Klavierwerk II (Vierhändige Werke Und Werke Für Zwei Klaviere) by Igor Stravinsky; Alfons Kontarsky; Aloys Kontarsky WERGO (WER 60 003) Publication date 1963

 IGOR STRAWINSKY

Trois Pieces Faciles

Cinq Piéces Faciles

Concerto per due pianoforti soli

Sonata for two pianos

Im Gegensatz zu den zweihandigen Klavierwerken Igor Stra-

winskys, die in der Hauptsache dem Neoklassizismus zuzu-

rechnen sind, gehéren die vierhandigen und zweiklavierigen

Kompositionen allen drei Perioden seines Schaffens an: die

»Trois piéces faciles*, ebenso die ,,Cinq piéces faciles* der

russischen, das ,,Concerto per due pianoforti“ soli der fran-

seg und die Sonata for two pianos“ der amerikanischen

‘eit.

Mit den Klavierstiicken fiir vier Hande von 1915 hat Strawinsky

Meisterwerke kammermusikalischer Kleinkunst geschrieben, in

denen zum groBen Teil traditionelle musikalische Formen pa-

rodiert werden. ,In ihnen iiberschneiden sich die ironisieren-

den Tendenzen der anbrechenden Neuzeit mit der schlichten,

klanggesattigten und wohllautenden Ausdrucksfille, wie sie vom

RuBland des 19. Jahrhunderts her die europdische Musikge-

schichte eine zeitlang bestimmte - nur da® die musikalische

Satire niemals so organisch und voll wehmitigen Riickerin-

nerns an eine nicht mehr statthafte Musiziervorstellung in die

zu Oberwindenden Ausdrucksformen aus der Tradition des 19.

Jahrhunderts eingeschmolzen wurden wie hier durch Stra- |

winsky. - Bewu8te grammatikalische Fehlbeziige, eine gekonnt

eigenartig-verschroben wirkende musikalische Logik sind die

geheim technischen Mittel, mit denen zum Lachen gereizt wird

und hinter denen sich vielleicht doch nur verschwiegene

Liebe zu einem Gberkommenen Stil verbirgt, der nicht mehr

gefragt sein darf, sondern nur noch in der wehmiitigen Riick-

erinnerung mit einem leichten Anflug von Sentimentalitat be-

schworen werden kann“ (Helmut Kirchmeyer). Nach Heinrich

Strobel sind alle Sticke ,keine Versuche in musikalischer

Parodie, sondern wesenhafte Inkarnationen der verschiedenen

musikalischen Formen.”

Gleich, welcher Interpretation der beiden Klavier-Rollen man

den Vorrang gibt, auf jeden Fall ging es Strawinsky hier um

die Lésung eines rein technischen Problems: diese Musik

sollten ein Anfanger und ein Fortgeschrittener zusammen spie-

len k6nnen. Deshalb ist in den ,Trois piéces faciles“ der

Secondo-Part, in den ,Cinq piéces faciles“ der Primo-Part

sehr leicht gehalten. Die anderen Parte jeweils enthalten dafiir

groBe technische Schwierigkelten.

Erst 1935 schrieb Strawinsky eine neue Klavierkomposition fir

zwel Spleler: das Concerto per due planoforti soli“. Stra-

winsky selbst und sein zweitdltester Sohn Swiatoslaw Soulima |

waren die ersten Interpreten des Werkes (Urauffihrung am

21. November 1935 in der Pariser Salle Gaveau).

Bel der Komposition des ,,Concerto" ging Strawinsky von der

Konzeption aus, alle nur denkbaren technischen Méglichkeiten

des Klaviers zu nutzen, dabei gleichzeitig den Klang beider

Instrumente so miteinander zu verschranken, daB sie wie ein

einziges wirkten. Diesem Ziel sollten weder formale, struk-

turelle noch sonstige Griinde (z. B. die in vierhandigen Kla-—

vierwerken oft angestrebten Kombination von Schwer-Leicht,

bei der ein Part groBe technische Schwieriakeiten enthalten

sollte, der andere aber aus diesem Grunde in der Virtuositat

weit zuriickbleiben muBte) entgegenstehen.

Den charakteristischen Martellato-Klang des ..Concerto” fihrte

Robert Siohan auf Strawinskys frilhere Leidenschaft fir das

ungarische Zimbal zuriick. (Das Zimbal gleicht dem alten Hack-

brett, einem Zitherinstrument, dessen Saiten mit Hammerchen

angeschlagen werden und das sich gegen Ende des 17. Jahr-

hunderts durch ResonanzvergréBerung und Aufnahme von

Tastaturen zum Clavizimbe! welterentwickelt hatte.) Allerdings

war Strawinsky schon 1915 auf dieses Instrument aufmerksam

geworden, und es Ist wenig wahrscheinlich, da8 er noch

zwanzig Jahre spater den Zimbalklang auf das Klavier trans-

ponieren wollte. Viel eher liegt das Concerto" mit seiner

spezifischen Klangstruktur auf einer Linie, die mit Hindemiths

»Sulte 1922" begann und die den Klavierklang als Schlag-

zeugklang sehen wollte. So lassen sich die auffallenden stan-

digen Tonrepetitionen und Tremoli als Ergebnis einer neuen

Anschauung vom Klavierklang erklaren.

Dem ,,Concerto“ liegen also insgesamt drei Forderungen zu-

grunde, die eine einzigartig selbstverstandliche Erfillung fan-

den: Ausniitzung aller technischen und klanglichen Méglich-

keiten des Klaviers, Verbindung zweier Klavierparte zu einer

organischen Einheit und Verfremdung des Klaviers als eine

interessante Art von Schlagzeug" (Hindemith!). Dem entspre-

chen die Verwendung aller nur bekannten Anschlags- und

Spielformen bis zu eruptiven Glissandi, die intensive konstruk-

tive Verknipfung des thematischen Materials und der Mar-

tellato-Klang.

Wahrend in der ,Sonata for two pianos“ streckenweise einem

der beiden das Hauptgewicht zufalit, ist hier in keinem Augen-

blick ein Part ohne den anderen denkbar. Strawinsky erreichte

die Vereinheitlichung des Klangs, indem er z. B. einzeine

Téne eines Thementeils zwischen den beiden Klavieren auf-

teilte. Die Themen verlaufen deshalb mitunter so kompliziert,

daB es nédtig wurde, die motivischen Zusammenhange durch

quer durch die Systeme laufende Striche, Betonungszeichen

und andere Mitte! anzudeuten, um interpretatorische MiBver-

standnisse zu vermeiden. Damit wurde die klangliche Einheit

auch im Schriftbild des Concerto“ deutlich.

Trotz aller graphischen Verdeutlichung der strukturellen Ver-

bindungen bleibt eine Analyse des Werkes ungemein schwie-

rig. Wie in einem Zusammensetzspiel kann hier jeder Themen-

teil neben jeden anderen riicken, auBerdem erklingt das

Thema des Concerto“ erst mit dem Einsatz der Fuge im

vierten Satz. Bis dahin erscheinen nur Splitter und Bruch-

stiicke, die immer wieder variiert werden, bis sich dann als

Ergebnis ihrer vielfaltigen Kombination das Thema nach und

nach herausschalt. Strawinsky hat also den Begriff ,,Variation“

im ,Concerto“ spezifisch abgewandelt, indem er den einzel-

nen Variationen das Thema nicht voranstellte, sondern es erst

allmahlich aus ihnen herauszog.

Im Anfangssatz ,Con moto" erscheinen nur die ersten finf

Téne des Themas: d und e in den Oberstimmen des 2. Takts

Beispiel 2: Die ersten drei Takte aus der Il. Variation des

Concerto

in vertauschter Lage (Bsp. 1), sechzehn Takte spater h, cis

und d. Nach einem lyrischen ,,Notturno“, das oft als ein Héhe-

punkt des Neoklassizismus bezeichnet wird, tritt im 3. Satz

mit seinen vier Variationen das Thema zum erstenmal voll-

standig auf, allerdings noch nicht in endgiltiger Rhythmisie-

rung. Die einzelnen Variationen lassen sich deutlich unter-

scheiden: ,,Die |. Variation arbeitet mit Vorschlagen und wei-

ten Ornamenten, die I. mit wirkungsvollen Glissandi, in die

sich das Thema schon deutlich erkennbar einbettet (Bsp. 2).

Variation III 1&Bt das Thema geschickt zwischen den beiden

Klavieren hin und her wandern, wobei Strawinsky die Noten

des Themenkopfes mit quer durch die Systeme gezogenen

Strichen kennzeichnet (Bsp. 3). Die letzte Variation endlich fihrt

zu Komplementkonstruktionen zwélfténiger Klangblécke, die

sich genau ausbalancieren, aber noch nicht auf strukturelle

Zwolftonigkeit abgestelit sind (Bsp. 4.). Die grdBte geistige

Intensitat ausgespartester Verdichtung strahlt das Thema im

recht kurzen Fugenpraludium aus, nach dem dann unter dem

Tremolo des ersten Klaviers sofort mit Beginn des ,Fuge a 4

voci’ das Thema in seiner endgiltigen Gestalt gewonnen wird"

(Helmut Kirchmeyer).

Die ,Sonata for two pianos“ ist Strawinskys letztes zweikla-

vieriges Werk. (Urauffiihrung mit Nadia Boulanger und dem

Komponisten 1944 in Madison/Wisconsin.) Die Analyse zeigt,

daB Strawinskys Klaviersatz nie konzentrierter und formal aus-

kalkulierter war als hier. Helmut iKrchmeyer: ,,Die Sonata’ er-

scheint wie ein glaserner Motor, dessen einzelne Funktionen

in jedem Augenblick sichtbar bleiben; aber obwohl Strawinsky

nie eine konstruiertere Klaviermusik geschrieben hat, enthillt

sich diese zugleich als seine gesanglichste und melodischste

klavieristische Schdpfung."

Wahrend Strawinsky im ,Concerto" die Konzertpraxis - zwei

verschiedene Klangkérper, Klavier und Orchester, zu einer

Einheit zu verbinden - auf zwei Tasteninstrumente Ubertrug, ar-

beitete er in der ,Sonata" mit den Prinzipien der vierhandi-

gen Klavierkomposition, namlich mit Klangfeldern, die im Um-

fang festgelegt sind (auf vier Oktaven meist, wenn man von

Oktawerdoppelungen absieht). Dem ersten Klavier werden die

hohen Register, dem zweiten die tiefen Register zugeordnet;

Oberschneidungen ergeben sich nur selten.

