The Waltz I: Early Days

With the coming of the New Year, we found ourselves once again watching the famous New Year's Day concert from Vienna's Musikverein. It's one of those things we do as a family, year in and year out (whether the rest of the family wants to or not!). It marks the coming of another year just as surely as Norman Lebrecht's annual denunciation of the very same concert (for its Nazi past and the Vienna PO's reluctance to involve women performers). What would a New Year be without any of those things? I shudder to think! 

This year's conductor was Franz Welser-Möst, returning for a second bite of the cherry. He gave us the odd piece by Papa Strauss, plus plenty of Johann the Younger and Josef, a couple of 'the others' (Lanner and Hellmesburger) and a piece by each of the big birthday boys of 2013 - Wagner and Verdi. 

It set me thinking about the dance form most famously associated with old Vienna - the waltz. What have the great composers made of it? 

The dance developed throughout the closing decades of the 18th Century, rising from rural origins and then moving into the cities. It seems to have grown out of such three-four time country dances as the Ländler and other such Deutsche ('German Dances'). As they migrated into the ballroom, chasing out the old courtly minuet in the process, so they gradually evolved into the waltz. The 1790s was the decade when named waltzes began to appear, but the Ländler & Co. held out for some time and the waltz wasn't really to sweep all before it until the 1820s when Joseph Lanner and Johann Strauss set up an orchestra and became the first two great Viennese waltz composers - at first working together then  parting company and becoming highly competitive rivals. 

The 1820s also saw some of the greatest names of music dipping a toe into the world of the waltz. Actually, the year was 1819 when Carl Maria von Weber lifted the waltz into the world of art music with his magnificent piano piece, Invitation to the Dance - though the piece was only published in 1824. The work (which has also became popular in the delightful orchestration by Berlioz) begins by evoking the invitation by a gentleman to a lady, an introductory passage that was to become the template for many of the slow introductions of the great waltz sequences to come. What follows is a waltz sequence - a chain of waltzes, with the main waltz returning at its culmination. There's then a little coda where the gentleman leads the lady back to her seat. The piece is not just a masterpiece in its own right, it was also vastly influential. Lanner was so taken by it that he drew on its title, themes and - above all - structure for several of his own pieces. Indeed, it is a template that will be instantly recognisable to anyone familiar with the music of the greatest of all Viennese waltz composers, Johann Strauss the Younger. 

To get a flavour of what Joseph Lanner did with the waltz sequence, why not try his Styrian Dances (Steyrische-Tänze), Op. 165? What do you make of the tune at 1.27 though? Does it ring a bell with you? Well, if you know Stravinsky's Petrushka it most certainly will. You'll recognise it as the tune of his waltz The Ballerina & the Moor (beginning at 3.27). The next tune that appears in Petrushka is a tune from another Lanner waltz - his best-known work, Die Schönbrunner, Op.200. (The Lanner tune begins at 0.30 and Stravinsky's take on it, as linked to above, appears at 4.05). It's funny what turns up in Petrushka!

As Lanner's music was achieving lift-off, a surprising name enters the the world of the waltz - Beethoven. Did you know Beethoven wrote waltzes? Well, there are very few of them and they are certainly to be classed among the chippings from the master's workbench. However, the Waltz in E flat major, WoO84 (1824) is an undoubted winner, with a charming main tune and a beautifully imagined trio section, and I'm sure you'll be as pleasantly surprised by it as I was.

At around the same time a less surprising name also entered the field - Schubert. He wrote a good number of waltzes, including two outstanding collections - the Valses nobles, D969 and the Valses sentimentales, D779, dating respectively from 1823 and 1827 (it seems). Both sets were published in the composer's lifetime and achieved popularity. They may not be his deepest thoughts but they are quite delightful. Getting to know them has rather opened my eyes to their influence on Schumann, several of whose dance-inspired pieces include waltzes that have a strong affinity - in shape and sound - with those of his hero Schubert. See if you can hear what I mean in, say, Papillons, Op.2 (1831) or Carnaval, Op.9.

