Symphony Salon

JS Bach: WTC I, E Minor Fugue

2006-09-23T15:06:00.000-07:00

Hello all,

It will help if you have read the post:

Significance of the number nineteen

We are looking for the dynamic symmetry in JS Bach's WTC I, E Minor Fugue. This is a two-voice fugue, which could have been named an invention, but qualifies as a fugue. The agent defining the symmetry is lengthy consecutive parallel intervals and the number 19. Counting measures, we have the first 19 meassures ending with a measure of consecutive parallel octaves. The second 19 measures also ends with a measure of consecutive parallel octaves. These 38 measures (2x19) lead to a four-measure coda yielding the total 42 measure fugue.

Any odd number has a central number that divides two equal portions. Thus it behooves us to observe the midpoints of our two 19 measure leads. Measure 10 mediates the first 19 with consecutive parallel sixths. Measure 29 mediates the second 19 with consecutive parallel thirds.

Sixths and thirds so highlighted might lead the contrapuntalist to suspect Double Counterpoint at the octave. A simpler understanding might be gained that the combination of a sixth to a third will span an octave. (C up to A = sixth [C,D,E,F,G,A]; continuing A up to C = third [A,B,C]; overall the resulting C up to C is an ocatve [C,D,E,F,G,A,B,C].

The parallelisms are distinguished by length of consecutiveness, minimally nine sixteenths, and the full measure of twelve sixteenths for measures 19 and 38. Thus the two midpoints of the 19 measure portions have combined meaning for the overall middle 38 measure lead to the coda. Indeed, measure 20 continues with four more sixteenths to perfect the middle of the 38 measure lead to the coda.

Thus the fugue is organized by the number 19 with significant intervalic parallelisms yielding dynamic symmetry.

Cheers,

Proportions: The Number 19

2006-09-20T14:27:00.000-07:00

The number nineteen is a favorite number used by Bach. I will be using analyses of the number 19 in Bach and Beethoven. So first, here are some sites on the number nineteen.
http://www.vortexmaps.com/htmla/nineten.htm

http://www.geocities.com/WestHollywood/Park/6443/Submitters/the_number_nineteen.htm

http://www.vortexmaps.com/htmla/planets.htm

The proportions for the number nineteen are:

3:2:5:7:12:19:31:50 etc.

Beginning with the numbers 3 and 2, adding consecutive numbers yield the next number in the sequence. Maybe the most frequently and maybe least noticed proportions from the series are the seven days of the week, from which we separate two weekend days and five work days; and 12 is used twice to count the number of hours in a day, and 12 months divide a year. Less formally astrology is planned in 19 year cycles.

Cheers, and happy counting

Stravinsky/Schönberg

2006-04-03T12:48:00.000-07:00

Artur Schnabel: "You may find this hard to believe, but Igor Stravinsky has actually published in the papers the statement, 'Music, to be great, must be completely cold and unemotional'! And last Sunday, I was having breakfast with Arnold Schoenberg, and I said to him, 'Can you imagine that Stravinsky actually made the statement that music, to be great, must be cold and unemotional?' At this, Schoenberg got furious and said, 'I said that first!'"

* * *

Richard Strauss: Don Juan

2006-03-31T14:07:00.000-08:00

by Andrew Clements
Friday January 12, 2001
The Guardian

Don Juan was the work that made the 25-year-old Richard Strauss a star when it was first performed in Weimar in 1889 - and with good reason. An epoch-making score, it redefined the parameters of musical potential. No composer had previously used orchestral forces with such flamboyant audacity, and the history of sonority would never be quite the same again.

In his picture of the famous womaniser, Strauss also placed a hitherto unimagined emphasis on erotic hedonism, which remains startling more than a century later. The result has always been a firm favourite with players and audiences alike, though Don Juan is much more than a virtuoso musical porn show, and the whole thing can come adrift if conductors fail to probe its deeper ambiguities. Strauss took as his source an unfinished play by the deranged poet Nikolaus Lenau, in which the Don is very much portrayed as the prototype of the Nietzschean figures to whom Strauss was later drawn - an amoral being "beyond good and evil" whose sexual exploits form a psychological defence against his own destructive nihilism. A sense of jittery, existential danger needs to be added to the glamorous sexiness of it all if the piece is to succeed.
Several of Strauss's own performances survive, of which the finest - measured in speed but relentless in intensity - is his 1944 radio broadcast with the Vienna Philharmonic (Preiser). A similar spaciousness, rather than superficial glitter, pervades Wilhelm Furtwängler's majestic 1954 version with the same orchestra (EMI). The usually great Bruno Walter was never quite at his best in Strauss's music and his 1952 version with the New York Philharmonic (Sony) finds him occasionally ill at ease. Leopold Stokowski, ever the wizard when it comes to orchestral flamboyance, generates tremendous, visceral excitement.

Among the next generation of interpreters we find versions by Karajan (DG), Solti (Decca), Boehm (DG) and Rudolf Kempe (EMI), all great, all radically different. Karajan's lushness contrasts sharply with Solti's nervous edginess. Boehm is all romantic radiance and warmth, while Kempe, with the Dresden Staatskapelle on glorious form, is deeply humane, portraying the Don very much as a man whose emotions, though transitory, are sincere.
More recently we have Neeme Jarvi controversially and brilliantly turning the Don into a Sadean brute as part of his Chandos Strauss cycle with the Royal Scottish National Orchestra; Claudio Abbado, very fierce with the Vienna Philharmonic yet again (DG); and Herbert Blomstedt and the San Francisco Symphony, almost matchless when it comes to exposing Strauss's gorgeous palette of orchestral colour (Decca - the sound is astonishing).

But there's one version that towers above the rest, namely the 1954 RCA recording with the Chicago Symphony and Fritz Reiner. The work has never sounded quite so electrifyingly raunchy or so dangerous as it does here, while the downbeat ending is shockingly, devastatingly sad. The playing is stupendous and the whole thing knocks you sideways. It ranks among the most stunning performances ever committed to disc - an absolutely unmissable achievement.

Key recording: Fritz Reiner (RCA)

Guardian Unlimited © Guardian Newspapers Limited 2004

Tchaikovsky: Instrumentation and nationalism

2006-03-26T14:58:00.000-08:00

Tchaikovsky wrote this: Letter to Mme von Meck, Clarens, March 5 (17), 1878

You ask how I manage my instrumentation. I never compose in the abstract; that is to say, the musical thought never appears otherwise than in a suitable external form. In this way I invent the musical idea and instrumentation simultaneously. Thus I thought out the scherzo of our symphony [Fourth Symphony] at the moment of its composition---exactly as you heard it. It is inconceivable except as pizzicato. Were it played with the bow, it would lose all its charm and be a mere body without a soul.
As regards the Russian element in my works, I may tell you that not infrequently I begin a composition with the intention of introducing some folk melody into it. Sometimes it comes of its own accord, unbidden (as in the finale of our symphony). As to this national element in my work, its affinity with the folk songs in some melodies and harmonies comes from my having spent my childhood in the country, and, from my earliest years, having been impregnated with the characteristic beauty of our Russian folk music. I am passionately fond of the national element in all its varied expressions. In a word, I am Russian in the fullest sense of the word.

* * *

Rimski-Korsakov: Formal Study

2006-03-26T14:46:00.000-08:00

From a letter to Semyon Kruglikov, November 9, 1880 Nikolai Andreyevitch Rimski-Korsakov (1844-1908) wrote:

One can learn by oneself; sometimes one needs advice, but one has also to learn, that is, one must not neglect harmony and counterpoint and the development of a good technique and a clean leading subject. All of us, myself and Borodin and Balakirev, but especially Cui and Moussorgsky, neglected this. I consider that I caught myself in time and made myself get down to work. Owing to such deficiencies in technique Balakirev writes little; Borodin, with difficulty; Cui sloppily; Moussorgsky, messily and often nonsensically; and all this constitutes the very regrettable specialty of the Russian school.

Like his colleagues in the "Big Five," Rimski-Korsakov was a musician by avocation, at least at the inception of his composing career. By profession he was a naval officer, following in the tradition of his family. His first large scale work, a Symphony in E-flat minor (Opus 1), was composed under Balakirev's influence and guidance, while he was still ignorant of even the names of chords and the elementary rules of part writing.

Unlike his colleagues, he devoted himself assiduously to the formal study of harmony, counterpoint and form, study which aroused cynicism in Moussorgsky (who dubbed it "routine, lifeless, and reactionary" and skepticism in Tchaikovsky (who spoke of "contrapuntal intricacies"). Nevertheless, it was this study which enabled him to revise and polish Moussorgsky's at times awkwardly written and often unfinished works after the latter's death, to orchestrate Dargomijsky's Stone Guest and with his pupil, Glazounov, to finish and orchestrate Borodin's Prince Igor.

Numbered among his many gifted students were Glazounov, Ipolitov-Ivanov, and Stravinsky.

Cheers,

..

Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov

2006-03-26T14:34:00.000-08:00

Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov (1844-1908), an outstanding and leading figure in the music of Russia, an eminent master of orchestral expression, a fervent devotee of Beauty in music, and preponderantly true to the spirit and idiom of his nation. His whole active life was devoted to the promotion of the musical art of his native land. Though not the oldest nor the first Russian master, there is something patriarchal in Rimsky-Korsakov's position; he is cited as the father of Russian school of orchestration; and, as teacher of many later celebrities, his strong and beneficent influence was far reaching.

In addition to his superb orchestral Suite Sheherazade (from the Arabian Nights), Op. 35, I would recommend his the Oriental Suite Antar ("Poet and beloved Hero of the Desert"), Op. 9 (1881). Both of these consist of four Movements, though the latter are not strictly analogous to those of the Symphony. In their character they show that, despite his devotion to Russian folk-lore and folk-song, he had a decided taste for the Oriental in music, and caught its idiom most successfully.

Antar is generally listed as Rimsky-Korsakov's Second "Symphony," though the title Suite is more accurate. The story runs thus: Antar rescues the Fairy Gul-Nazar (as a gazelle) from the pursuit of a giant bird. As a reward, she promises him three great Delights of Life: Revenge, Power, and Love. These episodes form the basis of the four Movements, of which the Finale is the best---the exceeding skillful combination of the Fairy-theme and an Oriental Dance.

The Symphonies of this master (not to mention the Suites) are three in number: the First, in E major (1865); the Second,in C, and a Symphonietta in A minor---all admirable, but not on a plane with the Suites.

Cheers,

Pioneers of the Romantic School

2006-03-25T16:36:00.000-08:00

Carl Maria von Weber (1786-1826) is generally regarded by historians as the founder of the Romantic school of musical expression; and he was undoubtedly the earliest distinguished forerunner of the great master minds: Schubert, Mendelssohn, Schumann, and Brahms. The most important and popular of Weber's Symphonies was the second, in C.

But there were a number of other pioneers who did significant work, paved the way for coming achievements; they were not "Masters" in the broader historical sense, but they were Masters in their day and generation, as compared with a host of less renowned composers; and they richly merit honorable mention here.

Nor were they the very first: the workings of a Romantic spirit may be recognized as far back as history reaches. There probably never was a human who, in trying to express something in tones, did not vaguely essay to express the self. Thus we conclude that there is no incompatibility between the Romantic and Classic spirits, nor is there any overt antagonism there; those with romantic incentives have always admitted and respected the necessity of law and order, and, conversely, the classical-minded surely always claimed the right to say, in tones, under surveillance of the law, what they felt. Schumann and his adherents called themselves Neo-Romanticists, and were a bit more clamorous in their call for freedom. And these were succeeded by the Futurists, Polytonalists, Atonalists, and by the mid twentieth century, by the Ultra-Futurists, Cacophanists, and Exoticists who simply go still farther in their disregard of the older conventions.

Just where these will land us, Heaven no doubt knows, but no mortal can foretell what Music (?) will be, a thousand years hence. The present storm will clear up---as surely as the sun emerges after devastating turmoil of the elements; and the results will mean real Progress, to the joy and benefaction of humanity.

It may be harking too far back to include G.J. (Abt) Vogler (1749-1814) in this list, but he was the author of at least one Symphony (in C) which was exceedingly popular; and he exerted a powerful influence as teacher---Weber and Meyerbeer were among his many pupils; furthermore, he outlived Haydn and Mozart.

Then came Peter von Winter (1754-1825) author of nine Symphonies, one of which, The Battle (with Chorus) appeared in 1814.

Ignaz J. Pleyel (1757-1831), who produced twenty-nine Symphonies, much admired for their grace.

Next followed in chronological order:

Luigi Cherubini (1760-1842), an illustrious master of dramatic music, in France, and celebrated also for his contrapuntal erudition. On a visit to London in 1815 he wrote a Symphony for the Philharmonic Society, his only work of that type, and one that has historic interest alone.

Etienne Mehul (1763-1817), another outstanding representative of the dramatic side of musical art in France, author of many Operas, and four excellent Symphonies.

Then the cousins, Andreas Romberg (1767-1821), the composer of ten Symphonies, the best of which is one in D; and Bernard Romberg (1767-1841), who wrote a least one noteworthy Symphony---a tribute "Upon the death of Queen Louise."

Sigismund Neukomm (1778-1858), pupil of Haydn, an enormously prolific and popular composer, among whose works was a Heroic Symphony, written 1818---thirteen years after the creation of Beethoven's Eroica.

George Onslow (1784_1852), composer of four Symphonies, one of which, in A major, possesses positive merit.

Luwig Spohr (1784-1859), famous violinist, author of nine noteworthy Romantic Symphonies, the best known and admired, though not the most distinguished of which is the celebrated Fourth, in F (1834), The Consecration of Tone (or Tones); it is an example of straightforward program music, mirroring in succession: "Chaos, without Tone; Awakening; Cradle song; Dance; Serenade; Martial music; Funderal music; and Comfort in Tears"---a work of no little originality, and melodic and harmonic charm, but wholly wanting (in consequence of its descriptive purpose) in symphonic compactness and structural logic. In its day it was sure of a place on orchestral programs, and was everywhere heartily applauded; but, in company with many another meritorious production of the above-listed symphonists, it is now overshadowed and eclipsed by the preeminent creations of true, genuine Masters , from Haydn to Brahms---and of later time.

Finally, Johann W. Kalliwoda (1801-1866), who produced seven Symphonies, the third of which, written in 1831, exhibits qualities of substantial worth, deserving of sincere recognition. Like the others, it is now forgotten.

Cheers,

The Enlightenment: The Salon

2006-03-25T16:14:00.000-08:00

Although the leading figures of the Enlightenment were all men, the social context was the highly-civilized "salon", usually presided over by a women with some independent wealth.

On Julie de Lespinasse

From Memoir of Baron de Grimm

Her circle met daily from five o'clock until nine in the evening. There we were sure to find choice men of all orders in the State, the Church, the Court,-military men, foreigners, and the most distinguished men of letters. Every one agrees that though the name of M. d'Alembert may have drawn them thither, it was she alone who kept them there. Devoted wholly to the care of preserving that society, of which she was the soul and the charm, she subordinated to this purpose all her tastes and all her personal intimacies. She seldom went to the theatre or into the country, and when she did make an exception to this rule it was an event of which all Paris was notified in advance.... Politics, religion, philosophy, anecdotes, news, nothing was excluded from the conversation, and, thanks to her care, the most trivial little narrative gained, as naturally as possible, the place and notice it deserved. News of all kinds was gathered there in its first freshness.

From Memoir of Marmontel

The circle was formed of persons who were not bound together. She had taken them here and there in society, but so well assorted were they that once there they fell into harmony like the strings of an instrument touched by an able hand. Following out that comparison, I may say that she played the instrument with an art that came of genius; she seemed to know what tone each string would yield before she touched it; I mean to say that our minds and our natures were so well known to her that in order to bring them into play she had but to say a word. Nowhere was conversation more lively, more brilliant, or better regulated than at her house. It was a rare phenomenon indeed, the degree of tempered, equable heat which she knew so well how to maintain, sometimes by moderating it, sometimes by quickening it. The continual activity of her soul was communicated to our souls, but measurably; her imagination was the mainspring, her reason the regulator. Remark that the brains she stirred at will were neither feeble nor frivolous: the Coudillacs and Turgots were among them; d'Alembert was like a simple, docile child beside her. Her talent for casting out a thought and giving it for discussion to men of that class, her own talent in discussing it with precision, sometimes with eloquence, her talent for bringing forward new ideas and varying the topic-always with the facility and ease of a fairy, who, with one touch of her wand, can change the scene of her enchantment-these talents, I say, were not those of an ordinary woman. It was not with the follies of fashion and vanity that daily, during four hours of conversation, without languor and without vacuum, she knew how to make herself interesting to a wide circle of strong minds.

From Letter of Julie de Lespinasse to the Comte de Guibert.

I love you too well to impose the least restraint upon myself; I prefer to have to ask your pardon rather than commit no faults. I have no selflove with you; I do not comprehend those rules of conduct that make us so content with self and so cold to those we love. I detest prudence, I even hate (suffer me to say so) those "duties of friendship" which substitute propriety for interest, and circumspection for feeling. How shall I say it? I love the abandonment to impulse, I act from impulse only, and I love to madness that others do the same by me.

Ah! mon Dieu! How far I am from being equal to you! I have not your virtues, I know no duties with my friend; I am closer to the state of nature; savages do not love with more simplicity and good faith.

The world, misfortunes, evils, nothing has corrupted my heart. I shall never be on my guard against you; l shall never suspect you. You say that you have friendship for me; you are virtuous; what can l fear? I will let you see the trouble, the agitation of my soul, and I shall not blush to seem to you weak and inconsistent. I have already told that I do not seek to please you; I do not wish to usurp your esteem. I prefer to deserve your indulgence-in short, I want to love you with all my heart and to place in you a confidence without reserve....

From Letters of Julie de Lespinasse, Katherine P. Wormley, trans. (Boston: Hardy, Pratt and Co., 1903), p9,. 34-35, 75.

On Madame Geoffrin

Madame Geoffrin was married to a rich man. His money seems to have been the main benefit she found in the marriage. She used it to help her philosophe friends.

From Memoir of d'Alembert

Much has been said respecting Madame Geoffrin's goodness, to what a point it was active,
restless, obstinate. But it has notbeen added, and which reflects the greatest honour upon her, that, as she advanced in years, this habit constantly increased. For the misfortune of society, it too often happens that age and experience produce a directly contrary effect, even in very virtuous characters, if virtue be not in them a powerful sentiment indeed, and of no common stamp. The more disposed they have been at first to feel kindness towards their fellow creatures, the more, finding daily their ingratitude, do they repent of having served them, and even consider it almost as a reproach to themselves to have loved them. Madame Geoffrin had learnt, from a more reflected study of mankind, from taking a view of them more enlightened by reason and justice, that they are more weak and vain than wicked; that we ought to compassionate their weakness, and bear with their vanity, that they may bear with ours....
The passion of giving, which was an absolute necessity to her seemed born with her, and tormented her, if l may say so, even from her earliest years. While yet a child, if she saw from the window any poor creature asking alms, she would throw whatever she could lay her hands upon to them; her bread, her linen, and even her clothes. She was often scolded for this intemperance of charity, sometimes even punished, but nothing could alter the disposition, she would do the same the very next day....

Always occupied with those whom she loved, always anxious about them, she even anticipated every thing which might interrupt their happiness. A young man, [note: yhis young man was d'Alembert himself] for whom she interested herself very much, who had till that moment been wholly absorbed in his studies, was suddenly seized with an unfortunate passion, which rendered study, and even life itself insupportable to him. She succeeded in curing him. Some time after she observed that the same young man, mentioned to her, with great interest, an amiable woman with whom he had recently become acquainted. Madame Geoffrin, who knew the lady, went to her. "I am come," she said, "to intreat a favour of you. Do not evince too much friendship for * * * * or too much desire to see him, he will be soon in love with you, he will be unhappy, and I shall be no less so to see him suffer; nay, you yourself will be a sufferer, from consciousness, of the sufferings you occasion him." This woman, who was truly amiable, promised what Madame Geoffrin desired, and kept her word.

As she had always among the circle of her society persons of the highest rank and birth, as she appeared even to seek an acquaintance with them, it was supposed that this flattered her vanity. But here a very erroneous opinion was formed of her; she was in no respect the dupe of such prejudices, but she thought that by managing the humours of these people, she could render them useful to her friends. "You think," said she, to one of the latter, for whom she had a particular regard, "that it is for my own sake I frequent ministers and great people. Undeceive yourself,-it is for the sake of you, and those like you who may have occasion for them...."
From Memoir of Baron de Grimm

Whether from malice or inattention, one who was in the habit of lending books to the husband of Madame Geoffrin, sent him several times in succession the first volume of the Travels of Father Labbat. M. Geoffrin with all the composure possible, always read the book over again without perceiving the mistake. "How do you like these Travels, Sir?"-"They are very interesting, but the author seems to me somewhat given to repetition."-He read Bayle's Dictionary with great attention, following the line with his finger along the two columns. "What an excellent work, he said, if it were only a little less abstruse."-"You were at the play this evening, M. Geoffrin, said one, pray what was the performance?"-"I really cannot say, I was in a great hurry to get in and had no time to look at the bill."- However deficient the poor man was, he was permitted to sit down to dinner, at the end of the table, upon condition that he never attempted to join in conversation. A foreigner who was very assiduous in his visits to Madame Geoffrin, one day, not seeing him as usual at table, enquired after him: "What have you done, Madam, with the poor man whom I always used to see here, and who never spoke a word?"-"Oh, that was my husband!-he is dead."

From Baron de Grimm, Historical and Literary Memoirs and Anecdotes, (London: Henry Colburn, 1815), Vol. 3, pp. 400-405, 5253.

This text is part of the Internet Modern History Sourcebook. The Sourcebook is a collection of public domain and copy-permitted texts for introductory level classes in modern European and World history.

Unless otherwise indicated the specific electronic form of the document is copyright. Permission is granted for electronic copying, distribution in print form for educational purposes and personal use. If you do reduplicate the document, indicate the source. No permission is granted for commercial use of the Sourcebook.

(c)Paul Halsall Aug 1997 halsall@murray.fordham.edu

Arnold Schönberg: Verklärte Nacht

2006-02-26T13:51:00.000-08:00

From Julian Ribke (translation: Mary Whittall)

Schönberg found the inspiration for his string sextet in Richard Dehmel's poem 'Verklärte Nacht', which was first published in the collection 'Weib und Welt' and later incorporated in Dehmel's novel 'Zwei Menschen'. Although Schönberg expressly uses the term "programme music", in the note he wrote on the work in 1950 he makes a careful distinction: "My composition was, perhaps, somewhat different from other illustrative compositions, firstly, by not being for orchestra but for a chamber group and secondly, because it does not illustrate any action or drama, but was restricted to portray nature and express human feelings... in other words, it offers the possibility to be appreciated as 'pure' music."
Richard Dehmel confirms the effect the sextet makes as autonomous music in a letter to Schönberg (12 December 1912): "Yesterday evening I heard Transfigured Night, and I would consider it a sin of omission if I did not say a word of thanks to you for your wonderful sextet. I had intended to follow the motives of my text in your composition, but I soon forgot to do so, I was so enraptured by the music." Schönberg wrote back (13 December 1912) that he was "reflecting in music" what Dehmel's poetry "stirred up" in him.
Schönberg follows Dehmel's poem in the structure of the sextet: he divides the single-move-ment work into five sections of differing expressive character. Parts 1, 3 and 5, describing the two people and the atmosphere of their surroundings as they walk through the moonlit wood, frame two episodes, the woman's confession and the man's reply. But in spite of these divisions, the form can be understood in more ways than one. 'Transfigured night' prefigures a form of construction which Schönberg was to perfect in his succeeding instrumental works: 'Pelleas and Melisande' op.5, the D minor Quartet op.7 and the Chamber Symphony op.9. Each of these single-movement works can be regarded with equally good reason as an expanded first-movement sonata form, or as a complete symphony in which the movements are connected. In the sextet, too, the statement of themes is followed by complex developmental working, and in the fifth section the thematic complexes which have programmatic significance are brought together, so that this part of the work assumes the general character of a recapitulation. Again, the second section of the work, where the woman speaks and which itself falls into five parts, can be interpreted as the principal movement of a cyclic work; in turn the man's reply can be seen as performing the function of the slow movement in a symphony. It would be amiss, however, to interpret the form overall as a rondo with recurring refrains: although the theme from the introduction permeates all three of the "moonlit wood" sections, they are transformed in expression and function as they absorb and prolong the emotional atmosphere of the episodes. After the woman's excited outburst the theme from the introduction returns 'fortissimo' and marked "schwer betont" (with heavy emphasis), and rising quaver (eighth-note) figures make it more urgent, until the music gradually calms down and the third section dies away on sustained E flat minor chords. In the final section the theme floats radiantly in gentle 'pianissimo' above the arpeggios of the second violin: in the poem the surroundings have been transformed from a "bare, cold wood" to "high, bright night".
There is an abundance of thematic material in part 2, the woman's confession. One group after another builds up to a climax of intensity: a virtuoso display by Schönberg of Brahms's technique of developing variation. This section ends with an expressive recitative-like passage which leads without a break into the "moonlit wood" theme and the third section. Although there are thematic links with what has gone before, the second episode, the man's answer, is also complete in itself. After the anxious E flat minor ending of the third section, the establishment of D major and the powerful, introductory cello cantilena have a liberating effect. A further change in mood is created by muted F sharp major harmonics, ornamented with rapid semiquaver (16th-note) figurations, which, Schönberg wrote, "express the beauty of the moonlight" which suffuses the man's comforting words. The significance given to thematic working and the interweaving of the sections is reminiscent of Wagnerian leitmotive technique. That, and the serious engagement with the Lisztian precedent of symphonic single-movement form, show the influence that the legacy of the New German movement had on Schönberg. In the article "My Evolution" (1949) he explained which where the Wagnerian and Brahmsian elements he had incorporated in his own style in 'Transfigured Night':
"The thematic construction is based on Wagnerian 'model and sequence' above a roving harmony on the one hand, and on Brahms's technique of developing variation - as I call it - on the other. Also to Brahms must be ascribed the imparity of measures ... But the treatment of the instruments, the manner of composition, and much of the sonority were stricly Wagnerian. I think there were also some Schönbergian elements to be found in the breadth of the melodies...in contrapuntal and motivic combinations, and in the semi-contrapuntal movement of the harmony and its basses against the melody. Finally, there were already some passages of unfixed tonality which may be considered premonitions of the future".

* * *

Anton Bruckner Symphonies

2006-02-19T20:12:00.000-08:00

I have profound respect for Bruckner's work.

Bruckner's deeply meditative music poses a challenge to listeners. The nine symphonies, most spanning an hour in length, gradually unfold over broad landscapes. Bruckner's symphonies begin quietly and take the shape of theme and variation; an opening theme is smoothly spun, which initiates a synthesis to take place over the entire work. The music is a reflection of Bruckner's Catholic faith, often taking on a medieval quality and reminiscent of church modes. Moments of high drama, quiet ponderousness, and absolute silence lie side by side, forming a coherent whole beyond the limits of earthly reality. A Bruckner symphony does not refer to concrete images, nor does it undergo a familiar style of "development"; it simply exists as a vast, autonomous body of sound. Bruckner's works were outlandish to the Viennese public, but helped propel European music into the era of Mahler, Strauss, and Debussy by further broadening the limits of symphonic time and space.

Bruckner did enjoy increasing fame in his late years, as society became accustomed to the workings of Wagnerism; by the time of his final illness, he was a former professor of the Vienna Conservatory and the recipient of a government pension for his goodwill to the Austrian Empire. Bruckner's works have found performances worldwide, due to a steady growth in popularity since his death in 1896. A lack of interference by the Nazi government, who otherwise stunted the progress of Mahler, Kurt Weill, Boris Blacher, and others, was particularly helpful, as was the dedication of conductors such as Wilhelm Furtwängler, Daniel Barenboim, and Herbert von Karajan to performing Bruckner whenever the chance has presented itself. Still to be resolved, however, are questions about the scores themselves; they were sometimes revised through Bruckner's own decision, but also through the persuasion of friends who thought his music could be made "listener-friendly." One should note the different versions of some symphonies, with unwanted cuts and alterations still being weeded out by musicologists.

Despite this controversy and the strife during his own lifetime, Bruckner's creative achievement endures. Whether written for church or concert hall, his music pulls audiences into a different realm, where ordinary thought is transcended. His first numbered symphonies (1, 2, 3) and his two earlier attempts (Number 0, or "Die Nullte," and the "Study" Symphony) are moving, but they are curiosities in comparison to the middle (4, 5, 6) and late (7, 8, 9). Symphony Number 4 ("Romantic") is his most medieval and most popular; Number 7 is noted for its sublimity, written in tribute to the recently-deceased Wagner; Number 8 is his farthest-reaching; while Number 9, left incomplete, assures us of Bruckner's peace in later life. The numerous masses, motets, and hymns are also unparalleled in both aesthetic and religious terms. As attention spans become narrower and values change from the spiritual to the material, musicians have feared Bruckner's music losing popularity. But it is this inherent spirituality, this certainty of faith, which makes it perhaps even more attractive in our time.

Cheers,

Dukas: The Sorcerer's Apprentice

2006-02-16T20:09:00.000-08:00

Andrew Clements
Friday May 12, 2000
The Guardian

Ever since Walt Disney's Fantasia in 1940, Paul Dukas's Symphonic Scherzo after Goethe has been inseparable from the image of Mickey Mouse trying to stem the battalions of buckets marching through the sorcerer's cellar. That sequence has been a mixed blessing for the reputation of The Sorcerer's Apprentice: the piece may have become a popular classic as a result, but such familiarity has bred, if not exactly contempt, then at least a taking for granted of the work's brilliance as a piece of orchestral writing, for Dukas (1865-1935) was one of the most gifted and self-critical of all the turn-of-the-century French composers.
This intense self-scrutiny meant that, especially in the second half of his life, Dukas destroyed more music than he allowed to survive, and his reputation now rests on just 15 works, including a symphony, a ballet (La Péri), two major piano works and one unfairly neglected opera (Arianne et Barbe-Bleue, to a libretto by Maeterlinck).
The Sorcerer's Apprentice was written in parallel with the symphony and first performed in the same year (1897); some of its themes share more than just a family likeness with that work, and it has been suggested that Dukas originally intended it as the symphony's scherzo. But the bigger work is entirely abstract and, as the subtitle indicates, The Sorcerer's Apprentice is explicitly programmatic. Based on Goethe's poem of the same name, it is self-contained in its own right.
The construction is very rigorous; Dukas was essentially a conservative composer who idolised Beethoven, but tended to pursue his harmonic and rhythmic schemes to their logical conclusion. The way in which the main theme of the scherzo is remorselessly accumulated from tiny cells fascinated the modernists around him, and both Stravinsky's Fireworks and Debussy's Jeux are indebted to Dukas's method of construction. But the genius of the piece is that for all its formal rigour it seems natural and, in its dazzling orchestral colours, vividly pictorial.
Conductors, then, need to balance the rigour of The Sorcerer's Apprentice with its sheer élan, and always remember that it is a scherzo. Toscanini certainly understood that - his version (Pearl) is lightning fast, while Leopold Stokowski, who recorded it for the Disney soundtrack, brings out all the orchestral splendour (Biddulph).
Among the more recent versions, it's James Levine with the Berlin Philharmonic (Deutsche Grammophon) who, surprisingly perhaps, balances the athleticism and structural coherence best; Charles Dutoit (Decca) is fractionally too staid, though the Montreal Symphony's playing is superb. The only disadvantage of the Levine version is that it is coupled with Saint-Säens rather than with more Dukas, but David Zinman and the Rotterdam Philharmonic, who produce a fine-grained and intelligent performance, combine it with La Péri and Dukas's overture Polyeucte, as well as Vincent d'Indy's Symphony. A perfect introduction to a fascinating composer.

Key recording: Zinman (Philips 454 127-2)

Guardian Unlimited © Guardian Newspapers Limited 2004

Tchaikovsky: Sixth Symphony, B minor, Op.74

2006-02-14T16:34:00.000-08:00

Tchaikovsky wrote his Sixth, and last, Symphony (Op.74 in B minor) in 1893, very shortly before his sudden death. He himself called it the Pathetic, and the impression became quite general that he had been laboring under the premonition of his approaching end. Nothing could be farther from the truth; moreover, only the brief final Movement is genuinely pathetic, and that but part of the time, this pathetic mood being brightened by contrasting episodes of decidedly hopeful and consoling quality. The first Movement is tragic rather than pathetic, yet here again frequent gleams of light and warmth fall across the background of passion---in this way, to be sure, accentuating the tragic pulses by their contrast.

The first Movement is in regular, but broad sonata-allegro form. A brief Introduction (Adagio) precedes the principal Theme, based entirely upon the opening motive; and two Codettas follow the subordinate Theme. This first Movement contains a number of stirring climaxes, carried out with that logical force and sureness of aim in which Tchaikovsky was adept.

There is no authentic slow Movement, or, more correctly stated, the slow Movement is shifted to the last place in the Symphony---as Finale. The second Movement has, however, the lyric tone due at this point; it is graceful, charmingly melodious song, or dance, in swaying 5/4 meter. Its complacent, happy countenance is slightly clouded with a veil of melancholy in the Trio.

The third Movement represents the Scherzo, though it carries no title. It is anything but "pathetic," and it has a unique structural plan: an apparently unimportant motive, in striking rhythmic form, creeps in (in the ninth measure) quite incidentally---later turns out to be the index of the subordinate Theme---and then advances steadily into overpowering prominence; its ultimate complete supremacy is recorded in crashing blasts of the brass instruments, in a climax that is almost without parallel in legitimate symphonic literature. The design is sonatine-allegro (there is no Development).

The Finale, contrary to all precedent, is a slow Movement, Adagio lamentoso, that is no doubt chiefly responsible for the designation of the Symphony as a whole. Its principal Theme is profoundly "pathetic;" but the subordinate Theme is a lyric melody (in Song-form) of rich, trustful quality, that breathes hope and solace: some music lovers may regret the return to deep sadness at the end.

Cheers,

BBC SO to present portrait of Argentine Composer Osvaldo Golijov

2006-02-14T15:42:00.000-08:00

The BBC Symphony Orchestra and Christopher Cook are presenting a portrait concert of Osvaldo Golijov which will feature four premieres of the composer's work. Golijov's music has become familiar to audiences in the US but is still relatively unknown in the UK.

The concert, which will be broadcast by Radio 3 at 19.30 on 16th February, will feature Last Round (UK premiere); Tekyah (UK premiere); Ainadamar Arias and Ensembles (world premiere); Ayre (European premiere).

Schumann Festival 2006

2006-02-12T10:56:00.000-08:00

With Mozart celebrations bubbling up everywhere, we should pause to remember that Schumann died 150 years ago, 1856.

Please check out Schumann Festival.

Cheers,

New York Philharmonic to Make Concerts Available for Digital Downloading

2006-02-10T12:26:00.000-08:00

February 9, 2006
New York Times
By DANIEL J. WAKIN

The New York Philharmonic, not known for its quick-stepping ways, is entering the new world of digital downloading under a three-year recording deal with Deutsche Grammophon, the orchestra announced yesterday.

Deutsche Grammophon, using live recordings by the orchestra, will release four concerts a year, probably through iTunes and perhaps through other Web sites, said Zarin Mehta, the orchestra's president. The first is due in about two months and will be priced at about $8 to $10, he said. It will consist of this weekend's program at Avery Fisher Hall, Mozart's Symphonies Nos. 39, 40 and 41, conducted by Lorin Maazel. Listeners will probably have the choice of downloading a movement, a symphony or the whole concert, Mr. Mehta said.

The orchestra thus finds itself in the vanguard of purveying performances through the Internet. Few others have done so, although many are contemplating the move.

