Brouwer, Castelnuovo-Tedesco, Di Marino, Gnattali, Margola: Las Sonatas

Description

The guitar has a strange fate in the world of classical music. It seems to be condemned to the role of an outsider. Only very seldom does it appear in a symphonic orchestra (to the point that auditions for orchestra guitarists are practically never held). Also in the field of chamber music, it seems reluctant to join the other great instruments of the classical tradition. One of the notable exceptions, of course, is the duo for violin and guitar, but a large share of merit for its huge repertoire is to be given to Nicolò Paganini alone. The guitar rarely enters into the established ensembles of the classical tradition, such as the string quartet or the wind quintet, to name but two.
This segregation may seem unfair and slightly sad, but there are reasons for it. Firstly (and this is yet another peculiarity of the guitar), most of those who left great guitar works were guitarists themselves. So they could feel less at ease when writing for other instruments, and find it difficult to adequately involve chamber music partners. Secondly, the guitar is a self-sufficient instrument, since it has a very wide range, and it can play both a melody and its accompaniment, but also complex polyphonic textures. So, the guitar seems not to “need” any chamber music partner.
Of course, the piano in turn is a self-sufficient instrument, yet it frequently plays with all kinds of instruments and ensembles. Here another problem comes to the fore: the guitar’s sound may reach very high volumes, but is best heard and appreciated in a more delicate setting and with lighter sonorities. Thus, the guitar is reluctant to join forces with large or powerful ensembles. Moreover, the sound of the guitar’s plucked strings tends to fade – similar to what happens to the piano’s – and therefore the combination of the guitar with a larger ensemble of bowed strings or winds (which can hold the sound more effectively) seems to be inconvenient.
Notwithstanding these reasons, it is really a pity that the guitar is not more frequently present – both as a soloist and as a chamber music partner – on the stages of our concert seasons and in our programmes.
One chamber music partner who does like to play with the guitar is, however, the flute. These two instruments are very different from each other. The flute is a wind instrument, capable – as previously said – not only to hold, but also to modulate a sound after it has begun. It is almost exclusively a melodic instrument (with notable exceptions in contemporary music) and its range is decidedly high. The guitar is capable of harmony, melody and counterpoint; its range is medium-low (though it can reach very high pitches). This odd couple works very well together, in spite of what one might think beforehand.
On the plane of the volume, the flute is not overwhelming, and is comparable to the guitar; they balance each other very well, complementing the other instrument’s problematic issues and putting into light their talents.
Even on the practical plane, both instruments are easy to carry: this may seem a very trivial remark, but it is not the least reason for the success of this duo.
More relevantly and importantly, these two instruments descend from some of the oldest musical instruments of humankind. The combination of plucked strings with blowing in a tube has always sounded well, and thousands of years of musical experience have provided a formidable cultural background for the recent experiments with this instrumental combination.
The repertoire recorded in this Da Vinci Classics album is a fascinating itinerary through the world of late twentieth-century music, with particular focus on “dialogues” between Italy and America (both the US and Latin America).
The oldest piece recorded here dates from 1963, and it was written by Radamés Gnattali (1906-1988). As it happens, Gnattali’s name is one which reveals much about the person it indicates even before making his acquaintance. The surname clearly reveals the Italian origin of its bearer; the name, however, might puzzle all those who are not passionate about Italian opera. In fact, at a time when most children were given saints’ names, Gnattali’s parents Christened three of their five children with names excerpted from Verdi’s operas (among Radamés’ siblings were Aida and Ernani!).
In spite of the Italian origins of his family name, Gnattali was born in Brazil from Italian emigrants. His parents were both musicians, although his father had not been a professional in his native land. In Brazil his talent was acknowledged, and he became an appreciated bassoonist and conductor. Their son, Radamés, was also educated in the field of music, playing both the piano and the violin; he also demonstrated a precocious talent as a conductor, leading an orchestra even before his tenth birthday. He also learnt to play traditional Brazilian instruments, and this is a typical trait of his musicianship: he purposefully intertwined various musical genres, creating bridges between seemingly distinct worlds. This was not appreciated by all, however. Great representatives of Brazilian traditional music were disconcerted by Gnattali’s use of Western instruments (particularly of those with jazz connotations) in his versions of Brazilian musical types, such as the samba; whilst the gatekeepers of the Classical tradition disapproved of his use of traditional Brazilian instruments in the symphonic orchestra.
