Mahler - Symphony nr. 7

I have been unable to get this music out of my head for the last couple of days. I had planned to shift sooner out of the Mahler register, back to Bartok, but the Seventh (all movements apart from the finale) has been swirling around so obsessively in my head that I feel compelled to come back to it once more. Luckily there is no dearth of Sevenths in my collection ... ;-)

I listened to Gielen's version of the first movement which surges splendidly ahead, like a knight in shining armour. Not quite the swashbuckling Solti, although timings are very similar (21'53" vs 21'35"). But despite the impressive sense of direction conjured by Gielen he is able to hold on to some of the mystery too. I love the introduction where he plays the string notes that accompany the tenor horn as semiquavers, not tremolando as almost everyone else does (Sinopoli does the semiquavers too; this is about the stroke of the oars and the droplets falling into the water when Mahler made that trip in a rowing boat across the Wörthersee, early July 1905: In Krumpendorf erwartete mich Alma nicht, weil ich meine Ankunft nicht angezeigt hatte. Ich stieg in das Boot, um mich hinüberfahren zu lassen. Beim ersten Ruderschlag fiel mir das Thema (oder vielmehr der Rhythmus und die Art) der Einleitung zum I. Satz ein - und in etwa 4 Wochen waren der 1., 3. und 5. Satz fix und fertig! Ich schrieb alles in einem Furor nieder.). The central section gets plenty of time to breath. Its lyrical climax is impressively shaped.  But in the recapitulation the juggernaut gathers impressive momentum again. However, it never sounds breathless. In Gielen's hands this Allegro risoluto appears as one of the most accomplished symphonic movements ever written, which it undoubtedly is! Interestingly, whilst for me the Seventh connects most obviously back to the Third (with that meandering, cavernous opening movement), the way Gielen plays it here alerts us to its kinship with the more classically poised, muscular Sixth! I hope to be able to listen to his rendering of the whole symphony as soon as I'm back from a short trip to London.

Comment - LP vs CD

I just wanted to keep track of this sensible comment on an Amazon forum regarding the relative merits of LP and CD.

Mahler - Symphony nr. 7

In the slipstream of the live Mahler 7 on Thursday I listened to some more of this symphony. The reacquaintance with the Maazel/Vienna version was a delight. I am aware that in some circles Maazel can do no good as a Mahler interpreter (in fact as interpreter of no matter what music). One prominent Amazon reviewer goes so far to laud the excellent playing of the Vienna Philarmonic without wanting to give the credits to Maazel. Others find his approach simply to cold and analytical. His Seventh is indeed to a rather plain and reserved, but that doesn't mean it is a banal rendition. I still have the old CBS versions of his Mahler Sixth, Seventh and Eighth and also love the beautiful artwork of these discs.

Browsing some of the critical and scholarly discussion across several books in my library it strikes me that there are basically two schools in approaching this controversial work. There are those that see in the Seventh a paragon of proto-postmodernist fragmentation. They tend to consider the Rondo finale also in a very critical light. Some think it is unsalvageable, an outright failure. Adorno is prototypical of this discourse. From what I can see this is still fashionable talk in the academic community. Then there is a minority that sees  the Seventh as basically 'joyful noise', cast in a beautifully balanced, five-moment arch form (fast-slow-fast-slow-fast). Populariser David Hurwitz ('Unlocking the Masters', Amadeus Press) represents this opinion.

I find both approaches persuasive to a certain degree. In fact, they are mirrored in the interpretative traditions that have emerged around the symphony. Martin Geck quotes Barenboim in the Mahler Handbuch, saying: "From the very start onwards we detect a distinct lack of direction. Conducting the Seventh is like engaging in an archeological excavation. As the first movement starts, one has the feeling of digging through layers, of peering into dark corners to bring the music to light and inspect it." That is, in my opinion, the route taken by the likes of Sinopoli, Abbado, Chailly, supported by sumptuous, resonant recordings. I think this also naturally reinforces the link with the Wunderhorn period, notably the labyrinthian first movement of the Third.  But is here also that the finale often appears as a difficult to classify anomaly. Then there are conductors who build their interpretation more on the classical credentials of the symphony: symmetry, brisk speeds, sonata structure (for the first movement), clear musical paragraphs, diatonic harmony (in the finale). An upbeat version of the Sixth as it were. Here we find Solti, Scherchen, Gielen, helped by very clear, analytic recordings. In these versions the finale seems to make sense much more naturally.

The above is only a crude approximation of a much more differentiated interpretative menu. Take Maazel, who seems to aim for the clear outlines of the classical approach but adopts the slower tempos of the romanticists. Or Scherchen - a version I relistened to this morning - who plays the symphony at breakneck speed and pushes it in the orbit of Schoenbergian expressionism.

The net result is that, despite this being such a complicated work, we have an exceptionally wide range of valid and engaging renditions to choose from. Which is not always the case in Mahler.

Mahler - Symphony nr. 7

The past three days I have been listening to Mahler's Seventh (1904-05) in preparation of a concert tonight. I know this symphony well. "Lied der Nacht" ... It has always been one of my favorites. Particularly the first movement is one of the grandest that Mahler ever wrote. It's a giant flashback to the very best of the Wunderhorn years, the cosmic opening movement of the Third, and spiced with Mahler's evolving modernist idiom.

My reference recording is the Abbado with the Chicago SO, taped in 1984. Scherchen (1953, with the Vienna State Opera Orchestra) is another treasure. And I've always like Maazel's Seventh with the Wiener (also recorded in 1984). Recently I added some CDs to the collection which I hadn't yet heard: the analogue Solti, with the CSO, remastered as part of the Decca/DGG Originals series, the digital Levine on vinyl, also with the CSO, and the Kondrashin/Leningrad SO on Melodya. Interestingly, I find myself now with three versions of Mahler's Seventh with the Chicago SO: Solti, 1971, taped in Krannert Centre; Levine, 1980, from Medinah Hall, and Abbado, 1984, in Orchestra Hall.

I didn't have the time to listen to all these version from start to finish, so I sampled some movements. On Tuesday I listened to the first movement of the Solti, Levine, Kondrashin, Chailly (Concertgebouw) and Maazel. Solti has the reputation of being particularly fleet-footed but, in fact, it seems his timings are within the range of the normal. His first movement is a robust Allegro (it's marked risoluto after all), but he takes plenty of time to let the central 'moonlight' section flower. The virtue of this kind of tempo is clarity. It's very easy for the listener to grasp the symmetrical architecture of the movement. But it comes at the cost of an epic sense of mystery which is associated with the luxuriant, darker colours and the disorienting ebb and flow of more leisurely interpretations (such as the Chailly, for instance). Solti's version is recorded in a spectacular, spot-lit sound (Kenneth Wilkinson behind the console) which is, in a way a pleasure to listen to, but dispels with the last ounce of mystique there might have been (although I must say the transfers have not been entirely successful as the tutti exhibit an annoying glassy edge; I'm sure the LP will be even more enjoyable). But all in all Solti's seems a very lucid and legitimate take on the matter.  Certainly pleased to have it in my collection.

