Wim Winters, 2025

‘This evil is caused by the changed times, which want to seize everything on the fly and conquer everything by storm. Where such an attitude is justified, it is quite good and useful, as with railways on which one would like to fly if it were already possible. Nowadays, people rush ahead in many things, and music is no exception to that.' ¹

Gottfried Wilhelm Fink

It's Leipzig, 1839. Gottfried Wilhelm Fink, in the winter of his career, frantically wielded the only weapon at his disposal to halt an evolution in musical performance that he would describe as barbaric The old tradition, that of Vienna from Beethoven's time, in which ‘The characteristic, the expression fired by Truth and Authenticity, the Aesthetic Beauty that sweeps the listener along with his whole being without any attempt to surprise him or impress him through effects, has long since vanished.’ Fink cut through the new reality with surgical precision. Mozart's music was 'ruined' by 'exaggerated tempi' and it wasn't just Mozart: ‘Many have already sacrificed Beethoven's finales to wild exaggerations, without anyone holding them accountable for such childish behavior.’ Something that Beethoven himself couldn't have even done; his generation simply didn't have the technique for it: '…they did not want to wrap Art up solely in rapid runs and overwhelming 'fioritures', as is now possible through improved technical skills and the ease with which one can overcome technical difficulties.’

Fink was not blind to the reason why musicians en masse gave in to this trend. The modern public wanted nothing else. But he placed many musicians in the same light: ‘The vanity of virtuosity has placed itself above everything else.’ Even if the younger generation knew no better: ‘Such things are like a plague: they spread and infect even the healthy. (...) The sense of what is right is lost through this frequently repeated habit... There is no longer a desire to inspire, but only to dazzle, so that the public calls it magic.

Fink's article breathes pent-up frustration, a string of accusations that the author cuts from the musical social fabric without anesthesia and, still gripped by surgical forceps, displays shamelessly to the world. ‘It borders on sheer madness at times, so incomprehensibly wild and barbaric is the way Mozart's works are often treated, spoiling all pleasure while thinking oneself is actually enhancing the enjoyment.

Fink was not alone. As early as 1821, the Quarterly Musical Magazine and Review reported in London that the visit of guest conductor Georg Kiesewetter, recently appointed vice-president of the Vienna Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde and a regular piano partner of Schubert's, had caused a minor shockwave with the London orchestra: Mr. Kiesewetter insisted, during rehearsals of Beethoven's and Haydn's symphonies with the Philharmonic Concert, as we understand it, strongly that they be played more slowly than this orchestra was accustomed to doing (...). A trend that apparently had become widespread in a very short time: (...) we have heard quite elderly but able musicians say that the unbridled drive for speed has become so great of late that even first-rate violinists sometimes get confused if they are not completely familiar with the passage. The solution, according to the author, was to encourage composers to metronome their works. That would, once and for all, put an end to all confusion. Fink had the same idea. He devised a plan to ask old musicians to metronome works by deceased composers. It would ultimately remain a single contribution. But what a contribution! The Prague composer Wenzel Johann Tomaschek (1774-1850), somewhat forgotten today but a titan of the old school in those days, came forward with a complete metronomization of Mozart's Don Giovanni. Tomaschek had, in 1791, heard Don Giovanni in Prague, performed by the same orchestra with which Mozart had premiered his opera. Whether his tempi actually reflect Mozart's or not is irrelevant. What is relevant is that Fink published them as an illustration of how much slower tempi were in the past compared to 1839.

‘Quite right. How much slower... ²

That is particularly strange, because today we read about Tomaschek's tempi that they 'were generally poorly received by academics and conductors, because they do not account for the character and drama of the music... and especially because they are unreasonably fast.' But... did Fink not publish those very figures to demonstrate how much slower Mozart's original was? Were people playing so much faster in 1839 than what is already considered impossible in 2025? That Tomaschek's figures are indeed problematic is proven by the performance Roger Norrington gave of them. Norrington, a well-known advocate for taking tempi according to the indicated metronome markings, takes a slower tempo in no fewer than 27 movements compared to Tomaschek. J.E. Gardiner, who operates entirely on the same line as Norrington, shows the same pattern in his live 1994 performance. And, for those familiar with Gardiner's work, his Don Giovanni is still labeled as breakneck today. But apparently not fast enough for Tomaschek and Fink. As an example: Andante (overture): Gardiner: 80 / Tomaschek: 92.The subsequent allegro molto: Gardiner: 122 / Tomaschek: 132.

