Submitted September 2000

September 2000 Reviews for ClassicsToday.com – Paul Cook

Dmitri Shostakovich did not start writing his string quartets until he was 36 and had climbed out from underneath Stalin’s reprobation with the success in 1937 of the Fifth Symphony. We now know that when taken altogether Shostakovich’s 15 string quartets stand as remarkable documents of a private nature wherein the composer was able to explore ideas common to serialism and atonality without anyone in the cultural ministry noticing or caring anything about. We also know that Shostakovich’s first and second quartets were written at a time when the composer had just concluded a major study of Beethoven’s symphonies and the quartets of Haydn. The early quartets (and the one piano quintet) show it. The First Quartet definitely has elements of Haydn’s execution and structure, but Shostakovich adds some of his own baroque playfulness—an aspect that will not again appear in any of the quartets to come. Also missing in the quartets to come will be the folk-song character found in the first two string quartets and the Piano Quintet in G minor. This disc is an excellent introduction to Shostakovich’s quartets (and, I assume, that this is also the beginning of a series on Praga). The performances of all three works are quite good, even though the two string quartets here are live recordings. A minor cough or two can be heard, but the miking of the players is judiciously focused and this allows for a stunning depth of recorded sound. And you won’t notice the segue from the last movement of the First String Quartet to the studio sound of the Piano Quintet. Live recordings tend to be “quickie” money-makers for some record companies, but live recordings can also capture tight, clean, and exciting performances, as they do here. Strongly recommended.

John Adams is perhaps the only Minimalist left who is still coming up with good ideas. At the very least he has demonstrated that there is more to Minimalism than mere staccato repetitiveness (Philip Glass, especially in his symphonies) or the repetition of simple melodies or sequences that long outlive their welcome (Steve Reich’s dreadful and terrifying The Cave is a good example of this). This release by the French label Actes Sud has taken works from the last three decades of John Adams’ career that show this composer’s versatility and inventiveness. Best here are Fearful Symmetries of 1988 and his Chamber Symphony of 1992. There are no themes, as such, in Fearful Symmetries. Adams , instead, will announce his ideas and frame them in odd meters and this, in turn, will create some very interesting syncopations, all of which verge on atonality. The occasional spark of atonality separates Adams from both Glass and Reich (but not Terry Riley). The Chamber Symphony is more courageously atonal and often goofy, as in the first movement where the cello goes one way, the violins another and the brasses and winds do their own thing where they are, with each instrument group playing in a different key. In many ways the Chamber Symphony is a throwback to the jazz-oriented experiments of the 1930s particularly among the French (the middle symphonies of Darius Milhaud come to mind.) The remaining works on this disc are more problematic. Four Songs from Adams ’ musical I was looking at the ceiling and then I saw the sky aren’t sung particularly well. Emmanuel Djob’s voice in “A sermon on romance”, the second song, is grating and strained while the voices of the women, Virginie Pesch and Odile Fargere, are much too weak to project above the orchestra. And Christian Zeal and Activity merely seems like filler. Still, the major works here are very much worth the price of admission.

This is a double CD of works for string quartet by the American composer Roger Reynolds (b. 1943). Reynold’s music partakes of just about every postmodern magic trick there is without seeming derivative of any one composer in the 20 th century who used the same tricks, though something of Schoenberg’s brooding temperament is present in nearly every work here. The booklet notes claim that much of Reynold’s music is inspired by landscapes and other visual imagery, but in reality, the music is neither programmatic nor is it in any way descriptive. Coconino … a shattered landscape (1993) works with fragmented assertions, trills, and flirtations as each instrument trades solo roles back and forth in clashing keys and broken meters. It’s a simple work and will remind the informed listener of Witold Lutoslawski or Henri Dutilleux. It’s also performed particularly well and always interesting (if postmodernism is your thing). Visions (1992), is another work based on a painting, but, again, is composed mostly of clashing intervallic elements, with each instrument given distinct, non-harmonic roles. In Reynolds’ music no one instrument is subdued; it’s almost as if these works are written for four soloists, not a quartet. In fact, Kokoro (1993) and Focus a Beam … (1989) are for solo violin and solo cello respectively and share the same energetic character found in the works for the whole quartet. Only Ariadne’s Thread (1994) goes over the top with its computer-generated sounds and electronic amplification of the individual instruments. The fourth movement explodes with such grinding intolerable shrillness that, for some, the work will end there. It’s almost physically impossible to listen any further. But the rest of the CD is redeemed by the astute professionalism of the Arditti group and an otherwise excellent studio ambiance.

