(++++) THE CHOICES WE MAKE

Beethoven: Piano Sonatas Nos. 1-32 (complete); “Kurfürst” Sonatas Nos. 1-3; Andante favori. Tamami Honma, piano. Divine Art. $63 (10 CDs).

     Deciding which set of Beethoven piano sonatas to own – or more likely which sets, plural, as new recordings becomes available – is a balancing act. In any performer’s cycle, it is unlikely that any music lover will find every single performance of every single Beethoven sonata “just right,” since performers themselves are constantly making choices as to how to handle specific sonatas and, indeed, how to handle the same pieces over time, since it is not unusual for a pianist to record the Beethoven cycle more than once. The producers of these sets of sonatas also have many choices to make in terms of packaging, presentation, pricing and more. So while a new recording of the Beethoven cycle is always welcome, any such release is bound to please some listeners, displease others, and have its own set of pluses and minuses.

     Tamami Honma’s new 10-CD cycle on the Divine Art label positions itself firmly in the modern-piano-and-Romantic-temperament-approach camp. Honma takes full advantage of using a contemporary concert grand, with ample use of the sustaining pedal and very strong emphasis on the lower reaches of the keyboard being prominent features of her readings. She offers some distinctly personal presentations, in part on her own and in part because of the way the cycle is put together. The packaging insists that the correct number of Beethoven piano sonatas is 35, not 32 – that is, that the three early “Kurfürst” sonatas (“Elector,” for their dedication to Elector Maximilian Friedrich) should be counted as part of the sequence – and that, because some sonatas were published years after they were written, the traditional numbering (which is based on publication dates) should be omitted altogether. Accordingly, the sonatas are identified only by opus numbers, which is an unnecessary affectation: there is really no harm in referring to the “Pathétique,” for example, as No. 8, rather than insisting it be called Op. 13.

     The cycle does make a good theoretical case for presenting these works in order of composition, although Julian Brown’s generally very fine sonata-by-sonata essay (which takes up most of the enclosed booklet’s 88 pages) overdoes matters a bit. The “Kurfürst” sonatas have been recorded before, after all, as Brown acknowledges. Honma takes the works’ repeats, which gives a better sense of their scope than does a recording such as that by Jenő Jandó for Naxos. Brown notes that these sonatas, written when Beethoven was 12, almost mark the start of Beethoven’s composing for piano solo – being preceded by variations in C minor on a march by Ernst Christoph Dressler (1734-1779), which are discussed in the essay but not recorded by Honma. There was room to put them on the first CD, and they have been recorded before (for example, by Sergio Gallo on modern piano and Alessandro Commellatto on fortepiano in their original 1782 version, and by Susan Kagan in Beethoven’s 1803 revision); so omitting them (and including the Andante favori – the original second movement of the Waldstein sonata – on the first disc) was certainly a choice by the pianist, producers or both. This sort of thing is, of course, fodder for the usual nitpicking of any release of a Beethoven cycle, when what really matters (or at least should matter) is the music on its own terms – or at least on the terms chosen by the performer!

     Honma’s terms are at times polarizing, especially in the earlier sonatas. The inclusion of repeats in the “Kurfürst” sonatas is admirable, but Honma’s pedal use is often overdone and gives the sonatas a bigger sound than their musical material and time period warrant. The inauspicious beginning of the cycle continues through the Op. 2 sonatas (Nos. 1-3 in the usual numbering). The finale of Op. 2, No. 1 is actually pounded. In Op. 2, No. 2, Honma’s strong contrasts in power and volume in the first movement, with strongly accentuated bass notes, make the work sound more like something from Beethoven’s middle period. The second movement of the same sonata again features actual pounding in the louder sections, and this is obviously a deliberate choice, since Honma plays the delicate passages with care and a light touch. In Op. 2, No. 3, the first movement starts with pleasant lightness but quickly turns very intense indeed, leaving the impression that Honma is inordinately fond of sforzandi whether they are in the score or not.

