(++++) AN ABUNDANCE OF APPLES

Saint-Saëns: Violin Sonatas Nos. 1 and 2; Berceuse, Op. 38; Triptyque, Op. 136; Cello Sonatas Nos. 1 and 2; Sonatas for Bassoon and Piano, Oboe and Piano, and Clarinet and Piano; Romances for Horn and Piano, and Flute and Piano; Caprice sur Des Airs Danois et Russes for Flute, Oboe, Clarinet, and Piano. Mauro Tortorelli, violin, with Angela Melusa, piano; Andrea Favalessa, cello, with Maria Semeraro, piano; Soloists of the Accademia di Santa Cecilia Rome (Francesco Bossone, bassoon; Francesco Di Rosa, oboe; Stefano Novelli, clarinet; Alessio Allegrini, horn; Andrea Oliva, flute) with Akanè Makita, piano. Brilliant Classics. $16.99 (3 CDs).

     Although never considered among the truly great composers, Camille Saint-Saëns had an unfailing ability to create works whose melodious mellifluousness is, almost without exception, endlessly captivating and engaging for listeners. Saint-Saëns also could express a charming and deliciously poetic level of self-awareness, evidenced in his stating accurately, if perhaps a touch immodestly, “I produce music as an apple tree produces apples.”

     Indeed, if one believes that music is, at least for some of its creators, a natural outgrowth of one’s nature, Saint-Saëns’ self-evaluation could scarcely be more uncannily apt. Everywhere in his music there is understated  elegance, with clearly articulated lines and a well-ordered, everything-in-its-place musical style. This is true not only in his comparatively few well-known works – Samson et Dalila, the first concerto for cello and second for piano, the “Organ” symphony, Carnival of the Animals – but also in nearly his entire oeuvre, a significant but under-appreciated portion of which is now available on a very well-played (and very well-priced) three-CD set from Brilliant Classics.

     The recording is labeled as containing Saint-Saëns’ complete sonatas, and that is true up to a point: it also includes one chamber work that is not quite a sonata (Triptyque) and others that call for a single instrument plus piano, as the sonatas do, but are not structured as sonatas (although it unfortunately omits the two late and very interesting Élégies for violin and piano). Featuring an array of very fine instrumentalists in recordings dating to 2013 (violin material), 2020 (cello sonatas), and 2014 (everything else), this release offers a most-welcome chance to regale one’s ears with the unceasing flow of beauty that Saint-Saëns produced in so many forms, for so many instruments.

     The composer’s emotive lyricism comes through to especially fine effect in minor-key works such as the first (D minor) violin sonata, in which the violin’s dominance is a touch surprising in light of Saint-Saëns’ own expertise at the keyboard (piano and, even more, organ). Mauro Tortorelli proves to be an especially fine exponent of the music, giving it sensitivity and sweep without ever actually overshadowing Angela Meluso’s piano to an untoward extent. The second sonata, in E-flat, is gracious and elegant, if somewhat less lyrical. Triptyque, a late work (1912) in three expressive movements, showcases some of the fascination with the East that Saint-Saëns (and a number of other composers) felt at the time. And the Berceuse is as lovely, gently flowing a lullaby as anyone could wish to hear.

     The first cello sonata, in C minor, is by far the better-known of the pair. Dating to 1872 and featuring an essentially dark mood leavened by a peaceful and serene middle movement, the sonata gets a strongly expressive performance from Andrea Favalessa and Maria Semeraro – who do equally well with the second sonata, a much later work (1905) that, like the violin sonatas but unlike the first sonata for cello, is in four movements. Surprisingly, this second cello sonata turns out here to be a more substantial and substantive work than its better-known predecessor: it is not only considerably longer (35 minutes vs. 21) but also wider-ranging in exploring a broad variety of moods – nothing as intense as in the first sonata, but a great deal that is majestic, heroic, romantic and blithe. Its second and longest movement, Scherzo con Variazioni, is structurally fascinating and very cleverly developed, including exceptional differentiation of the eight variations. The sonata leaves an overall impression of seriousness that is moderated only in the light and playful finale, which provides a well-considered contrast to all that has come before.

