Finnish composer Jean Sibelius takes his first bow in this blog today. Sibelius is one of those names that is extremely well-known, but mostly by a small handful of major works. His music was immensely popular around the world when I was young, and still is so in Europe, but perhaps less so now in North America. It was the experience of hearing a live performance of his beautiful Violin Concerto which set me on the track of writing about one of his relatively rare early works.
The rarity of this early work is odd in another way too, in that the earlier music of Sibelius, written in his younger years, is by far the most popular. Finlandia, Valse Triste, the Violin Concerto, and the first two symphonies, all were products of the years before his 40th birthday in 1905.
This brings us to the early Kullervo, Opus 7, a 5-movement epic composition for mezzo-soprano and baritone soloists, male chorus, and orchestra which lasts 70-80 minutes in performance. Based on a tale from the Kalevala, the Finnish national epic poem, Kullervo was the first and grandest product from the overtly nationalistic phase of Sibelius' life and career. It premiered in Helsinki in 1892 to wildly enthusiastic audience applause and considerable (although not total) critical acclaim.
Kullervo remained relatively unknown in later years for a simple reason. After its first few outings, Sibelius withdrew it and forbade further performances. Like many creative artists, he expressed dissatisfaction with his artistic creation, and withdrew it pending revisions. Unlike many another composer or writer, the revisions never happened.
After only a few years, Sibelius had the self-awareness and self-discipline to realize that he had already become a very different kind of composer altogether from the one who had created this grand flowering of Finnish nationalism. He also wanted to avoid falling into the trap of becoming too single-mindedly national in his approach. In this, he resembled Edvard Grieg who complained that some of his most popular music for Peer Gynt "reeked of cow turds, ultra Norse-Norsehood, and be-to-thyself-enoughness." Sibelius decided to leave Kullervo alone.
Single movements were performed in isolation on a couple of occasions, but never the entire work. Kullervo languished in obscurity. Much later in life, Sibelius re-orchestrated the final "lament" section of the long central movement, and with that done he gave permission for the score to be published -- but only after his death.
After only a few years, Sibelius had the self-awareness and self-discipline to realize that he had already become a very different kind of composer altogether from the one who had created this grand flowering of Finnish nationalism. He also wanted to avoid falling into the trap of becoming too single-mindedly national in his approach. In this, he resembled Edvard Grieg who complained that some of his most popular music for Peer Gynt "reeked of cow turds, ultra Norse-Norsehood, and be-to-thyself-enoughness." Sibelius decided to leave Kullervo alone.
Single movements were performed in isolation on a couple of occasions, but never the entire work. Kullervo languished in obscurity. Much later in life, Sibelius re-orchestrated the final "lament" section of the long central movement, and with that done he gave permission for the score to be published -- but only after his death.
Kullervo didn't receive its world premiere recording until 1970. That premiere recording from England, made with the Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra under the direction of Paavo Berglund, was my introduction to Kullervo -- and it seized and held my attention right from the opening bars.
Although Kullervo was originally described by the composer as a symphony, some experts argue that Kullervo is only a collection of symphonic poems. I disagree. There is a strong stylistic unity across the entire work. The very opening theme, a rising triadic figure, casts its spell across subsequent sections, and together with other key motifs from the third movement recurs in altered form in the finale. There's also a significant unity of orchestral and vocal sound, with woodwind tones and dark instrumental colours predominating, much singing in the low registers (especially from the male voice choir), and many passages underlain by ostinati or pedal points in the bass. Finally, there is the undeniable fact that the entire symphony does tell a single story, albeit in detached pieces.
In any case, the very idea of "symphony" was so decisively altered during the nineteenth century, by such masters as Liszt and Mahler, that we can hardly deny the title of Symphony to such a sizable and well-integrated work. If the only argument against calling Kullervo a symphony is the lack of sonata-form development, then we may as well dismiss with it the symphonies of Liszt, Berlioz, Franck, Chausson, and many other eminent composers of the Romantic era.
In any case, the very idea of "symphony" was so decisively altered during the nineteenth century, by such masters as Liszt and Mahler, that we can hardly deny the title of Symphony to such a sizable and well-integrated work. If the only argument against calling Kullervo a symphony is the lack of sonata-form development, then we may as well dismiss with it the symphonies of Liszt, Berlioz, Franck, Chausson, and many other eminent composers of the Romantic era.
Since this is an early work, it's not altogether surprising to find echoes of other composers in certain places. Sibelius greatly admired the music of Tchaikovsky and Bruckner (an unusual combination of interests), and while the Russian's example is more easily detected, there are some passages, in the first and last movements especially, where those pedal points, ostinato figures, sudden shifts of tone or style, and slow tempi make me feel that his admiration for Bruckner also influenced the process of composition. Loudest of all, though, is the unmistakable voice of a composer of both ability and substance flexing his wings and taking to the air.
The first movement, an allegro moderato, is modestly entitled Introduction, but it's a large-scale conception, with multiple themes, and lasts for some fifteen minutes. From the first exhilarating crunch of the bows into the strings on cellos and basses, the epic character of the music is unmistakable. The first main theme on woodwinds, striving heroically upwards, carries on for some time, spinning out derivatives and variants of itself, until a decisive change of tone brings in another theme, of an almost dance-like character, ushered in by strange woodwind flourishes. These kinds of abrupt contrasts continue to colour the movement. The climax of the movement comes with a grandly-scaled chordal reiteration of the opening theme for full orchestra, after which the music dissolves into quiet fragments of the same theme.
The second movement, Kullervo's Youth, is a slow, dark Grave with a brooding ostinato figure that stretches through much of the movement. Eventually the music rises to a climax with the ostinato thundered out by the full orchestra. Then the disquieted mood of the opening returns, and the music dies away in the darkest depths.
