Exercise the brain!
Exercise the brain!
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun
Charles Edward Ives was an American composer of the fin de siecle, at the turn of the 20th century, whose work has come to be considered some of the most forward thinking writing of the time. Interestingly, despite employing what were quite innovative compositional techniques, Ives’s music was mostly concerned with memory and nostalgia. Today’s program will focus on a few of Ives’s nostalgic pieces, or musical tributes.
114 Songs: No. 114, “Slow March” by Charles Ives
Though, ultimately, given the special honor of sitting as the final song in Ives’s 114 Songs, “Slow March” is among the earliest composed of the set, written when Ives was just fourteen years old. It is about the death of the Ives family dog, and Charlie’s uncle, mother, father, and grandmother provided the lyrics:
This early work features what would become a typical Ivesianism: the employment of quotation – in this case, of the Funeral March from Handel’s oratorio, Saul. The Funeral March, or Dead March, was a piece that had become a staple in the repertory, and was regularly performed at funerals following the Civil War. In fact, Ives’s bandmaster father, “led the march to the cemetery each year to honor the war dead, playing the one dirge like tune it could come up with for the occasion”, as recounted in Stephen Budiansky’s Mad Music: Charles Ives, the Nostalgic Rebel. Perhaps this “dirge like tune” that Budiansky refers to was Handel’s Dead March? In any case, Ives took the tune and drew from it an endearing song about a beloved, furry, best friend.
Not all of Ives’s songs are so sweet, and many of the earlier songs in the 114 set are super thorny and difficult. Actually, Ives, for all intents and purposes, arranged his 114 Songs in near reverse chronological order: his first song compositions – and usually among the prettiest – were put towards the end of the set, while his later song compositions – which tend towards stranger harmonies – occupy much of the beginning. But this is not to say that Ives got unequivocally more dissonant as the years went on. He was the sort of composer who worked on a piece endlessly – often putting dissonances in, and then taking them out, and then putting them in again – in attempts to get it just right. We see this throughout Ives’s output, which included works for orchestra, band, chamber ensembles, chorus, organ, and piano, in addition to these masterful songs. But it was one particular piece that he composed for piano that catapulted him from obscurity to centerstage.
Piano Sonata No. 2, “Concord, Mass., 1840-1860″ by Charles Ives
Ives’s Second Piano Sonata, often referred to as the Concord Sonata, is a definitive American masterpiece. Perhaps, and fantastically, the best encapsulation of the Sonata is also one of its first reviews: On January 21st, 1939, in an article for the New York Herald Tribune titled “A Masterpiece of American Music Heard Here for the First Time”, Lawrence Gilman writes:
This sonata is exceptionally great music–it is, indeed, the greatest music composed by an American, and the most deeply and essentially American in impulse and implication. It is wide-ranging and capacious. It has passions, tenderness, humor, simplicity, and homeliness. It has imaginative and spiritual vastness. It has wisdom and beauty and profundity, and a sense of the encompassing terror and splendor of human life and human destiny–a sense of those mysteries that are both human and divine.
Ives’s Concord Sonata is a musical depiction of Ives’s philosophy on music, and of the philosophies of the Concord transcendentalists, who Ives’s attributes as the founders of an American religion. There are four movements to the Sonata, and today’s program will focus on the latter two, which are named after The Alcotts, and Thoreau.
It should be noted that the Concord Sonata is a fiendishly difficult piece, and Ives was well aware of this. In fact, Ives has said about the Concord, “The 1st movement is impossible from many standpoints It’s a long mass of experiments, which no one will ever play. – a self respecting pianola would hesitate at the 3rd chord.” Additionally, Henry Bellamann has quoted Ives as saying, “The sonata is an experiment which perhaps goes too far. It was not written primarily to be played – certainly not to be played with two hands.” This is true for much of Ives’s compositional output. Ives, generally, did not compose from a performer’s perspective, or only considered performance practice secondarily, or cursorily. Thus, Ives did not compose the Concord Sonata as a pianist, but, perhaps, as a philosopher – and the depth and intensity of Ives’s philosophy made a lot of what he wrote unplayable. Or, it was considered unplayable at the time. People play the the Concord Sonata now, but it’s still a very very difficult piece. It’s very long, very intense, in the first and second movements, especially, which contain very convoluted stuff. The third and fourth movements are more approachable, and that is why I’m presenting them today.
On the third movement, a tribute to The Alcotts: Ives originally wanted this movement for organ, and we can hear why. It is styled on the hymn: simple, metrical, with the effect of a “four-part” harmony. It begins with what I will be referring to as “the human faith melody”. Ives mentions this melody under “The Alcotts” section of his Essays Before a Sonata:
All around you, under the Concord sky, there still floats the influence of that human faith melody, transcendent and sentimental enough for the enthusiast or the cynic respectively, reflecting an innate hope – a common interest in common things and common men – a tune the Concord bards are ever playing while they pound away at the immensities with a Beethoven-like sublimity, and with, may we say, a vehemence and perseverance . . .
When I first read the phrase, “human faith melody”, I thought it was just another one of Ives’s quirky turns of phrase, like “shadow-thought” or “left-hand-mind”. But, in looking at the music, it becomes clear that Ives was talking about a specific tune of his concoction. The opening of The Alcotts movement feature da-da-da-dums, representing vehemence and perseverance, and pounding away at the immensities; and they are Beethoven-like because they’re literally taken from Beethoven. This is the human faith melody, and, in The Alcotts movement, Ives gives us many iterations of the human faith melody, but all begin in the same way, with the three knocks of Fate, knocking on the door.
Shortly after the human faith melody, emerges Sam Staples’s theme, or what I will hereafter refer to as “the neighborly theme”. In his Memos, Ives mentioned this portion of the movement, stating that
The left hand is in A-flat – in that key – no other key – keeps in that key – is that key – it intends, does, [is] meant to do that, couldn’t do anything else, and will always put the players left-hand-mind in that nice key of A-flat and nothing else (for old man Alcott likes to talk in A-flat and Sam Staples likes to have his say over the fence in B-flat).
I don’t believe that Ives actually knew Bronson Alcott, or Sam Staples, in life, but he sure does speak of him/them as if he did. This portion of the piece, which features a conversation between Sam Staples and Bronson Alcott is the introduction of the neighborly theme, which begins with stepping up notes that are followed by a descending leap.
And that is the bulk of this first section of The Alcotts: back and forth between iterations of the human faith melody and the neighborly theme. You will recognize the human faith melody from its repeated note head, and the neighborly theme from its stepping up notes (that are followed by a descending leap). In fact, the neighborly theme is probably best described as amorphous, transitional material. The head of the theme can be interpreted as a development of the head of the the human faith melody. At the same time, the material as a whole can serve as a preface to ensuing da-da-da-dums as well.