     The sonatas for oboe, clarinet and bassoon are all late works – Opp. 166, 167 and 168, respectively – and are all characteristically melodious and defiantly of the Romantic era in sound and sensibility. The bassoon sonata features remarkably sensitive bassoon writing that is genuinely emotionally expressive. The light touch in the second movement is welcome; and in the finale, the bassoon’s lowest range is very well-managed just before the bright and genuinely happy coda. In the oboe sonata, the piano offers underlying delicacy that shows the many ways in which Saint-Saëns was able to make every instrument sing. The oboe writing is idiomatic, if not as warm as the writing for some other winds. The central movement has a pleasantly pastoral feeling, after which the sonata’s finale is very short and perky. The clarinet is warmly expressive from the gentle rocking start of its sonata, in which lyricism even creeps into the speedy 90-second Allegro animato that follows (this sonata is in four movements; those for bassoon and oboe are in three). The third clarinet-sonata movement delves into the instrument’s chalumeau register, while the fourth contrasts strongly with runs up and down much of the clarinet’s entire range – until the slower concluding section, only 90 seconds long, basks in tranquility.

     As for the supplementary single-movement works included on this release’s third disc, the horn is very expressive after the piano's gentle introductory material in the Romance for Horn and Piano. The piano sets multiple moods that the horn then reflects, expands or modifies. The delicate piano arpeggios over a legato horn line are especially effective and pleasant. In the Romance for Flute and Piano, the flute is warm, delicate and lyrical. This work is pretty rather than profound – actually a common and often valid description of much of Saint-Saëns’ music, and one that is especially apt here. Finally, the Caprice is an occasional work, its mixture of Danish and Russian elements attributable to a concert tour in Russia – whose empress was born as Princess Dagmar of Denmark. The piece has a broad scale in its unison beginning; thereafter, the piano is the unifying factor in a work that veers from the rather overly sweet to the bright and ebullient, percolating along brightly toward an upbeat ending. Saint-Saëns himself performed on piano during this tour, so the keyboard emphasis is not a surprise – but here as in all the music in this thoroughly enjoyable release, the composer proves himself adept at creating works that are exceptionally pleasurable to hear and inevitably well-crafted, even though (or perhaps because) they storm no heights and only rarely delve into depths of emotion to any significant extent.

(+++) TWOFOLD TRIBUTE

Elgar: Symphony No. 2; In the South (Alassio) Concert Overture; Four Part Songs, Op. 53; Two Choral Songs, Op. 71; Death on the Hills, Op. 72; Two Choral Songs, Op. 73; Go, song of mine, Op. 57; interviews of and commentary by Sir Adrian Boult. Scottish National Orchestra, BBC Symphony Orchestra and BBC Chorus conducted by Sir Adrian Boult. Ariadne. $29.99 (2 CDs).

     New releases of historic recordings are almost always focused either on a specific composer or on a particular performer (or, sometimes, ensemble). A new two-CD Ariadne set, on the other hand, is equally balanced in its explorations of and revelations about a composer and a conductor: it is titled “Boult’s Elgar” but could just as reasonably be called “Boult/Elgar” to emphasize the equality of focus. The long career of Sir Adrian Boult (1889-1983) was extensively bound up with performances of Elgar’s music, and the trials and worries of the self-conscious and self-critical Sir Edward Elgar (1857-1934) were frequently assuaged by performances led by Boult.

