Alkan geniusenigma booklet 02 by Klassiek.nl

A l s o ava i l a b l e A selection of Piano Classics titles

3–CD

For the full listing please visit www.piano-classics.com

Virtuoso Transcriptions Mussorgsky/Khulodey BORIS GODUNOV SUITE NIGHT ON BALD MOUNTAIN

AmericanRomantics Ƭhe Boﬆon Scene

Ƒoote ❊ Whiting ❊ Paine Chadwicƙ ❊ Ɲevin ❊ Ruthven Lang

Piano Concerto 2 Cello Sonata

GENIUS-ENIGMA

ANNA FEDOROVA

Tchaikovsky/Noack ROMEO & JULIET

Valery Kuleshov

ALKAN

Rachmaninoff

Nordwestdeutsche Philharmonie, Laércio Diniz

Benedict Kloeckner, cello

ARTEM BELOGUROV Chickering Piano 1873

PCL0079

PCL0080

PCL0081

ALKAN

LISZT Sonata

Chanson de la folle au bord de la mer

SCHUBERT

Wanderer Fantasy

Song of the madwoman on the seashore

JANÁCˇEK

Sonata 1.X.1905

A collection of eccentric piano works

Vincenzo Maltempo, Érard 1899

PCL0082

PCL0083

ÉTUDES Op. 39 (complete) Sonata “les quatre âges” Sonatina 3 Morceaux dans le genre pathétique

Philipp Kopachevsky

PCL0084

Vincenzo Maltempo

CHARLES-VALENTIN ALK AN CD 1

4. Ouverture, maestoso, in B minor (Op. 39 No. 11) .......................................... 14’52

12 ÉTUDES DANS TOUS LES TONS MINEURS Op. 39 Nos. 1-7

5. Le festin d’Ésope, allegretto senza licenza quantunque, in E minor (Op. 39 No. 12) ................................................................................... 9’42

1. Comme le vent, prestissimamente, in A minor (Op. 39 No. 1) ....................... 4’41 2. En rhythme molossique, risoluto, in D minor (Op. 39 No. 2) .......................... 8’27 3. Scherzo diabolico, prestissimo, in G minor (Op. 39 No. 3) .............................. 4’44 Symphonie pour piano seul (Op. 39 Nos. 4-5-6-7) 4. Allegro moderato, in C minor ............................................................................. 10’51 5. Marche funèbre, andantino, in F minor ............................................................. 7’46 6. Menuet, tempo di minuetto, in B flat minor ...................................................... 5’36 7. Finale, presto, in E flat minor .............................................................................. 4’39

CD 3 SONATE “LES QUATRE ÂGES” 1. “20 ans”, très vite ................................................................................................. 6’33 2. “30 ans: Quasi Faust”, assez vite ...................................................................... 12’42 3. “40 ans: Un heureux ménage”, lentement ....................................................... 13’14 4. “50 ans: Promethée enchaîné”, assez lentement ........................................... 8’42

TROIS MORCEAUX DANS LE GENRE PATHÉTIQUE, Op. 15 8. Aime-moi ............................................................................................................. 10’05 9. Le vent ................................................................................................................... 8’05 10. Morte ................................................................................................................... 12’56

SONATINE in A minor Op. 61 5. Allegro vivace ........................................................................................................ 5’33 6. Allegramente ......................................................................................................... 4’07 7. Scherzo-menuetto ................................................................................................ 4’10 8. Tempo giusto ......................................................................................................... 5’04

CD 2

9. Étude Op. 76 No, 3 mouvement semblable et perpétuel (From: Trois grandes études pour les mains séparées et réunies, Op. 76) ... 5’17

12 ÉTUDES DANS TOUS LES TONS MINEURS Op. 39 Nos. 8-12 Concerto pour piano seul (Op. 39 Nos. 8-9-10) 1. Allegro assai, in G sharp minor ......................................................................... 29’13 2. Adagio, in C sharp minor .................................................................................... 12’04 3. Allegretto alla barbaresca, in F sharp minor ..................................................... 9’52

Vincenzo Maltempo, piano 3

Alkan and the pianism of the impossible At the margins of the history we find people who, for various reasons, haven’t taken an active part during their life to the unraveling of events, or haven’t left a mark or given a decisive steering on them. But greatness and genius don’t pass unnoticed forever, and if they don’t find in the circumstances the conditions to make a name for themselves, they can always count on a posthumous fame. “My time will come” prophesied a pessimistic Mahler about himself. Nowadays, thanks to the advantages of multimedia that can fully satisfy the increasing curiosity of performers and music lovers to lesser known repertoire, the time is more propitious to another spiritus magnus to be placed in the rightful place in the Pantheon of the history of music. We are talking about Charles Valentin Alkan, whose obituary appears reciting something like “Alkan has just died. It was necessary to die so that we could be sure of his existence”. So it is not difficult to guess

