Pianist Ivan Ilić is something of a specialist in obscure music, and that of composer Joseph Jongen certainly qualifies. His works are known mostly to organists. The piano preludes heard here perhaps reflect that background, with dense, contrapuntal textures. In sets of pieces written in 1922 and 1940 (the 24 Préludes), Jongen turns to the venerable form of the prelude. The set of 24 Petits Préludes dans tous les tons ("24 Little Preludes in All the Keys") is an attractive group that would make a good comparison with the similar set by Shostakovich. Jongen's pieces incorporate Impressionist and post-Impressionist harmonies into a tonal framework within a severely restricted space; most of the preludes are between one and two minutes in length. The earlier set of 13 Preludes, Op. 69, are pictorial or have other evocative titles; they are less economical but still enjoyable. Ilić delivers understated performances that present Jongen in the best light. Chandos' sound from Potton Hall in Suffolk is admirably clear and perfectly idiomatic. © James Manheim /TiVo

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Of the many collaborations between director Jacques Demy, composer Michel Legrand, and star Catherine Deneuve, 1970's Peau d'Ane is in many respects the most surreal and extravagant, if not the most accomplished. Where their earlier Umbrellas of Cherbourg and Young Girls of Rochefort were full-blown musicals steeped in contemporary pop and jazz motifs, Peau d'Ane -- a lavish adaptation of a Charles Perrault fairy tale complete with outrageous costumes and sets -- quite naturally boasts a more traditional and classical score, but while Legrand's songs and arrangements are certainly lovely, they nevertheless lack the spark and energy of his earlier efforts for Demy. Where both Cherbourg and Rochefort command attention like few motion picture scores, Peau d'Ane operates largely as background music. Only a few of the songs feature vocals, and among them only "Les Insults" is truly compelling. But until the film Peau d'Ane resurfaces on video, the score will have to do.© Jason Ankeny /TiVo

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With classic films like The Good, the Bad and the Ugly and Once Upon a Time in the West, Sergio Leone built his reputation as a master of the Western. A key part of these film's unique style was their soundtracks, all of which were crafted by Ennio Morricone: his singular mixture of avant-garde quirks, pop instrumentation, and traditional orchestral romanticism played a crucial role in helping Leone redefine what audiences expected from a Western. Giu la Testa is the soundtrack to Leone's last foray into the genre, and as a result there is a certain bittersweet romanticism that infuses the typical quirks present in a Morricone score: the title track may have a cut-up structure and some bizarre choral vocals, but the true heart of the composition is an emotionally searing wordless solo from Edda Dell'Orso that communicates heartache far better than any lyrics ever could. The sweetly crafted heartache of that moment is further elaborated on in cues like "Mesa Verde," which uses a gentle bed of strings to cushion a fragile, sad melody built on stately horns and some Spanish-flavored acoustic guitar, and "Dopo L'Esplosione," a quietly tragic tune that layers a heart-tugging, whistled melody with subtle orchestration. However, the album isn't all somber melodicism: Giu la Testa's sense of melancholy is balanced by some playful moments like "Scherzi a Parte," a jaunty reworking of elements from the main theme that contrasts a carefree whistled melody with odd electric keyboard riffs, and "Marcia Degla Accattoni," a clever cue that tarts up its march-styled orchestral melody with quirks galore (singers croaking nonsense syllables, unexpected mandolin parts, unexpected whistle, and harpsichord breaks). The remainder of the cues mostly revisit melodic elements from the main theme, but none ever wear out their welcome thanks to Morricone's relentlessly innovative touch as an arranger. All in all, Giu la Testa represents one of the towering achievements in Ennio Morricone's catalog, because it represents the one-of-a-kind blend of romanticism and musical innovation that defines his finest work in the Western soundtrack genre.© TiVo

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On An Overgrown Path, Leoš Janáček’s 15 pieces-spanning piano cycle, is here presented in a reshaped guise, arranged for string orchestra and played by the Camerata Zürich under lead violinist Igor Karsko’s direction. This is the premiere recording of the adaption, written by Daniel Rumler in 2017. Janáček’s composition is based on autobiographical fragments – memories from his youth and of his daughter Olga that are additionally contextualised on the recording by readings of poems, written and recited explicitly for this project by the French writer Maïa Brami. Her words, combined with the elaborate string reworkings, establish an insightful setting for Janáček’s music and uncover fresh paths through the original scores. Josef Suk’s Meditation on the Old Czech Chorale St. Wenceslas and Antonín Dvořák’s Notturno, thematically bound to the cycle’s folkloric backdrop, create an appropriate frame. Much of the cycle On An Overgrown Path – previously captured in its original design on the ECM New Series release "A Recollection" by András Schiff – had originally been conceived for harmonium, a popular domestic instrument in Janáček’s days, and was only later rearranged for piano, the instrument the remaining pieces were written for. Ultimately divided into two volumes – referred to as "books", – the first, comprising ten pieces, was published in 1911, and the second posthumously in 1942. Moving seamlessly between subtle harmonic shifts, generous folkloric gestures and more somber scenes from Janáček’s past, the cycle’s nuances are respectfully translated to strings on the recording, and the alternatingly light and dark themes that flare up across the fifteen pieces turn into a compelling chiaroscuro. Violinist Daniel Rumler created the string arrangements at the suggestion of Igor Karsko, the Camerata’s concertmaster and current artistic director, who followed in the footsteps of Thomas Demenga, the ensemble’s director from 2011 to 2020. It was Demenga who had recruited Maïa Brami, asking the writer to draft texts to go along with the cycle. Brami has taken to the task with great care, opening little windows into Janáček’s memories, drawn from different aspects of the composer’s life. In a foreword to her texts, included in the booklet with liner notes by Thomas Meyer, Brami shares her thoughts on the cycle, as she imagines a seasoned Leoš Janáček returning to his native forest: “As I listened to the piece, I saw the old man, the halo of his white mane at dusk. I saw him go deep into the forest from which he had been torn as a child – that regained kingdom, an eternal source of inspiration – and go back in time for one last journey, to the overgrown path that symbolises life”. In On An Overgrown Path, contrasts are omnipresent and reveal a rare wealth of colours and textures. After only a minute into “Our evenings”, the opening piece unveils everything from romantic sighs and pastoral idyll to interruptions by turbulent gloom, offering a short preview of the abundance of ideas and subjects that pervade the cycle. Outlining its essence, Thomas Meyer accurately summarizes On An Overgrown Path as: “a collection of intimate memories and inklings, for example of his (Janáček’s) own youth or of Olga, all captured in a spare, transparent and highly unusual tonal language”. As it’s divided among the strings of the Camerata Zürich, this tonal language is highlighted from a fresh perspective and endowed with new transparency. Bookending On An Overgrown Path on both sides, Josef Suk’s Meditation on the Old Czech Chorale St. Wenceslas and Antonín Dvořák’s Notturno act as preface and epilogue to the cycle. The pieces’ connection to Janáček are exposed – besides the obvious fact that their composers are all Czech – by Janáček, Dvořák and Suk’s common concern for Bohemian folklore. Suk, Dvořák’s pupil and son-in-law, created his meditation after the outbreak of World War I “in the hope of Czech independence from the Austro-Hungarian monarchy”, basing it on the 12th century chorale as an act of rebellion. Dvořák’s single-movement composition, originally the slow movement of his early String Quartet No. 4 in E minor, had been used in an abbreviated form as the first of two slow movements in his String Quintet in G major, Op. 77, but was later excised and re-arranged to the version presented here. Its patient harmonic pulse receives a vivacious treatment by the Camerata Zürich, concluding the programme on a hopeful note. © ECM New Series