Submitted December 2000

The list of Krzysztof Penderecki’s sacred music is not so much long as it is formidable. Some have deemed him the greatest composer of sacred music in the world. (If we don’t want to go that far, he is certainly one of an elite few. My vote would go to Arvo Part, but that’s just me). Penderecki’s first sacred work was the passionate Psalms of David in 1958. He did a Stabat Mater in 1962 and St. Luke Passion in 1965. Credo (1997/98) is his first Mass. And what a Mass it is. Unlike most Masses, this one is not limited to a chorus and is not an a cappella work. Credo is for five soloists, children’s choir, choir and full orchestra. The orchestral matrix of the work is what gives Credo its power and majesty. The work is not just solemn, as most Masses are supposed to be. It is also remarkably celebratory, exuberant, and, in a curious way, vivacious. Credit for the success of this work must go to the stunning sonics. The engineers have captured a considerably robust performance by the Warsaw Philharmonic and the National Choir of Poland. This knockout performance outrivals anything Penderecki has done. Very highly recommended.

Pyotr Il’ych Tchaikovsky (1840-1983), though highly prolific in other areas, wrote very few chamber works. This disc is part two of the complete string quartets on Naxos : String Quartet 3, String Quartet in B flat major, and Four Movements for String Quartet. The works are uniformly delicate and controlled, and heavily influenced by German composers, particularly Beethoven. Unfortunately, the usual flourishes of Tchaikovsky’s unique romanticism are for the most part missing. This is especially true in the long first movement of String Quartet No. 3. You can, however, hear traces of Tchaikovsky’s lyricism in his String Quartet in B flat major, a single-movement work that harks back to the 1812 Overture, particularly in its meditative opening bars. Yet scattered throughout the work are gorgeous segments where each instrument is given its own “air time”. Here, the individual members of the New Hayden Quartet, Budapest , show their mettle, as well as their enthusiasm for this music. What would have been Tchaikovsky’s Fourth Quartet only survived as Four Movements for String Quartet. These seem to be mere afterthoughts or idle jottings, but they do contain interesting segments that could have made for a unique last quartet had the composer time or inclination to band them together properly. The performances here are excellent, played with affection and poise. Their early German romantic character probably sits well with the New Haydn Quartet, Budapest , but there is no crime in that. As is usual with most chamber recordings, there is also a thinness to the overall sound; but Naxos does their best. Still, this series might only be of interest to Tchaikovsky completists.

Leo Smit (1900-1943) was one of a small group of Dutch Jewish composers who met their fate at the hands of the Nazis. Smit died, along with thousands of newly detained Jews from Amsterdam , almost immediately on arrival at the Sobiber death camp in 1943. Before that, he was one of the reigning writers of chamber music in the Netherlands . Smit’s music has a strong French character to it. Roussel, Milhaud, and Debussy are the most prominent. This shows best in Smit’s charming Sextet (1928), a blithe, flirtatious work for flute, oboe, clarinet, horn, and piano that, upon several listenings, just doesn’t wear out its welcome. (The Ensemble Villa Musica really puts its heart in this music.) The Quintet (1928) also takes its cue from French modes, but has a more dour temperament than the Sextet. His Duo (1938) is, curiously, more British than anything else, with the oboe prancing in circles around the grounding cello, sounding more of Bridge and Bax than anyone else. Smit’s Trio (1938) is for clarinet, viola and piano and is very, very dark—hypnotic nonetheless. This isn’t terribly complicated music, nor is it particularly ambitious. But there is nothing wrong in that. Leo Smit clearly wrote for the audience, not the academy and his music is given its due on this luscious MDG recording.

