Tchaikovskiana

Trapped in History? Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto No. 1

7/19/2015

The arpeggiated chords on Tchaikovsky's 1879 conducting score.

On discovering Kirill Gerstein's "restored" 1879 version of Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto No. 1 and listening to it repeatedly, and looking into the research, the emotional reaction is somewhat akin to the emotions involved in discovering that the person you always thought was your father, isn't your father after all. Let me explain.

For many people, myself included, this iconic and instantly engaging piano concerto has stood as the grand introduction to the world of classical music. It is a work that has the uncanny ability to imprint itself almost immediately onto our musical soul where its unforgettable melodies melt effortlessly into our memory. Therefore, it came as somewhat of a shock to discover that this consequential work as the world has heard it for the last 120 years or so, is not the Piano Concerto as Tchaikovsky intended.

People are trapped in history and history is trapped in them. ~ James Baldwin

Kirill Gerstein, Photo by Marco Borggove

The story of how this restored version has come to light is on the liner notes of Gerstein's just released recording and in depth in many other places elsewhere: here and here and here for instance, and in many more places all around the internet. Some of them with musical examples if you want to hear the changes. Gerstein can't be praised enough for bringing this version to light, and the recording has come about through extensive research conducted and published through the Tchaikovsky Museum and Archive in Klin. The clinching evidence is seen in Tchaikovsky's own conducting score that he used for his last performance of the Piano Concerto in 1893, complete with his handwritten performing notations. As Gerstein states, "The fact that this score [1879 version] was conducted from by the composer right before his death further confirms the assertion that the third version [1894, published after his death] was not executed with Tchaikovsky's participation and that he did not definitively authorize further changes for publication."

It should also be mentioned, as documented in the article on Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto No. 2 previously published here, that once again it was Aleksandr Ziloti, the pianist and conductor (and presumably Tchaikovsky's friend, though history is beginning to hint otherwise) who was the obscuring goblin in the way of us hearing Tchaikovsky's music as he wished it to be performed...

Be all of this as it may, how are we to respond to this new information and the transformed and restored Piano Concerto No. 1? How do we react, after all, to listening of decades of performances, both live and on recording, to this revelatory news and history-modifying new information? Suppose we were to discover that without our knowledge some well-meaning curator had decided to place a tinted blue glass over van Gogh's Starry Night in order to "strengthen" the swirling blues in the sky? Suppose we were to discover that an actor/editor, in transforming an early manuscript into print, had decided that "Now is the winter of our discontent" would play more dramatically, sound more round and poetical, if it read, "Now is the autumn of our discontent?" Of course those are just suppositions--let's take an actual example of editorial meddling, let's take a look at the difference in one of Emily Dickinson's poems, "I felt a Funeral in my Brain." The left column is from the earliest version of that famous poem edited by Higginson and Todd. The right column is as Emily Dickinson actually wrote it:

I Felt a Funeral in my Brain

I felt a funeral in my brain,
And mourners, to and fro,
Kept treading, treading, till it seemed
That sense was breaking through.

And when they all were seated,
A service like a drum
Kept beating, beating, till I thought
My mind was going numb

And then I heard them lift a box,
And creak across my Soul
With those same boots of lead, again.
Then space began to toll

As all the heavens were a bell,
And being, but an ear,
And I and Silence some strange Race
Wrecked, solitary, here.

I felt a Funeral in my Brain,
And Mourners, to and fro,
Kept treading -- treading -- till it seemed
That Sense was breaking through --

And when they all were seated,
A Service like a Drum --
Kept beating -- beating -- till I thought
My mind was going numb --

And then I heard them lift a Box,
And creak across my Soul
With those same Boots of Lead, again.
Then Space -- began to toll

As all the Heavens were a Bell,
And Being, but an Ear,
And I and Silence some strange Race,
Wrecked, solitary, here --

And then a Plank in Reason, broke,
And I dropped down, and down --
And hit a World, at every plunge,
And Finished knowing -- then --

As you can see, although they are substantially the same, it's not only the essential addition of the delirious insight of the last stanza that makes the difference, but Emily's beats and cadences as well, signified by the dashes, and her capitalizations (signifying the "being-ness" of the words emphasized) that transform the poem into something that was not merely wise but deeply profound. The editors, as we know, were attempting to make Emily's poems more "palatable" to an audience expecting verse more conforming to the idea of a genteel "lady poet" of the late 19th century, poems to fit the conventional poetic rules of the time. The editors, without meaning to (giving them credit for doing what they indeed thought was best for the poems), did trap Emily Dickinson into a certain historical milieu--for her own good, of course.

