Frank Daykin | New York Concert Review, Inc.

Armenian General Benevolent Union 75th Anniversary Concert presents Şahan Arzruni in Review

Şahan Arzruni, piano

French Institute Alliance Française-Florence Gould Hall, New York, NY

April 5, 2019

Turkish-born Armenian pianist Şahan Arzruni gave an important and deeply felt recital April 5 in the intimate Florence Gould Hall of the French Institute/Alliance Française, and it was in works by Armenian composers that he was most colorful and convincing. Marquee names Hovhaness and Khachaturian were present, but so was the relatively unknown Edward Mirzoyan. Come to think of it, one doesn’t often hear music by the “marquee” names either, so this recital served an important musical as well as patriotic function. A nearly full house of enthusiastic supporters seemed to thrive on the life assertion of a culture that was nearly eliminated in 1915 by a deliberate genocide planned by the Turks.

The recital began with a generous helping of works by Chopin, however. Here, Mr. Arzruni exhibited great dexterity and a very personal rubato and flow, as well as heartfelt commitment, in two impromptus (Op.29 and Op. 66) and three nocturnes (Op 9, No.1 &2, Op.32, No.1).

He then turned to music by Alan Hovhaness, with verbal remarks that clarified what was about to be played, stating that Hovhaness could be regarded as the “first minimalist,” so much of his piano music consists of single-line (or very lightly supported) melody. Don’t let the phrase “single line” fool you; the music abounds in subtlety and rhythmic surprise, and Mr. Arzruni created vivid, eloquent atmospheres, even with these “limited’ means. In Vanadour: Armenian God of Hospitality, Op. 55, No. 1, the pianist is actually imitating the oud (similar to the Western lute). Farewell to the Mountains, Op. 55, No.2, displayed again the maximal result of such slender writing. Achtamar (sometimes spelled Akdamar), Op. 64, was inspired by an island in Lake Van, the largest lake in Turkey, with the Cathedral of the Holy Cross and a tenth century monastery that were spared from demolition (three others were destroyed). Hovhaness joked (or was he joking?) that it was “composed by the cat,” Hovhaness’ cat Raja Hoyden.

After intermission, the old chestnut Toccata (first movement of a largely forgotten three-movement suite) by Aram Khatchaturian was given a propulsive reading full of abandon when appropriate, making the most of the lyrical moments that are also in the work. Armenian folk melodies and rhythms form the raw materials of this dazzler. After this master rendition, one never wants to hear it played by a student pianist again!

Thereon followed a small suite by Edward Mirzoyan (1921-2012), a Georgian-born Armenian composer who was previously unknown to me, although in his day he was regarded, right along with Khatchaturian and four others, as a leading light. The suite, inspired by and dedicated to his granddaughter Mariam, could easily take its place next to Debussy’s Children’s Corner and Schumann’s Kinderszenen as an adult’s “view” of childhood. Mr. Arzruni was absolutely authoritative—he knew Mirzoyan—and particularly haunting in two movements titled Meditation and Sad Waltz.

The recital closed with a performance of the most famous sonata of all time, Beethoven’s so-called “Moonlight.” Once the audience hears the all too familiar first measure of triplets at the beginning, it really ceases critical listening, and far be it from me to be too hard on this performance. The sempre pianissimo delicacy and pedaling required by Beethoven were not present, and the triplets were consistently distorted to “fit in” the sixteenth note, something we tell all our students not to do, yet I found myself pulled in to the interpretation because Mr. Arzruni was so convincing in his concept. The Allegretto “flower between two abysses” was nicely delineated, and the tempestuous finale thundered appropriately, with some extremes of rubato that even scholars are beginning to admit “may” have been more commonplace in Beethoven’s time than we are willing to admit. I just felt that the time could have been better used to present even more rarely heard Armenian music (perhaps some Komitas).

Mr. Arzruni received a standing ovation, well deserved, and he played two unannounced encores, neither of which I knew, though the first sounded like Hovhaness to me, and the second a bit like Mirzoyan, or was it a touch of Arzruni?

by Frank Daykin for New York Concert Review; New York, NY

Wa Concert Series presents The Golden Triangle: Prague, Budapest and Vienna in Review

Charles Neidich, artistic director, C and A clarinets; Ayako Oshima, C clarinet;

Parker Quartet: Daniel Chong, Ken Hamao, violin; Jessica Bodner, viola; Kee-Hyun Kim, cello

Tenri Cultural Institute, New York, NY

March 30, 2019

The beginning of the baseball season seems an apt time for this metaphor: The Wa Concert Series hit another home run in its already estimable string of them last night. The Parker Quartet (Daniel Chong, Ken Hamao, violin; Jessica Bodner, viola; Kee-Hyun Kim, cello ) joined clarinetists Charles Neidich and Ayako Oshima in concert. The general theme of Central Europe was the pretext for a wide variety of expression through music.

The curtain-raiser, so to speak (Tenri does not have a curtain), was Bohuslav Martinů’s Serenade for two clarinets and string trio, a 1951 work from his American period that Mr. Neidich stated was also influenced by sojourns in Paris and New York. This was not always apparent. One thing that is always reliable is the high level of craftsmanship of Martinů’s work. For me, his expressivity lies in his slow movements, while the quicker ones can sometimes feel a bit like they are on autopilot, despite the interesting rhythmic difficulties. The piece was played masterfully by Mr. Neidich, Ms. Oshima, and three members of the Parker Quartet.

The complete Parker Quartet followed the Martinů with a beautiful performance of György Kurtág’s Officium breve, in memoriam Andreae Szervanszky, a double-requiem (without words of course) for his colleague, Hungarian composer/clarinetist Endre Szervanszky, and their Austrian serialist predecessor, Anton Webern. It also memorializes cellist Tibor Turcsányi, recorder player Zsolt Baranyai, close friend Gabriella Garzó, and pianist György Szoltsányi. The fifteen minuscule movements have maximal expressive power, and the Parker Quartet’s perfection of style and intonation allowed even the uninitiated listener to share in the sense of sorrow; Kurtág, still active at 93, was a mentor to the group. Kurtág is here fascinated with the procedure known as canon (so important to Webern as well), and he utilizes references to Webern’s final work, the Kantate No. 2, Op. 31, a setting of six poems by Hildegard Jone that are mystical in content, and which Webern himself saw as a Missa brevis (Officium breve). Kurtág also self-quotes from his piano cycle Játékok, “Hommage à Szervánszky,” and song cycle The sayings of Péter Bornemisza, “Flowers we are,” and he quotes Szervanszky’s Serenade for String Orchestra. The audience held its applause for quite some time after the ending, always a good sign that the intensity of attention being paid was great.

