Goldberg Reprise

Goodness: I haven't posted anything since April! This doesn't mean that I have given up on music, nor purchasing recordings. Rather, it has been a busy period with too many distractions. You will still find me in the morning with iPod and headphones, doing chores. There is no such thing as "too many recordings."

I received an extravagant gift that has kept me busy: a SlimDevices Transporter. This is a very high-end device, yielding even better playback than my MusicHall CD25.2; indeed, this is the most "audiophile" piece of equipment I now own. More importantly, it is motivating me to consolidate every single recording I have onto one hard disk. The end result will be that I have a catalog of everything, with easy retrieval. (I gave up counting my CDs some time ago: I'm guessing it is over 1,500, which makes me only a "mid-weight" collector.)

The process requires that I load each and every CD into the computer to "rip" it to a digital format. Because this is a high-end device, I want to use a "lossless" format that provides some compression, but without any loss in dynamics or detail. Using a lossless compression makes it possible for me recreate the original recording bit-for-bit; this results in much larger files than generally practical for iPods and other MP3 players. Since the data is served off of my computer system (transmitted via wireless to the Transporter), I installed a one Terabyte external disk that will provide a home for my entire collection, with room left over for future recordings.

There are several lossless standards available, and this choice got me into some trouble. I experimented with both FLAC and ALAC and once I chose the latter (because it is native to iTunes) I managed to delete the first 360 recordings I had laboriously ripped, essentially having to start over; it has taken me a couple of weeks to recover. I am more careful, now!

The process of ripping disks means I have to handle each-and-every CD, which leads to my topic today. I'm astonished at how many recordings of the same works I have, particularly when it comes to Sebastian Bach. I have complained about this before. Nowhere is is more obvious than with the Goldberg Variations. In looking at my many versions, I can't help but reflect on many of their merits and deficiencies:

• Murray Perahia: my favorite, for the perfect balance of, well, everything.
• Pierre Hantaï: my favorite harpsichord recording. Actually, I only have his first recording, not finding much difference between it and his second.
• Christoph Rousset: the blandest recording of any major artist I have.
• Glenn Gould: how can you not respond to either? He has magic, along with what I can only call "bad manners". There are moments of absolute perfection, but I still think Perahia comes close, with consistency.
• Jaroslav Tuma: best clavichord recording. This is also a very original interpretation, not sounding anything like Gould. He makes it sound very natural to the clavichord. His harpsichord version is less compelling.
• Kurt Rodarmer: most high energy recording--on two guitars! This has fabulous sound and energy, but suffers from a "Segovia style" that succumbs to gross over-emphasis of SOME notes THAT somehow the performer THINKS are so important the LISTENER might miss them.
  

This isn't my complete collection, by any means. No, I don't own the Leonhardt recording(s), which I'm sure some aficionados will insist eclipses all others. I have many middle-of-the-road recordings, none of them bad. I think I have enough for now.

Seriously Unserious

I have a special relationship the ukulele: it is the perfect size and because it is tuned similarly to the top four strings of a guitar, I can actually pick it up and play it. Perfect for travel transport, also perfect for aging and increasingly arthritic hands. I also have a bad habit of making impulse purchases of ukuleles while on travel and without an instrument. I bought three on various Hawaiian islands, back in the days when I traveled there frequently for business. I bought my fourth yesterday while in Palo Alto. Actually, Gryphon Stringed Instruments has an amazing collection of ukuleles and I should count myself lucky to not have walked out with the New Renaissance Compass Rose Tenor ukulele: gorgeous looks and sound. I really don't need another high-end ukulele.

Instead, I walked out with the Fluke Cowboy Stensil concert. It is, as a friend put it, "so ugly it's cute." And, it is virtually indestructible: almost entirely synthetic, except for the laminate (i.e., "plywood") soundboard and wood neck. Even the fretboard is entirely plastic. However, the instrument is resonant and sounds as good, or better, than many other all-wood instruments in its price range. I have been assured that I can bring it anywhere with me and not worry about changes in temperature and humidity. What really grabbed me, however, is the stensil on the front. The thing about ukuleles is that they really are instruments of pure, silly joy: one cannot play one (even badly) and not have people smile. Multiply that by a factor of ten for this charming little instrument.