how much fame Alkan enjoyed, even in life. It is also true he never felt the frantic urgency to seek honour and glory, but things hadn’t always been that way: the young virtuoso Alkan was one of the most admired in Paris, although his career as a performer wasn’t bright and successful because of a style which, although refined and technically flawless (Liszt said that Alkan possessed the best technique he had ever seen, and that he felt uncomfortable when he attended his concerts), didn’t impress the bourgeois public of the time, to tame them it was necessary to have considerable fascination and magnetism, especially after the “lisztian revolution”... According to the reviews of his concerts it seems that his performances were considered cold and not very involving. But Alkan was not willing to compromise: so when he was denied the possibility of covering the longed position of Head of Piano Department at the Conservatoire of Paris, because of petty power games – adding to this bitter decision, the discomfort of living in a world that did not fit his artistic thought and with which he wasn’t able to communicate – he decided to retreat from public life. From a certain point on, whoever knocked at his door received the same answer from his faithful butler: “I’m sorry, monsieur Alkan is not at home”. To sustain himself he continued to give private lessons to a few young daughters of wealthy aristocrats, but other than that, he lived happily, and without regret, of his misanthropy. He tolerated the company of very few people, among which his close friend and neighbour Chopin. He admired and loved him beyond measure, while he had no particular esteem for his “rival” Franz Liszt, whose shameless show of himself seemed to be

an unforgivable excess to his reserved character. In any case, Alkan’s withdrawal from the scenes and from public life at the age of 25 (making only sporadic appearances and unexpected return to the concerts, not very luckily actually, when he was almost seventy years old) didn’t have to be something hopelessly depressing: in solitude he devoted many hours to the study and translation of his beloved sacred text, the Talmud and the Bible, and had the time to meditate and achieve his greatest masterpieces. Not having to rely on public favor or compare with the ability of other performers, Akan was free to lavish in his works all the wonderful insights and pianistic innovations, creating his own musical ideas without limiting the technical and expressive means in his possession. Alkan’s distinctive style (dedicated, we may say, exclusively to the piano, like Chopin) is indeed something unique: born in the Biedermeier tradition – where the piano is also the orchestra – he took on a surprisingly innovative course, although he remained a faithful guardian of “classicism”. His compositions are mostly huge works, (although there are delightful miniatures, like the Esquisses, the Chants, the Preludes, small piece of Jewish music etc), from solid and “molossique” pianism, and secure formal structure. The sonata-form abounds in secondary themes, and these along with the main themes need a lot of space to fully express themselves (see the colossal “Concerto for solo piano”) but everything always supported by an incredible control of the proportions. Surely his melodic invention can’t always be said to be happy (but when it was, it was very happy), but we are always sure to find something in his pages that captures and fascinates – be its compelling

reiterated rhythm, or the thin and poignant dose of sarcasm, typically Hebrew, which distinguished him personally, colouring so many pages of his music. He was admired by avant-garde composers such as Busoni (his first isolated interpreter, who counted him among the greatest postBeethovenian piano composers) and Sorabji (who certainly has in common with Alkan the propensity to the great formal architecture…). His scores have always discouraged the majority of pianists and maybe this is the main reason why his music went into oblivion. It was not until the devotee Ronald Smith (author of Alkan’s first full biography and of the incision of nearly all his piano works), the histrionic Raymond Lewenthal, and in recent times, Jack Gibbons or Marc-Andre Hamelin, that young and not so young pianists become aware of the beauty of some of his masterpieces. Even if these pieces remain incredibly difficult to play on the piano, they can certainly be performed much more easily today than in the past decades, for the hugely evolved skills of modern pianists. Grande Sonate “Les quatre âges” Op. 33 Among these works we can find the “Grande Sonate” Op. 33, which is of considerable historical importance and still underestimated. The great romantic composers who after Beethoven and before Liszt had first approached “the Sonata”, remained mostly in the safe and canonic classical boundaries, although giving them a new content in order to satisfy the aesthetic of the time. Alkan instead does something different: he had the courage to title “Sonata” what Schubert would have titled a “Fantasia”.We are speaking of course of the well-known “Wanderer-Fantasie”, a masterpiece

which has created a bridge between the “old” and “new” sonata-form. Liszt owes him a lot in his Sonata in B minor, with which he will definitively surpass every expressive barrier and limit by making it a single entity, able to contemplate in it an entire world of sentiments and emotions. Alkan’s “Grande Sonate” appears in 1847, seven years earlier than Liszt’s. It is still composed in “movements”, but it is a programmatic work, by the subtitle “Le quatres ages”. Its four movements describe the four idealized stages of man’s life. Here the formal choices are unpredictable: the first movement, “20 ans”, is actually in the form of a “Scherzo”, similar to the tempo and the form of Chopin Op. 20. It opens with an impetuous (though very measured, as required by the severe Alkanian style) melodic figuration, in a floating B minor, which clearly expresses the overwhelming self-confidence known at that age. A second, beautiful theme “cantabile” (the “Trio” of the Scherzo) in B major, is preceded by a throbbing F Sharp interrupting the impetuous movement of the first part, almost like heartbeats that distract from the hyperactivity, to draw attention to the perilous and exciting ways of love... This short dreaming digression gives way to the awkward advance of youth which proceeds proudly until its full expression in the last chords, that, far from being random, already foreshadow the melodic design of the next movement,“30 ans”, the dreaded “Quasi Faust”, surely one of the hardest things ever written for solo piano. Here the form is much more complex, but the themes are so clear and well conducted that it is not difficult to follow its development. Impossible not to notice, from the beginning, a melodic and rhythmic