The famous canzonetta even nearly half: Gardiner: 50 / Tomaschek: 80

The "slow" Tomaschek tempi for Fink require singers to maintain a constant speed of 6 to 9 syllables per second. For the aria "Mille torbidi pensieri", we are supposed to assume, according to Fink, that the average singer in 1839 had no problem whatsoever with even 11 syllables per second. You can experience this stunt yourself right now: count aloud from 1 to 11. And try to do that within 1 second. And then 20 times in a row. But we're not done yet. Those impossible 11 syllables per second form only the starting point of our problem. If we read Fink literally, we must indeed assume that musicians in 1839 played and sang much faster than this. And not a little bit, given his strong wording. But how could that be? Many people's answer: they played in smaller spaces, smaller orchestras, different instruments,... whereby we simply have to assume that this is sufficient to allow singers in 1839 to comfortably sing up to 15 syllables per second? The same ingredients don't work today either, because we've been playing music from that era in every conceivable historical context for decades. And we accept that our young musicians graduate from conservatory already with chronic injuries. And still it is not enough. Still not fast enough.³

But... didn't Fink publish those same figures to demonstrate how much slower Mozart's original tempo was? Were pieces performed in 1839 at much faster speeds than what is considered impossible in 2025?

That Tomaschek's figures are truly problematic is proven by the performance Roger Norrington gave of them. Norrington, a well-known advocate for taking tempos according to the indicated metronome markings, takes a slower tempo in no fewer than 27 movements compared to Tomaschek's.⁴J.E. Gardiner, who operates entirely along the same lines as Norrington, shows the same pattern in his live performance from 1994. And, for those familiar with Gardiner's work, his Don Giovanni is still labeled as breakneck speed today. Yet apparently not fast enough for Tomaschek and Fink. As an example:

• Andante (overture): Gardiner: 80 / Tomaschek: 92.

• The following allegro molto: Gardiner: 122 / Tomaschek: 132.

• The famous canzonetta almost at half the speed: Gardiner: 50 / Tomaschek: 80

Fink's 'slow' Tomaschek tempos require singers to maintain a constant speed of 6 to 9 syllables per second. For the aria 'Mille torbidi pensieri', we are supposed to assume that the average singer in 1839 had no problem whatsoever with even 11 syllables per second. You can experience this feat yourself right now: count aloud from 1 to 11. And try to do that within 1 second. And then repeat it 20 times in a row.

But we're not done yet. Those impossible 11 syllables per second form only the starting point of our problem. If we read Fink literally, we must indeed assume that musicians in 1839 played and sang much faster than this. And not by a small margin, given his strong wording. But how is that possible? Many people's answer: they played in smaller spaces, smaller orchestras, different instruments... and we're just supposed to assume that this is enough to make singers in 1839 easily sing at 15 syllables per second? The same ingredients don't work today, because we've been playing music from that era in every conceivable historical context for decades. And accepting that our young musicians already come out of conservatory with chronic injuries. And still it's not enough. Still not fast enough.

