Fanfare 5
*****
Sandberg is a major pianist ready for full recognition, a perfect synthesis of intellect, musicality and technique

È NIELSEN Welcome to 20 Delle Grazie, Little Marie!. Chaconne, op. 32. Piano Pieces: opp. 2, 59. Symphonic Suite, op. 8. Souvenirs from Carl Nielsen. Piano Music for Young and Old, op. 53. Prelude for the New Century. Theme with Variations, op. 40. Piano Piece. Six Humoresque-Bagatelles, op. 11. Two Character Pieces. Suite, op. 45, “The Luciferian”. The Dream about “Silent Night”. Arrangements & Incidental Music: The Mother: excerpts. Hadbarth and Signe: Dance of the Handmaidens. Snefrid: Prelude. Sir Oluf he rides: Elfin Dance. Oriental Festival March. Aladdin: Five Dances (all arr. pn). Rikke Sandberg (pn) OUR 8.226939-41 (three discs: 206:28) reviewed from MP3 files, 44.1 kHz, 16-bit.
Entitled “Carl Nielsen, The Ultimate Piano Collection,” one might be forgiven for thinking that this is a populist compilation. Nothing could be further from the truth: this is about as complete a Nielsen complete piano music as one can get, including incidental music, the composer’s own piano arrangement of works, and more than an hour of world premiere recordings. Pieces are identified clearly, their provenances explained in the fabulous accompanying notes. As with Beethoven et al, the concept of “complete” is a movable feast, but Rikke Sandberg’s rigor makes her set a prime contender for the prize.
Back in Fanfare 48:2 (not so far back: Nov/Dec 2024), I interviewed Rikke Sandberg about the piano music of Carl Nielsen in response to her disc with fellow pianist Kristoffer Hyldig, also on OUR. In that interview, Sandberg references the current project, which she said would include some compositions found since the last “complete” Nielsen piano music was recorded, hence the expansion from previous “completes”.
And so, here are those three discs. Nielsen’s first published piano work, his op. 3 Five Piano Pieces, was composed between 1887 and 1890. It is prefaced by the delightful, tiny Welcome to Della Grazia 20, Little Marie! (dating from a study trip to Italy in 1900) and the decidedly chunkier, eleven-minute Chaconne, op. 32 (1916/17), modeled on Bach’s D-Minor Chaconne for solo violin. Chaconne and second theme are introduced; 19 variations follow, full of delight, from carillon to composed timelessness. They are shaped so the climax occurs in variations 16 and 17, the most dissonant passage. But for Sandberg, and Nielsen himself, it’s the journey that counts. Sandberg said in the earlier interview how much she loves playing this music, and it shows in the performance, supported by the most perfect, silent recording that is just the right level of detail (any further, and we would go into the territory of hearing key actions). There is certainly Bachian grandeur to this Chaconne, too. There is a fair amount of competition here, but as one listens, it feels like Sandberg’s way is the only way, especially in the fairy magic of the final moments. An earlier “complete” (see above) piano music came from Martin Roscoe (who I admit is one of my favorite pianists, his playing unfailingly musical in everything he touches) on Hyperion. It says a lot that the OUR recording itself is finer than Hyperion’s (the latter a bastion of piano sound). And for all Roscoe’s excellence, Sandberg’s interpretation is firmer, more confident, and Nielsen’s piece emerges all the better for it. Andsnes on Erato is surely the closest rival, transfixing in his ability to make time stop, technically faultless. And yet, his descending staccato is less characterful than Sandberg’s,
So, at last, to those first piano publications, the five pieces that comprise op. 3. Character pieces par excellence, they open with a sad little “Folk Tune” (tempo is all here, and Sandberg sounds spot-on). There is almost a Russian sense of melancholy to this. The “Humoresque” is obviously a form that appealed to Nielsen; and how he revels in punctuating dissonance, nicely highlighted by Sandberg. How modern the spiky accents and fragmentary demeanor of the “humoresque” sound here. That staple of the Romantic repertoire, “Mignon” appears next, mysterious, impassioned (and what textural acuity from Sandberg). Finally, “Elf’s Dance”. Quite a reflective little elf this, but elvenly cheeky nonetheless, with just a touch of grotesquerie. Fascinating.
