(++++) APPROACHING AUTHENTICITY

Salieri: Keyboard Concertos in C and B-flat; Sonata in C; March in D. Filippo Pantieri, piano and harpsichord; Ensemble Sezione Aurea. Dynamic. $16.99.

     What a difference an instrument makes! Antonio Salieri’s instrumental music is of much less consequence than the theatrical works on which he focused, but his keyboard creations – composed when he was in his mid-20s – have received renewed attention recently because of their inherent charm and their comparability to some works by C.P.E. and J.C. Bach, and even a few by Mozart. However, because Salieri (1750-1825) wrote these pieces for cembalo or clavicembalo – two words that both refer to the harpsichord – there has been little chance to hear them as the composer intended them to be heard, since today’s performers have inevitably gravitated toward the modern piano. Furthermore, the accompaniment for Salieri’s two piano concertos has tended to come in the form of a chamber orchestra using modern instruments, resulting in a sound world quite different from Salieri’s own.

     These circumstances make the new Dynamic release featuring Filippo Pantieri and the 11-member Ensemble Sezione Aurea – which uses original instruments or careful modern copies, and focuses on historically informed performance practices – especially welcome. And that is despite the fact that Pantieri does not quite go all the way to a cembalo for the concertos or the Sonata in C, instead using a late-18^th-century piano for the concertos and a replica of a 1792 piano for the sonata. Although these pianos have a sound reflective of Salieri’s time, their use is a somewhat odd decision, given the fact that Pantieri knows how to play the harpsichord, and does so for the little March in D that concludes this recording. Nevertheless, this reading of Salieri’s concertos, which treats them as true chamber music, makes a far better case for them – and for the Sonata in C, which is more in the nature of a suite – than have other releases, which have paid less attention to the aural milieu in which Salieri composed.

     Salieri’s B-flat concerto is the larger of the two, and the cooperative rather than competitive nature of its solo-and-ensemble writing comes through especially well in this recording: the ensemble frequently takes a back seat or sits silent so the solo instrument can assert itself, and here that approach emphasizes the collegiality of the music and the comparatively gentle (rather than dominating) sound of the solo keyboard. The well-proportioned first-movement cadenza is a highlight here, as are the sweetness of the second movement and, to an even greater extent, the many pleasantries of the Tempo di Menuetto finale, which is a series of well-contrasted and rhythmically attractive variations that eventually lead to an engagingly scurrying conclusion. The unassuming Concerto in C is less virtuosic than the one in B-flat (which itself is not highly demanding), and its smaller scale is more Classical stylistically and less galant. The gentle second movement flows well, and the bright and pleasant finale is attractive. Pantieri’s careful attention to historically informed performance practice, and his well-managed blending of the sound of the piano (which is far less resonant than modern instruments) with that of Ensemble Sezione Aurea, give the concertos suitable period flavor that makes them more effective – if no more musically consequential – than versions using modern keyboards and larger instrumental groupings.

     Pantieri also handles the Sonata in C attentively and attractively, and presents it at a more-convincing scale than Costantino Catena does on a recent Brilliant Classics CD, using a modern Fazioli piano. Both readings claim to be the world première recording; in fact, Catena’s was released first but recorded second (in September 2024 vs. Pantieri’s in October 2023). More significantly, the performers handle the sonata quite differently, and not only because of their differing instruments: Catena’s version lasts less than nine minutes, while Pantieri’s, which takes all repeats in the score, runs 13½. The sonata is scarcely substantial in any case: all six of its movements are in C, and the overall feeling is of a suite of short, unconnected pieces strung together to be performed by a talented amateur rather than a more-accomplished player. The work is pleasing enough, if insubstantial; and the same is true of the March in D, which definitely gets its first recording on Pantieri’s disc and serves as a 90-second encore. Here Pantieri really does use a cembalo, and while the little march is scarcely challenging to play or hear, it does have a nicely upbeat quality accentuated by the choice of instrument – raising anew the question of why Pantieri chose not to use a harpsichord for the other works on the CD. In any case, the totality of this disc is very enjoyable indeed, giving Salieri his due in ways that other recorded versions of these works do not – and confirming that while instrumental music was scarcely Salieri’s forte, it is much more convincing on a fortepiano than on a modern concert grand.

(++++) PLEASURES, FAMILIAR AND UNFAMILIAR

Brahms: Hungarian Dances. Münchner Rundfunkorchester conducted by Roberto Abbado. BR Klassik. $19.99.

