BACH Cello Suites Nos. 1–6 • Mstislav Rostropovich (vc) • SUPRAPHON 4044-2, mono (2 CDs: 123:52) Live: Prague 5/26–27/1955


Although this set was released over two years ago, it only came to my attention more recently (and via a pirate clone on the Documents label at that). I then held off on writing a review, hoping that one of my Fanfare colleagues with expertise in string instruments would take the task in hand instead. As that has not occurred, I will now venture in where angels fear to tread. While Rostropovich did of course record the set of cello suites near the end of his career, for EMI in 1995 (issued on both CD and DVD; see the review of the former by David K. Nelson in 19:1), the release of another cycle from 40 years before, from the dawn of his career in 1955, is a major event that demands attention.


This recording was made at the annual Prague Spring Festival, when the cellist was but 28 years old. (It is also a notable occasion in that Rostropovich there met his wife, the famed soprano Galina Vishnevskaya, and proposed to her after a whirlwind 10-day courtship!) The monaural sound is quite clear, if a bit hard-edged and closely miked; the audience is very quiet, though now and then an occasional soft cough is barely audible in the background. While quite acceptable on its own terms, the audio quality of course does not compete with the velvety sound of EMI’s digital set. A similar disadvantageous comparison can be made about the quality of the cellos used; Rostropovich had not yet acquired his famed Duport Stradivarius, and the unidentified instrument used in Prague, while again good enough in and of itself, cannot compare with the ravishing, burnished tone quality of the Duport. For an instant revelation of the difference, listen to the opening of the Prelude to the Fifth Suite, where the sheer depth and opulence of the Duport in the EMI set is positively dumbfounding. There is also the occasional note in Prague that is not quite dead in tune—clearly due in part to the far less rich overtones of the instrument rather than any shortcoming on the part of Rostropovich. If the sound of the instrument itself is a decisive desideratum here—and for many people it justifiably is—then this Supraphon release will likely not be much more than a curiosity.


However, in addition to instrumental sound there is the issue of differences in interpretation over the intervening span of four decades, and that is where this set comes into its own. The first thing to note is that overall, with the major exceptions of the preludes to the First, Third, and Fourth suites, the Gigue in the First Suite, and the Sarabande in the Fifth Suite, the earlier performances are noticeably swifter. (The total timing of the EMI set is 137:54, compared to 123:52 here). That said, comparisons of some individual movements can be misleading, as in the 1955 performances Rostropovich omits repeats in some movements—e.g., the allemandes in the Third and Sixth suites, the bourées in the Fourth Suite, the Courante in the Sixth Suite—though even in some of those instances the 1955 versions would still be swifter if the repeats were observed. (The cuts in Prague doubtless stem from Rostropovich’s early training; in the booklet notes to the EMI set, the cellist recounts that his teacher, Semyon Kozolupov, strictly forbade pupils to play repeats of the second half of movements written in binary form, allowing repeats only in the first half.) If observance of all the repeats is a major criterion for evaluating a set of the suites, then again this set will not be competitive with the EMI studio recording.


What, then, does this Supraphon set have that commends it as a supplement or alternative to the EMI studio version? In a word (actually two words), that elusive and almost intangible quality I would call “narrative intensity.” Despite my unreserved adoration of Rostropovich as the greatest cellist in recorded history (and is there any lover of cello music who does not so venerate him?), I had always found the EMI set of these suites somehow lacking, and this new release has finally made clear why. As tonally gorgeous and technically immaculate as those sets are, and despite the programmatic titles and descriptions that Rostropovich gives to each suite in that set, it is live in Prague and not in the studio that the cellist finds and articulates fully sustained interpretive profiles. Listen for example to the Sarabande in the Second Suite, dubbed “Sorrow and intensity” by Rostropovich in the 1995 EMI set. While that studio recording is very beautiful, it lacks meditative profundity; whereas in Prague there is a rapt sense of total inward intensity—what the Germans call Innigkeit —that transforms the movement into one bearing comparison with the symphonic Adagio s of Bruckner. Likewise, while still too slow for my taste, the gavottes and Gigue in the Sixth Suite in Prague have some forward momentum, unlike the suffocatingly leaden versions in the EMI set.


