 |
DSCH No. 17 CD Reviews
|
|
 |
Suite on Finnish
Themes (1939)[a]; Symphony for Strings, op. 118a[b]; Chamber Symphony,
op. 110a[c].
Juha
Kangas, Ostrobothnian Chamber Orchestra, Anu Komsi (soprano)[a], Tom Nyman
(tenor)[a].
BIS CD-1256.
DDD. TT 58:20.
Recorded Kaustinen
Folk Art Centre[a]/Kaustinen Church[b,c], Finland, October 2001.
[a]World
premiere recording.
It is remarkable that intrigue should have surrounded the premiere of the Suite on Finnish Themes, but such was the fate of this morsel of Shostakovich confectionery when it was unveiled at a Finnish music festival at Kaustinen last September.
With this new BIS issue, Shostakovich admirers worldwide have a chance to listen to this controversial work, one whose reputation far outweighs its purely musical stature. That is neither to belittle the Suite nor the Finns' reaction to its premiere. On the contrary, it demonstrates how music and politics are sometimes inextricably intertwined, how something as innocuous as this set of seven folksong arrangements can have such far-reaching effects.
DSCH subscribers who have read issues Nos. 15 and 16 will be familiar with the historical background to the Suite, written in 1939 in the shadow of the Sixth Symphony and the Great Terror, and anticipating Stalin's aggression against Finland. Victor Dvortsov's article in DSCH No. 15 provided a detailed account of each movement as discussed by Russian musicologist Arkady Klimovitsky, who described the introduction as "the only openly tonal movement", suggesting a work that might provide some harmonic excitement.
Listening to the Suite for the first time quickly dissipated such anticipations. This is no From Jewish Folk Poetry despite its political implications. In fact, one might say this Suite would have been the right sort of response had Shostakovich really wanted to write a folk-based composition to satisfy his critics in 1949.
Lest I digress, the interesting parallel between the two is that, like the Jewish songs, this set is cast entirely in minor keys and shares some of the later cycle's bittersweet sentiment. For a work that is supposed to celebrate friendship between two nations, there has got to be some irony in this.
The Suite lasts no more than eleven minutes. As Dvortsov observes, the choice of key signatures makes for awkward and unsatisfying listening in the overall scheme of things, giving the impression of parts strung together haphazardly, without much thought.
The work opens with an instrumental introduction on the folksong Feast Days are For Lads Like These. Here with "full" ensemble (a string quintet, a wind trio, trumpet, piano and minimal percussion) it sounds a little like the composer's threadbare stage or film scores of the 30s, wry and a little tongue in cheek, a mock pompous Musorgskian parody that is overly earnest.
The square march, full of unisons and pseudo-classical harmonies is contrasted with slithery woodwind lines that characterise Shostakovich's music from the period (for example the clarinets in Lady Macbeth as noted by Esti Sheinberg). It is all too brief, and the hanging coda leads almost too expectantly to the second movement, Giocoso.
This strident song for soprano sets the formula that will repeat itself throughout the Suite: a perfunctory introduction of about four bars followed by the folksong in rudimentary, barebones harmonisation. Here (as elsewhere) Klimovitsky's descriptions are slightly exaggerated when he says it "has much in common with the scherzos of Shostakovich's instrumental cycles." In reality, it is a simple march-like song opened with a jester's trumpet and curtain-raising tambourine.
If anything, the blandness of this music is the flavour to relish. Shostakovich refuses to colour the music any more than required, and the pigments he leaves out are almost as telling as those he paints in. We have witnessed the thick, rich textures that the composer is capable of summoning from, say, a string quartet, but here we are presented with almost comical caricatures (a quality also noted by Finnish composer Henrik Nordgern in Helsinki Sanomat in June 2001). Once again, it seems that Shostakovich has short-changed a commission, and I suspect that this is more deliberate than expedient.
The third song turns out to be the hidden gem, a brief instrumental interlude on a folksong that, the notes suggest, would have been somewhat controversial if sung. In response to the silent lyrics, which speak of sadness and a yearning for peace (hardly the sort of thing to keep spirits up in a newly conquered land), Shostakovich creates a touching piece of music that brims with nostalgia and deep sorrow. It breaks through the superficial veneer of the rest of the Suite like a clown removing his mask.
It is beyond doubt that in this one instance the composer is lavishing the folksong with his craftsman's touch, opening with a beautiful introduction of eventide shades, sighing plaintively as the two-stanza song is taken, first by the mournful clarinet in the chalumeau register, then by the flute against pizzicato lower strings and luminous upper strings.
In a Petrushkan turn of events, this brief moment of solidarity is broken by the piano's brash introduction to the fourth song. Again the barebones, square formula returns: a rudimentary intro on piano and tambourine that tries to be sophisticated but fails (one is reminded of the Pianists in Saint Saens' Carnival of the Animals) frames the stanzas where Prokofievan clarinet arpeggi and pizzicato strings give the minor-key song a sense of mock cheeriness.
This ends unceremoniously (literally stops in its tracks) to make way for the inverted introduction of the fifth song, where the unison string declamation sounds more like a coda than an intro. Is Shostakovich pulling a musical joke? If he is, it is discreet enough not to insult the music or its origins. The accompaniment to this moderate stroll has a Musorgskian simplicity and naturalness that is charming, with a wink of the eye.
The sixth song breaks the monotony that threatens to set in with its metrical variations. In the style of a stately gavotte with a feigned grace that stumbles on a calculated extra beat, this cheeky song of skirt-chasing gets a small dose of Shostakovich's infamous sense of humour - although a Tchaikovskian touch, reminiscent of the limp in the second movement of the latter's Pathetique, is discernible.
The grand finale, if it can be called that, stands firm for the banality of the work. Again the Petrushkan piano jumps in with a simpleminded arpeggio introduction that bursts forth after each stanza. The verses repeat mechanically to pizzicato strings without any perceptible variation except to speed up on the last stanza (here Klimovitsky's "three stanzas in precise repetition and variation" might better be described as just "precise repetition") whereupon the Suite finishes with a conspicuous absence of any sense of finality. Without a flourish, the painful exercise is simply extinguished as if closing the cover on the score with one swift shut, leaving any sort of glorious affirmation out in the cold.
Such is this 11-minute curiosity, a premiere that while insubstantial is nonetheless intriguing. It either begs more questions or total indifference. The singers put in their best, giving the lyrics the lift and lilt that Shostakovich otherwise refuses to, while Kangas and the fabulous Ostrobothnians give the music more than it probably deserves.
In the end, whether you snub the Suite or, more inconceivably, are enraptured by its questionable charm, that brief moment where Shostakovich shows himself in the middle slow movement is an inspired piece of writing that surely deserves to be heard and repeated, at least as an encore piece.
