A question I am most often asked: "Who is your favorite composer?"
and then the next after that is:
"Who is your favorite conductor?"
People love to talk about their favorite recordings, and those conducted by Arturo Toscanini, or Herbert von Karajan -- to name two towering figures in 20th century classical music -- are often at the top of their list. But these two conductors, great though they were, often leave me wanting.
And I sometimes wonder if my view of their work has something to do with the fact that I tend to favor the great gentleman conductors, such as Pierre Monteux and Carlo Maria Guilini.
If he didn't get what he wanted, Toscanini could be downright mean towards his players; and Karajan, in one of his most petulant moves during a long tenure as music director of the Berlin Philharmonic, began doing more recordings (a lucrative business at the time) with the Vienna Philharmonic instead of his own orchestra, after his players voted him down on his preferred player for the principal clarinet seat.
Pierre Monteux will forever be known for having conducted the premiere of Stravinsky's Rite of Spring. My first teacher played for Monteux, and he adored the man for his musical intelligence and rehearsal decorum. Members of the Los Angeles Philharmonic used to say that a rehearsal with Guilini was like going to church, such was the effect he had on players. With his matinee idol looks, he would have had no problem welcoming the advances of adoring fans, but he remained a devoted family man to the end.
Before I appear holier-than-thou, I must go on the record as a conductor who has, on occasion, in rehearsal, lost his temper. And some players may recall an incident at a children's concert at a local city school where, after my repeated requests to a noisy group of youths went to no avail, I finally turned around in a fit of exasperation and yelled, "SHUT-UP."
I know -- horrors. You'd think I'd just tripped the Queen of England, or had forgotten to take off my hat during the Pledge of Allegiance. But what surprised me even more was the reaction of some of the players: one likened the word 'shut-up' to a dangerous expletive; another cried racism. (Fortunately, this player was quickly disabused of such a notion.)
Last night on '60 Minutes,' during an interview with Barack Obama, Steve Croft told the president that his recent speech at West Point was 'analytical.' Since President Obama appeared to have fire in his eyes during his speech, I was surprised by the question. Indeed, Obama's cool under fire -- often criticized -- is a fine trait, given the enormous stress and strain that goes with being Commander-in-Chief. The same could be said of Ronald Reagan, who never, ever, lost his temper in public.
Tiger Woods' recent admission of transgressions and infidelity interests me less than the prevailing perception of his perfection and infallibility, as if his golf prowess would naturally extend into his private life.
Woods is the most gifted golfer to ever grace the planet. His penchant for throwing clubs and profane outbursts on network television has been known to golf afficionados for years. One time, after Woods dropped the F-bomb, the ensuing quiet from the announcers was deafening. They were horrified, as were millions of listeners. Only NBC's Johnny Miller has gone on the record to criticize Woods for his foul mouth. (CBS, which airs most of the golf tournaments throughout the year, probably directs its announcers to stay mum.) With Tiger's most recent decision to take an indefinite break from golf, we are reminded why CBS has remained quiet on the subject, and why Nike and Electronic Arts will forever stand behind their man: Tiger holds all the cards.
Woods is a one man industry. Golf purses have increased four-fold since he joined the PGA tour in 1996. There are people who hate golf and who will never step on a golf course, and yet they still love watching Tiger. The numbers prove it -- during the latter half of 2008, when Woods was recovering from knee surgery, television viewers of golf dropped by 50%. Pair this statistic with the fact that PGA Tour purses have increased dramatically due mostly to advertising revenue, and the picture becomes clear. While his hiatus from golf may truly be a desire to save his marriage, it can also be construed as Woods's reminder that -- no matter what the public may think of his on-course behavior or his off-course infidelity -- Tiger still holds all the cards.
During his heyday, Toscanini could - for the most part - do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. Up until the last half of the 20th century, there were no unions to protect an orchestra musician from Toscanini, who had no fear of apprisal when he chewed out a player in front of his colleagues. After Wilhelm Furtwängler died in 1954, Karajan was subsequently asked to succeed him as music director of the Berlin Philharmonic. He said yes, with one proviso: that he be appointed 'conductor for life.' They agreed.
What was it that Lord Acton said?
Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Monday, November 30, 2009
Richard Cumming
My cousin, Richard Cumming (known to friends and family as Deedee) died on Wednesday, at the age of 81. He was a composer, pianist, teacher, and for 25 years, the composer-in-residence at the Trinity Repertory Company in Providence, Rhode Island.
