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1. You were actively involved in shaping the recorded sound of this release. When did you realise the sound itself would be part of the interpretation, not just documentation? It was always clear to me that sound would be part of the interpretation. It's like choosing a colour palette for a painting — I knew which palette I was striving for. But you never know whether you will be given the opportunity to truly unfold that vision. When I heard this particular piano in this particular acoustic space, I knew I was being offered something very special. Concert pianos are usually set up for all kinds of repertoire, including major Romantic pieces, and can produce a sound that often comes across as harsh when playing Bach. Bach is all about the singularity of each note rather than mass of sound — and this piano was voiced in a completely different way: lyrical yet defined. Finding it was something of a lucky coincidence. That discovery became the starting point for a good conversation with Michael Silberhorn, the sound engineer, who was very open to my ideas.
2. If you had to name the one thing you wanted this Goldberg to feel like from the listener's chair, what is it, and what in your playing supports that? This may not be a clear answer, and it may sound a little elusive — but I wanted it to sound sincere and honest. I didn't want to pose in any particular way. Someone once told me that the worst interpretation is the one the listener can hear. Every performance is of course an interpretation, but my ultimate goal was to let the music speak for itself. To leave a fingerprint that would be invisible. Paradoxically, achieving that required quite deliberate intellectual work — how does one dissolve? How does one become invisible? A child's wish, perhaps. Whether it succeeded or not — I'm the last person to ask.
3. Before recording began, did you have a clear sonic picture of how you wanted it to come across on record, not just in the room? How would you describe that ideal in plain terms? I didn't have a clear sonic picture of what I wanted, but I knew very well what I did not want — and that's already something. I strived for a clarity that isn't analytical — one where every voice and line is present, but the music breathes rather than being placed under a microscope. And I wanted the natural acoustics of that particular church to be felt throughout. To help Michael understand my vision, I sent him two playlists — one called "A Yes" and another called "A No." Sometimes it's easier to point than to explain.
4. Many modern piano recordings chase closeness and impact. Yours feels natural, spacious, and unforced. What kinds of choices did you avoid to protect that character? Thank you for saying that, because it was indeed my priority. The technical world of recording is largely unfamiliar to me, so I wouldn't have known what specifically to avoid. In a way, we never really thought in terms of avoiding — we were searching for the right sound rather than running from the wrong one. My role was simply to listen, discuss possible adjustments with Michael, and listen again. What made it work was that he genuinely understood what I was after — he didn't just execute technically, he was on the same side of the table. Ultimately it was his magnificent work in balancing all these factors, but it felt like a shared vision rather than a handover.
5. In the Goldberg Variations, inner voices can either breathe or get forced into the spotlight. What helped you keep the counterpoint clear while still feeling musical and cohesive? In polyphonic music, all voices have equal rights. I simply tried to make friends with each of them and treat them with respect.
6. Did the recording situation change anything in your playing, even subtly, like dynamics, pedaling, tempo, phrasing, or did you treat microphones as "not there"? It didn't change much. It might have been different in a studio, but I was glad to have these very natural church acoustics — it allowed me to simply try to play as beautifully as I could in each given moment. Playing "for microphones" would have made the whole situation feel somewhat artificial. In a concert hall, you are always thinking about every row of the audience, including the last one. In larger venues especially, you want everyone to hear everything equally well — knowing all the while that this is something of an illusion. I deeply value playing for a live audience — that energy is irreplaceable. But in a recording, the acoustic compromise that every concert hall inevitably imposes simply disappears, and that is a quiet luxury. The music could simply be what it was, heard exactly as intended.
7. Where is the emotional or structural hinge point for you in this performance, and did the recording approach affect how you shaped that section? It's difficult to point to just one. The Goldberg Variations is a very long piece, and I think it unfolds as one long, continuous arc. I know recordings where the very first variation is already surprisingly extroverted and vivid — and I have always had a certain problem with that. The musical peak arrives far too early; there is simply too much going on so soon after the Aria. In planning the overall structure, I wanted those peaks to emerge later. Playing and listening across such a long arc demands something from both the performer and the audience — a particular quality of sustained attention that is increasingly rare. It is partly why I wrote my booklet essay about contemporary sleeplessness and the erosion of attention; I find that giving oneself to music of this kind has something in common with meditation or mindfulness practice — it asks you to be fully present, and rewards you for it. There is something particularly special about Variation 25 — it is completely mesmerizing, innovative, and otherworldly. From Variation 26 onward, one senses the piece drawing toward its close. The recording approach didn't directly affect this, but the end of the work carries its own particular weight. I know it from all my concert performances: by that point one is already quite tired, yet the music is so dazzling and arresting that one finds — somewhere, don't ask me where — almost inhuman reserves of strength, daring, and imagination to convey the full palette of emotions in Variation 26. I believe that state is only available because of the exhaustion with which one arrives at that moment. It was the same in the recording.
