匈牙利作曲家György Kurtág依照舒曼相同的中提琴、單簧管與鋼琴三重奏編制，所寫成Hommage à R. Sch.(向R. Sch. 致敬

The two violin concertos coupled on this recording display as many affinities as they do divergences. Both stem from creators in conflict with their native Russia – one choosing to return there, the other settling permanently in exile; both belong to the aesthetic of the ‘return to order’ observed from 1920 onwards and characterised by the reappropriation of models from the past. If Prokofiev preserves the traditional bases of the concerto, he combines them with a search for a new lyricism. As for Stravinsky, he reworks tried and trusted models while offering a deliberately neutral, distanced expressivity.

Performers:
Dmitri Shostakovich - Composer
Anna Vinnitskaya - Piano
Kremerata Baltica
Winds Of Staatskapelle Dresden
Omer Meir Wellber - Conductor (in Concerto Op.102)
Tobias Willner - Solo Trumpet (in Concerto Op.35)
Ivan Rudin - Piano (in Concertino & Tarantella)

From the Artist
The present recording features highly contrastive aspects of Messiaen's personality. The composer was a visionary who retained his independence throughout the 20th century and invited us in the process to rethink the way in which we listen to music. As a man, he was secretive by nature, with the gentleness and modesty of some of his Préludes. He also had the capacity for marvelling at the world around him, which, together with his powers of listening, finds expression in his Catalogue d'oiseaux. And he was intellect¬ually inquisitive, a quality which, like his sense of order, is reflected in his Études de rythme. I hope that this homage in the form of a portrait will encourage others to share my love not only for this great creator of time and colour but also for this mysterious and radiant man.
Product Description
The centenary of Olivier Messiaen's birth provides an occasion for surveying his place in the landscape of musical creation. This recording, which brings together some relatively neglected pieces from his abundant output, represents both an act of homage to the composer and a reflection on the special position his works occupy in 20th-century music. In three segments, it presents compositions of three different types, each written at a difficult time in his life and emphasizing the fundamental role of the piano in his oeuvre. The Préludes are among Messiaen's earliest pieces, written in 1928-29, when he was 20 and still a student at the Paris Conservatoire. Later he described them as a "collection of successive states of mind and personal feelings". All eight were composed under the shock of the death of his mother, the poet Cécile Sauvage. She is "the dove" of "La Colombe", while the heart-rending "Cloches d'angoisse et larmes d'adieu" gives us an idea of the traumatic effect of her death on so gentle and sensitive a youth. Pieces dealing with grief and mourning are contrasted with others of great luminosity. Thus the "Chant d'extase", placed at the heart of this sombre landscape, allows us a foretaste of the luminous grace of some of the Vingt Regards sur l'Enfant Jésus. The cascading gems of "Les Sons impalpables du rêve" cast a musical spell entirely worthy of the finest works of the 1930s. Messiaen ends his cycle with "Un Reflet dans le vent", a piece that is by turns angry and lyrical. This may be a lesson in optimism on the part of a man of faith who was capable of turning to the light in the blackest of all possible circumstances (an ability also manifested in his Quatuor pour la fin du temps, written in a prisoner-of-war camp). But it could also be an expression of the hope awoken in him by the work's dedicatee, the pianist Henriette Roget, with whom he was in love. The surreal titles of some of these Préludes adumbrate texts that the composer - who had a fondness for the poetry of Paul Éluard - would later write and set to music, especially those of his song cycle Harawi. But what is most impressive about them is the world of colour they inhabit, a world both highly personal and already strongly defined. Each piece involves detailed associations between sound and colour. According to the composer, the fifth Prélude is "polymodal, superimposing an orange-blue ostinato on chordal cascades in a violet-purple mode that is invested with the timbre of a brass instrument". But it is in "Cloches d'angoisse et larmes d'adieu", the masterpiece of the cycle, that the composer most fully discloses his individual treatment of sonority. As Messiaen himself explains: "The bell-like sound combines many modes; the deep resonant tone of the bells and all their high harmonics resolve into luminous vibrations." His subtle use of resonance, inviting us to listen "inside" the bells, turned