Indré Petrauskaité – Liszt Piano Transcriptions – Divine Art

by Audiophile Audition | Mar 19, 2026 | Classical CD Reviews

LISZT: Piano Transcriptions = Widmung; Isoldes Liebstod; Spinnerlied; Der Doppelgänger; Ständchen; Der Müller und der Bach; Frühlingsglaube; Soirées de Vienna; Valse de l’opera Faust – Indré Petrauskaité, piano – divine art ddx 21144 (51:57, comprehensive listing below) (12/11/25) [Distr. By Naxos] ****:

Lithuanian pianist Indré Petrauskaité boasts a distinguished pedagogy that includes Peter Flankl, John O’Conor, Robert Levin, Boris Berman, Leif Ove Andsnes, and Paul Lewis. The present all-Liszt-transcriptions album, recorded in 2007, embraces a portion of the Liszt legacy especially attracted to other composers for their potential as creative, virtuoso show-pieces that demonstrate the fecundity of the piano as both a salon and “symphonic” instrument.

Petrauskaité opens the recital with Liszt’s transcription of Robert Schumann’s 1840 lied “Widmung,” a florid arrangement of a love song meant for Clara Schumann, the composer’s newly-wed. The recording by Ruth Slenczynska set a standard that yet endures, and the present rendition projects its own, ardent lyricism, given that Liszt embellishes the left hand with a throbbing ardor and then proceeds, via cascades and daring leaps, to imbue the second half of the song with vehemence worthy of a virtuoso étude that echoes Schubert’s Ave Maria at the coda.

The 1867 transcription of “Isoldes Liebestod” unfolds slowly, in liquid figures under Petrauskaité, the harmonies unwilling to resolve as the tension mounts in symphonic evocations of erotic love and transcendent death. Some pianists prefer Moszkowski’s passionate rendering of this music, but Liszt has a full, titanic grasp of the symbolism of this sustained spasm of emotion, ending with the intertwining of the thumbs, the ivy and the vine. The sparkle and flavor of Petrauskaité’s closing arpeggios more than suggest her capacities in Debussy.

The 1860 transcription of Wagner’s “Spinning Chorus” from The Flying Dutchman flaunts keyboard virtuosity in runs and trills, all executed by a light hand. The influence of Mendelssohn’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream seems no less a presence, elfin and transparent. The layering of the registers as we approach the darting motions of the coda enjoys an astonishing fleetness of execution. A very different affect ensues, in the form of Schubert’s eerie lied after Heine, “Der Doppelgänger,” of 1828. The B minor tonality, as sustained by repetitive, dark chords and tremolos, attains a dire menace, as the narrator gazes upon his old beloved’s home to find it occupied by himself! In this rendition, Dostoyevsky might have found an echo of his reflections on this disturbing motif.

The urge to self-destruction finds grim realization in Schubert’s 1823 “Der Müller und der Bach,“ Liszt’s transcription’s dating from 1846. The recitative-like progression bears the weight of fatal self-reflection; and it is here that, in her liner notes, that Petrauskaité reveals the presence of a new Steinway instrument, a strong sonority long denied the concert halls of her home city, Kleipeda, Lithuania. Emotional consolation follows, in the form of Schubert’s 1820 lied “Frühlingsglaube,” the poem by Uhland set for solo keyboard by Liszt in 1838.

The need for affective calm establishes itself in A-flat major, a lovely parlando that allows Liszt to introduce – within this Spring evocation – improvisatory elements and their assuaging colors. A beautiful transparency illuminates the reading. The last of the Schubert song transcriptions, “Hark, Hark, the Lark” (1826), derives from Cymbeline, Shakespeare’s 1611 Celtic romantic tragedy. Liszt set this song for solo piano between 1837-38. The virtuosity in this piece is most subtle, lying in degrees of touch and inflection rather than bold, stentorian declamations. 

In a rather percussive mode, Petrauskaité sails into Schubert’s Soirées de Vienne, arrangements by Liszt of selected Schubert waltzes, which exist in plenty. When the pulverized dust clears, some enchanting dances emerge, swaying, lilting, and darting forward as the impulse requires.  Liszt’s idea of improvisation lies in adding fioritura to the waltz in variation, shifting registers and accents while maintaining a basic pulse, a lesson well taught by Chopin. For seven minutes, we bask in the throes – not always gentle but splendidly ornamented – of the salon world well documented by Stefan Zweig in The World of Yesterday.

