Latvia IV: Hollywood, Soviet-style

OK, moving on then. 1909 saw the birth of Ādolfs Skulte (d.2000), above. His long life saw him make the journey from Tsarist Russia, through Latvian independence, Soviet occupation, Nazi occupation, Soviet occupation again to finally reach Latvia's renewed (and hopefully eternal) independence - though not EU membership. He stayed in Latvia after the Soviets returned and achieved a distinguished career there. Skulte was a fairly prolific symphonist too, with at least nine such works to his name. They are, I think it can safely be said, rather different those of Ivanovs.

I want to introduce his remarkable music to you though with a symphonic poem, Wellen ('Waves') from 1934, a gloriously turbo-charged piece of musical impressionism depicting the majestic swelling of the sea, with big bold tunes and dense, multi-coloured orchestration. Fun, wasn't it? Oh yes! And the confident optimism of that score can also be found in the composer's substantial String Quartet from 1936 - a piece of considerable accomplishment and lyricism in a conservative idiom. It knows precisely what it's doing. Yes, the material doesn't particularly linger in memory but the pleasure of listening to the piece does. It leaves a warm afterglow.

When we next meet Ādolfs Skulte we find him writing music for the Soviet Union, pieces with very Soviet-sounding titles. Eschewing the ethical dilemmas this might involve for the listener by means of the cutting-of-the-Gordian-knot approach of simply ignoring any such concerns, let's encounter some of his symphonies and assess their musical qualities, plunging in with the large-scale Symphony No.1, 'About Peace' of 1954. This is ripe, conservative, dramatic-lyrical music, with romantic tunes sweeping over highly-coloured accompaniments with heroic dash. Before reading the accompanying notes on YouTube the first movement struck me as sounding remarkably like Hollywood film music from the 1940s - a happy convergence of opinions, though (in the circumstances) hardly a surprising one. The whole symphony could have accompanied a Hollywood movie. Two andante movements follow - one marked 'dolento', the other 'cantabile'. One, I presume, evokes war and the other peace. The dark, deep visions of Ivanovs's Fifth or Shostakovich's Eighth have no place here. This is pure entertainment. (If the composer intended otherwise, he didn't succeed!) The closing allegro is exactly what a symphony on such a theme at that time had to have - a happy ending. I have to say, having encountered the striking and rather unusual Waves and the refined String Quartet, I was quite taken aback by this symphony.  High-minded music lovers will probably regard it as pure schlock but I had huge fun listening to it.  

In the wake of Yuri Gagarin's historic flight into space Skulte wrote his Third Symphony, the Cosmic. Unlike Ivanovs, who's music was rediscovering some its bite, Skulte's Cosmic is still close to Hollywood film music, though we've moved into the Hollywood of the 1950s here - so the symphony does sound a little more modern, with even a faint whiff of jazz in the first movement - a section of big tunes, exciting action and Technicolor orchestration intended to stir the listener which, in my case, it does successfully. Then, in the central slow section, the action is suspended and we find ourselves sailing through the ethereal mystery of space itself. Ligeti's Lux aeterna it ain't, however, being instead the sort of music you might well remember from sci-fi films of the 1950s when our hero and his heroine are having a happy moment together while lost in space, looking at the magical universe around them and then into each others eyes! Of course, the finale is all noisy, jolly celebration - the musical equivalent of a ticker tape parade - as Gagarin makes his heroic re-entry into Earth's atmosphere. Again that word 'schlock' might come to mind, but it's all such fun and all so expertly done that you'd be being a self-defeating killjoy if you didn't allow yourself to indulge yourself with it!

If you enjoyed those, you'll also enjoy the Fourth Symphony, 'Youth' of 1971. I did. It seems to take us back to 1940s Hollywood again.

Frankly, these  immediately understandable Hollywood-style symphonies from Soviet Latvia are so instantly gratifying as to be rather compulsive. I feel a bit like a chocoholic faced with a huge pile of free, cheap, tasty, fattening chocolates ...and now I'm eating the Fifth Symphony of 1975 and it's such a pleasure doing so. Well might YouTubers compare the style here to that of the Frank Waxman and Bernard Hermann of the early 1950s. This is the classiest Skulte symphony, and definitely a thriller rather than an heroic epic, sci-fi film or a romantic movie.

I'm getting through a lot of popcorn tonight. I'll allow you to watch listen to the Eighth Symphony of 1984 and the Ninth Symphony of 1987 by yourselves. Suffice to say, they're still the same old Ādolfs Skulte - and just as much fun as before. What an extraordinary anachronism his music must have seemed in 1984 and 1987 - if not decades earlier!

Incidentally, Ādolfs's older brother Bruno Skulte (1905-1976), above, was also a composer. Unlike his brother he fled Latvia after the Soviet Union re-imposed its rule on the country after the Second World War, emigrating to the U.S.A. where he established a Latvian chorus and continued to promote Latvian culture. There's very little of Bruno's music available on YouTube, with the opera The Heiress of Vilkaci, an obvious gap. Still, you can enjoy his Bērnu dziesmas ('Children's Songs') - a song-cycle very much in the vein of Mussorgsky's Romantic realism and clearly owing a lot specifically to the great Russian's song-cycle The Nursery. These songs and tasters from The Heiress of Vilkaci suggest that the elder brother might well have been an even more conservative composer than his brother. They certainly whet the appetite for hearing a lot more Bruno Skulte. What though of his Latvian-sounding side? Well, (and go to 2:29 in the video) his Lūgšana ('The Prayer') gives a lovely example of that and, on a more extended scale, his Ganiņš biju is a charming pastoral piece.

The thought has just crossed my mind, as it may have done yours, that there's an irony-laden theme here, in that one brother emigrated to America and the other brother wrote as if he'd emigrated to America. 

Latvia III: Ivanovs, THE Latvian Symphonist

Let's move on to one of the better-known Latvian composers, Jānis Ivanovs (1906-1983). Ivanovs, pictured above, is regarded as the country's finest symphonist, of which he wrote 21. Like Lūcija Garūta, Ivanovs was a composer content to pursue a late-Romantic path, often drawing in nationalist fashion on the folk melodies of his homeland and able (by a happy coincidence) to continue writing in this vein after the Soviets imposed their rule on Latvia (due to this being the favoured style of the Soviet Union too). 

