Quick Takes: Batch #2 (Aho, Schubert, Schumann, British Overtures)

Kalevi Aho: Symphony No. 17 'Symphonic Frescoes'. Erkki Lasonpalo, conductor; Lahti Symphony Orchestra. BIS 2676. 

I can't work up much enthusiasm for this, though I'd be lying if I said parts of it don't impress me against my will. It's always the same story with Aho and me: genuine respect for the composer's sonic imagination and craft, mingled with a wish that I liked it all more. Even where Aho dips into a more traditional musical language here, as in long stretches of the second and third movements, there's just not much I can get into. When he frustrates me enough, I find myself thinking things like "Finnish symphonic music after Sibelius was mostly a mistake" — which I don't really believe (Madetoja, Leiviskä, and Rautavaara, for example, composed works I'd hate to be without). But I resent the grumpiness to which Aho invariably brings me. This is just my latest journey there. That said, listeners who respond better to him than I do, and who have enjoyed his other symphonies, will very likely enjoy No. 17 too. Please do — and pay no heed to this imperfect Aho-ite. Verdict: Indifferent. 

A Moment in Time (Schubert: Impromptus, D. 899; Piano Sonata No. 21 in B-Flat, D. 960). Christian Blackshaw, pianist. Pentatone PTC5187532. 

A reviewer often feels pressure to be easier on a performer because of a hard background or an inspiring story. (I had this experience recently for Classical Candor: feeling sorry for Avril Coleridge-Taylor's prejudice-induced hardships while not being impressed with her music. See here.) Christian Blackshaw sounds like a great guy; upon the tragic death of his wife, he curtailed his performing career to raise his three daughters. The world needs more of that selflessness, full stop. But I'm afraid that what it does not need so much is another mediocre Schubert recording. The best thing on this disc is Blackshaw's slow movement in D. 960. If everything else were as smooth and well judged as that, I'd be writing a different mini-review. But the other parts, while dripping earnestness, just lack elite execution in the details: tone color, articulation, dynamic shadings, and even technique. There's a sleek sheen the best recordings have that this doesn't. At worst, things are too labored and clunky: I can think of no justification for the first movement exceeding 22 minutes. I'd like to be more favorable, but there are just too many big fish in this particular pond to do so. Verdict: Fans of the performer only. 

Schumann: Fantasie in C Major, Op. 17; Faschingsschwank aus Wien, Op. 26; Humoreske, Op. 20. Nikolai Lugansky, pianist. Harmonia Mundi HMM902753.

What we have here is a mismatch of temperament. A thunderous technique and equally impressive control — traits that serve Lugansky well in Rachmaninoff, Liszt, or Tchaikovsky — largely lack the whimsy that is absolutely necessary for Schumann. This is less of a problem in Faschingsschwank than in the Fantasie or the Humoreske, which to my ears sound too square-cut. One telling stretch is the fearsome coda of Op. 17's second movement: Lugansky has the chops to really let this rip interpretively, but he's missing the flair. This should sound slightly over-the-top; instead it's tame. The Humoreske comes closer — there's much to admire in terms of energy and color, but not enough poetry. Lugansky probably outclasses my top choice for this piece (Lupu) in terms of muscle, but in no way does he catch the late Romanian's poignancy. This recording sounds pretty good, at least until you hear the really ideal performances. Verdict: Mildly Recommended. 

Overtures from the British Isles Volume 3. Rumon Gamba, conductor; BBC Philharmonic Orchestra. Chandos CHAN20351. 

Chandos sure likes cranking out overture discs. Whoever is planning their content seems shrewdly aware of how to portion this repertoire across multiple installments in ways that average 1-2 halfway memorable numbers on each. That's what we had with Volumes 1-2, and that's what we have here. Lots of pleasantness, rather less reason to come back to it. A little butter scraped over too much bread, to borrow Tolkien's expression. The most compelling item is easily Britten's Overture to Paul Bunyan, though I did heartily enjoy Clifton Parker's The Glass Slipper Overture. The secret ingredient with the latter is knowing when to quit; the thing is tuneful and slight, clocking in at only 3 minutes. Are these two pieces reason enough to buy this recording, however well Rumon Gamba and the BBC Phil dash them off? I don't know. But I do know this: about 80% of their Malcolm Arnold overtures disc (Chandos CHAN10293) made more of an impression on me than has 80% of the music in this series. Verdict: Mildly Recommended. 

