Stepping aside from this column for a week or two

So many reviews - letting someone else do the talking - Part 2  

As with last week, I'm trying to catch up on the recent flood of reviews by handing this column over to those who've taken the time to listen to and write about our recent releases. Normal service will be resumed shortly!

Before we get started on those reviews, a few words about our releases this week. The Furtwängler Brahms 4/Haydn Variations completes our look at his Brahms Symphony recordings for now. I had already chosen this recording when my copy of John Ardoin's book "The Furtwängler Record" arrived on my doormat, and I'm glad to see that he agreed with me:


I've managed to make great inroads on the sound quality here - compared with both my LP-based source material and a recent CD issue of the same recording, I'm pleased to report that XR remastering has completely transformed the sound quality and really made most of the recording sound much more up to date, in terms of audio quality. There remain problems of overload during the loudest passages, but I fear these will have to be lived with, and certainly detract little from a real sonic transformation. I also noticed that EMI had the Variations at a believable pitch of A4=442Hz, whilst the Symphony galloped away at a very unlikely (especially from the same concerts!) A4=455Hz. This bizarre anomaly has been rectified!

In the case of the Solomon Beethoven Concerto recordings, which I'd not heard before and will be completed over time, this was more a matter of trying to make the 1952 mono recording of the 2nd concerto sound as good as the 1956 stereo recording of the 1st. Solomon's Beethoven was brought to my attention by an e-mail I received a few months ago from Australia:


We'll be getting around to that Emperor in a few weeks' time! Meanwhile enjoy two truly excellent earlier concertos right now.


Now for the reviews, as promised:



BEETHOVEN Violin Concerto.
BRAHMS Double Concerto
Georg Kulenkampff (vn)
Enrico Mainardi (vc)
Hans Schmidt-Isserstedt, cond; Berlin PO
Carl Schuricht, cond; Suisse Romande O * PRISTINE 325 (79:39)

Andrew Rose's inset notes relate his challenges in remastering Georg Kulenkampff's 1936 recording of Ludwig van Beethoven's Violin Concerto: The original recordings, as noted in the Gramophone review he cites from 1954, reached A = 456.57, and he has brought the pitch down to 440. In addition, he had to work around attenuated highs at the ends of the long original Telefunken sides, and accordingly left tape hiss intact in order to preserve Kulenkampff's tone in the higher registers. He also adjusted the reverberation in Decca's recording of Johannes Brahms's Double Concerto from 1947, using the ambiance of Birmingham Symphony Hall in the absence of a "suitably Swiss" one.

Whatever the engineering feats, he didn't correct the pitch in one of the Beethoven concerto's early arpeggios, the second note of which seems almost a half-step high. Nevertheless, the first movement makes a strong impression, not least for eschewing devices like portamentos that even some of the later Russians, like Heifetz and Milstein, still included in their expressive arsenal. The first-movement reading, in its general cleanliness and deftness, then, might have been recorded more recently. (Boris Schwarz thought Kulenkampff the most un-German of German violinists.) At about 19:16, a sudden change of timbre intrudes itself, and that may tell the tale of a difficult transition between the original discs. The above-mentioned Gramophone review suggests that Kulenkampff seems labored in the cadenza, but the passagework sounds brilliant nonetheless, with every attack cleanly-even sharply-articulated. On the whole, in fact, Kulenkampff's general approach, to this concerto in particular and to violin playing in general, reminds me a bit of Leonid Kogan's (in his 1957 recording with Kiril Kondrashin and the USSR State Symphony Orchestra of the same concerto). The purity of his tone and the chasteness of his trill, more than a simple ornament in his performance of the Larghetto, contribute to a reading generally clean in its style and timbre and serene in its repose (the middle section transcends in profundity the depth that simple relaxation connotes, studded as it is by moments of piercing insight; the Gramophone reviewer simply called it "serenely beautiful"). Kulenkampff may bring more character to the episode than to the rondo theme in the last movement, but the rondo nevertheless develops momentum, due in part to Hans Schmitt-Isserstedt's and the orchestra's granite and Kulenkampff's incisive hammering at that foundation. But Kulenkampff does more than mindlessly hammer, however sharp his pickax, and occasional slight alterations in tempo seem more than usually subtle and expressive.

