If you are looking for a choral disc of Christmas music without resorting to the usual “lessons & carols” format you will be hard pressed to do better than this.

This CD from Nimbus has rarely been out of the catalogue since its first release in the late 1980s - and with good reason. It’s a cracking disc with sympathetic performances, well recorded and featuring some superb music. If you are looking for a choral disc of Christmas music without resorting to the usual “lessons & carols” format you will be hard pressed to do better than this.

The concept here is as simple as it is neat. The producers have compiled a programme of music by two of the greatest 20 ^th century English composers - Walton sang with this choir whilst an undergraduate - that are linked to the festive season. The fascination for the listener who is seeking more than just a sequence of familiar carols is the juxtaposition of the familiar and relatively unknown together with the differing styles the composers employ. David Trendell’s liner-note from 1987 has been retained, and rightly so: it is a model of succinct insight into both the music and the musicians. My only quibble about the programming comes with the opening track - In the Bleak Mid-Winter. This is one of my all-time favourite carols and Holst’s setting of the Christina Rossetti text is heart-meltingly beautiful. But as an opener to an album entitled Make We Joy it is, how shall I put it … a little bleak! Also, the choir has clearly chosen for this a deliberately pared back, bleached almost grey tone that is rather haunting but until you hear the rest of the disc the fear is that the prevailing tone will be bland. Occasionally the Christ Church Cathedral Choir fall into the rather politely Anglican mannerism of over-pointing consonants and rrrolling their Rs. Frankly when this is done at the expense of a musical phrase or wording-painting I find it distracting. Take for example the opening of the Walton Jubilate Deo (tr. 15). This is very much in the style of Walton’s celebratory/ceremonial music - the Coronation Te Deum for example. Darlington makes the choir fussily point the rhythm of the opening and the effect of being “joyful in the Lord” is diminished. For comparison seek out, if you can, the recording by the mixed voices of Trinity College conducted by Richard Marlowe (Conifer - nla) where it forms part of their complete survey of Walton’s sacred choral music. This is far more dynamic and I would bet more what Walton had in mind.

The programme is split 9:6 in favour of Holst and this is a fair reflection of the two composers’ involvement with choral music. All of the music is beautiful but some of the Holst works are great. Holst’s involvement with the Whitsuntide Singers of Thaxted is well known and amongst the works he wrote for them is This I have done for my True Love (tr. 8) . I did not realise until reading Trendell’s note that Holst considered this his best part-song. For sure it is a miniature masterpiece. The longest piece here, it runs to nearly six minutes and is a miracle of apt word setting and beautiful writing. The Whitsuntide Singers were a mixed (secular) choir and here we have 29 men and boys of the English Cathedral tradition. Overall I probably do miss the presence of women’s voices but the performances here are a delight. Perhaps it is the purity and naivety of the boy’s voices that is so disarming. An excellent example of Holst’s preference for austerely beautiful textures is Lullay my Liking which echoes his song settings for voice and violin. Here the use of a cathedral choir pays dividends with the purity of their sound. Another highlight is Holst’s Nunc dimittis of 1915. Neither this nor the marvellous The Evening-watch can be termed seasonally apt pieces but they would grace any programme and are performed with assurance and sensitivity.

Walton’s settings lie closer to the concept of the traditional verse/refrain carol and are simpler in their intent and design. A direct comparison between Marlowe on Conifer and Darlington here shows the former to be more deliberately expressive - more profane than sacred. Both approaches are valid and ultimately the choice will lie with the listener. If I had to choose I prefer the greater drama of Marlowe but would be loath to be without Darlington. Highlights amongst the Walton pieces are the Antiphon (let all world in ev’ry corner sing). This is one of the relatively few pieces featuring an organ accompaniment safely if not flamboyantly performed by Simon Lawford. The choir is recorded comfortably in front of the organ hence that instrument lacks a little presence in the more rhetorical passages.

Overall a disc that deserves to be heard far more often than a couple of weeks either side of Christmas. The only passing quibble is its brevity running a few seconds shy of fifty minutes. Yet it serves as yet another reminder of the quality of English cathedral choirs and the body of work written for them to perform.

-- Nick Barnard, MusicWeb International 

Vladimir Feltsman, one of the most versatile and interesting musicians of our time, presents an insightful recital of famous and rarely heard works by Franz Liszt:

1 Liebesträume, No. 3 in A flat major (1850) 4.53
2 Ballade No. 2 in B minor (1853) 14.47
Six Consolations (1850) 16.20
3 I Andante con moto 1.11
4 II Un poco piu mosso 3.08
5 III Lento placido 4.01
6 IV Quasi adagio 2.31
7 V Andantino 2.37
8 VI Allegretto sempre cantabile 2.52
9 Bénédiction de Dieu dans la solitude (1853) 17.26
10 Berceuse in F sharp major (1876) 3.34
11 Elegia (1874) 5.19
12 La lugubre gondola (2nd version) (1885) 8.34
13 En rêve, nocturne (1886) 2.25

Total playing time 73.16

Includes tambourin(s) by Jean Marie Leclair. Soloist: Oscar Shumsky.