For her grand coda, Petrauskaité chooses what would offer the most bravura opportunity: Gounod’s Faust waltz as arranged by Liszt. Our artist in her notes mentions Gyorgy Cziffra as among the great exponents of this brilliant piece, but she opts for a lyrically subdued reading, although her instrument projects its own, upper-register pearls. Introspective, the interpretation gives us the meditative Faust, less in the throes of Mephistopheles than of Gretchen (or Marguarite, if you prefer), rippling and advancing by such water drops as we find in the Villa d’Este. Liszt’s own fioritura, of course, must intrude, and we soon feel as though in the grip of one of the more pungent Hungarian Rhapsodies. The last pages serve as cadenza-coda, a super changed plummet above and below, ending with the hammer blows of fate.

—Gary Lemco

Indré Petrauskaité – LISZT: Piano Transcriptions

Widmung, S. 566;
Isoldes Liebstod, S. 447;
Spinnerlied from Der Fliegende Hollander, S. 440;
Der Doppelgänger, S. 560/12;
Ständchen (after Shakespeare), S. 558/9;
Der Müller und der Bach, S. 565/2;
Frühlingsglaube, S. 558/7;
Soirées de Vienna No. 6, S. 427;
Valse de l’opera Faust, S. 407

Pappano Conducts – Holst: The Planets; Bax: Tintagel – LSO Live

by Audiophile Audition | Mar 16, 2026 | Classical CD Reviews

HOLST: The Planets, Op. 32; BAX: Tintagel – London Symphony Orchestra/ Sir Antonio Pappano – LSO LS00904 (69:30) (3/20/26) [Distr. by PIAS] *****:

Sir Antonio Pappano leads yet another performance of Gustav Holst’s 1914-1917 astrological odyssey The Planets from Barbican Hall (12 September 2024), with its superb acoustics. The characterization of the last movement, “Neptune,” the Mystic,” as a siren-song symbol of veiled unity expresses Holst’s individual credo. “Mars,” which opens the suite, had been conceived prior to WW I, and so illuminates “the stupidity of war,” rather than glorifies it. For over sixty years, conductor Sir Adrian Boult achieved a total identification with the score, even in the face of fine interpretations by Sir Malcom Sargent and André Previn. The LSO percussion section projects a luminous, hammered vitality throughout, and we must surrender to the throes of the snare drum in this score, whose only rival in execution might lie in Ravel’s Bolero. The credit for the high production quality falls to Stephen Johns. 

The pungency of effect in “Mars,” its five-to-the-bar rhythmic thrust, sets the tone for the entire seven-movement work, with the clash of D-flat and C ensuring a supreme dissonance. When the silences fall, they seem staggering in their intimation of those dire words of Tacitus: “they make a desert and call it peace.” Clarity of line and intonation marks “Venus,” in which, alternately, horn solo, flutes, and solo violin color the texture with the signs of Peace. A delicate, dreamy tracery emerges, with hues from flutes, harps, and cello augmented by the celesta, whose sparkle had come to classical music via Tchaikovsky’s The Nutcracker.  Fragmented scalar patterns over pedal points bring the paean to a translucent conclusion.

The scherzo in the suite occurs as “Mercury, the Winged Messenger,” who quicksilver, warbling figurations capture what Holst quipped is “the process of human thought.” The celeste, solo violin, and muted violins conspire to weave a slightly oriental tapestry, potentially explosive, reminding us that Hermes embodies tricksters as well as cosmic messages, a point well made in Joseph Conrad’s The Secret Sharer.  Again, a vibrant transparency defines this movement, lithely rendered. And so enter “Jupiter, the Bringer of Jollity,” with his retinue of horns afire, a combination of sturdy dance and then sacred hymn. The folk elements of both impulses shine forth, Pappano having given a glorious patina to the whole, a seamless, towering realization. This is broad, Elizabethan mirth, a song conceived in the mind and heart of Sir John Falstaff.   

“Saturn, the Bringer of Old Age,” Holst’s personal favorite among movements in the suite, opens at first suggestive – in twenty-six measures – of the origin of life in syncopated, reluctant chords that could have been conceived by Bartok. That Saturn possesses a Janus-like character comes from Holst’s comment that “Saturn not only brings physical decay but also a vision of fulfillment.” Both martial in middle age and funereal in dotage, the music achieves an epic grandeur and nobility of expression, a maturity of resigned contemplation. The LSO percussion has assumed an awesome presence, assisted by flaring brass, tolling bells, and anguished strings. But the menace evaporates, leaving us with another, veiled sense of illumination, a consummation devoutly to be wished.

