Ook al heb je als kamermuziekliefhebber de Beethovenkwartetten reeds een paar keer compleet in de kast staan, 'Cremona' mag in geen enkele verzameling ontbreken. Het boxje staat garant voor dik negen uur genieten!

Diese stupend, ja virtuos musizierte und tontechnisch überwältigend geglückte Produktion bietet dem aufgeschlossenen Hörer nicht nur ein klangliches Erlebnis, nicht nur ein Kompendium gegenwärtiger Komponisten an. Sie beweist zudem, wie aufregend und hörbar zeitgenössische Musik ausfallen kann.

Kaum ein Label erschließt die Wunderkammern der Rundfunkarchive mit einer derart glücklichen Hand wie Audite in Detmold. Zudem bieten Ludger Böckenhoffs Kommentare noch manch erhellende Einsicht in das Geschäft des sorgfältig restaurierenden Produzenten.

In der Geschichte der wichtigsten Kammermusik-Gattung formen die Quartette Beethovens einen Gipfel, der, ähnlich der Sinfonien, singulär geblieben ist. Trittsicher hat ihn das Quartetto di Cremona bestiegen und dabei eine in allen Dimensionen perfekte Balance gefunden.

Transcription for organ of repertoire originally composed for other instrumental media—orchestra, string quartet, and piano in this instance—is a rather tricky business. It is not just a matter of finding effective counterparts in the organ stops to the original instrumental timbres—fairly easy to do for orchestral instruments, but next to impossible for piano—but also to reflect such specifications as dynamic shading, accent, and articulation. As a wind instrument with a good deal of inherent reverberation, the organ is really not capable of producing a true staccato, marcato, or sforzando, nor can it imitate the dying away of a note suddenly struck and released on a piano or string instrument, much less a pizzicato. These factors all need to be weighed in deciding whether a piece is suitable for transcription in the first place—some works should not even be candidates—before moving on to attempts at addressing and resolving such difficulties.

Here, unfortunately, I don’t think sufficient thought was given to such crucial preliminary considerations. Most of the selections on this disc—particularly the Shostakovich Quartet, which is a hopeless misfit here and virtually unrecognizable—are manifestly unsuited to organ transcription; only some of the Prokofiev pieces, with their macabre atmospheres, manage to come off. The Rachmaninoff Preludes and the Tchaikovsky Nutcracker excerpt lose all their needed articulation (repeated notes are just a smear of sound) and come off as too mushy and spongy; the excerpts from Swan Lake and Scheherazade suffer from some poorly considered choices of stops. In addition, Sophie Rétaux’s playing is too cautious and occasionally given to overly slow tempos. I have no complaints about the instrument itself, the Cavaillé-Coll organ of Saint-Omer, where Rétaux is the organist, or the fine recorded sound. The booklet in the digipak comes with trilingual German-English-French program notes and artist bio, complete specifications for the organ, and photos. For a vastly superior instance of successful transcription of orchestral and piano repertoire for organ, see the disc by Tobias Frank that I review elsewhere in this issue. This one is regretfully not recommended.

The back story behind this new set of Beethoven’s cello-and-piano music is detailed in a personal note from French cellist Marc Coppey. He and Russian pianist Peter Laul have collaborated for two decades and performed the five Beethoven cello sonatas many times. For this live recording—no applause included—they went to a special venue, the Small Hall of the St. Petersburg Philharmonic, which is wreathed in history—the only performance of the Missa solemnis in Beethoven’s lifetime was presented in a previous incarnation of the hall. Coppey refers to the added risk-taking and electricity of an in-concert recording. My expectations ran high.

In the event, half of this partnership turned out to be exciting and charismatic, but curiously, it wasn’t the cellist. Laul, a prizewinning pianist who studied at the St. Petersburg Conservatory and now teaches there, takes full advantage of the equality that Beethoven provides for the piano in the last three sonatas, the middle-period op. 69 and the two enigmatic late sonatas of op. 102. His passagework is brilliant and ebullient. He phrases beautifully in the slow movements and supports the rhythm of the scherzos with brio. It’s ironic that Beethoven is acknowledged as the first important composer to take the cello seriously as a solo chamber instrument, liberating it once and for all from a drone-like existence playing continuo (although Haydn did sometimes provide more opportunities, briefly, to shine in his piano trios).

Seeming to avoid the limelight, Coppey is ill-matched to his sparkling piano partner. Much of the time he sounds recessive, which could be partially blamed on microphone placement. But engineers aren’t responsible for such plainness and lack of enthusiasm. I went back to the outstanding Beethoven set from Ralph Kirshbaum and Shai Wosner (Onyx), whom I extolled in Fanfare 40:5. A world of differences sprang from the loudspeakers—Kirshbaum produces a vibrant tone that constantly varies in color. He’s eager to shine in solo passages but also combines beautifully with Wosner’s piano part. The stylistic range of the Beethoven cello sonatas encompasses his whole career, from early Classical formality to middle-period extroversion and late-period opacity (the first movement of op. 102/1 sounds positively ugly to me). Kirshbaum-Wosner welcome the challenge to explore each style on its own terms.

