Appreciation 'For legions of his admirers, Brendel was the pianist of pianists'

Martin Kettle pays tribute to a great musician, a man of sense and wide sensibilities, who died this week aged 94.

- Martin Kettle

Alfred Brendel would have scorned the suggestion he was the world's leading pianist. He would have dismissed such an accolade as banal and ignorant. He would, of course, have been right. Piano playing, he once said, was never sufficient, even when it was faultless.

Yet, for a generation of musicians, especially in Britain where he lived the second half of his long life, this dismissal of his own greatness could itself be seen as false modesty. When the Royal Festival Hall, still at that time London's most cherished classical music large venue, reopened after a long renovation in 2007, the choice of its first recitalist was obvious.

For his legions of admirers, Brendel was always the one. He was the pianist whose recitals they would never miss. He was the one whose recordings they felt came closest to definitiveness, and he was the artist whose performance level seemed unmatched in its objectivity, balance and colours, its seriousness and its depth. For the listeners of his era, he was, quite simply, the pianist of pianists.

Brendel, who died this week at his London home at the age of 94, was never best known for his piano pyrotechnics. In performance, he eschewed glitz. While some keyboard virtuosi of earlier times have been noted for their mannerisms - Horowitz wiping the piano keys with his handkerchief in mid-performance, Rubinstein playing to the gallery with his exaggerated arm movements - Brendel was straight-backed, concentrated and almost severe.