Deedee would be known to Hartford audiences for two works the orchestra performed. Passacaglia was presented on the (now defunct) Rush Hour series several years ago. I commissioned the work when I was still a student at the University of California, Berkeley, and needed another short work to fill out a noon concert program that included Brahms's Serenade no. 2 for small orchestra.
Not wanting to be accused of blatant nepotism (of which Deedee loved to say, "it's okay, dear, as long as you keep it in the family. . ."), I was going to leave it at that, but after a number of players and audience members remarked to me how much they liked Deedee's Passacaglia, I kept my ears to the ground for another work from his pen; when he told me that his Aspects of Hippolytus was looking for a first performance, I jumped at the chance, and the HSO presented the work on its Masterworks series.
Richard Cumming's music was always unabashedly tonal, well before it was de rigeur to write that way. In the 1950s and 1960s, most classical composers wrote music that could be terribly forbidding, and many didn't care whether you liked their music or not. Only with the advent of Minimalism from Messrs. Riley, Glass, Reich and Adams did classical music begin to become more accessible -- but Deedee was there long before them. The great American pianist, John Browning (1933-2003), recorded Deedee's 24 piano preludes, then later his Silhouettes. Browning and Cumming were close friends as well as great colleagues; John premiered Samuel Barber's Piano Concerto in 1962. (I had hoped to bring him to Hartford to perform the work.) Deedee told me, "Sam was taking his time on the concerto, even though a number of us kept reminding him that John needed time to learn it before the premiere. Well. . . damned if Sam didn't get the finale [which is excrutiatingly difficult -- ec] done just a week or two before the concert date, but John being John, he did the whole work, and the finale, from memory."
Deedee was scary smart, with a wonderful command of the English language. Books surrounded his apartment in Providence, and when I asked him if he'd read them all, he quickly responded, "yes, most of them 2 or 3 times." If a fine writer were to take up the project of writing a Richard Cumming biography, it would be a great read, if only for the stories. He had a laugh that could easily fill a room. Even when he was cranky or irritated, he seemed to be smiling; any room he entered was quickly filled with his mirth.
He was a fabulous pianist, touring the world in recital with the soprano, Phyllis Curtain (1921 - ). The late bass-baritone, Donald Gramm (1927-83, who was known for his brilliant protrayal of Boris Godonov at the Met), was another singer who worked regularly with Deedee.
He studied with Roger Sessions, and Ernest Bloch was a musical grandfather to him. When Arnold Schoenberg gave composition classes in Los Angeles, Deedee signed up. (It drove the other students crazy with envy that Schoenberg referred to all of them by their sirname -- except for Deedee.)
Time spent with Deedee was invariably a learning experience. One time he recounted a story of his time on tour with Igor Stravinsky. I think Deedee began the stint as his musical assistant, but ended up doubling as his valet, making sure he had plenty of vodka in his room. Like so many Russian men, Igor liked the hard stuff, and Deedee was a good drinking buddy. (I think his daily vodka and milk on the rocks -just before bedtime- was introduced to him by Stravinsky.)
I first met Deedee (technically speaking, my first-cousin-once-removed) 35 years ago, when I was a horn player with little design on becoming a conductor. He was as tall as me, but bigger, somehow, contributing to his larger than life persona. He asked me if I'd like to play something with him; I suggested the Hindemith Horn Sonata, and he played the difficult piano part brilliantly, at sight. I was awestruck. . . this guy is a relative of mine? Where did he come from, and why didn't anyone in my family tell me anything about him before that day?
The fact that he was homosexual (and openly so) might have had something to do with that, long before it was remotely socially acceptable, even in the most liberal cultural circles.
What I will always take with me, though, is the music he introduced to me. Strauss's Elektra. Barber's Knoxville: Summer of 1915. Ned Rorem's song cycle, Flight from Heaven. When I got to 'Upon Julia's Clothes,' Deedee began screaming, "Is that not the best song of the 20th century? Damn! I wish I'd written that. . ."
Deedee would be known to Hartford audiences for two works the orchestra performed. Passacaglia was presented on the (now defunct) Rush Hour series several years ago. I commissioned the work when I was still a student at the University of California, Berkeley, and needed another short work to fill out a noon concert program that included Brahms's Serenade no. 2 for small orchestra.