Dem 1, Satz ,Moderato“ liegt folgende formale Gliederung

zugrunde: zwei Hauptabschnitte (von denen der erste noch-

mals in A + B, der zweite in A‘ + BY‘ unterteilt ist) werden

durch einen Zwischenteil miteinander verbunden. Dieses Sche-

ma laBt sich verschieden deuten. Einmal verweisen die vor-

herrschendsten Tonarten auf eine einfache Spiegelform, wobei

der Mittelteil die Achse bilden wiirde:

Teil A - F-Dur Teil A‘ - C-Dur

Teil B_ - C-Dur Teil B‘ - F-Dur

Mittelteil - E-As-Dur

Eine zweite Version ergibt sich, wenn man die Teile A + B

als Exposition, A‘ + B‘ als Reprise und den Mittelteil als

Durchfilhrung bezeichnet und die Wiederholungszeichen am

Ende der Exposition streng beachtet. Das Ergebnis ware ein

zweiteiliger Sonatensatz: (Exposition -++ Wiederholung) +

(DurchfOhrung + Reprise). Und genau dieser Gliederung ent-

Beispiel 3: Aus der Ill. Variation des Concerto: SchluB von

Takt 63 und Takt 64.

Beispiel 4: Takte drei u. vier aus der IV. Variation des Concerto

Spricht auch die Innere Struktur des ,Moderato’. So dGauern

z. B. die drei groBen Abschnitte des Satzes - Exposition,

Durchfiihrung und Reprise - 65 1/2, 40 und 82 1/2 Schlage.

Diese scheinbare Asymmetrie hebt sich sofort auf, wenn man

wieder die Wiederholungszeichen nach der Exposition mit ein-

berechnet. Dann erhalt man namlich fir Exposition + Wieder-

holung und fiir Durchfiihrung + Reprise die Dauern 131 bzw.

122 1/2 Schlage. Die geringe Differenz fallt dabei wohl kaum

ins Gewicht. Zudem wurde nachgewiesen, daB dieser Satz bis

in die letzte thematische Struktur zweiteilig angelegt ist. Dies

zu zeigen, muB einer ausfiihrlicheren Analyse vorbehalten

bleiben.

Im 2. Satz folgen dem Thema vier Figuralvariationen von fast

feierlichem Ausdruck. Den Schlu8 des Werkes bildet ein un-

problematisches Finale, ein leichtes ,,Allegretto“ mit Anklan-

gen an russische Folklore.

Fir den klanglichen Aufbau der ,Sonata" hat Roman Vlad den

Ausdruck ,,Polydiatonik" gepragt. Die Begriffe Konsonanz und

Dissonanz sind hier gegenstandslos geworden, an ihre Stelle

tritt die ,Assonanz“, das Nebeneinanderklingen. Die Harmo-

nik in der ,,Sonata“ ist durchaus spannungslos; allein die Be-

wegung der thematischen Linien erzeugt Spannungsdifferen-

zen. In diesen statischen Klangfeldern verliert die Agogik fast

jede Bedeutung; um so wichtiger wird die Anschlagsqualitat.

Roman Viad sieht die Sonata“ am Beginn einer Entwicklung,

die bei Strawinsky zur Reihentechnik Anton Webers fihrte.

Denn nur in der Dodekaphonie scheint eine Konstruktivitat

Uber die ,Sonate” hinaus noch méglich. Manfred Reichert

The Individualism Of Gil Evans by Gil Evans Verve Records (V-8555) Publication date 1964

 The gifted young composer, arranger, and

critic Bill Mathieu once wrote of Gil Evans:

“The mind reels at the intricacy of his or-

chestral and developmental techniques. His

scores are so careful, so formally well-con-

structed, so mindful of tradition that you feel

the originals should be preserved under glass

in a Florentine museum”

Mathieu’s feelings about Evans are not

unusual. Without doubt the most individual-

istic and personal jazz composer since Duke

Ellington, Evans is held in near-reverence by

a wide range of composers, arrangers, in-

strumentalists, and critics. This feeling is

only intensified by the fact that he is a rather

inaccessible man—not unfriendly, or anti-

social; just politely, quietly inaccessible —

whose output has been small, and all of it

is indeed remarkable.

What is it that makes Evans’ work

unique? This is impossible to say in mere

words, but with your indulgence, I’m going

to try to clarify some of it. What I want to

say is not for the professional musician but

the layman; the pros are invited to skip the

next few paragraphs.

Every “song” is built of two primary com-

ponents: its melody and its harmony.

Rhythm is the third major factor, but I want

to confine myself to the first two.

As the melody is played, a certain sequence

of chords occurs beneath it. Now the bottom

note of these chords sets up a sort of melody

of its own. This is referred to as the “bass

line;’ and it has great importance to the tex-

ture and flavor of the music. As a first step

to the appreciation of Gil Evans, try not

hearing the melody but listening to the bass

line on some of these tracks.

Between the bass note and the melody note

fall the other notes of the chord. You can put

them down in a slap-dash fashion, so that

you've got merely chords occurring in

sequence like a line of telephone poles holding

up the wire of melody; or you can link the

inner notes of one chord to the inner notes of

the next one, setting up still other melodies

within the music. These new lines are called

the “inner voices” of the harmonization. How

well he handles inner voices is one of the

measures of a composer’s or an arranger’s

writing skill.

Gil’s handling of them is often astonish-

ing. His original melody, his bass line, and

his inner lines are always exquisite. The re-

sult is that one of Gil’s scores is faintly anal-

ogous to a crossword puzzle: it can be “read”

both vertically (up through the chords) or

horizontally in the form of the various melo-

dies he sets up. Heard both ways simultane-

ously, his music can be breath-taking.

That’s part of it.

Another and important part is his use of

unusual instrumentations. Evans has virtu-

ally abandoned the standard jazz instrumen-

tation of trumpets-trombones-saxes. He uses

flutes, oboes, English horns (the standard

classical woodwinds), along with French

horns and a few of the conventional jazz

instruments to extend the scope of the jazz

orchestra. Evans was one of the first to use

French horns in jazz, in the days when he

was chief arranger for the celebrated Claude

Thornhill orchestra. Not only does Gil use

“non-jazz” instruments (usually played by

jazz players, however), but he puts them to-

gether in startling ways, to create unearthly

and fresh lovely sounds.

Finally, there’s his sense of form, of logi-

cal construction. Everything he writes builds

to sound and esthetically satisfying climaxes,

beautifully developing the previously-

stated material. I know of no one in jazz with

a more highly-developed sense of form than

Gil Evans.

Yet, with all his gifts, Gil is oddly down-to-

earth about his music. Once, when I told him

that some people were having trouble decid-

ing whether an album he had done with Miles

Davis was classical music or jazz, he said,

“That’s a merchandiser’s problem, not mine’

Another time he said, “I write popular

music’? What he meant, of course, is that he

wanted no part of pointless debates about

musical categorizations ; that he was making

no claims on behalf of his music; and that

since that music grew out of the traditions

of American popular music, he was content

to call it that.

On another occasion he said, “I’m just an

arranger” This comment I reject. Even when

Gil is working with other people’s thematic

material, what he does to it constitutes

composition.

He uses several different instrumenta-

tions in the course of this album. You will find

the personnel listed elsewhere on these pages.

No trumpets are heard in The Barbara

Song, a Kurt Weill melody from the Three-

Penny Opera. Gil elected to use two French

horns, a trombone, tuba, flute, bass flute,

English horn, bassoon, tenor saxophone,

piano, bass, drums and harp. Note how he

uses harp to add vinegar to certain parts of

the orchestral texture. I was struck by

Wayne Shorter’s beautifully lyrical tenor

solo, and so was Gil. Many people (previously

including myself) are unaware of this facet

of Shorter’s ability.

Las Vegas Tango uses one of Gil’s own

themes. “It’s a plain traditional minor blues,”

he said. You'll find nothing plain about it. “I

used this title because it had a kind of open

sound like the plains, to me;’ he said. “I grew

up in the West?’ Note the entry of Jimmy

Cleveland for a trombone solo. The opening

few notes are so appropriate that I thought

Gil must have written them. Not so: they are

Cleveland’s own. The deep sound of Paul

Chambers’ bass, and his striking ability to

sustain notes, contribute considerably to the

brooding quality of this track.

I asked Gil why he so often used Spanish

titles for his works. “I don’t know?’ he said.

“Perhaps because I can’t find English titles

for them. I’ve always inclined to Spanish

music, but I didn’t really absorb it from the

Spanish. I got it from the French impression-

ists—and, of course, the Spanish impression-

ists, like DeFalla”

Flute Song, another Evans composition, is

a two-minute flute solo for Al Block. It goes

without pause into Hotel Me. “Miles and I

wrote this number for a play, called ‘The

Time of the Barracuda.’ Listening to the

track, he said of his own piano work, “I play

real broad on this. I don’t know why, I

just did”

El Toreador, another Evans composition

with a Spanish title, features Johnny Coles,

trumpet; Osie Johnson, drums; and three

bassists — Paul Chambers, Richard Davis,

and Milton Hinton.

To say that this album has been long-

awaited is no cliché. It is the first Gil Evans

recording in three years. “I stayed away

from music for two years,’ he said. “I wanted

to look around and see what was happening

in the world outside of music”’

Welcome back. We’ve missed you.

(rene Lees

RECORDING INFORMATION:

A bh dation New Yous.

A. & R. Studios, New York City

Engineer: Phil Ramone

PERSONNEL:

Composer, arranger, conductor, piano: Gil Evans

Bass: Paul Chambers, Richard Davis, Ben Tucker

Trombone: Jimmy Cleveland

Reeds & woodwinds: Al Block, Eric Dolphy,

Steve Lacy, Bob Tricarico

French horn: Gil Cohen, Don Corado, Julius Watkins

Guitar: Barry Galbriath

Harp: Margret Ross

Drums: Elvin Jones

Bf f oreador—recorded September, 1963 at

A. & R. Studios, New York City

Engineer: Phil Ramone

PERSONNEL:

Composer, arranger, conductor, piano : Gil Evans

Bass: Milt Hinton, Paul Chambers, Richard Davis

Drums: Osie Johnson

Reeds & woodwinds: Jerome Richardson, Eric Dolphy,

Steve Lacy, Bob Tricarico

Trumpets: Hrnie Royal, Johnny Coles, Louis Mucci

French horns: Jim Buffington, Bob Northern

Trombones: Jimmy Cleveland Tony Studd

Hotel Me and Las Vegas 1 ango—recorded April

6, 1964 at Webster Hall, New York City

Engineer‘ Bob Simpson

PERSONNEL:

Composer, arranger, conductor, piano: Gil Evans

Bass: Ron Carter, Paul Chambers

French horn: Ray Alonge

Tuba: Bill Barber

Guitar: sey Burrell

Reeds & woodwinds: Garvin Bushell, Erie Dolphy,

Bob Tricarico, Steve Lac;

Trombones: Jimmy Cleveland, Tony Studd

Trumpets: Johnny Coles, Bernie Glow

Drums: Elvin Jones

Sarbara Song—recorded July 9, 1964 at Van Gelder’s

Recording Studio, Englewood Cliffs, N.J.

