Schubert's sonata for piano 4-hands in C Major, usually known as the Grand Duo, is his largest work for piano duo and one of the greatest of works ever composed for this instrumentation. Like many of Schubert's mature piano compositions, the Grand Duo (not the composer's title, by the way) seems to burst the bounds of its genre, and the writing -- although undeniably pianistic in some places -- also teems with what seem to be orchestral effects in piano dress.
It was this duality in the character of the music that led Robert Schumann and others to suspect that this sonata might be in fact a 4-hand draft of a symphony which Schubert was believed to have composed at Gastein. More modern research has proved that the so-called "Gastein symphony" was in reality the work now universally known as the "Great" C Major Symphony (# 9 in the conventional numbering).
However, in the 1800s the first of a number of attempts to orchestrate the Grand Duo was made by the noted violinist, conductor and composer Joseph Joachim. There have been other versions made by other hands since then, but the Joachim version was the first to become known -- due in part to the enthusiastic advocacy of Sir Donald Tovey -- and the first to be recorded, under Toscanini in the 1920s. It has also achieved the distinction of being recorded twice. The second time, much more recent, was laid down in the late 1980s by the Chamber Orchestra of Europe under Claudio Abbado, as part of a cycle of the complete Schubert symphonies for DGG.
Some purists may cringe at the idea of listening to an arrangement by other hands of Schubert's great piano work. There are also those who find Joachim's orchestration dull and boring, and not worth the trouble of playing or listening.
It's clear right from the get-go that Abbado and company suffer from no such scruples or doubts. In line with the interpretation of the other seven standard symphonies, the orchestration of the Grand Duo is treated to a lively, bright-eyed performance finely recorded in a rich but clean acoustic.
The first movement is one of Schubert's rich outpourings of melody, yet remains firmly controlled within the classical sonata-form structure. One of the most striking moments is the series of rising modulations that carries the key from the tonic to the dominant for the second subject. In the recapitulation this sequence becomes an even longer ladder rising through still more keys to finally land the second subject in the tonic key itself, opening the way to the conclusion. Abbado manages this rising series of modulations beautifully, with each successive entry adding just a little more volume than the one before to keep the tension rising along with the pitch.
The gentle, lyrical andante of the second movement benefits enormously from the orchestration, since the legato lines are more easily sustained by the winds and strings than on the piano.
The scherzo is perhaps the least convincing in this version, as the writing in the original is at its most pianistic, with frequent chains of hammered chords in the bass. Although rooted in Austrian folk dance, this rapid movement points the way towards the symphonic scherzos of Bruckner in its scale and force. The orchestra here makes the most of the hairpin dynamics frequently repeated throughout the piece. The slower trio, which always sounds to me for all the world like an animal loping slowly along, is well contrasted, and the sharp attack at the return of the scherzo is perfect.
The finale is built up nicely from its quiet opening to the dramatic pages near the end, and here conductor and orchestra alike maintain absolute clarity even in the heaviest scoring. The grandiose "rejoicing" theme which is heard twice, rising on top of the harmony, comes across more clearly in the orchestrated version. Just a few bars from the end are two long-held chords, each ended by two quickly hammered notes. These are scored for nearly the full orchestra, and the two quick staccato chords in each case are nailed with impressive unanimity.
Does the orchestrated version supplant Schubert's original? By no means, and I'm sure Abbado would never have suggested that it did. But I certainly feel it's worth hearing in its own right, not least because the feel of the mature Schubert's orchestral style is so aptly captured by Joachim's skilled arrangement.
And since the 4-hand piano music of Schubert is itself rarely heard today, anyone who enjoys this should certainly seek out one of several recordings available of the Grand Duo as written, and hear the composer's own thoughts on this magnificent work.
Even if it's not a lost Schubert symphony, I'm glad Abbado recorded the Joachim arrangement of the Grand Duo and got it released as part of his complete Schubert symphony cycle.
Monday 27 April 2015
Sunday 26 April 2015
Unknown Ruins
It's one of those familiar little snippets of classical music that many music lovers can hum along when they hear it being played. It's been featured in TV shows and movies, played in the background of commercials, and often heard on radio. You probably recognize it too -- the "Turkish March". Yes, that Turkish March.
When I was a little boy, we had a book of simplified arrangements of Beethoven on our piano, and so I knew from an early age that the March was from a bigger piece called The Ruins of Athens, and of course I also knew who had written it!
In our high school library, I found a recording of the complete incidental music to The Ruins of Athens, and it's been a favoured item in my collection ever since. But this definitely qualifies as a rare bird.
