Philharmonia Hungarica | Werner Andreas Albert
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The name of Miklos Rozsa is most closely associated with his scores for some of the 20th century’s most notable Hollywood movies – Ben Hur and El Cid among them. But like a lot of film music composers, Rozsa also wrote for the concert hall. His orchestral Tripartita – penned some 20 years after his Violin Concerto, which he wrote for the legendary violin virtuoso, Jascha Heifetz – is here given a fiery, full-blooded performance that showcases its energy and urgency. Werner Andreas Albert compels Philharmonia Hungarica to hit home the violence of music which, while post modern, is neither difficult nor remote.
-:- War is declared
A bassoon, a snare drum, low strings and timpani troop a grumbling march. Against this menacing backdrop, higher strings, brass and woodwinds play a theme that could easily come from a WWII action movie. Picture grainy, black and white shots of tanks trampling barbed-wire defences on shell-pitted battlefields. The mood is one of impending war – which, as it breaks out (T5-0:50), causes the march to become bolder, wilder and more aggressive.
An oboe and a viola echo each other’s song (T5-1:33) – their voices dogmatically drowned out by the brief hammerings of strings and percussion. Then before long, there comes that march again. As this first movement draws to a close, booming timpani, shattering cymbals, angry brass and piercing strings call to mind the horrors of mid-20th century Europe’s bloody conflict. This music may have been written in 1972, but it recalls 1942.
-:- Wreckage and revenge
Rozsa’s ear for the cinematic is to the fore in the strange landscape of the second movement. A shell-shocked flute picks its way along streets choked with rubble after the onslaught of the first movement. Its voice is replaced by a shifting assortment of woodwinds, as we’re shown a succession of crumbling, smouldering buildings.
We’re brought eventually to a scene of senseless carnage: a hospital, school or church that had sheltered innocents lies utterly destroyed, rivered by blood. Tempted to anger as the orchestra evokes the horrific devastation (T6-5:30-6:55), we’re reminded by the solo violin’s grief in the movement’s dying minutes that violence begets only more destruction, more sorrow.
-:- No surrender
The third and final movement begins riotously and chaotically. It is the madness of a mind bent on war, on crushing resistance. When the bombastic gives way to the intimate, we hear the inner-most machinations of this mind in the rhythmic clicking of wood blocks and the heartbeat of a bass drum (T7-0:58-1:20), as well as in the twinkling and whirring of a piccolo, harp and glockenspiel (T7-2:08-2:19).
There are moments of tenderness, such as the oboe and violin’s sad duet that gives this finale its bittersweet centre. But in the end, brutal brass, the relentless pounding of the bass drum’s gun, and the insanity and ugliness of war obliterate everything. Anyone expecting a heart-warming Hollywood ending from the man who made his name in movies has seen one too many films.
~FK~
Sound Collective | Tom Hammond | Tony Woods
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It’s not uncommon for lovers of classical music to enjoy jazz – or vice versa. It’s also not unheard of for composers to fuse these genres. When that fusion is as seamless as it is in Luke Anthony’s rewarding Saxophone Concerto, the results make you forget any division exists. For soloist, Tony Woods, Anthony has penned nothing short of a contemporary classic; one which some might say bears a similarity to Michael Nyman’s saxophone concerto (in all but name), Where The Bee Dances. If you love that, you’ll thrill to what Woods and the excellent Sound Collective – under the baton of Tom Hammond - deliver in this superb recording.
-:- One work, two worlds
The first thing we hear is a deep, extended double bass note, quickly supported by other low strings. Woods’ saxophone enters in, his instrument’s voice like the call of an exotic bird. This work doesn’t so much begin as dawn. The opening repeats, bringing in higher strings and woodwinds, as Woods elaborates on the bird call, then takes us on a mellow morning meander – until at last, we meet the main theme (T1-1:19).
At just pass the two-minute mark, smooth strings and long saxophone lines are replaced by a more tense episode, with Woods switching from the scored to the seemingly improvisatory (T1-2:30). High-lying notes get tossed off as though spilling from their staves, before this brief jazz interlude swings back to classical – setting the tone for a first movement which blurs the line between two musical worlds. One minute, it’s Jan Garbarek. The next, Dmitri Shostakovich.
-:- Twilight tone
Strings breathe deeply, in and out. Lines of brass – and later, woodwinds – drift overhead, like thin wisps of purply-orange cloud high above an Arizona desert evening sky. Woods muses gently, beautifully, spontaneously on the saxophone. This tranquil, hypnotic second movement, with its shades of Copland’s Quiet City, could soothe the most troubled soul. And again, it’s hard to know (or care) what’s jazz and what’s classical. Especially when Anthony’s closing two minutes so brilliantly echo the tintinnabular style of one of his heroes – Estonian composer, Arvo Part – as Woods plays what borders on free jazz (T2-8:26).
-:- Bourbon and vodka
A strong American influence gives the third movement a distinctive flavour. Imagine a well-blended cocktail of greats, ranging from (the already mentioned) Aaron Copland to Leonard Bernstein, Branford Marsalis and Michael Brecker. Anthony adds a dash of Russian spirit to the mix : Shostakovich again discernible, this time in the snare drums.
We open with a head-bobbing rhythm straight out of West Side Story. Woods shares the floor with various members of Sound Collective, then blends Anthony’s scripted lines into what are, perhaps, his own ideas? The pace picks up (T3-2:27) before the music suddenly gives way to something unexpected (T3-3:28) – a passage as short-lived as both the reprised opening rhythm that follows it, and this work’s chilled ending. Is it jazz? Is it classical? Does it matter?
~FK~
Schola Cantorum of Oxford | Jeremy Summerly
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The literal translation of Missa pro defunctis is “Mass for the deceased”. So does that mean we can expect only music which is sombre or subdued? Not when it’s written by a master of late Renaissance polyphony like Duarte Lobo. Rather than making of this Latin mass text a dour commiseration for a life lived, Lobo imbues it with a feeling of celebration. His music is economical, yet expansive – deftly arranged for eight voices, but sounding like many more; his ear for vocal colour bringing to life each line of text. Under Jeremy Summerly, one of early music’s most committed advocates, Schola Cantorum of Oxford make those colours shine brilliantly.