     Next in this sequence are the sonatas usually numbered 19 and 20 (the two of Op. 49), and in these Honma shows herself capable of admirable delicacy in chord-playing, reinforcing the notion that when a light touch is not used, that is deliberate. Thus, when she moves on to Op. 7 (Sonata No. 4), and again hammers the chords in the first movement, this is clearly a personal choice.

     It is with the Op. 10 sonatas (Nos. 5-7) that Honma hits her stride and this cycle improves significantly. The finale of Op. 10, No. 2 is especially good, although Honma is somewhat reserved in the emotional depth of the second movement of Op. 10, No. 3. Nevertheless, performances are more effective from this point forward. The middle movement of Op. 13 (No. 8, the aforementioned “Pathétique”) is especially tender, and Honma finds very considerable differences between Op. 22 (No. 11) and Op. 26 (No. 12), playing up the structural and emotional contrasts interestingly and to good effect.

     From here on, listeners’ reactions to Honma’s readings will be highly individualized, depending on how each person hears and feels the elements of Beethoven’s sonatas. Honma’s approach will surely resonate with many and just as surely misfire from others’ perspectives. In all cases, however, she showcases formidable technique and makes it clear that she has studied the sonatas’ scores and interpreted them through her own emotional lens, as all first-rate pianists do.

     Among many further highlights and shortcomings of this set:

     In Op. 27, No. 2 (No. 14, the famous “Moonlight”), the opening movement drags a bit and the whole is a little heavy-handed. The humorous Op. 31, No. 1 (No. 16) is a bit too straightforward, and Honma misses opportunities to “overdo” elements of the overblown, parodistic second movement. On the other hand, in the second movement of Op. 31, No. 3 (No. 18, “La Chasse”), she does find considerable amusement. As for Op. 31, No. 2 (No. 17, “Tempest”), her finale has almost Lisztian fervor in the chords –very high drama indeed, although somewhat ahead of its time.

     In Op. 53 (No. 21, “Waldstein”), Honma offers exceptional delicacy through much of the finale, then breaks through very impressively, at a genuine breakneck pace, in the Prestissimo coda. Honma makes a particularly good case for the vastly under-appreciated Op.54 (No. 22), with the unending cascade of notes in the second movement handled especially well. Op. 57 (No. 23, “Appassionata”) is rather bland, except for an undeniably exciting coda to the finale. In Op. 79 (No. 25), the work’s delicacy is well-communicated, notably in the first part of the finale. In Op. 81a (No. 26, “Les Adieux”) there is also some effectively delicate playing – here, in the finale’s scurrying notes.

     Musically, the last four sonatas are in a class by themselves, and every pianist measures himself or herself against them in a different way. Op. 106 (No. 29, “Hammerklavier”) is a work of extremes and is not immediately appealing: it is intellectually impressive but not always emotionally gripping, inspiring respect rather than love. Honma offers a tremendously intense opening, but the first movement as a whole is somewhat episodic: this is a sprawling sonata that is very difficult to make cohesive, and in that respect her performance falls short. The third movement, which can seem overwhelmingly sorrowful, does not have great emotional heft here: it is well-played but somewhat standoffish, massive and stolid rather than emotionally engaging. Honma is at her best in the last movement, attacking the fugue with relish, pacing it quickly, and emphasizing its architecture with strength – but without the pounding that she sometimes overdoes in other sonatas.

     If Op. 106 represents a kind of climb to a pianistic mountain peak, Opp. 109-111 explore the view from the summit in three different directions. Honma’s reading of Op. 109 (No. 30) is matter-of-fact. Op. 110 (No. 31) is more successful: the first movement’s delicacy is impressive, and Honma provides good contrast between the two parts of the finale. In Op. 111 (No. 32), she really attacks the dramatic chords in the first movement, providing a sort of litmus test for listeners: her way of handling this material more or less sums up her overall approach to analogous music throughout the cycle. Honma then does a good job of differentiating the qualities of the second movement’s variations, especially the one that contrasts very low notes with very high ones. The sense of transcendent beauty toward which the movement strives is somewhat compromised by Honma’s insistence on intense sforzandi and very strong emphasis of bass notes, but it is simply impossible not to make the very end of this movement sublime, and here she does not disappoint.