While the Suite is a trifle, and you are unlikely to be hit by the desire to return to it frequently, Kangas and the Ostrobothnians make the experience worthwhile by delivering two of the hottest readings of Barshai's Tenth and Eighth Quartet orchestrations that I have ever heard.
 |
|
The Ostrobothnians are indeed a world-class ensemble; with marvellous precision they embrace both the brutal toughness and the deep tenderness of these pieces with equal conviction. From the nocturnal delicacy of the opening movement of the op. 118a (on the dark Tenth Quartet), you will not expect the sheer terror and brutality of the ensuing Allegro furioso with its hammering rhythms and fearsome sequence of donkey-bray chords. Kangas outdoes Turovsky (Chandos CHAN 6617) in this opus, and particularly in this movement, where the latter sounds laboured and plodding in comparison to the Finn's agile virtuosity.
The following passacaglia movement shows deep sensitivity and poetry, full of little nuances that sing out from an ensemble whose members are fully attuned to each other and to the music. The Ostrobothnians have an extensive palette that ranges from the requisite bleached white tones and diaphanous silky textures to terrifying, rosin-scraping blows.
 |
|
The Ostrobothnians' sheer power and delicacy come to no better spotlight than the op. 110a, an unforgettable performance which plays to the hilt the entire arc of emotions from the whispered opening "DSCH" to the gale force of terror of the Jewish dance. It is in stark contrast to the Moscow Chamber Orchestra's uniformly bleak performance on Delos (DE 3259; reviewed in DSCH No. 14). Where the latter fail to string together the disparate parts, the Ostrobothnians succeed with their breadth of vision and deep poetry.
Fluency is the edge that Kangas and his forces have over Turovsky's fiery rendition with I Musici de Montreal. Rarely does an ensemble manage to navigate this pastiche work without showing a seam here or there, but this is one such occasion. I admire the Allegro most, a delivery that manages to balance the immense power and volume of sound with a leanness of tone that etches out its many layers, tearing at the relentless hocketting notes and plunging headlong into the Jewish tune without a hitch and at fearsome pace. At one point I nearly forgot what I was listening to and imagined myself in the middle of Stravinsky's Danse Sacrale.
It is rare that a reviewer has nothing to complain about, but in this case I really don't! There is nothing ordinary about this recording. The fine ensemble give blood where it is due, silence where required, and lots of swagger where the premiere of the Suite is concerned. Credit must also go to Kangas for inspired leadership - the conductor shows real kinship with the material and a deep understanding of the nerves beneath the Chamber Symphonies. These add solid value to the chance to listen to a newly discovered but otherwise unremarkable Shostakovich work. Well worth the experience.
CH Loh
Index
|
|
 |
Shostakovich
- The Thirties
Suite for Jazz Orchestra No. 2 (1938)[a]; Suite on Finnish Themes
(1939; listed as Seven Arrangements on Finnish Melodies)[b]; Two Fables
by Krylov, op. 4[c]; The Silly Little Mouse, op. 56[d]; Petrushka
- The Archangel Gabriel (orch. McBurney) and Overture
- Destruction of the City (original versions)[e] from Hypothetically
Murdered, op. 31; March and Waltz from the Suite for
Variety Orchestra (1938).
Vladimir Ponkin, Orchestra of the Republican Guard, Alexei Martynov (tenor)[b],
Elena Vassilieva (mezzo-soprano)[b,c]/(narrator)[d], and in [d]: Anne-Catherine
Picca (sopranino - Mother Mouse), Florence Barreau (soprano - Aunt Cat),
Tatiana Martynova (mezzo-soprano -Aunt Duck), Patrick Nogues (tenor -
Aunt Mare), Mathieu Bulot (baritone - Aunt Piggy), Valeri Drougovkoy (bass
- Aunt Toad), Alexis Konovaloff (bass - The Dog Polkan), Celia Allarty
(the Little Mouse; spoken role), Inés Allarty (Aunt Pike; silent
role).
Mandala MAN 5039 (distributed by Harmonia Mundi; HMCD 78). DDD. TT
61:46.
Live recording
of a concert given on 16th January 2002 in the Amphitheatre of the Sorbonne
University, Paris under the auspices of the Association Internationale
Dimitri Chostakovitch (see also the review
of the concert in this edition).
[a]World
premiere audio release.
[e]World
premiere recording.
 |
 |
Having no access to the video recording of the world premiere of the "real" Second Jazz Suite (Last Night of the Proms 2000; BBC DVD WMDVD8001-9) this was my first introduction to the work, here in its three-movement guise courtesy of Manashir Yakubov and Gerard McBurney's unearthing and arranging prowess.
As in the suite that formerly usurped this title, there are plenty of moments here to remind one of the splendidly droll side of Shostakovich's 1930s output. Wheeled-in saxophones, quirky dance rhythms and the unmistakable tongue-in-cheek melodies are all traits that were to strew the composer's theatre output from the 1920s to the 1960s.
However, gripe number one: the orchestra, in what has to be said is not the most challenging repertoire, sound a mite dishevelled in the pieces' tutti. Weren't there takes available from rehearsals? Gripe number two: the CD box proclaims "World Premiere" while the booklet notes announce the Proms premiere! Good to have these pieces on CD, all the same.
The well-publicised Finnish Folksongs (see review of premiere recording, above) have, in my opinion, received very unfair press up to now. Okay, they are uncontroversial, folksy, light-music pieces, but they nevertheless evoke a gentle national passion through their verses and through Shostakovich's lilting accompaniment.
But another gripe arises here, I'm afraid, and it's a fundamentally important one for this disc: soprano Elena Vassilieva's sturdy, vibrato-laden approach - more akin to Mozart's Don Giovanni than early-century Soviet Russian titbits - sits very uncomfortably in the majority of the pieces on this disc. The best example is the Two Fables by Krylov, where my preference is for the more lucid character of, say, Larissa Dyadkova on Deutsche Grammophon (439 860-2; deleted).
Another recorded rarity is the music to The Silly Little Mouse, from 1939. This music composed for a short animated film (based on a story by Marshak) is appealingly tuneful and inventively scored (the CD box lists no fewer than 10 soloists). "I took great pleasure in working on this composition," the composer is quoted in the generously annotated CD booklet. "It was my first experience in film music for children. I would like it to be a success and hope that children will enjoy this work. The music of this film is based on a lullaby in which the mouse, duck, pig, toad, horse, pike and cat sing in turn. The song (lullaby) varies according to the temperament of the character singing it; the music is joyous and lyrical. Unlike Marshak's version, the film has a happy ending: the baby mouse is not eaten by the cat; on the contrary, he is saved by Polkan, the dog." Annoyingly, we get too-closely-miked French narration, with the miscellany of sounds and voices (singing in Russian), plus orchestra, relegated to mid-stage.