After intermission, Mr. Neidich took the stage, again with the Parker Quartet, for a shattering, expressive performance of a repertoire staple, the Brahms Quintet for clarinet and string quartet in B minor, Op. 115, a work written from the heart and addressed to the heart. Thank goodness Brahms didn’t retire from composition, as he had announced after his Op. 111; he drew new inspiration from hearing the great clarinetist Richard Mühlfeld (Brahms gave him the nickname Fräulein Klarinette), and he created a beloved series of chamber works including the instrument (as well as piano pieces and Lieder), in which he further cemented his “late style”—every note is related organically to every other note, every motif recurs and interpenetrates, and there is in the quintet cyclic reference also (music from an earlier movement recurs).

That five musicians functioned as one would be the greatest understatement of my writing career. Sometimes in this work one hears a “diva” clarinet way out in front and four “others” supporting. Not so on this occasion! Every breath, every color, every phrase taper, was absolutely unanimous, yet always managed to sound completely “lived,” never over-planned. I could go on and on about Mr. Neidich, one of the greatest clarinetists in the world, but the Parker Quartet here matched him for inspiration: they made the hearty, warm Romantic sound so essential to this composer. I was particularly drawn to the cello work of Kee-Hyun Kim, so expressive, and his interplay with the other members. Also wonderful was the violist, Jessica Bodner. I don’t mean to neglect the violins either, but everyone knows the inner voices are more interesting!

The sense of leave-taking was palpable in the Brahms, and I can’t imagine there was a dry eye in the house (another long pause before clapping); they were brought back for four bows, but of course there is no “encore” possible after such a journey. I was ruminating on a line from the Hildegarde Jone poem: “By holy love’s great power.” As Mr. Neidich explained, there are references to the “Clara” theme (Clara Schumann, perhaps Brahms’ greatest unconsummated love), and even J.S. Bach. Thank goodness there was no Prozac in the nineteenth century!

By the way, the excellent dinner, included with one’s ticket and handmade by the multitalented Ayako Oshima , included two of Brahms’ favorites: sardines and chicken paprikash. Anyone who hasn’t attended a Wa concert, what are you waiting for? Two remain in this season.

by Frank Daykin for New York Concert Review; New York, NY

Juilliard School Daniel Saidenberg Faculty Recital Series presents Manasse/Nakamatsu Duo in Review

Jon Manasse, clarinet; Jon Nakamatsu, piano

Paul Recital Hall, Juilliard School, New York, NY

March 18, 2019

The Juilliard School’s faculty recital series presented the “two Jons” on Monday night in Paul Hall at the school: world-renowned clarinetist Jon Manasse, and equally celebrated pianist Jon Nakamatsu, who, as Mr. Manasse drolly put it in his affable and humorous verbal program notes, “merely” won the gold medal at the 10th Van Cliburn piano competition in 1997. In fact, Mr. Manasse was the only Juilliard faculty member in this recital (he also did all his music study there)—Mr. Nakamatsu majored in German at Stanford prior to winning the Cliburn (!). The duo is in its fifteenth year, and the two are co-artistic directors of the Cape Cod Chamber Music Festival.

Well, let me not further bury the lead: This was the finest chamber music collaboration I have heard in many years. Saying that these two are at the peak of their profession would be demeaning—they hover somewhere in the stratosphere, and the little peaks are far below. They created a true sense of chamber intimacy, used understatement effectively, had supernatural ensemble unity and great elasticity when called for, and were very natural and spontaneous. (And we all know how much hard work goes into sounding effortless!)

The program opened with the first of Brahms’ two autumnal clarinet sonatas, the F minor, Op. 120, No. 1, inspired by clarinetist Richard Mühlfeld. Curiously, the notoriously gruff Brahms referred to the clarinetist as “Fräulein Mühlfeld” (Miss M.). They are Brahms’ final instrumental chamber music, full of longing, poignancy, reminiscence, even regret, with only the occasional jovial outburst. Shadows intrude even in the middle section of the Ländler/Waltz-fusion third movement. The Manasse/Nakamatsu duo was superb in this work (they have recorded both sonatas). Jon Manasse, a master of whisper-quiet but always steady tone, blended so successfully with his partner that one often could not tell (without effort) just which instrument was playing. Here he was aided by the absolute discretion, which does not mean subservience, of his partner. It was incredible to hear the sometimes thick textures played with such clarity, melodic/motivic direction, and softness, and Mr. Nakamatsu always pays attention to the left hand, so important in a dark-hued work like this, bringing out every polyphonic goodie. Their tempo (marked Vivace by Brahms) in the fourth movement’s joyful, optimistic explosion was one of the quickest I have ever heard, utterly clear in every detail.