     As a totality, Honma’s Beethoven cycle, despite some mischaracterizations (especially in the earlier sonatas), is a strong, meaningful and pianistically always impressive presentation of music that is subject to near-infinite interpretations that all shed new light on Beethoven’s Weltanschauung while challenging listeners to bring their own feelings and experiences to their responses to these variegated works. Honma’s approach will not please everyone – no pianist’s cycle can or should do that – but it certainly reflects thoughtfulness and a strong commitment to the music, in addition to very considerable technical skill.

(++++) HERITAGE ACKNOWLEDGED

Sibelius: Lemminkäinen Suite; Karelia Suite; Rakastava. Helsinki Philharmonic Orchestra conducted by Susanna Mälkki. BIS. $21.99 (SACD).

Ija Mia: Soundscape of the Sephardic Diaspora. East of the River (Nina Stern, recorders and chalumeau; Daphna Mor, voice and recorders; Ara Dinkjian, oud and cümbüs; Tal Mashiach, bass; Shane Shanahan, percussion; Zafer Tawil, violin, qanun and percussion; John Hadfield, percussion). AVIE. $19.99.

Lainie Fefferman: Here I Am. TRANSIT New Music (Sara Budde, clarinets; David Friend, piano; Pete Wise, percussion; Joe Bergen, drum set; Taylor Levine, guitar; Andie Tanning, violin; Ashley Bathgate, cello). New Focus Recordings. $16.99.

     In the 1890s, a time when Finland was very much dependent on Russia and about to be pulled even more strongly under the Russian yoke, the creative establishment determinedly found ways to assert patriotism and a desire for self-determination without going so far as to challenge Russian hegemony directly. Musicians were very much a part of this effort, and some of the early works by Sibelius were created specifically for this purpose and in this context. But works such as the Lemminkäinen Suite and Karelia Suite soon came to transcend their reasons for being, and remain popular today because of their ability to speak, simply as music, to audiences far from their land and time of origin – that is, to people who have no idea of the foundations on which Sibelius built them. Sibelius had a wealth of Finnish heritage on which to draw, notably the Kalevala epic that forms the basis of the Lemminkäinen Suite and Karelia Suite, and the Kanteletar, a collection of folk poetry from which Sibelius drew the less-known Rakastava. The excellent performances on BIS by the Helsinki Philharmonic Orchestra under Susanna Mälkki aptly treat the music simply as music, shorn of sociopolitical considerations that are now obsolete and would have little meaning outside Scandinavia. The excellence of orchestration is a big part of the attraction of these works: the brighter and darker elements coexisting in the KareliaSuite; the intriguing combination of string orchestra, timpani and triangle in Rakastava; the justly famous use of cor anglais (here played by Paula Malmivaara) in the second, “Swan of Tuonela” movement of the Lemminkäinen Suite – plus the mixture of jauntiness and assertiveness and sweetness and sadness and a dash of humor communicated in the rest of the work. Mälkki directs the orchestra with aplomb, the balance of the ensemble’s sections beautifully communicates the balance as well as the deliberately off-balance elements of the music, and the emotional underpinnings of all the works come through clearly without requiring an audience to be steeped in Finnish history, ancient epic poetry, or any understanding of the fraught relationship between Finland and the Russian Empire at the time when these works were created.

