Prokofiev, Shostakovich - Cello Concertos (Isserlis, Frankfurt Radio Symphony Orchestra, Jarvi) (2015) [FLAC 2.0|48/24|Lossless|tracks] <Classical>

General
Complete name                            : /mnt/torrents/releases/music/hd/Prokofiev, Shostakovich - Cello Concertos - Steven Isserlis, Paavo Jarvi (2015) [48-24]/13 - Shostakovich - Cello Concerto No 1 in E flat major, Op 107 - Movement 4.flac
Format                                   : FLAC
Format/Info                              : Free Lossless Audio Codec
File size                                : 51.1 MiB
Duration                                 : 4mn 44s
Overall bit rate mode                    : Variable
Overall bit rate                         : 1 509 Kbps
Album                                    : Prokofiev & Shostakovich: Cello Concertos
Album/Performer                          : Steven Isserlis / Frankfurt Radio Symphony Orchestra, Paavo Järvi
Track name                               : Shostakovich: Cello Concerto No 1 in E flat major, Op 107 - Movement 4: Allegro con moto
Track name/Position                      : 13
Track name/Total                         : 14
Performer                                : Steven Isserlis / Frankfurt Radio Symphony Orchestra, Paavo Järvi
Composer                                 : Dmitri Shostakovich (1906-1975)
Conductor                                : Paavo Järvi
Genre                                    : Classical
Recorded date                            : 2015
Copyright                                : © 2015 Hyperion Records Ltd, London
Cover                                    : Yes
Cover description                        : Cover artwork
Cover type                               : Cover (front)
Cover MIME                               : image/png
Lyrics                                   : Album notes: / Given that they were such very different characters, it is probably more a matter of geography and chronology than any deep musical connection that ensures that the names of Serge Prokofiev and Dmitri Shostakovich are so often coupled in musical history books. Nevertheless, there is a certain similarity of language; and the two concertos on this recording share certain striking qualities that make them natural companions. Above all, both works can be seen as fervently anti-Romantic; the cello, in contrast to its nineteenth-century image as an essentially lyrical, poetic instrument, finds itself in these concertos playing a different role, a combatant in a sinister new world of giants, battles, machines and eruptions. This transformation is, in its way, revolutionary, and would affect countless future composers. /  / The history of Prokofiev’s Cello Concerto in E minor, Op 58, is complicated—murky, even. In the early 1930s, Prokofiev met the great émigré Russian cellist Gregor Piatigorsky; the two played Prokofiev’s early Ballade for cello and piano. Afterwards, probably having been encouraged to do so by the great conductor and musical philanthropist Sergey Koussevitzky, Piatigorsky told Prokofiev that he wanted him to write a cello concerto. Interested by the idea, Prokofiev asked the cellist to demonstrate various effects on the cello; this went well, according to Piatigorsky’s memoirs, Prokofiev frequently jumping out of his chair with excitement, ordering him to ‘play it again! It is slashing!’ Less successful was Piatigorsky’s attempt to introduce Prokofiev to some staples of the cello repertoire. Prokofiev glanced at them with disgust: ‘You shouldn’t keep this stuff in the house—it smells!’ /  / Despite this setback, Prokofiev agreed to write the concerto, and set to work on the first movement in 1933. Piatigorsky was thrilled with the result, and with the opening of the scherzo which followed; but it was while working on the concerto that Prokofiev made his fateful decision to return to the Soviet Union, after which contact became sporadic. At one point, Prokofiev sheepishly informed Piatigorsky that, as a refugee from the Soviet Union, the latter could no longer be the dedicatee, nor be allowed to give the first performance. Finally completed in 1938, the concerto was premiered by the Russian cellist Lev Berezovsky and conductor Alexander Melik-Pashayev in St Petersburg, with an impressive lack of success. Sviatoslav Richter, who had played for the initial piano rehearsals, blamed both cellist and conductor for the failure. The cellist wanted to play it sentimentally, which was anathema to Prokofiev, while the conductor, apparently, had no feeling whatsoever for the piece; the performance was therefore, in Richter’s damning words, ‘a total fiasco’. Piatigorsky and Koussevitzky gave the US premiere in Boston in 1940; but again, it was less than a triumph. /  / So what was Prokofiev’s own view of the piece?  Characteristically scornful of the negative reactions—‘The critics remained indifferent out of sheer obtuseness’—and pointing out its kinship with his very successful second violin concerto, he made an attempt to rescue the work. The great Russian cellist Daniil Shafran was startled in the late 1930s to receive a phone call out of the blue from Prokofiev, inviting him—ordering him, rather—to learn the concerto. Shafran, then in his mid-teens, replied demurely that he would have to ask his teacher. He duly did so—but, alas, his teacher sternly forbade him to work on such dangerous modern stuff. Such a pity; Shafran, if anyone, could have saved the piece from obscurity. /  / After that, the concerto, chastened by its charmless reception, vanished entirely for several years. Late in 1943, Prokofiev wrote to Koussevitzky: ‘I wish you could tell me if you have the orchestral score of my cello concerto; after the manuscript was sent to the publisher I was left without a duplicate, and we have been unable for several years now to perform the concerto.’ The only cellist who took up the concerto was the fine French artist Maurice Gendron, who gave the Western European premiere in London in late 1945; again, though, it seems that the concerto somehow failed to make any great impression. However, help was at hand—in a way. In 1947, the young Mstislav Rostropovich revived it in a performance with piano in Moscow, and made sure that Prokofiev was there to hear it. Legend has it that Prokofiev told Rostropovich that he liked the themes of the concerto, but was unconvinced by the forms, and would like to rewrite it. A few years later, he did just that—even if he initially entitled the result ‘Cello Concerto No 2’, before changing the name to ‘Symphony-Concerto’. Most of the themes of the Symphony-Concerto are derived directly from the Cello Concerto; but the two works are very different in spirit. /  / The Symphony-Concerto has, until now, proved more popular than the Cello Concerto. There are several reasons for this: for a start, Prokofiev had Rostropovich on hand for the composition of the Symphony-Concerto, meaning that the solo part, though fiendish-sounding, is actually far more ‘cellistic’ than that of the Cello Concerto; and Rostropovich proved to be a wonderful ambassador for the work, playing it all over the world throughout his career. Furthermore, by the time Prokofiev came to work on the Symphony-Concerto, he had learned, through the hardest of routes, not to ignore public reactions. A few months after his meeting with Rostropovich, Prokofiev, along with Shostakovich, was castigated at the infamous 1948 ‘trials’ at the Composers’ Union, Khrennikov specifically mentioning the Cello Concerto in his indictment of Prokofiev as a ‘formalist’ composer. (‘In the work of Comrade Prokofiev … natural emotion and melody have been replaced by grunting and scraping’, he noted. Lovely.) The effect on Prokofiev—already in frail health—must have been devastating (even if for the second day of the trials he wandered out of the hall and ostentatiously studied the results of a chess tournament going on next door). From that point on, all traces of the enfant terrible of his youth vanished. His late works, wonderful as they are, had to toe the Soviet line; the Symphony-Concerto, for instance, had to be passed by a committee before it was deemed acceptable for public performance. In contrast, the Cello Concerto was composed at a time when Prokofiev was relatively free from any such restrictions—it is a daring, unique, challenging creation. Nobody could claim that it is an easy work, for performer or listener; but I consider it to be a masterpiece. And the better I know it, the more I love it. /  / The Cello Concerto was written alongside several of Prokofiev’s theatre/film scores, including Romeo and Juliet, Alexander Nevsky and Egyptian Nights. It seems to me that not only does the theatrical drama of all these works permeate the concerto, but also the sense of opposing forces of light and dark, of good and evil. In fact, the concerto opens with an ostinato similar to one heard at some of the darkest moments in Romeo and Juliet; it is over this ominous background that the cello enters with its bold, heroic theme. A plaintive oboe melody (at 1'30) introduces a note of lament, but this is quickly swept aside by our impatient hero. Only with the chilly wind of a descending theme in the violins (3'10) do we sense an inescapable shadow—as if malevolent forces were making their presence felt, with a forewarning of the struggles to come. /  / Battle-lines are drawn at the opening of the scherzo, Allegro giusto, the cello in fighting spirit. The second theme (1'45) introduces a characteristic note of sardonic wit, while the third (2'42), sharing some DNA with the concerto’s opening melody, reintroduces the heroic tone. These three components confront each other in the central section (5'46) with a clashing of steel worthy of the Montagues and Capulets (6'49). (How I wish that a great choreographer would create a ballet around this work!) After the return of the opening themes, a transition (10'25), in which various disparate components—including the theme of the upcoming finale—make their presence felt, leads us to the last movement. /  / And what a last movement it is! Longer than the first two movements put together, its overflowing structure is certainly the most controversial element of the concerto. Most cellists have made cuts, from the first performances onwards; but the experimental, monumental proportions seem to me fascinating—as they do in Shostakovich’s similarly sprawling fourth symphony, composed around the same time. Ostensibly, Prokofiev’s finale is a set of variations on yet another heroic theme, this time in C major; but it is much more than that. For a start, the variations in themselves seem to constitute a four-movement structure of opening allegro, scherzo, slow movement and finale; but even this only accounts for about half of the movement’s content. Around it swirls completely unrelated material, in which we feel the dark forces clustering again, initially in two ‘Interludes’—the first heard immediately after the theme (track 3, 0'52), the second between the third and fourth variations (track 6, 3'49). It is at the conclusion of the fourth and final variation, however, that the forces of light and dark take the stand for their ultimate confrontation: as we leave C major and return to the home-key, E minor, the concerto’s opening theme reappears (track 8, 0'41), emerging from the first movement’s chilly descending figure. A sinister motif follows (track 9), stumbling inexorably forward—a march of the condemned? This is succeeded by a violent fracas (track 9, 2'05), the cello’s high harmonics screaming above the mêlée. And then—is the hero vanquished? It would certainly seem so, as a descending phrase (2'58) seems to show the spiral of death; but nothing is certain in this work—particularly not in the ending, which dramatically reintroduces the scherzo’s warlike theme (3'33), fades away again, and then, in a final burst of strength, terminates with a threatening snarl. An extraordinary ending to an extraordinary work. / Shostakovich cited Prokofiev’s Symphony-Concerto (I wonder if he knew the original concerto?) as a major inspiration for his own Cello Concerto No 1 in E flat major, Op 107, written for Rostropovich in 1959. If Prokofiev’s concerto, despite its struggles and enigmatic ending, leaves the impression of an epic ballade, the tale of a giant, Shostakovich’s work seems (to me, at least—as with my description of the Prokofiev, this is an entirely personal view) to be if anything anti-heroic, a portrait of an individual crushed by an evil, inhuman force. An autobiographical element is implied in the memorable opening figure, derived from the musical notes of Shostakovich’s own name and in rhythm somewhat reminiscent of Beethoven’s famous ‘fate’ motif. The music is machine-like, driven, yielding to no human emotion, the only exception being the desperate pleading of the violins at 5'28. Their plight fails to move the cello, however; on the contrary, he stamps on their outstretched hands. /  / The slow movement, after an expressive introduction, offers three contrasting themes: the first (0'50) a despairing walk along an endless road, the second (4'08) a heartfelt lament, the third (5'24) an innocent, almost comic song that all too soon turns horribly sinister, culminating in an agonized version on muted violins (6'50)—like prisoners screaming behind glass. Unusually, the third movement consists entirely of a solo cadenza; this is in two parts, the first ruminating on the themes of the slow movement, the second (from 4'09) providing an energetic bridge to the finale. Here a cruel, stomping theme is succeeded by a dance in 3/8 (1'36). This frenzied theme leads to the return of the concerto’s opening motif (3'19), which, combined with the main theme of the finale, erupts into a mad conflagration that sweeps us irresistibly to the work’s conclusion—surely the most exciting end to any cello concerto. /  / And on that turbulent note we leave you. What? An encore? No, ladies and gentlemen, you are too kind—surely we have trespassed enough upon your time. You’re sure? Oh very well: here, for your delectation, is Prokofiev’s March from his piano pieces Music for Children, Op 65—arranged for solo cello, appropriately, by Piatigorsky. /  / Steven Isserlis © 2015

Audio
Format                                   : FLAC
Format/Info                              : Free Lossless Audio Codec
Duration                                 : 4mn 44s
Bit rate mode                            : Variable
Bit rate                                 : 1 499 Kbps
Channel(s)                               : 2 channels
Sampling rate                            : 48.0 KHz
Bit depth                                : 24 bits
Stream size                              : 50.8 MiB (99%)
Writing library                          : libFLAC 1.2.1 (UTC 2007-09-17)

General
Complete name                            : /mnt/torrents/releases/music/hd/Prokofiev, Shostakovich - Cello Concertos - Steven Isserlis, Paavo Jarvi (2015) [48-24]/04 - Prokofiev - Cello Concerto in E minor, Op 58 - Movement 3 Part 2.flac
Format                                   : FLAC
Format/Info                              : Free Lossless Audio Codec
File size                                : 13.9 MiB
Duration                                 : 1mn 24s
Overall bit rate mode                    : Variable
Overall bit rate                         : 1 380 Kbps
Album                                    : Prokofiev & Shostakovich: Cello Concertos
Album/Performer                          : Steven Isserlis / Frankfurt Radio Symphony Orchestra, Paavo Järvi
Track name                               : Prokofiev: Cello Concerto in E minor, Op 58 - Movement 3 Part 2: Variation 1: L'istesso tempo
Track name/Position                      : 04
Track name/Total                         : 14
Performer                                : Steven Isserlis / Frankfurt Radio Symphony Orchestra, Paavo Järvi
Composer                                 : Sergei Prokofiev (1891-1953)
Conductor                                : Paavo Järvi
Genre                                    : Classical
Recorded date                            : 2015
Copyright                                : © 2015 Hyperion Records Ltd, London
Cover                                    : Yes
Cover description                        : Cover artwork
Cover type                               : Cover (front)
Cover MIME                               : image/png
Lyrics                                   : Album notes: / Given that they were such very different characters, it is probably more a matter of geography and chronology than any deep musical connection that ensures that the names of Serge Prokofiev and Dmitri Shostakovich are so often coupled in musical history books. Nevertheless, there is a certain similarity of language; and the two concertos on this recording share certain striking qualities that make them natural companions. Above all, both works can be seen as fervently anti-Romantic; the cello, in contrast to its nineteenth-century image as an essentially lyrical, poetic instrument, finds itself in these concertos playing a different role, a combatant in a sinister new world of giants, battles, machines and eruptions. This transformation is, in its way, revolutionary, and would affect countless future composers. /  / The history of Prokofiev’s Cello Concerto in E minor, Op 58, is complicated—murky, even. In the early 1930s, Prokofiev met the great émigré Russian cellist Gregor Piatigorsky; the two played Prokofiev’s early Ballade for cello and piano. Afterwards, probably having been encouraged to do so by the great conductor and musical philanthropist Sergey Koussevitzky, Piatigorsky told Prokofiev that he wanted him to write a cello concerto. Interested by the idea, Prokofiev asked the cellist to demonstrate various effects on the cello; this went well, according to Piatigorsky’s memoirs, Prokofiev frequently jumping out of his chair with excitement, ordering him to ‘play it again! It is slashing!’ Less successful was Piatigorsky’s attempt to introduce Prokofiev to some staples of the cello repertoire. Prokofiev glanced at them with disgust: ‘You shouldn’t keep this stuff in the house—it smells!’ /  / Despite this setback, Prokofiev agreed to write the concerto, and set to work on the first movement in 1933. Piatigorsky was thrilled with the result, and with the opening of the scherzo which followed; but it was while working on the concerto that Prokofiev made his fateful decision to return to the Soviet Union, after which contact became sporadic. At one point, Prokofiev sheepishly informed Piatigorsky that, as a refugee from the Soviet Union, the latter could no longer be the dedicatee, nor be allowed to give the first performance. Finally completed in 1938, the concerto was premiered by the Russian cellist Lev Berezovsky and conductor Alexander Melik-Pashayev in St Petersburg, with an impressive lack of success. Sviatoslav Richter, who had played for the initial piano rehearsals, blamed both cellist and conductor for the failure. The cellist wanted to play it sentimentally, which was anathema to Prokofiev, while the conductor, apparently, had no feeling whatsoever for the piece; the performance was therefore, in Richter’s damning words, ‘a total fiasco’. Piatigorsky and Koussevitzky gave the US premiere in Boston in 1940; but again, it was less than a triumph. /  / So what was Prokofiev’s own view of the piece?  Characteristically scornful of the negative reactions—‘The critics remained indifferent out of sheer obtuseness’—and pointing out its kinship with his very successful second violin concerto, he made an attempt to rescue the work. The great Russian cellist Daniil Shafran was startled in the late 1930s to receive a phone call out of the blue from Prokofiev, inviting him—ordering him, rather—to learn the concerto. Shafran, then in his mid-teens, replied demurely that he would have to ask his teacher. He duly did so—but, alas, his teacher sternly forbade him to work on such dangerous modern stuff. Such a pity; Shafran, if anyone, could have saved the piece from obscurity. /  / After that, the concerto, chastened by its charmless reception, vanished entirely for several years. Late in 1943, Prokofiev wrote to Koussevitzky: ‘I wish you could tell me if you have the orchestral score of my cello concerto; after the manuscript was sent to the publisher I was left without a duplicate, and we have been unable for several years now to perform the concerto.’ The only cellist who took up the concerto was the fine French artist Maurice Gendron, who gave the Western European premiere in London in late 1945; again, though, it seems that the concerto somehow failed to make any great impression. However, help was at hand—in a way. In 1947, the young Mstislav Rostropovich revived it in a performance with piano in Moscow, and made sure that Prokofiev was there to hear it. Legend has it that Prokofiev told Rostropovich that he liked the themes of the concerto, but was unconvinced by the forms, and would like to rewrite it. A few years later, he did just that—even if he initially entitled the result ‘Cello Concerto No 2’, before changing the name to ‘Symphony-Concerto’. Most of the themes of the Symphony-Concerto are derived directly from the Cello Concerto; but the two works are very different in spirit. /  / The Symphony-Concerto has, until now, proved more popular than the Cello Concerto. There are several reasons for this: for a start, Prokofiev had Rostropovich on hand for the composition of the Symphony-Concerto, meaning that the solo part, though fiendish-sounding, is actually far more ‘cellistic’ than that of the Cello Concerto; and Rostropovich proved to be a wonderful ambassador for the work, playing it all over the world throughout his career. Furthermore, by the time Prokofiev came to work on the Symphony-Concerto, he had learned, through the hardest of routes, not to ignore public reactions. A few months after his meeting with Rostropovich, Prokofiev, along with Shostakovich, was castigated at the infamous 1948 ‘trials’ at the Composers’ Union, Khrennikov specifically mentioning the Cello Concerto in his indictment of Prokofiev as a ‘formalist’ composer. (‘In the work of Comrade Prokofiev … natural emotion and melody have been replaced by grunting and scraping’, he noted. Lovely.) The effect on Prokofiev—already in frail health—must have been devastating (even if for the second day of the trials he wandered out of the hall and ostentatiously studied the results of a chess tournament going on next door). From that point on, all traces of the enfant terrible of his youth vanished. His late works, wonderful as they are, had to toe the Soviet line; the Symphony-Concerto, for instance, had to be passed by a committee before it was deemed acceptable for public performance. In contrast, the Cello Concerto was composed at a time when Prokofiev was relatively free from any such restrictions—it is a daring, unique, challenging creation. Nobody could claim that it is an easy work, for performer or listener; but I consider it to be a masterpiece. And the better I know it, the more I love it. /  / The Cello Concerto was written alongside several of Prokofiev’s theatre/film scores, including Romeo and Juliet, Alexander Nevsky and Egyptian Nights. It seems to me that not only does the theatrical drama of all these works permeate the concerto, but also the sense of opposing forces of light and dark, of good and evil. In fact, the concerto opens with an ostinato similar to one heard at some of the darkest moments in Romeo and Juliet; it is over this ominous background that the cello enters with its bold, heroic theme. A plaintive oboe melody (at 1'30) introduces a note of lament, but this is quickly swept aside by our impatient hero. Only with the chilly wind of a descending theme in the violins (3'10) do we sense an inescapable shadow—as if malevolent forces were making their presence felt, with a forewarning of the struggles to come. /  / Battle-lines are drawn at the opening of the scherzo, Allegro giusto, the cello in fighting spirit. The second theme (1'45) introduces a characteristic note of sardonic wit, while the third (2'42), sharing some DNA with the concerto’s opening melody, reintroduces the heroic tone. These three components confront each other in the central section (5'46) with a clashing of steel worthy of the Montagues and Capulets (6'49). (How I wish that a great choreographer would create a ballet around this work!) After the return of the opening themes, a transition (10'25), in which various disparate components—including the theme of the upcoming finale—make their presence felt, leads us to the last movement. /  / And what a last movement it is! Longer than the first two movements put together, its overflowing structure is certainly the most controversial element of the concerto. Most cellists have made cuts, from the first performances onwards; but the experimental, monumental proportions seem to me fascinating—as they do in Shostakovich’s similarly sprawling fourth symphony, composed around the same time. Ostensibly, Prokofiev’s finale is a set of variations on yet another heroic theme, this time in C major; but it is much more than that. For a start, the variations in themselves seem to constitute a four-movement structure of opening allegro, scherzo, slow movement and finale; but even this only accounts for about half of the movement’s content. Around it swirls completely unrelated material, in which we feel the dark forces clustering again, initially in two ‘Interludes’—the first heard immediately after the theme (track 3, 0'52), the second between the third and fourth variations (track 6, 3'49). It is at the conclusion of the fourth and final variation, however, that the forces of light and dark take the stand for their ultimate confrontation: as we leave C major and return to the home-key, E minor, the concerto’s opening theme reappears (track 8, 0'41), emerging from the first movement’s chilly descending figure. A sinister motif follows (track 9), stumbling inexorably forward—a march of the condemned? This is succeeded by a violent fracas (track 9, 2'05), the cello’s high harmonics screaming above the mêlée. And then—is the hero vanquished? It would certainly seem so, as a descending phrase (2'58) seems to show the spiral of death; but nothing is certain in this work—particularly not in the ending, which dramatically reintroduces the scherzo’s warlike theme (3'33), fades away again, and then, in a final burst of strength, terminates with a threatening snarl. An extraordinary ending to an extraordinary work. / Shostakovich cited Prokofiev’s Symphony-Concerto (I wonder if he knew the original concerto?) as a major inspiration for his own Cello Concerto No 1 in E flat major, Op 107, written for Rostropovich in 1959. If Prokofiev’s concerto, despite its struggles and enigmatic ending, leaves the impression of an epic ballade, the tale of a giant, Shostakovich’s work seems (to me, at least—as with my description of the Prokofiev, this is an entirely personal view) to be if anything anti-heroic, a portrait of an individual crushed by an evil, inhuman force. An autobiographical element is implied in the memorable opening figure, derived from the musical notes of Shostakovich’s own name and in rhythm somewhat reminiscent of Beethoven’s famous ‘fate’ motif. The music is machine-like, driven, yielding to no human emotion, the only exception being the desperate pleading of the violins at 5'28. Their plight fails to move the cello, however; on the contrary, he stamps on their outstretched hands. /  / The slow movement, after an expressive introduction, offers three contrasting themes: the first (0'50) a despairing walk along an endless road, the second (4'08) a heartfelt lament, the third (5'24) an innocent, almost comic song that all too soon turns horribly sinister, culminating in an agonized version on muted violins (6'50)—like prisoners screaming behind glass. Unusually, the third movement consists entirely of a solo cadenza; this is in two parts, the first ruminating on the themes of the slow movement, the second (from 4'09) providing an energetic bridge to the finale. Here a cruel, stomping theme is succeeded by a dance in 3/8 (1'36). This frenzied theme leads to the return of the concerto’s opening motif (3'19), which, combined with the main theme of the finale, erupts into a mad conflagration that sweeps us irresistibly to the work’s conclusion—surely the most exciting end to any cello concerto. /  / And on that turbulent note we leave you. What? An encore? No, ladies and gentlemen, you are too kind—surely we have trespassed enough upon your time. You’re sure? Oh very well: here, for your delectation, is Prokofiev’s March from his piano pieces Music for Children, Op 65—arranged for solo cello, appropriately, by Piatigorsky. /  / Steven Isserlis © 2015

