(++++) REMNANT RICHNESS

Mieczyslaw Weinberg: Cello Concerto; Fantasy for Cello and Orchestra; Korngold: Cello Concerto. Kristina Reiko Cooper, cello; Kaunas City Symphony Orchestra conducted by Constantine Orbelian. Delos. $18.75. 

     The European diaspora in the years before and during World War II took composers in a wide variety of directions, musically as well as in the geographical sense in which it displaced so many others. The juxtaposition on a new Delos CD of cello-and-orchestra works by Mieczyslaw Weinberg (1919-1996) and Erich Wolfgang Korngold (1897-1957) shows this in some intriguing ways. 

     Most of the recording is devoted to the music of Weinberg, whose compositions are undergoing something of a rediscovery and renaissance. In fact, on one level it is disappointing that this recording includes only two of his three cello-and-orchestra pieces, omitting the Cello Concertino that was discovered posthumously and would have fit on the CD along with everything already on it. The reason for the disappointment is that Weinberg’s obvious skill in writing for cello, his sensitivity to the instrument’s acoustic and emotional range, will likely leave the audience wishing for more. Nevertheless, what listeners do receive from Kristina Reiko Cooper and the Kaunas City Symphony Orchestra under Constantine Orbelian is very worthwhile music indeed, certainly justifying the recent (if still modest) upsurge in Weinberg’s popularity. 

     Weinberg’s Cello Concerto dates to 1948, by which time he was resettled in Stalin’s Soviet Union and engaging in the juggling act required of composers at the time: expressing himself while trying not to draw too much attention from the arbiters of socialist realism in music. The melodic beauty of the concerto is everywhere apparent, and the work has an elaborate intensity that places it within the Romantic era emotionally while providing more than a few hints of the compositional modernity that Soviet composers were supposed to hold firmly in check. It is a four-movement piece that in a sense is in two two-movement sections: the very expressive opening Adagio ties musically and emotionally to the not-much-quicker Moderato that follows; then there is a significant change of mood for an Allegro that concludes with a very extended and elaborate cadenza and moves straight into an Allegro finale. This concluding movement is in many ways akin to the music of Shostakovich, with whom Weinberg shared a close friendship: Shostakovich considered Weinberg, 13 years his junior, to be one of the best Soviet composers, and helped shield him, his works and his family from the depredations of Stalinism. The dissonances, angularity and rhythmic insistence of the finale of Weinberg’s concerto all bring Shostakovich to mind, as does the work’s distinctly Shostakovich-like quiet ending. Yet Weinberg’s own style is apparent throughout, and Cooper and Orbelian do a first-rate job of bringing forth Weinberg’s unique compositional elements while not neglecting to highlight his echoes of Shostakovich and, occasionally, of other composers as well. 

     Weinberg’s Fantasia for Cello and Orchestra (started in 1951, completed in 1953) is a three-movement work that shares a number of elements with the Cello Concerto – including its opening-movement Adagio and its eventual quiet ending – but that is distinctive in its handling of thematic and rhythmic material. The soulful first movement contrasts strongly with a second one that has much of the feeling of a scherzo and in that respect is, yes, Shostakovich-like in some of its rhythms and harmonic wanderings. The cello’s guitar-like strumming at one point is striking. The very short finale is unusual in the tempo that Weinberg chooses – Andantino leggiero – and is delicate and thoughtful throughout, questioning rather than decisive at the end. Cooper’s sensitivity to the flow and feeling of this movement is especially notable. 

     Cooper and Orbelian bring equal thoughtfulness to the very different Cello Concerto by Korngold, a single-movement work (the composer planned to add two more movements but never did) that is packed with intensity and not a little bombast. Unlike Weinberg, Korngold left Europe behind and forged a successful career in the United States – specifically in the film industry, to which he contributed scores of considerable power. His Cello Concerto rests particularly strongly in moviemaking: it was created as a centerpiece of a 1946 Bette Davis melodrama called Deception that was built around a musical love triangle involving a pianist, a cellist and a composer. The film itself was not a success, perhaps because its formulaic plot and dialogue melded less than smoothly with the elegance of the classical-music world, exemplified by Korngold’s score, against which the action played out. But the Cello Concerto itself is impressive and actually works well in the single-movement form into which Korngold shaped it in revising what he created for the movie. Surprisingly, much of the earlier portion of the concerto is more modern in sound than the Weinberg works on this CD, with the dissonances more prominent and more strongly emphasized. Korngold effectively merges Romantic melodies with modern rhythms, opening with considerable drama through chords alternating between C major and C minor, then presenting highly contrasting thematic material – sweeping and passionate on the one hand, lyrical and yearning on the other. The last portion of the concerto is light and comparatively bouncy, and the cello part is extremely difficult – a fact that seems not to trouble Cooper in the least. She and Orbelian take the full measure of this work, following its contours with care and hinting at the sense of abandon underlying elements of the film from which the concerto derives – but without ever overstating or descending into anything crass. This CD as a whole is a top-notch exploration of 20^th-century music that in some ways rises above its era and the experiences from which these composers created it – while in other ways being strongly representative of the circumstances that led Weinberg and Korngold, and many others, to seek creative fulfillment in places distant from their own homelands.

