October 19, 2015.  Liszt, Ives and Berio.  Three very different composers were born this week: two “modernists,” Charles Ives and Luciano Berio, and one great Romantic, Franz Liszt.  Liszt, born on October 22nd, 1811, was a tremendous virtuoso.  While he was still concertizing (he quit at the age of 35 at the height of his career) he was much more famous as a pianist than a composer.  Liszt wrote a number of extremely difficult piano pieces.  In his time, he was one of the very few, if not the only one, capable of pulling them off.  During the last 20 years or so we’ve been witnessing a revolution in pianism.  These days the technique of many young musicians is on a level that was only achieved by very few just a generation ago.  Of course technique alone is not enough – one needs to have keen musicianship to become a complete artist, but extraordinary technique can create excitement that’s lacking in more subdued performances.  Liszt’s piano pieces are perfectly suited for such feats.  Khatia Buniatishvili is one of the young pianists who can dazzle – or infuriate, as the case may be.  Some compare her with the young Martha Argerich, and, though they are quite different musically, the drive, energy and the superb technique lend credence to the comparison.  Here’s Khatia playing, live, Liszt’s Mephisto Waltz no 1.  The recording was made in 2011 at the Verbier Festival.  One can find faults in this performance, both technical and musical, but the visceral pleasure is all there.

Charles Ives was born on October 20^th of 1874.  He’s now considered to be very important to the development of American music, the first truly international composer of major talent.  During his lifetime, though, he was almost completely ignored.  Practically all his adult life Ives worked in the insurance business and was very successful at that; he’s considered the pioneer of estate planning, on which he wrote a treatise.  Composing was done in his spare time.  His most productive period was from the early 1900s to about 1920 (he didn’t compose much in the second half of his life.  He died in 1954).  Ives started composing the Concord piano sonata around 1911 and worked on it till 1915.  It’s a remarkable piece of music, especially considering the time of the composition.  The sonata consists of four movement, each titled after American writers: "Emerson," "Hawthorne,” "The Alcotts" (after Bronson Alcott and Louisa May Alcott), and "Thoreau.”  As many of Ives’s piece, it’s long, running about 45 minutes; even 100 years later it’s challenging but very much worth listening to.  Here’s the second movement, "Hawthorne,” in the performance by Alexei Lyubimov, a wonderful Russian pianist and a student of Heinrich Neuhaus.

Luciano Berio, one of the most interesting composers of the second half of the 20^th century, was born on October 24^th of 1925.  We wrote about him in some detail last year.   To celebrate Berio’s 90^th birthday, here’s Sequenza IXa for clarinet, one of the pieces in a set of 14 for solo instruments.  It’s performed by Joaquin Valdepeñas.

October 12, 2015. Johann Sebastian Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos, part II.  Today we’ll complete the article on Bach’s great Brandenburg Concertos, covering numbers 3 through 6.  You may read the introduction here.  As before, we illustrate the concertos with live performances by the Orchestra Mozart of Bologna, Claudio Abbado conducting.

Concerto No. 3 in G major

Believed to be one of the earliest of the Brandenburg Concertos to be written, the Third in G major (here) is scored solely for stings--three each of violins, violas, and cellos--and continuo. Yet, Bach masterfully overcomes the homogenous sound of his chosen ensemble by constantly varying the juxtaposition of the parts. Throughout the entirety of the work no instrument is rarely singled out as a soloist, and it thus sometimes described as "symphonic." Instead, the instruments engage in delightful conversation amongst themselves, whether in sections (as in much of the finale), or more individually, resulting in masterful contrapuntal imitations. Indeed, within the first movement, the ensemble even provides its own ritornello with a unison passage that marks key structural divisions.

However, despite its rich and warm sonorities and inviting melodies, the work has long vexed scholars and performers alike. Standing betwixt its two radiant G major movements is a curious, solitary measure in Adagio tempo and consisting of nothing more than a Phrygian half cadence in E minor. Such a cadence frequently concluded a penultimate movement in Baroque times, preparing the way for an ensuing major key finale. And, one might even suspect that a slow movement is perhaps missing from the Concerto if the measure in question did not occur in the middle of a page. Furthermore, scholars have noted that some of Bach's contemporaries, including Corelli, inserted bare cadences in their scores as well. Since this lone measure is hardly an adequate respite, it is quite possible the cadence was meant to frame or conclude a cadenza improvised by one of the performers. Indeed, it is likely the cadence was a form of shorthand that performers of the period would have easily understood, though the certainty of such is perhaps lost, like much of Baroque performance practices were as the 18th century came to close.

