(++++) BOLD STEPS AND MISSTEPS

Bizet: Carmen. Adèle Charvet, Julien Behr, Florie Valiquette, Alexandre Duhamel, Gwendoline Blondeel, Ambroisine Bré, Matthieu Walendzik, Attila Varga-Tóth, Nicolas Certenais, Halidou Nombre; Chœur & Orchestre de l’Opéra Royal conducted by Hervé Niquet. Château de Versailles Spectacles. $42.99 (3 CDs + DVD). 

     Everybody knows Carmen, and everybody loves the opera’s mixture of high drama (or melodrama) and gorgeous music. Or so it seems. But it was not always so. Bizet’s masterwork was something of a dud at its March 1875 première, and something of a shock, too: it is essentially a verismo opera, in effect the first of its kind – or at least a bridge between traditional 19^th-century dramatic operas and the verismo stage works that would become popular in the decades after Bizet’s death and remain so into the 20^th century. 

     Carmen was conceived as an opéra comique, which most decidedly does not mean “comic opera” but refers to a style akin to that of Singspiel, meaning that the musical numbers are separated by dialogue. Bizet’s work is thus in the line of succession that leads from works such as Mozart’s Die Entführung aus dem Serail to modern Broadway shows. But the moral “lowness” of the characters, which retrospectively seems forward-looking, is something that early audiences found shockingly depraved – as does the killing on stage of the principal character, which looks ahead to much later on-stage deaths in works such as Bernstein’s West Side Story. 

     Trying to re-create the opening night of Carmen is thus something of a fool’s errand, for the only way to approximate its effect would be to re-establish the entire society within which the première occurred – including the Victorian-era sense of morality and immorality plus the exigencies of unamplified voices in a venue lit by gas lamps. Making matters seemingly even closer to impossible is the lack of definitive information on what the March 1875 staging and costuming looked like – a few sketches survive, but they are scarcely comprehensive. Nevertheless, Hervé Niquet and a solid, often splendid cast undertook the near-impossible in performances of Carmen on January 14 and 22, 2025 – the results of which are now available for listening and viewing pleasure on a CD-plus-DVD release from Château de Versailles Spectacles. 

     The DVD is the real gem here, since the visual elements of the production have been so carefully and lovingly assembled and the entirety of the opera truly comes alive only when seen and heard as opera, which was once described by Franco Zeffirelli as “a planet where the muses work together, join hands and celebrate all the arts.” Certainly the working-together elements are abundantly present here, along with a truly impressive level of attention to detail, from the use of period instruments to the well-thought-out attempt to costume the characters appropriately for the time and to provide stage settings that change locales efficiently (not requiring the three half-hour intervals of the original production) while staying as true as possible to the appearances that the original audience would have encountered. 

     None of this would matter, of course, if the music were not handled with all the élan and panache it requires; but Niquet and the singers – certainly including Adèle Charvet as Carmen, Julien Behr as Don José, Florie Valiquette as Micaëla, and Alexandre Duhamel as Escamillo – treat the entire work as fresh and new, not as a museum piece, resulting in a commanding performance that is immensely enjoyable when heard on this release’s CDs, even without the visuals of the included DVD. This is an absolutely top-notch Carmen by any standards, independent of its attempt at historicity. 

     That said, the production itself makes one curious choice, and the presentation of the recording makes several. The notable performance oddity is the inclusion of the recitatives composed by Bizet’s friend, Ernest Guiraud, for an October 1875 performance of Carmen in Vienna. They are now standard in the vast majority of Carmen stagings, and there is nothing wrong with the recitatives themselves, which in a sense opened the door to the opera’s worldwide popularity: Bizet had died after the 33^rd performance of Carmen, but not before signing a contract for the Vienna production, and the recitatives were intended to position Carmen as a “grand opera” and bring it international prominence. They helped do just that – although, interestingly, the Vienna staging for which they were written actually ended up using a mixture of the original spoken dialogue and the newly composed recitatives. What is arguably a miscalculation in the Niquet-led performances is that the recitatives did not exist on the opera’s opening night, which the creative team behind the staging was otherwise at such pains to reproduce. The “first night” authenticity is thus sacrificed on the altar of giving the opera in a form with which the audience would be familiar. 