Engineer: Rudy Van Gelder

PERSONNEL:

Arranger, conductor, piano Gil Evans

French horns: Ray Alonge, Julius Watkins

Tuba: Bill Barber

Reeds & woodwinds: Al Block, Andy Fitzgerald,

George Marge, Bob Tricarico, Wayne Shorter

Drums: Elvin Jones

Bass: Gary Peacock

Harp: Bob Maxwell

Piaaukancs Hemi Malek:

This record has been engineered and manufactured in accord-

ance with standards developed by the Record Industry Associ-

ation of America, Inc., a non-profit organization dedicated to

the betterment of recorded music and literature.

Introducing Joseph Silverstein by Joseph Silverstein; Johann Sebastian Bach; Béla Bartók Columbia Masterworks (MS 6345) Publication date 1962

 Johann Sebastian Bach’s works for unaccompanied violin

are among the finest works in the string instrument repertoire.

Although the series is generally known as “Six Sonatas for

Solo Violin,” Bach actually designated only the odd-numbered

works as “sonatas,” calling the even-numbered ones “partitas.”

The distinction is valid and meaningful, since the partitas con-

sist entirely of movements in dance form (sometimes preceded

by a prelude) whereas the sonatas adhere to the sonata da

chiesa type of composition (slow-fast-slow-fast). All six were

composed around 1720, along with their companion series, the

six unaccompanied suites for violoncello. At the time Bach was

director of music'to Prince Leopold of Anhalt-Céthen and his

duties were largely confined to turning out chamber and or-

chestral compositions for the Prince’s entertainment. The un-

accompanied string works, however, were not meant simply as

“entertainment”; they are, among other things, enormously

difficult études, providing the virtuoso violinist with some of

his most challenging technical hurdles. It is also obvious that

they were a challenge to Bach himself, as a composer. He

wished to make polyphonic music with single instruments that

are not inherently polyphonic. While it is simple enough to

write fugues and chaconnes for the harpsichord or the organ,

where the fingers and feet may go their separate ways, it is

an entirely different matter when the composer must keep two

or more voices going simultaneously in the four strings of a

violin, all of which must be activated by a single bow.

It has been long known, however, that the violin of Bach’s

day had a much straighter bridge than is used today. The four

strings were thus more level with each other and three con-

tiguous strings could be sounded simultaneously without dif-

ficulty. Furthermore, Bach probably expected the executant to

use an arched bow, with which tension was effected not by

means of a screw (as in the modern, flat bow) but by the pres-

sure of the thumb; instead of throwing the bow back onto the

lower strings to obtain a chord, the performer in Bach’s day

simply loosened the hairs slightly so that they curved over

several strings. The modern performer frequently has to break

(arpeggiate) a chord in performing the Bach unaccompanied

sonatas, whereas his eighteenth-century predecessor could

play the component notes simultaneously. Unfortunately, the

old curved bow produced a much weaker tone, lacking the

drama and brilliance that we have come to associate with the

chaconne of the D Minor Partita or the fugue of the G Minor

Sonata, and quite inappropriate for the concert hall (for which,

of course, the works were not intended). Therefore most

virtuosos today elect to perform the unaccompanied sonatas

with the same bow and the same bridge that they use in play-

ing the Tchaikovsky or Brahms concertos, making up in bril-

liance for what they lose in actual continuity of sound.

The sonata opens with an Adagio described by the nine-

teenth-century Bach ‘scholar, Philipp Spitta, as “a beautiful

and impassioned introductory movement...the melody first

appears in the middle part; the upper part meanwhile is pro-

gressing in single notes and phrases and seems to vanish away;

it is then lightly touched in the course of the melody and so

brought to sight again. But it is there all along for him who

can hear it.” As Spitta points out, Bach often implies the con-

tinuation of a theme or countertheme, even though the limita-

tions of a solo violin prevent the complete realization of the

separate themes. This is particularly true in the ensuing move-

ment, an impressive fugue. Here the counterpoint must be

condensed, mere chords often having to serve as accompani-

ment to the theme. But in spite of this, a great violinist can

give the impression of enormous strength and contrapuntal

fullness. Significantly, Bach later transcribed this fugue for

organ, filling out the polyphony implied in the solo sonata.

The third movement is marked Siciliano, although it bears little

resemblance to Bach’s usual treatment of that graceful dance;

it is closer to the solemn‘and sober sarabandes that usually

form the slow movements of Bach’s suites and partitas. The

finale, Presto, is one long, looping, uninterrupted line of

virtuosity.

Bartok’s unaccompanied Violin Sonata is undoubtedly the

finest example of its kind since Bach. None of the major

romantic composers attempted this severely limiting but very

challenging form, and it was not until Max Reger wrote for

unaccompanied violin in the early twentieth century that com-

posers began to look with interest at the possibilities of a type

of composition that extends back at least three hundred years.

Barték was not himself a violinist but had proved himself

thoroughly au courant with the mechanics of violin playing in

many works before attempting his unaccompanied sonata.

Indeed, Bartok more than any other composer of our century,

extended the technique of the instrument, drawing from it

sounds that were utterly novel and have since been appropri-

ated by his successors. That he was fascinated by the sound of

the violin unsupported by a bass instrument (a sound he was

familiar with since childhood, since he was a Hungarian) is

proved by the Forty-Four Duets for two solo violins, composed

in 1931.

The unaccompanied Violin Sonata was Barték’s last cham-

ber composition, and with the exception of the Third Piano

Concerto, his last major composition to be completed. It was

commissioned by the violinist Yehudi Menuhin. The composer,

already gravely ill, spent the winter of 1943-44 in Asheville,

North Carolina, on the advice of his doctor, and there he com-

pleted the work on March 14. In sending the score to Menuhin,

Bartok wrote: “I am rather worried about the ‘playability’ of

some of the double-stops, etc. On the last page I give you some

of the alternatives. ... Would you be so kind as to introduce...

the necessary changes in bowing, and perhaps the absolutely

necessary fingering and other suggestions, and also indicate

the impracticable difficulties? I would. try to change them.”

This solicitousness on behalf of the performer was not at all

like Bartok, but he was well aware that he had written one of

his most demanding scores; although he could not play the

violin, he had fingered one while the sonata was being com-

posed and had come to the conclusion that some of the thornier

passages simply could not be negotiated. He was relieved when

Menuhin assured him that the work was playable. Its premiére

took place on November 26, 1944. It was apparent after the

concert that Bartok’s demands upon-his audience were no less

stringent than those made upon the instrumentalist. The critics

were frankly puzzled and Olin Downes described the sonata

as “a test for ears, the intelligence, the receptiveness of the

most learned listener. ...On initial hearing, we take none too

kindly to the piece.” But the sonata has established itself

firmly since that time, for it repays all the attention that ears,

intelligence and receptiveness can give to it.

The first movement is marked Tempo di ciaccona. In his

authoritative book, The Life and Music of Bela Barték, Halsey

Stevens points out that the movement is not a real chaconne

(variations on a ground bass) but merely “in the rhythm of

a chaconne,” that is, divided into brief variation-like sections.

It is actually a sonata-allegro movement with 52 bars of expo-

sition, 38 of development and 47 of recapitulation. With its

declamatory double and triple stopping, its chromaticism

and heavy use of seconds, fourths and sevenths, it is the

thost Magyar-sounding of the four movements. The second

movement is a fugue, less strict than Bach’s in the G Minor

Sonata, but with a magnificence and defiant boldness to make

up for any pedagogical lapses. The fugue begins and ends with

a savagely accentuated minor third (C-E flat) and that interval

plays an important part throughout. The third movement,

Melodia, is in simple A-B-A form. In the A section, each of the

elaborate, curving phrases (the first one sounds startlingly

like the opening of the slow movement of Brahms’ Double

Concerto) ends with a fascinating, iterative motto played more

quietly than the phrase itself, often in harmonics. After the B

section, which features difficult trills in double and triple stops,

section A returns in a much altered and ornamented shape, but

with the quiet motto still very much in evidence after each

phrase. The finale is a rondo whose main section darts and

buzzes like an irritated gnat. As Halsey Stevens remarks, this

movement is the easiest of the four to assimilate on first hear-

ing. Its second episode—strangely suggestive of Vaughan

Williams—uis particdarlyaniemorable:

Joseph Silverstein took a third place in the Brussels

Queen Elizabeth contest in 1959 and went on to re-

ceive a Naumburg Foundations award which brought

with it a distinguished appearance with the New York

Philharmonic and a highly successful recital at Town

Hall. Then came an offer of the post of concertmaster

with the Boston Symphony, an offer accepted by the

brilliant young violinist. Eric Salzman, reviewing his

Town Hall recital in the New York Times, expressed

the hope that his duties with the orchestra “will not

prevent Mr. Silverstein from letting us hear him play

in recital....Last night’s program was a memorable

and musical occasion. The core was provided by two

unaccompanied Sonatas of major difficulty: the Bar-

ték and the Bach No. 3 in C. The juxtaposition was

stimulating but no more so than the qualities of in-

sight and communication...in the Barték and there-

after through Bach and Beethoven there were the

finest qualities of top-flight violin playing: a rich,

clean tone that could thin itself to the silkiest strand

or fatten out to a full, firm sound; a fine left-hand

technique; the most careful control of color, register

and dynamics; and, most important of all, a sensitive

and intelligent way of building lines into phrases, into

sentences and paragraphs and then into meaningful

structures and shapes.”

Symphony No. 4 (No. 8) · Scherzo Capriccioso by István Kertész; The London Symphony Orchestra; Antonín Dvořák London Records (CS 6358) Publication date 1963

 On the 2nd November 1856, after two years of

apprenticeship, Dvofak was awarded the necessary

certificate entitling him to carry on the trade of

butcher. Fortunately, at the same time he was having

violin lessons and making his first acquaintance with

the piano and organ, taught by his local organist and

choirmaster.

Born about 20 miles from Prague, the eldest of

nine children, his early years were spent in a typical

Bohemian village of the time. His father rented the

local inn and his butcher’s business, and the com-

poser’s early encounters with music were in the

village Church and at home in the inn, where any feast

day, wedding or other event to celebrate would bring

out the village band to play its exuberant versions of

Bohemian folk-music. Such music was above all a

natural means of expression to these people, a second

nature which the young Dvofék could not have evaded

even had he so desired. Its influence is never far

away from his music.

With DvoFék, this rather bucolic approach is

strictly relevant to any appreciation of his orchestral

music. His astonishing rise from this humble back-

ground to his ultimate triumphs in America and

England made very little difference to his temperament

or his musical instincts. He remained a simple and

perhaps naive, but sincere and genial son of his native

Bohemia throughout his life. He was able to accept

his success without conceit or flamboyance, with

sincere gratitude and a great pride in the honour it

brought to his homeland.

