Rimsky-Korsakov: Scheherazade - Beecham/RPO

To be published...next week sometime.

Man, I am glad I did this one. I hadn't gone over all those recordings in a while.

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Album: RIMSKY-KORSAKOV: Scheherazade; BORODIN: Polotsvian Dances

Artist(s): Sir Thomas Beecham, Royal Philharmonic Orchestra, Beecham Choral Society

Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherazade is a wonderful, intoxicating piece of music. Standing as the composer’s most beloved composition, its picturesque Orientalism—realized through brilliant, inventive orchestration and an outpouring of exotic melody—lends itself perfectly to conductors’ varied styles. Listeners adore comparing performances—invariably, Reiner’s recording is extolled for its technical excellence, Stokowski’s for its mysticism, and Svetlanov’s for its 100% genuine Russian bombast.

Yet, even in such a crowded field, this present performance by Sir Thomas Beecham is perhaps the most universally admired recording of Scheherazade. In fact, it is so admired that even the colossal ego in Herbert von Karajan initially declined to record the work, remarking that Beecham’s interpretation could not be improved upon.

Frankly, the praise is bit overdone. This is not to say that this is a bad recording—by no means! Beecham was one of those conductors who could seemingly do no wrong, and there is certainly nothing wrong here, per se. But for comparison, let us draw upon one of Scheherazade’s very best performances—Ernest Ansermet’s lamentably rare 1954 recording with the Paris Conservatoire Orchestra.

Take the opening few bars. The Sultan’s theme roars out of the brass, and Scheherazade’s voice—symbolized by the haunting violin solo that unifies all four movements—responds, spinning the first of her tales, The Sea and Sinbad’s Ship. Beecham’s opening shows the maestro in classic form, smoothly propelling the metallic, ominous sound of the brass with a very musical and masculine snap. And his violinist is very good, depicting our heroine with seductive style. In contrast, Ansermet’s sultan is bit less forceful, a bit warmer and more balanced with the strings and reeds. His sultan has just a little more weight around the middle and strides in purposefully. Ansermet’s violinist plays swiftly, with considerable freedom and feeling—in his hands, Scheherazade’s’ feminine voice coyly convinces the sultan to pause and listen.

In the second movement, The Story of the Kalendar Prince, Beecham’s bassoon soloist is really very good, aptly injecting a bit of awkward character into his solo without sacrificing rhythm. The strings are very elegant. And the maestro’s same, classy, snappy phrasing works wonders in the faster parts of the music, particularly in all those wonderfully rousing orchestral strikes towards the end where his wide dynamic range really comes to bear. Clearly, Beecham has the superior orchestra and they play the pants off this music. Yet, Ansermet somehow makes his comparatively sloppy ensemble sound more appropriate—the fluttering, less precise winds are the voices of his characters, and the lighter, thinner strings are the dust and air they breathe. With them, he takes full advantage of Rimsky’s colorful and atmospheric orchestration, defining each melodic line with unerring clarity.

And these trends continue. In the third movement, The Young Prince and the Young Princess, Beecham is all elegance and charm, making a tasty “Beecham bon-bon” of this romance. And his clarinetist depicts a lovely princess indeed. But Ansermet’s is a lighter, sweeter, and more innocent pair of lovers—by comparison, Beecham has too little fairy tale and a bit too much Tchaikovsky. Is that such a bad thing? Well, no, actually it’s great, and no one could ever say that Beecham’s conception lacks character. But Ansermet’s storytelling is second to none.

The last movement, The Festival of Bagdad – The Sea – The ship goes to pieces on a Rock surmounted by a Bronze Warrior, with its mad dash to finish line and final moments of redemption, suits both conductors just fine. Beecham displays typical panache and energy, galloping through with a palpable sense of fun and arriving at a most sensuous conclusion. Here, his superior orchestra really does give him an edge. Still, Ansermet handles himself well, with the Baghdad festival coming off as quite a ragtag affair and the orchestra’s bright, blaring trumpet intruding in a wonderfully impetuous way.

In short, both recordings are excellent, but neither is the end-all performance. Beecham provides a vivid musical picture of a far away, exotic, spice-filled fantasy world. Ansermet provides a threadbare magic carpet and takes you there.

The “filler” of Borodin’s Polotsvian Dances are hard hitting and very exciting, demonstrating essentially the same qualities as Beecham’s Scheherazade but in music even better suited to them. The appearance of the Beecham Choral Society is a plus. The sound is typical 50’s—clear and very closely miked. The bass is a little weak, but not unacceptable.

Recommended, but don’t limit yourself to just this recording of Scheherazade. Get several different ones and argue over them. It’s fun!

Rating: A-

Verdi: Rigoletto

Written in Missouri, of all places. Under my own extreme duress.

Published in the October 21st issue of the Elmhurst College Leader.

