Reviews in July 1998

Patrick Dechorgnat, piano / Henschel Quartet (EMI 7243 5 72525 2 2)

Just when you thought the big companies are feeling the pressure from successful super-budget labels like Naxos and are responding accordingly by reissuing two-CD packages for the price of one premium-priced CD, Virgin Classics surprises with a brand new series of two-fers going for one mid-price CD! And no dull, mundane CD covers with banal layout and design from Virgin -- all the releases in the first batch feature colourful, snazzy front covers, but the programme notes remain woefully inadequate.

And Virgin has not chosen its worst, oldest performances for this series either. These Vivaldi recordings, for example, were made in the late 80s in superb digital sound, and contain first-class performances.

Purists might not welcome Christopher Warren-Green's somewhat modern, highly-imaginative, no-holds-barred interpretation of all the works here, particularly the hackneyed Four Seasons. But these are effervescent, potently graphic performances, incisively executed by an ensemble of excellent players who respond with unanimous conviction, vision, inspiration, and glowing polish.

I am not certain if the audience of the 18^th century might have been shocked out of their seats with this harsh a Winter or an unbelievably fast and breathlessly pungent Summer, as is presented here, but let's face it, this approach works. The sonnets, on which the cycle is based, come across with bold, in-your-face, visual narrative detail, faithful to the last letter. Warren-Green is not one prone to hesitation: Autumn is full of fearless contrasts (the first movement bursts with vitality and colour before being yanked very suddenly without any warning into a sombre, deeply meditative episode, before bursting back into frisky vigour), verve, abandon and daunting liberties (both hunters and prey start off in a fun, bouncy fashion before charging forward, culminating in a heart-stopping rush, complete with startling bowing effects, and a grotesque section when the game finally meets its Maker).

Throughout, all the musicians epitomize the belief that imagination is something that is just too good to waste.

The new budget-priced Debut series on EMI -- started purely to feature new artists who are making their recording debut on the label -- has unveiled some rare gems, but in the case of Siberia-born pianist Konstantin Scherbakov, it is more of a case of highlighting the fairly established but still growing presence that he has already carved for himself through his recordings on other labels, notably Naxos and Marco Polo.

Since his debut at the age of 11 with Beethoven's First Concerto, he went on to study at the Moscow Conservatoire, winning the first Rachmaninov International Piano Competition in Moscow, and is a also feted prize-winner at the Montreal, Busoni, Géza Anda and 'Roma 1994' competitions.

Like most pianists today, Scherbakov possesses an impressive facility which he uses to sparkling advantage in these somewhat larger-than-life, sometimes preposterous, but almost always listenable transcriptions of music by the king of the Viennese waltz, Johann Strauss Jnr. This is glittering playing, purely delightful, flexible and reasonably spontaneous. But, that a passionate Russian advocate of the 'lost Romantics' like Medtner and Respighi should also emerge in a somewhat unassuming fashion does come as a bit of a surprise, and, maybe to some, a slight disappointment. There is no harm going a little overboard musically in such repertoire; there is little reminder of the flamboyantly outsize personality of a Horowitz, Earl Wild, Cherkassky or György Cziffra -- the latter represented here by a typically showy study on the Tritsch-Tratsch Polka.

In such repertoire, which is largely encore material, it is not much fun to just hear risk-free, polished playing that titillates and stimulates without really thrilling or bringing the house down. Scherbakov seems to think too much; for once, I would happily trade his exceptional cerebral qualities for something lighter, more ostentatious, with greater abandon. Some pianists love to show off, and Scherbakov avoids doing that almost totally, and frankly, in this music, I think flaunting and flirting is the way to go.

But having said that, these are rarities unlikely to be heard too often on stage or in recordings, and Scherbakov's interpretations, while safe, are nonetheless highly distinguished. And at bargain price, this is impossible to resist.

New York Philharmonic Orchestra / Leonard Bernstein (Sony SMK 47543)

Aaron Copland was born to two Jewish immigrants in Brooklyn on November 14, 1900. He studied with Rubin Goldmark and in 1921 went to Paris, to become the first of Nadia Boulanger's American pupils. His early works, laced with highly-dissonant (clashing) harmonies and influenced by the French Impressionist school earned him some notoriety. In the words of the conductor Damrosch: If he can write like that at 23, in five years, hell be ready to commit murder.