-:- Holy night
Sung without embellishment, the opening Requiem aeternam (Rest eternal) of the Introitus is typically reverential. So it’s a little surprising to then be enveloped by the warmth of sound that follows this plain introduction. It gives this music a flavour of an altogether different mass: that of Christmas. You can picture caroling, mulled wine, hot breath clouding cold air. Very far from sadness and grieving. Then when all eight voices join in exaltation of the words et tibi reddetur votum in Jerusalem; exaudi orationem meam (and a vow will be repaid you in Jerusalem; hear my prayer) (T1-2:24), the powerful projection of these lines carries us still further from anything remotely solemn or morose.
-:- Simplicity and piety
Later composers have made of the Kyrie an extended vocal extravaganza. But Lobo sets each of its three lines – essentially, the same three words, sung three times - just once. What he creates by this treatment is somehow a reflection in miniature of his music for the whole mass. The proceeding Graduale, musically akin to the Introtius, is handled equally simply; while the Offertorium makes a moving plea to God for the freedom of the faithful dead, beseeching the Lord to spare them hell’s punishments and reward their fidelity with an eternity in holy light. It’s earnest, and moving.
-:- After life
In common with many requiem settings, the Sanctus and Benedictus are presented together. Lobo has the voices sing gently the words Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus Dominus Deus Sabaoth (Holy, holy, holy Lord God of Hosts); the lines weaving seamlessly in and out of one another. Then at Pleni sunt caeli et terra gloria tua (Heaven and earth are full of your glory) (T5-0:40), Lobo showers us with a burst of divine light – the voices of Schola Cantorum raining down as though from paradise.
The uncomplicated and sincere Agnus Dei stands out more for its plainchant solo, which announces periodically its title, than for its rich harmonies or the glorious crowning of its final line. When we reach the closing Communio, Lobo seems to bring us full circle – here again, that spirit of Christmas. The words speak of peace everlasting; the singing proclaims life eternal. This is a remembrance that makes us look forward, as well as back.
~FK~
Philharmonia Baroque Orchestra | Choir of Clare College, Cambridge
Nicholas McGegan | Lorraine Hunt Lieberson | Lisa Saffer
Paul Elliott | Michael Dean
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Henry Purcell’s imaginative Baroque masterpiece sets to music Virgil’s story of doomed love between Dido, Queen of Carthage, and the Trojan prince, Aeneas. The opera has everything from agonised desire to rum wit – and eventually, tragedy. Nicholas McGegan’s historically sympathetic interpretation makes for a near-ideal recording, boasting vivid colours and textures, and an outstandingly strong cast headed by the much-missed Lorraine Hunt Lieberson as Dido.
-:- Dido relents
Act I begins with Dido torn between fidelity to her late husband and her feelings for Aeneas. Belinda, her lady-in-waiting, leads other courtiers in urging their queen to let passion for Aeneas reign. The prince also calls for Dido’s succumbing – but her resistance is not ended until Lisa Saffer (as Belinda) sings the words, “Her eyes confess the flame her tongue denies” (T7-0:19~0:30). The court rejoices, and there is dancing.
-:- Dido sans Aeneas
Set in a wicked Sorceress’ cave, Act II’s first part opens with a convincing roll of thunder (created by a specially made “thunder box”, like those used in 17th and 18th century theatres). With two enchantresses and an evil hoard, the Sorceress plots to trick Aeneas into leaving Carthage at once – pressing him on to fulfil his destiny to found Rome, thus denying he and Dido their love. Purcell cleverly simulates an echo in the cave by having the hoard sing loudly, then softly, the words of the chorus, “In our deep vaulted cell” (T12-0:00~0:57).
The second part of Act II sees the royal party on a hunt in a grove. But their sport is spoiled by a storm – unleashed by the witches’ spell. While the party shelters, Aeneas meets the Sorceress’ elf (disguised as Mercury, Messenger of the Gods), who tells him to sail for Italy immediately.
-:- Dido laments
In Carthage’s harbour at the start of Act III, Aeneas’ crew prepares to sail. Paul Elliott gives us an earthy performance of “Come away, fellow sailors” (T20-0:29~0:57) – a sea shanty in all but name – urging his seamen to take leave of their “nymphs on the shore” and “silence their mourning with vows of returning” … knowing full well he and the crew won’t be back. The sailors chorus Elliott’s song, then begin to dance. The witches, too, celebrate triumph at separating the royal lovers.
Act III’s concluding half has Aeneas explaining to Dido the heaven-sent nature of his departure. Seeing his lover distressed at the news, he promises half-heartedly to stay and defy his fate. But Dido is heartbroken and insists he leave. She then says goodbye to Belinda and takes her own life, as she sings the famous “Dido’s Lament” – also known as “When I Am Laid In Earth” (T27-1:07). Hunt Lieberson delivers the words “Remember me, but ah! forget my fate” with a resignation that recalls the singer’s own untimely death. Not that hers is a voice so easily forgotten.
~FK~
Academy of St. Martin in the Fields
Kenneth Sillito
Julian Bliss
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Violinists the world over have Louis Spohr to thank for inventing the chin rest. Conductors who direct with a baton can thank Spohr for being the first. And clarinettists everywhere are surely grateful to Spohr for giving them four of the most delightful concerti ever written for their instrument – the second of these being especially uplifting. Yet outside these groups and their fellow music makers, the name of Spohr is still relatively unknown. With their lively recording of one of the sunniest works in all classical music, Julian Bliss, Kenneth Sillito and the Academy of St. Martin in the Fields make an eloquent plea to right this unjust wrong.
A perfect day
Some days, everything goes right. Good news in the mail. Train arrives on time. Everyone gets along in the office. This concerto’s first movement is made for such days. It’s upbeat, cheerful and optimistic. It has an infectious bounce – and a catchy tune which you’ll catch yourself humming throughout the day (T7-3:53). Bliss’ playing is warm and flowing. His fingers land on and lift off the clarinet’s keys like a butterfly flitting from one flower to another on a bright summer morning. And though the music does become briefly introspective here and there, it’s never for so long that it clouds the sun in this movement’s otherwise bright blue sky.
Tranquil Bliss
The gentler pace of the second movement adagio invites a much dreamier mood. Gliding through his initial notes, Bliss encourages us to kick off our shoes, sit back and enjoy a moment of rest and relaxation. There’s a particularly lovely little episode a short way into the movement (T8-1:51) … though it’s rudely interrupted by the clarinet (T8-2:14). Bliss upsets the peace like someone arriving in the middle of a quiet afternoon’s reading with news they think is vitally important but which you know could’ve waited till later. The disruption temporarily disturbs an air of calm, but this is restored by some beautiful writing for flute and clarinet (T8-3:19~3:40), cradled by strings.