In the nineteenth century, plays were often presented in theatres that had a full orchestra, and so music to go along with those plays was an important angle of the composing business. Think of Mendelssohn's A Midsummer Night's Dream as perhaps the best-known example. Despite the promising title, The Ruins of Athens is definitely not in the same theatrical league. As a theatre piece, it could best perhaps be described as a "pageant" rather than a play.
My recording included in the program notes a brief synopsis of the action. After being condemned to sleep for a thousand years by Zeus, Athene awakens and returns to Athens, her ancient home. There, she finds the ancient city in ruins and the Turks in occupation. Dismayed, she journeys instead to Pest (Hungary's capital), where she calls upon the aid of the muses Melpomene and Thalia (the Muses of tragedy and of comedy and pastoral poetry respectively). The people build an altar with statues of the muses on it and invoke the might of Zeus. A thunderclap is heard and a third statue appears between the other two, a statue of the Emperor of Hungary. General rejoicings end the piece.
Are your eyes rolling? Mine are!
This kind of patriotic pageantry appealed on many levels. The piece was written by August von Kotzebue for the opening of a splendid new theatre in Pest. The opportunity for spectacular new sets and costumes was the obvious corollary of such an occasion. If the Emperor wasn't a patron of either the theatre or the author, I'd be very surprised because this kind of kitschy material was typical of compliments paid by an author to a patron. The "Athens" angle -- bringing in the glories of the ancient world -- was also valuable to supply the opportunity for Turkish exotica in settings, costumes and music. Since the Ottoman Empire had been knocking at the gates of Vienna and Pest not too many years earlier, this was a timely and topical feature, another opportunity to contrast the supposed "barbarism" of the Ottomans with the "civilized" Europeans.
Beethoven did compose a lot of what might politely be termed "hack work", like this, and for the usual reason: it paid well. But Beethoven was a great artist and his artistic greatness keeps on sneaking in even when the motivating cause is money. The Ruins of Athens is no exception.
The score opens with an overture which is rather lightweight, but at least has the virtue of being well-constructed and not using any of the musical material still to come in the play itself. Believe it or not, von Kotzebue's play actually got staged a second time in Vienna, at the opening of a new theatre 10 years later. For that occasion, Beethoven composed a new, and much more solemn and powerful overture which was published separately as The Consecration of the House. (You can read about that work here: A Relatively Rare Pair of Beethovens)
The incidental movements (apart from the famous Turkish March and one short entr'acte) are all sung, and this may be a big part of the reason why this music has not been better known. The first is a chorus of invocation, sung to awaken Athene after her long sleep. This is followed by a masterly duet of a Greek man and a Greek girl, bemoaning their fate as slaves of the Turks. This is a deeply felt and moving lament, with the repeated cries of "Ah!" eventually rising to a climactic repetition of "What has befallen you, my poor fatherland?"
With the next movement the Turks enter, and so does the Turkish music. At least, so does what was thought to be Turkish music in central Europe, which actually just consists of the repeated use of a bass drum, cymbal, and triangle all beating out the same rhythmic pattern. Think of Mozart's Abduction From the Seraglio and you'll know exactly what I mean. These instrumental sounds usher in a Chorus of Dervishes which is another powerful conception, the music plainly depicting the procession entering, crossing the stage, and disappearing on the other side. The violins are tasked with obsessive triplets repeated at high speed throughout the piece, while the men's voices raise their triumphant cries to fortissimo. What gives this movement such unexpected distinction is the subtle use of key changes at two key points.
Following this chorus you get the famous Turkish March. No analysis required!
There follow several less distinguished vocal movements, and then comes a solemn and stirring aria for the High Priest (bass solo) which leads into the moment when the statue of the Emperor appears and the subsequent chorus of thanks to Zeus. This again is a movement of real musical power, leading to a conclusion of genuine grandeur. It always seems to me that this point, musically, feels like the ending. But there is one more movement, a final chorus of celebration, and with this we are (sadly) back again in Potboiler-Land, right to the final brief coda which feels like it was stuck on as an afterthought.
But no matter. The Ruins of Athens is certainly not out of Beethoven's top drawer as a whole, but the duet, the Chorus of Dervishes, and the High Priest's aria and subsequent chorus all deserve to be heard more often. Sadly, recordings are as thin on the ground as hen's teeth. The one I have is an old DGG LP conducted by the young Bernhard Klee, which probably dates in original release from around 1960 (that information isn't given on the reissue jacket). In 1989, Dennis Russell Davies recorded the music for EMI with the Orchestra of St. Luke's in New York, and copies of that one may still be available. As far as I know, those are the only recordings of the complete music ever made.