8. Bach lives on timing, silence, and decay. How did you think about the space between notes in this recording, and what did you want that space to communicate? The spaces between individual variations were something we worked on at length. Some variations should begin immediately, attacca, the moment the previous one ends. Others require more time — to reflect, to let what just happened settle. The Goldberg Variations span the entire spectrum of human emotions, and some of them demand contemplation rather than rushing forward.
9. Was there any tension between musical flow and technical perfection during editing? How do you decide what to keep as "human truth" versus what to refine? I had almost no involvement in that process. When I received the first version, I had only a very small number of wishes regarding the editing, and nothing struck me as wrong or unnatural. Michael did a remarkable job, and I never had the feeling that anything sounded odd or different from the way I actually play it. I have heard from friends that this can be a real field of tension — and I know of an extreme case where a musician couldn't recognise their own phrasing at all in the final result. I think what modern software offers can be very alluring: you can edit virtually anything in pursuit of whatever kind of perfection you're chasing. I find that dangerous. It risks making recordings far less human — and a recording, at its best, should preserve the trace of a real person in a real moment.
10. When you heard early rough mixes, what immediately felt right, and what felt wrong? What did you chase from there? It was entirely about finding the sweet spot between a close piano sound and the preservation of natural acoustics — clarity without losing the space, and space without losing the clarity. Interestingly, after we finished the work I took a few weeks away from the recording entirely. When I came back to it, I knew immediately and very precisely what adjustments were still needed. The sound engineer was kind enough to revisit it, made some corrections, and that was it — we had found the sweet spot. The final version you hear on the recording sounds exactly as I heard it during the sessions themselves. I can recognise those moments again, which is quite a precious feeling.
11. Do you think pianists should take more responsibility for how they're recorded, or is there a good reason that's usually left to the engineer? As this is my debut CD, it's difficult for me to say what the norm should be, or how it usually works. What I do know is that I wanted to be involved — and I can hardly imagine a situation where I would have no say in the choice of recording space or instrument. If you listen to ten random recordings of the Goldberg Variations, you will hear ten entirely different aesthetics and approaches. The differences are striking. That alone tells you how wide the spectrum of possibilities is — and to withdraw from the process of shaping that final picture would be a missed opportunity.
12. When you checked how the master translates outside the studio, what were you listening for, and did anything surprise you? At first I was simply overwhelmed. As I said, this is my debut CD, and listening to it for the first time I was quite flooded with emotion. Afterward I listened again very analytically, to give the best possible feedback to the sound engineer. I assume your question is really about technical surprises — whether something sounded different from what I intended. It didn't. But I was genuinely struck by something else: the remarkable phenomenon of recording live music. I have collected records my whole life, yet it never truly hit me until I made this album myself — I didn't only record Bach's Goldberg Variations; I recorded myself at a particular moment in my life. That moment will never return. It cannot be repeated. I will never be this age again. And yet it has been preserved, and I can return to it and recognise myself there. That is something utterly touching.
13. If someone gives this recording full attention, what do you hope they hear, musically, that might slip past on a casual first listen? I would rather not offer any hints — that would be too suggestive. But I can certainly recommend full attention. (laughs)
14. If you recorded another major project tomorrow, what would you keep from this process, and what would you change or challenge? I wouldn't change much in my general approach. Since it was my first time recording an album, I was very aware that I knew nothing about it. Not once in my long education did anyone teach me what to pay attention to in a recording. So I brainstormed: what could go wrong, what might be crucial, what were the things I didn't even know I didn't know? That process of not-knowing turned out to be surprisingly useful. Next time I would simply carry that experience forward — and try to stay just as open to what I don't yet know.