Recording Review #60: Quibbles for Kantorow

Brahms • Schubert. Alexandre Kantorow, pianist. BIS-2660. 

Some things are just awkward. For instance, titling a CD release "Brahms • Schubert" when about half of the Schubert heard on it is in the form of Liszt's song transcriptions. But I suppose one can hardly name the thing "Brahms • Liszt-Schubert • Schubert," or "Brahms • (Liszt) Schubert," or even "Brahms • Liszt • Schubert". Does this sound picky? Okay, maybe it is. Still, I don't think everyone appreciates just how much Liszt one hears in these arrangements. The title almost works, but not quite. A stone in the proverbial shoe. 

Which is kind of a good metaphor for how I view the performances on this release. For me the Brahms sonata really works, and the Liszt-Schubert song transcriptions REALLY work. I can even get behind this Wanderer Fantasy...for the most part. It's Kantorow's take on the third movement thingie (I dunno, do you really call this a movement? More awkwardness!) that hangs me up most. The problem is that he often likes to alter the tempo for expressive effect. Which is fine in moderation. But it's distracting when it happens a lot or disrupts material where one wishes for a consistent rhythm...as in the dance-like third section (there we go!) of the Wanderer Fantasy. The thing really just needs to move, but instead Kantorow ends up making it feel more pent-up than poetic. Occasionally I get this in the Brahms, too, though in the sonata setting it's a bit less problematic. But this is all unnecessary for Kantorow. He has a SPLENDID array of tone colors, not to mention a lovely sotto voce sound and breathtaking virtuosic dash. Over-reliance upon rubato to distinguish his performances is just gilding the lily. 

A smaller quibble over Kantorow's Wanderer Fantasy is the way he plows through the closing Allegro, in what is an opposite interpretive extreme from the previous section. I can understand this to a point; it's a big, showy finish. But we really need to hear those wondrous harmonies and other materials in better relief. Some restraint would be good here. Again, I crave just a bit more consistency. 

The Brahms First Sonata performance is, tiny quibbles aside, magnificent. Kantorow captures all of its epic sweep and youthful passions without losing sight of the work's sinews. There's a structural command here that is missing in the Wanderer Fantasy performance, "Fantasy" though it be. Maybe most of all, Kantorow is adept at balancing the different voices. Not only does he ALWAYS KNOW WHERE THE MELODY LIES, but he also shades those other lines in gossamer hues. This isn't something that just any pianist can do well. It's a special gift, which Kantorow further deploys in his well-chosen Schubert-Liszt offerings. This is some of the best playing of these pieces I have heard. (Included is Der Wanderer, D. 489, upon which the Fantasy is based.) 

Sometimes a recording will make you feel torn. You may not like everything on it, or how everything on it is done. But you're certain that it's worth enjoying and revisiting all the same. Some of Kantorow's decisions here aren't my favorite, but I like what he does well considerably more than I dislike those [poorer] decisions. And so I'll gladly live with my quibbles. 

Verdct: Highly Recommended, especially for the Brahms sonata and Schubert • Liszt (sorry • not sorry) song transcriptions

Recording Review #58: Futrell's Fusions

Tyler Futrell: Stabat Mater; Brittle Fluid; Vuggesang. Eirin Rognerud, soprano; Astrid Nordstad, mezzo-soprano; Lars-Erik ter Jung, conductor; Terjungensemble. BIS 2548. 

