Copland: Symphony No. 3; Walker: Sinfonia No. 5 (Streaming Review)

by Ryan Ross

Sir Antonio Pappano, conductor; London Symphony Orchestra. LSO Live LSO0916

Aaron Copland’s Third Symphony has often been criticized for not being “symphonic” enough. It’s too ballet-like, too theatrical, and insufficiently structured to be a true symphony, goes such “wisdom.” (And to that the cardinal sin against pedantry: it’s too crowd-pleasing.) But as I have suggested elsewhere, the joke is firmly on these critics. They’re an object lesson in how selective historical understanding and mythmaking can turn intelligent commentators into purveyors of fiction. I’ll repeat what I’ve said here before: Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven burst onto the stage when the symphony genre was already underway. They did not determine what it must be for all time. There is no True Symphony, and especially not one forged by them in Vienna like The One Ring by Sauron in Mordor. Furthermore, Copland wasn’t a rare example of someone who failed to toe some immutable symphonic line; he was one of a large number of composers aware of classical precedent but who flouted it anyway.

Where symphonic whipping-boys like Copland (and, famously, Tchaikovsky before him) were actually heirs of Beethoven was in their conscious use of the symphony as a vehicle for monumentality. And it is difficult to think of a more monumental American symphony than this Third by the “Dean of American Composers.” Sure, you could make the case that several others are every bit as impressive in certain respects, or variously more deserving of the storied “Great American Symphony” label. (Roy Harris’s own Third is a frequent candidate in such discourse.) But in terms of monumentality, virtually no other symphony from these United States competes. A monument to what, you say? Copland himself divulged that the music captures the United States’ euphoric mood after the Allied victory over the Axis powers. Others have pointed to the finale’s incorporation of the Fanfare for the Common Man, and akin motives throughout, to suggest that the whole is also a tribute to the American spirit and landscape. If all of these associations hold (and I think they do), they’re under-served by this otherwise solid performance at the hands of Antonio Pappano and the LSO.

What’s amiss in this interpretation are subtle things that end up mattering disproportionately for the total experience. The orchestral playing is fantastic, and Pappano’s conception of the work even has a reasonable consistency of its own. But I think he misses the music’s character in several respects. In the first movement he elicits a big sound from his players. He clearly wants to hit those dynamic highs and strong brass statements. But they’re often just short of noisy, when a touch of understatement might better capture moods of steady gravitas. Equally, I find the motives sometimes a bit crimped and the pacing slightly abrupt. There’s a subtle strangeness of musical prosody that makes large swaths sound wooden.

The following scherzo movement is one of two low points. Its opening flourish proceeds promisingly enough, but the quicker outer sections are sluggish, sometimes mildly overworked, and lacking a necessary breeze. The tempo direction here is Allegro molto, but this does not even feel like Allegro. LSO personnel nail the intricate passages, but under direction that dulls their effect. It almost reminds me of someone speaking too formally in a setting that doesn’t call for it. If you’re new to classical music, imagine covering the Baja Men’s hit tune but singing, “Who Let the Canines Out?"

Movement 3 comes off best, but is still not free of such issues. The Andantino quasi allegretto tempo gets its due. Pappano correctly takes the hint and resists the lagging that burdens previous passages. His ear for sonority here is excellent, and some fine orchestral colors emerge. The latter portion of the finale likewise benefits from strong execution but remains on the heavy side. Most of all, the opening Fanfare phase sounds off to my ears. Once more, conception rather than playing is at fault. This is too pompous, too ceremonial. We need more Bob Costas and less King George…more liberty and less royalty.

If Copland 3 is a monument partially to the American spirit, that’s exactly what’s missing here. For someone who has spent so much time in the United States, it is surprising that Pappano hardly ever captures the experiential world Copland seems to be evoking. The next time he visits, someone should take him to Fenway for a ballgame and a hotdog. Or better, he might find his way to some hole-in-wall diner in Nowhere, Nebraska, where from a laminate-topped table he can hear the rhythms of surrounding conversations, and watch through a window while big John Deeres harvest corn. Or, if that’s a bridge too far, I would prescribe some John Steinbeck fiction, in which a certain psychological ease leavens even the heaviest circumstances. As it stands, Sir Antonio’s Copland has a definite European accent.