The titles of Schubert's two sets of waltzes were famously taken up by Maurice Ravel. His Valses nobles et sentimentales borrows more than those titles however, being a chain of waltzes directly inspired by the example of Schubert's pieces - though they sound very, very different from anything Schubert ever wrote. As was his way, Ravel soon orchestrated his piano original and removed it even further from the soundworld of Franz Schubert. The work is a masterpiece in either form. (Another great tribute to the waltz from Ravel was to come, but I'm getting ahead of myself - and that piece needs placing much later in the story for reasons that will become clear).

Follies (2)

As the Baroque faded into the Pre-Classical Age, the old apparently-Portuguese (rather than Spanish) dance which Lully & Co. made known to the world as La Folia continued to inspire composers. 

The greatest composer (along with Gluck) of that intermediate period, C.P.E. Bach, followed in his father's footsteps and drew on the theme for his 12 Variationen auf die Folie d'Espagne in D minor in 1778 - not one of Emanuel's most daring keyboard compositions but full of fine fantasy nonetheless.

Earlier, a Venetian composer whose music Stravinsky mistook for Pergolesi when writing Pulcinella, Domenico Gallo (1730-c.1768), wrote La Follia in G minor for two violins, cello and basso continuo in 1760 - a piece full of those little dissonant suspensions which so appealed to Stravinsky's sensibilities.

The Classical Era itself brought more such works, alas none by Haydn or Mozart. There are works by many a minor composer, including Les Folies d'Espagne by the French harpist-composer Francesco Petrini (1744-1819) and the Variazioni sul tema della Follia di Spagna by the somewhat better known guitar virtuoso Mauro Giuliani (1781-1829). 

No Mozart, but his murderer (?!?) Antonio Salieri (1750-1825) penned a significant orchestral contribution to the Folia tradition - his Twenty-Six Variations for the Orchestra on a Theme called La Folia di Spagna. This is a substantial and attractive piece, demonstrating that Salieri is a composer worth hearing. The colours he draws from the orchestra are a treat.

Now here's an interesting one. Is there a quotation of La Folia in the slow movement of the most famous symphony of all, Beethoven's Fifth? Some think so. It comes in a passage for flute and pizzicato violas and cellos (at 7.14 in the attached video). Have a listen for yourselves and see if you think it's a genuine allusion. (It certainly sounds like one to me).  

The Romantics were just as keen on the Folia - and their offerings will be the subject of my next post. 

All the world's a...string quartet

Still the most startling of the late quartets, Beethoven's String Quartet in A minor, Op.132 is the one that fascinates me the most. It is the most extreme and diverse of the quartets, ranging for passionate intensity to near emotional neutrality, from radiant simplicity to deep complexity, from gratitude to what some see as mockery.

Music analysts have always had a bit of a field-day trying to pin down the structure of the opening movement. It doesn't seem to do what conventional sonata form first movements ought to do. For what it's worth I'd describe it as an exposition followed by a developing recapitulation followed by a further varied recapitulation and coda. Hope that helps! The development of the themes is unusual too. The main theme is a symbiosis of two contrasting ideas, The first is a haunting theme in long notes based entirely on permutations of a four-note motif. The allegro counter-subject is more melodic, though various internal repetitions of pitch and rhythm render it ripe for development. From the latter's opening notes Beethoven then grows a very attractive lyrical melody which seems to function less as a second subject than as relief (brief as it is) from the profound sense of emotional involvement conveyed by the conjoined main theme. Please listen out for the awe-inspiring quiet return of the long-note idea in canon at the start of the first 'developing recapitulation' and the swinging, syncopated variant of it that follows - details in a very beautiful and thoughtful musical argument. This is one of Beethoven's best movements.

Another conjoined theme virtually monopolises the Scherzo's emotionally uninvolved main section - two six-note ideas, one rising, one falling, each in a distinct rhythm. They dance coolly, without kissing - so to speak! The trio is a very different kind of dance - a magical musette, evoking bagpipes with a drone and an enchanting tune in lengths. Its own central section is a more earthbound ländler (country dance).

