I just finished reading Orhan Pamuk‘s 1998 novel My Name is Red, a superlative piece of literature set in late 16th century Istanbul concerning a murderous group of Ottoman miniaturists. Pamuk interweaves his brilliantly constructed murder mystery with extensive discussions of art, style and apprenticeship. I found this quote particularly interesting:
“Nothing is pure,” said Enishte Effendi. “In the realm of book arts, whenever a masterpiece is made, whenever a splendid picture makes my eyes water out of joy and causes a chill to run down my spine, I can be certain of the following: Two styles heretofore never brought together have come together to create something new and wondrous. We owe Bihzad and the splendor of Persian painting [above] to the meeting of an Arabic illustrating sensibility and Mongol-Chinese painting. Shah Tahmasp’s best paintings marry Persian style with Turkmen subtleties. Today, if men cannot adequately praise the book-arts workshops of Akbar Khan in Hindustan, it’s because he urged his miniaturists to adopt the styles of the Frankish masters. To God belongs the East and the West. May He protect us from the will of the pure and unadulterated.”
What a wonderful description of the relationship of artistry to craft – new art arises when someone masters craftsmanship in multiple styles and figures out ways of combining said styles to illuminate and enhance each other. I bring it up as part of my ongoing diatribe against those artists, musicians in particular, who seek to purge their work of all perceptible influences. A) good luck and B) it seems to me that in so doing all they end up with is a bunch of voiceless muck.
I know that this was a trend in many artistic spheres, but as far as I can tell, this blight – that is, the aesthetic wherein novelty was prized over artistry – seemed to have hit Music (i.e. Western Academic Art Music) worse than other disciplines in the 20th century. But I am continually heartened that this generation of, shall we say, “classically trained” composers takes music quite seriously and realizes that we are competing with popular genres (whose musicians are increasingly devoted to music as art), with other artistic media, and with the larger world of entertainment. [Ed: I think that competition among musicians is a wonderful, healthy thing.]
It is in this regard, and many others, that I would like to offer my highest praise for Timothy Andres‘ new album, Shy and Mighty, released by Nonesuch. I bought it just a couple of days ago and have been glued to my speakers ever since. What a debut album! This is really an album, both in the classical sense and in the contemporary sense of a recorded-album-cum-artistic-work, consisting of ten single movement pieces. I hesitate to call them miniatures – most of them are quite substantial pieces, with only two serving as brief interludes, but even these are part of a larger framework. This is really first-rate writing, and what’s more, it is a brilliant melding of influences as diverse as Steve Reich, John Adams, Olivier Messiaen, Dave Brubeck, Aaron Copland, Claude Debussy and a coterie of popular artists (“Out of Shape” really sounds like a pop song). To my ears, one of the strongest influences is Stravinsky’s Petrushka.
From a sort of dogmatic approach, one thing that I really admire about this work is that Mr. Andres speaks in his own voice and delivers a personal artistic message, but he never hides any of his influences. And yet, it’s not like they’re awkward or hovering on top of the writing or anything like that – rather, they’re beautifully interwoven. To me, his music proves my previous point: an individual voice is a product of taste, assiduously cultivated and ultimately refined. And to make things even better, in listening to this album (which I have done several times over the past couple days) one never stops to think about any of this – the influences move in and out organically – listener simply relinquishes himself to pure aural enjoyment.
Back to the opening idea of style, however, I often find myself wondering the job of uniting different styles is more difficult for composers today than in previous eras, for the obvious reason that there is a has been such a proliferation of musical styles in the past century. Not only that, but we now have access to recordings of all of these styles. It’s hard to say whether or not it’s harder or easier though.
Take Bach for example, who diligently learned and interpolated so many different stylistic strains in his music (look at any given Cello Suite for the range of nationalities and historical eras that informed his approach). From his youth through his maturity, Bach copied out manuscript after manuscript by hand so as to familiarize himself with the music of his forebears and contemporaries. He traveled incredibly long distances to meet musicians and learn their music. But was his job of rendering his discoveries into a new and unique voice more difficult than ours is today?
I haven’t the faintest clue, but I often wonder, because every time I compose a piece, it seems so difficult. The truth is probably that it’s always been incredibly difficult, but Bach was just such a master that he left no traces of its difficulty!
