Classical CDs: Snow, shards and swinging oars

Snow Dance for the Dead: Choral Music by Seán Doherty New Dublin Voices/Bernie Sherlock (Voces8 Recordings)

I have come across the choral music of Seán Doherty more and more recently and always liked what I have heard. His music is imaginative, wide-ranging and original, and all these things are evident in his debut disc with New Dublin Voices, under their enterprising conductor Bernie Sherlock. Doherty has been a member of the choir since 2015, and Sherlock describes him as “a tap that pours out great choral music”. There is certainly more than enough variety to sustain a full album – it can be a problem with single-composer discs that the tics and tricks become too obvious – but Doherty has a large palette of textures and techniques which propel his music, and each piece does something new.

Doherty doesn’t take the easy route with selecting texts. While favouring Irish writers, he engages with difficult subjects, politically, historically and socially. The musical range is also notably wide, in terms of tone, character and language. There are plenty of faster pieces, which I always like in a choral album. The Destroyer is one of four settings of little-known writer Lola Ridge (1872-1941), dancing with barely-suppressed energy, the repetitions of the text creating a, irresistible rhythmic life which builds into a whirl of glissandos. In te, Christe, setting a hymn attributed to St Columba, Doherty builds a tapestry of overlapping phrases which are delivered by the choir with a focused and precise sound – they then turn on a sixpence to a kind of open-eyed awe to end the piece. It’s terrific. Bean Pháidín is a complete contrast: an overtly comic setting of an Irish folksong, it gives the choir the opportunity to let their hair all the way down, spry soloist Fionnuala de Fréin leading the way.

I could write more about the fast pieces, but there is some wonderful slow music too. Epiphany has a lovely directness of expression, with some affecting high singing by the soprano section. I heard It’s Strange about Stars live last year and it made a real impact on me: again, Doherty uses his trademark repetition but here in a richer harmonic world. Under-Song, which follows it, is distinctly chillier, coloured with whistles and exhalations, and glacial harmonic progressions. The album ends with the title track Snow Dance for the Dead, which the New Dublin Voices have performed widely. A response to political murders in Russia during the Red Terror, the piece is dramatic and impactful, the choir at its absolute best, a stunning ending to a very impressive debut album. - Bernard Hughes

Bach: The Art of Obligato Davina Clarke (violin), Hugh Cutting (countertenor, Nick Pritchard (tenor) (Voces8)

This is an appealing collection, mixing arias taken from Bach cantatas with two solo sonatas. Bach’s surviving cantatas contain over 90 vocal numbers featuring obligato instrumental accompaniment, violinist Davina Clarke picking seven “which showcase the capability of the instruments and voices in the best light”. Do read this album’s sleeve note, the bulk of it an erudite and very accessible conversation between Clarke and baroque oboist Leo Duarte and Clarke. Some of the solos were written for organ, flute or oboe, Clarke proving that they can in fact suit any treble instrument. There’s some gorgeous music making here, countertenor Hugh Cutting and tenor Nick Pritchard singing with crystalline clarity (Hildburg Williams is credited as dialect coach).

Clarke’s gifts lie in revealing just how important the instrumental lines are, and how they complement Bach’s word-setting. Listen to how she and fellow-violinist Kati Debretzeni weave a web beneath tenor Nick Pritchard in ‘Gott ist mein Freund’ from BWV 139, Mark Seow and Anders Veiteber’s witty modern translation (“Sure, you can neglect the truth/Lie, deceive – what do I care?) alarmingly pertinent in these troubled times. This is seriously good. Countertenor Hugh Cutting soars in BWV 132’s “Christi Glieder, ach bedenket”, Sergio Bucheli’s theorbo nicely audible in the mix. The two solo works are beautifully done, Clarke especially convincing in the G major sonata’s questioning “Largo”, and infectiously jaunty in BWV 1016’s chirpy finale. A lovely disc. Debretzeni is, rightly, namechecked in the booklet interview along with Foster, but it’s a pity that cellist Alex Rolton and theorbist Bucheli don’t warrant a mention, despite being present in photographic form.

John Field: Complete Nocturnes Alice Sara Ott (piano) (Deutsche Grammophon)

It now feels strangely apt that, when Naxos did their major series of the piano music of John Field (1782-1837) in the late 1990s – with Benjamin Frith as the protagonist – they should have chosen a series of Irish landscape paintings, often idealised but always distant, for the covers. There is no such detachment in these new readings; Alice Sara Ott gives us the Field Nocturnes in vivid close-up, particularly effective in a piece with a brightly-etched melody like the E minor Nocturne H.46, No. 9. If these are pieces which, as Liszt wrote in his wonderfully over-the-top preface to the 1859 edition, “exhale copious perfumes”, then here we are invited to breathe them in with real immediacy. A film to accompany the release has also been made, shot in “custom-designed digital landscapes at Munich's Hyperbowl LED studio,” and directed by film director Andrew Staples (yes, the London-born tenor). I went to a screening, and found that it does reinforce the idea of the listener being immersed in a landscape or scene which has been dictated by Ott’s feelings about the pieces.

