This fascinating disc presents the young Georges Bizet' first composition after having won the prestigious Prix de Rome, the grandiose Te Deum, which remained unpublished until 1971, and his Prix de Rome cantata Clovis et Clotilde.

MAXWELL DAVIES The Boyfriend: Suite. 1 The Devils: Suite. 1 Seven in Nomine. 1 The Yellow Cake Revue: Excerpts 2 • 1 Nicholas Cleobury, cond; 1 Aquarius; 2 Peter Maxwell Davies (pn) • NAXOS 8.572408 (71:02)


After listening to much of Maxwell Davies’s “regular” music, the suite from The Boyfriend, written for the Ken Russell movie, certainly sounds a bit strange to say the least, being a take-off on 1920s “Jazz Age” music. The interesting thing about it is that both the music and its orchestration are not only more subtle but better both as music and scoring than a great deal of real “Jazz Age” pop, particularly the majority of Paul Whiteman’s output. It has a wonderful charm about it, and as a suite it holds together extremely well, something you might not at all expect from movie music specifically crafted to tie into a certain period. In a way, it almost sounds like a suite of early Gershwin tunes arranged by a master. Or, to put it another way, the music is “bound” organically, despite its allusions to 1920s songs, in a way that even some modern music is not properly tied together. Moreover, the chamber orchestra Aquarius is having an absolute ball with this music, playing it with a verve and a kick one might never expect from a British chamber orchestra (a dance band, yes, but a chamber orchestra, not necessarily). I was absolutely enchanted from first note to last with the Boyfriend suite, though I didn’t expect to be. Bravo!


The suite from The Devils, a score for a film based on Aldous Huxley’s The Devils of Loudon, is quite the opposite: dark, moody, often ominous-sounding music. An uncredited soprano sings very well in a portion of the Sanctus during the second piece, “Sister Jeanne’s Vision,” and here we encounter the type of “madness” music that Maxwell Davies reworked so effectively in his song cycle, Eight Songs for a Mad King (written around the same time). One certainly couldn’t imagine a sharper contrast in styles than between these two film scores—except for, believe it or not, a bit of 1920s-style music in the midst of track 10, “Exorcism.” The soprano returns, after which we inexplicably get another short bit of 1920s dance music. (Apparently, those devils of Loudon liked to do the Charleston.)


Seven in Nomine, dating from 1965, quotes the tune of John Taverner’s Gloria Tibi Trinitas in four of the seven pieces, only one of which actually bears Taverner’s title. Written for the unusual combination of a wind quintet, string quartet, and harp, it reveals yet another side of the composer, the ability to paraphrase earlier music while taking it to a new level. I found it interesting, considering that this is technically a modern work, that the solo strings of Aquarius play with straight tone. You just can’t break the British of that nasty habit. Yet the music itself is evocative, atmospheric, and very beautifully scored, with Maxwell Davies’s unusual modern harmonies creeping in such that they almost seem to have been part of the original piece, so organic do they sound. Since the music maintains a soft volume level and generally slow tempos (one notable exception being the low-volume but cheerful outburst of winds on track 16), it also generates a feeling of calm and well-being.


A similar calm, albeit more syncopated in places, emerges from his two piano solos from The Yellow Cake Revue. This was Maxwell Davies’s contribution to a campaign against mining uranium discovered on the Orkney Islands, where he lives. Both pieces here, the slightly jaunty “Yesnaby Ground” and the reflective “Farewell to Stromness,” are built around a repeating chords pattern in the left hand with undulating melodies in the right. The latter piece almost sounds like Minimalism, but is much more attractive than any American Minimalist piece I’ve yet heard.


All in all, a good if unusual album in Naxos’s Maxwell Davies collection, and one that you will probably want if you are a fan of this composer.


FANFARE: Lynn René Bayley

Respighi’s unfinished First Violin Concerto in A major (1903) was revised and completed by composer/conductor Salvatore Di Vittorio, who directed its première in 2010. Harking back to the masterful writing of Vivaldi and Mendelssohn, the Concerto also foreshadows the orchestral technicolour of the great Italian composer’s ‘Roman Trilogy’. The lyrical Aria and graceful Suite, newly transcribed by Di Vittorio, embody Respighi’s abiding love of Baroque music, while Rossiniana is a delightful reworking of Rossini’s piano music, Les riens (Trifles), much enhanced by Respighi’s contribution of new melodies and innovative orchestration.

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A winner.

