| REVIEWS: divine art 25013 Stevenson: Passacaglia on DSCH | |
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MUSICAL OPINION: Stevenson’s work is a genuine Passacaglia on the famous four notes of Dmitri Shostakovich’s musical name. A passacaglia lasting an hour-and-a-quarter on just four notes seems impossible, but is both an astonishing compositional achievement and a deeply impressive emotional experience, notwithstanding the inclusion of some extraordinary, but always musical, keyboard effects, that carry the attentive listener from start to finish. Murray McLachlan has known this work for more than 20 years and has studied it with the composer. The resultant CD is a considerable achievement in musical and sound-recording terms: a wonderful 75 th birthday present for the composer. Strongly recommended. AMERICAN RECORD GUIDE: INTERNATIONAL PIANO: Stevenson began the Passacagalia on DSCH late in 1960 and it was finished in May 1962, although he continued to add to it until the day he gave the premiere, in December 1963. He didn't intend to write what is commonly reputed to be the longest single-movement work in the piano literature - the variations simply flowed: Stevenson usually quotes in analogy the flood of river-names in Joyce's Anna Livia Plurabelle that itself becomes a river of names. But the Passacaglia is not simply an incontinent rush of counterpoint: it is strictly organised, with a macro-structure that divides it into three large spans, within which it is subdivided into smaller episodes that maximise contrast. The 'Pars prima', for example, begins with a Sonata allegro and continues with a Waltz in rondo form, Episode 2, a Suite (itself divided into a prelude, sarabande,jig, another sarabande, minuet, a second jig, gavotte and a polonaise), Pibroch, Episode 2 and Nocturne. Stevenson thus has the best of both worlds: the inexorable onward tread of the passacaglia, which is strictly maintained throughout, and a startling degree of contrast. As a result, it's a work which telescopes time: on every single occasion I've heard it, I've worried that my concentration might not be up to the task, and the music has not only always carried me with it but somehow seems to lose half of its clock-time in the process - I end up short of 40 minutes. It wasn't long after the premiere before John Ogdon took up the work, and his was the first commercial recording, for EMI (and a clear candidate for re-release on CD). Stevenson's own first recording was a private one, limited to 100 copies; his later account, for Altarus, was released first on LP, in 1988, and subsequently on a double CD (AIR-CD-9091) - a cosmic illustration of piano mastery. Raymond Clarke's single-disc account on Marco Polo (8.223545), musically admirable, was hampered by rather congested sound. The back of the jewel box of this new recording presents an endorsement of Murray McLachlan's pianism by Ronald Stevenson. Small wonder: the performance is thrilling. His approach to the work somehow manages to combine an improvisatory freshness and a sense of the inevitability of the form. McLachlan has long been a champion of Stevenson's music (recording the two Piano Concertos, for example, on Olympia OCD 429), and he plays it here as if mastering its praeternatural difficulties were as natural as running your fingers through your hair. My only criticisms are of the quality of piano used - it sounds rather clapped out, and doesn't hold its pitch too well - and of the cover design, which is ugly. Still, your ears adapt to the piano, and you don't have to look at the cover all the time. Strongly recommended. BBC MUSIC MAGAZINE: Murray McLachlan’s entry into the DSCH pool makes a clear-cut choice more difficult. He’s terrific at sustaining cumulative momentum and keeping textures fresh and diversified during the work’s lengthy opening and closing sections. Like Stevenson, McLachlan employs liberal, organic-sounding tempo fluctuation that markedly contrasts with Clarke’s stricter adherence to the composer’s markings. At the same time, Clarke generally achieves suaver, more polished results when playing rapid scales and repeated notes; and his dynamics are more accurate. Stevenson’s performance on Altarus boasts the best engineering among the available CD editions, but spills over on to a second disc, and lacks separate track numbers for each section. On balance, Clarke remains your best introduction to this fascinating work, yet there’s much to admire in McLachlan’s colouristic instincts and seasoned musicality DSCH JOURNAL: Whether Ronald Stevenson, composer, scholar, virtuoso pianist, broadcaster and teacher, born in