Meyer: Violin Concerto

Squeezing in yet another American violin concerto. This one dates from 1999 and was written by Edgar Meyer for Hilary Hahn. Meyer (born 1960) is best known as a bassist who likes to straddle different genres. The piece is not in the same league as the other American concertos I listened to in the past few days. It's contemporary music at its most approachable: tonal through and through, hardly any counterpoint. There is absolutely nothing to discourage the least adventurous of music lovers. Its pastoral-elegiac bent and amiable folksiness inevitably puts it in the slipstream of Copland's Appalachian Spring. And that is maybe not so surprising given that Meyer has grown up in Oak Ridge, Tennessee, just a few tens of miles west from Knoxville and the Blue Smoky Mountains. (Incidentally, Oak Ridge is also known as 'the secret city' or 'atomic city' as it was an early production site for the Manhattan project, which casts a somewhat awkward light on this nostalgic bliss). Anyway, the work is eminently listenable. I wouldn't think of putting the Rochberg concerto on whilst savouring my Sunday morning croissant, but the Meyer piece would likely be welcome to extend and deepen the mood of quiet reflection. The work falls into two parts (again!): a first movement that is built around an alternation between a brooding ostinato motif in the strings and a series of lyrically-introspective interludes. The long second part starts with a dawn-like section, with murmuring clarinets, bassoons and strings and a fragile violin line on top. About halfway the music shifts into a more celebratory gear. Momentarily it returns to the reflective mood of the movement's start. The final section is given to a jubilant accelerando. Hahn clearly believes in the piece and gives it her best. I am sure a lesser soloist would kill it.

Adams: Violin Concerto

Interesting to notice that I haven't listened to any work by John Adams since I started this listening diary. I generally admire this composer. It's his protean personality, his inspired mashing and hacking of genres and conventions that makes it worthwhile to keep tabs on his ever growing catalogue of works.

With his Violon Concerto (1993) Adams starts from the conventional tripartite structure of a concerto but he avoids the traditional opposition between soloist and orchestra. There is no genuine sense of development and no conflict. I'd characterise it rather as some sort of meditation or 'reverie'. In that sense the work, despite its classical garb, seems to betray Adams' minimalist roots.

The opening movement - crotchet = 76 - starts in medias res with the orchestra and violin enmeshed in a relentless, uncomfortable gyrating motion. It sounds like some stern disciplinary exercise. The weird harmonies remind us of whirling dervishes. Amazingly, Adams does not depart from this basic configuration as the movement unfolds. The pulse does not change and the violin leads the dance without ever for a second letting up. However, within these rather stringent limits the soloist deploys a startling sequence of increasingly adventurous and frenzied variations. The movement ends in a stupor of exhaustion, with the shortest of cadenzas. This leads into the second movement, suggestively titled Body through which the dream flows after a poem by Robert Hass. Adams at one point suggested that this image applied to the concerto as a whole: "The orchestra [is treated] as the organized, delicately articulated mass of blood, tissues and bones; the violin as the dream that flows through it." It is a rapt 'space music', in the form of a loose chaconne. The violin sings thoughtfully above a dark orchestral fabric, artfully embroidered with discreet synthesiser lines, woodwind filigree and suggestive percussive details. It's a most delicate mood study, recasting the pastoral bliss of, say, Appalachian Spring into a more exotic and cosmopolitan idiom. The third and final movement is a tongue-in-cheeck departure from the otherworldly atmosphere that held us in thrall. It's a kinetic, brash toccata that connects directly to Adams' fondness for classic Americana and Hollywood enchantments.

Adams' piece strikes a very different posture from the narrative, epic Schuman and Rochberg concertos. Continuity and connection rather than contrast and conflict are the watch words. The omnipresent solo voice gives the piece a very particular, almost prophetic cachet. It's a very significant and distinctive piece. Altogether these three concertos form an impressive American tryptich.

The Nonesuch recording I've listened to is very good. In terms of sound quality, Nonesuch is always on the dry side. So here as elsewhere I'm wishing for more bloom and somewhat more vigorous dynamics. The performance by Gidon Kremer backed up by Nagano and the LSO can be recommended on all accounts. It's superb.

