Two Miles High Music

Ignore the low fidelity of this 26-track compendium, and you have one of the most interesting gospel compilations ever released. Most of these songs were recorded among a variety of "race" labels between 1926 and 1936, mostly for Paramount and Vocalion. Copious liner notes provide the needed details for each track, along with an essay by label chief/folk legend John Fahey. Soundwise, some of these tunes are indeed primitive--there are more hisses and pops than a Mongolian BBQ. But underneath the surface noises, in tracks by Elder J.J. Hadley (a.k.a. Charley Patton), Washington White (a.k.a. Bukka White), and Blind Roosevelt Graves, there's something magical. Apparently, '26 to '36 saw a newfound interest in sacred street singers that, in turn, inspired record labels to hire blues artists to work under aliases. Whatever the motivation, these tracks are testimonies to a nearly lost era of great musicianship. --Jason Verlinde

Along with Marston's invaluable reissue of Arrau's early studio recordings, these radio broadcasts from the late 1930s add to our knowledge of one of the century's greats. The younger Arrau was a more overtly virtuosic pianist than the later, more philosophical one on his Philips recordings, but the seriousness of his interpretive approach shines through. The Beethoven sonatas, for example, are weightier in his later recordings, but we can still revel in his unique depth of tone and refusal to settle for surface glitter, a rare trait in a virtuoso of Arrau's technical accomplishments. His Chopin, too, while still in the Germanic tradition, has more air and lightness. The Liszt solo pieces are played with transcendent beauty. He makes light of the Liszt Concerto's difficulties, but it's roughly recorded and doesn't match his mid-1950s version with Eugene Ormandy on Sony. Despite some noisy originals, most tracks have surprisingly fresh and vital sound. An important release. --Dan Davis

This double-CD album, featuring the musical tradition of the Ashkenazi community of Amsterdam, had been released by the Feher Jewish Music Center at The Nahum Goldmann Museum of the Jewish Diaspora, Tel Aviv, Israel, in cooperation with the Jewish Historical Museum of Amsterdam. The recording were made some years prior to World War II. The first CD in this album includes chants and songs performed by the choir of the Great Synagogue in Amsterdam, conducted by S. H. Englander, with soloists M. Gobets and J. Rabbie, and Chief Cantor I. E. Maroko. The second CD contains performances of cantorial music and Yiddish songs by hazzanim who were active in Amsterdam. Of them, only B. Moskovits survived the holocaust. The CDs are accompanied by a 136-page bi-lingual booklet, which includes articles on the history of the community and the choir, biographies of the recorded cantors, all prayer and song texts, translations of them and notes on each of them.

Originally recorded between 1931 and 1938, this reissue shows its age in both sound and playing style. The piano tone is tinny and doesn't sustain, especially in the solos, but one soon ignores that because the playing is so fine. Myra Hess was always the epitome of a noble restraint, finesse, subtlety, and elegance--a combination rarely heard today. Her phrasing and rubatos have wonderful poise, every note has character and expression, and she plays with tenderness, delicacy, and plenty of romantic ardor, but there is never a moment of exaggeration or sentimentality. Her Carnaval is a pure delight, and in the Concerto, where the piano sounds better, she brings out all the wistful, dreamy poetry and vigorous affirmation. However, the orchestra (unidentified, perhaps for good reason) is woefully inadequate though conducted by the estimable Walter Goehr. The winds sound strident, the strings thin and out of tune, as if there were too few of them; there are some shaky moments between soloist and accompaniment, as if they had not rehearsed enough. How any record company could have given such a poor backup band to so renowned a soloist and conductor is a mystery and a disgrace. --Edith Eisler