Prokofiev - String Quartet nr. 2

Prokofiev's Second String Quartet, op. 92, was composed in the fall of 1941, the Soviet Union's nadir in the Second World War. But for Prokofiev it was not a bad time at all. He was shipped out of Moscow with some of his fellow composers and accompanied by his new partner, Mira Mendelssohn, half his age. His wife, Lina, and children stayed behind in besieged Moscow. They travelled to Nalchik in the foothills of the Caucasus, then to Tbilisi and onwards to Alma Ata in Kazachstan. Whilst they sometimes had to make do with precarious material circumstances, the living was generally good and the exotic locales stimulating. For Prokofiev it was a period of amazing creative impetus in which he wrote, amongst other things, the first version of his War and Peace and the film music to Ivan The Terrible. He also finished the Seventh Sonata. The Second Quartet was written during the first stage of their nomadic existence, in Nalchik. In it, Prokofiev relies heavily on lokal folk music (hence it has been labeled 'On Kabardinian Themes').

I hadn't heard this work before. Whilst the First Quartet has the reputation of being more 'abstract' and polyphonic, I find the Second to be skillfully evading the trap of cheap exoticism. I don't have the impression that Prokofiev was reaching in his second drawer here. At least in the performance of the St Peterburg Quartet the music has genuine fiber. The second movement is a carefree and sweet but also deeply felt Adagio, almost with the character of a serenade, a Ständchen in which the mature composer revels in his newfound love. But there is also something of the eery silence that seems to pervade these foreign territories. I also like the motoric drive of the final Allegro and its weird cadenza-like sections for the lead violin and the cello. I am definitely interested in listening to an alternative version (as the Auroras on Naxos do not really come into play), preferably of the Haas.

Shostakovich - Symphony nr. 2 'To October'

As I was so impressed by the Kitajenko/Gürzenich recordings of the Prokofiev symphonies, I was very curious to hear what this partnership might do with the Shostakovich cycle. JPC offered the 14 SACD box for less than 30 euros. A no brainer. Even if there was only a single symphony that had the qualities of the Prokofiev Sixth, it would be money well spent.

The set antedates the Prokofiev. All symphonies were taped between 2002 and 2004, either live in the Philharmonie or on location at the Studio Stolberger in Cologne. The recordings have been mastered as SACDs rather than the conventional CD format in case of the Prokofiev.

I don't have the intention to jump into a full Shostakovich cycle so only wanted to sample one of the shorter works. Inevitably one ends up with one of the strange, early works. It has been ages since I listened to the Second. Not a great work by any standards but now that I relistened to it it struck me how seminal it is for what was to follow. One can easily hear how the Fourth would soon spring from this musical imagination. There are also hints of the darker lyricism that would be so prominent in the Fifth and even Tenth Symphony.

I was, however, very unhappy to hear that sonically these recordings are no match for the Prokofiev set. Indeed, there is the impression of a slightly more finely contoured and finely grained sound (higher resolution) and there is an admirable sense of space. It is very easy to pinpoint all the desks in the orchestra. That in itself is very good and pleasing. But this seems to come at a price of a more generic, disembodied sound. Gone is the juicy and effortless luxuriance of the Prokofiev. Gone is also that sense of realism and 'being there' that puts you as a listener literally on edge. I am seeing the desks but I'm missing the faces! It's very disappointing. I'm also fearing for Kitajenko's readings now which tend to be somewhat more relaxed. With this kind of generic digital sound we might lose our interest much more rapidly ... I sampled some snippets from the live recordings too and it seems the problem persists across the whole set. Oh well, we'll see ...

Prokofiev - String Quartet nr. 1

Prokofiev's String Quartet nr. 1, op. 50, hails from 1930, very much the same period of the Fourth Symphony which I listened to earlier. Stylistically it's a transitional period between the expressionistic excesses of the Twenties and the New Simplicity he would further develop in the Soviet Union. The Quartet was composed in response to a commission of the US Library of Congress. Prokofiev has not made a big contribution to the quartet repertoire. There are only two. Which is a pity. I can't see why he wouldn't have been able to write a more substantial body of work, even when it was dramatic instinct and melodic invention rather than architectural profundity that governed most of his output. But maybe that territory was already claimed by Shostakovich (although he started late).

In preparing for the First Quartet Prokofiev closely studied Beethoven's examples. And that is reflected in the classically poised construction and the clear contours of the work. In a way Prokofiev returns to the pungy kind of neo-classicism that made his First Symphony such a success. If it sounds Beethovenian, then it's more akin to the op. 18 than the middle or late quartets. So maybe its better to call it Haydnesque. The fast tempos that dominate the first two movements reinforce the impression of youthfulness. All in all it's a pleasant work to listen to: not very challenging but breezy and spicy. Clearly not in the Bartok class, but then that would likely be an unfair comparison.