His genius depended to a greater extent than most

on sheer inspiration and an innate instinct for sound

colour, and it is difficult to avoid a comparison with

Schubert. The two composers had a great deal in

common in their endless supply of fresh and vital

ideas, with a fund of rhythmic and harmonic surprises

at their command, especially in their modulations.

There is however not a trace of the urbanity which

informs Schubert’s music and gives his work a sense

of polish. Dvofak’s ideas were of such a rustic

artlessness and exuberance that any form of sophisti-

cation would deprive them of their spontaneity. The

subtle nuance is missing, yet is not missed.

Hence it is no service to Dvofak to refine his

dynamic indications or look for non-existent points of

subtlety. His impact is made by the robust nature of

his ideas and their uninhibited working out. The lack

of profundity is completely obviated by the endless

interest in his treatment of his ideas. Their emotional

mood is of the moment, and changes frequently or

even abruptly, but with a sincerity and lack of

complexity which makes them immediately appealing

and convincing.

The Scherzo Capriccioso is an extended and

exuberant Slavonic dance, largely built on the opening

horn motive and the lilting waltz of the violins. There

is no change of tempo indicated for the latter, from

the opening allegro con fuoco, and in fact the first

moment of respite is at the cor anglais solo of the

trio—poco tranquillo. Another violin motive very

reminiscent of the Slavonic Dances leads to a further

development of the first two ideas, until a Tchaikov-

skian harp cadenza heralds the short but exciting coda.

Written in the spring of 1883, four months after

his mother’s death, the work has been credited with a

prevailing sadness which is hard to sustain. There is

more utter despair in the second movement of the G

major Symphony, in the tragic outburst of the horns

and then strings (after the falling thirds of the

clarinets) than in the whole of the Scherzo, and the

opening bars of the symphony have a more poignant

air than the saddest part of the earlier work.

A direct result of Dvofak’s type of inspiration was

that it tended to create forms to suit its ideas. His

eighth symphony (1889) is the most “unorthodox” of

his symphonies in the classical sense, without being

self-consciously so, and yet is formally completely

satisfying through the composer’s instinctive ability

to use his ideas in such a way as to give the impres-

sion of a firm formal! structure. But the sheer abundance

of ideas in the work is so great that the resulting

forms are impossible to imitate since they depend for

their very existence on the ideas themselves, and a

formal analysis would be of little assistance.

Dvofék composed very quickly and hated to revise

his symphonic works, The nearest he came to revision

(apart from the Fifth Symphony opus 76, known as the

No.3 in F) was his genius for adding counter melodies

when he came to orchestrate his sketches. Of this

there are innumerable examples, but two will suffice —

the writing for trombones and trumpets before the coda

of the first movement, and the trumpet counterpoint to

the first part of the flute variation in the last

movement.

The G major symphony is fundamentally based on

the alternating tonalities of minor and major. The first

and third movements (with frequent excursions into

other keys) rest firmly on G minor and major, the

second on C minor and major, and the finale, which is

a very free form of theme with variations, between G

major and C minor. This in itself makes the work both

novel and interesting, while the writing for the

individual sections of the orchestra is so vital that

performers derive as much pleasure from it as the

listener. The writing for horns and violas is as varied

as it is for any of the woodwind, and contributes its

full share to the exuberance of the result.

Dvorak himself is reported to have said thatin this

symphony he wanted to write a work with individual

ideas worked out in a new way. He succeeded in doing

this and yet in giving the work an impression of unity

which belies its unorthodoxy. Having done so, he first

of all presented it to the Franz Josef Academy in

Prague (on being elected a member), and then offered

it as his “thesis” to the University of Cambridge on

receiving an honorary Doctorate of Music. The irony of

offering such an academically “incorrect” work to both

of these distinguished bodies seems to have passed

without Comment. RAY MINSHULL

Printed in U.S.A.

Un Bal Chez Rabelais by Ensemble D'Instruments Anciens Harmonia Mundi; Ricercare de Zürich; Ars Musicae De Barcelone; Francis Chapelet Harmonia Mundi (HM 931)

 harmonia 

mundi 

FRANCE 

HM 931 

UVRES 

FACE A : 

1. Branle 

2. La Guerra 

Anonyme ; edite par Claude Gervaise 

Mateu Fletxa le Vieux (Prads Tarragona 1481 

Poblet ? v. 1553) 

Anonyme ; edite par Pierre Phalese. 

Anonymes 

3. L'Arboscello ballo forlano 

Pavane « La Garde » 

Gaillarde « Au joly boys » 

Branle de Poictou 

Premier Branle de Gay 

4. Suite /; 

Lluis Mila (Luis Milan) (Valence v. 1500 

Valence apres 1561) 

Anonyme 

Anonyme 

Anonyme 

Anonymes 

5. Pavana II 

* 

6. La Shy Myse 

7. My Lady Careys Dompe 

8. La Doune Celia 

9. Suite II: Pavane 

Bergerette « Saint-Roch » 

Gaillarde 

Ronde « Mon Amy » 

Ballo Milanese 

FACE B : 

Anonymes 

10. Suite III: Basse Danse « Mon Desir » 

Gaillarde « La Rocque » 

Branle / 

Branle II 

Basse Danse « Le Cuer est bon » 

Entree du Fol 

11. Suite / V : Pavane « Mille regretz » 

Ronde 

Pavane « Si pas souffrir » 

Ronde & Saltarelle 

Hobceken Dans 

Ronde « II estoit une fillette » 

Anonymes 

INTERPRETES 

Ensembles d'lnstruments Anciens 

HARMONIA MUNDI (1,3, 11) 

RICERCARE DE ZURICH (4,9, 10) 

ARS MUSICAE DE BARCELONE (2, 5) 

Francis CHAPELET a I'orgue historique Compenius 

du Chateau de Frederiksborg (Danemark) (6, 7, 8). 

Enregistrements Harmonia Mundi & Edigsa. Gravure et Pressage Phonogram, Antony 

Illustration : P. Brueghel, Danse de Noces, B.210. 

Maquette / Atelier Relations, 04. St-Michel-de-Provence. Impression Glory - Printed in France. 

I NSTRUMENTAL MUSIC FROM THE TIME 

before the invention of printing has rarely 

been transmitted to us in its entirety. The 

importance of instrumental music is witnessed to 

by writings and paintings : why then has that art 

left fewer written traces than vocal music ? It is 

probably because oral tradition and improvisation 

were more important for instrumentalists than for 

singers. Instrumental music is an art form in 

constant transformation. 

The appearance of the works of Rabelais repre¬ 

sents in some way the first literary crystallisation 

of those eras of transformation. Rabelais — in 

many of his works — quotes names of composers. 

At that same time, several printers were competing 

to supply the market (following the Venitians, first 

music printers in 1502) with «the latest hits, easily 

playable on any instrument)). In that must be seen 

a «commercial» generalisation of the medieval 

habit of transcription. The Pavane «Mille regretz» is 

nothing but a simplification of one of Josquin des 

Pres’ most beautiful songs. 

The suites which we have formed arbitrarily give a 

slight idea of what a ball could have been in 

Rabelais’ time. In the pavane the scheme of the 

dance is — two «simples» and one «double», each 

repeated for four bars, alternating on series of 

steps forwards with one backwards. For the 

«simple» one puts one foot forward and closes the 

other one to it within one whole bar of music. For 

the «double» one takes 3 steps and closes the 

other foot in two bars. The passamezzo is danced 

the same way. Its music varies from the pavane by 

the use of a key signature in the bass. In the 

«basses danses» three other steps are used : the 

«branle», a lateral balancing rather than a step, the 

«demarche», which is merely a step to the rear and 

the «reverence», a kind of introductory step. The 

16th century basse danse, in its most usual form 

was made up of 20 quaternions, or groups of four 

triple bars during which the dancers performed but 

one single figure. Notated thus : R = reverance, 

ss = two simples, d = a double, r = a demarche 

and b = a branle, the basse danse «Le coeur est 

bon» is choreographed as follows : 

R bssdrdrbssdddrdrbssdrb 

The galliard is a dance in triple time in which one 

runs and jumps. The dancers group the bars in 

two’s, taking four quick steps followed by a jump 

and landing on the sixth note of the group ready to 

begin again with the other foot at the begining of 

the next group. 

V or der Erfindung der Druckerkunst wurde 

uns Instrumentalmusik selten vollstandig 

iiberliefert. Wir kennen nur einzelne Oder 

zum Teil erhaltene Beispiele, deren Bedeutung in 

der Geschichte ihrer Entwicklung sich nur schwer 

ausmachen Id jit. Daji es Instrumentalmusik gab, 

wird von Berichten iiber hofische Feste und durch 

Hire Darstellung auf Gemalden bescheinigt. Weshalb 

hat diese besondere Musikgattung weniger schrift- 

licheBeweisspuren hinterlassen als die Vokalmusik ? 

Man konnte annehmen, die reine Instrumentalmu¬ 

sik unterscheide sich nicht von der Vokalmusik, sie 

sei nur deren Imitation oder Bearbeitung; sie ware 

uns also moglicherweise durch die Vokalmusik 

iiberliefert worden. Man konnte auch meinen, die 

miindliche Uberlieferung und die Kunst der Impro¬ 

visation waren bei den Instrumentalisten wichtiger 

als bei den Sangern ; damit ware die reine Instru¬ 

mentalmusik bis vor dem 16. Jahrhundert grojiten- 

teils verloren gegangen. Verschiedene Fakten schei- 

nen fur diese zweite Annahme zu sprechen : erstens 

einige Falle von bestimmten Instrumentalrollen, 

die eine ganz bestimmte Schreibweise haben (wie 

‘Contratenor Trompete’ zu Beginn des 15. Jahr- 

hunderts) ; zweitens die Anonymitdt der Verfasser 

der wenigen reinen Instrumentalmusik, die uns be- 

kannt war. Es handelt sich nicht nur um die Ano¬ 

nymitdt, die einfach eine historische Verge flic hkeit 

sein konnte, ein Vergessen des Namens eines Ver¬ 

fasser s, der allein fur ein Werk verantwortlich war. 

Fast die gesamte Instrumentalmusik bis ins 16. 

Jahrhundert ist schrittweise entstanden. Zum Im- 

provisieren hielt man sich an Muster, die schon Va- 

rianten von dlteren Mustern waren ; man findet sie 

iiberall in Europa, und so entstanden polyphone 

Werke in reicher Zahl, die selbst umgeschrieben 

wurden, und zwar entweder durch Vereinfachung 

wie fur die Laute, oder durch Erweiterung und Ko- 

loration wie fur die Orgel. Diese Methode kenn- 

zeichnet die Instrumentalmusik als Kunstergebnis 

vieler Musiker, als eine in standigem Wandel befind- 

liche Kunst mit Tradition. 