     Even setting that matter aside, there are some peculiar decisions involving the presentation and packaging of this otherwise exemplary recording. The enclosed 72-page booklet includes no libretto – only a bare-bones summary of the action that is less than exemplary. There is also no information on the singers, who are scarcely household names internationally. Instead, there are extensive notes on production elements, with essays both by and about Niquet, director Romain Gilbert, costume designer Christian Lacroix, set designer Antoine Fontaine, and lighting designer Hervé Gary. This material is very worthy indeed, and provides valuable insight into the manifest challenges of mounting the whole production – but omitting anything about the singers is an odd decision. For that matter, it would have been interesting to have something from the sound and camera side of things about the way in which this release overcame the considerable difficulties inherent in recording live opera performances – but there is nothing. 

     Nor is there anything explaining the musical “bonus” material included here. It consists of four alternative presentations of iconic elements of Carmen: the Séguédille and Chanson bohème, the extended scene between Carmen and Don José at Lillas Pastia’s tavern, and the very last scene of the opera. In these “bonus” elements, Carmen is sung by Éléonore Pancrazi and Don José by Kévin Amiel; the other singers are the same as in the main recording. The circumstances of the role changes are not explained anywhere. 

     On balance, this Carmen is notable on many levels and excellent on virtually all of them, and its studious re-creation, to the extent possible, of the opera’s opening night, is something of a marvel to behold. Peculiarities of presentation aside – although the inclusion of the Guiraud recitatives in this context is very difficult to ignore – this is a thoroughly satisfying recording that reproduces some of the excitement that Bizet and librettists Henri Meilhac and Ludovic Halévy certainly intended to deliver to the first-night audience, even if most of those initial attendees turned out not to be quite ready to receive it. This is a Carmen that straddles their time and ours – an affirmation of the now-firmly-established prominence of Bizet’s masterpiece within the operatic canon.

(++++) AS PERSONAL AS POSSIBLE

Busoni: Fantasia nach J.S. Bach, BV 253; Bach/Busoni: Partita No. 2 in D minor, BWV 1004—Chaconne; Bach/Rachmaninoff: Partita No. 3 in E, BWV 1006—Prelude, Gavotte, Gigue; Bach/Gabriele Leporatti: Partita No. 3 in E, BWV 1006—Loure, Menuet I & II, Bourrée; Rachmaninoff: Piano Sonata No. 2. Gabriele Leporatti, piano. Etera Classics. $19.99. 

     A major attraction of a new Etera Classics CD featuring Gabriele Leporatti is the chance to delve deeply not only into musical creation but also into musical re-creation: the thoughts that go through pianists’ minds when encountering keyboard works by earlier composers, and the way those thoughts manifest themselves in reproduction of those works and, in some cases, in recomposed – not merely performed – versions of the earlier material. Both Busoni and Rachmaninoff were distinguished pianist/composers, and both thought deeply about Bach – who never saw or wrote for the modern piano – and found ways to bring the Baroque master’s works into their own 20^th-century era. That Bach’s music continues to intrigue musicians in similar ways is shown by Leporatti’s own compositional contribution to this CD. 

     The personalized elements of this piano recital cover considerably more than a century. Busoni’s Fantasia nach J.S. Bach, BV 253 (wrongly designated “BWV 253” on this recording, which would actually make it a Bach work!) was created by Busoni in 1909, after his father’s death. This is thus a highly personal work for Busoni on two levels: that of a tribute to Bach and that of a memorial to his father, to whom the work is dedicated. It uses three Bach pieces as sources: the chorale variations Christ, der du bist der helle Tag, BWV 766, and the chorale preludes Lob sei dem allmächtigen Gott, BWV 602, and Gottes Sohn ist kommen, BWV 703. A work of searching emotionalism with a very strong Romantic feeling about it, the piece in no way attempts to bring Bach’s aural environment onto a keyboard different from the ones for which he wrote – rather, it tries to transport Bach’s Lutheranism into a much later and already more-secular age, seeking meaning on a different level by incorporating fragments of Bach’s chorales into a deeply felt work that treats Bach’s themes as building blocks for an emotionally meaningful memorial. 

