A través de sus diez sonatas Scriabin nos cuenta, de manera sucinta, su evolución como músico, nacido a la sombra de la herencia de Chopin y Liszt, envuelto más tarde en refinadas sonoridades de aroma impresionista y entregado por último a la búsqueda de un misticismo que hoy nos parece un tanto demodé, pero que en su momento fue un poderoso acicate para que, en cualquier caso, el compositor nos ofreciera unos pentagramas muchas veces enigmáticos, siempre alucinados e intensos. Sombríos soliloquios, ramalazos y fulgores de una sorprendente luminosidad, sugerentes y repetitivos desarrollos, con soluciones armónicas y planteamientos acórdicos de rara originalidad, van construyendo el extraño mundo de este visionario. Su música, cada vez más concentrada, la persecución del acorde mistico otorgan una temperatura desusada a sus propues tas, en las que brilla un lenguaje que se mueve entre la ternura y la vigorosa expansión dramática. A veces, el compositor establece curiosas relaciones entre las notas y elementos naturales o sobrenaturales – Sonatas n° 2 y n° 10 – y otras encuentra, con inteligentes procedimientos cromáticos y empleo, si viene al caso, de intervalos elocuentes – tritono –, una dimensión demoníaca, cual es el caso de la Sonata n° 9, llamada Misa negra, una de las más conocidas de una colección escrita entre 1892 y 1913.

Hay también mucho de poético en las formulaciones de Scriabin, que se inspiró no pocas veces en escritos suyos o de su segunda mujer. Todo ello configura uno de los universos más sugerentes y excitantes de la literatura pianística que transcurre en la transición del XIX al XX. El músico supo concentrar magistralmente en estas sonaras, y en muchas otras composiciones – estudios, preludios, valses, poemas, variadas piezas –, todo ese turbulento mundo que le preocupaba, angustiaba y obsesionaba y del que emanaba un lirismo en ocasiones enfermizo pero siempre efectivo, incluso efectista, y, por supuesto, extraordinariamente atractivo y que tanto ha cautivado a los más grandes pianistas. Desde Sofronitsky a Horowitz o Gieseking, casi todos los artistas del teclado han buscado traducir a sonidos las peculiares, a veces tan lisztianas, partituras de nuestro compositor. Vladimir Stoupel es uno de los que últimamente se han interesado en él.

No conocíamos a este pianista ruso más que de lejanas referencias. No ha grabado demasiado. Por lo que hemos escuchado, es un excelente instrumentista y buen músico, que desarrolla, según se nos dice, también su actividad en el campo directorial y que reside en Berlín desde 1985. Es un artista todavía relativamente joven, que nos muestra en estas interpretaciones una considerable madurez intelectual y expresiva, un criterio musical de primer orden y una capacidad analítica que puede en ciertas oportunidades, no en todas, no estar de más en la exposición de obras frecuentemente alucinadas, que se nos ofrecen como fulgurantes perpetuum mobile de agitado discurrir, como atribuladas muestras de un postromanticismo casi liquidado.

Stoupel posee la técnica adecuada y el entendimiento justo para brindarnos unas interpretaciones que nos dejan ver las luces y las sombras de las composiciones, en ocasiones más bien esquinadas pese a su relativa brevedad. En general creemos que el artista frasea con pulcritud, con finura, con exquisita matización, respira con lógica y llega a establecer una atmósfera poética muy sutil en instantes muy definitorios, así en los soliloquios del Allegretto y el Andante de la Sonata n° 3 o en el comienzo, salvados los primeros compases, de la n° 5, sobre la que planea, no podemos evitarlo, la rupturista y abreviada recreación, ya casi histórica, de Richter (concierto en Varsovia, 1972). Pero Stoupel nos gusta mucho, por ejemplo, en el inicio, pianísimo, de la n° 4.

Nos parece que, con todas sus virtudes, su férreo control de acontecimientos, su mesura en los tempi, su equilibrio general, las interpretaciones de este pianista no están siempre embargadas de esa pátina arrebatada, de ese apasionamiento urgente, de ese relampagueo que antecede a la locura o al éxtasis que suele entreverar la mayoría de estas partituras y que podemos respirar y aspirar de una forma más virulenta, en otras aproximaciones salidas, por ejemplo, de las manos de un Ashkenazi, cuya integral (Decca) en dos CD, en lugar de tres, con el aditamento de otras piezas, es una excelente recomendación alternativa: o de las del joven Subdin, de quien hablábamos hace pocos meses. En todo caso, Stoupel es más fino y más sólido que otros pianistas que han grabado recientemente este corpus sonatístico, como Robert Taub (Harmonía Mundi) o Marc-André Hamelin (Hyperion).

