March 21, 2024

(++++) ASTONISHMENTS PILED ON ASTONISHMENTS

Charles-Valentin Alkan: Complete Piano Music, Volume 5—11 Pièces dans le Style Religieux et 1 transcription du “Messie” de Hændel, Op. 72; Etude from “Encyclopédie du Pianiste Compositeur”; Etude Alla-Barbaro. Mark Viner, piano. Piano Classics. $21.99.

Charles-Valentin Alkan: Complete Piano Music, Volume 6—Character Pieces & Grotesqueries: Petit conte; Pour Monsieur Gurkhaus; Jean qui pleure et Jean qui rit; Toccatina; Désir, fantaisie; Capriccio alla-soldatesca; Le tambour bat aux champs; Fantasticheria; Chapeau bas! 2da fantasticheria; Ma chère liberté et Ma chère servitude; Quasi-Caccia; Le chemin de fer; Trois petites fantaisies, Op. 41. Mark Viner, piano. Piano Classics. $21.99.

     The incredibly ambitious plan by Mark Viner and Piano Classics to record all the piano music of Charles-Valentin Alkan is – well, “incredibly ambitious” pretty much sums it up. Nobody is even really sure how much piano music the famously reclusive, unbelievably talented, prodigiously skilled Alkan (1813-1888) wrote, given that some pieces are known to be lost while others have turned up seemingly out of nowhere. The Alkan piano series, originally planned to encompass 17 discs, is now projected to need 18, if not more.

     What is amazing is how many absolute gems the series includes; how many works that are far, far ahead of their time; how many pieces of prodigious difficulty and inordinate cleverness Alkan produced; and how Viner manages to surmount the technical demands of every single one of them – bringing out their underlying beauty and significance when they have any, simply allowing them to gleam and glitter and amaze when they have no particular musical importance but are among the finest display pieces ever written for the piano.

     The salient characteristics of both Alkan and Viner are very much in evidence in the fifth and sixth volumes of this monumental undertaking. The 11 Pièces dans le Style Religieux et 1 transcription du “Messie” de Hændel are typical of Alkan in several ways, not least in their title: Style Religieux is not explained and is not clear from the music itself (although Viner, in his highly knowledgeable and always-entertaining booklet notes, makes an effort to define the term), and the reason for ending the sequence with a transcription (which is not really a transcription but a rewriting and reimagining) of the Pastoral Symphony from Messiah is entirely unexplained except as a sort of capstone to the equally unexplained Style Religieux. The workings of Alkan’s mind are extraordinarily difficult, perhaps impossible, to fathom, the requirements of his piano music almost equally so. This particular 11-pieces-plus set is actually not among Alkan’s most innovative: every single element is well-thought-out, well-made and pianistically challenging, but only a few have the amazing peculiarities and quirkiness that define so much of this composer’s music. Among those, No. 4 has a decidedly strange and eerie minor-key middle section that sounds like a dark hypnotic fantasy, while No. 10 swaps themes and a pedal point between hands (a frequent Alkan characteristic) while tossing notes hither and thither and refusing to stick to a clearly defined key. Several other pieces in this set offer contrasting sections that are in some sense reconciled at the end – this is what Viner thinks represents Style Religieux – but it is the pianism rather than the pieces themselves that stays with listeners after the work ends.

     This fifth volume is one whose brief “fillers” turn out to be in many ways more interesting than its major work. Etude Alla-Barbaro is in a “barbaric” form that is best known from the Allegro barbaro contained within Alkan’s set of études in major keys, Op. 35. Alkan invented this “barbaro” concept and wrote several works using it – of which this specific one seems to have no right to exist. It is known from a single grainy photocopy taken from a lost original publication whose provenance is traceable even though the piece itself appears in no catalogue and has never been mentioned in any study of Alkan or his music. (Figuring out how to create a “complete” Alkan sequence really is enormously challenging.) The work calls out phrases, lurches ahead and back, and repeatedly sounds as if it is about to go out of control in its decidedly strange mixture of arpeggios, octaves, clarion calls, hunting rhythms and unexpected dissonances. It is most certainly a tour de force. Yet even this remarkable piece is overshadowed by the very early (1840) Etude from “Encyclopédie du Pianiste Compositeur,” here given its world première recording. It seems impossible for this piece even to exist, much less to be playable: extremely fast, bizarrely rhythmic, poundingly intense, packed with nonstop surprises and hammerings and scales and chords, this ultra-modern-sounding grotesquerie seems to have been dumped unceremoniously onto the keyboard from some sort of spacefaring race with a really twisted sense of humor. It is a genuine amazement, all the more so because it sounds today, in the 21st century, as if it is still ahead of its time.