Not wanting to be accused of blatant nepotism (of which Deedee loved to say, "it's okay, dear, as long as you keep it in the family. . ."), I was going to leave it at that, but after a number of players and audience members remarked to me how much they liked Deedee's Passacaglia, I kept my ears to the ground for another work from his pen; when he told me that his Aspects of Hippolytus was looking for a first performance, I jumped at the chance, and the HSO presented the work on its Masterworks series.
Richard Cumming's music was always unabashedly tonal, well before it was de rigeur to write that way. In the 1950s and 1960s, most classical composers wrote music that could be terribly forbidding, and many didn't care whether you liked their music or not. Only with the advent of Minimalism from Messrs. Riley, Glass, Reich and Adams did classical music begin to become more accessible -- but Deedee was there long before them. The great American pianist, John Browning (1933-2003), recorded Deedee's 24 piano preludes, then later his Silhouettes. Browning and Cumming were close friends as well as great colleagues; John premiered Samuel Barber's Piano Concerto in 1962. (I had hoped to bring him to Hartford to perform the work.) Deedee told me, "Sam was taking his time on the concerto, even though a number of us kept reminding him that John needed time to learn it before the premiere. Well. . . damned if Sam didn't get the finale [which is excrutiatingly difficult -- ec] done just a week or two before the concert date, but John being John, he did the whole work, and the finale, from memory."
Deedee was scary smart, with a wonderful command of the English language. Books surrounded his apartment in Providence, and when I asked him if he'd read them all, he quickly responded, "yes, most of them 2 or 3 times." If a fine writer were to take up the project of writing a Richard Cumming biography, it would be a great read, if only for the stories. He had a laugh that could easily fill a room. Even when he was cranky or irritated, he seemed to be smiling; any room he entered was quickly filled with his mirth.
He was a fabulous pianist, touring the world in recital with the soprano, Phyllis Curtain (1921 - ). The late bass-baritone, Donald Gramm (1927-83, who was known for his brilliant protrayal of Boris Godonov at the Met), was another singer who worked regularly with Deedee.
He studied with Roger Sessions, and Ernest Bloch was a musical grandfather to him. When Arnold Schoenberg gave composition classes in Los Angeles, Deedee signed up. (It drove the other students crazy with envy that Schoenberg referred to all of them by their sirname -- except for Deedee.)
Time spent with Deedee was invariably a learning experience. One time he recounted a story of his time on tour with Igor Stravinsky. I think Deedee began the stint as his musical assistant, but ended up doubling as his valet, making sure he had plenty of vodka in his room. Like so many Russian men, Igor liked the hard stuff, and Deedee was a good drinking buddy. (I think his daily vodka and milk on the rocks -just before bedtime- was introduced to him by Stravinsky.)
I first met Deedee (technically speaking, my first-cousin-once-removed) 35 years ago, when I was a horn player with little design on becoming a conductor. He was as tall as me, but bigger, somehow, contributing to his larger than life persona. He asked me if I'd like to play something with him; I suggested the Hindemith Horn Sonata, and he played the difficult piano part brilliantly, at sight. I was awestruck. . . this guy is a relative of mine? Where did he come from, and why didn't anyone in my family tell me anything about him before that day?
The fact that he was homosexual (and openly so) might have had something to do with that, long before it was remotely socially acceptable, even in the most liberal cultural circles.
What I will always take with me, though, is the music he introduced to me. Strauss's Elektra. Barber's Knoxville: Summer of 1915. Ned Rorem's song cycle, Flight from Heaven. When I got to 'Upon Julia's Clothes,' Deedee began screaming, "Is that not the best song of the 20th century? Damn! I wish I'd written that. . ."
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Holiday concerts in December
This year, for the first time during my time thus far with the Hartford Symphony Orchestra, the Holiday concerts will be as I've always wanted them to be.
In previous years, there's always been something missing - - lots of singing and playing, but no dance.
This year there will be, as always, plenty of playing, plenty of singing (from the Hartford Chorale and the Connecticut Children's Chorus), but also dance (!), specifically, selections from Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker ballet, featuring youngsters from the Hartt School.
And, for the first time, Santa will be here, but with a few surprises of his own . . . let's just say he won't just be showing up for a few "Ho Ho Ho's" before he's on his merry way.