     Sibelius’ subtlety in creating affirmatively nationalistic music right under the nose (as it were) of the Russians is very different from the approach of 21^st-century composers, who tend to go out of their way to “preach to the choir” and make sure their works’ assertiveness is front-and-center for “in the know” audiences or people who are willing to invest the necessary time and effort to understand where the material is coming from and why its creators deem it so important. This gives heritage-focused modern compositions more immediacy for much smaller potential audiences, and makes it unlikely that the material will have substantial staying power. But that is not its point: these works are for the here-and-now and are intended to speak forcefully only to those who share the creators’ background or are strongly attuned to it. Two new, fairly brief (+++) CDs – a 42-minute one from AVIE and a 51-minute one from New Focus Recordings – are of this type. The AVIE disc is intended to use Sephardic folk and traditional music to celebrate the ancestry of Nina Stern (Venetian Jewish) and Daphna Mor (Ladino – that is, Judaism of Spanish origin). The CD’s title is the name of its first track, an upbeat traditional Sephardic work from Turkey. Other pieces here are by turns emotionally expressive, peppy, improvisational-sounding, strongly rhythmic, prayerful, bright, dour: they cover a wide variety of feelings and emotions – some fully intelligible only to the small group of listeners who know the languages in which certain pieces are sung, some communicating more directly through the force of the music itself. The use of uncommonly heard instruments – the single-reed chalumeau, lutelike oud, banjo-shaped Turkish cümbüs, Arabic qanun – emphasizes the historicity of the material and the determination of the performers to pay tribute to their roots. It is all very well-meaning, often very expressive, and surely of significance to the performers themselves and others who share their heritage. By design, it makes no attempt to reach listeners beyond those who will feel a personal kinship with the musicians and/or who partake of similar ancestry.

     Lainie Fefferman reaches back even further in time for the creation of Here I Am. The 10-part work is a series of pieces based on the Hebrew Bible, ranging from a purely spoken introductory text reading a census of the 12 tribes of Israel to a series of explorations of ways in which the ancient texts are, or are not, meaningful and relevant to contemporary life. Much of this is not exactly music – it is more a series of soundscapes inviting contemplation, such as the very high violin register used to paint a picture of the angels called “Nephilim” and the extended (and also high-register) sound, punctuated by percussion, in which “Deuteronomic Rules” are recited (“you shall not plough with an ox and an ass together,” “you shall not marry your father’s former wife,” and so forth). A steady pulsing underlies “Sword on Thigh,” about a civil war; a vocal trio (sounding a bit like the Muses in the animated Disney version of Hercules) delivers Abraham’s arguments with God about Sodom; and other pieces use different instrumental and vocal effects to put forward still more admonitions and prohibitions. Here I Am eventually concludes with a repeat of the initial census, making it clear that Fefferman is speaking only to those who share her Jewish background and, like her, are trying to understand and make sense of many-thousand-years-old writings whose relevance to modern life is sometimes difficult to fathom, sometimes impossible to comprehend, sometimes decidedly problematic (as with the prohibition, from Leviticus 18:22, against the “abomination” that occurs when any man should “lie with a male as with a woman”). Here I Am sounds like a performance piece – it is easy to imagine the theatricality of the musicians and the reciters of the Biblical passages – and has the effect of listening in on the composer’s own exploration of the basis of her faith and the sometimes difficult-to-fathom elements underlying it. For those who share Fefferman’s beliefs and her concerns about their foundations, this will be a meaningful exploration that offers questions but not definitive conclusions. For those steeped in different religions or committed to none at all, the whole exercise will have little significance or meaningful impact.

(++++) M AND M

Mozart: Overtures—Ascanio in Alba; Idomeneo, re di Creta; Le nozze di Figaro; Die Entführung aus dem Serail; Così fan tutte; Der Schauspieldirektor; Mitridate, re di Ponto; La finta giardiniera; Don Giovanni; Lucio Silla; La Clemenza di Tito; Die Zauberflöte. Kölner Akademie conducted by Michael Alexander Willens. BIS. $21.99 (SACD).

Mendelssohn: Symphonies Nos. 1-5; A Midsummer Night’s Dream—excerpts. Tonhalle-Orchester Zürich with Chen Reiss and Marie Henriette Reinhold, sopranos, Patrick Grahl, tenor, and Zürcher Sing-Akademie conducted by Paavo Järvi. Alpha. $42.99 (4 CDs).

