3 posts from February 2008

BACH – The Art of Fugue

There’s very little not to like about this recording. As a period enthusiast, I love that Fretwork decided to join the likes of those who’ve attempted this unparalleled work on string quartet. I don’t even care that Fretwork is a viol group (an ensemble mode that had already gone out of style by the time of Bach’s birth). Their sound is that good.

It’s an odd marriage, I admit. Many purists would scoff at the idea (they already have, trust me) of performing an organ work on string quartet, especially the rather ancient-sounding viol quartet. But then, when I really think about it, the whole thing isn’t so odd. After all, this work, Bach’s last great gift to the world, was considered archaic even in its own time. By the time Bach began composing this work, fugues had been replaced by minuets and other examples of what was to come. (Bach’s son, C.P.E., often ribbed his father for being too old-fashioned. By this time, C.P.E., like many of his contemporaries, had already been swept up in early classicism.)

What stands out most about Fretwork’s sound is that it’s unmistakably organ-like. It definitely has a very breathy quality. But, as you’d expect from an accomplished quartet, their sound is also very dynamic. The contrast between bass and treble is brilliant throughout. An especially nice example of this is the Contrapunctus IX, which consists of several echoing lines that play off each other with an almost uncanny autonomy.

The true power of a fugue resides in its ability to present simultaneous, alternate, not to mention convincing, views of a melody. No fugue does this nearly as well as The Art of Fugue. And very few now alive have brought it to life as convincingly as Fretwork.

CHOPIN – Complete Works for Piano and Orchestra

To start off, I should just say one thing: Abbey Simon and Chopin were made for each other. I can honestly say, of the countless Chopin recordings I’ve listened to, very few of them even come close to the sensitivity found here.

Simon’s playing has that something extra one doesn’t find too often in a Chopin recording – in this case, sparkle. When others play Chopin with a kind of polished straightforwardness, Simon plays to forget himself – a blessing, no doubt. Some passages even seem improvisatory. Chopin’s music, while often technically demanding, is fundamentally ecstatic. Even its most challenging runs, found throughout both piano concertos, are inherently hypnotic. Everything about this music seems rooted in raw expression.

For me, the highlights of this recording aren’t the piano concertos, although I find them both grand. No, the real gems here are the Andante Spinato & Grand Polonaise in E-flat Major, Op. 22, and Rondo alla Krakowiak, Op. 14. They contain two of the most breathtaking melodies ever composed. What makes them so appealing, at least to this listener, is how rich they are. Not a very accomplished orchestrater, Chopin spent much of his life composing solo piano works, often finding startling ways of bringing out the piano’s almost orchestral dynamics. But when he did write for orchestral accompaniment, he often resorted to giving the piano an unusually dominant role, only letting the orchestra reenter long enough to prompt the piano on yet another exploration. Unfortunately, this led some critics to call these works self-indulgent.

Nevertheless, Chopin’s self-indulgence works, especially in Simon’s hands. These two pieces are certainly a pianist’s feast. Both begin with a somewhat unaccompanied introduction acting as a lullaby, and develop into nothing short of a showcase – complete with stunts, runs, and, of course, intermittent hushed passages. The Rondo alla Krakowiak even has a wonderful march that characterizes the latter half of the piece. Both introductions contain what you’d expect from Chopin: plenty of longing, a dash of uncertainty, and, most importantly, a healthy dose of daring.

The piano concertos are much the same. They both sparkle, especially their brilliant runs, which Simon pulls off with something akin to the ease of a master harpist. Both final movements are a fantasy and a delight, certainly what Chopin intended. The upper register, where most Chopin works find their magic, shines especially brightly in the first concerto’s final movement – home to both a musical storm and a dazzling rondo, the treble of the latter brilliantly tempering the bass of the former.

It seems with Chopin (and Simon), nothing less than a perfect complement will do.

TELEMANN – Twelve Fantasias for Violin Solo / Gulliver Suite for Two Violins

In a world sorely in need of more good period soloists – not to mention good period groups – Andrew Manze almost makes us forget we should be concerned. How? Manze, more than any other period soloist, brings life to what can honestly be called dying music.

Perhaps I should clarify: As inherently rich as these works are, they’re not even remotely recognizable. With the exception of some warhorses by Bach and Handel and some concerti by Vivaldi, most Baroque music is very nearly dead. There are two major reasons for this: (1) most Baroque music, especially that by lesser-known composers, is sorely neglected, and (2) most Baroque music is interpreted formulaically.

Which is where Manze comes in. Unlike most period instrumentalists, Manze is an interpreter. He phrases. He meanders. But most importantly, he delights in the music.

Baroque music, due largely to many lethargic interpretations, tends to fit an ever-abiding stereotype: all music written before the Classical period sounds the same. In Manze’s hands, nothing could be further from the truth. Take the fantasias, for example. They’re about as varied and dynamic as anything Bach wrote for solo violin. And in Manze’s hands, they grow into something rather large – especially the first and last two, which seem to jump from the speaker (not to mention the page). Above all, though, Manze never seems satisfied to merely play what’s before him. The slow sections are full of confident searching, and the more upbeat passages are unapologetically exuberant. (Many Baroque interpreters seem to use fast movements as a kind of reward to both the listener and themselves – a musical tragedy, if there ever was one.)

The Gulliver Suite is an apt conclusion to this recording, what with the feast of exploration one finds in the fantasias. Although brief (five movements, about seven and a half minutes in all), the work is anything but small. If anything, it seems as though it were composed as a study in pronouncement. Such is what Manze and Caroline Balding make of it. In their hands, two violins seem more than adequate. In fact, throughout the work, their bowing raises the music to the level of something more percussive and penetrating. Like Gulliver, we are awed by what’s before us. Unlike Gulliver, however, we aren’t happy when it’s all over.