(++++) SCULPTED SOUND

Music for Bassoon Solo by Maurice Allard, Nikolaus Maler, Klaus Thunemann, Malcolm Arnold, Gordon Jacob, Willson Osborne, Marcel Farago, Charles Koechlin, Antonio Lauro, and Mathieu Lussier. Céleste-Marie Roy, bassoon. MDG Scene. $24.99 (SACD). 

Richard Carrick: l’Algérie. Either/Or (Bahar Badieitabar, oud; Richard Carrick, piano; Jennifer Choi, violin; Justin Jay Hines, percussion; John Popham, cello). New Focus Recordings. $18.99. 

     Vivaldi’s three dozen concertos notwithstanding, the bassoon has not always been treated with the musical respect it deserves, being relegated for far too long to a subsidiary and often clownish role within the orchestra. Modern bassoonists, thankfully, will have none of that, and the best of them are displaying the full emotional compass of which the instrument is capable – often by unearthing little-known works by little-known composers, or by playing music by contemporary composers who are determined, for reasons of their own, to showcase the instrument. And there is no better showcase than material that is written for the solo bassoon – including the pieces by all 10 composers heard on a very fine MDG Scene SACD featuring Céleste-Marie Roy. The disc not only demonstrates how wide-ranging the expressiveness of the bassoon can be but also shows how varied are the composers intrigued by it: those represented here are from France, Germany, England, the United States, Romania, Venezuela and Canada. And they are from multiple time periods: Charles Koechlin (1867-1950) was born earliest, Mathieu Lussier (born 1973) most recently. Roy handles every piece on the disc with understanding and, where appropriate, flair. Along the way, she helps confirm the inescapable persistence of Paganini as a source of inspiration for variations: three very different pieces on the release use his famous 24^th caprice for solo violin as a basis. They are Variations sur un thème de Paganini (1986) by Maurice Allard (1923-2004); 18 Variazoni su un Thema di Paganini (2020) by Klaus Thunemann (1937-2025), which at one point includes an echo of a Vivaldi bassoon concerto; and Phantasy on a Theme by Paganini (1984) by Marcel Farago (1924-2016). The three works are separated on the disc, but it is worth hearing them one after the other to find out the very different ways in which the same inspirational theme is handled on the same instrument by the three composers – as a jumping-off point for Farago and as the basis for a variety of interesting and frequently complex elaborations by Allard and Thunemann. Indeed, the varying uses of the solo bassoon are apparent throughout this unusual and unusually interesting recording. Fantasy for bassoon (1966) by Malcolm Arnold (1921-2006) is, like most of his music, approachable and enjoyable listening. Partita for solo bassoon (1971) by Gordon Jacob (1895-1984) consists of five micro-miniature movements – the whole work lasts just five-and-a-half minutes – with Jacob’s typical mixture of seriousness with good humor. The 2 Monodies pour basson (1947-1948) by Koechlin are brooding and atmospheric. The bassoon’s usefulness in non-Paganini variations is clear in Ten Variations on “La Folia” (2021) by Nikolaus Maier (born 1972), with the work based on a tune that also attracted the attention of Vivaldi and many others. Rhapsody for bassoon (1958) by Willson Osborne (1906-1979) showcases the instrument’s expressiveness, while Lussier’s Fantasia Tango pour basson (2002) displays its rhythmic capabilities to good effect. And the five 1998 Paquito D’Rivera arrangements for solo bassoon of works by Antonio Lauro (1917-1986) show that although Lauro is best known by far because of his guitar music, here too the bassoon has bone fides in terms of forays into rhythm and expressiveness. In truth, listening to this disc straight through from start to finish can be a bit much – this is a lot of solo-bassoon material in one package – and it may be more enjoyable to pick and choose among the tracks at various times, as by hearing the three sets of Paganini variations one after the other or perhaps listening to the fantasies by Arnold, Farago and Lussier as a threesome. What is clear throughout, in any case, is that Roy is thoroughly committed to careful presentation and skilled interpretation of all this music, and does a highly commendable job of proving, if proof be necessary, that the bassoon has all the fluidity and emotive potential that one could want in any wind instrument, even if it has not always been utilized to the fullest extent of its capabilities. 

