The Rite of Spring - 100 Years On

With the climate as it is in arts and music now, it is difficult to imagine the full extent of shock and rage unleashed on the night of May 29th, 1913. At the Théâtre des Champs-Élysées, Stravinsky's Le Sacre du Printemps, The Rite of Spring, was receiving its first staging. It is no exaggeration to say what followed changed the course of 20th century music. In the third chapter of his book The Rest Is Noise Alex Ross sets the scene brilliantly, recalling how even Diaghilev was nervous at rehearsals when he became aware of the content. Technically this music is remarkably difficult to get right, its rhythmic complexities doubled with the composer's writing for instruments on the edge of their capabilities. Difficult for dancers too, which would only have heightened the tension at the famously scandalous premiere.

Since the Rite's reception history is well documented, it is interesting to look at how Decca have stolen a march on their competitors by issuing two sets to mark the anniversary. The first is a potentially grueling but probably ultimately fascinating 20CDs of alternative versions of the ballet, moving from Eduard van Beinum's 1946 Concertgebouw recording through to Gustavo Dudamel's 2010 offering with the Simón Bólivar Orchestra. The second is a rather more palatable four discs that offers six versions, from Pierre Monteux in 1956 through to Esa-Pekka Salonen in 2006, together with an audio documentary that takes us back to the night in Paris.

The recordings chosen for this smaller release could have been more varied, however, for they weigh down heavily on the side of the digital era. Not that any of those recordings are bad, but they are quite similar, and show how although technical prowess in orchestral performance is probably at an all time high, there is a propensity on the part of conductors and studio engineers to highlight technical brilliance over musical expression. I would have preferred to have heard Ernest Ansermet, who knew Stravinsky well, along with Sir Colin Davis and Claudio Abbado, whose versions are on the bigger set. Boulez is the right inclusion, though, and the detail he secures in his reading is remarkable, coupled with a composer's understanding of how the piece works.

The big version that is missing from this set, of course, is the composer himself – for Sony hold the rights to that particular version. Thanks to Spotify, that was the obvious place to start, and the speed of his own interpretation is striking. The intensity is remarkable too, with a terrifying climax to the Round Dance and in the Chosen Victim, where the sheer weight of percussion is given a sharp, brassy edge. Time and again Stravinsky pushes the music forward with a ferocious inevitability, portraying the terrible fate of the dancer chosen to dance herself to death.

After hearing the composer's own thoughts, the documentary is a good place to begin the Decca listening. Written and narrated by Jon Tolansky, it brings together some interesting strands of fact and comment on the ballet and its first performance. It begins by recounting Stravinsky's vision of a girl dancing herself to death as the culmination of a pagan ritual – the inspiration for the ballet – and progresses to interviews with Sir Colin Davis, Bernard Keeffe and Valery Gergiev, as well as Dame Monica Mason, who danced as the Chosen One in Sir Kenneth Macmillan's revival of the ballet in 1962. Given the technical difficulties, it would have been good to have heard from an orchestral player too, though there is some discussion on how Stravinsky's revision is much easier to follow, the composer having changed the rest values in the orchestral parts.

Gergiev talks about how 'you have to imagine why it could be so scandalous', and that you have to look at 'not technical qualities but human ones, and a spiritual strength'. Those comments alone do much to explain why his version, for me, goes back to the heart of the ballet and what Stravinsky wanted to hear and see. There is an authenticity to the melodies that brings out their primal origins, especially in the melodic inflections of the woodwind, and the orchestral sounds are a little less polished, as you might expect in a pagan ritual rather than an orchestral showpiece.

For that reason Gergiev trumps many modern versions, the rough-hewn edge to the St Petersburg Philharmonic meaning that performance might not always be immaculate but that the music lives and breathes with real meaning. Chailly and Salonen are very fine versions but could be admired rather than loved, the sleek machines of the Concertgebouw and LA Philharmonic Orchestras doing their job but not always conveying the manic, unhinged tale that is unfolding.

The oldest version on the four discs is from Pierre Monteux, who conducted the premiere back in 1913. His 1956 recording is fascinating for that reason and many more, and he feels more in control of the music. His Auguries of Spring is a bit less ferocious, but very precise, and there is an incredibly vivid separation of Stravinsky's orchestrations three minutes in to the second part. The sound is very good, too.

Antal Dorati and the Detroit Symphony Orchestra are up next, in revolutionary Mercury Living Presence stereo, the ideal climate for an orchestral spectacular such as the Rite. The sound is indeed big, chrome plated even, but the rush of strings in the 'Ritual of Abduction' is a thrill, as is the seething mass of sound in the 'Dance of the Earth', over which the trumpets sound their fanfares. The otherworldly chill at the start of the second part is as disconcerting as any version, while the end is truly an eruption, Dorati showing off his balletic prowess in a reading that never has a dull moment.

An advantage of this Decca release is the price, with these six versions and documentary weighing in for little more than that of a full price CD. The care lavished on the issue is good, too, with incisive notes from Nigel Simeone. Through listening to so many versions the sense of scandal in Paris comes rushing back, the sheer boldness and rebelliousness of Stravinsky's approach taking no prisoners and laid bare once again – as no doubt he would have wanted it to be on its 100th anniversary. It will be interesting to see how other record companies observe the landmark nearer to May – but with what they have available, Decca have certainly done the Rite and its recorded history justice.

