Classical Music

Classical Music

Classical Music

Classical Music

Classical Music

Classical Music

The unique guitar duo The Czar's Guitars was founded in 2004 by the well-known lute and guitar virtuoso, John Schneiderman and Oleg Timofeyev, the expert on the Russian seven-string guitar. The musicians joined their forces to revive the legacy of the Russian guitar, the instrument that unlike it's Western-European cousin is only now gaining the respect and recognition it deserves.

Souvenirs of Russia is considered to be a Russian tribute to the Spanish composer, Fernando Sor (1778-1839), or even more specifically, to his famous guitar duet Souvenir de Russie (Op. 63). Sor's masterpiece is the foundation of this album. It is surrounded with real Russian guitar music that would create an unusual context for Sor's piece and would also illustrate how the Russian musical culture was organically connected to the repertoires in Western and Central Europe.

Baroque harpsichordist, chamber musician and professor of music at University of Illinois School of Music, Charlotte Mattax Moersch's 5th release takes us into Jean Henry D'Anglebert's Pieces de Clavecin (Pieces for Keyboard) composed in 1689. While D'Anglebert may not be as well known today as some of his Baroque brethren, in his day he was considered amongst the more notable composers of the harpsichord and Moersch's playing reveals why.

Classical Music

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Schumann & Mendelssohn: Piano Concertos - Dvorák: Silhouette

No entries show up in the Fanfare Archive for Benjamin Alard, which I suppose shouldn’t be surprising, since counting this new release his discography numbers only two recordings according to ArkivMusic; the other, also on Alpha, is a CD of Bach’s trio sonatas for organ. His official bio, however, cites two other CDs on a label, Editions Hortus, that may have limited distribution outside of France.

Born in 1985, the French Alard is both an award-winning harpsichordist and organist who studied at the Schola Cantorum Basiliensis. At 25, he has already performed with leading period-instrument ensembles, such as La Petite Bande under Sigiswald Kuijken and Capriccio Stravagante under Skip Sempé, and he has established himself as a leading presence as a keyboard artist on the early-music scene, participating in a number of international festivals.

Going up against established masters in this repertoire—and for apples-to-apples comparison I cite only harpsichordists—such as Christophe Rousset, Pieter-Jan Belder, Ralph Kirkpatrick, Gustav Leonhardt, Trevor Pinnock, Igor Kipnis, and Blandine Verlet—the young Alard has stones; you’ve got to give him that. The question is does he have the goods to pull it off? And the answer, in a word, is “yes.”

The six keyboard partitas that comprise Part I of Bach’s Clavier-Übung (Keyboard Practice) in its totality are arguably the pinnacle of the composer’s works for solo harpsichord. Though they are among Bach’s earliest pieces to be published (they appeared in print between 1726 and 1730), they are actually the last of his three sets of keyboard suites to be written. (They were composed between 1725 and 1730–31.) The English Suites were composed sometime between 1715 and 1720, and the French Suites, between 1722 and 1725. We may therefore assume that the partitas are a summation, up to that time, of Bach’s compositional style and technique as applied to the harpsichord, for which they were written.

Speculation has it that Bach intended to write a seventh partita, perhaps as a tribute to his predecessor in Leipzig, Johann Kuhnau, who had published two volumes of his own Neue Clavier-Übung, each containing seven partitas. Bach’s choice of keys for his six partitas does suggest a planned seventh that would have had to be in F Major to complete the scheme; indeed, F Major is the key of the Italian Concerto that opens the Clavier-Übung, part II. Is it possible that the movements of the Italian Concerto would have been incorporated into the seventh, missing, partita? It’s an interesting theory.

In three out of the six partitas, Bach pretty much follows standard operating procedure vis-à-vis succession of movements. All six partitas, without exception, begin with an introductory movement, though fancifully, perhaps, Bach calls each by a different name: Praeludium, Sinfonia, Fantasia, Ouverture, Praeambulum, and Toccata. These are followed in Nos. 1, 3, and 5 by the customary stylized dance movements: Allemande, Courante (or Corrente, depending on whether Bach was in French or Italian mood), and Sarabande. Again, in all six partitas, one or more take-your-pick dance movements, such as Menuet, Gavotte, Passepied, etc., are inserted after the Sarabande. And in all but No. 2, the partitas end with the customary concluding Gigue. But No. 2, one of the three “irregulars,” ends with a movement Bach calls Capriccio, which is not in the usual 6/8 or 12/8 gigue meter, but in 2/4, so it’s not just another gigue by a whimsical name.

