Secret Love Letters (CD review)

Franck: Sonata for Violin and Piano in A major FWV 8; Szymanowski: Concerto for Violin and Orchestra No.1 op. 35; Chausson: Poème op 25; Debussy: Beau soir. Lisa Batiashvili, violin; Giorgi Gigashvili, piano; Yannick Nézet-Séguin, The Philadelphia Orchestra. Deutsche Grammophon 486 0462.

By Karl W. Nehring

The Georgian-born German violinist Lisa Batiashvili (b.1979) has put together a program of musical works of various types that she finds tied together by the common theme of love, particularly in the two works for violin and orchestra by Szymanowski and Chausson.  As she comments in the liner notes, “we often define ourselves by the things we keep to ourselves in our minds and hearts. Music, just like art and literature, has always been the most amazing vehicle for artists to share secret messages and speak about their hidden loves and untold stories. This is such an intriguing and interesting part of human nature. The Szymanowski Concerto is a piece full of love and pain deriving from the restricted love of a man who was in love with another man at a time when this was outlawed both legally and morally. It is a dance between eroticism and compassion, between a dream world and tough reality. Chausson’s Poème is a powerful declaration of love with all of its nuances of loss and beauty hidden within each theme. I decided to pair these two works with music by Franck and Debussy, who himself was a messenger of the most magical atmosphere, fantasy and purity one can imagine.”

The program opens with the Sonata for Violin and Piano by the French composer Cesar Franck (1822-1890), which he wrote in 1886 at the age of 63 as a wedding present for the 28-year-old violin virtuoso Eugène Ysaÿe. It certainly seems appropriate for such an occasion, at least in temperament, for it is a piece imbued with passion and yearning, even desire. On the other hand, it is not the kind of piece you would expect actually to be played at a wedding, because it lasts well over 25 minutes and requires virtuosity not only from violinist but also from the pianist -- on this recording, the young Georgian pianist Giorgi Gigashvili (b. 2000). I was particularly struck on hearing this recording by the purity and sweetness of tone that Ms. Batiashvili brought to the sonata. I have heard renditions in the past that sounded heavy-handed or melodramatic, but her performance sounded just right. Brava! And, of course, kudos to Mr. Gigashvili.

Then on to the Violin Concerto No. 1 by the Polish composer Karl Szymanowski (1882-1937), which although billed as the centerpiece of the album, is actually shorter (its single movement comes in at 25:31) than the Franck Violin Sonata (its four movements total 27:25). The passion that was expressed in the Franck by just two instruments, violin and piano, is now channeled through a violin and an entire orchestra. There is a sense in which the listener can feel both the tension and anxiety of hidden love while at the same time sensing the sheer joy of being able to express that anxiety in music. There are moments when the sound of Ms. Batiashvili’s violin virtually takes wing, magically rising above the orchestra, leaving it to the listener to interpret whether representing joy or despair. My educated guess is that there are many music lovers reading this who are unfamiliar with this piece; my well-intended advice to these folks is that they give it a listen. It’s a stimulating 25 minutes.

Poor Ernest Chausson (1855-1899). This French composer lived a tragically short life and completed only 39 officially numbered works during his brief career, his Poème for violin and orchestra being one of the more often performed to this day. Although I would conjecture that although it is probably more familiar to readers of this review than is the Szymanowski, there are still most likely a good number of folks who are not well acquainted with the work. Once more, then, this recording would certainly be a good way for them to discover a work of great beauty. Chausson’s original French title for the piece translates into English as “The Song of Love Triumphant.” According to the liner notes essay by German music writer Wolgang Stähr, Chausson completed the piece in 1896 at the urging of Eugène Ysaÿe (there he is again…), but the name was first shortened to Poème symphonique and then finally to the name we know it by today, simply Poème. Ysaÿe was clearly a musician of great influence.

To quote Stähr: “Chausson’s exchange of ideas with Ysaÿe has left its unmistakable mark on the work, the solo writing in particular revealing the imprint of the Belgian violinist with its melodically intricate multi-stopping. In his masterclasses Ysaÿe even gave the impression that he had contributed the whole of tbe cadenza. The transcendental ending of the piece, conversely, where the violin melts away in a seemingly endless series of iridescent trills, is clearly modelled on the Poème élégiaque that Ysaÿe himself was completing at more or less the same time. Chausson certainly did not deny his debt of gratitude – far from it. Rather, he referred to the work as ‘mon-ton poème’ (‘my-your poem’) and, as such, as a product of their friendship.” 

