В преддверии 145‑летия со дня рождения Макса...

Das ‘Cheng2 Duo’ (Bryan und Silvie Cheng) spielt bei Audite ein spanisches Programm mit Bearbeitungen für Cello und Klavier. Die Geschwister bedienen es beide mit phänomenaler Virtuosität, gleichzeitig aber auch sehr stimmungsvoll, wobei Bryan Cheng auf seinem Tassini-Cello mit stupender Dynamik kräftig konturierte Basstöne und feinste, zarteste Höhen erreicht, die immer kantabel, immer schön und immer perfekt intoniert, absolut berückend klingen.

According to traditional lore, Bolet’s Carnegie Hall concert on February 25, 1974, was, as Wolfgang Rathert puts it in the notes for this new set, “the definitive breakthrough” in his career. There’s a certain truth lurking behind that belief, even if the causal implication is questionable. It’s certainly the case that, despite a long string of spectacular concerts and recordings, Bolet’s reputation really took off when Decca took him on in the late 1970s, in the wake of but not as a direct consequence of that concert. And those late recordings represent the bulk of his currently available catalog. As I’ve said often before, that’s unfortunate for two reasons. First, Bolet was one of those performers who tended to be cramped by the recording studio, and Decca was not interested in live performances. Second, while Bolet was always a magician when it came to color, in these sunset years he tended to allow his tonal plush to dominate his playing, which increasingly tended toward interpretive softness. If you want to hear him at his most imposing, you need to turn to his earlier performances, his concert recordings and broadcasts in particular.

Some of those have been lovingly resurrected by APR and especially Marston (see, in particular, Henry Fogel’s and Marc Medwin’s detailed accounts of Jorge Bolet: Ambassador from the Golden Age, Fanfare 38:5). Now Audite has launched a series drawn from RIAS archival broadcasts from the decade just before that Carnegie Recital, and it’s another cause for celebration.

What are the primary virtues on display? Certainly, in terms of virtuosity, the pianism here is at the top level. In his paradoxically grudging rave of that Carnegie concert, Harold Schonberg commented that Bolet had “a technique equal to any in the world today.” Listening to his dexterity in the Liszt Rhapsodie espagnole, you certainly wouldn’t be moved to disagree. But while the performance is marked by the same kind of sizzling authority we hear from, say, Barere (see 13:3), it’s got a lot more than muscle to recommend it—as do all of the other performances on this well-curated set.

Indeed, even more consistently striking than the virtuosity is Bolet’s long-term rhetorical control. Despite the frequent rhythmic freedom, and despite the garrulousness of some of the works (you’d hardly charge Liszt’s Vallée d’Obermann with concision), Bolet keeps us in his grip from first note to last, unfolding the music in a single emotional arc. Then, too, there’s his iridescent play of color and articulation. That’s true not only in such intimate music as his gracious “Danseuses de Delphe” but in larger works as well: Few pianists bring out the timbral implications of the changes of harmony in Liszt’s “Harmonies du soir” as evocatively as Bolet does here, and few manage Chopin’s Fantasy with such a paradoxical blending of plush and granite. Throughout the recital, ornamentation is artfully molded—and in contrast to many of Bolet’s late performances, accompaniments never turn sludgy. There’s no trace, either, of the sobriety that sometimes reduces Bolet’s later readings into lectures—indeed, the level of wit on this recital is deliriously high.

On the whole, I think you could say these are extroverted performances—the unflinching concentration in Liszt’s “Chasse-neige,” the stunning crescendo in the middle of Debussy’s “La cathédrale engloutie,” the barnstorming account of Godowsky’s Metamorphosis on Fledermaus all remind us that we are in the presence of an artist who thinks big. On the whole … but not wholly. For in contrast to Barere (and Lazar Berman, too), Bolet never brutalizes the music—and he’s got a far wider interpretive range, coupled with far more responsiveness to the emotional differences among the pieces. In the end, for every moment of sheer bravura, there’s another that caresses your ears. The free and innocent ardor of Widmung, the surprisingly inward opening of Chopin’s Second Impromptu, the mercurial changes of voice of Debussy’s Sérénade interrompu, the utter transparency of the counterpoint in Godowsky’s arrangement of Saint-Saëns’s “The Swan”—this set is dotted with moments of remarkable sensitivity, even in places where you might not expect it (say, the pockets of delicacy in Liszt’s usually coarsened “Wilde Jagd”).

