(+++) THE VIDEO VERSIONS

Brahms: Symphony No. 1; Dvořák: Symphony No. 9; Sibelius: Symphony No. 5; Nielsen: Symphony No. 3. Danish National Symphony Orchestra conducted by Thomas Dausgaard. C Major DVD. $29.99.

Richard Strauss: Lieder—Befreit, Winterliebe, Traum durch die Dämmerung, Gesang der Apollopriesterin; “Arabella” excerpts—“Mein Elemer!” and final scene from Act I; Eine Alpensinfonie. Renée Fleming, soprano; Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra conducted by Christian Thielemann. Opus Arte DVD. $24.99.

Ola Gjeilo: Piano Improvisations. 2L Blu-Ray+SACD. $34.99.

      These three fine recordings raise anew a perpetual question about classical music in video formats: what is the value of adding the visuals to the music?  There are three rather different answers here.  In the case of the DVD of four mainstream symphonies conducted by Thomas Dausgaard, the only real benefit of video is the so-called “bonus material” – here, several interviews in which Dausgaard discusses the concerts at which he presented these well-known works, his general feelings about collaboration with the very fine Danish National Symphony Orchestra, and his thoughts about the music itself.  Fans of Dausgaard will no doubt appreciate hearing his insights into the music and the performers who bring it to vibrant life; indeed, the DVD as a whole is a fans-of-Dausgaard production, perhaps of more appeal in Europe (where Dausgaard is better known) than in North America.  The performances themselves are very well done, with Dausgaard being especially sensitive to the flow of the Sibelius and of Nielsen’s “Sinfonia Espansiva” – whose last movement requires careful presentation (which it receives here) so as not to be something of an anticlimax.  The Brahms and Dvořák symphonies sound fine, too, but the interpretations are basically solid, middle-of-the-road ones with the requisite amount of excitement and lyricism – not bad at all, but nothing really special.  Indeed, all four performances are something short of revelatory in musical terms, although they do show that the Danish orchestra has become a world-class one that can play idiomatically not only in Scandinavian music but also in works from other cultures.  A listener – that is, a listener-and-viewer – who wants Dausgaard’s readings of these symphonies, with the conductor’s well-spoken commentary, will enjoy this DVD; but none of the performances is of unequalled value, and none really requires visualization to have its full effect.

      The situation is somewhat different with part of the Richard Strauss DVD featuring soprano Renée Fleming: the part showcasing Fleming herself.  Fleming is a superb interpreter of Strauss vocal works – her performances of Four Last Songs are the best to be heard from any singer today – and there is something to be said for seeing as well as hearing the way she brings the music vividly to life, exploring its nuances and making it very much her own.  Of the four songs here, Befreit (Op. 39, No. 4) is the deepest and most moving, although there are beauties and even profundities in all four.  Even better is Fleming’s work in excerpts from Arabella, one of her signature roles, which she handles with strength and intensity – although here the high involvement level of her dramatic performance is somewhat at odds with the elegant concert setting (and clothing) in which it is delivered.  This is a generalized problem with opera in concert, and therefore with concert versions of operas or opera excerpts on DVD: what a viewer sees is at variance with what is being sung.  Nevertheless, Fleming is entrancing enough to watch so that her fans will enjoy her performances here.  The rest of the DVD, though, does not benefit in any particular way from visual elements: Christian Thielemann is a fine Strauss conductor, and the Vienna Philharmonic is a superlative orchestra for Strauss (as it is for just about every composer).  Eine Alpensinfonie is lush and dynamic and is played with sumptuous warmth and as much drama as the score holds – but a viewer who closes his or her eyes will enjoy the performance as much as one who keeps them open.  Perhaps more, since Thielemann and the orchestra beautifully conjure up Strauss’ alpine journey, and the trek is clearer in the mind’s eye without the distraction of seeing the conductor and orchestral musicians at the Salzburg Festival in evening dress.

      Ola Gjeilo’s Piano Improvisations provides an unusual opportunity to decide for oneself whether the visual or nonvisual approach to this music is more effective.  By combining an audio SACD with a Blu-Ray video disc, this release gives listeners interested in Gjeilo’s music (which is something of an acquired taste) two different ways to experience it.  Born and raised in Norway, Gjeilo has studied both classical music and jazz and is often influenced by film music as well.  Of the 18 works recorded for Piano Improvisations, three are for three pianos and one is for two instruments – with Gjeilo improvising all the parts as they are layered atop each other.  Because this is a CD of improvisations, the visual impact of watching Gjeilo is higher than it would be if he were simply performing works that were fully written down, although the aural impact of the Blu-Ray and SACD media is pretty much the same: 2L makes exceptionally high-quality recordings.  Unlike many contemporary composers, Gjeilo has a different sound in different works, and his improvisations reflect that, ranging from the joyous Prelude and Seven Eight (two of the three-piano pieces) to the graceful Susanne to the expansive The Great Plains to the tender Heart to Heart.  The music in that last piece (which concludes the recordings) tends to wear its heart on its sleeve, and indeed, Gjeilo sometimes comes across as rather superficial – a sort of 21^st-century salonist.  But he is an expert pianist, eliciting a wide range of sound and color from his instrument, and the three works here that are adaptations of his choral pieces sound just as fine on piano as do the pieces originally composed for it.  In the final analysis, the Blu-Ray disc will be of more interest to those who already know and like Gjeilo’s music and who want to see (not just hear) what the composer himself makes of it as he takes it through its many paces.  For familiarizing oneself with the music on its own terms, the SACD is a better choice, lacking the distraction inherent in watching Gjeilo perform and giving listeners a chance to decide whether this is a composer/performer from whom they want to hear, and perhaps see, more in the future.

(++++) FAIRY TALES REVISITED

Cardboard. By Doug TenNapel. Graphix/Scholastic. $12.99.

Heron’s Path. By Alethea Eason. Spectacle. $9.95.

      The usual tropes of fairy tales – mysterious strangers, contact with the otherworldly, transformations both internal and external, and of course good vs. evil among both humans and supernatural beings – are constantly rethought and reworked by modern authors, testimony to the continuing power of the old stories and storytelling methods, and (for those of a Jungian bent) to the archetypes on which fairy tales and similar stories of magic and wonder draw.  With very different approaches, these two books dip into the fairy-tale universe and look at elements of it in ways intended to appeal to worldly 21^st-century young readers.

      Doug TenNapel’s Cardboard has multiple fairy-tale elements, but it has more heart and soul than many traditional fairy tales, plus excellent drawing (with coloring by Der-Shing Helmer) and pacing matching that of TenNapel’s Ghostopolis and significantly surpassing that of his Bad Island.  There is the down-on-his-luck protagonist (here, a carpenter named Mike who cannot find work because of the stagnant economy); the mysterious purveyor of magic (here, “Old Man Gideon,” who sells cheap toys and offers a certain cardboard box to Mike for exactly the 78 cents that Mike has left in his pocket); the magical rules that must not be broken (Mike must return any leftover cardboard scraps and must not ask Old Man Gideon for more cardboard); the quest (external, through a cardboard city, and internal, through acceptance of the pain of loss and therefore the ability to move on in life); and so on.  Mike is a widower who is trying, with little success, to do all the right things for his son, Cam, whose birthday is the occasion for Mike getting the cardboard box.  Next door to Mike and Cam lives Tina, an attractive woman who is clearly interested in Mike – an interest he does not reciprocate, because he still mourns Carol, his wife.  The “bad guy” in the story is a boy named Marcus, who – with his friend, Pink Eye – lies, steals and manipulates in order to get the magic cardboard for himself and use it to create an army of cardboard slaves that will worship him as their king.  Marcus has his wealthy parents wrapped proverbially around his finger, and manages to get them to leave him home alone so he can proceed with his selfish and ill-fated plans.  Standing against him are Mike, Cam and a cardboard boxer named Bill, the first creation of Mike and Cam and a worthy, upstanding character who wants, like Pinocchio, to be a real person (he even studies Plato).  Mike bypasses the “no more cardboard” rule by using his carpentry abilities to make something that will make more cardboard, which is sort of like wishing for more wishes.  As in any fairy tale, this rule-bending, although done for good motives, is sure to end badly, and so it does – when Marcus steals the “factory” and uses it to start constructing a cardboard world reflecting his own twisted mind.  The story sounds rather silly when described in plot points, but it does not play out that way, because TenNapel keeps pulling bits of reality into the fairy-tale world: Mike rescues Tina from a cardboard monster, and she says he is her hero but that that isn’t enough after the way he has been treating her; Cam builds small cardboard replicas of both his parents, and the cardboard Carol plays a significant role in getting Mike to look inward and move on; Marcus eventually looks inward, too, and realizes – in a key scene – that his own fears and uncertainties are reflected throughout the cardboard kingdom and that he isn’t really much of a human being (all right, this isn’t particularly realistic, but it makes good dramatic sense).  Bill’s eventual heroism – and the clever end-of-book twist resulting from it – are high points.  So is what happens when Marcus confesses to his father – a scene that leads, in a neat buttoning-up, to a rapprochement in Marcus’ family and a perfectly reasonable job offer for Mike.  There is humor scattered throughout the book, too, as when Old Man Gideon spins a thoroughly ridiculous story about where the magic cardboard originated and when Bill, getting the worst of it in a fight with another cardboard boxer, is asked by Cam, “How many fingers do you see?” and replies, “Nevada.”  Most important of all, this is a graphic novel, and the graphics are remarkable, whether TenNapel is presenting the standard “ka-pow,” “krakk” and “wa-bump” of comic books, showing a close-up of a character’s eyes with the rest of the panel black, creating a horde of monstrous hermit crabs, moving the characters through an increasingly surreal scene of a cardboard city and forest, showing a two-page spread of Bill and Mike fleeing, or producing multiple super-dark panels in which a cloudburst destroys the cardboard evildoers – which, like all cardboard entities, are ruined by water.  The genuine family and interpersonal issues in Cardboard give the book its strength, even as the fairy-tale elements give it its resonance – and the art, with its clever use of shadows and shading, its understanding of comic-book traditions and its use or bending of them, gives it visual power and striking effectiveness.