     Leporatti leans fully into the Romanticism of Busoni’s Fantasia and, indeed, keeps an apt Romantic (and post-Romantic) sound in all the works on this disc, with lots of pedal and a series of grand gestures and dramatic emphases throughout. The second work on the CD, Busoni’s version of the Chaconne from Bach’s D minor Partita, BWV 1004, is much better-known than the Fantasia but is clearly cut from the same cloth: it is very pianistic, very strongly emotional, and very weighty in a manner different from that of Bach’s original – thoroughly un-Bachian in sensibility and sound but sharing an underlying level of communicativeness with its source. Leporatti’s highly dramatic handling of the material, including rubato that fits Busoni’s milieu but is quite foreign to Bach’s, makes the work strongly declamatory in ways untrue to its time of origin but quite fitting to its time of reconstitution. 

     Rachmaninoff’s handling of Bach in his 1933 arrangement of the first, third and sixth movements from the Partita, BWV 1006, contrasts interestingly with Busoni’s expansive transcriptions. Rachmaninoff is much truer to Bach’s esthetic than Busoni is: the underlying Baroque material is kept clearly on display even as the coloristic effects, of which there are many, dominate the overall sound of the movements. Leporatti here shows his delicate side, never trying to make the piano sound like a harpsichord, much less like the solo violin for which the Partitas were written – which in any case is impossible – but bringing the contrapuntal elements of Bach’s writing more to the fore and not using deeply resonant chords to enlarge or obscure them, as in the Busoni material. The Rachmaninoff transcriptions are more immediately engaging than Busoni’s, less inclined to monumentality bordering on turgidity – and are followed by some interesting transcription work that cements Leporatti’s own personal connection to this material from a compositional standpoint, as he offers his own versions of the second, fourth and fifth movements of this Prelude. This could easily come across as overreaching on Leporatti’s part, but instead emerges as a journey through a kind of expressiveness that differs both from Rachmaninoff’s and from Busoni’s: there is gentle lyrical flow in all three movements, bringing in elements akin to Busoni’s expansiveness while generally retaining Rachmaninoff’s focus on ensuring that Bach’s foundational forms and melodies remain clearly audible and in the forefront. The movements constitute an étude of sorts, an exercise in pianism as well as transcription, and proffer Leporatti’s feelings about interpreting this Bach music in ways that go beyond simply playing it. 

     Leporatti then concludes the CD with Rachmaninoff’s Piano Sonata No. 2, which is not Bach-derived but which bookends the disc by showcasing Rachmaninoff’s personal soundworld and emotional expressiveness in much the way that Busoni’s Fantasia puts his on display. Leporatti plays the second (1931) version of the sonata, which is shorter than the first (1913) and technically somewhat simplified. Listeners familiar with the work tend strongly to prefer one version or the other; but in this context, what matters most is the emotional intensity – some of it over-the-top, as is often the case in Rachmaninoff – and the way in which, in the context of this CD, the music complements that of Busoni and shows the very considerable distance, on multiple levels, between Bach and both of the later composers. In truth, the Rachmaninoff sonata does not fit especially well with the rest of the material on the disc, but that fact simply highlights the very strong personal elements that run through the entire CD: this recording is as much a journey into the mind and heart of Leporatti as it is one into the thinking and feeling of Busoni and Rachmaninoff regarding Bach and their own pianistic environments. In some senses, this is a production that will be most appreciated by pianists, for whom its intricate web of transcription and interpretation will be especially insightful. The recording does, however, reach out effectively to a more-general audience, allowing listeners to experience reinterpretations of Bach not only within the context of the 20^th century but also within that of the 21^st, in which the Baroque master quite clearly still maintains relevance and meaningfulness.

(++++) INTRICATE AND INDULGENT

Mahler: Symphonies Nos.1-9. Czech Philharmonic conducted by Semyon Bychkov. Pentatone. $74.99 (11 CDs). 

     Mahler cycles tend to be multi-year affairs: the vast performance requirements of his symphonies and the demands they make on conductors and orchestra members alike usually mean the works are recorded over a considerable period of time. Semyon Bychkov’s sequence on Pentatone is no exception: the performances date from 2018 to 2025. In one sense, though, they date back much, much further – to September 19, 1908, when Mahler himself led the Czech Philharmonic in the first-ever performance of his Symphony No. 7 (which was not very well received, a response that dogs that specific work to this day). 