Fortunately, however, Gnattali went on and kept searching for his own voice. Life was not always easy for him, and he was seldom free from financial difficulties; yet, he managed to find his place in the world of music, also thanks to his entrepreneurship and to his capability to move easily from one genre to the other and from one role to the other (including conducting, teaching, playing the piano etc.). His Sonatina, recorded here, was written in 1959; it exists also in a version for flute and piano. As happened with many other works by Radamés, the original score is carefully copied by his sister Aida, who helped him as a copyist and also as a duo partner on stage. This piece is full of melodic intensity and of marked contrasts, with fascinating imitations and percussive elements; the last movement is a thrilling cavalcade with plenty of virtuosity and vivacity.
Two years after this Sonatina, the other piece by this name recorded here saw the light. It was written in 1965 by Mario Castelnuovo-Tedesco. The composer needs little presentation as he is unanimously acknowledged among the greatest Italian composers of the twentieth century, and as a particularly appreciated creator of guitar works. Born in 1895 in a Jewish family, he quickly established himself as a respected figure in the world of contemporaneous music, also thanks to the good offices of Alfredo Casella. His promising career, with many important roles and performances, was abruptly interrupted by the infamous racial laws enacted by the Fascist regime. He then emigrated to the US, where his career took off once more; however, in order to earn his living, he had also to compose many scores for Hollywood films. On the positive side, this provided him with an extraordinary knowledge of compositional technique and effects. His Sonatina is vivid and luminous, at time reminiscent of Poulenc. At its heart, the sweet Siciliana brings back memories of other touching versions of this slow and melancholic dance, whilst here too the third movement is a firework of brilliancy. This piece had been commissioned by flutist Werner Tripp (1930-2003) and guitarist Konrad Ragossnig (b. 1932) who premiered it.
Ten years later (1976), Franco Margola wrote his Sonata Quarta for the same ensemble. Similar to Castelnuovo-Tedesco, Margola’s talent was noticed early on by Alfredo Casella, who actively promoted his music. Similar to Castelnuovo-Tedesco, Margola suffered in the second World War. On the one hand, the war’s casualties included one of his operas, whose score was lost forever during a war action; on the other, he underwent deportation in Germany and was condemned to forced labour. Fortunately, after the war’s end, he was able to resume his activity and to become one of the most appreciated Italian musicians of the twentieth century. His Sonata beautifully expresses his talent for the elegance of both form and content, with refined counterpoint and imitations, but also with pronounced lyricism and challenging passages.
Twenty more years divide this work from the Sonata by Roberto Di Marino, written in 1998 and premiered in 2000 in Trento by Jessica Dalsant and Andrea Gasperi. Di Marino, born in 1956, graduated in composition, choral music and choral conducting, jazz and arrangement for wind band. The eclecticism of his musical vocation is revealed by his catalogue, with original works and arrangements in a variety of styles. This Sonata is a very demanding work, also on the compositional plane. In its first movement, the classical Sonata form is merged with the Fugue, and the two forms share the subject/principal theme. In spite of this compositional rigour, the rhythmical aspect is reminiscent of Argentinian tango. Similarly, the milonga permeates the second movements with its intertwining melodies, and the third movement is a very virtuoso piece requiring the utmost technical accomplishment of both players.
The programme is completed by a famous work by Leo Brouwer (b. 1939), one of the most celebrated guitarists and composers of contemporaneity. Coming from a musicians’ family, Brouwer was born in Cuba but received his musical education in the US. His language is influenced by both Cuban folk music and the European avantgardes, thus acquiring uniquely personal traits. The dedicatee of Mitología de las Aguas is guitarist and composer Sef Albertz, whose first name is encrypted in the score using the German notation system. The piece describes the cartography of Latin America, as specified by the composer himself: “The composition is a sort of sound film about the powerful elemental force of the waters of my continent; we have the Amazon! This music is thinking about it”. However, it does not represent a musical postcard; rather it profoundly reflects the deepest features of the places and peoples of Latin America.
Thus the circle closes: from Latin America to Latin America, in dialogue with Italy.

Chiara Bertoglio © 2021