As Doris Fukawa, Ensemble Programs Director for Summer Music West 2009, observed in introducing this afternoon's program at the San Francisco Conservatory of Music, the performance of chamber music is a major challenge for the young. Her comparison of chamber music to basketball was appropriate: Every individual counts, but counts not only for individual actions but also for how those actions mesh appropriately with the actions of others. At the risk of sounding too clinical, this means that proper performance has much to do with child development. Soloists can begin to emerge as they acquire the skills for the technical mastery of their respective instruments, but the development of the listening skills required for chamber music takes place along a cognitive path that is quite separate from that of the physical capacity for technical development. That latter development can be enhanced through both exposure to others playing chamber music and efforts to play it oneself, but the nature of listening is so poorly understood that few educators have the gifts to cultivate it in others. Those of us who accept the theories of Piaget do not even know whether or not there are "stepping stones" along the path to acquiring listening skills, subgoals that must be achieved as prerequisite to the final objective.
I write all this as preface to the obvious recognition that there was considerable variation of skill in this afternoon's recital. To some extent that variation was instrument-related. The wind players, in general, seemed more capable of managing the "dual awareness" of both the music they were playing and what their fellow performers were doing. The string players, on the other hand, seemed to be at an earlier stage of getting their fingers around the notes; and their awareness tended to be the weakest. In between we had the pianists, some of whom never really connected while others "got it" with truly compelling performances. It thus seems appropriate to focus on the positive surprises, rather than the weaker cases that may ultimately be resolved as child development runs its course.
Most impressive was probably a performance of the first movement of the G minor piano quartet by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (K. 478). The students' attentiveness to both the music and each other was all the more outstanding in light of the fact that the viola part was taken by a violin student (playing a violin). Even with this acoustic shortcoming, each part in the quartet spoke with its own characteristic voice, even if the piano tended to reflect Mozart's own inclination to show off at the keyboard.
The pianist took on even more virtuosic demands at the end of the program with a shift to the two-piano repertoire. In this case the music was the set of variations that Witold Lutoslawski composed on the same theme that Sergei Rachmaninoff had used for his Paganini rhapsody. Lutoslawski composed these variations in 1941 to play with his friend and fellow composer Andrzej Panufnik while they were trying to survive during the Second World War by performing in Warsaw cafés. Needless to say, café audiences tended to be more interested in entertainment than in musical sophistication; so it is reasonable to assume that Lutoslawski wrote the music to twit Rachmaninoff, whose rhapsody had already achieved warhorse status. His Warsaw audiences probably consumed his low humor (with or without the high virtuosity) with gusto. Thus, if the summer students were to be criticized at all, it would be for approach this music too seriously; but this can be forgiven, since getting through Lutoslawski's welter of notes at all is a pretty serious challenge! Whether or not they appreciated the composer's sense of humor, they knew enough to bring the program to its conclusion with an impressive display of fireworks.
Showing posts with label chamber music. Show all posts
Showing posts with label chamber music. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 6, 2016
July 31, 2009: Summer Music West 2009: the second chamber music recital
As was the case with yesterday's recital, there was considerable variation across this afternoon's extensive program of offerings. Once again, however, there were positive surprises, the most impressive of which was a truly stimulating reading of the first movement of Franz Schubert's C Major string quintet D. 956, scored for two cellos rather than two violas. This is another gem from Schubert's final year, which, as I have previously written, was "a time when he was as adventurous in composition as he was prolific." The added weight on the cello side is just the beginning of the adventure, as is the two-measure crescendo from piano to forte that opens the movement that the students performed. This was decidedly a case in which all five students were intimately connected to both Schubert's score and each other. Admittedly, I may have some bias, having come to this recital after having endured some rather lackluster readings of Schubert in cyberspace; but, since this is a piece I know very well, I feel I can have some objectivity in saying that this was a reading well worth the wait of most of the afternoon.
There was also a somewhat more evident sense of wit in this second recital, particularly in a wind quintet performance of Malcolm Arnold's setting of three sea shanties. Arnold begins with a truly inebriated paraphrase of "The Drunken Sailor" and from there goes madly off in all directions (as James Thurber once said). Wind players cannot get away with smiling while playing; so the fact that they "got" the humor of Arnold's approach had more to do with the fearless renditions of his most raucous gestures, particularly coming from the horn, which gets out of line with all sorts of Whitman-like yawps. If yesterday's effort to make fun of Rachmaninoff may have been lost in the performers' seriousness, Arnold's particular approach to humor could not be suppressed.
There was also a somewhat more evident sense of wit in this second recital, particularly in a wind quintet performance of Malcolm Arnold's setting of three sea shanties. Arnold begins with a truly inebriated paraphrase of "The Drunken Sailor" and from there goes madly off in all directions (as James Thurber once said). Wind players cannot get away with smiling while playing; so the fact that they "got" the humor of Arnold's approach had more to do with the fearless renditions of his most raucous gestures, particularly coming from the horn, which gets out of line with all sorts of Whitman-like yawps. If yesterday's effort to make fun of Rachmaninoff may have been lost in the performers' seriousness, Arnold's particular approach to humor could not be suppressed.
April 4, 2009: Notes without sounds
The program that pianist Natalya Lundtvedt selected to initiate the August is Piano Month! series of Noontime Concerts™ recitals at Old St. Mary's Cathedral had the potential to demonstrate the wide diversity of sounds that have been invoked in piano composition. This was achieved not only through a diversity of composers, including Franz Schubert, Frédéric Chopin, and Claude Debussy but also in the diversity of approaches by a single composer, such as Schubert and Chopin. Johann Sebastian Bach added to the mix, not because the piano was his instrument, but because pianists both past (such as Ferruccio Busoni) and present (such as Richard Goode and, here in San Francisco, Frank French) have placed such emphasis on exploring sonorities consistent with his musical syntax. Even the least familiar composer, Akhmed Jevdet Gadzhiev, took a sound-based approach with his invocation on Oriental exotica. Unfortunately, while Lundtvedt brought a high level of technical command to each of these composers, she displayed little awareness of the extent to which the life of the music was in its sounds, rather than its notes.
This was particularly evident in her decision to perform two successive impromptus from Schubert's Opus 90 (D. 899), the second in E-flat Major and the third in G-flat Major. These two relatively short works speak in decidedly different voices. The E-flat Major is a perpetuum mobile with a rapid figure in triplet eighth notes weaving its way in and out of the "horizontal" voices through which its harmonic support is expressed. In contrast the G-flat Major is almost a "song without words," with a soprano voice above arpeggiated harmonies in a contrapuntal relationship with a bass-line continuo. One could almost say that Schubert was experimenting in the "orchestration" of these two solo piano compositions; and that sense of orchestration is even evident in the transcription of the E-flat Major impromptu made by Johannes Brahms as a study for the left hand playing alone. Sadly, for Lundtvedt these compositions sounded like little more than technical challenges to be mastered; and, while her mastery was both evident and admirable, it did little to contribute to these works (or any of the others on the program) being the sort of exciting listening experiences that they deserved to be.
This was particularly evident in her decision to perform two successive impromptus from Schubert's Opus 90 (D. 899), the second in E-flat Major and the third in G-flat Major. These two relatively short works speak in decidedly different voices. The E-flat Major is a perpetuum mobile with a rapid figure in triplet eighth notes weaving its way in and out of the "horizontal" voices through which its harmonic support is expressed. In contrast the G-flat Major is almost a "song without words," with a soprano voice above arpeggiated harmonies in a contrapuntal relationship with a bass-line continuo. One could almost say that Schubert was experimenting in the "orchestration" of these two solo piano compositions; and that sense of orchestration is even evident in the transcription of the E-flat Major impromptu made by Johannes Brahms as a study for the left hand playing alone. Sadly, for Lundtvedt these compositions sounded like little more than technical challenges to be mastered; and, while her mastery was both evident and admirable, it did little to contribute to these works (or any of the others on the program) being the sort of exciting listening experiences that they deserved to be.
Monday, December 28, 2015
December 24, 2009: Richard Goode returns to San Francisco Performances
On Friday, January 22, at 8 PM, Richard Goode will return to Herbst
Theatre to present a piano recital under the auspices of San Francisco
Performances. For me there will be a strong sense of anniversary to
this occasion, both public and personal. Since this will be Goode's
fifteenth appearance with San Francisco Performances, one could not
think of a better selection for their 30th Anniversary Season; but my
first reaction to the announcement of this event was the discovery that
he would be performing music that I had encountered the very first time I
heard him give a recital. This was a performance at Alice Tully Hall that concluded with Robert Schumann's Opus 16 Kreisleriana cycle; and this same work will conclude the program he has prepared for his visit to San Francisco.
Those unfamiliar with the significance of the name of this eight-movement composition need look no further than its Wikipedia entry:
This recital may also provide further opportunity to consider the impact of Johann Sebastian Bach on Schumann's compositions. Most likely Hoffmann never studied Bach's music as scrupulously as Schumann did; but, in the literary world, he had Kreisler perform the Goldberg Variations at tea parties, presumably to rather uncomprehending ears. Goode's ears are far more comprehending, and thus they serve us well in our own efforts to grasp the Bach listening experience. This is particularly true in his approach to negotiating the complexities of Bach's counterpoint by invoking the metaphor of a social conversation of "statements" and "responses" embellished by some of the social cues (like nodding in agreement) through which understanding arises. Thus, his selection of two prelude-fugue couplings from the second book of Das Wohltemperierte Klavier (BWV 883 in F-sharp minor and BWV 884 in G major), should provide excellent preparation for how we, as listeners, approach intricate details and the overall structure of Kreisleriana.
Schumann's studies also included the keyboard music of Joseph Haydn, and it is likely that he came to know Haydn's sonatas before his first exposure to Bach. One might even speculate that Haydn's coupling of often highly unorthodox invention with a mastery of formal structure may have provided an initial stimulus for the dialectical relationship between Schumann's Florestan and Eusebius. Thus, Goode's decision to include three Haydn sonatas (Hoboken XVI/21 in C major, Hoboken XVI/20 in C minor, and Hoboken XVI/40 in G major) on his program may provide us with as much preparation for Kreisleriana as his Bach selections will. In addition, Goode will be giving a free pre-concert talk on Haydn at 7 PM, one hour before his recital begins. I would not presume to speculate whether Goode will explore any "Schumann connection" in this talk, since any one of these three sonatas provides more than ample material for discussion on its own!
Tickets for the concert itself will be $49 and $32. Further information may be obtained from San Francisco Performances at 415-392-2545. Tickets may also be purchased through the Web page for this event.
Those unfamiliar with the significance of the name of this eight-movement composition need look no further than its Wikipedia entry:
The work is intended to represent the fictional character Johannes Kreisler from the works of E. T. A. Hoffmann. Like Kreisler, each piece has 2 very different sections, resembling the imaginary musician's manic-depression, and perhaps recalling Florestan and Eusebius, the two imaginary characters created by Schumann himself, who said that they represented his impulsive and dreamy sides, respectively. Johannes Kreisler appeared in three books by E. T. A. Hoffman, most notably in Kreisleriana (1813).Composed in 1838, the work was dedicated to Frédéric Chopin. Not only is it one of Schumann's most sophisticated compositions; but also it captures the spirit of Hoffmann's literary imagination far more perceptively than the music we usually associate with him, either Jacques Offenbach's operatic setting of his tales or the usual narrative line for Pyotr Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker ballet. The last time I had to write about this music was another San Francisco Performances event, a recital by Jonathan Biss. On that occasion I used my blog to provide a basic sense of the spirit behind both Hoffmann and his literary creation:
I first encountered Kreisler in my college days. A mathematics professor I knew had pointed me in the direction of Hoffmann's Lebens-Ansichten des Katers Murr nebst Fragmentarischer Biographie des Kapellmeister Johannes Kreisler. This purported to be an autobiography of a cat (Murr), who was kept by Kreisler. Unable to find blank sheets of paper, Murr decided to write this autobiography on the opposite side of pages that Kreisler had used to document his own life. The resulting text is an oscillation of disconnected fragments as the "editor" (Hoffmann) reproduces both sides of each sheet of paper in the order in which he found them. Those fragments were enough to convince me that Kreisler was one scary character, so it did not surprise me that one of Hoffmann's working titles for his Kreisler material was Lucid Intervals of an Insane Musician.The successful execution of Schumann's fantasies on Hoffmann's creation thus requires just the right combination of confidence and guts to situate the listener on that brink between lucidity and insanity without ever providing even a breath of security. The young Goode I heard about a quarter-century ago had both the confidence and the guts; but the overall narrative arc of the music eluded me, leaving me more with a sense of each nightmarish tree than of the entire forest. Thus, I am looking forward with great curiosity to how Goode's approach to this music (and my own listening skills) will have matured with experience.