     During Felix Mendelssohn’s lifetime, comparisons between him and Mozart were frequent: both were seen as tremendous prodigies who began producing exceptionally mature and well-wrought music at an early age and only improved as they got older. The parallels were simplistic and overwrought: for example, yes, Mendelssohn wrote a dozen string symphonies and a movement of a 13^th starting in 1821, when he was 12, but Mozart wrote his earliest symphonic works at the age of eight. On the other hand, Mendelssohn did write some extremely notable music when quite young, including the Octet when he was 16 and the Midsummer Night’s Dream Overture when he was 17. On the other other hand, Mozart had been writing operas since the age of 12 (Bastien und Bastienne and La finta semplice). Unfortunately, Mendelssohn and Mozart had something tragic in common later on: Mozart died the month before his 36^th birthday and Mendelssohn when he was 38.

     Certainly the composers did have some musical characteristics in common, beyond any biographical similarities: both were concerned with beauty of sound, careful balance of instrumental forces, and clarity and elegance of line; and both were masters of harmony and rhythm. All this becomes clear even when listening to their works in very different genres. For example, a first-rate new BIS recording featuring the Kölner Akademie under Michael Alexander Willens makes a strong argument for the notion that Mozart never wrote an imperfect overture. The dozen examples here, thrown together willy-nilly so that late pieces are somewhat jarringly juxtaposed with much earlier ones, are all highly effective as pure music – despite their original roles as operatic scene-setters (in some cases) or actual compilations of tunes to be heard during the upcoming stage production (in other instances). From Ascanio in Alba (1771) to Die Zauberflöte and La Clemenza di Tito 20 years later, Mozart never lost sight of the purpose of an overture: to get the audience to quiet down and pay attention by creating a purely instrumental sense of what would soon appear in visualized and much more extended form on the stage. It would be hard to overestimate the extent to which Mozart took the quotidian need to get the audience to stop chatting and start focusing and turned it into a musical experience in its own right – sometimes by having the overture play right into a work’s opening scene (as with Die Entführung aus dem Serail), sometimes by making it clear that what was about to be put on display would surely be more interesting and attractive than whatever theatergoers might be discussing before the performance (Le nozze di Figaro, Così fan tutte and many others). The uniform excellence of these overtures, the clarity of line and perfection of sectional balance they all possess, are abundantly clear in the elegant playing of the Kölner Akademie. And Willens does a fine job of accentuating the highly dramatic material in Don Giovanni and Die Zauberflöte while allowing the comedic elements to stand forth clearly in Le nozze di Figaro and Der Schauspieldirektor. There is something to enjoy in all these overtures, even for listeners unfamiliar with the stage works for which they were written. Indeed, even two and a quarter centuries after Mozart’s death, the overtures continue to serve the purpose for which they were designed: to whet the appetite for hearing a great deal more music when the appetizing introduction ends and the main course appears – whether on stage or in recorded form.

     Mendelssohn’s handling of stage music is every bit as adept as Mozart’s when it comes to A Midsummer Night’s Dream, if not in more-general terms (Mendelssohn wrote only three operas, none of which has stood the test of time particularly well). The brilliant sense of curtain-raising in the four opening woodwind chords (which eventually are also used to close the entire stage production) echoes Mozart both in musical thinking and in sound, and the scurrying levity of the overture – coupled with the wry amusement of the Puck-portraying Scherzo – brilliantly transports the audience to Shakespeare’s imagined tale of intermingled and equally star-crossed human and fairy lovers. The entirety of Mendelssohn’s music for the play runs less than an hour, so the decision to offer only 42 minutes of excerpts on a new Alpha recording featuring he Tonhalle-Orchester Zürich under Paavo Järvi is perplexing – doubly so because the playing is so good, the conducting so sure-handed, and the music so consistently appropriate and delightful. It is good to hear any of the music that Mendelssohn wrote for this stage production – and of course almost impossible not to hear the Wedding March frequently, it being one of the most popular pieces of classical music ever written. But it would have been nice if Järvi had included the few brief pieces missing from this CD to give audiences a touch of additional enjoyment.