As I’ve been busily wrapping up graduation requirements for my master’s at IU, I’ve been taken away from the blog, which is such a shame because there are so many things to talk about:
1) You too can inherit the World of Music, because Pierre Boulez has sanctioned it, and he has been filmed walking around European woodlands [see 1:41, below], obviously communing with nature in the great tradition of the great composers who came before him:
Boulez is such a strange bird, and definitely a genius on many levels, not least of which is the art of self-presentation. I can think of very few other public figures who have seamlessly crossed the boundary from enfant terrible to conservationist of traditional society. Not even Stravinsky, really – he was always sort of off in his own little world. Boulez got the attention of classical music society early on and proceeded to cast a spell over it, backing down from his hostile positions (no opera, no Mozart, no this, no that…) according to a clearly structured time line.
Interesting, his development as a conductor though, no?
I might have to take back that whole “genius of self presentation” thing I said before… wow. What exactly was he going for here? I think it would be safe to describe the above as a combination of Stevie Wonder, Al Bundy and Asimo, the robot conductor. It must have been all that electronic music he was writing at the time.
3) Jennifer Higdon wins the Pulizter Prize in Music. I’m generally OK with this, as I’m generally a fan of Ms. Higdon’s music, particularly blue cathedral and Zaka. One caveat though, is that I drove up to Indianapolis last year to hear the Violin Concerto, and to me, Higdon winning the Pulitzer for that piece is like Scorsese winning the Oscar for The Departed – right person, wrong piece.
[P.S. How about Martin Scorcese’s Gianni Schicchi??]
“I’m not sure when ‘accessible’ became a dirty word,†Ms. Alsop said. “I’m not of the belief that something has to be inscrutable in order to be great.â€
And I’m with you, Marin, sort of. Frankly, I do think that “accessible” is the most heinous term in the contemporary musical lexicon. Because what does “accessible” really mean, the way that contemporary music commentators use it? Non-offensive. That’s really it. Not “attention grabbing”, not “compelling”, not “potent”, “irresistible”, or even “powerful”. All that “accessible” means is that a given piece of music lies above the x-axis on the scale of listenability to the “untrained ear”. It usually amounts to some kind of watered-down fusion piece that is palatable enough for a large group of older-middle aged listeners to occasionally tap their feet to and proclaim, “oh, I liked that”.
Not that that’s what Jennifer Higdon’s music is, at all (I think it’s often many of those other things that I listed above). But speaking of other buzzwords that I can’t stand in relation to music, I am sick and tired of hearing, mainly in academic circles, compositions referred to as “successful pieces”. As in, “Composer X’s quadruple quartet for mixed pitched percussion ensemble is a really successful piece. It works really well.” Usually spoken with half closed eyes and half-flared nostrils.
The thing I can’t stand about that term is that it makes music sound like it’s a banker or something. Which, again, is about the most that we can expect out of much of this music. If it was really so successful, far richer vocabulary would come to mind when describing it. The deliciously ironic thing is that, in the popular realm, this term possesses an entirely different meaning: a “successful” song means a big hit – and big money following. I can assure you that people in academic music circles would never infer that meaning about a piece that they deemed “successful”.
There’s this great quote from a letter by Verdi sent to Ricordi:
… these blessed conductors always have something to do; and their vanity isn’t satisfied unless they undo even what is going well! It’s not enough for them to accept the applause on stage like other prima donnas, and to thank the audience from the podium if it applauds four bars of the prelude, as if they had written them! All of this is ridiculous!
And of course, there is that. It’s naturally a symbiotic relationship, that one between composers and conductors (and performers in general). I mean, how few of history’s (well, let’s at least say the 20th century’s) great composers have been as capable as their counterparts in the world of professional conducting? This works out fine until you come across those conductors who really do hold the belief that they were the true CREATOR of the work playing in front of them. Without even playing a single note of course, but that’s almost besides the point.
Conductors are sort of like mid-wives. A composer could give birth to his/her creation without their assistance, but it just tends to be a whole lot messier.
Please note, I do not hold the above against Maestro Dudamel. Clearly he is quite modest about this project, which he should be. But to the people who came up with this schwindl: Really? At least the money will go to a good cause.
Meanwhile, how often do you see a video that cuts between a serious Swedish language interview and a crazy Scandinavian woman full-out belting “This is My life”?