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Album: Verdi: Rigoletto
Artist(s): Robert Merrill, Anna Moffo, Alfredo Kraus, Rosalind Elias, Ezio Flagella, David Ward, Georg Solti, RCA Italiana Opera Orchestra and Chorus


Rigoletto has had many excellent recordings over the years. In the beginning of the LP era, it was one of the first complete operas produced, with the incomparable Leonard Warren in the title role. When stereo emerged, each label dutifully churned out its own star-studded Rigoletto, featuring such luminaries as Ettore Bastianini, Carl Bergonzi, Joan Sutherland, and the like. And this trend has continued to the present. Rigoletto is one of the strongest warhorses of the recorded repertoire and will likely continue to be. Yet, surprisingly, in almost every recording of the opera, there is some obvious weak link.

Not so here. In Robert Merrill, we have the most glorious baritone voice of the postwar period—a dark and resonant instrument with ringing top notes and an unfailing sense of legato. Often criticized for ‘just singing’ and not adequately portraying his characters, Merrill’s performance here sweeps all such criticisms aside. His scenes with Gilda are tender, warm, and affectionate—entirely contrary to his nasty antics at the court of Mantua. Then witness his Cortigiani and Si, Vendetta, in which he unleashes his voice in righteous, paternal fury. And the moment when his daughter dies is crushing, not in the voice of a pathetic and deformed clown, but as a man overcome by grief in failing his greatest duty. To him, the hunchbacked jester is an almost noble character, twisted into viciousness by his infirmity. More than any other singer who has portrayed Rigoletto, he is utterly believable as a loving and vengeful father. It is truly his finest role.

Gilda is admirably cast as well. From a purely musical standpoint, Anna Moffo’s Gilda about as good as anyone could expect, with lovely, even tone from top to bottom, a seemingly perfect sense of phrasing, and not the slightest hint of vocal strain. Luckily, Gilda requires more musical skills than interpretive ones, though Ms. Moffo is not without some insight. Her Caro Nome is full of girlish longing. Similarly, her Tutte le Feste al tiempo tugs at one’s heart strings in just the right way—she is just so perfectly naïve and angelic, it seems nearly inevitable that someone will murder her.

Merrill’s Rigoletto and Moffo’s Gilda have few if any challengers, but the role of the Duke is another matter. Most every great tenor has taken a shot at the role, whether he was suited to it or not. Kraus succeeds admirably, though not without reservations. Frankly, his main weakness is that his reedy voice is not the equal of Pavarotti or Björling. But such comparisons are unfair—on his own terms, Kraus is a perfectly rakish Duke, full style, and may be summarized as an insightful study in shallowness. He is perhaps the most flippant Duke on record—in Ella mi fu Rapita, his ‘ardent’ longing for Gilda is expressed in almost irritated terms, like he’s lost a toy. La donna è Mobile is full of verve and swagger, clearly conveying the Duke’s irreverent attitude.

The chorus is handled very well, and the smaller parts are consistently well cast. Ezio Flagello’s Sparafucile is less illustrious than some (most notably Cesare Siepi), but serves very well, particularly in the final scene. David Ward is perhaps the best and most convincing Monterone on disc, in sonorous, commanding voice. And Rosalind Elias is very good indeed, injecting a great deal of character into the otherwise small role of Maddalena.

Solti’s conducting is very typical of the maestro. From beginning end, it’s loud, blaring hell on wheels, indulging in dynamic extremes and delivered with an orchestral sledgehammer. In Solti’s hands, Verdi’s claims of serving drama through music are well borne out. A lighter, more lyrical hand might be preferred in the opening party scene, but otherwise, it serves the taut drama of the opera perfectly.

RCA’s sonics are brain splitting. The balance between voices and orchestra is pleasingly theatre-like, so much that the performance sometimes sounds like an unusually good live recording.

In all, this is perhaps the most consistent and dramatic reading of Rigoletto ever committed to disc.

Highly recommended.

Rating: A

Red Army Ensemble

To be published...soon-ish in the Elmhurst College Leader. Unsure what issue.

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Album: Red Army Ensemble
Artist(s): Col. Boris Alexandrov, Soviet Army Chorus, Soviet Army Band

Yes, it’s that chorus. Whether you know them as the Red Army Choir, the Soviet Army Chorus, or the Alexandrov Choir, it is indeed the same ensemble that performed with the Leningrad Cowboys in songs like “Gimme all your Lovin” and “Sweet Home Alabama.”

But don’t judge them by their mediocre YouTube videos (or by the Leningrad Cowboys’ hair). This Great Recordings of the Century album captures the chorus at its absolute peak, way back in 1963 when the name “Red Army” actually meant something. Any cliché about Russian army choirs exists due to these gentlemen, and whether it be opera, folk, or pop music, this release illustrates why. Despite the album’s occasionally corny programming, the singing displays a truly militaristic level of discipline and “comradeship.” Or to put it another way—they’re tight as hell.