In the two remaining “irregular” partitas, Nos. 4 and 6, Bach gets cutesy with the standard layout of movements, inserting an Aria or Air in between the Courante and Sarabande, so that we end up with insertions both before the Sarabande and after it. To mix it up further, in No. 4, Bach calls his Courante by its French name, but the Aria that follows it by its Italian name; whereas in No. 6, he reverses himself, calling his Corrente by its Italian name and his Air by its French name. Whether this has some special significance or not, I don’t know, but is it too much to imagine that Bach wasn’t the stern wig he’s often portrayed as, and that he was just being mischievous? The aforementioned Capriccio movement offers ample evidence of the composer’s off-the-wall humor; it’s a real ear-tickler.

A final footnote to this whole business is that at one point the partitas came close to being called German Suites to complement the already written English and French Suites, which, technically speaking, are no more English or French, respectively, than are the partitas German. And who would know better than Christophe Rousset? Harpsichordist, Baroque music specialist, and Frenchman, he has observed that all of Bach’s keyboard suites follow a largely Italian convention.

Now, back in Fanfare 27:4, Patrick Meanor reviewed a recording of the partitas on the Satirino label performed by harpsichordist Kenneth Weiss. That was in 2004. Six years later, as inexplicably but often happens, the same album was sent to the magazine to be reviewed again, and this time, as recently as 33:5, it was assigned to Christopher Brodersen. The American-born Weiss has long been active on the Parisian period-instrument scene, having collaborated with William Christie and Les Arts Florissants for many years. In any case, both Meanor and Brodersen found much to rave about in Weiss’s readings, which the harpsichordist performs on a copy of a Gottfried Silbermann instrument built by Anthony Sidey. I missed Meanor’s earlier review, but based on Brodersen’s glowing account, I decided to acquire the Weiss on my own. Contra my colleagues, I found Sidey’s harpsichord, or Satirino’s recording of it, hard and metallic sounding and fatiguing to listen to. So, only in part for that reason, Weiss’s recording would not have received my recommendation had I reviewed it.

That is not the case with the sound of Alard’s harpsichord, which is also modeled after a German instrument by Sidey. It is captured perfectly at an ideal distance in the ambient and ever so slightly reverberant acoustic of the Chapelle Notre-Dame de Bon-Secours in Paris. Balanced throughout its registers, of crystal clarity in its voicing, and so dulcet of tone is this instrument that I found myself listening, enchanted, to all six partitas straight through without tiring of it.

If Meanor found Weiss’s performances “passionate,” “poignant,” “terrifying,” and “filled with existential dread,” I found them aggressive, driven, and in-your-face—other reasons, in addition to the aforementioned clangorous and clattering sound of the instrument, that Weiss is not to my liking. In contrast, I find Alard’s readings poetic, lyrical, filled with grace, and ultimately sublime. Perhaps it’s the difference between the American in Paris, Weiss, and the patrician elegance and refinement of the natural-born Frenchman, Alard.

In Alard’s playing, I hear a natural and logical connection to, and extension of, François Couperin and the French keyboard tradition, and I find it exquisitely beautiful. The style is manifested in Alard’s exceptionally imaginative, perfectly timed, and delightful agréments that he applies so tastefully in the binary repeats. Even in the fiendishly difficult Capriccio of the C-Minor Partita, which is already wacky enough as is with its oddball dissonances and harmonic excursions, Alard finds the time and space between the notes to add just the right zinger of an embellishment. Just listen to the mordents that trip by at 1:29 and again at 1:33 in the repeat of the A section. But there are other ways to embellish besides adding ornamental notes, and you can hear it in Alard’s playing of the repeated B section. Here the embellishing takes the form of coordinating the right and left hands differently than in the first time through, so that the syncopated and offbeat rhythms in the counterpoint take on a totally different emphasis.

The more I listened to these performances, the more I came to believe that there is as much genius in Alard’s conception of this music as there is in Bach’s creation of it. For me, this is now, and will be for the foreseeable future, the be-all and end-all of Bach keyboard partita recordings. The set is beautifully presented in a four-panel cardboard foldout with detailed, informative notes in French and English and enhanced by a wealth of photographs. If Weiss’s partitas show up on Brodersen’s 2010 Want List, Alard’s may well show up on mine. But whether it does or not (there are always hard choices to make), if you care about Bach on the harpsichord, you must not be without this release for another minute.

-- Jerry Dubins, FANFARE [9/2010]

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The start of an exciting series on Brilliant Classics: the Complete Keyboard Sonatas by Kozeluch. Leopold Kozeluch was in his time a highly regarded, even famous composer, on a par with C.P.E. Bach and even Mozart. His keyboard sonatas, although relatively modest in length, share the same qualities with those of his illustrious contemporaries: strong focus on melody and melodious figuration, vivid and brilliant accompinaments and a genuine expression of feeling, both happy and dramatic. His 50 keyboard sonatas are a true treasure trove of hidden pianistic gems.

