Showing papers in "Nineteenth-century music review in 2015"
TL;DR: In the English mid-nineteenth century, organist-composers sought an idealistic course that created an alliance between the unimpeachable musical language of the Classical era and the much celebrated "Victorian" organ.
Abstract: In the English mid-nineteenth century, organist-composers sought an idealistic course that created an alliance between the unimpeachable musical language of the Classical era and the much celebrated ‘Victorian’ organ. As a result, we witness the birth of a new musical genre with the ‘English organ sonata’ that was to provide a model for organ composition into the twentieth century. However, the works in question were not merely pastiche compositions, despite some bold illusions, but rather pieces based on revered models, restyled for an age that was familiar with transcriptions of orchestral repertoire on the organ. Further, the English organist-composers adhered to both an old model in a continuance of the ‘lesson-sonata’ tradition as well as developing a new one, here styled the ‘portfolio sonata’ whereby the purpose of the sonata would serve multiple ends. In an age of prestige and betterment, the sonatas that emerged were a testament to a profession that was determined to be seen anew.
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TL;DR: The Viennese premieres of Dukas's Ariane et Barbebleue and Debussy's Pelleas et Melisande in 1908 and 1911 occurred over a decade after Maeterlinck's literary style and Fernand Khnopff's paintings were praised by Secessionist critics, including Hermann Bahr and Ludwig Hevesi as mentioned in this paper.
Abstract: The Viennese premieres of Dukas’s Ariane et Barbe-bleue and Debussy’s Pelleas et Melisande in 1908 and 1911 occurred over a decade after Maeterlinck’s literary style and Fernand Khnopff’s paintings were praised by Secessionist critics, including Hermann Bahr and Ludwig Hevesi. In Vienna, fin-de-siecle discourse treats impressionism and symbolism as aesthetic outgrowths of Ernst Mach’s notion of ‘antimetaphysical’ modes of existence. This article explores the broader Viennese reception of symbolism and its influence on music criticism, which predominantly contends that Debussy and Dukas divert from Wagnerian techniques by cultivating Klangempfindungen (acoustical sensations) and anti-thematic symphonic approaches to generate musical equivalents to the poetic and painterly incitation of psychophysical stimuli. Julius Korngold and other prominent music critics, some of whom were Debussy’s and Dukas’s exact contemporaries, describe how symbolist compositional syntax emerges as a musical terrain that produces a stark contrast between the suspension of latency and frenetic episodes. Symbolist composers accentuate this contrast to increase sensitivity to a literary device at the core of Maeterlinck’s art: the protagonists’ fixation on environmental conditions and changes, descriptive imagery that apprises audiences of their emotional state.
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TL;DR: For over three decades, the flow of Gabriel Fauré's music onto compact disc has continued unabated, and for at least the last two, virtually everything the composer ever published has been available in an abundance of interpretations, many motivated by the spirit of advocacy as discussed by the authors.
Abstract: For over three decades, the flow of Gabriel Fauré’s music onto compact disc has continued unabated, and for at least the last two, virtually everything the composer ever published has been available in an abundance of interpretations, many motivated by the spirit of advocacy. Reflecting a resurgence of interest in Fauré’s diverse oeuvre while also contributing to it, this steady stream of recordings has been aided by stylistically sensitive research and new critical editions of his compositions, engendering deeper understanding and wider appreciation of his contribution to late nineteenthand early twentieth-century music. Angela Hewitt’s recent release is an admirable addition to this wellspring.
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TL;DR: In Les Visions de la nuit dans les campagnes (1851-1853), George Sand responded to the French government's newly announced project of collecting the popular or folk songs of France, with a critique of their methods of collection as perfunctory as discussed by the authors.
Abstract: In Les Visions de la nuit dans les campagnes (1851–1853), George Sand responded to the French government’s newly announced project of collecting the ‘popular’ or folk songs of France, with a critique of their methods of collection as perfunctory. Sand was adamant not only about a more rigorous approach to amassing the nation’s folk songs but also about the inclusion of the music with the lyrics, and her concise, insightful critique of archival methods came after nearly two decades of her own occupation with rendering music in her fiction and, more immediately, a decade focused on folk music in many of what are known as her ‘rustic’ novels. In particular, I bring to the fore in this article discussions in Sand’s expansive novel Consuelo; La Comtesse de Rudolstadt (1842–1844) which both insist upon the historical, cultural and personal significance of the preservation of folk music and navigate the tensions of preserving an art form that is fundamentally non-static and ephemeral, in order to articulate the value Sand places on musical sensibility, memory and heritage. I argue that Les Visions de la nuit dans les campagnes stands along with Sand’s fiction as an ardent defense against the loss of the musical heritage of provincial France in the hands of the state’s archivists. This article thus situates George Sand’s investment in the cultural production from the Berry region within the early history of nineteenth-century music ethnography in France, while maintaining Sand’s own understanding of her cultural production as poetic rather than scientific.
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TL;DR: The point of as discussed by the authors is not that the ripples of Wagner's influence can be registered in the critical seismographs of discursive networks, but that Wagner was the greatest discursive networker of all, synthesizing and condensing worlds of meaning in his dramatic ideas.