Classical Music

Classical Music

Although Dmitri Kabalevsky’s concertos and sonatas hardly lack for good recordings, few pay attention to his prolific output of shorter solo piano pieces. That’s a shame, because this composer, if not a towering original, wrote imaginatively and effectively for the keyboard, as the works on this disc bear out.

Even at 21, Kabalevsky could dole out flashy goods in his third Op. 1 Prelude, while simple sophistication and canny register deployment define both of Op. 40’s short variation sets. The Six Preludes and Fugues Op. 61 wear their contrapuntal craftsmanship lightly; who else could write a tuneful, waltzing fugue, or a prelude based on clusters that evoke Burt Bacharach covered by The Carpenters? Written for the 1958 International Tchaikovsky Competition that made Van Cliburn a household name, the A minor Rondo wears well, from its opening downward arpeggios to the infectious “oom-pah” accompaniment.

Each of the three Op. 87 variation sets, respectively based on American, French, and Japanese folk songs, has a distinct personality and deserves wider recognition. While the booklet notes understandably liken the American theme to a tune played on a Native American wooden flute, some listeners will recognize it as the folk song “All the Pretty Little Horses”. Known for her steadfast advocacy of worthy keyboard rarities (including splendid recordings of the complete Amy Beach and Arthur Foote piano music), Kirsten Johnson’s astute attention to detail and her fluent, tonally rich pianism are a joy to behold. The resonant warmth of Nimbus’ engineering will please collectors who found the label’s 1970s/’80s “Ambisonic” productions to be uncomfortably diffuse.

-- Jed Distler, ClassicsToday.com

Julius R�ntgen (1855-1932) was both a composer and a gifted pianist, and he knew how to write well for his instrument. R�ntgen was a child prodigy, and from an early age composed ambitious works for the piano. His partnership with baritone Johannes Messchaert was legendary, and they made several European tours. At one of their recitals, in the Vienna Musikvereinsaal, it was noted that Brahms and Grieg sat together in the front row. Recent renewed interest in R�ntgen has revealed many treasures still waiting to be awakened in the R�ntgen Archives (Den Haag). Alongside a huge series of unknown string quartets, string trios, piano trios, and symphonies there are some 30 piano sonatas and sonatinas from 1922-1932 alone.

NIN Danza Ibérica. Mensaje a Claudio Debussy. Cadena de valses. Canto de cuña para los huérfanos de España. “1830” Variations sobre un tema frivolo. 3 Danzas espa?olas • Martin Jones (pn) • NIMBUS 5851 (67:15)


Good to see a whole disc of the piano music of Joaquín Nin (1879–1949), issued as part of the Nimbus 5000 series. The pianist Martin Jones is well known as an intensely musical player, and so it is here. His articulation throughout is a model of clarity, his pedal work the result of much thought. This is immediately evident from the first piece here, Danza Ibérica (subtitled “In Seville on a May Night”), a bright, busy work that ends in decidedly exuberant fashion. The sultry central section is beautifully realized by Jones; elsewhere, active rhythms dance infectiously.


The Mensaje a Claudio Debussy (Message to Claude Debussy) of 1929 is a hugely successful tribute (Nin describes it as a boceto sinfónico , a symphonic sketch). Of course, Debussy was fascinated by Spanish music so the homage is remarkably apt. Jones is magnificent, as much in the cloudy, Impressionist mists as in the remarkable cadenza that the piece contains. Thematically, allusion is all. No direct quotes, but many shapes that point to familiar gestures from Debussy’s scores.


The Cadena de Valses (Chain of Waltzes) is subtitled “Evocación romántica.” Schubert lurks in the background (Schubert’s centenary was just around the corner at the date of composition, 1927). This, surely, is a masterpiece. There is a plethora of references, from Soler and Weber through Schubert and Granados. But it appears as all of a magnificently effective piece. Jones seems to have an authentic Spanish swing at his disposal as well as an ability to project large-scale form.


Moving forward a decade, the Canto de cuña para los huérfanos de España (Lullaby for the Orphans of Spain) of 1938 is a lament for children orphaned because of the civil war. This is a magnificently touching elegy, dark and harmonically complex. Jones ensures the end is almost unbearably touching. Perhaps the disc should have ended with this piece, as no matter how long the gap between pieces, it is too short.


