Tag: Romantic

Narratio Quartet
241:06 (4 CDs)
Challenge Classics CC72982

This completes the Narratio Quartet’s path-breaking and challenging set of the Beethoven string quartets. EMR reviews of the two earlier sets issued can be found here and here respectively. For the sake of clarity, it should be noted that the F-minor Quartet, op. 95 of 1810, usually tacked on to the middle period quartets, is included in the present set, chronologically if not entirely stylistically a little incongruously since it predates the genuine ‘late’ quartets by 15 years.

As noted in regard to the earlier sets, the Narratio’s period instrument performances are in some ways a reaction to the philosophy of the foundations of the 20th-century early music revival. That sought to be truthful (or authentic) in its treatment of the music of the past by means of the use of instruments of the period and faithful adherence to matters such as rhythm and tempo. Yet we know that such a ‘pure’ manner of interpretation was not the way music was played in the time of Mozart and Beethoven, that greater freedom was admitted to performance for the purposes of creating expressive gesture. That freedom included such features as rubato – rhythmic flexibility – vibrato employed for expressive purpose and portamento, the ‘slurring’ or sliding from one note to another. Needless to say, such means should be carefully thought through before use, and it is much to the credit of the Narratio’s that they have been thinking about and experimenting with the use of expressive devices in Beethoven’s quartets over a period of some 15 years. It is interesting to note too that this rethinking of what we call ‘period performing practice’ is increasingly extending to vocal music, where topics such as vibrato, rubato and portamento are also becoming questioned and debated. Finally, before brief observations on the individual quartets, it has been encouraging to note that throughout the Narratio’s set they have been happy to engage with Beethoven in one aspect of his music so frequently overlooked or forgotten – his wit and sense of humour. It stems, I think, from the 19th-century elevation of the composer to the status of a god, only to be the subject of awesome worship, not a great composer who laughs at us or invites us to laugh with him.

The String Quartet in F minor bids fair to be considered one of the knottiest of his works. Composed in 1810, a year that witnessed little productivity on Beethoven’s part, it was published five years later. Clues to the intensely personal nature of the work can be found in Beethoven’s designation of it as ‘quartetto serioso’ and his curious words to Sir George Smart when the composer sent a copy to London, ‘The Quartett (sic) is written for a small circle of connoisseurs and is never to be performed in public’. The Narratios attack the opening with uncompromising vigour, while the almost immediate lyrical response provides a fine example of their use of portamento and rubato. Lasting little more than five minutes, the movement here has a concise intensity that never lets up. This economy, the impression of saying nothing superfluous, characterises the quartet as a whole and is well caught by the Narratios who also make much of the lovely cantabile that forms the answering motive in the second movement.

It would be almost fifteen years before Beethoven returned to the medium. He then between 1824 and 1826 completed the five quartets now universally referred to as ‘the Late String Quartets’. These works, in particular the middle three (opp 130, 131 and 132), suggest a summation that not only expands the string quartet – structure, radical uses of tonality, texture, rhythm – to a degree that would inhibit the approach to the form by composers at least until the 20th century.

The Quartet in E-flat, op 127 occupied Beethoven between 1824 and 1825. Often considered the most ‘normal’ of the late quartets, it nevertheless stakes its claim to be unusual by including a slow movement that is virtually twice as long as any other of the three remaining movements. Marked ‘Adagio, ma non troppo e molto cantabile’, its nearly 15 minutes duration take us into a world of intense introversion that demands a concentration from both players and listener, here superbly achieved by the Narratios. The players also react well to the more animated central section, one of the many passages throughout these performances where the listener’s attention is drawn to the outstanding balance these players achieve. By contrast the Scherzo, with its constantly iterated perky theme reminding us how economical Beethoven could be with thematic material, shows us a more robustly committed side of the Narratios, the central folk-dance like Trio is celebrated with uninhibited pleasure and not a little of the good humour alluded to above.

If there is any doubt that Beethoven was entering new territory, it can be firmly dispelled in the face of the opening of the B-flat Quartet, op 130 of 1825. In every sense – sonority and expansive breadth – this is music that occupies a landscape greater than had previously been attempted. It’s a moment that the Narratio Quartet captures to near perfection, the massive sound picture enhanced by the satisfyingly bronzed sound of bow on gut strings. This sense of being at one with the music pervades the work, planned on a unique scale that includes six movements. The penultimate of these is the formidable Grande (or Grosse) Fugue, a movement found so difficult by the original performers and friends of the composer that the latter persuaded Beethoven to write a more concise, user-friendly alternative. Today it is that movement that is more frequently played. Overall, the performance is an impressive illustration of the manner in which the players invariably and instinctively seem to be at one with the music. In this context, it should be mentioned that tempi, which I’ve not mentioned until now, are never a cause for concern. The intelligence of the players can also be noted that although they play the famous Cavatina ‘molto espressivo’ as Beethoven asked, they keep such external signs of expression as portamento and rubato under strict control. Music of such sublime simplicity and introversion has no need of such tools.