formula which is familiar to many: the high notes and then the low notes may have inspired the violent contrasts of Liszt’s Sonata in B minor? This second movement describes the drama and the personality of a man who has overcome the unconsciousness of youth ,but who is not yet endowed with the wisdom and detachment of old age. This is still the time of the last illusions, like the ability to control one’s life through the unlimited knowledge, only possible with the help of the Devil, the inevitable Mephistopheles, which gives body to the dark nature that is in all of us, and his desire of annihilation, (we see him break into the Sonata with a pompous B major, which interrupts Faust’s initial spiritual labour pain); and this, again, is the time of the illusion (or Truth) of love (see the amazing Margherita’s theme, which with its innocence and purity shatters the tempter’s poison clouds of sulfur, whose now powerless promises end up bubbling in a bass trill). Here, finally, there is still something that saves man, not so much the love of a woman, although necessary and wonderful, but the love of God, which is eternal and still, and floods darkness with light. How can one not be fascinated by the spiritual path of this movement: in the middle of a pressing anxiety and agony, that sees man torn between celestial and infernal temptation, everything stops, having reached the peak of incurable despair. It appears then, in pianissimo, a subtle theme, but strong theme of beauty, the theme of a fugato, whose first notes, as well as being part of the theme of Faust, refer to the E Major Fugue in the Second Volume of “The well-tempered clavier” by J. S. Bach and to the first four notes of the last movement of the Symphony “Jupiter” by Mozart. Despite

the intricate structure (even for eight voices in which we reach also the improbable key of E sharp with its F triple sharp...), this “purifying” Fugato leading to a new perfect joy provided by the bright, gracious love of God. For the devote Jew Alkan, this is the most important certainty. After the second movement, the time has come for man to face perhaps the most difficult challenge: family life. But for Alkan this doesn’t seem to be a chimera, judging by the subtitle of the “40 ans”: “Un heureux ménage”, although Alkan has never been married (he had a son from a brief relationship, Miriam Delaborde – never publicly acknowledged – a talented pianist who helped with a first important publication his father’s works), was animated by a slight misogyny, which could compare with the discomfort caused him by mankind in general. The beautiful theme of this movement in G Major (also somewhat related to the topics of “Quasi Faust”) in which we seem to see the “imaginary” couple dueting in the quiet calm domestic scene, being interrupted when “les enfants” enter – three (judging by the voices...) plump tender children, who unlike real ones, don’t shatter pots or make noise, but gently liven up the sweet love life of the couple. The day ends with ten strokes of the clock (for Alkan it was the fateful hour when he retired to rest, stopping any activity), a peaceful prayer recited by the entire family and an ending something like “... and they lived happily ever after...”. But after this quiet closing, something unexpected happens: a fourth movement (“50 ans”), as black as Erebus. It is in fact the “Prometheus Bound”, and with this title Alkan imagines the last age of man, on the road of sunset. Death seen by a young thirty year old

man (Alkan, the composer), seen as something unimaginable. The initial chorale gives way to two tuneful episodes, in which Alkan uses a theme that we know to be nothing less than the first theme of Beethoven’s Tenth Symphony. We don’t know if Alkan knew at the time, about the sketches of the last symphonic idea of the great deaf composer. It is a matter of fact that the opening of the theme is exactly the same, and we also find in the movement a fragment of the “Funeral March” theme of Beethoven’s “Eroica”. The Sonata ends in the blackest black and hopeless of G sharp major, light years away from the sunlight which came from the D major. (Is is interesting to note Alkan’s exception to the rule: the tone is something that takes part in the drama of the story, not something fixed and predetermined). By listening to it one gets drifted in the pitiless passing of time and in its vertigo: the strength and the momentum decrease from movement to movement (as evidenced by the four agogic directions), until everything dies away irremediably. Sonatine Op. 61 Compared with the monumental “Grand Sonate”, the little gem that is the Sonatine Op 61 is a world apart. Sorabji noted that it “makes one feel as if Berlioz had written a Beethoven Sonata.” This is still in the Sonata form that Alkan so thoroughly assimilated and that finds a faithful, formal, almost literal application in such works as the Sonatine, the Symphony and the Concerto. Some have suggested a link between the first movement’s characteristic first theme and Mozart’s A minor Sonata, and I think this is true. Even the development of the first movement can be described as very Mozartian,

with its very strict and effective counterpoint and never a moment’s rest, as everything flows with relentless rhythm and constant freshness. The second movement, marked “Allegramente,” is a delightful intermezzo, with something of the flavour of a Haydn string quartet, with no hint of upheavals or emotional anguish. Only at the end do we sense that something is not right – a sudden complication and superposition of voices setting out the theme, as though freed for a moment, colliding into disorder before the composer’s wise hand brings them back onto the right track. A minor hiccup in a perfect mechanism. This is a feature that should be emphasized in Alkan’s music: the fascination with (and also the dependence on) the mechanism, the inexorable flow of time, the regular rhythms of his life and of his day, always the same and always with an eye to the clock. In this respect he seems very close to Ravel, whose music, though apparently the embodiment of sensuousness and flexibility par excellence, finds its true strength and its solid base in rhythm, marked as it is by the incessant ticking of the thousand watches of Torquemada’s workshop. The third movement is a truly diabolical Scherzo-Minuetto, whose rapid right-hand scales (like sparkling “Feux Follets”) are supported by a left-hand based on the second theme of the first half, whose melody becomes harmony. The whole Sonatine is based on just two elements (an ascending interval of a fifth – or a descending fourth – and on a restricted scale of six tones), which are reused and reinvented in four movements with a skill reminiscent of the Flemish school, which for centuries formed the basis for the German “science of composition”. A small element (an interval, a fragment of a scale, a very brief motif of three or four

