(++++) 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 piece 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.

(++++) SPIRITUAL JOURNEYS

Mahler: Symphony No. 5. Radio-Sinfonieorchester Stuttgart des SWR conducted by Gary Bertini. SWR Music. $20.99.

Christopher Tyler Nickel: Mass; Te Deum. Catherine Redding, soprano; Vancouver Chamber Choir and Vancouver Contemporary Orchestra conducted by Clyde Mitchell. AVIE. $19.99.

     There is always a sacred dimension to Mahler’s music, even when it is not made as explicit as in Symphonies Nos. 2 and 8. The spirituality can even crop up in unexpected works, such as Symphony No. 5, when a conductor appears as attuned as Gary Bertini was to the underlying emotionalism and sense of connection not only with the work’s deeply felt internal emotions but also with something beyond the personal. The new SWR Music release of Bertini conducting Radio-Sinfonieorchester Stuttgart des SWR offers an older performance than ones with which those who know Bertini’s Mahler are likely to be familiar: this reading dates to 1981. Bertini (1927-2005) continued to explore Mahler in later decades and with other orchestras, but this Mahler Fifth comes across as evidencing an unusually personal relationship between composer and interpreter, with a strong sense of the transcendent. The first movement features a very clear trumpet opening and deliberate pacing, with Bertini keeping the rhythm very consistent: this is indeed Wie ein Kondukt, as Mahler instructed. There is a strong contrast with the faster section about five minutes from the start, and unusual clarity throughout in the balancing of strings with brass. The delicacy of the timpani is notably contrasted with the lyricism of the strings 10 minutes along, and there is an ongoing strong sense of yearning – this is part of the spiritual dimension here – with a delicate ending. Then the second movement is decidedly stürmisch at the beginning and is paced quickly. Again there is an emphasis on lyricism when the opportunity presents itself, and a great sense of warmth throughout. The movement tends to be a bit episodic, with a stop-and-go quality, but its forward motion is propelled as appropriate, and Bertini dwells on the warm, even sweet elements. Percussion is handled aptly for emphasis but not overdone; the same is true for the brass exclamations. This reading is not as intense or dramatic as some performances, with the result that the final portion has less of a triumphal feeling, but it does offer a sense of uplift before the quiet ending simply dissipates.

     The bright horn proclamation at the opening of the third movement introduces nice rhythmic motion, the pacing perhaps a trifle fast – and again, Bertini offers unusually sensitive balancing of strings and brass. Smooth flow dominates here: the movement is not really kräftig but on the delicate side. Still, there is plenty of heft in the brass when that is called for after about five minutes. The chamber-music delicacy of the scoring comes through especially well here, with fine soloists and impressively soft ensemble playing. The Adagietto is almost unbearably sweet at the start, as Romantic with a capital R as it can be. There is a sense that Bertini stretches out the themes as if reluctant to let them go. The performance, although on the slow side, is not exceptionally so in clock time, but it has an expansive, almost timeless feeling about it. Here Bertini dwells on every possible nuance of warmth, and once more a spiritual element comes to the fore: again and again the music seems about to evaporate, but the melody sustains and spins out further to the end. Then the mood is lightened immediately with the jaunty opening of the finale as the non-string sections return. Bertini moves this movement at a fairly quick pace, producing a strong contrast to the Adagietto. Indeed, the finale percolates along brightly, almost merrily, with a lightness not usually associated with Mahler. There is even something approaching jubilation after about six minutes – and the significantly lightened mood continues throughout, a series of bursts of brightness culminating in a chorale that really does sound like a capstone for the whole symphonic edifice. The sense of a symphony moving “from darkness to light” is pervasive in this performance, and if that is scarcely an unusual path for a symphonic work to take, Bertini manages to imbue Mahler’s Fifth with a sense that both the dark elements and the light ones have resonance beyond the purely personal and individualistic.