According to his website, Tyler Futrell compositionally borrows from different techniques and traditions. Actually, you don't even need to consult the website to immediately gather this by listening to his 2021 Stabat Mater. The work is essentially is a mashup of minimalism, romanticism, 20th-century avant-gardism, and probably one or two other 'isms' I'm forgetting. If this seems crudely put I can only say that it matches my on-again/off-again experience of the music. The late Richard Taruskin, one of my biggest musicological influences, once shrewdly wrote: "The nice thing about an ism, someone once observed, is how quickly it becomes a wasm. Some musical wasms—academic-wasm, for example, and its dependent varieties of modern-wasm and serial-wasm—continue to linger on artificial life support, though, and continue to threaten the increasingly fragile classical ecosystem." (See Taruskin, "How Talented Composers Become Useless," quoted in The Danger of Music and Other Anti-Utopian Essays, University of California Press, 2009, p. 86.) I'm afraid that when I listen to Futrell's Stabat Mater, the 'wasms' of his eclectic mix stick out like sore thumbs and mildly detract from what is otherwise beautiful music. 

Wait, I hear you retort, aren't all of the styles he references really "wasms"? Yes, technically. In which case I'll specify in the spirit of Taruskin's quip: the parts of Futrell's Stabat Mater that sound the most old-fashioned and out of place are precisely the avant-garde-inspired materials that were all the rage circa 1965. Before we even hear any singing, we're subjected to a prelude with the subtitle "Crossbeam, nails," which implies the point at which Christ is about to be crucified. And what is it? About 80 seconds of atonal shuffling/scraping via the 'unconventional stringed instrument techniques' featured in works like Penderecki's Threnody for the Victims of Hiroshima. I found it completely contrived. But once the singing started with the Stabat Mater proper, I was transfixed. Futrell has a real lyrical gift - an enviable capacity for melody and effective text-setting. But apparently he doesn't think that's quite enough. Because at the "Interlude: Pierced" section to follow, it's more noise...only this time over a backdrop of calmly consonant chordal accompaniment in the strings that does some heavy lifting. 

And on we go. The shuffling/scraping/screeching is occasionally joined by pitch-bending techniques that sometimes sound vaguely consistent with the lovelier portions, while at other times seeming as tacked-on as the proto-Penderecki stuff. To be honest, it all isn't the hugest deal. In repeat hearings I just tuned out the circus, concentrated on the parts I liked, and enjoyed myself considerably. But the "additions" felt unnecessary all the same. Maybe Futrell really buys into what he's doing, or maybe he's trying to impress certain people (the work is up for one or more awards), or both. I guess time will tell if others have the same reaction as mine. 

Multiple listens did nothing to endear me to Brittle Fluid or Vuggesang. Modernist static in the one case, and quasi-minimalist repetitions of dull ideas in the other, rate far below the compelling portions of the Stabat Mater. I think it's high time more composers become less self-conscious. Particularly those as talented as Tyler Futrell. 

Verdict: Recommended for the Stabat Mater...at least most of it

Recording Review #48: Fortepiano Frustrations

Schubert: Piano Sonata in A, D. 959; Piano Sonata in B-Flat, D. 960. Ronald Brautigam, fortepianist. BIS-2624. 

Ronald Brautigam is a fantastic musician. That's why I feel a little bad about what I'm going to say here. But I'm going to say it anyway, because my first loyalty is to the music as I perceive it ought to be performed. To be blunt, late Schubert is stylistically beyond the point where you should be using a fortepiano. The problem is that this instrument lacks the rich tone colors, timbres, and sustaining abilities of the modern piano. This is simply anathema to Romantic music, including the earliest varieties. The performer's resources become fatally limited in spite of any considerable technique brought to bear. With repertoire by Haydn and Mozart you don't really feel such deficits; the buzzy, shallow action of the fortepiano is more properly part of the 18th-century sound. For my money, the instrument's expressive capacity gets reached with early Beethoven. By the time you're tackling things like the Waldstein Sonata, the Appassionata, or the Hammerklavier, not to mention pretty much all of Schubert's keyboard masterworks, the modern piano is far and away the superior choice. 