If there's one movement among Beethoven's late quartets that remains difficult, even in our own heard-it-all age it's the Adagio of this quartet - the Heiliger Dankgesang eines Genesenen an die Gottheit, in der lydischen Tonart ('Holy Song of Thanksgiving to the Deity by a Convalescent, in the Lydian mode.') The structure is A,B,A',B',A''. The dramatic contrasts between the slow, otherworldly 'A' sections and the fast, flesh-and-blood 'B' sections is like a microcosm of the quartet as a whole, albeit heightened to unprecedented levels. The 'B' sections convey the feeling of renewed strength after illness (the composer had just survived a particularly serious bout of influenza), the second 'B' section being 'stronger' than the first. These bursts of vitality seem almost ordinary next to the unquestionably extraordinary 'A' sections. These remarkable hymns of gratitude to God stick fixedly to Lydian F, singing their beautiful chorale at heavenly length in long, stretched-out notes. No other music I know conveys timelessness and/or eternity so strongly. The two later 'A' sections are variations of the first and the final one transcends the others, attaining true sublimity. The serene final 'A' section is one of the most beautiful things ever written. 

After this encounter with the sublime comes a surprise, a shock even - a short, naive-sounding march in a spirit of such cheerfulness that we (with our ears attuned to Mahler and Shostakovich) might suspect the composer of being ironic. With it comes and idea that can, in some performances, be made to sound sarcastic - a operatic recitative. I don't think it's Beethovenian mockery at all. I would say the movement as a whole is simply a burst of genuine good humour (as the wonderful performance I've linked to makes clear). However you read it this recitative leads straight into...

...the Allegro appassionata finale - a movement worthy to conclude this great quartet. It takes the form of a rondo, having a superb main theme - a great lilting yet tragic melody. The appassionata marking conveys the spirit of the movement's episodes, one of which nears violence and might make you think of the Expressionism of a century later (though that also depends on the interpretation placed on it by the performers). The final Presto is gloriously unexpected - were it not for the fact that the unexpected keeps happening in this piece.

Mahler famously told Sibelius, "The symphony must be like the world. It must embrace everything." Beethoven's A minor String Quartet was there nearly a century earlier, embracing everything, being like the world.

Beethoven in Our Alley

Sir Henry Raeburn, Mrs. Robert Scott Moncrieff

A neglected aspect of Beethoven's output is his setting of foreign folk songs, the bulk being from the British Isles. I've just spent a very pleasant hour or so listening to his Schottische Lieder, Op.108, twenty five settings of Scottish folk songs set for solo singer, mixed chorus and piano trio. 

(Wikipedia has a full list of the songs & details of their origins here). 

They came about from a commission from George Thomson, Secretary to the Board for the Encouragement of Arts and Manufactures in Scotland (who also commissioned Haydn). Mr. Thompson was trying to sell Scotland to the world, with a little help, and sent the tunes across to the composer. 

There are a few things to say about them. The first thing is that, collectively, they are a delight. There are some very catchy tunes and the way Beethoven sets them for different combinations of voices (solos, duets, trios and choruses) as well as their varied moods (from the wistful and romantic to the heroic and playful) makes the experience of listening to them as set a purely pleasurable experience. The violin and the cello add extra layers of colour, even though the piano could easily manage the job of accompanying the singers by itself. They are set in the Classical style and with harmonies to match. Today, after a hundred or more years of hearing folk songs arranged with modal harmonies to match the modal melodies of the originals, it is an initially disconcerting thing - and probably a disappointing one (even for those of us who aren't folk song purists) - to hear them set to conventional tonic-dominant Classical/Romantic harmonies. The ear soon grows accustomed though to this 'unauthentic' treatment and begins to appreciate the tonal harmonies on their old terms. 

Hope you enjoy them. 

As a little bonus, here's one of my favourites, Bonnie Laddie, Highland Laddie, as played by the Pipes and Drums of the London Scottish Regiment.  

Flutes flying magically across the years

Part piano solo, part piano concerto, part choral work, part fantasy, part set of variations - yes Beethoven's Choral Fantasia in C, Op.80 is an odd hybrid. Some critics have tried hard not to like this piece but I've long had a soft spot for it. 