But not Coppey, who has only one tone—a fairly thin, whiny, and unattractive one to my ears. As an interpreter, he has his moments, as in the allegros of the two op. 5 Sonatas and their opposite, the slow music in the two op. 102 Sonatas. I discovered only one captivating reading, of the very personal Adagio con molto sentiment d’affeto, which is the second movement of op. 102/2. Like much of the basic materials in the last two sonatas, this movement begins with a spare, unpromising theme that barely departs from a scale, yet as it unfolds and deepens, Coppey and Laul begin to commune and communicate on a moving level. Touches of this rapport appear here and there, but not enough.

I don’t feel the need to diagram the disappointing readings that the Handel and Mozart variations receive; they seem run-of-the-mill. Humor and variety are not present. As for the risk-taking and electricity that Coppey speaks of in his note, well…

I joined Steven Kruger, Jerry Dubins, and Raymond Tuttle in warmly welcoming Coppey’s arresting playing on a CD that paired the Dvořák Cello Concerto and Bloch’s Schelomo (41:2 and 41:3), all of us praising the freshness of his approach to very familiar scores. Where that artist has gone mystifies me, and perhaps others will hear virtues in this new Beethoven set that elude me. As urgently as I can recommend Kirshbaum and Wosner, Coppey leaves me cold, but with a nod to Laul for his enlivening contribution.

Might this be the first in a series of Richard Strauss’s tone poems by Kirill Karabits and the Staatskapelle Weimar, the orchestra he has led as chief conductor since 2016? There’s nothing in the accompanying album notes to indicate whether that might be the case, but there is a reason Karabits chose these three tone poems in particular for this program, and that reason is Weimar.

The album identifies Macbeth (1886–88/1891), Don Juan (1888–89), and Death and Transfiguration (1888–89) as the composer’s “early” tone poems, which they are. Only Aus Italien (1886) is earlier. But in a larger conspectus of Strauss’s output, all but two of his tone poems—Symphonia Domestica and An Alpine Symphony—predate 1900 and could therefore be said to be “early” Strauss. Another way to look at it, though, is through the iceberg analogy. In sheer numbers, Strauss composed most of his works before the turn of the century, yet except for the tone poems and some of his songs, a large portion of his pre-1900 music is not as widely performed or as well-known as are his later works—namely the operas, An Alpine Symphony, the Four Last Songs, and a handful of other pieces.

The connection between the works on this album and the city of Weimar is that Strauss, following in Liszt’s footsteps, served as Kapellmeister there from 1889 to 1894. All three of these tone poems, Death and Transfiguration, Don Juan, and Macbeth, the latter in its revised form (1891) were all premiered by Strauss at the helm of the Weimar court orchestra. Strauss’s Festmarsch, TrV 157—I give the Trenner number here because Strauss wrote half a dozen works with Festmarsch in the title—is not a tone poem, nor does it have anything to do with Weimar. It’s included here simply because it was composed in 1888, just prior to the composer’s Weimar Kapellmeister appointment.

The so-called Wilde Gungl was a “waltz” orchestra founded in Munich by Josef Gungl in 1864. I imagine it was something like the Lawrence Welk band that flourished in a variety TV show from 1951 to 1971. Strauss played violin in the Gungl orchestra from 1882 to 1885, which was then led by Strauss’s father, Franz. To celebrate the orchestra’s 25th anniversary, which was to take place in 1889, Richard Strauss composed the Festmarsch in 1888, and the piece was presented in Munich for the orchestra’s 60th concert. Only 60 concerts in 25 years suggests that the Wilde Gungl was an occasional ensemble whose musicians were otherwise employed.

Of the three tone poems given here, Macbeth is the only one with fewer than 100 recordings—way fewer—which says something about how unpopular it is compared to the others. Comparing versions of Don Juan and Death and Transfiguration would be an exercise in futility. So I will just say this: These are works that demand the highest level of virtuosity from an orchestra’s musicians. The players of the Staatskapelle Weimar make a valiant effort, but they are not quite up to the standards of ensembles such as the Bavarian Radio Symphony Orchestra under Mariss Jansons or the Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra under Manfred Honeck, both of which have recently given us some stunning Strauss releases. You can hear the Weimar’s violins scrambling a bit to hit all of the notes in some of the rapid, high-lying passages, and coordination between the orchestra’s sections is not all it could be. I haven’t heard it, but if, for some reason, having all three of these “Weimar” tone poems together on a single disc appeals to you, you might want to check out Johannes Fritzsch’s Naxos recording with the Queensland Symphony Orchestra. It doesn’t contain the Festmarsch, which isn’t related anyway, but it does look to be a fairly recent release.
I expect that most fans of Strauss’s tone poems will not find the conjoining of these three particular works a strong incentive to purchase this release, and will be just as happy with recordings that pair the tone poems in different combinations, especially if the performances are preferable.

Altmeister Andrea Lucchesini ist wie kein anderer seiner Zunft berufen, neben struktureller Klarheit und klassischen Proportionen die Kulinarik der Musik zu präsentieren wie ein Haubenkoch sein Galamenü. Bei ihm sitzt jeder Ton in Form wie bei einem Maßanzug.

Vynikající a promyšlená repertoárová volba, ale i další hmatatelné i nehmatatelné ohledy, které řadí tuto nahrávku do kategorie "mimořádně zdařilé", to vše charakterizuje toto album.

[Lucchesini's] performances are superb — an intensity at one with exquisiteness — and, though the juxtapositions come with a shock, they have a rightness.