Another notable difference is that in Prague Rostropovich is metrically much more exact, whereas on the EMI set he is rather free (or “rhapsodic,” to borrow his description of Pablo Casals). This is particularly true in the in the concluding dance movements (the menuets, bourées, gavottes, and gigues), with the last two movements of the Second Suite again offering particularly striking instances. While I suppose that some might characterize the earlier recordings as comparatively stiff, I do not find them so, and indeed prefer the more strict approach as better articulating the structure of the music. On the other hand, I much prefer the brisker tempos taken in the EMI set to the preludes of the First, Third, and Fourth Suites, the Allemande in the Third Suite, and the Courante in the Sixth Suite, as imparting a necessary greater degree of energy to those movements.


While my overall interpretive preference is therefore with the Prague versions, I cannot simply recommend that set in preference to the EMI one for those desiring a recording of Rostropovich in this repertoire. The two sets are strikingly different, and each has its considerable merits in manifesting the cellist’s extraordinary musical genius. (Indeed, the Prague set caused me to appreciate virtues of the EMI set that had not registered with me before.) For fans of Rostropovich, it goes without saying that this is a mandatory acquisition; but to lovers of cello music in general and the Bach suites in particular, I would say much the same thing, despite its occasional limitations. Had this not come to my attention too late to qualify, it surely would have been a major Want List contender; urgently recommended.


FANFARE: James A. Altena

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This recording, although relatively new, is one of the rarest gems in the Supraphon archives. After the initial positive reactions the extraordinary quality of the recording was confirmed by prestigious Gramophone Awards; in addition to winning the chamber music category, the young ensemble also brought home from London the top prize: Recording of the Year. Eight years after the first edition, Supraphon is releasing this delicacy for true audiophiles. Dvorák's mature works perhaps best mirror the ensemble's extraordinary qualities: the equilibrium between precision and spontaneity, the remarkable ensemble playing, and the solo potential of all of the individual players. At the end of the draft of his Quartet Op. 96, Antonín Dvorák wrote the comment: "I'm satisfied; it went quickly..." Soon after the "New World Symphony", he composed one of the most beautiful of all string quartets while still in America - and the critics were unsparing in their praise. For the Pavel Haas Quartet, both the "American" Quartet and the following Quartet Op. 106, the first work composed after the composer's return home from America, are literally affairs of the heart. According to the Sunday Times: "In this repertoire, they are simply matchless today." Dvorák might even have written his comment "I'm satisfied" about this recording as well.

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Czech roots and international careers are the connecting link between the creators of all the three featured concertos. Antonín Kraft, first cellist in Prince Esterházy’s orchestra, was according to Haydn, who initiated him into the art of composition, “one of the most superb masters of this instrument”.

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The Pavel Haas Quartet, of late, has been the focus of much hype and excitement, and I was curious to know what all the fuss is about. Having lived with and listened to these CDs several times over the past week, I now know. Quite simply, not to put too fine a point on it, this recording is a sensation. I was aware when I asked to review this, that it had garnered several rave reviews, and being a lover of both chamber music and Schubert’s in particular, I had great expectations. I’ve not been disappointed.

Founded in 2002, the quartet was named after Pavel Haas, a Czech composer and pupil of Leoš Janá?ek. Tragedy befell Haas; he spent his last days in the camp at Terezin, and died in Auschwitz in 1944. The Quartet has been the recipients of numerous awards and accolades, including the Gramophone Recording of the Year 2011 for a CD of Dvo?ák Quartets. It also has other fine recordings under its belt. There have been several personnel changes along the way before the current line-up. They have recorded all three of the Haas string quartets, pertinently coupling them with those of Janá?ek. I’ve already placed my order.