      A traditionally written novel with fewer surprises but with its heart equally in the right place, Alethea Eason’s (+++) Heron’s Path combines a fairy-tale transformation with the traditional notions of very different girls, raised as sisters, whose fates are intertwined – and of a supernatural conflict between good and evil beings.  The girls are Katy and Celeste, teenagers whose grandfather was married to Olena, a medicine woman from a mysterious tribe called the Nanchuti.  Olena still lives on the farm across the river Talum from where the girls live with their parents.  The old woman is something of a spirit guide: “Time passed for Olena the way trees grow,” says Katy, who narrates the book, “and both Celeste and I forgot about the minutes ticking away.”  Katy and Celeste do not always get along, and Celeste’s personality bewilders Katy: Celeste is usually on her best behavior around adults, but not when Katy and she are alone together; and Celeste hears voices that seem to call her into the woods, where she goes frequently (“‘I have another home, Katy, and they want me to go there,’” says Celeste at one point).  There is obviously something magical about Celeste, and it will obviously fall to Katy to find out what it is and set Celeste free to fulfill her destiny; and in fact this is exactly what happens.  But if the progress of the plot is not particularly surprising, the sensitivity with which the story is told and the genuineness of the emotional connection between the sisters make Heron’s Path a satisfying read.  As for the evil and the conflict that bring the book its tension, these exist in two ways.  In the real-world aspect, Katy and her family represent settlers bringing potentially destructive change to the old Nanchuti way of life (the book is set in the early 1900s).  In the supernatural sphere, the Nanchuti ancestors, the Old Ones, are at war with dark spirits called wei-ni-la, and each of the girls has a role to play in that ongoing battle.  This is a short book, almost a novella rather than a novel, but it is a richly told story whose resonance is independent of its length.  As different as Heron’s Path is from Cardboard, both the books owe their success to certain elements that they have in common – specifically, the placement of everyday family issues within a world where fairy-tale and mythic elements coexist uneasily with the mundane.  And both works succeed in large part because they focus primarily on how the supernatural affects the lives of ordinary people – people much like the young readers that both authors are seeking to attract.

(++++) DELIGHTS AND DANGERS

The Bellwether Revivals. By Benjamin Wood. Viking. $26.95.

      A big, determinedly old-fashioned, engrossing novel that reads like an expansive Victorian indulgence updated for the 21^st century, The Bellwether Revivals is a book for readers who like to immerse themselves in an author’s world and simply soak in it for a good long time.  Reading in some ways like a 400-plus-page version of The Fall of the House of Usher, Benjamin Wood’s novel is firmly set in the present but consistently feels as if it is taking place in a slightly skewed alternative reality.  The characters have depth – more of it than those in many of its Victorian forebears – but they feel slightly unworldly, a touch difficult to grasp or pin down.  And that becomes a large part of their charm and the pleasure of the story itself.

      It is not, at bottom, a complex story: an outsider named Oscar Lowe, having surmounted his mean-streets background, is working in the storied city of Cambridge, England, when he encounters members of the old, wealthy and insular Bellwether family, and becomes enmeshed in their close-knit group of acquaintances and their faintly sinister interests (this does sound like Poe’s Usher, doesn’t it?).  Those interests, which revolve around music, are part of the initial bond between Oscar and Iris Bellwether and, more chillingly, represent the genius – or mania – of Iris’ brother, Eden.  The brother and sister have a very close and faintly unnatural relationship that is sure to end badly (more echoes of Poe there), and their hangers-on are swept into their orbit by the sheer force of the Bellwether personalities and determination.

      At the core of the novel is the power of music – what that power is, who can invoke it, and what its limits are.  This is heady and sophisticated material for a 21^st-century novel, and Wood handles it very well indeed.  Early on, Eden describes Iris as a “Cognitivist” with “some very cold-hearted ideas about how music works,” contrasting her with himself as an “Emotivist” and a believer in the notion that music not only has charms that can soothe the savage breast but also has genuine healing power – power that Eden believes himself capable of harnessing through the theories of Johann Mattheson (1681-1764), a composer and noted music theorist.  Mattheson was a friend of Handel, but the two later became enemies and Mattheson almost killed the more-famous composer in a duel – after which the men were reconciled.  This much is history, but Wood has Eden invoke Mattheson in a stranger way, as the supposed discoverer of musical means that can make people feel certain things, can control them, and – of particular interest to Eden – can heal them.

      The way Wood has Eden describe these outlandish notions makes them seem far-fetched but not totally unreasonable – after all, music can and does evoke specific emotions, making listeners feel happy, sad, uplifted, depressed, and so forth.  Furthermore, Wood discusses enough real-world effects of art – the symphonies of Gustav Mahler, the poems of Sylvia Plath – to pull readers along toward the idea that there may be other effects not yet discovered or explored.  That the exploration will prove dangerous, even fatal, is abundantly clear from the Prelude (actually closer to a postlude) with which the novel begins; besides, this is just that sort of story, with a kind of “dance of doom” aura about it.  But Wood so skillfully sweeps readers into this dance that curiosity about how things will play out overcomes the reality of knowing, from the start, just how badly matters are going to turn out in the end.

      The erudition of The Bellwether Revivals is pervasive but not intrusive.  It shows itself in evocative chapter titles: “A Reversible Lack of Awareness,” “The Harmony of What Exists,” “The Treatment of Our Mutual Friend,” “Ibidem,” “A Light Went Off in the Organ House.”  It pervades much of the descriptive material and a great deal of the dialogue, even though here Wood sometimes slips into banality (as when Iris tells Oscar, “Somehow I feel like I could tell you anything”).  The casual references to Plato, Pythagorean planetary theory, Descartes, Thomas Aquinas, Nietzsche, Rupert Brooke, Frankfurt School philosopher Walter Benjamin and other people and ideas fit neatly into the Cambridge university aesthetic, but there is always something sinister just beneath the learning and coexisting with it, for example when Eden – with Iris’ complicity – puts a nail through Oscar’s hand.

      The skill with which Wood develops subsidiary characters is a big part of the book’s charm.  The most interesting of these secondary (but still important) people is Dr. Paulsen, a patient at the local nursing home where Oscar works and a character about whose earlier life as an English professor at Cambridge readers may want to know more – this is still a man of whom Wood writes, “There were more books in his room than anything else, in fact; more novels and poetry collections and anthologies than stripes on the wallpaper.”  Making an elderly nursing-home resident such as Dr. Paulsen come alive while also limning the oddities and preoccupations of a group of rich, bored and mentally unstable youths is quite an accomplishment.  So is Wood’s way of encapsulating characters’ reactions to each other, as when Oscar thinks about Iris’ parents, “They had that impossible confidence that comes from wealth, the self-righteousness that comes from piety.”