But, back to the opening analogy and (by a rather circuitous route) back to the point. As important and as meaningful and personally historical as Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto No. 1 might be to those of us who have discovered and loved it over the past century, the glaring fact of the matter is, the way we have come to know it and love it is not the piano concerto as Tchaikovsky wrote it, and not the way he intended it to be performed and heard. Does the restored edition change the importance of the concerto we've always loved, does it make us love our experience of it any the less? No, it's become a part of us, we've grown into acquaintanceship (if not outright love-affairs) with pianists and orchestras because of it. And, finally, we don't stop loving the father who raised us, fed us, housed us, loved us, and sent us to college just because he wasn't our real father.

What matters is the music. Gerstein and the scholars at the Tchaikovsky museum have given us what can only be called the most delightful of gifts, direct from the hands of the composer himself. It would be another thing to disregard it if the music were found wanting in any way, but it is not. The 1879 version reveals Tchaikovsky at his best in lyrical invention and imagination--the opening arpeggiated piano chords rhyming in beautiful cadence with the sinuous melody unwinding in the orchestra and not overpowering them as the 1894 edition always did. There is, for lack of a better word, more tenderness to be found in this version, which demonstrates a concerto in exquisite balance, the orchestra and soloist in poetic dialogue. Just as Tchaikovsky intended. By all and any measure, this is an important historical rediscovery.

I do not know Mr. Gerstein, and I have no vested interests whatsoever in connection with his recording. I'm nothing but an amateur scholar and one among many of the millions of fans of Tchaikovsky and his music. But anyone who knows the history of Tchaikovsky's music knows that he has been unfairly maligned in many ways over the past century and that his music has been all-too-often tampered with (yet more subjects for other days!). And I'm aware there's an enormous weight of history and tradition connected to this concerto, but that selfsame love for him and his music asks that I stand up and champion this restored, 1879 version. The evidence convinces me, and history compels me to make this small effort because Tchaikovsky deserves his music to be heard as he intended and as he struggled to make it be, because Tchaikovsky's music should not be trapped in history and because the making of immortal music in this world is no small thing.

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A minor note . . .

6/16/2015

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By that I don't mean Tchaikovsky's student work for piano, Theme and Variations, or his symphonic ballad, The Voyevoda (where Tchaikovsky first used the celeste, by the way), or even his famous Piano Trio, which seem to be his only works composed in A minor. By "a minor" note in this case I mean the kind of trifling kerfuffle that only occurs between people who enjoy splashing about in those arcane but fascinating minor details on subjects they love. It all began on Twitter where these odd sorts of things seem to happen frequently:

That was the beginning of this particular foofaraw. This exchange prompted the reply, "Then we'll have to agree to disagree. Twitter is too limited to argue it out properly." And then I realized it could be brought here, after another series of back-and-forthing informative tweets, the gracious Mr. Johnson agreed, and here we are.

To insure we are all comfortably seated in the same front row orchestra seats, the discussion centers itself around the inevitable applause that spontaneously erupts following the kinetic, roisterous, almost drunkenly giddy (if ironically) triumphant third movement, Allegro molto vivace of Tchaikovsky's Symphony No. 6 in B minor, subtitled Symphonie Pathétique. (Discussion about the dubious birth of that subtitle will take place another day.)

Those preliminary tweets above brought to mind comments on this same subject mentioned in an exchange with Anne Midgette, classical music critic for The Washington Post, and which further led to research on the history of the etiquette of applause in the concert hall with Alex Ross, music critic to The New Yorker. For those of you loathe to download the 6 pages of further information in the link provided within the link I've just provided, here are some highlights from Alex Ross' lecture "Hold Your Applause: Inventing and Reinventing the Classical Concert," delivered to The Royal Philharmonic Society in Wigmore Hall on March 8, 2010, concerning:

...the No-Applause rule, a central tenet of modern classical-music etiquette, which holds that one must refrain from clapping until all movements of a work have sounded. No aspect of the prevailing classical concert ritual seems to cause more puzzlement than this regulation. The problem...is that the etiquette and the music sometimes work at cross purposes. When the average person hears this--

Returning once again to the topic of this particular discussion, Tchaikovsky's Pathétique, Alex Ross refers to the blistering power of the third movement,

--his or her immediate instinct is to applaud. The music itself seems to demand it, even beg for it. The word "applause" comes from the instruction "Plaudite," which appears at the end of Roman comedies instructing the audience to clap. Chords such as these are the musical equivalent of "Plaudite." They almost mimic the action of putting one's hands together, the orchestra being unified in a series of quick percussive sounds. [People who have] ever clapped after the third movement of Tchaikovsky's Pathétique, or the first movement of the "Emporer" Concerto, or in other "wrong" places, [they were] intuitively following instructions contained in the score. ...What I would like to see is a more flexible approach, so that the nature of the work itself dictates the nature of the presentation--and, by extension, the nature of the response.