These post -World War II compositions by Paul Hindemith were outgrowths of his decades-long study of compositional techniques that began in the 1930s. They aren’t quite atonal, but Hindemith pushes some of his own boundaries, especially in his Symphony “The Harmony of the World” (written in 1951). “Harmony of the World” began birth as notes toward an opera, and then became a symphony when the opera seemed unlikely to manifest.. Some have compared the shifts in temperament in this work to Ralph Vaughan Williams’ Fourth Symphony, which also featured strident passages and converging tonalities. But in neither case did their respective composers abandon their basic romantic impulses. Hindemith’s Sinfonietta in E, written in 1950, is a more “American” work, filled with energetic impulses and washes of orchestral color. Both works are also in the key of E and this is what gives them their somewhat somber character. The Bamberger Symphoniker does passably well with both works, but the sonics tend to flatten out some of the natural dynamics in these pieces, particularly the Sinfonietta in E. Still, the Sinfionetta is a gorgeous work and deserves more exposure than it has gotten so far (Schwann’s lists only one other version in print, an old analog transfer on CRI). This is reason enough to get this disc. Hindemith fans will want this in their collection.

Though Danish composer Erik Jorgensen (b. 1912) started out as a Neoclassicist in the mode of Bartok and Stravinsky (popular in Denmark in the 1930s), he evolved into one of the more sophisticated practitioners of advanced serialism in northern Europe . His music, though, tends to be less abstract than most serial compositions. If anything, Jorgensen’s works have the same kind of organic “fullness” as the works (particularly the symphonies) of Leif Segerstam. Like Segerstam, Jorgensen’s not afraid of injecting occasional passages of tonality or, as in the case of the Introduction and Presto for Saxophone Quartet (1995), dashes of humor. His major work is his 1967 composition, Confrontations for Orchestra. It’s a beautifully intense grand-scale serial work for full orchestra, a genuine masterpiece. (It’s also a showpiece for the Odense Symphony Orchestra. They take to this music with extraordinary confidence.) Jorgensen’s Variations for Piano (of 1966) is a serial composition for piano, based on a single untransposed twelve-tone row, but it has a rhythmic structure more consistent with tonal compositions. It’s quite compelling. Improvisations for Wind Quintet (of 1971) is another serial composition, this time using contrasting instruments, such as the flute and the oboe, to follow their own tone-rows, in turn allowing for some interesting syncopations. Piece for String Quartet (of 1964/65) makes eerie use of extreme bowing techniques (playing as close to the bridge as bow and fingers can go, for example), to create a work that Iannis Xenakis would drool over. Finally, Introduction and Presto for Saxophone Quartet (of 1995) presents the playful side to Jorgensen’s temperament. It’s a more pointillistic piece; it’s also more rhythmically coherent that the other chamber works on this disc. Though serialism has gotten a bad rap over the years, it can produce very stimulating listening experiences. Fortunately, the performers on this disc know the heart of this music and deliver very captivating performances—even if the audience for this kind of music is probably limited. I still recommend it heartily.

This disc is volume one a series of complete orchestral works of Iannis Xenakis (b. 1922) on Timpani. They are not for the faint-hearted. They are the fullest expression yet of what Xenakis—pupil of Messiaen, apprentice to Le Corbusier—once called “stochastic music”, music based on advanced probability theory. All but one work here succeeds (at least given the intellectual framework Xenakis provides for each piece). The one failure is the opening work, Ais, for baritone, solo percussion, and orchestra. The baritone, Spyros Sakkas, pushes the limits of his vocal range into counter-tenor territory as the orchestra crashes and burns all around him. The “libretto” is a collection of horse whinnies, yelps, and barking sounds, with some actual Greek spoken here and there. Frankly, it’s unbearable. And the physical sound of a baritone in the higher octaves is quite unpleasant (hard to say if it’s the fault of Mr. Sakkas or Mr. Xenakis—but it’s somebody’s fault). Tracees, has a recognizable logic to it; its brevity is its virtue. But much more even-tempered is Empreintes, the best work here. Empreintes takes a large bipartite phrase (on the horns) with the strings providing much needed coherence underneath. Noomena is a more athletic work with the horns and winds providing moments of punctuation and disruption with Xenakis’ trademark chaos sprinkled lightly about. The final work is Roai. Written in 1991, it’s much less boisterous and blaring than the other works here. The performances of the Orchestre Philharmonique du Luxembourg are acceptable, given the difficulty of this music, but the recorded sound is far too biased towards the high end. I winced a couple of times, especially in Ais. Fan as I am of Xenakis’ chamber works, I found this music testing my patience and my endurance. As such, I find it hard to recommend this disc to anyone but the die-hard Xenakis aficionado (who has lots of Extra-Strength Tylenol on hand).