Abstract: engineer of vast dramatic scenes? The point, surely, is not that the ripples of Wagner’s influence (upon him and from him) can be registered in the critical seismographs of discursive networks. The crux, rather, is that Wagner was the greatest discursive networker of all, synthesizing and condensing worlds of meaning in his dramatic ideas. Somehow, we have lost the critical/analytical technology to grasp his poetics and hear the results. Or we have just got bored with yesterday’s fashion.
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TL;DR: The Bärenreiter Urtext edition of Schubert's Rondo D438 has been published by as mentioned in this paper, with a brief essay remarking on editorial principles including articulation and dynamic signs, the genesis of the work, and its concertante character.
Abstract: This new Bärenreiter Urtext edition of Schubert’s Rondo D438 offers a violin part, orchestral score and piano reduction. The editor, Michael Kube, has also included a brief essay remarking on editorial principles, including articulation and dynamic signs, the genesis of the work, and its concertante character. Compared to the existing editions – a Breitkopf & Härtel edition from 1897 and a reprint from the 1930s – the current edition has substantially clarified Schubert’s articulation signs, accents and dynamic markings, with significant performance implications. The dots from the old edition have been partly carried over intact, and partly changed into the more powerful wedges. The difference between dots and wedges in Schubert’s autograph was not consistently observed in the 1897 edition. This deficiency was at least in part related to the pre-Urtext approach of editing in the late nineteenth century, but also to the significant disconnect between the performance practices for violin of the first and last decades of the century. Given that late-nineteenth-century bow technique was characterized by heavier strokes like the martelé – often notated by mere dots – it is not surprising that the wedges were absent in the 1897 edition. Two occurrences of dots in the 1897 edition, such as in the principal violin part in bars 1 and 4 of the Adagio, reveal that the same symbol was used for delicate, classical light spiccato as well as for a much heavier stroke, which obviously can lead to misinterpretation in performance. Thanks to the new Bärenreiter edition, this is no longer an issue. Another significant improvement over the old edition concerns Schubert’s accents. While the Breitkopf & Härtel edition often interpreted accent signs as crescendos or decrescendos – a mistake made easily enough due to Schubert’s inconsistent practice in marking them – the new edition has re-interpreted some of the old edition’s dynamic hairpins as accents and some as crescendos. Furthermore, the 1897 edition tacitly extrapolated certain dynamic markings in one instrument to all others without marking them as editorial. The new edition carefully disentangles the dynamic markings in selected instruments and indicates them as editorial where applicable. Of special interest is the new edition’s approach to Schubert’s use of fz [sforzato]. For example, towards the end of D438, the old edition marks the beginning of a long sequential passage with repeated fz signs as signifying f [forte] dynamics in the principal violin part, meaning that each of the ensuing fz markings happens within a forte dynamic. In contrast, Kube does not mark the beginning of this passage (bar 598) as f in the principal violin; consequently, the three fzs occur within the previous p [piano] dynamic. The question that arises is whether the fz signs necessarily have to occur within a forte dynamic, which does not seem to be the case, despite the tendency of early editors – and, likewise, performers in our day – to assume f dynamics for fzs. Above all, Bärenreiter’s new edition of this enchanting rondo draws our attention to an ambitious violin piece that is not often heard. If the majority of Schubert’s string music was written without the aim of performance or publication, this Rondo seems to have been conceived with a particular occasion in mind. Schubert composed it for his brother Ferdinand, a solid amateur violinist, and he intended to have it performed at a semi-public event at a Vienna Orphanage.1 Written in 1816
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TL;DR: Fromental Halevy's five-act grand opera La Reine de Chypre premiered in Paris in 1841, and many critics viewed the work as a great success and seen as a true rival to La Juive (1835), evidenced in the many review articles and publications he wrote about the work as discussed by the authors.
Abstract: Fromental Halevy’s five-act grand opera La Reine de Chypre premiered in Paris in 1841. Many critics viewed the work as a great success and seen as a true rival to La Juive (1835). Wagner, who was in Paris at the time, even went so far as to claim the composition ‘a new step forward’ in the world of opera, evidenced in the many review articles and publications he wrote about the work. This article attempts to uncover what Wagner admired about Halevy’s composition, especially within the context of the German composer’s ‘artistic exile’ in France (1839–1842) and the completion of a new dramatic conception of German romantic opera in Der Fliegende Hollander (1843). The connections between the two works are explored, revealing an affinity for the exile and the desire for redemption.
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TL;DR: The Cambridge Companion to the Symphony as discussed by the authors provides a sufficiently lucid and inclusive coverage of its subject, however unevenly so at times, and reveals much about the genre genre's current state of research.