Pierre Boulez (b. 1925) has been perhaps the greatest advocate of modernism the music world has ever seen. He studied under Oliver Messiaen who had already advanced the serial technique beyond the ideas of Schoenberg and Webern. Only Stockhausen would take them further. The works on this disc contain some of Boulez’s best serial writing. Polyphonie X (1951) is an engaging work for 18 solo instruments whose assertions are framed in small, yet distinct sound clusters, a strategy that actually prevents the work from devolving into a mishmash of sheer noise. There is no real tonality here (some would argue that this isn’t even music), just isolated sonic ideas. But at 16 minutes, Polyphonie X doesn’t wear out its welcome. According to the notes, Boulez pulled both Polyphonie X and Poesie pour pouvoir (1958), after their premieres. The notes also hint (but don’t state directly) that these recordings might also be of those very performances. If so, their appearances on this disc make them all the more important. (They also happen to be quite stunning performances.) Why Boulez pulled them is anyone’s guess, because, even after all this time, they still appear lucid and vital. But what makes Poesie pour pouvoir unique—and perhaps ahead of its time—is the use of electronic sounds and a tape recorded voice played back with considerable distortion. It’s a spooky work because of the electronics. Boulez’s Tombeau a la memoire du Prince Max Egon zu Furstenberg employs standard serial techniques in a small ensemble, but with a soprano (coloratura) added to the mix. The longest work here is for two pianos called Structures II. It also has the best sound. These are intelligent works but probably only have a limited audience. But students of advanced serialism will want to check this disc out.

Austrian composer Alexander von Zemlinsky (1871-1942) lived long enough to experience nearly every development in German music of the 19 th century to the 20 th century—from Brahms to Schoenberg and beyond. His music, however, lingers most within the twilight of German romanticism at the turn of the century and the abiding influence—for both his symphonies and choral works—seems closer to Bruckner than anyone else. Zemlinsky was not one to take risks, either. So his music, especially his choral music, is middle-of-the-road German romantic. His three Psalms (the 13 th, the 23 rd, and the 83 rd) are the major works on this disc and are framed in traditional liturgical modes (Haydn’s influence here), but Zemlinsky, to his credit, turns them into robust cantatas to be performed outside of church settings. All three Psalms here are performed exceedingly well with the orchestral lines appearing robust and distinct underneath. (Fans of 20 th century cantatas will hear moods common to Gustav Holst and Howard Hanson in these three delightful works.) That being said, the lesser songs of Zemlinsky on this disc lose a bit in terms of recorded sound. The five songs in Fruhlingsbegrabnis contain roles for soprano (Deborah Voight) and baritone (Donnie Ray Albert), but they appear recessed or distant, which could be a fault of the miking. The effect tends to create a blurring of the vocal lines, though the orchestral lines come through just fine. Still, there is much here to admire.

The Eroica Trio consists of Adela Pena on violin, Sara Sant’Ambrogio on cello, and Erika Nickrenz on piano. According to the booklet notes, an earlier album of theirs was nominated for a Grammy. However, if one were to judge from this release of catchy tangos from South American composers, the Eroica Trio isn’t quite ready to take their act on the road, at least just yet. The problems on this disc have mostly to do with Ms. Nickrenz’s touch on the piano. It’s far too aggressive and calls for a more discriminating studio engineer who needs to know the performance habits of the soloists better than he (or she) does. Nickrenz’s blisteringly percussive assertions on the piano can be heard from the get-go in Astor Piazzolla’s wonderful Primavera Portena and fairly botch the entire performance of Revolucionario. However, when the music calls for a more mitigated approach, as in Joaquin Turina’s Premier Trio, the interaction of all three women is quite stunning. But whatever moods are established by the Turina piece, they’re broken by Ms. Nickrenz’s juggernaut piano that violently explodes the opening moments of Raimundo Penaforte’s An Eroica Trio and continues to lay waste to the surrounding countryside whenever called upon to do so. This makes multiple hearings of a disc such as this a distinct chore. Recommendation: Shop elsewhere for your tangos.

