Italian Concertos

I can't get enough of Alexandre Tharaud's recording of Bach's Italian Concertos. I've been listening to it continuously ever since I got it a few weeks ago. As frequently happens with these things, it was an impulse purchase, and one I was snared into making by an ad. The ad was on the back page of the liner notes for the fantastic recording Tharaud made accompanying Jean-Guihen Queyras on Schubert's Arpeggione sonata.

First, there are the works themselves. I was not familiar with the collection until now, and didn't realize that save for the Italian Concerto itself – a three-movement work in energetic, extroverted F major – the set actually consists of Bach's keyboard transcriptions of music by other composers, all of them Italian. It seems odd to us today that someone of Bach's stature would bother, but keep in mind that the stature is something we assigned to him in our day, and it was common then, and in fact a sign of respect, to transcribe others' work. Plus, Bach shows impeccable taste in his choice of source material.

The opening work – a slow movement from one of Vivaldi's d-minor violin concertos is alone worth the price of admission. Its beautiful, melancholy two and a half minutes work wonderfully on the piano and should put to rest any claims that Vivaldi was not a genius-level composer, even if it takes Bach to prove it. Tharaud follows with more Vivaldi, a g-minor concerto from his Op. 4, of which I happen to have a “normal,” violin-and-orchestra recording. The opening movement is readily recognizable, even if the keyboard version has a little less passion and brio. The rest, though, is where it becomes obvious just how much of an accomplishment a good transcription is – it is and isn't the same piece of music. The notes are there, but the feel is completely different. The slow movement, in particular, I think is more interesting on the keyboard.

The sleepers of the set are two concertos by the Marcello brothers, Alessandro (oboe) and Benedetto (violin). Little more than historical curiosities today, they nevertheless acquit themselves well, at least through Bach's filter. Here, it is obvious that the music is not originally Bach's, or even Vivaldi's – more one-dimensional, the melodies are more straightforward, and the counterpoint noticeably leaner. Still, Bach saw something in them, and it's easy to see why – they are attractive pieces, a pleasure to listen to, and obviously virtuoso statements for their original instruments, making it that much more of a challenge to transcribe well. There is more stuff on the disc, and I'm not going to get into every track. Suffice it to say that there is not a dud among them, and some, like the closing Andante, believed to be by Torelli but never proven, are fascinating.

Then, there is Tharaud's playing. If you measure every attempt to play Bach on the piano against the way Glenn Gould played, or would have played, the same music, Tharaud is the anti-Gould. He is unabashedly pianistic, playing with great dynamics, an expansive, lyrical tone, and using the sustain pedal when he feels it suits the music. He is not an overwrought Romantic-era drama queen, however. Tharaud gets Bach. There is no smearing or glossing over. Every note is clearly articulated. His rhythm is metronomic. The counterpoint is crystal-clear, and far easier for the modern ear to grasp, I should point out, than it could ever be on the harpsichord. While I am not advocating a dichotomous choice of instrument in either one's listening or one's playing, this CD is the perfect illustration why Bach can, should, and indeed must, be played and recorded on the piano. The purists can shut up one last time.