Mr. Mehta also announced another recording deal, an arrangement with New World Records to release two CD's a year of new works commissioned and played by the Philharmonic in their world premieres. Those recordings, too, will be available by download, said the orchestra's spokesman, Eric Latzky.

The Philharmonic, with one of the largest back catalogs of any major orchestra, has not been releasing recordings on a large scale since a series on the Teldec label in the 1990's, when Kurt Masur was the music director. In fact, few orchestras have been recording much in recent years, citing the expense under contracts with their musicians and a decline in the market.

But an agreement with the Philharmonic players changed the fee structure, Mr. Mehta said, and allowed the moves. Instead of receiving flat fees and relinquishing rights, the musicians will share in any future revenues.

It is by no means clear whether the deals will be profitable. The New World project is going forward only because of foundation support.
As for the possibilities of making money from downloading, Mr. Mehta said: "There will be some money to be made. But in the heyday of the record industry, artists made money but orchestra institutions never made that much money. What it did was really provide income for the musicians. It made them feel worthwhile. It was a great calling card."

In the rubble of the current classical recording landscape, all sorts of experiments are being tried. Opera houses are providing online streaming. The Sydney Symphony in Australia will provide 10 streamed and downloadable concerts. The London Symphony Orchestra produces its own CD's. The Philadelphia Orchestra has a three-year deal with the Ondine label, under which it will produce its own concerts and Ondine will distribute and market them. The Milwaukee Symphony this year began MSO Classics, which offers concerts for downloading on iTunes.
"This is such a new world to all of us," Mr. Mehta said. "We don't know at this stage what the market is for it." In the Philharmonic's case, Deutsche Grammophon will market the recordings and pay the orchestra a percentage of revenues.

Billboard magazine recently reported that the downloading of digital albums grew 94 percent in 2005, compared with a 15 percent decline in album sales.

The Los Angeles Philharmonic is negotiating with Universal to make its concerts available for download. Its music director, Esa-Pekka Salonen, predicted the death of CD's in a recent interview, saying that his children did not go to stores for music but used their iPods.

Mr. Mehta described the recording plans during a news conference to announce the orchestra's 2006-7 season, its 165th.

Two major commissions will be played: a trombone concerto by Melinda Wagner, to be performed by the orchestra's principal trombonist, Joseph Alessi, and a piano concerto by Mr. Salonen, who will conduct. It will be his first appearance with the orchestra since his 1986 debut.

Three previously announced long-term relationships will start next season, with Riccardo Muti conducting four weeks of concerts and David Robertson and Alan Gilbert two weeks each. Colin Davis will mark his 80th birthday with a Mozart program. The early-music specialists Harry Bicket and Bernard Labadie will make their first appearances with the orchestra.

The Philharmonic will follow recent performances of "Candide" and "Sweeney Todd" with a semistaged performance of Stephen Sondheim's "Company." "The orchestra can swing," Mr. Mehta said.

Mr. Maazel will conduct six programs of Brahms, the first time he will have done any of the symphonies since taking over the orchestra. His predecessor, Mr. Masur, did them often and well, he said. "I felt we should have a decent waiting period," he added.

Next season will be Mr. Maazel's fifth as music director, with two more to go, and he implied that he would not be extending the contract. "By the end of my fifth season," he said, "I will start to gradually think how sad it will be to leave the orchestra after my seventh."

Inside the Orchestra

2006-02-03T11:39:00.000-08:00

By Philip Kennicott

Washington Post Staff Writer

Friday, February 3, 2006; C01

"It's not drudgery," says Dick, one of the large cast of Philadelphia Orchestra musicians identified only by first name in Daniel Anker's documentary "Music From the Inside Out." But what he really means is, it's not drudgery so long as you can still reconnect with what first made music meaningful to you. Good advice for anyone who is doing what they always wanted to do and finding it a bit routine.

Anker's movie, which follows members of one of the country's greatest orchestras as it tours the world, skates around the drudgery question. We don't see lonely musicians closeted in practice rooms, and when they come together to play one of the great monuments of the repertoire -- Beethoven's "Eroica" Symphony or Brahms's First Symphony -- there's no reminder that each of them has played these same pieces perhaps hundreds of times before.

Still, the musicians give enough unfiltered access to their lives to suggest the tensions and frustrations of making music as one cog in a very big, and often authoritarian, machine. For some, there is a struggle between submitting to the conductor's vision and maintaining some shred of independence or personality. There is the disappointment of those who aspired to solo careers and ended up in an orchestra. And there's a recurrent sense of loneliness and alienation that leads many musicians to take refuge in music as a bulwark against their own social isolation.
The first of the film's three sections leaves one with a rather bleak view of the great core repertoire of the orchestra. Adam, a horn player, got a jazz degree. Jazz for him is "a looser way to play," in contrast to orchestral work, which, he says, is "artistically frustrating" at times. Zack finds the same release in bluegrass and fiddling. Nitzan, a trombone player, heads off to jam in a Latin music club after his regular Thursday night orchestra performance.

The director's point, most likely, is the usual ideological one: Music is music is music, no matter what its style, purpose or supposed status in the world. But the darker message is that playing in an orchestra is so limiting that sane musicians need other outlets.

As the film progresses, that unintended message takes on grander existential implications. Although no one can quite articulate it, being part of an orchestra puts the individual in constant contact with music so grand and utopian that it can either ennoble or wreck the soul. It demands from those who make it essentially the same bargain that the religious must make with God: You submit and serve, in return for a deeper sense of participation in the sublime.

The problem is that music can't reward one in the same sense that many people believe God can. Ultimately, it is a human project, and the grandeur and sublimity it projects is simply the product of another human imagination. Submission to the divine is one thing; submission to the imagination of a deeply flawed man with a bad temper who lived two centuries ago and went by the name of Beethoven is another. The perversity of orchestral life is that it requires the yoking together of individual human beings to create music about independence, individual dignity and freedom.

The most moving stories collected in this documentary hint, in one way or another, at the importance of selflessness among the players. We learn the full name of concertmaster David Kim when we see a clip of him, in 1986, competing in the prestigious Tchaikovsky Violin Competition. He took a medal and seemed to be on the verge of fulfilling his mother's ready-made dream for him before he was born: to be a concert soloist.
"I got pretty close at some point," he says. But the gigs got smaller and further in between, and one day, after watching the movie "Jerry Maguire" -- about a man who reassesses his ambitions -- Kim gave up and joined an orchestra.

It was, he says, a liberating but difficult epiphany.

"Now I really feel like I'm the luckiest guy in the whole world," he says.
The emotional challenges many of these musicians confront would make a lot more sense if the filmmaker made a better case for why the classical music written from the early years of the 18th century through the middle decades of the 20th century is, in fact, different from other music.
For about 250 years, composers from Bach and Beethoven to Schoenberg constructed music with radically bigger ambitions than anything that had been made (in Western society) before them. Breaking free of preordained religious and political ideas about humanity, they offered a new sense, in sound, of what it meant to be and feel human. Their music suggested an unprecedented complexity and daring in the human project. It put the mortal individual at the center of the emotional and philosophical universe.

Toiling in service to such grand visions is humbling, exhilarating and

exhausting. The classical pianist who turns to jazz after a long day of playing Bach and Beethoven isn't necessarily making a case for the

equivalence of these two different types of music; rather, like a guy who does theoretical physics by day and unwinds with pickup basketball in the evening, the musician takes a break, looks for other rewards (often social) and flexes different muscles.

Orchestral musicians suffer the double indignity (or blessing) of living within the unreasonably grand visions of men such as Brahms and Mahler, and doing so as essentially anonymous worker bees. Their entire existence embodies a series of contradictions: vassals of utopian dreams, slaves to a fantasy of freedom, servants of an ideal of liberation.
Federico Fellini probably got this basic absurdity of orchestral life best in his 1978 "Orchestra Rehearsal," in which open rebellion breaks out among the members of a tyrannized orchestra. His was a brutally comic vision of the basic contradictions of orchestral life.

"Music From the Inside Out" has a softer touch, and some powerful moments, including a passage in which one of Brahms's most devastatingly beautiful melodies results from stitching together snatches of the tune from individual players. The filmmaker also got extraordinary access to the musicians, a rarity in a business perpetually hampered by paranoid public relations directors and their fatal inability to know what, in fact, is actually interesting about what orchestras do.

Is it a great film? Not quite. It flits from idea to idea too promiscuously and relies too much on the visually deadening use of people talking on camera. For some incomprehensible reason, none of the music used is identified, except in the credits -- as if it doesn't really matter what we're hearing. But among the dull passages there are some moving stories, and a very loving sympathy for the people it profiles.

Music From the Inside Out (97 minutes, at Landmark's E Street Cinema) is not rated but contains nothing objectionable even to the finest sensitivities.

Bach soothes animals at shelter

2006-02-02T20:49:00.000-08:00

An RSCPA rescue centre has installed a £2,000 sound system to play soothing classical music to stressed dogs.
Staff at the kennels in West Hatch, near Taunton, Somerset, said they now hear Bach rather than barks.
The animals are said to respond well to the strains of Beethoven and Mozart, but are not fans of pop or dance music.
Deputy manager Anita Clarke said: "It's a very stressful environment for the dogs to be in here, so anything that can help is worth a go."
'Calming effect'
The cost of the music system was met through fundraising by the Friends of West Hatch.
Whale sounds and panpipes are also played and sometimes radio output so the animals get used to hearing people talking.
Ms Clarke said: "Music is proven to have a calming effect on both animals and people.
"It definitely works. It's quieter in the kennels now because if one dog barks when it's quiet they all start but if music's playing they don't."
Story from BBC NEWS:http://news.bbc.co.uk/go/pr/fr/-/1/hi/england/somerset/4665252.stmPublished: 2006/01/31 11:06:43 GMT© BBC MMVI

Classical website Andante shuts down

2006-02-02T20:41:00.000-08:00

The Classical Musician has just suffered another calamity.

Andante.com, a web site whose stated goal was to be the leading classical music site on the internet has closed down, after it's French owners Naive told members of the site that it was no longer able to provide the resources to run the site. Andante offered digital downloads of classical music as well as a large range of news and reviews.

Mozart: Exultate, ,jubilate, K.165

2006-01-27T09:29:00.000-08:00

(Left) A newly discovered painting of Mozart in Munich 1790 by Johann Georg Edlinger

(Right) The little Mozart at the keyboard is adorable, complete with tiny shoes kicked off and lying under the harpsichord -- and the look of love and pride on Leopold's face is priceless.

Today is the day to celebrate the birth date of our dear composer. 250 years young (could Mozart ever be old?) There are few composers in the history of Western music who bequeathed such a valuable and at the same time varied body of vocal music as did Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.

The virtuoso motet Exultate, jubilate K.165, is structured like a concerto with three movements, yet in this case it is a soprano that engages in a dialogue with the orchestra, not a solo instrument. I feel the text is quite appropriate to our birthday boy.
1.
"Rejoice, shout
o you blessed souls,
singing sweet hymns;
responding to your song
the skies sing psalms with me."
2.
"The friendly daylight shines,
both clouds and storms have now fled;
for the righteous an unexpected calm has come.
Everywhere dark night reigned,
rise up at last in gladness,
you who were afraid until now,
and joyful present to the happy dawn handfuls of lilies.

You crown of virgins,
give us peace,
you, ready to give comfort
wherever a heart sighs."
3.
"Alleluia."

Indeed, the last movement comprises a jubilant set of "Alleluias."

I recommend the recording by Judith Blegen with the Mostly Mozart Festival Orchestra, Essential Classics/Sony SBK 62646.

Cheers,

Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach

2006-01-26T16:33:00.000-08:00

Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach, the third son (second surviving one) of Johann Sebastian Bach, was born (1714) in Weimar, and died (1788) in Hamburg. Having made the latter town his principal residence, he is known as the Hamburg Bach---a mark of identification which serves to distinguish conveniently one particular member of so very numerous and individually famous a family. The family decreed that Philipp should study law, but his inherited passion for music prevailed, and under his father's training he soon became proficient and ultimately almost as famous in his particular way as his immeasurably greater progenitor. He was a brilliant harpsichord player, and it was the elegance and refinement of his taste, rather than depth and power of real genius, that made him more accessible to the public and won him far greater popularity and admiration---for a time---than were commonly bestowed upon his father. His famous book, Experiments in the True Art of Clavier Playing (1759), betrays the trend of his musical preferences. But he was a prolific composer, and his music (chiefly instrumental), though more graceful and ingratiating than profound character, was sufficiently original and significant to serve as an inspiration and model for succeeding generations. His music exerted an immense influence on Haydn, whose early Symphonies are conceived in the selfsame spirit and manner.
Philipp Emanuel Bach wrote eighteen Symphonies, the third of which, composed in 1776, is here outlined as a specimen of his orchestral style. It is scored for the quintet of strings, two flutes, two oboes, one bassoon, one horn, and cembalo(harpsichord). The first Movement has no Introduction and the form is rather obscure. There is no double-bar to mark the end of the Exposition, though the presentation of the usual two well-defined Themes seems to round out the first Division recognizably; a sort of Development, not quite genuine in its relation to the foregoing, leads over into the subordinate Theme, without a return to the beginning---thus corroborating the expanded Two-Part form. Several allusions to the principal motive, in various keys, are interspersed throughout, imparting to the whole a loose "sectional" impression. The Movement closes on the dominant of D minor, and passes without break over into the second Movement: this is a lyric Movement of very real melodic beauty. The melody is carried almost constantly by the viola. The concise design approximates the Two-Part Song-form, however, there is but one Theme.
There is a remarkable degree of similarity between this second Movement Theme with the Theme of the first Movement; like the first one, closes with the dominant chord of the following Presto, and is joined to it without pause.
The third, and final, Movement is a conventional lively Presto, inclining more toward the graceful than to the rollicking style. The subordinate Theme is extended by a Codetta, and the close of the Exposition is emphatic. But, as in the first Movement, there is no complete Recapitulation; the Development merges into the recurrence of the subordinate Theme (transposed, as usual), and the design therefore does not exceed the expanded Two-Part form.
The similarity of thematic invention between the themes of this Symphony and many of those of Mozart, in both his youthful and more mature periods, is as unmistakable as it is striking and noteworthy. It is, however, more of an external coincidence than a conscious imitation; for though Mozart was familiar with the music of the younger Bach as was Haydn, and also admired him greatly, he (Mozart) was a radically original genius, and such outward analogies as one frequently finds between his music and that of his contemporaries are due solely to the influence of the prevailing style.

Beethoven wrote a strong recommendation for CPE Bach: from: Letter to Breitkopf & Hartel, Vienna, July 26, 1809:

"I have only a few of Emmanuel Bach's piano works, and yet some of them must yield to every true artist not only the most lofty pleasure but instruction too."

Mahler: Symphony No.3

2005-12-23T00:27:00.000-08:00

Peter Laki writes:

Symphony No. 3 in D minor
by Gustav Mahler (1860-1911)

Gustav Mahler was born in Kalischt (now Kaliste) in Austrian Bohemia (now the Czech Republic) on July 7, 1860, and died in Vienna on May 18, 1911.

Mahler wrote his Third Symphony in the summers of 1895 and 1896 (movements 2 through 6 were written in 1895, the first movement in 1896). Two themes that eventually found their way into the first movement were sketched as early as 1893, however. The song "Ablösung im Sommer" ("Relief in Summer"), on which the third movement was based, was written about 1890.

Music from Mahler's Third Symphony was first heard in concert on November 9, 1896, when Arthur Nikisch conducted the second movement, under the title "BlumenstÃ¼ck" ("Flower Piece") with the Berlin Philharmonic. Movements 2, 3, and 6 were conducted by Felix Weingartner on March 9, 1897, also in Berlin. Mahler conducted the premiere of the complete work on June 9, 1902, at Krefeld. The score was first published in 1897 by Josef Weinberger in Vienna; two years later, Mahler made some revisions to the score. The United States premiere was on May 9, 1914, in Cincinnati, under the direction of Ernst Kunwald.
This symphony runs about 1 hour and 35 minutes in performance. Mahler scored the symphony for 4 flutes (2 doubling piccolos), 4 oboes (one doublinEnglishsh horn), 3 clarinets (one doubling bass clarinet), 2 high clarinets in E flat, 4 bassoons (one doubling contrabassoon), 8 horns, 4 trumpets, posthorn, 4 trombones, contrabass tuba, timpani, percussion (glockenspiel, snare drum, triangle, tambourine, bass drum, suspended cymbals, cymbal attached to the bass drum, tam-tam, birch brush), 2 harps, strings, contralto solo, women's chorus, and children's chorus.

One wonders whether it was pure coincidence that the two archrivals, Gustav Mahler and Richard Strauss, wrote works inspired (at least in part) by Friedrich Nietzsche at exactly the same time. Strauss completed his tone poem Also sprach Zarathustra ("Thus Spake Zarathustra") in August 1896. The very same month, Mahler put the finishing touches on his Third Symphony, whose fourth movement is a song for contralto with words from the "Midnight Song" from Nietzsche's philosophical poem - an excerpt, moreover, that is also featured in Strauss's work.(1.)
The relationship between Nietzsche's book and the music of both Mahler and Strauss is an open - and extremely complicated - question. (In his autobiography, titled Ecce Homo, Nietzsche had said that Zarathustra was itself a musical composition.) It seems that despite the great - and obvious - differences between Also sprach Zarathustra and Mahler's Third, the reasons that caused both composers to turn to Nietzsche had something in common. Strauss found in Zarathustra a compelling image of human evolution through successive stages of spiritual development. (Those stages are indicated in the titles of the sections that compose Strauss's work: "Of the Great Longing," "Of Joys and Passions," "Of Science," etc.) Mahler, too, envisioned his work as some kind of evolution through successive stages (or, in the words of German musicologist Constantin Floros, a "musical cosmology"); the six movements of his symphony originally had titles that were couched in parallel grammatical structures, as were those of Strauss. This becomes immediately clear if we juxtapose some of the section headings in Strauss's tone poem with some of the provisional movement titles of Mahler's symphony (his last version before he did away with titles altogether):

[STRAUSS] "Of the Backworldsmen" - "Of the Great Longing" - "Of Joys and Passions" - "Of Science"

[MAHLER] "What the Flowers in the Meadow Tell Me" - "What the Animals in the Woods Tell Me" - "What Mankind Tells Me"- "What the Angels Tell Me" - "What Love Tells Me"

Mahler's case is, to be sure, more complicated: the movement titles changed several times during the composition process (with only the general formula, "what . . . tells me," remaining constant) and were finally eliminated altogether in the published score.
In his book on Mahler's symphonies, Constantin Floros concluded that the Third Symphony, although based in part on Nietzsche, is "diametrically opposed to Nietzsche's philosophy." Floros contrasts Nietzsche's anti-religious stance with Mahler's affirmation of faith in the fifth movement, and he asserts that the message of love in the last movement is also antithetical to Nietzsche's philosophy. Yet, in his great Mahler biography, Henry-Louis de La Grange writes that "Nietzsche's essential theme . . . the conflicting Apollonian and Dionysian principles . . . influenced Mahler all his life." These principles are certainly present in the Third Symphony; also, Mahler contemplates nature and humanity on a universal, "cosmological" scale, just as Nietzsche had done.
The planning of Mahler's Third Symphony began with a series of tentative movement titles that probably preceded any substantial compositional work. The earliest version of the plan was transmitted in slightly different forms by Paul Bekker and Alma Mahler in their respective books on the composer. This plan included the title Sommernachtstraum ("A Midsummer Night's Dream"), to which Mahler added in parentheses: "not after Shakespeare." According to Alma Mahler's version, the work at this point was supposed to consist of seven movements:

1. "Summer Marches In" (Fanfare and Merry March)
2. "What the Woods Tell Me"
3. "What Love Tells Me" (Adagio)
4. "What the Twilight Tells Me"
5. "What the Flowers in the Meadow Tell Me"
6. "What the Cuckoo Tells Me" (Scherzo)
7. "What the Child Tells Me"

At this stage, the work seems to have existed in Mahler's mind as a kind of "nature symphony," with flowers and animals but no humans or angels; the addition of human voices and sung texts was not yet part of the scheme. At the end of summer 1895 - he had now spent an entire summer working on the music - Mahler thought of adopting the title of another book by Nietzsche, Die fröhliche Wissenschaft (variously translated as "The Happy Science" or "The Joyful Wisdom"), as the overall title of his symphony, either in its original form or changed to Meine fröhliche Wissenschaft ("My Happy Science"). He also changed "Midsummer Night's Dream" to "Midsummer Morning's Dream." New movement titles - night, morning bells - appeared, expanding the symphony's cosmology; also, the participation of an alto soloist and women's chorus became clearly established by this time. The symphony's cosmology was also influenced by a poem by Mahler's close friend Siegfried Lipiner, himself a follower of Nietzsche. Lipiner wrote a poem called "Genesis," which was, according to Constantin Floros, "conceived as a cosmogonic dream. It presents a poetic vision of the creation of the world from a large, resting cloud that begins to speak. In a language rich with images, Lipiner tells how out of the cloud the firmament, the earth, suns, the plant kingdom, the animal kingdom, and mankind came into being."
Mahler first envisioned a seven-movement symphony, and, as of 1895, he planned to end it with his 1892 song Das himmlische Leben ("Heavenly Life"), an alternate title of which would have been "What the Child Tells Me." (This song eventually found its place as the last movement of Mahler's Fourth.)

The last decision to be made involved moving the Adagio, the "Love" movement, from third place to the end of the symphony (a rather unusual choice, coming only two years after Tchaikovsky's "Pathétique" Symphony, which also ended with a slow movement). This decision had important philosophical consequences. As Mahler himself explained: "In the Adagio, everything is resolved in the calm of existence. The Ixion's wheel of appearances finally stops turning." (Ixion was a king in Greek mythology, punished by Zeus for his love for Hera by being bound on an eternally revolving wheel in the underworld.)

Except for this final movement, the structure of Mahler's Third Symphony shows definite parallels with that of the Second. According to British musicologist Peter Franklin, who devoted a whole volume to Mahler's Third (2.), the new symphony "was to celebrate the 'happy life' that the Second had inaugurated after dispelling apocalyptic horrors with its concluding choral hymn to the individual spirit." Franklin provided a useful chart comparing the two symphonies:

Symphony No. 2 (1890-94)

Part I:
1 (Extended dramatic sonata structure)
- Pause -

Part II:
2 Andante
3 Scherzo (based on Wunderhorn setting)
4 Alto solo (Wunderhorn)
5 Finale (orchestral apocalypse and resolving choral conclusion)

Symphony No. 3 (1893?-96)

Part I:
1 (Extended dramatic sonata structure)
- Pause -

Part II:
2 Minuet
3 Scherzo (based on Wunderhorn setting)
4 Alto solo (Nietzsche)
5 Short choral movement (Wunderhorn)
6 Finale (concluding Adagio)

THE FIRST MOVEMENT - which was actually written last - is, by size at least, almost a complete symphony in itself. Many critics, including admirers of Mahler, have found this movement rambling and diffuse, with its sections disconnected and incoherent. However, it is possible that the main idea behind the movement is precisely the creation of order out of chaos, the emergence of clear directions out of a state of aimlessness. This would be in keeping with the "Genesis" idea from Lipiner's above-mentioned poem.

There are four stages in the unfolding of this first movement. (Although the stages often share the same thematic material, they can be readily distinguished by ear.) (3.) The first is the fanfare for eight horns with which the symphony opens, the second, is a string of melodic fragments in a tragic mood in a low register, initially dominated by the brass instruments, and the third is a string of folk-like themes of an ethereal quality, played mainly by woodwinds or solo violin.

All of these materials are static and, in the words of analyst David B. Greene, "resist vital impulses." Motion is introduced eventually, as a monumental march - the fourth stage - develops, combining the "fanfare" and "folk-like" material with a lively rhythmic accompaniment. The first time, the march is unable to proceed for very long before being interrupted by the three static groups of themes. The second time, however, as the music starts once more from silence as it has so often before, the march grows triumphantly to the final climax.

THE SECOND MOVEMENT had the title "Blumenstück" ("Flower Piece") when it was performed separately - a holdover from Mahler's original program. Mahler described this movement to his friend Natalie Bauer-Lechner:

"It is the most carefree music I have ever written, as carefree as only flowers can be. It all sways and ripples like flowers on limber stems sway in the wind. Today I realized to my surprise that the basses have nothing but pizzicato, not one firm stroke, and that the low, heavy percussion is not used at all. On the other hand, the violins, again with a solo violin, have the most lively, flowing, and charming figures. . . . That this innocent flowery cheerfulness does not last but suddenly becomes serious and weighty, you can well imagine. A heavy storm sweeps across the meadow and shakes the flowers and leaves. They groan and whimper, as if pleading for redemption to a higher realm."

The movement is a (more or less) regular minuet with a highly irregular Trio section repeated twice in the form M-T-M-T-M. The "grazioso" tone of the minuet evokes the 18th century despite subtle touches in the orchestration (especially the harp writing) and in the phrase structure that betray the hand of a late Romantic composer. What makes the Trio so irregular is that it consists of three different sections, each in a different meter. In Peter Franklin's words: "Although [the Trio] . . . cuts some odd capers and seems intent upon a developmental life of its own, the graceful minuet is prepared to surprise us with a coquettish smile when it returns."

THE THIRD MOVEMENT is based on one of Mahler's early Wunderhorn songs, with the first line "Kuckuck hat sich zu Tode gefallen" ("Cuckoo has fallen to its death"). The song describes the cuckoo's death with irony and mock mourning, and then goes on to celebrate the nightingale who will replace the cuckoo as the preferred singer in the forest. The scherzo expands on this song in much the same way the scherzo of the Second Symphony did on "St. Anthony of Padua's Sermon to the Fishes." In the present work, the "cuckoo" song alternates between several contrasting episodes, including a memorable posthorn solo, which occurs twice in the course of the movement. The nostalgic melody of the posthorn brings on that typical Mahlerian moment when the fun is suddenly over and things become serious. The posthorn, which used to announce the arrival of the mail in small Austrian towns, has its own literary-musical tradition from Schubert's Winterreise ("The Winter Journey") to several poems about posthorns and stagecoaches by Nikolaus Lenau, a Romantic poet cherished by Mahler. At its return, the "cuckoo" scherzo evolves into a more boisterous ("grob!" - "rude!") section. A second hearing of the posthorn solo and a brief but very eventful coda close the movement.

THE FOURTH MOVEMENT brings an abrupt change of mood with a setting of Nietzsche's "Midnight Song" from Zarathustra, for contralto solo. Out of a mysterious background of muted strings, the soloist begins on a single repeated pitch. The vocal line gradually becomes more and more elaborate, but the harmonies remain static and the dynamics extremely soft throughout. The image of pain is emphasized by an expressive violin solo.

THE FIFTH MOVEMENT, which follows without a break, is another complete contrast in mood. The happy chiming of the bells, children's voices singing "bimm, bamm" provide the background to a cheerful, folk-like chorus on a text from Des Knaben Wunderhorn, the German collection of folk poetry that inspired Mahler throughout the 1890s. This movement shares a characteristic motif with the last movement of the Fourth Symphony (which, as we have seen, was to have belonged to the Third). The choral interjectionsoloistsollst ja nicht weinen" ("No, you mustn't weep") are Mahler's addition to the folk text.

THE SIXTH MOVEMENT follows the fifth with no break. All the previous contrasts seem to be resolved in the peaceful calm of this, Mahler's first great symphonic Adagio. The opening theme quotes from the slow movement of Beethoven's last string quartet (Op. 135) - the resemblance is too great to be accidental. The continuation, however, is more in the spirit of Bruckner - one of the few times that Bruckner's and Mahler's styles are really close. The manuscript bears the following inscription, adapted from Des Knaben Wunderhorn:

Vater, sieh an die Wmienn mein!
Kein Wesen lass verloren sein!

Father, look upon my wounds,
Let no creature be lost!

The movement is based on two themes: a simple and soft D-major chorale melody and a more intense and dramatic minor-mode theme. The two themes and their variations alternate - and their developments include subtle recalls of fragments both from the first movement's tragic episodes and a comforting moment from the fifth. All these conflicting impulses are finally united in the powerful closing section, where the dynamics rise to fortissimo (Mahler warns: "not with raw force but with a saturated, noble tone") as the monumental symphony reaches its glorious and ecstatic conclusion.

(1.) Frederick Delius's setting of Zarathustra's Nightsong came only two years later, in 1898, followed in 1905 by A Mass of Life, also based on Nietzsche's work.

(2.) Cambridge Music Handbooks, published by Cambridge University Press in 1991.

(3.) This discussion is based on an extended technical analysis of Mahler's Third in David B. Greene's book, Mahler: Consciousness and Temporality, published by Gordon & Breach (New York, 1984).

Haydn: London symphonies---the Joker

2005-12-22T21:56:00.000-08:00

The so-called "London" or "Solomon" symphonies, twelve in number, were written for those visits: Nos. 93 to 98 for the first trip, 1791-1793; No. 99 in the interval between the trips; and Nos. 100 to 104 in 1794 and 1795.

The "London" symphonies are particularly rich in humor, and repay the most attentive listening. Unexpected thematic entrances, false recapitulations, pauses, sudden chords, and the like are among the more obvious of Haydn's humorous effects. But he also reveals subtle touches that are sometimes lost in the sheer joy of hearing the music. Irregular phrases and abrupt modulations, sly bits of imitation and irrelevant turns of phrase, brief moments of apparent confusion and sudden mock-serious passages---such devices call forth many an appreciative chuckle. With an effervescent spirit and a quick-wittedness Haydn increasingly animates the fast movements and often the minuets.

Cheers,

Sibelius: Tapiola

2005-12-22T00:49:00.000-08:00

by Andrew Clements
Friday July 6, 2001
The Guardian

In 1926, Sibelius produced his final work of any real significance: the symphonic poem Tapiola, which was premiered in New York in December that year.
As so often, the starting point was Finnish mythology - Tapio was the god of the forest, and his kingdom was Tapiola. But though some of Sibelius's orchestral writing is an evocation of that mysterious world - the whirling strings of the coda, for instance, inescapably conjure images of the wind through the forest trees - many analysts have treated the movement as a drastically compressed symphony, as a replacement for the lost Eighth (the score of which Sibelius probably burned). All the themes are intimately related, the gearing between the sections is seamlessly smooth, and the tonal plan starkly simple; Sibelius's technique is pared down to its raw essentials.
There are many fine recordings of this masterpiece, and a final choice depends to some extent on the couplings. For a long time, Herbert von Karajan's 1964 version was a firm recommendation (Deutsche Grammophon); that is currently available either with Sibelius's Violin Concerto and Finlandia, or with Nielsen's Fourth Symphony. Vladimir Ashkenazy offers a very effective performance as part of an all-Sibelius program that also includes Finlandia and En Saga (Decca). Neeme Järvi's Sibelius collection (BIS) is more adventurous - Pohjola's Daughter, and Rakastava as well as Tapiola, while Osmo Vänskä includes the work as an extra in the fininstallmentent of his symphony cycle, with the Sixth and Seventh. I'd go for Vänskä, not least because he is the greatest Sibelius conductor of today, but all the above performances are certainly worth hearing.
Key recording: Vänskä (BIS)

Welcome to the sun!

2005-12-21T17:41:00.000-08:00

The time of pause and reflection is here. I hope you have time to bring in the return of the sun in a way befitting a time that has brought about awe to our ancestors.
Cheers,

Mahler: Symphony No 7

2005-12-21T10:08:00.000-08:00

Andrew Clements
Friday July 20, 2001
The Guardian (UK)

Of all Mahler's symphonies, the Seventh is the most enigmatic, and in its musical language the most radical and forward-looking. Schoenberg regarded it as the work that signaled the end of romanticism, the historic moment at which all the tenets that had sustained music for the previous century began to crumble away.

The symphony's sense of inhabiting a twilight world in which all the old certainties were being questioned and found wanting - two of its most disconcerting movements are labeled "Nachtmusik" - perhaps led to its nickname, The Song of the Night. If it is a gigantic nocturne, though, it is one far removed from the gentle musings that the 19th century would have recognized in the form.

Mahler began the score in 1904, while he was still finishing the Sixth Symphony. He composed the two Nachtmusik movements first, and had finished and revised it thoroughly two years later; the first performance that he conducted himself took place in 1908.

It has never been among the most popular of his symphonies, and much of the criticism of the work's structure has been leveled against the last movement, with its brazen, almost post-modern collation of styles, including a C major theme that could have come straight out of Wagner's Mastersingers. Yet it's a conclusion that can be made to work, given the right conductor; then it seems like a joyous assertion of the polyglot confusion of the exterior world, coming as it does after the introverted neuroses that have colored so much of what has gone before.

Though the current CD catalogue suggests that, apart from the unfinished Tenth, it is the least recorded of all the symphonies, the Seventh has never lacked champions - Otto Klemperer conducted the piece from the 1920s onwards, and in the 1950s Hans Rosbaud and Hermann Scherchen, then in the vanguard of the Mahler revival, both recorded the work.
Klemperer's own recording from the 1960s (EMI) is dark and grim, and never really sounds convinced by the brazen optimism of the finale. The work is not one of the most successful elements, either, in any of the cycles by Haitink (Phillips), Kubelik (Deutsche Grammophon), Tennstedt (EMI), Solti (Decca) and Bernstein (Sony).

The Seventh was one of the first issues in Pierre Boulez's ongoing Mahler series (Deutsche Grammophon), and this is a performance that, predictably, relishes the work's foreshadowing of modernism, while seeming more impatient with the backward glances.

That Janus-like character of the work is best conveyed by Claudio Abbado (Deutsche Grammophon) and Riccardo Chailly. Chailly just wins on points: partly because of the vivid quality of the sound, but more importantly because of the gorgeous playing of the Concertgebouw Orchestra, who played this music under the composer and his first great advocate Willem Mengelberg, and still have it in their bones.

Key Recording: Chailly (Decca, 2 CDs)

Vincent d'Indy: Second Symphony, in B-flat, Op.57

2005-12-20T13:54:00.000-08:00

Vincent d'Indy's Second Symphony, in B-flat, Op.57 was written in 1903-4, and first publicly performed in February, 1904. It exemplifies the modern subjective trend of romantic music, but follows no program, adhering strictly to the methods of absolute musical presentation, though with those differences in result which the increasingly insistent demand for freedom of self-expression, free rein for personal emotions and passions, have inevitably brought about. Like the greater part of modern compositions, it tolerates no comparison with the sober objective art of the great classic masters; the latter, as is sufficiently apparent, aimed at the production of a unified structure to be viewed as Whole, whereas the moderns achieve their effects more through the Details, contenting themselves with a procession of passing images, often supremely lovely, but bound rather loosely together. This trait is recognizable among the later "classics" as early as Schumann, with whom beauty of detail supersedes firmness of structure. The distinction is obvious in d'Indy's music, though he, and others, have the happy custom of welding the panoramic details into an effective and perspicuous unit through the employment of Leading Motives. Thus, in this Symphony, the entire work rests upon a figure of four tones, announced portentously in the Introduction, and interwoven through the fabric of all the Movements, in multifold rhythmic shapes.

The first Movement is in sonata-allegro form.

The second (slow) Movement is a First-Rondo form, augmented by two alternations of the principal Theme with the same subordinate one (somewhat modified). The chief Theme is a lyric sentence of unusual melodic character, typical of d'Indy's thought, weird, but not without a certain strain of loveliness; the other Theme is frankly unmelodious, in jerky dotted rhythm. A brief Introduction opens the slow movement with an echo of the first figure of the Theme of the preceding one. Into the subordinate Theme the Leading Motive (in extended form) is here and there inserted.