This was followed by Mr. Nakamatsu’s moment to shine as a solo player, in a breathtaking rendition of Chopin’s Grande Polonaise Brillante précédée d’un Andante spianato, as the original title page states. Spianato means “flowing, smooth” in Italian, and this performance could not have been more elegant. The supportive left-hand was “there” yet appropriately indistinct, while the right hand spun out the long threads of Bellinian bel canto so crucial to Chopin’s expression. Mr. Nakamatsu handled the groups of “little notes,” delicate fioriture that adorn the melodies, with stunning feather lightness. He embodies (they both embody) what I recognize as “true” virtuosity: the ability always to have something in reserve, never to be at the outer edge of one’s capabilities, but to seem to be saying to the listener: “Oh, yes, of course I can do this; I could do so much more too, but I’m choosing not to right now.” His phrasing in the wistful little mazurka that interrupts the andante was perfect, the grander, more heroic bluster of the polonaise never lost an opportunity for elegant, refined, poetic tone, and there was plenty of flash where appropriate.
After intermission, the pair returned, virtually duplicating the program of another of their recordings, beginning with Leonard Bernstein’s Sonata for Clarinet and Piano, composed when he was in his early twenties and dedicated to David Oppenheim, a clarinetist he met at Tanglewood while studying conducting with Serge Koussevitsky and composition with Paul Hindemith. Oppenheim later became a producer for Columbia classical records, and television, both of which would be crucial to Bernstein’s image going forward. Much has been made of the sometimes derivative sound of portions of the work: a bit of Hindemith here, a little more of Copland there. But Mr. Manasse pointed out the consistency of the Bernstein gesture and how one might hear “pre”-echoes of, yes, West Side Story, still far in the future. The duo was fabulously together in the asymmetrical (lots of 5s) rhythms and other challenges the work is loaded with, and the whole needs to sound just easy-going, which it did. The work is in two movements, but the second has both a “slow” and a “fast” movement in alternation—a formal innovation that is subtle in a youthful composer.

Then it was Mr. Manasse’s turn to play unaccompanied clarinet, in the third (of four) movements from Paquito D’Rivera’s The Cape Cod Files, commissioned by the duo, an homage called Lecuonerías. Ernesto Lecuona was a Cuban composer and pianist of great fame, and his work is recently receiving some of the serious consideration it deserves. (Who remembers “The Breeze and I,” English lyrics added in 1940 to Lecuona’s Andalucia?) This fiendishly difficult brief morsel contains an encyclopedia of Latin musical gestures, from flamenco cante jondo recitative at the beginning, to various enthusiastic dances. All were played with the consummate ease and wit we associate with the name Jon Manasse.

The duo then finished with Four Rags for Two Jons, by John Novacek, the duo’s first commission (2006). Chopin turned the mazurka, waltz, and polonaise into stylized “art” dances. So, why shouldn’t Novacek create his own wild take on the Joplin-era staple? These four pieces have all the usual syncopation one expects in the style, but so much more as well: stylish and wickedly difficult riffs abound in both instruments. I think I heard (and saw) a hilarious forearm cluster played by the unflappable Mr. Nakamatsu. Glissandi, blues, wails- it’s all there, and the way the duo tossed it all off spoke to their camaraderie.

After a tumultuous ovation, the pair favored the audience with a spicy, jazzy (and difficult) take on Gershwin’s “I Got Rhythm,” arranged by James Cohen (91-years-young, and present at the concert). It contained the inevitable reference to the famous clarinet opening of the same composer’s Rhapsody in Blue and the piano’s final peroration from the same piece (now used in the United Airlines commercials), dispatched with great hammy humor by Mr. Manasse and Mr. Nakamatsu.

by Frank Daykin for New York Concert Review; New York, NY

Florida State University presents Ian Hobson in Review

Ian Hobson, piano

Judy and Arthur Zankel Hall at Carnegie Hall, New York, NY

March 11, 2019

Pianist Ian Hobson played a wide-ranging, difficult recital at Zankel Hall on March 11th, which made me answer the following questions in the affirmative: Can a pianist with immense bravura technique also, 1) be intellectually probing, 2) be poetically sensitive, and 3) create imaginative, thoughtful programs? It was in those areas where Mr. Hobson truly surrendered to his pensive, lyrical impulses that he created true magic, though I realize, even as I write those words, that such areas were set-off even more by what was around them. I reviewed Mr. Hobson’s heroic survey of the complete piano music of Debussy and Ravel elsewhere in these pages – Ian Hobson- Debussy/Ravel: April 18. 2018, Ian Hobson- Debussy/Ravel: February 28, 2018, Ian Hobson- Debussy/Ravel: February 7, 2018, Ian Hobson- Debussy/Ravel: November 29, 2017.

The evening began with Beethoven’s two-movement sonata in E minor, Op. 90. The first movement, in the minor, is a study in contrast and concision, with anger, melancholy, and even a nostalgic wistfulness, which Mr. Hobson brought out beautifully. Then the falling minor third is transformed into a rising major third for the second movement, a rondo that captures Beethoven in rare Schubertian expansion. Rather than a love-song for all humanity, I’ve always thought it quite personal, possibly even to the “immortal beloved,” whoever she might have been. Here, I wish Mr. Hobson had followed the nicht zu geschwind (not too fast) indication, giving a bit more gemütlichkeit, time spent allowing the music to unspool. Nevertheless, it was well-played.

He then followed with some Mendelssohn that had a Beethoven connection, the Variations sérieuses, Op. 54, which was part of the general fund-raising initiative for the Beethoven monument in Bonn (unveiled in 1845), to which Chopin, Liszt, and Schumann, among others, also contributed. The work is a set of evolving accelerations (primarily) on an original, chromatic, sober theme in D minor, called “serious” to differentiate it from the many sets of variations brillantes based on existing popular tunes or opera arias that composers were expected to churn out for the growing amateur market. The somber minor key is broken only once, about three-fourths of the way through with a D major, hymn-like moment of calm amid the storms. Mr. Hobson organized all the furor with his mighty skills, though I wished for more quiet at the outset, lower dynamics and more contrast in places, so the journey could “go farther.” It was an exciting rendition of a piece I wish was played more often.

The first half concluded with Schumann’s third sonata (the first to be started, however), in G minor, Op. 22. Here Mr. Hobson was truly magnificent. He was right in his element, handling all the manic rhythmic dislocation and busy-ness with complete command. He brought out the many polyphonic felicities in the first movement, but it was in the slow movement, based on an early song of Schumann, that he created spellbinding magic with his quiet playing. The rondo finale, marked Presto, was a wild ride that delighted the entire audience, justly so, yet he phrased the contrasting lyrical theme with greatest sensitivity, varying it through its many repetitions.

After intermission came an old chestnut that one rarely hears these days, Ernő Dohnányi’s Rhapsody in C major, Op. 11, No. 3. I have heard the legendaries (think Annie Fischer or Shura Cherkassky) sport with this four-and-a-half minute madcap, antic piece just as a kitten would play with a ball of string. Mr. Hobson added an element of substance to the piece without losing the humor entirely; that seemed to say he was making it a “more important” piece, and why not.

