Whip-Crack-Away!

I know that operas are meant to be seen as much as they are meant to be heard, but many people experience opera through recordings these days in the comfort of their own homes and some operas make for better home listening than others. One opera that is perfect for home listening is Pietro Mascagni's Cavalleria Rusticana ('Rustic Chivalry'), a piece of which I had rather low expectations...until I heard it. It's a piece that bowled me over. Why? Well, the tunes are nearly all excellent, full of Italian passion and lyricism, and stick in the memory. The vigour of their presentation makes them even more compelling, as does Mascagni's sense of pace and his almost infallible scoring (perhaps one or two too many cymbal crashes at climaxes!). 

The orchestra is a big player in the opera, sharing centre stage (for the listener) with the singers and chorus; indeed, the early stages of Cav (as it's popularly known) are something of an orchestral suite, despite the off-stage tenor and the extended chorus. The orchestra continues to contribute to the story-telling and atmosphere-creating throughout and Mascagni makes much use of recurring passages and, yes, leitmotifs. 

The prelude introduces us to tunes we will thrill to later in the opera before we hear the off-stage tenor (Turiddu) singing his serenade-like Siciliano, "O Lola, bianca come fior di spino" ('O Lola, fair as a smiling flower') - which is everything that an off-stage Italian tenor aria should be! The curtain goes up on the opening crowd scene, a duet for chorus and orchestra - "Gli aranci olezzano sui verdi margini" ('Sweet is the air with the blossoms of oranges'), where the women sing a lovely tune and the men enter singing another tune before the whole is crowned with a wonderful weaving of tunes and voice types (both vocal and instrumental). After a tuneful 'duet-recitative' for Santuzza (soprano) and Mamma Lucia (contralto), Alfio (baritone) and the chorus sing a gloriously tuneful, Bizet-like number, "Il cavallo scalpita" ('Gayly moves the tramping horse'), complete with whip-cracks!

The richness of the 'Easter Hymn' scene, which features an off-stage choir (including children) and organ (the congregation inside the church), provides an atmospheric background for Santuzza and the on-stage crowd to sing the superb hymn, "Innegiamo, il Signor non e morto" ('Let us sing of the Lord now victorious') - a plum tune that is as rousing as a fine Verdi patriotic chorus. The tune lingers delightfully in the orchestra at the start of the next number, Santuzza's no-less-superb "Voi lo sapete" ('Now you shall know'), a passionate and dramatic aria that gives us two great tunes - one for the singer, one for the orchestra - and which showcases all of Mascagni's ingenuity. 

The next scene turns from a duet (Turiddu and Santuzza) into a trio (with Lola (mezzo-soprano) and back again. The first duet, "Battimi, insultami, t’amo e perdono" ('Beat me, insult me, I still love and forgive you'), has a particularly gripping climax with another powerful tune driving it on. The second duet, "No, no, Turiddu, rimani, rimani, ancora-Abbandonarmi dunque tu vuoi?" (No, no, Turiddu! Remain with me now and forever! Love me again! How can you forsake me?), is the apotheosis of passion and a chance to revel again in a tune first heard in the prelude. This duet highlights the composer's love of making his voices combine in unison for the climactic phrases and for following dramatic pauses with sweetness. It may not be overly subtle but it is emotionally highly satisfying. 

The short but dramatic scene between Santuzza and Alfio combines punchy recitative with a melodically-fine duet. Harmonically this opera is rarely found far from the expected but is always successful in its effect, as in this scene. 

What follows is the famous Intermezzo, which opens with beautiful high string writing (with shades of Lohengrin), soon joined by a solo flute, before launching a warm, middle-register tune (a tune of very high quality) to harp accompaniment. 

Like the opera itself, I shall now move swiftly to the denouement. A charming chorus is swiftly followed by Turiddu's drinking song, "Viva, I vivo spumeggiante" ('Hail! The ruby wine now flowing'). Why do drinking songs so often bring out the best in composers? The scene between the rutting stages (Turiddu and Alfio) is musically the least interesting but the magical theme on high tremolo strings that start's Turiddu's "Mamma, quel vino e generoso" returns us to the heights of pleasure. This aria is splendid, with a great soaring theme at its heart. The sensational ending of the opera does what opera can do best - send shivers down your spine. It works.

