RHAPSODIE: FANTASIE: POEME

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Rhapsodie

Rhapsodie

 

 

BEN JACKS (horn soloist)

BARRY TUCKWELL (conductor)

The Queensland Orchestra; Orchestra Victoria

MELBA RECORDINGS MR 301117

Damase: Concerto pour cor et orchestre (1995)

1. Moderato (6.08)

2. Allegro scherzando (2.23)

3. Andante (4.07)

4. Allegro vivace (3.36)

Koechlin: Poeme pour cor et orchestre (1927)

5. Moderato, tres simplement et avec souplesse   (5.44)

6. Andante, tres tranquille, presque adagio (4.02)

7. Final, assez anime cependant (4.38)

8. Damase: Rhapsodie pour cor et orchestra* (1987) (14.40)

9. Dukas/Terracini: Villanelle** (1906) (6.19)

10. Saint-Saens: Morceau de Concert pour cor et orchestra (1887) (8.47)

11. Marshall-Hall: Phantasy for horn and orchestra (1905) (10.18)

*world premier recording  **ditto, in this version

Despite knowing Barry Tuckwell – the horn player with ‘golden’ bel canto – retired from solo performing in the late 1990’s, one still, albeit momentarily, immediately and nostalgically thinks one will hear his magic at work on any new disc devoted to horn music (and bearing his name on the cover).  But this latest Melba Recording shows his magic at work as a conductor (of The Queensland Orchestra and Orchestra Victoria) as he provides

steadfast support and subtle interaction with another horn player: Ben Jacks.  A changing of the guard perhaps?

Not Quite.  However it could be forgiven for assuming there would be, at least stylistically, a similarity between Barry Tuckwell, in his peerless days, and Ben Jacks, who has just crossed the starting line.  There would be an ‘en rapport’ of the minds.  But Jacks is no Barry Tuckwell.  His style, approach and his sense of shading are altogether different.  It might be argued that his technique doesn’t, as yet, have the satin finish or fluency of the master but, as this disc so nicely projects, Jacks has a fine talent which will mature technically as it continues to assert its stamp of individuality.  Moreover, it is a bit unfair to compare a present-day aspirant to a legend.

The disc leaves little room for equivocation about its target audience, which happens to be the bulk of the concert-going audience.  It does, however, seem a pity to bring together all this Australian flair and dexterity in the service of so much tonal or quasi-tonal French music.  One began to sense a distinct lack of music which possesses true rhythmic edge and harmonic bite, so to speak.  For example, the opening item – ‘Concerto pour cor et orchestre’ by Damase – was written in 1995 but, for the most part, would probably have been considered passé in 1895!

Damase has made much of his “sincerity” in composition…as he turns his back on Messiaen, Boulez and even ‘Les Six’.  It isn’t his sincerity one would question in this concerto (or his orchestration, which is impeccably textbook) but his mode of telling, which is anachronistic to the point of aristocratic aloofness.  Even the developments of Debussy, who, incidentally, won the Prix de Rome just 63 years prior to Damase’s bestowal, are ignored.

Having to perform a score which is weak in design and stereotypical in language doesn’t appear to have detracted from Jacks’ excellent moulding of phrases or displaying flexibility of timbre, nor a listener from appreciating these qualities in his playing.  The ‘Moderato’ movement is the longest of the four by a considerable amount, in French horn terms.  But at no point could one fault the soloist’s approach.  Similarly, the orchestra, while giving him both fine support and balanced interaction, was beautifully unified and technically copperplate.

The ‘Andante’ (third movement) afforded Jacks the opportunity to display his excellent breath control through extended lines.  He always reserved just sufficient to neatly complete the passage.  Nor did he lose the characteristic warm, dark beauty of tone over a surprisingly wide range (a true Tuckwell hallmark).  One was also struck by the orchestra’s rich, Philadelphia-honeyed tone: Romantic music’s soul mate!

 

 

The ‘Allegro’ movements of the concerto were brief to an extent that made one ponder why it is that ultra-traditionalist composers appear to experience difficulty sustaining a fast paced musical discourse.   Whatever the reason, such an architecturally frail structure doesn’t give the soloist a chance to show a sense of large scale thinking in his performance.  As more and more fiercely competitive and gifted younger soloists come forward, the more and more one is hearing such questionable nooks and crannies of the  repertoire and, consequently, the more one finds oneself writing how impossible it is to critique a performer’s ability to negotiate overall dynamic form.  And this is a case in point. 