Blackburn, England, and aged 32 at the time, followed this Shostakovich trip, I don’t know. Certainly his engagement with worldwide current affairs, and with left-wing politics, was beyond doubt. But by that Christmas, he was settling down at the piano at home in his adopted Scotland, and starting to fool around with the DSCH motif on his own terms, turning this topsy-turvy post-War world of ideas and events into musical notes. By May of 1962, Stevenson’s private musings had mushroomed into one of the longest continuous pieces of instrumental music ever written, an enormous Passacaglia for solo piano which occupies 141 pages in the printed score, and which in performance just about fits, as you will see in the header above, within the Red Book limits for a single CD’s duration. More’s the pity, then, that the composer’s own commercial recording, for Altarus (AIR-CD-9091(2)), is spread needlessly over two discs, with other Stevenson works as makeweights, mirroring the original 2-LP issue. Anyone seriously interested in the work will want to hear what the composer has to say, but the Altarus set makes for an expensive introduction. Stevenson takes a broadly Romantic, dramatic approach to a work that sounds nothing like Shostakovich nor, indeed, much like anything else in the piano repertoire. Frankly (and at the time it was written, unfashionably) tonal throughout, the Passacaglia on DSCH evokes the spirit of Stevenson’s beloved (and then equally unfashionable) Busoni in its grand design and ambition, in three parts ending with a gigantic triple fugue; but it rarely sounds like Busoni, and whilst the DSCH motif is made to conjure echoes of anything from a Chopin Polonaise to African drumming, it is the individuality of Stevenson’s writing that leaves the strongest impression – together with the feeling that whilst inside the Passacaglia, time stands still and no other piece of music exists. Descriptions of the piece tend to be either technical or historical, and can make it seem forbidding. In fact it is nothing of the sort, holding the attention in a lucid and enjoyable fashion. Regardless of the Shostakovich connection, and sidestepping for the purposes of this review the issue of the history of the composers’ perceived political views, it’s clear that Stevenson was striking an early blow for compositional expressiveness in the teeth of Darmstadt by writing this vast, approachable and memorable work, and dedicating it to a composer he described as having “preserved the lineage of the great masters.” That quote comes from the speech Stevenson made when presenting a copy of the score to a rather embarrassed looking Shostakovich in Edinburgh in 1962. Altarus reproduce the speech in full, a fascinating historical document now. Stevenson asserts: “Since 1914 the terrain of Western music has been a no -man’s- land. Melody’s rainbow has been dispersed in fragments. I want you to know that some young Western composers look to you with gratitude and hope.” Sadly, decades would pass, as would Shostakovich, before such sentiments could once more be deemed acceptable by the musical, let alone political mainstream. The Passacaglia itself, though, never quite went away. Following the 1963 premiere, the composer made a private recording, issued in an edition of 100. It was succeeded by John Ogdon’s EMI studio account from 1965, sponsored by the British Council; a two-LP set that taught the work to my generation (EMI ASD2321/2322). The composer continued to play the work, and a new generation of pianists has taken up the cudgels. Raymond Clarke in 1994 and Murray McLachlan in 1999 (his version having taken four years to come to market) both worked closely with the composer on the Passacaglia in advance of making their respective recordings for Marco Polo (8.223545) and Divine Art. With the composer’s studio account, a 1990 issue, this gives the prospective purchaser a choice of three current Passacaglia recordings. Each recording features “little differences” to the printed score, thanks to Stevenson’s view of the continuity of the creative process, and his encouragement of the performer’s input. But they all present the Passacaglia as a big, convincing whole. The work derives from a seven - bar theme, repeated hundreds of times without transposition of pitch, though it sometimes vanishes into the surrounding pianistic maelstrom. Stevenson takes the DSCH motto, repeats it with two B naturals at the end, then plays DSCH backwards. That’s the theme: 13 notes; though as John Riley once pointed out, the rhythmic profile of the very first DSCH in the opening three bars of the Passacaglia seems to offer a