James Brawn in Recital, Volume 3. Scarlatti: Sonatas – Ingenuity and Delight (CD Review)

 by Karl Nehring

Domenico Scarlatti: Sonata in D minor, K.1 ‘Toccata’; Sonata in D minor, K.9 ‘Pastorale’; Sonata in B minor, K.27; Sonata in D minor, K.32 ‘Aria’; Sonata in D minor, K.34 ‘Larghetto’; Sonata in D major, K.96 ‘La Caccia’; Sonata in D minor, K.141 ‘Toccata’; Sonata in A minor, K.149; Sonata in C major K.159 ‘La Caccia’; Sonata in A minor, K.175; Sonata in A major, K.208 ‘Cantabile’; Sonata in A major, K.209; Sonata in E minor, K.291; Sonata in A major, K.322; Sonata in B minor, K.377 ‘Bourée’;Sonata in E major, K.380 ‘Le Cortége’; Sonata in D major, K.430 ‘Un Ballo’; Sonata in F minor, K.466; Sonata in D major, K.491 ‘Le Cortége’; Sonata in C major, K.513 ‘Pastorale’; Sonata in E major, K.531 ‘Tarantella’; Allesandro Scarlatti: Sonata in D minor, ‘Arioso’. James Brawn, piano. MSR Classics MS 1829

Long-time followers of Classical Candor should be familiar with the English pianist James Brawn (b. 1971), who now resides in Shanghai. Over the years, we have covered his recordings of the complete Beethoven piano sonatas, which John Puccio, Bill Heck, and I have found praiseworthy for both their musical and sonic virtues (you can find examples of those reviews here, here, and here. In addition to his “Beethoven Odyssey” recordings, Brawn has also released two other recordings, both of which were reviewed by John Puccio: James Brawn in Recital, which featured Mussorgsky’s Pictures at an Exhibition plus works by Bach, Bach-Busoni, Liszt, and Rachmaninoff (the review of that release can be found here) and James Brawn in Recital, Volume 2: The Time Traveller and His Muse, a 2-CD set that featured works by Bach, Beethoven, Brahms, Chopin, Gershwin, Grieg, Liszt, Mozart, Prokofiev, Rachmaninoff, Scarlatti, Schubert, and Scriabin (the review of which can be found here).

 

Travel in time more than a decade and we now have before us this most recent release in Brawn’s recital series, this one devoted to the music of Scarlatti, who was born in Naples in 1865, which makes him contemporaneous with Bach and Handel. In his CD booklet notes, Brawn includes a quotation from Scarlatti that explains where Brawn drew the inspiration for the “Ingenuity and Delight” subtitle for this release: “Do not expect, O Dilettante or Professor, whoever you may be, in these compositions any profound intention, but rather an ingenious jesting with art, to accustom you to the frankness of the harpsichord… Show yourself more human than critical, and so you will increase your own delight… Live happily.” (As an aside, I must say – with considerable delight – how personally I can relate to Scarlatti’s invitation as I reflect on how our own Ryan Ross, a learned professor of music, is a devoted fan of the Scarlatti sonatas, while I, a music lover but dilettante nonetheless, have come to love Scarlatti’s sonatas the more I have listened to them over the past few years. Yes, they truly have increased the delight of dilettante and professor alike, at least here at Classical Candor…)

 

Brawn writes of Scarlatti’s sonatas that they are “mostly single-movement works in binary form – compact, self-contained dramas full of musical contrasts. These pieces are not sketches or fragments, but fully formed miniatures: some wistful, others playful or bold. Together, they form a kaleidoscopic view of 18^th-century imagination, filtered through the sensibilities of one of its most original minds. Each sonata unfolds like a scene in a theatre – shifting in mood, surprising in character, sometimes masking complexity behind apparent simplicity. Their impact lies in their conciseness and immediacy. Rather than elaborate development, Scarlatti favors quick turns, sudden key changes, and textures that alternate between elegance and raw energy.” When I listen to the Scarlatti sonatas, I sometimes find myself comparing and contrasting them with some of Bach’s keyboard works (as I write this, many of my grandkids are getting ready to return to school, and thinking about comparing and contrasting takes me all the way back to junior high – now I guess they now call it “middle school” – English and History classes with their “compare and contrast” essays). They are similar in overall sound, but Bach sounds more structured, Scarlatti a bit looser. Bach can sound more formal, Scarlatti more casual. But my goodness, they both give so much pleasure, they are both such masters!

 

But for sheer entertainment – delight! – Scarlatti sets an incredibly high bar. Just stick this CD into your machine (or stream it, if you must), hit PLAY, and prepare to be delighted by the exuberant high spirits of the opening K.1 Toccata, a two-minute romp that will bring a smile to many a music lover’s face. Other highlights include the high-spirited K.96 ‘La Caccia,’ the gently melodic K.208 ‘Cantabile,’ the sprightly K.430 ‘Un Ballo,’ and the stately K.513 ‘Pastorale.’ Other listeners will doubtless discover other favorites, for the album is a musical treat from the first track to the last, captured in pristine sound quality. Highly recommended.

