(++++) THE POWER OF THE VIOLIN

Bach: Sonatas and Partitas for Solo Violin. Fabio Biondi, violin. Naïve. $19.99 (2 CDs).

Telemann: Fantasias 1-12 for Solo Violin. Thomas Bowes, violin. Navona. $14.99.

Edward Cowie: Bird Portraits. Peter Sheppard Skærved, violin; Roderick Chadwick, piano. Métier. $18.99.

     Certain solo-violin works loom above performers like Mount Everest, and like the mountain, need to be surmounted because they are there. Bach’s Sonatas and Partitas for Solo Violin are emphatically among these, partly because of their sheer difficulty, partly because they have been performed by so many of the greatest violinists, and partly because in a sense they are not audience-focused works at all. These are intimate pieces, private works that encourage (and perhaps require) a violinist to be fully attuned to himself or herself and to let introspection and self-understanding permeate every performance. It is in this respect, one of intimacy and self-knowledge, that the new Naïve recording of the works by Fabio Biondi excels. Biondi is well-known for period performances and is always sensitive to historically accurate approaches without allowing historicity to turn into academic rigidity. This approach serves the Sonatas and Partitas for Solo Violin well, given that the sonatas are somewhat formulaic in structure while the partitas are more free-flowing and variegated – allowing Biondi greater expressiveness within a historically informed context. Thus, his treatment of the three fugues – the second movement of each sonata – is notable for richness of tone, clear accentuation, and interesting differentiation of the works within their similar formal structure: for example, the fugue in Sonata No. 2 is nearly dancelike, that in No. 3 stately and almost severe. The freewheeling elements of the partitas also showcase Biondi’s thoughtfulness and his ability to highlight both the dance-derived elements of the music and its more-sober ones (notably in the Sarabande movements of the first two partitas). The massive concluding Ciaccona of the second partita encapsulates Biondi’s multifaceted approach: the contrapuntal elements throughout are presented with clarity and sure-handedness, while the contrasting lyrical material flows with a gentle elegance that allows the movement to be both monumental and intensely personal. Biondi’s poise, careful articulation and rhythmic precision throughout the Sonatas and Partitas for Solo Violin make this two-CD release worthwhile on all levels.

     There is a certain persistent sense of the elevated in Bach’s Sonatas and Partitas for Solo Violin that places them in contrast to the earthier, more outgoing, and in some ways more directly communicative Fantasias for Solo Violin by Telemann, which were written somewhat later (mid-1730s vs. 1720 or so for the Bach works) and which encompass a wider variety of musical styles. Biondi has recorded the Telemann cycle in the past, but he is scarcely the only violinist to have found these works intriguing in their stylistic amalgams and expressive potential. Thomas Bowes’ new recording for Navona shows just how much joy and verve is to be had in the Telemann fantasias, whose structure is simpler than that of the Bach sonatas and partitas: four of the Telemann works are in four movements, the other eight in three, and the fantasias are neatly arranged in groups of three – the first two of each group in major keys, the third in the minor (F, E, B and A minor, respectively). Telemann does not eschew contrapuntal elements in his fantasias, but he mixes them willy-nilly, and to very fine effect, with rhythmically graceful material akin to that of Vivaldi and Corelli, and also with elements of the then-rising galant style. That style is apparent, for example, in the opening Dolce of Fantasia No. 7 in E-flat – which is followed by a vigorous Allegro, a sentimental Largo, and a minute-long concluding Presto that is bright and cheerful. Yet that whole fantasia lasts only eight minutes – and, at that, is the second-longest of the set, behind the nine-minute No. 6 in E minor. Telemann in these fantasias was considerably more outgoing and much more interested in engaging the audience than Bach seems to have been in his Sonatas and Partitas for Solo Violin: the Telemann works dip into folk music, often ask for speedy tempos (Presto designations appear six times, vs. none in the Bach sonatas and partitas), and consist most of the time of very short forays into specific moods and forms (the longest of the fantasias’ 40 movements lasts barely three minutes). All this invites performers to kick up their figurative heels a bit when playing the Telemann, in a way that does not really work in the Bach sonatas and partitas. And Bowes clearly understands this, playing the Telemann fantasias with relish and with a level of enjoyment that comes through quite clearly throughout this CD.