This is a rather exuberant collection of cello sonatas by Ferdinand Ries (1784-1838), a student of Beethoven and, along with Beethoven, an innovator of the cello/piano sonata form itself. Neither Mozart nor Haydn composed cello sonatas. For their more intimate music they preferred the trio or even the string quartet where, in either case, the cello’s role always remains submerged. Ries gave the cello a greater and more melodic role (which he learned from Beethoven), and the genre is all the more enriched because of it. But you won’t hear Beethoven in any of Ries’ works. The Cello Sonata Opus 21 is a buoyant work in four movements that highlights the cello’s songlike character with the piano underscoring the piece with a pleasant counterpoint. Though the piano’s role seems right out of Mozart in this work, the interaction between the two instruments, allowing for harmonic passages unknown to Mozart. In fact, in Introduction and a Russian Dance for Piano Forte and Violoncello, Ries seems to outdo his teacher with the cello and piano trading off roles, with neither instrument gaining ascendancy. The Cello Sonata Opus 125 that follows also exists in a violin/piano version and also has piano passages reflecting early, classical modes of performance. (Ries wrote the piece while in London in 1823 where Haydn was the still rage.) The performances of Guido Larisch on the cello and Robert Hill on piano are quite terrific here. These two men are clearly skilled at performing both late classical and early romantic music, but more than that, these two simply capture the fun in this music. Very highly recommended.

Richard Strauss was only 20 when he wrote his Piano Quartet in C minor in 1884, just one of 75 published scores he had written by that age. Though exceedingly precocious, the young Strauss was still under the influence of Brahms and, to some degree, Beethoven. It’s Beethoven who emerges as the abiding conscience behind the Piano Quartet. Its formal, four movement structure and dogged theme-and-recapitulation strategy plow no new ground, and you wouldn’t recognize the work as coming from the pen of Strauss unless someone told you so. This is not the case with Joaquin Turina’s Piano Quartet in A minor, written in 1931. Turina did not have to go through several decades of learning before finding his “voice” and was able to instill a Spanish flavor in nearly all of his music. Moreover, unlike Strauss, Turina had greater experience in writing for small ensembles—quartets, trios, solo instruments, etc., all of which retain the flourishes of Turina’s Spanish coloring. In fact, the Lyric Piano Quartet seems more at home with the Turina piece than the Strauss. The Strauss, as performed here, seems merely de rigueur and often just plain uninspired. The Turina clearly catches their fancy. The downside here is a discernable thinness to the recording ambience which tends to flatten out both quartets—a trait common to many recordings of string quartets. The Turina, however, is still very much worth a listen.

Ferdinand Herold (1791-1833) is known today chiefly for the jaunty overtures to his operas, Zampa (1831) and Pre Aux Clercs (1832), but not the operas themselves. Though born in France, Harold eventually migrated to Italy where all the serious music for the theater was being composed. His influences were Paisiello, Guglielmi and Zingarelli, all composers of what’s now known as light opera. Herold’s two symphonies, also on this disc, were also written in Italy. Curiously, the overtures contrast sharply with the symphonies. The overtures are bubbly, glittery affairs that sparkle, not of the Italian masters of the day, but of Berlioz. They’re quite good. The two symphonies are much less exuberant and have a foot each in the 18 th and the 19 th century and they’re both standing on Germans. The notes don’t say, but the symphonies both could also be student works—journeyman pieces meant to fill out his “resume” as budding composer for when he returned to France. Still, his heart was in the theatre, and it shows in the two overtures. The Orchestra Della Svizzera Italiana handles both the overtures and the symphonies very well, providing just the right verve to the theatre pieces and a properly staid character to the symphonies. In the Great Scheme of Things, the music is probably minor, but the music here is performed with clear affection, and, anymore, that counts for an awful lot.

