Wednesday, 20 June 2012

Keeping it in the Family



There's a pattern in my family history, at least on my mother's side. On my father's side it's a hodge-podge of tailors, wrestlers, odd-job men, electricians and grocers. On my mother's father's side it's coal miners and coal miners. On my mother's mother's side it's farmers, farmers, farmers and...farmers. The family tree of the greatest composer who ever lived (so far), Johann Sebastian Bach, (1685-1750) is truly extraordinary in the sheer number of musicians perching on its myriad branches. Alas, there are none in mine. There are instrumentalists in orchestras, organists, court kantors, music theorists and composers galore. The remarkable Bach dynasty was flourishing in music for some 250 years.

One of my many musical pleasures is hunting out the other Bachs - i.e. the ones who aren't the greatest composer who ever lived (so far). Several of the sons are quite well-known, but what of the rest? What of those perched higher up the Bach family tree?

This post will attempt to answer such questions and will link to some superb music.

Heinrich Bach (1615-1692), great-uncle of Johann Sebastian
Heinrich's Ich danke dir, Gott comes from the age of Schütz and is a fine example of a vocal concerto from that time.

Ich danke dir, Gott 
Fugue on "Christ lag in Todesbanden" 


Johann(es) [Hans] Bach (1604-1673), great-uncle of Johann Sebastian
Like his brother Heinrich, Johann's music is very audibly of the age of Schütz. The Venetian-born polychoral tradition is still alive and well in the motet Unser Leben ist ein Schatten - a 6-part with a 3-part echo chorus.

Unser Leben ist ein Schatten 
Sey nun wieder zufrieden
Weint nicht um meinem Tod  


Johann Christoph Bach (1642-1703), first cousin once removed of Johann Sebastian (son of Heinrich)
Johann Christoph is a particularly fine Bach. His delightful cantata Es erhub sich ein Streit (which features 22-part writing as well as battle effects) stands where music then stood in Germany, moving from the age of Schütz into the age of Biber and Buxtehude. He has made that move fully by the time of the beautiful Meine Freundin, du bist schön.

Meine Freundin, du bist schön  
Lieber Herr Gott 
Präludium und Fuge in E flat major
Fürchte dich nicht 
Wir glauben all' an einem Gott    
War Gott nicht mit uns diese Zeit 
Der Gerechte, ob er gleich 
Ach daß ich Wassers gnug hätte 
Doric Prelude
Hilft mir Gottes Güte preisen    
Prelude in B flat major
Es erhub sich ein Streit 
Herr, wende dich und sei mir gnädig 
Merk auf, mein Herz
Wie schön leuchtet der Morgenstern
Es ist nun aus
Intonatio in D minor   
Der Mensch, vom Weibe geboren
Sei getreu bis in den Tod
Unsers herzens Freude
Die Furcht des Herrn   
Mit Weinen hebt sich an   
Ich lasse dich nicht
Aus tiefer Not    
Aria Eberliana pro dormente Camillo
Allein Gott in der Höh sei Ehr   

Johann Michael Bach, the Elder (1648-1694),  first cousin once removed of Johann Sebastian (brother of Joseph Christoph)
Johann Michael devoted himself mostly to writing chorale motets. As you sample his works you will hear a lot of chorale tunes. The motet Halt was du hast, for example, features the well-known chorale Jesu meine Freude set against tunes of Johann Michael's own devising. He is, I think, almost as fine a composer as his brother. Incidentally, his chorale prelude In dulci jubilo might be familiar to you as it was once thought to be be J.S. himself (and given the BWV number 751). 

Halt, was du hast
In dulci jubilo
Das Blut Jesu Christi 
Liebster Jesu, hör mein Flehen
Herr, du lässest mich erfahren 
Ich weiss, dass mein Erloser lebt
Unser Leben wahret siebenzig Jahr
Furchtet Euch Nicht
Auf, lasst uns den Herren loben   
Nun komm der heiden heiland 


Johann Bernhard Bach (1676-1749), second cousin of Johann Sebastian
With Johann Bernhard we arrive at Johann Sebastian's contemporaries. If the sons of Heinrich were (like Johann Sebastian himself might be said to be) glorious conservatives writing rather behind the times, then Johann Bernhard is a bang-up-to-date Bach, writing music that sounds closest to Telemann. I hear French influences, Vivaldi, etc, flowing in his attractive music. The tuneful Orchestral Suite No.4 (for string orchestra) sounds particularly French. 



Johann Ludwig Bach (1677-1731), second cousin of Johann Sebastian
Johann Ludwig's music sounds much closer to Johann Sebastian's manner. Though not in the same league it is, however, full of beauty. If you take a listen to the cantata Der Herr wird ein Neues im Lande erschaffen you will hear just what a fine craftsman Johann Ludwig could be - and that alto aria with the two oboes is delightful, isn't it?

Der Herr wird ein Neues im Lande erschaffen



Hope you enjoy exploring all this Bachiana!
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Tuesday, 19 June 2012

Scriabin 4: ...and there's more!