However all these artificial rules came to be, they are artificial. Audiences who come to a concert are there to participate--to be a part of the musical experience--otherwise, why not just stay at home and listen to a recording? In a 1959 interview, the conductor Pierre Monteux said, "I do have one big complaint about audiences in all countries, and that is their artificial restraint from applause between movements or a concerto or symphony. I don't know where the habit started, but it certainly does not fit in with the composers' intentions." Erich Leinsdorf wrote, "We surround our doings with a set of outdated manners. ...some of them detrimental to the best and most natural enjoyment. At the top of my list is frowning on applause between the movements of a symphony or a concerto. ...What utter nonsense. ...The great composers were elated by applause, wherever it burst out."

Ross goes on to visit the history of applause in concerts and at the opera, and how, in the 19th century, the once-expected applause and noises of approval (and disapproval) of the 18th century began to be subsumed under various composers' will and instructions. This stifling of applause became a way of separating the musical haut monde from the vulgar hoi polloi, yet the lack of demonstrated enthusiasm became a source of consternation to some composers, "Brahms knew that his first piano concerto was going down in flames in Leipzig when silence reigned after the first two movements." And again, of the Pathétique, Tchaikovsky was disappointed that the reaction--after each movement of the first performance--was more cool than he had hoped! "Something strange is going on with this symphony," Tchaikovsky said, referring to a perceptible coolness that the audience showed at the premiere. And Ross points out that "Interestingly, though, the critic Herman Laroche interpreted the silence as respect: 'They behaved, as it were, in a foreign manner: without speaking or making noise, they listened with the greatest attention and applauded sparingly.'"

And here he inserts his example, which is at the nexus of this discussion, the exact same end of the third movement of the Pathétique.

It is perhaps the most fraught case of all. Some conductors freeze their arms in the air at the loud end of the third movement, perhaps bending the body some ways toward the audience in an effort to stop the applause that so often comes. Sometimes, even as applause is breaking out, he will lead straight into the Adagio lamentoso, so that the heart-rending opening bars of the movement go unheard. ...There is, of course no way of knowing what Tchaikovsky may have thought of the rule that emerged not long after his death. ...We have to bear in mind the possibility that Tchaikovsky imagined applause while he was composing, and that he may even have counted on it. After that false ending...the audience automatically swells with applause. Into that noise of public triumph tears the sound of private lament. In a way, applause may be crucial to the shock effect of this work, its unsettling inversion of the familiar Beethovenian narrative of solitary struggle giving way to collective joy.

When Tchaikovsky was composing his Symphony No. 6, he was aware of exactly the kind of "Beethovenian inversion" he was attempting to create. As he wrote to his nephew, the symphony "in its form much will be new...the finale will not be a loud allegro but rather the most unhurried adagio." Breaking with accepted forms, as he had done since his first symphony, this was a revolutionary move. It is the contention of this essay that Tchaikovsky was indeed expecting applause following the exuberant life of the third movement and, further, that the music demands it, as if it were a preparation, this being the cleansing emotional catharsis Mr. Johnson seeks, but occurring before the sorrowful, unfolding lamentation of the final movement. There is an exhilaration in the third movement that is irresistible, that cries out for a human response in the form of applause, which is bracing, and yet readies the audience and stills it for the mournful elegy that follows. To do less it would seem, again in the words of Alex Ross, "We fail to do justice to the music's uncanny presence."

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1, 2, 3, Manfred...

6/7/2015

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Victims of Success

Tchaikovsky's Symphony No. 1 is one of the 50 greatest symphonies, according to no less a luminary than Tom Service, music critic at The Guardian. Great not only for its singular beauty but for its revolutionary impact on the symphonic form as well. Schooled in the inherited symphonic forms and traditions, Tchaikovsky nevertheless had his own musical vision. His first symphony was an attempt to abide by tradition, yet at the same time to be true to where his own "Russian-ness" and his own musical imagination might take him. That effort almost did him in, driving him into exhaustion, insomnia, and severe anxiety to the point of hallucination. It's no great comfort to him now, but if all that disquietude has resulted in vaulting the work into the rank of one of the 50 greatest symphonies of all time, it's not a minor achievement for a 26 year-old composer daring to step into the bright lights of history with his first symphony.

