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While Glenn Gould was a pianist who performed the works of many composers, his name is inextricably linked to that of Johann Sebastian Bach. More than any other composer, Bach was Gould’s speciality. From his first recording of Bach’s Goldberg Variations in 1955 to his final recording, again of the Goldberg Variations in 1981, Gould recorded nearly all of Bach’s keyboard music.
This set groups all of Gould’s Bach recordings for around $115; not only those released on LP and CD, but also a number of previously unreleased recordings: outtakes from the 1955 Goldbergs recording session; a stereo mix of the 1955 Goldbergs; some preludes and fugues from the Well-Tempered Clavier, from 1952 and 1954; and two live recordings, from 1957 and 1959, of the Goldbergs (Salzburg Festival, August, 1959) and the Sinfonias (Moscow, May, 1957). There are two discs of interviews with Gould – one with Tim Page, and another with John McClure – and a disc of Gould speaking about Bach in German. There are a total of 38 CDs.
This set also includes DVDs; 6 of them. Three of these are directed by Bruno Monsaigneon, featuring the Goldbergs on one, and two others with a variety of works. And three others are from the CBC, from 1957 to 1970, featuring Gould (and others) playing a variety of Bach’s works. Many Gould fans are familiar with the Monsaigneon films, as they have been widely circulated – especially the Goldberg Variations video, which was my first introduction to seeing Glenn Gould perform. The CBC videos are less common, though they have been released in a 10-DVD set Glenn Gould on Television. What we have in the Bach set is, naturally, the Bach performances taken from that set. If you’re a die-hard Gould fan, you’ll want to get the full DVD set as well.
Together with all these discs is a 192-page hardcover book, with some introductory essays, and with notes for each disc. Unfortunately, the notes are very succinct, and while the disc covers reproduce original LPs, the notes on them are too small to read without a microscope. (Is it that hard to include a CD or DVD with PDFs of these things?)
If you’re a fan of Glenn Gould, you may already have the Complete Original Jacket Collection, on 80 CDs, which contains most of what’s in this set, but you won’t have the outtakes, live recordings and DVDs. This set, at a not-quite-bargain price, is worth getting for these extras alone, if you appreciate Gould. Especially since Bach is what Gould did best.
Nice packaging, a fair price, and a bunch of previously unreleased material makes this a good purchase for any fan of Glenn Gould. If you’re not familiar with his admittedly idiosyncratic recordings of Bach’s keyboard works, this would be a good chance to discover one of the most original of performers. You may love Gould or hate him, but you can’t deny that, when he played Bach, he was channelling something transcendent.
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There are two recordings of Henry Brant’s orchestration of Charles Ives’ Concord Sonata, taking this essential 20th-century piano work and expanding it for full orchestra.
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Ives’ Concord Sonata (Piano Sonata No. 2, Concord, Mass., 1840-60) is the composer’s best-known work, and contains a concentrated version of many of Ives’ musical ideas. It is the work he poured much of his thought into, even going as far as writing a long essay, “Essay Before a Sonata” to amplify the work. Composer Henry Brant, who discovered Ives’ work at age 15, set out late in life to create an orchestral transcription of the sonata, turning this craggy piano work into an orchestral exploration containing its own share of asperities.
One cannot hope to compare the actual piano work to this transcription; the difference between the solo piano (even in Ives’ masterful use of the broad palette of colors available on the keyboard) and a full orchestra is vast. What Brant does is translate this work into another form. Eschewing much of the rhythmic material inherent in the piano, Brant opts for a transcription that brings in all the colors of the orchestra to interpret the sonata. For example, in the Emerson movement, the first part of the work and the most tempestuous, strong brass instruments are used in place of the harsh, fortissimo chords. Yet, later, woodwinds are at the heart of the more ethereal ending of the work, where subtle touches at the keyboard give melodic fragments.
In the Hawthorne movement, Brant chooses an almost Mahlerian selection of light instruments then heavy brasses to translate the rapid arpeggios and near tone clusters of the opening, before bringing in the string section. The Thoreau movement opens with a flute (which is appropriate, because of the use of the flute in some versions of the actual sonata, representing Thoreau’s playing a flute by Walden Pond), then using colorful oboe runs to lay out the melodies. Mellow strings stand behind as structural elements, and this, the most transcendent of the four movements of the sonata, starts with a smaller, less raucous treatment from the orchestra, before using a crescendo of brass and timpani. The main melodic phrase of this movement arises in many forms, though mainly played by the string section, and the orchestration of this part of the work may be the most delicately subtle sections of the symphony.