This recording also contains Damase’s ‘Rhapsodie pour cor et orchestre’, commissioned by Barry Humphries and premiered, in 1986, with Tuckwell as soloist.  There’s a lot to remark on those facts alone; not the least of which is why Humphries, who I wouldn’t have thought of being that much of a traditionalist, commissioned a Frenchman and why, specifically, Damase.  Perhaps what is more consequential is the programmatic outline of the commission: “inspired by the ocean and the atmosphere of the coast”.

Programmatic music depends entirely on who listens to it – a detail some composers and most audiences, in a moment of wistfulness, seem to forget.  Generally the composer provides a few ‘shared’ musical archetypes to help guide the imagination, but there are no motivic antecedents or dynamic rises and falls or even the plaintive cry of some seabird in Damase’s ‘Rhapsodie’.  In fact, there are so many gestures – unrelated gestures – all jostling for face-room and for no ostensible reason, that one wonders what’s holding the music together…apart from stylistic clichés.

And it pains the heart to realise that Ben Jacks’ excellent perception of sound colour is using this music as its showcase.  The score certainly requires considerable dexterity of the soloist and, in that sense only, Jacks executes such difficult passages with admirable panache and security.  It would be a delight to round off this compliment by mentioning the soloist’s ability to punctuate the texture with precision and poise but, as the music hasn’t a skerrick of rhythmic vitality, it is impossible to do so.

Paul Dukas’ ‘Villanelle’ (orchestrated by Paul Terracini) is, compositionally, more successful.  This is somewhat at odds with the fact that it was written as a competition piece (for horn and piano).  True to its purpose, it contains almost every conceivable technical snorter and arabesque.  But the musical thread is maintained while traversing the minefield.

In this performance, the horn and orchestra (much to the arranger’s credit) combine to find a depth of interplay that one wouldn’t expect to come across in a work designed, primarily, to winnow competitors.  They convincingly balance the performance to give the final climax its proper emphasis.  Jacks sure-footedly, but never hastily, negotiates the difficulties with notable élan.

 

 

While the recording has other works – each portraying a different view of late French Romanticism – it is Marshall-Hall’s ‘Phantasy for horn and orchestra’ that stands out as an oddity.  Its aberrance lies, firstly, in the fact that it was written by an Englishman (an Englishman living and teaching in Australia) and, secondly, the intrigue surrounding his life.

In purely musical terms, the ‘Phantasy’, despite displaying some fairly interesting and slightly quirky Wagnerian harmonies, lets the listener’s mind wander when it shouldn’t.  Also, unless I’m shamefully mistaken, Jacks doesn’t quite reach a few of the lowest notes with the same degree of confidence he has shown elsewhere on the disc.  To call this a ‘minor offence’ – words with which Marshall-Hall would, I’m sure, agree – would be an over-reaction.

This is a disc which shows class and finery in all aspects of production.  If you enjoy your music with every note glowing in Romantic French splendour then this is your type of recording.  While you relish its lyricism and sentimentality, spare a moment to realise these younger Australian musicians are, steadily and confidently, attempting to try on the mantles of master performers.  It’s a journey in process, as this album shows.

Stuart Hille 2009.

N.B.  The information leaflet, which isn’t one of those ‘struggle to pull out/can’t push back booklets’, is to be lauded.  Its author, John Humphries, plots the history of the evolution of the horn and relates it to the music being offered.  He should start ‘how to’ classes in leaflet writing because, in this instance, his notes are exemplary.

 

Stuart Hille  2009.


MAURICE RAVEL

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KATIA ET MARIELLE LABEQUE (pianofortes)

KML1111

RHAPSODIE ESPAGNOLE:

1. Prelude a la Nuit                                                                                                       4.52

2. Malaguena                                                                                                                 2.00

3. Habanera                                                                                                                    2.59

4. Feria                                                                                                                             6.23

MA MERE L’OYE:

5. Pavane de la Belle au Bois Dormant                                                                     1.50

6. Petit Poucet                                                                                                                2.57

7. Laideronnette Imperatrice des Pagodes                                                               3.34

8. Les Entretiens de la Belle et la Bete                                                                       4.17

9. Le Jardin Feerique                                                                                                      3.55

10. MENUET ANTIQUE                                                                                                   7.12

11. PAVANE POUR UNE INFANTE DEFUNTE                                                              4.27

12. PRELUDE                                                                                                                     1.56

13. BOLERO                                                                                                                     15.08

 

If you’re dissatisfied, for whatever reason, with recording under the dictates of an established label: you might want to branch out into new stylistic avenues as an adjunct to your standard performance repertoire, or you might feel frustrated by not being able  to go over and over certain works  – with someone always trying to hurry you along – until you’ve reached what you feel to be the definitive interpretation.  There could be any number of motivational factors urging you to take some form of action but if you feel strongly enough…set up your own recording company!  Imagine it.  You would have complete freedom (and a somewhat depleted bank balance).  But you have faith in what you doing.  Katia and Marielle Labeque imagined it and they liked the notion sufficiently to take action: they started their own label.