Dancing virtuosity
A rumble of timpani, a miniature fanfare, and it’s straight into Bliss’ opening lines. The third movement is less sprightly than the one which begins this work, though it has a rhythm that wouldn’t be misplaced in a ballet. The stage is set not for dancing, however, but for Bliss’ unostentatious prowess – the clean, fresh quality of his playing helped in part by a recording which favours his solo clarinet, bringing it forward in the sound picture. As for good humour, there’s as much in this last movement as in the first.
This concerto’s positive forward momentum, unimpeded by the central movement’s repose, is among the charms that make it as much fun to hear as it must be to play. You’ll find you hanker for the other three clarinet concerti, too – and wonder if listeners also have something for which to thank Louis Spohr.
~FK~
New York Philharmonic Orchestra
Leonard Bernstein
~
Knowing just nine days passed between the premiere of Tchaikovsky’s most personal symphony and the death of its creator makes it difficult to ignore the sadness that begins and ends this work. Yet the composer himself wrote, “You cannot imagine what joy I feel in the conviction that my day is not yet over”; proof that he found the writing of this symphony creatively uplifting. Leonard Bernstein’s interpretation captures much of that joy, but emphasises more the pathos implied by the work’s title. It makes for a truly memorable performance – one that’s also deeply moving.
Aspects of love
Out of stillness created by low strings comes a world-weary theme on the bassoon. It’s the language of lost love – spoken also by woodwinds and higher strings soon after the theme’s appearance. Tchaikovsky gradually develops this melody into an epic melodrama, in a first movement very much of two parts. One is tragic and heroic, as suggested by the developed opening theme. The other is a more famous and lushly romantic tune (T1-5:33) that leaves you in no doubt that it, too, is a consequence of love.
Preventing the movement from becoming too comfortable, a violent orchestral eruption (T1-11:34) returns us to the earlier turbulent struggle. Bernstein cranks up the drama, drawing a rich sonority from the strings and aggression from the brass (T1-14:48) that lead to a devastating emotional climax (T1-15:25). Then once thundering timpani have rolled past, romance floods back in with increasing intensity – before slowly, gently, ebbing away.
Waltzing, then marching
The limping waltz of the second movement feels oddly light in character given the music it follows. It wouldn’t be out of place in any of Tchaikovsky’s celebrated ballets. And like the third movement’s upbeat, triumphant, militaristic march, the waltz has dark undertones. What it doesn’t have is the third movement’s mix of exhilaration and cruel irony which fool us into thinking this is the symphony’s conclusion, while concealing from us the great sorrow still to come.
A tragic end?
Anyone who’s ever lost love will feel that they know what the strings are lamenting at the start of this symphony’s finale. So much sadness in just four minutes; the bassoon returning like a fallen hero, battered and bereft of spirit. This is music that makes you look back, remember what was and fight tears, despite knowing this is a carefully crafted piece of drama designed to tug at your heart.
Bernstein squeezes every last drop of sentimentality from Tchaikovsky’s heartbreaking score. Yet his response to this music and the sweep of his conception seem genuine – even when his reading borders on Hollywood schmaltz. The way he shapes the passage from the moment the gong is struck gently (T4-12:12) until the strings die, pathetically, into stillness is reason enough to forgive any liberties he takes. Experience this, and you’ll never again hear the Sixth Symphony’s end without thinking of the death it so prophetically foreshadowed.
~FK~
Cleveland Quartet
~
Going against critical opinion of the day, Debussy gave fellow countryman Ravel sage advice when he told him not to touch a single note he’d written in his String Quartet. Classically styled but Modern-sounding, Ravel’s work appeared at the tail-end of the Romantic era – and was, it seems, too much for Faure. As its dedicatee (and Ravel’s teacher), Faure was particularly uncharitable in his assessment of it; he referred to the finale as a “failure”. But that was then. Over 100 years later, performances which brim with vim and vigour – like this one by the Cleveland Quartet – rubbish past criticisms and showcase Ravel’s deft string writing.
Revelation
Three ladies take tea on the lawn on a warm but overcast May afternoon. It sounds quaint – but it’s an apt way to depict the first movement’s first 50 seconds. One of the ladies disturbs this scene by unexpectedly sharing a secret that shatters the niceties of Earl Grey and cake. A sudden gust of spring breeze sets strings quivering (T5-1:14~1:27). The other two women lean in, conspiratorially.
What unfolds is a story going back decades to the first lady’s youth. A forbidden love? A tragic one? It’s remembered vividly, tenderly – sometimes, painfully. Each episode in the music befits one in this fictitious woman’s past. Then she sits back, sips tea and awaits her companions’ shocked reactions (T5-4:37).
Recollection
When her friends are done probing for intimate details in the first movement’s second half, our storyteller slips into the flashback that is the second movement. The Cleveland Quartet’s crisp pizzicato entry has a snap and sparkle that speak of a mischievous girlhood. Their introduction sways like ears of wheat in a summer wind – recalling the fields where two young lovers would meet, unseen by disapproving families. Yet there’s an uneasiness in this movement’s contrasting central section (T6-1:47~4:55) – one that reminds us there’s a reason for this reverie.
Rejection
Beginning quietly, coolly and with sighing strings, the third movement’s opening signals the flashback’s end. Or at least, that’s what we can imagine. For although this is music without programme, it’s nonetheless richly visual and cinematic. We see the ladies pretending to comfort and console their friend. We witness her angry dismissal of feigned sympathy (T7-3:45). We follow her as she hurriedly withdraws from their company. And we watch as she rails alone against her memories (T7-4:57~5:49) – her rage at the past leading inevitably to tears and exhaustion.
Release
The finale may make you think you’ve turned several pages at once. Feeling more like an epilogue, it both disappoints expectation and sustains our intrigue. It keeps from us our protagonist’s secret – though the music seems to suggest this was damaging enough to warrant her expulsion from polite society. A nervous, excitable energy drives this movement, tempered by delicate moments that hark back to our narrator’s life before she exposed her past. We sense her world is now a little more chaotic. But she is freer – and happy.