Luckily, the variations that follow begin innocently and don’t make for too much of a shock. Dating from 1934, and from Paris, it is a superbly constructed piece that deserves more outings on the concert platform. Jones rises to the challenges perfectly (listen to the octaves of the first variation, or the deep flowing lyricism of the Schumannesque second). Jones also plays with a beautifully wistful touch when required.


Three dances composed in September and October 1938 complete the disc. The first is another “Danza Ibérica,” somewhat more stripped down than the example that opened the recital. It is followed by a “Danza Andaluza” (Nín claimed it to be based on an Andalusian song), on paper a study in repeated notes but in reality a tender statement of the utmost beauty. Finally, a “Danza Murciana,” alternating 6/8 and 3/4 meters (as well as major and minor modes).


Calum MacDonald’s booklet notes are exemplary. Competition is high in this music: Thomas Tirino on Koch was welcomed by Peter Rabinowitz in Fanfare 25:3; Nicholas Unwin on Centaur was no less enthusiastically rated by Lawrence Johnson in Fanfare 22:1. Yet Jones makes such a strong case, and is so well recorded with just the right amount of presence (at Wyastone, Monmouth, in 2007) that, while listening, it is difficult to imagine alternatives. And there can be no higher praise than that.


FANFARE: Colin Clarke


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Joaquín Nin is, perhaps, best rememberd as the father of composer Joaquin Nin–Culmell (Culmell was his mother’s maiden name) and writer Anaïs Nin, for his music, in Britain at least, is seldom, if ever, performed and he is but a name, if that, to music-lovers. It’s hard to see why he is so neglected for these works are highly colourful and full of pleasing, and entertaining, things. Like the music of Astor Piazzolla these pieces speak the musical language of the composer’s homeland, in this case Cuba, dominated by things Spanish, and, although slight, are well worth investigating.
 
After a rather breathless start, the first piece is a kind of more modern (harmonically and rhythmically) version of a piece from Albeniz’s Ibéria, Mensaje a Claudio Debussy. It comes as welcome relief. In general, it’s a slow, quiet, dance - at times it sounds like Constant Lambert - and it builds to an impressive climax but falls away again towards the end. This is a fine piece.
 
Cadena de valses is a set of waltzes, in the manner of Ravel’s Valses nobles et valses sentimentales, but without the variety of that masterwork. Nin’s work is pleasing but one would have welcomed some rest from time to time; it’s all a bit tiring. The gentle restraint of Canto de cuna para los huerfanos de España (Lullaby for the Orphans of Spain), a requiem for the children who had been left without parents after the Spanish Civil War, is a touching memorial which says more, in its simple way, than many a bigger and bolder work.
 
1830: variaciones sobre un tema frivolo, whilst firmly keeping one eye on the past, isn’t ignorant of the future, but as the frivolous theme is developed we hear many different voices including one which is terribly reminiscent of Michael Carr’s title music for television’s The Edgar Wallace Mystery Theatre! The similarity is so clear that one wonders if Carr knew the Nin work, for there’s no reason that he shouldn’t. The piece alternates virtuoso movements with slower, more relaxed ones. There’s a real virtuoso rush at the end which is quite delightful.
 
The final three pieces are dances of one kind or another. This is a very pleasant collection of, basically, light piano pieces, but there is a problem; the range of the music is very limited and as Jones plays them in the same way – what else can he do? – a sense of boredom sets in. The best thing to do is sample a couple of tracks at a time, for listening to the whole CD in one sitting will give you an unfavourable impression of the music, as it did me. Whilst Nin, on the strength of this music, is no lost master it’s very enjoyable stuff, and an interesting insight into what happened in Spanish piano music after Albeniz and Falla. The recording and notes are excellent.
 

-- Bob Briggs, MusicWeb International

Classical Music

Ransom Wilson has long been recognized internationally as one of the greatest flutists of his generation. After graduation from the Julliard School in 1973, he spent a year in Paris as a private student of Jean-Pierre Rampal. As a flute soloist, he has appeared in concert with some of the greatest orchestras and artists of our time, including the Chicago Symphony, Philadelphia Orchestra, San Francisco Symphony, London Symphony, Frederica von Stade, Jessye Norman, Thomas Hampson, Susan Graham, Dolora Zajick, Nadja Salerno-Sonnenberg, Hilary Hahn, Jean-Pierre Rampal, Sir James Galway, and many others. Francois Dumont is a prizewinner of the most prestigious international competitions: the Queen Elisabeth Competition, the Chopin Competition, the Cleveland International Competition in the United States and the Clara Haskil Competition in Switzerland. In 2012, he received the prize of Revelation de la Critique Musicale francaise. Born in 1985 in Lyon, Francois Dumont worked with Pascale Imbert, Chrystel Saussac and Herve Billaut before being admitted at the age of fourteen to the Conservatoire National Superior of Music and Dance of Paris in the class of Bruno Rigutto. With Virginie Constant and Philippe Aiche, he is a member of the Trio Elegiaque.

