Piano Sonata No.1 op.12

Piano Sonata No.2 op.61

Children’s Notebook op.69

Murzilka

11 Variations on a Theme by Glinka (collective work, first complete recording)

The two Sonatas play a major role among Dmitri Shostakovich’s piano pieces. Given the great “historical awareness” shown by the composer right from the start and his inevitable respect for the sonata genre, they can rightly be considered as symbols of two distinct creative phases, from the comparison of which it is possible to appreciate the stylistic development of his language. Composed seventeen years apart from each other, the two sonatas seem to have developed with diametrically opposed premises and results: the first one is fierce, dense and atonal; the second one is meditative, rhetorical and calm.

Sonata op.12 (1926) is not really Shostakovich’s first attempt at approaching this genre. As we learn from his letters, he planned to write an extended ‘Sonata in B minor’ based on the Lisztian model. Until the early 2000s it was thought that all traces of this work had been lost; the latest studies, supported by recent discoveries at the Glinka Museum (including a manuscript page and some fragments of a version for orchestra), have shed light on its genesis and form, suggesting that it was a Sonata composed of four movements, performed several times in public by the young Shostakovich, and reused for the most part in pieces that later became part of the official catalogue: the third movement corresponds to Scherzo op. 1 in F# minor, while the second movement is the basis on which the second subject of the Trio no. 1 op.8 is built. This first actual attempt seems therefore not to have a direct relationship with the Sonata op.12, a relationship which exists instead with the aforementioned Trio, also composed of a single movement and described by Shostakovich as “sonata form”. With the Sonata op.12, the composer – who was nineteen at the time – came up with completely new music, at an isolated moment in his career when he himself described himself as ‘modernist’. After the enormous success of his first Symphony op.10, which was innovative and yet traditional in its structure and language, Shostakovich explored new paths, seeking a grammar that went beyond tonal and formal logic. It is no coincidence that the three pieces that precede the Second Symphony (the marvellous Two Pieces for String Octet op.11, Sonata op.12, Aphorisms op.13) constitute a unique and very special stage in the composer’s evolution, equally distant from both the post-romantic sounds of his early pieces and the more recognisable style of his later work. While in the Aphorisms there is a quest for an essential texture, imbued with seriality and devoid of any attempt at development, in the first Sonata his experimentation takes the form of a score full of sound, hyper-layered and almost without pauses: a single, whirling movement, in which the thematic material is freed from tonality in favour of a sophisticated and very tight counterpoint, launched at breakneck speed. It must not have been easy for his contemporaries to appreciate the value of the composition when they first heard it, not even for a visionary and avant-garde composer like Prokofiev, who heard it played by the composer. When describing the event in a letter, Shostakovich recalls how ‘[…] I made myself proud with my Sonata. Prokofiev listened to it up to the end and then asked me to play the beginning more slowly, because – he said – he had not understood anything. When I spoke to Nikolaev I learned that he liked the Sonata. Especially the beginning. He found the slow part strained and the finale confused‘. When composing the Sonata, Prokofiev must have been one – but not the only one – of the references of the young Shostakovich, who – by then dissatisfied with the academicism of the Leningrad Conservatoire – turned with fascinated interest to the music of the Europeans Křenek, Bartók, Schönberg and Hindemith.

If the first Sonata is the result of a particular creative moment, in which the desire to claim an original and innovative identity seems to prevail, the second Sonata op.61 (1943) paints a dramatic fresco with incredible incisiveness through the simple and consolidated means of the mature symphonist. Here Shostakovich’s pen flows with the unfailing skill of the great dramatist, a profound connoisseur of the listener’s psychological dynamics, succeeding in the always arduous task of effectively conveying tension in a great form: the result is a vast tale à la russe with perfectly conceived thematic implications, comparable in formal balance and expressive power to a Tolstoy masterpiece. It is difficult to explain why this Sonata has never earned a place of honour in concert programmes; even more peculiar is the fact that in his letters Shostakovich himself defines the composition as a “trifle, an improvisation”, useful only to bridge the troubled period of time between one Symphony (the Seventh, written two years earlier) and the next. Certainly, Shostakovich considered his efforts in symphonic production as a priority compared to the rest (suffice it to say that he would celebrate all his life the 12th May, the day of the first performance of the Symphony n. 1, as his “artistic birthday”) but this is not enough to fully justify his words. They are more likely an outburst due to his disappointment at the cold response to the piece; they can also be read, in the light of his troubled human life, as yet another attempt – clumsy, to an ear that knows how to listen – to protect a beloved creature and the message of which he is the fragile guardian. It is precisely in the clarity of the message (brazen and uncompromising in the first Sonata, hidden and cryptic in the second one) that lies the greatest difference between the two Sonatas which, on closer inspection, have much more in common than what one might think when listening to them for the first time. It seems clear that Shostakovich, by composing a second Sonata, wished to resume the conversation where it had been interrupted years before through precise references to the previous piece, such as, for example, quotations from the first theme of op.12 in the Moderato of op.61 and the use of similar or diametrically opposed compositional processes – canons in the seventh, the interval of major/minor third as a generative element, the taste for counterpoint in the two-parts-invention. Such continuity seems incompatible with the idea of a composer with little interest in the new work, confirming on the contrary how he was carving out a prominent place for the second Sonata in his catalogue.

