The Emperor - Addendum
Posted by: Todd A on 07 October 2006
Here's the first thread for those who've not read it.
Time to revisit this one.
I started off this batch of four recordings with the best sounding recording of the Emperor I’ve ever heard. Hell, it’s one of the best sounding recordings of anything I’ve ever heard. I refer to Ikuyo Nakamichi’s 2004 recording with Paavo Järvi and the Deutsche Kammerphilharmonie, Bremen on RCA / BMG Japan. Really, the sound is superb, but more on that shortly. To the music: the Allegro opens in suitably grand, sweeping fashion, which is somewhat surprising given the slightly scaled back size of the orchestra. Nakamichi enters in similar fashion. She takes a somewhat broad tempo and plays in a deliberate fashion, as she often does, but in the runs and flourishes, she plays with greater speed and dexterity. One constant throughout, from both pianist and orchestra, is amazing clarity. From Nakamichi that manifests itself in amazingly clear part playing and inner voices, and from the band that means one can hear not only each individual section with clarity, but almost each individual instrument at times. At times the clarity is startling and revelatory – as with the horns early in the first movement, or the bassoons later on. This clarity also translates to a somewhat light take on the work, at least when compared to heavier readings from Pollini / Bohm or Serkin / Bernstein, to name two gooduns. Anyway, Nakamichi’s return after the bravura second orchestral passage is graceful and quite formal and proper, and just a bit metallic in louder passages. The first main passage where the left and right hands play boldly different music comes off superbly, Nakamichi delivering both parts with superb clarity and control, even if it doesn’t flow quite as much as I’d like. The series of trills after 9’ are sweet and tender, which may or may not be to everyone’s taste, but they sure sound nice. The bold ascending then descending runs are well played but too stolid to be ideal, but Nakamichi redeems herself in the Grand Flourish, delivering swelling, powerful, if slightly too sculpted playing. The second left-right split passage is every bit as good as the first, and she and the band cap everything off well enough. The Adagio un poco moto offers something new in my experience. Yes, the strings start off in lovely and amazingly clear fashion, and if the playing isn’t the most emotionally evocative around, it’ll more than do. No, it’s the soloist, that’s what’s different and unique. She enters slowly, deliberately, and plays with unapologetic beauty. Heavens, that tender bass line underlying the gently singing right hand is something to marvel at. It’s so, so, well, feminine. Now that’s a word I would have never thought to apply to this of all works, even in the slow movement. But I must. And I’m happy to do so. (And then that tender little trill, how does she make it sound that way?) As is Nakamichi’s wont, she plays the whole work in a formal, nearly reverential, sonically sculpted fashion. Here it works. Nakamichi comes out swinging in the concluding Rondo, showing that she clearly can play with great energy and drive if she so chooses, and when Järvi leads the band, it’s with a snazzy, jazzy beat, if you will, that maintains sufficient musical tension and beef through to the end. Some nicely terraced dynamics from the orchestra and more heated playing from Nakamichi on occasion bring the work to a satisfying conclusion. (You may notice that I haven’t mentioned Järvi too much. That’s because he plays the role of accompanist superbly, supporting the soloist in her conception.) Now back to that fabulous sound: it’s fabulous! The instrumental clarity, timbral accuracy, “spatial” precision, dynamic range, and focus are all amazing. Yes, this is a multi-miked recording, and yes some things are clearer than they would be in concert, but I don’t care. If only all recordings sounded this good. And that’s the CD layer. The SACD layer may be better yet (I have machine that’ll play SACDs, but it doesn’t sound as good as my main CD player), and there’s a DVD version, though not with North American or European regional settings, so one can watch and listen if one has the right kit. It may very well be worth it.