All in all, the contrasts between the different choices of instrumentation and the piano are similar to the difference between black-and-white and color; or, more correctly, black-and-white and grayscale. Not to suggest that the sonata played on the piano is in black and white; far from it. It is one of modern music’s most varied and colorful works for piano. But listening to one then the other shows that these are more two completely different works rather than simply a transcription. The highlights are different on the piano than where, in the orchestration, a choice of instruments makes certain phrases stand out.
For all that one may wonder at the choices of orchestration, this Concord Symphony simply works. It translates Ives’ vision into a different form, and does so extremely effectively. It gives the listener a new perspective on the brilliant work that is the Concord Sonata. This recording is certainly an essential addition to any Ives collection.
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I have a particular affinity for this work – the piano sonata version – being especially interested in the writers that Ives puts into music, and having some 15 recordings of the work. Performers of the sonata can approach it in many ways, choosing to highlight the tempestuousness of certain parts of the work (notably in the Emerson movement), focusing on the rhythmical aspects of the composition, or choosing tempi that are either very fast or much slower. (The recordings I have range from a speedy 38 minutes to a leisurely 62 minutes, with an average in the 45-50 minute range, or about the same tempo as this current recording.)
When unleashed for orchestra, the Concord Sonata (or Symphony) takes on a new life. As I said in my above review of the Dennis Russell Davies recording, “these are more accurately two completely different works rather one being simply a transcription of the other.” Michael Tilson Thomas has developed a “sound” with his San Francisco Symphony orchestra, a group of musicians he has been working with regularly for more than 15 years, and with whom he has performed many 20th century works. There is a certain naturalness in this recording, as though the orchestra is in its milieu, and a balance among the instruments that sounds nearly ideal. When the orchestra lets loose in the middle of the Hawthorne section – with blaring horns, punctuated by soft strings, then back to a cacophony of horns, then a marching band imploding – I just want to turn the volume up and be overwhelmed by the waves of sound.
The sound quality of this disc is excellent. The orchestra is spacious, and the full palette of instruments can be heard well no matter what the volume; as this work has a very wide range of volume, this is essential. The full, lush strings in the Alcotts section fill the soundscape, and the definition of the winds and strings in the beginning of the Thoreau section is clean and precise. There is one tiny problem, though, at the end of the work; applause. There is really no need to have applause at the end of a live recording of any classical work, if that applause can be edited out (which it can here). It stands merely as a reminder that the recording is live – one which, by the way, is unnecessary – and it is almost insulting to reach the end of a work, feel the enjoyment of completion, and then be interrupted by such noise. If I’m in a concert hall, I expect it; on my stereo, I resent it. Why any sound engineer, or anyone else involved in a recording like this, would want to have 5 seconds of applause, is beyond me.
While the headliner on this disc is the Concord Symphony, this current recording does include another work, and no mean one at that: Aaron Copland’s Organ Symphony. An early work, premiered in 1925 when Copland was merely 23 years old, this was Copland’s first major composition. (Copland later rescored this as his Symphony No. 1.) The three movements are all very different. In the first, light strings play a subtle melody, as the organ plays almost a continuo, but so quietly you can almost miss it. The second movement has a snappy tempo, and is almost dance-like at first, with the orchestra taking center stage, swelling to monumental scale. The organ is, for the most part, in the background, being just another instrument in the orchestra, and not a solo instrument until the very end of this movement where it has a bit of presence. The final movement, Lento, begins with dense strings, and the organ finally becomes prominent, in full expression. Slow, loud chords are enough to shake the room you’re in, and I can imagine that, in the Davies Hall, where this was performed, the effect must have been impressive. As the movement goes on, the orchestra becomes imposing and powerful, ending with a powerful punch. While melodically this is a simplistic work, the sound quality, as for the Ives, is excellent.