This recital may also provide further opportunity to consider the impact of Johann Sebastian Bach on Schumann's compositions. Most likely Hoffmann never studied Bach's music as scrupulously as Schumann did; but, in the literary world, he had Kreisler perform the Goldberg Variations at tea parties, presumably to rather uncomprehending ears. Goode's ears are far more comprehending, and thus they serve us well in our own efforts to grasp the Bach listening experience. This is particularly true in his approach to negotiating the complexities of Bach's counterpoint by invoking the metaphor of a social conversation of "statements" and "responses" embellished by some of the social cues (like nodding in agreement) through which understanding arises. Thus, his selection of two prelude-fugue couplings from the second book of Das Wohltemperierte Klavier (BWV 883 in F-sharp minor and BWV 884 in G major), should provide excellent preparation for how we, as listeners, approach intricate details and the overall structure of Kreisleriana.
Schumann's studies also included the keyboard music of Joseph Haydn, and it is likely that he came to know Haydn's sonatas before his first exposure to Bach. One might even speculate that Haydn's coupling of often highly unorthodox invention with a mastery of formal structure may have provided an initial stimulus for the dialectical relationship between Schumann's Florestan and Eusebius. Thus, Goode's decision to include three Haydn sonatas (Hoboken XVI/21 in C major, Hoboken XVI/20 in C minor, and Hoboken XVI/40 in G major) on his program may provide us with as much preparation for Kreisleriana as his Bach selections will. In addition, Goode will be giving a free pre-concert talk on Haydn at 7 PM, one hour before his recital begins. I would not presume to speculate whether Goode will explore any "Schumann connection" in this talk, since any one of these three sonatas provides more than ample material for discussion on its own!
Tickets for the concert itself will be $49 and $32. Further information may be obtained from San Francisco Performances at 415-392-2545. Tickets may also be purchased through the Web page for this event.
December 20, 2009: Is minimalism still minimal? (Was it ever?)
An interesting phenomenon of the twentieth century was the formation
of specific groups around the initial intention of performing a single
composition. The best known example (at least in the United States) is
the Tashi Quartet, formed in 1973, which consisted of violinist Ida Kavafian, pianist Peter Serkin, cellist Fred Sherry and clarinetist Richard Stoltzman, which happens to the instrumentation for Olivier Messiaen's Quartet for the End of Time. Less known in this country is Hoketus,
which was founded by the Dutch composer Louis Andriessen explicitly for
the performance of his 1976 composition of the same name. This was a
larger ensemble than the Tashi Quartet; and, because Andriessen's
"Hoketus" composition was based on two musical "voices," each filling in
the rests of the other's line (as in the hocket
of medieval music), the group consisted of two equal groups of
instruments: two pianos, two Fender Rhodes electric pianos, two sets of
panpipes, two saxophones, two electric bass guitars, and two
percussionists. While Tashi reunited in 2008 to perform Messiaen's
quartet in celebration of the centenary of his birth, Hoketus disbanded
in 1987.
However, Andriessen had formed an earlier group in 1972; and this ensemble is still performing. It is the Dutch Orkest De Volharding; and it was also first assembled to perform a composition of the same name, "De Volharding," which is Dutch for "perseverance." One wonders if Andriessen may have picked up John Cage's interest in the I Ching, in the course of which he had encountered a frequently recurring piece of advice: "Perseverance furthers." The Orkest De Volharding is certainly persevering better than Hoketus did; and the American label Mode has now released a 2-CD set of their performances under the general title The Minimalists.
What about minimalism itself? Is it persevering? For that matter just what do we mean when we invoke "minimalism" as a genre label? Needless to say, Wikipedia has an entry for it with the following introductory summary:
So what does The Minimalists have to offer the curious listener? From a historical point of view, it includes the composition that many (at least those who prefer to disregard Cage and Young) claim started it all, Riley's "In C," which was composed in 1964. This was a score so "minimal" that it fit on the jacket of the original vinyl recording and now has its own Web page. Like 4'33" it can be performed by any number of people performing any assortment of instruments; and the score consists of 53 separate melodic fragments. As the Orkest de Volharding booklet states:
The original album became one of the icons of Sixties permissiveness. You were not hip if you did not have a copy; and for many it was the music of choice for experimenting with mind-altering substances. Much to my surprise, I never encountered a party where everyone gathered around to play along with the recording (which was certainly easy to do, except when you had to flip to the other side). These days with CD technology, we no longer have to worry about that flip; and a recent check of Amazon.com turned up over a dozen recordings, including the New Albion "25th Anniversary Concert," recorded by an "all-star cast" on January 14, 1990.
The problem is that the concept behind "In C" tends to persevere far better than the music itself. It is a bit like the old Japanese proverb, which states that there are two kinds of fools: the man (accepting the cultural bias of the language of the time and culture) who has never climbed Mount Fuji, and the man who climbs Mount Fuji twice. Every serious listener ought to include a performance of "In C," preferably in a concert setting, as part of a "portfolio" of listening experiences; but little is gained by having that experience a second time, even with different performers. There is only so much that "In C" has to say; and, once you get it, you've got it. So, while its inclusion in The Minimalists is historically significant, there are probably better ways one could spend the 51'29" of its duration.
The only composer represented in this collection that is not American is the "founding father of the group," Andriessen. He is represented by "Workers Union," described in the booklet as a "hooligan" version of "In C." What this means is that none of the pitches are strictly specified, but the rhythm is exactly fixed. In other words performance requires the same strict discipline of rhythmic performance that "Hoketus" demands; and coordination is aggravatingly difficult, "just like the organizing and carrying out of any political action," as Andriessen puts it. At 17'15" the performance is somewhat shorter than that of "Hoketus;" but it is a major challenge for the listener. In this case, however, listening multiple times may be more rewarding as one begins to develop an ear for the full scope of invention in Andriessen's rhythmic patterns.
In addition to Riley, the Americans represented on The Minimalists are (in temporal order of their compositions), John Adams ("Short Ride on a Fast Machine," 1986), David Lang ("Street," 1993), Steve Reich ("City Life," 1995), and Kyle Gann ("Sunken City (in Memoriam New Orleans)," 2005). The Adams and Reich compositions were arranged for the instrumental membership of Orkest de Volharding (flute, three saxophones, three trumpets, three trombones, horn, piano, and bass, with occasional additions) by Artistic Manager Anthony Fiumara. Most interesting is the coupling of Reich and Gann, since the sampled sounds of "City Life" include speech samples from firemen on the site of the 1993 bombing of the parking garage of the World Trade Center. Needless to say, these sounds acquired an entirely new layer of meaning after September 11, 2001 and provide a chilling complement to Gann's meditation on the aftermath of Katrina.
On the other hand Adams, Reich, and Gann are clearly thinking beyond the "roots" of minimalism in the compositions that represent them in this collection. As one might guess, those works are the most interesting in the package. Personally, I think Glass has the right idea. If you must talk about what you are doing (and I really do not think any composer should feel obliged to do so), it is always better to resort to language more specific than that of a label that was already beginning to wear out when it was first applied.
However, Andriessen had formed an earlier group in 1972; and this ensemble is still performing. It is the Dutch Orkest De Volharding; and it was also first assembled to perform a composition of the same name, "De Volharding," which is Dutch for "perseverance." One wonders if Andriessen may have picked up John Cage's interest in the I Ching, in the course of which he had encountered a frequently recurring piece of advice: "Perseverance furthers." The Orkest De Volharding is certainly persevering better than Hoketus did; and the American label Mode has now released a 2-CD set of their performances under the general title The Minimalists.
What about minimalism itself? Is it persevering? For that matter just what do we mean when we invoke "minimalism" as a genre label? Needless to say, Wikipedia has an entry for it with the following introductory summary:
Minimalist music is an originally American genre of experimental or Downtown music named in the 1960s based mostly in consonant harmony, steady pulse (if not immobile drones), stasis and slow transformation, and often reiteration of musical phrases or smaller units such as figures, motifs, and cells. Starting in the early 1960s as a scruffy underground scene in San Francisco alternative spaces and New York lofts, minimalism spread to become the most popular experimental music style of the late 20th century. The movement originally involved dozens of composers, although only four—Terry Riley, Steve Reich, Philip Glass, and, less visibly if more seminally, La Monte Young—emerged to become publicly associated with it in America. In Europe, its chief exponents were Louis Andriessen, Karel Goeyvaerts, Michael Nyman, Gavin Bryars, Steve Martland, Henryk Górecki, Arvo Pärt, and John Tavener. The term "minimalist music" was derived around 1970 by Michael Nyman from the concept of minimalism, which was earlier applied to the visual arts.[2] For some of the music, especially that which transforms itself according to strict rules, the term "process music" has also been used.This is relatively consistent with the characterization attributed to Riley in the booklet of notes provided with the Orkest de Volharding CDs: "music based on layered, simple patterns and a clear pulse, in which gradual, systematic changes (not 'development' in the serial sense) happen over a long period of time." Note the way in which the parenthesis characterizes minimalism as a reaction against the "neurotic" (as Riley put it) obsessions that academics had with serialism. Of course, if you really wanted to "get minimal," it would be hard to beat John Cage's 4'33", whose title specified a period of silence that constituted the composition; but Cage actually did beat out 4'33" with 0'00", which basically imposes no constraints on any number of musicians. (Yes, it has a score. Yes, I saw it. Yes, I have attended a performance of it.) On the other hand Glass has taken to distancing himself from the "minimalist" label, preferring instead "music with repetitive structures."
So what does The Minimalists have to offer the curious listener? From a historical point of view, it includes the composition that many (at least those who prefer to disregard Cage and Young) claim started it all, Riley's "In C," which was composed in 1964. This was a score so "minimal" that it fit on the jacket of the original vinyl recording and now has its own Web page. Like 4'33" it can be performed by any number of people performing any assortment of instruments; and the score consists of 53 separate melodic fragments. As the Orkest de Volharding booklet states:
The performers decide individually when to move from one motive to the next.The fragments need to be played in numerical order. Each one may be repeated any number of times, and the performer may rest for any period of time before moving on to the next fragment.
The original album became one of the icons of Sixties permissiveness. You were not hip if you did not have a copy; and for many it was the music of choice for experimenting with mind-altering substances. Much to my surprise, I never encountered a party where everyone gathered around to play along with the recording (which was certainly easy to do, except when you had to flip to the other side). These days with CD technology, we no longer have to worry about that flip; and a recent check of Amazon.com turned up over a dozen recordings, including the New Albion "25th Anniversary Concert," recorded by an "all-star cast" on January 14, 1990.
The problem is that the concept behind "In C" tends to persevere far better than the music itself. It is a bit like the old Japanese proverb, which states that there are two kinds of fools: the man (accepting the cultural bias of the language of the time and culture) who has never climbed Mount Fuji, and the man who climbs Mount Fuji twice. Every serious listener ought to include a performance of "In C," preferably in a concert setting, as part of a "portfolio" of listening experiences; but little is gained by having that experience a second time, even with different performers. There is only so much that "In C" has to say; and, once you get it, you've got it. So, while its inclusion in The Minimalists is historically significant, there are probably better ways one could spend the 51'29" of its duration.