The middle section of The Alcotts introduces some new material in which dotted rhythms play a prominent role. These are probably hints at Scotch airs, or quotations of Wagner’s operas.. In any case, the close of the middle section is perhaps the most fantastic part of the piece, where an elaborate and extended denouement takes place, where the music undergoes a metamorphosis, gets amped up. There are fragmentary hints of the neighborly theme, which you may or may not hear, but hearing them is probably not so important. The piece ends with a final, grand statement, this time, of the neighborly theme first, followed by the human faith melody. And then the movement is over.
In his notes for the fourth movement, a tribute to Thoreau, Ives writes:
Sometimes, as on pages 62-65-68, an old Elm Tree may feel like humming a phrase from “Down in the Corn Field,” but usually very slowly; perhaps a quarter note goes down to 50, even lower, or thereabouts – as the weather vane on the old Red Barn may direct.
Musicologists have found this “Down in the Corn Field” song and, though the chorus does make use of the phrase “Down in the Corn Field”, the song is in fact called “Massa’s in the Cold Ground”:
It’s hard to say what it is about the song or that particular portion of the song that Ives felt expressed a bit of Thoreau.. In his Walden memoire, Thoreau does talk about “growing like corn in the night”. Ives subsequently refers to this line in the “Thoreau” portion of his Essays Before a Sonata, so, perhaps, the quotation of “Down in the Corn Field” is simply a corn-y association, with the remainder of the song and its lyrics rendered irrelevant.
So, you will hear an old Elm Tree singing the “Down in the Corn Field” tune every so often. Ives also thought Thoreau was a restless character, and marks numerous tempo fluctuations in the score. There are echoes of sounds in the distance, perhaps referring to the sounds of Concord in the distance, as Thoreau spent some time living in a cabin by Walden pond, away from Concord proper. The neighborly theme and human faith melody of The Alcotts make appearances. And Ives meant for Thoreau to make a contribution at the end, playing his flute.
In his book on Walden, Thoreau also spoke of the mists at Walden pond, the way that they filled the air, and dissipated, and returned, and Ives put all of this into his tribute to Thoreau; including “shadow-thoughts” about man, nature and the quest for peace.
Ives had a habit of taking from his older works to create new work. The Alcotts movement developed from the now lost Alcott Overture, and was later arranged for organ, which is now lost. The Thoreau movement developed from the now lost Walden Sounds, was also later arranged for organ, which is also now lost, but then was later adapted for the still extant Song No. 48: “Thoreau”.
114 Songs: No. 48, “Thoreau” by Charles Ives
The song on “Thoreau” references much of the material found in the piano sonata movement on Thoreau: the Concord bells and the shadow-thought leitmotifs are used again, and a portion of the music from page 66, system 3 is reappropriated as well; “Down in the Corn Field” is reissued. Wonderfully, the song “Thoreau” clears up a few things that were rather too obscure in the movement Thoreau. For instance, in the song, Ives specifically sets the words “He grew in those seasons like corn in the night”, thus fully confirming what had appeared to be a rather random attribution in the movement Thoreau, between Ives’s depiction of Thoreau and the tune, “Down in the Corn Field”. If we weren’t sure whether or not Ives’s use of “Down in the Corn Field” was referring to Thoreau talking about “growing like corn in the night”, well, the song makes it sure. Also, Ives mentions in his notes that he has put “faint Concord bells” into the movement Thoreau, and if you weren’t sure where these bells were exactly, their position is made clear in the similar passage in the song, whose score contains a quotation of Thoreau talking about the Concord bells, inserted just before their occurrence.
. . .
The tone of these pieces – certainly in the Slow March, but evident in The Alcotts and Thoreau also – is of musical tribute or eulogy. All of these pieces were composed for and about people and creatures who were no longer here to hear them. Though Ives never knew the Transcendentalists in life, there were past family connections, there may have been stories brought down, and Ives was certainly familiar with, and had read and studied the work of, Emerson, Hawthorne, Thoreau, and Bronson and Louisa May Alcott. The Concord Sonata is, in a way, a tribute to those lost people and lost times. And much of Ives’s compositional output deals in this kind of memorializing, including symphonies about childhood Camp Meetings and celebrating holidays like Thanksgiving and The Fourth of July; recollections of Places in New England, and an Elegy to our Forefathers; compositions for the poets: Robert Browning, Walt Whitman, Matthew Arnold; and, given that his father was the town bandmaster, so many Marches..
To close the program, I would like to turn to one more song that Ives wrote, but this time for someone who was around to appreciate it:
114 Songs: No. 112, “To Edith” by Charles Ives
Charles and his wife Harmony Ives did not have biological children. In fact, unfortunately, they suffered through a debilitating miscarriage. They did, however, come to adopt a child, Edith Osborne. This song is about little Edith, with lyrics written by Harmony:
A dance to the music of time
Saudades do Brazil, Dance Suite for Piano by Darius Milhaud
During World War I, the French writer and diplomat, Paul Claudel was assigned to ministerial work in Brazil. It was at that time that Claudel offered an accompanying staff position to his compatriot and good friend, Darius Milhaud, who was, at that time, a young French composer. Milhaud accepted the position, and thus embarked on two years of Brazilian cultural immersion, the influence of which would find its way into a number of Milhaud’s compositions, including his Op. 67, the Saudades do Brasil.
Published in 1922, the Saudades are a suite of twelve dances, each bearing the name of a town, neighborhood, or street that Milhaud had visited while he was in Brazil. Each also carries a dedication to a friend whom Milhaud knew while he was there. I have selected six of the set to present today:
I. Sorocaba, pour Madam Regis de Oliveira
IV. Copacabana, pour Madame Regis de Oliveira
VII. Corcovado, pour Madam Henri Hoppenot
IX. Sumare, pour Henri Hoppenot
X. Paineras, pour la Baronne Frachone
XII. Paysandu, pour Paul Claudel
The suite opens with a setting of the city, Sorocaba. At first glance, the score appears basic, belying the fact that Milhaud is here working with four distinct voice parts: there is a bass drone, from which comes a bass samba rhythm; above these are punctuating chords that shift occasionally to brief, underlying melodies; with a bonny tune sitting on top. Thus, though the score at first glance appears rudimentary, there is actually a lot going on, and actually many layers of activity. This sophistication and economy of means is a characteristic found throughout the set.