him into a prophet for generations to come, particularly the composers of spectral music. The composer's passion for nature and birdsong finally became omnipresent in the 1950s, resulting in a series of naturalist works that illustrate two of the more remarkable qualities of Messiaen as man and artist: his exceptional listening powers and his bound¬less capacity for astonishment. The precision and fidelity of his birdsong transcriptions reveal both his amazing ear and his tremendous concern for detail. But as a source of inspiration, this new-found interest also allowed him to escape from the anguish of a life overshadowed first by terrible illness and then by the death of his wife, the violinist Claire Delbos. It is interesting to see this radical move within the wider context of a period marked by other musical aesthetics and languages as well as by techniques that repre¬sented a break with the past. Messiaen made a point of keeping abreast of the work of the younger generation of avant-garde composers, and he himself made an entirely fresh start by writing whole pieces made up of completely new material having no historical point of reference: this was the birdsong that he transcribed systematically. His first "manifesto" was Réveil des oiseaux for piano and orchestra (1953), which is made up entirely of birdsong. By the end of the 1950s, this radicalism, coupled with his love of systemization, had led him to write the vast Catalogue d'oiseaux for piano solo (1956-58), from which two excerpts are included here. "La Bouscarle" (Cetti's Warbler) presents a great variety of birdcalls and suggests a miniature piece of ornithological theatre. The characterization of each call recalls how Messiaen, some years earlier, had defined the dimensions of his musical vocabulary by "individualizing" every sound in a different way. Here each bird has its own timbre, its own speed, its own distinctive musical behaviour. Although written while Messiaen was recovering from a serious illness, the piece still has a great sense of spontaneity and is bathed in light and colour. "L'Alouette Lulu" (Woodlark), conversely, is a night-piece for just two protagonists, a nocturnal poem that bewitches us with its mysterious realism. Like the other pieces that make up the Catalogue d'oiseaux, these two "moments musicaux" seduce us with their immediate freshness, total originality and incredible sonorities. But they also represent an extraordinary example of Messiaen's powers of perception. Just as we hear birds in nature without knowing which will sing and when, or for how long or where and at what distance, so we are invited here to experience the unexpected in an open acoustic space. This instance of listening with no beginning or end or any real sense of direction is related to experiments in open form and the aes¬thetics of chance that other composers actively engaged in research were undertaking at the time. The two Îles de feu both date from 1950 and are studies in rhythm of phenomenal energy. A lover of exoticism, Messiaen dedicated them to Papua, "in other words, all the Papuans", some of whose rites he found seductively attractive by dint of their violence. In the present pieces, this violence finds expression in wild dances, hammered rhythms and a furious hand-to-hand battle with the instrument. In Île de feu II, passages in this vein alternate with more distanced moments of rhythmic speculation in which each sound is affected by a different duration and also by a different "profile". These passages reflect the research into rhythm that Messiaen undertook at the end of the 1940s, when his reflections on time led him to create a new vocabulary and to organize his new time values in an altogether revolutionary way. The end of the piece borrows from another type of music found elsewhere in the world, using what Messiaen himself described as "the rules derived from the `jātis', classical Hindu melodies of the Vedic period". The two Îles de feu form a dazzling pair of works attesting to Messiaen's powerful interest in neo-primitivism - one thinks of his fascination with The Rite of Spring and his respect for André Jolivet's Mana. Their very particular virtuosity and gestural language certainly owe a great deal to the pianism of Yvonne Loriod, the composer's second wife, who following the war became his preferred interpreter and a source of inspiration. The effulgence of their sonorities, their savage energy and their rhythmic boldness make an impressive impact.

“The viola is commonly (with rare exceptions indeed) played by infirm violinists, or by decrepit players of wind instruments who happen to have been acquainted with a stringed instrument once upon a time.”
