These are two American violin concertos written 
                during wartime within two years of each other. 
              
 
              
Ponce, Mexico's leading composer, allowing for 
                Revueltas and Chavez, dedicated this, his last major composition, 
                to Henryk Szeryng. But for Szeryng's exclusive championship this 
                is the sort of work that, in its indefatigable hoarse lyrical 
                energy, would have been a natural for Heifetz. It has no truck 
                with dodecaphony nor with neo-classical anaemia. It is just an 
                outright singer of a work which you can group with the Barber, 
                the Ivanovs and the Walton. It is romantic to a fault - a lovely 
                piece. 
              
 
              
Miranda Cuckson is not abashed by the various 
                Szeryng recordings nor should she be for hers is a most attentive 
                and loving performance. In case you are wondering, Ponce does 
                not indulge in the percussion experiments of Revueltas or Chavez. 
                He had one world-wide hit in the popular song Estrellita 
                (which was recorded by Heifetz!). There is a reference to it in 
                the strings beneath the soloist's arabesques at the end of the 
                second movement. Interesting to note that this concerto was started 
                shortly after Ponce had completed his guitar concerto, Concierto 
                del Sur, for Segovia. Nationalist feeling is only really noticeable 
                in the finale. 
              
 
              
While Ponce may have had to struggle with less 
                than world class standards in Mexico City, Korngold, a stranger 
                in a strange land, anxious to please and survive, had the pick 
                of world's greatest musicians in California. Many were, like him, 
                refugees from European pogroms. There are parallels in the Korngold 
                work with the Ponce. They both share an access to melodic fluency. 
                However in Korngold's case the concerto gives free rein to an 
                irresistible sentimentality - all schlagobers and coffee. I found 
                the starry in-your-face intimidating lushness of the Heifetz RCA 
                recording a positive turnoff at one time and turned my back on 
                the concerto. My interest was only ignited by Hoelscher's EMI 
                version (now Redline) and the Anima-Mathé Dorian recording. 
                Anima-Mathé’s more objective approach reaps rewards and 
                presents the concerto without the choking tide of caramel. Cuckson 
                is no Huberman, Heifetz or Kulenkampff but she certainly plays 
                this work convincingly. In this she is aided by 
                the same orchestra that made such a superb job with Serebrier 
                of the Janáček orchestral music (Reference Recordings). 
              
 
              
I liked the Korngold more than my colleague Jonathan 
                Woolf. It will please the collector who buys it for the Ponce 
                and tries the disdained Korngold work. Cuckson really does make 
                a lyrically restrained job of the Romance and Paul Freeman's 
                orchestra accomplishes many caring touches especially in that 
                movement which plays out with vibraphone and a starry firmament 
                of violins. It hardly matters that the thematic material for this 
                work has been appropriated, presumably without contractual problems, 
                from Korngold's Warner Brothers' film scores. 
              
 
              
Certainly worth hearing alongside Hoelscher (EMI Red 
                Line), Mintz (Universal DG), Perlman (EMI) and Anima-Mathé 
                (Dorian) as a freshening relief from Heifetz's relentless hegemony. 
               
  
                Rob Barnett  
              
see also review 
                by Jonathan Woolf