The Symphonic Suite, op. 8 just postdates the premiere of the First Symphony (March 1894). Op. 8 is Nielsen’s most ambitious piano work to date. Interesting that op. 3 should bring up the Romantics, for here Nielsen quotes Goethe, no less (“Ah, the tender hearts! A bungler can move them”). The booklet notes suggest Brahms’ F-Minor Piano Sonata, op. 5 as model (especially between the third piece and Brahms’ second movement). There is a structural parallel, too, in the use of inter-movement reminiscence. Nielsen’s suite begins with an “Intonation” and yes, Brahms is very much around in the ether in the sonorous bass of this chordally-based movement, apparently inspired also by a large oak tree. It is not just chords though: there are rapid ascents and descents to the top chordal notes that Sandberg despatches perfectly (something of a Nielsen trademark across the set, and Sandberg never fails). The final statement is positively resplendent, and what a glorious landing on the major in the final, perfectly voiced, chord. The “Quasi allegretto” is a phenomenal piece, wide-ranging, almost a mini tone poem. The Andante starts like Debussy before Nielsen’s fascinating harmonic process forces an about-turn. Arrival points are ravishingly prepared, and Sandberg fully realizes the underlying directionalities while later the music rises to a climax of Busonian proportions. By some way the longest movement, it is surely pieces like this that justify Sandberg’s enthusiasm and sure belief in this music. Performatively, this is beyond criticism: a small example is how Sandberg weights rolled chords, adding emphasis on an interior major third to underline the window of light it affords. The finale, an Allegro, is fascinating, partially sounding like an orchestral reduction, while once more bringing Busoni to mind (the Bach transcriptions) in its granitic grandeur.
There is a plethora of competition, but the one I will choose is a pianist(/composer) close to my heart in that his many achievements still are little recognized: John McCabe. While his actual recording is not as fine by any means, he brings fire to the score (the “Intonation” is faster than many might take ‘Maestoso” to mean, but it is certainly vivid). McCabe’s Andante is remarkable in its opening fragility, and is possessed of much beauty. That by Christina Bjørkøe as part of her cpo “complete” traversal is less remarkable (reviewed by Jerry Dubins in Fanfare 32:5). Bjørkøe’s articulation of the tricky rapid passages in the opening “Intonation” is finer than McCabe, but still significantly less convincing than Sandberg. I do like Bjørkøe’s left-hand staccato in the Quasi allegretto, though, but against that, the cpo recording is a touch muted.
A sheaf of smaller movements follow under the umbrella heading Souvenirs from Carl Nielsen, 11 Small Piano Pieces. And they are small, too, kicking off with a charming Norwegian Folk Dance (CNW 74), which was possibly intended for the op. 3 collection. These are slips of pieces. Slips of paper, one might contest: the Andante (CNW 75) is probably from the composer’s conservatory time, and was written on the reverse side of a piece of paper that contained a counterpoint exercise. It is charming, through. And the piano piece called, well, “Piano Piece,” is as unassuming as its title, while the two-part opening of the “Peasant Dance” seems to imply we are in Nielsen’s own Mikrokosmos. Of this selection, which includes three “unnamed pieces,” it is perhaps the Allegretto that is most noteworthy, despite its duration (all of 19 seconds). None are out-and-out duds, and all usefully help shape one’s conception of Nielsen the composer. Sandberg does bring huge character to the Minuet (Add. 23), and to the concluding A Little Piano Piece (Add. 27), with wonderful mezzo-staccato.