Self-quoting and the re-use of entire themes from previous compositions are a constant feature of Shostakovich ‘s work, to the point of becoming a distinctive stylistic trait. One example is A Child’s Exercise Book op.69 (1944-45), a collection of seven children’s pieces for piano, some of which employ melodic material that has already been used – as in Clockwork Doll, whose theme is the same as in the early Scherzo op.1 – or used later – as in Birthday, which shares its opening fanfare with the famous Festive Overture op.96 (1947). The suite was composed for teaching purposes for his daughter Galina and arranged on the principle of increasing difficulty. The pieces were written at different times, according to the child’s learning pace, and only later collected for publication which, until the 1983 edition of the New Collected Works, consisted of only six numbers. In the notes to the latest DSCH editions (2018), it is suggested that the very short Murzilka, also included in this record, must also have been part of the collection. Indeed, when comparing the paper and ink used, the manuscript appears to have been written in the years 1944-45. It is also possible that the miniature was composed for the twentieth anniversary of the children’s magazine bearing the same name, which is still printed and distributed today.

Equally little is known about the Variations on a Theme by Glinka, performed here for the first time in their entirety. First published in 1957 as a musical supplement to the newspaper Sovetskaya muzyka, they are a collective collection of variations on the theme Vanja Song from the opera Ivan Susanin. Shostakovich takes part in the collection with three variations, previously recorded in Boris Petrushanky’s complete performance, while the other eight are composed by other Soviet composers more or less known in the West: Eugen Kapp, Vissarion Shebalin, Andrei Eshpai, Rodion Shchedrin, Georgy Sviridov, Yuri Levitin, Dmitri Kabalevsky. Unfortunately, no sources testify how and when the project of this collective work originated. However, given the pompous and celebratory style of the set and the year of publication, it is plausible that the composition is linked to the celebrations for the centenary of Glinka’s death (1857).

10 Aphorisms op.13

8 Preludes op.2 (first complete recording)

3 Fantastic Dances op.5

Juvenilia 1918-1920 (first recording)

24 Preludes op.34

Dmitrij Dmitrievič Shostakovič was one of the most influential, praised and widely performed composers of the twentieth century: his unmistakable style has left an indelible mark on the aesthetic taste of the modern listener and on the DNA of the contemporary orchestra. Nevertheless, up to this day, his piano works have been rarely played by performers and listened to by the public, almost obscured by the exceptional nature of his extensive chamber and symphonic production. Perhaps the reason is historical: in the sociopolitical context of the USSR, the most prominent member of the cultural elite had to, first and foremost, create great works to celebrate Soviet events and ideals, whose message could reach the widest audience. It has long been debated whether his message was mixed or not (that is, whether and in what cases he hid complaints and sarcasm, in opposition to what is expressed by the music) and there will never be a definitive answer. The levels on which Shostakovich’s language intersects are so complex and structured that it is often impossible to distinguish an element from its opposite. Therefore, this recording does not aim to take a clear aesthetic-interpretative stand in the so-called Shostakovich Wars, but to provide a multi-faceted reading of his piano music, in order to enhance the multiplicity of means and meanings that constitute the author’s stylistic code. It might be easier to achieve that today, fifty years after Shostakovič’s death and after the publication of the revised urtext edition of his works (DSCH, New Collected Works, Series XII, 2007-2018), which, thanks to the manuscripts, not only rectifies the many inaccuracies of all previous editions, but also includes numerous pieces that could be traced back in the events of his life but had never been published until now.