The Copland is a young composer’s work, and, compared to the refinement of Ives’ Concord Sonata (and the orchestration herein), is much less interesting. But the coupling of these two works presents two great American composers writing around the same time, and rather than just having the Concord Symphony on this disc, the addition is welcome. Compared to the Davies recording of the Concord Symphony, I’d give a few extra points to this current recording, if only for the sound quality which features better definition. But both are excellent. If you don’t know this work, and appreciate Ives, this current disc – with the addition of the Copland – is essential.
To sum up, if I had to choose between these two recordings, I’d lean toward the Tilson Thomas version. This isn’t so much because of the additional work by Copland, but the sound and recording are a bit better on that disc. The two performances are similar, but the San Francisco Symphony comes out ahead.
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It’s hard in less than 200 pages to go into a great deal of detail, but in this book, Tim Blanning manages to sketch out the why and how of romanticism. Why this “movement” began, as a reaction against the Enlightenment, but also as an outgrowth of societal and political change. How romanticism spread, through the most important countries – Germany, France and England – and how new modes of production led to the diffusion of romantic ideas.
For the romantic movement is more than just an artistic movement, even though it covered the major forms of art: music, literature and painting. Many of the causes of its spread were due to new structures, institutions and technologies. Romantic music was spawned in part by the change from patronage to public support for musicians, both in performance and in publication, and to performances both in concert halls and in salons. Literature spread through the many changes in technology that made printing and books cheaper. And images circulated in the form of lithographs and other types of prints that were developed in the early 19th century.
Romanticism is, at heart, about the imagination, about feeling, about art for art’s sake, about the individual being the most important element in the world. Beethoven is the best example of the romantic artist, with Schubert a close second. But romanticism had many forms, from the near-transcendence of Beethoven’s late works, or of Schubert’s finest songs, to the development of characters in literature, such as in Hugo and Balzac. The rise of tourism – notably to the Alps and the Rhine – led to a new appreciation of nature, and a discovery of other lands and worlds. All in all, the romantic movement is probably the greatest cultural and artistic revolution of our time, and this book, in less than 200 pages, sketches the main figures and themes.
While this book is just an introduction, it gives plenty of suggestions of books to read, music to listen to, and art to see to better understand just how powerful this period was. This is a revolution that has not ended; our arts and culture are still influenced by the ideas of the romantics. And this book helps grasp just how important this period was.
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I’ve been waiting for this record to be re-released for as long as I’ve owned a CD player. Originally released by Columbia Masterworks in 1980, on two LPs, this music is almost everything that Ruggles composed. (There is another disc, The Uncovered Ruggles, with some bits and pieces essentially for piano; the title of this new release is, therefore, not entirely exact.) With just over 86 minutes of music on this release, and another half hour on The Uncovered Ruggles, Carl Ruggles’ influence is much greater than the amount of music he composed.
I first came across his music accidentally, stumbling on a documentary about him around 1982, broadcast on PBS. Michael Tilson-Thomas, who conducted the Columbia recordings, was in the documentary, and while I don’t remember anything about it now, the opening chords of Sun-treader, Ruggles’ longest work, at around 16 minutes, had me heading for a record store the next day. Sun-treader is to orchestral music what Ives’ Concord Sonata is to piano music, but much shorter and more concentrated. Harsh and dissonant, it is a powerful work, full of the energy of the iconoclast. Men and Mountains, at around 12 minutes in 3 movements, has a similar tone, with pounding tympani and strident brass. Portals, a 6+ minute work for string orchestra, burns with incisive chords. And Evocations, a four-movement work for orchestra (along with an earlier piano version) follow in the same vein.
Ruggles’ orchestral work is powerful and uncompromising. His piano music has that Ivesian other-worldliness. He is dissonant, contrapuntal, yet the dissonance doesn’t shock; his music is aggressive; his voice is unique, and his sound world original. It’s a shame he didn’t compose more. He did, however, create hundreds of paintings, and was apparently a son of a bitch, with racist and anti-semitic tendencies.