This CD has been a long time coming, and dates back to the first time Paco Peña and Eliot Fisk ever met, when they performed separately at a now-defunct guitar festival in Germany, in September 1983. The disc does not pretend to be either pure flamenco or pure classical. Necessarily, the classical selections are colored by Paco’s flamenco sensibility just as the flamenco selections are colored by Eliot’s formation in the classical world. But that is exactly what is interesting! Paco finds things in classical music that would never occur to a classical player, and something analogous can be said of Eliot’s attempts to enter the mysterious temple of flamenco.

Classical Music

HOVHANESS Lousadzak. 1 Symphony No. 2, “Mysterious Mountain.” HARRISON Symphony No. 2, “Elegiac” • Dennis Russell Davies, cond; Keith Jarrett (pn); 1 American Composers O • NIMBUS 2512 (67:00)


This is a reissue of a recording originally released on the Music Masters label in 1989. It brings together the music of two composers who, as Tim Page’s program notes point out, first came to public attention as kindred spirits, linked together with John Cage, interestingly enough. Readers may be aware that Lou Harrison was one of the composer-critics whom Virgil Thomson ushered in as associates to the New York Herald Tribune during the mid 1940s. This was the period when Alan Hovhaness, until then an impoverished eccentric struggling to gain attention in the Boston area, attempted to cast his lot in the broader arena of New York City, after having essentially been ridiculed out of Tanglewood by Aaron Copland and his coterie. Both Thomson and Harrison were among the first with access to an influential forum of opinion to champion Hovhaness’s music, and their enthusiastic advocacy contributed significantly to establishing his early reputation. Of course, as the years passed, each of these figures—stubborn individualists themselves—proceeded in his own personal direction, and each ended his career at quite a different point from the others on the American compositional matrix.


Lousadzak , composed in 1944, is certainly one of the most unusual piano concertos ever written (neither a single chord nor sequence of octaves appears in the piano part). The music assigned to the solo instrument imitates a number of Armenian folk instruments, especially those in the dulcimer family, while the string ensemble plays the role of a folk orchestra, providing an accompaniment of primitive polyphony. Both Harrison and Cage were present at the work’s New York premiere, and evidently it really took the audience by surprise. Harrison later recalled that it “was the closest I’ve ever been to one of those renowned artistic riots.” From the standpoint of some six decades later, when Hovhaness is no longer alive, having left behind a legacy of hundreds upon hundreds more compositions, Lousadzak stands as one of his indisputable masterpieces. Somehow the work evokes—as its name, meaning “the coming of light,” implies—a haunting and mysterious sense of the beginning of time. It also has a real sense of drama—not drama in the romantic, climactic sense, but a gradual accumulation of passion and intensity as the work unfolds. No one who has written off Hovhaness after having heard only the over-inflated, endlessly soporific compositions of his later years should fail to acquaint himself with this important representation of one of the composer’s most fertile periods. One is hard-pressed to name another work of his that is as consistently compelling and inspired.


That a pianist with the varied interests and talents—not to mention the distinguished reputation—of Keith Jarrett turned his attention to Lousadzak has served to attract the notice of listeners unlikely otherwise to have encountered such a work. And Jarrett’s performance has much to recommend it. But there are also aspects of his reading that I find wrong-headed. The ethnomusical context from which this work derives is one of individual improvisation alternating with passages in which the ensemble comes to the fore. The improvisational passages tend to be rhythmically free and rhapsodic (an approach of which Jarrett—in other contexts—is a consummate master). Though thoroughly notated, Lousadzak emulates this style, and should be performed in a manner that is in keeping with it. But for some reason Jarrett approaches this profoundly non-virtuosic music as if trying to press it into service as some sort of technical showpiece, with overly driven, frenetically rushed tempos. Conductor Davies seems of the same mind as Jarrett, constantly pressing the piece forward, squaring off its phrase rhythms, and sacrificing much of its depth and subtlety. A performance that better captures the work’s spirit was released in 2005 on the Black Box label (see Fanfare 29:3), featuring pianist Martin Berkofsky. Although the Russian Globalis Symphony Orchestra lacks the precision and refinement of the American Composers Orchestra, pianist Berkofsky evinces a deeper understanding of the mode of expression represented by Hovhaness’s work.