Following that kind of remarkable beginning and assuming that ranking among symphonies, why is it that we don't hear his first symphony, Winter Daydreams, more often? Not to mention his second, The Little Russian or his third, the Polish? Tchaikovsky's early symphonies and the too-often neglected magnificent and massive and magisterial Manfred symphony (sandwiched in composition between his Symphonies No. 4 and 5) fall by the wayside overshadowed by his more well-known final three symphonies. Familiarity doesn't seem to breed contempt for the last three numbered symphonies—rather it seems to breed more and more live performances, and more and more recordings, each orchestra and each recording seemingly performed in the hopeful belief that yet another hearing of these undoubtedly beloved works will (and they do) pack the house—and stuff the purse. There are worse fates, I suppose, but Tchaikovsky is a victim of his own success.

Winter Daydreams
Symphony No. 1 in G minor, Op. 13

Just because one is fond of diamonds shouldn't preclude the occasional wearing of equally valuable rubies or emeralds. To continue with the analogy, there is a wealth of beauty to be found and mined in the early symphonies--and perhaps even more so in Manfred which we might compare to one of the rarest of gems, that most Russian of gemstones, the alexandrite.

Without going any farther afield, suffice it to say that the Symphony No. 1, in spite of the toll it took on him, remained one of his favorites throughout his life, calling it fondly, "a sin of my sweet youth," and to his patroness, Nadezhda von Meck, he wrote with his usual self-effacement, "In many respects it is very immature, although fundamentally it is still richer in content than many of my other, more mature works." And to those critics blinded by the power of his uncanny ability with melody, who insist that he somehow "lacks craft," I urge them to listen again to the brilliant way he toys with the classical fugue while being wholly and independently creative in the Finale. Working backward from there, the third movement, the scherzo, is a prescient Tchaikovsky at his charming balletic best, and the second and first movements (respectively, "Land of Gloom, Land of Mists," and "Daydreams of a Winter Journey") are exactly as evocative as the titles suggest. Makes you want to listen to the whole thing, doesn't it? The symphony deserves to be heard more often.

The Little Russian
Symphony No. 2 in C minor, Op. 17

Tchaikovsky's second symphony came about at a time when he was deeply immersed in the collection, study and arrangement of folk tunes. It was applauded by the ever-critical Kuchka, the "Mighty Handful" (consisting of the composers Balakirev, César Cui, Mussorgsky, Rimsky-Korsakov and Borodin) precisely because of its nationalistic use of folk-tunes, particularly the Ukrainian song "The Crane" in the Finale, and hence the nickname "Little Russian" as the Ukraine was often called. And speaking of ever-critical, in spite of its tremendous success, the second symphony as we have it now displeased Tchaikovsky, "My God! How difficult, noisy, disconnected, confused it was! The andante is unchanged.The scherzo radically reworked. The finale has a huge cut..." (No one has ever been more critical of Tchaikovsky than Tchaikovsky.) Although many critics still feel the first version is better and more complex, it's hard to believe that what we have now, a work so antithetical to the myth of the "brooding, depressed" Tchaikovsky, so basically joyous and inventive, should be overlooked in the concert hall. The Finale alone, Moderato assai—Allegro vivo, would send any concert-goer out into the streets breathless and far lighter on their feet than they arrived, in the way only Tchaikovsky can do. He is not only at his most Russian in the Little Russian he is at his most light and joyful and playful best as well.

The "Polish"
Symphony No. 3 in D major, Op. 29
Perhaps the most stately and elegant, intellectual and meditative of his symphonies, Tchaikovsky's Symphony No.3 is also his most Mozartean in a sense (the composer he most idolized), and the only one of his symphonies in a major key. The nickname "Polish" is really a misnomer, it was dubbed so by Sir August Manns following its premiere in the UK in 1899, and refers to the last movement where Polish dance rhythms are prominent, Allegro con fuoco (tempo di Polocca). Tchaikovsky bends the expected rules of a four movement symphony and gives us five movements instead. Within the introductory movement and the outlying finale, there are two utterly charming dance-like scherzos reminiscent of the 18th century, and at the center, much as he does with his second piano concerto, rests a mesmerizing Andante elegiaco. The symphony is full of Tchaikovsky's rich and inventive melodies, yes, and his lapidary, exquisite sense of orchestration as well, but this is more of a contemplative work and lifts the listener effortlessly from musical idea to musical idea throughout the composition as though the music has all the time in the world to gently unfold. If you were to play any of the movements separately, even to those more familiar with Tchaikovsky's music, many might be able to guess the composer, but would be hard-pressed to surmise that they were from a Tchaikovsky symphony. This seems to be, perhaps more than any of the other symphonies, music for music's sake, an experience always worth having, and reason enough to listen to it for all the many treasures and myriad pleasures that lie within.