Finally, to Hypothetically Murdered. Only four pieces are offered here, but two are world premieres, here in their original (i.e., pre-McBurney) versions: Overture and Destruction of the City. Fascinating to compare these recently discovered numbers (which share one track on the CD) with the commercialised version that hit the Shostakovich scene in 1992.
The March and Waltz (the final two tracks on the disc) were played as concert encores (and are announced on the recording as such). They originate from the Suite for Variety Orchestra composed by Shostakovich in 1938 (long catalogued as Suite for Jazz Orchestra No. 2). The ubiquitous Waltz actually prompts the by-now heady audience into a quick round of applause, Piaf-at-the-Ritz style, the moment the melody appears - is this a recorded first?
The origins of France's Orchestra of the Republican Guard go back to 1848; the current format combined in 1993. As I've already intimated, there are unfortunate ragged passages in this disc - counteracted, in part, by some good solo playing and a firm, if at times dogged, sense of rhythmical balance. It is impossible to judge the Siberian-born conductor Vladimir Ponkin's role in all of this. Given his CV (musical director of the Nemirovich-Danchenko & Stanislavsky Theatre), the reasons for some of the CD's more "difficult" moments could well come from lack of adequate rehearsals or the orchestra's unfamiliarity with the repertoire.
To conclude, some real musical gems lie beneath this live concert's surface. Those interested in "firsts" should be happy with the host of French and world premieres assembled here. Those content to collect these Shostakovich ditties slowly and precisely as they crop up in the standard CD catalogue may well be inclined to do just that.
Bernard Suchaux
Index
|
|
 |
The Tale of
the Priest and his Worker Balda, op. 36[a]; The Story of
the Silly Little Mouse, op. 56[b].
[a]Valentin
Kozhin, Leningrad (listed as St. Petersburg) Malyi Opera and Ballet Theatre
Orchestra and Choir, Vladimir Pankratov (bass - Balda), Sergei Safenin
(bass - Priest), Elena Ustinova (soprano - Priest's daughter), Anatoly
Manukhov (tenor - Bell ringer), Mikhail Kalinovsky (bass - Devil), Nina
Romanova (mezzo-soprano - She-devil), German Lyudko (tenor - Baby devil),
Vladimir Matusov (Narrator), Mikhail Senchurov (balalaika);
[b]Boris
Tiles, Leningrad (listed as St. Petersburg) Conservatory Opera Studio
Orchestra, Tamara Psareva (Baby Mouse; spoken role), Nina Glinkina (coloratura
soprano - Mouse), Tatyana Sharova (soprano - Cat), Galina Tishchenko (mezzo-soprano
- Duck), Mikhail Fedorov (bass - Toad), Mikhail Kalinovsky (bass - Polkan,
the dog), Mikhail Tesler (tenor - Horse), Anatoly Timofeyev (baritone
- Pig), Boris Ulitin (Narrator).
Boheme
Music CDBMR 012192. A_D. TT 59:23.
Recorded Leningrad
(listed as St. Petersburg) Recording Studio, 1979[b]/1982[a].
 |
 |
 |
|
Amazing isn't it: you wait years for a mouse and then three come along at the same time! After the 1998/9 releases of the film score of The Story of the Silly Little Mouse by Citadel and, in Andrew Cornell's adaptation, by Decca (CTD 88129 and 289 460 792-2, respectively; both reviewed in DSCH No. 11, pp. 88-92), a third version enters the fray. Or rather the first version, because, notwithstanding Boheme's anachronistic claim that the performers are from "St. Petersburg", this is in fact a re-release of the 1979 Melodiya recording. According to Derek Hulme this was issued three years later in 1982, though Boheme miss both dates and put it down as 1981.
To this is hitched the 1982 recording of fragments of Sofia Khentova's operatic resuscitation of The Tale of the Priest and his Worker Balda. Not that these are necessarily unwelcome re-releases, but it might have been nice for it to have been made clearer that they aren't new recordings.
So, just how welcome are they? In 1933 Mikhail Tsekhanovsky was a well-known director, specialising in animation but also venturing into live action films such as Pacific 231, based on Honegger's orchestral piece (sadly, less well-known than Jean Mitry's easier-to-see 1949 version). But the film studios wanted him to use various techniques to speed his rate of production and, as he was unwilling to enter the ranks of Stakhanovite animators, he was demoted to work only on other people's films for several years.
 |
|
The still unfinished Tale of the Priest and his Worker Balda lay in the archives until the war, when bombing destroyed all but 60 metres of it (this fragment - The Bazaar - can be seen on the Chandos DVD-ROM; reviewed in DSCH No. 15). The story of the blockhead who outwits the priest must have appealed at the time not only to the irreverent side of Shostakovich himself but also to the authorities with their anti-religion campaigns. But he's cannier even than that, as everyone in the story is worsted by him.
 |
|
Shostakovich worked on the score intermittently over the twenty months from March 1933 to November 1934, and unusually returned to reorchestrate fifteen of its numbers in 1935. He also extracted a ten-minute, six-number suite and Rozhdestvensky recorded this in 1980 (BMG 74321 59058 2; reviewed in DSCH No. 11).
In the same year, indefatigable biographer Sofia Khentova took the surviving fragments and supplemented them with items from various other (mostly contemporary) Shostakovich works to create a 75-minute opera. This and Atovmyan's Ballet Suites gave a rare chance to hear some of the still frowned-on ballet The Limpid Stream, but it also uses later music including three of the Ten Russian Folk Songs from 1951.
We still await a recording of Khentova's complete opera, but in the meantime we have the 44 minutes presented here. Oddly, the 17 pieces chosen don't run consecutively or even chronologically through the opera and we hop to and fro a little bit, so it's hard to judge the dramatic success of Khentova's work. At the moment this collection of pieces feels more like incidental music than true opera, and it may be that this impression would remain even at 75 minutes.
Anyone who knows Rozhdestvensky's recording will have some shocks beyond the opera's addition of a chorus to several pieces. Listing the textual differences between the two recordings would fill a large amount of space for little good: the opera extends, cuts and repeats several items with different orchestrations. In any case, the opera fragments are four times as long as Rozhdestvensky's suite, so they are hardly direct rivals.
There has been some attempt to liven up the recording with a stereo image that stretches "from Smolensk to Tashkent" so things certainly are "lively". One definite downside is the way the demons have been given a weird electronic treatment that the innocent listener might at first think a mistake; perhaps only those familiar with the story would realise that these are submarine characters and the strange rippling effect is deliberate.
