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Orlando Gibbons 400

CD cover Orlando Gibbons 400 Friederike Chylek

An English Keyboard Legacy
Friederike Chylek harpsichord
48:27
Resonus Inventa INV1022

Arguably the outstanding interpreter of Byrd’s keyboard music from her generation, Friederike Chylek turns her attention to Byrd’s younger Chapel Royal colleague (and possible though undocumented pupil) Orlando Gibbons, the quatercentenary of whose death occurred last year. To present Gibbons’ music in contemporary perspective, she includes a few works by Byrd himself, and by Byrd’s documented pupil John Bull, the date of whose birth fell between the other two.

Ms Chylek’s strengths are a wonderful grasp of melodic line, an impeccable sense of momentum, and superb clarity of contrapuntal discourse. It will come as no surprise to those aware of her other recordings that many of her interpretations on this disc are the best, or equal the best, of the works under consideration. Critics and musicologists (apart from the late John Harley) seem inhibited about celebrating and revelling in exotic or well-constructed chords in Tudor music. Gibbons’ Fantasia in A minor “in four parts” is adorned by the composer with several, and Ms Chylek plays these perfectly, with every note audible and immaculately balanced. I cannot think of a better version on disc, nor of the famous Pavan and Galliard for Lord Salisbury. The other works by Gibbons included on this disc are The Italian Ground, Galliard in C major (MB20/25), Fantasia in D minor (MB20/8), Ground in A minor (MB29/26), and The Queen’s Command.

I was particularly interested to hear Ms Chylek’s take on Byrd’s Pavan and Galliard for Philippa Tregian. Besides being one of the greatest pairings of this sort in the entire repertory, the second strain, in its understated way, paradoxically reaches a profundity achieved by only the most gifted composers and, particularly in the varied repeat, delves where nobody had been before in keyboard music. Playing this passage requires the utmost clarity of line and steadiness of tempo. Of previous recordings, only Colin Booth on his all-Byrd The Melodious Birde matches Ms Chylek’s sensitivity to Byrd’s intense introspection.

She also plays two sets of folksong variations by Byrd. Callino casturame is again the equal of any other recording and has a good claim to be the best available, bringing out all that is delightful in Byrd’s fresh textures and affectionately creative ruminations on the original theme. John come kiss me now is a rite of passage for Byrd recitalists: a longer work that requires a sense of ebb and flow while controlling the overall shape, plus a dazzling technique to cope with Byrd’s teeming enjambment across sections later in the work. Suffice to say Ms Chylek copes with all this capably.

Bull is represented by just two pieces. Predictably but appropriately, Bull’s Goodnight closes the album. The other piece is his Country Dance and this leads me to my one reservation about this disc. This seems to be the only available recording of the work, and is therefore an excellent choice. (On all the available evidence we can securely ignore Thurston Dart’s typically whimsical protestation over the attribution of this piece to Bull.) However, the running time for the entire record is only 48’27. I fully understand that constraints of time and/or money might well be in play here, but another half hour of music could have been accommodated. It would have been wonderful to hear Ms Chylek playing Gibbons’ heartfelt Pavan in d minor (MB20/16) and – even on a disc celebrating Gibbons – a couple of Byrd’s pavan and galliard pairings from left field, such as BK 16 (Dowland would have given his right arm for the theme opening the Galliard!) or the majestic and sonorous BK 76-77, glory which only survives in a playable form by the skin of its teeth and so should be cherished all the more. That said, such is the concentration of excellence on this disc – in Ms Chylek’s playing and in the music itself – that any reservations remain just that and are not complaints. Indeed, I warmly recommend it.

Richard Turbet

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Handel: Theodora

CD cover Handel Theodora Alarcon

Soloists, Chœur de Chambre de Namur, Millenium Orchestra, conducted by Leonardo Garcia Alarcón
166:16 (3 CDs)
Ricercar RIC 485

It has hardly been a well-kept musical secret that my enthusiasm for the work of Leonardo Garcia Alarcón has over a long period of time been distinctly lacking, particularly in the instance of his over-bloated performances of 17th-century music. It therefore came as a considerable surprise when he started on a series of Handel’s oratorios that has turned out to be outstanding and which to date includes Solomon (review HERE), Samson, and Semele. Now he has turned with equal success to what for many is the greatest of all Handel’s oratorios, Theodora.

