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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: 
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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.
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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."

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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. 

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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.

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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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