Here's Robert Hass' poem:

You count up everything you have
or have let go.
What’s left is the lost and the possible.
To the lost, the irretrievable
or just out of reach, you say:
light loved the pier, the seedy
string quartet of the sun going down over water
that gilds ants and beach fleas
ecstatic and communal on the stiffened body
of a dead grebe washed ashore
by last night’s storm. Idiot sorrow,
an irregular splendor, is the half sister
of these considerations.
To the possible you say nothing.
October on the planet.
Huge moon, bright stars.

Rochberg: Violin Concerto

Another big American violin concerto. George Rochberg wrote this gargantuan work (around 52 minutes long) in the early 1970s. It was premiered in 1974 by Isaac Stern, who had also initiated the commission by the Pittsburgh SO. However, Stern requested Rochberg to cut about 15 minutes of music from the score. It was in this edited version that Stern recorded it in 1977 with the Pittsburgh led by André Previn.
Ten years ago, sanctioned by Rochberg, conductor and composer Christopher Lyndon-Gee took the initiative to restore the piece back to its 'original' shape (here is an article on the process). It is the full version which has been recorded by Naxos and which is henceforth the only version that should be performed.

I am not very familiar with Rochberg's work. I listened to his Second Symphony a while ago and on the strength of that work I invested in all the recordings made by Naxos over the last decade (symphonic work and piano music). But almost all of that remains unexplored. So now the Violin Concerto.

I've heard the piece about four times now and I'm starting to really warm to it. Its chief challenge to the listener is structural. It's just not easy to make sense of this concerto's exotic form. It falls into two parts. Part One consists of an Introduction (6:53), Intermezzo A (8:07) and a Fantasia (7:39). Part Two starts with Intermezzo B (18:35!) and ends with a long Epilogue (10:26). I have yet to detect the coherence that, according to the soloist Peter Sheppard Skaerved, is certainly there.

Rochberg's musical language is archtypically late-romantic. He started out as a serial composer but reverted to a more tonal idiom in the 1960s. The Violin Concerto reminds me, very strongly, of early Bartok, notably the composer of The Wooden Prince and Bluebeard's Castle. The lush and extatic orchestration, the dense chromatic textures, the lumbering rhythms and the characteristically terse motives are all there. There is also always something tough in Bartok's music, a steely core that we also find back in this concerto. Only the nocturnal, devotional intensity of the slow passages in Intermezzo B (a kind of night music) made me think of Dutilleux or Messiaen. But then the 'night music' is also a very typical Bartokian topos.

There is an awful lot of very good music in this concerto. It's definitely symphonic in feel. The soloist voice and orchestra are blended into a seamless, epic canvas. But again, it requires patience to get a grip on the overal line. I would definitely want to hear the Stern version of this concerto as I have a suspicion that he may have been right after all ...

Naxos are not in the habit of producing demonstration class recordings and this one is no exception. It's serviceable. Realistic dynamics set in a suitably warm but not overly resonant acoustics. The playing of the Saarbrücken orchestra under Lyndon-Gee is committed. Also Skaerved's performance is to be commended (he is also leader of the Kreutzer Quartet, unbeknownst to me).

All in all this seems to be a must-hear for those interested in big, challenging but ultimately very approachable 20th century modernist pieces. To be further explored.

Schuman: Violin Concerto

The Schuman violin concerto has been a long-time favourite of mine. It is one of the 20th century concertos I most happily return too. What a fantastic piece of music this is! The muscular self-confidence that oozes from this score, however, belies the difficulties William Schuman had in moulding the piece into its final shape. He went through several rounds of major revisions stretching over a period of 14 years. This seems to have been quite exceptional in his oeuvre. Schuman was generally not a person given to tinkering with his scores (also given his extensive responsibilities as teacher and administrator). The final iteration (1959) resulted in an odd bipartite structure which somehow comes across as perfectly cogent.