If that is a verdict that today would be endorsed by many, it was by no means always the case. First performed in the spring of 1750 at Covent Garden, Theodora was distinctly unsuccessful. In the no-nonsense words of Handel enthusiast the Earl of Shaftsbury, ‘The Town don’t like it at all’. Several explanations can be advanced, one non-musical. Days before the premiere, London had been rocked by unusually strong earth tremors and a number of its citizens had deserted the capital in fear. More directly, there is the nature of the oratorio itself. Its libretto by Thomas Morrell, the author of some half a dozen of Handel’s librettos, is unique in that its text is the only one set by Handel that is not drawn from the Bible. Rather, it was based on early Christian history as related in a 17th-century romance by Robert Boyle, The Martyrdom of Theodora and Didymus (1687). Handel is known to have entertained a particularly soft spot for the oratorio, the disappointing reception of which caused him considerable pain. His enthusiasm is not difficult to understand. To a greater degree than usual in oratorio librettos the dramatic possibilities in the story of Roman force opposed to Christian faith are self-apparent. We therefore have at one extreme the uninhibited exuberance of the Roman revellers as they celebrate their pagan festival, at the other the quiet, prayerful confidence of the Christians. That it is the latter that inexorably come to dominate the work can be illustrated in a comparison that shows of 24 arias only five have a marking of allegro or quicker, an exceptional statistic for an 18th-century dramatic work. That, too, may provide further explanation for the disappointment of early audiences; they were simply not used to the idea of an elegiac Handel and missed the overwhelming choruses.

It is that disparity of mood that forms one of the reasons for Alarcón’s success with the work. In this he is fortunate to have at his disposal the superb Namur Chamber Choir, which portraying either the verve of the Roman mob or devotional Christians does so with total commitment and impeccable sense of style. This ability to capture the dramatic essence of the work applies to Alarcón’s direction of the splendid Millenium Orchestra, which plays with an impressive depth of sonority, particularly in the lower register, which belies the slim number of performers (two cellos, one double-bass). Alarcón’s overall direction captures the oratorio’s individual character to outstanding effect, producing a performance exuding colour and far removed from the staid monochrome English oratorio tradition. This being Alarcón there are of course controversial or eccentric elements. The contrast of tempo is further exaggerated by a tendency to take slower ones too slowly and vice versa, although there is nothing here that jars too much. What does jar from time to time is the conductor’s propensity for a continuo section that is ripely constituted and ripely active in its production of arpeggiations, broken chords etc etc. It is quite extraordinary how conductors and theorbists (in particular) seem unable to understand that florid continuo realisation is not only egotistical but unmusical and ill-mannered toward singers, from whom it diverts attention. The changes from harpsichord to organ keyboard continuo within a single number are at times disconcerting.

The soloists – Sophie Junker (Theodora), Dara Savinova (Irene), Christopher Lowrey (Didymus), Matthew Newlin (Septimus), Frederico Projecto (Messenger) and Andreas Wolf (Valens) – will be largely familiar names from the earlier Alarcón oratorio recordings. They form a fine team, led by Junker’s bright, innocent-sounding Theodora, some less convincing ornamentation notwithstanding. But the major kudos go to the coal black bass of Andreas Wolf, in his element as the strutting, bullying governor Valens. For reasons not explained, Irene’s aria ‘Bane of Virtue’ (Part 1) is cut.

There is already an exceptional Theodora in the catalogue in the shape of Paul McCreesh’s Archiv version, one of his finest recordings. Its lack of reservations of the kind noted above leaves it as the standout recommendation. Yet, as with his previous Handel oratorio recordings, there is a compelling commitment about Alarcón’s performance that I would not now wish to be deprived of.

Brian Robins

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Recording

Vieni, o notte

Vieni o notte Francesca Aspromonte Boris Begelman

Cantatas and sonatas by Alessandro Scarlatti
Francesca Aspromonte soprano, Arsenale Sonoro, directed by Boris Begelman violin
69:00
Aparté AP428

Much of the music included in this intriguing collection serves as a reminder that Alessandro Scarlatti was one of a small body of musicians – Corelli was another – who was a member of the Roman Arcadian Academy. Remembered today in the music world for its major role in the reformation of dramme per musica, the literary society sought to return to the purity of classical Greek simplicity. The Arcadians turned to pastoral themes, explored at its soirees held in the palace gardens of Rome’s sacred and secular nobility. The three extended chamber cantatas include two that are actually termed serenatas, the term used for outdoor works given in the evening. While all three feature night as a trope, there is no evidence of composition for Arcadian concerts.