I have two versions in my collection. First a 1994 recording by the Aurora String Quartet on Naxos. These are members of the San Francisco Symphony Orchestra. This version didn't appeal to me on account of its limited sonic qualities (annoyingly resonant acoustics, glassy highs, lack of space). The playing seems at times a little scrawny to me as well. The reading by the St Petersburg Quartet on Delos (recorded 1999) is a good deal more successful, both as an interpretation and as a recording. I particularly liked the athletic Andante molto here. Still, I have the impression that none of these quartets realises the full potential of this work. I'm now going to try to find the more recent recording of the young Pavel Haas Quartet, which was released to considerable acclaim.

Prokofiev - Symphony nr. 6

That Prokofiev Sixth with Kitajenko really hit me between the eyes! That glorious music has hardly been out of my mind this week. I have relistened to it, albeit only in parts. It's a genuine treat and certainly one of the most impressive symphonic recordings I have heard in a long time. Kitajenko's vision on the score does not impose itself as 'definitive' but in combination with the very high level of playing by the orchestra and the absolutely stupendous sonics it makes for a great listening experience. It's almost psychedelically colourful, like watching a giant Kandinsky painting rotating before one's mind's eye. This is the kind of rapture that I experienced more often, it seems, as a young, inexperienced listener in my early twenties than I do today. It's nice to be able to revisit that experience.

Wild Beasts - Smother

I picked this one up whilst I was browsing the shelves at the Bozar shop in Brussels. The shop assistant had put it on the speakers. Didn't know it. Never heard of the Wild Beasts. It appears to be a British band that has been making some waves over the last 3-4 years. Smother is their last album, issued just a few weeks ago. I haven't listened to it very carefully but it looks like a very good catch. Reminds me a little of Prefab Sprout, in its melodic invention and use of synths. The lead singer's falsetto also connects to Paddy McAloone's voice. The other association is with Muse's Matthew Bellamy. Wild Beasts have two front men, in fact: Hayden Thorpe (the falsetto, also on guitar) and Tom Fleming (a more husky voice, on bass). The latter at times sounds uncannily like Elbow's Guy Garvey (see the third track, Deeper).

What has particularly attracted me in these first few auditions is the finale, consisting of three tracks - Reach a Bit Further, Burning, End Come to Soon - which nicely fit together (also thematically, from a certain angle, if you consider the three titles in succession). The first is a fairly short and bubbly track propelled forward by an irresistible beat. Burning moves somewhat in ambient territory and makes the connection with Prefab Sprout quite obvious. The final track is a brilliant 7 minute epic (relatively speaking) that traverses different vistas (even some Dark Side of the Moon reminiscences) and evokes disquiet and anticipation. Goosepimples! It's all that pop music needs to be.

Finally, the album is excellently recorded (an exception with pop albums these days): it's genuinely dynamic and for once doesn't smother the richness of the voices and acoustic instruments involved.

Frank Nuyts - Middle East/Barber - Knoxville, Summer of 1915

I went to the Vlaamse Opera in Gent yesterday to attend a performance of a new work by Frank Nuyts. Nuyts is a percussionist and composer who teaches at the Hogeschool in Gent. He has a reputation for being an interesting, prolific and eclectic composer.  I had never heard any of his works before, however. This was the second performance of his 'chamber opera' Middle-East (the premiere was on Thursday), a collaboration with writer Philippe Blasband for the libretto and director Johan Dehollander for the staging. Rather than an opera I would call the work a 'scena'. It's a one hour work, without breaks. The vocal score is almost exclusively given to a single soprano who sings both Barak's and Arafat's parts which are often indistinguishable. And there is no real action or dramatic development at the heart of the piece. The work revolves around the failed Camp David talks in 2000 between Ehud Barak and Yasser Arafat. It's about the impossibility of these two protagonists to establish a genuine communication as they remain enclosed in their ideological and linguistic cocoons. All this leads me to consider Middle East as an extended meditation on a situation, or a predicament. It's a little more complicated as there is also an actor involved, who messes around on the scene and also sings a few lines. In addition text and some images are projected. So, all in all it's a complicated challenge for the listener.