Holst: Beni Mora; Choral Symphony. Heather Harper, soprano; BBC Chorus and Choral Society and BBC Symphony Orchestra conducted by Sir Malcolm Sargent. Ariadne. $18.99.

     However admirable it may be to explore little-known repertoire and under-represented composers, there is always considerable enjoyment in hearing new performances of works that are quite well-known, provided that the readings are high-quality and, in the case of recordings, released in high-quality sound. That is certainly the case with a new BR Klassik CD of Brahms’ Hungarian Dances as performed by Roberto Abbado and the Münchner Rundfunkorchester. Abbado was this orchestra’s chief conductor from 1991 to 1998, and these performances date to that time period (1996-1997). They indicate that Abbado led the ensemble with a sure hand and a considerable level of collegiality and cooperation: the sound has the subtleties of people making music together rather than one individual imposing his will on a group under his command. The dances flow stylishly throughout, with the orchestra’s sections supporting each other at some times, giving way to each other at others, always with a strong sense of the rhythms of the music and close attentiveness to the orchestrations. Brahms wrote the Hungarian Dances for piano four hands and arranged the first 10 for solo piano; he subsequently arranged Nos. 1, 3 and 10 for orchestra, and that opened the floodgates for a host of other orchestrators. Notably, Dvořák created orchestral versions of Nos. 17-21 as well as being inspired by the Brahms cycle to produce his own Slavonic Dances (also originally for piano four hands). Aside from the eight Brahms or Dvořák orchestrations, there are fine ones of the cycle by several other hands, and all those used here – by Andreas Hallén, Paul Juon, Albert Parlow, Martin Schmeling, and Hans Gál – fit the music well and retain its expressivity. There are continued scholarly discussions and arguments about just how “Hungarian” the dances are and how much of the melodic material is folk-derived vs. created by Brahms himself, but it is a measure of the collection’s popularity that such academic exercises are wholly irrelevant to the enjoyment of the music, whether heard on keyboard or in orchestral guise. There are numerous well-played, well-presented recordings available of the Hungarian Dances as orchestral works, and Abbado’s is most definitely a worthy addition to them: it is a pleasure to experience from start to finish.

     There is really only one work by Gustav Holst with which casual listeners are generally familiar, and that is The Planets, which fully deserves its popularity. But there is much more to Holst than that orchestral suite, which in the main is actually not very typical of Holst’s musical interests and preoccupations, such as English folk songs and Hindu spiritualism. A chance to hear less-known Holst works in fine performances is always welcome, and one such is now available from Ariadne in the form of remasterings of two works conducted by Sir Malcolm Sargent, whose sensitivity to Holst’s worldview and musical style was considerable. Oddly, the older recording here, of Beni Mora, is in stereo, while the more-recent one, of the Choral Symphony, is in monophonic sound. Sargent’s 1956 approach to the three-movement Beni Mora is interestingly parallel to Holst’s own, which exists in a recording from 1924. Newer renditions generally offer the first movement in around six minutes, the second in around four, and the third in about seven. But Sargent’s pacing is considerably quicker in the second and third movements (three and five-and-three-quarters minutes, respectively), and his five-and-a-half minute first movement is quite speedy by comparison with all others except Holst’s own, which zips by in four-and-a-half. The pacing definitely affects the impression left by this “Oriental Suite,” which notably, in the finale, includes Holst’s reflection on an experience in Algeria, where he heard a local musician play the same phrase on a bamboo flute for more than two hours. Holst reproduces the eight-note tune that he heard and repeats it 163 times, anticipating much-later minimalism while providing the music with additional interest by having the full orchestra play assorted dance rhythms above and against the repetitive tune. Sargent’s handling of this movement, and the two preceding ones, shows a firm understanding of the evocative elements of Holst’s musical imagination. Beni Mora dates to 1910, the much more expansive Choral Symphony to 1923-1924 (it was first performed in 1925). The Choral Symphony is Holst’s highly personal interpretation of traditional four-movement symphonic structure, built on a variety of rather disconnected texts by John Keats. The symphonic framework is clear enough conceptually, but listeners looking for meaningful connections among the texts will be disappointed: the voices are essentially used in a kind of instrumental manner, providing tone painting but not moving the work as a whole in any particular direction of meaningfulness. Sargent’s 1964 performance, from a BBC broadcast, sounds good in this remastering (with Heather Harper’s solo singing notably expressive) and is certainly idiomatic, but the Choral Symphony as a whole is a work that is more interesting than convincing. Holst planned a second one, to words by George Meredith, but left behind only a few sketches, so there is no way to know if the projected later work would have had a greater sense of verbal communicativeness than does the existing one. Taken as a whole, this is a (+++) CD that is valuable for making these performances of these works available in effective audio restorations by Lani Spahr. But the Choral Symphony, which is the primary piece here, is a bit of a letdown even when well-performed, and the pleasant Beni Mora is too slight to carry the disc entirely on its own. The result is a recording that most listeners will likely find more valuable for its historical provenance than for encouraging engagement with a broader cross-section of Holst’s music.