I still like the Maazel immensely. Sensible tempo, good grasp of the architecture, wonderful colours, spectacular playing of the Vienna SO, amazingly lifelike recording. The Chailly has a lot going for it, but I wouldn't recommend to listen to it after the Solti. After the CSO sonic spectacular the Concertgebouw sfumato doesn't really convince. Also Kondrashin offers a very convincing first movement, although it looks like it is not quite at the same level of inspiration as his visionary live recording with the Concertgebouw Orchestra from 1979. Finally, the Levine struck me as superbly accomplished too, but the orchestra is recorded much more distantly than with the Solti. I need to relisten to it.

Yesterday I focused on the Scherzo and the second Nachtmusik. Again the Solti and the Maazel which did not disappoint. I also put on the Abbado, whose Scherzo is truly, magisterially Schattenhaft.

The concert itself then. The orchestra on duty was the Orchestre Symphonique de Liège Wallonie Bruxelles led by their chief conductor Patrick Davin. We were sitting in the 'fauteuilles de loge/logezetels' on top of the orchestra. Acoustically not ideal perhaps, but this has never bothered me as it is such a feast to be able to follow all the orchestral proceedings in detail. I am still awed when I see a symphony orchestra at full strength on the podium. The performance was serviceable enough, at times even outright enjoyable. Davin opted for a brisk tempo for the opening allegro. A little too brisk because things started to sound a little breathless after a while (with some slips in the brass section). Luckily the 'moonlight' section, delightfully done, allowed the orchestra to recompose itself. The recapitulation of the opening material was superbly imposing. It's the passage I most love of the whole symphony. This is Pan awakes, once more. The rest of the movement was predictably hectic. Unfortunately the tempo was so fast that the final accelerando fell flat. The first Nachtmusik was fine if again a tad on the fast side. I started to be a little uncomfortable in the Scherzo which again came across as short-breathed. Shadowy it was not. Davin continued to jockey on fast speeds so that the second Nachtmusik failed to cast its magic spell. Although I enjoyed the contribution of the very committed wind section very much. The orchestra pulled off a dazzling Finale, brash and festive.

The overall impression was of a rather straightlaced, prozaic reading, trumping Solti in his own game. Unfortunately the Liège orchestra, capable as they are, is not the CSO. And Davin did not seem to have the vision to mould his tempos in a more sensitive manner. In fact, he played the whole symphony through in shades of basically the same tempo. This was not a nocturnal but a neon-lit Lied. Anyway, I found it certainly enjoyable. It was a pleasure to dip into the Mahler universe again. And I'm happy to have finally heard the Seventh live. I think it is the last one I hadn't heard in the concert hall yet (I once had a ticket for a Rattle performance in Brussel, but my plane came in late from Germany and missed it!).

Comment - Review Hartmann/Conlon

I wrote a (rather stilted) review of the Conlon/Spivakov disc with Hartmann works here.

Bartok - Sonata for solo violin

I was reading Don Delillo's craggy Point Omega. It's about a man living in the desert. I wondered what music would go with this? I put on Bartok's sonata for unaccompanied violin. It certainly didn't disappoint. I think this is Bartok conversing with the cancer in his body.

"The simple, concentrated clarity of the sad yet peaceful theme in the Melodia contrasts with the glissandos which create spaces of indistinct tonalities and immerse the listener in a sonic landscape of unique calm. In the middle section, played with mute throughout, the evocation of absolute silence, made still more palpable by the resemblance of the trills and glissandos to birdsong heard from afar or the buzzing of insects, attains a degree of intensity which sends shivers down the spine: our gaze is directed towards the void." - Jan Wolfrum

Bartok - Contrasts

After the expressionistic excesses of the previous week, it was refreshing to return to the relative clarity and intimacy of Bartok's chamber music. Contrasts (1938) is likely not one of his strongest works, but it is one of the chamber pieces I listened to regularly before the present listening campaign. The first two movements have a strangely laconic quality, with unremarkable, even lacklustre thematic material. The fiery final movement brings a welcome contrast indeed. Nevertheless, as a whole I find it a compelling piece. The listening pleasure is certainly enhanced by the excellent Naxos recording with Pauk on the violin, Jando on piano and Berkes on clarinet. I also listened to the historical, so-to-speak definitive recording (also on Naxos) with Bartok himself playing the piano, Benny Goodman (who commissioned the work) on clarinet, and Joseph Szigeti (who instigated Bartok to write it). The recordings date from April 1940. Honestly, I can't make much of it. The piece falls completely flat due to the poor audio quality. I'll have the modern recording any day. 

Malcolm Gillies, in the Cambridge Companion, compares three late chamber works - Divertimento, Contrasts and the Sonata for Solo Violin - and writes an interesting summary that resonates beyond these compositions. It's worth quoting: "Once we look within these large-scale structures, we find a composer obsessed with exploiting all the potential of variation techniques. In Bartok's hands, the music is forever in a state of transformation. (...) But he manages to maintain a superb sense of unity to the music through limiting the number of his themes or motifs and ensuring that, whatever processes of transformation they are subjected to, they retain their essential identity. Underlying scalar structures are liable to be expanded or contracted in whimsical ways. The various phrases of his themes rarely involve exact repetition, either rhytmically or in pitches, but take on a life of their own as soon as they have started. Bartok spins the musical texture within the divisions of his musical forms largely through relentless employment of imitative strategies, with a brief motif frequently generating five or ten bars of music through its varied reiteration in close proximity in any number of parts."

Comment - 12 musical epiphanies

The recent audition of Wagner's Parsifal brought to mind one of the strongest musical experiences I ever had. I was 22, studying agricultural engineering and immersed in an exam period. A professor had given me reason to believe that I had flunked his exam (which I didn't). I returned home angry but also dispirited. So rather than to start studying for next day's exam, I threw my briefcase in a corner, switched on the hifi and started to listen to the Parsifal. Eventually I sat through the full four hours of the whole opera, completely oblivious of the passing time. It must have been late afternoon when I returned, fully refreshed and poised, to my desk to study for next day's examination. Which went absolutely fine. It was a strange episode. A replenishing hole in time.

I' ve been thinking about other epiphanies that have punctured my musical journey and I get to 12 decisive experiences.