Listening to Batiashvili play the violin part, you can well believe that a legendary violin virtuoso had a hand in its composition; however, the way the orchestra and violin work together make it clear that Poème was not intended primarily as a showpiece for hotshot violinists to showcase their virtuosity. Batiashvili and Nézet-Séguin clearly seem to be working together to present the piece as a concerto for violin AND orchestra, not just a showpiece for the solo violinist. As for as those “iridescent trills” at the end, I’ll quote Stähr quoting Debussy: “Nothing is more touching,” enthused Debussy in 1913, “than the gentle dreaminess at the end of this Poème, where, casting aside any ideas any ideas of description or narrative, the music itself is the sentiment that commands or feelings.” Okay, perhaps Debussy is a bit over the top here, but not by much.

Speaking of French composer Claude Debussy (1862-1918), he surely needs no introduction to followers of Classical Candor, n’cest-pas? The final piece on Secret Love Letters is brief (2:18) but oh so moving. Again to quote Stähr, “Debussy’s song Beau soir is a setting of a poem by Paul Bourget that tells of sunset, youth and a presentiment of death, and suggests nothing so much as an in memoriam written in honour of Chausson.” The song’s title translates as “beautiful evening,” and its brief text is a poetic reflection upon human mortality. (A translation can be found here: https://www.oxfordlieder.co.uk/song/2755. It was transcribed for violin by none other than the great Jascha Heifitz. Brief but beautiful, it is a fitting way to end the album, played tenderly but expressively by Ms. Batiashvili, accompanied once more by Maestro Nézet-Séguin, this time on the piano.

Overall, this is an excellent release. My only quibble might be to wish then liner notes were a bit more detailed, but that is a pretty minor gripe. DG has plenty of experience in recording the Philadelphia forces, so the engineering is on point for the two concertos, and the two chamber works sound just fine as well. It’s refreshing to see a new release from major artists on a major label that is not just the same old stuff; instead, Secret Love Letters offers some great music that is just slightly off the beaten path but well worth serious listening.

KWN

Schubert: Symphonies Nos. 8 and 9 (CD review)

Herbert Blomstedt, Gewandhausorchester. DG 486 3045 (2-disc set).

By John J. Puccio and Karl W. Nehring

The album according to John:

It seems appropriate that one of the oldest ensembles in the world, the Gewandhaus Orchestra (its pedigree can be traced to 1743), should be directed in these performances by one of the world’s oldest currently performing conductors, Herbert Blomstedt (b. 1927). It is also appropriate that we hear Franz Schubert’s Ninth Symphony with the Gewandhaus Orchestra, who under its Music Director at the time, Felix Mendelssohn, premiered the complete work in 1839 (over a decade after the composer’s death). And Deutsche Grammophon is among the oldest and most-respected record labels in the world, so there’s that.

Disc one of this two-disc album contains Schubert’s Symphony No. 8 in B minor “Unfinished” D 759. Now, while it may seem extravagant to devote an entire compact disc to one work lasting little more twenty-five minutes, look at the logistics. These performances of the Eighth and Ninth Symphonies together exceed the time limitations of a conventional CD. So two CD’s are necessary; but understand that the folks at DG are offering the two discs for the price of one. So, no, you’re not paying extra for anything. Most record companies devote an entire disc to a recording of the Ninth Symphony alone. Here, you are essentially getting the Eighth Symphony for free.

Now, about Maestro Blomstedt's rendering of the Eighth. As you know, Schubert (1797-1828) began it in 1822 but left it unfinished after two movements. There are sketches for a third movement in piano form, but Schubert never filled it out or fully orchestrated it. Which probably didn’t matter to him because like most of his work, it would never see a public performance of it in his lifetime, and it didn’t get a premiere until 1865, long after his death. Nevertheless, the “Unfinished” has become one of the mainstays of the classical catalogue and one of the most-beloved pieces of music ever written.