As it's short, let's start our exploration of the music of Ivanovs with his First Symphony of 1933. It's subtitle, Poema sinfonia, is a correct one; the having the feel of a symphonic poem rather than a symphony. It has a heroic, filmic sweep and offers the listener decent tunes (especially the rather Khachaturian-like one beginning at 3:19) plus pleasing orchestral colours. It isn't a great piece but it's a likeable one nonetheless, and has moments that sound surprisingly like Britain's very own Arnold Bax. (He will  do that elsewhere in his symphonic cycle too). The first movement of the half-hour-long three-movement Second Symphony of 1937, modelled on the famous Symphony of César Franck, begins with brooding but rouses itself and ends optimistically. Along the way the music works out its themes in the way of many minor late-Romantic symphonies, pleasingly if rather forgettably. The Andante, however, has an attractive melody and, through the composer's striking ear for orchestral colour, successfully conjures up an atmosphere that cannot but remind me of Scotland's mountains and mists. The slightly Scottish-sounding main theme helps create that coincidence. It's a winning movement. The final movement wraps things up heroically, as you would expect. The traditional four movements are found in the Third Symphony of 1938. Again, the opening movement opens broodingly and this brooding dominates despite the somewhat jaunty nature of the main theme. The best thing in this movement is the waltz-like second subject that will instantly hit fans of Rachmaninov's Symphonic Dances as being similar to his dance macabre there. The Andante second movement has another of those melodies that is likely to immediately win over the listener - a big tune in the Tchaikovsky/Khachaturian vein. The pleasures of a good tune, surrounded by imaginative scoring, cannot be underestimated. There's a definite folktune quality to the melody, which (if it is typical of Latvian folk melodies) has - like the equivalent tune in the Second Symphony something of Scottish folk melody about it. That sets it apart from Tchaikovsky and Khachaturian. Another fine Ivanovs slow movement. An amiably grotesque Firebird-like scherzo, with Tchaikovskyan asides, follows, then a finale that seems to have Tchaikovsky at the forefront of its mind. Like its predecessors, the Third Symphony has many minutes of music I'm very glad to have heard, though its the two slow movements from Nos. 2 and 3 to which I will be returning. 

With the Fourth Symphony, "Atlantis" of 1941 (second half here), Ivanovs attempts to work on a large-scale canvas. His Scriabin-like ambitions for a multi-media performance (as we'd call it these days) is echoed in the Scriabin-like character of the piece. (I'm thinking of the Scriabin symphonies). The closest sound-alike though might be Arnold Bax again. (How odd is that?) This big symphonic statement aims to evoke the myth of Atlantis and to my mind has as more of the symphonic poem than the symphony about it. That said, the first movement, Ira Dei Legenda (The Message of Plato), creates an ominous atmosphere, building expectation. Listen out for the warning bell. (You wan't miss it). The slow movement, Poseidon - Papylon, evokes the god of the sea and the capital city of Atlantis. There's some rather impressionistic writing here and a wordless female chorus adds to the Debussyan element. Ivanovs remains on form throughout this endearing movement. Next comes a fine wind and brass-dominated scherzo depicting the Aedes Sacra - religious ceremonies - of Atlantis. They ain't Anglican services, that's for sure! Finally, "On a dreadful day, On a dreadful night, The Island of Atlantis disappeared, drowned in the sea." This closing movement is intended to be the climactic movement of the whole symphony, overwhelming the listener with the horror of it all and leaving him benumbed afterwards. Well, it doesn't do that but it's a listenable movement nonetheless, despite its length. 

The first post-Second World War symphony, the Fifth Symphony (second half here), saw a change in style. Though on the same large scale as its predecessor, the serious Fifth shows a less opulently late-Romantic, more Shostakovich-like side to the composer. The first movement is a conflict movement, pitting the dissonance of war against the serene melodiousness of peace. The spirit of  peace dominates the thoughtful and masterful Andante, albeit viewed through still-sad eyes - a movement with (for a Brit) some interesting echoes of Vaughan Williams -, though admirers of Shostakovich and Prokofiev will surely recognise the influence of their men in the burlesque that barges into it so rudely. All three of those same composers flitted across my ear in the excellent scherzo-like third movement, a section full of dance energy with some glorious trumpet writing and a strange, veiled waltz episode which blossoms into lyricism.  As a piece of symphonic writing, the Fifth is the composer's finest symphony so far, rooting the listener's attention throughout its first three movements. Only the episodic finale doesn't consistently hit the heights, despite struggling to do so. It's one of those dramatic movements which fights its way towards a happy ending. In spite of that slight caveat, Ivanovs's Fifth is, to my ears, one of the towering pieces of Latvian music. I think you will be impressed by it.

As you will with the Sixth Symphony (subtitled Latvian) of 1949. This is shorter and more accessible that the Fifth but no less masterful. I actually prefer it; indeed, it's  the Jānis Ivanovs work I love the most. I say that realising that it is in some ways the result of a stifling of the composer's spirit by the Soviet authorities. The infamous 1948 decree decrying 'formalism' in music included Ivanovs's Fourth and Fifth symphonies in its condemnation and this more conventional-sounding symphony was written in its wake. Still, anyone who savours the Vaughan Williams and Prokofiev symphonies should take to it with relish too and, despite having dragged you through five earlier symphonies already, the Sixth Symphony is the place I'd advise newcomers to begin their Ivanovs symphonic cycle. It integrates elements found in the earlier symphony into a fully coherent and satisfying whole and it should be in the repertoire of major orchestras around the world, selling its composer's name. The first movement is superb. Its lyrical second subject (with its surrounding Rachmaninov Symphonic Dances-style writing) and the beautiful coda will linger in your memory. The scherzo is a high-spirited one with a lovely, delicately-scored folksong-like trio that is sure to charm you. After this delightful movement comes an irresistible Andante whose relaxed, radiant beauty speaks with a voice that will especially appeal to lovers of British music from the first half of the last century. It is warm, gorgeously melodic and delightfully orchestrated. The finale has a slow introduction that draws on earlier elements and generates an air of somewhat anxious expectancy, but the main allegro section banishes this with its optimistic folk-inspired energy. It's main tune will soon have your blood flowing and your foot tapping. Yes, the fanfares and the uplifting, Soviet-style ending are a bit less elevated but it's still a splendid movement to end a splendid symphony.