And for those of you who just can't get enough Scriabin, here are some of his pieces without opus numbers, nearly all early: 

For piano:
Canon in D minor (1883), written aged 11
Nocturne in A flat major (1884), composed aged 12
Valse in D flat major (1886), written aged 14
Valse in G sharp minor (1886), written aged 14
Sonata-Fantasy (1886), written aged 14
Egorova (Egoroff) variations (1887), written aged 15
Mazurka in F major (1889)
Mazurka in B minor (1889)
Feuillet d'Album de Monighetti in A flat major (1889)
Sonata in E flat minor (1889)
Fugue in E minor (1892)

For two pianos:
Fantasy for two pianos in A minor (1889)

For horn and piano:
Romance (1890)
(Yes, he did write a piece of chamber music after all!!)

For voice and piano:
Romance (1894)
(Yes, he did write a song!!)
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Scriabin 3: Trill the End of Time



Critics just cannot agree about Scriabin. I've read summaries of his achievements over the years that rank him as a revolutionary great, while a few place him as being essentially a reactionary throwback and others position him somewhere in between. Are his late works atonal, do they pioneer a brand new kind of tonality or are they merely an extension of the old tonality? The critics have strong views on the issue, but they are in opposition to each other. I've read rather too many that seem to prefer highlighting the faults of other critics than in positively outlining their own positions, such that they read like axe-grinding. I particularly enjoyed (if that's the right word) one critic whose writing on Scriabin was largely about how other critics had got Scriabin completely wrong who, with a complete lack of self-awareness, then dropped in a crack at other critics for writing pieces that read like axe-grinding. Sheesh!

Having ground my own axe there, I'd like to very briefly state where I stand. I think Scriabin is a great composer. I don't doubt that Scriabin thought of himself as a revolutionary. The fact that his music evolves over time so naturally and gradually that his later innovations flow seamlessly from his earlier music without any sudden jolts doesn't make his music sound particularly revolutionary - especially if you listen to a lot of it in chronological order! I do think, however, that he achieved something original in music, comparable to the gentle revolution brought about by Debussy, by following the Russian path of exploring new soundworlds based on synthetic scales and taking it much, much further, doing so in such an accomplished manner that the step taken feels completely justified. Did his music become atonal? No, however much it may sometimes sound atonal. Key signatures were abandoned but his later works still seem to linger around a particular key or keys, however tenuously and however far they might wander from it (or them). It's rather in the nature of the 'mystic chord' to sound sort-of-tonal. So is his music merely an extension of the old tonality rather than being a brand new tonality? Well, to risk fudging the answer, I'd say that the truth lies somewhere in between those two positions. The 'mystic chord' opened up a new world for Scriabin. It was an innovation, it broke up the tonic-dominant harmonic scheme, it generated harmonic progressions that were unheard before. It does give his late work the feel of being brand new. However, the occasional resemblances to Debussy or the extended tonality of early Berg (the Piano Sonata especially) point me towards thinking that Scriabin's new language is less like Schoenberg's twelve-tone revolution (which completely overthrew tonality) than it is the whole-tone scale innovations of Glinka and Debussy or the closely akin octatonic scale of Rimsky-Korsakov and early Stravinsky (and, later, Messiaen), albeit systematised in a way that brings something radical to it (as Messiaen was to do with the octatonic scale). So, it is new but its an an extension of (or a twist of, or a spicing up of) rather than an overthrow of tonality. 

Does his work help the (musical) revolutionary cause then, assisting other revolutionaries to bring about the overthrow of the old tonal regime? I'd say it plays a small part in that. Of those who followed Scriabin, few were as thoroughgoing as Roslavets, who did push the 'mystic chord' idea far closer to Schoenberg-style dodecaphony. Roslavets, however, was not anywhere near so influential. Most of the other Scriabinists took more of the perfume of his late style that its radical possibilities (from our own Cyril Scott to early Prokofiev and Miaskovsky). Messiaen was something of an heir to Scriabin though his brief - and vastly influential - attempts to systematise pitch, rhythm, intensity and note values seem to have been provoked much more by Schoenberg's system that to the example of Scriabin.

OK, that's more than enough theorising. Back to the music and a final chronological overview of Scriabin's evolution as a composer.





3. The large-scale piano pieces

The First Sonata in F minor, Op.6 was written in 1892, when Scriabin was aged 20. This is the period of the Lisztian Allegro apassionata, Op.4 and the Chopin-like Impromptus à la Mazur, Op.7. So we are talking about a bravura work from very near to the start of Scriabin's composing life, when he was wearing his influences on his sleeve. The piece is in four movements and opens with an Allegro con fuoco full of a young man's passionate feeling. As so much of Scriabin's large-scale music was to continue to do, this opening movement follows sonata form. The exposition presents a stormy first theme, a forlorn second subject and an optimistic closing theme. The development section concentrates on the troubled and fiery spirit of the first theme. The recapitulation does what a recapitulation should do and the coda sums up the movement's basic conflict. As with so much of Scriabin's early work, the accomplished nature of the writing and the quality of the invention is remarkable. He may have been an imitator here but, boy, what an imitator! The Adagio that follows conveys a strong feeling of sadness and is a beautiful piece of writing. The main theme is song-like and is presented simply to begin with. When it returns later in the movement Scriabin sets it against a restless bass line. Scriabin's bass lines were only to grow in importance. The third movement Presto is in rondo-sonata form and replaces sadness with anger. The agitated main theme is the rondo subject, whilst a more tender melody acts as the second subject and the melancholy second subject of the opening Allegro is brought back to in an instance of cyclic form. The finale is a slow movement marked Funèbre and clearly owes something to the most famous funeral march of all, that of Chopin's Second Piano Sonata. It is potently gloomy, though it does contain a consoling song 'from afar' at its heart - a touch of angelic sweetness amidst all the grief. There's aren't too many great Romantic piano sonatas, so it's a crying shame that a work of such power, passion and potential public appeal should go largely unheard. 




