Friends Reunited

"Storace gave a quartet party to his friends. The players were tolerable; not one of them excelled on the instrument he played, but there was a little science among them, which I dare say will be acknowledged when I name them:

    First Violin: Haydn

    Second Violin: Baron Dittersdorf

    Violoncello: Vanhal

    Viola: Mozart.

I was there, and a greater treat, or a more remarkable one, cannot be imagined."

So reminisced the Irish actor and singer, Michael Kelly. His image of four of the most famous composers of the late 18th Century playing string quartets together (not perfectly!) is one of the most engaging in music. 

I thought it might be fun to present you with a concert of string quartets by all four of these composers. 

Let's start with the first violinist, Haydn, and his String Quartet in D major, Op.20/4 - one of the Sun Quartets. Its beautiful opening theme is, if I may use an extended simile, rather like a busy quarry, with the composer continuing to dig away at it and carry its material to construction sites across the opening Allegro. The most obvious elements of this theme are the repeating note figure (always four in number, the last longer than the preceding three notes) and a little turning figure. The former in particular plays a major role, underpinning and driving the action in passage after passage. Haydn doesn't overpower us with it however, and its presence can be discreet at times. Drama, lyricism and occasional flashes of brilliance are the hallmarks of this first-rate movement. The development section is especially fiery at times and contains a classic Haydn false reprise. The following Adagio is a theme and variations in D minor on a long, grave melody. The first variation syncopates the tune, the second gives the cello an opportunity to sing expressively, the third allows some elaborate violin figuration to decorate its bare bones while the fourth re-sings the grave melody much as before though with an intensified climax of considerable power that flows into a lovely coda. The Minuet is marked 'alla zingarese' ('in gypsy style') and is spry, folk-like, full of cross rhythms and utterly delightful. The cello decorates the trio section's simple dance tune in a way that doesn't sound very simple to play! This excellent quartet ends with an entertaining Finale marked 'Presto e scherzando', which continues the Minuet's gypsy-style brilliance and folk-like material but places them in a sonata-form structure and gives them extra vim. It may have a sense of driving purpose at times but it's essentially light-hearted, giddy even.

Let's now hear from the second violinist, Baron Carl Ditters von Ditters von Dittersdorf...erm, no...make that Baron Carl Ditters von Dittersdorf. (I got carried away). His string quartets are, unlike Haydn's and (most of) Mozart's, in just three movements. I've chosen the String Quartet No.2 in B flat major. The opening Moderato, especially if heard immediately after the wonderful Haydn work, makes it very clear from the start that the level of mastery, inspiration and genius has dropped considerably since the preceding piece. Dittersdorf, after all, is no Haydn. We already knew that though, didn't we? And once we accept that his tunes are necessarily going to be blander, his transitions more pedestrian and over-reliant on sequences, his working-out less intellectually satisfying and his harmonic architecture less purposeful, we can sit back in our chairs and enjoy the easy-going flow of the baron's agreeable music. (Unfair comparisons can be so invidious - says he, having just made one!) A relaxed and charming Andante follows (my favourite movement) and there's a leisurely and charming theme and variations Finale to follow. 

After the audience have finished chatting to each other about how nice that piece by the baron was, the players reconvene and are about to perform a quartet by their cellist - the Bohemian composer Johann Baptist Vanhal. We're lifting the tonality here, as it's his String Quartet No.2 in F major that we're about to hear. Now this is also a leap back up the ladder of inspiration. The opening Allegro has purpose, makes some unexpected harmonic moves and has attractive themes (with a flavour of folk music to the continuation of the main subject). The connoisseurs in the audience have pricked there ears up by this stage. "By the Emperor, this is jolly good!", they think. And they're right. They are also pleased at the following Andante, with its intriguing first violin melody (lots of plunges by a tenth - though they are artfully concealed) and its unhurried character, though this is lighter stuff. The concluding Presto is a lively sonata form movement, with a strong dip into the minor during the development section. Vanhal earns an appreciate round of applause for himself here. Yes, he's no Haydn either, but he's a fine composer nonetheless.

Now it's time for our final work in the concert and it's by our violist Mozart. We returning tonally to where we began with the String Quartet in D major, K499 (nicknamed the 'Hoffmeister' after Baywatch legend David Hasselhoff...er...after a friend called Hoffmeister). This is an immensely likeable piece. It may not touch the emotional depths that some of his quartets do (that's for sure!), but its optimism and sheer craftsmanship more than make up for that. The opening Allegretto is deliciously tuneful, with more than a flavour of folk music about the main tune and an equally glorious (though more urbane) second subject. What sets this movement apart is the way the folk-like main theme is worked in the development - urgent thematic and harmonic working that owes much to the example of Haydn. The tip-back into the recapitulation is masterful. It's my favourite movement. The swinging Minuet has a courtly air, with a winning main melody and nothing of the countryside about it. The trio section, with its busy triplets, strikes a bright and lively note. The canonic exchanges in each section add a degree of classical chamber music depth. The Adagio isn't one of those succulent pro-Romantic ones which send Mozart-lovers swooning but a cooler, more Haydn-like affair. The violin sings it like an elaborate aria. The closing pages are especially lovely. The final Rondo has something of the light-hearted numbers from The Magic Flute about it (not that the opera was yet written at the time of the Hoffmeister) and gives this genial quartet a particularly cheerful ending. I must tell you that the cognoscenti (of our day) don't seem to rank the piece as highly as the quartets which precede it (the 'Haydn Quartets'). The work's relative simplicity appears to put them off.

As the audience mingled afterwards, out of ear-shot of the four performers, everyone agreed how delightful the concert had been. As often happens the conversation then turned to the relative qualities of the pieces we'd heard and to which composer the laurels should be awarded. In a loud (some might say deafening) voice I stepped forward and declared the winner to be Haydn. Obviously. Others disagreed and a ridiculously heated argument ensued, more suited to the modern internet than a Viennese salon. A Dittersdorf supporter actually threatened to block or even ban a Vanhal enthusiast from saying another word after the latter called him 'a troll', saying he'd find out his IP number. As this was 1785, no one had a clue what either of them were talking about. As, hopefully, neither will you.

Guédron and the 'air de cour'

Trust the French to be different. 

One of the interesting features of music in the years around 1600 is just how much the influence of the Italians - the Gabrielis, the madrigal composers, Monteverdi - came to be heard in the courts of country after country across Europe (and soon in the Americas too). The French court preferred something different and distinctly French - the air de cour ('court air'). These gradually moved from being ensemble songs with a most important top (soprano) line to being songs as we tend to think of them - solo songs for singer and accompaniment. For a time parallel versions of songs in each form co-existed. 

There are some gems among the air de cour repertoire, none better (in my opinion) than Cessez mortels de soupirer by the most important composer in the rise of the air de cour, Pierre Guédron (c.1570-c.1620), who is the exclusive subject of this post. Guédron's genius brought him fame well beyond the borders of France. His fame ought to be fanning again now. 