I was primarily interested in the music. It seems Nuyts has made quite a journey from his post-serial beginnings. I was surprised how accessible and atmospheric ('stemmig') the music was. It's unabashedly tonal, not even particularly dissonant or dense. It doesn't try to show off with pyrotechnics either. So it struck me as eminently listenable and approachable. The French refer to a wine that is well made and pleases the amateur not with depth, terroir and complexity but with feminine grace and voluptuous fruitiness a 'vin flatteur'. In that sense we could consider Nuyts' score as 'flattering' too. Likely this has been the composer's intention as he discusses in the programme brochure. For him this work is not about conflict but about beauty. Indeed, Blasband's libretto summons the heady perfumes of a youth spent - by both protagonists - in mysterious Jerusalem, the eternal city. It is their experience of the beauty of the city and surrounding Palestine that explains a lot about the intransigency of their positions. Nuyts: "Hence, some sort of sweetness percolates through the music which hangs as a cloud above the negotiation table". Stylistically I couldn't detect obvious fingerprints of other composers, apart from an occasional nod to American minimalism and a hint of Copland. However, the one piece that came to my mind whilst listening to Middle East was Barber's Knoxville, Summer of 1915. The idiom and setting are different, to be sure, but Barber's mellifluous soliloquy for soprano is also steeped in this kind sweetness (without becoming saccharine, however). Today I listened to the excellent version sung by Dawn Upshaw and supported by Zinman's St. Luke's Orchestra (on a Nonesuch disc) and I still think there is a certain correspondence between the two works. Still, I think I would have liked a little more counterpoint and 'durchkomponiertes' fabric in Nuyts' score.

That being said, I thougth the performance itself by the Spectra Ensemble (piano, quartet, percussionist, flute, clarinet) was not very commendable. This may be due to a combination of factors. As it was only the second performance, they likely need to grow into the music. Furthermore, the ensemble was placed in the back, fairly removed from the audience. And the persistent hum of the projectors didn't help in clearly and forcefully presenting the music. Altogether, I thought the ensemble sounded too tentative and did not bring enough conviction to the score.

I am not at all sure about what to make of the work as a whole. For me it is very much a question of 'prima la musica, poi le parole'. When I listen to an opera - which I'm not doing very often - I'm listening to absolute music. Mostly I don't even bother with the libretto. Strangely, whilst in my professional life I'm always struggling with conceptual and social complexity, in music I seem to avoid it. When listening to music I'm interested in structural, architectural complexity, in the intricacies of 'tönend bewegte Formen'. It's similar to photography, where mostly I'm interested in the pictures as pictures, not in the often flaccid stories behind them. So, whilst this Arafat-Barak conundrum interests me from a professional point of view, I'm having difficulties in making the transition from the world of sounds to the world of ideas, and vice versa.

The work is scheduled for performance in Stuk Leuven later this year and I will certainly try to go there for a second audition.

Prokofiev - Symphony nr. 6

Today Prokofiev's biggest symphony was on the menu. His Sixth (op. 111, from 1947) is a work that has been inexplicably neglected. It's a grand work that, for Prokofiev, sounds uncommonly confessional. With the Eighth Sonata it represents the composer at the very peak of his capabilities. For me it belongs to the category of Shostakovich's Fourth and Schnittke's Fifth: tough, tragic and abrasive works conceived on the grand scale (Shosta's Tenth is a case apart, IMHO one of the very best symphonies ever written). The Sixth is extraordinary: 3 massive, tightly knit movements in the weird key of E flat minor, a combination of marvelous songfulness and anguished chromaticism (those Parsifal references!), the extreme contrasts in orchestration (soaring violins and trumpets battling growling percussion and brooding, low brass). The effect is one of overpowering monumentality and doom. The finale is jaunty as Shostakovich's finales are jaunty ("your business is rejoicing, your business is rejoicing"). However apolitial and egocentric Prokofiev might have been, he must have been psychologically affected by the Stalinist Terror of the Thirties and the carnage of the war. This was, after all, suffering on a scale unseen. I scarcely can believe that Prokofiev's sullen mood was inspired by only his health problems (he suffered a concussion during a fall in 1945 as a result of persistent high blood pressure). One never knows. Shostakovich thought Prokofiev had 'the soul of a goose', meaning that he always wanted to make sure he was favoured by the establishment.

Anyway, I have always cherished the Järvi recording of this work (on Chandos). In line with his readings of the other symphonies, it is a volatile and strident reading with the SNO pushed to the limit. Tonight I listened to the more recent Kitajenko version, part of his complete cycle with the Gürzenich Orchestra. It's a live recording (Kölner Philharmonie) dating from 2007. Predictably, Kitajenko is significantly slower than Järvi (all in all he takes 4 minutes longer). But, as in the Fourth, the tempo is well judged and he manages to keep the pulse. Also the Gürzenich produces a much richer, luxuriant sound that shows off the impressionistic splendour of Prokofiev's pallette (I was reminded of Liadov's Enchanted Lake, something I haven't heard for thirty years). The recording is demonstration quality, with fantastic microdetail across the whole spectrum and impressive depth. The climaxes are shattering without, however, being aggressive as with the Chandos recording.