Does everything work? Actually, pretty nearly. And in those few moments where you might demur, there’s always something to compensate. The reading of Liszt’s La chapelle de Guillaume Tell is slightly static in a way that looks ahead to the later Bolet, but the balance of the sonorities is a marvel; Moszkowski’s En automne may be slightly pushy, but its prismatic filigree makes your slight sense of dissatisfaction seem churlish.

The engineering is superb, and the notes, while no competition for the essays in the Marston set, are informative and appreciative. All in all, a superlative contribution to the catalog.

Great music can’t be destroyed by a third-rate text, even one, like the libretto of Madama Butterfly, that is politically insensitive. But how about good music, or even very good music? The Cantata for the 20th Anniversary of the October Revolution is a work that raises that question with a vengeance, setting snatches of Marx, Lenin, and Stalin that are (even beyond the political issues) hardly favorable to musical treatment. “Site the rebel HQ at the central telephone exchange” simply doesn’t encourage a serious musical response—and that’s far from the most awkward line in the piece.

To my ears, the music (in contrast, say, to Shostakovich’s in The Sun Shines on the Motherland) manages to hold its own—although I’d have to say that it does so more successfully if you put down the texts and listen without them. Written in 1937, it’s vintage Soviet-period Prokofiev, composed right after Romeo and Juliet and just before Alexander Nevsky. Not surprisingly, it shares more with the similarly propagandistic Nevsky than it does with Romeo. Certainly, the women’s melody that soars above the chanting men in the second movement has that beauty-of-the-vast-steppes yearning we get in the more sentimentally nationalist moments in the later score; and the “Revolution” movement is a clear prototype for the “Battle on the Ice.” And while the cantata has 10 movements and the concert version of Nevsky only seven, the two works have similar trajectories, moving from an ominous opening through a tremendous battle scene and a brief reflection on to a clangorous celebration. But the cantata makes Nevsky look tame. Indeed, in terms of sheer fire-power, it’s Prokofiev’s most extreme composition, featuring an eight-part chorus, a massive orchestra (16 woodwinds, 18 brass), an extra military band (more than a dozen brass players here), and an accordion group, not to mention extravagant percussion (including a siren), keyboard, and harps—all de-ployed, at the most dynamic moments, with a ferocity and textural density that looks back to the unflinching dissonances of the Second Symphony and The Fiery Angel.

It’s not music for the faint of heart. In fact, for a variety of musical and political reasons, the work was not performed in its entirety for more than half a century (for details on its history, see my review of the Järvi performance and Daniel Morrison’s of the Titov, Fanfare 16:4 and 40:1). But if you can take the ear-splitting onslaught, it is surprisingly—even surpassingly—uplifting: Anyone who tears up at the end of Nevsky or War and Peace will have a similar experience here. The effect is especially strong on this stunning new performance by Kirill Karabits, who charges through the music without a trace of apology. With superior work from his orchestra and chorus and first-rate engineering (maintaining clarity even in the most congested passages of the movement depicting the revolution), it’s the kind of recording that overwhelms you, just as the music was intended to do. To my ears, it makes an even stronger case for the work than any of the four predecessors I know, good as they are— Kondrashin’s (with significant cuts), Järvi’s, Titov’s, and Elder’s. Yes, those who insist that their CDs last more than an hour may find this short measure—but it’s hard to think of anything that would be an appropriate filler (Järvi’s selections from The Stone Flower are distinctly anti-climactic).

I wish there were a surround-sound version. Audite advertises the availability of a multi-channel download on the album jacket, but that’s an error—while there’s an excellent hi-res stereo download, the performance was recorded in two-channel only. With that small regret, this can be exuberantly recommended.