Then came a world premiere from American composer/conductor/pianist Robert Chumbley, titled Brahmsiana II (Brahmsiana I is an orchestral ballet score). As the composer states, this is no pastiche and no quoting of Brahms takes place; rather it was inspired by certain compositional techniques of Brhams. The three “new intermezzi” were in Chumbley’s characteristic lush neo-Romantic style, and they used the piano gratefully, even if I wasn’t really feeling much about Brahms per se. Chumbley doesn’t quite possess Brahms’ austerity or motivic unity. I sensed that in the first two pieces, the endings came too quickly, they didn’t feel organic and inevitable; but the third made a satisfying conclusion indeed. Mr. Hobson’s detailed and lavish colorations really added value to this group.

The recital concluded with Chopin’s masterful third piano sonata, Op. 58 in B minor. Here Mr. Hobson’s magic occurred in the elfin-light Scherzo and its heartbreaking contrasting middle section; his funereal song third movement was stately and gorgeous too. My only quibble was with the outer movements, which were played too fast—the first (Allegro) is qualified by maestoso (stately, dignified, majestic), it was pushed; the finale is marked (admittedly odd): Presto non tanto (not too presto). Here, for me, it was “too,” causing a lot of details to fall by the wayside, and reminding me of the early 20th century curmudgeon Henry Krehbiel, who I believe referred to this movement as “the parade ground of the virtuosi.” Still, it was an astonishing display of digital ability, fiery and completely involved emotionally, and it thrilled the audience to no end.

Mr. Hobson offered two (strongly earned!) encores: Tchaikovsky/Rachmaninoff’s Lullaby, Op. 16, limpid and full of elegant sorrow. The second was the Mendelssohn/Rachmaninoff Scherzo from the incidental music to A Midsummer Night’s Dream, more than enough for four, let alone two, hands. (Did I even hear some extra notes added, via Horowitz or perhaps Hobson?) Mr. Hobson’s presentation of the major-key lyrical theme that occurs twice was breathtakingly light, as was his “vanishing” conclusion.

by Frank Daykin for New York Concert Review; New York, NY

Key Pianists presents Jason Hardink in Review

Jason Hardink, piano

Weill Recital Hall at Carnegie Hall, New York, NY

February 26, 2019

Jason Hardink demonstrated why he deserves to be known as a “key” pianist on Tuesday evening to a nearly-full house at Weill Recital Hall. He made the strongest impression in the thorny 20th century works that he has made his calling card: Eckardt, Xenakis, Messiaen. His strengths are: a prodigious memory and uncanny independence of hands and fingers that allows him to create extremes of contrasting sonority, both soft and loud, often simultaneously; he is very musical, and I believed every note he played. I did take issue with a few interpretive choices, which I shall try to elucidate below. By the way, he did create some of the best program notes I have read in many a season—regular readers of New York Concert Review know how passionate I am about program notes.

Mr. Hardink plunged right in with Echoes’ White Veil by Jason Eckardt (b. 1971). This work supposedly inspired him to view “virtuosity” as a door to the sacred, so to speak. The piece, based on a prose poem by W.S. Merwin, is very active, with a few strategic oases of calm. I did not have the score available to study prior to this concert, so I am only reacting to what I heard in the moment. The sheer ferociousness of Mr. Hardink’s commitment translated, often, into ferociousness of keyboard attack, which I felt served this particular music very well. I heard the “bolting of the gates of Thermopylae” as though it was happening right next door, more than anything else.

Mr. Hardink then turned his attention to the hermetic, contemplative “second series” of Images for piano by Debussy. In the first two in particular ( Cloches à travers les feuilles and Et la lune descend sur le temple qui fut), depicting bell-sounds through leaves and moonlight on a former temple, Debussy seems to have almost achieved a state of “musical Nirvana,” that is no longer goal-directed. I say almost because they are not entirely free of human regret and a unique kind of Debussyian pessimism. Here Mr. Hardink’s tonal sensitivity was a pleasure, though for me there can always be more sonorous layers of bells (at the beginning)—most players give up after defining about four of them, Mr. Hardink reached six by my count. Passages marked très en dehors (very brought out) were often minimized. The final movement, Poissons d’or, about a pair of Japanese carp on a black lacquer bowl in Debussy’s possession, though played in the “correct” tempo, seemed jammed, and a bit lacking in elegance and wit.

The first half concluded with Xenakis’ evryali, meaning either “open ocean” or one of the snake-haired Gorgons. This was truly terrifying, and I mean that in the best possible way. The instrument thundered, and the occasional written-out silences only increased the tension. By the way, Mr. Hardink played all these fearsome scores (the whole program in fact) completely from memory.

After intermission, I had more to take issue with. The first group consisted of four of Liszt’s Transcendental Etudes, revised twice from their initial version. Again, Mr. Hardink’s boldness of approach I could accept as legitimate—he plunged headlong into every one of them, with tempi that were quite rapid (though indicated as such). Liszt’s music could have used more expansion, grandeur, and rubato. Sometimes we need to “help” the composer’s music to sound even “better” than it is. Singing lines needed to sing more. Also there was some rather eccentric “post-modern” pedaling instead of the daring mixtures that Liszt requests. The rapidity of execution was impressive (remember, there’s nothing typical audiences love more than speed and volume), but it robbed the discourse of time to blossom, and Feux follets (Will-o’-the-wisps) was technically uneven in the beginning (after the introduction). The famous Harmonies du soir (Evening harmonies) were stripped of their strategic fermatas—amid the welter of notes, there’s always an opportunity for contemplation. The Wilde Jagd became strident and hectic, though I realize the score quite often encourages it.

The concert closed with four of Messiaen’s Vingt regards sur l’Enfant-Jésus – twenty “looks” at the Christ-Child. These complex pieces showcase Messiaen’s celebrated fervent Catholic mysticism, and they are quite sincere, even when, at times, the music sounds a bit like a popular tune with “wrong notes” and all manner of complicated compositional theories attached. They present (appropriately) nearly super-human challenges to any pianist. Mr. Hardink met every one of them, but he was at his radiant best in the final two: Le baiser de l’Enfant-Jésus (The kiss of the Christ-Child: an ecstatic contemplation of a miracle) and Regard de l’Esprit de joie (The look of the spirit of joy) with its near-drunken orgiastic celebration of the holy. There were certain three-note clusters (A-B-flat-B), the last three low notes on the piano, that he played with his fist, a touch that I found unnecessarily rude and inelegant—they could easily be fingered 3-2-1.