Performances of Alfred Schnittke’s music require two important elements: spot-on execution on behalf of the performers themselves and a palpable depth to the recording ambience. Otherwise, Schnittke’s music can become ugly and repulsive. Regarding the first factor: there are moments in the middle passages of the Concerto Grosso 1 (1977) were the strings collide and not in a particularly pleasant fashion. Also throughout the piece are pizzicato elements that seem almost arbitrary. And while Schnittke was known for his hijinks, allowing for inaccurate execution was never one of them. (This last is hard to account for in the Concerto Grosso 1 because one of the violin soloists is the otherwise dependable Gidon Kremer.) However, performance values aside, the overall recorded sound on this disc is far too shrill for this music. For whatever reason, the engineers gave little regard to providing a solid bass grounding for the cellos and basses. This is especially true in the Concerto Grosso 1 where just about every instrument is practically allowed to scream, and rather artlessly at that. Even Two Short Pieces (1983) for organ fails. Though there are heavy, low octave bass passages in this work, the contrasting high notes are far too strident. Only the Trio-Sonata (1987) has adequate sonic balances. But it’s far too little and way too late. Even fans of Schnittke—and I count myself as one—will want to avoid this release.

This is a very engaging collection of rather sophisticated postmodern music for strings by contemporary Irish composers. There is nothing particularly “Irish” about most of this music (Frank Corcoran’s Mikrokosmoi is the one exception); indeed, most of the pieces seem reflective of much string writing coming out of Europe, especially the Scandinavian countries, over the past two decades. Still, for all that, the music is quite enthralling. The specter of Alfred Schnittke haunts the background of Raymond Deane’s flirtatious Dekatriad which employs several scales at once: diatonic major, diatonic minor, chromatic, whole tone and pentatonic. “Je goute le jeu …” by Fergus Johnston is a Bergian meditation on an eight note cell and will sporadically remind some listeners of Ligeti or Lutoslawski—or, for the less informed, air raid sirens. More harmonically enhanced is John Buckley’s Concerto for Alto Saxophone and String Orchestra. Those expecting jazz rifts because of the saxophone will be disappointed, but the expressive potential of the saxophone is nonetheless adroitly explored in this work. La Jalousie Taciturne by Gerald Berry is both angry and sullen by turns, perhaps the most acerbic work here. The only neoromantic work here is Frank Corcoran’s Mikrokosmoi (Scenes from My Receding PAST …). It’s filled with songlike moods and lyrical embellishments that take some of the sting out of the preceding work. The final work is Strings A-Stray by Elaine Agnew which incorporates several familiar Irish ditties then nicely mangles them. The sound quality is excellent with just enough depth to the bass lines not to sound too shrill and the Irish Chamber Orchestra plays with polish and panache and seems very at home with this music.

This is the first volume of a projected multi-volume collection on Hungaroton of the percussion music of John Cage. Though Cage’s experiments in sound go back well over 60 years, his ideas about discrete percussive constructions (especially on prepared piano) have only begun to make themselves known—or perhaps have only recently become intelligible, thanks in large measure to the music of his greatest student, Morton Feldman. Quartet (1935), the longest work here, takes several percussion instruments (some of which are unidentifiable but clearly made of metal) and constructs a mostly rhythmic, very patient four-movement work. No sounds conflict here; there is no chaos. Cage, like Morton Feldman, relies heavily on the spaces between the sounds to help shape the individual notes or chords. Unlike Feldman, though, Cage always provides his music with a distinct forward propulsion. This is true in Trio which also has flirts with Balinese dance rhythms. Imaginary Landscape No. 1 involves percussion, but only as traditional underscoring. Its main tonality (for it’s nothing more than a series of ascending tones) is carried by an unidentified electronic instrument, a Theramin, perhaps. Other lines are carried by a prepared piano. First Construction in Metal and Second Construction employ a wide range of percussive effects such as mallets (padded and unpadded) on interior piano strings, gongs of differing sizes, glass bottles and steel drums. Double Music is a collaboration between Cage and Lou Harrison, with Harrison’s Southwest Asian temperament melding well with Cage’s own alien music. The Amadinda Percussion Group seems quite at home with this music (all of it well-rehearsed and polished) and the recorded sound is spacious, if a bit airy. This, though, is quite to the advantage of the music. It allows its meditative character to emerge when it’s appropriate. However, listening to this disc in one sitting can be a bit much. Taken in bits and pieces, though, it can be utterly enthralling.