Cavalleria Rusticana is an almost completely inspired opera - something you can't say about most operas! What a joy!

The plot can be read here.

Unwinding with Aldo

Just heard a beguiling piece by Aldo Clementi (1925-2011) on BBC Radio 3. I was unaware of the fact that he died last year, thus taking away from us the last remaining member of that group of Italian post-war modernists which also included Maderna, Berio and Nono. I've always liked Clementi's works, or at least the half dozen of so I've come across in the last couple of decades. (Not many, I know). I've been acquainting myself with some other Clementi pieces tonight and would like to share some with you. 

His music is quiet-spoken, so expect no thrills and spills whatsoever. It is, however, very beautiful. Carefully thought-out, it often taking the form of a canon. The canons can get pretty tangled. In an individual twist, though, they have a habit of slowing down as the piece progresses, like clocks which have been wound up but then begin to run down to a halt. The result often has a rather melancholy effect which strikes me as being deeply poetic. The sound of Clementi is also attractive as his scoring is exquisitely judged. 

A particularly attractive place to start is with a piece called C.a.g., as you will be able to hear the canon in play among the four instruments (flute, violin, vibraphone and guitar) - at least to begin with. The guitar opens the work with a theme (on the note C) which you will grow to recognise. It begins with a falling perfect fifth followed by a falling minor second followed by a rising minor second. The violin joins in a tone lower (on B flat), followed by the vibraphone a two further tones lower (on G). The flute, however, begins a tritone away from the vibraphone (on D flat) and plays the theme upside down (a canon by inversion). As the piece continues, the music seems to be ever circling around itself and you find yourself following different players at different points of their 'cycle' as the piece continues. The harmony at the start sounds tonal but chromatic notes soon obscure this impression and, though the music has 'openings' where the impression returns, this is not tonal music. There may be dissonant harmonies as a result, yet there's nothing harsh about Clementi and C.a.g. is as gentle as modernism gets. 

Another lovely piece is Albumblatt for female voice, flute, violin and guitar. Again, you will probably find yourself (like me) floating peacefully from line to line, losing yourself in music that could go on circling, stopping and re-starting from here to infinity, were it not slowing down, slowing down, slowing down...No voice is raised,  not even the singer's. The lines are beautiful and memorable. I'm sure you will find the singer's line easiest to follow and you will hear how radiant it is, for all its quietness. Quite a few of the ideas for the composer's later works were borrowed melodies - themes for him to weave with, as it were. I'm not sure whether this is the case here, but the singer's line has the feel of something that could have been derived from, say, a Renaissance motet. Move on to, say, the flute and you will hear just as distinctive a line. You'll also hear it echoing the shapes found in the singer's line.  And so on. 

Clementi's scoring is at its brightest and most bewitching in one of his best-known pieces, Madrigale for prepared piano, glockenspiel and vibraphone. I don't doubt you will hear the winding-down process expressed in its clearest form, conjuring up the sound-world of a music box. Magical, isn't it? Especially attractive is the way the 'running down' reveals jazzy syncopations that had hitherto been hidden by speed. 

Another delightful piece is Om Dagen I Mitt Arbete... for two violins, cello, clarinet, celesta and piano where, using much the same structure as Albumblatt and using the same winding-down processes within each section as Madrigale, Aldo Clementi casts his spell yet again. 

There's a surprisingly large amount of his music on YouTube for people to explore at their leisure. I shall keep returning to Clementi's delightful, touching music.

A Little Dallapiccola

The Italian composer Luigi Dallapiccola has long been my favourite serialist composer, probably because - when he had fully taken it on board - he took what was best in Webern's music and made it more lyrical, listener-friendly and somewhat closer to tonality. It's serial music that often doesn't sound like serial music.