Following Sorocaba are a series of dances celebrating Rio de Janeiro, including the fourth dance, on Copacabana. While in Rio, Milhaud would sometimes go to the Copacabana beach. He spoke of how he admired one of the houses there, designed by the Italo-Brazilian architect, Antonio Virzi. Virzi was the architect for a number of buildings in and around Copacabana beach, so it is hard to say which one Milhaud may have been referring to, and if it is even still standing today. Virzi’s Villa Smith de Vasconcelos, erected in 1915, would have been on the beach during Milhaud sojourn there, and may be the very same home that Milhaud is known to have referred to as the “delightfully amusing” structure that he delighted in adoring while visiting there. Unfortunately, photographs are all that remain of the Villa, which was demolished in 1964.
VII. Corcovado – also in Rio – is a mountain at the summit of which one will presently find one of the New7Wonders of the world, Christ the Redeemer. This landmark had not yet been erected at the time of Milhaud’s visit, and one can see here an early photo of the mountain, statueless at its peak: Milhaud enjoyed spending his evenings hiking the Tijuca forrest, where Corcovado mountain can be found; and enjoying the views of Rio below: “I loved to see the panorama of Rio gradually spread out before me, with the bay clearly outlined in glittering lights.”
The following is a modern photograph taken from the summit of Corcovado, with the lights of the bay below. It likely would not have been quite so lit up in Milhaud’s time, but still gives a sense of the grandeur of the view.
Milhaud is famous for his extensive use of polytonality. Harvard’s Dictionary defines polytonality as “the simultaneous use of two (occasionally three or four) different keys in different parts of the musical fabric.” The “different parts of the musical fabric” is a very important distinction, because one can have multiple keys occurring at the same time that are woven into each other, giving the effect of atonality. Polytonality is distinguished by the fact that the keys are more distinct and discernable.
Parts of dance IX Sumare and X Paineras exhibit polytonal characteristics, with Ab harmonies in the left hand and C harmonies in the right. Depending on how the harmonies are voiced, the quality of sound can be misty or jarring. In Sumare, chordal, polytonal pairings are found everywhere, but not everywhere expressed jarringly. Some of the chord pairings are accented, occasionally heightening the jar, but, for the most part, Milhaud achieves a more subtle effect, through the employment of varying shades of piano.
Interestingly, in Sumare, Milhaud also uses quartal chords versus traditional chords built of thirds. Quartal chords have pitches that are spaced a bit wider than traditional chords. That little bit of extra width gives the chords a completely foreign, other-worldly effect. Thus, Sumare has a particularly sophisticated and mysterious quality about it, with quartal chords in polytonal chord pairings !
Unlike Sumare, Paineras is less chordal and more songlike. However, like Sumare, Paineras is also dynamically subdued, though Milhaud’s use of polytonality here doesn’t so much give a misty effect as it does a strange pungence. The E’s sprinkled throughout the soprano melody are especially powerful against the simultaneous, repeated Eb’s in the bass accompaniment, creating a sharpness that’ll make you wonder, “Is the piano out of tune?” Well, it may be, but, even with an in-tune piano, Paineras will sound out of tune!
The final dance of the set, and the last that I will be presenting today, is Paysandu, dedicated to Milhaud’s great friend, Paul Claudel, without whom Milhaud’s love affair with the Brazilian rhythms would not have been possible. In his autobiography, Notes Without Music, Milhaud provides the following colorful account of his and Claudel’s first landing in Rio:
“We reached Rio on February 1st, 1917, on a blazing hot day like midsummer. Claudel found quarters for me with him at the French legation; magnificently situated in the Rua Paysandu, a street bordered with royal palms from the isle of Reunion sometimes more than two hundred feet in height and crowned with swaying fronds over twenty feet long.”
I think these are the best kinds of souvenirs: these “Saudades,” or fond remembrances. Milhaud has left us with a wonderful musical portrait of the Brazilian landscape, infused with his special take on harmonic language. The dances, which have rhythms and melodies that are so cheery and fun, also have an additional spiciness through Milhaud’s harmonic manipulations. It is a delightful and fantastic marriage of ideas.
Mephisto Walzer I, Episode: Der Tanz in der Dorfschenke aus Lenaus ‘Faust’ by Franz Liszt
Faust is a German legend about a scholar who makes a pact with the Devil. Many writers have used this legend as fodder for their work, most notably Christopher Marlowe and Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.
Goethe’s Faust is a tragedy in two parts, with the first part first published in 1808. It gained widespread popularity and inspired many other writers to produce Fausts of their own, including the Austrian poet Nikolaus Lenau, whose version of Faust further inspired the Hungarian composer, Franz Liszt, to compose the Mephisto Waltz.
Liszt originally submitted three versions of the Mephisto Waltz to his publisher: an orchestral score, a piano duet, and a piano solo, all at once. Though Liszt had expressed a wish to have all three versions released at the same time, the piano versions were published first, with the orchestral publication ultimately lagging a few years behind.
Interestingly, in addition to these three, publicly published versions, Liszt also provided another arrangement of the piano solo version for Baroness Olga von Meyendorff’s private library. This version is now included as an appendix to the Henle edition of the piece, so it is now yet another publicly published version of the Mephisto Waltz! In the Meyendorff version, much material is deleted, simplified, and reworked, plus entirely new introductory and concluding material are inserted. A number of these”Baroness” ideas are very effective and worth considering, so I have created a special Baroness-Mephisto mashup of Liszt’s Mephisto Waltz, which I am presenting today.
Now, I must admit that I question the strength of the relationship between Liszt’s Mephisto Waltz, and Lenau’s Faust. Though the title page to Liszt’s Mephisto Waltz very clearly references not only Lenau’s Faust, but also specifically the Episode: The Dance in the Village Tavern as a point of inspiration – and though Liszt did specifically request that the text to the Episode be printed as a preface to the score – a reading of the text followed by a reading of the score does not compute for me. I hear playfulness in the music, that I don’t sense from a reading of the scene. I hear tenderness in the music, that I don’t sense from a reading of the scene. And I hear – at times – anger in the music, that I don’t sense from a reading of the scene. The only sense I get from the scene is a lasciviousness that would make any modest person blush!
If the music is unable to translate the raciness of the scene, then I don’t think that it is a very successful depiction. I wonder if Liszt was trying to capitalize on an association with a sensational book, without having truly, successfully created a musical version of its sentiments. Liszt was known to have been surprised by the success of the Mephisto Waltz. Perhaps he was aware of the stretch in drawing the connection?
Ignoring the relationship with Lenau’s Faust boosts the musical merits of the work. Because the Mephisto Waltz, on its own, is excellent music. It is crowd-pleasing to the point that it is one of those pieces that we all love to hate, because it is played to death!