Manfred
Symphony in Four Scenes after Byron's Dramatic Poem in B minor, Op. 58

Confess it, then! How long has it been since thou hast Byron's "Manfred" read? It isn't necessary to read Byron's poem to appreciate what beauties this symphony holds of course, but Tchaikovsky was an intellectual and a voracious reader fluent in many languages (he knew French and German from a very early age) and read many authors in their original language including Dante, Dickens, Byron and, of course, Shakespeare, as witnessed by his fantasias, the Tempest, Hamlet and Romeo and Juliet. Furthermore, he deeply understood the emotions captured in these literary works. There is no greater or more famous love theme anywhere in music than that found in Romeo and Juliet. He did not immediately warm to "Manfred," however--it was Balakirev who first pressed the idea on him and it took two full years before Tchaikovsky decided to undertake it. When he did, it was a fortuitous gift to music, and he poured his heart and considerable skill into it, to the point of confessing that he had "turned for a time into a sort of Manfred" himself. The idea of a tortured hero consumed by an unnameable sin longing for oblivion inspired him to create one of his greatest works. The program for each of the four movements is prefaced in the score:

I. Lento lugubure
Manfred wanders in the Alps. Wearied by the fatal questions of existence, tormented by hopeless longings and the memory of past crimes, he suffers terrible spiritual yearnings. He has delved into the occult sciences and commands the mighty powers of darkness, but neither they nor anything in this world can give him the forgetfulness to which alone he vainly aspires. The memory of the lost Astarte, once passionately loved by him, gnaws at his heart, and there is neither limit nor end to Manfred's despair.
II. Vivace con spirito
The Alpine Fairy appears to Manfred beneath the rainbow of a waterfall.
III. Andante con moto
Pastorale. A picture of the simple, free and peaceful life of the mountain folk.
IV. Allegro con fuoco
The subterranean palace of Arimanes. An infernal orgy. Appearance of Manfred in the midst of a bacchanal. Evocation and appearance of the spirit of Astarte, who pardons him. Death of Manfred.

This unnumbered symphony, this Symphonie en 4 Tableaux d'après le poéme dramatique de Byron, this Manfred calls for a huge orchestra, and is a prodigiously difficult score to perform, noted for the virtuosic pressure it places on all the performers, and it is Tchaikovsky's longest purely orchestral work. While composing it, he wrote to his friend Emiliya Pavlovskaya, "The symphony's come out enormous, serious, difficult, absorbing all my time, sometimes wearying me in the extreme; but an inner voice tells me that I'm not laboring in vain, and that this will perhaps be the best of my symphonic compositions." As the symphony deals with the subject of magic, Tchaikovsky summons the magical touches one can find in his ballet scores and delivers his own brand of magic, particularly in the second movement with the appearance of the Alpine Fairy. And as it deals with tender forgiveness, transfiguration, the recognition of lost love, and the death of Manfred, the final movement does nothing less than pierce the soul.

There are many, many symphonies in this world worth exploring. They are among humanity's highest achievements, after all. They afford us immense emotional and intellectual joy--such is the power and strength and importance of music. These four symphonies are by one of the world's greatest composers and too often underperformed. If you haven't heard them in a while, or if you have not yet had the pleasure, there are few greater gifts you can give yourself than to slow down, take some time, and listen to these marvelous works. Tchaikovsky created them out of his hard-won skills, his talent, his heart, and his singular genius. Allow him to touch you, allow yourself to experience these incomparable bequests.

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Tchaikovsky's Great Unsung Piano Concerto No. 2

5/23/2015

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Tchaikovsky's piano at Klin

Piano Concerto No. 2 in G major, Opus 44
If you are fortunate enough to circulate among people who discuss pianists, there are times you might hear someone say "She/he will perform the Tchaikovsky," or "Yes, I heard him/her play the Tchaikovsky." And what they will mean by "the Tchaikovsky" is the Piano Concerto No. 1, famous and ubiquitous and more than deserving of its fame and popularity.