I want to emphasize how very impressive this recital was, and how un-routine the programming was. Mr. Hardink’s basic musicality redeemed every selection, even those where I may have mentioned something that stuck out to me; in fact, had the level of excellence not been so high, I might not have noticed the departures from it.

Mr. Hardink excels at a kind of pianism that I would imagine would make him suitable for Boulez and Stockhausen as well, if he is so inclined. At any rate, one doesn’t often hear bravura technique in the service of such committed ideas, so bravo.

by Frank Daykin for New York Concert Review; New York, NY

Wa Concert Series presents Old is New: Historical Instruments with Cynthia Roberts in Review

Charles Neidich, artistic director, clarinet; Ayako Oshima, clarinet; Cynthia Roberts, violin; William Purvis, French horn; Chloe Fedor, violin; Edson Sheid, viola; Madeline Bouissou, cello

Tenri Cultural Institute, New York, NY

February 23, 2019

New York’s intimate and impeccable Wa Concert Series continued its standard of excellence, while opening ears and hearts with a beautiful program of historically informed performances helmed by the veteran violinist Cynthia Roberts. All the musicians speak the grammar of the Classical (or Baroque) period perfectly, yet they never sound like they are giving you a dry lesson on the music. Each piece is lived anew, hence the “new.” Phrasing, articulation, transparency of sonority, sensitivity to harmonic change and chord weight, and flexibility: all were delectable.

The evening opened with the Overture in D Major for two clarinets and French horn, HWV 424, one of the earliest uses of the clarinet, by G.F. Handel, no less. Apparently he knew an itinerant clarinetist in England, one Mr. Charles. This should give lie to those who maintain that Mozart’s re-orchestration of Messiah, with added clarinets, is a blasphemy. In this generally open-spirited Overture (not the prelude to something else, nor the double-dotted grandeur of the French overture), the sequence of movements was pleasant, with beautifully traded-off lines among the three players: Charles Neidich, his talented wife (and every concert’s dinner chef) Ayako Oshima, and natural-horn player William Purvis. The softness of the sonorities made this occasional music convincing, and Mr. Purvis formed every single note with his lips and/or his hand in the bell of the horn, a frightening proposition (just try it). One could imagine open fields and non-threatening military type calls.

Then came a curiosity, a quartet for clarinet and string trio by the Finnish-born clarinet virtuoso, Bernhard Crusell (1775-1838), an early proponent of Mozart’s music in Scandinavia. Unless you were at this concert, or are a clarinet student or fanatic, you have probably never heard a note of Crusell, which is a shame, for his work abounds in proportional elegance, abundant opportunity for display, and once in a while some startling or mysterious chromaticism, and at times it sounds a “bit” Mozartean. The four movement work was given agile life, especially in the alert communication skills of the three strings: Cynthia Roberts, Edson Scheid, and Madeleine Bouissou. As for Maestro Neidich, I run out of superlatives: he extracts every bit of shifting color from his instrument, always truly singing, even during the most fiendishly show-offy passagework.

After intermission came the sublime Mozart Clarinet Quintet, K. 581, a late work whose profundity always astonishes. Mr. Neidich here played the (strange-looking) clarinet that was intended, and used by Stadler, Mozart’s close friend and inveterate money-“borrower.” This large clarinet has a bell that faces inward, at a right angle to the body, and its range is enormous, especially in the deep low register: the octave transpositions that modern clarinet players deface the score with are unnecessary with it. One realizes how perilous these instruments can be, there was a false start just at the very beginning, but it didn’t phase anyone. With the addition to the previous string trio of Chloe Fedor on second violin, the quartet of strings was perfectly in sync, and the balances were utterly refreshing: one was allowed to hear the collegiality of the work, rather than a “diva” statement from either clarinet or first violin, especially with the pleasure these players took in producing the magical aura this piece creates, a radiant smile from Mr. Scheid across the ensemble to Ms. Roberts, for example. Cellist Madeleine Bouissou’s total involvement with the inner life of the lowest voice was a consistent pleasure. The work is in A major, but it is the shifts to minor mode that stab the listener in the heart.

The players offered a true encore: a repeat of the Larghetto (second movement) of the Mozart, which was even more ravishing and intimate the second time.

by Frank Daykin for New York Concert Review; New York, NY

Woori Kim presents Debussy Déjà Vu in Review

Woori Kim, piano

Weill Recital Hall at Carnegie Hall, New York, NY

December 26, 2018

The day after Christmas, Woori Kim presented a sophisticated program consisting of 95% Debussy, and one response to (and “continuation of”) Debussy by Canadian-born Joel Hoffman. Generally speaking, Ms. Kim’s keyboard fluency and a good ear served her well in this most demanding repertoire from the point of sonority. She captured the atmosphere of most everything on the program, but if you are a devotee of French music and Debussy is your “God,” then you know “Debussy is in the details.” Ms. Kim had some serious misreadings of phrasing, dynamics, legato, pedaling, and even chords, all of which tended to detract from the good impression she made. I am not referring to the occasional slip, which can happen to anyone. There were more than the usual amount of memory lapses, from all of which she recovered with poise.

The recital began with the elusive, mysterious second series of Images. I was concerned when the first notes of Cloches à travers les feuilles began too quickly—Debussy’s metronome marking is 92 to the eighth note, and the tempo is Lent. It sounded hurried, which deprived the music of the chance to delineate the seven (!) levels of bells that are contained in the first four measures, and farther into the piece, the space for a clear rendition of all the “small” notes. The first two chords of Et la lune descend sur le temple qui fut are marked, respectively, p and pp—there was no difference in Ms. Kim’s performance, although the mood of the movement was beautiful. Every time I was on the verge of being won over, one of these flaws would spoil my total enjoyment. Poissons d’or, the frisky portrayal of Japanese lacquer goldfish on a bowl that Debussy coveted, was played extremely fast, but again without the clarity and sparkle that a slightly more spacious tempo would have given.