The works are presented here in chronological order, and one can hear the evolution in Ruggles’ music as his technique got denser and more ecstatic. From the early songs to later orchestral works, by way of two versions of Evocations (the original for piano, and the later orchestral arrangement), Ruggles’ limited oeuvre is breathtaking and original. Almost entirely short works – Sun-treader is 16 minutes long, and there are three works in the 6-7 1/2 minute range – this music is concentrated and uncompromising. No other composer who wrote so little music is as important as Carl Ruggles.
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I have several recordings of Beethoven’s Diabelli Variations, and while it is a work I have long appreciated, it wasn’t until I heard this recent disc from Andreas Staier that I really started “getting it.” It’s the most infectiously joyous recording I have of the Diabellis. At times, Staier’s performance makes me almost want to get up and dance. Don’t forget, these are variations on a waltz, though after the first, opening theme, the waltz rhythm itself is pretty much absent. But they are full of musical humor. As Alfred Brendel said in an essay Must Classical Music Be Entirely Serious?, “…Beethoven here shines as the ‘most thoroughly initiated high priest of humour’; he calls the variations ‘a satire on their theme’.” Staier, in the liner notes, calls this music “ironic” and “sarcastic.”
Another unique aspect of this recording is that it is recorded on a fortepiano, with delicious, rich sound, which brings back the music as Beethoven heard it (or would have, if his hearing were better). Finally, this disc includes not only Beethoven’s variations, but also a selection of variations from other composers. When Diabelli wished to publish a set of variations on his theme, he sent the theme to a number of composers, and while many were published, it was Beethoven who went to the extreme, creating 33 variations. This recording includes variations by Mozart, Schubert, Czerny, Hummel and others, along with Staier’s own “Introduction,” an improvisation on the theme. All of these “remixes” are at the beginning of the disc, so if you only want to hear Beethoven, you can start listening at track 13.
As I said above, Staier’s performance here is lively, aggressive, and full of joy. It is a delight to hear him play this work, and especially on this attractive copy of a Graf fortepiano. The recording is excellent; the fortepiano is very prominent and full-bodied, and there is no excess of reverb to drown its subtle sounds.
(It’s worth noting that Staier recorded this work based on the autograph manuscript (which you can see here). According to the liner notes, this manuscript had been “inaccessible” up until 2009.)
It seems that there is only one other fortepiano recording of this work by Jörg Demus (reissued by DG in August, 2012). It is odd that there are not more recordings of this great work, even on modern piano. (I assume that Ronald Brautigam will be releasing a recording of this as part of his complete Beethoven survey on fortepiano.) While most of the major pianists have recorded it – I especially like Alfred Brendel’s recordings – it doesn’t have the popularity of, say, Bach’s Goldberg Variations. Yet it remains one of the greatest works of variations for piano, and Staier’s recording should help it get a bit more exposure.
If you’re not familiar with this work, Andreas Staier’s fortepiano recording is a great way to discover it. And if you do know the work, but on modern piano, it’s wonderful to hear it on an original instrument. Either way, this is a great recording of a great work, and one that any lover of Beethoven’s piano works should get.
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Listening to a recent recording of Morton Feldman’s For John Cage today (on this new recording of his
Works for violin and piano, I searched on the web for some information about Feldman and Cage, and found these very fascinating recordings of the two of them in conversation, recorded for WBAI in 1967, and available from
Archive.org.
Interestingly, I started listening while playing Feldman’s For John Cage in the background, and this was strangely satisfying.
Here is a summary of the three conversations:
Part 1 (39:25):
This first of a three part conversation between John Cage and Morton Feldman was recorded at WBAI in New York between October 18-25, 1967. The segment begins with Cage and Feldman discussing the various ways people perceive intrusion in their lives. The composers then spend some time on the occupation of the artist as “being deep in thought,” and what the goals or purposes of “being deep in thought” might be. A brief analysis of Black Mountain College follows before Cage and Feldman return to the idea of being in thought, and the role of boredom in life. The conversation ends with Cage explaining his hesitation towards taking on students.
Part 2 (49:41):
The second part of their conversation was recorded at WBAI in New York on October 24, 1967. Like the first installment, much of this conversation centers on intrusions in the life of an artist. Cage and Feldman look at how everyday tasks such as correspondence are affected by the artist’s desire to not disappoint the public once the public has recognized the artist. Cage and Feldman engage in a fairly philosophical discussion regarding the telephone, and recount some anecdotes about using the phone book. They also return to the topic of “thought” and whether there is a point in life where a person has thought enough. There is also some discussion of composing pieces with very particular challenges (e.g. a one-finger guitar piece).
