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Lebrecht CD of the Week. This page contain Norman Lebrecht's CDs of the Week from February 1. March 4, 2. 01. 4. For the latest. Lebrecht Weekly, visit here. March 3, 2. 01. 4Mieczyslaw Weinberg/Kremerata Baltica(ECM)****Living in the shadow of his close friend and neighbour Dmitri Shostakovich, the Polish refugee was little known in his lifetime (1. Soviet Russia. But a revival has been stirring these past few years with European and US productions of his Auschwitz survivors’ opera The Passenger and sporadic recordings of variable quality of his instrumental works, among them 2. Some consider him the third great Soviet composer, after Prokofiev and Shostakovich.

Gidon Kremer has no doubts of his genius. He opens this set with a solo violin sonata, austere and melancholic. Skip that, and you enter a frisky 1. Tchaikovsky winner, Daniil Trifonov. Written under Stalin’s second Terror Wave in which members of Weinberg’s family were murdered, the works wear a fixed smile and a ferocious concentration. The listener dare not relax.

A 1. 94. 8 concertino for violin and string orchestra is altogether more ingratiating, with an arresting opening melody and busy interplay between soloist and ensemble. It’s a retro near- masterpiece of 1. The tenth symphony, which wraps up the album, is a post- tonal experiment of the late 1.

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The playing quality is top drawer. Weinberg always leaves me wanting to hear more.> Buy this CD at Amazon. February 4, 2. 01. The Westminster Legacy(DG)*****In the golden age of orchestral recording – the 1. American labels piled into London and Vienna after an aggressive union priced their own musicians out of work. At Abbey Road, players worked thirty days on the trot, three sessions a day, to feed a burgeoning market for classical music. In Vienna, the Philharmonic (exclusively contracted to Decca) performed under six different names for other labels.

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Westminster was one of the busiest of these producers and its arhives have been virtually unavailable for the past quarter- century, since the digital dawn. This overdue compilation of 4. CDs is filled with uncollected glories, some half- remembered, others unknown. A Vienna Mozart Requiem conducted by the cerebral Hermann Scherchen, with Sena Jurinac as soloist; Clara Haskil playing the Mozart D minor concerto and the very young Daniel Barenboim the E- flat major: treasures beyond the stuff of dreams. Pierre Monteux leading Beethoven’s ninth in London with Elisabeth Soderstrom and Jon Vickers; Adrian Boult conducting The Planets in Vienna; Hans Knappertsbusch interpreting Bruckner; debut discs by the Amadeus Quartet and Julian Bream; the two best Czech quartets coming together in Mendelssohn’s Octet. This is fantasy casting of an almost unimaginable pedigree and few today are aware that these recordings even exist.

There are, inevitably, a few period duds in the box, but even these mishits – Scherchen Conducts Music for Multiple Orchestras – proclaim an idealism that we’d write off as quixotic if we didn’t, finally, blessedly, have proof of their existence. Where on earth to begin?> Buy this CD at Amazon. January 6, 2. 01. André Tchaikovsky: Piano concerto(Toccata)****We now have piano concertos by three composers called Tchaikovsky. The first is written in B flat minor, a dark key that others mostly shunned. The second is by Boris Tchaikovsky, a student and kindred spirit of Dmitri Shostakovich. The third is like nothing you’ve ever heard before.

In the first place, its composer’s name is not really Tchaikovsky. That was a name picked by his grandmother to pluck him from the Warsaw Ghetto and keep him alive, hidden in a closet, until the Nazis were defeated. The boy, a pianist and composer, was an unsettled soul who lived mostly in England until his death of cancer, aged 4. For many years he was known as the man who left his skull to the Royal Shakespeare Company for use in the gravediggers’ scene in Hamlet.

Last summer, however, his opera The Merchant of Venice received a triumphant premiere at the Bregenz Festival and the third Tchaikovsky (too late to change the name) is now firmly back in play. His piano concerto, written for Radu Lupu in the late 1.

