JURIS KARLSONS (b.1948) : Dances of Life and Death : "El Cid. Dances of Life and Death" "Joseph’s Visions" Suite from the ballet "Antonija # Silmači" Liepāja Symphony Orchestra, 
Guntis Kuzma - conductor 
Daumants Kalniņš

Description: As an artist and a representative of the field of music, JURIS KARLSONS (1948) can hardly be described in one sentence; he is diverse and versatile – flexible, so to speak – in his choice of creative ideas and genres. The somewhat bothersome adjective ‘open’ applies to him as well, for something extra-musical accompanies, underlies or even guides all of his purely musical ideas and versions. This may manifest itself quite directly, in the form of a poetic text or action on stage. But also more hypothetically, in the background, like an old chest with a double bottom: here a breaching of the concerto genre and performance concept with special comments, there an indulging of the search for the right variant of the symphonic genre, yet elsewhere the wide range of instruments selected and the combinations thereof. After all, plenty of miniatures of all kinds, too – both in the vocal and instrumental genres as well as, naturally, combined. Karlsons has had to try everything, test it with his own perception. While I would prefer not to pigeonhole him, one could perhaps risk describing him as moderately modern: without extremes, but on trend; not falling outside the paradigm of Latvian music, but nevertheless inscribing in it his own name and style. The varied pieces on this album share a common characteristic: they are linked with the stage, with theatre, and therefore with another kind of art, namely, narrative art. Yes, in different forms and degrees of directness or indirectness, but the spotlights are there, not to mention the fact that all of the works are rooted in literary compositions as their original message, as their impulse. And I feel that Karlsons’ own contribution also includes a slice of theatre and theatricality. As it does in each one of us. With all the monologues and dialogues, the expositions and the silent final scenes… But, if it is a composer offering us such a view, such a vision, it must also contain a trick of sorts, a catch, a special angle, a lock and key. JĀNIS TORGĀNS JURIS KARLSONS is now among the older generation in Latvian music. He has been active in a wide range of roles as a musician and cultural figure, but above all as a composer in a variety of musical genres. He has also been a pedagogue, served as rector of the Jāzeps Vītols Latvian Academy of Music (1990–2007), and earned a Dr. honoris causa degree. The dynamic, diverse and prolific Karlsons has been a prominent public figure in music (consulting, serving on juries, commissions and councils) and was the chairman of the Latvian Composers’ Union from 1989 to 1993. He is a recipient of the Order of the Three Stars, 3rd Class. Pierre Corneille’s Le Cid appeared at the Daile Theatre in Riga in 1996 (director Arnolds Liniņš)t, when Karlsons was no longer at the helm in terms of music (he had served as the theatre’s chief sound engineer from 1975 to 1982) but was simply (!) collaborating with Liniņš and the theatre. But what we have on this album is in no way taken directly from that production. No, not at all. It is a different genre, a different angle, a different legend (like a spy’s made-up story in case he gets caught, which doesn’t match his true self). The title also differs, with the Spanish-Moorish form El Cid as the folklorised hero (lord, ruler, knight – this last description likely being the most appropriate...) and the addition of Dances of Life and Death. Who knows whether Spain is even possible without the dances – even when the Guadalquivir murmurs and rushes (à la Pushkin). But, much more than reason and intellect, it is madness and irrationality that determines the tone here: fervour, passion, the voice of blood. And honour, nobility of spirit and integrity. The dances themselves (in their entirety and immediacy) at first seem sluggish and slow, sometimes also strained and tense, but then – a whirlpool, a maelstrom, vertigo. And one no longer knows whether this is life or death, or both at the same time. SUITE FROM ANTONIJA #SILMAČI The suite from the ballet Antonija #Silmači for symphony orchestra (2020; the ballet itself was composed in 2017 and premiered in 2018). The outlines of the plot are familiar to Latvian audiences, who have grown up with it. International audiences, however, may never fully understand all its twists and turns and undercurrents, but they will benefit from at least a very basic summary of the characters involved. So, the action takes place in Latvia, on the Silmači farmstead, as the play’s author Rūdolfs Blaumanis (1863–1908) imagined it in the early 20th century. The farm’s owner, Antonija, is