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Track(s) taken from CDA67534

Madrigal in memoriam Oleg Kagan

composer
1991

Alban Gerhardt (cello)
Recording details: August 2005
Wigmore Hall, London, United Kingdom
Produced by Andrew Keener
Engineered by Simon Eadon
Release date: June 2006
Total duration: 8 minutes 22 seconds

Cover artwork: Young Boy Holding a Skull (detail) (1893) by Magnus Enckell (1870-1925)
Ateneum Art Museum, Helsinki / Central Art Archives, Helsinki / Matti Janas
 
1

Reviews

'It is done with trememdous drama and conviction and a dynamic range that will challenge your ears and speakers' (American Record Guide)

'Schnittke is Shostakovich’s successor in life, art and on this CD. Gerhardt and Osborne play the finale of the older composer’s sonata with a beautiful fluency, highlighting the cello’s running semiquavers and the piano’s pinging scales, which then reappear in the thrilling presto of the younger’s homage-filled work. There could have been more grit in Schnittke’s whirlwind, but the heart-clenching sorrow the duo depicts elsewhere, particularly in the Madrigal for Oleg Kagan, is a compensation. The programme ends lightly with Shostakovich’s Eight Pieces for Cello and Piano, which are short, catchy, childish and fun' (The Times)

'The peformers give vivid and briliant delineations in this well-balanced recording' (The Strad)

'Beautifully recorded and played, this is a disc that enchants simply through the sound it makes. Both Gerhardt and Osborne are noted especially for their poetic insights and whenever the music turns introspective here they cast a magic spell so as to have one hanging on to their every note' (Classic FM Magazine)

'Gerhardt and Osborne are perfectly attuned to the music's nuances and more expressive gestures … simply put, this is the most convincing version of this sonata I've ever heard' (Fanfare, USA)

'I cannot recommend this disc enough. True, it is full-price, but I bet you will play it many more times than a multitude of super-budgets. Superb' (MusicWeb International)

'Dmitri Shostakovich carved the scherzo of his Sonata in D minor for Violoncello and Piano Op 40 out of a dizzy deathsome spin. The staccato in the piano part sounds like the bony rattle of a xylophone. Evil shades haunt the harmonic phrases of the cello in the trio. After just three and a half minutes the whole thing is over: as quick as flash, malicious, this little dance. But for the slow introduction to the following Largo, Shostakovich created a kind of never-ending melody. It describes a generous ascending arch: a cello recitative, supported only by a few pillars of piano chords. Hardly has one noticed that a phrase has ended than it begins all over again. Alban Gerhardt plays this quasi-recitative at only half-volume, as if speaking aside, into the backstage area. The elegy that then arises is sung bloomingly and magnificently from the full breast of the cello, with the passion of a full-vibrato tone … but because this D minor sonata was actually the first major work of chamber music by Shostakovich that he himself let stand; because―in four movements, faithful to sonata form, with regular recapitulations―it also has definite conservative-romantic features and seems to lay aside anything would-be revolutionary; for these reasons there is also a strong temptation to see it as an early witness of the biographical-compositional rearguard action―and to interpret it correspondingly, highlighting its contrasts. The great young Berlin cello virtuoso, Alban Gerhardt, and his piano accompanist, Steven Osborne, are not exaggerating when they do so. Their reading is still differentiated, always closer to the sound-speech of the composer’s text than to extra-musical hints and suggestions. The range of expressive variants is admirably wide, the rhythmic precision and the cleverly balanced dynamics in the way they play together is no less impressive than the range of pianistic and cellistic tone colours. In this presentation, simply everything is in keeping. The duo also arranges the cello sonata of Alfred Schnittke, written for Nathalia Gutman in 1978, in a lucid and clear fashion, with its melancholy twelve-tone sequence at the beginning and the presto drive threatening to become a tempest in the middle. How this duo gives itself to this deadly long-distance run and still insists on beauty of tone is something one just has to have heard. And the small 'encores' on the album? Every one of them a poem in itself' (Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, Germany)