Let's leap forward to 1971, passing over seven more symphonies, the composer's rehabilitation and his rise to the position of President of the Latvian Composers' Union to arrive at three of the later symphonies.

The Fourteenth Symphony and its successor suggest a darkening of the composer's art, but no decline in its quality. The Fourteenth is rather like the Ivanovs of the once-denounced Fifth Symphony, except that it's a chamber symphony for strings only and strikes a more withdrawn and dissonant note throughout. The first movement proceeds by the serious play of lyrical and dramatic elements. The darkly beautiful slow movement is elegiac and full of pained dissonances. The dramatic finale has elements that evoke comparison with the Shostakovich of the string quartets. It is a first-rate piece, full of characteristic invention. Light relief it most certainly isn't though. Nor is the Fifteenth Symphony of 1972. Here the rest of the orchestra rejoins the strings for one of the composer's most expansive symphonic canvases. It bears the sub-title Sinfonia Ipsa. I have no idea why. Ipsa are sea-snails, as far as I know. Wouldn't it be good for there to be a symphony written about sea-snails? Maybe this is it! There is certainly something sea-like about the turbulent lyricism of the first movement. The slow movement is mysterious, its pang-like dissonances and the use of piled-up octaves to build a mighty climax giving it a deep, brooding quality. The finale keeps to the overall mood of the symphony and swirls, crashes and broods menacingly.

Ending this dip into the Ivanovs symphonic canon (the last of his completed symphonies No.21 was completed by other hands) comes the Twentieth Symphony of 1981. It shares the dark qualities of Nos.14 and 15, amplifying them to the status of tragedy. Something similar seems to have been going on in Ivanov's late music to that which was also happening in Shostakovich's late music - a strain of pessimism filling the music. It undoubtedly gives it a very personal feeling, as if the composer is allowing us a glimpse at his innermost feelings. Dramatic outburst punctuate the morose introspection of the first movement and the Adagio is even gloomier, like the music of someone lost in memory and sadness. The short third movement is marked Minuet: Reminiscenza and is wistful in character, music of sad smiles. The composer must have thought that it fitted in with the rest of the symphony, though I'm not so sure. The finale is a final big statement, not overly long but full of imposing ideas.

These black-bound late symphonies don't give the immediate pleasures of the three early symphonies, or the involving ambition of the Fourth and Fifth, or the happy nobility of the Sixth, but they are rewarding pieces nonetheless, worth spending time with - if you're not already feeling too depressed!

After that you may well be thirsting for a little more of the less despondent music of Jānis Ivanovs. The 1938 Cello Concerto is a fairly short and lyrically-charged piece, wholly late-Romantic and rhapsodic in manner. His tuneful 1951 Violin Concerto is in the same style and very much in the tradition of Russian (and Finnish) virtuoso violin concertos from the days before Shostakovich and Prokofiev (and Ivanovs). The Violin Concerto's slow movement is an especial delight, with a lovely melody and some rustic dance episodes of considerable charm. If you like Tchaikovsky's or Glazunov's violin concertos  (or Korngold's for that matter) then these two Ivanovs concertos should be very much to your taste. You can tell that the post-Stalin 'thaw' is well under way, however, by the time you come to the opening notes of the 1959 Piano Concerto. Listening to them immediately after the Violin Concerto provoked a wince. Ah yes, dissonance! Ouch!! This Piano Concerto lowers the level of lyricism found in the earlier concertos, having more of a Prokofiev-style bite to it - though, like Prokofiev, it cannot forbear lyricism completely.

It's time to move on, but not before one of these:

Further Ivanovs listening:

Piano Sonata, 1931
Pictures from Lataglian Landscapes, Suite No.1, 1935
Rainbow, 1939
Festive Prelude, 1940
Sonata brevis, 1962
Andante replicato, 1963
Three Sketches, 1966

Latvia II: Loving Lūcija

The music of Lūcija Garūta (1902-1977), pictured above, has a special place in Latvian music. I'll let Wikipedia introduce one of her major works:

A tape of the premiere of her 1943 cantata Dievs, tava zeme deg! (God, your land is burning!) on 15 March 1944 during World War II captured the sounds of battle outside of Riga Dom. The lyrics were written by Andrejs Eglītis for contest themed "Latvian prayer to God". The première featured massed choirs conducted by Teodors Reiters while the composer played the Riga Cathedral pipe organ. The cantata was banned under Soviet control of Latvia and was revived in 1990 at the 20th Latvian Song Festival with over ten thousand singers. 

This deeply-felt work for tenor, baritone, chorus and organ kept me rooted to the spot, entranced, throughout its 45 minute duration. There is much dramatic writing but also some seriously beautiful sections (such as the tenor solo beginning at 6:25). The charismatic nature of the composer's ideas cannot but compel the open-hearted listener I think and I do hope you'll give it a try. The music's affinities with French music are intriguing, giving it a quality above and beyond its general Eastern European late-Romantic feel. 

What else does Lūcija Garūta have to offer us? Well, there's her Piano Concerto in F sharp minor of 1952 - a barnstorming piece in the old high-Romantic style. (Could any music be further away from the avant-garde goings-on at Darmstadt at that time?) Audiences across the world would love this piece if they ever got a chance to hear it - especially those partial to the Rachmaninov concertos. (One for Hyperion?) As with the cantata, drama and beauty combine winningly throughout, with the refined and lyrical second subject of the first movement and the entirety of the slow movement of the piece being particular treats. The slow movement meditates on a sombrely beautiful melody that could have come from one of the old Russian masters, contrasting it with a more cheerful theme of considerable colour and charm. The entertaining finale dances, sings and sparkles in an almost Saint-Saëns-like fashion, keeping up the very high standard of invention on display throughout. It's amazing how many wonderful pieces there are lying in various homelands that remain undiscovered by the world's music lovers. The world is missing out on so much. This is a piece it shouldn't be missing out on.

And there's more (as I hope you'll be wanting much more of Lūcija''s music)...There's a similarly late-Romantic Piano Trio in B flat major that will delight lovers of Russian-style chamber music of the late 19th Century variety - and many others besides. There's plenty of enchantment in the second subject of its first movement (ah, so warm!) and, yes, there's a belter of a slow movement. The finale is cathcy, like one of those old folksong-based finales. In some ways it's a piece very much in the same mould as the Piano Concerto - and none the worse for it. It may have been a piece out of its time but who cares about that now? Performances at Wigmore Hall would do wonders for its popularity.