Schubert: Piano Sonata No. 17 in D Major, D. 850; Schumann: Kinderszenen (CD Review)

by Ryan Ross

Arcadi Volodos, pianist. Sony 19658879292

Schubert is one of my favorite composers. I adore almost all of his music. Almost. But I’m afraid the D. 850 sonata is one of very few works by him that leaves me indifferent. Sure, it’s grand in scope and impressively crafted, not to mention one of his more technically difficult entries in the genre. But I feel that the quality of its materials is below his usual standard. Compared to D. 664, D. 784, and the stupendous D. 958-D. 960 trio, it’s the affective runt of the litter. What’s so odd is you hear the harmonic surprises and turns of phrases that so enrich his more distinctive music, but they’re in service of themes that fail to land as hard emotionally. What would be one of the stronger works by Dussek or Moscheles is for Schubert an expressive low point, however structurally ambitious.

 

Which makes reviewing recordings of it difficult for me. When listening, I have to keep my mind from wandering. But I know plenty of enthusiasts somehow swear by this sonata, so I buckled down and did my homework. Arcadi Volodos is an excellent pianist who is capable of compelling interpretations. What I look for in any Schubert performance is a versatility that captures his many different moods, from melancholy to glowing intimacy to moments of joy that arrive like sunbeams through the clouds. Known for his big, bright sound, Volodos is unsurprisingly more than equal to the first movement’s technical brilliance. (Indeed, I often sense his virtuosity testing the sonata’s seams.) What impresses me more, however, is his adoption of a plaintive sotto voce in the slow movement and in later passages. Overall, I think I still prefer superlative accounts by Kempff (DG 423 496-2) and Gilels (RCA 09026 61614 2), who traverse an ineffable extra inch and natively inhabit subtle shades of introspection. But while I’m a D. 850 agnostic, I feel confident recommending this performance as a generally strong alternative to more celebrated picks.

 

The competition stiffens with Schumann’s Kinderszenen. Perhaps consequently, Volodos’s interpretation slightly comes off as a good one trying to be great. True, he churns out some quality playing. His Nos. 2, 3, and 10 I found particularly strong, despite wearing a deliberation that is more cumbersome elsewhere. But I hear plenty of dynamic and articulative peccadillos that Volodos might mistake for artistic risks. In multiple places there is good piano-versus-pianissimo shading from one area to another (for example in Nos. 4, 7, and 12), but in others not (as in No. 11). More bothersome is when he ignores or under-observes these markings. The second section of No. 1 is too loud for piano, and ditto the opening chords of No. 13. The Schneller section of 11 is too loud for an indicated pianissimo throughout. Sometimes crescendos get mangled, as when the apex notes of the same No. 13’s opening chords (marked with that sign) are withheld dynamically. Other lapses include: a failure to fully execute marked slurring in No. 8, occasionally accenting first beats rather than last ones in No. 9, and playing the tied chord in the seventh measure of No. 13 staccato instead of maintaining its full written duration.

 

I should cut Volodos some slack, this being a live recording. As far as those go, the sound quality here is fantastic despite a brief crashing noise marring No. 13 at 1:15. Otherwise I had to remind myself this isn’t a studio disc, which I suppose is a testament to stellar engineering. The flip side is that the performance itself is more suited to a live concert. Which doesn’t make it a bad recorded interpretation, but I believe its misses (or liberties) better suit the stage. On CD they make it a few notches below the best. Volodos clearly attempts special moments – and sometimes succeeds. If he doesn’t quite have the same poetry for Kinderszenen as a Radu Lupu (Decca 440 496-2) or an Ivan Moravec (Supraphon 11-0359-2), who does? But there is enough interest across the entirety to justify storage space in most collections. Even the collection of an Imperfect 850-ite like me.

Elgar & Dvořák Cello Concertos (CD Review)

by Ryan Ross

Elgar: Cello Concerto in E Minor, Op. 85; Dvořák: Cello Concerto in B Minor, Op. 104. Alban Gerhardt, cellist; Andrew Manze, conductor; WDR Sinfonieorchester. Hyperion CDA68486. 

In 1952, Ralph Vaughan Williams wrote the following in a letter to fellow English composer Rutland Boughton: “The truth is, I think, that when I am with Conservatives I become Socialistic and when I am with Socialists I become true blue Tory.” I feel a similar tension in multiple walks of life. With regard to classical music recordings, I have a tendency to talk out of both sides of my mouth: on the one hand I abhor performances that haphazardly heap on rubato and cheap theatrics in ladles, and on the other hand I want more than simply mechanical or workaday accounts. I am tempted to say it’s as simple as finding that sweet spot in between, but it isn’t always. Some performers go “all in” and seem to embody the music’s spirit in a way that my binary hardly tracks. Think Horowitz playing Schumann, or Bernstein at his best in Mahler. 