The piano's introduction has fantasy in spades, turning generally sombre patterns into an arresting swirl. The orchestra eventually sneaks in and builds up to the announcement of the main theme - on piano. This simple tune is one of my main reasons for having a minor crush on the Choral Fantasia. Does it remind you of anything? It reminds many people of the 'Ode to Joy' theme from the Ninth Symphony. The first variation is led by the flute and has something of Mozart's Magic Flute about it; indeed, several features of this work have a Magic Flute-like quality to them. I feel that kinship even more strongly when the chorus enters towards the end. Is this connection often made? The other early variations are quite simple and charming; however, three later variations are far longer and much less simple. The first of these, a C minor allegro, spreads its wings and glides over often exciting landscapes. The second is a gentle A major adagio which dreams in broad daylight before the third, an F major military march, stirs the music back into action. This is a highpoint in the piece and leads to another passage where the piano fantasizes again, dramatically. After a brief hold-up, the delightful choral variations begin, strong and simple, and grow to a rousing climax that would be surely to meet Sarastro's approval. 

Another favourite work of mine that has passages which seem to be channelling the spirit of The Magic Flute is Schumann's endearing choral cantata for soloists, chorus and orchestra, Requiem für Mignon. This is a Goethe setting and portrays Mignon's funeral where four boys (sung by pairs of sopranos and altos) are consoled by a choir of angels. It opens in C minor with march rhythms. The soloists continue in the minor but their discussion is regularly interrupted by the chorus in the major, singing their solacing song in a manner which shows just how effectively Robert could write in this medium. Charming tunes come and go, including 'Ach! Wie ungern brachten wir ihn her!' for the soloists and also the chorus 'Seht die machtigen Flugel doch an!' (with its rousing horn entries). The most treasurable section, 'Kinder! Kehret ins Leben zuruck', begins with a brief woodwind-accompanied baritone solo and proceeds to a joyous march-like passage for the soloists which wouldn't sound out of place in The Magic Flute itself and is one of Schumann's most magical moments. The cantata ends with a superb chorus, wherein jubilation sings out with a symphonic-style accompaniment. 

Maybe after all this talk of The Magic Flute, a link to a fine passage from that very opera might be in order. Der, welcher wandert diese Strasse voll Beschwerden is the remarkable scene for the Two Armed Men (a tenor and a bass) where Mozart himself looks back to a great predecessor, one J.S. Bach, composing a chorale prelude on the theme of a hymn by Martin Luther. Later in the extract, the two lovers (Tamino and Pamina) then greet each other in phrases of great beauty before, at the end of the clip, undergoing the trials to march-like music and the accompaniment of the magic flute - enchanting music.  

And finally, bouncing forwards again in time (1870) to Liszt's transcription for two pianos of Der, welcher wandert, where I think it's fair to say that the Bachian impulses behind Mozart's masterly section are brought out to the full!

Becalmed again

My warm regard for Mendelssohn's concert overture Meerestille und glückliche Fahrt ('Calm Sea and Prosperous Voyage'), mentioned a few posts ago, is almost matched by my fondness for Beethoven's short choral setting of Goethe's twinned poems.

Beethoven's take on Meerestille und glückliche Fahrt follows much the same course as Mendelssohn's. The opening 'Calm Sea' section depicts the awe and horror of being becalmed at sea, with long-held notes from the orchestra and the choir evoking the "immense distances". The singers sing anxious phrases, quietly, until at "Weite" there is a sudden loud cry high in the sopranos' part, held for an age before subsiding back again into the initial mood again. The melody of this section is a noble one. Next, scales from the orchestra begin to criss-cross each other, portraying the coming winds which are the ship's salvation. The second 'Prosperous Voyage' section is aptly celebratory in mood and is an uncomplicated piece of music, full of cheerful dotted rhythms and joyful brass writing.

Here is Goethe's verse:

Meeres Stille

Tiefe Stille herrscht im Wasser,
Ohne Regung ruht das Meer,
Und bekümmert sieht der Schiffer
Glatte Fläche ringsumher.
Keine Luft von keiner Seite!
Todesstille fürchterlich!
In der ungeheuern Weite
Reget keine Welle sich.

Calm Sea

Deep stillness rules the water
Without motion lies the sea,
And sadly the sailor observes
Smooth surfaces all around.
No air from any side!
Deathly, terrible stillness!
In the immense distances
not a single wave stirs.

Glückliche Fahrt
Die Nebel zerreißen,
Der Himmel ist helle,
Und Äolus löset
Das ängstliche Band.
Es säuseln die Winde,
Es rührt sich der Schiffer.
Geschwinde! Geschwinde!
Es teilt sich die Welle,
Es naht sich die Ferne;
Schon seh ich das Land!