The third Movement is essentially the Scherzo, but its chief, opening, Theme is a Romanza of simple, tender beauty. The other, alternating Theme (the design appoximates the First-Rondo) is evolved from the Leading Motive, in fantastic rhythmic shape, wild, bacchantic, insistent---used ostensibly as accompaniment to other wild melodic phrases, one of which resembles the jerky subordinate Theme of the slow Movement. The lyric Theme is drawn for a time into the orgiastic, dizzy whirl, but regains its composure near the end.

The Finale is a marvel of thematic artifice and astounding ingenious combinations. It corresponds to none of the conventional designs, though the presence of two essential Themes is vaguely evident. The form can therefore claim no more accurate designation than a fanciful Series of Episodes, utilizing all the motives of the foregoing Movements, and one or two new ones, interlaced with dazzling skill, admirably controlled, and effectively presented.

This Symphony is appraised by many critics as too cerebral. One commentator of wide orchestral experience declares his conviction that it just misses being a truly great work, because it lacks spontaneity. Unquestionably it displays a greater proportion of mental reflection than genuine human sentiment, and of that quality, absolutely indispensable in a work of art, especially of the Tone-art, namely, Beauty---a quality for which no degree of technical skill can compensate.

But be all that as it may, this Symphony is a creation to be reckoned with. It is, in many respects at least, a "great" Symphony---great in its scope, in its originality, in its supreme craftsmanship, in its sincerity; the product of an extraordinary musical genius. I hope you find this piece as controversial as I have.

Cheers,

Vincent d'Indy

2005-12-20T13:43:00.000-08:00

Vincent d'Indy was born in Paris in 1851 and became a pupil and leading disciple of César Franck, whose music he did much to propagate. He distinguished himself as a teacher and writer on musical subjects and was an important figure in the musical life of Paris in his time, although by the time of his death a new era in music was well under way.

Although developing early as a pianist, Parisian Vincent d’Indy (1851-1931) set aside his military inclinations to study composition and related disciplines at the Paris Conservatoire. He cofounded the Schola Cantorum, eventually rivaling the Paris Conservatoire, and was renowned as a teacher of composers. His output crossed all major genres except ballet and film, and his orchestral compositions include the sumptuous Symphony #2 in B-flat Major bordering on the super-Romantic.

Cheers,

Mahler: Symphony No.2 (Resurrection)

2005-12-19T13:05:00.000-08:00

Symphony No. 2 in C minor, “Resurrection”Gustav Mahler (b. July 7, 1860 in Kalischt, Bohemia; d. May 18, 1911 in Vienna) In August 1886, the distinguished conductor Arthur Nikisch, later music director of the Boston Symphony Orchestra, appointed the 26-year-old Gustav Mahler as his assistant at the Leipzig Opera. At Leipzig, Mahler met Carl von Weber, grandson of the composer, and the two worked on a new performing edition of the virtually forgotten Weber opera Die Drei Pintos. Following the premiere of Die Drei Pintos, on January 20, 1888, Mahler attended a reception in a room filled with flowers. This seemingly beneficent image played on his mind, becoming transmogrified into nightmares and waking visions, almost hallucinations, of himself on a funeral bier surrounded by floral wreaths. The First Symphony was completed in March 1888, and its successor was begun almost immediately. Mahler, spurred by the startling visions of his own death, conceived the new work as a tone poem entitled Totenfeier (“Funeral Rite”). The title was apparently taken from the translation by the composer’s close friend Siegfried Lipiner, titled Totenfeier, of Adam Mickiewicz’s Polish epic Dziady. Though he inscribed his manuscript, “Symphony in C minor/First Movement,” Mahler had no idea at the time what sort of music would follow Totenfeier, and he considered allowing the movement to stand as an independent work. The next five years were ones of intense professional and personal activity for Mahler. He resigned from the Leipzig Opera in May 1888 and applied for posts in Karlsruhe, Budapest, Hamburg and Meiningen. To support his petition for this last position, he wrote to Hans von Bülow, director at Meiningen until 1885, to ask for his recommendation, but the letter was ignored. Richard Strauss, however, the successor to Bülow at Meiningen, took up Mahler’s cause on the evidence of his talent furnished by Die Drei Pintos and his growing reputation as a conductor of Mozart and Wagner. When Strauss showed Bülow the score for the Weber/Mahler opera, Bülow responded caustically, “Be it Weberei or Mahlerei [puns in German on ‘weaving’ and ‘painting’], it makes no difference to me. The whole thing is a pastiche, an infamous, out-of-date bagatelle. I am simply nauseated.” Mahler, needless to say, did not get the job at Meiningen, but he was awarded the position at Budapest, where his duties began in October 1888.In 1891, Mahler switched jobs once again, this time leaving Budapest to join the prestigious Hamburg Opera as principal conductor. There he encountered Bülow, who was director of the Hamburg Philharmonic concerts. Bülow had certainly not forgotten his earlier low estimate of Mahler the composer, but after a performance of Siegfried he allowed that “Hamburg has now acquired a simply first-rate opera conductor in Mr. Gustav Mahler.” Encouraged by Bülow’s admiration of his conducting, Mahler asked for his comments on the still-unperformed Totenfeier. Mahler described their encounter:“When I played my Totenfeier for Bülow, he fell into a state of extreme nervous tension, clapped his hands over his ears and exclaimed, ‘Beside your music, Tristan sounds as simple as a Haydn symphony! If that is still music then I do not understand a single thing about music!’ We parted from each other in complete friendship, I, however, with the conviction that Bülow considers me an able conductor but absolutely hopeless as a composer.” Mahler, who throughout his career considered his composition more important than his conducting, was deeply wounded by this behavior, but he controlled his anger out of respect for Bülow, who had extended him many kindnesses and become something of a mentor. Bülow did nothing to quell his doubts about the quality of his creative work, however, and Mahler, who had written nothing since Totenfeier three years before, was at a crisis in his career as a composer. The year after Bülow’s withering criticisms, Mahler found inspiration to compose again in a collection of poems in German folk style by Ludwig Achim von Arnim and Clemens Brentano called Des Knaben Wunderhorn (“The Youth’s Magic Horn”). He had known these texts since at least 1887, and in 1892 set four of them for voice and piano, thereby renewing some of his creative self-confidence. The following summer, when he was free from the pressures of conducting, he took rustic lodgings in the village of Steinbach on Lake Attersee in the lovely Austrian Salzkammergut, near Salzburg, and it was there that he resumed work on the Second Symphony, five years after the first movement had been completed. Without a clear plan as to how they would fit into the Symphony’s overall structure, he used two of the Wunderhorn songs from the preceding year as the bases for the internal movements of the piece. On July 16th, he completed the orchestral score of the Scherzo, derived from Des Antonius von Padua Fischpredigt, a cynical poem about St. Anthony preaching a sermon to the fishes, who, like some human congregations, return to their fleshly ways as soon as the holy man finishes his lesson. Only three days later, Urlicht (“Primal Light”) for mezzo-soprano solo, was completed; by the end of the month, the Andante, newly conceived, was finished.By the end of summer 1893, the first four movements of the Symphony were done, but Mahler was still unsure about the work’s ending. The finality implied by the opening movement’s “Funeral Rite” seemed to allow no logical progression to another point of climax. As a response to the questions posed by the first movement, he envisioned a grand choral close for the work, much in the manner of the triumphant ending of Beethoven’s final symphony. “My experience with the last movement of my Second Symphony was such that I literally ransacked world literature, even including the Bible, to find the redeeming word.” Still, no solution presented itself. In December 1892, Bülow’s health gave out, and he designated Mahler to be his successor as conductor of the Hamburg Philharmonic concerts. A year later Bülow went to Egypt for treatment, but died suddenly at Cairo on February 12, 1894. Mahler was deeply saddened by the news. He met with Josef Förster the same day and played through the Totenfeier with such emotion that his friend was convinced it was offered “in memory of Bülow.” Förster described the memorial service at Hamburg’s St. Michael Church: “Mahler and I were present at the moving farewell.... The strongest impression to remain was that of the singing of the children’s voices. The effect was created not just by Klopstock’s profound poem [Auferstehen — ‘Resurrection’] but by the innocence of the pure sounds issuing from the children’s throats. The funeral procession started. At the Hamburg Opera, where Bülow had so often delighted the people, he was greeted by the funeral music from Wagner’s Götterdämmerung [conducted by Mahler]. “Outside the Opera, I could not find Mahler. But that afternoon I hurried to his apartment as if to obey a command. I opened the door and saw him sitting at his writing desk. He turned to me and said: ‘Dear friend, I have it!’ I understood: ‘Auferstehen, ja auferstehen wirst du nach kurzen Schlaf.’ I had guessed the secret: Klopstock’s poem, which that morning we had heard from the mouths of children, was to be the basis for the finale of the Second Symphony.” On June 29, 1894, three months later, Mahler completed his monumental “Resurrection” Symphony, six years after it was begun.Mahler once wrote, “What is best in music is not to be found in the notes.” Music, he believed, reflected the greatest thoughts of man, and the creative musician needed to bring to his work not only a technical skill but also the best qualities of a man of letters, a philosopher and a painter. There was no higher calling in Mahler’s world than the one to which he had been summoned. “What one makes music out of is still the whole — that is, the feeling, thinking, suffering human being,” he wrote to his protégé Bruno Walter. Mahler’s symphonies, especially those incorporating the sung word, carry transcendent messages of hope, as though, wrote Philip Barford, “In the background of his mind there seems always to be the image of a ladder up which humanity can climb to heaven.” After the funeral rite of the Second Symphony’s opening (and the two intervening intermezzo-like movements), the surpassingly beautiful Urlicht for contralto soloist, with its symbolism of holy light leading the soul out of the darkness of death, serves to introduce the vision of resurrection — the resurrection of the body in Klopstock’s poem and the transfiguration of the spirit as it soars toward eternal light in verses added by Mahler.In its concept, musical realization and emotion, the “Resurrection” Symphony is an overwhelming experience. Though its foundations in structure and technique are unshakable, this work seems to scorn technical analysis in favor of identifying its progression of images and feelings. The composer himself wrote of the emotional engines driving this Symphony, and his thoughts are given here as a guide to the unfolding of the work:“1st movement. We stand by the coffin of a well-loved person. His life, struggles, passions and aspirations once more, for the last time, pass before our mind’s eye. — And now in this moment of gravity and of emotion which convulses our deepest being, our heart is gripped by a dreadfully serious voice which always passes us by in the deafening bustle of daily life: What now? What is this life — and this death? Do we have an existence beyond it? Is all this only a confused dream, or do life and this death have a meaning? — And we must answer this question if we are to live on.“2nd movement — Andante (in the style of a Ländler). You must have attended the funeral of a person dear to you and then, perhaps, the picture of a happy hour long past arises in your mind like a ray of sun undimmed — and you can almost forget what has happened.“3rd movement — Scherzo, based on Des Antonius von Padua Fischpredigt. When you awaken from the nostalgic daydream [of the preceding movement] and you return to the confusion of real life, it can happen that the ceaseless motion, the senseless bustle of daily activity may strike you with horror. Then life can seem meaningless, a gruesome, ghostly spectacle, from which you may recoil with a cry of disgust!“4th movement — Urlicht (contralto solo). The moving voice of naïve faith sounds in our ear: I am of God, and desire to return to God! God will give me a lamp, will light me to eternal bliss!“5th movement. We again confront all the dreadful questions and the mood of the end of the first movement. The end of all living things has come. The Last Judgment is announced and the ultimate terror of this Day of Days has arrived. The earth quakes, the graves burst open, the dead rise and stride hither in endless procession. Our senses fail us and all consciousness fades away at the approach of the eternal Spirit. The ‘Great Summons’ resounds: the trumpets of the apocalypse call. Softly there sounds a choir of saints and heavenly creatures: ‘Rise again, yes, thou shalt rise again.’ And the glory of God appears. All is still and blissful. And behold: there is no judgment; there are no sinners, no righteous ones, no great and no humble — there is no punishment and no reward! An almighty love shines through us with blessed knowing and being.”
* * *
In March 1902, Mahler and his new bride, Alma, made a trip to St. Petersburg for concerts of his music. Of that visit Alma recalled, “We saw a good deal of high society.... Among them there was a beautiful old lady of hysterical tendencies who ... told Mahler that she felt her death to be near, and would he please enlighten her about the other world, since he had said so much about it in his Second Symphony.” She was disappointed that Mahler could not frame in mere words what he had so eloquently said in music, but perhaps she should have recalled the maxim of Mendelssohn about the finely honed emotional expression of which the art is capable: “It is not that the thoughts expressed in music are too indefinite to be put into words, but on the contrary, are too definite.”
©2005 Dr. Richard E. Rodda

Bruckner: Symphonies

2005-12-17T11:50:00.001-08:00

Bruckner's deeply meditative music poses a challenge to listeners. The nine symphonies, most spanning an hour in length, gradually unfold over broad landscapes. Bruckner's symphonies begin quietly and take the shape of theme and variation; an opening theme is smoothly spun, which initiates a synthesis to take place over the entire work. The music is a reflection of Bruckner's Catholic faith, often taking on a medieval quality and reminiscent of church modes. Moments of high drama, quiet ponderousness, and absolute silence lie side by side, forming a coherent whole beyond the limits of earthly reality. A Bruckner symphony does not refer to concrete images, nor does it undergo a familiar style of "development"; it simply exists as a vast, autonomous body of sound. Bruckner's works were outlandish to the Viennese public, but helped propel European music into the era of Mahler, Strauss, and Debussy by further broadening the limits of symphonic time and space.
Bruckner did enjoy increasing fame in his late years, as society became accustomed to the workings of Wagnerism; by the time of his final illness, he was a former professor of the Vienna Conservatory and the recipient of a government pension for his goodwill to the Austrian Empire. Bruckner's works have found performances worldwide, due to a steady growth in popularity since his death in 1896. A lack of interference by the Nazi government, who otherwise stunted the progress of Mahler, Kurt Weill, Boris Blacher, and others, was particularly helpful, as was the dedication of conductors such as Wilhelm Furtwangler, Daniel Barenboim, and Herbert von Karajan to performing Bruckner whenever the chance has presented itself. Still to be resolved, however, are questions about the scores themselves; they were sometimes revised through Bruckner's own decision, but also through the persuasion of friends who thought his music could be made "listener-friendly." One should note the different versions of some symphonies, with unwanted cuts and alterations still being weeded out by musicologists.

Despite this controversy and the strife during his own lifetime, Bruckner's creative achievement endures. Whether written for church or concert hall, his music pulls audiences into a different realm, where ordinary thought is transcended. His first numbered symphonies (1, 2, 3) and his two earlier attempts (Number 0, or "Die Nullte," and the "Study" Symphony) are moving, but they are curiosities in comparison to the middle (4, 5, 6) and late (7, 8, 9). Symphony Number 4 ("Romantic") is his most medieval and most popular; Number 7 is noted for its sublimity, written in tribute to the recently-deceased Wagner; Number 8 is his farthest-reaching; while Number 9, left incomplete, assures us of Bruckner's peace in later life. The numerous masses, motets, and hymns are also unparalleled in both aesthetic and religious terms. As attention spans become narrower and values change from the spiritual to the material, musicians have feared Bruckner's music losing popularity. But it is this inherent spirituality, this certainty of faith, which makes it perhaps even more attractive in our time.

Bruckner produced nine Symphonies (some could say eleven), each in the traditional four Movements, and almost without exception molded after classic designs. The First (1866) and Second (1872), both in C minor, are unimportant. The Third, in D minor (1873), dedicated to Wagner, is a noteworthy specimen of masterly orchestration. The Fourth, in E-flat, called the Romantic, lives up to its title, and contains many truly beautiful episodes. His most important Symphony is the Seventh, in E major, finished in 1833. Opinions concerning it diverge widely; some regard it as "the loftiest and noblest expression of emotions that are too deep and subtle for any other than the musical medium of utterance;" others find "at least two of its four Movements dull, involved, bald in idea, tiresome in treatment." Still, all critics---and the public---agree that the slow Movement of the Seventh Symphony is one of the most imposing, lovely and impressive Adagios in symphonic literature.

Of his Ninth Symphony (1894) Bruckner completed only three Movements, the Finale remaining unfinished. Its Second Movement (the Scherzo) was, at the time, declared by one writer to be probably the most barbarous and oppressive Scherzo that symphonic scores can show. A hundred years ago this dictum may have appeared quite reasonable and true---but times, and tastes, changed vastly within thirty years.

Cheers,

Anton Bruckner

2005-12-17T11:43:00.000-08:00

An imposing figure, for a time comparatively obscure, though early recognized as an organist of superlative ability, and almost suddenly, late in life, elevated to great prominence by enthusiastic admirers, was Anton Bruckner.

Bruckner was born September 4, 1824, in Upper Austria. Circumstances compelled him to study by himself, but so great was his talent, and his diligence, that he soon became an organist and contrapuntist of extraordinary ability. In 1855 he was appointed organist at Linz, prevailing over many rival applicants. In 1867 he became Court-organist in Vienna; in 1875, lecturer at the Vienna university, receiving from that institution the honorary degree of Doctor of Music in 1891. In 1869 he journeyed to France, and in 1871 to England, establishing his reputation as the greatest organist of his time. His First Symphony was composed in 1868; the Seventh, the first to engage the serious attention of the musical public, in 1884. His death occurred October 11, 1896, in Vienna.

There are certain points of contact between Bruckner and his close contemporary, Cesar Franck. Both were of a shy, gentle disposition, devoutly religious, with less sense of the realities of life than of poetic or spiritual visions; both were eminent organists and consummate contrapuntists. Both were assiduous and influential teachers: among the numerous pupils of Bruckner were Felix Mottl, Arthur Nikisch, Gustav Mahler and Emil Paur.

The strongest artistic prepossession of Bruckner was his overwhelming reverence for the personality and the music of Wagner; and despite the uncommon vigor of his own genius, he was unable to withstand Wagner's influence, and to avoid rather frequent obvious imitation of his style. Bruckner's conception was fitful, unsteady, not always subjected to proper control; in consequence, his Movements are almost all too long, and devoid of balance and essential contrast. But he was profoundly sincere and earnest, and his style manifests much genuine power, dignity, nobility, and times even grandeur.

Cheers,

Sibelius: First and Second Symphonies

2005-12-14T13:40:00.000-08:00

Sibelius completed his First Symphony, E minor, Op.39, in 1899. Though it was his first effort in this type of composition, it was immediately successful in gaining recognition and almost unchallenged admiration. Its Themes are simple; national in spirit; inclined to the melancholy and even somber moods; intrinsically patriotic in conception.

The first Movement opens with the intonation of a weird melody as clarinet solo; the Allegro (6/4 measure, in G major) which follows, displays tremendous vigor and determination, and---as details contribute to the distinctive character of the music---the frequent, nearly prevailing, rhythms of eighth-notes, and the multifold repetitions of brief figures, so inherent in the natural musical habits of the Finns.

The usual slow movement, an Andante, assumes its conventional location as second in order, and contains exquisite picturesque touches. This is followed by the Scherzo, as third Movement. The true Scherzo quality is apparent in its rhythm only; its mood is dark, and harsh dissonances are plentiful. The Trio, however, is kindlier and more tender in tone.

The Finale, entitled Quasi una Fantasia, begins with the clarinet solo of the first Movement, pronounced with great force by the whole body of strings, in unison, and then unfolds a somewhat gloomy perspective, ending in a broad hymn of sadness.

The Second Symphony of Sibelius, in D, Op.43, is no less popular than the First---perhaps it is even more generally admired, because of its brighter countenance, and friendlier aspect; though it is less effective, less volcanic, imbued with less elemental power.

Cheers,

Jean Sibelius

2005-12-14T13:34:00.000-08:00

The very first Finnish composer is Jean (or Jan) Sibelius. It is he who placed Finland at last upon the musical map. Being nationally affiliated with the Russian race, the Finns share many characteristics with the Russian people; but their climatic conditions, farther north, force upon them greater ruggedness, and their temperament and life are more rigorous and harsh. This quality is stamped upon their music, and Sibelius is a true son of the soil. His music is robust, severe, often harsh and uncompromising, for his outstanding quality is sincerity; and he loves Nature---his whole being is absorbed by this primitive passion. He said: "The voices of nature are the voices of God, and if an artist can give a mere echo of them in his creations, he is rewarded for all his efforts." Thus, his melodies exhibit familiar Russian traits, but in more stark, rugged form that they derive from the bleak Finnish existence. Again he says: "I have never used actual folk-melodies, but always freshly conceived motives"---precisely the thought expressed by Dvorak about the melodies in his New World Symphony.

Jan Sibelius was born in Finland, December 8, 1865. The following biographic sketch is from his own pen (quoted from Musical America of January 14, 1914): "It is true, I am a dreamer and poet of Nature. I love the mysterious sounds of the fields and forests, water and mountains. My father was a surgeon of the rank of Major in the Finnish army. I was educated by my grandmother, who insisted on my studying particularly Greek and Latin. I was graduated from the University of Helsingfors, and studied law, but I did not care to be a lawyer or judge. I determined to become a musician, and began to take lessons on the violin. I had already studied music systematically from my fourteenth year, and even composed simple pieces of chamber music. . . . My first composition to be performed was Variations for String-quartet, played in Helsingfors in 1887 . . . . In 1889 I left Finland to study in Berlin. Prof. Albert Becker instructed me there in composition, and there I started my larger orchestral works. In 1891 I went to Vienna and continued my studies with Karl Goldmark. I also studied awhile with Albert Fuchs. These are in brief the principal facts of my musical career. It pleases me greatly to be called an artist of nature, for nature has been the book of books for me."

Sibelius visited America in 1914, and while there received the degree of Doctor of Music from Yale University.

Cheers

Saint-Saëns: The Third Symphony (with Organ)

2005-12-13T20:12:00.000-08:00

Saint-Saëns wrote his Third Symphony, C minor, Op.78, in 1885-6, very shortly before the death of Franz Liszt, to whose memory the work is dedicated---signifying the warm friendship and sincere admiration that Saint-Saëns cherished for his older colleague.

It is the most extensive and imposing of his symphonic creations, broad in design, and at intervals strongly dramatic; on the whole, however, distinguished more for ingenuity of design and execution than for spontaneity of melodic conception, and for clearness, directness and unimpeded evolution of structural purpose that proclaim the supreme master of the situation. At the same time, it does contain very many episodes of lovely tonal quality, of unaffected emotion, and of equally genuine heroic emphasis.

It is superbly scored, with a fuller instrumental body than Saint-Saëns was accustomed to employ. Following the stimulating lead of Berlioz, and profiting by the acquisitions of the intervening years, Saint-Saëns contributed in no small measure to the eloquence and vividness of the orchestra. To the ordinary full score he here adds the organ and the piano---the latter in one place for four hands.

The Symphony comprises the usual four Movements, in their conventional order; but the first two, and again the last two, are connected, so that the work as a whole is presented in two large Divisions.

The first Movement opens with a brief Introduction (Adagio). The principal Theme thereupon follows is carried through the entire Symphony, in an almost incredible variety of rhythmic forms. The design of the first Movement is sonata-allegro, regular, and clear. The subordinate Theme is easily recognizable.

The second (slow) Movement, connected with the first, as above stated, is a lyric tone-picture of great melodic and harmonic beauty, warmth and dignity. The form is First-Rondo. The subordinate Theme is short, in effect only an Interlude, developed out of the chief motive of the first Movement.

The third Movement is a Scherzo, with Trio; spirited, ingenious, and extremely effective.

An elaborate and lengthy Transition of six Sections, leads from the Scherzo over into the Finale; and the latter continues the free, in a sense capricious, sectional formation, which functions as an Introduction embracing three Sections (based mainly upon the principal motive of the first Movement) before the actual Allegro begins---with a fugato upon this same motive. Hence, the first and last Movements of the Symphony have the same principal Theme, only differing in mode (minor and major respectively), in rhythm, and in tempo.

The subordinate Theme, however, is new, most attractive, and affords an admirable contrast. To this a Codetta is added in G, upon exactly the same melodic motive. The design of the Finale is sonata-allegro; slightly irregular, inasmuch as the Recapitulation begins with the Second Part of the principal Theme---omitting the so vitally essential First Part (actual identifying "beginning") of the Theme.

Cheers,

Saint-Saëns: early symphonies

2005-12-13T20:05:00.000-08:00

Saint-Saëns (1835-1921) made his first symphonic experiment in his sixteenth year; but the one of which he acknowledged the parentage and proudly issued as "Number One"---in E-flat, Op.2---was composed in 1855, in his twentieth year. It is of greater historical than artistic consequence, and aroused but little interest or attention. It is orthodox and by no means devoid of innocent attractions.

With his Second Symphony, in A minor, Op.55, written much later, the case was decidedly different; for in this work Saint-Saëns placed on record some of the finest and most engaging fruits of his genial powers of musical expression, and the work attracted respectful attention, and won cordial recognition, at home and abroad.

It embraces the usual four Movements: an Allegro appassionato (with Introduction), concise in form, sparkling in character, smooth, and finely impelled in its structural unfolding; an Adagio of superior merit; a Scherzo; and a vivacious Finale, prestissimo, in the major mode, in the conventional Rondo-form.

Cheers,

Charles Camille Saint-Saëns

2005-12-13T19:46:00.000-08:00

Charles Camille Saint-Saëns was born in Paris, October 9, 1835. He was astonishingly precocious; is said to have begun the study of the piano before he was three years old; and at the age of five he was able to play light operas from the score. He entered the Paris Conservatory when only seven, taking courses in piano, composition and organ. When sixteen, he gained the first prize in organ-playing; in 1853 became organist of Saint-Mery; in 1858 organist at the Madeleine. After 1870 he gave his entire time to composition and public performances. Although he had become famous chiefly as a pianist, organist, and instrumental composer, his strong predilection for the drama impelled him to turn his attention very seriously to the stage, and he brought forth, in rapid succession, numerous (about fourteen) dramatic works, among them the justly celebrated sacred drama Samson andDelilaha (1877), and the equally distinguished operas Etienne Marcel(1879) and Henry VIII (1883)---also oratorios, cantatas and many other sacred works.

In 1881 Saint-Saëns took Reber's place in the Academie; in 1892 he received the honorary degree of Doctor of Music from Cambridge University; and a host of decorations, and honors of many kinds bore witness to the universal esteem in which he was held, throughout the musical world.

He was always an enthusiastic traveler, visiting many countries in the threefold capacity of pianist, organist, and conductor of his own works. He visited America twice, in 1906 and 1915.

Saint-Saëns was prolific, versatile (his literary writings were numerous and brilliant), acutely intellectual, quickly responsive to poetic suggestion, and meticulous in his artistic methods. Doubtless less profound than the great classic masters, he contributed all the more to the development and refinement of Romantic Music. His name rests mainly upon his instrumental works, his Symphonies and his original, skillfullylly depicted Tone-Poems (Le Rouet d'Omphale, Phaeton, Danse Macabre, La Jeunesse d'Hercule). Retaining his vigor and enthusiasm in a remarkable degree to the end, he passed away December 16, 1921.

The musical conception and methods of Saint-Saëns were thoroughly typical of the French people, to whom he belonged. That accounts for the character of his music: extremely ingenious, clever, always piquant alluring, polished, preponderantly bright and vivacious; by no means wanting in pathetic and passionate impulses, but these of a more sentimental than profoundly tragic quality. He is adjudged by many critical observers as one of the most brilliant and eminent of French tone-masters, if not the foremost.

Cheers,

Franck: Symphony in D minor

2005-12-12T19:39:00.000-08:00

Cesar Franck's one and only Symphony, in D minor, was written in 1889, a year before his death, and represents therefore a fully mature product of his long artistic life. In contains three Movements only, thus reverting to the original type of the symphony. Its first Movement is cast in the sonata-allegro mold, but the method of its presentation is unique: the principal Theme is stated twice, in succession, the first time in slow, stately tempo, with strong emotional emphasis, and in the manner of an Introduction, and then in rapid tempo, in more concise, passionate, dramatic tones. Immediately after this the entire twofold presentation is restated, in sequence (a third higher), but otherwise literally. A brief Transition leads over into the subordinate Theme, and from this point on, the form of the whole Movement is normal.

It cannot escape the observant listener that Franck makes frequent use of the Sequence (a "repetition" on other, higher or lower steps); its shifting motions seemed to be more congenial to his conceptive habits than the more stable effect of actual repetitions. The latter, it will be recalled, was a strikingly persistent and essential feature in the music of Beethoven, and that of all the classics.

The second (slow) Movement is a genuine, characteristic specimen of Franck's musical conception, especially as regards melodic delineation. Its principal Theme, a complete lyric Double-period, is of haunting, indescribably touching quality, introspective, sorrowful but not despairing. The design is Second-Rondo, and both of the subordinate Themes are cheerful in mood. The structural manipulation of this Movement is masterly to the last degree: an ingenious and unique adjustment of novel methods to classical traditions.

The Finale is fundamentally sunny in spirit; vigorous at times, but nowhere boisterous, and contemplative rather than vivacious. The insertion of the somber chief melodic period of the slow Movement (as second Codetta, and again in the Coda) effectually subdues the optimistic aspirations of the Movement; and the allusions to important thematic units of the opening Movement---in the third and fourth Sections of the Coda---have an excellent unifying effect. The form, sonata-allegro, is curiously abbreviated: the Recapitulation presents only the principal Theme---the subordinate one is omitted.

Cheers,

Cesar Franck

2005-12-12T19:32:00.000-08:00

Cesar Franck was born December 10, 1822, in Liege. Thus he was of Belgian descent; but as early as 1844 Paris became his permanent home, and he is so inseparably identified with the musical life of the French, that he is claimed by that nation as one of their own sons.

So, next after Berlioz, in France, came Cesar Franck. They were equally original, each in his own direction, and both attained singular eminence as exponents of the tone-language; and yet nothing could be more striking than the contrast between these two masters: Berlioz, the robust, virile, aggressive realist, who went about the realization of his lofty, absorbing artistic ideals in the most straight-forward, practical manner; and Franck, the gentleminded, shy, devout dreamer, whose soul seemed to lose contact with the earth, in the mystic realm of spiritual visions. While Berlioz excelled in dramatic intuition and in his command of orchestral technique, Franck was far more scholarly, more thoroughly trained in the technique and structure of musical composition.

Franck studied at the Conservatory in Liege until his fifteenth year, then at the Paris Conservatory, becoming in 1872 a Professor at that institution. In 1853 he was appointed Choirmaster at St. Clothilde, in 1857 organist there.

Equally famous as organist, instructor, and composer, he exerted a strong and enduring influence upon the younger school of French writers; among his distinguished pupils were Lekeu, Debussy, Vincent d'Indy, and many others. Franck was especially noted for his improvisations at the organ, which are said to have been, as unhampered effusions of his richly gifted poetic and religious nature, of indescribable beauty and impressiveness. Having gained comparatively late in his modest career the recognition due him in his adopted country, Franck died, in Paris, November 8, 1890.

Franck was not a hasty or prolific composer, and the list of his (invariably fine) works, though not meager, is not as long as might have been expected. He left only one Symphony, but a number of Symphonic-Poems, five Oratorios, three Operas, several Chamber-music works, many organ pieces and other compositions, and a few Songs.

Franck's methods of musical expression, particularly as concerns melody and harmony, were distinctive, not to be confounded with those of any other great master. His harmonies are incomparably sinuous, iridescent; his modulations incredibly flexible; his counterpoint fluent but firm; and the structure of his larger forms, while not everywhere in absolute conformity with traditional models, is always logical, clear, and effective.

Cheers,

Berlioz: Romeo and Juliet

2005-12-11T13:25:00.000-08:00

The third symphonic epic of Berlioz, known as the Dramatic Symphony, in B, Op.17, was written in 1838. It is based upon Shakespeare's drama Romeo and Juliet, and carries the same title. It is his largest and most pretentious symphonic creation. In it he aims to widen still further his sphere of vivid musical expression by adding the human voice to his orchestral apparatus.

The Symphony embraces eight Numbers, or Movements, to which the titles are given: 1. Introduction; 2. Prologue; 3. Ball scene; 4. Garden scene; 5. Queen Mab; 6.Juliet's Burial; 7. Romeo at the Grave; 8. Finale.

The first Number (orchestral) is not an Introduction in the accepted sense, but prefigures the opening Scene of the Tragedy---the feud between the houses of Montague and Capulet. The ensuing Prologue, partly orchestral and partly vocal, consists of three Sections, which narrate in brief form the coming events of the Drama.

Hereupon follow the four actual symphonic Movements: the first Movement (Andante; Allegro) deals with a mournful soliloquy of Romeo; the appearance of Juliet; and the grand festival and ball of the Capulets'. Despite its obviously festive character, this Movement is handled with fine moderation, is noble in conception and dignified in execution.

The second Movement (the slow Movement of the Symphony) is the Garden scene, ardently emotional, but discreet---an admirable example of poetic musical expression.

The third Movement (the Scherzo) is the famous music entitled Queen Mab, the Fairy of Dreams. It is the finest and most individual episode of the whole Symphony; very few, if any, specimens of absolute music can compare with it in originality, ingenuity and tonal beauty, among all the products of the Romantic school. The form is Song with Trio.

The next two of the total eight Numbers, "Juliet's Burial" and "Romeo at the Grave," are usually regarded as included in this third Movement, although they are detached. It is quite impossible to point out, here, all the remarkable ingenious, significant, and inescapably impressive details of these Numbers. The listener will find the efforts abundantly rewarded on a careful examination of the score itself.

The Finale scarcely maintains the high standard of excellence that distinguishes all the preceding Movements. It is undisguisedly operatic, almost theatrical, in plan and execution (with its mixture of orchestral, vocal solo, and triple-chorus), and seems out of place in a work of symphonic dignity. Concerning its tremendous dramatic effect, however, there can be no question.

Berlioz: Harold in Italy

2005-12-11T13:13:00.000-08:00

Harold in Italy is the title of Berlioz' Second Symphonic-Poem, Op.16, in G, written in 1834, and based upon scenes from Byron's Childe Harold. Similarly to the Fantastic Symphony, it has a Leading Theme which runs through all four Movements of the work, and it is here everywhere assigned to the solo-viola. The origin of this peculiar feature is explained by Berlioz as the result of a visit from Paganini, who begged Berlioz to write a viola Concerto for him. Paganini was dissatisfied with the product, since it did not gratify his ambition as a virtuoso; and Berlioz decided to remodel it into a symphonic scheme, to which he gave the above name. The pervading viola-voice represents, in the poetic plan, the hero, Harold, and the Leading Theme which signals this idea runs first at the at the opening of the Symphony. The first Movement is called "Harold in the Mountains; Scenes of Melancholy, Happiness and Joy." It is molded into the sonata-allegro form, with a long and impressive Introduction, during which the "Harold-Motive" is announced---first by the full wood-wind choir, and in minor: then by the solo-viola, in major. The succeeding Allegro is a broad Pastorale, of thoroughly cheerful character.

The second Movement, "March of the Pilgrims, chanting their Evening Prayer," is realistic, frankly and charmingly descriptive, and extremely beautiful in conception and formulation.

The third Movement bears the title "Serenade of a Mountaineer in the Abruzzo," an amiable Scherzo, into the fabric of which the Harold-Motive is delightfully woven.

The Finale: "Harold's End---Orgy of the Brigands," is a masterpiece of realistic structure. Its Introduction is a retrospect of the preceding scenes, similar to the plan of the Finale of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, though totally different from this in its poetic relations. The Allegro which follows is an Orgy, but a genuinely musical one, set forth in perfectly clear form---a most salutary model for many a modern composer, whose prodigious travail brings forth a---mouse!

