My other complete Scriabin Piano Sonata recordings are two-disc sets that include additional works besides the ten sonatas (Ashkenazy on Decca 452961 and Hamelin on Hyperion 67131, Sept/Oct 1996). Stoupel's total time precludes fitting all ten on two discs, and that leaves us with a short 44-minute CD. CD Universe had Stoupel at $31.29, about $3 less than Hamelin and more than double the older Ashkenazy.

I set up a spread sheet to compare timings and yes, Stoupel takes more time on every movement of every sonata than either Ashkenazy or Hamelin. I tossed in a few Sofronitsky and Horowitz times just to complete the picture. After several complete hearings, I believe that Stoupel has a strong affinity for Scriabin and great intellect to sort everything out clearly in some of the densest piano music of the 20th Century. The recorded sound is excellent and the big climaxes are as powerful as any on records. Yet, he fusses over little details and uses much more rubato than the others. There are times when the music almost stops and simply hangs in the air. Movements that
should dance tend to plod.

The Ninth Sonata, Black Mass in the hands of Sofronitsky, conjures up images of demons with cloven hooves darting in and out of the shadows. Stoupel's devil is massive, slowly breathing fire and laying waste to all that come before him. Ashkenazy's Fifth Sonata easily switches gears in and out of Impetuoso and Languido and Presto con allegrezza. Stoupel has all the necessary technique to manage the treacherous difficulties here, but when he hits the Languido section and shows us his wonderful dynamic control, all forward momentum comes to a halt. We are reduced to waiting for the next note.

The Tenth Sonata, with all of its trills and tremolos, builds, under Horowitz, to a shattering climax. Stoupel gets caught up in all of the minute dynamic markings. I heard new things in his performance, but I want the kinetic energy of Horowitz. For the money, Ashkenazy can't be beat. Yet, even though the other great performances mentioned here might edge Stoupel out, I like this music enough to want all of these recordings, including his. Any time I can hear a good performance, especially when it perks up my ears and makes me think anew about the music, I consider it worthwhile.

According to Audite’s booklet, this is the final volume of Bolet’s (West) Berlin recordings made between 1961 and 1974. The two earlier volumes featured RIAS recordings (12/17, 4/18). This third collection has those made by Sender Freies Berlin (Radio Free Berlin), the public radio and television service for West Berlin from 1954 until 1990. The sound quality throughout is amazingly good.

Bolet’s legions of fans will need no words of encouragement from me to invest, for there are several valuable additions to this great pianist’s discography. Not least among them is a superb live performance of the Emperor Concerto, boasting an especially exuberant and forthright finale, captured (uniquely in this set) in 1974 by ORTF in Paris. Preceding that are the complete Chopin Op 25 Études from 1968, full of delectable things, bold, confident and paraded in Bolet’s wonderful range of touch and colours, among them the cello like plangency of No 7 and the fire and brimstone of No 11 (a breathtaking ‘Winter Wind’). If No 9 is more kangaroo than ‘Butterfly’, it will surely put a smile on your face. There are also three of Chopin’s Polonaises (Nos 3, 4 and 6) that are new to the discography.

Debussy is a composer who one does not normally associate with Bolet. Perhaps hearing him in Images Book 2 and Masques (both from 1961) will change perceptions. On the other hand, as one of the piano’s great tone colourists, maybe we shouldn’t be surprised. If there is a surprise to be had it is that he was drawn to Norman Dello Joio’s Piano Sonata No 2 of 1943 which, among other novelties, has a last movement in the unusual key of C flat major. Bolet revels in its harsh, expressionist effusion of rhythmic and technical challenges. Schumann is more familiar Bolet territory, though not his Piano Sonata No 3, the least played of the three (the so-called Concerto Without Orchestra). Given that Bolet was at his best in front of an audience, as with most of the recordings in this set, there is no sense of a studio performance, such as there was towards the end of his career. He makes a substantial (and in my view beneficial) cut in the finale.

Disc 2 has the Grieg Ballade, a piece with a particular Bolet association for this writer: on one memorable evening in the late 1970s after supper in my apartment with Bolet and some mutual friends, we managed to lure him to the piano on which happened to be the score of the Ballade. (After hearing that, we were treated to a late night recital from the Bolet back catalogue including Cuban dances and his own ending of the Don Juan Fantasy.) It is a piece Bolet obviously enjoyed. This account was recorded in October 1961 (the same day as the Debussy pieces, and the earliest session here) and appears, as does another Bolet favourite, Franck’s Prélude, Aria et Final (the work that follows it on disc 2), on Vol 2 of Marston’s retrospective of the pianist (7/15) heard live in Amsterdam in 1987.

Disc 3 begins with an account from 1971 of the Andante spianato and Grand Polonaise which I did not enjoy at all. It sounds thoroughly bad-tempered, the Andante played as if it were Rachmaninov and the fioritura passages in the Polonaise tight and scrambled. After the three Polonaises (Bolet at his most magisterial) come two specialities: Schumann-Liszt Frühlingsnacht (unmissable) and the J Strauss II-Godowsky Symphonic Metamorphosis on Die Fledermaus (sui generis). All in all, a pianophile delight.

Loin de la simple compilation, ce coffret fait sens par le regroupement qu'il opère. Tout y est connu. Il réunit les concerts berlinois d'après-guerre conservés par le seul émetteur du RIAS de Berlin (mais pas ceux du Sender Freies Berlin: il n'est donc pas exhaustif), édités à partir des bandes originales et présentés de façon chronologique.

