Album insights
A few years ago, I traveled to a place on the southern hemisphere of the Earth to perform a concert, possibly Poulenc's Concert champêtre. Just before my performance, I made the mistake of glancing through the program booklet. A local music writer's lengthy essay boldly claimed, "No composer willingly writes a harpsichord concerto." My mood on that particular evening in the charming town, with its lovely orchestra, and what I later said to the writer after finding him (and consoling myself with one or maybe ten glasses), is a story I'd prefer to keep to myself. Despite the seemingly foolish statement, it does hold some truth: Crafting a concerto for an instrument that still plays a marginalized role requires a unique personality. It's hardly surprising then that Bohuslav Martinů, a country boy from Prague, stood out as one of the outsiders of the 20th century music scene. With his roots in Prague, an instrumentalist amid virtuosos like Poulenc and de Falla, a Czech in Paris, a polytonal among conservatives and tonalists amidst avant-gardists, his life's journey placed him in exile in America and later in Switzerland. Even during his lifetime, it was common knowledge that Martinů grew up in the tower of the St. James Church in Polička, where his father served as a sexton and bell ringer. They say his head never quite left the clouds of his childhood. The truth, however, is more intricate and fascinating. His approach to neoclassicism went beyond the historical inclinations of his contemporaries, reflecting a desire to reinvent music from structures that echoed ancient forms, conveying more depth than just the instinct to deconstruct tonality. Especially in his compositions from the thirties and forties, where he himself cited the 18th-century concerto grosso forms as inspiration, Martinů's music showcased a remarkable emotional range. His works also displayed a keen sense of irony and incisive character portrayals—a blend that culminated in artistic flair, often referred to as esprit.
Much like his colleagues Gideon Klein, Erwin Schulhoff, Pavel Haas, Viktor Ullmann, and others, Hans Krása (1899-1944) is often identified today as one of the "Theresienstadt composers." However, this generalization simplifies the vast range of their personal artistic styles and reduces their lives to the tragedy that ended them. Moreover, among many Central Europeans, the Czech heritage of these composers tends to overshadow their German-Jewish identity. Krása stirred some envy among his Czech peers, particularly after receiving the Czechoslovak State Prize for his opera Verlobung im Traum in 1933 (conducted at the New German Theatre by none other than the young George Szell). He was a prominent figure in the rich and diverse art scene that flourished in the first Czechoslovak Republic after World War I. The chamber music piece from 1936 marked the zenith of Krása's esteem. Its premiere at the Spolek výtvarných umělců Mánes (Association of Visual Artists Mánes), a hub of avant-garde art in the First Czechoslovak Republic, garnered mixed reviews, partly due to a well-known song forming the basis of its second movement, composed years earlier for the play Mládí ve hře by Adolf Hoffmeister. Krása had already established a name for himself when he entered the concentration camp system, first as a prisoner in the Theresienstadt camp in northern Bohemia in 1942 (where he composed his most famous work today, the children's opera Brundibár), and later to Auschwitz, where he met his end in 1944.
The most personal work among the three featured in this recording—and indeed in all modern harpsichord compositions—is Viktor Kalabis's Concerto for Harpsichord and Strings, Op. 42, from 1975. I have a strong personal connection to this piece as I was the last student of the dedicatee, the composer's wife. More significantly, the concerto mirrors the composer's profoundly indescribable love for Zuzana Růžičková. She recounted that Viktor was the one who saved her from the trauma of the concentration camps (she spent a brief period with Hans Krása in Auschwitz)—not only by encouraging her to speak about it but also by exposing her to the nation of her tormentors. Upon her return to Germany, she won the ARD Competition in Munich in 1956. This victory marked the beginning of a prestigious five-decade career during which she produced numerous recordings.
I sincerely hope that this recording, particularly of Kalabis's concerto, will spark interest beyond the borders of the Czech Republic in this incredibly unique musical voice and its contribution to the 20th-century music landscape. Viktor Kalabis, in his enigmatic way, embodies the quintessential Czech identity—an open-hearted realist, cautiously nurturing optimism shared only with his closest circle; a gentleman of old European tradition devoid of pretense; one who looks his fellow human beings in the eye and treats them as socially and intellectually equal. Having lived among Czechs for seven years, I can't claim to have entirely grasped their cultural and societal nuances. However, I am convinced that this composer epitomizes a nation that has always stood at the forefront culturally. In essence, Viktor Kalabis exemplifies the essence of being Czech in the best possible manner.
Mahan Esfahani © 2023
German translation: Friedrich Sprondel