(++++) STARTUPS

Carl Almenräder: Duettinos, Op. 8; Duos, Op. 10; Introduktion und Variationen, Op. 4; Wilhelm Hermann Heckel: Kleines Konzert für Fagott und Klavier. Michael Kaulartz and Carl-Sönje Montag, bassoons; Johann Blanchard, piano. MDG Scene. $24.99 (SACD). 

Carter: Piano Sonata; Berg: Piano Sonata; Gideon Klein: Piano Sonata; Vitězslava Kaprálová: April Preludes; Samuel Barber: Interlude (Adagio for Jeanne). Evan Mitchell, piano. First Hand Records. $22.99. 

Dowland: Bookes of Songs or Ayres—excerpts. Janna Critz, mezzo-soprano; Arash Noori, lute; Stephanie Noori, viola da gamba. Acis. $18.99. 

     Early works composed for a newly developed or redesigned instrument can be fascinating even when, musically, they are not particularly noteworthy (so to speak). That is the case with the pieces for solo and dual bassoons by Carl Almenräder (1786-1843) on a very well-recorded MDG Scene release. Almenräder, a self-taught bassoonist, co-founded a workshop in 1831 with Johann Adam Heckel (1812-1877) to produce even-sounding instruments that have essentially remained the design of choice to the present day. It did take a while for Heckel-Almenräder bassoons to catch on. After all, Vivaldi had managed to create some three dozen bassoon concertos prior to the development of the more-modern instrument – but he had created them despite rather than because of the limitations of bassoons available to him. Mozart’s bassoon concerto and other Classical-era works were likewise developed for bassoons more limited in capability than the Heckel-Almenräder type. What the Almenräder works on this disc show is how well-suited the newer bassoon design was for evenness of sound and functional capabilities in multiple keys. Michael Kaulartz and Carl-Sönje Montag intermingle with skill and fine blending of sound in Almenräder’s Duettinos, Op. 8 and the somewhat more substantial Duos, Op. 10. All four works – two in each set – are in three-movement, fast-slow-fast form, with Op. 8 being notable for the evenhandedness of the bassoon parts and Op. 10 for the wider-ranging harmonies and more-frequent mood changes reflected in the bassoons’ interplay. Almenräder is also represented here by a bassoon-and-piano work whose lengthy full title is Introduktion und Variationen Op. 4 über das Thema “Es eilen die Stunden des Lebens so schnell dahin” (“The hours of life fly by so quickly”). The underlying theme is a simple one, and the work is more notable for the bassoon focus in its early portion, since the piano used here – a 1901 Steinway often heard on MDG releases – is not ideal for a work with this level of delicacy and simplicity, although Johann Blanchard wisely withholds the instrument’s more-sonorous capabilities. The Almenräder works are complemented by a piece created in 1946 by Johann Adam Heckel’s grandson, who was in the third generation carrying on the family instrument-making business. Wilhelm Hermann Heckel (1879-1952) wrote the piece as a tribute following the 100^th anniversary of Almenräder’s death. Just as Almenräder was self-taught on the bassoon, Wilhelm Hermann Heckel was self-taught in composition, and the results, in truth, are less than outstanding: the Kleines Konzert für Fagott und Klavier is a pleasant enough four-short-movement work that neatly showcases the Heckel bassoon’s aural capabilities but does not lie particularly well on the instrument or present any especially compelling musical material. It is something of a curiosity, although it certainly sounds as good as it can as performed by Kaulartz and Blanchard. And it provides an interesting angle on the Heckel family, complementing the Heckels’ creation of the heckelphone at the behest of Richard Wagner. 