Ms. Kim followed with the second book of Debussy etudes, a seriously abstract set of challenges that involve not only dexterity (which is needed to a frightening degree, and which Ms. Kim has) but subtlety of sound. Les degrés chromatiques was very well done, with super-fast lightness. I didn’t feel Debussy’s intended Italian barcarolle mood in Les agréments. Les notes répétées was very successful. Les sonorités opposées had beautiful sounds, though the distant (World War I) bugle call that occurs and recurs was not articulated in the way the composer wished, or with enough sadness, even nostalgia. Very often, when Debussy indicates diminuendo, Ms. Kim would do the opposite, or play mf when it says pp. However, on plenty of occasions in this recital I heard her do breathtaking pp, ppp, even pppp, so I know she is capable of these soft sounds. Les Arpèges composés was again, in the right mood, but lacking precise, exquisite delineation of the sound levels. Les accords was a bit sloppy for my taste. After all, these are frightfully difficult pieces (intentionally so), requiring years of living “inside” them.

The most successful piece on the program was in fact commissioned by Ms. Kim, the brand new étude: pour les symétries by Joel Hoffman. He explained in his verbal and written program notes how the human hands are symmetrical and opposite, yet how much traditional piano training has them working at cross purposes to this natural state—playing “parallel” is much harder than in contrary motion. His etude was a scintillating exploration of mirroring, and it called forth all of Ms. Kim’s brilliance. There were also slight quotes from Debussy works played elsewhere on this program. Overall, it was very exciting and intriguing. I’d like to see eleven more etudes by this composer, played by Ms. Kim, to take their place alongside the Ligeti etudes as a quality modern contribution to the genre.

After intermission, Ms. Kim gave the entire second book of Debussy Préludes, whose adventures in “whole-tone-polytonality” leave far behind everything previously done by the composer, and even predate a lot of the so-called “twelve-tone” composers. Debussy was dismantling traditional tonality in his own way—what makes it so accessible to the ear is his beautiful sonorities. Brouillards, Feuilles mortes, La terrasse des audiences au clair de lune, and Feux d’artifice were the most successful, with Les tierces alternées showing her strength in fast, light playing. In each one of these, Ms. Kim captured the perfect atmosphere, whether the solemn, enclosing mystery of fog, the introspection of autumn, moonlight bathing a sidewalk café, or Bastille Day fireworks. Elsewhere, many of the issues stated above resurfaced: when notes deliberately marked legato are played staccato, it completely changes the character and message. Something that was definitely not in Ms. Kim’s control: the dreadful out-of-tune state of the A below middle C (only after intermission), which was very apparent, as there are so many A octaves in this book of preludes.

Debussy’s scores are so detailed, it seems every single note has three or four indications for how it is to be played, how it follows what came before and precedes what comes next. This generation of French composers was really anti-interpretation. They felt that the performer should really be a talented vessel, receiving and transmitting their carefully crafted messages. Ms. Kim is very close to this ideal, and I hope she will live with all these masterworks much longer, giving them ever closer readings, refining her already considerable pianistic ability.

Her fans don’t care what I think: they rose to their feet for a standing ovation, deserved after such a strenuous program.

by Frank Daykin for New York Concert Review; New York, NY

Wa Concerts presents Intellect and Excitement: The Music of Charles Wuorinen and Milton Babbitt in Review

Charles Neidich, clarinet/bass clarinet; Ayako Oshima, clarinet; Lucy Fitz Gibbon, soprano; Fred Sherry, cello; Tengku Ahmad Irfan, piano; Ryan McCullough, piano; Katie Hyun, violin; Yezu Elizabeth Woo, violin; En-Chi Cheng, viola

Tenri Cultural Institute, New York, NY

December 7, 2018

Only the superb artistry of Charles Neidich and his team of great collaborators could make an entire evening of Milton Babbitt and Charles Wuorinen as engaging as it was on Friday night, December 7, 2018, at the Tenri Cultural Institute.

At the end of the Second World War, much of Europe lay in ruins, with unspeakable horrors still being brought to light and costly reconstruction needed everywhere. In 1946, as a manifestation of the continuation of art, a contemporary music festival was founded in Darmstadt, Germany, where it continues to this day. It was renowned for its adherence to uncompromising twelve-tone and serial compositional techniques. It was there that Pierre Boulez made his famous statement (paraphrased here) that “any music that is not serial in nature is worthless.” Unfortunately, many great composers who still believed in arching, yearning lines were either ridiculed, minimized, or completely ignored (until about 35 years ago). Many of the serial composers, comfortably ensconced in academia, consciously turned their backs on the listening public and composed for each other, so to speak. One might argue that the old-fashioned sense of beauty was seen as irrelevant after an age that saw nuclear destruction and the Holocaust.

Milton Babbitt, who lectured at Darmstadt, was one of those intellectually rigorous composers. The disjunct lines, organization of the pitches that are used in any given work, conscious manipulation of rhythms and dynamics according to a plan, lack of any identifiable tonal center, are all hallmarks of the style. For this reviewer, settings of poetry in this idiom are not conducive to text comprehension, but watch out New York, there’s a “new Lucy” in town. Lucy Fitz Gibbon was the excellent soprano on this occasion, beginning with Babbitt’s Quatrains (1993, words by John Hollander). She handled the challenging writing with ease. It is best to listen to the whole combination of sonority to get the emotional expression, rather than any specific text painting. The husband/wife team of clarinetists Charles Neidich and Ayako Oshima blended so well that at time it was difficult to distinguish whether a clarinet was playing or the singer was singing.

Then followed Charles Wuorinen’s Cello Variations II (1975) for solo cello, with veteran Fred Sherry doing the honors brilliantly, from memory. Mr. Wuorinen was in attendance, and he could only have been happy with all the presentations this evening, honoring his eightieth birthday year. Every bit as intellectual as Babbitt, I do notice a slightly warmer tone to much of his music, and a strong sense of pulse that guides the listener through.