The pairing of these two works is a very intelligent one. Both are preoccupied with the notion of death and finality. The String Quartet in D minor, D 810 was composed in 1824, four years before Schubert’s death. It is entitled Death and the Maiden; the song of the same name (D 531) provides the theme for the second movement variations. The composer had already been suffering from syphilis for two years and that same year wrote: “Each night when I go to sleep, I hope never to wake again, and each morning serves only to recall the misery of the previous day." From the first declamatory chords of the opening movement you realize that the Pavel Haas mean business. I don’t think I’ve ever heard such a dramatic opening and you are literally kept on the edge of your seat for the rest of the movement. High-powered, passionate and thrilling are the adjectives which best describe this playing. The intense, underlying tension is contrasted with the fervent, heartfelt lyricism of the second subject. Throughout, these young players imbue the music with light and shade. It is not a cosy performance yet ensemble and intonation are faultless.

The dark theme of the second movement is haunting, funereal and filled with pathos - heartfelt and sincere. As the variations unfold, an eloquent dialogue between the individual instruments emerges. Each variation is thoughtfully nuanced and sensitively sculpted, with the players highlighting the dramatic contrasts between the variations. The third movement Scherzo is a rhythmic tour de force. The finale, marked Presto, is almost a tarantella, a dance to ward off the spider’s bite and thus flee from death, with the Pavel Haas conjuring up a musical exorcism. The dotted rhythmic patterns are crisply incisive and the movement is carried off with velocity and élan.

The String Quintet in C major was composed in 1828. This was the last year of Schubert’s short life and a prolifically fruitful year by any standards. During it he composed, amongst other things, the Mass in E flat, the last three Piano Sonatas, the F minor Fantasie for piano duet and this String Quintet. Benjamin Britten, no less, considered this year to be the most miraculous in the history of music. Danjulo Ishizaka is an excellent choice as second cello in the Quintet and blends into the ensemble well. Of German/Japanese origin, he was described by none other than Rostropovich as ‘phenomenal in his technical ability, perfect in his musical creative power’. He certainly brings these gifts to the performance of the Quintet.

I consider this work to be the most sublime piece of chamber music ever written, and the Pavel Haas enter a very crowded playing field, with many outstanding recordings. Some of my favourites that spring to mind are the Lindsays, the Belceas, the Alban Berg and not forgetting, the Hollywood’s 1951 account.

For me, the performance here ticks all the right boxes. From the opening chords, you feel that these young players are taking you on a journey. Having a clear vision and understanding of the structure of the music, they explore its full emotional range. Warmth and expressive phrasing are a distinguishing hallmark. The second movement, the emotional core, is well-paced. There is a tranquillity, an other-worldliness and a sense of resignation in the playing. They bring out the dark and anguished character of the dramatic section. Here one becomes aware of Schubert’s terror of approaching death. The Scherzo is imbued with gusto and energy, the trio, in contrast, being subdued. The finale is truly marked with a gypsy swagger.

Chamber music lovers, I am sure, will want these recordings, and I have no doubt that they will become benchmarks for these two glories of the chamber music repertoire. Recorded sound and balance is second to none; the Domovina Studio, Prague provides an ideal acoustic. Booklet notes by Vlasta Reiffererova supply the essential information. These young players are a force to be reckoned with, and the anticipation and enthusiasm they have earned with the listening public is here proved beyond doubt.

– Stephen Greenbank, MusicWeb International

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With God's help and favour, I will one day be a Liszt in technique, a Mozart in composing, so wrote Smetana in his diary in January 1843. This sentence reflects the sheer determination and confidence in his own talent that compelled the 19-year-old composer - in defiance of his parents - to leave for Prague so as to continue his studies and eventually become one of the best-known Czech music creators. The beginning of his journey was fraught with tough, uncertain material conditions, and the young Smetana had to be tenacious indeed. Jitka Cechov�'s new recording features early pieces written in 1845 and 1846, years of intensive study and the outset of Smetana's independent artistic career. Many of them are being released on CD for the very first time; some of them were used by the composer in his later works or revised. The pianist Jitka Cechov� has completed the seventh instalment of the currently most comprehensive recording of Bedrich Smetana's piano works. Owing to her zest and faultless interpretation, we now have the opportunity to savour this remarkable and still underestimated layer of Smetana's oeuvre within the context of the greatest 19th-century composers of piano music.