“Mysterious Mountain” has loomed as Hovhaness’s best-known and most popular composition ever since it first appeared on recording during the late 1950s. (The fact that this work is identified as Symphony No. 2 should not be taken to mean that it was the second symphony Hovhaness composed. In fact, it was not given this appellation until a number of years after it was composed. To summarize briefly, toward the middle of his career, Hovhaness revised, retitled, destroyed, or partially or completely recast many of his compositions, leaving “holes” in his opus number listings and, in some cases, his numbering of symphonies. He would often “plug up” these “holes” with works composed either earlier or later than the numberings would suggest.) The great success of “Mysterious Mountain,” composed in its final form in 1955 (although portions date back to the 1930s), can be attributed to two factors: (1) Just two or three years after its completion, Fritz Reiner and the Chicago Symphony Orchestra recorded it for RCA Victor; (2) It is a beautifully tranquil and euphonious work in a neo-ecclesiastical vein almost entirely devoid of harmonic dissonance. Readers may be interested to learn that in a letter written in May 1961, the composer wrote, “As to my ‘Mysterious Mountain’ my feelings are mixed—I am happy it is popular but I have written much better music and it is a very impersonal work, in which I omit my deeper searching.”


The Reiner/Chicago recording set a performance standard for “Mysterious Mountain” that is hard to surpass, although even that performance is marred by a blemish or two. But its overall pacing and phrasing seem little short of ideal. By now there have been at least half a dozen recorded performances of this work. Most tend to take the first movement, Andante con moto, at tempos much faster than Reiner’s 7:25. Of them, Davies’s 5:09 may be the fastest. Andante con moto is a very vague tempo indication, leaving much room for interpretation, even more than most such designations. The expressive content of the music must be the determinant, and at Davies’s tempo, this quintessentially tranquil movement sounds brusque and rushed—clearly against the grain of the music. The more actively polyphonic second movement, which happens to be my favorite, is done magnificently. The mysterious opening of the third movement is again disconcertingly hasty, while the remainder of the movement proceeds lovingly, the pure, consonant harmony exquisitely in tune.


It is perhaps not too much of a stretch to observe that the “Elegiac” Symphony plays a similar role within Lou Harrison’s œuvre that “Mysterious Mountain” plays in Hovhaness’s: that is, they both attempt to integrate the spirit, as well as some of the exotic usages, of Eastern music within a Western symphonic context. This makes Harrison’s piece, in particular, especially unusual. A large work (longer than both Hovhaness pieces together), the “Elegiac” Symphony comprises five movements, and reportedly occupied Harrison intermittently from 1942 until 1975. Perhaps its dedication to the memory of Serge and Natalie Koussevitzky accounts for the symphonic approach. Harrison’s familiar fingerprints—modal melodies of somewhat Balinese cast presented in unison or with a heterophonic or simple polyphonic treatment—are clearly evident (especially in movements 1, 3, and 5), but are here expanded to symphonic proportions—not solely a matter of duration, but also of a certain grandeur of both gesture and sonority. This very aspect of the work may alienate some of the composer’s more extreme admirers, while others are likely to find it all the more appealing for the same reason. The symphony is scored for a large orchestra, which is approached with considerable subtlety and delicacy—especially the use of the tack piano, a specialty of the composer, somewhat related to Cage’s “prepared piano.” The three odd-numbered movements—entitled “Tears of the Angel Israfel,” “Tears of the Angel Israfel II,” and “The Sweetness of Epicurus” respectively—are indeed “elegiac,” but not in the highly personal, Samuel Barber-like sense, but rather, in a more abstract, cosmic, contemplative sense, conveying a feeling of serene acceptance. The last movement is especially warm and poignant, concluding the work with deep, heartfelt beauty. The second movement, Allegro, poco presto, is scherzo-like and more Western in style, with some chromaticism, although gamelan-like effects clearly identify the composer. The fourth movement, “Praises for Michael the Archangel,” presents a stark contrast. Its harsh, aggressive harmonic dissonance and 12-tone material remind us that at one point Harrison studied with Arnold Schoenberg. Altogether, Harrison’s Symphony No. 2 serves as an excellent introduction to, and consolidation of, the many facets of this unique composer, presented in a fashion accessible to the more traditionally oriented listener.


FANFARE: Walter Simmons

The coordination of the partners is marvelous, the variety of the sounds they produce is spectacular, and the feeling of the right sound at the right moment is priceless.

Gustav Holst was the Director of Music of St. Paul’s Girls’ School in London between the years 1905 and 1934. John York is currently the Senior Music Head of Department at the same school. It happened that in this school, in a cupboard of Holst’s room, John York found a leather-bound, engraved copy of Holst’s The Planets, arranged for 4 hands, one piano. The version was prepared with the help of two of Holst’s colleagues, Nora Day and Vally Lasker. Additional editing was done by John and Fiona York.
 