Considering his outstanding ease of writing and well-proven ability to compose music under all kinds of circumstances – even unfavorable ones –, Shostakovič’s piano production for piano appears relatively small and, above all, sporadic. These pages are not less extraordinary because of that. On the contrary, many of them show a degree of ambition and depth of purpose that are not second to those of his chamber and symphonic masterpieces. Šhostakovič began his dazzling career as a pianist as well as a composer having as fellow students artists such as Lev Oborin and Marija Judina; the first group of piano compositions dates back to his years of training, when the young Mitja tried to establish himself in Russia and in Europe as a keyboard virtuoso. Later on, he will continue to nurture a close relationship with the instrument, performing on public occasions and playing the piano reductions of his premières for a small circle of friends and colleagues. Many well-known testimonies report his clear and cutting style of playing and a youthful predilection for speed; the recordings of his mature performances (1946-1958) have an incalculable historical value, although they have – partly – contributed to a dogmatic and stereotyped interpretation of his music.  Shostakovič composed for piano in different periods of his life, in a peculiar and not marginal way in the context of his artistic journey. The conductor Kurt Sanderling, a close friend of the composer, used to state that the Preludes and fugue op.87 were his intimate diary, music written for himself and given to the world; it was perhaps easier to honestly confess his thoughts to the keyboard, far away from the spotlight of the great stages.

The first album of Šostakovič’s complete piano music features, in addition to the famous Preludes op.34, early collections of short pieces written between 1918 and 1927, many of which have been recorded for the first time on that occasion. The journey begins with the 10 Aphorisms op.13, an emblematic work of the author’s first creative phase. They were composed in 1927, in just over a week, and reflect the young composer’s interest in the European avant-garde and the local futurist trends, during a period particularly open in the field of arts, thanks to the cultural policy of Minister Lunacharsky. The style of these sketches is almost webernian; the concise form and the extreme economy of means show the quest for new expressive possibilities starting from a pure idea, in stark contrast to the fierce and complex language of the Sonate op.12. The 8 Preludes op.2 were published in the form proposed here in 2018 for the first time; the only existing edition until then (1966) contains five of the eight original pieces, under the title of 5 Preludes op.2. These rapid frescoes, composed between 1919 and 1921 and each dedicated to friends or relatives, should have been part of a collective work planned (and eventually aborted) by Shostakovič and two of his talented fellow students, consisting of a series of 24 preludes. The Preludes were often played by the young Dmitri during his first public appearances, together with the more famous Three Fantastic Dances op.5 (1920-1922), with their flying and eccentric style, and this was his first composition to be published. The pieces here titled as Pieces 1918-1920 are small experiments that he made when he began his studies at the Leningrad Conservatory, or just before that time. They show, in a naive style at times, his precocious aptitude for form and tonal characterization. Some of these compositions have a significant historical value and the correspondence with well-known episodes of the author’s biography has recently been certified by scientific studies (Larissa Gerver, Anton Lukyanov, Postfazione, New Collected Works vol.109, DSCH, 2018): as in the case of the famous Funeral March in Memory of the Victims of the Revolution, here published for the first time, composed in the aftermath of the dramatic revolutionary events which Shostakovich allegedly witnessed in 1917 during the Revolution of February. Nostalgia (also known as Soldier remembering his Homeland), Prelude-March and In the Forest are part of a workbook titled 1919 which, most likely, dates back to the period in which Shostakovich was studying improvisation in the class of Georgy Bruni, who encouraged an almost impressionistic style, inspired by proposed images or themes. It is assumed that the untitled piece, here called Piece in C Major, corresponds to the Prelude that the young Dmitrij played for to the Leningrad Conservatory entrance test, even if it is not possible to establish it with certainty. Also, the Three Pieces (Minuet, Prelude, Intermezzo) cannot be attributed to Shostakovič with certainty: they have become part of the author’s last complete recordings, but their style does not seem representative of the period in which they might have been composed (1919). The Bagatelle‘s  manuscript is surely authentic: here recorded for the first time, it is a two-part virtuoso piece with a pointillistic texture, whose color anticipates some passages of the Aphorisms and The Nose. In 1932, Shostakovich, already famous, two weeks after completing the Lady Machbeth of the Mtsensk District, decided to compose once again for his instrument after a period of five years. The cycle of Preludes op.34 was completed in just three months and premiered in the Small Hall of the Moscow Conservatory by the composer himself, who at that time was planning his comeback as a concert pianist. The twenty-four pieces, arranged in succession according to the cycle of fifths, are considerably distant from the modernism of Shostakovič’s early piano works, marking an important step in the maturation process of his language. The reference models are the preludes by Chopin, Scriabin and Debussy but the constant search for variety in the form and language (sometimes modal, others purely contrapuntal, others explicitly symphonic) leads towards new stylistic horizons, passing through the experimentation of new rhythmical and harmonic solutions that he will systematically adopt in his larger works (starting from the following Concert for Piano, Trumpet and String Orchestra op.35) and which will constitute his unmistakable trademark.