     Speaking of grotesqueries, those make up almost the entirety of the sixth Viner/Alkan release, whose overall title of Character Pieces & Grotesqueries pretty well sums things up (abetted by an unusually well-chosen cover featuring highly individualized caricatures of people of all sorts, created in 1825 by Léopold Boilly). A couple of these little pieces are world première recordings: Pour Monsieur Gurkhaus, a looping-back-on-itself canon, and the fascinating Jean qui rit, the second of due fughe da camera. The first of these two pieces, Jean qui pleure, is in E minor and filled with rather studied pathos. But Jean qui rit is something else altogether: based on Fin ch’han dal vino from Mozart’s Don Giovanni, it is recognizably fugal (until it lapses into something like a two-part invention near the end) but so packed with double trills, leaps around the keyboard, and tremendous hand stretches, that it seems unplayable. In fact, it was unplayable when Alkan wrote it in 1840, since it calls for a top C that did not exist on pianos until some 40 years later. It is a perfect example of just how far Alkan stretched compositional as well as performance boundaries.

     The rest of the pieces in this sixth sequence entry are all over the place, much as Alkan’s music itself tends to be (many of his effects involve placing the pianist’s hands at the upper and lower extremes of the keyboard simultaneously). Among the highlights of the CD is Capriccio alla-soldatesca, which imagines Napoleon returning from the dead to lead his skeletonized army from its graves for a final battle of vengeance – the work is macabre in the extreme. It was published as Op. 50 and is closely related to Op. 50bis, Le tambour bat aux champs, which also involves calls to arms of long-dead soldiers, accompanied by marchlike and dirgelike sections and repeated drumbeats – a scenario not far removed impressionistically from that of Mahler’s much later song Revelge (1899). This CD also includes several examples of paired pieces – a form often used by Alkan. The two Jean works are structured as a duality, as are the two labeled Ma chère liberté et Ma chère servitude, the first an ebullient piece in F-sharp and the second a dour and haunting one in A minor. There are also clear contrasts between the two items labeled Fantasticheria (“daydream” or “reverie”): the first is a short B minor rondo containing a chasing-its-tail canon (another Alkan characteristic, as in Pour Monsieur Gurkhaus); the much longer second is called “Hats off!” and mixes a sort-of-rondo with a sort-of-march.

     Alkan oddities crop up again and again among these works. For instance, the étude from 1844, Le chemin de fer, is nothing less than an extremely early musical portrayal of a railway journey – anticipating Eduard Strauss’ impressionistic Bahn frei polka by 25 years, and with greater attention paid to the perils of early passenger-train travel. And the Trois petites fantaisies of 1859, all of which are quite pleasurable to hear, conclude with a Presto packed with triplets, sustained chords, insistent thematic interruptions, flickering contrasts between the piano’s high and low registers, and keyboard leaps toward the end that cement Viner’s reputation (if such cementing is necessary) as an absolute master of some of the most difficult piano music ever written. There are sure to be more fireworks and many more amazements to come as this one-of-a-kind series marches, lurches, ambles and speeds along on an ever-fascinating journey of discovery.

(++++) SCALING EXPRESSIVE HEIGHTS

Biber: Mystery Sonatas. Alan Choo, violin; Apollo’s Fire conducted by Jeannette Sorrell. AVIE. $26.99 (2 CDs).