When I was a little boy, we had a book of simplified arrangements of Beethoven on our piano, and so I knew from an early age that the March was from a bigger piece called The Ruins of Athens, and of course I also knew who had written it!
In our high school library, I found a recording of the complete incidental music to The Ruins of Athens, and it's been a favoured item in my collection ever since. But this definitely qualifies as a rare bird.
In the nineteenth century, plays were often presented in theatres that had a full orchestra, and so music to go along with those plays was an important angle of the composing business. Think of Mendelssohn's A Midsummer Night's Dream as perhaps the best-known example. Despite the promising title, The Ruins of Athens is definitely not in the same theatrical league. As a theatre piece, it could best perhaps be described as a "pageant" rather than a play.
My recording included in the program notes a brief synopsis of the action. After being condemned to sleep for a thousand years by Zeus, Athene awakens and returns to Athens, her ancient home. There, she finds the ancient city in ruins and the Turks in occupation. Dismayed, she journeys instead to Pest (Hungary's capital), where she calls upon the aid of the muses Melpomene and Thalia (the Muses of tragedy and of comedy and pastoral poetry respectively). The people build an altar with statues of the muses on it and invoke the might of Zeus. A thunderclap is heard and a third statue appears between the other two, a statue of the Emperor of Hungary. General rejoicings end the piece.
Are your eyes rolling? Mine are!
This kind of patriotic pageantry appealed on many levels. The piece was written by August von Kotzebue for the opening of a splendid new theatre in Pest. The opportunity for spectacular new sets and costumes was the obvious corollary of such an occasion. If the Emperor wasn't a patron of either the theatre or the author, I'd be very surprised because this kind of kitschy material was typical of compliments paid by an author to a patron. The "Athens" angle -- bringing in the glories of the ancient world -- was also valuable to supply the opportunity for Turkish exotica in settings, costumes and music. Since the Ottoman Empire had been knocking at the gates of Vienna and Pest not too many years earlier, this was a timely and topical feature, another opportunity to contrast the supposed "barbarism" of the Ottomans with the "civilized" Europeans.
Beethoven did compose a lot of what might politely be termed "hack work", like this, and for the usual reason: it paid well. But Beethoven was a great artist and his artistic greatness keeps on sneaking in even when the motivating cause is money. The Ruins of Athens is no exception.
The score opens with an overture which is rather lightweight, but at least has the virtue of being well-constructed and not using any of the musical material still to come in the play itself. Believe it or not, von Kotzebue's play actually got staged a second time in Vienna, at the opening of a new theatre 10 years later. For that occasion, Beethoven composed a new, and much more solemn and powerful overture which was published separately as The Consecration of the House. (You can read about that work here: A Relatively Rare Pair of Beethovens)
The incidental movements (apart from the famous Turkish March and one short entr'acte) are all sung, and this may be a big part of the reason why this music has not been better known. The first is a chorus of invocation, sung to awaken Athene after her long sleep. This is followed by a masterly duet of a Greek man and a Greek girl, bemoaning their fate as slaves of the Turks. This is a deeply felt and moving lament, with the repeated cries of "Ah!" eventually rising to a climactic repetition of "What has befallen you, my poor fatherland?"
With the next movement the Turks enter, and so does the Turkish music. At least, so does what was thought to be Turkish music in central Europe, which actually just consists of the repeated use of a bass drum, cymbal, and triangle all beating out the same rhythmic pattern. Think of Mozart's Abduction From the Seraglio and you'll know exactly what I mean. These instrumental sounds usher in a Chorus of Dervishes which is another powerful conception, the music plainly depicting the procession entering, crossing the stage, and disappearing on the other side. The violins are tasked with obsessive triplets repeated at high speed throughout the piece, while the men's voices raise their triumphant cries to fortissimo. What gives this movement such unexpected distinction is the subtle use of key changes at two key points.
Following this chorus you get the famous Turkish March. No analysis required!
There follow several less distinguished vocal movements, and then comes a solemn and stirring aria for the High Priest (bass solo) which leads into the moment when the statue of the Emperor appears and the subsequent chorus of thanks to Zeus. This again is a movement of real musical power, leading to a conclusion of genuine grandeur. It always seems to me that this point, musically, feels like the ending. But there is one more movement, a final chorus of celebration, and with this we are (sadly) back again in Potboiler-Land, right to the final brief coda which feels like it was stuck on as an afterthought.