We can hardly claim The Priest as a major addition to the Shostakovich canon, but I do hope we'll see a complete, properly annotated recording at some point - just filling a single disc, it would be a nice project for Rozhdestvensky and Chandos. Certainly for anyone who enjoys Shostakovich's dramatic works from the 1930s, it's an enjoyable way to hear some pieces that you may not know and, in another guise, some others that you may think you do.
Accompanying this is Boris Tiles' recording of The Story of the Silly Little Mouse. Tsekhanovsky was back in favour by 1939 and made this charming little animated children's film, basing it on Samuil Marshak's poem. Shostakovich wrote the score in March and the film was made to go with it, which must have been a pleasing departure for the composer.
Tiles edited the score from surviving parts in 1979 and it was included in volume 41 of the old Collected Works edition, published in 1987. He added a narrator whose part is based on the directions Shostakovich wrote in the score, and mixed the other parts between singing and speaking. The speaking parts are sometimes spread out against the music as if to give some idea of the effect that Tiles wanted, though they're not in Sprechstimme. Given who the conductor in this recording is, it might seem a bit surprising that they're sometimes a bar or so adrift. But looking again you see that to coordinate the two would necessitate some ve-e-e-ry slo-o-o-ow speaking, which was obviously impractical.
Some of the animal parts are nearer to conventional notation: the duck's "krya" is given headless notes indicating the rhythm, while the pig's "khryoo" is usually a minim with an "x" inside it, though at one point there is an attempt to get him to grunt ... well, not quite a melody but a rhythm and a couple of different notes, and a few of his utterances are marked to be "snorted". Thankfully, Anatoly Timofeyev ignores the "khryoo" to give a good grunt and some of the other performers also take an entertainingly liberal attitude, as when Mikhail Tesler adds a little whinnying shake to his melody and the baby mouse occasionally mewls in the background.
This must be one of Shostakovich's most loveable scores, and from the opening bars its transparency and deft illustration are completely infectious. Tiles' is the jolliest, most vernal opening, and all in all it's an enthusiastic and hugely communicative performance. It is preferable to Mnatsakanov's Citadel recording which, though the narrator is marvellous (a wide-eyed female against Tiles' more down-to-earth male) and the toad has an impressive swagger, is spoiled by the rest of the cast's failure to let their hair down, as in the cat's purring, sung sotto voce as if the soprano were ashamed of making a non-singing noise.
Chailly on Decca undoubtedly has the smoothest playing and best recording but dispenses with all the vocal parts. It's well done and I wouldn't want to be without it for the quality of the playing but I'd also want the Boheme version.
The notes are tri-lingual (Russian, English and Dutch) but the English ones are not terribly useful: the revelation that Khentova made her operatic version of The Priest in 1980 and that it was premiered in 1967 might strike some as odd: 1967 was actually when the surviving fragment was premiered at the Moscow Film Festival. Generally the notes give the impression that the writer was not familiar with the music or the films that they accompany. Contrary to what he says, it is hardly unusual for an animated film to be made to fit existing music: if there is going to be any synchronisation between the music and the images, that is by far the best way to do it and is standard practice. And we need not "hope that the films themselves are not utterly lost": they all exist and some are being restored.
There are no libretti, and although there is a synopsis of The Mouse and a welcome still from the film, there is no indication of what The Priest is about and the image illustrating it has nothing to do with the film. My 1949 edition of Pushkin's poem has a similar illustration by one B. Dekhterev.
Also, though the stable door may be open and the horse may have bolted, it's time we sorted out the old canard about The Story of the Silly Little Mouse never having been released - an error that has dogged us since appearing in Testimony. It was released, premiering on 13 September 1940. Hopefully, now that I've let the cat out of the bag, there'll be no more horsing around and future note-writers will be cowed into submission so that no one need risk getting this particular pig in a poke again.
Completists will, in the nature of things, want all the options: Rozhdestvensky, Kozhin/Tiles, Mnatsakanov and Chailly. Each has unique features including, of course, the couplings, and this is one case where duplication is justified. The notes do let the Boheme disc down and did rather set me against it, but with the best Mouse on the market and the fullest Priest currently available, it demands to be heard.
John Riley
Index
|
|
 |
|
|
 |
Elisso plays
Liszt & Shostakovich
Twenty-four Preludes, op. 34[a]; Liszt: Mephisto Waltz No.
1[b]; Sonetto 104 di Petrarca[c]; Liszt/Gounod: Waltz from
Faust[d].
Elisso Wirssaladze
(piano).
Live Classics
LCL 306. DDD. TT 53:02.
Recorded live
Verdi Conservatory, Milan, 19 April 1995[b,c]/5 February 2001[a,d].
Twenty-four Preludes,
op. 34; Prokofiev: Toccata, op. 11; Piano Sonata No. 3 in A minor,
op. 28; Ravel: Miroirs.
Elena Rozanova
(piano).
harmonia
mundi HMN 911757. DDD. TT 71:58.
Recorded Espace
de Projection, IRCAM, Paris, May 2001.
Here we have two utterly different experiences of the Twenty-four Preludes. Elisso Wirssaladze, born and schooled in Georgia, is in her late fifties, and is a Professor of Piano at the Moscow Tchaikovsky Conservatory and the College of Music in Munich. She imposes her own aggressive artistic personality on these pithy pieces. Russian Elena Rozanova, in her early thirties and a graduate of the Moscow Conservatory (though never a student of Wirssaladze), is obviously on intimate terms with this opus, but is content to allow it to assert its own moods.
Wirssaladze seeks out the disconcerting in each Prelude. Towards this end, she does not hesitate to toss out the score's tempo and dynamic indications. No matter that No. 4 is marked sempre legato, and details no fewer than eighteen dynamic shifts, if it sounds more grotesque when played staccato at virtually constant volume. If slowing No. 12 to less than two-thirds the posted speed limit yields the sensation of driving with the parking brake pulled up halfway, then out with the metronome marking.
The end result is a uniquely craggy panorama. How mysterious the isolated note clusters at the heart of Prelude No. 10 now seem, and how unusual it is to find the F# major Prelude, No. 13, wearing such an inscrutable mien. Jaunty No. 24 in Wirssaladze's hands is a hapless rag doll in the jaws of a Rottweiler. Even stranger is the normally sweet-natured Eb major Prelude, No. 19, whose melodic lines Wirssaladze sets, awkwardly, at rhythmic odds with each other.