Thanks to my friend John Leszczynski for posting this video from an Indiana University composition masterclass, a performance of “Towers” by David Cope. The score instructions are projected on the screen. David Ward-Steinman conducts.
In 1980, Frank Sinatra released his first studio album in 6 years. It was a concept album entitled Trilogy: Past Present Future, the concept being a biography in song of Ol’ Blue Eyes himself. Past featured several standards that Sinatra had (amazingly) never recorded. Present was a collection of “contemporary” pop hits (though, even by 1980 standards, “Love Me Tender” was really pushing it). Present gave us the unfortunate Kander & Ebb power ballad (is that what it is?) “New York, New York”.
But Past and Present don’t really concern us — the singing on both is pretty lame by Sinatra standards, and the arrangements… well, let’s talk about those arrangements. Sinatra assigned each chapter of this triptych to a different arranger: Past to Billy May, Present to Don Costa, and Future to Gordon Jenkins.
It’s such a shame that May and Costa were selected for the project, though no surprise as Sinatra frequently employed them both during the 70’s and 80’s. [Here’s a great history of his arrangers] Frankie and Nelson Riddle were on the outs at the time of this record, and Sinatra was leaning towards the poppier sounds of May and Costa by now anyway (think “My Way” and “You are the Sunshine of My Life”). In Past, May’s arrangements have that pseudo-retro-big band feel (which I didn’t think existed until the 90’s, but there you have it.) They’re way too clean and not nearly swingin’ enough. Costa sounds like Costa on Present, and as far as this author is concerned, that’s lamesville (too much marching bandy pitched percussion – we don’t need the melody doubled on glockenspiel, Don.)
OK, but I digress, because like I said, we’re really not concerned with Past and Present; the Future is our subject today. And what a subject it is! Gordon Jenkins composed the piece from scratch, and he conceived of it as one large-scale composition in a series of movements. Jenkins’ signature sound is extremely lush, symphonic, classically-oriented, with a definite proclivity for dark string saturated orchestral colors. His arrangements are often very dramatic. Take for example his intro to “Autumn Leaves” from 1957:
Now honestly, would you ever have guessed in a hundred years that that was an intro for “Autumn Leaves”?? Don’t get me wrong, “Autumn Leaves” is a beautiful song – one of my favorites, in fact – but it’s a simple affair harmonically, and it’s usually presented in a straightforward fashion. In the hands of Gordon Jenkins, it ends up sounding like Sergei Rachmaninoff, Bernard Herrmann and Ernest Chausson teamed up to write the prelude to their next tragic opera — that is to say, GREAT!
So, now that we know what Mr. Jenkins is capable of – gorgeous, expansive, music which may not exactly suit its context – it’s time for us to take a look into the Future. My best research indicates that Mr. Jenkins served as both composer and lyricist for this… well, what is it really? Song cycle? Symphonic ode? I have no idea. What I can tell you is that it’s not only the strangest thing I’ve ever heard Sinatra sing, but that it’s one of the most unique 20th century compositions known to me. The Future is essentially a monodrama for Sinatra, Chorus and Orchestra. Much of Sinatra’s vocal line is written in a wandering, pseudo-melodic recitative style. The score is occasionally sprinkled with aimless tunes, and often interrupted by “narrative” soundtrack elements and phantom feminine voices. Gushing orchestral interludes, like the one above, abound.
You’ve really got to hear it to believe it though, so let’s jump right in. The work is in six movements:
1. What Time Does the Next Miracle Leave?
Stephen Sondheim has said that the very first notes of a musical should set the tone for the entire show (a lesson he learned from West Side Story) and I think Gordon Jenkins does just that in his opening: we know that this is going to be an “autobiographical” work, we know that it will feature both a chorus and an orchestra, and we know that the next 50 minutes of music are going to feature an incomprehensibly bizarre mix of the banal and the sublime.
The lyrics continue:
I’ve had some very good years
[extended orchestral interlude on “It was a very good year”] I haven’t missed a whole lot in those firecracker years And I don’t want to miss a thing when the future appears
Then Frank shares some of his simpler pleasures with us:
You’re talkin’ my language, Frankie boy! It turns out that while he’s reclining with said beverage, Mr. Sinatra likes to “look at the stars.” He continues:
Now, this clip is indicative of much of what we’ll hear on the album, so let’s examine it a bit more closely. We have three parts: 1) a continuation of the quasi recitativo ramblings, 2) the overhead speaker announcing the itinerary of Sinatra’s imaginary spaceship – these narrative sound-design elements will feature heavily in the album, and will go a long way to creating the sort of soundtrack feel to the whole thing, and 3) something that, compared with the other music in the score might be considered a “tune”.