But no matter. The Ruins of Athens is certainly not out of Beethoven's top drawer as a whole, but the duet, the Chorus of Dervishes, and the High Priest's aria and subsequent chorus all deserve to be heard more often. Sadly, recordings are as thin on the ground as hen's teeth. The one I have is an old DGG LP conducted by the young Bernhard Klee, which probably dates in original release from around 1960 (that information isn't given on the reissue jacket). In 1989, Dennis Russell Davies recorded the music for EMI with the Orchestra of St. Luke's in New York, and copies of that one may still be available. As far as I know, those are the only recordings of the complete music ever made.
Saturday 25 April 2015
Another Take on Faust
When it comes to the world of music, no writer held more influence over the composers of the nineteenth century than Goethe, and no work of his had more impact on music than his lengthy poetic-philosophical drama Faust. The first part of this enormous work is full of elements calculated to fit perfectly into the sensual side of the Romantic movement: magic spells, demonic influences, exotic locales, mythical beauty queens, and passionate love affairs are only the most prominent ingredients. The second part ends in a mystical scene of an ascent to a kind of secular heaven revisioned in humanist terms.
It's no wonder that so many composers were drawn to this rich store of material. Among them, you have to number Berlioz and his famous "dramatic legend," La Damnation de Faust. Also, there is the magnificent Faust Symphony in Three Character Portraits by Liszt (discussed in this previous blog post: Three Characters in Sound ). Perhaps grandest of all the concert works on the Faust theme is the second part of Mahler's majestic Eighth Symphony (the Symphony of a Thousand as it's often called, not by the composer's wish!).
In the opera world, there's Gounod's Faust, which mainly appeals to me because of the delicious ballet score embedded in the work. There's Arrigo Boito's Mefistofele (discussed in this previous blog post: A Very "Heavenly" Opera ). Ludwig Spohr also wrote a Faust opera. Then there's the very rare Doktor Faust by Ferrucio Busoni which actually reaches back for source material beyond Goethe to the medieval puppet plays upon which Goethe based his work.
This is pretty impressive company, but certainly Robert Schumann's work can hold its head high with the best of these composers. And yet, for reasons which baffle me, his late masterpiece, Scenes from Goethe's Faust has remained a truly rare bird. It's not often performed and has only been recorded in studio twice, as far as I can discover. I can only say that I feel this work, which occupied Schumann at intervals over a period of nine years, is a real masterpiece deserving of much wider hearing.
Schumann has made no effort to cover the whole of the Faust story, as his title makes quite clear. Instead, he has covered selected events from both parts of Goethe in a sequence of six scenes divided into two parts. A third part sets the final scene of the entire drama, the scene of Faust's transfiguration and ascent. Listeners familiar with the Mahler Eighth Symphony will certainly recognise the text of this final extended scene! It's intriguing to compare and contrast between the approaches of these two composers to the same text.
Schumann's concert work opens with a turbulent, dramatic overture which he considered one of the finest things he ever wrote (I concur). The riches in the first two parts fully live up to the power of this opening. With skillful writing for solo and choral voices and suitably vivid orchestration, Schumann paints effectively each of the six scenes he has chosen: a Garden Scene, a scene in front of a statue of the Mater Dolorosa, a scene in the Cathedral, a sunrise, a midnight scene, and the death of Faust.
The third part, the transfiguration and ascent of Faust, consists of seven movements. Each of the seven is well suited to the portion of Goethe's esoteric and image-laden poetry being set. The approach is very different from Mahler's setting of the same text in one continuous movement with much reference to the same basic melodic materials throughout.
Up to this point the music has been beautifully suited to the texts at every point, eminently singable and with much originality in harmony and orchestration. The grand final Chorus mysticus starts out very much in keeping with the deeply mystical tone of the final stanza of Goethe's poem. But then comes the one real miscalculation in Schumann's scheme. When he arrives at the final line, "Das Ewig-Weibliche zieht uns hinan" ("The Eternal Womanly leads us onwards"), the choir and orchestra pause expectantly on a promisingly mysterious chord. Then, instead of a magnificent peroration as with Liszt or Mahler, the music lapses for that final line into a schoolboyish fugue of such robust jollity that it could as easily have been a drinking song in a beer cellar. The first time I heard it, it simply made me cringe!
It's an unfortunate lapse of judgement, and a sad blot on an otherwise impressive work. I can only think that Schumann was suffering from long-learned scruples about how a major work for choir and orchestra must contain a fugue! This is the kind of academic thinking that generated hundreds -- thousands -- of scholarly and boring fugal movements by all kinds of composers throughout this time in musical history. In many ways, I think the composers who are most known today were those who had the strength of will to burst through those academic rules and find their own path.
At any rate, after the fugue has mercifully run its course the music returns to a more subtle and contemplative tone for a brief, quiet coda.