Prosperous Journey
The fog is torn,
The sky is bright,
And Aeolus releases
The fearful bindings.
The winds whisper,
The sailor begins to move
. Swiftly! Swiftly!
The waves divide,
The distance nears;
Already, I see land!

Canons to the left of them, Canons to the right of them

A few years ago, BBC Radio 3 broadcast 'A Bach Christmas', playing all the works of old Sebastian, and having enjoyed a feast of counterpoint I thought I might surprise the family with a little canon based on Bach tunes. They're not really into classical music (to put it mildly), but as I recorded it using the 'Bells' sound on our electric organ, it sounded very festive - like having our own cathedral to ring in the new year. It grabbed their attention for at least a couple of minutes. Yes, that was one wild new year!

I love trying to write canons but, no, I'm not going to share them with you. Instead, I want to try to give a short overview of what canons are.

You'll certainly all know what canons are anyhow (if you don't already know) if I tell you that they're also called 'rounds' (or 'catches') and you may have sung them at school. Popular examples are Frère Jacques, Row, Row, Row Your Boat and Three Blind Mice. 

A round is a piece of music where one voice (or instrument) begins the tune and two or more other voices (or instruments) join it later, singing the same tune, note for note, overlapping the first voice. The result is that different phrases of the tune are sung simultaneously. The result should sound harmonious. 

This definition (my own) of a round can serve just as well as the definition of a canon, as the round is only the simplest form of canon, known as a canon at the unison - that is when the second voice (and then the third voice and the fourth voice, etc) begins the tune on exactly the same note as the first voice. A canon at the octave is very nearly the same thing (and will sound pretty much identical to the listener, especially when a mixed choir is singing), except that the second voice begins...and I think you might guess where I'm going with this one...an octave higher. All my attempts so far have been canons at the unison or octave. 

The first-ever (known) piece of counterpoint was a canon at the unison: Sumer Is Icumen In (Summer is here!), dating from around 1260. Even if you don't read music, comparing the shapes of each of the lines in the score below should give you a good idea of how a canon at the unison looks on the page, and perhaps how it might work in practice:

With Sumer Is Icumen In, it's not very difficult to hear the process in action. Even the accompanying figure (which you can see beginning in the tenor part at the end of printed score) doesn't distract the ear. 

That's not always the case. A well-known later example of a canon at the octave is the eight piece, God grant with grace, in Tudor composer Thomas Tallis's extremely beautiful Nine Psalm Tunes for Archbishop Parker's Psalter, a piece known as Tallis's Canon, or as the hymn Glory to thee, my God, this night. Here the soprano follows four beats behind the tenor and begins an octave higher. The other two voices do their own thing, though occasionally echoing parts of the canon. Whether you listen from 6.10 in this video or 6.07 in this one or 6.08 in this one, can you hear the canon being sung between the tenor and soprano? I'm afraid I just seem unable to hear the piece as anything other than a soprano tune accompanied by three other voices providing harmony. For me, the tenor's tune gets lost in the lines and harmony of his two non-soprano companions. I can see the canon in the score but can't hear it in performance. Possibly if some performances brought out the tenor part out more (got Placido Domingo to sing it maybe!) then I might hear the process of Tallis's canon in action, but I'm not so sure about that. 

You can have canons at any interval - at the second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, etc. Pachebel's Canon, if you were wondering, is a canon at the unison, with a ground bass for accompaniment: 

Canons are fun for composers. They are a bit like doing crossword puzzles or playing chess. They take a great deal of ingenuity to pull off. Many composers want us listeners to share their pleasure in the ingenuity of their canons. They want us to hear what they're up to. We listeners can indeed find it highly satisfying to follow the different voices as they imitate each other. However, some composers are far less concerned that the listener hears the canonic process. They might even wish us not to notice the intellectual scaffolding beneath their music. Or they might care only to please themselves, or connoisseurs of scores, or performers. The anonymous composer of Sumer Is Icumen In clearly fell in the first camp, and I suspect Tallis fell in the second camp.