With the lack of any certainty in what Bach's expectations were, actual performance practice of the enigmatic Adagio varies. Some, adhering to a strict interpretation, perform the measure as is with no further ornamentation. Others provide varying degrees of embellishment, from simple ornamentations of the two chords by the harpsichord or violin, to lengthy extemporized fantasias that recall themes from the first movement in a manner akin to cadenzas of Classical and Romantic concerti. On the other hand, some go even further and attempt to restore the balance of the standard three-movement concerto form by inserting a slow movement from one of Bach's (usually lesser known) other works. Given the importance of improvisation during the Baroque era, from ornamentation to figured bass realization and even extemporized full-fledged fugues, it is likely that embellishment of the cadence or an improvised cadenza are perhaps the closest solution to Bach's original intentions (continue).

October 5, 2015.  Heinrich Schütz.  Giuseppe Verdi and Camille Saint-Saëns were born this week: Verdi on October 9^th of 1813, and Saint-Saëns on the same day but in 1835.  We’ve written about both of them a number of times.  There’s another composer whose anniversary is also celebrated this week, and though he’s very important in the history of music, we’ve never had a chance to write about him.  The composer’s name is Heinrich Schutz, and he’s one of the most important German Renaissance predecessors of Johann Sebastian Bach.   Schütz was born 100 years before Bach, on October 8^th of 1585 in Bad Köstritz, Thuringia.  When Heinrich was five, his family moved to Weißenfels, where his father inherited an inn and became a burgomaster.   Heinrich demonstrated musical talent from a very early age.  In 1598, Maurice, the landgrave of Hesse-Kasse, a tiny principality then part of the Holy Roman Empire, stayed overnight in the family inn and heard Heinrich sing.   Maurice, who was himself a musician and composer, was so impressed that he invited Heinrich to his court to study music and further his education (while at the court, Heinrich learned several languages, including Latin, Greek and French).   Heinrich sung as a choir boy till his voice broke and then went to study law at Marburg.  In 1609 he went to Venice to study music with Giovanni Gabrieli.  Even though Gabrieli was 28 years older than Schütz, they became close (Gabrieli left him one of his rings when he died).  The master died in 1612 and Schütz returned to Kassel.  In 1614 the Elector of Saxony asked Schütz to come to Dresden.  The famous Michael Praetorius was nominally in charge of music-making at the court but he had other responsibilities, so the elector was interested in Schütz’s service.  Schütz moved to Dresden permanently in 1615.  In 1619 he received the title of Hofkapellmeister.  Soon after he published his first major work, Psalmen Davids (Psalms of David), a collection of 26 settings of psalms influenced, as one can hear, by Gabrieli.   Here’s Psalm 128, “Wohl dem, der den Herren fürchte.”  Cantus Cölln and Concerto Palatino are conducted by Konrad Junghänel.

Schütz lived in Dresden for the rest of his life, making periodic extended trips: in 1628 he went to Venice where he met Claudio Monteverdi who became a big influence.  He also made several trips to Copenhagen, composing for the royal court.  Schütz lived a long life: he died on November 6^th of 1672 at the age of 87.  Schütz composed mostly sacred choral music, although in 1627 he wrote what is considered the first German opera, Dafne.  Unfortunately, even though the libretto survived, the score was lost many years ago.  In 1636 Schütz wrote music for the funeral service of Count Henry II of Reuss-Gera called Musikalische Exequien.  Here’s the last section, Canticum.  English Baroque Soloists and Monteverdi Choir are conducted by John Eliot Gardiner.

September 28, 2015. Johann Sebastian Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos, part I.  (Note: we illustrate the concertos with live performances by the Orchestra Mozart of Bologna, Claudio Abbado conducting.)

Though today there are perennial favorites with audiences and performers alike and ranked among the finest examples of Johann Sebastian Bach’s music, the six Brandenburg Concertos were perhaps the most elaborate failed job application in the history of music. In late March 1721, Bach sent a carefully prepared manuscript of the Concertos to the Margrave Christian Ludwig of Brandenburg, with the following dedication recounting their origin:

Since I had a few years ago, the good luck of being heard by Your Royal Highness, by virtue of his command, & that I observed then, that He took some pleasure in the small talents that Heaven gave me for Music, & that in taking leave of Your Royal Highness, He wished to make me the honor of ordering to send Him some pieces of my Composition: I therefore according to his very gracious orders, took the liberty of giving my very-humble respects to Your Royal Highness, by the present Concertos, which I have arranged for several Instruments; praying Him very-humbly to not want to judge their imperfection, according to the severity of fine and delicate taste, that everyone knows that He has for musical pieces …

The trip Bach refers to is mostly like his visit in 1719 to Berlin, where he tested and accompanied home a newly constructed harpsichord for his employer, Prince Christian Leopold of Cöthen. Regardless, Bach presumably played for the Margrave. Apparently pleased with the performance, the Margrave then requested of Bach a score to add to his library.