The only composer represented in this collection that is not American is the "founding father of the group," Andriessen. He is represented by "Workers Union," described in the booklet as a "hooligan" version of "In C." What this means is that none of the pitches are strictly specified, but the rhythm is exactly fixed. In other words performance requires the same strict discipline of rhythmic performance that "Hoketus" demands; and coordination is aggravatingly difficult, "just like the organizing and carrying out of any political action," as Andriessen puts it. At 17'15" the performance is somewhat shorter than that of "Hoketus;" but it is a major challenge for the listener. In this case, however, listening multiple times may be more rewarding as one begins to develop an ear for the full scope of invention in Andriessen's rhythmic patterns.
In addition to Riley, the Americans represented on The Minimalists are (in temporal order of their compositions), John Adams ("Short Ride on a Fast Machine," 1986), David Lang ("Street," 1993), Steve Reich ("City Life," 1995), and Kyle Gann ("Sunken City (in Memoriam New Orleans)," 2005). The Adams and Reich compositions were arranged for the instrumental membership of Orkest de Volharding (flute, three saxophones, three trumpets, three trombones, horn, piano, and bass, with occasional additions) by Artistic Manager Anthony Fiumara. Most interesting is the coupling of Reich and Gann, since the sampled sounds of "City Life" include speech samples from firemen on the site of the 1993 bombing of the parking garage of the World Trade Center. Needless to say, these sounds acquired an entirely new layer of meaning after September 11, 2001 and provide a chilling complement to Gann's meditation on the aftermath of Katrina.
On the other hand Adams, Reich, and Gann are clearly thinking beyond the "roots" of minimalism in the compositions that represent them in this collection. As one might guess, those works are the most interesting in the package. Personally, I think Glass has the right idea. If you must talk about what you are doing (and I really do not think any composer should feel obliged to do so), it is always better to resort to language more specific than that of a label that was already beginning to wear out when it was first applied.
December 20, 2009: A virtual rendering of a non-standard concert
When Pictures Reframed was given its world premiere in New York, New York Times music critic Anthony Tommasini felt it was necessary to begin his November 16 review with the back-story:
Those staging needs provided the first clue to the "reframing" that took place. Above Andsnes and his grand piano hung a large screen on which Rhode's videos were projected. Both piano and screen were surrounded by five decorative panels that "framed" the presentation area. The effect is one of a single "picture" on a very grand scale; and it was immediately clear that both the magnitude of the scale and the nature of the images on the screen were beyond the scope of today's video capture technology. So the "raw" video was then processed by a crack editing team into a document of the Pictures portion of event that included Rhode's source material and considerable close-up footage of Andsnes. The result is now being offered in a package that includes the edited video on DVD, a CD of Andsnes' performances of all of the Mussorgsky selections (and two other short works) and the Schumann Kinderscenen, and a coffee table book of Rhode's images. Meanwhile, Andsnes has just completed his European tour of the show first given in Lincoln Center; and two more performances are scheduled for March: one in Beijing and one in Abu Dhabi.
The most important thing to bear in mind in approaching the video is that any resemblance between Rhode's imagery and the paintings by Victor Hartmann that inspired Mussorgsky are purely coincidental. This was very much a collaboration with Andsnes, which may be just as well since Andsnes took some pretty major departures of his own from Mussorgsky's original text, at least as documented in the complete edition published by the Soviet Union in 1939. There are time when it sounds as if Andsnes is more interested in going after the sound of Maurice Ravel's orchestration than after the original notes, and his approach has provoked more than a little wrath from the purist crowd. Thus, one needs to approach the work with a willingness to accept it on its own terms.
Unfortunately, the video editing does not facilitate that approach very well. The biggest problem is that we really do not see enough of the video for it to take full effect. Some of this, ironically, may have been a problem with the high-definition (HD) technology. The HD aspect ratio required that Rhode's videos appear to the side of the shots of Andsnes. Had this video been produced with the old-fashioned (pre-HD) American aspect ratio, there would have been perfect screen space for the video to appear above Andsnes, exactly the way audiences saw it.
Furthermore, with all due respect to Andsnes and his performance technique, there is just too much of him. The amount of screen time given exclusively to Rhode's video sources is thoroughly dwarfed by shots of Andsnes from every conceivable angle, including far too many shots of the face staring pensively into space. (I never found myself thinking about this at any Andsnes performance I have attended.) The resulting DVD thus makes it far more difficult to accept this project on its own terms than would be the case at an actual performance.
The back of the CD includes the following quote from Andsnes:
The remarkable Norwegian pianist Leif Ove Andsnes is a self-effacing, substantive and completely unflashy artist. You would not peg him as someone curious to explore multimedia and reinvent the piano recital.
Yet several years ago Mr. Andsnes approached Jane Moss, the vice president for programming at Lincoln Center, to propose collaborating with a visual artist on a performance of Mussorgsky’s “Pictures at an Exhibition.” Ms. Moss embraced the idea as being ideal for New Visions, part of the Great Performers series. After some searching, she introduced Mr. Andsnes to the South African-born video artist Robin Rhode.Astute readers may wonder how Andsnes managed to take 80 minutes to perform Pictures at an Exhibition; and, fortunately, he didn't. Here is Tommasini's account of the rest of the program:
The product of that collaboration, “Pictures Reframed,” an intriguing multimedia piano recital 80 minutes long without intermission, was presented at Alice Tully Hall on Friday night. It was the first of two performances, and the place was packed.
… childhood was the theme of the “Pictures Reframed” program, which included three other works as well as two short Rhode videos without music. Mr. Andsnes began by playing the two existing pieces from Mussorgsky’s incomplete 1865 suite “Memories of Childhood.” “Nurse and I” was a Mozartean delight depicting the composer’s childhood nurse. But “First Punishment: Nurse Shuts Me in a Dark Room,” is a hard-edged, driving toccata that reveals the nurse’s ominous side.Prior to coming to New York, Andsnes gave a special preview at his Risør Chamber Music Festival in Norway. The performance took place in a warehouse to accommodate the special staging needs, and the event was captured on video. The house appears to have been as packed as it was in Lincoln Center.
In another fitting selection Mr. Andsnes offered a ravishing account of Schumann’s “Kinderscenen” (“Scenes From Childhood”), played with affecting directness, impressive clarity and vivid imagination. “What becomes,” a new work by the Austrian composer Thomas Larcher in its premiere performance, though often turbulent and volatile, also fitted the overall theme and was accompanied by video. This 20-minute, six-movement piece ranged over diverse styles, with stretches of postmodern harmonies that recalled the bucolic Copland and fantastical episodes that included pitches, thuds and scratches produced from altered strings on the piano. Mr. Andsnes dispatched the piece, which climaxes in a hell-bent, frenetic scherzo, with brilliant pianism and cool authority.
Those staging needs provided the first clue to the "reframing" that took place. Above Andsnes and his grand piano hung a large screen on which Rhode's videos were projected. Both piano and screen were surrounded by five decorative panels that "framed" the presentation area. The effect is one of a single "picture" on a very grand scale; and it was immediately clear that both the magnitude of the scale and the nature of the images on the screen were beyond the scope of today's video capture technology. So the "raw" video was then processed by a crack editing team into a document of the Pictures portion of event that included Rhode's source material and considerable close-up footage of Andsnes. The result is now being offered in a package that includes the edited video on DVD, a CD of Andsnes' performances of all of the Mussorgsky selections (and two other short works) and the Schumann Kinderscenen, and a coffee table book of Rhode's images. Meanwhile, Andsnes has just completed his European tour of the show first given in Lincoln Center; and two more performances are scheduled for March: one in Beijing and one in Abu Dhabi.
The most important thing to bear in mind in approaching the video is that any resemblance between Rhode's imagery and the paintings by Victor Hartmann that inspired Mussorgsky are purely coincidental. This was very much a collaboration with Andsnes, which may be just as well since Andsnes took some pretty major departures of his own from Mussorgsky's original text, at least as documented in the complete edition published by the Soviet Union in 1939. There are time when it sounds as if Andsnes is more interested in going after the sound of Maurice Ravel's orchestration than after the original notes, and his approach has provoked more than a little wrath from the purist crowd. Thus, one needs to approach the work with a willingness to accept it on its own terms.
Unfortunately, the video editing does not facilitate that approach very well. The biggest problem is that we really do not see enough of the video for it to take full effect. Some of this, ironically, may have been a problem with the high-definition (HD) technology. The HD aspect ratio required that Rhode's videos appear to the side of the shots of Andsnes. Had this video been produced with the old-fashioned (pre-HD) American aspect ratio, there would have been perfect screen space for the video to appear above Andsnes, exactly the way audiences saw it.
Furthermore, with all due respect to Andsnes and his performance technique, there is just too much of him. The amount of screen time given exclusively to Rhode's video sources is thoroughly dwarfed by shots of Andsnes from every conceivable angle, including far too many shots of the face staring pensively into space. (I never found myself thinking about this at any Andsnes performance I have attended.) The resulting DVD thus makes it far more difficult to accept this project on its own terms than would be the case at an actual performance.
The back of the CD includes the following quote from Andsnes:
You have to challenge the status quo.I agree entirely. At the same time I remember Merce Cunningham, the choreographer who spent his entire career challenging the status quo. Cunningham had an even more memorable quote:
Sometimes it works; sometimes it doesn't.When things didn't work for Cunningham, he would move on and try something else. There is so much creative imagination in both Andsnes and Rhode that I hope they have no trouble with moving on, either together or each in his preferred direction.
December 18, 2009: An abundance of chamber music by Antonín Dvorák
The latest collaboration between the Alexander String Quartet and
lecturer Robert Greenberg will be a series of four 10 AM Saturday
concerts on January 16 and 30, February 20 and March 27 at the Herbst
Theatre, presented by San Francisco Performances, devoted entirely to
the chamber music of Antonín Dvorák. Dvorák is hardly a stranger to San
Francisco chamber music fans, and it would probably be fair to say that
he is one of the favored composers among both faculty and students at
the San Francisco Conservatory of Music.
However, these Saturday morning events will provide the opportunity to
supplement performances of the music with Greenberg's insights in his
capacity as Music Historian-in-Residence for San Francisco
Performances. Those insights are sure to touch upon his nationalist influences, his relationship with Johannes Brahms (an equally prolific composer of chamber music), and, of course, the impact of the time he spent in the United States.
The complete schedule for this series of concerts (with some background
on the music being performed provided by San Francisco Performance) is
as follows:
Program 1
10 AM, Herbst Theatre, Saturday, January 16
String Quartet in D minor, Opus 34; String Quartet in E-flat Major, Opus 51
This program features the first two compositions that caused Dvorák’s sudden burst to fame in his late thirties. By 36, he had labored for years in obscurity, supporting his young family by giving music lessons, playing the viola in orchestras and the organ in church, and trying to compose. He was known in Prague but almost nowhere else. Dedicated to Brahms, who helped alert European publishers to Dvorák’s talent, the “String Quartet in D minor” (1877) is a little-known jewel, full of lovely music and showing some unusual thematic relationships.
As his fame grew, Dvorák was encouraged to give up his Czech identity and write music in the mainstream German tradition. The “Quartet in E-flat Major” (1879) shows how the composer found himself trapped between these two worlds; even as he writes for German performers and audiences, he insists on using Czech rhythms, sounds and forms.
Program 2
10 AM, Herbst Theatre, Saturday, January 30
Terzetto in C Major for Two Violins and Viola, Opus 74; Piano Quintet in A Major, Opus 81
(With Roger Woodward, piano)
An unusual combination of two violins and viola, Dvorák’s “Terzetto” (1887) is as genial and good-spirited as anything he wrote. Faced with the challenge of writing for three high voices (string quartet minus the cello), he provides a full harmonic palette and bass line.