'Alban Gerhardt came late to the instrument, but now his mastery of it is both virtuoso and disrespectful, both individual and intellectual. His play is direct and boisterous, but then again astonishingly soft and open to all sorts of fleeting suggestions. He is not a paragon of refinement, but lives music. That can be heard again in his unfeigned enthusiasm for the bitter-sweet cello sonatas of Dmitri Shostakovich and Alfred Schnittke, where he is energetically supported at the piano by Steven Osborne. Gerhardt enjoys a flowering phrase but also a breathy staccato, he plays with full tone and also knows how to whisper. But at all times he is master of the cello, oscillating miraculously between discipline and freedom' (Die Welt, Germany)

'Because Gerhardt and Osborne do not blast out Shostakovich’s music statically and obsessively, and do not make him play the same old role of the eternally divided soul with sewing-machine rhythms and tortured pathos, they take him seriously as a sound painter in chamber-music style. This fabulous recording is meaningfully rounded out with Alfred Schnittke’s sonata for cello and piano, the very piece that followed Shostakovich, and two pieces by Schnittke for solo cello, including a wonderful pale-moonlight madrigal with a static melodic pattern, and then, finally, arrangements of some Shostakovich bagatelles. In all: a well-conceived production, expressive playing, generously packed (80 minutes)―a must-buy' (Wirdschaftswoche, Germany)
By 1991, his health failing after a severe stroke, Schnittke’s music became increasingly dark and introspective. The playful stylization of the early Concerti Grossi was a decade behind him, and works from his last years (1991–8) have not to date achieved the popularity of those from the 1970s and ’80s. The Madrigal In Memoriam Oleg Kagan (1991), written in homage to the violinist who had premiered many of Schnittke’s works and who had recently died, is intensely private, to the point where the listener can feel they are eavesdropping upon a dark, grieving monologue. Its cello-writing is improvisatory and spare, not admitting even a suggestion of the religious faith that had illuminated so much of Schnittke’s earlier work.

from notes by Pauline Fairclough © 2006

En 1991, Schnittke, à la santé déclinante après une grave attaque, composa une musique de plus en plus sombre et introspective. La stylisation enjouée des premiers Concerti Grossi avait déjà dix ans, et les œuvres de ses dernières années (1991–8) n’ont pas eu la popularité de celles des années 1970 et 1980. Le Madrigal In Memoriam Oleg Kagan (1991), écrit en hommage au violoniste qui avait créé nombre des œuvres de Schnittke et qui venait juste de mourir, est intensément intime, au point que l’auditeur se sent l’espion indiscret d’un monologue sombre, douloureux. L’écriture violoncellistique, de type improvisé et parcimonieuse, n’admet pas la moindre évocation de la foi religieuse qui avait si souvent illuminé les œuvres de Schnittke.

extrait des notes rédigées par Pauline Fairclough © 2006
Français: Hypérion

Nach seinem schweren Schlaganfall 1991 war Schnittkes Gesundheit sehr angeschlagen, und seine Musik wurde zunehmend dunkler und nach innen gewandt. Die spielerische Stilisierung der frühen Concerti Grossi lag ein Jahrzehnt zurück. Die Werke aus seinen letzten Jahren (1991–1998) erfreuen sich bis heute noch nicht der gleichen Beliebtheit wie die aus den 1970er und 1980er Jahren. Im Madrigal In Memoriam Oleg Kagan (1991), das zum Andenken an den Violinisten entstand, der viele Werke Schnittkes uraufgeführt hatte und kurz zuvor verstorben war, erklingt eine außergewöhnlich verinnerlichte Musik, die so persönlich ist, dass der Hörer den Eindruck bekommt, er würde einen dunklen, trauernden Monolog überhören. Die Violoncellostimme wirkt improvisierend und ist ausgespart. Nicht einen Moment hört man Anklänge an den religiösen Glauben, der so viele frühere Werke Schnittkes durchzogen hatte.

aus dem Begleittext von Pauline Fairclough © 2006
Deutsch: Elke Hockings