Even by Janáček’s own standards, the
Concertino of
1925 is an extraordinary piece. At scarcely more than a quarter
of an hour, it is, nonetheless, a real concerto - in miniature.
For one thing, the composer specifies that the piano part is
to be played from memory (“memoried” as it appears
in the score). The first movement has a kind of classical exposition
repeat, and the coda of the finale is preceded by an immense
- in miniature - piano peroration. The instrumentation contributes
much to the work’s very particular character: there are
two violins, a viola, an E flat clarinet alternating with the
usual, B flat instrument, a horn and a bassoon. The first movement
is simply a duet for piano and horn, and the second for piano
and E flat clarinet, except for the last five bars where the
whole ensemble makes a sudden and surprising appearance. In the
remaining two movements the instruments, with one beguiling exception,
take very much a supporting role. That exception is the clarinet
in the slower, middle section of the third movement, where a
beautiful series of arabesques creates an exquisite nocturnal
atmosphere. The instrumental ensemble in the
Capriccio is
just as strange: flute doubling piccolo, two trumpets, three
trombones and tuba. The work is a tougher nut to crack than the
Concertino:
the colours are dark - to be expected given the instrumentation
- and the piano writing, for left hand only, is largely subsidiary
to that of the ensemble, with much figuration, scales and runs.
There is a fair amount of contrast in its four movements, but
it is not so fine a work as the
Concertino.
These two works originally appeared in 1996 on a disc from EMI
France, along with two cello works and the present performance
of the Violin Sonata with Mikhail Rudy as partner to violinist
Pierre Amoyal. Seven years were needed before Janáček
was satisfied with the work’s final form, but most of it
was actually composed in 1914 and undoubtedly represents the
composer’s response to the outbreak of war, and in particular
to the events taking place in the Balkans at that time. Julian
Haylock, in the brief accompanying note, evokes the sonata’s
violent changes of mood, though these do not feature in the meditative
slow movement which was composed even earlier, and separately,
from the rest. The scherzo begins with a folk-like motif reminiscent
of the adorable love music from the end of Act 2 of
Kát’a
Kabanová, and the finale, though once again featuring
changes of mood, is largely elegiac in nature.
The performances of all three works are excellent and recorded
in very good sound. We might not particularly associate French
musicians with the music of Janáček, but of course
the two concertante pieces are conducted by the composer’s
greatest non-Czech interpreter, Sir Charles Mackerras. I have
recently encountered his first recording of the
Sinfonietta,
recorded for Pye in 1959, and it is a revelation. The playing
is superb and the conductor shows how profound was his understanding
of the composer even fifty years ago and at the very beginning
of the Janáček revival. Simon Rattle’s Janáček
performances were well received when they appeared. I bought
them myself and was very impressed, but rehearing them now I
am not so sure. They are certainly very well played. The Philharmonia
strings manage the often stratospheric writing in the
Sinfonietta at
least as well as their foreign counterparts. I was taken by surprise
by a sudden
piano/crescendo in the opening and closing
fanfares, unmarked in the score, and ineffective to my ears.
It’s a detail, perhaps not very important and in any event
a question of taste. What is more serious is the overall feeling
that these readings are just a bit too comfortable. The second
movement of the
Sinfonietta, for example, is too straight
laced, and the fourth movement lacks character, the final bars
short on jubilation. The opening of the finale feels very slow,
with little sense of anticipation of what is to come, though
the trombones do growl deliciously later on. In spite of four
excellent vocal soloists - better, and more idiomatic than I
had remembered - and some superb choral singing, I feel the same
about Rattle’s performance of the extraordinary
Glagolitic
Mass. Jane Parker-Smith’s playing of the famous organ
Intrada pulls
no punches, so I’m disappointed to report a registration
so thick and heavy as to take away much of the music’s
impact. I’m no organ expert, but listening to Karel Ančerl’s
1963 performance on Supraphon you can hear every astonishing
note. These are fine performances, then, but they are short on
that quality in Janáček’s music which gives
the impression that the composer was almost out of control, even
unhinged. Mackerras, in both works, finds more of this whilst
at the same time keeping a firm hand on the tiller. Most Czech
performances, those conducted by Ančerl, for example, have
it in abundance.
The Diary of One Who Disappeared is a song-cycle like
no other. Twenty-one songs and a piano interlude tell the story
of a young man so enthralled by a gypsy girl that he fathers
her child and leaves his family and homeland to be with her.
At the heart of the work the girl herself appears, and Ruby Philogene’s
singing here is such that others amongst us would probably not
have resisted! An offstage trio of women’s voices provides
atmosphere for this, the most crucial, and the most erotic, part
of the story. Ian Bostridge is magnificent. He feels the music
superbly well, pacing the drama and using a variety of vocal
colour to bring the story to life. (It’s a sad fact, though,
that the lack of any text or even a summary of the story in the
accompanying booklet is an important, probably a fatal, handicap.)
I’m no Czech speaker, but his pronunciation sounds authentic.
But his is a very English tenor voice, and what is more, his
performance, too, lacks that wildness I refer to above. A fascinating
Supraphon disc (SU 0022-2 201) has two performances of the
cycle on it, one from Nicolai Gedda, recorded in 1984, and the
other by Beno Blachut from 1956, both with Josef Páleníček
at the piano. Two examples will suffice to explain why those
who really want to get to know this extraordinary work should
acquire this disc. Both singers achieve a better synthesis of
joy, excitement and playfulness in the short, stuttering song
near the end - “Now she bears my child, see how bright,
bright, bright her eyes are!” - than Bostridge does. And
then there are the final bars of the work, where the hero announces
that there can be no return to his former life, because “Zeffka
waits for me there, in her arms is my son.” He is both
exultant and appalled. The vocal line rises twice to a top C,
the final note he sings. Bostridge and Gedda are exultant, Bostridge
superb, Gedda, quite stunning. Only Blachut manages the extra
element. When I first heard his performance a lifetime ago this
passage made my hair stand on end. It still has a similar effect
today.
The original issue of
The Diary of One Who Vanished was
coupled with a collection of short piano pieces, and so it is
here. I haven’t been able to ascertain whether all the
original pieces are included, nor from which of several possible
Janáček collections they come, but anyone thinking
of them as simple makeweights, especially given how short they
are, should think again. Each of them creates a powerful atmosphere.
Some of them are clearly based on, or inspired by, folk themes
and, inevitably in such short pieces, frequently make use of
a single, tiny repeated motif. They are exquisite, and anyone
with seven minutes or so to spare in a busy life should sit down
and listen to them one after another. Thomas Adès plays
these pieces, as he does the often outlandish piano part of the
Diary,
with the utmost sensitivity and insight.
William Hedley
Performer details
Sinfonietta
Philharmonia Orchestra/Sir Simon Rattle
rec. Kingsway Hall, London, November 1982
Glagolitic Mass
Felicity Palmer (soprano); Ameral Gunson (mezzo); John Mitchinson (tenor); Malcolm
King (bass); Jane Parker-Smith (organ); City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra
and Choir/Sir Simon Rattle
rec. Great Hall, Birmingham University, January 1981
Concertino, Capriccio,
Sonata
Pierre Amoyal (violin); Mikhail Rudy (piano)
Soloists of the Opéra National de Paris/Sir Charles Mackerras
rec. Salle Ravel, Opéra Bastille, Paris, June 1995
Diary
Ian Bostridge (tenor); Ruby Philogene (mezzo); Thomas Adès (piano)
rec. St. George’s, Brandon Hill, Bristol, April 2001
Piano works
Thomas Adès (piano)
rec. Potton Hall, Suffolk, February 2000
see end of review for performer
details