     Early works by composers retain interest of their own, in a way that differs from the fascination of early pieces for new or redesigned instruments. It is inevitable to search in a composer’s early material – which may or may not be juvenilia – for clues to the direction in which later work would develop, either by building on the earlier material or by diverging significantly from it. That is the underlying interest of a First Hand Records release of five piano pieces performed by Evan Mitchell. The music is engaging to varying degrees on its own, the otherwise unrelated pieces being notable for Mitchell’s knowing interpretations and for the points in the composers’ lives at which the music was created. The two least-known composers here had not only careers but also lives that were severely truncated, one by illness and one by war, while the creator of the longest and most elaborate work on the CD lived to 103 and was still composing after reaching his centenary year. That is Elliott Carter (1908-2012), whose Piano Sonata was not written at an especially young age – it was composed from 1945 to 1946 – but did presage a shift in Carter’s musical style to something more complex and intricately rhythmic than what he had written before. Carter had begun composing seriously only in his mid-20s, and this work lacks the stylistic innovations that might be expected from someone strongly influenced by Charles Ives (who was Carter’s neighbor and sold insurance to his family). But it shows a sure handling of the piano, of polyrhythms, and of a structure that connects in some ways to what is expected in a piano sonata while striking out in its own direction in others. In the context of this CD, Carter’s two-movement work contrasts interestingly with the 1907-1908 sonata by Alban Berg (1885-1935), a single movement – originally planned by Berg as the opening of a three-movement sonata – that does not completely abandon tonality but hovers around B minor while nominally employing traditional sonata form and simultaneously stretching it structurally. Both the Berg and Carter works seem to be seeking something beyond the “sonata” title they share, and both seem in retrospect to indicate new directions that were still to come for their composers. The 1943 sonata by Gideon Klein (1919-1945), on the other hand, looks only to itself, since Klein died in the Terezín concentration camp at the age of 25. Klein’s 11-minute, three-movement sonata is shorter than Berg’s single-movement one and less than half the length of Carter’s, but Klein’s piece covers a wide emotional range and features an interesting blend of folk material with structural elements that are actually somewhat reminiscent of Berg. Klein intended to create a fourth movement for the sonata, but the piece hangs together well as is, even though the concluding Allegro vivace does feel somewhat truncated at its two-and-a-half-minute length. Mitchell does a particularly good job highlighting the elements of this sonata that look to the past as well as those that face forward into a future that Klein would not live to explore. The two non-sonata works on this disc contrast interestingly with the three sonatas and draw more directly on the sensibilities of earlier times. Impressionism is clear in April Preludes by Vitězslava Kaprálová (1915-1940), whose death at 25 was probably from typhoid fever. Kaprálová’s career had progressed considerably by her early 20s, and her inclusion here represents more than a now-fashionable attempt to redress gender imbalance in classical music by offering music by female composers (although there may be a touch of that in evidence). The four short April Preludes, published as Op. 13, date to 1937 and are comparatively frequently performed – Kaprálová wrote only about an hour of solo-piano music, and the varying moods of these little pieces make them attractive in highlighting her creativity. As elsewhere on this disc, Marshall does a good job of bringing out contrasts within and among the works. He also handles the delicacy of Interlude (Adagio for Jeanne), written in 1932 by Samuel Barber (1910-1981), with understated skill. Barber’s piece ties to the Romantic era as clearly as Kaprálová’s does to Impressionism – indeed, even more so. It has a pleasant straightforwardness that stands nicely in contrast to the sometimes brittle and occasionally gritty elements of other works on this disc. Listeners already interested in 20^th-century piano music and/or in these specific composers will find this CD a (++++) offering, although those not already enamored of the repertoire are more likely to notice that the pieces do not really connect very well with each other and do not collectively make a strong case for the underlying “early works” approach of the recording – turning this into a (+++) disc from that perspective. Certainly Mitchell is a strong believer in and advocate for this music, and anyone who accepts the underlying premise of the recital will find that his playing makes a strong case for hearing these pieces in close proximity even if they are not really cut from the same musical cloth. 

