In this loud and brawling
fourth volume of works by Iannis Xenakis,
the storm begins with his extraordinary
Erikhthon (a piano concerto
in all but name), inexplicably receiving
its first recording despite being composed
in 1974. (What on earth has anyone been
waiting for?) This is all thanks to
Hiroaki Ooï, Arturo Tamayo and
the excellent Luxembourg ensemble for
getting their white-hot program underway
presented with such bracing confidence.
With a title that is loosely translated
as "the force of the earth,"
this is a ferocious howl of a piece
that starts off rather innocuously,
with the pianist strutting around while
the orchestra delivers long, unison
notes. But soon the entire ensemble
is caught up in enormous waves – huge,
dramatic glissandi up and down, almost
like sirens – with the piano in furious
lines up and down the keyboard, interweaving
with the orchestra. The program notes
describe the piece as "a hurricane
in music," a characterization that
could well apply to the CD as a whole.
The composer’s instructions
are to play the work "without taking
another breath," and that illusion
is certainly maintained in the seventeen
minutes here – I felt winded after just
a single hearing. Tamayo and the orchestra
absolutely outdo themselves portraying
"a unified, monolithic explosion…a
colossal manifestation of joyful, controlled
frenzy, of a healthy athletic euphoria,
a prodigious and highly vegetal burst
of vigour," to extract an exciting
portion of Harry Halbreich’s notes,
until the work ends "…interrupted
in mid gallop, at the peak of a wave,
as if sliced by a knife." I
must say that this is not a work to
explore when one is in the mood for
say, the velvet austerity of Arvo Pärt.
Rather, it is a quarter-hour of compressed
energy released in a violent spurt,
and will no doubt leave the listener
feeling similarly.
The remainder of the
disc is only marginally less energetic.
Ata contains densely crunchy
chords and fluctuating meters, sort
of like a more maniacal Messiaen, with
obsessively repeated clouds of swirling
strings and brass. It concludes with
a barrage of low chords, and is also
sensationally performed by the Luxembourg
ensemble. Akrata, for
brass alone, comes as something of a
break, but only somewhat. Its explosive
phrases are separated by pauses, again
reminding me of the blocks that Messiaen
favored.
Krinoïdi
(also receiving its premiere recording)
opens with a dissonant, sarcastic woodwind
fanfare that could almost be from Petrouchka,
but otherwise bears little resemblance
to Stravinsky’s ballet. Here the composer
writes in long, deliberate brushstrokes
that carry the same forceful aural stamp
as the other works here. It, too, is
an exhilarating ride, boldly and imaginatively
scored, and concludes a program that
is definitely not for those wanting
shy or introverted music.
One small quibble with
Mr. Halbreich’s otherwise excellent
notes: his meticulous bar line citations
are admirable but would seem to be of
little use to most listeners here, unless
one is privileged to be using a score,
and I doubt that many patrons have the
music to Erikhthon in
their personal libraries. An approximate
time reference (i.e., "about five
minutes in," "at roughly ten
minutes") might have been more
helpful. But this is carping in a release
that will surely give tons of pleasure
to Xenakis fans, or anyone whose idea
of a good time is being aurally thrashed
around by a composer who knows how to
extract the maximum from a large orchestra.
As implied earlier,
the Orchestre Philharmonique du Luxembourg
plays with great abandon, totally communicating
Xenakis’s piercing ideas, and for at
least two of the works here there is
currently no competition in the catalogue.
Timpani provides superb sound that will
impress everyone within a two-kilometer
radius of your home if you wish, and
even the cover art continues the theme,
with a handsome photograph of the composer,
whose hair appears to be on fire, trailing
flames.
Bruce Hodges
NOTE: For the
curious, an article in French about
the composer, with a page from Erikhthon:
http://www.salabert.fr/actual/portrait.html
Hiroaki Ooï (piano) 