This is challenging stuff! I can think of no other rendering that complies so fully with Ian MacDonald's perception of this work as "uniformly barbed, bitter, and disenchanted".
 |
|
Room exists, however, for a more palatable presentation of an opus composed, in part, to pave Shostakovich's path back to the concert stage. An Impressionist lens forms a prettier image of the Twenty-four Preludes, one that Rozanova sees in closer focus than does the similarly bespectacled Johan Schmidt (see DSCH No. 11; Cyprès CYP2622).
 |
|
|
Like Wirssaladze, Rozanova bends the score quite liberally, but in a far more organic manner. Her rubato seems inherent to the music rather than being dictated from without, even though she toys with tempi much more than does Shostakovich in his own recordings of ten of the Preludes, especially in Nos. 8 and 15 (Revelation RV 70007; deleted).
Rozanova portrays a wider range of dispositions than either Wirssaladze or the composer-pianist, allowing the softer side of many Preludes to emerge. Her Prelude No. 19 is sugary; her No. 24 rolls gently. Wirssaladze and Shostakovich do not flaunt the swooning sexiness in Rozanova's No. 17.
At the same time Rozanova does not shy away from displays of virtuosity, as in her daring sprint through Prelude No. 21, or her effortless despatching of the No. 9 Presto. Even at such moments, though, she lacks the tense edginess of Wirssaladze. Unsurprisingly, her Eb minor Prelude, No. 14, is nowhere near as ominous as Shostakovich's 1947 reading.
Rozanova evidently possesses keen musical instincts, which makes it all the more perplexing why she misjudges the bass interval in the last bar of the C# minor Prelude, No. 10, repeating the major third on E of the penultimate bar instead of dropping to the written - and conclusive - perfect fifth on the tonic. It's hard to imagine that she intended to end on the indecisive triad in first inversion thus completed by the last bar's C# above the treble staff ... but if this was a mistake, why no retake?
 |
|
 |
|
 |
|
Turning to couplings, given Rozanova's Impressionist mode in Shostakovich, it's rather surprising that her Miroirs reflect so dimly. La vallée des cloches is adequately evocative, but Noctuelles is too metallic to suggest the fluttering moths Ravel meant it to depict, and the Spanish atmosphere in Alborada del Gracioso is thin. Rozanova's mechanical delivery of Prokofiev's Toccata and Third Sonata is a legitimate approach, yet need not be quite this prosaic; she overlooks the self-conscious audacity of these youthful inspirations.
As for Wirssaladze, she is in her natural element in Liszt. Her handling of the Mephisto Waltz is a devilish paradox, simultaneously controlled and spastic. Cracks appear in her stony demeanour in the tender heart of the Faust Waltz, but ruthless absorption is never far away. Her Petrarca Sonetto is equally intimidating.
Wirssaladze's disc is an idiosyncratic concert event that places stern demands on the listener, but which should appeal to piano aficionados tired of anonymous renditions. Her Twenty-four Preludes is a one-off exploration of how far that work can be forced in a single direction. Like Raymond Clarke's clever, rarefied account, reviewed in DSCH No. 11 (Athene ATH CD18), hers is primarily for those Shostakovich shoppers who already own a more versatile outfit for everyday wear.
Rozanova's version fits that description well enough, and is much to be preferred to Tatiana Nikolaeva's laboured and poorly recorded Hyperion release (CDA66620). Among currently available versions, Vladimir Viardo's imaginatively diverse - and often pointedly ironic - account would be my first choice (Elektra Nonesuch 79234-2). With the reservations already noted, though, Rozanova's recital is worth hearing.
Acoustics in both releases are crisp and natural. Be warned, though, that Live Classics stuff all of Wirssaladze's Preludes into a single track, turning the selection of any given one into an exercise in frustration.
W. Mark Roberts
Index
|
|
 |
Amir
Duets:
Five Pieces for Two Violins and Piano (arrangements by Atovmyan of Prelude
from The Gadfly, Gavotte and Elegy from The Human
Comedy, Waltz from ?, Polka from The Limpid Stream)[a]
plus Spanish Dance from The Gadfly Suite, op. 97a (arranged
for two violins and piano by Atovmyan)[b]; Wieniawski: Polonaise No.
1 in D major, op. 4[c]; Tchaikovsky: Mélodie in Eb,
No. 3 from Souvenir d'un lieu cher, op. 42[d]; Vieuxtemps: Tarantelle[e];
Nathan Milstein: Paganiniana Variations[f]; Paganini: La Clochette,
op. 7 (arranged for violin and piano by Kreisler)[g]; Prokofiev: March
from Love for Three Oranges, op. 33[h]; Charles-Auguste de Bériot:
First movement of Duo No. 3 from 3 Concertante duets, op. 57[i];
Yevgeny Brusilovsky (printed Evgeniy Brusilovski): Boz Aygir (The
Wild Horse)[j]; Grazyna Bacewicz: Latwe duety na tematy ludowe
(Easy Duets on Folk Themes - listed as Folk Dances)[k].
Amir (violin),
Marat Bisengaliev (violin)[a,b,i,k], John Lenehan (piano)[a-e,g,h,j].
Black Box
BBM1042. DDD. TT 55:24.
Recorded Potton
Hall, Suffolk, 26 - 27 November 1999 and 29 February 2000.
[a,b]World
premiere recording of arrangements.
[j,k]World
premiere recordings.
|
|
 |
Two Pieces (Prelude
and Scherzo) for String Octet, op. 11 (incorrectly printed op.
1 no. 1)[a]; Piano Quintet in G minor, op. 57[b]; Five Pieces for Two
Violins and Piano[c]; Two Pieces (Elegy - Adagio and Polka -
Allegretto) for String Quartet, sans op. D[d].
Brodsky
Quartet[a,b,d]: Andrew Haveron (violin 1)[c], Ian Belton (violin 2)[c],
Paul Cassidy (viola), Jacqueline Thomas (cello); Jacqueline Shave (violin)[a],
Roy Theaker (violin)[a], Jane Atkins (viola)[a], Alexander Baillie (cello)[a],
Christian Blackshaw (piano)[b,c].
Challenge
Classics CC 72093. DDD. TT 61:22.
Recorded Snape
Maltings, Aldeburgh, U.K., 5 - 7 March 2001.
The common work on these two discs, Five Pieces for Two Violins and Piano, is another of Lev Atovmyan's ubiquitous arrangements of excerpts from Shostakovich's stage and film scores. Thanks to industrious arrangers - not to mention the composer himself - the tunes found in second-hand suites like this metastasise throughout Shostakovich's musical catalogue, inflicting chronic headaches on annotators. In this case, errors have crept into the documentation provided by the score's publisher, Musikverlag Hans Sikorski, and some of these are repeated in Challenge Classics' notes (Black Box avoid the problem by providing no commentary on this music whatsoever).