The ukulele has an honorable history. Derived from the machête da rajao, the instrument was brought to the Islands in the mid-19th century. The "classic" ukulele (Hawaiian for "leaping flea") is so small that there is really no expectation for a solid bass, so that the "lowest" note is raised an octave, yielding a tuning of g'–c'–e'–a'. Larger instruments now use wound strings and really sound like small guitars. (The high-end instrument I was foolishly tempted to walk away with yesterday sounded better than most guitars...) Like all instruments with limited resources, the ukulele has its own virtuosi who make it exceed expectations. While at the store, I also bought a book of tablature: a volume of the "Jumpin' Jim's Ukulele Masters Series" titled "The Classical Ukulele." Transcriptions include (I know this is difficult to believe) Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring, the entire prelude from Bach's first cello suite, and even Couperin's Les Barricades Mystérieuses. I guess I have my work cut out for me.

A Fistfull of Forqueray

Antoine Forqueray (la Père) was was a good viol player, but not a nice man. His wife left him five times, accusing him of being "hot headed." They separated; he lived the good life, leaving his family impoverished. Indeed, he treated his son Jean-Baptiste-Antoine Forqueray (‘le fils’) very badly—to the point of imprisoning him and even having him thrown out of the country. Sounds like a family for the Jerry Springer Show...

Forqueray ‘le fils’ published his father's viol pieces twice after his death: one edition for the viol with figured bass, the other a keyboard transcription that provides us with some of the instrument's most engaging music. In fact, it's not really clear how much of this music is the son's and how much the father's. At least three pieces were by the son, and they are so similar to the rest that they are impossible to pick out. All pieces are so harmonically progressive that it is challenging to place them in the same century as la Père. Regardless of parentage, I find I grow more fond of this music over time. Especially, in the hands of the right performer.

My introduction was not good: Christoph Rousset's 2-CD collection was my first. It left me cold when I first acquired it, and listening to it today, I find it rushed and without grace, so much so that I have to wonder what was going on. Was Rousset bored, just uninspired, or perhaps under pressure by the label to win a marathon and squeeze the music into as few bits as possible? Either way, this is a Forqueray to avoid, but I do like the sound of the instrument: the 1761 Hemsch in Paris. I mention the sound because it provides a sharp contrast to my latest recording, by Blandine Rannou, which has a marvelous performance, but a disappointing sound.

Blandine Rannou consistently marches to her own drummer with her performances, especially in her selection of tempos. Her trademark is to boldly plod slowly, yet perfectly, so that one savors almost each separate note. This is not the limitation of technique, for she has considerable resources, but rather a reflection of her own unique vision. As I have said before, I like Rannou because her performances always make me think. In contrast, it seems that Rousset's later recordings do nothing by annoy me.

Rannou's 2-CD set include all five suites, and I could hardly imagine a more opposite interpretation from Rousset's. Her tempos are so broad that the order of the suites had to be rearranged to fit everything onto 2 CDs, even then the first suite is split across the two CDs. This is a Forqueray that breaths, that carries the essence of "Frenchness" in its perfect notes inegales, and that shows the harpsichord to be the better medium for the music. In fact, according to the notes, Rannou didn't just play directly from the 1747 edition, but enhanced it, based on her expertise in realizing continuo and working from the viol edition. To be honest, her changes aren't readily apparent, perhaps because they sound so natural. However, something went wrong with the sound. She plays on the well-recorded Hemsch copy by Anthony Sidey and I can't tell if the microphones were too close, the room too small, or some invasive engineer figured that the sound needed "improvement". Although the character of the instrument shines through, the sound is bloated and indistinct, a real disappointment for an otherwise fabulous recording.