This sort of song sounds so unlike the lute songs of England at the time. Indeed, it sounds closer to the airs of Purcell's England and of Baroque French opera. With memorable melodies and winning harmonies, songs like Cessez mortels de soupirer and the contrastingly bright-eyed Aux plaisirs, aux delices bergeres seem to open up a hidden treasure house of late Renaissance/early Baroque tunes. 

For a multi-voiced performance, please try another absolute belter of a piece by Guédron, Quel espoir de guarir. As you can hear, the topmost line bears the burden of the (captivating) melody, though not exclusively.

Aren't these wonderful, surprising songs? We are going badly astray if we underestimate the 'early composers' and their gift for writing memorable, magical music.

Another ensemble performance of Las! que ne suis-je née shows how imaginative colouring adds yet more pleasure to pleasurable airs de cour, perhaps necessary given that - as hopefully you will have already spotted - the form is strophic. 

Interest in singing such pieces is growing. A following has been there for a while. Gerard Souzay was recording Guédron songs some decades ago, albeit in an 'inauthentic' way that may send purists rushing for the smelling salts. Try Cette Anne si belle and see if you agree with me that Souzay's take is delightful - as, of course, is Guédron's air. In a firmly 'authentic' style the much admired counter-tenor Andreas Scholl has also ventured into the territory. You might like to try his rendition of Si le parler et le silence.  

Throughout all three of these pieces you will hear the singers embellishing their melodies in a spontaneous way. This was the French way, and the sound of such embellishments was to echo throughout the French Baroque. 

Further listening

Amans qui vous plaignes

Belle qui m'avez blessè

Doncques par force   

Un jour l'amoureuse Silvie

A further selection of Guédron airs

Kol Nidre

"By the authority of the Court on High and by authority of the court down here, by the permission of One Who Is Everywhere and by the permission of this congregation, we hold it lawful to pray with sinners."

Those are words recited on the eve of Yom Kippur. Soon after a chant begins, beginning with the words "All vows we are likely to make, all oaths and pledges we are likely to take between this Yom Kippur and the next Yom Kippur, we publicly renounce." The opening phrase "All vows" in Aramaic translates as "Kol nidre". 

The beautiful traditional Ashkenazi melody associated with these words is widely-loved:

It opens, as you can see, with an unforgettable phrase whose essence can be summarised like this:

Thereafter the melody can be varied somewhat, so that different performances tend to diverge somewhat as the chant proceeds. This isn't just a matter of ad libertum decoration of a set melody. The Kol nidre isn't a set-in-stone chant - a precisely-laid out theme - whose essential notes all need singing each time (however elaborating decorated they may be). After than opening phrase certain familiar shapes are then varied by the cantor, so that you might say that each rendition is a variation on an idealised, hidden version of the chant (a Platonic 'Form' of the chant, you might - or might not - say) that guides the chanter as he sings. Well, that's how I interpret it. 

I think it might be a good idea to here the chant heard in context in a couple of beautiful renditions:

Paul Heller, Great Synagogue of Stockholm

Moscow Male Jewish Cappella

The beauty of that melody attracted the German Romantic composer Max Bruch, who wrote his famous and touching Kol Nidrei for cello and orchestra in 1881. Many have assumed that Bruch was Jewish, partly because he wrote this piece, partly because he wrote oratorios likes Moses. He wasn't. He wrote Kol Nidrei because he loved that great melody. Melody was the essence of music for Max. As well as the chant itself, introduced after a simple but haunting sequence of chords and subsequently repeated and varied, Bruch's work contains a second tune (which is also varied on its return) - a lyrical one taken from Isaac Nathan's arrangement of "O Weep for Those that Wept on Babel's Stream" (the melody taken from a synagogue melody Nathan collected in the early 1800s, and for which he asked for lyrics from Lord Byron). The whole piece manages to feel both inward-looking and emotionally charged. 

Bruch's Kol Nidrei is the most famous classical interpretation of the Kol nidre chant. There have been many popular takes, including from Johnny Mathis, Perry Como and, of course, Al Jolson at the emotional climax of the first talkie The Jazz Singer.  American tenor Richard Tucker supplied a popular classical interpretation too. 

There's nothing popular about my next piece - except that in a better world it would be popular. Yes, my favourite take on the Kol Nidre happens to be by Arnold Schoenberg. It's my favourite Schoenberg piece in fact - a magnificent and beautiful piece from a dark year in Jewish history, 1938 (though it was to get even darker). It's a work he wrote at the request of a rabbi. Kol Nidre, Op.38 for narrator, chorus and orchestra is tonal (it's in G minor) and approachable, despite that tonality being pretty 'extended' throughout and despite the work's complexity of invention (taking the phrases and flourishes of the chant and treating them in rigorous serial fashion). It begins with an orchestral prelude establishing a mood of humility and awe. Then the narrator (Rabbi) enters to declaim a mystical Jewish myth, with some striking illustrative gestures from the orchestra, and then proceeds to issue the invitation to attend the service of atonement to everyone, including sinners (a moving passage). The opening phrase of the Kol Nidre melody is heard in the orchestra as the words of the prayer are being read out by the narrator. The chorus enters singing, "We repent". They return singing the great Kol Nidre chant as a noble march, with the orchestra supporting them all the way. Chorus and orchestra then engage in a rich weave of chant-based polyphony, with quite a flavour of Brahms about it. The narrator returns and, with the chorus, helps bring this unfamous masterpiece to a climax before the work  quietens in preparation for its optimistic close in confident G major. Even if you think you don't like Schoenberg - and even if you know you don't like twelve-tone serialism - please give this warm and inspired (non-twelve-tone) piece a listen. It's superb.

In its Kol Nidre article, Wikipedia mentions a string quartet by American composer John Zorn called Kol Nidre. I'm sure you may be able to hear the Kol Nidre melody in it, but I can't. I can hear the mood of Kol Nidre however, as if were being projected by Arvo Pärt (John Zorn seems to have the Estonian's Fratres in mind). I will admit to preferring (a) Fratres and (b) Bruch and Schoenberg's takes on the Kol Nidre theme. It is a nice and soothing Pärt imitation though. 

My vows include bringing you wonderful music. I hope you enjoy the Bruch and the Schoenberg and, in the spirit of Kol Nidre, all the rest too. 

The Waltz X: The Last Waltz?

As the First World War drew near, audiences in Central Europe were being treated to waltzes from a composer who combined the melodic and rhythmic spirit of the Strauss Family with the scrumptious late-Romantic harmonies of Richard Strauss, Puccini and the like. Even Gustav Mahler was enamoured of the composer's best-known waltz - Lippen schweigen ('Silent Lips'), better known as 'the Merry Widow waltz'. Its composer Franz Lehár  was a man with a remarkable gift for writing achingly memorable melodies, such as the main theme of Lippen schweigen, and setting them against rich and masterfully-scored accompaniments. Though I seem to have known that tune since I was evicted from my pram, it was the quality of the various melodies that go into making the Gold und Silber ('Gold and Silver Waltz') such a popular favourite that first alerted me to the delights of Lehár. If you've never heard it before, please take the opportunity to do so now. As you will hear the waltz follows the traditional pattern, as does Wilde Rosen ('Wild Roses') - a piece of which the composer himself was particularly fond. In Wilde Rosen you can hear the ingenuity with which Lehár weaves delightful counter-themes around some of his melodies. This is typical of the man. Just listen to the orchestral richness of the Altwiener Liebeswaltzes ('Love Waltzes from Old Vienna'). The composer himself conducted extracts from several of his operettas, including waltzes from The Count of Luxembourg and Eva, helping to spread his own message. Lehár continued to enjoy success between the wars, but as a popular phenomenon his was a dying art, losing out - especially after the Second World War - to the encroaching form of the musical.

