About five years ago there was a sudden flurry by several distinguished artists (Bob van Asperen among them) to set about recording the complete keyboard sonatas of Antonio Soler. Patrick Cohen’s projected integrale differs from them in two main regards. Instead of selecting sonatas in an arbitrary order with an eye to offering listeners contrasts in mood and style, he has chosen a systematic (perhaps chronological) approach, following the numbering of the Rubio edition. And so this first release consists of the first dozen of the only set to be published in Soler’s lifetime, the 27 collected by Lord Fitzwilliam (with a note by him that “Father Soler had been taught by Scarlatti”). Secondly, Cohen has taken the contentious step of recording not on the harpsichord, the most common instrument of the time, but on the fortepiano, of which, so far as is known, there was only one example in the Escorial, and that with a range of only four and a half octaves – quite insufficient for some of these pieces. (No. 9 even demands the G in alt not available on all harpsichords either.) The Scarlatti influence is audible in the keyboard effects that Soler evidently enjoyed – rushing scales, wide left-hand hops, bravura rapid hand-crossings, harmonic toying under repeated notes or motifs – but Soler is even more adventurous in his modulations, some of which (for instance in Nos. 2, 4 and 6) are really astonishing (but, of course, he had published a much-challenged treatise, A key to modulation).
As a long-time performer of, and enthusiast for, Soler, I wish I could recommend this disc, but despite Cohen’s neatness and technical ability I have too many reservations – not by any means only about his using a copy of a more advanced instrument (by Walter) than Soler could have known, or his inconsistency about the playing of repeats. What upsets me is his mannered quirkinesses of rhythm and pace, so that, for example, No. 1’s martial swagger is weakened by hurryings and slowings, the processional No. 4 (with Scarlatti’s trumpet tuckets) loses its impetus, the rhythm of the extensive No. 10 is mercilessly pulled about; and when it comes to the hand-crossings of No. 7, which should surely be dashing and brilliant, Cohen becomes cautious and old-maidish. No, I will stick with Bob van Asperen.'