ECM New Series Releases

12 Hommages A Paul Sacher (ECM New Series 1520/21)

| Tyran Grillo

12 Hommages A Paul Sacher

Thomas Demenga
Patrick Demenga
Jürg Wyttenbach Conductor
Recorded June 1993, Kirche Blumenstein, CH
Engineer: Teije van Geest
Produced by Manfred Eicher

Before first encountering this recording, Paul Sacher was an unfamiliar name to me. Now that the album has been with me for fifteen years, it is a name I cannot forget. Sacher (1906-1999) was a Swiss conductor and patron of the arts who championed all of the composers represented in this 2-CD tribute. His wealth and musical acuity led him to commission some of the most defining works of the twentieth century. Without him we wouldn’t have, for example, Bartók’s Music for Strings, Percussion, and Celesta or Stravinsky’s Concerto in D. For this project, realized in commemoration of his 70th birthday, a choice group of composers were commissioned to write pieces for cello around the so-called “Sacher hexachord,” a tone row derived from Sacher’s name: Eb=Es A C B=H E D=Re. The concept is similar to that of the B-A-C-H motif (Bb=B, A, C, H=B natural), which has been incorporated into works by, among many others, Liszt, Busoni, Pärt, Webern, and Bach himself (see ECM’s Ricercar for a creative juxtaposition of the latter two). The project was originally spearheaded by Mstislav Rostropovich, but has been recorded here with requisite flair by Thomas and Patrick Demenga.

At the heart of this project is Benjamin Britten’s Tema, the most straightforward iteration of the Sacher theme. Originally, the other composers were asked to simply write variations thereof, but their ideas soon developed into full-fledged pieces in their own right. Alberto Ginastera’s Puneña No. 2, Op.45 immediately draws us in with its keening melody, crying out like a hawk losing sight of its prey. The majestic bird tears at the sky as it would the earth, eliciting a flurry of virtuosic leaps and plucked asides. Each whispered harmonic lifts the bird with the silent power of a thermal. But then the prey is spotted, and falls as if pierced by an arrow from its hunter’s very gaze. Agitated pizzicati scamper like the rodent’s ghost into a dense thicket of trees as the hawk raises calls of revelry and tears its meal limb from limb. To my ears, this is one of the most technically demanding pieces on the album, sometimes requiring the cellist to pluck with the left hand while bowing with the right. Wolfgang Fortner’s Zum Spielen für den 70. Geburtstag – Thema und Variationen für Violincello solo is a more somber affair, its flashes of consonance piercing the surrounding dissonant fabric with divine light. The Capriccio by Hans Werner Henze is among the more cryptic pieces. Its complex narrative and subtle details beg repeated listening. This is followed by a string of vignettes. Of these, Henri Dutilleux’s 3 Strophes sur le nom de Sacher and Witold Lutosławski’s Sacher-Variationen are remarkable. Both give us a “conversational” portrait, perhaps reflective of the relationship either composer may have had with the man behind the music, for like a conversation among friends these pieces are fraught with conflict and agreement in equal measure. They are also very “alphabetic” and are perhaps the most committed to the their morphological assignment. Cristóbal Halffter seems to take a similar tack in his Variationen über das Thema eSACHERe, while Conrad Beck and Luciano Berio opt for a more concise approach that favors melodic dissection over prosody. By far the longest piece is Klaus Huber’s Transpositio ad infinitum – Für ein virtuoses Solocello, another compelling delineation of attenuate character and detail. Following this, Heinz Holliger yet again flexes his brilliant compositional muscle with the Chaconne für Violoncello solo. This rather enumerative piece makes apt use of the acoustics of the recording space and exploits the incidental sounds of the strings against the fingerboard as a sort of parallel dialogue. And just when we begin to suspect all possibilities have been exhausted, Pierre Boulez, ever the nonconformist, throws us for a loop with his Messagesquisse for seven cellos, which seems to blend all that came before until smooth.

Even though all of this music inhabits the same landscape, each piece digs up its own relic and turns it into music. The album is passionately performed, and recorded in clear and present sound. It is a unique testament to a unique individual, one that unlocks Sacher in a way those of us who will never know him cannot ever experience otherwise. Essentially, it is the Sacherian equivalent of A Hilliard Songbook, for just as the latter would not exist without the Hilliard Ensemble, so too is this album a timeless memorial to a figure whose absence might have effectively erased an entire generation of masterworks.

