For all its commitment to baroque music, Opus 111 has never featured Bach prominently in its catalogue, so there is just a whiff of opportunism about this batch of seven mid-price reissues for the Bach anniversary year. With a St Matthew Passion in Mendelssohn’s cut-down version, two versions of The Art of Fugue and Volume 1 of an apparent complete harpsichord concerto cycle among the offerings, even Opus 111 could not claim that this is a carefully selected series rather than a rummage through the cupboard. The re-packaging, too, consists of little more than supplying each re-release with a slip-cover with a Rembrandt on the front, some complimentary press quotes on the back, and a portion of letter on the side so that a complete set of seven stored side-by-side spells out the word BACH (no doubt intended to make it a frustrating prospect to own only six and suffer the sight of the word BAH tormenting you every day from its place on the shelf).
Cynicism aside, there is certainly good value to be had here, with nothing slapdash about the performances, some of which are by Opus 111’s top artists. Heading the list by a whisker is French harpsichordist Pierre Hantai’s account of the Goldberg Variations, which deservedly won a Gramophone Award in the Baroque Instrumental category in 1994. Hantai is a player with the touch of a natural harpsichordist, as well as a more than nimble set of fingers, and his Goldberg s are crisp and elegant yet also rippling with technical expertise. Only the ‘Black Pearl’ variation disappoints, its sense of mystery and exploration somehow missing.
One of Opus 111’s biggest stars, of course, is Rinaldo Alessandrini, who, although better known in Monteverdi, has turned his hand to Bach on several occasions. His recording of three of the harpsichord concertos and the Triple Concerto, with himself as soloist leading the instrumental incarnation of his group Concerto Italiano, is bold and exciting, with clear-cut rhythms and textures (helped by a bassoon) and a straightforward virtuosity on display that is always firmly under control. Likewise, his duetting with the suavely robust Fabio Biondi in the sonatas for violin and harpsichord is sturdy and no-nonsense, yet full of vitality. Of all the versions of these pieces currently available on baroque instruments this is still the winner on sheer technical grounds, even if at times it can be a little overbearing. Alessandrini shows a different side, however, in his recent recording with Concerto Italiano of The Art of Fugue, sensitively arranged for a variety of colourful but plausibly Bachian instrumental combinations, from solo harpsichord to mixed ensembles of winds and strings. Alessandrini himself reckons this to be his best Bach recording so far, and, listening to its gentle and gorgeous sonorities and to the way the noble counterpoints are tenderly teased out for our sombre pleasure, one can see why.
The other version of The Art of Fugue on offer is a very different matter, though it, too, treats the sheer structural rightness and timelessness of the music with due humility. Pianist Grigory Sokolov made his recording as long ago as 1982, way before Bach on the piano had come as far back into fashion as it has now. He makes no attempt to hide the power of his instrument, yet this is a performance full of all the right kinds of pianistic subtleties and effects. The counterpoint is clearly and cleverly delineated, and the music frequently sparkles, yet Sokolov never overdoes it, taking a softly reverential approach as often as he can. It is noticeable that his architectural sense propels him into some grandly drawn climaxes, yet also how often his quitting of a fugue is quiet and nonchalant, like a graceful dismount from a gymnastic exercise.
The set’s only disappointment is the performance of the solo Cello Suites from Peter Bruns. Clean, expertly played and keenly driven, it is nevertheless unalluring, and therefore hard to place near the head of its wide and dauntingly distinguished field.
Not so, however, the final re-release, that of Christoph Spering’s experimental reconstruction (from the original score and parts) of Mendelssohn’s second momentous performance of the St Matthew Passion, which took place in Leipzig in 1841. This is fascinating stuff. Crucially, Mendelssohn felt that the emotional power of the piece resided in the recitatives rather than in the arias, many of which he cut, and there is real love in the way in which he re-scores the accompaniments to the secco recitatives for two cellos and double-bass (a rather viol-like sound, as it happens), and thrillingly orchestrates the Evangelist’s description of the rending of the veil of the temple. What is more, Christus, beautifully sung by Peter Lika, emerges from behind the usual sententiousness and stands before us as a real man, credibly weighed down by the sins of the world. Although few could want it as their sole recording, this is a St Matthew that is uniquely moving and enlightening, and should not be missed by lovers of the piece.'