Compared to Järvi, the character of the music changes. As it has more opportunity to breathe, the melos and richness of orchestration are more in evidence. As a result the overall impression of doom is a little less overpowering. But Kitajenko presents a splendid edifice in glowing colours. Upbeat or victorious it certainly does not sound. I wouldn't like to miss the Järvi but the Kitajenko is a very valuable addition to the collection to which I will eagerly return.

Bartok - Sonata for two pianos and percussion

Yesterday another audition of Bartok's Sonata in the Argerich/Bishop version. I've listened to it 6-7 times over the last couple of months but it continues to be an elusive piece. The overall idea seems to be clear enough: an introductory movement full of nervous tension, a mysterious slow movement and a boisterous, almost circus-like finale. But there is so much going on, both architecturally and texturally, that I never seem to be 'getting' it. The experience with Prokofiev - much more expansively lyrical and loosely woven - is obviously different. Even his most complex sonatas and symphonies fit snugly. I feel I know my way around them. But I'm not giving up on the Bartok sonata. I'll continue to chip away at it.

Elbow - Build a rocket boys

Over the weekend, whilst I was working intensely on a presentation, I listened a couple of times to Elbow's latest album. A few tracks now and then to blow off some steam. Lovely.

Bruch - Violin Concerto nr. 1

After the very enjoyable audition of the Prokofiev concerto I switched to another recording by the Mintz/Abbado/CSO partnership. The Mendelssohn/Bruch combo was Mintz' debut recording on DGG in 1980. Honestly, it didn't appeal to me. After the delicacy and understatement of the Prokofiev, the full blown romanticism of Bruch's old warhorse didn't connect. Furthermore, the recording had nothing of the spaciousness and transparency of the 1983 recording. Whether this was already the case with the original tape I don't know. The version I listened to is a re-issue in DGG's 'Grand Prix' series, remastered in the Emil Berliner Studios. It sounds boxy and overblown, as if all the music is compressed in a single point. Also Mintz' beautiful tone was butchered in the process. Quite dispiriting, really.

Prokofiev - Violin Concerto nr. 2

Musically (as meteorologically) it is a rather dry period. Well, dry in the sense that I'm having the feeling to be loitering whilst the backlog of unlistened CDs keeps swelling. Sometimes I get annoyed with myself because it seems I have conditioned myself (and continue to do so) to come by with little music. I have precious little time to listen to begin with. And there are periods I just don't feel like listening a lot. I'm quickly overfed. Often a 30 minutes' session is enough to satisfy my appetite. And when I listen it seems to take me ever longer to get beyond a certain piece. So the past week I have limited myself largely to Prokofiev's Second Violin Concerto, op. 63, written in 1935. It' s a piece I have 'known' for a long while. Curiously, I have some strong reminiscences of reading Harlow Robinson's biography of Prokofiev many years ago. There are certain works of his which are associated in my mind with rather bright images related to the circumstances of composition: the Third Piano Concerto composed during a sun-drenched and windswept holiday on the Brittany coast, the First Violin Concerto written during the long train ride across Siberia when he left Russia in 1917. The Second Violin Concerto is in my mind associated with a sojourn of Prokofiev in Voronezh, 'black earth city', which I'm picturing as a forlorn enclave in the midst of vast agricultural fields in the Don basin. I've checked this in Robinson's book and it is indeed the case that Prokofiev stayed a little while in Voronezh in the late summer of 1935 when he was touring the USSR in preparation of establishing a permanent base there. Apparently the main theme of the Concerto's movement was composed there. However, his passage through the city is only mentioned in passing so I wonder where that strong visual association with the music comes from. It is possible that I'm mixing up Prokofiev here with the poet Osip Mandelstam who indeed spent a while in exile in Voronezh, and was living in the city at the exact point when Prokofiev passed through it. I doubt that they ever met. But Voronezh was the endgame for Mandelstam who would die in transit to a forced labour camp late in 1938. And so rereading some of the harrowing but also delirious poems from those days ("Oh the horizon steals my breath and takes it nowhere - I'm choked with space!") I have to come to the conclusion that it is with Mandelstam, not Prokofiev, that the association in my mind with Voronezh must have existed. However, the strange, trivial fact remains that Prokofiev was there, at that very same moment.

The Concerto was the last piece Prokofiev wrote in response to a non-Russian commission. It was the French violinist Robert Soetens (from Belgian descent) who was its dedicatee. Soetens appears to have been a very colourful figure, an itinerant virtuoso who would continue to play in the most unlikely places until well in old age. The concerto is a stellar example of Prokofiev's new simplicity. It's melodious to a fault, harmonically accessible and transparently scored. And yet, what strikes is that the music at times tilts in almost a rudimentary kind of non-music. Witness the strange, repetitive passage work in the slow movement and in the development section of the introductory Allegro. It reminds me of similar features in the Eighth Sonata and Fifth Symphony. Prokofiev's music, however accessible it may sound, is never straightforward but reveals a subtle emotional layering where the surreal, the ominous, the tongue-in-cheeck and the effusively lyrical meet.