‘Notte ch’in carro d’ombre’, H 480 and ‘All’hor che stanco il sole’, H 33 are both multi-movement works with an instrumental introduction scored for solo soprano, two violins and continuo. Both probably date from the early years of the 18th century, while ‘Silenzio aure volanti’, H 662 has fewer movements and is identified in the singer’s booklet note as dating from a little earlier in the 17th century. What all three works share is a narrative pursued by characters whose names are familiar from pastoral poetry – Tirsi and Amarilli in H 480, unnamed in H 662, and Fileno and Clori in H 33 – and a freedom of form that ranges over plain recitative, accompagnato, arioso and aria, at times blurring the boundaries between them. In the early movements of H 480, night and its shadows are evoked by the restless lover in the hope that now day is done they will lead the lover to his beloved under cover of darkness. The mood in the opening sections is restless, yet at the same time evocative of night’s mystery and secrecy. The mood is beautifully captured by Francesca Aspromonte, whose rich, almost burnished soprano never spreads or becomes too fulsome. Her ornamentation is restrained but stylish. My only slight reservation concerns the final aria, where the exhausted Amarilli calls for death as a permanent answer to the pains of love. Here Aspromonte is arguably a little too overtly operatic. The instrumental support is fine, although throughout the programme the continuo playing is not infrequently too keen to assert itself and is indeed often more of an obbligato character than basso continuo. It is, as I have observed on numerous occasions and will doubtless do so on numerous more, one of the greatest plagues of modern Baroque performance, with lutenists in the forefront of culprits.

H 662 opens with a long, melismatic line, a call to the winds to be still, ‘Silenzio aure volanti’ repeated at the end of the first passage of recitative, actually more quasi-arioso, a mark of the freedom with which this text in particular is treated. The superb H 33, for which this is claimed as a first recording, explores the sequence of emotions passed through by the rejected lover. At its heart is the exquisite aria ‘Aure placido e serene’, a call to gentle breezes to convey the tears of the forlorn lover to his beloved, that finds Aspromonte employing her mezza voce to particularly exquisite effect.

The vocal works are punctuated by two of Scarlatti’s Sonate a Quattro senza cembalo, No 4 in D minor and No 3 in G minor. Both are scored for strings alone and are cast in four movements, serious works that unflaggingly explore fugal writing or contrapuntal textures. Although some of the movements of the sonatas were included in a set of Concertos cobbled together by Benjamin Cooke and issued in 1740, they are not be confused with the more famous set of 12 Concerti Grossi by Charles Avison, published in 1744, which were drawn mainly from harpsichord sonatas by Domenico Scarlatti. They are persuasively played by Arsenale Sonoro, making a positive contribution to a CD of all-round interest to a general audience in addition to fans of Francesca Aspromonte.

Brian Robins

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Recording

Haendel – Inexorable amour: Cantate virtuose

Inexorable amour: Cantate virtuose

Marie Lys soprano, Orchestre de l’Opéra Royal, conducted by Gaétan Jarry
73:26
Versailles Spectacles CVS 168

One of the rare singers that seem equally at home in Italian or French Baroque repertoire, the Swiss soprano Marie Lys remains for me something of a paradox. Capable of exquisitely sensitive portrayals such as that of the eponymous role in Christophe Rousset’s recent issue of Lully’s Proserpine – listen here, for example, to the seductive caressing of the words, ‘no, non partir’ (do not leave me) in the second aria from Crudel tiranno Amor, HWV 97 – she is at the same time prone to force the voice above the stave to the point of it sounding ill-produced and shrill, as it does in the earlier parts of the lavishly virtuosic Il delirio amoroso, HWV 99.

Of the four cantatas with orchestral accompaniment on the disc, HWV 99, which has a text by Handel’s Roman patron, Cardinal Benedetto Pamphili, dates from 1707, being one of the few that can be precisely dated. Uniquely among Handel’s cantatas, it includes two instrumental movements. Handel scholar Ellen Harris has suggested the text involving an Orpheus-like trip to Hades by the shepherdess Clori in a quest to recover her unfaithful lover Tirsi may have a religious sub-text, which, given the sophistication of the members of the Roman Arcadian Academy, among them Pamphili, is not beyond the bounds of possibility. The performance exudes extravagance from the outset of the opening aria, which is treated immediately to a long ornamental flourish of the kind we might more reasonably expect in the da capo, where in fact it is similarly treated in what to my ears goes beyond virtuoso singing to enter a display of vulgarity also embraced by the obbligato violin. As the mood passes through frenetic visions of hell to lighter observations of the pleasures of Elysium, so Lys’s tone loses its strident edge, there being much to charm later in the work.

Un’alma innamorata, HWV 173 also dates from 1707 and has a text by Handel’s most significant Roman patron, the Marquis of Ruspoli. It has been conjectured that it may have links with a love affair Handel is rumoured to have had in Italy with the Florentine soprano Vittoria Tarquini. The composition of the cantata coincides with a visit Tarquini made to Ruspoli in June, and it is pleasing to imagine it was premiered by Tarquini on the occasion of a banquet held in her honour. The cantata takes a lighter look at love through the eyes of a young man. With its largely syllabic setting of the text, the mood of the opening aria is innocently guileless, a mood captivatingly conveyed by Lys in the opening section but rather less persuasively in the more animated central part.