The Mephisto Waltz was composed around 1860, about the time when Liszt’s life sort of fell apart. He became disillusioned with his work at the Weimar court, which had begun with the promise of utopian ideals and ended in petty politics. He was unable to secure a marriage license with the then “love-of-his-life,” Princess Carolyne Sayn-Wittgenstein, despite much struggle and effort. I say “the then ‘love-of-his-life'”, because he had another “love-of-his-life” before, Comtesse Marie d’Agoult, with whom he had three children. In the years surrounding 1860, he would lose two of these children: his son Daniel, a promising pianist who succumbed to tuberculosis in 1859; and then his daughter Blandine, from childbirth in 1862. All of this took its toll, and it was at this time that Liszt’s compositions began to turn to darker fare. While he was previously known as a virtuoso pianist, whose compositions contained notes galore, towards the final decades of his life, his music would gradually become more stark and austere, with harmonies losing definition.
The Mephisto Waltz was composed just on the cusp of the beginning of Liszt’s “descent”, so it is still a rather cheery piece, but Liszt has included some moments of harmonic ambiguity. With the piece being about Mephisto – or the Devil – there would naturally be some harmonic strangeness. The Presto twitters which have been likened to Mephisto’s laughter are moments of this harmonic peculiarity, where natural and simultaneously flatted or sharped notes are found in opposition to each other between the hands. This is not polytonality, though it is a similarly amorphous language. In later pieces, Liszt would experiment with polytonal and even atonal techniques. Thus, though Milhaud has become known as The Polytonality Guy, composers were already experimenting with polytonal techniques even before Milhaud was born. Here, in the Mephisto Waltz, one finds inklings of harmonic dissolution.
A dance to the music of time by Josephine Chang
I wanted to challenge myself to try to compose something, and, unfortunately, this was all that I could come up with. A dance to the music of time is a multi-media collage. The title is taken from the painting of the same name. The audio is sampled and generated by me. The video is a collage that I created from other people’s work, so I must thank Colin Rich, Daniel Giles Helm, and Flock Dance whose videos I used in my collage. This piece was inspired by a book whose title references another epic tale, Richard Powers’s Orfeo.
Celebrating Johann Sebastian Bach // Bach Wettbewerb Leipzig 2014
Up until the 18th century, music was considered a disposable commodity, as composers were constantly writing new music to suit the changing tastes of the times. No one ever thought to revisit old music of past seasons, nor did they think to continue supporting music that had long since fallen out of fashion. Thus, an unusual thing happened in the case of the German composer, Johann Sebastian Bach. Born in 1685 and died in 1750, Bach would somehow manage to develop a cult following. His music would continue to be taught, studied, and passed on, for centuries after his style of composition had fallen into obsolution. Thus, when we speak of the classical canon, we always begin with Bach. Because it really did begin with Bach! History owes the hagiography of classical music to this very special phenomenon that happened around Bach and his music.
The defining characteristic of Bach’s music was his mastery of counterpoint, which is an old, Baroque style of composing, in which melodies, or “voices”, are layered one over the other. Bach only ever wrote in counterpoint, and among his most well-known contrapuntal works are his two sets of 24 Preludes and Fugues. The first, completed in 1722, came with the highly descriptive title:
The Well-tempered Clavier, or preludes and fugues in all the tones and semitones, both with the major third, or ‘Ut, Re, Mi’ and with the minor third or ‘Re, Mi, Fa’. For the use and profit of young musicians who are eager to learn, as well as for the entertainment of those who are already expert in the art
At the time that this first set of preludes and fugues were completed, we had developed what would become our modern tuning system. Instruments were not always tuned the way that we tune them today, and it was in the 18th century that a “well-tempered” way of tuning came into vogue. It was fashionable for composers of the time to write music in every available key, in order to show off the unique properties of the new system. Thus, Bach was simply following the fashion of the time, in completing a set of Preludes and Fugues in all 24 keys.
Bach so enjoyed composing in this form that in 1742 he would complete a second set of Preludes and Fugues. This one came with the much simpler title of “24 Preludes and Fugues.”
Overtime, these two sets of Preludes and Fugues would develop nicknames. One often hears them referred to as WTC I & II, WTC being short for “Well-Tempered Clavier”. Another common nickname refers to the two sets collectively as “The Forty-Eight”.
Das Wohltemperierte Clavier II: BWV 877 by Johann Sebastian Bach
These WTC books were teaching pieces, aims of which involved not only performance technique, but also different types of keyboard composition. BWV 877 was written in the rarest and most uncomfortable keys of d# minor. In the Prelude, Bach is showing us how to write in the style of an Invention, or a composition that involves two voices. In Bach’s Inventions, one can expect to hear melodic ideas passed back and forth between the two voices.
877’s Fugue is a four voice fugue that is modeled entirely around a single melodic idea, known as “the subject”. The subject for this fugue consists of three repeated notes that gradually climb up to the fifth, and then trail back down. The repeated notes at the opening of the subject are what music theorists have called a “hammer head” opening. This is a compositional device that has been used throughout the ages. It is a popular way to begin a melody, because if the listener has missed the first note, s/he still has a second and third chance to catch it. The repetitions serve as a herald, letting the listener know that the melodic idea has entered the scene (once more).
Bach composed forty-eight of these Preludes and Fugues, each an exquisite and intricate puzzle piece, so masterfully done. Thus, it is not difficult to imagine how Bach’s music could continue to acquire admirers over time. His manuscripts would reach the hands of Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven, who all studied and admired Bach’s work. They would even reach the hands of the much later Romantics, including those of Felix Mendelssohn.
Mendelssohn would become a super fan of Bach’s music. Mendelssohn’s family had acquired a large collection of Bach’s manuscripts, so Mendelssohn himself had access to a wide array of Bach’s work. He developed a profound respect for Bach’s contrapuntal writing, and in the 1830s was inspired to compose some preludes and fugues of his own.
Six Preludes and Fugues for Piano Op. 35, No. 5 by Felix Mendelssohn
Mendelssohn’s Six Preludes and Fugues for Piano were composed between the years 1832 and 1837, with the Prelude and Fugue No. 5 completed in 1836 and 1834, respectively. The set was originally conceived as a series of “Etudes and Fugues”, but later became a set of “Preludes and Fugues”.
Though he decided to go with the title of “Preludes”, all of these Preludes retain Etude elements, each focusing on a particular aspect of piano technique. The Fifth Prelude is focused on voicing, or finger independence. It is chordal in texture, with melodic lines embedded in the chords. Sometimes the melody is in the upper portion of the chord, sometimes in the middle, and there is also a moment where the bass is given a melodic solo. Thus, throughout the piece, certain notes/fingers are required to play out more, and this is a special piano technique.