<< David Darling: Dark Wood (ECM 1519)
>> Charles Lloyd: The Call (ECM 1522)

György Kurtág: Kafka-Fragmente (ECM New Series 1965)

| Tyran Grillo

 

György Kurtág
Kafka-Fragmente

Juliane Banse soprano
András Keller violin
Recorded September 2005, Reitstadl, Neumarkt
Engineer: Peter Laenger
Produced by Manfred Eicher

The true path goes by way of a rope that is suspended not high up, but rather just above the ground. Its purpose seems to be more to make one stumble than to be walked on.
–Franz Kafka

The Kafka-Fragmente (1985-87) of György Kurtág make up the composer’s longest song cycle to date. Written for soprano and violin, its forty short pieces fall just shy of an hour. While Kurtág frames the text, consisting of fragments from Franz Kafka’s diaries and letters, and its ordering as being secondary to the music, I believe a closer look at the words can only enrich one’s experience of these finely composed vignettes. In the same way that Kurtág has pulled Kafka out of context and reworked him, so too has he pulled melodic material from the words themselves and fashioned it into a demanding exercise in instrumental and vocal economy. The scoring may be sparse; the results are anything but. Kurtág’s miniaturist approach ensures that every word gets its unadulterated moment, while the intimate arrangements pay due attention to the space into which those words are deployed.

Some of these pieces are relentlessly dramatic—“Ruhelos” (Restless), “Stolz” (Pride), “Nichts dergleichen” (Nothing of the kind) come to mind—and others meditative—“Berceuse I,” “Träumend hing die Blume” (The flower hung dreamily), “Ziel, Weg, Zögern” (Destination, path, hesitation)—but all are linked by dialogue. Still others are playfully programmatic and concise, such as “Es zupfte mich jemand am Kleid” (Someone tugged at my clothes) and “Eine lange Geschichte” (A long story). The one fragment that is Part II, which I have quoted above, is a haunting piece and seems to act as the center toward which the others gravitate.

As part of a lifetime’s worth of personal musings and correspondences, Kafka’s jottings are, of course, rather candid, and indeed give us a “fragmentary” vision of the great writer. None is perhaps so self-deprecating as his letter to Milena Jesenká. “I am dirty,” he writes, “endlessly dirty, that is why I make such a fuss about cleanliness. None sing as purely as those in deepest hell; it is their singing that we take for the singing of angels.” Whatever darkness this piece may imply on the printed page is immediately transformed into a serenade, evoking the final image with voracious dedication. We find another lyrical moment in the mysterious “Verstecke” (Hiding-places), in which Kafka muses: “There are countless hiding-places, but only one salvation; but then again, there are as many paths to salvation as there are hiding-places,” and for which the accompaniment is suitably cryptic, scampering toward any available cranny in which it might conceal itself. Another highlight is “Szene in der Elektrischen” (Scene on a tram), a whimsical anecdote about street musicians and the delicate line they walk between musical appreciation and intrusion into personal space. Because the story tells of two violinists, the violinist must switch between two differently tuned instruments on either side of the soprano, who strings the narrative along with her own bowed articulations. The final fragment, “Es blendete uns die Mondnacht…” (The moonlit night dazzled us…), is a brooding and mystical evocation of animal spirits and the limits of human understanding.

Soprano Juliane Banse displays a superb command of voice as she squeals, chirps, and whispers her way through Kurtág’s personal selections, and violinist András Keller negotiates the minutiae therein with finesse and panache, while also managing to maintain the touch-and-go relationship with the texts at hand. In spite of the bright performances and ingenuity throughout, this isn’t necessarily music to have on the in the background while surfing the internet or throwing a dinner party (and to anyone using Kurtág to enhance a soiree, I humbly request that you invite me), but rather demands our attention as “readers.” Kurtág was in the studio throughout the entire recording process, and his presence is palpable. It is only appropriate, then, that we be just as present in the listening.

Jean-Luc Godard: Nouvelle Vague (ECM New Series 1600/01)

| Tyran Grillo

Jean-Luc Godard
Nouvelle Vague

Featuring the music and voices of:
Dino Saluzzi
David Darling
Patti Smith
Jean Schwartz
Werner Pirchner
Paul Hindemith
Heinz Holliger
Paul Giger
Arnold Schoenberg
Gabriella Ferri
Alain Delon
Domiziana Giordano
Roland Amstutz
Laurence Cote
Jacques Dacqmine
Christophe Odent
Laurence Guerre
Joseph Lisbona

But I wanted this to be a narrative. I still do. Nothing from outside to distract memory. I barely hear, from time to time, the earth softly creaking, one ripple beneath the surface. I am content with the shade of a single poplar, tall behind me in its mourning.