He didn't start as a serialist and his style changed significantly throughout this life, so those who remain unsympathetic towards his twelve-tone music can savour many wonderful tonal works, of which I'd recommend the magic-filled two-movement Piccolo Concerto per Muriel Couvreux (1939-1941) for piano and chamber orchestra - which lovers of Ravel, Stravinsky and Copland ('Apennine Spring') should take to like ducks to Lake Como - plus the delightful Sonatina Canonica su Capricci di Niccolò Paganini (1942-43), a four-movement piano piece based on those famous violin caprices, following in a long line of such works from the likes of Schumann, Brahms, Rachmaninov, Lutoslawski and many, many others. The latter is a neo-Classical work, though there are also several touches of Debussy and Schumann for their admirers to savour. These two pieces are both at their best when they are at their gentlest and most lyrical - and that's something that will remain a feature of the composer's music. The use of canon in the Sonatina is no less characteristic. As an example of Dallapiccola early vocal writing, one to relish is the Divertimento in Quattro Esercizi (1934) for soprano and small ensemble - four largely gentle and beautiful modal songs, softly touched with Stravinskyan harmonies, which fans of Berio's popular (and much later) Folk Songs will surely appreciate and recognise as kindred spirits before their time. There are plenty of others.

Dallapiccola could also be highly dramatic, as in his powerful one-act opera, Il Prigioniero (The Prisoner) (1948-52), which, if I can be crude, is (for newcomers) somewhat of a stylistic cross between Puccini and Berg, and after he embraced twelve-tone serialism his quiet, contemplative side - a side notable for expressing itself in beautiful, memorable melodic lines and a delicate style of scoring that showed scored an real ear for sensuality (an ear that was always apparent in its composer's music, as in the superb choral/orchestral Canti di Prigionia of 1938-41) - was complimented by a strengthening of this dramatic impulse.

Approaching the late serial works, with all these delightful, mostly tonal works behind us, the continuity of spirit becomes obvious - despite the serial soundworld, Now, that serial soundworld is one some of you don't warm to easily, but perhaps Dallapiccola might tempt you in where Schoenberg, Webern, even late Stravinsky fail to win you over.

Why not try the captivating Parole di San Paolo (Words of St. Paul) (1964) for mezzo-soprano and small ensemble? Again, the composer's voice is largely quiet-spoken, the scoring is soft as moonlight (with an enchanting use of tuned percussion) and the singer's lines - despite a few words in Schoenberg-style sprechgesang (speech-song) - is lyrical and elegantly shaped, with a particularly memorable phrase at 2.24 (on the linked video) and 3.39, setting similar phrases. The piece takes verses from 1 Corinthians 13 (St. Paul's Ode to Love):

si linguis hominum loquar et angelorum caritatem autem non habeam factus sum velut aes sonans aut cymbalum tinniens 
et si habuero prophetiam et noverim mysteria omnia et omnem scientiam et habuero omnem fidem ita ut montes transferam caritatem autem non habuero nihil sum 
et si distribuero in cibos pauperum omnes facultates meas et si tradidero corpus meum ut ardeam caritatem autem non habuero nihil mihi prodest 
caritas patiens est benigna est 
non gaudet super iniquitatem congaudet autem veritati 
omnia suffert omnia credit omnia sperat omnia sustinet 
nunc autem manet fides spes caritas tria haec maior autem his est caritas 


If I speak in the tongues of men or of angels, but do not have love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. 
If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. 
If I give all I possess to the poor and give over my body to hardship that I may boast, but do not have love, I gain nothing. 
Love is patient, love is kind.
Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth.
It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.
And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love. 

And from the same year came the orchestration of the Quattro Liriche di Antonio Machado for soprano and chamber orchestra. These, however, are arranged from the original version for soprano and piano which was composer backed in 1944 when the composer was still fusing his lyrical impulse with serialism. The Berio folk song-style spirit of the Divertimento lives on in the bright, lively opening song but the the silvery, sensual second song and the moonlit thoughtfulness of the fourth song are very much late Dallipiccola in their ambiance. The third though is dramatic, drawing on that side of the composer's dramatic side.