The third movement, by far the longest, is called Kullervo and His Sister. Here, the male choir and the two vocal soloists are called in for a dramatic scene. The orchestral music for this scene has a restless energy and forward drive entirely appropriate, as the Finnish text from the Kalevala describes Kullervo driving furiously through the forest in winter on his sleigh. This music may well represent the earliest extensive use of a 5/4 metre, many years before Gustav Holst in the United Kingdom made that unusual time one of his signature compositional mannerisms.
The story tells how Kullervo meets a young maiden, and after several attempts seizes her and seduces her. Only then do they discover that she is in fact his long-lost sister. The text spares us the climax of the story where she flings herself into the river to drown her shame and distress.
The story tells how Kullervo meets a young maiden, and after several attempts seizes her and seduces her. Only then do they discover that she is in fact his long-lost sister. The text spares us the climax of the story where she flings herself into the river to drown her shame and distress.
The male chorus relates this grim tale mainly in unison, with a near-strophic pattern as each section of the narrative begins with the same lines:
Kullervo, Kalervon poika, sinisukka äijön lapsi…
"Kullervo, Kalervo's son, the child of the blue-stockinged man..."
The two soloists, of course, sing the brief dialogues between Kullervo and his unnamed sister. The moment of the seduction is depicted by a loud, vehement orchestral passage over an energetic, driving ostinato. Then comes the most heart-rending part of the movement. The chorus falls silent and we hear the mezzo-soprano's lengthy narration, in which Kullervo's sister describes how she wandered from home and became lost in the woods. There's a prize sonority from the piccolo and flute at the point where she describes climbing a high mountain and calling out for help, but hearing only mocking echoes back from the wind. Kullervo's final anguished lament for his crime is punctuated by heavy staccato chords, and after the singer finishes this solo four more huge chords bring the movement abruptly to its close.
The fourth movement, Kullervo Goes to Battle, is an energetic, restless scherzo, with a disconcerting melodic habit of landing emphatically on the last chord of a phrase in the odd location of second beat in the bar. The orchestration here greatly emphasizes the woodwinds, with the lower strings having a strong role later in the movement. A contrasting central section brings in military fanfares, but played unusually on dark, snarling trombones rather than the more usual brilliance of trumpets. Overall, the music strongly relies on folk-like repetition and variation of the themes. The movement ends on a note of resounding but hollow triumph.
The finale, The Death of Kullervo, begins with ghostly sounds from the strings and a bleak, quiet, darkly-harmonized narration from the chorus, as Kullervo returns to the scene of the rape to find that neither grass nor flower will grow on that spot. He draws his sword, and asks if it wishes to eat guilty flesh and drink blood that is to blame. The sword then speaks to him, and agrees to take his life. He plants the butt of the handle on the ground, and flings himself on the sword. All of this is narrated by the chorus, to a slow, dark processional bass with recalls of motifs from earlier movements in the middle voices of the orchestra. The choir's singing grows louder and the funereal march more anguished as the sword pronounces its will.
The march then continues in the orchestra, recalling musical material from both the first and third movements. The combination of ostinato lines and massive brass chords, culminating in a gigantic silent pause is without question the most Brucknerian moment in the score. A final choral outburst, summing up Kullervo's tragic end, is set to a massive recollection of the opening theme from the first movement, bringing the story full circle.
Kullervo has been particularly fortunate in recordings, with nearly two dozen fine versions having been made. The first conductor to record the work, Paavo Berglund, laid down a second version years later. So did Sir Colin Davis, whose fine RCA recording (his earlier version) is my personal favourite. Due to the importance of accurate pronunciation in one of the world's trickier languages, most recordings use Finnish choirs, and Finnish or Swedish soloists.
I was lucky enough to be present for the second Toronto performances of Kullervo, back during the years when Finnish conductor Jukka-Pekka Saraste was the Toronto Symphony Orchestra's music director. That was an unforgettable concert. After the main work, the conductor returned to the podium for an encore -- common with a soloist, extremely uncommon for the orchestra itself. When the massive opening chords of Finlandia roared out, the entire audience burst into spontaneous applause. Of course, we heard Finlandia performed with the optional choral lines added to the magnificent orchestration! The choir on that occasion was the Polytech Chorus from Helsinki, and Saraste later recorded Kullervo with them -- but in Finland.
Kullervo has been particularly fortunate in recordings, with nearly two dozen fine versions having been made. The first conductor to record the work, Paavo Berglund, laid down a second version years later. So did Sir Colin Davis, whose fine RCA recording (his earlier version) is my personal favourite. Due to the importance of accurate pronunciation in one of the world's trickier languages, most recordings use Finnish choirs, and Finnish or Swedish soloists.
I was lucky enough to be present for the second Toronto performances of Kullervo, back during the years when Finnish conductor Jukka-Pekka Saraste was the Toronto Symphony Orchestra's music director. That was an unforgettable concert. After the main work, the conductor returned to the podium for an encore -- common with a soloist, extremely uncommon for the orchestra itself. When the massive opening chords of Finlandia roared out, the entire audience burst into spontaneous applause. Of course, we heard Finlandia performed with the optional choral lines added to the magnificent orchestration! The choir on that occasion was the Polytech Chorus from Helsinki, and Saraste later recorded Kullervo with them -- but in Finland.
Epic in scale, powerful in story-telling, evocative in its brooding Nordic darkness, Kullervo remains a significant landmark in the development of the art of Sibelius. In some ways it represents the road which he chose not to follow. And yet, the stylistic hallmarks of the mature artist's music can also be found emerging throughout this score. The Davis RCA recording, which I mentioned above, underlined this point by presenting Kullervo and other early works in harness with the final Symphony # 7. There's no doubt for my ears that all of this music, early and late alike, comes from the same masterly hand and mind.
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