The other two cantatas are less familiar. Although composed in Rome, Sans y penser is the only cantata Handel set to a French text or more accurately two French texts, being taken from two ariettes. Here the singer takes the roles of both Silvie and Tirsis in a captivatingly faux-naif exchange of alternating recitative and aria. It suits Lys perfectly, as does the lovely opening aria of Crudel tiranno Amor, sung with an alluring lack of affectation. This is a strikingly more mature cantata composed for Margherita Durastanti, one of the composer’s favourite sopranos, in London in 1721, its three arias all finding their way into Handel’s new opera Floridante, premiered at the King’s Theatre in December of that year.

Gaétan Jarry’s direction tends to emphasize the Italianate side of Handel, a legacy of the visit to Italy, of course, drawing from Versailles’ Opéra Royal orchestra playing of considerable warmth. His choice of continuo is odd, the use of cello, double-bass, bassoon, theorbo and harpsichord or organ more reminiscent of a continuo group one might expect in a French opera orchestra than a Roman ensemble. All in all, this is very definitely a mixed bag. Listen to Il delirio amoroso and you may not wish to carry on; go to Sans y penser and you are likely to be captured to the point of near rapture.

Brian Robins

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Kuhnau: Complete Sacred Works

CD cover Kuhnau Complete Sacred Works Meyer

Opella Musica – camerata lipsiensis, directed by Gregor Meyer
8 hours 58 minutes (8 CDs)
cpo 555774-2 

Once in a while a recorded project transcends commercial considerations to become nothing short of historic documentation. Such is this present collection of the complete surviving sacred works of Johann Kuhnau (1660-1722), Bach’s predecessor as Kantor at the Thomaskirche in Leipzig. Its academic credentials are indeed further established by the set being produced in conjunction with a new critical edition of Kuhnau’s works by David Erler, the countertenor of Opella Musica. Publication by Breitkopf and Härtel is currently in progress. Several of the individual issues have been reviewed by colleagues Brian Clark (vol 1) and David Stancliffe (vols 3, 5 & Zittau8), but the issue of the complete set seems an appropriate moment to attempt to place Kuhnau not only in the context of his time but also that of the sacred music of Bach.

Born to a Bohemian family that fled the Counter-Reformation, Kuhnau studied in Dresden and Italy before becoming interim Kantor at Zitttau and then a law student at Leipzig University. In 1684 he was appointed organist of the Thomaskirche, practised law and also found time to direct a collegium musicum. One of the last of the great musical polymaths, in 1700 he published Der musicalische Quacksalber, a novel satirizing modern trends in music and which mentions his now-lost opera Orpheus. The following year, Kuhnau was appointed Kantor of the Thomaskirche, a position that embraced civic in addition to religious duties. He retained it until his death, composing a huge amount of music of which only a small portion is extant.

The nearly nine hours of music spread across eight CDs includes works that look back to the 17th-century religious concerto and those that remind us that the modern cantata style of Bach is close at hand. In addition, there are a handful of Latin works, including a splendid and lavishly scored – three trumpets, timpani, two oboes and strings (five-part in ,Magnificat vol 3), and ‘Spirate clementes’ an exquisitely-wrought trio for two sopranos, bass and continuo on vol 8, which also features a concluding miscellaneous group of mostly secular vocal works including strophic songs and choruses written for plays. It would obviously be impractical to attempt analysis of the 40-odd works here, so I will content myself with a few general points that come to mind after listening to the discs over a period of time. But before doing so, there are a few observations regarding the performances which strike me as being close to ideal for a project such as this. All the choral works are sung one-voice-per-part, being finely balanced both as to ensemble and against the sometimes brilliantly conceived instrumental accompaniment. A total of five voices are employed throughout the set, giving it a pleasing unity. All are highly proficient singers more than capable of sustaining the melismatic writing Kuhnau at times introduces, especially in works like the Missa brevis for bass and strings that display Italian influence (vol 4). Just occasionally, as in this work, a more rhetorical, text-based approach would have been welcome, but at least the slight degree of understatement ensures there are going to be no aggravations on repeated listening. My only other small caveat relates to the many strophic songs and choruses, where one might have expected ornamentation to provide variation in the verses. The instrumental contribution deserves nothing but praise, and overall this is a very fine achievement that deserves fulsome congratulations.