Eugène Ysaÿe: Violin Concerto in E minor; Poème concertant; Two Mazurkas de salon; Rêve d’enfant. Philippe Graffin, violin; Royal Liverpool Philharmonic Orchestra conducted by Jean-Jacques Kantorow. AVIE. $19.99.

     When Alexander Pope wrote in An Essay on Criticism of “what oft was thought, but ne'er so well express'd,” he had verbiage in mind and was discussing how to define “true wit.” But Pope’s memorable formulation can apply just as well to music, whose expressive potential is certainly equal to that of words and, when well-harnessed by composers, can communicate in ways of which words are at best poorly capable. This is certainly true of Biber’s Mystery Sonatas (also known as Rosenkranzsonaten, “Rosary Sonatas,” drawing as they do on the 15 Mysteries of the Rosary). Biber’s 15 sonatas and concluding Passacaglia, written around 1676, take the words associated with meditations on the life of Christ and the Virgin Mary and give them musical accompaniment that was presumably used during actual church services (when the congregation would walk around a grouping of 15 relevant paintings and sculptures, reciting appropriate prayers related to the beads on the rosary) but that transcends the specifics of 17th-century church practice and, in some ways, even goes beyond the sacred sphere altogether. The sonatas are carefully organized into groupings of five Joyful, five Sorrowful and five Glorious Mysteries – and in the manuscript of Biber’s work, each is introduced by an appropriate engraving. What is amazing in our much-more-secular age is how communicative and deeply expressive these pieces continue to be. Alan Choo, Jeannette Sorrell and the members of Apollo’s Fire, using period instruments and with a firm understanding of historical performance practices and the expectations of Biber’s time, handle the sonatas in such a well-considered manner on a two-CD AVIE release that the music’s emotional depth comes through clearly even for listeners of different faiths or none at all. Sorrell herself plays the harpsichord here, with René Schiffer on cello and viola da gamba, Kivie Cahn-Lipman on lirone and viola da gamba, William Simms on theorbo and Baroque guitar, Brian Kay on archlute and percussion, Anna O’Connell on triple harp, and Peter Bennett on chamber organ. The performers’ meticulous attention to appropriate instruments and techniques gives the sonatas a sense of both solidity in instrumentation and evanescence in their contemplative qualities – a remarkable and very effective combination. The scordatura tuning used throughout, except in the first sonata and Passacaglia, is nowhere obtrusive: it simply helps each work better fit the tone color that Biber believes should be associated with each Mystery, allowing for the creation of chords that would be impossible on a violin with standard tuning. To modern ears, accustomed to dissonances and many forms of stretching violin technique, the remarkably apt nature of the scordatura tuning is less obvious than it would have been to churchgoers in Biber’s time, but Choo, Sorrell and Apollo’s Fire certainly know how to emphasize (yet not over-emphasize) the effects that Biber sought. Thus, in the last four Joyful Mysteries, the tunings with sharps burnish the harmonies, while the tunings in the Sorrowful Mysteries tone down the violin’s usual brightness, compress its range, and create persistent slight dissonances that are in accord with the messages of Jesus’ scourging, crowning with thorns and crucifixion. And in the Glorious Mysteries, Biber uses tunings that intensify the sound even beyond what has come before, with the first sonata in this series – the Resurrection – using a uniquely sonorous tuning that actually switches the standard placement of the second and third strings on the fingerboard. Biber’s outstanding creativity in illustrating the well-known ritual for which he composed the Mystery Sonatas transcends and expands the meaning of the words that accompanied the sonatas’ original purpose – and the sensitive, understanding playing of Apollo’s Fire ensures that even after nearly 350 years, the emotions and spiritual uplift of the story illustrated by this music have been “ne'er so well express'd.”