notes) is used as the basis for what follows. Thanks to this mechanism, Alkan was able to really play with a freedom granted to few, producing a concise and well-constructed work that sounds entirely fresh and natural. In this Third Movement the chorale of the Trio proceeds from the three imperious chords that close the first part, a kind of meditative and calm response to the violence caused by the mounting storm previously unleashed. The Finale of the Sonatine, on the other hand, is one of Alkan’s most overwhelming pieces. Its rhythm is very strict and it unleashes a huge power. It all begins with the metallic ring of a brass marching band. Several episodes develop this material, which at the very end are somewhat distorted to evoke the main theme (overturned, in the minor) of the Third Leonora Overture. One really cannot imagine a more effective and energetic Finale. Trois morceaux dans le genre pathétique, Op. 15 The “Trois Morceaux dans le Genre Pathétique” Op 15 were published in 1838, when the composer was 25, and the first important product of his acquired maturity and mastery of musical substance. We can see that this is a special work, as soon as we glance at the score: it bears not one single marking. No agogics or dynamics, no slurs, no fingering – only notes, and nothing else. We know that Alkan was always very finicky and precise in marking his scores, and yet this cannot have been an oversight by his publisher. The key to this little mystery is perhaps the work’s dedicatee: Franz Liszt. This is evidently a test, a demonstration that a genius needs no pointers to penetrate to

the meaning of the music: the notes speak for themselves. Hitherto we have had only one single recording of it (made by Marc-André Hamelin) so we can be confident that the notes will yield new light, reveal new details as yet unrevealed to impart a different character to a passage, a new shape to a melodic line – an impromptu aspect, a sforzando to emphasize a moment of tension. The writing of music with no superimposed markings had already been normal practice, but at that time it relied on performers’ solid preparation. The writing of music has become more and more complex, and now requires many marks and indications in order to be properly understood as the composer conceived it. But I believe that, once one has assimilated and absorbed a style of music (in this case the Romantic), it should take no more effort to perform a Sonata in B minor without annotations to the score than an Urtext edition of a Bach Toccata or Partita. Liszt apparently never played this work in public (or anything else of Alkan’s, as far as I know), but he did write an enthusiastic review of it. Schumann, however, disliked it intensely, as he did all the music of the time that he deemed “degenerate”, “un-Germanic” or written only to achieve easy public applause. In this instance, rather than to the last of these reasons (this 30-minute work, however poetic, is somewhat heavy to digest in concert) Schumann was perhaps referring to the first, if we consider his description of the final piece, “Morte” – “a concoction of all the worst things imaginable.” The important thing here is that these three pieces make up a single cycle having a clear direction, one that reveals Alkan’s view of the world. The theme is Love and Death (which is

magnificently reworked in the Study Op 35 no. 10, “Chant d’amour – Chant de mort”), which also means “Life and Death”, the same subject matter as in the Sonata. In neither instance does the path lead to redemption or sublimation. There is no way escape: Death is something truly inexorable, beyond which there is nothing but darkness and silence. In the Sonata, it is a moving experience to witness the gradual disappearance of everything – the energies of youth that fade, a process that cannot fail to chime with us both emotionally and spiritually. Here it is the same: the first piece, “Aime-moi”, “Love me”, should be a tender declaration (or request) of love, but right away it assumes a pessimistic tone of lamentation, like a reminiscence of suffering. The tonality is a dark A flat minor, which leaves little to hope for, until, after two middle sections, it returns to close the piece, now turned into a soft and delicate A flat major, with the same theme transfigured to express something close to happiness, but which, if so, is merely a dark and melancholy memory of it. We feel that perhaps happiness is possible, but that it must be expressed not loudly but in a whisper, as an intimate experience almost impossible to communicate. Yet there is always the danger that this brief moment of happiness will be swept away by the storms of life, which is the dreadful feeling represented by the second piece, “Le Vent”. There is nothing here of the literal depiction of a windy day: this is something deeper. A subdued, sad chorale intones its lament amid the violent whistling of the wind, until everything falls calm for a moment. Then the melody grows more intense, in a central section that is truly one of the most beautiful and moving pages of Alkan. The wind becomes stormier,

overwhelming the melody, until no trace remains: there is only Nature, cold and blind, with no mercy for mankind. Now comes the wonderful third and final piece of the collection, titled “Morte”. Despite Schumann’s harsh judgment, it is very noble and profound, very Berlioz-like in the grotesque and evocative images that it conjures up. The tolling of muffled funeral bells seem almost transfigured, dull thuds heard as though from underground. We feel that this is where we are, buried alive, whilst outside a small throng of monks intones the Dies Irae. The whole first part lives (or dies) in this dark atmosphere (the tolling B flat bells must have made an impression on Ravel, who 70 years later sounded them again in his “Le Gibet”). Soon the mood changes, with the only truly passionate and tumultuous episode of the collection, in which despair and pain find full and wild expression: the waters are whipped up, as the sense of despair culminates with a final effort to cast off this pain and torment leading to a long pause. What can we expect at this point, if not a return to the Dies Irae, which dispels all hope? As if that were not enough, when the theme breaks off, leaving the last bell toll vibrating, a familiar theme reappears – that of the first piece. The memory of lost love returns, but the first phrase constantly breaks up into increasingly harrowing questioning fragments, swallowed up by silence. Now comes the second reminiscence: the wind, which is no more than an almost unrecognizable deep gurgling in the bass, above which the right hand plays a final melody, a marble seal which obscures everything. This is one of the most beautiful and moving pieces that a musician could find, like all the journeys that art allows us to undertake through the human archetypes of our