"I wanted to leave a fingerprint that would be invisible. Paradoxically, achieving that required quite deliberate intellectual work." Milosz Sroczynski

(Photo credit: Sophia Hegewald)

TRA: You were actively involved in shaping the recorded sound of this release. When did you realise the sound itself would be part of the interpretation, not just documentation?

MS: It was always clear to me that sound would be part of the interpretation. It's like choosing a colour palette for a painting — I knew which palette I was striving for. But you never know whether you will be given the opportunity to truly unfold that vision. When I heard this particular piano in this particular acoustic space, I knew I was being offered something very special. Concert pianos are usually set up for all kinds of repertoire, including major Romantic pieces, and can produce a sound that often comes across as harsh when playing Bach. Bach is all about the singularity of each note rather than mass of sound — and this piano was voiced in a completely different way: lyrical yet defined. Finding it was something of a lucky coincidence. That discovery became the starting point for a good conversation with Michael Silberhorn, the sound engineer, who was very open to my ideas.

TRA: If you had to name the one thing you wanted this Goldberg to feel like from the listener's chair, what is it, and what in your playing supports that?

MS: This may not be a clear answer, and it may sound a little elusive — but I wanted it to sound sincere and honest. I didn't want to pose in any particular way. Someone once told me that the worst interpretation is the one the listener can hear. Every performance is of course an interpretation, but my ultimate goal was to let the music speak for itself. To leave a fingerprint that would be invisible. Paradoxically, achieving that required quite deliberate intellectual work — how does one dissolve? How does one become invisible? A child's wish, perhaps. Whether it succeeded or not — I'm the last person to ask.

TRA: Before recording began, did you have a clear sonic picture of how you wanted it to come across on record, not just in the room? How would you describe that ideal in plain terms?

MS: I didn't have a clear sonic picture of what I wanted, but I knew very well what I did not want — and that's already something. I strived for a clarity that isn't analytical — one where every voice and line is present, but the music breathes rather than being placed under a microscope. And I wanted the natural acoustics of that particular church to be felt throughout. To help Michael understand my vision, I sent him two playlists — one called "A Yes" and another called "A No." Sometimes it's easier to point than to explain.

TRA: Many modern piano recordings chase closeness and impact. Yours feels natural, spacious, and unforced. What kinds of choices did you avoid to protect that character?

MS: Thank you for saying that, because it was indeed my priority. The technical world of recording is largely unfamiliar to me, so I wouldn't have known what specifically to avoid. In a way, we never really thought in terms of avoiding — we were searching for the right sound rather than running from the wrong one. My role was simply to listen, discuss possible adjustments with Michael, and listen again. What made it work was that he genuinely understood what I was after — he didn't just execute technically, he was on the same side of the table. Ultimately it was his magnificent work in balancing all these factors, but it felt like a shared vision rather than a handover.

TRA: In the Goldberg Variations, inner voices can either breathe or get forced into the spotlight.

MS: What helped you keep the counterpoint clear while still feeling musical and cohesive? In polyphonic music, all voices have equal rights. I simply tried to make friends with each of them and treat them with respect.

TRA: Did the recording situation change anything in your playing, even subtly, like dynamics, pedaling, tempo, phrasing, or did you treat microphones as "not there"?

MS: It didn't change much. It might have been different in a studio, but I was glad to have these very natural church acoustics — it allowed me to simply try to play as beautifully as I could in each given moment. Playing "for microphones" would have made the whole situation feel somewhat artificial. In a concert hall, you are always thinking about every row of the audience, including the last one. In larger venues especially, you want everyone to hear everything equally well — knowing all the while that this is something of an illusion. I deeply value playing for a live audience — that energy is irreplaceable. But in a recording, the acoustic compromise that every concert hall inevitably imposes simply disappears, and that is a quiet luxury. The music could simply be what it was, heard exactly as intended.

TRA: Where is the emotional or structural hinge point for you in this performance, and did the recording approach affect how you shaped that section?

MS: It's difficult to point to just one. The Goldberg Variations is a very long piece, and I think it unfolds as one long, continuous arc. I know recordings where the very first variation is already surprisingly extroverted and vivid — and I have always had a certain problem with that. The musical peak arrives far too early; there is simply too much going on so soon after the Aria. In planning the overall structure, I wanted those peaks to emerge later. Playing and listening across such a long arc demands something from both the performer and the audience — a particular quality of sustained attention that is increasingly rare. It is partly why I wrote my booklet essay about contemporary sleeplessness and the erosion of attention; I find that giving oneself to music of this kind has something in common with meditation or mindfulness practice — it asks you to be fully present, and rewards you for it. There is something particularly special about Variation 25 — it is completely mesmerizing, innovative, and otherworldly. From Variation 26 onward, one senses the piece drawing toward its close. The recording approach didn't directly affect this, but the end of the work carries its own particular weight. I know it from all my concert performances: by that point one is already quite tired, yet the music is so dazzling and arresting that one finds — somewhere, don't ask me where — almost inhuman reserves of strength, daring, and imagination to convey the full palette of emotions in Variation 26. I believe that state is only available because of the exhaustion with which one arrives at that moment. It was the same in the recording.