Not long after completing that four-part piece, Dvorák composed what is universally acclaimed as one of his finest works, the “Piano Quintet” (1887), tremendously vital music full of fire, sweep and soaring melodies. For the Quintet, accomplished pianist Roger Woodward, currently a professor at San Francisco State University, joins the Alexander String Quartet.
Program 3
10 AM, Herbst Theatre, Saturday, February 20
String Quartet in F Major, Opus 96 “American”; Viola Quintet in E-flat Major, Opus 97
(With Andrew Duckles, viola)
While serving as director of the National Conservatory of Music in New York in the late 19th century, Dvorák composed what is known as the “American” Quartet (1893). The artist claims to have composed “in the spirit” of American music and national melodies; listeners will have to decide for themselves.
The “Viola Quintet” (1893), is said to be directly influenced by the uniquely American elements of Iroquois drumbeats and locomotives pounding along New York City’s rail lines. Joining the Alexander for this piece is Southern California-based violist Andrew Duckles.
Program 4
10 AM, Herbst Theatre, Saturday, March 27
String Quartet in A-flat Major, Opus 105; String Quartet in G Major, Opus 106
Dvorák composed the “String Quartet in A-flat Major” (1895) as he was leaving the United States to return to his native Bohemia. The piece, with its general mood of celebration, reflects the composer's relief at being home — it is saturated with Czech musical forms and the spirit of Czech music. Similarly, “String Quartet in G Major” (1895), his first work after returning, reflects Dvorák joy at this homecoming.
Tickets for individual concerts cost $36 and $24; and the "package rate" for all four programs is $128 and $86. Further information may be obtained by calling San Francisco Performances at 415-392-2545. There is also a Web page for the entire series of events.
Program 1
10 AM, Herbst Theatre, Saturday, January 16
String Quartet in D minor, Opus 34; String Quartet in E-flat Major, Opus 51
This program features the first two compositions that caused Dvorák’s sudden burst to fame in his late thirties. By 36, he had labored for years in obscurity, supporting his young family by giving music lessons, playing the viola in orchestras and the organ in church, and trying to compose. He was known in Prague but almost nowhere else. Dedicated to Brahms, who helped alert European publishers to Dvorák’s talent, the “String Quartet in D minor” (1877) is a little-known jewel, full of lovely music and showing some unusual thematic relationships.
As his fame grew, Dvorák was encouraged to give up his Czech identity and write music in the mainstream German tradition. The “Quartet in E-flat Major” (1879) shows how the composer found himself trapped between these two worlds; even as he writes for German performers and audiences, he insists on using Czech rhythms, sounds and forms.
Program 2
10 AM, Herbst Theatre, Saturday, January 30
Terzetto in C Major for Two Violins and Viola, Opus 74; Piano Quintet in A Major, Opus 81
(With Roger Woodward, piano)
An unusual combination of two violins and viola, Dvorák’s “Terzetto” (1887) is as genial and good-spirited as anything he wrote. Faced with the challenge of writing for three high voices (string quartet minus the cello), he provides a full harmonic palette and bass line.
Not long after completing that four-part piece, Dvorák composed what is universally acclaimed as one of his finest works, the “Piano Quintet” (1887), tremendously vital music full of fire, sweep and soaring melodies. For the Quintet, accomplished pianist Roger Woodward, currently a professor at San Francisco State University, joins the Alexander String Quartet.
Program 3
10 AM, Herbst Theatre, Saturday, February 20
String Quartet in F Major, Opus 96 “American”; Viola Quintet in E-flat Major, Opus 97
(With Andrew Duckles, viola)
While serving as director of the National Conservatory of Music in New York in the late 19th century, Dvorák composed what is known as the “American” Quartet (1893). The artist claims to have composed “in the spirit” of American music and national melodies; listeners will have to decide for themselves.
The “Viola Quintet” (1893), is said to be directly influenced by the uniquely American elements of Iroquois drumbeats and locomotives pounding along New York City’s rail lines. Joining the Alexander for this piece is Southern California-based violist Andrew Duckles.
Program 4
10 AM, Herbst Theatre, Saturday, March 27
String Quartet in A-flat Major, Opus 105; String Quartet in G Major, Opus 106
Dvorák composed the “String Quartet in A-flat Major” (1895) as he was leaving the United States to return to his native Bohemia. The piece, with its general mood of celebration, reflects the composer's relief at being home — it is saturated with Czech musical forms and the spirit of Czech music. Similarly, “String Quartet in G Major” (1895), his first work after returning, reflects Dvorák joy at this homecoming.
Tickets for individual concerts cost $36 and $24; and the "package rate" for all four programs is $128 and $86. Further information may be obtained by calling San Francisco Performances at 415-392-2545. There is also a Web page for the entire series of events.
December 17, 2009: The Isserlis-Gerstein duo returns to San Francisco
On Sunday, January 10 at Herbst Theatre, cellist Steven Isserlis and
pianist Kirill Gerstein will give a recital at 7 PM under the auspices
of San Francisco Performances. This will be their second duo appearance
for San Francisco Performances, the first having been in May of 2007
(which, coincidentally, was one month after Marino Formenti gave his first series of piano recitals
for San Francisco Performances). However, neither performer is a
stranger to San Francisco. When Gustavo Dudamel made his debut
conducting the San Francisco Symphony at Davies Symphony Hall in March
of 2008, Gerstein was the soloist in the first half of the program,
performing Sergei Rachmaninoff's first piano concerto (his Opus 1).
While many dismissed this as a rather disappointing way for two such
capable artists to present themselves to the Davies audience, I looked
through the other end of the telescope at what I called "a work that is not 'up there' among the recognized masterpieces." I felt that taking on a work that lacked such "masterpiece credentials" was a real test of performance skill; and Gerstein (as well as Dudamel) emerged from that test with flying colors.
This past September Isserlis was here under somewhat more amenable circumstances, performing Joseph Haydn's C major cello concerto (Hoboken VIIb/1) with Philharmonia Baroque under its Music Director Nicholas McGegan and conducting a Master Class at the San Francisco Conservatory of Music based entirely on movements from three of the unaccompanied cello suites by Johann Sebastian Bach, all music with impeccable "masterpiece credentials!" The program he and Gerstein have prepared for next month will involve somewhat less familiar material:
The decision to arrange Schumann's last violin sonata is particularly interesting. While Schumann's cello concerto holds a secure place in the repertoire, he never composed a cello sonata. Indeed, his only solo instrument sonatas are the three he composed for violin; and the third is his last piece of chamber music. The work is seldom performed; so the opportunity to listen to it will be welcome, even if the experience will be mediated by its arrangement for cello.
The Britten sonata is also seldom heard, and I know it personally only from the Etcetera CD recording by Alexander Baillie and Ian Brown. Perhaps the deepest impression the work made on me had to do with my interest in the "raw materials" of sound and the approach that Britten took to having the cello arpeggiate through natural harmonics. I was also struck by the observation in the anonymous notes for this recording that the work was composed in January of 1961, which probably puts it closely before Britten began work in his War Requiem. In this case I feel I am long overdue for listening to this work without the intervention of recording technology.
Tickets for this recital are available for $49 and $32. Further information may be obtained by calling San Francisco Performances at 415-392-2545. The link for purchasing tickets online may be found in the January area of the Calendar Web page for San Francisco Performances.
This past September Isserlis was here under somewhat more amenable circumstances, performing Joseph Haydn's C major cello concerto (Hoboken VIIb/1) with Philharmonia Baroque under its Music Director Nicholas McGegan and conducting a Master Class at the San Francisco Conservatory of Music based entirely on movements from three of the unaccompanied cello suites by Johann Sebastian Bach, all music with impeccable "masterpiece credentials!" The program he and Gerstein have prepared for next month will involve somewhat less familiar material:
- Benjamin Britten: Sonata for Cello and Piano in C Major, Opus 65
- Robert Schumann: Violin Sonata No. 3 (arranged for cello by Isserlis)
- Sergei Rachmaninoff: Sonata in G minor for Piano and Cello, Opus 19
The decision to arrange Schumann's last violin sonata is particularly interesting. While Schumann's cello concerto holds a secure place in the repertoire, he never composed a cello sonata. Indeed, his only solo instrument sonatas are the three he composed for violin; and the third is his last piece of chamber music. The work is seldom performed; so the opportunity to listen to it will be welcome, even if the experience will be mediated by its arrangement for cello.
The Britten sonata is also seldom heard, and I know it personally only from the Etcetera CD recording by Alexander Baillie and Ian Brown. Perhaps the deepest impression the work made on me had to do with my interest in the "raw materials" of sound and the approach that Britten took to having the cello arpeggiate through natural harmonics. I was also struck by the observation in the anonymous notes for this recording that the work was composed in January of 1961, which probably puts it closely before Britten began work in his War Requiem. In this case I feel I am long overdue for listening to this work without the intervention of recording technology.
Tickets for this recital are available for $49 and $32. Further information may be obtained by calling San Francisco Performances at 415-392-2545. The link for purchasing tickets online may be found in the January area of the Calendar Web page for San Francisco Performances.
December 16, 2009: Marc-André Hamelin presents the delights of the nineteenth century
In his program for San Francisco Performances last night at Herbst
Theatre, pianist Marc-André Hamelin communicated an understanding of the
nineteenth-century aesthetic that is regrettably rare in the current
crop of concert offerings. It is an understanding that subordinates the
performer to the music itself and the demands made by that music on
appropriate performance technique. His casual appearance and cool
disposition make it clear that the program is not about him; it is about the nineteenth-century perspective on both composition and performance.
This perspective is best appreciated if we again invoke the concepts of grammar, logic, and rhetoric behind the medieval trivium. It is through grammar that we understand how a composition is structured, not only as an assembly of building blocks but also as a prioritization of that assembly through which some blocks serve to embellish others (as adjectives are used to embellish nouns). As with sentences, musical compositions may be ambiguous about structure, in which case it is up to the performer to clarify how (s)he wishes to communicate that structure. Clarification often comes through identifying a logic behind the structure, which may be facilitated by regarding the performance as a journey through time for which there are clear points of departure and arrival and a well-defined path connecting the two. Put in more blunt terms, logic concerns the question of what, in the composition, the performer expects us to listen to in order to justify the commitment of sitting there for the duration of the performance. Having established that justification, one then applies rhetoric to keep the listener engaged in that commitment to listen.
The application of this framework to Hamelin's performance may best be appreciated in the major work on his program, the collection of four consecutive etudes from Charles-Valentin Alkan's Opus 39 collection that he chose to call a "symphony" for solo piano. The tempo markings make it clear that these four etudes are assembled in the structural plan of a four-movement symphony:
Hamelin's appreciation of this nineteenth-century aesthetic is so acute that he can also apply it equally effectively to eighteenth-century music. This was most apparent in his performance of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart's A minor sonata K. 310. Composed in 1777 when Mozart was 21, this is a highly turbulent and expressive work that goes beyond the exuberant displays of a "show-off kid." Mozart scholar Maynard Solomon has even seen it as a foreshadowing of the entire framework of grammar, logic, and rhetoric that would define nineteenth-century composition; so, in many respects, all Hamelin was doing in his (decidedly non-period) approach was allowing the music to cast its shadow forward to the nineteenth century in the manner of Solomon's assessment. In other words the performance had less to do with any sense of Mozart's own grammar, logic, and rhetoric and more to do with how the nineteenth century received Mozart's legacy.
The set of F minor variations on an Andante theme by Joseph Haydn, Hoboken XVII/6, is another matter. Haydn was always trying to invent ways to push the envelope of composition; but he also had the good sense to pay attention when his patron, Prince Nicholas Esterházy, would let him know (usually gently) than enough was enough. With Esterházy's death in 1790, however, those constraints were lifted; and Haydn was once again free to explore new ways to invent. This particular work, composed in 1793, actually has the subtitle "Sonata – Un Piccolo Divertimento," which is a bit deceptive, considering that it is a single movement (making it "piccolo"). Its double variation form, which would figure so significantly in the fifth and ninth symphonies of Ludwig van Beethoven and much later in the fourth symphony of Gustav Mahler, was a radical departure from what variations were expected to be, matched only by the outrageous turn-on-a-dime progressions in a coda that, when used at all, had previously been intended to return the listener to the simplicity of the theme after a journey of embellishments. This music is less a foreshadowing of nineteenth-century thinking as much as it is one of the first clear and explicit statements of that thinking, making it the perfect way for Hamelin to introduce his program.