Cette somme témoigne de la « dernière manière » de Furtwängler, d'une période amarrée à la vie intime, à la spiritualité secrète des profondeurs, plus détachée, mais pas toujours forcément plus sereine. Certes, quand deux exécutions se répondent à distance (« Eroica », « Pastorale » et 5e de Beethoven, 3e de Brahms, « Inachevée » de Schubert...), le détachement paraît globalement plus accusé dans la plus récente. Furtwângler se pacifie (ou renonce ?) avec le temps, les gravures de la fin des années 1940 gardant pour leur part bien des traces des tourments de celles de la guerre (4e de Brahms, 1948, une géniale Ouverture de Manfred de Schumann, 1949). Mais le principe de vie demeure, indomptable, fût-il toujours plus miné par un pessimisme existentiel à fleur de peau (extraordinai-rement sensible dans des mouvements lents suspendus, monologues où le chef ose des lenteurs inouïes). Le tragique du temps, encore incertain en ce début des années 1950, s'y confond avec le tragique personnel d'un Furtwängler marqué par la procédure de « dénazification ». L'extraordinaire continuité du ton est frappante; incontestables, nombreuses, les nuances semblent découler de la sensibilité du moment, d'un état psychologique donné. Mais le flux conceptuel primordial demeure.

Parfois, Furtwängler gagne des profondeurs connues de lui seul: ainsi dans la Marcia funèbre de l'« Eroica » de 1952, où Atlas, au bord de la rupture, porte le poids du monde sur ses épaules; le déploiement y est immense, le tragique y est immense, le silence y est immense. Et la douleur! D'aucuns considéreront qu'une telle appropriation a moins à voir avec Beethoven qu'avec le chef. Mais voilà précisément ce que ces CD, fidèles à la viscosité si particulière du son du Philharmonique de Berlin, nous font toucher de près: une douceur intime, enfouie, et qui pourtant nous parle de nous, tant on croit être dans la tête, dans l'esprit même de Furtwängler.

Organiques, ses interprétations le sont du fait d'un phrasé et d'une respiration grandioses qui obéissent aux nuances permanentes de la tension vitale, même quand il s'abandonne à des rallentendos à couper le souffle ; mais elles le sont aussi parce que l'esprit y palpite à l'égal de la chair et du sang.

Nos priorités stylistiques ont beau avoir changé, on ne résistera pas au marbre noble d'Alceste, pas plus qu'on ne peut méconnaître que ses Bach et Handel, écrasés dans leurs valeurs lentes sous une matière sonore d'une densité hors de propos, demeurent vibrants. La même densité rembrunit et claquemure les Hindemith, et le chef se prend les pieds (et l'orchestre avec lui) dans le néoclassicisme stravinskien du concerto pour violon de Fortner, bousculé par le jeu vif-argent de Gerhard Taschner. Mais Personne n'a animé la Musique concertante de Blacher avec un mouvement aussi inexorable.

Ce qu'il y a d'infiniment humain en Furtwângler efface partout la frontière qui sépare le créateur de l'interprète. Eau noire dont les mouvements de surface viennent du plus profond, soufflet de forge inépuisable, respirations nocturnes frémissantes (le Freischütz!): toutes les images valent, aucune ne suffit. Le plus émouvant gît peut-être dans la façon dont le chef éveille littéralement chaque œuvre à la vie, déployant majestueusement dans le même temps ses propres ailes. La notice « perspectiviste » d'Habakuk Traber est magistrale, le colloque organisé par le compositeur Werner Egk en 1951 passionnant (CD 13), mais l'un et l'autre réservés aux germanistes.

Although a product of the Vienna Music Academy, which he entered at the age of 12 to study under Bruno Seidlhofer and Joseph Marx, Gulda was eventually to develop a disdain for authority. His unorthodox life eventually led him on a path of discovery and an attraction to jazz in the 1950s. Stories of him faking his own death in the late 1990s and his various nicknames (“terrorist pianist”, “Freddy the Ghoul”) point to a true eclectic. In addition to appearances at concerts around the world, he appeared with such jazz greats as Chick Corea and Dizzy Gillespie for improvisation sessions. He expressed a wish to die on the birthday of his adored Mozart, and did so on January 27, 2000 at the age of 69.

These recordings of the pianist in his 20s give us an opportunity to review his early accomplishments in the classical repertory. After being without these for many years, it was refreshing to hear them once again and resp[ond to some grand and astonishing music-making. The sound is generally fine— clear and warm, if close and monaural.

The Beethoven sonatas (10, 28, 30), Eroica Variations, and 32 Variations in C minor are sometimes brusque, with sharp accents and wide contrasts. They are not, however, out of keeping with what we know of Beethoven’s personality. The beauty of the composer’s slow sections is not slighted in the least, as Gulda’s marvelous concentration and phrasing come fully to the fore. Also present, as in the final movement of Sonata 10, is Beethoven’s sense of humor—this Scherzo rides the wind with gale speed.

Debussy’s Pour le Piano, Suite Bergamasque, and the few excerpts from the Preludes, Estampes, and Images are not patted down with layers of Impressionist gauze. They are very direct—forceful and impetuous. They are also, as in the final ‘Toccata’ from Pour le Piano virtuosic to the extreme. Gulda plays all of this music full out. The famous ‘Clair de Lune’, while refined, grows heavy with nostalgia as it unfolds its beauty; but these along with Ravel’s Gaspard de la Nuit show the artist considerably short of the imagination needed to be fully convincing.

The 24 Chopin Preludes do not find the pianist at his most persuasive. While there are certain niceties, Prelude 3 uses the pedal too much, causing a smear in the rippling left hand. Prelude 10, on the other hand, is most spirited, with the right hand always sparkling. Prelude 11 has perhaps more expressive rubato then it needs, while the ensuing Presto of Prelude 12 is driven and choppy, as it should be. The Allegro of Prelude 14 is thrilling, especially with its spare use of pedal and clearsounding organized chaos. Prelude 15 (Raindrop) begins daintily but soon finds Gulda, drenched with emotion, squeezing everything he can get out of the piece. The violence of Prelude 18 is well conveyed as it seizes one by the throat until its energy has been spent. The gentle but speedy 19th Prelude is just about perfect—one of the best I have heard—but the very last of the set puts you through the emotional wringer once again. In all, a mixed bag.