Abstract: symphonists. The manners in which the biographies and symphonies of these composers were positioned to reflect communist propaganda makes for fascinating reading. Finally, Alan Street’s chapter, ‘The symphony, the modern orchestra and the performing canon’, addresses some of the cultural and economic factors influencing the repertoires symphony orchestras perform. One could discuss these chapters at considerable length, but sustained commentary is not possible here. Notwithstanding my occasional criticisms, each is in its own way worthwhile reading for anyone wishing to learn more about the symphony. Returning to The Cambridge Companion to the Symphony’s goals, and those of the series to which it belongs, one must admit that it provides the reader with sufficiently lucid and inclusive coverage of its subject, however unevenly so at times. Moreover, it reveals much about the genre’s current state of research. I have already cited its contents multiple times in my own work, and I am certain that others will find it similarly useful.
TL;DR: In this article, the authors consider the autobiographical, philosophical and cultural influences on Joachim to interpret psychological music as it played out in Abendglocken, the second of the Drei Stucke, Op. 5, for violin and piano (1853).
Abstract: If as a performer and Brahms’s close collaborator Joachim promoted the music of Bach, Beethoven and Brahms, a process relatively unsympathetic to programme music of the Neudeutsche Schule, as a composer Joachim’s works do not display such an aesthetic stance. His own music, which he dubbed ‘psychological’, was intended to ‘detect and save’, that is faithfully to perceive and record his emotions. As part of this process, Joachim’s Abendglocken, the second of the Drei Stucke, Op. 5, for violin and piano (1853), betrays a striking use of ciphers, taking Robert Schumann’s musical word games to a heightened level and using notational signs such as double bars as framing devices that suggest an intriguing link to the daguerreotypes of early photography.‘Psychological music’ describes a compositional approach Joachim pursued in the 1850s, when positivism began clashing with the existing idealist philosophy, as demonstrated in the emergence of empirical psychology from philosophy and metaphysics. Enrolled in philosophy at Gottingen University in 1853, Joachim would have encountered psychology from a pre-empirical, phenomenological perspective, which may have initiated his ‘psychological music’. The dedicatee of Abendglocken and the constant subject of his thoughts – and arguably of his music – was Gisela von Arnim (1827–1889), daughter of Bettina von Arnim, with whom he was romantically involved and whose encrypted name – G♯–E–A – provides a valuable key to understanding Abendglocken in particular, and Joachim’s psychological music in general. This article considers the autobiographical, philosophical and cultural influences on Joachim to interpret ‘psychological music’ as it played out in Abendglocken.
TL;DR: A collection of 22 essays written by former students and colleagues of Raymond Monelle as discussed by the authors is dedicated to his inspirational teaching, collegial support, and intellectual astuteness, which is a fitting tribute to his long-term suspicion of formal systems operating in isolation from context.
Abstract: This collection of 22 essays has been assembled in honour and memory of Raymond Monelle by former students and colleagues indebted in one way or another to his inspirational teaching, collegial support and intellectual astuteness. Semiotics is intrinsically wide ranging, and throughout his career, Monelle engaged with most aspects of the subject to some extent. Combined with Monelle’s published interests in music from J.S. Bach to the present, the diversity of the collection will come as no surprise. For Esti Sheinberg as editor, the task of ordering the essays into a coherent whole must have been a challenging one. If the result is a collection that sometimes threatens to burst its editorial groupings, then that is a fitting tribute to Monelle, whose book The Sense of Music (which is a significant influence on many of the essays in this collection) made explicit his long-term suspicion of formal systems operating in isolation from contextualized meaning.1 The essays vary not only in terms of content, but also in terms of type. Some are essentially reviews of writings by other authors that are more suggestive of a work in progress. Anthony Gritten’s essay on Bakhtin’s philosophical aesthetics is such a case. Its noble aspiration to examine ‘the role music plays in generating, cultivating and exhibiting wisdom’ (p. 59) progresses as far as Bakhtin’s consideration of aesthetic love in relation to the ‘answerable act’ (of, for instance, performance). How wisdom might be manifested in music is not made explicit, though it remains an intriguing prospect. Other essays draw heavily on work published by the essayist (and other authors relevant to their topic) over several decades. Dalia Cohen’s chapter on musical rules is one example of this type. Its summary of principles or natural schemata used in the derivation of rule-based approaches to the perception and cognition of music in a variety of formats (score, recording, performance) and cultural contexts might remind us of how music theory used to be practised in the closing decades of the last century. If that is so, then its inclusion in this volume is to be welcomed: Monelle’s own work evinced rigour, but the scope of it extended to socio-cultural and historical domains. As Sheinberg puts it in her distillation of Monelle’s stance: ‘There is a conciliation looking for a balance between the teachings of structuralism, which see the description of the text as essential but which neglect its sense effects, and the post-structuralist initiative of ‘‘deconstructing’’ a text which has become transparent to itself’ (p. 19). Taking review a substantial step further, Marina Ritzarev’s essay exploring crossings of the gap between folk and art music is anchored in theory explicated elsewhere in her recent publications, in particular, the categories of phylo-vernacular, concerning authentic folk music, and onto-vernacular, relating to the assimilation of authentic folk music by common-practice and other art-music idioms (p. 39). In applying these categories, principally to Russian music since the seventeenth century, fresh perspectives emerge on the vacillating reception of folk elements in art music, specifically the tension between the recognition of folk music as authentically self-sufficient and its potential corruption when incorporated into art music. But it is the suggestion that ‘Stravinsky’s Russian works y became the
TL;DR: In this welcome anthology, Tina Frühauf published solo organ music by Jewish composers from the early nineteenth through the mid-twentieth centuries, making known to organists and scholars a fascinating repertoire that was largely obscured by the Holocaust as mentioned in this paper.