Whatever disclaimers Rose may make about the adequacy of Telefunken's recorded sound, Decca's reproduction of cellist Enrico Mainardi's tone in his opening solo make it clear how much the decade-and-a-half improved engineers' technical capabilities; Rose relates that the Brahms concerto represented Kulenkampff's second-to-last appearance in Decca's studio. Mainardi sounds almost sweetly relaxed, if not leisurely, in the first movement's solos; Kulenkampff matches him in Affekt, light years distant from Zino Francescatti's and Pierre Fournier's generally edgier reading, which explores vastly different territory. Carl Schuricht and the Suisse Romande Orchestra provide a richly majestic backdrop for Kulenkampff's and Mainardi's ruminations. Schuricht and the orchestra provide another meditative backdrop for the soloists' discursive reflections in the slow movement. Mainardi again establishes a genially relaxed tempo in the finale, with the emphasis on geniality rather than on relaxation. If the recorded sound captures no warts (such as the wrong note in the beginning of Beethoven's concerto), listeners may feel that the performance itself doesn't contain so many moments of sheer transport as does that of Beethoven's concerto. But if it's movingly consistent, it's consistently moving as well.
Collectors of all kinds should welcome the unlabored way in which Kulenkampff made substantial statements (consider, by comparison, Anne-Sophie Mutter's mannered timbral experiments) and celebrate what Pristine has been able to salvage from the recorded sound. Most strongly recommended. Robert Maxham

This article originally appeared in Issue 35:6 (July/Aug 2012) of Fanfare Magazine.


BEETHOVEN Piano Sonatas No. 1-4
Wilhelm Backhaus (pn) * PRISTINE PAKM051 (79: 27)

When I was growing up in the early 1960s, Wilhelm Backhaus was generally known as a finely chiseled but somewhat lightweight pianist, best suited to the music of Chopin and Mozart. Thus it was a considerable surprise when he recorded an exciting, beautifully shaped performance of the Brahms Piano Concerto No. 2 with Karl Böhm conducting; even critics with a longstanding antipathy toward Backhaus raved about that recording, and with good reason.

Because of this, I decided to consider reviewing CD 1 of Pristine's restoration of the pianist's early mono Beethoven cycle. Sonata No. 3 was recorded in 1952, the others on this disc in November 1953. Restoration engineer and annotator Andrew Rose indicates that the original recordings, despite having been made by a major label, were beset with technical problems. In addition to those mentioned in a contemporary review of one of the LPs-"the tone sounds hard in the development section," "slight mechanical erraticisms of pitch and surface-hum"-Rose also mentions "some wayward tape speeds, resulting in pianos pitched variously between A433 and A440." Whether or not this was due to tape slippage when originally mastered, or actual differences in the pianos that Backhaus played (there were still, in Germany at that time, some instruments pitched below A440), Rose has consistently pitched all of the Backhaus recordings to our modern standard.

Without knowing what the rest of the series sounds like (this is my first hearing of these recordings), I can attest that Backhaus's performances of the opp. 2 and 7 sonatas are, in general outline and feeling, very similar to the recordings of Irish pianist John O'Conor, with some differences. Those differences are a little more obvious ritards and rubato than that employed by O'Conor, with the result that some of the movements in these performances have a decidedly Old World feeling to them (one such example is at the 3:15 to 3:30 mark in the last movement of the First Sonata). On the other hand, Backhaus's occasional "stop-and-listen-to-this" moments are not nearly as exaggerated as those of Wilhelm Kempff, whose Beethoven sonata cycle was all the rage in the 1960s.