Takashi Yoshimatsu: Fuzzy Bird Sonata (1991)

Daniele Salvatore: Helin (1999)

Eugenio Catone: St. Petersburg Variations (2010)

Pedro Iturralde: Suite Hellénique (1988)

Jacob Ter Veldhuis: May this Bliss never end (1996)

Astor Piazzolla: Ave Maria (1992)

Eugenio Catone: Dialogo sulla Lontananza (2020)

“Getting to know one’s personal geography better, with its related lived spaces, through an intimate and logical exercise of spatial memory, represents a resource for a better understanding of our relationships with the others and with the environment, although the construction of such a geography is a spontaneous and naturally active process in each one of us” writes De Vecchis . That is the concept behind this record production entitled Agoraphilia, whose creation has deliberately taken a decade of work tackled on several steps, along with the different experiences and moments of the artistic formation of the Duo. Agoraphilia is an invitation to raise awareness and love for open spaces, spaces of Being and visual spaces. This is the reason why this work offers a strong synergy between musicians, eras, repertoires and literary hymns, responding to the particular situation of closure and forced introversion caused by the pandemic events. The first composition in the repertoire is Fuzzy Bird Sonata (1991) by Takashi Yoshimatsu, in the movements: Run bird, Sing bird, Fly bird; pages of absolute descriptive charm in which each movement is characterized by a particular compositional style announced by the titles themselves. The external movements are energetic and active as we can infer from the words Run and Fly, and the formal structure for each of these movements is in the form of a rondo. The first movement has a metre that changes frequently, but the pulse is always present and rhythmic; the last movement, Fly Bird, can be defined as a sort of epitaph in this composition with an ornithological theme: the melodic materials of the first two movements are summarized here, clearly showing a cyclical nature through the memory of a bird that seems to remember its past, flying towards an unknown future. In fact, the introductory section has no metre and does not contain any tempo markings. We would dare to suggest an influence of the traditional Japanese music played by the yokobue and the daltaiko, characteristic instruments whose effects can be found especially in the rhythm, made percussive by the piano thanks to the writing of the low notes. The saxophone has the advantage of being totally flexible and able to create a wide range of sounds; sometimes even a bad sound, in this case, gets to be appropriate. Finally, the portamento and the timbral trills in the saxophone part create an effect intended to simulate the style of oriental music, reminding the listener of the song of a bird, like a monologue in the dark before soaring towards the sky (C. Hanafusa). Helin, (1999)
by Daniele Salvatore is the second composition of this record, written for soprano, alto and baritone saxophones and piano. The work is inspired by the verses of the Kurdish writer Kemal Burkay – dedicated to one of his daughters – from which the instrumental piece takes its title. The transposition from the literary to the instrumental form has reported quite faithfully in the score aspects like contents, expressive forms, patriotic voices of the Kurdish identity, aimed at teaching the value of post-war freedom, creating a composition consisting of a single tempo in Allegro moderato and introduced by a measure in 7/8 that marks a continuity with the verses. Then, there is an alternating progression of regular tempos and sixteenth note rhythms with a few indications of dynamics except for the annotations with a certain inequality and without inequalities – alternatively entrusted to saxophones – that sound even more oppositional. This aspect underlines the dialogic diversity of the same sixteenth note passage, in the form of a thematic fragment. The extremely appropriate piano part interacts in a fluent and linear way with the rhythmic games of the saxophones, supporting them semantically in both directions – vertical (in rhythmic) and horizontal (in long portamentos). A uniformly flowing perpetual motion without any tension leads towards the finale, devoid of twists and turns but full
