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SaleRespighi: The Birds; Three Botticelli Pictures; Suite In G Major / Di Vittorio, Chamber Orchestra Of New York
Naxos · May 2014CD$19.99$9.99 -
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SalePaderewski: Songs and Mélodies - Suite in G Major / Smolij, Adamski, Schmidt, Capella Bydgostiensis
Naxos · Sep 2021CD$19.99$9.99 -
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SaleBuxtehude: Suites In C Major And D Minor, Etc / Lars Ulrik Mortensen
Naxos · Mar 2008CD$19.99$13.99 -
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Saint-Saëns: Piano Concerto No. 5 - Ravel: Piano Concerto in
Idil Biret Archive · Sep 2009CD$14.99 -
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Grieg: Holberg Suite, Erotikk, Elegiac Melodies / Tognetti, Australian Chamber Orchestra
BIS · Mar 2012SACD$21.99 -
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Respighi: The Birds; Three Botticelli Pictures; Suite In G Major / Di Vittorio, Chamber Orchestra Of New York
One of Respighi’s masterpieces, Gli uccelli (The Birds) includes transcriptions of birdsong and music of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries in writing of evocative, captivating lyricism. Trittico botticelliano, an illustration of three paintings by Botticelli, employs dance rhythms, modal melodies and a variant of the medieval hymn Veni, Veni Emmanuel in deft, often sublime fashion. The Suite in G major, cast for strings and organ in the form of a Concerto grosso, is heard on this première recording in its original edition.
Paderewski: Songs and Mélodies - Suite in G Major / Smolij, Adamski, Schmidt, Capella Bydgostiensis
Although Paderewski is more readily associated with his career as a legendary virtuoso pianist, his modest output of 70 orchestral, instrumental and vocal works deserves to be more widely known. Prominent among his vocal output is a series of early songs that reveal natural flowing patterns while exploring both melancholy and folk idioms. The Douze Mélodies, written at the end of his compositional career, is the most original and striking Polish set of songs of the period, notable for dissonance, chromaticism and a palette of rich and unusual musical colors, to which this orchestral arrangement adds a whole new dimension. Little known, the early Suite in G major offers youthful warmth and brio.
The Berlin Concert
J. S. Bach: The English Suites
Tartini: Sonatas For Violin Solo Vol 1 / Crtomir Siskovic
As Petrobelli wrote, Tartini's "declared intent was to achieve in the instrumental field, with a language suited to the nature of the instrument, the affections that are perfectly outlined in the arias of Metastasio's operas." The first sonatas of the collection are mostly structured in three movements, with a slow movement followed by two fast ones, as was Tartini's favourite scheme from the eighth sonata, instead, the structure in four movements becomes predominant, with a rich variety of formal patterns. Some movements bear mottos and literary quotations (like Metastasio's arias, frequently used also in the concertos, or Tasso's Aria Lieto ti prendo with which Tartini opens his Sonata No. 12 in G major, taken from the 12th canto of the Gerusalemme liberata). In them Tartini makes a fine display of his inexhaustible melodic creativity, always shunning easy symmetries and predictable developments. There are many passages with polyphonic hints, although virtuosity always appears subject to expressiveness and never a simple show of bravura. Frequent also are the hints and melodic inflections echoing popular songs and dances of the day, as for example in the Canzone Venetiana of the Sonata No. 12 in G major, or the second movement (Allegro assai) of the Sonata No. 5 in F major. Tartini is never obvious and even less predictable secluded in his Padua, he was a self-contained composer who disdained the world around him and possessed the creative power typical of - indeed, almost exclusive to - great anachronistic men.