      Wood does tend to overdo such often-overdone techniques as foreshadowing: it is obvious that something really awful is going to happen when he writes, as Iris is driven away by her father, “the reflection of the dimming sky came sweeping over the glass to vanish her.”  And the book sometimes depends rather too heavily on coincidence as a mover of events – another respect in which it resembles its Victorian predecessors.  But The Bellwether Revivals is, finally, old-fashioned in all the right ways: deep, paced slowly but not glacially, populated by believable characters whose interactions are driven by their personalities as much as by the exigencies of the plot.  It is not, however, a book that invites rereading, partly because its dour and drab final pages balance so uneasily between being an inevitable conclusion and a disappointing one.  But this is Wood’s first novel – in all likelihood, there will be others to explore in the future.

(++++) FLAWED OPERA, NEAR-FLAWLESS PERFORMANCE

Wagner: Lohengrin. Günther Groissböck, bass; Klaus Florian Vogt, tenor; Annette Dasch, soprano; Gerd Grochowski, baritone; Susanne Resmark, mezzo-soprano; Markus Brück, baritone; Rundfunkchor Berlin and Rundfunk-Sinfonieorchester Berlin conducted by Marek Janowski. PentaTone. $49.99 (3 SACDs).

      This is the fourth entry in PentaTone’s remarkable planned sequence of 10 Wagner operas conducted by Marek Janowski.  And like the first three – Der Fliegende Höllander, Parsifal and Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg – this live recording of a concert performance from November 12, 2011 is a triumph in almost every respect: wonderfully sung, beautifully played and excellently recorded.  But there is a problem here – not a PentaTone or Jurowski problem but a Wagner problem.  Its name is Lohengrin.  There is simply no way to make this central character appealing, even in so fine a performance as that of Klaus Florian Vogt, a very youthful-sounding hero whose first entry is small and almost timid but who soon thereafter rises splendidly to the role’s vocal demands and delivers In fernem Land with great beauty and sensitivity.  The heroic and holy knight who arrives in a swan-pulled boat to save a maiden’s honor and wed her – but who first demands twice, quite emphatically, that she never ask his name, rank or history – inevitably comes across as cruel, self-centered and cold.  And this is not merely a modern judgment caused by changing standards of gender relationships, for Wagner was disheartened to find that many of his contemporaries had exactly this negative view of Lohengrin.  Wagner protested that all Lohengrin wanted was to be loved for himself, not for his power and holiness, but few people bought the explanation, because the character never hints at any such thing and simply lays down an absolute demand.  This being one of Wagner’s religiously grounded operas, it is easy to make a parallel with God’s demand in the Garden of Eden that Adam and Eve not eat fruit from one particular tree that was specifically planted where they would be tempted to do just that – especially since Wagner has his own serpent in Lohengrin in the character of Ortrud (Susanne Resmark).  In fact, this parallel can be pushed even further by noting that just as Adam and Eve are punished, while God and the Devil survive to battle another day, so Lohengrin’s and Ortrud’s spouses both die in the opera, while the two primary antagonists survive (Wagner simply has Ortrud fall to the ground, while specifying that Elsa “sinks lifeless” to it).

      But however one twists and turns matters, the fact is that Lohengrin the character does not come off very well.  For that matter, neither does the Grail, on which he blames the demands that he has made and that he says is getting angry because he has dawdled long enough after breaking Elsa’s heart to explain who he really is.  Given the fact that Lohengrin is the only Wagner opera in which the words “I love you” are spoken, and that they are said by Lohengrin to Elsa (Annette Dasch), the whole story leaves a rather unpleasant taste in one’s mouth.

      But not in one’s ears.  The music is glorious, and Janowski understands its beauties intimately and brings them forth again and again in splendid fashion.  The music may not fully conceal the flaws in Wagner’s conception of Lohengrin himself, but it certainly obscures those in the opera’s dramatic pacing: what little action there is in Act II essentially replicates what there was in Act I, and it simply does not matter.  Standing between Tannhäuser and Das Rheingold in the compositional sequence of Wagner’s completed operas, Lohengrin has many elements of a transitional work in its partial use of leitmotifs and occasional pauses in momentum for set-piece arias – coupled with a use of key structure as fine (if not as subtle) as that in the composer’s later works.  The primary singers are, with one exception, absolutely outstanding: Günther Groissböck is firm, resonant and stolid as King Heinrich, and also shows genuine tenderness toward Elsa in Act I; Dasch appropriately combines timidity with uncertainty and (eventually) dismay as Elsa; Gerd Grochowski is forceful and intense as the physically strong but weak-willed Friedrich von Telramund, clearly overmastered by a magically powerful pagan wife who calls upon Wotan and Freya for support; and Markus Brück is sonorous and plainspoken as the King’s Herald.  The sole somewhat disappointing performance comes from Resmark as Ortrud: her German pronunciation is only so-so, and she does not seethe sufficiently with venom and hatred, being more inclined to be snide (as when she effectively puts down her feckless husband in Act II).  She is far from inadequate in the role, but is not quite at the level of the other performers here.

      The Berlin Radio chorus and orchestra are exemplary, as they usually are in this repertoire, and Janowski’s pacing seems so perfect for the opera that one never really thinks whether a section is fast or slow – everything just is, flowing at a rate that seems so natural that it is hard to imagine why anyone would conduct the work at different tempos.  PentaTone’s superb SACD sound is matched by its continuing commitment to excellent presentation, with extensive notes on the opera and a complete German-and-English libretto bound into a booklike package.  Not even Vogt and Janowski can fully overcome the flaws in Wagner’s delineation of Lohengrin’s character, but listeners willing to contribute a little more than the usual amount of willing suspension of disbelief will find themselves drawn into this performance from its very first, beautifully proportioned notes to its intense conclusion nearly three-and-a-half hours later.

(++++) STRAUSS AND STRAUSS

Johann Strauss Jr.: Prinz Methusalem. Frank Ernst, Jessica Glatte, Herbert G. Adami, Elmar Andree, Gerd Wiemer, Inka Lange, Jana Frey, Andreas Sauerzapf, Frank Oberüber, Marcus Günzel, Hans-Jürgen Wiese; Chor under Orchester der Staatsoperette Dresden conducted by Ernst Theis. CPO. $33.99 (2 CDs).

Johann Strauss Sr. Edition, Volume 22. Slovak Sinfonietta Žilina conducted by Christian Pollack. Marco Polo. $16.99.

      For a fuller appreciation of just how wonderful the music of the Strauss family was and is, it can be helpful to listen to some of the less-known works of both Johann the father and Johann the son.  Recent revivals of such works are successfully filling out the impressions and reputations of both men, taking them far beyond the Radetzky March and Blue Danube Waltz.  In the case of Strauss Jr., a multiyear project by the Staatsoperette Dresden has revived several of his less-known operettas – in fact, pretty much everything except Die Fledermaus and Der Zigeunerbaron qualifies as less-known – and has led to the release of some wonderful performances of music as vivid and vivacious as anything Strauss Jr. wrote for the ballroom.  The productions have also served to show why Strauss was never as successful in his stage works as in his dance music; and for that matter, the recordings have some consistently irritating elements of their own.  But they are still a joy to hear, and Prinz Methusalem is the latest of them.

      This is an operetta from 1877, three years after Die Fledermaus, and it is clearly influenced both by the Franco-Prussian War of 1870-71 and by Offenbach’s La Grande-Duchesse de Gérolstein, which dates to 1867.  Like Offenbach’s work, Prinz Methusalem argues the absurdity of military prowess for its own sake and includes several arias in which nonsense syllables are used instead of words (a technique also used by Rossini at times, but an integral part of Offenbach’s approach).  The opera’s setting satirizes the artistic pretensions of France and military ones of Germany: in Prinz Methusalem, the nation of Trocadero has too many artists and is ruled by a king who seeks military glory, while the country of Riccarac has a massive army and is ruled by a king who loves art and wishes he had more artists in the land.  The story involves an attempt to unite the kingdoms by having Princess Pulcinella of Trocadero marry Prince Methusalem of Riccarac – and the complications that ensue because the two kings insist on playing politics instead of cooperating, with the result that each foments revolution (or rumors thereof) in the other nation and, as a result, at the end the two swap kingdoms…while the prince and princess, who are genuinely in love, turn their backs on both noble houses and go off to live a simple, nonpolitical married life.

