Over the years, the last bastions of Romantic pianism have been departing, leaving a mere handful of players who, by training or temperament, provide links to late nineteenth century performance practice. The indestructable Earl Wild, of course, has clinched the pennant for the title of "The Last Romantic." A viable contender to the throne, however, has quietly emerged in the form of Italian pianist Sergio Fiorentino, whose recordings and concerts have caused a stir among piano buffs.

Born December 22, 1927 in Naples, Fiorentino entered the San Pietro a Majella Conservatory at the age of nine. His main influences were not his teachers, however, but the great pianists of the day, such as Alfred Cortot, Walter Gieseking, and Edwin Fischer, all of whom he heard in the concert hall.

"Gieseking played an enormous repertoire, including a great deal of contemporary music," the pianist recalled. "Tremendous technique and color, but after the war he wasn't the same. I heard Fischer mostly in chamber music, which was wonderful. And, of course, the records of Cortot and Rachmaninoff made a big impression. Those were everything."

At twenty Fiorentino began his career in earnest, playing recitals throughout the major European capitals and beyond, and amassing a portfolio of awards and critical raves. While touring South America in 1954, though, he sustained injuries in a plane crash, which forced him to withdraw from concertizing. "It was a big setback, yet I was determined to rebuild my technique and play again, more than anything else," he remembers.

Through a combination of excercise and sheer will, Fiorentino made a full recovery in late 1959, and his career was temporarily back on track. He made many records around this time, mostly for small labels. I remember hearing some of these as a teenager: the first LP devoted to Liszt's cryptic late pieces, for instance, and a spacious yet sunny rendition of that composer's first book of Annees de Pelerinage. Never one to bask in the limelight, he eventually decided to focus more on teaching, and returned to his Alma Mater, where he remained as Professor of Piano from 1974 until his retirement in 1993.

During this time the pianist's professional appearances were limited to occasional recitals, chamber music events, and frequent participation on competition juries.

After retiring, however, a series of informal recitals recorded in Germany changed everything. "Someone asked me if they could send the tapes out for possible release. I said yes. The tapes were sent to APR in England, and they liked what they heard."

So did Mark P. Malkovich III, General Director of the Newport Music Festival. On the basis of the APR releases, he invited the pianist to participate in his 1996 festival. It was Fiorentino's first visit to this country since his New York debut thirty-four years earlier. In April 1997 he returned to New York, breaking in Yamaha's new model CFIIIS concert grand in a recital at Lincoln Center.

Asked how he obtains the liquid, unforced sonority he displayed in the Bach-Busoni Toccata and Fugue in D Major which opened that recital, Fiorentino explains that the sound emerges less from the fingers than from the back and upper arms. This allows, he says, for the uncommon ease and fluidity of his octaves. Equally impressive is his effortless traversal of the notorious skips in the coda of the second movement in Schumann's C Major Fantasy. "I used to teach this piece often" he reveals. "When it comes to that passage, the best advice I can give is: don't look at the keys. The music moves so fast that you don't have time to look down."

While Fiorentino is not apt to monkey around with inner voices to the extent of, say, the late Shura Cherkassky, he does not always consider the printed note sacrosanct. "I redistribute some of the passagework in the Busoni transcription for the reason that Bach did not set his organ stops in stone." Listeners will also notice added bass octaves in the slow movement of Chopin's "Funeral March" Sonata. With more classical works, though, the pianist's retouchings are much more discreet, as were Horowitz's.

Before parting company, I learn of one additional link Sergio Fiorentino can claim to nineteenth century pianism--impressive skills as an improvisor. "I'm only a cocktail player," he asserts, apologizing for his English, which is very good and only slightly accented. After our chat, the pianist strolls over to an unoccupied Yamaha and unleashes a ravishing prelude, full of ear-opening modulations and tender chromatic passages. Cocktail music, indeed. A pity I had already packed my tape recorder!




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