Returning to the impressions gained from this unique overview of Kuhnau’s sacred music, there is one striking aspect that contradicts the received view of his conservatism. This gained much traction from his sometimes fractious relations with Telemann, whose poaching of Thomaskirche students for opera did not sit well with Kuhnau. Yet Kuhnau himself had played an important role in the founding of the opera company in Leipzig. More importantly, his music is consistently coloured by tone-painting given a strong character by its embellishment with daubs of chromaticism. Chorale cantatas are few, but the lovely Christmas cantata ‘Wie schön leuchtet der Morgenstern’ (vol. 7) (also of course set by Bach in his cantata BWV 1) is an enchanting exception. So how can we relate Kuhnau to Bach, who was certainly influenced by his predecessor? For me, for all his intellectualism, arm’s there remains in Kuhnau’s music a certain element of naivety that is not applicable to Bach. His God is a more approachable being than that of Bach, who almost always remains at a majestic arm’s length.

This set, an obligatory acquisition for anyone with an interest in Baroque sacred music, comes with a booklet including expansive (but microscopically printed) essays in German and English. For English translations of the German or Latin texts, you will need to go online.

Brian Robins

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De Wert: Nono Libro de Madrigali 1588

CD cover De Wert Nono Libro de Madrigali 1588

La Compagnia del Madrigale
57:18
Glossa GCD 922813

Although recognised, along with Luca Marenzio, as arguably the greatest of the ‘pure’ madrigalists, the reputation of Flemish-born Giaches de Wert (1535-96) has not translated into significant contemporary recognition. A quick trawl through the archives of EMR revealed only the odd work in collections, usually in association with de Wert’s significant influence on Monteverdi. The only real exceptions to this neglect I can trace are the Consort of Musicke’s recording of the 7th (of 12) Book of Madrigals (1581) (Virgin Classics, 1988) and a mixed selection of five-part madrigals by Cantus Cölln, under Konrad Junghänel (harmonia mundi, 1997). This makes this new issue of the 9th Book of Madrigals for five and six voices from La Compagnia del Madrigale extremely welcome, especially given the excellence of the six singers involved, all of whom are Italian.

Little is known of de Wert’s early years, but apparently he was taken as a child to serve as a singer at the court of the Marchesa della Padulla at Avellino near Naples. In 1588 he entered the service of the Gonzaga family, spending the remainder of his life in the employ of the powerful family in Mantua, but also in his later years in the restlessly experimental environment of the Este court in Ferrara. Book 9 was published in 1588 and consists of 14 madrigals, four scored for six voices, the remaining ten for five. The literary level of the poets drawn on is extremely high, including as it does Petrarch (five madrigals), Tasso (two) and Guarini, represented by a couple of poems highlighting the lighter and more cynical aspects of love. But more generally the mood is passionately serious, the often imitative polyphony closely woven and including telling passages of chromaticism. But despite de Wert’s close association with the sometimes reckless experiments of Ferrara-based composers, his use of dissonance never becomes a major feature of his writing. Around the time of Book 9, Wert’s close associations with Ferrara were enhanced by his hopeless love for the poet and singer Tarquinia Molza, hopeless given that as a widower whose wife had been guilty of taking part in a conspiracy to murder an aristocratic family, de Wert would hardly have been permitted to form a liaison with a lady of the court. Perhaps something of his personal agony informs the intensity of the setting of Petrarch’s canzone ‘Valle che de’ Petrarchlamenti miei se’ piena’. Here the raw pain of the chromatic inflection on the word ‘lamenti’ and its slow, melismatic lines barely lets up before culminating in the near-mystical eroticism attained by the end of the madrigal – ‘Here once I saw my lady, and along this path where naked she ascended into heaven, leaving on earth her lovely mortal body’.

At the other extreme is the enchantingly vital ‘Or se rallegri il Cielo’ (Now let Heaven rejoice). Joyously light on its feet, with exuberant, rapid exchanges between the voices, it was composed for the ‘Coronation of the Duke of Mantua’ in 1587, the duke in question being Vincenzo I, patron of Monteverdi and Rubens. But perhaps the most remarkable piece in the set is ‘Padre del ciel’, a setting of a religious canzone by Petrarch. Its progress is slow, solemn with little touches of melisma until the extraordinary peroration, the words ‘rammenta lor com’oggi fosti in croce’ (Remember how, on this day, You hung upon the Cross) set with a quiet dignity that is at the same time extraordinarily powerful.

I’ve already suggested that the performances are on a high level and so indeed they are. The blend of voices is exemplary, the purity and freshness of the two sopranos especially rewarding. Perhaps my only reservation is that there were times when it is possible to feel that the text might have been a little more passionately coloured; to suggest that while being aware that we remain in the world of the prima prattica that of Monteverdi and the seconda prattica is only just over the horizon. Yet by any standards these are splendid performances of great music that has been neglected for far too long.