Audio
Format                                   : FLAC
Format/Info                              : Free Lossless Audio Codec
Duration                                 : 1mn 24s
Bit rate mode                            : Variable
Bit rate                                 : 1 346 Kbps
Channel(s)                               : 2 channels
Sampling rate                            : 48.0 KHz
Bit depth                                : 24 bits
Stream size                              : 13.6 MiB (98%)
Writing library                          : libFLAC 1.2.1 (UTC 2007-09-17)

General
Complete name                            : /mnt/torrents/releases/music/hd/Prokofiev, Shostakovich - Cello Concertos - Steven Isserlis, Paavo Jarvi (2015) [48-24]/14 - Prokofiev-Piatigorsky - Music for children, Op 65 - No 10 - March.flac
Format                                   : FLAC
Format/Info                              : Free Lossless Audio Codec
File size                                : 15.1 MiB
Duration                                 : 1mn 34s
Overall bit rate mode                    : Variable
Overall bit rate                         : 1 333 Kbps
Album                                    : Prokofiev & Shostakovich: Cello Concertos
Album/Performer                          : Steven Isserlis / Frankfurt Radio Symphony Orchestra, Paavo Järvi
Track name                               : Prokofiev/Piatigorsky: Music for children, Op 65 - No 10: March
Track name/Position                      : 14
Track name/Total                         : 14
Performer                                : Steven Isserlis
Composer                                 : Sergei Prokofiev (1891-1953)
Genre                                    : Classical
Recorded date                            : 2015
Copyright                                : © 2015 Hyperion Records Ltd, London
Cover                                    : Yes
Cover description                        : Cover artwork
Cover type                               : Cover (front)
Cover MIME                               : image/png
Lyrics                                   : Album notes: / Given that they were such very different characters, it is probably more a matter of geography and chronology than any deep musical connection that ensures that the names of Serge Prokofiev and Dmitri Shostakovich are so often coupled in musical history books. Nevertheless, there is a certain similarity of language; and the two concertos on this recording share certain striking qualities that make them natural companions. Above all, both works can be seen as fervently anti-Romantic; the cello, in contrast to its nineteenth-century image as an essentially lyrical, poetic instrument, finds itself in these concertos playing a different role, a combatant in a sinister new world of giants, battles, machines and eruptions. This transformation is, in its way, revolutionary, and would affect countless future composers. /  / The history of Prokofiev’s Cello Concerto in E minor, Op 58, is complicated—murky, even. In the early 1930s, Prokofiev met the great émigré Russian cellist Gregor Piatigorsky; the two played Prokofiev’s early Ballade for cello and piano. Afterwards, probably having been encouraged to do so by the great conductor and musical philanthropist Sergey Koussevitzky, Piatigorsky told Prokofiev that he wanted him to write a cello concerto. Interested by the idea, Prokofiev asked the cellist to demonstrate various effects on the cello; this went well, according to Piatigorsky’s memoirs, Prokofiev frequently jumping out of his chair with excitement, ordering him to ‘play it again! It is slashing!’ Less successful was Piatigorsky’s attempt to introduce Prokofiev to some staples of the cello repertoire. Prokofiev glanced at them with disgust: ‘You shouldn’t keep this stuff in the house—it smells!’ /  / Despite this setback, Prokofiev agreed to write the concerto, and set to work on the first movement in 1933. Piatigorsky was thrilled with the result, and with the opening of the scherzo which followed; but it was while working on the concerto that Prokofiev made his fateful decision to return to the Soviet Union, after which contact became sporadic. At one point, Prokofiev sheepishly informed Piatigorsky that, as a refugee from the Soviet Union, the latter could no longer be the dedicatee, nor be allowed to give the first performance. Finally completed in 1938, the concerto was premiered by the Russian cellist Lev Berezovsky and conductor Alexander Melik-Pashayev in St Petersburg, with an impressive lack of success. Sviatoslav Richter, who had played for the initial piano rehearsals, blamed both cellist and conductor for the failure. The cellist wanted to play it sentimentally, which was anathema to Prokofiev, while the conductor, apparently, had no feeling whatsoever for the piece; the performance was therefore, in Richter’s damning words, ‘a total fiasco’. Piatigorsky and Koussevitzky gave the US premiere in Boston in 1940; but again, it was less than a triumph. /  / So what was Prokofiev’s own view of the piece?  Characteristically scornful of the negative reactions—‘The critics remained indifferent out of sheer obtuseness’—and pointing out its kinship with his very successful second violin concerto, he made an attempt to rescue the work. The great Russian cellist Daniil Shafran was startled in the late 1930s to receive a phone call out of the blue from Prokofiev, inviting him—ordering him, rather—to learn the concerto. Shafran, then in his mid-teens, replied demurely that he would have to ask his teacher. He duly did so—but, alas, his teacher sternly forbade him to work on such dangerous modern stuff. Such a pity; Shafran, if anyone, could have saved the piece from obscurity. /  / After that, the concerto, chastened by its charmless reception, vanished entirely for several years. Late in 1943, Prokofiev wrote to Koussevitzky: ‘I wish you could tell me if you have the orchestral score of my cello concerto; after the manuscript was sent to the publisher I was left without a duplicate, and we have been unable for several years now to perform the concerto.’ The only cellist who took up the concerto was the fine French artist Maurice Gendron, who gave the Western European premiere in London in late 1945; again, though, it seems that the concerto somehow failed to make any great impression. However, help was at hand—in a way. In 1947, the young Mstislav Rostropovich revived it in a performance with piano in Moscow, and made sure that Prokofiev was there to hear it. Legend has it that Prokofiev told Rostropovich that he liked the themes of the concerto, but was unconvinced by the forms, and would like to rewrite it. A few years later, he did just that—even if he initially entitled the result ‘Cello Concerto No 2’, before changing the name to ‘Symphony-Concerto’. Most of the themes of the Symphony-Concerto are derived directly from the Cello Concerto; but the two works are very different in spirit. /  / The Symphony-Concerto has, until now, proved more popular than the Cello Concerto. There are several reasons for this: for a start, Prokofiev had Rostropovich on hand for the composition of the Symphony-Concerto, meaning that the solo part, though fiendish-sounding, is actually far more ‘cellistic’ than that of the Cello Concerto; and Rostropovich proved to be a wonderful ambassador for the work, playing it all over the world throughout his career. Furthermore, by the time Prokofiev came to work on the Symphony-Concerto, he had learned, through the hardest of routes, not to ignore public reactions. A few months after his meeting with Rostropovich, Prokofiev, along with Shostakovich, was castigated at the infamous 1948 ‘trials’ at the Composers’ Union, Khrennikov specifically mentioning the Cello Concerto in his indictment of Prokofiev as a ‘formalist’ composer. (‘In the work of Comrade Prokofiev … natural emotion and melody have been replaced by grunting and scraping’, he noted. Lovely.) The effect on Prokofiev—already in frail health—must have been devastating (even if for the second day of the trials he wandered out of the hall and ostentatiously studied the results of a chess tournament going on next door). From that point on, all traces of the enfant terrible of his youth vanished. His late works, wonderful as they are, had to toe the Soviet line; the Symphony-Concerto, for instance, had to be passed by a committee before it was deemed acceptable for public performance. In contrast, the Cello Concerto was composed at a time when Prokofiev was relatively free from any such restrictions—it is a daring, unique, challenging creation. Nobody could claim that it is an easy work, for performer or listener; but I consider it to be a masterpiece. And the better I know it, the more I love it. /  / The Cello Concerto was written alongside several of Prokofiev’s theatre/film scores, including Romeo and Juliet, Alexander Nevsky and Egyptian Nights. It seems to me that not only does the theatrical drama of all these works permeate the concerto, but also the sense of opposing forces of light and dark, of good and evil. In fact, the concerto opens with an ostinato similar to one heard at some of the darkest moments in Romeo and Juliet; it is over this ominous background that the cello enters with its bold, heroic theme. A plaintive oboe melody (at 1'30) introduces a note of lament, but this is quickly swept aside by our impatient hero. Only with the chilly wind of a descending theme in the violins (3'10) do we sense an inescapable shadow—as if malevolent forces were making their presence felt, with a forewarning of the struggles to come. /  / Battle-lines are drawn at the opening of the scherzo, Allegro giusto, the cello in fighting spirit. The second theme (1'45) introduces a characteristic note of sardonic wit, while the third (2'42), sharing some DNA with the concerto’s opening melody, reintroduces the heroic tone. These three components confront each other in the central section (5'46) with a clashing of steel worthy of the Montagues and Capulets (6'49). (How I wish that a great choreographer would create a ballet around this work!) After the return of the opening themes, a transition (10'25), in which various disparate components—including the theme of the upcoming finale—make their presence felt, leads us to the last movement. /  / And what a last movement it is! Longer than the first two movements put together, its overflowing structure is certainly the most controversial element of the concerto. Most cellists have made cuts, from the first performances onwards; but the experimental, monumental proportions seem to me fascinating—as they do in Shostakovich’s similarly sprawling fourth symphony, composed around the same time. Ostensibly, Prokofiev’s finale is a set of variations on yet another heroic theme, this time in C major; but it is much more than that. For a start, the variations in themselves seem to constitute a four-movement structure of opening allegro, scherzo, slow movement and finale; but even this only accounts for about half of the movement’s content. Around it swirls completely unrelated material, in which we feel the dark forces clustering again, initially in two ‘Interludes’—the first heard immediately after the theme (track 3, 0'52), the second between the third and fourth variations (track 6, 3'49). It is at the conclusion of the fourth and final variation, however, that the forces of light and dark take the stand for their ultimate confrontation: as we leave C major and return to the home-key, E minor, the concerto’s opening theme reappears (track 8, 0'41), emerging from the first movement’s chilly descending figure. A sinister motif follows (track 9), stumbling inexorably forward—a march of the condemned? This is succeeded by a violent fracas (track 9, 2'05), the cello’s high harmonics screaming above the mêlée. And then—is the hero vanquished? It would certainly seem so, as a descending phrase (2'58) seems to show the spiral of death; but nothing is certain in this work—particularly not in the ending, which dramatically reintroduces the scherzo’s warlike theme (3'33), fades away again, and then, in a final burst of strength, terminates with a threatening snarl. An extraordinary ending to an extraordinary work. / Shostakovich cited Prokofiev’s Symphony-Concerto (I wonder if he knew the original concerto?) as a major inspiration for his own Cello Concerto No 1 in E flat major, Op 107, written for Rostropovich in 1959. If Prokofiev’s concerto, despite its struggles and enigmatic ending, leaves the impression of an epic ballade, the tale of a giant, Shostakovich’s work seems (to me, at least—as with my description of the Prokofiev, this is an entirely personal view) to be if anything anti-heroic, a portrait of an individual crushed by an evil, inhuman force. An autobiographical element is implied in the memorable opening figure, derived from the musical notes of Shostakovich’s own name and in rhythm somewhat reminiscent of Beethoven’s famous ‘fate’ motif. The music is machine-like, driven, yielding to no human emotion, the only exception being the desperate pleading of the violins at 5'28. Their plight fails to move the cello, however; on the contrary, he stamps on their outstretched hands. /  / The slow movement, after an expressive introduction, offers three contrasting themes: the first (0'50) a despairing walk along an endless road, the second (4'08) a heartfelt lament, the third (5'24) an innocent, almost comic song that all too soon turns horribly sinister, culminating in an agonized version on muted violins (6'50)—like prisoners screaming behind glass. Unusually, the third movement consists entirely of a solo cadenza; this is in two parts, the first ruminating on the themes of the slow movement, the second (from 4'09) providing an energetic bridge to the finale. Here a cruel, stomping theme is succeeded by a dance in 3/8 (1'36). This frenzied theme leads to the return of the concerto’s opening motif (3'19), which, combined with the main theme of the finale, erupts into a mad conflagration that sweeps us irresistibly to the work’s conclusion—surely the most exciting end to any cello concerto. /  / And on that turbulent note we leave you. What? An encore? No, ladies and gentlemen, you are too kind—surely we have trespassed enough upon your time. You’re sure? Oh very well: here, for your delectation, is Prokofiev’s March from his piano pieces Music for Children, Op 65—arranged for solo cello, appropriately, by Piatigorsky. /  / Steven Isserlis © 2015

Audio
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Format/Info                              : Free Lossless Audio Codec
Duration                                 : 1mn 34s
Bit rate mode                            : Variable
Bit rate                                 : 1 303 Kbps
Channel(s)                               : 2 channels
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Writing library                          : libFLAC 1.2.1 (UTC 2007-09-17)