     Arguably the most significant Boult/Elgar intertwining involved Elgar’s Symphony No. 2 (1911), which originally received at best a mixed reception but which hit its stride upon a 1920 performance in which Boult led the London Symphony Orchestra – a concert so successful that it led Elgar to tell Boult, “I feel that my reputation in the future is safe in your hands.” Boult recorded the symphony five times: in 1944 with the BBC Symphony Orchestra; in 1956, 1968 and 1976 with the London Philharmonic Orchestra – and in 1963 with the Scottish National Orchestra. It is the very little known 1963 reading that is heard here, and while the interpretation is something of a transitional one between Boult’s earlier and later handling of the symphony, and the orchestra a very good but not exceptional one, this recording provides fascinating insight into Boult’s evolving thinking about this symphony while also showcasing the many intriguing elements of the score – ranging from highly personal references to Elgar’s own music (The Dream of Gerontius) to structural echoes of works by other composers (notably Brahms and Wagner).

     A significantly earlier recording, from 1944, offers a first-rate performance of the tone poem In the South, which is rather too expansive and detailed for its official designation as a “concert overture.” The proto-symphonic structure of the work comes through particularly clearly in Boult’s reading with the BBC Symphony Orchestra: dating to 1903-1904, In the South is in various ways anticipatory of Elgar’s creation of his Symphony No. 1 in 1908, somewhat analogously to the way Brahms’ two Serenades of 1858 and 1859 were predecessors of his first symphony (1876). Many intriguing touches of the score come through admirably in Boult’s reading, even though the restored sound of the performance is scarcely ideal (although this release as a whole is remastered with admirable skill).

     The second CD in this set turns to vocal material, in the form of various unaccompanied choral works written by Elgar between 1907 and 1914 and sung with sensitivity and fine diction by the BBC Chorus. Boult is not usually thought of as a choral conductor, and indeed did little such conducting as his career progressed, but he had been a singer himself, and he shows in these performances that he clearly knows how to mold this music and meld the voices singing it. The packaging and presentation are lacking, though: no words are given (not even a link to a place to find them online), and sources are identified only by their last names (including one error: Serenade, Op. 73, No. 2, is said to use words by “Minski,” when they are actually by Apollon Maikov, whose poetry is also used for Op. 73, No. 1).

     The choral songs take up only 34 of the second CD’s 78 minutes, and it is the remainder of the disc – all of it verbal – that cements this release’s Elgar/Boult balance and makes the recording of exceptional interest to enthusiasts (although much less so to those who fancy Elgar only casually). Included here are a brief discussion about the Enigma Variations between Boult and Elgar’s daughter, Carice Elgar Blake, dating to 1944; a personal reminiscence by Boult about Elgar’s music and the Boult-Elgar relationship, also with some Enigma Variations references, from 1951; and a half-hour BBC interview of Boult from 1965, focusing entirely on the conductor’s own career and influences and mentioning Elgar only in passing. This final portion of the release places the limelight as clearly on Boult as the first disc, which proffers the symphony and tone poem, places it on Elgar. The result is a recording that elucidates more clearly than most the interrelationship between a conductor and a specific composer whose music he championed for many decades and with which he was intimately associated. The musical performances themselves are all quite fine, if not necessarily the last word on the works – not even necessarily Boult’s last word on them. But this release is about more than the music itself: its focus is on the way music comes to be presented to the public and the lengthy and sometimes arduous process through which dedicated advocates, over a period of many years, can bring composers a secure place in the repertoire and, as Elgar perceived where Boult was concerned, a safe reputation in the future.

(++++) SPLENDORS AND TRIFLES

Ravel: Complete Works for Solo Piano. Jean-Efflam Bavouzet, piano. Chandos. $20.99 (2 CDs).

     Maurice Ravel did not write a great deal of solo-piano music, but that is scarcely a surprise, since he did not write a great deal of music, period: so meticulous and self-critical was Ravel that he methodically worked through nuance after nuance of pretty much every piece, thinking not only of what he wanted to express but also of how he wanted performers to express it – the sheer number of tempo indications within his music bears testimony to the extent to which he sought tight control over the way his works would be presented to audiences. This was especially important for his solo-piano music, since Ravel himself was only a passable pianist, and a great many of his piano pieces were beyond his own capabilities – as if he could hear entirely new ways of extending the piano’s expressiveness but could explain them neither verbally nor through performance.