     Unsurprisingly, the spiritual elements are more explicit and overt on an AVIE recording of the recently composed Mass and Te Deum by Christopher Tyler Nickel (born 1978). What is unexpected is the comparative darkness of Nickel’s treatment of traditional Latin texts that contain, by their very nature, a healthy dose of spiritual affirmation and uplift. Nickel does not see or set the texts conventionally, for all that he mostly employs expressive consonance in these works (with a smattering of polytonality and, inevitably, a certain degree of dissonance that is never pervasive). The Mass (2023) has a single movement, the Gloria, marked “Brightly,” and it could scarcely be set on any other basis while staying true to the words – but of the seven movements in all, the last four are insistent upon a seriousness that veers again and again toward the dour, although it usually stops just in time and comes across as thoughtful and a touch uncertain. “Adagio,” “Solemn,” again “Solemn” and “Lento” are the designations of these sections, with the very slow setting of the concluding Agnus Dei not so much undermining the promise of peace as turning the phrase dona nobis pacem into a plea rather than an expectation. This is a distinctive and unusual way to set the words of a Mass, and there is a cinematic quality about the work’s expressiveness – no surprise, given Nickel’s forays into film music. The very fine singing of the Vancouver Chamber Choir and sensitive playing of the Vancouver Contemporary Orchestra under Clyde Mitchell make this Mass more a matter of quest and questioning than of proclamatory certainty in the promises of the Credo. And the thoroughgoing praise of the Te Deum (2021/2024), which also includes expressive soprano soloist Catherine Redding, comes across as even more skewed toward a darkness that its reassuring words are designed, if anything, to dissipate. Salvum fac populum tuum, “save thy people,” seems to be the primary message here, beyond the more-formulaic words of praise. And miserere nostri, the call to have mercy upon us, is another phrase that in Nickel’s setting seems more pleading than is justified by the verbiage speravimus in te: there is no overt suggestion that our trust is misplaced, but there is a degree of discomfort in asserting its presence and, as a result, some uncertainty about the final Te Deum words asking that we never be confounded. The Te Deum is more moderately paced than the Mass, with three of the four movements set “Andante,” but the concluding “Grave” produces a final feeling of the crepuscular, if not exactly of the dark. In this way the work’s ending and some of its music recall the exceptionally dour opening of the setting, which is brightened by Redding’s voice atop the choir’s – but not by the specific music she sings, which sounds much less like a song of praise than a rather tentative hope for better things than one actually expects. The unusual handling of the Mass and Te Deum will be clearest to listeners who are familiar with other composers’ more-straightforward handling of these words. But even those from other religious traditions, or none at all, will have no difficulty experiencing the uncertainties and sorrows that sound as if they pervade both these pieces. Nickel’s frequently downbeat settings are undeniably effective, but those who are familiar with the words of these works and with other arrangements of them will be left to look and listen elsewhere for the spiritual uplift that these texts, and the music to which they are typically set, traditionally invite an audience of believers.

(++++) IMPRESSIVE, IF INAUTHENTIC

Bach: The Well-Tempered Clavier, Books I and II. Idil Biret, piano. IBA. $45.99 (4 CDs).

     If any four-to-five-hour chunk of notes can be said to be the foundation of all classical music as it is known today, it is Bach’s The Well-Tempered Clavier, which demonstrates conclusively and inarguably how what is now essentially the standard form of instrumental tuning on Western instruments can be used to produce effective and good-sounding works in every single major and minor key. Never mind that modern tuning is not quite equivalent to Bach’s well temperament or that there are advantages to alternative tuning systems, which produce different intervallic impressions that can be used to good effect – Bach’s 48 preludes and fugues underlie even systems that differ from his, because in those cases well temperament becomes the reference point from which those alternatives deviate.

     More than a musical foundation stone, The Well-Tempered Clavier is the underpinning of Western keyboard technique, and has been for hundreds of years. This is true even though instrumental designs, tuning and sounds are now quite different from those of Bach’s time – and even though it is not entirely certain for which instrument (or perhaps instruments) Bach intended The Well-Tempered Clavier. This is music that belongs to every keyboard artist, and that is why it is part of the underlying educational and performance history of pianists such as Idil Biret. The Turkish virtuoso has performed The Well-Tempered Clavier, in parts or its totality, for seven decades, and in 2015, when she was 74, she made the complete recording that is now available in the long-running Idil Biret Archives series distributed by Naxos.

     It is important to know what this interpretation is and what it is not in order to judge it fairly and decide whether it is worth owning as one’s preferred recording of The Well-Tempered Clavier – or, more likely, as one of several favored versions, it being impossible to produce a definitive reading of this music. On the one hand, Biret’s formidable technique is everywhere apparent here, used sometimes to produce a sense of long lines and extended melodies that go beyond the essence of notes on a page, while being kept in check at other times so the structural underpinnings of the preludes and (especially) the fugues come through clearly and cleanly. On the other hand, Biret’s rendition of The Well-Tempered Clavier is inherently pianistic, beholden to the sounds and sustaining capabilities of a modern piano even when avoiding excessive pedal use and the potentially overdone dynamics attainable through the instrument’s substantial key travel. Here, The Well-Tempered Clavier does not sound at all as it does in historically informed performances on keyboards of Bach’s time. The effectiveness of Biret’s reading requires a willing suspension of disbelief in the aural world of Baroque music and a desire to absorb Bach’s work in thoroughly modern guise and with ears attuned to the 21^st century, not the 18^th.