The fugue is a three-voice fugue.. sort of. Mendelssohn adopted elements of contrapuntal technique, but did not following them in a strictly Baroque way. Interestingly, like the subject for Bach’s fugue described above, the subject for Mendelssohn’s Fifth Fugue also features a hammer head opening: it begins with six repeated notes that are followed by a descending scale plus an ascending arpeggio, and ends with a curly tale that spirals upwards in pitch. If it was difficult to miss the entrance of Bach’s subject, missing Mendelssohn’s subject entrance is an impossibility. The head note is repeated six times; seven if one counts the octave appoggiatura that precedes it all.
In 1950, to commemorate the 200th anniversary of Bach’s death, the inaugural International Johann Sebastian Bach Competition was held in Leipzig, Germany. A well-known Soviet composer of the time, Dmitri Shostakovich, was invited to sit on the judging panel for the competition, and his experience there so inspired him that he decided to write a set of 24 Preludes and Fugues himself, and immediately set out to do so.
Shostakovich’s gumption is something to be admired. When Bach set out to complete his Preludes and Fugues, he took a period of years to compile the pieces, sometimes inserting and transposing other works into the keys that he required. Not so, for Shostakovich. He began composing his set of Preludes and Fugues in October of 1950, and by February of the following year it was complete! All twenty-four!
24 Praludien und Fugen Op. 87, Nr. 15 by Dmitri Schostakowitsch
The 15th Prelude and Fugue is a stark juxtaposition of a “scherzo” Prelude with a sinuous Fugue. By this time, harmonic language had transformed dramatically, and could at times be very dissonant. The fugue is especially cacophonic, and has an uncomfortably nervous quality to it.
Thus, we see how Bach’s work has been continuously passed on and studied by centuries of musicians, further inspiring the creation of yet more remarkable works. However, Bach would live to see the style of composition that he so adored and had so mastered — he would live to see Counterpoint grow out of fashion in his lifetime. By the time of Bach’s last job in Leipzig, in 1723, contrapuntal music was already considered “last season’s stuff”. Tastes were moving away from the multi-layered cake of the Baroque towards more Classical sensibilities, where one’s attention would be focused on just one melody, while the rest occupied an accompanimental background. The layers of music that Bach so enjoyed and was so good at composing had become pedantic and unnatural in the ears of a public who began to crave lighter, less complicated fare.
Franzosischen Suiten: BWV 815 by Johann Sebastian Bach
Bach was aware of this shift in taste, and did compose pieces that exhibit aspects of the new style. With the French Suites, Bach made a turn towards a simpler, more popular, more accessible style of composing. Here one finds Bach at perhaps his most lyrical. However, at no point did Bach completely abandon the distinctive element of his style: the fiercely contrapuntal component that is Bach.
Beethoven wrote 32 piano sonatas that cover nearly his entire compositional career. Opus 110 is the penultimate sonata and, as such, is a late work. Late Beethoven is famously and highly inventive, and Op. 110 is no exception.
Sonate Op. 110 by Ludwig van Beethoven
110 is a sonata in three movements:
(1) Moderato cantabile molto espressivo
(2) Allegro molto
(3) Adagio ma non troppo
Recitativo: piu adagio
Adagio ma non troppo
Klagender Gesang: Arioso dolente
Fuga: Allegro ma non troppo
L’istesso tempo di Arioso
Ermattet, klagend: Perdendo le forze, dolente
L’istesso tempo della Fuga, poi a poi di nuovo vivente: Nach und nach wieder auflebend
Meno Allegro. Etwas langsamer
With the tempo sequence alone, Beethoven has already made significant strides away from convention: The Allegro expected in the first movement has given way to a Moderato, and one qualified by “cantabile molto espressivo” at that. The Adagio of the second movement is now an Allegro molto. And the Allegro of the third movement is now a patchwork of Adagios and Allegros, and all shades of tempi in between.
Though the first movement is no longer an Allegro, it does still follow Sonata-Allegro form: There is a Theme A, followed by a Theme B, then some developmentary material, then Theme A and Theme B come back – just like a Sonata-Allegro form is supposed to. Yet, Beethoven still manages to turn our expectations. The piece does indeed begin with a Theme A, but it is a bi-partite Theme A, with a brief, introductory A-1 in m 1-4 and, later, a more substantial A-2 in m 5-11. Notice that Theme A as a whole (and even in its partitions) is a somewhat awkward balance of approximately 11 measures of music – a far cry from the classic four- and eight-bar phraseology of the time.
One reaches transitional material at m 12, with Theme B emerging in the dominant at m 28, but it, like Theme A, is strangely imbalanced, lasting a mere and rather odd three measures. Beethoven then takes ten measures to close the Exposition. These odd numbered proportions give the music a somewhat uncomfortable feeling, a strangely and often overlooked aspect of this movement – perhaps because the lyricism and harmonic potency that Beethoven draws forth and infuses into the thematic material are so alluring, that you don’t notice that inkling of an unsettled feeling, murmuring in your stomach.
While these awkward proportions of the Exposition are certainly an interesting aspect of the movement, I think that what Beethoven does next is actually what is truly special about the piece. The Development, beginning at m 40, cycles through the submediant, subdominant, and supertonic, and perhaps some other harmonies in between that are not so easily identified, but it does so using the A-1 material from the opening of the piece. The entire Development is simply A-1 repeated a total of eight times. (Finally, we get some balance in the phraseology.) Then the Recapitulation comes in at m 56.
Now, because the Development is making extensive and repetitious use of A-1, the Recapitulation, which is normally heralded by the return of Theme A, with A-1 in the tonic, ends up actually fading into existence; very simply and organically emerging from the Development. Thus, without knowing it, Beethoven has already taken you back Home. Additionally, where A-2 returns, the harmony shifts to the subdominant and, then, upon reaching the transition material, to #V. The key signature of four flats is momentarily supplanted with four sharps and we learn that, in Beethoven’s world, modulation does not end with the Development.
^These are two very fantastical elements to this movement – The almost inconsequential emergence of the Recapitulation, and its continued modulations to even further foreign keys are stunning compositional devices that Beethoven has tinkered into existence. Fortunately, the insanity does not continue indefinitely, and Beethoven does later bring us back to the tonic for the return of Theme B, and we do close the piece in the same key that we started.
It has become legendary that the second movement is inspired by German folk songs. A. B. Marx, a contemporary of Beethoven’s, wrote a book on Beethoven’s sonatas, and, when he got to Op 110, plainly stated that Beethoven drew from Ich bin luderlich, or I am dissolute, for a melody used in the movement. Later, the more contemporary, 20th century writer, Martin Cooper would find, also, Unsa katz had katzln ghabt, or Our cat did kittens have, in the first measures of the movement. I would caution that these attributions are conjectures and not fact, as there is no evidence that Beethoven actually modeled his melodies on these songs, though it does appear that he was definitely familiar with at least “the cats”. But there is one good thing about these alleged resemblances coming to light, for the lyrics, when inserted into the music, do serve to highlight the humorousness of this movement. Because this second movement is a terribly funny movement:
Ou-r cat did kittens have,
THREE AND SIX-TY DID SHE HAVE!