characterization of the great composer, as well as his monogram. Right from this beginning, Raymond Clarke gives a commendably straight presentation of the score. Despite his performance apparently being assembled from disparate takes at differing venues, on different pianos, the final edit not fully representing the pianist’s wishes, it does hang together very well, thanks probably to Clarke’s long association with the work, and certainly to the familiar polish of his clean, superlative piano technique. The opening is cool, the acoustic dry, but the attention to the quieter, reflective music that follows is matchless, a perfect foil for the troubled nature of much of the more overt writing in the Passacaglia. The result is a moving, classical performance that gradually draws the listener in. By contrast, Murray McLachlan projects the work’s opening Sonata with a dark energy that recalls Scriabin, or Beethoven at his tetchiest; the start of a journey with real sweep and grandeur, the Passacaglia swallowed whole, as it were. McLachlan is stunning in the Fugue. Unfortunately the piano lets him down, and the upper octaves often don’t sound quite in tune in quieter sections. This is a shame, as in Lisztian passages such as those on pages 11 and 12 of the score he visits worlds of fantasy and virtuosity his two competitors do not often approach. In McLachlan’s hands, we’re always made to appreciate the Passacaglia as a meaningful, pertinent piece of contemporary music, rather than as an anachronistic freak-show. Stevenson’s spaciously-recorded Altarus recital is more expressive, moment-by-moment, than those of Clarke and McLachlan, and is marginally the slowest performance. In a sense the Passacaglia was written to be played by a generation of pianists long dead at the time of composition, to whose Romantic, questing or cerebral spirit it forms a memorial. Stevenson plays in a manner that gives that spirit life, his technique making a softer approach to the piano’s keys. Edges can seem blurred, and the work’s nocturnal, twilit sections sound more phantasmagorical, pointing to the serious concerns that lie behind the music, transcending notions of pianism, or the Classical tradition. Parts of the work are labelled To Emergent Africa, In memoriam the six million, and Lament for the Children. At the dark heart of a dark century, Stevenson was not only writing unfashionably approachable music, dedicated to an unfashionable genius; he was also suggesting that music should be involved in the world around it, a world perceived idealistically as a single dwelling place, for all men and women. The tragic uncertainties of real life are every much present here, though, and the idealist is no idle dreamer. What was fashionable in the Passacaglia, however, were the brief passages when the score demands unorthodox playing techniques; not just under and on the lid and strings, but also weird “swell” effects on a couple of individual notes, to be engineered electronically if possible, and a huge welling-up of bass sounds in the Emergent Africa section. These do now sound like period features, linking Stevenson in an incongruous manner to his exact contemporary Stockhausen, similarly world-music inspired, but at the opposite musical pole. For a fleeting moment we think of Mantra, Stockhausen’s epic piece on a similar scale from a decade later, written for two pianos and ring modulators. Then normal service is resumed. Some commentators have found these tiny sections embarrassing, and they don’t seem to add much to the work but distraction, whatever the version. Nonetheless, Stevenson was once more trying to suggest the existence of other worlds, inspired in part by the beginnings of space flight; and it is nice to think of the very first, respectable Cape Town audience being a bit horrified by those supposed jungle-drums. They sound nothing like them, actually, but the sense of threat to the norm is there. Clarke’s Africa, using differing pianos, is the best, for what it is worth. Clarke’s notes to his own release are, as always, excellent, and he calls the Triple Fugue the “highlight” of the Passacaglia. After more hearings than I care to admit, I’m no longer sure I agree. As a sustained contrapuntal achievement, it is hard to think of many serious competing works written since Bach and Beethoven’s op. 133; it is more than a match for the great efforts of Liszt and the various schools of organ composers in this regard. But Stevenson does incorporate the Dies Irae at the end, and since hearing Berlioz’s and Liszt’s comprehensive workouts for this plainchant, it has been my personal, if frivolous view that the