Bruckner: Symphony No. 8, 1890 version. Symphonieorchester des
Bayerischen Rundfunks conducted by Mariss Jansons. BR Klassik. $16.99.
Salomon Jadassohn: Symphony No. 1; Serenades Nos.
1-3; Serenade for Flute and Strings; Piano Concerto No. 1. Rebecca Hall, flute;
Valentina Seferinova, piano; Malta Philharmonic conducted by Michael Laus and
Marius Stravinsky; Belarussian State Symphony Orchestra conducted by Marius
Stravinsky; Karelia State Symphony Orchestra conducted by Denis Vlasenko. Cameo
Classics. $18.99 (2 CDs).
Hugo Alfvén: Symphony No. 1; Drapa; Midsommarvaka. Deutsches
Symphonie-Orchester Berlin conducted by Łukasz Borowicz. CPO. $16.99.
John Harbison: Symphony No. 4; Steven Stucky:
Second Concerto for Orchestra; Carl Ruggles: Sun-Treader. National Orchestral
Institute Philharmonic conducted by David Alan Miller. Naxos. $12.99.
The scope of communication possible within
a symphony is so wide that, even if a symphonic work does not quite encompass
the whole world as Mahler said it should, a symphony can take in and explore
greater emotional depths than can be found in any other instrumental music.
Certainly this is the case with Bruckner’s symphonies, and in particular his
Eighth, the last one he completed: his canvas here is so vast that every
performance brings out different elements of the work, and the symphony can be
interpreted in an hour and a quarter or in more than an hour and a half.
Scarcely a compact work by any measure, Bruckner’s Eighth is bedeviled by the
“version” question that emerges so often in listening to Bruckner: the original
1887 version is heard far less often than the revised 1890 one, and there is
also a 1939 version (by Haas) that stakes out something of a middle ground between
the two that date to Bruckner’s own lifetime. Interestingly, even when the 1890
version is played, as usually occurs, a performance such as the new one on BR
Klassik, featuring Symphonieorchester des Bayerischen Rundfunks conducted by
Mariss Jansons, can make the symphony sound new and even unfamiliar. This is
very much an end-weighted symphony – the whole thing builds to the finale – and
this presents a significant challenge to a conductor, who needs to construct
the overall edifice carefully while never losing sight of the pinnacle toward
which Bruckner continuously moves. It is Jansons’ skill at doing exactly this
that sets his performance apart. Throughout the first three movements and the
first part of the finale, he builds individual peaks and explores Bruckner’s
many themes and complex harmonies, allowing each movement to flow naturally and
become a kind of edifice of its own. But at the same time, Jansons holds
something in reserve – not in the playing, which is excellent throughout, but
in the shaping of the symphony as a whole. The result is that each movement
becomes an entirely satisfying individual experience, yet the material becomes
fully clear, and indeed resplendent, only when Bruckner piles all the elements
upon each other and eventually produces a genuinely overwhelming conclusion. It
is extraordinary to realize that this is a live performance – but once that is
accepted, the you-could-hear-a-pin-drop silence of the audience is not a
surprise: Jansons pulls listeners into the music from the very first notes and
never flags in keeping them involved, so that even when the work’s last phrase
resounds, there is complete silence for a few moments before the applause
begins. The feeling here is of being subsumed for a time within a world drawn
from but not really of the mundane
one, a world more expressive and rarefied than the one outside the confines of
the music. At its best, when best performed, that is the effect of Bruckner’s
music, and Jansons certainly brings the monumentality and intensity of
Bruckner’s Eighth glowingly to life in this reading.
Given the existence of symphonies such as
Bruckner’s Eighth, it is scarcely surprising that so many other works of
Bruckner’s time and thereafter, no matter how well-made, tend to seem a bit pale.
This explains, at least to some degree, the obscurity in modern times of fine
symphonic craftsmen such as Salomon Jadassohn (1831-1902). Nevertheless, the
rediscovery of a composer such as Jadassohn is something of an event, because
he has faded so completely from public perception that it is hard not to expect his music to be deserving
of neglect. A fine new Cameo Classics release shows Jadassohn’s just deserts to
be better than would be expected – somewhat on the lighter side, true, at least
when compared with music by the giants of his era, but quite pleasurable to
experience and apparently written with an eye toward entertaining the
music-loving public rather than plumbing substantial emotional depths.