     It takes a pianist with as much skill and empathy for Ravel as Jean-Efflam Bavouzet possesses to cope with the technical demands of this music while fully exploring its expressiveness and leaving behind, by and large, the impressions that listeners are likely to have of these works in their orchestral form – for Ravel orchestrated some three-quarters of these pieces, and most are far better known in orchestral guise. Then there is the opposite case of La Valse (1919-1920), which originated as an orchestral piece but which Ravel subsequently arranged for solo piano (and also for two pianos). It can be difficult to unwind the intertwining of orchestral-version memories with the solo-piano scores, and a sensitive performer – Bavouzet is certainly one such – does have to think carefully about how to do so. Such thinking is pervasive in this new two-CD Chandos release: in the case of the aforementioned La Valse, for example, Bavouzet opts to use the orchestral version as his touchstone, resulting in slight but noticeable differences between his reading and those of pianists who simply accept and follow Ravel’s piano reduction.

     “Reduction” is not the right word, though, any more than “expansion” would be accurate in describing the transformation of the solo-piano pieces to orchestral ones. The colors, rhythms, expressions and emotions that Ravel sought to evoke are equally present in the piano pieces and in the orchestral ones, no matter what direction the instrumental adaptation takes. And it is those elements that Bavouzet elicits and explores with care and sensitivity throughout this release.

     In addition to La Valse, the pieces heard here are Sérénade grotesque (1892-93), Menuet antique (1895), Pavane pour une infante défunte (1899), Jeux d’eau (1901), Sonatine (1903-05), Menuet in C-sharp minor (1904), Miroirs (1904-05), Gaspard de la nuit (1908), Menuet sur le nom d’Haydn (1909), Valses nobles et sentimentales (1911), À la manière de…Borodine and À la manière de…Emmanuel Chabrier (1912-13), Prélude (1913), and Le Tombeau de Couperin (1914-17). Fifteen works in all, including a single occasional piece (the Haydn menuet, marking the centenary of the composer’s death and based on a rather awkward theme created by displacing letters of “Haydn” onto notes found by cycling through the alphabet); several pieces in the one-to-two-minute range (the Borodin and Chabrier tributes, 1904 menuet and 1913 prélude); one work showcasing Ravel’s skill in rather staid forms (Sonatine, especially its first two movements); and a number of difficult-to-describe, highly individualistic pieces that test a pianist’s thought processes as much as his technical mettle.

     It is worth the mental, or rather aural, effort to hear the Ravel piano works that are better known in orchestral form in their solo-piano versions, because the coloristic effects evoked through the piano differ considerably from those in the orchestral pieces, usually through greater subtlety – or, at least, subtlety of a different sort. Bavouzet is well-attuned to this, managing to pay close attention to those extensive and sometimes frustratingly nitpicky tempo-change indications while preserving the overall shape and flow of the individual pieces. The early three-and-a-half-minute Sérénade grotesque, for example, calls for no fewer than 20 tempo changes; the six-minute Pavane pour une infante défunte includes 17; the four-minute conclusion of Sonatine calls for 14; and Alborada del gracioso, which lasts six-and-a-half minutes, calls for 22, mostly through repeated sequences of premier movement – plus lent. Making sense of the sensibilities that Ravel sought to evoke through these painstakingly explicit notations is no simple task. And doing so while remaining sensitive to certain fascinating recurrences of focus in these works is harder still – yet Bavouzet, to cite just one example, is clearly aware of the extent to which Ravel is concerned with differing keyboard depictions of water, of course in Jeux d’eau and also, in distinct and equally impressive ways, in Une barque sur l’océan from Miroirs and in Ondine from Gaspard de la nuit.