Whereas some think Copland’s Third Symphony works better as monumentality than as “symphonic structure,” George Walker’s Sinfonia No. 5 has structure to recommend it and little else. While I haven’t studied the score, I can well imagine that this music dots every integrative “i”. But absolutely nothing memorable transpires during its mercifully short 15 minutes. The decision to pair it with the Copland is a real head-scratcher, as many much more deserving companion pieces could have been chosen from the American repertoire. If another Harris 3 coupling was undesirable, what about David Diamond’s The Enormous Room, or Howard Hanson’s Elegy in Memory of Serge Koussevitzky, or one of Barber’s Essays? A sharp outing of any could have salvaged the whole project nicely and made a merely decent Copland 3 a better buy. Instead, we have multiple shades of missed opportunity. 

Mario Castelnuovo-Tedesco: Piano Works

 by Bill Heck

Mario Castelnuovo-Tedesco: Piedigrotta 1924,  Op. 32; Alghe, Op. 12; I naviganti, Op. 13; Cielo di settembre, Op. 1; Calma (A Giramonte); Terrazze; Le stagioni, Op. 33. Adriano Murgia, piano. Piano Classics PCL10347

Sharp-eyed readers may recall my review some months ago of Platero y Yo, a series of vignettes for solo guitar composed by Mario Castelnuovo-Tedesco, as played by Niklas Johansen. The review here illustrates the old saying that “one thing leads to another”, at least in the musical world: my interest in those works for guitar led me to the current release of the same composer’s music for solo piano.

Let’s start with a quick note about Castelnuovo-Tedesco, and please excuse a bit of repetition if you’ve read the Platero review. Born in Italy in 1895, he studied music early in the 20^th century and quickly became fascinated with the work of Debussy, who remained one of the major influences on Castelnuovo-Tedesco’s own path. He later was influenced by the contrapuntal techniques of mentors like Ildebrando Pizzeti (whose name is the basis of one of the works on this album). By the 1930’s, he was a rising star internationally, developing musical relationships with figures such as Andres Segovia, Jascha Heifetz, and Gregor Piatigorsky.

In 1939, however, he fled the racial (antisemitic)  policies of Mussolini’s fascist Italy. His reputation inspired prominent American musicians to support his entry into the US and then to relaunch his career, first as a piano soloist and then as a composer. While he continued to compose in the classical tradition, he became better known (and presumably better compensated) for his work on film scores. He also taught composition, with a significant number of subsequently famous musicians in his classes. Castelnuovo-Tedesco passed away in 1968.

Mario Castelnuovo-Tedesco

Contemporary listeners might be forgiven for asking why, if Castelnuovo-Tedesco was so great, has his music passed into obscurity today? Well, first, obscurity is not quite the right word. Although one would hardly call him well-known, a good number of recordings of his music are out there, especially of works for orchestra, including two piano concertos; for guitar; and for solo piano. More generally, though, I've noticed perhaps a little more interest in the works of lesser-known composers lately, particularly with the rise of independent record labels. And, if I may be allowed a little speculation, I suspect that several factors may have played a role in his relative eclipse, including not only the tendency of both concert promoters and attendees to go with safe, well-known choices but also the nature of his music. His compositions are not the sort that produce shouts of praise and standing ovations in concerts, nor are they the subject of music appreciation lectures. Whatever the causes, although Castelnuovo-Tedesco may not be top of mind for many listeners, I think that he's one of those composers whose music, once given a chance, turns out to be interesting and enjoyable, exhibiting some real depth.

Consider, for instance the first movement of Piedigrotta, the Tarantella scura (“dark tarantella”). The folk dance zips right along at first as we think it should, but storm clouds intrude in the form of odd bass lines and strange harmonies. This is not a simple country celebration, but a more emotionally complex occasion.

Or take the Fantasia e fuga sul nombre di Ildebrando Pizzetti: the music keeps trying to be a straightforward fugue, but is frequently distracted, so to speak, with all sorts of musical exclamations and interludes, not in a bad way but in imaginative variety.

Meanwhile, Murgia’s playing is fine. He conveys the music with a nice mix of control and freedom; I might have a few minor quibbles here and there but distracting mannerisms are nowhere to be found. One might ask how his performances compare to those on other available recordings, but there’s a snag: the composer's prodigious output means that pianists recording his works won’t often choose the same ones. For example, David Witten’s list of tracks overlaps this one only with the Piedigrotta 1924; same for the fine album by Mark Bennington; that of Jordi Masó has only the brief I naviganti in common; and so on. I certainly haven’t heard anywhere near every album of Castelnuovo-Tedesco’s music for solo piano, not to mention albums on which his compositions appear alongside works by other composers. But to my ear Murgia’s performances hold their own and he does have the benefit of Piano Classics engineering for superb sound. All in all, this album is a great place to start for those interested in exploring Castelnuovo-Tedesco’s work.