 Labeque

But theirs was not a complete leap into the unknown.  It was more an ‘in focus’ risk because as a professional touring two piano ensemble, they knew they always had, and will continue to have, wide public appeal.  The public are attracted to them for several reasons: the medium itself is immediately accessible, powerful and its historical literature has an unusually high number of quality works, and, most importantly, Katia and Marielle Labeque are very adept at what they do.  And while they may not be as robust or full-bodied in their interpretations as are some professional two piano duos, they have a stylishness and virtuosity that can be quite mesmerising.

 

It comes as little surprise to find this, the first disc under their own label, devoted entirely to the music of Ravel.  A further skein is added to the disc’s colouring by highlighting a somewhat tenuous Basque connection (Ravel was born there and spent his first three months of life there, and the Labeque sisters, as mentioned on the leaflet, spent their early childhood there).  Whether the connection is strong enough to support a transcription of ‘Bolero’ with traditional Basque instruments accompanying the two pianos, is something we will discuss later.  At this juncture it is more consequential to suggest Ravel never wholeheartedly embraced any philosophical/aesthetic construction, be it jazz, Basque music or old dance suite forms.  He tended to use traits superficially (and there is much to be said for ‘suggesting’ rather than ‘portraying’) as he felt necessary.  Whether these ‘suggestions’ are sometimes used to mask structural flaws…well, that’s a different proposition.

 

Nevertheless, it is true that Ravel often treats promising ideas (i.e. ideas which beckon development) as rigidly fixed gestures that are repeated, to give a surface sense of unity, but not allowed to evolve.  Oddly, it is at such times – when the composer relies on repetition rather than development – that these pianists display one their finest qualities: their ability to tincture, through varying the phrasing, finger pressure etc, numerous repetitions.  A perfect example of this is evinced in the very first item on the disc.  ‘Prelude a la Nuit’, from ‘Rhapsodie Espagnole’ (consisting of four pieces) is little more than an iterated descending four note scalar pattern and a few swirls of colour.  In other words, on paper, or in the hands of lesser pianists, the music lacks depth and any perception of melodic growth.  Yet these performers manage to turn it into a process of evocation, through their excellent choice of dynamics, softness of touch and astute pedalling.  They turn the mundane into the atmospheric. 

 

 

The downward four note scale appears later in the ‘Rhapsodie’ but even when the composer accelerates the speed of its series in ‘Feria’, the final piece of the bracket, it is as if he is saying: “At the beginning you thought I was going to take this idea somewhere…great idea…but I couldn’t think what to do with it”.  This is nothing like Debussy’s use of, for example, the cor anglais gesture in ‘Nuages’.  This composer has a deliberate structural purpose for it: to punctuate the texture momentarily.  Debussy understands that to immediately repeat something gives rise to an expectation of progression.  Moreover, he wouldn’t, as Ravel does, make a distinct reference to another style (jazz, in the case of ‘Feria’) and be content not to explore its possibilities.  But because Ravel is happy to do so he unwittingly places the onus heavily on the shoulders of the pianists.  Katia and Marielle Labeque show considerable insight into trying to find a way to resolve this critical issue in Ravel’s music.

 

But not even a duo of their skill and sensitivity can salvage ‘Habanera’.  If, at the time of writing this piece, Ravel had thought ahead to the little jazz references he would be using in ‘Feria’ he would have seen this was the perfect time to fully explore them.  Moreover, using the jazz references as the basis of ‘Habanera’ and reminding the listener of them in ‘Feria’ would have created much stronger internal cohesion.  But he didn’t.  The listener of ‘Habanera’ gets nothing more than a meandering.  It is as if an orchestra is tuning-up backstage – snatches of the Habanera rhythm, a few runs, lots of repeated single notes – without any intention of going onstage to perform a full Habanera.  The listener should compare Bizet’s use of habanera in ‘Carmen’, as clichéd as it now is, to Ravel’s desultory treatment of it in ‘Rhapsodie Espagnole’.  The former makes full use of the style and character but the latter leaves it stone-cold.  On this disc, the performers try everything to breathe life into the piece but to little avail.