–Richard Wager
If ever a recording could put Wagner’s infamous statement to rest, this would be it. Simply overflowing with musical brilliance, it remains one of the finest examples of what the viola is capable of. Kim Kashkashian’s technique and passion are almost palpable and one can only marvel at the humble respect she brings to both. The viola doesn’t simply exist somewhere between violin and cello, forever doomed to be second rate to both. It is, rather, an utterly dynamic and rich musical object, and the ways in which Hindemith unravels its subtler intonations in these sonatas is nothing short of monumental. Every chapter tells us something new, until the linguistic possibilities of the music represented in this eclectic set are exhausted.
Sonate op. 31,4
The first movement is a virtuosic leap through microtonal harmonies and energetic flights of fancy. Kashkashian negotiates these with such conviction, they sound spontaneously composed. As evocative as the music is, it is difficult to picture anything while listening to it, existing as it does in a sound world fashioned from the innards of its own body. And in this fashion it proceeds, drawing from its ligaments, veins, and arteries a broader musical circulation that extends one’s sense of self beyond the instrumental and into the metaphysical. Kashkashian ends with a dramatic flourish, as if to punctuate the ineffability of belonging. The second movement is a mournful monologue. This, Kashkashian plays with heartfelt sensitivity, much in contrast to the raw strength with which she attacks the opening movement. She extracts from her instrument sounds and emotions that are deeply ingrained in the wood itself, brought forth through the strings just as breath is spun into voice through the throat. She does this not so much with the “effortlessness” often ascribed to virtuosi, but rather makes audible her long hours of dedicated practice, her struggles to wrench from this neglected instrument an entirely orchestral palette of atmospheres. The third movement opens with double stops and a linear introduction of the theme before venturing off into beautiful variations and idiosyncratic counterpoint. Again, Hindemith shows a fondness for tight harmonies, for the spatial potential between adjacent notes. The theme is a fascinating melody, devoid of context and therefore unbounded. As Kashkashian builds her energy, the music regresses into its constituent melodic parts before taking pause. The next section of the third movement is marked “Langsam,” and is an accordingly pliant interlude that hangs in the air like a piece of windblown pollen. Kashkashian plays it as if sharing a new discovery. The final passage springs from the solace of the tangential middle with almost Pan-like exuberance. We see in this music a certain quality of “understanding,” a mischievous surrender to the will of compositional potential.
Sonate op. 25,1
This second sonata erupts with a series of portati, which are dissonant enough to catch our attention with discomfort but which eventually resolve themselves in airy double stops. Here we find beauty not only in those moments that provoke consonance, but perhaps even more so in those moments swirled like knots in a tree. The second movement is another earthy meditation that allows the listener to focus on every sound contained in the lone string. We find in this movement a robust patience. There is no sadness here, only the room in which to deal with our own faults. Through these singular notes we are given a glimpse of what such a process might look like. The third movement is a violent dance that climbs the ladder of its own expression before hurtling itself into a vale of doubt. It is a short foray that dies as quickly as it is born. The final movement begins slowly and with a beauty that is only heightened in the aftermath of the previous display of suicidal vigor. Kashkashian draws out each note into a linear phrase before accentuating it with another. This kind of lilting pattern continues throughout, lending a dirge-like quality to a fitting conclusion.
Sonate 1937
This sonata is like a lesson in biology, highlighting the fluidity between skin and the musical score. The first movement is a convoluted organism indeed. It undulates with its own respiratory rhythm, shaping itself as a voice might in a debate or argument, and in doing so perfectly captures the details of its own fallibility. This is followed by another heartfelt slow movement, as nocturnal as it is bright. The mood changes quickly as the playing erupts into a more frenzied exhibition, plying the listener with forced resolution and the impatience that drives it. The ensuing calm segues into a beautiful pizzicato passage, which exploits all the resonance residing within the viola’s, and the performer’s, body. Soon the bow is returned to the strings, laying out a delicate tessellation of finality. We finish with a somber and somewhat indecisive third movement.