history, a history of life, love and death. And, as in the Grand Sonata, Alkan offers no false hope: there is no “triumph” after the “lament”, as in Tasso, but only disintegration, waning strength, old age and death, with nothing heroic about it. 12 Études dans tous les tons mineurs, Op. 39 1857 was an annus mirabilis of the kind that occasionally marks the history of literature and art. That was the year that witnessed the birth of such immortal masterpieces such as Baudelaire’s Les fleurs du mal and Flaubert’s Madame Bovary – a novel eventually published in its entirety only after a trial for charges of moral and religious offense. These works imparted a powerful shock to the already weakened certainties of the “modern” man, who had already begun to find himself bereft of God and enslaved to relativism (though the final devastating Gott ist tot would not be pronounced for another 20 years). Yet France, always so active in promoting new and revolutionary ideas, gave birth to another masterpiece in that same year. Far from being a shocking poète maudit, the puritanical Charles Valentin Alkan, muffled up in his long black frock coat, emerged from the silence of his Parisian home – where he had gone into voluntary exile – as a new Moses (many likened him to an Old Testament prophet) back among the unknown people, with his Études dans tous les tons Mineurs Opus 39, like some 12 Commandments for Piano – surely one of the most monumental works in the history of music. It is no wonder that this event failed to resonate in its own time: we must remember that it was in 1857 that Hans von Bulow published in Germany an enthusiastic article about the “junior brothers” of the Op. 39, the Etudes

in all the major keys Op 35, published almost a decade earlier (Alkan is one of those composers with whom history has always been out of step, or vice-versa...). Nevertheless we must admire the open-mindedness and intuitiveness displayed by Bulow (in that fateful year newly married to Cosima Liszt) who, despite dismissing most French piano music of the time as dross (Schumann had already used that term to describe Morte, Alkan’s Op 15 No. 3), acknowledges much merit and beauty in the Etudes Op. 35 and in his works as a whole, expressing surprise and great regret that this composer was virtually unknown in Germany. Like all the works produced by this giant, even the massive collection of Etudes that makes up the Op 39 went unnoticed (the same fate had befallen his Grande Sonate, published in 1848, when Europe was convulsed by revolution). These 12 Etudes are defined as studies, though this definition is more suited to some numbers than others: in fact, four of these “studies” (the quotation marks here are a must) are joined internally to form a Symphony for solo piano and three others a Concerto for solo piano. Though these works are useful to study with a view to solving technical problem of all kinds, for a pianist wanting to embrace the Romantic repertoire (Chopin’s Etudes and his piano music in general are worlds apart, though no less arduous to conquer) transcending their own author’s definition in an almost sardonic manner. Like Magritte’s Ceci n’est pas une pipe, one might say here, Ceci n’est pas une étude. The first three Etudes of Op. 39 are those that perhaps best embody the class of Etude to which they belong. The first, Comme le vent, requires little comment: it is a bravura study in not just

fast, but lightning-fast, motion, and always light (with occasional forays into the familiar territory of chordal passages, an extreme use of his “heavy technique” of large artillery...) This study is unrelated to Le vent, Op 15 n. 2, as the word comme makes clear. Here, it is the pianist’s hands that go “like the wind”, whereas it is the wind itself that blows and whistles in the turbulent and beautiful youthful morceau. The second Etude of the set, entitled En rhythme molossique, is a study mainy in octaves featuring a ternary (“Molossian”) rhythm, which becomes obsessively percussive in the closing harmonic-tonic pedal. Its themes are transformed by sometimes adopting the guise of others, maintaining only their harmony or melody, interweaving with each other in a brilliant interplay of forms. This Etude is listed as one the works in which Ferruccio Busoni presented Alkan in Berlin, in the early 20th century, eliciting some of the harshest criticisms of his entire career. But a composer and pianist of Busoni’s genius certainly existed on a more elevated plane than the bigoted German critics of the time, and it is to this enlightened interpreter that we owe the first important rediscovery of Alkan. The third Etude, the Scherzo Diabolico, is a study mainly in the mechanism of leaps, beginning with a murmuring pianissimo reminiscent of the opening of Chopin’s second Scherzo. The violent and passionate main section makes frequent use of the “Neapolitan sixth” (at one point there are three in succession, all marked sforzando, an outright 666...) and frighteningly difficult wide leaps in both hands. A central section built on massive chords (perhaps representing the Glory of God, reminiscent of the final section of the Quasi-Faust, from the