This is the first volume in Pearl’s two-volume set of British film music. Here one will find lone excerpts (such as the theme from Lord Berners’ Nicholas Nickleby of 1947 and Arthur Bliss’ Men of Two Worlds of 1946 as well as film music that was later compiled into fuller suites. The best of these are John Ireland’s music to The Overlander’s (1946) and Vaughan Williams’ classic Scott of the Antarctic (1948). The Overlanders is a rousing, heroic paean to the efforts of ranchers in northern Australia to move over a million head of cattle south, out of the reach of the Japanese, during WWII. Scott of the Antarctic (1948) is probably the most recognizable work here. It’s an eight-movement suite, parts of which would later become Vaughan Williams’ Seventh Symphony, the “Sinfonia Antarctica. Also of interest here is Arnold Bax’s suite for the film Oliver Twist (1948), a pared-down three-movement work that catches only the main thematic elements of the larger suite itself. That said, there are many problems with this collection, encompassing both performance levels and sound. They’re all different, and they unfortunately range from bad to mediocre. These are the very first recordings of this music and are performed by many different orchestras in different studios. These are also mono recordings with a distinct, and sometimes annoying, analog hiss that never quite goes away. Even though these are historical recordings, only the archivist will be able to tolerate this collection. The average consumer will be able to find far better versions elsewhere, especially of the Ireland and the Vaughan Williams scores.

Vincent d’Indy (1851- 1931) has more than once been called the French Frederick Delius. Like Delius, d’Indy composed a distinct brand of Romanticism that avoided nearly all the schools of new music that appeared around the turn of the 20 th century. It’s equally amazing how d’Indy successfully dodged (or resisted) nearly every influence his most immediate contemporaries, Maurice Ravel and Claude Debussy, had made popular. But then, neither Ravel nor Debussy were interested in the tone poem as a vehicle for their music. D’Indy was and this is what we have here on this excellent release from the Musical Heritage Society. Poeme des rivages, Suite Symphonique en 4 tableaux (1920) is a picturesque cruise around the western Mediterranean, with various stops at the Bay of Biscay, the Adriatic coast, Majorca, and the like, with the orchestra allowed to display a full range of colors and moods ala Arnold Bax and, of course, Frederick Delius. Diptyque mediterraneen (1925) employs many of the same brush strokes found in Poeme des rivages. However, passages in “Soleil matinal”, the first movement, will remind the listener more of Ottorino Respighi than anyone else. This is extremely beautiful—and beguiling—music and very warmly performed by the Philharmonic Orchestra of Monte Carlo.

Contemporary Polish composer Krzysztof Meyer (b. 1943) grew up in an Eastern European musical climate dominated by nearly every mood of 20 th century postmodernism. However, early on in his student years, Meyer managed to study under the famous Nadia Boulanger in Paris whose hand is present in the works of most of the 20 th century’s important composers. Boulanger’s influence definitely shows up in the Piano Concerto (1988/89). The work’s postmodernistic formulations are peppered with very cogent phrases on the piano that, while not being entirely tonal, are coherent enough give the work intelligence and meaning. As a composition teacher, Boulanger always emphasized the importance of structural balances and the clarity of ideas in a work, regardless the creative temperament of the student. Thus in Meyer’s Piano Concerto nothing’s out of whack, ideas never clash. In fact, Meyer’s Piano Concerto seems almost cautious by present postmodernistic standards. The second movement, for example, is a slow, graceful meditation that gradually rises to more assertive statements by the orchestra, then descends into quietude once more. The performances here are absolutely grand. Pavel Gililov is the pianist in the Piano Concerto and he takes to the role without ego. His touch is light, his intonation precise. Meyer’s Musica incrostata” (1988) is a single-movement symphonic work (not quite a tone poem in the traditional sense) that works at shifting harmonic systems, with the emphasis always on orchestral color. Some parts are downright eerie. Taken altogether, this is a very engaging collection of music by a little known contemporary Polish composer.