 

But not Alban Gerhardt playing Elgar’s and Dvořák’s Cello Concertos. It would be unfair to say that these new performances with Andrew Manze and the WDR Sinfonieorchester sound mechanical, but they do tend toward the workaday. Actually, Gerhardt gives the game away with his liner note remarks. He writes: “I grew up with the legendary recordings of these two extraordinary cello concertos by Mstislav Rostropovich and Jacqueline du Pré. Their interpretations have shaped generations of cellists and established a powerful performance tradition that continues to resonate today. While I have always admired both artists for their intensity and individuality, I found myself questioning certain interpretive choices from early on. When I began performing these works some 35 years ago, I felt a growing need to look beyond inherited conventions and return to the sources: the scores.”

 

Gerhardt goes on to say that he believes in maintaining a steady pulse, and that major disruptions to it do not necessarily translate to expressive depth. Read my review of Edward Gardner’s Brahms Second Symphony to see that this argument has resonated with me. But I’d be more torn about Gerhardt’s decisions here if it weren’t for one thing: the scores of these works themselves stress an emotional fervor (with markings like nobilmente and espressivo in the Elgar, and appassionato and grandioso in the Dvořák) that he largely undersupplies. And I am not simply referring to rubato, though there could be more of that given these markings. Gerhardt also employs limited tone color and abrupt phrasing, to mention only two further elements. In other words, he is selective about score instructions in a way he chooses not to acknowledge. The result is that tempi in both works are invigoratingly brisk, but in service of playing that too frequently sounds square and perfunctory, like a kid reciting memory work at parochial school. There’s a feeling of routineness that you certainly don’t get in the great performances to which Gerhardt brashly compares his own. 

 

The Elgar concerto suffers most from his approach. I have said elsewhere that too many contemporary performers are out of touch with Sir Edward’s sensibilities and cultural circumstances. He had, and his music reflects, values that they hardly recognize at best and disdain at worst. Paul Johnson, in his popular history Modern Times, writes that the concerto “conveys better than any words the unappeasable sadness of those days.” It represents Elgar at the end of a career he had struggled mightily to build, finding him a committed patriot witnessing the losses of the First World War and the beginning of an Empire’s decline, and a widower living his twilight years without a beloved wife who was his best friend and unfailing confidante. Rostropovich and du Pré capture these feelings and more. Gerhardt hardly does at all. The latter’s selective score-following can be heard at the very beginning, where he fudges a very clear largamentedirection in the opening figures as part of an impatient start. That sets the tone for what follows. Multiple espressivos are virtually ignored; it’s often difficult to differentiate them from unmarked soloist passages. Or observe how frequently Elgar indicates a largamente or ritardando followed by some sort of a tempo. What more does he have to do to write judicious rubato into his score?! Gerhardt’s reluctance on this point defines the proceedings. The dotted-rhythm figure at the beginning of Rehearsal 22 in the second movement is emblematic. Ideal performers dispatch this with savory relish. Gerhardt is comparatively free of gusto. Gusto, of course, is something distinct from overall tempo. Speed should not be confused with passion. Too often do Manze and his soloist blow through music that should be more deliberate. For instance, Elgar indicates Allegro, ma non troppo (quarter = ca. 108) for the march in the finale. These performers instead approach quarter = 116-118 in a manner that is almost flippant. I’m usually a fan of faster paces, but theirs is unsupported by requisite rhetorical intensity. Worst of all is the last major theme. Both soloist and orchestra strip it of its breathtaking fervor in what is a frail handling of the conclusion. This is virtually Elgar’s autumnal farewell, and should be rendered as such. 

 

Dvořák’s concerto fares considerably better, mostly because it more easily withstands Gerhardt’s reserve. Certainly the work is grand and emotional, but it does not quite wear the creator’s tender vulnerabilities on its sleeve in the way that Elgar’s does. What we get is a boilerplate performance that goes through the motions well but unremarkably. Our performers even make attempts at passion, particularly in the second movement. Once more, however, the difference between good and great becomes apparent when we compare it to one of my favorite classic recordings: Pierre Fournier with George Szell and the Berlin Philharmonic (DG 423 881-2). Gerhardt for once doesn’t lack earnestness, but both he and his orchestra sound heavy and forced, whereas Fournier and Company supply a supple warmth that better accentuates the music’s flavor. Still, the present interpretation is sturdy, and in the final analysis a respectable option if no more. 

 

And so here I am once again having to remain honest by dealing glumly with a new release of well-worn repertoire. The difference this time is that Gerhardt himself is explicit about what his “schtick” is, which, far from distinguishing this catalogue entry, betrays conceptual flaws that I could only speculate about if he had remained mum. But we don’t really need his justifications to know that what we have here is essentially another musician who is too afraid of being sentimental. In that sense, Gerhardt is all too typical of our times. To a certain extent I get it. Guarding against interpretive overreach is a valid precaution. But becoming one of C. S. Lewis’s “Men Without Chests” should equally be avoided.