Kammermusik mit Jorg Demus / Irnberger, Demus
Bach: Cello Suites / Mstislav Rostropovich
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
Bach: 6 Cello Suites / Carmine Miranda
BACH Six Cello Suites • Carmine Miranda (vc) • CENTAUR 3263/4 (2 CDs: 130:10)
Since reviewing Truls Mørk’s version of Bach’s unaccompanied cello suites in 29:5, no fewer than six more accounts have crossed my desk. In chronological order, they were Jean-Guihen Queyras (31:4), Sara Sant’Ambrogio (33:3), Luigi Piovano (34:5), Hekun Wu (34:6), Tanya Tomkins (35:1), and Richard Tuncliffe (36:1). Some of the cellists used conventional cellos, others period instruments. All but two, however, had one thing in common: They were uniformly awful, though each in its own way, ranging from barely tolerable to downright execrable. The one I kept coming back to as my preferred and strongly recommended set throughout those reviews was the first on this list, the one by Jean-Guihen Queyras, with Hekun Wu being a close runner-up. Both, by the way, performed the suites on cellos in modern configuration.
Bach’s six cello suites are like a Siren’s call to cellists of all persuasions, luring many of them to ruin. And the thing is there’s no reason for it. Was it a singular achievement for Bach to write such technically challenging works for an instrument that was relatively new at the time, and a melody instrument to boot, one that takes even more kindly to intensive double-stopping than the violin? Yes. But are the cello suites comparable on levels of musical scope and intellectual depth to the unaccompanied violin sonatas and partitas? Not even close. There are no massive fugues in the cello suites and nothing that approaches the dimensions of the D-Minor Violin Partita’s Chaconne. The cello suites are exactly what their title tells us they are—six sets of relatively short, stylized baroque dances. Yet for cellists—and for some listeners, I think—they’ve taken on an import that may be beyond their actual significance in Bach’s output, virtually becoming every cellist’s initiation rite.
So, how does the young Venezuelan cellist, Carmine Miranda (b. 1988), fare in his initiation into cellodom’s manhood? Well, first a few words about this young artist, who is likely unknown to readers, as this is his recording debut; he was 22 when he recorded the Bach suites for Centaur in 2011–12. Miranda’s early training took place in his native country, where he studied at the Carabobo State Music Conservatory, then in the Latin-American Academy of Violoncello, and finally at the Simon Bolivar Conservatory of Music (the institution that spawned the famous “El Sistema”). Miranda then traveled to the States to study with Ross Harbaugh at the University of Miami, followed by further coaching under Yehuda Hanani at the University of Cincinnati College-Conservatory of Music where Miranda obtained his bachelor’s and master’s degrees and is a candidate for a doctorate.
In the U.S., he has performed at Carnegie Hall, Bowdoin Music Festival, the Bach Annalia Festival in Cincinnati, the Young People’s Festival in Chatham, N.Y., and is on the artist’s roster for the Close Encounters with Music Series in Great Barrington, N.Y., both under the direction of Yehuda Hanani and others.
Among Miranda’s awards are first prize at the 2005 Alhambra Music Competition, the National Prize for best soloist from the FMEA (Florida Music Educators Association), and the 2008–09 University of Cincinnati Cello Competition. He has collaborated with recognized international artists such as Yehuda Hanani, Awadagin Pratt, Rodolfo Saglimbeni and performed as a soloist with several chamber ensembles and orchestras, recently including the Caracas Municipal Symphony Orchestra. He is also the founder and member of the Troika Piano Trio comprised of violinist Joshua Ulrich and pianist Assaf Sommer.
Miranda, who authored his own album note, makes no mention of the instrument(s) he uses for these performances, how he handles the scordatura tuning of the Fifth Suite—does he retune his cello according to the original manuscript or use the modern standard-tuning edition?—or what he does to accommodate the Sixth Suite, believed to have been originally written for a five-string violoncello piccolo. His note speaks only of his personal impressions of, and responses to, the emotional and spiritual character and quality of each of the pieces. At one point, in fact, I was quite taken aback to read, “Interpretation of the suites has nothing to do with what is correct, accurate, and historical, but it rather has to do with going deep within the soul of the writing…” That raised a red flag for me, not to mention an eyebrow. I couldn’t help but think to myself that only the immodesty of youth could be so callow and cavalier with respect to the years of serious musicological research that have attempted to ascertain what is “correct, accurate, and historical,” and to the many veteran cellists who have spent more years studying these works than Miranda has been alive. But the proof, as they say, is in the hearing. And so I decided not to allow my annoyance with Miranda’s words to influence my judgment of his playing.