     The emotional expression is equally heartfelt but far more personal and intimate in two violin-and-orchestra works by Eugène Ysaÿe that receive their world premiѐre recordings on an AVIE disc featuring Philippe Graffin with conductor Jean-Jacques Kantarow and the Royal Liverpool Philharmonic Orchestra. These are works written by Ysaÿe (1858-1931) under conditions of passion, in one case for violin performance in general and in the other for a specific violinist. Ysaÿe did not finish either work, which is why both have waited until now for their first complete recordings. The earlier and larger-scale piece, Violin Concerto in E minor, dates to 1884-85; its orchestration has been completed by Xavier Falques (Ysaÿe finished only the first two movements). When Ysaÿe wrote the concerto, he was deeply engaged with the notion of the violinist rather than the composer being the determinant of the effectiveness and ultimate meaning of a work. Certainly Ysaÿe makes the violin pivotal, not just central, to the concerto’s first movement, while the second has distinct Wagnerian overtones and chromaticism. The finale, it turns out, offers the sort of bravura display favored by other violinist/composers such as Paganini and Vieuxtemps. If the first two movements are intellectually argumentative, the third sweeps away any sense of musical debate in its strength and virtuoso demands – all of which Graffin handles adeptly. Graffin also does a fine job with Poème concertant, a later work (1893) inspired by Ysaÿe’s relationship with Irma Sèthe, whom he taught and who certainly reciprocated his feelings. Ysaÿe was, however, married when his feelings for Sèthe, who was 18 years his junior, flowered. The Poème concertant turned out to be a mutual love letter, written by Ysaÿe and performed for him in some form or forms by Sèthe – although it has only now been fully orchestrated, by Erika Vega. Certainly it has deeply emotional elements, and certainly it is poetic in its use of the violin, but it is also somewhat sprawling and discursive, without the comparatively tightly structured form of the earlier Violin Concerto in E minor. Since the Poème concertant had to be assembled from various manuscript versions even before being orchestrated, it is possible that some of the inelegance of structure results from the way it was rediscovered and stitched together. But what it certainly does have, and what comes through clearly in Graffin’s performance, is a level of emotional communicativeness that speaks volumes in the language of musical notes, although not in the written note-taking to which Pope’s pithy comment refers. The two violin-and-orchestra pieces are accompanied on this CD by some salon-like violin-and-piano ones, featuring Graffin with Marisa Gupta, that are nowhere near the same level of intensity or meaningfulness. The Two Mazurkas de salon (1882) are pleasantly rhythmic and thematically forgettable, while Rêve d’enfant (1900) – one of the composer’s most-popular pieces – is dedicated to Ysaÿe’s youngest son, Antoine (1894-1979), and comes across effectively as a gentle lullaby. The violin-and-piano works provide an interesting contrast of emotion as well as instrumentation to the much grander scale of the Concerto in E minor and Poème concertant, giving this recording as a whole some sense of exploring several different sides of Ysaÿe’s particular forms of expressiveness.

March 14, 2024

(++++) SCALING THE HEIGHTS

Bach: Cello Suites (complete). Ailbhe McDonagh, cello. Steinway & Sons. $21.99 (2 CDs).

     Bach’s six suites for solo cello are more than a rite of passage for cellists. They are an invitation to sublimity, a chance not only to interpret the music but also to put one’s own stamp on it – frequently multiple times during one’s performing career, since the suites’ meaning and significance seem to change considerably over time as a performer gains familiarity with the music plus his or her own maturity and mastery. The same happens to be true for audiences: no matter how many cellists one hears in this music, there is always something new to discover, some way in which the tripartite experience (composer + performer + instrument) differs from all others and sheds new light on a listener’s perception.

     Just as Bach’s religious music transcends the Lutheran tradition in which it was created, so the cello suites and other instrumental works are unbound by time or geography – a reality further documented in the new Steinway & Sons recording featuring Ailbhe McDonagh, whose status as the first Irish cellist to record all six suites is a matter that is both of justifiable pride and wholly irrelevant to the music.

