Though the Brahms quartet leads off the program here, it’s the quartet by Felix Otto Dessoff (1835–1892) that’s the more noteworthy item. As you can see from his dates, he was an almost exact contemporary of Brahms, and the two men had close ties. Dessoff, however, was not, in the manner of so many others of the same time and milieu, a Brahms wannabe. In fact, his career took him in a different direction, away from composing and into conducting. It was in this latter capacity that he was best known, eventually working his way up to director of the Frankfurt Opera. As conductor, Dessoff premiered a number of Brahms’s orchestral works, including, in 1876, the composer’s First Symphony. Dessoff composed very little of his own—the current 1878 F-Major String Quartet being his most widely known (perhaps his only known) work—but either he was full of himself or he and Brahms had a very fun-loving, jousting relationship; for in dedicating his quartet to Brahms, Dessoff wrote, “You will be relieved to see your name on the title page of the quartet preserved for posterity. When people have forgotten your German Requiem, people will then say, ‘Brahms’? Oh yes, he’s the one to whom Dessoff’s op. 7 is dedicated!”

Audite and the Mandelring Quartet (Sebastian Schmidt and Nanette Schmidt, violins; Michael Scheitzbach, viola; and Bernhard Schmidt, cello) have released two companion discs to this one, pairing each of Brahms’s other two string quartets with a quartet by a near contemporary. Brahms’s C-Minor Quartet is paired with a quartet by Friedrich Gernsheim, and the B♭-Major Quartet is paired with a quartet by Heinrich von Herzogenberg.

My previous encounter with the Mandelring came with four cpo CDs of chamber music by Georges Onslow, in which repertoire I thought they were quite good. The field for Brahms’s quartets, however, is far more crowded; and the present release does not have timing on its side, having arrived not long after the Brahms set with the Emerson Quartet. While the A-Minor Quartet is not as tightly wound and aggressive as its sibling C-Minor Quartet, there is still a nervous unease to it that the Mandelring’s more laid-back reading seems to miss. The playing is beautiful, but it’s a bit too relaxed for my taste and lacking the edginess that the Emerson brings to the score.

For the Dessoff, choice is extremely limited, the current recording being the only one listed. Experience has taught me, however, to make a more thorough check before declaring a recording to be the first or only one in existence. And sure enough, a quick perusal of my own collection turned up a 1983 Antes CD (319023) of the piece played by the Bartók Quartet. It has the advantage of being coupled with a 1986 performance of Dessoff’s even more rarely heard 1880 G-Major String Quintet. In a case of reverse influence, it may be that Brahms’s own two string quintets may have been inspired by Dessoff’s earlier written work, though Brahms chose to follow Mozart’s model with two violas, while Dessoff chose Schubert’s model with two cellos. Whether the Antes disc is still available or not, I can’t say.

Dessoff’s F-Major Quartet could not be mistaken for Brahms, no how, no way. The harmonic language is similar, but the melodic profile doesn’t match, the texture is lighter, and the overall mood is gay—more reminiscent of Johann Strauss’s Vienna than Brahms’s. Listen, for example, to the Poco andantino that serves as the quartet’s Scherzo movement. Most delightful is the last movement, Allegro con brio, a joyous, jocular affair that dashes breathlessly here and there like a busy aunt arranging the table decorations and everything else for a wedding reception. It’s a lightweight, playful piece that makes a fine foil to Brahms’s much darker and heavy-hearted work.

Playing and recording are excellent. Recommended.

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Para haberse opuesto ferozmente a las grabaciones y no haber pisado el estudio desde los años 50 (su última grabación ¡de 1953! fue el Concierto para violín de Brahms, con Ida Handel y la London Symphony Orchestra, para Decca, disponible en Testament), poco a poco la dispersa discografía de Sergiu Celibidache se va ampliando hasta adquirir proporciones considerables, acorde con su justa fama. Para los admiradores del maestro siempre será escasa. Quince años después de su muerte, apagados los ecos de las macroediciones de EMl (Munich) y DG (Stuttgart, Suecia), que ahora se venden en funcionales cajotas a precio de saldo, aun queda espacio para la novedad y la sorpresa. En el boletín n° 181, de mayo de 2009, comenté una magnífica caja del sello Orfeo con grabaciones de la Radio de Colonia de los años 1957-58. Ahora Audite, adelantándose un año al centenario del director rumano (1), publica un estuche de tres compactos con grabaciones poco conocidas y varios inéditos del periodo 1948-57, con la Filarmónica de Berlín y la Orquesta de la RIAS (luego Sinfónica de la Radio de Berlín).