However, Copland considered these works too European and he began to experiment with jazz rhythms, riffs, and melodies in such works as Music for the Theatre and his first piano concerto (1927). Over the coming years he was to try his hand at many different forms of music until, in the late 1930s, he gravitated to the simple, lyrical style for which he is justly famous. The works on the CD are taken from this period.

Appalachian Spring, or Ballet for Martha (as it was commissioned by Martha Graham), is a ballet set in the 19th-century, about the American religious sect known as the Shakers. It is, for the most part, a gentle and still piece of music, yet it occasionally harks back to the short, angular style of Copland's early works. It concludes with a valedictory setting of the Shaker hymn known variously as "'Tis the Gift to be Simple" or "Simple Gifts".

Rodeo, Copland's second ballet, was completed in 1942. It tells the story of a ranch where the cowboys chase every woman they see, but ignore the tomboyish cowgirl working alongside them. However, she awakens to her femininity and when she appears at a Saturday night ball dressed for the part, she catches the eye of every man in the place.

In 1938, Lincoln Kirstein commissioned Copland to write Billy the Kid for the dancer Eugene Loring. It is based on the story of the outlaw Billy the Kid, who was said to have killed a man for every year of his life and was shot at the age of 20 by his one-time friend, the sheriff. The ballet, and the orchestral suite featured in the disc, is divided into eight parts. First, "The Open Prairie", evoking the countryside of the Wild West, and then, "Street in a Frontier Town", and "Mexican Dance and Finale". The subsequent "Card Game at Night" is the occasion for Billy to shoot a man who cheats. "Gun Battle" follows, succeeded by "Celebration Dance", and "Billy's Death", as he is shot after he has escaped from jail by killing his jailer. "The Open Prairie" returns in conclusion.

The Fanfare for the Common Man is not the original, which was composed in 1942 for Eugene Goossens and scored for brass, timpani, bass drum and tam-tam, but rather, the composer's reworking from the finale of his third symphony.

Leonard Bernstein first met Aaron Copland at a dance recital in New York on November 14, 1937. After the recital, Bernstein went to Copland's birthday party, where he played Copland's piano variations with such aplomb that the composer remarked he wished he could play his own music as well. The two became firm friends, and would meet to discuss, criticise and improve each others' compositions. Bernstein later wrote that Copland became the closest thing to a composition teacher he ever had.

In total I have heard five versions of the above pieces: the Bernstein, the Dorati, the Guzenhauser, the Gould, and the composer's own recording. Leonard Bernstein's performances are consistently my favourite. In Appalachian Spring he displays great tenderness in the lyrical passages without the music dragging or seeming heavy -- there is a constant sense of direction. Rodeo is played with exuberance and flair -- the final "Hoedown" is taken at breathtaking pace. Billy the Kid is also superb, the opening evocation of "The Open Prairie" is magical and faintly threatening, and is marred only by an almost inaudible cough in the background (it's a 'live' performance and there's always one!). The interplay of instruments in "Street in a Frontier Town" is captivating as Bernstein builds up the texture, layer by layer. The brasses play with real swagger and rhythmic vitality.

Above all, these are convincing performances -- one can see the train in Appalachian Spring, and hear the horses in Billy the Kid. The ensemble performance by the orchestra is excellent, and the recording quality spacious and vivid.

Of the other versions mentioned above, the Dorati is the best, though I feel it sometimes lacks subtlety in Appalachian Spring. The Guzenhauser is on a Naxos budget CD, and is good value for money but not in the same league as the Bernstein. Gould is good in the lyrical passages, but lacks bite. On the CD of the composer's own recordings, I thought Appalachian Spring quite beautiful, but Rodeo and Billy the Kid lacking in flair.

Happy listening!

I know that it is a good thing to have recordings with a wide dynamic range, but surely not to the extent that one can hardly hear the opening of the first and second movements of the Concerto for Orchestra without turning the volume control up higher than usual.

Nonetheless, Simon Rattle offers us one of the most perceptive, detailed, intelligent and insightful readings of the Concerto currently available, and he explores this music more deeply than many other conductors. Whether in the witty wind exchanges in the second movement or the warped parody in the fourth, he unveils more sparkle and humour than one is used to.