Chopin’s Nocturne in C minor, Op. 48:1, is not a laid-back performance. It moves in a positive way, and the contrasting stormy middle section is most effectively realized. The Barcarolle, on the other hand, is uneven, with rhythms that may be pulled about too much for some tastes. On the positive side, it’s certainly a big-boned approach to one of the composer’s finest compositions.

Prokofieff’s wartime Sonata 7 is appropriately demonic, with the final ‘Precipitato’ hammering away towards its violent conclusion. There is a respite in the slow movement’s lyricism, though the dark clouds are never far away.

Recorded in 1950, the sound can be a bit murky when razor-sharp vividness is what’s really called for.

The only work with orchestra in this set is Mozart’s dramatic Concerto 24 in C minor. Markevitch conducts with all the drama one could wish for, but the overall sound is astringent, with a sour sound in the oboes. All this is of small matter in view of the stirring musicmaking of Gulda. Wolfgang Rathert’s essays contribute substantially to the value of this album.

Though some might argue that the market is overloaded with recordings of Beethoven's quartets, consequently making releases such as these redundant, enough freshness of interpretation is evident here to suggest that both should command interest, especially as the approach of each ensemble differs from the other.

The Hagen ensemble has, of course, been in existence for three decades, during which it has gained broad admiration. My first exposure to the group was with a DG CD from 1995 in which it offered impressive accounts of Beethoven's Quartets, Opp. 127 and 132. In the succeeding years, the group has remained intact but its style has become a bit more flexible, with the use of legato and rhythmic inflection that I do not recall from its earlier playing. This is especially true for the first movement of Op. 18 No. 3. Its second movement seems just a bit too slow for the con moto qualification that Beethoven gave this Andante, but the music can stand this approach. With the Presto finale aptly projected as a delightful romp, the performance comes to a joyous close.

Quartet No. 5 is not quite as successful. Its opening movement is afflicted with breathpauses and a seeming preciousness, neither suitable for the music's buoyant spirit. Conversely, its Menuetto seems a bit too fast at its beginning and a bit too slow in the movement's trio, but the ensuing Andante cantabile unfolds with a perfectly chosen tempo in which the music flows without the breadth sometimes imposed upon it. The finale is a delightful romp, its fast tempo in no way comprising the wonderfully clear articulation of every note.

It is quite a leap to Op. 135, Beethoven's last quartet. Indeed, some may well wonder why it is included on the same disc with two of his earliest ones. Perhaps the musicians were making a statement - to wit, that this work, while superficially similar to those of Op. 18, is in many ways strikingly different from them. Nothing in the earlier works, for example, suggests the relaxed eeriness of the first movement of this later one. Here the Hagen conveys all of the music's graceful yet sometimes other-worldly ethos with a tempo that (unlike some performances that are too fast) honours Beethoven's Allegretto specification. Similarly, the second movement (Vivace) is not rushed, consequently permitting its sudden rhythmic lurches to be especially striking, its syncopations sharply drawn. The third movement (Assai lento, cantante e tranquillo) is everything that Beethoven 's indications call for: very slow, content and tranquil. The finale is equally distinguished, its slow introduction aptly spooky and forceful, its Allegro buoyant but not rushed, the humour of its false climax fully conveyed. In short, a fine performance that, despite a few shortcomings, remains commanding.

The Quartetto di Cremona, in existence for only ten years, will probably be unfamiliar to many. Here it is a virtuoso ensemble, favouring a tone that seems somewhat edgy, a minor drawback that may well be the product of the engineering. Whatever, it is a formidable ensemble, musical even in exceptionally fast tempos. In Op. 18 No. 6 Beethoven's Allegro con brio is fleet to the point of sounding fierce and almost breathless. Aside from a ritardando just before the recapitulation, the tempo is retained throughout the first movement, resulting in great cumulative impact. The second movement (Adagio ma non troppo) moves faster than I have ever heard in one basic tempo that is at once graceful and arresting. Beethoven said the scherzo that follows should be played 'as fast as possible'. Doubtless, he would have been delighted with what is offered here. The finale opens with a slow introduction that Beethoven titled 'La Malincolia', an adagio that leads into a quasi allegro that is ideally paced in not being too fast. All in all, this is a superb performance.

The Cremona's account of Op. 95 may prove controversial. Its opening movement is fleeter than in any of the great number of recordings or live performances of the work I have heard. But, because the Cremona's playing is so technically accomplished, nothing sounds blurred or smeared. Particularly impressive here is the first violinist, Cristiano Gualco. Although some may find the first movement uncomfortably breathless, even frantic, others may be swept away in admiration. So, too, with the fierce, almost angry third movement, which Beethoven could not call 'scherzo ', which means 'joke', in a work that is clearly serious. Thus the rather grim finale ends in a joyous f major coda tossed off at a high speed that avoids any blurring.

Listening to this performance of Op. 135 in the context of having just heard the one recorded by the Hagen Quartett is fascinating, particularly in the way in which one account differs from the other in matters of tempo The biggest difference is in the first movement , 6'28" with the Cremona ensemble, 7'30" with the Hagen. What is most interesting about this extreme difference is that they both work well. Doubtless, they project different images, but in the same fashion that two actors may have radically different approaches to a leading role, each in its own way is valid. This, of course, is why record collectors often acquire more than one performance of a favourite work.

In short, both ensembles do justice to the music. Indeed, I would recommend both as acquisitions that offer a prime example of how great art is complex and will always be open to more than one 'correct' interpretation.

Though some might argue that the market is overloaded with recordings of Beethoven's quartets, consequently making releases such as these redundant, enough freshness of interpretation is evident here to suggest that both should command interest, especially as the approach of each ensemble differs from the other.

