Miroir de Peine (1923 orch. 1933) [13:39]
Magna res est amor (1919 orch 1919) [4:13]
Fiat Domine (1920 orch. 1930) [2:31]
Variations and Fugue on a theme by Kuhnau (1935) [13:20]
Variations on a theme by Couperin (1944) [15:46]
Chromatic Variations (1970) [12:56]
Concertino for Cello and Orchestra (1970) [10:37]
Concertino for Oboe with String Orchestra (1969-70) [13:09]
Canzona for Cello Solo and Orchestra (1965) [11:59]
Violin Concerto (1968-69) [22:22]
Michael Müller (cello), Henk Swinnen (oboe), Tinta Schmidt von Altenstadt (violin)
Netherlands Radio Chamber Orchestra/David Porcelijn (Orchestral music), Thierry Fischer (Concertinos, Canzona, Concerto)
rec. June and August 1991, Geertekerk, Utrecht (Orchestral) and November 1997 and May 1998, MCO I, Hilversum (Concertinos, Canzona, Concerto)
No texts
BRILLIANT CLASSICS 96105 [63:17 + 58:40]
Here’s a composer who deserves better than he’s gotten. Hendrik Andriessen—not to be confused with his more famous son Louis—spent a lifetime crafting music of considerable contrapuntal sophistication and devotional intensity, yet his reputation remains frustratingly provincial. This Brilliant Classics reissue of earlier recordings (originally on Marco Polo) makes a strong case for reevaluation, though the performances themselves prove rather more variable than one might wish.
The early works reveal Andriessen père working through a familiar post-Romantic idiom with genuine conviction. Miroir de Peine (1923, orchestrated a decade later) opens the disc with music of somber beauty—the title means “Mirror of Sorrow,” and there’s no false advertising here. The Netherlands Radio Chamber Orchestra under David Porcelijn navigates the shifting chromatic harmonies with care, though I kept wishing for more timbral bloom in the string sound. The recording, made in the Geertekerk in Utrecht, captures detail but lacks warmth. “Magna res est amor” and “Fiat Domine” are brief devotional pieces, beautifully wrought but perhaps too condensed to make their full effect.
The two sets of variations—on themes by Kuhnau (1935) and Couperin (1944)—show Andriessen at his considerable best. Here’s a composer who really understood how to build variation forms, not just through melodic decoration but through genuine transformation of material. The Kuhnau set shows a mastery of orchestral color that belies the modest forces employed. Listen to how the theme emerges through different instrumental combinations, each variation a small study in timbre and texture. The Couperin variations, written during the Occupation, carry a peculiar melancholy—appropriate enough, given the circumstances—but never descend into mere pastiche. Porcelijn handles these with authority, though again the recorded sound strikes me as slightly undernourished.
By 1970, with the Chromatic Variations, Andriessen had absorbed serial techniques without entirely abandoning tonal centers. The result sounds neither fish nor fowl—not quite twelve-tone, not quite neo-Romantic, but somewhere in between. It’s interesting music, certainly, but I’m not convinced it’s entirely successful. The chromatic saturation becomes wearying, and the variations lack the architectural clarity of the earlier sets.
The concerted works present a mixed picture. Michael Müller plays the Concertino for Cello with clean intonation and musical intelligence, though his tone in the upper register occasionally turns thin. The work itself—a late piece from 1970—shows Andriessen writing with economy and purpose. Nothing wasteful here. The Canzona for cello (1965) makes a more substantial impression, with Müller digging into the solo line with greater conviction. These recordings, made in Hilversum under Thierry Fischer, benefit from warmer engineering than the Utrecht sessions.
Henk Swinnen brings considerable finesse to the Concertino for Oboe, though the accompaniment sounds tentative in spots—Fischer doesn’t quite match Porcelijn’s authority in the purely orchestral works. The oboe writing itself is grateful without being particularly distinctive; one admires the craft more than the inspiration.
The Violin Concerto (1968–69) receives the most ambitious reading here. Tinta Schmidt von Altenstadt plays with technical security and a bright, forward tone that suits the music’s neo-Baroque gestures. But I found myself wishing for more variety of color, more shading in the lyrical passages. The concerto runs over twenty minutes, and Andriessen’s thematic material, however expertly developed, doesn’t quite sustain that length. The first movement especially feels padded—elegant padding, to be sure, but padding nonetheless.
What strikes me throughout this collection is Andriessen’s essential seriousness. This is music made by a composer who believed in the moral weight of his art, who took his Catholic faith and his contrapuntal heritage with equal gravity. There’s virtually no humor here, precious little lightness. Whether that’s a virtue or a limitation depends on your temperament. I respect the achievement more than I love the music itself.
The performances are professional and committed without being revelatory. Porcelijn understands this repertoire thoroughly; Fischer seems less engaged. The soloists all acquit themselves honorably, though none makes a particularly distinctive case for these works. The engineering varies considerably between the two disc venues—the Hilversum sessions sound notably better than the Utrecht ones.
At mid-price, this set offers a complete look at an unjustly neglected composer. Whether you’ll return to these performances repeatedly is another question. I’m glad to have heard them, glad to know this music better. But I keep thinking that somewhere, in some parallel universe, there exists a more persuasive advocacy for Hendrik Andriessen than what we get here. Still, half a loaf, as they say.