     Biret certainly makes The Well-Tempered Clavier her own. There are pluses and minuses – some matters of interpretation, others matters of opinion – throughout the four-and-three-quarter-hour span of this four-disc set. So what follows are some once-over-lightly thoughts.

     In Book I, the first fugue is rather stodgy, the scurrying second prelude is very attractive, and the third prelude is also well done. The extended fourth fugue is somewhat too resonant, largely because of Biret’s pedal use – it is worth pointing out that fugues never work quite as well on piano as on harpsichord, because piano sounds sustain even when the pedal is not overused; there is therefore some lack of clarity in the individual lines. Prelude No. 5 is bright and delicate, No. 6 dances bouncily with well-articulated triplets, and Fugue No. 6 has more clarity of the voices than do some others under Biret’s guidance. Fugue No. 7 is presented with an attractively light touch. The very extended eighth prelude-and-fugue combination is a highlight here: the prelude serious although somewhat over-resonant (again, from pedal use), and the fugue deeply emotional. The ninth prelude-and-fugue entry, shorter and lighter, provides an effective contrast. Prelude No. 13 has a pleasantly pastoral feeling, while the comparatively simple No. 15 is handled with attractive straightforwardness. The pleasant Prelude No. 20 is followed by a somewhat puzzling fugue that includes a difficult hand stretch above a held lower note – a comparatively easy effect on piano but a nearly impossible one on harpsichord, which could indicate that Bach intended at least parts of The Well-Tempered Clavier for pedal harpsichord or even organ. Prelude No. 21 is ebullient and nicely upbeat, with a pleasing stop-and-start quality that contrasts well with the more-deliberate rhythm of its paired fugue. As for No. 24, the longest of all 48 elements of The Well-Tempered Clavier, the very extended prelude's steady left-hand bass anchors it well, and the fugue's chromatic theme makes for a good contrast.

     In Book II, the first fugue is nicely paced and elegant, the second prelude has attractive dynamic contrasts, and in the third fugue, Biret successfully keeps individual left-hand notes crisp – although the harpsichord is still better than the piano for this material. In Prelude No. 4, the initial delicacy and wistfulness are effective, but as this piece proceeds, it relies too heavily on the piano's note-sustaining ability. Similarly, Prelude No. 5 features runs up and down the keyboard that are more effective on harpsichord. Fugue No. 8 is one of Biret’s few missteps: it is overly stodgy and tends to drag. But Prelude No. 9 contrasts well with it, being bright and lively, while in Fugue No. 10, the grace notes are especially nicely handled. Fugue No. 11 is jaunty, while the seriousness of Prelude No. 12 is well-communicated – although, as elsewhere, there is a bit too much pedal. The ornamentation in Fugue No. 13 is well-handled, but the bass in Fugue No. 14 is somewhat over-emphatic. Prelude No. 15 is bright and upbeat, No. 18 starts with dramatic flair, and No. 19 features gentle motion. The 20^th prelude-and-fugue combination is the most proto-Romantic of Biret’s interpretations: the dark sound relies heavily on the piano's sustaining of notes, and she handles the fugue similarly. Fugue No. 22 also relies heavily on sustained chordal notes, above and amid which an individual-note line moves stepwise. And Fugue No. 23 likewise depends on individual notes being heard against a sustained chordal background – an effective piano technique unavailable on instruments of Bach’s time. The final prelude proceeds pleasantly and gently and leads to an equally pleasant fugue featuring good balance between right and left hands.

     No listener will mistake Biret’s reading of The Well-Tempered Clavier for a historically informed performance, but no listener should deem it anything less than thoughtful. It would be easy for a performer to overdo the capabilities of a modern piano in order to give Bach’s work scope and sweep far beyond what Bach intended – while undermining its academic/educational elements, which are key to its structure and effective presentation. Biret is too thoughtful and intelligently restrained to misuse all the capabilities of the piano in music created for and within a very different sound world. As a result, she produces, in the main, a sensitive and admirably understated piano version of a work not written for piano but certainly capable of communicating its many pleasures and instructional elements via a keyboard whose capabilities Bach never knew.