CHOPIN Ballades: No. 1 in g; No. 2 in F; No. 3 in A?; No. 4 in f. Nocturnes: No. 1 in b?; No. 2 in E?; No. 3 in B; No. 20a in c?. Prelude No. 25 in c? • Arthur Schoonderwoerd (pn) (period instrument) • ALPHA 147 (61:49)


There are two factors that set Arthur Schoonderwoerd’s Chopin disc apart from most others, and their importance is likely to vary significantly depending on your point of view. First, the four ballades are separated by individual nocturnes and preceded by a single prelude, the idea suggested in the notes being that the temporary change to smaller forms helps to reset the ears in preparation for the more complex and formally idiosyncratic ballades. Second, the instrument on the disc is not a modern concert grand, but an instrument contemporaneous with the composer, fashioned by Ignace Pleyel in 1839.


Schoonderwoerd’s accounts of these classics are marked by slower tempos and less rhythmic flexibility than those of most other pianists. The dynamic range is also narrower than what we are accustomed to, although this trait could be the result of his choice of the Pleyel keyboard. The instrument might also be at least partly responsible for his relatively intimate readings, a characteristic that is often quite fetching in lower dynamic levels but is less convincing in grander moments.


This emphasis on metric clarity over excessive rubato is especially noteworthy in the Fourth Ballade, which begins with a waltz almost steady enough in pulse to serve as accompaniment to a dance. The G-Minor Ballade is the slowest I’ve heard, rivaled in length only by Krystian Zimerman among major pianists on disc. His patience can be frustrating at times, lending a certain cautious calculation to music that benefits from at least a measure of impetuosity and an illusion of risk. On the other hand, there is a clarity to textures and rhythms that can be quite illuminating, even if momentum tends to be in short supply.


The four nocturnes and the single prelude are treated with a shade more flexibility, but again somewhat less than is the current norm. Here the delicacy of the instrument pays dividends, although the reduction in sustaining sound gives these beauties a skeletal aura that may not be to everyone’s liking. Tempos are closer to standard, a wise strategy given the thinner sustainability.


My favorite recordings of the ballades (Ax, Rubenstein, and Kissin) and nocturnes (Moravec and Pollini) haven’t been supplanted by Schoonderwoerd, but his view is a legitimate one, and well worth a listen by Chopin devotees. If you have an interest in hearing this music on a keyboard from the composer’s era, all the more reason to give it a shot.


FANFARE: Michael Cameron

The late Brahms piano works are truly a remarkable body of compositions. Russian pianist Mikhail Volchok, now on the faculty at the University of Maryland, infuses these works with both the delicacy and grandeur that they encompass.

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A four-work recital of significant modern-era works for solo violin. Violinist Daniel Stepner is first violinist of the Lydian String Quartet. Teaches at both Brandeis and Harvard Universities. Formerly concertmaster, Handel and Haydn Society Orchestra, for more than twenty years, under Christopher Hogwood and Grant Llewellyn.

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This new release launches The Choir of St. John’s College Cambridge’s new series of recordings. With this album, the choir explores the connection between the college and influential British composer Jonathan Harvey (1939-2012). The choir is joined for this release by organist Edward Picton-Turbervill, and conducted by director Andrew Nethsingha.

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BACH Missa 1733 • Raphaël Pichon, cond; Eugénie Warnier (sop); Anna Reinhold (sop); Carlos Mena (alt); Emiliano Gonzalez Toro (ten); Konstantin Wolff (bs); Pygmalion • ALPHA 188 (56:57 Text and Translation)

The disc title is a bit misleading to the uninitiated—is this a newly discovered Bach Mass setting? No; it is instead the original version of the Kyrie and Gloria movements for the Mass in B Minor. The work is referred to in the booklet notes as a “fifth Missa Brevis” setting, but is on a far grander scale than those of the four Lutheran Masses, BWV 233-236. Frustrated by his continual difficulties with the Leipzig town council, Bach wrote the work to apply for a position as court composer in Dresden to Augustus III, the newly crowned Elector of Saxony and King of Poland. While the actual position went to Johann Adolf Hasse (already well established there), in 1736 Bach was belatedly granted an emeritus title, the prestige of which gave him greater leverage in his dealings with the Leipzig authorities. Upon compiling the entire B-Minor Mass in 1749, Bach made numerous minor revisions to the original versions of these movements. The rationales for this recording are thus twofold: to make available to the public this earlier version and to complete a set of “Missa Brevis” settings.