Cheers,

Berlioz: the Fantastic Symphony

2005-12-11T13:07:00.000-08:00

The First Symphony of Berlioz, which he called Episodes in the Life of an Artist, or Fantastic Symphony, in C major, Op.14, was written in 1831. The subject, which was of Berlioz' own invention, could scarcely be adjusted to the classic lines of the traditional symphonic form, since it presented a definite poetic program, and involved of necessity those modifications that gave being to the Symphonic-Poem.

The idea is defined by Berlioz in these words: "A young artist, in love, and tired of life, takes opium; the dose, too weak to kill, intoxicates him, and in his fevered dreams he reviews his own imaginary love-history, which culminates in a fantastic and dreadful ending." This poetic material is divided into five Episodes or Movements:

1. Reveries, Passions. For this first Episode Berlioz adopts the sonata-allegro design, and follows it as best he may, for it must be well understood that he himself had no intention of violating or rejecting the classic structural traditions, and was doubtless unaware of the vital consequences that were to attend his novel artistic purpose. There is a stately Introduction, followed by the regular Allegro, the principal melody of which is what Berlioz called the idee fixe of the youth's hallucinations, and which recurs as "Leading Motive" in every Movement of the Symphony. Thus Berlioz unconsciously conceived the germ of the Leit-Motif, that later assumed such immense artistic significance in the works of Liszt and Wagner.

2. The Ball, Waltz, A major.

3. Scene in the Country, Adagio, F major.

4. March to the Scaffold, Allegretto, G minor.

5. Witches' Sabbath, Allegro, C major. This Finale contains a remarkable Fugue which is a masterpiece of contrapuntal skill, but as music repulsive.

The melodies of Berlioz, not alone in this work, but evereywhere, are original, radically different from those of any other composer. Compared with the bland melodic lines of the great classic leaders, the melodies of Berlioz seem, on a first hearing, singularly uninviting, stiff and angular; but they are true to his musical purpose, and impress the unprejudiced hearer more and more upon closer acquaintance, until their signal beauty is at last revealed. His harmonies and modulations are normal; his counterpoint baffling; his structure generally convincing---though in many respects his music betrays the lack of thorough early discipline. Above all, his instrumentation is phenomenal: he enriched the orchestra extensively, adding harp, English horn, ophicleide (or tuba) and other instruments, multiplying the bassoons and trumpets, thus increasing the resourcefulness of the orchestral body, and demonstrating himself with superb vision how its resources might be utilized.

Cheers,

Hector Berlioz

2005-12-11T13:01:00.000-08:00

Hector Berlioz was born December 11, 1803, near Grenoble in France. His father was a physician, and decreed that Hector should study medicine; but the youth defied the decree, and sacrificed parental assistance, in order to gratify his unquenchable passion for music. His first compositions were rejected with ridicule, as too original and unintelligible. But he had the courage of his convictions, which were enlisted fearlessly in the cause of romantic, realistic musical expression, or Program-music, and in 1830 he won the Grand prix de Rome with his Cantata Sardanapal. His first Symphony, the Phantastique, shortly followed; then his Second, Harold en Italie (1834), and the dramatic Symphony Romeo and Juliet (1839), which were highly praised by the critics, but not accepted by the public.

In 1839 he was appointed "Conservator" of the Paris Conservatory, and later its Librarian. In 1843 he visited Germany, and extended his travels during the next few years to Hungary, Bohemia and Russia, meeting everywhere with that recognition and applause which were strangely withheld from him in his own country. In 1852 he conducted, in London, the New Philharmonic Concerts, and the next year his Benvenuto Cellini was given at Covent Garden.

After his death, March 9, 1869, his countrymen heaped honors upon his memory, but it was chiefly through the unselfish efforts of Schumann, Liszt and others in Germany, that the very great power of Berlioz' genius was apprehended, and his fame established. He was compelled to turn to journalism at times for his livelihood, and he proved to be remarkably fitted for this activity; from time to time he produced literary writings of great acuteness and power.

Berlioz may confidently be acclaimed as the originator of the Romantic movement (for while credit is given to Carl M. von Weber for the earliest recognizable impulses in this direction, his achievements therein are utterly incomparable with those of Berlioz) and he demonstrated his convictions with unfaltering, unbending, often vehement energy, and ultimately with complete triumph.

The attitude of Berlioz toward the orchestra, and his incredible development, enlargement and refinement of its resources, would alone suffice to place him in the front rank of musical path-breakers. Nor was he, notwithstanding his absorbing romantic tendencies, disloyal to classic forms and methods; these he embraced unquestioningly, and he employed them with as much fidelity as his expansive, nervous, unalterably poetic disposition and purpose would permit.

Cheers,

Brahms: Symphony No. 4, E minor

2005-12-10T10:50:00.000-08:00

Brahms lived to be almost sixty-four years old, but he finished his last symphony when he was only fifty-two. In many respects, the E minor is the most remarkable of the four, just as it the least conventional. In movement sequence it violates some of the most time-honored canons of the symphonic form: it begins with an allegro, moves on to an andante, then to another allegro, and ends with a third allegro, energico e passionato, that is actually a passacaglia---a theme and variations in triple time. It begins and ends tragically, violating another supposed rule that even a tragic symphony must close on a yea. Be it said that Brahms' innovations are, in themselves, completely successful, and that none of his other symphonies so consistently holds the attention as the Fourth. It is unquestionably one of the sovereign works for orchestra, never void for moment of great melodic inspiration, and orchestrated sensitively, sometimes brilliantly. Coming after the spacious but mysteriously and darkly questioning first movement, the melancholy, tender andante, and robust good-humored allegro giocoso, the majestic passacaglia, with the mind-dazzling variety of its thirty variations and finale, is as inspired a conception as the grande fugue of the "Handel" Variations.

The Third of Brahms' Symphonies was followed very soon by the Fourth---in E minor, Op. 98, completed in 1885. This Fourth Symphony is unquestionably the most mature and the most forcefully dramatic of them all; the Coda of the first Movement surges to an intensity of white-hot passion quite without an equal in any of Brahms' symphonic creations. The choice of key is unusual: E minor seems to have been strangely unappealing to the early masters of the Symphony (Haydn did use E minor for one of his earliest Symphonies) for some reason not fathomable. The temper of the entire Symphony, excepting only the Third Movement, is severe, somber, though not in the least pessimistic; flashes of genial radiance soften its austere lines in many places, and phrases of surpassing loveliness emphatically confute the opinion of some commentators that this Symphony is chiefly a product of intellectual ardor, more reflective than emotional. Brahms possessed---and used---that "cerebral power which is the necessary concomitant of the highest artistic achievements," as Mr. Cecil Gray so happily expresses a momentous fundamental principle. The probability remains, be it admitted, that the Fourth is not likely to become the most popular and beloved of the Symphonies of Brahms.

Cheers,

Brahms: Symphony No. 3, F major

2005-12-10T10:29:00.000-08:00

In 1883, Brahms composed a third symphony, and began to sketch a fourth. The first of these, in F major, is the shortest of all his symphonies, but often seems the longest because of its heroic cast and grandiosity. A few attentive listenings to it should dispel forever the notion that Brahms is essentially a classical composer. It begins with a burst of romantic virtuosity, and is steeped throughout in an almost Schumannesque romanticism. In the first two movements, Brahms seems to be speaking in propria persona, a persuasive romantic poet uninhibited by any sense of duty to the great classic dead. The breathless flow of melodic beauty is nothing short of intoxicating, and momentarily, at least, we scarcely care that we are listening to a free fantasia rather than to a symphony. After these heroic draughts, the third and fourth movements are tepid and unadventurous. The skeleton in Brahms' closet is indeed neoclassicism---a very self-conscious neoclassicism---and its bones rattle throughout the andante and the allegro. In no other large work is the descent from mountain to plain made so rapidly. The idiom suddenly becomes harsh and monotonous, the melodic line studied. The whole symphony sags, and in trying to find distinction for this industrious classicizing Brahms descends to real ugliness in his orchestration. Had Richard Strauss concocted some of this, I should say that he was orchestrating a sandbank, and compliment him for doing so perfectly. The last half of the F major Symphony has given those critics who make a specialty of judging a composer by his lapses something to hold on to: from it, more than from anything else, has come Brahms' reputation as a harsh melodist and a muddy orchestrator.

Six years elapsed after the completion of the Second Symphony, before Brahms again applied himself to the the symphonic task. These six years were by no means idle ones, for during that period he created many of his most imposing works. The Third Symphony, in F major, Op.90, finished in 1883, differs notably from the two which preceded it; it offers "more" than the latter, in several respects: it is more scholarly---the first Movement presents an array of extremely ingenuous rhythmic metamorphosis, and the last Movement is a marvel of thematic manipulation; further it is more dramatic---the Finale, especially, contains passages of fierce passion, that seem even more gripping than the dramatic outbursts of the first Movement of the First Symphony; and it is more beautiful---the subordinate Theme of the first Movement is one of the most exquisite musical sentences ever conceived, and many episodes in the second and third Movements are of rare originality and artistic grace.

The first Movement, precisely as in the First and Second Symphonies, opens with a Basic Motive. To this, placed in different voices (first in the bass) and in altered rhythms, the melody of the principal Theme is counterpointed---with autocratic indifference to the "cross- relation" in the first mating. Thus the Motive constitutes the essential Basis of the Movement; but it is also used independently, with wonderful effect. The structural design is sonata-allegro, and two brief Codettas are added. The form is perfectly normal, and its treatment masterly in the highest degree. The final two Sections of the Development (leading into the Recapitulation) are of impressive beauty; and there is a climax of tremendous power in the second Section of the Coda, followed by gradual relaxation in the remaining Sections.

The second (slow) Movement conveys the impression of a Hymn, of four Lines of varying length, though rather of a secular than of a religious type. It is simple, and sedately graceful, but immeasurably remote from the commonplace; replete with ingenious touches that are as beautiful as they are original---a thoroughly lovable but also thoroughly aristocratic Movement. It is cast in the mold of the First Rondo-form. Each cadence measure of the principal Theme is filled out ("bridged over") with a sort of echo of the preceding phrase-member; also of note is the very great beauty of each one the three Sections of the Coda.

To the third Movement Brahms affixes no title. His strong predilection for the Absolute qualities of musical expression kept him aloof from any descriptive experiments, and from the use of music as anything but a language that has its own intrinsic meanings. And though he wrote a very large number of Songs that are wonderfully apt in their blending of the musical with the poetic ideas, they remain genuinely "absolute" music.

This third Movement is not a Minuet, much less a Scherzo, nor a "dance-form" in any sense of the term. It might answer to the title of Romanza, or Song without Words. The lovely melody, with its quaint rhythms, has tinge of that gloomy, pathetic mood which Brahms seems to have loved. The design is First-Rondo (or perhaps more correctly Song with Trio---the difference being often scarcely recognizable);

The last Movement is another of those exceedingly rare examples of a minor Finale to a major Symphony, as seen in the Italian Symphony of Mendelssohn. Here, however, the Coda returns to, and ends in, the major mode.

This Finale is long, many-hued, and of unparalleled mastership in conception and formulation. The preponderant mood is lofty passion; now subdued, and again almost unbridled in its wide and mighty sweep. But other moods temper this, in wise alternation: after the mysterious monody and weird duet in the opening measures, there follows (measures eighteen to twenty-nine) a heavy, ominous proclamation, led by the trombones, like a prophetic warning of the storm that breaks loose---lulls---bursts forth again, and seems to whip the elements into fury; then the amazingly jovial, almost roistering subordinate Theme, during which the preceding stormy motive grumbles on, much subdued in the bass; and finally, in the extremely beautiful Coda, the broad (rhythmically augmented) intonation of the first Phrase of the principal Theme, in major, rounded out, in the seventh and eighth measures, with the Basic Motive of the first Movement, and joined ultimately (as a direct consequence of the Basic Motive) by the principal motive of the first Movement, in such natural sequence that this Finale closes almost precisely as did the opening Movement. All this is recorded, with astounding ingenuity, and equally astounding technical mastery, in the Finale---and much more than this, which the observant listener may ferret out for himself. The structural design corresponds very nearly to that of the Finale of the First Symphony: there is no separate Development; the Recapitulation follows the Exposition immediately, and each one of its successive factors is "developed" in the corresponding order---up to the reappearance of the subordinate Theme, whereupon the "recapitulation" continues almost literally. The opening melody is not ingratiating, nor even inviting, on a first hearing; but the choice of that aspect for a theme is one test of Genius---the rough, forbidding, uncut diamond is skillfully fashioned into a resplendent gem.

Cheers,

Brahms: Symphony No. 2, D major

2005-12-10T10:18:00.000-08:00

The Second Symphony, the most cheerful of Brahms' larger compositions, is attractively bucolic in nature. It has often been called his "Pastoral" Symphony, but the implied comparison must not be strained. The D major contains, in fact, better music than Beethoven's Sixth, but is not so well constructed. Also, programmatic effects were foreign to Brahms' Dorian conception of symphonic dignity. The scoring is light and clear. The instrumentation is, for Brahms, unusually transparent---free of the sluggish turgidity that so often clogs the machinery in his other symphonies, and sometimes makes them difficult to follow. The D major Symphony was composed during the summer of 1877, on the shores of the Worthersee, a beautiful Austrian lake, and may have much to do with its spontaneous quality. Two of Brahms' most seductive melodies appear in the first and third movements respectively, and the whole is liberally sprinkled with delights. The entire allegretto enjoys a popularity of its own: it is, after all, much like a theme and variations, and naturally Brahms is at his happiest in it. As a suite of attractive symphonic effects, the D major is not surpassed by Brahms' other symphonies, but even more than the others, it lacks the perfectly achieved cohesiveness that is the hallmark of a true symphony.

Having exercised wise discretion in undertaking his first symphonic effort without precipitation, Brahms proceeded almost immediately, no doubt with greater assurance, to create a companion to it: his Second Symphony, D major, Op.73, was written the following year (1877). This truly beautiful work is almost throughout of a brighter, happier mood than its predecessor; the first and third Movements, especially, are simpler in melodic character, more cordial, spontaneous and engaging, and, in their presentation, less involved and abstruse.

The first Movement (in sonata-allegro form) has no Introduction, but also opens with a Basic Motive (as the First Symphony does) of two measures in the bass, over the final tone of which the principal Theme sets in. This Basic Motive assumes many different rhythmic shapes, and is shifted to other beats in the measure; and thus it pervades the Movement, always tangible though not unduly obstrusive, unifying the whole splendid design in a most admirable manner. The second Codetta is built upon a Ground Motive with Imitation in the upper part, and a curiously syncopated rhythmic accompaniment. The following episodes have become famous for their peculiar beauty: the first sixteen measures of the Development (beginning five measures after the double-bar); the last twenty (or forty, for that matter) before the Recapitulation; the horn passage in the first Section of the Coda---and the rest of the Coda.

The second Movement (Adagio) is of an uncommonly serious romantic character, original in melodic conception, and refined in sentiment throughout. It is also somewhat involved in construction and in the method of its presentation, so that one hearing scarcely suffices for penetrating its profound spiritual purport, and apprehending its very rare and beautiful qualities. The design is First Rondo-form. The Retransition (from the subordinate Theme back into the principal one---signature of two sharps) is unusually elaborate, and exhibits the traits of a "Development;" it also contains an allusion to the Basic Motive of the first Movement.

For the third Movement Brahms has indicated no other title than the tempo-mark Allegretto grazioso, but it resembles the graceful old Minuet, though far more masterly in its formulation, and of greater warmth and charm of contents. Its design is the traditional dance-form, but with two Trios; and these two Trios differ in character radically from that which tradition would lead us to expect, i.e.: instead of being entirely independent of their principal Division in contents, each is a unique Variation of the latter, contrasting in meter and in tempo. The first da capo is abbreviated to its first Phrase, which is repeated. Upon reaching the fourth measure, the period halts there, unexpectedly, and proceeds to spin out that measure as a Ground Motive (eleven measures) up to the cadence before the second Trio. The second da capo is partly transposed, and the modulation back to the original key (in the fourteenth measure) is of supreme value.

In the Finale, Brahms yields to an impulse of unusual vivacity, vigor, and spontaneous gaiety; and the craftsmanship is superb as it is transparent. The joy and abandon in it are inspiring. Of note is the brief Ground Motive which, in the bass, underlies the first Phrase of the principal Theme; also the manner in which the first figure of this Theme is interwoven in the subordinate Theme; further, the adoption of this figure, in widening intervals, for the first Codetta; and the very striking (possibly intentional) similarity of the jolly lilt of the second Codetta, to the first Codetta in the Finale of Haydn's London Symphony.

The design is sonata-allegro, very regular, and splendidly proportioned and balanced, but with this somewhat uncommon feature: The Development begins exactly as the Exposition does, thus depriving the hearer, for a moment, of one of his most necessary bearings. In this restatement of the principal Phrase, the Ground Motive in the bass is carried on to the length of fifteen measures---in augmented form in the last six of these. Of note is the effective transformation of the principal theme into triplet-rhythm in the fourth Section of the Development.

Cheers,

Brahms: Symphony No.1, C minor

2005-12-10T08:16:00.000-08:00

That Johannes Brahms (1833-1897) viewed the writing of a symphony with more than ordinary apprehension is indicated by the chronology of his orchestral work. He had published two serenades of quasi-symphonic scope, a large piano concerto, and the "Haydn" Variations before completing a symphony on which he had been at work for almost twenty years. Begun in Brahms' early twenties, the C minor Symphony is by no means a youthful work. It represents a considered whipping into shape by a fully matured man. It is unfortunate we have no revealing notebooks to show us the early ideas out of which, twenty years later, Brahms evolved this symphony. Certainly, as it stands, the C minor has had any young quality taken out of it. It is predominantly a dour work and, except for the introduction to the first movement and the finale, could be interpreted as the last composition of an embittered old man. The introduction is in an effective swirl of nebula---music of enchanting loveliness in itself. However, its function is problematical. If out of it rose the vigorous germinative themes essential to the construction of a recognizable symphony, it might seem as much a stroke of architectural genius as the sublime adagio introduction to Mozart's E flat Symphony. But nothing of this sort takes place. Instead the spineless nature of the introduction pervades the first three movements. Suddenly, in the finale, Brahms hits upon a truly energizing first theme, about which it might be carping to say that it is in part lifted from the chorale finale to Beethoven's Ninth Symphony were it not for the fact that zealots of the Brahms cult make such a point of repeating the master's famous growl when someone mentioned this resemblance: "Any fool can see that!" The point is that this strong Beethovian theme, whether hit upon by accident or purposely, is just the right sort of material on which to erect a soundly constructed symphonic movement. This Brahms proceeds to do with complete success. But it must be said that a triumphant conclusion---almost a swift victory march---after three vast movements of transitional music produces an odd effect.

Unlike Mozart, whose first Symphony was written at the age of eight; or Schubert, who attacked that formidable type when sixteen; or Mendelssohn, who did the same when fifteen,---Brahms withheld his hand from the exacting, supreme effort of symphonic creation until he had reached his forty-third year. It is true, this elaborate and impressive First Symphony had occupied his attention during the preceding ten years, but this again confirms his reluctance to plunge prematurely and self-confidently into a task of such magnitude and serious artistic spirit.

Despite its often abstruse style, the music of Brahms presented enough of striking, spontaneous, instantly prepossessing and frankly beautiful features to win him a host of enthusiastic friends; and upon the appearance of his First Symphony, these ranks re-echoed with the cry "The Tenth Symphony!"---implying that this was the full-blooded successor of Beethoven's Ninth; it was an imprudent burst of enthusiasm that did more harm than good to the reputation of the sufficiently great and accredited master. The "Tenth" has never been written, and perhaps never will be; it is as unlikely as the prospect of an equivalent successor to Shakespeare's dramas. It is sufficient to affirm that the First Symphony of Brahms is a creation of superlative significance, which holds its place worthily beside (not beyond) the "immortal nine" of Beethoven.

This First Symphony, in C minor, Op.68, completed in 1876, is the only one of the four of Brahms in which he adopts the venerable tradition of a separate Introduction, in sostenuto tempo. It foreshadows the thematic components and the dramatic character of the Allegro; and the final allusion to it, as Independent Coda, rounds out the Movement in a most effective and impressive manner. The design of the first Movement is sonata-allegro, evolved with such superb logic, unswayed purpose, perfection of proportion, such masterly provision for well-placed and well-balanced contrasts, and such monumental dramatic vitality, as only so great a genius could achieve; and the music is, in its every measure, harmonious and truly beautiful.

The most significant structural feature, and one that is unquestionably original with Brahms, is the adoption of a brief but striking phrase which precedes the Exposition, and for which the term Basic Motive seems most fitting, since it underlies the entire Movement, either as generative or as a component factor. The themes are all based upon it, or derived from it. The subordinate Theme is, for a few measures, identical with the principal one: such similarity between the chief Themes has been repeatedly done before---beginning with Haydn---and is recognized as one of the conditions of the early symphonic Movement. The first Codetta also displays remarkable likeness to the principal Theme; the Basic Motive is set forth in the upper most tones, while the principal Theme is given to the basses, "upside down."

It would be impossible in the narrow limits of this discussion thread to point out every masterly trait of the music. The hearer may, and should, trace for one's self the course of thematic manipulation, as far as can be perceived. The chromatic form of the Basic Motive renders it everywhere easily recognizable.

The second (slow) Movement, in the unexpected key of E major, is a sustained, serene lyric conception, of a richer and more eloquent romantic quality. Its design is the First Rondo-form. Of note, again, is the close relation of the subordinate Theme to the principal one; its melody is counterpointed against the first two measures of the latter.

The third Movement is neither a Scherzo nor of any of the dance-types; but it fits admirably into the psychological scheme of the Symphony. It is one of those graceful, intimate, delightfully smooth conceptions, that were as essential and precious a part of Brahms' musical spirit as were the surges of passion, and the somber, deeply earnest pathos that characterize his more serious moods. The design is Second-Rondo.

An Introduction in Adagio tempo, of extremely impressive, grave character, precedes the final Allegro, and refers thematically to it in every detail. Of its three Sections, the first and second employ motives of the Allegro, while the much longer third Section, in more animated tempo, presents an apparently new, wonderfully beautiful Song of Hope, which falls like a ray of sunshine athwart the somber, ominous background of the opening Phrases. A grief quartet of trombones and bassoons (the "Second Part" of the Song) seems to add assurance to the message of comfort. A recurrence of the first melody (as "Third Part") leads over into the Finale proper. This begins with the principal Theme, a melody of folk-song simplicity and quiet power, in conception akin to the principal Theme of the Finale in Beethoven's Ninth Symphony---emphatically not a blundering imitation, but the natural coincidence of kindred genius. The subordinate Theme is traced as counterpoint against a Ground Motive (a brief figure repeated several times, as basso ostinato---persistent bass); and this Ground Motive corresponds to the four accented beats (first, third, fifth, and seventh beats) of the principal Theme.

The design of the Allegro exhibits a noteworthy digression from the traditional form, which is wholly original with Brahms: there is no separate Development, in the specific sense; the Recapitulation follows the Exposition immediately (as in the sonatine-allegro form); but this Recapitulation is systemically and very broadly extended by "developing" each successive factor in unaltered order, during ten masterly Sections---that is, up to the reannouncement of the subordinate Theme. The latter then appears, in its proper key (transposed to C major), and from there on, the Recapitulation agrees literally with the Exposition. The form is therefore, strictly speaking, sonatine-allegro, enriched by thus fusing the process of Recapitulation with that of Development. Exactly this same scheme will be found again in the Finale of the Third Symphony.

Cheers,

Brahms's orchestration - the Charles Ives factor

2005-12-10T08:09:00.000-08:00

In Charles Ives', Essays Before a Sonata, New York, Knickerbocker Press:

"To think hard and deeply and to say what is thought, regardless of consequences, may produce a first impression either of great translucence or of great muddiness, but in the latter there may be hidden possibilities. Some accuse Brahms's orchestration of being muddy. This may be a good name for a first impression of it. But if it should seem less so, he might not be saying what he thought. The mud may be a form of sincerity which demands that the heart be translated, rather than handed around through the pit. A clearer scoring might have lowered the thought."

The issue of muddiness in Brahms orchestration is maybe controversial, maybe dialogical, or possibly the quintessential challenge for our best conductors to make the lowest registers "sound." Sonority and resonance of singing instrumental melodic lines with a rich balance of conservation of energy with clarity of tonal momentum have usually been the measure of mud metrics. I believe Ives leads an inquiry of value for a sound-color of tonal clusters, or a density of impressionism. It would appear that Ives is stretching a foreign style to justify a viable meaning. I believe that only a Toscanini or Koussevitsky could work their special "magic" to realize the aspirations of Brahms.

Cheers,

Tchaikovsky: Sixth Symphony, B minor, Op.74

2005-12-10T00:32:00.000-08:00

Tchaikovsky: Fifth Symphony, E minor, Op.64

2005-12-10T00:25:00.000-08:00

The first four Symphonies of Tchaikovsky were written in reasonably close succession, during the years 1868 to 1877; but then he paused in his symphonic occupation (devoting his genius meanwhile chiefly to the creation of four of his great operas), for eleven years. His Fifth Symphony, in the unusual key of E minor, Op.64, was composed in 1888. The progress in the steady maturing course of its author's genius is confirmed by two qualities which place this Symphony above all his preceding ones, namely: greater warmth, firmness of line, richness and depth of sentiment in the conception of the melodies; and greater command of the formal structure, which is here of genuine symphonic dignity and perfection.

The Symphony opens, like the Fourth, with a portentous, oracular Introduction, that appears to be thematically foreign to the purpose of the first Movement; but it is inserted twice, unexpectedly and with tremendous emphasis, in the second Movement (to which, also, it is wholly foreign in mood and character); appears again, greatly subdued, near the end of the third Movement; and then---at last asserting its true thematic quality and importance, it becomes (in considerably extended form, and changed from minor to major) not only the introductory section of the Finale, but an essential thematic factor of the entire last Movement. The first movement is cast in sonata-allegro form.

The second Movement, in the First-Rondo form, is a lyric conception of rich, glowing melodic quality and very great tonal beauty.

The third Movement is in one of the customary dance-forms, but it bears the somewhat surprising title Waltz, and one wonders how so plebian a style can hold its own in aristocratic symphonic company. But it does so, with quiet dignity and charm. Besides, the "Waltz" is no more foreign to the traditional Minuet, than is the very common "Scherzo," which no less a master than Beethoven introduced into this company.

The Finale is, in keeping with convention, a vigorous Allegro, more distinguished for forcefulness than for vivacity, and splendidly effective. The allusion to the chief Theme of the first Movement, at the end, in major, rounds out this imposing Symphony in a masterly manner.

Cheers,

Tchaikovsky: Fourth Symphony, F minor, Op.36

2005-12-10T00:20:00.000-08:00

The Fourth Symphony, in F minor, Op.36, was composed 1877; first performed in Moscow, February 22, 1878, under Nicholas Rubinstein's direction.

Tchaikovsky admitted that the first Movement was "very complicated and long," and music critics generally concur in his estimate of it "as also the most important." The Symphony opens with a powerful, oracular Introduction in the horns and bassoons (afterward joined by trombones), later in the trumpets and wood-wind; it is not thematically related to the first Movement, but later it enters vitally into the texture of the Movement, and bursts forth again near the end of the Finale, with thrilling, and superbly unifying effect. Tchaikovsky's own words are: "The Introduction is the kernel, the chief thought of the whole Symphony." This first Movement is based solidly upon the classic sonata-allegro design, but contains one noteworthy digression: the structurally vital return of the principal Theme, at the beginning of the Recapitulation, is placed in a different key (D minor), and so shortened that this "keystone" of the form is reduced to but little more than an intimation of its presence. The Ground Motive in the drum, in the Second Part of the subordinate Theme, is extended unaltered through twenty-two measures.

The second (slow) Movement is an exquisite Canzona, tinged with sadness, but brightened with finely tempered contrasts. The form is First Rondo.

The third Movement (Scherzo) is an original experiment that never fails of its fine effect and hearty appeal. The three chief instrumental groups (Strings, Wood-Wind, and Brass) appear separately, alternating in distinct sections, somewhat after the arrangement of a Triple-choir, until near the end, where they unite. The strings are pizzicato (plucked) throughout, hence the superscription "pizzicato ostinato." The form is Song with Trio; the latter being so radically contrasted in its Fourth Part (in the Brass-choir) that one is tempted to infer a "Second Trio." This Fourth Part of the Trio, it will be noted, is practically identical with the beginning of the principal Division---but in augmented rhythm.

The Finale is a tumult of vivacious gaiety---as Tchaikovsky himself designates it: "the joy of seeing others happy and jolly." It offsets the tragedy of the first Movement and the sadness of the second; but the terrific intrusion of the fateful motive of the Introduction turns the mortal's thought to his own misery, if only a brief moment. The Russian folk-melody, though introduced very near the beginning, in the course of the principal Theme itself, is sufficiently individual to serve as a subordinate Theme. The rhythmic treatment of this popular tune is ingenious.

The acute listener will note the interesting similarity in the formation of the first melodic member of the chief Themes begins with a descending scale-line of four (or five) tones---likewise the subordinate Theme of the second and last Movements. It is unlikely that this was intentional, but the coincidence is unmistakable, and not without psychological moment.

Cheers,

Peter Ilyitch Tchaikovsky

2005-12-10T00:14:00.000-08:00

Peter Ilyitch Tchaikovsky was born May 7, 1840 in Votkinsk, Ural district, Russia. Like Schumann, with whom Tchaikovsky has many qualities in common, he was expected to study law, and did so for a while, also entering the service of the government. In time, however, his strong musical inclination prevailed, and he turned to its serious cultivation. In 1862 he entered the St. Petersburg Conservatory (founded shortly before by Anton Rubinstein), as a pupil of Zaremba in composition and of Rubinstein in piano. In 1866 he became a teacher of composition at the Moscow Conservatory, established by Nicholas Rubinstein, remaining in that capacity until 1877, after which he devoted himself exclusively to his own creative activity, producing a large number of works that have made him justly renowned as foremost among the eminent exponents of Russian music, and, at the same time, as one of the most serious, scholarly, most spontaneous and richly endowed masters of legitimate art in music history---romantic in expression, but solidly grounded in the principles of classic structure (the first heir to Mozart). In 1887 he began to visit many European cities as conductor of his own works, and in 1891 came to New York City on the same artistic errand. Death overtook him with tragic suddenness on November 6, 1893.

Tchaikovsky was of a highly sensitive, poetic nature; and his musical utterances were inclined to oscillate between strongly contrasted moods, though with a somewhat pronounced bent toward melancholic expression. He differed from the majority of great composers in his very strong predilection for the theoretical side of his art; he wrote and published two remarkable Manuals of Harmony, besides translating into Russian Gevaert's famous Instrumentation and Lobe's Katechismus der Musik. This throws light upon the sources of the meticulousness and perfection of his musical craftmanship, and the refinement and invariable effectiveness of his orchestration.

The development of Tchaikovsky's musical genius was thoroughly normal and steady. Each succeeding work appears to excel its forerunners in maturity, command of structure, eloquence of melody, and in accuracy and intensity of expression. His first Symphony, in G minor, Op.13 (Winter Storms), was composed in 1868; his second, in C minor, Op.17 (Little Russia), in 1873; the third, in D, Op.29 (Polish), in 1875. These first three all manifest many traits of superior beauty and originality, and confirm the earnestness with which he pursued his serious artistic ideals and aims. But they scarcely succeeded in passing beyond the frontiers of Russia, and, wherever they are known, they are overshadowed by the splendor of his other three, the fourth, fifth, and sixth Symphonies, in which his genius is proclaimed in tones that resound throughout the civilized musical world.

Cheers,

Liszt: Les Preludes

2005-12-09T16:07:00.000-08:00

Of Liszt's smaller Tone-Poems, thirteen in number, No.III, Les Preludes, is probably the best known and most popular, as it is in many respects the one most characteristic of Liszt's original methods. Its origin is traceable to the Poetic Meditations of Lamartine, though the actual undercurrent of the work is defined by Liszt in a "preface" of his own, the lines of which: "What is our Life but a series of Preludes to that unknown chant, the first solemn note of which is sounded by Death?" supply the title of the Tone-Poem. The composition is a continuous unit, divided into four Episodes, remotely analogous to the four Movements of the Traditional Symphony. These Episodes are called: (1) Dawn of Existence; Love; (2) Storms of Life; (3) Refuge and Consolation in Rural life; (4) Strife and Conquest. The structural plan does not---with its poetic, realistic aim it could not---conform to any of the classic designs. But it presents two clearly defined, well-contrasted, effective and extremely engaging Themes, treated with superlative skill, and alternating in a fairly regular manner, suggestive of a Rondo-form. The Motive which accompanies Theme B in the third Episode assumes almost the importance of a third Theme, since it constitutes the proper basis of that entire Episode.

The nature of the other Tone-Poems of Liszt may be inferred from this one (Les Preludes). They all contain passages of great beauty, and all bear witness to the refined manner of their genial author. The complete list of them may be found in the musical dictionaries.

Franz Liszt: Tone-Poems

2005-12-09T16:02:00.000-08:00

With the single exception of Berlioz, the earliest non-Teutonic genius to adopt the symphonic medium of expression was Franz Liszt (1811-1886). To be sure, what he adopted and cultivated in an extraordinary manner, and to an epoch-making degree, may be called the symphonic medium only; Liszt never wrote a genuine "Symphony" in the classic, or even romantic sense, but, actuated by the impetuous originality and independence of his musical nature, he applied the traditional medium in such a wholly novel way as to transform its spirit completely; and for the new types which he produced he originated the name Symphonic-Poem. His intensely romantic spirit recognized emotional possibilities in the voices of the symphonic orchestra that had never been essayed (save by Berlioz), and he envisaged a sphere of poetic passionate experiences to which music, and music only, could give utterance.

Everyone who is familiar with Hungarian music, who has heard it in its genuine, strikingly original utterance, who has been deeply moved by the weird, irresistible appeal of its distinctive melodies and rhythms, now steeped in almost tragic melancholy, and again pulsing with the gypsy spirit of wild passion and joy;---everyone who knows the wonderful primitive beauty and fire of Magyar music, will recognize the heritage and the environment that were the foundation of Liszt's musical being. In him these native qualities were, however, modified and controlled by an exceptionally active and penetrating mind, and an exquisitely refined poetic spirit. It was the fusion of his very pronounced romantic nature with the preponderant and musical quality of his genius, that determined his attitude toward the Symphony and orchestral music in general, and impelled him to substitute the idea, and title, of Tone-Poem, in his instrumental compositions in larger form. Of this novel type, Liszt created no fewer than fifteen. Two of them: the Dante Symphony and the Faust Symphony, consist each of three distinct Divisions or Movements, and are therefore analogous to the genuine Symphony in dimensions; but there all resemblance ends, for in conception and structure they diverge widely from the classic model.

These novel compositions, to which the name Symphonic-Poem has been applied, are program-music in the best sense of the word---not descriptive in the narrow, inartistic pictorial manner of superficial composers, but music which engendered and guided by the fluctuating emotional dramatic phases of an epic poem, or of some suggestive, fruitful poetic idea. Liszt, in pursuing this romantic aim, originated the Leit-motif, or Leading Motive, which Wagner promptly adopted and developed to so supreme a degree in his operas. The Leading Motive corresponds technically to the principal Theme of the true Symphony, but is employed chiefly as an index, and not manipulated as thematic source of the "absolute" musical evolution.

The three Divisions of the Dante Symphony are: The Infernal Regions, Purgatory, and a Finale of considerable length entitled Magnificat---an angelic hymn, assigned to a female chorus.

The Faust Symphony is similarly, though more sharply divided into three Episodes: Faust, Gretchen, and Mephistopheles---the last containing a male chorus.