Yes, Santa is a busy man, and has millions upon millions of presents to deliver to children of all ages around the world. But he has a special place in his heart for Hartford, and he tells me (via SSN, the Santa Satelite Network) that he wants to be more integrated into the program.
Who am I to disagree?
Say no to Santa?
The man tells me he wants to sing, he's going to sing.
If I were you, I wouldn't miss it.
In previous years, there's always been something missing - - lots of singing and playing, but no dance.
This year there will be, as always, plenty of playing, plenty of singing (from the Hartford Chorale and the Connecticut Children's Chorus), but also dance (!), specifically, selections from Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker ballet, featuring youngsters from the Hartt School.
And, for the first time, Santa will be here, but with a few surprises of his own . . . let's just say he won't just be showing up for a few "Ho Ho Ho's" before he's on his merry way.
Yes, Santa is a busy man, and has millions upon millions of presents to deliver to children of all ages around the world. But he has a special place in his heart for Hartford, and he tells me (via SSN, the Santa Satelite Network) that he wants to be more integrated into the program.
Who am I to disagree?
Say no to Santa?
The man tells me he wants to sing, he's going to sing.
If I were you, I wouldn't miss it.
Monday, October 26, 2009
on Gilbert and Gustavo
This is a very exciting time for symphonic music in the United States. For the past decade, new offerings seemed to be coming only from the left coast, via Michael Tilson Thomas (San Francisco Symphony) and Esa-Pekka Salonen (Los Angeles Philharmonic).
Now, with Alan Gilbert taking the reins of the New York Philharmonic, and Gustavo Dudamel's start with the Los Angeles Philharmonic, we can once again look to both sides of the continent for excitement.
Nothing need be said here about Dudamel that hasn't already been said. I've met the man. I've seen him conduct (Stravinsky's Firebird, in San Francisco). He's the real deal.
And with this country's love of media hype and the next young thing, Gilbert seems to pale in comparison. Don't believe it. While the LA Times, Washington Post and even the Arizona Republic (!) have weighed in on the comparison between Gilbert and Dudamel (one is 'staid;' the other 'fiery'), I am more in line with Anthony Tommasini (NY TImes) and Alex Ross (The New Yorker), who are among the finest writers on music today. Both agree that the New York Philharmonic is finally on a path worthy of its name. Ross says the orchestra sounds better than it ever has in the last 17 years, that the orchestra sounds more 'mature' than it did under the direction of Gilbert's predecessors, Masur (in his 80s) and Maazel (almost 80)!
And later this season, Gilbert will embark on a bit of real daring, conducting an opera by Ligeti, Le grand macabre. I bet the subscribers will stay away. Wonder what will happen to all of those unused seats? Time will tell . . . .
Bravo, Alan.
Now, with Alan Gilbert taking the reins of the New York Philharmonic, and Gustavo Dudamel's start with the Los Angeles Philharmonic, we can once again look to both sides of the continent for excitement.
Nothing need be said here about Dudamel that hasn't already been said. I've met the man. I've seen him conduct (Stravinsky's Firebird, in San Francisco). He's the real deal.
And with this country's love of media hype and the next young thing, Gilbert seems to pale in comparison. Don't believe it. While the LA Times, Washington Post and even the Arizona Republic (!) have weighed in on the comparison between Gilbert and Dudamel (one is 'staid;' the other 'fiery'), I am more in line with Anthony Tommasini (NY TImes) and Alex Ross (The New Yorker), who are among the finest writers on music today. Both agree that the New York Philharmonic is finally on a path worthy of its name. Ross says the orchestra sounds better than it ever has in the last 17 years, that the orchestra sounds more 'mature' than it did under the direction of Gilbert's predecessors, Masur (in his 80s) and Maazel (almost 80)!
And later this season, Gilbert will embark on a bit of real daring, conducting an opera by Ligeti, Le grand macabre. I bet the subscribers will stay away. Wonder what will happen to all of those unused seats? Time will tell . . . .
Bravo, Alan.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Opening Night at Pops
I've never forgotten what Leonard Bernstein said the day after John Lennon died. All the media outlets were looking for quotes from the greatest musicians of the day, and, in Bernstein, a towering renaissance figure of American culture, they knew that a call to him would bring about some meaning to the madness of our world. Why would someone kill John? Why? Why?
So... what did Bernstein say?
He talked about the Beatles's intonation.
Intonation!
