Leo Svirsky: River Without Banks
Unseen Worlds

The particularity of a composer's voice is perhaps never more discernible than when it's articulated by a single instrument. In that regard, the persona of Leo Svirsky comes through vividly on River Without Banks, even if its six pieces don't exclusively feature solo piano by the composer. American-born and currently based in The Hague, Svirsky supplements his playing with Tibetan singing bowl and Wurlitzer on a couple of tracks and is joined by four others on upright bass (Britton Powell), cello (Leila Bordreuil), trumpet (Tim Byrnes), and windy gong (Max Eilbacher) on some pieces, too. But River Without Banks, available in CD, LP, and digital formats, is never more memorable than when piano appears alone; it's during these moments that Svirsky's melodic character asserts itself most memorably and when his music's plaintive quality exerts the greatest force.

Anything but arbitrarily chosen, the title originated from a chapter in a work by the late musicologist Genrikh Orlov called Tree of Music. In that chapter, the author traces the history of sacred music from the Western and Eastern traditions and, most germane to Svirsky's project, how they sought to collapse the separation between the physical and the spiritual, that is, the bank and the river. The composer, who earned graduate degrees in composition and piano performance at the Royal Conservatoire of the Hague, likewise aspires to dissolve said divide and give the listener an experience that fulfills both emotionally and intellectually.

The opening “Field of Reeds” rises softly, its ascending lines exuding a peaceful, pastoral aura. Here and elsewhere, Svirsky generates dense clusters of rippling piano patterns whose gradual swell inculcates in the listener a state of becalmed rapture. No piece is more affecting than the title composition, in large part because of the gently supplicating character of its main melody. It's a beautifully sad and mournful setting that one imagines would induce a hush in an audience fortunate enough to be exposed to it in a live setting. Though the arrangement eventually expands to include Tibetan singing bowl, cello, and upright bass, the material's at its most powerful when it's performed by the piano alone. Without sacrificing Svirsky's own personal signature in the process, the elegant, ten-minute solo piano rumination “Strange Lands and People” (whose melodies overtly reference those in the title track) unfolds with the patience and delicacy of a Chopin or Schubert ballad. With a title like “Fanfare (after Jeromos Kamphuis),” one might expect something high-volume and celebratory; instead, Svirsky opts in this album closer for a gentle homage whose pared-down presentation better suits the intimate tone of the recording.

August 2019