At 80 years young, Charles Mackerras remains one of the great conductors of our era, not to mention one of the most unheralded. His unfailing musicality, intelligence, and sheer joy in performing communicates vividly in these two glorious performances, beautifully recorded live in September, 2005. They are the kind of interpretations that make you listen as if for the first time to music you probably know well. This isn't just because Mackerras opts for the Urtext editions of both scores, most noticeable in the finale of the Eighth Symphony, where after the central climax he has the cellos play the variant of the main theme contained in Dvorák's autograph (Harnoncourt and a few others do similarly). What really distinguishes these performances is their sheer excitement and vital sense of flow, a function of rhythmically characterful phrasing allied to ideally transparent textures.


This is as true of the bucolic first two movements of the Eighth Symphony, where the woodwinds are especially delightful, as it is in the tremendously physical and passionate initial allegro of the Ninth. Has this movement's coda ever sounded more stormily agitated? And notice how marvellously Mackerras judges the tempo of the ensuing Largo, perfectly poised between rapt contemplation and easeful forward motion. Rhythmic acuity is the hallmark of both scherzos: a deliciously pointed waltz in the Eighth, and a swiftly vivacious Slavonic dance in the Ninth.


In the two finales, so often turned into stop-and-start affairs by less adept conductors, Mackerras creates an irresistible feeling of culmination, choosing rousing initial tempos and then for the most part sticking to them. The Eighth's concluding variations seldom have come across more cogently, particularly the lazy last three, which never bog down in excessive Romantic reverie. The Prague Symphony Orchestra responds to Mackerras' direction with amazing gusto, as if it doesn't already know the music backwards and forwards, and the audience is admirably silent. There are other wonderful performances of this music out there, but this truly is as good as it gets.
--David Hurwitz, ClassicsToday.com

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KOZELUH KNOBLOCHOVA; SEMERADOVA; FLEKOVA SONATAS FOR FORTEPIANO, FLUTE AND CELLO

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An extraordinary constellation of artists is one the major attributes of the new recording – a Czech conductor and a Czech soloist, and a German orchestra, who have a Czech sound in their DNA. All three of them enjoy great renown in both the European and global contexts. Symbolical is the selection of the album’s repertoire – the same world war that deprived the players of the German Philharmonic in Prague of their home and that in 1946 gave rise to the Bamberger Symphoniker in Germany, made Bohuslav Martinu leave his country and Europe itself. The composer wrote his Piano Concerto No. 4, “Incantation”, in New York in the twilight of his life, when it was evident that he would never return to his homeland. The connection between Ivo Kahánek and Martinu is profound indeed, with the pianist having played the Incantation at concert halls all over the world. The performance of the Incantation in Bamberg, captured on the present album, was lauded by the critics as revelatory. The studio recording of Antonín Dvorák’s Piano Concerto (based on Sviatoslav Richter’s account) ranks among the most remarkable returns to the composer’s original version of the work, forbearing the “effective and virtuoso improvements” carried out by its later arrangers. It showcases the tender and melodious music of Dvorák, who always strove to emphasise cordial expression, giving it preference to instrumental impression.

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This second release from young Czech conductor Jakub Hrusa is definitely better than his first one. The Prague Philharmonia is very much a chamber orchestra, and so you won't find the weight that, say, Dorati brings to the American Suite (Decca) or Belohlávek enjoys in the splendidly evocative Fantastic Scherzo (Chandos). But aside from the second movement of the Dvorák, which really needs a sharper attack, there's no lack of energy--and there's plenty of attractive detail (particularly in the wind parts) that often goes unnoticed in performances with larger ensembles. Still, I'm not giving up the power and luxurious color of my big-orchestra versions anytime soon.