Sixties London. Atonal and dramatic, it is austere only in its frugality – not a note out of place. A sultry mischief, alternately angry and amused, pervades the work. The music engages the listener with a powerful personality and an infectious musicality. We need to hear this concerto at the BBC Proms to sample its exciting potential.

The performers here are Maciej Grzybowski and the Vienna Symphony Orchestra, conductor Paul Daniel. André Tchaikovsky’s extraordinarily articulate diaries, also published this month by Toccata, recount a dauntless human odyssey.> Buy this CD at Amazon. December 1. 6, 2. Antheil the futurist(Wergo)***The original American in Paris, George Antheil titled his best- selling memoirs Bad Boy of Music and tried hard to live up to his billing. Raised a Lutheran in Trenton, New Jersey, he went wild among artists and ladies, filling his apartment with new acquisitions – a Braque, a Picasso, a Leger, two Kubins, the paint still wet. Shuttling between 1.

Paris and Berlin he finally headed to Hollywood, last refuge of the wannabe celebrity. In music as in books, his best writing is often the title – Airplane Sonata, Swell Music, Death of Machines. The promise soon wears thin. Aiming to break sound barriers, he lands somewhere between honky- tonk and his all- time idol, Igor Stravinsky. The solo piano music is entertaining enough in noisy spells. Guy Livingston, intermittently joined by two other pianists, hurls himself at the keyboard and spares no effort to make a case for an Antheil revival. No fault of his that the music is no more than a dinner plate shattered into period pieces.> Buy this CD at Amazon.

December 9, 2. 01. James Mac. Millan: Alpha & Omega(Linn)****Nobody does church like James Mac. Millan. Every year, as Christmas nears and a Mass or Magnificat of his lands on the deck, the composer contrives to surprise, bending the harmonic line out of the blue like David Beckham in his prime, while staying true throughout to a traditional sacred format. Mac. Millan himself directs his Missa Dunelmi, with Alan Tavener leading Capella Nova for the rest of the concert. It is recorded in the challenging acoustic of the Church of the Holy Rude, Stirling. The sound though, as you’d expect on a label run by a high- end hi- fi manufacturer, is exemplary – wondrously atmospheric and worth the album price on its own if you’ve got new speakers to show off to envious friends.

Madeleine Mitchell pops up with a stunning violin solo, which she plays more like country fiddler than concert soloist, filling in the harmonic hills and valleys while the vocals curl upwards into the roof beams. Mac. Millan is a champion virtuoso of church space.> Buy this CD at Amazon. December 2, 2. 01.

Splinters(Odradek)****The opening of György Kurtág’s Splinters suite sounds like the tuner has arrived and is giving your piano a workover. Then the second phrase chimes in and you realise that you have never listened properly to a piano before. In one minute and seven seconds, a Hungarian composer takes off both your ears, gives them a rinse and polish and leaves them half a tone sharper than before.

This is a specialist service offered only by Hungarian composers and their interpreters. Few perform it better than Mariann Marczi, a teacher at Budapest’s Franz Liszt Academy.

She follows austere Kurtág with an extended aphorism of György Ligeti’s and a meditation by Zoltan Kodaly, best known for exotic orchestral overtures but here measuring out each note like Bluebeard enumerating wives. An autumnal reflection by Laszlo Lajtha yearns for a Paris boulevard, while three Béla Bartók burlesques threaten to tip the piano totally off its casters. Two living composers, Zoltan Jeney and Gyula Csapó, round off an original album without a single superfluous note.

Song of Myself. Won't you help support Day. Poems? 1. 81. 9- 1. I celebrate myself, and sing myself. And what I assume you shall assume. For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my soul. I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass. My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air. Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their. I, now thirty- seven years old in perfect health begin.

Hoping to cease not till death. Creeds and schools in abeyance.

Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten. I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard. Nature without check with original energy.

Houses and rooms are full of perfumes, the shelves are crowded with. I breathe the fragrance myself and know it and like it. The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it. The atmosphere is not a perfume, it has no taste of the. It is for my mouth forever, I am in love with it. I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked. I am mad for it to be in contact with me.

The smoke of my own breath. Echoes, ripples, buzz'd whispers, love- root, silk- thread, crotch and vine. My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passing.