of calm resignation, probably evoking the poetic suggestion of the sound of a broken toy. The author of St. Petersburg Variations, (2010), third work of the record, is Eugenio Catone, with the double role of performer on the piano and composer. The piece – for alto saxophone and piano – was composed while joining the music competition Terem Crossover Competition in St. Petersburg. It is a cycle of variations on the famous theme of Capriccio n. 24 in la minore by Niccolò Paganini; each of them represents the need to explore different executive and interpretative styles with the progress of the thematic enunciation, which sometimes reveals itself in a sharper sound texture in the first part and in a denser one in the second part. Although it comes under the common denominator of the original thematic fragment, the finale is entrusted with a national-popular tribute recognizable from the first notes; this is Калинка, (Kalinka), the even more famous Russian anthem dating back to 1860 composed by Ivan Petrovich Larionov. In this case, the saxophone has the task of winking to the popular tradition with sparkling “comings and goings”, well supported by a lively writing. The Suite Hellénique, (1988) by Pedro Iturralde, the famous saxophonist who passed away in November 2020, is probably one of the most famous and most performed works in the jazz repertoire for saxophone. The Suite, in the five tempos Kalamatianòs, Funky, Valse, Kritis, Kalamatianòs represents the sum of the composer’s artistic experiences, gained by attending and adhering to the most disparate musical styles, thus revealing the caliber of the close collaborations with eminent artists from different co-loristic backgrounds; among them we remember Gerry Mulligan and Paco de Lucia. Although there are no official rules about the Italian transcription of non-Italian words (like Kalamatianòs or Kritis), the extremely diverse character of the five dances composing the Suite shows that in the musical field there is always an overcoming of these barriers, conveying a complete and understandable meaning for many or – I’d say – for everyone. And it is precisely in this comparative perspective that it is possible to adhere to popular traditions, opening up to the perception of listening to foreign languages of which Iturralde, in this case, was a magnificent bearer. In perfect harmony with the interaction of multiple languages, this record production is also characterized by the attention to combinatorial experiments as you can hear in the fifth track: May this bliss never end, (1996) by Jacob ter Veldhuis, for tenor saxophone, piano and magnetic tape, is a tribute to the famous jazz player Chet Baker. The vocalized part, synthesized in a track, interacts with the Duo and is taken from one of the last interviews to the jazz player in which we can notice a reiteration of sentences with a tragic content. In fact, they explain the final phases that precede his death occurred in 1988, after a difficult existence as a drugaddicted artist. In the text, steeped in pain and apparent confusion, some dramatic utterances can be read, including: There is pain in my heart with every memory I will keep / There is pain in my heart / Devastating feeling … [..]. The sixth work contained in this record production seems to have the aim of sublimating the atmosphere of the previous track. It’s the famous Ave Maria, (1992) by Astor Piazzolla originally called “Tanti anni prima”, a piece written for oboe and piano and taken from the soundtrack of the film “Enrico IV” by Marco Bellocchio. It is an elegy of infinite expressiveness full of painful lyricism, sometimes to the point of rarefaction and with peaks of great penetrative force. Dialogo sulla lontananza (2020) for soprano and alto saxophone and piano, once again signed by Eugenio Catone, is the composition that closes this production and is dedicated to the San Marino saxophonist Mario Marzi, who is also a performer on soprano sax in this record. It is a chaconne on a seventeenth-century theme called della lontananza (about distance); a journey intended in his concrete and metaphorical meaning, with the aim of reflecting upon the relationship with the other and with the elsewhere. Consequently, this leads to questioning oneself, providing a possibility of comparison between the ancient concept of distance and its new forms in our current times: “two divergent paths that correspond to two different types of knowledge – one that moves in the mental space of a detached reality, where lines can be drawn to connect points, projections, abstract forms, vectors of forces; the other that moves in the space full of objects and tries to create a verbal equivalent of that space, filling the page with words, through an effort of meticulous adjustment of the written to the unwritten, to the totality of the utterable and to the unspeakable. (American lessons, Italo Calvino).