The voice on the overhead monitor counts down to the lift-off, depicted by particularly strange, 1940’s sci-fi-esque orchestral episode. First stop:
a) Venus
And why shouldn’t Frank Sinatra assume that when he arrives at Venus he’ll encounter the girl who’s been waiting for him for oh so long? Makes sense to me. This first planetary sojourn establishes an important precept for this section: the visit on each planet is a representation of said planet’s mythological counterpart, i.e. Venus is the planet where Frank falls in love, etc.
b) Jupiter and Saturn
Despite the fact that Jupiter and Saturn are the solar system’s two largest planets, they receive one very brief stop by Sinatra and crew. The music is a sprightly little jig, with the following lyrics:
Jupiter makes with the rain Saturn makes with the crops A nicer trade was never made And hopefully never stops
c) Pluto
I think that just about speaks for itself.
d) Mercury
Mercury (the messenger) gets very short shrift, just one line in fact: Mercury will lead us out to Neptune. As a side note, let me mention that there’s really no point in trying to figure out the order in which these episodes are presented, all astrological maps having been left home on planet earth.
e) Neptune
Neptune is represented by its “deep, blue sea”. Again, mythological, not geological (geological? that can’t be the right word… neptological? that just sounds wrong.) Here we come to perhaps the most beautiful of the many, many orchestral interludes that pepper this score, a sort of Holst-Ravel-Debussy-Max Steiner fantasy on the theme of the Sea:
f) Uranus
The Uranus sequence is the least successful of the bunch, but it does present two thematic elements that will be very important to the rest of the piece: the use of an unidentified, disembodied female voice; and a hackneyed stereotype of Italian mandolin music.
The “Satellite Special” then heads back for earth, and let me assure you, zany hi-jinks ensue. Since we’re back at earth, let me just put in my first plug: buy this album. You won’t be disappointed.
2) World War None!
Jenkins’ second movement is far less ambitious than the opening ten minute epic; “World War None” is basically a song in the traditional form, complete with verses and choruses. The musical language is sort of Borodin meets Lawrence of Arabia meets Wagner meets Vegas lounge lizard. Picardy thirds abound and express the optimism of a world without war. The lyrics defy easy categorization… in one sense, they’re on the triter side of Jenkins’ spectrum, but the rhyme schemes are much more successful, in that the words do actually rhyme occasionally.
3) The Future
Here begins an interior suite of three sections, the connective tissue being a trip to a Gypsy to get Sinatra’s fortune told… well, not Sinatra‘s future, per se, but another disembodied female’s fortune told, I guess…
Interesting how Jenkins could channel Claude Debussy in writing the blues. Also, note the appearance of the famous “button pushing” motive at the end there.
BTW, it’s definitely worth pointing out that that last segment contains the most explicit references to anything actually having to do with a time beyond 1980 – that is, the future – of anything on the entire album.
The chorus informs Sinatra that if he lets his “imagination burst into flame, it will let [him] do whatever he damn well choos[es] to do.” Sinatra:
And then follows another ravishing interlude for the orchestra:
p.s. That magic wand that Frank mentioned earlier? That was a baton.
Also, notice in the lyrics I quoted above the phrase “damn well choose”. We’ll see more later how sussing seems to be a very important device in Jenkins’ lyrical toolbag.
4) The Future (con’t): I’ve Been There
This segment begins with a minute-long intro from the chorus, and continues with another “song” called “I’ve Been There”, which could actually be kind of decent as a song if it had an actual tune and was about anything:
The orchestration is quite nice though, and definitely contains the most contemporary (Costa-esque) sound to it, which I guess is as close to the future as this thing is going to get, musically speaking.
5) The Future (con’t): Song Without Words
The Mendelssohnian titled final installment of “The Future” mini-suite is notable for the fact that, of it’s 6 minutes and 11 seconds of music, Sinatra sings for only 30 seconds of it. Jenkins is ready with yet another choral prelude (including a third disembodied female voice, singing about building a house on a star), and at least 2 lengthy orchestral meditations.