If you're still not done with this lady's music, then please also try her Prelude in B minor, Variations in F sharp minor or Prelude in C sharp minor for piano.

Well, who's next?

Latvia I: Early Days

It's time for me to venture out into the wide world of classical music again. Instead of crossing the Andes or the Caucasus, I'm staying inside the European Union and sailing across the Baltic Sea to Latvia. It's time for me to explore Latvia because, beyond a few names I've read over the years, I've never heard anything other than Pēteris Vasks - by far the country's best-known composer beyond its borders. As these journeys always throw up remarkable music by composers the rest of the world ought to know, I hope you'll find it a worthwhile if, probably, rather sketchy survey and will dip in as you please.

The first major figure in Latvian music, my researches tell me, was Jānis Cimze (1814-1881), above.. It was he who raised unaccompanied choral music and professionalism onto the stage of his people's culture - a stage they've excelled on ever since. Folk songs arrangements and choral songs are a key part of his output, which is what I believe we're hearing in his glorious Jāņu dziesmas Vidzemes apgabalos ('Midsummer Songs from the Vidzeme Region'). 

Kārlis Baumanis (a.k.a. Baumaņu Kārlis), above, (1835-1905) is best known for writing the Latvian national anthem, Dievs, svētī Latviju! ('God, Bless Latvia!'), but apparently this teacher and nationalist also wrote the first ever song to feature the word 'Latvia' in its lyrics. I've not been able to locate that (as far as I'm aware!), but the the quality of his music might be gauged from a winning unaccompanied choral miniature like Jāņu dziesma ('Midsummer Song'). It's hard to judge, of course, on such a small sample of a composer's output.

Jāzeps Vītols, a.k.a. Joseph Wihtol (1863-1948), was taught by Rimsky-Korsakov and. He went on to teach Prokofiev, as well as a few of the composers we are to meet later in this survey (including Ivanovs and A. Skulte). He was a leading light in inter-war independent Latvia's music and fled the country when the Soviets re-asserted themselves towards the end of his life. His remains were taken to his homeland after it regained its independence in the 1990s. As you might expect from that potted biography, the composer's music is rooted in a conservative Romantic nationalist style owing much to the Russian example which injected with Latvian spirit, often through the infusion of Latvian folk music elements.

He wrote the first Latvian symphony (1886-8), his Symphony in E minor - a work wherein the example of his teacher Rimsky-Korsakov (and his circle) can be heard most clearly - something which is only to be expected in a young composer's work. Though it isn't an undiscovered masterpiece, the Symphony is a highly competent piece that should appeal to anyone who likes, say, the Borodin symphonies or the Tchaikovsky orchestral suites. The second subject of the first movement is particularly charming. The Piano Sonata in B flat minor, Op.1, his first published work, dates from around the same time and is an accomplished Romantic sonata of the Russian Empire's Silver Age (the one that followed the Golden age of Tchaikovsky, Borodin, Mussorgsky, etc), revealing the influence of Golden Age composers, principally Tchaikovsky. Its first movement has a Rimsky-like theme which the composer modulates engagingly, especially during the harmonically somewhat ambiguous development section. The second movement is a theme and variations on a simple tune, which it takes through many a brilliant by-way (plus the odd gentler one) as the movement proceeds. If you liked that then you will also like Vītols's Three Silhouettes, Op.38, though they are a lighter affair. Similarly conventional but showing the Russian influence again is the romance-like song Mirdzas dziesma (nope, can't translate that beyond 'song'!)

Those pieces all show the composer's Russian training in action, so what of the Latvian side of his art? Well, a short but attractive introduction to this side of the music of Vītols is the Latvian Folk Song Suite. We are a long way from Bartok here, as the idiom remains resolutely late-Romantic. Likewise  with the Ten Lettish Folksongs, Op.29. Still, these are early pieces and re-affirm that we have found a fine reliable composer whose music will afford the listener many pleasures.

The work which carries the name of its composer abroad (to a certain extent) is Gaismas pils (Castle of Light), an unaccompanied choral miniature that Latvian choirs love to sing at home and around the world - and it's easy to hear why. Another beauty is the short, reverential cantata Jesus at the Well. The latter comes from 1935 and shows Vitols holding on to his conservative idiom, albeit moving well beyond the 'Mighty Handful' sound of a much earlier Latvian nationalist cantata, Beverīnas Dziedonis ('Song of Beverīna').

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Further Vitols listening:

Variācijas - Portreti ('Variations - Portraits')
Berceuse
Valse

When I heard the Melancholy Waltz of the Romantic Emīls Dārziņš (1875-1910), pictured above, for the first time I immediately thought "Tchaikovsky with a tinge of Sibelius". The echoes are strong but Dārziņš creates a convincing little orchestral piece that should have long ago become a popular classic across the world. It's that good. Sadly, the fates seem to have have rather conspired against it - just as they did its composer  - however popular it may be in Latvia. Reading about the poor man's fall from grace - due to accusations of plagiarism from the works of Tchaikovsky and Sibelius - followed by his probably resultant suicide makes me rather melancholy too. An unhappy marriage, alcoholism, a personality that didn't endear him to many people, including critics - the list goes on. Frailty, thy name is human. 

I've not been able to track down much else by Emīls Dārziņš. There is, however, a melancholy song in the spirit of the Russian romance called Mātes gars (which Google translate tells me means 'Mother Spirit') which strikes a warm chord with me. Also, given the rich choral tradition of Latvia, it's not surprising to find our Emīls writing unaccompanied choral music, such as the lovely Sapņu tālumā ('Distant Dreams'). 

I'm unable to tell you whether the emotional journey of his son, Volfgangs Dārziņš (1906–1962), was a happier one or not (though I'm hoping it was). He lost his father when he was 4, however, so that's hardly a good start. From from I can discover it seems as if he (at some stage) left his homeland of America, but kept writing Latvian nationalist music. Time to be cheerful then: Volfgangs's Piano Sonata No.2 is a captivating piece, an original-sounding fusion of late-Romantic muscularity and Impressionistic delicacy (as if Rachmaninov met Debussy). The harmonies and sonorities of the piece are deliciously imagined. Quite fascinating. I would love to hear more from him, and his father.