Actually Brautigam's problem here is twofold. You have the instrument's limitations, and you also have how these limitations adversely affect the performer's interpretive choices. I noticed this straightaway with D. 959. In a work of such long lines, Brautigam is sometimes forced to play a little more frenetically than one is perhaps used to in this music. Why? Because if he doesn't do so the sound in the broader stretches threatens to dissipate too quickly. Take the very opening. A modern piano player has the luxury of rendering these chords more deliberately...because they'll sustain longer at a louder dynamic. But fortepianist Brautigam is forced to take this passage more aggressively. The trouble is that his instrument already sounds punchy, and so an unidiomatic timbre (more on this in a bit) and jarring attack only compound each other. The sonata immediately gets off on an awkward foot. Or consider the left-hand chords that begin the development section in the same movement. Brautigam can't rely upon deep key action to make these sonorities sound "floaty" and ethereal. Instead they distractingly clunk along while he executes this lyrical area as best he can, handcuffed by a mismatched tool for the task. In many more instances does one sorely feel the fortepiano's lack of resonance. 

We also run into issues of tone color (or a lack thereof). A good pianist can use his/her modern instrument to produce many more such shadings, which come in handy when you'e playing music by Schubert. The latter's repetitions of melodies and their different figurations simply beg to be shaded differently. A great place for this is the second movement of D. 960. But about all Brautigam can do is play these beautifully refigured melodic phrases louder or quieter. His instrument lacks the capacity to really color varied material like it ought to be colored. 

Worst of all is the timbre. Even when Brautigam is doing everything as well as he can (which is often), I'm distracted by the 'plunkety-plunk' of the instrument. This tends to be most egregious during moments of great passion. A good example is the middle section of the D. 959 rondo finale at measures 146-167. We need strength and sonic depth here but we get neither; the fortepiano sounds too brittle and twangy for me to take this music's intended affect seriously. But even in calmer places (say, movements I and sometimes IV of D. 960) I hear left-hand ostinatos that just clang or buzz along. Every time an especially low note is hit I can't shake my impression of a bass kazoo. That's NOT what you want in any of this music!

I'll say it again: I'm not one of those critics who appreciates "new ways of hearing things" for their own sake. I like new things to be justified in other ways. Brautigam has recorded much Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven for fortepiano. A lot of it is superb. But casting about for stuff that doesn't fit this instrument well is him putting his professional niche before the music. There are many fine recordings of Schubert's final two piano sonatas. If Brautigam can't compete with those on a suitable instrument, he should find something else to record. 

Verdict: Collectors Only

Recording Review #33: Tasteful Trios

Beethoven: Piano Trio No. 1 in E-Flat, Op. 1, No. 1; Piano Trio No. 5 in D ("Ghost"), Op. 70, No. 1; Schöne Minka, ich muss scheiden, WoO 158a, No. 16 (arr. Enders). Sitkovetsky Trio. BIS-2699. 

This release concludes BIS's recent series of Beethoven piano trios. It features the somewhat unusual pairing of his 'official' first work in the genre and his fifth. (I've always thought the "Ghost" appellation for the latter ridiculous in terms of what happens in the second movement!) Both trios are prime Beethoven, though I continue to harbor special fondness for the Op. 1 set. Also included is an arrangement by the group's cellist, Isang Enders, of Schöne Minka, ich muss scheiden, from the WoO 158 songs of different nationalities. 

The Sitkovetsky Trio (ostensibly named after the group's violinist, Alexander Sitkovetsky) brings admirable energy to their performances, and especially crackling virtuosity from pianist Wu Qian. These interpretations are full of spirit and warmth. There's nothing eccentric here - no doing weird stuff in an attempt to stand out. (This is a refreshing change of pace from certain other listening experiences lately!) What we have are just three earnest, skilled musicians doing right by the music. I guess if I had to point out some flaws, I'd begin by wishing for a bit richer tone from the string players. Sometimes they sound slightly on the meek side, especially next to the torrid piano playing. Also, while the pep in the finale of Op. 1/1 is nice, perhaps the tempo there is a bit much. Occasionally some of the smaller details sounded obscured.

But even in a crowded field these are fine performances. Anyone coming to this music for the first time will be well served, though I would encourage such listeners to soon explore further. 