Next up is another version from 2004: Yukio Yokoyama’s Sony recording with the Japan Chamber Orchestra wherein he assumes both the soloist and conductor roles. The ensemble is even smaller than the Bremen band, and as such, the work takes on a smaller sound. Think of it as Mozart’s Coronation concerto on (diluted) ‘roids. Right away this becomes clear; the Allegro opens with plenty of pep and energy, but it doesn’t exactly sound grand. Yokoyama himself dashes across the keyboard in a most athletic manner, nothing seeming to challenge him. Something else becomes apparent. The more distantly miked recording makes the whole thing sound more coherent and jelled, as opposed to the still coherent but more detail-oriented Nakamichi recording. There’s also less detail, but more bloom during crescendos. (You can’t have everything.) There’s also a sort of mechanical feel to the playing; everyone is very well drilled and at times seem to be playing with no specifically important reason to do so. The orchestral interlude prior to Yokoyama’s return has a corporate efficiency even George Szell would admire, and then Yokoyama’s return itself is light and athletic and precise, with damned good trills. (These are merely a taste of what’s to come.) He comes across as very much the cool straight man. Think of him as a lightweight Maurizio Pollini with hints of charm. Anyway, as things progress, Yokoyama plays the swelling crescendos with satisfying power, and the first left-right passage is dexterously dashed off, even if it’s not especially clear. (That has more to do with the recording than the playing.) One thing is certain: Yokoyama’s playing always flows. Another thing is just as certain: his trills after 9’ are simply breathtaking. They are awesomely fast and precise, almost as though a classically trained machine is pounding them out. Few players approach him here; fewer still match him. The Grand Flourish takes on a virtuosic air, with effortless dexterity married to a decent level of power and some nice touches where he pushes the music. The second left-right passage comes off better than the first, and the movement winds down very well. The Adagio is somewhat perplexing. The lean sound precludes any richly romantic feeling, and the overall sense is of a soloist and orchestra trying to evoke some idealized sense of romanticism that they’ve read about rather than experienced first hand. It’s too precise and contrived. Yokoyama himself plays very well, but at times seems to be going through the motions. The concluding Rondo is pretty much in line with the opener. Yokoyama plays the youthful virtuoso, the JCO the youthful accompanists. It’s clean, it’s high energy, it’s vigorous, but to what end? Immaculate execution without inspiration is, well, it’s not inspirational, that’s for sure. Overall, this is a nice, clean, energetic effort that doesn’t really have much to say. That’s fine, it’s the earlier concertos in the cycle where this team does its best work.
Moving back in recorded time fifteen years, I opted to give Radu Lupu and Zubin Mehta’s recording with the Israel Philharmonic a shot. It’s not half bad. It also ain’t the greatest. Not that one could guess that in the opening seconds: the Allegro opens in nearly breathless yet beefy fashion, the IPO really turning it on. Lupu’s entrance is fast and vigorous, but lacking just a little something in the grandeur department. The 70s analog Decca sound is weighty and substantial, and that adds to the allure, though it also has some spotlighting and tubby bass, which detract ever so slightly from the proceedings. (Very slightly.) The orchestra plays very well, and if they can’t quite match up to the Berliners or the Chicagoans, the orchestral interlude is still quite satisfying. Lupu’s return is where questions arise. Oh, he plays splendidly, that much is certain, he just plays a bit “small.” The compensation is that the playing is more direct, more intimate, but it doesn’t perfectly suit the music. It does allow for nice dynamic contrasts, both for Lupu alone, and when compared to the orchestra. Both left-right passages sound somewhat disappointing in that they lack ideal clarity and the left hand playing lacks enough oomph. (And I need my oomph.) The Grand Flourish, though is satisfying, with Lupu turning on the power and speed. The Adagio ends up being the highlight of the concerto. The strings start things off rather nicely, though the plumy bass detracts a bit, and the orchestra creates a nice setting for Lupu’s sensitive, tender playing. Here the protagonist is vulnerable, he exposes his heart. He contemplates the tumult that came before, and the tumult that is sure to come, questioning his worthiness to face the challenge. Then he decides, triumphantly, “Yes! I can! I must!” Lupu doesn’t evoke images of romantic heroism in the fashion of, say, Schnabel, but rather he is a chivalrous soul, contemplating his value and his role. It’s all so very chaste and idealized, and it is quite lovely. Throughout, Mehta lends ideal support for Lupu’s vision, with the winds playing an especially nice role. Alas, the Rondo ends things on a less than ideal note. Sure, there’s energy and (finally!) scale and oomph, but it’s all too restrained. I need more drive, more energy, more focus, more purpose. Everything is played well enough – no major gaffes sully the proceedings – but it’s nothing special, either. Had the last movement been better, I would surely rate this recording higher – but not a whole lot higher. As with the Yokoyama cycle, Lupu’s best work is earlier on.