Sonata, where the use of massive chords suggests almighty power) gives way to a real acoustic shock: the first section returns (in reduced form) marked ppp throughout. The “Symphony for solo piano”, (composed by the Studies n. 4, 5, 6 and 7) is a piece of dark colour and severe style that, despite the seductive title, wouldn’t adapt to a real orchestral transcription, because the stylistic features used by Alkan are strictly for piano and are fully justified only on this instrument. The first movement in C minor is an “Allegro” solidly constructed in Sonata form. The “Marche funebre” that follows, a humble Andantino, doesn’t have the characteristics of the “Funeral march” that some composers have us got used to...sharp, serious, it makes us understand as the Alkanian ethics suggest how even the most tragic feelings must be self-controlled: “con dolore contenuto” (“with contained pain”), points out the composer at the beginning of the Trio. The violent “Minuet” that follows, expresses another common trait of Alkan’s production, able to create moments of unstoppable and overwhelming power. Even the “Finale” has the effect of a never-ending progression, but here the contrapuntal grid is more varied and the form more complex. The Concerto for piano solo (Studies Nos. 8, 9 and 10) is one of the peaks of the piano literature of all time. I think that the time has now come to recognize this as an indisputable fact, and at last to dispel any bias against the aesthetic value of at least the most important of Alkan’s works, which unhesitatingly and unreservedly deserve to be studied. The Concerto is not the work of a misanthrope wanting to avoid the very possibility of its performance in a “collaboration with other

human beings”, but a masterpiece directly linked to the Concerto nach Italienischem Gusto (JS Bach’s Italian Concerto) written just over a century earlier. It consists of three movements, an Allegro con brio, an Adagio and a Finale in “Polonaise-form”, with the indication “Allegretto alla barbaresca”. The first movement is a veritable tour de force in terms of size and complexity: 1,342 bars covering no fewer than 72 pages! Such a scale may itself deter both pianists and listeners. But nothing could be more misleading! This Allegro is in fact jewel-like in terms of construction. It makes very pleasant listening, its themes always clear and recognisable, with a strong formal structure that never leaves us disoriented – we always know where we are. The orchestral introduction (in G # minor) is entrusted to a commanding brass chorus that presents the first theme, next proclaimed by the full orchestra, followed by a tranquil fragment of the second theme in E major (built on contrary motion, involving a “cyclical cell” derived from the first theme and from which the entire work’s vast material also stems: a descending scale of four notes, g#, f#, and and d#), leading to a third theme (in E flat major, an apparently remote tonality, but not if spelt enharmonically as D # major), also derived from the same unit of the first and second theme. So all the thematic material is presented, as though sharply etched in stone, without frills or empty talk. The piano entry is clearly recognisable, with a significant change of style and writing. A lyrical theme in the home key (though apparently foreign to the composition, it is still built on the four basic notes) soon gives way to sparkling pianistic effects whose aesthetic might seem old-fashioned for the time (as indeed they are!). The same goes

for the entire construction of the Allegro, which refers to the plan of the Biedermaier concerto, whose form and treatment of the solo instrument in relation to the orchestra was defined by Hummel and which Chopin elevated to the utmost charm and beauty, but which Litolff and Liszt had already challenged and transcended. Indeed, those sparkling flights result in one of Alkan’s happiest and most charming themes, which is treated with great pathos and elegance for a few minutes, until new technical designs burst forth, creating a kind of hypertrophic coda to the exposition, which also features the triumphant third theme presented in the orchestral introduction, constituting an important climax of this first part. The development is almost a world apart, locked between the solid wall of the two expositions, involving a passionate conflict between themes which, though flowing from the same source, as we have seen, reveal their contrasting characters and vie with one other with, we could say, mixed fortunes. Two new “characters” enrich this new section: a lyrical melody (a decorated version of first theme) which opens the development and a cantabile theme, a few pages after, which has an individual character of its own and which appears only in this section, lie some mysterious shadow of unknown origin (though perhaps connected to the second theme at least by the interval of a sixth, rising in one, falling in the other, with which they both begin). One very special episode in this development is the prolonged (five pages long) tonic pedal, a repeated G #, wound about by the second theme, no longer so gentle, whose gloomy guise and enfeebled voice perhaps result from its contact with the preceding “shadow” subject. But this pedal has a specific role:

to make the explosion of the second theme, to which it leads, this time in its sunniest and brightest guise, even more effective and powerful! Alkan very frequently used a harmonic pedal, often protracting it to an improbable extent, and it was certainly a significant resource in terms of presenting the musical argument, because nothing imparts greater power to an assertion (especially if it is not new, but says “what has already been said,” here, a theme that has already been presented) than to precede it with something seemingly trivial in both rhythm and harmonic function. After the development, a further exposition, very skillfully compressed in duration and size, is much more relaxed in character. All this prepares for the great Cadenza, which did not feature in Hummel’s or Chopin’s concertos. This incredibly difficult passage bears the indication Quasi-tamburo, “drum-like,”) an explicit exhortation to a percussive use of the keyboard, with the third fingers of both hands used like drumsticks (in Alkan’s music the piano frequently imitates the drum in many ways, from the triumphal to the funereal, and at times almost Mahlerian.) The Cadenza is followed by a concise and triumphant orchestral Coda, interrupted very briefly by a reminiscence of the second theme, like a small tear shed in heartfelt memory, in its joyous rush towards the last, glorious chords of G sharp major. Thus ends, after half an hour of music, an epic struggle and transformation of themes, like those experienced by the characters in some drama, to which we feel at the end inevitably bound, as though they represent a part of ourselves that lives and struggles, succumbs and triumphs. The Adagio that follows this monumental first movement is a

