(++++) WHY MORE BACH? THIS IS WHY

Bach: Cello Suites (complete). William Skeen, cello and violoncello piccolo. Reference Recordings. $24.98 (2 CDs).

     The question still comes up periodically: with so many recordings, and so many excellent recordings, of this-and-that music by this-and-that composer, do we really need yet another one? The concept of “need” may be a bit tricky in that formulation, but if the question is rephrased to ask if there is any justification for yet another release, which is the underlying query, then the answer comes from performances such as William Skeen’s recording of Bach’s six cello suites. The world of recorded music would be at least a bit dimmer if these readings had not been captured and made available, and that is more than ample reason for their existence.

     Skeen’s is an unusually personal and unusually personalized interpretation of these iconic, thrice-familiar works. There is nothing grand or grandiloquent in his readings: this two-CD Reference Recordings release provides the feeling of sitting in on an intimate recital or extended practice session, in which the performer is communing deeply with his instrument and the audience is listening in on and sharing a very deep emotional experience. Skeen is an expert in Baroque performance, and his fluency extends throughout this cycle, which he plays on a 1725 Giovanni Grancino cello and, in Suite No. 6, a restored five-string violoncello piccolo from the 1680s – using, in all the suites, a replica of a bow from the 1720s, which is the time period of these works. Skeen wields these weapons of peace and grace with consummate skill, comfortably engaging with the Grancino instrument’s richness of tone in the lower region and its well-contrasted comparative lightness and brightness in the upper register. The cello suites are less elaborate, complex and (arguably) virtuosic than Bach’s sonatas and partitas for solo violin, but in Skeen’s readings they are of equal stature and so well differentiated each from the next that the formulaic nature of their structure becomes essentially invisible.

     Like many performances only now being made available in recorded form, these recordings were influenced by the COVID-19 pandemic: they were produced at Skywalker Sound, as excellent a recording venue as can be found anywhere these days, in August 2020, just as the worst strictures of the pandemic began to be lifted to a limited degree. It is impossible to pin down the extent to which the depredations of that time period influenced the performances and recordings of the music, but certainly the life-affirming qualities of these works and their constant assertion of meanings beyond the mundane come through here with exceptional clarity.

     Two-disc recordings of these six suites are not possible in the suites’ numbered sequence because of the works’ differing lengths and the exigencies of the recording process: Nos. 4-6 are just a bit too long to fit on a single CD without risking quality deterioration. So producers and performers need to come up with a rationale for whatever order they choose to use for presenting the music. In this case, the first disc contains Nos. 1, 5 and 4, in that order; the second, Nos. 3, 2 and 6, in that order. Skeen’s idea is that this presents the music in order of increasing complexity, and that is as good an argument as any – although it is arguable, given the scordatura tuning of No. 5 and the complexities of several of the movements within that suite and Nos. 2-4. It is, however, certainly true that No. 1 is the shortest and most straightforward of the suites, and No. 6 the longest and most complex, so the presentation here is quite justifiable. All the suites do have some elements in common, and Skeen’s readings bring these out: in particular, all six Sarabande movements are deeply felt and highly expressive. Beyond that, the structural similarities of the works belie their very different effects. All the suites are in six movements in the sequence Prélude – Allemande – Courante – Sarabande – paired Menuets or Gavottes or Bourrées – Gigue. But the richness of Bach’s imagination, and his determination to explore the vast capabilities of an instrument that in his time was generally relegated to the role of continuo, mean that a performer as sensitive as Skeen can and does produce six musical experiences that differ considerably from each other.

     Highlights and elegant touches abound throughout these readings. There is exceptional bounce in the speedier dances, with the Courante in Suite No. 1 in G being particularly engaging. The rich resonance throughout Suite No. 5 is impressive, the work’s C minor tonality adding to its depth. In No. 4 in E-flat, the strongly accented Prélude is packed with well-contrasted chords and runs, while the leaps in the Courante and bouncily accented first Bourrée are additional pleasantries. No. 3 in C opens with especially rich sound and resonance that Skeen preserves throughout, resulting in a particularly emotive Sarabande that contrasts very effectively with the first Bourrée that follows. The Courante in No. 2 in D minor is exceptional in the distinction between its perpetuum mobile feeling and the occasional chords that interrupt the flow, while the Gigue is nicely balanced on a knife’s edge between gracefulness and a kind of lumbering quality. In No. 6 in D, the lighter sound of the five-string instrument is much brighter than anything heard in the other five suites, with the result that the higher register is more prominent here than elsewhere. But the Allemande – the longest movement in any of the suites – has pervasive emotionalism and exceptional warmth, to which the perky Courante that follows makes an especially effective contrast.