     McDonagh’s personal vision of the suites is a restrained Romantic one rather than one that is historically focused or determined to play the music as Bach and his contemporaries would have heard it. She does not hesitate to use crescendos and diminuendos, swells, rubato and other techniques of emphasis in order to bring out the underlying emotional connective tissue of the suites. This means that their foundational structure tends to be somewhat diminished: notably, the dancelike rhythmic elements of the majority of movements are lessened here, although scarcely absent. It also means that these performances are strongest in the slower and more-emotive portions of the suites: the Sarabande movements are deeply felt and very moving, with the unusual and profound one in Suite No. 5 – a movement wholly lacking in double stops and thus having an inherent purity of single-string sound – being a highlight of McDonagh’s cycle.

     Actually, there are highlights aplenty here. McDonagh plays an 1833 cello by Andrea Postacchini (1781-1862), who is far better known for his violins but whose larger string instruments (including violas, basses and guitars) also show remarkable, almost buttery smoothness of tone and evenness of sound production in all ranges. Certainly that is the case with McDonagh’s cello, which does not have quite the sonorous depth of a few other instruments in its lowest range but which is exceptionally consistent in sound all the way to its top notes – a distinct advantage for the Bach cello suites. McDonagh plays as if the cello is an extension of her thinking as well as her body: there is a sense of unity of player and played that gives the suites a wholly pleasurable sense of cohesion.

     McDonagh handles the suites’ technical demands with apparent ease: the complexities throughout No. 4, for example, and the string crossings in the first minuet of No. 2. Her cello’s sound works as well in Suite No. 5 (originally written for scordatura tuning) and Suite No. 6 (most likely composed for a five-stringed instrument and frequently played on one) as it does in the first four suites. The elegance and warmth of the performances come through as well in the few movements with a single melodic line (not only the Sarabande of Suite No. 5 but also the second minuets of Suites Nos. 1 and 2, the second bourrée of Suite No. 3, and the concluding gigue of Suite No. 4) as in the much-more-frequent movements employing double stops. Those same characteristics are actually evident in every movement of every suite – and they tend to overshadow individual movements’ lighter and brighter elements. The French overture that starts Suite No. 5, for example, is deeply emotional at the beginning but somewhat less convincing in the speedy fugue used for the latter part of the movement.

     It is always possible, of course, to nitpick any performance of these suites – and it is almost always unfair to do so. The best cellists make these works their own through a strong and consistent commitment to the music and a willingness to share that devotion (which does take on almost spiritual connotations) with listeners. McDonagh’s recording is clearly that of a performer at once highly skilled from a technical standpoint and highly thoughtful from an expressive one. Her rendition of the suites is quite convincing on its own terms – and certainly compares favorably with the many other first-rate recordings of these unsurpassed works.

(++++) TWO ENDS AND A BEGINNING

Mozart: Complete Piano Sonatas, Volume 5—Nos. 7, 9 and 10; Volume 6—Nos.14 and 15. Orli Shaham, piano. Canary Classics. $29.98 (2 CDs).

Ravel: Complete Works for Solo Piano, Volume 1—Miroirs; Jeux d’eau; Valses nobles et sentimentales; Sonatine; Pavane pour une infante défunte. Vincent Larderet, piano. AVIE. $19.99.

George Crumb: Complete Music, Volume 21—Processional; Kronos-Kryptos; Sonata for Solo Violoncello. Gilbert Kalish and Marcantonio Barone, piano; Curtis Institute of Music Ensemble 20/21; Timothy Eddy, cello. Bridge Records. $16.99.