Part 3 (43:48):
The third and final conversation between John Cage and Morton Feldman was recorded at WBAI in New York in October 1967. Cage and Feldman’s discussion begins with Cage reading part of an article by the architect Kaufman on disposability. Cage seems fascinated by the idea that the large and small scale is becoming ever more prominent in society, while the importance of the mid-scale is dwindling. Some serious debate ensues when Cage expresses the opinion that we already have quality in the world, and what we are truly seeking is quantity. The two also touch on the role of artists in reaction to the Vietnam War, and how musicians seem frequently absent from the political dialogue. The conversation ends with Cage hypothesizing that the printing press changed the course of life activity toward material gain.
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I’ve long been a fan of Schubert’s lieder, or art songs, and I decided to create a web site to discuss this music, and to post reviews of CDs, DVDs and books about it. Here’s what it looks like:
You’ll see the similarity with this web site, but since I like the theme, I figured it was best to use something similar, and simple.
So, if you’re interested, check out the Schubert Lieder web site.
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Bach revised his French Suites many times. Unlike Bach’s Partitas, which were published and therefore frozen in their state at the time of publication, Bach wrote the French Suites as “teaching” suites, with many variants. Some early versions appear in the 1722 Notebook for Anna Magdalena Bach, which contains two full suites (BWV 815 and 816) together with parts of the first two suites. Peter Watchorn discusses how Bach used these suites for teaching in his interesting liner notes that are in the form of an imaginary interview with Johann Sebastian Bach.
The first thing that strikes the listener of this set is the clear, rich sound of the harpsichord, a Zuckerman copy of a Christian Vater instrument from 1738. Not only does this harpsichord offer an extremely balanced sound from the low end to the treble, but the recording itself enhances the musicality of the instrument. It sounds warm and full, without the sometimes harsh high end that can be tiring to listen to. (Also, it is worth noting that Watchorn uses Bradley Lehman’s tuning scheme, described here.)
Watchhorn’s performances here are delightful. His playing can range from dainty to powerful according to the needs of each specific movement. He takes full advantage of the wide range of sounds his harpsichord can express, offering tasteful ornamentation and subtle accents when desirable.
One than that Watchorn does here that sets this recording apart from others is the addition of preludes to the suites that do not contain any. He has restored the prelude to the 4th suite, and he plays other preludes before the suites that do not contain any. His reasoning, laid out in the liner notes, is in part due to the fact that Bach and his sons would “improvise” preludes when playing these suites. To this end, he uses preludes from a variety of sources: the Well-Tempered Clavier, other uncollected preludes, and even BWV 999, a prelude that Bach wrote for the lute, and which is a well-known piece.
I am very familiar with the French Suites, having long appreciated these beautiful works. Adding preludes to them is interesting, but when one has listened to them without these preludes for so long, it can be jarring to hear them with what seem like “intruders,” especially those preludes that are familiar from the Well-Tempered Clavier, or the prelude for lute. I admire the research that has gone into this choice, but I will choose to listen to the French Suites without these additional movements. It is like Bach’s Art of Fugue. For a long time, it was thought that the unfinished fugue was the final part of the work; it certainly sounds like a summation of the rest of the fugues, and its ending in suspension is a fitting ending for the entire work. But musicologists have shown us that its position in the work was much earlier. Nevertheless, I simply cannot listen to it in its proper position.
This set also contains the twenty “Little Preludes,” other didactic works from the Clavierbüchlein for Wilhelm Friedemann Bach. Among these works, Watchorn “completed” the prelude BWV 932, which existed as a fragment. I find the Little Preludes interesting, but they certainly don’t stand up to the French Suites. These are not works I return to often, though Watchorn’s recordings of them are up to the same standards as the French Suites.
To sum up, this is a fine recording of the French Suites, with the odd aspect of the additional preludes. It is up to the listener to decide if he or she wishes to hear the suites in this manner. But given the quality of the performances and especially the excellent recording, this set is among the best harpsichord recordings of these works.
Listen to a sample
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