Great figures do not just enlighten us, they confound us. Both Lennon and Bernstein left us a legacy that continues to delight and enrich us all. But, as geniuses are wont to do, they can be maddening. Why, on a day when all of us needed to derive some meaning from Lennon's assassination, did Bernstein talk about how well the Beatles sang in tune?
Well, because singing (and playing) in tune is a wonderful thing. You don't think about it when you hear it, but impeccable intonation contributes greatly to a musical performance that is transfixing. And, last night, when the Hartford Symphony hosted the a cappella quintet, Five by Design, we were treated to a performance from Laurie, Sheridan, Kurt, Michael and Terry that held us in awe.
The orchestra charts were great. And the players, as always, came through with panache. And Five by Design's drummer, Matt, and pianist, Taylor (along with the HSO's bassist, Rick Rozie) were stellar.
But the high point of the evening was in the middle of the first half, when Matt, Rick, Taylor and all the orchestra musicians were silent. The quintet launched into a tune, sung a cappella (literally, 'from the chapel,' when singers perform without instrumental accompaniment) which is still ringing in my ears. (I had been waking up every day the past week and a half with Mahler in my head, but no longer.) And why?
Because of impeccable intonation.
What makes a great barbershop quartet? --- spot-on intonation.
Why are some violinists better than others? --- intonation.
(Pianists have no such concerns -- they can blame the piano tuner.)
When I listen to "Good Day, Sunshine,"
I hear immaculate, exquisite intonation.
Last night at the Bushnell, when orchestra players were waiting for their next number to play, something happened -- they became audience. As conductor, I had the unique perspective of being in the middle of it all, watching people seated on both sides of me, transfixed, jaws dropped. Terry, the bass man of the quintet, became a string bass player, riffing away, his entire body resonating with his vocal pizzicato. The other four, vocalizing above his walking bass, sounded like warm honey. Something special was happening, and not one of us could move. We were listening to musical magic.
In large part, due to spectacular intonation.
So... what did Bernstein say?
He talked about the Beatles's intonation.
Intonation!
Great figures do not just enlighten us, they confound us. Both Lennon and Bernstein left us a legacy that continues to delight and enrich us all. But, as geniuses are wont to do, they can be maddening. Why, on a day when all of us needed to derive some meaning from Lennon's assassination, did Bernstein talk about how well the Beatles sang in tune?
Well, because singing (and playing) in tune is a wonderful thing. You don't think about it when you hear it, but impeccable intonation contributes greatly to a musical performance that is transfixing. And, last night, when the Hartford Symphony hosted the a cappella quintet, Five by Design, we were treated to a performance from Laurie, Sheridan, Kurt, Michael and Terry that held us in awe.
The orchestra charts were great. And the players, as always, came through with panache. And Five by Design's drummer, Matt, and pianist, Taylor (along with the HSO's bassist, Rick Rozie) were stellar.
But the high point of the evening was in the middle of the first half, when Matt, Rick, Taylor and all the orchestra musicians were silent. The quintet launched into a tune, sung a cappella (literally, 'from the chapel,' when singers perform without instrumental accompaniment) which is still ringing in my ears. (I had been waking up every day the past week and a half with Mahler in my head, but no longer.) And why?
Because of impeccable intonation.
What makes a great barbershop quartet? --- spot-on intonation.
Why are some violinists better than others? --- intonation.
(Pianists have no such concerns -- they can blame the piano tuner.)
When I listen to "Good Day, Sunshine,"
I hear immaculate, exquisite intonation.
Last night at the Bushnell, when orchestra players were waiting for their next number to play, something happened -- they became audience. As conductor, I had the unique perspective of being in the middle of it all, watching people seated on both sides of me, transfixed, jaws dropped. Terry, the bass man of the quintet, became a string bass player, riffing away, his entire body resonating with his vocal pizzicato. The other four, vocalizing above his walking bass, sounded like warm honey. Something special was happening, and not one of us could move. We were listening to musical magic.
In large part, due to spectacular intonation.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
after Mahler. . .
What does one take away from four performances of Mahler's Symphony no. 9?
Some initial observations:
The audience on Thursday night was one of the most rapt, attentive audiences that I have encountered in over thirty years of performing. On stage, we could hear a pin drop, from beginning to end. This is rare, for in a large crowd, there is inevitably one poor soul who has brought with him or her a ticklish throat, or a partner who'd rather be home watching the Red Sox lose to the Angels, or taking a nice nap (which comes on anyway, given the ideal conditions for such: a cozy chair in a dark concert hall.)