The first part starts Allegro risoluto and moves into a first long, rapturous intermezzo (with the soaring violin initially underpinned by a quite beautiful, solemn clarinet). Muted trumpets re-introduce the bristling music of the start. Soon the soloist launches into an extended and startlingly eloquent cadenza (the only section that came through all revisions unscathedly). A wild and dark Agitato section whips up the music to a veritable frenzy. Brilliantly Schuman builds in a short cadenza-like section before the movement's turbulent close. The second part starts solemnly with martial timpani and a monolithic chorus of brass instruments. Quickly, the music dies down in a drawn-out pedal point, beautifully scored for the low strings. There is a long Adagio section in which the soloist stretches a broad, questioning arc above a densely chromatic, somber orchestral fabric. A fugatic passage leads into a section of nervous activity, with a scurrying violin in dialogue with various, equally edgy orchestral sections. But suddenly another one of these pedal points gives the soloist an opportunity to rise into stratospheric realms once more. This is short-lived, however, and soon the violin engages in a skittish section that - poco a poco accelerando - leads to a steel-clad apotheosis. Again, a final, heartbreakingly beautiful adagio section. The piece ends with breathless coda.

What stands out is the contrast between darkness and autumnal light, between a dominantly frenetic and craggy sort of music and interludes of transcendental beauty and calm. The score bristles with ideas. There is not a single dull page. And Schuman seems to have found a voice here that is very much his own. Although rather accessible and tonal, the music sounds resolutely personal.

The recording I listened to is sadly not longer available in CD format. It can be downloaded via the DGG website, however. It documents the extraordinary collaboration between two very young men and a terrific orchestra - the Boston SO - in its prime.  In 1970 Michael Tilson Thomas, just over 25, was at the very threshold of his conducting career. It had been barely a year since his debut with the BSO. The soloist is Paul Zukofsky, who was only a year older  He went on to build a distinguished career as a specialist in new American music. Their performance certainly has the fire of youth. But they also have the full measure of this complex score. I can't imagine a more persuasive case for this neglected masterpiece.

Rubbra: Violin Concerto

In the wake of the Dyson concerto I remembered another mid-twentieth century, British violin concerto in my collection that remained unexplored. Rubbra's only excursion in that particular genre (op. 103) dates from 1958 and hence is roughly contemporaneous with his great Seventh Symphony. (In addition there is a Viola Concerto from 1952.)

Compared to Dyson's enjoyable but suave meditation Rubbra's concerto is quite a different kettle of fish. Commentators often refer to this composer's 'serene joyfulness' as a key feature but it doesn't strike me that way. Despite a penchant for rustic folksiness and an interiorised, almost mystical spirituality I find Rubbra's music gritty and confrontational. Also this concerto speaks of high tragedy and even Angst. The first movement is a tightly knit sonata movement that propels itself forward with an uncomfortable urgency. It seems to have been written by a composer haunted by violent memories. Those familiar with Rubbra's mature symphonies will easily connect to the concerto's stylistic ambit: thematic material with clear, forceful outlines (almost like woodcuts), a workmanlike orchestration, an harmonic pallette that is a curious mix of density and luminosity, and a very organic conception of form (despite the sonata template). In the liner notes Malcolm MacDonald points out that the stern opening theme has qua rhythm and interval structure been compared to that of Shostakovich's Fifth Symphony and that correspondence is indeed easy to pick up. It seems to me that the kinship between these two compositions goes further than merely the structure of the leading theme. As in the Shostakovich symphony there is an emotional ambiguity at the heart of the work. The dance-like finale - Allegro giocoso - comes across as another instance of rejoicing under duress. And the slow movement - Poema (Lento ma non troppo) - is a noble but stone-cold threnody.

Despite the fact that this performance is able to communicate the urgency of this rather special music, I can't help thinking that it must be possible to do much, much better. When I first heard it in the headphones I was appalled. It sounded scrawny and lacked delicacy both in the solo part and in the orchestral accompaniment. On the speakers the recording comes through marginally better. However, the Naxos sound is criminally prosaic and the Ulster Orchestra give a rather deadpan performance. I am not impressed either with Krysia Osostowicz as a soloist. As a chamber musician (member of the Domus Quartet) she has recorded quite a bit of Rubbra, but this rendering seems to scratch only the surface. But I must admit that despite these misgivings the music has no trouble persuading the listener of its great qualities. Nevertheless it is a surprise to notice that at present there is no alternative at all in the catalogue. The 1980s recording with Tamsin Little and Vernon Handley conducting the Royal Philharmonic (Conifer) is unavailable. And so is the older recording with Carl Pini and the Melbourne SO (Unicorn). So sadly we'll have to do with the Naxos for the time being.