Talking of which...one of the many gems from George Gershwin (and, of course, his brother Ira) was a song originally written for a review called The Show Is On about a lady who likes just one composer...and it isn't Lehár or Gershwin. By Strauss!: 

When I want a melody

Lilting through the house

Then I want a melody

By Strauss

It laughs, it sings

The world is in rhyme

Swinging to three-quarter time 

I suspect she would have been a fan of Arnold Schoenberg's arrangement of Strauss waltzes though I also suspect that she wouldn't been quite so keen on Schoenberg's own take on the form - the Waltzer from the Five Piano Pieces, Op.23. This is among the composer's first wholly twelve-tone works - and is unquestionably the first ever twelve-tone waltz. You won't be able to dance to it, despite the waltz rhythms. It's more of a fantasy-piece. As for his Strauss-waltz-arranging disciples, well, Anton Webern wrote no original waltzes of his own. Alban Berg, however, made conscious allusions to the Viennese waltz in his beautiful Violin Concerto of 1935 (very clearly in the 'Wienerisch' section around five minutes in). These, however, are essentially memorials for the waltz.

Of course, as we saw in Russia, the waltz lived on beyond the end of the First World War - and beyond La Valse - even if its glory days had well and truly gone. You see a waltz movement here and a fleeting glimpse of the waltz there among the works of many a famous 20th Century composer, but - as with the Schoenberg and Berg examples - they are fleeting things, memories, nostalgic or ironic glances backwards, parodies, mockeries. The waltzes in Richard Strauss's Der Rosenkavalier were already tending in that direction before the Great War, and his only concert waltz, München was originally written in 1939 but then re-written with a minor-key section in 1945, with the addition of the words "ein Gedächtniswalzer". It was a memorial waltz - a memorial to Munich, its opera house and to the waltz.

It needed a memorial. Of course, in popular music the strains of the waltz lingered on. Film composers also found many-and-varied uses for the waltz. Light music composers kept the waltz flame flickering too. Composers of musicals often reach for a waltz. My survey of the music of Paraguay's greatest composer Barrios showed the waltz thriving in the bars of Latin America. Ballroom dancers the world over are still dancing away to waltzes. Many sub-species of the waltz have sprung up across the globe. But among the major classical composers the waltz went into serious decline. Given that people still love a good waltz, that's a shame, isn't it?

Let's not end on a triste note about la valse. I've got quite a few miscellaneous waltzes to offer you, to round things off.

Fancy a pair of Edvard Grieg Valse-caprices for piano duet? Dating from 1883, they make a charming set. I think the first is the best, with a melodic appeal that should win its many friends. It really does speak the language of its composer, albeit with waltz rhythms rather than with Norwegian folk rhythms. The major/minor shifts in the trio section of this Valse-caprice are particularly characteristic. I'd never heard them before but I was aware of Grieg's involvement with the form. His series of sixty-six Lyric Pieces contains many an attractive waltz. I've always enjoyed playing the Vals, Op.12/2 - another gem where unpredictable major and minor shifts add a touch of Griegian magic. For a spirited take, please try the Vals, Op.38/7 - short but charming. The Norwegian folk influence is felt in the captivating melody of the Valse-Impromptu, Op.47/1, another magical number, with its tune based on an unusual (but very characteristic) take on the minor scale. The Valse mélanconique, Op.68/6 is more conventional but has much to recommend it.

Moving from the far north to the far south of Europe, we find the waltz flourishes in the hands of the Chopin-soaked Enrique Granados. His Valses Poéticos takes the traditional form of an introduction, waltz sequence and reprise-coda. From lightness to melancholy, nobility to sentimentality, Granados's richly-imagined set offers the listener many rewards. Listen out in particular for the 6th waltz - the one marked 'sentimental'.

Such pieces come from the heart of the Romantic piano composer tradition. We've already looked at Liszt's Mephisto Waltzes - those waltzes that were so hard to hear as waltzes. Liszt wrote quite a few non-devilish waltzes too. I'm not sure that many pianists would agree that the early Grande Valse di Bravura isn't devilish, given the devilishly difficult demands it places on the performer! This is an entertaining piece in the most brilliant salon style of the time. From the more intimate side of Liszt's nature came the lovely Valse mélancolique - one of many works the composer reworked over the years. You can trace this process in action by journeying (happily) through the transformation of the first version of the Petite Valse favorite into the second version of the Petite Valse favorite and from there into the Valse-Impromptu. Delightful music! Nor must I forget the Valse oubliées. These are very special waltzes from Liszt's later years. No.1 has always been a favourite, for understandable reasons. It has all the best tunes. No.2, however, is a dazzling and dream-like fantasy, full of beauty and not to be missed. No.3 enters into visionary harmonic worlds to come (as late Liszt was so often to do) and is, if anything, even more airy and beautiful. No.4, ironically, was literally a forgotten waltz for many years, only being rediscovered in America and published in 1954. It is even closer to the soundworld of Scriabin and full of flare and fire. The Valse oubliées are indeed something special, unlike...

Did you know that Liszt's son-in-law Wagner wrote a waltz? The Zuricher Vielliebchen Walzer for piano of 1854 is that most surprising of things. I think you'll agree it's hardly a masterpiece, but it's a charming trifle nonetheless. Who'd have thunk it? That's really it though for Wagner and the waltz (except for an arrangement he made of Wine, Women and Song) - unless you are prepared to countenance my passionate belief (which I will defend to the death - and beyond) that the Flower Maidens' beguiling Komm o holder Knabe from Parsifal is a waltz!

Let's leap across the Atlantic and forward in time (before working backwards again). Two of the three great ballets of Aaron Copland feature waltzes. There's the Saturday Night Waltz from Rodeo - a lovely slow waltz announced by the 'tuning-up' of the 'fiddlers' of the orchestra. There's also the no-less-lovely slow Waltz that precedes Billy's death in Billy the Kid. Both give a flavour of how the waltz had become a popular dance in the America of yore.

Charles Ives had penned a characteristically off-centre take on the waltz a quarter of a century earlier. His Waltz-Rondo of 1911 has strange and purely coincidental echoes of the Ravel Valse nobles et sentimentales, among other anticipations. It's a rich and fascinating piece that's as oblique a take on the waltz as Schoenberg's Op.23 piece a decade later. Less complex (but charming) is the Waltz parodying the popular waltzes of the time that Ives wrote in 1895, as arranged by Jonathan Elkus in 1971. (The original song can be heard here). This is the waltz as a sentimental song (or a take thereon).