     The expressive potential of the violin has been much further plumbed in the centuries since Bach’s and Telemann’s time, and continues to intrigue composers today. Edward Cowie (born 1943), a painter and author of books on nature as well as a musician, was the first Artist in Residence with the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds in Great Britain and has tried to use the violin to explore 24 British birds in Bird Portraits for violin and piano. The interesting approach that Cowie uses for this extended suite (which lasts some 70 minutes) is one of musical commentary on the birds and their environment – not simply an attempt to paint musical pictures of the avian creatures. Thus, there is no hooting in either the Barn Owl movement or the one called Tawny Owl, the movements instead given over to a kind of seriousness of setting (mostly through the piano) and attempted characterization of the birds’ personality within the avian world (mostly through the violin). There is nothing here pointing specifically to the high intelligence of the Magpie; while Green Woodpecker is somewhat jittery, there is no obvious pecking to be heard; Osprey is not obviously a fish-hunting predator; and so on. Enjoyment of the suite really requires listeners to be familiar already with the birds and their habitats – the work is in a sense extra-musical, which is why the Métier CD featuring Peter Sheppard Skærved and Roderick Chadwick is a (+++) release for most listeners, although surely a (++++) one for dedicated birders. Certainly the variety of birds on display in Bird Portraits is impressive, including everything from the Mute Swan to the Great Crested Grebe, Bullfinch, Wood Warbler, Curlew and others. But if you do not already know what birds these are, what they look like, where they live, how they sing and put on displays, and how they fit into the overall environment, then the music associated with them by Cowie will be no more than intermittently interesting. There is simply nothing here to prevent the non-cognoscenti from mixing up the Bittern with the Wren with the Great Northern Diver: Cowie surely knows what elements of these birds’ appearance and habits his music is intended to reflect and elucidate, but only listeners in the avian-studies field – or ones willing to enter it for a time, for purposes of enjoying Bird Portraits – will get the full effect of what Cowie is trying to convey. The fine performances by Skærved and Chadwick are not enough to make this music into anything more than an intriguingly conceived concept targeted at a small niche of music-and-nature lovers.

(++++) SCIENCE AND PSEUDO-SCIENCE

The Secret Code Inside You: All About Your DNA. By Rajani LaRocca, M.D. Illustrated by Steven Salerno. Little Bee Books. $17.99.

Cat Ninja 2: Time Heist. By Matthew Cody. Illustrated by Chad Thomas. Andrews McMeel. $9.99.

