A Guy They Call Martucci, (or Looking for Love in All the Wrong Places
part III)

Back in the Neglected Late-Romantic Composer's Room...

After my disappointment with Novak I carefully moved closer to Martucci's
table, braced for the possibility that he might just be what some of my
friends call a "century fox." He fixed his eyes upon me through the dim
lights and smoke.

"Scram!" Martucci hissed, "go find a composer from your own age!" His
rejection delivered with a venomous potency that one could only acquire
after years of enduring life as a has-been.  But on the table before him
rested a manuscript with the seductive title, "Song of Memories." After the
chilly pickup-lines I had recently heard, "Density 1.5," "Notations," and
the worst of all, "Das Lied: Chamber Orchestra version;" Martucci's lush
and melancholy words were just too much for me.  Flush with desire, I
desperately pulled together all the money I had: $9.95.  Martucci laughed
bitterly.

"But you're used," I said.

Tail between my legs, I left the music store.  I bumped into Cage on the
way out.  It looked as though he wanted to say something to me, but we
just stood there in awkward silence for about 4 minutes, 33 seconds.  In
desperation I looked for Boulez in my Great Aunt Ethyl's feminist bookstore
across the street, but the word among the local Valkyries was that the
conductor, recently disgraced, has gone into seclusion for an indefinite
period of time: A score of "Also Sprach Zarathustra" had fallen out of his
coat the other day in front of a stunned Babbit, Carter, and Berio.  (They
say that occasionally he can be spotted working the front desk at Border's
Books and Music in some town called Albuquerque, New Mexico.)

Walking home as I always do, I passed by the old abandoned Catholic
Church where a frail yet colorfully dressed man appeared to be trying to
yell something to me from the courtyard.  "What?" I said.  Still couldn't
hear him.  "What?" I said again.  Each time I found his statements
incomprehensible.  And where did all these damn screaming birds come from?

Awed by Messiaen's presence, I tried to say something intelligent.  (say
"Turangalila" my friends would have told me) Hard as I tried, the word
just wouldn't come out.  Messian realized right off that we had no future
together.  He was just about to tell me that he had doubts that I should
ever expect to fully appreciate the grandeur of his ressurectionem when
Martucci walked up.  "You got $9.95, huh.....

" Martucci: "Song of Memories," and Concerto for Piano and Orchestra Op.
66 Sony64582.

First the performers: Muti conducts the La Scala Philharmonic with his
characteristic iron grip, and rhythms are crisp, execution is excellent,
and reflective sections are allowed their full due.  Freni, in "Songs..."
is in good form.  Her vibrato is a bit wide these days, but she, as well as
the orchestra, are recorded distantly in a flattering, slightly reverberant
acoustic.  Bruno, the piano soloist, acquits himself nicely; never sounding
labored in either the long-lined romantic gestures or the virtuoso
fireworks.

The music works.  The piano concerto does sound like a lot like Brahms and
although I found the first and third mov'ts lacking in depth, the middle
mov't has some beautiful and rewarding moments.  The "Songs..." sound much
like Mahler's "Das Lied"--lush, melodious and autumnal, but lacking in the
potency that makes the Mahler such a masterpiece.  I would recommend the CD
only if you see it used.

John (I hope Aunt Ethyl is proud) Smyth