American composers of Ives's were still showing themselves to be smitten by the great masters of the classical waltz, especially Chopin. There's Horatio Parker, for example,with his Chopinesque Valse gracile of 1899 and George Chadwick with his equally Chopin-inspired (and highly agreeable) Three Waltzes of 1890.

This American process is a rewind of the process we have been seeing in Europe - the move from the real thing to parodies and nostalgic memories of the real thing.

Let's end with another American composer but one who began as an Austrian composer and whose music is Viennese to its fingertips, Erich Korngold. His work in arranging rare Strauss operettas brought a fair few of them back from the dead. Korngold's music is rich in influence, sharing some of the spirit of Franz Lehár whilst also being aware of Schoenberg. Of course, Korngold is best known for his film music, all written for the studios of Hollywood. A man of the past and the future then. I've enthused about Korngold's music (at length) before, so this is my second bite of the cherry here. It's such a tasty cherry though that I'm always happy to keeping nibbling at it.

As well as those arrangements of Strauss operettas, Korngold wrote a pastiche singspiel called Walzer aus Wien ('Waltzes from Vienna') which drew on Strauss's less-known music (the Broadway version was called The Great Waltz) to tell a story from the life of the Waltz King. For a flavour of what must be a wonderful piece, please take a listen to the waltz-aria Frag mich Oft . (A second delicious aria may be heard here.) One of Korngold's final works was a short orchestral tribute to the great man, Straussiana, drawing on an obscure Strauss polka and an obscure Strauss waltz. There's not a hint of irony in it. This is love.

Korngold wrote waltzes of his own, including in his remarkably prodigious youth. I like the story about the teenager's Vier fröhliche Walzer all being dedicated to friends at school - all girl friends - and his father confiscating the young composer's manuscript to try to deter him from thinking about girls! The pieces were re-discovered later. As you would expect from the extraordinarily gifted youngster, the waltz Margit sounds like the work of a fully mature composer and contains a rich flow of melody and harmony. For a waltz from a work from the composer's actual maturity, please try the warmly nostalgic second movement from the Suite Op.23 for two violins, cello and piano left hand or the delightful finale of the String Quartet No.2, Op.26 - both first-rate waltzes. If you ever feel yourself wanting to sing along to a Korngold waltz you will be in good company - as you can hear from the composer's own performance (on piano) of the waltz-song Die schönste Nacht from his operetta Die Stumme Serenade. Try it for yourself with the waltz, Feast in the Forest, from his legendary film score The Adventures of Robin Hood or with Pierrots Tanzlied from the composer's most famous opera, Die Tode Stadt.

Resisting the urge to end with Engelbert Humperdinck's The Last Waltz, that's the end of this short series of posts on the waltz. Hope I didn't leave out too much! 

The Waltz IX: La Valse

All the macabre and triste waltzing of the last post might have put you in the mood for a bit of Danish light music. So it's a big "Hej" to "The Strauss of the North", Hans Christian Lumbye. Inspired by hearing old Johann Strauss, Lumbye brought the new Viennese style to Denmark and became immensely popular with Danish audiences as a result. His waltzes are marked by their melodic appeal, their energy and their orchestral colour - all qualities found in his loveable Amélie Waltz, his Memories from Vienna and his Hesperus Waltz. Lumbye's most famous piece, however, isn't a waltz. This is as good a place as any to introduce you to it though (if you don't already know it) so, ladies and gentlemen, let me present to you the Copenhagen Steam Railway Galop. This is one of the gems of light music - a depiction of the elegant crowds at a railway station, the wheezing of the train into motion, the train at full speed and its arrival at the next station to the cries of the station staff. Delightful!

Moving westwards (perhaps on a train leaving from Copenhagen), French waltz lovers had their own equivalents of Lumbye and the Strausses, most notably Émile Waldteufel (whose name, in a nice Lisztian twist, means 'Forest devil' in German!). You may never have heard of Waldteufel (which is your loss!) but you will have heard of at least one of his pieces - Les Patineurs ('The Skaters Waltz'), whose opening has more than a little of The Blue Danube about it. Yes, it's not quite in the same league as Johann Strauss II's great waltz, but The Skaters Waltz has all the charm and elegance of French ballet music. Waldteufel usually stuck to the tried-and-tested formula of introduction-waltz sequence-reprise (coda) on the if-it-ain't-broke-don't-fix-it principle. The results can be vivacious, as in Tout Paris ('All Paris'), and highly melodious, as in Très Jolie ('Very Pretty'). As a fan of Emmanuel Chabrier and his inspired, glittering orchestral showpiece España, it's fun to hear Waldteufel's transformation of it into his España Waltz. Of course, Waldteufel tames the wildness and originality at the heart of Chabrier's ingenious piece, but it's charming stuff nonetheless.

Chabrier wrote a set of three Valses Romantiques that are among the many semi-hidden delights of French piano (here two piano) music. The composer's music was adored by Debussy, Ravel, Poulenc - and most other French composers of note - and you can, I hope, hear why here. The harmonic ingenuity, the genius for melody, the glamour and elegance, the poetry - all self-recommending qualities - are found throughout this set of waltzes. The third of the pieces is widely regarded as being the most remarkable for its anticipations of composers to come. Just as irresistible is the sparkling Scherzo-Valse from his Pièces pittoresques. Gems, all of them. No survey of the waltz would be complete without them.

Chabrier, incidentally, was another of those composers who began their composing with a waltz. His Op.1 is a 'grand waltz' called Julia. (No link, sadly). Another French composer whose Op.1 was a waltz was George Bizet. His Grand Valse de Concert is a brilliant confection of the kind that often gets dismissed as 'salon music' - and a masterpiece in waltz form it certainly isn't - but it's not a bad start from a young man who was going to go on to write a work of genius like Carmen, is it? Hope that getting you to listen to it straight after hearing the mature magic of Chabrier wasn't too cruel a trick to play on poor Bizet!

Another French master of the stage, Léo Delibes, whose ballets Tchaikovsky said he would have loved to have written, wrote a well-known waltz for his comic ballet Coppélia. I've read a few slight sniffy comments from critics about Coppélia but it's a piece I've long had a very large soft spot for. It has so many good tunes and it's delectably scored. There's nothing but happiness to be had from it - and there's a bonus waltz in the almost-as-well-known Waltz of the Hours. Splendid waltzes, both of them. His other ballet Sylvia has a waltz too - and, guess what, it's a delight too!

Delibes wasn't the first Frenchman to pop a waltz or two in a ballet, unsurprisingly. Adolphe Adam's ground-breaking Giselle (the first ballet to give us the Wilis) had one by the start of the 1840s.

Famous French waltzes come from all direction in the second half of the Nineteenth Century. Another is the waltz from Faust by Charles Gounod. This has long had an independent orchestral life, but if you wish to hear in its original form, where Méphistophélès leads Faust and the villagers in a waltz - a Mephisto Waltz! - please feel free to click here.

Listen also to Jacques Offenbach's Gaîté Parisienne, as arranged by Emanuel Rosenthal (yes, it's not really a ballet by Offenbach), and you will hear some more catchy French waltzes that should fill you with feeligns of élan, joie de vivre and bonhomie. Of course, you wan't just hear waltzes. Hmm, what other dances will you hear? There's only one way for you to find out!