In der Literatur kristallisieren sich diese Zeiten des 

Wandels erstmalig im Werk eines Rabelais. In ver¬ 

se hiedenen Abschnitten seiner Werke erwahnt Ra¬ 

belais eine ganze Reihe von Komponisten : der 

Ruhm von einigen hat sich bis in unsere Zeit gehal- 

ten, und dies zeigt -falls es no tig ist - den guten Ge- 

schmack des Schriftstellers. Und gleichzeitig mit 

diesen endlich von ihren Urhebern unterzeichneten 

Musikstilcken, einem Zeichen fur den wirklichen 

Aufbruch des Zeitalters der Renaissance, wetteifer- 

ten verschiedene Drucker in der Nachfolge der Ve- 

nezianer, die bereits 1502 erstmalig Musikwerke 

druckten, einfache Bearbeitungen der ‘letzten 

Neuheiten, bequemlich auf alien Instrumenten zu 

spielen’, auf den Markt zu bringen : dies war eine 

Erweiterung und ‘kommerzialisierte’ Verallgemei- 

nerung der mittelalterischen Gewohnheiten, Volks- 

melodien ebenso wie beriihmte Werke umzuschrei- 

ben. Die Pavane ‘Mille regrets’ ist lediglich eine 

Vereinfachung eines der schonsten Lieder des 

grojien Josquin des Pres. 

Die von uns willkurlich gewahlte Reihenfolge der 

Stiicke soil uns ein wenig Aufschluji geben iiber die 

Art und Weise, in der vielleicht ein Ball zur Zeit 

Rabelais’ stattfand, und in dessen Verlauf das gan¬ 

ze Repertoire der franzosischen Musiker jener Zeit 

gespielt werden mujite -ein nicht nur franzdsi- 

sches’, sondern auch europaisches Repertoire. 

Im Fiinften Buch des Pantagruel’ in Kapitel 34 

berichtet Rabelais ‘wie die Damen im Laternenland 

beim Souper bedient werden’: 

‘Die Platerspiele, Trompeten und Dudelsacke er- 

klangen harmonisch, und es wurden ihnen die Spei- 

sen gebracht... Als das Mahl beendet war, wurde 

die Tafel aufgehoben. Dann mujiten die Musikan- 

ten ihre Melodien anstimmen, worauf die Konigin 

einen Branle double eroffnete, zu der alle Lichter 

und Laternen zusammen tanzen. Worauf sich die 

Konigin auf ihren Thron zuriickzog ; die anderen 

tanzten nach den gottlichen Klangen der Trompe¬ 

ten verschiedene Tdnze wie Ihr sagen konnt : ... 

(u.a.) 

Saint Poc (hier Bergerette Saint Roch) 

L’entree du fol (hier Entree du fol) 

Le coeur est bon (unsere Basse Danse) 

Le bal d’Espagne (eine der vielen Versionen der 

‘Spagna ’) 

Le joli bois (etwa unsere Galliarde)... ’ 

Die Schritte einiger Tdnze auf dieser Platte sind 

ziemlich einfach, und besonders Musikbegeisterte 

mogen sich darin versuchen. 

Die Pavane hat das Formschema von zwei Einzel- 

schritten und einem Doppelschritt, das alle vier 

Takte abwechselnd vorwarts und dann ruckwarts 

getanzt wird. Beim Einzelschritt wird ein Schritt 

nach vorn gemacht und der andere Fuji wahrend 

der Dauer eines ganzen Taktes herangezogen. Beim 

Doppelschritt macht man drei Schritte und zieht 

den zweiten Fuji innerhalb zweier Takte nach. 

Der Passamezzo wird genau so getanzt. Seine Musik 

unterscheidet sich von der Pavane durch Verwen- 

dung eines Bajigeriistes. 

Bei den Basses Danses kommen noch drei weitere 

Schritte vor : der Branle, eher ein seitliches Balan- 

cement als ein Schritt, die Demarche, ein einfacher 

Riickwartsschritt, und die Reverenz, eine Art Ein- 

fiihrung. Die Basse Danse des 16. Jahrhunderts fast 

immer aus 20 Viererstucken oder Gruppen aus 4 

Dreiertakten, bei denen die Tcinzer jeweils nur eine 

.einzige Figur machen : eine Reverenz (R), zwei ein¬ 

fache Schritte (ss), einen Doppelschritt (d), eine 

Demarche (r) oder einen Branle (b). Die Basse dan¬ 

se in ‘Le coeur est bon’ ist vom choreographischen 

Aspekt her genau festgesetzt. Die Schritte dieses 

Tanzes sind durch die Buchstabenfolge 

Rbssdrdrbssdddrdrbssdrb 

gekennzeichnet. 

Die Galliarde ist ein Tanz im Dreiertakt, bei dem 

man lauft und springt. Die Tanzer fassen die Takte 

in Zweiergruppen zusammen und machen vier 

schnelle Schritte, dann einen Sprung, fallen dann 

bei der 6. Note der Gruppe auf den Fuji zuriick 

und fangen in der folgenden Gruppe mit dem 

anderen Fuji wieder an. 

L A MUSIQUE INSTRUMENTALE D’AVANT 

I’apparition de I’imprimerie s’est rarement 

transmise jusqu’a nous d’une maniere 

complete. Nous en connaissons des exemples 

isoles ou partiels dont il est difficile de fixer 

(’importance dans I’histoire de son evolution. La 

place de la musique instrumentale est attestee par 

les chroniques et les ceremonies de cour, ainsi que 

par leurs representations picturales. Pourquoi cet 

art particulier a-t-il laisse moins de traces ecrites 

que I’art vocal ? On peut penser que la musique 

purement instrumentale ne se distingue pas de la 

musique vocale, qu’elle en etait I’emanation ou 

I’adaptation ; el le nous serait alors virtuellement 

transmise a travers la musique vocale. On peut 

penser aussi que la tradition orale et le role de 

I’improvisation etaient plus importants chez les 

instrumentistes que chez les chanteurs ; dans ce 

cas la musique purement instrumentale jusqu’au 

XVI e siecle non compris serait en majorite perdue. 

Plusieurs faits semblent donner du poids a cette 

seconde hypothese : primo quelques cas de roles 

instrumentaux definis, montrant une technique 

d’ecriture distincte (comme les contratenor trom- 

pette du debut du XV e siecle) ; secundo, 

redefinition des auteurs du peu de musique 

instrumental pure que nous connaissons. II ne 

s’agit pas seulement de I’anonymat qui pourrait 

etre un simple o 'bli historique, celui du nom d’un 

auteur, seul responsable de I’oeuvre. Presque toute 

la musique instrumentale jusque dans le XVI 8 

siecle a ete con ue par degr6s successifs. On s’est 

servi pour improviser de schemas qui etaient deja 

des variantes de schemas plus anciens ; on les 

trouve repandus dans toute I’Europe, donnant lieu 

a des elaborations polyphoniques en surcharge, 

elles-memes transcrites soit par simplification 

comme pour le luth, soit par extension et 

coloration comme pour I’orgue. Ces procedes 

definissent la musique instrumentale comme I’art 

d’une foule de musiciens - un art de tradition - en 

perpetuelle transformation. 

L’apparition de I’oeuvre d’un Rabelais represente en 

quelque sorte la premiere cristallisation en 

litterature de ces epoques de transformation. Or 

Rabelais se plait en plusieurs passages de ses 

oeuvres a mentionner des ky riel les de composi¬ 

teurs : la gloire de plusieurs d’entre eux s’est 

maintenue jusqu’a nous, prouvant s’il etait besoin 

laqualite du gout de I’ecrivain. Et parallelement a 

ces apparitions de musiques enfin signees par 

leurs auteurs, temoignage de I’eclosion veritable 

de la Renaissance, plusieurs imprimeurs se 

concurrengaient pour fournir sur le marche a la 

suite des Venitiens, premiers imprimeurs de 

musique des 1502 les adaptations simples des 

«dernieres nouveautes, a jouer commodement sur 

tous les instruments)) : e’etait la une amplifica¬ 

tion, et une generalisation «commercialisee» des 

habitudes medievales de transcription, tantot de 

melodies populaires. tantot d’oeuvres celebres. La 

Pavane «M i I le regretz» n’est qu’une simplification 

d’une des plus belles chansons du grand Josquin 

des Pres. 

Les suites que nous avons formees arbitrairement 

donnent une petite idee de ce que pouvait etre un 

bal du temps de Rabelais, au cours duquel devait 

passer tout le repertoire des musiciens frangais de 

I’epoque — repertoire aussi bien «frangais» 

qu’europeen. 

Rabelais, dans le Cinquieme Livre de Pantagruel, 

au chapitre XXXIV, raconte «Comment furent les 

dames Lanternes servies a souper» : 

«Les vezes, bouzines et cornemuses sonnerent 

harmonieusement, et leur furent les mets appor- 

tes... 

Le souper fini, furent les tables levees. Lors, les 

menetriers plus que devant melodieusement 

sonnant, fut par la Reine commence un branle 

double, auquel tous, falots et lanternes, ensemble 

danserent. Depuis se retira la Reine en son siege ; 

les autres aux divins sons les bouzines danserent 

diversement comme vous pourrez dire : ... (entre 

autres) 

Saint Poc (notre bergerette Saint Roch) 

L’entree du fol (notre Entree du fol) 

Le coeur est bon (notre basse danse) 

Le bal d’Espagne (une des multiples versions de la 

«Spagna») 

Le joli bois (peut-etre notre gaillarde)...» 

Les pas de certaines danses de ce disque sont 

assez faciles, de sorte que les melomanes peuvent 

s’y essayer. 

Dans la pavane le schema de la danse est de deux 

simples et un double, qu’on repete toutes les 

quatre mesures en faisant tour a tour un schema en 

avant et un schema en arriere. Pour le simple on 

avance un pied et on rapproche I’autre en une 

mesure complete de la musique. Pour le double on 

fait trois pas et on rapproche le second pied, en 

deux mesures. 

Le passamezzo se danse de la meme maniere. Sa 

musique d if fere de la pavane par I’emploi d’une 

armature dans la basse. 

Dans les basses danses interviennent encore trois 

autres pas : le branle, un balancement lateral 

plutot qu’un pas, la demarche qui est un simple en 

arriere et la reverence, sorte'de temp's d’introduc- 

tion. La basse danse du XVI 8 siecle, dans sa forme 

la plus courante se compose de 20 quaternions ou 

groupes de 4 mesures ternaires, sur chacun 

desquels les danseurs ne font qu’une seule 

figure : une reverence (R), deux simples (ss), un 

double (d), une demarche (r) ou un branle (b). La 

basse danse «Le coeur est bon» est parfaitement 

definie du point de vue choregraphique egalement 

les pas de cette danse sont symbolises par la suite 

de lettres : 

Rbssdrdrbssdddrdrbssdrb 

La gaillarde est une danse en mesure ternaire dans 

laquelle on court et on saute. Les danseurs 

groupent les mesures deux par deux, faisant 

quatre pas rapides puis un saut et retombant sur la 

sixieme note du groupe pour repartir de I’autre pied 

sur le groupe suivant. 

d’apres Raymond Meylan 

harmonia 

mundi 

Si vous avez apprecie la qualite artistique et technique de ce disque, sachez 

que le catalogue harmonia mundi France compte aujourd’hui plus de mille 

titres. En voici un extrait. 

