For Samuel Beckett is a late (1987) work, rich in detail and lush in sound (especially in relation to so many of his more «austere» pieces, early and late), but troubling, obsessed, claustrophobic in spite of its scope. Given their shared attraction to shadow (Feldman’s music uses chiaroscuro in the way Beckett meticulously exploited darkness and light and the moods in between on the stage and on the page), it’s perhaps surprising that Feldman’s dedication didn’t involve the starker textures of solo piano—an individual surrounded by ... nothing. In any case, this is not dazzling, but muted, orchestration; instrumental timbres and tonal colors emerge as if by chance and quickly disappear. — Art Lange