     The instrument that is central to the concept of l’Algérie by Richard Carrick (born 1971) is the oud, a lutelike, fretless 11-or-12-stringed instrument with a deep, warm and resonant sound. Carrick, like many contemporary composers, likes to create auditory experiences joining multiple cultures and musical forms, while also extending techniques associated with well-known instruments – in this case the piano, which is equipped with magnets and mutes and which Carrick himself plays as part of an ensemble known as Either/Or. l’Algérie, whose title does not begin with a capital letter (a common spelling affectation among many modern compositions), is a nine-movement suite that is the second part of a trilogy incorporating music from the Maghreb region of North Africa – hence the prominent oud, which is important in that area’s musical life. The piece is semi-autobiographical, as are the other portions of the trilogy, The Atlas and The Path. There is aural experimentation of all sorts in l’Algérie, sometimes literally through improvisational sections and sometimes through the performance techniques that Carrick requires, and the sounds resulting from them. Unsurprisingly for an avant-garde work, l’Algérie has a wide variety of self-referential elements, some involving Carrick’s family (his mother was born in Algeria) and some from his own experiences hearing or researching specific tunes and musicians. Some of the resulting sound is interesting, such as the occasional coupling of oud and violin. But much of it is simply as-expected juxtaposition, incorporating elements of non-Western music, plus jazz and other forms, into segments that will display Carrick’s intentions and their own meaning only to audiences willing to delve into the background of l’Algérie and use their research to further their understanding of what they are hearing. Taken at face value – or perhaps “ear value” is more accurate – l’Algérie is just another example (albeit a long-form one) of all the sonic material that a contemporary composer can extract from unusual instrumentation and/or unusual performance techniques. The occasional dips into more-traditional sounds, as at the start of the movements called La reine and Gnawa Loops, are quite welcome as aural oases in what is otherwise material whose meaningfulness to Carrick is no doubt sincere but is not effectively communicated to listeners outside those already acquainted with his works and his personal life. Because of its narrow focus and because this is a short release for a full-price CD – lasting fewer than 45 minutes – the recording is a (+++) disc whose largely self-limited appeal makes it seem indifferent to reaching out to any audience wider than the inner circle of Carrick cognoscenti.

(++++) CELEBRATING THE NEGLECTED

Haydn: Baryton Trios, Volume 3—Hob. XI: Nos. 26, 50, 57, 72, 80, and 82. Valencia Baryton Project (Matthew Baker, baryton; Brett Walfish, viola; Ismar Gomes, cello). Naxos. $19.99. 

Marion Bauer: Sonata for Viola and Piano; Ulysses Kay: Sonata for Viola and Piano; Margaret Bonds: Troubled Water. Jonathan Bagg, viola; Emely Phelps and Mimi Solomon, piano. New Focus Recordings. $18.99. 