Bach seemingly enjoyed his job in Cöthen. Prince Leopold was himself and an avid musician and maintained his own private ensemble. He was also a Calvinist, which freed Bach from the necessity of composing sacred music. Yet, for whatever reason, Bach began to look elsewhere for employment, and saw the music requested by the Margrave as an opportunity. The dedication further read:

I very humbly beg Your Royal Highness, to have the goodness to maintain his kind favour toward me, and to be persuaded that I have nothing more at heart, than to be able to be employed in some opportunities more worthy of Him and of his service …

Thus, Bach presented the Concertos as not only the scores the Margrave desired to add to his library, but as an impressive musical resume.

The immediate fate, however, of the Brandenburg Concertos is unknown. The Margrave certainly did not hire Bach, as Bach later went on to serve as Cantor at the Thomasschule in Leipzig. It is generally thought that the Margrave did not even bother to acknowledge their receipt, much less to bestow on Bach any kind of reward. Nor, is it believed that he even had them performed. Though, both of these assertions rest on little more than speculation and the pervasive lack of documentation during that era. However, the Margrave most likely did lack the instrumental forces to perform the works (the Sixth would have been within the closest reach of his meager in-house ensemble), as King Frederick William of Prussia was not a large patron of the arts. Regardless, after the Margrave’s death, Bach’s manuscript ultimately was lumped together with a large collection of scores from his library, and were assigned the nominal value of four groschen apiece (roughly $4) in order to divide the estate equally among his heirs.

Like so much of Bach’s music, the Brandenburg Concertos (with the sole exception of the Fifth) fell into obscurity, and were not rediscovered until generations later. They first appeared in print in 1850 to mark the centenary of Bach’s death, and then later gained wider attention when they reappeared in 1868 as part of the Bach Gesellschaft editions. Yet, even with the growing interest in Bach's music spearheaded by Felix Mendelssohn, and the burgeoning field of musicology and the more general enthusiasm for early music during the mid to late 19^th century, the Concertos still did not gain wide popularity until the following century. Today, however, they are praised by audiences and scholars alike. It is difficult to escape their remarkable charm, and their impeccable craftsmanship and immense complexity, combined with just the right amount of ambiguity, will forever provide food for scholarly debate.  (Continue reading here)

September 21, 2015.  Shostakovich and Rameau.  Several composes were born this week, among them the English composer Gustav Holst, the Polish Andrzej Panufnik and the ever-popular George Gershwin.  We owe it to the devotees of English music to dedicate an entry to Holst, as we’ve never done so before, but this time we’ll write about Dmitry Shostakovich instead, who was born on September 25^th of 1906, and Jean-Philippe Rameau, born on the same day in 1683.  We acknowledge the tremendous talent of Shostakovich, even if we do have problems with his politics and esthetics.  We’re not going to analyze the reasons why the music of Shostakovich became so much a part of musical Social Realism: whether he did it out of fear, as a way to adapt and survive or whether he had a sincere and natural affinity for the musical tastes of the era.  (Testimony by Solomon Volkov might be one place to go for a comprehensive, if somewhat one-sided, discussion).  Suffice it to say that some of his music is difficult to listen to, so blatantly “communist” it sounds (just try his Festive Overture, the essential music of any Soviet parade).  Many of his symphonies suffer from the same; on the other hand, much of his chamber music is quite “apolitical,” his great quartets being in that category.  Shostakovich wrote quartets most of his creative life.  His String Quartet no. 1 was composed in 1938, when Shostakovich was 32. It was written during a difficult and turbulent time: on the one hand, it followed the triumphal premier of his Symphony no. 5, on the other, Shostakovich felt compelled to withdraw his Fourth symphony after the criticism of the Lady Makbeth of Mtsensk; also, his patron, Marshall Tukhachevsky, had recently been arrested on trumped-up charges and shot.  The Quartet no. 1 (here) has none of the bombast of the 5^th Symphony; it’s a contemplative work, which Shostakovich himself said visualizes childhood scenes.  His last quartet, no. 15, was completed in May of 1974, a year before his death.  We’ll hear Quartet no. 8 from 1960.  It starts with Shostakovich’s musical signature, DSCH: D, Es, C, H in German musical notation, or D, E flat, C, B natural in commonly accepted American notation.  The Quartet, which runs for about 30 minutes, consists of five movements.  In each of them Shostakovich quotes from his other compositions, from the Cello concerto no. 1 to Lady Makbeth.  It’s performed, here by the Emerson Quartet.

