles to understand how, for contemporary listeners, Beethoven’s vocal music (which is, after all, one third of his catalogue) could have seemed less successful than his instrumental music. Listening to the Ninth on these two instruments, musical memory undertakes circular journeys, unpredictable short circuits: from the Symphony—always present in a corner of the mind as an image to which one constantly refers—to the transcription for two pianos we are hearing, only to find oneself suddenly in the workshop of the piano sonatas (understanding which pianistic experiences might end up in the orchestral score, and how), and then, after reflecting on the tools placed in the toolbox during the sonata experience, back to the transcription. And this Adagio becomes a Platonic dialogue between the two pianos, pure alchemy, a joint reaching toward the fourth movement, even without superficially perceiving any sharp urgency; there is already something that “pushes and presses” (especially, of course, in “Lo Stesso Tempo”, the final part of this movement), as E.T.A. Hoffmann writes in his review of the Fifth Symphony.