Instantly, from the very first bar of the G-Major Suite, the cellist that came to mind was Pablo Casals, a comparison that elicits no higher compliment. In my above-mentioned review of Tanya Tomkins’s Bach suites, I noted how slow and super-romanticized her readings were; she takes 3:16 for the opening Prelude, a full half-minute longer than Jacqueline du Pré, who, at 2:35, is hardly fast. So, I went back to Casals’s 1950s recording and found that he dispatched the Prelude in two minutes flat and without any rhythmic distensions or distortions. What about Carmine Miranda? 2:09. I don’t know if Miranda studied Casals’s recordings, but if he didn’t, it’s truly uncanny how closely he channels both the letter and the spirit of the great cellist’s example.
It’s really difficult to express in words the beauty of Miranda’s performances. His cello is a modern instrument, or at least one updated with modern fittings and tuned to modern pitch, but the tone it emits is lighter in weight than that which we often hear in versions played on modern cellos. Of course, much of that can be attributed to Miranda’s bowing. He doesn’t dig into the strings to produce guttural sounds. The tone is clean and clear and intonation perfect. But one expects more than technical proficiency, dexterity, and finesse; and more—much more than that—is what one gets from Miranda’s readings.
Alluded to above is the fact that these are suites of dances, and time and again, in extolling the virtues of Jean-Guihen Queyras’s performances, I’ve remarked on the way in which he manages to capture the essence of each dance step. Miranda, it seems to me, goes one step further (no pun intended). He hears, and allows us to hear, the historical roots of each dance and whence it comes, which is pretty funny when you try to square that with his comment that interpretation of the suites has nothing to do with the historical. Yet listen to Miranda’s courantes, and you will hear not just rapid tempos, but the very definition of the Renaissance dance as described by Thoinot Arbeau, the 16th-century French theorist who tells us that the courante was danced with fast running and jumping steps. If Miranda didn’t learn this from reading music history, he knows it intuitively, for it’s not just his accelerated tempos but the effect of rhythmic arrest you would observe in a dance that involved running forward several steps, then making a sudden jump, hop, or jerk to stop short the forward motion. In Miranda’s hands, the suites don’t just sound dance-like , as in stylized baroque refinements, they sound like actual Renaissance dances.
Likewise, Miranda’s sarabandes are played with the stately gravitas that would have been à la mode for a processional court dance in 17th-century France. Interestingly, the sarabande had its origins as a fairly fast dance a century earlier and quite likely in Mexico or Central America. When Spanish colonists brought the dance back to Spain with them, it was banned in 1583 for being obscene. It wasn’t until the sarabande made its way to Italy and then France that it became the slow, triple-meter dance that was widely adopted into the baroque suite.
I’ve never heard Bach’s cello suites played in quite this way, and while I wouldn’t want to be without the versions by Queyras, Hekun Wu, Casals, and János Starker, Carmine Miranda’s will not only join them, it will stand out as perhaps the most original and imaginative interpretations of the suites I’ve heard.
Centaur’s recording, too, is outstanding, capturing Miranda’s cello fairly close up but with sufficient air around it to allow for a natural sounding bloom, yet without any annoying echo effect. An album note states that the recording was made without any editing. This is a definite buy recommendation for both connoisseurs of Bach’s cello suites and those who appreciate cello playing at its best. I’d have to say that Carmine Miranda has passed his initiation with flying colors. Welcome to the ranks of the world class players.
FANFARE: Jerry Dubins
Bach: The French Suites / Alessandra Artifoni
BACH French Suites, BWV 812–817 • Alessandra Artifoni (hpd) • DYNAMIC 757 (2 CDs: 90:44)
It always gives me pause when I encounter an artist new to me and, upon searching the Internet for some biographical background, I find next to nothing. Alessandra Artifoni has no official website and only a number of links pop up—some in Italian only—to sources for this 2012 set of Bach’s French Suites . A one-paragraph bio-blurb in the enclosed booklet doesn’t tell us much either. She was born in Florence in 1967, so at 46 she’s not fresh out of the conservatory or just off the competition circuit. She studied organ and harpsichord in Italy, and then spent 10 years in Switzerland furthering her studies at the Schola Cantorum Basiliensis. According to the note, Artifoni has made several CDs and radio recordings, but I wasn’t able to find any of them listed beyond this Dynamic release, not even on Amazon’s Italian branch. So, here we have an artist approaching 50, who, for all practical purposes, emerges from nowhere to give us a recording of Bach’s complete French Suites.