Abstract: In this welcome anthology, Tina Frühauf publishes solo organ music by Jewish composers from the early nineteenth through the midtwentieth centuries, making known to organists and scholars a fascinating repertoire that was largely obscured by the Holocaust. Frühauf has established herself as an expert on the subject with her monograph, The Organ and Its Music in German-Jewish Culture.1 In her preface to the edition, she explains that the anthology complements her book, since it includes scores of some of the music she has previously analyzed. She made her selections to ‘trace the history and major stylistic developments of organ music in the German-speaking Jewish communities of central Europe, parts of eastern Europe y, and finally in the United States and Israel, where many composers emigrated to escape from Nazi persecution’ (vii). This music reveals a rich culture of Jewish organ playing that was virtually extinguished by the devastation of World War Two. Frühauf provides a general biography for each of the 13 composers represented in the anthology: Hugo Schwantzer, Louis Lewandowski, Eduard Birnbaum, Joseph Sulzer, Ludwig Mendelssohn, David Nowakowsky, Ernst August Beyer, Arno Nadel, Max Wolff, Siegfried Würzburger, Hans Samuel, Hugo Chaim Adler, and Heinrich Schalit. She also provides historical and analytical information about each organ work included. Thus we learn that Louis Lewandowski composed his first organ pieces, the Fünf Fest-Präludien, Op. 37 (1871), as a musical interpretation corresponding to periods of silent prayer within the service (xi). His preludes exhibit much textural and dynamic contrast, especially when compared to the other prelude sets in the anthology, by Eduard Birnbaum and Joseph Sulzer. Birnbaum’s preludes were composed for performance during the recitation of the Priestly Blessing, which explains their short length and soft dynamic. Sulzer’s preludes are dedicated to a German prince; they do not incorporate Jewish melodies and have no link to a specific Jewish occasion. The absence of Jewish themes is unusual; even the non-liturgical twentieth-century organ works in Frühauf’s edition normally present traditional melodies, such as Hans Samuel’s ‘Variations in Canonic Style on ‘‘Ahot Ketanah’’‘, and Hugo Chaim Adler’s ‘Meditation’, which incorporates an Israeli folk tune. The editor’s description and short analysis of the latter are especially informative, showing how the folk melody is employed and suggesting that it may have been intended as background music to the spoken recitation of the mourners’ Kaddish (xxi). Of course, one would expect a conscientious editor to include such details in an edition of obscure repertoire. What makes Frühauf’s introduction so valuable is that she goes beyond the specific traits of each composer’s work to contextualize
TL;DR: Andrew Deruchie as mentioned in this paper studied the fin-de-siècle French symphony and found that it possesses a richness of invention, sophistication, and striking variety unmatched elsewhere in that period.
Abstract: For many years, the flowering of the symphony in France after 1870 received little scholarly investigation, and most writings that did appear contented themselves with blithely pronouncing French symphonies inferior to their Germanic counterparts. Save for an unpublished and almost inaccessible dissertation by Jean-Paul Holstein, no serious or panoramic account of the French symphony existed before the mid-1990s, though one could find worthwhile examinations of individual composers, especially Camille Saint-Saëns. Since then, however, studies have appeared in various sizes and depths, most notably by Ralph Locke, Fabian Kolb, and the present reviewer. To this list we can now add Andrew Deruchie’s monograph: although it is not, as advertised, the first full-length study of the fin de siècle French symphony –Kolb’s 780-page monograph appeared a year earlier – it certainly is the first English-language work to study the most significant symphonies in France between 1886 and 1903 to this depth. He focuses exclusively on seven iconic works from those years based on their exposure and influence; although this necessitates unfortunate omissions – the most grievous being the Third Symphony of Albéric Magnard (1896) – he fully justifies the choice to concentrate on a smaller number of works rather than produce a survey. Like all fin de siècle symphonists, French composers faced the double imperative to develop an original and innovative voice while respecting the traditions inherited from Beethoven. In the seven symphonies he studies, Deruchie devotes particular attention to two issues: how each work engages the darkness-to-light narrative indelibly associated with Beethoven’s symphonies by 1886, and the manner in which the composition employs cyclic organization. According to Deruchie, each symphony forges an individual path, and collectively the diverse solutions reveal that the fin de siècle French symphony possesses a ‘richness of invention, sophistication, and striking variety’ unmatched elsewhere in that period – including, arguably, Germany and Austria (p. 3).
TL;DR: In this paper, the evolution of the English organ under the influence of changes in musical style and liturgical practice between 1830 and 1870 is described, and a preliminary discussion of the Georgian organ and the performance conventions of its players provides a benchmark against which to measure the ensuing changes.
Abstract: The article describes the evolution of the English organ under the influence of changes in musical style and liturgical practice between 1830 and 1870. A preliminary discussion of the Georgian organ and the performance conventions of its players provides a benchmark against which to measure the ensuing changes. S.S. Wesley is taken as a case study with reference to changes made to the Hereford Cathedral organ in 1832; it is argued that these reflect Wesley's musical priorities, a point that is further illustrated by a consideration of the registration markings found in the original manuscripts of ‘The Wilderness’ (1832) and ‘Blessed be the God and Father’ (1834). They also demonstrate an innovative use of the pedals.In the following section the influence of Mendelssohn is discussed. His performances of Bach in England during the 1830s and 1840s promoted a radical change is organ design and performance practice; the C-compass organs with German pedal divisions built by (among others) William Hill were ideal instruments both for Bach's organ music and for Mendelssohn's own organ sonatas which combined classical form with a romantic sensibility.The concluding section reviews developments in the years 1850–70. It considers changes in console design and the growing taste for orchestral registers, even in church organs. Choral accompaniments also became more orchestral in character, and a number of representative examples from Ouseley's Special Anthems (1861, 1866) are discussed. Liturgical changes after 1850 are also considered, together with their impact on the role of the organ in worship.
TL;DR: Karnes as discussed by the authors explores the red threads of nineteenth-century racism commonly traced (with greater or lesser degrees of causality) to Hitler's programme of extermination as the logical extension of a programme of breeding and concludes that if utopian desire points towards the end of history, when it surfaces as reality, it does so in potentially both "transcendent and terrible ways".
Abstract: hitherto lacked an interpretive frame. The epilogue pairs two culturally narrowmovements that essentialize identity: anti-Semitism (fromWagner to Chamberlain and his epigones) and Zionism (from Mahler’s social critics). These are two sides of the same coin, for Karnes, because as critic Fritz Lienhard observed they rely on the same logic: that birth and biology determine identity rather than individual religious belief or behaviour. Hence, for literary critic Max Brod, Mahler’s music expresses ‘the Jewish soul’ that gave rise to Hassidic songs, even though ‘he probably never knew them’ (p. 188). While Karnes’ discussion of Bayreuth, Gobineau, Parsifal, Chamberlain and Hitler may not uncover new knowledge as such, it is a thoroughly useful weaving of the red threads of nineteenth-century racism commonly traced (with greater or lesser degrees of causality) to Hitler’s programme of extermination as the logical extension of a programme of breeding. It reminds us that if utopian desire points towards ‘the end of history’ (p. 192) in the sense of securing an eternal condition of social perfection invulnerable to change, when it surfaces as reality, it does so in potentially both ‘transcendent and terrible ways’ (p. 193). With this book Karnes couples an unapologetic interest in the study of ideas for their own sake with an array of source material, interpretive daring, and a rare ability to tie philosophical concepts to analytical detail. With a generous supply of pictures and examples, the presentation of the Secession’s collaborative Elf Lieder (1901) as art celebrating ‘the communion of individuals in true Wagnerian fashion’ (p. 84) – nine artists presenting illustrated scores from 11 contemporary composers – offers an intriguing glimpse of what a literal-minded interpretation ofDas Kunstwerk der Zukunftmight begin to entail. One blip needs to be corrected: Wagner participated in revolutionary uprisings in Dresden, of course, not Leipzig (as stated on p. 31). But this is anomalous against the text’s overall erudition. The book is – for this reader – consistently engaging; it will surely become a useful tool for drawing students towards an interdisciplinary vantage, one that is capable of linking abstract ideas to unpleasant political realities. With some very notable exceptions, few writers outside musicology and music theory are in a position to comment onmusical detail of this period in quite the sameway thatmusicologists and theorists can, so it may be some time before the book receives a sympathetic echo from without our discipline. For now, it has surely expanded the discursive space within.
TL;DR: For instance, this paper pointed out that Stravinsky's "cultural hunt" in the "Ritual of Abduction" section of The Rite of Spring can be seen as representing two different points of view: the delusions of heroism by the perpetrators of rape and the view of savagery from a distance, our view.
Abstract: such as the one by Spitzer mentioned above. Monelle’s final book, The Musical Topic, arguably is the one that has done most to inspire the early years of his legacy.8 It has led to some essays in the final section of this volume that are themselves inspirational. Doubtless other reviewers would choose to highlight different essays, but to me in terms of Monelle’s legacy, those by Spitzer, Tamara Balter, Jamie Liddle and Nicholas McKay stand out for their development of topic theory combined with insightful and enriching applications. In related ways, these essays draw on concepts of superposition, juxtaposition, misplacement, undercutting and troping in the treatment of topics, often in connection with listeners’ expectations. Hatten’s earlier essay on metaphor and troping in music is also a valuable adjunct to the theoretical developments illustrated by these musicologists, especially when they consider literary devices such as irony and parody. But of these essays I will return to the one by McKay, which even parallels the title of Monelle’s book by listing the people rather than the pastimes of topics: huntsmen, soldiers and shepherds. In the huntsmen section, McKay discusses an exceptional use of topic hinted at by Monelle himself: the ‘cultural hunt’ or ‘chasse écrit’ used by Stravinsky in the ‘Ritual of Abduction’ section of The Rite of Spring (p. 250). Unlike the hunting calls used in the actual hunts of the Middle Ages, this cultural hunt had connotations of heroism and glory, connotations startlingly at odds with the rape and savagery depicted by the ballet. By analysing an attempted reconstruction of the original Nijinsky choreography (now lost) McKay demonstrates that Stravinsky’s hunt call is ‘replete with over-encoded rhetorical [dance] gestures intent on thwarting all signs of y the Romantic hunt topic’ (p. 254). For those whose exposure to The Rite has depended on concert performances and audio recordings this is a hugely valuable insight. But if the presence of a noble signifier remains puzzling, despite being countered overall, I proffer the suggestion that Stravinsky is simultaneously representing two different points of view: the delusions of heroism by the perpetrators of rape and the view of savagery from a distance, our view. On the basis of this and other essays, Monelle’s writings are worth mining for their hints alone. I hope he would be reassured to know that those indebted to him are already busy at work doing just that. Others will follow. So, rest in peace, Raymond.
TL;DR: Arming et al. as mentioned in this paper recorded the D-minor symphony under the direction of Louis Langrée, and a 2011 release showcased the Variations symphoniques and several of the symphonic poems.
Abstract: Music by Belgian composers features prominently in the discography of the Orchestre Philharmonique Royal de Liège. In recent years, the orchestra has recorded works by Henri Vieuxtemps, Eugène Ysaÿe, Joseph Jongen, Sylvain Dupuis and the contemporary composer Benoı̂t Mernier. Pride of place goes to César Franck (born in 1822 in Liège), whose compositions appear on three of the ensemble’s CDs from the past decade. In 2005, the orchestra recorded the D-minor Symphony under the direction of Louis Langrée, and a 2011 release showcased the Variations symphoniques and several of the symphonic poems. The current disc – the first of Christian Arming’s tenure as Music Director of the OPRL – pairs another rendition of the Symphony with two rarities. The first rarity is Ce qu’on entend sur la montagne (‘What One Hears on the Mountain’), which may well have been the earliest symphonic poem ever written. Franck most likely completed the piece in 1846, and certainly no later than 1848. Coincidentally, Franz Liszt was also at work on his first symphonic poem – inspired by the same verses from Victor Hugo’s Feuilles d’automne – during this period.1 While Liszt’s Ce qu’on entend sur la montagne was performed, published and fêted for inaugurating a new genre of programmatic music, Franck’s essay languished in obscurity. The score remains unpublished, and the first documented performance was in 1987, when Brian Priestman recorded the piece with the Orchestre Symphonique de la RTBF. One hopes that the Liège recording (the only other version besides the RTBF release) will bring the work wider recognition, because the score contains some startlingly original music. The symphonic poem, which portrays the opposing voices of nature and humanity, opens with a remarkable evocation of the natural world’s expanse. The basses begin with a low pedal E, played pianississimo; the cellos augment the drone; and then violins enter with an E major chord in ethereal, glistening harmonics. The first 24 bars, which span more than a minute in Arming’s rendition, consist solely of expressions of this tonic triad in a variety of registers and orchestral colours. It is a striking passage that foreshadows the creatio ex nihilo opening of Wagner’s Das Rheingold. The ensuing primary theme unfolds in three successive statements whose pacing and breadth suggest a kinship with Bruckner and Sibelius. While Ce qu’on entend sur la montagne is no masterwork – its formal design occasionally meanders, and the melodies don’t quite attain the indelibility of
TL;DR: The most comprehensive survey of choral music of the nineteenth century can be found in this article, where the authors present a survey of the choral repertoire of the 18th century.
Abstract: Elijah), descriptions of premieres, and specific performance challenges for each work. As with the rest of the book, Holoman’s discussions are referenced with copious notes and suggested further reading. Any attempt to deal with such a vast repertoire will have problems. Most of the composers whose major works are dealt with in Part II (Beethoven, Berlioz, Brahms, Mendelssohn, Fauré and Dvořák) are each allotted a separate chapter in Part III, as well they might be. But this approach at times results in coverage that seems almost random, and a number of important achievements are omitted almost entirely. While the seminal influence of Beethoven’s Ninth is acknowledged again and again, there are only two relatively superficial paragraphs on the piece itself. Schumann’s towering Szenen aus Goethes Faust does not make the cut for the ten top choral-orchestral works, but Roe-Min Kok’s brief Schumann chapter focuses on a small assortment of minor part songs and ballads, so we are left with no discussion of the work that Schumann considered his greatest achievement. Many will find it easy to accept the inclusion of Mahler’s Eighth Symphony (1906), as it ‘lowers the curtain on the Long Century, its compositional priorities rooted thoroughly in Romanticism’, in Holomon’s view (p. 103). But surely Haydn’s great achievements at the century’s other end, with The Creation (1798), The Seasons (1801), and the final masses, set the stage for the explosive oratorio industry that flourished throughout the century. ‘The Representation of Chaos’ from The Creation can lay a strong claim to being one of the first great achievements of musical Romanticism. Haydn was universally acknowledged as Europe’s Grand Master in 1800, and the enormous influence of his two major oratorios is alluded to in several chapters; it is hard to defend their complete omission here, especially in view of the discussions of lesser works of composers with limited lasting influence such as Augusta Holmès and Félicien David. Despite these shortcomings, this book is a superb achievement. No other survey of the choral repertoire of the nineteenth century approaches it in breadth, or in the thoroughness of its documentation. No other book attempts to explore in such depth the choral culture of the nineteenth century – the era that established the chorus as we know it. This volume will likely serve as the central reference for the study of choral music of this period for the foreseeable future.