This is, in race horse parlance, another Nimbus ex MusicMasters production. The recordings are now, amazingly, over twenty years old but they certainly bear the new and somewhat austere, though evocative, livery well.

Music for the Theatre dates from 1925 and owed its genesis to a Koussevitzky commission. The composer took incidental music for a projected play and utilised it for the new work. There are five movements with the Prologue, and its brisk quasi-reveille calls, setting the scene with its quiescent material that leads inexorably to a jazzy and luminous coda. The muted trumpet and clarinet that haunt the Dance suggest a post-Ragtime sensibility and Hot Dance music rather than the Jazz that Copland suggested. It certainly has more of a tightly rhythmic New York feel than the more curvaceous insinuation of a Chicago beat. In the warmly lyric Interlude the cor anglais is the star and this ushers in a cheeky Burlesque where the trombone's cocky call over a walking bass adds greatly to the fun. The finale revisits the first and third movements and adds some restful stasis to end a happy, snappy work, tautly and sympathetically played by the forces of the Orchestra of St. Luke's under Dennis Russell Davies.

Quiet City is naturally better known but again trumpet and cor anglais are to the fore. Stephen Taylor is the cor anglais player here and I assume he was in Music for the Theatre as well. He and trumpeter Chris Gekker play with fine tone and measured cantilena. The strings turn lush when needed; no astringent aspersions are cast. Music for Movies dates from 1942 - the quartet of compositions is presented chronologically. This is a vital, energising piece of work, one of his breeziest and zestiest. It flies kites for serious composers and film music, whilst ensuring that colour, rhythmic flair, localised characterisation, and convincing orchestration are all surely realised. To end we have the Clarinet Concerto. It's not such an odd bedfellow as it may seem, especially when the playing is so consonant and William Blount so highly effective a soloist.

Of course you will have your own Numero Uno to play against each of these four recordings. Probably you'd go for Bernstein, Levi or Litton in Music for Theatre, or Copland himself (or Marriner - excellent) in Quiet City. The composer or Slatkin are probably best for Music for Movies and you have a whole Appalachia full of choices with the Concerto, according to how jazzy or straight you want it - Goodman, Meyer, Stoltzman - best with Tilson Thomas on the rostrum - or maybe Drucker - and there are plenty more.

As a single disc however this one, excellently recorded, finely played, and well annotated (by Vivian Perlis) is a winner.

-- Jonathan Woolf, MusicWeb International

Nearly 80 minutes of Elgar in march tempo many be a bit much at a single sitting, but this disc fills a useful niche. The most interesting work here is the symphonic prelude Polonia, dedicated to Paderewski, and composed during the First World War. Making use of various Polish melodies (including music by Paderewski and Chopin), at nearly fifteen minutes it's a major statement for a mere "occasional" work, and the only reason I can think of that it isn't better known is that it's not about England so no one especially cares. James Judd and the New Zealand Symphony play it very well, as they also do the Pomp and Circumstances Marches. Frankly, you can have your Boults and Barbirollis: compared to Judd they sound far less involved. He actually has interesting ideas about phrasing (listen to how he drives the opening of March No. 2), and makes a persuasive case for this music as music, rather than as a high school graduation exercise or some other mundane event.


The Coronation March and the Funeral March from Grania and Diarmid are also bigger than their titles might suggest, the first as reflective as it is opulent, the second really a brief, elegiac tone poem. It's a bit hard to get excited about either the Empire March or the March from Caractacus, and the March of the Mogul Emperors (from The Crown of India Suite) could crash and bash with more abandon (where is the tam-tam?), but there's certainly enough here to whet the appetite of committed Elgarians. The sonics are also quite good: a touch low-level, perhaps, but easily adjustable, with plenty of room to expand and good bass separation between timpani, bass drum, and organ pedals (which are well caught but not overbearing). In short, this is another successful collaboration between Judd and the New Zealanders--long may they continue.
--David Hurwitz, ClassicsToday.com

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

WEINBERG Rhapsody on Moldavian Themes. Symphony No. 6 • Vladimir Lande, cond; Glinka Choral College Boys’ Ch; St. Petersburg St SO • NAXOS 8572779 (61:02)


Mieczysaw Weinberg’s sad and tortured life is described in the liner notes. The fate of his impressive and unjustly neglected music is explained by the fact that he was kept under wraps by his Soviet masters while others were given all the international glory. Naxos’s series of Weinberg releases, which so far includes three CDs of his cello music, is augmented here with this release of his wonderful Rhapsody on Moldavian Themes and innovative Symphony No. 6.