Ronald Vermeulen's CD notes for Challenge Classics are accurate for the romantic Prelude that opens the suite, which many will recognise from No.7, Introduction, in Atovmyan's familiar orchestral suite from The Gadfly, op. 97a. As Derek Hulme (compiler of the upcoming third edition of the Shostakovich catalogue) has pointed out to me, this movement in Five Pieces is actually taken straight from No. 15, Guitars, of Shostakovich's original score of The Gadfly, and does not incorporate elements of its fifth number, Confession, which Atovmyan deployed in No. 7 of his op. 97a.
The notes also correctly assign the perky Gavotte to The Human Comedy incidental music, wherein it is No. 18. This is recycled as the second number in Ballet Suite No. 3, another Atovmyan project.
The final movement, a sprightly Polka, comes from The Limpid Stream, as advertised. There it is No. 12, Dance of the Milkmaid and the Tractor Driver, though it is more often encountered as No. 4 in Ballet Suite No. 1.
The third and fourth Pieces, however, are misattributed. Vermeulen copies Sikorski in assigning paternity for the lilting third movement, Elegy, to The Limpid Stream, op. 39. Not so! This originated as The Panorama of Paris theme from The Human Comedy, op. 37, and does not appear in The Limpid Stream. Sikorski do, however, correctly report that Elegy was also arranged as No. 4 in Ballet Suite No. 3.
The fourth movement, an aristocratic Waltz, is more problematic, for despite what Sikorski and Vermeulen state, this does not derive from Shostakovich's score to the animated film The Tale of the Priest and His Servant Balda. Whence it does originate remains a mystery to me. Louis Blois and Derek Hulme recognised the music as the fifth item in a solo-piano compilation published by Schirmer as Shostakovich: Easy Pieces for the Piano and by Sikorski as Karussell der Tänze (Roundabout of Dances). Mr. Hulme suggests that it may also be a number from Atovmyan's Choreographic Miniatures ballet suite. Unfortunately, the Shostakovich score that Atovmyan mined for all these arrangements remains elusive.
To make even more of a molehill out of this ant-heap, Five Piece's Prelude and Gavotte turn up in the same instrumentation in Konstantin Fortunatov's Three Violin Duets (Fortunatov's third Duet, a Waltz from the Maxim trilogy, does not feature among Atovmyan's Five Pieces). Although, as compiler, Fortunatov is usually credited for Three Violin Duets, in fact the arrangements are Atovmyan's, and Prelude and Gavotte are scored identically in Three Violin Duets and Five Pieces.
 |
|
The first and most prominent recording of Three Violin Duets was on an EMI album that earned a 1980 Grammy Award in the Chamber Music category for Itzhak Perlman, Pinchas Zukerman and Samuel Sanders. This recording is currently available in EMI's Matrix reissue series, accompanied by its original disc-mate, Prokofiev's Sonata for Two Violins, plus a sparkling rendition of Bartók's Forty-four Violin Duos (EMI 7243 5 65994 2 0).
There is little basis on which to choose between the Prelude from Perlman et al. and the one from the Brodsky Quartet's violinists with British pianist Christian Blackshaw. A melancholy reverie lounges in both. In contrast, Amir (he goes by this name only), Marat Bisengaliev and John Lenehan sound more syrupy than either rival, and cannot resist taking the Poco piu mosso marking on the central section as licence to twirl gymnastically.
The Gavotte on Challenge Classics is 1.4 times faster, and proportionally less stilted, than the one on Matrix, which purveys a more ponderous brand of merriment. Black Box's Gavotte is livelier still. The Brodsky players proffer crisper articulation than do Amir and his partners, who prefer a less formal dance.
The remaining three Pieces leave only two competitors, and continue to show Amir, Bisengaliev and Lenehan as supple; Haveron, Belton and Blackshaw as refined. The latter play Elegy with touching gentleness, while the former are more impassioned - Black Box's intimate recording catches some loud inhalations here, but I cannot say I find these objectionable.
The temper of that obscure Waltz is not as subdued as suggested by its title in the solo-piano score, Waltz of Remembrance. Devoid of sardonic wit, this is unlike Shostakovich's other visits to the genre, instead comporting itself with fin de siecle grace. Amir and Co. luxuriate in its textures, investing 2:05 in material that their more elegant counterparts grant just 1:47. Lenehan is less prominent than Blackshaw in this movement, following the freer rhythm of his partners rather than marking the beat as Blackshaw does.
In the fifth Piece, Polka, the Black Box team are more vibrant, the two violinists sounding like gypsy fiddlers. On Challenge Classics, this movement has a salon atmosphere.
The positions of the Polka and Elegy are reversed on Black Box, presumably to avoid having the Spanish Dance from The Gadfly - not a member of Five Pieces and not included on Challenge Classics - follow another fast movement. This familiar number (a.k.a. Folk Festival, Tarantella and a handful of other noms de guerre) seems slightly awkward in this dress, but it is played with all possible exuberance.
Amir presents the first recording of Five Pieces for Two Violins and Piano. This is also the premiere recording of Atovmyan's instrumentation for the same forces of Spanish Dance. You would not, however, learn this from Black Box's vestigial booklet notes, which title all six pieces "Duets" and offer no information on the sources of these tunes or even who arranged them.
Even more unjustly, the only credit paid to John Lenehan - accomplished British concert pianist, recording artist, teacher, arranger and composer - for his sterling support throughout this programme is his name on the back of the jewel case. The booklet does not once mention his name, much less tell us anything about his career. Amir's second violinist - and uncle - Marat Bisengaliev gets two sentences.
Nevertheless, if the present performances are anything to go by, it isn't empty hyperbole when the same notes proclaim Amir, just thirteen at the time of these recordings, as "one of the most profoundly gifted young artists to have emerged in recent years." In the five encore staples he has chosen to lead off his first recording, the Kazakh violinist displays a magnetic, communicative virtuosity. As breathtaking as is his technique, he is always engaging of the listener, never aloof.
And, heavens, how he conveys his sheer delight at playing! Just listen to his eager anticipation of the final reprise of the main subject of the March from Prokofiev's Love for Three Oranges. (I'm uncertain who or what makes the squeaky background noises in the first three seconds of this track, but they are instantly forgotten.)
The remainder of Amir consists of less challenging but still enjoyable miniatures of some rarity. Charles-Auguste de Bériot, 19th century violinist and author of a number of didactic compositions, contributes a guilelessly Schubertian - and infrequently recorded - movement, treated touchingly by Amir and Bisengaliev.
Black Box miss two more opportunities to flag world premiere recordings on Amir. Yevgeny Brusilovsky (1905 - 1981), founder of the Kazakh Opera House and co-composer of the national anthem of Kazakhstan, gives us the bouncing Boz Aygir (The Wild Horse), whose simple travelling motif does indeed conjure up the image of an unbroken stallion galloping across the Central Asian steppes. At under two minutes, it doesn't outstay its welcome or outlast Amir and Lenehan's enthusiasm.
