March 14, 2024

(++++) SCALING THE HEIGHTS

Bach: Cello Suites (complete). Ailbhe McDonagh, cello. Steinway & Sons. $21.99 (2 CDs).

     Bach’s six suites for solo cello are more than a rite of passage for cellists. They are an invitation to sublimity, a chance not only to interpret the music but also to put one’s own stamp on it – frequently multiple times during one’s performing career, since the suites’ meaning and significance seem to change considerably over time as a performer gains familiarity with the music plus his or her own maturity and mastery. The same happens to be true for audiences: no matter how many cellists one hears in this music, there is always something new to discover, some way in which the tripartite experience (composer + performer + instrument) differs from all others and sheds new light on a listener’s perception.

     Just as Bach’s religious music transcends the Lutheran tradition in which it was created, so the cello suites and other instrumental works are unbound by time or geography – a reality further documented in the new Steinway & Sons recording featuring Ailbhe McDonagh, whose status as the first Irish cellist to record all six suites is a matter that is both of justifiable pride and wholly irrelevant to the music.

     McDonagh’s personal vision of the suites is a restrained Romantic one rather than one that is historically focused or determined to play the music as Bach and his contemporaries would have heard it. She does not hesitate to use crescendos and diminuendos, swells, rubato and other techniques of emphasis in order to bring out the underlying emotional connective tissue of the suites. This means that their foundational structure tends to be somewhat diminished: notably, the dancelike rhythmic elements of the majority of movements are lessened here, although scarcely absent. It also means that these performances are strongest in the slower and more-emotive portions of the suites: the Sarabande movements are deeply felt and very moving, with the unusual and profound one in Suite No. 5 – a movement wholly lacking in double stops and thus having an inherent purity of single-string sound – being a highlight of McDonagh’s cycle.

     Actually, there are highlights aplenty here. McDonagh plays an 1833 cello by Andrea Postacchini (1781-1862), who is far better known for his violins but whose larger string instruments (including violas, basses and guitars) also show remarkable, almost buttery smoothness of tone and evenness of sound production in all ranges. Certainly that is the case with McDonagh’s cello, which does not have quite the sonorous depth of a few other instruments in its lowest range but which is exceptionally consistent in sound all the way to its top notes – a distinct advantage for the Bach cello suites. McDonagh plays as if the cello is an extension of her thinking as well as her body: there is a sense of unity of player and played that gives the suites a wholly pleasurable sense of cohesion.

     McDonagh handles the suites’ technical demands with apparent ease: the complexities throughout No. 4, for example, and the string crossings in the first minuet of No. 2. Her cello’s sound works as well in Suite No. 5 (originally written for scordatura tuning) and Suite No. 6 (most likely composed for a five-stringed instrument and frequently played on one) as it does in the first four suites. The elegance and warmth of the performances come through as well in the few movements with a single melodic line (not only the Sarabande of Suite No. 5 but also the second minuets of Suites Nos. 1 and 2, the second bourrée of Suite No. 3, and the concluding gigue of Suite No. 4) as in the much-more-frequent movements employing double stops. Those same characteristics are actually evident in every movement of every suite – and they tend to overshadow individual movements’ lighter and brighter elements. The French overture that starts Suite No. 5, for example, is deeply emotional at the beginning but somewhat less convincing in the speedy fugue used for the latter part of the movement.

     It is always possible, of course, to nitpick any performance of these suites – and it is almost always unfair to do so. The best cellists make these works their own through a strong and consistent commitment to the music and a willingness to share that devotion (which does take on almost spiritual connotations) with listeners. McDonagh’s recording is clearly that of a performer at once highly skilled from a technical standpoint and highly thoughtful from an expressive one. Her rendition of the suites is quite convincing on its own terms – and certainly compares favorably with the many other first-rate recordings of these unsurpassed works.

(++++) TWO ENDS AND A BEGINNING

Mozart: Complete Piano Sonatas, Volume 5—Nos. 7, 9 and 10; Volume 6—Nos.14 and 15. Orli Shaham, piano. Canary Classics. $29.98 (2 CDs).

Ravel: Complete Works for Solo Piano, Volume 1—Miroirs; Jeux d’eau; Valses nobles et sentimentales; Sonatine; Pavane pour une infante défunte. Vincent Larderet, piano. AVIE. $19.99.