All this attention to the Haydn and Mozart offerings that began Hamelin's program and the Alkan that concluded it should not detract from the middle of his own journey (or, for that matter, his encore). Between Mozart and Alkan we had Franz Liszt, the Venezia e Napoli supplement to the second "year" of his Années de Pèlerinage, and Gabriel Fauré's sixth D-flat major nocturne (Opus 63). In these cases Hamelin was again the quiet center of control, whether it was the roiling energy of Liszt at his most "Lisztich" (not necessarily in the pejorative sense that Johannes Brahms had intended) or Fauré's intricate interleaving of voices, which only makes sense through a clear rendering of the interplay. The performance was all about the music, and the performer was simply the channel for that performance. This was also true of his encore, the second of the Opus 27 nocturnes of Frédéric Chopin (also in D-flat major), whose ternary form frames some of Chopin's most elaborate embellishments between outer sections of deceptive simplicity.
On a broader scale San Francisco Performances has used the past two weeks to offer us an impressive piano journey of its own. First we had Marino Formenti guide us through many of the complexities of the twentieth-century aesthetic, after which he led us just as capably into the twenty-first-century aesthetic of Bernhard Lang. Then, last night we could fall back into the nineteenth-century with a more informed sense of what it was, where it came from, and where it would eventually lead. If this program planning was less a matter of design and more one of happy circumstance, we should still celebrate the benefits of that circumstance!
This perspective is best appreciated if we again invoke the concepts of grammar, logic, and rhetoric behind the medieval trivium. It is through grammar that we understand how a composition is structured, not only as an assembly of building blocks but also as a prioritization of that assembly through which some blocks serve to embellish others (as adjectives are used to embellish nouns). As with sentences, musical compositions may be ambiguous about structure, in which case it is up to the performer to clarify how (s)he wishes to communicate that structure. Clarification often comes through identifying a logic behind the structure, which may be facilitated by regarding the performance as a journey through time for which there are clear points of departure and arrival and a well-defined path connecting the two. Put in more blunt terms, logic concerns the question of what, in the composition, the performer expects us to listen to in order to justify the commitment of sitting there for the duration of the performance. Having established that justification, one then applies rhetoric to keep the listener engaged in that commitment to listen.
The application of this framework to Hamelin's performance may best be appreciated in the major work on his program, the collection of four consecutive etudes from Charles-Valentin Alkan's Opus 39 collection that he chose to call a "symphony" for solo piano. The tempo markings make it clear that these four etudes are assembled in the structural plan of a four-movement symphony:
- The Allegro moderato follows the conventions of an opening symphonic movement.
- The Andantino is marked Marche funèbre in a clear nod to Ludwig van Beethoven's use of a funeral march as a movement in both a piano sonata and a symphony.
- The Menuet indicates a basic ternary form movement, which is probably more in the spirit of a scherzo.
- The Presto is also marked as Finale, following the convention of a fast-paced conclusion.
Hamelin's appreciation of this nineteenth-century aesthetic is so acute that he can also apply it equally effectively to eighteenth-century music. This was most apparent in his performance of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart's A minor sonata K. 310. Composed in 1777 when Mozart was 21, this is a highly turbulent and expressive work that goes beyond the exuberant displays of a "show-off kid." Mozart scholar Maynard Solomon has even seen it as a foreshadowing of the entire framework of grammar, logic, and rhetoric that would define nineteenth-century composition; so, in many respects, all Hamelin was doing in his (decidedly non-period) approach was allowing the music to cast its shadow forward to the nineteenth century in the manner of Solomon's assessment. In other words the performance had less to do with any sense of Mozart's own grammar, logic, and rhetoric and more to do with how the nineteenth century received Mozart's legacy.
The set of F minor variations on an Andante theme by Joseph Haydn, Hoboken XVII/6, is another matter. Haydn was always trying to invent ways to push the envelope of composition; but he also had the good sense to pay attention when his patron, Prince Nicholas Esterházy, would let him know (usually gently) than enough was enough. With Esterházy's death in 1790, however, those constraints were lifted; and Haydn was once again free to explore new ways to invent. This particular work, composed in 1793, actually has the subtitle "Sonata – Un Piccolo Divertimento," which is a bit deceptive, considering that it is a single movement (making it "piccolo"). Its double variation form, which would figure so significantly in the fifth and ninth symphonies of Ludwig van Beethoven and much later in the fourth symphony of Gustav Mahler, was a radical departure from what variations were expected to be, matched only by the outrageous turn-on-a-dime progressions in a coda that, when used at all, had previously been intended to return the listener to the simplicity of the theme after a journey of embellishments. This music is less a foreshadowing of nineteenth-century thinking as much as it is one of the first clear and explicit statements of that thinking, making it the perfect way for Hamelin to introduce his program.
All this attention to the Haydn and Mozart offerings that began Hamelin's program and the Alkan that concluded it should not detract from the middle of his own journey (or, for that matter, his encore). Between Mozart and Alkan we had Franz Liszt, the Venezia e Napoli supplement to the second "year" of his Années de Pèlerinage, and Gabriel Fauré's sixth D-flat major nocturne (Opus 63). In these cases Hamelin was again the quiet center of control, whether it was the roiling energy of Liszt at his most "Lisztich" (not necessarily in the pejorative sense that Johannes Brahms had intended) or Fauré's intricate interleaving of voices, which only makes sense through a clear rendering of the interplay. The performance was all about the music, and the performer was simply the channel for that performance. This was also true of his encore, the second of the Opus 27 nocturnes of Frédéric Chopin (also in D-flat major), whose ternary form frames some of Chopin's most elaborate embellishments between outer sections of deceptive simplicity.
On a broader scale San Francisco Performances has used the past two weeks to offer us an impressive piano journey of its own. First we had Marino Formenti guide us through many of the complexities of the twentieth-century aesthetic, after which he led us just as capably into the twenty-first-century aesthetic of Bernhard Lang. Then, last night we could fall back into the nineteenth-century with a more informed sense of what it was, where it came from, and where it would eventually lead. If this program planning was less a matter of design and more one of happy circumstance, we should still celebrate the benefits of that circumstance!
December 12, 2009: Haydn variations
Last night Marino Formenti performed the second of his two Aspects of the Divine recitals for San Francisco Performances at St. Mark's Lutheran Church in San Francisco. The title of this second part was Seven Last Words;
and the central work, performed after the intermission, was a piano
transcription (presumably Formenti's own) of Joseph Haydn's oratorio, The Seven Last Words of Our Savior on the Cross. This was preceded before the intermission by a single work, the United States premiere of Bernhard Lang's Monadologie V—7 Last Words of Hasan.
In a statement reproduced in the program book, Lang described his Monadologie compositions as follows:
Thus, as had been the case with the music of Olivier Messiaen at the first Aspects of the Divine recital last Saturday, Formenti presented a program of music based on a considerable theoretical infrastructure. However, as was the case on Saturday, it was clear that he approached his performance with more attention to practice than to theory. From this point of view, he seemed to take that comment about "partly violently true 'anti-music'" (perhaps in response to Hasan's dying conviction that nothing is true) as a point of departure. There was definitely an outburst of violence in the flood of notes that began Monadologie V, pounded out with such spontaneity that Formenti began playing as he was taking his seat on the piano bench; but, for all of that violence, I am not sure I would call Lang's music contrarian.
What was fascinating about the organization of the program is that Haydn's oratorio is not a particularly familiar work, even in his revision of the music as a string quartet (sometimes performed by a string ensemble). Thus, one could not count on extensive recognition of the modules behind this particular compositional process. One was simply aware that, in the midst of an onslaught of violent dissonance (the earthquake of the coda to Haydn's oratorio?), fragments of eighteenth-century rhetoric would emerge, swept away by the dissonances almost before they could be recognized. Yet I suspect that Formenti anticipated that those fragments would register, even if subliminally; so they would be recognized when they emerged after the intermission in the Haydn source text.
Since I have heard several performances of the oratorio (all recorded, unfortunately), I had the advantage of recognizing those fragments when Lang revealed them. However, as I listened to Formenti's piano transcription of the Haydn, I realized that another bond had formed between the two compositions on the program. Lang's "discrete states" were realized through an intensely driving pulse; and that pulse figures significantly in Haydn's rhetoric. In Haydn, as one might imagine, the pulse serves primarily as a background element, which adds emotional tension to the foreground melodic line and the poignancy of the text being sung. Thus, much of Lang's own architecture arises from the way in which he has taken background material from Haydn and moved it into the foreground. In Lang's music the emotional tension is still there; but it is now revealed with far sharper edges, providing Formenti with a basis for that "violent truth." However, by performing his transcription of Haydn after Lang's mutations, Haydn's pulses no longer receded to that background for which they had probably been intended. In other words the context of Lang's music had disrupted the usual conventions of foreground and background that we would apply to listening to Haydn; and Formenti's performance seemed designed to let that disruption run its course, providing an "aspect" of Haydn more revolutionary than what one would gather from most accounts of his work.
The whole evening was thus thoroughly alien to the usual traditions of the piano recital, even in the ways in which Haydn was presented. Nevertheless, the conception of the program was certainly true to its overarching theme. After all, just about any "aspect of the Divine" must, by its very nature, be alien to mere mortality. Those aspects of the Divine that Formenti addressed through Messiaen last Saturday were presented as sources of awe and wonder. Haydn's music may have been intended for silent meditation; but Lang's transformations restored those impressions of awe and wonder, thus shaping any meditations that occupied our minds when Formenti allowed Haydn's voice to speak through his transcription. Meditating on the Crucifixion during Advent may have put time a bit out of joint, but meditating on aspects of the Divine is suitable for any period in the religious calendar.
In a statement reproduced in the program book, Lang described his Monadologie compositions as follows:
Perhaps the Mondadologies can best be characterized in the following points: they utilize tiny introductory modules, which are used to generate the entire musical fabric. These introductory elements are for the most part "samples" from existing musical material. The scores are created through cellular automatons [sic]; in other words, they are created mechanically and themselves represent mechanical abstractions in the Deleuzian sense. The cells pass through discrete states as complex differentials, appearing as constant mutations.In Monadologie V the "existing musical material" comes from Haydn's oratorio and Formenti's own comments in the program book reflect on the relationship between Lang and Haydn:
His [Lang's] way of obsessively dissecting and reassembling (and therefore obsessively questioning) models and modules, based here as in his other works on "historical" material, would also recreate an authentic, partly violently true "anti-music."The concept of "seven last words" also undergoes transformation in Lang's reworking of Haydn. In Haydn's case, the "words" are actually seven phrases from the Gospels that Jesus uttered from the Cross. Haydn's oratorio was written for a Good Friday service in the Cathedral of Cádiz in Spain to provide music for meditation by the congregation after each of these phrases was pronounced during the ritual. Lang has transformed Jesus into Hasan-i Sabbah, first known by the West through the tales of Marco Polo. Hasan himself was not a martyr; but he led the cult of Shiite Arab Hashshashins (the Assassins), all of whom embraced martyrdom as part of their cause. The legend is that, on his deathbed in 1124, Hasan whispered seven words just before dying:
Remember, nothing is true; everything is permitted.To the extent that cellular automata have provided a fundamental mathematical abstraction in an area of research known as "artificial life," Hasan's words have striking relevance: The world of abstraction transcends the concept of truth. The question of whether or not anything is true is replaced by the question of whether or not all the propositions of the abstraction are consistent among themselves. Truth no longer matters; and, while everything is not permitted, the constraints of internal consistency allow for a generous approximation to everything!