“Uranus, the Magician” establishes his authority with a four-note motif, a spell whose lower register grumbles resemble our friend apprentice in Dukas. The twittering energy bursts forth in a resolute swagger of confidence, a mystical brew of mixed major and minor tonalities. A march thunders forward, interrupted by twitters and tumult in the timpani. The music becomes obsessive, a reeling and spasmodic nightmare that breaks off into turbulent echo of itself, with huge, dissonant chords to announce its liquidly eerie evaporation into the aether. 

“Neptune, the Mystic” must suffice as Holst’s answer to Zarathustra via Richard Strauss.
Played sempre pp from the outset, the music means to sound distant and glacial, lacking any discernible melody or consistent rhythmic pulse. The sonic texture feels derived from aspects of Debussy, still vibrant with the influence of Neptune. Woodwinds mix with harp filigree and strings in high register. A haunted sense of expectation ligers throughout, and we may see the forerunner of both “space music” and minimalism in the repeated riffs. A wordless female chorus beckons us, insistent, alluring, “subtle and mysterious,” to cite Holst. Cymbals softly pierce the air, played with sticks. While the timpani sound has been wrought by a wooden stick. The female choir becomes mute, and the rest is silence. 

Pappano and the LSO recorded Arnold Bax’s 1917 tone-poem Tintagel 15 December 2024 at the Barbican Hall. A strikingly coloristic work, the music depicts a vision of the Atlantic Ocean as seen from the cliffs of Cornwall, where the castle Tintagel dominates the vista. Inspired by Celtic sensibilities, the music of Wagner and Scriabin, Bax constructs a vivid seascape in three sections. The textures churn with Romantic impulses, the colors merging with the same finesse either in Debussy or J.W.N. Turner.
The brass theme, a leitmotif for the ruined castle, evolves in diatonic harmony until it meets the limitless space of the Atlantic, whose power we know from Shelley’s “Ode to the West Wind.” A rising tide eventually subdues all other forces, and so the waves smash themselves “upon the impregnable rocks,” to quote Bax, ushering in a tumult worthy of admired Rimsky-Korsakov, even as strains from Tristan filter into the mix. Pappano induces a thrilling sound from his ardent, responsive ensemble, the brass especially exuberant. Even as the ecstatic chords diminish, we sense that Tintagel, in all its Celtic splendor, resides intact, much as Smetana had set the standard for his own “High Castle.” Credit producer Andrew Cornall for the intensities here preserved. 

—Gary Lemco

Trio Wanderer – Art Noveau, French Chamber Music around 1900 – Harmonia Mundi

by Audiophile Audition | Mar 15, 2026 | Classical CD Reviews

ART NOUVEAU: French Chamber Music Around 1900 = LALO: Piano Trio No. 3; DEBUSSY: Piano Trio; Violin Sonata; Sonata in D Minor for Cello and Piano; BONIS: Soir – Matin, Barcarolle in E-flat Major for Solo Piano; RAVEL: Sonata for Violin and Cello; Piano Trio – Trio Wanderer – Harmonia Mundi HMM 902394.95 (2 CDs = 59:36; 70:37, detailed content listing below) (1/20/26) [Distr. by PIAS] *****:

As a corrective to what composer Camille Saint-Saens noted as a dearth of French chamber music in the late 19th Century, a number of French musicians made a concerted effort to alleviate the situation with a spate of refined works in the genre. Recorded in July 2025, the eight compositions addressed by Trio Wanderer embody a diverse palette of rewarding musical expression by artists well aware of their Gallic heritage.

The gem of the collection appears early, Piano Trio No. 3 in A Minor (1880) by Edouard Lalo (1823-1893). Too often pigeonholed as a “singular success” with his Symphonie Espagnole, we hear in this chamber work French expressivity in the grand manner. The opening Allegro appassionato surges forth in the violin and cello, and then displays powerful alternations of the dramatic home key and the serenity of the relative major in C. The keyboard part, rendered by Vincent Coq, proffers potent octaves that often seem inexorable. 

Some years ago, on my radio program, “The Music Treasury,” during my tribute to Ernest Ansermet and his Suisse Romande Orchestra, I aired a fine Scherzo in D Minor for orchestra by Lalo, unsuspecting that this essay in ostinato and marcato rhythm provided the second movement of this Trio. Violinist Phillips-Varjabédien has a fecund arena for his decisive, pungent attacks. Even the middle section bristles with alert pizzicatos. The “very slow’ third movement does not diminish the intensity, although the early, somber harmonies prophesy a journey into darkness. The model here seems to be Franck, especially in the grand keyboard octaves. But the intense melody becomes more lyrical as it progresses, eventually achieving luminescence.  