These are two seminal works by Polish composer Andrezej Panufnik. They both display his penchant for skewed harmonics and extreme orchestral colors. His tactics approach those of Schnittke and Xenakis, but Panufnik is more tonally consistent than either of those composers (in other words, there are no surprises, no cacophonous explosions). Arbor Cosmica (1983) is for twelve strings and is in twelve movements, each generated from a single three-note chord mapped like a tree. The Sinfonietta Cracovia does an outstanding job with this difficult music, but the high octaves demanded of the violins can be ear-splitting at times. This is particularly true of the fifth movement, which is otherwise laced with beautiful meditative passages that anyone familiar with Panufnik’s Sinfonia Sacra would recognize. The Violin Concerto (1971) exhibits some of the same dead-on miking on the violin as in the Arbor Cosmica. Soloist Robert Kabara plays very well, but the recording ambience could have been a bit more recessed to give the work a fuller sound. Strangely, at times this music is played with such brio that one can almost picture the members of the Sinfonietta Cracovia, out of pure enthusiasm, rising in their seats to get as close as possible to the dangling microphones to be heard. These people absolutely know this music. Still, the sound balances are tolerable and both of these pieces are part of Panufnik’s major works (certainly the Violin Concerto should be better known than it is). And since the Violin Concerto is otherwise not in print elsewhere, this is the version to have.

This astonishing disc contains three works by Estonian composer Arvo Part (b. 1935), works that represent the three major stages in his career. Even though his composition teacher was Heino Eller (who, in turn, had studied under Glazunov), Part was never much taken by neo-romanticism. He was, instead, more taken with neoclassicism, which led him to invent his own brand of serialism. Collage uber BACH, comes from Part’s serial/collage period. It’s a brief gem (at 7 minutes) and will remind some of Alfred Schnittke’s work, particularly the second movement, which begins in a rather benign way, then grows hair, a set of teeth and starts to growl. During the 1970s Part abandoned serialism and began a study of Gregorian chant, polyphony, and medieval plainsong. His highly polyphonic Symphony No. 3 is representative of this period. Tabula Rasa comes from Part’s third stage of development and represents his so-called “tintinnabuli” style. Tabula Rasa is one of Part’s most performed works. And for good reason: it’s transcendently beautiful. Tabula Rasa is a double concerto for two violins, string orchestra and prepared piano. It’s quite hypnotic, with the melodic lines carried on the two violins as the rest of the strings underneath trail their syncopated lines, creating a church-bell effect—Part’s tintinnabuli. The performances on this disc are absolutely first rate, particularly the two violinists in Tabula Rasa, Leslie Hatfield and Rebecca Hirsch. Their syncopating violins joyously mesh in such a way that you forget that human beings are performing this music. Credit also goes to the Ulster Orchestra and conductor Takuo Yuasa who take to all three pieces with both affection and panache. The Collage uber BACH is given a particularly sympathetic reading here. This is the perfect disc with which to provide an introduction to Arvo Part to the uninitiated. Even so, no collection of 20 th century music should be without Tabula Rasa (and I should say this performance). Its beauty is staggering. Take a bow, Naxos .

This disc contains two of Bohuslav Martinu’s major works, the Concerto for Two Pianos and Orchestra (1943) and the Concerto Grosso for Two Pianos and Chamber Orchestra (1937). Though both are mainstream Romantic works full of all sorts of gorgeous passages, the piano sequences in each require extreme prolixity and coordination, and can only succeed if the two pianists know their stuff. And if you’ve never heard the Clinton-Narboni Duo at work, you’re in for a treat. These people are fearless. Catch the approach and landing of the beginning of the Concerto. From the opening bars, they burst out with the major themes and spend the next several minutes squirreling away at them with all kinds of manic energy. But never once is a note missed or lost in the shuffle. These are, quite literally, jaw-dropping performances. Even the Concerto Grosso loses nothing by the (somewhat) diminished role of the pianos. They provide both the melodic and harmonic matrix that sustains the entire work, a pleasure all the way. Also of considerable merit here is the physical sound of the recordings. The sonics are full without sounding airy and the pianos never dominate or obtrude. Fans of Martinu’s work will most definitely want this in their collection.