 

As a pianist, one is always at odds with Ravel because he writes so beautifully, so instinctively, so stylishly and evocatively for the instrument.  But as a composer, one is constantly frustrated by his lack of architectural discipline and his willingness to rely on gesture rather than substance.  When is he lucky enough to find a form, as he does in ‘Bolero’, where gesture is transformed into substance – something that is normally quite alien to the composer – and combines this with a phenomenal gift for orchestration, he manages to produce a dynamic and living piece of music.  But, for the most part, his music is all about projecting style.

 

 

 

In ‘Ma Mere l’Oye’, a work that is perhaps over-exposed, he again allows style, more than any other aspect, to weave the fabric.  Except, here, there is also a storyline (‘The Ugly Duckling’, ‘Beauty and the Beast’ et al) to guide the listener’s imagination.  And it works: which is why it is a classic.  There are plenty of colour (timbre) changes within the style and the hues balance each other convincingly.  Whether we admire the performers’ sense of dynamic shading in ‘Pavane de la Belle au Bois Dormant’, linear clarity in ‘Petit Poucet’, lovely sense of atmosphere in ‘Laideronnette Imperatrice des Pagodes’ (where, incidentally, I didn’t realise the composer had indicated to hold the sustaining pedal for this long at the conclusion: nice touch), dramatic feel for ‘edge’ or tension in ‘Les Entretiens de la Belle et la Bete’, or their ability to measure the point of true climax in ‘Le Jardin Feerique’; we end up with a rendition that is every bit as stylish as the music it portrays.  Sometimes it lacks the characteristic Labeque fieriness but, in the scheme of things, this a well-round and insightful performance.

 

The three works which follow ‘The Mother Goose Suite’ – ‘Menuet Antique’, ‘Pavane pour une Infante Defunte’ and ‘Prelude’ – are more like dream sequences than solid musical statements.  The ‘Menuet’, for example, in spite of Ravel’s professed love of old dance suite forms, only has snippets to suggest antiquity  – just enough to give the mind something upon which to peg an image – and the rest is atmosphere created from an intimate knowledge of the keyboard.  The “Pavane’, particularly if the story is correct, is very sensitive but to the point of hypersensitivity.  And without wanting to appear unduly cynical or unsympathetic, it should be noted that hypersensitivity is more an aristocratic sensibility.  I know nothing of the ‘Prelude’ – when or why it was written – except it is a vapid piece of writing.  The pianists do the very best they can with the material at hand but, even after their nicely tessellated account of the ‘Pavane’, there is no material here to work with.  What can they do?  Perhaps they could have devised a different program?

 

Whatever the case, the main thrust of the disc is a transcription of ‘Bolero’.  I should state, from the outset, I have no particular ‘angst’ in respect to transcribing this music to two pianos and Basque instruments.  Ravel certainly didn’t experience qualms when he transcribed Mussorgsky’s ‘Pictures at an Exhibition’, which is deservedly used in orchestration classes, so he could hardly point an accusatory finger when the situation is, more or less, reversed.  Not that that alone justifies it.  Everything depends on the transcriber, and the performers, being able to shed new light on the music.

 

 

This transcription succeeds because it does just that.  We are given an insight into the fabric of the existing music and, simultaneously, welcome a new addition to the repertoire.  Whether or not future performances should involve Basque instruments is debatable because the Basque connection is somewhat superficial, or at least it doesn’t appear to be of critical importance to Ravel.  If one accepts the notion of transcribing the music and one wants to lend it a Basque colouring, then something, other than a piano (for practical reasons) or a snare drum (which is used in the original) needs to carry the omnipresent rhythmic pattern.  The atabal seems the obvious choice, given the criterion.  Nothing can quite replace the E-flat clarinet or saxophone entries – moments of orchestral magic – but then transcribing is all about finding compromises.

 

Aurally judged, this account of ‘Bolero’ sounds tigerishly difficult and in a live concert performance it would constitute a huge risk.  In recording though, undertaken within a controlled environment, the result is intoxicative.  Moreover, there is no race to the work’s climax because the pianists have left themselves room to manoeuvre by not over stressing subsidiary high points. 