1. Around 1982: the foundational epiphany. A sequence in a movie starring Louis de Funès (La Grande Vadrouille). There is a sequence in which he plays a conductor rehearsing the Hungarian March, from Berlioz' La Damnation de Faust. It struck me like a bolt from the blue. Hardly slept that night. And next day I dashed to the library to borrow several LPs to start my musical explorations. It still amazes how suddenly this grabbed me. I had been listening to classical music before that time, even owned one single LP (Beethoven's Eroica) which I played again and again (stopping halfway the finale because I found it sounding too loud). But it was De Funès who really kicked off this lifelong passion.
2. 1983: Mahler's Third in the Kerstmatinee performance by Bernard Haitink. Epic, mysterious, larger than life. Unforgettable.
3. Around 1984: discovery of Shostakovich's Tenth Symphony in Karajan's interpretation. Until then I had not heard anything as uncompromisingly bleak and black as that music. I was very receptive to this kind of very gloomy music at that time. It still is one of my favourite pieces.
4. Around 1985: a visit on my own to the Staatsoper in Vienna. Standing places. Puccini's Turandot. I went away intoxicated, really out of this world. I still have vivid memories of this evening.
5. Around 1986: a live performance of Mahler's Tenth Symphony, with the Royal Flemish Philharmonic under the late Ernest Bour. A flawed performance - the trumpet solo could not hold the high A in the first movement's dissonant climax - but of suffocating intensity nevertheless.
6. 1987: the Parsifal session described above.
7. Around 1988: a live performance of Shostakovich's Fourth, again with the Royal Flemish Philharmonic in a church in Mechelen. Don't even remember the conductor. It was a very young guy. I also remember attending a general rehearsal (I wrote programme notes for the orchestra in those days). But I have never heard a performance (of any music) of comparable savagery. This was pure evil on the loose. Midway the performance one of the lighting spots fell from the church's walls. It was a totally apt incident that reinforced the atmosphere of pure terror. 
8. Around 1993: a live performance of Bruckner's Symphony nr. 8 with the Münchener Philharmonic under Celibidache, in the Amsterdam Concertgebouw Orchestra. Close encounters of the third kind.  
9. 2003: Rudolf Buchbinder plays Beethoven's last three piano sonatas in the Vienna Konzerthaus. No breaks at all, not even between sonatas! We were sitting on the scene, facing the 2000 head audience, partaking in an extraordinary sense of communion. 
10. 2008: JD puts on an LP of Karajan's Beethoven Ninth. The rediscovery of vinyl was a delight that continues up to the present day. 
11. 2009: the discovery of ECM, mainly through their book 'Horizons Touched'. I wrote a review of that book here. 
12. 2010: The present blog, which opens up a deepened way of listening and large tracts of new repertoire.

To be sure, I have heard many more memorable concerts. But these are experiences that are touchstones in my musical experience. I continue to return to them, as reference points. So what does this learn me?

• That the symphonic repertoire for me is at the heart of the musical experience.
• That recorded music is unlikely to be a substitute for live concerts - with their palpable atmosphere, the energy of thousands of people hanging in the room, the sense of occasion, the strong visual cues.
• That in the early years - when I was at a more impressionable age and a lot was new - epiphanies were more frequent. Although the last three years seem to point towards a renewal.
• That more recent epiphanies have a bearing on a deepening experience, associated with a more subtle appreciation of sound (vinyl, the ECM sound).

Matsumura - Symphony nr. 1

I am starting to realise that the ocean of unreconnoitered repertoire is probably vaster than I will ever be able to cover. Amazing, particularly given the fact that only a year ago I had the impression that I'd had it all. But it annoyed me that I seemed to turn into circles - Beethoven, Mahler, Bruckner, Sibelius, Nielsen, Shostakovich, a few others - and this prompted me to start to listen in 'project mode'. This was a concious effort to broaden my repertoire and deepen my listening experience. This led to the blog and now I'm penetrating deep into unfamiliar terrain. The Bartok campaign has certainly given me a much more differentiated picture of the 20th century musical landscape.

YouTube has some amazing resources for amateurs of classical music. The channel fed by Newmusic XX is a treasure trove for lovers of the 20th century musical avant garde. Max Ridgway is an American music teacher, graduate from Berklee College of Music, and faculty at Northwestern Oklahoma State University (guitar, music appreciation). I was browsing the rich catalogue on offering when I was intrigued by a symphony written by a, for me, completely unknown Japanese composer, Teizo Matsumura (1929-2007). His First Symphony (1965) proved to be a compelling work: brash, primitivist and propelled forward by a volcanic energy, but also disquietingly mysterious. I seem to hear some Japanese fingerprints but the idiom orients itself mainly to the Western avant garde. The language is dense and expressionistic, the scoring colourful and compact, with the brass very often unisono in full force supported by manic percussion. It reminds me somewhat of the Sacre, but then maybe with a more urban, post-industrial slant. There is very beautiful slow music too, however, such as the first movement's moody coda and the Adagio that follows immediately upon it (with a beautifully meditative flute solo). Formally it is conventionally structured in three movements: Andante, Adagio, Allegro. Both first and last movements seem to be built symmetrically, revolving around central, no holds barred climaxes. All in all an accessible and thoroughly engaging work. It must be a stunning experience in the concert hall. Matsumura has also composed for film and that doesn't surprise me as he seems to have a knack for writing very clever and evocative music.

The recording struck me as very accomplished and it took me a moment to find out where it came from. Apparently this is a Naxos album, taped in 2006 by the Irish RTE National Symphony Orchestra under Takuo Yuasa and issued only in Japan in a 'Japanese Classics' Series. It is, however, available for download and the CD version is planned to be available by June 2011. The album contains Matsumura's two symphonies and a work that is ominously titled To the night of Gethsemane. Otherwise there is precious little work of Matsumura available on CD. Which is no doubt a shame considering his fairly extensive catalogue of works in a variety of genres. Certainly an interesting discovery to which I will return.

Henze - Barcarola/Dessau - Meer der Stürme

I relistened to Henze's Barcarola. I mentioned Mahler and early Schoenberg as reference points, but the very beginning of the piece - with its fading wave of dark, undulating strings - brings another iconic work to mind: Sibelius' Symphony nr. 4.  There is maybe not a lot of Sibelius in the remainder of the Barcarola, but it is such a strong and evocative gesture, and Henze alludes to it again in the final bars, that it continues to echo long after the music had stopped. The Barcarola strikes me as a superbly crafted, varied and complex piece of symphonic writing of a predominantly martial character. The work is expertly scored too, with some startling effects that seem to come right out of a scifi movie. The basic theme seems to be disjointed waltz - likely, a barcarole - that imaginatively winds its way through the symphonic fabric. Henze builds patiently towards a manic, fantastic climax. Then again those dark strings, morendo. Luftpause. And a mysterious, glittering coda, ppp, brings the work to an end. Henze himself provided some programmatic pointers when he said that the music might depict a dying man crossing the Styx, or perhaps Odysseus weathering a stormy night and arriving at last in Ithaca. It was written in memory of the composer Paul Dessau. The wikipage on Henze lists a very extensive and varied oeuvre. Seems this could be the start of long exploration. We'll start with the 10 symphonies.