So, the E minor nocturne has Ott filmed in billowing snow, whereas the C minor No.2 transports us to the Japanese urban loneliness of Murakami. I particularly enjoyed the lightness and fleet-footed fantasy of the rondo in E major No.12, which also gives piano technician Michael Brandjes his finest moment: he gives us the deeply resonant sound of a bell, actually produced by Ott on the same Steinway in the studio in Berlin, but added in to the recording later. I found the constant rubato-ing in No 15 in D minor a bit superfluous and mannered, but that’s probably because I listen to too much jazz. Ott has said of these pieces that “their beauty and grace [..] profoundly enriched my life,” and her deep engagement in this post-Clementi, pre-Chopin music and her desire to bring us closer to it are palpable and memorable. - Sebastian Scotney

Philip Glass: Aguas da Amazonia Third Coast Percussion, with Constance Volk (flute) (Third Coast Percussion)

Philip Glass’s best music is ripe for rearranging and transcribing. Aguas da Amazonia, a 1990s dance piece composed for the Brazilian group Uakti who performed it on an array of custom-made instruments. Ten short movements celebrate different Brazilian rivers, and it’s since been performed in various guises. A recent orchestral version (recorded by Kristjan Järvi) sounds too diffuse for my tastes. This new version from Chicago-based Third Coast Percussion began life on the group’s Paddle to the Sea album, the remaining movements added and tweaked for performances with Twyla Tharp Dance. I’m a sucker for unusual instruments, this recording including a glass marimba, tuned PVC pipes and some almglocken. Flautist Constance Volk adds improvised solos and designed the album’s appealing sleeve art. Volk knows instinctively how much to add, my favourite intervention being her stinging entry in the fourth section, “Japurá River”.

Ideas from other Glass works pop up, a theme from a piano etude heard in the opening “Amazon River” over a woozy synthesiser bass line. There’s a hint of menace in the driving rhythms of “Xingu River”, the penultimate “Paru River” a beguiling nocturne. The closing “Madeira River, Part II” reaches dizzy heights before the brakes slam on, a single bell sound continuing to ring out. Percussion mavens and fans of minimalism shouldn’t hesitate; this disc is brilliantly played and captured in bright, detailed sound.

O Listen: The Music of Uroš Krek & Else Marie Pade Danish Radio Vocal Ensemble/Martina Batič (OUR Recordings)

The Danish Radio Vocal Ensemble is the equivalent of the BBC Singers – a full-time chamber choir under the aegis of the national broadcaster, with singers of phenomenal technical ability, and the time and resources to tackle any repertoire. They recently appointed a new Chief Conductor, the Slovenian Martina Batič, who has brought a compatriot composer with her for her first recording project. I had not encountered Uroš Krek (1922-2008) before, but was completely won over. Here he is represented by five pieces from the 1990s which are assertive, music with heart and soul, punchy harmony and a very strong compositional voice. It is ear-cleansing and refreshing, whether in the austere polyphony of Psalm 42, the extrovert elasticity of Vester, Camenae or the high-spirited Three Autumn Songs, which are a response to the war in Slovenia in 1991 – but a response in which Krek “protest strongly… with gentle words.” The singing is first rate, rhythmically on the front foot and with a forward sound that suits the pieces – but saying that, the meltingly beautiful blend at the end of Vöra bije is a highlight.

The second composer is a real contrast, Else Marie Pade (1924-2016), Denmark’s first electronic music composer. Pade’s is a fascinating story (featured in Kate Molleson’s brilliant book Sound Within Sound), which included serving in the Danish Resistance and imprisonment by the Gestapo. In the 1950s she became interested in musique concrète, creating pioneering works in this manner. An unlikely background for a composer of choral music, but Korsatser (1955), originally for voice and piano, is heard here in an arrangement for mixed choir. These three charming songs are firmly in the Danish song tradition and don’t hint at what is to follow, in Maria (1980).

This is scored for coloratura soprano (the stratospheric Anna Miilmann), baritone (Jakob Soelberg), speaking chorus and electronics. This is Pade in her world of artificially manipulated sound: the text of the Apostles’ Creed – either sung in elaborate melismas or declaimed by the choir with a machine-like recitation – all decorated with synthetic bleeps, scrapes and glassy shards of sound. It is a ritualistic work of 25 minutes, with something of the deep seriousness of Pärt, but the soundworld of Delia Derbyshire. Deeply weird, but also completely engrossing, it is well-captured by engineer Mikkel Nymand – but I reckon might need to be heard live for full impact. - Bernard Hughes

Daniela Mars: Heartweaving Daniela Mars (flutes) (Voces8 Records)

We all know the flute as the tinkly-tinkly instrument at the top of the orchestral texture, with its little brother the piccolo getting the really high bits. Brazilian flautist Daniela Mars is determined to change how we think about the flute by exploring the other end of the registral spectrum: the low flutes. These include the fairly common alto flute (in most orchestral players’ bags) to the elusive bass flute – and even down to the vanishingly rare contrabass flute, a physically-beautiful instrument which folds round on itself like a Paolozzi sculpture and needs a suitcase to transport.

