Freddy Kempf
Frederic Chopin: Four Ballades: G minor, Op. 23; F major, Op. 38; A flat major, Op.
47; F minor, Op. 52
Grande Polonaise, Op. 22; Polonaise-Fantasie, Op.
That particular brightness of period instruments catches the ear.
61; “Fantasie-Impromptu”, Op. 66
Freddy Kempf, piano
Recorded July 2000, Nybrokajen 11, Stockholm
BIS CD 1160 [61:28]
There’s something almost electric about hearing these early Chopin recordings from Freddy Kempf—an artist just stepping into the spotlight, fingers still learning the full weight of memory and meaning. The technical prowess is undeniable—every arpeggio and run executed with a precision that borders on military drill.
Kempf’s Chopin, as captured here, feels lithe and balletic, which is to say the music dances rather than debates. It’s a youthful Chopin, all bravura flash and nimble articulation, less the introspective poet and more the confident showman in full flight. Take the Ballade in G minor, Op.
23. Kempf approaches it with a kind of operatic sweep that’s both arresting and a little unsettling. The melody floats freely, but the dramatic tension—a sine qua non in this piece—is somewhat diffused.
Instead of the tempestuous ebb and swell that one might expect, Kempf offers a narrative that’s more linear, less volatile. That said, the phrasing is bold, arresting even. One senses a young lion making its mark, yet still learning the art of controlled ferocity.
His rubato here is natural, never forced or exaggerated, which lends a human breath to the realization. It avoids the theatrical excesses that can plague Chopin interpretations but occasionally risks sounding a touch too measured—almost as if holding back a storm rather than unleashing it. The Ballade’s climaxes, while cleanly executed, lack—if I may—just that extra drop of emotional wildness that turns a fine reading into something unforgettable.
Moving on to the Grande Polonaise Op. 22 and the Polonaise-Fantasie Op. 61, Kempf’s fingers sing with crystalline clarity.
His execution is immaculate, every note sharply defined, every chord struck with a clarity that immediately recalls Horowitz’s transcendental touch. Yet, while the technique is there in full bloom, the poetry—Wilhelm Kempff’s fluidity, say, or Horowitz’s impassioned abandon—is only glimpsed in moments. The Polonaise-Fantasie especially calls for a certain mystery, a twilight shimmer that Kempf hints at but never fully conjures.
Now, the Four Ballades as a cycle—this is where I felt Kempf’s interpretation both shines and falters. The Op. 38 in F major and Op.
47 in A flat major are played with thoughtful quietude and a sense of structural coherence. The transitions between sections are clean and logical, yet the emotional volatility that — Chopin’s Ballades require—a mix of lyricism, fury, and melancholy—never quite sears through the surface. Kempf’s playing is like polished crystal: it reflects light beautifully but sometimes feels just a little too pristine, lacking the grit that gives Chopin his characteristic bite.
The Fantasie-Impromptu, Op. 66, is a highlight for sheer technical display. His fingers race over the keys with a precision that is thrilling—notes articulated so cleanly they seem to shimmer.
Yet here too, the lyrical undercurrent—the wistfulness beneath the virtuosic surface—feels slightly undercooked. Kempf is clearly in command of the instrument, but the intimate, almost secretive melancholy that makes this piece so haunting feels just out of reach. What emerges overall is a portrait of a prodigy with colossal potential.
Kempf’s playing bristles with energy and intent, his articulation crisp, his dynamic contrasts broad and effective. Yet this is Chopin through the lens of a young man still discovering the depths beneath the surface glitter. There’s a certain bravado—almost a cavalry charge—in his fingerwork, which can sometimes overshadow the music’s deeper emotional currents.
Given time, and with more lived experience to inflect his interpretations, Kempf will surely deepen his readings. For now, these recordings offer a fascinating snapshot of a formidable talent at the beginning of his journey—dazzling, disciplined, and — well — never less than engaging. In sum: a recital of impressive skill and thoughtful if somewhat untempered insight.
Not the final word on Chopin from Freddy Kempf, but certainly a compelling opening chapter. One listens with admiration—and an eager anticipation for what comes next.