This disc continues the tasteful chronicle on Marco Polo of Argentinean composer Alberto Williams’ music for solo piano. As in volume one, this selection collects several graceful waltzes and perky mazurkas (always a pleasure to listen to). But the standouts on this release are the extended pieces, Poem of the Bells (1912), Poem of the Ravine (1920), and Poem of the Valley (1920). Poem of the Bells will remind the listener of Rachmaninoff ‘s choral symphony, The Bells, but its opening sequences will hark even further back to Mussorgsky’s Kiev Bells (particularly where the “march” theme emerges). The main influence with these extended tone poems for piano, however, is Ravel. Williams’ captured in his music the vibrant musical influences on his culture, particularly around the turn of the 20 th century. But this isn’t to say that his music is entirely derivative of European modes. Poem of the Ravine and Poem of the Valley are clearly Argentinean in character, with subtle folk motifs and songs from the wide pampas. Valentin Surif takes to these works with affection and his attention to detail brings out the unique flavor of Alberto Williams’ music, particularly in the vivacious Poem of the Valley. Recommended for all fans of solo piano works in the Romantic mode.

Movie soundtracks for the last few years have taken several different paths in presenting to the public the musical experience of the film in question. Most popular movies tend to be clusters of pop hits (Batman Forever, Armageddon, etc.) or extended techno-dance mixes (Run, Lola, Run and Pi). Some work, some don’t. Requiem for a Dream, music by Clint Mansell, falls into the Run, Lola, Run category, but with a much more diverse range of music. The techno-rave mixes are here (“Party”, “ Coney Island Dreaming”, etc.) as well as the occasional pop lyric (Bugs Got a Devilish Grin Conga” and Baily & Lox Conga). But the chief interest for classical music listeners is the appearance of the Kronos Quartet. These sections provide a calm understructure for the rest of the film’s frenetic motifs. The sound quality is quite good, with a special focus on precision and clarity. (Mixed media sound tracks do this quite well.) The Kronos Quartet comes off particularly well. On the downside, no piece here is over two minutes in length and it is very difficult to get a “holistic” sense of this album as a unified artistic statement without having seen the movie. In other words, this is not a stand-alone listening experience. Certainly the pieces by the Kronos Quartet are warm and congenial enough, but then their role is quite minor in the overall scheme of things. If you’ve seen the movie and understand the context within which all these bits and pieces fall, then this disc should be of some interest.

Once again Naxos pulls a rabbit out of its hat with this gorgeous release of Alan Rawsthorne’s music (with two world premieres yet). Rawsthorne (1905-1971) was of a middle generation of 20 th century British Romanticists whose music had a somewhat rougher edge, veering toward elements of atonality without really crossing the line (this is particularly true of his symphonies). One of Rawsthorne’s best works, easily ranking with his symphonies, is the Symphonic Studies (1939). With its shifting moods and bright orchestral colors, Symphonic Studies more closely resembles a concerto for orchestra and is full of delicious surprises. It alone is worth the price of admission. The world premieres here are the Oboe Concerto (1947) and the Cello Concerto (1966). Both are mainstream Romantic works, but with a bit more emotional content than found in the Symphonic Studies. The Oboe Concerto, in fact, might draw comparisons with Vaughan Williams’ oboe concerto. But while it has the same depth of emotion, it also has fewer melancholic elements. The soloist here is Stephane Rancourt, whose oboe provides a warm, sympathetic reading of the material without being assertive or showy. Both this work and the Cello Concerto emphasize overall melodic unity of the piece rather than the artistic prolixity of the soloist. The Cello Concerto is a more dour work (Alexander Baillie is the cellist) and it will remind the informed listener of Arnold Bax’s cello concerto, but again, without that composer’s brooding temperament. But every performance element here is in place and the sound quality is superior. If you’re new to Rawsthorne, there is no better introduction to his music than the Symphonic Studies. This is a real find.