Both of these extensive works exhibit Liszt's originality, his extremely fine sense of tonal charm, and his amazing ingenuity, especially in certain constructive details, and in orchestration. It is generally conceded, however, that the melodic invention, the essential logical momentum and structural firmness of his works do not measure up to the skill he possessed in arranging and accentuating the emotional effects.

Mendelssohn: the Scotch Symphony

2005-12-09T11:51:00.000-08:00

The last of Mendelssohn's Symphonies (No. V in the order of composition, but known as the Third), in A minor, op.56, was composed in 1842. The designation "Scotch" which he himself gave to the Symphony, may be explained in the same way as the title of the Italian Symphony is accounted for: it owes its inception to impressions received during a journey---this time through Scotland, as early as 1829. These impressions naturally gave color to the work, but merely in a general way; only the second Movement has the rhythmic lilt of some Scottish dance; and the five-tone scale upon which its chief melodic Theme is built give it a decided Caledonian flavor. Some commentators recognize many other Scottish allusions---among others, the Harp of Ossian in the third Movement, and the sound of echoes over the Scotland's hills and lakes. But such deductions are apt to mislead the listener, and to becloud, rather than confirm, the intrinsic, abstract musical purpose. Certain it is that Mendelssohn executed the actual composition of the Symphony in the radically un-Scotch atmosphere of Berlin, some thirteen years after gathering his Scottish impressions.

It is Mendelssohn's most masterly symphonic creation, and it manifests the finest, most enduring qualities of his genius.

The first Movement opens with a lengthy Introduction (Andante, three-Part Song form), the initial melodic phrase of which is an amplified, and otherwise modified version of the principal Theme of the Allegro. The design is sonata-allegro form, normal and regular in construction. The melodic relation between the introductory phrase and the principal Theme is clearly recognizable. the subordinate Theme is a new melody, counterpointed against the first figure of the principal theme. Such parallelisms between the chief Themes, often amounting to indirect or even direct identity of the subordinate Theme with the Principal one, has been repeatedly alluded to: This similarity of the two chief Themes, instead of the contrast that would be expected, was very common--almost the rule---in Haydn's day, and rested upon the universal, and in that era particularly prevalent, demand for thematic Unity. It is encountered a little less frequently in Mozart, but was recognized as valid by Beethoven, Brahms and others, gaining, rather than losing, its structural authority among present day composers. Conspicuous examples of this ingenious coalescence of the two, where the new Theme is a counterpointed companion to the principal one---at least for a time---are: Haydn, last Movement of the twelfth of the London Symphonies; Beethoven, last Movement of the piano Sonata Op.26; first Movement of his Fifth Symphony; Brahms, First Symphony, slow movement; Glazounov, first Movement of the piano Sonata, E minor, Op.75; d'Indy, first Movement of the String Quartet, E major, Op.45.

Mendelssohn conceived the idea of making this Symphony a unit, by running the Movements together; thus, after and effective recurrence of the first Period of the Introduction, at the end of the Allegro, the word attacca indicates that the following Movement shall begin at once, without interruption. The same direction appears at the close of the second and third Movements. He may have adopted the idea from Schumann, whose D-minor Symphony (in einem Satz), with connected Movements, was first performed in December, 1841, while Mendelssohn was busy with this Scotch Symphony. Only a single instance of such continuity appears in Beethoven's nine Symphonies: in the Fifth, the third Movement leads into the Finale without a break. There is, to be sure, a parallel instance in the Pastoral Symphony of Beethoven, the last three Movements of which constitute a continuous unit. But the case here is different: this connection was as inevitable as in the Episodes of the Finale of the Ninth. Such continuity may serve some lofty artistic purpose, but in lengthy compositions its wearisome effect upon the listener is likely to frustrate the good intention.

The title of the second Movement is limited to the tempo-mark, Vivace; in spirit it is a Scherzo, though it has no Trio (its design is sonata-allegro). It is one of those exquisitely delicate, airy, sparkling musical creations which so faithfully reflect the genial, vivacious quality of Mendelssohn's spirit, and are admirably characteristic of a predominating phase of his musical conception.

An introductory passage of eight measures precedes the principal Theme. In the Recapitulation the Theme is greatly reduced---only its first Phrase is presented.

The slow Movement, located here as third, instead of in its usual place of second, is of exceptional beauty. Its principal Theme is a lyric melody of rich, mature, mellow quality, with harp-like accompaniment; alternating with a subordinate Theme of serious character and march-like tread, which provides an effective and impressive contrast. The design is sonatine-allegro form, with an introductory Period of nine measures. A coalition of the two Themes, like that in the first Movement, but of a totally different kind, takes place here in the following manner: the second Part of the subordinate Theme corresponds almost exactly to the second Period of the principal Theme. This unusual structural arrangement lends extra prominence to the lyric element of the Movement.

The Finale is a Movement of tremendous vitality and rhythmic strength; and is as near an approach to genuine dramatic utterance as Mendelssohn's gently, self-restrained disposition was capable of. The motive of the Transition (from principal Theme into the subordinate) is new, as it has the right to be, and assumes special importance in the Development, where (in Section 3) it becomes the theme of a Fugue-exposition.

The design is sonata-allegro, broad but admirably proportioned. The Coda is a masterly culmination of the Movement; its first and second Sections utilize foregoing motives; the third Section, however, is entirely new: it turns to the major mode, alters the meter and tempo, and intonates a hymn of serene, dignified, mildly majestic character, and very genuine beauty. Such a totally new ending is called an Independent Coda.

Cheers,

Mendelssohn: the Hymn of Praise

2005-12-09T11:42:00.000-08:00

This extensive work, in B-flat, Op.52, was finished in 1840, and first called a Symphony-Cantata, consisting as it does of three preliminary orchestral Movements, and seven vocal numbers, Solos and Choruses. The plan of the work is similar to that of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, and it is quite possible that the idea may have been inspired by the latter, albeit Mendelssohn lays particular stress upon the vocal numbers, and contemplated calling the work simply Cantata. The chief motive is more specifically a musical Motto than a Theme, and it does not dominate the entire composition.

While not the most impressive or significant of Mendelssohn's creations, it exhibits many traits of great beauty and vigor, and testifies in its own way to the originality and power of his genius. The three instrumental numbers which precede the Cantata scarcely attain to the dignity of the symphonic ideal. The first Movement is a sonata-allegro form with independent Introduction. The second (connected with the preceding) is an Allegretto of touching melodic beauty, suggestive of the Songs Without Words; it is a Song-form with Trio, and the Trio is an original chorale-melody, quaintly interwoven with fragments of the principal Division. An atmosphere of melancholy, not altogether consistent with the character of a Hymn of Praise, pervades this Movement, and also the next, which is an Adagio religioso that does not at any point rise above the level of a Song Without Words.

Cheers,

Mendelssohn: the Italian Symphony

2005-12-09T11:33:00.000-08:00

The third of Mendelssohn's Symphonies (in order of their composition---but published as No. IV), in A major, Op.90, was written during his long journey through Italy, and finished in 1833. This affords the best explanation of the title---except the Finale, which is a distinctive Italian dance, the Saltarello, and is so named. The score embraces the instruments of the ordinary full orchestra: two each of flutes, oboes, clarinets, bassoons, horn, trumpets and drums; and the quintet of strings. There is no independent Introduction; the first Movement (in regular sonata-allegro form) begins at once with a joyous burst of melody, and an invigorating rhythmic pulse, and this bright, sunny atmosphere envelops the whole Movement. The second Codetta has new thematic material; while the first one is derived directly from the principal Theme, with enlargement of the first figure. The persistent similarity of melodic and rhythmic formation throughout the first Movement is wisely modified, with fine instructural instinct, by the insertion and extended manipulation of a new thematic phrase, in the Development, and again in the Coda. A similar thematic addition occurs in the Finale of this Symphony. This somewhat irregular, though justifiable and not uncommon practice, may be found in Beethoven's Third Symphony, first movement.---The most consistent scheme for a Development is a series of Sections. A "Section" is an indeterminate passage of optional length and optional contents---thus providing the necessary freedom of Development. The Sections are expected to make use of the thematic factors of the Exposition, and this they very naturally and usually do; but since a Section is totally optional in contents, it has a right to present entirely new material, and not infrequently does so---in some rare instances to an almost exclusive extent: see the last Movement of Beethoven's first piano Sonata, Op.2, No.1

The slow Movement is a sort of Chant, and its stately rhythmic tread suggests a Procession. Mendelssohn is said to have had here an old Bohemian folk-song in mind. It is beautifully conceived, and is executed with the utmost technical refinement. The design is sonatine-allegro (that is there is no Development). Considerable importance attaches to the brief Prelude, which, though obviously introductory in purpose, is drawn upon for the Codetta to the principal Theme, and recurs as Interlude before the Recapitulation. In the latter, the principal Theme is transposed, and otherwise modified.

For the third Movement no other title is indicated than the tempo-mark; it would have been consistent to call it a Menuetto, for its elegance and grace of line, its winning melody, and its suave, serenely lovely mood, conjure up the vision of this country dance. Its design is the usual Song-form with Trio. The opening of the Trio, in horns and bassoons---an incipient fanfare with cunningly rounded edges, is one of the most original and delightful conceits to be found anywhere in Mendelssohn's music. And its reverberation in the Coda is a master-touch.

The Finale is a whirling, vertiginous Salterello. The principal Theme is preceded by six measures of related introductory matter. Of the three Codettas, only the second is of new thematic material; the first one closely resembles the principal Theme, and the third one is brief. In two respects this Finale is noteworthy: the first is the choice of the minor mode. It is not at all unusual to end a minor composition in the major mode (see the Fifth and Ninth Symphonies of Beethoven, the First of Brahms, the Scotch Symphony of Mendelssohn---and very many others); but contrary to all tradition and usage, and with an apparent reversal of the finer and truer psychological consequences---Mendelssohn rounds out this singularly joyous (major) Symphony, in the somber minor mode. Incidentally, he does the same thing, with almost weird effect, in one of his earliest piano pieces (Op.7,No.7). The other exceptional feature of the Finale is its unusual structural design: it is ostensibly a sonata-allegro form, states a perfectly regular Exposition, and a long legitimate Development (in which, as in the first Movement, a new motive is inserted), but there is no Recapitulation; true to nature, the progressive whirl of the turbulent dance gradually, and naturally, undermines the later structural parts, so that finally the expected Recapitulation is engulfed---nothing remains but a Coda, which is more normal, less orgiastic than might be awaited.

Cheers,

Mendelssohn: Early Symphonies

2005-12-09T11:24:00.000-08:00

Besides many boyish experiments in symphonic composition (some dozen or more) which have been preserved, Mendelssohn wrote five Symphonies. These are usually numbered in order of their publication but I will take them up according to the dates of their compositions.

The first Symphony, in C minor, Op.11, was written in 1824, at which time Mendelssohn was only fifteen years of age. Quite aside from the interest which attaches to it as the symphonic product of so youthful a composer, it discloses qualities of undeniable intrinsic value; it was at once publicly performed, published, and listed as a welcome permanent number on Symphony programs for many years, and in our day it is occasionally encountered. It is not strikingly original: the whole is patterned closely after Mozart, in general style and mode of treatment. But it is not barren of features that foreshadow the maturer Mendelssohn. Perhaps the most independent factor is a passage that occurs in the subordinate Theme of the final Movement: here a twelve-measure phrase group is intonated by the strings, in staccato chords, on uniform beats, tracing an unpretentious melodic thread; this is then exactly repeated, and is unexpectedly joined, with charming effect, by an expressive sustained melody in the clarinet---somewhat after the manner in which Cesar Frank opens the slow Movement of his Symphony in D. This device is used occasionally by Mendelssohn in later works.

Mendelssohn's second Symphony bears the title Reformation. It is in D, was written in 1830, and was published as Op.107---the works of Mendelssohn, published during his lifetime, run through to Op.72 only; all the rest, up to Op.118, were issued after his death, and these embrace many early compositions which he possibly had no intention of making public. Nothing appears to have been farther from his mind than the creation of a "Tone-poem," or of program music, descritptive of events, or any particular event or personality, connected with the momentous upheaval in ecclesiastical history; and therefore the music reflects in a general way, only, the impulses, the ominous atmosphere, the heroic figures involved, and the victorious issue of the revolutionary religious movement. The most obvious connection between the title and the music itself, is the employment of the German chorale Ein' feste Burg (attributed to Martin Luther), in the Finale. Less relevant, though of some weight, are: the warlike motive at the beginning of the first Allegro, and the spirit of agitation which pervades the Movement; also the repeated insertion of the Dresden Amen, at the end of the Introduction (the same phrase that Wagner employs in his Parsifal). For the entire second and third Movements, however, an other, far different, title would be just as appropriate.

Cheers,

Robert Schumann: Symphony No.4, D minor, Op.120

2005-12-08T15:30:00.000-08:00

Schumann's Second Symphony, in D minor, was first written in the later months of 1841, and performed in December of that year inLeipzigc. It was not altogether to his liking, and he laid it aside until 1851, when he revised the instrumentation of it, and published it as Op.120. Consequently, it is known as No. 4, although it was the second in order of composition. He called it at first a Symphony-Fantasia, with the sub-title Symphony in One Movement---for its five tempo-Divisions are all connected without interruptions, and certain thematic factors are carried through the entire work. It is widely esteemed as his most attractive symphonic creation, and in truth nothing could be more winning and impressively beautiful than the Introduction, the Romanze, and everyone of its thematic melodies; a wonderfully alluring atmosphere envelops the whole, and the fine rhythmic pulse of the two Allegros is exhilarating. Nevertheless, this work betrays some of Schumann's undeniable shortcomings, particularly as concerns the structure and the orchestration; and the listener's impressions waver between fascination and disappointment. It is a genuine specimen of Romantic musical expression: original, intensely subjective, emotional, free---at times somewhat regardless of the regulations so essential to classic art. There is an Introduction, and the structural plan of the first Allegro is irregular, consisting as it does in a normal Exposition, a Development which trails off into a series of related Sections that "develop" nothing vital, and no Recapitulation---a jubilant Coda taking its place.

The truly lovely lyric Romanze is a Three-Part Song form with Trio, the da capo transposed and reduced to one Part only. The Second Part of the principal Division is borrowed from the Introduction, and the Trio (in D major), in which a Solo-violin gracefully embellishes the principal violin part, also contains thematic allusions to it.

A vigorous Scherzo, in usual form, follows the Romanze. The Trio contrasts most effectively with the principal Division, and is strongly reminiscent of the exquisite Trio in the preceding Movement (with the Solo-violin part). After the da capo, the Trio is restated, with ingenious dynamic alterations---its last Part "fading away," dissolving into a brief Coda, that serves to connect this Movement with the next.

The succeeding Finale begins with a transitional Interlude (or Introduction), based upon the chief thematic figure of the first Allegro. The form is sonata-allegro, slightly abbreviated. The principal Theme (or, rather, Motive only) is derived from the third Section of the Development in the first Movement. The second Codetta, related principalricipal Motive, furnishes the main contents of the Development in this Finale; the Recapitulation begins with the subordinate Theme (the principal Motive being omitted); the Coda ends brilliantly with new, though very similar motives.

Cheers,

Robert Schumann: Symphony No.3 (Rhenish), Eb major, Op.97

2005-12-08T11:52:00.000-08:00

Schumann's last Symphony, in Eb major, Op.97, was written in the later months of 1850, and first performed at Dusseldorf in February, 1851. Although, as explained in the message
Robert Schumann: Symphony No.4, D minor, Op.120
it was the fourth of his Symphonies, it is known as Number III. There is no doubt that Schumann received the incentive to this work from visits in Cologne, and the prospect of the Cathedral of that city, which produced a deep and inspiring impression upon his profoundly romantic, susceptible artistic nature. It is therefore generally designated the Rhenish, or Cologne, Symphony, and no one will question the appropriateness of this title: the broad curving lines of the magnificent Theme with which it opens, are inescapably suggestive of the wide arches of a Gothic structure; and the majestic solemnity of the fourth Movement, the medieval pattern of its sonorous tones (as of an organ), its echoes, and the suggestion of the swingingcensorss, unmistakably reflect some impressive ceremony within the sacred, vaulted edifice.

Four years had passed since the composition of his C major Symphony under the cloud of physical and mental depression, and during this period the deplorable handicap had not been completely removed; the cerebral disorder haunted him constantly. And yet this last Symphony of Schumann's is more lucid in structure, richer in melodic beauty, and more concise in formulation than the one which preceded it, although all but the first of its five Movements are strikingly unconventional or downright irregular. The first Movement is a sonata-allegro without Introduction. The Exposition is regular and clear; the Development is very long, out of proportion of the rest; and it is to some degree impaired in its ultimate Sections by several premature onsets of the principal motive in the original key, which anticipate and weaken the actual Recapitulation, robbing it of its freshness.

[To be sure, Brahms does precisely the same thing in the slow Movement of his Second Symphony, and again in the slow Movement of the Third. All depends, obviously, upon the manner in which such novel and hazardous experiments are made.]

In this Symphony, again, Schumann alters the traditional order of the Movements, and places the Scherzo immediately after the first Allegro. And one may wonder why this second Movement should be called a Scherzo, for neither in its character nor in its tempo does it conform to that type. Its design is very unusual, consisting in a group of Song-forms, all finely interrelated, but strung together arbitrarily, in a fashion quite distinctive with Schumann. One condition of satisfactory form is fulfilled, however, by a final return to, and literal restatement of thprincipalal Part---to which is then added a lengthy and beautiful Coda. Of this Movement, with its warm-hearted, good-natured musical sentiment, Schumann said: "it seemed necessary to give prominence to popular (folk-song) elements, and I believe I succeeded in doing so." This surely applies also to the third and last Movements, which are as "popular" in character as it was possible for Schumann's music to be.

The third Movement, a lovely lyric tone-poem, in moderate tempo, is also unconventional in structural design---best definable as a "group-form," without clear-cut thematic outlines.

The fourth Movement, likewise, is a genuinely Schumannesque series of thematic sentences---another "group form." Schumann placed in the original score the superscription: "In the character of an adjunct to a solemn ceremony," but later erased it, with the remark: "One must not bare one's heart to the people; a general impression of the work of art is better for them, for then at least they make no faulty comparisons."

The Finale, an Allegro, in which Schumann's aim to emphasize the folk-idiom is clearly evident, is likewise irregular in structural design, but approximates the sonatine-allegro form. The irregularity concerns chiefly the subordinate Theme, which, in defiance of all precedent, recurs (for the greater part) in the same key as before; and it is a disproportionately lengthy chain of related Sections---wisely abbreviated in the Recapitulation. Brief allusions to the motive of the fourth Movement occur here and there.

Robert Schumann: Symphony No.2, C major, Op.61

2005-12-07T12:57:00.000-08:00

The third of Schumann's Symphonies, in C major, Op.61, was finished in 1846, five years after the composition of the first and second. For reasons pointed out in the message Robert Schumann: Symphony No.4, D minor, Op.120, this C major Symphony is listed as the Second.

It is the longest of his Symphonies---large in conception and dimensions. The hearer is enveloped in an atmosphere of grandeur; and one is also confronted at every turn by musical images of delightful originality and beauty. The Themes are magnificent, imposing in melody, harmony, and rhythm.

The first Movement opens with an impressive Introduction, based at first upon an independent motive which is in conception is akin to the Introduction to his D minor Symphony, but assumes a radically different character through the incisive bugle-calls of the brass that set the lines of the form; the later Sections of the Introduction allude to Themes of the coming Allegro, and lead into the latter. The design is sonata-allegro; the Exposition is exceptionally concise. The Development is long, and diffuse, but is thematically consistent and interesting in every detail; its third Section is derived from Part Two of the principal Theme, and contains as effective reference to the first measure of the Introduction (but without the bugle-calls); and the final Section, leading back to the beginning (over an obstinate Dominant organ-point) is finely delineated, and, at its climax, tremendously powerful and stirring. But, as a whole, and likewise the long-drawn Coda, lacks that gathering momentum which can result from nothing less than a straightforward, clearly defined, unwavering structural purpose---in the manner so gloriously accomplished by Beethoven. The cause of this defect may be inferred from a remark of Schumann's in reference to this Symphony: "I sketched it while still physically very ill." But we should no doubt be more concerned with simple facts than with causes.

The succeeding Scherzo here appears as second Movement. It is uncommonly long, containing two Trios. The principal Division is a brilliant perpetuum mobile in the first violins---that is, the violins run in an uninterrupted rhythm (of sixteenth-notes) throughout. In the vivacious first Trio the meter is changed to 6/8 measure ( in effect, though not so marked), while the second Trio falls back upon a quiet rhythm of quarter- notes, and is more subdued and lyric in quality; thus both Trios stand out in marked contrast to the principal Division. The Coda is a rushing, impetuous continuation of the sixteenth-note rhythm.

The third Movement is an Adagio; an inspiration of profoundly moving character and indescribable beauty, doubtless the most masterly and impressive of Schumann's symphonic slow Movements. The design is sonata-allegro; but in place of the conventional "Development" an entirely new Motive (in staccato sixteenths) is inserted and treated briefly in polyphonic Imitations, as fugato; this same staccato motive is then carried along through the first Periodprincipalrnicipal Theme which follows as Recapitulation, thus vindicating its presence in the Movement. Particularly noteworthy is the Codetta---the last fourteen measures of the Exposition---which rises to a climax of thrilling power, restrained at its peak and turned back into a gentle cadence.

The Finale is a tremendously vigorous, resplendent hymn of Triumph; at least, it is chiefly this, but relieved by a few episodes of quieter, more sustained melodious character. From the classic point of view this Movement is "formless;" there is but little in nature of tangible, distinguishable "Themes" in it; the general structural impression seems to be effected by a number of affiliated thematic fragments, into which., however, the opening figure of the preceding Adagio-Movement is most ingeniously and effectively interwoven, quite extensively. Hence the design can be defined no more accurately than as an arbitrary, fantastic series of Episodes, twelve in number.

There was one technical element that Schumann never quite mastered, and that was the scoring of his concept; his orchestration is for the greater part too thick, opaque, and very often ineffective. For this reason we will, in many cases, obtain a clearer impression of the musical conception, and derive more satisfaction and enjoyment from it through the medium of a good piano arrangement (preferably for four hands), than from an orchestral performance.

Robert Schumann: Symphony No. 1 (Spring), Bb, Op.38

2005-12-06T14:15:00.000-08:00

Of Schumann's Symphonies, the first one, in Bb, Op.38, was written early in 1841, and it is said that he himself called it the Spring Symphony. Whether this is the case, or whether the name was suggested and applied to it by some poetically-minded admirer, is not positive. But it is certain that this title is singularly appropriate, for the whole work exhales the fresh, crisp, now exhilarating, and again balmy, breath of springtime. It is scored for large orchestra, including trombones. In point of structure it is the most nearly perfect of his Symphonies.

The first Movement has a fairly extended Introduction, devoted to more or less pointed allusions to the chief Theme of the Allegro. In its present form it opens with an intonation of the thematic phrase (by the trumpets and horns), but pitched a third higher than the original draft. Schumann was constrained to alter the pitch in this manner, because of the decidedly awkward effect of the original tones upon the "natural" brass instruments then in vogue---not yet supplied with the valves that equalized the entire scale. The change in pitch is generally regarded as deplorable, and nowadays can easily be rectified.

The form (sonata-allegro) is regular; the Recapitulation begins with a magnified version of the first thematic phrase, with thrilling effect. But the greater part of the Coda consists in a wholly new motive, in quieter rhythm, of fine harmonic and melodic character, distinctly Schumannesque in conception. There is no conceivable structure justification for this new factor; it is due to a purely romantic impulse; in a Beethoven Symphony it would be unthinkable. But in itself it is lovely enough to supply its own excuse.

The second Movement is an exceedingly beautiful lyric creation, serene but impressive. The design is concise, and resembles a miniature Second Rondo-form. Each of the two alternating subordinate Themes is scarcely more than a melodic fragment, though enough to indicate a Digression. Upon its first recurrence, the principal Theme is transposed. The first subordinate Motive extends from measure twenty-five to forty; the second suborndinate Motive from measure fifty-five to seventy-four. To the Coda an extra Section is appended, which (in trombones and bassoons) anticipates the chief motive of the following Movement; thus, the second and third Movements are connected.

For the third Movement, Schumann follows Beethoven's lead and adopts the Scherzo type. It is an extremely broad Movement, and is further enlarged by the addition of a second Trio and another (this last time abbreviated) da capo. The first Trio provides an unusual degree of contrast, in its alternating meter and its buoyant swing, to the splendid vigor of the rest.

The Finale is one of the most exultant, irresistibly cheery, vivacious Movements in symphonic literature; and the design (sonata-allegro) is finely drawn. It opens with an introductory Phrase, apparently independent, but later interwoven with the rest in a most significant manner: it becomes the second Phrase of the subordinate Theme, and its rhythmic form gives birth to the first Codetta, besides dominating the Development and the entire Coda. There is a noteworthy parallelism between the two chief Themes, somewhat similar to the plan of the slow Movement in the Scotch Symphony of Mendelssohn; i.e. the Second Part of the subordinate Theme is derived almost literally from the First Part of the principal one.

Schubert: the Tenth Symphony ("Great" C major)

2005-12-05T12:54:00.000-08:00

The "Great" C major Symphony was written in the early months of 1828, a short time before Schubert's divine voice was stilled forever. And again there had been a lapse of six years between this and the preceding (Eighth) Symphony. A supposable Ninth Symphony presents a puzzling problem to the historian; possibly it never existed, though history persists in mentioning and numbering it.

The salient characteristic of this entire stupendous creation is Breadth. It is large in every respect---large in conception, in spirit, broad in proportions and structural plan. The many welcome repetitions, the "heavenly lengths" (as Schumann called them), the irrepressible joyous pulse of the music necessitated a canvas of very unusual dimensions. And its prevailing tone is Joy; in the slow Movement, only, is this joyful spirit of a serener type, tinged with melancholy, and yielding here and there to bursts of passion.

Its breadth of purpose demanded an Introduction, and Schubert conceived one which in extent, independence and impressiveness, forms an analogy to that of Beethoven's Seventh Symphony. The design is sonata-allegro, orthodox and regular, but extremely long. The Introduction is a Three-Part Song-form, enlarged to five Parts by the addition of an extra (fourth) Part, which is followed by another recurrence of the First Part, thus: I-IIA-III-IIB-III. One of the figures of this Introduction enters quite frequently and fearlessly into the texture of the Allegro; and the culmination of the whole first Movement is a jubilant intonation of the entire first Phrase of the Introduction.

The second Movement is a lyric creation of indescribable beauty, and at the same time powerful dramatic contrasts; no music could be lovelier than the two melodic Themes, and the Codetta to the first Period, with its wonderfully soothing change to the major mode; and the dramatic climax before the second recurrence of the principal Theme has rarely been equaled in intensity anywhere else in symphonic literature.

Further, this Movement (and in truth, the whole Symphony) displays mental acumen, superb mastery over structure in every respect, scarcely excelled by any other great master. Schubert may not have been a profoundly learned musical scholar, and surely he never wasted his precious time over abstruse musical problems; but his marvelous intuition, and a splendidly healthy mind, more than compensated for any fruits of sheer calculation.

An introductory phrase of seven measures precedes the principal Theme. The third measure of the latter Theme is of overruling thematic significance: the repeated e in the melody is the thematic Germ, so to speak, of the entire Movement. It appears most frequently in the rhythm of quarter-notes, but is modified at times to eighth-notes (as in the introductory measures), to sixteenths, and even thirty-second notes. It occurs upon different scale-steps, but is most persistently e-e. In various incisive rhythmic forms, and doubled in thirds, it provides the tremendous pounding throbs of the dramatic climax alluded to above. The insistent pulse of the this motive also underlies the fascinating dialog between the horn and strings, during the twelve measures which precede the first recurrence of the principal Theme.

The third Movement is a Scherzo of unusual breadth; its principal Division is enlarged to a complete sonata-allegro form, with two definite Themes---as in Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, which is the only other example of such form-dimensions (as Scherzo) in the literature of the symphony. Between the principal Division and the Trio an Interlude is inserted which serves as an introduction to the Trio. This introduction consists of twenty-four successive e's, chiefly by the horns and trombones, and is therefore reminiscent of the famous sixty e's leading into the principal Theme of Beethoven's Seventh Symphony. The melody of the Trio is one of those unforgettable lyric outbursts, in folk-song style---to which no one ever gave readier and more captivating voice than Schubert did.

The Finale, a sonata-allegro of extraordinary breadth and extent, is a revel of gladness, a genuine exuberant Ode to Joy, more jubilant and convincing than the Finale of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, and of that fundamental simplicity that is synonymous with true greatness. The principal Theme is here again divided into two "Parts," but these are not so essentially differentiated as are the thematic "members" in the Unfinished Symphony. The four reiterated half-notes which distinguish the subordinate Theme constitute an analogy with the thematic germ of the slow Movement---a sort of echo of the latter, which may have been subconscious, or possibly intentional. The Exposition includes three Codettas, of which only the second one is of exceptional note. The Development opens with an apparently new melodic phrase, but it is a derivative of this second Codetta; the arresting feature of this melody is its close resemblance to the principal Theme of the Finale of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony: reverse the order of the first three tones, and the parallelism is complete (compare Beethoven's third Episode of Beethoven's Finale). Surely Schubert stood in no need of "borrowing" melodic ideas from anyone, nor was he ever known to do so. If this coincidence has any special meaning, it serves only to indicate how deeply Beethoven's musical spirit impressed that of Schubert.

The Recapitulation is transposed (to E-flat), extended, and considerably modified.

Cheers,

Schubert: the Unfinished (Eighth) Symphony

2005-12-05T12:47:00.000-08:00

Six years intervened between the composition of the Fifth Symphony and that of the Eighth---the Unfinished, as it is called---and during these years Schubert's spirit made such incredible progress toward maturity that with this Eighth Symphony he may be said to have reached the pinnacle of his musical genius. The two Symphonies that preceded this one (the Sixth, in C, and the Seventh, in E), though of positive historic interest, do not warrant detailed demonstration for our group; they were chiefly important as stepping-stones. It was the Unfinished that Schubert's symphonic genius seemed to burst all at once into flame.

Beethoven was more profound, more scholarly, undeniably a spirit of far larger caliber and wider outlook; but in none of his works has Beethoven surpassed the tremendous primitive vitality, the mighty dramatic surge, the inescapable appeal of the Unfinished Symphony of Schubert. And surely no other than Schubert has ever produced so unique a masterwork at the age of twenty-five!

This Eighth Symphony (in B minor) was written the latter part of 1822. It consists of two Movements only, whence the title: Unfinished. Just why Schubert should have left it in this so-called "unfinished" condition, it is not easy to determine. There are two facts which appear to indicate that he intended, originally, to write a complete four-Movement Symphony:
(1) The second (slow) Movement is in E major, and closes in that key, which does not provide an orthodox ending for a B minor composition; and, notwithstanding his noted modulatory freedom, Schubert was very particular about asserting a central tonality, and closing every work in the key in which it began; (2) Schubert actually started a third Movement (a Scherzo)
and sketched no less than 130 measures of it. This, however, is so inferior in quality, so obviously alien and inadequate, that no one will question why Schubert abandoned it. Then there are other conjectures: Schubert may have mistrusted his ability to sustain consistently so lofty an emotional flight; or he may have wearied of the task---a not uncommon habit with him; or---and this brings us to the probable crux of the matter---his unfailing instinct may have informed him that the message was complete, so perfect and so final that any addition would be worse than useless. In reality, then, this marvelous Symphony is no more "unfinished," in the highest esthetic sense, than are the four Sonatas of Beethoven which contain only two Movements each (Op.54, 78, 90, 111).

The orchestral score of both Movements includes, besides the ordinary contingent, three trombones.

The first Movement is in strict sonata-allegro form. It should be noted that the principal Theme consists of two separate and widely different members. Such division of the chief Theme, which is tantamount to two distinct Themes, was a favorite practice with Schubert; his fertility of invention was so active that he was never at a loss for a new idea. Herein he was unlike the more reflective Beethoven, who preferred to evolve his structure out of one brief, fruitful Theme. In point of fact, this two-fold physiognomy of the theme is not new. In ordinary cases, the theme is almost invariably a Two-Part form (at least), and each of these two Parts constitutes a somewhat independent thematic member; but they are only related "Parts" of one and the same thematic factor. The novelty in the former case, attributable to Schubert, consists in the widely different character of the two members, which actually increases the sum of thematic factors.

Of the two members in the Unfinished, the first one is the real thematic basis for the Movement, albeit it occurs, strangely enough, only once during the entire Exposition; but, on the other hand, it dominates the Development and the Coda almost exclusively. The other member is of very little consequence; the subordinate Theme is the factor which greatly predominates and distinguishes the Exposition, and, naturally, the Recapitulation. Schubert here again indulges in his apparently whimsical choice of keys: in the Exposition the subordinate Theme is placed in G major (instead of the conventional D), and in the Recapitulation it appears at first in D, but swings over into the expected B major.

The second Movement is cast in the sonatine-form (without a Development). Here again the principal Theme separates into two essential members. The first one has the quality of an Introduction, but it recurs constantly, before and between the other phrases after the manner of a ritornelle or Refrain, and is of vital thematic importance.

It would be futile to undertake to point out all the many masterly and beautiful episodes in these two wondrous Movements. The listener will discover, in both of them, passages of intense dramatic stress, tempered by the contrast of cheerful moments of supreme loveliness.

Cheers,

Schubert: Fifth Symphony

2005-12-04T15:33:00.000-08:00

In 1813, Schubert's voice broke, and like Haydn, sixty-four years earlier, he became useless to the choir. While Haydn had been turned brutally into the streets of Vienna, Schubert had two courses open to him: to accept a foundation scholarship or to take a teaching job in his father's school. As the former involved going on with studies that bored this bespectacled, studious-looking, but unintellectual youth, he chose to teach. He must have known the drudgery that awaited him, but schoolteachers were exempt from military service, he would not have to study any more, and he would have plenty of leisure for composition. For three years he served as his father's assistant, and be it said that this period, when he doubtless was getting three square meals a day as well as stipend, was the most miserable of his life. Against all his natural instincts, he went about his petty daily tasks with a stolid persistence, and only rarely gave vent to the rage that was consuming him. He hated the school and everything about it---the damp urchins, the ill-smelling classroom, the maddening rote of elementary teaching.

Deficient Schubert may have been in intellect, but certainly not in courage and persistence. In this unpromising milieu, from 1813 to 1816, he attempted almost every form of composition, setting down string quartets, five symphonies, sonatas for piano and violin, Masses and other church music, eight stage works of varying lengths and intentions (but all dismal), and more than two hundred and fifty songs. Much of this output is unimportant judged by the standards of anyone not writing an exhaustive treatise on the works of Schubert. But many of the songs are fresh and perfectly realized, and several are masterpieces: a boy of seventeen composed Gretchen am Spinnrade, a boy of eighteen Der Erlkonig. The miracle of Schubert's creation of the lied becomes all the more miraculous when it is considered that though he went on to many kinds of song; he never composed any finer than these, and for a very simple reason: these are perfect.

Among the other work is one of the most fragrant and guileless tributes ever paid by a young composer to his great predecessors---the Fifth Symphony, in B flat major. Only a very sophisticated pair of ears, hearing it for the first time, could distinguish it from Mozart when he is most like Haydn. There is nothing in it that would have surprised Mozart: it is thoroughly classical in structure, and for the most part in feeling. Its originality---just enough to give it piquancy---is the songlike quality of some of the themes and the romantic tints in the andante. As a passing phase, ancestor worship that produces symphonies like Schubert's B flat major is all right.