      The plot is confusing and overly complex, filled with subplots, and is not very coherent; it also calls for 35 individual roles, plus chorus.  Staatsoperette Dresden redid the libretto while keeping the music intact – a reasonable approach, since in operetta it is generally the spoken sections that advance the plot and the musical numbers that comment on it (often while bringing it to a halt).  Unfortunately, as in CPO’s other releases from Staatsoperette Dresden, English speakers will have no idea of what is going on, because the text is not provided and is not available online.  Only fluent German speakers will understand what is happening – a serious issue that CPO shows no inclination to address, which is a real shame.

      The music, though, is marvelous: Prinz Methusalem is one of Strauss Jr.’s most tuneful works.  The overture alone is a delight, although Ernst Theis, usually a careful and sensitive conductor, is not at his best here, unnecessarily slowing down and speeding up music that sounds far better when he conducts it at more-consistent tempos during the operetta itself.  The arias and ensemble pieces within the operetta are all just wonderful, including Pulcinella’s initial Ach Papa die schönen Kleider (in which the delights of clothing are contrasted with those of politics); the ensemble Ihr lieben Zecher, whose repeated “rataplan” refrain reappears in the finale of Act II; and the chorus Steuerzahler, euer Geld, an attempt to rouse taxpayers against the machinations of the monarchy, in which a humming section seems to look forward to Carmina Burana.  Speaking of looking ahead,  the Act III duet for the king and queen of Riccarac is a marvelous piece, with pizzicato string accompaniment and a cabaret sound that would not be out of place in The Threepenny Opera.  And the same act’s stop-and-start Volkes Wille soll gescheh’n is a delight.  Nor are the delights only near the end: this is the only Strauss Jr. operetta (and maybe the only one by anybody) in which the very beginning has the chorus singing woefully out of tune as it attempts to perform a piece written by a court composer to celebrate the coming nuptials of the prince and princess.  The effect of that first 30 seconds or so, before the chorus literally gets it together, is hilarious.  The recording is also interesting for including two bonus tracks: Strauss Jr. wrote Prinz Methusalem with the title character as a trouser role, and that is how it is performed here; but in later revivals, the prince’s role was taken by a man and transposed to baritone range, and two numbers from the opera – a wedding-night duet and the waltz duet that is used instead of the traditional celebratory chorus as the climax of Act III – are given a second time at the end of the recording in baritone-and-soprano versions.  Except for the fact that English speakers, and anyone less than fluent in German, will be wholly unable to follow the action or understand what anyone is singing about, this Prinz Methusalem is a marvelous addition to the Strauss Jr. catalogue.

      Speaking of bonus tracks, the latest CD in the ongoing Johann Strauss Sr. Edition has one as well – and it is one created by Strauss Sr. himself, in what may be the first such instance ever and is certainly one of the earliest.  Nearly all the music on this 22^nd volume of the Marco Polo series comes from the year 1847, two years before Strauss Sr.’s death and 30 years prior to Prinz Methusalem.  One work here is the Martha Quadrille, based on themes from Friedrich von Flotow’s very popular opera – and Strauss Sr. provided a bonus supplement to the piece, containing alternative and equally pleasing music for its second, fifth and sixth sections.  Nor is this the only curiosity here.  Another is Nádor Kör, Palatinal-Tanz, a “Palatine Dance” created to celebrate the post of the Palatine, who ruled in Hungary when the king was absent.  But the post of Palatine was abolished in the revolution of 1848, only months after this work was first heard in December 1847, so the piece quickly turned into a marker of a bygone time.  The other works on this CD had, and still have, more staying power.  Included here are one excellent march, Öesterreichischer Defiler-Marsch (“Austrian March-Past”); the Beliebte Kathinka-Polka (“Popular Katinka Polka”), a dance form that was not among Strauss Sr.’s favorites; and two quadrilles (a form that he did favor) in addition to the one based on Flotow’s opera: Beliebte Quadrille nach Motiven aus Auber’s Oper ‘Des Teufels Antheil’ (“Popular Quadrille on Themes from Auber’s Opera ‘The Devil’s Due’”) and Schäfer-Quadrille (“Shepherds’ Quadrille”).  The five remaining tracks offer some of Strauss Sr.’s many very fine waltzes: Die Schwalben (“The Swallows”), Marien-Walzer (“Mary Waltzes”), Feldbleamel’n (“Meadow Flowers,” a title given in Upper Austrian dialect to a work written in Ländler style; Die Adepten (“The Initiates”); and Tanz-Signale (“Dance-Signals”).  Played by the Slovak Sinfonietta Žilina with its usual skill, and conducted by Christian Pollack with his usual enthusiasm, the works help paint an ever-clearer picture of Strauss Sr. as a highly creative composer, skilled with thematic creation and variety, clever with orchestration, and always focused both on the danceability of his works and on the specific occasions for which he wrote them.  The increasing availability of music by both Strauss Sr. and Strauss Jr. is making it much easier to have a full appreciation of father and son, who were rivals in the last years of Strauss Sr.’s life but who, so many years later, turn out to have very different but highly complementary – and equally enjoyable – compositional skills.

(++++) PERSONAL APPROACHES

Bruckner: Symphony No. 2. Northern Sinfonia conducted by Mario Venzago. CPO. $16.99.

Brahms: String Quartets Nos. 1-3; Clarinet Quintet. Juilliard Quartet (Robert Mann and Joel Smirnoff, violins; Samuel Rhodes, viola; Joel Krosnick, cello); Charles Neidich, clarinet. Newton Classics. $17.99 (2 CDs).

Rachmaninoff: Moments Musicaux, Op. 16; Études-Tableaux, Op. 33; Variations on a Theme of Corelli, Op. 42. Xiayin Wang, piano. Chandos. $18.99.

Mieczysław Weinberg: Complete Piano Works, Volume 2—Sonata No. 4, Op. 56; Partita, Op. 54; Sonatina, Op. 49. Allison Brewster Franzetti, piano. Grand Piano. $16.99.

      The third volume in Mario Venzago’s quirky and highly unusual Bruckner cycle brings listeners a third orchestra, as Venzago continues to seek ensembles that he feels are best able to realize his very personalized view of these symphonies.  The first volume, containing the Fourth and Seventh, used a traditional Bruckner ensemble, the Sinfonieorchester Basel, but treated the works with more transparency, even delicacy, than they usually receive.  The second release, of Nos. “0” and 1, featured the Tapiola Sinfonietta and was even more clearly intended to bring forth the symphonies as works of less sheer heft, although no less import, than they are usually deemed to be.  Now comes an excellent performance of No. 2 with the Northern Sinfonia, and again Venzago has chosen well: this orchestra does not have a traditional “Bruckner sound,” but Symphony No. 2 does not require one – indeed, should not have the same sound as that of the later symphonies.  This is Bruckner’s most Schubertian symphony, and it requires a lilt, a dancelike lightness, a sense of brightness and pleasantry, quite different from what the later symphonies need.  It also requires some very good double-basses, because in this symphony Bruckner treats them as an independent section, not merely (as in his later symphonies) as a way to double the cello parts at the octave.  Venzago gets all these elements from the Northern Sinfonia, and for his part brings along sensitivity to the music and a fine sense of sectional balance.  The result is a beautifully handled, thoroughly assured performance of what was once called the “Rest Symphony” because of its frequent general pauses – which were to be more thoroughly integrated into the texture of later symphonies, but which make perfect sense here as Venzago handles them.  The finale, in particular, is excellent, taken for the most part at a very fast pace that takes some getting used to (Bruckner is more often performed at deliberate speeds) but soon proves itself completely convincing.  Venzago’s Bruckner cycle is shaping up as one of the most unusual in recent years, and one of the most interesting.