~FK~
Hungarian State Opera Orchestra
Tamas Benedek
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There can be no greater tribute to an artist than to have one of his contemporaries create a piece of art in his memory. When the artists concerned are two of the most celebrated composers of the 20th century, you can be sure the tribute will be something very special. Part’s Cantus in memory of Benjamin Britten is certainly that. Written in Part’s self-created tintinnabular style, this is a piece as moving as it is intense. Its performance in this recording by the Hungarian State Opera Orchestra under Tamas Benedek is extraordinarily sensitive – and so emotionally immediate and personal that it almost feels like we’re sharing in the grief Part must have felt at Britten’s passing.
For whom the bell tolls
A funereal chime from a single tubular bell rings out three times. Like the bell of a parish church, it sombrely marks the death of someone much respected. Part had come to admire Britten towards the end of the older composer’s life. So much so, that this wordless eulogy to the late genius pays homage to Britten’s love of melodies built around scales. The bell goes on chiming, making itself heard through a steadily thickening blanket of sound woven by strings alone. Getting louder as the middle of this seven-and-a-half-minute work approaches, the bell is finally struck inaudibly near its close. All we hear, as the strings abruptly stop playing, is the bell’s decaying resonance.
Reprising and falling
The violins’ high-lying entry (T9-0:24) after the tubular bell’s third opening strike calls to mind one of those movie scenes where someone is given the news of a loved one’s sudden, tragic demise. You can imagine Part being told that Britten has died. Time is suspended; nothing seems real except for that moment. Even the air in the room seems to chill. As the strings increase in number, they become more densely concentrated. Repeating either the notes of the A minor scale or the A minor chord, each instrument starts high then descends, ever more slowly, as the work moves forward. Everything becomes gradually richer, thicker, heavier; the music almost suffocating as all lines blur into one (T9-6:52). It’s like trying to focus on the bearer of sad news right before the tears in your eyes start to fall.
Requiem for a friend
In many ways, this incredibly simple, incredibly affecting work is a mass without words. Part bids farewell not just for himself, but for all who knew and loved Britten, and for all who loved his work. This music envelops you as you listen; chokes you if you dare to speak while it plays; silences you after it finishes. Hear it often enough and it haunts you, becomes the soundtrack to your own grief. It is sadness. And yet, something in it suggests hope for a safe passage to wherever it is we go when this world is no longer for us. More than anything, though, it says goodbye.
~FK~
Eric-Olivier Lebigot
~
It takes a thoughtful composer to reimagine the musical language of the late 19th century, fuse it with the spirit of the late 20th century, and avoid a skewed pastiche of the solo piano music heard in fin de siecle Paris salons. Eric-Olivier Lebigot – or EOL, as this writer/performer likes to be known – seems to be just such a composer. For proof, hear the 27 compositions on his engaging release, Intuitions. Becoming A Child, arguably the most striking of these pieces, might worry some with its unpromising title, but four minutes of trite piano noodling this is not. The work’s musical ideas are deceptively simple, hiding complex fears that will be familiar to many.
Past masters
The influence of Debussy, Faure and Satie on Lebigot’s piano writing is immediately apparent. So is his affinity with fellow living composers Michael Nyman and Philip Glass. All those who fell in love with Nyman’s music for The Piano will feel at home with many of Lebigot’s relatively short pieces – Becoming A Child being the longest of these.
It begins hesitantly, like a piano introduction to a Tori Amos song (T18-0:00~1:10). As fans of her music will know, this usually signals the start of something lyrically intricate and personally profound. Such depth is not as obvious in Lebigot’s main theme (T18-1:10~1:44), yet there is more to this music than its easy lyricism lets on.
Future hurts
Here’s how Lebigot sees this work. It’s about a mother who, understanding that life involves a degree of suffering, nonetheless (and naturally) wants to keep her child from experiencing it. What we hear is a parent inwardly bearing imagined future trials; and it’s her empathy that gives this piece its title. By “becoming a child”, says Lebigot, the mother can believe she’s shielding her youngster from life’s crueller adventures.
The images this music conjures up aren’t disturbing, but nor are they reassuring. For much of the composition’s length, it’s like watching an old Super 8 video of a young boy dancing by a window. Midsummer sunlight streams in and glares off of the polished wooden floor beneath his feet. Focus on the silhouette the light makes of the boy, and you become uncomfortably aware that it also makes darker the shadows in the places where it doesn’t reach. Less a sinister picture, more a disquieting one.
Present times
And so to the early 21st century. It’s unfortunate that Lebigot’s debut release will probably never feature in the reviews pages of the mainstream classical music press. Pushed for space and time, they’ll overlook this sensitive contribution to modern piano music, or mistake it for “New Age”; presuming this an album which pretends to Minimalism but fools only itself. A shame, as there’s substance beneath the naive sincerity on the surface of Lebigot’s writing. Substance open-minded listeners can these days evaluate for themselves at the click of a mouse - thanks (amusingly) to the digital salons of our new age.
~FK~
The Tallis Scholars
~
Imagine a piece of sacred music so special it was kept a secret for 140 years. A brilliantly ornamented work which the Vatican prevented anyone from hearing outside the Sistine Chapel – severe punishment being threatened for whoever revealed its vocal embellishments. Now imagine a 14-year-old musical genius who, hearing this work only twice, wrote it down from memory. That young prodigy was Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart; and the music he transcribed so accurately was Allegri’s Miserere mei, Deus – a work that’s little more than plainchant without its transforming vocal additions. Experts agree these were not a feature of Allegri’s original, but they give this music a spiritual potency – and make it a thing of beauty. Especially when sung by a choir as accomplished as The Tallis Scholars.
A blessed miracle
The boy Mozart escaped excommunication because his feat of musical memory impressed the Pope, who summoned the young composer to Rome and praised him. Once Mozart’s version of the work (for there were other versions besides the one we know today) was published in London in 1771, the ban on its performance outside the Catholic Church was lifted. A decision for which we should be grateful, for this incredibly simple yet incredibly moving example of late Renaissance polyphony is a treasure that deserves to be admired by all.
To the Host in the highest
Anyone about to listen to this music, even if they’ve heard it before, should prepare themselves. They should leave aside their everyday thoughts, and find a place where they can forget the world exists. Because time stops still as the words Miserere mei, Deus, secundum magnam misericordiam tuam (Have mercy upon me, O God, according to your great mercy) begin to fill Merton College Chapel in Oxford – the setting for this spacious and atmospheric recording.