General
Complete name                            : /mnt/torrents/releases/music/hd/Prokofiev, Shostakovich - Cello Concertos - Steven Isserlis, Paavo Jarvi (2015) [48-24]/08 - Prokofiev - Cello Concerto in E minor, Op 58 - Movement 3 Part 6.flac
Format                                   : FLAC
Format/Info                              : Free Lossless Audio Codec
File size                                : 23.6 MiB
Duration                                 : 2mn 12s
Overall bit rate mode                    : Variable
Overall bit rate                         : 1 490 Kbps
Album                                    : Prokofiev & Shostakovich: Cello Concertos
Album/Performer                          : Steven Isserlis / Frankfurt Radio Symphony Orchestra, Paavo Järvi
Track name                               : Prokofiev: Cello Concerto in E minor, Op 58 - Movement 3 Part 6: Reminiscenza: Meno mosso
Track name/Position                      : 08
Track name/Total                         : 14
Performer                                : Steven Isserlis / Frankfurt Radio Symphony Orchestra, Paavo Järvi
Composer                                 : Sergei Prokofiev (1891-1953)
Conductor                                : Paavo Järvi
Genre                                    : Classical
Recorded date                            : 2015
Copyright                                : © 2015 Hyperion Records Ltd, London
Cover                                    : Yes
Cover description                        : Cover artwork
Cover type                               : Cover (front)
Cover MIME                               : image/png
Lyrics                                   : Album notes: / Given that they were such very different characters, it is probably more a matter of geography and chronology than any deep musical connection that ensures that the names of Serge Prokofiev and Dmitri Shostakovich are so often coupled in musical history books. Nevertheless, there is a certain similarity of language; and the two concertos on this recording share certain striking qualities that make them natural companions. Above all, both works can be seen as fervently anti-Romantic; the cello, in contrast to its nineteenth-century image as an essentially lyrical, poetic instrument, finds itself in these concertos playing a different role, a combatant in a sinister new world of giants, battles, machines and eruptions. This transformation is, in its way, revolutionary, and would affect countless future composers. /  / The history of Prokofiev’s Cello Concerto in E minor, Op 58, is complicated—murky, even. In the early 1930s, Prokofiev met the great émigré Russian cellist Gregor Piatigorsky; the two played Prokofiev’s early Ballade for cello and piano. Afterwards, probably having been encouraged to do so by the great conductor and musical philanthropist Sergey Koussevitzky, Piatigorsky told Prokofiev that he wanted him to write a cello concerto. Interested by the idea, Prokofiev asked the cellist to demonstrate various effects on the cello; this went well, according to Piatigorsky’s memoirs, Prokofiev frequently jumping out of his chair with excitement, ordering him to ‘play it again! It is slashing!’ Less successful was Piatigorsky’s attempt to introduce Prokofiev to some staples of the cello repertoire. Prokofiev glanced at them with disgust: ‘You shouldn’t keep this stuff in the house—it smells!’ /  / Despite this setback, Prokofiev agreed to write the concerto, and set to work on the first movement in 1933. Piatigorsky was thrilled with the result, and with the opening of the scherzo which followed; but it was while working on the concerto that Prokofiev made his fateful decision to return to the Soviet Union, after which contact became sporadic. At one point, Prokofiev sheepishly informed Piatigorsky that, as a refugee from the Soviet Union, the latter could no longer be the dedicatee, nor be allowed to give the first performance. Finally completed in 1938, the concerto was premiered by the Russian cellist Lev Berezovsky and conductor Alexander Melik-Pashayev in St Petersburg, with an impressive lack of success. Sviatoslav Richter, who had played for the initial piano rehearsals, blamed both cellist and conductor for the failure. The cellist wanted to play it sentimentally, which was anathema to Prokofiev, while the conductor, apparently, had no feeling whatsoever for the piece; the performance was therefore, in Richter’s damning words, ‘a total fiasco’. Piatigorsky and Koussevitzky gave the US premiere in Boston in 1940; but again, it was less than a triumph. /  / So what was Prokofiev’s own view of the piece?  Characteristically scornful of the negative reactions—‘The critics remained indifferent out of sheer obtuseness’—and pointing out its kinship with his very successful second violin concerto, he made an attempt to rescue the work. The great Russian cellist Daniil Shafran was startled in the late 1930s to receive a phone call out of the blue from Prokofiev, inviting him—ordering him, rather—to learn the concerto. Shafran, then in his mid-teens, replied demurely that he would have to ask his teacher. He duly did so—but, alas, his teacher sternly forbade him to work on such dangerous modern stuff. Such a pity; Shafran, if anyone, could have saved the piece from obscurity. /  / After that, the concerto, chastened by its charmless reception, vanished entirely for several years. Late in 1943, Prokofiev wrote to Koussevitzky: ‘I wish you could tell me if you have the orchestral score of my cello concerto; after the manuscript was sent to the publisher I was left without a duplicate, and we have been unable for several years now to perform the concerto.’ The only cellist who took up the concerto was the fine French artist Maurice Gendron, who gave the Western European premiere in London in late 1945; again, though, it seems that the concerto somehow failed to make any great impression. However, help was at hand—in a way. In 1947, the young Mstislav Rostropovich revived it in a performance with piano in Moscow, and made sure that Prokofiev was there to hear it. Legend has it that Prokofiev told Rostropovich that he liked the themes of the concerto, but was unconvinced by the forms, and would like to rewrite it. A few years later, he did just that—even if he initially entitled the result ‘Cello Concerto No 2’, before changing the name to ‘Symphony-Concerto’. Most of the themes of the Symphony-Concerto are derived directly from the Cello Concerto; but the two works are very different in spirit. /  / The Symphony-Concerto has, until now, proved more popular than the Cello Concerto. There are several reasons for this: for a start, Prokofiev had Rostropovich on hand for the composition of the Symphony-Concerto, meaning that the solo part, though fiendish-sounding, is actually far more ‘cellistic’ than that of the Cello Concerto; and Rostropovich proved to be a wonderful ambassador for the work, playing it all over the world throughout his career. Furthermore, by the time Prokofiev came to work on the Symphony-Concerto, he had learned, through the hardest of routes, not to ignore public reactions. A few months after his meeting with Rostropovich, Prokofiev, along with Shostakovich, was castigated at the infamous 1948 ‘trials’ at the Composers’ Union, Khrennikov specifically mentioning the Cello Concerto in his indictment of Prokofiev as a ‘formalist’ composer. (‘In the work of Comrade Prokofiev … natural emotion and melody have been replaced by grunting and scraping’, he noted. Lovely.) The effect on Prokofiev—already in frail health—must have been devastating (even if for the second day of the trials he wandered out of the hall and ostentatiously studied the results of a chess tournament going on next door). From that point on, all traces of the enfant terrible of his youth vanished. His late works, wonderful as they are, had to toe the Soviet line; the Symphony-Concerto, for instance, had to be passed by a committee before it was deemed acceptable for public performance. In contrast, the Cello Concerto was composed at a time when Prokofiev was relatively free from any such restrictions—it is a daring, unique, challenging creation. Nobody could claim that it is an easy work, for performer or listener; but I consider it to be a masterpiece. And the better I know it, the more I love it. /  / The Cello Concerto was written alongside several of Prokofiev’s theatre/film scores, including Romeo and Juliet, Alexander Nevsky and Egyptian Nights. It seems to me that not only does the theatrical drama of all these works permeate the concerto, but also the sense of opposing forces of light and dark, of good and evil. In fact, the concerto opens with an ostinato similar to one heard at some of the darkest moments in Romeo and Juliet; it is over this ominous background that the cello enters with its bold, heroic theme. A plaintive oboe melody (at 1'30) introduces a note of lament, but this is quickly swept aside by our impatient hero. Only with the chilly wind of a descending theme in the violins (3'10) do we sense an inescapable shadow—as if malevolent forces were making their presence felt, with a forewarning of the struggles to come. /  / Battle-lines are drawn at the opening of the scherzo, Allegro giusto, the cello in fighting spirit. The second theme (1'45) introduces a characteristic note of sardonic wit, while the third (2'42), sharing some DNA with the concerto’s opening melody, reintroduces the heroic tone. These three components confront each other in the central section (5'46) with a clashing of steel worthy of the Montagues and Capulets (6'49). (How I wish that a great choreographer would create a ballet around this work!) After the return of the opening themes, a transition (10'25), in which various disparate components—including the theme of the upcoming finale—make their presence felt, leads us to the last movement. /  / And what a last movement it is! Longer than the first two movements put together, its overflowing structure is certainly the most controversial element of the concerto. Most cellists have made cuts, from the first performances onwards; but the experimental, monumental proportions seem to me fascinating—as they do in Shostakovich’s similarly sprawling fourth symphony, composed around the same time. Ostensibly, Prokofiev’s finale is a set of variations on yet another heroic theme, this time in C major; but it is much more than that. For a start, the variations in themselves seem to constitute a four-movement structure of opening allegro, scherzo, slow movement and finale; but even this only accounts for about half of the movement’s content. Around it swirls completely unrelated material, in which we feel the dark forces clustering again, initially in two ‘Interludes’—the first heard immediately after the theme (track 3, 0'52), the second between the third and fourth variations (track 6, 3'49). It is at the conclusion of the fourth and final variation, however, that the forces of light and dark take the stand for their ultimate confrontation: as we leave C major and return to the home-key, E minor, the concerto’s opening theme reappears (track 8, 0'41), emerging from the first movement’s chilly descending figure. A sinister motif follows (track 9), stumbling inexorably forward—a march of the condemned? This is succeeded by a violent fracas (track 9, 2'05), the cello’s high harmonics screaming above the mêlée. And then—is the hero vanquished? It would certainly seem so, as a descending phrase (2'58) seems to show the spiral of death; but nothing is certain in this work—particularly not in the ending, which dramatically reintroduces the scherzo’s warlike theme (3'33), fades away again, and then, in a final burst of strength, terminates with a threatening snarl. An extraordinary ending to an extraordinary work. / Shostakovich cited Prokofiev’s Symphony-Concerto (I wonder if he knew the original concerto?) as a major inspiration for his own Cello Concerto No 1 in E flat major, Op 107, written for Rostropovich in 1959. If Prokofiev’s concerto, despite its struggles and enigmatic ending, leaves the impression of an epic ballade, the tale of a giant, Shostakovich’s work seems (to me, at least—as with my description of the Prokofiev, this is an entirely personal view) to be if anything anti-heroic, a portrait of an individual crushed by an evil, inhuman force. An autobiographical element is implied in the memorable opening figure, derived from the musical notes of Shostakovich’s own name and in rhythm somewhat reminiscent of Beethoven’s famous ‘fate’ motif. The music is machine-like, driven, yielding to no human emotion, the only exception being the desperate pleading of the violins at 5'28. Their plight fails to move the cello, however; on the contrary, he stamps on their outstretched hands. /  / The slow movement, after an expressive introduction, offers three contrasting themes: the first (0'50) a despairing walk along an endless road, the second (4'08) a heartfelt lament, the third (5'24) an innocent, almost comic song that all too soon turns horribly sinister, culminating in an agonized version on muted violins (6'50)—like prisoners screaming behind glass. Unusually, the third movement consists entirely of a solo cadenza; this is in two parts, the first ruminating on the themes of the slow movement, the second (from 4'09) providing an energetic bridge to the finale. Here a cruel, stomping theme is succeeded by a dance in 3/8 (1'36). This frenzied theme leads to the return of the concerto’s opening motif (3'19), which, combined with the main theme of the finale, erupts into a mad conflagration that sweeps us irresistibly to the work’s conclusion—surely the most exciting end to any cello concerto. /  / And on that turbulent note we leave you. What? An encore? No, ladies and gentlemen, you are too kind—surely we have trespassed enough upon your time. You’re sure? Oh very well: here, for your delectation, is Prokofiev’s March from his piano pieces Music for Children, Op 65—arranged for solo cello, appropriately, by Piatigorsky. /  / Steven Isserlis © 2015

Audio
Format                                   : FLAC
Format/Info                              : Free Lossless Audio Codec
Duration                                 : 2mn 12s
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Bit rate                                 : 1 468 Kbps
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Stream size                              : 23.3 MiB (99%)
Writing library                          : libFLAC 1.2.1 (UTC 2007-09-17)

General
Complete name                            : /mnt/torrents/releases/music/hd/Prokofiev, Shostakovich - Cello Concertos - Steven Isserlis, Paavo Jarvi (2015) [48-24]/05 - Prokofiev - Cello Concerto in E minor, Op 58 - Movement 3 Part 3.flac
Format                                   : FLAC
Format/Info                              : Free Lossless Audio Codec
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Duration                                 : 1mn 26s
Overall bit rate mode                    : Variable
Overall bit rate                         : 1 444 Kbps
Album                                    : Prokofiev & Shostakovich: Cello Concertos
Album/Performer                          : Steven Isserlis / Frankfurt Radio Symphony Orchestra, Paavo Järvi
Track name                               : Prokofiev: Cello Concerto in E minor, Op 58 - Movement 3 Part 3: Variation 2: Vivace
Track name/Position                      : 05
Track name/Total                         : 14
Performer                                : Steven Isserlis / Frankfurt Radio Symphony Orchestra, Paavo Järvi
Composer                                 : Sergei Prokofiev (1891-1953)
Conductor                                : Paavo Järvi
Genre                                    : Classical
Recorded date                            : 2015
Copyright                                : © 2015 Hyperion Records Ltd, London
Cover                                    : Yes
Cover description                        : Cover artwork
Cover type                               : Cover (front)
Cover MIME                               : image/png
Lyrics                                   : Album notes: / Given that they were such very different characters, it is probably more a matter of geography and chronology than any deep musical connection that ensures that the names of Serge Prokofiev and Dmitri Shostakovich are so often coupled in musical history books. Nevertheless, there is a certain similarity of language; and the two concertos on this recording share certain striking qualities that make them natural companions. Above all, both works can be seen as fervently anti-Romantic; the cello, in contrast to its nineteenth-century image as an essentially lyrical, poetic instrument, finds itself in these concertos playing a different role, a combatant in a sinister new world of giants, battles, machines and eruptions. This transformation is, in its way, revolutionary, and would affect countless future composers. /  / The history of Prokofiev’s Cello Concerto in E minor, Op 58, is complicated—murky, even. In the early 1930s, Prokofiev met the great émigré Russian cellist Gregor Piatigorsky; the two played Prokofiev’s early Ballade for cello and piano. Afterwards, probably having been encouraged to do so by the great conductor and musical philanthropist Sergey Koussevitzky, Piatigorsky told Prokofiev that he wanted him to write a cello concerto. Interested by the idea, Prokofiev asked the cellist to demonstrate various effects on the cello; this went well, according to Piatigorsky’s memoirs, Prokofiev frequently jumping out of his chair with excitement, ordering him to ‘play it again! It is slashing!’ Less successful was Piatigorsky’s attempt to introduce Prokofiev to some staples of the cello repertoire. Prokofiev glanced at them with disgust: ‘You shouldn’t keep this stuff in the house—it smells!’ /  / Despite this setback, Prokofiev agreed to write the concerto, and set to work on the first movement in 1933. Piatigorsky was thrilled with the result, and with the opening of the scherzo which followed; but it was while working on the concerto that Prokofiev made his fateful decision to return to the Soviet Union, after which contact became sporadic. At one point, Prokofiev sheepishly informed Piatigorsky that, as a refugee from the Soviet Union, the latter could no longer be the dedicatee, nor be allowed to give the first performance. Finally completed in 1938, the concerto was premiered by the Russian cellist Lev Berezovsky and conductor Alexander Melik-Pashayev in St Petersburg, with an impressive lack of success. Sviatoslav Richter, who had played for the initial piano rehearsals, blamed both cellist and conductor for the failure. The cellist wanted to play it sentimentally, which was anathema to Prokofiev, while the conductor, apparently, had no feeling whatsoever for the piece; the performance was therefore, in Richter’s damning words, ‘a total fiasco’. Piatigorsky and Koussevitzky gave the US premiere in Boston in 1940; but again, it was less than a triumph. /  / So what was Prokofiev’s own view of the piece?  Characteristically scornful of the negative reactions—‘The critics remained indifferent out of sheer obtuseness’—and pointing out its kinship with his very successful second violin concerto, he made an attempt to rescue the work. The great Russian cellist Daniil Shafran was startled in the late 1930s to receive a phone call out of the blue from Prokofiev, inviting him—ordering him, rather—to learn the concerto. Shafran, then in his mid-teens, replied demurely that he would have to ask his teacher. He duly did so—but, alas, his teacher sternly forbade him to work on such dangerous modern stuff. Such a pity; Shafran, if anyone, could have saved the piece from obscurity. /  / After that, the concerto, chastened by its charmless reception, vanished entirely for several years. Late in 1943, Prokofiev wrote to Koussevitzky: ‘I wish you could tell me if you have the orchestral score of my cello concerto; after the manuscript was sent to the publisher I was left without a duplicate, and we have been unable for several years now to perform the concerto.’ The only cellist who took up the concerto was the fine French artist Maurice Gendron, who gave the Western European premiere in London in late 1945; again, though, it seems that the concerto somehow failed to make any great impression. However, help was at hand—in a way. In 1947, the young Mstislav Rostropovich revived it in a performance with piano in Moscow, and made sure that Prokofiev was there to hear it. Legend has it that Prokofiev told Rostropovich that he liked the themes of the concerto, but was unconvinced by the forms, and would like to rewrite it. A few years later, he did just that—even if he initially entitled the result ‘Cello Concerto No 2’, before changing the name to ‘Symphony-Concerto’. Most of the themes of the Symphony-Concerto are derived directly from the Cello Concerto; but the two works are very different in spirit. /  / The Symphony-Concerto has, until now, proved more popular than the Cello Concerto. There are several reasons for this: for a start, Prokofiev had Rostropovich on hand for the composition of the Symphony-Concerto, meaning that the solo part, though fiendish-sounding, is actually far more ‘cellistic’ than that of the Cello Concerto; and Rostropovich proved to be a wonderful ambassador for the work, playing it all over the world throughout his career. Furthermore, by the time Prokofiev came to work on the Symphony-Concerto, he had learned, through the hardest of routes, not to ignore public reactions. A few months after his meeting with Rostropovich, Prokofiev, along with Shostakovich, was castigated at the infamous 1948 ‘trials’ at the Composers’ Union, Khrennikov specifically mentioning the Cello Concerto in his indictment of Prokofiev as a ‘formalist’ composer. (‘In the work of Comrade Prokofiev … natural emotion and melody have been replaced by grunting and scraping’, he noted. Lovely.) The effect on Prokofiev—already in frail health—must have been devastating (even if for the second day of the trials he wandered out of the hall and ostentatiously studied the results of a chess tournament going on next door). From that point on, all traces of the enfant terrible of his youth vanished. His late works, wonderful as they are, had to toe the Soviet line; the Symphony-Concerto, for instance, had to be passed by a committee before it was deemed acceptable for public performance. In contrast, the Cello Concerto was composed at a time when Prokofiev was relatively free from any such restrictions—it is a daring, unique, challenging creation. Nobody could claim that it is an easy work, for performer or listener; but I consider it to be a masterpiece. And the better I know it, the more I love it. /  / The Cello Concerto was written alongside several of Prokofiev’s theatre/film scores, including Romeo and Juliet, Alexander Nevsky and Egyptian Nights. It seems to me that not only does the theatrical drama of all these works permeate the concerto, but also the sense of opposing forces of light and dark, of good and evil. In fact, the concerto opens with an ostinato similar to one heard at some of the darkest moments in Romeo and Juliet; it is over this ominous background that the cello enters with its bold, heroic theme. A plaintive oboe melody (at 1'30) introduces a note of lament, but this is quickly swept aside by our impatient hero. Only with the chilly wind of a descending theme in the violins (3'10) do we sense an inescapable shadow—as if malevolent forces were making their presence felt, with a forewarning of the struggles to come. /  / Battle-lines are drawn at the opening of the scherzo, Allegro giusto, the cello in fighting spirit. The second theme (1'45) introduces a characteristic note of sardonic wit, while the third (2'42), sharing some DNA with the concerto’s opening melody, reintroduces the heroic tone. These three components confront each other in the central section (5'46) with a clashing of steel worthy of the Montagues and Capulets (6'49). (How I wish that a great choreographer would create a ballet around this work!) After the return of the opening themes, a transition (10'25), in which various disparate components—including the theme of the upcoming finale—make their presence felt, leads us to the last movement. /  / And what a last movement it is! Longer than the first two movements put together, its overflowing structure is certainly the most controversial element of the concerto. Most cellists have made cuts, from the first performances onwards; but the experimental, monumental proportions seem to me fascinating—as they do in Shostakovich’s similarly sprawling fourth symphony, composed around the same time. Ostensibly, Prokofiev’s finale is a set of variations on yet another heroic theme, this time in C major; but it is much more than that. For a start, the variations in themselves seem to constitute a four-movement structure of opening allegro, scherzo, slow movement and finale; but even this only accounts for about half of the movement’s content. Around it swirls completely unrelated material, in which we feel the dark forces clustering again, initially in two ‘Interludes’—the first heard immediately after the theme (track 3, 0'52), the second between the third and fourth variations (track 6, 3'49). It is at the conclusion of the fourth and final variation, however, that the forces of light and dark take the stand for their ultimate confrontation: as we leave C major and return to the home-key, E minor, the concerto’s opening theme reappears (track 8, 0'41), emerging from the first movement’s chilly descending figure. A sinister motif follows (track 9), stumbling inexorably forward—a march of the condemned? This is succeeded by a violent fracas (track 9, 2'05), the cello’s high harmonics screaming above the mêlée. And then—is the hero vanquished? It would certainly seem so, as a descending phrase (2'58) seems to show the spiral of death; but nothing is certain in this work—particularly not in the ending, which dramatically reintroduces the scherzo’s warlike theme (3'33), fades away again, and then, in a final burst of strength, terminates with a threatening snarl. An extraordinary ending to an extraordinary work. / Shostakovich cited Prokofiev’s Symphony-Concerto (I wonder if he knew the original concerto?) as a major inspiration for his own Cello Concerto No 1 in E flat major, Op 107, written for Rostropovich in 1959. If Prokofiev’s concerto, despite its struggles and enigmatic ending, leaves the impression of an epic ballade, the tale of a giant, Shostakovich’s work seems (to me, at least—as with my description of the Prokofiev, this is an entirely personal view) to be if anything anti-heroic, a portrait of an individual crushed by an evil, inhuman force. An autobiographical element is implied in the memorable opening figure, derived from the musical notes of Shostakovich’s own name and in rhythm somewhat reminiscent of Beethoven’s famous ‘fate’ motif. The music is machine-like, driven, yielding to no human emotion, the only exception being the desperate pleading of the violins at 5'28. Their plight fails to move the cello, however; on the contrary, he stamps on their outstretched hands. /  / The slow movement, after an expressive introduction, offers three contrasting themes: the first (0'50) a despairing walk along an endless road, the second (4'08) a heartfelt lament, the third (5'24) an innocent, almost comic song that all too soon turns horribly sinister, culminating in an agonized version on muted violins (6'50)—like prisoners screaming behind glass. Unusually, the third movement consists entirely of a solo cadenza; this is in two parts, the first ruminating on the themes of the slow movement, the second (from 4'09) providing an energetic bridge to the finale. Here a cruel, stomping theme is succeeded by a dance in 3/8 (1'36). This frenzied theme leads to the return of the concerto’s opening motif (3'19), which, combined with the main theme of the finale, erupts into a mad conflagration that sweeps us irresistibly to the work’s conclusion—surely the most exciting end to any cello concerto. /  / And on that turbulent note we leave you. What? An encore? No, ladies and gentlemen, you are too kind—surely we have trespassed enough upon your time. You’re sure? Oh very well: here, for your delectation, is Prokofiev’s March from his piano pieces Music for Children, Op 65—arranged for solo cello, appropriately, by Piatigorsky. /  / Steven Isserlis © 2015

Audio
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Writing library                          : libFLAC 1.2.1 (UTC 2007-09-17)