Recommended

Confessions of an Anti-Formalist: Sibelius's En Saga

A good deal of my listening and reading lately have centered on Sibelius, as I am working on research projects related to his music. While revisiting the original 1892 version of his tone poem En Saga (via BIS-CD-800, with Osmo Vänskä and the Lahti Symphony performing), I marveled anew at how different it is from the substantially revised 1902 version. I used to prefer the later score; after all, it is much more concise, and the tempo is comparatively (and satisfyingly) consistent. But as I listened again to the original, and as I keep (re)reading written commentary that swears the 1902 version is better because of its 'superior' form, I've felt a surge of affection for the initial effort. (1) I started asking whether all of the increased polish and cohesion were worth the beauties sacrificed for them. In truth I now think this price was too high. I am happy to side with the composer's wife, Aino, who said: "I like and have always liked the first version." (2) 

Aino continues: "Papa removed some violent passages from it. Now En Saga is more civilised, more polished." I agree with this and have further reason for now preferring the original. In it we have more stoppages of steady pulse, but also more harmonic figurations and varied restatements of the main themes we enjoy today. Some of them sound heartbreakingly tragic. Too, the orchestration is more vibrant, and there are more vivid tone colors to go with the rougher-edged gestures and textures. The revised version also omits a calmer central section that is absolutely spellbinding. In short, the original is more passionate and bolder of utterance. It is in this version, rather than the smoothed-over revision of ten years later, that we really feel Sibelius's testimony about its meaning for him: "En Saga is psychologically one of my most profound works. I could almost say that the whole of my youth is contained within it. It is an expression of a state of mind. When I was writing En Saga I went through many things that were upsetting to me. In no other work have I revealed myself as completely as in En Saga." Doubtless Aino was at hand to witness much of this life experience; one begins to understand why she preferred the original. (3)

So what prompted Sibelius to make the changes after a decade? From what I have gathered, I think it was a combination of shaky self-confidence, critical browbeating, and apprehension about conducting the work in Berlin at his friend Busoni's invitation. Karl Flodin and Oskar Merikanto apparently found the music "puzzling" and rambling. (4) Scheduled to conduct a "sprawling" score in Germany, smack dab in the Land of Musical Cohesion and Integration™, perhaps he felt nervous at how THEIR critics might react. So he made the revisions, tested out the new version in Helsinki, and proceeded to elicit the desired response when he conducted it in Berlin. 

If I imbibe the spirit of much of the musicological literature, I might look at the whole situation and react like this: you see, it all shows he was *learning*. As his skill increased, so too did his feeling for *desirable form*. Soon, he would not only leave behind his nationalist phase, he would also become increasingly adept as a modern (or even "modernist") classicist. His sense of structure would become tighter and leaner on up until the end, until that final paean to unity and cohesion, the Seventh Symphony. With Tapiola as the cherry on top. 

Excuse me while I throw up in my mouth just a bit. I have always been somewhat unsatisfied with classical (over)-justifications of Sibelius's symphonies in particular, but also with the same attitudes brought to bear on his tone poems. I don't think those who are eager to confer German symphonic "cred" on Sibelius always sufficiently appreciate his works in other ways. They sometimes quote this statement concerning the Sixth Symphony, but I don't think they really take it to heart: "You may analyze it and explain it theoretically. You may find that there are several interesting things going on. But most people forget that it is, above all, a poem." (5)

For me, the most important parts of Sibelius's works aren't their adherence to *correct* formal benchmarks. Rather, they're those moments of mystery, beauty, grandeur, evocation, and passion, which come in all kinds of forms. Ultimately, the reason I now prefer En Saga 1.0 to En Saga 2.0 is that the first privileges theme and expression over form, while the second privileges concision at the expense of those other things. This the pedants can't abide. Musicology, says David Hurwitz, doesn't know what to do with a good tune. At least not when it's unmuzzled by a hard obsession with form.

I love Sibelius's Fourth and Seventh Symphonies...two of his tightest structures, and therefore two of his most critically regarded works. But I love them more for their expressive properties than for their vaunted formal traits. I still mostly want out of music what I wanted before I knew anything about form...before the likes of Edward T. Cone taught me how to listen for form. (6) I still want a piece of music to move me, and often form has a subordinate role in accomplishing that. 