(Photo credit: Sophia Hegewald)

TRA: Bach lives on timing, silence, and decay. How did you think about the space between notes in this recording, and what did you want that space to communicate?

MS: The spaces between individual variations were something we worked on at length. Some variations should begin immediately, attacca, the moment the previous one ends. Others require more time — to reflect, to let what just happened settle. The Goldberg Variations span the entire spectrum of human emotions, and some of them demand contemplation rather than rushing forward.

TRA: Was there any tension between musical flow and technical perfection during editing? How do you decide what to keep as "human truth" versus what to refine?

MS: I had almost no involvement in that process. When I received the first version, I had only a very small number of wishes regarding the editing, and nothing struck me as wrong or unnatural. Michael did a remarkable job, and I never had the feeling that anything sounded odd or different from the way I actually play it. I have heard from friends that this can be a real field of tension — and I know of an extreme case where a musician couldn't recognise their own phrasing at all in the final result. I think what modern software offers can be very alluring: you can edit virtually anything in pursuit of whatever kind of perfection you're chasing. I find that dangerous. It risks making recordings far less human — and a recording, at its best, should preserve the trace of a real person in a real moment.

TRA: When you heard early rough mixes, what immediately felt right, and what felt wrong? What did you chase from there?

MS: It was entirely about finding the sweet spot between a close piano sound and the preservation of natural acoustics — clarity without losing the space, and space without losing the clarity. Interestingly, after we finished the work I took a few weeks away from the recording entirely. When I came back to it, I knew immediately and very precisely what adjustments were still needed. The sound engineer was kind enough to revisit it, made some corrections, and that was it — we had found the sweet spot. The final version you hear on the recording sounds exactly as I heard it during the sessions themselves. I can recognise those moments again, which is quite a precious feeling.

TRA: Do you think pianists should take more responsibility for how they're recorded, or is there a good reason that's usually left to the engineer?

MS: As this is my debut CD, it's difficult for me to say what the norm should be, or how it usually works. What I do know is that I wanted to be involved — and I can hardly imagine a situation where I would have no say in the choice of recording space or instrument. If you listen to ten random recordings of the Goldberg Variations, you will hear ten entirely different aesthetics and approaches. The differences are striking. That alone tells you how wide the spectrum of possibilities is — and to withdraw from the process of shaping that final picture would be a missed opportunity.

TRA: When you checked how the master translates outside the studio, what were you listening for, and did anything surprise you?

MS: At first I was simply overwhelmed. As I said, this is my debut CD, and listening to it for the first time I was quite flooded with emotion. Afterward I listened again very analytically, to give the best possible feedback to the sound engineer. I assume your question is really about technical surprises — whether something sounded different from what I intended. It didn't. But I was genuinely struck by something else: the remarkable phenomenon of recording live music. I have collected records my whole life, yet it never truly hit me until I made this album myself — I didn't only record Bach's Goldberg Variations; I recorded myself at a particular moment in my life. That moment will never return. It cannot be repeated. I will never be this age again. And yet it has been preserved, and I can return to it and recognise myself there. That is something utterly touching.

TRA: If someone gives this recording full attention, what do you hope they hear, musically, that might slip past on a casual first listen?

MS: I would rather not offer any hints — that would be too suggestive. But I can certainly recommend full attention. (laughs)

TRA: If you recorded another major project tomorrow, what would you keep from this process, and what would you change or challenge?

MS: I wouldn't change much in my general approach. Since it was my first time recording an album, I was very aware that I knew nothing about it. Not once in my long education did anyone teach me what to pay attention to in a recording. So I brainstormed: what could go wrong, what might be crucial, what were the things I didn't even know I didn't know? That process of not-knowing turned out to be surprisingly useful. Next time I would simply carry that experience forward — and try to stay just as open to what I don't yet know.