I
understand that many authorities insist on identifying works
by opus number instead of a traditional ordinal numbering system.
In many cases this is because grouped opus numbers are not necessarily
written in the number they are ordered. For instance, Beethoven’s
string quartet Op. 18, No. 4 is not necessarily the fourth quartet
he wrote. Some musicologists even think it may have been his
first. But, for all that, opus numbers can be as confusing and
meaningless as any other arbitrary number or name. So is it
really worthwhile to eschew traditional ordinal numbers? For
those, like me, who don’t have excess brain storage space in
which to carry around encyclopedic lists of various composers’
catalogues in their heads, this disc of string quartets contains
Beethoven’s Fourth and Eighth.
Setting
that debate aside, this new release by the Artemis Quartet is
rather good. It doesn’t necessarily elbow any of my favorites
out of the way, and I do have reservations in a few places,
but it continues to point toward the rise of the Artemis into
the ranks of major artists. It also comes as good ear food for
listeners hungry to hear the state of the performing art in
the early twenty-first century. Beethoven playing is the best
it has been since the heyday of the mid-twentieth century, when
objective playing first came into energetic vogue but before
it had degenerated into faceless neutrality.
In
the Fourth, the Artemis Quartet strikes a satisfying
stylistic balance between Beethoven’s classical roots and the
powerful heights of his future musical visions. By comparison,
the Juilliard is much more reserved and classical, whereas the
Cleveland seems contrastingly extreme, searching
for late Beethoven in a work that can handle it, but arguably
doesn’t need it. In a sense, the controlled balance and a certain
darkness of sound by the Artemis reminds me of the Guarneri,
but with faster, more alert tempos.
The
first movement, marked “Allegro ma non tanto,” is marked not
merely by a smartly chosen tempo, but by animated phrasing and
crisp but not clipped full chords. The lyrical second theme
is given in tempo, keeping it clearly in the shadow of the urgent
main theme. The “Andante scherzo quasi allegretto” is given
the pointed, humorous phrasing necessary to bringing off this
experiment in crossing a scherzo and a slow movement. The Artemis
brings nervousness to the fore in the following “Minuetto,”
channeling energy into tight ensemble playing. The trio is more
relaxed, almost anticipating Mendelssohn’s airy style. The finale
is balanced to allow a little expressive room in its various
episodes, leaving it perhaps a little less headlong than it
could be, though there is great animation in the appropriate
places. A headlong tempo finally kicks in for an exciting dash
through the coda.
Beethoven’s
Eighth Quartet is the second of the set he dedicated
to the Russian Count Razumovsky, and honors him with the quotation
of a Russian folk tune in the Scherzo. This work is one of my
absolute favorites, and I was eager to hear what this young
quartet had to say in it.
The
first movement starts off a bit grimly, without as threatening
a punch as some of the superstar quartets make, though with
an effective leanness of tone brought about by playing those
stark opening chords (and their later reappearances) without
vibrato. The Artemis soon lashes into the bridge leading to
a sweet but anxious rendition of the lyrical second theme. It
wouldn’t bother me if the quartet had “opened up” a few more
moments with the occasional pause for breath, which they do
here in a few places, but not many. The slow movement is given
an effective, hymn-like shape, without being allowed to sag
into damp drifts. The secret is in the nicely sprung rhythms
underpinning the melodic effusions. Happily, the Artemis goes
for a brisker than traditional scherzo, far better relating
the movement to the first and last than the overly cautious
rate that has been common through most of the last century or
so. But it must be admitted that the trio comes off a little
desperate at this speed. Some will find it unsettling, others
will find it invigorating. I’m inclined to think Beethoven would
have liked it just fine.
So
far, so good. But I have some serious reservations about the
finale. The Artemis comes close to going off the tracks in a
number of places here, though they are hardly the only group
to run into problems in this quirky movement. The presto
tempo (or is it Beethoven’s later-added metronome mark?) often
goads quartets into pushing the tempo past the point of rhythmic
stability. I suppose one could defend a little rhythmic instability
as a sort of emotional volatility, but in a movement dominated
by twitchy rhythm, unsteadiness can become aggravating. The
Artemis paces the movement so fast that they are constantly
on the edge of instability. They fudge the tempo slightly up
and down to get all the notes in at one spot, then rush it in
another spot, leaving short notes lost in a general wash of
sound. Going right to that edge means that they have no room
to flex their muscles within that tempo, and it also means that
when they get to the faster coda, it’s pretty much guaranteed
that there’s going to be some scrambling. And there is. The
dash for the final bars becomes slapdash, and they can’t quite
maintain the daredevil tempo, giving it a sinking feeling, just
when it should be going through the roof.
But
in running aground on this movement, the Artemis is far from
being alone. It may simply be that I’m too fussy, because I
also have found myself dissatisfied with such ensembles as the
Juilliard, Smetana, Tokyo, Cleveland and others in this tetchy movement. In fact, my all-time
favorite rendition of the finale comes from a rather obscure
group more known for their Bartók than their Beethoven. The
New Hungarian Quartet was formed at Oberlin
College in Ohio in 1972 after the disbanding of the original Hungarian Quartet, Zoltan
Szekeley’s great ensemble. Violist Denes Koromzay was the common
thread in both ensembles, and he continued the tradition of
a more contained, classical quartet sound at a time when the
rest of the world was reveling in the big, luscious sound of
such quartets as the Cleveland and the Tokyo Quartets. They recorded a handful of albums for the
small Vox label in the 1970s, before Koromzay’s passing disbanded
the group. Now that period instruments have swept through the
landscape and given our ears a good scrubbing, the big, juicy
groups now sound distinctly high-calorie, whereas the leaner
approach of the New Hungarian Quartet sounds more authentic.
Alas, not all of the NHQ’s moments are as finely gauged or energized
as this finale though at Vox’s bargain price, their moments
still remain worth having.
What
I particularly like about the NHQ is the way they stage manage
this finale. To avoid sounding hectic or desperate, they choose
a tempo that is broad enough to allow room for tremendous attack
without sapping drive or falling apart, but at the same time
is fast enough to feel energized. The secret is in the sprung
rhythms, which make the music feel fast even though it’s over
a half-minute slower than the racing versions. This tempo allows
for a powerful outlay of energy during the last reappearance
of the rondo theme, without slowing the tempo. This is followed
by a tightening of pulse so exciting that it makes it seem as
if the group had just pushed to a point beyond which they would
have collapsed into chaos. The players of the NHQ hold their
biggest gamble until their final card. The Artemis players,
on the other hand, gamble too much, too soon, dissipating energy
instead of gathering it up for the final push. But if they live
with this music and learn how to better channel it some day,
then watch out, this group could give us a great Eighth.
For
now, my preferences between these two interpretations leans
towards the Fourth. The recorded sound is spacious but
clear, a touch distant and cool.
Mark
Sebastian Jordan