The country that first put the waltz in a symphony, thanks to M. Berlioz, was clearly in love with la valse but, being French, they were more than willing to put a little emotionally distance between themselves and the waltz and invest it with a certain nonchalance. Saint-Saëns actually wrote a piece called Valse nonchalante, Op. 110. The Danse Macabre showed that Saint-Saëns could caricature the waltz, and there's surely a hint of underlying irony in his exceptionally brilliant Étude en forme de valse, Op.52/6 - though the irony may be directed at exceptional brilliance itself! (The Belgian violinist-composer Eugène Ysaÿe wrote a version of the piece for violin and piano, entitled Caprice d'après l'Étude en forme de valse whic brings a Paganini-like flavour to Saint-Saëns's pianistic tour-de-force.)

'Nonchalance' isn't le mot juste to describe the Valse-caprices of Gabriel Fauré. What is? 'Urbanity' perhaps. Fauré turned out four beautiful, sparkling pieces in waltz form - the Valse-caprice No.1, Op.30, Valse-caprice No.2 Op.38, Valse-caprice No.3, Op.59 and Valse-caprice No.4, Op.62. None of them touch the emotional depths of his greatest piano works (the nocturnes and barcarolles especially) but they are exquisite nonetheless. Their virtuosity is feather-light. The earlier pair were favourites of Saint-Saëns and show something of the manner of his Étude en forme de valse - as well as reflecting the style and spirit of Chopin. The later pair are somewhat closer to the true spirit of Fauré, with captivating touches that lift the works well beyond the ordinary - to a place where we also find Kitty-valse from the Dolly Suite.

'Nonchalance' is certainly the word, however, to describe some of the waltzes of Satie: Je te veux and Tendrement, for example, which bring us close to the world of popular music, the cabaret, the 20th Century, or the Waltz of the Mysterious Kiss in the Eye from La Belle Excentrique, which nears the indifference of tone found in those little waltzes of Stravinsky - or in Satie's own Stravinsky-like Valse du chocolat aux amandes. More conventional is the Fantaisie Valse.

Debussy's waltzes carried him from the lovely but emphatically Romantic Valse romantique of 1890 to the more more characteristic and somewhat nonchalant La plus que lente of 1910 (a piece subsequently orchestrated with the exotic addition of the gypsy cimbalom.) Both are minor pieces in the Debussy canon, but neither is to be missed by lovers of the waltz. 

The macabre, madness-afflicted waltz that we encountered in the previous post gets a French outing (in 1903) from a most unexpected source - Jules Massenet. His Valse folle has a Mephistophelian side to it, with plenty of French glitter and an almost Bartok-like bite to a few of its bars. Unlikely, you think? Well, give it a go and see what you think!

Other composers still felt the deepest affection for the waltz. One such was Reynaldo Hahn, whose Premières valses are a loving tribute to the form, seeming to feel most at home in the first half of the 19th Century. There are eleven short movements, the first bearing the Weber-inspired title Invitation A La Valse. There's also a Valse Noble (a nod to Schubert) and a tribute to Chopin ('A L'Ombre Reveuse De Chopin'), thus paying homage to many of the founding fathers of the classical waltz.  "Dear Reynaldo", wrote Proust, "your waltzes achieve the complete coincidence (in the geometric sense of the world) where all expression is stripped away, save that which you want us to savour, art or life.'

Ravel was, of course, making such a nod with his Valses nobles et sentimentales (albeit with many a 20th Century twist), as referred to it my first post on the waltz - where I also promised another piece by the composer that would have been out of place there. That piece is La Valse). The score sets the scene:

"At first the scene is dimmed by a kind of swirling mist through which one discerns, vaguely and intermittently, the waltzing couples. Little by little the vapours begin to disperse, and the illumination grows brighter, revealing an immense ballroom filled with dancers. The blaze of the chandeliers comes to full splendour. An Imperial Ball about 1855."

There are three continuous sections. The first, The Birth of the Waltz, opens to miasmic rumblings. Out of this quiet chaos emerges the rhythm of the waltz. A tune rises from the bassoon eventually reaching the strings and the oboe, with the brass stressing the rhythm with ever greater oomph. We then come to The Waltz Itself. Here the violins then the oboe give us to the big waltz tune, with the percussion flecking its process. Other instruments take the lead as the waltz passes into through various moods, from serenity to passion. The speed intensifies and the waltz begins to become harsh. Finally comes The Apotheosis of the Waltz, where the waltz is belted out in a great blaze of orchestral colour and becomes ever more hedonistic and hallucinatory, being engulfed in great swirls of sound with baying brass prominent. The violence grows ever more intense and the piece reaches a fever pitch of brutality, with fierce dissonances raging. The waltz hurtles forward nightmarishly and crescendos into wildness before collapsing fiercely. Many see La Valse as a damning indictment of the pre-World War One culture that brought about the catastrophe of that war - a world that collapsed at the end of the war, just as Ravel's Valse collapsed. La Valse is, thus, as much a history of the whole of the world of Imperial Vienna as it is of the waltz itself.

The waltz had, indeed, reached its apotheosis. There are very few significant French (classical) waltzes to come from the years after La Valse. 

The Waltz VIII: Macabre Dances

The clock (harp) sounds the hour of midnight. Death tunes his violin to the devilish interval of the tritone and the flute strikes up...a waltz. Death then plays another waltz tune on his violin and dances a Danse Macabre. The waltz grows broader and skeletons join in the dance, their bones clattering on xylophone. A fugue strikes, up then a waltz take on the requiem Dies Irae chant emerges. The dance swirls up again and the music begins its hurtle towards the main climax. The horns sound the approach of dawn, the cock crows on oboe. With a final echo of Death's dance tune the skeleton's retreat and disappear. 

Long before Alfred Schnittke tried to send shivers down our spine with his nightmarish waltzes, composers like Saint-Saëns (in 1874) had realised that the waltz makes the perfect candidate for the danse macabre. He wasn't the first. Over a decade earlier (1859-62) Liszt had composed the first of his Mephisto Waltzes. The work has the subtitle, Der Tanz in der Dorfschenke ('The Dance in the Village Inn'). The story, taken from Lenau, runs as follows:

"There is a wedding feast in progress in the village inn, with music, dancing, carousing. Mephistopheles and Faust pass by, and Mephistopheles induces Faust to enter and take part in the festivities. Mephistopheles snatches the fiddle from the hands of a lethargic fiddler and draws from it indescribably seductive and intoxicating strains. The amorous Faust whirls about with a full-blooded village beauty in a wild dance; they waltz in mad abandon out of the room, into the open, away into the woods. The sounds of the fiddle grow softer and softer, and the nightingale warbles his love-laden song."

The work was originally composed for piano and orchestra but the composer swiftly made arrangements of it for solo piano and orchestra. The orchestral version must have given Saint-Saëns ideas, though Liszt's vision has much more passion than the Frenchman's genial score. This danse is rather more macabre, with wild waltz rhythms, distorted melodies and uproarious climaxes - and a voluptuous melody. 