Jetzt ist schon wieder was passiert – um es mit Wolf Haas zu formulieren, der mit dem Satz einige seiner kauzigen Brenner-Romane würzt. Das Bass-Chassis der rechten Box hat angefangen zu spinnen, just zu Beginn der Sitzungen, bei denen die Herbst-Veröffentlichungen durchgehört werden sollen. Es schrammelt bei Bachs Goldberg-Variationen, der zweiten Aufnahme von Glenn Gould, die Sony Classical begleitend zur großen CD-Box herausgebracht hat – übrigens gibt es ebenfalls die erste Fassung von 1955 neu auf Vinyl. So geht das nicht, neben Goulds Singen lässt sich der Defekt nicht auch noch kreativ herausfiltern. Da bleibt nur ein Trip ins Ruhrgebiet, zum Vertrieb der englischen Lautsprecher. Während dort gemessen und beraten wird, was zu tun sei, muss eine kleiner dimensionierte Wiedergabekette mit dem erprobten Plattenspieler Dienst tun. Im Grunde die ultimative Herausforderung für den LP-Freund. Wird sich die klangliche Überlegenheit des Mediums auch im MittelfeId erweisen? Material bieten die Firmen genug, man kommt kaum nach ... Zum Beispiel dieses Miserere-Arrangement, erschienen bei Gramola (Vertrieb: Naxos), bei dem Vladimir Ivanoff – abkupfernd bei Jan Garbarek und dem Hilliard Ensemble – der himmlischen Allegri-Komposition eine Saxophonstimme hinzufügt: Das zeigt gleich , dass selbst die Otto-normal-Verbraucher-Anlage – sind nur die Komponenten gut abgestimmt – für beglückende Momente gut ist. Es kommt auf die Kunst des Masterings an. Genau das wird schlagend deutlich bei den auf 2250 Exemplare limitierten "Complete Concerto Recordings" von Martha Argerich und Claudio Abbado mit Konzerten von Mozart, Beethoven, Chopin, Liszt, Tschaikowski, Ravel und Prokofjew (Deutsche Grammophon, 6 LPs). Beinahe 50 Jahre kannten sie sich, im Beiheft ist ein Bild der Twens zu entdecken. Das war 1967 in Berlin, als sie ihre erste gemeinsame Aufnahme für da Label einspielten, Ravels G-Dur-Konzert und Prokofjews Drittes. Temperamentvolle Dialoge, frisch, packend, die bis heute begeistern. Leider erweist sich sofort beim A-B-Vergleich, dass die LP auf einem digitalen Mastering des analogen Originals basiert und jeder Wald-und-Wiesenpressung des Katalogklassikers aus den 70er- und 80er-Jahren unterlegen ist. Der digitale Zwischenschritt verflacht die Räumlichkeit, die Farbwerte verblassen, Argerichs temperamentvollen Glissandi zu Beginn des Ravel scheint der kinetische Schwung genommen zu sein: Das Timing ist gestört. Ganz anders dann der Fall bei der letzten Aufnahme von Abbado und Argerich – der Dirigent starb am 20. Januar dieses Jahres. Die Live-Mitschnitte von Mozarts Klavierkonzerten C-Dur, KV 503, und D-Moll, KV 466, entstanden im März und Juni 2013 beim Festival in Luzern. Nun ist die CD der LP unterlegen im Fluss und der Räumlichkeit. Die Aufführung selbst wirkt wie aus einem Guss, kein Solist hier, dort die Begleitung. Es macht den Hörer fassungslos, wie natürlich und einfach das klingt, das, was so selten und am schwersten in der Musik zu erzielen ist. Argerich verfügt über eine unendliche Fülle von Farben und Artikulationen – und ist dann ganz schlicht wie im Hauptthema des Mittelsatzes von KV 466. Buttrig, wie auf Samt, aber nie schlaff die rechte Hand, trotzdem prägnant die Gegenkraft der Linken.