In every Godard film, there are moments in which chaos reigns. Ambient sounds replace human voices. Animals, especially dogs and crows, always seem to have something to add. The mechanical world becomes part of the conversation. These intersections of sound and darkness, of silence and light, underscore our social inequities and nothing more. They pass without judgment, suddenly swallowed whole by accidents and unarticulated pain. Yet it is in precisely these gnarled irregularities that the larger construction of life, and this film depicting it, is betrayed. There is no order beyond choice, no means for permanence in a world so finitely recreated. The film gives illusory clout to its own staying power and falls flat against the screen long before its depth can be realized.

As a soundtrack, Nouvelle Vague is a rich experience, made all the more so if one has seen the film and has its images in mind. An earlier companion piece to the vastly significant Histoire(s) du cinema, this is the complete aural map of Godard’s multi-sensory essay. Like the soundtrack to Histoire(s), it brings to light not only the film’s interior but also its exterior nuances, probing its topography, if you will, with a practiced hand. This is strictly a descriptive engagement. As spoken voices fade in and out of a painterly mélange of musical selections, ECM and otherwise, our ears (and our eyes) spin the one continual thread holding it all together. The musics of Dino Saluzzi and David Darling figure most heavily in Nouvelle Vague and inform much of its dialectic edge. They are placed among, and in place of, dialogue, adding to a mounting intellectual cacophony. Darling’s cello merges with a beeping car horn and screeching tires, Hindemith graces the inside of every mask donned by the film’s characters, and voices cry out like solo instruments against a larger orchestral palette. Godard’s familiar splashing water also makes its requisite cameo. Yet it is Saluzzi’s bandoneón that provides some of the more understatedly dramatic moments. Its tearful, bellowed cry is as recognizable as the rhythms of the filmmaker using it, and ends the text on a stark note as a car speeds away in a swirl of filmic dust.

With this release, ECM redefined what a soundtrack can be: something that literally “tracks sound,” marking every stage of a narrative with its most fleeting aspects. Diegetic distinctions are arbitrary in Godard’s world. Sound is image is sound. Our own mental pictures are no less substantial than those captured on film, for captured is precisely what they are. Nouvelle Vague invites us to let the visual world unfurl—not through the sound, but as the sound itself.

<< Eduard Brunner: Dal niente (ECM 1599 NS)
>> Ralph Towner/Gary Peacock: A Closer View (ECM 1602)

Kurtágonals (ECM New Series 2097)

| Tyran Grillo

 

Kurtágonals

László Hortobágyi synthesizers, computers
György Kurtág Jr. synthesizers
Miklós Lengyelfi bass, effects
Recorded August 2008 at the Guo Manor, Budapest
Produced by Hortogonals

In the landscape of electronic music among European art circles, the name of Pierre Schaeffer (1910-1995) is a monumental landmark. A pioneer in musique concrète and its ancillary technologies, Schaeffer introduced a remarkable line-up of composers to new and exciting possibilities in audible media, not least among them Luc Ferarri, Iannis Xenakis, Jean Barraqué, Karlheinz Stockhausen, and Pierre Boulez. Boulez is particularly important in the context of this album, for he would go on to found the Institut de Recherche et Coordination Acoustique/Musique, or IRCAM, where György Kurtág Jr. later studied. Boulez’s rocky association with Henry led to a schism between the former’s insistence on the integrity of electro-acoustic configurations over the latter’s “computer music.” I find this conflict to be a moot one, however, when considering that instrumental music immediately becomes “electronic” the moment it is recorded, and that electronic music becomes “acoustic” when played through speakers in any given environment. Also, much of Schaeffer’s pioneering work, such as his entrancing Symphonie pour un homme seul (1951), was fundamentally rooted in the acoustical properties of live instruments and the human voice. Whatever the argument may boil down to, this fiercely original album happily marries the two camps into a bustling commune of shared ideas. Kurtág is joined here by two fellow Hungarians: composer László Hortobágyi, who works much of his compatriot’s thematic material into the album’s infrastructure, and Miklós Lengyelfi, a musician of many stripes whose rock roots bring an edgier sensibility to the underlying aesthetic. The three are known collectively as Hortogonals, and through their triangular approach they create music that is undeniably spherical.