The Fifth Symphony, in B-flat, though written in the same year as the Tragic (September-October, 1816) is generally superior to the latter, and evinces such an advance in freedom and power of original expression that it may be accepted as the actual beginning of Schubert's significant symphonic career. While it frankly adopts and sustains the simple, comparatively primitive style of Haydn, or, more correctly, of Mozart, it possesses an attractive physiognomy of its own; and it is permeated with the buoyant, joyous spirit of this amazingly gifted spendthrift of spontaneous melody. The score is that of the small orchestra of former days, comprising one flute, two each of oboes, bassoons, horns, and the quintet of strings---but no clarinets, no drums, and no trumpets throughout. This reduction of the instrumental apparatus augments the brightness and lucidity of the charming music.

The first Movement is a concise sonata-allegro design and opens with an introductory phrase of four measures, preceding the principal Theme, but with no thematic reference to the latter. The structure is extremely regular; the fundamental four-measure pattern is employed almost without exception in its phrases, though an occasional Extension checks the menace of monotony. This well-nigh obstinate regularity of form (and of cadence) testifies to the rapid spontaneous flow of Schubert's melody; he was not given to critical reflection, at least not yet, and he felt no need of exciting the hearer's interest by rhythmic shifting, or any similar device. This simplicity of conception is further attested by his constant use of Repetition, in which respect, he almost outrivalled Beethoven himself. In this Movement Schubert again gratifies his characteristic inclination to alter the traditional modulatory scheme, by setting his Themes in unexpected keys---a trait pointed out in connection with the Tragic Symphony, and a prevalent impulse, peculiarly distinctive of Schubert: thus, he begins the Recapitulation in the "wrong" key---E-flat instead of B-flat.

The second Movement is a complaisant Lyric of semi-serious quality, vitalized with fine contrasts. It is in sonatine-form (without a Development) and is enlarged by an additional (partial) statement of the principal Theme, in lieu of a Coda.

Schubert calls the third Movement a Minuet; its tempo and character, however, proclaim it a Scherzo. The Trio is one of those ingratiating, tuneful sentences in which Schubert gives free vent to his irresistible melodic fancy---a type which he developed, in part, in writing his songs, and which for unadulterated loveliness has probably never been surpassed.

The Finale is a perfectly regular sonata-allegro design, masterly in conception and formulation, whose vivacity is held in effective restraint by episodes of considerable dramatic power and eloquence.

Schubert was not a typically studious musician. He was endowed with an intuition of unheard-of alertness, opulence and infallibility; and this (usually precarious, and very often evanescent) quality served him steadfastly all his life; he instinctively depended upon it, and therefore never felt the impulse to engage in serious theoretical study (at least not in his earlier years), or to apply his exceptional mental forces in a reflective and selective way. It would be unfair, however, to conclude that he was in the slightest degree superficial, or indifferent to the obviously essential laws of his art. Such sketches of his works as have been discovered, and notably his later creations themselves, reveal a measure of earnestness at times scarcely inferior to that of Beethoven. Schubert was simply averse to the dry, mathematical routine of textbooks and "methods," and found it more congenial and fruitful to study music itself, as he found it supplied in ample quantity by the great classic masters; and this he did, with absorbing conscientiousness. At the same time, it is undeniable that his lack of technical drill, coupled with the impetuousity of his musical conception, resulted at times in certain lapses in his formal structure, a lack of that strong, unfaltering, convincing logic, and the fine balance of achitectural detail in which Beethoven excelled so greatly.

Cheers,

Schubert: the "Tragic" Symphony

2005-12-04T11:06:00.000-08:00

This one, No. IV, in C minor, composed early in 1816, is the first of Schubert's Symphonies which challenges attention, since it presents features of more than transient interest, and manifests, already, the distinctive, typical Schubert idiom. But the title "Tragic" is inaccurate, pompous, and a bit pretentious. For no youth of nineteen summers really knows what tragedy signifies---at least, Schubert did not; he bases his conception of it upon what he has read or heard, but not what he has felt or known. Therefore there is to be found in this Symphony no more than a general, artificially emphasized dramatic strain (in the first and last Movements only), and a few pathetic touches, but no genuine tragic outbursts.

The forms are regular, but disclose Schubert's characteristic treatment of modulation, particularly in the placing of his subordinate Themes, and in the Recapitulation, where he indulges in transpositions that modify the traditional scheme, though they cannot be charged with impairing the structural impression. Thus, on the first movement (C minor) he sets the subordinate Theme in A-flat, instead of the conventional E-flat, and ends the Exposition in that key; and the Recapitulation begins in G minor, instead of C minor, with the subordinate Theme in E-flat. The Coda is in C major---which is normal.

The second Movement is a lovely Lyric, or friendly character, in sonatine-allegro form (that is, without a Development), and here are encountered episodes of touching pathos.

The third Movement is called a Menuetto, but it is in reality a Scherzo, quite after Beethoven's heart, and decidedly effective. Its Trio is a beautiful specimen of Schubert's typical conception.

The Finale is again a sonata-allegro design; the principal Theme is inferior---scarcely more than a boyish imitation of pseudo-dramatic opera; but the subordinate Theme (here again in A-flat) is a truly beautiful, redeeming feature. The Recapitulation is in C major, the subordinate Theme placed at first in F.

Schubert was almost as inveterate a devotee of the device of Repetition as was Beethoven. But when Beethoven repeats, the effect is quite a different thing; like so many of Beethoven's creative processes, which, being controlled by serious mental effort, profound reflection and untiring comparison and pruning, turn out results that are unique and firm. Beethoven's repetitions always strengthen the structure, while those of Schubert (and others) often weaken it; those of Beethoven make for unity---those of Schubert are apt to produce the impression of monotony. The comparison may be somewhat unfair, since this refers mainly to Schubert's earlier works, composed during a period in which Beethoven had already attained to maturity. At any rate, the listener will find that it does not apply to Schubert's last two great Symphonies, wherein we would not willingly dispense with a single tone.

Cheers,

Schubert: Early Symphonies

2005-12-03T19:44:00.000-08:00

Schubert's First Symphony (D.82), in D, was composed in 1813, shortly after Beethoven had completed his Seventh and Eighth, and when Mendelssohn and Schumann, who were to become the next bright stars in the symphonic firmament, were very small boys, unconscious of the power they were destined to exert.

This First Symphony is in no wise remarkable, save in that it is the product of a boy of sixteen. Schubert's uncontrollable flood of melody overruns it---as yet in rivulets only---but otherwise it gives but little recognizable promise of what was to succeed it. Then came a second (D.125), in B-flat, and a third (D.200), in D (both in 1815). These record remarkable progress; but it was the next following Symphony, No. IV (D.417), known as the Tragic (C minor, 1816), which first revealed some of the qualities of Schubert's outstanding genius in the larger sphere of tone-expression.

There has always been much confusion in regard to the number and order of his Symphonies. This was a natural consequence of the comparative indifference of the public, though most largely owing to Schubert's own indifference. A "little thing" like a Symphony, floating on the immense current of his productive flood, did not mean much to him; it was written, shoved to one side, buried under piles of manuscript, stowed away after his death, in dusty drawers, until some eager, appreciative hand drew it forth and gave it back to the musical world. Schumann knew of only seven, obviously the last, he called it "No. VII." Others still insist on limiting the number to eight. But it seems to be the tradition that there were ten---though his biographer Kreissle appears (in 1860) to have known of only eight; all but one of the ten are accessible, though not all are published. The list is as follows:

No.I (D, finished in October, 1813;D.82), No.II (B-flat, March,1815;D.125), No.III (D, May, 1815; D.200), No.IV (the Tragic, C minor, April, 1816;D.417), No.V(B-flat, October 1816;D.485), No.VI (Little C major, February, 1818, D.589), which Schubert spoke of as a "grand" (large) Symphony, No.VII (in E, begun in August, 1821, left in partly sketched form---not completed), No.VIII (the Unfinished, B minor, begun October 30, 1822;D.759), No.IX (the Gasteiner, C, 1825), and No.X (the Great C major, March, 1828,D.944). Of these, No.IX, though persistently cited, seems to be irretrievably lost; some authorities have ventured the conjecture that it may have been merely a revision of the one in C, No.VI, and neglected or destroyed by Schubert himself, as of insufficient novelty.

Cheers,

Styles of Instrumental Music

2005-12-03T14:44:00.000-08:00

Early (Baroque to Classical), there were three distinct styles of instrumental music in vogue, each complete in itself and outwardly independent of the others, and yet overlapping each other at certain points, and exerting a stimulating influence upon one another, namely: the Suite, the Sonata and the Symphony.

The Suite (seventeenth century) was primarily, and always chiefly, a mere collection of Dances, though other pieces of a more poetic and not infrequently of pictorial (descriptive) character were often interspersed, especially in France, to the number of from four to six as a rule, all in the same key, and usually in the same form---either a double-period or a primitive Two-Part form. This latter form was gradually elevated to the more refined and artistic design that became characteristic of the Sonata-movement, cultivated by Francois Couperin, Domenico Scarlatti and many other devotees of instrumental music (in France, Italy, England and Germany), and which, after a few additional perfecting strokes, was to evolve into the fixed structural type of the Symphony-movement.

An example of this popular Two-Part form, selected from the copious Pieces de clavecin by Francois Couperin (le Grand, 1668-1733) illustrates very clearly the embryo of that structural scheme from which the modern Sonata-allegro form was to emerge. It is entitled Le reveille-matin, and is of that descriptive order to which allusion was made above.

The First Part is a double-period of eleven measures, modulating in the fourth measure and closing with a cadence in the dominant key. It contains one Theme only, although a different motive sets in, in measure seven, which foreshadows the significant separation or "split," that, in the case of more expanded, broader examples, provides for a second (subordinate) Theme---to be demonstrated later on. The Second Part is considerably longer, and utilizes material from Part I, quite in accordance with the manner of the "Development" in the symphonic Allegro. It adds phrase to phrase in this fashion up to the twenty-seventh measure, at which point the third phrase (not the first) of the First Part reappears---from measure five and six---but this time transposed to the principal key (tonic); and in measure thirty-two the former new motive is resumed, also in the principal key this time, and restated exactly as before, to the end. Thus the Second Part is both Development and "Recapitulation," in an embryonic stage. Each Part is repeated, giving the performer an opportunity to improvise and ornament the original. It is easy to supplement this line of analysis by scanning other easily procurable examples, from harpsichord compositions of Domenico Scarlatti, Couperin, Rameau, J.S. Bach and others.

The Sonata is much older that the Suite, the title, at least, having been in use (affixed to both vocal and instrumental pieces) during the sixteenth century or earlier.

It consisted for quite a time of one single Movement, the structural plan of which advanced gradually from the simplest phrase-group up to the expanded Two-Part form in the previous green message. This latter design appears to have owed its inception to Couperin le Grand, though rudimentary traces of it are found in still earlier works. It was regarded, in a sense, as the established structural scheme for the One-movement Sonatas; but it gradually widened out into a Three-Part form, with fairly definite presentation of two motives in the First Part---the germs of the later principal and subordinate Themes of the classic sonata-allegro form.

The "widening out" of the Two-Part form is somewhat similar to the enlargement of the expanded Two-Part form of the previous message, but it differs in one exceedingly important respect, namely: The tentative separation or "split" of the material of the first Part into two recognizable motives, and the recurrence of these two thematic members in the second Part, accomplished nothing more than the increase in the number of thematic impressions, and did not actually extend the scheme to three Parts; the form remains Two-Part only, for the manifest reason that there is no detached third Part in evidence. So that in leading over into the genuine sonata-allegro design, this transformation into a Three-Part form had first to be accomplished, and it is of the latter act that we are now speaking, an operation which took place along with the growth of the One-movement Sonata, at least principally.

The simple Three-Partform, naturally, differs from the Two-Part form in that it contains a return to the very beginning, and a sufficiently clear presentation of the first motives of the first Part; all that follows this recurrence, from that point to the end, constitutes the Third Part.

There is something so supremely natural in this order of the structural factors: a Statement, a Digression for variety, and a return to the Statement for confirmation and a satisfactory closing of the circle---A-B-A,---that one wonders why any other arrangement should have been accepted from the very outset. It did occur, to be sure, though not as commonly as would appear natural. Its first pronounced application took place in the da capo Aria of early Italian operas, and thence passed over into instrumental music through conscious and partly fortuitous transformation and expansion of the then almost universal Two-Part form demonstrated in the previous message. Illustrations of the simple Three-Part form are so numerous---nine-tenths of our ordinary piano literature being molded in this design---that no special example need be given here. In passing, however, one may discover convenient masterly models of it in the Songs Without Words of Mendelssohn, for instance, No. 25.

In view of the fact that the Symphony is a "Sonata for Orchestra," it is obvious that the evolution of the Sonata has very direct bearing upon that of the Symphony. The steady development and perfecting of the instrumental Sonata, beginning with Andrea Gabrieli (1586) and carried along by Couperin, Johann Kuhnau, Domenico Scarlatti, the great Bach and his son Philipp Emanuel Bach, and many others, achieved its highest fulfillment in the classic epoch of Haydn, Mozart and Beethoven.

Although the Sonata in one Movement was for awhile typical, it was not uncommon to enlarge it to two, three and even four Movements, under the influence, no doubt, of the contemporaneous Suite. As early as 1683, the eminent Italian violin-master Corelli wrote Sonatas in four short Movements: adagio, allegro, adagio, allegro; and the plan of three Movements finally became general, in both the Sonata and its more pretentious companion, the Symphony, the first Movement (at least) of which adopted the characteristic Two-Part form, as a very general rule.

The Symphony proper comprised from the beginning three separate Movements, and was originally, as has been shown, but little more than an expansion of the connected and homogeneous Sections of the Italian Overture---a slow Movement between two rapid ones. The first step in the artistic unfolding and growth of the Symphony concerned chiefly the first one of its three Movements. This was so lengthened that one Theme did not suffice; or, perhaps more probably, the desire for a greater amount of thematic material, and also for an increase in variety, made an expansion of the form necessary. Be that as it may, it soon became customary to add a second (in a sense an auxiliary or "Subordinate") Theme, in a different key. And the next significant step was the unfolding of the structural scheme out of the prevalent Two-Part into the far more artistically adequate and perfect Three-Part form, by returning to the beginning after the second part had done its work, and restating the entire First Part, as Third,---whereby the second one of the two Themes was transposed to the principal key (or at least the transposition a perfect fifth lower), thus providing for at least that kind and degree of diversity.

When thus magnified, the "Parts" assumed the proportions and qualities of "Divisions," the first of which is known as the Exposition (that is, the statement of the two Themes, with possible additions in the nature of Codettas, or concluding motives), the second as Development, and the third Recapitulation (with the transposition of the second theme). This design of the first (allegro) movement was maintained more or less persistently, and was handed over to Haydn, who recognized its superiority and firmly established it as the standard for classic structural design. It is now known as the Sonata-allegro---or, since the terms are synonymous, as the Symphony-allegro form. This, be it noted, does not refer to the complete Symphony, but to one, usually the first, Allegro-movement. It may be, and of course is, applied likewise to the other Movements, when their contents call for such a plan.

The Liszt Piano Transcription of the Beethoven Symphonies

2005-12-01T15:40:00.000-08:00

The Preface (1865) by Liszt of his transcription for piano of the Beethoven Symphonies with English transcription by C.E.R. Mueller:

"The name of Beethoven is sacred in art. His symphonies are at present universally acknowledged to be master-pieces; whoever seriously wishes to extend his knowledge or new works can never devote too much reflection and study upon them. For this reason every way or manner of making them accessible and popular has a certain merit, nor are the rather numerous arrangements published so far without relative merit, though, for the most part, they seem to be of little intrinsic value for deeper research. The poorest lithograph, the most faulty translation always gives an idea, indefinite though it be, of the genius of Michel Angelo, of Shakespeare, in the most incomplete piano-arrangement we recognize here and there the perhaps half effaced traces of the master's inspiration. By the development in technique and mechanism which the piano has gained of late, it is possible now to attain more and better results than have been attained so far. With the immense development of its harmonic power the piano seeks to appropriate more and more all orchestral compositions. In the compass of its seven octaves it can, with but a few exceptions, reproduce all traits, all combinations, all figurations of the most learned, of the deepest tone-creations, and leaves to the orchestra no other advantages, than those of the variety of tone colors and massive effects---immense advantages, to be sure

Such has been my aim in the work I have undertaken and now lay before the musical world. I confess that I should have to consider it a rather useless employment of my time, if I had but added one more to the numerous hitherto published piano-arrangements, following in their rut; but I consider my time well employed if I have succeeded in transferring to the piano not only the grand outlines of Beethoven's compositions but also those numerous fine details, and smaller traits that so powerfully contribute to the completion of the ensemble. My aim has been attained if I stand on a level with the intelligent engraver, the conscious translator, who comprehend the spirit of a work and thus contribute to the knowledge of the great masters and to the formation of the sense for the beautiful.

Rome, 1865 F. LISZT.

Beethoven: Symphony No.9

2005-11-30T14:22:00.000-08:00

Ten years elapsed after Beethoven had written his Seventh and Eighth Symphonies, before he again turned to this highest type of musical conception, and created his last, the Ninth, Symphony. During these ten years he was by no means idle, but composed a number of his finest works. Still, it was a comparatively less fruitful period than any other in his life. It was a period of relaxation and recreation, in which his great spirit was more active than his pen; as if he were collecting and strengthening his forces for the four supreme efforts of his final years: the last piano Sonatas, all of the last five String-quartets, the Missa Solemnis, and the Choral (Ninth) Symphony.

This, in D minor, Op. 125, was conceived as early as 1817, but not finished until 1824. Its first three Movements are of the conventional symphonic type, though they transcend in scope, breadth and design, proportions, and depth of spiritual significance---to say nothing of their surpassing technical richness and perfection---anything ever brought into being in the sphere of symphonic creation. But for the Finale Beethoven conceived the idea of adding the ultimate "instrument"---the human voice---to the score, and thus magnifying the Movement into a comprehensive Hymn of Joy, for which he selected the Ode to Joy of Schiller. It was the final realization of a plan that had been slumbering in his mind for many years; away back in his youthful days---in 1793---the project of setting music to this wonderful poem challenged his creative spirit, and in 1811 fragments begin to appear in his sketchbooks bearing on the subject.

The first Movement opens with an introductory passage of sixteen measures (not an independent Introduction) on the dominant, leading thence naturally into the imposing principal Theme. Following a transition the subordinate Theme (in B-flat) is in two Parts. To this, two brief Codettas are added. The whole Movement is a very regular, though extremely broad, sonata-allegro form. The Development is a marvel of consistent and logical thematic manipulation, unusually elaborate, and at first hearing apparently abstruse. Uncommon prominence is given to the third measure (often joined by the fourth) of the principal Theme. The Recapitulation is nearly exact, with the expected transpositions. The Coda is also uncommonly long, and exhibits a notable feature in its eighth Section (about thirty-five measures from the end): the basses carry a ground-motive (basso continuo) of two measures, with descending chromatics and an ascending scale, gradually reinforced by the whole body of strings, and repeated seven times.

In this Symphony Beethoven locates the Scherzo as the second Movement, contrary to his custom. It is likewise of extraordinary length; so much so that the principal Division is amplified to a full sonata-allegro design. The principal theme is preceded by eight introductory measures, all derived from the first measure. Here again Beethoven assigns a striking function to the kettledrums---tuned exactly as in the Finale of the Eighth Symphony, in the octave f: the fifth measure of the introductory passage is taken by the drums, solo; and in the fourth Section of the Development he gives to the drums alone the first measure of the three-measure thematic phrase, four times in succession.

The Trio manifests Beethoven's faith in Repetition: nearly the whole of it is built upon a four measure Phrase, always placed in the same key ( with one exception)---similar in general effect to the basso ostinato. The design of the Trio is also expanded, into a Five-Part form.

The third Movement, a very broad Adagio, is probably the most impressive slow Movement that Beethoven ever created, and he was particularly noted for the great beauty and appropriate expression that he always imparted to this important division of the symphonic form. The structure is fundamentally a First-Rondo, since it presents two alternating Themes; but it diverges somewhat from the orthodox arrangement: the subordinate Theme is stated twice, in different keys (in D, later in G), and consequently the principal Theme (in B-flat) appears three times---at each recurrence so elaborately embellished that it gives to the Movement the general character of a Variation-form. In reality it is analogous to the design adopted by Beethoven in the Finale of his Third, and in the slow Movements of his Fifth and Seventh Symphonies. Another noteworthy feature is the formation of the Retransition (returning passage) to the last presentation of the principal Theme (three-flat signature); it is in effect a brief "Development."

The principal Theme is preceded by two introductory measures.

As to the Finale: it was Beethoven's original intention to make the Ninth Symphony a purely instrumental work, [have we been here before?] and it was not until he had sketched an instrumental fourth Movement that he decided to gratify his lifelong desire to set Schiller's Ode to Joy (written in 1785) to music, as a Finale to the three preceding Movements. The original fourth Movement, already sketched, was therefore set aside for the time, but was utilized later as the Finale to his String-quartet in A minor, Op. 132.

Thus the present Finale became a sort of Cantata, consisting in a series of successive related, though clearly individualized Episodes---thirteen in number, including a distinctive Introduction, a principal Theme, a kind of Attendant Theme (in the ninth Episodes), and a Coda.

Beethoven selected only certain verses from Schiller's Ode, and even altered the order of these, thus affirming his right to exercise his own judgment and single out only that which suited his artistic purpose.

The first and second Episodes are introductory: after a tumultuous passage in the orchestra, a Leader seems to appear (represented by the string-basses, declamato) and invite suggestions for a final Subject; the Themes of the first, second, and third Movements pass successively in review; whereupon a new motive is intimated, found acceptable, and developed into the principal Theme of the whole Cantata. The third Episode is an Exposition of this Theme, in the orchestra; the fourth Episode is a recurrence of the turbulent first Episode, which, as before, is checked by the Leader---now a vocal baritone; in the fifth Episode, the Theme is given out in its full scope by the chorus and orchestra; the sixth Episode is another presentation of the entire principal Theme, transformed in rhythm, meter and character into a stirring martial scene (in keeping with another verse of the Ode), in which the chorus later joins; Episode seven is an orchestral fugato with two Themes, that of Episode six combined with a new contrapuntal phrase; in Episode eight this same idea is carried out with orchestra and chorus; the ninth Episode presents the "Attendant" Theme (on the text "Seid umschlungen, Millionen!" [O ye millions, I embrace you!], "Diesen Kussder granzen Welt!"[Here's a joyful kiss for all!] extended by material of an austere dramatic character; in Episode ten the principal and Attendant Themes are combined, with some necessary modification, for chorus and orchestra; Episode eleven reverts to one of the dramatic sentences of Episode nine; the twelfth episode is a new setting of the first lines of the Ode, with stronger emphasis on the attribute of Joy, and here a Solo-quartet is added to the tonal mass.

What follows, from this to the end, is a mighty Coda---three Sections---in which the central emotional idea, Joy, reaches its fullest consummation, and most jubilant and spirited expression.

Cheers,

Beethoven: Symphony No.8

2005-11-29T16:06:00.000-08:00

Beethoven's Eighth Symphony, in F, Op.93, was written in 1812---in its later months. Therefore, this and the Seventh (also written in 1812) form another set of "twin" Symphonies, as do the Fifth and Sixth. Again he adopts, in this Eighth, a lighter and somewhat simpler style, particularly in the first Movements; but despite its humor and good nature, it nowhere sacrifices its symphonic dignity. It is shorter, more concise, than its fellow-symphonies; for Beethoven was ever more deeply concerned with the quality than quantity, and here he has committed himself to brevity because he possessed the rare faculty of fitting the vessel to the contents, and had mastered the art of "much in little." This need not veil an implication that the extreme length of some of his Movements is a weakness; when a work is large in portent, a broad expanse of canvas is imperative: compare the first Movement of his Third, and of his Ninth Symphonies; also the First and Fourth Symphonies of Brahms; and the entire colossal C major Symphony of Schubert. The finale of his Eighth Symphony seems to be conceived in the wider sense, and is therefore of unusual length, especially in its extraordinary Coda.

Beethoven's Eighth has no Introduction---not a single preliminary note. The design of the first Movement is a concise sonata-allegro form. Beethoven experiments with the modulatory location of the subordinate Theme, in each of its two presentations: in the Exposition, its first Period is placed in D major (too high) and then restated in the "right" key, C major; and in the Recapitulation it is first set in B-flat (too low) and then, as before, restated in the "right" key, F major. This wonderfully sunny Movement abounds in Beethoven's pet device of Repetition, especially in the Development and Coda.

The second Movement stands for the slow one, but it is not the conventional lyric, sustained type. Its daintiness and genuine good humor fully compensate, however, for the expected change of mood. It is in reality a musical pleasantry, originating in Beethoven's interest in the metronome, and other mechanical contrivances, upon which Maelzel was at that time experimenting, and which Beethoven seems to have regarded with favor. The Movement---like the Allegretto of the Seventh Symphony---begins with a 6-4 chord, but for a vastly different reason; there, it was portentous; here, it immediately reveals itself as a part of the musical jest. The design is amazingly compact, and represents a miniature sonatine-allegro form.

Beethoven heightens the delightfully genial, intimate of his "little" Eighth Symphony (as he fondly called it) by repressing his predilection for the Scherzo as third Movement, and returning to the leisurely, graceful Minuet of former days. Both divisions are surprisingly lovely.

The finale is anything but "little." In the sprightliness of its chief motive, the wonderful grace and richness of its subordinate Theme, its strong contrasts, and the marvelous formation of its Development and of its unusually long Coda, this Finale ranks very high among the most imposing of the great master's orchestral creations. There are strokes of humor in the Movement that are worthy of special mention. One is the sudden, explosive, wholly unanticipated c# in the seventeenth measure. Theoretically it is d-flat, the lowered or minor sixth scale-step of the key---the same harmonic interval as the d-flat in the thirtieth measure. But to Beethoven's keen musical discrimination there is a difference between c# and d-flat, and it was c#, and nothing else, that he wanted; for precisely therein lies the incongruity and genuine humor of the situation. Later in the sixth Section of the Coda, he gives it first the correct notation, d-flat, and then changes it to a legitimate c#. The other bit of drollery is his use of the drums (tuned in the tonic octave instead of the usual tonic and dominant), twice with the bassoon alone, ostensibly as solo, and again, beginning thirty-four measures before the end, as accompaniment to the wood-wind and then to the violins, until the full orchestra masses itself together.

It is further noteworthy that precisely the same experiments with the modulatory location of the subordinate Theme take place here, as in the first Movement: the first Period is placed in a remote key, and then restated in the "right" key. This occurs likewise in the Recapitulation.

Among the Sections of the Coda (whose contents, it will be borne in mind are wholly optional) there is nearly complete reappearance of the principal Theme, and also of the subordinate one, in their proper keys. This is misleading (and actually hilarious for the listener attentatively trying to discern the form), but no one will question Beethoven's musical judgment.

One last observation on this "little," "fun" Symphony: The resemblance of the principal motive in the Finale to the second Codetta of the first Movement may be an accidental coincidence, though foremost among Beethoven's salient qualities are his concentration and unfailing logic.

Cheers,

Beethoven: Symphony No.7

2005-11-29T15:58:00.000-08:00

The Seventh Symphony, A major, Op.92, was written in the early months of 1812, and first performed late in 1813, in Vienna. During the four years that had passed since the composition of the Sixth, Beethoven's genius had matured still further, and the advance he had made in freedom and sureness of touch, particularly in his command of tonal architecture, in the structural formation of his Movements, is strikingly apparent. In his Seventh, Beethoven manifests complete control of the elemental forces of musical speech, and amazing originality, and an inexhaustible fund of resources, that are not met with in such luxuriance and assurance in his previous symphonies. The dictum: "The Seventh Symphony is the apotheosis of Rhythm," is attributed to Liszt; and as stated earlier in this thread, Wagner is said to have called it "the apotheosis of the Dance." The former simile befits the work with quite sufficient accuracy, since it is the element of Rhythm which seems chiefly answerable to the singular vivacity and irresistible urge of all but the Allegretto Movement; furthermore, each of its Movements has a distinctive and persistent rhythmic motive, or prosodic meter.

The Seventh starts with the traditional Introduction; and this Introduction is so lengthy, so impressive, and so independent in contents and character, that it may be regarded as a separate Movement, wherefore the Seventh Symphony, like the Sixth, actually comprises five Movements.

The structural design of this wonderfully beautiful Introduction is a very broad Two-Part form, the Second Part of which---a truly exquisite sentence---assumes the appearance and importance of a subordinate Theme, placed at first in C major. This whole "Exposition" is then recapitulated, with transpositions, and thus the whole Movement (Introduction) approximates the sonatine-allegro form. The "subordinate Theme" is placed, the second time, in F major, whose tonic f, is the lowered (or minor) sixth scale-step of A, the original key, and therefore tends naturally and urgently toward the tone e, the dominant, and portal, of the opening harmony of the Allegro. This discloses Beethoven's modulatory purpose, and it is faithfully carried out in an exceedingly striking manner, characteristic of Beethoven and no other master---thus: when the e is finally reached and rooted (ten measures before the Theme begins), it is reiterated alone, alternately in the wood-wind and violins no fewer than sixty times!

The Development is the most masterly, fascinating, logically and structurally perfect model of what a Development may and should be, that even Beethoven ever consummated. The Recapitulation is nearly exact, with the prescribed transpositions. There occurs, in the Coda, one of those daring episodes which confirm Beethoven's occasional unconventional methods, and which for a time caused some consternation even in the Beethoven ranks: some fifty measures before the end of the Movement, the basses softly intonate a figure of two measures (derived with quaint modifications from the first measures of the principal Theme), and repeat this drone, waxing into a growl, eleven times---as ground-motive or basso ostinato---against an almost absurdly primitive "yodel" in the violins.

The second (slow) Movement is the world-famous, apparently imperishable Allegretto, always sure of its profoundly moving appeal to every music-loving soul. Its design approximates the Second Rondo-form, akin to that chosen by Beethoven for the Finale of his Third Symphony, and the slow Movement of his Fifth; also, later, for the slow Movement of his Ninth---inasmuch as the numerous restatements of the principal Theme convey the impression of Variations. It begins with two introductory measures, on the 6-4 chord of the tonic---a chord without "support," hovering, as if wafted in from some ethereal region. The principal Theme is stated four times, at full length, with heavy crescendo, before the soothing, touching First subordinate Theme enters. As a mater of fact, there is no other (second) subordinate Theme, but the place reserved for it in the design is filled---exactly as in the Adagio of the Third Symphony---by a fugato in triple-counterpoint, the Subject marked A being drawn from one of the phrases of the principal Theme. The Coda begins with a portion of the First subordinate Theme, precisely as before, and this is followed by another complete Variation of the principal Theme.

For the vivacious third Movement, with its majestic Trio, Beethoven uses no other titles than the tempo-marks; but it tallies in every respect with his customary Scherzo and Trio. As in the Fourth Symphony, it is expanded to imposing dimensions by an additional complete statement of the Trio, and subsequent da capo. We should note the singular choice of keys---F major and D major, in an A major Symphony. The Trio is remarkably simple in its harmonic material---nothing but the tonic and dominant chords of the chosen key. The violins hold the tone a, in octaves, with very brief digressions, throughout Parts I and II of the Trio. There is a striking use of the horn in the second Part; this horn figure (derived from the first two measures of the chief melody) is reiterated nine times, then quickened into a 2/4 meter, crescendo, culminating in a magnificent recurrence of Part I (as Part III).

The last Movement is a riot of tone and rhythm. In its vivacity, audacity, splendid vitality and rollicking humor, it transcends any and every Finale elsewhere recorded in classic symphonic literature. The form is sonata-allegro. The most serious, almost sinister, episode occurs in the third Section of the Coda: the basses ramble through a tragico-comical, chromatically wavering, descending spiral sequence of considerable length, against sustained chords in the wood-wind and the first measure of the principal Theme in the violins, until they (the basses) have groped their way to the low dominant-note (e), where they sway in alteration with d# for twenty one measures, while the rest of the orchestra asserts the home-key. Beethoven evidently took this very seriously; and it is one of the finest, most ingenious and original passages to be found anywhere in his Symphonies.

Cheers,

Beethoven: Symphony No.6

2005-11-27T16:43:00.000-08:00

It appears to have been impulse, perhaps a conscious act, with Beethoven to alternate his moods from each Symphony to the next. For here again, as he turns from the Fifth to the Sixth Symphony, a complete change takes place, not only in his mood, but in his whole attitude. From a flight in lofty spiritual regions he returns to earth, and discourses of Nature herself, in the most intimate terms. If the inherent quality of the one in C minor may be defined as divine, that of the Pastoral is purely and whole-heartedly human.

These two so radically diverse Symphonies, it must be remembered, were written very nearly together (in 1807-08). Beethoven's mind had been occupied with thoughts of the C minor Symphony for a period of years; thematic fragments of it were jotted down in his notebook as early as 1800. But when he turned seriously to the composition of the Fifth, his attention seems to have been divided between it and the Sixth; and when these "twin" Symphonies were both first publicly performed, in December, 1808, at Vienna, the Pastoral occupied the first place and was called No. V, while the other was marked No. VI. This reverse order prevailed until as late as 1813, though Beethoven, upon their joint publication in 1809, insisted upon the order in which they stand today, and which therefore corroborates his intention: No. V, Op.67, and No. VI, the , Op.68.

The motto of this Sixth Symphony is Simplicity---in melody, harmony, modulation and structure; and this frank, artless quality contributes directly to the appropriate "rustic" atmosphere that pervades the pastoral composition. Beethoven states explicitly that he aims at "Mehr Ausdruck der Empfindung, als Malerey"---"more an expression of the feelings, than painting;" and from this we infer he harbored no intention of producing a specimen of descriptive (program) music---an aim that was decidedly prevalent during those earlier days when the art of tone was still immature, and its true spiritual mission so imperfectly understood. The first Movement contains no evidences whatever of a "descriptive" tendency; the second Movement, however, does reflect (not depict) the repose and the murmuring voices of the forest, chiefly, as the title shows, of the brook; the bird-trio near the end of this slow Movement was admittedly and innocent pleasantry---though some birds do emit musical tones of fairly definite pitch and rhythm; further, music offered Beethoven, especially in the orchestral body, convenient approximate means of imitating the roll of thunder, the wailing of the wind and the tumult of a storm. These means Beethoven did not hesitate to employ, in accentuating the elements concomitant with his total pastoral project; but therewith all descriptive tendencies cease; the rest, by far the greater mass of its measures, is all strictly and purely emotional suggestion, sufficiently characteristic to justify the title---Pastoral Symphony.

Since Beethoven inserted a "Storm" between the Scherzo and the Finale, this Symphony has five Movements, to which he himself affixed these titles:

I. Allegro. "pleasant feelings awakened upon arriving in the country."

II. Andante. "Scene by the brook."

III. Allegro. "Jovial gathering of country-folk."

IV. Allegro. "Thunderstorm."

V. Allegretto. "Shepherd's Song. Happy and grateful feelings after the storm."

There is no Introduction; the first Movement (sonata-allegro design) opens at once with the principal Theme. The whole first Movement actually seems to exhale the fresh invigorating air of the countryside---meadows and forests, Nature's playground. Note the four different rhythmic figures, each one of which contributes to the moving scroll: (1) the order of eighths and sixteenths in the second measure; (2) the uniform eighths in the subordinate Theme (against heavy notes in the bass); (3) the lilt of the Codetta; and (4) this latter group reduced to uniform triplets. In the hands of this consummate master of subjective expression, these four rhythmic figures, so nearly alike and still so characteristically different, seem to mirror Nature's movements---ever changing yet ever the same---and are most vitally responsible for the indefinable "rural" atmosphere which the Movement creates and sustains.