     It is actually a bit unfair to single out specific movements and any of the many individual highlights of Skeen’s performances, since their overriding characteristic is one of unified thinking and playing: as individualistic as the suites’ movements are, these are works to be heard in their totality, and Skeen’s awareness of this and his ability to present the foundational unity of each individual suite – and of the six-suite sequence as a whole – is as exceptional as his playing of the music. Skeen, like other first-rate performers of this repertoire, is well aware that one’s thinking about the music and one’s response to it will vary and develop over time, so that any specific recording captures only a particular moment in life and a particular stage of a performer’s thinking and communicative ability. But that is the point for audiences as well: any rendition of music as profound and wide-ranging as Bach’s cello suites is heard and processed, emotionally and intellectually, based on each listener’s circumstances at a specific time. It is therefore inevitable that these Skeen performances, as outstanding as they are, will not be and cannot be the last word on the music either for him or for anyone hearing this recording. And that is the justification not only for this exceptional release but also for the many more versions of Bach’s cello suites that are certain to be performed, recorded and made available to audiences for the indefinite future.

(+++) SONGS, WITH WORDS AND WITHOUT

Gina Gillie: Music for Horn. James Boldin, horn and Wagner tuba; Justin Havard and Richard Seiler, piano; Scot Humes, clarinet. MSR Classics. $14.95.

Music Associated with George Sand—works by Chopin, Delibes, Leoncavallo, Liszt, Offenbach, Francesco Paolo Tosti, and Pauline Viardot. Sonya Yoncheva, soprano and spoken voice; Marina Viotti, mezzo-soprano; Adam Taubitz, violin; Olga Zado, piano. Naïve. $16.99.

     The singing quality of non-vocal music is intimately associated with Mendelssohn’s Songs without Words, but it comes through in the music of many other composers as well – sometimes because they themselves are vocalists, as is the case with Gina Gillie (born 1981). Although the chamber works on an MSR Classics CD of Gillie’s music are purely instrumental, their strong focus on the horn – an instrument whose tonal qualities have the richness of fine singing – and many of their themes and approaches evince Gillie’s interest in the sort of expressiveness so often associated with singing. Indeed, Gillie makes vocal associations explicit in several of these pieces. Song for the Lost for Horn and Piano (2021) has a yearning quality underlined by delicate piano figurations; Reverie for Horn and Piano (2019) has a suitably dreamlike demeanor and flow throughout; and Romance for Wagner Tuba and Piano (2019) effectively uses the darker tone of this brass instrument to evoke a feeling of warmth above a delicately lyrical piano part that is heard as a solo some of the time. Escapade for Horn and Piano (2021) is a more strongly rhythmic work and one that has less of the vocal about it, instead possessing an underlying dance rhythm in the piano atop which the horn interjects exclamatory material. These comparatively short works are offered in the middle of the CD, preceded by the most traditionally structured piece on the disc, Sonata for Horn and Piano (2018). Written in typical three-movement form, this begins with a horn exclamation and some pianistic scene-setting, and then moves into well-developed interchanges between the instruments throughout the first movement; considerable warmth and delicacy in the second, marked Melodie; and pleasantly uneven rhythmic expressiveness and puckish bounce in the concluding dance. At the other end of the CD is a foray by Gillie into the visual arts: Three Paintings for Clarinet, Horn and Piano (2021). The extent to which the music reflects the movement titles – Highland Castle, Lavender Fields and Conneaut Rag – is arguable, but certainly the attempt is there. The first movement’s initial horn fanfare has something majestic and martial about it, while the later interplay of horn and clarinet is effectively managed to bring out the two instruments’ distinctive sound worlds. The quietly evocative second movement proceeds at a leisurely pace, in which the interweaving of all three instruments is well-handled. And the brightly upbeat quick-step of the last movement, led by the clarinet, makes for a fine finale that contrasts well with the preceding material. Gillie writes quite well for the horn and clarinet, and James Boldin plays all the works on the CD with style and a strong sense of both commitment and enjoyment. Pianists Justin Havard and Richard Seiler provide effective backup, and Scot Humes more than holds his own in Three Paintings for Clarinet, Horn and Piano – the intricacy of his handling of the last portion of the finale is particularly notable. With its combination of singing elements and sure-handed writing for instruments, the disc presents Gillie’s chamber works to very good effect throughout.