Ein anderer großer Solist ist am 30. August 70 geworden: der Geiger Itzhak Perlman. Er hat sich längst in die Geschichte des Violinspiels eingeschrieben, steht in einer Reihe mit Heifetz und Michael Rabin. Begleitend zur Geburtstags-Box von Warner (77 CDs) gibt es das 1995 entstandene Album "The Perlman Sound" auf Vinyl; mit kleinen Stücken von Kreisler, Wieniawski, Tschaikowski, die Perlmans große Kunst zum Leuchten bringen. Trotz Vollfettstufe mit konzentrierter Tongebung, intensivem Vibrato bei Massenets "Meditation", Rachmaninow "Vocalise" und de Sarasates "Zigeunerweisen" – das ist schlank gedacht, unsentimental, ohne Schluchzer gespielt. Ein Fest für den LP-Aficionado. Zum Schluss eine weitere editorische Großtat des mit den Originalbändern arbeitenden Tonmeisters Ludger Böckenhoff von Audite, herausgekommen auf SACD und Vinyl (großzügig verteilt auf zwei 180g-Platten): Wilhelm Furtwänglers letzter Liveauftritt mit Beethovens Neunter 1954 in Luzern, drei Monate vor seinem Tod. Durch den korrigierten Stimmton, ohne künstlichen Hall ist man direkt im Geschehen. Der Dirigent und das Philharmonia Orchestra müssen sich erst finden, die Pauke ist im Scherzo nicht immer auf dem Punkt, sticht aber nicht so heraus wie bei früheren Überspielungen – aber dann ist der Furtwängler-Sound da: mit der unvergleichlichen Ruhe der LP noch eine Idee mitreißender, bewegender.

Seit Januar ist die georgische Pianistin Elisso Bolkvadze UNESCO-Botschafterin für den Frieden. Nun hat sie die damals angekündigte Einspielung mit Prokofievs 2. Sonate und Schuberts Impromptus vorgelegt – eine Aufnahme, in der sie sich als äußerst einfühlsame, sensible Künstlerin verbirgt. Ihr leichter, differenzierter, stets pulsierender Anschlag verleiht Prokofievs anklagender, tragischer Musik viel innere Energie und Spannung. Er verdeutlicht die Achterbahn der Gefühle, die den Komponisten beim Schreiben der Sonate begleitet haben muss. Lediglich im Vivace-Satz mit den stets wiederkehrenden, hämmernden Schicksalschlägen, hätten wir uns eine weniger zahme, mehr virulente Lektüre gewünscht.

Dies scheint jedoch nicht das Naturell der Künstlerin zu sein, die sich in Schuberts Impromptus vor allem von ihrer lyrischen Seite zeigt. Elisso Bolkvadze hat einen ganz entspannten Zugang zu Schubert – unaffektiert, ohne romantisches Brimborium. Ganz selbstverständlich perlt die Musik aus ihren Fingern in den Melodienkaskaden der Impromptus 2 und 4. Dazwischen setzt Elisso Bolkvadze mit kräftigeren Konturen die passenden Kontraste – etwa in der Beethovenschen Schicksalshaftigkeit von Impromptu 1 oder im Mittelteil von Impromptu 4.

Mostly lyrical and thoughtful performances, very suitable for Schubert, a bit to kind for Prokofiev. Yet, at the end, one has a very positive impression from the very sensitive Elisso Bolkvadze.

Die Gesamteinspielung der Mendelssohnschen Streicherkammermusik durch das Mandelring Quartett [...] ist ein großer Wurf – auch deswegen, weil sich das Streben der Musiker nach klanglicher Homogenität und differenzierter Expressivität hervorragend mit der Musik des tiefgründigen Sunnyboys Mendelssohn verbindet. Wo man hinhört herrschen beglückende Reinheit und Transparenz, belebt von einem innigen gemeinsamen Atem. Bei aller farblichen und emotionalen Differenzierung lassen sich die Musiker niemals zu übertriebener Zuspitzung verführen.

This is, quite simply, an absolutely stunning disc, with a “wow” factor off the charts. While Pierre Fournier made landmark studio recordings of both of the concertos featured here (two apiece, with Kubelík and Szell in the Dvořák, and Susskind and Martinon in the Saint-Saëns), and also has other live performances of the Dvořák available (conducted by Colin Davis and Szell), these renditions immediately assume very special places in the cellist’s distinguished discography, even with the occasional rough moments that studio recordings would correct.

