Dominique Pifarély violin François Couturier piano Recorded October 2023, Historischer Reistadel, Neumarkt Engineer: Markus Heiland Mixed April 2024 by Manfred Eicher and Michael Hinreiner (engineer) at Bavaria Musikstudios, Munich Cover photo: Woong Chul An Produced by Manfred Eicher Release date: January 24, 2025
What threw us together, shrieks apart, a worldstone, sun-distant, hums. –Paul Celan
The last duo session for ECM from pianist François Couturier and Dominique Pifarély was recorded in 1997 (Poros). Since then, these musicians have paved roads uniquely their own in span and material across the label’s catalog, but always with each other in sight. For this reunion, they explore an absorbing melange of originals and standards. Of the latter, we are treated to characteristically shifting interpretations of Jacques Brel’s “La chanson des vieux amants” and George Gershwin’s “I Loves You Porgy.” Pifarély’s instrument cuts a figure struggling to hold its shape in the wavering heat, its microtonal plasticity yielding haunting textures. Equal parts lyrical and contortional, both tunes find kindred company in Manning Sherwin’s “A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley,” which manages to stay soulful throughout every twist and turn. With a touch of rain and softness on the horizon, it sings of clearer and brighter days before giving way to Pifarély’s “Les ombres II,” a spiral staircase turned inside out. Its counterpart, “Les ombres I,” begins the album with string-forward resolve, morphing into a reflective take on J. J. Johnson’s “Lament,” which barely disturbs the water’s surface before it fades. Further highlights abound in the violinist’s “Vague” and “What Us.” By turns brooding and whimsical, they prove that contemplation isn’t always pretty—nor must it be, until the decorations of hindsight fall into hand. Couturier’s colorations are astute and adaptive throughout. From pressing chords to baptismal sprinklings, there is much to savor. His own “Le surcroît I” and “Le surcroît II” cut against the grain of reality in the most intriguing way, time capsules of impressions saying only what needs to be said, while “Song for Harrison” (co-composed with Pifarély and named for Couturier’s cocker spaniel) playfully breaks into Duke Ellington’s “Solitude” for an artful contrast of layers. Each is a cipher that also serves as its solution, spinning the cryptex into new possibilities with every listen.
Benjamin Lackner piano Mathias Eick trumpet Mark Turner tenor saxophone Linda May Han Oh double bass Matthieu Chazarenc drums Recorded March 2024 at Studios La Buissonne Engineer: Gérard de Haro Mastering: Nicolas Baillard Cover: Fidel Sclavo Produced by Manfred Eicher Release date: January 17, 2025
After leaving a sizable footprint in ECM soil with Last Decade, pianist Benjamin Lackner takes us one step further with a fresh quintet, bringing us closer to a vision of identity. Although the music is more through-composed in the present context, it lends itself to the spontaneous inventions of trumpeter Mathias Eick, saxophonist Mark Turner, bassist Linda May Han Oh, and drummer Matthieu Chazarenc (a member of Lackner’s trio prior to ECM). From all of this emerges a moving picture that is equal parts brooding and hope.
The title track bids welcome with a reed-forward introduction, as the piano sweeps up and down its registers in the twinkling of cymbals before a flowing denouement ensues. Lackner’s pianism is revelatory yet humble, never appropriating center stage. Rather, he lets his allies speak—and speak they do. Whether it’s Turner’s forthright turns of phrase or Oh’s chameleonic acuity, this brew remains communal to the last drop.
The breezy beginning of “Mosquito Flats” shifts into an even breezier theme, where the wishes of an entire generation fade in favor of a timeless desire for harmony amid a slow-motion urban swing. The two horns forge tempered fire in exchange for the final recapitulation. Their duetting continues in “More Mesa,” another unassuming tune that is nevertheless robust in its way.
Chazarenc contributes “Chambary,” a track smothered in upbeat textures and wild (yet subtle) leaps, without a shred of pretension. It’s a highlight for being as deep as it is concise. It finds a genuine companion in “See You Again My Friend,” an especially tender vehicle for Eick, who later converses with Oh in safe seclusion from the dissonant strains of “Murnau.” By contrast, the feeling of anticipation in “Fair Warning” is almost unsettling, as if the fabric of reality could tear at any moment, revealing a nightmare.