      The Juilliard Quartet’s recording of Brahms’ three string quartets and his Clarinet Quintet is not as recent – the recordings date to 1993-94 – but is every bit as strong as when it was first released.  These chamber works are particularly personal statements by the composer, and the Juilliard Quartet brings that personal element effectively to the fore.  The first quartet, in C minor (the key of Brahms’ First Symphony as well as Beethoven’s Fifth), is dark-hued throughout, united by thematic references in the finale to the first movement and also by a sense that the turmoil of the opening must be wrestled with to the end (which is in the minor).  The second quartet is also in a minor key – A minor – but is more expansive and even charming, its intensity muted in particular because of its final two movements: a minor-key minuet with major-key trio, and a finale featuring a syncopated and dancelike main theme.  These two Op. 51 quartets both date to 1873, three years before the First Symphony, and seem in some ways, like Brahms’ two Serenades, to be exploring ways to produce sonic weight without unnecessary heaviness or muddiness.  The Juilliard Quartet makes both of them weighty indeed, but never at the expense of lyricism or of their lighter, contrasting sections.  The third quartet, in B-flat major, also predates the symphony, but only by a year, and here Brahms explores in different ways.  There is greater calm in this quartet, with some unusual forms of emotional expression, such as a kind of pathos in the Agitato third movement, in which the viola takes the lead and is the only instrument not muted.  This quartet’s finale, a set of interestingly developed variations, uses a form that the composer had explored in 1873 in the Haydn Variations and would eventually bring to a pinnacle in the Fourth Symphony.  Later than all the string quartets, the Clarinet Quintet of 1891 is a work in which the fully mature composer offers the mellowness and slight melancholy that together are usually described as “autumnal.”  The quintet is beautifully constructed in a way that is quite personal to Brahms, with a highly unified first movement that is followed by second and third movements in which certain sections contrast strongly with others until Brahms reconciles them.  And then the finale, another set of variations, caps the whole with both beauty and subtlety – two words that also describe the performance by the Juilliard Quartet with clarinetist Charles Neidich.

      Young pianists seeking to make personal statements of their own have increasingly turned to Rachmaninoff in recent years – an interesting development, since the composer-pianist went through a long period of being discussed dismissively as an overly emotional tonal reactionary when he was talked about at all.  A fine recent recording of the composer’s Études-Tableaux, Op. 33 and Variations on a Theme of Corelli, Op. 42, by Nareh Arghamanyan for PentaTone, has now been joined by an equally fine one by Xiayin Wang for Chandos.  Arghamanyan’s disc also includes the Morceaux de Fantaisie, Op. 3, while Wang’s offers the Moments Musicaux, Op. 16, but this is scarcely the releases’ only difference.  Wang’s performance is technically excellent, with an emphasis on the virtuoso elements of this music: she shows clearly that these are piano works composed by a top-notch pianist.  Especially in the Études-Tableaux, Wang plays the music for all it is worth, producing a great deal of drama and excitement – her dexterity and prowess are considerable and are quite impressive.  The Moments Musicaux could use a bit more delicacy and sensitivity from time to time, but they too are played very adeptly and with impressive finger work.  The Variations on a Theme of Corelli are a touch less successful: this piece needs more than sheer virtuosity for greatest success, requiring a degree of thoughtfulness and emotional empathy – call it maturity – that Wang does not yet seem to possess, at least here.  Although her playing is never metronomic, there is a certain coldness to it, perhaps intended to offset Rachmaninoff’s reputation as being swooningly Romantic or perhaps designed to reflect the days of Corelli himself.  In this case, though, a little more warmth and sense of involvement would have served the music better – although it must be said that there is nothing to fault in Wang’s sheer pianistic skill either in this work or in the others on this CD.

      Maturity is one thing that Allison Brewster Franzetti brings in abundance to her performances of the piano music of Mieczysław Weinberg.  Her first volume on the Grand Piano label included the Sonatas Nos. 1 and 2, the Lullaby (Op. 1), Two Mazurkas, and the Sonata, Op. 49bis – a 1978 reworking and expansion of a 1951 piece that Weinberg labeled Sonatina.  That 1951 work, which bears Op. 49, appears on Volume 2 of Franzetti’s survey of the composer’s piano music, and makes an interesting contrast with the later revision: it is considerably shorter, more lyrical and delicate, and leaves quite a different impression with the listener.  Also on Volume 2 are the lengthy and full-of-contrasts Partita, Op. 54, in which intimate passages alternate, sometimes quite abruptly, with ones that are intensely dramatic.  This work, which dates to 1954, shows with unusual clarity why Weinberg has been mentioned as the third major Soviet-era composer, along with Shostakovich and Prokofiev: his sensibilities were different, but clearly formed by some of the same circumstances and expressed in some similar ways (especially close to those of Shostakovich).  The third work on this CD is another of Weinberg’s six piano sonatas: the large-scale No. 4 in B minor, Op. 56 (1955).  This nearly half-hour piece comes across as the most intensely personal work on the disc, retreating constantly into melancholy despite sections of rhythmic inventiveness and a number of themes that sound inspired by folk music.  Franzetti continues to make a strong and effective case for Weinberg’s piano music, although in fact the composer, who lived from 1919 to 1996, was better known for his orchestral works (which include 22 symphonies and seven operas), plus his chamber music (17 string quartets) and film scores (about 40).  Franzetti’s series should lead to a closer consideration of Weinberg as a piano composer as well.

(++++) ON BEYOND MANGA

Basher 123. By Simon Basher. Kingfisher. $16.99.

Go! Go! BoBo: Opposites; Time. By Simon Basher. Kingfisher. $6.99 each.

      Manga was never like this.  Or, well, it was, but only in other books by Simon Basher, who adopts manga drawing conventions and adapts them for a very clever and eminently readable series of instructional books for the very youngest learners and those who are slightly older.  Basher 123 is in the “slightly older” category, for ages 3-6, and is quite different from the many other counting books out there.  Basher’s art is one reason; his approach to numbers is another.  From the first page, this book is clearly out of the ordinary: the number one is represented by “one smiling snake” that “cuddles his teddy bear.”  Now there’s an image you won’t find in other counting books!  Nor will you find most of the others that Basher depicts here: the “three messy pigs” baking tiny cupcakes, the “four freaky frogs” with holes in their socks, the “seven tiny rabbits” that “jump around in cowboy hats,” the “nine daring ladybugs” that “show off on their skateboards,” and so on up to the number 20.  That’s right, 20 – early counting books tend to stop at 10, but not Basher’s.  When “twelve twinkling stars wave a bright hello to Earth,” the figure of Earth – a globe atop a foreshortened manga body known as a chibi – shows the manga influence on Basher particularly well.  Other illustrations highlight Basher’s offbeat humor to particularly good effect, such as “seventeen hungry flies take a lollipop home for dinner,” a delightfully silly picture made even more so by the fact that the lead fly is carrying a bright red arrow pointing the way home.  Whether drawing 19 naughty sheep, 20 sleepy spiders or 13 speedy snails (in red racecars), Basher makes counting fun and highly amusing on right-hand pages while keeping left-hand ones straightforward, using them to show the numeral, the spelled-out word for the number (such as “twelve” or “eighteen”), and where the number fits in the sequence of 1 to 20 (each page shows the full sequence; the specific number is underlined).  The final four pages, which recap all the numbers and show smaller versions of the drawings, are a great way to review counting lessons and are highly enjoyable in their own way.

      BoBo’s way is highly enjoyable, too.  BoBo is Basher’s bouncy baby for kids up to age four, swooping and swirling his way through brightly colored illustrations of Opposites (loud/quiet, fast/slow, dirty/clean, and so forth) and Time (play time, lunch time, bath time, etc.).  The BoBo board books are extremely sturdy, their illustrations done in colors so brilliant and saturated that adults may feel their eyes popping if they stare at the pages too long – which makes the books perfect for very young children whose vision is still in the developmental stage (and who, let’s face it, like hyper-bright colors).  Each reader of these books will have his or her favorite pages – in Opposites, perhaps BoBo playing the drum set (with his name emblazoned on it) or jumping in a muddy puddle; in Time, perhaps the messiness of breakfast time (with nine overflowing bowls of cereal and a container of spilling milk) or the sheer colorfulness of park time (with the sun, a pogo stick, brightly colored ice-on-a-stick, and balls bouncing everywhere).  The one peculiarity of the BoBo books remains the conception of BoBo himself: he always wears a bandage on his head, implying an injury, and his eyes are shaped like the letter X, which in cartoon language (manga included) usually means a character is unconscious or hurt, if not dead.  BoBo is clearly very much alive and not in any pain – his activities are nothing if not super-enthusiastic – but his appearance is at odds with what he does, and may be confusing for children (including very young ones) who have seen any manga or other cartoon adventures.  BoBo’s mouth does indicate his moods – an open “o,” a smile, a squiggle representing confusion, and so forth – but his eyes and bandage are out of touch with the rest of his appearance.  Parents should be prepared with some sort of explanation if children (even really young ones) ask whether BoBo “is feeling all right,” or at least not be surprised by the question.  Probably the best answer is something along the lines of, “Sure he is – look at all the fun he is having.”  But Basher’s decision to draw BoBo in a way that even invites the question is a small destabilizing element in what is otherwise a first-rate introduction to a wide variety of concepts.