     More intriguing than a cross-section of early (or relatively early) works by multiple composers is a look at (or listen to) a single composer’s earlier and later creations, providing a chance to see how early promise was or was not fulfilled and to decide whether the direction indicated in earlier material continued or changed over time. The 13 John Dowland works on a new Acis CD are not arranged chronologically and are intended more to explore commonality of themes than continuity (or lack thereof) of compositional style. But they nevertheless provide considerable insight into ways in which Dowland (1563-1626) maintained the same course, or modified it, over a nearly three-decade period. The earliest work here, Come away, come sweet love, appeared in 1597; the two latest, Mr. Dowland’s Midnight and Preludium, are from 1625. The publication dates do not necessarily indicate the exact dates of composition, but it is nevertheless intriguing to compare and contrast the apparently earlier pieces here with the apparently later ones. This is made easier by the exemplary performances throughout: Janna Critz delivers the words with great sensitivity but without overdoing their emotionalism in a way not befitting the era of the music, and Arash Noori accompanies on the lute with tremendous style and a fine sense of the delicate balance between the vocals and his role in supporting and underlining them. And when given a chance to present a strictly instrumental piece such as The Right Honourable Robert, Earle of Essex, His Galliard, Noori rises admirably to the occasion. In addition, Stephanie Noori’s viola da gamba adds a fillip of color to two of these pieces: Sorrow, sorrow, stay and I saw my Lady weepe, both of which appeared in 1600. What comes through clearly in all the music, from whatever date, is Dowland’s preoccupation with well-balanced vocal and instrumental form, and his willingness to allow emotional expression at various lengths according to the needs of the words – these pieces range from less than two minutes to more than five. The emotion expressed throughout, no matter when the works were written, is something along the lines of a formal, personality-defining melancholy – the sort explored by Shakespeare and others in Dowland’s time and much later in music (1740) by Handel in L'Allegro, il Penseroso ed il Moderato. Nothing in these Dowland works or in others among his 88 lute songs is deeply depressive, but everything partakes of a sentiment that might be thought of as sad within defined limits – something Critz clearly understands on a visceral level that lets her underscore her performances rather than an intellectual one that would have made them feel overly staid. Earlier or later, these Dowland pieces partake of a life permeated by shadow but never quite by despair: the music itself counterbalances the darker elements of existence, never banishing them but funneling them artistically in a way that makes them more bearable. So these Dowland pieces, earlier or later, all stand as expressions of a worldview that the composer/lutenist had clearly pre-formed before he set down the earliest of them. Listeners willing to enter Dowland’s world as explored by Critz and her accompanists will certainly find this a (++++) recording, despite some presentation matters that may lead others to deem it a (+++) release. One of the latter is the fact that the disc is short, running less than 42 minutes. Another – and this is genuinely peculiar – is the odd omission of Dowland’s name from the production. It does not appear anywhere on the front, back or spine of the CD case or on the CD itself. The performers’ faces adorn the front and back of the package in extreme closeup, but although their importance to the recording is incontrovertible, it surely would have been suitable to find room for some acknowledgment of the expressive compositional thoughtfulness that makes their expressively thoughtful performances possible.

(+++) IN SEARCH OF CONNECTIONS

Christopher Tyler Nickel: Concerto No. 1 for Cello; Reflections on Requiem; Echo of Tranquility Nos. 1 and 2. Christoph Croisé, cello; Vancouver Contemporary Orchestra conducted by Clyde Mitchell; Oxana Shevchenko, piano. AVIE. $19.99. 

Brahms: Piano Sonata No. 3; Schoenberg: Drei Klavierstücke, Op. 11; Inna Faliks: Wandering Stranger; Old Belltower. Inna Faliks, piano. Navona. $16.99. 

