Leoš Janáček (1854–1928)
Idyla (Idyll) for String Band (1878) / Mládí (Youth) for Wind Sextet (c. 1924–25)
Los Angeles Chamber Orchestra / Gerard Schwarz
David Shostac (flute), Allan Vogel (oboe), David Shifrin (clarinet), Kenneth Munday (bassoon), Robin Graham (horn)
Recorded at Ambassador Auditorium, Pasadena, California, December 1980 & November 1981
APEX 7559 79680 | 43:32
Two bookends of Janáček’s creative life come into focus here, dramatically contrasting yet curiously complementary. The youthful Idyla, written when he was barely twenty-five, and the mature Mládí, penned in the twilight years before his death, offer an illuminating glimpse into a composer whose voice truly blossoms late — but how fascinating to hear where it all began.
Idyla is a window into Janáček’s formative years: the unmistakable imprint of Dvořák looms large throughout — not surprising, given their friendship and shared Bohemian roots. This string orchestra work feels more like a well-crafted homage than an original manifesto. The first three movements unfold with sentimental lyricism, occasionally touching on pastoral charm, but it’s the brisk, folk-dance-like fourth movement where Janáček’s later rhythmic vitality whispers through the textures.
Short, repetitive motifs prance with a rustic vigor that hints at the distinctive modal inflections and jagged speech rhythms that would hallmark his mature style. Yet, overall, its tonal palette remains conventional, the harmonic language squarely entrenched in late Romanticism. The string writing is idiomatic — warm, lush, and comfortable in the hands of the Los Angeles Chamber Orchestra, who deliver with a tautness and clarity that rescues the music from potential flabbiness.
You can almost hear the rosin dust settling on the strings.
Their bowing is supple, the ensemble’s intonation impeccable, and I particularly admired the subtle diminuendos at — phrase endings that lend a natural breathing quality to the melodies, avoiding any pastiche of Romantic excess. But then — what a leap to Mládí! This is a work that defies easy pigeonholing.
Scored for the unusual combination of standard wind quintet plus bass clarinet, Janáček creates a sound world at once intimate and expansively sonorous. The bass clarinet isn’t just an odd add-on; it grounds the ensemble with a rich, dark timbre that shifts the balance and colors the harmonic fabric in ways both unsettling and enchanting. Few composers have exploited this lineup with such imaginative flair — indeed, this piece stands as a singular jewel in the wind chamber repertoire.
Yet it is devilishly difficult to perform. The ensemble must navigate Janáček’s characteristic mercurial tempo shifts — twitchy, sometimes abrupt — and tender instrumental flourishes that require razor-sharp coordination. Here, Gerard Schwarz’s leadership ensures a disciplined approach, with the LA Chamber Orchestra woodwinds displaying virtuosic precision without sacrificing warmth.
The interplay between oboe and clarinet in the "scherzo"-like sections is particularly compelling, though at times I found the overall tonal blend a little too polished, almost clinical. A touch more earthiness — a rawer, breathier edge — might have better conveyed the music’s restless spirit. The "Andante" sostenuto movement, however, is spellbinding.
The sustained lines float effortlessly; the horn’s mellow call blends seamlessly with the clarinet’s velvety tone, underpinned by the bassoon’s gentle pulse. Here Janáček’s gift for expressive melodic contouring blossoms fully, and the ensemble’s impeccable chording enhances the haunting atmosphere. It is a rare moment of shared stillness that feels both fragile and — well — resolute.
If I have one reservation, it concerns the "finale". Despite the technical mastery on display, the ending feels oddly muted, lacking the climactic surge one might expect after such emotional investment. Nothing is wrong — the execution is flawless — but it’s as if Janáček holds himself back, concluding with a whisper rather than a shout.
Whether this restraint was intentional or a missed opportunity, it leaves the listener yearning for a more definitive closure. In sum, these performances offer valuable insights into two disparate phases of Janáček’s oeuvre. The Idyla is pleasant but occasionally conventional; Mládí is compelling and original, if not entirely faultless in execution.
The album quality deserves mention too — the strings are captured with warmth and — well — presence, the winds with intimate clarity, especially impressive given the challenges inherent in balancing such a unique ensemble. This disc stands as a worthy companion for those seeking a deeper understanding of Janáček’s evolution. Not a perfect pairing, perhaps, but an intriguing one — like a conversation across decades, where youthful aspiration meets mature complexity.
Essential listening for the curious — rewarding for the discerning. Richard Dyer