Paul Dessau ... Who was this again? I had to look it up: a prominent and controversial DDR composer. Convinced communist (as was Henze) and dodecaphonist, engaged teacher and public figure.  Only this week I purchased a box set ('Nova - East Germany Symphonies' on Berlin Classics) in which two works of Dessau were included. I listened to Meer der Stürme (Orchestermusik nr. 2, 1967), a 14 minute symphonic meditation on the Soviet space programme's success in landing the unmanned Luna 13 on the Moon's Oceanus Procellarum. The score was dedicated to the 50th anniversary of the October Revolution. Despite the overtly propagandistic programme, it is a surprisingly angular and abstract work that will have caused headaches with many a party functionary. Likely this is another case in which private motives and public smoke screens are indissolubly intertwined. Meer der Stürme is a fairly loud piece, and not very subtly scored. So in a first audition it can come across as rather coarse. But one senses a disciplined and acute musical imagination. It certainly warrants repeated hearing. The recording by the Rundfunk-Sinfonie-Orchester Leipzig conducted by Herbert Kegel is satisfactory. I'd love to hear it in the hands of a more capable ensemble.

Hartmann - Adagio/Henze - Barcarola/B.A. ZImmermann - Symphony

Hartmann's Miserae set me on track towards another one of his enigmatic compositions: his single movement Symphony nr. 2 - Adagio for large orchestra, from 1946. A strange work, indeed, and I don't know what to make of it. The title suggest a broadly flowing Brucknerian adagio but it is not. The piece adheres to what seems one of Hartmann's fondest formal principles: a fast movement (or section) flanked by two slower ones. We had that in the Fourth Symphony and in the Miserae as well. Dibelius tells us there are less than 20 bars in this work that really bear the adagio tempo marking, at the beginning and at the end, respectively. Formally he sees it as a Rondo with a theme that comes back in various guises and more freely composed sections in between. There's quite a bit of Ravel in this piece, both in its formal layout (La Valse) and in the odd, orientalising shape of the main theme (Ma Mere l'Oye?). But then this seems to mix uneasily with Hartmann's undeniably teutonic idiom. I listened to Metzmacher's reading and was unconvinced. Then the Conlon version with the Gürzenich Orchestra and this fares hardly better. The vision is different, to be sure. Consistent with his take on the other works on this CD - the Fourth and the Concerto Funèbre - Conlon takes a very broad approach in the outer sections so that the overall impression is not one of progressive quickening and intensification but of a very loud allegro outburst in a sea of relative calm. Here too I remained rather unimpressed. I don't think this is a work I will return to particularly often. But I still need to listen to Kubelik's version in the Wergo set.

Then onwards to another icon in post-war German symphonic history: Bernd Alois Zimmermann's Symphony in One Movement, from 1951. This too is a short, dense piece of symphonic writing, in an abrasive, ruthlessly expressionistic idiom. It has seen very little recordings. I am happy to have a version included in the Junge Deutsche Philharmonie's Jubileum Set. It is, remarkably enough, conducted by Witold Lutoslawski. And he seems to ride this whirlwind very capably.

Zimmermann was 33 years old when he wrote the Symphony and his own notes have been inserted in the CD's inlay booklet: "I wrote my Symphony in 1951, after much deliberation with regard to symphonic form. This is not a work which strings together several movements, played through from beginning to end without a break (in contradistinction with the traditional symphony) using intermediate linking structures. Instead, it is a musical structure out of whose basic material a basic form is developed and which in this way undergoes a process of expressive transsubstantiation. The single-movement quality of the form is postulated by the monistic tendency of the musical structure. Here, unlike the traditional symphonic form, thematic material is not expounded from the start but, in conjunction with various forces, develops from the amorphous state of the musical germ, from the seeming chaos of this basic cell to the organic structure of the whole. It does so in sweeping arcs, vacillating from apocalyptic menace to mystical absorption and being, in this process passing through all the stages of musical development, subject to fierce dynamic evolution until, at the end of the work, the 'thematic' conclusion is drawn, repeatedly breaking through in ever new ways during the course of the symphony and, in the middle of the work, for the first time reaching a climax after deriving impetus from an extensive preparatory build-up."

I'm hearing here echoes of Webern's Urpflanz-theory, Schoenberg's 'developing variation', of Bartok's musical germ-driven monothematicism, of the modernist avant garde's preoccupation with 'hidden themes'. But then what? Beyond classical sonata form we are at sea, it seems. Anything goes. What I would like to see, if it exists, is a typology of beyond-sonata-formal-solutions to help navigate this complex territory.

The Zimmermann piece is quite stirring. The atmosphere is charged, gothic even. The basic Gestalt is that of an über-Mahlerian, frenetic march. Glissandos, strings sul ponticello, muted trumpets, blaring brass and pounding percussion make the day. But nothing we haven't heard in Bartok's Mandarin! However, the Symphony deserves to be better known than it is. A symphonic spectacular if there ever was one. I would love to hear it in the concert hall. As far as I can see, there is currently one version readily available: a 1987 recording as part of Hänssler Profil's Wand Edition. That must be good. But I'm very happy with the present version where the JDP, predictably, play their heart out under Lutoslawski's stoic baton.

The most impressive part of this post-war German symphonic trilogy is Henze's Barcarole per grande orchestra, from 1979. With 21 minutes it's also the longest piece. It's a lusciously scored, unabashedly Romantic symphonic poem, drenched in glowing, dark colours. Amazing piece of music which, again, deserves a much more prominent place in the catalogue and concert programmes. This connects back to late Mahler, early Schoenberg and, in a concert, would make a perfect complement to a Pelleas und Melisande. I have been listening to the 1992 live recording by Rattle and the CBSO which is superb. I've heard it only twice and plan to return to it very soon.

Hartmann - Miserae

From the luminosity of Toch's Fourth Symphony back to the doom-laden atmosphere of Hartmann's Miserae (1934). It was the composer's first symphonic work: a single movement, 14 minute long symphonic fantasia that was listed as his Symphony nr. 1 until 1950. There are very few recordings available. Apart from the Metzmacher recording I have listened to, there is a Telarc recording conducted by Leon Botstein, and that's it (here is a very complete and up to date Hartmann discography as part of a larger project on documenting 'entartete musik' in fascist Germany and Italy; an amazing job).

It's an intriguing work, as often with this composer it seems. Formally one struggles to get a grip, as I did in the case of the Fourth Symphony. Despite its modest duration, it's a sprawling musical edifice. In language and form it reminds me of the Shostakovich of the 1930s and the latter's almost exactly contemporaneous Fourth is a good reference point. Both pieces display a highly fragmented, violently expressionistic musical process, a mix of bathos and dark forebodings.