George Crumb: Complete Music, Volume 21—Processional; Kronos-Kryptos; Sonata for Solo Violoncello. Gilbert Kalish and Marcantonio Barone, piano; Curtis Institute of Music Ensemble 20/21; Timothy Eddy, cello. Bridge Records. $16.99.

     Orli Shaham’s Mozart sonata cycle concludes with the same consistency it has shown throughout: lithe and limpid playing with a mild Romantic veneer, with the sonatas presented in no discernible order – and with a dollop of numbering confusion, carried over from an earlier volume, that thankfully does not affect enjoyment of the performances. The numbering issue lies in identifying the D major sonata, K. 311, as “No. 8” in the latest Shaham release, although it is most often referred to as No. 9 – while K. 310 in A minor, most often designated No. 8, was performed in Shaham’s Volume 2, where it was identified as No. 9. It happens to be true that K. 311 was written some months before K. 310, and some other pianists use Shaham's designations, including Malcolm Bilson and Anthony Newman, whose renditions on fortepiano show more concern for historical accuracy than does Shaham's on a modern concert grand. And it is certainly true that the numbering peculiarity has no impact whatsoever on the quality of Shaham’s performances. But it does provide additional evidence, if any is needed, that in producing a complete cycle of these sonatas, it would be helpful to have some rationale for the sequencing on the CDs. In any case, Shaham’s performance of K. 311 is one of her more Romantic-leaning ones, with the central Andante con espressione having considerable warmth and with her pedal use in the concluding Rondeau giving the movement some extra weight. K. 311 is offered between two C major works. The first of these, No. 7, K. 309, gets one of Shaham’s best readings: fleet and delicate, with a piano sound that is close to that of the fortepianos of Mozart’s time – Shaham makes no attempt to provide historically informed performances, but this sonata has some of that feeling, even in a central Andante un poco adagio that proffers courtly elegance rather than deep emotion. The CD designated as Volume 5 concludes with the popular Sonata No. 10, K. 330, which is better heard as part of the three-work cycle in which it appears (K. 330-332) but which sounds fine anytime. Shaham’s interpretation is expansive, thanks to her careful tempo choices and her observance of repeats. This sonata’s three movements are quite close in tempo indication: Allegro moderato, Andante cantabile, Allegretto. Shaham keeps them distinctive by making the slow movement a bit overly slow and, more significantly, by making the finale quite speedy – an approach that works in its own right even if it somewhat changes the balance among the movements. The last CD in Shaham’s cycle, designated Volume 6, contains just two sonatas. Sonata No. 14, K. 457, gets a broadly conceived performance consistent with its large scale and the unusually emotive thematic material befitting its home key of C minor. Shaham’s sensitivity to the mood of the first movement is welcome; the contrasting gentleness she brings to the Adagio is well-considered; and the unusually intense finale comes across particularly well, from its quiet opening to the chords that interrupt its headlong drama. This performance and that of K. 309 are two of the best in Shaham’s entire cycle. The last sonata offered in Volume 6 is No. 15, K. 533, an F major work that can sound somewhat standoffish, although perhaps Olympian is a better and more-positive adjective. Shaham spins it out at very considerable length – the performance lasts a full half-hour, more because of the welcome attention to repeats than because of the tempos, which are judiciously chosen and not unusually slow. This is a sonata that is more pretty than profound, being very well-made but a trifle on the cool side. Shaham’s tendency to bring small Romantic touches to Mozart is actually absent here, with the result that her performance is stately and elegant without being particularly moving. Throughout her Mozart cycle, Shaham has shown herself to be a thoughtful interpreter with a close personal relationship with the music – making her set of the Mozart sonatas one to which listeners will find themselves returning with pleasure again and again.