The Rhapsody begins softly, mysteriously, but builds into an impressive musical structure in which the music almost morphs from one section to another rather than sounding forcibly juxtaposed. These Moldavian themes have a certain Sephardic quality about them, a soulful minor-key tendency that influences one’s emotional reaction to the music even in the most energetic passages. Wisely, too, Weinberg does not over-write, so the piece doesn’t overstay its welcome.


The Sixth Symphony, composed in 1963, is a more mature and reflective work. Divided into five movements, it begins quietly, but this initial Adagio sostenuto does not stay quiet for long; rather, it breaks out into louder, yet no less somber, moods in which the brass and winds combine with the strings in a mode that tends toward the minor. Basses (and possibly cellos) sustain quiet chords while a solo flute plays with great anxiety above them; the solo role then passes on to horn and clarinet. A group of winds, including clarinets, plays a mysterious and restless melody above growling basses; another, quieter eruption with horns ensues; then it ebbs into a soft, unresolved dissonance for the finale.


The second movement includes the chorus of boys’ voices, singing a Lev Kvitko poem about a boy who makes a violin from scraps which he then plays to an audience of animals and birds. (Unfortunately, no texts are included, nor does Naxos direct you to a translation on its website.) The music is bitonal and polyrhythmic, in fact producing at times an almost purposefully uneven, galumphing gait. The music for the boys’ chorus is almost a chant, covering perhaps six tones that are played against the ever-changing harmonies of the orchestral background. A solo violin, emulating the boy’s homemade violin, plays plaintively, then the chorus returns while low wind, string, and brass chords play below them.


The third movement, marked Allegro molto, sounds almost hectic in its fast-forward motion, brass and percussion dominating the soundscape in a more mature and advanced sort of Khachaturian style. An almost klezmer-style clarinet solo interacts with glockenspiel and woodblocks, slurred trombones, and tubas. The fourth is described as a subtle reworking of one of Weinberg’s Jewish Songs from 1944, a rather ominous poem by Samuil Galkin in which the place where a home once stood is now a graveyard for murdered children, which will serve in the future as a memorial. The movement begins in a loud and ominous mood, with crashing timpani, but the chorus enters here in a softer, more conciliatory mood. Its song is a little more involved melodically here, written in C Minor and with the boys often singing in their lower range. Even the clarinet is pitched low, and the basses continue to pursue an ominous mood with occasional outbursts by the horns and low trumpets over percussion. Eventually, what sounds like very low, soft trombones underscore the boys’ song, occasionally colored by glockenspiel and oboe. Oddly, Weinberg ends the symphony with yet another slow movement, marked Andantino. It is based on a poem by Mikhail Lukonin in which “children of the present and future, from the Mississippi to the Mekong, are bid sleep in the confidence of a bright and productive tomorrow.” Appropriately, the music itself is like a lullaby, with wistful choral passages sparsely accompanied, first by the winds and then by lower strings. Certain elements heard earlier make tentative reappearances here, then the choir stops singing in order to give way to a solo violin playing a plaintive melody. The ending is a quiet, unresolved dissonance.


This is remarkable music, excellently played and sung by the various forces involved. As usual, Naxos’s over-reverberant sound blurs the clarity of certain instruments, but in the more atmospheric movement of the symphony this works to its advantage. There’s another recording of the Rhapsody available, conducted by Gabriel Chmura with the Polish National Philharmonic on Chandos 10237, which received a good review in these pages from Barry Brenesal, and both the excellent Kiril Kondrashin and Vladimir Fedoseyev have recorded versions of the Sixth Symphony that I haven’t heard, but taken on its own merits, Vladimir Lande’s performance is very fine.


FANFARE: Lynn René Bayley

The first complete recordings of the original versions of the Symphonies Nos. 4 and 5 by Anton Bruckner.

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While many historic editions focus on a performer, a less obvious but sometimes more artistically resonant choice is to focus on a conductor, one of those musical minds which shapes so much of what we hear. The Genter Wand Edition focuses on that great personality of the German music world, and this recording of Wand over the NDR Sinfonie Orchester and Jorge Bolet in his final years is filled with great musical moments. Wand once said "The older one gets, the clearer one's vision of perfection becomes," a sentiment befitting his masterful interpretation of Tchaikovsky and Mussorgsky.