6) Before the Music Ends [Finale]
A piece like the Future demands a finale of considerable weight and power, and Gordon Jenkins does NOT disappoint. This movement makes a fine bookend with the opening, matching it in length and scope. Sinatra opens the piece waxing poetic about his past. The chorus, ever ready, jumps in and asks:
(See what I said about the cussing?)
[Editor’s note: does that music as the clip trails off remind anyone a LOT of the Finale Ultimo of Cabaret? I think it’s the harmonies. Just a thought.]
“Before the Music Ends” refers to the many things Sinatra wants to do before he dies. Ironically, these involve visiting many locations from his past:
Let’s take a closer look at the rhyme scheme here, certainly among Gordon Jenkins’ most ambitious poetry in the whole piece:
Before the music ends I must go to Ho- boken
Interior rhymes, mid-word enjambment… is this Gordon Jenkins or e. e. cummings?? Also, I love how the music suggests that the Hoboken of Sinatra’s youth was squarely situated in Western Slovenia or Lombardy or someplace.
After Sinatra glumly leaves Hoboken, we take a pause in the narrative so that Sinatra can offer his personal thanks to a series of composers of the classical cannon:
For now let’s ignore Gordon/Frank’s fast and loose use of jocular nick-names with history’s greatest composers – in this piece it somehow makes a world of sense. My question is, what if any connection does Sinatra have with these classical composers? Since when was he such a Puccini specialist that the mere sound of Giacomo’s first name elicits this kind of treatment?
These, and so many other questions are really for the ages, so let’s continue our journey, shall we? After this transcendental foray into the history of classical music (again, what does any of this have to do with the future?), Frank makes one last charge at Vegas, accompanied by “Dino” (Dean Martin) and “Sarge” (Sarge Weiss, I’m guessing, Sinatra’s ersatz musical producer on some TV work in the 60’s). The trip to Vegas consists of Sinatra explaining why he prefers shooting craps to all other forms of gambling:
The Vegas sequence is capped off by a brief threnody for solo cello (isn’t that exactly what you were expecting by this point??) which leads into the Grand Finale, a slow build-up in which Sinatra commissions one last song before he dies and records it with “the best musicians in the world”. Brass blare, timpani pound and the chorus intones the final words:
Only one man could refer to Death as “that cat with a scythe” and then invoke the finale of Shostakovich’s 5th symphony in one stroke of the pen. That man is Gordon Jenkins, and to him I am ever grateful for composing this strange universe of the Future. Critics, of course, panned it, many of them taking solace in the fact that Future‘s oddities couldn’t ruin an otherwise great trilogy album. I couldn’t disagree more. I think the first two records are musically bankrupt – they’re totally anti-septic and make you yearn for the old Sinatra. The Future, on the other hand, is an imaginative cornucopia, a bizarre smorgasbord of endlessly entertaining delights.
So many questions remain. For me, the primary among them is: did Gordon Jenkins REALLY pen all the lyrics to this piece? Might it not have been Sinatra himself? Or at least have had a hand in them? Was Gordon Jenkins, at the age of 70, perhaps overlooking the precipice of dementia? Were these all trunk songs/arrangements that had been seeking an outlet for decades and finally saw the light of day on this project?
Frankly (pun very much intended), these are the kinds of questions that make the Future worth listening to. Speaking of which:
Thank you very much to Alex Ross for the finest piece of writing I’ve read from him or any classical pundit in a long while, the extremely apt, and wholly welcome Time to Show our Appreciation for Classical Music, published in London’s Guardian newspaper. Hopefully the following quote will get you to read the whole thing:
Programme booklets sometimes contain a list of rules, rendered in the style of God on Mount Sinai: “Thou shalt not applaud between movements of symphonies or other multisectional works listed on the programme.” And one may only applaud: “Appropriate applause is the only acceptable audible response from the audience.”
The underlying message of the protocol is, in essence: “Curb your enthusiasm. Don’t get too excited.” Should we be surprised that people aren’t as excited about classical music as they used to be? This question of etiquette is only part of the complicated social dilemma in which classical music finds itself. But I do wonder about the long-term effect of the No Applause Rule, as I wonder about other oddities of concert life: the vaguely Edwardian costumes, the convention-centre lighting schemes, the aggressive affectlessness of many professional musicians.