The piece starts with a short, quiet prelude - scored for a small chamber-like ensemble - that features a very gripping section. It's basically a casual, almost jaunty march theme which transforms into a chilling death chamber with a muted trumpet and exhausted brass figures hovering over a pppp single note in the very low strings. An amazing effect which does not return later in the work but which casts a long, dark shadow behind anyway. The extended middle section is a maelstrom of vulgar marches and coarse jokes. One can almost see fat Nazi bellies groping under waitresses' skirts at a Munich biergarten. There is a kind of a drinking song - full of malicious, adolescent braggadocio - that returns a couple of times, fortissimo, as a motto theme. The party gives way to a pensive lament on the bassoon with klezmer overtones. But soon it's bulldozered by the mischievous party-goers and, after another attempt of the bassoon to assert itself, the work ends with a short, ferocious coda.

It's certainly a compelling work. It sounds undisciplined to me, but it testifies of a fascinating musical imagination nevertheless.

Very problematic is the whole political framing of not only this work but of Hartmann's oeuvre as a whole. This is another, extra-musical, parallel with Shostakovich. Can we only make sense of this as 'Bekenntnismusik'? Hartmann himself supported this way of approaching his music. However, we quickly get into an ugly ideological debate. Alex Ross, in his 'All the Rest is Noise', casts doubt on the sincerity of Hartmann's intentions. The dedication of Miserae to "my friends, who had to die a hundred times over, who sleep for all eternity" allegedely was only known to the conductor of the premiere, Hermann Scherchen, not to the wider public. And apparently Hartmann had not been averse to giving the Nazi salute during the war. It's an endless back and forth between sceptics and supporters that cannot be resolved and arguably has nothing to do with the music itself. Today I can only approach the music at face value. What I hear is a musical process that keeps me highly involved. Let's keep it at that, for the time being .

Toch - Symphony nr. 4

To my great pleasure and surprise I keep doing fantastic discoveries of unknown repertoire. Over the last few days I dipped for the first time in Ernst Toch's symphonic oeuvre. His 7 symphonies have been collected by CPO in a 3CD set at a bargain price. Alun Francis conducts the Radio-Sinfonieorchester Berlin. I chose the Fourth Symphony, op. 80 (1957), simply by virtue of the fact that lately I have listened to Fourths by Hartmann, Honegger and Petrassi. In fact, my intention was only to sample, but then I got so involved that I kept listening. I have now traversed it four times in all and I can confidently say that it is a great work.

First something about Ernst Toch. HK had spoken to me about Toch a couple of times as an example of a neglected composer who produced solid, interesting, 'durchkomponiertes' work, particularly in chamber repertoire. He specifically singled out the quartets. Anyway, I never followed up the lead. But lately, encouraged by the many felicitous discoveries in new repertoire (Petrassi, Hartmann, Maconchy) and a discounted offer by Presto, I decided to take the plunge.

Toch is a German composer, born in 1887. His career is remarkable in several respects. First, he was largely self-taught (by studying scores of Mozart and Haydn quartets). He quickly rose to prominence in the Twenties and Thirties, to become one of Germany's iconic composers, alongside Hindemith, Weill and Krenek. The Nazi's power grab made an end to all that. He settled down in the US, where he continued to live until 1964 in relative obscurity (much to his dismay). First he taught and wrote film music, but after a serious heart attack in 1948 he decided to focus solely on his artistic mission. All of his symphonies were written in the last 15 years of his life and are the product a mature and fully developed creative mind.

What struck me about the Fourth Symphony is the uncanny kinship with the symphonies of the late Carl Nielsen. So for me this work belongs squarely in the symphonic lineage leading from Nielsen to Robert Simpson. Which is thrilling news, of course! Indeed, the music is tremendously self-assured, shares the clarity of outline and the cool, translucent harmony of Nielsen. Also the orchestration reminds us of the Dane, with sinuous and dynamic leading strings and beautiful inner voices from the woodwinds. Particularly in the finale of the Fourth there is also the kind of dense polyphonic writing that is so characteristic of Simpson's work.

The atmosphere of Toch's Fourth is dreamlike and serene. Like Honegger's Fourth, but more abstract. I'm also particularly reminded of Nielsen's Sixth. There is an idiosyncracy: Toch dedicated the work to benefactor Marian McDowell and in between movements (there are three) short but quirky texts are declamated by the conductor. Antal Dorati refused to include the texts at the premiere with the Minneapolis SO and I can see very well why he did that. In the CPO disc the spoken text is not separately cued, so one is pretty much forced to make it part of the listening experience. Anyway, it's not a big deal, once one is used to it. Here are my notes of the audition:

"The first movement ('Molto dolce, molto tranquillo, molto equalmente') starts with a meandering, dreamlike theme on unison strings. It is taken up in a more urgent variation for the full orchestra which has Nielsen fingerprints all over: the oscillating, slightly menacing strings; the characteristic, quizzical figures in the brass and woodwinds, a translucent harmony where light and shade are skillfully blended.

The movement falls into three sections. Second section starts with a gloomy clarinet solo, followed by a flute solo, then oboe, bassoon. Back to the unison string motive. Hints of Prokofiev at his most genial. Then a more vivacious sequence in the strings, again framed by forlorn brass motives. The section ends on a short, ambiguous fortissimo flourish. Back to the initial theme, almost unadorned. No counterpoint. This is very bleak. Sounds like the finale of RVW's Sixth.

The scherzo ('Lively (con brio)) is short, boisterous. Toch has a very delicate touch here, almost Mendelsohnian. Here too reminiscences of mature Nielsen's fast movements in some of the rhythmic figures that flash through the orchestral fabric, the skillful writing for the winds.

The finale (Molto grave) start with thrilling peroration in the upper strings (like Nielsen’s VI/1!) but also like Nielsen IV/3! Shape of the thematic material and the orchestration so uncannily like Nielsen. Sections separated by a menacing ppp timpani roll. Again, one can’t help to think about Nielsen. Second section is very animated. We get into the denser polyphonic textures that we are familiar with from Simpson, including the insistent pounding on the timps. I was also reminded of Tippett. Final section starts again with a morose clarinet solo. Then a passage that reminds in its harmonisation of Mahler’s Tenth. High strings above long held notes of the low brass. Textures thin out. Violin solo with quartet. And that ‘s it. Beautiful."

The tone of this work is bittersweet. It could only have been written by an ageing composer. It is a pure, unpretentious but moving 'spiel' of sound. The music is not difficult at all. But is is quite uplifting.

Formally there is one thing that strikes me. Toch wrote seven symphonies, of which this one is the central, the pivotal element. The Fourth is structured into three movements, the first and last of which fall into three sections each. Each takes about 4 minutes. That also applies to the central scherzo. So one could equally well see the symphony as composed of seven section of almost equal lenght. Within the wider scheme of things, the scherzo would then be the middle line of Toch's whole symphonic oeuvre. A delicate scherzo of Mendelssohnian, or Mozartian grace and sense of proportion. That would certainly be apt for a composer who considered Mozart always as his ultimate teacher ... 