     At least in theory, composers write music intended to connect outward, to communicate with audiences. In practice, the music connects first, if not solely, inward, with its feelings and expressions groping toward outbound understanding only after fulfilling aims that are more self-directed. Just what those aims are differs substantially from piece to piece, as is clear from the latest AVIE release featuring music of Christopher Tyler Nickel (born 1978). The major work on the CD is Nickel’s Cello Concerto No. 1, so designated even though to date, this 2023 work is Nickel’s only cello concerto – indeed, his only concerto for a stringed instrument. The concerto is conceived on a large scale and seems designed to explore the emotive capabilities of the cello, albeit without the depth of feeling and expressiveness heard in some other composers’ concertos for the instrument. Christoph Croisé takes an expansive view of the material, bringing forth its mixture of lyricism and bite to very good effect, and he is ably abetted by the Vancouver Contemporary Orchestra under Clyde Mitchell. The concerto is in four movements that collectively provide a thorough exploration of the cello’s acoustic and emotional range, all within a more-or-less-traditional structure that includes an extended and rather rambling first movement, a short and energetic second, a warm but not overdone third that is marked Cantabile con rubato, and an upbeat if not especially biting finale. It is a well-made work that, however, seems to want to be more than it is: it contains passages of depth, elements of virtuosity, and forays into lyricism, but lacks a convincingly evocative overall tone, a clearly delineated central feeling. In this respect it stands apart from the cello-and-piano material that fills out the disc. The seven-movement Reflections on Requiem (2025) and two short pieces called Echo of Tranquility (also 2025) evoke thoughtfulness and quietude throughout – indeed, they are monochromatic in feeling to such a degree that they tend to fade into the background and become a kind of poised “mood music.” Nickel knowingly treads the same path again and again in Reflections on Requiem, with two movements marked Reflectively, two Andante, one Andante (reflectively), one Andante misterioso, and a finale designated Solemn, which is a pretty good description of all the contemplative placidity here. The persistent sameness of tempo is coupled with a crepuscular feeling throughout – understandably, since the work’s title refers to Nickel’s Requiem, from which Reflections on Requiem draws its thematic material. Knowledge of the original is scarcely needed to be drawn into this gentle world of thoughtfulness and instrumental balance, but there is no attempt here to engage in any depth with the concerns and mysteries of life and death that lie at the heart of Nickel’s Requiem and so many others. The two Echo of Tranquility miniatures lack any thematic connection to earlier Nickel works but are cut from the same emotional cloth as Reflections on Requiem: they are pleasant pieces that invite a kind of drifting, undirected perception without any specific goal beyond an evanescent sense of pleasant peacefulness. 

     The connectedness of a new Navona CD featuring Ukrainian-American pianist Inna Faliks is of a different type. Faliks seeks in this recording to connect listeners with her own personal journey, both familial and musical, by playing works that she finds highly meaningful as well as some she created herself. The disc opens with two short Faliks-composed pieces that are similar to Nickel’s Echo of Tranquility works in some ways, including length, but that have about them a more distinct feeling of Impressionism. Neither of them is profound or claims to be, but both provide a sense of where Faliks was coming from both literally and musically when her family relocated from Odessa to the United States in 1988, when Faliks was 10 years old. These two short pieces are followed by an even shorter one, Wagner’s 90-second Elegy for Piano of 1858, whose modest chromaticism sounds more forward-looking than anything in Faliks’ own little pieces and serves as a bridge to the next work on the CD, Schoenberg’s 1909 Drei Klavierstücke. These are actually bridge pieces within Schoenberg’s own compositional life, the first two, moderately paced ones extending post-Wagnerian harmony to a point close to atonality, and the third and most forward-looking moving at a quicker pace into a soundworld more closely approximating out-and-out serialism. Faliks plays the works with a solid mixture of sensitivity and bite, allowing the angular rhythms and fragmentation of the third piece to come through especially clearly. But then the CD lurches in a different direction, to a work that is longer than everything else on it combined: Brahms’ Piano Sonata No. 3. This is Brahms’ last piano sonata but is distinctly early Brahms, written five years before Wagner’s Elegy, and it is a sonata seeking grandeur (and often finding it) through a large-scale design encompassing five movements. Classical structurally and Romantic in temperament, it is a far more emotionally complex work than anything else on the CD, and Faliks takes to it with all the understanding and intensity it deserves. From the grandly proclamatory opening of the first movement to the gentleness of the second, emphatic rhythmic display of the third, pervasive thoughtfulness of the fourth, and complexities of the finale, Faliks explores Brahms’ writing expansively while keeping the sonata’s tendency to sprawl well under control. It may be that she includes this sonata on this recording because of the brief fourth movement’s designation as Rückblick (“Remembrance”), in line with the connections she is trying to use the CD to communicate for her own purposes and as a way of reaching out to listeners. Whether the various interconnections heard on the disc provide a cohesive emotive sense is, however, very much a matter of opinion and of taste. The CD’s full title – “Stranger Things: Piano Works from a Young Refugee’s Backpack” – clearly indicates what Faliks thinks she has included here and why. And she certainly plays all the music with considerable skill. But audiences seeking musical cohesiveness in this recital will be more disappointed than ones with experiences paralleling Faliks’ and therefore taking a subjective personal journey akin to hers.