I so appreciate Lackner’s willingness to blow-dry notes before they become too wet. This holds the listener’s attention and enlivens mid-tempo pieces like “Anacapa,” which also elicits my favorite solo on the album from the bandleader (neither can one forget Oh on “Ahwahnee,” where her touch sings of the very earth). And yet, no matter how much shadow clouds our vision, “Out Of The Fog” leaves behind an intimation of light. As it resolves into a collective hymnody, we see that the characters in this story have been seeking healing individually, only to find it in one another.
Spindrift is a screen lit by a single projector in an otherwise dark room. By focusing on the narratives before our eyes, it gives us the luxury of ignoring what lies behind them. Many of the films that repeatedly run through our minds are traumatic reflections of the media we consume daily. Here, we have an opportunity to engage with stories of wholesome reflection in which the soul needs no likes counter to validate itself.
Oded Tzur tenor saxophone Nitai Hershkovits piano Petros Klampanis double bass Cyrano Almeida drums Recorded November 2023 at Studios La Buissonne, Pernes-les-Fontaines Engineer: Gérard de Haro Mastering Nicolas Baillard Produced by Manfred Eicher Release date: June 7, 2024
For his third ECM album as leader, following the shadowy Here Be Dragons and the short but sweet Isabela, saxophonist Oded Tzur returns alongside pianist Nitai Hershkovits and bassist Petros Klampanis, plus drummer Cyrano Almeida (replacing Johnathan Blake from the previous lineup). A few years ago, I interviewed Tzur but neglected to incorporate our conversation into a review. However, I find that his answers remain as relevant to the present session as they were when he so graciously offered them, so I felt it appropriate to include his insights to enhance our regard for this latest star in his emerging constellation.
Rather than try to put his music into a rigid box—Is it Raga? Is it Jazz?—I asked whether Tzur would ever ascribe a “genre” to his musical style. His response:
“I call it ‘Deep Structure,’ which is a reference to Noam Chomsky’s theory of linguistics. Chomsky claims all languages share certain features that are concealed by surface elements, which he calls ‘Surface Structure.’ Sometimes, it does seem a little limited to put things in categories, especially when a work’s influence spectrum ranges from South Asia to North America. However, it isn’t completely false to place a piece of music in a continuum so people have a frame of reference. It’s just that those continuums are getting trickier nowadays because the world moves in the direction of unification, at least if we compare it to 100, 500, or 1000 years ago. My personal journey has led me to feel strongly that all musical traditions share certain elements, and while they also have distinct features and differences, those shared elements are crucial and often hidden. Joseph Campbell’s views on religion make the same point, in a way, where the commonalities between different mythologies are simply too precise and striking to be dismissed as coincidence. What Raga—the Indian melodic universe—shows us about sound and melody can be seen in synagogue prayers as well as the Blues.”
Taking these reflections to heart empowers us to hear the alpha in every omega, as embodied in “Epilogue,” which happens to initiate the set. Tzur’s uniquely vocal tone elicits a brief and resounding call to gather the remnants of our speech as an offering to something so deeply communicative that we can only resort to the fluid intensities of “Child You.” The second of six intimate tracks casts his metaphysical virtuosity as an inevitability rather than a choice. He finds a graceful interplay with Klampanis, whose inner feelings correlate one by one. Furthermore, his entanglement with Hershkovits provides ample room for our ears to breathe, building tone upon tone as a gradual monument of stones.
With so much focus on his sound, it’s only natural to ask about the many years of discipline and refinement (or is it unrefinement?) that go into it. How has it, I wonder, changed over time, and how does he see it possibly changing in the future?