What is also a great source of pleasure in this production is the really excellent quality of the music making and the demonstration quality of the recording (Jesus Christus Kirche, Berlin). The orchestra sounds as if they have been playing this music all their life. Alun Francis shapes this elusive work in the most natural of ways. And the engineers created a sound picture full of depth and a pleasing sense of space. Just what this music needs, with its gentle intimations of nature and loss.

As I feel this music stems from a different lineage than the one I am reconnoitering now in my Bartok campaign, I am going to put the Toch cycle aside until I have progressed a little further with Bartok, Hartmann and Petrassi. But it was a very promising encounter indeed.

Bartok - String Quartet nr. 3/Ligeti - String Quartet nr. 1

I gave Bartok's Third Quartet another go. It's an explosive, fascinating piece that packs a dense musical process in a mere 15 minutes. First I listened to the Keller Quartet, which impressed me less than during the first audition. The recording is strangely muffled. That may have something to do with it. They try to invest the music which a certain lyrical quality, which only partially works. I do not have the feeling that the tectonic complexity of the music has been fully done justice. The 1970s Vegh is an eminently satisfying reading, earthbound and forthright. Despite its plainness, it has a monumental character. The Belcea Quartet offers a more modern interpretation. The playing is breathtakingly accomplished and their blended voices strike me as almost symphonic. It is a reading of almost terrifying ferocity. I love listening to it. Maybe the virtuosity will wear off after a while? Time will tell. It's certainly good to be able to return to the more levelheaded Vegh whenever needed.

I followed up with an audition of Ligeti's First string quartet: 'Métamorphoses Nocturnes'. Ligeti wrote it in 1953-54 for the bottom drawer in a Budapest that was still in the iron grip of Communist dictatorship. In the liner notes to the Sony recording (with the Arditti Quartet) the composer writes: "I was inspired to write String Quartet nr. 1 by Bartok's two middle string quartets, his Third and Fourth, although I knew them only from their scores, since performances of them were banned. In the present instance, 'métamorphoses' signifies a set of character variations without an actual theme but developed out of a basic motivic cell (two major seconds, displaced by a minor second). Melodically and harmonically, the piece rests on total chromaticism, whereas, from a point of view of form, it follows the criteria of Viennese Classicism (...) Apart from Bartok, Beethoven's Diabelli Variations were my 'secret ideal'." As a double homage to Bartok, the conjunction of a variational principle and a nocturnal mood is certainly apt.

According to Richard Steinitz in 'György Ligeti - Music of the Imagination' (Northeastern University Press, 2003), Ligeti submitted the work for the 1955 Queen Elisabeth Competition for string quartet. However, I have not been able to trace this back in the Competition's on-line archives. In any case, the quartet was not withheld, and didn't even figure amongst the top 10 as it was likely deemed 'too traditional'. Well, I don't find it quite traditional, but it is indeed not a very strong work. Certainly compared to the astonishing density and intricacy of Bartok's Third Quartet it does not compare favourably. Apparently the work did not come easy to Ligeti. It was the first time he projected on such a large canvas. So there were numerous false starts and dead ends. One can still sense that in the final composition which betrays a stylistic heterogeneity and an uneveness of invention.

The quartet is a succession of 8 short quasi-movements. At first these movements are still clearly separated from one another and one still has a feeling of thematic development (although there strictly speaking no theme). Indeed, there is a lot that reminds of Bartok. But as the work unfolds, Ligeti moves into more abstract - texturally exciting, but musically less satisfying - sonoric experiments. There is an occasional, not too subtle, wink. A lot of the music is harsh, prestissimo pounding of the strings. Steinitz sees in the quartet 'a taut, logically argued composition, a single movement of almost symphonic dimensions' but that was not what I picked up. That doesn't mean that the music is not fun to listen too. In fact, it is. I find it even more easily accessible than the Bartok which was written almost thirty years earlier.

Maybe I was too close with my nose on the music, as I listened twice in short succession with the headphones. I will certainly re-listen on the speakers to check whether a little more distance allows me to better appreciate the overall structure of the piece.

Wagner - Parsifal

 

Yesterday I was able to attend to a live performance of Wagner's Parsifal thanks to the generosity of HVC who was kind enough to pass on a ticket to me. It is certainly one of my favourite operas. My first encounter with it, more than 25 years ago, was one of the defining epiphanies in my musical narrative. On record it is the Karajan version which has left such an indelible mark. I find it a noble, spacious, even grandiose reading, but it does not collapse under its own weight. Superb orchestral playing, exquisite dramatic pacing and beautiful voices: it leaves nothing to be desired. Some find the sound to be somewhat in-your-face. It is true that this early digital recording is not of the subtlest, but it does not detract from the stupendous qualities of the whole. 

So any live performance has formidable competition to my ears. I saw a live version in Berlin, a little less than 10 years ago, directed by Christian Thielemann but I remember precious little of it (apart from the fact that I arrived at the Deutsche Oper completely drenched in sweat as my flight into Berlin was late). So now then a new production at the Brussels Munt, with the house orchestra directed by Hartmut Haenchen, and directed by experimental theater maker Romeo Castellucci. An overview of international reviews of this production can be found here. The NYT review is here.

After all this ink has been spilled - pro and contra - it is unnecessary to go into great detail. Suffice it to say that this might have been a great Parsifal, if not for two major (musical) shortcomings: Jan-Hendrik Rootering's monochrome rendering of Gurnemanz, and the similarly colourless support from the orchestra. With respect to the former, most reviewers seem to agree that Rootering's interpretation is not great. By the time of the long monologue in Act III one has thoroughly tired of G's bland recitations. As a result, the architecture sags. Haenchen's conducting seems to be evoke very different responses (ranging from 'ordentlich' to 'great'). I won't say it is entirely without merit. It is true that Haenchen conducts a very brisk Parsifal but he does that in a very subtle way. There is certainly room for the music to breathe, and a lot has a chamber music-like qualities. But what the music misses is muscle tone, liveliness, mystery. The orchestra sounded wooden and uninspired, in the louder passages sometimes even coarse. The rather dry acoustics of the Munt certainly add to the challenge of sustaining the long lines. So that was major disappointment. Maybe my ears have been spoiled by the (unnaturally?) luxuriant 'cadillac ride' of Karajan's BPO ... 

However, that being said, the production was saved by a number of very commendable voices (Anna Larson as a grave, husky Kundry, and the young American tenor Andrew Richards in a lithe, introspective title role) and by Castellucci's poetically suggestive and thought provoking production. Throughout the listener is tickled by striking and beautiful images that raise all sorts of philosophical questions. But I've also been asking myself whether it is the point at all of going to an opera to solve intellectual riddles whilst listening to some of the greatest music ever composed. Maybe, to really to do justice to music and production, one would have to go and listen not once but twice or even three times. Now that I have seen this Parsifal, I could use a few days to mull it over, try to make sense of the puzzle that Wagner/Castellucci throws at us. And then in a subsequent audition it would be easier to concentrate on the whole thing without being distracted by puzzling details, as to why the German sheperd or the snake or the three guys in working clothes that storm the scene in the first act. 

