Overture in F minor from the opera Dionys, Op.5 (1832-34) [11:55]
Piano Concerto in F sharp minor, Op.1 (1828-29) [33:10]
Entr’actes, Op.17 (1827-28) [17:06]
Tobias Koch (piano)
Hofkapelle Stuttgart/Frieder Bernius
rec. February 2012, Musikhochschule Stuttgart
CARUS 83.297 [62:27]
Amongst the casualties of the Romantic era, Norbert Burgmüller,
contemporary of Mendelssohn and Chopin, is now little remembered. He suffered
ill health. A doomed love affair seems to have led to epilepsy, from which
he died in 1836, whilst trying to alleviate his condition in the spa in
Aachen. It was no less a figure than Robert Schumann who wrote that, after
the death of Schubert, no musical loss had been more grievous.
His two symphonies have already been released by Carus. They now turn
to the rest of his orchestral music, of which little survives. The operatic
fragment Dionys does not survive, but its overture does. Twelve
minutes in length it’s cut from Weberian cloth. Opening portentously
it develops a strong sense of atmosphere and romantic expression. Burgmüller
handles his horns and winds with acumen and laces the music with a good
sense of panache and no little style. It’s a pity that he struggled
with the text of the opera, which he deemed poor, and which was the principal
reason the work was never finished. The overture is highly proficient,
and good enough for Mendelssohn to have performed in concert.
The Piano Concerto, composed earlier, is his Op.1. Completed in 1829,
it’s cast in the three expected movements. It has the distinction,
apparently, of being the first piano concerto to sport trombones. It’s
written in F sharp minor, a quite unusual key. These pointers are enough
to suggest an individuality of spirit and a lack of conformity. Those
hopes are not wholly met but it is certainly a concerto worth getting
to know. The piano steals in after the orchestral introduction. A contemporary
critic wrote of the work as a ‘strange symphonic poem full of sumptuous,
wild geniality’. This presumably alludes to the role allocated to
the orchestra, both in general and in specific localised incidents such
as the unusual cello solo in the slow movement. The cello plays deft figuration
whilst the piano pirouettes around him. The cello solo should not be taken
as a precursor of that in Brahms’ second concerto; it serves a wholly
different function, but it is unusual enough to note its presence, and
it represents another example of the composer’s questing imagination
as to form and function. The confident handling of the finale is exemplified
by the exchanges between piano and orchestra and drama is built up and
sustained to the very end, where the percussion beats out a triumphant
tattoo.
The Op.17 Entr’actes, of which there are four, date to 1827-28.
It’s unclear as to whether these were intended for specific staged
works or plays at the Kassel Court Theatre. Nevertheless these show the
composer at his most lyrically unbuttoned and orchestrally deft. The wind
writing is especially cherishable and there’s winsome charm in the
second of the four, a lovely scherzo; hints of Schubert here. Both the
concluding Andantinos are eventful and enshrine plenty of characterisation.
The soloist in the concerto is Tobias Koch who plays a Viennese Bösendorfer
dating from 1849. Its use is interesting, not least because an attempt
is being made to bind the solo with the orchestral writing in a dialogue
that denotes integration not opposition. That’s also made easier
by virtue of the size of the Hofkapelle Stuttgart under their director
Frieder Bernius: 7-6-5-4-2 for the strings, which gives an idea that the
Bösendorfer is cast with, not against, the accompaniment, though
the band plays modern instruments. The performances, as a result, are
most sympathetic to the idiom.
Jonathan Woolf
Robert Schumann wrote that, after the death of Schubert, no musical loss
had been more grievous.
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