Also new to disc is Polish composer Grazyna Bacewicz's Easy Duets on Folk Themes, a pedagogical work for two violins from 1945, consisting of seven movements, none of which exceed a minute and a half. The suite opens with the accordion-like drone of Preludium, an obvious exercise in double-stopping that nevertheless manages to be harmonically intriguing. This makes way for a conventionally folk-dance-inspired Cracovienne, followed by an insomniac Nocturne. At the suite's heart lies the mysterious Kujawiak (a stately Polish dance from the Kujawy region), whose foreground undulates hypnotically while the background line practices (in sequence) trills, pizzicati and double-stopping. At the end of the lesson, both violinists break the obsessive mood with a boisterous flourish. Another, more spiky Cracovienne is succeeded by a pessimistic Song, and the work concludes with the vaguely Coplandesque Grotesque March.
 |
|
No premieres lurk among the remaining works on the Brodskys' all-Shostakovich programme, but we are treated to a very fine performance indeed of the youthful Two Pieces for String Octet. Its Prelude opens with dreamy sloth, transitions through a light and flitting central section, and ends in a disquietingly murky reprise of the opening material. Then comes a Scherzo that is more psychedelic than virtuosic, wringing some ugly sounds from the violins. This approach makes the work feel more consequential than did the ARCO Chamber Orchestra's version, reviewed in our last issue, desirable though that remains (Phoenix PHCD 151).
 |
|
This Piano Quintet is relatively expansive, though not to the uncharacteristically extreme extent of Shostakovich's 1940 recording with the Beethoven Quartet, which lasts three minutes longer overall (Lys 369-370; deleted). Here a gloomy Prelude is followed by a subdued and tentative Fugue. The sensation of withdrawing into isolation is amplified by the spacious acoustics, which impart a delayed reverberation to the piano.
 |
|
|
The Scherzo is sly and full of character, while the nostalgic Intermezzo is lighter than in the Esbjerg Ensemble's reading (Classico CLASSCD 273; reviewed in DSCH No. 13). In comparison with theirs, the Brodskys' Finale also wears a sunnier disposition throughout.
Though I prefer the Esbjergs' dark portrayal of the entire work, much preparation and thought have obviously been invested in this new entry, and its refinement is artistically consistent with the rest of the programme.
 |
|
Still, no modern version is nearly as transfixing as the composer's own 1955 recording with the Beethoven Quartet, a reading of striking immediacy, pregnant with momentum in the Prelude, keenly grief-stricken in the Fugue, irresistibly vigorous in the Scherzo, insupportably despondent in the Intermezzo, extroverted in the Finale (Vanguard Classics OVC 8077).
The final work from the Brodskys is Two Pieces for String Quartet, a project that occupied Shostakovich only over Halloween night of 1931. The Adagio derives from Act I of Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk, on which he was working at the time, and the Allegretto is the Polka from The Age of Gold. I find this to be slightly underplayed - too much restraint in the Adagio, insufficient impetus in the Polka - but not enough to hobble the disc as a whole.
Shostakovich completists will want to have at least one of these recordings of Five Pieces for Two Violins and Piano; although all of the movements are light, and four of the five are available in other instrumentations, this currently seems to be the only format in which to hear the Waltz of Remembrance.
So, whose version to select? To crib a phrase or two from Black Box, Amir's "open expressivity" stands "in marked contrast to the cooler and more restrained style" of the Brodsky players. If this is insufficient basis on which to choose, the very different couplings should decide the matter.
W. Mark Roberts
Index
|
|
 |
String Quartet
No. 3, op. 73; String Quartet No. 4, op. 83; Prelude No. 17 from Twenty-four
Preludes, op. 34. Chamber arrangements for strings of all works by Mikhail
Turich.
Mikhail
Turich, Novosibirsk Chamber Orchestra.
Beaux BEA
2022. DDD. TT 59:12.
Recording locations
and dates unspecified (©2000).
World premiere
recordings of arrangements.
Time was when one, and only one, of Shostakovich's fifteen string quartets was scored for a larger ensemble - the Eighth. Today, its title of Chamber Symphony may be shared. Over the past decade, more than half of this canon has been scored for one or another ensemble of instruments, with varying success. If the purpose of these arrangements is to produce an altered and enhanced perception of the music, then Mikhail Turich and his Novosibirsk ensemble have scored one of those rare and subtle victories in this specialised undertaking.
Though arrangements of both the Third and Fourth Quartets have appeared in the past, their suitability to expanded scale has never been as revealing as in the current release. Composed respectively in 1946 and 1949, these quartets are part of the late- and post-War grouping of chamber works that includes the Second Quartet and Second Piano Trio. The Third Quartet, with its vividly contrasting movements and gestures of anguish, offers an in-the-moment response to the War's aftermath; the more subdued, nostalgia-tinged Fourth Quartet is more of an internalised reflection.
In a sense, the quartets parallel the psychological and emotional content of the Seventh and Eighth Symphonies, respectively (though each lags behind its "companion symphony" by a number of years). In addition, the hefty thematic material in the Third Quartet bears resemblance to themes that appear in Shostakovich's symphonic works of the time. It is perhaps little surprise that both quartets work so well in their new, enlarged settings.
Accounting for this success is the remarkable synergy that exists between performance and arrangement. At times, it is difficult to tell how much of what works is due to which element. On the performance side, the Novosibirsk ensemble boast a highly disciplined manoeuvrability. With a preference for brisk tempi, Turich elicits from them a fantastic, turn-on-a-dime spontaneity and the kind of detailed interpretive shape that one usually finds with four players. Turich has the notes so well in hand, in fact, that one can favourably compare these performances to those of the original versions by the Borodin or Beethoven Quartets.
Listeners will truly hear these works anew. The aggressive muscle and explosive agitation in the second and third movements of Quartet No. 3 take on fresh levels of intensity. The dotted rhythms and parallel octaves of the Adagio assume a weightiness appropriate to their grief. At the same time, the ensemble have no difficulty maintaining lightness and buoyancy, as in the second movement's jaunty staccato theme, and delicacy when needed, as in the final movement's pizzicato-accompanied arioso.
Throughout the Fourth Quartet, Turich is in touch with the pathos that lies beneath each note. The broadly sustained sonorities of the opening pages seem all the more fitting in their larger setting. The ever-diminishing dynamics that characterise this movement, with their shifting focus from collective to individual voices, lose none of their poignancy. Likewise, the varying moods and contours of the final movement take on a fuller dimension as it steers its elliptical, yet lyrically gripping course from bouncy little polka to tentatively triumphant climax to final melancholic reverberations.