Let's go back to Emīls Dārziņš's generation and meet Alfrēds Kalniņš (1879-1951), above, acclaimed as the founder of Latvian national opera. Kalniņš's Romeo and Juliet-like 4-act opera Baņuta (extract only - another extract here) is usually regarded as Latvia's very first opera (though one by Jānis Mediņš, see below, is said to be in with a shout too.) It was composed between 1918 and 1920. The work remains popular in the country and, from what little I've heard of it, I'd place it firmly in the strain of late-Romantic music most associated with Smetana. Talking of Smetana - the composer of Ma Vlast ('My Homeland') - Alfrēds Kalniņš also wrote a piece with that very title, his short symphonic idyll Mana dzimtene. An evocative opening (birds a-twittering in a lovely Latvian landscape), a noble melody, lots of rich brass at climaxes, passing glimpses of rural folk dancing - all are found in this charming patriotic orchestral miniature. For a further patriotic piece why not try the composer's own arrangement of his symphonic poem Latvia for piano duet?

It's hard to assess a composer from a small clutch of small pieces (as Delius enthusiasts will tell you), but our Alfrēds seems like a pleasing composer. As more proof of that, please try his tender Elegy or his Autumn. Kalniņš may not be as great a composer as the mighty Smetana (a big ask), but the Latvians seem to have good reason to be proud of him. As for his son, Jānis Kalniņš (1904-2000), I've even less to go on - just the melancholy Larghetto serioso for violin and piano (a pretty Romantic salon piece).

Another important figure in the development of Latvian national music is Jānis Mediņš (1890-1966), above. Developing ballet and opera in the country were his priorities. Mediņš was a Romantic, as you can hear that from his alternately flamboyant and heartfelt Piano Concerto from the early 1930s - a pleasing if perhaps-too-long piece in the Rachmaninov manner (minus all those individual touches that make listeners appreciate the genius of Rachmaninov). Can we call him the Latvian Rachmaninov? His Aria for orchestra is a warm-hearted miniature that, similarly, is (to put it in somewhat crude terms) bog-standard Romantic lyricism but it will still give many a classical music fan a contenting experience.  Quite what this composer can do is revealing in his lovely unaccompanied choral songs Jānīt's kalnā, Jānīt's lejā, a set which opens with a folk-tune which will already be familiar to you if you listened to Jānis Cimze's Midsummer Songs from the Vidzeme Region earlier, and in the lush, late-Romantic piano miniatures that make up his 24 Dainas ('Preludes'), which do indeed betray a certain similarly to Rachmaninov (though it would be unwise to overstate this). 

OK, I think it's time for a lady next.

In a Persian Market

For a mesmeric and beautiful taste of Iranian classical music please try this, featuring the late Faramarz Payvar and his ensemble:

The instruments you are hearing are a santour (a type of zither), a tar (a kind of lute), a kamancheh (somewhat violin-like) and a zarb (drum). 

There are six pieces:

Dastgah Shur 10:17 

Dastgah Homayoun 7:36 

Dastgah Segah 4:47 

Zarb solo 4:55 

Dastgah Chahargah 4:54

Dastgah Mahour 13:02

The music is true classical music, ancient and full of refinement. Many accounts suggest that its fortunes have not faired too well in modern Iran. Music (except for revolutionary anthems) was banned for ten years following the Iranian Revolution. Faramarz Payvar himself had to withdraw into the private sphere during those years. Pop music has also pushed it to the margins. Hopefully there is still a love for this kind of music there. It is too beautiful to be allowed to die. 

In ways not too dissimilar to the ragas of Indian classical music, the music is extemporised on the notes of a modal scale, each piece beginning dreamily before gathering pace and virtuosity. The modal scales are called dastgah (hence the titles above). There are twelve of them, including the Shur, Homayoun, Segah, Chahargah and Mahur (hence the other part of the titles above). 'Modal scale' isn't quite right. There are (as in Western music) seven main notes, but other notes are permitted for the sake of decoration and modulation. Helping guide the flow of melody - and it is essentially a flow melody - are a large set of small melodic cells (several hundred in total) on which the performer draws in a way that's perhaps analogous to the way a jazz musician draw on certain harmonies and chord progressions. 

Gorgeous, isn't it?

"The Lord is My Main Man." Have you heard the song?

Oh, this is far too funny not to swipe from Norman Lebrecht's Slipped Disc:

As Norman writes:

You might think the video interview [above] was a parody. It isn’t.
Every single question you hear, the voices electronically disguised, is one that has been put to composer Thomas Goss in his attempts to talk about his work on radio, and every answer is admirable in its steam-coming-out-of-ears restraint.
Enjoy. Like a visit to the dentist.

The video can be found on Thomas Goss's own website, where you will also find some of his own music, including this movement from his Violin Concerto in F:

Brahms: The Solo Songs

What follows is a list of all Brahms's songs for solo voice and piano. 

You'll will find links to large numbers of the songs. Please click on the name of the individual song. As Brahms's lieder are one of the most neglected parts of his output, however, you will find that quite a few are missing. Sorry about that.

Sometimes (though not very often) a whole opus number will be available for listening, so please click on the Op. number (and any continuations therewith) and swallow it down whole.  

Sometimes (but not often) the link to an individual song will take you to a miscellaneous collection of songs, but you should find it easy to locate song you are after (and maybe enjoy the bonus ones whilst you're at it!) 

As you will also notice, though the majority of the links take you to performances by some of the stellar names of lieder singing, quite a few (where no such option is available) carry you to less stellar performances in less than ideal recording quality. Still even those should give you a good flavour of the song in question. 

Hope you have a good rummage through all these largely unknown songs by one of the greatest of all the great composers!