Some of Sibelius's most interesting, most riveting music is also some of his most discursive. I think of Kullervo, the work of white-hot inspiration that catapulted him to national prominence, and composed not long before En Saga 1.0. I think of The Wood Nymph (Skogsrået), Op. 15, from shortly thereafter: music that is audacious in its almost complete reliance upon minimalist-like repetition. Sibelius never published this tone poem, maybe because he was afraid of how he'd be treated by the pedantic critics...and how this might damage his fragile confidence. If so, that's a shame, because it is deeply inspired. The scholars say that Sibelius truly attained ever-important unity in his last symphonies. But maybe this is actually what prompted his infamous dead end. The Silence of Järvenpää could have been something else if he had struck out in a different direction...if he had allowed himself to re-embrace/re-explore the unbridled forms of his youth. 

Footnotes

1. There are no shortage of scholars and critics who extoll the 1902 revision of En Saga on the grounds I've mentioned. The authoritative life-and-works study by Erik Tawaststjerna is a good place to start if the reader is interested in sampling this consensus. See Sibelius Volume I: 1865-1905 (Faber, 2009), chapter seven. 

2. See the article on En Saga at the Sibelius Info Website, here. (Accessed 7 August 2024.) 

3. See Tuija Wickland, Jean Sibelius's En Saga and Its Two Versions: Genesis, Reception, Edition, and Form, Studia Musica 57 (Helsinki:University of the Arts Helsinki, Sibelius Academy, 2014), pgs. 43-45. 

4. "En Saga," Sibelius Info Website. 

5. Quoted in Harold E. Johnson, Jean Sibelius (Alfred A. Knopf, 1959), pg. 192. 

6. See Cone, Musical Form and Musical Performance (W. W. Norton & Co., 1968). 

Recording Review #9: Pickard's Puffers

John Pickard: Symphonies Nos. 2 and 6; Verlaine Songs. Emma Tring, soprano; Martyn Brabbins, conductor; BBC National Orchestra of Wales. BIS 2721. 

I sometimes wonder if there's a certain transformation I missed. How does one go from wanting something catchy or otherwise viscerally pleasing out of music, to one for whom conceptual conceits are enough? When I was on Twitter (sorry, "X") I'd often raise such points in criticizing music like the works on this recording. The responses from the Geeks there amounted to pretending not to know what I was talking about, or assuring me that catchy things like a great melody or an infectious rhythm are no more important than anything else. Well, I never got there. Not after earning a PhD in musicology and having listened to classical music assiduously for nearly 30 years. I want so much more out of my music than Neat Patterns or Interesting Sounds. And I'm afraid I just don't hear much more than that in any of these Pickard works. 

Pickard's problem is that he has no feeling for anything that will likely appeal to the unschooled listener. These works show a meagre melodic gift (including the decidedly untuneful Verlaine Song cycle) and a restless sense of rhythm. Which leaves him emphasizing things that are interesting mostly to analysts, critics, and other geeks. There are lots of colorful timbres (especially in his use of brass) and interesting shifts of texture, tempi, and other sonic points. I'm sure I would find all kinds of structural cohesion and ingenuity in the symphonies if I were to look. But why bother? I just don't *like* any of it. It's the same old, faceless angularity and dissonance trotted out by so many academic symphonists since the middle-20th century. The same old puffy masses of sound. And they go on for too long. The one-movement Second Symphony, which occupies Track 1, clocks in at nearly half an hour. No sooner had the piece started than I groaned at the prospect of wasting this amount of my life sticking with it. (But I did!) The two-movement Sixth Symphony presents a similar experience, though here Pickard splits things up a bit with two 10+-minute spans. It would have been better-going (with more relief) if they had been shorter works and movements, though of course the 'all-important' structural considerations might have been affected. But nope. Robert Simpson would be proud. 

I feel a bit bad being so negative. But I also perceive that too many critics refuse to face the obvious with music like this: it's resolutely niche stuff that's either going to turn off most listeners or simply float past their ears. Let's be up-front and not pretend it is anything else. If you're an average Joe or Josephine looking to enjoy some nice classical music, I suggest you look elsewhere. Also, if you consider yourself to be this kind of listener, check back at The Ross Review often for more such honesty: I'll square with you even if other folks won't. 

Geeks Only