     Writing about complex science for young readers is exceptionally difficult: the necessary hyper-simplification threatens at every moment to turn into over-simplification that results in significant misunderstanding. Therefore, what Rajani LaRocca has accomplished with The Secret Code Inside You is all the more remarkable: this is a book about DNA for the very youngest readers (ages 4-8), and the whole thing is written in rhyme, which seems well-nigh impossible, given the subject matter. Of course, the book barely scratches the surface of this enormously important topic, but it scratches it in a way that is likely to make young readers want to know more – attracted both by the charming presentation and by LaRocca’s refusal to avoid the use of words such as genes, proteins and chromosomes. LaRocca starts with the sorts of questions that kids in the target age group would likely ask when observing the world: why can’t we catch flies with our tongue as lizards do, see at night as well as owls do, breathe underwater like fish? The answer, LaRocca explains in a wonderful four-line encapsulation of the topic, lies in our DNA: “It looks like twisted ladders,/ or tiny, swirling noodles./ It makes us into people,/ instead of into poodles.” Then LaRocca – abetted by delightfully engaging illustrations by Steven Salerno – explains a few basic facts about DNA, what it does, and how it is reflected in everyone’s appearance: “You notice in the mirror/ that you have your father’s nose./ You might look at your wiggly feet/ and see your mother’s toes.” And then, of at least equal importance, LaRocca states (not in these exact words) that DNA is not destiny: “It makes the color of your eyes,/ but YOU choose where to look,” and “It gives you muscles small or large,/ but YOU choose how to move,” and so on. This is a wonderful, entirely age-appropriate explanation of what DNA is, what it does, why it is crucial, and what it does not do or predetermine. And at the back of the book, after the rhymes and the fun (and yes, the book is fun), LaRocca does one expected and one unexpected thing. First, as expected, she provides more-detailed information on the topic, suitable for older readers in the target age group (perhaps ages 7-8) or for parents to discuss with children. And then, unexpectedly, having stated that we share 50% of our DNA with bananas (!!), LaRocca provides an excellent “Banana DNA Experiment” that lets children actually see banana DNA – in clumps, to be sure, but yes, it really is banana DNA. The ingredients for the experiment are such common household items as hot water, salt, dishwashing soap and rubbing alcohol; the procedure to follow is stated clearly; and the expected results are excellently laid out and explained. The experiment is an ideal way to make a connection between the “macro” world of bananas and people and the “micro” world of DNA, proteins, cells, and the rest of the building blocks of life. The entirety of The Secret Code Inside You is so neatly conceived and presented that it will likely inspire young readers to want to learn a lot more about genetics – starting, perhaps, at some of the scientifically solid Internet sites that LaRocca thoughtfully recommends.

     Far more common in books for young readers – including ones older than the target audience for LaRocca’s book – is a kind of make-believe science that is essentially magic with gadgets, bearing no resemblance whatsoever to actual science or, for that matter, to much of anything in the real world. This sort of non-science can be fun to read about as long as none of it is taken the slightest bit seriously. It is frequently the stuff of graphic novels for preteens, such as the Cat Ninja books by Matthew Cody. The second in the series, Time Heist, has a new illustrator – Chad Thomas instead of Yehudí Mercado – but is otherwise more of the same. That is, in fact, the issue with this (+++) sequel: it is not much but more of the same. The first book amusingly introduced the title character and some cute-and-silly additional ones, including the nefarious Master Hamster, the dapper international jewel thief called Le Chat, and the hilarious Lord Elan Mollusk (an actual gigantic mollusk and an obvious nod to businessman Elon Musk). And there were enough twists in the story to keep young readers intrigued, if not exactly on the edge of their seats: Cat Ninja is a non-speaking “pampered house cat of an eleven-year-old boy” when not in costume (and even when costumed, he does not speak); Master Hamster eventually decides it’s just as well to stuff himself with food and roll around in his hamster ball as to terrify the residents of Metro City; and so on. But there is less charm in Time Heist, which seems to be trying a bit too hard. The second novel does not recap the first, so the characters’ personalities and relationships are unclear for anyone who did not read the initial entry. The minor characters this time are introduced for no particular reason and then leave the story, also for no particular reason – for instance, “Combat Wombat: Soldier of Fortune,” who shows up just because he feels like fighting but then doesn’t, and simply leaves town. The main story arc involves a tiny, newly hatched owl called Hoot, who turns out to have mysterious superpowers because he is really from the future, having been transported to present-day Metro City by a future good guy named Chronowl, or maybe by a future bad guy called The Cuckoo. Hoot’s eggshell is imbued with “chronol energy” (here comes the pseudo-science), and the various characters in the book – human and animal – travel to The Cuckoo’s lair in the distant future to encounter dinosaurs and giant robots and refugees from the Wild West, and it all gets very confusing and has a lot of “Roar” and “Snap” panels because of the “time anomalies.” It then falls to Cat Ninja and the other good-guy characters to reverse all the time tampering, get the various time-displaced elements back where they belong, and avoid changing anything in the past because, as Master Hamster explains, “If you think about time travel too hard, you’ll give yourself a bellyache.” In fact, there is not much to think about at all in Time Heist, except for one page that is quite funny but very much an in-joke: Cat Ninja is a product of a kind of Internet content factory called “Epic!” (The exclamation mark is part of the name.) And one page in Time Heist, displaying “alternate realities,” actually shows single-panel scenes from other books created by “Epic!” That is sort of a plug, sort of an amusing touch, and sort of completely unscientific despite the reference to “alternate realities” (which, grammatically, should really be “alternative realities”). Readers who enjoyed the first Cat Ninja book may have fun with the second one – although, lamentably, Time Heist does not include a really offbeat bit player from the first book called The Fury Roach. But any resemblance between the pseudo-science of Time Heist and any form of real science whatsoever is entirely coincidental and, really, completely undetectable.