The performance of the Dvořák B-Minor Concerto preserved here is utterly unique in that work’s discography. I make no secret of my absolute adoration of this work; the Fournier/Szell recording on DG is the one from which I learned and fell in love with it, and along with one of the great Rostropovich recordings (the ones with Talich, Khaikin, and Karajan) it has remained my benchmark for evaluating all other versions. What makes this one so remarkable is the conducting of István Kertész. As the booklet rightly notes, the conductor’s untimely death (he drowned while swimming off the coast of Israel) deprived the world of the studio recording of this concerto that rightly should have supplemented his still nonpareil cycle of the Czech master’s symphonies, and so this live performance fills a major discographic gap—and how! The score is susceptible to a number of interpretive approaches from the conductor as well as the soloist: youthfully ardent lyricism, soulful contemplation of nature, melancholic homesickness, and even (Rose/Ormandy) dark introspective brooding. But what I have never heard before now is the one Kertész provides here of full throttle, heaven-storming drama, full of fierce impetuosity and headlong impetus. From the very first fortissimo outburst, one knows that no prisoners will be taken and no quarter shown. The orchestral part is played on a positively Wagnerian scale, with thunderously roaring brass making epic declamations. (Did you ever before take note of the bass tuba part in this work? You will after hearing this performance!) That is not to say that rapturous songfulness is absent or slighted; instead, it too is heroic and larger than life in its ardor. At first, one would think that all the sound and fury (signifying a great deal more than nothing) would overwhelm Fournier, a performer known for the dapper elegance of his playing; but instead the soloist vs. the conductor and orchestra provide extraordinarily effective contrasts that heighten the dramatic climaxes all the more. A comparison that keeps coming to mind is to Wilhelm Furtwängler’s 1942 Berlin Philharmonic performance of the Beethoven Ninth Symphony; both performances are totally outsized, taking huge risks to interpretive extremes and pulling them off with stunning success. While neither one could be designated a desert-island choice—they are too unrepresentative of the norms for that—both rightly occupy unique niches in their respective discographies as renditions which absolutely must be heard.

Of Fournier’s two studio recordings of the Saint-Saëns, I much prefer his earlier monaural version with Walter Susskind over his stereo remake with Jean Martinon; the latter strikes me as overly cautious and restrained, almost tepid. But with Fournier and Martinon together in concert, matters are altogether different: from the opening orchestral chord and solo declamation, they are off to the races in an account of the score that is fleet of foot and dramatically taut, but also stylishly elegant. Soloist, conductor, and orchestra negotiate all the hairpin turns in the score with nimble alacrity, and in the process also put paid to the ill-judged dismissals of it in some quarters as superficial. This is a terrific interpretation.
Back in 38:1 I reviewed a debut disc by the young Spanish cellist Pablo Ferrández, which likewise featured the Dvořák Concerto and the Casals El Cant dels Ocells. While judging Ferrández to be not yet ready for prime time (fine technically but too green interpretively), I praised his rendition of the Casals as being “played with deep feeling.” But the heart-rending tenderness Fournier brings to this slight souvenir puts Ferrández completely in the shade. I could not possibly ask for a better illustration of the difference between a promising but inexperienced novice and a seasoned master than to play their respective recordings side by side. In a brief spoken introduction (in French; the booklet unfortunately provides no translation), Fournier dedicates his performance to the memory of his distinguished colleague and frequent predecessor at the Lucerne Festival, cellist Enrico Mainardi, who had died a few months before.
As usual, Audite provides a first-class remastering from first-generation archival radio broadcast tapes, and a fine trilingual (German-English-French) booklet with a lengthy essay and numerous historic photographs. My list of candidates for the 2015 Want List is already bursting at the seams, so I haven’t made my final cuts for that; but if this release doesn’t make it into that top five, it won’t be because it doesn’t deserve the recognition. This is truly extraordinary on every count; don’t let it get away from you! Highest possible recommendation.