     The material on a Naïve CD focused primarily on soprano Sonya Yoncheva is also well-presented, and here the vocal elements are in the forefront from start to finish. But the disc is a curious one, highly personal in concept, design and execution, and less of a presentation of music than it is a tribute to famed 19^th-century author George Sand (1804-1876) through music and words and the personal lens and viewpoint of Yoncheva and her collaborators. This is very much a self-limited CD, designed by and for Yoncheva herself and reaching out solely to an audience equally enamored of Sand and equally in tune (so to speak) with Yoncheva’s view of and tribute to her. The mishmash of music – interspersed with some readings by Yoncheva of Sand’s own words – makes sense only within the expressive envelope within which the total presentation is created. Thus, Chopin’s Casta diva (after Bellini) and Nocturne, Op. 9, No. 2 are both followed by verbal presentations (in French) by Yoncheva. Also here are Leoncavallo’s Nuit de Décembre; Delibes’ Chanson espagnole, “Les filles de Cadix”; the little ballade from Act I, Scene 5 of Offenbach’s Fantasio; five brief pieces by Pauline Viardot (1821-1910), with a reading from a Sand letter after one of them; Ninon by Francesco Paolo Tosti (1846-1916); and the third of Liszt’s Liebesträume, S. 541, which is followed by additional material from Sand’s writings. The performances on this (+++) CD are all fine, and Yoncheva’s collaborators are clearly committed to the whole endeavor, which comes across as more of an emotionally driven, musically illustrated academic exercise than a traditional recital or concert. The musical examples are not exactly irrelevant, but their importance is strictly that of a superstructure for the foundational tribute to Sand that is this disc’s reason for being. The concept is interesting, the execution skillful, yet it is only listeners who already feel a strong connection with and admiration for Sand who are likely to find the recording congenial. They are the members of an “in crowd” at whose center Yoncheva places herself; anyone outside this group of cognoscenti is unlikely to find the material here of more than passing interest.

(++++) ILLUMINATING A LESSER LIGHT

Christian Sinding: Symphonies Nos. 1-4 (complete). Norrköping Symphony Orchestra conducted by Karl-Heinz Steffens. Capriccio. $29.99 (2 CDs).

     Norway’s Christian Sinding is by no stretch of the imagination a great composer, but he is a far better one than the near-total absence of his symphonies from concert halls and recordings would suggest. Sinding’s Violin Concerto No. 1 (the first of three that he wrote) is still heard from time to time, and his brief piano piece in salon style, Frühlingsrauschen (the third of a set of six such works), retains some popularity. But here is a measure of just how obscure Sinding has become: the two-CD set of his four symphonies on the Capriccio label gives completely incorrect years for his birth and death both on the back cover and in the oversize headline at the start of the enclosed booklet. The dates given in this release are not even close: Capriccio lists them as 1881-1949, but Sinding was actually born in 1856 and lived until 1941.