Thus, as had been the case with the music of Olivier Messiaen at the first Aspects of the Divine recital last Saturday, Formenti presented a program of music based on a considerable theoretical infrastructure. However, as was the case on Saturday, it was clear that he approached his performance with more attention to practice than to theory. From this point of view, he seemed to take that comment about "partly violently true 'anti-music'" (perhaps in response to Hasan's dying conviction that nothing is true) as a point of departure. There was definitely an outburst of violence in the flood of notes that began Monadologie V, pounded out with such spontaneity that Formenti began playing as he was taking his seat on the piano bench; but, for all of that violence, I am not sure I would call Lang's music contrarian.
What was fascinating about the organization of the program is that Haydn's oratorio is not a particularly familiar work, even in his revision of the music as a string quartet (sometimes performed by a string ensemble). Thus, one could not count on extensive recognition of the modules behind this particular compositional process. One was simply aware that, in the midst of an onslaught of violent dissonance (the earthquake of the coda to Haydn's oratorio?), fragments of eighteenth-century rhetoric would emerge, swept away by the dissonances almost before they could be recognized. Yet I suspect that Formenti anticipated that those fragments would register, even if subliminally; so they would be recognized when they emerged after the intermission in the Haydn source text.
Since I have heard several performances of the oratorio (all recorded, unfortunately), I had the advantage of recognizing those fragments when Lang revealed them. However, as I listened to Formenti's piano transcription of the Haydn, I realized that another bond had formed between the two compositions on the program. Lang's "discrete states" were realized through an intensely driving pulse; and that pulse figures significantly in Haydn's rhetoric. In Haydn, as one might imagine, the pulse serves primarily as a background element, which adds emotional tension to the foreground melodic line and the poignancy of the text being sung. Thus, much of Lang's own architecture arises from the way in which he has taken background material from Haydn and moved it into the foreground. In Lang's music the emotional tension is still there; but it is now revealed with far sharper edges, providing Formenti with a basis for that "violent truth." However, by performing his transcription of Haydn after Lang's mutations, Haydn's pulses no longer receded to that background for which they had probably been intended. In other words the context of Lang's music had disrupted the usual conventions of foreground and background that we would apply to listening to Haydn; and Formenti's performance seemed designed to let that disruption run its course, providing an "aspect" of Haydn more revolutionary than what one would gather from most accounts of his work.
The whole evening was thus thoroughly alien to the usual traditions of the piano recital, even in the ways in which Haydn was presented. Nevertheless, the conception of the program was certainly true to its overarching theme. After all, just about any "aspect of the Divine" must, by its very nature, be alien to mere mortality. Those aspects of the Divine that Formenti addressed through Messiaen last Saturday were presented as sources of awe and wonder. Haydn's music may have been intended for silent meditation; but Lang's transformations restored those impressions of awe and wonder, thus shaping any meditations that occupied our minds when Formenti allowed Haydn's voice to speak through his transcription. Meditating on the Crucifixion during Advent may have put time a bit out of joint, but meditating on aspects of the Divine is suitable for any period in the religious calendar.
December 11, 2009: End of semester at the San Francisco Conservatory
The last two chamber music recitals of the semester at the San
Francisco Conservatory of Music took place yesterday at 4 PM and 8 PM.
Both were in the String and Piano Chamber Music division, although the
piano appeared only once. The 4 PM concert consisted entirely of the
music of Ludwig van Beethoven, traversing his early, middle, and late
periods in three works. The 8 PM concert moved forward in time to the
turbulent transition from the nineteenth century to the twentieth with
two compositions by Claude Debussy and Arnold Schoenberg, respectively.
Yesterday's review concluded with the somewhat wistful observation that "We'll always have Beethoven;" but the real issue is whether we shall always have performers that will keep the experiences of listening to Beethoven rich and alive. On the basis of yesterday afternoon's recital, it would be fair to say that the San Francisco Conservatory is one of the institutions that will assure us of having at least one more generation of such performers. The program was cleverly structured as a précis of the development of Beethoven's "chamber music voice," beginning with the rather non-standard Opus 25 serenade in D major for flute, violin, and viola and proceeding through two string quartets, the first in the "Razumovsky" set, Opus 59, Number 1 in F major, and Opus 132 in A minor (which, in the wake of a rather extraordinary performance in New York earlier this week, may now deserve to be called "the Four Quartets quartet," in recognition of its impact on T. S. Eliot).
Recently, Conservatory students have been encouraged to preface performances with some remarks about the music. Because the recital program is almost always a single sheet of paper providing nothing more than the compositions and the performers, this provides an alternative to a program book and prepares students for the sometimes challenging task of accounting verbally for what they are doing. The introduction to Opus 25 emphasized the uniqueness of the flute-violin-viola combination but mistakenly situated the work's historical context between the first two symphonies. While the music was published in 1802, Thayer puts its composition in either 1795 or 1796, which would mean not too long after the Opus 2 piano sonatas. This was a time when Beethoven acknowledged the inventive wit of his teacher, Joseph Haydn, usually by trying to do Haydn one better. The serenade is thus a product of Beethoven at his most genial; and, while the remarks made no mention of his wit, the performance certainly demonstrated awareness of the sense of play with which Beethoven approached this rather traditional (if not outmoded) structural form.
By the time we get to the Opus 59 quartets, we are well into the Beethoven of energetic and emphatic expressiveness. (He had only recently completed his third "Eroica" symphony, Opus 55.) This work was presented without remarks but with a raw and gruff energy that well illustrated Beethoven's sometimes tense relationship with polite society. This made for a valuable perspective in the context of the many performances these quartets receive that are far more polished and polite. Opus 132, on the other hand, is a highly introspective work. Personally, I do not find Eliot's use of the noun "gaiety" particularly apposite; but his phrase about "the fruits of reconciliation and relief after immense suffering" are most perceptive, particularly in light of the central role of the extended middle movement, the Heiliger Dankgesang eines Genesenen an die Gottheit, in der lydischen Tonart. One might argue that this is a work that demands far more maturity than one can expect from students; but, while that maturity may have been missing in the prefacing remarks, the students brought far more than sufficient music understanding to the performance itself.
The evening recital began with Debussy's only string quartet in G minor. This work is frequently compared or coupled with Maurice Ravel's F major quartet; but the two are markedly different, particularly on rhetorical grounds. Ravel greets you with an accessible affability, which better disposes your receptivity to the subtleties that shimmer beneath the surface. Debussy begins with sharper edges; and, while his Andantino movement is "doucement expressif," the tone of the entire work is entirely assertive. This is not to say that his rhetorical stance is hostile, but it is not afraid to show little tolerance for traditional conventions. To a great extent the Conservatory students caught this rhetorical spirit; and, while it was not as rough-and-ready as the approach taken by the "Razumovsky" students, it certainly did justice to Debussy's spirit.
The major evening event, however, was Schoenberg's Opus 21, Pierrot Lunaire, which was also the only occasion for a piano. In this case spoken remarks were replaced by a silent PowerPoint Slide Show of background text supplemented by appropriate images. The PowerPoint projection then remained to provide English translations of the German texts (which, in turn, had been translated from Albert Giraud's French poems). This work was conceived as a cabaret-style performance with the texts delivered in the Sprechstimme style by a soprano accompanied by five instrumentalists, the pianist, a string player alternating on violin and viola, a cellist, and two wind players, one for flute and piccolo and the other for clarinet and bass clarinet. Schoenberg described the work as "three times seven poems," meaning that it has three major sections, each of which presents seven poems. The first may be loosely described as a celebration of moonlight that descends from the manic to the depressive. The second takes place in the darkness of night as a venue for crime and punishment. The final section is an awakening from the nightmare of its predecessor with the moon serving as a reminder of a sense of loss.
This is clearly not your usual cabaret entertainment. Indeed, it is more a grotesque reflection on such entertainment; and the capturing of that grotesque was probably the most salient element of the student performance. The text was delivered with all of the wild emotional swings demanded by the score, all of which were firmly reinforced by the rich diversity of Schoenberg's instrument technique. (No two movements use the same combination of instruments.) Taken as a whole, the composition is a major and ambitious journey; but the students were not daunted by that journey. Those of us in the audience were thus the benefactors, receiving the gift of an opportunity to hone our Schoenberg listening skills.
Readers will note that none of the students participating in these recitals were referred to by name. These are free events that are not announced on the printed Conservatory Calendar. Those of us who sit in the audience do so as guests of the Conservatory, invited to observe the work-in-progress that is the daily activity of those students. These performances have clearly progressed beyond the early rehearsal stage; but they are not necessarily offered as finished products or "professional" ones. Thus, the Conservatory is a "safe place" in which the exploratory processes of discovering a performance may be conducted. It would be unfair to any student to call out any false moves and attach them to specific names, and it seems just as appropriate to refrain from calling out those whose moves are more positive. I can only hope that those who find their way to particularly effective performance will be able to bring their results to a more public venue.
Yesterday's review concluded with the somewhat wistful observation that "We'll always have Beethoven;" but the real issue is whether we shall always have performers that will keep the experiences of listening to Beethoven rich and alive. On the basis of yesterday afternoon's recital, it would be fair to say that the San Francisco Conservatory is one of the institutions that will assure us of having at least one more generation of such performers. The program was cleverly structured as a précis of the development of Beethoven's "chamber music voice," beginning with the rather non-standard Opus 25 serenade in D major for flute, violin, and viola and proceeding through two string quartets, the first in the "Razumovsky" set, Opus 59, Number 1 in F major, and Opus 132 in A minor (which, in the wake of a rather extraordinary performance in New York earlier this week, may now deserve to be called "the Four Quartets quartet," in recognition of its impact on T. S. Eliot).
Recently, Conservatory students have been encouraged to preface performances with some remarks about the music. Because the recital program is almost always a single sheet of paper providing nothing more than the compositions and the performers, this provides an alternative to a program book and prepares students for the sometimes challenging task of accounting verbally for what they are doing. The introduction to Opus 25 emphasized the uniqueness of the flute-violin-viola combination but mistakenly situated the work's historical context between the first two symphonies. While the music was published in 1802, Thayer puts its composition in either 1795 or 1796, which would mean not too long after the Opus 2 piano sonatas. This was a time when Beethoven acknowledged the inventive wit of his teacher, Joseph Haydn, usually by trying to do Haydn one better. The serenade is thus a product of Beethoven at his most genial; and, while the remarks made no mention of his wit, the performance certainly demonstrated awareness of the sense of play with which Beethoven approached this rather traditional (if not outmoded) structural form.
By the time we get to the Opus 59 quartets, we are well into the Beethoven of energetic and emphatic expressiveness. (He had only recently completed his third "Eroica" symphony, Opus 55.) This work was presented without remarks but with a raw and gruff energy that well illustrated Beethoven's sometimes tense relationship with polite society. This made for a valuable perspective in the context of the many performances these quartets receive that are far more polished and polite. Opus 132, on the other hand, is a highly introspective work. Personally, I do not find Eliot's use of the noun "gaiety" particularly apposite; but his phrase about "the fruits of reconciliation and relief after immense suffering" are most perceptive, particularly in light of the central role of the extended middle movement, the Heiliger Dankgesang eines Genesenen an die Gottheit, in der lydischen Tonart. One might argue that this is a work that demands far more maturity than one can expect from students; but, while that maturity may have been missing in the prefacing remarks, the students brought far more than sufficient music understanding to the performance itself.
The evening recital began with Debussy's only string quartet in G minor. This work is frequently compared or coupled with Maurice Ravel's F major quartet; but the two are markedly different, particularly on rhetorical grounds. Ravel greets you with an accessible affability, which better disposes your receptivity to the subtleties that shimmer beneath the surface. Debussy begins with sharper edges; and, while his Andantino movement is "doucement expressif," the tone of the entire work is entirely assertive. This is not to say that his rhetorical stance is hostile, but it is not afraid to show little tolerance for traditional conventions. To a great extent the Conservatory students caught this rhetorical spirit; and, while it was not as rough-and-ready as the approach taken by the "Razumovsky" students, it certainly did justice to Debussy's spirit.