But there are three concertos, not to mention the delightful Concert Fantasia. The second was Tchaikovsky's favorite however, and a work that he considered to be among his best, in spite of the angst it gave him later. He undertook its composition in 1879, at a time when he found himself at his sister's home in Kamenka with no pressing obligations and consequently feeling rather spiritless. At that time he wrote to his brother Modest complaining that he was experiencing

a certain vague dissatisfaction with myself, an over-frequent and almost irresistible desire to sleep, a certain emptiness, and finally boredom. There were times when I didn't know what to do with myself. Finally yesterday it became fully apparent to me what was the matter. I had to get on with something: I find myself absolutely incapable of living long without work. Today I began to create something and the boredom vanished as if by magic.

That "something" was his second Piano Concerto. "I am very pleased with it, especially with the second movement, the Andante," Tchaikovsky later wrote to Nadezhda von Meck while in Paris. And although the Andante became a source of some of the trouble mentioned above, it's also one of Tchaikovsky's most achingly lyrical inspirations. More about it later.

Even in his Piano Concerto No. 1, we can see a bold freshness of vision in comparison to concertos that had come before, particularly in Russia, but that originality in invention becomes even more apparent with the second. Of his second concerto, there were complaints about the length and the difficulty when it was first written, and even now as it appears in the original score. It takes about 40-45 minutes to do it justice. (But when is it a sin to take as long to say something as it is essential to say it?) There are three movements: I. Allegro Brillante, II. Andante non troppo, and III. Allegro con fuoco. The first movement is indeed brilliant, lustrous and sparkling and energetic, and it takes approximately 20 minutes in performance. The second movement, the Andante, is around 15 minutes long, and the glittering third movement takes about 7 fiery minutes to perform. Pure Tchaikovsky, for people who like that sort of thing.

The Piano at Tchaikovsky's home in Klin - Now the Tchaikovsky Museum

The work has its critics ─ but many of these detractors view Tchaikovsky askew, through a teutonic/european bias; and who, for whatever reason, seem to be incapable of seeing him as on a pioneering independent musical path, and his work was indeed, for his place and time, quietly revolutionary.

In almost every instance and in almost every genre, Tchaikovsky staked out his own grounds for creating a work and did it on his own terms. His first symphony, Winter Daydreams, wrenched the european model out of what-was-to-be-expected-in-a-symphony into a new Russian symphonic language. Tchaikovsky could easily have written a cello concerto in its "accepted" more academic form, but he hewed to his own vision and created Variations on a Rococo Theme, without doubt a fresh take, scattering expectations, and making it new. And he not only changed the world of ballet music, he transmogrified it. His second piano concerto is in the same mold.

Aleksandr Ziloti

It is that second movement, the Andante non troppo, the one Tchaikovsky was especially pleased with, that has interfered with the piece taking its rightful place in the concerto repertoire. The arguments over the length and shape of the work took its toll from Tchaikovsky's friends, contemporaries and colleagues. Reluctantly, Tchaikovsky agreed to some cuts here and there, but the unkindest cut of all came from Aleksandr Ziloti (Tchaikovsky's friend, a pianist as well as a conductor), who not only performed the piece with unconscionable cuts and transpositions, it was his butchered version that made its way into the concert hall and, unfortunately, the version that made its way into publication following Tchaikovsky's death. The concerto was not published in the original version as Tchaikovsky intended until 1955. (Ziloti also made cuts and revisions to the Piano Concerto No. 1 as well ─ but more about that another time.)

One of the most egregious cuts was the evisceration of the "trio" section to the Andante at the beginning of the second movement. The original version, which is often called the "trio" movement, is one of Tchaikovsky's most beautiful inventions. Following a short orchestral prelude, a single violin introduces an achingly mournful and melancholy melody, shortly joined by a single cello further unfurling the melody, and only then does the piano join them and the orchestra, and for a time this piano concerto becomes nothing less than a triple concerto. A courageous (and unorthodox) invention on the part of Tchaikovsky, and another mark of his musical genius. The judgment of history is that Tchaikovsky was correct in his original vision ─ and Ziloti has been proven wrong.

Igor Zhukov

Concertos have been and continue to be a showcase for a virtuoso. Here, in the Andante, Tchaikovsky defies the common expectation and in service to the music rather than to the soloist, creates one of the most moving sections to ever appear in a piano concerto. The two blazing, passionate, and pyro-technical outermost movements embrace an extraordinarily lyrical, warm, and tender heart. When the work is performed now, fortunately, it is most often heard in Tchaikovsky's original and uncut form, but for too many years it suffered from Ziloti's interference.