(++++) PROSE PLUS PERFORMANCE

Beethoven: Piano Sonatas Nos. 1-32 (complete). Boris Giltburg, piano. Naxos. $54.99 (9 CDs).

     One of the biggest treats of Boris Giltburg’s cycle of the Beethoven piano sonatas is, surprisingly, not the performances, which range in quality from the prosaic to the profound (far more of the latter than the former, thankfully). The unexpected pleasure comes from Giltburg’s decision to write the program notes for this nine-CD Naxos set, creating a genuinely insightful and informative enclosure instead of the more-typical throwaway that so many CD booklets have become. Giltburg has something to say about every single sonata, discussing them in numbered sequence, and he does not hesitate to tell readers which works, and which movements within works, he finds especially enthralling and meaningful – and which others, in his estimation, fall somewhat short (although there are few of those). The writing is impressive in its clarity and strikes a fine balance between personal, often emotional commentary and analytical, sometimes technically complex discussions – the latter elements coming with references to designated times within Giltburg’s performances of specific sonata movements. Giltburg offers an absolutely first-rate way of learning about the Beethoven sonatas for the first time, or re-exploring them despite familiarity, or refreshing one’s memory about particular pieces or specific elements of individual works or movements. This is musical explication as it can be, should be, and all too rarely is.

     The actual performances, although they are generally exemplary, are, perhaps not surprisingly, a bit more of a mixed bag. They have certain very positive qualities in common, including unfailing technique, freshness of approach, clarity of line, and sensitivity to the different experiences offered by each of these 32 works. Most of their negatives are small ones, often in the form of missed opportunities to bring out particular details that would show Giltburg absorbing and then bringing out the thoughts and feelings outlined in his own written commentaries. One wonders, and not for the first time, whether the strengths and weaknesses inherent in using a modern concert grand are at least in part the cause of this. Giltburg is certainly aware of how different his piano is from those of Beethoven’s time, writing at one point about modern pianos’ keys being “much heavier and deeper than those of Beethoven’s keyboards,” and pointing out elsewhere how assiduously Beethoven for many years “was pushing against the boundaries of the keyboard, always asking the piano builders for more keys,” with “an ongoing defiance of the limited range” that led, famously and repeatedly, to the composer actually destroying instrument after instrument. Yet for all his determination to get more sound and a wider range from pianos, Beethoven also called for a limpidity, a transparency, in passages that are virtually unplayable on a modern instrument – such as the octave glissandi in the finale of the “Waldstein” sonata, a movement in which Giltburg’s articulation at speed is impressive but his penchant for heavy-handed (or heavy-footed) pedaling is unfortunate. Giltburg generally has an admirable lightness of touch when it is called for in this cycle, but there is only so much that he or anyone can do when performing on an instrument for which Beethoven did not write. It is worth remembering that Beethoven was a superb pianist himself until encroaching deafness made performance impossible: he was quite familiar with what instruments of his time could do, and that is precisely why he could stretch the boundaries of the piano-sonata form.