Adolf Bernard Marx

Yet another final selection from the seemingly endless basket of 19th-century speed warnings. Warnings, not born from some manufactured sense of romanticism—where romantic has apparently become synonymous with slower for the modern speed enthusiast—but from the perspective of authenticity, of how things, even for 19th-century musicians, really were 'back then.' We leave Leipzig and travel to Berlin in 1863, where the still well-known Adolf Bernard Marx (1795-1866) prepares the publication of his book on Beethoven. Marx had previously written for the Berliner Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung. His pieces were appreciated by none other than Beethoven himself. Friends with Mendelssohn and many others, a contemporary of Moscheles and Czerny, he spent his life at the center of music. In 1863, he certainly knew what he was talking about when he wrote that all doubts about the correct tempo'have been eliminated by Mälzel's metronome, with which an absolute measure for a movement can be given.'In 1863, the Italian tempo markings 'have changed their original meaning. The tempo is taken much faster today.' If Italian tempo markings were taken faster in 1863 than, say, in 1825, then the same applies to the metronome markings that are related to them in any case.But how much faster is 'much'? Marx gives us a unique answer to that question, an answer which, given the pen from which it flowed and the complete absurdity it depicts, could have—perhaps even should have—redirected musicologists' focus on a different metronome reading for a century. Writing about the finale of the A major Sonata Op.101, he notes that 'for a trained player it is not impossible to play this passage twice as fast as it actually should be; but can the listeners then still perceive and feel all the voices that form the polyphonic texture?'⁵ Twice as fast as it should be... twice as fast, then, as the metronome markings that, 'as everyone knows,' eliminate all doubt once and for all? And it doesn't stop with just that one sonata. To players who are 'driven by pride,' the following question must be posed: 'If you really,' we must ask them, 'play the Finales of the Sonatas, Op. 26, 27 no. 2, 53, 57, twice as fast as they are actually supposed to be played, do the passages really become more brilliant?' Now I invite the reader to search for these finales on YouTube. And to make use of the option YouTube offers to set the speed to x2. The original tempo need not be checked, though in many cases it will be slower than the markings we have for these sonatas from Czerny, Moscheles, or others. What you then hear is, according to modern musicology, at that doubled speed, with absolute certainty, the result of how Beethoven was played around 1863. The fifteen syllables of Fink evaporate in the radiant heat of the absurdity that emerges here. Where Fink still spoke of barbarous performances on account of exaggerated tempi, we learn from Marx that in certain cases it was actually twice as fast as originally intended. Anyone hearing Lisitsa play the finale of the Moonlight Sonata, Op. 27/2, will immediately realize that she's already at the limit in her version. Let alone being able to double that tempo. But in absurdity, sometimes the solution awakens too. As here. For from the modern tempo, one cannot double. In the cases Marx lists, that's only possible when you start from... half the speed. Let us, by way of conclusion, dwell on that for a moment.

In the book, Fixing the Beethoven Mistake, a Paradigm Shift in Classical Music, which we are currently finishing, several chapters will be devoted to this unstoppable 19th-century evolution that, even today, is still ongoing. The reader will also be able to discover, through a hundred quotations, what the metronome really meant to the 19th-century composer. That the function of the metronome consisted primarily in establishing tempi with absolute precision is a finding that has the force of almost disarming evidence. Yet we no longer see it that way today: the at-first-glance absurd tempi have replaced that original image of exact tempi with abstract figures whose sole purpose could only have been to push musicians toward ever faster tempos. As the well-known conductor Paavo Järvi recently put it in a fine BBC documentary: Beethoven's tempi are so abnormally fast because he foresaw the 'Wagner effect.'

His metronome markings would thus have to be regarded as a visionary and brilliant act of something for which there was no trace whatsoever in his time. This remark fits perfectly with how we view those enigmatic markings today, but seems strange when you plug those words back into the original context. Just with Beethoven alone. The only thing he was truly concerned about was precisely his tempi. Everyone who knew him intimately knew that the question would be the first to come at a visit following attendance at a concert of his music: what were the tempi? Barely four months before his death, the composer of the 9th Symphony wrote this to his publisher Schott:

The metronome markings will be sent to you very soon. Please wait for them. In our age, such indications are certainly necessary. Moreover, I have received letters from Berlin mentioning that the first performance of the Symphony [the 9th] was received with enthusiastic applause, which I attribute largely to the metronome markings.'

We thus see a phenomenon where the metronome was introduced at a moment when tempi were already becoming drastically faster, and composers, including among the greatest, were massively employing the device to establish their ideal tempo. Moving forward in time, we read that performances of (already) old music—a new trend, by the way—were often performed at absurd tempi. With reference to how much slower it was originally.How can we reconcile all this? The solution is simpler than a well-written article deserves just before the climax at the end. So first this: personal experience. On paper, the impossibility of a tempo is hard to demonstrate. Abstract figures say very little. But anyone who can play a bit of piano and wants to experience firsthand how absurd a modern reading of historical metronome markings really is, I recommend pausing the reading, pulling Czerny's famous (or infamous) Opus 299 from the shelf or downloading it—Schule der Geläufigkeit—and playing the first study. It consists of very simple scales in C major, playable sight-read by almost anyone. And then take a metronome or download a metronome app. [half note] = 108 is the goal. That's more than 14 (!) notes per second. The following etudes demand the same speed, some even more. For those approaching this experiment with some skepticism, because we so often hear that these tempi are nothing more than target goals, I like to quote from the original preface. We read along with Czerny:'The following exercises are designed exclusively to develop, increase, and maintain this aspect of virtuosity, provided they are practiced daily as the first thing, in the very fast indicated tempo, with attention to all other rules of beautiful and correct execution, after they have been thoroughly mastered.'⁶ In tempo, then. And, perhaps importantly in light of this article: in repertoire lists from 19th-century piano schools, this etude is assigned as for... beginners. Not a word about unattainable speeds.^th Or, for Bach lovers, play the first invention in C major. Czerny, following the tempi in his own words that Beethoven used, prescribes [quarter note] = 138. For reference: Gustav Leonhardt plays it half as fast. And, another reference: this is almost the same tempo Beethoven gave for the fugue from his Hammerklavier Sonata. Which we consider impossible today.