The Second Sonata (Fantasy-Sonata) in G sharp minor, Op.19 was begun in the same year that the first piano sonata was finished and if you here the two pieces played back to back you will hear very clearly that the closing notes of the first sonata seem to be echoed by the opening notes of the second sonata. Co-incidence, or deliberate? I suspect the latter. In the finale of Sonata No.1 this three-note figure has the feel of a 'fate motif'. Similarly that very similar opening figure of Sonata No.2 also seems to function as a 'fate motif' (not unlike the extremely famous 'fate knocking at the door' figure in Beethoven's Fifth Symphony in some respects). The figure is embedded in the fateful main theme of the opening Andante but also infiltrates itself into the lyrical music that follows. Scriabin wrote a programme that might be helpful here: "The first section represents the quiet of a southern night on the seashore; the development is the dark agitation of the deep, deep sea. The E major middle section shows caressing moonlight coming up after the first darkness of night. The second movement represents the vast expanse of ocean in stormy agitation." The work is indeed in two movements and was written over the space of five years, being completed in 1897 - a period covering a whole swathe of opus numbers from the composer's early maturity (Op.7-Op.22). Unlike the First Sonata, this sonata has never fallen out of popularity. The reason for this is that it is a truly superb piece of music and even better than its predecessor. The Andante is one of my favourite pieces of Scriabin and I hope you'll discover why when you hear it. Its impressionistic evocation of moonlight on the sea is captivating and its themes are exceptionally beautiful. The second movement Presto is a bravura movement in sonata form. One moment to listen out for here is when the second subject, previously heard in the minor, re-emerges in the major (towards the end of the development section).




The Piano Sonata No. 3 in F-sharp minor, Op.23 was begun in the year that the Second Sonata was finished and was completed by the following year (1898). It is contemporary with the lovely Rêverie for orchestra. The sonata returns to four movement form (for the last time) and begins with a movement marked Dramatico. It opens to a fine, heavy-hearted theme, shared between the hands, in the composer's 'manly' early style (with shades of Chopin) but is countered by the softer rhythms and melodic shapes of the 'feminine' second subject. Adhering again to sonata form, Scriabin works his themes in a convincing development section before an abridged recapitulation leads to a Wagnerian climax and a beautiful coda. The scherzo-like second movement Allegretto has one of the composer's significant bass lines which drives and accompanies its main theme. The trio section is delicate and elegantly-wrought. My favourite movement, however, is the Andante, which begins introspectively with a quiet theme of Schumann-like warmth and considerable beauty. This melody really does hit the spot. Though the second subject introduces a remarkable passage of chromaticism and brooding it does so in such a soft-spoken way that the meditative flow continues unabated and the song-like melody returns. The finale, introduced by a bridge passage build on the sonata's opening theme (cyclic form again) is a chromatic Presto con fuoco and many of its pages are certainly 'con fuoco' (fiery). There are lyrical passages though - including a climactic reprise of the Andante's great tune. I hear echoes of the infernal side of Liszt in parts of this movement (or should that be the 'Francesca da Rimini' side of Tchaikovsky?) The Third Sonata is a fine and fascinating work, even if it doesn't quite do it for me in the way that its predecessors did.


Before we come to the Fourth Sonata, we must pause to meet the superb Fantasie in B minor, Op.28 of 1900 - another major piano piece on a larger scale. Written a couple of years after the Third Sonata, the Fantasie is contemporary with the First Symphony. It has something of a symphonic quality to it. There are three fine themes - the first melancholy and heroic, the second tender ('feminine') and the third grand. Though I am fond of the second subject (one of Scriabin's lovely, intricate, intimate melodies) it is the thrilling third theme that most hits the spot for me. It has chromatic touches that render it 'Scriabinesque', though it also has something of a Rachmaninov-style 'big tune' about it. Though styled a 'fantasy' it follows sonata form, complete with development, recapitulation and a big-finish coda.