moment of truly rare beauty: a Romance in C # minor, whose theme (again descending, somehow related to the first cyclic unit of the opening movement), poignant and touching but always contained within a strict formal balance, gradually undergoing substantial transformation, via various passing episodes, in a remarkable alchemy of structural refinement. The culmination of one of these metamorphoses, in which the subject is treated canonically and with the utmost expression of despair, ends in a grim drum roll interrupted by violent chords, the backdrop to a dark, severe melody proclaimed in unison by the brass. The atmosphere here, as in the final pages, is truly desolate and mournful, very reminiscent of that created by Mahler in some of his orchestral works, such as the Third and Fifth Symphonies. The tone changes significantly in the third movement, the famous Allegretto alla barbaresca which, despite its name, requires the utmost elegance in overcoming its tremendous difficulties. The title in fact refers to the Berbers of North Africa rather than the Teutonic Huns. The quasi-ribeche marking in the most Berber (or Barbareque) section of the piece testifies to its somewhat Arabic character (the Medieval rebec having derived from Arabic rebab). Here, too, the structure is judiciously planned, and the jaw-dropping stunts that the executant must perform are among the many things sadly lost in a sound recording. This music was indeed written also to be “viewed”, because only thus can one be truly aware of the incredible feats, beyond all imaginable limits, achieved by the great 19th century virtuosos. Some passages are so extraordinary that one cannot fail to acknowledge an imagination, knowledge of the

instrument and skill possessed by only the greatest artists. And it is partly this idea of pushing the limits of what is possible that makes Alkan both much hated and much loved: hated especially by those who despise “virtuosity,” expecting only rumination and contemplation from music. But the “athletic” gesture is also artistic, particularly insofar as it transcends normal physical limits. An act of transcending, of overcoming, should deserve always some respect, whether in the purely spiritual or physical realm. The acrobatic feats of a top dancer or the performance of an Alkan piece such as the Allegretto (which reach the very limits, but always gracefully, muscular effort producing incredible pirouettes in the air, or on the keyboard) require the same effort to overcome physical limitations. In the former case, the fact that this transcendence is so visible and “external” must not cause us to call it “banal” or “trivial,” compared to a poet’s flight of fancy or the spiritual depth of an instrumental work that we may judge more “meaningful.” These are the two ends of a single line, which extends from the abstract and intangible to the solid and physical. Nowadays we are surely open-minded enough to enjoy and to exploit both, without bias. In its complete form, the Concerto’s first recording came very late – in 1968, from that great Alkanian apostle, Ronald Smith. The first movement had previously been recorded in 1938 by Egon Petri, a pupil of Busoni, in its “reduced version” (Alkan himself was aware of the mammoth scale of the work and proposed a quite substantial cut, from the end of the second theme (exposition) direct to the Cadenza, reducing its duration to a quarter of an hour and making it a suitable piece, he says, for

the concert hall). Before that, Alkan himself had played some fragments of it in his Petits Concerts, together with a full performance of his Symphony. Such a masterpiece as the “Ouverture” confirms Alkan’s close connection with Classical models. This Ouverture for solo piano, with its dark colour and grandiose and complex structure, might be a suitable “opening” for an imaginary work in the French “Grand Opera” style, though we could also see it as a completely self-sufficient piece inspired by some literary work or the adventurous life of some “hero” or brave general. Here, too, there is an extraordinary closeness to the work of Beethoven: Egmont comes to mind, for instance, both for the darkness and the structure of the piece. In fact the form of Alkan’s work is much more complex: an introduction, a cheerful Allegro in sonata form, and a glorious bright Finale. As we listen to this piece we really must forget the piano, and if we succeed in this we can grasp Alkan’s extraordinary skill as “pianistic orchestrator”, as we see in the case of the Symphony for solo piano. Here Alkan achieves at the piano that which Berlioz achieved with the orchestra, transcending physical limits in order to express something grand. This piece contains very few ideas generated by a typical pianistic style: it really seems to be a transcription of a piece conceived entirely for orchestra, though the sound that emerges from the piano is perfect (even more so on a 19th century Erard.) The real novelty here in comparison to Liszt’s orchestral treatment of the piano is that, whereas Liszt proceeds from the piano and its possibilities and makes it sound like an orchestra, Alkan however proceeds from an abstract musical idea and cleverly transcribes

it, suggesting that he cares nothing about what efforts the performer must make to achieve it. This reminds us of Beethoven’s famous outburst at the violinist Schuppanzigh’s complaint about the excessive difficulties of one of his quartet: “Do you think I care a jot about your damned violin, when the Spirit speaks to me and says what I must write?” But we cannot say that Alkan wrote his music abstractly, as dictated by the Spirit, because if one works patiently and penetrates the rationale of his writing, then the full force and power of even his most impossibly difficult music is revealed. The amusing Life of Aesop was translated by Sir Roger L’Estrange, a 17th-century English essayist and staunch champion both of the English monarchy in the time of Cromwell and of all the obscure political maneuverings in support of those ideals. In old age he became passionate about the ancient philosophers and sages, translating Seneca and Cicero, some of Aesop’s Fables (very freely) and the Life of Aesop, an entertaining biography of the famous Greek story-teller popular in Roman times – perhaps none too accurate in terms of detail, but full of fantasy and mordant wit. This biography depicts Aesop as a very astute slave and talented creator of moral “fabulae”. It recounts several episodes that show how Aesop was wiser and cleverer than his masters. One is particularly interesting: whilst in the service of the philosopher Xantus, his master inviters a number of other philosophers and asks him to prepare a dinner fit for a king. He begins by serving ox tongue and continues with several more courses, all based on the same ingredient, though prepared in different ways – a kind of “Theme and Variations”. This