“The process certainly began in Jazz for me, transcribing Dexter Gordon, John Coltrane, and many others. The encounter with Indian classical music and my time with Hariprasad Chaurasia was a pivotal turn because I didn’t want to play an Indian instrument; I felt like the sound I was hearing was another way or another version of the saxophone sound. The influence of Indian instruments, for which the octave is a continuous spectrum rather than 12 dots, has had on me is very significant. I followed Chaurasia’s sound as closely as possible for a number of years and didn’t want to give myself the excuse of ‘I’m playing the saxophone.’ For the future, I hope to continue to work on ways in which microtonality can be accessed on the saxophone, as well as aligning those techniques efficiently with the more traditional sound of the instrument.”
Consider that goal embraced in “Through A Land Unsown,” where that same human timbre arises into waking. Despite the softness of articulation, it reveals a hard-won truth that can only be possible when shedding enough desire to block the past from assaulting the flesh. The brilliance of his playing is that it never forgets the past, either, taking what it has learned without succumbing to its temptations of self-glorification. Klampanis’s solo here draws inspiration from that spirit. Again, Hershkovits carries this basket down a river of unexpected turns and textural currents, ultimately landing in the reeds where it was meant to be discovered. Throughout, Almeida conveys an uncanny ability to foresee every move the others make. His drive continues in “Renata,” forging a pulse within a pulse that lends itself to the heart without force while Tzur’s tenor navigates all of this with purposeful intuition. The drummer’s brushes are flashes of heat lightning in the title track, a muscular gift from above that works its way through nocturnal shades of meaning.
With so much to interpret in these inward gazes, what is Tzur’s greatest wish for his listener?
“Music is a way to learn about ourselves because music can create experiences that are revelatory in their nature. Learning history is also an excellent—and perhaps more urgently needed—way to learn about ourselves. Music is a more abstract form, like prayer or meditation. If I can create music that would reveal to people things that they didn’t know before—or, even better, knew and forgot—I would have fulfilled an important musical goal.”
And in the concluding “Last Bike Ride In Paris,” we find that ethos in full display. With a joyful sound, sunlit and smiling, the rhythm section connects telepathically as a cage for Tzur’s bird to sing and—eventually—transcend in flight to the next journey beyond the mountains. Some of his most inspired playing is to be found here, watering every root with an inspired future.
Although nothing about My Prophet necessarily implies a trilogy, the progression of album covers suggests otherwise. Whereas Here Be Dragons features standard typography and photography, Isabela shows a bordered image with black and blue typography. And now, we get only the latter against a white background. It’s as if the ornaments have been stripped away with every iteration. All of which proves that even with the flurry of notes, there is stillness to be savored. Like a hummingbird, Tzur’s playing works hard and at great expense of energy to hover in place.
Arild Andersen double bass, electronics Recorded live June 18, 2020, Victoria Nasjonal Jazzscene, Oslo Engineer: Espen Høydalsvik Mixed June 2024 at Rainbow Studio, Oslo by Arild Andersen and Martin Abrahamsen (engineer) “Peace Universal” recorded at home Cover photo: Jean-Guy Lathuilière Executive producer: Manfred Eicher Release date: November 29, 2024
Even after an ECM recording career spanning half a century, Arild Andersen continues to surprise and does so brilliantly with his first solo album. Recorded live at the 2020 Victoria Nasjonal Jazzscene in Oslo, the program is as varied as the Norwegian bassist’s influence is wide. Despite being alone on stage, he is accompanied by an application of electronic loops in real time (courtesy of a Gibson Echoplex Pro Plus loop machine and a TC Electronic M 2000 signal processor). In that sense, it makes the album a sublime companion to Eberhard Weber’s Once Upon A Time and is just as important as a latter-day document.
The marriage of live electronic treatments isn’t new to Andersen, whose ensemble recordings have featured it in various contexts. With nothing else but the road ahead to guide—and the road behind to encourage—he makes classics from his own and others’ songbooks feel as relevant as when they were first committed to memory. From his canon, we get the sturdy “Dreamhorse,” a tune that arose from a solo improvisation he performed at the Kongsberg Festival in 1994 (and which has appeared on ECM on his trio album, Live At Belleville). With tapping providing the rhythmic undercurrent it needs to gallop, a fluid overlay gives us an ever-expanding image of travel and landscapes. “Mira” (a nod to another trio album of the same name) boasts a comparable wingspan.