Here’s what we wrote about Rameau a couple years ago: Jean-Philippe Rameau was born on September 25th, 1683, when Louis XIV, the Sun King ruled France, but he didn’t come to age as a composer till the 1720s during the reign of Louis XV.  Rameau was approaching 50 when he wrote his first opera, but once he started, he wouldn’t write anything else.  He wrote more than 30, and in toto they represent a major development in music history of the 18^th century.  His very first opera Hippolyte et Aricie, written in 1733, was premiered at the Palais-Royal, his second, Samson, had none other than Voltaire as the librettist.  (Unfortunately, it was never performed, even though it went into rehearsals, and its score has been lost).  The third opera, Les Indes galantes, was a big success.  A curious historical anecdote relates to this opera.  In 1725 the French settlers convinced several Indian chiefs, Agapit Chicagou among them, to go to Paris.  Many Indian chiefs decided to travel to France, but as they were about to board the ship, it sunk; after the accident, most of the chiefs returned home.  Apparently the ones who went had a good time in Paris and eventually were brought to Fontainebleau, were they met with the King.  The chiefs pledged allegiance to the French crown, and later performed ritual dances at the Theatre Italien.  Rameau was inspired by this event; the fourth act (entrées) of Les Indes galantes is called Les Sauvages and tells the story of a daughter of an Indian chief being pursued by a Spaniard and a Frenchmen.

Here’s the famous aria Tristes apprêts from Rameau’s 1737 opera Castor & Pollux.  The soprano is Agnès Mellon; William Christie leads the ensemble Les Arts Florissants.

September 14, 2015.  Recent birthdays and uploads.  From one of the recent uploads, here’s Robert Schumann’s Kinderszenen, op. 15 in a sensitive and intelligent performance by Tanya Gabrielian, live from the Dame Myra Hess concert in June of 2015.  Born in the United States in 1983, Ms. Gabrielian began playing the piano at the age of three and studied in the Preparatory Division of the San Francisco Conservatory of Music.  At the age of sixteen, she was admitted to Harvard University as a National Merit Scholar to study biomedical engineering.  Instead, she chose a career in music, and in 2000 moved to London, where she received a Master’s degrees from the Royal Academy of Music. Upon graduation, she also received “DipRAM,” the highest performing award of the Royal Academy of Music.  In 2009, Ms. Gabrielian moved to New York to enter the Juilliard School’s Artist Diploma program.  Tanya Gabrielian has performed across North America, Europe, and Asia, in venues including Carnegie Hall and Alice Tully Hall in New York, Queen Elizabeth Hall and Wigmore Hall in London. She has played with the Los Angeles Philharmonic, the New London Sinfonia, the Royal Scottish National Orchestra, and other orchestras.  Ms. Gabrielian is also active in the National Alliance on Mental Illness, in programs featuring composers with mental illnesses.

Last week we mentioned Henry Purcell, probably the greatest English-born composer of all time, who died tragically young at the zenith of his career, aged 36.  Purcell was born on September 10th, 1659.   Just to situate him historically: Corelli was born in 1653 and Alessandro Scarlatti – in 1660.  Purcell’s family was musical: both his father and uncle, an important figure in Henry’s life, were singers, and his younger brother Daniel, a composer (he finished Purcell’s opera Indian Queen after Henry’s untimely death).  The family lived next to Westminster Abbey, a slum during that time.  As a boy, Henry was a chorister in the Royal Chapel.  He’s said to have started composing at the age of nine.  He studied with two important composers, John Blow and Matthew Locke.  Upon Locke’s death in 1677 Purcell became the composer for the King’s violins, the so-called Four and Twenty Violins of Charles II, modeled after the famous 24 Violins of the French court.  Two years later, upon the resignation of John Blow, he became the organist at the Westminster Abbey.  Later he was appointed organist of the Chapel Royal.  During that period he was writing mostly sacred music but in 1688 he composed the opera Dido and Aeneas (before that Purcell had composed music for several plays, but Dido was a real sung opera).  Dido, while not the first one, is clearly the finest English baroque opera.  Here’s the aria “When I am laid in earth” from Dido sung by Jessye Norman.  Purcell continued to write incidental music to stage plays, songs and odes for the court.  In 1694 he wrote Te Deum and Jubilate Deo.  One of his last compositions (and the last court ode) was Who can from joy refrain, a brief "Birthday ode for the Duke of Gloucester" (here).  The soprano Julie Hassler is accompanied by the ensemble La Rêveuse.