Intraga sets the tone for the album as a whole, its varied sounds barely discernible from the surrounding haze: a bass sings at our feet, a toy piano croaks into our ears, and a wordless voice flickers at the threshold of audibility. Kurtagamelan is appropriately riddled with its titular chimes. Their echoes are electronically transformed, seeming to inject a visible murmur into every struck note. A passing swarm of insects retreats into the background. And beneath it all, a muffled drum. The bass continues its subterranean journey, marking its passage through the earth with pitfalls and sinkholes. A brief chorus of voices swells, the wind blows. Interrogation is overlaid with a cicada-like drone and a distant wash of strings, contrasting effectively with the lovely rhythmic threads of Lux-abbysum, which put me in mind of Tomas Jirku’s early click-hop experiments on the Substractif label, though the “live” touches of triangle and other percussive samples add more variation to the music’s topography. Dronezone showcases some of Hortobágyi’s interest in North Indian music, and Kurtaganja a bit of Lengyelfi’s in the electric guitar. This and Twin PeaX form a whimsical pair, respectively characterized by less veiled beats and freer sampling. Necroga closes where the album began, its steady bass strummed like a large cosmic string boring into the center of our spines.

Although the music of Hortogonals is rich in implied silence, here it moves in a continuous stream of sound. The lack of gaps between tracks renders the titles almost arbitrary, even if they do provide the occasional clue into the goings on. The music is dark, but far from ominous, and when it is ominous it is never dark. The experienced electronic listener may not encounter much in the way of innovation in the album’s sound or construction, but will nevertheless find it bears a unique compositional stamp and that sort of haggard beauty only the collaborative object possesses.

Bach: Das Wohltemperierte Klavier, Buch I – Fellner (ECM New Series 1853/54)

| Tyran Grillo

Johann Sebastian Bach
Das Wohltemperierte Klavier, Buch I

Till Fellner piano
Recorded September 2002, Jugendstiltheater, Vienna
Engineer: Markus Heiland
Produced by Manfred Eicher

One need only hear Till Fellner’s opening bars of the C major Prelude to know we’ve been taken in by a most heartfelt performance of The Well-Tempered Clavier. The Viennese pianist’s unparalleled grace and fluidity, aided by a rather “submerged” recording, serve to enlarge the visual field of the music at hand. And by the time we get to the C minor Prelude, we know there is no escape from this miraculous cage. Fellner always manages to keep himself at a distance, as if the music were coming from a dream he never wishes to abandon.

These pieces are like bits of life in concentrated form, each prelude a genetic signature and every fugue the trait it enables in the growing organism. Fellner bows to every movement and allows the dynamics to unfold from within. The faster sections in particular show a marked infusion of drama, each building through a slow fade-in to a more pronounced finish. Prime examples of this include the C-sharp major, G major, and B major Preludes, and the E minor Fugue. Fellner also makes the most of striking juxtapositions. The sprightly D major Prelude, for example, is all the more enlivening for being paired with the C-sharp minor Fugue’s beautiful lag. Yet never has a Bach interpreter so evocatively captured my interest in the slower movements, and no more so than in Prelude and Fugue in B minor. The A major Fugue and F minor Prelude go straight to the gut, and the F-sharp major Prelude practically weeps from the keyboard. Some of the album’s most emotional moments are to be found in the celestial G minor Prelude, with an opening trill that practically sings. And so, it is rather fitting that Book I should end on the somber B minor Fugue, seeming to regret its impending end while also fully resigning itself to the sentiment it has left behind.

Fellner has achieved something truly magical in this recording. Not only has be managed to “reopen” The Well-Tempered Clavier with his warmth, but he has done so by stretching it into a vaster tapestry, thereby allowing us to visualize every shadowy figure that passes through it. We distinguish mere snatches of form—an eye, a pair of parted lips, perhaps an extending hand—so that every nuance brings us closer to understanding the corporeal totality of the music. Fellner’s superb handling turns even the most staid movements into fresh listening experiences, while his airy separation and delicately applied arpeggios turn every polyphonic moment into its own soundscape. The album’s softness is, I think, as much a part of Fellner’s aesthetic as it is of ECM’s. Yet for all that Fellner brings to this project, the music comes through with renewed vigor, and that is the sign of a singular musician indeed.