The only other movement among this set that the composer marks ‘molto espressivo’ is the Adagio of op 131 in C-sharp minor (composed 1825-26) and here was one of the rare cases I disagreed with the use of portamento, in the first violin’s opening upward sweep from G# to C#, a gesture subsequently imitated by the other players. Like the Cavatina, it is fundamentally a simple, but profound almost hymn–like subject that needs no adornment. Although the quartet is in seven movements (two of which – the second and fifth – demand and here receive a virtuoso response from the performers) it is fundamentally structurally closer to the tradition four-movement quartet. The third movement, a brief accompanied recitative, is for example clearly linked to the monumental slow movement, a sublime aria of the utmost tenderness which although passing through a period of more animated disquiet ends with music and performers totally at peace and at one.

As with the C-sharp minor quartet, the Quartet in A minor, op 132 of 1825 has multiple-movements, here five dominated by the expansive opening and third movements. The latter is headed ‘Heiliger Dankgesang eines Genesenen’ (a holy hymn of thanks of a convalescent to a Deity), a reminder that Beethoven had been seriously ill during the preceding winter. If this movement can thus be seen as autobiographical, then the same surely applies to the opening Assai sostenuto, which appears to arise out of the memories of some unrelated nightmare. Both these passages are played with deeply introverted concentration by the Narratios, the sustained bass chords of both passages played with rasping intensity. But op 132 is by no means a tragic quartet; as so often with the mature quartets, it passes through many moods, the final Allegro appassionato embracing both affection in its lilting opening and deeply troubling thoughts in the animated central section.

Beethoven’s final string quartet, op 135 in F, on first appearances appears to mark something like a return to convention. It is cast in four movements and, unlike its immediate forbear,s plays no longer than a quartet by Haydn or Mozart. But such appearances are deceptive and not only ignore the sublime third movement, marked Assai lento, cantante e tranquillo, which enjoys a profoundly spiritual inner life of its own quite as intense as the Cavatina of op 130 or the Andante of op 131, but the autobiographical element of the final movement. This has occupied Beethoven scholars since the work’s composition, with its opening quotation of the three-note motif, ‘Es muss sein?’ (must it be?), later answered ‘ja, es muss sein’ (yes, it must be).

Once again, there is an autobiographical explanation for the origin, if not for Beethoven’s use of the motif here in the final quartet movement he would write. The more I hear these quartets, the more I feel there is possibly an even greater personal element to them than we realise. Such thoughts have certainly been enhanced by these Narratio Quartet performances, which demand to be heard even by those familiar with this music. It should be added that they are presented in superb sound that aids the multitude of sonorities admirably. There will be things here that surprise, things to relish and, perhaps, things to disturb or even infuriate. One thing I can promise: you will not be bored.

Brian Robins

Narratio Quartet
146:33 (2 CDs)
Challenge Classics CC72981

A review of the first release of what will ultimately be a complete set of the Beethoven string quartets appeared on this site in 2024. To paraphrase what I wrote on that occasion, what makes their performances so special is the quartet’s unique approach to performance practice. This embodies not simply the use of period instruments and playing them with a lack of continuous vibrato, but such matters as the employment of rubato, allowing for a greater flexibility of phrasing and rhythm, and, perhaps most radical to the modern ear, the use of portamento or glissando – the sliding of one note to another, borrowed from vocal music. All these innovations stem from a long and careful study made by the Narratios of performance practice in Beethoven’s day, while it is important to recognise their usage has one purpose and one purpose only: to serve the expressive qualities inherent in the music. So you won’t hear portamenti used indiscriminately but carefully judged to enhance expression. Probably the most striking example here is the outset of the third movement of opus 59, no. 1 in F. Marked Adagio molto e mesto, it is an elegy of the greatest profundity, the use of portamento here enhancing the inner qualities of the music. The revelation that results is further enhanced by rhythmic flexibility.