General
Complete name                            : /mnt/torrents/releases/music/hd/Prokofiev, Shostakovich - Cello Concertos - Steven Isserlis, Paavo Jarvi (2015) [48-24]/02 - Prokofiev - Cello Concerto in E minor, Op 58 - Movement 2.flac
Format                                   : FLAC
Format/Info                              : Free Lossless Audio Codec
File size                                : 123 MiB
Duration                                 : 11mn 51s
Overall bit rate mode                    : Variable
Overall bit rate                         : 1 455 Kbps
Album                                    : Prokofiev & Shostakovich: Cello Concertos
Album/Performer                          : Steven Isserlis / Frankfurt Radio Symphony Orchestra, Paavo Järvi
Track name                               : Prokofiev: Cello Concerto in E minor, Op 58 - Movement 2: Allegro giusto
Track name/Position                      : 02
Track name/Total                         : 14
Performer                                : Steven Isserlis / Frankfurt Radio Symphony Orchestra, Paavo Järvi
Composer                                 : Sergei Prokofiev (1891-1953)
Conductor                                : Paavo Järvi
Genre                                    : Classical
Recorded date                            : 2015
Copyright                                : © 2015 Hyperion Records Ltd, London
Cover                                    : Yes
Cover description                        : Cover artwork
Cover type                               : Cover (front)
Cover MIME                               : image/png
Lyrics                                   : Album notes: / Given that they were such very different characters, it is probably more a matter of geography and chronology than any deep musical connection that ensures that the names of Serge Prokofiev and Dmitri Shostakovich are so often coupled in musical history books. Nevertheless, there is a certain similarity of language; and the two concertos on this recording share certain striking qualities that make them natural companions. Above all, both works can be seen as fervently anti-Romantic; the cello, in contrast to its nineteenth-century image as an essentially lyrical, poetic instrument, finds itself in these concertos playing a different role, a combatant in a sinister new world of giants, battles, machines and eruptions. This transformation is, in its way, revolutionary, and would affect countless future composers. /  / The history of Prokofiev’s Cello Concerto in E minor, Op 58, is complicated—murky, even. In the early 1930s, Prokofiev met the great émigré Russian cellist Gregor Piatigorsky; the two played Prokofiev’s early Ballade for cello and piano. Afterwards, probably having been encouraged to do so by the great conductor and musical philanthropist Sergey Koussevitzky, Piatigorsky told Prokofiev that he wanted him to write a cello concerto. Interested by the idea, Prokofiev asked the cellist to demonstrate various effects on the cello; this went well, according to Piatigorsky’s memoirs, Prokofiev frequently jumping out of his chair with excitement, ordering him to ‘play it again! It is slashing!’ Less successful was Piatigorsky’s attempt to introduce Prokofiev to some staples of the cello repertoire. Prokofiev glanced at them with disgust: ‘You shouldn’t keep this stuff in the house—it smells!’ /  / Despite this setback, Prokofiev agreed to write the concerto, and set to work on the first movement in 1933. Piatigorsky was thrilled with the result, and with the opening of the scherzo which followed; but it was while working on the concerto that Prokofiev made his fateful decision to return to the Soviet Union, after which contact became sporadic. At one point, Prokofiev sheepishly informed Piatigorsky that, as a refugee from the Soviet Union, the latter could no longer be the dedicatee, nor be allowed to give the first performance. Finally completed in 1938, the concerto was premiered by the Russian cellist Lev Berezovsky and conductor Alexander Melik-Pashayev in St Petersburg, with an impressive lack of success. Sviatoslav Richter, who had played for the initial piano rehearsals, blamed both cellist and conductor for the failure. The cellist wanted to play it sentimentally, which was anathema to Prokofiev, while the conductor, apparently, had no feeling whatsoever for the piece; the performance was therefore, in Richter’s damning words, ‘a total fiasco’. Piatigorsky and Koussevitzky gave the US premiere in Boston in 1940; but again, it was less than a triumph. /  / So what was Prokofiev’s own view of the piece?  Characteristically scornful of the negative reactions—‘The critics remained indifferent out of sheer obtuseness’—and pointing out its kinship with his very successful second violin concerto, he made an attempt to rescue the work. The great Russian cellist Daniil Shafran was startled in the late 1930s to receive a phone call out of the blue from Prokofiev, inviting him—ordering him, rather—to learn the concerto. Shafran, then in his mid-teens, replied demurely that he would have to ask his teacher. He duly did so—but, alas, his teacher sternly forbade him to work on such dangerous modern stuff. Such a pity; Shafran, if anyone, could have saved the piece from obscurity. /  / After that, the concerto, chastened by its charmless reception, vanished entirely for several years. Late in 1943, Prokofiev wrote to Koussevitzky: ‘I wish you could tell me if you have the orchestral score of my cello concerto; after the manuscript was sent to the publisher I was left without a duplicate, and we have been unable for several years now to perform the concerto.’ The only cellist who took up the concerto was the fine French artist Maurice Gendron, who gave the Western European premiere in London in late 1945; again, though, it seems that the concerto somehow failed to make any great impression. However, help was at hand—in a way. In 1947, the young Mstislav Rostropovich revived it in a performance with piano in Moscow, and made sure that Prokofiev was there to hear it. Legend has it that Prokofiev told Rostropovich that he liked the themes of the concerto, but was unconvinced by the forms, and would like to rewrite it. A few years later, he did just that—even if he initially entitled the result ‘Cello Concerto No 2’, before changing the name to ‘Symphony-Concerto’. Most of the themes of the Symphony-Concerto are derived directly from the Cello Concerto; but the two works are very different in spirit. /  / The Symphony-Concerto has, until now, proved more popular than the Cello Concerto. There are several reasons for this: for a start, Prokofiev had Rostropovich on hand for the composition of the Symphony-Concerto, meaning that the solo part, though fiendish-sounding, is actually far more ‘cellistic’ than that of the Cello Concerto; and Rostropovich proved to be a wonderful ambassador for the work, playing it all over the world throughout his career. Furthermore, by the time Prokofiev came to work on the Symphony-Concerto, he had learned, through the hardest of routes, not to ignore public reactions. A few months after his meeting with Rostropovich, Prokofiev, along with Shostakovich, was castigated at the infamous 1948 ‘trials’ at the Composers’ Union, Khrennikov specifically mentioning the Cello Concerto in his indictment of Prokofiev as a ‘formalist’ composer. (‘In the work of Comrade Prokofiev … natural emotion and melody have been replaced by grunting and scraping’, he noted. Lovely.) The effect on Prokofiev—already in frail health—must have been devastating (even if for the second day of the trials he wandered out of the hall and ostentatiously studied the results of a chess tournament going on next door). From that point on, all traces of the enfant terrible of his youth vanished. His late works, wonderful as they are, had to toe the Soviet line; the Symphony-Concerto, for instance, had to be passed by a committee before it was deemed acceptable for public performance. In contrast, the Cello Concerto was composed at a time when Prokofiev was relatively free from any such restrictions—it is a daring, unique, challenging creation. Nobody could claim that it is an easy work, for performer or listener; but I consider it to be a masterpiece. And the better I know it, the more I love it. /  / The Cello Concerto was written alongside several of Prokofiev’s theatre/film scores, including Romeo and Juliet, Alexander Nevsky and Egyptian Nights. It seems to me that not only does the theatrical drama of all these works permeate the concerto, but also the sense of opposing forces of light and dark, of good and evil. In fact, the concerto opens with an ostinato similar to one heard at some of the darkest moments in Romeo and Juliet; it is over this ominous background that the cello enters with its bold, heroic theme. A plaintive oboe melody (at 1'30) introduces a note of lament, but this is quickly swept aside by our impatient hero. Only with the chilly wind of a descending theme in the violins (3'10) do we sense an inescapable shadow—as if malevolent forces were making their presence felt, with a forewarning of the struggles to come. /  / Battle-lines are drawn at the opening of the scherzo, Allegro giusto, the cello in fighting spirit. The second theme (1'45) introduces a characteristic note of sardonic wit, while the third (2'42), sharing some DNA with the concerto’s opening melody, reintroduces the heroic tone. These three components confront each other in the central section (5'46) with a clashing of steel worthy of the Montagues and Capulets (6'49). (How I wish that a great choreographer would create a ballet around this work!) After the return of the opening themes, a transition (10'25), in which various disparate components—including the theme of the upcoming finale—make their presence felt, leads us to the last movement. /  / And what a last movement it is! Longer than the first two movements put together, its overflowing structure is certainly the most controversial element of the concerto. Most cellists have made cuts, from the first performances onwards; but the experimental, monumental proportions seem to me fascinating—as they do in Shostakovich’s similarly sprawling fourth symphony, composed around the same time. Ostensibly, Prokofiev’s finale is a set of variations on yet another heroic theme, this time in C major; but it is much more than that. For a start, the variations in themselves seem to constitute a four-movement structure of opening allegro, scherzo, slow movement and finale; but even this only accounts for about half of the movement’s content. Around it swirls completely unrelated material, in which we feel the dark forces clustering again, initially in two ‘Interludes’—the first heard immediately after the theme (track 3, 0'52), the second between the third and fourth variations (track 6, 3'49). It is at the conclusion of the fourth and final variation, however, that the forces of light and dark take the stand for their ultimate confrontation: as we leave C major and return to the home-key, E minor, the concerto’s opening theme reappears (track 8, 0'41), emerging from the first movement’s chilly descending figure. A sinister motif follows (track 9), stumbling inexorably forward—a march of the condemned? This is succeeded by a violent fracas (track 9, 2'05), the cello’s high harmonics screaming above the mêlée. And then—is the hero vanquished? It would certainly seem so, as a descending phrase (2'58) seems to show the spiral of death; but nothing is certain in this work—particularly not in the ending, which dramatically reintroduces the scherzo’s warlike theme (3'33), fades away again, and then, in a final burst of strength, terminates with a threatening snarl. An extraordinary ending to an extraordinary work. / Shostakovich cited Prokofiev’s Symphony-Concerto (I wonder if he knew the original concerto?) as a major inspiration for his own Cello Concerto No 1 in E flat major, Op 107, written for Rostropovich in 1959. If Prokofiev’s concerto, despite its struggles and enigmatic ending, leaves the impression of an epic ballade, the tale of a giant, Shostakovich’s work seems (to me, at least—as with my description of the Prokofiev, this is an entirely personal view) to be if anything anti-heroic, a portrait of an individual crushed by an evil, inhuman force. An autobiographical element is implied in the memorable opening figure, derived from the musical notes of Shostakovich’s own name and in rhythm somewhat reminiscent of Beethoven’s famous ‘fate’ motif. The music is machine-like, driven, yielding to no human emotion, the only exception being the desperate pleading of the violins at 5'28. Their plight fails to move the cello, however; on the contrary, he stamps on their outstretched hands. /  / The slow movement, after an expressive introduction, offers three contrasting themes: the first (0'50) a despairing walk along an endless road, the second (4'08) a heartfelt lament, the third (5'24) an innocent, almost comic song that all too soon turns horribly sinister, culminating in an agonized version on muted violins (6'50)—like prisoners screaming behind glass. Unusually, the third movement consists entirely of a solo cadenza; this is in two parts, the first ruminating on the themes of the slow movement, the second (from 4'09) providing an energetic bridge to the finale. Here a cruel, stomping theme is succeeded by a dance in 3/8 (1'36). This frenzied theme leads to the return of the concerto’s opening motif (3'19), which, combined with the main theme of the finale, erupts into a mad conflagration that sweeps us irresistibly to the work’s conclusion—surely the most exciting end to any cello concerto. /  / And on that turbulent note we leave you. What? An encore? No, ladies and gentlemen, you are too kind—surely we have trespassed enough upon your time. You’re sure? Oh very well: here, for your delectation, is Prokofiev’s March from his piano pieces Music for Children, Op 65—arranged for solo cello, appropriately, by Piatigorsky. /  / Steven Isserlis © 2015

Audio
Format                                   : FLAC
Format/Info                              : Free Lossless Audio Codec
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Writing library                          : libFLAC 1.2.1 (UTC 2007-09-17)

General
Complete name                            : /mnt/torrents/releases/music/hd/Prokofiev, Shostakovich - Cello Concertos - Steven Isserlis, Paavo Jarvi (2015) [48-24]/12 - Shostakovich - Cello Concerto No 1 in E flat major, Op 107 - Movement 3.flac
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Format/Info                              : Free Lossless Audio Codec
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Duration                                 : 5mn 34s
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Overall bit rate                         : 1 206 Kbps
Album                                    : Prokofiev & Shostakovich: Cello Concertos
Album/Performer                          : Steven Isserlis / Frankfurt Radio Symphony Orchestra, Paavo Järvi
Track name                               : Shostakovich: Cello Concerto No 1 in E flat major, Op 107 - Movement 3: Cadenza –
Track name/Position                      : 12
Track name/Total                         : 14
Performer                                : Steven Isserlis / Frankfurt Radio Symphony Orchestra, Paavo Järvi
Composer                                 : Dmitri Shostakovich (1906-1975)
Conductor                                : Paavo Järvi
Genre                                    : Classical
Recorded date                            : 2015
Copyright                                : © 2015 Hyperion Records Ltd, London
Cover                                    : Yes
Cover description                        : Cover artwork
Cover type                               : Cover (front)
Cover MIME                               : image/png
Lyrics                                   : Album notes: / Given that they were such very different characters, it is probably more a matter of geography and chronology than any deep musical connection that ensures that the names of Serge Prokofiev and Dmitri Shostakovich are so often coupled in musical history books. Nevertheless, there is a certain similarity of language; and the two concertos on this recording share certain striking qualities that make them natural companions. Above all, both works can be seen as fervently anti-Romantic; the cello, in contrast to its nineteenth-century image as an essentially lyrical, poetic instrument, finds itself in these concertos playing a different role, a combatant in a sinister new world of giants, battles, machines and eruptions. This transformation is, in its way, revolutionary, and would affect countless future composers. /  / The history of Prokofiev’s Cello Concerto in E minor, Op 58, is complicated—murky, even. In the early 1930s, Prokofiev met the great émigré Russian cellist Gregor Piatigorsky; the two played Prokofiev’s early Ballade for cello and piano. Afterwards, probably having been encouraged to do so by the great conductor and musical philanthropist Sergey Koussevitzky, Piatigorsky told Prokofiev that he wanted him to write a cello concerto. Interested by the idea, Prokofiev asked the cellist to demonstrate various effects on the cello; this went well, according to Piatigorsky’s memoirs, Prokofiev frequently jumping out of his chair with excitement, ordering him to ‘play it again! It is slashing!’ Less successful was Piatigorsky’s attempt to introduce Prokofiev to some staples of the cello repertoire. Prokofiev glanced at them with disgust: ‘You shouldn’t keep this stuff in the house—it smells!’ /  / Despite this setback, Prokofiev agreed to write the concerto, and set to work on the first movement in 1933. Piatigorsky was thrilled with the result, and with the opening of the scherzo which followed; but it was while working on the concerto that Prokofiev made his fateful decision to return to the Soviet Union, after which contact became sporadic. At one point, Prokofiev sheepishly informed Piatigorsky that, as a refugee from the Soviet Union, the latter could no longer be the dedicatee, nor be allowed to give the first performance. Finally completed in 1938, the concerto was premiered by the Russian cellist Lev Berezovsky and conductor Alexander Melik-Pashayev in St Petersburg, with an impressive lack of success. Sviatoslav Richter, who had played for the initial piano rehearsals, blamed both cellist and conductor for the failure. The cellist wanted to play it sentimentally, which was anathema to Prokofiev, while the conductor, apparently, had no feeling whatsoever for the piece; the performance was therefore, in Richter’s damning words, ‘a total fiasco’. Piatigorsky and Koussevitzky gave the US premiere in Boston in 1940; but again, it was less than a triumph. /  / So what was Prokofiev’s own view of the piece?  Characteristically scornful of the negative reactions—‘The critics remained indifferent out of sheer obtuseness’—and pointing out its kinship with his very successful second violin concerto, he made an attempt to rescue the work. The great Russian cellist Daniil Shafran was startled in the late 1930s to receive a phone call out of the blue from Prokofiev, inviting him—ordering him, rather—to learn the concerto. Shafran, then in his mid-teens, replied demurely that he would have to ask his teacher. He duly did so—but, alas, his teacher sternly forbade him to work on such dangerous modern stuff. Such a pity; Shafran, if anyone, could have saved the piece from obscurity. /  / After that, the concerto, chastened by its charmless reception, vanished entirely for several years. Late in 1943, Prokofiev wrote to Koussevitzky: ‘I wish you could tell me if you have the orchestral score of my cello concerto; after the manuscript was sent to the publisher I was left without a duplicate, and we have been unable for several years now to perform the concerto.’ The only cellist who took up the concerto was the fine French artist Maurice Gendron, who gave the Western European premiere in London in late 1945; again, though, it seems that the concerto somehow failed to make any great impression. However, help was at hand—in a way. In 1947, the young Mstislav Rostropovich revived it in a performance with piano in Moscow, and made sure that Prokofiev was there to hear it. Legend has it that Prokofiev told Rostropovich that he liked the themes of the concerto, but was unconvinced by the forms, and would like to rewrite it. A few years later, he did just that—even if he initially entitled the result ‘Cello Concerto No 2’, before changing the name to ‘Symphony-Concerto’. Most of the themes of the Symphony-Concerto are derived directly from the Cello Concerto; but the two works are very different in spirit. /  / The Symphony-Concerto has, until now, proved more popular than the Cello Concerto. There are several reasons for this: for a start, Prokofiev had Rostropovich on hand for the composition of the Symphony-Concerto, meaning that the solo part, though fiendish-sounding, is actually far more ‘cellistic’ than that of the Cello Concerto; and Rostropovich proved to be a wonderful ambassador for the work, playing it all over the world throughout his career. Furthermore, by the time Prokofiev came to work on the Symphony-Concerto, he had learned, through the hardest of routes, not to ignore public reactions. A few months after his meeting with Rostropovich, Prokofiev, along with Shostakovich, was castigated at the infamous 1948 ‘trials’ at the Composers’ Union, Khrennikov specifically mentioning the Cello Concerto in his indictment of Prokofiev as a ‘formalist’ composer. (‘In the work of Comrade Prokofiev … natural emotion and melody have been replaced by grunting and scraping’, he noted. Lovely.) The effect on Prokofiev—already in frail health—must have been devastating (even if for the second day of the trials he wandered out of the hall and ostentatiously studied the results of a chess tournament going on next door). From that point on, all traces of the enfant terrible of his youth vanished. His late works, wonderful as they are, had to toe the Soviet line; the Symphony-Concerto, for instance, had to be passed by a committee before it was deemed acceptable for public performance. In contrast, the Cello Concerto was composed at a time when Prokofiev was relatively free from any such restrictions—it is a daring, unique, challenging creation. Nobody could claim that it is an easy work, for performer or listener; but I consider it to be a masterpiece. And the better I know it, the more I love it. /  / The Cello Concerto was written alongside several of Prokofiev’s theatre/film scores, including Romeo and Juliet, Alexander Nevsky and Egyptian Nights. It seems to me that not only does the theatrical drama of all these works permeate the concerto, but also the sense of opposing forces of light and dark, of good and evil. In fact, the concerto opens with an ostinato similar to one heard at some of the darkest moments in Romeo and Juliet; it is over this ominous background that the cello enters with its bold, heroic theme. A plaintive oboe melody (at 1'30) introduces a note of lament, but this is quickly swept aside by our impatient hero. Only with the chilly wind of a descending theme in the violins (3'10) do we sense an inescapable shadow—as if malevolent forces were making their presence felt, with a forewarning of the struggles to come. /  / Battle-lines are drawn at the opening of the scherzo, Allegro giusto, the cello in fighting spirit. The second theme (1'45) introduces a characteristic note of sardonic wit, while the third (2'42), sharing some DNA with the concerto’s opening melody, reintroduces the heroic tone. These three components confront each other in the central section (5'46) with a clashing of steel worthy of the Montagues and Capulets (6'49). (How I wish that a great choreographer would create a ballet around this work!) After the return of the opening themes, a transition (10'25), in which various disparate components—including the theme of the upcoming finale—make their presence felt, leads us to the last movement. /  / And what a last movement it is! Longer than the first two movements put together, its overflowing structure is certainly the most controversial element of the concerto. Most cellists have made cuts, from the first performances onwards; but the experimental, monumental proportions seem to me fascinating—as they do in Shostakovich’s similarly sprawling fourth symphony, composed around the same time. Ostensibly, Prokofiev’s finale is a set of variations on yet another heroic theme, this time in C major; but it is much more than that. For a start, the variations in themselves seem to constitute a four-movement structure of opening allegro, scherzo, slow movement and finale; but even this only accounts for about half of the movement’s content. Around it swirls completely unrelated material, in which we feel the dark forces clustering again, initially in two ‘Interludes’—the first heard immediately after the theme (track 3, 0'52), the second between the third and fourth variations (track 6, 3'49). It is at the conclusion of the fourth and final variation, however, that the forces of light and dark take the stand for their ultimate confrontation: as we leave C major and return to the home-key, E minor, the concerto’s opening theme reappears (track 8, 0'41), emerging from the first movement’s chilly descending figure. A sinister motif follows (track 9), stumbling inexorably forward—a march of the condemned? This is succeeded by a violent fracas (track 9, 2'05), the cello’s high harmonics screaming above the mêlée. And then—is the hero vanquished? It would certainly seem so, as a descending phrase (2'58) seems to show the spiral of death; but nothing is certain in this work—particularly not in the ending, which dramatically reintroduces the scherzo’s warlike theme (3'33), fades away again, and then, in a final burst of strength, terminates with a threatening snarl. An extraordinary ending to an extraordinary work. / Shostakovich cited Prokofiev’s Symphony-Concerto (I wonder if he knew the original concerto?) as a major inspiration for his own Cello Concerto No 1 in E flat major, Op 107, written for Rostropovich in 1959. If Prokofiev’s concerto, despite its struggles and enigmatic ending, leaves the impression of an epic ballade, the tale of a giant, Shostakovich’s work seems (to me, at least—as with my description of the Prokofiev, this is an entirely personal view) to be if anything anti-heroic, a portrait of an individual crushed by an evil, inhuman force. An autobiographical element is implied in the memorable opening figure, derived from the musical notes of Shostakovich’s own name and in rhythm somewhat reminiscent of Beethoven’s famous ‘fate’ motif. The music is machine-like, driven, yielding to no human emotion, the only exception being the desperate pleading of the violins at 5'28. Their plight fails to move the cello, however; on the contrary, he stamps on their outstretched hands. /  / The slow movement, after an expressive introduction, offers three contrasting themes: the first (0'50) a despairing walk along an endless road, the second (4'08) a heartfelt lament, the third (5'24) an innocent, almost comic song that all too soon turns horribly sinister, culminating in an agonized version on muted violins (6'50)—like prisoners screaming behind glass. Unusually, the third movement consists entirely of a solo cadenza; this is in two parts, the first ruminating on the themes of the slow movement, the second (from 4'09) providing an energetic bridge to the finale. Here a cruel, stomping theme is succeeded by a dance in 3/8 (1'36). This frenzied theme leads to the return of the concerto’s opening motif (3'19), which, combined with the main theme of the finale, erupts into a mad conflagration that sweeps us irresistibly to the work’s conclusion—surely the most exciting end to any cello concerto. /  / And on that turbulent note we leave you. What? An encore? No, ladies and gentlemen, you are too kind—surely we have trespassed enough upon your time. You’re sure? Oh very well: here, for your delectation, is Prokofiev’s March from his piano pieces Music for Children, Op 65—arranged for solo cello, appropriately, by Piatigorsky. /  / Steven Isserlis © 2015

