Pianist Daniel Ericourt (1903-88) boasted an impressive artistic resume, including working relationships with Isadora Duncan, Nadia Boulanger, Aaron Copland (Ericourt premiered his Passacaglia), and Georges Enescu. In his teens Ericourt got to know Claude Debussy and his family, collaborated with the composer in a benefit concert, and turned pages at the premiere of his Cello Sonata. Following decades of international touring, Ericourt joined the Peabody Conservatory faculty and later became Artist-in Residence at the University of North Carolina at Greensboro. In the early 1960s Ericourt recorded the complete cycle of Debussy's solo piano works for the Kapp label, and despite generally excellent reviews they shortly disappeared from the catalog. The collection now appears on CD for the first time–and merits serious consideration.
As the piano came into its own in the mid-19th century, the Vienna-born/French-based Henri Herz (1803-1888) all but dominated the scene as a brilliant virtuoso, popular teacher, and best-selling composer. Listening to this first CD entirely devoted to his solo piano works, you can understand Herz’s one-time appeal, as well as why his music predeceased him. As the Op. 81 variations, the nocturnes, and the ballades demonstrate, Herz was a charming yet unmemorable melodist, whose intricate yet harmonically bland keyboard textures go in one ear and out the other. Flashy devices such as tremolos and repeated notes (Herz adored repeated notes) tend to wear out their welcome long after they’ve made their virtuosic point. You sense this in long stretches of the Fantasie dramatique (based upon “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God”) and in Op. 158’s “Yankee Doodle” section. And Le mouvement perpetual owes its existence to Weber’s earlier and far more concise rondo finale from the Piano Sonata No. 1. Herz may not be a great composer, yet his stuff certainly is fun to digest in small doses, especially when you consider Philip Martin’s appropriately light and colorful touch, supple finger work, and marvelous sense of dramatic timing.
All the pieces recorded here come from the 1920s, the period of the Sixth and Seventh Symphonies, and are rarities. Among the finest are the Five Sketches, which come from the very end of the decade and more among Sibelius’s last published works. They may be slight but they are highly individual and hive great finesse. The Village Church from Op. 103 has overtones of the Andante festivo for strings, and The Oarsman seems to ruminate on ideas in the Seventh Symphony. Sibelius’s piano-writing may have evoked little enthusiasm during his lifetime and it is true that, by the exalted standards he set elsewhere, it is limited in resource and scale. But pieces like In Mournful Mood and Landscape from Op. 114 are curiously haunting. So is the rest of the Op. 114 set, and its neglect has been our loss.
A complete survey of Ravel’s piano music is an especially challenging prospect for any pianist. It is not merely that this sublime music frequently demands exceptional, post-Lisztian virtuosity. Beyond such dexterity is the fact that, as Steven Osborne observes in this recording’s booklet, the composer’s fear of repeating himself ensure that the lessons from one work can rarely be transferred to the next. This is not merely the aesthetic change from the nightmarish imagery of Gaspard de la nuit to the elegant neo-classicism of Le tombeau de Couperin. Ravel essentially re-imagined how to write for the piano with each significant work. Osborne is more than up to the task. The contrasting fireworks of the ‘Toccata’ from Le tombeau and ‘Alborada del gracioso’ (Miroirs) are despatched with relish, the piano exploding with power in the latter after a disarmingly impish opening. The Sonatine has a refined insouciance, while the love bestowed upon each note is clear. Then there are the numerous moments of sustained control, such as the shimmering opening pages of Gaspard. Sometimes changes of spirit occur effortlessly within a piece. Having been a model of clarity in the ‘Prelude’ from Le tombeau, Osborne treats the codetta not as a brisk flourish, but as if this particular vision of the 18th century is dissolving beneath his fingers.