(+++) UMMM….NOPE

Death by Petticoat: American History Myths Debunked. By Mary Miley Theobald with the Colonial Williamsburg Foundation. Andrews McMeel. $12.99.

      Here’s a great idea that is somewhat undermined by some too-sober writing.  The idea: list 63 myths about the history of the United States and explain why they are wrong and (if possible) how they got started.  So far, so good.  But writing down the myths and debunking them takes only a few sentences, so every other page contains an illustration related in some way to Colonial Williamsburg, the Virginia “living history museum” that explains about early American settlements and uses actors to show some aspects of life in the 17^th century.  Well, that’s fine, too, although a number of the illustrations here are not particularly interesting (a tub, a wardrobe, a room, some nails).

      What is missing here is a greater sense of fun in unraveling the myths.  Mary Miley Theobald, who works for and frequently writes about the Colonial Williamsburg Foundation (which operates Colonial Williamsburg and several museums), does not want to (or is not permitted to) write consistently entertainingly about the rights and wrongs of American history.  So, for myth #24, “Apprenticeships lasted seven years,” she says “there was no set time span for an apprenticeship in colonial America.  Some contracts specify a certain number of years, such as four, six, or seven. Others say the apprentice will work until he has reached twenty-one, no matter his age at the start.”  For myth #39, “A silver item stamped coin means it was made from melting down silver coins,” she explains that “the word ‘coin’ stamped onto silver objects means the silver was the same proportion as that used for coinage, or 900 parts per thousand, as opposed to the higher 925 parts per thousand for sterling silver.”  For myth #50, “Stairs were sometimes built with one riser noticeably shorter than the rest to trip up burglars,” she writes that “stairs were built from the bottom up, one riser and tread at a time.  Invariably, error crept in as more treads were installed, which meant that the final riser was probably a little taller or a little shorter than the rest.”

      There is nothing wrong with any of this information – it is historically accurate and sometimes quite interesting.  But it is usually not presented in the sort of breezy, involving way that would capture readers (or museum visitors) and make them want to learn even more.  In fact, some of Theobald’s writing is bright, making the portions that are not seem duller by comparison.  Regarding myth #26, “Venetian blinds were invented in Venice,” she says, “Sounds like a slam dunk, doesn’t it?”  For myth #5, “Men posed with one hand inside the vest to save money, since portrait artists gave a discount if they didn’t have to go to the extra work of painting the fingers,” she asks, “Do you really think that the Emperor Napoleon, King George, or President George Washington was particularly concerned about getting a discount from a portrait painter?”  And for myth #33, “Wearing blue- or green-tinted eyeglasses meant the wearer had syphilis,” she reasonably inquires, “Honestly, now, if someone had syphilis, would he or she want to advertise it to the world?”  This sort of writing is a pleasure to read; more of it would have been better.

      More thinking about the sequence of the myths would have been better, too: there doesn’t seem to be any reason for them to appear in this order.  For example, #16 is “Potatoes were considered poisonous by early colonists,” #17 is “The Dutch bought Manhattan from the Indians for $24 worth of worthless beads,” and #18 is “The Good Friday Massacre of 1622 took place on Good Friday.”  These are all worthy myths to explore and expose, but the order in which they come up is odd, and the illustrations compound the oddity – a young child reading this book will first see a picture of just-harvested potatoes, than a 19^th-century impression of Dutch traders with American Indians, and then a rather gruesome print of the Jamestown Massacre from a 17^th-century book.  One never knows quite what to expect from Death by Petticoat either in the writing style or in the visual material – a fact that sometimes works to the book’s advantage but sometimes to its detriment.  Still, there are quite a few very common myths here, along with some that are much less familiar, and the book gets high marks for the quality of its information; it is only the presentation of the material that falls a bit short.

(++) ONE GIANT LEAP?

The Long Earth. By Terry Pratchett and Stephen Baxter. Harper. $25.95.

      It is difficult to communicate just how deep a disappointment The Long Earth is.  It is not really a bad book – someone reading it without knowing who wrote it would give it a (+++) rating as a fairly ordinary piece of fantasy attempting to pretend to be science fiction, a book with little character development and little of the sense of wonder that true SF, at its best, produces.  A book, perhaps, by a journeyman writer or one just starting out.

      But this is a Terry Pratchett book, or a half-Pratchett one, anyway, and as a Pratchett book, it barely even deserves a (++) rating.  Dull, plodding, formulaic, filled with types rather than characters, with leaden writing and predictable dialogue, The Long Earth – which, heaven help us, is the start of a series – is simply a miserable excuse for a book with the name of Pratchett on its cover.  It is the equivalent in novels of Cars 2 in Pixar movies: a work apparently inspired (and that is the wrong word) by commercial reasons rather than by any sense of fun, of intimacy, of pushing the boundaries of its medium, of entertaining.

      The book seems to be loosely based on Neil Armstrong’s words when setting foot on the Moon, about “one small step for a man, one giant leap for mankind.”  It seems that one small step for a man (or woman or child) in an appropriate direction becomes a giant leap for all of humanity, because in fact Earth is not alone…or not singular, anyway.  There are millions of Earths, some nearly identical to the one we know (which is called the Datum) and some very, very different.  But there are, conveniently and quite unbelievably, exactly zero Earths other than the Datum on which human beings exist, although there are quite a few on which humanlike bipeds have evolved (some of them called “trolls,” others called “elves,” neither species matching traditional descriptions of those beings).  There is no rationale whatsoever for the notion of what has or has not evolved where – not in terms of intelligent beings, not in terms of animals.

      Nor is there any rationale for how many Earths there are or what their relative importance or meaning is compared with the Datum.  The use of precise numbers is frequent and totally meaningless – a bit of amateurishness as surprising from Stephen Baxter as from Pratchett, both these writers being experienced authors.  One world that is settled, for example, is number 101,754.  It just is.  And one passage about the “friendly, companionable” beings called trolls mentions that “they would get nervous if there were more than one thousand, eight hundred and ninety humans in the immediate vicinity.”  Why that number?  Just because.

      Very few of the characters have any character.  The primary protagonists are Joshua Valienté, the circumstances of whose birth are such that he is a natural “stepper” (able to travel among the Earths without use of a simple device that most people need in order to do so); Lobsang, a gigantic distributed computer mind with many human characteristics, both ambulatory and contained within a variety of structures and locations (about as unoriginal a concept as it is possible to create nowadays); and Sally Linsay, another natural stepper, daughter of the man who gave the stepper box to the world by anonymously posting the plans for building it online.  Like the rest of the thoroughly nonscientific plot, the stepper box is fantasy, not science fiction, since it turns out that it works only if an individual assembles it, or at least completes it, himself or herself – it cannot be mass-manufactured.  Why not?  Just because.

      There are a few – very few – vestiges of Pratchett’s wit in the otherwise humorless The Long Earth, passages either written by him or somehow emerging from this sorry collaboration.  The stepper box itself is one of them: it is powered by a potato.  Then there is a comment that “the central Australian sky was so full of stars that some had to wait their turn to twinkle,” and another about a bookseller so in love with his wares that, if he had his way, “every book ever written would be treasured, at least one copy bound in sheepskin and illuminated by monks (or specifically by naked nuns, his predilection being somewhat biased in that direction).”  And there is a marvelous speech by a robot cat “with a thirty-one percent bias toward cynicism” that is the single most amusing paragraph in the book.