(One of the finest interpretations of the original Andante is with Igor Zhukov, pianist; Mikhail Tcherniakhovsky, violin; and Viktor Simon, cello with Gennady Rozhedestvensky conducting the USSR RTV Large Symphony Orchestra*.)

Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto No. 2 has been overlooked, underperformed, and a sad victim of musical meddling. It is by every measure a monumental work, and is every bit as deserving of attention as his more famous First. If more orchestras and soloists can be persuaded to bring this concerto to the fore, perhaps someday those conversations among music lovers will have to differentiate, favorably, and no one will be able again to say, "We went to hear the Tchaikovsky" without needing to clarify their statement because Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto No. 2 will have taken its rightful place among the greatest works ever written for Piano and Orchestra.

*This movement is from a vinyl recording, to hear the remastered version of the complete piano concerto, click here.

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Tchaikovsky: His Life and Music

5/14/2015

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Philadelphia and Tchaikovsky's Charm
This is an expanded version of an article published in the Broad Street Review.
The American Tour

On May 18, 1891, at 3 o’clock, a temperate and lovely, partly cloudy spring day, Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky arrived in Philadelphia by train and without fanfare. There was to be an evening concert of his music at 8 o’clock. That performance would be the last he would conduct in the United States, a dervish tour that began on April 26 in New York City, where he had been invited by Walter Damrosch, director of the New York Symphony for the grand opening of what was then called “Music Hall”—later to be formally designated as Carnegie Hall—an invitation supported by no less a luminary than Andrew Carnegie himself.
New York City
In New York, Tchaikovsky was celebrated and fêted and fed enormous amounts of food and alcohol by Carnegie and the musical haut monde of the city. On May 8, the day after his 51st birthday (which passed almost unnoted by anyone), he wrote in his diary following a meal with Carnegie “The supper was hearty, but the cuisine is American, i.e. unusually repugnant. Much champagne was drunk.” In the same entry he noted:

Mr. Romeike sends me daily piles of newspaper clippings about myself. All of them without exception are laudatory in the highest degree. The Third Suite is praised to the sky, but hardly more than my conducting. Is it possible that I really conduct so well? Or do the Americans exaggerate?!!

The New York Critics
Notoriously shy and uncertain about both his works and his conducting skills, he was nevertheless described by the newspapers as ranking “among one of the foremost composers of our age,” introducing the concertgoer to music that was, according to the critics, “fresh,” “modern,” “ gorgeous,” “strange, “ “startling,” “sensuous,” “bold,” “splendid,” “melodic,” “inspiring,” “original, unique, full of color,” “magnificent,” and “marvelous,” among other superlatives (there were a lot of newspapers back then), and where, Tchaikovsky discovered—much to his surprise and as he wrote to his brother—“It turns out that in America I am far better known than in Europe. Here I’m an important bird!”

Baltimore and Washington, DC
Following his extraordinary success in New York, he took a relaxing side-trip to see Niagara Falls and then traveled to Baltimore (May 15, 16), where he also conducted his own music. The Baltimore Sun praised his conducting and his music, “full of fire and dash of the Russian, the finish and scholarly workmanship of the master, and the intelligence and refinement of the artist musician,” and The Baltimore American called him “a czar among musicians and directors,” the concerts “among the best ever heard here.”

From Baltimore he traveled to Washington, DC, to be entertained with music, including some of his own, at the Russian Embassy. He was relieved to converse in his native Russian, although upon greeting the embassy secretary with a vigorous Russian kiss, he was mortified to discover that the kiss had dislodged a loose tooth. He became self-conscious lest people notice the resulting sibilant “ch, sh, shch, hiss and whistle” that the lost tooth gave to his speech.

Philadelphia

The Academy of Music, Broad and Locust Streets

Tchaikovsky was a prodigious letter-writer who also wrote conscientiously in his diaries. In a letter to his nephew, he assured him that during this visit he would be “keeping a detailed diary from day to day, and when I come back I’ll give it to all of you to read.” His diary entries for all the cities are detailed and fascinating—with the exception of Philadelphia. This was probably due to the brevity of his stay here (he arrived and departed on the same day), as well as this stop being the tail-end of a long and exhausting tour. Indeed, he ends his Philadelphia entry with:

After the concert [at the Academy of Music], was in a club [the Utopian] according to the promise I had made before. The return trip to New York was very tiresome and complicated. …The ride home with Aus der Ohe [the soloist in that evening’s performance of the Piano Concerto No. 1] was endless. It has become impossible to write in detail.