 

It is the inclusion of ‘Bolero’ that lifts this disc out of the ordinary.  One wonders if Katia and Marielle Labeque are pointing out a new direction for the future of the two piano literature: good and justifiable transcriptions.  Imagine what could be done with ‘Gaspard de la Nuit’?  ‘Daphnis et Chloe’?   

 

Stuart Hille  2009.                   

 

 


KZ MUSIC

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Music Composed in Concentration Camps 1933 – 1945

 

CD1 : songs for baritone and piano, baritone and strings, soprano and piano, treble voice and piano, and piano solos.

Baritone: Angelo De Leonardis; Soprano: Libera Granatiero; Treble: Rosa Sorice; Violin 1: Laura Aprile, Violin 2: Alina Scoticailo, Viola: Luigi Gagliano, Cello: Gianni Cuciniello.

Piano: Francesco Lotoro.

MUSIKSTRASSE MC 2123.

 

Listening to the first of the KZ Music discs (music written during internment in

KZ Music

KZ Music

concentration camps) one isn’t struck by any composition as being particularly remarkable.  There is nothing, in any of the works by any of the seven composers included on this disc, which immediately vaults from the speakers – heralding momentous harmonic or rhythmic originality.  Some of it is neatly crafted, some of it is stylistically clichéd, some of it is somewhat naive in gesture, and some of it is truly interesting.  Most of it is, probably, what we would call utilitarian.

 

One could, for example, see no reason why Karel Berman’s ‘Poupata’, for baritone and piano, should not join the standard repertoire.  Goodness only knows how much the genre needs fresh additions.  Others works however are more akin to student compositions – quasi anthems to youth – and, like most earnest student works, deserve a polite hearing but, thereafter, best left alone.  Yet such a critical analysis is hardly the point …is it?  Why?  Because, unlike students, many of these composers were not allowed to live long enough to go back and re-work their material.  And this means we need to apply a new strategy to our understanding of the music.

 

What lies within a core appreciation of all of the 24 CDs in the series, isn’t as much a ranking of artistic value, according to standard criteria, as it is a reaffirmation of the integrity of the human creative spirit.  Internment, no matter the almost surreal horror of such (in some circumstances) – be it within a state gaol, a frail or palsied body, a religious canon, an unyielding social boundary cast around the arts by an insecure political system, or, as we find here, a heinous racial ostracism – cannot imprison the creative mind.  And when the creative mind, despite very real physical imprisonment, looks about and surveys the terror of its landscape, it begins a process of therapy.  This is as natural to our species as is locking the prison door.

 

 

 

The KZ MUSIC series has determined its period and place of reference to prove the point.  But, before launching into an examination of it, one needs to remark, at this point, that all the performers have approached the material with sensitivity and technical assurance.  The phrasing, dynamics, tempi and sense of flow, throughout the recording, feel instinctively ‘correct’.  Pianist, Francesco Lotoro, certainly has the lion’s share of effort – performing on every track as either soloist or accompanist – but more importantly is the evident ‘simpatico’ evinced by all the musicians.

 

It is unclear from the two booklets included with the disc, whether Lotoro is also the author/compiler of the information they contain.  This information pertains to what details exist about the composers, their works, their surroundings and much more besides.  The author, be it Lotoro or not, is to be congratulated on this sedulous quest.

 

But why wasn’t the same degree of ministration applied to the English translation?  It certainly isn’t rare to find a few grammatical and word choice inaccuracies in texts translated into English, however, when there are this many ‘oversights’, one begins to wonder what it is the author is trying to say.  With subject matter of this importance, the translator shouldn’t alienate his readers before they become listeners.  Also, an English translation of the actual texts might have given the English speaking audience greater insight into the composer’s thinking.  And a final word on the business of English translations: the fabrication of the term ‘concentrationary music’ is not justified.  To coin an abbreviation such as ‘CCM’ (Concentration Camp Music) is fine, if previously annotated, but to use the non-word ‘concentrationary’ so consistently, doesn’t give it the right to exist.  In fact, if it did exist as a word, it could give the opposite impression of much of the music!   

 

It is difficult to know where to begin a discussion because the therapeutic process takes on a very different complexion according to the personality, degree of training and genuine inventiveness of the composer.  As mentioned, this critique makes little attempt to set a level or standard of compositional excellence and is more concerned with taking a panoramic view of the process in action.