Amen, brother, although let’s leave the “vaguely Edwardian costumes” out of it, please (no reason to mess with a good thing, especially one that makes even the ugliest man look his handsomest). I totally agree with Mr. Ross – let’s get some more applause back into the ol’ concert hall. Composers of yore frequently wrote letters (many of which Mr. Ross cites in his article) saying that this movement or that movement was such a success with the audience, got so much applause and had to be encored, etc. I’m all for it.
Speaking of this particular author, however, I’ve got to say: Alex, come on, Top 10 Glissandos? Hello? That practically reeks of These are a few of my favorite trillz! Don’t think you’re going to get away with that one unnoticed, good sir. But if that’s how you want to play the game, then it’s on. Just be warned that I won’t stop at much, and my response is likely to stun you into silence: Top 20 pizzicati of the 1930’s!!!
Readers of my blog will know that I was just in Chicago this past weekend giving talks for the CSO’s Rachmaninoff/Shostakovich concerts. What they won’t know, unless they actually attended the concerts themselves, and what I am committed to exposing right now, is that the soloist, one “Kirill Gerstein“, showed up wearing the least appropriate attire possible. See below:
Do you see That, what he is wearing in that photo? Yes that, THAT exact outfit (OK fine, plus a black suit jacket) is exactly what he wore to play a concerto with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. No tie, no tails, just all black, open-collar. Many of Mr. Gerstein’s bios mention that he has extensive experience in jazz as well as classical music. Well, if that be true, he should sure as hell be able to tell the difference between a cocktail lounge and the stage of Orchestra Hall!
I’ve ranted about men’s fashion in the classical music industry many times before, and certainly Mr. Gerstein is not the only offender. Mr. Gerstein is merely representative of a larger problem, namely that soloists and conductors seem to think that their individuality stems from their wardrobe rather than their musicianship. And maybe with some of these artists, that is the case. But look at our great forbears in the field:
Mssrs. Heifetz, Rubinstein and Giulini were all perfectly content to dress in uniform. And would we say that these gentlemen were lacking in individual style? Quite to the contrary! They each exuded style and grace and they were positively dripping with musicality. And yet, like other great performers of yesteryear, these men were perfectly content to make their public statements with their music rather than with their wardrobe.
When conductors and soloists do dress in uniform with the orchestra, it sends an important message to the members of the ensemble: we’re in this together. It shows the orchestra members that you are not so arrogant that you must have some vulgar costume to draw attention towards yourself – rather, you are prepared for the exalted business of making music. You are willing to abide by the same code as the rest of the musicians in front of you in order to share in this experience.
And to the Charlie Roses of the world: looking purposefully unkempt (i.e. CR’s infamous un-buttoned/cuff-linked shirt sleeves) takes just as much effort as looking presentable. We’re on to you.
Men of the musical world: glam it up! GLAM IT UP!!!
Mr. Gerstein: on behalf of ticket-holders everywhere, when we pay upwards of $100 both to hear and to see you perform, we expect you to look presentable. Put on a tie for goodness’ sake.
As is usually the case when I prepare my pre-concert lectures at the Chicago Symphony, I end up with way more information than I can share in the 30 minutes allotted. Here are some extra insights on the March 4-6 concerts. Welcome CSO patrons!
Rachmaninoff Piano Concerto No. 2 in C minor
Any piece with as many gorgeous tunes as Rachmaninoff’s 2nd Piano Concerto is just asking to be pillaged for its melodies, and thus we have Wikipedia’s list of several works as being derived from or inspired by this piece. Let’s see if we agree with them:
OK, no argument there. [BTW, does anyone else agree that the Hollywood session player in Nelson Riddle’s orchestra sounded WAY better on the horn solo than the principal in the New Philharmonia Orchestra?]
The Wik then goes on to list no fewer than four songs by Muse which supposedly quote the first movement:
1. “Space Dementia”:
which is pretty obviously an homage to the opening of the concerto:
[BTW, does anybody agree that Moshe Atmon is a way better pianist than the guy from Muse?]
then #2. “Butterflies & Hurricanes
and #3. “Ruled by Secrecy”
which both quote the end of the movement’s first theme:
As for “Megalomania”, the closest thing I could find was this:
which I would hardly call a “quote”, but does share certain melodic and harmonic ideas with the concerto.