So to another collection: Nielsen’s op. 58, Piano Music for Young and Old: 24 Five-Finger Pieces in All Keys, composed in 1930, and his final published piano work. Actually, there are 25 pieces, as there is a “IIIa” (Allegro scherzoso) and a “IIIb” (Grazioso). The pieces do sound as if of pedagogical bent, but a folkish slant pulls them more in the orbit of some of the piano pieces heard previously. Sandberg plays with an almost Mozartian touch, and great evenness. Two-part textures are no bar to interest for Nielsen in these pieces (try the second, Andantino quasi allegretto, Sandberg choosing her tempo perfectly). There are some lovely quirks of harmony (try the “Grazioso,” IIIb), and diversions into surprisingly touching territory (Andantino, IV; Lugubre, X). Deliberately limiting means (“five-finger” pieces, here) can inspire composers, and such is the case here, it would seem. By far the longest is the last, Molto adagio—Allegretto commodo, and Sandberg gives it full space. It does feel as if we enter another world, especially after the preceding “Etude” (which does exactly what it says on the tin). Throughout, Sandberg is beyond criticism in her approach
The second disc begins with Prelude for the New Century (sometimes called Festival Prelude for the New Century; the title used here is that at the head of Nielsen’s fair copy, FS 24 / CNW 84). Sandberg is magnificently grandiose, and therefore more convincing than the lower-voltage Martin Roscoe on Hayperion. It is occasionally played on the organ, incidentally, and Nielsen himself arranged it for wind band. Very different, water as opposed to stone, is the first of the Three Piano Pieces, op. 59 (CNW 90, 1928). One can understand how this set was originally called “Three Impromptus”. Nielsen’s contrasts in the first are finely judged, and finely etched by Sandberg via her use of tone (her multiple trills are so even, too). Tonally, the three pieces are interesting, all ending clearly, but they are far from straightforwardly tonal. In fact, in the second in particular, Nielsen seems to experiment with the tonal/atonal continuum, and the result is unlike any other. Sandberg realizes exactly where we are on that scale at any given moment, just as she realizes how Nielsen plays not only with pitch constructs, but also how that is reflected in his use of texture. The rather objective title of Three Piano Pieces may be of its time, but it masks a multitude of revelations. The third piece is sprightly, deliciously malevolent. Sandberg picks exactly the right Allegro: the qualifier is “non troppo” and as the piece progresses it is clear why this exists. There is real velocity, but each note has to speak, and here, it does. There is a lovely passage of tenderness, but tenderness at a remove, in this movement, too. Sandberg is like a chameleon of emotions, something Nielsen’s piano music requires on a regular basis. And when counterpoint appears here, it is like a slowed-down version of the diablerie in Liszt’s Piano Sonata. Splendid.
The 1917 Theme with Variations (op. 40) is a substantive work; it immediately succeeds the Chaconne. The theme comes from one of the composer’s improvisations on Brahms. While in the Chaconne the musical thought was continuous, here the variations are clearly discernible as discrete elements. In the middle, the theme is reworked (its arrival is a moment when time stands still), and that reworking forms the basis of several variations, before returning to the original basis. Sandberg realized Neilsen’s counterpoint with crystalline precision. The still heart of this set is remarkable: Nielsen’s set of variations neither sets out to be clever, nor to impress with technical challenges. Instead, it examines its theme with passionate curiosity until, at that point, it finds its heart. But it is not over: there is quirkiness galore, presented unapologetically by Sandberg. A brief Piano Piece acts as interlude between the variations and the Six Humoresque-Bagatelles, op. 11 / CNW 83 (an intriguing title, if ever there was one). The style is, perhaps given the title, a touch simple, but how interesting that the second, "The Spinning Top,” is a sort of post-Mendelssohnian romp, tempered by the ensuing, less interesting, “A Little Slow Waltz,” a sort of near-atonal movement of Kinderszenen that never was, “The Jumping Jack” is heard in the best performance imaginable. Interesting, too, how Nielsen equates the ongoing, tip-toe rhythms of “Doll’s March” with the faster machinations of “The Musical Clock” (and listen to how beautifully the piano is prepared by the technician in the upper registers in the latter piece).
Back to what are probably two of Nielsen’s earliest compositions, the Two Character Pieces, CNW 72, cherishable morceaux performed with huge affection here. Sandberg has just the right sweet tone for the first, and just the right off-the-cuff delivery for the second (listen again, and carefully, though, and you hear the careful preparation of every aspect).