Audio
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Bit rate                                 : 1 198 Kbps
Channel(s)                               : 2 channels
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Stream size                              : 47.7 MiB (99%)
Writing library                          : libFLAC 1.2.1 (UTC 2007-09-17)

General
Complete name                            : /mnt/torrents/releases/music/hd/Prokofiev, Shostakovich - Cello Concertos - Steven Isserlis, Paavo Jarvi (2015) [48-24]/11 - Shostakovich - Cello Concerto No 1 in E flat major, Op 107 - Movement 2.flac
Format                                   : FLAC
Format/Info                              : Free Lossless Audio Codec
File size                                : 97.0 MiB
Duration                                 : 10mn 32s
Overall bit rate mode                    : Variable
Overall bit rate                         : 1 287 Kbps
Album                                    : Prokofiev & Shostakovich: Cello Concertos
Album/Performer                          : Steven Isserlis / Frankfurt Radio Symphony Orchestra, Paavo Järvi
Track name                               : Shostakovich: Cello Concerto No 1 in E flat major, Op 107 - Movement 2: Moderato
Track name/Position                      : 11
Track name/Total                         : 14
Performer                                : Steven Isserlis / Frankfurt Radio Symphony Orchestra, Paavo Järvi
Composer                                 : Dmitri Shostakovich (1906-1975)
Conductor                                : Paavo Järvi
Genre                                    : Classical
Recorded date                            : 2015
Copyright                                : © 2015 Hyperion Records Ltd, London
Cover                                    : Yes
Cover description                        : Cover artwork
Cover type                               : Cover (front)
Cover MIME                               : image/png
Lyrics                                   : Album notes: / Given that they were such very different characters, it is probably more a matter of geography and chronology than any deep musical connection that ensures that the names of Serge Prokofiev and Dmitri Shostakovich are so often coupled in musical history books. Nevertheless, there is a certain similarity of language; and the two concertos on this recording share certain striking qualities that make them natural companions. Above all, both works can be seen as fervently anti-Romantic; the cello, in contrast to its nineteenth-century image as an essentially lyrical, poetic instrument, finds itself in these concertos playing a different role, a combatant in a sinister new world of giants, battles, machines and eruptions. This transformation is, in its way, revolutionary, and would affect countless future composers. /  / The history of Prokofiev’s Cello Concerto in E minor, Op 58, is complicated—murky, even. In the early 1930s, Prokofiev met the great émigré Russian cellist Gregor Piatigorsky; the two played Prokofiev’s early Ballade for cello and piano. Afterwards, probably having been encouraged to do so by the great conductor and musical philanthropist Sergey Koussevitzky, Piatigorsky told Prokofiev that he wanted him to write a cello concerto. Interested by the idea, Prokofiev asked the cellist to demonstrate various effects on the cello; this went well, according to Piatigorsky’s memoirs, Prokofiev frequently jumping out of his chair with excitement, ordering him to ‘play it again! It is slashing!’ Less successful was Piatigorsky’s attempt to introduce Prokofiev to some staples of the cello repertoire. Prokofiev glanced at them with disgust: ‘You shouldn’t keep this stuff in the house—it smells!’ /  / Despite this setback, Prokofiev agreed to write the concerto, and set to work on the first movement in 1933. Piatigorsky was thrilled with the result, and with the opening of the scherzo which followed; but it was while working on the concerto that Prokofiev made his fateful decision to return to the Soviet Union, after which contact became sporadic. At one point, Prokofiev sheepishly informed Piatigorsky that, as a refugee from the Soviet Union, the latter could no longer be the dedicatee, nor be allowed to give the first performance. Finally completed in 1938, the concerto was premiered by the Russian cellist Lev Berezovsky and conductor Alexander Melik-Pashayev in St Petersburg, with an impressive lack of success. Sviatoslav Richter, who had played for the initial piano rehearsals, blamed both cellist and conductor for the failure. The cellist wanted to play it sentimentally, which was anathema to Prokofiev, while the conductor, apparently, had no feeling whatsoever for the piece; the performance was therefore, in Richter’s damning words, ‘a total fiasco’. Piatigorsky and Koussevitzky gave the US premiere in Boston in 1940; but again, it was less than a triumph. /  / So what was Prokofiev’s own view of the piece?  Characteristically scornful of the negative reactions—‘The critics remained indifferent out of sheer obtuseness’—and pointing out its kinship with his very successful second violin concerto, he made an attempt to rescue the work. The great Russian cellist Daniil Shafran was startled in the late 1930s to receive a phone call out of the blue from Prokofiev, inviting him—ordering him, rather—to learn the concerto. Shafran, then in his mid-teens, replied demurely that he would have to ask his teacher. He duly did so—but, alas, his teacher sternly forbade him to work on such dangerous modern stuff. Such a pity; Shafran, if anyone, could have saved the piece from obscurity. /  / After that, the concerto, chastened by its charmless reception, vanished entirely for several years. Late in 1943, Prokofiev wrote to Koussevitzky: ‘I wish you could tell me if you have the orchestral score of my cello concerto; after the manuscript was sent to the publisher I was left without a duplicate, and we have been unable for several years now to perform the concerto.’ The only cellist who took up the concerto was the fine French artist Maurice Gendron, who gave the Western European premiere in London in late 1945; again, though, it seems that the concerto somehow failed to make any great impression. However, help was at hand—in a way. In 1947, the young Mstislav Rostropovich revived it in a performance with piano in Moscow, and made sure that Prokofiev was there to hear it. Legend has it that Prokofiev told Rostropovich that he liked the themes of the concerto, but was unconvinced by the forms, and would like to rewrite it. A few years later, he did just that—even if he initially entitled the result ‘Cello Concerto No 2’, before changing the name to ‘Symphony-Concerto’. Most of the themes of the Symphony-Concerto are derived directly from the Cello Concerto; but the two works are very different in spirit. /  / The Symphony-Concerto has, until now, proved more popular than the Cello Concerto. There are several reasons for this: for a start, Prokofiev had Rostropovich on hand for the composition of the Symphony-Concerto, meaning that the solo part, though fiendish-sounding, is actually far more ‘cellistic’ than that of the Cello Concerto; and Rostropovich proved to be a wonderful ambassador for the work, playing it all over the world throughout his career. Furthermore, by the time Prokofiev came to work on the Symphony-Concerto, he had learned, through the hardest of routes, not to ignore public reactions. A few months after his meeting with Rostropovich, Prokofiev, along with Shostakovich, was castigated at the infamous 1948 ‘trials’ at the Composers’ Union, Khrennikov specifically mentioning the Cello Concerto in his indictment of Prokofiev as a ‘formalist’ composer. (‘In the work of Comrade Prokofiev … natural emotion and melody have been replaced by grunting and scraping’, he noted. Lovely.) The effect on Prokofiev—already in frail health—must have been devastating (even if for the second day of the trials he wandered out of the hall and ostentatiously studied the results of a chess tournament going on next door). From that point on, all traces of the enfant terrible of his youth vanished. His late works, wonderful as they are, had to toe the Soviet line; the Symphony-Concerto, for instance, had to be passed by a committee before it was deemed acceptable for public performance. In contrast, the Cello Concerto was composed at a time when Prokofiev was relatively free from any such restrictions—it is a daring, unique, challenging creation. Nobody could claim that it is an easy work, for performer or listener; but I consider it to be a masterpiece. And the better I know it, the more I love it. /  / The Cello Concerto was written alongside several of Prokofiev’s theatre/film scores, including Romeo and Juliet, Alexander Nevsky and Egyptian Nights. It seems to me that not only does the theatrical drama of all these works permeate the concerto, but also the sense of opposing forces of light and dark, of good and evil. In fact, the concerto opens with an ostinato similar to one heard at some of the darkest moments in Romeo and Juliet; it is over this ominous background that the cello enters with its bold, heroic theme. A plaintive oboe melody (at 1'30) introduces a note of lament, but this is quickly swept aside by our impatient hero. Only with the chilly wind of a descending theme in the violins (3'10) do we sense an inescapable shadow—as if malevolent forces were making their presence felt, with a forewarning of the struggles to come. /  / Battle-lines are drawn at the opening of the scherzo, Allegro giusto, the cello in fighting spirit. The second theme (1'45) introduces a characteristic note of sardonic wit, while the third (2'42), sharing some DNA with the concerto’s opening melody, reintroduces the heroic tone. These three components confront each other in the central section (5'46) with a clashing of steel worthy of the Montagues and Capulets (6'49). (How I wish that a great choreographer would create a ballet around this work!) After the return of the opening themes, a transition (10'25), in which various disparate components—including the theme of the upcoming finale—make their presence felt, leads us to the last movement. /  / And what a last movement it is! Longer than the first two movements put together, its overflowing structure is certainly the most controversial element of the concerto. Most cellists have made cuts, from the first performances onwards; but the experimental, monumental proportions seem to me fascinating—as they do in Shostakovich’s similarly sprawling fourth symphony, composed around the same time. Ostensibly, Prokofiev’s finale is a set of variations on yet another heroic theme, this time in C major; but it is much more than that. For a start, the variations in themselves seem to constitute a four-movement structure of opening allegro, scherzo, slow movement and finale; but even this only accounts for about half of the movement’s content. Around it swirls completely unrelated material, in which we feel the dark forces clustering again, initially in two ‘Interludes’—the first heard immediately after the theme (track 3, 0'52), the second between the third and fourth variations (track 6, 3'49). It is at the conclusion of the fourth and final variation, however, that the forces of light and dark take the stand for their ultimate confrontation: as we leave C major and return to the home-key, E minor, the concerto’s opening theme reappears (track 8, 0'41), emerging from the first movement’s chilly descending figure. A sinister motif follows (track 9), stumbling inexorably forward—a march of the condemned? This is succeeded by a violent fracas (track 9, 2'05), the cello’s high harmonics screaming above the mêlée. And then—is the hero vanquished? It would certainly seem so, as a descending phrase (2'58) seems to show the spiral of death; but nothing is certain in this work—particularly not in the ending, which dramatically reintroduces the scherzo’s warlike theme (3'33), fades away again, and then, in a final burst of strength, terminates with a threatening snarl. An extraordinary ending to an extraordinary work. / Shostakovich cited Prokofiev’s Symphony-Concerto (I wonder if he knew the original concerto?) as a major inspiration for his own Cello Concerto No 1 in E flat major, Op 107, written for Rostropovich in 1959. If Prokofiev’s concerto, despite its struggles and enigmatic ending, leaves the impression of an epic ballade, the tale of a giant, Shostakovich’s work seems (to me, at least—as with my description of the Prokofiev, this is an entirely personal view) to be if anything anti-heroic, a portrait of an individual crushed by an evil, inhuman force. An autobiographical element is implied in the memorable opening figure, derived from the musical notes of Shostakovich’s own name and in rhythm somewhat reminiscent of Beethoven’s famous ‘fate’ motif. The music is machine-like, driven, yielding to no human emotion, the only exception being the desperate pleading of the violins at 5'28. Their plight fails to move the cello, however; on the contrary, he stamps on their outstretched hands. /  / The slow movement, after an expressive introduction, offers three contrasting themes: the first (0'50) a despairing walk along an endless road, the second (4'08) a heartfelt lament, the third (5'24) an innocent, almost comic song that all too soon turns horribly sinister, culminating in an agonized version on muted violins (6'50)—like prisoners screaming behind glass. Unusually, the third movement consists entirely of a solo cadenza; this is in two parts, the first ruminating on the themes of the slow movement, the second (from 4'09) providing an energetic bridge to the finale. Here a cruel, stomping theme is succeeded by a dance in 3/8 (1'36). This frenzied theme leads to the return of the concerto’s opening motif (3'19), which, combined with the main theme of the finale, erupts into a mad conflagration that sweeps us irresistibly to the work’s conclusion—surely the most exciting end to any cello concerto. /  / And on that turbulent note we leave you. What? An encore? No, ladies and gentlemen, you are too kind—surely we have trespassed enough upon your time. You’re sure? Oh very well: here, for your delectation, is Prokofiev’s March from his piano pieces Music for Children, Op 65—arranged for solo cello, appropriately, by Piatigorsky. /  / Steven Isserlis © 2015

Audio
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Format/Info                              : Free Lossless Audio Codec
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Writing library                          : libFLAC 1.2.1 (UTC 2007-09-17)

General
Complete name                            : /mnt/torrents/releases/music/hd/Prokofiev, Shostakovich - Cello Concertos - Steven Isserlis, Paavo Jarvi (2015) [48-24]/01 - Prokofiev - Cello Concerto in E minor, Op 58 - Movement 1.flac
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Format/Info                              : Free Lossless Audio Codec
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Overall bit rate                         : 1 448 Kbps
Album                                    : Prokofiev & Shostakovich: Cello Concertos
Album/Performer                          : Steven Isserlis / Frankfurt Radio Symphony Orchestra, Paavo Järvi
Track name                               : Prokofiev: Cello Concerto in E minor, Op 58 - Movement 1: Andante
Track name/Position                      : 01
Track name/Total                         : 14
Performer                                : Steven Isserlis / Frankfurt Radio Symphony Orchestra, Paavo Järvi
Composer                                 : Sergei Prokofiev (1891-1953)
Conductor                                : Paavo Järvi
Genre                                    : Classical
Recorded date                            : 2015
Copyright                                : © 2015 Hyperion Records Ltd, London
Cover                                    : Yes
Cover description                        : Cover artwork
Cover type                               : Cover (front)
Cover MIME                               : image/png
Lyrics                                   : Album notes: / Given that they were such very different characters, it is probably more a matter of geography and chronology than any deep musical connection that ensures that the names of Serge Prokofiev and Dmitri Shostakovich are so often coupled in musical history books. Nevertheless, there is a certain similarity of language; and the two concertos on this recording share certain striking qualities that make them natural companions. Above all, both works can be seen as fervently anti-Romantic; the cello, in contrast to its nineteenth-century image as an essentially lyrical, poetic instrument, finds itself in these concertos playing a different role, a combatant in a sinister new world of giants, battles, machines and eruptions. This transformation is, in its way, revolutionary, and would affect countless future composers. /  / The history of Prokofiev’s Cello Concerto in E minor, Op 58, is complicated—murky, even. In the early 1930s, Prokofiev met the great émigré Russian cellist Gregor Piatigorsky; the two played Prokofiev’s early Ballade for cello and piano. Afterwards, probably having been encouraged to do so by the great conductor and musical philanthropist Sergey Koussevitzky, Piatigorsky told Prokofiev that he wanted him to write a cello concerto. Interested by the idea, Prokofiev asked the cellist to demonstrate various effects on the cello; this went well, according to Piatigorsky’s memoirs, Prokofiev frequently jumping out of his chair with excitement, ordering him to ‘play it again! It is slashing!’ Less successful was Piatigorsky’s attempt to introduce Prokofiev to some staples of the cello repertoire. Prokofiev glanced at them with disgust: ‘You shouldn’t keep this stuff in the house—it smells!’ /  / Despite this setback, Prokofiev agreed to write the concerto, and set to work on the first movement in 1933. Piatigorsky was thrilled with the result, and with the opening of the scherzo which followed; but it was while working on the concerto that Prokofiev made his fateful decision to return to the Soviet Union, after which contact became sporadic. At one point, Prokofiev sheepishly informed Piatigorsky that, as a refugee from the Soviet Union, the latter could no longer be the dedicatee, nor be allowed to give the first performance. Finally completed in 1938, the concerto was premiered by the Russian cellist Lev Berezovsky and conductor Alexander Melik-Pashayev in St Petersburg, with an impressive lack of success. Sviatoslav Richter, who had played for the initial piano rehearsals, blamed both cellist and conductor for the failure. The cellist wanted to play it sentimentally, which was anathema to Prokofiev, while the conductor, apparently, had no feeling whatsoever for the piece; the performance was therefore, in Richter’s damning words, ‘a total fiasco’. Piatigorsky and Koussevitzky gave the US premiere in Boston in 1940; but again, it was less than a triumph. /  / So what was Prokofiev’s own view of the piece?  Characteristically scornful of the negative reactions—‘The critics remained indifferent out of sheer obtuseness’—and pointing out its kinship with his very successful second violin concerto, he made an attempt to rescue the work. The great Russian cellist Daniil Shafran was startled in the late 1930s to receive a phone call out of the blue from Prokofiev, inviting him—ordering him, rather—to learn the concerto. Shafran, then in his mid-teens, replied demurely that he would have to ask his teacher. He duly did so—but, alas, his teacher sternly forbade him to work on such dangerous modern stuff. Such a pity; Shafran, if anyone, could have saved the piece from obscurity. /  / After that, the concerto, chastened by its charmless reception, vanished entirely for several years. Late in 1943, Prokofiev wrote to Koussevitzky: ‘I wish you could tell me if you have the orchestral score of my cello concerto; after the manuscript was sent to the publisher I was left without a duplicate, and we have been unable for several years now to perform the concerto.’ The only cellist who took up the concerto was the fine French artist Maurice Gendron, who gave the Western European premiere in London in late 1945; again, though, it seems that the concerto somehow failed to make any great impression. However, help was at hand—in a way. In 1947, the young Mstislav Rostropovich revived it in a performance with piano in Moscow, and made sure that Prokofiev was there to hear it. Legend has it that Prokofiev told Rostropovich that he liked the themes of the concerto, but was unconvinced by the forms, and would like to rewrite it. A few years later, he did just that—even if he initially entitled the result ‘Cello Concerto No 2’, before changing the name to ‘Symphony-Concerto’. Most of the themes of the Symphony-Concerto are derived directly from the Cello Concerto; but the two works are very different in spirit. /  / The Symphony-Concerto has, until now, proved more popular than the Cello Concerto. There are several reasons for this: for a start, Prokofiev had Rostropovich on hand for the composition of the Symphony-Concerto, meaning that the solo part, though fiendish-sounding, is actually far more ‘cellistic’ than that of the Cello Concerto; and Rostropovich proved to be a wonderful ambassador for the work, playing it all over the world throughout his career. Furthermore, by the time Prokofiev came to work on the Symphony-Concerto, he had learned, through the hardest of routes, not to ignore public reactions. A few months after his meeting with Rostropovich, Prokofiev, along with Shostakovich, was castigated at the infamous 1948 ‘trials’ at the Composers’ Union, Khrennikov specifically mentioning the Cello Concerto in his indictment of Prokofiev as a ‘formalist’ composer. (‘In the work of Comrade Prokofiev … natural emotion and melody have been replaced by grunting and scraping’, he noted. Lovely.) The effect on Prokofiev—already in frail health—must have been devastating (even if for the second day of the trials he wandered out of the hall and ostentatiously studied the results of a chess tournament going on next door). From that point on, all traces of the enfant terrible of his youth vanished. His late works, wonderful as they are, had to toe the Soviet line; the Symphony-Concerto, for instance, had to be passed by a committee before it was deemed acceptable for public performance. In contrast, the Cello Concerto was composed at a time when Prokofiev was relatively free from any such restrictions—it is a daring, unique, challenging creation. Nobody could claim that it is an easy work, for performer or listener; but I consider it to be a masterpiece. And the better I know it, the more I love it. /  / The Cello Concerto was written alongside several of Prokofiev’s theatre/film scores, including Romeo and Juliet, Alexander Nevsky and Egyptian Nights. It seems to me that not only does the theatrical drama of all these works permeate the concerto, but also the sense of opposing forces of light and dark, of good and evil. In fact, the concerto opens with an ostinato similar to one heard at some of the darkest moments in Romeo and Juliet; it is over this ominous background that the cello enters with its bold, heroic theme. A plaintive oboe melody (at 1'30) introduces a note of lament, but this is quickly swept aside by our impatient hero. Only with the chilly wind of a descending theme in the violins (3'10) do we sense an inescapable shadow—as if malevolent forces were making their presence felt, with a forewarning of the struggles to come. /  / Battle-lines are drawn at the opening of the scherzo, Allegro giusto, the cello in fighting spirit. The second theme (1'45) introduces a characteristic note of sardonic wit, while the third (2'42), sharing some DNA with the concerto’s opening melody, reintroduces the heroic tone. These three components confront each other in the central section (5'46) with a clashing of steel worthy of the Montagues and Capulets (6'49). (How I wish that a great choreographer would create a ballet around this work!) After the return of the opening themes, a transition (10'25), in which various disparate components—including the theme of the upcoming finale—make their presence felt, leads us to the last movement. /  / And what a last movement it is! Longer than the first two movements put together, its overflowing structure is certainly the most controversial element of the concerto. Most cellists have made cuts, from the first performances onwards; but the experimental, monumental proportions seem to me fascinating—as they do in Shostakovich’s similarly sprawling fourth symphony, composed around the same time. Ostensibly, Prokofiev’s finale is a set of variations on yet another heroic theme, this time in C major; but it is much more than that. For a start, the variations in themselves seem to constitute a four-movement structure of opening allegro, scherzo, slow movement and finale; but even this only accounts for about half of the movement’s content. Around it swirls completely unrelated material, in which we feel the dark forces clustering again, initially in two ‘Interludes’—the first heard immediately after the theme (track 3, 0'52), the second between the third and fourth variations (track 6, 3'49). It is at the conclusion of the fourth and final variation, however, that the forces of light and dark take the stand for their ultimate confrontation: as we leave C major and return to the home-key, E minor, the concerto’s opening theme reappears (track 8, 0'41), emerging from the first movement’s chilly descending figure. A sinister motif follows (track 9), stumbling inexorably forward—a march of the condemned? This is succeeded by a violent fracas (track 9, 2'05), the cello’s high harmonics screaming above the mêlée. And then—is the hero vanquished? It would certainly seem so, as a descending phrase (2'58) seems to show the spiral of death; but nothing is certain in this work—particularly not in the ending, which dramatically reintroduces the scherzo’s warlike theme (3'33), fades away again, and then, in a final burst of strength, terminates with a threatening snarl. An extraordinary ending to an extraordinary work. / Shostakovich cited Prokofiev’s Symphony-Concerto (I wonder if he knew the original concerto?) as a major inspiration for his own Cello Concerto No 1 in E flat major, Op 107, written for Rostropovich in 1959. If Prokofiev’s concerto, despite its struggles and enigmatic ending, leaves the impression of an epic ballade, the tale of a giant, Shostakovich’s work seems (to me, at least—as with my description of the Prokofiev, this is an entirely personal view) to be if anything anti-heroic, a portrait of an individual crushed by an evil, inhuman force. An autobiographical element is implied in the memorable opening figure, derived from the musical notes of Shostakovich’s own name and in rhythm somewhat reminiscent of Beethoven’s famous ‘fate’ motif. The music is machine-like, driven, yielding to no human emotion, the only exception being the desperate pleading of the violins at 5'28. Their plight fails to move the cello, however; on the contrary, he stamps on their outstretched hands. /  / The slow movement, after an expressive introduction, offers three contrasting themes: the first (0'50) a despairing walk along an endless road, the second (4'08) a heartfelt lament, the third (5'24) an innocent, almost comic song that all too soon turns horribly sinister, culminating in an agonized version on muted violins (6'50)—like prisoners screaming behind glass. Unusually, the third movement consists entirely of a solo cadenza; this is in two parts, the first ruminating on the themes of the slow movement, the second (from 4'09) providing an energetic bridge to the finale. Here a cruel, stomping theme is succeeded by a dance in 3/8 (1'36). This frenzied theme leads to the return of the concerto’s opening motif (3'19), which, combined with the main theme of the finale, erupts into a mad conflagration that sweeps us irresistibly to the work’s conclusion—surely the most exciting end to any cello concerto. /  / And on that turbulent note we leave you. What? An encore? No, ladies and gentlemen, you are too kind—surely we have trespassed enough upon your time. You’re sure? Oh very well: here, for your delectation, is Prokofiev’s March from his piano pieces Music for Children, Op 65—arranged for solo cello, appropriately, by Piatigorsky. /  / Steven Isserlis © 2015