     Aside from being a tremendous embarrassment to Capriccio – well, it should be – this is a clear indicator of the extent to which Sinding has faded into obscurity (thankfully, the short essay within the booklet is mostly accurate as to dates, although at one point it states that Sinding was 53 in 1919, when he was actually 63). But Sinding’s four symphonies are far more worthy of at least occasional performance than the near-eradication of the composer’s oeuvre indicates. It is true that Sinding received at best mixed reviews from his teachers, but it is also true that this was due more to his unwillingness to apply himself diligently to his studies than to any lack of talent (although, to be fair, opinions on that were somewhat mixed as well). Sometimes compared, and not unfavorably, with Grieg, Sinding in fact suffered mainly from difficulty finding his own compositional voice and suitable influences to develop it. What the very fine performances of his symphonies by the Norrköping Symphony Orchestra under Karl-Heinz Steffens show is that Sinding’s sensibilities remained locked into Romantic style and sensibility throughout his life, and that when he did encounter strong influences to which his musical thought resonated – principally Wagner and Richard Strauss – he was rather too sponge-like to produce fully original-sounding material,  much less to stretch the boundaries of structure and harmony beyond those of the mid-to-late 19^th century.

     Yet all these observations give too little regard to Sinding, and it is very much to Steffens’ credit that he considers a recording of the composer’s symphonic cycle worthwhile. The four symphonies, created over a time span of more than four decades, may not show significant progress or attunement to changing tastes and approaches in music, but they do display considerable refinement – which, over time, is more and more polished, so that all four have a Romantic sheen that can perhaps be better appreciated in the 21^st century than in the 20^th, when so much unashamedly Romantic material was often considered déclassé.

     Symphony No. 1 (1894) is Sinding’s only one in a minor key (D minor); the version that survives is the third – Sinding diligently worked on honing the effectiveness of the symphony, whose second version had been performed in 1890 (the first version was never published). The primary sound world here is that of Tchaikovsky: there is an opulence to the strings, a willingness to incorporate moody solo elements (such as a bassoon in the finale), and a pervasive lyricism that reflect Russian models (Sinding’s later music sometimes sounds a bit like Glazunov). Except in the ominous opening of the finale, Sinding’s Symphony No. 1 does not explore its minor key to a substantial degree and certainly does not dwell on deep emotional matters to any significant extent. But it is a more-than-satisfactory work that shows some real skill in orchestration and that provides listeners with a satisfying auditory experience without requiring too much metaphorical stretching of their ears.

     Symphony No. 2 (1907) is in three movements (No. 1 is in the more-conventional four). Lacking a Scherzo, Symphony No. 2 in D major is also somewhat lacking in the lightness that such a movement could, at least in theory, provide. Here the influence of Wagner has become clear, primarily in the orchestration and textures rather than through any exploratory harmonies or pointed emotional impact (although the main theme of the finale is rhythmically intriguing). Steffens does a particularly good job with this symphony by refusing to let it become turgid: some parts are rather thick in sound, but Steffens finds lighter material within the less-than-light scaffolding and emphasizes it to good effect. The symphony does sound like a bit of a throwback – to the time of its predecessor – but it is smoothly conceived and, for the most part, convincing on its own terms.

     Symphony No. 3 in F is a postwar work (1919) that returns to the four-movement structure of No. 1 and practically revels in its old-fashioned virtues of sumptuous orchestration, thematic splendor (the opening of the work makes quite an impression), and a slow movement of genuinely lovely and highly lyrical character. Sinding may show no interest in forward-looking harmonies and techniques here, but he makes a strong case for the lyrical beauties to be found in late-Romantic symphonic music and in the assertion, within the musical realm, of a level of continuity that was not to be found in the highly discordant political realities during and after World War I. Indeed, even a century-plus after Sinding wrote this work, there is something satisfyingly solid (if perhaps a bit stolid) about it: it pushes no boundaries and explores no new musical or emotional realms, but it takes audiences to and through a place of warmth, expressiveness, and all-encompassing aural beauty – a region of safety at a time when listeners surely needed as much of that as they could find in the concert hall or anywhere else. Indeed, the gorgeous placidity of the peacefully lilting Andante is as striking today as it was more than a century ago.