‘If Czerny isn't sufficient, take a look at composers like Kalkbrenner, Moscheles, Ries, De Méreaux, Alkan, Thalberg, Schumann,... the list is endless. This metronome problem is often reduced to a few Chopin etudes and Beethoven. Reality is different. And larger. Chopin's etudes belong today to the repertoire of top virtuosos for the simple reason that we attempt to perform them at double tempo. Same for Beethoven. But if this music is already problematic in light of their original ideal tempi—which it is—then the problem becomes even more enormous. We may well have forgotten all that insane music that traveling 19th-century virtuosos constantly spewed out and never play it again, but it exists. And in light of that, Chopin is ultimately nothing more than a brilliant update of what Cramer or Clementi already wrote. That might be a shock for many to read it this way, but do the exercise here too: compare a Chopin etude with one by Liszt.^ewas received with enthusiastic applause, which I attribute largely to the metronome markings.'⁷

We thus see a phenomenon where the metronome was introduced at a moment when tempos were already becoming drastically faster, and composers, not the least of them, massively used the device to record their ideal tempo. Moving forward in time, we read that performances of (already by then) old music—a new trend, by the way—were often performed at absurd tempos. With reference to how much slower it originally was.

How can we reconcile all this? The solution is simpler than a good article deserves just before its climax at the end. So first this: personal experience. On paper, the impossibility of a tempo is difficult to prove. Abstract numbers say very little. But whoever can play a little piano and wants to experience firsthand how absurd a modern interpretation of historical metronome markings really is, I recommend pausing your reading, getting Czerny's famous (notorious) Opus 299 out of the cupboard or downloading it—Schule der Gelaufigkeit—and playing the first study. It consists of very simple C major scales, playable at sight by almost anyone. And then get a metronome or download a metronome app. [half note] = 108 is the goal. That's more than 14 (!) notes per second. The following etudes require the same speed, some even more. For those approaching this experiment with some skepticism, because we so often hear that these tempos are nothing more than target speeds, I'd like to quote from the original preface. We read along with Czerny:

‘The following exercises are intended exclusively to develop, increase, and maintain this aspect of virtuosity, provided they are practiced daily as the first exercise, at the very fast indicated tempo, with attention to all other rules of beautiful and correct execution, after they have been thoroughly mastered.'

At tempo, then. And, perhaps not unimportant in light of this article: in repertoire lists of 19th-century piano schools, this etude is prescribed for... beginners. Not a word about unattainable speeds.

Or, for Bach enthusiasts, play the first invention in C major. Czerny, following in his own words the tempos that Beethoven used, prescribes [quarter note] = 138. For reference: Gustav Leonhardt plays it half as fast. And, another reference point: this is nearly the same tempo that Beethoven gave to the fugue from his Hammerklavier sonata. And which we consider impossible today.

If Czerny is not enough, take a look at composers like Kalkbrenner, Moscheles, Ries, De Méreaux, Alkan, Thalberg, Schumann, … the list is endless. Often this metronome problem is reduced to a few Chopin etudes and Beethoven. The reality is different. And larger. Chopin's etudes belong today to the repertoire of top virtuosos for the simple reason that we attempt to perform them at double tempo. Same for Beethoven. But if this music is already problematic in light of their original ideal tempos – which it is – then the problem becomes even more massive. We may well have forgotten all that insane music that traveling 19th-century virtuosos constantly churned out and no longer play it, but it exists.century virtuosos constantly churned out and no longer play it, but it exists. And in light of that, Chopin is really nothing more than a brilliant update of what Cramer or Clementi already wrote. This may shock many to read it that way, but do the exercise here as well: compare a Chopin etude with one by Liszt.