 

The composer to whom I was immediately drawn was Viktor Ullmann.  One of the leaflets states he studied with Arnold Schoenberg for a year, although it doesn’t mention what he studied specifically.  My curiosity was piqued: was the 20 – 21 year old Ullmann influenced by the style of music Schoenberg was writing just before the 1920s?  Further research revealed that Ullmann studied composition with Schoenberg and indeed, one can draw a similarity in as much as both composers explore motivic (cells of three or four notes) development rather than traditional melodic expansion.  Ullmann however seems to more attracted to establishing larger lines of restricted range, and to harmonies imprinted with Mahler or Strauss.

 

The choice of accompanying strings (either as quartet or trio) adds an almost claustrophobic dimension.  Perhaps this is due to the timbral ‘tightness’ of string ensembles or perhaps it’s a deliberate attempt by the composer to project his physical surroundings.  Who can say?  But what can be determined is that these representative lieder deserve further study.  It appears the Czechoslovakian artistic community maintains a similar position.

 

After the relative sophistication of Ullmann’s music we are presented, in purely musical terms, with their antithesis: three songs for baritone and piano by Josef Kropinski.  (Incidentally, Kropinski, having survived WWII and the camps, as a political prisoner, died of a heart attack in 1970…a mere fifteen years later.)  Unlike Ullmann, Kropinski clearly has a penchant for tonal melodies.  Some of them are quite haunting, like that which opens ‘Piesn Wspomnienia’ – which I’m sure I’ve encountered before – and the folksy melody of ‘Prozno!’.  Yet while his basic building blocks are attractive, he has difficulty mounting them into a satisfying or convincing edifice.  Still, in terms of melodic invention alone, he should be better known.  Much of this writing has the imprint of ‘movie land’ written on it and this is a quality which shouldn’t be ignored.  If ‘Piesn Wspomnienia’ hasn’t been used – if I had only associated it with something else – then it would be a regrettable loss for any reputable Hollywood director.

 

Berman’s ‘Poupata’, as already mentioned, which opens the disc (with seven songs for baritone and piano, one for soprano and piano, and one for piano solo) show, though not exclusively, a surprising Impressionist influence.  All the pieces are conveyed with a satisfying sense of line, and the word shaping is aurally perceived as being highly sensitive to the natural inflections of the language.  His harmonic writing is an interesting reconnaissance of non or barely tonal areas.  But there is a twist: his harmonic progressions offer the listener greater satisfaction than his harmonic ‘goals’.  The former, be they French Impressionistic or late German Romantic in colour, seem to explore new relationships but the latter (the purpose of the progression) always capitulate to tonality.  It is as if Berman is stating his willingness to probe a non-tonal harmonic world but not the extent of permanently residing there.

 

His ‘Slavnostni Pochod’, for piano solo, is an oddity.  Clearly pictorial, this anthem or military march is either satirical or naive.  Whatever the case, it isn’t worthy of the music already presented by the composer. 

 

There are three other piano solos on the CD’s program.  The first two of these are by Z. Stryjecki (only the initial of his first name is known and his dates of birth/death are unknown).  Both solos are very basic in structure and general musical material.  Before tagging them as ‘juvenile’ – which is what their style would strongly suggest – one searches for a bit more information to confirm the notion.  But there is so little information about his life; except he was a POW and these pieces were written in 1942.  That’s all there is.  One can only conjecture his artistic development was curtailed in his youth and, consequently, left in that state when he composed the pieces.

 

The other piano solo – ‘Felicita’ op.282 by Charles Abeles – is similar to Berman’s solo in as much as it is either burlesque or dewy-eyed, although the clichéd tremolo, in both hands, at the conclusion, would seem to imply the former.  Then again, the gesture would be entirely in keeping with a carnival or circus image the work evokes.  The information is so sparse that one must adopt a subjective opinion, so, in my opinion, ‘Felicita’ is a parody.

 

Fortunately there is more information about the other two composers on the disc: Ludmilla Peskarova and Eva Lippold-Brockdorff.  Undoubtedly this is because both women survived WWII and the Holocaust.  There is also another similarity between them – a stylistic conformance which favours simple tonal structures (i.e. where it is a relatively easy task to aurally delineate small musical sections).  Both women appear to have a fondness for either folk songs or ‘patriotic’ anthems.  Their use of rhythm is best described as detectable patterning – iterations of small motives – and their harmonic progressions comes perilously close to textbook design.