(++++) JUST A LITTLE LOTL

Axolotl-Ella: A Sort-of Cinderella Story. By Kate Messner. Illustrated by Lian Cho. Ten Speed Young Readers. $18.99. 

     It is hard to imagine a sillier concept than turning Cinderella into an axolotl. Axolotls are Mexican salamanders that are neotenic – that is, they normally retain their juvenile form throughout their lives instead of metamorphosing into adults. Axolotls have a very limited range in the wild and are critically endangered, but do rather well in the pet trade, where their strange appearance (tiny eyes, prominent feathery external gills, and what looks like a small perpetual smile) makes them exotically attractive. 

     Well, there have been Cinderella stories of all sorts, dating back to the exceedingly grim Grimm one, so why not one starring an axolotl? That seems to have been Kate Messner’s thought, and she has followed it through with verve and charm and the sort of approach that is mandatory in modern Cinderella versions, in which the protagonist is after something other than the chance to marry a prince and live happily ever after. Just what Axolotl-Ella is after, and why, is not particularly clear early in the book – a weakness in the tale-telling that matters very little, since the whole point of Axolotl-Ella is to have fun with the underlying notion of this transformation of the story. 

     So there is no fairy godmother or other magic-wielding character here – but for Axolotl-Ella there is the “water where she was born,” which her mother says “held special powers,” so Axolotl-Ella goes there to request “sparkles and light” to make herself stand out from all the other dun-colored, dull-looking axolotls at the King’s Festival, to which she wants to go because she has big but undisclosed and unclear plans for her life. 

     The magic works a bit too well, making her all sparkly and iridescent but providing her with silver shoes that she refuses to wear – the whole “shoes” thing being crucial to the original Cinderella story and inevitably present in some form in the many variants. But it is present here only to show that Axolotl-Ella refuses to be bound by tradition or convention when it comes to appearance. 

     Axolotl-Ella does get to dance with the prince (also an axolotl, of course: Lian Cho’s illustrations of the various axolotl courtiers, guests and hangers-on are among her best in the book). But she does not get to ask him the question she wants answered, because he spends the evening talking about himself, so she eventually goes home (no unfortunate midnight transfiguration here) and plans to return the next night. Which she does – this time refusing to wear golden shoes – but again she is not able to get a word in edgewise with the self-involved prince. The third night, the lake water brings her glass slippers – the traditional Cinderella footwear, here yet again going unworn – and she tries yet again to ask some sort of question of which readers know nothing. And yet again she fails. 

     When she decides to give up and head home, though, the prince is still holding her hand tightly – and her arm comes off. This is the funniest (not most gruesome) moment in the book, one that is extended as the prince weeps over the arm and pledges to find its owner (another high point of Cho’s illustrative talent). And this scene gives Messner the chance to explain that axolotls “can regrow missing body parts,” so there is really no harm done – and indeed, this is true, and is the reason axolotls are of considerable interest to scientists investigating regeneration. 

     At this point the book becomes unreservedly silly, with would-be princesses yanking off their arms to try to attract the prince, who “knew better” than to be taken in by the ruse. And lo and behold, when he finally locates Axolotl-Ella, bringing her arm back, he discovers that she does not need it, having grown a new one. And now she finally has his attention and can ask her question, which turns out to be: “Who is the wonderful axolotl who leads the royal orchestra?” It seems that Axolotl-Ella wants to open a dance hall and is looking for a suitable music director. This previously unhinted-at denouement is something of a letdown, and adults reading the book with kids should be prepared to be asked, “Why didn’t she just go up to the orchestra guy and talk to him while she was at the festival for three days?” This is a good question that has no apt answer within the confines of the book. 

