Despite the presence
on this CD of the iconic Busoni, the
principal interest must surely centre
on the long lost Piano Sonata of Erik
Chisholm (1904-1965), now pieced together
and resurrected with the help of the
composer’s daughter Morag. Like the
composer himself today the work is something
of an enigma – played here more or less
in its entirety with terrific enthusiasm
and panache: Murray McLachlan has given
several ‘premieres’ in this Chisholm’s
centenary year - its very first performances
since Wight Henderson’s sole outing
in November 1939 at a Dunedin Association
concert in Glasgow – what days those
were! (surely a book must be written
of this music-making in 1930s Scotland
– see British Music Society Journal
No 21 – 1999 pp. 67-71). McLachlan has
now played the work on several occasions
and has from time to time essayed cuts
in the score. The jury is however out
on this subject and it may be some time
yet before a definitive edition is prepared.
This CD therefore is not necessarily
the definitive performance of this striking
and highly individual work - but it
would be hard to better McLachlan’s
account of a work that, the more you
listen the more hidden depths there
are.
The Sonata is in four
movements, a big canvas that, in company
with Thorpe Davie’s Violin Sonata, and
Francis George Scott’s songs, must for
its time have fallen strangely on the
ears of the douce Glaswegians. The composer
has given the Sonata an equally enigmatic
sub-title "An Riobain Dearg"
– "The Red Ribbon" – which
the accompanying notes suggest is the
title of a traditional bagpipe tune
to which Chisholm’s music might be related.
The first movement
opens with a melancholy solo pipe tune,
characterised by the double tonic and
elaborate pattern of grace notes from
which the movement develops, not in
first movement Sonata form, but in a
series of variants (a better description
than variations - ‘divisions’ was the
term in use in the 17th Century).
Though not indicated in the score other
than by obvious changes in texture and
structure there would appear to be a
dozen or more ‘variants’, seemingly
following (albeit with considerable
freedom) the procedures of classical
piobearachd – the theme or ‘urlar’ at
the outset like a ‘ground’. From the
opening static bars the texture becomes
more complex until after a pause there
is a brisk 12/8 section in the style
of piobearachd. This could perhaps even
be the true ‘urlar’ with the preceding
bars as a kind of introduction. Whatever
the composer’s intention, the melodic
implications of this appear in the inner
parts, in fourths, and then as a high
octave cry with its falling interval
– that fall that gives the lament character
of the piobearachd. The decorative grace
notes, which have more import than mere
ornamentation, proliferate, the whole
tone colour and swirling arpeggios recalling
the music of John Ireland – all evoking
a truly Hebridean spaciousness (where
pipe music is best appreciated). The
music becomes more sombre in mood as
it approaches a 14 bar Coda of shimmering
trills, ending on the dominant, the
octave figure now full of Celtic magic.
The second movement
in D (though ranging widely) begins
with a demonic scherzo figure in the
left hand, with trills punctuated by
impish runs , the whole developing into
a dramatic Bartókian war dance.
This broadens to a strong chordal 3-3-2
rumba rhythm (though lacking the connotations
of that dance) which later becomes a
complex 2 against 3 – and continues
insistently after some breathless moments
to an abrupt brilliante finish.
The third movement
in entitled ‘Lament’ and bears an in
memoriam note ‘Thetis’ June 3rd
1939 commemorating the sinking of the
tragic submarine. The movement opens
Adagio with a series of four linked
tritones setting an appropriately dark
mood which is followed again by a watery
pattern of decorative appoggiaturas,
like the cry of gulls. The thematic
impulse is given out in fourths leading
to a triple octave figure (possibly
derived from the first movement) which
appears later deep in the bass – its
character very close to the knocking
of Fate. Again the texture becomes impressionistic,
with swirling arpeggios, the ‘Fate’
motif, now encrusted with chromatic
accretions giving out its angry declamatory
cry. The conclusion, though strangely
marked ‘grandioso’, is dark and sombre
as the music sinks lower and lower,
the tritone colour reappearing. There
is a distant hint of a chorale like
figure which, although it has the spiritual
import of a Bach chorale (cf. Berg’s
Violin Concerto) sounds ominously like
a few bars of ‘Rule Britannia’?
The fourth movement
immediately banishes the solemn mood
with a bright exuberant dance melody
, again in fourths, developed with Bartókian
urgency and clamour. This becomes a
march-like tune, suggestive of the gathering
of the clans (and the March of the Cameron
Men?) Repeated through various keys,
this ultimately resolves into the eloquent
climax of the Sonata. This, over some
33 bars, represents the emotional heart
of the work – and from this sunlit peak,
although the basic dotted rhythm continues,
the music quietens . Hesitantly at first
the opening dance motif of the movement
returns and gradually re-establishes
itself towards a martellato conclusion.
This is a striking
work as it stands – and repeated hearings
will yield moments (and associations)
of real beauty.
One can hardly consider
the Fantasia Contrappuntistica as a
‘filler’! A majestic work, resulting
from the composer’s desire to complete
J.S. Bach’s last and incomplete Fugue,
it is given in MacLachlan’s hands a
magisterial performance. Busoni himself
thought of the work as "a study,
neither for pianoforte nor organ nor
orchestra. It is music. The sound mechanism
which imparts the music to the listener
is of secondary importance" It
is however the sheer logic of the music,
singing of a world far removed from
that of Chisholm, that commands at the
least admiration and at best a complete
immersion of self in the inevitability
of Busoni’s musical thought processes.
The disc opens - the
piano tone clear and resonant – with
the ‘drums and pipes’ section of Bartók’s
‘Out of Doors’ Suite – an evocation
as earthy as Le Sacre. And in the same
obsessive vein Sorabji’s nebulous Fantasiettina
begins darkly – but the prismatic centre
section is in complete contrast, like
coloured lights through the facets of
a crystal chandelier and full also of
aromatic allusions – dismissively ending
in a disgruntled even MacDiarmidian
Coda!
The other work in the
programme – Stevenson’s Threepenny Sonatina
– is the most immediately appealing
and most melodic work on the disc –
a ‘contrapuntal cocktail’ of songs from
‘The Threepenny Opera’ of Kurt Weill.
The piece is full of that quasi-decadent
atmosphere, and here in lightly pencilled
sketches, brought to life as picturesquely
as the Paris of Toulouse Lautrec.
Colin Scott-Sutherland
see also
ERIK
CHISHOLM
Piano MusicThird
Soanatina on Four Ricercars [8'04] Cameos
[13'51] Scottish Airs [11'25] Sonatine
Ecossaise [12'07] Night Song of the
Bards [29'38] 
Murray McLachlan Piano.
Olympia OCD 639