And the Birmingham players rise to the challenge most winningly, offering virtuoso playing in every department.

Perhaps in his relentless, meticulous quest for spirit and detail, Rattle might come across as seemingly less spontaneous and a fraction more studied than some of his illustrious (mostly Hungarian) colleagues. Solti (Decca), Fricsay (DG) and Reiner (RCA) thrive on both brains and gut feeling, and instinctively pack a bigger punch. But there is no slick urbane quality to Rattle's type of music-making (Karajan falls into the trap here), and at the end of the day, if you should be won over by this British team, it will be because they did a splendidly sincere job, constantly hunting down the true essence of the music.

Even the agogic mannerisms and furiously savage writing-style of The Miraculous Mandarin are tamed, compared to say, Abbado (DG), who remains a brilliant first choice. I personally don't care for (and don't recommend) suppressing the seemingly violent streaks often present in much of Bartók's music, but Rattle reminds us that the composer was a humourous man who enjoyed folk dance spirits and the high energy they possessed, and while keeping tensions at a high -- though not as feverishly high as with Abbado -- he unveils more of the theatrical aspects of the pantomime, ensuring that the music makes narrative sense.

The British critics raved on and on about this disc. It is a remarkable recording, but it might frustrate those who crave for a more in-your-face sort of approach.

That these three violin sonatas were written after Brahms had completed his monumental concerto for the same instrument should come as no surprise for these are incredibly mature-sounding works that warrant repeated listening, and one almost always finds something fresh with each hearing.

And just as Brahms himself, Joachim (who provided much guidance to the composer in technical aspects), and his kindred spirit -- not just in a musical sense -- Clara Schumann almost always found something new with each look at the score, so do these present performers. As one of the most famous and versatile violinists of our time, Itzhak Perlman must have played these works many times on the concert stage, and has already made two recordings of it -- the later of the two, found on Sony, has Daniel Barenboim on piano.

But it is the earlier of the two where one finds more to enjoy. For one, Ashkenazy's pianism, somewhat still at its peak when this recording was made in 1983, is consistently more alive and vital than Barenboim's steadier but more ruminative and sometimes more impulsive contributions on Sony. As for Perlman, he is, as always with this violinist, placed rather close to the microphone, although the excellent digital recording remains rather kind to his sound, even at its loudest in the highest tessitura, at such close range. There is no harshness, and Perlman shows a keen ear for colour, texture and immaculate phrasing, all elements that Brahms finds greater difficulty in displaying through his thick orchestrations in his gigantic symphonies.

The Second Sonata is particularly lovely: The opening bars are pure saccharine, with Perlman coaxing a sweet, true intonation to match his flawless yet astonishingly unobtrusive technique (somehow, these days, things have changed somewhat for he seems to be getting showier with age), phrasing and cocooning the listener in a warm, reverberant sound, and Ashkenazy surprisingly gentle, lucid and fluid, proving himself to be no mere competent accompanist, but a genuine, highly-musical collaborator.

Things just seem that much fresher, unhurried, relaxed and natural in 1983 than several years later with Barenboim.

Perhaps it is all too much of a good thing, for one does sense a lack of drama, tension or spectacle, surely things that ought to be present in mature Brahms pieces, however lyrical they might seem on the surface. And for a sense of urgency, one looks no further than the Sony recital.

But in its more spacious yet equally spontaneous way, the present EMI release, with very decent, warm sound despite the closeness of the violin, remains highly recommendable.

For those who find Pollini too stone cold, Ashkenazy too superficial and lacking in depth, Perahia and Andsnes so natural that they sound dangerously polite, and any other pianists too unexceptional in such an oft-performed work like Chopin's ubiquitous "Funeral March" Sonata in B-flat minor, well, you might very well find all your prayers answered in this stunning disc by Russian pianist, Grigory Sokolov.

He must be one of the finest, most wildly and boldly imaginative representatives of his generation of pianists, embracing a truly rich, red-blooded passion often associated with the now somewhat diluted (by more genial Western European influences?) spirit of the traditional Russian piano school. That he should only be receiving greater attention outside Russia now is truly a waste, no thanks to the rigid confines of the Iron Curtain of the former Soviet Union, but now that he is concertising widely around the world, it is good that the rest of the music-loving community can at least sample such unabashedly passionate music-making, thankfully still at its inspired best.