     Well, the supposed climax may be disappointing, but the rest of Axolotl-Ella has enough amusement to make up for it. For example, when the prince realizes that Axolotl-Ella is not romantically interested in him after all, he says that his heart is broken, and she makes the blasé comment, “You could grow a new one.” Now that’s a line you won’t find in any other version of the Cinderella story.

(++++) SYMPHONIES CONSIDERED, RECONSIDERED

Sibelius: Symphonies Nos. 1-7. Helsinki Philharmonic Orchestra conducted by Jukka-Pekka Saraste. Ondine. $34.99 (3 CDs). 

Mahler: Symphony No. 6—arrangement for piano four hands by Alexander Zemlinsky. Inna Faliks and Daniel Schlosberg, piano four hands. Sono Luminus. $16.99. 

     Jukka-Pekka Saraste has had more than three decades to hone his interpretations of Sibelius’ symphonies – although on the evidence of his three recordings of the cycle, his readings were very strong from the start. Still, there are certainly differences that have emerged since Saraste (born 1956) has aged and, musically speaking, matured. His first cycle, recorded 1988-1992 with the Finnish Radio Symphony Orchestra, was disciplined and rather cool, played well and revealing the works’ differing structures to good effect. His second series, with the same orchestra in 1993, featured live recordings and captured a more-spontaneous, less-studied atmosphere than the earlier sequence. And now Ondine has released Saraste’s third Sibelius cycle, consisting of six live recordings from 2024-2025 coupled, a bit oddly, with a 2026 studio reading of Symphony No. 1. What this release shows without a doubt is how thoroughly Saraste understands Sibelius: balance and tempos (some incorporating information that Saraste received from Sibelius’ son-in-law, conductor Jussi Jalas [1908-1985]) seem self-evidently correct, there is both heft and delicacy in the playing of every orchestral section, and the attentiveness to the transitional sections in which the music abounds is handled with an ease and grace that the earlier cycles never quite attained. The finale of No. 3, the two sections of the first movement of No. 5, and the varying interconnected elements of No. 7 are among the aspects that especially benefit from the precision with which transitions and connections are handled. The sheer consistency and beauty of the orchestral playing benefits all the symphonies equally, and if there are a few occasions on which Saraste seems to hold back instead of unleashing maximum passion, that is a characteristic that has changed little in his style over the decades: he prefers control and a natural unfolding of the music to anything with even a whiff of the overwrought. Balance is the order of the day in No. 1, which holds back a bit in the finale but is shaped with considerable care throughout. No. 2 is one of several symphonies here taken at quicker tempos than before – likely the Jalas influence – and the result is a work whose momentum never flags, although the emotional impact of the finale becomes somewhat muted. Post-performance applause is included for this symphony and No. 5, for some reason, but not for the four other live recordings. No. 3 is another reading that is quick by clock time, but it never feels rushed, and its warmth and wealth of inner detail are exceptional. No. 4, long a particular specialty for Saraste, offers more of an inner tragic landscape than a universal one, lacking a sense of desperation but with Saraste handling the symphony as a personal statement of inward turmoil – a convincing if rather unusual approach to the pervasive bleakness of this work. No. 5 is a touch lacking in emotional intensity, but the nobility of the majestic “swan” theme in the finale is outstanding even if the work’s overall excitement is held somewhat in check. No. 6 is exceptionally well done, nuanced, light, clear and quick, but never feeling too fast and never lacking expressivity. And No. 7 is noble as well, focused on all the detail in the work’s construction and allowing it a greater measure of optimism than other conductors tend to find in it. Every single symphony is handled with thoughtfulness, understanding, a strong sense of commitment to the music, and orchestral playing that ranges from the top-notch to the simply gorgeous. Saraste has thoroughly understood this music for more than 30 years. This latest cycle shows a further expansion of his understanding and an even greater ability to communicate what he has found in the symphonies – by allowing them to speak for themselves without any sense of imposition, much less arrogance or untoward insistence, from the podium. 

