KOPPEL: Concerto for Flute, op. 87a. Concerto for Cello, op. 56. Concerto for Piano No. 2.
Rune Most (flute), Michaela Fukacova (cello), Ulrich Staerk (piano), Odense Symphony Orchestra/Paul Mann
DaCapo 8.226032 (F) (DDD) TT: 78:17
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Danish Modern. Herman Koppel, born in Poland, emigrated with his family to Denmark. A virtuoso pianist, he studied, briefly, composition with Carl Nielsen. During the war, the Jewish Koppel fled to neutral (though Nazi-leaning) Sweden and, afterwards, returned to Denmark. He founded a Danish musical dynasty. His sons and grandsons play major roles in that country's musical life.

As you might expect, Koppel's music shows the influence of Nielsen but is not confined to it. As a pianist, he was drawn to the "hard" wing of modern music and had in his very large repertoire of concerti by Bartók and Schoenberg. Some of those composers found their way into his own music as well. Furthermore, his music evolved. One of those composers who had little interest in repeating himself, his music moves from a uncompromising Modernism (for the time) to a more relaxed, slightly neo-Romantic note, to a nod toward postwar techniques. He didn't write a lot, but he did try to write to last. The program on this CD gives you a good overall view of his output.

Inevitably, one compares Koppel to Vagn Holmboe as the major modern Danish composer after Nielsen. If I give the palm to Holmboe, it doesn't turn Koppel to dreck. But Holmboe has such a large output of such high quality, he demands that kind of centrality, as Vaughan Williams demands the central position of interwar British music over Holst, Walton, Bax, Britten, and a host of other wonderful writers.

The Second Piano Concerto of 1937 shows a kind of bifurcation. The orchestral opening is almost pure Nielsen, while the piano writing owes a lot to Bartók's First Piano Concerto from about a decade earlier. One expects this kind of music from a young man (Koppel was born in 1908), aggressive and shoving, eager to show the world what he can do. However, after its 1938 premiere, Koppel took a dislike to it and banned further performances. It's hard to understand why. The work pulses with vitality and even a maturity of outlook. Decades later, he relented and took part in a performance for two pianos, with his grandson Nikolaj as the soloist and himself as the orchestra.

The first movement discusses two ideas -- one which thrusts up a minor third and then worries the notes in between, and another in which fourths are prominent and which falls. The first theme gets reshaped quite a bit. Indeed, it rarely returns in quite the same form as its previous incarnations. The music moves relentlessly all the way up to the cadenza -- unusually, an accompanied cadenza, a device at least as old as Elgar's violin concerto. At this point, the music gradually loses tension and rage until it reduces to a mutter. The slow second movement seems to me the most eloquent and the most individual. It begins with a folk-like melody, a dialogue between the cellos and violas and the winds. The beginning paragraph, a substantial three minutes, gives way to the solo piano, who enters with a completely different idea, as if trying to change the topic of conversation ("O Freunde, nicht diese Töne"), but the orchestra holds on to its thread, while the piano keeps insisting. Eventually, the orchestra takes up the piano's idea, but the piano continues with the orchestra's original matter. Incidentally, this happens after the orchestra works itself to such a climax (an increase mainly of tension, rather than of volume), that the argument becomes "untethered." This happens several times in the movement, and always the music turns to something surprising. A little more than halfway through, after such a farrago, a "barbaric" scherzo breaks out. It eventually becomes clear that it's the first idea rhythmically transformed. After another untethering, it veers back to the opening idea in something like its original dress. In the third movement, Stravinsky gets introduced by way of some very Sacre-like ostinatos, syncopations, and accents. Here and there, one also catches echoes, without slavish imitation, of Stravinsky's piano concerto and Capriccio, two more works in Koppel's repertoire. The movement also surprises you with two cadenzas. As the liner notes point out, it's as if the work can't end until it finds peace. The concerto works up to a grand, glittering finish, a majestic restatement of the finale's opening idea.

For me, the cello concerto of 1951 stands as the most poised statement on the CD. It recalls Nielsen's splendid sanity and balance without aping Nielsen's manner. What I take to be the melos of Danish folk song (at least, what I know of it from Aksel Schiøtz recordings) permeates the work. Unlike the second piano concerto, the cello concerto shows great control without needing to wind itself up so tight. It takes big breaths. The first movement, a relatively straightforward sonata movement, is tinged with the sound of high, sweet bells. This is followed by another eloquent slow movement which works with two ideas. The first, prominent with the minor third both up and down, essentially extends itself by putting forth tendrils and elaborations. The second, more fixed, has the same general shape as Mozart's "Jupiter" motif. The movement is, on the whole, chamber-like, but warm rather than austere. The finale, a rondo, falls into three large pieces, A-B-A, plus a brief coda. The first section moves in vigorous triple time, with fugato episodes. The rondo theme emphasizes an upward minor third, which, come to think of it, has been prominent throughout the concerto. The large middle part is calmer and features yet another cadenza, which eventually sighs gracefully and makes way for the quick coda, winds up and takes off into the aether.

In contrast, the 1971 flute concerto strikes me as a much pricklier affair. It runs much shorter than the other two. It also goes counter to type. If most flute concerti take on the character of a divertissement, the grim atmosphere Koppel summons up recalls Schoenberg's piano concerto. Furthermore, its extremely close working demands a listener's concentration. The first movement, for example, grows out of the opening measures. My favorite part of the movement comes toward the end, during a duet between the solo flute and clarinet, when the barlines disappear and the two players seem simply to riff. The second and third movements are continuous, with the overall rhetorical strategy that of a recitative and dance. Without the score in front of me, I can't tell you for sure, but the concerto has the economy and tautness of serial music. The drama of the final two movements runs as follows: in the slow movement, the flute and the ensemble play "out of synch," as if they try, and fail, to get together. They mesh at the beginning of the third movement in a kind of saunter which becomes more and more livelier as the music progresses, until soloist and orchestra fly apart, exhausted, pulling together again only at the very end. I should say that despite the generally gray atmosphere, Koppel also seems to indulge a sense of playful fun with these scenarios.

The performances are good enough, but the cello concerto, at least, deserves something considerably better. Still, Mann and his forces give you a good idea of the stature of these works, enough to allow you to wish for the first-rate.

S.G.S. (January 2008)