Even with that misbegotten fugal movement sticking in the road, I certainly feel that Schumann's Scenes from Goethe's Faust is in no way unfit to stand alongside the settings by the other composers I've mentioned. It remained largely unknown until Benjamin Britten's trailblazing performances and recording in the 1960s. Much more recently, just a few years ago, Antoni Wit added to his long list of magnificent choral performances in Warsaw with a new recording for Naxos, which is still readily and easily available either on disc or as a download. I remember listening to the Britten recording once, many years ago, and would love to hear it again now that I've become much more familiar with the work from Wit's version.
It's no wonder that so many composers were drawn to this rich store of material. Among them, you have to number Berlioz and his famous "dramatic legend," La Damnation de Faust. Also, there is the magnificent Faust Symphony in Three Character Portraits by Liszt (discussed in this previous blog post: Three Characters in Sound ). Perhaps grandest of all the concert works on the Faust theme is the second part of Mahler's majestic Eighth Symphony (the Symphony of a Thousand as it's often called, not by the composer's wish!).
In the opera world, there's Gounod's Faust, which mainly appeals to me because of the delicious ballet score embedded in the work. There's Arrigo Boito's Mefistofele (discussed in this previous blog post: A Very "Heavenly" Opera ). Ludwig Spohr also wrote a Faust opera. Then there's the very rare Doktor Faust by Ferrucio Busoni which actually reaches back for source material beyond Goethe to the medieval puppet plays upon which Goethe based his work.
This is pretty impressive company, but certainly Robert Schumann's work can hold its head high with the best of these composers. And yet, for reasons which baffle me, his late masterpiece, Scenes from Goethe's Faust has remained a truly rare bird. It's not often performed and has only been recorded in studio twice, as far as I can discover. I can only say that I feel this work, which occupied Schumann at intervals over a period of nine years, is a real masterpiece deserving of much wider hearing.
Schumann has made no effort to cover the whole of the Faust story, as his title makes quite clear. Instead, he has covered selected events from both parts of Goethe in a sequence of six scenes divided into two parts. A third part sets the final scene of the entire drama, the scene of Faust's transfiguration and ascent. Listeners familiar with the Mahler Eighth Symphony will certainly recognise the text of this final extended scene! It's intriguing to compare and contrast between the approaches of these two composers to the same text.
Schumann's concert work opens with a turbulent, dramatic overture which he considered one of the finest things he ever wrote (I concur). The riches in the first two parts fully live up to the power of this opening. With skillful writing for solo and choral voices and suitably vivid orchestration, Schumann paints effectively each of the six scenes he has chosen: a Garden Scene, a scene in front of a statue of the Mater Dolorosa, a scene in the Cathedral, a sunrise, a midnight scene, and the death of Faust.
The third part, the transfiguration and ascent of Faust, consists of seven movements. Each of the seven is well suited to the portion of Goethe's esoteric and image-laden poetry being set. The approach is very different from Mahler's setting of the same text in one continuous movement with much reference to the same basic melodic materials throughout.
Up to this point the music has been beautifully suited to the texts at every point, eminently singable and with much originality in harmony and orchestration. The grand final Chorus mysticus starts out very much in keeping with the deeply mystical tone of the final stanza of Goethe's poem. But then comes the one real miscalculation in Schumann's scheme. When he arrives at the final line, "Das Ewig-Weibliche zieht uns hinan" ("The Eternal Womanly leads us onwards"), the choir and orchestra pause expectantly on a promisingly mysterious chord. Then, instead of a magnificent peroration as with Liszt or Mahler, the music lapses for that final line into a schoolboyish fugue of such robust jollity that it could as easily have been a drinking song in a beer cellar. The first time I heard it, it simply made me cringe!
It's an unfortunate lapse of judgement, and a sad blot on an otherwise impressive work. I can only think that Schumann was suffering from long-learned scruples about how a major work for choir and orchestra must contain a fugue! This is the kind of academic thinking that generated hundreds -- thousands -- of scholarly and boring fugal movements by all kinds of composers throughout this time in musical history. In many ways, I think the composers who are most known today were those who had the strength of will to burst through those academic rules and find their own path.
At any rate, after the fugue has mercifully run its course the music returns to a more subtle and contemplative tone for a brief, quiet coda.
Even with that misbegotten fugal movement sticking in the road, I certainly feel that Schumann's Scenes from Goethe's Faust is in no way unfit to stand alongside the settings by the other composers I've mentioned. It remained largely unknown until Benjamin Britten's trailblazing performances and recording in the 1960s. Much more recently, just a few years ago, Antoni Wit added to his long list of magnificent choral performances in Warsaw with a new recording for Naxos, which is still readily and easily available either on disc or as a download. I remember listening to the Britten recording once, many years ago, and would love to hear it again now that I've become much more familiar with the work from Wit's version.