The Fourth Sonata in F sharp major, Op.30 came three years later (1903) and dates from after the Second Symphony. 1903 was a stunningly productive year for Scriabin, seeing the composition of a string of glorious miniatures - all the 'middle period' opuses from Op.31 right thorough to the 8 Etudes, Op.42. It should be no surprise then that it marks a significant shift in style away from the post-Chopin/post-Liszt Romanticism of its predecessors. It is in two movements, though the Prestissimo volando second movement follows on straight from the end of the Andante and later brings back the Andante's main theme at its moment of climactic ecstasy; thus, listeners might be forgiven for thinking that the sonata is in one movement. The Andante is one of its composer's loveliest sections. It is based on just one melody (though it has distinct phrases which are sometimes detached from each other) - a particular beautiful and wholly characteristic one - , and establishes a mood that is clearly intended to be erotic. The harmonies here are full of chromatic inflections, Scriabin makes enchanting use of trills (which are to become of great significance later in the cycle of piano sonatas) and, later, the melody is decorated with a delightful flow of shimmering semiquaver figuration. The second movement, in sonata form, then takes flight - the first, confident and rhythmically punchy, the second more lyrical but sharing is sense of elation - the elation climaxing with the return of the Andante's theme - a passage of especial exhilaration in an already-exhilarating movement. The Fourth Sonata in Scriabin's favourite and more fruitful key is a particular favourite of mine.




With the Fifth Sonata, Op.53 of 1907 we are firmly into the 'transition period' of Scriabin's musical life, when he has become fully Scriabinesque but hasn't moved fully over into the domain of the 'mystic chord'. The harmonies are frequently based on fourths and the work, while being vaguely centred around F sharp major, wanders far harmonically. The piece was written at the time of the Poem of Ecstasy and shares much of its spirit - moving from the low, dark rumble of its murky opening, through the delicate, languid melody of its introduction (which seems, as with that 'fate motif' figure I believe to be shared by the first and second sonatas, to deliberately echo the ecstatic theme of the Fourth Sonata) and onto the exuberant main theme of the Presto section (which darts about like a humming bird!) and its declamatory (challenging) and lyrical (languid) companions. Like all the remaining piano sonatas it in a single sonata form movement. Gloom, languor, grotesquery, mystery, ecstasy - all these emotions are evoked in the space of some eleven or twelve minutes-worth of exposition, development and recapitulation. The climax is an exciting glimpse of light, though the work ends (unlike the Poem of Ecstasy) veiled in murk again - though this time it is a brilliant murk! The Fifth Sonata remains Scriabin's most widely performed sonata.



Before moving on to the next sonata, another major large-scale piano piece must not be forgotten - the beautiful Poeme-Nocturne, Op.61 of 1911-12, a work contemporary with Prometheus and the Sixth and Seventh Sonatas. Again, the piece cannot said to be firmly rooted in any particular key, though it is, it can fairly be said, non-firmly rooted in D flat. It passes through stages of 'capriciousness', 'gloom', 'a confused murmur', 'voluptuous sleepiness', 'dreaminess', 'passion', more 'languor', 'charm', more 'passion'...and so on...Those markings of Scriabin's give a clear indication of what he was after, though sometimes it's hard for the listener to differentiate the moods quite so clearly - which is sometimes also the case in the late sonatas. The odd thing about this sensitive poetic movement of emotions expressed through music is that, being such a stickler for using sonata form, the same markings and moods come round all over again when the exposition is recapitulated! 




The Sixth Sonata, Op.62 of 1911-12 was actually finished after the Seventh Sonata but I will follow convention and consider it next. We are firmly in the period of 'late' Scriabin, the era of the 'mystic chord' - here a chord of G, C sharp, F, B, E, A flat and D. There's no key signature. The trills that began entering the sonatas as early as the Fourth and also played significant bit-parts in the Fifth - and were also heard in the Poeme-Nocturne - are heard again here, having become an essential aspect of the soundworld of Scriabin. (Their apotheosis is still to come). Scriabin, growing ever more mystical and occultist, felt that this mysterious sonata was a fearsomely dark and nightmarish one, corrupted by actual demonic forces, so much so that he would not play it in public. We travel from mystery, through a vague dream, and seem to seek fight, beset as we are with ominous premonitions of fear. Those fears are justified as all Hell is let loose and a battle between Good and Evil takes place which the forces of Evil appear to win. Well, that's the idea behind the piece. I have to say that it doesn't summon up any demons for me for all its talk (in the score) of "terror". Is that a failing on the part of Scriabin that his music doesn't convey anywhere near the scale of horror he is seeking to evoke/summon? I'll have to say 'yes' to that. I'd add a 'Ah, well. Never mind!' though. There are many striking and beautiful passages in the piece, though I will admit that it has never been a favourite of mine. It doesn't carry quite the same conviction as the best of the Scriabin sonatas.


The Seventh Sonata, Op.64 of 2011 is very closely related to the Sixth Sonata and bears the famous sub-title 'White Mass' and is widely said to be an exorcism to rid the composer's music of the rampant demons of the Sixth Sonata. The brutal forces are overcome by tender, ecstatic ones and the trills spread their benign influence throughout the piece. Bells-sounds, those other signifiers of late Scriabin, are another attractive feature of this sonata (single movement, in sonata form). Containing much that is beautiful, I find the White Mass more interesting and involving than its 'evil' twin. The fiercely dissonant climax of the struggle at the midway point of the piece, where bells toll furiously, is genuinely exciting and the ethereal ending is lovely. There are times, especially when the bell-chords return towards the close of the piece, where the soundworld of Messiaen seems close at hand (appropriately, if you pardon the pun, for such a messianic piece). 


