The full, revised score of Copland's first ballet Grohg lay miscatalogued, thought lost, in the Library of Congress until the late 1980s. That is when Oliver Knussen found it. Grohg was the most ambitious undertaking of Copland's Paris years, the Nadia Boulanger years, and is an important piece of the Copland jigsaw. Its inspiration was Nosferatu, as portrayed in the 1921 German horror film. But only superficially, only in the sense that it alludes to silent-film melodrama of the macabre. Grohg is a kind of necrophile Svengali of the dance. The dead dance to his tunes, for his pleasure. This is X-rated Petrushka.
And, of course, the close proximity of Stravinsky can be felt in more than just the motoric rhythmic gyrations of the scene-setting ''Dance of the Servitors''. An odd mix, this. On the one hand is the puppet-like bassoon of folklore, the Petrushka connection, and on the other, the racy wood-block and xylophone-spiked world of Poulenc. Then there are Copland's own, newly liberated 'Americanisms': the Opium-eater's dance with its 'visions of jazz', slinking in like a kind of oriental blues; or the provocative burlesque variant of the Streetwalker's waltz—eerily sexy with piano and muted trumpet emerging from the shadows. The Latinos are in there too—feisty, chilli-hot woodwinds, a vital element in the hallucinatory final scene. Knussen and the Cleveland Orchestra show exactly what they are made of in set-pieces like this, and Argo bring them to your listening room with time-honoured clarity and brilliance. But it's French sensibility which lends Grohg's last moments an unexpected pathos. Petrushka's ghost sensed if not seen.
By far the best music on the disc, though, is sandwiched between the fledgling ballets. Prelude for chamber orchestra is a re-working of material extracted from Copland's Symphony for organ and orchestra and owes everything to Boulanger's tender, loving care. At least, that is the effect she and her influence would appear to have had on its tactile scoring. And there is more where that came from—albeit fleetingly—in the cool and graceful Apollonesque idyll at the heart of Hear ye! Hear ye!. Now here is a novelty: a courtroom melodrama-cum-burlesque-cum-whodunit; a cabaret of contradictory re-enactments complete with gunshots and the crack of the Judge's gavel. Yet, in truth, it's dance music in search of its choreography. Copland's quirky off-kilter jazz just does not convince in its own right. It is still more of a gimmick than a compulsion. Give the young Copland his due, though: he lays down a band sound that is a formidable blueprint for the future. Leonard Bernstein was to play on it. American urban ballet starts here. First recordings, first-class quality.'