Audio
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Bit rate                                 : 1 439 Kbps
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Writing library                          : libFLAC 1.2.1 (UTC 2007-09-17)

General
Complete name                            : /mnt/torrents/releases/music/hd/Prokofiev, Shostakovich - Cello Concertos - Steven Isserlis, Paavo Jarvi (2015) [48-24]/07 - Prokofiev - Cello Concerto in E minor, Op 58 - Movement 3 Part 5.flac
Format                                   : FLAC
Format/Info                              : Free Lossless Audio Codec
File size                                : 24.1 MiB
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Album                                    : Prokofiev & Shostakovich: Cello Concertos
Album/Performer                          : Steven Isserlis / Frankfurt Radio Symphony Orchestra, Paavo Järvi
Track name                               : Prokofiev: Cello Concerto in E minor, Op 58 - Movement 3 Part 5: Variation 4: L'istesso tempo –
Track name/Position                      : 07
Track name/Total                         : 14
Performer                                : Steven Isserlis / Frankfurt Radio Symphony Orchestra, Paavo Järvi
Composer                                 : Sergei Prokofiev (1891-1953)
Conductor                                : Paavo Järvi
Genre                                    : Classical
Recorded date                            : 2015
Copyright                                : © 2015 Hyperion Records Ltd, London
Cover                                    : Yes
Cover description                        : Cover artwork
Cover type                               : Cover (front)
Cover MIME                               : image/png
Lyrics                                   : Album notes: / Given that they were such very different characters, it is probably more a matter of geography and chronology than any deep musical connection that ensures that the names of Serge Prokofiev and Dmitri Shostakovich are so often coupled in musical history books. Nevertheless, there is a certain similarity of language; and the two concertos on this recording share certain striking qualities that make them natural companions. Above all, both works can be seen as fervently anti-Romantic; the cello, in contrast to its nineteenth-century image as an essentially lyrical, poetic instrument, finds itself in these concertos playing a different role, a combatant in a sinister new world of giants, battles, machines and eruptions. This transformation is, in its way, revolutionary, and would affect countless future composers. /  / The history of Prokofiev’s Cello Concerto in E minor, Op 58, is complicated—murky, even. In the early 1930s, Prokofiev met the great émigré Russian cellist Gregor Piatigorsky; the two played Prokofiev’s early Ballade for cello and piano. Afterwards, probably having been encouraged to do so by the great conductor and musical philanthropist Sergey Koussevitzky, Piatigorsky told Prokofiev that he wanted him to write a cello concerto. Interested by the idea, Prokofiev asked the cellist to demonstrate various effects on the cello; this went well, according to Piatigorsky’s memoirs, Prokofiev frequently jumping out of his chair with excitement, ordering him to ‘play it again! It is slashing!’ Less successful was Piatigorsky’s attempt to introduce Prokofiev to some staples of the cello repertoire. Prokofiev glanced at them with disgust: ‘You shouldn’t keep this stuff in the house—it smells!’ /  / Despite this setback, Prokofiev agreed to write the concerto, and set to work on the first movement in 1933. Piatigorsky was thrilled with the result, and with the opening of the scherzo which followed; but it was while working on the concerto that Prokofiev made his fateful decision to return to the Soviet Union, after which contact became sporadic. At one point, Prokofiev sheepishly informed Piatigorsky that, as a refugee from the Soviet Union, the latter could no longer be the dedicatee, nor be allowed to give the first performance. Finally completed in 1938, the concerto was premiered by the Russian cellist Lev Berezovsky and conductor Alexander Melik-Pashayev in St Petersburg, with an impressive lack of success. Sviatoslav Richter, who had played for the initial piano rehearsals, blamed both cellist and conductor for the failure. The cellist wanted to play it sentimentally, which was anathema to Prokofiev, while the conductor, apparently, had no feeling whatsoever for the piece; the performance was therefore, in Richter’s damning words, ‘a total fiasco’. Piatigorsky and Koussevitzky gave the US premiere in Boston in 1940; but again, it was less than a triumph. /  / So what was Prokofiev’s own view of the piece?  Characteristically scornful of the negative reactions—‘The critics remained indifferent out of sheer obtuseness’—and pointing out its kinship with his very successful second violin concerto, he made an attempt to rescue the work. The great Russian cellist Daniil Shafran was startled in the late 1930s to receive a phone call out of the blue from Prokofiev, inviting him—ordering him, rather—to learn the concerto. Shafran, then in his mid-teens, replied demurely that he would have to ask his teacher. He duly did so—but, alas, his teacher sternly forbade him to work on such dangerous modern stuff. Such a pity; Shafran, if anyone, could have saved the piece from obscurity. /  / After that, the concerto, chastened by its charmless reception, vanished entirely for several years. Late in 1943, Prokofiev wrote to Koussevitzky: ‘I wish you could tell me if you have the orchestral score of my cello concerto; after the manuscript was sent to the publisher I was left without a duplicate, and we have been unable for several years now to perform the concerto.’ The only cellist who took up the concerto was the fine French artist Maurice Gendron, who gave the Western European premiere in London in late 1945; again, though, it seems that the concerto somehow failed to make any great impression. However, help was at hand—in a way. In 1947, the young Mstislav Rostropovich revived it in a performance with piano in Moscow, and made sure that Prokofiev was there to hear it. Legend has it that Prokofiev told Rostropovich that he liked the themes of the concerto, but was unconvinced by the forms, and would like to rewrite it. A few years later, he did just that—even if he initially entitled the result ‘Cello Concerto No 2’, before changing the name to ‘Symphony-Concerto’. Most of the themes of the Symphony-Concerto are derived directly from the Cello Concerto; but the two works are very different in spirit. /  / The Symphony-Concerto has, until now, proved more popular than the Cello Concerto. There are several reasons for this: for a start, Prokofiev had Rostropovich on hand for the composition of the Symphony-Concerto, meaning that the solo part, though fiendish-sounding, is actually far more ‘cellistic’ than that of the Cello Concerto; and Rostropovich proved to be a wonderful ambassador for the work, playing it all over the world throughout his career. Furthermore, by the time Prokofiev came to work on the Symphony-Concerto, he had learned, through the hardest of routes, not to ignore public reactions. A few months after his meeting with Rostropovich, Prokofiev, along with Shostakovich, was castigated at the infamous 1948 ‘trials’ at the Composers’ Union, Khrennikov specifically mentioning the Cello Concerto in his indictment of Prokofiev as a ‘formalist’ composer. (‘In the work of Comrade Prokofiev … natural emotion and melody have been replaced by grunting and scraping’, he noted. Lovely.) The effect on Prokofiev—already in frail health—must have been devastating (even if for the second day of the trials he wandered out of the hall and ostentatiously studied the results of a chess tournament going on next door). From that point on, all traces of the enfant terrible of his youth vanished. His late works, wonderful as they are, had to toe the Soviet line; the Symphony-Concerto, for instance, had to be passed by a committee before it was deemed acceptable for public performance. In contrast, the Cello Concerto was composed at a time when Prokofiev was relatively free from any such restrictions—it is a daring, unique, challenging creation. Nobody could claim that it is an easy work, for performer or listener; but I consider it to be a masterpiece. And the better I know it, the more I love it. /  / The Cello Concerto was written alongside several of Prokofiev’s theatre/film scores, including Romeo and Juliet, Alexander Nevsky and Egyptian Nights. It seems to me that not only does the theatrical drama of all these works permeate the concerto, but also the sense of opposing forces of light and dark, of good and evil. In fact, the concerto opens with an ostinato similar to one heard at some of the darkest moments in Romeo and Juliet; it is over this ominous background that the cello enters with its bold, heroic theme. A plaintive oboe melody (at 1'30) introduces a note of lament, but this is quickly swept aside by our impatient hero. Only with the chilly wind of a descending theme in the violins (3'10) do we sense an inescapable shadow—as if malevolent forces were making their presence felt, with a forewarning of the struggles to come. /  / Battle-lines are drawn at the opening of the scherzo, Allegro giusto, the cello in fighting spirit. The second theme (1'45) introduces a characteristic note of sardonic wit, while the third (2'42), sharing some DNA with the concerto’s opening melody, reintroduces the heroic tone. These three components confront each other in the central section (5'46) with a clashing of steel worthy of the Montagues and Capulets (6'49). (How I wish that a great choreographer would create a ballet around this work!) After the return of the opening themes, a transition (10'25), in which various disparate components—including the theme of the upcoming finale—make their presence felt, leads us to the last movement. /  / And what a last movement it is! Longer than the first two movements put together, its overflowing structure is certainly the most controversial element of the concerto. Most cellists have made cuts, from the first performances onwards; but the experimental, monumental proportions seem to me fascinating—as they do in Shostakovich’s similarly sprawling fourth symphony, composed around the same time. Ostensibly, Prokofiev’s finale is a set of variations on yet another heroic theme, this time in C major; but it is much more than that. For a start, the variations in themselves seem to constitute a four-movement structure of opening allegro, scherzo, slow movement and finale; but even this only accounts for about half of the movement’s content. Around it swirls completely unrelated material, in which we feel the dark forces clustering again, initially in two ‘Interludes’—the first heard immediately after the theme (track 3, 0'52), the second between the third and fourth variations (track 6, 3'49). It is at the conclusion of the fourth and final variation, however, that the forces of light and dark take the stand for their ultimate confrontation: as we leave C major and return to the home-key, E minor, the concerto’s opening theme reappears (track 8, 0'41), emerging from the first movement’s chilly descending figure. A sinister motif follows (track 9), stumbling inexorably forward—a march of the condemned? This is succeeded by a violent fracas (track 9, 2'05), the cello’s high harmonics screaming above the mêlée. And then—is the hero vanquished? It would certainly seem so, as a descending phrase (2'58) seems to show the spiral of death; but nothing is certain in this work—particularly not in the ending, which dramatically reintroduces the scherzo’s warlike theme (3'33), fades away again, and then, in a final burst of strength, terminates with a threatening snarl. An extraordinary ending to an extraordinary work. / Shostakovich cited Prokofiev’s Symphony-Concerto (I wonder if he knew the original concerto?) as a major inspiration for his own Cello Concerto No 1 in E flat major, Op 107, written for Rostropovich in 1959. If Prokofiev’s concerto, despite its struggles and enigmatic ending, leaves the impression of an epic ballade, the tale of a giant, Shostakovich’s work seems (to me, at least—as with my description of the Prokofiev, this is an entirely personal view) to be if anything anti-heroic, a portrait of an individual crushed by an evil, inhuman force. An autobiographical element is implied in the memorable opening figure, derived from the musical notes of Shostakovich’s own name and in rhythm somewhat reminiscent of Beethoven’s famous ‘fate’ motif. The music is machine-like, driven, yielding to no human emotion, the only exception being the desperate pleading of the violins at 5'28. Their plight fails to move the cello, however; on the contrary, he stamps on their outstretched hands. /  / The slow movement, after an expressive introduction, offers three contrasting themes: the first (0'50) a despairing walk along an endless road, the second (4'08) a heartfelt lament, the third (5'24) an innocent, almost comic song that all too soon turns horribly sinister, culminating in an agonized version on muted violins (6'50)—like prisoners screaming behind glass. Unusually, the third movement consists entirely of a solo cadenza; this is in two parts, the first ruminating on the themes of the slow movement, the second (from 4'09) providing an energetic bridge to the finale. Here a cruel, stomping theme is succeeded by a dance in 3/8 (1'36). This frenzied theme leads to the return of the concerto’s opening motif (3'19), which, combined with the main theme of the finale, erupts into a mad conflagration that sweeps us irresistibly to the work’s conclusion—surely the most exciting end to any cello concerto. /  / And on that turbulent note we leave you. What? An encore? No, ladies and gentlemen, you are too kind—surely we have trespassed enough upon your time. You’re sure? Oh very well: here, for your delectation, is Prokofiev’s March from his piano pieces Music for Children, Op 65—arranged for solo cello, appropriately, by Piatigorsky. /  / Steven Isserlis © 2015

Audio
Format                                   : FLAC
Format/Info                              : Free Lossless Audio Codec
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Writing library                          : libFLAC 1.2.1 (UTC 2007-09-17)