Blomstedt’s way with it is, like most of his performances, loving and poignant, which fits with the requirements of the “Unfinished” ideally. I’ve always thought the Eighth Symphony was among the most melodic, tuneful symphonies in the classical repertoire, and Blomstedt takes full advantage of the music with a performance that is sweet and rich and, yes, powerful at all the right moments. What’s more, unlike his latest recordings of the Brahms symphonies with this same orchestra on Pentatone, these Schubert pieces are not at all hesitant or undernourished. They are vibrant, forceful interpretations, with a wonderfully flowing gait and beautifully song-filled tone. Blomstedt’s reading of the “Unfinished” must rank among the better versions available today.

The second disc contains Schubert’s Symphony No. 9 in D major “Great” D 944. He wrote it somewhere between 1825 and his death in 1828. However, the history of this last of Schubert’s numbered symphonies is somewhat curious because even though the composer dated it 1828, the year of his death, he probably didn’t actually write it in 1828. In fact, it may not have even been his last symphony. The odds are he wrote it earlier than 1828, maybe 1826, which makes little difference since, like the rest of Schubert’s orchestral music, he never published any of it. When it finally did see publication in 1849, the listing showed it as Schubert’s Eighth Symphony. These days, we generally agree on it being called his Ninth.

The structure of the symphony is fairly conventional: I. Andante – Allegro ma non troppo; II. Andante con moto; III. Scherzo Allegro vivace; and IV. Finale: Allegro vivace. However, its length was quite long by the standards of the day, especially when a conductor takes all of the repeats as Blomstedt does. Robert Schumann called it a “heavenly length,” yet early musicians found it difficult to play because of its extended string and woodwind parts. Whatever, listeners have always loved it, just as it appears does Maestro Blomstedt.

Blomstedt uses a newer edition of the score than the familiar one Brahms edited. Among the changes is restoring a quicker tempo to the first movement, and Blomstedt does just that. It moves along swiftly yet effortlessly, even with the repeats. Blomstedt manages to make the symphony sound new again, regardless of length. The second movement Andante con moto indicates the conductor should play it moderately slow but with motion or animation, which Blomstedt does with a graceful ease. There’s no repetitive boredom about it, and it moves along with an elegant yet assertive lyricism.

The Scherzo radiates a fluid agility that both complements and contrasts with the preceding Andante. It is quite a beautiful part of the whole and not just an added crowd pleaser meant only to liven up the proceedings. Then we come to the monumental finale, which Schubert clearly intended to be grand and from which in part the symphony gets its “Great” title (and not just to distinguish it from Schubert’s earlier “Little C major” Symphony No. 6). Maestro Blomstedt propels it along at an energetic pace and with a lilting sprightliness, the orchestra sounding luxuriously opulent, fairly singing its rhapsodic lines.

No matter what one’s favorite Schubert Ninth may be (Klemperer, Krips, Szell, Mackerras, Solti, whomever), it would serve one’s interests to listen to this new one from Herbert Blomstedt.

Producer Bernhard Guettler and engineers Rene Moller, Toni Schlesinger, and Eike Bohm recorded the symphonies at the Gewandhaus, Leipzig, Germany in November 2021. As usual with recordings made in the Gewandhaus, we hear a warm, golden glow over the orchestra. The sound is a tad soft but luxuriously smooth and mildly resonant. This is especially welcome in the Eighth Symphony, where the sound tends to heighten the warmth of the performance. Still, the sound offers moderate definition as well as fullness. Although it may not satisfy the most finicky of audiophiles, it provides plenty of realistic naturalness.

JJP

The album according to Karl:

When I discovered to my surprise that this release comprised two discs, my first thought was, uh oh. To my way of thinking, needing two discs for these two symphonies is not a good sign. A little background: When I was just a young lad, there was a television series called "The United States Steel Hour" that presented hour-long live dramas featuring top actors and directors. I don’t recall any of the productions themselves, but the opening of the show is still burned into my brain -- a shot of an open hearth pouring out molten steel as the dramatic theme music played. I didn’t know what the music was at first, but at somewhere along the line my mother informed me that it was the opening of Schubert's Ninth Symphony. Many decades later, I still sometimes find myself thinking of that open hearth when I hear those opening measures.

Over the many years that have passed by since, the Schubert Ninth has been a work that I listened to many times on LP and then CD, but have never found it to be one of my favorite symphonies. I love that opening, and as the work continues, there are many memorable melodies and phrases, but at least for me, the work just seems never to quite know where it wants to go, and can seem to just go on and on. What to make, then, of a recording where the performance of the Ninth is sufficiently long that the Eighth must be allotted its own disc? (Note: I will confine my remarks to the recording of the Ninth.)