Ou-r cat did kittens have,
THREE AND SIX-TY DID SHE HAVE!
THREE AND SIX-TY,
THREE AND SIX-TY,
THREE AND SIX-TY DID SHE HAVE!
I am slovenly,
You are slovenly,
We are all of us slo-ven-ly.
I am slovenly,
You are slovenly,
All of us are slo-ven-ly . . .
By the tempo indications alone, it is clear that the third movement is the most complex and unusual of the set. Structurally, it is a patchwork of six sections of material in the following order: Introductory Recitative – Arioso – Fugue – Arioso – Fugue – Coda. The extra concentration of instructions serve to highlight the variability of the movement’s affections, which vacillate wildly between deepest depression to greatest joy.
Curiously, beginning with the first Arioso section, German instructions make a special appearance, in addition to the Italian. The first Arioso asks for Klagender Gesang, Arioso dolente, or Complaintive Singing, painful Song. The second Arioso is even more deeply felt: Ermattet, klagend and Perdendo le forze, dolente – Exhausted, complaintive, Lost hope. It may be worth noting that Beethoven had a difficult year when he wrote this – Opus 110 was composed in 1821, which was, for Beethoven, a year much consumed with severe health problems that nearly put a halt to his productivity. Perhaps some of that difficulty found its way into this final movement of Op 110. The Arioso portions certainly sound like Beethoven is dying – they are perhaps the most raw and painful music ever to have been written. . .
We often talk of how Chopin was the poet of the piano, but I think that Beethoven had his poetic moments as well, and this is one of them.
Will the real Slim Shady please stand up
Das Wohltemperierte Klavier Teil I: Preludium & Fuga IV, BWV 849 by Johann Sebastian Bach
A fugue is based on a short melody, which is stated at the beginning by one voice alone, then followed by other voices in close succession. The short melody, or subject, reappears throughout the piece in all voices and may be developed through augmentation, diminution, inversion, and stretto.
Perhaps the greatest Fugue-ist was Johann Sebastian Bach (1685-1750). From the first volume of the Well-Tempered Clavier, Bach’s Fugue in c# has the special distinction of featuring five voices, and not just one distinguishing melody, but two: the first is the subject presented at the opening of the piece; the second is a countersubject that emerges later, featuring a distinctive “hammer” head. Reappearances of the countersubject are often treated in stretto, with a hyper-stretto beginning at m. 92 that is very difficult to pull off.
Prelude, Fugue et Variation, Op. 18: Lento, Allegretto ma non troppo by Cesar Franck
The fugue of Cesar Franck’s Prelude, Fugue et Variation features three voices on a substantial subject whose head is later transformed into tolling bells, which are then further compressed into a deliberate march, leading to the end. There is significant use of stretto, with a hyper-stretto appearing in mm. 52-58 that is very difficult to pull off.
These pieces were not written for the piano. Bach’s keyboard was the harpsichord and clavichord, and it was on these early pianos that the Well-Tempered Clavier and all the other Bach works that are now played on the piano were conceived. Franck’s Op. 18 was written for organ.
It is true that something is lost by not hearing a performance of Bach’s keyboard music on a historic keyboard, or by not hearing Franck’s organ music on the instrument for which it was intended. However, for Bach, and especially his fugal works, the piano only serves to contribute to the appreciation of his music. Though the harpsichord has excellent precision and clarity, the modern piano emerged and eclipsed it for a reason, for the harpsichord’s sound quality is limited by a monotonous and unsustainable tone that many tried to work around through the addition of second manuals and the use of arpeggiated tricks of the trade. Bach’s fugues are tiresome to hear on the harpsichord — it is very difficult to hear all the subject entrances, especially those occurring in the inner voices, and those nearly inextricably intertwined with others in the same register. On the piano, one can choose to bring voices out through dynamic shading. Thus, the compositional intricacies of Bach’s counterpoint can be far better appreciated on the piano than they ever could have been on the harpsichord.
As for Franck, this is more a case of available instrumentation – I have no organ. Actually, the fascinating thing about Franck’s Op. 18 is that it was originally originally conceived as a keyboard duo, for harmonium and piano. This duo was then transcribed for organ, and that is generally how we think of it, as a piece for organ. It is from the organ transcription that came the transcription for piano. So, truly, it is not that I am lacking an organ, but that I have no harmonium. Though, perhaps I should have searched for a harmoniumist and we could have performed the true original together, as the composition does lose quite a bit once it has reached the end of this transcription chain. See below for a wonderful example of the original original.
Continuum by Gyorgy Ligeti
Though the piano has definitely eclipsed the harpsichord, that has not stopped contemporary composers from “going back” and writing specifically for the plectra-rich predecessor.
Ligeti’s Continuum was written expressly with the special acoustics of the harpsichord in mind. Though the harpsichord can be hindered by its monotony and lack of sustaining tone, Ligeti took advantage of its light touch and lack of dampers to write a piece that is meant to give the impression of a Continuum. The modern piano having entirely the opposite qualities – dynamic responsiveness, a sustaining tone, heavy touch, and dampers – makes it especially ill-suited to a performance of this piece. But, again, I lack the appropriate instrumentation. However I do have a piano, and so I play a bastardized version of Ligeti’s Continuum. On the piano it becomes an entirely different creature, completely foreign to the original intentions of the composer. This is stretching appropriate performance practice beyond its limits, but I just don’t care. I want to play it, and so I shall.
The Passion of the Sonate
Sonate by Franz Liszt
The first sonatas where simply pieces to played, or instrumental music, and were identified as such to differentiate them from music to be sung. In the 17th century, the beginnings of the Classical sonata emerge, where pieces that alternate fast and slow movements are referred to as “sonatas”. In the Baroque era, a symmetrical version of the sonata develops, with movements following an Allegro-Adagio-Dance-Adagio-Allegro scheme. By the Viennese Classical sonata, the symmetry becomes skewed to an Allegro-Adagio-Scherzo/Minuet-Allegro progression. Then Liszt continues to convolute the concept by calling his squashed monstrosity, simply, “Sonate”.
Like sonatas of the past, Liszt’s Sonate does have fast and slow parts. It also does bear resemblance to first movement sonata form, or sonata-allegro form, whose outline includes an Exposition, Development, and Recapitulation. Yet the fast and slow parts of Liszt’s Sonate cannot be divided into movements as typical of the past, for the progression of each “movement” is not substantial enough for each to be able to stand alone as a true movement should. However, the Exposition and Recapitulation typical of the sonata-allegro genre is squarely found within the work, and thus its ties to sonata form are as incontrovertible as its title.