 

These are observations which would strike many listeners, not artistic evaluations.  In its own terms, each song (all of which have been scored for ‘female voice’ and piano) might be limited in its musical language but, overall, has a fairly balanced dynamic structure.  I was curious to see how Peskarova was going to handle her material in ‘Pisen o Koncentracich’ as its duration of 5mins 11secs is the second longest on the disc.  ‘Songs about the Concentrations’, its translation, would, on the surface, suggest something weighty and in-depth.  And I assumed its length would indicate a more explorative musical argument.  I was disappointed, but not surprised – given the title, to find it only had greater repetition…perhaps too much.  In fact it became a spiralling of repetition within repetition.  One felt it was at this stage that the line between conscious intent (to make a statement) and the world of creativity were losing sight of each other.  For future performances of any of these songs, by either composer, it is suggested to substitute the ‘female singer’ for a boy soprano.  I feel this is more the quality of voice both composers had in mind.  That quality is one of innocence.

 

This is a word that so effectively, on many levels, best describes the creative thinking heard in most of the music on the disc.  Does the creative mind, when surrounded by such senseless suffering and maleficence, find a point of state of grace?  Having listened to this recording, I think it does, or it has no alternative not to do so.

Stuart Hille 2009.

 


Tokyo String Quartet

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Perth Concert Hall

reviewed by Neville Cohn

 

To listen to the Tokyo ensemble is akin to being ushered into the presence of musical demi-gods. These four superlative players have succeeded in subjugating their individuality in favour of a corporate music persona which, for decades, has enchanted audiences worldwide.

 

Tokyo String Quartet

Tokyo String Quartet

An account of Mendelssohn’s Quartet in A minor opus was a case in point, a glorious, flawless scaling of Olympus that left this listener groping for adjectives to convey the transcendental merit of the magnificent four.  

 

Most of this quartet is light years away from Mendelssohn’s trademark evocations of fairy fun. This is darker music by far, not least in the slow movement which was presented, with rich, organ-like sonorities, as a little miracle of profound expressiveness. Queen Victoria, a lifelong fan, once called Mendelssohn “a wonderful genius”. Could it have been this quartet which prompted that regal pat on the back?

 

Beethoven’s opus 95, his most compact utterance in chamber music, was given such superlative treatment as to be beyond criticism in the conventional sense. I dare say that had the shade of the notoriously tetchy composer hovered over the proceedings, it would surely have purred with pleasure. By even the most ferociously critical of standards, this, surely, was an interpretation that set the standard by which all other performances of the work would have to be judged.

 

Much the same could be said of Hugo Wolf’s Italian Serenade in which the four musicians, like some Midas-clones, transformed everything they touched in this amiable work to musical gold. Certainly, in the hands of the four, even the most routine succession of notes was transformed into a compelling listening experience.

 

Carl Vine’s Quartet no 5 is a work of many moods, ranging from the bleak to the jaunty. Early on, the music is informed by a romantic ardour that calls Schoenberg’s Transfigured Night to mind. At every point, the writing is informed by an engaging immediacy. It was beautifully played by the Tokyo Quartet in a performance which brimmed with subtle nuances of tone and tempo. I imagine that any composer would give eye teeth to have their music performed by so superb an ensemble; it was one of the evening’s many highlights.

 

In so democratic an institution as a string quartet, it is perhaps invidious to single out an individual for special mention. But it would be ungracious not to particularly praise the artistry of violist extraordinaire Kazuhide Isomura.  In the hands of this veteran of countless concerts, the viola, that most treacherous of string instruments, did his bidding beautifully as it sang for its master with a rare purity of pitch and tone.


Andrey Popov

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born Dobrich, Bulgaria February 1961              

died Perth, Western Australia June 2009                          

 

Andrey Popov grew up in a home filled with music. On both sides of the family there were many steeped in the music tradition. As many as fifteen cousins on his mother’s side were instrumentalists, some on violin, others on guitar or mandolin. A grandfather played the harmonium at weddings and public gatherings. Both Mr Popov’s mother Mrs Ljuba Popova and her brother became skilled accordionists.

 

Andrey Popov

Andrey Popov

 

On the paternal side of the family were many gifted singers. A great-grandfather sang in the choir of the Alexander Nevsky church in the Bulgarian capital Sofia.  Priests, too, figure prominently on the family tree, including the so-called Red Priest described as a modern Bulgarian Robin Hood who ended his life on the gallows. He is not be confused with that even more famous Red Priest, the Italian composer Antonio Vivaldi.

 

As a child, little Andrey would accompany a neighbourhood friend to the latter’s piano lessons during which the little boy would pay the closest attention to what his friend’s teacher was saying, soaking up what he heard via a form of musical osmosis. Real piano lessons followed with a local who had made good in the outside world. Little Andrey thrived. Later, his progress at Varna Specialist Secondary Music School was so impressive that he was offered a scholarship to study in Poland – but his parents declined this offer to their gifted son.