     Even though, obviously, not a single member of the 1908 Czech Philharmonic is alive today, the orchestra retains a kind of collective connection to and understanding of Mahler’s music – a characteristic of institutional memory that preserves the special affinity of all first-rate ensembles for specific pieces of music and particular composers. Certainly the responsiveness of the orchestra to Bychkov, its chief conductor and music director since the start of the 2018-2019 season, proclaims the musicians’ understanding of Mahler and their comfort with his many often-mercurial moods and the compositional elements through which he expressed them. The sustained elegance of playing throughout this 11-CD set – again, even though the specific performers within and working with the orchestra differ to some extent – is one of the major reasons for its solidity and its success as a knowing and very thoughtful presentation of music that remains notoriously difficult both to perform and to comprehend fully. And that is despite some packaging that is not thoughtful, notably the omission of any sung texts – even though they were included when these performances were released individually. Pentatone’s decision to leave them out is unworthy of the excellence of what Bychkov and the Czech Philharmonic bring to this undertaking. 

     A single word to encompass so vast a cycle is virtually impossible to articulate, but if one wishes to choose one here, that word would be “heartfelt.” However careful and well-balanced the playing, however eloquent the sectional balance, however emotive the expressiveness within individual movements and in the totality of each symphony, what stands out here is the emotional (not merely technical) attractiveness of the Mahler landscape: all the beauty of sound, care of sectional balance, and thoughtfulness of pacing are at the service of Mahler’s depth of feeling and the ways in which it changes – and does not change – from the first symphony to the ninth (the lack of a Mahler Tenth in this compilation is regrettable). 

     Inevitably, Bychkov’s cycle can be nitpicked – anyone’s can – but the sheer sweep with which Bychkov approaches the individual symphonies and the totality of the nine is such that small complaints here and there simply seem churlish. Giving great credit for small touches as well as the overall approach seems much more reasonable. Bychkov really lets the music breathe: his performances do not drag, but he allows them a level of expansiveness that results in multiple symphonies lasting well beyond the usual 80-minute length of a CD – Nos. 2, 3, 6, 8 and 9 are all 85-plus minutes long (curiously, while Nos. 3 and 8 are split onto two CDs, the others are not; and No. 8 would actually have fit on a single disc). 

     The willingness to let the music expand and breathe extends to and indeed is occasioned by Bychkov’s approach to the individual elements that create the collective effect. In No. 1, for example, the first movement opens quietly, a bit slowly, so the woodland scene emerges gradually, the main song theme sounding very sweet. Throughout, this is a broad reading, the wayfarer (Mahler used the word in the sense of “journeyman” rather than someone just gadding about idly) meandering through the fields rather than being in any particular hurry to get anywhere. Careful sectional balance is evident throughout the symphony, with lyrical elements brought to the fore while Bychkov handles the discursive elements of the finale by keeping its momentum strong and managing the balance among sections carefully. 

     No. 2 features soprano Christiane Karg, alto Elisabeth Kulman, the Prague Philharmonic Choir, and particularly felicitous handling of recorded sound: as noted, all 87 minutes are on a single disc, a feat thought impossible without diminution of aural quality until just a few years ago (and one rarely attempted even today: virtually all CDs still run 80 minutes or less). The tremendous strength of the tone-poem-like first movement creates a slight disappointment in the contrasting Andante moderato that follows, which is gentle, on the slow side, and, as a whole, very emotional and almost cloying – a bit too overstated for the material. But this is one of those nitpicks whose significance fades in light of the many excellences of Bychkov’s approach, including the lovely flow of the strings in this movement and throughout the symphony. One thing that Bychkov gets right, again and again, is silence, which is as crucial in Mahler as are the massive gouts of sound that he sometimes demands. The near-silence at the start of the fourth movement greatly adds to its effect, and in the finale, Bychkov does not hesitate to descend into complete silence – as when the music becomes still before the solo trumpet is first heard, thus conveying real anticipation of what is to come. Mahler’s use of massed vs. individual instruments – the amazing way he brings chamber-music effects to works using a large orchestra – is especially clearly conveyed here, and makes the work’s conclusion highly effective. 