Indeed, the Suk Serenade is extremely beautiful as well as unusually lively. Despite its appealing lyricism and melodic charm it's a tough piece to bring off. With its sequence of moderately paced inner movements, monotony is an ever-present threat, even in versions coming from Czech performers. Hrusa characterizes the work quite effectively, with the necessary lightness as well as rhythmic point. The program also has been very intelligently chosen: none of these pieces is that familiar, but all are very beautiful and worth hearing, so this disc may well fill a gap in many Czech music collections. Warm, well-balanced sound completes this recommendable package.

--David Hurwitz, ClassicsToday.com

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A unique and symbolic encounter: the most distinguished Czech conductor of the present time and a fabulous British orchestra communicate the profound messages in the works of great national composers.

PÍSNE A TANCE BAROKNÍ: SONGS AND DANCES OF THE BOHEMIAN BAROQUE • Jaroslav Krcek, cond; Musica Bohemica • SUPRAPHON SU 4098-2 (2 CDs: 138:54)


The pieces assembled on these two discs are drawn from several collections: Pet baroknich tancu (Five Baroque Dances) by Kristian Hirschmentzel (1638–1703); Trí Hanácké tance (Three Dances from Haná), a collection dating from c.1700; Písne a tance ze Zlatokorunské sbírky Ond?eje H?lky (Songs and Dances from the Collection of Ond?ej H?lky from Zlatá Koruna); and Nejstar?í sbírky ?eských lidových písní a tanc? (The Oldest Collections of Czech Folk Songs and Dances). The last-named source, a critical edition of which was published by Supraphon in 1987, in turn comprises materials from various sources. These include (if I am not misreading the somewhat confusing booklet notes) the 400 ?eské národní písne (Czech Folk Songs) published by Jan Ritter von Ritterberg in 1825; the 87 Staré svetské písne (Old Secular Songs) from the region around the central Bohemian village of Sadská, published at about the same time; manuscripts compiled by Jirí Hartl (1781–1849), a schoolmaster from Stara Paka; and the Bon Repos Book, compiled beginning in 1720 at the behest of Count Frantisek Antonin Spork (1662–1738). Many of these songs and dances were first preserved in written and published form due to “governorate gatherings,” official projects of the Austro-Hungarian Empire to collect folk materials of its indigenous peoples that were initiated in 1818. Some of these sources exist only in second-hand form; for example, of the 160 pieces originally collected by the famed fiddler Ondrej Hulky (1752–1806) from the region around the Zlatá Koruna monastery in the Ceské Budejovice region of southern Bohemia, only 50 have survived due to their inclusion in the final 1864 edition of an anthology published by the Czech historian and poet Karel Jaromir Erben (1811–70), Prostonárodní ceské písne a ?íkadla (Czech Folk Songs and Nursery Rhymes), as Hulky’s original manuscript has not survived.


The designation “Baroque” is potentially misleading; virtually all of these items are believed to date back at least to the early 17th century, and just as well might be termed “late Renaissance”; they are all of a style that immediately brings to mind a Czech counterpart to Michael Praetorius. The arrangements and instrumentations of all the pieces have been undertaken by conductor Jaroslav Kr?ek and his brother Josef. A total of 68 dances and songs are presented, of which about 20 are purely instrumental while the remainder have one (or occasionally more) singer. The instrumentation is extremely colorful, with the performers drawing upon fipple flutes, cimbaloms, tarogatos, hurdy-gurdies, and even some otherwise unspecified “instruments newly devised and made by their own hands.” All the performances are, as one would anticipate, utterly idiomatic and charming, even if the singers are less polished and more rustic than I personally prefer. The recorded sound is excellent. Unfortunately no texts of any sort are provided for the songs. Despite this drawback, if you love folk music or Renaissance dance music collections and are looking to expand your collection in a slightly more exotic direction, then you definitely will want to acquire this set.


FANFARE: James A. Altena