     It is too early to know for sure whether Vincent Larderet’s planned four-disc cycle of Ravel’s complete solo piano music will be a must-have, but certainly the first of these AVIE discs points in a very positive direction. All the music on the CD will be quite familiar to Ravel aficionados – but not necessarily in the form in which it is heard here. In particular, Larderet offers the original solo-piano versions of Valses nobles et sentimentales (1911) and Pavane pour une infante défunte (1899). There is an angularity and insistence, rather than the typical underlying delicacy, to Larderet’s handling of the opening of Valses nobles et sentimentales, which gives his altogether gentler approach to Assez lent and Modéré a greater-than-usual contrast. The dissonances of Presque lent come through quite clearly here, and the overall impression of the entire work is of a not-altogether-fond set of reminiscences of a bygone age, with the Épilogue having something of a funereal cast about it. Pavane pour une infante défunte, on the other hand, is pervaded by gentleness and a berceuse-like sense of relaxation. The other works on this CD receive equally personalized and equally convincing readings. Miroirs (1904-05) is the longest, its five movements lasting more than half an hour. The very carefully considered pauses at the start of Oiseaux tristes show just how sensitive Larderet is to the nuances of Ravel’s style, while the rhythmic vitality of Alborada del gracioso is particularly notable. Larderet plays Jeux d’eau (1901) with exceptional grace and fluidity, and the Sonatine (1903-05) comes across with easy elegance and a pervasive touch of foundational sweetness that conveys a strong sense of Impressionism even without any specific scene-painting. Throughout this release, Larderet demonstrates impeccable pianistic technique combined with an unusual level of sensitivity to Ravel’s tonal colors and his free and variable treatment of rhythm and harmony. If the remaining recordings in this planned cycle are performed as tastefully and with as much style and understanding as this one, Larderet will have established himself as an absolutely top-of-the-line interpreter of Ravel’s works for solo piano.

     The six-volume and projected four-volume sets by Shaham and Larderet certainly represent respectable-size versions of complete cycles of their respective works. But they do not hold a candle, in terms of completeness, to some sets of CDs that aim to encompass a truly enormous amount of music. The ongoing Vivaldi Project on Naïve, at 69 releases and counting (and counting and counting!), is the champion for sheer enormity and ambition – but it has been in process only since 2000, and in terms of sheer longevity, it does not measure up to Bridge Records’ truly amazing commitment to recording and releasing the complete music of George Crumb (1929-2022), which has been an ongoing project since 1982. The final volume in this amazingly extended series, No. 21, is now available, and while nothing on it will likely bring a new audience to Crumb’s oeuvre, the works on this (+++) CD can serve as an excellent introduction to elements of Crumb’s style for those who do want to explore it – and a confirmation of his importance for those who are already aficionados. What is interesting is that Volume 21 includes Crumb’s second acknowledged composition and his second-to-last: Sonata for Solo Violoncello (1955) and Kronos-Kryptos (2019-2020), respectively. Crumb’s mother was a cellist with the Charleston Symphony Orchestra, so his three-movement solo cello work must have had personal resonance for him, but what is most evident in it is the extent of Webern’s influence and some early instances of Crumb’s preoccupation with unusual ways of playing standard instruments – most evidently here in the concluding Toccata, which Timothy Eddy performs particularly enthusiastically. As for Kronos-Kryptos, whose title means “Time-Secret,” it is subtitled “Four Tableaux for Percussion Quintet” and is done to a turn by the Curtis Institute of Music Ensemble 20/21 (Yoonseo Kang, Tae McLoughlin, Hamza Able, Griffin Harrison, and guest artist Andrew Malonis – the work is intended for four players but played here by five). This piece is an In Memoriam for Crumb’s daughter, Ann, who had recorded some of his music and who died at Crumb’s home in 2019. The four movements’ titles are typical of contemporary works (not just Crumb’s) and relate at best marginally to the music: Easter Dawning, A Ghostly Barcarolle, Drummers of the Apocalypse, and Appalachian Echoes (Look Homeward, Angel). The personal connection here is certainly clearer and deeper than any in the solo-cello sonata. The music itself, though, evinces no notable personal elements and does not sound especially different from other Crumb works in its focus on timbre and instrumental color, and on the creation of a sound world to envelop the audience. The third and shortest movement, with its vocal interjections amid a cascade of pounded intensity, is the most effective; the fourth, which is surely meant to be the most heartfelt, comes across mostly as a kind of lukewarm “cosmos music” in the Ligeti mode, almost as if Crumb is deliberately holding back some of his strongly felt emotions. In addition to the early and late works on this CD, there are two separate versions of a piece from the middle of Crumb’s compositional career: Processional for solo piano, which dates to 1983. The disc opens with this work in its keyboard version, played stylishly and sensitively by Gilbert Kalish; the CD ends with Marcantonio Barone’s performance of an extended-piano version that includes inside-the-piano touches that add nothing to the music except the sense that it is trying to be more avant-garde than it actually is. Crumb was an intelligent and well-respected composer who is certainly honored by the posthumous completion of the monumental effort to make all his works available on CD. Nevertheless, his music remains highly variable in effect and effectiveness. It is an acquired taste that listeners not already committed to it are unlikely to wish to acquire based on the final disc in this impressive four-decade recording project.