En la etapa berlinesa ya habían buceado antes sellos como Arkadia, Tahra, Music & Arts y Audiophile Classics. Lo que Audite publica, con el mejor sonido posible, son las cintas originales conservadas en los archivos de la RIAS (hoy Deutschlandradio Kultur). "Por su inferior calidad", Audite ha desechado las grabaciones "oficialmente destruidas ", aunque se sabe que hay copias que perviven en otros archivos y en colecciones privadas. Parte de ese material excluido lo publicó hace años Audiophile: cosas como el Concierto "Capricornio" (1944) de Barber, el Concierto para soprano coloratura y orquesta (1943) de Glière (también en Myto y Music & Arts), o la Novena (1945) de Shostakovich (también en Tahra). Arkadia y Music & Arts editaron sendos álbumes de 4 compactos con jugosos registros, como El mar de Debussy (también en Tahra), el Concierto para violonchelo de Dvorák (con Tibor de Machula, primer chelo de la Filarmónica de Berlín – después lo fue de la Concertgebouw – y no Pierre Fournier, como erróneamente señalan algunas ediciones espurias), la Sinfonía de réquiem (1940) de Britten, la Obertura-Fantasía "Romeo y Julieta de Tchaikovsky o la Sinfonía en Do de Bizet. El sello de la Filarmónica de Berlín ha publicado un CD con Jeux de Debussy, la Cuarta de Mendelssohn (también en EMI Great Conductors of the XX century) y la Suite francesa (1944) de Milhaud (hay versión con la Filarmónica de Munich en EMI).

Estas reveladoras grabaciones nos muestran a un arrebatado e inmaduro Celibidache empeñado en romper moldes (siempre fiel a sí mismo), interpretando repertorio infrecuente al frente de una orquesta depositaria de la Gran Tradición; después lo haría abordando el repertorio tradicional con un enfoque infrecuente. En 1948 programó un monográfico Gershwin (Celi adoraba al judío americano, prohibido durante el nazismo) con la Orquesta de la Radio: Rhapsody in blue, Un americano en París y Concierto para piano en Fa. Se agotaron las entradas para los dos conciertos. En la Rapsodia (versión orquestada por Ferde Grofé), el pianista Gerhard Puchelt, coetáneo del director, rescatador de olvidados compositores románticos y defensor de la música contemporánea, responde al modo académico, con seriedad, recursos justos, bon goût y escaso swing. Por el contrario, Celi, intuitivo, al frente de una orquesta masiva y pesante, es libérrimo, con más intención que dominio del estilo. Una curiosidad. Mayor interés presenta la grabación pionera (1948, ¡en estudio!) de la Rapsodia española de Ravel. Aunque con el tiempo puliría el concepto (mayor control, no sólo rítmico, en Feria) y la puesta en sonido, el taller del alquimista ya funcionaba por entonces, y sus resultados en los compositores franceses eran muy superiores a los de Furtwängler.

No hay muchas oportunidades de escuchar, ni siquiera en disco, el Concierto para violín, pieza exigente, representativa del "joven clasicismo" de Ferruccio Busoni (2), que requiere un virtuoso del instrumento. Aquí se luce y sufre (afinación aproximativa en algunos pasajes especialmente endiablados) Siegfried Borries (1912-1980), concertino de la Filarmónica desde los 21 años, con sonoro acompañamiento de aviones (3). Cierra el primer CD una soberbia, intensa obertura de Anacreonte, de Cherubini, que Celi gustaba colocar de starter (también Toscanini), no para calentar, sino para impactar al público. El espléndido segundo disco está dedicado a obras estrictamente contemporáneas: el bello Concierto para piano y orquesta (1945 , estrenado en 1947) de Paul Hindemith (Gerhard Puchelt repite como pianista), el Concierto para flauta y orquesta de cámara (1944) de Harald Genzmer, discípulo de Hindemith (con el estupendo flautista Gustav Scheck, uno de los responsables del revival de la música barroca en la primera mitad del siglo XX), y la suite del ballet Primavera apalache (1945), de Aaron Copland, que recibe una lectura sorprendentemente idiomática. Podemos disfrutar aquí del Celibidache comprometido, campeón de la música de su tiempo, que organiza conciertos consagrados íntegramente a música contemporánea y apoya activamente a compositores como Genzmer, de quien estrenó en Munich su Tercera Sinfonía (1986). Esta interpretación de su Concierto para flauta (4) posee valor documental, pues la partitura se perdió poco después.