And what they truly excel at is pure sound. The basses are quite capable of a good subterranean rumble, the tenors are quite secure in their top notes, tuttis are scandalously abused, and very often there are as many as eight parts singing at once. What results is a steely, harmonically rich, masculine sound that is the aural equivalent of a roundhouse to the head.

For example, the Soldier’s Chorus from The Decembrists (Shaporin’s opera based on the first Russian Revolution of 1825) is delightfully bombastic, and displays a dynamic range wide enough to drive a truck through. Similarly, Song of the Volga Boatmen is taken at a brisk, militaristic speed and not only avoids sounding like a dirge, but capably shows off the physical impact of the choir’s tenors. And Kalinka—a song long associated with this ensemble—comes off perfectly, with its rapid accelerations and crescendos executed with breathtaking precision.

The soloists, too, are uniformly excellent, each demonstrating formidable technique rooted in the classic “glottal” Slavic sound. While there are far too many soloists to list, one of the standouts is Evgeny Belaiaev, whose bright, ringing tenor voice surely missed its greater calling in opera. His sustained high notes in the extremely Russian You Are Always Beautiful are fully the equal of most any operatic tenor singing today, and likely superior to most of them. The song itself is upbeat and cheery, demonstrating not only impressive breath control on the part of Belaiaev, but a convincing and necessary panache.

But even aside from objective or technical measurements of excellence, this ensemble is top notch. As should be expected, every Slavic selection is thoroughly idiomatic (balalaikas are used everywhere) and performed with trademark Russian sentiment. Some are very good, many are eminently forgettable, but all are unlikely to ever be better recorded. Among the better selections as yet unmentioned, Black Eyebrows is appropriately melancholic, Snowflakes is sincere and devoted, and The Little Bells is beautifully wistful. Ukrainian Poem, which relays the story of the Ukraine’s liberation from the Nazis, is probably the best cut on the entire album. Bass Aleksei Sergeiev sings with great pathos and the choir’s entrance is appropriately spectacular—the result is a six-minute piece of music rendered as epic drama.

But what is perhaps most interesting about this album is the choice to record various English-language songs. Annie-Laurie, the well loved Scottish ballad, is given perhaps its best choral treatment on record, beating out even the various renditions of Anglo-Saxon groups. Again, Evgeny Belaiaev makes an appearance as the soloist, and his voice floats beautifully above the rich, swelling a capella sound of the chorus. Yes, it’s a Soviet military choir singing with a thick Russian accent on a Scottish song (which has a Scottish accent written into the lyrics!), but somehow, it’s still convincing, and undeniably beautiful.

This is not so say that many of the English cuts aren’t kitschy—indeed, they are. The accents, after all, render the English nearly undecipherable. It’s a long way to Tipperary is rendered “Eet’s uhh lowng vhey too Tihperharry,” and the brass sound like Mariachi music for a moment, but the effect is hilarious. The fact that they can pull this tune off at all is in itself impressive.

So, is it really a Great Recording of the Century? Yes, if you dig the style and the offbeat program. Like other titles in this series, it’s currently selling in the $7-$12 range. Strongly recommended for choral enthusiasts and vodka drinkers.

Grade: A

Brahms: 21 Hungarian Dances - Abbado/VPO

Destined for 2/26/08 issue of the Elmhurst College Leader. I think.

Someday, I'm going to get my paragraphs on here to indent when I want them to and not just when they choose to be cooperative. Stinking technology.

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Album: Brahms: 21 Hungarian Dances

Artist(s): Claudio Abbado, Vienna Philharmonic

Arkivmusic.com’s “on demand” service is a Godsend for serious collectors. Boasting around 5200 titles and adding new ones all the time, the service provides exact reproductions of long out-of-print CDs along with their original artwork and inserts. This Deutsche Grammophon recording has long been a favorite among listeners, and Arkivmusic was wise to license it for their catalogue.

Claudio Abbado’s conducting is relentlessly driven and immaculately executed. The Vienna Philharmonic, then as now, was arguably the best orchestra in the world, and they play perfectly. And of course, Abbado has long been known as a Brahms conductor.

Sounds like a winning combination! And in some of the more vigorous dances, Abbado’s approach does work extremely well. No. 1, for example, has just the right amount of snap, and is somewhat reminiscent of Toscanini’s 1953 recording (though without the latter’s trademark transparency). The famous No. 5 is suitably energetic and makes great use of dynamic contrast, albeit without a great deal of humor or variation in tempo. No. 10 leaps out at you like gangbusters, and it is here that Abbado really hits his stride—the tempo is so fast it’s almost funny. He apparently takes the presto marking very seriously, and the resulting frenzy is downright thrilling.