The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore and. The sound of the belch'd words of my voice loos'd to the eddies of. A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms.

The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag. The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields. The feeling of health, the full- noon trill, the song of me rising. Have you reckon'd a thousand acres much?

Have you practis'd so long to learn to read? Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems? Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of. You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are millions. You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look through. You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me.

You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self. I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the. But I do not talk of the beginning or the end. There was never any more inception than there is now.

Nor any more youth or age than there is now. And will never be any more perfection than there is now.

Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now. Urge and urge and urge.

Always the procreant urge of the world. Out of the dimness opposite equals advance, always substance and. Always a knit of identity, always distinction, always a breed of life.

To elaborate is no avail, learn'd and unlearn'd feel that it is so. Sure as the most certain sure, plumb in the uprights, well.

Stout as a horse, affectionate, haughty, electrical. I and this mystery here we stand. Clear and sweet is my soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not my soul. Lack one lacks both, and the unseen is proved by the seen. Till that becomes unseen and receives proof in its turn.

Showing the best and dividing it from the worst age vexes age. Knowing the perfect fitness and equanimity of things, while they. I am silent, and go bathe and admire myself. Welcome is every organ and attribute of me, and of any man hearty and clean. Not an inch nor a particle of an inch is vile, and none shall be. I am satisfied- -I see, dance, laugh, sing.

As the hugging and loving bed- fellow sleeps at my side through the night. Leaving me baskets cover'd with white towels swelling the house with. Shall I postpone my acceptation and realization and scream at my eyes. That they turn from gazing after and down the road. And forthwith cipher and show me to a cent. Exactly the value of one and exactly the value of two, and which is ahead?

Trippers and askers surround me. People I meet, the effect upon me of my early life or the ward and. I live in, or the nation. The latest dates, discoveries, inventions, societies, authors old and new. My dinner, dress, associates, looks, compliments, dues. The real or fancied indifference of some man or woman I love.

The sickness of one of my folks or of myself, or ill- doing or loss. Battles, the horrors of fratricidal war, the fever of doubtful news. These come to me days and nights and go from me again. Dead At 17 Full Movie Online Free more. But they are not the Me myself. Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am.

Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary. Looks down, is erect, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest. Looking with side- curved head curious what will come next.

Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it. Backward I see in my own days where I sweated through fog with. I have no mockings or arguments, I witness and wait. I believe in you my soul, the other I am must not abase itself to you.

And you must not be abased to the other. Loafe with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat. Not words, not music or rhyme I want, not custom or lecture, not. Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice. I mind how once we lay such a transparent summer morning. How you settled your head athwart my hips and gently turn'd over upon me.

And parted the shirt from my bosom- bone, and plunged your tongue. And reach'd till you felt my beard, and reach'd till you held my feet. Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and knowledge that pass. And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my own. And I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own. And that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the women.

And that a kelson of the creation is love. And limitless are leaves stiff or drooping in the fields. And brown ants in the little wells beneath them.

And mossy scabs of the worm fence, heap'd stones, elder, mullein and. A child said What is the grass? How could I answer the child?

I do not know what it is any more than he. I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green. Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord.

A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt. Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see. Whose? Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation. Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic.

And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones. Growing among black folks as among white. Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I. And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves. Tenderly will I use you curling grass. It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men. It may be if I had known them I would have loved them.

It may be you are from old people, or from offspring taken soon out. And here you are the mothers' laps.

This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers. Darker than the colorless beards of old men. Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths. O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues.

And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing. I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women. And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken.

What do you think has become of the young and old men? And what do you think has become of the women and children? They are alive and well somewhere. The smallest sprout shows there is really no death. And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the. And ceas'd the moment life appear'd. All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses.

And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier. Has any one supposed it lucky to be born? I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I know it. I pass death with the dying and birth with the new- wash'd babe, and. And peruse manifold objects, no two alike and every one good.

The earth good and the stars good, and their adjuncts all good. I am not an earth nor an adjunct of an earth. I am the mate and companion of people, all just as immortal and. They do not know how immortal, but I know.).