Dyson: Violin Concerto, Children's Suite after Walter De La Mare

George Dyson is a largely forgotten British composer (1883-1964). I have had his Violin Concerto (1941) in my collection for a very long time. A the time I bought the recording on the strength of the concerto's infectious Vivace which I had heard on a Gramophone sampler. However, when I heard the whole piece I was disappointed and as a result the CD has seen very little rotation.

But I am happy to report that revisiting the piece made me see it in a different light. Sure, it's a very long concerto. At just under 45 minutes one can easily say it has symphonic ambitions. The opening Molto moderato only takes a full 20 minutes. But having listened to it four times over the last few days, I feel the work doesn't outstay its welcome. Dyson's musical language is conservative, to put it midly. He was a pupil of Charles Villiers Stanford and on account of this concerto I would say Dyson's idiom remains within the compass of a traditionalist but tasteful late 19th century style.

The concerto starts with a dramatic flourish: a marvelous, noble, almost tragic theme in full orchestral garb that, remarkably enough, disappears from view in the remainder of the piece (I may not have recognised it, of course). It takes a full 3 minutes for the soloist to appear with a distinctive theme of an understated, hymnic character. The movement comes across as darkly lyrical and very rhapsodic. In that sense it reminds me of Schoeck's Violin Concerto (who composed it 4 decades earlier) but sadly Dyson does not quite match the exquisite, bittersweet ruminations of his Swiss colleague. However, the play of light and shadow in this expansive meditation entices. There are occasional echoes of Bax, RVW and Delius. Effortlessly the mental eye wanders over expansive, hospitable landscapes. The Vivace is a very accomplished, folksy scherzo, almost a jig. Dyson elaborates it with consumate skill. The Poco Andante is dreamy and very sweet, with a slightly more animated middle section. The finale - Allegro ma non troppo - surprises with its upbeat and dancelike character. It must have sounded oddly out of place at the premiere in 1942 London.

The filler on this disc is an attractive 20 minute, 4-movement suite that evokes a nursery world. Here the Delius fingerprints are even more difficult to ignore. 

Lydia Mordkovitch and Richard Hickox (conducting the City of London Sinfonia) did an excellent job in shaping this expansive concerto. The Chandos recording is very successful too: warm but not shapeless, dynamic but not shrill.

All in all a pleasant rediscovery. Dyson's best-known work - the Canterbury Pilgrims cantata - has recently been included in Chandos' 241 budget series. Years ago I remember hearing a section from that too, with an impressive Robert Tear. I hope to be able to listen to it soon.

Braga Santos: Symphony nr. 4, Symphonic Variations

Joly Braga Santos (1924-1988) was the leading figure in mid-to-late 20th century Portuguese musical life. Surprisingly, I can't recall having any other work of a Portuguese composer in my collection. So this is a double first.

Braga Santos initially drew my attention through the many positive reviews on Amazon. This particular recording has garnered 13 five-star reviews on Amazon.com. Was I really missing out on a major 20th century composer?

After having listened to his big, muscular Symphony nr. 4 I must confess to being surprised that this music is not more widely known and recorded. Learning that this 53 minute work flowed out of the pen of 27 year old man was a genuine shock. The grandiosity of the conception and the almost casual surefootedness of the writing made me suspect a much older and more mature composer. Based on the Fourth, I would not hesitate to label Braga Santos as the 'Iberian Sibelius'. It is particularly the brash and warmhearted lyricism of the younger Sibelius (from the time of, say, the First and Second Symphony) that is such a distinctive feature of Braga Santos' idiom. It is music that immediately appeals, also, I suspect, to people who are less attuned to classical music. The noble, sweeping and distinctive melodies, the uncluttered harmonies, engaging rhythms and the conventional architecture do not pose a great challenge to the listener. One would almost think it's a Mediterranean brand of Socialist Realism (Portugal had indeed been under Salazarism's sway for decades when Braga Santos wrote this work). Anyway, despite the accessibility and the epic scope of the work there are no longueurs. It doesn't scale the heights of, say, a Sibelius Second or even a Rubbra Seventh. I'd put it in the same bracket as Guridi's Sinfonia Pyrenaica: a product of a sensitive and honest and occasionally even genuinely inspired craftsman. It certainly deserves to be more widely heard than it is now.