But on Thursday, October 8, the Hartford Symphony was treated to an audience that held its collective breath for ninety minutes - - - I don't remember anyone coughing, not even in between the movements!
Thursday night was our first complete run through of the symphony. Surprised? Well, there are decisions a conductor must make with the limited time at hand, and by Wednesday night's dress rehearsal, we had accomplished a great deal on the first three movements, but there was still work to be done on the final Adagio. I did this on purpose, knowing that the Adagio was technically the easiest, but emotionally the most taxing. When you run a marathon (as our assistant principal violist, Sharon Dennison did on Saturday morning, and who did not look any worse for wear at that evening's performance), you must pace yourself.
As the Adagio runs nearly thirty minutes, I did not want to run the risk of playing the symphony in order and possibly run out of time at the end, so I began the dress rehearsal with the final movement, then proceeded through the other three movements before we called it a night.
So Thursday night's concert was the first real play-through of the entire work, in movement order. That's why we often call the first of several performances a 'dress rehearsal' for the public. In the opening movement, we were a little tight, a bit on edge. After that we were fine. And the audience, in the closing four and a half minutes of the symphony, was just unbelievable. After the violas uttered the final four notes, I could have held the silence forever, and no one would have minded.
Some initial observations:
The audience on Thursday night was one of the most rapt, attentive audiences that I have encountered in over thirty years of performing. On stage, we could hear a pin drop, from beginning to end. This is rare, for in a large crowd, there is inevitably one poor soul who has brought with him or her a ticklish throat, or a partner who'd rather be home watching the Red Sox lose to the Angels, or taking a nice nap (which comes on anyway, given the ideal conditions for such: a cozy chair in a dark concert hall.)
But on Thursday, October 8, the Hartford Symphony was treated to an audience that held its collective breath for ninety minutes - - - I don't remember anyone coughing, not even in between the movements!
Thursday night was our first complete run through of the symphony. Surprised? Well, there are decisions a conductor must make with the limited time at hand, and by Wednesday night's dress rehearsal, we had accomplished a great deal on the first three movements, but there was still work to be done on the final Adagio. I did this on purpose, knowing that the Adagio was technically the easiest, but emotionally the most taxing. When you run a marathon (as our assistant principal violist, Sharon Dennison did on Saturday morning, and who did not look any worse for wear at that evening's performance), you must pace yourself.
As the Adagio runs nearly thirty minutes, I did not want to run the risk of playing the symphony in order and possibly run out of time at the end, so I began the dress rehearsal with the final movement, then proceeded through the other three movements before we called it a night.
So Thursday night's concert was the first real play-through of the entire work, in movement order. That's why we often call the first of several performances a 'dress rehearsal' for the public. In the opening movement, we were a little tight, a bit on edge. After that we were fine. And the audience, in the closing four and a half minutes of the symphony, was just unbelievable. After the violas uttered the final four notes, I could have held the silence forever, and no one would have minded.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Mahler's Ninth (part 3) The Ländler
In my first Mahler post, I wrote at length about the first movement. This will deal mainly with the 2nd movement.
First, a little background. . . .
The third movement (in the case of Mahler's Ninth, the second movement) of a classical (i.e., by Haydn, Mozart, or one of their contemporaries in the late 18th century) string quartet or symphony began traditionally as a minuet, or a dance in 3/4 time, in a moderate dancing tempo. The Minuet is in three parts, with a contrasting 'trio' section (so named, I believe, because the more intimate character of this section often featured up to three solo instruments, as with the clarinet and two horns in the trio of Beethoven's Eighth Symphony) before the return of the minuet.
When Beethoven came along, he transformed the minuet into a scherzo (literally, 'joke'), still in 3/4 time (like "Happy Birthday to You," or "When Irish Eyes are Smiling") but much faster (like Lennon/McCartney's "Norwegian Mood"). The title scherzo is often associated with the faster tempo, but more likely due to the fact that there was so much more humor -- sometimes on the audience, sometimes on the musicians (an inside joke), and on occasion maybe even making fun of the conductor. As with Schubert and Bruckner before him, Mahler had a preference for the Austrian ländler , which is like a minuet, but with a characteristic lilt.