The last movement, marked Allegro molto, evinces a clear resonance with the music of Robert Schumann, rife with dotted rhythms and triplet figures. Even the con fuoco marking does not belie a certain mirth detectable in the course of the movement, which ends in a series of canny “wrong notes” that imbue the cadences with a sense of irreverence. The entire course of this muscular and lyrical composition has been rendered with an undeviating authority and directness of purpose and warrants the price of admission.

The year 1880 found young Claude Debussy in the employ of Madame Nadezhda von Meck, the wealthy Russian aristocrat noted for her support of composer Peter Tchaikovsky. A derivative but sweetly ingratiating work, the four-movement Trio in G Major pays homage to Massenet, certainly, but no less to the circle of Russians, like Borodin and Mussorgsky, led by Balakirev. The haunted sense of melody in the first movement, Andantino con moto allegro, betrays many a touch from Schumann. The second movement, Scherzo: Moderato con allegro in B minor, the Trio in B major, assumes a more exotic color, with pizzicato effects and pentatonic scales, gently but suggestive of those further evolutions when Debussy’s musical character became solidified. The third movement, Andante espressivo, may well have been touched by Debussy’s constant contact with Meck’s idol, Tchaikovsky, and his own penchant for graceful melody. The Finale: Appassionato enjoys a fervent, restless energy, again somewhat recollecting the music of Schumann and Schubert. Occasionally, a modal harmony seeps through, a subtle touch of non-academic rebellion. The flamboyant keyboard part finds a delicate counter in the voices of the strings in high register. The last pages, resolute and grandly poised, urge a sense of drama hard to assign to other influences, and so we must applaud young Debussy’s originality. 

Composer Mélanie “Mel” Bonis (1858-1937) has emerged from temporary obscurity to claim her rightful place among those French, male contemporaries who dominate much of the recognition. From Bonis’ prolific catalogue, Trio Wanderer offers two works, the1907 diptych Soir – Matin for piano trio, and the Barcarolle in E-flat Major (1906).  Lush harmonies from violin and cello begin an ardent dialogue in the twilight piece, supported by an equally voluptuous keyboard. The liquid warmth of the piece echoes much of Fauré, climaxing in passionate figures. As the cello line evolves, we feel “The Swan” of Camille Saint-Saens lurking in the watery background. Matin evokes Nature’s awakening, but in more liquid medium than we find in Grieg’s “Morning Mood.” The flowing upper line of the piano and the whimsical flight of the violin bestow a sense of frivolous contentment to this brief Andantino. The Barcarolle, also Andantino, occupies a sonic space somewhere in the confluence of Fauré, Scriabin, and several Spaniards. Vincent Coq superimposes right hand fleetness as the left hand creates an arpeggiated cocoon around the melody. 

After 1893, Claude Debussy had avoided  the chamber music medium; but beginning in 1915, he embarked on a project of six sonatas that would justify his “discovering music,” as he expressed his feelings to conductor Désiré-Émile Ingelbrecht. Debussy’s prolonged illness would frustrate his ambition, allowing him to complete only half the cycle meant to celebrate the age of Couperin and Baroque clavecinistes. The 1917 Violin Sonata in G Minor offers the last of Debussy’s completed works before cancer claimed him. Modally ambiguous, the work evolves in lyrical patches, rhythmically restless from the first, the two instruments competing in 2/4 and 3/4. The first movement conforms to sonata form, but its mood swings from whimsical to sadly melancholy, until its climax seizes Spanish fire.

What the composer called “joyous tumult” continues in the second movement entitled Intermède (Fantasque et léger), a gypsified improvisation that invokes skittish, clownish figures from the commedia dell’arte. The biting sonorities of the keyboard play against the angular melancholy of the violin.  Debussy invites the “cyclic” structures into his last movement, using the first motif of movement one, “like a snake biting its own tail.” Spanish gypsy impulses drive forward, gain a militant air, then relent into a dreamy meditation. The keyboard part resembles much in Debussy’s piano suites and preludes, often rippling, thundering, or cascading in various registers. A false ending that halts and then reascends in dire chords that presage the entirely new mode of the composer’s existence.