Jadassohn wrote four symphonies, the fourth being the most impressive, but even
No. 1, heard on this release, has much to recommend it. Dating to 1861, it is a
well-proportioned work with some clear nods to Mendelssohn – a common factor in
symphonic works by composers of this time, such as Niels Gade – and an
especially pleasing second-movement Scherzo. Most of the two-CD release,
however, focuses on some of Jadassohn’s serenades, which are lighter works than
his symphonies and in fact were often used by composers as “training grounds”
of a sort for symphonic development; consider Brahms’ two and Tchaikovsky’s
four in this context, for example. Like Brahms and Tchaikovsky, Jadassohn
offers serenades that are very nicely crafted and, without the intensity and
close relationship among movements characteristic of symphonies, are somewhat
more freewheeling and quite pleasant to hear. The first serenade, known as Serenade No. 1 in 4 Canons, would seem from
its title to be something of an academic exercise, and indeed Jadassohn was
accused in his own time of being rather stodgy in his music. But this
five-movement work is considerably lighter and airier than its designation
might indicate, and its structural elements are by no means forced or
ill-fitting; they simply constitute a method by which Jadassohn produces a
series of pleasant effects. The second serenade, in three movements, is
actually broader in conception than the first, with, again, some Mendelssohnian
flavor; and the third, in four movements, offers some especially pleasing
instrumentation, in which the appealing use of a triangle in the second
movement stands out. The Serenade for
Flute and Strings, another four-movement work, once again echoes
Mendelssohn, although not in any directly imitative way, and includes a lovely Notturno and a concluding Tarantella that is a whirlwind of
enjoyment. The symphony and serenades heard here are all lighter music without
actually being “light” music – but Jadassohn’s Piano Concerto No. 1, although the shortest work on this recording,
is of somewhat greater intensity. This is a single, fantasia-like rhapsody that
structurally recalls Liszt rather than Mendelssohn (Jadassohn actually studied
with Liszt for a time). The concerto is well-scored – the orchestration of all
these works shows Jadassohn’s particular skill in highlighting and combining
instruments – and there is plenty of virtuosity to challenge the soloist and
impress the audience, although unfortunately there is also a lot of coughing
from the specific audience that attended this particular 2008 performance,
which was recorded live. It would be stretching things to call this piano
concerto profound; in fact, nothing heard on this release merits that
designation. But Jadassohn’s music gives considerable pleasure even though it
does not engage the senses strongly or delve into depth in anything approaching
the manner of the greater symphonists of Jadassohn’s time.
There is a great deal of enjoyment to be
had as well in the works of Swedish composer Hugo Alfvén (1872-1960), but here
too one should not expect too much of an initial symphonic endeavor. Alfvén’s
First Symphony dates to 1896, the year of Bruckner’s death and two years before
the first symphony by a better-known Nordic composer, Jean Sibelius (whose
first language was Swedish even though he became so strongly involved with
Finnish nationalism). The Alfvén work is an even more youthful endeavor than
that of Sibelius, which dates to Sibelius’ early 30s: Alfvén was just 24 when
he created this piece. So it would be unreasonable to expect unique, fully
formed style at this juncture – and yet there is enough of it to make the work
a very pleasant surprise. It is a large-scale piece, although scarcely in
Brucknerian terms, more closely approximating the length of the earlier
Sibelius symphonies. And like those, it incorporates a certain amount of Nordic
folk material, rhythmically and in atmosphere if not in terms of explicit
quotations. The symphony’s first three movements have a great deal to recommend
them: as Sibelius was to eschew an orchestral tutti at the start of his first symphony in favor of a lengthy
clarinet solo, so Alfvén opens his work with solo cello – after an impressive
timpani roll that sets the stage for a serious, even solemn symphony rather
than one along the lines of Haydn’s No. 103. The Nordic feeling of the first
movement is evident, and after a slow movement immersed in melancholia (but not
deep sorrow), there is an effective folk-dance-like Scherzo that again has
nationalistic overtones. Alfvén, however, shows less confidence in the
symphony’s finale, which is also a dance but which is rather foursquare and