The 4-hand version is no substitute for the full orchestral one. This is probably most apparent in the opening number, Mars. The timbre of the heavy brass, like bellowing of battle elephants, colors this orchestral sound in violent dark red. Much of the musical progression is repetitive. In the full version this is concealed behind the constant change of color; the piano is not able match this ability completely. As a result, the music drags a bit. The final climax also loses much of its cosmic horror.
 
In the beginning of the static and mysterious Venus I get a feeling that a softer touch would have been better. But the further in the more I become enthralled by these impressionistic splashes, and the last minutes are magical. It’s possible that the performers deliberately avoided excessive softness, in order not to fall into the standard Debussian watercolors.
 
John York wrote in the liner-note that Mercury gave them the most trouble. Whatever their problems were, the pianists overcame them. The rhythmic precision is stunning. The silver glitter is dry and not too warm: the taste of Brut Champagne, exactly as needed.
 
Holst’s Jupiter is The Bringer of Jollity – and, surprisingly, that’s exactly what the music depicts: jollity, not solemnity, or grandeur, or other possible attributes of The Supreme One. This is Sir John Falstaff, dancing as he arrives, and humming the most hummable tunes! The music is not vulgar: there is much nobility in the Elgarian melodies, especially in the stately middle episode. This middle episode has the British imperial air around it, and the pianists play it with restraint. The performance is splendid, lively and bright, excellently conveying Holst’s humor. Music to raise your spirits!
 
Saturn is The Bringer of Old Age. Nothing is easy when you’re old, and the music breathes with an effort. Its steps are heavy. The middle episode quickens the tempo, and the tension grows. The climax is dark and heavy, though not as sinister as in the orchestral version. In the final part, the texture brightens and warms. There appear to be some good things in old age after all!
 
Uranus, the Magician seems to be a good pal of Dukas’s Sorcerer. In the orchestral version, the feeling of galloping power is created by mighty brass and colorful percussion. The piano version avoids being flat by using different registers. John and Fiona produce some spectacular fireworks here.
 
The soft shimmer and shine of the full-version of Neptune is painted by gentle woodwinds and by the mystic, wordless women’s choir, like voices of sea sirens coming through the fog. The Yorks manage to reproduce this misty atmosphere. Again, their piano does not sound for a single moment like Debussy: the sound is focused and well defined, and this only increases the depth and the mystery. Certainly, the finale of the original Neptune is unique, and there can’t be a substitute for that feeling of awe when the mesmerizing chorus enters. It’s out of this world, in all senses. But apart from this, frankly, I think that the Yorks hit the bull’s eye. The tempo, the dynamics, the viscid drift, the slowly swirling clouds – all is perfect.
 
It is very interesting to hear how such a rich orchestral score as The Planets can be rendered on a single piano. After listening to the entire suite, the conclusion has to be that the piano is a fantastic instrument! One should know all its psychology, but Fiona and John York don’t seem to lack anything here. Their sound is so different in each piece. My minor objections are mostly about Mars (I still find it drags after many listenings) and the beginning of Venus. But I understand that they can’t play much more than is in the notes, and the level of polish and attention that the composer devoted to this transcription certainly cannot compare to those that the orchestral version received.
 
As a fill-up we have some less familiar music: the Suite No.1 by York Bowen, to which the pianists added the Finale movement from the Suite No.2. This was a smart decision: the first suite, ending on the lyrical Nocturne, would sound incomplete, and with the added Finale it obtains a closed 4-movement structure, similar to Rachmaninov’s Second Suite. The Prelude has a wide Romantic flow, with rising and falling tides. It is warm and ecstatic, and sounds a lot like Rachmaninov, though with a simpler harmonic structure. The second part is entitled Dance, which does not seem to me a good description of its character. Its structure is tripartite. The outer parts are fast and cheerful, almost march-like. The middle episode is slower, more lyrical, and very songlike. The entire construction seems overlong for its contents. Nocturne again borrows some melodic and harmonic moves from Rachmaninov (or, through him, from Borodin). It is warm and sensual, and builds to a dramatic climax. The music has movement and depth. John and Fiona give it a beautiful and expressive – I’d even say, loving - performance. The Finale is mercurial and happy. It has some nice Lisztian waterplay, and ends just at the right moment.
 
This disc is a piano duo feast. The coordination of the partners is marvelous, the variety of the sounds they produce is spectacular, and the feeling of the right sound at the right moment is priceless. Regrettably, the music itself has a certain second-hand feeling, though for different reasons. The 4-hand version of The Planets is a faithful portrait of the full version, but much is lost. However excellent the playing, I doubt I’ll ever take it to listen when I have the orchestral version next to it on the shelf. And Bowen’s work could too easily be attributed to Rachmaninov. No doubt, another “Rach” piano suite is a good thing, but it’s not quite on the same level of inspiration.
 