The Mephisto Waltz No.2 was dedicated to Saint-Saëns and written around five years after the Danse Macabre and some twenty years after the Mephisto Waltz No.1. As a piece of music, I think it's a finer achievement than either of them; indeed, it's one of Liszt's best works. It opens with a play of tritones, just as 

the Danse Macabre did, but its coup-de-theatre it to end with cadences on the same devilish interval - dashing the listener's expectations that the Waltz is about to end in a blaze of major-key glory. There's something though that might strike you as you're listening. Why doesn't it sound like a waltz? The reason is that the piece is written in two time signatures simultaneously - 6/8 and 2/4 - and the two cut across each to such an extent that the waltz rhythm is largely cancelled out. The fact that the waltz rhythm is in no way obvious even to a reader of the score also helps in this respect. So we've arrived at a waltz that doesn't sound at all like a waltz. How diabolical!

The harmonic adventures of the Mephisto Waltz No.2 are carried further in the Mephisto Waltz No.3. You can smell Scriabin in the air of its chains of fourths and its use of trills. Again, you won't find yourself tapping your fingers to a Viennesy 3/4 time beat as the piece has a dual time signature of 12/8 and 4/4 and the cancelling-out of the waltz rhythm is carried out in such a thoroughgoing way. The Third Mephisto Waltz is an exciting and wonderful piece. I'd never heard it before today. I will be hearing it again soon.

The Mephisto Waltz No.4 was unfinished and forgotten until the 1950s. Heroic Lisztian Leslie Howard made a completion of it in the 1970s and the piece has been recorded. Unfortunately, it isn't of the same high standard as its predecessors, sounding rather more obvious than Nos. 2 and 3 whilst lacking the thematic distinction of No.1. It has its moments but the excitement and the mystery found in the others isn't found so abundantly here.  

Another Mephisto Waltz I'm very fond of came from the pen of Prokofiev - his Mephisto Waltz from the film score Lermontov (usually heard in a version for solo piano). Prokofiev understood what Liszt was up to and his waltz has several of the distinguishing features of Liszt's works - including the play of triple and duple-time that at times disguises the waltz element - though it has to be said that the um-pah-pah rhythm makes itself felt far more often in the course of the Russian's work than it ever did in the Hungarian's devilish dance-poems. Of course, Prokofiev brings to his Mephisto Waltz all his usual genius for melody. 

Another great Russian who sensed the macabre element latent in the waltz was Rachmaninov. His towering Symphonic Dances features a ghostly waltz as its central movement. The sinister opening brass chords and the eerily swirling woodwind features help set the scene. The wan waltz tune then enters into this haunted landscape (and what a tune it is!). The sinister chords return but the waltz tune begins to surge romantically. All is beginning to go swimmingly but then - in the manner of the Liszt Mephisto Waltzes - the rhythms tangle to such an extent that the waltz rhythm is cancelled out. The tune tries again and again but it seems to lose its reason as it rises in passion and the waltz rushes towards its confused end. 

The associations of death with the waltz are also brought out in Sibelius's very beautiful Valse triste - a piece from his incidental music to a play called Kuolema ('Death'). The original programme note sets the scene:

"It is night. The son, who has been watching beside the bedside of his sick mother, has fallen asleep from sheer weariness, Gradually a ruddy light is diffused through the room: there is a sound of distant music: the glow and the music steal nearer until the strains of a valse melody float distantly to our ears. The sleeping mother awakens, rises from her bed and, in her long white garment, which takes the semblance of a ball dress, begins to move silently and slowly to and fro. She waves her hands and beckons in time to the music, as though she were summoning a crowd of invisible guests. And now they appear, these strange visionary couples, turning and gliding to an unearthly valse rhythm. The dying woman mingles with the dancers; she strives to make them look into her eyes, but the shadowy guests one and all avoid her glance. Then she seems to sink exhausted on her bed and the music breaks off. Presently she gathers all her strength and invokes the dance once more, with more energetic gestures than before. Back come the shadowy dancers, gyrating in a wild, mad rhythm. The weird gaiety reaches a climax; there is a knock at the door, which flies wide open; the mother utters a despairing cry; the spectral guests vanish; the music dies away. Death stands on the threshold."

If strains of madness added to the macabre are what you are looking for in a waltz then look no further that the waltz from the Rasputin-based film Agony (beginning at 4.33) by Schnittke. As was established in an earlier post, Schnittke turned the waltz into the ultimate danse macabre on many occasions. Over in America, Jerry Goldsmith was putting Liszt's Mephisto Waltz to use in the context of a horror film that bore the same title as the Hungarian's diabolic work. His score to The Mephisto Waltz certainly takes the idea somewhat further than Liszt could possibly have imagined, using plenty of avant-garde tricks to add to  the horro - though the old Abbé would doubtless have got a kick out of it. Goldsmith also employed the waltz form in his score to The Boys from Brazil - a thriller about the cloning of Hitler. Here the lightness and unMephistophelian nature of the main waltz tune is intended to ironically underline the horror of Nazi evil. 

As Schnittke and Goldsmith show, the spirit of Liszt's Mephisto Waltzes lived on into the dying decades of the last century - and will doubtless continue to do so. 

The Waltz VII: The Waltz Heads East

As Dvorak's interest in the form tells us, the Slavs certainly took to the waltz, generally speaking. It's right to speak generally because a composer like Smetana didn't concern himself (as far as I can see) with the waltz at all, preferring more specifically Czech forms of dance. 

Mikhail Glinka set the ball rolling in Russia, as he so often did. His Valse-Fantasie in B major of 1856 is one of his best orchestral pieces and has a very Russian-sounding main melody allied to the traditional rhythms of the Central European waltz and to more general-sounding waltz tunes. 

You can hear the origins of certain strains of Tchaikovsky's music in Glinka's Valse-Fantasie. Besides the great symphonic waltzes described in an earlier post, Tchaikovsky's output is full of delicious waltzes, making him one of the greatest of all waltz kings. His first surviving work was a waltz - the Anastasie-Valse of 1854. The rest of his output for piano brings such things as the Valse caprice, Op.4, the Valse-Scherzo No.1, Op.7, the Valse in A flat major, Op.40/8 (played in the link by Rachmaninov no less) and the Valse in F sharp minor, Op.40/9, the Valse from Album for the Young, Op.39, the Valse de salon Op.51/1 and Valse sentimentale, Op.51/6, not to mention the Valse bluette, Op.72/11, the Valse à cinq temps, Op.72/16 and December from The Seasons. You will almost certain also enjoy the Valse-Scherzo, Op.34 for violin and orchestra from 1877. I think it's fair to s, ay that none of these waltzes quite matches the delights provided by the second movement of the much-loved Serenade for Strings, Op.48. The second movement of the Second Orchestral Suite, Op.53 and the second movement of the Third Orchestral Suite, Op.55 are both (in their different ways) enchanting, and the Second Act of his masterly opera Eugene Onegin contains a waltz straight out of the composer's top drawer. Of course, the three great ballets give us some of Tchaikovsky's finest waltzes - and what waltzes they are! From Swan Lake comes this from Act I and this from Act II. From Sleeping Beauty comes the Garland Waltz. Finally, from The Nutcracker comes the Waltz of the Flowers and the Waltz of the Snowflakes. Everyone loves the Waltz of the Flowers but many a critic has a real downer on the Waltz of the Snowflakes. I've seen it described as "gormless". Call me a man of bad taste, but I've always had a real soft spot for it. All together now: "AH, AH, ah-ah, AH"!