For those in need of a reminder, the middle quartets of Beethoven comprise the three quartets of op 59, in F, E minor and C respectively, and op 74 in E flat, sometimes known as the ‘Harp’ from the pizzicato figure in the opening movement. The quartets of op 59, composed between the end of 1802 and 1804 and published with a dedication to Count Rasumovsky, one of Beethoven’s patrons, represent a huge advance on the op 18 quartets completed two years earlier. This applies especially to the F-major Quartet, the spacious breadth and contrapuntal density of whose opening Allegro take the medium into new territory only transcended by the following movement, a scherzo as far removed from the traditional minuet movement as is possible to conceive. Both these revolutionary movements are splendidly brought off by the Narratios with an energy that captures the dynamism and sometimes quasi-orchestral textures with impressive bold strokes. At the other end of the scale, the intense, deeply felt slow movement is beautifully sustained, with some notably beautiful playing from violist Dorothea Vogel. Only with the final movement, marked Thème russe, does the overpowering effect of this extraordinary quartet, as remarkable in some ways as the late quartets, give way to a rumbustious buoyance, noting in this performance however the magical moment just before the final bars when Beethoven slows and quietens the headlong thrust to the end of the quartet.

The remaining three quartets offer fewer challenges to performer and listener, the ‘Harp’ in particular eschewing that kind of density and intensity in exchange for a friendlier ambiance, again finely judged in the present performance. At the start of the slow movement there is another subtle yet highly effective example of the use of portamento. This movement, a love song taken by the leader – splendid playing here from Johannes Leertouwer – into the realms of tragedy and the viola into a shadowy, more dramatic world is especially effective at showing up the splendid balance achieved by the Narratios, while the final set of variations underlines the exceptional technical prowess of the quartet with some particularly nimble bowing.

Doubtless most readers have their own favourite interpreters of these quartets, but for their ability to make strong declamatory statements alongside more lyrical pronouncements these performances are a special case that should be investigated by all who think they know them.

Brian Robins

 

 

Amy Norrington cello, Piet Kuijken fortepiano
61:55
Etcetera KTC 1820

It is not often Early Music Review strays into the second half of the 19th century, or indeed that I do when it comes to reviewing. The reasoning here is that the performances of the two Brahms cello sonatas are played on period instruments, the cello being a 1695 Francesco Ruggiero with covered gut strings while the piano is a Johann Baptist Streicher from 1868. As will be seen both play a prominent role in contributing to the success of the performances. And many readers will doubtless guess from the names that the performers have strong connections with early music, Amy Norrington being the daughter of Sir Roger, while Piet Kuijken is the son of Wieland Kuijken, a distinguished member of perhaps the most prominent of all early music families.

A period of over twenty years separates the two sonatas for cello and piano. The first, the three-movement op 38 in E minor, dates originally from 1862, but three years later Brahms replaced the slow movement with a new fugally-orientated finale. The sonata is dominated by its expansive opening Allegro non troppo, here running for over 14 minutes. It opens with a gently lyrical statement for the cello which is immediately answered by the piano, and already in the laying of the foundations of this movement we hear a number of features that will come to typify the characteristics of these performances. The first is the beautiful shaping of the cello theme and the tone produced by Norrington, a long line in which the purity is maintained without recourse to a distracting degree of vibrato. And although Norrington proves in many places she has the technique for the more strenuous writing, it is these expressive cantabile passages more than anything that remain in the mind. Secondly, the piano proves to my mind ideal for this music, perhaps unsurprisingly given that apparently Brahms himself owned a Streicher constructed in the same year as the instrument employed here. The top has a beautiful silvery tone in lyrical writing, but across the range produces a rich tonal quality of real character. Most importantly, the balance between cello and piano is near ideal in denser, more intense passages where the cello can tend to be swamped by a modern piano.

The later four-movement Sonata in F, op 99, dates from 1886 and is technically more demanding in some ways, particularly the urgent, thrusting third movement, its dynamism alleviated to some degree by the more lyrical central section. The briefer, fleet-footed final Allegro molto also demands considerable agility, again more than convincingly met in the present case. Finally, and especially rewarding for the present writer, are three song transcriptions – presumably made by the performers – ‘Es träumte mir’ from op 57 especially inducing some of the magically sensitive playing on the disc, the little touches of portamento in particular perfectly judged. It was a pleasing idea to include the texts and translations of the songs; it adds to the excellent impression left by what is for this writer an unexpectedly rewarding excursion into unfamiliar territory.