Además de la deslumbrante interpretación de Introducción y fuga para cuerdas (1948) de Reinhard Schwarz-Schilling, arreglo de un movimiento de su Cuarteto en fa de 1932, el tercer disco contiene un concierto que con el tiempo se ha convertido en histórico. Ausente de Berlín tras la decepción que le produjo la designación de Karajan como titular de la Filarmónica, que el rumano había dirigido entre 1945 y 1954, Celibidache regresó en 1957 para dirigir a la Orquesta de la Radio un concierto homenaje con motivo del 70 cumpleaños de su maestro, Heinz Tiessen. Fue su despedida de Berlín. Celi no volvió a la capital alemana hasta 1992, cuando dirigió a la Filarmónica una memorable Séptima de Bruckner, editada en su día en VHS y LD por Sony.

NOTAS

(1) Este año se celebra el centenario de otro rumano ilustre, igualmente en la diáspora: Emil Cioran.
(2) Hay pocas grabaciones, casi todas excelentes pero de difícil localización, entre las que destacan: Joseph Szigeti/NYPO/Dmitri Mitropoulos (M&A), Manoug Parikian/RPO/Jascha Horenstein (LP), Jaime Laredo/BBCSO/Daniel Barenhoim (lntaglio), Franz Peter Zimmermann/RAI-SO/John Storgårds (Sony), Adolf Busch/RCO/Bruno Walter (RCO).
(3) Debido al Ilamado Bloqueo de Berlín, bloqueo del ferrocarril por parte de los soviéticos, los aliados se vieron obligados a fletar un número inusual de aviones para transportar a la gente a la zona controlada por ellos, lo que se denominó Puente aéreo de Berlín.
(4) El Rondó final comienza exactamente igual que Fêtes, segundo número de los Nocturnos de Debussy.

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This is one of the other two companion discs mentioned in my review of Audite 97505 elsewhere. On three separate CDs—this one being Volume 2—the Mandelring Quartet presents one of Brahms’s three string quartets paired with a work by one of his close contemporaries, friends, and members of his musical circle. On Volume 3, mentioned above, Brahms’s A-Minor Quartet was conjoined with a string quartet by Felix Otto Dessoff (1835–1892). Volume 1, (97503) yet to be reviewed, pairs Brahms’s C-Minor Quartet with a quartet by Friedrich Gernsheim (1839–1916).

On the present disc is a string quartet by Heinrich von Herzogenberg (1843–1900), an individual who enjoyed a special status within the Brahms circle, but for reasons other than his musical endowments. Elisabet von Stockhausen had been a piano pupil of Brahms, and she was to become possibly his most passionate love fixation, more so even than Clara Schumann. The letters they exchanged—some 250 of them—are filled with Brahms’s thinly veiled amorous yearnings.

Until 1868 marriage looked like it might be in the cards, but for reasons still not clear—cold feet?—Brahms broke off the relationship, and Elisabet married—guess who?—Heinrich von Herzogenberg. On one level, Brahms must have felt relieved, for he was now free to resume a Platonic relationship with Elisabet for whom he still had strong feelings. Being human, however, Brahms must have felt pangs of anger, betrayal, jealousy, and envy; yet in order to maintain good relations with Elisabet he had to suppress such feelings and remain civil, if not gracious, to the man who stole his sweetheart. To complicate matters further, Heinrich grew ever more idolatrous of Brahms, seeking his advice and mentorship, and attempting to mimic the elder composer’s style, all the while apparently oblivious to or unconcerned by Elisabet’s and Brahms’s relationship.

Of the many composers that circulated in Brahms’s sphere, Herzogenberg may have tried the hardest, without entirely succeeding, to imitate Brahms’s style. In a review of his solo piano works, (30:3) I wrote, “Unmistakably, this music was incubated in the Brahms-Schumann nursery, but just as unmistakably, it does not quite resemble either parent. Not as emotionally charged or lyrically expressive as Schumann, and not as introspective, psychologically complex, or harmonically and rhythmically advanced as Brahms, Herzogenberg seems nonetheless to have forged a derivative style based on his models, yet one that manages to avoid slavish aping.” And as far back as 25:2, Raymond Tuttle wrote of Herzogenberg’s E-Minor Piano Quartet, “From the opening notes, a Brahmsian wave washed over me...”.

Herzogenberg’s 1883 G-Minor String Quartet (the first of a set of three he wrote under the op. 42) is unabashedly Brahmsian. I would not argue with Tuttle on that point. I would not go so far as to say, however, that Herzogenberg was so determined a copyist—or strove to be—that his work could pass for the real McCoy. Brahms may have been the most imitated of all composers, yet his music resists exact imitation. One of the keys to understanding this is the subtle and secret art of “continuation.” The rules of harmony and counterpoint can be taught and learned. The gift of melody is, well, a gift. But having stated a musical idea, what follows it, what comes next, and why it takes your breath away or doesn’t is one of music’s enduring mysteries.