The other work on this disc is equally captivating. The Symphonic Variations on popular song from the Alentejo (1951) is an excellent, rousing piece, again featuring those typically Sibelian fingerprints.

The Marco Polo recording deserves full marks. The National Symphony Orchestra of Ireland led by an experienced Alvaro Cassuto delivers an committed and idiomatic performance. Altogether a great find. We'll certainly investigate this further.

Williamson: Symphonies nr. 1 and nr. 5

Another first. Malcolm Williamson (1931-2003) was a hitherto totally unknown composer to me. Born in Australia, he settled permanently in Britain in 1953 and became a fixture of post-war British musical life. In 1975 he followed Arthur Bliss as Master of the Queen's Music but artistically he never really seemed to have risen to the challenge of this prestigious appointment. That was odd for a composer who had been a very fluent and rather successful writer up that point. Williamson produced three operas in the 1960s that were well received. His symphonic achievement includes seven numbered works and three others (a symphony for (unaccompanied voices, for organ and a Sinfonia Concertante for three trumpets, piano and strings).

Judging by the quality of the performances included on this Chandos disc we have been missing a very substantial chapter from the otherwise already opulent book of British post-war serious music. Because the two symphonies - nr. 1 and nr. 5 - are truly excellent and intriguing works and they certainly make me want to hear all seven of them.

Symphony nr. 1 was written in 1956-57 when Williamson was still a very young man. But his sure grasp on the musical material and its distinctive personality skillfully mask the composer's relatively tender age. The work carries the mysterious title 'Elevamini': a Latin quote from Psalm 24 that means 'Be ye lifted up'. In the early 1950s Williamson turned to Catholicism and the spiritual fervour that accompanied this late conversion is certainly something that can be picked up from the symphony. In this respect Williamson's musical language reminds me most strongly of Rubbra's. Lewis Foreman, author of the CD booklet notes, stresses Williamson's interest in Messiaen's music but if there is an influence it's not obvious from the music. It's more likely a matter of spiritual kinship. No, whilst there is a fair amount of Stravinsky in Elevamini (Symphony in C, Symphony in Three Movements), on the whole Williamson's idiom sounds thoroughly British. It brings to mind the rigour of Simpson and, occasionally the perkiness of Arnold. But it's the luminosity of Rubbra's work that I'm very happy to find in another incarnation. The symphony is a three movement work, with an Allegretto squeezed between two longer, slow movements. The work has a curious performance history. Allegedly Adrian Boult paid out of his own pocket for a private performance with the London Philarmonic. The first public performance took place only in 1963, in Melbourne. It was forgotten until 1977 when Sir Charles Groves, indefatigable champion of upcoming composers, performed and recorded it (still available on the Lyrita label). And now Chandos presents us with this very capably executed performance.

Williamson's Fifth Symphony dates from 1979-1980. Again it has an intriguing title: 'Acquero'. Supposedly it is a dialect word that Bernadette Soubirous used to describe what she saw ('that thing') in her vision of the Virgin Mary in the Grotto of Massabielle in the Pyrenees (1858). The whole work is a programmatic contemplation - dawn till dusk - on Bernadette's life and vision. It's a one movement piece that revolves over a continuous, slow pulse over its 24 minutes. The overall ambiente is pastoral and exalted. Formally it's not easy decode. In its seamless expansiveness and monumental, ever changing vistas it reminds me somewhat of Roy Harris' Third Symphony (1939). It strikes me certainly as a very idiosyncratic, rich work that invites repeated listening. Although Williamson was only 50 at the time of writing, it sounds like a late work by a composer who is beyond making a point and just writes for himself. As far as I am aware of there is no alternative recording available.