L. van Beethoven: Piano Sonata in c minor no.32 op.111

Felix Bratholdy Mendelssohn: Variations Sérieuses op.54

Sergei Rachmaninov: Variations on a theme by Corelli op.42

Eugenio Catone: 5 Improvvisazioni su un corale di J.S.Bach

Tra i generi musicali che hanno attraversato la storia della letteratura pianistica, il Tema e variazioni è sicuramente tra quelli più longevi: utilizzata fin dall’epoca barocca, la Forma-Variazione entra di diritto nell’Olimpo dei capolavori di ogni tempo con le celeberrime Variazioni Goldberg di J.S.Bach e resterà estremamente utilizzata fino a che, con le Variazioni op.27 di Anton Webern, non si trasformerà in qualcosa d’altro. Il principio generatore della Forma-Variazione, inteso nella sua forma “classica” (il termine “classico” non è qui indicativo di uno stile ma di un canone fissatosi nella tradizione compositiva della musica europea dal XVI al XX secolo) è un tema, originale o “preso in prestito” da un altro autore o da una melodia popolare; può essere arricchito di merletti ritmico-melodici o sfrondato degli elementi accessori fino all’isolamento di singole cellule, contrappuntato o esaltato in sonorità orchestrali; trasformato con l’ausilio di procedimenti sempre più sottili in una serie di riproposizioni modificate, a susseguirsi secondo criteri di analogia o contrasto di tempi, suono, atmosfera. 

Il percorso qui presentato, tuttavia, si apre con una sonata, forma totalmente diversa. Può sembrare un controsenso, ma non lo è: l’op.111, ultima sonata per pianoforte di L. van Beethoven, non si sviluppa secondo il canone sonatistico di “allegro-adagio-allegro”, ma unisce all’infernale “Allegro con brio” una paradisiaca Arietta variata; due movimenti soli, eppur sintesi ineguagliabile del tutto: in questo risiede la reale grandezza del capolavoro. Che Beethoven abbia assegnato al suo secondo movimento la forma della Variazione è estremamente significativo, in quanto per lui la Variazioni assume significati spirituali che non saranno mai più raggiunti nella storia della musica: lo possiamo constatare esaminando il mistico finale della sonata op.109 (anch’esso un tema con variazioni) o le Trentatré Variazioni su un (brutto) valzer di Diabelli, mirabile esempio di ingegneria genetica sulla cellula musicale, di costruzione d’una torre d’argento a partire da banalissimi cucchiaini da tè. tronando alla nostra sonata, le Variazioni in essa contenute sono meravigliosamente descritte dalle pagine manniane del “Doctor Faustus” come una graduale conquista del paradiso. La cellula sfruttata è un inciso ritmico ternario di croma più semicroma, celestiale nella sua intima semplicità, nell’assenza di punte dinamiche e alterazioni di sorta: un cantabile tanto limpido e sereno da far pensare a una preghiera, un canto primordiale: non è forse questa “la musica delle sfere” di cui parla Platone? Nel susseguirsi delle prime variazioni, la cellula tematica, pur nella costanza della pulsazione ritmica, aumenta di frequenza fino al parossismo, come il battito cardiaco di chi cerca di raggiungere una meta con lo stesso paso ma con una tensione sempre maggiore. Va poi polverizzandosi in un t remolo, nel perpetuo moto delle biscrome, in un trillo sospeso… E la risoluzione di questo trillo è il momento in cui il divino si manifesta: il tema trattiene smarrito il respiro per ricadere poi dolcemente nel reale, e ripresentarsi un’ultima volta, gioioso e commosso nella consapevolezza ormai acquisita di far parte del grande progetto di Dio. 

Dopo il fenomeno-Beethoven, tuttavia, la forma della Variazione conosce un momento di svuotamento del proprio significato: essa viene usata più come pretesto per mostrare la bravura del pianista, che non per trasfigurare un discorso verso altre possibilità di senso. Mendelssohn è il primo a voler reagire a questa crisi, e lo fa componendo nel 1841 un ciclo di variazioni che intitolerà “serieuses”, proprio perché non più votate al futile decorativismo. È significativo che questo importante ciclo sia stato scritto per un’antologia di pezzi per pianoforte, della cui vendita gli incassi sarebbero stati impiegati per finanziare la costruzione di un monumento a Beethoven nella città natale, Bonn. Lo spirito del Maestro aleggia ancora… Dal malinconico tema in re minore si dipanano diciassette variazioni in cui già si preannunciano le sonorità orchestrali degli Studi Sinfonici op.13 di Schumann (ricordiamo che era molto amico di Mendelssohn e lo stimava al punto da renderlo membro della Lega dei Fratelli di Davide). Dapprima si avvertono come dei pizzicati di violoncello nei bassi, poi dei controcanti quasi flautistici, fino alla terza variazione, dal carattere vigoroso di fanfara. Poi ancora si alternano momenti di nervoso piglio cembalistico a morbidi accordi ribattuti, legatissimi ma agitati; ancora pizzicati di tutti gli archi, ostinati di timpano, moti perpetui, addirittura accenni di fuga. La trama si infittisce e il ritmo incalza fino alla disperata ripresa del tema nell’ultima variazione, prima di sfociare in una vorticosa coda che il grande Alfred Cortot paragonò a un “Sabba dove dei demoni urlanti passano nelle raffiche di vento” (Corso di Interpretazione, Parigi 1934). 