While on the topic of Forqueray, it is worth mentioning a couple other recordings. Overall, one of my favorites is a recording I don't actually own, performed by Yannick Le Gaillard, and which doesn't seem to be available through any current source. Since I don't have the album notes, I know nothing about the instrument, which doesn't have as rich a sound as Rannou's, but better clarity of recording. Gaillard's performance is energetic, and has just the right touches of humor and pathos, a combination I would associate only with French music. The second recording of Forqueray that I procured after my disappointing Rousset was by Arthur Haas on the 1785 Jacques Germain. This recording includes only two of the suites, numbers five and two, but includes La Forqueray by Duphly and Rameau, yielding a very pleasing program. I still like this recording, but Haas lacks the "swing" of Rannou and Le Gaillard that makes this music so "French" to me, but he plays with warmth and sincerity. Even though Rousset has the more correct French "mannerisms", Haas' recording creates a much better impression, and overall, it has the best sound of them all—if only Rannou recorded her performance with this sound!

Laurent Stewart en Concert

French harpsichordist Laurent Stewart has a special relationship with San Diego: last night he performed for a third time in the last seven years, establishing him as both a regular and a favorite. An unlikely favorite: Laurent's English is limited, at best, and he is generally not well known here in the U.S. Indeed, obtaining his recordings is an exercise in patience; it just took me four months to get the his recording of Marchand. Good news, however: he will apparently be recording on the Zig-Zag Territoires label—a favorite of mine—and I can only hope that word of his artistry spreads.

Stewart is a mature artist. His quiet demeanor, intense focus, and minimalist approach to hand movement doesn't suggest the showy virtuoso. However, his technique is in such abundance that his nonchalance inspires confidence. One can sit back and enjoy the music.

Although it can be unfair, or even dangerous, to limit any performer to a single period, there is no doubt in my mind that Stewart is one of the great voices for the 17th century repertoire. I vividly remember his first program here, split between Froberger and Louis Courperin: one of the most powerful solo performances in my memory. His second concert, about four years ago, focused on primarily Chambonnières and d'Angelbert, marks the start of my passion for those two; his performance of d'Anglebert's Tombeau de Mr. de Chambonnières remains etched in my memory as the most poignant.

Last night's concert bridged the 17th and 18th centuries. It opened with a suite in D minor of Louis Marchand, 1699. Marchand was, of course, a contemporary—possibly rival—of Sebastian Bach. Like Bach, he was something of an antiquarian, writing in a conservative style of the past. I have grown quite enthusiastic over his limited oeuvre: it really represents the best of the late 17th century, while cautiously looking forward to the next. I think it was wise to open with this suite, rather than the next by d'Anglebert: it is more accessible music, and the concluding Chaconne is powerful powerful and gripping. The suited opened with an unmeasured prelude, which I consider the ultimate test of an interpreter. Unmeasured preludes can easily be jumbles of notes, without meaning or direction. Under Stewart's fingers it made complete sense: every run, arpeggio, and embellishment had its place. Stewart is never academic, nor is he prone to excesses; behind the prelude was an intelligence and smoldering passion.

The first half concluded with a suite in G minor by d'Anglebert, 1689. As I said, it was fortunate that Stewart didn't open with this, not because of a deficiency of either the music or performer, but rather because the florid embellishments necessary to d'Anglebert's music may pose a challenge to those who aren't already intimate with this intimate style. Throughout the entire program, Stewart established his mastery of French ornamentation, making it sound natural, even integral to the music. I have sat on the fence over pronouncements on d'Anglebert's greatness, but I think it is time for me to make a stand: once you understand his style, his music is very much of the first class, and hearing it played as it was last night is one of Life's great pleasures.