Helena Tulve: Lijnen (ECM New Series 1955)

| Tyran Grillo

Helena Tulve
Lijnen

NYYD Ensemble
Olari Elts
Arianna Savall voice
Stockholm Saxophone Quartet
Sven Westerberg soprano saxophone
Jörgen Pettersson alto saxophone
Leif Karlborg tenor saxophone
Per Hedlund baritone saxophone
Emmanuelle Ophèle-Gaubert flute
Mihkel Peäske flute
Silesian String Quartet
Szymon Krzeszowiec violin
Arkadiusz Kubica violin
Lukasz Syrnicki viola
Piotr Janosik violoncello
Recorded between November 1997 and June 2006

Helena Tulve, part of a new generation of young Estonian composers, has the honorable distinction of being the only pupil of Erkki Sven-Tüür. Like her mentor, Tulve breaks down her music into bite-sized morsels, so that even her large-scale works feel like congregations of chamber ensembles. In this representative selection, we get a taste of the latter. Encountering these works for the first time, I hear them as a single story:

In à travers (1998), the ensemble opens with distant calls. A pack of animals wanders, guided by communication alone. These calls come closer as they are taken up by woodwinds. Rather than antagonize one another, they join forces, comingling in search of a new language through which they may repopulate their frozen world. An oboe soloist raises its cry, occasionally overblowing as if to wrench out as much emotion from its solitude as it can: the firstborn of the newly formed colony, flexing its hybrid voice as the pack falls into silence to hear what it has wrought. A viola bravely joins in. Lijnen (2003) continues this conversation, and introduces the lone soprano, who approaches with trepidation. She wanders the landscape like an anthropologist on her first solo field assignment. Her mind desires all the fame this study is sure to bring her, even as her heart yearns to be accepted into the fold, that she might shun the world’s obligations in favor of danger. She scours the terrain with her instruments, her notepads, and her books: all the material culture she has brought from a faraway land. The animals respond with confusion, putting up a dense resistance, not so easily thwarted by her sensitive approach. Her song is half lament and half appeal. Öö (1997) gives us a peek into the anthropologist’s dream. Only in slumber can she approximate this animal language in private. Abysses (2003) awakens her with warning cries. In her half-sleep they seem to come from beyond the forest, but as she grows more aware of the gravity of the situation, she reacts. In the opening haze of cendres (2001), she immediately abandons her tent and hides in the trees, peering out into the valley below. She watches the slow, careful dance that signals the battle to come. There is so much tension in the air that every hair on her body stands on end, and for that instant an invisible thread instinctively connects her to the very subjects of her study. There is a swipe of claws, a bid for distance, but this sets all eyes aflame as reinforcements emerge from thickets and underground hovels, with more yet hidden in reserve. Brief spats of chaos erupt. Eventually, these conflicts subside. The territory has been successfully defended. In the final piece, nec ros, nec pluvia… (2004), the anthropologist weeps because her favorite has been brutally killed. She stumbles down into the valley and weeps over the fallen body. The more she holds it, the more she smells like blood. The rest of the pack surrounds her and kneels to the ground. Once they have licked her clean, they watch her until she has shed her last tear. They no longer fear her, for she no longer fears them.

Lijnen is among the more exciting recordings to grace ECM’s New Series in the past few years. The beginnings and endings of these pieces are open links, flowing into one another in an ongoing chain. This allows us to approach them any way we wish and makes for an utterly genuine listening experience. Tulve is not interested in resolution, but in leaving us with more questions than we started with. In this way, the music stays with us, even if we don’t stay with it. Let’s hope partnership with the label continues.

Schumann: The Violin Sonatas (ECM New Series 2047)

| Tyran Grillo

 

Robert Schumann
The Violin Sonatas

Carolin Widmann violin
Dénes Várjon piano
Recorded August 2007 at Auditorio Radio Svizzera, Lugano
Engineer: Markus Heiland
Produced by Manfred Eicher

“Maybe Schumann, as opposed to so many other composers, really is the one whose black dots on white paper represent the least that is actually to be said.”
–Carolin Widmann

Musicologists and historians alike often paint Robert Schumann as a tragic figure. The mental degeneration of this prominent composer has become a prototypical example of the genius in decline and of the ineffability of humanity’s most creative energies. Admittedly, I have been guilty of this characterization myself. But when we hear a recording like this, all that myth-making goes straight out the window. These sonatas are among Schumann’s final works, the first two having been written in 1851 and the third in 1853, and are no less engaging for it.