The major evening event, however, was Schoenberg's Opus 21, Pierrot Lunaire, which was also the only occasion for a piano. In this case spoken remarks were replaced by a silent PowerPoint Slide Show of background text supplemented by appropriate images. The PowerPoint projection then remained to provide English translations of the German texts (which, in turn, had been translated from Albert Giraud's French poems). This work was conceived as a cabaret-style performance with the texts delivered in the Sprechstimme style by a soprano accompanied by five instrumentalists, the pianist, a string player alternating on violin and viola, a cellist, and two wind players, one for flute and piccolo and the other for clarinet and bass clarinet. Schoenberg described the work as "three times seven poems," meaning that it has three major sections, each of which presents seven poems. The first may be loosely described as a celebration of moonlight that descends from the manic to the depressive. The second takes place in the darkness of night as a venue for crime and punishment. The final section is an awakening from the nightmare of its predecessor with the moon serving as a reminder of a sense of loss.
This is clearly not your usual cabaret entertainment. Indeed, it is more a grotesque reflection on such entertainment; and the capturing of that grotesque was probably the most salient element of the student performance. The text was delivered with all of the wild emotional swings demanded by the score, all of which were firmly reinforced by the rich diversity of Schoenberg's instrument technique. (No two movements use the same combination of instruments.) Taken as a whole, the composition is a major and ambitious journey; but the students were not daunted by that journey. Those of us in the audience were thus the benefactors, receiving the gift of an opportunity to hone our Schoenberg listening skills.
Readers will note that none of the students participating in these recitals were referred to by name. These are free events that are not announced on the printed Conservatory Calendar. Those of us who sit in the audience do so as guests of the Conservatory, invited to observe the work-in-progress that is the daily activity of those students. These performances have clearly progressed beyond the early rehearsal stage; but they are not necessarily offered as finished products or "professional" ones. Thus, the Conservatory is a "safe place" in which the exploratory processes of discovering a performance may be conducted. It would be unfair to any student to call out any false moves and attach them to specific names, and it seems just as appropriate to refrain from calling out those whose moves are more positive. I can only hope that those who find their way to particularly effective performance will be able to bring their results to a more public venue.
December 8, 2009: 1919: a good year for the viola
Music from 1919 was the title of the Faculty Artist Series
recital given last night by violist Jodi Levitz with her accompanist
Keisuke Nakagoshi at the San Francisco Conservatory of Music Recital
Hall. The year was particularly significant in the life of composer and
violist Rebecca Clarke, as is clear from the following passage in her Wikipedia entry:
This was my first opportunity to hear Clarke's sonata performed in its entirety, although I had heard Elizabeth Prior Runnicles perform its first Impetuoso movement last September at Old First Church. That movement alone might have led me to hypothesize that Clarke was the poet of the two competitors, but I would suggest that the philosopher emerges from the overall plan. The Impetuoso is followed by two movements, Vivace and Adagio; but each movement is its own microcosm of variations in both tempo and mood. Thus the sonata is very much the work of a formalist exploring a new syntactic foundation for sonata structure and seeking out rhetorical devices through which the "sense of a sonata" would still prevail. One could understand why that anonymous judge, who was probably well steeped in the traditions of sonata form, would have judged this composition to be the work of a philosopher.
From the performer's point of view, however, proper delivery of the rhetoric counts for far more than understanding the underlying syntax. Levitz mastered the mood swings of each movement and thus tapped into the "voice" of the entire sonata. As a student of Lionel Tertis, Clarke had clearly cultivated an intense love for the viola; and that love was more than evident in Levitz' performance of her sonata.
Bloch's suite was composed in New York after he had settled in the United States. Both the tempo markings and their organization are far more traditional. However, Levitz disclosed a set of more "programmatic" titles that he had apparently considered for the four movements:
Hindemith was still in Europe, playing viola in the Amar Quartet (which he had founded), when he composed his F major sonata. This was a time when, aware of the work of other composers, such as Arnold Schoenberg, he was seeking out new directions of his own. Those directions would eventually get him into trouble with the Nazis; and he was publicly denounced by Joseph Goebbels as an "atonal noisemaker." He left Germany for Switzerland in 1938 and came to the United States in 1940, where Yale University became his primary base of operations. Around the time of his departure from Germany, he began to give as much attention to theory as to practice and is still known today for an elaborate system laid out in The Craft of Musical Composition, which departs from both the traditional practices of harmony and counterpoint and from the alternative approach being pursued by Schoenberg. Unfortunately, his preoccupation with theory tended to blunt some of the sharper (and more interesting) edges of his earlier "raw" creativity.
The F major sonata comes from that "pre-theory" period. With its primary focus on variations on a theme, it rests on a solid formal bedrock; but it also has much of that intensity of rhetoric that Levitz teased our of the Clarke sonata. Levitz' decision to pair these works before the intermission displayed them as an excellent pair of companions, both intensely serious about seeking new directions, both drawing upon rhetorical techniques to clarify those directions, but each proceeding in its own unique directions. 1919 was, indeed, a most impressive year in the history of the viola repertoire!
Levitz probably had her students in mind in selecting her encore. Those students most likely know Hans Sitt for the challenges of his many etudes (100 of them in his Opus 32 and another fifteen for good measure in his Opus 116); so there is a good chance that she wanted her students to know that he also composed music that was not strictly pedagogical. She thus concluded the evening with a selection from his Opus 39 Album Leaves, believed to have been published around 1885. One could take this as an example of the traditions from which those 1919 compositions had chosen to depart, presented in a manner through which we could understand both the value of those traditions and the efforts of a new generation to move on from them.
Having been kicked out of the house without funds by her abusive father for criticizing his extramarital affairs,[7] Clarke supported herself through her viola playing after leaving the Royal College [of Music in London], and moved to the United States in 1916 to perform. Her compositional career peaked in a brief period, beginning with the viola sonata she entered in a 1919 competition sponsored by patron of the arts Elizabeth Sprague Coolidge, Clarke's neighbor, tying for first prize in a field of 72 entrants with a piece by Ernest Bloch. (Coolidge later declared Bloch the winner. Two judges of the contest remarked to Coolidge that though they had favored Clarke, it was good that she did not win, to avoid the appearance of Coolidge favoring her neighbor and friend and destroying the reputation of the then-new contest.) It was speculated by reporters that "Rebecca Clarke" was only a pseudonym for Bloch himself, or at least that it could not have been Clarke who wrote these pieces,[1] as the idea that a woman could write such a work was nearly unheard of. The sonata was well received and had its first performance at the Berkshire music festival in 1919.To provide musical substance for this passage, Levitz framed her recital by beginning with Clarke's sonata and concluding with Bloch's competition-winning suite. Between these two "competitors," she programmed Paul Hindemith's 1919 sonata in F major, his Opus 11, Number 4, speculating that it, too, may have been entered in the Coolidge competition. (All competitors were kept anonymous except for the two that tied for first prize. According to a passage from Clarke's memoir that Levitz read, one of the judges declared that breaking the tie would require choosing between a philosopher and a poet. Levitz joked that she had no idea which was which, but my own bet would be that Bloch was the poet.)
This was my first opportunity to hear Clarke's sonata performed in its entirety, although I had heard Elizabeth Prior Runnicles perform its first Impetuoso movement last September at Old First Church. That movement alone might have led me to hypothesize that Clarke was the poet of the two competitors, but I would suggest that the philosopher emerges from the overall plan. The Impetuoso is followed by two movements, Vivace and Adagio; but each movement is its own microcosm of variations in both tempo and mood. Thus the sonata is very much the work of a formalist exploring a new syntactic foundation for sonata structure and seeking out rhetorical devices through which the "sense of a sonata" would still prevail. One could understand why that anonymous judge, who was probably well steeped in the traditions of sonata form, would have judged this composition to be the work of a philosopher.
From the performer's point of view, however, proper delivery of the rhetoric counts for far more than understanding the underlying syntax. Levitz mastered the mood swings of each movement and thus tapped into the "voice" of the entire sonata. As a student of Lionel Tertis, Clarke had clearly cultivated an intense love for the viola; and that love was more than evident in Levitz' performance of her sonata.
Bloch's suite was composed in New York after he had settled in the United States. Both the tempo markings and their organization are far more traditional. However, Levitz disclosed a set of more "programmatic" titles that he had apparently considered for the four movements:
- In the Jungle
- Grimaces
- Night in Java
- In the Sun Country
Hindemith was still in Europe, playing viola in the Amar Quartet (which he had founded), when he composed his F major sonata. This was a time when, aware of the work of other composers, such as Arnold Schoenberg, he was seeking out new directions of his own. Those directions would eventually get him into trouble with the Nazis; and he was publicly denounced by Joseph Goebbels as an "atonal noisemaker." He left Germany for Switzerland in 1938 and came to the United States in 1940, where Yale University became his primary base of operations. Around the time of his departure from Germany, he began to give as much attention to theory as to practice and is still known today for an elaborate system laid out in The Craft of Musical Composition, which departs from both the traditional practices of harmony and counterpoint and from the alternative approach being pursued by Schoenberg. Unfortunately, his preoccupation with theory tended to blunt some of the sharper (and more interesting) edges of his earlier "raw" creativity.
The F major sonata comes from that "pre-theory" period. With its primary focus on variations on a theme, it rests on a solid formal bedrock; but it also has much of that intensity of rhetoric that Levitz teased our of the Clarke sonata. Levitz' decision to pair these works before the intermission displayed them as an excellent pair of companions, both intensely serious about seeking new directions, both drawing upon rhetorical techniques to clarify those directions, but each proceeding in its own unique directions. 1919 was, indeed, a most impressive year in the history of the viola repertoire!
Levitz probably had her students in mind in selecting her encore. Those students most likely know Hans Sitt for the challenges of his many etudes (100 of them in his Opus 32 and another fifteen for good measure in his Opus 116); so there is a good chance that she wanted her students to know that he also composed music that was not strictly pedagogical. She thus concluded the evening with a selection from his Opus 39 Album Leaves, believed to have been published around 1885. One could take this as an example of the traditions from which those 1919 compositions had chosen to depart, presented in a manner through which we could understand both the value of those traditions and the efforts of a new generation to move on from them.
December 6, 2009: A child's garden (or aviary?) of Messiaen
Any suggestion that pianist Marino Formenti would follow Olivier Messiaen's Vingt Regards sur L'Enfant-Jésus, performed yesterday evening without intermission at St. John's Presbyterian Church in Berkeley,
with a San Francisco Performances Family Matinee event, apparently
conceived with elementary school children in mind, about Messiaen would
probably have been greeted with, at the very least, Spock's raised
eyebrow. However, Formenti appears to believe (as I do) that there is
no need to simplify music for the sake of performing it for young
audiences. One may be more selective in what one offers; but there is
no reason to assume that any music, whether by Messiaen or
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, is less accessible to kids than it is to
adults. If anything, young audiences have fewer biased assumptions
about what music should or should not be; so, when someone like
Formenti stands in front of them and tells them that you can make music
from bird songs, they do not find that as peculiar as their more
educated seniors.
Formenti selected four movements from last night's recital for his Matinee program:
The result was fascinating to experience. Initially restless, the kids in the audience were quickly drawn to the examples presented to them. If there were any child-sounds competing with the descriptive explanations, those noises vanished when Formenti began to play. In all probability most of the audience had never heard anything like this before, and their curiosity got the better of them. Only the extended meditation on the Church of Love turned out to be a bit beyond their "listening grasp;" and restlessness got the better of them. On the whole, however, this was an audience more receptive to Messiaen than some Davies audiences have been for Anton Webern.
