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alternatively
Crotchet
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Alexander SCRIABIN
(1872-1915)
Scriabin chez Scriabin - Vladimir Sofronitsky, live at the Scriabin
Museum, 1960 Sonata No. 8, Op. 66 (1912-13) [13:07]
Preludes Opp. 22/1 (1897) [1:18], 11/12 (1888-1896) [1:25], 11/13
(1888-1896) [1:29], 37/1 (1903) [1:49]
Poèmes, Opp. 41 (1903) [3:48], 61 (1911) [6:12], 69/1 and 2 (1913)
[1:51 + 1:18]
Two Dances Op. 73 Flammes sombres and Guirlandes (1914) [2:02 +
2:31]
Preludes, Op. 74/3-5 (1914) [1:03 + 1:04 + 0:58]
Poèmes, Opp. 52/1 (1906) [2:25], 44/2 (1905) [1:00], 59/1 (1910)
[1:42], 51/3 (1906) [0:54], 52/3 (1906) [1:00] Poèmes, Op. 71/1-2
(1914) [1:28 + 1:41]
Masque, Op. 63/1 (1911) [1:11]; Vers la flamme, Op. 72 (1914) [4:34]
; Fragilité, Op. 51/1 (1906) [1:45]
Preludes, Op. 11/2, 4, 6, 19 (1888-1896) [1:53 + 1:29 + 1:27 + 1:07]
Feuillet d'album, Op. 45/1 (1905-05) [1:13]
Poème in F sharp, Op. 32/1 (1903) [3:05]
Enigme, Op. 52/2 (1906) [1:07]
Mazurka, Op. 40/2 in F sharp (1902-03) [1:22]
 Vladimir Sofronitsky
(piano)
rec. 6 January 1960 at the Scriabin Museum, except Sonata No.8 recorded
24 December 1960
ARBITER 157
[72:38] 
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Admirers of Sofronitsky’s Scriabin will need no prompting from
me to acquire this tremendously important historical release.
It enshrines a concert given at the Scriabin Museum in January
1960. With the exception of the opening item, the Eighth Sonata,
which wasn’t recorded – and for which a substitute has been used
from December 1960 - this is the recital as prepared by the pianist
who was Scriabin’s son-in-law.
The
programme moves through fluidity and contrast to take in Preludes,
Poèmes, and Dances and presents the Eighth sonata first, ending
its journey much later with the F sharp Op.40/2 Mazurka. It
does so moreover in ways that allow the listener to reflect
upon the variousness and range of Scriabin’s writing, that
journeys into the heart of its flammable dynamism, and also
presents its liquid mysterioso elements fully affirmed
and intact.
The
Eighth Sonata from December 1960 contains a pregnant sense
of unease and fluctuation, the subtle colouristic waves sent
forth with synaesthesic and treble flecked aptness. There
is a corpus of great playing here as well as the profoundest
of structural insights. The recording is good for the vintage
and rather better than the Museum recital that follows given
that - as must be admitted – the piano in use, Scriabin’s
own, was in need of a thorough overhaul; it’s out of tune
to a degree that will concern the casual listener and those
who are not prepared to extend a sympathetic ear, and listen
through these limitations.
If
you can do so, and such is the power of the playing that you
almost certainly will, then be prepared to admire the passionate
ascent of the line in the Op.22 No.1 Prelude, or the immediate
contrast that comes with Op.11 No.12 and its romantic liquidity.
So thoroughly sure is the sequence that the movement from
the first set of Preludes to the Op.41 Poème is carried out
with dream-like veracity, and here the mood intensifications
and subtle shifts of harmonic emphases are bewitching. True
there is shatter on the tape on occasion at fortes
– one such is the Poème-Nocturne Op 61 and another is the
Prelude Op.74 No.5 – but such moments are rare. So powerful
is the playing that one imagines all too readily the many
moments of proto-modernism enshrined in the music – Messiaen
for example in the Op.69 No.2 ‘birdsong’ and the audacity
and modernity of the Poèmes in particular are a constant feature
of the playing. Vers la flame is truly powerful here
but the Prelude Op.11/19 has an equal drama and a tumultuous
life force.
One
must acknowledge the piano’s tuning and the nature of the
recording, which is hardly hi fi; boxy as one would infer
from a small room. These things are part of the deal. In short
though this is a recital that deserves to stand in the august
ranks of great Scriabin playing – which is to say alongside
Sofronitsky’s own recordings and those of, inter alia, Richter,
Neuhaus and Horowitz, all of whom have espoused something
distinct and vital. The fact that it was recorded in the Scriabin
Museum adds something special, though gainsayers would doubtless
decry it as a sentimentalist position. Not me. This is
a special recital.
Jonathan
Woolf
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