Make no mistake (like I did before hearing him out) that Sokolov is an impetuous virtuoso who barnstorms through thorny passages with an electrifying technique and nothing else. Well, he does indeed whip up a mean and truly tempestuous fortissimo that has you at the edge of your seat, and he does possess splendid fingers backed by a muscular facility that can toss off crashing octaves and huge chords at lightning speeds. But Sokolov is a lot more than that. At no time does he sound mechanical -- one gets the sense that a huge personality is always at work behind all the notes, churning out the music with a unshakable conviction and belief.

His towering interpretation of the Sonata engulfs you, yet remains well attuned to the lyrical, yearning aspects of what is essentially a Romantic work. Nowadays, we get too many pianists who offer periodic glimpses of pure inspiration; Sokolov gives me the impression that he has a vision, that he is sure he knows what he wants, how he will go about achieving it, and how everything will come together to form a cohesive whole.

Whether locking you in a bear-hug or touching you delicately, Sokolov convinces that this music can be played in no other way.

The op.25 Etudes offer ample opportunities to showcase his many temperaments: imperious, vital, never dull, yet never uncontrolled, and oftentimes marvellously gentle and lyrical as well.

The 'live' recordings are suitably brilliant and clear, though a fraction clattery. But it will certainly not stop you from wanting to get up and join the manic applause and cheers of the audience at the end, each and every time you put that disc into your CD player.

Anyone familiar with these three startlingly original Hungarian concertos -- among the finest ever written in the 20^th- century for the piano -- should also be well acquainted with these recordings which feature the ideal pairing of two of the finest Hungarian musicians of the earlier half of this century. Therefore, one requires little elaboration on the many accolades that these legendary performances have received over the years.

Almost 4 decades later, these recordings still sound remarkably well, remastered most successfully, and now winningly repackaged into one generously-filled CD on the DG Originals series. The sound is bold, brilliant, sharply focused, and with remarkably little background hiss.

The performances too have survived the test of time. Anda continues to marvel in the Second Concerto, where, in a work this openly brutal and savage, he possesses the somewhat unlikely combination of motoric aggression, sparkle, wit, grace and poise. At speeds more relaxed than with, say, Maurizio Pollini (also on DG), both Fricsay and Anda reveal deeper, less overwhelmingly manic insights and make this more of a concerto of fine orchestral and detailed, inventive piano-writing than one that bulldozes around mindlessly (although the sheer exuberance of the Pollini-Abbado pairing remains irresistible). The second movement, characteristic of so many of Bartok's slow movements, is thoroughly atmospheric in the outer sections, while the spasmodic glitter of the middle section sounds suitably frisky.

The rest of the works come across well, although a little less distinctive in the light of the present competition. Anda is a little too soft-grained in the First Concerto, although he makes very good sense out of a work that is seemingly perplexing and unresolved in its musical direction. The oft-recorded Third is beautifully cultured and lush, sometimes recalling the Romantic concertos of Rachmaninov et al, perhaps a little too much so sometimes.

Fricsay remains a sparkling partner throughout, and the orchestra supplies exemplary playing.

Peter Donohoe, on the other hand, is no match for Anda's masterly control in the Second Concerto, although he displays a more sparkling sense of humour, and Simon Rattle's brand of subtlety, not quite tailored to satisfy all tastes, is different from Fricsay's instinctive manner. But it is in the other two works where the British pair truly excels.

The First Concerto has never been better explored and expounded than here. Together, both conductor and soloist make a witty and highly sensible statement of what is generally recognised as one of Bartók's least accessible works. The work emerges not as a flawed masterpiece, but as a cohesive concerto that is high in energy and originality, and above all, full of sunny qualities beaming through the apparent savagery.

It is tight, electrifying teamwork that works best here, more than with any of their rivals. It is no longer the imperious soloist dancing wildly to solid orchestral accompaniment; Donohoe and Rattle collaborate to bring out the concertante elements more successfully than with any other pair presently available on CD.

In the fast movements, they smoothen the rough edges with an infectious, scintillating dance spirit, and the quiet, near-standstill moments of the slow movements are rich in dramatic pathos and detail, even at the lowest amplitude. Others might jolt you with more unabashed ebullience, but Donohoe and Rattle know how to keep the listener smiling and continually stimulated bar after bar.

