SABINE MEYER & JULIAN BLISS
Concertos of Krommer and Spohr

As you may have read before in these pages, this is a good age for clarinetists, and one of the leaders of the pack is Sabine Meyer. She is the German musician who made worldwide news 25 years ago when she became the first female member of the Berlin Philharmonic. (Some of the boys didn’t take it so well.) But she has long since been a soloist, setting a standard wherever she goes.

On her latest disc, she has a partner: another clarinetist, Julian Bliss. Who’s he? He is an English teenager — b. 1989 — and a student of Ms. Meyer’s. He is one of the great phenoms on the musical scene today. And there is something touching about a disc shared between a teacher and a student now matured.

The disc (from EMI Classics) offers three concertos by two composers: Franz Krommer and Louis Spohr. Krommer was a Moravian-born composer (1759–1831) whose Op. 91 is a concerto in E flat for two clarinets. It’s a cool piece, too: sprightly, stylish, and even somewhat jazzy. If you can keep from smiling during the final movement – Alla polacca — you’re having a bad day indeed.

And Ms. Meyer and her charge play the concerto splendidly. They are spiffy, smooth, and complementary. They exhibit notable musicality, doing nothing even hinting of the vulgar, dim, or clumsy. And similar praise goes to the Academy of St. Martin in the Fields, directed by Kenneth Sillito. The orchestra is crisp and engaged, without ever lapsing into “period practice” (thank goodness).

Then we have two concertos — for solo clarinet — by Spohr (1784–1859). Spohr is a mainstay of the clarinet, along with Weber, Bernhard Henrik Crusell (1775–1838), and a few others. Ms. Meyer plays Spohr’s Concerto No. 4 in E minor, and Mr. Bliss plays his Concerto No. 2 in E flat. Thus is equal time observed.

About Ms. Meyer, there is little more to be said, after all these years: She is simply a musical and technical paragon. Her student is no slouch either, different from her — in tone, for example — but admirable on his own terms.

Yes, this is a fine age for clarinetists, given David Shifrin, Ricardo Morales, Martin Fröst, Jose Franch-Ballester, and several others. By the way, EMI’s CD booklet includes no information whatsoever about Ms. Meyer and Mr. Bliss (although there’s plenty of information about Krommer and Spohr). I find this baffling. It can’t be in the interest of the company, and it’s certainly not in the interest of the buyer/listener.

IAN BOSTRIDGE
Great Handel

Ian Bostridge, that churner-out of CDs, has made another one (for EMI). This time, the English tenor is singing arias of Handel — and they are among the composer’s best and most popular: “Where’er you walk,” “Ombra mai fu,” etc. Mr. Bostridge is accompanied by the Orchestra of the Age of Enlightenment under Harry Bicket, Handel conductor to the stars (Renée Fleming, for example). Mr. Bicket can be a little Spartan, in my opinion, but there is no question that he knows his texts.

The shortest way to review this disc is to say that Mr. Bostridge is himself: He is in lovely voice, and he is consistently thoughtful. Some of the arias, I submit, are a little precious and prissy — a little drawing room. Against other arias, you can’t speak a word. “Love in her eyes sits playing” (from “Acis and Galatea”) fits Mr. Bostridge to a T, and vice versa. In “Total eclipse!” (from “Samson”), you may appreciate a little more heft — something even more Domingo-esque. But Mr. Bostridge has a respectable approach.

And “Waft her, angels” sounds that way — that is, the aria sounds like its words.

A couple of asides: The orchestra is tuned Baroque style, so that — for example — “Comfort ye … Ev’ry valley” seems in E flat, rather than E. Who knows? This may prolong the career of a tenor. And, on two tracks, Mr. Bostridge sings duets, requiring a soprano. Someone had the good sense to hire Kate Royal — a young Englishwoman who has impressed in everything she’s ever done.

The bottom line is that fans of Mr. Bostridge will want — need — this CD, and fans of Handel should be satisfied, too.

OSVALDO GOLIJOV
Oceana

It could be that no living composer has received more praise from critics than Osvaldo Golijov. He’s even deserved some of it. Much has been made of his varied background, and here goes: He was raised by Yiddish-speaking parents in Argentina; he then went to Israel, then to New England. And if you’d like a strong sampling of his music, you’ll find it on a new disc from Deutsche Grammophon.

On this disc are three pieces, beginning with “Oceana,” a kind of cantata (words by Neruda). Mr. Golijov’s piece evinces a number of styles, which means it’s thoroughly Golijovian. You hear some rock, some Latino, some Broadway, some New Age – you even catch a whiff of “Carmina Burana.” “Oceana” can be rollicking good fun, and it can also be a little crass.

I have a suggestion: If you’re racing along a sunlit highway — say, the PCH in California — this would make a fine soundtrack.

The second piece on the disc is a string quartet, titled “Tenebrae.” It is full of lamentation — lamentation being a Golijov specialty — and much of that lamentation is beautiful. This piece is well made. And it is well played by the Kronos Quartet.

Last we hear “Three Songs” for soprano and orchestra. Doing the honors are Dawn Upshaw — who has acted as a muse for Mr. Golijov — and the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra, conducted by Robert Spano. (This orchestra and conductor do “Oceana,” too, with a host of other musicians.)

The first song is a lullaby in Yiddish. The second uses a poem by a Galician poet, Rosalía de Castro. In the CD booklet, Ms. Upshaw is quoted as saying that this is “the saddest C-major song I know.” That is a perfect observation.

And the third song treats “How Slow the Wind,” by Emily Dickinson. If only the Amherst poetess could know what an inspiration she has been to composers! (And if only she could collect royalties.) Her song, I swear, has Hebraic lament in it. Not very New Englandy, but Mr. Golijov has a right.

Ms. Upshaw sings with her usual ingratiation — and Mr. Golijov is summed up in one, interesting disc.