A moment later, the first of the chanted sections begins (T1-0:53) – followed by what may sound like a mistake in the sound engineering, as a smaller group of voices answers this chant from some distance away (T-1:13). Don’t adjust your equipment: this is one of the effects which lends to the Miserere an almost ethereal quality. Another effect – and perhaps the best-loved in this work – is achieved by a lone soprano voice soaring high above this small vocal group (T1-1:44~2:04), carrying to heaven the words et a peccato meo munda me (and cleanse me from my sin).
Divinely inspired, simply conceived
This alternation between choirs near and far, the gorgeous vocal decoration that adorns some of the lines, and the haunting high-note solos from a single soprano comprise almost all of this work’s twelve and a half minutes (which feel like many more, so timeless is this music). Only the words change; Allegri choosing Psalm 51 for his text. As the piece nears its close, he asks the two bodies of voices to join in unison (T1-11:39). It make for a serene end to a work you can understand the Catholic Church wanting to keep to itself.
~FK~
Glenn Gould
~
Pity the pianists who’ve recorded Bach’s Goldberg Variations since Glenn Gould’s famous 1955 account. And too, those who’ve done so since this equally well-known 1981 remake. Comparisons will inevitably be made. That said, it’s easy to hear why Gould’s later reading is now as legendary as his first. Forget his eccentricities – not least, the mildly irritating humming – and just listen to his playing. It’s electric, it’s alive; and it’s impossible to detail all 30 variations in a concise review. So let’s dispense with track times, be selective and look at a few of the highlights.
An intimate relationship
Even without Gould’s unique interpretive touches, this recording will fail for purists; Bach’s keyboard works on a modern piano won’t tickle their ivories. For others, it’ll succeed from the first notes of the opening Aria – the theme on which the variations are built – because this simple tune is for Gould the entrance into a world he knows well. And one he clearly cares for passionately, as the energy burst which kick-starts Variation (Var) 1 and wakes us from that dreamy Aria proves.
Playfulness, panache and pace
Bright and bold, Var 4 is a child trying to walk in grown-up shoes; while Var 5 is dense counterpoint - two musical ideas going in different directions. Var 7 is lilting and gentle, and Var 10 is a song the piano sings in rounds, adding colour and ornamentation as it goes. In Var 13, everything is pared (and slowed) down. This throws Var 14’s decorous trills and furious fingerwork into sharp relief. Scampering of a similar, though less hurried, kind characterises Var 17. By Var 19, there’s a more deliberate tempo – then it’s a race to keep up with Var 20, as it hurtles forward at speed.
Affectation, innocence and loss
With Var 21, a change of mood. Its opening seems tragic and theatrical, self-conscious and suspiciously insincere. But its pretense is forgotten by the time we reach Var 24, with its skipping nursery rhyme rhythm (think of “Humpty Dumpty” as it begins). Then six minutes of private grief, as Var 25 – perhaps the most famous of all – paints a picture of a woman of declining years listening to this music and remembering loved ones and young lives claimed by war.
From headlong to the head
Var 26 stands in stark contrast to its predecessor. Its fizzing, dizzying notes share something in common with those which whizz past our ears in Var 28 (both variations are a testament to Gould’s pin-point pianism). Var 29 impresses with its assertive, masculine playing, as Gould manfully climbs and descends scales. This is followed by the small-scale grandeur of Var 30 – proud and processional, yet regal and refined.
Then at last, we return to where it all began. The Aria da capo – a slower repeat of the opening Aria - reminds us of this central theme’s humility, elegance and beauty. A moving melody that lasts less than a minute brings the work to a close. The Aria’s simplicity belies this music’s complexity; some of these variations can be really rather tricky to hum. Unless, that is, you’re Glenn Gould.
~FK~
Philharmonia Orchestra
Ambrosian Singers
Riccardo Muti
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Commemorating the execution by French revolutionaries of King Louis XVI, Cherubini’s C minor Requiem was praised by revolutionaries of a very different kind. Musical giants like Beethoven, Berlioz and Wagner admired the work, and it was praised by Mendelssohn, Schumann and Brahms. Esteem by such illustrious composers is well deserved. A masterfully grand mass setting, it’s equally able to glorify and terrify. In this recording, Riccardo Muti and his team make its wonders and terrors excitingly clear – though their performance deserves better sound (voices getting a rawer deal than instruments). But make no mistake: their playing and singing are to die for.
Grave solemnity
At a graveside as the Introitus et Kyrie begins, we’re among mourners whose dark clothes reflect the skies above. Slivers of sunlight slip between charcoal-grey clouds, hinting at a better world beyond this one. This is music of great sadness – yet it never loses faith in the sure and certain hope of resurrection to eternal life. It’s followed by a brief, comforting Graduale; the voices of loving angels appealing to the Lord on behalf of the dead.
The end of the world
Shattering this calm and heralding mankind’s impending judgement is the Sequentia, beginning with the Dies Irae (Day of wrath) and the frightening sound of the Last Trump and the clash of a gong. Strings swarm like insects (T5-0:10) as clouds darken. Voices first whisper then proclaim the coming of the Judge (T5-0:13~1:04). Fear strikes at the hearts of men. It’s a terrible scene … and it’s terribly thrilling.
The central section of the Sequentia - from Recordare, Jesu pie (Remember, blessed Jesu) until just before the violent explosion at Confutatis maledictus (Let the cursed ones be confounded) – is much gentler, befitting the pleading of a sinner before Christ. The same is true of the Sequentia’s remainder, beginning with the sinner begging for the Lord’s care, and ending with a plea for eternal peace.
Deliverance from evil
The sixteen-and-a-half-minute Offertorium – a sumptuous vocal sacrifice of praise and prayer – is by turns majestic, delicate and venerational in its call for deserving souls to be guided by St. Michael into the Holy Light. In contrast, the short and combined Sanctus and Benedictus which follows boasts vocal blazes only at the two cries of Hosanna in excelsis (Hosanna in the highest). Then hushed reverence for the Pie Jesu - opened and closed by suitably modest woodwind writing – as three times, the Lamb of God is asked to grant everlasting rest.
The Agnus Dei and Communio are awash with waves of dramatic word setting (T9-0:10~0:30, 0:59~1:19 and T9-1:50~2:07) which give way to three still more intense and dynamic rises and falls from orchestra and singers (T9-3:10~4:19, 4:26~4:56 and 5:08~5:35). Descended from the last of these, we’re led back slowly to the now rain-soaked scene by a grave, and the sorrow of mourners gathered to pray for the soul of the departed. It is a finale with a sense of finality – one fit for a king.