Arthur Bliss is a hard composer to place. He maintained a very high standard of craftsmanship throughout his long career (he died at 84 in 1975, and wrote music for more than half a century), but his idiom was more "20th-century tonal English" than overtly personal. He became Master of the Queen's Musick, a position difficult for non-British listeners to take seriously, but evidently he enjoyed the job. There is, in fact, a certain heraldic quality to his writing, most evident in A Color Symphony, and there's an aristocratic fastidiousness that's quite evident in the two pieces on this disc, even when they rise to passionate climaxes.

The Meditations on a Theme by John Blow may well be Bliss' orchestral masterpiece. It's a gravely beautiful piece, well-contrasted, frequently touching, and unforgettably scored. The actual tune doesn't appear in full until the end, when it emerges with unforced majesty as the inevitable culmination of the half-hour's prior journey. Metamorphic Variations, a very late piece written just a couple of years before Bliss' death, is a touch less richly colored, and it takes a while to warm up; but the work's latter half (the sequence running, in order, Polonaise, Funeral Procession, Cool Interlude, Scherzo II, Duet) is marvelous, and the gently affirmative ending is unaffectedly poetic.

David Lloyd-Jones has made several fine Bliss recordings for Naxos, and this is another. The Bournemouth Symphony plays beautifully throughout and is very well recorded. Indeed, Naxos' Bliss series represents one of the label's more noteworthy efforts on behalf of any British composer--but is anyone noticing? This series remains somewhat "under the radar", but it surely deserves the attention of all serious collectors.

--David Hurwitz, ClassicsToday.com

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This re-release is one of CAPRICCIO’s most famous recordings which has been remastered for optimal quality and offered at a special price. The first work chosen for this release is Johannes Brahms’ String Quintet in G Major. The piece, scored for two violins, two violas, and cello, was intended to be the composer’s last piece of music. The one movement string sextet Verklarte Nacht (Transfigured Night) is considered Schoenberg’s earliest important work. The piece is inspired by Dehmel’s poem of the same name, and was written in just three weeks.

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Shostakovich: Symphony No. 7, 'Leningrad'

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This collection of music from the Caucasus features Georgian, Armenian and Azerbaijani composers whose works have long deserved a wider hearing.

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A highly enjoyable, and, thanks to the organ, rather remarkable release.

This is a good potpourri-style introduction to the organ works of Charles-Marie Widor. Too often he is of course only remembered for the infamous Toccata from the end of the fifth symphony, all too frequently so poorly played. Good then for the general music enthusiast to have a budget price introduction to some other corners of the Widor oeuvre many of which deserve to be better known than the Toccata. The implication however, that Naxos’s vast Organ Encyclopaedia isn’t going to include a complete Widor cycle strikes me as particularly unfortunate. This is especially true given that Naxos’s library does include a complete Rheinberger cycle.

The most interesting element of this disc though is the choice of instrument. I wrote in glowing terms here about Martin Pasi’s extraordinary dual-temperament instrument in Omaha in the context of Julia Brown’s Buxtehude recording. That was recorded – mostly, I think - in meantone using the 28 stops of the organ available in that temperament. Perhaps more of a challenge to these historically-informed super-eclectic American organs is how they handle repertoire such as that on the present recording. It makes for fascinating listening!

If I’m honest, some of the sounds here are not sounds one associates with the world of Widor. However only occasionally - the mixture at the beginning of track 2 for instance - does an aesthetic clash wander into one’s consciousness enough for it to be uncomfortable. Other idiosyncrasies - the flexible winding – surely there could be a more effective stabiliser for this sort of repertoire - and even the pure thirds in the well-tempered tuning - listen to those big C major chords in the Marche Pontificale! - maybe take a little getting used to, but I managed. The overriding impression of this disc is of an organ of simply enormous panache and personality. The warmth of the 8’ stops, the effectiveness of the swell box, the sheer grunt of the pedal reeds – all are extraordinary. Pasi’s organ doesn’t really evoke Rouen, but it is a work of sheer brilliance. To quote the late, great Stephen Bicknell: “the work of Brombaugh, Fritts, Pasi, Taylor and Boody and even Fritts-Richards operates at a level of artistic quality that simply does not apply in Europe any more, despite the beacons offered by, say, Ahrend and Aubertin.” He wasn’t wrong.

The organ seems to inspire Robert Delcamp to better performances than I’ve enjoyed on his previous Naxos discs - on much lesser instruments. Occasionally still a little ‘square’, his flair for French repertoire is undeniable, and I can therefore recommend this is as a highly enjoyable, and, thanks to the organ, rather remarkable release.