Andersen always has a way about him that makes us feel duly situated, making the title track (harking all the way back to 1981’s Lifelines) all the more lucid as a lens of interpretation. The playful dissonances therein emerge from two interconnected pieces: “Ghosts” by Albert Ayler and “Old Stev,” a traditional Norwegian folk song that Arild learned in his Sagnproject with singer Kirsten Bråten Berg. In both, we find a soul perfectly at home in stretches of atmosphere where ends and beginnings become indistinguishable. His instrument represents points in time, while the electronics are the horizon in which they rise and fall like briefest lights of life.
The overall effect is such that even evergreens like “A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square” (written by Manning Sherwin for the 1940 musical, New Faces) and Ornette Coleman’s “Lonely Woman” find kinship at the touch of fingers and strings. The latter meshes beautifully with Charlie Haden’s “Song for Che,” where con legno tracings ring forth as a call to action. However, as I alluded to at the beginning of this review, we must look to where we came from to know where we are going, which is why I close with where the album opens: in “Peace Universal.” Ra-Kalam Bob Moses’s timeless hymn gives rise to birds, animal calls, and forest stirrings, its mist alive with intimations of ancestors whose lives were never recorded in the annals of history yet whose legacy lives on in the very earth. Each reverberation gives up the ghost even as it downloads a melody for the ages from the ether.
Tord Gustavsen piano, electronics Jarle Vespestad drums Steinar Raknes double bass Recorded October 2023 at Studios La Buissone Engineer: Gérard de Haro Mastering: Nicolas Baillard Cover photo: Fotini Potamia Produced by Manfred Eicher Release date: September 20, 2024
Thy word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path. –Psalm 119:105
Each new recording by the Tord Gustavsen Trio constructs an unassuming waystation for the ECM listener, and on Seeing, we are given the most rustic lodging yet. In addition to the usual attention to detail one has come to expect from this venture, there is a certain plasticity to the sound that, while always humming at the core, now rises to the surface after patiently compressing its diamond light beneath the earth. Thus, the album’s title is more than an equation of listening with how the eyes take in the world around them; it is also an expression of the music’s indefinite state of being.
From the stained glass scintillations of “Jesus, gjør meg stille” (a Norwegian traditional) to the bass-driven road trip of the bandleader’s own “Seattle Song,” we find ourselves in territories at once familiar and freshly rendered for the soul. Soul is precisely what the band has more than enough to spare in its artful blend of gospel pastels and jazzier charcoal. “The Old Church” is a prime example of how beautifully these mesh together and is distinct for bassist Steinar Raknes’s solo, which stands out in an album largely focused on the group’s collective vibe. It’s also a running spiritual theme in a context where such classic hymns as Lowell Mason’s “Nearer My God, To Thee” (rendered so beautifully alone at the piano) and the Bach chorales “Christ lag in Todesbanden” and “Auf meinen lieben Gott” feel just as much of the here and now as Gustavsen’s originals feel curated from some old codex. The lushness of Johann Sebastian’s creations is matched only by their brevity. Like Bible verses that cut right to the core when one needs them, each lays sins bare on the altar of forgiveness, cutting them into smaller and smaller pieces until they disappear from view. Thus, faith is shown also to be creative, so that touch becomes a way of life.
Among the remaining selections by Gustavsen, if “Piano Interlude – Meditation” is made of stone and wood, then the title track travels on the wind, knowing one’s place in the world by dislocation. As in “Extended Circle,” we know this embrace the moment we feel it, having encountered it in dreams, in memories, and in hopes for the future. And here they are before us, welcoming and forgiving, waiting for life to unfold with philosophical humility. This leaves us only with “Beneath Your Wisdom,” which is the heart of the band, in which opens a door to whatever may burn in the depths of human regard.
