Thirty years ago, when I was an awkward teenager, my music teacher told me that there were three great pianists in the world: Michelangeli, Sviatoslav Richter and Annie Fischer.
Miss Christine Drury, a fine pianist herself, was not liked by fellow staff or pupils. But I warmed to her and adopted her opinions as my own. Arthur Rubinstein was a mechanicus, grinding his way through the repertoire. Neither of us had heard Alfred Brendel or Wilhelm Kempff produce a good sound. Horowitz was just a joke.
Miss Drury left the school, although I saw her from time to time. In…
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