Monday 6 April 2015
An Ancient and Modern Masterpiece
Every once in a while, memory -- "the weakest of all witnesses" -- trips me up. I can't recall if I have mentioned before that I am also working on a book with the same title, and covering the same turf, as this blog: "Off the Beaten Staff". The book and the blog tend to feed each other from time to time. But also this can cause confusion about which works I've covered in the book, and which in the blog!
Last night at dinner, I was mentioning that I had written about the Requiem of Maurice Duruflé in my blog. In fact, I now find that it was in the book manuscript that I had covered this piece. My bad. So here it is now.
Duruflé is one of the lesser-known names in French music, but that's certainly not a reflection of the quality of his works! Rather, it reflects the fact that he was an obsessive perfectionist, a man who destroyed far more than he ever published, and who laboured many long years over a single piece to get the end result just right. In the end, he published only 16 complete original works (not counting the multiple versions of several that he made), as well as a selection of organ transcriptions of works by other hands.
It's important to mention the concept of different versions, because the Requiem actually exists in three separate "orchestrations" (the music remains unchanged apart from the different instruments employed). The smallest version uses only organ. The middle version is for organ and strings, with optional trumpet, harp and timpani parts. The largest version, my particular favourite, is for full orchestra. I prefer this full-orchestra version because of Duruflé's beautiful use of the woodwind instruments in particular. The Requiem was first performed in 1947.
Curiously, for such a modern piece, it has a very ancient, timeless feel to it. This is due to the fact that almost all the melodic substance, whether for voices or instruments, is drawn from Gregorian chant. The use of chant basically dictates the other remarkable feature of the work, which is the very free and flexible approach to rhythm. Gregorian chant long predates our modern notions of musical time moving in neat groups of 2, 3, 4, or more beats, with each group the same length. Phrases in chant can have any number of notes in them, and are usually performed with each note being the same length. Duruflé respects that tradition, and his score flows freely into and out of different time signatures purely according to the length of the chant melody he uses at each point.
Some of the chants are used as long slow chorale-like passages, some as more up-tempo and even vigorous melodies, and some as ostinato accompaniments.
The writing for choir and instruments alike is unfailingly clear, with a serenity and a wise air of acceptance of death very like that of the much earlier Requiem of Gabriel Fauré, which was Duruflé's avowed model. As with the earlier work, Duruflé employs two soloists: a baritone and a mezzo-soprano.
It's hard to single out this or that passage for commentary. Every moment of this clear, lucid score is full of its own beauties. Unlike Fauré, Duruflé allows some heavy-duty drama at the darkest moment of the text, the Dies irae lines in the penultimate Libera me, with the chorus and orchestra rising briefly to a fortississimo climax. The mezzo-soprano's Pie Jesu solo is different in character, darker and warmer, as compared to the famous soprano solo in the Requiem by Fauré.
My own personal favourite moments are found in the middle of the score. First, there's the rapidly spinning ostinato of the Sanctus, which leads up to a resplendent full climax. Then comes the Pie Jesu, followed by the Agnus Dei. The most lovely movement of all for me is the Lux aeterna which then follows. A free chant melody intoned by cor anglais is followed by another chant from the choir in unison, repeated at a higher key (led by the oboe this time), and then the line Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine is sung on a unison monotone while the orchestra weaves a beautifully harmonized chant in slow chordal fashion around the voices. The effect is absolutely magical.
I pity anyone who automatically dismisses any music written since 1900, because in so doing they are depriving themselves of one of the most purely beautiful musical compositions I've ever heard. It was sung with full orchestra at the very first concert of the Toronto Mendelssohn Choir which I ever attended. Some years later, I had the privilege of singing it myself (in the organ-only version, alas) in the fine church choir at St. George's United Church in North Toronto. I've only ever heard it performed once since then, and again it was the organ version. I'd certainly love to hear this wonderful piece performed live with the full orchestra again.
If you seek a recording, there's a good selection available, and all three versions are represented. The one I treasure in my collection is Andrew Davis's CBS (now Sony) recording from London, made in the 1980s, in which the warm and resonant acoustic supports and enhances the all-important woodwind parts to splendid effect.
Last night at dinner, I was mentioning that I had written about the Requiem of Maurice Duruflé in my blog. In fact, I now find that it was in the book manuscript that I had covered this piece. My bad. So here it is now.