On the matter of the arrangements themselves, the scoring is never heavy-handed and avoids the excessive weight of symphonic proportion that has characterised previous re-instrumentations of the same works. This and the restriction to stringed instruments are keys to their success. The scoring also exploits an exceptionally wide range of string colouration. The inclusion of double basses adds a wonderfully dark reinforcement that is well absorbed into the ensemble. The moping cello solo at the beginning of the final movement in No. 3 is given over to solo double bass, as is another cello solo in the finale of No. 4, both with good effects. In other places, the arrangement wisely preserves the various solo passages that appear throughout both quartets, so that they stand out in relief as they would in the original. "Public" and "private" attributes are thus well negotiated.
If there is one place where the arrangement loses a thing or two in the translation, it is in the lyrical slow movement of No. 4. Nothing captures the heartfelt grief of this movement more intimately than the original set of four players. Yet even in its expansion, the music takes on a character of its own, at times recalling the composer's string writing in the Largo of the Eighth Symphony.
Mikhail Turich's adaptations differ from Rudolph Barshai's arrangements of the same works that have appeared on at least three previous recordings, including a 1992 Deutsche Grammophon release conducted by Barshai himself (435 386-2; deleted). The current versions, as mentioned, are for strings only, while Barshai's scorings include strings, woodwinds and brass, and in the case of the Fourth Quartet, percussion. While they are blended in a fairly standard, homogeneous fashion, I have always found the presence of non-stringed instruments in Barshai's arrangements to be at odds with the original instrumental conception. They do have their moments, such as the sensitive wind solos in the slow movement of Quartet No. 4. Otherwise, these arrangements have always remained a curiosity.
Barshai's versions also seem to require a larger number of instruments, both strings and non-strings, so that as an ensemble they lack the agility and tight manoeuvrability of the smaller Novosibirsk group. In the vigorously contrapuntal climax of the opening movement of the Third Quartet, for example, Barshai's winds tend to hamper the reactivity of the close phrasing which is otherwise handled with impressive dexterity by Turich's string ensemble.
The disc is filled out with a string setting of one of the syrupy little trifles from the opus 34 Preludes for piano, presumably to push the total timing closer to the 60-minute mark. Would that Turich had chosen a more substantial target from the opus 87 Preludes and Fugues!
The sound engineering is superb. The ambience, appropriately, is that of a small venue rather than the large hall acoustics of the Barshai recording. The microphones place the listener at a most strategic location, on the podium itself, so that each string group is distinctly sectionalised and at the same time suitably blended. The clarity and vividness that result are ideally matched to this engaging music.
Turich and his ensemble have elevated the performing status of these string quartets with distinction. This album is a winner straight down the line.
Louis Blois
Index
|
|
 |
The Overcoat
Lyric
Waltz and Romance from Ballet Suite No. 1, sans op. P; Piano
Concerto No. 1 in C minor, op. 35[a]; Lyric Waltz, Dance I,
Romance and Waltz from Ballet Suite No. 2, sans op. P; Waltz
from Jazz Suite No. 1, sans op. E; Piano Concerto No. 2 in F major, op.
102[b]; Waltz from Ballet Suite No. 3, sans op. P; Allegro
(incorrectly listed as Mvt. 1) from Symphony No. 10 in E minor, op. 93;
Waltz II from Suite for Variety Orchestra (incorrectly listed as Jazz
Suite No. 2).
Mario
Bernardi, CBC Radio Orchestra, Angela Cheng (piano)[a,b], Jens Lindemann
(trumpet)[a].
CBC Records
SMCD 5216. DDD. TT 72:53.
Recorded Orpheum
Theatre, Vancouver, 20 - 21 June 2001.
 |
|
To accompany the film The Overcoat (reviewed elsewhere in this issue), CBC have released a soundtrack CD containing most of the music. They have shuffled it, presumably to make a "listening experience" as much as a soundtrack, but they do include instructions for programming the tracks in the order in which they appear in the film. The usefulness of this is questionable; the CD doesn't include the finale from the Tenth String Quartet, which appears in the film, so programming your CD player is not the same as hearing the film's music without the images and stripped of the overlaid sound effects. But since the CD includes both piano concertos bolstered with some other (mostly light) pieces, it is possible to listen to it in a comparable way to, say Chailly's Jazz Music album (Decca 433 702).
The disc opens with the Lyric Waltz from the First Ballet Suite, a souped-up version of the first movement of the First Jazz Suite. The heavier orchestration makes this the less successful version for me, but the CBC orchestra stay pretty light on their feet for it, with just a hint of sluggishness in the middle.
After the aperitif, onto the starters: the First Piano Concerto, a piece so often played and that so often misses. To bring off the balance of the madcap and the cruel in the outer movements, the changing moods, the careering along without quite losing control ... and then, to cope with the wistful slow movement as well! It can all be just too much to manage.
Sadly, though wonderfully clean-fingered, Cheng does negotiate the corners too cautiously too often in the first movement. The corollary, however, is that the slow movement comes off well, particularly towards the end when the orchestra suddenly find the right tone. Sadly, with the finale we're back to a concern with getting it "right" and occasionally with making the point that this is "funny" music, always the best way to stop the laughs. Meanwhile Jens Lindemann's contribution to the whole concerto is very enjoyable - perhaps it's perverse but recently I've been spending more and more time with the trumpet in this work.
A couple of palate-cleansers next: the Lyric Waltz and the Dance I from the Ballet Suite No. 2 followed by the Waltz from the Jazz Suite No 1. Perhaps this is heretical, but I find a few of Shostakovich's waltzes too close to one another for comfort. Against that, the first Dance (later cropping up as At the Market Place in The Gadfly) is always immensely enjoyable. Then we get to the real thing with the Waltz from the First Jazz Suite, a piece I never tire of, here given a nicely balanced performance, swinging without sounding forced.
Now perhaps the main course: the Second Piano Concerto. Cheng starts oddly, pecking at the melody, seemingly in an attempt to make it pawky, but really just risking it becoming a disconnected series of notes. But things improve so much that it begins to look like the best thing on the disc and even the slightly odd slamming on of the brakes just before the first movement cadenza doesn't really spoil things too much.
The Andante is one of those tricky movements, and in describing it the booklet notes fall into the easy trap of using the phrase "heart-on-sleeve" (even if they deny the possibility that Shostakovich could ever be that). Of course, to play it heart-on-sleeve is to destroy it. There is a corner that Shostakovich keeps to himself even here, and it's the probing that makes this movement moving. But Cheng is happy to accept the surface (not heart-on-sleeve) leaving this deceptive movement unexplored before we get to the finale and Cheng finds her feet again. Odd that in the First Concerto the slow movement should come off best and in the Second Concerto it's just the opposite. Is Cheng underestimating the later