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. 

Fusions (CD Review)

by Ryan Ross 

Kapustin: Piano Sonata No. 2; 8 Concert Etudes, op. 40 (selection); Variations, Op. 41; Gershwin: 3 Preludes; Earl Wild: 7 Virtuoso Etudes after George Gershwin. Nikolay Medvedev, pianist. SOMM CD 0724

 When Nikolai Kapustin died in July of 2020, The New York Times failed to run an obituary. Of course, the newspaper provided glowing tributes to Kaija Saariaho and Sofia Gubaidulina when they passed away in 2023 and 2025, respectively. Not that the latter two composers should not have been recognized, but the contrast speaks to a disconnect between elite agenda-setters and the wider world of performers and music lovers. As they did with Gershwin and Rachmaninoff, critical and academic establishments tend to underestimate composers with direct appeal, especially those who shamelessly incorporate popular idioms into their works. Today Gershwin and Rachmaninoff have critical respect to an extent that belies their press treatment 75-100 years ago. True, some of this amounts to eccentric attempts to make them over as some or other kind of “modernists.” But it is clear by now that previous generations of pundits often got tripped up by their own customary snobbery.

 

I think a similar thing is happening with Nikolai Kapustin. His name now regularly graces concerts, competitions, and recordings. He has enjoyed the advocacy of such high-profile pianists as Marc-André Hamelin and Yuja Wang. But with occasional exceptions, his critical and academic standing remains paltry. The NYT’s omission, while lacking the vituperative flavor of early-20th-century criticism of Gershwin especially, speaks volumes about a figure some still view as a crossover curiosity rather than one of the most vibrant voices of late 20th- and early 21st-century classical music. It will be clear by now that I am firmly of the latter persuasion. Indeed, I’ll go further: Kapustin is the most recent in a historical line of great keyboardist-composers stretching at least back to Bach and Scarlatti, continuing through Chopin, Schumann, and Liszt, and blossoming anew via Rachmaninoff, Medtner, Scriabin, and Prokofiev.

 

This new SOMM release featuring pianist Nikolay Medvedev suggests a self-conscious advocacy of jazz-meets-classical with its title Fusions. If that is the case, I have a quibble. It is a mark of how much high modernist rot has infected our discourse that we look at what is offered here – works by Gershwin, Kapustin, and Earl Wild (paraphrasing Gershwin) – as its own special thing rather than a reflection of what high-handed commentators often ignore: popular and “classical” elements have long enjoyed interweaving throughout the tradition. Just because we are far removed from Beethoven’s incorporation of folk culture into his works, or Chopin’s massive debt to ethnic Polish dances and other vernacular manners, for example, does not mean they do not find clear reflection in what both Gershwin and Kapustin practiced. So, while Fusions is a technically correct description of what is going on here, I would love to see a point at which underlying self-consciousness becomes unnecessary.

 

Medvedev’s disc adds to Kapustin’s increasing traction. By my count, this performance of the Second Piano Sonata puts the total commercial release tally at just under 10 (depending upon how you count), while his selection of Op. 40 Concert Études shares company with well past two dozen others. The Op. 41 Variations here enjoy an outing in nearly as robust a crowd. In other words, the Kapustin discography alone (which scheduled future releases will only grow) is starting to reflect his true stature. It is clear to anyone who has followed this growth that Marc-André Hamelin’s and Steven Osborne’s Hyperion releases (CDA67159, CDA67275, CDA67433, and CDA67656) from the early 2000s really kick-started the present enthusiasm. In a sense, these stunning releases have been a blessing and a curse: a blessing for their effective advocacy, and a curse because of the dauntingly high bar they set for subsequent recording artists. When Kapustin heard Hamelin perform the Second Sonata in London, he gifted the super-virtuoso a signed copy of the score with a note that he didn’t think it likely anyone could play the piece better. I somehow doubt this will be true for all time, but right now Hamelin’s interpretation on CDA67656 seems consistent with Kapustin’s frank assessment.

 

To let the cat entirely out of the bag, Medvedev’s Second Sonata interpretation here is overall on the second tier. The culprit is the first movement, which admittedly makes fearsome pianistic demands. To a greater extent than the rest of the piece, this section at once needs firm technical command, inner-voice sensitivity, formal awareness, rhythmic drive, and a certain sense of sweep all at once. Keeping it together requires ability of a high order. Medvedev makes a valiant attempt, but his inner voices are sometimes smudged or underplayed, his phrase endings occasionally abrupt, and his narrative grip sometimes slightly off. The issue is not one of insufficient technique, but rather a shaky conception of the movement that gives the impression of drowning in its difficulties. This is all the more unfortunate because Medvedev dispatches the remainder of the sonata very solidly indeed. The resplendent Largo in particular is a thing of beauty, and shows the performer’s gift for velvety atmospheres that he will again demonstrate in later offerings.

 

The other Kapustin works here receive good to excellent treatment. Together with most of Ligeti’s and Glass’s études, Kapustin’s Op. 40 set is now staple late-20th-century fare. Expectations are therefore already high, and for the most part Medvedev acquits himself admirably in five of eight total numbers he has chosen. The opening and closing ones exude a polish that is substantially missing in the first movement of the sonata, while the Reverie and Intermezzo also come off very convincingly. Slightly less impressive is his Pastorale, a piece with breezy tunefulness and intricate rhythms. Medvedev slightly under-shoots the tempo, and does not consistently highlight different layers of activity. Still, the overall Op. 40 outing here is quite good. Better yet is his performance of the Op. 41 Variations, a work well on its way to canonic status. This is as good an interpretation as I have heard. Medvedev illuminates every little mood and intricacy along the way to a thrilling finish. Would that such panache and control have made their way into the sonata opening.