How does Artifoni fare? Quite well in fact. She makes her case for these pieces by adopting just tempos, dutifully observing repeats, making clear and precise distinctions between the various embellishment types that appear in the scores, and exhibiting no quirky mannerisms. Moreover, Artifoni’s performances are further enhanced by a richly voiced two-manual harpsichord of exceptional clarity and beauty of tone. It was built in 1997 by Tony Chinnery after a circa 1702 harpsichord by Berlin maker Michael Mietke (?1656/71–1719). Records indicate that Mietke delivered a harpsichord to the court at Köthen in 1719 on the recommendation of Bach, and that it was likely the instrument Bach played in a performance of the Fifth Brandenburg Concerto.
Chinnery lives and works in a villa just north of Florence, and this particular harpsichord from his workshop sparkles with diamond-like glints without any hint of glare or harshness across and between its two evenly matched keyboards. It’s absolutely ideal for these suites, enabling Artifoni to clearly resolve Bach’s linear writing.
Many famous players, of course, have put their individual stamps on these works, performing them on piano as well as on harpsichord. But among just harpsichord versions, the catalog beckons, in no particular order, with entries by Helmut Walcha, Huguette Dreyfus, Ton Koopman, Christophe Rousset, Kenneth Gilbert, Trevor Pinnock, Christopher Hogwood, Gustav Leonhardt, Bob van Asperen, Davitt Moroney, Lars Ulrik Mortensen, and Masaaki Suzuki. I don’t have all of them and haven’t even heard some of them, but of those I do have and/or have heard, I’m comfortable in saying that Alessandra Artifoni can stand with the best of them.
Admittedly, she is not as varied or imaginative in her approach as are some—for example, she doesn’t make much use of different stops to provide contrast in repeated sections, as does Dreyfus, or insert creative embellishments of her own making along the way, as does Rousset—but she is due credit for playing the notes as Bach wrote them, or at least how we think he wrote them, which brings me to one last, if essentially unimportant point about Artifoni’s or Dynamic’s sequencing of the suites on these two discs.
Except for a few movements of these pieces which found their way into Anna Magdalena’s Clavierbüchlein in Bach’s own hand, no autograph scores of the French Suites exist. Not even the title is Bach’s; it first appears in a 1762 treatise by German musicologist Friedrich Wilhelm Marpurg (1718–1795). Because of this, later copies and editions took it upon themselves to publish the suites in no particular agreed upon order.
As a result, many players present the suites in numerical order, one through six, which is actually an artifact of their BWV numbers. Since the BWV catalog assigned 812 to the Suite in
D Minor, it became No. 1; 813, assigned to the Suite in C Minor, became No. 2, and so on. But not all players adopt this schema, some preferring to present the suites in some alternate order that makes sense to them or to the record producer laying them out. Just for grins, here’s Artifoni’s sequence compared to Rousset’s.
| D Minor | C Minor | B Minor | E?-Major | G Major | E Major | |
| 812 | 813 | 814 | 815 | 816 | 817 | |
| Artifoni (order) | 5 | 2 | 4 | 1 | 3 | 6 |
| Rousset (order) | 5 | 2 | 6 | 1 | 4 | 3 |
Whether there’s any significance to the fact that Artifoni and Rousset both begin their sets with the E?-Major Suite (BWV 815) followed by the C-Minor Suite (BWV 813), or whether it’s purely coincidental I don’t know, but if there’s a desire to devise some plan based on keys, Bach didn’t make it easy. There’s no obvious formula I can see that would result in a complementary or symmetrical structure. Rousset begins in E?-Major and ends in E Major, two keys that may be adjacent to each other on the keyboard but are a universe apart in terms of tonal relationships. Artifoni also begins in E?-Major but ends in B Minor, a tonal relationship of an augmented fifth (or diminished sixth) that would have taken the curls right out of Bach’s wig. So, one must conclude that since no order makes sense, any order will do.
