It may come as a surprise to music-lovers in this country that in the 1920s Schreker was classed along with Strauss and Schoenberg as one of the outstanding German musicians of his time, and was even called by one influential critic ''Wagner's only true successor, with a similar genius for creating a new and vital type of opera''. Of all his operas (in most of which he followed Wagner's example by writing his own librettos) Der Schatzgraber (''The treasure-seeker''), completed on the day after the 1918 armistice and first performed in Frankfurt in 1920, was the most popular, achieving over 350 performances up to the 1924/5 season. With the advent of the ''new objectivity'' of younger composers like Hindemith and Weill, however, Schreker's opulently-scored, late-romantic works, with their overheated erotic atmosphere, fell from favour; and to the present generation he has become an Interesting Historical Figure whose music is only now being rediscovered. So far, he has been but thinly (and not always satisfactorily) represented in the record catalogues: the present issue offers the opportunity of studying his very individual style more closely. Two factors in his make-up are of significance: whereas most composers are fired to write their music by the stimulus of a plot or libretto, Schreker worked the other way round, spinning his characters and his text round basic musical ideas (a formidable essay in the booklet of the present recording says much the same thing at considerable length in impenetrably dense and pretentious polysyllabic jargon); and his plots are a strange blend of fantasy, symbolism and verismo, often of lurid sexual psychology. Oddly enough, Hindemith's Mathis der Maler treats of the same basic problem found not only in Der Schatzgraber but in other Schreker operas—the artist's relation to society and his commitment to his craft.
In this case the action hinges on the wandering minstrel Elis, who owns a magic lute which (like a water-diviner's rod) vibrates in the proximity of gold or treasure, and an innkeeper's daughter Els, a she-devil who has her suitors killed after persuading them to buy for her, from a fence, a set of jewels stolen from the queen with the magic power of ensuring their wearer eternal youth and beauty. In the course of the action these two fall passionately (and extremely suddenly) in love, Elis is accused of murdering the latest of her bridegrooms, and is saved from the gallows only on the intervention of the king, who has been told by his fool of the lute's investigative power which, he hopes, will locate the queen's prized jewels without which she is wasting away. So that her own guilt shall not be discovered, Els has the lute stolen but, in a torrid love scene, appears before Elis wearing almost nothing but the jewels, and to retain his love gives them to him on condition that he never asks their provenance. So the queen is restored and Elis feted at court—until he is questioned as to where he found the treasure. The situation becomes tense until news arrives which identifies Els as the criminal: she is condemned to be burnt at the stake, but is saved by the king's jester, who demands her as his reward for having brought about the jewels' return. In an epilogue Elis, who had renounced her to follow his minstrel's calling, is persuaded to visit her on her deathbed, where he conjures up a rosy picture of a life beyond the grave where their love can be untrammelled and everlasting.
As with Wagner, the work's essential continuity lies in the orchestra, to which the vocal lines are more or less an obbligato; and the Hamburg orchestra here has a chance to show its admirable quality in such passages as the melancholy prelude to Act 2, the beautiful lyricism (with offstage female voices) when Els goes out to don the jewels in Act 3 and the ecstatic impressionist writing later in that act, and in the introduction to the epilogue. The scoring, voluptuous and dramatic as it is, tends to be over-lush; and there is a kind of leit-motiv treatment (as at mention of the jewels). Largely seamless as the music is, there are a number of vocal set-pieces—Elis's first ballad, his ''delaying song'' at the gallows (which turns into an ensemble), the rapturous love duet, Elis's narrative at court and his final vision to the dying Els—but their thematic content obstinately fails to lodge in the mind, and the only melody anyone is likely to come away with is the charming folklike lullaby (delicately scored) which, in Act 3, Els recalls from her childhood. What is undeniable, however, is the strength of Schreker's dramatic writing, particularly in the gallows scene of Act 2 and the outburst at the festive court in Act 4.
A very positive point in this recording (put together from a run of performances in the Hamburg opera-house) is the clear enunciation of all the cast (who are occasionally over-favoured at the orchestra's expense), only the chorus remaining too far in the background. There is only one female singing role, and one might perhaps surmise that she is a wicked character from Gabriele Schnaut's heavy and wide vibrato—only in the lullaby, where she does not put pressure on the voice, is there respite from this—and from the intensity and number of screeches demanded of her. The others in the cast more than compensate for her failings: Josef Protschka is his usual sensitive and intelligent self, immediately creating sympathy for the hapless Elis, and even at the height of passion incapable of making an ugly sound; Harald Stamm's voix noble is well suited to the part of the frustrated king; Hans Helm produces steady and firm tone as the bailiff (a part in which Schreker seems to have lost interest halfway through); and that reliable character tenor Peter Haage is a bright-voiced jester (perhaps a trifle high-class?). It is unlikely that Der Schatzgraber will ever recover its initial popularity, but to those interested in the dying days of romantic German opera it can certainly be recommended.'