This must be at least
the third Leroy Anderson disc I’ve listened
to in a matter of months – not that
I’m complaining. If ever there was a
master of the genre it was Anderson
and even if it would be nice to hear
the Violin Concerto or the Piano Concerto
in C rather more than we do, that’s
still no reason to spurn the light miniatures
and pops that so wonderfully evoke both
time and place.
The source here is
Cologne with the WDR Rundfunkorchester
under Pinchas Steinberg, a versatile
conductor. The recordings are not new
and I assume they derive from radio
broadcasts as they were made in 1988
and are now released in SACD format
– though I’ve only listened on a standard
set up. The programme is pretty standard
Anderson and the only question is how
blue the clarinets are in The Syncopated
Clock (answer; quite blue enough
for my liking) and how aerial and nostalgic
is the flute solo in Forgotten Dreams
(splendidly). Does the Sandpaper
Ballet work or is it generic – in
this performance it works well with
its soft shoe shimmy nicely approximated.
One of the highlights here – indeed
one of my favourite pieces of Andersonia
– is the Sarabande where he alternates
nobility and saucy wit and where the
strings’ earnestness is hilariously
undercut by the battery of insolently
puckish percussion. Maybe – just maybe
– we could get more incision once in
a while; possibly Jazz Pizzicato
could dig a shade harder. But there’s
filmic grace to the violins’ line in
The Waltzing Cat (and a nice
bark and feline spit at the end). There’s
also a pretty good spatial balance in
The Penny-Whistle Song where
the trumpets sound properly back o’
town. We end with the effulgent and
well-orchestrated nostalgia of The
Golden Year.
The notes are perfectly
serviceable. The cover booklet has
– wait for it – a couple, silhouetted
and tangoing whilst lit by the blue
ocean and sky. Look carefully and you’ll
see she’s just on the edge, held against
him; one false move and over she goes.
It’s noir-ish, with just a hint of Philip
Marlowe. And you just know he wouldn’t
do it.
Jonathan Woolf