The opera, Neither (1977), is one of the few text-based compositions in Morton Feldman’s rather extensive and very idiosyncratic canon. As in his other vocal works (among the few are Journey to the End of the Night of 1947 and Three Voices for Solo Voice of 1982), Feldman makes use of the human voice as merely another instrument, albeit one with its own peculiar tone. The “libretto” of Neither is a 17 line poem by Samuel Beckett and though the text remains unchanged throughout this 56 minute work, the actual intonation of the words themselves are so stretched out by the soloist—literally syllable-by-syllable that approaches coloratura—that the words lose all syntactical meaning. As for the instrumental lines in Neither, both melody and motion are reduced to zero … and this is what Feldman is known for and it’s what makes his music all the more interesting. The performances of both orchestra and soloist are quite good here, with a special note of praise for soprano Petra Hoffman whose voice is particularly affectionate. That said, the bad news is that this live recording has far too many audience disruptions. Were this music not so quiet and spacious, the coughing and throat-clearing and people shifting in their seats might be more submerged, but they aren’t and that ruins the meditative quality of this work and this performance. Those of us who love Feldman can only hope that someone soon does a studio recording of this masterpiece. (On the other hand we should perhaps be grateful that someone has done it at all. Even so, I still would like to hear these players again, but this time without an audience.)

By and large, Minimalism is in steep decline, but every now and then something comes along to give fans of Minimalism hope. This is the case with Philip Glass’ brilliant Symphony 5 ‘Requiem, Bardo, Nirmanakaya’. This mammoth 2 CD work is more of a symphonic cantata than an actual symphony and is similar in design to Shostakovich’s dark Symphony 14 . While the Shostakovich is a meditation on death, Glass’s symphony is a twelve-movement storytelling of the whole of creation, from its beginning to its end, as written in just about every holy book, poem, or epic fable that the world has known. Segments come from the Koran, the Bible, the Popul Voh (Mayan), the Rig Veda, the Hawaiian Kumulipo, Zuni myths, as well as Japanese and Chinese sources. All are sung in English. The texts themselves come printed on individual folding cards that also have some of the text written in the original calligraphy. The packaging is quite original, if somewhat balky. As for the performance values themselves, the studio ambience is quite warm and all components (choir, soloists, orchestra) are judiciously miked. (But why is are the God parts or even those of Death always sung by males? Where is political correctness when you need it?) Still, all of Glass’ familiar rising and falling filigrees are here, even if much of the music itself sounds like notes from Koyaanisqatsi or The “Low” Symphony. That aside, this may very well be Glass’ masterpiece. It certainly accomplishes what Steve Reich failed to do in his abysmal symphonic cantata, The Cave. The music here is captivating and the texts sung lovingly by all involved. And while we may have heard elements of the music before, here it all seems fresh, vibrant and vital.

Even though composer and conductor Jose Serebrier was born in Uruguay and studied throughout South America, you wouldn’t know it, at least from the evidence of the music on this release. Serebrier’s creative predilections tend to lean heavily toward jazz and improvisation, something you’d expect more from younger composers living in the United States. But Serebrier’s studied well. The Saxophone Quartet (1955) is a brilliant tour de force utilization of alto and tenor saxophone exchanges, which go back and forth, trading off melodies, and now and then fracturing the harmonies with the occasional wrong note or counter-tone. It’s quite good and doesn’t require too much prolixity on the part of the performers. Six on TV (1973) are fanfares, dances, and moods taken from incidental scores Serebrier composed for several Shakespeare plays that appeared on American television in the 1970s. They seem de rigueur for that kind of music, though “Juliet” is memorable for its plaintive expressiveness. Erotica (1968) is a twelve-tone work that also employs aleatoric passages with soprano coloratura. The soprano (Carole Farley) is intentionally recessed and very spooky, creating the kind of atmospherics you’d find in a horror movie of the 1950s. It also has flourishes found in Boulez and, in the end, seems a bit derivative. This holds as well for The Canine Suite (1957) and Pequena Musica (1955). The former is dour homage for dead dogs (really) and the latter is a Boulez-like canter for wind ensemble. Serebrier’s path with heart seems to be in the buoyant jazz pieces such as the Saxophone Quartet. But much of his other music is too much influenced by Boulez and his friends. Still, the performances here are superb and it’s clear that the Australian Saxophone Quartet knows their stuff.

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