      But most of The Long Earth is both earnest and grindingly dull.  It is basically a quest story (oh, that’s original) in which Joshua and Lobsang set out to find how far the Earths stretch and what the whole set of them could be for (yawn).  Along the way, many senseless things happen.  When the two meet Sally, for example, she adamantly and absolutely refuses to go aboard their airship (which is powered by Lobsang and actually is Lobsang, or one aspect of him).  A few pages later, she is aboard, without struggle, argument or explanation.  Then there is the community called Happy Landings on one faraway Earth, where humans and trolls live together in perfect harmony (trolls communicate through music, so “harmony” is the right word).  It’s a Noble Savage area on steroids, except that there are no steroids, and it is absolutely, unequivocally creepy, but about all that Joshua and Sally feel is a mild sense of oddity.  “There was a certain contented aura about Mrs. Montecute [one of the residents with an almost-apt name, just like “Valienté”], and it seemed to Joshua that everyone in Happy Landings shared it, to some extent.  It was hard to pin down.  Sally said when he tried to express this, ‘I know what you mean. Everybody seems so, well, sensible. I have come here many times and it’s always the same. You never get complaints, or competitiveness. They don’t need government, not really. You could say that Mayor Spencer is the first among equals. When there is any big project to be undertaken, they just knuckle down and get on with it.’”  Clearly this is either a prototype of a perfect civilization or a place where something evil lurks, right?  Not in The Long Earth, where it is neither; it just is.  Nothing is made of the whole thing.

      There are a few subplots that are not handled very well – again, very surprising from these experienced authors.  One involves humans on the Datum who are unable, for some genetic reason, to step at all, even with devices, and who therefore all seem to become homicidal maniacs who think that if they kill lots of people on the Datum it will somehow affect the other worlds.  Another involves a mysterious malevolent force that, in a grand anticlimax, turns out to be nothing much.  And then there is “first contact” (yes, another old, old idea) – which ought to be climactic but is simply pedestrian here.  The book ends with an attempt at excitement that re-involves a couple of fairly peripheral characters, and then a very obvious setup of the next book in the series – a conclusion that is utterly predictable and ordinary, like so much that has gone before.  It seems likely that Baxter rather than Pratchett is the driving force behind the book’s structure – for one thing, the chapters are numbered, a style that Pratchett opposes and does not use in his own novels.  But Baxter himself is no tyro and could surely do better than this.  As for Pratchett – who, despite the fact that he an unusual form of Alzheimer’s disease, has shown no diminution in the quality of his plotting, pacing, satirical bite or utterly wonderful sense of humor in his Discworld novels – the best that can be said is that The Long Earth would be a sorry legacy indeed if it were to be his last book.  That is another reason, one among many, to hope that there will be much more writing from Pratchett in the future.

(++++) SYMPHONIES AND MORE

Glazunov: Symphonies Nos. 1-9; The Seasons; La Mer; Introduction and Dance from “Salome”; Raymonda—Suite; Violin Concerto; Piano Concertos Nos. 1 and 2; Concerto for Alto Saxophone and String Orchestra; Concerto Ballata for Cello and Orchestra; Chant du ménestrel for Cello and Orchestra; Réverie for Horn and Orchestra; Méditation for Violin and Orchestra. Rachel Barton Pine, violin; Alexander Romanovsky, piano; Marc Chisson, alto saxophone; Wen-Sinn Yang, cello; Alexey Serov, French horn; Royal Scottish National Orchestra and Russian National Orchestra conducted by José Serebrier. Warner. $44.99 (8 CDs).

Prokofiev: Symphony No. 5; The Year 1941. São Paulo Symphony Orchestra conducted by Marin Alsop. Naxos. $9.99.

Holst: Symphony in F, “The Cotswolds”; Walt Whitman Overture; A Winter Idyll; Japanese Suite; Indra—Symphonic Poem. Ulster Orchestra conducted by JoAnn Falletta. Naxos. $9.99.

      Placing Alexander Glazunov (1865-1936) in the classical pantheon is by no means easy.  Initially considered to be Tchaikovsky’s successor, Glazunov showed remarkable precocity: his first symphony was performed when he was only 16.  He was quite prolific for a time, then essentially stopped composing about two-thirds of the way through his life, devoting himself to his position as Director of the St. Petersburg Conservatoire – and clinging to Romantic-era ideals so firmly that he was already deemed hopelessly old-fashioned and out of touch long before his death.  But Glazunov has fallen into greater obscurity than Sibelius and Ives, who also stopped composing many years before their deaths, or Saint-Saëns, who was also considered hyper-conservative and unworthy of attention in his later years.  And Glazunov’s music is by no means unworthy: it is well-crafted, carefully orchestrated and often quite beautiful.  It somehow lacks a certain “oomph,” even when performed as well and with as much intensity and understanding as it receives from José Serebrier.  Yet, even though it shows little real harmonic or communicative progress from 1881 to 1906 (the years of Symphonies Nos. 1-8 –No. 9, a single movement orchestrated after Glazunov’s death, dates to 1910), it has many individual movements that are striking and effective.  Warner’s eight-CD Glazunov set is a bare-bones re-release of individual CDs devoted to the symphonies (with the Royal Scottish National Orchestra) and concertos (with the Russian National Orchestra).  The set is well-priced and well-recorded; the performances range from very good to outstanding; and although the set contains no information on the music, the booklet notes about the original releases are available online.  So there is ample opportunity here for listeners unfamiliar with Glazunov – or ones who know him only through his Violin Concerto, probably his most frequently performed work – to form their own opinions of his worth as a creator.

      Glazunov was certainly not forward-looking, nor did emotion run very deeply through his symphonies – only the first movement of No. 6 even approaches the involvement generated by Tchaikovsky.  Glazunov’s works are controlled, formally well-structured, even elegant, reaching into many corners of the 19^th century without ever moving beyond late-Romantic style.  Interestingly, the dedications of some of the symphonies show Glazunov’s interests and knowledge: No. 1 is dedicated to Rimsky-Korsakov, No. 2 to Liszt (in memoriam), No. 3 to Tchaikovsky, No. 4 to Anton Rubinstein.  The first two symphonies are not only solid but also filled with the techniques that Glazunov would employ in all his later symphonic works: he was not a composer who matured in any meaningful sense – but then, he started out with maturity well beyond his years.  Several symphonies are uneasy mixtures of expressive and straightforward elements: No. 3 has a very emotional Andante mixed with three movements that seem to come from a different world, while No. 6 has intense opening and closing movements bracketing two much slighter middle ones.  No. 4 is particularly interesting: it has three movements, none of them slow, although there are slow sections in the first and third and a tightly knit structure that delivers more emotion than do some of Glazunov’s actual slow movements.  No. 7 picked up the name “Pastoral” because its opening is reminiscent of Beethoven’s Sixth, but in fact it has more of the urban feel of an Elgar work than a sense of the countryside.  Listeners will certainly find many things to admire and enjoy in the symphonies, even if it will likely remain difficult to pick a single one as standing head and shoulders above the others.

      Serebrier’s Royal Scottish performances also include ballet music from Raymonda (1898, deliberately written in successor-to-Tchaikovsky style) and The Seasons (1900, featuring no humans – only abstractions of seasonal elements); La Mer, an 1889 Wagner-influenced tone poem predating Debussy’s by 16 years; and two pieces for Oscar Wilde’s play Salome, written in 1900 (five years before Richard Strauss’ notorious opera).  As in the symphonies, the structure of these works is quite solid, even stolid, but they tend to sound as if they are just going through the motions where emotional communication is concerned.

     The final two CDs of this set include Glazunov’s concertos, plus a few short soloist-and-orchestra pieces.  The concertos, featuring fine soloists and exemplary playing by the Russian National Orchestra, are all interesting in their own ways.  Actually, “their own way,” singular, is closer to the truth, because every concerto except Piano Concerto No. 1 follows the same basic model: Liszt’s.  That is, they are single-movement, thematically interconnected works that nevertheless sound as if they contain multiple movements because of their tempo changes and overall structure.  Glazunov, however, was no Liszt, and the pieces sometimes feel and sound like second or third drafts rather than finished products.  Nevertheless, all have significant points of interest, such as the two-movement structure of the first piano concerto (the second movement being an extended theme-and-variations in which each variation has a very distinct character).  The concerto for alto saxophone – Glazunov’s last work – is especially interesting, just because there is so little concerto repertoire for this instrument.  And the short pieces interspersed among the concertos are fine miniatures, warm and well-orchestrated and sometimes more affecting (as in the case of the Réverie for horn and orchestra) than some of the longer works.  All the soloists offer high levels of skill and virtuosity, and Serebrier has clearly studied this music and plumbed what modest depths it has, just as he has paid close attention to the symphonies and ballets.  Listeners who enjoy late-Romantic works and would like to experience some well-made but rarely heard ones will find this eight-CD a pleasure in many ways.  But not all: the online notes are often self-contradictory and irritating, for example saying at one point that Glazunov was 16 at the debut of his Symphony No. 1 and at another stating incorrectly that he was 17, and sometimes spelling the name of his patron, Mitrofan Belyayev, as Belaieff (either is an adequate transliteration from the Cyrillic, but some consistency would be nice).  Also, the arrangement of the music on the CDs is simply bizarre: Symphony No. 3 with No. 9, Nos. 1 and 2 together but in reverse order, No. 4 paired with No. 7, and no apparent rhyme or reason at all for the sequence of the concertos.  There are many pleasures to be found in Glazunov’s music, but there was no reason to make it this irritating to find them.