General
Complete name                            : /mnt/torrents/releases/music/hd/Prokofiev, Shostakovich - Cello Concertos - Steven Isserlis, Paavo Jarvi (2015) [48-24]/10 - Shostakovich - Cello Concerto No 1 in E flat major, Op 107 - Movement 1.flac
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Format/Info                              : Free Lossless Audio Codec
File size                                : 66.3 MiB
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Overall bit rate                         : 1 441 Kbps
Album                                    : Prokofiev & Shostakovich: Cello Concertos
Album/Performer                          : Steven Isserlis / Frankfurt Radio Symphony Orchestra, Paavo Järvi
Track name                               : Shostakovich: Cello Concerto No 1 in E flat major, Op 107 - Movement 1: Allegretto
Track name/Position                      : 10
Track name/Total                         : 14
Performer                                : Steven Isserlis / Frankfurt Radio Symphony Orchestra, Paavo Järvi
Composer                                 : Dmitri Shostakovich (1906-1975)
Conductor                                : Paavo Järvi
Genre                                    : Classical
Recorded date                            : 2015
Copyright                                : © 2015 Hyperion Records Ltd, London
Cover                                    : Yes
Cover description                        : Cover artwork
Cover type                               : Cover (front)
Cover MIME                               : image/png
Lyrics                                   : Album notes: / Given that they were such very different characters, it is probably more a matter of geography and chronology than any deep musical connection that ensures that the names of Serge Prokofiev and Dmitri Shostakovich are so often coupled in musical history books. Nevertheless, there is a certain similarity of language; and the two concertos on this recording share certain striking qualities that make them natural companions. Above all, both works can be seen as fervently anti-Romantic; the cello, in contrast to its nineteenth-century image as an essentially lyrical, poetic instrument, finds itself in these concertos playing a different role, a combatant in a sinister new world of giants, battles, machines and eruptions. This transformation is, in its way, revolutionary, and would affect countless future composers. /  / The history of Prokofiev’s Cello Concerto in E minor, Op 58, is complicated—murky, even. In the early 1930s, Prokofiev met the great émigré Russian cellist Gregor Piatigorsky; the two played Prokofiev’s early Ballade for cello and piano. Afterwards, probably having been encouraged to do so by the great conductor and musical philanthropist Sergey Koussevitzky, Piatigorsky told Prokofiev that he wanted him to write a cello concerto. Interested by the idea, Prokofiev asked the cellist to demonstrate various effects on the cello; this went well, according to Piatigorsky’s memoirs, Prokofiev frequently jumping out of his chair with excitement, ordering him to ‘play it again! It is slashing!’ Less successful was Piatigorsky’s attempt to introduce Prokofiev to some staples of the cello repertoire. Prokofiev glanced at them with disgust: ‘You shouldn’t keep this stuff in the house—it smells!’ /  / Despite this setback, Prokofiev agreed to write the concerto, and set to work on the first movement in 1933. Piatigorsky was thrilled with the result, and with the opening of the scherzo which followed; but it was while working on the concerto that Prokofiev made his fateful decision to return to the Soviet Union, after which contact became sporadic. At one point, Prokofiev sheepishly informed Piatigorsky that, as a refugee from the Soviet Union, the latter could no longer be the dedicatee, nor be allowed to give the first performance. Finally completed in 1938, the concerto was premiered by the Russian cellist Lev Berezovsky and conductor Alexander Melik-Pashayev in St Petersburg, with an impressive lack of success. Sviatoslav Richter, who had played for the initial piano rehearsals, blamed both cellist and conductor for the failure. The cellist wanted to play it sentimentally, which was anathema to Prokofiev, while the conductor, apparently, had no feeling whatsoever for the piece; the performance was therefore, in Richter’s damning words, ‘a total fiasco’. Piatigorsky and Koussevitzky gave the US premiere in Boston in 1940; but again, it was less than a triumph. /  / So what was Prokofiev’s own view of the piece?  Characteristically scornful of the negative reactions—‘The critics remained indifferent out of sheer obtuseness’—and pointing out its kinship with his very successful second violin concerto, he made an attempt to rescue the work. The great Russian cellist Daniil Shafran was startled in the late 1930s to receive a phone call out of the blue from Prokofiev, inviting him—ordering him, rather—to learn the concerto. Shafran, then in his mid-teens, replied demurely that he would have to ask his teacher. He duly did so—but, alas, his teacher sternly forbade him to work on such dangerous modern stuff. Such a pity; Shafran, if anyone, could have saved the piece from obscurity. /  / After that, the concerto, chastened by its charmless reception, vanished entirely for several years. Late in 1943, Prokofiev wrote to Koussevitzky: ‘I wish you could tell me if you have the orchestral score of my cello concerto; after the manuscript was sent to the publisher I was left without a duplicate, and we have been unable for several years now to perform the concerto.’ The only cellist who took up the concerto was the fine French artist Maurice Gendron, who gave the Western European premiere in London in late 1945; again, though, it seems that the concerto somehow failed to make any great impression. However, help was at hand—in a way. In 1947, the young Mstislav Rostropovich revived it in a performance with piano in Moscow, and made sure that Prokofiev was there to hear it. Legend has it that Prokofiev told Rostropovich that he liked the themes of the concerto, but was unconvinced by the forms, and would like to rewrite it. A few years later, he did just that—even if he initially entitled the result ‘Cello Concerto No 2’, before changing the name to ‘Symphony-Concerto’. Most of the themes of the Symphony-Concerto are derived directly from the Cello Concerto; but the two works are very different in spirit. /  / The Symphony-Concerto has, until now, proved more popular than the Cello Concerto. There are several reasons for this: for a start, Prokofiev had Rostropovich on hand for the composition of the Symphony-Concerto, meaning that the solo part, though fiendish-sounding, is actually far more ‘cellistic’ than that of the Cello Concerto; and Rostropovich proved to be a wonderful ambassador for the work, playing it all over the world throughout his career. Furthermore, by the time Prokofiev came to work on the Symphony-Concerto, he had learned, through the hardest of routes, not to ignore public reactions. A few months after his meeting with Rostropovich, Prokofiev, along with Shostakovich, was castigated at the infamous 1948 ‘trials’ at the Composers’ Union, Khrennikov specifically mentioning the Cello Concerto in his indictment of Prokofiev as a ‘formalist’ composer. (‘In the work of Comrade Prokofiev … natural emotion and melody have been replaced by grunting and scraping’, he noted. Lovely.) The effect on Prokofiev—already in frail health—must have been devastating (even if for the second day of the trials he wandered out of the hall and ostentatiously studied the results of a chess tournament going on next door). From that point on, all traces of the enfant terrible of his youth vanished. His late works, wonderful as they are, had to toe the Soviet line; the Symphony-Concerto, for instance, had to be passed by a committee before it was deemed acceptable for public performance. In contrast, the Cello Concerto was composed at a time when Prokofiev was relatively free from any such restrictions—it is a daring, unique, challenging creation. Nobody could claim that it is an easy work, for performer or listener; but I consider it to be a masterpiece. And the better I know it, the more I love it. /  / The Cello Concerto was written alongside several of Prokofiev’s theatre/film scores, including Romeo and Juliet, Alexander Nevsky and Egyptian Nights. It seems to me that not only does the theatrical drama of all these works permeate the concerto, but also the sense of opposing forces of light and dark, of good and evil. In fact, the concerto opens with an ostinato similar to one heard at some of the darkest moments in Romeo and Juliet; it is over this ominous background that the cello enters with its bold, heroic theme. A plaintive oboe melody (at 1'30) introduces a note of lament, but this is quickly swept aside by our impatient hero. Only with the chilly wind of a descending theme in the violins (3'10) do we sense an inescapable shadow—as if malevolent forces were making their presence felt, with a forewarning of the struggles to come. /  / Battle-lines are drawn at the opening of the scherzo, Allegro giusto, the cello in fighting spirit. The second theme (1'45) introduces a characteristic note of sardonic wit, while the third (2'42), sharing some DNA with the concerto’s opening melody, reintroduces the heroic tone. These three components confront each other in the central section (5'46) with a clashing of steel worthy of the Montagues and Capulets (6'49). (How I wish that a great choreographer would create a ballet around this work!) After the return of the opening themes, a transition (10'25), in which various disparate components—including the theme of the upcoming finale—make their presence felt, leads us to the last movement. /  / And what a last movement it is! Longer than the first two movements put together, its overflowing structure is certainly the most controversial element of the concerto. Most cellists have made cuts, from the first performances onwards; but the experimental, monumental proportions seem to me fascinating—as they do in Shostakovich’s similarly sprawling fourth symphony, composed around the same time. Ostensibly, Prokofiev’s finale is a set of variations on yet another heroic theme, this time in C major; but it is much more than that. For a start, the variations in themselves seem to constitute a four-movement structure of opening allegro, scherzo, slow movement and finale; but even this only accounts for about half of the movement’s content. Around it swirls completely unrelated material, in which we feel the dark forces clustering again, initially in two ‘Interludes’—the first heard immediately after the theme (track 3, 0'52), the second between the third and fourth variations (track 6, 3'49). It is at the conclusion of the fourth and final variation, however, that the forces of light and dark take the stand for their ultimate confrontation: as we leave C major and return to the home-key, E minor, the concerto’s opening theme reappears (track 8, 0'41), emerging from the first movement’s chilly descending figure. A sinister motif follows (track 9), stumbling inexorably forward—a march of the condemned? This is succeeded by a violent fracas (track 9, 2'05), the cello’s high harmonics screaming above the mêlée. And then—is the hero vanquished? It would certainly seem so, as a descending phrase (2'58) seems to show the spiral of death; but nothing is certain in this work—particularly not in the ending, which dramatically reintroduces the scherzo’s warlike theme (3'33), fades away again, and then, in a final burst of strength, terminates with a threatening snarl. An extraordinary ending to an extraordinary work. / Shostakovich cited Prokofiev’s Symphony-Concerto (I wonder if he knew the original concerto?) as a major inspiration for his own Cello Concerto No 1 in E flat major, Op 107, written for Rostropovich in 1959. If Prokofiev’s concerto, despite its struggles and enigmatic ending, leaves the impression of an epic ballade, the tale of a giant, Shostakovich’s work seems (to me, at least—as with my description of the Prokofiev, this is an entirely personal view) to be if anything anti-heroic, a portrait of an individual crushed by an evil, inhuman force. An autobiographical element is implied in the memorable opening figure, derived from the musical notes of Shostakovich’s own name and in rhythm somewhat reminiscent of Beethoven’s famous ‘fate’ motif. The music is machine-like, driven, yielding to no human emotion, the only exception being the desperate pleading of the violins at 5'28. Their plight fails to move the cello, however; on the contrary, he stamps on their outstretched hands. /  / The slow movement, after an expressive introduction, offers three contrasting themes: the first (0'50) a despairing walk along an endless road, the second (4'08) a heartfelt lament, the third (5'24) an innocent, almost comic song that all too soon turns horribly sinister, culminating in an agonized version on muted violins (6'50)—like prisoners screaming behind glass. Unusually, the third movement consists entirely of a solo cadenza; this is in two parts, the first ruminating on the themes of the slow movement, the second (from 4'09) providing an energetic bridge to the finale. Here a cruel, stomping theme is succeeded by a dance in 3/8 (1'36). This frenzied theme leads to the return of the concerto’s opening motif (3'19), which, combined with the main theme of the finale, erupts into a mad conflagration that sweeps us irresistibly to the work’s conclusion—surely the most exciting end to any cello concerto. /  / And on that turbulent note we leave you. What? An encore? No, ladies and gentlemen, you are too kind—surely we have trespassed enough upon your time. You’re sure? Oh very well: here, for your delectation, is Prokofiev’s March from his piano pieces Music for Children, Op 65—arranged for solo cello, appropriately, by Piatigorsky. /  / Steven Isserlis © 2015

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Album                                    : Prokofiev & Shostakovich: Cello Concertos
Album/Performer                          : Steven Isserlis / Frankfurt Radio Symphony Orchestra, Paavo Järvi
Track name                               : Prokofiev: Cello Concerto in E minor, Op 58 - Movement 3 Part 7: Coda: Poco più sostenuto
Track name/Position                      : 09
Track name/Total                         : 14
Performer                                : Steven Isserlis / Frankfurt Radio Symphony Orchestra, Paavo Järvi
Composer                                 : Sergei Prokofiev (1891-1953)
Conductor                                : Paavo Järvi
Genre                                    : Classical
Recorded date                            : 2015
Copyright                                : © 2015 Hyperion Records Ltd, London
Cover                                    : Yes
Cover description                        : Cover artwork
Cover type                               : Cover (front)
Cover MIME                               : image/png
Lyrics                                   : Album notes: / Given that they were such very different characters, it is probably more a matter of geography and chronology than any deep musical connection that ensures that the names of Serge Prokofiev and Dmitri Shostakovich are so often coupled in musical history books. Nevertheless, there is a certain similarity of language; and the two concertos on this recording share certain striking qualities that make them natural companions. Above all, both works can be seen as fervently anti-Romantic; the cello, in contrast to its nineteenth-century image as an essentially lyrical, poetic instrument, finds itself in these concertos playing a different role, a combatant in a sinister new world of giants, battles, machines and eruptions. This transformation is, in its way, revolutionary, and would affect countless future composers. /  / The history of Prokofiev’s Cello Concerto in E minor, Op 58, is complicated—murky, even. In the early 1930s, Prokofiev met the great émigré Russian cellist Gregor Piatigorsky; the two played Prokofiev’s early Ballade for cello and piano. Afterwards, probably having been encouraged to do so by the great conductor and musical philanthropist Sergey Koussevitzky, Piatigorsky told Prokofiev that he wanted him to write a cello concerto. Interested by the idea, Prokofiev asked the cellist to demonstrate various effects on the cello; this went well, according to Piatigorsky’s memoirs, Prokofiev frequently jumping out of his chair with excitement, ordering him to ‘play it again! It is slashing!’ Less successful was Piatigorsky’s attempt to introduce Prokofiev to some staples of the cello repertoire. Prokofiev glanced at them with disgust: ‘You shouldn’t keep this stuff in the house—it smells!’ /  / Despite this setback, Prokofiev agreed to write the concerto, and set to work on the first movement in 1933. Piatigorsky was thrilled with the result, and with the opening of the scherzo which followed; but it was while working on the concerto that Prokofiev made his fateful decision to return to the Soviet Union, after which contact became sporadic. At one point, Prokofiev sheepishly informed Piatigorsky that, as a refugee from the Soviet Union, the latter could no longer be the dedicatee, nor be allowed to give the first performance. Finally completed in 1938, the concerto was premiered by the Russian cellist Lev Berezovsky and conductor Alexander Melik-Pashayev in St Petersburg, with an impressive lack of success. Sviatoslav Richter, who had played for the initial piano rehearsals, blamed both cellist and conductor for the failure. The cellist wanted to play it sentimentally, which was anathema to Prokofiev, while the conductor, apparently, had no feeling whatsoever for the piece; the performance was therefore, in Richter’s damning words, ‘a total fiasco’. Piatigorsky and Koussevitzky gave the US premiere in Boston in 1940; but again, it was less than a triumph. /  / So what was Prokofiev’s own view of the piece?  Characteristically scornful of the negative reactions—‘The critics remained indifferent out of sheer obtuseness’—and pointing out its kinship with his very successful second violin concerto, he made an attempt to rescue the work. The great Russian cellist Daniil Shafran was startled in the late 1930s to receive a phone call out of the blue from Prokofiev, inviting him—ordering him, rather—to learn the concerto. Shafran, then in his mid-teens, replied demurely that he would have to ask his teacher. He duly did so—but, alas, his teacher sternly forbade him to work on such dangerous modern stuff. Such a pity; Shafran, if anyone, could have saved the piece from obscurity. /  / After that, the concerto, chastened by its charmless reception, vanished entirely for several years. Late in 1943, Prokofiev wrote to Koussevitzky: ‘I wish you could tell me if you have the orchestral score of my cello concerto; after the manuscript was sent to the publisher I was left without a duplicate, and we have been unable for several years now to perform the concerto.’ The only cellist who took up the concerto was the fine French artist Maurice Gendron, who gave the Western European premiere in London in late 1945; again, though, it seems that the concerto somehow failed to make any great impression. However, help was at hand—in a way. In 1947, the young Mstislav Rostropovich revived it in a performance with piano in Moscow, and made sure that Prokofiev was there to hear it. Legend has it that Prokofiev told Rostropovich that he liked the themes of the concerto, but was unconvinced by the forms, and would like to rewrite it. A few years later, he did just that—even if he initially entitled the result ‘Cello Concerto No 2’, before changing the name to ‘Symphony-Concerto’. Most of the themes of the Symphony-Concerto are derived directly from the Cello Concerto; but the two works are very different in spirit. /  / The Symphony-Concerto has, until now, proved more popular than the Cello Concerto. There are several reasons for this: for a start, Prokofiev had Rostropovich on hand for the composition of the Symphony-Concerto, meaning that the solo part, though fiendish-sounding, is actually far more ‘cellistic’ than that of the Cello Concerto; and Rostropovich proved to be a wonderful ambassador for the work, playing it all over the world throughout his career. Furthermore, by the time Prokofiev came to work on the Symphony-Concerto, he had learned, through the hardest of routes, not to ignore public reactions. A few months after his meeting with Rostropovich, Prokofiev, along with Shostakovich, was castigated at the infamous 1948 ‘trials’ at the Composers’ Union, Khrennikov specifically mentioning the Cello Concerto in his indictment of Prokofiev as a ‘formalist’ composer. (‘In the work of Comrade Prokofiev … natural emotion and melody have been replaced by grunting and scraping’, he noted. Lovely.) The effect on Prokofiev—already in frail health—must have been devastating (even if for the second day of the trials he wandered out of the hall and ostentatiously studied the results of a chess tournament going on next door). From that point on, all traces of the enfant terrible of his youth vanished. His late works, wonderful as they are, had to toe the Soviet line; the Symphony-Concerto, for instance, had to be passed by a committee before it was deemed acceptable for public performance. In contrast, the Cello Concerto was composed at a time when Prokofiev was relatively free from any such restrictions—it is a daring, unique, challenging creation. Nobody could claim that it is an easy work, for performer or listener; but I consider it to be a masterpiece. And the better I know it, the more I love it. /  / The Cello Concerto was written alongside several of Prokofiev’s theatre/film scores, including Romeo and Juliet, Alexander Nevsky and Egyptian Nights. It seems to me that not only does the theatrical drama of all these works permeate the concerto, but also the sense of opposing forces of light and dark, of good and evil. In fact, the concerto opens with an ostinato similar to one heard at some of the darkest moments in Romeo and Juliet; it is over this ominous background that the cello enters with its bold, heroic theme. A plaintive oboe melody (at 1'30) introduces a note of lament, but this is quickly swept aside by our impatient hero. Only with the chilly wind of a descending theme in the violins (3'10) do we sense an inescapable shadow—as if malevolent forces were making their presence felt, with a forewarning of the struggles to come. /  / Battle-lines are drawn at the opening of the scherzo, Allegro giusto, the cello in fighting spirit. The second theme (1'45) introduces a characteristic note of sardonic wit, while the third (2'42), sharing some DNA with the concerto’s opening melody, reintroduces the heroic tone. These three components confront each other in the central section (5'46) with a clashing of steel worthy of the Montagues and Capulets (6'49). (How I wish that a great choreographer would create a ballet around this work!) After the return of the opening themes, a transition (10'25), in which various disparate components—including the theme of the upcoming finale—make their presence felt, leads us to the last movement. /  / And what a last movement it is! Longer than the first two movements put together, its overflowing structure is certainly the most controversial element of the concerto. Most cellists have made cuts, from the first performances onwards; but the experimental, monumental proportions seem to me fascinating—as they do in Shostakovich’s similarly sprawling fourth symphony, composed around the same time. Ostensibly, Prokofiev’s finale is a set of variations on yet another heroic theme, this time in C major; but it is much more than that. For a start, the variations in themselves seem to constitute a four-movement structure of opening allegro, scherzo, slow movement and finale; but even this only accounts for about half of the movement’s content. Around it swirls completely unrelated material, in which we feel the dark forces clustering again, initially in two ‘Interludes’—the first heard immediately after the theme (track 3, 0'52), the second between the third and fourth variations (track 6, 3'49). It is at the conclusion of the fourth and final variation, however, that the forces of light and dark take the stand for their ultimate confrontation: as we leave C major and return to the home-key, E minor, the concerto’s opening theme reappears (track 8, 0'41), emerging from the first movement’s chilly descending figure. A sinister motif follows (track 9), stumbling inexorably forward—a march of the condemned? This is succeeded by a violent fracas (track 9, 2'05), the cello’s high harmonics screaming above the mêlée. And then—is the hero vanquished? It would certainly seem so, as a descending phrase (2'58) seems to show the spiral of death; but nothing is certain in this work—particularly not in the ending, which dramatically reintroduces the scherzo’s warlike theme (3'33), fades away again, and then, in a final burst of strength, terminates with a threatening snarl. An extraordinary ending to an extraordinary work. / Shostakovich cited Prokofiev’s Symphony-Concerto (I wonder if he knew the original concerto?) as a major inspiration for his own Cello Concerto No 1 in E flat major, Op 107, written for Rostropovich in 1959. If Prokofiev’s concerto, despite its struggles and enigmatic ending, leaves the impression of an epic ballade, the tale of a giant, Shostakovich’s work seems (to me, at least—as with my description of the Prokofiev, this is an entirely personal view) to be if anything anti-heroic, a portrait of an individual crushed by an evil, inhuman force. An autobiographical element is implied in the memorable opening figure, derived from the musical notes of Shostakovich’s own name and in rhythm somewhat reminiscent of Beethoven’s famous ‘fate’ motif. The music is machine-like, driven, yielding to no human emotion, the only exception being the desperate pleading of the violins at 5'28. Their plight fails to move the cello, however; on the contrary, he stamps on their outstretched hands. /  / The slow movement, after an expressive introduction, offers three contrasting themes: the first (0'50) a despairing walk along an endless road, the second (4'08) a heartfelt lament, the third (5'24) an innocent, almost comic song that all too soon turns horribly sinister, culminating in an agonized version on muted violins (6'50)—like prisoners screaming behind glass. Unusually, the third movement consists entirely of a solo cadenza; this is in two parts, the first ruminating on the themes of the slow movement, the second (from 4'09) providing an energetic bridge to the finale. Here a cruel, stomping theme is succeeded by a dance in 3/8 (1'36). This frenzied theme leads to the return of the concerto’s opening motif (3'19), which, combined with the main theme of the finale, erupts into a mad conflagration that sweeps us irresistibly to the work’s conclusion—surely the most exciting end to any cello concerto. /  / And on that turbulent note we leave you. What? An encore? No, ladies and gentlemen, you are too kind—surely we have trespassed enough upon your time. You’re sure? Oh very well: here, for your delectation, is Prokofiev’s March from his piano pieces Music for Children, Op 65—arranged for solo cello, appropriately, by Piatigorsky. /  / Steven Isserlis © 2015