Chris Bragg, MusicWeb International

Josef Foerster was by all accounts a contented soul, and this shows in his music, which is generally open and optimistic in character. Certainly the Festive Overture and the tone poem Meine Jugend fall into this category: he sounds a bit like Richard Strauss without the danger or decadence. Symphony No. 4, subtitled "Easter Eve", strikes a deeper note, and it's a lovely work. There is no competition for the two shorter pieces, which are well played and conducted and make a very good impression. Foerster lived to the ripe old age of 91, and he wrote a ton of music, so who knows what other gems are out there waiting to be discovered.

In the symphony (Foerster's best-known piece along with the tone poem Cyrano de Bergerac) conductor Lance Friedel is about six minutes slower (out of 40-plus) than Smetácek on Supraphon, and some listeners will prefer the latter's livelier tempos. (There's also an historical recording under Kubelik that really isn't competitive on account of very dated sonics.) Questions of tempo aside, if you didn't know the Smetácek you'd surely not care at all, because Friedel has the measure of the piece and projects its gentle loveliness just as effectively. Also, the vivid engineering gives the organ-reinforced conclusion plenty of the necessary gravitas, and at the Naxos price you can hardly go wrong. This is well-made, attractive music that fans of late-Romanticism should certainly hear.

--David Hurwitz, ClassicsToday.com

These works are so familiar--and so frequently successfully recorded--that a reviewer can almost admire the record buyer who already owns one or two versions (say, one on modern instruments and another on period) and doesn't have to sit and analyze another. Decisions, decisions: Gardiner (Philips) is just about ideal on period instruments, but Norrington (Virgin), also on period instruments, has more personality and offers some surprises from the brass. Charles Mackerras (Telarc), with modern instruments, is brightly colored. But enough about them.

Both works were composed for outdoor events--heaven knows what they sounded like. The Water Music (1715, 1717) was used to entertain royalty floating up and down the Thames; some of it may have been played indoors with supper. The Royal Fireworks Music dates from 1749 and was to be performed in Green Park to celebrate the Peace of Aix-la-Chapelle; the rehearsal, a week earlier, was attended by 12,000 people. At the performance itself, the fireworks were unimpressive, but one of the pavilions caught fire. Talk about excitement.

Kevin Mallon leads a Toronto-based, 34-person group of period instrumentalists called the Aradia Ensemble on this new, bargain issue, and it's a terrific, ear-opening show. The music is, above all, joyful, with dance movements galore and plenty of giddy pomp. Mallon has rethought the tempos, almost all of which, he feels, should be quicker than we're accustomed to hearing. If you listen to the Air, the fourth movement to Suite No. 1, you'll be surprised at how good it sounds played without the usual serious "aura" that drags it down. Mallon writes in the accompanying notes that he looked at an 18th-century score for the piece and discovered it was marked "presto".


These quick tempos work most of the time, and if, for example, you overlook the fact that the alla hornpipe of the Water Music Suite No. 2 and the Rigaudon of No. 3 could only have been danced by a dancer on speed, and just listen to how effortlessly entertaining the music is, you'll love it. Mallon is not rigid in his fleetness, however: the final movement of Suite No. 1 is relaxed, and he slows it down even further for its last few seconds, giving it the stature it requires.


Mallon also adds side-drum and tambourines to a couple of the movements, and they add jollity and jauntiness; only a whiner would object. There's a thin line in this music between too ostentatious and too mild, and by keeping his forces slim and his tempos original and suited to the music, he avoids being either. When the trumpets and horns ring out they don't blare, and in La Paix from the Royal Fireworks Music, when Mallon uses transverse flutes (as suggested in the original manuscript), the effect is magical rather than just mellow. Listen to the overture of the Royal Fireworks, brass blasting, drums being banged with wooden-headed sticks, all at a military tempo that implies forward propulsion rather than combative stodginess.


If I have one criticism of the performances, it's similar to how I feel about the same conductor's recent recording of Rinaldo: the strings tend to attack softly, and I prefer more snap. Maybe I'm looking for trouble, but those slashing attacks tend to make you sit up and listen even more attentively. But these performances are wonderfully peppery nonetheless, and Naxos' absolutely natural recording captures every sound and balances the instruments ideally. This is both a bargain and a terrific reading. Highly recommended, and right to the top of the list. [3/7/2006]
--Robert Levine, ClassicsToday.com

A pupil of Rubinstein and Tchaikovsky, and a teacher of Rachmaninov and Scriabin, Sergey Taneyev was a monumental figure in Russian music of the second half of the nineteenth century.

