HE PEAKED too early, said his detractors. But what a peak. He was the first classical music star of the television age; the only one feted with a ticker-tape parade; the first to sell a million copies of an album; above all he was the Texan who brushed the frost off the cold war with his huge hands, modest manner and electrifying renditions of great Russian composers.

It happened by chance. Having failed the medical for his military service (because he had nosebleeds) America’s most promising young pianist was facing a blank season for 1958. His teacher, the émigré Russian Rosina Lhévinne, suggested the International Tchaikovsky Competition in Moscow.

More than music was at stake. The cold war was at its iciest. The new Sputnik was bleeping mockingly at the earthbound Americans who feared they were losing the race in space—and elsewhere.

Mr Cliburn was no loser. He had won his first competition aged 12 and played at the Carnegie Hall at 14. He did not flinch at the presence of Sviatoslav Richter and other giants on the jury. A childhood Russophile (captivated by a picture book of the Kremlin), he was just glad to be in Moscow.

The feeling was mutual. He was a sensation in the first round, a star by the semi-finals. By the final chords of Rachmaninov’s Third Piano Concerto, (which he “played in one long deep breath” according to another competitor), Moscow’s music-lovers were at his feet. Even the orchestra joined in the standing ovation; after eight minutes, against all tradition at the Moscow Conservatory, he was brought back for a second bow.

The judges were less enthusiastic. Some shaved points from his scores to boost the Soviet contestant, Lev Vlasenko. Richter sabotaged that, crossly awarding zero to the other competitors and the full 25 points to Mr Cliburn, on all counts on each round. Aghast at the prospect of an American victory, panic-stricken Soviet bureaucrats turned to Nikita Khrushchev himself. “Is he the best?” asked the general secretary. Yes, came the answer. “Then give him first prize.”

It was an inspired move. The Soviet Union suddenly looked fair-minded and friendly, showcasing its cultural riches, not its nuclear arsenal. But for its subjects, cowed and frozen by years of Stalinism and war, Van Cliburn’s message was far deeper. Yankee imperialists were forgotten. Here was an American with the ultimate in Russian-style pianism: perfect technique matched with soaring emotional expression. “He was more Russian than we were,” said Vlasenko. The affection was to last for generations.

The thunderclaps echoed across the world. On his flight home, he was astounded and then appalled to find himself on the cover of Time, as “The Texan who conquered Russia”. The article claimed he had had a childhood from hell (it was idyllic) and opened with a supposed quote parodying his soft drawl: “Ah swear to goodness, ah just can’t believe all this is happenin’ to li’l ole Van Cliburn from the piney woods of East Texas.”

For Americans who thought high culture came only from the east coast or the big cities of the Mid West, the Texan triumph was a shock. Newsmen gathered like sharks in New York, expecting a Soviet dupe, a hick or a bighead. Mr Cliburn disarmed them with charm and sincerity. He readily admitted liking Russians: they were sincere, like Texans. He shunned politics, neither decrying nor praising the Soviet system—though he did make a point of giving money to, and attending, Moscow’s beleaguered Baptist church.

Fame was fun at first. People tolerated his unpunctuality and his owlish habits. The ultra-grand Boston Symphony Orchestra was summoned late on a Saturday for an unscheduled, all-night recording session. All but the horn player turned up. His career soared. Claudia Cassidy of the Chicago Tribune wrote of

“big beautiful playing…in the grand manner, with sweep and fire and style. Playing with bravura and the bite of the highly charged phrase turned at the point of impact. Playing rich in the liquid embroideries of the score, glittering in its love of spectacle.

But evening came early. He was, says Stephen Hough, a British pianist, the first victim of the age of musical competitions. Fans wanted old favourites. Record companies wanted output. Air travel enabled an exhausting schedule. That left less time for development. His repertoire was no narrower than some other famous pianists. He just happened to prefer the great Russian composers. But critics—perhaps a little snootily—thought his fame and talent hid a lack of brainpower. A truly great pianist should master Beethoven, Brahms and Mozart as well as the luxuriant Slavs.

Encore

In 1978, tired and thin, and mourning the deaths of his father and manager, he took a sabbatical which proved to be semi-permanent. But he returned triumphantly to the public eye in 1987, when he played at the White House for a prickly Mikhail Gorbachev, making his first visit to Washington. Nothing could have worked better. He was supposed to finish promptly—but when he struck up “Moscow Nights” the Reagans, Gorbachevs and other dignitaries started a teary singalong. His 1958 victory could have had no better finale.