The Hagen ensemble has, of course, been in existence for three decades, during which it has gained broad admiration. My first exposure to the group was with a DG CD from 1995 in which it offered impressive accounts of Beethoven's Quartets, Opp. 127 and 132. In the succeeding years, the group has remained intact but its style has become a bit more flexible, with the use of legato and rhythmic inflection that I do not recall from its earlier playing. This is especially true for the first movement of Op. 18 No. 3. Its second movement seems just a bit too slow for the con moto qualification that Beethoven gave this Andante, but the music can stand this approach. With the Presto finale aptly projected as a delightful romp, the performance comes to a joyous close.

Quartet No. 5 is not quite as successful. Its opening movement is afflicted with breathpauses and a seeming preciousness, neither suitable for the music's buoyant spirit. Conversely, its Menuetto seems a bit too fast at its beginning and a bit too slow in the movement's trio, but the ensuing Andante cantabile unfolds with a perfectly chosen tempo in which the music flows without the breadth sometimes imposed upon it. The finale is a delightful romp, its fast tempo in no way comprising the wonderfully clear articulation of every note.

It is quite a leap to Op. 135, Beethoven's last quartet. Indeed, some may well wonder why it is included on the same disc with two of his earliest ones. Perhaps the musicians were making a statement - to wit, that this work, while superficially similar to those of Op. 18, is in many ways strikingly different from them. Nothing in the earlier works, for example, suggests the relaxed eeriness of the first movement of this later one. Here the Hagen conveys all of the music's graceful yet sometimes other-worldly ethos with a tempo that (unlike some performances that are too fast) honours Beethoven's Allegretto specification. Similarly, the second movement (Vivace) is not rushed, consequently permitting its sudden rhythmic lurches to be especially striking, its syncopations sharply drawn. The third movement (Assai lento, cantante e tranquillo) is everything that Beethoven 's indications call for: very slow, content and tranquil. The finale is equally distinguished, its slow introduction aptly spooky and forceful, its Allegro buoyant but not rushed, the humour of its false climax fully conveyed. In short, a fine performance that, despite a few shortcomings, remains commanding.

The Quartetto di Cremona, in existence for only ten years, will probably be unfamiliar to many. Here it is a virtuoso ensemble, favouring a tone that seems somewhat edgy, a minor drawback that may well be the product of the engineering. Whatever, it is a formidable ensemble, musical even in exceptionally fast tempos. In Op. 18 No. 6 Beethoven's Allegro con brio is fleet to the point of sounding fierce and almost breathless. Aside from a ritardando just before the recapitulation, the tempo is retained throughout the first movement, resulting in great cumulative impact. The second movement (Adagio ma non troppo) moves faster than I have ever heard in one basic tempo that is at once graceful and arresting. Beethoven said the scherzo that follows should be played 'as fast as possible'. Doubtless, he would have been delighted with what is offered here. The finale opens with a slow introduction that Beethoven titled 'La Malincolia', an adagio that leads into a quasi allegro that is ideally paced in not being too fast. All in all, this is a superb performance.

The Cremona's account of Op. 95 may prove controversial. Its opening movement is fleeter than in any of the great number of recordings or live performances of the work I have heard. But, because the Cremona's playing is so technically accomplished, nothing sounds blurred or smeared. Particularly impressive here is the first violinist, Cristiano Gualco. Although some may find the first movement uncomfortably breathless, even frantic, others may be swept away in admiration. So, too, with the fierce, almost angry third movement, which Beethoven could not call 'scherzo ', which means 'joke', in a work that is clearly serious. Thus the rather grim finale ends in a joyous f major coda tossed off at a high speed that avoids any blurring.

Listening to this performance of Op. 135 in the context of having just heard the one recorded by the Hagen Quartett is fascinating, particularly in the way in which one account differs from the other in matters of tempo The biggest difference is in the first movement , 6'28" with the Cremona ensemble, 7'30" with the Hagen. What is most interesting about this extreme difference is that they both work well. Doubtless, they project different images, but in the same fashion that two actors may have radically different approaches to a leading role, each in its own way is valid. This, of course, is why record collectors often acquire more than one performance of a favourite work.

In short, both ensembles do justice to the music. Indeed, I would recommend both as acquisitions that offer a prime example of how great art is complex and will always be open to more than one 'correct' interpretation.

"Robert hat ein höchst interessantes Violinkonzert beendet, er spielte es mir ein wenig vor, doch wage ich mich darüber nicht auszusprechen, als bis ich es erst einmal gehört", notiert Clara Schumann am 7. Oktober 1853 in ihr Tagebuch. In nur zwei Wochen hat Robert die Partitur geschrieben, rasend schnell, die Uraufführung in Düsseldorf ist drei Wochen später geplant, und Solist Joseph Joachim muss ja noch üben können. Aber die Düsseldorfer kippen das Programm. Ein einziges Mal nur kann der Komponist sein Werk hören, unzureichend, bei einer Probe in Hannover, die Joachim im Januar 1854 organisiert. Einen Monat später versucht Schumann, sich im Rhein zu ertränken, zwei Jahre später stirbt er in Bonn.

Ach, hätten ihm Geisterstimmen doch noch zugeflüstert, dass 150 Jahre später fast alle großen Geiger sein Stück spielen würden! Vorläufige Krönung: drei der derzeit profiliertesten Geigerinnen. Als erste legte Isabelle Faust vor einem Jahr ihre Aufnahme mit dem Freiburger Barockorchester vor, es folgte Patricia Kopatchinskaja mit dem WDR-Sinfonieorchester, und nun ist auch Carolin Widmanns Aufnahme mit dem Chamber Orchestra of Europe (COE) zu haben. Die Musikerinnen, alle zur Generation der frühen 1970er zählend, haben endgültig jene Stufe der Rezeption gezündet, auf der es nicht mehr um eine umstrittene Rarität geht.

