Kashif: The Queen Symphony. Royal Philharmonic Orchestra, Tolga Kashif, conductor. London Voices; London Oratory Boys’ Choir. Tolga Kashif and John Fraser, producers; Nick Woollage and James Collins, engineers. EMI 57395

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or the first few moments after the promo copy of The Queen Symphony arrived, I had no idea what I was dealing with. A tribute to Her Majesty? A programmatic work with a gay protagonist? Actually, it’s an hour-long composition based on the music of the English glam band Queen, which flourished in the 1970’s and early ’80s. Tolga Kashif, who has solid classical credentials and has worked in television and film, has not produced anything like a symphonic medley of Queen hits. Rather, he uses 14 of the band’s songs as thematic grist for the construction of six substantial orchestral movements that, while showing respect for the originals, are really something quite his own. Sometimes we hear just the smallest bit of a Queen song—a four-note fragment from “Radio Gaga” rises out of the deepest reaches of the orchestra in the opening Adagio Mysterioso. Elsewhere, complete melodies are presented but Kashif recognizes the potential of those melodies to be transformed and developed, to support more advanced harmonies, to be buttressed by countermelody and complex accompanying figuration. All the while, the basic emotive core of the prototype is preserved, whether it’s arch parody (“Bohemian Rhapsody” is returned to its opera buffo roots), aching sadness (“Who Wants to Live Forever” recurs at several points throughout the work), or testosterone-driven, mock-aggressive posturing (“We Will Rock You” is done up with a Le Sacre sort of primitivism).
      Kashif sometimes manages the dubious alchemy of converting pop bombast into symphonic bombast—I could have done without the more overblown choral sections—but much is delicately and luminously orchestrated (by Julian Kershaw). The scherzo section of the fourth movement, “Bicycle Race,” is lightly scored as a concertante affair with piano, and the Allegretto (Pastorale) features lovely chamber textures, later morphing into a menacing, hallucinatory take on “Killer Queen.” “We Are the Champions,” offered as a wordless hymn of building nobility, provides the climax for the 13-minute fifth movement, which segues into a sixth that serves as a kind of epilogue, ending quietly. Classical listeners will enjoy identifying the myriad styles utilized, which range from Mozart to Mahler and beyond, as much as Queen fans will enjoy picking out all the shards of favorite songs. The recording has depth, air, and a solid low end. Two studios are credited, and one suspects that the choral contributions were overdubbed.
      Brian May, one of Queen’s three surviving members, commented before the November 2002 premiere that The Queen Symphony “...will become an immortal favourite in the repertoire of Symphony orchestras.” I don’t think I’d go that far, but readily commend this well-executed, genre-crossing homage to a star that once burned brightly in the pop firmament.
Andrew Quint

Glière: Symphony No. 3 “Ilya Murometz.” London Symphony Orchestra, Leon Botstein, conductor. James Mallinson, producer; Everett Porter, engineer. Telarc 80609

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lya Murometz” is a massive, programmatic symphony of Mahlerian proportion, embraced by its adherents with cultish fervor, but largely unknown to most listeners. There is no other symphony quite like it, even though the music reflects the extensive influence of Wagner, Richard Strauss, Debussy, and Scriabin. In the hands of a sympathetic and charismatic conductor, “Ilya Murometz” can provide a riveting listening experience. With a lesser presence on the podium, it can be an overblown bore. In an effort to avoid this, Eugene Ormandy and Leopold Stokowski (speaking of charisma) recorded severely abridged versions with some success. However, to properly project its dynamic power, “Ilya Murometz” must be performed complete. With his mono Westminster version, Hermann Scherchen set a standard that has never been approached. The work’s post-Scherchen recording history with the likes of Harold Farberman (Unicorn), Sir Edward Downes (Chandos), and Donald Johanos (Marco Polo) has been dismal.
      “Ilya Murometz’s” huge orchestra and colorful orchestration are perfectly suited for Telarc. The key issue was to find the right conductor. Leon Botstein would seem to be an excellent choice, given his well-documented interest in obscure Romantic composers, most recently demonstrated in an excellent Telarc recording of the music of Max Reger [80589]. His tempos here are consistently fast as he lightens the texture of Glière’s post-Wagnerian orchestral palette. In so doing, he emphasizes the impressionistic qualities of the score at the cost of compromising its dramatic impact. Botstein keeps the erotic thermostat too low in the second movement and the climax, where Ilya shoots an arrow into the eye of Solovei, is underplayed. The brief, festive scherzo works better. The fourth movement is taken so fast that it amounts to little more than a race to the finish line until the lengthy, brass-dominated climax, where Botstein expands his tempo enough to let the music achieve its intended effect. But then he rushes the cyclical coda and lessens the menace in the concluding rumblings from the depths of the orchestra, which are reminiscent of Strauss’ Alpine Symphony.
      With anything less than sensational sonics, this could have been a disaster. However, Telarc’s sound graphically reveals every aspect of Glière’s complex orchestration with intoxicating transparency. The engineers complement Botstein’s interpretive approach by making the impressionistic elements stand out in a way that recalls Telarc’s gorgeous recording of Paul Dukas’ La Peri. Bass is not overdone, but it is there when necessary, even when Botstein is rushing things. The final climax is quite overwhelming.
      Botstein will not be mistaken for Scherchen, but his interpretation, despite its problems, remains superior to any other modern recorded performance, primarily because of Telarc’s magnificent sound.
Arthur B. Lintgen