That leaves but one recording for this go-round: Claudio Arrau’s 1964 recording with Bernard Haitink and the Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra on Philips. This well known warhorse recording just never made its way into my collection until recently, and I’m glad it did. But I’m not smitten. In some respects, it’s all there: The grand scale. The serious but not reverential feeling. The wondrous tone from Arrau, the glorious sound from the band. The not only able but excellent accompaniment from Haitink. The good early 60s sound. But something is missing, too, at least for me. The Allegro, well, both the orchestra and soloist open in grand – hell, regal – fashion. The oversized piano draws all attention to the soloist, and he’s on target. His playing is tonally and dynamically supple, yet Arrau is able to muster awesome power during crescendos. The music is played at a fine pace: it’s Allegro, so it’s somewhat quick, but not rushed. And them strings and them horns and them winds, boy do they sound nice. When Arrau returns after the orchestral interlude, he delivers such a wonderful, tonally supple trill that one must sit with a smile on one’s face. The left-right split passages suffer a bit from lack of clarity and a slightly lagging left hand. The Grand Flourish, though, is grand indeed, just like the opening. The Adagio, well, it’s glorious. The strings are the best of this small bunch, and Haitink ably creates a mellow, wistful environment in which Arrau can do his thing. When the great Chilean enters, it is gently, with superb low-end variety and nuance, and with refinement to spare. (Ah, is that it?) As he lets the music unfold, his tasteful approach, his gorgeous legato, his sense of idealized romantic feeling really make the music sing. (Maybe that?) And the orchestra do what needs to be done to let Arrau work his magic. The concluding Rondo is magisterial and powerful and graceful and heroic and even beefy, though, as with the Lupu recording, I could have used more energy and drive. So what is it? Perhaps it’s this: I find the whole thing too refined. Yes, too refined. I’m not dismissing the achievement of anyone involved – this is a superb recording, and mostly because of Arrau – but it lacks those traits I tend to prefer, and that means that this is a second-tier recording for me. (Keep in mind that this tier includes some other fantastic recordings.) For me, when I listen to Beethoven generally, and to this work specifically, I prefer either a reading of overwhelming command and control – like the Pollini / Bohm – or one that’s muscular and aggressive and biting – like the Serkin / Ormandy ditty – and thus I’m always prone to discount recordings like this one at least a bit. But it’s still good. Damned good.
And so another batch has been devoured, and not one ultimate contender is to be heard. Don’t get me wrong, the Arrau recording is superb and makes a very welcomed addition to my expanding collection, and it will receive repeated spins. The Nakamichi recording is also quite good, given its limitations, and will earn repeated spins just so I can hear how glorious a recording can be. The other two recordings also have something to offer, just less. I’ll be keeping all four recordings in my collections. (Well, three are part of sets that I’m more interested in for other works anyway, so I wouldn’t ditch those three even if I hated ‘em.) But none really hit the bull’s-eye. Maybe next time.
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Time to revisit this one.
I started off this batch of four recordings with the best sounding recording of the Emperor I’ve ever heard. Hell, it’s one of the best sounding recordings of anything I’ve ever heard. I refer to Ikuyo Nakamichi’s 2004 recording with Paavo Järvi and the Deutsche Kammerphilharmonie, Bremen on RCA / BMG Japan. Really, the sound is superb, but more on that shortly. To the music: the Allegro opens in suitably grand, sweeping fashion, which is somewhat surprising given the slightly scaled back size of the orchestra. Nakamichi enters in similar fashion. She takes a somewhat broad tempo and plays in a deliberate fashion, as she often does, but in the runs and flourishes, she plays with greater speed and dexterity. One constant throughout, from both pianist and orchestra, is amazing clarity. From Nakamichi that manifests itself in amazingly clear part playing and inner voices, and from the band that means one can hear not only each individual section with clarity, but almost each individual instrument at times. At times the clarity is startling and revelatory – as with the horns early in the first movement, or the bassoons later on. This clarity also translates to a somewhat light take on the work, at least when compared to heavier readings from Pollini / Bohm or Serkin / Bernstein, to name two gooduns. Anyway, Nakamichi’s return after the bravura second orchestral passage is graceful and quite formal and proper, and just a bit metallic in louder passages. The first main passage where the left and right hands play boldly different music comes off superbly, Nakamichi delivering both parts with superb clarity and control, even if it doesn’t flow quite as much as I’d like. The series of trills after 9’ are sweet and tender, which may or may not be to everyone’s taste, but they sure sound nice. The bold ascending then descending runs are well played but too stolid to be ideal, but Nakamichi redeems herself in the Grand Flourish, delivering swelling, powerful, if slightly too sculpted playing. The second left-right split passage is every bit as good as the first, and she and the band cap everything off well enough. The Adagio un poco moto offers something new in my experience. Yes, the strings start off in lovely and amazingly clear fashion, and if the playing isn’t the most emotionally evocative around, it’ll more than do. No, it’s the soloist, that’s what’s different and unique. She enters slowly, deliberately, and plays with unapologetic beauty. Heavens, that tender bass line underlying the gently singing right hand is something to marvel at. It’s so, so, well, feminine. Now that’s a word I would have never thought to apply to this of all works, even in the slow movement. But I must. And I’m happy to do so. (And then that tender little trill, how does she make it sound that way?) As is Nakamichi’s wont, she plays the whole work in a formal, nearly reverential, sonically sculpted fashion. Here it works. Nakamichi comes out swinging in the concluding Rondo, showing that she clearly can play with great energy and drive if she so chooses, and when Järvi leads the band, it’s with a snazzy, jazzy beat, if you will, that maintains sufficient musical tension and beef through to the end. Some nicely terraced dynamics from the orchestra and more heated playing from Nakamichi on occasion bring the work to a satisfying conclusion. (You may notice that I haven’t mentioned Järvi too much. That’s because he plays the role of accompanist superbly, supporting the soloist in her conception.) Now back to that fabulous sound: it’s fabulous! The instrumental clarity, timbral accuracy, “spatial” precision, dynamic range, and focus are all amazing. Yes, this is a multi-miked recording, and yes some things are clearer than they would be in concert, but I don’t care. If only all recordings sounded this good. And that’s the CD layer. The SACD layer may be better yet (I have machine that’ll play SACDs, but it doesn’t sound as good as my main CD player), and there’s a DVD version, though not with North American or European regional settings, so one can watch and listen if one has the right kit. It may very well be worth it.