Sonate Nr. 1 für Pianoforte und Violine in a-Moll, op.105
This is an absolutely glorious sonata. The piano parts are alive with ideas and seem to come in waves. The second movement is one of Schumann’s most questioning, cautiously approaching the knowledge it seeks before growing into confidence. The third movement catches us almost unawares with its colorful changes in rhythm and atmosphere. This is the most eclectic portion of the sonata, a beautifully synchronized braid of instrumental forces. After the dainty, lively introduction, suspicions loom threateningly over the finale’s exuberant communion until they crumble into piles of declamatory dust. Only then do we realize the goal no longer means anything, now that it’s unobstructed.

Sonate Nr. 3 für Violine und Pianoforte in a-Moll, WoO 2
Schumann’s third sonata was withheld by his wife Clara for years before it was ever heard. Its central position in the album’s program isn’t an apology, but a gesture perhaps meant to ensure that it be taken seriously. The opening piano thumps like a nervous heartbeat. Its balance is so fine that one false move could easily upset it, but the virtuosity of our duo keeps it perfectly intact, so that we may admire it from every angle and with every assurance of safety. The second movement evolves in retrograde motion to an arousing end, after which the piano’s bass note lingers beyond the violin’s curtailed exultation. The third movement climbs determinedly, aware of its own lightness, its many open paths. The cascading pianism here renders the music into a raging river. Like a salmon swimming upstream, the violin must struggle with all its might to get to where it’s going. Because its life is determined by that very struggle, it relies solely on the challenge of the current.

Sonate Nr. 2 für Violine und Pianoforte in d-Moll, op. 121
Also known as the “Grand Sonata,” Schumann’s second shows off its complex unity at every turn. The opening movement is an epic journey, finding its resolution no fewer than three times before bowing out, while the sonata’s remainder combs through the populous landscape of human interaction. The lesson: in agreement there is no unity, but only the semblance of disparate voices blending into one, whereas true unity is achieved in keeping those voices separate, sharing the awareness of an internal bond that can never be made externally aware.

Widmann and Várjon both see much in the way of modern sensibilities in these sonatas, bringing their progressive approach to every nuance therein. Their dynamic control is so effortlessly realized, they never manage to lose the energetic thread that binds them, even in the quietest moments. Widmann intentionally plays on open strings whenever possible, allowing the rich sonority of her instrument to ring through with an almost harsh beauty, while Várjon take full advantage of the studio’s acoustics to further flesh out the piano’s inherent resonance. If these sonatas are pieces of a larger puzzle, then these two fabulous musicians have foregone the corner pieces and worked their way from the center to the margins.

Mozart: Piano Concertos – Jarrett/Davies (ECM New Series 1565/66 & 1624/25)

| Tyran Grillo

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart
Piano Concertos I and II

Keith Jarrett piano
Stuttgarter Kammerorchester
Dennis Russell Davies conductor
Recorded November 1994 and January 1995 (I); May 1996 and March 1998 (II), Mozart-Saal/Liederhalle, Stuttgart
Engineer: Peter Laenger
Produced by Manfred Eicher

Taken as a whole, the music of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1756-1791) remains one of European classical music’s most indestructible pantheons. Among the many symphonies, operas, songs, and chamber pieces in his formidable oeuvre of over 600 works is a handful (at least in Mozartian terms) of twenty-seven piano concertos. Theatrical, eclectic, and epic in scope, the concertos are the epitome of instrumental music written in the eye of an operatic storm. Their dramaturgy is put on full display in these two stunning double-albums from Keith Jarrett and the Stuttgart Chamber Orchestra under the baton of Dennis Russell Davies. The selections therein were approached improvisationally—that is, Davies never knew exactly what Jarrett was going to do, and vice versa. The end result is warm, spontaneous music-making that tickles the ears and invigorates the soul.

1565

The first set, released in 1996, instituted a major breakthrough in Jarrett’s classical career. If no one had taken him seriously with his ECM recording of the Shostakovich 24 Preludes and Fugues, then certainly he was turning a few heads now. From the moment he lays his fingers upon the keys, Jarrett transports us—and himself, I imagine—to a spacious and familiar world of sound, and in the company of such a finely tuned and responsive orchestra his pianism soars to new heights.