Paganini: Violin Concerto in D major. Miscellaneous works. Zino Francescatti, violin; Artur Balsam, piano. Becky and David Starobin, producers; Adam Abeshouse, mastering engineer. Bridge 9125

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all me a poster boy for nostalgia but few of today’s violinists, technically gifted as they are, measure up to the inspired musicality of their predecessors. One who does is Maxim Vengerov, whose new EMI disc focuses on Ysaÿe’s finger-breaking solo sonatas, and features impeccable virtuosity and thrilling playing. The long shadow of Bach hovers over this disc, easily heard in the first movement of Ysaÿe’s Sonata Op. 27, No. 2, essentially an hommage to the master’s Partita in E major. Ysaÿe wrote six solo violin sonatas in 1924, each for a major virtuoso. Vengerov plays four and makes them sound easy with bravura playing demonstrating dead-on intonation, precise articulation, masterful legato, and slashing attacks. And Vengerov sustains the difficult balance between Bachian elements and Ysaÿe’s Romantic sensibility. Shchedrin’s long Echo Sonata mines the same territory, and if it’s musically thinner than Ysaÿe’s fresh meat, Venegrov’s dazzling performance makes the strongest possible case for it. The final item is an encore piece recorded live, Shchedrin’s all-pizzicato Balaleika, which brings down the house. EMI’s sound is razor-sharp, every nuance of Vengerov’s instrument captured with openness and verve.
      One reason I find Vengerov such a compelling artist is that he strikes me as a throwback to an earlier generation, most especially in his personal approach to the music he plays, and in his combination of energy and urbane sophistication. Zino Francescatti, the exemplar of what used to be called the Franco-Belgian school of violinists, had a similar set of assets and added to them an elegance one hardly expects in the virtuoso violin works of Paganini. His staggering technique is on ample display in a 1954 recital at the Library of Congress, newly released in freshly scrubbed mono sound that makes modern stereo seem superfluous. The program includes an abundance of show-offy short works along with Francescatti’s own arrangement of the Concerto in D major, where Artur Balsam’s piano accompaniment effectively replaces the orchestra. Prepare to be amazed, not only by Francescatti’s technical wizardry, but also by his velvet tone, “speaking” phrasing, and singing legato, all endangered species these days.
Dan Davis

Holloway: Gilded Goldbergs. Micallef-Inanga Piano Duo. Martin Compton, producer; Ken Blair, engineer. Hyperion 67360 (2 CDs)