     The stage music is, in any case, a kind of addendum to a release whose primary purpose is to present all five of Mendelssohn’s symphonies. Unlike the earlier string symphonies, which are distinctly Mozartean (and reflective of Haydn perhaps even more strongly), the five full-orchestra symphonies show Mendelssohn forging his own style and his own way. The fleetness and light elegance of the flowing themes continue to show a debt to Mozart, and Symphony No. 1 in particular contains elements derived from Mendelssohn’s respect for the earlier composer. But by the time he wrote his second symphony – eventually published (and only after his death) as No. 5, “Reformation,” and planned to commemorate the 300^th anniversary of the Augsburg Confession of 1530 – Mendelssohn was clearly on his own distinct symphonic path. The “Reformation” symphony incorporates both the Dresden Amen and the famous melody Ein feste Burg ist unser Gott, with Mendelssohn weaving them effectively into a traditional symphonic structure that can be wholly satisfying when presented with suitable grandeur but without trying to overawe audiences. Unfortunately, Järvi’s reading of this symphony is the weakest in his set: No. 5 is paired on a CD with No. 1, and the contrast between the two early works is notable, but while the conductor lets No. 1 flow freely and smoothly, he repeatedly slows down No. 5 to try to focus on elements that Mendelssohn did quite a good job of emphasizing on his own. The result is a “Reformation” that has a stop-and-start quality and is more portentous than it ought to be, almost to the point of pomposity.

     Thankfully, the remainder of this set is much better. Symphony No. 2, “Lobgesang,” is handled particularly well. This extended piece – really a symphony-cantata – takes the basic form of Beethoven’s Ninth (three instrumental movements followed by a choral one) and reverses the relative extent of the component parts: Beethoven wrote about 40 instrumental minutes and about 25 choral ones, while Mendelssohn reduces the first three movements to a total of about 25 minutes and devotes 40 to the choral material. The entirety of Mendelssohn’s work is encapsulated by its “Hymn of Praise” title, as choral and solo vocal portions alike sing the praises of God. The very first notes of the first movement recur at the end of the finale and are something of a leitmotif throughout, giving the work a degree of unity – although in other respects it tends to sprawl and become somewhat verbally (if not musically) repetitive. Järvi neither underplays nor over-inflates the material, and the soloists and chorus all deliver their lines with strength and apparent sincerity, resulting in a genuinely uplifting performance. The readings of Symphony No. 3, “Scottish,” and No. 4, “Italian,” are also quite strong. The works contrast interestingly in more than just key signature (A minor and A major, respectively). A sense of pervasive darkness – not gloom, exactly, but something more crepuscular – hangs over the “Scottish,” and Järvi conveys it well, with the scene-setting of the expansive first movement particularly effective and the contrasts of the middle movements nicely balanced. The very end of the finale is a bit out of keeping with the rest of the performance – a slightly slower tempo would have been more effective – but by and large, this is a well-planned, well-paced and well-played performance. And the “Italian” symphony, which is all sunshine and fervor, is played to the hilt here: bright and bouncy and, especially in the dance-based finale, rhythmically ebullient. As a whole, this is a very fine Mendelssohn symphonic cycle, and the inclusion of most of A Midsummer Night’s Dream is a welcome bonus. The totality manages to show the areas in which Mendelssohn did indeed deserve comparison with Mozart as well as the much greater number of ways in which the two composers diverged and produced music that was unique to each of them.

(++++) FOR TWO AND MORE

Korngold: Suite from “Much Ado about Nothing”; Franz Waxman: Four Scenes of Childhood; Robert Russell Bennett: Hexapoda—Five Studies in Jitteroptera; Heinz Roemheld: Sonatina for Violin and Piano; Jerome Moross: Recitative and Aria for Violin and Piano; Bernard Herrmann: Pastoral (Twilight); Miklós Rózsa: Variations on a Hungarian Peasant Song. Patrick Savage, violin; Martin Cousin, piano. Quartz. $18.99.

Edward Cowie and Laura Chislett: Improvisations. Laura Chislett, flutes; Edward Cowie, piano. Métier. $16.