(++++) TWO TRAILBLAZERS

Giovanni Battista Viotti: Violin Concertos Nos. 1-29 (complete). Franco Mezzena, violin, with Viotti Chamber Orchestra conducted by Luciano Borin (Nos. 1, 2, 8, 11, 12, 19); Franco Mezzena, violin and conducting Symphonia Perusina (Nos. 3-7, 9, 10, 13-18, 20, 22-28); Franco Mezzena, violin and conducting Orchestra da Camera Milano Classica (Nos. 21 and 29). Dynamic. $50.99 (10 CDs).

     The importance of Giovanni Battista Viotti (1755-1824) in the history of the violin can scarcely be overstated, and the significance of Franco Mezzena’s thorough and beautifully played exploration of all 29 of Viotti’s completed violin concertos should be a foregone conclusion. But somehow both Viotti and Mezzena have undeservedly remained on the periphery of their respective contributions – an unjustifiable dual neglect that will hopefully be corrected thanks to Dynamic’s excellent 10-CD re-release of Mezzena’s exploration of Viotti, originally made available in 2005 and consisting of performances from 1990 through 2004.

     Viotti, who personally knew Haydn and Beethoven, was an important influence on violinists whose names are much better known than his, including Paganini and Rodolphe Kreutzer. Viotti is likely comparatively neglected because he had few pupils of his own – and it was those he did have who in turn taught others whose fame has endured, making Viotti important more or less in a secondhand manner. In terms of violin composition and technique, though, Viotti has remained a firsthand influence, even if later violinists did not know of him directly. This is partly because Viotti’s music had a direct impact on the compositions of others, including Beethoven, and partly because Viotti’s works became the foundation of the 19^th-century French violin school. His concertos span the time period from the galant style to almost-Romanticism, making him musically something of a transitional figure – one reason his works, like those of Hummel and F.X. Mozart, tend to be neglected. But the lyricism, thematic beauty, sureness of structure and extensive exploration of performance techniques in Viotti’s concertos make them quite wonderful to hear, and having Mezzena’s survey of them again available is an unalloyed pleasure.

     The only Viotti concertos that are still played with any regularity are Nos. 22 in A minor and 23 in G, and they are among his less-challenging works to perform, because of the composer’s own history. Like Haydn, Viotti wrote music for Parisian audiences and later for British ones; Haydn’s last symphonies and Viotti’s final violin concertos were all created for English audiences and were designed for the larger orchestras in vogue in Great Britain in the 1790s and thereafter. In Viotti’s case, though, there was another factor at play: he was a composer/performer, and his skill in the latter role had diminished over time, so he made fewer demands of himself (and consequently of other violinists) in his last nine concertos. He designated Nos. 21-29 differently, too, giving them letters (starting with A) to distinguish them from the earlier works created more for Parisian taste. And these circumstances have contributed to Viotti’s not-so-benign neglect, since the two concertos most likely to be heard from time to time today are frequently performed by student violinists – advanced ones, to be sure, but branding these as “student” works makes them less appealing to virtuoso professional players.

     Yet there is so much that is absolutely wonderful in Viotti’s violin concertos that it is a tremendous shame for them to be so infrequently heard, and a tremendous pleasure to have the Mezzena cycle available again. The performances are excellent throughout, the recorded sound is very fine, the orchestral playing is first-rate, and the insightful exploration of the music is of the highest quality. This is not to say, however, that the assemblage of material is flawless. It would be reasonable to expect the concertos to be presented in chronological order and, in particular, the last nine concertos to be grouped, but that is not the case. The presentation of the works is a complete mishmash: the first two CDs include Nos. 8, 11 and 12, in that order, and 19, 1 and 2, in that sequence – and the rest of the discs are similarly mixed up. There is no rhyme or reason for this. Those first two CDs, dating to 1990 and 1991, are the only ones featuring a conductor other than Mezzena himself; discs 3-9 (from 1996 to 2002) then have Mezzena leading one ensemble, and disc 10 (from 2004) has him conducting another. All the orchestras are more than adequate, and with Viotti’s concertos assigning a very prominent role to the soloist while tending to downplay the accompaniment, matters are handled with aplomb by everyone involved.