TL;DR: Beethoven followed up his part-songs of WoO 99 with a full-scale scena and aria, "No, non turbarti" (WoO 92a), which may have been his final exercise for Salieri as mentioned in this paper.
Abstract: diligence is again much in evidence. Once more, however, the edition contains some transcription errors, as well as several places where Beethoven’s note-head is so badly placed that his intentions have had to be guessed. Beethoven followed up his part-songs of WoO 99 with a full-scale scena and aria, ‘No, non turbarti’ (WoO 92a), which may have been his final exercise for Salieri. This is omitted here, however, since it appears elsewhere in the Gesamtausgabe. The same applies to two Italian settings from slightly later (WoO 93 and Op. 116), which Beethoven seems to have composed for further experience without showing them to Salieri for correction. Thus his composition studies did not terminate with his exercises for Salieri. Indeed he continued studying scores and treatises for the rest of his life. It has often been assumed that the extracts he later made from treatises were all copied around 1809 in connection with his teaching of Archduke Rudolph, but it now seems that many were made for his own benefit, and they have a wide range of dates. An edition of these is eagerly awaited. Meanwhile, however, the present edition offers vast opportunities for further research, and will surely form a fundamental resource for many types of investigation related to Beethoven’s education in music theory.
TL;DR: William Russell (1777-1813) came from a London family of organists and organ builders and published two sets of voluntaries: in 1804 and 1812 as mentioned in this paper.
Abstract: William Russell (1777–1813) came from a London family of organists and organ builders. He published two sets of voluntaries: in 1804 and 1812. As well as his liturgical duties at St Anne's Limehouse, and in the Foundling Hospital Chapel, Russell worked as pianist and composer at the Sadler's Wells Theatre; the influence of opera and theatrical music can be strongly felt in some of the voluntaries. He was also particularly interested in the development of the organ itself, and had ‘progressive’ ideas regarding early nineteenth-century organ design.Russell's music fascinatingly blends, or sometimes simply juxtaposes, several disparate musical influences. He therefore sits at an interesting point in English organ music. This article investigates Russell's own music – its forms, styles and genres – and his use of the instruments available to him. In addition, I will consider the extent to which his style was of the nineteenth century, and looked forward to future developments, of which his pioneering use of the pedals is one significant aspect.
TL;DR: The coming about of a college of organists in 1864 reflected a growing desire on the part of a small, but quickly expanding, cohort of organologists to be viewed collectively as one of the "respectable professions" such as law or medicine and thereby enjoy the social and material benefits normally accorded to such professional groups as discussed by the authors.
Abstract: The coming about of a ‘college of organists’ in 1864 reflected a growing desire on the part of a small, but quickly expanding, cohort of organists to be viewed collectively as one of the ‘respectable professions’ such as law or medicine and thereby enjoy the social and material benefits normally accorded to such professional groups. Writing around 1910, Charles W. Pearce captured the dynamic of the 1860s when he observed that the foundation of an association for organists was a manifestation of the ‘desire on the part of the musical profession for some self-established, self-supporting system of self-organization, self-government, and self-examination’. Underlying – and stimulating – the College's search for identity and mission in its early years was a complex and dynamic environment in which new national consensuses were emerging with respect to professional standing, academic status, churchmanship, innovation in organ-building and, more generally, with respect to standards in music making.Following comments on British organists and the environment in which they were working by the 1860s (often characterized by poor pay, insecurity and the perception of low status), this article draws on (1) archival records that have been little scrutinized and (2) relevant periodical literature – in particular The Musical Standard, a newly founded journal edited by figures intimately associated with the fledgling College – to establish the schedule and mechanism of the College's formation and how the institution attempted to organize itself and gain patronage. The article also casts contextual light on this project of professionalization by considering the individuals involved – their backgrounds, connections and motivations – and some of the early activities and the reasons behind them.
TL;DR: In this paper, a new book for anyone interested in the history of plainchant and in societal movements and ideas in France at the turn of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries is presented.
Abstract: not on the principles of Mocquereau, but on those Pothier had implemented in its Liber Gradualis of 1895 (p. 109). Thus, at the end of her study, Ellis’ initial assertion that these successive battles are an ‘allegory’ (p. xii) of the renewed issue of copyright appears convincing. Similarly, Ellis could legitimately conclude her book by repeating this observation concerning the intriguing Pécoul: ‘He would not thank me for having unmasked him at last’ (p. 121). That may be, but we should we thank her for delivering an original, passionate and exciting book: after having examined with great success the renewal of early music in France, Katharine Ellis offers a new book for anyone interested in the history of plainchant as well as the history of societal movements and ideas in France at the turn of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries.
