BALAKIREV Complete Romances • Margarita Alaverdian (sop); Lyubov Sokolova (mez); Alexander Gergalov (bar); Georgy Seleznev (bs); Yuri Serov (pn) • DELOS 3376 (2 CDs: 103: 32 Text and Translation)

German Lieder held sway among the 19th-century composers of central and northern Europe. Niels Gade, Mendelssohn’s protégé and friend in Denmark, wrote them, and so did Emma Kodály, the second wife of the pioneering Hungarian composer, in her early years. But Russia, under the French influence that began with Tsarina Catherine’s court, imported the salon art song, instead. Called romances, they were usually non-strophic and non-linear. They typically didn’t feature narratives telling stories, but emphasized strong emotional reactions to the memory of sensory stimuli—which isn’t to say that Lieder were invariably a case of strophic, linear narratives.

The best-known Russian romances are by Glinka, Tchaikovsky, and Rachmaninoff. With texts selected by their composers, these works usually indulge in a romantic pessimism that ranges in expression from worldly ennui to black melancholy. Balakirev’s romances reflect a different sensibility. Most, especially those he composed after returning to the romance genre in 1895 (following a 30-year break), celebrate an animistic appreciation of nature—an observation that the obsessively devout composer would have probably rejected with sputtering rage. The rest cover a range of activities and preferences, with character pieces predominating in the early works.

The music is uneven. Balakirev had a well-deserved reputation during his lifetime as a discerning critic of other composers’ music, even to the point that the hypersensitive and disputatious Tchaikovsky accepted his help in writing a tone poem. (The work went through numerous revisions under Balakirev’s dictatorial direction, which included personally approving and rejecting a number of musical themes, but ultimately became the fantasy-overture, Romeo and Juliet.) Balakirev’s caustically critical nature made for very slow progress on his own music, however, and he lacked the same kind of close mentorship in direction he provided to others.

“Thou art full of fascinating tenderness,” one of the composer’s earliest romances, from 1855, is attractive, despite its obvious mix of Rossini and Verdi. So too is “Delirium” from 1859, with a finely suspended melodic line in two parts that recalls Glinka—though the theme simply ends once stated, as though it were preparing for something larger and quit. The poetry of Aleksei Koltsov calls forth his most ambitious efforts among these early works, such as “Embrace and kiss,” with an introduction that contains perfunctory counterpoint. Better still is the “Lullaby” from 1858 that does simple but effective things in a way that produces a cumulative effect. Many other romances feature a lengthy folk-influenced thematic statement that merely repeats several times, without variation. (Rimsky-Korsakov was to pursue a similar course in one or two pieces found in most of his operas, though with variation in harmony and orchestral texture to build interest. It’s really a reproduction of the old dichotomy between rural and urbanized folk performance.) Occasionally, as in “The Brigand’s Song” of 1857, the musical statement has no real resolution in the tonic, a typical practice among Slavic folk material—though Balakirev, no doubt warned by his publisher, does add a cadence on the tonic after numerous repetitions that his middle-class audience would have expected.

The later romances are significantly more developed, with fluently active bass lines and advanced harmonies even in the occasional piece that hearkens back to the folk material of 30 years before, such as “Prelude.” More often than not, the folk expression is placed within a larger, Mussorgskian monologue, as in “Song” (“A yellow leaf is beating against the stem before the storm”), or against an extended barcarolle accompaniment that could pass for Borodin, as in “Look, my friend.” The level of composition is more sophisticated, the inspiration finally matched by the technique.

Among the performers, Margarita Alaverdian displays an attractively smooth lyric soprano. She can soften it magically at the end of “Lullaby,” and span it attractively with more power in the central section of “When, careless.” She has a disconcerting habit of switching between an overly cautious use of her voice and a more forthright, impassioned, typically Slavic approach to this music, as in the lengthy “Georgian Song.” I keep thinking how Vishnevskaya would have treated this piece—and wish Alaverdian, who has been singing for 20 years, would have engaged in a little risk taking. There’s little sense of involvement at anything other than a generalized level, alas, in her performances.

Lyubov Sokolova focuses exclusively on the post-1894 works. (Does anyone know if she’s a relative of the fine Soviet soprano Natalia Sokolova, who sang Aida in the complete 1960 recording that also featured Davidova, Nelepp, and the great Pavel Lisitsian?) Here we have a singer who is willing to use the full expressive range of her husky, dark-textured voice, as in “The Pine.” The broadly lyrical “When yellow fields wave” finds her responding without much delicacy, but with a convincing line. Her heavier coloration seems tailored to the modal “Prelude,” while “Whisper, shy breathing” is generalized in its interpretation, but pulls no punches in expressiveness.

Alexander Gergalov reveals a beautiful baritone with just a hint of tightness in the upper range. His legato is a lovely thing, as the arresting “Nocturne” shows, but the voice also rings comfortably in “Dream.” The last also reveals his skill as the best chamber singer in the group, alive to nuances that escape the rest: the dragging weight given to the monotone opening phrase that mentions the noon heat; the slight reduction in volume, the inward turning as the poet reflects on the blood dripping, drop after drop, from his wound; the brightening of tone and beautifully arched phrasing around the line, “I dreamed of an illuminated feast.”

Georgy Seleznev is, by contrast, the weakest of the lot. At his best in “O night, now show me in,” the lower range of the voice is a pleasant bass, occasionally used to shape individual words with dramatic awareness. Too much, though, is like “Come to Me” or “Desert,” with a great deal of pressure applied to the tone that doesn’t cause it to ring as he clearly wishes it would. This results instead in leaden-footed movement from note to note, a slight wobble, and pitch problems in his upper range.

Overall, I could have wished for more attention paid to the text along the lines that Gergalov regularly displays, but on the plus side, all four singers are either Russian-born or very familiar with the language. They use it naturally, and in Yuri Serov, they have a first-rate accompanist. Serov, who did a fine job accompanying the complete song series of Shostakovich for Delos several years ago, is once again a full and sensitive partner in the proceedings. Full English and transliterated Russian texts are provided.

These performances are not likely to be superseded any time soon, save perhaps in individual songs that make their way into recorded recitals. With that in mind, definitely recommended to fans of the Moguchaya Kuchka, the “Mighty Five,” whose music still packs such a wallop.

FANFARE: Barry Brenesal