The concert concluded with works by Rameau, bringing Stewart more firmly into the 18th century. Stewart took the Allemande from the 1728 Suite in A minor slowly, but not as slowly as Blandine Rannou. It worked for me, allowing me to really hear the notes, but I know many may favor a more vigorous, virtuosic tempo. La Triomphante was a triumph, although it seemed to me that Stewart might have been wrestling a bit with the instrument itself to negotiate the repeated notes. The finale was the solo harpsichord version of the premier concert from the Pieces de clavecin en concerts. This was a bold move, as this is fiendishly difficult music. Again, it seemed that Steward was struggling a bit with the repeated notes so prominent in La Coulicam; I think programming such a difficult piece late in a concert on a relatively unfamiliar instrument was daring. I might add that, while there were minor technical glitches, I think I noticed them more because so much of the concert was absolutely note-perfect. Whatever challenges presented themselves, Stewart always maintained the musical integrity of the piece, while preserving his nonchalance—and therefore my comfort that he was not going to "crash and burn." Note-perfect performances are largely a fantasy created by recordings, and I would take whatever minor imperfections to get the kind of energy and vision that a live performance can present.

We are fortunate to have a "regular" of Laurent Stewart's caliber in San Diego: he is always welcome here!

Crossover Calamity

Someone Shoot the Percussionist, Please!

I consider Rolf Lislevand to be a most successful "crossover" early musician, but the trend for his recordings is not good. His "breakout" recording of Kapsberger (1993) was a revelation in its sound textures and energy. At the time I found the inclusion of percussion to be magical. His next crossover recording took on the codex of santiago de murcia (1999) brought similar imagination, including an exciting Latin energy that made the ensemble of baroque guitars sound more flamenco than Flamenco.

His 2001 recording based loosely on the guitar alfabeto manuscripts of Forscarini, Corbetta, and others struck me as less "authentic," and more pandering to the New Age tastes. The ensemble of that recording is quite distinguished, including Arianna Savall and Paolo Pandolfo—not to mention percussionist Pedro Estevan. There was no denying the energy and wonderful sound textures, but it is a recording that rarely tickles my fancy.

His latest recording of this ilk, Nuove musiche (2006), confirms what I consider to be a downward spiral: it is all energy and color, with little substance and some major annoyances. The worst of these annoyances are the bizarre percussion additions of Pedro Estevan: not only poorly conceived—to the point of randomness—and often tasteless. This is a recording you play twice and either give away to some unsuspecting family member or simply throw away.

Blame doesn't fall entirely on Estevan, although the consistent annoyances resulting his strange ramblings have eliminated any intent to listen a fourth time. The frantic strumming of the baroque guitars becomes glib and showy, reminiscent of some Las Vegas act. In fact, Lislevand reuses much of the Kapsberger he drew upon so effectively in his earlier recording, reducing the earlier masterpieces to caricatures. The recording opens with the ever-popular Arpeggiata, one of the most haunting harmonic progressions I can think of, then layers in a distracting and pointless percussion, and then a vocal, sung by Arianna Savall, one that is gratuitous, at best; the whole track sounds like a late night jam session in which the ensemble was so stoned that they were convinced they were creating something really deep.

The final track Toccata cromatica is the crowning assult. At one point Savall utters the words "non ho piú parole" ("I have no more words") and it is at that point that my patience is exhausted. I recognize that an intent of this recording is to demonstrate the application of modern tastes and improvisation to early music, a goal I hold to be admirable. The results just don't work for me.

There is no doubt that Lislevand has an ear for sound texture, and there are many intriguing sounds, including a very closely miked clavichord and a "nyckelharpa." In fact, instruments are all miked overly closely and the sound is very much that of a studio session. There are undoubtedly those who will like it, but I happen to think that this brilliant performer comes close to ruining some marvelous music.

Island Music

I can't account for my fondness for English composers of the 19th and 20th centuries. With the exception of Vaughn Williams and Britten, they are mostly of the "second rank"—a claim that is sure to earn me the ire of some. For example, I have nearly everything of Elgar—who occasionally rises into the category of "first rank," but not consistently—and at least half a dozen recordings of the music of Arnold Bax—who occasionally sinks to bottom the category of "second rank."