RODE Violin Concertos: No. 7; No. 10; No. 13 • Friedemann Eichhorn (vn); Nicolás Pasquet, cond; Southwest German RO Kaiserlautern • NAXOS 8.570469 (58:00)


Pierre Rode (1774–1830) and Rodolphe Kreutzer (1766–1831) are well known to all serious students of the violin for their technique building exercises in the form of etudes and caprices. Of the same generation were Viotti (1755–1824) with his 29 violin concertos and Pierre Baillot (1771–1842) with his L’art du violon . But they were all outdone, if not undone, by their near contemporary from Genoa, Niccolò Paganini (1782–1840). These were the standard bearers of two competing schools of violin-playing and pedagogy, one Italian, the other Franco-Belgian. Kreutzer, despite his German-sounding name, and Rode were French, as was Baillot, and their approach to the instrument would lead to Vieuxtemps and through him to Wieniawski and thence to Ysaÿe. Paganini, on the other hand, was a tough act to follow. Other than Ernesto Camillo Sivori, Paganini’s sole pupil, the only violinist-composer of note to continue in the Italian’s footsteps was the Jewish Moravian Heinrich Wilhelm Ernst (1814–1865).


Not that casual acquaintance with the works of any of these violin wizards would reveal in any obvious way the more subtle differences in the application of their practices, for envelope-pushing, finger- and bow-bending, exhibitionistic virtuosity was the order of the day and the name of the game. The never-ending pursuit of one-upmanship superseded all else; the impossible was unplayable only until it was surpassed by the next even greater impossibility. An “I’ll show you,” attitude prevailed. Yet, for all its warping of musical values, the extension of the possible in violin technique opened the door to composers who were able to incorporate those technical advances into major, serious works. I doubt that the violin concertos of Mendelssohn, Brahms, Tchaikovsky, Sibelius, and others could have been written had these earlier 19th-century virtuosos not provided the necessary tools.


Though Rode studied with Viotti, he later worked with Kreutzer and Baillot at the Paris Conservatory, contributing to the school’s official Violin Method . The French “way” mitigated some of the less graceful aspects of the Italian approach by introducing a greater refinement of tone production through smoother bowing and phrasing techniques. Some insight into this can be gained from a rather unlikely source: Beethoven. Rode’s 1812–13 concert tour brought him to Vienna, and it was for the violinist’s appearances there that Beethoven composed his last violin sonata, the No. 10 in G-Major. During its composition, the composer was in contact with Rode regarding his preferred style of playing. We know this from a letter Beethoven wrote to Archduke Rudolph, complaining, “We like to have more surging passages in our finales, but R did not consent to that.” Unusual for Beethoven to yield to anyone in matters musical, but we have in this sonata a clear example of the more elegant, aristocratic style that Rode and the French school preferred.


In addition to his coauthorship of the aforementioned Violin Method and his 24 Caprices so well beloved (?) by students, Rode composed 13 violin concertos, none of which has found favor among present day players. In this, Rode has ceded the playing field to his teacher, Viotti, whose concertos—at least some of them—are performed and recorded with relative frequency. This recent Naxos CD is in fact the only recording currently listed of any of Rode’s concertos, and I sincerely hope that its release changes that, for the works on this disc are, in my opinion, more appealing and of greater musical substance than are any of Viotti’s concertos I’ve heard, and that includes his famous No. 22 in A Minor recorded many times over.


No one who listens to these Rode concertos will be disappointed by a lack of virtuoso fireworks. There’s enough double-stopping, rapid runs, and bowing tricks to satisfy even the most insatiable appetites for hire-wire circus acts. But there is also a depth and breadth to Rode’s muse, and a sophisticated air to his melodic invention that elicits a strong emotional response and strikes a genuine responsive chord. Simply put, there is some exquisitely beautiful music here. And Friedemann Eichhorn, who is new to me, plays with a sweetness of tone and expressiveness of phrasing that grace Rode’s exceptional lyricism with the delicacy of a caress, all the while skirting the technical minefields as if they didn’t exist. Nowhere does Eichhorn’s tone turn coarse or his bowing become labored, even in the most fiendishly difficult passages. This is violin-playing of a caliber to match this extraordinary music. In a single stroke, Eichhorn and Naxos have done for Rode (and for us) what should have been done long ago. It’s my fervent hope that they will see fit to give us Rode’s remaining 10 concertos.


No fancier of the violin should be without this disc. It may even show up on my 2009 Want List.


FANFARE: Jerry Dubins