The pianist notes a theme of “cherishing” in this music. Thus, as a return to form, Seeing proves itself to be an affirmation. The quieter the play, the more we feel revived, ready to take on the demons of this world. As the psalmist says above, God shows us only a few steps ahead. The rest is for Him to know.
Nitai Hershkovits piano Recorded June 2022 at Auditorio Stelio Molo RSI, Lugano Engineer: Stefano Amerio Mastering: Christoph Stickel Cover photo: Jean-Guy Lathuilère Produced by Manfred Eicher Release date: November 10, 2023
After playing as a sideman in Oded Tzur’s quartet, pianist Nitai Hershkovits makes his solo ECM debut in a largely improvised recital. Its title pays homage to his former piano teacher, Suzan Cohen (the penultimate “For Suzan” bears her name), resulting in a total of 18 vignettes, each a variation on the theme of gratitude, heritage, and the creative spirit. From the first blush of “The Old Wise,” one feels a blend of past and future colors blending across the canvas of the present. Like much of what transpires thereafter, moments of sheer synchronicity give way to hints of breakdown, yet always manage to stay together. As cycles of commentary swirl around each other in one larger mixture of memories, feelings at once familiar and unfathomable dance in the foreground. Whether in the chromatic embrace of “A Rooftop Minuet” or the delightful games of “Intermezzo No. 4” and “Intermezzo No. 3,” Hershkovits fuses classical and jazz impulses. The latter sprout up even higher in “Majestic Steps Glow Far” and “Dream Your Dreams,” where desert flowers bloom. Whereas one sounds like a lost standard translated from fragments of memory into a coherent whole, the other (by Molly Drake) is only one of two covers (the other being Duke Ellington’s “Single Petal Of A Rose”) to grace the program.
In tracks like “Enough To Say I Will,” tender beginnings give way to subtle leaps of faith, each lasting the length of a breath or two, before gentle dissonances prevent us from falling into fantasy. The reality of things becomes clearer as virtuosity sheds one snake skin after another, texture taking precedence over key. “Mode Antigona” is among the set’s most lyrical turns (the others being “Of Trust And Remorse,” “Late Blossom,” and “In Satin”). Like the rest, however, it’s never content to stay in one place but rather gives itself over to the whims of the air currents in the room. It’s as if the flow of time itself were a conductor treating every deviation of the score as an opportunity for discovery. Further treasures abound in the rushing river of “Mode Brilliante” and the smoky piano bar vibes of “This You Mean To Me.” And in the quiet exuberance of “Of Mentorship,” we find remnants of all that came before, joy reigning supreme.
Zsófia Boros classical guitar, ronroco Recorded March/April 2022, Auditorio Stelio Molo RSI, Lugano Engineer: Stefano Amerio Cover photo: Fotini Potamia Produced by Manfred Eicher Release date: April 14, 2023
Guitarist Zsófia Boros returns with her third program for ECM’s New Series. Pairing selections from Argentina with those of French composer Mathias Duplessy, the result may just be her most meticulously constructed dollhouse yet. Indeed, it’s as if every track were either a room or a piece of miniature furniture placed artfully within it.
We begin at the entrance with Duplessy’s “De rêve et de pluie.” The use of harmonics here, alternating with liquid arpeggios, evokes an architectural awareness of the surroundings. Boros traces the contour of the doorway, takes her shoes off in the foyer, and steps carefully inside to take it all in. Next, she tiptoes up the stairs built by Joaquin Alem, whose “Salir adentro” cradles a brief rhythmic tapping in its tenderness. It breathes almost dramatically despite the near-stillness, burrowing as an animal preparing for hibernation. From this dreamy escape, we enter the reality of the nursery, in which Quique Sinesi’s “El abrazo” crochets its lullaby. For this, Boros wraps a rubber band around the guitar strings—a muting technique she developed to allow her to practice while her children were sleeping. The effect is warm and familiar.