The City of Birmingham orchestra is obviously able to respond with the sort of accuracy, detail and flair that their former music director demands, and EMI supplies outstanding sound.

If you can afford it, I still recommend Pollini for the first two concertos (still at full-price, unfortunately) and Zoltan Kocsis (Philips, also full-price) in the Third. As far as single-disc complete cycles are concerned, Peter Donohoe leads the field by a dangerously narrow margin, followed closely by Kovacevich (Philips), Kocsis, and, of course, Anda. The recent one on Sony, featuring the remarkable Yefim Bronfman on the piano, has received many award nominations, but strangely, it does not provide as moving or as generally satisfying an experience as the superb pianists just mentioned. Ashkenazy is a volatile soloist for the high-energy Georg Solti, but the recordings are, unfortunately, marred by some peculiar idiosyncrasies in the Third Concerto and overly bright recorded sound from Decca.

New Zealand Symphony Orchestra / En Shao (Naxos 8.553403)

My first experience with this New Zealand ensemble was on a Stradivari all-Barber CD from 1988. I didn’t care for the main work on that issue (Symphony No. 2), but the performances sounded more than decent. Still, my expectations in this Stravinsky issue weren’t high, even though I’ve come to expect that the second-tier orchestras used by Naxos are generally quite impressive. I guess I was a bit leery of the conductor, Chinese-born, England-based En Shao. It turns out that he conducts these scores with as much drive, tartness and Stravinskyan coolness as one could wish for. And the orchestra responds to his incisive baton with commitment and robust playing that, but for one minor shortcoming, could rival that of many so-called world-class ensembles.

The Symphony In C is the lead-off piece here. It has an urgency and sweep that yields little, if anything, to the splendid Davis reading on Philips (coupled with the Symphony In Three Movements). Where it may fall short by comparison is in the horn playing, which is at times a bit reticent. Try, for instance, the five note motif, the last three notes repeating, beginning at 2:51 (track 1), and notice how some of these soft notes aren’t just soft but sound weak, almost missing. This is the shortcoming I spoke of above, but it ultimately doesn’t undermine the effectiveness of the performance since there’s simply too much gusto and raw spirit spread among the other players to offset what is in the end only an infrequent mediocrity. But it’s not just "gusto" and "raw spirit" the New Zealanders flaunt, they have panache and finesse, as evidenced in the reed work of the second movement. The oboist is especially attuned to Stravinsky’s subtleties, capturing both the humor and delicacy in the writing. And the strings can dig into the notes in seemingly less consequential sections to deliver a propulsiveness that so often features an undercurrent of grittiness and pride. Try, for example, the passage beginning at 0:32 (track 1) where emphatic lower strings seem to spit out their notes with a delicious forthrightness. All in all, a fine performance.

But the Symphony In Three Movements may be more convincing still. It is a grim enactment that so well captures that mixture of violence and triumph, of mystery and uncertainty. This was, of course, a wartime composition, and it sounds it here in no uncertain terms: rhythms are firm and powerful; tempos are fairly fast (the briskly-inclined composer himself, in his 1962 recording, clocks in ahead of Shao by only less than a minute); and Shao imparts a sense of doom lurking around the corner in his clever phrasing of the ominous flute and muted strings passages in the Andante, and a sense of powerful culmination in his handling of the triumphant ending, where the slashing string-dominated chords augur the hard won victory the final chord emphatically delivers. Altogether, this performance can rank with the best.

The Symphonies of Wind Instruments, to me not the most rewarding Stravinsky work, is well rendered, too. Notes are informative and the sound is vivid. While I wouldn’t rank Shao above Davis in the two Symphonies, or ahead of Salonen in the Symphony in Three Movements, he is competitive and probably has the field to himself in the budget arena.

The Brahms First is a work firmly established in the concert repertoire. A technical and musical challenge to the best pianists, it is one of the most immediately appealing of the composer's works.

Rising to the challenge is the supremely aristocratic Rubinstein, here in the first of three recordings he made of the work. Rubinstein's own preference is his 1976 recording with Zubin Mehta in Israel but by that time, the pianist's technique had started to deteriorate and his tempi were not as vital as in his 1954 effort. Listening to this present recording blindfolded (and perhaps with aloofness), one could be forgiven for thinking that it is the performance of a Russian competition winner in his 20's for this is the level of technical polish that can be heard on this CD.