characterless. Still, the work marked a strong start to what would eventually
be a set of five symphonies – all of which will be released by CPO, which has
found an adept conductor of the music in Łukasz Borowicz, who brings forth the
typically smooth and polished playing of the Deutsches Symphonie-Orchester
Berlin to fine effect. The CD also includes an occasional piece that is dark
and moody without being especially evocative of sorrow: Drapa, a solemn work whose title refers to an old Icelandic verse
form. This piece dates to 1908 and was dedicated to the memory of King Oscar
II, who had died the previous year. It is a suitable work for its purpose, but
one of no particular distinction. However, the much lighter Midsommarvaka (“Midsummer Vigil”) is impressive – in a very different way,
to be sure. This is a piece, dating to 1903, that opens with one of those tunes
that listeners will be 100% sure they know well and have heard before, even if
they never knew of the work’s existence. From that decidedly upbeat beginning, Midsommarvaka bubbles along through a
series of impressions of summer celebrations among young Swedes, including
dancing and drinking and lovemaking and even a certain degree of
not-very-serious fighting. Alfvén once offered a detailed storyline for the
work, but he also said the work has no particular program, so it is not known
how seriously to take his explanatory material. Nor does it really matter: the
music speaks effectively for itself, telling a story of joy, exuberance and largely
uninhibited pleasure in the inevitably short Nordic summers.
Symphonic stories continue to be told in
the 21st century, by composers such as John Harbison (born 1938) – who
has already written six symphonies, each with its own distinct character. The
Fourth, dating to 2004, appears on an interestingly varied Naxos CD featuring
the National Orchestral Institute Philharmonic conducted by David Alan Miller.
It is a five-movement work lasting about as long as Jadassohn’s First Symphony
but partaking, unsurprisingly, of a very different harmonic and emotional
language. Indeed, the emotionalism of the fourth-movement Threnody is the heart of the piece and its most effective element:
thoughtful, lyrical, a touch sad and almost but not quite depressive. The rest
of the work goes in different directions, though, and the result is a bit of a
hodgepodge: the other movements do not really support the emotional
communicativeness of the Threnody. A
bright and jazzy first movement is followed by a somewhat inward-looking but
rather unfocused Intermezzo, then by
a singularly humorless (if energetic) Scherzo; and the finale is not so much a
summation as a change of focus. Although well-played, the symphony is not
especially convincing experientially, and indeed might better be labeled a
suite than a symphonic work. Also on this (+++) CD is Second Concerto for Orchestra (2004) by Steven Stucky (1949-2016) –
a piece whose third and final movement has something in common with Bartók’s Concerto for Orchestra in its use of
thematic fragments, but whose overall impression is of a work rather too
enamored of its own cleverness. The piece is challenging to perform and may be
more enjoyable for the participants than for the audience. The third work on
this CD fits uneasily with the other two: it is Sun-Treader, the best-known piece by Carl Ruggles (1876-1971) and a
notoriously hard nut to crack. Actually, in that respect the work is reflective
of the prickly and difficult Ruggles himself: he completed fewer than 20 works in
his long life, and was as well-known for his ability as an artist – and for his
profanity and racist outbursts – as for his musical compositions. Like Anton
Webern, Ruggles, to the extent that he can be characterized at all, was a
miniaturist: Sun-Treader is his
longest work, lasting (in this performance) 15½ minutes. It is an extended
intervallic sequence characterized by an ongoing series of ascending and
descending pitches, a difficult work to grasp and understand (if
“understanding” was ever Ruggles’ purpose) and a complex one to play. It sounds
quite good in this reading and seems comparable in some respects to some of the
music by Ruggles’ sometime friend, Edgard Varèse – although it is very much
unlike the music of Charles Ives, who was two years Ruggles’ senior and the
only composer Ruggles professed to admire. This CD as a whole is a fine
showcase for the performers. But it has a somewhat disconnected feeling about
it that makes it less than fully rewarding for listeners, except insofar as
they enjoy the first-rate playing for its own sake.
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