The more I listen to Aritifoni’s French Suites the more I like them. They won’t displace other favorites, chief among which are Rousset and, with apologies to any elitists who may happen upon this review—I’m sure there are none among Fanfare ’s readers—Keith Jarrett, whose ventures into Bach, I think, are generally underappreciated. Anyway, Artifoni’s new release is highly recommended.
FANFARE: Jerry Dubins
V5: THE COMPLETE DUOS
Buxtehude: Suites In C Major And D Minor, Etc / Lars Ulrik Mortensen
The set of three variations named simply Aria, BuxWV 249, are based on the sarabande. Its second and third variations contain written-out varied repetitions of each of the sections of the binary form, demonstrating how Buxtehude might actually have performed those repetitions that he normally indicated only with repeat marks.
Buxtehude’s chorale settings for keyboard are preserved mainly in manuscripts compiled by Johann Gottfried Walther, organist in Weimar and cousin of J. S. Bach. Although most of them require two manuals and pedal, a few do not, and there is no reason why they should be confined to the church organ. One in particular seems appropriate for performance on the harpsichord: the Partita: Auf meinen lieben Gott, BuxWV 179. Here Buxtehude combines three genres, the dance suite, the variation set, and the chorale setting, to produce an unusual hybrid form, consisting of Allemande (unnamed), Double, Courante, Sarabande, and Gigue. Wie schön leuchtet der Morgenstern, BuxWV 223, belongs to the genre of the chorale fantasy, in which each phrase of a chorale melody is developed rather extensively in a different manner. Here too the gigue makes a prominent appearance, concluding the work in a fugal treatment of the entire melody.
Buxtehude’s free keyboard works - those independent of a preexisting melody or dance pattern - are mainly transmitted in manuscripts that include both pedaliter and manualiter works. Among these, his most original and justly famous works are praeludia and toccatas in the stylus phantasticus, which intermingles highly unpredictable free sections in virtuosic and idiomatic keyboard styles with more structured fugal sections. Since organists naturally prefer the pedaliter works, those for manuals alone are much less frequently performed, thus offering rich opportunities to adventurous harpsichordists. Even in these free works one can find elements of dance and variation. In place of a second fugue, the Toccata in G major, BuxWV 165, contains a brief passage of ostinato variations that are faintly reminiscent of Pachelbel’s famous canon. Buxtehude may have conceived his canzonas as teaching pieces; they are all manualiter works, and students most often practised on the clavichord or harpsichord. They are variously titled canzon, canzonet, or fuga and consist either of a single fugue (BuxWV 225) or of three related fugues (BuxWV 166 and 176) in the manner of the variation canzona inherited from Frescobaldi and Froberger. The gigue makes an appearance yet again as the second fugue of BuxWV 166.
Kerala Snyder
Saint-Saëns: Piano Concerto No. 5 - Ravel: Piano Concerto in
Dvorak in America
Antonin Dvorak (1841-1904) Gabriela Benackova, soprano; Josef Suk, violin & violaJaroslav Soucek, baritone; Josef Hala, pianoCzech Philharmonic Chorus; Prague Philharmonia;Czech Philharmonic Orchestra; Panocha Quartet; Smetana Quartet Symphony no 9 in E minor, Op. 95/B 178; Te Deum, Op. 103;String Quartet no 12 in F major, Op. 96/B 179Sonatina in G major for Violin & Piano, Op. 100/B 183String Quartet no 3 in E flat major, Op. 97/B 180Silent Woods for Cello & Orchestra, Op. 68 no 5/B 182Rondo in G minor for Cello & Orchestra, Op. 94 /B 181Humoresque, Op 101 no 7/B 187; Suite in A major, Op. 98b/B 190Cello Concerto no 2 in B minor, Op. 104/B 191
Grieg: Holberg Suite, Erotikk, Elegiac Melodies / Tognetti, Australian Chamber Orchestra

There have been more than a few excellent recent releases of Grieg’s music for string orchestra, notably on Naxos, including orchestrations of his String Quartet in G minor. The Quartet took a lot of heat when it first came out on account of its acres of double-stops and consequent “orchestral” sound, and truth is that it makes an absolutely terrific piece for larger ensemble, losing very little in translation. Tognetti’s arrangement really is as good as any, and as you can well imagine he has his crack ensemble playing the piece to a fare-thee-well, with all of the passion and drive that one could possibly ask for.