I have only version in my collection, which is a 1983 CD with Shlomo Mintz as a soloist and the Chicago SO led by Abbado (on DGG). Technically, it's an eminently satisfying recording, despite it being an early digital capturing in a difficult location (Chicago's Orchestra Hall). But soloist and orchestra are very well placed in a pleasingly spacious acoustic. Mintz' luminous, cultivated, sweet yet masculine tone is very well captured. The orchestra is discreetly but glowingly present. Interpretatively it is a superb rendering, one of the reasons, likely, why I have never been tempted to seek out rival recordings. Mintz and Abbado seem to have an excellent rapport. Soloist and orchestra seamlessly blend in a performance of great intensity and humility. There's a naturalness and levelheadedness to this music making which is most convincing.

So over the past week I have been carrying this Concerto around in my mind. A reviewer in the 2010 Gramophone Classical Music Guide writes in relation to this work about the "giddy beauty and wondrous fantasy of Prokofiev's stunningly inventive inspiration". I can go along with that.

Prokofiev - Piano Sonata nr. 8

I'm continuing the Prokofiev excursion with the wonderful Eighth Sonata. It's the most impressive of the War Sonata trilogy and hence of Prokofiev's piano output as a whole. Now that I hear it in conjunction with the Fifth Symphony, I discern a formal and spiritual connection between the two works. As in the Fifth, op. 84 opens with a massive sonata form and closes with an elaborate, kaleidoscopic rondo (which, in both cases, has a toccata-like character and re-integrates material from the respective first movements). Both works have the remarkable characteristic of being lyrical and songful from start to end but that doesn't keep them from coming across as magnificently epic and granitic. Partly responsible for that are those passages, evident in both works, where a kind of wilful primitivism takes over by means of violent, ostinato-like material (as in the Allegro ben marcato middle section of the finale).

The recording I'm intimitaly familiar with is the 1989 Bronfman debut recording on CBS. I've always felt that Bronfman is a very persuasive advocate of this very subtle and ambiguous work. Masterfully he exposes the darker harmonic shadings in the opening, almost Schubertian material and lets it unfold most convincingly. The development kicks in ominously with relentless, etudelike running passages. Soon this gives way to an impressive climax with the pianist pounding the lower octaves, not unlike a similar passage in the Fifth Symphony's first movement. And then, when the music dies down, again those mysterious, mournful pealing bells as we heard them also in the Seventh Sonata's middle movement. The opening themes return only to be pushed aside once more by the fast, dissonant music from the development. The movement ends most quizzically with a set of disjointed, dissonant notes, transporting us momentarily to the bleak landscapes of Listz's very last works.

The Andante sognando is very well played. Once more Bronfman brings the uneasy, almost surreal character of this deceptively simple music to expression. Nothing is what is seems in this short, quirky movement that breathes nostalgia and menace at the same time. The delicate bell-like figurations that appear towards the middle of the movement are beautifully evoked.

The finale is an exquisite rondo that starts with a fast tarantella-like theme. Bronfman is careful not to take it too quick so that it doesn't sound breathlessly (as it does, slightly, with Ashkenazy, for example; Richter is also a tad on the fast side to my taste but it's arguably splendid playing). The Allegro ben marcato section is just grand, splendidly weighty! Reminds me of Mussorgsky's Great Gate of Kiev in a way. There's a reprise of some material from the first movement. The remainder is a partly menacing, partly festive rush to the end, not dissimilar in spirit to some of Shostakovich's ambiguous finales.

Another recording I have in my collection is a live recital with Grigory Sokolov, taped in St Petersburg in 1984. I have heard some superb Sokolov recordings but this is not one of them. The piano sounds badly tuned, Sokolov continuously hisses and sputters and the playing is erratic. After the first movement I had enough. Bronfman's noble and monumental heroism hails from a altogether different world.

Prokofiev - Symphony nr. 5

I couldn't resist to move on to Prokofiev's Fifth Symphony. It's a stalwart of the symphonic repertoire, of course, and I used to like it a lot. I remember my father having it on loan from the library, 30 years ago: an Erato LP with a recording conducted by Armin Jordan if I remember well (I may be mistaken as I can't find anything on this back) But it was definitely a French(-speaking) conductor. There are only a few of these early musical discoveries which come with very strong visual memories and the Fifth is one of them.