~FK~
Los Angeles Philharmonic Orchestra
Zubin Mehta
Anita Priest
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Cast in two spellbinding movements that sound more like four (and are indexed as four on this recording), this thrilling symphony casts a spell as bewitching as that in any fairytale. It has excitement, drama, romance and, ultimately, a happy ending. And like all great fairytales, the so-called “Organ” Symphony seizes the imagination and lingers on in it afterwards. Especially in a reading as magical as this by Zubin Mehta and the Los Angeles Philharmonic Orchestra (now part of a two-CD set – the cover shown is from the original LP).
Once upon a time …
Dawn. Mist hangs above a fen. Crossing it on horseback are a gallant prince and a small band of soldiers. They ride determinedly (T1-1:01) towards a dark castle set against an angry, red-black sky. There’s steely resolve in the prince’s eyes; thoughts of revenge behind them (T1-2:04) – and memories, too, of happier times with the princess (T1-3:19~3:39) whom he and his men are riding to free from the cruel sorcerer’s castle prison.
The theatrical first half of this symphony’s first movement sets the scene for what might be just such a daring, fabled rescue. Hurrying strings, defiant timpani and fearless brass (T1-4:15~4:33) threaten a bloody clash between the forces of good and evil (T1-6:34). Contrast this with the feminine mood of the movement’s second half. Soft organ chords cushion plaintive strings and woodwinds, as our princess remembers family, friends and the flowering of love.
Ferocious (and farcical) fighting
Inside the castle as the second movement’s first half gets into full swing, the prince cuts down the sorcerer’s malevolent hoards. His men engage in comic battles like those in kids’ action-adventure movies (T3-1:37); the confusion giving the prince a chance to slip away and search for the princess – she characterised by a brief, less violent interlude (T3-2:14~2:30).
Frenzied fighting rages around the prince till he reaches the staircase (T3-5:20) leading to the castle’s tower. Nearing a room at the top, he hears the princess singing – her song represented by the strings alone (T3-5:57~6:30). What the prince doesn’t see, however, is the sorcerer hidden in a corner, poised to strike (T3-6:35).
Happy forever after
A ground-shaking organ chord announces the second movement’s conclusion (T4-0:00). In slow motion, the prince whips round to plunge his sword deep into the magician’s black heart. The spell is broken – the sorcerer exploding into a million tiny sparks (T4-0:28). Sunlight streams in through narrow castle windows. The evil hoards, alive again, turn out to be enslaved villagers. The prince embraces his beloved. But is this really the end of the sorcerer (T4-3:02)?
This is, of course, all conjecture and fantasy. But no more fantastic than the many smaller climaxes that lead to the spectacular orchestral fireworks which bring this incredible symphony to a heart-pounding end. To make special mention of any single contribution by players or conductor in this recording would be plain wrong. Because this performance – like this symphony – is entirely enchanting.
~FK~
New York Philharmonic Orchestra
Leonard Bernstein
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We’ll never know if Shostakovich meant it when he wrote that his Second Piano Concerto (a gift for his son’s 19th birthday) had “no redeeming artistic merits”. The composer was used to censure by Stalin’s oppressive regime – maybe he was pre-empting further scolding from the authorities. But Stalin was, by then, dead. So can we assume Shostakovich had his tongue in his cheek? Some might argue “yes” after hearing Leonard Bernstein – as conductor and soloist – make such a magnificent case for this work as a 20th-century masterpiece.
Disciplined and delirious
All begins orderly enough. A bassoon, clarinets and oboes play a bouncy, rhythmically taut march. They’re joined by the piano, entering with a merry tune that’s quickly replaced by an unusual take on “What shall we do with the drunken sailor?” (this accompanied by full strings, an assertive bassoon and a snare drum). The music then becomes briefly triumphant, until the piano expands on its opening theme above hushed strings, with brass and woodwinds providing shades of extra colour.
As Bernstein gets suddenly more ferocious (T5-2:29), everything he and the orchestra does sounds wild and faintly macabre. Mockery is made of the march; piccolos and flutes shriek; the piano just keeps on going in an effort to escape the madness. But no matter how fast Bernstein’s runs, his players’ notes stick to his until he reaches his solo (T5-5:07). A few moments later – and with the orchestra again crowding in – Bernstein revives the peculiar “Drunken Sailor” melody to play an unexpected role in ending this first movement on a high.
Moving and mournful
Sad strings usher in a Russian winter’s white-grey skies at the opening of the second movement. The soloist’s bittersweet musings bring shafts of sunlight, yet the mood of this tragic andante remains cold despite the relative warmth of the beautiful piano lines. This isn’t music to hear when a lover has left or a loved one has died. It doesn’t pull at the heart strings – it tears them out. And it all ends so quietly, so pathetically, so finally. When the third movement starts without a pause in which to dry your eyes, it has you blinking and squinting at its almost disrespectful brightness.
Breathless and breathtaking
An insistent, repeated piano note gets the third movement off to a brisk start. It turns into a jolly melody which grows in confidence as the rest of the orchestra join it in what becomes a Latin American-style dance. Then some furious pianism (T7-1:42) – accompanied by unscored contributions from orchestra members’ creaky chairs (a mild irritation heard elsewhere on this recording) – leads us into a darker interlude.
More lightening finger work from Bernstein is followed by a grotesque, hurrying march (T7-3:45) with snare drum machine gun fire. The earlier Latin American flavour then returns, building to one last display of dazzling virtuosic brilliance that propels piano and orchestra at a gallop into a blazing finale.
~FK~
Oxford Camerata
Jeremy Summerly
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Credited with rescuing Catholic sacred music from a return to plainchant in the mid-16th century, Palestrina’s Missa Papae Marcelli is among the best-known, best-loved works of unaccompanied vocal polyphony from the Renaissance period. And this reading of it by Jeremy Summerly’s outstanding Oxford Camerata is surely one of the very best available. Balancing an appropriately reverential tone with some admirably clear and high-quality vocal performances, it’s captured in a warm acoustic that contrasts with the draughty, cavernous cathedrals in which it was once exclusively performed.