The Naxos releases divided discs between the quartet arrangements (including Grieg’s incomplete Quartet in F major) and all of the remaining works for string orchestra. Tognetti presents a mixture. His arrangement of Erotikk, from the Lyric Pieces, is charming and effective, and rather more sensual than the keyboard original. The Two Elegiac Melodies are touching, fluid, and less heavy in these performances than when played by larger forces; but the highlight of the disc must be the performance of the Holberg Suite.
Even though it has been done to death, this version stands out for the vivacious charm and witty phrasing of its Praeludium (sound sample attached), and for the rustic brilliance of the concluding Rigaudon. In between, the Gavotte also has a welcome spring to its step, and as with the Elegiac Melodies the two slower movements never bog down in excessive sentiment. Mind you, sentiment in this music, and plenty of it, isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but if you are going to use smaller forces, this is surely the way to do it. Sonically, this is absolutely state of the art: clear, pure, and tactile in the best way. If the coupling appeals, go for it.
-- David Hurwitz, ClassicsToday.com
Bizet: Symphony in C Major, Carmen Suite No. 1 & L'Arlésienn
Plucked Bach: Cello Suites nos. 1 & 2 on Plucked Strings / Sariel
Alon Sariel makes his PENTATONE debut with Plucked Bach, a program exploring Bach’s cello suites performed on different mandolins, lutes, baroque guitar and oud, concluding with Sariel’s own Bach-inspired Mandolin Partita. Bach’s suites are often considered to be “the cellist’s Bible”, but the transferability of his music between instruments – a practice to which the composer himself also contributed frequently – seems to justify this fresh approach. Sariel aims to realize the timeless and universal character of Bach’s music in a multifarious sound world of plucked instruments, through a program that employs an interplay of light and dark, embodied by the first and second suites respectively.
Another objective has been to bring out the youthful élan of this music, composed years before Bach’s Passions. Altogether, this album presents Bach’s music in a new, enticing light. Alon Sariel is one of the most versatile performers of his generation, whose guiding principle is a changing perspective; giving new life to existing material, as well as creating completely new works.
REVIEWS:
It’s a pleasure to hear Israeli lutenist Alon Sariel once again...Sariel’s artistic insight is just as keen as I remembered it. Here, he plays several mandolins and lutes, baroque guitar, and oud, all of which are displayed on the album cover and all are performed with his usual class and style.
The program of Sariel’s arrangements of various Bach cello suites begins with the Prelude from Suite No. 5 in C Minor, arranged for mandolin, an instrument whose classical voice is usually heard, if at all, in song accompaniments. Here, Sariel makes a fine impression for it as a plaintive, searching voice. Cello Suite No. 1 in G Major, heard in Sariel’s arrangement for lute, establishes the instrument’s authentic voice right off in an urgently strummed 2-part setting. Gavottes I and II from Suite No. 6 in D Major make a nice encore, clarified in thought and feeling. Suite No. 2 in D Minor, if anything, makes an even finer impression as a lute arrangement, beginning with a slow, contemplative Prelude with a haunting echo. As an encore, the Sarabande from this suite is performed once again, this time in Sariel’s arrangement for the Oud, an instrument of North African or Arabic origin without frets and with a short neck and, most importantly, a distinctively low, passionate voice that makes for a fine arrangement in this instance.
Sariel concludes the program with his own Mandolin Partita for what would appear to be a round-backed Neapolitan model. It is in six movements: a mystery-laden Prelude, intriguing Allemande, florid Courante with cascading notes, gently poignant Sarabande, Minuets I & 2 characterized by lively syncopations, and a Gigue handsomely decorated with grace notes. All of which reveal his knowing grasp of the Baroque style.
-- Audio Video Club of Atlanta