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Album                                    : Prokofiev & Shostakovich: Cello Concertos
Album/Performer                          : Steven Isserlis / Frankfurt Radio Symphony Orchestra, Paavo Järvi
Track name                               : Prokofiev: Cello Concerto in E minor, Op 58 - Movement 3 Part 1: Tema: Allegro – Interludio: L'istesso tempo
Track name/Position                      : 03
Track name/Total                         : 14
Performer                                : Steven Isserlis / Frankfurt Radio Symphony Orchestra, Paavo Järvi
Composer                                 : Sergei Prokofiev (1891-1953)
Conductor                                : Paavo Järvi
Genre                                    : Classical
Recorded date                            : 2015
Copyright                                : © 2015 Hyperion Records Ltd, London
Cover                                    : Yes
Cover description                        : Cover artwork
Cover type                               : Cover (front)
Cover MIME                               : image/png
Lyrics                                   : Album notes: / Given that they were such very different characters, it is probably more a matter of geography and chronology than any deep musical connection that ensures that the names of Serge Prokofiev and Dmitri Shostakovich are so often coupled in musical history books. Nevertheless, there is a certain similarity of language; and the two concertos on this recording share certain striking qualities that make them natural companions. Above all, both works can be seen as fervently anti-Romantic; the cello, in contrast to its nineteenth-century image as an essentially lyrical, poetic instrument, finds itself in these concertos playing a different role, a combatant in a sinister new world of giants, battles, machines and eruptions. This transformation is, in its way, revolutionary, and would affect countless future composers. /  / The history of Prokofiev’s Cello Concerto in E minor, Op 58, is complicated—murky, even. In the early 1930s, Prokofiev met the great émigré Russian cellist Gregor Piatigorsky; the two played Prokofiev’s early Ballade for cello and piano. Afterwards, probably having been encouraged to do so by the great conductor and musical philanthropist Sergey Koussevitzky, Piatigorsky told Prokofiev that he wanted him to write a cello concerto. Interested by the idea, Prokofiev asked the cellist to demonstrate various effects on the cello; this went well, according to Piatigorsky’s memoirs, Prokofiev frequently jumping out of his chair with excitement, ordering him to ‘play it again! It is slashing!’ Less successful was Piatigorsky’s attempt to introduce Prokofiev to some staples of the cello repertoire. Prokofiev glanced at them with disgust: ‘You shouldn’t keep this stuff in the house—it smells!’ /  / Despite this setback, Prokofiev agreed to write the concerto, and set to work on the first movement in 1933. Piatigorsky was thrilled with the result, and with the opening of the scherzo which followed; but it was while working on the concerto that Prokofiev made his fateful decision to return to the Soviet Union, after which contact became sporadic. At one point, Prokofiev sheepishly informed Piatigorsky that, as a refugee from the Soviet Union, the latter could no longer be the dedicatee, nor be allowed to give the first performance. Finally completed in 1938, the concerto was premiered by the Russian cellist Lev Berezovsky and conductor Alexander Melik-Pashayev in St Petersburg, with an impressive lack of success. Sviatoslav Richter, who had played for the initial piano rehearsals, blamed both cellist and conductor for the failure. The cellist wanted to play it sentimentally, which was anathema to Prokofiev, while the conductor, apparently, had no feeling whatsoever for the piece; the performance was therefore, in Richter’s damning words, ‘a total fiasco’. Piatigorsky and Koussevitzky gave the US premiere in Boston in 1940; but again, it was less than a triumph. /  / So what was Prokofiev’s own view of the piece?  Characteristically scornful of the negative reactions—‘The critics remained indifferent out of sheer obtuseness’—and pointing out its kinship with his very successful second violin concerto, he made an attempt to rescue the work. The great Russian cellist Daniil Shafran was startled in the late 1930s to receive a phone call out of the blue from Prokofiev, inviting him—ordering him, rather—to learn the concerto. Shafran, then in his mid-teens, replied demurely that he would have to ask his teacher. He duly did so—but, alas, his teacher sternly forbade him to work on such dangerous modern stuff. Such a pity; Shafran, if anyone, could have saved the piece from obscurity. /  / After that, the concerto, chastened by its charmless reception, vanished entirely for several years. Late in 1943, Prokofiev wrote to Koussevitzky: ‘I wish you could tell me if you have the orchestral score of my cello concerto; after the manuscript was sent to the publisher I was left without a duplicate, and we have been unable for several years now to perform the concerto.’ The only cellist who took up the concerto was the fine French artist Maurice Gendron, who gave the Western European premiere in London in late 1945; again, though, it seems that the concerto somehow failed to make any great impression. However, help was at hand—in a way. In 1947, the young Mstislav Rostropovich revived it in a performance with piano in Moscow, and made sure that Prokofiev was there to hear it. Legend has it that Prokofiev told Rostropovich that he liked the themes of the concerto, but was unconvinced by the forms, and would like to rewrite it. A few years later, he did just that—even if he initially entitled the result ‘Cello Concerto No 2’, before changing the name to ‘Symphony-Concerto’. Most of the themes of the Symphony-Concerto are derived directly from the Cello Concerto; but the two works are very different in spirit. /  / The Symphony-Concerto has, until now, proved more popular than the Cello Concerto. There are several reasons for this: for a start, Prokofiev had Rostropovich on hand for the composition of the Symphony-Concerto, meaning that the solo part, though fiendish-sounding, is actually far more ‘cellistic’ than that of the Cello Concerto; and Rostropovich proved to be a wonderful ambassador for the work, playing it all over the world throughout his career. Furthermore, by the time Prokofiev came to work on the Symphony-Concerto, he had learned, through the hardest of routes, not to ignore public reactions. A few months after his meeting with Rostropovich, Prokofiev, along with Shostakovich, was castigated at the infamous 1948 ‘trials’ at the Composers’ Union, Khrennikov specifically mentioning the Cello Concerto in his indictment of Prokofiev as a ‘formalist’ composer. (‘In the work of Comrade Prokofiev … natural emotion and melody have been replaced by grunting and scraping’, he noted. Lovely.) The effect on Prokofiev—already in frail health—must have been devastating (even if for the second day of the trials he wandered out of the hall and ostentatiously studied the results of a chess tournament going on next door). From that point on, all traces of the enfant terrible of his youth vanished. His late works, wonderful as they are, had to toe the Soviet line; the Symphony-Concerto, for instance, had to be passed by a committee before it was deemed acceptable for public performance. In contrast, the Cello Concerto was composed at a time when Prokofiev was relatively free from any such restrictions—it is a daring, unique, challenging creation. Nobody could claim that it is an easy work, for performer or listener; but I consider it to be a masterpiece. And the better I know it, the more I love it. /  / The Cello Concerto was written alongside several of Prokofiev’s theatre/film scores, including Romeo and Juliet, Alexander Nevsky and Egyptian Nights. It seems to me that not only does the theatrical drama of all these works permeate the concerto, but also the sense of opposing forces of light and dark, of good and evil. In fact, the concerto opens with an ostinato similar to one heard at some of the darkest moments in Romeo and Juliet; it is over this ominous background that the cello enters with its bold, heroic theme. A plaintive oboe melody (at 1'30) introduces a note of lament, but this is quickly swept aside by our impatient hero. Only with the chilly wind of a descending theme in the violins (3'10) do we sense an inescapable shadow—as if malevolent forces were making their presence felt, with a forewarning of the struggles to come. /  / Battle-lines are drawn at the opening of the scherzo, Allegro giusto, the cello in fighting spirit. The second theme (1'45) introduces a characteristic note of sardonic wit, while the third (2'42), sharing some DNA with the concerto’s opening melody, reintroduces the heroic tone. These three components confront each other in the central section (5'46) with a clashing of steel worthy of the Montagues and Capulets (6'49). (How I wish that a great choreographer would create a ballet around this work!) After the return of the opening themes, a transition (10'25), in which various disparate components—including the theme of the upcoming finale—make their presence felt, leads us to the last movement. /  / And what a last movement it is! Longer than the first two movements put together, its overflowing structure is certainly the most controversial element of the concerto. Most cellists have made cuts, from the first performances onwards; but the experimental, monumental proportions seem to me fascinating—as they do in Shostakovich’s similarly sprawling fourth symphony, composed around the same time. Ostensibly, Prokofiev’s finale is a set of variations on yet another heroic theme, this time in C major; but it is much more than that. For a start, the variations in themselves seem to constitute a four-movement structure of opening allegro, scherzo, slow movement and finale; but even this only accounts for about half of the movement’s content. Around it swirls completely unrelated material, in which we feel the dark forces clustering again, initially in two ‘Interludes’—the first heard immediately after the theme (track 3, 0'52), the second between the third and fourth variations (track 6, 3'49). It is at the conclusion of the fourth and final variation, however, that the forces of light and dark take the stand for their ultimate confrontation: as we leave C major and return to the home-key, E minor, the concerto’s opening theme reappears (track 8, 0'41), emerging from the first movement’s chilly descending figure. A sinister motif follows (track 9), stumbling inexorably forward—a march of the condemned? This is succeeded by a violent fracas (track 9, 2'05), the cello’s high harmonics screaming above the mêlée. And then—is the hero vanquished? It would certainly seem so, as a descending phrase (2'58) seems to show the spiral of death; but nothing is certain in this work—particularly not in the ending, which dramatically reintroduces the scherzo’s warlike theme (3'33), fades away again, and then, in a final burst of strength, terminates with a threatening snarl. An extraordinary ending to an extraordinary work. / Shostakovich cited Prokofiev’s Symphony-Concerto (I wonder if he knew the original concerto?) as a major inspiration for his own Cello Concerto No 1 in E flat major, Op 107, written for Rostropovich in 1959. If Prokofiev’s concerto, despite its struggles and enigmatic ending, leaves the impression of an epic ballade, the tale of a giant, Shostakovich’s work seems (to me, at least—as with my description of the Prokofiev, this is an entirely personal view) to be if anything anti-heroic, a portrait of an individual crushed by an evil, inhuman force. An autobiographical element is implied in the memorable opening figure, derived from the musical notes of Shostakovich’s own name and in rhythm somewhat reminiscent of Beethoven’s famous ‘fate’ motif. The music is machine-like, driven, yielding to no human emotion, the only exception being the desperate pleading of the violins at 5'28. Their plight fails to move the cello, however; on the contrary, he stamps on their outstretched hands. /  / The slow movement, after an expressive introduction, offers three contrasting themes: the first (0'50) a despairing walk along an endless road, the second (4'08) a heartfelt lament, the third (5'24) an innocent, almost comic song that all too soon turns horribly sinister, culminating in an agonized version on muted violins (6'50)—like prisoners screaming behind glass. Unusually, the third movement consists entirely of a solo cadenza; this is in two parts, the first ruminating on the themes of the slow movement, the second (from 4'09) providing an energetic bridge to the finale. Here a cruel, stomping theme is succeeded by a dance in 3/8 (1'36). This frenzied theme leads to the return of the concerto’s opening motif (3'19), which, combined with the main theme of the finale, erupts into a mad conflagration that sweeps us irresistibly to the work’s conclusion—surely the most exciting end to any cello concerto. /  / And on that turbulent note we leave you. What? An encore? No, ladies and gentlemen, you are too kind—surely we have trespassed enough upon your time. You’re sure? Oh very well: here, for your delectation, is Prokofiev’s March from his piano pieces Music for Children, Op 65—arranged for solo cello, appropriately, by Piatigorsky. /  / Steven Isserlis © 2015

Audio
Format                                   : FLAC
Format/Info                              : Free Lossless Audio Codec
Duration                                 : 2mn 7s
Bit rate mode                            : Variable
Bit rate                                 : 1 421 Kbps
Channel(s)                               : 2 channels
Sampling rate                            : 48.0 KHz
Bit depth                                : 24 bits
Stream size                              : 21.5 MiB (98%)
Writing library                          : libFLAC 1.2.1 (UTC 2007-09-17)

General
Complete name                            : /mnt/torrents/releases/music/hd/Prokofiev, Shostakovich - Cello Concertos - Steven Isserlis, Paavo Jarvi (2015) [48-24]/06 - Prokofiev - Cello Concerto in E minor, Op 58 - Movement 3 Part 4.flac
Format                                   : FLAC
Format/Info                              : Free Lossless Audio Codec
File size                                : 50.2 MiB
Duration                                 : 5mn 15s
Overall bit rate mode                    : Variable
Overall bit rate                         : 1 336 Kbps
Album                                    : Prokofiev & Shostakovich: Cello Concertos
Album/Performer                          : Steven Isserlis / Frankfurt Radio Symphony Orchestra, Paavo Järvi
Track name                               : Prokofiev: Cello Concerto in E minor, Op 58 - Movement 3 Part 4: Variation 3: Andantino tranquillo – Interludio II: Tempo I –
Track name/Position                      : 06
Track name/Total                         : 14
Performer                                : Steven Isserlis / Frankfurt Radio Symphony Orchestra, Paavo Järvi
Composer                                 : Sergei Prokofiev (1891-1953)
Conductor                                : Paavo Järvi
Genre                                    : Classical
Recorded date                            : 2015
Copyright                                : © 2015 Hyperion Records Ltd, London
Cover                                    : Yes
Cover description                        : Cover artwork
Cover type                               : Cover (front)
Cover MIME                               : image/png
Lyrics                                   : Album notes: / Given that they were such very different characters, it is probably more a matter of geography and chronology than any deep musical connection that ensures that the names of Serge Prokofiev and Dmitri Shostakovich are so often coupled in musical history books. Nevertheless, there is a certain similarity of language; and the two concertos on this recording share certain striking qualities that make them natural companions. Above all, both works can be seen as fervently anti-Romantic; the cello, in contrast to its nineteenth-century image as an essentially lyrical, poetic instrument, finds itself in these concertos playing a different role, a combatant in a sinister new world of giants, battles, machines and eruptions. This transformation is, in its way, revolutionary, and would affect countless future composers. /  / The history of Prokofiev’s Cello Concerto in E minor, Op 58, is complicated—murky, even. In the early 1930s, Prokofiev met the great émigré Russian cellist Gregor Piatigorsky; the two played Prokofiev’s early Ballade for cello and piano. Afterwards, probably having been encouraged to do so by the great conductor and musical philanthropist Sergey Koussevitzky, Piatigorsky told Prokofiev that he wanted him to write a cello concerto. Interested by the idea, Prokofiev asked the cellist to demonstrate various effects on the cello; this went well, according to Piatigorsky’s memoirs, Prokofiev frequently jumping out of his chair with excitement, ordering him to ‘play it again! It is slashing!’ Less successful was Piatigorsky’s attempt to introduce Prokofiev to some staples of the cello repertoire. Prokofiev glanced at them with disgust: ‘You shouldn’t keep this stuff in the house—it smells!’ /  / Despite this setback, Prokofiev agreed to write the concerto, and set to work on the first movement in 1933. Piatigorsky was thrilled with the result, and with the opening of the scherzo which followed; but it was while working on the concerto that Prokofiev made his fateful decision to return to the Soviet Union, after which contact became sporadic. At one point, Prokofiev sheepishly informed Piatigorsky that, as a refugee from the Soviet Union, the latter could no longer be the dedicatee, nor be allowed to give the first performance. Finally completed in 1938, the concerto was premiered by the Russian cellist Lev Berezovsky and conductor Alexander Melik-Pashayev in St Petersburg, with an impressive lack of success. Sviatoslav Richter, who had played for the initial piano rehearsals, blamed both cellist and conductor for the failure. The cellist wanted to play it sentimentally, which was anathema to Prokofiev, while the conductor, apparently, had no feeling whatsoever for the piece; the performance was therefore, in Richter’s damning words, ‘a total fiasco’. Piatigorsky and Koussevitzky gave the US premiere in Boston in 1940; but again, it was less than a triumph. /  / So what was Prokofiev’s own view of the piece?  Characteristically scornful of the negative reactions—‘The critics remained indifferent out of sheer obtuseness’—and pointing out its kinship with his very successful second violin concerto, he made an attempt to rescue the work. The great Russian cellist Daniil Shafran was startled in the late 1930s to receive a phone call out of the blue from Prokofiev, inviting him—ordering him, rather—to learn the concerto. Shafran, then in his mid-teens, replied demurely that he would have to ask his teacher. He duly did so—but, alas, his teacher sternly forbade him to work on such dangerous modern stuff. Such a pity; Shafran, if anyone, could have saved the piece from obscurity. /  / After that, the concerto, chastened by its charmless reception, vanished entirely for several years. Late in 1943, Prokofiev wrote to Koussevitzky: ‘I wish you could tell me if you have the orchestral score of my cello concerto; after the manuscript was sent to the publisher I was left without a duplicate, and we have been unable for several years now to perform the concerto.’ The only cellist who took up the concerto was the fine French artist Maurice Gendron, who gave the Western European premiere in London in late 1945; again, though, it seems that the concerto somehow failed to make any great impression. However, help was at hand—in a way. In 1947, the young Mstislav Rostropovich revived it in a performance with piano in Moscow, and made sure that Prokofiev was there to hear it. Legend has it that Prokofiev told Rostropovich that he liked the themes of the concerto, but was unconvinced by the forms, and would like to rewrite it. A few years later, he did just that—even if he initially entitled the result ‘Cello Concerto No 2’, before changing the name to ‘Symphony-Concerto’. Most of the themes of the Symphony-Concerto are derived directly from the Cello Concerto; but the two works are very different in spirit. /  / The Symphony-Concerto has, until now, proved more popular than the Cello Concerto. There are several reasons for this: for a start, Prokofiev had Rostropovich on hand for the composition of the Symphony-Concerto, meaning that the solo part, though fiendish-sounding, is actually far more ‘cellistic’ than that of the Cello Concerto; and Rostropovich proved to be a wonderful ambassador for the work, playing it all over the world throughout his career. Furthermore, by the time Prokofiev came to work on the Symphony-Concerto, he had learned, through the hardest of routes, not to ignore public reactions. A few months after his meeting with Rostropovich, Prokofiev, along with Shostakovich, was castigated at the infamous 1948 ‘trials’ at the Composers’ Union, Khrennikov specifically mentioning the Cello Concerto in his indictment of Prokofiev as a ‘formalist’ composer. (‘In the work of Comrade Prokofiev … natural emotion and melody have been replaced by grunting and scraping’, he noted. Lovely.) The effect on Prokofiev—already in frail health—must have been devastating (even if for the second day of the trials he wandered out of the hall and ostentatiously studied the results of a chess tournament going on next door). From that point on, all traces of the enfant terrible of his youth vanished. His late works, wonderful as they are, had to toe the Soviet line; the Symphony-Concerto, for instance, had to be passed by a committee before it was deemed acceptable for public performance. In contrast, the Cello Concerto was composed at a time when Prokofiev was relatively free from any such restrictions—it is a daring, unique, challenging creation. Nobody could claim that it is an easy work, for performer or listener; but I consider it to be a masterpiece. And the better I know it, the more I love it. /  / The Cello Concerto was written alongside several of Prokofiev’s theatre/film scores, including Romeo and Juliet, Alexander Nevsky and Egyptian Nights. It seems to me that not only does the theatrical drama of all these works permeate the concerto, but also the sense of opposing forces of light and dark, of good and evil. In fact, the concerto opens with an ostinato similar to one heard at some of the darkest moments in Romeo and Juliet; it is over this ominous background that the cello enters with its bold, heroic theme. A plaintive oboe melody (at 1'30) introduces a note of lament, but this is quickly swept aside by our impatient hero. Only with the chilly wind of a descending theme in the violins (3'10) do we sense an inescapable shadow—as if malevolent forces were making their presence felt, with a forewarning of the struggles to come. /  / Battle-lines are drawn at the opening of the scherzo, Allegro giusto, the cello in fighting spirit. The second theme (1'45) introduces a characteristic note of sardonic wit, while the third (2'42), sharing some DNA with the concerto’s opening melody, reintroduces the heroic tone. These three components confront each other in the central section (5'46) with a clashing of steel worthy of the Montagues and Capulets (6'49). (How I wish that a great choreographer would create a ballet around this work!) After the return of the opening themes, a transition (10'25), in which various disparate components—including the theme of the upcoming finale—make their presence felt, leads us to the last movement. /  / And what a last movement it is! Longer than the first two movements put together, its overflowing structure is certainly the most controversial element of the concerto. Most cellists have made cuts, from the first performances onwards; but the experimental, monumental proportions seem to me fascinating—as they do in Shostakovich’s similarly sprawling fourth symphony, composed around the same time. Ostensibly, Prokofiev’s finale is a set of variations on yet another heroic theme, this time in C major; but it is much more than that. For a start, the variations in themselves seem to constitute a four-movement structure of opening allegro, scherzo, slow movement and finale; but even this only accounts for about half of the movement’s content. Around it swirls completely unrelated material, in which we feel the dark forces clustering again, initially in two ‘Interludes’—the first heard immediately after the theme (track 3, 0'52), the second between the third and fourth variations (track 6, 3'49). It is at the conclusion of the fourth and final variation, however, that the forces of light and dark take the stand for their ultimate confrontation: as we leave C major and return to the home-key, E minor, the concerto’s opening theme reappears (track 8, 0'41), emerging from the first movement’s chilly descending figure. A sinister motif follows (track 9), stumbling inexorably forward—a march of the condemned? This is succeeded by a violent fracas (track 9, 2'05), the cello’s high harmonics screaming above the mêlée. And then—is the hero vanquished? It would certainly seem so, as a descending phrase (2'58) seems to show the spiral of death; but nothing is certain in this work—particularly not in the ending, which dramatically reintroduces the scherzo’s warlike theme (3'33), fades away again, and then, in a final burst of strength, terminates with a threatening snarl. An extraordinary ending to an extraordinary work. / Shostakovich cited Prokofiev’s Symphony-Concerto (I wonder if he knew the original concerto?) as a major inspiration for his own Cello Concerto No 1 in E flat major, Op 107, written for Rostropovich in 1959. If Prokofiev’s concerto, despite its struggles and enigmatic ending, leaves the impression of an epic ballade, the tale of a giant, Shostakovich’s work seems (to me, at least—as with my description of the Prokofiev, this is an entirely personal view) to be if anything anti-heroic, a portrait of an individual crushed by an evil, inhuman force. An autobiographical element is implied in the memorable opening figure, derived from the musical notes of Shostakovich’s own name and in rhythm somewhat reminiscent of Beethoven’s famous ‘fate’ motif. The music is machine-like, driven, yielding to no human emotion, the only exception being the desperate pleading of the violins at 5'28. Their plight fails to move the cello, however; on the contrary, he stamps on their outstretched hands. /  / The slow movement, after an expressive introduction, offers three contrasting themes: the first (0'50) a despairing walk along an endless road, the second (4'08) a heartfelt lament, the third (5'24) an innocent, almost comic song that all too soon turns horribly sinister, culminating in an agonized version on muted violins (6'50)—like prisoners screaming behind glass. Unusually, the third movement consists entirely of a solo cadenza; this is in two parts, the first ruminating on the themes of the slow movement, the second (from 4'09) providing an energetic bridge to the finale. Here a cruel, stomping theme is succeeded by a dance in 3/8 (1'36). This frenzied theme leads to the return of the concerto’s opening motif (3'19), which, combined with the main theme of the finale, erupts into a mad conflagration that sweeps us irresistibly to the work’s conclusion—surely the most exciting end to any cello concerto. /  / And on that turbulent note we leave you. What? An encore? No, ladies and gentlemen, you are too kind—surely we have trespassed enough upon your time. You’re sure? Oh very well: here, for your delectation, is Prokofiev’s March from his piano pieces Music for Children, Op 65—arranged for solo cello, appropriately, by Piatigorsky. /  / Steven Isserlis © 2015

Audio
Format                                   : FLAC
Format/Info                              : Free Lossless Audio Codec
Duration                                 : 5mn 15s
Bit rate mode                            : Variable
Bit rate                                 : 1 327 Kbps
Channel(s)                               : 2 channels
Sampling rate                            : 48.0 KHz
Bit depth                                : 24 bits
Stream size                              : 49.8 MiB (99%)
Writing library                          : libFLAC 1.2.1 (UTC 2007-09-17)

General
Complete name                            : /mnt/torrents/releases/music/hd/Prokofiev, Shostakovich - Cello Concertos - Steven Isserlis, Paavo Jarvi (2015) [48-24]/00 - Prokofiev, Shostakovich - Cello Concertos.m3u8
File size                                : 1.06 KiB