     Whatever the merits of using a hefty (in both weight and sound) modern piano for these sonatas, Giltburg does know when to do his best to keep matters light and transparent. This is clear from the start of the cycle in the three Op. 2 sonatas. The first, in F minor, is noteworthy for the passion and drama that Giltburg brings to the Prestissimo finale – although it has to be said that the quieter dynamics of 18^th-century instruments bring this movement openness and clarity that a modern piano does not deliver. Both the first sonata and the second (in A) have clear ties to the Classical era as well as hints of Beethoven already exploring new territory, and Giltburg integrates these elements effectively. But the third sonata, in C, is a bit less successful, the performance rather uninvolved, even staid, lending the work a predictability that makes it seem a bit of a comedown from the first two even though Giltburg, in his written notes, calls it “the culmination of the opus.” This is but one of the occasional disparities between what Giltburg says and what he delivers in performance.

     Interestingly enough, at the other end of the cycle, Giltburg’s playing outshines his written analysis, as fine as that is. The first movement of No. 28, Op. 101, is simply gorgeous: Giltburg writes of it as being like a flower opening in morning dew, and that hyper-Romantic description turns out to fit his performance perfectly. No. 29, Op. 106, the “Hammerklavier” (a term Beethoven actually applied to No. 28 as well, although Giltburg does not mention this), is a touch over-controlled at the beginning of the first movement, but it includes a marvelously evocative Adagio and a concluding fugue that showcases an incomparable mixture of control and understanding. Giltburg writes that this sonata “might be more enjoyable to play than to listen to,” then goes on to prove himself wrong. As for the last three sonatas, Giltburg gives them somewhat short shrift in his written notes, indicating that the Hammerklavier represents a monumental struggle to surmount the heights of passion while Nos. 30-32 explore a summit that has already been reached – a kind of faint praise that is very much at odds with Giltburg’s musical treatment of these works. No. 30, Op. 109, is treated with simultaneous lightness and subtlety, emerging as a work that is contemplative and never overdone. No. 31, Op. 110, is sincere and rather sweet in its first two movements, and then in its third – which is as long as the first two together – becomes an astonishing mixture of the heartfelt and the thought-through, an emotional/intellectual contrast unlike anything else in the entire cycle. And in No. 32, Op. 111, Giltburg clearly portrays Beethoven moving into uncharted territory of both heart and mind: without overdoing the modernity of elements of this sonata’s variations (and in fact downplaying the proto-jazz elements when they appear), Giltburg takes the music into a realm that is almost beyond music itself.

     Between the Op. 2 set and Nos. 28-32, Giltburg’s cycle ranges from the ordinary to the inspired, in some cases within a single work. Thus, while the outer movements of No. 23, Op. 57 (“Appassionata”), are unerringly dramatic, there is little respite in the central Andante con moto, which is a touch on the prosaic side. Somewhat similarly, in No. 26, Op. 81a (“Les Adieux”), the first two movements are emotionally as well as pianistically effective, but the joyful conclusion is somewhat too studied in its hesitancy before the last bars. On the other hand, No. 8, Op. 13 (“Pathétique”), sustains from beginning to end, melancholy rather than deeply tragic and all the more effective for being delivered with a simplicity that prevents it from sounding like a Romantic work ahead of its time.

     Giltburg also gives most of the less-known, untitled sonatas their due, although he seems clearly to have little interest in the sonatina-like Nos. 19 and 20, Op. 49, Nos. 1 and 2, whose numbering belies their early dates: Giltburg’s performances here are perfunctory. On the other hand, No. 11, Op. 22, practically overflows with charm, concluding with a Rondo that looks forward to the grace and beauty of Schubert while retaining a clearly Beethovenian character. And No. 13, Op. 27, No. 1, is simply wonderful, looking ahead not to Schubert but to Schumann in one section and contrasting evanescent elements with down-to-earth ones to truly superb effect. Like its much-better-known partner, No. 14, Op. 27, No. 2 (“Moonlight”), No. 13 is titled Sonata quasi una fantasia – and while No. 13 certainly does not eclipse the “Moonlight,” in Giltburg’s hands it more than holds its own.