Beethoven's estimate of the basic significance of Repetition, touched upon above, is nowhere more conspicuous than in this Symphony, and nowhere more obviously conditioned by the nature of his "pastoral" scheme. Compare, for one thing, measures sixteen to twenty-five of the first Movement; also the six successive presentations of the first phrase of the subordinate Theme; also the second and fourth Sections of the Development, based upon the first of the four rhythmic figures just cited. In the subordinate Theme, the melody in the bass-part appears to have the greater thematic weight. It is noteworthy that Beethoven throughout the entire Symphony uses no drums, excepting in the Thunderstorm. Also for the Storm, he adds to his score a piccolo, and two trombones, retaining these latter during the Finale.

The second Movement, "At the brook," is also cast in the sonata-allegro form, and is of unusual length. One is permitted to imagine, especially with the clue provided by the title, that one actually hears the murmur of the brook, the rustle of the forest, and---in the curious fragmentary form of melodies---the tuneful call of birds; and one may imagine that one senses the soothing magic and odors of the woods. Beethoven would not have objected to that; but he probably would have fallen into one of his famous tantrums if anybody had offered him a narrative, describing every measure of the piece. For Beethoven, as clearly stated, aimed only at subjective emotional expression. At the same time, he did insert one realistic scene, with explicit designation, in the bird-trio (nightingale, quail and cuckoo) near the end of the Movement; he may have meant it as a joke, but he thought so well of it that he repeated it, right away, literally.

The third Movement, a Scherzo, is frankly "descriptive"---but it must be borne in mind that it is an inherently musical subject, a rustic Dance; and the only touches of direct realism in it are Beethoven's deliciously comical allusions to the technical limitations of these amateur peasant-musicians. The form is larger than usual, comprising two different Trios in succession (in the same key), that are followed by an abbreviated da capo (Part I, only, of the principal Division), which is interrupted by the ominous rumbling of the impending Thunderstorm.

Having conceived the notion of including a thunderstorm in his symphonic scheme, Beethoven was compelled, for the time, to write purely realistic music. We are expected, here, to imagine the mutter and crash of thunder, the swishing of the rain, the howling of the wind, even quick lightening (in the piccolo), the mighty tumult of the elements---alternately advancing and receding---all unfolded in masterly succession and proportions, and nowhere for an instant violating the normal sense of tone-beauty. This Movement, naturally, has no specific structural design; it consists in a series of Sections (thirteen in number), many of which are recurrences of those that went before. There are a few brief "motives" but no "Themes," in the ordinary sense.

The storm gradually subsides; a shepherd's pipe is heard, like the Ranz des vaches of the Swiss Alps; this is answered by another, and then another call---which latter becomes the chief Theme of the hearty, good-natured, wholesome Finale. The form for this is the Third Rondo-form, rather long and drawn out, but of engaging and unalloyed beauty. Note there is a resemblance of the First subordinate Theme to the subordinate Theme in the first Movement.

Cheers,

Beethoven: Symphony No.5

2005-11-27T16:25:00.000-08:00

In passing from his Fourth Symphony to the Fifth (C minor, Op.67, finished in 1808) , Beethoven's mood undergoes a complete change. It is the first one of his Symphonies for which he chose the minor mode, and its spirit is correspondingly stern., somber and passionate---in all but the final Movement. This is particularly true of the first and third Movements. But even the tender slow Movement has emotional moments that alternate like shadows with the prevailing brightness. The Finale is a monument of symphonic breadth and might.

It is not easy to speak dispassionately and with beseeming moderation of this wonderful Symphony of Beethoven. Viewed calmly and fairly, from every angle, it cannot be called his greatest Symphony; for his genius matured steadily, and there are qualities in his last three Symphonies which pertain to a more elevated plane of artistic creation than does this Fifth one. What lends this one its irresistible appeal, is its elemental power, and its inherent simplicity; its architectural plan unfolds so naturally, so consistently, with such unfaltering logic, such clearness and sureness of purpose, and in such straightforward, powerful strokes, that the responsive hearer is thrilled with satisfaction and enjoyment from the first tone to the last.

The structural scheme of the first Movement (sonata-allegro form) is extremely concise; no time is wasted on gallant concessions. There is no Introduction. The harmonic basis is strikingly simple, consisting very largely of the plain tonic and dominant chords. The modulations are of telling effect, but not extreme---the most striking appear in the series of remote keys near the end of the Development---in the "solid" rhythm of the subordinate Theme.

The first Movement is a miracle of motive development, such as only a Beethoven could perform. There is scarcely a single measure in the entire course of the Movement that does not owe its origin to, and is not derived directly from, the motive of the opening four measures---with chiefly rhythmic alterations. Thus, the subordinate Theme corresponds, at its outset, to this principal motive; the eighth-notes in its third measure are suppressed, with the result of a more solid rhythm of half notes, and at the same time the intervals are widened, thus adding emphasis to the rhythmic change.

For the second Movement---an indescribably beautiful Lyric contemplative mood, with powerful contrasts---Beethoven chooses the First Rondo-form; at least, this most nearly indicates his structural intention. But it is treated with much latitude: the frequent repetitions and recurrences of the melodious principal Theme are variated---analogously to the scheme of the Finale of the Eroica Symphony; and there is no more than a barely recognizable intimation of a subordinate Theme. The discrepancy, sometimes slight but often very marked, between a musical idea as it was first engendered in Beethoven's mind, and the same idea after his rigorous testing had brought it to the perfected shape suited to its thematic purpose. Procuring and consulting Beethoven's Sketchbooks (edited by M.G. Nottebohm) one will discover many illuminating proofs of this remodeling and refining process of the master. Some of the original sketches of this Fifth Symphony reach back to the years 1800 and 1801.

Beethoven calls the third Movement a Scherzo; but it is of a deeply serious character, with a weird background of veiled apprehensiveness pierced at intervals with flashes of mysterious menace, later on hushed to a tense, broken, whispered utterance. The principal Division is in Three-Part form---five Parts, with the repetition of Parts II and III. The first and second of these present two widely different but equally important thematic shapes, the first ominous, almost foreboding, the second in oracular in tone. Note the rhythmic analogy between this oracular second Part, and the first motive of the first Movement. The Trio is sometimes cited as a specimen of Beethoven's humor; and there is doubtless a touch of the grotesque in the rapid passage for the lumbering double-basses, during the first Phrase, and still more later on. But it is hard to believe that his mind was at any moment, in this singularly serious work, accessible to any humorous suggestion. Even this unwieldly bass passage is to be taken seriously.

Out of the mysterious turmoil of this Allegro finally emerges, directly, almost suddenly, the magnificent Finale, like the triumph of Light over Darkness. For Beethoven joins the third Movement to the fourth (contrary to his habit in the symphonic form), and the transition displays his original genius in another aspect: the Coda begins with an A-flat major chord, the Third of which, c, is very softly tapped out by the kettledrum, in the rhythm of the "oracular" motive, while the strings hold the rest of the chord (ppp) for no fewer than fifteen measures---the drum meanwhile modifying its rhythmic tap as if endowed with human intelligence. Thereafter the first violins resume and retain the first thematic melody; the harmony sways around the c, with which the drum now keeps up an incessant tapping, until a final crescendo, through four measures of the dominant chord, leads into the Theme of the Finale (ff); the c is foreign to this chord, but that makes no difference to the drummer; he keeps right on beating his c, crescendo, until it "wins out" as emphatic keynote. The form of the Finale is a very broad sonata-allegro. The orchestra is increased by the addition of a piccolo, a contra-bassoon, and three trombones, for this Song of Triumph called for a larger, more resounding tone-apparatus. The final Sections of the Development revert, in an unusual manner, to the Scherzo, and consist in a recurrence of the "oracular' phrase of the second Part, in minor as before, and extended; and a dominant ending similar to that which preceded the Finale, and which here leads (with a few measures of the same drum-beat on c) into the Recapitulation. The Coda is quite lengthy, and its last Sections are in presto tempo, with motives from the Codetta and from the principal Theme.

Cheers,

Beethoven: Symphony No.4

2005-11-27T16:20:00.000-08:00

In his Fourth Symphony, B-flat major, Op.60, written in 1806, Beethoven returns to a more cheerful mood, as if enjoying a period of recreation after the storm and stress of his elaborate, intensely reflective Third Symphony. In its playful, joyous spirit it harks back to Mozart again, but evinces greater maturity, and is musically more significant in many respects than the creations of the latter. It pursues its happy, sunlit course without a shade of melancholy or dramatic inclination, and although distinctly "Beethoven," in conception and construction, it exhibits comparatively few outstanding features.

Beethoven reverts in this Symphony to the tradition of the Introduction, and nothing could be finer than the simple earnestness and serene loveliness that here prevail. Of note is the droll character of the subordinate Theme, emphasized by the bassoon and oboe. The first Codetta is an octave-cannon (eight measures, repeated). The final Sections of the Development execute the necessary return to the beginning (into the Recapitulation) in an astonishing and effective manner---far more so than in the Second Symphony: the harmony is led into the chord of F-sharp, as dominant-seventh of B major, and held there, pianissimo, for twenty-eight measures; the a-sharp, equivalent to b-flat, is murmured intermittently by the kettledrum; then the harmony shifts suddenly into the tonic of B-flat major (the original key)---the drum continuing its roll upon the same tone, and increasing its volume with the rest of the orchestra until the Recapitulation opens, with a glorious volume of sound. It is an example of "pivotal" modulation---through a stationary tone---and the pivotal tone is here entrusted to the drum.

The second Movement, adagio, is of a pronounced lyric quality and appealing beauty. The design is Third Rondo, in unusually concise form. The principal Theme is preceded, at every announcement, by a measure in marked rhythm, which though introductory in effect, is nevertheless and integral part of the Theme. The other Theme (subordinate) and the Codetta are easily recognizable. Beethoven's valuation of the kettledrums, as an essential part of the orchestral apparatus, and his effective employment of them, are demonstrated throughout his Symphonies. So here: the rhythmic introductory measure is given repeatedly to the drums; once with the horns (just before the Recapitulation), and once as solo, two measures before the end.

For the third Movement Beethoven uses no other title than the tempo mark, Allegro vivace; but it of course is a Scherzo, with Trio, as usual. Of note is the manner in which the phrasing creates the impression of 2/4 meter in the first Phrase, and also through a large portion of the Second Part of the principal Division. The form is enlarged by a second statement of the Trio, solely for the sake of broader dimensions. This recurrence of the Trio is literal, but the final da capo (the inevitable return of the principal Division) is reduced to its Third Part only.

The bubbling Finale---a Humoresque with delightfully contrasted Themes---is another instance of Beethoven's return to the earlier manner of Haydn and Mozart, the rollicking style that they adjudged most appropriate for the final Movement. It is cast in the sonata-allegro form. The structure is perfectly regular, simple, and easy to follow. Of note is the humorous elongation (augmentation) of the principal phrase, eleven measures before the end: after a boisterous climax in the full orchestra, the violin (three measures), the bassoon (one measure), and the viola and 'cello (one measure), very softly and apologetically intonate the thematic melody in slower rhythm, pausing most comically upon the last eighth-note, in each of the last three measures.

Cheers,

Beethoven: Symphony No.3

2005-11-27T16:03:00.000-08:00

By the time Beethoven was ready to undertake his third Symphony, the heritage of his great predecessors, Haydn and Mozart, had fulfilled its mission, and scarcely a vestige of its influence upon Beethoven's methods of expression is here outwardly recognizable. The contrast between this third Symphony and the two that preceded it is amazing---unparalleled in the history of musical progress. It is as if the youth had suddenly attained to full manhood, and was now asserting himself, the true Beethoven, with all the originality, independence, supreme vigor of mind and spirit that proclaim the mighty genius of tone. This great work is commonly assumed to inaugurate his second, most fecund and joyous period.

The Third symphony, in E-flat, Op.55, written in 1804, was designed as a tribute to the life of a Hero, and Beethoven himself gave it the title of Eroica. The hero foremost in his mind was Napoleon, whose remarkably victorious military career excited the admiration of Beethoven and made him a worthy object of Beethoven's musical plan. To Napoleon, therefore, the Symphony was originally dedicated; but his subsequent acceptance of the imperial crown impressed Beethoven as a sordid act of personal ambition, and the dedication was withdrawn.

It is not easy to trace a definite connection between Beethoven's heroic design and the music of the Symphony itself. The first Movement, it is true, is of that extremely vigorous, manly type that is associated with heroism, and it is also "heroic" in dimensions: with the exception of the Ninth Symphony, this is the longest of Beethoven's symphonic Movements. Also, its prime thematic phrase is a bugle-call. The second movement is the only one of the four that refers explicitly to heroism: it bears the title Funeral March, on the Death of a Hero. The third Movement, a Scherzo, has been interpreted as depicting the bustle of a military camp; but it might quite as well be the commotion of a country fair---apart from the three-voiced bugle-call in the Trio. And in the Finale there is not a single episode that is specifically heroic; in fact, the gentle, winning Theme that runs through the whole Movement was conceived and used by Beethoven years before; it appears as concluding number in his early Ballet-music Prometheus, and is the subject of his piano Variations, Op.35 (1802). But, for all that, this vital Symphony fits the definition "brave, vigorous, venturesome" sufficiently well, and is therefore truly heroic in spirit.

Here, for the first time in his symphonic work, Beethoven dispenses with an independent Introduction; after two peremptory tonic strokes he intonates the bugle-call (in the 'cello) in 3/4 meter in which the first Movement centers. The Exposition is regular and unusually long; but its extreme length is matched by proportionate depth and breadth, so that, far from being a wearisome drawback, it is an essential, logical consequence; and the mighty plan unfolds with unfailing interest and unabated fascination through to the triumphant end. The preponderant heroic mood is softened by interspersed episodes of tender beauty---note the effective contrasts which the Themes and Codettas present. Note, also, the frequent assertion of 2/4 measure, which heightens the impetuous rhythmic effect by shifting (contracting) the accentuations. Despite its length, Beethoven insists upon the repetition of the Exposition. In the later course of the proportionately extended Development (in Section 8), after about thirty measures of his intensified 2/4 meter, culminating in four measures of fierce dissonance, he arrests the tumult and introduces a wholly new motive of great beauty.

Four measures before the Recapitulation begins, the horn softly intonates the first measures of the principal Theme on the chord E-flat, against the Dominant Seventh chord in the violins (pp, tremolando). This famous episode, so characteristic of Beethoven's daring, was at first regarded as a misprint!

The Recapitulation is nearly literal---with the customary transpositions. The Coda assumes proportions commensurate with the magnitude of the Movement as a whole.

The slow Movement, the Funeral March, is an irregular variety of the Second-Rondo-form. It is also very broad, profoundly moving, dramatic, filled with genuine pathos, throughout distinctive of the maturer Beethoven; and it is as replete with beauty as it is original. This may appear to be a meager showing, but it is an essential quality of Beethoven's genius that he prefers to evolve the most lengthy and finished products out of the simplest, smallest germs, and he possesses the faculty of so doing to an unparalleled extent---compare the first Movement of the Fifth Symphony; and of the Sixth; and Seventh.

In place of the Second subordinate Theme, prescribed in the legitimate Second Rondo, he inserts a genuine "Development," and therein lies the irregularity of the form. The first section of the Development is a fugato in Triple-counterpoint---with three Themes, combined in various mutual inversions. There is an impressive Coda (thirty-nine measures), the last ten measures of which consist in a most remarkable presentation of the first Period (eight measures) of the principal Theme---absolutely literal in tone-succession but in curiously distorted rhythmic form, that suggests the broken utterance of a dying person. It will repay the listener to make a minute comparison of the two forms.

For the third Movement Beethoven again adopts the term Scherzo, and here it is particularly appropriate; for this ebullient music, though thoroughly sound and earnest, fairly bubbles over with vivacity and good humor.

The Finale is a miracle (to ordinary minds) of tonal treatment and development. No other word adequately describes this musical creation. In structure it approximates the Rondo-form, inasmuch as a constant principal Theme alternates regularly with contrasting episodes. This principal Theme is a lyric Two-Part Song-form, beautiful of course (since a Beethoven conceived it), and at each reappearance it is variated-at times in different keys. But quite equal, if not greater, importance attaches to the Bass-part upon which the harmonic accompaniment of this thematic melody rests. (A playable version of this may be found in Beethoven's piano Variations, Op.35) The episodes which alternate with this Theme consist of: (1) a fugato (in theme), with an important addition, in C minor; (2) a contrasting Two-Part Song-form of vigorous character in G minor, built upon the first phrase of the bass-theme, again extended; (3) a recurrence of the fugato, this time in E-flat major. Between and around these episodes stand the double-counterpoint upon the first phrase of the bass-variated forms of the principal Theme. The Movement ends with a fairly long Coda, devoted chiefly to the thematic melody, from which, oddly enough, the former ubiquitous bass-part entirely disappears.

Another, and unique, function is assigned to the thematic bass-part in the Introduction to the Finale. This Introduction is divided in four Sections: (1) a torrent of tone, three measures on the tonic of G minor, and eight measures on the dominant of E-flat; (2) the bass-theme alone, full length; (3) the bass-theme as upper voice, with three or four melodies. Hereupon then follows the announcement of the actual Melodic (principal) Theme.

It was at that time unprecedented to select the Variation style for the final Movement of a Symphony, and it occurs since in only one other classic instance---in the Finale of the Fourth Symphony of Brahms.

Cheers,

Beethoven: Symphony No. 2

2005-11-26T16:37:00.000-08:00

One has but to read the "Heilgenstadt Will" of 1802, in which Beethoven bemoans his deafness, hints of suicide, and discloses himself as the unhappiest of men, to realize how great a gap exists between his personal life and his music. In the midst of the first anguished realization that his deafness was incurable , Beethoven composed his second symphony in D major, published in 1804 as Opus 36. Powerful, limpid, boisterous, and probably the largest symphony written up to that time, it gives no hint of the morbidity and melancholy which encompassed him.

The Second Symphony, in D major, Op.36, was written in 1802. It is of greater breadth than the First one, and though still exhibiting the influence of Haydn and Mozart to some extent, it contains far more originality, and a sort of "democratic" fearlessness, sharply differentiated from the courtly restraint of the foregoing masters. The score (instrumentation) corresponds to that of the First Symphony.

It opens with a rather long, stately Introduction of great beauty and power, but suggestive of Mozart. The first Movement is in sonata-allegro form. The Exposition is regular; the development lengthy, but finely proportioned, and ingenious. Of special moment, as attesting the independence that was already asserting itself strongly in Beethoven's methods, is the manner in which he plans the return of the beginning---at the end of the Development: the last sixteen measures hold firmly the remote key of F-sharp, the dominant note of which (c-sharp) is the leading-tone of the original key (D major). The quiet transmutation of the chord through this c-sharp, in the bass, to the dominant chord of D, two measures before the opening of the Recapitulation, is extremely impressive. What is more, almost precisely the same modulatory device is employed again in the Trio of the third Movement, and again in the Finale. The first Movement is extended by a fairly lengthy Coda.

In the second Movement Beethoven creates a lyric Larghetto of singular beauty, and of a more distinctive character, that plainly foreshadows the later Beethoven. The design is sonata-allegro, considerably spun out.

The third Movement is confessedly a Scherzo with Trio. The principal Division is ingeniously extended, in its Third Part. A unique feature of the Trio, of genuine Beethoven complexion, is that its Second Part (fourteen measures long) is built entirely upon a single chord, intoned by the strings in unison; this chord is the tonic of F-sharp major, and its Fifth (c-sharp) is made to serve---as in the first Movement---as leading-tone of the original key (D).

The Finale, a sonata-allegro of an extremely vigorous, animated, jovial character, as full of pranks as the wonderful Finale of Haydn's last Symphony, betrays hereditary traces of Haydn, though none the less stoutly original at the core. Observe the two staccato quarter-notes in measures two and six; and compare this dramatic gesture as described in Mozart's Haffner Symphony (in the last paragraph of that message). The Exposition has no defined cadence; its final Codetta is so "dissolved" as to lose itself in a returning passage that leads into the Development. Further, the Development begins so exactly like the Exposition that the design is rendered obscure. This was not an infrequent occurrence with Beethoven and also with Brahms. (See Beethoven, piano Sonata, Op.31, No.1, first Movement; the first seven measures of the Development correspond literally to the first seven measures of the Exposition. Also Beethoven's Symphony No.8, Finale. Also Brahms, Second Symphony, Op.73, last Movement; Fourth Symphony, Op.98, first Movement, and third Movement.)

The tendency of this pseudo-return to the principal Theme is so to modify the sonata-allegro design that it approaches the effect of the Rondo forms.

As previously stated, the Recapitulation in this Finale is also entered in a novel and very striking manner: the last Section of the Development (twenty-six measures) is held without wavering in F-sharp minor, whose dominant note, the c-sharp, is here again the prospective leading-tone of the original key, and finally very gently turns the harmony over into the opening tones of the principal Theme-almost exactly as in the first Movement. The entrance of the Coda (which is unusually long and elaborate) is likewise novel and effective.

The second symphony bridges the gap which separates all previous symphonies from the enormous works of subsequent years. The second symphony, compared to the first, shows exactly the normal development one would expect of a composer who works earnestly at his job. If the distance between these two symphonies is fixed at a mile, that between the second and third must be fixed at a light-year.

Cheers,

Beethoven: Symphony No. 1

2005-11-26T16:22:00.000-08:00

Sketches for Beethoven's first symphony, in C major, date from about 1794, but the work was not completed until about 1800. The spirit of Haydn had inspired it; be it out of veneration or the desire to imitate that spirit, it was sylistically not as advanced as works written years earlier. Not until the Eroica symphony and the quartets of Opus 59 was Beethoven to give his ensemble works the type of expression that his piano sonatas had contained since about 1797. The symphony was published in 1801 as Opus 21; was completed in Vienna in 1800---twelve years later than the three "great" Symphonies of Mozart, and six years after the last and best of those of Haydn.

In this first symphonic work Beethoven is so completely dominated by his deep respect and reverence of Mozart's music, that it manifests more the distinctive traits of the latter than of those elements which characterize the later Beethoven and elevate him to a far loftier rank than Mozart was destined to reach.

Still, there are enough indications here of Beethoven's independence to make this Symphony interesting and important for its own sake.

The first movement is preceded by a slow introduction, and although the latter resembles introductions by Haydn and Mozart, it has a different function, for it is no more than a greatly enlarged perfect cadence which leads toward the C major of the first allegro. A firm sense of tonality and an amazingly fertile imagination which is directed to making his harmonic intentions clear. The first movement, alive and humorous, contains many touches of daring. For example, the development begins suddenly in a fortissimo in A major, and touches to D, G, and C minor in its first few measures; later sections are in B-flat, E-flat, and A minor. Beethoven's palette is immediately seen to be richer than his predecessors' and contemporaries'.

His ability to derive new melodies from isolated thematic fragments taken out of context is strikingly revealed in the slow movement. There Beethoven employs melodic scraps or motives as source material for his development sections and derives an ostinato figure from a rhythmic pattern first heard in the main theme of the movement.

The scherzo in Beethoven's symphonies is a new form. This is no longer the fast, transformed minuet which Haydn had introduced in his quartets of Opus 33 (1782) but a large, powerful, often humorous, sometimes profound movement which has only its triple meter and its three-part form in common with the minuet. The scherzo in the first symphony, which Beethoven still calls "Menuetto," foreshadows those later developments. Fast tempo, driving rhythms, sudden contrasts of mood and texture, and sections in which thematic fragments are briefly developed---these contsitute the first part. The trio provides great contrast.and represents a series of chords over a running figure in the violins. The effect is enchanting, and the movement is all to short.

The finale begins with a slow introduction which serves a twofold purpose: to provide the theme of the allegro with a springboard from which to take off; and to introduce a mock-serious moment which enhances the the humor of that allegro. The latter is in sonata-form, with a lilting set of themes that are well proportioned and skillfully manipulated.

The C-major symphony, on the whole, sparkles and is full of fun. There are no problems here, and Beethoven is completely the master of his material.

Mozart: Symphony in C major (K.551)

2005-11-25T15:10:00.000-08:00

This brings us to the last, and crowning creation of Mozart's symphonic domain, the Symphony in C major (K.551), to which some unknown enthusiast attached the name by which it has since been called---the Jupiter Symphony. It is Mozart's greatest, most scholarly Symphony, though probably not the most popular with the majority of music lovers; for here, as in the case of all works of genius, that which is most scholarly does not make as strong an appeal to the average heart, as a work which lies nearer to the level of human sympathy and comprehension.

It is scored for the usual classic orchestra, but without clarinets. It opens without Introduction. The first Movement is in sonata-allegro form. The Development utilizes chiefly the first Codetta, especially its easily recognizable second Phrase.

The second Movement, Andante cantabile, is perhaps the finest of all of Mozart's slow Movements. It is cast in sonata-allegro form.

The Menuetto is of the traditional graceful type. The Trio is unique: it begins with a perfect cadence, against which the violins seem gently to remonstrate.

In the Finale, Mozart assumes a serious, almost austere attitude (somewhat after the manner not uncommon with Haydn), and creates a contrapuntal masterpiece worthy of the great Bach, sacrificing to this end, it must be admitted, the winning qualities of sheer musical beauty to some extent. Its Exposition is woven out of five Themes, each one a proper thematic contingement as in any regular Exposition. (Theme 5 partly resembles Theme 4.) After the statement of the subordinate Theme, the Exposition is spun out with contrapuntal manipulation of Themes 2,3 and 4, interspersed with a few extra motives. The Development, also, naturally deals with these Themes (including No. 1), rather briefly, but in a great variety of shapes (inversion, stretto, diminution, shifted measure, even "retrograde"). The Recapitulation copies the Exposition closely (with the transpositions), but is slightly abbreviated. Then follows the Coda, and this Coda becomes a stage for the most remarkable polyphonic feat in symphonic literature---a feat that is very rarely encountered in any type of published music. After twenty-seven measures of polyphonic network involving Themes 1,4 and 3, all of the five Themes are announced simultaneously, and thus carried through a complete fugal "exposition" in five successive presentations, and, of course, in Quintuple-counterpoint, so applied that each voice presents the entire set of Themes in succession. The first announcement is scored in the string quintet, duplicated in the wind-body. The combination starts in G major, and alternates with C, so that the final (fifth) announcement shall be in C, the principal key. A very few additional homophonic measures bring the Symphony quickly to an end.

Cheers,

Mozart: Symphony in G minor (K.550)

2005-11-25T15:01:00.000-08:00

The Symphony in G minor (K.550) is serious, almost somber in character, and signalizes Mozart's nearest approach to genuine, conscious dramatic expression in his instrumental works. The scoring is unusual and striking: there are no clarinets (only flutes, oboes and bassoons); two horns but no trumpets; and no drums, throughout, notwithstanding the strong emotional emphasis which characterizes the Symphony. There is no Introduction. The Development deals constantly with the principal Theme, in various keys and various combinations.

The second Movement is an Andante of surpassing loveliness. The design in sonata-allegro.

The Minuet, which follows as the usual third Movement, is of that animated, quickened type, introduced by Haydn, that induced Beethoven to substitute for it the name Scherzo (in his Second, Third, and other Symphonies, and in many piano Sonatas and Chamber-music works). Note the spacing in 3-measure Phrases, and the effective syncopation at the beginning. The Trio contrasts in the major mode

The Finale is more serious, more "symphonic," than the traditional closing Movement. The Development begins with an extremely curious, rhythmically and melodically disjointed extension of the principal motive, weirdly humorous. The rest is made completely of the principal Phrase, in masterly contrapuntal and modulatory elaboration. The Recapitulation is a nearly exact reproduction of the Exposition, with the prescribed transpositions.

Mozart: Symphony in E-flat major (K.543)

2005-11-25T14:56:00.000-08:00

The Symphony in E-flat major (K.543), scored for the ordinary full orchestra: quintet of strings, full woodwind octet, two horns, two trumpets and two drums, has an Introduction in its first Movement (sonata-allegro form). One or two short Codettas are added. The Development is terse, the Recapitulation all most exact---with the customary transpositions.

The other three Movements: a supremely beautiful Andante (in the sonatine-form, that is, the sonata-allegro form without a Development); a stirring Menuetto; and a Finale of the conventional bright, animated type (sonata-allegro design).

Mozart: the Last Three "Great" Symphonies

2005-11-25T14:52:00.000-08:00

The last three "great" Symphonies of Mozart were all written during one year (1788), an almost startling confirmation of the spontaneity and rapidity of Mozart's creative method. They were completed in less than nine weeks. The first was the Symphony in E-flat Major (K.543), finished June 26; the second was the Symphony in G Minor (K.550), completed in July; the third was the "Jupiter" Symphony, Symphony in C Major (K.551), completed on August 10. And they do not betray the slightest evidence of superficiality or haste; nothing that the master ever brought forth manifests greater depth, finer artistic discrimination, or more flawless technical workmanship than these three wonderful Symphonies. They occupy together such a uniformly high plane of excellence that it is futile to single out any one of the three as the "best" or most enduring, although they represent, viewed broadly, three clearly differentiated moods---the one in E-flat major suave, that in G minor somber, and that in C major heroic.

Mozart: the Prague Symphony

2005-11-25T11:21:00.000-08:00

The "Prague" Symphony (D major, K.504) known as the Symphony without Minuet stands upon an equally eminent plane with the great "last three." Many critics esteem it one of the most admirable products of symphonic literature up to the close of the eighteenth century. The work was written at Vienna on December 6, 1786, and had its first performance during January, 1787, at that time Mozart was having tremendous success of his opera "The Marriage of Figaro" at Prague. The symphony was played in a concert given in the opera house, some concerted works followed, and then Mozart, seating himself at the clavier, in response to tumultuous applause, extemporized twelve marvelously brilliant and extremely difficult variations on the theme from the song Non piu andrai from "Figaro."

The symphony scored, otherwise "full", includes no clarinets. It begins with an imposing Introduction, followed by a number of and varied thematic components of the Exposition. Each of the thematic figures (motives) in the principal Theme plays an important part of the formation of the Exposition. The beautiful subordinate Theme, a Period of eight measures, is immediately repeated in the minor mode, with singularly telling effect. Three or four Codettas are added. The Development is an ingenious manipulation of these thematic factors, culminating in a Returning-passage of great beauty, in the minor mode, over a dominant organ-point. The Recapitulation is a nearly exact recurrence of the Exposition, with the usual transpositions.

This Movement is followed by an Andante, and a Presto Finale, both like the first Movement , in the sonata-allegro form.

Cheers,

Mozart: the Linz Symphony

2005-11-25T11:15:00.000-08:00

Mozart completed the "Linz" Symphony (K.425) at Linz on November 3, 1783, and it was first performed at a concert in the same city the following day; hence its nickname. Just as Beethoven's first symphonies give evidence of his admiration for both Haydn and Mozart, in the same way this symphony manifests Mozart's deep veneration for Haydn, but his own individual style is clearly evident both in its construction and instrumentation. Such innovations appear as the use of trumpets in the slow Movement, and the Introduction of a subordinate Theme in that same Movement which overshadows the principal Theme in importance. Another disticnt departure from the Haydn tradition is the elaborate development period in both the first and last movements. It is interesting to note that the principal Theme and the subordinate Theme in the first Movement are so much alike that unless one listens closely they appear to be exactly the same.

Cheers,

Mozart: the Haffner Symphony

2005-11-25T10:59:00.000-08:00

The Haffner symphony (K.385) was written for some festive occasion (July, 1782) in the house of Siegmund Haffner, the "Mayor" of Salzburg; six years previously, Mozart had composed the famous "Serenade" which was played when Haffner's daughter, Elizabeth, was married. The symphony was also originally intended as a serenade; in this form it had an introductory march and two minuets which Mozart eliminated in 1783, transforming the work into a four-movement symphony. It is said that, having composed the work at top speed, Mozart forgot all about it so that upon return of the manuscript, he was agreeably surprised at its excellence. Critics agreed that the symphony clearly manifests the influence of Josef Haydn; it would appear that certain themes resemble airs to be found in Mozart's musical comedy "Die Entfuhrung aus dem Serail" which was also composed in 1782.
The symphony (D major) has no Introduction but--- as is somewhat more common with Mozart---begins with an exceedingly spirited Theme. The subordinate Theme assumes a shape so similar, outwardly, to the principal one, that the hearer might question its own identity. But such thematic unity was considered not alone permissible but desirable. Here, the necessary contrast is secured by the difference in statement (it appears at first "upside down"), and by the new motives which grow naturally out of this one. Further, it seems to have been Mozart's express purpose to lay almost exclusive emphasis upon this festive Theme throughout. The form of the first Movement is sonata-allegro. It is scored for the "full" orchestra of that day: the quintet of strings, full octet of wood-wind (two each of flute, oboe, clarinet, and bassoon), two horns, two trumpets, and kettledrums---no trombones.
The usual slow Movement, Minuet; and Finale, complete Symphony.

Of note is the dramatic gesture in the third measure of the principal Theme, first Movement. It is essentially the crisp abrupt end of a phrase of two staccato quarter notes (here leaping up one octave). These rather pompous staccato beats may be seen in Carl Phillip Emanual Bach's third Symphony, primary theme, first Movement; and in Haydn's second Symphony, primary theme, first Movement; and Mozart's first Symphony, primary theme, first Movement. It is a "dramatic gesture" that was exceedingly popular, and, as cited, astonishingly common in earlier Symphonies. It occurs in many other Themes of Haydn and Mozart, but with diminishing frequency---like a mannerism whose hollowness was being detected. A lingering echo of it occurs in the Finale of Beethoven's Second Symphony (in the 2nd and 6th measures): but it is not unlikely that Beethoven, who abhorred "gestures" of any kind, was here, in this humorful Movement, good-naturedly mimicking the empty bombast of bygone days. Still, he uses the figure seriously in the second measure of his piano Sonata, Op.2, No.3; also in the first and second measures of Op.22, and even in the second measure of his prodigious Sonata, Op.106. It is completely repudiated by Schubert, Mendelssohn, Schumann and Brahms, in their symphonies---although Brahms makes fine, genuine dramatic use of it in his first piano Concerto, Op.15, second measure.

Cheers,

Mozart: Early Symphonies

2005-11-24T19:51:00.000-08:00

No little historic interest attaches to Mozart's very first Symphony, written in London in 1764 (at the age of eight!). It is scored for the quartet of strings, two horns and two oboes. The first movement is a simple but regular sonata-allegro. This is followed by a second Movement, Andante , and a Finale, Presto. (There is no Minuet.)

One extraordinary thing about it is that it is the work of a child of eight years; and another thing that compels our amazement, is the ambition, self-assurance, and temerity of the youngster in assailing such a problem. Regarded as artistic music, it has, assuredly, no special value. But you cannot expect much of a boy of eight, especially in an encounter with so formidable an object as the Symphony. On the other hand, it must not be forgotten that Mozart was preternaturally precocious, equipped with an intelligence and experience far beyond his years. He already possessed more instinctive knowledge of the language of tone than many a professional musician can boast of having acquired at the end of a long and studious career. He was saturated with a consciousness of the basic principles of tone-relation and tone-organization; he was quick to apprehend the operation of these principles in the music he so dearly loved and eagerly devoured; the "rules" of the art were second nature to him. But besides this the youthful Mozart possessed---as the future confirmed---a musical imagination of extraordinary scope, originality and vitality, and was strongly impelled by the desire to pour out his musical feelings, reproduce his musical visions, and record them in tangible form.

Passing over a few other Symphonies composed by Mozart in his next succeeding youthful years, it is instructional to pause at one of his later ones (his twelfth), written in July, 1771---at the age of fifteen,---and to verify the marked progress in assurance and technical grasp.

The first Movement, scored for full quintet of strings, two oboes and two horns. The design is sonata-allegro, regular and very concise. The Development is short; the Recapitulation complete.