Babbitt’s Quintet for clarinet and string quartet (1996) closed the first half with Mr. Neidich at the helm and the fine string quartet players: Katie Hyun and Yezu Elizabeth Woo on violin, En-Chi Cheng on viola, and Fred Sherry again on cello. I’ve always thought this a worthy companion piece to the ubiquitous Brahms quintet; one could program it first, so no one would leave, then play the Brahms as a sort of “consoling” voice, if the Babbitt was perceived as too rigorous.

After intermission, and the customary fine food and beverages that are served, Babbitt returned with My Ends Are My Beginnings (1978), a pun on the medieval motet by Guillaume de Machaut Mon fin est mon commencement, which is a rigorous crab canon. In that age, composers reveled in filling their scores with all manner of learned devices that would only be appreciable to those in the know (sound familiar?). Mr. Neidich played both clarinet and bass clarinet, and was genially unflappable despite a reed mishap early on.

ThenMs. Fitz Gibbon returned with her regular recital partner Ryan McCullough for Wuorinen’s A Song to the Lute in Musicke (1970, text attributed to pre-Elizabethan poet Richard Edwards). The duo is splendidly matched, and Mr. McCullough’s piano handling of the disparate lines is extremely sensitive. They continued with Babbitt’s Du (1951, text by August Stramm, who died at age 41, killed in action in WWI). This is the “oldest” music on the program. Stramm’s terse, darkly expressionist poems were fully inhabited by Ms. Fitz Gibbon, and here the musical language matched the sentiments well.

The concert closed with Wuorinen’s Fortune (1979) for piano trio and clarinet, with Mr. Neidich, Mr. Sherry, Ms. Hyun, and Tengku Ahmad Irfan handling the difficult parts stylishly and with obvious affection. I’m going to assume that the title refers to “chance” or “luck” rather than to wealth; in this case, luck had nothing to do with the performance, which was a display of craft and skill, well-honed. In this music, the pulse was maintained so well that it served as a sort of replacement for traditional tonality, anchoring the listener’s ear through the complex journey. The audience gave everyone a well-deserved standing ovation. Clearly, the thornier aspects of this music do not scare away its adherents, and we learn that intellect can be exciting.

by Frank Daykin for New York Concert Review; New York, NY

Walter W. Naumburg Foundation presents “Naumburg Looks Back” in Review

Anton Nel, piano (1987 Piano Award)

Weill Recital Hall at Carnegie Hall, New York, NY

December 3, 2018

The ultra-prestigious Naumburg competition is held for piano every four years (and for other instruments and ensembles in the intervening years). The 1987 winner was South-African born Anton Nel, whose award recital I attended, with great pleasure. After Monday’s return performance, I certainly hope I won’t have to wait another thirty years to hear him again. This was a superb recital in every possible way. Everything one could ever have desired from each piece on the program was delivered sumptuously, with joyful ebullience, heartbreaking lyricism, attention to detail, and of course technique in spades. Mr. Nel is truly a “musician’s musician,” so deeply committed to every nuance in each piece, ones that often are in plain sight but ignored by the less-gifted; and he does all this while never losing the “long line.” He never sounds stilted or studied, instead one has the feeling that he is composing the music right on the spot, a real gift. He “becomes” each composer, yet never loses his own personality. I guess I could stop writing now, but I’m sure you’ll want to hear about the various composers represented.

The recital had four standards and one rarity, I’m sure each was chosen in a very personal way by Mr. Nel, whose involvement was as deep and true as one often says of actors: that they are completely identified with their role(s).

Mr. Nel began with five Debussy preludes, and let me state right away what a pleasure it was to hear these programmed exactly the way Debussy himself used to give them: not as marathons of all twelve of one book, let alone all twenty-four of both. Mr. Nel thoughtfully chose from both books, alternating extrovert selections with mysterious ones. He showed a delightfully rambunctious quality in the two having to do with (now politically incorrect) minstrel shows that were so popular in turn-of-the-century Paris. You could just hear Général Lavine-eccentrique, not a General of course, only an acrobat dressed up as one, walking on a slender balancing beam and suddenly doing a backflip, then resuming his pace as if nothing had happened; and the prelude Minstrels, with its sly cat-and-mouse, stop-and-start flirtation and music hall charm. Voiles (veils or sails) was a paragon of perfect voicing, what the French call les plans sonores (the sonorous levels). They were exquisitely maintained, and the existential mystery projected with refinement. After all, isn’t a sail a sort of veil tied to a mast for propulsion, anyway? La Sérénade interrompue was Debussy at his Spanish-like best. De Falla always said that Debussy understood Spain better than the Spanish, and was able to translate that into music. Ondine showed another kind of flirtation, so different from Ravel’s same-titled temptress. Debussy’s seems much less voluptuous, perhaps more malevolent, though the story is about luring a mortal to his watery demise in any case.

Mr. Nel then turned to what, for me, was the spiritual heart of the recital, a rapturous rendering of Schubert’s Drei Klavierstücke (Impromptus aus dem Nachlass, D. 946), another miraculous product of the final year of a too-short life. The second of them, a “Viennese barcarolle,” with its five-part form instead of the customary three, would seem to point to what he could have created had he lived longer (for example, a closing fourth impromptu). For me, one of the secrets to playing Schubert well is the possession of infinite amounts of two things: 1) affectionate and passionate lyricism combined with intimacy, and 2) patience. Mr. Nel has that and so much more. The color shifts, so often brought about by a breath-stopping half-step shift, were incredibly vivid, and he never played the same phrase exactly the same way, in music that has so many repeats. His hushed playing was gorgeous, never losing the singing core so vital to success. The final piece, a bumptious stylized Bohemian dance-scherzo, revealed, in its interior, an almost static meditation-variation in D-flat that proceeded, as Alfred Brendel always said of Schubert, “with the assurance of the sleepwalker.”

After intermission, Mr. Nel put his experience with early fortepianos and harpsichords to good use in a stunning performance of one of Mozart’s “bigger” piano sonatas, the D major, K. 311. Here, his fingers were curved, with the last joint nearly vertical, thus giving the sparkly “ping” that makes this music work. But it was in his affectionate treatment of the lyrical moments that he showed his deep understanding for and empathy with this hybrid of concerto, opera, and symphony. He played it with great humor and tenderness, sacrificing neither for the other.