And yet, this album is only half successful. Recall that this music is largely based on Hungarian folk melodies—but Abbado’s conception lacks any sense of these origins. For comparison, take István Bogár’s reading of dance No. 3 on the Naxos label. For Bogár, the opening theme is reedy, lackadaisical, and utterly charming; for Abbado, this same theme is light, cleanly articulated, and somewhat detached. Where Bogár’s conducting sparkles cheerfully, Abbado’s gleams like stainless steel.

This is not to say that every dance must be infused with a self-aware rustic quaintness. No. 14, for example, was an original composition by Brahms and has a sufficiently urbane feel to fit Abbado’s less sentimental conception nicely. But even in the similarly “inauthentic” dance No. 11, Abbado falls short. The lovely Brahmsian melody is handled by Bogár with dignity, warmth, and an aching sense of melancholy. By comparison, Abbado’s reading is just that: a reading. Effective but unengaging.

And this is the general trend throughout the album. Abbado consistently turns in high-speed and technically excellent performances, with the orchestra heavily balanced in favor of the strings. The result is big-boned, driven, colorless, and often devoid of charm. In some cases, the phrases are so abruptly articulated that any sense of flow is lost, and rests begin to feel like short, grinding halts. In this regard, Abbado is the only conductor I know of who can take one of the world’s greatest orchestras and make Brahms sounds like musical chairs. And Deutsche Grammophon’s harsh 80’s sonics don’t help matters.

In short, Abbado has his good moments, but not enough of them to make the entire cycle a first choice. Unless you’re a fan of Abbado or particularly love technically-excellent orchestras, stick to Bogár’s idiomatic and dirt-cheap cycle with the Budapest Symphony Orchestra. He’s even Hungarian.

Rating: B

Previn conducts Debussy

To be published 2/12/08 in the Elmhurst College Leader.

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Album: Debussy: Images/Prélude à l'apres-midi d'un faune

Artist(s): André Previn, London Symphony Orchestra (LSO)

André Previn is one of those conductors who never achieved the god-like status of many contemporaries, yet consistently managed to turn in excellent and well-balanced performances. Furthermore, his affiliation with the London Symphony Orchestra is one of the better partnerships on record, and their collaborations are well represented on this and other Great Recordings of the Century discs.

Yet, what is likely this release’s greatest strength is its digital sound. Something of a marvel in 1979, this was EMI’s first venture into digital recording, and the album won Gramophone awards that year for both the performance and the sound engineering. If digital sound is an overarching concern, then, this release may be seen as the main competitor for Pierre Boulez’s excellent Debussy recordings on Deutsche Grammophon.

The present performance of Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun is easily one of the finest on record. There is a lingering, indulgent, sensuous quality to the entire thing, which is entirely appropriate to the “mood paintings” of Doret’s lusting faun. The LSO’s sound is warm and full, and the strings are surprisingly rich, lending greater credence to the “preponderant influence of Wagner” alleged at the work’s premiere. Yet, Previn maintains a surprising transparency throughout the performance, thereby managing to aptly balance the exotic with the cerebral.

This same, palpable exoticism may be heard in the Images. Previn’s Gigues gets much closer to the English countryside than Boulez ever did (Keel Row actually sounds folksy here). Similarly, Ibéria conveys all the ardor of the Spain Debussy had in mind, but Boulez fares surprisingly well in comparison; where Previn uses a wide palette of colors and textures to portray the exotic, Boulez’s precise, crystalline intensity has an exoticism all its own. And Previn’s Rondes de Printemps is invigorating indeed, played with an eager, youthful impetus that leaves most other versions coughing in the dust. The liner notes claim that most of the cuts were done in single takes, and this energetic Printemps seems likely to be one of them.

The Nocturnes are somewhat less striking. Nuages works very well and is certainly be preferred over Boulez’s too-transparent rendition, but neither version truly captures the feeling of clouds. Fêtes is animated and played with a bludgeoning sort of gusto, but is not terribly cheery—a real shame, given the warm, upbeat approach Previn brought to the Images. But Sirénes is excellent, and the rich sound maintained through the album is again used to great effect. One can almost feel the ocean—waves roll lazily across the strings, swell through the horns, and come to majestic rest, all while the sirens sing with a distant, lovely, alluring femininity. It’s utterly splendid.

So, which to get, Previn or Boulez? While extremely different, both are equally valid approaches. Boulez’s precise, transparent style offers much to be admired, and his more complete survey of Debussy may give him an edge (particularly since his collection includes the magnificent La Mer). But Previn’s full-blooded renditions are certainly gorgeous. So why not get both? It’s great music. And at the moment, copies on Amazon appear to be starting in the $4-5 range. Such a deal.

Rating: A-