Still – my standing applause to York2, who once again prove their reputation as a “duo with a difference”! Where can I get in line for their future discs? The recorded sound can be bettered in terms of depth and presence. It is clear, but somewhat two-dimensional. The booklet contains an excellent essay by John York about the history of creation of The Planets (both the original and the piano version), and more.
  -- Oleg Ledeniov, MusicWeb International

At the time of the first performance of The Planets, Holst was suffering severely from the neuritis in his hands which plagued him all his life. Much of the actual writing out of the massive score had to be undertaken by his pupils at St Paul’s School under the composer’s supervision. As a result the score presented a considerable number of problems for performers because of missing dynamic markings although it is invariably clear what these should be. The score was newly edited by Colin Matthews and Imogen Holst in 1979 to supply these and to correct various other misprints in earlier editions. Even so The Planets is not a work that could ever be easy to play. It presents many problems not only of technique but also of balance to inexperienced players. One of these occurs almost immediately in Mars where Holst introduces a solo for the “tenor tuba” which is usually nowadays played on the euphonium. I suspect this to be a mistake; the euphonium, a brass band instrument approximating in that medium to the cello, is rather too soft-edged to make the right sort of impact. Karajan in his 1960 Vienna recording employed a tenor “Wagner tuba” which produced a more incisive effect but stood out from the orchestral balance uncomfortably at other points in the score; I do not know what instrument William Boughton uses here, but it sounds sharper-edged than a euphonium and is pretty well ideal. I suspect however that it may have been assisted by microphone placement, since later in the movement it recedes into the orchestral mix. Its duet with the trumpet towards the end (at 4.59) does not sound ideally matched. Also rather backwardly balanced is the Albert Hall organ which does not assert itself through the texture in the same way as in the superbly engineered and ideally balanced recording Charles Dutoit made in Montreal for Decca. Better that, I suppose, than the horribly electronic effect which Karajan achieved in his later Berlin recording for DG; considerably toned down in later re-masterings.
 
Boughton’s speed for Mars is nicely judged, not too hectic but with plenty of power; and one can for once clearly hear the col legno strings tapping away in the opening bars. This is a work which the Philharmonia could play in their sleep, and the technical difficulties pose no problems for them. The opening of Venus restores calm, with a poised horn solo provoking a dreamy response from the woodwind, and Bradley Cresswick produces a beautifully recessed violin solo at 2.08. This is indeed Venus as “the bringer of peace” and not the erotic goddess of love with which we are all too often presented. Perhaps the celesta at 7.50 could be more clearly audible and defined, but it is marked pianissimo in the score, and better that than an over-amplified sound. The same instrument comes through nicely in Mercury¸ which is taken at a steady speed which enables plenty of detail to be heard. Then again at 1.15 where its part is marked “solo” in the score, it does not balance either the flute which precedes it with the melody or the clarinet which follows. Here is a case where some discreet spotlighting really is needed. There is one passage at 2.34 (returning later) which never really comes off in performance – the strings and woodwind who have been playing a two-beat rhythm in 6/8 are suddenly instructed for two bars to play with a three-beat rhythm, indicated by forte accents. At Holst’s Vivace marking it is extremely difficult for the players to make this distinction clear, and the performance here succeeds no better than any others that I have heard.
 
Jupiter bustles along with plenty of jollity, but Boughton does not observe the ritenuto at 1.34 which Holst indicates as leading into the molto pesante tune on the horns – no more than do many of his rivals, including Sir Adrian Boult who gave the first performance. Oddly enough when this passage returns later on, Holst omits the ritenuto marking, and since the passages are otherwise identical one wonders whether the first marking might be a simple error which has remained uncorrected. Boughton treats the central ‘big tune’ as a country dance and not as a patriotic hymn, which is quite correct, but properly allows a slight broadening towards the end of the passage which is marked maestoso. When the tune occurs at the very end Holst indicates that a single crochet of the new speed should be the equivalent of a full bar of the previous one; Boughton observes this precisely, but many conductors make a further broadening to match Holst’s new tempo marking Lento maestoso – I think this is probably needed to give the ‘big tune’ is full breadth, but what Boughton does here is what Holst indicates.
 