Merciful light
The Kyrie which opens this work rises and stretches like someone waking to greet the dawn. Hypnotic interlacing harmonies ascend and descend, before urgency seizes the singers (T1-3:19) and choral textures become denser. This first section ends with all voices unified – the morning sun now higher above the horizon, its light warmer and fuller. It’s followed by a most glorious Gloria, with the Latin words Gratias agimus tibi propter magnam gloriam tuam (We give thanks to you for your great glory) (T2-0:42~1:02) moving, and worth cherishing. The potent final reprise of the closing in gloria Dei Patris, amen (in the glory of God the Father, amen) is another highlight.
Profound profession
In some mass settings, the Credo can come across as brow-furrowingly serious; devoid of the joy that should accompany a profession of one’s faith. Not so in Palestrina’s treatment – nor in the way the Oxford Camerata delivers it. By turns gladdening and soothing, this declaration of belief in the central tenets of Christianity unfolds in rising and falling vocal lines: a musical depiction, one might almost imagine, of the entrance into heaven.
The proceeding Sanctus – combined with the Benedictus – could hardly be more different in character. It opens quietly, its long-drawn lines bringing peace to mind and heart. Incredibly, a mere 25 Latin words make up the Sanctus/Benedictus, yet they’re set so spaciously by Palestrina that it takes almost a full nine minutes to sing them – the two instances of Hosanna in excelsis (Hosanna in the highest) providing the most intense moments.
From the flock to the Lamb
What Palestrina makes of the two Agnus Dei texts is still more astonishing – eight minutes of beauty and piety from 11 words. Lapse in concentration during the opening ten seconds of the fifth track on this recording, and you could be forgiven for thinking you’d returned to the very beginning of the work, so similar is the writing to that of the start of the Kyrie. However, from here on the singing is less sunny; a dusk to this mass’ opening dawn.
If tears should escape while you listen, you shouldn’t be surprised. Consider first the words: Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis / dona nobis pacem (Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world, have mercy on us / grant us peace). Then consider how simply and sincerely these are sung. It would almost be wrong not to cry.
~FK~
Europa Galante
Fabio Biondi
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The Four Seasons is not one work but four: a cycle of violin concerti depicting the yearly intervals. To complicate matters, these concerti belong to a series of 12 known as The Contest Between Harmony and Invention. But only The Four Seasons have become so popular as to have enjoyed hundreds of recordings. This makes choosing a single one to represent them a tough task. However, what Europa Galante and Fabio Biondi achieve in this phenomenal account (the same forces have recorded these concerti previously) is refreshingly different and palpably visceral.
Fresh ground is broken
Where some would be tempted to present a comfortable image of Spring – all delicate crocuses and frolicking lambs – these players are urgent, violent and honest. They have nature awakening decisively from winter; shoots punching their way up through the frost-hardened soil, desperate for the early March sunlight. Above ground and with petals unfurled, these determined spring flowers are pestered by the wind but defiant against it, thirsty for the raindrops that toss them to and fro in the middle of the third movement (T3-1:50~2:10).
Anything but a lazy summer
Summer is pastoral rather than coastal – no beaches and parasols, but instead a heady scent that rises from a densely packed flower meadow. Clouds roll quickly overheard, shifting unnervingly the warmth and light that falls on the countryside below. Something about Biondi’s soulful playing speaks of a summer marred by tragedy, especially in the final minute or so of the first movement and opening of the second. Then comes the storm that is the third movement. As swift and brutal as wild fire, it tears through a copse, drenching villagers who picnic at its edge.
Stores filled and thanks given
Celebration of a harvest safely gathered in begins Autumn. Its first movement, almost a peasant dance, has Biondi as the village fiddler – giddy with the local brew, and happy to provide a lively soundtrack to the merry-making. Even so, he and Europa Galante take a moment amid the partying to remember the unspecified misfortune hinted at in Summer (T7-3:20~4:27). Harpsichord and strings in the second movement suggest a cooling of the weather; a musical reminder of the long, dark months ahead. This makes the third movement’s strict rhythm and lightly snapping strings an appropriate accompaniment to preparations for winter.
A cold, cruel winter
The dramatic tension that opens Winter’s first movement builds threateningly, as strengthening strings slice the air like sheets of snow, and harpsichord notes trickle and slip from the ends of icicles. Biondi’s first blizzard of notes leads to a racing sleigh ride across glistening fields; splintered ice spraying up (T10-2:26) as the soloist hurtles excitedly towards the movement’s close. By contrast, the second movement is a gentle horseback ride along country lanes thick with sun-dappled snow. This happy-go-lucky mood is replaced in the third movement by a more serious, perhaps even sinister tone – Biondi’s biting solo lines recalling that earlier, unnamed tragedy.
~FK~
Champs-Elysees Orchestra
Philippe Herreweghe
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Philippe Herreweghe’s masterful way with musical interpretation borders on the revelatory. Put him before a band of instrumentalists (and/or vocalists) who share his commitment to delivering performances which respect the practices of the past, and you can almost see the score he’s conducting. His attention to detail and zeal for Historically Informed Performance is not just evident in large-scale symphonies and masses. It’s equally clear in smaller works such as Mozart’s exquisitely formed “Gran Partita” - his Serenade No. 10, scored for 12 woodwinds and double bass (which is occasionally replaced by a contrabassoon).
Invitation to a dance
The work opens with a firm but warm announcement from the ensemble, through which a clarinet picks out a simple tune that leads to a call and response between it and the other woodwinds. They then tread together steadily towards what’s usually, on other CD recordings of this work, a separate second movement (the first and second movements are rightly treated as one in this performance, as they’re played attacca). Now the pace steps up: the instrumentalists sharing a cantering, dance-like melody.
There’s no escaping the mood of an 18th-century dance as the third movement gets underway, albeit less excitedly than the one that preceded it. It’s a model of elegance and effortless refinement, befitting of a scene from a costume drama where Austen-esque characters are all etiquette on the outside and passion beneath their society veneers. Herreweghe keeps a keen eye on his players, yet still they manage to give their chaperone the slip briefly (T2-5:23) to enjoy a freer, more playful episode.
Feelings revealed and concealed
The fourth movement adagio is a love song, begun by the oboe over a yearning introduction by the lower woodwinds, and taken up by the clarinet and bassoon. Soon, all of the instruments are singing it – pining, perhaps, for whomever won their hearts in that polite dancing earlier.
