The formation of the classical canon is as much a story of historical contingency as it is of compositional skill. For every composer who secured a place in posterity, a constellation of favourable conditions had to align. Even the great J. S. Bach might have languished in obscurity were it not for Mendelssohn’s well-timed revival of the St Matthew Passion. But for each such case of canonization, there are counterexamples: figures of immense talent and achievement who, for reasons largely external to their music, faded from view.
The two recordings reviewed here make a case for the composer Anton Zimmermann (1741–1781) being one of them. In the 1770s, he stood at the centre of a vibrant musical culture in Pressburg (modern-day Bratislava), serving as Kapellmeister to Prince-Primate Joseph Batthyány and directing an orchestra considered among the best in Europe. His output, comprising more than 270 works, was performed from Paris to Florence and praised in contemporary reviews. Zimmermann’s music reveals a composer deeply attuned to the expressive possibilities of the idiom of his time, unafraid to experiment with instrumentation, form and harmony. As Werner Ehrhardt, conductor of L’arte del mondo and leader of these world-premiere recordings, has claimed, ‘Had he lived longer, we would undoubtedly now acknowledge him as one of the great Classical composers’ (quoted in Christoph Vratz, ‘The Unknown Rebel’, liner notes (2018)).
Of course, convincing listeners of such a bold statement is no easy task. It calls for performances of vitality and conviction that make a first encounter with Zimmermann’s music feel like a meeting with a long-lost peer of Haydn and Mozart, a discerning selection of just a handful of symphonies (from over forty) that can do justice to the breadth of his achievement, and liner notes that tell his story with clarity and persuasive force.
Before considering how well these elements succeed in the recordings at hand, it is worth pausing to ask: why was Zimmermann forgotten in the first place? The answer, it seems, lies in an alignment of the stars that, for this composer, never happened. Following his premature death in 1781, the Batthyány court orchestra was dissolved, severing the institutional platform that had brought his music to life. As Slovak musicologist Darina Múdra has shown in her impressive work on the composer (Anton Zimmermann (1741–1781): Thematisches Werkverzeichnis (Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 2011)), Zimmermann left behind little documentation and no clear pedagogical lineage; his works, many of them preserved only in manuscript, were scattered across libraries without champions to sustain them. Pressburg, for all its eighteenth-century cultural prominence, lay on the periphery of canon-shaping power centres like Vienna, Paris and Leipzig. It is clear that what Zimmermann lacked was not recognition in his own time, but the mechanism of preservation.
That historical void makes the present recordings all the more significant – not only as scholarly reclamations, but as persuasive acts of musical advocacy. They offer the listener a vivid encounter with a voice unfairly lost to history, presented with conviction, care and imagination. In both conception and execution, they make a strong case that this is music not merely worth recovering, but worth cherishing.
Released six years apart – the first in 2018, the second in 2024 – these two recordings, though perhaps not initially conceived as a set, now stand together as complementary portraits of Zimmermann’s symphonic voice. The 2018 release showcases what might be called the composer’s ‘serious’ side, featuring two minor-key symphonies (in the circumstances of their composition, itself a peculiar choice), in E and in C. Both are works of striking quality and high compositional ambition, with the C minor symphony emerging as a real masterpiece, no less. Its scoring – remarkably, with two trombones given central roles – immediately distinguishes it from the mainstream symphonic writing of its time. The remarkable opening Adagissimo could easily be imagined as an opera overture, unfolding with sustained intensity in which flashes of light and passages of deep shadow intertwine to form a compelling musical narrative. The subsequent movements sustain this high level of invention, combining dramatic drive with refined detail, and using the trombones not merely for colour but as active characters in the musical drama.
The booklet for the 2018 recording, written by Christoph Vratz, complements this programming with a vivid portrait of Zimmermann as an ‘unknown rebel’. Vratz emphasizes his nonconformity and stylistic boldness, and – by portraying him in almost Haydnesque colours – frames him in a way that makes sense as a first introduction to his music for a broad audience. The notes quote Werner Ehrhardt extensively, aptly giving him a prominent role in the narrative of Zimmermann’s modern revival – recounting how the composer first came to Ehrhardt’s attention and relaying the conductor’s perspectives on the music. The emphasis on compositional rebelliousness and originality aligns naturally with the selection of symphonies in this volume, which vividly exemplify these traits and set a tone of discovery and advocacy.
The second volume turns more towards Zimmermann’s lighter side, foregrounding the virtuosity of the orchestral soloists and a playful delight in compositional inventiveness. A particular highlight is the variation movement closing the Symphony in B flat major, a kind of virtuoso extravaganza in which multiple soloists step forward in turn. Even the E minor symphony (not to be confused with the piece in the same key from the 2018 release) offers less the drama of the Sturm und Drang style and more the charm of a collection of small gems – from an opening movement whose dimensions and character suggest a minuet, to a short finale that playfully experiments with a fugal exposition. The booklet for volume 2, written by Olaf Krone, appropriately adopts a more scholarly tone and is rich in archival detail. It shifts the focus from advocacy to documentation, offering insight into the sociopolitical and institutional world of Habsburg Hungary, the courtly networks of the Esterházy, Batthyány and Erdődy families, and the likely occasions and orchestral forces for Zimmermann’s works. Notably, it includes detailed information on a few individual members of Zimmermann’s orchestra, tracing their careers and movements. This brings the historical record to life, inviting the listener to picture those very musicians stepping forward for the abundant solos in this volume – flesh-and-blood players whose artistry once animated these works. The overall approach seems intended for listeners already persuaded of the composer’s merits and now eager to understand the historical infrastructure behind his music.
From the very first bars of either release, it is clear that the performances by L’arte del mondo under Werner Ehrhardt are the opposite of a generic reading. Thankfully, the musicians have not seen their role as merely drawing attention to the newly discovered music while keeping their own voice transparent, but as true collaborators with the composer. Demonstrating a keen grasp of eighteenth-century rhetoric and of its possibilities, every phrase is characterized with care and imagination, lending the whole a distinctly theatrical quality. This general approach – one of engaged, moment-to-moment responsiveness – proves especially apt for Zimmermann’s unusual turns of phrase and form to which the orchestra fully commits, capturing them with precision and flair. One of the most striking examples is the close of the E minor symphony (from the earlier recording), a peculiar epilogue – almost a non sequitur to the rest of the rondo-shaped movement – which Ehrhardt shapes into a chilling morendo, an ending as unexpected as it is haunting.
The strings are superb throughout, commanding a wide vocabulary of expression: crisp articulation that brings both drama and humour, lyrical phrasing that is at once nuanced and deeply expressive, and energetic gestures that always show clear musical direction. Particularly impressive is how the different string sections, even while accompanying, find ways to enact their role, swiftly stepping in and out of the spotlight in an impressively coordinated acrobatic display that, from the listener’s perspective, translates into a lively, highly engaging musical conversation. The winds, for their part, offer a beautiful, characterful tone; though there are occasional moments of sluggishness and, very rarely, a hint of inaccurate intonation, these are far outweighed by the warmth and individuality of their contribution.
As in some of their earlier projects – such as the 2023 recording of symphonies by Joseph Aloys Schmittbaur (1718–1809) and the 2016 release of three symphonies by Johann Matthias Sperger (1750–1812), incidentally the double-bass player in Zimmermann’s orchestra – L’arte del mondo continues its commendable mission of presenting world premieres of eighteenth-century music, combining historical curiosity with artistic conviction. The result is a persuasive and engaging act of musical restoration, making a compelling case for Zimmermann’s rightful place among the era’s most individual symphonic voices – while also offering music that is, quite simply, deeply enjoyable and moving.