     Bychkov’s cycle proceeds with deep understanding throughout. In Symphony No. 3, it includes mezzo-soprano Catriona Morison with the Prague Philharmonic Choir and the young voices of the aptly named “Pueri gaudentes.” It is the sheer vastness of Mahler’s Third, his longest symphony, that Bychkov explores thoroughly convincingly. He beautifully grasps the solo-vs.-ensemble elements of the score, its individualism paired with gigantism, its extended pauses (notably amid the sections of the first movement and at key points in the finale) contrasted with its headlong forward progress. The brass and percussion sections of the Czech Philharmonic are simply wonderful here, as also in Symphony No. 2 – abetted by a recording that picks out individual instruments to perfection while allowing full-orchestra massed sound to flower unimpeded. Symphony No. 4 is well-paced, well-played, and well-considered throughout, with a just-right fade into the ineffable at its conclusion. In the finale, soprano Chen Reiss’ singing does something crucial by sounding childlike, unforced and naïve – akin, verbally, to having the strings use less vibrato than is common in performances today. The effect is near-magical and is right in line with Mahler’s child’s vision of Heaven. In Symphony No. 5, especially at the end of the second movement, the exceptional clarity of the recorded sound is again noteworthy, and the movement’s ending, wherein the music simply disintegrates, is highly effective. The Adagietto is a touch too quick – surprising in this set of usually deliberately paced performances – and the finale comes across as a bit piecemeal, with Bychkov not quite knitting it together. Again, though, those are nitpicks, balanced by Bychkov’s close attention to the last movement’s slight lumbering quality and his understanding that it only seems straightforward. 

     The later symphonies all get equally thoughtful, elegant explorations with far more high points than lower ones (there are no truly “low” points at all in this cycle). No. 6 is vast and heartbroken and enormous both in scale and in emotion, the astonishing finale – which here runs 32 minutes, almost as long as the opening movement of Symphony No. 3 – exploring all the feelings and concerns and psychological depth that have come before, until eventually collapsing with a level of despair that makes it quite understandable for some people to have labeled this symphony as Mahler’s “Tragic.” No. 7, which musicologist Deryck Cooke (who did what is still the best and most idiomatic completion of the Tenth) notably described as a "mad, mad, mad, mad symphony,” makes plenty of sense here, being built around the two Nachtmusik movements and the central realm of shadows (Schattenhaft) to a finale with many parallels to that of No. 5: the apparent (but not actual) straightforwardness and the simple tempo designation (Allegro in No. 5, Allegro ordinario in No. 7) that belies the underlying complexity of the material. 

     Symphony No. 8 is as massive here – and as detailed – as any audience could wish. Here the vocal performers are sopranos Sarah Wegener, Kateřina Kněžiková, and Miriam Kutrowatz; mezzo-sopranos Stefanie Irányi and Jennifer Johnston; tenor David Butt Philip; baritone Adam Plachetka; bass David Steffens; and the Prague Philharmonic Choir, Czech Philharmonic Choir of Brno, and Prague Philharmonic Children’s Choir. The gigantism of the forces is clear, and their unified and very strong merged and melded sound is impressive at all times. But here as everywhere in this cycle, Bychkov remains attuned to the contrasting delicacy of individual elements of the symphony, the care with which Mahler draws attention to individual voices and individual instruments, the chamber-like arrangement of certain sections whose orchestration is carefully designed to complement and contrast with the use of gigantic numbers of singers and instrumentalists elsewhere. Thus, the evanescence of the ascent to Heaven in Blicket auf becomes a balance of and equivalence to the material that succeeds it and ends the symphony, in which the totality of both Heaven and Earth seems to resound with grandeur, hope, and a kind of peace that truly passeth all understanding. 

     Where Mahler could and would go after this in his Ninth (and Tenth – not to mention Das Lied von der Erde) has always seemed difficult to fathom. Bychkov takes the overwhelming quiet (a phrase that fits Mahler’s Eighth as aptly as “overwhelming sound”) into new realms with Symphony No. 9, which he handles as a delicate balancing act between the joy-and-sorrow of earthly existence, on the one hand, and the resignation-and-peace of eventual Abschied, on the other. The symphony is dynamic and dramatic, balanced between utter despair and a frantic attempt (in the Rondo-Burleske) to force gaiety into a world wholly lacking in it. Eventually, Bychkov guides these incompatible elements just where Mahler wanted to take them: to understanding, acceptance, wistfulness, regret, and a level of unsurpassed calm that contrasts vividly with the glories proclaimed at the conclusions of the Symphonies Nos. 2 and 8. It is a stunning capstone for the entire Mahler cycle by Bychkov and the Czech Philharmonic, and an affirmation, if one is needed, of the depth of understanding that this orchestra (through continuity) and this conductor (through intuition, study and deep understanding) bring to some of the most complex and deeply meaningful symphonic music ever written.