We’re returned quickly to the ballroom with the start of the fifth movement; its compelling rhythm urging us back to the dance floor. Yet all is not quite as it seems. This dance has a dark heart, and not even the entry of a cheerful waltz (T4-3:08) distracts from this darkness – the music speaking more of betrayal than betrothal.
Romance, reflection and rollicking
From a dark heart to the gentle heart of this work. The sixth movement recalls the tenderness of the fourth; its unpretentious beauty traded for some busy ensemble playing (T5-3:10) before melting back into romantic longing. And then to the seventh movement, and its delightful theme and variations: a mixture of contemplation and child-like gaiety, throughout which Herreweghe keeps lines clear and instrumental voices distinct.
The finale of this work could hardly be more unbuttoned than the reserved movements that begin it. It’s as blithe and carefree as two sisters dashing madly round a summer garden, barefooted and laughing. Herreweghe captures perfectly its humour, making for an ending that can only be happy.
~FK~
Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra
City of Birmingham Symphony Chorus
Sir Simon Rattle
Barbara Bonney | Birgit Remmert
Kurt Streit | Thomas Hampson
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Few works in classical music have united commentators in near-universal praise as has Beethoven’s colossal Ninth Symphony. And few names in the world of conducting have divided critical opinion so sharply as Simon Rattle’s – some discerning fussiness in his approach where others hear clarity and detail. To this live performance, Rattle brings an unreserved joy – particularly, to this work’s famous choral ending.
A musical battlefield
The hushed opening of shimmering strings and sustained notes in brass and woodwind quickly gives way to a symphonic conflict that unfolds under sometimes stormy skies. Timpani pound like heavy artillery; their violence arrested occasionally by delicate string and woodwind writing, and echoes of this first movement’s brooding and dramatic introduction.
Rattle never treats this symphony’s confrontational beginning too aggressively. Nor is he tempted to let thundering timpani dominate the second movement scherzo. He presents it as a wild, galloping dance: racing strings and playful woodwind framing a hint of the joy (T2-7:10~7:50) to be gloriously revealed at the work’s climax.
Quiet reflection
The hymn-like third movement adagio takes us from restive to restful in this otherwise furious symphony – one of its beautiful melodies sounding halfway between a prayer and a lover’s lament (T3-3:05~4:34). While some will question Rattle’s choice of tempo, arguing he takes things too slowly, his carefully measured pacing here provides an effective contrast to the work’s more muscular outer movements.
With the becalming adagio passed, the orchestra revisits parts of the preceding three movements. The music gropes for closure, unsatisfied by what it finds in the material just heard. What then emerges is the well-known theme that ranks among classical music’s most memorable: the melody most know simply as the ‘Ode to Joy’.
Heaven on earth
The culmination of this work’s epic finale is both compelling and thrilling, as Beethoven’s visionary setting of Schiller’s poem – a moving and spirited rallying cry to all men to unite in universal brotherhood – is masterfully realised under Rattle’s baton. Hampson’s commanding baritone voice calls to a halt earlier symphonic searching, and with Streit, Remmert and Bonney, he leads the chorus into the beginning of an exhilarating and awe-inspiring vocal performance.
Then, unexpectedly, an extraordinary march begun by a tuba and assorted woodwinds (T5-3:40) is before long taken up by vocal soloists and the whole ensemble. This episode whips up into a heroic orchestral interlude, instruments competing against one another until all unite and settle. An explosion of choral joy ensues, leading to a cascading and intertwining of higher voices and strings (T5-8:10).
At the last, the gates to heaven are flung wide open. Rattle summons a benign celestial tempest from the City of Birmingham Symphony Chorus (T5-16:00) – their joyous conviction as clear as the excited piccolo which the conductor ensures we hear even above so many human and instrumental voices. If this is fussiness, it’s worth the fuss.
~FK~
London Symphony Orchestra
Sir John Barbirolli
Jacqueline du Pre
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Many column inches in the classical music press have been devoted to this iconic recording since its 1965 release. Hyped and hammered in equal measure, it’s as much criticised for its idiosyncrasies as praised for the intensity of Jacqueline du Pre’s playing. Certainly, it brings heart-on-sleeve emotion to one of Sir Edward Elgar’s last masterpieces. Some argue this classic recording is itself a masterpiece – a view that won’t be shared by those wanting a less indulgent approach.
Dark beginnings
From her opening notes, du Pre gives everything she has. Unleashing a dark-hued tone, she digs deep with her bow in those ominous and sombre first few bars, her cello sobbing and sighing. The orchestra’s lower strings creep in and out of this mournful introduction, as though trying tentatively to console the soloist.
The bittersweet first theme is announced by the violas (T1-1:01), taken up tenderly by du Pre then repeated by her more vigorously, before being flung into an orchestral swell (T1-2:29). Tender also describes the way du Pre carries forward the cello’s painful song in this searing first movement – her committed, richly sonorous playing coloured by vibrato and watermarked with something of her own soul.
A foreboding transition
There’s a seamless glide from the emotionally overwrought first movement to the fidgety, hyperactive second. The low, portentious strings that carry us across the index point on the CD are punctured by three forcefully plucked cello chords, followed suddenly by a rising orchestral blast (rawness of sound here being a rare but not intrusive reminder of this recording’s age).
Swift bowing from du Pre gives way to cautious pizzicato, then a restlessness ensues (T2-1:28). This agitated solo writing urges us to the movement’s close, with support from Barbirolli and the London Symphony Orchestra that’s playful and infectiously excitable.
The concerto’s third movement, lush and romantic, seems a backward glance at a half-remembered, half-imagined England. Here, du Pre is almost wistful. Her cello sings out this movement’s aching, heartfelt melody, while Barbirolli keeps a tight reign on the orchestral accompaniment, ensuring his players whisper their parts so as to cushion, not crush, the soloist’s soliloquy.
Power and pain
As the final movement opens, du Pre is passionate and pleading. She attacks notes, pours out her heart and wrings maximum emotional intensity from phrases. The music sounds at times like a reminder of the Elgar of Edwardian pomp, circumstance and imperialism: a musical memory of a prouder Britain. Yet the writing in this finale leaves us in no doubt that these shades of glories past can’t disguise their author’s obvious sadness at the end of an era.
Finally, when we think Elgar will go out quietly, with du Pre and the orchestra sustaining what sounds like it might be a serene, almost pastoral ending, we’re hit again by that tragic theme from the work’s opening – hit home by du Pre with such deliberate force, it feels almost like anger.
~FK~