Indeed, as this set of the first four sonatas proceeded to play, I found myself charmed by his conception of these early sonatas. My only caveat, as is the case with O'Conor's cycle, is that Backhaus fails to make as much of the sharp dynamic contrasts written into the scores, which Artur Schnabel and Craig Sheppard bring out so well (Schnabel at the proper brisk tempos, Sheppard a shade slower). Thus the reader of this review is faced with a bit of dilemma. Does one really wish to start collecting this early Backhaus cycle? He did rerecord every sonata except the "Hammerklavier" in stereo for Decca, and that cycle is currently available as a boxed set. Rose indicates that many listeners consider this earlier, mono cycle to have been the better of the two. Yet if you have part, or all, of the Schnabel cycle (I particularly recommend his reading of the early sonatas, at least 1-12 plus the op. 49, which was written earlier) and either the complete O'Conor or Sheppard cycles, you may not feel a pressing need for Backhaus. I don't really know how the later discs of this series will play out, but I will say this: If his performances of the "Pathétique," "Waldstein," "Appassionata," "Les Adieux," and, yes, even the "Hammerklavier," not to mention all the important sonatas in between, are as good as his stereo recording of the Brahms Concerto No. 2, you may want to opt for Backhaus in your collection. I, for one, will be looking for the further issues in this series in order to make my determination. Lynn René Bayley

This article originally appeared in Issue 35:6 (July/Aug 2012) of Fanfare Magazine.


DONIZETTI L'elisir d'amore
Ettore Panizza, cond;
Bidu Sayão (Adina);
Bruno Landi (Nemorino);
Francesco Valentino (Belcore);
Salvatore Baccaloni (Dr. Dulcamara);
Metropolitan Op O & Ch * PRISTINE PACO 072 (2 CDs: 120:20)
Live: New York 1/3/42

Unless I am misunderstanding my source, this broadcast of L'elisir d'amore was hurriedly substituted for the scheduled Madama Butterfly (which disappeared until 1946) after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. Featuring singers who knew how to sell a song to an audience, the performance unfortunately (but not literally!) suffers "the death of a thousand cuts." I don't understand the perceived necessity of making cuts in an opera that has just a little over two hours of music. To be sure, some of what is cut consists of repeated passages, but some of these are fast, tricky ensembles that are Rossinian in their cleverness. It's still a good show, but cutting them makes Elisir seem blander than it already is. Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose department: Here we are in 2012, 70 years later, and the Met is still making almost all the same cuts!

The plot is simple enough: Nemorino, a naïve rustic (one of the dumbest opera characters in history, which is saying something), is in love with Adina, a young woman who owns a farm, but she's indifferent toward him. She flirts with a conceited Sergeant (Belcore), which fills Nemorino with such desperation that a traveling con man, Dr. Dulcamara, convinces him that he can win her with a magic elixir, which is actually nothing more than a bottle of wine. When the girls in the village find out that Nemorino has inherited his late uncle's wealth, they start flirting with him. Not knowing about his inheritance yet, he assumes that the elixir is working its magic-even Dr. Dulcamara is convinced. Eventually touched by Nemorino's devotion (he even joins the army to get money to buy more of the magic elixir), Adina realizes she's in love with him and they, presumably, live happily ever after. At least we can safely infer who's going to be the brains of the family.

For the sake of context, I compared this 1942 broadcast with 1967 and 1968 ones (Gianandrea Gavazzeni and Thomas Schippers) and four studio recordings (Richard Bonynge, James Levine, Francesco Molinari-Pradelli, John Pritchard). If I had to live with one of those recordings, it would be Bonynge's, if only because it's nearly complete-toward the end of act II, he cuts an ensemble and substitutes an elaborate aria for Adina that Donizetti probably added to appease some demanding prima donna. As is too often the case, the annotator was probably not told of this so there's no information about the substitution in the booklet, although the libretto does reflect the change. Those who do not find all the cuts objectionable might well prefer the 1967 Gavazzeni, an atmospheric stereo recording that often sounds like it's a very good in-house pirate job.