I know there are some who claim that they "don't have time" to appreciate anything less than the best. If you listen only to music of the "first rank," you live in a smaller world and miss many pleasant moments. I would even argue that if all you listen to is "the best," then you can't fully appreciate just how good it is.

In scanning Fanfare, I saw an intriguing description of the music of Wlliam Sterndale Bennett by reviewer Arthur Lintgen:

There is much fairy music here. They could almost be played consecutively and function as something resembling another symphony. All of Bennett’s music sounds quite lovely. He has the same deft lightness of touch as an orchestrator as Mendelssohn, though his works are less melodically inspired.

Now, I really love Mendelssohn's "fairy music," so I ordered this CD [BENNETT The May Queen. The Wood Nymphs. The Naiades.1 Parisina. Symphony in g • Nicholas Braithwaite, cond; London PO; Philharmonia Orchestra • LYRITA 206 (64:35)].

This is, indeed, lovely music and very much like Mendelssohn. In fact, it might be even better than this recording gives credit. The sound of both orchestras (The Naiades is performed by the Philharmonia Orchestra) is top notch, as one would expect. Unfortunately, the direction under Nicholas Braithwaite is competent, but often timid and lackluster. Given a little more energy and "punch," I think this is music that could make an even stronger impression.

Bennett (1816-1875) had a close relationship with Mendelssohn; the master treated Bennett as a peer, not a student. Schumann noted an affinity in style between the two composers: "the same beauty of formn, poetic depth yet clearness, and ideal purity, the same outwardly satisfying impression, but with a difference." It seems that much of Bennett's career was stifled by the need to support himself by giving lessons; given more freedom, he might have risen to the first rank.

As for "the Island," there is no doubt that its people know how to appreciate music, both now and in eras past. It is no wonder that the likes of Handel migrated there, and was much beloved by Mendelssohn and many others.

Of the Second Rank

One doesn't see a lot of references to Mozart's students. Haydn was his senior, and his longer lifespan reflects a style that both precedes and follows the younger Mozart. Beethoven apparently had hoped to study with Mozart, but it doesn't appear that they actually met (wikipedia has an interesting discussion of Beethoven and Mozart). An interesting name caught my notice: Francesco Pollini (1762-1846). Pollini was a student of Mozart, and became an important influence on 19th century piano technique, thanks to his 1811 Metodo per Clavicembalo.

Fanfare Magazine has become a valuable source of "leads" for new recordings; I especially look for reviews of recordings off the beaten track. So, when reviewer Laura Rónai wrote, 'One of the big pleasures of writing reviews is discovering the occasional fabulous composer who has been unjustly forgotten by posterity. An equal pleasure is finding a master of the second rank played with commitment and gusto by a first-class interpreter.' I figured I would have to explore that path.

Rónai nailed it when she describes Pollini as 'a master of the second rank.' His music is often brilliant, with many fine moments, but there is nothing that particularly grabs my attention, or sustains my interest. There are moments when I hear the seeds of ideas that Schubert or Mendelssohn knew how to turn into greatness. However, the music must be a delight to the virtuoso, providing ample opportunity to dazzle and impress. Indeed, the performing artist, Costantino Mastroprimiano, executes with joyous perfection; this is one talented musician who deserves music more worthy of his talent.

The recorded piano is described as a "fortepiano", but I consider it one of the early grand pianos. The notes on the instrument are untranslated, but it was built by Giovanni Heichele, Trieste, in either 1820 or 1825. It seems to be in very good condition, but I have to be honest: I find these early grand pianos to not be very satisfying to listen to. They lack the character of what I would call a "fortepiano" and the refinement of a more evolved piano. Like composers 'of the second rank,' I find such instruments of intellectual interest, but of the second rank.