From there, Boros recedes into the kitchen, where Alberto Ginastera is cooking lovingly at the stove. His take on the “Milonga” is a spider-webbed tango, as savory as it is sweet. Moving on, we are led into the study, where two books bound by Duplessy lie open for our scrutiny. Whereas “Le secret d’Hiroshigé” recalls the sound of the Japanese koto, moving through paper screens as if they were made of air, “Perle de Rosée” is more botanical. With an understated quality that eschews the pitfalls of virtuosity in favor of its grace, it navigates fields of crops on the verge of being harvested. Meanwhile, a fire burns softly in the fireplace, where the kindling of Sinesi’s “Tormenta de ilusión” leaves us to regard some more unexpected turns of phrase. Played on the ronroco (the 10-stringed instrument for which it was originally written), it destroys memories of the past the tighter it tries to hold to them.
As we wander into the gallery, Duplessy treats us to a modest yet captivating private collection. In “Le labyrinthe de Vermeer,” we can sense oils, pigments, and brushstrokes coalescing into a coherent image. Each section has its own fragrance and distinct perspective. His “Berceuse,” the album’s pinnacle, draws a poignant ebb and flow, while “Valse pour Camille” expresses childlike wonder, coming of age in resonant strums.
We end in the greenhouse, where the album’s title piece by Carlos Moscardini casts its light on a bonsai tree. As a marvel of curation, it doesn’t so much mimic its larger cousins but shows what music is capable of at its most cellular level.
Mette Henriette tenor saxophone Johan Lindvall piano Judith Hamann violoncello Recorded 2020-2022 Munchmuseet, Oslo Engineer: Peer Espen Ursfjord Mixed April 2022 Studios La Buissonne by Manfred Eicher, Mette Henriette, and Gérard de Haro (engineer) Mastering: Christoph Stickel Cover photo: Ørjan Marakatt Bertelsen Produced by Manfred Eicher Release date: January 20, 2023
Eight years after making her self-titled ECM debut in 2015, saxophonist Mette Henriette returns to the label with her anticipated follow-up: the aptly titled Drifting. While the word has for us delicate connotations, it stems etymologically from the Proto-Indo-European dhreibh. Thus, it originally implied moving a large number of things, such as driving sheep. The present program of 15 pieces, spun into three-dimensional webs with pianist Johan Lindvall and cellist Judith Hamann, welcomes both meanings, along with many magnitudes between.
Henriette describes the present material as oriented toward growing, and it’s effortless to see why. Beyond the initial seeds, much can be discovered in subsequent waterings. Her distinctive register is no less powerful for its quietude and perhaps even more so for its forays into virtuosic flashes. Put another way, she is interested not in nouns and verbs but in the indefinite articles and prepositions that give them direction. Once again, the intensity of understatement reigns supreme.
Choosing favorites is fruitless, not only because they’re all so beautiful in their way, but also because the narrative unfurls as one connected sequence of events. For while “The 7th” introduces with a brief, stepwise introduction and “Solsnu” completes the circle with a creaking of wood, breath, and string, the text that binds them is written in starlight and wind. Much of what we encounter within ends just as it begins to take shape, letting the rest of its life travel of its own volition. This self-sufficiency is the profoundest remainder of Drifting, wherein dreams of birds (“Čađat”) and icy breath (“0 º”) kiss the cheek of non-existence.
As brief as some pieces are, including the haunts of “Čieđđa, fas,” “Crescent,” “Divining,” to call them vignettes feels wrong, as this implies there is some form of restriction at play. Rather, these are cells in the act of division, each iteration more exponential than the last. As such, change is always waiting around every corner. This is why even the more playful “Chassé” and “A Choo” (the latter a deconstruction of “The Knuckle Song”) so organically twist themselves into something other than themselves. Because they are not bound by time, neither are they committed to a specific form. As in “Indrifting you,” the music is always on the verge of falling one way or another. The instruments sway in and out of frame as a woven instrument in aggregate. At their center is the title track, which holds the moonlight like a tether to some longed-for dream and never letting go, even in adulthood. It makes you want to cry, wondering why you just stood there watching yours float until it popped like a dying star overhead…
Alexander Lonquich piano, direction Münchener Kammerorchester Daniel Giglberger concertmaster Recorded January 2022 Rathausprunksaal, Landshut Engineer: Markus Heiland Cover: Fidel Sclavo An ECM Production Release date: November 8, 2024
After a years-long relationship with the Munich Chamber Orchestra, pianist Alexander Lonquich had an opportunity to perform Beethoven’s entire cycle of piano concertos over the course of an autumn evening in 2019. The present recording draws upon that collaboration as a gesture of preservation. Composed between 1790 and 1809, the five completed concertos are what the pianist calls “outward-looking creations” and give us insight into the composer’s depth and breadth of mind.