In Herbert Blomstedt and the Gewandhaus Orchestra, we certainly have a great combination of musicians. But right from the start, in those dramatic opening measures, I was surprised at how matter-of-fact the orchestra seemed to sound. In comparison with my longtime go-to CD for this work, the George Szell/Cleveland Orchestra recording (Sony Essential Classics SBK 48 268), Szell, who was never regarded as a heart-on-sleeve sort of conductor, draws significantly more expression from his players. There are some major overall differences in both the interpretations and the sonics  between the two versions. In the liner notes, Blomstedt makes a point about observing all the repeats in the score. Many (probably most, actually) conductors leave some or even all of them out in an attempt to mitigate that feeling of the work not quite knowing where it wants to go, and that given more time, perhaps Schubert might have done some editing himself. There are arguments to be made for both approaches, and certainly Blomstedt is taking a principled stand. The net objective effect of taking all the repeats can be seen by taking a look at the comparative timings versus Szell's performance for each movement, shown here as Szell/Blomstedt: 1. 13:29/15:25 | 2. 13:36/14:41. | 3. 7:18/15:11 | 4. 10:32/16:22. Subjectively, some listeners may prefer hearing Schubert's phrases and melodies being repeated, while others (and I am firmly in the latter camp) may well find themselves appreciating Szell’s (and many other conductors) more streamlined approach.

Sonically, the DG team certainly benefits from advances in recording technology over the past five decades. Although I enjoyed the greater hall ambience of the older recording, there is no denying that the newer digital recording is superior in terms of overall sound quality (although the older recording is by no means a bad one). The transparency of the recording reveals that the Gewandhaus plays marvelously, with both precision and power. If only Maestro Blomstedt had not elected to take all the repeats, and had just imparted some more passion into his interpretation.

KWN

Beving: Hermetism (CD review)

La fee verte; For Mark; Nocturnal; Paris s'enflamme; Last Dance; Accent Grave; Dervish; Mushin; Little Waltz; TFV; transfiguration; Roses. Joep Beving, piano. Deutsche Grammophon 4862030.

By Karl W. Nehring

Dutch composer and pianist Joep Beving (b. 1976) has released a solo piano album inspired by an ancient philosophical movement known as Hermetism. Stemming from ancient writings attributed to the legendary Greek author Hermes Trismegistus, at its core are seven universal laws of nature (e.g., the principle of cause and effect and the principle of rhythm) that are said to be concerned with all finding a continuous balance in life and existence. “The teachings around these principles feel so truthful to me and I hope they will inspire others,” says Beving, who adds of his album that he hopes “it will have a comforting and communal effect on listeners.” The music on Hermetism is soothing and comforting, inhabiting a musical space somewhere between classical and New Age. Although the harmonies are relatively simple, the music sounds serious and thoughtfully composed. It is not mindless, nor is it repetitive minimalism.

Interestingly enough, after playing the CD many times both on my main system at home and by streaming it in my car, finding it quite absorbing -- indeed, the more so the more I listened to it – I found myself wondering how much of the music was truly composed as opposed to improvised. Then one day I sat at my computer getting ready to check email, scroll through Twitter, and generally kill some time, so I decided to put some music on and opened up Amazon Music, did a quick search for Hermetism, and was surprised to find that there were two versions of the album available to stream: the version with which I was familiar, with just the music, and a version that included an introduction to the album by the composer along with his commentaries about most of the compositions – and yes, compositions they are, not improvisations.

To hear a composer’s first-hand accounts of the inspirations underlying the compositions on an album is quite a fascinating experience. A couple of quick examples: The “Mark” of For Mark turns out to be Beving’s manager, who was stricken by cancer and required a dangerous operation. During the operation, Beving focused his concentration on composing the piece, For Mark, a stately, contemplative calming five minutes of music that in light of the background story sounds almost like a prayer. The title TFV stands for “thoughts for Vikingur,” a reference to the Icelandic pianist Vikingur Olafsson, whose playing Beving greatly admires. The compostion has something of a Bach-like feel to it; Olafsson is a master of Bach’s music. Beving says that the executive producer of the album, Christian Badzura, who also has a close relationship with Olafsson, had suggested to Beving that he consider writing some music for the Icelandic pianist. However, Beving did not feel that what he was able to pull together was appropriate, so instead he played around a bit more with some of his ideas and recorded the end result for his own album. The only piece that does not get any commentary is also the longest piece (10:29), titled Roses, with a simple melody, a feeling of farewell, of quiet, simple, serene beauty.