If the artistic and technical qualities of this record have pleased you, we 

would like you to know that the harmonia mundi France catalogue today 

comprises over one thousand titles, of which here are a few examples. 

Wenn Ihnen diese Schallplatte sowohl in kiinstlerischer als auch technischer 

Hinsicht gefallen hat, mochten wir Sie darauf aufmerksam macljen, daft 

der harmonia mundi France - Katalog liber tausend Titel umfaftt, wovon 

wir Ihnen hier eine Auswahl vorstellen. 

SHAKESPEARE SONGS 

Morley : It was a lover. 0 mistress 

mine. Wilson : Take, o take. Weel- 

kes : Strike up. Johnson : Where the 

bee. Full fathom. Cutting : Walshing- 

ham variations. Ravenscroft: He that 

will. Byrd : Non nobis. Willow song. 

How should I. We be soldiers. When 

griping griefs. Caleno. Then they for 

sudden joy. Bonny, sweet Robin. 

When that I was. Kamp’Jig. Green- 

sleeves 

Deller Consort 

HM 202 

CARLO GESUALDO 

Madrigaux, Sacrae Cantiones. Ecco, 

morire dunque. Ahi, gia discoloro. 

Io tacero. Invan dunque. Dolcissima 

mia vita. Itene o miei sospiri. Moro 

lasso. Ave, dulcissima Maria. 0 vos 

omnes. Ave Regina. O crux. Hei 

mihi Domine 

Deller Consort 

Musicassette 40.203 

HM 203 

LA RENAISSANCE ANGLAISE 

Lute Songs (Morley, Wilson, Weel- 

kes, Johnson, Cutting, Dowland, 

Bartlet, Campion, Anonymes). Musi- 

que instrumentale (Gibbons, Morley, 

Dowland, Tomkins, Ford). Tallis : 

Les lamentations de Jeremie. Byrd : 

Messe a 5 voix 

Morley Consort 

Coffret 3 disques 

HM 260 

THOMAS WEELKES 

Les Cris de Londres. To shorten win¬ 

ter’s sadness. Thule, the period of 

cosmography. Fantasy for viols. O 

care, thou wilt despatch me. Hence 

care, thou art too cruel. The cries of 

London. When David heard. In No¬ 

mine (pour violes). All laud and 

praise. Lachrimae (pour violes). O 

Lord arise 

Deller Consort. Jaye Consort of Viols, 

dir. Alfred Deller 

HM 224 

relations 04300 saint-michel de provence 

printed in trance 

AIRS POPULAIRES ANGLAIS DU 

XVIIe SIECLE 

London tunes, Country dances, Four 

ballad tunes mentioned by Shake¬ 

speare, The 17th century top three, 

Across the Channel, Across the bor¬ 

der 

The Broadside Band, dir. Jeremy 

Barlow 

Musicassette 40.1039 

HM 1039 

PIERRE CERTON 

Messe «Sus le pont d’Avignon». 

Chasons. Je l’ay aime. C’est grand 

pitiye. Amour a tort. Entre vous 

gentilz hommes. Plus ne suys. En 

esperant. Si ta beaulte. De tout le 

mal. Je ne veulx poinct. Martin s’en 

alia. Ce n’est a vous. Que n’est elle 

aupres de moy. Ung jour que Mada¬ 

me dormait. Hellas ne fringuerons 

nous 

The Boston Camerata, 

Cohen 

HM 1034 

dir. Joel 

UN BAL CHEZ RABELAIS 

Branle. La Guerra (Mateu Flexta). 

Pa vane III (Louis Milan). La Shy 

Myse. My lady careys dome. La 

doune cella. Suite II, Suite III, 

Suite IV 

Ensemble Ricercare. Ars Musicae de 

Barcelone. Francis Chapelet, orgue 

de Frederiksborg 

HM 931 

ROLAND DE LASSUS 

Les Larmes de Saint-Pierre (Lagrimae 

di San Pietro) 

Ensemble Vocal Raph Passaquet, dir. 

Raph Passaquet 

Collection 2/30 

Album 2 disques 

HM 2.961 

BALLADES, RONDEAUX, 

VI RE LAIS 

Nesque on pourroit, Je suis aussi, 

Tres bonne et belle, De petit po, 

Amours me fait desirer, Va pure 

Amore, I prieg Amor, Per AUegrega, 

Gram pian ’agli (Landini), Tout par 

compas (Baude Cordier), Je ne vis 

pas (Insulis), Ma doulce amour (de 

Haspre), Franc cuer, Adieu m’amour, 

Se la face ay pale (Dufay), Du pist 

mein Hort, Quene note, Falla con 

misuras, La Spagna 

Ensemble Ricercare 

HM 592 

ROLAND DE LASSUS 

Les Lamentation de Job 

Ensemble Vocal Raph Passaquet, dir. 

Raph Passaquet 

Collection 2/30 

Album 2 disques 

HM 2.479 

JACOB OBRECHT 

Missa Fortuna desperata 

Clemencic Consort, dir. Rene Cle- 

mencic 

HM 998 

BASSES DANSES ET CHANSONS 

1450-1550 

Ockeghem, Attaignant, Week, de la 

Torre, Pierre de la Rue, Brumel, 

Anonymes du 16e siecle 

Clemencic Consort, dir. Rene Cle¬ 

mencic 

HM 990 

JOANNES OCKEGHEM 

Requiem 

Clemencic Consort, dir. Rene Cle¬ 

mencic 

LE LUTH A LA RENAISSANCE 

Antonio Rotta, Codex Istvanffy, 

Danses Polonaises, Francesco da Mi¬ 

lano, Vicenzo Galilei, Tablature de 

luth de Dantzig, Valentin Bakfark: 

Fantasia No 2, 7, 8 

Andras Kecskes, luth 

HM 766 

MUSIQUE DE LA RENAISSANCE 

POUR LES COURS D’EUROPE 

Isaac : La mi la sol. Es hatt ein Baur. 

Senfl: Ach Elslein. Hofhaimer. Car¬ 

men In sol. Vecchi: Saltarello. Trom- 

boncino : Ben che amor. Marenzio : 

Basciami. Mainiero : Suite. Josquin : 

Vive le roy. Mille regretz. Dufay : 

Vergine bella. Gervaise : Suite de 

Branles. Dowland: Sorrow come. 

Ward : Fantasia. Nicholson: In a 

merry may. Holbome : Suite 

Ensemble Musica Antiqua de Vienne, 

dir. Bernhard Klebel 

HM 938 

LES PLAISIRS DE LA 

RENAISSANCE 

Planson : La rousee. Castro : En haut 

et en bas. Viet oris Codex : Chorea, 

Aha Chorea. Picchi: Ballo ongaro. 

Caccini : Belle rose. Cara : Non e 

tempo. Rotenbucher : Invitatorium. 

Jappart : Ve mozza mia. Phalese : 

Danses. Dowland : Awake sweet love. 

Anonyme : Greensleeves, Kemps Jig 

Zeger Vandersteene, haute-contre. 

Andras Kecskes, luth. Rene Clemen¬ 

cic, flute a bee 

HM 963 

LES CRIS DE PARIS 

Chansons de Janequin et Sermisy 

Ensemble Clement Janequin 

Musicassette 40.1072 

HM 1072 

DANSES DE LA RENAISSANCE 

Jacques Modeme, Tilman Susato, 

Claude Gervaise, Pierre Phalese, Mel¬ 

chior Franck, Attaignant, Demantius 

Clemencic Consort, dir. Rene Cle¬ 

mencic 

Musicassette 40.610 

HM 610 

DANSES DE LA RENAISSANCE 

AUX ORGUES ET AU CLAVECIN 

Francis Chapelet, orgue de Frederiks¬ 

borg. Lionel Rogg, clavecin et orgue 

de table 

Collection 2/30 

Album 2 disques 

HM 2.465 

DICTIONNAIRE DES DANSES DE 

LA RENAISSANCE 

Un livret de Henri Jarrie. Exemples 

musicaux en trois disques 

Clemencic Consort. Ricercare. Lionel 

Rogg. Canzona Ensemble. Jaye Con¬ 

sort of Viols. Harold Lester. Accade- 

mia Monteverdiana 

Coffret 3 disques 

HM 446 (3) 

ESTAMPIES, BASSES DANSES, 

PAVANES 

Estampie et Ret rove, 2 Ducties. Vil 

liber Zit (J. Gotz). Sans faire, la fille 

Guillemin, La Spagna (Fontaine). 

Zeunertantz, Judentanz (Neusidler). 

Passametzo (Ammerbach). Suite I, 

Bassa imperiale (Bendusi). Gaiharde 

(Attaignant). Wie schon bliiht (Am¬ 

merbach). Ach hulf (Buchner). Hor- 

nepype 

Ensemble Ricercare. Lionel Rogg, 

orgue positif 

HM 573 

POLYPHONIE SACREE DE LA 

RENAISSANCE 

Lassus, Gesualdo, Byrd, Tallis, Schutz 

Ensemble Raph Passaquet. Deller 

Consort. Ensemble Vocal du Chceur 

National, dir. Jacques Grimbert 

Collection 2/30 

Album 2 disques 

HM 2.473 

harmoniai 

UN BAL CHEZ RABELAIS 

1 Branie (Claude Gervaise) - 2. La guerra (Mateu Fletxa le vieux) 

3. L'arboscello ballo forlano (Pierre Phalese) - 4. Suite I : Pavane 

"La Garde", Gaillarde'Au joly boys*. Branie de Poictou, Premier 

branie de Gay (anonymes) - 5. Pavana III (Luis Mila) - 6. La shy 

myse (anonyme) - 7. My lady eareys dompe (anonyme) - 

8. La dourte cella (anonyme) - 9. Suite II: Pavane, Bergerette 

"Saint-Roch", Gaillarde, Ronde "Mon amy", Ballo Milanese 

Ensembles d'instruments anciens / 

fc. Harmonia Mundl (1,3) - Ars Musicae de Bareetone (2,5) Jr 

Ricercare de Zurich (4.9) A,” 

Xfc. Francis Chapelet, orgue historique 

de Frederiksborg (6,7,8) 

LPL 2756 1Y 

harmonia 

mundi 

FRANCE 

FACE B 

(7'40-12'00) 19‘40 

1. Suite III 

Basse danse "Mon desir", Gaillarde "La rocque",", deux Branle 

Basse danse "Le cceur est bon", "Entree du fol”, (anonymes) 

2. Suite IV : 

Pavane "Mille regretz", Ronde, Pavane "Si pas souffrir", 

Ronde et Saltarelle, Hoboecken Dans, 

Ronde "II estoit une fillette" (Tielmann Susato) 

fc.„ Ensembles d'instruments anciens 

Rioercare de Zurich (1), Harmonia Mundi (2) 

Tchaikovsky Fourth Symphony by Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky; Eugene Ormandy; The Philadelphia Orchestra Columbia Masterworks (MS 6756) Publication date 1965

 Tchaikovsky was thirty-six when, in 1877, he met Tol-

stoy. Of one part of a concert given in the great novelist’s

honor, Tchaikovsky wrote in his diary: “Never in my

life have I felt so flattered and proud of my creative ability

as when Lev Tolstoy, sitting next to me, heard my an-

dante [the Andante Cantabile of the D Major String

Quartet, Op. 11] with tears coursing down his cheeks.”