The 1915 Cello Sonata in D Minor exacts a lyrical approach to its entirety, a baritone troubadour who sings in times of trouble. The first movement, slowly sustained and resolute, casts a grim air of melancholy. The second movement, Debussy calls a Sérénade, again demanding his Fantasque et léger dynamic. Both canny humor and lyric tenderness emerge as competing affects. Once more, the Renaissance figure of Pierrot stumbles forth in irregular rhythmic patterns, disparate tonalities, with long held notes over pizzicatos in both instruments. The light, nervous finale, makes virtuoso demands on cellist Raphael Pidoux, who sails – accompanied by a lithe Vincent Coq – through all and any challenges with classical flair and grace. 

Maurice Ravel (1875-1937) approached his 1922 homage to the late Claude Debussy, the Sonata for Violin and Cello, with a sense that his own style had evolved, striving for an “austere sense of melody” that eschewed his former, “impressionistic” sensuality.  Zoltan Kodaly had provided a model with his Op. 7 Duo for Violin and Cello in 1914. But despite the new economy of his musical means, Ravel’s sense of color dynamics impresses us with its bristling, acerbic, bitonal textures that exploit the full range of both instruments.

Ravel opens his Allegro with alternating major and minor triads against aggressive seventh chords, the violin’s carrying a scurrying, dance melody while the cello provides a throaty syncopation. That the evolution proves more melodic than harmonically interested makes the sound compelling in its idiosyncratic classicism. The second movement scherzo plays arco passages against biting pizzicatos, the stinging sounds both voluptuous and punishing. The pulsation has a martial energy, a dark procession through insect labyrinths that likes to end glissando. The third movement indulges Ravel’s melodic gift, first through the somber solo cello, a kind of chorale which induces the violin to elaborate. The use of harmonics attaches an eerie beauty to the occasion. A moment of extended turbulence borrows the first movement’s seventh intervals. If a demure chastity has informed the music until now, the Finale, quick, sheds the restraint and offers a throaty, galloping rhythmic impulse that gains color and acerbity in its variety of attacks. Has Ravel borrowed a rhythmic riff or two from Kodaly? The “orchestral” sonority of the two instruments lets s know that Ravel’s control of color proves equal to the master whom he celebrates, the inimitable Debussy. The last chord from our duo lasts forever.

Dedicated to counterpoint teacher Andre Gédalge (1856-1926), Ravel’s Piano trio in A Minor (1914) possesses a unique blend of academic scholasticism and Basque and Eastern exoticism. The opening movement, Modéré, relies on the repetitive 8/8 rhythms from the Basque zortzico, unusual in refusing to modulate for the second, nostalgic theme away from the tonic minor. Pidoux’s cello line proves grippingly rich. The theme moves in small, mysteriously scalar increments until it jumps a fourth as it concludes.

The second movement proves the most original: a pantoum, a Malaysian verse form in
which two themes interlock through lines 2 and 4 of each four-line stanza, to become the first and third of the next stanza. In essence, this haunted movement embodies a scherzo and trio, juxtaposing ¾ injections by the string payers against the long 4/2 notes of the keyboard. Violin and cello execute fiercely quick repeated notes, even in left-hand pizzicato, while the piano seduces us with melody. The coda literally whistles with ecstatic fervor from the Wanderer ensemble.

The slow Passacaglia movement testifies to Ravel’s penchant for Baroque taste. Marked Très Large ¾, the polyphonic technique taught Ravel by André Gadalge manifests itself in an 8-bar, processional theme – appearing first in the piano’s lowest register – reiterated eleven times, a concession to the Great War a step away from his Tombeau de Couperin suite. The pungent last movement Final: Animé, relies on two antagonistic rhythms, 5/4 and 7/4, a Basque construction that has the violin’s having to negotiate, with precision, arpeggios and trills in harmonics. Trio Wanderer performs this demanding but quixotically satisfying music with seamless aplomb. Sound mastering by Hugues Deschaux provides the most reverent fidelity one could require. 

—Gary Lemco

Art Noveau – French Chamber Music Around 1900

LALO:
Piano Trio No. 3 in A Minor, Op. 26;

DEBUSSY:
Piano Trio in G Major;
Violin Sonata in G Minor;
Sonata in D Minor for Cello and Piano;

BONIS:
Soir – Matin for Violin, Cello, and Piano, Op. 76;
Barcarolle in E-flat Major for Solo Piano, Op. 71;

RAVEL:
Sonata in A Minor for Violin and Cello;
Piano Trio in A Minor