     We can thank Haydn for what little interest remains in the long-obsolete baryton, which is essentially a bass viol with two sets of strings: gut strings played with a bow and wire strings that vibrate sympathetically with the bowed ones and can be plucked by the performer’s left thumb. Or perhaps we can thank Haydn’s employer, Prince Nikolaus of Esterházy, an aficionado and increasingly skilled player of the baryton – because it was for him that Haydn composed more than 100 baryton trios, whose complexity increased with time as the prince became more adept on his chosen instrument. The third volume in Naxos’ ongoing series of Haydn baryton trios again features a group called the Valencia Baryton Project, but two-thirds of the ensemble’s members are different: only Matthew Baker himself, leader of the project, carries over from the prior releases. No matter: the viola and cello are distinctly subsidiary contributors to these works and are well-handled by Brett Walfish and Ismar Gomes, respectively. But it is Baker’s way with the baryton – including his creation of several cadenzas for the trios heard here – that is most impressive. Although all these works were written from the mid-1760s to the early 1770s, and their exact dates are generally not known because they were presented in bound volumes indifferent to time of composition, it is clear from this installment of this series that Prince Nikolaus learned over time how to play the baryton with greater facility and more emotional involvement. This is shown in individual movements, not by Haydn employing especially wide-ranging keys for these trios, which are written in the keys in which the baryton sounds best: one in A (No. 57), two in D (Nos. 50 and 72), and two in G (Nos. 26 and 80), with No. 82 in C being an outlier where home key is concerned. Interestingly, though, No. 82 is the longest of the pieces here and the one with the most-compelling first movement, an Adagio that is not only the longest movement (all these trios except No. 26 are dominated by their first movements) but also the one that plumbs greater emotional depth than Haydn usually proffers in these works. No. 50, second-longest of the pieces here, also has an especially expressive first movement (in this case marked Andante and featuring one of Baker’s cadenzas). Haydn’s inventiveness within the constrictions imposed by the need to create works for his employer to play shows through again and again. For example, although all these works are in three movements and major keys, the usual use of a Menuetto as the third movement changes in Nos. 57 and 80, where that movement is placed second; and the typical slow-movement opening is changed in No. 26, whose Andante is heard second while still being longer than the other movements combined. Also, Haydn again and again offers effective minor-key elements in individual movements, never for an extended period – so as not to disturb the overall mood of these aristocratic pleasantries – but always for enough time to provide some pleasing differences in aural color. To the modern ear, the baryton – which was never especially popular even in its own time – has a somewhat strange sound, in part because of the difference between its gut and wire strings and in part because the use of sympathetic strings throughout produces an unusual sonic environment. Still, Baker, Walfish and Gomes make as strong a case for these little-known Haydn works as they will likely receive anywhere, and these trios provide further evidence, if any were needed, of Haydn’s sophistication not only in music-making but in what today is called “managing upward,” which means keeping the boss happy. 

     The viola, which Haydn played in his baryton trios, was itself a largely neglected instrument for many years, despite occasional high spots such as Berlioz’ Harold in Italy. But it has been coming into its own for a century, and not only thanks to Walton’s 1929 viola concerto. Some composers who wrote for the viola, however, are themselves on the obscure side, and Jonathan Bagg focuses on three of them on a recent New Focus Recordings CD. The sonata by Marion Bauer (1882-1955) exists in a sound world spanning consonance and dissonance and uniting the two within a framework of expressiveness: the first movement is designated to be played rubato and the second espressivo. The three movements are all virtually the same length, lending the sonata a feeling of balance that nicely complements its flowing lines, many elements of gentleness, and well-managed balance between instruments. The sonata by Ulysses Kay (1917-1995), which is in four movements but lasts only 10 minutes, is also carefully balanced and even has some of the feeling of a Baroque work through its slow-fast-slow-fast sequence and use of ornamentation. Its harmonic world is decidedly of the 20^th century, however, and the focus on the viola points to Kay’s time studying with Hindemith. The 60-second Adagio third movement is in effect an introduction to the finale, the longest movement, which has a pleasantly rocking rhythm and more instrumental interplay than is heard earlier in the work. Troubled Water, the third movement of Spiritual Suite by Margaret Bonds (1913-1972), is here arranged for viola and piano from its cello-and-piano version that Bonds herself created after originally composing the piece for piano solo. Based on the spiritual Wade in the Water, the music flows well throughout, soars with feeling periodically, and never strays far from its underlying foundational melody. Bagg plays all three works with strong emotional commitment and thorough command of the viola’s emotive capabilities, especially when it comes to warmth of both sound and feeling. His two piano accompanists – Emely Phelps in the Bauer and Kay works, Mimi Solomon in the piece by Bonds – back him up skillfully and maintain good balance between strings and keyboard. Despite all the (++++) playing and interesting repertoire, though, this will be a (+++) CD from the perspective of many potential listeners, simply because it is exceptionally short for a full-priced release: just 32½ minutes. Whether its musical quality justifies its economic expectations will be a matter for each individual music lover to determine.

(++++) BRAHMS AND BEYOND

Brahms: Chorale Preludes, Op. 122, Nos. 4-5 and 8-11 (transcribed by Busoni); David Froom: Variations on an Early American Hymn Tune; Scott Wheeler: Beach Spring; Sheree Clement: Teeth; Frederick Tillis: Spiritual Fantasy No. 4. Eliza Garth, piano. Centaur. $15.99. 