Another first release featuring a fêted maestro arrives via Audite as part of its Lucerne Festival series: Wilhelm Furtwängler conducts the Swiss Festival Orchestra in Schumann’s Manfred Overture – a dark, malleable performance that rages or relaxes according to the dictates of the moment. Schumann’s Symphony No 4 was also on this August 26, 1953, concert programme, and it’s fascinating to compare it with Furtwängler’s famous Berlin Philharmonic recording (DG) from a few weeks earlier. The overall timing is more or less identical, as is the interpretative approach, but the contrast between ‘studio’ and ‘live’ is at its most marked in the transition to the finale, where the Swiss performance – though comparatively raw in tone – generates more tension. The third work is Beethoven’s Eroica Symphony, and here there are many Furtwängler-led alternatives, some darkerhued than this one, though few (if any) achieve such an overwhelming sense of release at the close of the first movement (from 14'13"). The transfers are superb.

Another first release featuring a fêted maestro arrives via Audite as part of its Lucerne Festival series: Wilhelm Furtwängler conducts the Swiss Festival Orchestra in Schumann’s Manfred Overture – a dark, malleable performance that rages or relaxes according to the dictates of the moment. Schumann’s Symphony No 4 was also on this August 26, 1953, concert programme, and it’s fascinating to compare it with Furtwängler’s famous Berlin Philharmonic recording (DG) from a few weeks earlier. The overall timing is more or less identical, as is the interpretative approach, but the contrast between ‘studio’ and ‘live’ is at its most marked in the transition to the finale, where the Swiss performance – though comparatively raw in tone – generates more tension. The third work is Beethoven’s Eroica Symphony, and here there are many Furtwängler-led alternatives, some darkerhued than this one, though few (if any) achieve such an overwhelming sense of release at the close of the first movement (from 14'13"). The transfers are superb.

Any of these collections would be perfect for someone who wants a good introduction to the vast world of the Beethoven quartets. I listened to all of these while following the score, looking for mistakes and overlooked details or tuning problems. There aren’t any. The sound on all of them is exemplary, and the interpretations are intelligent and expressive. Furthermore, very informative and detailed notes are included with each release.

The Delian Quartet (whose name usually appears as “delian::quartett”) have been in existence since 2007 and in just that short time (I have socks that have been together longer), they have amassed an impressive list of accolades. Here they present an early quartet, No 6, in an appropriately classical interpretation. Their sound is consistently sweet and elegant, and while fans of older recordings may find it too much so, I could listen to them all day. For two works they are joined by violist Gerard Causse. The Quintet, Op 29, is played with the same sublime smoothness, and Causse’s beautiful tone often gets center stage. Since this work tends to be overlooked, hearing such a gorgeous performance is a treat, especially the final movement, which has some humorous touches. Also included is the Fugue in D, which despite the late opus number (137) should not be confused with the Great Fugue, though it is a great little fugue.

The Quartetto Di Cremona is named after the Italian city that was home to many of the greatest luthiers, including Guarneri and Stradivari. In this, Cremona’s first volume of the Beethoven cycle, we are offered an early quartet, a middle quartet, and a late quartet. Their rendition of No 6 is very good, but unlike the Delian’s, their reading is very romantic—perhaps too much so. I find the lighter reading by the Artemis Quartet (Sept/Oct 2010) somewhat more appropriate. Cremona’s reading of No 11 is even more muscular, but here it works splendidly. From the audacious opening statement to the torrential finale, the sparks really fly. No 16 is one of the most enigmatic works in Beethoven’s oeuvre, known to mystify listeners on the first hearing. For such a work, a good introduction is perhaps a relatively straightforward performance, which is what Cremona delivers here, sticking to the score very faithfully. I don’t mean to say that their performance is bland; on the contrary, it is a very expressive and beautiful reading. It’s just “safe”.

The Miro Quartet presents Quartets 7, 8, and 9—the Rasoumovsky Quartets, in knockout performances. The opening statement in the cello was so gorgeous that I immediately replayed it—twice—just to hear it again. The playing is intense and full of character. I question their tempo on the last movement of No 9, which is a bit fast and seems to result in misplaced accents. Although some performances (Guarneri, Emerson) are even faster, it’s marked allegro molto, not presto. The Kodaly Quartet (Naxos) plays it slower, and while it’s not as great a recording, it’s a better tempo. Despite this, the Miro plays with a panache that recalls some of the great quartet recordings of yesteryear.

The Quartetto di Cremona exude phenomenal energy and momentum, making their interpretation of Op. 95 particularly compelling.

Misha Donat joins Andrew to discuss recent recordings of Brahms and Beethoven Chamber Music...

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