Next up is another version from 2004: Yukio Yokoyama’s Sony recording with the Japan Chamber Orchestra wherein he assumes both the soloist and conductor roles. The ensemble is even smaller than the Bremen band, and as such, the work takes on a smaller sound. Think of it as Mozart’s Coronation concerto on (diluted) ‘roids. Right away this becomes clear; the Allegro opens with plenty of pep and energy, but it doesn’t exactly sound grand. Yokoyama himself dashes across the keyboard in a most athletic manner, nothing seeming to challenge him. Something else becomes apparent. The more distantly miked recording makes the whole thing sound more coherent and jelled, as opposed to the still coherent but more detail-oriented Nakamichi recording. There’s also less detail, but more bloom during crescendos. (You can’t have everything.) There’s also a sort of mechanical feel to the playing; everyone is very well drilled and at times seem to be playing with no specifically important reason to do so. The orchestral interlude prior to Yokoyama’s return has a corporate efficiency even George Szell would admire, and then Yokoyama’s return itself is light and athletic and precise, with damned good trills. (These are merely a taste of what’s to come.) He comes across as very much the cool straight man. Think of him as a lightweight Maurizio Pollini with hints of charm. Anyway, as things progress, Yokoyama plays the swelling crescendos with satisfying power, and the first left-right passage is dexterously dashed off, even if it’s not especially clear. (That has more to do with the recording than the playing.) One thing is certain: Yokoyama’s playing always flows. Another thing is just as certain: his trills after 9’ are simply breathtaking. They are awesomely fast and precise, almost as though a classically trained machine is pounding them out. Few players approach him here; fewer still match him. The Grand Flourish takes on a virtuosic air, with effortless dexterity married to a decent level of power and some nice touches where he pushes the music. The second left-right passage comes off better than the first, and the movement winds down very well. The Adagio is somewhat perplexing. The lean sound precludes any richly romantic feeling, and the overall sense is of a soloist and orchestra trying to evoke some idealized sense of romanticism that they’ve read about rather than experienced first hand. It’s too precise and contrived. Yokoyama himself plays very well, but at times seems to be going through the motions. The concluding Rondo is pretty much in line with the opener. Yokoyama plays the youthful virtuoso, the JCO the youthful accompanists. It’s clean, it’s high energy, it’s vigorous, but to what end? Immaculate execution without inspiration is, well, it’s not inspirational, that’s for sure. Overall, this is a nice, clean, energetic effort that doesn’t really have much to say. That’s fine, it’s the earlier concertos in the cycle where this team does its best work.