Concerto for Piano and Orchestra No. 23 in A Major K.488 (1786)
This concerto moves in sweeping gestures, spreading its arms over grand vistas, secret gardens, and mazes from which one never wishes to escape. The Allegro is sprinkled with moments of colorful synchronicity in which the piano doubles the flutes, further underlining the symbiotic relationship between the soloist and the landscape he inhabits (this doubling is later picked up by strings for an even broader sense of cohesion). The Adagio pulls away its own skin to expose an arduous inner conflict before trusting its resolution to the pianist’s capable hands. An ever-changing ensemble pairs the piano with different combinations of winds, all “strung” together by the orchestral whole of the infectious final movement. The wind writing is superb throughout and provides some of the concerto’s most insightful moments.

Concerto for Piano and Orchestra No. 27 in B-flat Major K.595 (1791)
Mozart’s final piano concerto opens on a playful note, swinging its way confidently through the branches of a singular musical path. The piano solos glow like childhood, which is to say they are entirely without fear. The central Larghetto begins with a light solo before French horns signal the orchestra to follow, weaving a solitary song. Only then do the piano and orchestra find each other after what feels like eons of separation. The Allegro begins again with piano alone, and as the orchestra picks up the theme in a grandiose call-and-response we find ourselves bathed in a scintillating resolve. The many solo moments injected into the final passage make for a provocative finish.

Masonic Funeral Music K.477 (1785) was written for two of the composer’s Masonic brethren, though sources suggest the piece was more indicative of the Society’s ideological spirit than it was of its dedicatees’ service to it. Nevertheless, its minor shifts and mellifluous wind writing make it an elegant experience all the same.

The Concerto for Piano and Orchestra No. 21 in C Major K.467 (1785) is heavier on the strings and is distinguishable by its overtly march-like rhythms. The piano seems to act in the opening movement as a complicated ornament rather than as the focus of attention. The ubiquitously famous Andante sounds fresh and crystal clear as Jarrett carries the orchestra along its pastoral journey with a precise left hand, dropping a trail of breadcrumbs into the encroaching twilight. The virtuosic final movement is nothing short of breathtaking.

The Symphony No. 40 in G Minor K.550 (1788) is one of only two Mozart symphonies in a minor key and is almost as recognizable as Beethoven’s 5th. It comes gloriously alive in this passionate performance, of which the third and fourth movements stand out for their stately precision.

<< Robin Schulkowsky/NPM: Hastening Westward (ECM 1564 NS)
>> Terje Rypdal: Double Concerto (ECM 1567)

… . …

1624

The second set of Jarrett/Davies Mozart collaborations, released in 1999, shows the two interpreters exploring this fine material from an even deeper point of articulation.

The Concerto for Piano and Orchestra No. 20 in D Minor K.466 (1785) is the most somber of either program. Its Allegro builds a structure of monumental darkness. Ironically, the slow movement has far more energy than its predecessor, while the third is one of the masterpieces of collection, bristling with plenty of Mozart’s character-defining trills.

Concerto for Piano and Orchestra No. 17 in G Major K.453 (1784)
This is an epic concerto with another gorgeous Andante and an inspiring Presto that abounds with the liveliness one would come to expect from the younger Mozart.

Concerto for Piano and Orchestra No. 9 in E-flat Major K.271 (“Jeunehomme”) (1777)
The ninth concerto is the earliest piece of either album, written when the composer was just 21. This picturesque concerto is considered exemplary of the classical aesthetic. The opening Allegro is deceptively simple and endlessly colorful; a lush Andantino seems to yearn for an impossible love; and the final movement dutifully carries out its joyful mission, reporting back with most resplendent success.

The piano concertos are so long that, on a 2-CD set, they only leave room for shorter fillers, like the humble Adagio and Fugue in C Minor K.546 (1788), one of his most “filmic” pieces. While the Bach influence is clear, there is a dramatic undertone that is distinctly Mozart’s own and which provides a fitting close to another thoughtful and finely executed album.

Mozart constructed his piano concertos in such a way as to encapsulate all of the space embodied by the strings in the piano’s introductions. In this way he delved microscopically into the larger orchestral organism, revealing hidden biologies with laboratorial precision. Every movement is like a pianistic symphony in and of itself, a fully fleshed musical entity whose relationship to its neighbors is more genetic than it is formal. Davies shows a profound aptitude for the music at hand, as does Jarrett, who breathes clear diction into every phrase. Jarrett also excels in the ornamentations, especially in his many exuberant trills. This is classical music at its “grooviest” and is sure to please. Despite the epic length of the concertos, many surpassing thirty minutes, this could be a demanding listen were it not for Mozart’s continual innovation and unwavering commitment to circumstance. At any rate, the combined forces of Jarrett and Davies make even the heftiest doses easy to swallow.