Violinist Thomas Christian turns in two outstanding performances of two neglected violin concertos from the 19 th century. Benjamin Godard (1849-1895) and Moritz Moszkowski (1854-1924), though dyed-in-the-wool Romantics, aren’t exactly names the aficionado (let alone the public) would recognize today. During the late 19 th century both men, in order to make ends meet, wrote what was then called “salon” music—music not for the concert hall and the virtuoso. These works, and a number of others, were subsequently dismissed. But don’t tell that to violinist Thomas Christian. He’s no slouch and this music isn’t a walk in the park. In fact, Mr. Christian takes to both pieces as if they might have been written expressly for him. Godard’s Violin Concerto No. 2, written in the early 1890s, has several difficult passages in the outer movements, with some delicious inner passages that call more for heart than dexterity, which Mr. Christian amply provides. The Moszkowski Violin Concerto in C, written in 1883, is, like the Godard concerto, mostly a French-inspired work, but there are nuances that seem, in places, inspired by the music of Antonin Dvorak, particularly in the opening movement. The Moszkowski is a more light-hearted work than the Godard. But make no mistake, neither of these concertos are “salon” pieces to be dismissed outright. A minor caveat on this recording is that the physical sound, particularly on the orchestra, could have used a little more refinement and depth. But that is, as I said, a minor complaint. Anyone well versed in the 19 th century violin concerto will enjoy these works quite a lot. I certainly did.

Around the Curve of the World by British composer Francis Grier (libretto by Sue Mayo) is a cantata about the founding of Christchurch and Cambridge in New Zealand in 1850. Its forces call for choir, chamber orchestra, two sopranos, one tenor and one baritone. An earlier version substituted an organ for the chamber orchestra. This version presents a more “fuller” sound because of the presence of the orchestra. The music is thoroughly Romantic in character; the story is filled with tragedy and triumph. The quality of the production, however, is quite inept. The choral parts are quite nicely done; you would expect this from a cathedral choir. But the soloists, each in their turn, fairly blast their lines at the audience (this is also a performance recording). Of the two sopranos, Patricia Rozario’s voice comes across as far too aggressive, even unpleasant (especially in the Canticles, Narrative 1 and Narrative 3). Baritone Paul Whelan’s voice is also unrestrained in far too many sections. Only tenor Daniel Norman comports himself well. The real problem here is undoubtedly the microphone placement. It’s way too close on the soloists and a tad too distant from the choir. As such, Canticle 4, the closing piece, is a mishmash of sound from all the forces involved. This is a recording of a February 26 th, 2000 concert performance and while the audience is quiet throughout the work, there is a full minute of very loud applause at the end. There are many reasons to avoid this disc and, for me, that’s just one of them.

The musical career of British composer George Dyson (1883-1964) closely paralleled that of Ralph Vaughan Williams. Like Vaughan Williams, Dyson wrote both sacred and secular choral works of outstanding depth. This disc contains five of Dyson’s best secular choral works that will please any fan of 20 th century British romanticism. In fact, it will be difficult not to hear Vaughan Williams (and a little bit of Sir Charles Hubert Parry) in Honour of the City (1924). It’s for mixed choir and full orchestra and is thoroughly British—full of pomp and magisterial dignity. Sweet Thames Run Softly (1955), the longest work here (at 24 minutes), is a cantata for baritone, chorus and orchestra. It has a curious melancholic charm. The baritone is Stephen Roberts and his voice is perfectly appropriate for this solemn music; it’s also miked very well, nicely balanced against the background of the full chorus. A Spring Garland (no date given) is for women’s voices and harp and is based on the love poetry of Robert Herrick (1591-1674). The harp mixes very well with the soft female chorus. The Blacksmiths (1934) is for mixed chorus, strings, two pianos, timpani and percussion. This work is the real anomaly here. The Blacksmiths more closely resembles some of the Soviet realism popular during the Thirties, but at its heart is Rachmaninoff’s The Bells. It’s full of marching sounds and heroic melodic lines. But it’s more dramatic than militant: Dyson never loses sight of the work’s basic melodic understructure. To Music (no date also given) is another work based on Robert Herrick ‘s love poetry. It’s for a cappella mixed chorus and sounds more sacred than secular (but then there is a certain sacredness to all love poetry). All told, these are wonderful, full-bodied performances, each with an excellent sonic tapestry. Some of Dyson’s orchestral music has already appeared on Chandos. He’s certainly a composer worth exploring. Highly recommended.

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