But Rubinstein was by then already 66, a master pianist steeped in the music of Brahms from childhood. The concerto sounds as if it were recorded in a single, memorable session, an impression borne out by a minor mishit in the finale which has not been edited out.

Rubinstein's wonderful heart-on-the-sleeve poetry is rare even among the superb versions listed above. There is also power and raw excitement aplenty in the octave trills and all, even when compared against Gilels (who is much slower in the outer movements) and Fleisher. The sound, though wanting in comparison to the Ashkenazy, Kovacevich (EMI) and Brendel recordings, is still considerably superior to that accorded Curzon, Fleisher and Serkin.

The man at the podium deserves to be mentioned. Even though Reiner's commitment to the work did not approach that of George Szell (who recorded it no less than 5 times), the Chicago Orchestra gives a performance, in terms of virtuosity and as Brahmsians, that is comparable even to the Berlin Philharmonic on the Gilels recording, albeit with lighter, more subtle textures.

The solo Brahms works which fill up the Rubinstein disc are also given the kind of performances that one wishes for in recital halls (and in recordings) today. Rubinstein uses his technique to serve the music. There is no surface glitter, just deeply felt and profound Brahms.

Finally, this Rubinstein recording is to the Brahms First, what the Sviatoslav Richter/Chicago SO/Erich Leinsdorf (RCA) is to the Second. After all, it was a Rubinstein recital in Odessa that inspired the young Richter to give up architecture and to take up the piano.

In this atypical coupling of two seemingly distant and unrelated violin concertos, the songful and perennially youthful Mendelssohn against the far more somber, moodier Siblieus, I had the privilege of hearing for the first time one of the most promising violin prodigies recording today. I had imagined that it would be hard to distinguish Sarah Chang from many of the other so-called musical talents that are so ubiquitous, but the many felicities and pleasant surprises I found in these live recordings have clearly convinced me otherwise.

First of all, the bad news. The Mendelssohn is extremely competent, but not in my opinion, exceptional. In view of the many many outstanding releases of this over-popular work, it is truly hard, I suppose, to come up with something to topple the benchmarks set by the virtuosos of our time. Still, this is a refined and graceful reading of the work, and Chang is charming in her deliberately understated manner. It’s is just too amicable and sweet to be exciting. I felt that she was at her best in the sublimely beautiful second movement, making her instrument sing with heartfelt pathos. The disappointment, I suppose, really comes from a rather superficial and joyless rendition of the Allegro molto vivace. It was just a little too slow and muted to be really successful. Jansons provides solid if conventional support with the Berlin Philharmonic.

Now, for the good news. Chang is incandescent in the Sibelius, providing us with a recording that could easily now become a primary choice within the catalogue. Chang is both exquisite and brilliant here, showing a keen maturity and understanding that belies her youth. She awes with us by surmounting the formidable complexities and difficulty of this work by an astonishing virtuosity. Listen to how she eases her way through the double-stopped passages with full assurance and mastery.

At the same time, she refuses to tread the well-worn path of convention and tradition. There is a lot of sparkle and originality in this new interpretation of Sibelius’ gaunt colossus. The intensity and pain in the first movement peaks in Chang’s stunning and persuasive reading of the epic cadenza. Jansons coaxes an outstanding and emotion-laden accompaniment from BP, providing an uncharacteristically spartan sound that is totally appropriate for this work. The second movement is a little idiosyncratic, being lugubrious and hesitant, but for some reason, this works very well, and Chang gives us a performance that is totally ethereal and gushing with loveliness. It does not sound at all contrived but totally convincing. The agitated and hectoring Allegro is so much better than the final movement of the Mendelssohn. Chang provides maximum impetus and concentration, evoking the imagery of a battered survivor confronting the vicissitudes of life without being engulfed by it. Again, the terrifying difficulty of some of the passages here are handled with tremendous panache and ease. I suppose the only reservation I have is that perhaps Chang should try to sound a little more effortful, thus heightening the drama.

A remarkable and enjoyable disc. If only for the Sibelius, it's worth your money.