Hourglass: Music by Philip Glass (CD Review)

by Ryan Ross

Simone Dinnerstein, director and pianist; Baroklyn, strings. Naïve V9238

In one of his film reviews, Roger Ebert commented that he judges a movie by what it’s trying to do and how well he thinks it does it. I don’t review every classical music release this way, because I place unequal value on the different things composers and performers try to do. But when tasked with reviewing the music of Philip Glass, I’m faced with special challenges that remind me of Ebert’s quip. The central problem is this: I’m a firm believer in postminimalism, and especially Glass’s brand of it; but I’m awkwardly aware that the standards by which I come down on others’ music don’t apply here. For example, see my February 11th Avril Coleridge-Taylor review. Glass flouts those standards more completely than she does. The difference is that he does so on purpose. I used to sneer at this purpose, much like the haughty critics who still do. But I no longer hate what he does. Indeed, I’m quite won over. If that makes me kind of a hypocrite, so be it. 

 

In minimalism’s early days the emphasis was on subtle changes over extended repetitive structures. Something of that pattern carries over to postminimalism of the 1980s and beyond, but with more commercial appeal and less biting experimentalism. Repetition and commercial appeal aren’t the ingredients formalist critics tend to espouse. But I think we’ve had enough biting experimentalism in classical music during the past century to last us five more. And by now composers have integrated and ‘organicized’ everything under the sun, to cheering generations of pedants who should have been mathematicians instead of music pundits. Can we ever take a break from all of that? My focus is instead on distinctiveness and communicative power. When it comes to those, Glass has much going for him. He composes with the pragmatism of a man who once installed appliances to make ends meet, and who understands the importance of a good paycheck. 

If you’re like the people I’ve just spent two paragraphs scolding, you’ll hate this new disc. It is difficult to think of two works by Glass that more epitomize his style since the 1980s. The score for The Hours is perhaps his best-known film music, deftly coloring the picture’s themes of alienation and tragedy. Here it’s arranged by Michael Riesman for piano, strings, harp, and celesta. In this guise it loses no expressive strength; indeed, it almost seems like an extension of the original that Glass himself might have scored, so often does his postminimalism leverage timbre for its most powerful effects. Nor does one necessarily need to have viewed the film for a meaningful listening experience. Maybe that’s true in order to get the most out of it. But “most” isn’t everything, and that’s what film music scoffers repeatedly fail to understand. When I listen to The Hours score I hear an “end of history” type of world-weariness that surfaces in much of Glass’s music, and that quite transcends the movie itself. He does this better than almost every other living composer I know. Many of us living through the West's turbulent recent decades have confronted the kinds of existential questions this music evokes. We Glass fans hear a singular mixture of reflection, hope, gloom, tragedy, spirituality, and more, where his detractors only hear interminable arpeggios. It’s a unique but highly communicative voice, something that has eluded the likes of Riley, Reich, and even Adams.

 

That same voice animates the second selection. This is not the first recording of the Tirol Concerto (Piano Concerto No. 1), but to my ears it’s the best. The Baroklyn strings’ decision to focus “on the larger beats” and wanting “every voice to have its own ebb and flow, coinciding with other voices in certain larger pulse divisions” (liner notes) pays off for the listener. Compare their sound to the competition — it works to this music’s decided advantage. The feel of large-scale pulsation with each repetition and thematic iteration is crucial to the work’s experience. Rather than feeling exhausted, the sympathetic listener comes through properly appreciating one of Glass’s grandest slow movements. The outer sections of this postmodern masterpiece appreciatively hop and sparkle here, helped by wonderful tunes all the way through. A healthy momentum keeps the music from getting bogged down. The latter must be avoided at all costs — it’s minimalism’s most tender vulnerability.   

 

The title Hourglass is a clever bit of wordplay — Glass becomes hourglass, with a nod toward both The Hours and a nearly 60-minute run time along the way. But it also speaks to ensemble director Simone Dinnerstein's perceptive remarks in her liner notes. "When I think about the music of Philip Glass," she writes, "I think about time. The music is intricate and polyphonic. It's layered, with patterns that keep shifting in the subtlest of ways." It's "multi-linear." Quite so. If you listen carefully, there is definitely more here than initially meets the ear. But I still think that what animates everything is Glass's extraordinary melodic gift. I keep telling people that the history of Western music bears this out with few exceptions: the most successful stuff has good melody. Maybe it doesn't only have that, and maybe good melody isn't the most intellectually compelling component. Yet, this nearly consistent truth relates back to the notion that music must reach the heart and not just the head. So yes, the themes of time, cycles, waves, and pulses all contribute to splendid music and performances here. But all of it would amount to little without an X factor that resists analysis — and that's exactly from where Glass's memorable themes come.