menacing tune is due for retirement. Pianistically the final fugue section is absolutely stupendous, Clarke and McLachlan neck-and-neck in the virtuosic stakes, with the composer a little more approximate but magnificent in effect and control of colour. This is not the end of the masterly compositional road, however, and the Final Variations suggest a grandstand- finale that does not materialise, the actual close being quiet and equivocal. The extra four minutes the Clarke recording takes over McLachlan’s is accounted for in the main by his slow tempo in these last sections, which do indeed thereby become the highlight of his performance, a 13- minute coda with depths not hinted at by the bald-sounding opening; true in spirit to the composer’s current conception of the Passacaglia as a birth-to-death piece. The composer’s playing is more drawn-out and ethereal, spectral even in this section, and less visionary than Clarke, ending with an unfathomably low bass note of indistinct pitch, courtesy of his piano. McLachlan is much faster then the others in the Final Variations, a tortured conclusion for his compelling, stormtossed reading of the whole work. It’s this ending above all that makes you realise the true quality of the music you’ve just lived-through and which, believe it or not, makes you want to go back to the start and hear it again! This huge work has proved strong enough to survive the years, and very different pianistic approaches; the important thing is that you get to know It. So to the prospective purchaser’s, and the Editor’s nightmare. I suspect I may now have heard it more times than just about anyone, and the position with regard to a final recommendation is not clear. Not only do Altarus split Stevenson’s own recording between two discs, they provide only one track on disc two, which contains the bulk of the Passacaglia. This is extremely unhelpful, and both competitors offer more than 30 tracks for the work, referenced either to the notes, or to listings, with appropriate title headings for each of Stevenson’s sections; though there is some confusion in the matching of tracks and sections in the otherwise fine booklet from Divine Art. Repackaged on a single CD, and properly indexed, Stevenson’s version would carry obvious appeal and authority, especially as the sound quality is good, and the composer finds plenty of light and shade (mainly shade) in his own work. You may be less worried than I about the piano tuning that mars McLachlan’s riveting conception of the Passacaglia. His performance is filled with excitement, feeling and belief, and superbly executed. Clarke’s sound may be less good, and the pianist may well deserve another stab at recording the work in a more cohesive manner - he still has the Passacaglia in his live repertoire, and his view will have matured - but his existing recording is still the most reliable choice at present. Perhaps a transfer from Marco Polo to Naxos would ensure a new lease on life for Clarke’s commanding ten-year-old version, which achieves real profundity by the end. Which certainly isn’t to say that it’s a ‘budget’ interpretation; it is a remarkable achievement. The classic commercial recording of the Passacaglia on DSCH is that made by John Ogdon in the 1960s. But unless you are prepared to cash in your life-insurance to buy a second-hand LP copy and a turntable to play it on, you can’t hear it. The old cliché of the unavailability of a recording being a scandal is in this case simply true. Ogdon was one of the supreme pianists of the age, and this was one his finest achievements, forming one of the greatest recordings made of any repertoire whatsoever in the 20th century. The sound is a little dated, but the sense of Ogdon being there at the keys of a real grand piano is both palpable and moving. It is a magical experience. Where has it gone? Will EMI, or whoever now owns the rights please liberate this astonishing monument to musicianship and piano playing from the realms of limbo, at least for long enough for all those interested to investigate? This performance should be celebrated by the industry, not buried by it. Perhaps by Christmas Eve 2004, Journal readers will not only have become more fully acquainted with the Passacaglia on DSCH through one or other of the excellent current recordings, but also be looking forward to finding the remastered Ogdon waiting in their stockings. It seems extremely unlikely, however, that this will happen, and interested readers are urged to investigate the work, and its alive-and-kicking composer now, before the axe falls on current versions of the Passacaglia too. MUSICWEB: It has been