Lonquich begins, naturally, with the Piano Concerto No. 2 in B-flat major, op. 19, given that it was written first but published second due to Beethoven’s initial displeasure with it. Although its opening movement immediately calls Mozart to mind, there are plenty of distinctive colorations to enjoy in its ferocious ebullience, and its central departure into more delicate textures is a marvel. The Adagio is haunting for its sustain-pedaled penultima, setting up the final Rondo, which introduces a veritable horse race of energy to reckon with.
The Mozartian flavors continue in both the Piano Concerto No. 1 in C major, op. 15, and Piano Concerto No. 3 in c minor, op. 37. Whereas the former’s martial beginnings (bordering on overbearing with the occasional blast of timpani and brass) and symphonic conclusion speak with the inflection of a true Classicalist, the second movement adopts a romantic sway. Its soliloquy drips from Lonquich’s fingers like moonlit water, while the surrounding brushwork lends dimension to the scene. The wind writing is especially poignant, blending with the soloist as organically as a forest envelops every tree. The op. 37 mirrors this format almost to a T, beginning with another garagantuan Allegro con brio. At 17 minutes, it’s nothing to take lightly and flows more comfortably to my ears than its op. 15 counterpart. Perhaps it’s the minor key, the more mature writing, or a combination of the two, but whatever the formula, it is bursting at the seams with inspiration and invention, not least of all in the cadenza. (It also seems to foreshadow the Fifth Symphony in the same key, to be written five years later.) Between it and the foot-tappingly engaging third act is cradled another beautiful Largo. As an inward turn, it looks to itself as if through a glass darkly. Yearning for the future, it glows like an ember of possibility.
The Piano Concerto No. 4 in G major, op. 58, opens with even more resolutely symphonic textures, as winds and brass weave a tapestry of pastoral imagery. At 20 minutes, it is half the length of the average symphony and deserves regard as a universe unto itself. The piano’s entrance is timid, almost mocking, before it exuberantly courts the orchestra in a dance of ambitious proportions. Like the Rondo at the other end of the tunnel, it emerges confident, almost brash, in its virtuosity. The Andante con moto operates at a whole other level at their center. Originally conceived with the Orpheus myth in mind, it is by turns agitated and contemplative. This push and pull continues until the piano unfurls its grief alone in a tangled catharsis.
In his liner notes for the album, Lonquich conceives a title for the Piano Concerto No. 5 in E-flat major, op. 73: “Battle, Prayer and Folk Festival.” For while the opening joys seem set in stone, they quickly crumble as more desperate convolutions come to the fore before the piano moves to its highest registers in a rousing meta statement. The Adagio un poco moto, perhaps the most recognizable movement of the collection, is easily heard anew in the present rendering, so crisp are its articulations that the smoothness of their skin feels real to the touch. Beethoven himself in the score marks the piano’s entrance “like the break of dawn,” but as Lonquich notes, what follows “feels to me like the attraction of a nocturnal source of light, which seems to be robbed of its radiance just five bars before the end.” And in that regression, we feel all sorts of trepidations shuffling through the mind until we land on the rousing third movement, where the sun indeed has the last word. Despite its many asides, tempering the sense of victory with that of retrospection, the music moves forward with confidence. Beethoven holds the flowing arpeggios and boisterous dances in constant check so as not to let time rule over space. With a brief yet inspiring finale, it sweeps us away in its arms and runs as far as its legs will carry us.
Between Sound and Space: ECM Records and Beyond 