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ere is a pair of new two-disc sets (the Holloway is two for the price of one) from England’s ever-adventurous and enterprising Hyperion Records, both of them programs of never-before-recorded music by homegrown composers. Though in neither case is the music exactly “new.”
      The Vaughan Williams set offers first recordings of four substantial early chamber pieces—a string quartet in C minor, a piano quintet in C minor (scored with double bass, like Schubert’s Trout Quintet), a serenade-like Quintet for Clarinet, Horn, Violin, Cello, and Piano, and a Nocturne and Scherzo for string quartet—along with four other short items and one longer string quartet piece written much later, Three Preludes on Welsh Hymn Tunes. Most of these works have lain unknown and unplayed for nearly a century, a notable exception being the charming little Suite de Ballet for flute and piano, which was published shortly after Vaughan Williams’ death and has been recorded several times in the years since then. The self-critical composer himself is to blame for this neglect; he didn’t think his early music reflected his mature musical voice, and he had a point: The music often sounds like an Anglicized blend of Brahms, Dvorák, and Fauré, albeit a very glowing and gorgeous blend indeed. At other times, however—as in the hauntingly beautiful andante of the Piano Quintet, for instance—one hears the authentic RVW magic, that enraptured but noble dreaminess, that pantheistic wonder at the sunswept and moon-caressed glories of land, sea, and sky. “Immature” or not, every piece in this over-two-hours of music is well-made, engaging, overflowing with dandy tunes and dignified ardor. The Piano Quintet, in particular, is a work of sweeping power and magnificent, large-souled emotion.
      As usual with Hyperion, production values are well-nigh flawless. The superb Nash Ensemble plays with the joy of fresh discovery, and the recording is strong, clear, and natural, with a golden-hued richness and an ideal “in the room with you” perspective that’s intimate but never crowded or overheated. Even the annotations, by the distinguished musical biographer Michael Kennedy, are authoritative and eloquent.
      Robin Holloway’s 1997 Gilded Goldbergs is a different kettle of snails. The majestic and implacable perfection of Bach’s music has often, of course, taunted and seduced admirers into arranging, embroidering, and reworking it. Schumann added piano parts to the unadorned simplicity of the solo violin sonatas, Busoni spun out elaborate piano fantasias on the organ fugues. Holloway’s contribution to this long (and often deplorable) tradition is to recast the Goldberg Variations for two pianos, thickening textures, adding peregrinating modulations and complicating polyphony, overlaying and bedecking Bach’s finely-etched lines with Ligeti-ish filigree, skittering roulades, and shimmering distortions.
      But “improving” Bach is putting a hat on a moose: both pointless and impossible. In every case Bach’s original is not only clearer and cleaner, more logical and incisive, but also more shapely, more expressive, more moving. Compare, for example, the sublime melancholy of Bach’s astonishingly chromatic Variation 25 (never better played than by Charles Rosen on Sony 48173), with Holloway’s bland, flaccid, disorganized “gilding” of it, made all the worse by its diffusion between two keyboards. Or note how Holloway’s “recomposing” (his word) of Variation 18, an elegant and sprightly canon (maybe a minute and a half of music), elongates and dissolves Bach’s pure, fluid counterpoint into nearly five minutes of traumatized meandering. Every superfluous curlicue, every excess note that Holloway pastes or slathers over Bach’s well-wrought edifice, every reordering and reupholstering, every fun-house-mirror refraction, defaces and detracts. Indeed, the confusion added by Holloway’s reworkings makes it a bit difficult to assess the recorded sound, which—though certainly sonorous and dynamic—seems overly reverberant and poorly focused. Or maybe it’s an accurate reflection of his unraveled textures and overused sustain pedal. Who knows?
      Holloway’s smirking title, and his lengthy defense in the liner notes of this bloated monstrosity (over twenty minutes longer than Bach’s Goldberg), suggest that he’s well aware of its self-indulgent nature. But he just can’t resist: nothing’s sacred, it’s all fodder for his saprophagous voracity, his postmodernist “whatever” attitude toward the past. This is childish, selfish, and just plain wrong. Encrusting anachronistic ornamentation on an already-classic structure is a bad habit that should—unlike Vaughan Williams’ splendid early chamber music—be left to molder in dusty Victorian obscurity.
Mark Lehman

Schubert: Die schöne Müllerin. Matthias Goerne, baritone; Eric Schneider, piano. Michael Haas, producer; Philip Siney, engineer. Decca 289 470 025