2nd movement
Unfortunately it can’t all be Frank Sinatra and English alt-prog-art rock. When it comes to the gorgeous second movement,
Interestingly, that last excerpt is nothing but the original Rachmaninoff with some cheeze-fried vocals laid on top. It comes out the absolute worst because it puts the original composition in such stark relief.
3rd movement
Let’s cleanse our ears, shall we, with some more grade-A Frank:
which, it hardly needs saying, is this:
Shostakovich Symphony No. 11 (“The Year 1905”)
As it’s title would indicate, Shostakovich took the 1905 Russian Revolution as the subject of his 11th Symphony. Theories abound as to other, hidden meanings behind this work (especially the 1956 Hungarian uprising against the communist government).
Perhaps the most widely known piece of art concerning the 1905 Revolution is Sergei Eisenstein’s landmark silent film from 1925, Battleship Potemkin. Below is the much acclaimed “Odessa Steps” sequence.
(Please note that this clip contains music from Shostakovich’s 11th and 5th symphonies – not the original score by Meisel which was lost and has since been restored.)Â The whole film can be viewed here.
The Symphony “1905” was a turning point for Shostakovich — he had outlived Stalin and was now in the position to regain some sense of sanity and ease, if not full official favor. His troubles with the government had begun in the year 1936, at which point Joseph Stalin, eager to send a message to the artistic community, denounced Shostakovitch’s opera Lady Macbeth of the Mtsensk District as immoral and anti-soviet. Let’s watch a bit of the opera and see if we can spot anything that Stalin may have found objectionable. Remember to look very closely now:
At first glance, it looks pretty tame, but that Stalin always had a fine eye for detail. Anyhoo, that led to this very famous headline from the Soviet newspaper Pravda:
which roughly translates to “Muddle instead of Music”, and which began a nightmarish 20 year period of heavy government repression and scare tactics aimed at keeping Shostakovitch in line.
I’d like to recommend two more valuable resources pertaining to Shostakovich’s music and life:
The first is the audio guide to chapter 7 of Alex Ross’s phenomenal book, The Rest is Noise. Even if you haven’t read the book or don’t have a copy handy, the audio guide gives you a nice synopsis of the chapter on music in the 1930’s and 40’s USSR.
The second is an article by everybody’s favorite Slovenian Marxist-Lacanian-psychoanalytic philosopher, Slavoj Žižek, entitled “Shostakovich in Casablanca“. In this article, Žižek compares Soviet repression of classical music to the Hollywood Hays code, in terms of what the censors expected and how an artist was meant both to abide by the code and simultaneously to circumvent it. He posits that Shostakovich found whatever success he could with the Soviet regime because he understood this Janus-faced censorship, whereas Prokofiev just couldn’t figure it out.
That’s all the extra goodies for this concert series. Feel free to leave a note in the comments section to share your opinions of the concert! Also, feel free to peruse the rest of my site at your own risk, in full awareness that hereafter, the Chicago Symphony has nothing to do with the content on this site…
Just when I was worried about our nation’s youth comes this:
which you simply MUST watch till the very end (as if anyone could take their eyes away from it for a second). This kid is fecking incredible!! And this video is amazing on so very, very many levels.
Cultures wage wars in many ways, often leading to profound advances in human creativity and knowledge. They create opulent works of architecture, erect grand totems to their gods, and go exploring for uncharted territories and domains. But now there’s a new race: the race to teach little kids to memorize and perfectly execute the music of Leonard Bernstein.
I urge all parents: start now. If your infant’s first word isn’t “Maria”, we’re never going to cover the ground we need to. Make “Let Our Garden Grow” your nighttime lullaby. At birthday parties, replace the traditional “Happy Birthday” with the 4 Anniversaries of 1948 [but please avoid the 7 Anniversaries of 1988 at all costs.]
By the age of five, if your child can’t rattle off the opening lick of Trouble in Tahiti on the clarinet, or make at least a passable rendition of the piano solo from the 2nd Symphony, we will simply have to give up hope and demure to the accomplishments of a much greater culture.
PS. While we’re at it, let’s give Mozart a rest for the ABC’s and switch to Ligeti:
