Aaron Jay KERNIS (b. 1960)
Flute Concerto (2015) [28:27]
Air (for flute and orchestra) (1996/2016) [10:44]
Symphony No 2 (1991) [26:17]
Marina Piccinini (flute)
Peabody Symphony Orchestra/Leonard Slatkin, Marin Alsop
rec. 2017, Peabody Institute of the Johns Hopkins University, Baltimore, USA
NAXOS 8.559830 [65:38]
Since my last MWI dalliance with the music of Aaron Jay Kernis almost two years ago, the composer’s reputation has gone from strength to strength. His 4th Symphony ‘Chromelodeon’ was premiered in Nashville in 2018 (and according to the composer was laid down at the time for future release by Naxos); perhaps even more significantly James Ehnes’ silky Onyx account of his fine new Violin Concerto picked up two Grammy awards earlier this year (2019), for Best Contemporary Composition and for Best Classical Instrument Solo (Ehnes is accompanied by the Seattle Symphony Orchestra under Ludovic Morlot - it’s coupled with James Newton Howard’s concerto and available on ONYX 4189). I assume Kernis has a sturdy mantelpiece; his personal Grammy presumably stands proudly alongside his Pulitzer Prize (1998, for his String Quartet No 2) and his Grawemeyer Award (2002, for the profoundly moving concertante work Colored Field, originally for cor anglais, later arranged for cello). Whatever one’s view of the idea of awards, it is virtually impossible to imagine a more impressive haul.
The USP of this new Naxos issue is the premiere recording of another concerto, this time for flute, inspired by and conceived for the Italian-American flautist Marina Piccinini. In recent years Kernis’ output has seemingly been dominated by the concerto form, and the new work clocks in at just short of thirty minutes, in keeping with the ample durations of most of its siblings. Kernis has the impressive knack of holding the listener’s interest in these pieces from first note to last and the new piece is no exception. It’s cast in four movements; the odd numbered panels are longer than their even-numbered counterparts and are relatively moody and mercurial. All but the first derive from old dance forms. The composer enigmatically hints in the booklet note that he himself may well be the subject of the opening Portrait. The solo material is fluent and attractive, expressively rather than technically challenging. Piccinini’s elegant playing is pitted against a backdrop of occasionally unpredictable outbursts from tempestuous brass and frenetic piano and celesta. It’s not always easy listening and rather bucks the trend for a flute concerto. This Portrait seems rather agitated and preoccupied throughout and becomes increasingly jazzy and raucous until its chiming, percussive conclusion. An unusual interloper makes its presence felt at the outset of the following Pastorale-Barcarolle, a mandolin. This is lighter, sunnier music, whose pastel shades yield to percussion and piano before the soloist takes up a mellow, walled-garden type groove. Some of Kernis’ fascinating contrapuntal collisions evoke the richness of Alban Berg’s Seven Early Songs. The second subject is swift and skittering, it wears itself out and gives way to a gentle Barcarolle which projects a Mediterranean lilt, a flavour reinforced by the mandolin textures. A sombre Pavan constitutes the emotional core of the piece. It’s just as elusive as the opening movement, only more stately. Kernis writes most naturally for the flute, but the Pavan seems more memorable for the richness of its textures than its melodic content. These arguably draw attention away from the soloist and colourful as this accompaniment is, I can’t help wondering if it’s perhaps a tad overwritten. There’s a brief but exciting cadenza before the movement’s uneasy denouement. The rollicking Taran-Tulla finale is great fun. Its presiding, benign influence is legendary Scottish flautist Ian Anderson, whose famous folk-rock band is alluded to in the awful pun of its title. This is joyous, riotous flute with orchestra fare, liberally doused with a bluesy tang (and despite Kernis’ claims to the contrary, with the heady scent of folk-rock too). The movement is propelled headlong towards another mini-cadenza before an incisive, racy conclusion. There’s hardly a huge reservoir of contemporary flute concertos out there, and this substantial and welcome addition is imaginatively designed and expertly written. Marina Piccinini captures its expressive fluctuations superbly, and the Peabody Orchestra offers sterling support under Leonard Slatkin. The Naxos recording is vivid and full.
Air is arguably Aaron Jay Kernis’ Fratres. A brief, meditative interlude, it exists in multiple versions, many of which have found their way onto disc. This delightful arrangement for flute and orchestra well suits its gentle, songful character. Kernis’ use of a large chamber orchestra is sparing and tasteful, and features delicious punctuations from harp and piano, which inevitably promote unconscious associations with Aaron Copland’s more reflective landscape-inspired pieces, not least the once ubiquitous Quiet City. It provides an apt addendum to the concerto and Marina Piccinini again proves to be a sensitive, empathetic advocate.
The disc concludes with another big, serious work, Kernis’ 2nd Symphony of 1991. I got to know this work when it appeared a couple of decades back on one of the many Argo discs devoted to this composer in a blistering performance by the CBSO under Hugh Wolff. (This issue was later licensed to and reissued by Phoenix - review). Notwithstanding that superb performance and the demonstration quality recording, I found the piece a tough nut to crack then; the intervening years have done little to soften that view. The symphony features a tripartite design. The opening Alarm conveys an urgent, propulsive strain of Americana, driven by pulsing strings and snarling brass; its flow is intermittently stopped in its tracks by angular, jarring percussion interjections. Repose and/or escape occasionally threaten but never materialise. The Peabody band are well recorded and seem much enthused by the music, but the CBSO seem more svelte and disciplined. There is a brief hiatus for breath at 3:05, but it doesn’t occupy the listener for long. The hyperactive, glittering percussion project distant, unachievable gamelan beauties that might exist in a parallel universe but are seemingly parenthetical in this one. The long central movement, entitled Air/Ground is built upon a soft, stately chorale in the winds, a welding of funeral march and elegy which conveys a haunted, filmic quality. This is music about conflict and consequence. Harp and percussion blend with shrill winds as if seeking a way forward but a dramatic climax intervenes and shudders to a halt, leaving only the lustrous, string elegy. The movement’s world-weary conclusion seems to have been hollowed out from within. The Peabody Orchestra is a capable outfit but for me Wolff’s CBSO is seamless and the spacious Decca recording is outstanding. In the concluding Barricade a swish of side-drum leads to an exposed unison string melody (a lack of consensus in the orchestra here is a little disconcerting). Kernis’ lines are stark, like an American Schnittke, but at the climax at 1:51, textures thicken and stiffen. The argument becomes fragmented, bare and militaristic. Long sustained fibres of melody duel with confrontational explosions and percussion crashes. The chorale-like theme from the second movement recurs but offers little consolation. This grim, unforgiving symphony ends in a mushroom-cloud crescendo of tam-tam and cymbal.
The great strength of Aaron Jay Kernis’ symphonies and concertos is that the listener never really knows what’s around the corner. If the Air offers a little balm and solace, the two big works that surround it on this disc offer contrasting variations of unease, notwithstanding the Flute Concerto’s many relaxed, appealing episodes. I find that work likeable and convincing, and well worth the modest outlay for this disc. I remain largely unmoved by the symphony however, despite its impressive orchestration. The composer provides succinct, clear introductions to all three works in the booklet.
Richard Hanlon