Tenor Andrew Richards has a charming blog in which he reports on his experiences during rehearsal and performance of this Parsifal with disarming candidness.

Hartmann - Concerto Funèbre

Yesterday I listened for the first time to another Hartmann composition: the Concerto Funèbre for violin and orchestra. First the version by Poppen and Isabelle Faust on ECM, and then a recording with Spivakov as a soloist accompanied by Conlon's Gürzenich Orchestra. It's early days but, wow!, I was immediately gripped by this very bleak and moody work. At least in the ECM recording. Faust and Poppen make a brilliant case for what must be one of the most impressive violin concertos from the last century. What a strange mix of tradition and novelty! What strange panoramas unfold before the listener's eye! The ECM cover image wonderfully captures this sense of mystery. As far as I can tell, the Capriccio recording is much less successful. Conlon and Spivakov don't seem to have a clue. They wander aimlessly around, squeezing every drop of mournful sentimentality from the score. As a result this wonderful concerto is reduced to salon music. Faust's rapturous and steely rendition of the solo part is of an altogether different world. I hanker for more. To be continued.

Hartmann - Symfonie nr. 4

In the last couple of weeks I have collected a number of different versions of Hartmann's Fourth Symphony and as a result I have gone through it maybe as often as 15 times. And still I do not have the feeling of having grasped this work. Although I haven't heard anything else by Hartmann up to this point, his music seems to share this elusive quality with Petrassi's Concertos, which are also very difficult to pin down. But there is no doubt that both are major discoveries for me that will keep me busy for a long while.

Judging from the different readings I have heard, it seems Hartmann's Fourth is not only difficult for listeners but also for conductors to get a hold on. One senses that quite intuitively. The overall shape of the work remains nebulous in all but the most successful readings. The caesura between the second and third movement (the latter having been composed to it after the war) eludes most of the interpreters I have heard. Despite these formal shortcomings it remains a very compelling work, uncompromising, deeply felt, written in an idiosyncratic language and full of remarkable inventions.

The recordings that I have listened to are: Bamberger SO/Ingo Metzmacher (EMI), Gürzenich Orchestra/Conlon (Capriccio), Bavarian Radio SO/Kubelik (live radio tape, Wergo, both CD and LP), and Münchener Kammerorchester/Poppen (ECM). There is also a DGG LP with Kubelik and the same orchestra but a different recording. I've only heard that cursorily. It's now being cleaned on the KM.

All of these recording have their merits. I don't think there is any that deserves to be binned. But clearly these are all different interpretations. Comparative timings reveal part of the story:

• Metzmacher: 14'54"/10'40"/7'22"
• Conlon: 16'27"/10'02"/7'59"
• Kubelik: 14'32"/9'40"/7'29"
• Poppen: 15'38/8'32"/7'45"

In an earlier post I remarked that I found the differences in tempo between movements in the Metzmacher reading less stark than the indications might lead us to expect (lento - allegro - adagio).  Poppen takes a very different view,  with a deliberately paced introductory movement and a very fast Allegro. I think both approaches can work, but one cannot escape the impression that Metzmacher's take at times seems a little sedate and longish and that Poppen's tempo is a little breathless. Also, I don't like how the latter seems to slightly and intentionally blur the contours of transitions in tempo and dynamics. In both interpretations it is difficult to adjust to the final slow movement and one feels there is a lack of continuity in the overall architecture. But both recordings have also plenty of nice things to offer. Once more the ECM shines because of an uncommonly vivid and translucent sound.

Conlon is consistent in the slowness of his reading. The first movement is delivered as a genuine threnody. The fast middle movement is a little ponderous. The finale does work better here, but at a cost of some excitement. The whole thing tends to get a slightly saccharine taste by the end. A very good point for the Conlon, however, is the surprisingly accomplished playing of the Gürzenich Orchestra and the excellent, very rich recording.

The most accomplished reading here is, it seems to me, the Kubelik. I feel he has cracked the code of this ambiguous work. In his hands it appears as a truly symphonic, tightly woven musical process. Ulrich Dibelius makes a case in a lengthy essay accompanying the Wergo LP set for the essentially symphonic character of Hartmann's oeuvre, and he singles out the Fourth as emblematic. I think this is somewhat of a stretch. The symphonic nature of this work is revealed only in the most capable and empathic hands. Kubelik must have worked hard on this symphony. In the first movement his timing coheres with Metzmacher's but his approach is much more plastic and imaginative, letting the slow sections breathe and baring his teeth in the fast music. The Allegro is truly brutal and bitter, but more poised than in the ECM recording. And he extrapolates this rather ascerbic take in the concluding Adagio in the most satisfying way. Kubelik eschews the comfortable and lush romanticism of the Conlon and Metzmacher readings. Instead we have a harsher and more expressionistic view which likely points ahead at Hartmann's famous Sixth Symphony. I must say that the playing of the Bavarian Radio SO does not show the polish of the orchestras on the more recent recordings. The sound quality is surprisingly good, given that we are dealing with live radio tapes of unknown date. However, a side by side comparison reveals that the vinyl does sound better than the CD, even with the 32 minute work confined to one LP side. The latter suffers from a rather closed sound with a glassy upper edge, not untypical for CD transfers.

Anyway it was great to take a deep dive into this work. Time to move on now.

Comment - Bartok's Legacy timeline

I've added a Dipity-timeline to the blog which is going to retrace my exploration of Bartok and the various tracks that veer away from this central line of inquiry. So I will include works of other composers that bear a relationship - in spirit or musically - with Bartok's oeuvre. The timeline is cross-referenced with the blog and with relevant Youtube videos. I expect that this temporal perspective will enrich my understanding of Bartok's pivotal position in 20th century musical history.

Bartok - String Quartet nr. 3

I've been tiptoeing for a while around Bartok's quartets. Supposedly they count as the pinnacle of his impressive oeuvre. And I am not very familiar with them. So there was some apprehension in attacking this musical Everest. But the happy discovery of the Maconchy quartets made it somewhat easier to shunt to the Bartok series.

Just as Maconchy's Third Quartet (1938) is a rather short work (even taking into account that none in her series extends beyond 20 minutes), Bartok's Third (1927) is a dense and concise statement. Well, talking about density: compared to the Bartok quartet, Maconchy's sounds positively rhapsodic! Despite its short duration Bartok's quartet is a musical splinterbomb that explodes with a dizzying fury of ideas. It very much shares the charged energy and kaleidoscopic fabric of the First Pianoconcerto which immediately precedes it (1926). Just as in the concerto, Bartok works with ultra-reduced musical cells as the basis for a dense process of thematic expansion and variation. As a result it sounds defiantly strident and modernist.