 

As the boy’s well educated and relatively well-off parents were considered “unreliable” by the Bulgarian communist regime, the young man was obliged to serve his compulsory military service at one of the harshest training camps in Bulgaria. And it was there that two fingers were broken while being trained to use a Kalashnikov firearm. This injury, surely as devastating psychologically as painful physically, effectively blocked his admission to the Sofia Conservatorium of Music. This was a huge blow for a young man nurturing hopes of a concert career. Instead, he enrolled in the Plovdiv Institute of Musical Pedagogy and after graduation he returned to his home town to head the Children’s School of Music.

 

Hugely successful as a teacher in Dobrich, many of his students went on to become laureates of competitions at home and further afield, some going on to distinguished careers as performers. All the while, Andrey maintained a career as a concert pianist, often giving recitals with his violinist wife at hotels and piano bars in the Black Sea resort town of Albena. Both in Bulgaria and, later in Australia, he would receive letters from former students telling of their many successes.

 

Political and economic upheavals from 1988 resulted in the Dobrich school closing due to lack of funding, and Popov was out of a job. Opening a private teaching practice did not appeal so he came to Australia alone, his wife choosing to remain in Bulgaria.

 

A very new kind of musical life began for Andrey Popov in Western Australia where, for the first time, he ventured into the world of dance as a rehearsal pianist, a calling to which he shaped like fine wine to a goblet.

 

Leading ballet teacher and examiner, Diana de Vos, recalled her first meeting with Popov in 1997 when, with that other fine ballet instructor Leslie Hutchinson, she auditioned Popov for a post accompanying classes at the Terpsichore Dance Centre. “His piano skills were first class; he was a brilliant addition to our staff”, she recalled. “His music was quite inspirational, affecting us all emotionally. He knew, almost instinctively, what was required.”

 

Serendipitously, Popov had found a new, hitherto unexplored, path in music, going on to work at the Graduate College of Dance and the W.A.Academy of Performing Arts. Heather Baskerville, regional co-ordinator Royal Academy of Dance, recalls the pleasure his playing gave to so many, working, inter alia, for the Cecchetti Ballet Society and the many activities of the Royal Academy of Dance. She also remarked how, on more formal ballet occasions, Popov would routinely dress “in a black dinner suit to help lift the mood of the occasion and in doing so elevated, yet calmed, the otherwise nervous candidates.”

 

One of many amusing anecdotes concerned the intense nervousness of a student about to go on stage. She asked for something to calm her to which Popov responded by giving her two small white tablets which she was told to suck very slowly as she played. The performance was brilliant and the student, gushing in her thanks for the pills which had soothed her nerves, asked her teacher: “What were those marvellous tranquillisers?” Pokerfaced, he told her “Tic Tac, peppermint flavour”.

 

His was an idiosyncratic sense of humour, his responses invariably delivered dead-pan. Heather Baskerville recalls seeing Popov clutching a number of coloured pencils. She enquired what they were for. “You’ve heard of Schubert’s Unfinished Symphony?”, he asked. “Well, I am writing Popov’s Unstarted Symphony”.

 

Yet another anecdote gleefully recounted concerned a fellow dance repetiteur who routinely used generous amounts of hand cream before playing the piano. The class was followed by one Popov was to play for. He seated himself at the keyboard, played for a moment or two on the now-slippery keys before exclaiming: “Look how lucky I am. I am playing in yogurt”.

 

Many of Popov’s friends in the dance world talk of his enterprising cooking skills.

Parties hosted by Popov and his mother Ljuba were, by all accounts, memorable events – and for all the right reasons. Fascinated by Asian spices, he would often experiment with this or that combination of flavours to tempt dinner guests.

 

The last years were blighted by increasingly serious illness, much of it the result of heavy smoking, an addiction he was unable to overcome. There were stays in hospital and long periods when work was impossible. Friends rallied around the household in Bedford. There seemed a visible improvement. Then, unexpectedly, there was a heart seizure that proved fatal. The good die far too young.

 

At the funeral service, there was a touching reminder of Andrey Popov’s artistry as mourners listened to a recording he had made of selections from the ballet repertoire.

 

Andrey Popov is survived by his mother Mrs Ljuba Popova and a brother in Sofia.

 

Neville Cohn Copyright 2009