Brian Robins

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Music for These Troubled Times

CD cover Music for these troubled times

Tallis, Byrd, Bull, Gibbons, Shalygin
Dmytro Kokoshynskyy harpsichord
79:16
Fuga Libra FUG867

This is the debut recording by Dmytro Kokoshynskyy, a young harpsichordist from Ukraine. In the accompanying booklet he relates how music provides him with the solace he deeply needs in the most challenging moments of his life, that no repertoire has done so more fully than the music of the English Virginalists, and that it was no surprise to him that this music filled his mind when his homeland was invaded in 2022. For its evangelists and admirers, these sentiments regarding the English virginalist school of composers are both gratifying and humbling. Dmytro also refers to Robert Burton’s celebrated book The anatomy of melancholy (1621) so there is ample subtext behind his choice of repertory for this recording.

Listening to this disc was, is, for this reviewer a compelling experience, and the choice of repertory is one element that goes towards this. The other two elements are the quality of the music, and the incendiary commitment of the performances. The pieces selected from the works of the well-known composers tend to exist beneath their radars. Gibbons’s supremely melancholy and profound pavan is usually elbowed aside by the admittedly great pavan for Lord Salisbury. Byrd’s fantasia with its vestige of Salve regina chant tends to give way to his pioneering and unsurpassed fantasia in A minor. Even Tallis’s mighty Felix namque settings tend to be prioritized for the organ. That said, its emotional variety renders the programme all the more enthralling – it is not stuck in trouble and melancholy, and Dmytro mentions Burton’s reference to “a pleasing melancholy”, a form of catharsis. In the cinema, a good director has the confidence and knows when to insert a flash of comedy into a predominantly serious film, and here Dmitry includes sunnier works such as Byrd’s John come kiss me now, Wakefield on a green (incomprehensibly attributed elsewhere to Byrd) and the attractive anonymous arrangement of Dowland’s Can she excuse (its modern printed source given wrongly in the printed booklet but correctly above). Applauding in passing the five powerful pieces by Bull, it remains to mention two others, one ancient, one modern. Seemingly the anonymous A Ground receives its premiere on disc here, and this is long overdue, being a work of substantial proportions for the period and of considerable excellence. Finally, KHORA by the Ukrainian/Dutch composer Maxim Shalygin is a thrilling and passionate response to Burton’s book, its highly appropriate title helpfully explained in the booklet.

This is a fine recording which is both moving and inspiring. It manages to be powerful without being oppressive, the wonderful music anatomized beautifully by Dmytro, none more so than Bull’s pavan and galliard for Lord Lumley, so as to externalize his own profound, innermost thoughts. From the turmoil of the Reformation, the English Virginalists provide catharsis four centuries later for a Ukrainian harpsichordist contemplating the invasion of his homeland, who in turn encapsulates this in performance and transmits it for the world.

Richard Turbet

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Bach: Mein Geist

CD cover Bach Mein Geist

Le Banquet Céleste, Julien Barre vc piccolo
70:30
Alpha 1190

The framing of the solo Cello Suite No 6 in D by two of Bach’s cantatas, BWV 115, ‘Mache dich, mein Geist, bereit’ and No 85, ‘Ich bin ein guter Hirt,’ is a somewhat unusual format. Alpha’s note-writer tries, none too successfully, to make spiritual connections, but more convincingly also explains the practical reason for the link. Both cantatas are among a group of Leipzig cantatas from Bach’s second cycle (1724-1725) that specify the use of the violoncello piccolo as an obbligato instrument, now considered also the most likely instrument intended for the 6th Cello Suite, though it is also possible Bach also had the viola da spalla in mind for it.

As it turns out, the performance of the Cello Suite by Julien Barre, co-principal cellist of the B’Rock orchestra, is the highlight of the CD, an extraordinarily beautiful performance of this happy, airy work. Not only does Barre produce an exquisitely nuanced timbre from his instrument, but his technique is impeccable, with cleanly defined and articulated passaggi always at the command of the music. In the opening Prelude, the outdoor spirit of the movement is perfectly captured, with braying hunting calls and the energy of the chase clearly suggested, while in the succeeding Allemande the generous spatial imagery is projected with a broad expressivity that gives this most extensive of the suite’s movements a timeless, musing quality. At the other extreme, the following Courante takes us back out into the natural world on a madcap gallop projected by Barre with virtuosic delight, while the wistful Sarabande features some splendid double-stopping and clean chordal playing. And so continues to the conclusion of this treasurable performance.