     Any Beethoven sonata cycle has its more-positive and less-positive elements, and listeners’ personal preferences as to tempo, fingering, and the sound of specific pianos used for the performances all come into play in terms of deciding which set is “better” than which other. But really, given the enormously high level of technical ability and musicianship displayed by so many pianists nowadays, it is a mistake to insist that one performer’s approach is somehow objectively better than another’s. Different, yes, and Giltburg’s penchant for taking a fresh look at Beethoven’s sonatas – especially some of the best-known ones – certainly qualifies this release as differing pleasantly and in positive ways from some more-traditionally-oriented ones. Giltburg’s performances are always well-considered and well-constructed, as his very thoughtful writing makes clear, and they are presented with care, skill and emotional engagement that, at its best, borders on the revelatory. By any standards, this is a first-rate Beethoven sonata cycle. And it is interesting to think that it is unlikely to be Giltburg’s only one. He specifically tells readers that for this cycle he learned most of the sonatas – 23 out of 32 – for the first time. And Giltburg is only 37 years old (born 1984), which means there is almost certainly at least one more Beethoven cycle to come from him as he lives with this music for a longer time period and his thoughts and feelings about the sonatas change and coalesce in new and different ways.

(++++) SOME ORIGINAL THINKING

Mozart: Piano Concerto No. 20; Rondos, K. 382 and K. 386. Sergei Kvitko, piano; Madrid Soloists Chamber Orchestra conducted by Tigran Shiganyan. Blue Griffin Recordings. $15.99.

Rachmaninoff: Songs (transcribed for piano); Debussy: Nocturnes and L’Enfant Prodigue—Prelude (transcribed for piano). Alfonso Soldano, piano. Divine Art. $18.99.

Schubert/Hilary Demske: Journey for One—A Winterreise Fantasy for Solo Piano. Hilary Demske, piano. Navona. $14.99.

Wolf-Ferrari: Overtures and Intermezzi from “Le donne curiose,” “I quatro rusteghi,” “Il segreto di Susanna,” “I gioielli della Madonna,” “L’amore medico,” “La dama boba,” and “Il campiello.” Oviedo Filarmonía conducted by Friedrich Haider. Naxos. $13.99.

     Surprise is Sergei Kvitko’s stated intention with the repertoire he performs on a new Blue Griffin Recordings disc: aware that the three Mozart piano-and-orchestra pieces offered here are familiar, he is determined to get listeners to hear them in new ways by presenting them differently from the way they are usually approached. It is easy to overdo this sort of thing. The obvious places to do things in unexpected ways are in the cadenzas: by definition, cadenzas are places to go beyond the written-out portions of the music, to demonstrate one’s pianistic ability, to reframe and reinterpret some of the composer’s themes and ideas and present them with an additional touch (or several touches) of virtuosity. Just how far to take this, though, is a matter of opinion as well as a matter of style: doing Mozart-based cadenzas in microtones or on a prepared piano, for example, would really seem a bit much. Besides, as it happens, the Rondo K. 382 has actually come down to us with Mozart’s original cadenza – showing what the composer would have found suitable and, by extension, what he would not have done (with the whole situation complicated by the fact that pianos of Mozart’s time bore little resemblance to the modern one used by Kvitko). The way Kvitko handles all this is quite intriguing: yes, his cadenzas, in the concerto and also in the two rondos, go substantially beyond anything that Mozart himself or his contemporaries would likely have offered to 18^th-century audiences; but the connections to the music are kept clear and respectful, and while Kvitko certainly does not improve on Mozart in any way, he does manage to shed some new light on the communicative possibilities inherent in some of the composer’s themes. And thankfully, Kvitko gives the non-cadenza parts of the music the treatment they deserve: he and the first-rate Madrid Soloists Chamber Orchestra under Tigran Shiganyan set tempos aptly, balance the solo and ensemble material carefully (the CD’s sound is excellent), and highlight the many beauties and clever elements of the scores to fine effect. A major challenge in Concerto No. 20 comes in the last movement: a hitherto very serious D minor work has a final-movement second theme that is almost flighty, and after plumbing all the depths of minor-key emotionalism in most of the movement, Mozart throws all intensity out the window and speeds to a light and bright finish that can all too easily sound misplaced or awkward. A few concertos later, in No. 24, Mozart retains the music’s dark C minor sound and emotional impact to the end, but in No. 20, the question of what to do with the sudden sunshine is a difficult one to answer. Kvitko and Shiganyan figure it out: they make it a point to emphasize the lightness of the finale’s second theme when it initially appears, and then turn the movement into a dark-and-light balance that makes the eventual triumph of sunshine more than acceptable. All this comes on the heels of first and second movements that take their material quite seriously and are presented with plenty of inward-looking power. By any standards, this is a very fine performance that includes a few new ways of handling some of the material. The accompanying rondos are actually world première recordings, not of the basic music but of Kvitko’s own new editions of K. 382 in D and K. 386 in A. The changes in these editions are more for the connoisseur than for the casual listener: they are not exceptionally apparent in the performances, except in the relatively brief cadenzas. However, audiences that know these works well will hear differences of emphasis and ornamentation as Kvitko seeks to elucidate some elements of the scores more thoroughly. The alterations and rethinkings may be on the esoteric side, but the quality of the performances and the commitment to the underlying effect of the music are quite apparent and very welcome.