angers Xanthus, but Aesop retorts: “What could be better for a banquet of philosophers than a feast of tongues?” There is no denying that! Was this “Feast of Tongues” the inspiration for Alkan’s Festin d’Esope, or is the latter just a learned homage that borrows the title without influencing the musical substance of the piece? The truth is that, if the title is evocative, the music is even more so. It coould be considered (whether superficially or not) a kind of “bestiary” of anthropoid Aesopic creatures. One seems to hear a donkey braying in the second variation, to see a flea jumping and scampering in the 12th (as the player’s hands jump to span improbable distances.) Not to mention the “abbajante” which appears in the 21st (abrupt dog barks in the middle of a hunting theme) and the roars of the king of the forest in the 22nd. Numerous other parallels can be found. The truth is that in this colourful piece – which closes the collection of the 12 Studies in the minor keys Op 39 with a wry and mocking smile – Alkan’s displays boundless imagination in cooking up different versions of the theme. In these Etudes, but also in his piano works as a whole, Alkan fully earns his place amongst the greatest Romantic composer, where Busoni had already placed him. From the most colossal works to miniatures, his creations are always animated by endless exuberance and rhythmic and melodic variety, offering a constant contrast between the angelic and the demonic, examining with equal interest both the beau and the laid of which Victor Hugo spoke, the beautiful and the grotesque – in a state of tension, but in balance, between the severity of the classical form and the Romantic

inner urge towards the fantastical. All these things are merged together in the man who was, rightly or wrongly, dubbed the “Berlioz of the piano” – a goldmine of beauty, an ineluctable challenge for the pianist and a captivating world to be discovered by the public! Vincenzo Maltempo

Vincenzo Maltempo A wonderful technique, sounds like carved in marble, a courageous and strong execution (Rafael Sala, Piano News) Elegant phrasing, never ostentatious virtuosity, mastery of form and musical sense: jot this name gentlemen, a Pianist is born! (Marcello Filotei, L’Osservatore Romano) Vincenzo Maltempo, a pianist whose infallible technique is matched by a refined and intelligent musicality, is gaining a fast-growing reputation in today’s musical world, thanks to his numerous recordings and public performances, always enthusiastically received by both audiences and critics. Maltempo is a multifaceted artist with a multitude of cultural interests, attracted by a wide range of musical styles – from Renaissance music to jazz improvisation – and follows less beaten musical paths, always committed to featuring unfamiliar piano repertoire. He was born in 1985 and completed his musical studies under the guidance of Salvatore Orlando (disciple of the pianist Sergio Fiorentino) graduating with highest honors from the Conservatory “S. Cecilia” in Rome. After he follows the courses of Riccardo Risaliti at the International Piano Academy “Incontri col Maestro” in Imola. In 2006 he won the prestigious piano competition “Premio Venezia”, at the theater “La Fenice” in Venice, receiving great favour by audiences and critics. Following this success he played in the most important theaters and Auditorium in Italy, Europe, Asia, USA. He recorded for Piano Classics, Gramola, Brillian, Toccata Classics music by Liszt, Alkan, Schumann (A. Lonquich: “Vincenzo Maltempo is a pianist/musician out of the ordinary; rarely if ever I heard such a Humoreske so compelling and multifaceted at the same time”. Bryce Morrison, Gramophone: “Less contained than Pollini and more attuned to Horowitz’s flamboyance, his performance captures all of Schumann’s teeming imagination”); his 5 CD dedicated to the French Romantic composer Ch. V. Alkan have raised great enthusiasm getting the coveted five stars in such magazines like “Diapason”, “Gramophone” and “The Guardian” (“Exhilarating, a real revelation!”). Vincenzo Maltempo is considered today one of the most remarkable Alkan interpreters and in Japan, in November 2013, he played the complete set of the Alkan’s 12 Etudes Op 39: one of the very few times in history that an interpreter play them all in a single recital. In 2014 Vincenzo Maltempo was nominated Honorary Member of the Alkan Society in London. Since 2010 he has begun a fruitful collaboration with the Conductor Gustav Kuhn, who regularly invites him to give concerts at his Academy of Montegral in Lucca, for the “Erl Festspiele” and for the “Festival-suedtirol” in Dobbiaco, where he had the opportunity to propose his own transcription for solo piano of the “Sinfonie in E” by Hans Rott. He also composed some transcriptions of major orchestral works which are published by Ries & Erler Berlin. In 2014 Maltempo’s debut in the “Miami Piano Festival” in Florida (USA) has recieved a big acclaim both from audience and critic, so he will a guest of next editions of the Festival. Vincenzo Maltempo is among the founders and piano teacher of the “Imola Piano Academy – Talent development Eindhoven” in The Netherlands. He lives in Florence, Italy.