March 07, 2024

(++++) EXCEEDING ALL EXPECTATIONS

Monteverdi: Madrigals, Books I-IX (complete). Concerto Italiano conducted by Rinaldo Alessandrini. Naïve. $42.99 (11 CDs).

     The madrigal is one of those classical-music forms with which listeners tend to think they are quite familiar: through-composed secular music for three to six voices dating to the Renaissance and early Baroque periods, and perfected above all by Monteverdi. Indeed, the madrigal form was considered so clearly identifiable that composers of much later time periods liked to use it for specific sorts of scene-setting – think of the madrigals in Gilbert and Sullivan’s The Mikado and Ruddigore, and for that matter of Anna Russell’s creation of a madrigal as part of her parodistic tribute to Gilbert and Sullivan! But as so often with things that “everyone knows,” it turns out that the matter of the madrigal is not so straightforward as tends to be believed – and that although Monteverdi certainly brought the traditional form to a pinnacle of expressiveness, he was far from its champion: he was actually responsible for hastening its demise by transforming elements of the madrigal into dramatic scenes and multi-voice or single-voice works (often with instruments) comparable to those in his operas.

     The true story of Monteverdi and the madrigal comes through with brilliant effectiveness in Naïve’s 11-disc release of all nine books of Monteverdi’s madrigals, performed with enormous skill, understanding and flair by Concerto Italiano under Rinaldo Alessandrini. The eight sets of madrigals published during Monteverdi’s lifetime appeared over more than half a century (1587-1638), with the ninth book (1651) being a posthumous collection of miscellany titled Madrigali e Canzonette; the recordings gathered for this superb release were made during more than a quarter of a century (1993-2021). Calling Monteverdi’s and Alessandrini’s productions prodigious and monumental is equally apt in both cases. There is simply no better ensemble in Monteverdi’s music than Concerto Italiano, and although the specific singers and instrumentalists changed significantly over time – wading through the details of just who performed what and when in this release is time-consuming and difficult, despite a presentation that, under the circumstances, makes it as easy as possible to do so (which is to say, not very easy) – the uniformly high quality of every single performance shows the tremendous knowledge and care that Alessandrini has always brought to performances by the group that he founded in 1984.

     Alessandrini is not only a superb musical guide to the Monteverdi madrigals but also an excellent verbal guide, offering a 21-page booklet essay on this repertoire that is at once erudite and deeply knowledgeable – and chatty and informal, as if Alessandrini is discussing a good friend (which, on one level, he is). The writing traces the changes that Monteverdi brought to the madrigal form and explains how he expanded and then went beyond it, rendering it archaic (if not obsolete) almost if not quite single-handedly. It also delves into the underlying characteristics of madrigal expressiveness – most importantly, keeping a compositional and performance focus on the words and their meaning and not allowing the musical settings to undermine or interfere with the verbiage. And Alessandrini points out some pitfalls associated with this very extended recording project – noting, for instance, that using native Italian speakers as singers can be a disadvantage as well as an advantage, since deep familiarity with everyday use of the language can result in de-emphasizing certain elements of the poetry that should not be glossed over.

     The importance of seeing and hearing madrigals as text-focused productions is further emphasized by a second booklet essay, a seven-page one by Renzo Bragantini that discusses the specific texts chosen by Monteverdi and some of the differences among the poets whose works he chose to set. This writeup also makes some fascinating points, showing how the choice of poetry changed as the nature of the madrigal itself did, with Monteverdi selecting different poets over time based on how he wanted his music to develop (and also, as is noted in passing, based on some political considerations involving the Italian city-states of his time).