     Throughout all these pieces, from the highly significant ones to those that are comparatively trivial, Bavouzet is at pains to bring clarity of expression and, thus, clarity of communication to music that the extremely detail-oriented Ravel constructed with enormous care. Nothing in these solo-piano works is taken lightly by Bavouzet – that is, he plays with appropriate lightness when that is called for, but he is at pains to reproduce the music with as much attentive precision as the composer brought to bear when meticulously constructing it. The result is a first-rate exploration of a body of work that, although comparatively small, was remarkably influential – and that remains, almost without exception, in the forefront of the repertoire of pianists who, like Bavouzet, seek thoroughly to explore their instrument’s technical, expressive and communicative capabilities.

(+++) PRESENTATION MATTERS

Salieri: Keyboard Concertos in C and B-flat; Sinfonia “Veneziana”; Sonata in C. Costantino Catena, piano; Accademia d’Archi Arrigoni conducted by Giulio Arnofi. Brilliant Classics. $12.99.

Haydn: Trumpet Concerto; Hummel: Trumpet Concerto. Marianne Li, trumpet; Orchestra da camera Domenico Mazzocchi del Civita Festival conducted by Martin Sieghart. Brilliant Classics. $12.99.

     Although concertgoers are far less likely to dress up for performances nowadays, performers generally still have a sense that the way they come across visually – in effect, the way they are packaged, or package themselves – is an element in the effectiveness of what they bring to an audience. Somewhat analogously, the way a recorded performance is put together and offered to listeners – that is, its packaging – can enhance or undermine the music, showcasing the care of a presentation or, on the other hand, making a CD seem like a throwaway item. There is one CD production company, Bru Zane, that makes elegant and handsome packaging an integral part of every recording it offers; but elsewhere, matters tend to be hit or miss – as two new Brilliant Classics discs demonstrate quite clearly.

     The instrumental music of Antonio Salieri (1750-1825) is not very well known, partly because there is not very much of it and partly because Salieri himself had little real interest in it: he was a theatrical composer above all, and quite a good one. Despite Salieri’s own predilections, it is quite worthwhile to hear how he handled the four keyboard works performed by Costantino Catena, which are presented in fine (if scarcely historically informed) readings and accompanied by a brief essay that helps place them in perspective. Catena uses a modern Fazioli piano, which in this repertoire is doubly unfortunate, since its sound is not only well beyond that of Salieri’s time but also inappropriate for the music: both the concertos offered here were explicitly written for harpsichord. Listeners therefore need to do a kind of aural deconstruction of the sound of the works to get a suitable sense of their effectiveness – although Catena does handle them with a light touch, and the orchestra under Giulio Arnofi is suitably small and texturally light. The keyboard part of the unassuming Concerto in C is not especially difficult, certainly not highly virtuosic, but the solos meld pleasantly with the ensemble, and the periodic dips into lyricism are handled adeptly. The work scales no heights but makes for very pleasing listening. The first movement features an extended but not overdone cadenza; the gentle, mild, delicate second movement has nice flow; and there is a bright and pleasant finale. The Concerto in B-flat has a somewhat broader scale, but a similar structure and overall sound. There is cooperative rather than competitive solo-against-orchestra balance, with the ensemble frequently taking a back seat or sitting silent so the solo instrument can assert itself. The first-movement cadenza is nicely proportioned to complement the rest of the movement; the second movement offers a touch of sweetness and some sense of soloist-ensemble dialogue; and the finale has a danceable rhythm at the start, then some pleasant irregularities as it proceeds through a series of nicely contrasted variations that lead to a speedy conclusion in which the solo part scurries up and down the keyboard, echoed by the ensemble, to good effect. The Sinfonia “Veneziana” is a kind of mashup of two overtures to stage works, and here Salieri’s theatricality peeks through. The music bustles along busily at the start, setting an upbeat mood in the strings, with periodic wind chords for a little extra flavor; the middle portion meanders gently; and a jaunty horn call introduces a final section that percolates along brightly. Also on the disc is the first recording of a Sonata in C that crams six short movements into less than nine minutes. The work has the sound and effect of an exercise, and like the concertos, it was written for harpsichord. Highlights include the third movement, which features attractive counterplay between the bass and the right hand, and the penultimate fifth movement, which has a gentle, relaxed swaying motion. The music here is somewhat inconsequential and the performances do not use the instrumentation that Salieri called for. But the overall presentation is pleasant enough to make the CD a modest success on its own rather self-limited terms.

