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Reviewer: Bertil
van Boer
To paraphrase Wilhelm
Friedrich Ernst Bach, Johann Sebastian’s grandson, there comes a time when
the family musical genius runs its course. He was commenting on his own lack
of compositional activity, but it seems to be a situation where these
familial sequels must both face up to their past generations and find their
own niche within their present. One good example is that of Franz Xavier
Mozart (nicknamed Wolfgang Amadeus Junior by his ambitious mother Constanze).
The grandson and son of well-known composers, he himself was quite adept at
this craft, but never quite lived up to their reputations despite his own
skill. Here, we have the last of the famed Couperin family, whose fame had
been legendary for over a century, Armand-Louis Couperin. A nephew of
François, his father Nicolas saw to his early training in the family
profession, and by 1748, at the age of 21, he entered into the world of
French music as a keyboardist. He succeeded to the by-now almost hereditary
post of organist at St. Gervais, but by 1770 had obtained further positions,
including one at Versailles. His family life was also happy, for both his
sons followed him as organists and composers, while his daughter Antoinette
gained a fine reputation as both a singer and harp player in Parisian
society.
His own reputation was based
largely upon his facility as an organist and harpsichordist, and he elicited
praise from Charles Burney in 1770, though with the qualification that his
“taste” was “not so modern.” Burney excused it as a factor of his age (about
43 at the time), but he still stood in awe of his technical mastery of the
instrument. There can be no doubt that he lived under the burden (or perhaps
influence) of the elder Couperin generations, and as such was seemingly
reticent to publish much of his own music. There is a nice little cantata
from 1750, a couple of sacred works, three quartets, and in 1770 a set of
trios for keyboard, violin, and cello, but otherwise he seems to have
concentrated his efforts on Pièces de Clavecin, occasional works in the vein
of his uncle, only grouped in this 1751 edition according to key (G and B♭).
The 25 pieces have at their background similarly titled works by François,
in that they range from personal (and sometimes enigmatic) portraits to
standard stylized dances. Here, harpsichordist Christophe Rousset,
performing on a Goujon instrument from 1784, brings these vignettes to life
on this two-disc set.
The first, devoted to those in
G, begins with a somewhat pompous piece, “La Victoire,” which is not at all
old-fashioned, but rather would be a nice sonata opening in the Classical
style, even with some unison interpolations that seem rather galant. The
succeeding Allemande is more staid, even a bit static, with a plethora of
intricate ornamentations. Thereafter, things pick up. For example, the
movement entitled “L’arlequine” is light-hearted, even a bit flippant, while
“Les Cacqueteuses” with its hammered cantonized note around which the theme
revolves is quite Baroque, even a bit on the Vivaldian side. “La Blanchet”
is a lively gigue, with whirling scalar passages, while “Le Fouquet” seems
almost like a song without words, but it uses some of the higher registers
of the instrument, lending it a sharpness in tone before wandering back to
more central registral realms; there is even a series of quick note
cascades, which are contrasted by a rather growly section in the lower
register. This disc ends with “La sémillante,” which could easily be a
keyboard reduction of a symphonic movement in its thick textures,
interrupted by static sequences.
The B♭
disc begins equally as pompously with “La Turpin,” almost as if the audience
is admonished not to have too good a time. The Gavotte and Minuet (with Trio
counterparts that follow) are more conventional. The first, apart from some
harmonic wandering that intrudes unexpectedly into the main part, is
delicate, even a bit effete, while the second part meanders a bit into some
eccentric harmonies. The second could easily be danced to, an intellectual
sort of triple-meter and quite predictable movement, even with the more
plaintive second minuet. “La du Breuil” is declamatory, as if the person is
scolding the listener with serious admonitions, while “L’affligée” is
halting, seeming to represent a lame beggar whose luck was harsh. “Les
tendres sentiments” could have been written by Emanuel Bach, as it is short,
sweet, and conventional. Couperin includes as the final quartet of movements
a favorite of the time entitled “Les quatre nations”: French, Italian,
German, and English. The Italian is quite operatic, while the French is more
balanced emotionally. He depicts the English as superficial, flowing with a
line that is a bit folk-like, while the Germans are done with powerful
chords and full throttle on the texture, even though there are moments of
motivic variation, indicating he wasn’t taking them seriously, even in the
central section, where one finds a serialized hunt.
This set of pieces may
reference François Couperin in terms of title and format, but they are no
pale imitations. Here, I would have to disagree with Burney, for
Armand-Louis’s style retains some of the more salient features of the
Baroque keyboard practice, while at the same time using a thoroughly modern
musical language. One finds his ability to provide the ornaments usually
considered a major part of the keyboard language of his time as good as any
of his predecessors, and yet the phrasing and style are all representative
of the Classical period, whether one determines it to be galant or
Empfindsamkeit. He is remaining true to the pattern, but couching in a
manner that moves it forward, even as the future for such compendiums seems
to be fading. These are absolutely wonderful compositions, and just the sort
of thing to let one’s imagination run a bit wild. As for the performance, Rousset knowns instinctively how to impose registrations and a good selection of tempo variations to bring out the vagaries of the music. His interpretations are outstanding, and his choice of instrument fully immerses us into the world of the 18th century Parisian salon. Armand-Couperin may have been born towards the waning days of the musical family, but here the talent, as brilliantly depicted by Rousset, shows that the light has not dimmed.
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