     The strong focus on the madrigals’ texts by both Alessandrini and Bragantini points to the only serious flaw in this otherwise exemplary release: it contains no texts at all, so that when Alessandrini points to specific settings of specific words in specific pieces – as he often does – any reader who is not thoroughly familiar with the Italian language and with the specific writings set by Monteverdi will be well out of his or her depth. The omission of the texts – there is not even a link that would lead listeners to them online – is disappointing and deeply unsettling in light of the cogency of the arguments by Alessandrini and Bragantini about the words’ importance not only in madrigals but also in the more-operatic pieces into which they eventually changed (indeed, all of Italian opera evolved in the direction of prima le parole, notwithstanding Salieri’s Prima la musica e poi le parole – it was the German school that put the music first, and the French that kept both in balance).

     Despite the obscurity of some of the learned commentary within this boxed set as a result of the absence of texts, there is nothing obscure whatsoever in the performances. They simply glow. The first three books of madrigals (1587, 1590, 1592) adhere closely to what most listeners will expect in the form, although even in these earlier works there is a mixture of homophony and counterpoint that was somewhat at odds with the approach of older pieces in the form. The fourth and fifth books (1603, 1605) include a shift toward poetry of a more personal type and settings of increasing emotional heft. The sixth book (1614) contains elements that appear to be highly personal, and its madrigals often alternate solo vocal passages with polyphony. And then the seventh and eighth books (1619, 1638) move far beyond the traditional dimensions of the madrigal, bringing in settings for one, two, three, four and six voices and including scenes of high drama that are clearly and explicitly operatic in their emotional intensity and that, indeed, are frequently heard without any reference to their origin within sets of works that are now only nominally madrigals in the original sense: Combattimento di Tancredi e Clorinda, Il Ballo della Ingrate.

     The incomparable richness of Monteverdi’s madrigals and madrigals-in-name-only is beautifully matched to the sensitivity and stylistic understanding of Alessandrini and Concerto Italiano. There has never been a survey of this music like this one: so self-assured, so carefully assembled, so sensitively sung and played, so beautifully recorded. Monteverdi’s importance in classical music can scarcely be overstated: his role as creator of the first opera recognizable as such (L’Orfeo, 1607) is commonly considered his greatest achievement, especially when added to his later composition of Il ritorno d'Ulisse in patria (1640) and L'incoronazione di Poppea (1643). This collection shows how, in transforming the polyphonic madrigal of the 15th and 16th centuries into a work of broader scope and considerably more emotional power, Monteverdi paved the way for his and others’ operatic works while producing pieces that, on their own merits, are wonderfully conceived and – as performed by Alessandrini and Concerto Italiano – impeccable in their elegance and beauty.

(++++) DASHING AND DRAMATIC

Suppé: Fantasia Symphonica; Overtures—Poet and Peasant; Morning, Noon and Night in Vienna; The Sailor’s Homecoming—excerpts; Exhibition at the Carltheater—Präludium. Tonkünstler-Orchester conducted by Ola Rudner. Naxos. $13.99.

Rachmaninoff: Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini; Respighi: Toccata for Piano and Orchestra; Alfredo Casella: Partita for Piano and Orchestra. Joshua Pierce, piano; RTV Slovenia Symphony Orchestra conducted by Anton Nanüt. MSR Classics. $14.95.