Where does Webern fall with his Dormi Jesu from the 5 Canons on Latin Texts, Op.16? Well, he's not exactly hiding the fact that his pieces are all canons, having chosen that title for the set. This particular tiny little piece for soprano and clarinet, however, is an example of a type of canon that is rather hard for the listener to follow as a canon - canon by inversion. Here any rising interval in the first voice becomes a falling interval in the second voice - an instance of contrary motion. It's easiest heard at the very start of Dormi Jesu, where the first four notes played by the clarinet rise through three intervals and the soprano then enters with four notes falling through the same three intervals, upside down. Thereafter I suspect you will find it harder to follow (as a listener), given the wide leaps in the two lines and the fact that you will probably hear the two parts as being completely different melodies.

Even harder not to hear as two completely different melodies is the retrograde canon, or crab-canon, or cancrizans. Here the second voice imitates the first voice by simultaneously singing/playing the melody backwards. The ear is, I would say, incapable of hearing the second voice's part as a new tune altogether, unrelated to the original tune - except to anyone reading a score. With a crab-canon, the composer is satisfying himself and score-reading scholars, but not his listeners - at least as regards the satisfaction given by following canons. Obviously, the piece can still delight us even if we don't know that there are canons at work. (That really is obvious!) This truly excellent YouTube video gives a very clear demonstration of the cancrizans at work in a movement from Bach's Musical Offering.

And there's more. Stravinsky wrote a deeply expressive Double Canon, where two canons on different themes proceed simultaneously. You can have triple canons, or as many canons going on as you like. The great American-born maverick Conlon Nancarrow had twelve of them going on in his jaw-dropping Study No.37 for player piano! Plus, as the Nancarrow example shows, canons can be played at different speeds. There are prolation canons where the tune is, indeed, played at different speeds in different voices. A beautiful recent example is Arvo Pärt's Cantus In Memoriam Benjamin Britten. where an A minor scale falls repeatedly against itself at various speeds.

Canons have been with us since around 1260 then and continued to flourish for the rest of the Medieval period. They were very popular with the Renaissance and the Baroque. After a very short dip they rose again with the Classical era. Haydn, Mozart and Beethoven all wrote them. Many were jokes, such as Beethoven's delightful Ta ta ta, lieber Mälzel (the tune of which might well remind you of this). One of Beethoven's most wonderful creations, the quartet Mir ist so wunderbar from the opera Fidelio, is also a canon. YouTube has huge numbers of these fantastic little chips from Beethoven's workshop here. Canons lasted even through the Romantic era, where they tended to become far less strict and were usually accompanied examples, such as this gem from Schumann, his Study No.4 from Op.56. Brahms was their greatest Romantic exponent, using canons in many of his works and writing a fair few stand-alone ones, such as this magical specimen, Einförmig is der Liebe Gram, based on Schubert's Der Leiermann from Die Winterreise. With the coming of the Twentieth Century, canons of the stricter and unaccompanied kind came back with a vengeance. All manner of composers relished them, from Schoenberg (you should enjoy these!) to Stravinsky (see above), from Pärt (also see above) to Ligeti (not yet on YouTube). 

In other words, they've always been loved by composers and are one of the most durable musical forms.  Long may that continue to be so!

Mr. Beethoven, your majesty!

It seems nobody's quite sure why he wrote them but my fellow Brits will be pleased to know that Beethoven wrote a set of variations on our national anthem, his 7 Variations in C on 'God Save the King', WoO78. They aren't exactly his deepest work but they have quite a few things to recommend them.

(If this post goes awry it's because it's not easy to tap out a post on a laptop when you're standing for the national anthem!)