Poor old Lucifer, he gets such a bad rap. His name does mean “Light Bringer,” though (hence “Morning Star”) and it appears Nielsen zones in on this aspect in his piece of 1919/20, the Suite, op. 45 . Dedicated to Artur Schnabel, no less, Nielsen removed the title later due to Satanic overlap. One could argue that the demands on the performer are diabolical though, in the Lisztian sense; indeed, I wonder if I am alone in hearing Mephistophelian angularity in the first movement (and more Lisztian references in the rumbling bass). Sandberg is mesmeric in the high carillon of the second movement; fine though Andrew Rangell’s performance of this suite is (reviewed by myself in Fanfare 33:1), Sandberg is always several steps ahead, including the darkness of the third (Molto adagio e patetico), where her single lines are controlled at the lowest dynamic levels. The ensuing Allegro acts as aural balm, but listen to Sandberg’s ability to let each line speak, how each has its own individuality. Gesture is a vital part of the finale, a story told over a pulsating heart, Chopin’s “Raindrop” dripping away at the soul. What powerful music this is; its burnished beauty is undeniable. The second disc closes with The Dream about “Silent Night” is a Christmassy encore written in 1905 based on Gruber’s melody (unseasonably reviewed here just after Easter). It was published in a collection of Christmas piano pieces: other contributors included Louis Glass and Fini Henriques. It’s too much to ask for an online recording as a last-minute supplement to the set, I suppose? …
The third disc is the shortest of the three, comprising “Arrangements and Incidental Music”. Those who have read Richard A. Kaplan’s review of the first recording of this on Dacapo conducted by Andreas Delfts (Fanfare 44:3) will surely have picked up on the reviewer’s enthusiasm for this major piece written for the reunification of Southern Jutland and Denmark in 1920. The music is terrific. The “Gramophone-Waltz” (in which in the original people dance to the sound of a gramophone) contains some typical Nielsen acid bite, sitting in maximal contrast to the Nielsen-Wagner harmonic mash of the Prelude to Scene Four. Nothing is simple here: a “Minuet” seems to want to out itself into joy but never quite manages it (think Nielsen’s equivalent to a Chopin Mazurka). Nothing is quite what it seems: the Prelude to Scene Seven twists and turns, makes promises it doesn’t keep. One thing is for sure, and that is Sandberg's variety of sound. She surely thinks in terms of an orchestra. So, if the final March sounds a touch of the salon, it is a small price to pay. This set of movements is balanced by the closing set of dances from Aladdin. A nice touch to place the Oriental Festival March before the first Aladdin group, which is a “Chinese Dance” . Unlike those, the Oriental Festival March was published (by Borups-Forlag), hence sitting “outside” of the final group in the track listing. Sandberg’s performance of the march swaggers beautifully, as always capturing Nielsen's harmonic soft-shoe shuffles to perfection. The “Chinese Dance” itself is as cheeky as can be, and, in Sandberg’s account, as light as can be, too. The prisoners seem to have a hard time of it in their dance; and how daringly spare is Nielsen’s writing there. If the tremolos do not quite work, that is hardly Sandberg’s fault. Far more successful is the “Hindu Dance,” meltingly sophisticated, with some beautiful harmonic arrivals. It is impossible not to smile at the “African Dance": I suspect ethnomusicology had not quite caught up yet, but it remains fun. Finally, a dawn “Dance of the Morning Mists,” which seem to swirl slowly. What a way to end.
In between those sets, just four final pieces, a smoke “Dance of the Handmaidens” from Hagbarth and Signe, music to Adam Oehlrenschläger’s tragedy. The piece is also known as “The Maidens’ Dance” and is beautifully atmospheric, tinged with sadness. A similar process allows us to hear the Prelude to Snefrid (from Nielsen’s 1893 music to Holder Drachmann’s drama); the composer’s own piano arrangement had appeared in the journal Ungt Blod in 1895; the music is grand and dignified, as befits music for legend. Interestingly, “Elfin Dance” from Sir Oluf Rides re-uses material from op. 3. Finally, music for Otto Benzon’s play, Parents, grand, ceremonial, and boldly presented by Sandberg.
The piano used is near-perfect, as is the recording. This set deserves all the superlatives, really, and more. Sandberg is a major pianist ready for full recognition, a perfect synthesis of intellect, musicality and technique, and she puts all three fully into the service of Carl Nielsen. Colin Clarke