I still like the work but haven't listened to it for a very long time. For me, THE reference recording is an almost forgotten CBS album. A very early digital recording (1979!) with the Israel Philharmonic Orchestra conducted by Leonard Bernstein. The performance was taped in the Herkulessaal in Munich, while the orchestra was on tour. Bernstein is a conductor I'm not naturally leaning towards. Neither is the IPO my orchestra of choice. But here they work magic. The relationship between Bernstein, the IPO and Prokofiev's Fifth goes back to the orchestra's first US sojourn, in 1951 when they spent the winter months on tour visiting 40 cities coast-to-coast. The concerts were conducted by Sergei Koussevitsky (who died just a few months later) and Bernstein. They played Prokofiev's Op. 100 too on that occasion.

This recording came almost 20 years after that memorable tour. It looks like it has disappeared completely from the catalogue. Edward Seckerson in Gramophone thought it was not a very successful recording: too thick and heavy. Indeed, Bernstein's timings for the first and third movements are rather extreme, each going over 15 minutes (whilst 12 minutes would agree with a normal tempo). It's a matter of taste, as it is with some of the controversial recordings Bernstein made later in life (the Enigma Variations, an interminable but marvelous Pathétique). I happened to like what Seckerson found wearisome. This is really a grand reading, fantastically epic, panoramic in scope and in glorious, moody technicolor. Socialist realism at its very best! The recording is stellar, surprisingly so for such an early digital effort. It's spacious and weighty, lacking the usual harshness but emphasising the lower end of the spectrum. The first movement is grandiose and completely in tune with the spirit of the times, I find. This is really the Russian steam roller, skies aflame, pushing the Nazis back to the Oder. Despite the slow tempo, Bernstein avoids any longueurs and keeps the movement admirably together. It is in a masterly sonata form after all. The climax in the development section is spellbinding with brass and percussion making a fantastic din. Bernstein does not make the error of also taking the scherzo slow. It comes in at 8 minutes. Quite a standard time, but compared to the solemnity of the introductory movement it feels very brisk. The Adagio is beautiful. It's almost a night music, so dark is the palette. The finale is again fairly brisk and bitingly ironic.

As I've always loved this recording so much, I've never felt the urge to collect many other versions. I have a couple of them, in some of the complete sets of symphonies. But it's the only one in the Järvi series I'm missing. I do have the Karajan, but despite the critical acclaim I can't say I like it very much. II remember it as much more nimble and transparent. For me the Bernstein/IPO version sounds like final. It's a treat to be consumed with moderation and exhilaration.

Prokofiev - Symphony nr. 4 (1930 version)

I've always been aware of the link between Prokofiev's Fourth Symphony and his Prodigal Son ballet. But when hearing the piano transcription I was struck by how closely related they are. So I wanted to listen once more to the Fourth. There are two versions: the original, op. 47, dating from 1930 (closely following the composition of the ballet, or having been composed alongside it), and then a substantial revision from 1947 (op. 112). I listened to the original version which is, I think, the lesser played. Some reputedly complete surveys of his symphonies do not even include the work (as, for example, the Ozawa set on DGG). There's an interesting contribution on wikipedia which gives quite a bit of background (an interesting factoid being that the European premiere of the work took place in Brussels, under Pierre Monteux). 

I started with an Erato (now Warner) recording by Rostropovich and the Orchestre Nationale de France (from the mid-1980s), part of a complete cycle. Good sound and surprisingly idiomatic playing but Rostropovich's very slow tempi make this a less interesting proposition. Järvi, in an early Chandos recording (also early 80s), steers a very different course. Reading and recording lack refinement but they make for good fun anyway. It's a brash, agressive affair that connects more to the chromatic excesses of the Third. There's some terrific, raucous playing of the brass. The most compelling interpretation comes from Dmitri Kitajenko and the Cologne Gürzenich Orchestra. I've been struck before (notably in Conlon's recording of Hartmann's Second and Fourth Symphony) by the qualities of this second tier orchestra. It's not one of the top drawer ensembles in Germany, but I find it plays with remarkable body and finesse. Also this Prokofiev Fourth is sumptuously presented. Kitajenko is closer to Rostropovich in spirit than Järvi. His reading looks forward to the more sedate style of the composer's Soviet years. But his tempos are better judged than those of his countryman. And so the two-faced, ambivalent character of this work - as a hinge between Prokofiev's Western and Russian period - is very well epitomised in the contrast between the Järvi and Kitajenko recordings.

The Fourth is not a great work, however. Prokofiev may have squeezed the first movement and finale into a sonata form, that doesn't make it a true symphony. To me it continues to sound episodic. But I am very happy to concede that the episodes, on the whole, are marvelously entertaining and charming to listen to. Prokofiev's melodic gift is very much on display and it is nicely counterbalanced by the piquancy of the machine-like ostinati of the Allegro eroico and the toccata-like material from the finale.