6 Songs, Op.3
1. Liebestreu
2. Liebe und Frühling
3. Liebe und Frühling
4. Lied aus dem Gedicht "Ivan"
5. In der Fremde
6. Lied

6 Songs, Op.6
1. Spanisches Lied
2. Der Frühling
3. Nachwirkung 
4. Juchhe!
5. Wie die Wolke nach der Sonne
6. Nachtigallen schwingen lustig

6 Songs, Op.7
1. Treue Liebe
2. Parole
3. Anklänge
4. Volkslied 
5. Die Trauernde
6. Heimkehr

8 Songs and Romances, Op.14 
1. Vor dem Fenster
2. Vom verwundeten Knaben
3. Murrays Ermordung
4. Ein Sonett 
5. Trennung 
6. Gang zur Liebsten 
7. Ständchen 
8. Sehnsucht

5 Songs, Op.19 
1. Der Kuss 
2. Scheiden und Meiden
3. In der Ferne 
4. Der Schmied
5. An eine Äolsharfe

9 Songs, Op.32 
1. Wie rafft ich mich auf in der Nacht 
2. Nicht mehr zu dir zu gehen
3. Ich schleich umher
4. Der Strom, der neben mir verrauschte
5. Wehe, so willst du mich wieder
6. Du sprichst, dass ich mich täuschte 
7. Bitteres zu sagen denkst du 
8. So stehn wir, ich und meine Weide
9. Wie bist du, meine Königin

Romances from Tieck's Liebesgeschichte der schönen Magelone ("Magelone-Lieder"), Op.33
1. Keinen hat es noch gereut 
2. Traun! Bogen und Pfeil sind gut für den Feind
3. Sind es Schmerzen, sind es Freuden
4. Liebe kam aus fernen Landen 
5. So willst du des Armen 
6. Wie soll ich die Freude
7. War es dir
8. Wir müssen uns trennen
9. Ruhe, Süssliebchen
10. So tönet denn
11. Wie schnell verschwindet 
12. Muss es eine Trennung geben
13. Geliebter, wo zaudert
14. Wie froh und frisch
15. Treue Liebe dauert lange

4 Songs, Op.43 
1. Von ewiger Liebe
2. Die Mainacht
3. Ich schell mein Horn
4. Das Lied vom Herrn von Falkenstein

4 Songs, Op.46 
1. Die Kränze
2. Magyarisch
3. Die Schale der Vergessenheit
4. An die Nachtigall

5 Songs, Op.47 
1. Botschaft 
2. Liebesglut
3. Sonntag
4. O liebliche Wangen, ihr macht mir Verlangen
5. Die Liebende schreibt

7 Songs, Op.48 
1. Der Gang zum Liebchen
2. Der Überläufer 
3. Liebesklage des Mädchens 
4. Gold überwieigt die Liebe
5. Trost in Tränen
6. Vergangen ist mir Glück und Heil
7. Herbstgefühl

5 Songs, Op.49 
1. Am Sonntag Morgen
2. An ein Veilchen
3. Sehnsucht 
4. Wiegenlied
5. Abenddämmerung

8 Songs, Op.57 
1. Von waldbekränzter Höhe 
2. Wenn du nur zuweilen lächelst 
3. Es träumte mir 
4. Ach, wende diesen Blick
5. In meiner Nächte Sehnen
6. Strahlt zuweilen auch ein mildes Licht 
7. Die Schnur, die Perl an Perle
8. Unbewegte laue Luft

8 Songs, Op.58 (continued here) 
1. Blinde Kuh 
2. Während des Regens
3. Die Spröde
4. O komme, holde Sommernacht verschwiegen 
5. Schwermut 
6. In der Gasse
7. Vorüber 
8. Serenade

8 Songs, Op.59 
1. Dämmrung senkte sich von oben
2. Auf dem See
3. Regenlied
4. Nachklang
5. Agnes 
6. Eine gute, gute Nacht 
7. Mein wundes Herz verlangt nach milder Ruh 
8. Dein blaues Auge hält so still

9 Songs, Op.63 
1. Frühlingstrost 
2. Erinnerung
3. An ein Bild 
4. An die Tauben
5. Junge Liebe I
6. Junge Liebe II
7. Heimweh I
8. Heimweh II
9. Heimweh III

9 Songs, Op.69 (continued here)
1. Klage I
2. Klage II 
3. Abschied 
4. Der Liebsten Schwur 
5. Tambourliechen 
6. Vom Strande 
7. Über die See 
8. Salome 
9. Mädchenfluch

4 Songs, Op.70 
1. Im Garten am Seegestade 
2. Lerchengesang 
3. Serenade
4. Abendregen

5  Songs, Op.71 
1. Es liebt sich so lieblich im Lenze! 
2. An den Mond
3. Geheimnis
4. Willst du, dass ich geh'?
5. Minnelied

5 Songs, Op.72 
1. Alte Liebe
2. Sommerfäden 
3. O Kühler Wald
4. Verzagen
5. Unüberwindlich

5 Romances and Songs, Op.84 
1. Sommerabend
2. Der Kranz
3. In den Beeren 
4. Vergebliches Ständchen
5. Spannung

6 Songs, Op.85 
1. Sommerabend
2. Mondenschein
3. Mädchenlied
4. Ade!
5. Frühlingslied
6. In Waldeinsamkeit

6 Songs, Op.86
1. Therese
2. Feldeinsamkeit
3. Nachtwandler
4. Über die Heide
5. Versunken 
6. Todessehnen

2 Songs, Op.91
1. Gestille Sehnsucht
2. Geistliches Wiegenlied

5 Songs, Op.94
1. Mit vierzig Jahren ist der Berg erstiegen 
2. Steig auf, geliebter Schatten
3. Mein Herz ist schwer, mein Auge wacht
4. Sapphische Ode
5. Kein Haus, keine Heimat

7 Songs, Op.95
1. Das Mädchen
2. Bei dir sind meine Gedanken
3. Beim Abschied
4. Der Jäger
5. Vorschneller Schwur
6. Mädchenlied
7. Schön war, das ich dir weihte

4 Songs, Op.96 
1. Der Tod, das ist die kühle Nacht 
2. Wir wandelten, wir zwei zusammen
3. Es schauen die blumen
4. Meerfahrt

6 Songs, Op.97 
1. Nachtingall
2. Auf dem Schiffe
3. Entführung 
4. Dort in den Weiden steht ein Haus 
5. Komm bald
6. Trennung