The Eighth Sonata, Op.66 of 1912-13 inhabits a more veiled, more withdrawn soundworld than the sonatas that preceded it. Probably for that reason, though also perhaps because for being difficult to play without sounding like a virtuoso showpiece, the sonata has always rather languished in the shadows, performance-wise. Ah, there is another reason too. The piece lacks the kind of melodies that linger in the memory, relying more on gesture-like themes which are whirled into a gentle vortex, powered by his strange harmonies. Though the sonata ends with one of Scriabin's cosmic dances, the composer considered it a tragic sonata and never publicly performed it. All this is unfortunate as the sonata deserves to be far better known. There are many very beautiful things in this most enigmatic of Scriabin sonatas ('Enigmatic' is one of its nicknames!). The extraordinary opening sequence of chords is just the first remarkable thing and they are followed by some consummate part-writing in the beautiful, hypnotic introductory sections. Trills, of course, play a significant role again, especially when the main Allegro section gets going. The main theme of that  sonata form Allegro is punctuated by delicious, Debussyan showers of figuration. You will have to discover what else this fascinating sonata has to offer by listening to it!


The Ninth Sonata, Op.68 of 1912-13 bears the notorious nickname 'Black Mass'. There are no thematic connections to the White Mass Sonata though, which - as we saw - in the 'good twin' of the Sixth Sonata instead. Chronologically, the Ninth was written more at the time of the Sixth Sonata and pre-dated the Eighth Sonata (which is closer in some respects to the Tenth Sonata). That is not surprising when you hear the piece. I prefer it, though, to either of those sonatas. The peculiarly dissonant quality of the piece arises through its pervasive use of the minor ninth (that elongation beyond an octave of the most dissonant of all intervals, the minor second). Often in Scriabin such dissonances don't sound unpleasant to the ear and, especially once you are acclimatised to them, sound almost consonant. Here, however, do sound pretty dissonant - particularly at the work's thrilling climax. The opening of this piece is one of those moments where the occasional similarity of Scriabin's soundworld to that of Debussy really stands out. These vague chords, with their trails of airy, tumbling arpeggios, are soon interrupted by a mysterious, dark figure that sounds like a sinister echo of Beethoven's 'fate knocking at the door' figure. The sinister effect is heightened by the tritones rocking back and forth in the bass. After a repetition of these themes, trills enter stage right and begin to cast their strange, luminous spell, first as part of a swaying theme. There's a beautiful second subject of languid character, though here the languor again has a strikingly Debussyan character. The trills here and the fast flurries of high-register grace notes (which remind me of the sound of crickets chirping) create a magical nocturnal atmosphere. The tritones steal back in at the bottom of the texture as the trills proliferate and we pass into the development section of this single-movement sonata form piece. The rhythms get more intricate, the bass register assumes centre-stage more frequently, and the diabolical elements contend with limpid writing of hypnotic beauty. The reverie and the sinister elements are in contention here. Who wins out? Well, during the recapitulation the second subject loses it Debussyan purity and is distorted in a remarkable way. A diabolical march enters with thunderous bell-like chords for accompaniment - a striking moment. Trills flood in bearing light, but the movement swirls upwards with the all-conquering march growing ever wilder, dissonant and exciting. In the wake of this thrilling climax, the vague chords of the opening return and the piece ends. Unless you are superstitious, I doubt you will feel that the piece evokes a truly satanic presence. That climax is, however, wonderfully Hammer House of Horror. The Debussyan beauty and the dissonant thrills and spills of this gloriously proportioned sonata have always given it a special place in Scriabin's output. I place it with the Second and Fourth sonatas as being one of my four favourites, which just leaves...


The Tenth Sonata, Op.70 of 1913, another of my four favourites, has no official sub-title, though it has acquired a couple of nicknames - 'The Trill' and 'The Insects'. The reason for the first nickname will be self-explanatory to anyone who hears the sonata. It is the apotheosis of the trill. It's a striking coincidence (if coincidence it be) that Scriabin's final piano sonata makes the spiritually cleaning power of the trill such an essential feature much as Beethoven's final sonata, Op.111, very deliberately crowned its final movement with a string of magical trills. The second nickname arises from Scriabin's description of the piece as a "sonata of insects...born from the sun; they are the sun's kisses." The magical nocturnal passages in the Black Mass sonata seem to be being re-imagined - with added crickets! - as if a new dawn. This really is a beautiful work, with another rather Debussyan introduction - a highly attractive and unusual melody, echoed quietly in the higher registers (by insects?) then replayed with gorgeous harmonies. This whole passage is delicious. It ends in trills. The Allegro section bursts in enthusiastically. Trills cover the continuation of its main theme. The second subject is full of trills and shimmering tremolos. Sonata form processes are followed, thematically-(not harmonically-)speaking and there's a development section that rises to a luminous, trill-saturated climax that always makes my day whenever I hear it. The recapitulation recolours some of its material and then launches into another of Scriabin's cosmic dances before the sonata returns to where it began. Late Scriabin is full of such delights - as you will know if you listened to the late miniatures. 

Ah, Scriabin. What a composer!