A composer sometimes maligned (or, in some works, fairly described) as producing 'watered-down Tchaikovsky', Anton Arensky, produced one of the best of all Russian waltzes - the Valse from his Suite No.1, Op.15 for two pianos - a number that combines considerable brilliance of technique and elegance of invention with a first-rate tune, which comes around and is decorated and dissolved again and again. 

Alexander Glazunov's Concert Waltz No.1 has more than a little of Tchaikovsky's waltzing spirit about it and, unsurprising, this beautifully-scored and melodically enticing slice of Tchaikovsky-style orchestral writing has become one of its composer's most played pieces. One success is, understandably, likely to make a composer try again and hope for a second success. His Concert Waltz No.2 isn't really in the same league as its predecessor but it is far from unattractive.  His loveable ballet The Seasons contains another endearing waltz, the Waltz of the Cornflowers and Poppies, and his other popular ballet, Raymonda, contains waltzes like the Valse fantastique and the Grand Waltz.

I'm saving one the best of Sergei Rachmaninov's waltz-inspired pieces for another post, but there are other gems from his pen that will slot in nicely here. There's a charming Valse and Romance for six hands (piano) from 1890-1, the Valse from the solo Morceaux de salon, Op.10 the excellent Valse from the Six Morceaux, Op.11 for piano duet and the Valse from the Suite No.2, Op.17.

Yes, the Russians write good waltzes. That was to continue into the Twentieth Century, though two of its most pioneering figures weren't really waltz kings.

Alexander Scriabin pretty much began composing by writing waltzes. His Valse in F minor, Op.1 was composed at the age of 13. He didn't sustain that interest, however, and later efforts, like the Waltz in A flat major, Op.38, though entertaining, seems out-of-place and old-fashioned in the context of everything else he was writing at that time.

We've already encountered Igor Stravinsky's Lanner appropriations for his Petruskha waltz. His other waltzes are similarly distanced in tone, such as the Waltz (beginning at 1.46) from The Soldier's Tale, the deliciously mechanical-sounding yet wacky Waltz (beginning at 1.31) from the Three Easy Pieces (a little gem) and the somewhat similar Valse pour les enfants.

The lack of Romanticism in Stravinsky's waltzes is hardly surprising. Shostakovich's waltzes are hardly likely to sound like Glazunov either, though they are bound to be a bit warmer. We've already met his less than straight symphonic take on the waltz and now it's time to introduce his popular waltzes from the feel-good Jazz Suites. If you click on any on the following numbers it will bear you hot-foot to a Shostakovich waltz - one of which is particularly well-loved. (How teasing of me!): 1, 2, 3, 4. The first three are somewhat cut from the same cloth, aren't they? It's a cloth it's fun to have pieces cut from though! The charm of the fourth is rather different, and it leads me on to the Waltz-Scherzo from The Bolt via the Ballet Suites - a top-notch piece of light music that does seem to have a little Tchaikovsky (and something of Petrushka) about it. If you don't know this Waltz-Scherzo, I strongly recommend it to you. It might make your day. The other waltzes from the Ballet Suites are the Waltz from The Human Comedy and the Waltz from The Limpid Stream. Such enjoyable music! (The complete Jazz and Ballet Suites can be relished here - and should be, if you want to give yourself an hour or so of non-stop fun).

Prokofiev's waltzes are just as tasty. Who could resist Since We Met from War and Peace? Prokofiev arranged the same number for piano, here played by Richter. Fabulous in either version. Another waltz from the opera may be enjoyed here and more Richter, this time playing the Grand Waltz from the ballet Cinderella, really ought to be listened to here. The utterly magical orchestral version of this waltz is available here - music so good it brings a lump to my throat. This version even has a slow introduction to match any by the Strausses for sheer enchantment. This is one of my favourite pieces of music. The other waltz from Cinderella brings another glorious tune.  As these four waltzes (in their various incarnations) demonstrate, Prokofiev is one of the supreme masters of waltz. Less familiar - and less special - are the two Pushkin waltzes, written to mark the poet's 150th anniversary in 1949. Less special, but still likeable. There's one more waltz-gem by Prokofiev but, as with that special piece by Rachmaninov, I want to save it for another post.

Alfred Schnittke wrote music for a TV programme called The Waltz. I've no knowledge as to whether the programme was about the waltz or not, though the movements (1.Building plot, 2.Coach, 3.Factory & 4.Vovka) suggest possibly not. You'll recognise a borrowed tune from a certain Viennese waltz composer (now who could that be?) though. The score is rather dream-like (nightmarish at times). It seems to be written in much the same spirit as Rodion Shchedrin's contemporary Carmen Suite. It's a fascinating find. Mysterious and sinister waltzes about in Schnittke's music - numbers like the waltz from The Story of an Unknown Actor (like a creepy take on a Shostakovich 'jazz'-waltz) or the rather obsessive waltz from Clowns and Children or the grotesque waltzes The Portrait and The Ball from the Gogol Suite. Aren't they all excellent? The Tempo di Valse movement from his great Piano Quintet offers another of these hallucinatory visions...

....and it's to the sinister side of the waltz that I will be turning next. Do you smell the sulphur yet?

The Waltz VI: Love-Song Waltzes

As the Strauss Family reached its peak of fame in the 1860s, Johannes Brahms took to writing waltzes. Brahms adored the music of Johann Strauss II, famously writing "unfortunately not by Johannes Brahms" over a quotation of the theme from The Blue Danube. His own waltzes, however, don't owe very much to the Strauss Family, (like Ravel) following much more the example of Schubert. Yes, young Franz's Valses nobles and Valses sentimentales are the obvious progenitors of Brahms's Waltzes, Op.39 (Nos.9-16 here), though the spirit of Schumann and his inward-looking piano cycles are also discernible. 

These 16 short pieces (all in simple binary form) were originally composed as four-hand duets but the composer subsequently arranged them twice for solo piano - one set for "clever hands" and the other "perhaps for more beautiful hands", as he put it so charmingly. I think they are truly wonderful. I'd go so far as to say that they are my favourite waltzes of all, a collection of magical miniatures, so varied in character and mood as to make the continuous hearing of the whole set a joy from start to finish. They are 'popular' in style yet also full of intimate feeling and deep craftsmanship. 

One thing that has always puzzled me is the relationship between the penultimate waltz from the set, No.15, and "Brahms's Lullaby" - his world-famous Op.49/4 song Wiegenlied: Guten Abend, gute Nacht. Op.39/15 is also called 'Wiegenlied' and shares quite a bit of its material with the song  that so many mothers have sung to their babies over the last 150 years, though there are marked differences of direction taken by each piece once we've passed the opening phrase. Which one was based on the other? Or, to put it another way, which came first? Seemingly, the songs were written in 1867-8 while the piano waltz was composed by 1865, which seems to make the piano piece the ur-lullaby (as it were). Fascinating! (OK, probably not). 