Shortly after, Tchaikovsky began to compose his Fourth

Symphony, in F Minor (of his six symphonies, only the

Third is in a major key). On June 8, 1877, he wrote to

his “beloved” unmet friend and benefactress, Nadejda

von Meck, that he had completed the first draft of the

new symphony. On July 15, in a letter agreeing to Mme

von Meck’s request that she not be mentioned by name

in the dedication of “their” symphony, he told her that

it would be “Dedicated to My Best Friend.” He began to

orchestrate the work on August 12.

Meanwhile, on July 18, Tchaikovsky had committed

the awful blunder of marrying—partly out of pity, partly

out of a wish to protect himself from gossip—a neurotic

young conservatory student. As a direct result of that

misstep he tried to commit suicide, on about October 1,

by drowning, in the Moskva River. Not succeeding, he

went off to Western Europe, but was not soon well

enough, either mentally or physically, to return to work.

The orchestration of the Fourth Symphony was not fin-

ished until January 7, 1878, at San Remo. The day follow-

ing, in Milan, he bought a metronome in order to put

final tempo indications in the completed score.

On January 12, 1878, Tchaikovsky wrote to Nicholas

Rubinstein, who would conduct the first performance of

the new symphony: “The third part is all played pizzi-

cato. The faster the tempo, the better—but I’m not alto-

gether sure at how fast a tempo pizzicato can be played.”

He would, he’said, gladly revise the metronome markings,

if necessary, in view of Rubinstein’s experience in con-

ducting the symphony. He told his publisher that he

demanded no royalties on the Fourth Symphony, but

asked that it be issued in a particularly handsome format

—toward which Mme von Meck contributed fifteen hun-

dred francs.

The Fourth Symphony, Op. 36, is in these movements:

I. Andante sostenuto; Moderato con anima in movi-

mento di valse; Moderato assai, quasi Andante; Allegro

con anima; II. Andantino in modo di canzona; III.

Scherzo: Allegro, pizzicato ostinato; IV. Finale: Allegro

con fuoco. The score calls for piccolo, two flutes, two

oboes, two clarinets, two bassoons, four horns, two trum-

pets, three trombones, bass tuba, three kettledrums, bass

drum, cymbals, triangle and strings. It was played for the

first time in Moscow on February 22, 1878, with Rubin-

stein conducting. Indifferently received by its first audi-

ence, it was correspondingly neglected by the Moscow

critics. Its world career was initiated the following

December 7, when Eduard Napravnik conducted it in St.

Petersburg to a wildly enthusiastic audience and hysteri-

cally grateful press.

On March 1, 1878, Mme von Meck wrote Tchaikovsky

that his music went not to her head, but to her heart, and

asked if the Fourth Symphony had a program. In reply,

Tchaikovsky sent a very long letter, in which, before

analyzing the symphony’s emotional weather in some

detail, he said: “How can one express the indefinable

sensations that one experiences while composing an in-

strumental piece that has no definite subject? It is a purely

lyrical process. It is a musical confession of the soul,

which is full to the brim, and which, true to its nature,

unburdens itself through sounds just as a lyrical poet

expresses himself through poetry. The difference lies in

the fact that music has much richer resources of expres-

sion and is a more subtle medium into which to translate

the thousand shifting moments in the soul’s moods.”

The only more specific answer that Mme von Meck was

granted told her that the opening measures of the intro-

duction portrayed Fate. More revealing was a letter that

Tchaikovsky wrote to Sergei Taneyev early in April,

1878: “I wish no symphonic work to emanate from me

which has nothing to express and consists merely of

harmonies and a purposeless pattern of rhythms and

modulations. Of course my symphony is program music

—but it would be impossible to present the program in

words... .”

One of the world’s foremost conductors,

Eugene Ormandy has been permanent conductor

of the Philadelphia Orchestra since 1936. He was

also conductor of the Minneapolis Symphony

Orchestra and has guest-conducted many impor-

tant orchestras throughout the United States and

Europe. The range and variety of Ormandy’s

musical taste are most impressive. A greatly

praised interpreter of the romantic and impres-

sionist composers, he is also an enkindling con-

ductor of contemporary music or brilliant

orchestral display pieces. He further has to his

credit an impressive number of first performances

of American and European composers.

Other albums by Eugene Ormandy and the Philadelphia

Orchestra you will enjoy:

Magic Fire Music—Wagner Favorites...

ML 6101/MS 6701*

Tchaikovsky: The Nutcracker Ballet, Op. 71...

ML 6021/MS 6621*

Rimsky-Korsakov: Scheherazade, Op. 35...

ML 5765/ MS 6365*

Two 20th-Century Masterpieces (Sonata No. 6 / Sonata) by Van Cliburn; Sergei Prokofiev; Samuel Barber RCA Red Seal (LSC-3229) Publication date 1971

 The sonata is to the piano what the symphony

is to the orchestra; although the means of ex-

piesticn are different the functions are simi-

lar. Into these distinctive heroic molds the

composer pours his most ambitious musical

ideas and manipulates them with all the in-

vention and skill at his command. The sym-

phony orchestra’s canvas is grand and multi-

textured while the solo piano conjures up a

more personal means of communication, more

stark and spare. Still each, the symphony and

the piano sonata, reveals the composer at his

most profound—and in the case of the latter,

most intensely private and virtuosic, demand-

ing an interpreter of extraordinary musicality,

intelligence and commanding technique.

Of all the major composers who flourished

in the first half of the 20th century only Sergei

Prokofieff (1891-1953) produced a substantial

number of solo piano sonatas: nine, in fact

(Barték and Stravinsky composed but one

each). Of Prokofieff's output, the Sonata No. 6,

Op. 82, written in 1939-40, is pivotal. It was

created some 17 years after the fifth sonata,

and during that period a great deal happened

to the composer. For more than half of that

time Prokofieff lived away from his native Rus-

sia (not as an exile, as is popularly thought),

in France and in the United States, where he

acquired a reputation as an iconoclastic com-

poser, a stunning pianist and, because of his

penetrating wit, a Bad Boy of Music. Homesick

after 16 years of wandering, he returned to So-

viet Russia in the mid ’30s.

Prokofieff's experimental bent, his sardonic,

cosmopolitan outlook and his outspokenness

earned him several public reprimands from the

Soviet Musical Establishment. He refused,

however, to bow to their will and continued to

be himself. He could write music of great ac-

cessibility and charm—and he did (the film

scores, ballets and children’s pieces)—but he

also sought expression for his deeper side, in

uncompromising works. One of these, and one

that readily placed him temporarily on the offi-

cial blacklist, was the Sixth Sonata. One of his

most majestic compositions, it is typically Pro-

kofieffian in the grandeur of the first movement,

the wit of the second, the wistful beauty of the

third and the propulsive drive of the finale.

But it did not please; shortly after Prokofieff

played it for the first time, during a radio re-

cital on April 8, 1940, he was roundly attacked.

The Party line may be summarized in the words

of Rena Moisenko (from her book, ‘Realist

Music’), who found that ‘‘decorated with fist-

thumping effects, this sonata is a purely for-

malistic composition, embodying the ‘Art for

Art's Sake’ idea, so much deprecated by So-

viet musicologists.”" Since then, of course, the

musical climate has changed, and the sonata

has come to be appreciated as one of Proko-

fieff's major achievements. One might assume,

perhaps, that the deprecating Soviet musicol-

ogists have since returned to repairing tractors,

as Prokofieff's contributions are more widely

recognized as one of the glories of Russian

music.

samuel Barber (b. 1910) was not subjected

to slings and arrows when his Piano Sonata,

Op. 26, was introduced in 1950. It was im-

mediately hailed as a major addition to the

literature for solo piano and a milestone in

American music. #

The sonata has a rather interesting genesis.

Following his discharge from the U.S. Air Force

in 1945, the composer entered upon one of his

most productive periods, which culminated in

the haunting classic Knoxville: Summer of

1915. Shortly after its completion Barber was

commissioned by the League of Composers

to write a piano sonata—the backing for which

commission was provided by Irving Berlin and

Richard Rodgers, two gentlemen who have

also contributed richly to the American musi-

cal scene.

The sonata has been called by one critic

“a virtuoso's paradise” (it was introduced by

no less a virtuoso than Vladimir Horowitz); at

the same time it is recognized as a composi-

tion of great musical substance. While Barber

has been saddled with the label ‘Neo-Ro-

mantic,” his musical speech in this four-move-

ment sonata is decidedly contemporary: it

could only have been written today—and it

could only have been written by Samuel

Barber. He even draws ingeniously upon

twelve-tone serial procedures. But never is the

clarity of his writing or his innate lyricism

smothered in mere technique; the “sound” is

at once distinctively personal and American.

The result is a masterpiece that belongs in the

company of other great American piano sona-

tas—by Charles Ives, Charles Griffes, Aaron

Copland and others. But also it stands alone,

like a solitary, beautiful mountain.

—FDWARD JABLONSKI

Biographer of contemporary composers, from Gershwin

to Schoenberg, Mr. Jablonski is currently working on

an encyclopedia of American music for Doubleday.

Piano Concerto, Op. 42 / Piano Concerto No. 24 In C Minor by Glenn Gould; CBC Symphony Orchestra; Robert Craft; CBC Symphony Orchestra; Walter Susskind; Arnold Schoenberg; Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart Columbia Masterworks (MS 6339) Publication date 1962

 ‘This record contains two Concerti which represent,

virtually, the terminal positions of the literature for

piano and orchestra. Possibly greater contrasts and/

or historical point could have been obtained had

we linked a concerto grosso (Handel, for instance)

with a concerto grosso (Hindemith, perhaps) but for

the purpose of illustrating the transition into and out

of the great concerto manner these two works will do

very well indeed. The assumption is, of course, that

the concerto idée is now more or less an unservice-

able mould for the present techniques of musical

composition, although in the guessable future com-

posers will undoubtedly find other means to satisfy

the primeval human need for showing off.