Denn dieses Werk gehört zum Großartigsten, was Schumann für sinfonische Besetzung geschrieben hat. Ein neuer Ton ist da zu hören, im ersten d-Moll-Satz blockhaft Archaisches in expressive Rückblicke drängend, im zweiten Satz subtilste Rhythmik. Mit dem Finale indes hatte schon Clara ein Problem, und Joachim fand es "entsetzlich schwer für die Geige". War das ein Grund, die Partitur zu verstecken? Auf Claras Wunsch kam sie nicht in die Gesamtausgabe. Joachim, Besitzer des Autographs, verwies dazu 1889 auf "eine gewisse Ermattung, welcher geistige Energie noch etwas abzuringen sich bemüht".

Auf ihn und Clara geht die zählebige "ideé fixe" zurück, Schumanns Spätwerk zeige Züge geistiger Zerrüttung. Joachims Sohn verkaufte das Autograf der Preußischen Staatsbibliothek 1907 mit der Auflage, das Konzert 100 Jahre lang nicht zu publizieren, Schumanns Tochter Eugenie wehrte sich noch als Greisin gegen die Publikation, die 1937 nur möglich wurde, weil die Nazis einen "arischen" Ersatz für das Violinkonzert von Felix Mendelssohn brauchten. Dem Nationalgeiger Georg Kulenkampff war die Partie zu schwer (anders als zur selben Zeit dem jungen Yehudi Menuhin in den USA), und kein Geringerer als Paul Hindemith gab sich dazu her, von 523 Takten der Sologeige mehr als die Hälfte umzuschreiben, sie hochzuoktavieren, einfacher spielbar und dabei "brillanter" zu machen – was faule Routiniers gern "dankbar" nennen.

Auch diese "Uraufführung" vom 26. November 1937 kann man nun wieder hören, ohne die einleitenden Worte von Propagandaminister Goebbels zu Beginn dieser "Kraft durch Freude"-Veranstaltung in Berlin. Georg Kulenkampff hetzt durch den ersten Satz wie durch eine Zirkusnummer, den letzten Satz hat er von Schumanns Metronomzahl 63 auf 104 hochgedreht, und der langsame Satz versinkt zum Glück im spacigen Zirbeln der Interferenzen und Datenverluste, die sich beim Überspielen welker Wachsplatten auf Band ergaben. Obwohl auch Yehudi Menuhin das Werk wenig später in den USA spielte, hatte es nun einen braunen Schatten zusätzlich zum Zerrüttungsverdacht. Wirklich verlässliche Notenausgaben gibt erst seit knapp zehn Jahren.

Diese lange Geschichte ist wie weggeblasen, wenn das famose Chamber Orchestra of Europe dirigentenlos in den ersten Satz einsteigt, schneller als von Schumann gedacht, voller Sturm und Drang. Die leeren E-Saiten der Geigen werden bewusst expressiv, fast schmerzhaft eingesetzt, was die Nachdenklichkeit der Solistin um so deutlicher macht. Den halben Noten zwischen ihren Sechzehnteln sinnt Carolin Widmann wie mit weiten Blicken nach, während Kopatchinskaja diese Töne ankrallt, hinschmeißt, fast wütend, und Isabelle Faust lange und kurze Noten in Schönheit verbindet – nuancenreich, nicht oberflächlich.

Das Freiburger Barockorchester, von Pablo Heras-Casado geleitet, entwickelt dabei nicht so viel Sog wie das Chamber Orchestra of Europe, lässt aber Registerwechsel, Farbkontraste deutlicher werden und ist trockener aufgenommen. Das größer besetzte WDR-Sinfonieorchester unter Heinz Holliger, als Autor ein kompetenter und subtiler Schumann-Versteher, wirkt dagegen etwas gedeckelt und unterspannt – in kuriosem Kontrast zur Geigerin Patricia Kopatchinskaja, der ihr Eigensinn öfter wichtiger ist als das poetische Potenzial der Musik. Krachende Tonbildung im Forte und Pianissimi an der Grenze der Hörbarkeit können durchaus nerven, auch wenn man ihr alle Aktionen glaubt und sich oft fragt, was ihr wohl als nächstes einfällt. Sie gibt ein bisschen das "bad girl".

Die Überraschungen ihrer Kolleginnen liegen in dem, was sie bei Schumann entdecken. Während Isabelle Faust ihn behutsam mit der weiten Welt verbindet, geht Carolin Widmann ins Innere und beschert uns im langsamen Satz die zärtlichsten Töne, unfassbar intim. Ihre schlichten leisen Synkopen in Takt 13 und 14 wagt man kaum ein zweites Mal zu hören, so etwas Unwiederbringliches haben sie. Dabei hilft freilich eine Aussteuerung, die die Solovioline auch bei leisesten Tönen unterstützt, während Isabelle Faust realistischer aufgenommen wurde, tiefer im Geflecht der umgebenden Töne. Genau das hat man Schumann – im bornierten Vergleich mit Genrestandards – vorgeworfen: Sein Solopart bewege sich zu oft im Schatten tieferer Lagen.

Vielleicht nimmt sich da einfach ein Subjekt zurück? Im Finale gilt das allerdings auch fürs Genie. Vielleicht war es Zeitdruck, der Schumann hier auf die "Images der Polenromantik" (so der Musikwissenschaftler Reinhard Kapp) vertrauen ließ: Eine gigantische Polonaise tritt auf der Stelle, Holzbläser verbreiten schauerlichen sächsischen Humor und die Geige spinnt fingerbrecherische Girlanden. Soll man das einfach schnell hinter sich bringen? Widmann und Kopatchinskaja drehen das Tempo auf 80 hoch, nur Faust lässt sich (fast) auf Roberts Angabe ein, und prompt scheint die Violine doch etwas zu sagen. Nur was? Rätsel hinter einer lächelnden Maske: Wir sollten nicht glauben, ihn jetzt zu kennen.