The opening of Saturn is nicely poised, and for once the low bass oboe solo at 1.24 is properly piano as marked – it must be very difficult to achieve this dynamic level in the extreme low register of the instrument, and the Philharmonia player here does better than Dutoit’s rather more fruity oboist in Montreal. As the music rises to a climax, Holst marks the score Animato and indicates that the bells should be played “with metal striker”. In a footnote to the new edition of the score the player is advised to use a rawhide mallet “to avoid damaging the bells”. This is what we are given here although the sound is clearly not what the composer had in mind. Many conductors turn the Animato into a violent acceleration - Holst gives no metronome marks in his score, but in his very fast recorded performance of the movement as a whole does lend this interpretation some credence. Boughton here keeps the two tempi closely balanced, to the considerable advantage of the music. When the music dies down again the bells return, marked pianissimo and to be played with a “soft felt striker” – but here they recede too far into the background as a consequence. They are clearer even on Holst’s old 78s, although what we hear there does not sound at all like a “felt striker”. The organ pedal which underpins the music could also be more palpable. Dutoit in Montreal gets this passage just right, and the result makes more of what could otherwise be regarded as an over-extended “dying fall”.
 
The Albert Hall acoustic suits Uranus perfectly, with the timpani passages which can frequently be obscured in a halo of reverberation sounding ideally precise. The xylophone solo which is so often highlighted - with grotesque results in Adrian Boult’s 1954 reading - is properly balanced with the rest of the orchestra. The timpani could however be more defined at 2.49 (the part is marked “solo”) although they are better eleven bars later and thereafter. The notorious organ glissando at the catastrophic climax also blends into the background slightly too much, and the timpani solo at 4.40 is not really distinct enough either. The tempo of Neptune, shown as Andante in the score, is all too often taken by conductors to read Largo molto, but Boughton keeps the music flowing. However the recording here does not give any definition to Holst’s subtle orchestral effects; the tremolos in the highest register of the harps are almost inaudible and the subtle interplay of the harps with celesta and muted violins is more clearly evident in the superb engineering that Decca provide for Dutoit. Holst may have required that the orchestra should play pianissimo and with “dead tone” throughout, but he devoted considerable ingenuity to the provision of variety in the texture, and it would be nice to hear more of this. The unnamed chorus, set at a distance as Holst requires, could also be slightly more palpable, and their internal tuning sounds slightly insecure at the admittedly extremely difficult chromatic passage at 6.16. At the end they fade nicely if rather rapidly into the distance.
 
The coupling with the ballet music from The perfect fool is a well-conceived one, since the music of the two scores has much in common. This again is music that is not easy to play, but Boughton is nicely forthright in the Dance of the spirits of the earth even if the following Dance of the spirits of water could be more gracefully romantic and the final Dance of the spirits of fire is a bit brash. In the booklet note written in 1988 Geoffrey Crankshaw makes a plea for “some act of rescue” for the complete score of the opera – over twenty years later we are still waiting. At the time he was writing there had only been a BBC recording from the mid-1960s, where Imogen Holst had laid violent hands on the score, abridging some passages and introducing a spoken narration to clarify points of the plot. In her book on her father’s music she was very rude about the “intolerable” libretto (written by the composer) and Crankshaw also adduces the “poor” text as a reason for the score’s neglect. This really does the composer an injustice. Although at the time of its first performance critics suspected allegory, the plot is really a light-hearted satire on opera in general, and a very funny one at that. What it really requires is a production that takes the music extremely seriously, thus making the contrast between the vocal writing and the nonsensical words even funnier. The BBC recording of 1997 (currently available on the internet) did that, with the exception of the miscasting of Richard Suart - a very good comic baritone in the Savoy operas - in the central role of the Wizard, giving a G&S slant to music which really demands a Wagnerian singer in the Hunding/Hagen mould. Vernon Handley does take the score seriously, obtaining superb performances elsewhere and giving us every note of the score as Holst wrote it. Could somebody now please take another look at the score, giving us a properly high-class Verdian tenor for the Troubadour and a Wagnerian bass-baritone as the Traveller? Holst’s parodies of Verdi and Wagner are not only first-class satire, but are also uncomfortably convincing when they are given full weight.
 
There are a great many extremely good performances of The Planets in the catalogues – and this is an extremely good one. There are also a few which give us exactly this coupling with the Perfect fool ballet music, including a very good one by Sir Charles Mackerras with the Royal Liverpool Philharmonic; recordings by Solti and Mehta, both available coupled with Boult’s early 1960s Perfect fool, are rather superficial by comparison. The minor imperfections in balance - largely the result of the natural problems in Holst’s own scoring - in this Nimbus recording are not serious enough to prevent a strong endorsement for Boughton’s performance. On a purely personal level I stand by Dutoit’s Decca version, both for its more individual view on the score and its superlative if less natural engineering.
 
-- Paul Corfield Godfrey, MusicWeb International