     It is always a pleasant surprise to discover that a composer is a lot more substantive than he or she is generally thought to be – as is certainly the case with Franz von Suppé, who is going through a bit of a revival nowadays. Deservedly well-known for his strikingly ebullient overtures, a mainstay of “light classics” for many decades, Suppé turns out to have been quite skilled in works beyond those programmatic stage and concert pieces – and even beyond the Viennese operettas for which he is also well-known (indeed, he wrote the very first such work, Das Pensionat, in 1860). A new and exceptionally well-played Naxos CD combines two of Suppé’s best-known pieces with some little-known music and two outright world premières – one of which is both serious and significant. This is Fantasia Symphonica (1859), which turns out, its title notwithstanding, to be a full-scale symphony, and a very well-wrought one at that. Suppé had an intriguing musical style whose blend of German, French and Italian elements is not always apparent in his overtures but is very much in evidence in this impressive four-movement work. The piece – which Ola Rudner rediscovered – manages to combine Viennese lilt with thematic seriousness and suitably symphonic structure that includes well-handled sonata form, fugato elements, and convincing use of a large orchestra in ways that are always apt and sometimes genuinely impressive. Among the work’s notable elements are the solemnity of the early part of the first movement, the second-movement dialogue between winds and lower strings, the use of trombones in the third movement, and the transformation in the finale of a march-like theme into a lyrical one. The Tonkünstler-Orchester treats the work with all the respect due to a significant mid-Romantic symphony, and Rudner pays careful attention to the frequently clever instrumental touches that show the extent to which Suppé’s theatrical skills extend as well to this large-scale exercise in pure music. Fantastic Symphonica is quite a find, and one that deserves to be heard much more often. The other world première heard here is an overture from the early 1870s, written for an Exhibition at the Carltheater, a once-famous operetta venue where Suppé himself was musical director for a time and where works by him and many other famous Viennese operetta composers (including Johann Strauss Jr., Oscar Straus, Franz Lehár, Carl Zeller and others) were first heard. The piece is melodically similar to familiar Suppé overtures, with a well-balanced differentiation of solemn, lyrical and lighthearted material, but it has some distinctions of its own, including a virtuoso flute solo and an ending that, uncharacteristically for Suppé, fades away to pianissimo. Two of the three remaining pieces on this disc are ones that are highly familiar even to people who have no idea who composed them. Both are overtures written by Suppé in his 20s: Poet and Peasant (1846) and Morning, Noon and Night in Vienna (1843-44). Both get the sort of rousingly lyrical (or lyrically rousing) performances that show Suppé at his best and most familiar, making it clear just why some of his music is so well-known. Also on the disc are two brief excerpts from one of Suppé’s later and more-serious works, The Sailor’s Homecoming (1885). These are the Präludium and Dance of the Cabin Boys – the former notable for its depiction of a storm at sea, the latter for its ebullience. As fine as are all the pieces on this CD, the release is mainly a pleasure for helping audiences discover that Suppé’s music can be enjoyed not only for a handful of lighter works but also for altogether more-serious ones such as his Fantasia Symphonica.

     Another very-well-played CD that balances the lighter side with a veneer of seriousness, and the well-known with the less-known, is an MSR Classics release of piano-and-orchestra display pieces performed by Joshua Pierce with the RTV Slovenia Symphony Orchestra conducted by Anton Nanüt. This is a remastering and reissue of a recording that originally appeared in 2006, with performances that date back all the way to 1991 – yet have lost none of their verve and vitality. Pierce and Nanüt do an absolutely bang-up job with the best-known work here, Rachmaninoff’s Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini. Taken at a very fast pace that it seems unlikely pianist and orchestra will be able to sustain – but that they do, after all, manage to present without faltering – the recording crackles with intensity, the variations flowing along seamlessly with, toward the end, a sense of gathering excitement that eventually leads to a really rousing conclusion. Pierce and Nanüt bring the same freshness and vivacity to the much less familiar Toccata for Piano and Orchestra by Respighi. This work is an interesting amalgam of styles and time periods, using motifs and embellishments associated with toccatas of the 17th and 18th centuries, concluding with a sort-of gigue that also has cantabile elements, and pervaded by the influence of Vivaldi and Frescobaldi – all packed within identifiably Romantic sensibilities. The curious mixture, which also includes a dark central section and some obbligato cello material, helps explain why this work is not heard more frequently. But this Toccata certainly offers plenty of opportunities for piano display and sensitive orchestral accompaniment, and that mixture is exactly what it receives in this recording. Even less-known that the Respighi is Partita for Piano and Orchestra by Alfredo Casella (1883-1947). Dating to 1925, the same decade as the Respighi work (1928) but earlier than Rachmaninoff’s popular piece (1934), Casella’s Partita is a three-movement concerto-in-all-but-name whose movement titles hark back to earlier times but whose structure does not incorporate older approaches in the way that Respighi does. Casella’s longest movement, Passacaglia, is the middle one, and it proffers some depth of feeling and warmth of sound. It is, however, overshadowed by the bright and forthright (and rather repetitive) opening Sinfonia and the thoroughly overdone but quite delightful concluding Burlesca, which sounds as if it should accompany a cartoon satirizing the pomposity and seriousness of military maneuvers and the bands that celebrate them. Pierce and Nanüt really revel in this thoroughly surface-level Partita; indeed, the disc as a whole is something of a testimony to the enjoyable nature of material that is scarcely great music but is definitely great fun.