Moving back in recorded time fifteen years, I opted to give Radu Lupu and Zubin Mehta’s recording with the Israel Philharmonic a shot. It’s not half bad. It also ain’t the greatest. Not that one could guess that in the opening seconds: the Allegro opens in nearly breathless yet beefy fashion, the IPO really turning it on. Lupu’s entrance is fast and vigorous, but lacking just a little something in the grandeur department. The 70s analog Decca sound is weighty and substantial, and that adds to the allure, though it also has some spotlighting and tubby bass, which detract ever so slightly from the proceedings. (Very slightly.) The orchestra plays very well, and if they can’t quite match up to the Berliners or the Chicagoans, the orchestral interlude is still quite satisfying. Lupu’s return is where questions arise. Oh, he plays splendidly, that much is certain, he just plays a bit “small.” The compensation is that the playing is more direct, more intimate, but it doesn’t perfectly suit the music. It does allow for nice dynamic contrasts, both for Lupu alone, and when compared to the orchestra. Both left-right passages sound somewhat disappointing in that they lack ideal clarity and the left hand playing lacks enough oomph. (And I need my oomph.) The Grand Flourish, though is satisfying, with Lupu turning on the power and speed. The Adagio ends up being the highlight of the concerto. The strings start things off rather nicely, though the plumy bass detracts a bit, and the orchestra creates a nice setting for Lupu’s sensitive, tender playing. Here the protagonist is vulnerable, he exposes his heart. He contemplates the tumult that came before, and the tumult that is sure to come, questioning his worthiness to face the challenge. Then he decides, triumphantly, “Yes! I can! I must!” Lupu doesn’t evoke images of romantic heroism in the fashion of, say, Schnabel, but rather he is a chivalrous soul, contemplating his value and his role. It’s all so very chaste and idealized, and it is quite lovely. Throughout, Mehta lends ideal support for Lupu’s vision, with the winds playing an especially nice role. Alas, the Rondo ends things on a less than ideal note. Sure, there’s energy and (finally!) scale and oomph, but it’s all too restrained. I need more drive, more energy, more focus, more purpose. Everything is played well enough – no major gaffes sully the proceedings – but it’s nothing special, either. Had the last movement been better, I would surely rate this recording higher – but not a whole lot higher. As with the Yokoyama cycle, Lupu’s best work is earlier on.
That leaves but one recording for this go-round: Claudio Arrau’s 1964 recording with Bernard Haitink and the Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra on Philips. This well known warhorse recording just never made its way into my collection until recently, and I’m glad it did. But I’m not smitten. In some respects, it’s all there: The grand scale. The serious but not reverential feeling. The wondrous tone from Arrau, the glorious sound from the band. The not only able but excellent accompaniment from Haitink. The good early 60s sound. But something is missing, too, at least for me. The Allegro, well, both the orchestra and soloist open in grand – hell, regal – fashion. The oversized piano draws all attention to the soloist, and he’s on target. His playing is tonally and dynamically supple, yet Arrau is able to muster awesome power during crescendos. The music is played at a fine pace: it’s Allegro, so it’s somewhat quick, but not rushed. And them strings and them horns and them winds, boy do they sound nice. When Arrau returns after the orchestral interlude, he delivers such a wonderful, tonally supple trill that one must sit with a smile on one’s face. The left-right split passages suffer a bit from lack of clarity and a slightly lagging left hand. The Grand Flourish, though, is grand indeed, just like the opening. The Adagio, well, it’s glorious. The strings are the best of this small bunch, and Haitink ably creates a mellow, wistful environment in which Arrau can do his thing. When the great Chilean enters, it is gently, with superb low-end variety and nuance, and with refinement to spare. (Ah, is that it?) As he lets the music unfold, his tasteful approach, his gorgeous legato, his sense of idealized romantic feeling really make the music sing. (Maybe that?) And the orchestra do what needs to be done to let Arrau work his magic. The concluding Rondo is magisterial and powerful and graceful and heroic and even beefy, though, as with the Lupu recording, I could have used more energy and drive. So what is it? Perhaps it’s this: I find the whole thing too refined. Yes, too refined. I’m not dismissing the achievement of anyone involved – this is a superb recording, and mostly because of Arrau – but it lacks those traits I tend to prefer, and that means that this is a second-tier recording for me. (Keep in mind that this tier includes some other fantastic recordings.) For me, when I listen to Beethoven generally, and to this work specifically, I prefer either a reading of overwhelming command and control – like the Pollini / Bohm – or one that’s muscular and aggressive and biting – like the Serkin / Ormandy ditty – and thus I’m always prone to discount recordings like this one at least a bit. But it’s still good. Damned good.
And so another batch has been devoured, and not one ultimate contender is to be heard. Don’t get me wrong, the Arrau recording is superb and makes a very welcomed addition to my expanding collection, and it will receive repeated spins. The Nakamichi recording is also quite good, given its limitations, and will earn repeated spins just so I can hear how glorious a recording can be. The other two recordings also have something to offer, just less. I’ll be keeping all four recordings in my collections. (Well, three are part of sets that I’m more interested in for other works anyway, so I wouldn’t ditch those three even if I hated ‘em.) But none really hit the bull’s-eye. Maybe next time.
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