The point is: anyone who truly wants to return to the composer's original intent faces an enormous problem. The metronome markings form a granite gateway that has remained closed until now. We claim to have the key, as even Jordi Savall recently stated in an interview regarding his upcoming Beethoven series in Vienna: 'Beethoven's tempi are perfect. You just need to study a bit more.'⁸Yet the reality is that these voices, if only based on how we view the tempi of that era today, do not penetrate the walls of old Vienna. They ring out clearly on the outside, but reflect in the wrong direction. At first glance, this might sound a bit pretentious as a claim, but isn't it true that tempo choice is all-determining? For everyone. András Schiff will not play his Beethoven any slower or faster in New York than in Amsterdam. And for good reason. At the foundation of every interpretation lies the choice of a tempo. Whoever tampers with that changes everything: articulation, phrasing, accentuation, and most importantly: the character of the piece. That's a sensitive matter for everyone. But also for the composer. Czerny described this phenomenon as follows, entirely in line with what Beethoven wrote to his publisher:

‘Every musical piece produces its proper effect only when it is played in the exact tempo prescribed by the composer, and every, even the most minimal deviation from it—whether faster or slower—can often completely destroy the feeling, beauty, and intelligibility of the piece.'⁹

And precisely because of this, this entire 'discussion' is so sensitive. Music is emotion, and that emotion is shaped, or rather, its foundation is laid by... tempo choice. It cannot be otherwise. And if the slightest change is capable of altering an entire composition's character and color, how much more so when we stop reading all these old metronome markings as we do today, but instead consider the metronome as a mechanical pendulum? Not the single tick, but the tick-tock, the back-and-forth beat corresponds to the note value of the famous MM. Not 1,2,3, but 1-and 2-and 3-and. Just like the tactus, the arsis/thesis, how we still teach music theory today, the principle of time division, the duality of so much—day and night, systole-diastole...

This thesis is not new. Speculation about it began in the 1950s. In 1980, the still well-known book by Talsma appeared.¹⁰What we propose in our Beethoven, and will later describe in the 600-page book, is partly based on the same thesis. At the same time, with all respect for what someone like Talsma, as a musical archaeologist, personally excavated, we can now better survey the field he uncovered. What Dr. Lorenz Gadient, co-author of the forthcoming book, already did in 2010 with his publication Takt und Pendelschlag, was a first step to correct a number of—for us today—evident errors, so to speak. At the same time, the same thesis is described and documented from a richer context, tracing back to the 16th and 17th centuries, to Mersenne, from which to proceed to what would ultimately be the introduction of the metronome. We now also add our musical experiments to this. At the moment I write these words, the first collection of 9 CDs with part 1 of Beethoven's complete keyboard works is being released. We launch part 2 in November, part 3 in November 2026. In June this year we will also add 5 CDs with music by Chopin. All performed from this whole-beat reading of metronome markings, what we call the Whole Beat or: the WBMP – Whole Beat Metronome Practice.There are still many aspects worth discussing, many questions you as a reader undoubtedly have that remain unanswered in the brief scope of this article. The book will answer many of them. But what you can do right now is... listen. We've been able to send the symphonies to no fewer than 31 countries. And from the responses we learn one thing: give this new experience a chance. Listen a couple of times, openly and without prejudice to the result. Via the CDs or via Bandcamp, where you can listen to everything three times completely free. We know Ludwig's music so well, we're so steeped in modern performances that it's difficult to return to something slower. You will miss something at first. But something wonderful comes in its place. What this tempo does is nothing other than reconstructing a timeline. A timeline on which Beethoven scattered all the brilliant ingredients he knew would have an overwhelming effect on his audience. On you too, then. It is this timeline that we compress so much today that so many of those ingredients rush past untasted. Should you experience a seemingly insurmountable shock at the first listening session, the well-known musicologist Clive Brown might help you. He wrote the following in 1999:Good taste is not an unchanging property; it is in a state of constant change. What eighteenth- and nineteenth-century musicians considered tasteful might seem unnatural or grotesque to us at first hearing, and they would undoubtedly have found the style of modern performances strange and probably unsatisfying in many respects. Such considerations might encourage us to examine whether we cannot experiment with more radical and daring approaches to performing familiar repertoire, (...) By doing this, we might perhaps regain something of the excitement of hearing great masterworks for the first time, (...)'

Eksel, March 25, 2025

‘©Wim Winters, 2025¹¹

1 All quotations G.W.Fink, Ueber das Bedürfniss, Mozart's Hauptwerke unserer Zeit so metronomisirt zu liefern, wie der Meister selbst sie ausführen liess, Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung, 19ten Juni 1839, pp. 477 – 481

2 Anonymous, Maelzel's Metronome, The Quarterly Musical Magazine and Review, Vol. III, 1821, p. 302-305