     Alfonso Soldano is after something else in his piano transcriptions of music by Rachmaninoff and Debussy on a new (+++) Divine Art CD. Soldano is a strong advocate of Rachmaninoff’s piano music, but here he appears to have arranged 15 songs for piano solo simply because the music sounds pretty. It does sound pretty, and often more than that, given Rachmaninoff’s propensity for grand gestures and unashamed (even overdone) Romanticism. And Soldano makes an effort to communicate, without words, the emotions that Rachmaninoff sought to produce with words in three songs from his Op. 4, three from Op. 8, three from Op. 14, two from Op. 21, two from Op. 26, and two published posthumously. The arrangements are pleasantly done and the performances are well-paced and sensitive, although the songs are not given in any discernible sequence and do not relate particularly well to each other except in a very general stylistic sense. These were not intended as songs without words but as songs with words, and in the absence of verbiage, what Soldano brings forth is essentially 40 minutes of background music: everything sounds nice, nothing sounds particularly memorable, and there is really nothing in these Rachmaninoff arrangements that makes them worthy of foreground attention – they are fine for listening to while also doing other things. More interesting and involving on the disc are Soldano’s four arrangements of works by Debussy: the prelude from his early cantata L’Enfant Prodigue and the three well-known Nocturnes. These four pieces were always intended to communicate through instruments, not voice, and Soldano’s arrangements show his concern for using the piano to bring forth the same kinds of effects that Debussy sought through the orchestra. This works, on the whole, rather well, with the impressions of clouds and the sea, in particular, conveyed to good effect through Soldano’s sensitive presentations. The Debussy works, though, remain more communicative in their original form, their colors more delicately blended and contrasted than on the piano. It is pleasant to hear these familiar pieces in a way that is different from the usual, and Soldano certainly shows himself to be a careful arranger as well as a caring interpreter. The works on the CD as a whole, though, are considerably less convincing than in the forms in which the composers intended them to be heard.

