Fritz Kreisler (1875–1962) was the violinist everyone loved — an Austrian with a warm, slightly improvisatory tone, an easy stage presence, and a gift for writing short pieces that sounded like they had always existed. Liebesleid, Liebesfreud, Schön Rosmarin, Caprice Viennois — you know them even if you don’t know you know them.
He was also responsible for one of the great hoaxes in classical music: for years he published these pieces under the names of obscure Baroque composers — Vivaldi, Couperin, Pugnani — and finally admitted he had written all of them himself:
On Kreisler’s 60th birthday on 2 February 1935, the New York Times music critic Olin Downes sent him a telegraph wishing him a happy birthday. He jokingly asked if he himself was actually the composer of all those “lost classics” that had made him so famous. To his surprise, Kreisler unapologetically confirmed that he had been the composer all along. The music industry was outraged, probably because they had ever so willingly allowed themselves to be deceived. Kreisler pointed out “that should make no difference who wrote the works as long as people enjoyed them. The name changes, the value remains.” Clearly, audiences agreed with Kreisler’s assessment as his popularity skyrocketed following the scandal. (The Kreisler Scandal)
Perlman is the natural heir to Kreisler’s style: intimate, virtuosic, and always sounding like the violin was just talking to you. It’s big and warm and human, and generous. Perlman has named Kreisler as the violinist he most wanted to sound like. It shows: