The Berliner Philharmoniker opened the 2012-2013 season of broadcasts transmitted live through the Digital Concert Hall with a particularly tasty performance of the Symphony No. 3 by Witold Lutosławski (1913-1994); a 30-minute single movement work written for the Chicago Symphony in 1983.
I had the opportunity to meet Lutosławski as an undergraduate student at Ithaca College in October of 1985, two years after the third symphony was premiered. I asked him a very specific question about the construction of its mosaic-like structure. "I am a man of systems," he relied smiling.
These "systems" were on display in the digital concert hall. Rattle assembled complex textures with great clarity. This is no simple task in a work that built from mixtures of controlled improvisation and precise notation. But the "systems" were also voiced so that elements of subtle musical humor and playfulness were able to emerge from, and enter into, moments of great formality and solemnity. This critical quality is frequently missing from performances of Lutosławski's music, but never seemed to be missing from the composer's personality.
The Berliner Philharmoniker listened deeply into these quickly shifting and unusual textures and created a performance enjoyable to hear from start to stop. The production was also carefully considered--as an example, there was a special angle during the first three refrains that showed both clarinets and the bassoon in one frame.
The event began with the Brahms B-flat major piano concerto with Yefim Bronfman as soloist. This performance increased in interest as the work progressed. Beginning with a low string sound that was deep and powerful the second movement it caught fire. Ludwig Quandt played the cello solo in the third movement with stunning elegance, and Rattle took a tempo that was a true andante; fast enough to dance and to move with flexibility. Bronfman played with power and developed a fairly classic interpretation. But there were beautiful moments, like the nocturne in F-sharp minor that emerged half-way through the andante which was balanced beautifully with the clarinets.
Listen to the finale! What fun! It was a very special atmosphere created on the quiet side; playful and sexy.
I have always imagined that Brahms thought of himself as a "man of systems." Brahms and Lutosławski both share a fierce intensity of design, but as we heard in this program, both also enjoyed musical moments of unexpected grace and a good chuckle along the way.
Showing posts with label Brahms. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Brahms. Show all posts
Friday, August 24, 2012
Friday, February 3, 2012
Guy Braunstein; The Brahms Ensemble Concerto with the Berliner Philharmoniker
It should be renamed. After hearing Guy Braunstein play the Brahms Violin Concerto on the Digital Concert Hall I want to petition to rename the work the Brahms Ensemble Concerto. Perhaps it could be called the "BEC" for short.
With the advent of the Digital Concert Hall it is possible that more people now know of violinist Braunstein in his role as First Konzertmeister of the Berliner Philharmoniker than know of him as a soloist, but he was trained, and developed his early career as a soloist and not primarily as an orchestral specialist. But it was as a soloist that Braunstein performed with the Berliner Philharmoniker on this occasion, and the fascination of his performance of the Brahms Concerto for Violin was that he played the work with a sound that seemed to come from within the orchestra.
He stood further back within the ensemble than most soloists position themselves, and he leaned in toward the ensemble. He was standing, but he was also part of the sectional violins. During the opening of the development, which is the first place after its entry when the soloist does not play, he instinctively moved away from the front of the stage, nearer to the sound, to join his colleagues and share the power of this moment.
Braunstein played with technical ease and fluidity but he did not seek an untroubled ease in the sound itself. He let the struggle between dance and torment that drives so much of the opening movement find expression in metric and bow-arm frictions.
There is an unexpected moment in the development of the first movement, marked tranquillo, where a new rhythmic figure of one 8th followed by two 16ths is developed obsessively. Braunstein allowed them to carry an almost baroque dance energy, and played tautly but without exploding with the trilled sequence into which this passage dissolves. He played the Joachim cadenza. Joachim was also engaged by this passage from the development and featured it in his cadenza. Braunstein made the connection apparent, then shifted the resonance of his sound to allow Joachim's vision of it to spin into a burning con brio.
The second movement benefited even more from being approached as orchestral music rather than music for soloist with accompaniment. The opening passage was played like harmoniemusik, not as a solo for oboe with wind accompaniment--the solo oboe playing by Albrecht Mayer sparkled with an embedded context.
After intermission we heard Ein Heldenleben, which is a work that celebrates extremes. But this Heldenleben needed more focus and control in order to persuade beyond beautifully played moments. Though I enjoyed Andris Nelsons when he conducted the Berliner Philharmoniker in September 2011, his presence during this performance was often distracting. He accelerated the burn of many passages too quickly and lost intermediary colors that are possible.
Still, there were brilliant passages, especially during the music often called "reflections on youth," from"Des Helden Friedenswerke," where themes from early works by Strauss were woven together with tenderness and fun. There was also an interesting (and I think new) angle from the production crew that was a close-up shot from just above one of the harps, just before the bassoon solo. The image made us seem to float just before the music itself floated.
I did not like the pairing of the Brahms Violin Concerto and Heldenleben on this program. During the extensive "hero's companion" section, the solo violin texture (and in spite of the fact that it was well played by concertmaster Daishin Kashimoto) did not have the sonic freshness that it would have had with a different companion work. The juxtaposition of the two works produced no significant insight, and so any comparison simply distracted and made it harder to integrate Heldenleben itself.
When the work is released into the archives of the Digital Concert Hall I look forward to the opportunity to hear it again without first hearing the Brahms Violin Concerto.
With the advent of the Digital Concert Hall it is possible that more people now know of violinist Braunstein in his role as First Konzertmeister of the Berliner Philharmoniker than know of him as a soloist, but he was trained, and developed his early career as a soloist and not primarily as an orchestral specialist. But it was as a soloist that Braunstein performed with the Berliner Philharmoniker on this occasion, and the fascination of his performance of the Brahms Concerto for Violin was that he played the work with a sound that seemed to come from within the orchestra.
He stood further back within the ensemble than most soloists position themselves, and he leaned in toward the ensemble. He was standing, but he was also part of the sectional violins. During the opening of the development, which is the first place after its entry when the soloist does not play, he instinctively moved away from the front of the stage, nearer to the sound, to join his colleagues and share the power of this moment.
Braunstein played with technical ease and fluidity but he did not seek an untroubled ease in the sound itself. He let the struggle between dance and torment that drives so much of the opening movement find expression in metric and bow-arm frictions.
There is an unexpected moment in the development of the first movement, marked tranquillo, where a new rhythmic figure of one 8th followed by two 16ths is developed obsessively. Braunstein allowed them to carry an almost baroque dance energy, and played tautly but without exploding with the trilled sequence into which this passage dissolves. He played the Joachim cadenza. Joachim was also engaged by this passage from the development and featured it in his cadenza. Braunstein made the connection apparent, then shifted the resonance of his sound to allow Joachim's vision of it to spin into a burning con brio.
The second movement benefited even more from being approached as orchestral music rather than music for soloist with accompaniment. The opening passage was played like harmoniemusik, not as a solo for oboe with wind accompaniment--the solo oboe playing by Albrecht Mayer sparkled with an embedded context.
After intermission we heard Ein Heldenleben, which is a work that celebrates extremes. But this Heldenleben needed more focus and control in order to persuade beyond beautifully played moments. Though I enjoyed Andris Nelsons when he conducted the Berliner Philharmoniker in September 2011, his presence during this performance was often distracting. He accelerated the burn of many passages too quickly and lost intermediary colors that are possible.
Still, there were brilliant passages, especially during the music often called "reflections on youth," from"Des Helden Friedenswerke," where themes from early works by Strauss were woven together with tenderness and fun. There was also an interesting (and I think new) angle from the production crew that was a close-up shot from just above one of the harps, just before the bassoon solo. The image made us seem to float just before the music itself floated.
I did not like the pairing of the Brahms Violin Concerto and Heldenleben on this program. During the extensive "hero's companion" section, the solo violin texture (and in spite of the fact that it was well played by concertmaster Daishin Kashimoto) did not have the sonic freshness that it would have had with a different companion work. The juxtaposition of the two works produced no significant insight, and so any comparison simply distracted and made it harder to integrate Heldenleben itself.
When the work is released into the archives of the Digital Concert Hall I look forward to the opportunity to hear it again without first hearing the Brahms Violin Concerto.
Friday, June 17, 2011
A Lullaby and Sweet Consolation; Brahms, Op. 117 No. 1
Lullabies are as much for those who sing them as for those who will sleep.
Brahms is known for a lullaby; the Wiegenlied: Guten Abend, gute Nacht, Op. 49, No. 4, but the first intermezzo of the Op. 117 collection is a lullaby every bit as entrancing. It is a song without words, written for piano alone. Sort of.
Brahms prefaced his score with a poetic epigraph derived from "Lady Anne Bothwell's Lament" in Herder's Volkslieder:
Schlaf sanft mein Kind, schlaf sanft und Schön! (Sleep soft my child, sleep soft and lovely!)
Mich dauert's sehr, dich weinen sehn. (I feel sadness when you weep)
The translation upon which Brahms based his epigraph altered the original which read: Baloo, my boy, lie still and sleep...It grieves me sore to hear thee weep... If thou'lt be silent I'll be glad...Thy moaning makes my heart full sad...Baloo, my boy, thy mother's joy...Thy father bred me great annoy...Baloo, baloo, baloo, baloo...baloo, baloo, lu-li-li-lu.
Hélène Grimaud has a deep understanding of the poetry in this music. She allows the tune to rock gently between the octaves in the first phrase, pulling the lines apart in richness and then weaving them back toward a cadence.
All three works in this opus balance parallel phrases. They are all songs that speak in echos. And after the parallel phrase of this lullaby a quiet but jarring passage in octaves [1:10], senza pedal, takes us to a darker place in the tonic minor.
The central section, marked Più Adagio [1:32], moves in syncopation. We hear a rhythmic pattern: long-long-short pull against our sense of the meter. It is as obsessive as quiet chanting. The return of the lullaby [2:50] is decorated with glorious surprises characteristic of Brahms.
When those we love need consolation we instinctively think of lullabies. When we need consolation it is waiting here, in E-flat major.
Brahms is known for a lullaby; the Wiegenlied: Guten Abend, gute Nacht, Op. 49, No. 4, but the first intermezzo of the Op. 117 collection is a lullaby every bit as entrancing. It is a song without words, written for piano alone. Sort of.
Brahms prefaced his score with a poetic epigraph derived from "Lady Anne Bothwell's Lament" in Herder's Volkslieder:
Schlaf sanft mein Kind, schlaf sanft und Schön! (Sleep soft my child, sleep soft and lovely!)
Mich dauert's sehr, dich weinen sehn. (I feel sadness when you weep)
The translation upon which Brahms based his epigraph altered the original which read: Baloo, my boy, lie still and sleep...It grieves me sore to hear thee weep... If thou'lt be silent I'll be glad...Thy moaning makes my heart full sad...Baloo, my boy, thy mother's joy...Thy father bred me great annoy...Baloo, baloo, baloo, baloo...baloo, baloo, lu-li-li-lu.
Hélène Grimaud has a deep understanding of the poetry in this music. She allows the tune to rock gently between the octaves in the first phrase, pulling the lines apart in richness and then weaving them back toward a cadence.
All three works in this opus balance parallel phrases. They are all songs that speak in echos. And after the parallel phrase of this lullaby a quiet but jarring passage in octaves [1:10], senza pedal, takes us to a darker place in the tonic minor.
The central section, marked Più Adagio [1:32], moves in syncopation. We hear a rhythmic pattern: long-long-short pull against our sense of the meter. It is as obsessive as quiet chanting. The return of the lullaby [2:50] is decorated with glorious surprises characteristic of Brahms.
When those we love need consolation we instinctively think of lullabies. When we need consolation it is waiting here, in E-flat major.
Brahms and the Joy of Noticing; Op. 117 No. 2
It can be a revelation to turn off auto-pilot. The most familiar and common journeys, places we go everyday, are colorful. Brahms filled the intermezzo Op. 117 No. 2 with that particular joy of noticing.
The guideposts speak of familiar ways. It is music in B-flat minor in two parallel strophes that finds its way to D-flat major just as it should. Ordinary, perhaps. But this ordinary journey is marked by heightened observation, brought out poetically in this recording:
The opening gesture consists of two falling ripple-figures in the right-hand answered by a rising figure played by the left-hand which darts into position then darts back to play the bass. The chords oscillate in first inversion and then suddenly enter the cycle of fifths in rich jazz-like sonorities. The dominant is reached [0:26] but is immediately deflected toward a half-diminished seventh. Every element speaks of the successive inspiration of noticing.
A parallel phrase begins and follows the same script, until it deflects the music into D-flat major. The two phrases in D-flat [1:25]are a sanctuary, with gestures that speak of welcoming. It becomes dance.
We are torn away from the solitude of dancing by a developmental section [2:28]. The development is about reflections between the hands.
We travel back again at [3:20]. Again we hear things differently. The parallel phrase [3:51] follows the same script but now deflects the music toward B-flat major.
The two phrases in B-flat major [4:28] are less a sanctuary; they speak of sadness in the major. The music stills by seeking, but not finding dance. It is nothing ordinary.
The guideposts speak of familiar ways. It is music in B-flat minor in two parallel strophes that finds its way to D-flat major just as it should. Ordinary, perhaps. But this ordinary journey is marked by heightened observation, brought out poetically in this recording:
The opening gesture consists of two falling ripple-figures in the right-hand answered by a rising figure played by the left-hand which darts into position then darts back to play the bass. The chords oscillate in first inversion and then suddenly enter the cycle of fifths in rich jazz-like sonorities. The dominant is reached [0:26] but is immediately deflected toward a half-diminished seventh. Every element speaks of the successive inspiration of noticing.
A parallel phrase begins and follows the same script, until it deflects the music into D-flat major. The two phrases in D-flat [1:25]are a sanctuary, with gestures that speak of welcoming. It becomes dance.
We are torn away from the solitude of dancing by a developmental section [2:28]. The development is about reflections between the hands.
We travel back again at [3:20]. Again we hear things differently. The parallel phrase [3:51] follows the same script but now deflects the music toward B-flat major.
The two phrases in B-flat major [4:28] are less a sanctuary; they speak of sadness in the major. The music stills by seeking, but not finding dance. It is nothing ordinary.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Moving with an Intermezzo; Brahms Op. 117 no. 3
Brahms had a life-long fascination with five-bar phrases. Odd numbered phrase lengths challenge the symmetry of our bodies. They create a cognitive collision between brain and body as the onset of a new phrase forces what was left to become right, and vice versa.
The Brahms Intermezzo Op. 117 no. 3 is a work that develops this physical concept.
Divide each measure into halves as you count (1-and, 2-and, etc) and you will hear the second phrase beginning just after the fifth measure at [0:19]. Imagine a physical oscillation in each measure of the five-bar phrase: left, right, left, right, left... This first phrase is marked to be played without pedal, sotto voce; the sound of whispered truths.
What follows in the second phrase is not a repetition, but an expansion as the physical oscillation that continues from the first phrase is now cast on the right-side: right, left, right, left, right...
It is as if one phrase is driven from the one hemisphere of the brain and the complementary phrase from the other. This oscillation saturates many levels of this work, but is structural to the organization of the entire first section where phrase couples alternate: AA, BB, AA, BB, before breaking down (poco più lento) with a single five-bar A-phrase stretched to the point of snapping.
(The timings of each section: A[0:05] A[0:19], B[0:30] B[0:42], A[0:53] A[1:06], B[1:18] B[1:29], and the final A at [1:41])
It is a delight to hear the color shift instantly from C-sharp minor to A major at the Più mosso ed espressivo. The paired five-bar phrases continue uninterrupted but surface syncopation makes them much more of a challenge to count.
(Timings for the first of each paired section in the Più mosso ed espressivo: [2:00 CC], [2:18 CC], [2:34 DD], [2:52 CC], [3:08 DD] [3:27 CC])
A strange culmination takes place at [4:47]. The music hovers. Two sequences take us away from the expected phrasing. This moment of reckoning is marked by a pause between sequences.
In a wonderful reharmonization [4:16] the opening tune is rephrased in 5+6. The paired B phrases follow as before and the work closes with a più lento that frames the single phrase from [1:41] in a stretched six-phrase.
The Brahms Intermezzo Op. 117 no. 3 is a work that develops this physical concept.
Divide each measure into halves as you count (1-and, 2-and, etc) and you will hear the second phrase beginning just after the fifth measure at [0:19]. Imagine a physical oscillation in each measure of the five-bar phrase: left, right, left, right, left... This first phrase is marked to be played without pedal, sotto voce; the sound of whispered truths.
What follows in the second phrase is not a repetition, but an expansion as the physical oscillation that continues from the first phrase is now cast on the right-side: right, left, right, left, right...
It is as if one phrase is driven from the one hemisphere of the brain and the complementary phrase from the other. This oscillation saturates many levels of this work, but is structural to the organization of the entire first section where phrase couples alternate: AA, BB, AA, BB, before breaking down (poco più lento) with a single five-bar A-phrase stretched to the point of snapping.
(The timings of each section: A[0:05] A[0:19], B[0:30] B[0:42], A[0:53] A[1:06], B[1:18] B[1:29], and the final A at [1:41])
It is a delight to hear the color shift instantly from C-sharp minor to A major at the Più mosso ed espressivo. The paired five-bar phrases continue uninterrupted but surface syncopation makes them much more of a challenge to count.
(Timings for the first of each paired section in the Più mosso ed espressivo: [2:00 CC], [2:18 CC], [2:34 DD], [2:52 CC], [3:08 DD] [3:27 CC])
A strange culmination takes place at [4:47]. The music hovers. Two sequences take us away from the expected phrasing. This moment of reckoning is marked by a pause between sequences.
In a wonderful reharmonization [4:16] the opening tune is rephrased in 5+6. The paired B phrases follow as before and the work closes with a più lento that frames the single phrase from [1:41] in a stretched six-phrase.
Monday, June 6, 2011
Review of LA Phil Live in HD; Brahms at the Cinema
The Los Angeles Philharmonic finished the third of its three live broadcasts into theaters across America and Canada with an unusual program of late Brahms--the Double Concerto paired with the fourth symphony. This was an event where solid and inspired musicianship was contrasted with an awkward presentation that was a step back from either of the two earlier broadcasts.
First the music. Cellist Gautier Capuçon and his older brother, violinist Renaud Capuçon joined the orchestra as soloists in the Double Concerto. They lit up the place.
They have the kind of ensemble that you could only acquire by growing up together, and this was of value in a work where the soloists are often called upon to finish one another's thoughts. But what struck me as I listened was the differences in artistic personality between these two siblings. Gautier plays with a kind of reckless abandon, fierce and always on the edge. Renaud seeks the Apollonian, as at that wonderful passage in the recapitulation where he played the famous "Viotti" theme in a sweet and crystalline A major.
They returned for an encore--the Handel-Halvorsen Passacaglia--which they played with breathtaking precision. Though this work is commonly used as a encore after the double concerto, in this case it allowed us to anticipate the final movement of the Brahms fourth in advance.
Conductor Gustavo Dudamel took a very classical approach to the opening two movements of the fourth symphony with serene gestures and delicate balances. He led the shaping into the coda and then let us hear "Brahms Unbound."
During the intermission there was a segment with rehearsal footage. The orchestra was working on the second movement where the solo horn restates the opening motive 8-bars after rehearsal [A]. Dudamel stopped the ensemble several time looking for the best sound of the pizzicato strings that support the texture. He wanted the notes to sing. Finally he asked them for "pizzicato sostenuto." There was a warmer and more human sound that opened up when they played the passage.
It was a great insight into the way Dudamel rehearses. I think that the strings could have used the concept for all the pizz playing in this movement--it would have charged the support system for the oscillating tunes that seduce us throughout the movement.
The third movement marked a turning point in Dudamel's conception of the symphony. From here to the end he pulled it out of the box.
The fourth movement held together as an inspired unfolding, and the famous flute solo in the 12th variation was spellbinding. The trombone chorale that concludes this section set in 3/2 meter was also attractive, and this central world, where Brahms reveals a deeply personal outlook, was moving.
Great as the music was in this event, the production was often lacking.
I am a fan of John Lithgow, but wow, he was awkward when he wasn't obtrusive. His dialog was a series of trite interjections. When the Capuçon brothers returned from their encore he said, "Too bad you couldn't have played it faster, huh, huh, huh." Yeah, good one. We didn't see Lithgow trip on Gautier's endpin but Lithgow told us about it anyway. He also asked Renaud if he could touch his violin. Then he did. Really.
The production has continued its idea of reading text messages from selected viewers and addressing them to these great musicians. Banal, again. This segment is standing proof that just because something is technologically possible doesn't mean it is a good idea.
La Phil's President and CEO Deborah Borda was interviewed. She announced "big plans for the future" of these broadcasts, but had no details. None. Here we were, assembled--an audience that has purchased tickets and attended. It was a mistake to not make at least some announcement of what the new season would bring. A segment like this was of no use. None. Give us more time in orchestral rehearsal; give us more conversation with Dudamel about the music.
Let's hope there is an announcement about the new season in the near future. Let's hope that the productions are no longer this tedious. With music this great, anything less is unfair.
First the music. Cellist Gautier Capuçon and his older brother, violinist Renaud Capuçon joined the orchestra as soloists in the Double Concerto. They lit up the place.
They have the kind of ensemble that you could only acquire by growing up together, and this was of value in a work where the soloists are often called upon to finish one another's thoughts. But what struck me as I listened was the differences in artistic personality between these two siblings. Gautier plays with a kind of reckless abandon, fierce and always on the edge. Renaud seeks the Apollonian, as at that wonderful passage in the recapitulation where he played the famous "Viotti" theme in a sweet and crystalline A major.
They returned for an encore--the Handel-Halvorsen Passacaglia--which they played with breathtaking precision. Though this work is commonly used as a encore after the double concerto, in this case it allowed us to anticipate the final movement of the Brahms fourth in advance.
Conductor Gustavo Dudamel took a very classical approach to the opening two movements of the fourth symphony with serene gestures and delicate balances. He led the shaping into the coda and then let us hear "Brahms Unbound."
During the intermission there was a segment with rehearsal footage. The orchestra was working on the second movement where the solo horn restates the opening motive 8-bars after rehearsal [A]. Dudamel stopped the ensemble several time looking for the best sound of the pizzicato strings that support the texture. He wanted the notes to sing. Finally he asked them for "pizzicato sostenuto." There was a warmer and more human sound that opened up when they played the passage.
It was a great insight into the way Dudamel rehearses. I think that the strings could have used the concept for all the pizz playing in this movement--it would have charged the support system for the oscillating tunes that seduce us throughout the movement.
The third movement marked a turning point in Dudamel's conception of the symphony. From here to the end he pulled it out of the box.
The fourth movement held together as an inspired unfolding, and the famous flute solo in the 12th variation was spellbinding. The trombone chorale that concludes this section set in 3/2 meter was also attractive, and this central world, where Brahms reveals a deeply personal outlook, was moving.
Great as the music was in this event, the production was often lacking.
I am a fan of John Lithgow, but wow, he was awkward when he wasn't obtrusive. His dialog was a series of trite interjections. When the Capuçon brothers returned from their encore he said, "Too bad you couldn't have played it faster, huh, huh, huh." Yeah, good one. We didn't see Lithgow trip on Gautier's endpin but Lithgow told us about it anyway. He also asked Renaud if he could touch his violin. Then he did. Really.
The production has continued its idea of reading text messages from selected viewers and addressing them to these great musicians. Banal, again. This segment is standing proof that just because something is technologically possible doesn't mean it is a good idea.
La Phil's President and CEO Deborah Borda was interviewed. She announced "big plans for the future" of these broadcasts, but had no details. None. Here we were, assembled--an audience that has purchased tickets and attended. It was a mistake to not make at least some announcement of what the new season would bring. A segment like this was of no use. None. Give us more time in orchestral rehearsal; give us more conversation with Dudamel about the music.
Let's hope there is an announcement about the new season in the near future. Let's hope that the productions are no longer this tedious. With music this great, anything less is unfair.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Nearer to Mozart with Brahms in 1891
In a chapter from his biography of Mozart called "Fearful Symmetries," Maynard Solomon meditates on the peculiar qualities of beauty in the Mozart style. He considers the centennial of Mozart's death in the year 1891, and imagines the challenge faced by Brahms: "how to pay homage to Mozart without surrendering one's own individuality."
The Brahms solution was encoded in the Brahms Clarinet Quintet; an ensemble which entered the public consciousness with the Mozart's Clarinet Quintet in A, K. 581.
Listen with closest possible attention to the opening four notes of the Mozart Quintet. The tune moves down through a triad by skip then step to land on the first scale degree. This tone is harmonized with the relative minor; which delays the arrival of the expected tonic harmony until the chord that introduces the solo clarinet in the seventh measure.
The second movement of the Brahms Clarinet Quintet echos the intervals of the first three notes of the Mozart but then "block[s] the theme, refusing to allow it to continue, let allow to come to rest," observed Solomon.
[Thomas Friedli & Quartet Sine Nomine]
The restlessness is also rhythmic, with deep-scale syncopation and patterns with two-against-three creating gentle frictions. "In the end Brahms knew," wrote Solomon, "we cannot reach Mozart, we can only hope to come nearer to him."
The Brahms solution was encoded in the Brahms Clarinet Quintet; an ensemble which entered the public consciousness with the Mozart's Clarinet Quintet in A, K. 581.
Listen with closest possible attention to the opening four notes of the Mozart Quintet. The tune moves down through a triad by skip then step to land on the first scale degree. This tone is harmonized with the relative minor; which delays the arrival of the expected tonic harmony until the chord that introduces the solo clarinet in the seventh measure.
The second movement of the Brahms Clarinet Quintet echos the intervals of the first three notes of the Mozart but then "block[s] the theme, refusing to allow it to continue, let allow to come to rest," observed Solomon.
[Thomas Friedli & Quartet Sine Nomine]
The restlessness is also rhythmic, with deep-scale syncopation and patterns with two-against-three creating gentle frictions. "In the end Brahms knew," wrote Solomon, "we cannot reach Mozart, we can only hope to come nearer to him."
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Thinking Academic Festival Overture
The Academic Festival Overture was written by Brahms in the summer of 1880 as a measure of appreciation for an honorary Doctor of Philosophy degree he received from Breslau University.
Brahms was never a University student himself, but was conversant with student drinking songs. Malcolm MacDonald observed that these songs were "venerable and popular enough to be counted a species of folk music [by Brahms], and treated with similar fondness."
The overture begins with a long introduction that moves from darkness into a sudden light. It opens in C minor with a tune that has the feel of a military drum cadence. It is immediately escalated through development [0:11] and is broken during its restatement [0:21] by two sequences using diminished chords.
A sudden break [0:36] takes us into F major for a chorale-like tune scored for violas that is quickly deflected [0:50] into D-flat major. The music hovers momentarily before committing to restatement.
The marching tune returns [1:01] but is interrupted again by a fanfare [1:08] The dotted rhythms and strongly articulated attitude of this passage will return later in the work, but this first appearance is derailed and the music enters a transitional phase [1:20].
The bright trumpet fanfare at [1:36] seems from a different world. It shines in C major. This passage reveals the large brass section that is a significant feature of this work, which is the largest orchestra for which Brahms ever wrote. This fanfare brings an element of continuity and steady escalation that is new to the musical process of this overture.
The Exposition follows on the most glorious moment in the exposition by unfolding a C major triad through its series of modulations. It begins with a motive derived from the marching tune of the introduction [2:13]. Like the original treatment of that passage, developmental motives are explored almost immediately.
A transition derived from ideas in the introduction begins at [2:50]. It includes a registral linking in octaves that creates a new space for the upcoming theme. This passage will become an important marker later in the movement.
The second theme group sounds in E major [3:12]. It disintegrates during its restatement and becomes a transition toward the final theme group.
The third theme group [4:01] completes the triadic modulation scheme by sounding in G Major. It is music in the habit of interrupting itself; its humor is enthusiastic displacement.
There is no clear demarcation between the exposition and the development [4:45]; it feels joined to the process of exposition. The development is about the music of fragments. A strongly syncopated vision of the third theme group [5:31] stands apart from the other misted references.
Ideas from the introduction return with greater frequency: the diminished sequence
Obsession with groupings of three, the fanfare from [1:08]. Stopped horns mark a transition in thinking. The introductory military drum cadence returns and provokes screaming high violin writing.
There is also no clear demarcation between the development and the recapitulation because the return to C major happens only with the music of the second theme group previously heard in E major.
The music is parallel and brings back the third theme group in C major scored triumphantly for brass.
The process is interrupted as the coda crashes upon us. The tune "Gaudeamus igitur" is sounded within in a huge swirling tutti. The work ends in triumph and high spirits.
Brahms was never a University student himself, but was conversant with student drinking songs. Malcolm MacDonald observed that these songs were "venerable and popular enough to be counted a species of folk music [by Brahms], and treated with similar fondness."
The overture begins with a long introduction that moves from darkness into a sudden light. It opens in C minor with a tune that has the feel of a military drum cadence. It is immediately escalated through development [0:11] and is broken during its restatement [0:21] by two sequences using diminished chords.
A sudden break [0:36] takes us into F major for a chorale-like tune scored for violas that is quickly deflected [0:50] into D-flat major. The music hovers momentarily before committing to restatement.
The marching tune returns [1:01] but is interrupted again by a fanfare [1:08] The dotted rhythms and strongly articulated attitude of this passage will return later in the work, but this first appearance is derailed and the music enters a transitional phase [1:20].
The bright trumpet fanfare at [1:36] seems from a different world. It shines in C major. This passage reveals the large brass section that is a significant feature of this work, which is the largest orchestra for which Brahms ever wrote. This fanfare brings an element of continuity and steady escalation that is new to the musical process of this overture.
The Exposition follows on the most glorious moment in the exposition by unfolding a C major triad through its series of modulations. It begins with a motive derived from the marching tune of the introduction [2:13]. Like the original treatment of that passage, developmental motives are explored almost immediately.
A transition derived from ideas in the introduction begins at [2:50]. It includes a registral linking in octaves that creates a new space for the upcoming theme. This passage will become an important marker later in the movement.
The second theme group sounds in E major [3:12]. It disintegrates during its restatement and becomes a transition toward the final theme group.
The third theme group [4:01] completes the triadic modulation scheme by sounding in G Major. It is music in the habit of interrupting itself; its humor is enthusiastic displacement.
There is no clear demarcation between the exposition and the development [4:45]; it feels joined to the process of exposition. The development is about the music of fragments. A strongly syncopated vision of the third theme group [5:31] stands apart from the other misted references.
Ideas from the introduction return with greater frequency: the diminished sequence
Obsession with groupings of three, the fanfare from [1:08]. Stopped horns mark a transition in thinking. The introductory military drum cadence returns and provokes screaming high violin writing.
There is also no clear demarcation between the development and the recapitulation because the return to C major happens only with the music of the second theme group previously heard in E major.
The music is parallel and brings back the third theme group in C major scored triumphantly for brass.
The process is interrupted as the coda crashes upon us. The tune "Gaudeamus igitur" is sounded within in a huge swirling tutti. The work ends in triumph and high spirits.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Brahms and Gold Records
According to the Recording Industry Association of America (RIAA) a gold record is earned when a recording has sold one-half a million copies. The first gold record that was RIAA-certified was this 1958 gem from Perry Como:
Part of the credit for that golden record could have gone to Brahms because the tune was ripped cleanly from the Academic Festival Overture at [4:00]:
In 1993 a gold edition of the album "Fragile" by the band Yes was released. On it was this song called "Cans and Brahms" which is based on synthesized ideas from the third movement of the Brahms Symphony No. 4:
There was no Brahms on the Voyager Golden Record. Instead the classical music world was represented by three selections from Bach, two from Beethoven, an exerpt from The Rite of Spring, and a short work by Anthony Holborne. Oh, and the Queen of the Night Aria from Magic Flute:
This aria, "Der Hölle Rache kocht in meinem Herzen" (The vengeance of Hell boils in my heart), must have been included just in case aliens in distant galaxies thought we came in peace. But Brahms himself wrote a song, "Gold überwiegt die Liebe" (Gold Prevails over Love), in which musical tears are shed over the decision to chose gold over love:
Part of the credit for that golden record could have gone to Brahms because the tune was ripped cleanly from the Academic Festival Overture at [4:00]:
In 1993 a gold edition of the album "Fragile" by the band Yes was released. On it was this song called "Cans and Brahms" which is based on synthesized ideas from the third movement of the Brahms Symphony No. 4:
There was no Brahms on the Voyager Golden Record. Instead the classical music world was represented by three selections from Bach, two from Beethoven, an exerpt from The Rite of Spring, and a short work by Anthony Holborne. Oh, and the Queen of the Night Aria from Magic Flute:
This aria, "Der Hölle Rache kocht in meinem Herzen" (The vengeance of Hell boils in my heart), must have been included just in case aliens in distant galaxies thought we came in peace. But Brahms himself wrote a song, "Gold überwiegt die Liebe" (Gold Prevails over Love), in which musical tears are shed over the decision to chose gold over love:
Saturday, August 7, 2010
The "Notorious Dr. August" meets Brahms
"Life is eternal," writes Dr. August, "but lives are short." Novelist Christopher Bram sent Augustus Fitzwilliam Boyd into the world in "The Notorious Dr. August," written in 2000. "Perhaps," writes Boyd, blind narrator who is an improvisational pianist inspired by spirits, "the music is the true story and my words merely a way of beating time."
In a passage of quality imagination, Dr. August hears Brahms play:
"I attended the Kurhaus concert that evening, alone, [...] it had been announced that Brahms himself would perform. I had forgotten all about Brahms. There was no orchestra in the pavilion that evening, only the composer at the piano—short, square, and babyfaced—-and a quartet of string players. They performed his Piano Quintet in F Minor, spacious and dramatic. Brahms disliked concertizing, and his arpeggios were a bit rusty, but it was of no matter. I can be quite nasty about other musicians, yet I did not sneer that evening. His quintet was all of a piece, the instruments equal, their playing unmarred by showy displays. They wove a single skein of changing colors, emotional, thoughtful, intimate, the short musical phrases combining into long, elaborate sentences. [...]
He swayed like a bear at the keyboard, tensing into each transition, making endless faces. He was notorious for being critical of his own compositions. I sat close enough that I could actually hear him grumble and groan as he played. The other musicians swarmed and blended around him, intensely alert to Brahms and each other, a coven of musical conspirators.
They came to the slow movement, "Andante, un poco adagio," and I recognized the wander of notes: It was the passage I'd heard during my walk with Isaac, when Brahms blew smoke bubbles and I thought my world was solid. I sank back into my own troubles again, yet the music continued to move me, not just the music but the situation of its making. Five people made it together, a family of friends, a sonorous little utopia. [...]
There were the racing rhythms of the finale, a descent into a home not quite a home, and the piece ended. Brahms and his friends took their bows and applauded each other, the string players thanking the composer with a grasshopperish tapping of bows against music stands. The audience hurried off to cafés and restaurants. I remained in my chair, stranded under stars and mountains, thinking about music, thinking about life. Art seemed a beautiful consolation, but could it set right all that had gone wrong in my life?
I needed to think at a piano. A keyboard would concentrate my thoughts."
Dr. August thinks through the performance; improvising on the same piano that Brahms had just played. "If my emotions were too deep for tears," writes August "they were not too deep for a piano."
Brahms discovers him playing. "'We are wondering,' said the bearded friend, 'if you find your lost chord.'"
When you get the chance, look through this book. It will reward your efforts.
In a passage of quality imagination, Dr. August hears Brahms play:
"I attended the Kurhaus concert that evening, alone, [...] it had been announced that Brahms himself would perform. I had forgotten all about Brahms. There was no orchestra in the pavilion that evening, only the composer at the piano—short, square, and babyfaced—-and a quartet of string players. They performed his Piano Quintet in F Minor, spacious and dramatic. Brahms disliked concertizing, and his arpeggios were a bit rusty, but it was of no matter. I can be quite nasty about other musicians, yet I did not sneer that evening. His quintet was all of a piece, the instruments equal, their playing unmarred by showy displays. They wove a single skein of changing colors, emotional, thoughtful, intimate, the short musical phrases combining into long, elaborate sentences. [...]
He swayed like a bear at the keyboard, tensing into each transition, making endless faces. He was notorious for being critical of his own compositions. I sat close enough that I could actually hear him grumble and groan as he played. The other musicians swarmed and blended around him, intensely alert to Brahms and each other, a coven of musical conspirators.
They came to the slow movement, "Andante, un poco adagio," and I recognized the wander of notes: It was the passage I'd heard during my walk with Isaac, when Brahms blew smoke bubbles and I thought my world was solid. I sank back into my own troubles again, yet the music continued to move me, not just the music but the situation of its making. Five people made it together, a family of friends, a sonorous little utopia. [...]
There were the racing rhythms of the finale, a descent into a home not quite a home, and the piece ended. Brahms and his friends took their bows and applauded each other, the string players thanking the composer with a grasshopperish tapping of bows against music stands. The audience hurried off to cafés and restaurants. I remained in my chair, stranded under stars and mountains, thinking about music, thinking about life. Art seemed a beautiful consolation, but could it set right all that had gone wrong in my life?
I needed to think at a piano. A keyboard would concentrate my thoughts."
Dr. August thinks through the performance; improvising on the same piano that Brahms had just played. "If my emotions were too deep for tears," writes August "they were not too deep for a piano."
Brahms discovers him playing. "'We are wondering,' said the bearded friend, 'if you find your lost chord.'"
When you get the chance, look through this book. It will reward your efforts.
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