Songs Without Words - as Mendelssohn might have heard them

As far as I can make out this new disc from Ronald Brautigam on the Swedish BIS label is the first release of Mendelssohn's solo piano music on the fortepiano. Andreas Staier has occasionally ventured into the composer's world, while Brautigam himself has recorded the concertos on a modern instrument, but this is the first opportunity to hear the Songs Without Words on something approaching the instrument for which they were written.

The booklet of this handsomely packaged release is a very good place to start, for it details the instrument used, modeled on a Pleyel similar to the one Mendelssohn himself used to play. As with many 'period instrument' performances it takes the ear a while to attune to the sound, but it's an appealing sound, and Brautigam's sense of ebb and flow with the phrasing is natural and well thought out. As a result he gives the listener plenty to enjoy.

The choice of tempo is the only recurring issue that might hamper enjoyment. Generally these interpretations are on the fast side, which suits some 'Songs' better than others, the rippling textures occasionally becoming choppy without the use of the sustain pedal. Compare this with the recordings of Daniel Barenboim, who in general spends more time with the music, shaping the melodic phrases more obviously than Brautigam in the faster music. A good example of this is Op.38/5 in A minor, which feels just a bit too fast and constricted, but the following 'Duett' in A flat major is just right, an affectionate amble.

The two 'songs' numbered Op.19/5 and Op.38/3 are also good examples of of a tempo taken much faster than might be expected, but the tempestuous G minor piece, Op.53/3, is an indication of where a robust approach works well. The 'Jägerlied', Op.19/3, is also well suited to the crisper style that Brautigam applies to it, and the Pleyel seems to be evoking a hunting horn. Meanwhile the last in the Op.53 book has plenty of charm and a good bit of humour, and the slight choppiness here is actually rather endearing.

In the slower pieces, when Brautigam takes time out, the results are enchanting. The slower numbers in E major (Op.30/3) and A major (Op.38/4) are given plenty of air, with a nicely subtle ending to the former that gives an indication of the intimacy that can be found by the best performers in this music. The first of the Op.38 book flows nicely, with some judicious ebb and flow of the tempo, while the following piece in C minor conveys well Mendelssohn's less conventional way with harmony.

Despite a few reservations, then, this is an interesting revival of pieces that have become well known to student pianists, but which have maybe become a bit complacent on the ear, a bit too familiar. Brautigam challenges that, and although he might not always be obviously successful, the music is thrown into a revealing context because of his approach. As such, his approach is important and fascinating.

Rose tinted spectacles and His Master's Voice

Donning my rose tinted spectacles, I'm going to attempt to explain why I think the downward spiral HMV are currently suffering is a bad thing – because as we all know it is likely to ultimately lead to the shop's demise.

I have a love / hate relationship with the main HMV store at Oxford Circus – 'love' because I find it musically inspiring, and 'hate' because until the last couple of years it has parted me from cash far too often!

Oxford Street was a lot different when I first went in there in 1994 though. It may sound sad but I was pretty awestruck by the sheer amount of stuff there was on the shelves, and an hour later I had spent £150 of my student loan on tapes. Yes, tapes. I can remember some of them – it was the week of release of Massive Attack's Protection, and I also bought Blur's Leisure, Peter Gabriel's Secret World live album and The Prodigy's Music For A Jilted Generation. Quite a start, and that's before I even discovered the classical section!

Classical was once a haven in HMV, though typically it existed in a separate room all to itself, away from all that nasty pop music. There were great long swathes of shelves though, and when I moved to London in the mid-1990s my first weekend found me stocking up on Richard Strauss, Sibelius and Shostakovich. Moving with the times (!) I had now graduated to CD.

I have HMV to thank for so many musical discoveries. On the classical front that usually meant seeing recordings I never knew existed, and parting with my cash for Bartók String Quartets, Fauré piano music, and, once I'd graduated to opera, both versions of Mussorgsky's Boris Godunov - though I remember being under the influence of alcohol when I brought that! Perhaps I'd turned in to what has been described as £50 man, the person who'd spend about that per week on CDs.

The in store gigs were a perk, too, and of those I can recall I've seen Junior Senior, Teenage Fanclub, Kings of Leon (when I still liked them!) and Dodgy, where it was so crowded we practised the old trick of going up and down the escalators to get a better view!

Now, things are a lot different, and the decline has been coming for a good few years now. The classical department still throws up the odd surprise, but for a long time the full price CDs have been weighing in at up to £17 – an expenditure I simply can't justify. The problem is thrown into greater relief when shops such as the second hand Gramex, near Waterloo, might have the same release in decent condition for just over £5. I used to spend ages going through the house and techno compilations, but that's a pointless exercise now – again, due to price.

I do still think though that it would be a huge shame if HMV goes to the wall. Having read posts on Twitter it would deprive a lot of town and city centres of the opportunity to buy music in the high street, but then that has perhaps only been an option for browsing, anyway, since most people buy their music online. I’m afraid I hold the supermarkets responsible for a lot of HMV's decline, with their deliberate undercutting of prices on a consistent basis, but then perhaps the music industry itself should also take some responsibility with its tendency to overprice, in the days when a new album release cost as much as £15 in CD form.

I guess this blog is a rambled attempt at dragging up some nostalgia, but it also gives me the chance to say that I really hope HMV survives in some way, even if – selfishly – that just means the Oxford Street store. It is something of a national institution, and its music should not be allowed to die out completely.