When you listen to the Brahms B♭ Quartet on this disc, you will hear a minimum of musical material that coalesces and expands into ever widening arcs. One by one, these jigsaw puzzle pieces fit together to form a work that satisfies on a deeper, subconscious level as a result of its organizational principles and structure.

Now listen to the Herzogenberg. Does it sound like Brahms? On the surface, yes, pretty much it does. But try listening below the surface, and what you are likely to discover is that it lacks the coherence and cohesion of the Brahms. On the surface, it’s a beautiful thing. Underneath, its progression of ideas is felt more than heard to be weak in the continuation that gives Brahms such underlying strength.

Audite is to be applauded for contrasting works by Brahms with those of his contemporaries and friends on the same discs; for in this way we can hear for ourselves the differences, sometimes subtle, other times not, between these composers that were drawn in by and circled like lesser satellites around the most influential composer of the late 19th century.

I am more positively disposed towards the Mandelring’s reading of Brahms’s B♭-Major Quartet on this volume than I was towards their less energized interpretation of the A-Minor Quartet on Volume 3. The B♭-Major is an altogether less intense, less tightly wound work, and the Mandelring’s more easygoing manner suits it perfectly. Listen to their amiable way with the last movement. If your interest is strictly in the Brahms, however, I’d still put my money on the Emerson Quartet.

As for the Herzogenberg, there don’t seem to be any alternative versions to choose from at the moment, which is all the more reason to be grateful for the Mandelring’s recording, which is excellent in all respects. Recommended.

Could it be possible that, during his lifetime, a work by Johannes Brahms was booed off the stage? That is exactly what Brahms himself claimed of this rather rare song-cycle when first performed by baritone Julius Stockhausen and the composer at the piano in 1869. Apparently, it’s not exactly welcomed warmly today either, which accounts for the fact that there are only about a dozen recordings of the work, half of them by Fischer-Dieskau, for whom this was his first performance of the cycle.

Die Schöne Magelone is not a string of musically connected songs, like Schubert’s Die Schöne Müllerin or Winterreise, nor a “sontata-type” song cycle like Bethoven’s An die Ferne Geliebte or Schumann’s Dichterliebe, but a collection of contrasting mood-pieces written in a specifically dramatic style closer to opera than to Lieder. The “plot” concerns Peter, son of the Count of Provence, who goes out into the world to gain experience and falls in love with a beautiful woman named Magelone. The poems, alternating between third person and first person (itself an unusual form for a cycle), are set to music that is simple and strophic in format, yet creatively varied in harmony, rhythm, and layout of variations. There is an optional narrative before each song explaining the plot, which Fischer-Dieskau does not perform in this early Cologne radio broadcast from 1952. The baritone did record the narrative in his first studio recording with pianist Jörg Demus in 1957, but this narrative was cut for the CD release.

As a whole, there is an emotionally strong, extroverted, almost rustic quality to these songs that I love. Peter is obviously both warrior and lover, so his emotions flip between his desire to prove himself a “man” in Magelone’s eyes and his wish to have her see his poetic nature. Undoubtedly the most intimate song is No. 9, “Ruhe, Süssliebchen im Schatten,” in which Peter sings Magelone a lullaby of great tenderness. Harmonically, it is no match for some of Brahms’s later, more sophisticated songs, but it is exactly the lack of studied sophistication that makes it, and the cycle as a whole, so touching and direct in expression. In a very real sense, this is a mono-opera with piano. If someone were to be clever enough to orchestrate it, I’m sure it would work fantastically well as a concert work for baritone, in the manner of Mahler’s Das Klagende Lied.

As recordings of this work go, this one holds a very high place of honor. Of Fischer-Dieskau’s later recordings, the ones from 1957 (Demus) and 1965 (with Gerald Moore) are more subtle and cautious, though subtly colored, the 1970 versions (two, with Sviatoslav Richter) more weighty in both vocal declamation and the piano accompaniment, the 1978–1982 recording with Daniel Barenboim the least engaged or engaging. Yet recordings by modern singers are even less engaging, the performances by Hermann Prey, Michael Volle, Andreas Schmidt, and Wolfgang Holzmaier being more routine and workaday, with little variety of expression. Only two modern versions, by Konrad Jarnot (2002, Orfeo 50041, reciter Inge Borkh) and Roman Trekel (2003, Oehms 331, reciter Bruno Ganz) are in the same league as Fischer-Dieskau’s in penetrating insight. The three separate Lieder from 1954 are similarly excellent—valuable because Fischer-Dieskau rarely sang them later. Highly recommended.