Se le variazioni di Mendelssohn sviluppano a partire da un corale originale dello stesso autore, diverso è il caso dell’op.42 di Rachmaninov che esordisce con uno dei temi più utilizzati nella letteratura musical: “La follia”. risalente al XV sec., fu incluso ed elaborato nei lavori di compositori quali Bach, Scarlatti, Beethoven (nascosto nell’Andante con moto della Quinta Sinfonia), Liszt, Alkan, solo per citarne alcuni. L’attribuzione di questo tema ad Arcangelo Corelli (1653-1713) nella denominazione delle variazioni op.42 di Rachmaninov è dovuta al fatto che l’autore lo conobbe attraverso la dodicesima sonata per violino del musicista italiano, introdottagli dall’amico Fritz Kreisler che sarà il dedicatario dell’opera. Le variazioni qui presentate costituiscono non solo l’ultima opera composta da Rachmaninov per pianoforte solo ma l’unica prodotta durante il periodo americano della vita del compositore; alcuni hanno voluto addirittura vedervi uno studio compositivo in preparazione alla stesura della gigantesca rapsodia su un tema di Paganini per pianoforte e orchestra, a sua volta strutturata a patire da un capriccio violinistico… in forma di tema e variazioni! 

Per finire, qualche parola sulle “Cinque improvvisazioni su un corale di J.S.Bach”: dedicate alla pianista Gabriella Olino, non hanno la presunzione di apparire tra i nomi di tre dei colossi della musica di ogni tempo; esse vogliono semplicemente essere un esercizio di stile dell’autore sulle note del corale 112 di Bach, cinque libere ed intime meditazioni a ricamare il vuoto lasciato dagli ultimi suoni di quella grande preghiera che è l’op.111.   

Alexander Scriabin: Sonata-Fantasy no.2 op.19

Heitor Villa-Lobos: Suite Floral op.97

Johannes Brahms: Variations on a theme by Paganini op.35, book 1

Fryderyk Chopin: Studies op.10 n.1, 3, 5

Libertà, sensibilità e coerenza stilistica ed esecutiva fanno da “Leitmotiv” al repertorio pianistico qui riproposto dal giovane pianista Eugenio Catone che intende presentarsi come interprete poliedrico. Trattasi di una parte di letteratura musicale, quella scelta, nella quale prevalgono fortemente i segni di un passaggio maturo dei compositori e di un conseguente approccio del pianista nel modo di intenderne i segni distintivi di un’epoca. Ciò che rende particolarmente accattivante quest’esecuzione è la capacità di trasmettere emozionalmente un messaggio chiaro ma al contempo senza alcuna forzatura o alcuna trasgressione che ne modifichi l’assetto iniziale. Il discorso procede con passo gradevolmente avvolgente, con gusto, senso della misura ed eleganza, caratteristiche che conferiscono all’esecuzione una non-standardizzazione, elemento nel quale facilmente poter incorrere. Completamente dentro le atmosfere eteree del primo Scriabin, non senza accensioni “immaginifiche” in Villa-Lobos, nitide enunciazioni del senso di galanteria in Chopin e continua percezione del fluire del discorso narrativo, delineano un pianismo rispettoso anche delle più ardue prove di virtuosismo brahmsiano. Il tutto senza mai eccedere, senza nulla di gratuito, mai avido di spazi vistosi o acrobazie. La sua interpretazione è molto attenta alla varietà del tocco sonoro, dettata da un approccio al tasto curato e variamente plasmato sin dalle fasi iniziali: l’elemento emozionale e comunicativo dell’istante lo affascina forse più della “regola”. Una personalità vivace quella di Eugenio Catone, curiosa e sensibilmente attenta a non incasellare nulla di quanto appreso negli anni di studio. Particolarmente attivo in ambito concertistico, con attività solistica e cameristica – in Italia come all’estero – figlio della tradizione belcantistica italiana, arricchito dalle esperienze di musica contemporanea -sebbene giovanissimo – si propone al pubblico con questo progetto […]