TL;DR: The Cambridge Companion to the Symphonic Compositions as discussed by the authors is the most comprehensive and accessible volume in the series, focusing on a wide range of compositional and technical aspects of the classical music genre.
Abstract: Compared to other volumes in the series, The Cambridge Companion to the Symphony treats an especially vast and varied subject. The questions that came to mind prior to reading it were whether it is comprehensive and comprehensible enough for its intended readership, and how it would navigate the subject’s accrued analytical and historiographical issues. Having finished, and despite some reservations, I believe that this book is both a successful series entry and an indispensable resource. Editor Julian Horton’s introductory essay effectively sets the tone for the rest of the Companion. In addition to establishing objectives, including offering ‘scholarly yet accessible essays’ on a ‘wide range... of symphonic subjects’ (p. 9), it presents a short overview of the genre, rightly invoking ‘the formidable historical, philosophical and analytical challenges’ it poses (p. 1). Horton does well in tackling the recurring claim of the genre’s ‘death’, and discussing its ‘bewildering variety of guises’ and ‘capacity for renewal’ (p. 2). So too does he acknowledge that ‘the symphony’s formal parameters are separable’, and that ‘the tonal properties of sonata form can be modified or abandoned’ (p. 3). But then he immediately follows this up by saying, ‘a recognisable genre marker will remain in place so long as sonata-type thematic or textural procedures are deployed’, and ‘a symphonic movement may be loosely rhapsodic or densely motivic; yet if it applies generic concepts of material, textural or tonal contrast, then the resulting structures will be recognizably symphonic’ (p. 3). This comes off as an unhelpful definition of the symphony after Horton had introduced and problematized the
TL;DR: Kinderman as discussed by the authors examines the reception of Parsifal as art and ideology, dealing with reception and in particular with the vexed period between the first performance at Bayreuth in 1882 and the Second World War.
Abstract: Even within Richard Wagner’s singular œuvre, Parsifal has generally been accounted different or extreme. It is, of course, his final dramatic work. Successive attempts to avoid the pejorative – for Wagner, at least – ‘opera’ as a description of his later works may now provoke as much scepticism as approval; it would probably take a ‘Wagnerian’, in Nietzsche’s pejorative sense, of unhealthy devotion not to raise a hint of a smile at the cumbersome Bühnenweihfestspiel, or ‘stage-festival-consecration-play’. And yet, Parsifal has always resisted assimilation to the typical opera house, whether in terms of repertory, audience, architecture or even acoustic; though it is of course performed there, it is not only ‘Wagnerians’ who find something of a mismatch, who perhaps even go so far as to wish they were hearing it at Bayreuth. Wagner wrote to Ludwig II that he wished to protect it from ‘a common operatic career’.1 Pierre Boulez, who conducted Parsifal as his first Wagner drama, in Wieland Wagner’s Bayreuth production, wrote approvingly of the composer loathing a system in which ‘opera houses are y like cafés where y you can hear waiters calling out their orders: ‘‘One Carmen! And one Walküre! And one Rigoletto!’’‘2 In a highly selective operatic career, Wagner has for Boulez featured more heavily than any other composer, and Parsifal more strongly than any other work. To an extent, all of Wagner’s ‘canonical’ works – arguably even the monster Rienzi, the grand opéra which came closest to Meyerbeer, though that can readily be exaggerated – both angrily declared and have continued to declare their incompatibility with existing operatic conventions and norms. Parsifal, perhaps still more so than the Ring, remains the ne plus ultra. William Kinderman’s excellent new book draws upon decades of study, speaking and writing; long experience tells in mastery of multifarious sources, as indeed it did in Wagner’s own case. An initial ‘Prelude’ examines ‘Parsifal as Art and Ideology,’ dealing with reception and in particular with the vexed period between the first performance at Bayreuth in 1882 and the Second World War. Nationalism and (proto-)Nazism naturally loom large, but equally valuable is as clear an account as I recall of the controversy over attempts to confine the work to Bayreuth and to extend its copyright. The intersection between those strands is especially revealing. For instance, we read the writer Michael Georg Conrad asking in 1906: ‘Do we Germans as a newly born people with Wagner’s spirit and art and moral principles representing our nation wish with an iron will to achieve mastery in the world? y May the master’s will and work remain holy: Bayreuth!’ (p. 17) Such rhetoric of Germany as a ‘young country’ – as cretinous and as disingenuous as that peddled by Tony Blair almost a century later – was typical of nationalist, imperialist groups in the later Second Reich; indeed, it might have been worth commenting upon tensions between conceptions of national ‘youth’ and those of a ‘late work’. Crucially, however, as Kinderman does point out, Conrad would be instrumental in introducing Hitler to the Bayreuth Circle after the First World War. For the most part, the author remains even-handed through such treacherous terrain, though maybe we need not hear