Duruflé is one of the lesser-known names in French music, but that's certainly not a reflection of the quality of his works! Rather, it reflects the fact that he was an obsessive perfectionist, a man who destroyed far more than he ever published, and who laboured many long years over a single piece to get the end result just right. In the end, he published only 16 complete original works (not counting the multiple versions of several that he made), as well as a selection of organ transcriptions of works by other hands.
It's important to mention the concept of different versions, because the Requiem actually exists in three separate "orchestrations" (the music remains unchanged apart from the different instruments employed). The smallest version uses only organ. The middle version is for organ and strings, with optional trumpet, harp and timpani parts. The largest version, my particular favourite, is for full orchestra. I prefer this full-orchestra version because of Duruflé's beautiful use of the woodwind instruments in particular. The Requiem was first performed in 1947.
Curiously, for such a modern piece, it has a very ancient, timeless feel to it. This is due to the fact that almost all the melodic substance, whether for voices or instruments, is drawn from Gregorian chant. The use of chant basically dictates the other remarkable feature of the work, which is the very free and flexible approach to rhythm. Gregorian chant long predates our modern notions of musical time moving in neat groups of 2, 3, 4, or more beats, with each group the same length. Phrases in chant can have any number of notes in them, and are usually performed with each note being the same length. Duruflé respects that tradition, and his score flows freely into and out of different time signatures purely according to the length of the chant melody he uses at each point.
Some of the chants are used as long slow chorale-like passages, some as more up-tempo and even vigorous melodies, and some as ostinato accompaniments.
The writing for choir and instruments alike is unfailingly clear, with a serenity and a wise air of acceptance of death very like that of the much earlier Requiem of Gabriel Fauré, which was Duruflé's avowed model. As with the earlier work, Duruflé employs two soloists: a baritone and a mezzo-soprano.
It's hard to single out this or that passage for commentary. Every moment of this clear, lucid score is full of its own beauties. Unlike Fauré, Duruflé allows some heavy-duty drama at the darkest moment of the text, the Dies irae lines in the penultimate Libera me, with the chorus and orchestra rising briefly to a fortississimo climax. The mezzo-soprano's Pie Jesu solo is different in character, darker and warmer, as compared to the famous soprano solo in the Requiem by Fauré.
My own personal favourite moments are found in the middle of the score. First, there's the rapidly spinning ostinato of the Sanctus, which leads up to a resplendent full climax. Then comes the Pie Jesu, followed by the Agnus Dei. The most lovely movement of all for me is the Lux aeterna which then follows. A free chant melody intoned by cor anglais is followed by another chant from the choir in unison, repeated at a higher key (led by the oboe this time), and then the line Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine is sung on a unison monotone while the orchestra weaves a beautifully harmonized chant in slow chordal fashion around the voices. The effect is absolutely magical.
I pity anyone who automatically dismisses any music written since 1900, because in so doing they are depriving themselves of one of the most purely beautiful musical compositions I've ever heard. It was sung with full orchestra at the very first concert of the Toronto Mendelssohn Choir which I ever attended. Some years later, I had the privilege of singing it myself (in the organ-only version, alas) in the fine church choir at St. George's United Church in North Toronto. I've only ever heard it performed once since then, and again it was the organ version. I'd certainly love to hear this wonderful piece performed live with the full orchestra again.
If you seek a recording, there's a good selection available, and all three versions are represented. The one I treasure in my collection is Andrew Davis's CBS (now Sony) recording from London, made in the 1980s, in which the warm and resonant acoustic supports and enhances the all-important woodwind parts to splendid effect.
Wednesday 1 April 2015
Brazen and Dissolute Splendour
Among the out-of-the-way corners of classical music, there are works which have gained immense popularity only to then fall into shadow. There are works which have remained unique in their composers' output, and works which have remained unique in the world of music. There are works which are better known by name than by sound, rarely performed in public because of the daunting requirements for numbers and quality of performers. And there are works which absolutely shatter the traditional borders of whatever genres they seem to inhabit. All of these descriptions intersect to perfection in a remarkable work written by the English composer William Walton (later Sir William) between the ages of 27 and 29, and premiered in 1931 at the Leeds Triennial Festival.
Of course, Belshazzar's Feast is still often heard in Britain, where it's a definite repertoire staple. Not so, sadly, in North America where it has largely dropped off the charts after its early and remarkable success in the 1930s through to the 1960s.