(P.S. the paintings in this post are by the Italian symbolist painter, Gaetano Previati). 
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Sunday, 17 June 2012

Scriabin 2: To Ecstasy and Beyond



Alexander Scriabin was certainly what Brits of a century ago might have called 'a rum cove'. His belief that he himself would become a god who could redeem humanity, chiefly by means of the piece he was working on as he died, Mysterium - which, incidentally, would involve hanging bells from clouds -, smacks of what we might charitably call a lack of modesty and, possibly, madness. Such juicy biographical details are fascinating to most people but, as a lover of Scriabin's music, I can't say they have much of an impact on the way I hear his wonderful music. I can hear no madness in it and all the undoubted egomania doesn't seem to translate into egomaniacal music (well, most of the time anyway!) His thoughts and writings may reek of such things, his music doesn't. So that's that!

On to the music then.

2. The orchestral works

Scriabin was essentially a composer of piano music but he wrote seven orchestral pieces, including five symphonies. These, as with the piano miniatures, help us trace a path through the composer's ever-fascinating growth into originality. His piano works may be his greatest legacy but the Poem of Ecstasy is held in such affection (indeed awe) by some listeners that the orchestral works are hardly secondary pieces. 

As we saw with the piano miniatures, Scriabin began as an accomplished disciple of Chopin and it is fitting that his first orchestral work was firmly in the style in Chopin - his increasing popular Piano Concerto in F sharp major, Op.20 (the Scriabin key) of 1896. To many people who know the piece it is quite staggering that it isn't already performed as often as the Grieg, Tchaikovsky, Chopin and Rachmaninov concertos. It is emphatically not inferior to any of them.

Forget harmonic adventure here. Melody and beauty are Scriabin's chief concern in the Piano Concerto. The opening Allegro has a fund of attractive melody. The main one is introduced by the soloist before re-emerging, Rachmaninov-like, on strings. The scoring here is warm and there is some especially lovely horn writing. The piano is employed to sing and to decorate and plays a lot of pretty figuration along the way. In the development section a particularly winning passage sets the woodwinds singing blithely over a restful drone richly built on horns and embroidered by the pianist. If you like Rachmaninov you will love this movement. The lovely central Andante is a theme and variations. Its theme, introduced by the strings, is a beauty - fragile, noble and melancholy (and surprisingly, to my English ears, like Elgar). The variations range from a simple re-singing of the theme on solo clarinet with liquid decoration from the soloist (Variation I) to a fast, dancing variation with squeals of delight from strings and woodwinds (Variation II). Variation III is sombre, like a dead march, and dominated by the piano. The following variation retains a wistful air in its string melody, but the piano and woodwinds provide us with hope. The Finale is, I have to say, less satisfying. Except for the beautiful second subject its material is less attractive. That second subject is sung by the soloist over his own rippling accompaniment. Both tune and accompaniment are embedded in warm horn writing and soon gain a string counter-melody (a variant of the theme). There's a lot of appealing Chopinesque figuration in this movement which guarantees pleasure throughout - plus the second subject's climactic return is thrilling. 

His orchestral Rêverie, Op. 24 of 1998 is short in length but long on attractiveness. It is such a lovely piece and yet hardly anyone knows it. There's lovely post-Wagnerian writing here, at times veering engagingly towards Tchaikovsky (even Rimsky-Korsakov at one point) but at other times anticipating by a few years a certain passage from Schoenberg's Verklaerte Nacht (and it's not just the notes that are uncannily similar.) The woodwinds introduce the theme over tremolos and the strings proceed to sing in long melodic lines. There are some highly gratifyingly harmonies here.  

As Scriabin wrote well over a hundred miniatures he is sometimes seem as a miniaturist. He was, of course, far from just being a miniaturist. The first three symphonies are certainly far from miniature!


As the 20th century dawned (1900), young Scriabin wrote his First Symphony in E major, Op.26. If you followed my survey of the piano miniatures and know only his Poem of Ecstasy you might be in for a surprise here. In fact, if I had been played the entire 50-minute symphony without being informed in advance that I was about to listen to a symphony by Scriabin I am not at all sure that I would have guessed the identity of the composer. In fact, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have done so. Yes, this is a late-Romantic symphony written firmly within that tradition. That is not a bad thing as Scriabin's First Symphony is, I hope you'll agree, a very attractive addition to that tradition. 