The performances by the Iceland SO led by Rumon Gamba seem to capture the spirit of these works to perfection. The recording dates from 2006 and is excellent too. Sadly, Chandos seems to have suspended this recording project and so it is totally unclear if and when Williamson's other major symphonic work will become available, if ever ...

Dove: Tobias and the Angel

I've been unable to muster a lot of concentration and focus in my listening over the last few weeks. June was largely dedicated to travelling, including a week-long solo bicycle trek through France. On the road I happily limited myself to re-listening again and again to Autumn Chorus' The Valley to the Vale and the new Sigur Ros album, Valtari. These gently epic pieces resonated very well with the placid landscapes that unfolded before my eyes.

Also, it seems I have moved temporarily out of Debussy's orbit in which I have been thankfully circling for almost nine months. It's not that I'm feeling in any way tired of his music, but there is a faint urge to explore some new horizons. That isn't too difficult as I have literally stacks of CDs and LPs with unfamiliar repertoire waiting for a first audition. Recently I took advantage of a Presto Classical promotion of Chandos albums. One of the discs I purchased is Tobias and the Angel, a single-act opera by British composer Jonathan Dove. I listened to his Siren Song last autumn and was favourably impressed. I also have Flight in my collection, but haven't gone through that yet. With Tobias I have access to all of his stage works available on CD (his Pinocchio is only on DVD).

It took me a while to warm to this piece. Siren Song had charmed me because of the keen sense of drama, the compelling psychology and the fresh, humane vocal writing. Musically it is not an overpowering experience. Dove's ideas are cloaked in an attractive, accessible and discreet minimalism that doesn't seem to be interested in scaling Himalayan heights. Tobias and the Angel initially struck me as slightly too episodic to hold my attention. Siren Song had the advantage of a very limited cast. It's a chamber opera that revolves around essentially three characters. The claustrophobic quality of this setting significantly adds to the quality of the drama. Tobias is a church opera, written by Dove in the late 1990s for a Birmingham parish as a canvas for community participation. So it's conceived for a much larger and more differentiated cast, including multiple choruses. (The supporting instrumental ensemble, however, is as lean as in the case of Siren Song. It consists of a single violin, cello, double-bass, harp, organ, accordion, clarinet, flute, with percussion on top.) I must admit of listening the first couple of times without having read the libretto. As the the story is a rather caleidoscopic affair that shifts between locations and perspectives, this certainly contributed to my initial sense of disorientation. Given the setting for which it was composed the ambience is also less serious and introspective compared to Siren Song. At times it veers into Broadway. There is ostentatious reliance on Klezmer style

However, after having listened to the piece a couple of times (initially mostly in the car) and after having read the synopsis of the story I started to get the hang of it. I recognised that, as in the other work, there is a compelling triadic relationship at the heart of the piece. Here it is between Tobias, an insouciant youth, Sara, a possessed beautiful young lady and Raphael, an angel (sung by a countertenor). The latter has a mystical relationship with visible reality and hence the trees, rivers and mountains play a decisive and musical role. That is similar to Siren Song, where the omnipresent sea assumes a genuinely important dramatic persona.

The piece really comes up to speed after an initial part that is mostly dominated by the forces of darkness. Tobias and Raphael undertake a journey which turns out to be some sort of vision quest and puts the drama on an exalted footing. Dove is able to maintain and deepen that ambience of quiet ecstasy as the drama unfolds. This culminates in a finale that is showered by a heavenly blaze of compassion and joy.

The production recorded by Chandos seems to me exemplary on all accounts. Great and engaging singing from the large vocal forces involved (with a special mention of counter-tenor James Laing), an instrumental ensemble that is very much on top and everything firmly in the hand of American conductor David Charless Abell. The recording leaves nothing to be desired too.

Once I was into the piece it was difficult to get it out of my head. I think over time I will learn to love it more than Siren Song. This is contemporary music that is utterly accessible. There is nothing highbrow about it. But it inspires, fills our minds with light and makes us pause. I'm not asking for more.