     Not so a disc featuring much-better-known music presented so poorly that the recording deserves only a (++) rating. The Haydn and Hummel trumpet concertos were both commissioned by Anton Weidinger (1766-1852), who played a crucial role in the development of the modern valve trumpet by creating, in 1792, a seven-keyed instrument that made it possible to play a full chromatic scale. Both Haydn and Hummel were fascinated by the expressive possibilities inherent in Weidinger’s trumpet, with Haydn writing his concerto – his first piece for trumpet solo – in 1796, and Hummel creating his concerto in 1803. Both works are, deservedly, staples of today’s trumpet repertoire, although the Hummel, written in E, is usually (as on this CD) played in E-flat to make fingering easier on a modern valve trumpet, the successor to Weidinger’s keyed version. Unfortunately, no one involved in this collaboration between Marianne Li and Martin Sieghart seems to have much sense of the historical importance and musicality of these concertos. They are the only works on the disc, which means this entire release runs a mere 35 minutes – a decidedly underwhelming length. And everything about the packaging is slapdash. For example, in both of the places where recording dates are given, they are listed as “10-112 October 2022.” The very short writeup about the music (two booklet pages vs. three about the performers) is absurdly repetitious: Haydn’s work was created “for Anton Weidinger, a prominent Viennese trumpeter, [and] composed to showcase the capabilities of the newly invented keyed trumpet,” while Hummel’s concerto was written “for Anton Weidinger, a Viennese trumpet virtuoso and pioneer of the keyed trumpet.” Haydn’s central movement “provides a contrast to the energetic outer movements,” while Hummel’s “contrasts with the brilliance of the outer movements.” And what are the movements’ tempo indications? This is just silly: Haydn’s opening movement is said to be marked Allegro plus cadenza, while Hummel’s is listed as Allegro with spirit plus cadenza – and Hummel’s finale is designated as a Rondó, with an incorrect accent mark that is given in both places where the tempos are indicated. All this sloppiness would be tolerable, and even the 35-minute length of the disc might be acceptable, if the performances were sensitive, knowing and musically apt. But they are not. The Haydn concerto starts in an inappropriately Romantic vein, with lots of swells and uncalled-for crescendo/decrescendo passages accentuated by the solo instrument being placed very close to the microphone. The very extended, self-indulgent first movement cadenza, apparently by Li herself, does not fit the music at all. The difficult turns in the finale are slightly awkward, although the trills are good. But there are unnecessary legato passages and swells in the finale, and the ensemble takes a back seat even when it is supposed to carry the theme: Li seems to consider this a pure display piece. Thankfully, the Hummel performance is somewhat better. The small ensemble plays nicely, with timpani prominent in the first movement, and there is better handling of the trumpet here, although again Li does dwell on and extend some melodic elements, seeking long lines rather than staccato even when that is called for. Li seems a bit impatient with both slow movements, playing them unfeelingly, and she also seems unaware of anything in period style – for instance, invariably beginning trills on the home note rather than the note above. Any hope that the finale of the Hummel might sweep away at least some performance concerns – the movement is a really splendid one in the right hands – evaporates quickly: the finale’s start is genuinely disappointing, with Li having intonation difficulties in the lower notes and with this bright and lively movement dragging at its outset. Indeed, the movement never really takes flight, and the playing, which ought to have a sense of the carefree despite its technical difficulties, seems strained throughout. All in all, the performance on this CD is a bit like what you would expect to hear on a recording of a student recital, not a professional concert. The music is wonderful, but it gets short shrift both from the musicians and from the packagers of the disc.