On one level, the one-voice-per-part performances of the cantatas earn high commendation, too, but they are marred by a significant flaw. BWV115 is a chorale cantata composed for 5 November 1724. From the outset, the text is dominated by rhetorical demands or commands to which the Christian must attend – ‘Mache dich, mein Geist’ (Make ready, my spirit) in the opening chorale. The following aria for alto scolds the ‘slumbering soul’ – ‘Ermuntre dich doch’ (Rouse yourself!). The only other aria, for soprano, continues the theme of man’s inadequacy in the eyes of God, ‘Bete aber auch dabei’ (But pray, too). It is, as Alfred Dürr wrote in his classic study of the cantatas, ‘conceived in vividly text-related terms’. It is, however, exactly this sense of rhetoric that is almost entirely missing from these neatly turned performances. Listen, for example, to alto Alexander Chance’s singing of that alto aria, ‘Ach schläfrige Seele, wie? ‘Ah, slumbering spirit, what?’ It is neat and capable, but diction is poor, and it lacks any real penetration of the text, so it is hardly surprising that the ear is constantly drawn from the voice to the expressive oboe d’amore obbligato of Patrick Beaugiraud.

BWV 85 dates from April 1725. It takes its topic from consideration of the famous words in the Gospel of St John, ‘I am a good shepherd’, which are quoted at the outset by the bass soloist in a kind of mixture of accompagnato and arioso. The cantata is unusual in that the four soloists come together only in the brief final chorale, the chorale in the body of the cantata being for solo soprano, here beguilingly intoned by Céline Scheen, whose bright, fresh voice is one of the pleasures of the recording. Here the rhetorical element is less to the fore, though I would still like a stronger emphasis on diction. Again, one of the great pleasures of the performance is the instrumental contribution, especially once again the violoncello piccolo, which makes a splendid obbligato contribution to the alto aria.

I’m conscious that there are many admirers of Bach’s cantatas for whom the rhetorical element, the strong impact of the words, means less than it does to others, and they will doubtless place less emphasis on the topic of rhetoric. They are likely to find few reservations. Nonetheless, rhetoric meant a great deal to Bach and his fellow congregations, and if we are to understand fully the precept and message of these timeless works, it is something that should be of importance to us, too.

Brian Robins

Categories
Recording

Haydn 2032: No. 18 – Il maestro di scuola

CD cover Haydn volume 18 Il maestro di scuola

Kammerorchester Basel, directed by Giovanni Antonini
76:29
Alpha Classics 1092

Regular visitors to the shores of EMR will know that this splendid cycle of Haydn symphonies has featured regularly among our reviews. Here, however, is the one that got away – or nearly did. For some reason it slipped through the net, but happily that can now be rectified. For anyone needing an introduction or perhaps a recap, this integrale performed either by Giovanni Antonini’s own Il Giardino Armonico or the Kammerorchester Basel in its period-instrument guise is planned for completion in 2032, the year of the tercentenary of Haydn’s birth.

Not the least intriguing aspect of the series has been the addition of music either by Haydn himself or other composers who have some kind of relevance to Haydn (look out for a surprise inclusion on No. 19). Here, that relevance will test the knowledge of all but the most assiduous Haydn scholar; I’m not ashamed to admit failure. The CD is named after the nickname appended to Haydn’s Symphony No 55 in E flat, the ‘Schoolmaster’, though it has to be said only after his death and for reasons that appear somewhat tenuous. From that nickname stems the additional piece here, the finale of the Symphony No 5 in G minor by Franciszek Lessel, a Polish composer who arrived in Vienna to study composition in 1799. The following year, he became a pupil of Haydn, with whom he studied until 1805, when perhaps as a parting gift he received from his ‘schoolmaster’ Haydn the manuscript of the Symphony No 56 in C, which it so happens is also included on the present CD. The Lessel is particularly interesting for showing that he has his own voice, being far closer to the early Romanticism of Weber than the classicism of Haydn. It also suggests that the ‘Sturm und Drang’ febrile intensity of the key of G minor in the hands of composers like Haydn and Mozart had passed, to be replaced by a quasi-folk-like spirit that involved few intimations of tragedy.

It is that magnificent C-major symphony that is the glory of the present disc. Composed in 1774, it is a fully-scored work including trumpets and timpani. As H C Robbins Landon noted in his magisterial study of Haydn, the opening motif features all the ceremonial pomp associated with the key of C, to be immediately answered by a thoughtful lyrical theme, what HCRL terms tension-cum-release structure, a device used by Haydn on more than one occasion. Here, it works in perfect symmetry and will play a major role in this opening movement, being particularly effectively worked in the development section. The succeeding Adagio, a sonata-form movement that leaves the trumpets and drums silent, is also planned on an ample scale with a notable contribution from bassoon, which makes the main theme’s first statement. The return of timpani and trumpets in the Minuet gives it a stately character to be contrasted with the graciously flowing Trio section. The final Prestissimo is a whirlwind of passing ceremonial fanfares, humour, hints of operatic finales, interpolated solos for violin and cello, and hunting calls that leave both player and listener breathless from the profusion of events.