     Orli Shaham’s Mozart sonata cycle concludes with the same consistency it has shown throughout: lithe and limpid playing with a mild Romantic veneer, with the sonatas presented in no discernible order – and with a dollop of numbering confusion, carried over from an earlier volume, that thankfully does not affect enjoyment of the performances. The numbering issue lies in identifying the D major sonata, K. 311, as “No. 8” in the latest Shaham release, although it is most often referred to as No. 9 – while K. 310 in A minor, most often designated No. 8, was performed in Shaham’s Volume 2, where it was identified as No. 9. It happens to be true that K. 311 was written some months before K. 310, and some other pianists use Shaham's designations, including Malcolm Bilson and Anthony Newman, whose renditions on fortepiano show more concern for historical accuracy than does Shaham's on a modern concert grand. And it is certainly true that the numbering peculiarity has no impact whatsoever on the quality of Shaham’s performances. But it does provide additional evidence, if any is needed, that in producing a complete cycle of these sonatas, it would be helpful to have some rationale for the sequencing on the CDs. In any case, Shaham’s performance of K. 311 is one of her more Romantic-leaning ones, with the central Andante con espressione having considerable warmth and with her pedal use in the concluding Rondeau giving the movement some extra weight. K. 311 is offered between two C major works. The first of these, No. 7, K. 309, gets one of Shaham’s best readings: fleet and delicate, with a piano sound that is close to that of the fortepianos of Mozart’s time – Shaham makes no attempt to provide historically informed performances, but this sonata has some of that feeling, even in a central Andante un poco adagio that proffers courtly elegance rather than deep emotion. The CD designated as Volume 5 concludes with the popular Sonata No. 10, K. 330, which is better heard as part of the three-work cycle in which it appears (K. 330-332) but which sounds fine anytime. Shaham’s interpretation is expansive, thanks to her careful tempo choices and her observance of repeats. This sonata’s three movements are quite close in tempo indication: Allegro moderato, Andante cantabile, Allegretto. Shaham keeps them distinctive by making the slow movement a bit overly slow and, more significantly, by making the finale quite speedy – an approach that works in its own right even if it somewhat changes the balance among the movements. The last CD in Shaham’s cycle, designated Volume 6, contains just two sonatas. Sonata No. 14, K. 457, gets a broadly conceived performance consistent with its large scale and the unusually emotive thematic material befitting its home key of C minor. Shaham’s sensitivity to the mood of the first movement is welcome; the contrasting gentleness she brings to the Adagio is well-considered; and the unusually intense finale comes across particularly well, from its quiet opening to the chords that interrupt its headlong drama. This performance and that of K. 309 are two of the best in Shaham’s entire cycle. The last sonata offered in Volume 6 is No. 15, K. 533, an F major work that can sound somewhat standoffish, although perhaps Olympian is a better and more-positive adjective. Shaham spins it out at very considerable length – the performance lasts a full half-hour, more because of the welcome attention to repeats than because of the tempos, which are judiciously chosen and not unusually slow. This is a sonata that is more pretty than profound, being very well-made but a trifle on the cool side. Shaham’s tendency to bring small Romantic touches to Mozart is actually absent here, with the result that her performance is stately and elegant without being particularly moving. Throughout her Mozart cycle, Shaham has shown herself to be a thoughtful interpreter with a close personal relationship with the music – making her set of the Mozart sonatas one to which listeners will find themselves returning with pleasure again and again.

     It is too early to know for sure whether Vincent Larderet’s planned four-disc cycle of Ravel’s complete solo piano music will be a must-have, but certainly the first of these AVIE discs points in a very positive direction. All the music on the CD will be quite familiar to Ravel aficionados – but not necessarily in the form in which it is heard here. In particular, Larderet offers the original solo-piano versions of Valses nobles et sentimentales (1911) and Pavane pour une infante défunte (1899). There is an angularity and insistence, rather than the typical underlying delicacy, to Larderet’s handling of the opening of Valses nobles et sentimentales, which gives his altogether gentler approach to Assez lent and Modéré a greater-than-usual contrast. The dissonances of Presque lent come through quite clearly here, and the overall impression of the entire work is of a not-altogether-fond set of reminiscences of a bygone age, with the Épilogue having something of a funereal cast about it. Pavane pour une infante défunte, on the other hand, is pervaded by gentleness and a berceuse-like sense of relaxation. The other works on this CD receive equally personalized and equally convincing readings. Miroirs (1904-05) is the longest, its five movements lasting more than half an hour. The very carefully considered pauses at the start of Oiseaux tristes show just how sensitive Larderet is to the nuances of Ravel’s style, while the rhythmic vitality of Alborada del gracioso is particularly notable. Larderet plays Jeux d’eau (1901) with exceptional grace and fluidity, and the Sonatine (1903-05) comes across with easy elegance and a pervasive touch of foundational sweetness that conveys a strong sense of Impressionism even without any specific scene-painting. Throughout this release, Larderet demonstrates impeccable pianistic technique combined with an unusual level of sensitivity to Ravel’s tonal colors and his free and variable treatment of rhythm and harmony. If the remaining recordings in this planned cycle are performed as tastefully and with as much style and understanding as this one, Larderet will have established himself as an absolutely top-of-the-line interpreter of Ravel’s works for solo piano.