5 Songs, Op.105
1. Wie Melodien zieht es
2. Immer leiser wird mein Schlummer
3. Klage
4. Auf dem Kirchhofe
5. Verrat

5 Songs, Op.106
1. Ständchen
2. Auf dem See
3. Es hing der Reif
4. Meine Lieder
5. Ein Wanderer

5 Songs, Op.107
1. An die Stolze
2. Salamander
3. Das Mädchen spricht
4. Maienkätzchen
5. Mädchenlied

Vier ernste gesänge, op. 121 ('Four serious songs')
1. Denn es gehet dem Menschen
2. Ich wandte mich und sahe
3. O Tod, wie bitter
4. Wenn ich mit Menschen under mit Engelzungen

Regenlied (without opus)

For Couperin

François Couperin (1668-1733) wrote a large number of keyboard pieces (pièces de clavecin) and in doing so ensured the popularity of the "genre piece" in France. Such pieces were intended as descriptive, portrait-like numbers. So a piece like the rondeux Les Amusemens ('Amusements') paints a sound-portrait of people amusing themselves, with more than a suggestion of wistfulness at the transitory nature of human pleasures. Les Tours de Passe-passe ('Sleights of Hand') is intended to convey the idea of a conjuring trick by artfully passing ideas between the hands, after lulling you into thinking that the left-hand is doing nothing particularly interesting. L'âme-en peine ('The Soul in Pain') uses dissonances and drawn-out rhythms to suggest the aching of the tormented soul. The style here is typical of what French music was like at that time, with melodic coherence attaining ever greater importance yet still retaining all those myriad small ornaments which give the French Baroque its distinctive character. 

These three pieces were arranged for chamber orchestra a few years ago by Britain's very own Thomas Adès (b. 1971). His Three Studies from Couperin are more arrangements than actual studies but they are full of the composer's own beguiling ear for orchestral colour and his ability to add little extra touches here and there which add an extra-specialness to the music. Tom's take on Les Amusemens is to bring out its veil of wistfulness with muted strings and brass. Those 'sleights of hand' in Les Tours de passe-passe are re-imagined as ideas being passed cunningly between various instruments. L’Âme-en-peine enhances the ache of its dissonances of the soul by slightly smearing them. The composer appears to love these Couperin pieces and the warmth of his orchestrations seems to be winning a lot of affection from audiences in return.

Thomas Adès's orchestrations of Couperin, despite their 'of-our-timeness', still retain much of the essence of Couperin's originals. Richard Strauss's lush Divertimento Op.68, by way of contrast, keeps the notes of Couperin's originals but floods them with a late-Romantic opulence which, despite the presence of a harpsichord, is a world away from the Baroque and from neo-Classicism, not to mention several galaxies away from the requirements of 'authentic performance' practice. None of which stops it from being a pleasure to hear, albeit not one of its composer's best pieces.  For an immediate point of comparison, please try Strauss's ear-tickling, confectionery take on our friend Le Tours de Passe-passe, one of  the work's most engaging movements. There are eight movements in all, which I'll list below and add links to the originals wherever I can:

1. La Visionnaire

2. Musette de Choisy

3. Le Tic-Toc-Choc, La Lutine

4. Les Fauvétes plaintives

5. La Trophée, L`Anguille, Les jeunes Seigneurs, La Linotte effarouchée

6. Le Tours de Passe-passe

7. Les Ombres errantes

8. Les Brimborions, La Badine

What of that most famous of all tributes to Couperin, Maurice Ravel's Le Tombeau de Couperin? Well, for starters, it's not a tribute to Couperin specifically, being more of a general tribute to the spirit of French Baroque keyboard music, written to commemorate his friends who had been killed during the First World War. The original piano version takes the form of a Baroque keyboard suite - Prelude, Fugue, Forlane, Rigaudon, Menuet and Toccata. 

The Fugue and Toccata may not be familiar to you if you only know the familiar orchestral version of the piece. The former is not as bad a piece as some critics might have you believe, though it's not up to the very high standards of the four famous movements - or the fine Toccata. If you do fancy hearing orchestrations of these too, please take a listen then to the more-complete-than-complete performance of Le Tombeau de Couperin from Zoltán Kocsis, who orchestrated both movements to fit in seamlessly with the original Ravel orchestrations. Mr. Kocsis scores the Fugue for winds only, and the Toccata for a larger-than-Ravel orchestra. 

There are so many lovely things in the familiar orchestral version of Le Tombeau de Couperin - the ending of the Prelude with its trills across all the notes of a tonic triad as crossed by a swooshing glissando from the harp; the Forlane's grace, bitter-sweet dissonances and enchanting woodwind solos; the Minuet's gorgeous woodwind-led melody and bagpipe-style trio; and the Rigaudon's brilliance (including some striking trumpet writing) and coquettish flute-led central passage. 

Always a favourite piece, Le Tombeau de Couperin. 

Hallowed be their names...

Felix Mendelssohn has long been honoured for reviving the great name of Bach in the early Romantic era and it's not surprisingly to find him composing works of his own that are imbued with the spirit of that great Baroque master. 

Felix's Six Organ Sonatas, Op.65, for example, are clear homages to the six Organ Sonatas BWV 625-630 of Johann Sebastian. The Organ Sonata No.6 in D minor is a favourite of mine from the set and opens with a Lutheran chorale, Vater unser im Himmelreich. Though the text of the chorale is by Martin Luther (not that we hear it here, of course!) , it appears that the great reformer didn't write the melody himself, merely choosing instead to fit a pre-existing tune around his words:

Vater unser im Himmelreich,

Der du uns alle heissest gleich

Brüder sein, und dich rufen an

Und willt das Beten von uns han:

Gieb dass nicht bei allein der Mund,

Hilf dass es geh von Herzens Grund.

What Mendelssohn does in the first movement of his D minor Sonata is to write a set of chorale variations, just as J.S. used to do. Listen to how he first presents his theme - simply and in D minor. I'll come to some of Bach's harmonisations later, which will allow you to compare the two composers' takes. You will then hear hear just how "simply and in D minor" Mendelssohn harmonises the hymn here. Five variations follow, each presenting the chorale itself with little modification but varying its context. The gentle first variation sets it against flowing figuration and a bass-line notable for its unpredictably long pedal notes, all in a trio sonata manner in keeping with the tradition of Bach. The more forthright and lilting second variation has a highly mobile, very Bach-like bass-line which drives it on. The central variation (another 'trio sonata') has a gorgeous counter-melody. The fourth variations is flamboyant, with toccata-like flourishes swirling around the grandly-presented hymn, and the final variation brings the section to a brilliant conclusion. It is wonderful music. 