The Nemorino of this1942 Met broadcast is Bruno Landi, a tenorino whose soft caress of some of his melodic lines is quite beguiling; his is just the kind of voice I want to hear in this role. How well he was heard in the vast Met I can only guess, but I had no difficulty hearing such smoothies as Leopold Simoneau and Ferruccio Tagliavini there. When he wanders off mike, he virtually disappears during ensembles. Like his fellow male singers, he handles the fioriture decently as long as Donizetti doesn't throw him any tricky stuff, and he's at least as good as the formidable competition-Carlo Bergonzi (Gavazzeni and Schippers), Plácido Domingo (Pritchard), Nicolai Gedda (Molinari-Pradelli), and Luciano Pavarotti (Bonynge and Levine). The women, especially technicians like Kathleen Battle (Levine), Roberta Peters (Schippers), and Joan Sutherland (Bonynge), toss most of the elaborate stuff off with such aplomb that I'm surprised when I catch them simplifying some passages. For that matter, Bidu Sayão (Panizza), Ileana Cotrubas (Pritchard), Renata Scotto (Gavazzeni), and Mirella Freni (Molinari Pradelli) all handle the complications reasonably well. I think the most vivid characterization is Scotto's. The various Belcores sing with the requisite bluster; I particularly like Dominic Cossa (Bonynge) and Giuseppe Taddei (Gavazzeni) but have no complaints about the others-it's a thankless part in the sense that he's almost inevitably overshadowed by the other principals, who have meatier roles.

The second scene gets off to a bad start because the offstage trumpet call announcing Dr. Dulcamara's approach is a half-tone flat; I had thought it was standard operating procedure for offstage instruments to be tuned a bit sharp (the score says the trumpet is supposed to be on stage). Salvatore Baccaloni doesn't actually sing his part better than the other Dulcamaras I heard-Spiro Malas (Bonynge), Carlo Cava (Gavazzeni), Enzo Dara (Levine), Renato Cappecchi (Molinari-Pradelli), Geraint Evans (Pritchard), and Fernando Corena (Schippers), but he's a vivid presence and must have been something to savor in person. He was still singing Dulcamara when I began going to the opera, but I only saw him as Geronte (Manon Lescaut), which is hardly a buffo role. One of the things that always seems to be required of buffo basses is that they be able to spit out Italian at a rapid-fire rate, and he could certainly do it, and does it as Dulcamara. With him, as with Fernando Corena, you're only getting half of his performance when you can't see him-it was much better, and surely more amusing, to be there. In case you're wondering, the small role of Gianetta is sung by Mona Paulee. Record buffs may remember her as a recitalist on the old budget Remington label. More nostalgia: Pristine has left a good bit of Milton Cross's original announcements at the beginning and end of the broadcast. "A blast from the past," as they say. I like this performance because Sayão, Landi, Valentino, and Baccaloni capture so much of the music's simple, unpretentious charm, but it's the most heavily cut Elisir I have ever heard and those cuts drive me nuts. James Miller

This article originally appeared in Issue 35:6 (July/Aug 2012) of Fanfare Magazine.

FRANCK Violin Sonata.  

FAURÉ Violin Sonata No. 1. Berceuse.  

DEBUSSY Violin Sonata. Minstrels

Jacques Thibaud (vn); Alfred Cortot (pn) * PRISTINE 080 (65:54)  

 

Jacques Thibaud and Alfred Cortot recorded César Franck's Violin Sonata on May 27-28, 1929, in the Salle Chopin, Gabriel Fauré's First Sonata on June 23, 1927, in Queen's Hall, Fauré's Berceuse on July 2, 1931, Claude Debussy's Violin Sonata on June 7, 1929, in Queen's Hall, and Arthur Hartmann's transcription of Debussy's Minstrels on the same day and in the same venue as the composer's sonata. Mark Obert-Thorn has transferred these recordings from American Victor "Z" shellacs (the works by Franck and Debussy) and from "Orthophonic" recordings (Fauré's sonata and Berceuse). That might be just about as far as many collectors would need to read, since Thibaud's and Cortot's way with this repertoire and Mark Obert-Thorn's reputation will most probably by now be known to all of them.