     In 1896, suffering physically from the pancreatic cancer that would claim his life the following year, and suffering emotionally from the death of the great love of his life, Clara Schumann, Brahms wrote his last work: a set of 11 chorale preludes for organ. Based on the verses of nine Lutheran chorales, with two of those set twice, the Chorale Preludes, Op. 122 were not published until 1902 – and in that year, Busoni transcribed six of them for piano. These Chorale Preludes are short works, mostly in the three-minute range, and are notable for their simplicity and a kind of gentleness born of a mixture of grief and resignation. They contain religious feeling that is otherwise largely absent from Brahms’ music, with even Ein Deutsches Requiem focused more on consolation on Earth than on anything celestial (Brahms at one point said he was tempted to change the title from “German” to “Human”). 

     Although the Brahms Chorale Preludes sound more apt for their expressive purposes on organ and in the full set of 11, they are more accessible in Busoni’s transcriptions and better known that way – although they are not played particularly often in any form. They require a performer’s willingness to set aside and eschew the more-familiar richness of Brahms’ sound world and focus, as in many of the composer’s late piano pieces, on simplicity of delivery and an effect that is more cumulative than individuated among the movements – with the concluding O Welt, ich muss dich lassen being clearly self-referential for Brahms in its quiet tenderness, and sounding all the more heartfelt as a result. Eliza Garth clearly understands the emotional space these short works occupy, offering a spare and carefully paced reading of the Busoni transcriptions on a new Centaur disc in which she adds a 20^th-century work and three from the 21^st century to Brahms’ late-19^th-century sensibilities. 

     The overall effectiveness of this CD for listeners will largely depend on how they feel about the non-Brahms material, which is also largely hymn-based but does not fit as neatly into the Lutheran tradition as do Brahms’ Chorale Preludes. The three most-recent pieces were actually all written for Garth. Variations on an Early American Hymn Tune (2019) by David Froom (1951-2022) sounds from its title like music by Ives or paying homage to him, and in fact there is something Ivesian in the straightforward opening presentation of the basic tune and the contrasting dissonances and rhythmic alterations that follow. Froom quickly deviates from the theme’s initial simplicity of pacing and harmonization to present a piece more wide-ranging than, for example, Ives’ own variations on America. But Froom returns to some of the underlying melody’s basics often enough to keep his work well-grounded in its foundational material. The slow and quiet fadeaway ending is especially effective. 

     Beach Spring (2022) by Scott Wheeler (born 1952) is more harmonically adventurous from the start and more insistently dissonant than Froom’s piece. Wheeler persistently distorts the contours of his work’s underlying theme, and is fond of techniques such as presenting material in widely separated portions of the keyboard. There is little sense of the devout here, although the piece is not positioned strictly as a virtuoso exercise, either. Its overall effect is somewhat academic, with Wheeler ringing all sorts of changes on the thematic material as if demonstrating a multiplicity of methods of arranging and rearranging an essentially simple theme, repeatedly denying it harmonic consonance. Teeth (2021) by Sheree Clement (born 1955), which requires Garth not only to play but also to vocalize typically avant-garde verbiage (e.g., “hyena’s face”), goes even further, into electronic and pseudo-electronic realms, extended performance techniques, “prepared” piano elements, and other “look at me” (or “listen to me”) material that is about as un-hymnlike as the composer can make it. This piece is very much an acquired taste, and one that few listeners will likely choose to acquire in this context. 

     The Brahms Chorale Preludes follow the three 21^st-century works on this CD but do not end the disc. Instead, Garth concludes with Spiritual Fantasy No. 4 (1981) by Frederick Tillis (1930-2020). Distinctly modernistic in approach but without most of the off-putting elements of Clement’s work (although using some of them), this Tillis piece never quite seems sure of its direction. It does not so much meander as stop and start, as if Tillis is trying on various keyboard techniques and sounds while trying to find the best one, or the best sequence. This goes on for quite some time – the work lasts 12½ minutes and seems longer – and has already become tiresome and repetitious by about one-third of its length. Individual elements are effective enough, but there is a slapdash quality to the way they are assembled, with the work as a whole feeling disconnected not only from anything spiritual but also from any attempt to engage an audience meaningfully. The eventual quiet conclusion sounds like an evaporation. 

     Garth’s fully committed pianism is exemplary throughout and is, all in all, the major reason listeners will find this disc meaningful. But this is, on the whole, an odd recording. The music itself amounts to an uneasy juxtaposition of undeniably effective material (Brahms, Froom, and to some extent Wheeler) with navel-gazing and rather self-important and self-focused (rather than audience-focused) works (Clement and Tillis). The overall impression is that the CD is a personal statement by Garth – whether regarding piano playing or about faith is a matter on which each listener will have to opine.