The extraordinary sound of this instrument kicks off Heartweaving, down in the low cello register, quiet but throbbing, rich and very strange. It is an instrument that needs amplification in live settings, but here, cushioned on a bed of other multi-tracked flutes, it can speak with its own unique voice. The sound world is of drones and electronica, but with a human, breathy quality to a kind of music that can sometimes feel impersonal.

The pieces on Heartweaving are by Mars herself, with electronics on two tracks by Christophe Duquesne. The ghostly “Detaching – Dénouer’ surrounds the flute with glassy wails and sighs and “Heartweaving II” adds distortion and metallic scratches to the wandering flute line. There are also collaborations with countertenor Barnaby Smith (of Voces8) on “Shimmers I – Loved Beyond Measure”, in which his wordless melody circles round a higher flute in fragile two-part harmony. The climax of the album is “Bound to Others – Passado Mais Que Perfeito”, dedicated to Mars’s mother, a return to the low range and sustained textures, the contrabass flute melody leading the harmony to stray into enticingly chromatic territory and then back home. Mars is an eloquent advocate for the contrabass flute and this short album draws you into its dreamy subterranean world unassumingly. For something off the beaten track it’s well worth hearing. - Bernard Hughes

Žibuoklė Martinaitytė: Aletheia – Choral Works Latvian Radio Choir/ Sigvards Kļava (Ondine)

Flick through this vocal album’s booklet and you’ll wonder about the absence of texts. They’re not needed: the four unaccompanied choral works included here are wordless, Lithuanian composer Žibuoklė Martinaitytė celebrating “the vast timbral possibilities of human voices”. Which got me thinking about how I listen to vocal music in languages other than English, and how much my understanding feeds into any response. There’s a telling quote from the composer in Frank J Oteri’s accompanying essay, Martinaitytė suggesting that “music surpasses words; it surpasses the meaning of words because it can go to unknown places and unexplainable places”. Martinaitytė began composing 2022’s Alethia while Russian soldiers were crossing into Ukraine, unadorned voices the only accessible instrument to a nation under attack. “Voices become a vehicle for expressing the totality of human life, from a baby’s first scream until the last dying breath”. Alethia’s opening minutes are calm and euphonious, the music growing darker as it proceeds, climaxing with screams, shouts and the sound of breathing. Sigvards Kļava’s Latvian Radio Choir sing it as if possessed, the performance feeling like a single take. Chant des Voyelles, completed four years earlier, was suggested by a Jacques Lipchitz statue of the same name, itself inspired by an Ancient Egyptian incantation consisting just of vowel sounds, a prayer meant to quell the forces of nature. The overtones resulting from particular note combinations can suggest Mongolian throat singing, the effect brilliantly realised here.

2023’s Ululations sounds as you might expect it to, Martinaitytė imagining “the mourning women who have lost their loved ones, who are wailing their sorrows out loud…”. Lasting almost 15 minutes, listening to this is an unbearably tense experience, though I couldn’t bear to switch off. As before, the performance is remarkable, Kļava’s singers closing the album with The Blue of Distance, completed in 2010. Martinaitytė’s struggle to find a suitable text for a choral commission prompted her to extract just the vowels from various sources, the resultant work using chapters from Rebecca Solnit’s memoir A Field Guide to Getting Lost. Chords shift in and out of focus as if Martinaitytė is staring into the distance, the work closing with a beautiful soft chord. Performances and production values are faultless; this is the best choral release I’ve heard in ages.

Schubert Now! Veronika Harcsa (voice), Anastasia Razvalyaeva (harp), Bálint Bolcsó (electronics and sound design) (BMC Records)

Don’t be put off by the colourful sleeve art and exclamation mark: Schubert Now! is a real treat. I’ve long enjoyed a Winterreise recording with Nataša Mirković, accompanied by Matthias Loibner playing the hurdy gurdy. If you like that, you’ll love this, Hungarian chanteuse Veronika Harcsa tackling 11 Schubert songs backed by Anastasia Razvalyaeva on harp, the results tweaked by sound designer Bálint Bolcsó. The opener, “Wanderers Nachtlied” ditches Schubert’s accompaniment entirely, Bolcsó filling the void with the sound of wind and rain. It’s incredibly evocative, followed by a version of “Aufenhalt” backed by percussive electronics and harp. Audacious, yes, but thrilling, Harcsa’s vocal style often suggesting Weimar-era cabaret. Listen to “Die Krähe” through headphones and you’ll believe that you’re under avian assault, Harcsa really letting rip in the song’s closing couplet: “Krähe, lass mich endlich sehn/Treue bis zum Grabe!”