Nicola LeFanu: The Same Day Dawns; Sextet; Piano Trio; The Moth-Ghost. Gemini conducted by Ian Mitchell. Métier. $16.

     The notion that creating works for the film industry is somehow “less” than writing for the concert hall is so deeply ingrained in music circles that very fine composers have again and again felt it necessary to assert their bona fides as “serious” musicians despite being known primarily for works intended for inclusion in movies. Miklós Rózsa (1907-1995) felt this dichotomy of expectation and reputation more intensely than most, to such an extent that he created the pseudonym Nic Tomay for his film music and, when he eventually wrote his autobiography, titled it Double Life. But as a new Quartz CD called “The Golden Age of Hollywood” shows, Rózsa and many other film composers were quite as capable in more-classical forms as they were in works too often disparaged (often quite wrongly) as “movie music.” Rózsa’s own contribution to the disc, Variations on a Hungarian Peasant Song, shows a fine sense not only of style but also of balance between the instruments: the violin tends to dominate, but the piano provides a strong foundation, solidity, and enough flourishes to keep the folk material well-grounded. Patrick Savage and Martin Cousin tackle the music with relish as well as skill; indeed, they seem genuinely to enjoy all the pieces on this very interesting CD, on which the Rózsa work is the conclusion. The disc opens with the four-movement Suite from “Much Ado about Nothing” by Erich Wolfgang Korngold (1897-1957), which is intended to illustrate four specific scenes and does so quite adeptly, whether in the amusingly off-kilter (and parodistically Mahlerian) March of the Watch (Dogberry and Verges) or in the suitable sweetness of Garden Scene. This is followed on the CD by Four Scenes of Childhood by Franz Waxman (1906-1967). The opening Good Morning, most of which lies very high on the violin, introduces a set of wistful portrayals that are something less than saccharine thanks to their frequent dissonances and intriguing instrumental effects – notably in the less-than-a-minute long Playtime. Next on the disc is Hexapoda by Robert Russell Bennett (1894-1981), famed for orchestrating Broadway shows including Show Boat and Oklahoma! Bennett was also chosen by Rachmaninoff’s widow to complete the unfinished two-piano reduction of Rachmaninoff’s Fourth Piano Concerto. Hexapoda, its title notwithstanding, is in five rather than six movements, and is packed with the jazzlike elements implied by the subtitle, Five Studies in Jitteroptera. Bennett – who, it is worth noting, worked with Gershwin – does not hesitate to create wonderful fiddling material for the violin (in Jane Shakes Her Hair), or to let the piano compete with and complement the violin (in Jim Jives). The result is a wholly delightful set of short exploratory romps that need no visuals to create scenes in a listener’s mind’s eye. The next two composers on this frequently fascinating disc are not as well-known as Rózsa, Korngold, Waxman or Bennett. Heinz Roemheld (1901-1985) is represented by a serious and well-proportioned Sonatina for Violin and Piano with an eerie second movement (Sempre senza vibrato) that contrasts well with a scurrying finale (Very fast). Jerome Moross (1913-1983) offers a Recitative and Aria that, like Roemheld’s piece, is decidedly on the serious side, filled with irregular rhythms and a fantasia-like structure that dips briefly into lyricism and keeps the violin as the dominant voice throughout. The penultimate work on the disc (before the conclusion by Rózsa) is Pastoral (Twilight) by Bernard Herrmann (1911-1975), who will always be identified with his music for Psycho but who here shows his ability to create exceptionally tender crepuscular music flavored with just enough dissonance to prevent it from sounding cloying. Savage and Cousin prove themselves to be strong advocates for all the music on the CD, and in so doing encourage appreciation of all these works on their own terms, without regard to typecasting of the composers.