Belshazzar's Feast resists classification because it is definitely sui generis. Although the text is drawn entirely from the Bible, and tells a Biblical story, it's hardly an oratorio since the devotional aspect so characteristic of oratorio in general is absent. Nor is it a dramatic cantata, since its structure totally ignores the typical layout of such works. Much later in life, Walton tried to describe it as a "choral symphony" but that won't do because the vivid and all-important orchestral writing still serves primarily the function of illustrating the sung text, rather than advancing a symphonic structure. Like Elgar's earlier The Dream of Gerontius, Walton's work refuses to fit into any genre because it is a genre, literally in a class of its own. And, like Gerontius, it is no less than a masterpiece.
Once we've said that, dismiss Elgar from your mind. The influences at work here certainly include the long tradition of choral writing for the Church of England, but heavily interwoven with the Stravinsky of The Rite of Spring and the popular sounds of contemporary jazz. The work is conceived on the largest Festival scale, including a vast percussion section and extra brass bands (this happened because the 1931 Leeds programmes included the huge Berlioz Requiem, and Sir Thomas Beecham, the director, told Walton that he might as well use the brasses too "because you're never going to hear it again, anyway"!).
The result was a shocker to the sensibilities of the audience in 1931, but also hugely exhilarating. One writer described the initial impression of the work as a noisy, modernistic masterpiece. Yet, in looking again at Belshazzar now, it's easy to see that it actually lives in a very tonal musical world; the dissonances are carefully calculated and used for maximum effect at key moments of the work. It remains, as it was from the outset, the most intensely dramatic and hugely energetic work ever written for chorus and orchestra.
Belshazzar's Feast falls into three basic sections, each one in turn divided into three. The first of these is prefaced by an unaccompanied recitative for divided male choir, a fierce utterance of the prophecy of Isaiah that the Israelites would be enslaved in Babylon. The first main part is a long, mournful song for the people of Israel, with a contrasting middle section where the chorus first encounters the jagged, jazzy fast rhythms so characteristic of the piece. This rhythmic power underscores the words, "For they that wasted us required of us mirth, they that carried us away captive required of us a song." More viciously still, the choir then sings "Oh, daughter of Babylon, that art to be destroyed, happy shall he be that taketh thy children and dasheth them against a stone." The slow song of mourning then resumes and winds down to its quiet, deep conclusion.
A bass soloist sings an unbarred and unaccompanied recitative about the merchandise of Babylon, which the composer used to ironically call "the shopping list". The second main section then launches with a rapid four-note downward arpeggio spread across the interval of the minor ninth. This motif dominates and frequently recurs in the ensuing pages. This is the description of the feast itself. The music is energetic, joyful, almost orgiastic, and demands the utmost precision from singers and orchestra alike.
After the king and his wives and concubines drink from the sacred vessels taken from the Temple in Jerusalem, the King's demand to "Praise ye the god of gold" is announced by the soloist. This launches the gigantic march in praise of all the gods of Babylon, punctuated by blazing brass fanfares and specific different percussion instruments to illustrate each of the gods of gold, silver, wood, stone, iron and brass. The climax of the march enlists all the forces in full cry at once to sing "Praise ye the gods!"
Another silence, and the wild song of the feast resumes. The people of Babylon drink from the sacred vessels again, crying in dissonant harmonies, "Thou, O King, art King of Kings! O King, live forever!" A shocked silence falls.
The music then moves swiftly to the climax of the drama. The soloist sings of the appearance of the handwriting upon the wall, accompanied by some of the creepiest and most chilling orchestral sounds ever heard outside a Hollywood movie. The climax of his narrative -- "In that night was Belshazzar, the King, slain!" -- is echoed by an exultant shout of "Slain!" from the chorus. That's right, a shout -- not even a musical pitch, just a single staccato yell.
(At one of the infamous Hoffnung Festival concerts in London in the 1950s, Walton himself appeared and directed the shortest-ever "performance" of Belshazzar's Feast: the single shout of "Slain!", which he conducted with a fly-swatter!)
The final section then erupts into the exultant celebrations of the people of Israel. Once again the syncopated jazz rhythms of the score are well to the fore, and chorus and orchestra are again at full stretch. The centrepiece of this final part is a contrasting slow, quiet lament for the fallen city. But the rapid music soon bursts forth again, swinging into the roaring, frenzied Alleluias which bring the work to its breathtaking conclusion.
Fortunately for those of us who rarely have an opportunity to hear Belshazzar's Feast live, there are numerous fine recordings -- definitely this has been a lucky piece in the studio. Trying to record this work, incidentally, raises virtuoso challenges not just for singers, players, and conductor, but also for the producer and recording engineer who have to encompass the hugely percussive climaxes without losing sight of detail, and without changing the sound picture too much from the quieter, more reflective moments.
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