Two of the works on this album from the adventurous duet pianists Norie Takahashi and Björn Lehmann are intellectually daunting. Following Beethoven’s three complexes of dense fugal writing in the Grosse Fuge is beyond me without some analysis and preferably a score; the same is true of Schoenberg’s Chamber Symphony No. 1, where each of the 15 instruments is a soloist, with little or no overlap of parts. The labored program notes are a trial to read, but they make a sound point: Both the Beethoven and the Schoenberg contain very few passages, or even notes, inserted for harmonic reasons. Instead, every note is thematic, serving some structural purpose. As such, both scores are miracles of dense, precise organization (although Schoenberg took pains to say that he didn’t work this out intellectually but via his subconscious).

With that in mind, is it helpful or a drawback to reduce these thorny works to the monotone of a single piano played by four hands? My own response is to split the difference. We lose the color of the original instruments—quite a major loss in the Chamber Symphony, where the disposition of notes among eight woodwinds, two horns, and five strings allows Schoenberg to provide signposts according to instrumental timbre. On the other hand, in the piano reduction he reduces a wealth of intersecting lines to fewer strands, rather like untangling a ball of yarn. In the Beethoven, a string quartet delivers a fairly homogenous sound, not so far removed from a keyboard, so the main loss comes from the piano’s inability to do what strings can do. It can’t draw a true legato, for example—not particularly a problem when the Grosse Fuge has such minimal legato writing once the short introduction is over. In both cases, the listener certainly appreciates the added clarity, and Takahashi and Lehmann excel in following each other and rendering a unified interpretation. The two performers met as music students in Berlin and continue to pursue busy solo careers.

The easy piece here is of course the Schumann Second Symphony, which one might expect to sound more pianistic because of the composer’s fame as a keyboard writer. There’s also the rather outworn complaint that Schumann wrote his symphonies for the piano in the first place, later dressing them up with clumsy orchestration, so a two-hand or four-hand reduction simply brings them back to home base. In actuality, his four-hand transcription seems totally straightforward and unexceptional to my ears. The scherzo and finale sound unusually well suited to the keyboard, though. Maybe the old complaint had its justification. The present reading is very musical and enjoyable. My only reservation is that Schumann’s orchestration is necessary to separate out the cyclical motif that holds Symphony No. 2 together, and from its first clarion statement in the brass, a piano is no substitute.

The title of this release is somewhat misleading: Originals and Beyond: Original transcriptions for piano duo. These aren’t original transcriptions in the sense of newly made; all three works were arranged by their respective composers. Nor was there much of an original intent behind them. For rehearsal purposes and to disseminate new music before the age of the gramophone, it was normal practice to produce piano reductions for two hands, four hands, and two pianos. This use has been outmoded by recordings, albeit piano scores are still common for study and for singers’ rehearsals in opera before the orchestra appears. Ultimately, the audience for this disc might be confined largely to listeners with an analytical approach to two difficult scores. The recorded sound, as heard through conventional two-channel stereo, is excellent. Slimline cardboard packaging; notes in German and English.

Pierre Fournier (1906–1986) has been called the “aristocrat of the cello,” and these recordings, remastered from original archival tapes of in-concert performances at Lucerne Festivals between 1962 and 1976, offer some of the best evidence in support of that claim. While I was never personally privileged to see and hear Fournier perform live, I’ve heard enough of his commercial recordings to be able to corroborate that he played with elegance and taste that were as refined as his technique.

Fournier was recorded many times in Dvořák’s B-Minor Concerto; at least 14 according to his complete discography at fischer.hosting.paran.com/music/Fournier/fournier_discography.htm. Best known among them, however, has long been his 1962 version for Deutsche Grammophon with George Szell and the Berlin Philharmonic.

The liner note to the current Audite release points out that this archival recording of the Dvořák with Fournier and István Kertész is of additional historical interest, due to the fact that the conductor’s tragically early death prevented him from making a studio recording of the Concerto. I’m not sure exactly why that imparts special historical value to this release. Kertész was a splendid conductor—his Dvořák symphony cycle with the London Symphony Orchestra is still highly regarded—but if you check the above-cited Fournier discography, you’ll find that a majority of the cellist’s recordings of the Dvořák Concerto come from live performances and/or radio checks, and are with other well-known conductors who, as far as I know, never made studio recordings of the piece either, whether with Fournier or any other cellist. Besides, even if Kertész had made a studio recording of the Dvořák, either with Fournier or someone else, it’s hard to imagine it surpassing this one for febrile urgency.