     It is only in his final symphony, a work in E-flat from 1936, when the composer was 80 years old, that Sinding significantly experimented with symphonic style – although not to any great extent with the basically Romantic scoring and sound of the orchestra. Symphony No. 4 bears the title Vinter og Vår (Frost and Spring) – A Rhapsody for Orchestra, and is in seven continuous movements, of which the first and last take up almost half the total 33-minute length. Sinding does tweak his orchestral forces a bit here, using piano, harp and bass clarinet in addition to the instruments of the traditional Romantic orchestra. The result is occasional touches of sonic color that are not to be found in the three earlier symphonies. The work as a whole has more the feeling of a tone poem than of a symphony, although structurally it straddles the line between stricter symphonic expectations and the freer form usually associated with a piece containing the word “Rhapsody” in its title. There are numerous subtle distinctions of style and approach in Symphony No. 4 that collectively give it a feeling and overall impression different from what audiences receive from the first three symphonies. But the refinements are subtle, not in any sense grand or grandiose, much less overwhelming: the sensibility of the symphony remains firmly within the Romantic mode and era, and in fact the finale of Sinding’s last symphony sounds somewhat more like Richard Strauss than anything in his earlier symphonic works.

     The Norrköping Symphony Orchestra, although it is Swedish, seems thoroughly conversant with Sinding’s music, which has more in common with the German school of the 19^th century than with anything specifically Scandinavian, much less Norwegian. And Steffens is a very strong advocate for this music: again and again he explores whatever levels of pathos and emotional connection it contains; again and again he finds the colorful elements in Sinding’s scoring and brings them to the fore; and at every opportunity, he thoroughly engages listeners with Sinding’s accomplishments – which, even if not at the level of the great Romantic and post-Romantic symphonists, are indicative of a finely honed musical sensibility using comparatively modest compositional abilities to create convincing, engaging, often elegant works conveying modest but still significant pleasures that it really would be salutary for audiences to experience more frequently.

(++++) EMOTIONAL EVOCATIONS

Liszt: Piano Sonata in B minor; Réminiscences de Don Juan; Harmonies Poétiques et Religieuses—No. 10, Cantique d’Amour. Lise de la Salle, piano. Naïve. $16.99.

Dvořák: String Quartet No. 10, “Slavonic”; John Elmquist: Sacred Traces; Rhiannon Giddens: At the Purchaser’s Option with Variations; Bongani Ndodana-Breen: Apologia at Umzimvubu; Steven Snowden: Hidden Mothers; Komitas: 14 Pieces on Themes of Armenian Folk Songs—Selections. Kontras Quartet (Eleanor Bartsch and François Henkins, violins; Ben Weber, viola; Jean Hatmaker, cello). MSR Classics. $14.95.

     Franz Liszt, larger than life as a persona even in his own time, continues to fascinate pianists not only through the extreme technical complexity of his music but also through its extraordinarily wide-ranging emotional compass. It is certainly true that much of what Liszt created was done for showmanship – the virtuoso performances that brought him tremendous fame (or notoriety) as well as money, and that led most observers to place him first in a pantheon of superb pianists from Thalberg to Pixis to Kalkbrenner to Dreyschock to Alkan. But in his best works, Liszt absorbed and transcended the forms and uses of pure virtuosity and created genuinely compelling music whose exceptional difficulty he placed at the service of equally exceptional storytelling. Lise de la Salle handles two such substantial and substantive Liszt works with great skill and understanding on a new Naïve CD. The notoriously difficult-to-pin-down Piano Sonata in B minor – there continue to be arguments about its form, its structure, its purpose and its emotive substance – here gets a thoroughly convincing interpretation that makes the disparate sections of the piece sound like parts of a whole that is greater than the sum of its parts. This works very well indeed: the sonata can easily seem disjointed through its many elements, tempo changes and quicksilver mood changes, but de la Salle does not see it that way: she allows each portion of the work to emerge effectively on its own (for instance, the clarity of the Allegro energico – Più mosso section is exceptional), but she puts forth an underlying communicative approach that lets listeners hear the sonata as a totality while still reveling in individual elements of its construction. There is a certain sense of a rollercoaster ride in this performance, not only in the exhilarating sections but also in the quieter and more inward-looking ones that here function as chances to catch one’s metaphorical breath. The sonata is followed on the disc by a gentle, rather sweet reading of Cantique d’Amour from Harmonies Poétiques et Religieuses, presented as a kind of palate cleanser between the two much larger pieces on the CD. And then de la Salle tackles Réminiscences de Don Juan with the same intensity she brings to the sonata – in some ways, to even better effect. Liszt did something unusual with this particular showpiece, essentially retelling the story of Mozart’s Don Giovanni in a way that emphasizes the moral lessons inherent in the opera while allowing the sheer variety of musical material to be put on display. The key to Liszt’s approach is the use of the music of the Commendatore both to open Réminiscences de Don Juan and to close it, creating bookends between which everything else in the fantasy is positioned. The very substantial technical demands of the work must be at the service of its foundational message, and this is just what de la Salle does. The love duet and “champagne aria” retain all their beauty and bubbliness here, but de la Salle places them neatly in Liszt’s context in a way that gives Réminiscences de Don Juan, taken as a whole, considerable emotional heft and potency. The result is a CD that showcases de la Salle as a Liszt interpreter of the highest order.