One of the most often made criticisms of Felix's music is that it is harmonically unadventurous - timid, conservative, a bit bland. When we come to some of the Bach harmonisations I suspect you might even be tempted to agree, given that some of those sound far more harmonically daring, surprising, shocking even than Mendelssohn's harmonies in this organ sonata. Still, listen to the way the not quite synchronized parts of the first variation create little harmonic surprises and please listen also to the artful and pervasive use of suspensions in the central variation. This may be conservative harmony but it's subtle and satisfying conservative harmony. 

The next section of Mendelssohn's Organ Sonata No.6 is a fugue. "How very Bachian of him!", you might say. Its theme is also derived from Vater unser im Himmelreich. What do you make of this fugue? Is it as exciting, as vital as a Bach fugue? 

What follows, however, is very different and carries us very much into the composer's own time, being a Romantic song-without-words. The D minor mood lifts and we can relax in the comfort of a particularly warm-sounding D major. Vater unser im Himmelreich is quietly put aside.

I've read that this finale is instead based on the old English hymn, When I Survey the Wondrous Cross (which was my grandmother' favourite hymn, incidentally). I can hear similarities, especially in its second phrase but I remain a bit sceptical about the connection though. For some tastes, this closing section might seem too sweet, too sentimental or perhaps the sort of thing the late Charles Rosen meant when he described Mendelssohn (in The Romantic Generation) as "the inventor of religious kitsch in music", sensuously evoking the atmosphere of a church service. I don't mind a bit of religious kitsch, especially if it sounds as lovely as this movement. 

Are you sitting comfortably? Now please take a listen to Leit uns mit deiner rechten Hand, the closing chorale of J.S.Bach's Cantata BWV 90.  Please listen out in particular for the harmony on the syllable highlighted in red below:

Leit uns mit deiner rechten Hand
Und segne unser Stadt und Land;
Gib uns allzeit dein heilges Wort,

Behüt für's Teufels List und Mord;

Verleih ein selges Stündelein,

Auf dass wir ewig bei dir sein!

Now even though I prepared you for it a bit in advance, that was still quite a harmonic shock, wasn't it? It certainly isn't the sort of thing Felix would have done. Ever. 

Those words above come from a text written by Martin Moller several decades after Martin Luther: Nimm von uns, Herr, du treuer Gott. The words may be different but the melody is exactly the same. The chorale melody of Vater unser im Himmelreich was fitted around several later Lutheran texts written by writers other than Luther himself, not just Moller's. Bach's Cantata BWV 101, Nimm von uns, Herr, du treuer Gott, uses these alternative words  and that same tune. Moller's words are, however, far grimmer - "Take from us, you faithful God,/the heavy punishment and great distress,/which for our countless sins we/deserve to have all too often./Protect us from war and costly times/from plague, fire and great misfortune." 

If you were taken aback by that harmony on "lein" from BVW 90, then just wait until you hear the opening chorus of Cantata BWV 101. I will freely admit that when I first heard the Harnoncourt performance linked to in the preceding paragraph, I couldn't quite believe what I was hearing, thinking that it was one of those rough early "authentic performances" where out-of-tune playing abounded, albeit to an extraordinary degree. It is, of course, no such thing. The "out-of-tune" harmonies in this great and glorious movement are entirely Bach's doing. He was so out of this time in the adventurousness of his harmonies - and surely there can be few works where he was so out of his time and adventurous. Gesualdo and Schoenberg might have gasped at some of the dissonances - and the sheer intensity of dissonance - in several passages (especially those where the chorus enter.) The world of the final movement of Mendelssohn's organ sonata couldn't feel further away. The piled-up dissonances join up with a little, wriggling worm-of-sin type of figure to convey the unpleasant things mentioned in Moller's text. The chorale melody Vater unser im Himmelreich shines through this dark, agonised (yet very enjoyable) fugue. 

The second movement of Cantata 101, the tenor aria Handle nicht nach deinen Rechten - a movement with obbligato violin (or flute) -  uses lots of word-painting, leaping up on Höchster ("highest") and falling) and descending on vergehen ("passing away") for example, but it doesn't use the chorale melody. In that it's the exception, as every one of the other remaining movements does. The two recitatives (No.3 and No.5) ingeniously use the chorale rather as a priest quotes from the Bible as he delivers his sermon - dry recitative punctuating by the chorale phrases. The bass aria Warum will du so zornig sein? (No.4), with its delightful woodwind writing (a movement I prefer to the tenor aria), also uses this "quotation" idea, with the bass quoting the opening line of the chorale and the oboes playing the chorale in the central passage. The beautiful soprano-alto duet Gedenk an Jesu bittern Tod! (No.6), a movement in the old pastoral form of the sicilienne (in 12/8 time), interweaves the the chorale melody with a lovely, expressive melody, exchanging the themes between a solo flute and a solo oboe de caccia.  The cantata ends with a simple chorale harmonisation which offers none of the shocks on its opening movement - or its equivalent in Cantata 90. It ends, you will doubtless notice, on a Picardy third. 

This cantata, suggestively, was among the very first that Mendelssohn got published, thus beginning the great re-awakening of interest in the Bach cantatas (an interest that took a long time to build thereafter). 

Going back to the organ, finally, and to Bach's own organ works based on Vater unser im Himmelreich, there are four chorale preludes to bring you yet more delight. BWV 737, uncollected, is the dourest of the four - and the most old-fashioned, recalling the organ works of the preceding generation of German organ composers. BWV 636, from the Orgelbüchlein, is short, gentle and rather Mendelssohnian! Its harmonisation, however, admits modal elements and has many a passing dissonance. It's a lovely piece. BWV 682, from the Clavier-Übung, Part 3, is on an altogether larger scale piece and even better -  a beautiful heart-easing piece, full of canons, chromatic touches and rhythmic kicks, with an independent-minded bass line. It is one of the great Bach organ pieces. BWV 683, from the Clavier-Übung, Part 3, is much smaller in scale but scarcely less captivating. The 'soprano' sings the chorale in full while scale-based figuration flickers beneath it. Gorgeous!

Hallowed be the name of Bach...and hallowed be the name of Mendelssohn. Amen.