"Robert hat ein höchst interessantes Violinkonzert beendet, er spielte es mir ein wenig vor, doch wage ich mich darüber nicht auszusprechen, als bis ich es erst einmal gehört", notiert Clara Schumann am 7. Oktober 1853 in ihr Tagebuch. In nur zwei Wochen hat Robert die Partitur geschrieben, rasend schnell, die Uraufführung in Düsseldorf ist drei Wochen später geplant, und Solist Joseph Joachim muss ja noch üben können. Aber die Düsseldorfer kippen das Programm. Ein einziges Mal nur kann der Komponist sein Werk hören, unzureichend, bei einer Probe in Hannover, die Joachim im Januar 1854 organisiert. Einen Monat später versucht Schumann, sich im Rhein zu ertränken, zwei Jahre später stirbt er in Bonn.

Ach, hätten ihm Geisterstimmen doch noch zugeflüstert, dass 150 Jahre später fast alle großen Geiger sein Stück spielen würden! Vorläufige Krönung: drei der derzeit profiliertesten Geigerinnen. Als erste legte Isabelle Faust vor einem Jahr ihre Aufnahme mit dem Freiburger Barockorchester vor, es folgte Patricia Kopatchinskaja mit dem WDR-Sinfonieorchester, und nun ist auch Carolin Widmanns Aufnahme mit dem Chamber Orchestra of Europe (COE) zu haben. Die Musikerinnen, alle zur Generation der frühen 1970er zählend, haben endgültig jene Stufe der Rezeption gezündet, auf der es nicht mehr um eine umstrittene Rarität geht.

Denn dieses Werk gehört zum Großartigsten, was Schumann für sinfonische Besetzung geschrieben hat. Ein neuer Ton ist da zu hören, im ersten d-Moll-Satz blockhaft Archaisches in expressive Rückblicke drängend, im zweiten Satz subtilste Rhythmik. Mit dem Finale indes hatte schon Clara ein Problem, und Joachim fand es "entsetzlich schwer für die Geige". War das ein Grund, die Partitur zu verstecken? Auf Claras Wunsch kam sie nicht in die Gesamtausgabe. Joachim, Besitzer des Autographs, verwies dazu 1889 auf "eine gewisse Ermattung, welcher geistige Energie noch etwas abzuringen sich bemüht".

Auf ihn und Clara geht die zählebige "ideé fixe" zurück, Schumanns Spätwerk zeige Züge geistiger Zerrüttung. Joachims Sohn verkaufte das Autograf der Preußischen Staatsbibliothek 1907 mit der Auflage, das Konzert 100 Jahre lang nicht zu publizieren, Schumanns Tochter Eugenie wehrte sich noch als Greisin gegen die Publikation, die 1937 nur möglich wurde, weil die Nazis einen "arischen" Ersatz für das Violinkonzert von Felix Mendelssohn brauchten. Dem Nationalgeiger Georg Kulenkampff war die Partie zu schwer (anders als zur selben Zeit dem jungen Yehudi Menuhin in den USA), und kein Geringerer als Paul Hindemith gab sich dazu her, von 523 Takten der Sologeige mehr als die Hälfte umzuschreiben, sie hochzuoktavieren, einfacher spielbar und dabei "brillanter" zu machen – was faule Routiniers gern "dankbar" nennen.

Auch diese "Uraufführung" vom 26. November 1937 kann man nun wieder hören, ohne die einleitenden Worte von Propagandaminister Goebbels zu Beginn dieser "Kraft durch Freude"-Veranstaltung in Berlin. Georg Kulenkampff hetzt durch den ersten Satz wie durch eine Zirkusnummer, den letzten Satz hat er von Schumanns Metronomzahl 63 auf 104 hochgedreht, und der langsame Satz versinkt zum Glück im spacigen Zirbeln der Interferenzen und Datenverluste, die sich beim Überspielen welker Wachsplatten auf Band ergaben. Obwohl auch Yehudi Menuhin das Werk wenig später in den USA spielte, hatte es nun einen braunen Schatten zusätzlich zum Zerrüttungsverdacht. Wirklich verlässliche Notenausgaben gibt erst seit knapp zehn Jahren.

Diese lange Geschichte ist wie weggeblasen, wenn das famose Chamber Orchestra of Europe dirigentenlos in den ersten Satz einsteigt, schneller als von Schumann gedacht, voller Sturm und Drang. Die leeren E-Saiten der Geigen werden bewusst expressiv, fast schmerzhaft eingesetzt, was die Nachdenklichkeit der Solistin um so deutlicher macht. Den halben Noten zwischen ihren Sechzehnteln sinnt Carolin Widmann wie mit weiten Blicken nach, während Kopatchinskaja diese Töne ankrallt, hinschmeißt, fast wütend, und Isabelle Faust lange und kurze Noten in Schönheit verbindet – nuancenreich, nicht oberflächlich.

Das Freiburger Barockorchester, von Pablo Heras-Casado geleitet, entwickelt dabei nicht so viel Sog wie das Chamber Orchestra of Europe, lässt aber Registerwechsel, Farbkontraste deutlicher werden und ist trockener aufgenommen. Das größer besetzte WDR-Sinfonieorchester unter Heinz Holliger, als Autor ein kompetenter und subtiler Schumann-Versteher, wirkt dagegen etwas gedeckelt und unterspannt – in kuriosem Kontrast zur Geigerin Patricia Kopatchinskaja, der ihr Eigensinn öfter wichtiger ist als das poetische Potenzial der Musik. Krachende Tonbildung im Forte und Pianissimi an der Grenze der Hörbarkeit können durchaus nerven, auch wenn man ihr alle Aktionen glaubt und sich oft fragt, was ihr wohl als nächstes einfällt. Sie gibt ein bisschen das "bad girl".

