Martinů
was born in the small town of Policka
in eastern Bohemia in 1890. As a student
his reputation for being dilatory in
his studies gave no clue to his destiny
as one of the twentieth century's most
prolific composers. Having played in
the violins of the Czech Philharmonic
Orchestra in the years around the end
of the First World War, he developed
an interest in French music which induced
him to move to Paris, where he studied
with Albert Roussel. This relationship
proved fruitful, for from the mid-1920s
Martinů
produced a stream of compositions ranging
through all the musical forms from opera
to solo keyboard music, which incorporated
many of the chief stylistic developments
of the time, such as impressionism,
jazz, neo-classicism, and (Czech) nationalism
and folksong.
Although
he regularly visited his homeland, Martinů
lived in Paris until the Second World
War, when he was forced to flee the
Nazi threat and leave for the United
States. He returned to Europe in the
early fifties, living in Nice, Italy
and Switzerland, but never in Czechoslovakia,
for he vowed never to return until the
totalitarian government had relinquished
power. During the last years of his
life, Martinů lived in the home
of his friend the conductor Paul Sacher
at Pratteln, near Basle. In August
1979, twenty years after his death,
his remains were reburied in the churchyard
at Policka.
Those
who know Martinů’s music to any
degree will understand that his talent
was naturally suited to song writing.
For his lyrical gift was strong, and
the fund of Czech folk music
remained an inspiration even though
he lived outside his homeland for practically
the whole of his creative life. Save
for a couple of recently discovered
miniatures, the songs collected here
(the piano music too) dates from Martinů’s
Parisian period between the wars. During
this time he maintained close links
with his homeland, with regular visits
to Policka during the summer months.
There may, therefore, be an element
of nostalgia in his choices of text
and imagery.
It is probably true
that the nature of the Czech language
is fundamental to the nature of these
songs. One can only surmise how they
would fare in translation, but clearly
relatively few singers would be able
to cope with performing them in Czech.
Therefore it seems unlikely that they
will ever become well known, even though
leading artists like Magdalena Kozena
have taken up the cause (for example,
her recording on Deutsche Grammophon
features various Czech composers, including
Martinů
463472-2
review).
Olga Cerná and her excellent pianist
Jitka Cechová do justice to Martinů’s
songs and can cope with the comparison
with such an artist, who has deservedly
gained an international reputation.
Moreover this new Naxos collection is
imaginatively put together and
includes several first recordings.
Unless deliberately
planned to create a recital experience,
a recording of songs such as this is
best sampled in part rather than in
full. That is no criticism of either
the artists or the composer, but rather
an acknowledgement that Martinů
did not intend that these often tiny
pieces should be performed across a
span of an hour, one after the other.
Admittedly the programme here does admit
two attractive piano pieces from the
delightful ballet Spalicek,
based on Czech (and international) fairy
stories, but that is not a major issue.
While
the Czech theme is central to Martinů’s
approach, the French influence should
not be denied. The programme opens with
music whose French associations could
hardly be more clear, as Martinů
admits by using the words ‘chanson’
and ‘mélodie’. And most appealing
these pieces are too. The Three Mélodies,
albeit less than a minute together,
receive their first recording.
It
was undoubtedly a deep sense of nostalgia
that led Martinů in 1942 to produce
the New Anthology of songs using
traditional Moravian texts. He had only
recently arrived in the United States,
having escaped the Nazi threat by the
skin of his teeth. The results are delightful;
so too the performances, which are fresh
and beautifully paced. While only one
of these songs – entitled The Mournful
Lover – is at all extended, they do
work supremely well as a cycle, so that
the effect of the whole is decidedly
more than the sum of the parts. In fact
these songs urgently deserve a wide
currency.
The Naxos recording
is generally warm and sympathetic, with
pleasing piano tone and an appropriate
balancing with the voice. The booklet
is thorough and well designed, and particular
praise is due to Richard Whitehouse
for compiling such well informed and
well written notes, on a subject that
must have been challenging to research.
Terry Barfoot
see also reviews
by Rob
Barnett and Dominy
Clements
Olga Cerná (mezzo) 