The Lento Prologue begins in a delicate Wagnerian enchanted forest over which dawn ascends with the warmest rays of melody. The two principle themes are both gorgeous - the first appearing initially on clarinet is a fresh, upward-reaching melody, while the second (first presented by woodwind alone) is more chromatic and Tristanesque. No wonder even some critics who are sniffy about Scriabin have been known to drool over this Prologue. It is exceedingly lovely, isn't it? The Allegro dramatico second movement plunges us into the world of passionate late-Romantic angst, post-Wagnerian in the luxuriant chromaticism of its language. It is a big, sonata form structure that could be summed up with the words 'moody but magnificent'. The dynamic first theme is stormy while the second subject is full of yearning - well, at least initially, as both themes partake of each others mood as the movement progresses. The ending is worthy of Tchaikovsky at his stormiest. The third movement Lento's long, expressive main theme grows from its tentative introduction on clarinet into a sumptuous vehicle for the expression of achingly romantic love music. A passage of 'forest murmurs' introduces a particularly lovely note as the main theme returns. The second subject is a happy Tchaikovskyan figure. This fabulous movement has so much to offer the listener who chooses to give it a hearing. Also deserving of wide popularity is the balletic Scherzo which follows. Again, unexpectedly, Scriabin turns Tchaikovskyan with a trio that could have come from The Nutcracker. Its theme is for piccolo and bells. Who'd have thought that! The fifth movement is another sonata form Allegro. Its main theme is strong and dramatic. I would say though that the second subject is rather anodyne and the weak link in the movement; however, given that the movement is such a successful piece of Romantic storming-and-stressing it can be forgiven. Scriabin's ambitious personality, partly manifested in the large scale of his first symphony, is made evident in what happens in the Finale. Mezzo and tenor soloists appear after the rather Dvorak-like opening bars and sing a Beethoven-inspired 'hymn to art' which sounds less like a hymn than a tender love duet from a Russian opera. His ambition goes even further than that though: A chorus then enters. The chorus sings antiphonally for a while before a choral fugue is launched. The expense of hiring solo singers and a chorus perhaps accounts for why such a delightful and accomplished Russian symphony should receive so few performances around the world. I can think of no other (good) reason.


The Second Symphony in C minor/major, Op.29 (composed in 1902, around the two of the Two Preludes, Op.27) is also a work of the composer's early maturity and is no less a late-Romantic symphony. To repeat myself: If I had been played the entire 50-minute symphony without being informed in advance that I was about to listen to a symphony by Scriabin I am not at all sure that I would have guessed the identity of the composer. Despite its lack of Scriabinesque traces, there is much to enjoy in the piece, even if it isn't as satisfying as the First Symphony. Even though it is much the same length as its predecessor it feels overly long to me. The first two movements in particular could have done with quite a bit of pruning. 

The opening movement consists of a lengthy Andante and an even longer Allegro. The Andante introduces two themes, both of which will return (in an example of cyclic form) in the Finale. A solo clarinet sounds the first - and more significant - of the themes, characterised by its use of the notes of the triad plus a falling scale fragment. The second theme, announced attractively in a rapturous violin solo, is lyrical, frequently leaping by a third or a sixth. The Andante makes both themes sound beautiful, draping them in lovely orchestral colours. The Allegro bursts in energetically with a rhythmically-springy main subject made from three short but detachable motifs. The fine theme is contrasted with the clarinet's second subject - a shapely melody, but one also possessing useful motifs too. Sonata form was ever to be Scriabin's way in large-scale works and his development section employs both subject vigorously. The main theme appears against itself in canon at the start of the recapitulation, effectively. The movement as a whole shows traces of Wagnerism (especially at its dramatic climaxes), just as his piano works of the time were also beginning to do. This influence is even more clearly heard in the slow movement where 'forest murmurs' and bird song meet Tristanesque harmony. The former gives rise to an especially beautiful chromatic melody which is the movement's main theme. This pastoral and romantic music flows expansively and winningly and floods the world with peace. The scoring could hardly be improved upon. The following Tempestuoso movement is, as you might expect from its marking, stormy, making hay with sequential figures and thunderous effects. Lyrical episodes briefly provide contrast. The brass then sound memories of earlier themes, preparing us for the martial Finale, where the triad-based theme of the whole symphony returns as a pomp-and-circumstance march. Its scampering string continuation is repeated interrupted by a solemn brass chorale. The second theme from the opening Andante also returns on woodwinds then strings with a spring in its step. The march passes by again, achieves peroration then yields to delicately dancing music. Wagnerian brass bring back solemnity and then the march (and a recapitulation) leads to a rousing and rowdy close. I have to say that I enjoy this closing movement immensely, though this is not a universally-shared sentiment - especially with devout Scriabinites. 


The Symphony No. 3 in C Major, Op.43, "The Divine Poem" of 1902-04 doesn't mark as much a step towards the future as might have been expected from its sub-title or from the titles of its three movements - Luttes ("Struggles"), Voluptés ("Delights") and Jeu divin ("Divine Play"); indeed, it ought to be bracketed with its two predecessors rather than with its two single-movement successors. It is another 50-minute late-Romantic symphony and, again, somewhat protracted. What a feast for the ears it is though! 

The Lento Prologue begins with an immediate presentation of the symphony's main themes - a stern theme on brass representing 'Divine grandeur', a rising trumpet figure representing 'The Summoning of Man' and a quiet falling figure on strings and woodwinds representing 'Fear in the face of God'. (Yes, I know!) These themes mingle throughout and new themes grow out of them. Luttes, the longest movement, leaps gracefully into action with a theme for violins. The theme is developed and other thematic ideas mingle with it, including a delightful soaring figure, before the second subject appears (if such it be, it being rather hard to say) - a theme of some nobility.  Other ideas follow. There are many Wagnerian moments. The movement has drama for sure but also moments of delicious languor and some of majesty and is well worth wallowing in. The slow movement Voluptés is, as you would expect, full of romantic lyricism and passion and has a main theme of much beauty. Scriabin marks it 'sublime' (which is rather tempting fate!) and, if not quite that, it certainly is one that I suspect will be loved by almost all listeners. The movement moves between chromaticism and diatonic harmony (rather as Wagner was doing all those years before in Tannhauser) and has another of those 'forest' interludes that help make these earlier symphonies so attractive, though romantic goings-on are the focus even there. The main theme of Jeu divin (derived from the motifs of the Prologue) is marked 'with radiant joy' and is announced brightly by a solo trumpet with a perky response from the rest of the orchestra. A theme representing the 'Ego' follows on the strings and this is followed by a lovely, limpid phrase on flute which combines with the 'Ego' theme very beautifully. The movement is in sonata form, so expect a development section, a recapitulation and a big, big finish. 