I listened to various interpretations in quick succession. First the recent recording with the Belcea Quartet. This is a very gripping interpretation, bold and very colourful and sounding as if the musicians are completely on top of their game. Then the New Budapest Quartet on Hyperion. A big disappointment. Small wonder these guys have never been really able to convince me of the greatness of these works. The performance is underpowered, uneven and hesitant, hinting only at the shockwaves that this music is able to generate. I have friends who swear by the readings of the Vegh Quartet. I have their 1970s recordings and indeed they are very good. Earthy and muscular but not quite as virtuosic as the Belcea. But I prefer them to the Juilliard Quartet on Sony whose reading is rather poised and urbane but lacks some of the Vegh's and Belcea's grit. The Keller Quartet on Warner then. Very persuasive reading. Though the reading sounds slightly more lyrical and relaxed than the Vegh and Belcea, there is certainly no lack of commitment and focus. Pity the recording is a little lacklustre. So, as far as I can tell the Belcea come out on top. But I am very happy to have the Vegh and Keller interpretations too. I will certainly return to the Belcea recording in the next couple of days. I am looking into the Hungarian and Hagen Quartet too (both available as budget re-issues). I will steer free of the Emerson and Takacs, which I suspect to be too much in-your-face.

The XX

This one has seen serious rotation on the car stereo ever since I bought it early last summer. The XX is a 4-piece freshman South-London band and this was their first CD (2009). Self-produced. Recorded in a garage, often at night. For me it's perfect pop music: easy to listen to, unpretentious but also honestly evocative, without gimmicks. The album has a very distintive atmosphere, start to finish. Which is why quite a few people find it dull. But it isn't. It is very intimate, languorous, teasingly sexy, disarmingly youthful. Almost all tracks revolve around a whispery dialogue between a nubile Romy Croft and the grainy voice of Oliver Sim, supported by a simple, distinctive beat (mid-tempo at most) and subtle synths. An Amazon reviewer spoke of 'a charmingly laconic ambience. There is a total absence of frenzy. In fact nothing much happens throughout in the nicest possible way.' I couldn't have said it better. A nice album, indeed. 

Maconchy - String Quartet nr. 3

Another fantastic discovery, it seems! Yesterday I received an order from Amazon.co.uk including a complete set of Elizabeth Maconchy's string quartets. I had never heard a note of this composer. But her name was not unfamiliar. I must have come across it when I was still a regular reader of Gramophone magazine. Anyway, during my Bartok explorations I happened to follow an internet trail that in passing alerted me to the quality of these quartets. They simmered a little bit on my wish list. But as the set is available for the modest sum of 10 pounds, there was little point in waiting. As they arrived I wanted to sample a short work and chose the one-movement Third Quartet (1938). It's barely ten minutes long, but from the first bars onward - as it throws that soaring, richly harmonized theme in your face - I was captivated. What a great piece of music! It sounds astonishingly self-assured and mature (Maconchy was only 31 when she wrote it), combining unabashed lyricism with a sinewy kind of counterpoint. Likely it does not have the gravitas of late Beethoven and Shostakovich or the expressive range of mature Bartok. But despite its brief timespan it is an eminently satisfying listening experience.What it reminded me - qua atmosphere - perhaps most of is that wonderful disc by the Balanescu Quartet dedicated to Gavin Bryars' two string quartets (Argo, still available via Amazon third party sellers). But the Maconchy piece likely compares favourably in terms of discipline and organisation of the musical material.

I really want to get back to listening Bartok and I will. But discoveries such as the Petrassi Concertos, the Hartmann symphonies and the Maconchy quartets keep me in an orbit some distance away. But I'm certainly not complaining ...

Tavener - Ypakoë/Pratirupa

I have just returned from a short trip to India. It was my first visit to the country. Whilst travelling I rarely venture into demanding repertoire. Usually there's hardly time too as the working days are long and listening in transit - in a noisy plane environment, usually - is hardly uplifting. So I basically listened and re-listened to just two piano pieces by John Tavener that seemed to mesh with the rather exotic circumstances in which I found myself. It took me a while to warm to Tavener's music as I tended to catalogue him with the smooth, spiritual new age crowd - including Pärt and Gorecki - that a number of years ago started to blot out the merits of a more serious musical avant garde in the minds of the average classical music enthusiast. And probably that is also where he belongs. But just as Gorecki's oeuvre offers plenty of compelling stuff beyond the Symphony of Sorrows (his Lerchenmusik, his First Quartet) so Tavener merits an exploration that goes a little further than his Protecting Veil. The Naxos recording of his piano music by Ralph van Raat is a rewarding disc. I find the two longer, later pieces, Ypakoë (1997) and Pratirupa (2003) the most interesting.

Ypakoë allegedly means "to be obedient", "to hear", "to respond" in Greek. An interesting cluster of significances that seems to capture the experience of active listening quite well. Ypakoë is also a traditional hymn chanted in the Eastern Orthodox liturgy. The piece comes across as a keyboard suite consisting of different sections (not cued on the Naxos disc). It opens with a festive preludium, majestic bells pealing, not uncommon in Tavener's music. An understated, attractive 2-part invention follows, emulating a baroque idiom. This mood is extrapolated in the next section, a very simple and sombre chorale melody. No counterpoint involved at all. A short, celebratory peroration soon makes way for the chorale again.  We're halfway and the music moves in familiar Tavener territory with another subdued, hymnic theme, accompanied by rapid, ceremonial figurations in the right hand. Maybe this is the sound of the Greek kanokaki where Van Raat refers in his liner notes? The chorale returns again, but only briefly, almost as a motto theme. Textures continue to thin out in a mysterious grave, pppp. A beautiful, nocturnal meditation that gives way to a rousing finale that connects back to the pealing bells of the beginning.

An Amazon reviewer chastised Van Raat for playing Ypakoë much too fast. It is indeed the case that the dedicatee of the piece, the Venezuelan pianist Elena Riu recorded a much slower version, taking over 20 minutes, on a Linn Records disc (only available for download). Van Raat takes just over 13 minutes. However, comparing the two recordings I must say I side with the interpretation of the Dutch pianist. Tavener may wish the music to attune us to the divine will, but in her desire for spiritual communion Riu tries to spin rather too much yarn from little wool. As a result, the music sounds sentimental and contrived. In Van Raat's hands the piece continues to breath and its relative briskness lends it a beguiling freshness.

The other piece, Pratirupa, takes almost a full half hour. I suppose one has to be in the right frame of mind to stay focused on what ultimately seems to be relatively modest musical material. It's an extended meditation that revolves around three basic components: a gentle, nocturnal fantasy that forms the backbone of the piece, a lullaby that returns as a motto theme and, finally, a set of periodic eruptions of a Messiaen-like density and ferocity.

All in all I found this an apposite musical foil for a short journey in an unknown and exotic territory.