Die Überraschungen ihrer Kolleginnen liegen in dem, was sie bei Schumann entdecken. Während Isabelle Faust ihn behutsam mit der weiten Welt verbindet, geht Carolin Widmann ins Innere und beschert uns im langsamen Satz die zärtlichsten Töne, unfassbar intim. Ihre schlichten leisen Synkopen in Takt 13 und 14 wagt man kaum ein zweites Mal zu hören, so etwas Unwiederbringliches haben sie. Dabei hilft freilich eine Aussteuerung, die die Solovioline auch bei leisesten Tönen unterstützt, während Isabelle Faust realistischer aufgenommen wurde, tiefer im Geflecht der umgebenden Töne. Genau das hat man Schumann – im bornierten Vergleich mit Genrestandards – vorgeworfen: Sein Solopart bewege sich zu oft im Schatten tieferer Lagen.

Vielleicht nimmt sich da einfach ein Subjekt zurück? Im Finale gilt das allerdings auch fürs Genie. Vielleicht war es Zeitdruck, der Schumann hier auf die "Images der Polenromantik" (so der Musikwissenschaftler Reinhard Kapp) vertrauen ließ: Eine gigantische Polonaise tritt auf der Stelle, Holzbläser verbreiten schauerlichen sächsischen Humor und die Geige spinnt fingerbrecherische Girlanden. Soll man das einfach schnell hinter sich bringen? Widmann und Kopatchinskaja drehen das Tempo auf 80 hoch, nur Faust lässt sich (fast) auf Roberts Angabe ein, und prompt scheint die Violine doch etwas zu sagen. Nur was? Rätsel hinter einer lächelnden Maske: Wir sollten nicht glauben, ihn jetzt zu kennen.

Karl Ristenpart's recordings of a dozen or so of Bach's cantatas, dating from the late 1950s and early to mid-1960s, are probably well known to lovers of the repertoire. The contents of this box, by contrast, will be familiar only to radio-listening readers who were living in Germany in the years immediately following the Second World War. Although Ristenpart managed to record just about a third of Bach's cantatas between 1947 and 1952, thus running concurrently with Günther Ramin's radio recordings with the Leipzig Thomanerchor (Berlin Classics), his aim to record them all was never realized, owing to a change in management at the broadcasting station RIAS Berlin. The whole sorry story is lucidly related by Habakuk Traber in an informative booklet essay.

Meanwhile, we must be grateful for the 29 cantatas, albeit one of which is by Telemann, which have been preserved and now most skilfully transferred to CD from the original analogue tapes, rather than 78rpm records. Listening to them has been a veritable epiphany, for not only did Ristenpart clearly have ideas well ahead of his time but also the discernment to engage what were probably the two finest German Bach Singers available to him. These are the late Helmut Krebs and Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau, not forgetting a very young Agnes Giebel. Krebs sings in all the cantatas requiring tenor voice, Fischer-Dieskau in comfortably over half of those containing recitatives and arias for bass.

Though I well remember an icy-cold day on a railway station platform in Berlin-Dahlem in 1977, when Krebs told me about these recordings, he never intimated that any of them were still in existence. I assumed they were not, and so this box of treasures has been affording particular delight, both for its element of surprise but, above all, for the pleasure generated by the imaginative and individual musicianship of Ristenpart, his soloists and instrumentalists.

Compared with those of Karl Richter and Fritz Werner, Ristenpart's choir is small, bringing with it effective degrees of lucidity and athleticism. The vocal diction is enunciated with clarity by choir and soloists alike, a feature by which Ristenpart evidently set some store. Internal balance is well maintained for the most part and it soon becomes apparent that textural transparency in which instruments and voices are allowed to converse without having to compete was of prime consideration. All this is par for the course nowadays, but in the late 1940s and early 1950s it comes as something of a surprise to hear such a light-footed, chambermusic approach to Bach. With only one or two exceptions Ristenpart favours brisk tempos; indeed his Christ lag in Todesbanden (BWV 4) knocks a full half-minute off Masaaki Suzuki's (BIS).

It is inevitable that in a sizeable clutch of cantatas such as this not everything will come across uniformly well – the clipped articulation of the voices in some of the choruses is dated, though in Ristenpart's hands by no means inexpressive, as you can hear in the opening chorale fantasia of Herr Jesu Christ, wahr' Mensch und Gott (BWV 127). It is a pity, too, that occasionally da capos are shortened, but such instances are exceptions rather than the rule. Any other lapses are few and far between, often, I suspect, deriving as much from the limitations of recording technique as from any shortcomings in the artists themselves.

It is wonderful to hear Krebs in his prime. Seldom do we encounter recitatives sung with such urgent communication and such poetry as he had at his command, though just occasionally even he sounds uneven, as in the exacting tenor aria of Es ist euch gut, dass ich hingehe (BWV 108). In this lyrical piece it is Peter Pears who has the edge in an early recording with Karl Richter (Teldec-Warner). The youthful Fischer-Dieskau likewise seldom disappoints and then only with a hint of excessive vibrato, but almost entirely without the declamatory extravagances which occasionally caricature his later recordings with Karl Richter. Giebel's intimately expressed and radiantly coloured singing is already in place, though her voice is not fully matured and her performance of Weichet nur, betrübte Schatten (BWV 202) is less evenly controlled than her later version with Gustav Leonhardt (Teldec-Warner). There are other fine voices here aplenty, from among which I should mention soprano Gunthild Weber, who was a regular of Fritz Lehmann's (DG Archiv) in the early 1950s, soprano Johanna Behrend and contralto Charlotte Wolf-Matthäus, who made some notable contributions to the Bärenreiter-Cantate series of Bach's cantatas during the early 1960s. However, though listed among the soloists, soprano Edith Berger-Krebs does not, in the event, take part in any of these recordings.