     It is certainly true that Viotti’s violin concertos, like Vivaldi’s, have elements of predictability and of the formulaic about them. Although Viotti’s vary in length from 16 minutes to almost 32, all are in three movements; in every case, the first movement is the longest and the slow second movement the shortest; and every third movement is brightly upbeat and jaunty (often designated rondò, complete with accent, or rondeau). Structurally, almost all start with a two-to-three-minute tutti prior to the introduction of the solo violin. And all the concertos thoroughly explore multiple performance techniques – legato, staccato, spiccato, double stopping and others – within a framework of remarkably pleasant tunefulness that makes these pieces a pleasure to hear and carries them well beyond the realm of études.

     Despite the works’ similarities on certain levels, there are elements of differentiation among the concertos – beyond the circumstances of composition of the finale nine – that keep them interesting. Three of them – Nos. 16, 25 and 27 – have slow introductions to the first movement, with No. 16 being particularly intriguing because in addition to that unusual-for-Viotti opening, it is in a minor key (E minor). Actually, Viotti’s relatively high frequency of use of minor keys is one of his concertos’ distinguishing characteristics: in addition to No. 16, Nos. 14, 17, 18, 19, 22, 24, 28 and 29 are all in the minor. None of them plumbs significant emotional depth, but all have an attractively darker flavor than the major-key concertos and are high points of Mezzena’s cycle.

     All in all, it is as churlish to nitpick Viotti’s assured craftsmanship as it is to complain about the less-than-optimal presentation sequence of his concertos in this survey. It is to be hoped that the re-release will draw new attention to Viotti not only because of his historical significance but also because his concertos are poised, elegant, and  constructed with a sure hand both for their playability and for the enjoyment they bring to listeners. Interestingly, portions of three additional, incomplete Viotti violin concertos have recently been found – two movements of each – so this Mezzena compilation is not, strictly speaking, 100% complete. But that too is nitpicking: this is a highly worthwhile set of performances by any standard, and both Viotti himself and Mezzena as his advocate richly deserve as much attention as this recording can bring to both of them.

(++++) TAKING THE PIANO TO EXTREMES

Beethoven: Piano Sonatas Nos. 21-23, 28 and 29; Andante favori. David Korevaar, piano. Prospero. $20.99 (2 CDs).

Grateful Dead Piano Works. Kristina Marinova, piano. Navona. $16.99.