Then came the one rarity: Kodály’s Méditation sur un motif de Claude Debussy, inspired by a trip to Paris where he heard the Debussy String Quartet. The main thematic material of the Kodály is indeed a greatly slowed down version of the Debussy Scherzo movement, although I’ve always found it drenched in the atmosphere of the grotto scene from Pelléas et Mélisande; it has a certain dark fatality. It does, as Mr. Nel said in his engaging oral program notes, sound more French than Hungarian to be sure. Mr. Nel played it with appropriate mystery, rising to its one rather large climax, subsiding once more into the shadows.

Mr. Nel then closed the recital with a showpiece, Chopin’s Grande Polonaise Brillante “preceded by an Andante spianato,” as Chopin’s publisher’s designation once had it. The Polonaise is a much earlier composition than the Andante. Spianato means “even, smooth” and this was spun out by Mr. Nel, who had the taste to dispatch the little flowerings of Bellini-inspired coloratura that are the bane of clumsy pianists perfectly. The Andante is interrupted by a very poignant, nostalgic mazurka fragment, if you will, then it returns. A brief fanfare for the orchestra (in this case, just the pianist) is thirteen measures of music that I know give pianists more terrors than all the difficulties in the rest of the piece, so awkward is the writing. Mr. Nel’s version could not have been more confident, accurate, or stylish. His Polonaise Brillante, too, had all the flash one could want, while maintaining elegance, even in the mad dash to the bravura close.

The nearly sold-out hall leapt to its feet as one, and was favored by two encores: Sibelius’ Romance in D-Flat major, Op. 24 No. 9 (gorgeous), and Chabrier’s French “country bumpkins” in his Scherzo-Valse (Pièces pittoresques, No. 10), full of good humor and good champagne.

Please come back often with more great programming and your unique ability to move audiences with your playing, Mr. Nel!

by Frank Daykin for New York Concert Review; New York, NY

The Italian Academy of Columbia University presents David Witten in Review

David Witten, piano

Music of Mario Castenuovo-Tedesco

The Italian Academy of Columbia University, New York, NY

November 17, 2018

In the imposing theater of the Italian Academy of Columbia University, pianist David Witten presented a remarkable and rare evening of solo piano music of Mario Castelnuovo-Tedesco, the occasion being the fiftieth anniversary of Castelnuovo-Tedesco’s death. (Two preludes by Debussy crept into the program, appropriately, because Castelnuovo-Tedesco was influenced by Debussy.) His solo piano music is not well-known, and deserves wider examination, especially when presented with such authority, and with the gorgeous tonal palette that Mr. Witten possesses. I consider Castelnuovo-Tedesco an “honorary” impressionist anyway—most of his music is programmatic, with illustrative titles and the like. He knew many of the great virtuosi of his time, often writing directly for them. His guitar music (due to Andrés Segovia) is probably his best-known output. Escaping Italy during the rise of Fascism, he emigrated to Hollywood, becoming the (often uncredited) composer of over 200 film scores; and leaving a legacy as a teacher, notably of André Previn and many others. Mr. Witten has recorded this music, and performed (and spoken delightfully about) it many times.

Mr. Witten began with the suite Le Stagioni (The Seasons), Op. 33 (1924): banish any and all memories of Vivaldi’s ubiquitous chestnut. Castelnuovo-Tedesco’s work begins with winter, and cycles through the other three, to which is added an epilogue of great wistfulness. There is an undercurrent of great sadness in this time cycle, which made me wonder if there is any biographical reason in Castelnuovo-Tedesco’s life for it. Later in his career, he had plenty of disappointments and setbacks, but this work seems too early for that.

This was followed by the Sonatina Zoologica, from the other end of his career (1960), a time of disillusionment with humans because, despite winning an opera competition, the promised premiere at La Scala was denied him. Hence, he turned to animals, adding three pieces to one extant work from 1916 to create a whimsical “little” sonata. Each creature (Dragonfly, Snail, Lizard, Ant) is so well-defined, and Mr. Witten knows absolutely how to control the sound levels so crucial for the success of this unusual repertoire. From an audience perspective, Castenuovo-Tedesco’s music is so engaging and accessible that one may easily forget how fraught with pianistic difficulty it is.

After intermission, Mr. Witten introduced two Debussy preludes from Livre II: Feuilles mortes (Dead Leaves), and Feux d’artifice (Fireworks), both of which he played with the command of a dedicated Debussyist.

He then returned to Castenuovo-Tedesco, with three of the Greeting Cards, Op. 170 based on musical “spellings” of each person’s name: Walter Gieseking (an early proponent of Castelnuovo-Tedesco’s solo piano music), André Previn, and Nicolas Slonimsky. Castenuovo-Tedesco devised his own “spelling system” simply by having an ascending chromatic scale of 26 notes, one for each letter of the alphabet, and 26 descending. From this he derived the theme for each recipient of a “card.” His command of different styles was enjoyable, from misty, quasi-French for Gieseking (renowned interpreter of Debussy and Ravel), to an authentic tango for Previn, and a more rigorous “not-quite” twelve-tone sounding homage to Slonimsky.

The satisfying concert closed with the Piedigrotta 1924 (Neapolitan Rhapsody), named for a church in Naples, where Castelnuovo-Tedesco and his wife honeymooned, that has an ancient Roman tunnel beneath it. Castelnuovo-Tedesco weaves together the folksongs of the region and characteristic musical gestures and forms, with a tarantella, moonlight, evocation of an early instrument, a poignant graveyard scene, and a concluding triumphal festival parade (including a cyclic return to the tarantella). Here, Mr. Witten’s tonal control was masterful, sorting through the heavily ornamental textures to clarify everything for the listener. An all-Castelnuovo-Tedesco recital may not be everyone’s cup of tea, perhaps it should be mixed in with other Italian composers of his generation and the one before, and other composers who influenced him. Nevertheless, in Mr. Witten’s capable hands, everything sounded inevitable and wonderful.

He was greeted with a well-deserved ovation.

by Frank Daykin for New York Concert Review; New York, NY