 

Obert-Thorn hasn't tamed the noisy background hiss audible in Franck's sonata, but, on the other hand, Thibaud sounds vibrant and lifelike in this early recording. An almost identical program appeared in 2002 on Classica d'Oro CDO 2020, including the three sonatas but without the Berceuse and Minstrels, with more hiss and noise removed, losing, in the process, some of Thibaud's vibrancy; Franck's sonata appears on Opus Kura 2077 surrounded by much of the noise but a correspondingly great deal of Thibaud, too. Pristine's compromise seems to provide the easiest listening. Thibaud is noted for the almost decadent opulence of his style and tone; Carl Flesch called the latter of which seductive, and described his style as a yearning after the sensual. In a seeming contradiction, his elegance and refinement also left a deep impression. Add to all this a heavy complement of slinky portamentos to this mix, and the totality yields a performance of Franck that may be as close to authenticity (Eugène Ysaÿe, whom Thibaud considered his "spiritual father"-a requited admiration-and to whom the composer dedicated it, didn't record it) as any could come. If Cortot's opening in the following Allegro doesn't seem entirely clear, the duo generates irresistible energy in its many impassioned climaxes. The waves may break more slowly in the Recitativo, but the crests seem just as high. Though the finale may breathe ethereal serenity, the duo builds the first big climax very high indeed (and deep, too, with Cortot thundering in the bass)-compare David Oistrakh's live performance from 1968 with Sviatoslav Richter on Mobile Fidelity 909, which may produce more wattage but hardly more voltage-and the final one even higher.  

 

If the duo's performance of Fauré's violin sonata, from two years earlier, seems a bit cooler in temperature, even in the first movement, the work itself might have appealed to the "elegant" and "refined" side of Thibaud's temperament, and many may find a compensating richness of expressive nuance. Compare, however, Jascha Heifetz's white-hot first recording of the work with Emanuel Bay in 1936 or his more subtle later one with Brooks Smith (who lacked Cortot's-or even Bay's-strong personality, from 1955. Thibaud is more genial and more flexible; Cortot is rhythmically more subtle, even tangier. There's even more hiss in Pristine's transfer of Fauré's sonata than in that of Franck's, and the higher registers of Thibaud's violin sound somewhat strident in the second movement. There, if neither Cortot nor Thibaud sounds so skittish as do Zino Francescatti and Robert Casadesus, Urania SP 4252, Fanfare 30:5 (not to mention Heifetz), they're lively enough, and their reading of the finale glows warmly. The engineers, two years later, transmitted a richer, more seductive tone quality, especially in Thibaud's lower registers in the Berceuse.  

 

Debussy's mercurial and even chameleon-like sonata offers Thibaud opportunities for greater expressive ambiguity, or at least double meanings, and he takes advantage of them in a way far beyond that of, for example, David Oistrakh (besides the recording released by Philips, there's also a video released by Kultur on VHS, 1208). Thibaud's butter seems more completely melted. And beside Thibaud's comparatively lascivious performance with Cortot, Joseph Szigeti's reading with Béla Bartók at the Library of Congress in 1940 sounds, if equally subtle, more piquant. Thibaud sounds as warmly insinuating as anyone in the Interlude (as well as in the finale). The program concludes with Arthur Hartmann's jaunty arrangement of the piano prelude Minstrels in an zesty performance.  

 

For those who have admired Thibaud's and Cortot's way with these pieces, Pristine's release should be obligatory. Urgently recommended to everyone else. Robert Maxham

This article originally appeared in Issue 35:6 (July/Aug 2012) of Fanfare Magazine.

 

Andrew Rose
8 June 2012