Just after writing the Waltzes, Op.39 Brahms began writing his Liebeslieder Waltzes, Op.52 for vocal quartet and piano (four-hands), following them (given their great success with the public) in the mid 1870s with the Neue Liebeslieder Walzer, Op.65. These love-songs in waltz form (all but one based on frivolous, amorous poetry) are another of the treasures of Brahms's art. The Op.52 ones have always been closer to my heart than their successors, full of delightful things as the second round of songs are. They bear no relationship (beyond their title) to the Liebeslieder Waltz, Op.114 of Johann Strauss II. If you were wondering.

Alas, Brahms's friend and mentor Robert Schumann was more the sort of composer to slip into the spirit of a waltz during the course of a piece rather than doing a Schubert, Chopin or Brahms and explicitly writing waltzes. The nearest he came to writing a collection of waltzes was his fanciful Papillons, Op.2 - one of the pieces which seems to me to show the direct influence of Schubert's waltzes on Schumann's style. Most of the thirteen movements of Papillons take waltz form (with a couple of polonaises chucked in for good measure) and the final movement sees phrases from the opening waltz alternating poetically with phrases from the old Grossvaterlied (which Schumann associates with philistinism). 

There is said to be a very direct link between Schubert's waltzes and Schumann's masterpiece, Carnaval, Op.9. It's claimed that the opening Préambule makes reference to Schubert's Trauerwalzer, D365/2. I've listened a few times now to both pieces and I can't say that I can hear any connection whatsoever between the two. Am I missing something? There are, regardless, two explicit waltzes in Carnaval - the first of which bears a Schubertian name, Valse noble. The second is the Valse allemande. I love them both. 

Brahms's friend Antonin Dvorak, a master at translating popular dances into popular classical music, wrote quite a few waltzes. I made the mistake of listening to his own set of Waltzes, Op.54 straight after listening to the Brahms Op.39 set. The Brahms pieces are so subtle that the open brilliance of Dvorak's waltzes then came as a shock. Listening to them again on their own terms - and they were designed to be something different from either Chopin or Brahms - reveals their own genius, marrying as they do Slavonic melodies with the demands of the Austro-German waltz. They are valses brillantes, designed to delight audiences (as his wonderful Slavonic Dances had already delighted audiences. There are all those little shift of mode and mood that you expect from the composer and tunes galore. I was new to these ingenious piano pieces, but the orchestral Prague Waltzes, composed in the immediate wake of the Op.54 pieces, were familiar to me. They are a likeable mixture of Strauss Family-style populism and Dvorak-style Slavonic melodic traits. 

The waltz was spreading its wings and heading east.

Mirzoyan: Armenia's Composer-King

Talking of the tuneful old Supreme Leader of Soviet music, Tikhon Khrennikov (as I was a few posts ago), I failed to spot until recently that his (apparently) far more benign counterpart in Armenia, Edward Mirzoyan, died late last year at the ripe old age of 92. Unlike Khrennikov, Mirzoyan's name - and it's a name I've seen from time to time but whose music I've never heard a note of until now - seems not to have become mud, despite his high-flying Soviet career. Unlike Khrennikov then, not a controversial composer; indeed, all I've seen on my researches are highly appreciative (sometimes loving) comments from Armenian admirers. I may (or may not) be missing something, but the internet never lies and that must be the case. (Is this the time for that /sarc thing to be employed?)

That self-same internet has provided me (and, thus, you) with some opportunities to explore the music of Edward Mirzoyan. 

The most-regularly posted piece by Mirzoyan is Shoushanik, a short work named in honour of an early Armenian queen-saint (whose story seems a distressing one). Rather surprisingly, the music's Armenian folksong-inspired turns of phrase (literally) find themselves integrated into melancholy string writing (plus poignant tunes and minor-key harmonies) that seems (to an attuned and English ear) far from unlike our own Edward - Edward Elgar - and his dear-to-every-Englishman-who-loves-classical-music-and-likes-the-music-of-Edward-Elgar string-orchestral gems. As an Elgarian myself, I find it hard to resist such an easy-on-the-ear tribute. It would make a good soundtrack to a heart-tugging movie too. 

Such late late-Romanticism is, perhaps, a little at odds with the composer's reputation as a neo-Classical composer. To see that side of him you need to listen to his largish scale Symphony for Timpani and String Orchestra. This has more than a few film-score-like passages too (usually a good sign), is full of attractive music, strongly tonal in harmony - despite some occasional Stravinsky-like asperities -, and has a good deal of melody (not, it must be admitted, - at least according to my brain - of the highest kind of memorability) which keeps the listener listening. If I were to name a key influence on the symphony I would say 'Shostakovich'. Certain passage just have that Shostakovich feel about them. (Plus, I would swear to hearing the DSCH motif pass my ears - in the first movement - at some stage). The first movement also has twinges of Bartók. I'm sure you will hear what I mean as you listen. Again, what I presume to be specifically Armenian folk music touches grace the piece's melodic flow. Given my chain of pieces on the waltz, it would be remiss of me not to point out that the pleasing second movement is a (Shostakovich-style) symphonic waltz. The dejected slow movement is particularly attractive, with many a heart-tugging dissonant suspension along the way. There's a second theme that most clearly goes down the (presumably) specifically Armenian folk melody route and a piercingly emotional climax (stark and aggressive).  The finale is cheerful, like Shostakovich on happy pills - though (being, I suspect, a Romantic at heart) the composer recalls the slow movement and its pangs of melancholy at a couple of points. The vigour of (presumably Armenian) folk music is felt from time to time too. The ending is firmly affirmative. Khrennikov would have approved.

Talking of waltzes (as I have been, lest you haven't noticed), there's a waltz in his attractive Album for my Grand-daughter for solo piano. We're seeing yet another side to the composer here, writing winning piano miniatures. There are six movements - "Morning", "Mariam", "Meditation", "Play", "Sad Waltz" and "Toccatina". The first piece makes especially attractive use of dissonant harmony, while the second has plenty of Bartók about it. The fourth piece (if suitably orchestrated) is somewhat in the spirit of Stravinsky's Petrushka. That winsome waltz is wistful and somewhat sentimental. If these child-friendly piano pieces are a bit too easy-to-play for you (you pianist-hating sadists!), then there's always the the Poem for piano, full of dramatic rhetoric and clangorous (slightly Messiaen-like) piano writing initially, though the music turns inward for its middle section. 

For very late Mirzoyan, you are welcome (as I was) to try the Introduction and Perpetuum Mobile of 2007, for violin and piano, written in memory of the Armenian Genocide. The melodies are dyed with Armenian folk colour, though the harmonies are full of unobtrusive mid-20th Century-style mainstream dissonance. Liszt and Rachmaninov would have been taken with his use of the very old Dies Irae plainchant. Fancy that still being used in a 2007 piece for violin and piano!

Did you like the music of Edvard Mirzoyan?