It seems to me that only Prokofiev's three last symphonies can be considered truly great. The earlier works lack authenticity and substance and seem to be more about assuming a symphonic pose ("look how naughty or clever I can be!"). I'm curious now to listen to the revised version of the Fourth as well. I'm tempted to play out Kitajenko vs Järvi again.

Brahms - Symphony nr. 1/Schumann - Overture Braut von Messina, Violinconcerto

Last Wednesday I was unexpectedly invited by CB to a concert at the Bozar. The Sächsische Staatskapelle Dresden (a mouthful) was passing through Brussels on their European tour (after Vienna, Luxemburg, Paris en before Cardiff and Birmingham). A great opportunity to hear this venerable ensemble. There's a nice photo series about their Brussels leg of the journey on their website. Apparently Barosso was in the hall, as was Kancheli, backstage.

I had heard the Staatskapelle only once, not so long ago, in the pit of the Semperoper for a Boris Godunov. I was not really impressed on that occasion. Refined playing, certainly, but a little lacklustre. Yesterday was different. Christoph Eschenbach was conducting a very traditional programme with a Brahms First and two lesser known pieces by Schumann: the Overture to Schiller's Braut of Messina and the controversial Violinconcerto. Soloist was Gidon Kremer. It was the first time I heard Eschenbach conducting (don't think I have many recordings of him in my collection either; as I believe I've said before I tend to be suspicious of pianists turned conductors; furthermore Eschenbach has been recording fairly standard repertoire on offbeat labels such as Hänssler, Ondine and Telarc: not something I have been seeking out). Kremer I've heard before but can't recall exactly where.  It's not a musician I particularly admire.

The Schumann part of the programme did not particularly captivate me. The Overture is an unusually lively and frivolous piece for this composer. Certainly listenable and a good warm-up. However, the concerto I found to a fairly uninspired and wooden affair. Although Kremer seems an ardent champion of it (he recorded it twice) I thought the performance didn't catch fire. The Brahms symphony was a very different matter, however. A glorious reading, no doubt. Monumental, granitic, very (northern) German, very architectural, but also amazingly colourful and exuding an almost mediterranean glow. The orchestra responded marvelously to this music. The string section projected spellbinding refinement and power. I have only few memories of a string tone that is so richly layered and luxuriously sensuous (the Philadelphia once, the St Petersburg Philharmonic, the Berlin Philharmonic, the Concertgebouw Orchestra). It's in a way a very old-fashioned way of playing. The Budapest Festival Orchestra, whilst in the same league, produces a leaner and more cosmopolitan sound. I was impressed by Eschenbach too, who seemed to have the whole musical edifice in an iron grasp, maintaining a very natural flow. I already look forward to diving into Brahms again. A good opportunity also to dust of my turntable ...

Prokofiev - Ballet Piano Transcriptions

Meanwhile I've listened to the Eighth Sonata, the final part of Prokofiev's War trilogy. But first a word on another recording which I have been listening to over the last few days. It's not exactly mainstream Prokofiev fare: piano transcriptions, made by the composer himself, of two of his least known ballets: L'enfant prodigue and Sur le Borysthène (also known as On the Dnieper). I picked this up out of curiosity from CPO for less than two euros if I remember correctly. Well, it's a very interesting disc that has offers considerable listening pleasure. Both pieces date from the late 1920s, when Prokofiev was getting increasingly disenchanted with life in the West and started to contemplate a return to Russia (the Soviet Union, meanwhile). There is rather caustic note in the CD booklet by Eckhardt van den Hoogen about Prokofiev's self-centered motives for his return ("Might it not be that Prokofiev was simply burned out? Had the Roaring Twenties, with their insatiable appetite for new, and newer taste-bud treats, brought him to the limits of his powers of invention? Did he perhaps come to assume that the music that he was still capable of producing perhaps continued to suffice only for a state in which a diminished seventh chord was enough to spark heated party-political debate? and so on ...).

The Prodigal Son we know quite well from Prokofiev's Fourth Symphony. In fact I knew it better than I assumed as the symphony follows the ballet's music quite closely. Clearly, Prokofiev didn't overstretch himself for the commission from the Boston SO on the occasion of their 50th anniversary! Which didn't keep him from haggling about the fee. Anyway, the music is a very attractive mix of lyricism and extravert, accessible brand of expressionism. And it really shines in Ivanova's earthy, no-nonsense piano rendering. As if the percussive energy and the wistful, song-like quality of much of the music shimmer more intensely within the relative constraints of the piano sound (at least in this piece). The quality of the CPO recording is, once more, a pleasant surprise. The engineers have been able to capture a very lifelike, natural but burnished sound from an ideally placed instrument. A genuine pleasure to listen to. The finale ('Le retour') is a touching piece in which Prokofiev almost casually throws in one of his most beautiful melodic inventions (very conspicuous in the second movement of the Fourth Symphony).