In 32:4 and 34:4 George Chien gave enthusiastic reviews to the recordings of the Lutheran Masses by the forces of Pygmalion, a combined period instrument-choral ensemble based in Paris, whose conductor Raphaël Pichon sang in ensembles under the direction of Ton Koopman and Jordi Savall. In the first of those reviews, he complained that “Unfortunately, the notes for this disc have a lot to say about Breugel the Elder’s painting The Fall of the Rebel Angels (which is not reproduced), but precious little about Pichon and/or Pygmalion.” That fault has been modestly rectified here, but unfortunately in the wrong direction. Here the digipak provides color reproductions of the subject painting for this release, the 1445 Creation and Expulsion from Paradise of Giovanni di Paolo di Grazia (1403–c.1482), including more detailed close-ups of two sections, to accompany a four-page essay devoted to it; but apart from a complete list of the instrumentalists and choral members, once again not a word is provided about the ensemble and its conductor.

Even more frustratingly, Pichon provides over eight pages of notes in which he discusses in detail the history of this Missa, the determination from historical evidence of the size of forces to employ for his recording, numerous details about interpretive decisions with respect to tempos, phrasing, articulation, etc., which is all to the good. However, he has next to nothing to say about the matter of single greatest import, which is the primary raison d’etre for this project: the actual differences between this version and that of 1749. Instead, airily referring to information provided by recently published critical editions, he only says: “They show a number of differences compared to the version that is commonly played today, and thus give rise to minor variants....For the first time, the different versions of the Mass in B Minor have been identified and compared, thus giving us a better understanding of the genesis and history of the work. The original aria for bass voice, horn, and two bassoons, ‘Quoniam tu solus sanctus,’ in particular, reveals many differences in the vocal parts.” Somebody ought to smack him upside the head!

Fortunately, as suggested by the more informative aspects of Pichon’s notes, far greater thought has been devoted to the performance than to the booklet contents, and overall it is quite a fine version. Be warned that this is the period-instrument approach with a vengeance. Both the strings and choral voices have a rigorously “straight” tone and total absence of vibrato to the maximum degree; the horn part is performed solely by overblowing rather than using any hand stopping in the bell in order to alter pitches; the timpani is played with the explosive aggressiveness of a howitzer; tempos in the faster sections are brisk indeed (the closing “Cum sancto Spiritu” is a mad dash to the finish line); and so on. However, Pichon makes a very satisfying unity of what in lesser hands would degenerate into an exercise in hidebound pedantry. I am particularly taken with the exquisitely delicate use of the theorbo in accompaniment passages, such as for the alto-tenor duet “Domine Deus,” which dances with airy lightness. Of the soloists—who do sing with vibrato!—the two sopranos, male alto, and tenor are excellent; the bass has a somewhat diffuse and unfocused vocal emission, but not to a degree that is a serious detriment. The chorus and instrumentalists are first-rate, as fine as those of any other top-tier period-performance group; the recorded sound is up close and has a welcome degree of resonance that takes the edge off the astringency of this ensemble’s sonic palette. Quite needlessly, the brief Latin text (with English and French translations) is spread out over three pages.

All things considered, this disc is something of a curiosity, primarily of interest to the Bach completist. However, if you have the curiosity and the funds to investigate it, and are partial to this type of interpretive approach, the rewards are considerable, and so I commend it to your attention accordingly. It will be interesting to see where Pichon and Pygmalion choose to go from here.

FANFARE: James A. Altena

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As the talented young Spanish pianist Miguel Baselga mentions in this release's excellent booklet notes, there's a considerable gap between much of Isaac Albéniz's salon-like piano output and the labyrinthine originality of Iberia's four books. For this reason, the pianist is allotting one book from Iberia per release in his ongoing complete Albéniz cycle for BIS. The project's second installment improves upon its predecessor in that Baselga truly is making this music his own. His assertive, communicative virtuosity uncovers all the poetic layers interwoven throughout Iberia Book Two's technical hurdles. Similarly, the pianist makes a cogent case for the composer's slighter but utterly charming, neo-Lisztian Seven Studies in the Natural Minor Keys. Baselga's fanciful yet tender treatments of the two salon mazurkas (Amalia and Ricordatti) and the evocative 1897 Souvenirs are absolute delights. The disc concludes with the wild and wooly La Vega, whose elemental impressionism sizzles under Baselga's hot hands. All the music on this disc conveys as full a scope of Albéniz's artistic development as can be contained on one CD. In sum, a disc guaranteed to perk up anyone's piano collection. --Jed Distler, ClassicsToday.com