Photograph by Napoleon Sarony in New York, 1891

The Philadelphia Critics
Fortunately, none of Tchaikovsky’s fatigue was noted by the newspapers, likely because he had taken a long walk between his arrival and the concert. Daily walks whether at home or abroad were a long-established habit of his, particularly when composing, and he found them stimulating.

Two of the newspapers noted his appearance in a similar manner: the Daily Evening Telegraph said, “He looks like a broker and clubman rather than an artist,” and the North American said he looked “more like a prosperous merchant or a United States Senator.” The Telegraph went on to say, “He is of middle height, slim, erect, with silvery gray hair and beard, florid complection [sic], and small but piercing and expressive blue eyes: a self-contained and dignified personage, not without grace,” and all praised his conducting style, The Philadelphia Inquirer calling it “dignified, and at the same time thoroughly alert in watching every portion of the orchestra throughout the score.”

The two Tchaikovsky works performed were the Serenade for Strings, Op. 48; and the now even more famous Piano Concerto No. 1* in B-flat minor, Op.23. About the concerto, the Inquirer said:

The piano part was played by Miss Adele Aus der Ohe, one of the best pianists in the country, who has made a marked impression wherever she has appeared. … she seemed inspired by the presence of the composer. The long and difficult composition was played without notes, and at its conclusion she was congratulated by Tschaikowski [the newspaper’s spelling], whose face was one wreath of smiles. … It is spirited throughout, having in portions a martial character. … It is poetic, and Miss Aus der Ohe played it with great purity and delicacy. … The closing movement was full of color and spirit. The composer and Miss Aus der Ohe received genuine ovation.

Adele Aus der Ohe

The Philadelphia Press reported, "The Academy of Music last evening contained a very large audience of music-lovers, who had congregated to do homage to one of the greatest living composers, Illitsch Tschaikowsky [sic]. The term concert is too modest to express the occasion; it was a musical festival." When Tchaikovsky escorted Aus der Ohe onto the stage, "a storm of applause burst from all parts of the house, which the composer acknowledged gracefully, although with the modesty of a schoolboy." The concerto was a hit:

From that moment audience, orchestra, and soloist seemed to recognize that they were in the presence of genius, and Miss Aus der Ohe rendered the composer's concerto with such artistic merit that her numerous admirers had ample cause to think that she excelled any of her previous efforts before an American audience. Her great technique and wonderful endurance stood her in good play in this extremely difficult composition, and her masterly rendering brought forth applause from even the composer.

The Philadelphia Public Ledger was no less enthusiastic: "Tschaikowsky [sic] lent more than his name and personal exhibition to the concert given last night at the Academy of Music. ...he made the occasion remarkable by conducting two of his own compositions." Once more, those conducting skills about which Tchaikovsky himself called into doubt so often were praised in superlatives:

He is an energetic and authoritative conductor, and under his direction the men evidently felt the spirit of his music as they could not have felt it under another leader. ...With Miss Adele Aus der Ohe at the piano, almost uniformly at her best in her execution, the concerto had unsurpassable interpretation, with the composer to emphasize its character and bring out its inmost beauties. This was done with a brilliancy, boldness and delicacy that stirred the audience to genuine enthusiasm. Miss Aus der Ohe and Tschaikowsky were called before the house three times and almost overwhelmed with applause, and each deserved it all the more because each endeavored to put the other most prominently forward as the deserving recipient of the honors.

Tchaikovsky’s Last Song

Remarkably, this may well have been one of the very last times in the United States that the Piano Concerto was performed as Tchaikovsky intended! Tchaikovsky died much too young, a scant two years after this tour, in 1893—from the effects of cholera modern scholarship concludes, and not from suicide, as multiple proliferating myths have proclaimed.

During this tiring but exhilarating journey, Tchaikovsky wrote to his beloved nephew, Vladimir Davydov, “If I were younger, I would probably derive great pleasure from staying in this interesting, youthful country. … I foresee that I will recall America with love. They have truly given me a fine welcome here.” It seems as though America has returned that love.

*NOTE: The Piano Concerto No. 1 has an interesting American connection as well. The world premiere took place at the Boston Music Hall on October 25, 1875. Hans von Bülow was the pianist, Benjamin Johnson Lang conducted.

Author’s Note: Special thanks to Barbara Parquette at the Philadelphia Free Library and Jeff Robel at NOAA/NCEI for their assistance in this project.

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