It’s interesting to compare this performance with the familiar Deutsche Grammophon Szell recording. Fournier/Kertész: 14:39, 10:59, 11:30; Fournier/Szell: 14:49, 11:28, 12:28. In every movement, Fournier/Kertész are faster; not by much in the first movement, and by only a bit more in the slow movement, but look at the last movement—just two seconds shy of a full minute’s difference. It’s not just the tempos, though, that make this performance so exciting. It has about it a feeling of risk-taking and ardency that the cooler Szell lacks. Maybe that’s attributable to the presence of a live audience, but despite the electricity Kertész and Fournier generate, control is not compromised by conductor or soloist. Fournier sings forth with his ever bright, blue-blooded tone, poised technique, and nobility of expression; while Kertész whips up the Swiss Festival Orchestra’s players to a fevered pitch and then moves them to caress the solo cello in a lullaby of soft, sweet embraces.

In prior reviews of Dvořák Cello Concerto recordings, I admit that I’ve questioned its popularity, wondering if it really was that great a work, compared, for example, to Elgar’s Cello Concerto. All I can say is that, hearing this recording of the Dvořák with Fournier and Kertész, now I understand. If you never acquire another recording of the work, this is one you must hear and have; it’s breathtaking.

To be honest, the Saint-Saëns Concerto doesn’t rise to the same level. There are a couple of questionable moments in the intonation, and Fournier doesn’t sound quite as technically secure in this 1962 performance as he does in the Dvořák five years later. But the two main problems, I think, are the conductor and the recording. You’d think that Jean Martinon would be the ideal Gallic interpreter of Saint-Saëns’s French urbanity—his recordings of the composer’s symphonies attest to that—and you’d think that in concert with a French cellist, there would be a perfect meeting of minds and spirits. But I don’t sense much compatibility between conductor and soloist in this joint effort. Martinon seems to be holding Fournier back and dragging the proceedings down. The performance lacks a feeling of ebullience and élan. Perhaps the impression is due to the recording, which sounds bottom-heavy and muddy. In fact, on closer listening, I think the recording is the main culprit, for Fournier and Martinon joined forces with the Lamoureux Concerts Association Orchestra in 1960 for a much smarter Deutsche Grammophon recording of the Saint-Saëns Concerto, which in its original LP format was coupled with quite possibly the definitive performance of Lalo’s Cello Concerto and a Bruch Kol Nidrei for good measure. Transferred to CD, the disc now also includes a fine version of Bloch’s Schelomo.

Pablo Casals’s El Cant dels Ocells (Song of the Birds) is immediately preceded on the current release by a one-minute-long dedication announcement in which Fournier (speaking in French, of course) pays tribute both to Casals, whose cello version of the old Catalan Christmas carol was an obligatory constituent of his concerts and a secret hymn for all refugees and emigrants longing for home, and to cellist/composer Enrico Mainardi, who had died only a few months previously in April, 1976. This 1976 concert—billed as a memorial on the centenary of Casals’s birth year—would be Fournier’s last appearance at the Lucerne Festival. Fournier plays the piece with aching, heart-throbbing beauty.

For the Casals and especially the Dvořák, urgently recommended.

This set is the fourth in a six volume series with 25 CDs in total. The recordings all come from studio performances recorded in the post-war period by the RIAS radio station. RIAS stands for Rundfunk im amerikanischen Sektor (Broadcasting in the American Sector). The engineers at Audite have remastered the original studio tapes to produce first-rate sound quality. The Tippett recording is slightly worse quality than the others, but still perfectly acceptable. And, as is typical for Audite, the liner notes (by Rüdiger Albrecht) are detailed and informative. This is an exceptionally well-produced set, highly recommended for historical and musical value.

La violoniste hongroise (née en Roumanie) Johanna Martzy (1924-1979) est quelque peu oubliée aujourd’hui: voici trois disques qui viennent à juste titre nous rappeler la grande soliste qu’elle fut, en dépit d’une carrière relativement brève qu’elle abandonna dès 1966.

This performance is excellent indeed, if not quite up to the standard of the recent DVD concert performance by Martha Argerich and Daniel Barenboium. [...] Audio is superb, with complete CD notes.