The piece opens with a slow, Introit-like pre-introduction, wherein an Introit motive is presented twice; the following, brief Introduction presents two more motives in quick succession while winding up to an Allegro, or what has been referred to as the beginning of the Exposition, where the two Introductory motives are hybridized, the Introit motive returns, and a new Grandioso motive is presented; there follows a slower section, which presents the Introductory motives in a more lyrical light; it then becomes Allegro once more, with lots of Introductory motives, sometimes buried sometimes not, at once grand, at another indignant, then again vivamente, etcetcetc – the Introit motive makes its appearance again, and the Grandioso motive, this time dressed up in a pesante costume, closes the set; the next slower section is a transition into another slower section that can be thought of as the beginning of a Development, though developmental procedures surely have already been put to use long before; and so on.
This piecemeal quality and exhaustive use of transformation are what make the Sonata so difficult to follow and so maddening to analyze. Indeed, it does not help that the primary mode of construction is transformation. The Introductory motives, Introit motive, and so on are constantly being reprised in many different guises. Furthermore, though there are clearly numerous motives, each bears uncanny resemblance to one another. To illustrate: the Introit motive begins with repeated notes and follows with a leap, a dotted rhythm, and a descending line. The first introductory motive follows a similar contour: repeated notes, leap, dotted rhythm, descending line. The second introductory motive is maybe less similar but still includes: repeated notes, a leap, and the beginnings of a descending line. Further muddling comprehension is Liszt’s choice to layer, overlap, and hybridize all of his motives, the primary Expository motive leading the charge with its theme of hybrid, layered fragments.
In this way, the initial reactions to the piece continue to ring true today. Clara Schumann called it “merely a blind noise – no healthy ideas anymore, everything confused” – and who could blame her. But it wouldn’t be until a century later that an explanation for this confusion would come to light. Claudio Arrau contributed Some Final Thoughts to the facsimile edition of Liszt’s Sonate, and in them proclaimed “Completely new . . . is the method of motivic work: the entire sonata is developed from one single motive,” an assessment that, perhaps, has since not received enough credit and attention. Each motive has elements shared by all the others – they do appear to all be transformations of each other. Given that the motives do too closely resemble one another, it is not difficult to imagine Liszt culling thirty-five pages of magnificent spectacle all from a single idea; one could even speculate that, possibly, the original motive never once makes its appearance!
Abstract or absolute music was an idea coined by the Romantic philosophers, Tieck, Herder, Wackenroder, et al. If anything is abstract music, surely this must is be it. This alone out of Liszt’s entire compositional output is the piece that Liszt spoke little of a program and gave plainly the title, “Sonate”. Though Liszt did not believe that true abstract music was possible, because it is not possible for music to have zero external references, could it not be that the Sonate is simply impossible to describe? Does not the evidence of such a wide variety of interpretations – Faust, Paradise lost, the Fall of Man, etc – suggest that there is not one true meaning? Perhaps Liszt bestowed an abstract title on what is truly an abstractly conceived piece. The Sonate is not about anything, or, if it is, you don’t know how to describe it exactly, though many have tried. It could be a like a Chopin Ballade – a nonlinear story, piecemeal, patchwork – but it is not even that literal. It could not be titled anything else, and a programme would only detract from its ambitiousness. It is impossible to put your finger on the je ne sais quois of the piece and that is what makes it so spectacular.
Love Save Japan
In dedication to the survivors of the Sendai earthquake, tsunami, and Fukushima Daiichi nuclear crises of 2011, because it was at that time that I began work on the following program, which subsequently, unexpectedly, and fittingly served as a comfort during the aftermath of the apocalyptic shock.
The Ballade is a narrative piece that is highly evocative but tells a story in a non-linear and unconventional way. Frederic Chopin composed four Ballades, and my two favorites are the second and the fourth.
Ballade No. 2, Op. 38 by Frederic Chopin
The Second Ballade carries a dedication to Robert Schumann, which I suspect is a significant attribution. Though it is typically viewed as a return for Robert’s dedication of Kreisleriana to Chopin, I would not be surprised if Chopin was subtly and intentionally presenting a piece that complemented his colleague’s personality. The Ballade No. 2 oscillates between two extremes of thematic affection, in similar fashion to Robert’s self-professed dual personalities, Florestan and Eusebius. Chopin would have been aware of these two personalities through Schumann’s other composition, Carnaval, in which, incidentally, Chopin also appears, but the extent of Chopin’s familiarity with Schumann’s schizophrenia is difficult to say. Regardless, the connection between Chopin’s dedication of the Second Ballade and Robert’s actual personality is an exceptionally apt one, and extraordinarily serendipitous at the least.
The Second Ballade trades back and forth between a simpatico pastoral theme and a fiery, almost angry second theme. In the end, the angry theme seems to have disturbed the calm of the countryside, as the pastoral theme returns one final time to close the piece in a tragic minor key. Thus the story to the Second Ballade appears to have an unhappy ending.
This melancholic tinge is a common thread in Chopin’s compositions, and was described by Chopin himself as embodying a particular Polish word, “zal.” Difficult to translate, Polish-English dictionaries agree on these possible meanings: regret, grief, compassion, pity; it can even take on sharper tones of resentment, complaint, grudge.
Zal was present in much of the artwork coming out of Poland at the time. The poetry of Chopin’s contemporary and compatriot, Adam Mickiewicz, also resonates with this forlorn quality.
The Pilgrim, from Sonnets from the Crimea by Adam Mickiewicz
Below me half a world I see outspread;
Above, blue heaven; around, peaks of snow;
And yet the happy pulse of life is slow,
I dream of distant places, pleasures dead.
The woods of Lithuania I would tread
Where happy-throated birds sing songs I know;
Above the trembling marshland I would go
Where chill-winged curlews dip and call o’er head.
A tragic, lonely terror grips my heart,
A longing for some peaceful, gentle place,
And memories of youthful love I trace.
Unto my childhood home I long to start,
And yet if all the leaves my name could cry
She would not pause nor heed as she passed by.
Translated by Edna Worthley Underwood
Chopin and Schumann met on a number of occasions and on one such occasion Chopin is reported to have indicated that his Ballades were inspired by some poems of Mickiewicz. It is easy to see the zal that is shared between the works of these two Polish artists.
Ballade No. 4, Op. 52 by Frederic Chopin
The Ballade No. 4 is infused with zal, from the opening, tolling bell-chimes through the final, grim and grave chords. Normally, there is a sophisticated harmonic explanation for the melancholic quality of Chopin’s music, but one cannot turn to harmony to explain how Chopin manages to draw an extraordinary plaintiveness from the simplicity of the opening octaves that set the tone for the piece.
