Winger: Violin Concerto “In the Language of Flowers”; Symphony of the Returning Light (CD Review)

by Ryan Ross

Peter Otto, violinist; Giancarlo Guerrero, conductor; Nashville Symphony. Naxos 8.559921

You know those early-18th-century violin concertos by second-tier composers that all sound almost indistinguishable? That’s how Kip Winger’s orchestral music might register when aired on classical channels in 2325. And it’s not because he comes from rock — it’s because, like most of his late Baroque forebears, he writes nice music that isn’t much more. Which would be fine, but there’s just one, typically 21st-century hangup: giving pieces flowery (literally in this case) titles the music itself scarcely justifies. This fare is no equivalent of The Four Seasons in its power of suggestion; it’s our era’s version of Giuseppe Interchangemoni’s umpteenth sinfonia, only with gaudier conceits.

 

The Violin Concerto is a case in point. It’s subtitled “In the Language of Flowers” and sports four such names ahead of their respective movements. The liner notes don’t really say why, except to mention general inspiration. But the piece works better without them. With simple tempo indications the listener wouldn’t be distracted into seeking connections between plants and content that are nowhere obvious. The work would more sensibly have been called Violin Concerto No. 1, with no botanical headings.

 

On a purely musical level, the concerto is pleasant rather than compelling. The truth is that Winger has modest compositional resources. He therefore relies on a small stock of templates to string together coherent movements: soloist passagework over ostinatos or driving rhythms, cadenza-like stretches, and tutti climaxes. The ostinatos do inject nice pep. At least you can bounce along rhythmically while you’re waiting for something to happen that never really does. These make decent claim on the listener’s attention, facile as they are. But the tutti portions are the biggest letdowns. Because he cannot merely noodle his way through them, Winger is weaker at these junctures. We need more effective perorations and memorable themes than he seems able to supply.

 

The Symphony better justifies its appellations. It employs a technique that provides a neat twist on the traditional “symphonic” ideal: use of the S.O.S. Morse code as a recurring motive and structural pillar. The “Symphony of the Returning Light” idea is thus fully discernible in the music. Winger’s craft here is also an upgrade from the Concerto. Bereft of a soloist to write for, and benefitting from his programmatic anchor, he can more effectively conceal his seams.

 

But even if the Symphony earns its title better than the Concerto, it’s limited by it, too. The intermittent Morse code (faithfully rendered in its signature electronic timbre) is easily its most memorable component. The jaunty motive that Winger overworks in the middle of the third movement (titled “Metamorphosis”) is almost an exception. But even here I had to listen once again to fully recall it; the return of S.O.S. immediately after effectively sapped what staying power it had. Something similar is true in the second movement (“Eleos”), where a simple gesture following a central hymn-like section augurs more interest but quickly sheds its promise.

 

Without the overriding gimmick, this music is essentially boilerplate post-2000 American symphonism. We faintly discern Walter Piston, Paul Creston, and so on, but miss their heft. Having said all this, I have a lot of respect for Kip Winger. He’s more than some rock musician dabbling in classical composition. His music may be pleasant without being particularly distinctive, but that puts him on par with most formally trained composers. Actually, it places him ahead of too many. While excessively fanciful, he’s at least not a purveyor of loaded ugliness. If these works are unlikely to become your new favorites, I can nevertheless recommend them for a reasonably good time.