a relatively young widow with a young daughter. She and the master tailor Dūdars once had feelings for each other. The head farmhand Aleksis, whom Antonija currently has her eyes on, is in fact in love with the young maid Elīna. Amid the other characters are three older women (Bebene, the healer Tomuļmāte and the gossipy Pindacīša), three teens (Rūdolfs, Kārlēns, Ieviņa) and three local Jews (the merchant Ābrams, his son Joske, and Joske’s sweetheart, the very proper but poor dressmaker Zāra). Karlsons has placed Antonija’s life and experiences (real or imagined feelings for Aleksis, hopes for a happy or at least peaceful marriage) at the centre of the narrative, and therefore the emotional core of the ballet, including its title, revolves around her. And oh, of course, the whole story takes place against the backdrop of the Midsummer celebration – at once a pan-Indo-European phenomenon and a deeply Latvian setting. But in the ballet, Antonija does not join in her household’s songs and rejoicing; she remains as if frozen. The play itself, in its very first performances as well as in its subsequent life on Latvian stages, has been closely linked with the sonorous, lively, spot-on music by Aleksandrs Būmanis (1881–1937), which also appears from time to time in the ballet score like a distant nod, a reminder, a prompt. The suite’s nine movements are neatly arranged in terms of contrasts and opposites, and they follow the overall plotquite loosely. The first movement, titled Antonija, begins in a seemingly calm, observant manner but becomes increasingly tense, with an almost drip-like rhythm, descending passages and little detail. In the second movement, The tailors arrive!, the party begins: excited commotion, anticipation, expectation, small allusions here and there... The third movement, Zāra, is cautious and light, with tiny Oriental-style steps that eventually grow into a hearty, joyous dance. But wait, wait! In the fourth movement, like a typical comedy duo, Pindacīša and Ābrams pull out all the stops. In sharp contrast, the fifth movement turns to Aleksis and Elīna for a portrait of two souls in love – quite dusky and misty, but increasingly brighter and warmer until it reaches the most lyrical flow in the entire story. The Bees provide a distinct scherzo in the sixth movement, with the motion organised as a small fugato and perpetuum mobile. Of course, the insects do no real harm, but they do kick up quite a hullabaloo. Needless to say, there are no bees in the performance. But theatre is theatre, and it is capable of everything...if it’s capable of anything at all. The seventh movement brings more contrast with The duet of Rūdis and Kārlēns, featuring a very deformed, almost drunken, version of the well-known tune from the play about the woes that children bring their parents...and vice versa. However, the eighth movement, Antonija and Aleksis, is truly woeful, with Aleksis admitting to Antonija that he does not love her and Antonija struggling to stifle her heartbreak. While not explicit, her emotions and expression grow like a snowball, stumbling and falling. Then the Finale – Antonija is withdrawn, as here one character appears, there another, and everything becomes entangled, confused, disordered. Antonija exists far from the revellers. In fact, the whole narrative closes far from a happy ending, with a harsh and severe conclusion in its place. JOSEPH’S VISIONS FOR SYMPHONY ORCHESTRA AND SOLO BARITONE (2015) As with El Cid, Joseph’s Visions are a reminiscence, a retrospective, a chronologically distant echo of the 1981 theatre production of Joseph and His Brothers (director Arnolds Liniņš). Yes, this is the Eastern desert, but this is also loneliness and solitude – important facets of Joseph’s reality in this work by classic Latvian poet and playwright Rainis. It first feels like a point of view, an observation, then also a phenomenon, an unexpected sign. In any case, it is a vision – into the past or the future, or both. All in all, there is a strong association with what is perceptible by the eye. No, this is not a light, romantic pastorale (from the Latin pāstor ‘shepherd’). It is a landscape, but more a view of the hot dust of the desert (Rainis, Fatamorgāna [Fata Morgana]), a fierce, overwhelming swelter, the scorching breath of the sand. However, the core remains perceivable by the eye (perhaps the inner, hidden eye): perspectives, gazes, and yes, visions. And another quite different dimension – the human voice. A stylised, uncultivated, rough voice – a somewhat sombre monologue of the soul as if thrusting, overcoming barriers. At one point it may remind one of the seemingly monotonous, lonesome chanting of the muezzin, but it is coarse, as if forming a counterbalance, with emotional thrusts from the deep abysses of time. Jānis Torgāns