(++++) LIGHTS! CAMERA! SAXES!

A Cinematic Suite. Quintessence Saxophone Quintet (Uli Lettermann, soprano saxophone; Jonas Buschsieweke, alto saxophone; Roland Danyi and Thorsten Floth, tenor saxophones; Anatole Gomersall, baritone saxophone). Paschen Records. $20.99. 

     The importance of music to the moviegoing experience tends to be underestimated. Film is a visual medium, to be sure, but the extent to which music underlines, expands, comments upon and enhances what is seen on screen can be highly significant. And some great or near-great composers have been well aware of this: Shostakovich, Prokofiev, even Saint-Saëns (in 1908!). Classically trained composers have had significant impact on the film world even if their concert-hall works have largely fallen into obscurity: Erich Wolfgang Korngold, Alfred Newman, Miklós Rózsa, Dimitri Tiomkin. And a few names crop up consistently with regard to “great film music,” whether or not the music itself can be described as “great” (an arguable adjective in any case): John Williams, Ennio Morricone, Henry Mancini, Elmer Bernstein, Max Steiner. 

     Because movies are mostly a popular medium rather than an esoteric one, much successful film music is rather forgettable, serving its esthetic purpose without calling on filmgoers’ emotions or intellects in more than a superficial way. However, because of its comparative harmonic simplicity and accessibility, movie music can be an interesting jumping-off point for creation of more-elaborate material designed to reach out well beyond the purposes for which the music was originally intended. And that brings us to A Cinematic Suite, a very clever and essentially through-composed compilation of film music arranged into a 10-movement, 51-minute sequence for saxophone quintet that can be heard simply as music or listened to as its own quasi-cinematic creation by following the “screenplay” that is nicely outlined in the accompanying booklet. 

     The whole project is unusual, even strange, but very intriguing to hear – the playing is excellent throughout – and genuinely involving purely as music. It helps, of course, if listeners know the underlying material that has been arranged, transcribed, expanded and otherwise modified by two members of the Quintessence Saxophone Quintet, Uli Lettermann (responsible for six of the tracks) and Anatole Gomersall (the remaining four). It is a fair assumption that most potential audiences for this Paschen Records release will know most of the foundational material – but certain that not everyone will know all of it. The track sequence, with titles sometimes taken directly from the films that serve as sources and sometimes modified from them, starts with Toccata & Fugue & Funk in D minor (Bach/Lettermann); continues with Star Peace (John Williams/Lettermann); and then moves to Godfather (Nino Rota/Lettermann); Game of Thrones (Ramin Djawadi/Gomersall); and Gabriel’s Oboe (Ennio Morricone/Lettermann). The Morricone work, from the 1986 Robert de Niro vehicle The Mission, is one piece that may not be as well-known to listeners as the other music here. Nor will the track that follows necessarily be generally familiar: Tank! It is a Yoko Kano/Gomersall movement using the theme of the 2001 film Cowboy Bebop, an anime movie based on a 26-episode series with which listeners may or may not be acquainted. 

     The Quintessence Saxophone Quintet next moves to Maria (Leonard Bernstein/Gomersall); Indiana Jones (John Williams/Lettermann); Mission: Impossible (Lalo Schifrin/Lettermann); and then, for a two-minute finale and wrapup of the entire suite, A Cinematic March assembled and arranged by Gomersall from material by Alfred Newman, Henry Mancini, and Williams. 

     Much of A Cinematic Suite is exhilarating, and some of it is surprisingly moving: the variety of sounds that these five saxophonists produce is impressive, and the superficial but still evocative warmth and lyricism offered here and there come through to very fine effect. It is difficult to categorize just what this suite is, musically speaking: it is not quite film music, although film music pervades it; it is not quite classical music, although venerable classical techniques are used throughout, and the saxophonists’ classical bona fides come through consistently; it is not quite popular music, although the works on which it is built are drawn from a medium explicitly intended for popular consumption rather than concert-hall enjoyment. Listeners only moderately familiar with saxophones will likely be surprised at the instruments’ range both of notes and of communicative capability, and the CD can certainly be heard as a thoroughgoing exploration of saxophonic virtuosity. But what is interesting is that A Cinematic Suite, created for saxophone quintet, manages to transcend both the cinema and the writing/arrangement for these specific instruments. It is well and intelligently conceived, skillfully put together and performed, and offers considerable enjoyment throughout. It may be hard to explain just what this suite is, but it is not difficult at all to perceive that listening to it is a pleasurable experience – and a rather unusual one – that not only incorporates a considerable amount of music for movies but also transcends the music’s original reason for being.