played and recorded by the composer, by the late John Ogdon, Raymond Clarke, Mark Gasser – and on several occasions by Murray McLachlan whose various performances now result in this CD – a fortuitous accolade of ‘Divine Art’. A very real tribute from the composer to the pianist is quoted on the sleeve: "He has no greater appreciator of his pianism than myself". It could be argued that, apart from Ogdon (whose relationship with the composer dated back to their student years at RNCM Manchester) no pianist has grown up with this work in closer proximity than McLachlan. His career has been followed keenly over some thirty years since an early recital in Peebles (which both Ronald and I attended). The Passacaglia (not played on that early occasion) is necessarily something of a war-horse – a work that pianists who are pianists will aspire to tackle. Given the extreme range of virtuosity in this dramatic work ("Into which", says the composer, " I put all that I knew of the piano at that time") tackled with some tenacity over its length by each executant in his own way it must finally be argued that it is a work that, despite the tightly cohered structure of the opening figure (3), allows for individual interpretations (an approach sanctioned by the composer). Thus it seems to me like a leviathan, its multiple sections linked, providing a supple onward progression with the flexibility of vertebrae in a youthful and energetic body. Having myself grown up with the Passacaglia (played by the composer in his West Linton ‘den of musiquity’) in its earliest fragmentary sketches I seem to hear things therein, things not deliberately contrived, surprising in a contemporary work. But is it surprising? And although contemporary does that mean ‘modern’? Its dissonance is no greater than Bartók - even Bach – and even then only in the clusters of dramatic chords and in the concluding virtuosic variations . There are many many lyrical passages (Andante page 41? and the highly emotive ‘piobearachd’). In fact the whole impulse of the work is melodic. I can hear echoes of Schubert – and of Bax (in the Fandango section). I am convinced that from the early moments of the piece its development (and despite the apparent constrictions of the ever-present motif which the ear accepts but does not really hear, it does develop) parallels Stevenson’s composing career and, as naturally, the development history of Western Music – its growth unaffected by the fashionable ‘isms and ‘alities that passed as modernism in the erratic 20 th Century. It is McLachlan’s belief also that the work itself is capable of varied interpretation – not only interpretations by different executants but varied treatment within each pianist’s own reading of the piece. Here is a committed performance – only slightly quicker than the composer’s own. Stevenson has suggested, having performed the work about twenty times, that, on a scale of one minute to a year, the Passacaglia spans a lifetime, with a physical climax at the mid-span of a man’s three score and ten. If this climax could be considered as around the Alla Marcia (p.57) or immediately before the African drum section, then either seems viable. The work is in this sense, a living organism. If one has to quibble then I personally find the electronic manipulation (tho’ sanctioned by the composer – a silent crescendo and diminuendo not available in live performance) at ‘quasi chittara’ (p 46) of the harmonics emanating from the silently depressed chord sounding unpleasantly like a ‘miaow’! More puzzling is the curious and inexplicable colour coding on the sleeve, the ‘A’s of Passacaglia looking like some kind of measuring instrument? [note from Divine Art - the reviewer must have been on something strong when seeing this - the varying and somewhat unmatching fonts used for the cover were designed simply to reflect the work's nature, encompassing a whirlwind of differing styles! we have no connection with any organisation (we know who he means) associated with "measuring instruments" and the comment did cause great amusement] Let not such minor and inoffensive detail deter anyone from adding this CD to other recordings – even to other future issues, perhaps even by the same exciting pianist. And the work is an experience, an experience shared by Walton and Alan Bush. NOTES (1) OUP and now available from the Ronald Stevenson Society, 3 Chamberlain Road, Edinburgh EH10 4DL. price £29. (2) Music Ho! Constant Lambert, Faber, 1934, p.19 (3) Three variations over seven bars of the opening 4 notes DSCH, with its implied minor overtones, repeated throughout its length (I am told some 645 times!) |