On the Dnieper is a strange work, but interesting in its sombre, muted colours and relative lack of great tunes. Also dramatically it was a bizarre experiment with Prokofiev composing the music in utter absence of a plot, which he and Serge Lifar (Diaghilev's ballet master who took over the Ballets Russes after the latter's death) concocted once the score and choreography were quite finished.
I love the Prelude (here in marvelous orchestral garb) which starts in medias res and exudes such a poignant longing. One can hear Romeo and Juliet lurking around the corner. But it also harks back to the weird harmonic adventures of The Fiery Angel/Third Symphony. It seems that the peculiar melos and long, flowing lines are perhaps better captured by an orchestra rather than the piano. Anyway, I have been listening with increasing admiration to what counts as one of Prokofiev's least attractive ballet scores. Interesting what one sometimes picks up in the bargain bin ...

Duruflé - Requiem

After all the percussive fury from the Bartok and Prokofiev piano works I felt like something very different. Recently I purchased a CD that I have known for ages. But I didn't have it in my collection. My father has it and I have been carrying it along on my Sony mp3 player. It's a 1984 recording of the Duruflé Requiem on the Telarc label. So it  hails from the very beginning of the CD era. But at that point Jack Renner and Robert Woods, two classically trained musicians who set up Telarc in 1977, had been recording digitally for several years. Renner was (likely still is) an adept of a minimal miking technique, using only 2, 3 or 4 mikes to record a symphony orchestra. Mercury Living Presence served as his reference point. Personally, I've always had mixed feelings about Telarc recordings. It's a weighty, nutty sound but often also a little dry and boxy, I find. It used to be the very opposite of the early Chandos sound, with its resonant acoustics and aggressive, rather hollow highs. However, there are some very successful Telarc albums and this one is certainly one of them. It's a case where the spirit of the recording, the nature of the work and its interpretation by the performers form a coherent whole.

The Duruflé Requiem is a wonderful composition, mellifluous to the extreme but never banal. One can sense a very high level of craftsmanship behind the music. There is nothing gratuitous. Everything is carefully considered, polished and poised. The musical language is an intriguing mix of Gregorian chant and Debussy-like impressionism. It is performed here by the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra and Chorus led by the 'dean' of American chorales, Robert Shaw. These are very large forces. In an age of 'authentic' performances, it sounds awfully 'uncorrect'. But despite its apparent old-fashionedness, the performance stands like a rock. The singers and orchestra bring the music to life with genuine conviction. It speaks of devotional fervour but at the same time is pervaded by an uncanny sense of deep tranquillity which is very apposite in this work. Finally, the Telarc engineers have created a sound that breathes a startling impressionistic aura. This is as far as you can get from the close-miked, analytical recordings that have become the norm. Orchestra and chorus are merged into a single, pulsating whole. The dimensions of the soundscape are oceanic! It's sounds like its performed in open air, with a massive chorus receding into the distance. The music completely dissociates from the speakers. There is not a hard edge anywhere. Voices seems to hover in the air. And yet there is precision too. The solo contributions from the instruments can be clearly positioned. There are no vocal soloists here. Their parts are alloted to the chorus (apparently a version that was sanctioned by Duruflé), which is clearly understandable throughout. The music is almost always soft, apart from some very brief climaxes. These have been given fantastic weight in this recording. For example, the  short climax in the Sanctus is one of the most exciting crescendos ever taped. The music surges and bursts into a (literally) blinding apotheosis and dies down immediately afterwards. Magnificent. Also the organ is very well taped. The ability to get deeper into the lower end of the spectrum was one of the motivations for Renner and Woods to go digital at such an early stage. Here the instrument has a wonderful presence. All in all it's a very special, moving experience. This recording is a classic worth treasuring.

Prokofiev - Piano Sonata nr. 7

Not a lot of time for listening these days. Late last week I followed up with another version of Prokofiev's Seventh Sonata. A Naxos recording with pianist Bernd Glemser, unbeknownst to me. That must be my fault as apparently he has won 17 consecutive (?) piano competitions since 1981. He was also the first Western musician to perform live on Chinese television. Strange track record ... Anyway, his reading of the Prokofiev didn't really convince me. Technically it seems to be well played, which is a feat in itself of course. It's clear and clean, frighteningly so even. But for me it lacks colour and commitment. Give me the Bronfman any day.