Carl Philipp Emanuel BACH (1714-1788)
Sonatas and Rondos
Marc-André Hamelin (piano)
rec. 2021, Mechanics Hall, Worcester, USA
HYPERION CDA68381/2 [63:32 + 77:29]
Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach remains—how shall I put this?—stubbornly difficult to bring off. The empfindsamer Stil, that nervous, hyper-articulate language of sentiment and surprise, can sound merely fussy in the wrong hands, all those sudden pauses and sighs becoming mere mannerism. Or worse: it disappears entirely under a blanket of smooth modern pianism, the sharp edges filed away until nothing remains but pleasant, forgettable passagework.
Hamelin understands this. He always has.
What strikes you first in these performances—recorded in Worcester’s Mechanics Hall, that resonant Massachusetts treasure—is the sheer clarity of articulation. Not the percussive, over-defined clarity that announces itself like a manifesto, but something more subtle: each note speaks with its own particular weight and duration, the way a skilled fortepianist might manage things, except with the color resources of a modern Steinway at his disposal. Listen to the opening of the Sonata in F minor, H. 173 (Wq 57/6), those descending figures in the left hand—Hamelin gives them just enough separation, just enough shadow, that you hear the harmonic implications without losing the melodic thread. It’s a refined business.
The fast movements crackle with a kind of controlled wildness. The Allegro from the A major Sonata, H. 186 (Wq 55/4) races along with extraordinary rhythmic precision, yet never sounds metronomic—there’s always that slight give-and-take, those tiny hesitations before unexpected harmonic turns that make CPE’s music feel genuinely improvisatory. Which, of course, it was meant to. These sonatas emerged from a world where the boundary between composition and extemporization remained porous, where a performer’s ability to surprise (but never merely shock) was considered essential to musical eloquence.
The slow movements present different challenges. CPE’s Adagios and Andantes demand a kind of psychological immediacy—sudden dynamic contrasts, abrupt silences, harmonies that veer into remote keys without warning. This is music that thinks aloud, that changes its mind mid-sentence. Hamelin never smooths these edges away. The Andante from the C minor Sonata, H. 121 (Wq 65/31) unfolds with an almost operatic intensity, the singing line constantly interrupted by those characteristic CPE gestures: a rest where you don’t expect one, a sforzando on a weak beat, a chromatic twist that momentarily destabilizes the tonal center. Some pianists try to make this cohere into a single expressive arc; Hamelin lets it fragment, lets it breathe in irregular gasps—and it’s far more effective.
The rondos scattered through this collection show CPE at his most ingratiating, though even here the music refuses to settle into comfortable patterns. The Rondo in E major, H. 288 (Wq 57/1) has that galant charm, those symmetrical phrases and predictable returns, but listen closely and you’ll hear how CPE subverts the form from within, extending phrases just beyond their expected length, introducing chromatic passing tones that briefly cloud the tonality. Hamelin plays these pieces with affection but never condescension—he takes them seriously as compositional achievements, not merely as pleasant trifles.
One might quibble with certain tempos. The Prestissimo from the F major Sonata, H. 244 (Wq 55/5) goes at a truly ferocious clip—perhaps too much so? The figuration becomes slightly blurred in places, though Hamelin’s digital control is such that you’re never in doubt about the harmonic structure. And honestly, there’s something exhilarating about hearing this music pushed to its technical limits, as CPE himself surely would have done. These were virtuoso pieces, after all, designed to astonish.
The recorded sound serves Hamelin well. Mechanics Hall has that characteristic New England warmth—not the plush, enveloping resonance of some European spaces, but something drier, more immediate, with just enough ambient glow to give the piano body without obscuring detail. The instrument itself (one assumes it’s the hall’s superb Steinway D) sounds magnificent: singing in the treble, solid and articulate in the bass, with that particular clarity in the middle register that CPE’s dense, chromatic voice-leading requires.
Hyperion’s presentation is, as always, exemplary. The booklet includes Hamelin’s own liner notes—characteristically thoughtful and modest—along with full details of the sources. The two discs are sensibly programmed, with contrasting keys and moods that prevent the ear from tiring.
This is, quite simply, the finest CPE Bach piano playing I’ve encountered. Hamelin brings to this repertoire exactly what it needs: technical command so complete that it becomes invisible, historical awareness worn lightly, and above all, a willingness to let the music speak in its own eccentric, brilliant voice. These aren’t comfortable pieces—they’re too restless, too harmonically adventurous, too emotionally volatile for that. But in Hamelin’s hands they’re utterly compelling, revealing CPE as what he was: one of the most original musical minds of his century.
Richard Dyer