The ‘Schoolmaster’, which also dates from 1774, nearly reaches the same level, its highlights being the slow movement that was compared with the incipit from a lost divertimento apparently known as ‘Der Schulmeister’ and the final Presto, a rondo that spends much of time in light-footed, light-hearted mode that is at one thrilling moment jolted out of its easy existence by an outburst of clamouring windwind and horns. Rather less significant is the earlier Symphony No 29 in E of 1765. The easy-going opening movement has folk-like characteristics, Haydn modifying the indication ‘Allegro’ with ‘ma non troppo’, advice I think that for once Giovanni Antonini has overlooked, the movement being taken just that little too fast. Otherwise, these spruce, incisive, beautifully pointed and played performances have all the merits to be found in previous issues in the series. Crackling opening movements and witty finales – how many of these take us into the opera house! – contrast tellingly with the warmth and thoughtfulness of ‘slow’ movements. I promise to try not to keep readers so long from a review of No 19!

Brian Robins

Categories
Recording

Duality

CD cover Duality Zimmermann Vanhal bassoon concertos

Zimmermann | Vaňhal : Bassoon concertos
Ondřej Šindelář & Sergio Azzolini bassoons, Risonanza Praga
75:17
Supraphon SU 4375-2

Of the two composers here, the better-known name is that of Jan Křtitel Vaňhal, born in the Hradec Králové region of Bohemia in 1739. His biography is fairly sketchy. Vaňhal’s initial musical training and experience in the 1750s being as an organist and choirmaster in the region of his birth, but later he was sent to Vienna to study courtesy of a countess who had noted his talent. The list of compositions composed during the time Vaňhal spent in Vienna is extensive, but particularly noted for the symphonies he composed there, in excess of 100 were written at much the same time Haydn was writing his middle period symphonies at Eszterháza. According to Charles Burney, the symphonies of Vaňhal at one time headed Haydn’s for popularity in England. The Bassoon Concerto in C is a relatively recently discovered work found in the archives of Prague Conservatoire, one of two bassoon concertos by Vaňhal in that key. It is by some way the most ambitious of the three works on the present CD, being scored for an orchestra that includes trumpets and timpani, though as might be expected the central Adagio cantabile dispenses with them to enable a rhapsodic lyricism that contrasts effectively with the outer movements. Ondřej Šindelář‘s playing here demonstrates one of the major assets of his splendid technique – the ability to draw and shape long cantabile lines with gracious ease. The only complaint, and it applies to all the concertos, is that cadenzas are too lengthy, in addition to being somewhat eccentric, including fragmentary little phrases that are presumably intended to remind the listener that the bassoon is capable of humour but belong to the 21st rather than the 18th century.

Anton Zimmermann is a much less familiar name, having been born in Breitenau (Silesia), today Široká Niva in 1741. In 1763 he is mentioned as a ‘highly respected’ organist at the cathedral in Hradec Králové. In 1770, he would move to Pressburg, now Bratislava, where he would remain for the rest of his life. There he became Kapellmeister and court composer to the Archbishop of Hungary, at whose behest Zimmermann created an orchestra said by the musicologist J N Forkel to be ‘in the very first place, ahead of Joseph Haydn’s orchestra at Esterháza’. Although listed in Supraphon’s booklet as being a work of Zimmermann, it seems the outer movements of the Concerto in F for two bassoons may in fact be by Vanhal, since they are identical to those of his own double concerto. The booklet notes suggest several possible answers to this conundrum, none especially persuasive. Leaving questions as to who composed what aside, the expansive opening movement allows plenty of scope for the two players to indulge in lyrical unison passages contrasted with spirited imitation, while the central Adagio concentrates on unison cantabile writing. The work concludes with a bubbly finale with particularly felicitous wind writing. Here Šindelář is joined by probably the best-known period bassoonist, Sergio Azzolini, in a performance that combines nimble virtuosity and pure-toned lyricism to advance an excellent argument for this fine concerto.

However, both the concertos discussed above have to give way to Zimmermann’s Concerto in F, an entrancing work that, for all its modest pretensions, has an easy galant charm not matched in either of the other concertos. Notable, too, is the wind writing which, particularly in the opening Moderato, is engagingly interleaved with the solo bassoon. The central Adagio has a touching beauty, which like hints in the Moderato does not preclude moments of melancholy, while the final enters more dramatic territory, allowing for bravura passages excellently played by Šindelář. Throughout, he is given fine support by the Prague period instrument orchestra. The CD as a whole is a fine addition to the catalogue, while bassoonists in search of repertoire are strongly advised to look at the F-major Zimmermann concerto, a real gem.

Brian Robins