Bolcsó adds menacing drumbeats to “De Stadt”. Razvalyaeva introduces an expanded version of “In der Ferne” with a spectacular cadenza, and the trio’s take on “Meeres Stille” is calm, bordering on the glacial, electronics allowing Schubert’s sustained chords to rumble on and on. “Der Doppelgänger” terrifies, Harcsa’s delivery of the line “Der Mond zeigt mir meine eigne Gestalt” worth the album price on its own, Bolcsó’s contribution almost tipping us into the abyss. One trusts that Schubert would approve: this album sounds and feels like a genuine collaboration, the embellishments always serving the music. I’d love to hear the trio live, but in the absence of any upcoming appearances in West Yorkshire the disc will have to suffice. BMC’s album webpage includes a five-minute YouTube trailer – watch that and you’ll want to find out more.

Ronald Stevenson: Piano Works Peter Jablonski (Ondine)

It’s good to see Ronald Stevenson getting more attention. Igor Levit’s 2021 album On DSCH included the epic Passacaglia on DSCH, and there’s a short accompanying clip online entitled Who was Ronald Stevenson? Levit’s introduction is winning; his description of Stevenson as “a beautiful man” is borne out by one of the photos in Peter Jablonski’s new album, the behatted young composer positively smouldering. Anastasia Belina’s sleeve note includes a handy potted biography of Stevenson that mentions his fascination with the music of Busoni, Stevenson particularly admiring the older composer’s gift for transcription. So, Jablonski opens this CD with the 1971 Peter Grimes Fantasy, an eight-minute whistle-stop tour of Britten’s main themes. The results always sound pianistic, Jablonski at one point sounding out the “Dawn” motif on plucked piano strings. Paderewski’s 1901 opera Manru has really fallen through the cracks, though Stevenson composed a four-movement suite based on its themes in 1961. It’s appealing, though I’m not tempted to track down the complete work.

Jablonski is a superb advocate for this largely unknown repertoire, keen to showcase Stevenson’s versatility. There’s a lush solo piano arrangement of the slow movement from Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 20 and an initially abrasive take on an influential Paganini theme. I returned often to Stevenson’s Six Pensées sur des Préludes de Chopin, brief, intriguing mashups of Chopin themes, Stevenson throwing in the odd harmonic shock to remind us that his voice has the upper hand. And in case you’re thinking that this music tends to the austere or over-cerebral, sample the tiny Preludette on the name George Gershwin, 53 seconds of pianistic magic. Performances and sound are exemplary throughout, and I can’t think of a better introduction to an intriguing composer.

Poema 1. Ad Astra National Arts Centre of Canada Orchestra/Alexander Shelley (Analekta)

Here’s the first volume in a projected 4-disc series coupling Strauss tone poems with new commissions from Canadian composers. In conductor Alexander Shelley’s words, “the remit was a simple one: there are no rules or expectations, just respond… No answer was a wrong answer.” This album starts brilliantly with a ripe, exuberant performance of Strauss’s Don Juan. Shelley takes just short of 17 minutes, a good sign – treat it with too much indulgence and it can really sag. Here the music zips along, Ottawa’s National Arts Centre Orchestra letting rip. There’s some spectacular horn playing when their big tune is reprised at a higher pitch, and the work’s abrupt close is all the more surprising when the lead-up to it is so exciting. A dissonant trumpet stamp and the blood drains away. Strauss’s anti-hero gets what he deserves, but Shelley really makes us feel for him. Kelly-Marie Murphy’s Dark Night, Bright Stars, Vast Universe takes its cue from Strauss’s dazzling orchestral technique, making explicit reference to Don Juan but never lapsing into pastiche. Passages of frenzied action contrast with moments where the music stops and stands still. Murphy’s quiet coda is heart-stopping, a Strauss quote woven in.

Kevin Lau’s The Infinite Reaches is a response to Strauss’s Death and Transfiguration, recast as “a metaphorical journey along the River Styx to the gates of Hades”. Rachmaninov’s The Isle of the Dead is surely another influence, one repeated rhythm suggesting the swing of oars. The soul’s transfiguration, when it arrives, isn’t as consoling here and the final bars gave me the heebie-jeebies. As before, the playing is marvellous, the disc closing with a perfectly paced account of the Strauss. Listen for the soft tam tam strokes when the protagonist finally slips away, Shelley and his players following it with an exquisite, glowing epilogue. An enjoyable anthology, brilliantly recorded.

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