     Hilary Demske’s beautifully played but rather quixotic Journey for One—A Winterreise Fantasy for Solo Piano, heard on a new (+++) Navona CD, is not exactly a transcription of Schubert’s song cycle but not an entirely original work, either. It is a fascinating experiment: Demske does not simply remove the vocal line from Die Winterreise to create a solo piano piece – that would not work at all – but instead uses the song cycle as the basis for compositional modifications that sometimes incorporate the vocal elements into the flow, sometimes use them as points of departure, and sometimes try to obtain the effects of Wilhelm Müller’s poetry by employing the sort of tone-painting at which the piano can be so effective. Journey for One is indeed effective, and the rethinking of Schubert’s bleak song cycle is bold and at times quite clever. Certainly Demske’s heartfelt performance of the 24 lieder in her re-setting (which is not exactly a transcription or arrangement) is often impressively emotional and always in keeping with the spirit of what Schubert was seeking when he composed this cycle near the end of his very short and musically very productive life. But it is difficult to decide for whom Journey for One is intended, unless the “one” refers to Demske herself (Schubert’s song cycle is designed for two to perform, but chronicles a journey that is already for just one: the disheartened protagonist of the wintry tale). Listeners who know Die Winterreise already will likely find Demske’s work an intriguing sidelight, a different way of looking at what is essentially (but not entirely) the same musical material. Listeners who do not know Die Winterreise would be well advised to steer clear of Demske’s rethinking until they familiarize themselves with Schubert’s original: Journey for One is more of a commentary on the song cycle than a fully independent piece that can stand well on its own. As a composer, Schubert was above all a song master, creating more than 600 – and his ability to mingle the human voice with instrumental accompaniment remains unmatched. So hearing a major song cycle such as Die Winterreise without the voice is, on the whole, rather strange. It is easy to admire the sensitivity and sheer nerve of Demske in her creation of Journey for One, and to enjoy with few reservations the beauty of her performance of what she offers in this almost-80-minute keyboard work. But there is something a bit too rarefied in the whole project for it to be fully satisfactory: it is hard to imagine many listeners returning again and again to Journey for One, no matter how much one respects Demske’s originality of thought and pianistic skill – although repeated returns to the beauties and heartaches of Die Winterreise itself are almost a forgone conclusion for anyone who knows the music.

     The originality in evidence on a Naxos CD featuring music of Ermanno Wolf-Ferrari comes more from the composer than from the performers. Wolf-Ferrari was determined to restore levity and gaiety to Italian opera in the first part of the 20^th century, a time when seriousness and verismo tended to get all the attention. He certainly knew how to do verismo itself – his one foray into it, I gioielli della Madonna, is so over-the-top as to be almost a parody of the form. But it was in lighter fare that Wolf-Ferrari excelled, his transparency of orchestration particularly welcome in complementing a series of witty comedies that often used the works of Carlo Goldoni (1707-1793) as their foundations. Friedrich Haider leads this variety of orchestral excerpts from Wolf-Ferrari attentively, and the Oviedo Filarmonía – of which Haider was music director when the recordings were made, between 2006 and 2010 – plays well for him. But there is a certain fleetness missing in this (+++) recording, which comes across more as dutiful than as enthusiastic. This is especially easy to discern in the lightest and heaviest music. The four excerpts from I gioielli della Madonna are atmospheric enough, but their musical charm – a deliberate contrast to the sordid story in which they appear – is insufficient. At the other extreme, the exceptionally bubbly and very well-constructed overture to Il segreto di Susanna, a small masterpiece in less than three minutes, never takes wing here: everything is in its place and everything is presented properly, but there just is not enough sheer fun in the whole endeavor. The CD is curiously and incorrectly titled “Complete Overtures & Intermezzi,” which is far from the truth: it contains music from only seven of Wolf-Ferrari’s 13 completed operas (those 13 including five based on Goldoni works, two based on Charles Perrault’s fairy tales, and one based on Shakespeare). Haider leads everything appropriately, and the orchestral playing is fine, especially insofar as careful treatment of individual sections of the ensemble is concerned. What is missing, though, is a sense of conviction in Wolf-Ferrari’s determination to move Italian opera in a different direction from the one to which it was mainly devoted during his lifetime (1876-1948). The music comes across sounding comparatively ordinary, which was not the composer’s intention and is not the music’s effect when it is presented with a greater sense of abandon than it receives in these well-controlled readings.