The theme is presented straightforwardly. Then Variation I adds some charming touches to the theme, such as the little turn on its first note and the unexpected frisson of an out-of-key F sharp in the second bar followed by the even more unexpected C sharp in the third bar. Who would have anticipated such adventurous harmonies so early in the piece? There's also the syncopations beginning at the end of the third bar and  the chromatic notes in the second half leading up to the surprise rest in the tune which results in more syncopations. That's the first of my favourites. Variation II turns the tune into an agile two-part invention and hits the spot with those repeated Gs that run along the middle of the texture at the start of the second half. Variation III is jaunty and almost jazzy in its use of syncopation and Variation IV continues the rhythmic games in a way that looks forward (as I always do!) to Schumann. Ah, now we arrive at Variation V and the obligatory minor key variation. Who would have thought that this famous tune would have yielded such tenderness? The grace of the melody and the loveliness of Beethoven's harmonies are the keys to this variation's special appeal. As you may have guessed, that's the second of my favourites. A strutting march follows in Variation VI, breaking the spell of Variation V. The final variation then whirls into action, the theme bouncing along on a perpetual motion of semiquavers. After a short adagio reminder of the theme in all its stately grandeur, Beethoven's coda erupts in a new kind of whirling figuration, on which the theme dances, sings a couple of phrases more lyrically before returning to the whirling figuration before erupting in the sort of brilliance expected at the very end of works like these. 

Now, it's fair to say that Beethoven doesn't present the anthem throughout with the majesty we might expect, but then this is a set of variations presumably written for the delight of audiences rather than to hail the arrival of British monarchs!

I love variations.

Raising a Storm

Surely no one can complain that Beethoven's string quartets are neglected. All sixteen of them (from Op.18 to Op.135) get very regular airings. Not so his one and only string quintet, the neglect of which is truly baffling - so baffling that I had to get this particular bee out of my bonnet almost as soon as I began blogging here! Isn't it strange that even the world's most famous classical composer still has 'Cinderella pieces' lurking in his output? Even stranger, given that the String Quintet in C major, Op.29 (1801) is such a beautiful, loveable work. It's among my five favourite Beethoven works (though what the other four are, I can't quite say!)

This work is a "viola quintet" (conventional string quartet, plus an extra viola), unlike Schubert's (which is a "cello quintet").

The opening Allegro is both lyrical and full of strength. Its lovely main theme moves like heads of wheat in a gentle wind. If you listen carefully you'll hear that it's accompanied (on cello) by its own mirror image. After this warm opening, the transition to the second subject passes through three distinct ideas. The second subject itself, with its graceful descending sequences, is just as lovely and lyrical as the main theme. Some listeners complain that Beethoven's music generally lacks tunes, but those listeners need not worry here. This new tune has a Viennese grace to it. The exposition codetta, when it eventually comes, dwells on the waving heads of wheat again, as does the development section (though it also spends some time on one of the transitional ideas), engaging them in some rich contrapuntal writing. For the sake of mere delight, Beethoven adds some cheeky tweets (high and low) as a counter-melody to the main theme - gratuitous perhaps but pure genius nonetheless. The coda manages to screw up quite a bit of tension which a light-hearted cadenza then releases. A happy ending (with a slight folk flavouring) follows.

The slow movement (Andante) is marked "molto expressivo", very expressive, and so it is. It's an aria-like movement with another lyrical main theme of much beauty. There is a deeply plaintive middle section but most of the movement is given over to this heart-easing melody, which Beethoven decorates lovingly and accompanies with some particularly rich harmonies. Another special feature of the Andante is its use of string colour, with one highlight of the movement being the unexpected pizzicato counter-melody which Beethoven adds in its latter half. There are a couple more surprises near the end.

The Scherzo is also first-rate - rhythmically exciting, catchy and wonderfully scored. It always gets my toes tapping. Its Trio section is charming and well-contrasted, its geniality generating a surprising amount of heat at times.

Is the Finale going to be a weak link? Not a bit of it! The thrill of late Schubert is anticipated in the stormy tremolos which run through the movement like an electric charge (the work as a whole is sometimes given the nickname 'The Storm') and in some of the more remarkable harmonies. The first theme calls forth lightning from the first violin and the second subject dances in the rain. The development section takes the main theme and combines in with other motifs in a gripping display of vigorous counterpoint. Then comes a surprise (which I will now spoil) - a pause leads not to the recapitulation but to a joky minuet. After a few bars of this, the recapitulation begins but, once completed, leads into a coda which begins with...yes, the joky minuet. The storm returns though and brings this exciting movement - and the work as a whole - to a close.

Now, if the idea of an unfamiliar, tuneful, beautiful, sometimes exciting, consummately-crafted Beethoven masterpiece interests you, please give this Quintet a spin. Cinderella shall go to the ball, or at least she damn well should do.