The English pianist explains why five particular masterworks have him endlessly coming back for more. Continue reading Get unlimited digital access from $4 per month Subscribe Already a subscriber? Log in

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In our latest issue, Australia’s great educator tells us why he is still deadly serious about our musical future.

It’s nightfall when I hit play on the Streeton Trio’s latest release, which features two minor piano trios from Mendelssohn. His first in D Minor, Op. 49 is a fitting opener for the rainy Hobart evening. Though hinting at brighter spirits, the dominant feeling is intense. The Trio’s members are inspiringly considerate of each other through radical dynamic ranges, making room for each part with what seems exaggerated courtesy. The following Andante con Molto Tranquillo offers a necessary respite; though gentle, it doesn’t fully release us from the tension. The Scherzo: Leggiero e vivace is highly repetitive in rhythm, but exploding with expression. Even through speedier passages, the ensemble boasts a unified voice – at once revealing conviction and grace. An arrangement of Gondellied, WoO 10 from the trio’s pianist Benjamin Kopp comes next. It’s excessively romantic, depicting the canals of Venice as Mendelssohn may have remembered them. Its expansion from 2/4 to 12/8 may be the cause of such dreaminess – an adventurous decision from Kopp. His arrangement of Spring Song, Op. 62/6 is comically quaint, while the Song Without Words in E Flat, Op. 30/1 uses lyrical lines to showcase cellist Umberto Clerici and violinist Emma Jardine’s skills….

Except for his Debussyesque Escales (Ports of Call), I’ve long regarded Jacques Ibert (known as “Jackie Bear” in Britain) as a sort of fellow traveller (along with Jean Françaix), with Les Six. He’s more talented than five of them, but without Poulenc’s genius for laconic glitter and Parisian chic. This well-filled CD (over 80 minutes – why can’t everyone be that generous?) gives a more rounded survey of Ibert’s oeuvre. The Divertissement (1930), which cemented Ibert’s reputation as a musical farceur, was adapted from a play called The Italian Straw Hat and is perhaps more sardonic than the usual Satieesque Keystone Cops-style slapstick romp, and none the worse for that. Escales (inspired by Ibert’s experiences during naval service in the First World War) is well played and, here, I must single out the lovely, sinuous oboe playing in the Tunis-Nefta movement – so different from the pinched, vinegary sound we used to hear from this orchestra in the Ansermet days. The reading is somewhat ‘northern’ and matter of fact rather than radiating Mediterranean languor, as in Charles Munch’s or Stokowski’s legendary readings.  The main discovery here is the Symphonic Suite, relocated to Paris from a play originally set in South…

Schumann’s Piano Concerto is a Romantic warhorse (albeit a very charming one) but Dvořák’s is largely unknown, despite being championed by Firkušný and Richter (accompanied by Kleiber) who restored the original version. Will advocacy by a pianist of Hough’s eminence convince people it’s a neglected masterpiece? Don’t expect any sublime ascents into the sunlit uplands or exhilarating ‘travelling tune’ allegros in the symphonies. Much of the Concerto falls between two stools: Hough has written about the “fiendish difficulty” of the solo part, although you’d never think so from his blend of heroic power, insight and finesse. There’s little overt bravura or man versus piano writing. The slow movement has moments of blissful repose but it’s only in the Finale that we recognise Dvořák’s hallmark earthy energy. It’s not first-rate Dvořák, but it’s interesting and worth the price of the CD. The Schumann is an almost complete contrast: highly pianistic writing and a lyrical meshing between soloist and orchestra. There are many felicities in Hough’s reading, from the first movement’s ruminative passages (where I greatly prefer Hough to the more youthful impetuosity of the recently released Lisiecki) to the poetic whispered exchanges in the Intermezzo (which are never simply coy), and…

Erland von Koch (1910-2009) had a long and distinguished career embracing various ‘styles’. This sample of his ‘serious orchestral style’ certainly whets the appetite. The two symphonies, receiving world premiere recordings, date from 1948 and 1952 and are superbly crafted without an ounce of flab. The style might be described as Hindemith-lite with a touch of Bartók, but the melodic invention is fresh and memorable. Koch’s formal structure and thematic development is organic and lucid with a satisfying inevitability yet never predictable; a divertingly novel path to a foregone conclusion. The orchestration is clear and transparent but with just enough weight to satisfy the senses and never resorts to gimmickry. The melodic lines are coloured by subtle instrumental doublings and mixtures (marvellous wind writing) and the arguments are cogent, logical and always moving forward with striding confidence. Movements avoid outstaying their welcome such is his concentration and economy of means. Impulsi, a thrilling orchestral showpiece with nervous triplet repetitions would make a marvellous concert opener while the Nordic Capriccio is an amiable, folk-tinged romp. The performances are impeccable with a sense of commitment and relish.  Sound is as transparent and natural as one expects from the label. Marvellous stuff.

And now for something completely different? By general agreement, Rattle’s 2003 cycle of Beethoven symphonies with the Vienna Philharmonic was inconsistent and hastily packaged, the conscious Haydnesque jollities of the First and Second symphonies – clearly Rattle had been listening to John Eliot Gardiner and Frans Brüggen – rubbing awkwardly against visions of the Third, Fifth and Ninth swept along by broad sweeps of Romanticism, like Rattle had also swallowed huge chunks of Wilhelm Furtwängler. Rattle is on record as saying that Furtwängler’s 1942 recording of the Choral Symphony epitomises everything genuinely great about the Berlin Philharmonic, its string sound in particular. And here’s the great paradox of this fresh Beethoven cycle, recorded with the Berlin Philharmonic in October 2015 – a decade on from his first attempt, Rattle has managed to make the yin and yang of HIP and a Romantic underbelly coexist and these Berlin Philharmonic readings sound less obviously indebted to its own heritage. “You can try to make [Beethoven] agree with himself when often he’s fighting with himself,” Rattle says in the bonus documentary included as part of the package. “But I have… Continue reading Get unlimited digital access from $4 per month Subscribe Already a…

Releasing a disc with two monuments of the Romantic cello repertoire is a major statement for a young performer. And in a somewhat crowded marketplace, those recordings need to be of the highest possible calibre. Miranda’s readings of both concertos are bold and voluptuous, demonstrating a fine sense of musicianship. Unfortunately the Venezuelan-American cellist’s solid performance is not always enough to galvanise this recording. Miranda plays with a strong sense of expressivity, so there are plenty of enjoyable moments. The Schumann in particular is quite delightful. The outer movements feature stunning passages of technical bravura, which Miranda manages well with a good sense of bite from the bow. The same is true of the final movement of the Dvorák. Other areas are less enjoyable. The cello is recorded quite closely, and there’s no real ambience in the orchestral sound, so the overall effect lacks atmosphere and depth. The second movement of the Schumann should sound like a cello aria surrounded by an orchestral halo, but the sound lacks that character. The first movement of Dvorák’s Cello Concerto should really pack a punch, but the final climax comes off flat, mostly due to the orchestra’s intonation. With some stunning recordings on…