When I first encountered the magnificent Le Poème de l'extase, Op.54 ('The Poem of Ecstasy') of 1905-08 (contemporary with the opus numbers that surround it - the late 'transitional' works) it felt to me like the love-child of Stravinsky's Firebird (still to be written) and Wagner's Tristan und Isolde. It's more than that of course, but I can still see a bit of truth in that idea. The piece is a single-movement magic garden for orchestra in which human love "in the fullest sense" is celebrated, characteristically in large-scale works via the medium of sonata form (Prologue-Exposition-Development-Recapitulation-Coda), and in which several themes flower in ever-changing beds of context. With the Poem, however, we are entering again into Scriabin's late style. The old-fashioned sonata-form outline is deceptive in this respect. It is a skeleton largely (if far from completely) devoid of its old harmonic flesh. The old tonic-dominant-modulation-tonic harmonic scheme is abandoned and it is largely the play of themes that conforms to the old pattern. 

The mysterious Prologue features a haunting flute theme, marked by alternately wide and narrow intervals, and a chromatic clarinet theme, both entwined languidly. Only a trumpet offers any challenge to this lazy beauty. The Allegro starts with a delightful dancing theme - a firebird has entered the garden! A violin solo introduces the love-filled, chromatic second subject (Tristan extended) and Scriabin indulges it. Two new themes follow on solo trumpet, both assertive and dynamic. The first is sharply angled while the second (and more important) is a string of rising fourths (with a falling chromatic tale). All themes now present correct Scriabin can now allow them to co-mingle, become intoxicated and grow ecstatic. Trombones kick off the stormy development section where, with the aid of percussion, this process reaches a mighty climax. Such stresses eventually yield to the gentle themes of the Prologue. These usher in the recapitulation. The most thrilling is yet to come though - in the coda. This uses a 'victory theme' to screw up tension excitingly before ejaculating at a huge climax - a passage where a solo trumpet rises to glory, withdraws briefly then exults again in a luminously-scored diatonic blaze. A gentle afterglow (on several themes) then results in a re-girding of the loins, a lunge forwards and another explosion. The 'victory theme' comes again in majesty on eight horns, gloriously, accompanied by a panoply of percussion. An explosion of bells follows. The end? No. Scriabin holds off one last time before C major blazes in, conclusively. It's all very exciting - and completely justified. 


Like an enlarged Scriabin sonata, the tone-poem/symphony Prometheus: Poem of Fire, Op. 60 of 1910 is a single-movement work that also follows sonata form, albeit on a larger canvas in terms of duration (lasting about 25 minutes) and scoring (a very large orchestra with a fiendish concertante piano part) -  "follows sonata form", of course, in much the same way and with the same caveats as described a couple of paragraphs ago. We are in the world of the 'mystic chord' here, at the start of Scriabin's 'late period', with the work being grounded on a version of it comprising the notes A, D sharp, G, C sharp, F sharp and B.  

Prometheus is an often very impressive piece, though I confess that I find it five minutes too long for full satisfaction and the extravagantly brief use (twice) towards the close - for the purpose of climax-enhancing) - of a wordless chorus is too extravagant to sound totally effective. Those impressive stretches, however, contain much that is beautiful, the work being at its best (generally-speaking) in its most lyrical passages. 

A fog of harmony brings forth a basic theme on horns, as if emerging into visibility. This will appear fully-formed as the work's beautiful main theme a few minutes further on. Another great theme, however (the other theme!) must preoccupy us first - a lushly-harmonised subject for winds which sounds for all the world like Messiaen. Its every appearance brings magic along with it. Piano and strings dwell on its beauty before transforming it (almost beyond recognition) into the lively joyeux theme which kicks off the second phase of the exposition - a desire-filled mingling of themes and moods, alternately languid and excitable. The majestueux main theme is its goal - and, when reached, it's worth it! The development section takes up the second phase's mingling strategy. In this section Scriabin's scoring becomes even more exquisitely coloured, as if Debussy were mentoring him. The piano kicks up a storm and a climax results and from it - at length! - emerges...a waltz. This splendid, short-lived surprise prompts an exultant climax and a precisely ravishing aftermath. The recapitulation brings many more instances of such beauties and more exultation. It is an engrossing listen, with the Messiaen-like theme playing its part. Lively writing follows the first choral passage, along with a lyrical violin solo. The work ends in a blaze of Scriabin's beloved F sharp major.

As a symphonic cycle, the Scriabin symphonies just don't seem to get the attention they so obviously deserve so, if you share my enthusiasm for them, please spread the good news!

(P.S. The paintings in this post are by the Belgian symbolist Jean Delville.)
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