I find it baffling to see that what little criticism these recordings have garnered focuses solely on Jarrett’s playing, calling it mechanical and lacking in the improvisational flair one would expect from the consummate jazzman. For what it’s worth, I find his performances to be nothing less than inspired and uplifting. I should make the reader aware, however, of the recording itself, which in the first set places the piano curiously distant in relation to the orchestra, as if at the back of the hall or even in a separate room. While this positioning works more fluidly in certain movements over others, ultimately the listener’s discretion will determine whether or not it is a successful arrangement. I find that it takes some getting used to every time I put the album on, but that once I do the effect is quite haunting.

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>> Crispell/Peacock/Motian: Nothing ever was, anyway (ECM 1626/27)

Paganini: 24 Capricci – Zehetmair (ECM New Series 2124)

| Tyran Grillo

 

Niccolò Paganini
24 Capricci

Thomas Zehetmair violin
Recorded December 2007, Monastery of St. Gerold, Austria

The 24 Caprices for Solo Violin by Niccolò Paganini (1782-1840) will forever be the Italian composer’s most vivid mark left on the classical landscape. Born in Genoa, Paganini grew to fame through a rigorous touring schedule and established himself as one of the leading violinists of his generation. Chronic illness, coupled with his promiscuous lifestyle and ill-conceived treatment for a bout of syphilis in 1822, contributed greatly to his physical decline, finally catching up with him in a state of destitution. His incendiary technical prowess and eccentric compositions were such that some believed him to be in commiseration with the Devil, hence the sometimes outlandish nicknames appended to certain high points of his oeuvre. Despite his seemingly sensational life, Paganini’s music is the most immediate medium through which to communicate with this mythical figure of violinry. And what better way to experience it than in the chameleonic grip of Austrian virtuoso Thomas Zehetmair in the gorgeous acoustics of the Monastery of St. Gerold, and all under ECM’s prudent gaze.

Here’s a violinist who isn’t afraid to tear through the crunchy layer of No. 1 with the ravenous abandon of a starving beast.The throaty call of No. 3 turns to liquid gold in his hands, and No. 5, with its astonishing runs up and down the fingerboard, is nothing short of enthralling. The otherworldly trills of No. 6, dramatic leaps to the violin’s most piercing registers in No. 7, swaying double stops in No. 8, and deftly executed harmonics of No. 9 all bring a feverish improvisatory fervor to the fore. No. 10 runs like a deer that has escaped the hunt that preceded it. No. 13, known as “Devil’s Laughter,” enchants with its mockery. Zehetmair displays an uncanny grasp of the technical demands at hand: the triple and even quadruple stops of No. 14 fly of his bow with the ease of a practice scale, and the détaché-laden No. 16 dazzles with its speed and fluid execution of the challenging octaves in the middle section. No. 17 is like a conversation between a highly agitated provocateur and two twins in agreement, while the lilting double stops of No. 21 cry out with unparalleled desire. And then there is No. 24. Perhaps the pinnacle of Paganini’s entire output and often believed one of the most difficult pieces ever conceived for the instrument, it has been taken up by a host of composers and performers, including such diverse talents as Yngwie Malmsteen, Sergei Rachmaninoff, Eliot Fisk, and Benny Goodman. Throughout its compact four minutes, Zehetmar blasts through eleven variations of its opening theme, plus a finale. His handling of the notorious pizzicato passage is particularly noteworthy in this relatively straightforward rendering. While there are more somber invocations to be had—such as those of Nos. 2, 4, 11, and 20—they always seem to be usurped by Paganini’s penchant for the dramatic, exploited here to colorful effect and leaving us thoroughly out of breath by the time we reach the end.

Zehetmair has boldly taken the Caprices and peppered them with his own distinctive embellishments, a task akin to adding a hundred figures to a Bosch triptych: there just doesn’t seem to be any room for them. And yet, he pulls them off with such grace and gusto that I cannot help but smile at his achievement. Even so, he is quick to remind us these aren’t showpieces but “improvised character pieces” that speak to the depth of their creator’s musical reach. This, coupled with a belief in the authenticity of the moment, is woven into every fiber of Zehetmair’s bag of tricks. Only rarely do I use the word “definitive” to describe a recording, but in this case any other adjective seems inadequate.