Sonate op. 11,5
This sonata begins with a rather terse opening statement, both in length and in mood. It is as if we have been given a contentious opinion that we can’t quite figure out, but which we know is fraught with danger. The movement has a touch-and-go quality that comes to a head with an obligatory and theatrical exit. The second movement climbs even as it descends, a Jacob’s Ladder toy in sound. As gripping as Hindemith’s faster movements are, it is in these downtempo moments that he displays his greatest deftness, so engaging are they in their fortitude, in their ability to imply the inexpressible, in their wantonness for melody and articulation, and in their remarkable ability to highlight the joys of self-discovery. The Scherzo is a stone changing directions in mid air as it skips across water. It is playful; not in the sense that a child might play, but in the sly intelligence of social agency that is part and parcel of adulthood. A masterful miniature, to be sure. The 11-minute epic that is the last movement also moves very organically. It dances and glides—opening its melodic gills to whatever might pass through them before erupting into gorgeous runs across the fingerboard that simply revel in the melodic possibility they so artfully carry—and moves like a folksong.
After such an exposition of prowess on the viola alone, the gentle introduction of a piano changes things considerably. While a certain level of restraint is to be expected from the accompanist, Robert Levin draws his playing through the viola’s almost vocal cartography, astutely aware of the dialogic nature of their music-making. The recording from hereon out is strikingly different. The viola remains quite present while the piano seems far away, as if playing on the other side of the room, thereby opening the spatial possibilities of the music and further contrasting the intimate pointillism of the solo sonatas with the broader strokes of the accompanied. At times the piano and viola would seem to be talking to themselves, as if after a long argument between a couple that has been together for so long that, no matter what they say, their voices blend with an exacting harmony.
Sonate op. 11,4
The opening Phantasie is stunningly beautiful, lapsing into moments of passive romanticism even as it unravels more overblown threads. The second movement is comprised by a jaunty theme with variations and fleshes out the sonata form in uniquely ecstatic ways. The finale with variations brings itself even closer to the jouissance inherent in the first two movements, only to lower into mysterious asides that seem to hover around the edges of its introduction.
Sonate op. 25,4
This sonata brims with a Bartokian jouissance, at once sylvan and nomadic. The viola enters, a dancer waiting for just the right moment to let loose her footwork. The piano responds with a playful challenge, which the viola answers wholeheartedly and with due respect. This rhythmically dynamic and challenging movement ends with a light touch of pizzicato. The second is full of tragedy, proceeding at a crawl through an indefinable wreckage that, while familiar to us, is also something we can never experience because it is not our own. The finale is filled with drama and screeching tremolos, and sings with the conviction of a mountaineer. The third movement is a boisterous exposition that ends with a few lines in unison and a soaring high note to finish.
Sonate 1939
This last sonata begins as if in mid-phrase, jumping right into its melodies with careful abandon. The piano and viola play off each other rather explicitly, holding fast to connection and release. Whereas this movement is filled with playful moments, plucked diversions, and pianistic revelry, the second plants its feet firmly on the path and rushes toward its finale. The third movement, another Phantasie, ruptures the music’s icy surface like the sticks on the album’s cover. As we come to a close, the sound cracks like an egg.
Of the many solo sonatas for various instruments composed since the time of Bach, it is Hindemith’s that most concretely capture a likeminded spirit. While Paganini’s caprices, for example, model Bach on the surface, they are essentially showstoppers meant to test the technical limits of whoever dares perform them. The solo violin works of Ysaÿe are also closely allied with Bach. Ysaÿe draws more specifically and overtly, and in doing so pushes away from Bach in the process. By contrast, Hindemith chose colors from his own palette. In the same way that Bach revitalized the violin and the cello, Hindemith forged a space for the viola. I hear no evidence in these sonatas to suggest that Hindemith was in any way attempting an imitation. He was, rather, exploring his own territory with unbridled honesty. Thankfully, Kashkashian has given us this landmark performance to enjoy to our hearts’ content. Her playing is by turns robust and delicate, her tone impeccable, her technique assured and minimally adorned.
It has been said that, as a performer, one develops a certain appreciation for a given piece of music that the listener can never access, for the performer learns a piece from the inside out. What separates Kashkashian from the rest is her willingness to let the listener in on the performer’s appreciation, and on the different levels of which such an engagement is comprised. We feel every detail as we would feel our own.