     Beethoven’s vast expansion of the expressive potential of keyboard writing, and the huge demands he placed on pianos of his time – to the point of physically destroying some of them that simply could not handle his performance demands – is a thrice-told tale. But the musical ramifications of what Beethoven could hear emanating from the piano – including what he could hear internally despite his increasing deafness – continue to give pianists innumerable opportunities to explore works whose technical and emotional complexity are deeply intertwined, with each element literally playing into the other. Beethoven’s 32 piano sonatas are a journey both musical and expressive, and David Korevaar shows himself well aware of the way these facets of the works intermingle in the latest offering of a projected six-volume Beethoven sonata cycle on the Prospero label. The two-CD set (part of a confusing mixture of physical and online-only releases) is called “Heroic to Hammerklavier,” and if the second part of that title is prosaic – Sonatas Nos. 28 and 29 are the two that the composer said were for the hammerklavier, even though the word is often attached only to No. 29 – the first part is more a matter of Korevaar’s concept and interpretations. The first disc includes the “Waldstein” and “Appassionata” sonatas, the mostly (and unjustly) neglected No. 22 that sits between them, and the Andante favori that Beethoven originally wrote as the second movement of the “Waldstein” but later replaced, instead using this Andante grazioso con moto work as a standalone piece in a number of his own recitals. Korevaar quickly puts a personal stamp on Beethoven with a “Waldstein” opening that hints at and soon delves into lyricism – nothing flashy, no virtuosity for its own sake, but close attention to the emotional heft of the first movement, followed by a very warm Adagio molto that leads into a finale in which Korevaar seems to find Beethoven foreshadowing the Romantic era to a greater extent than is usually displayed in readings of this 1804 sonata. The Andante favori follows on the CD, played with gentle sweetness befitting its origin as a declaration of Beethoven’s unrequited love for a countess. The two-movement Sonata No. 22 has the feeling of an intermezzo between the larger works on either side, but Korevaar finds considerable worth in its careful construction and elegant contrasts – the second movement is particularly well-handled. The “Appassionata” sounds a touch superficial at the start, but Korevaar soon intensifies the opening movement to an extent that makes the lovely Andante con moto that follows a place of genuine respite. And the finale is passionate indeed, with a growling quality in the bass and a slightly slow Allegro ma non troppo pacing that allows the climaxes to build very effectively. The second CD in this release opens with a delicately balanced, rather pastoral approach to the first movement of Sonata No. 28, to which the emphatic second-movement march provides a strong contrast. The sonata here sounds a bit like two two-movement works pasted somewhat uneasily together, so strongly emotional does Korevaar make the third movement and so carefully does he contrast it with the finale, in which he emphasizes the somewhat stop-and-go features of this sonata’s conclusion. In Sonata No. 29, Korevaar opens with all the strength that the work demands, but indulges in a touch too much rubato in the first movement and contrasts its differing segments a bit too strongly, resulting in a somewhat episodic feeling. The short Scherzo is also a touch lacking in forward momentum, but the Adagio sostenuto is handled with considerable sensitivity and a decidedly Romantic emotional approach that would not have been possible on the pianos of Beethoven’s time – here Korevaar fully uses the resources of a modern concert grand. After this, the concluding fugue proves a bit underwhelming: although it is well-played, it seems like something of an emotive afterthought. Throughout this release, Korevaar is at his best in the most emotionally charged elements of the music and is somewhat impatient with their structural underpinnings and scaffolding. The result is a highly personalized approach to Beethoven that should be of considerable interest to listeners interested in Korevaar’s entire sequence and willing to figure out which releases are physical, which are not, and how to cobble together an entire cycle accordingly.

     The extremes are neither emotional nor technical on a rather strange new Navona CD featuring pianist Kristina Marinova: they lie in the choice of musical material and the very unusual juxtaposition of classical instrumental training and style with popular music that is far more simplistic and monochromatic than anything usually performed by classical pianists. There are, of course, brief encores and deliberately light classical pieces that show up at recitals and on recordings – one could even argue that Beethoven’s Andante favori is an example – but the music of the Grateful Dead is on a different level, and an hour-and-a-quarter helping of piano versions of it is really a bit much except for dyed-in-the-wool fans, for whom Marinova’s classically poised pianism would scarcely be likely to be a significant attraction. This is nevertheless a fascinating musical experiment, in which Marinova tries to use the piano to incorporate the band’s vocal harmonies and the well-known lead guitar of Jerry Garcia and bass of Phil Lesh. It is certainly true that the Grateful Dead were known for combining rock and psychedelic elements with folk, country, jazz, blues and other popular musical forms, but no one ever accused the band of delving into anything approaching the classical realm. So the forced marriage on this disc never moves far beyond the “unusual but ultimately unconvincing aural experiment” stage. Parts of the presentation really are interesting, though, including the rhythmic flow of the opening melding of Cryptical Envelopment  and The Other One and the following mixture of China Cat Sunflower with I Know You Rider. Familiarity with the original music is something of a prerequisite for enjoying this unusual CD, since the material is musically a bit of a mishmash (or mashup, if you prefer) in which it hard to figure out what the bluesy Hurts Me Too and “swing-y” Ramble On Rose have to do with Uncle John’s Band and Morning Dew – beyond the fact that everything on the disc is in more or less the same tempo and shows only minimal inclination for key modulations, much less melodic or harmonic development (although there is enough rhythmic variation to keep things interesting). The emotional concluding track, BrokeDown Palace, is perhaps the most effective element of a (+++) CD that seems unsure of what kind of audience it seeks and how it intends to reach whatever listeners there may be for Marinova’s well-played but ultimately rather monochromatic survey of Grateful Dead musical material. In the final analysis, the disc is an intriguing curiosity: worth hearing once as the experiment that it is, even though its content is ultimately too vapid to have significant staying power or bear repeated listenings.