     The six-volume and projected four-volume sets by Shaham and Larderet certainly represent respectable-size versions of complete cycles of their respective works. But they do not hold a candle, in terms of completeness, to some sets of CDs that aim to encompass a truly enormous amount of music. The ongoing Vivaldi Project on Naïve, at 69 releases and counting (and counting and counting!), is the champion for sheer enormity and ambition – but it has been in process only since 2000, and in terms of sheer longevity, it does not measure up to Bridge Records’ truly amazing commitment to recording and releasing the complete music of George Crumb (1929-2022), which has been an ongoing project since 1982. The final volume in this amazingly extended series, No. 21, is now available, and while nothing on it will likely bring a new audience to Crumb’s oeuvre, the works on this (+++) CD can serve as an excellent introduction to elements of Crumb’s style for those who do want to explore it – and a confirmation of his importance for those who are already aficionados. What is interesting is that Volume 21 includes Crumb’s second acknowledged composition and his second-to-last: Sonata for Solo Violoncello (1955) and Kronos-Kryptos (2019-2020), respectively. Crumb’s mother was a cellist with the Charleston Symphony Orchestra, so his three-movement solo cello work must have had personal resonance for him, but what is most evident in it is the extent of Webern’s influence and some early instances of Crumb’s preoccupation with unusual ways of playing standard instruments – most evidently here in the concluding Toccata, which Timothy Eddy performs particularly enthusiastically. As for Kronos-Kryptos, whose title means “Time-Secret,” it is subtitled “Four Tableaux for Percussion Quintet” and is done to a turn by the Curtis Institute of Music Ensemble 20/21 (Yoonseo Kang, Tae McLoughlin, Hamza Able, Griffin Harrison, and guest artist Andrew Malonis – the work is intended for four players but played here by five). This piece is an In Memoriam for Crumb’s daughter, Ann, who had recorded some of his music and who died at Crumb’s home in 2019. The four movements’ titles are typical of contemporary works (not just Crumb’s) and relate at best marginally to the music: Easter Dawning, A Ghostly Barcarolle, Drummers of the Apocalypse, and Appalachian Echoes (Look Homeward, Angel). The personal connection here is certainly clearer and deeper than any in the solo-cello sonata. The music itself, though, evinces no notable personal elements and does not sound especially different from other Crumb works in its focus on timbre and instrumental color, and on the creation of a sound world to envelop the audience. The third and shortest movement, with its vocal interjections amid a cascade of pounded intensity, is the most effective; the fourth, which is surely meant to be the most heartfelt, comes across mostly as a kind of lukewarm “cosmos music” in the Ligeti mode, almost as if Crumb is deliberately holding back some of his strongly felt emotions. In addition to the early and late works on this CD, there are two separate versions of a piece from the middle of Crumb’s compositional career: Processional for solo piano, which dates to 1983. The disc opens with this work in its keyboard version, played stylishly and sensitively by Gilbert Kalish; the CD ends with Marcantonio Barone’s performance of an extended-piano version that includes inside-the-piano touches that add nothing to the music except the sense that it is trying to be more avant-garde than it actually is. Crumb was an intelligent and well-respected composer who is certainly honored by the posthumous completion of the monumental effort to make all his works available on CD. Nevertheless, his music remains highly variable in effect and effectiveness. It is an acquired taste that listeners not already committed to it are unlikely to wish to acquire based on the final disc in this impressive four-decade recording project.