     There are also two performers on a new Métier CD with the title “In Two Minds,” but the duality here goes deeper, since the same duo of Edward Cowie and Laura Chislett that performs the eight works on the disc also created them. The two call themselves “Duo Menurida,” the second word being the Latin family name of the Australian lyrebird. And that bit of exotic esotericism is only one element of this joint venture. The pieces heard on the disc reflect both composer/performers’ interests in nature in Cowie’s homeland of Great Britain and Chislett’s of Australia. All the works are improvisatory excursions into a shared mindspace that is accessible only in broad terms to an audience beyond Cowie and Chislett themselves. The pieces’ titles reflect inspirations of greater or lesser specificity: Pre Dawn and Dawn—Australian Bell Birds; Guten Morgan [sic], Herr Kandinsky! (Point and Line to Plane); Boom Time-Bitterns at Leighton Moss; New York-New York Mark Rothko-Jackson Pollock; Ornitharia (Flute Solo); Stonehenge Thunderstorm and Skylark (Solo Piano); Lake Eacham Blue; and Dusk / Night Lyrebirds. Familiarity with the specific wildlife and specific artists referenced in the titles is a requirement for reasonably full appreciation of the music, although even then, it is simply not possible for non-participants in these creation-performances to plumb the depths of the artists’ intents and feelings. It is possible simply to enjoy the various sounds of flute and piano throughout the CD – the amusing pointillism of the Kandinsky exploration, the foghorn-like evocation of bitterns, the dynamic thunderstorm impression associated with Stonehenge, and so on. Still, 55 minutes of this collaboration is a bit much, and many of the various evocations are somewhat imprecise unless, of course, one is thoroughly familiar with the inspirations and the artists’ conceptual worlds. It is hard to see this (+++) disc as being more than a self-involved, self-proclamatory bit of self-aware self-advocacy offered to a wider audience without a strong expectation that it will be fully accepted and appreciated by anyone other than Cowie and Chislett themselves. The primary thing that is evoked here is the sense that the “two minds” of Cowie and Chislett are kindred spirits in some important ways with which a wider group of potential listeners is not and cannot be fully conversant.

     There is one work for two performers on another new Métier CD, this disc devoted to music by Nicola LeFanu. It is the concluding piece on the CD, The Moth-Ghost (2020) for soprano and piano. Here the communicative intention is clear throughout: the work is based on the myth of the sea goddess Thetis, and LeFanu’s piece is a mother’s lament: Thetis bemoans, at length, the fate of Achilles, a victim of the Trojan War. Soprano Clara Barbier Serrano delivers the extended scena intensely, while pianist Aleksander Szram underlines the emotions to good effect; and if the whole thing is a bit overdone, it fits the larger-than-life mythic setting well. The other works on the disc call for more performers, all of them members of the contemporary-music ensemble Gemini. Piano Trio (2003) is a single extended movement filled with varying textures amid comparatively straightforward contemporary rhythmic and harmonic elements. Sextet (1996), also in one movement, is intended to be evocative of various natural scenes in Ireland. It features some intriguing use of percussion and an episodic structure that is designed to represent the various natural features it seeks to capture – none of which an audience unfamiliar with Ireland’s landscapes will have any way to recognize. And then there is a work that is quite different from those in one movement, being in no fewer than 17 sections: The Same Day Dawns (1974). Scored for soprano and five instruments, this piece is barely longer in totality than the sextet and trio, and it partakes of some of the same sensibilities incorporated into The Moth-Ghost nearly half a century later. The Same Day Dawns includes not only English declamation but also verses from poetry in Tamil, Chinese, Japanese, Kannada, and Akkadian. The micro-miniatures heard here – nine of which last one minute or less – get varying accompaniments, the percussive touches being the most notable, although winds and strings also figure prominently. With its combination of Sprechstimme, forthright narrative, breathy declamation and other forms of vocal delivery, the work presents a variegated totality within the thematic target expressed by its title. It is not, though, especially compelling either in content or in orchestration: LeFanu uses the instruments (including the voice) well enough but not particularly distinctively. Taken as a whole, the four pieces on this (+++) CD provide a worthwhile portrayal of this composer’s musical thinking, showing ways in which it has evolved – and failed to evolve – over a considerable time period. Existing aficionados of LeFanu are more likely to enjoy the disc than are audiences not already familiar with her work.