In summary, here is an anthology which cannot fail to enchant most Bach enthusiasts. Readers will find cantatas which few if any other of the early pioneers committed to disc: BWV 88, for instance, with its twin images of the fishermen and huntsmen in its opening aria, sung with robust theatricality by Fischer-Dieskau. lch hatte viel Bekümmernis (BWV 21) is among the most poignant that I know, Krebs and Fischer-Dieskau firmly impressing a stamp of immortality upon Ristenpart's performance. Likewise, Wachet auf! ruft uns die Stimme (BWV 140), whose opening chorale fantasia is as thrilling as any I can recall. What a pity that the booklet omits the name of every single instrumentalist. Surely some of them, at least, must be known and if so they certainly should be included here since they play such a prominent role in the music. Ristenpart, by the way, remains faithful to Bach's precise instrumentation almost without exception, only preferring flutes to recorders, doubtless for practical reasons, in the opening chorus of Schmücke dich, o liebe Seele (BWV 180).

Audite must be congratulated on this invaluable rehabilitation. At times one can scarcely believe the modernity of approach and in all but one or two instances the excellence of the sound. A revelation.

Once again, I am breaking my own self-appointed mandate of live performance reviews to review a new recording. There's no justification, other than to say that I've been following the career of the musicians involved – the Cheng²Duo – for some years now with considerable interest.

Violonchelo del fuego ("Cello of Fire") is the eye-catching title of this new release from the German label Audite. The cover photos underline the Spanish pedigree of the music we'll be hearing.

Unlike the Duo's initial recording, this one contains only one work originally written for the ensemble of cello and piano. It matters not, for the music is all performed with as much fire and passion as if it were specifically composed with these instruments in mind. This new release also includes works for solo piano and solo cello, another innovation on record for these fine Canadian artists.

This Spanish recital constitutes a whirlwind tour through the great Spanish/Catalan music renaissance during the first half of the last century. It might be called a "Greatest Spanish Hits" compilation, but only in part since some of the works definitely live at the rarely-heard edges of the repertoire. As well, there is one work – the final one on the CD – which is something of an odd number since it is only Spanish by virtue of the nationality of its composer, certainly not in any stylistic way.

Traditional images of the music of Spain often evoke such comparisons as the strumming and plucking of guitars, the stamping of flamenco dancers' feet, and the clacking of castanets. To capture this feeling on instruments such as cello and piano requires the most precise pedalling and playing of staccato (on piano) and pizzicato (on cello), combined with rapid articulation, plenty of freedom of rhythm, and sudden, sharp dynamic contrasts. But these composers also included many pages of melting lyrical beauty, where the needs shift to sustained legato and careful shaping of phrases.

In all these respects and others, Silvie Cheng (piano) and Bryan Cheng (cello) have entirely captured the voices of these composers, and they've done so with energy, verve, and spirit.

From the very first notes of the opening number, the Intermezzo from the opera Goyescas by Enrique Granados, it's plain that we're in a very different musical world from the one which the Cheng²Duo's previous recording explored. Later in the recording, we encounter Granados again in an arrangement of perhaps his best-known composition, the Andaluza, fifth movement of his twelve Spanish Dances for piano. This is one work where I noted especially the difference in colour of the whole as the melody was taken by the cello in a position in the centre of the harmony, where it originally appeared on the top. This gave the entire dance a more autumnal feeling.

Isaac Albeniz, the most redoubtable of all Spanish composers for the piano, appears for only one work here, but it's a delight: the Malaguena from his suite Espana. This work calls for a lighter texture and colour, and the Duo deliver, finding a real sense of fantasy in this beautiful number.

The music of Manuel de Falla is generously represented. The first Spanish Dance from his opera La vida breve opens with an energetic presentation of the main theme. The central slower section brings the most forceful bass notes on piano, again with matching powerhouse pizzicato playing on the cello. The return of the main theme is decorated in this arrangement with additional virtuosic flourishes, all played with great flair and verve.

Equally powerful, if anything even more vivid and dramatic, is the famous Ritual Fire Dance from de Falla's ballet El amor brujo. Especially impressive here is the very wide dynamic range of the playing as the music leaps instantly from the very quiet throbbing rhythm to a full-throated fortissimo.

For a microcosm of the entire musical world of this record, turn to de Falla's Seven Popular Spanish Songs. From the fleet-footed Seguidilla murciana and Jota to the languorous Asturiana and the serene beauty of Nana, the Cheng²Duo capture all the diverse moods of this masterly cycle. In such a performance, one scarcely misses the words. The passionate Polo, with its stabbing chords on the piano and leaping cello line is a highlight of the entire album.

Silvie Cheng plays Turina's Exaltacion with distinction, the dream-like opening giving place to a vigorous treatment of the main theme and a lighter, more fantastic tone for the central section. It's a pity that room wasn't found to include the other two Fantastic Dances, as these pieces are not heard on record nearly often enough.

Bryan Cheng presents a rare and significant Suite for solo cello by cellist/composer Gaspar Cassadó, a work which not only deserves but demands wider currency. Three movements, each inspired by different traditional dance forms, call for the widest range of tone colours and moods, and this thoughtful performance truly captures that diversity.

Another Cassadó rarity follows, Requiebros ("Flirtations" or "Compliments") for cello and piano – another dance, this time somewhat more popular in character, and played by the Duo with panache. For a more detailed look at this music by Cassadó, go to my rare music blog: Cello Beauties From Spain.

The final selection is the odd number, the famous Zigeunerweisen by Pablo de Sarasate, one of the staples of the violin repertoire. The central-European gypsy atmosphere of this piece contrasts oddly with the authentic voices of Spain heard in the rest of the album. What's most striking here is the absolute clarity and precision of Bryan Cheng's virtuoso fireworks on the cello, since the notes are much farther apart than on a violin and the cellist's hand has to race back and forth twice as quickly along the fingerboard!

Taken as a whole, this new recording presents a distinguished survey of that proud and magnificent Spanish musical renaissance of the early twentieth century. Silvie and Bryan Cheng fill every selection with the fire and passion which are so essential to this music.

Audite's recording team has captured all the precision and energy of the playing with great clarity, set against a nicely resonant backdrop. A word of warning though: turn your volume down before you play this recording – it has been transferred at a very high level. The album includes detailed and informative programme notes in German, English, and French.