(++++) CHILDREN (AND ADULTS) OF THE NIGHT

Mr. Chow’s Night Market. By Emily Sun Li. Illustrated by Yu Ting Cheng. Penguin Workshop. $19.99. 

     It is difficult to convey just how clever the many clevernesses are in Mr. Chow’s Night Market. You have to see them to believe them – which is the point, or part of it. Emily Sun Li beautifully designs a story that rests on the notion of “day people” vs. “night people” and only at the end turns out to rest as well on a fascinating real-world element of life in Taiwan. Yu Ting Cheng delightfully illustrates the narrative in a way that not only brings the basic story to life but also enhances it by expanding characters and character traits to which the author never refers but that, once seen, appear absolutely integral to the book and indicate that the whole thing would be a significantly lesser experience without them. The result is a truly outstanding collaboration and a tale that carries surprises far from its underlying, fairly mundane day-vs.-night underpinning – right to a final page revealing that even the characters’ names are carefully created to become an expanded element of enjoyment. 

     It all starts with Mr. Chow – whose name, it is revealed at the back of the book, derives from the Mandarin Chinese word for “supermarket.” He runs a store called “Trader Chow’s,” an amusing play on “Trader Joe’s” in addition to an apt designation in and of itself. Being a night owl, Mr. Chow has to drag himself to work every morning, and the first part of the book shows him struggling to manage the expected and necessary elements of shopkeeping, getting into tiredness-related trouble and largely ignoring his grandchildren, who really want to help him. The middle section of the book has Mr. Chow talking with his neighbors (all of whose names also derive from suitable Mandarin Chinese words) about his difficulty getting going in the morning and his troubles keeping the supermarket running smoothly. The selection of neighbors is one of the many carefully crafted and clever elements of Mr. Chow’s Night Market: they are a baker who works super-early, a nurse whose services may be needed anytime during the day or night, and a movie-theater usher whose job requires availability whenever showings of films occur. 

     Clearly Mr. Chow can learn a lesson from these variously time-sensitive people and jobs; and he does, beginning a frenzy of nighttime activity – when he is at his best – that transforms his supermarket into one that will open after dark. And now his grandchildren, always eager to help, are welcome to do so – and they do, cementing the neighborhood-and-family focus of the entire book. 

     Changes complete – including the setup of food stalls outside the main supermarket building – Mr. Chow and his grandchildren wait to see what will happen when people discover the “night market.” They do not have to wait long: a trickle of curiosity turns into a river and, soon enough, “an ocean of children and families,” as the supermarket and its surrounding area become a gathering place for the entire community – not only a place to buy things but also a nighttime communal experience to be enjoyed by everyone. 

     One of the many delights of the book is the author’s end note explaining the foundation of the story: a real “first night market in Taiwan” that dates to 1899, still operates today, and is now just one of many such establishments. But that is not all: real Taiwanese night markets do not feature adorably sleepy pomelos, dozing turnips, happy and bright-eyed crabs, or the other characters scattered about Mr. Chow’s Night Market and lending every page, every bit of verbiage, an element of delight and gentle fantasy. Indeed, the only two-page spread in the book with no words is one of its highlights: early on, Mr. Chow’s tiredness and attempts to get everything done himself while struggling to stay alert result in a tremendously chaotic and very funny mess that is exceptionally amusing in part because the fresh produce, the prepared snacks, the shopping carts, the food containers, even the overhead lightbulb are drawn with big eyes and expressive faces that clearly reflect the alarm they all feel as Mr. Chow’s unfortunate experience reverberates throughout the store. The detail of the illustrations, which were done with pencil and paper as well as software, is simply delightful: even the anthropomorphically personified sun and moon, unsurprising background characters in books such as this one, have wonderfully rendered, individualized personas that contribute to the overall atmosphere. Mr. Chow’s Night Market succeeds on all levels: story, illustrations, real-world tie-ins, and enough detail both in narrative and in pictures so that children will discover new forms of enjoyment on every reading of the book, including the many re-readings it will deservedly receive.