 

The remaining selections are Gershwin-focused. We get a fine account of the famous 3 Preludes, which stands tall even against ubiquitous competition. Medvedev is able to transfer what works so well in the slow movement of Kapustin’s Second Sonata to the more languid moments of this small masterpiece. Perhaps best of all are the complete 7 Virtuoso Etudes after George Gershwin by Earl Wild, which are essentially miniature paraphrases on some well-known popular songs. These accentuate Medvedev’s strengths and show that his playing can be superlatively smooth and well-judged in the right setting. Highlights include the fabulously rendered No. 5 (based on Lady Be Good) and No. 3 (The Man I Love). Perhaps the penultimate number (based on I Got Rhythm) could use a tad more melodic accentuation, but such a criticism strains at gnats compared to what Medvedev does right across the whole. Together with the Kapustin Variations, the Wild studies are the best reason to purchase Fusions.

On the whole, then, a quality release. If some playing does not quite measure up to the rest, the lows are not low enough to negate many very real highs. Most importantly, with each strong entry into the Kapustin discography his music becomes ever more difficult to ignore, and increasingly harder to square with the outdated view of music history represented by The New York Times’s obituary snub. A wise person once said that history does not repeat, but it rhymes. Gershwin won immortality out of all proportion to how he was treated by the haughty critics of his day. I predict that if Kapustin’s current slighters could read the music history books of times hence, they might be surprised at the fleeting relevance of certain present preoccupations, as well as the rising stock of specific figures now assigned lesser worth. Medvedev’s album is a sturdy brick in that long road.

Chopin Orbit (CD Review)

by Karl Nehring

Sumino/Chopin: prologue; Chopin: Étude “Aeolian Harp op. 25/1; Sumino: Lydian Harp; Chopin: Prélude “Raindrop” op. 28/15; Sumino: Raindrop Postlude; Chopin: Étude “Black Keys” op. 10/5; Sumino: White Keys; Chopin: Mazurka op. 24/2; Adès: Mazurka op. 27/2; Chopin: Nocturne in C-sharp minor; Sumino/Chopin: Larghetto after 2^nd mvt. of Piano Concerto No. 2; Chopin: Berceuse op. 57; Janácek: Good Night!; Chopin: Polonaise-Fantaisie in A-flat major op. 61; Sumino: Imaginary Polonaise; Chopin: Grande Valse brillante in E-flat major op. 18; Godowsky/Chopin: Concert Paraphrase of Chopin’s Grande Valse brillante. Hayato Sumino, piano. Sony Classics 19958400662

Japanese pianist Hayato Sumino (b. 1995) holds a master’s degree in engineering, but he is also a skilled musician with a special affection for the music of Chopin. On his new Sony Classic release titled Chopin Orbit, he presents not a standard recital of Chopin piano works, but rather an album that includes Chopin’s music plus some of his own compositions as well as works by other composers. The end result is an album that maintains a consistent mood and aesthetic from start to finish, showing the high regard Sumino holds for Chopin and highlighting the range and depth of the Polish master’s creative output. Following the gentle prologue that opens the program, we then hear some Chopin pieces paired with responses; first by Sumino (his Raindrop Postlude in response to Chopin’s “Raindrop” Prelude and his White Keys in response to Chopin’s “Black Keys” Étude), then by Adès (his Mazurka in response to Chopin’s). The Sumino pieces follow very much in the style of Chopin, complementing them nicely; the Adès, however, presents an unexpected splash of notes. The first time I heard it, I frankly thought it was awful – but on further listening, I have become less harsh in my judgment. It’s, well, interesting, good-natured, fun in its own way – but does not seem to quite fit in with the rest of the program. (In his liner notes, Sumino explains why he included the piece, closing with, “the result is not so much a dance as a reflection on the idea of dance itself, disassembled, reimagined, and delicately surreal.”)

 

Following a Chopin Nocturne we then come to a truly entertaining track, Sumino’s Larghetto, which he explains, “is a recomposition of the second movement from Chopin’s Piano Concerto No. 2. Imagined through a contemporary lens, it poses the question: ‘What if Chopin were alive today, performing in a jazz club instead of a 19^th-century salon?’ The intimate and improvisatory spirit found in his music resonates naturally with the atmosphere of jazz.”  Although that description might lead some to expect something hokey or vulgar, rest assured that Sumino delivers a performance that manages to capture both the spirit of Chopin and the feeling of a jazz pianist in an intimate setting. It’s utterly spellbinding. 

 

Sumino then presents a pair of introspective compositions, Chopin’s Berceuse and Good Night! by Janácek, before raising the energy level with two more pairings. First, he follows Chopin’s Polonaise-Fantaisie with his own Imaginary Polonaise. Sumino notes that he is “mindful that the polonaise carries deep cultural meaning for Chopin and his homeland. To honor that spirit, I let my own heritage speak. While the rhythm follows the polonaise’s steady pulse, I wove in gentle waves of Japanese dance at certain moments.” Finally, Sumino brings the album to an energetic close by following Chopin’s Grand Valse brillante with Godowsky’s rousing Concert Paraphrase. 

 

Thanks to Chopin, Sumino, and the engineers (Jonathan Allen, Philipp Nadel, and Martin Kistner), this is a release of beautiful music that should appeal to a wide range of listeners – from those just beginning to discover classical music to those who have enjoyed it for many decades. And if you want to get some young person you know interested in something other than pop music, you might try suggesting they give this one a try. You never know…