     There is also emotion aplenty in the works on an MSR Classics CD featuring the Kontras Quartet, but matters here do not fit together quite as well and are not, in totality, quite as convincing. The centerpiece of the recording is Dvořák’s String Quartet No. 10, “Slavonic,” which literally centers the disc: two works precede it and three follow it. On its own, the Dvořák takes up almost half the CD, so in this way too it is central to a listener’s experience. And certainly the performance here is a very fine one. The love of the composer for his homeland permeates this 1879 work, and the warmth and beauty throughout the quartet come across to very fine effect. The second-movement Dumka (elegie) is especially affecting, the third-movement Romanze then heightening the lyricism before the bright finale provides a release of tension that has mounted significantly but almost imperceptibly through the middle movements. Unfortunately, nothing else on the disc communicates at this level or in this way: most of the other pieces require audiences to have some sort of extramusical knowledge in order to appreciate the material, while Dvořák’s work, however steeped in his homeland, reaches out beyond its time and geography. The CD opens with Sacred Traces (2017) by John Elmquist (born 1960). This is a rather self-consciously contemporary blending of jazz rhythms with extended (actually overextended) harp passages, commissioned by the Kontras Quartet and so undoubtedly sounding as they and Elmquist want it to sound – but there is nothing particularly convincing, much less sacred, about it. Next is At the Purchaser’s Option with Variations (2016) by Rhiannon Giddens (born 1977), arranged for string quartet by Jacob Garchick. This is another of the innumerable “slavery was horrible and cruel and inhumane” pieces that composers churn out from time to time; it has more lilt than one would expect from its communicative intent, and manages to make some points rather well by keeping matters brief (three-and-a-half minutes). The Dvořák appears next on the CD, followed by Apologia at Umzimvubu (2006) by Bongani Ndodana-Breen (born 1975). This requires understanding of and familiarity with the Xhosa tribe of South Africa for full understanding; heard simply as music, it is rather insubstantial despite some impressive use of pizzicato elements. After this comes Hidden Mothers (2020) by Steven Snowden(born 1981)  – another piece trying to make a societal point that has often been made before, in this case about the importance of motherhood in all times and places. Its three short movements, each bearing a woman’s name, vary in tempo and technique, in some ways interestingly (a birdsong-like passage in the second movement) and in others unsurprisingly for a contemporary work (the verbal and nonmusical elements in the third movement). After this, the CD returns to an earlier time with Nos. 1, 11, 5, 8 and 14 (in that order) from 14 Pieces on Themes of Armenian Folk Songs by Ottoman-Armenian priest Soghomon Soghomonian (1869-1935). Known as Komitas, he is considered the founder of Armenian national music, and these five short pieces (like the others in the same work) show why: much like Bartók and Kodály in Hungary, Komitas collected and presented folk material from his nation in ways that highlighted its connection to his homeland and its people. This string-quartet arrangement, by Sarkis Aslamazyan, lets the beauties and clear rhythms of the pieces flow freely: Nos. 8, Echmiadzin Dance, and 14, Song of the Little Partridge, are especially effective here. And if these pieces lack the emotional overlay that Dvořák brought to his homeland-centered music, they at least provide a pleasant (and pleasantly upbeat) conclusion to a (+++) CD that is very well-played throughout even though its emotive landscape is decidedly uneven.