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chubert’s 20-song setting of Müller’s Die schöne Müllerin may have been written for tenor, but its unforgettable melodies and expressive depth have elicited convincing recordings from a host of baritones, two mezzos, and at least one soprano. Listening to Matthias Goerne’s brilliant traversal of the cycle, it is clear that this tale of a young mill apprentice, who falls in love with a beautiful miller maid, loses out to a huntsman, and drowns himself in a millstream, benefits from the extra weight this versatile baritone brings to the work.
      Goerne’s protagonist comes across as far larger than the sweet, overly sensitive innocent portrayed by Bostridge, Wunderlich, Schiotz, Holzmair, and the young Fischer-Dieskau. He’s a lusty lad with a heart, a big guy who takes pleasure in wandering across the countryside with giant strides. You can imagine this apprentice impressing the girl with his wood-chopping prowess and masculine demeanor. But while his persona may be beefy, he’s equally capable of deep feeling, and expresses it with far less exaggeration than Fischer-Dieskau in his 1972 recording for DG.
      Goerne first reveals the vulnerable, “yin” aspects of his character in the sixth song, “Der Neugierige,” which he sings far slower than other interpreters. Here his voice lightens, the heart-opening intimacy for which he is treasured revealing a softness that continually deepens as the cycle progresses. Most artists would not risk singing at such a slow pace, but Goerne’s extraordinary powers of concentration, flawless technique, and sheer beauty of voice are spellbinding. When he sings “Des Müllers Blumen,” the scent of flowers perfumes his tone; when he performs without a break the three songs beginning with “Pause,” the voice bubbles with feeling. Here is a man whose righteous anger cannot conceal the hurt that eventually consumes him. “Die liebe Farbe,” sung exceedingly slowly, summons forth Goerne’s most beautiful sounds; the final hushed “Des Baches Wiegenlied”—over three minutes slower than Fischer-Dieskau’s 1972 rendition—becomes a mesmerizing lullaby of prolonged grief.
      The singer’s favorite accompanist, Eric Schneider, echoes the baritone’s profundity; his phrasing of the final bars of “Die liebe Farbe” presage the youth’s suicide. The piano is wonderfully captured, but the vocal line is diffused due to excessive echo. (Goerne is even more impressive live and on recordings offering sharper vocal focus.) Nonetheless, the duo’s artistry is transcendent. You’ll have to go back 61 years to soprano Lotte Lehmann’s incomparable performance for singing as forceful, moving, and hypnotic as Goerne’s.
Jason Serinus

Donizetti: Lucie de Lammermoor. Natalie Dessay (Lucie), Roberto Alagna (Edgard); Lyon Opera Chorus and Orchestra, Evalino Pidò, conductor. Alain Lanceron, producer; Jean Chatauret and Pierre-Marie Guiraldenq, engineers. Virgin 45528

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o, “Lucia” is not misspelled; this is Donizetti’s 1839 French revision of his hit opera about the Scottish maiden who’s forced to marry against her will and goes berserk on the Wedding Night From Hell, killing her new husband then dazzling the nuptial party guests with coloratura warbling in a freshly bloodstained gown. For Paris, Donizetti changed more than language; the story’s dumbed-down and key characters and scenes are dropped, among other liberties. But the “wrong-language” novelty of this release will give it some niche in the marketplace, as will its principals. Both Natalie Dessay’s performance and the conception of Lucie in the French version emphasize the character’s pathetic innocence, which weakens her complexity. Dessay’s light, agile voice tackles the role’s killer coloratura with ease; dueting with a flute holds no terrors for this singer. But in these post-Callas days, impressive vocalism isn’t enough. Dessay’s vocal equipment is far better suited to canary-like high notes than to delivering dramatic wallop. If Callas’ Lucia was a high-intensity, lava-hot portrayal, Dessay’s is at a lower temperature.
      As her misguided lover, Roberto Alagna is in better voice than he’s recently shown, albeit with too many moments of throaty tone and an overly muscular verismo approach to be truly satisfactory in this bel canto opera. He’s ardent in his love scene and frantic in his desperation, but the great last-act arias lack the honeyed tones and natural elegance of Giuseppe di Stefano in the Callas recordings. The supporting cast is fine, with baritone Ludovic Tézier smooth of voice as the nasty brother, but missing the evil Tito Gobbi brought to the role. Evalino Pidò conducts a taut performance without approaching Tulio Serafin’s stylistic mastery or Herbert von Karajan’s dramatic sensibilities. The sound is good but not outstanding; singers are forwardly recorded, the soundstage is narrow, and there’s a sonic brightness that can be troubling. Go for Callas’ unforgettable recordings of Lucia on EMI, either the 1953 Serafin or the live 1955 Karajan. If you must have stereo, there’s always Sutherland and Pavarotti on Decca.
DD