Brian Robins

Louis-Pierre Bergeron horn, Meagan Milatz fortepiano
70:01
ATMA ACD2 2864

Perhaps the only familiar name on this recital of music for natural horn and piano is that of Beethoven, who is represented by his opus 17 Sonata. The other composers, Vincenzo Righini, Cipriani Potter, Nikolaus Freiherr van Krufft are largely unknown, while Franz Xavier Süssmayr is largely remembered as the man who completed Mozart’s Requiem. The common denominator among them all is unsurprisingly Vienna, to which they all gravitated at one time or another. The Beethoven is a recognised masterpiece of the genre, composed for the virtuoso Giovanni Punto, although it was probably Beethoven’s publisher Nikolaus Simmrock, also a horn player, who provided him with the necessary advice on how to write idiomatically for the instrument. Potter’s Sonata di Bravura (which provides us with the eye-catching CD title) is also associated with a horn virtuoso, Giovanni Puzzi, but it is as much the virtuoso piano part, presumably designed to show off the composer’s keyboard skills, that make this piece so attractive. In addition to playing the repertoire with admirable expressiveness and indeed bravura, the performers have made an astute choice of repertoire, and in addition to the Beethoven at least one piece – the Potter – is a considerable masterpiece deserving of further attention. Clearly horn players who have the Beethoven safely in their repertoire need to go in search of further gems in the wealth of repertoire from the same period. Bergeron plays a copy of a pre-classical valveless Viennese horn by Anton Kerner, while for the Beethoven, Krufft and Potter he plays a copy of a slightly later instrument by Lucien-Joseph Raoux, both of which have rich and flexible tone. Milatz plays a fine copy of a Viennese fortepiano of around 1792 by Anton Walter. The extensive programme notes include a fascinating essay by Claude Maury on the valveless horn.

D. James Ross

Robin Michael cello, Daniel Tong piano
63:21
resonus RES10343

A foray into Fauré – apologies, it was irrestible – on EMR? I have to confess that it is some while since my own musical path took me in this direction. Notwithstanding, some of our more astute readers will doubtless put two and two together with the recognition that ‘early music’ in this instance is applied in the sense that the performances are played on instruments  appropriate to the music, or set up to be. Thus the cello used here is a modern copy of an instrument made at the end of the 17th century by Matteo Goffriller, the founder of the Venetian luthier school, and strung with gut strings. It has a rich tone, with a particularly mellow lower register. The piano is an Erard of 1885.

The CD contains all the works Gabriel Faure composed for cello and piano over a period of some 40 years (if you count the early Berceuse, op 16, which was written for violin or cello). At its heart lie the two late sonatas, the first in D minor dating from 1918, the second in G minor from 1922, being one of the composer’s last major works. The remaining works are all small-scale salon pieces and include the Sicilienne, op 78 (1898), which will be familiar to many listeners from its use in the incidental music Fauré wrote for Maeterlinck’s Pelleas et Mélisande.

Both sonatas utilise music from Fauré’s opera Penelope, first given a long-awaited premiere at Monte Carlo in 1913. But in his excellent note Robin Michael also points to such early influences on Fauré such Renaissance polyphony and plainsong, influences that here reveal themselves in othe occasional hints of modality and rhythmic complexities. Those that think of the composer in terms of the Requiem, the popular piano music or the well-known songs, may indeed be surprised by the fragmentary grittiness of the main theme of the opening allegro of the D-minor Sonata, op 109, where the disjointed rhythm of the piano part creates a disconcertingly discursive effect only dissipated when the music settles to the more lyrical middle section of the movement. The final movement of the same sonata is dominated by an expressive falling motif full or ardent longing. The opening allegro of the G-minor sonata, op 117, is driven by an impatient, thrusting theme led by the piano, it demanding considerable dexterity from the player when later taken up by the cellist, requirements well met by Michael. Conversely, the central andante with its hints of a funeral procession needs an expressive cantabile line, the pianissimo ending of the movement creating a moment of magic from both players.

The smaller pieces require little comment. The fluttering cello part in Papillon, op 77 is brought off with virtuoso aplomb, while the lovely Berceuse, op 16 is lovingly coaxed by both players, in particular demonstrating effectively the sensuality of the cello’s middle register.

Overall these are immensely rewarding performances that have reminded me just how exceptional a composer Fauré is. The sole reservations are to wonder whether a marginally greater use of rubato might have been appropriate at times and to tentatively suggest the bowing in the Sicilienne might with advantage have been lighter. A rewarding, and for one coming to the music from an earlier period, revealing CD.

Brian Robins