      Prokofiev was one of the post-Glazunov Russian composers who did bring symphonic music to new and more creative regions, and the first disc of a planned Prokofiev cycle conducted by Marin Alsop is quite a good one.  Prokofiev’s World War II symphonies, Nos. 5 and 6, are his best, and Alsop displays a sure hand and considerable attentiveness to inner voices and instrumental balance in her work with the São Paulo Symphony Orchestra, of which she recently became principal conductor.  This is a strong, nicely balanced orchestra, all its sections playing well, its strings particularly adept with Prokofiev’s often-biting rhythms, its brass perhaps a touch strident in sound but precise in attack.  Alsop’s interpretation of the symphony is generally first-rate and even incisive, the only significant flaw being a much-too-slow approach to the trio of the second movement – this section is supposed to pull the music back from its headlong rush, but not bring it to a virtual standstill.  Still, this is a fine start to Alsop’s Prokofiev cycle – and the other work here, The Year 1941, makes for an intriguing contrast with the symphony.  Written after the German invasion of the Soviet Union, the work has patriotic fervor and  aims for an uplifting conclusion (its final section is called “For the Brotherhood of Man”), but comes across as clangorous and clattery rather than solemn or celebratory.  Here the orchestra’s brass sound fits the music’s theme quite well, and if the work is scarcely major Prokofiev, it is interesting for showing another side of a composer generally thought of as a symphonist.

      Gustav Holst, in contrast, is not thought of as writing symphonies.  Indeed, except for The Planets, he is not a particularly well-known composer, and those who do know his music tend to think mostly of its Indian and folk-music influences – although in fact Holst wrote a considerable amount of vocal music, including eight operas.  Holst did write one symphony, “The Cotswolds,” in 1899-1900, and it gets a solid and attractive performance from the Ulster Orchestra under its principal conductor, JoAnn Falletta.  The first, second and fourth movements of the symphony are fairly straightforward and display the influence of Wagner as well as some hints of folk music, but the second movement – written in memory of utopian socialist William Morris – is considerably more heartfelt and comes across quite effectively.  Wagner’s influence also shows in Holst’s Walt Whitman Overture (1899), which – like “The Cotswolds” – was influenced by Holst’s sociopolitical interests.  A Winter Idyll is an even earlier work, dating to 1897, when Holst was 23.  The orchestral writing here is mature, but the piece is rather bland.  The other two offerings on this CD are later: Indra, a tone poem based on an Indian legend about a demon and the god of the heavens, was written in 1903, and the Japanese Suite, written for a Japanese dancer and choreographer, dates to 1915.  Both works show Holst’s mature style more clearly, incorporating as they do the harmonies and rhythms of the musical traditions of other nations within a Western orchestral framework that is handled with delicacy and grace.  Falletta, a strong advocate of less-known music, gets fine sound from the orchestra in all these works and makes a good case for all of them, and indeed for Holst’s music in general.

(+++) TCHAIKOVSKY TEMPTATIONS

Tchaikovsky: Symphony No. 2; Original version of the work’s first movement. Russian National Orchestra conducted by Mikhail Pletnev. PentaTone. $19.99 (SACD).

Tchaikovsky: Symphony No. 4; Suite No. 4, “Mozartiana.” Dallas Symphony Orchestra conducted by Jaap van Zweden. DSO Live. $14.99.

Tchaikovsky: Symphony No. 5; Capriccio Italien. Dallas Symphony Orchestra conducted by Jaap van Zweden. DSO Live. $14.99.

      Conductors today seem increasingly determined not to play Tchaikovsky’s music but to play around with it.  It is easy to see why this is so tempting: the music is so well known and so often heard that conductors who have led it many times, and orchestras that have performed it many times, may understandably certainly hunger for something new.  Unfortunately, though, this music has quite enough in it already when played as the scores recommend.  Changing it through unusual tempo choices, instrumental emphases and other approaches gets listeners no closer to the heart of the music and brings no more enjoyment than letting the works speak for themselves.  Indeed, the enjoyment level tends to become less through all the tinkering, even when the tinkerer is as adept as Mikhail Pletnev and the orchestra as fine as the Russian National.  Pletnev and his orchestra offered Tchaikovsky for their very first recording, providing a sublime and exceptionally well-played Symphony No. 6.  But Pletnev’s Tchaikovsky cycle for PentaTone was far more uneven in its first three volumes, which included Nos. 1, 5 and 6.  And the fourth recording, of No. 2 (the “Little Russian”), has oddities as well, not the least of which is the inclusion of the original (1872) first movement of the symphony – but not the entire original version of the work, even though the SACD runs barely 48 minutes.  The full symphony, heard as usual in its 1879-80 version, is well played and includes a wealth of fine detail in the first three movements.  But the fourth movement is peculiar: it is taken unusually quickly, but convincingly at first – until the gong that heralds the final section, which here leads to complete stoppage of the forward impetus, then a very slow accelerando, and then eventually a conclusion so fast that even the Russian National Orchestra barely keeps up.  This may be an attempt to inject additional drama into the score, but if so, it is a misguided one: this is essentially a bright-hued symphony despite its home key of C minor, and it is not a highly dramatic one.  As for the 1872 first movement, it is fascinating to hear and makes the missed opportunity to have a recording of the complete 1872 version all the more frustrating.  The original movement is 50% longer than the revised one, broader in scope and often cheerier, virtually identical for the first three minutes and then diverging quite a bit from the revision – although it periodically dips back into familiarity as listeners hear sections that Tchaikovsky retained and even expanded when he rewrote the symphony.  The recording as a whole is a worthy one, but scarcely free of unnecessary oddities.

      Much the same can be said of the two Tchaikovsky symphonies performed by the Dallas Symphony Orchestra under Jaap van Zweden, released on the orchestra’s own label.  The performances are all right, certainly, but they are nothing special, and at times sound as if van Zweden has over-thought the music.  No. 4 starts with good brass despite a recording level that seems to have been set too low.  The first movement builds well for about eight minutes, then starts to lose forward momentum and ends up sounding episodic and a bit draggy.  The second movement speeds up and slows down repeatedly, unnecessarily and unconvincingly.  The third is nicely played and best in the soft sections.  The finale is fast and impressively played, despite the fact that here the brass sounds somewhat too restrained initially – although the end of the movement is certainly a crowd-pleaser (these are live recordings).  The symphony is coupled with a pleasantly straightforward version of the Suite No. 4, “Mozartiana,” even though the third movement here is a bit too swooningly Romantic.  The final and longest movement, however, has nice flow and well-done contrasts among its variations, with impressive solo violin playing by Andrés Cárdenes, who was Acting Concertmaster for this performance.

      Van Zweden’s version of Symphony No. 5 never really gels. After a quiet start and slow buildup to the main theme of the first movement, the Allegro con anima moves along adequately until bogging down at the second theme; and the strings sound surprisingly thin.  The horns are particularly good in the second movement, and the third movement flows naturally, but the finale opens in rhythmically foursquare fashion and never really caps or sums up the work as a whole.  The triumphal coda, always a problem for conductors because it attaches so uneasily to everything that has come before, here simply marches along as a continuation of a not-very-revealing interpretation.  Capriccio Italien fares better, with a broad opening, well-played soft sections, and a slow, even hesitant buildup.  By about a third of the way through, the piece is flowing well, and when it speeds up halfway through and the trumpet cuts clearly through the rest of the instruments, this interpretation has become both exciting and involving.  The second half of the piece does not quite sustain this level of interest, but the work as a whole nevertheless comes off well – and better than the symphony, which van Zweden seems determined to reinterpret in ways that are not really clearly communicated in the performance.  On the whole, what is needed in at least some concert halls and recording studios these days is not a reconsideration of the Russian master but a determination to let Tchaikovsky be Tchaikovsky, with the focus more on him and his music and less on conductors’ interest in drawing attention to themselves.