The success of this event probably had much to do with Formenti having a very high comfort level in talking with the children, rather than talking at them. I would not be surprised if he could present the idea of listening to silence to them just as effectively and then treat them to a performance of John Cage's 4'33". Last night's audience was religiously attentive, which was as true to the spirit of the entire Vingt Regards as one could wish. Today's attentiveness came from the curiosity of childhood, and Formenti's performance reminded us of just how important exposure to music at an early age is.
Formenti selected four movements from last night's recital for his Matinee program:
- Regard des hauters: the view from the heights (or the view of the birds)
- Regard de l'Esprit de joie: the image of the spirit of joy
- Regard des Anges: the view of the Angels
- Regard de l'Eglise d'amour: the image of the Church of Love
The result was fascinating to experience. Initially restless, the kids in the audience were quickly drawn to the examples presented to them. If there were any child-sounds competing with the descriptive explanations, those noises vanished when Formenti began to play. In all probability most of the audience had never heard anything like this before, and their curiosity got the better of them. Only the extended meditation on the Church of Love turned out to be a bit beyond their "listening grasp;" and restlessness got the better of them. On the whole, however, this was an audience more receptive to Messiaen than some Davies audiences have been for Anton Webern.
The success of this event probably had much to do with Formenti having a very high comfort level in talking with the children, rather than talking at them. I would not be surprised if he could present the idea of listening to silence to them just as effectively and then treat them to a performance of John Cage's 4'33". Last night's audience was religiously attentive, which was as true to the spirit of the entire Vingt Regards as one could wish. Today's attentiveness came from the curiosity of childhood, and Formenti's performance reminded us of just how important exposure to music at an early age is.
December 6, 2009: A gift of Brahms that will keep on giving
Regular readers have probably noticed that I have particular interest
in covering performances of the music of Johannes Brahms and have been
given to writing at length about his compositions and, from time to
time, his life. Therefore, while I do not, as a rule, like to give
advice on gifts for the season, I feel it worth pointing out that there
are two excellent collections of Brahms' complete works on CD, even if
Brahms never wrote anything that we would classify as "Christmas
music." At the going prices on Amazon.com, both of these collections
are running at about the same price; and both offer considerable "value
for money" (which is the way I used to talk when I lived in
Singapore)! In terms of recording history, the older collection is the Complete Edition
released by Deutsche Grammophon, which had its origins as a series of
vinyl releases during the sesquicentennial celebration of Brahms'
birth. As I observed on my blog, the CD version is actually a "second edition"
with minor alterations of the original vinyl project; and, while I
miss some of the original recordings that were replaced, I cannot fault
any of the replacements. The other collection is the Complete Works release by Brilliant Classics, which has been building up an impressive catalog of Gesamtwerk offerings. In this case I used my blog to document many impressions of both the assets and liabilities of this collection.
Either collection provides an excellent opportunity to get to know the full scope of Brahms' compositional efforts. As might be expected, the Deutsche Grammophon artists are likely to be more familiar than those encountered on the Brilliant recordings (all of which are "reprints," primarily from European sources); but those who have never heard the Israeli wife-husband duo of Bracha Eden and Alexander Tamir will find their inclusion in the Brilliant collection to be most rewarding, particularly in their performance of the Opus 56b Haydn variations. Part of the fun of serious listening is discovering new approaches introduced by previously unfamiliar performers.
Where both collections fall short is in providing useful written material. All one finds in the Deutsche Grammophon booklet is a table of contents. As is the case with all of the other Brilliant collections, all text resides only on a CD-ROM. This is great if you have a computer (and, if you are reading this, you probably do); and it means you can draw upon a search tool when you are trying to determine which CD has a specific composition. However, the supplementary text is rather modest and does not compare with the printed material that accompanied the original Deutsche Grammophon vinyls. With all the attention currently being given to scanning archival material, it would certainly be nice if Deutsche Grammophon mounted such a scanning project for their Brahms content. It might even induce those searching for information about Brahms to purchase their CD offering!
Amazon.com browsers will quickly notice a significant difference in the number of CDs in these two packages. There does not appear to be a problem of any difference in the actual content. Since Brilliant is a "reprint" series, for the most part they simply reproduce what they have licensed. Deutsche Grammophon, on the other hand, has done a relatively good job of "compacting" its sources. Thus, while the Brilliant Collection takes 60 CDs (plus the CD-ROM), the Deutsche Grammophon package consists of 46. However, since the prices of the two offerings are now so close and since the packages for both are relatively tight, that actual difference in CD count is not a major issue. The bottom line, then, is that any choice between these two alternatives will come down to personal taste; and either is likely to be received as an excellent gift idea by any serious listener!
Either collection provides an excellent opportunity to get to know the full scope of Brahms' compositional efforts. As might be expected, the Deutsche Grammophon artists are likely to be more familiar than those encountered on the Brilliant recordings (all of which are "reprints," primarily from European sources); but those who have never heard the Israeli wife-husband duo of Bracha Eden and Alexander Tamir will find their inclusion in the Brilliant collection to be most rewarding, particularly in their performance of the Opus 56b Haydn variations. Part of the fun of serious listening is discovering new approaches introduced by previously unfamiliar performers.
Where both collections fall short is in providing useful written material. All one finds in the Deutsche Grammophon booklet is a table of contents. As is the case with all of the other Brilliant collections, all text resides only on a CD-ROM. This is great if you have a computer (and, if you are reading this, you probably do); and it means you can draw upon a search tool when you are trying to determine which CD has a specific composition. However, the supplementary text is rather modest and does not compare with the printed material that accompanied the original Deutsche Grammophon vinyls. With all the attention currently being given to scanning archival material, it would certainly be nice if Deutsche Grammophon mounted such a scanning project for their Brahms content. It might even induce those searching for information about Brahms to purchase their CD offering!
Amazon.com browsers will quickly notice a significant difference in the number of CDs in these two packages. There does not appear to be a problem of any difference in the actual content. Since Brilliant is a "reprint" series, for the most part they simply reproduce what they have licensed. Deutsche Grammophon, on the other hand, has done a relatively good job of "compacting" its sources. Thus, while the Brilliant Collection takes 60 CDs (plus the CD-ROM), the Deutsche Grammophon package consists of 46. However, since the prices of the two offerings are now so close and since the packages for both are relatively tight, that actual difference in CD count is not a major issue. The bottom line, then, is that any choice between these two alternatives will come down to personal taste; and either is likely to be received as an excellent gift idea by any serious listener!
December 6, 2009: Christmas with the devout Messiaen
Marino Formenti's second visit to San Francisco under the auspices of
San Francisco Performances began yesterday evening at St. John's
Presbyterian Church in Berkeley. His two recitals were conceived under
the general title Aspects of the Divine, and the subtitle for yesterday's performance was Twenty Glances. This nomenclature could be taken as his personal reflection on Olivier Messiaen's Vingt Regards sur L'Enfant-Jésus,
whose twenty movements were performed without intermission over the
course of about two hours. Messiaen was certainly one of the most
devout composers of the twentieth century, serving for the greater
portion of his life as organist of Sainte Trinité in Paris. He claimed
(and there is no reason to doubt him) that his Catholic faith sustained
him during the Second World War when he was held prisoner in the German
Stalag VIIIA. Whether or not the Vingt Regards were explicitly
intended as a celebration of Christmas through mediation on the newborn
Jesus (the work was composed between March 23 and September 8 of 1944),
Formenti's decision to select this music was certainly seasonally
appropriate.
The extent of Messiaen's devotion is evident immediately in the three and a half pages of notes provided to introduce the 177-page score of Vingt Regards. Each movement offers a topic and brief text for meditation, and for many of the movements Messiaen gives a brief account of his compositional strategy. Musically, the work is structured around three primary "themes." The first theme represents God as a progression of five chords where most of the "action" takes places through subtle movements in the inner voices:
The second theme represents the entirety of the life of Jesus by standing for both the Star of Bethlehem and the Cross:
Finally,
there is a "theme of chords" that Messiaen refers to metaphorically as
his "rainbow" for the way in which, in the course of the cycle, its
composition is broken apart and reassembled:
The pianist is
therefore obliged to maintain a command of a fair amount of preparatory
material before turning to the score itself.
Formenti certainly had a command of that material, as he did of each of the twenty movements. I have no idea what his own religious convictions may be, but in yesterday's church setting he certainly performed in a way that honored Messiaen's devotion, whether or not Formenti himself embraced it with Messiaen's level of intensity. Indeed, when he reached the half-way point of the tenth movement, "Regard de l'Esprit de joie," the look on his face made it clear that this spirit of joy figured significantly in his approach to the music.
Still, the idea of sitting in a church for an uninterrupted two hours of music in a flood of notes that run a gamut from the quietude of silent prayer to the roaring of both natural and Divine forces is liable to be daunting to many. Fortunately, the pews at St. John's were comfortably padded; so the physical demand was not that different from many other concert experiences. More important, however, is that Formenti established a sense of pace as the individual movements formed a journey through Messiaen's wide diversity of meditative approaches one may take to the Nativity. For much of that pace he could draw upon Messiaen's own intuitions for selecting and ordering the movements; but it is clear, even from the audience side, that any actual performance (as opposed to a recording), requires scrupulous energy management if one is going to have anything left for the final burst of glory in the "Regard de 'Eglise d'amour," with its message that the "Church of Love" is the ultimate essence of a progression of faith that began with the Nativity.
Messiaen clearly never wanted to draw a firm line between what one does in a concert and what one does at a church service. Yesterday evening's recital reinforced his position, bringing his music to speak in a church during the period of Advent. This is music that deserves to become a Christmas tradition to be celebrated with the same annual consistency we now expect of George Frideric Handel's Messiah. Furthermore, if we can accept the teaching standards at the San Francisco Conservatory of Music as a benchmark for what we can expect of new pianists, there should be no reason why more and more venues would be not able to pursue this tradition every year around this time.
Joy to the world!
The extent of Messiaen's devotion is evident immediately in the three and a half pages of notes provided to introduce the 177-page score of Vingt Regards. Each movement offers a topic and brief text for meditation, and for many of the movements Messiaen gives a brief account of his compositional strategy. Musically, the work is structured around three primary "themes." The first theme represents God as a progression of five chords where most of the "action" takes places through subtle movements in the inner voices:
Formenti certainly had a command of that material, as he did of each of the twenty movements. I have no idea what his own religious convictions may be, but in yesterday's church setting he certainly performed in a way that honored Messiaen's devotion, whether or not Formenti himself embraced it with Messiaen's level of intensity. Indeed, when he reached the half-way point of the tenth movement, "Regard de l'Esprit de joie," the look on his face made it clear that this spirit of joy figured significantly in his approach to the music.
Still, the idea of sitting in a church for an uninterrupted two hours of music in a flood of notes that run a gamut from the quietude of silent prayer to the roaring of both natural and Divine forces is liable to be daunting to many. Fortunately, the pews at St. John's were comfortably padded; so the physical demand was not that different from many other concert experiences. More important, however, is that Formenti established a sense of pace as the individual movements formed a journey through Messiaen's wide diversity of meditative approaches one may take to the Nativity. For much of that pace he could draw upon Messiaen's own intuitions for selecting and ordering the movements; but it is clear, even from the audience side, that any actual performance (as opposed to a recording), requires scrupulous energy management if one is going to have anything left for the final burst of glory in the "Regard de 'Eglise d'amour," with its message that the "Church of Love" is the ultimate essence of a progression of faith that began with the Nativity.
Messiaen clearly never wanted to draw a firm line between what one does in a concert and what one does at a church service. Yesterday evening's recital reinforced his position, bringing his music to speak in a church during the period of Advent. This is music that deserves to become a Christmas tradition to be celebrated with the same annual consistency we now expect of George Frideric Handel's Messiah. Furthermore, if we can accept the teaching standards at the San Francisco Conservatory of Music as a benchmark for what we can expect of new pianists, there should be no reason why more and more venues would be not able to pursue this tradition every year around this time.
Joy to the world!
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