In the second Movement, an Andante, two flutes are substituted for the two oboes. The design is sonata-allegro, but so concise that it barely reaches beyond the Three-Part Song-form. Both this and the first Movement are fine illustrations of the expanding process from the Three-Part Song-form into the sonata-allegro form.

A keen ear will sense in the Themes of this Andante the distinctive quality of Mozart's melodic conception, nascent and unpronounced, but not to be mistaken. Haydn would not have written them thus; perhaps no one but just Mozart, even in this, his formative, period.

For the third Movement, Mozart, following Haydn's lead, inserts a Minuet with Trio.

The Finale is animated, but heroic rather than gay. The design is that of the Dance, Song with Trio, each in the regular Three-Part form (the same as in the third Movement).

Cheers,

Mozart: Symphonies

2005-11-24T19:43:00.000-08:00

Viewed in its total scope, the symphonies of Mozart manifest two fundamental qualities whose presence may be taken for granted in the work of any true Master, but which stand out in almost unparalleled prominence.

First, a frank and unquestioning affirmation of the basic, natural, conditions of tonal relations and discipline. Any inclination to abandon or modify these simple paths, any grotesque subversion of Nature's law, was absolutely foreign to Mozart's musical creed; such originality, such emotional or dramatic impulses as his music reflects, are all held firmly within these natural bounds. His melody wells up pure and sweet out of the most wholesome and productive soil, and this elemental outflow is graced with melodic and rhythmic adornments that we associate with Mozart and no one else.

Second, truly exquisite workmanship in every technical respect---melody, harmony, modulation, counterpoint, and structural adjustment.

It is these qualities that make Mozart so universally revered and beloved, and assure him the unique distinction of being "the finest and truest model, the safest and surrest guide, for every listener of musical expression."

Cheers,

Haydn's Mature Symphonies

2005-11-23T14:01:00.000-08:00

The best of Haydn's symphonic production is recorded in his last twelve Symphonies, composed in London from 1791 to 1794. Some of these carry distinctive titles, as the Drum-roll (No.I), the London (No.II), the Drum-beat (or Surprise, No.VI), and the Military (No.XI). There is also an Oxford Symphony, written in 1788 for Paris, but first performed in London, July,1791; it was so named in recognition of the distinguished honor accorded to Haydn by Oxford University, in conferring upon him the honorary degree of Doctor of Music on that occasion.

The title Drum-roll is due to the singular opening of the Symphony with a solo roll on the drum.

The history of the Drum-beat (not to be confounded with the "Drum-roll") again discloses Haydn's unconquerable humor, and his love of a good musical joke. The second (slow) Movement of the Symphony is an extremely simple melody, of folk-song character. At the end of the Period, on the heels of the softest pianissimo repetition, there is a sudden terrific crash of the drum (and the entire orchestra). One explanation of the origin of this jest is to be sought in a remark of Haydn's time: "It was my intention to give the audience something new that would surprise them." But the real underlying impulse was Haydn's determination to check the inclination of his hearer's to fall asleep (after the customary heavy dinner), during the performance of his music. It was a genuine surprise, and led to the nickname Surprise, by which the Symphony was thereafter known.

The Military Symphony was so called chiefly because Haydn, in the second Movement (based upon a most charming French Romance), augmented his orchestra in a very unusual (at the time) manner by the addition of a bass-drum, cymbals and triangle---strong percussion instruments which give the 4/4 measure the character of a military parade. But there are still other traits which contribute to the "military" impression.

Haydn's last, and in many respects best and most mature Symphony (No.XII of the London group) exhibits the following thematic factors. The first Movement begins with an impressive Introduction---an addition to the form for which Haydn manifests a more positive inclination in his later than in his earlier Symphonies. The form is a regular sonata-allegro of unusual length and breadth of conception. The Development is masterly, and indicates plainly the important advance in Haydn's musical thought. The early type of the Development-sections, practised by Haydn's predecessors and for quite a period by Haydn himself---the dry, perfunctory, haphazard (or worse still, purely mechanical) recurrences of the motives of the Exposition, with no fixed purpose, and no higher aim than to occupy the hearer's attention until it was about time to go back to the beginning---this lifeless type was gradually supplanted, in Haydn's works, by the genuine Development, in which the material of the Exposition was made to serve a definitive progressive plan, with ingenuity, originality and spirit. Such is this one of Haydn; and it exhibits some of the fine artistic qualities that entered so vitally into the supreme methods of Beethoven. Herein Haydn was unquestionably influenced by the last three great Symphonies of Mozart, written in 1788 (six years before these of Haydn). It is a curious historic phenomenon: Mozart, at first the pupil and emulator of Haydn, becomes finally his preceptor and model.

The second Movement, which reveals marked affinity with Mozart's most characteristic slow Movements,is a regular Three-Part Song-form (Part I repeated). Its message is serious, but delivered affably and without sentimentality, in a delightfully smooth, flowing rhythm.

The third Movement is the Menuetto with Trio---already a firmly established conventionality. Of special charm is the Trio, with its interesting melody, and the singularly attractive cadences, in which (measures 8-9, 15-16) the flute lays a lovely tonal arc over the cadence-lines of the other instruments---six times in all, and always the same tones f-d. Note the altered rhythmic location of these tones, at cadence-points---at first over, and then at the cadence.

The Finale is, as usual, a rollicking Presto Movement, sparkling, and permeated with humor. It is cast in the Third Rondo-form. It would require a lengthy essay to point out all the marvels of ingenuity, imagination and technical dexterity with which Haydn manipulates this material. It would be rewarding to make a thorough study of this felicitious Finale; one would discover the scource upon which Beethoven freely drew, even in his later works, for many a clever conceit that we are accustomed to appraise as original with Beethoven (for example, the episode in the Coda). Of note is the manifold treatment of the first three-tone figure. Also, that the two subordinate Themes employ the motives of the principal Theme, in a different manner and environment.

Thus did Haydn round out his symphonic activity, and crown the final concept with a genius and mastership that vindicate his rank as Founder and Father of the Classic Symphony.

Cheers,

Haydn: the Farewell Symphony

2005-11-23T13:49:00.000-08:00

There is something so quaintly humorous, so thoroughly in unison with Haydn's genial, sunny disposition, in his Farewell Symphony (known also as the Candle Symphony), that a brief description of it is here given. The story runs thus:

In the summer of 1772, Haydn and his men, exhausted from their confining labors, looked forward to their early release from duty. But Esterhazy suddenly decided that they should remain two months longer. With ready wit, Haydn hit upon a musical method of voicing a protest, which could not irritate the Prince, and, should it fail of its aim, would at least give them all a hearty laugh. Very soon the task was completed (for Haydn wrote with incredible rapidity, and had only to adjust his scheme to the last movement of an already finished Symphony), and rehearsed; and the hour of performance drew near---

The entire Symphony, in the unusual key of F-sharp minor, is music of the finest fiber, and holds its own with the best that Haydn's genius and eminent workmanship ever consummated in the symphonic domain. It embraces the usual four Movements, of which only the Finale is here illustrated, since that is the only one involved in Haydn's humorous plan. This Finale, scored for full quintet of strings, two oboes and two horns, is in the regular sonata-allegro form, tersely presented. This Movement, although completely finished so far as the form is concerned, ends with a semicadence on the dominant of F-sharp, and thence passes over into an extra, fifth, Movement, which is to witness the perpetration of the musical jest. It is a graceful slow Movement (adagio) in A major, of gentle, ingratiating character. It is cast in the Three-Part Song-form, extended by a fourth Part (or Coda) which consists of the material of Part I, but transposed to F-sharp major (the principal key of the Symphony).

At the cadence of the First Part, the 2nd horn and the 1st oboe players (following the direction si parte in the score) blow out their candles, quietly close their books, and with their instruments walk off stage, as if too weary to continue. The other players keep on, but twenty-three measures later, near the end of Part III, the 2nd oboe and the 1st horn leave in the same manner; a few measures farther along, the double-basses, then the 'celli, then all but one of the first and one of the second violins, then the violas---puff out their candles and walk away, leaving only the two solo-violins, playing alone to give the closing phrase. Prince Esterhazy saw the point, interpreted the innocent pantomime in the kindliest spirit and said: "Haydn, I understand you; the gentlemen may leave tomorrow."

Cheers,

Haydn: Paris Symphonies, Rasiermesser Quartet

2005-11-23T13:43:00.000-08:00

In 1781 a Frenchman from Paris, Le Gros, wrote to Haydn, expressing his gratitude for the Stabat Mater Haydn had composed for him and he asked if Haydn could compose more music for him. (HaydnÂs star was rising in French too. In 1784 another French society, Les Concerts de la Loge Olympique in Paris ordered 6 symphonies. In the years 1785-1786 Haydn composed the series we know as the Paris symphonies, such as the symphonies No. 82 in C, 83 in g minor and 85 in B flat. The great popularity of the works led to an order for three more symphonies, No. 90, 91 and 92, composed in 1788). In 1781 the British ambassador in Vienna, General Jermingham, arranged a meeting between Haydn and a London publisher named William Forster. Forster had asked the British ambassador his permission to publish Haydn's compositions in England (which led to the issue of some of Haydn's symphonies and other works in England). Other London publishers followed. One of them, John Bland,traveledd in 1789 to Eszterhaza to obtain new works. An anecdote tells that the string quartet op. 55 No. 2 got its name Rasiermesser (razor) this way. Haydn had trouble with shaving the morning John Bland arrived in Eszterhaza. Haydn told Bland "You may have my best string quartet if you will give me a good razor." John Bland immediately gave him his razor of English steel. Haydn gave him a manuscript of the string quartet.

Should Orchestral Musicians Put On a Happy Face?

2005-11-22T13:26:00.000-08:00

By David Lister

Members of the Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra have been accused by their audiences of looking too miserable. I have myself looked miserable in Bournemouth in the autumn. It's not an offence. But the residents of Bournemouth like their orchestras to put on a happy face. It was reported this week that complaints have been posted on the orchestra's website about how down in the dumps the players look. The distinguished ensemble has even been nicknamed The Glums.

Audience dissatisfaction with unsmiling musicians is spreading. The City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra, Sir Simon Rattle's former outfit, has also fallen foul of its audience for not wearing sunny Birmingham grins. I naturally assumed that orchestra officials would have reminded audiences that this isn't Strictly Come Dancing. The musicians are concentrating and can't give cheesy grins on demand. But no. This is the age of marketing departments, audience satisfaction surveys and National Smile Days. It is the orchestras, not the audiences, that are being given a lesson in concert behavior. The managements are developing smiling policies, and the issue is on the agenda for discussion at the next Association of British Orchestras conference.

Anthony Brown, the head of marketing for the Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra, says: 'A perennial problem is that the orchestra members don't seem to enjoy themselves. It tends to be the ones that don't who people notice. The violins and the cellos, who are at the front, often get noticed.' Well, it's good to know that the timpani, French horn and oboe guys are having a giggle at the back. No doubt, the Bournemouth management will come up with a smile policy for those front-row miserabilists. In fact, it already has. This, of course,is the orchestra whose management seems obsessed with happy faces. A couple of years ago, players were ordered to look at different sections of the audience for three beats and smile. Can it get more surreal than Bournemouth?

Of course it can. There's always Birmingham. The CBSO management has formed a 'presentation committee'. Who cares if you're a virtuoso if you don't scrub up well and never show your teeth? Sarah Gee, the director of communications for the CBSO, says that one woman told them that her enjoyment of a concert had been wrecked by a dour musician. 'She caught one of the musician's eyes and gave him the thumbs up, but he lowered his gaze. It destroyed the evening for her.' What an inconsiderate musician that was. He could at least have given a thumbs-up sign back and continued playing with one hand. Indeed, perhaps, every three beats they should smile and every six beats give a communal thumbs-up to show they are truly having a ball.

Alternatively, their managements could come back to Earth and ask audiences to give the musicians a break. Do we really want symphony orchestras that beam at the spectators? Surely their faces should reflect the music they are playing. The accomplished musician should look intense for Beethoven, depressed but hugely moved for Mahler and totally confused for Birtwistle. But happy and smiling? It makes playing a symphony seem like a bit of a jaunt and destroys the poignancy of the work.

There is a code of conduct for audiences at classical concerts, just as there is for the players. Don't grin, and don't expect the performers to grin at you. Be moody. Look miserable. And always cough between movements. It shows you know your music.

* * *

Obituary: Composer and Music Scholar Gardner Read, 92

2005-11-20T13:11:00.000-08:00

It is with deep regret that I must announce that composer and music scholar Gardner Read died on November 10, 2005, at his home in Manchester-by-the-Sea, MA. He was 92. I studied with Gardner 1969-1975. He was a consummate symphonist with many books on orchestration, notation, and contemporary styles. A full obituary can be found at NewMusicBox:
http://www.newmusicbox.com/article.nmbx?id=4421

Haydn Symphonies

2005-11-19T12:41:00.000-08:00

Out of the formidable list of 104 Haydn symphonies there are eighteen which constitute the best and most mature of his orchestral creations---six Paris Symphonies and the twelve English ones which he composed during his two sojourns in London; and it is upon these that his fame as creator of the first Master-Symphonies rests.

Those which sprang from his early period were written with more speed than reflection, no doubt, usually a half-dozen at a time; but they all contain some original and lovely touches, which reveal the rare genius of the youth; and are a foretaste of the choicer fruits of his maturer years. The quaint titles of many of his early Symphonies (the first forty, from 1759 to 1770) imply a disposition on Haydn's part to adopt some poetic and dramatic basis for the work. Thus we encounter: Le Midi, Le Matin, Le Soir (closing with a thunderstorm), Philosopher, Absentminded, Farewell (or "Candle" Symphony), Schoolmaster, fire, La Chasse, L'Ours, Children's Symphony, and many others. This descriptive tendency, however, is not to be taken seriously; it does not detract in the slightest degree from the seriousness with which Haydn prosecuted his art---notwithstanding the utterly unconquerable buoyancy and cheerfulness of his temperament. It may be accounted for largely as a transient concession to the widespread custom of the day (compare the titles of many of the harpsichord compositions of Couperin, Rameau, Kuhnau, etc.) And, in any event, it afforded Haydn an effective means of fathoming the powers of tone from this natural angle.

It must be admitted that the music of Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach already presages many of the excellent traits that are so abundant and distinctive in that of Haydn, and this would account for Haydn's veneration of him.

What immense influence the imposing works of the "great" Bach might have exerted upon Haydn's whole manner, had he known them, it is hard to determine. But these works, excepting the Well-Tempered Clavichord, were for many reasons only locally familiar to North German music lovers, and even there they were soon neglected, and might have been forgotten, but for the resurrection of the St. Matthew Passion, by Mendelssohn in 1829, which led to the restoration of much of the greatest music that has ever been penned.

Cheers,

Haydn: The Psychological Scheme of the Symphony

2005-11-19T12:26:00.000-08:00

Haydn is the grand architect of the psychological scheme of the Symphony. A Symphony opens, in its first (allegro) Movement, with that dignity and seriousness of bearing which immediately proclaim the lofty purpose, nothing short of the most perfect design, that of the sonata-allegro form, with its firmness of line, its provision for contrast and confirmation, and its wholly satisfactory total effect, could be tolerated. To emphasize this weighty quality still further, it became customary with Haydn, especially in his later Symphonies, to prefix an Introduction, in slow tempo (generally largo), serious in tone, but arresting, and sometimes mildly dramatic. All the succeeding masters of the Symphony adopted the idea of the Introduction, and either applied it or omitted it, as swayed by the specific conceptive quality and aim of the work in its totality.

In the second Movement the atmosphere changes from this sterner aspect to a more intimate, lyric, emotional, altogether sympathetic mood, in slow or stately tempo. Now, the subsequent abrupt transition from this gentler mood to the hilarity and bustle of the Finale might well prove to be too startling; and for this reason Haydn drew upon the Suite for one of its most congenial dances (usually the Minuet); its complacent, graceful, partly subdued and partly rhythmically animated character fitted into this transitional purpose admirably, without interfering with the lively spirit, the rollicking gaiety of the last Movement.

The Finale itself naturally adopts the only medium of contrast that is left to choose from---the spirited, light-hearted, brilliant mood, which matches each of the foregoing phases sufficiently well, and leaves the hearer at the end with a sensation of exhilaration and complete satisfaction that crowns the enjoyment of the whole work.

These are the established qualities which earned for Haydn the title of Founder of the modern Symphony.

The proof of his wisdom lies in the fact that this four-square disposition of the symphonic Movements, with its well-defined and sensibly bridged contrasting moods, was accepted by Haydn's successors and has held its own without essential modification to the present day. Any deviation from it seems to lower the standard, and has necessitated the use of other titles, such as Tone-Poem, Orchestral Suite, and the like.

In the above example, Haydn, it is true, places the Minuet after the Allegro as second Movement; but the Dance soon gravitated to its established place as third Movement. Further it was Beethoven who, by quickening the tempo of the Minuet and calling it a Scherzo in many of his works, established a slightly different and in some instances even more effective alternation and merging of moods.

The sonata-allegro design was occasionally adopted for the slow Movement, especially in larger and more pretentious works; and it was not unusual to apply it also to the Finale---although for a Movement of so light a nature, the more perspicuous and recognizable design of the Rondo appears to be more consistent and effective.

JS Bach: Brandenburg Concertos

2005-11-18T21:00:00.000-08:00

Chamber Music NorthWest (Portland, Oregon) continued its 35th Anniversary Summer Festival on Thursday, June 30, 2005 with a "Celebration Bach" The Complete Brandenburg Concertos. This program was a powerhouse of energetic celebration. I have three recordings of the Brandenburg Concertos, and nothing could prepare for the sheer excitement of hearing them live performed by very able musicians.

Brandenburg, in Bach's day, was a political and military powerhouse. It had been part of the Holy Roman Empire since the mid-12th century, and its ruler---Markgraf, or Margrave---was charged with defending and extending the northern imperial border ("mark," or "marche" in Old English and Old French), in return for which he was allowed to be an Elector of the Emperor. The house of Hohenzollern acquired the margraviate of Brandenburg in 1415, and the family embraced the Reformation a century later with such authority that they came to be regarded as the leaders of German Protestantism; Potsdam was chosen as the site of the electoral court in the 17th century. Extensive territorial acquisitions under Frederick William, the "Great Elector," allowed his son Frederick III to secure the title and the rule of Brandenburg's northern neighbor, Prussia in 1701. Frederick, a cultured man and a generous patron, founded academies of science and arts in Berlin, and built the magnificent palace Charlottenburg for his wife, Sophie Charlotte,which became one of the most important musical centers in early-18th-century Germany. When Frederick William I succeeded his father in 1713, however, he turned the court's focus from music to militarism, and dismissed most of the excellent musicians that his father had assembled; several of them found employment at the court of AnhÃ¤lt-CÃ¶then north of Leipzig, where a young prince was just starting to indulge his taste and talents for music. Frederick William did, however allow his uncleChristianin Ludwig, younger brother of the late King Frederick and possessor of the now-lesser title of Margrave of Brandenburg, to remain at the palace and retain his own musical establishment.

Johann Sebastian Bach, now in his thirties, met Christian Ludwig, Margrave of Brandenburg, in 1719, during his tenure as music director at the court of Leopold of AnhÃ¤lt-CÃ¶then from 1717 to 1723, and he and Leopold seem to have gotten along splendidly. The Prince enjoyed travel, fine art and, above all, music, and he respected and encouraged Bach in his own work, even occasionally participating in the court concerts as violinist, gambist, or harpsichordist. Provided by Leopold with an excellent set of instruments and a group of fine players (and the second-highest salary of any of his court employees), Bach enjoyed a fruitful period at CÃ¶then---many of his greatest works for keyboard, chamber ensembles and orchestra date those thos years.

Early in 1719, Leopold sent Bach to Berlin to finalize arrangements for the purchase of a new harpsichord, a large, two manual model made by Michael Mierke, instrument builder to the royal court. While in Berlin, Bach played for Christian Ludwig, who was so taken with his music that he asked him to send some of his compositions for his library. Bach lost an infant son a few months later, however, and in 1720, his wife died and he rejected an offer to become organist at the Jacobkirche in Hamburg, so it was more than two years before he fulfilled Brandenburg's request. By 1721, however, Leopold had become engaged to marry a woman who looked askance at his huge expenditures for musical entertainment. Bach seems to have realized that when she moved in, he would probably be moved out, so he began casting about for a more secure position. He remembered the interest the MargBrandenburgnburg had shown in his music, and thought it a good time to approach him again, so he picked six of the finest concertos he had written at CÃ¶then, copied them out meticulously, had them bound in a sumptuous volume (at no little cost), and sent them to Christian Ludwig in March 1721 with a flowery dedication in French---but to no avail. No job materialized at Brandenburg, and in 1723, Bach moved to Leipzig's Thomaskirche, where he remained for the rest of his life. It is possible that the Margrave never heard any of these magnificent works that immortalized his name, since records indicate that his modest Kapelle might not have been able to negotiate their difficulties and instrumental requirements. The Concertos apparently lay untouched in his library until he died thirteen years after Bach had presented them to him, when the were inventoried at a value of four groschen each---only a few cents. Fortunately they were preserved by the noted theorist and pedagogue Johann Philipp Kirnberger, a pupil of Bach, and came eventually into the collection of the Royal Library in Berlin. They were brought to light during the 19th-century Bach revival, published in 1850, and have since come to be recognized as the supreme examples of Baroque instrumental music.

The Brandenburg Concertos differ from those of later eras in both instrumental disposition and form. These are concerti grossi ("great concertos"), works in which a small group of soloists (concertino) rather than a single instrument is pitted against the ensemble (ripieno). Most of the fast movements of the Brandenburgs use a formal procedure known as "ritornello," which is based on the contrasonorityorirty between concertino and ripieno. First the orchestra presents a collection of thematic kernels from which much of the movement grows. Then the soloists take over for an episode, sometimes borrowing from the opening orchestral introduction, sometimes providing something new. The ensemble then returns (ritornello is Italian for "return"), and is followed by another solo episode, and that by another orchestral ritornello, and so forth. The remaining fast movements are based on dance types, while the slow movements are usually lyrical and through-compassort asort of elaborate worldless aria.

The performers of the Brandenburgs were a stellar cast:
Ranson Wilson, flute
Tara Helen O'Connor, flute
Allan Vogel, oboe
Frack Avril, oboe
Karen Wagner, oboe
David Shifrin, piccolo clarinet
Julie Feves, bassoon
William Purvis, horn
John Cox, horn
Ani Kavafian, violin
Ida Kavafian, violin and viola
Kerry McDermott, violin
Paul Neubauer, viola
Cynthia Phelps, viola
Fred Sherry, cello
Ronald Thomas, cello
Hamilton Cheifetz, cello
Edgar Meyer, double-bass
John Gibbons, harpsichord

J S Bach: Brandenburg Concertos, background

2005-11-18T19:29:00.000-08:00

Bach represents the culmination of the musical development which began in the 1600's; Bach's music is the greatest monument of the entire Baroque period. The contrapuntal texture which is the outstanding characteristic of his style was derived from a long line of Flemish and North German predecessors; his musical forms are those which the 17th century had developed. Probably no composer had his musical roots so deeply embedded in the past and owed so much to those who came before him. Rather than being the founder of a new music, Bach represents the peak toward which generations of composers had been striving.
Perhaps the most important orchestral work of Bach's service at Cothen (1717-1723) was a collection of six concertos. The set was written as the result of a wish expressed by Christian Ludwig, margrave of Brandenburg, that Bach provide some music for his private orchestra. The works were completed early in 1721 and were sent to the margrave with an elaborate dedication in French under the title, "Six concerts avec plusieurs instruments. . . ." They are at once Bach's earliest large orchestral works and his finest accomplishments in this field. In style, content, and expressive intent they are as diverse as their instrumentation. No two are alike, and they contain virtually a summary of concerto developments up to Bach's time.
Considered in the light of the modern orchestral ideal, the first two "Brandenburg Concertos" offer the greatest variety of tone color and instrumental contrast. However, instead of supplying individual color to the thematic material or to the implied harmony of the continuo, there is a wholesale duplication of polyphonic lines. This typical Baroque technique of instrumentation merely reinforces the contrapuntal strands, as various stops might be added to organ registration for the same purpose.
In Bach's orchestral music, again in typical Baroque style, dynamic contrasts were planned sectionally ("terraced") rather than the later Romantic concept of expressive dynamics between instrument and instrument or from measure to measure. Where there are major timbral contrasts it is between large structural elements. One instrumental scheme usually carries through an entire section or movement. This is in contrast, of course, with the more modern practice of constantly shifting the instrumental tone-colors. That is, Bach's orchestrational style is compositional and contrapuntal rather than coloristic.
The remaining concertos of the set differ greatly from each other, especially in instrumentation. The outstanding characteristic of the Brandenburg concertos, however, is their great variety of textures, form, and moods. It is difficult to exaggerate the technical perfection of these works; yet their ability to provide listening pleasure is equally great. The sheer exuberance of many of the movements, and the restrained dignity of others, combined with their richness in instrumental color and texture, make this set of works unique in the literature. Among Bach's first attempts at writing for instruments alone, they represent an amazing accomplishment. In no later orchestral works did he transcend the expressive levels he attained here, and seldom did he equal them.

Cheers,

Handel Orchestration

2005-11-18T16:39:00.000-08:00

Gardner Read writes:

George Frederick Handel (1685-1759) was inclined to design his instrumentation for audience effect. His method with the strings, however, was even less enterprising than Bach's customary four-part treatment. Handel's violas had no separate and independent part, but followed the bass voices at the upper octave or else filled in harmony notes---an unfortunate waste of color potential. His bass parts, like those of the other Baroque composers, served for cellos, double basses, bassoons, and the continuo (organ or cembalo).

Woodwinds, on the other hand, made a major contribution to the generally massive sound of Handel's orchestra. They frequently included as many as ten double-reed instruments against a string body rarely exceeding twenty-five. Any imbalance of tone, however, was probably not a problem, for eighteenth-century oboes and bassoons did not possess the power and intensity of their modern counterparts.

In his oratorio Saul(1739), Handel became the first composer to make the bassoon a solo instrument. Previously used only as a doubling agent, the bassoon was accustomed to follow the basso continuo and seldom had its own part written in Baroque scores. This time-saving practice on the part of composers led some later editors and publishers to assume that no bassoons were required in many works of the period. This misunderstanding applied even to certain of the Haydn and Mozart symphonies of a later era. Modern editions, of course, rightly supply these missing parts in the the printed scores.

Handel's obvious fondness for horns and trumpets also gave great solidity and brilliance to his orchestration. He is now generally credited with being the first to use four horns in the orchestra (in the opera Giulio Cesare (1724). Later, Mozart also called for four horns in his Idomeneo of 1780, but these instances are both the exception rather than the rule in the instrumentation of the Baroque and Classical periods.

Another "first" that can be credited to Handel is a solo role for the timpani, notably in the two oratorios Ode for St. Cecilia's Day (1739) and Semele (1743). Like the bassoons, the kettledrums had heretofore only supported and doubled existing parts, nearly always in conjunction with the trumpets. In several passages in the two oratorios, however, they are used quite independently.

Uniformly apt and always powerful, Handel's orchestration employed two broad methods of procedure. In his early period he duplicated all the component parts---oboes with violins, bassoons with cellos and double-basses---as Bach did. Even his brasses would simply reinforce or imitate the string-wind voices, as in the Water Music of 1715-17.

Closer to the modern orchestral manner is the practice of Handel's later years, when he deliberately contrasted the three tone-colors of strings, double reeds, and combined brasses and timpani. By overlapping these groups, alternating them, and also combining them in the fashion of earlier duplicating procedures, Handel exemplifies what the later Romantic composers took for granted---an orchestral technique rooted in the principle of contrast by choirs.
* * *

JS Bach Orchestration

2005-11-16T16:33:00.000-08:00

Adam Carse writes:

Famous in Germany as an executant, Johann Sebastian Bach (1685-1750) was hardly recognised as a prominent composer during his lifetime. His orchestral works were written for performance under his own guidance in the various towns where he was employed, for variable and often insufficient resources, reaching at best a limited circle which was more local than national extent. His orchestration follows in direct succession the beginning made by Gabrieli in Italy, introduced into Germany by Schutz, further developed by succeeding German organist-composers, and finally handed on to Bach and his generation by the Church composers immediately preceding him, the generation of which perhaps the best remembered is Buxtehude. Confined within the radius of a few German churches and provincial courts, Bach's orchestration neither contributed nor acquired any of the freedom and progress which marked the contemporary work of German composers in the theatre or concert-room.

Bach's resources at Leipzig are known to have been an orchestra of from eighteen to twenty, of which wind instruments would account for nine or ten players, leaving only two to three instruments to each part. The wind players were obviously double-handed in the sense that the oboe players, for example, would have to play on alto and tenor instruments of the same type when required, and it is not at all improbable that the players on brass instruments were similarly obliged to change from one instrument to another. Whereas a four-part string orchestra is employed in almost every work, the specific wind parts vary in a manner which suggests that Bach wrote for whatever wind instruments happened to be at his disposal and that the combination and supply varied considerably from time to time. His "memorials" complaining of the lack of necessary instrumental players bear out the impression that he was obliged to cut his coat according to his cloth, and that his orchestral "cloth" was frequently insufficient in quantity if not in quality.

From Whence Came Instruments?

2005-11-06T10:04:00.000-08:00

It would be fun to consider that our intstruments came from "chicken little" on the fourth day of "The Sky is Falling." However, the evolution of the Symphony is so inseparably identified with, and dependent upon, the history and development of musical instruments that it is imperative to begin with the latter.

It is perfectly obvious that the first, most primitive utterances of the human family were vocal, and that very many centuries must have passed before anything in the nature of instrumental experiments could have been made. An infant uses lungs long before making conscious use of the hands; and in music, the human race must have remained in the infantile stage for a tremendously long time.

Just when the first musical instrument was fashioned and used, no one can tell; but there is proof positive of the existence of such, some very crude, and others remarkably refined (at least in appearance), dating back to the dawn of history. The ancient Egyptians did surely possess and manipulate an array of Harps (tebuna), besides many other more or less inviting tone-producing instruments; the Hebrews had there Shofar and numerous other mediums of mechanical tone-production, enumerated in the Bible; the Chinese their venerable and venerated Cheng and King; the Hindus their Vina; the Greeks their various Lyres and Kitharas, also Flutes, single and double; the Romans their Flutes and Trumpets. But the greater part of these mechanical agents are so remote, and have exerted so little influence upon the instruments that for the modern orchestra, that they may be dismissed with complaisant mention. The only ones of these ancient instruments that appear to have persisted and to have become approximate models for later days are the Flutes, the rounded metal Buccina, and the straight Tuba (or Lituus, when slightly curved at the end) of the Romans, whose general resemblance to the present flute, horn and trumpet is noteworthy.

Of far greater significance are three more recent contrivances of the Arabs and Persians, the Rebab and Kemangeh---stringed instruments that passed over quite directly into our present viola or violin and 'cello; further, the Lute ("el aud"---aloe wood) which became the type for the prodigious number of Italian lutes; and the Zurna, an instrument of nasal quality which probably led to the European Pommer family (sixteenth century), the highest member of which is practically identical with the modern oboe. These were familiarized through the crusades, that brought many European nations into contact with the Orientals. The lute, though wholly banned from the modern orchestra, nevertheless promoted greatly the cultivation of the instrumental style, since its qualities were peculiarly adapted to accompaniments in detached chords, thus favoring the harmonic style and furthering precise rhythmic accents, and, in general, inviting independent treatment.

It should be borne in mind that serious music [ah, a term needing its own discussion], up to and far into the sixteenth century, was almost exclusively vocal. The Masses of the Church, and the Madrigals of the secular world, were the predominating channels of musical expression, and they neither sanctioned nor tolerated co-operation with instruments. Madrigals and other secular forms were sometimes transcribed for and played upon the lute (no doubt clumsily enough); and rustic dances, serenades, minstrel activities, and other musical inducements certainly furnished occasion for brief, more or less skillful instrumental practices from earliest historic times. But these inartistic musical occupations with still rather imperfect instruments of early days, unpolished and unemotional (in the deeper sense), have no appreciable bearing upon the birth and development of the later artistic forms of instrumental music, excepting in that they did their share in preparing the soil for future accomplishments, and aided materially in bringing music closer to the common people, in a congenial form---more than the elaborate and exclusive music of the Church, or the artistic performances of trained singers could do.

The inception of a distinctive and independent instrumental style came very late. History associates the names of Giovanni Gabrieli (1557-1612) and Claudio Monteverde (or Monteverdi, 1567-1643) with the first conscious attempts to separate the vocal and instrumental styles, and to impart greater independence to the instrumental accompaniments and the purely instrumental preludes and interludes which were added to the vocal scores. Of these two distinguished composers it was Monteverdi who became active in the promotion of the Opera (called into life about 1600), and herein he found the greatest and most natural inducement to develop and advance the co-operation of instruments, not only, as stated, in the accompaniment, but in numerous interspersed instrumental passages. He is called the father of the art of Instrumentation.

Cheers,

Baroque Symphony

2005-11-04T19:20:00.000-08:00

This is as good a place as any to start Symphony Salon!

The word "symphony," which appears in the titles of some of Giovanni Gabrieli's (ca. 1557-1612) works, requires close attention. Like the term "sonata" it has had many different meanings. For the classic Greeks "symphony" was a musical interval. In the Middle Ages, the term "symphony" was applied to certain musical instruments, notably the hurdy-gurdy. By the late sixteenth-century it had become the title of a composition, and thus approached its later meaning. It appeared in Gabrieli's "sacred symphonies" and in similarly named works by his German pupil, Heinrich Schutz; in Waelrant's "angelic symphonies," Banchieri's "ecclesiastical symphonies," and in other works after 1600. But a symphony in this sense was not necessarily an instrumental piece: Gabrieli's "Sacrae symphoniae" include many motets and canzoni, along with sonatas for several instruments.
After the turn into the seventeenth-century, the term was employed in yet another context. The operas of the first decades sometimes contained instrumental interludes, to which the Italian term "sinfonia" was given. These single movements for instruments alone and often rich and poetic content, appeared separately or were inserted into the middle of an operatic act or into an oratorio; there they enjoyed a vigorous life until well into the eighteenth century. Prime examples are at hand in the "sinfonie" of Bach's "Christmas Oratorio," of Handel's "Messiah", and of numerous other choral works of the time.

Toward the end of the seventeenth century, a fifth use of the word appeared in connection with the overtures to the Neapolitan operas. That use of the "sinfonia" is related directly to the present-day meaning of the word.

In the last years of the sixteenth-century, a series of speculations and experiments on the part of a group of aristocratic and professional musicians in Italy led to a radically new style of vocal music. The basic sound ideal of the Renaissance was a polyphony of equal independent voices; the ideal of the Baroque, from a group known as the Florentine Camerata, was a firm bass and florid treble, held together with unobtrusive harmony.

The early decades of the seventeenth-century witnessed the flowering of an extensive and significant literature for large and small instrumental ensembles. That music no longer imitated the melodic style of vocal music, as much of the earlier instrumental music had done. The technical and individual characteristics of the various instruments---viols, flutes, cornetti, and, later, violins---were now taken into account, and one may speak of the beginning of idiomatic writing. A type of figuration that was suitable, let us say, for a string instrument was seen to be unsuited to a woodwind. The violins especially profited from this concern with instrumental idioms; and although violin style was not perfected until the end of the century, notably in the sonatas and concertos of Corelli, its evolution began in the variation sonatas of Salomon Rossi as early as 1613.

The orchestral field is indebted to the seventeenth-century for two of its representatives: the dance suite, which began its development in the early 1600s, and the instrumental concerto, which emerged just before 1700. It is in these two forms that the most significant changes in Baroque instrumental music took place.

Cheers,