The engineering (by Beving himself, perhaps not the best idea…) at times captures some extra-musical sounds, and the piano sound itself is not always as luxurious as we have come to expect these days. But for fans of piano music with musical tastes that run toward simple, direct expression as opposed to cascades of notes from the keyboard, this is a release well worth an audition, and the commentary version is most definitely worth seeking out.

Bonus Book Recommendation:

Listen to This. Alex Ross, author. Farrar, Strauss, and Giroux, 2010. ISBN  978-0-374-18774-3

Alex Ross is the long-time classical music reviewer for the New Yorker.  Listen to This is a collection of essays about music not all of it classical, but all of it well worth reading, both for education and for enjoyment. Listen to This begins with two essays that should prove to be of particular interest to classical music fans. The first, “Listen to This: Crossing the Border from Classical to Pop,” offers a critical overview of the place and perception of classical music in American society. Ross does not beat around the bush, as these excerpts for his first paragraph should make clear: “I hate ‘classical music’: not the thing but the name. It traps a tenaciously living art in a theme park of the past. It cancels out the possibility that music in the spirit oif Beethoven could still be created today…I wish there were another name. I envy jazz people who speak simply of ‘the music.’ Some jazz aficionados also call their art ‘America’s classical music,’ and I propose a trade: they can have ‘classical,’ I’ll take ‘the music.” The second essay, “Chacona, Lamento, Walking Blues,” offers a fascinating overview of musical history that culminates in the following startling speculation: “If a time machine were to bring together some late sixteenth-century Spanish musicians, a continuo section led by Bach, and players from Ellington’s 1940 band, and if John Paul Jones stepped in with the bass line of ‘Dazed and Confused,’ they might after a minute or two of confusion, find common ground. The dance of the chacona is wider than the sea.”

Of interest not just to readers but also to contributors here at Classical Candor is his third essay, “Infernal Machines: How Recordings Changed Music.” We tend to forget that we are listening to recordings, and that recordings are engineered products that have typically been assembled together from different takes, have been equalized, mixed, balanced, etc. Not only that, Ross quotes scholars who have pointed out that the advent of recording actually changed the way that musicians played and that orchestras sounded. It’s a fascinating essay, well worth reading, and it ends with an uplifting story involving the critic Hans Fantel and a CD issue of Bruno Walter’s 1938 performance of Mahler’s Ninth. Perhaps “uplifting” is the wrong word, for there are certainly horrifying elements to it. Briefly, Fantel had attended that performance with his father. Soon after the performance, Hitler’s forces invaded Austria and many of the musicians were lost, as was Fantel’s father. But for Fantel, that CD was a precious treasure, for he said “I could now recognize and appreciate the singular aura of that performance. I could sense its uncanny intensity – a strange inner turmoil quite different from many other recordings and performances of Mahler’s Ninth I have heard since. This disc held fast an event I had shared with my father: seventy-one minutes out of the sixteen years we had together. Soon after, as an ‘enemy of Reich and Führer,’ my father also disappeared into Hitler’s abyss. That’s what made me realize something about the nature of phonographs: they admit no ending. They imply perpetuity… Something of life itself steps over the normal limits of time.” As I type this, I am listening to that very recording through my computer. It is hard not to be overcome. Maher’s Ninth. Hitler. The abyss. My goodness…

There are other treasures to be found in this book, with insightful essays on Mozart, Schubert, Esa-Pekka Salonen, John Luther Adams, the St. Lawrence Quartet, Marlboro (the retreat, not the cigarette) among other things – plus a sprinkling of rock, jazz, and some thoughts on music education. The final essay is a gem, “Blessed Are the Sad: The Late Brahms,” which concludes with an analysis of his Fourth Symphony (reading it makes me want to listen to the recordings by Honeck, Stokowski, Solti, and Reiner). As Ross concludes about the finale, “the whole of it seems a convincing demonstration that without music life would be a mistake.” Appended to the main body of the text are some of Ross’s ideas for suggested listening. If you have a serious interest in music and an itch to learn more, this book will help you scratch it.

KWN