The 150 years between Mozart's K. 491 and

Schoenberg's Op. 42 added many resourceful varia-

tions to the fundamental areas of dynamic contrast

and rhythmic stress which helped the baroque mas-

ters exploit the solo-tutti antithesis. Somewhere

along towards the middle of the eighteenth century

the acoustical corollary of the solo-mass idea—the

pian-e-forte aspect of concerto-grosso style—became

fused with the new symphonic adventures in thematic

contrast, and the concerto became, in effect, a show-

piece adjunct of the classical symphony; and ever

since, with a few eccentric exceptions, the evolution

of the concerto manner has been inextricably bound

up with that of symphonic form.

The one great distinction between concerto tech-

nique and that of its symphonic model has always

Jain in the peculiarly redundant distribution of ma-

terial which the solo-tutti forces required. The diffi-

culty of supplying to the soloist something to keep

him duly occupied that will not, at the same time,

wholly disrupt the symphonic flow of events has

constituted the concerto problem through the years,

and it is a problem which has only rarely been solved.

Perhaps for this reason the most popular and suc-

cessful (though never the best) of concertos have

usually come from composers who were somewhat

lacking in a grasp of symphonic architecture—Liszt,

Grieg, etc.—composers who had in common a con-

fined, periodic concept of symphonic style, but who

were able to linger without embarrassment upon the

glowing melodic moment. Perhaps also for this rea-

son, the great figures of the symphonic repertoire

have almost always come off second best in concerto

writing and their relative failures have helped to

give credence to the wide-spread and perfectly de-

fensible notion that concertos are comparatively

lightweight stuff. (After all, there is something

slightly hilarious when a master of Olympian stature

like Beethoven, for instance, from whom we expect

the uncompromising pronouncement, qualifies his

symphonic “this is my final word” with the concerto-

genre equivalent, “this is my final word—but you

won't mind if I say it again.”)

The most unique development of the classical con-

certo’s attempt to “say it again” was the feature of

the orchestral pre-exposition. This two or three min-

ute capsule of the basic material from the opening

movement allowed the solo instrument, upon its en-

trance, a greater degree of freedom in treating

themes which had previously been heard in some

perspective. It also allowed the solo instrument to

play throughout the exposition proper more continu-

ously than would otherwise be desirable.

The Mozart Concerto in C Minor, perhaps for the

very reason that it contains some of the master’s

most exalted music, is not a very successful concerto.

It opens with a magnificently constructed orchestral

tutti—the sort of pre-exposition which Sir Donald

Tovey was always chiding Beethoven for not having

written. It consists, in fact, of two or three of the

most skillfully architected minutes in all of Mozart.

But with the first entrance of the piano we soon

modulate to a much less elevated region. Having

successfully avoided the mood and pleasure of the

relative major key (E-flat) throughout the orchestral

tutti, the piano now leads us there with a vengeance

—and gets hopelessly stalled in that key. Once,

twice, three times, separated by unimaginative se-

quences, the soloist caresses E-flat with material

wholly unworthy of the magnificence of the intro-

duction. And by the time the tutti material returns

in the development we are left wishing that Mozart

had given his tutti and a few clavier lessons to Haydn

and let the boundless developmental capacities of

that gentleman go to work on it.

The writing for the solo instrument moreover, is

somewhat anachronistic since the left hand of the

solost is more often than not engaged in doubling the

cellos and/or bassoon parts. Consequently, the total

impression of the soloist’s contribution is an annoy-

ing confusion of fickle virtuosity in the upper reg-

isters and an unrealized continuo in the left hand.

(The author has taken a very few liberties in this

regard which he believes are wholly within the spirit

and substance of the work.)

The second movement contains some subtly con-

trived woodwind scoring that contrasts strikingly

with the complete innocence of the solo instrument's

principal theme, which, when it is played on the

discouragingly sophisticated instruments of our own

day is almost impossible of realization. It is the last

movement which holds the Mozart of our dreams.

Here, in a supremely beautiful set of variations, is a

structure with a raison d’étre, a structure in which

the piano shares without intrusion, in which as vari-

ation upon variation passes by, the chromatic fugal

manner which Mozart in his philosophic moods

longed to espouse is applied to the ephemeral realm

of the concerto with brilliant success.

If the Mozart C Minor represents the concerto

form as it merged into the virtuoso tradition, the

Schoenberg concerto represents the beginning of the

end for that tradition. The solo contribution through-

out (cadenzas excepted) is really only that of an

enlarged obbligato. This, despite the fact that

Schoenberg was at the time of its composition (1942)

experiencing a return to large scale architectural in-

terests and was moreover, upon occasion, experi-

menting once again with the use of tonality—albeit

a somewhat grayer and more stringently controlled

tonality than he had used in his early years. It is

probably no accident that his violin and piano con-

certos were written during these years in which he

was most conscious of his link with the romantic

symphonic tradition, but the piano concerto (several

notable analysts to the contrary) is not one of the

works in this neo-tonal cycle, and is in fact fairly

typical of Schoenberg's later twelve-tone writing.

Schoenberg had taken his first, tentative, twelve-

tone steps in the neoclassic environment of. his

middle years—years in which the alarming license

of tonal free trade caused him to gravitate toward a

rational classicism for which the architectural for-

mulae of the eighteenth century provided scholastic

discipline.

As was proper to their eighteenth-century models,

his first essays in twelve-tone writing were exercises

in straightforward row technique. Such architectural

forms as the dance suite, for example, provided a

convenient mould into which the first twelve-tone

fluid might be poured. Thus the most marked feature

of these early twelve-tone efforts is a rather external

poise and grace.

Schoenberg had long been aware that before

twelve-tone music might be said to have achieved

sovereignty, the forms engendered by it would have

to own of something specifically related to twelve-

tone procedure—something in which the growth of

the most minute organism, the embryonic cell’ of

sound would be reflected. It has been said quite

seriously that whatever forms Schoenberg applied to

music, the only constant constructive force in his

work was the principle of variation. Indeed, the vari-

ation concept in its most natural state—that of con-

stant evolution—provides the best synthesis of

twelve-tone theory.

Schoenberg, in his early twelve-tone works, fre-

quently presented two transpositions of the row

simultaneously, thus making a distinct division be-

tween melodic and harmonic participation. In the

middle Thirties, he began more and more frequently

to use one transposition at a time, subdividing it into

harmonic groups so that a succession of chords was

formed from the row with points of melodic line

appearing as uppermost factors of these chords. Thus

the harmonic control of the tone-row was tightened,

while the melodic dimension was somewhat released

from bondage. By the later Thirties, Schoenberg was

attempting to amalgamate both procedures by a si-

multaneous exposition of two transpositions of the

same row—but a row so devised that, should it be

reproduced at a specific interval and (usually) in-

verted, the first six tones of the original become,

though in shuffled order, the last six of the inversion,

and—if there is anyone who is not now thoroughly

confused—vice versa.

The Piano Concerto possesses such a row. Its origi-

nal form is so arranged that, if it is inverted at five

semitones above, the following results:

If these two transpositions are combined it will

be seen that the first six tones of the original and

the first six tones of the inversion produce one com-

plete twelve-tone spectrum, while utilizing only the

interval combinations of half the row. Thus, within

the harmonic range of a full tone-row, a greater

economy of interval structure is achieved.

If the row of the Piano Concerto is subdivided into

four chords of three tones each, two positions of

the same seventh chord are formed by the super-

position of tones 1-3 and 4-6.

The same procedure applied to the consequent

tones, 7-9, 10-12, makes a combination of fourth

chords and whole-tone units, and passages such as

the following are derived:

In somewhat subtler ways the two halves of the

row are frequently assigned distinctive rhythmic

shapes or perhaps consigned to different clefs.

The work is in four movements joined without

pause—or perhaps more accurately, with apostrophes

—and each of these four movements develops a

special aspect of the harmonic treatment of the row.

In the first movement, which is a theme and varia-

tions, the theme is assigned to the right hand of the

piano and consists of the four basic applications of

the twelve-tone series—the original form, the inver-

sion, the retrogression and the retrogressive in-

version. The inversion and retrogressive inversion

appear in the transposition at five semitones. The

accompaniment in the left hand consists of discreet

comments derived from the row in use. Therefore,

the theme of the first movement effects a pseudo-

tonal solidarity by confining itself to one transposi-

tion (if the inversion at five semitones be regarded

as indigenous) of the row. Each successive variation

(there are three separated by episodes of rhythmic

preparation) increases the number of participating

transpositions of the series and hence puts pressure

on the harmonic pace and results in a truncation of

the main theme itself. In the first eight bars of varia-

tion 3 the original theme, or rather the first of its four

sentences, is derived by excerpting and accenting

individual notes drawn from no less than seven

transpositions plus their complementary inversions.

The second movement is an energetic scherzo pro-

pelled by this rhythmic unit:

In this movement, Schoenberg, counting on greater

aural familiarity with the properties of the three-

tone chord units illustrated in Examples B and C,

begins disconnecting successive tones of the original

row and concocting new melodic and harmonic ma-

terial by leap-frogging tones 1, 3, 3—2, 4, 6; similarly

tones 7,9, 11 and 8, 10, 12. The even numbers of the

antecedent (2, 4, 6) and the odd numbers of the con-

sequent (7, 9, 11) form chromatically adjoining

fourth chords while the remaining tones (1, 3, 5—

8, 10, 12) produce a wry diminutive of tones 10-12

from the original set:

Creer rtangs FF Pome cas eee

Utilizing this division of the series and playing it

off against the original’s consequent segment of

whole-tone units in fourth chords. Schoenberg grad-

ually eliminates all other motives and realizes in the

final bars of the scherzo an almost total technical

immobility.

If the scherzo is the dynamic vortex of the work,

the emotional centfe is surely the superb Adagio—

one of the greatest monuments to Schoenberg's tech-

nical skill. Here the procedures of both of the

preceding movements are elaborated and combined.

The a divisi melodic leap-frogging of the scherzo

creates in the opening tutti of the third movement a

new melody of true breadth and grandeur:

Once again, as Schoenberg assumes a greater psy-

chological comprehension on the part of the listener,

a further relaxation of the twelve-tone bondage is

permitted. The four harmonic blocks of the original

row (Example B and C) are concentrated in a long

solo for the piano. Then, with consummate mastery,

these two procedures are brought together in an or-

chestral tutti which is one of the grandest edifices of

the mature Schoenberg.

The final movement is a rondo—a pure, classically

proportioned rondo—in which the central episode is

a series of three variations upon the theme of the

third movement (Example G). In this movement

Schoenberg returns largely to the straightforward-

row technique of the first movement, constructing a

principal theme of jocose gallantry with admirable

limitation of serial means, and the movement pro-

ceeds with the sort of virtuosic abandon and incor-

ruptible simplicity that the rondos of Mozart and

Beethoven reveal.

GLENN GOULD