The Second and Fourth Ballade share some compositional devices that make me think that they are related somehow. Toward the end of the Second Ballade one finds the quavering motive that is given prominence in the opening theme of the Fourth Ballade, and the Fourth Ballade takes a moment to visit the countryside in a pastoral episode in the middle of its story. However, there is a sophistication to the Fourth Ballade that is not in the Second. The Fourth Ballade is a special and unusual piece in that its climactic moment is not a grand and elaborate bravura episode. To the contrary, the point of the Ballade No. 4 is two measures of the most beautiful harmonic writing that render a magnificent instance of epiphanic introspection, which then lead to a fantastic and extended denouement.
Wed, from Memory Pieces by David Lang
David Lang wrote a set of Memory Pieces in memory of important people in his life that he’s lost. Wed was written in memory of his artist friend Kate Ericson, who, as she lay dying, married her companion and partner in artistic collaboration, Mel Ziegler. I’m not sure that Wed has zal, but it is infused with a mixed and very complex feeling. If it is telling a story, it is more in the form of remembrances than occurrences happening in real time. They are, fittingly, memories.
David didn’t write a ritardando or fermata at the end of the piece, and I’m sure he could have if he had wanted it to die away gradually. Instead, the piece ends rather abruptly. There is a similar, sudden ending in the middle of the Second Ballade that is soon revealed to be a mere pause in the action as the music resumes but moments later. But for Wed, the music does not resume. With the final pair of half notes, David seems to be portraying the final breath of life. Death is a “poof” moment. As Professor Slughorn says in the film version of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, “That’s life, I suppose. You go along and then, suddenly: Poof!” The piece can only end abruptly. “Poof” – and she’s gone.
Ein leiser Ton gezogen
Phantasie Op. 17 by Robert Schumann
Many analyses of Schumann’s Op. 17 tend to focus a disproportionate amount of attention on the Beethovenian aspects of the work: its one-time packaging as a “Sonata for Beethoven” and its purported quotations of Beethoven’s An Die Ferne Geliebte. However, by viewing the Beethoven influences as more cursory to the inspiration behind it, one comes to a much richer reading of its content. I believe the greater influence on the work is Clara Wieck, and not only in the first movement, which letters between Robert and Clara verify, but also in the second and the third.
Composition of the Phantasie began in 1836 and was completed, and published, in 1839. Many influences contributed to the development of the work, though none perhaps as great as Clara Wieck. Robert had been taking piano lessons with Friedrich Wieck, and fell in love with Friedrich’s daughter, Clara. Friedrich objected to the match and made efforts to keep the two apart. It was during this time that the Phantasie took shape.
The piece is written in three movements. In a letter to Clara, Robert wrote that “the first movement is a deep lament about you.” I think it is not only a deep lament about Clara, but also an expression of the frustrations that Robert was feeling with Friedrich, who was making their relationship very difficult. For example, portions of the piece seem to evoke voices in argument, as if representative of the angry exchanges that Robert and Friedrich were known to have. The movement even begins with a seething accompaniment, percolating with a tension that is more evocative of Robert’s feelings toward Friedrich than towards Clara. Yet there are softer moments that surely must be about Clara alone, in which the “ein leiser ton,” as it is inscribed in the manuscript, is given special prominence. And so, I dub the first movement of the Phantasie: “Clara, how I love you (but darn that dad of yours).”
The second movement is typically referred to as the Triumphant March, because of the use of a dotted, march-like rhythm, and because of its grand nature. However, in this example the dotted figure begins with a weak upbeat (short-long, short-long, short-long) as opposed to a strong downbeat (long-short, long-short, long). As a result, the dotted rhythm reads more as a series of skips as opposed to a series of marches, as if Robert were skipping for joy, for the love of his life. And he skips non-stop: skipping to transforming themes, stretching and repackaging the short-long rhythmic figure. Thus it would seem that the movement does not express the steeling of one who is marching into battle, but rather the overflowing of ecstasy of one who is in love. And so, I dub the second movement of the Phantasie: “Robert skipping for joy, for Clara.”
The third movement is a very tender and affectionate movement; I like to think of it as Robert’s love song for Clara. Robert wrote many actual love songs for Clara, but this is the piano love song. It is written in a Rondo form, in the pattern of ABCABA, with introductory and closing sections. Here is a more detailed description of the form (click to enlarge):
The opening arpeggiations set the tone for the movement, which is very heartfelt and adoring. And so, I dub the third movement of the Phantasie: “Robert’s love song for Clara.”
In 1839, Robert would approach Friedrich for Clara’s hand in marriage; Clara was not yet of age and their union would require Friedrich’s consent. Friedrich refused, and an epic legal dispute ensued.
In 1840, Robert and Clara finally secured a marriage license, just prior to Clara’s 21st birthday. Thus, it appears that the two could have avoided a difficult and extended court battle had they simply waited until Clara had turned 21 before pursuing marriage, since it took them nearly as long to make it official anyway. But, had they waited, we may not have been gifted with such a beautifully ardent piece of music.
Op. 118, No. 2: Intermezzo by Johannes Brahms
Thirteen years later, the Schumanns would meet a young Johannes Brahms, who, at the time, was just twenty years old. The couple was very impressed with Johannes and took it upon themselves to help him in his career. At the time, Robert was better known as a writer and editor for a music journal — so he wrote a glowing article on Brahms, hailing him as the next big thing, and introduced Brahms to all the important people in town. Clara was actually more well-known than her husband — she was an internationally renowned concert pianist — and she programmed Brahms’ work in her concert tours. It is in this way that the Schumanns helped to make Brahms the man we know today.
Unfortunately, within a year of meeting Brahms, Robert’s mental health deteriorated. Robert was known to have complained of a ringing in his ears, and perhaps had developed tinnitus to such an aggravating degree that it was driving him mad. He would commit himself to a mental health asylum where he would spend the remainder of his days until passing. The Schumanns and Brahms had become such fast friends that the young Johannes, at just twenty years of age, practically took it upon himself to act as head of household from then on.
It is rumored that at this time Clara Schumann and Johannes Brahms may have developed a romantic relationship. These rumors are probably fueled by the fact that the two wrote many letters to each other, which they later decided to burn. We do not know what was in those letters, nor why they decided to burn them, and so the rumors go a-flyin’!
Later in life, Brahms would write his Op. 118 set of pieces. They carry a dedication to Clara, and I suspect the second of the set reveals what written documents have not been able to prove. Op. 118, No. 2 is a particularly loving piece. I think it is Brahms’ love song to Clara.. and the hint of tragedy in the piece indicates that perhaps it was to be an unrequited love.