In his Ninth Symphony, Mahler does all of the above (and then some)! But first, a few particulars. . . .
The movement begins harmlessly with violas and bassoons, but soon thereafter, with the entrance of the 2nd violins (who, as you will recall from my first post, were the first to play the melody of the 1st movement) we come to understand the meaning of Mahler's heading: Etwas täppisch und sehr derb, 'somewhat clumsy and very coarse.' Because the 2nd violins do more than upset the apple cart -- they run it over. (Imagine three women who resemble Dick Butkus fighting for the last peach in the produce aisle, and you get the idea.)
The music goes along like this for awhile until the more intimate Trio section. . . but wait a minute! Before going there, Mahler hurls us into an angry waltz, replete with jabs by brasses and kettle drums, followed by a truly uncouth street song played by low brasses, winds and strings.
So. . . after this do we get the Trio section? ? Nope!
Because Mahler throws yet another curve -- the ländler returns, but now in the faster tempo of the angry waltz! (Listen to how hard it is for the horns to keep up!) Finally, after a series of low gas utterances (imagine Paul Bunyan spitting out his food), the more gentle Trio section arrives, bringing appropriate relief to all of the previous shenanigans.
The Mad Waltz returns, and gets wilder and more out of control, more brisk and more hurried (Mahler's words) with each appearance, until the horns finally cry uncle, furiously putting an end to such nonsense, bringing us back to the original tempo. With the last six notes, played by the highest (piccolo) and lowest (contrabassoon) instruments of the orchestra, Mahler leaves us with the musical equivalent of a wink of the eye. That's it for the fun and games in this symphony. Everything you hear from hereon is serious business.
First, a little background. . . .
The third movement (in the case of Mahler's Ninth, the second movement) of a classical (i.e., by Haydn, Mozart, or one of their contemporaries in the late 18th century) string quartet or symphony began traditionally as a minuet, or a dance in 3/4 time, in a moderate dancing tempo. The Minuet is in three parts, with a contrasting 'trio' section (so named, I believe, because the more intimate character of this section often featured up to three solo instruments, as with the clarinet and two horns in the trio of Beethoven's Eighth Symphony) before the return of the minuet.
When Beethoven came along, he transformed the minuet into a scherzo (literally, 'joke'), still in 3/4 time (like "Happy Birthday to You," or "When Irish Eyes are Smiling") but much faster (like Lennon/McCartney's "Norwegian Mood"). The title scherzo is often associated with the faster tempo, but more likely due to the fact that there was so much more humor -- sometimes on the audience, sometimes on the musicians (an inside joke), and on occasion maybe even making fun of the conductor. As with Schubert and Bruckner before him, Mahler had a preference for the Austrian ländler , which is like a minuet, but with a characteristic lilt.
In his Ninth Symphony, Mahler does all of the above (and then some)! But first, a few particulars. . . .
The movement begins harmlessly with violas and bassoons, but soon thereafter, with the entrance of the 2nd violins (who, as you will recall from my first post, were the first to play the melody of the 1st movement) we come to understand the meaning of Mahler's heading: Etwas täppisch und sehr derb, 'somewhat clumsy and very coarse.' Because the 2nd violins do more than upset the apple cart -- they run it over. (Imagine three women who resemble Dick Butkus fighting for the last peach in the produce aisle, and you get the idea.)
The music goes along like this for awhile until the more intimate Trio section. . . but wait a minute! Before going there, Mahler hurls us into an angry waltz, replete with jabs by brasses and kettle drums, followed by a truly uncouth street song played by low brasses, winds and strings.
So. . . after this do we get the Trio section? ? Nope!
Because Mahler throws yet another curve -- the ländler returns, but now in the faster tempo of the angry waltz! (Listen to how hard it is for the horns to keep up!) Finally, after a series of low gas utterances (imagine Paul Bunyan spitting out his food), the more gentle Trio section arrives, bringing appropriate relief to all of the previous shenanigans.
The Mad Waltz returns, and gets wilder and more out of control, more brisk and more hurried (Mahler's words) with each appearance, until the horns finally cry uncle, furiously putting an end to such nonsense, bringing us back to the original tempo. With the last six notes, played by the highest (piccolo) and lowest (contrabassoon) instruments of the orchestra, Mahler leaves us with the musical equivalent of a wink of the eye. That's it for the fun and games in this symphony. Everything you hear from hereon is serious business.
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