     It is worth remembering that when Sibelius wrote his symphonies (1899-1924), opportunities to hear them, much less hear them repeatedly, were extremely limited. Recorded sound was nonexistent or in its infancy, and unless an orchestra happened to be performing a work that one happened to want to hear at a location to which one could go without substantial difficulty, symphonies in their original scoring were largely inaccessible. But they were not wholly inaccessible, thanks to the proliferation of pianos that by this time had reached their modern design and were capable of becoming an “orchestra in miniature” – certainly since Liszt used them that way. Pianos in one’s home were the gateway to orchestral music for many years, and this in turn led to a proliferation of arrangements of grand-scale symphonic music for the piano. For example, Schoenberg’s famous Society for Private Musical Performances, which he started in 1918, was a notable venue for arrangements for piano or small ensemble of grand-scale music. And even before that society began, piano arrangements were popular as the primary method of disseminating complex new music. Schoenberg’s group may even have been inspired by Schoenberg hearing Mahler and Alexander Zemlinsky perform Mahler’s Symphony No. 6 in Zemlinsky’s arrangement for piano four hands. It is this arrangement that Sono Luminus has now released in a thoroughly convincing if ultimately disappointing performance by Inna Faliks and Daniel Schlosberg. The disappointment is not in the playing, which is sensitive and skillful. Nor is it in the overall presentation, although that does have some shortcomings. The issue is the arrangement itself: in the 21^st century, with Mahler now in the standard orchestral repertoire and with technology making multiple versions of his symphonies readily available, it is impossible not to hear how inadequate the piano, “orchestra in miniature” or not, is for transmitting the flavor and complexity of this music. Mahler’s brilliant orchestration, his chamber-music-like use of members of a large orchestra, cannot be reproduced here, any more than can the effect of the hammer blows in the symphony’s finale. Again and again a modern listener is going to hear this piano reduction and find it a diminution, which was not at all Zemlinsky’s intent; again, he and Mahler played this arrangement together, and Schoenberg listened to them do so. By the standards of today, this work for piano four hands is woefully inadequate; indeed, it was pale by the standards of the time in which Mahler wrote it (1903-1906). But Mahler and Zemlinsky both knew that this piano version gave the symphony its best chance of being heard by a widespread audience; in fact, its only real chance. Faliks and Schlosberg are to be commended for undertaking to perform the symphony this way and allow today’s audiences to hear how listeners in the distant past were able to experience the music. And in truth, the piano score has some advantages of its own: Zemlinsky, himself a composer of some skill, knew when middle voices were important, when rhythmic contrasts needed to be brought to the fore, when shifts between delicacy and full-bodied strength were called for; and he did an expert job of focusing the music on precisely the areas where Mahler wanted it focused. Certainly the version for piano four hands lacks the orchestral music’s grandeur, depth and subtlety, but it is sensitively made and offers not only a good basic guidepost to the symphony for those unfamiliar with it, but also a kind of bare-bones display of the skeletal framework on which Mahler built the imposing edifice that is the work for full orchestra. That said, the actual presentation of this CD is a bit peculiar. For one thing, Faliks and Schlosberg incomprehensibly omit the exposition repeat in the first movement, throwing off the symphony’s scale and balance to a degree not inherent in Zemlinsky’s arrangement. For another thing, the program notes with the recording do not discuss what piano is used: Faliks is a Yamaha artist and Schlosberg a Steinway artist (for the record, they use a Steinway model D). For a third thing, the CD package gives the symphony’s total time (just 69:20 with that repeat omitted) but gives no timings for the individual movements (16:39, 11:50, 11:39 and 29:12 for those who are interested). That smacks of laziness or lack of genuine interest in the production – which is hard to reconcile with the verve that the pianists bring to their interpretation. All in all, this Mahler/Zemlinsky CD is, for modern ears, a curiosity and a portal to a much earlier time both musically and technologically. It is not a disc to which listeners are likely to return frequently. But as a chance to explore Mahler in a way no longer generally available, much less central to the modern listening experience, it is very much worthwhile for audiences already familiar with Symphony No. 6 in the form in which Mahler intended it to be heard.