The recording début of the Genoese pianist-composer Bruno Mereu invites a brief digression on musical form, and in particular on those forms consecrated to — and by — the pianoforte. If we set aside the vast pedagogical literature — within which, to be sure, genuine masterpieces are to be found — we may sketch a broad distinction between small and large forms, ranging from the occasional album-leaf to substantial works of imposing design. This disc lies, as it were, equidistant between those two poles: it juxtaposes pages of almost aphoristic brevity with the two hundred bars of the Ballata — twelve minutes of unalloyed pianistic tour de force — that constitute the keystone of the second work recorded here.
Mereu’s pianism draws upon a variety of idioms belonging to the Romantic and late-Romantic periods without lapsing into a banal re-presentation of ready-made or merely re-worked models. His stylistic co-ordinates — ripe, one may safely predict, for further fruitful development — already reveal a firm grasp, and assimilation, of the manifold currents of thought that animate the Romantic piano repertoire. Further witness to that absorption, sporadic though it may be, is provided by the more-than-occasional Brahmsian vein of Prelude No. 1, which opens yet wider poetic vistas by adopting a type of language that is certainly not the primary point of reference for Mereu’s poetics. Such a trait presupposes a profound knowledge of the differing poetic and communicative registers of the piano literature, to be invoked according to the emotional and structural climate one wishes to create.
In preludio and Bozze per un incontro, the two piano collections presented here, are similar in layout (seven and ten pieces respectively) yet clearly orientated towards distinct expressive goals. Their foundational tone, as noted, is that of overtly Romantic pianism, poised in deliberate balance between introspective (and expressive) impulse and a pronounced virtuosic bent. The stylistic echoes point, firmly yet without affectation, to Liszt and Rachmaninov, while leaving room — as will be shown case by case — for telling forays towards other compositional models. In a certain sense the two anthologies prove mutually specular and complementary. The first, comprising short pieces, reveals the composer’s poetics almost instantaneously, although the deliberately modest dimensions of the individual numbers appear to demand a deeper exploration — an exploration duly proffered to the listener in the second set, a long and wide-ranging musical journey of broader sweep and more involving emotional profile.
In preludio addresses, with full constructive awareness, the stylistic traits and formulae of nineteenth- and early-twentieth-century piano writing. Within a striking expressive variety we find, for instance, the intimate confessional tone of No. 1, seemingly devised to temper the virtuoso exuberance that, as remarked, glances towards Liszt and Rachmaninov; those two masters inspire the stormy character of Nos. 2 and 3, whereas the accompanied melody of No. 4 — the geometric centre of this polyptych, both in its writing and in its equidistant emotional stance vis-à-vis the extremes — displays marked Chopinesque ancestry. The dramatically stürmisch temperament of No. 5 wavers in precarious equilibrium between Schumann’s passionate gestures and Scriabin’s anxieties; from the latter, too, stems the hallucinated, estranged atmosphere of No. 6, a veritable wild ride that, in its writing, recalls Chopin’s Sonata op. 35. Lurking in the innermost folds of this troubled movement is, shortly before the close, a foretaste of the melodic line that ushers in the sudden change of climate in Prelude No. 7. Lost amid mist-shrouded distances and tolling bells, this final number enfolds us in the deliberate elusiveness of the Adagio con slancio (an intriguing, indeed compelling, directive) which, in its discursive travail, leaves every narrative hypothesis unresolved, as though urging the listener towards the second, more substantial chapter of this brief yet intense existential saga.
The answer to the questions posed by those seven pieces is entrusted to the more demanding collection — both in scale and in musical development — entitled Bozze per un incontro. Strictly speaking, the word Bozze (“Drafts”) would suggest that the hoped-for meeting has remained at the level of intention — unless, of course, events prove otherwise. However one chooses to view the matter, this second polyptych, aided by the captions that replace mere numbering, places more concrete issues on the table: we encounter people, familiar musical forms, more expansive structures. And we wonder, understandably, which of the three female protagonists — Francesca, Elise, or Clara — ultimately carries the day. Let us therefore examine more closely the ten tesserae of the second mosaic that Mereu offers us. The composer himself explains that ‘The title of the set refers to my wish to meet the different styles, forms and suggestions of the past through notes (drafts) re-elaborated according to my personal taste. The three female figures are three different kinds of homage. Francesca derives from a literary source, specifically from Ezra Pound’s poem of that name.’
It is precisely with Francesca that the narrative parabola of the Bozze begins: a complex piece divided into several contrasting sections, within whose fabric circulate allusions to Sergei Rachmaninov’s melodic style. ‘I should like the emphasis to fall on how the various themes meet, now in a collected mood, now almost forcing their asperity’, to quote Mereu’s own words. He continues: ‘As the poem itself says: “Was angry when they spoke your name / In ordinary places”. Francesca serves, I might say, as an overture to the collection — a fantasia-like piece through which I wished to convey unconditional love for the past and, at the same time, the feverish search for a new, non-vulgar idea, in a restless, almost wild frame of mind.’
The twelve bars of the brief and serene Intermezzo act as a bridge to the second encounter, with the volatile and passionate Elise. At first hearing this ‘portrait’ may seem fragmentary, yet it proves highly coherent in portraying the enigmatic, introspective nature of the ethereal young woman. One is much moved by the repeated quotation — surely unconscious, if only for reasons of age — of the celebrated theme from the 1970 film Love Story.
In the next four mosaics — Invenzione, Sarabanda, Scherzo, A tre — whose emotional weight is at times lighter (as the deliberately technical titles appear to indicate), there emerge the Ravelian lightness emanating from the Sarabanda and the austere composure of A tre, whose ascetic economy of writing again calls Ravel to mind (the Fugue from Le tombeau de Couperin, to be precise). The central section of the Scherzo deserves separate mention: it seems to spring from the enchanted hand of a redivivus Mendelssohn, so gracious is the magic exhaled by this page.
The seeming detachment from reality suggested by those four numbers stands in deliberate contrast to the structural and narrative complexity of the Ballata, the longest and most elaborate movement of the entire set. In speaking of Ballades one inevitably invokes the four by Chopin — though Brahms’s should not, please, be underestimated — and Mereu’s piece is no exception. Beyond the writing’s rhapsodic, impassioned tone, what strikes the ear is the frequent recurrence — in the more introspective moments — of a Chopinesque turn of phrase (a fortuitous melodic-rhythmic coincidence with the Scherzo op. 31) that becomes a kind of soothing leitmotif within a movement whose accents are often storm-tossed. It is nothing other than a transfiguration of the work’s principal thematic idea; within the Ballade’s narrative fabric it seems to take us by the hand and lead us through the different stages of the tale.
The affectionate Schumannesque quotation that colours Nécessaire (how much intensity in a mere six bars!) brings us, finally, to Clara — another nod to Schumann: coincidence? — who, with quiet discretion, draws the curtain, leaving unresolved the question intimated, or foreshadowed, by the collection’s title: will these drafts in the end shed their provisional nature to become a true encounter?
What message do we glean from this recording début? Mereu’s stylistic fingerprint — summarisable, reductively yet aptly, as eclecticism, versatility, diversification — speaks unambiguously of the continuing viability (in practical terms, ‘market share’) of a melodic, harmonic and structural language capable of re-proposing compositional models inherited from a more or less recent past. Such viability endures because creativity, in the most diverse sectors of artistic production, recognises neither labels, borders nor predetermined paths; and public favour (or, if one prefers, success) depends in equal measure upon the intrinsic value of the product and upon its efficacy in meeting the consumer’s expectations.
Giulio Odero © 2025