Talking of the poet Machado, Dallapiccola's best-known piece remains his haunting orchestral Piccola musica notturna (Little Night Music) of 1954 and this is a piece inspired by a poem of Machado's called Noche de verano, where a sensitive figure walks through a deserted square at night. This work surely proves beyond reasonable doubt that twelve-tone music can be deeply poetic and beautiful, suggestive as it is of the rapt mystery of night, and of that contemplative, solitary consciousness. Except for a few short loud outbursts, the piece is largely quiet and its atmosphere is as far from the splashy expressionism of Schoenberg as can be. Though driven by tone rows, the composer makes sure that the shadow of tonality falls strongly on the work, so you might not even recognise the piece as being a serial composition at all. Reading the poem is not unhelpful:

Es una hermosa noche de verano.
Tienen las altas casas
abiertos los balcones
del viejo pueblo a la anchurosa plaza.
En el amplio rectángulo desierto,
bancos de piedra, evónimos y acacias
simétricos dibujan
sus negras sombras en la arena blanca.
En el cenit, la luna, y en la torre,
la esfera del reloj iluminada.
Yo en este viejo pueblo paseando
solo, como un fantasma.


It is a beautiful summer's night.
The high houses
have their windows open
to the wide square of the old town.
In the spacious deserted square
stone benches, hedges and acacias
Sketch out symmetrically
their black shadows in the white sand.
In the zenith, the moon, and in the tower,
the sphere of the illuminated clock.
I walk through this old town,
alone, like a ghost.

For evidence that serial Dallapiccola could bring out the drama in his technique (and could engage in Schoenbergian angst when he wanted!), even as late in his life as 1970-71, try this intense Tempus destruendi - Tempus aedificandi (the title meaning "a time to destroy, a time to build" is taken from Ecclesiastes 3:3) for unaccompanied mixed chorus, whose two movements mingle lament at the destruction with urgent exhortations to rebuild. It's not my favourite Dallapiccola piece but it grows from strength to strength with each hearing, with many beautiful moments.

Still, it's the lyrical songs that are the finest fruits of his twelve-tone music, and the Liriche Greche for soprano and ensemble (where he first essayed this kind of writing in earnest) are among the choicest fruits of that harvest. They consist of three sets of songs:

- Cinque frammenti di Saffo (1942)

- Due liriche di Anacreonte (1945)

- Sex Carmina Alcaei (1943)

Here Dallapiccola's genius for shaping lyrical melody out of his tone rows and setting them to subtle, colourful accompaniments is fully demonstrated. His love of counterpoint, especially canon, is a semi-hidden feature of these works.

The first of the Due liriche di Anacreonte (Eros languido desidero cantare) shows Dallapiccola's serial art at its most mellifluous, with a richly lyrical soprano line singing out against a subtle accompaniment. The composer's love of canon is particularly clear in this song, where Italian warmth softens Webern-style counterpoint with melodic sunlight. This is another example of how an individual composer can make something sweet, personal and beautiful out of Schoenberg's less-than-universally-popular and frequently dry-as-dust method.  Much the same can be said of the opening song of the Sex Carmina Alcaei, with its intimate tone and gorgeous piano writing (recalling, maybe, the opening of Berg's Violin Concerto?), the fourth song (a canon in contrary motion) and the Conclusio, though the fifth movement strikes a more playful note. 

My favourite set is the Cinque frammenti di Saffo, enchanting settings of the Greek erotic poetess. They fall far more attractively on the ear than any serial work by Webern and Schoenberg, even Berg. The soprano's lines sound effortlessly lyrical and the fifteen accompanying instruments weave a web of poetry around them. The songs are overwhelming gentle and intimate in feel, and the end of the third song is as beguiling as twelve-tone music gets. The lyricism is, as so often, often underpinned by counterpoint - the second song, for example, is a canon perpetuus. I'd love you to give these songs a hearing (preferably several hearings). All five are gems. The last (and longest) song is the loveliest of all. (Its opening and closing measures again seem like echoes of the opening of the Berg Violin Concerto).

E le Cretesi con armonia sui piedi leggeri cominciarono,

Spensierate, a girare intorno all'ara
Sulla tenera erba appena nata.


And the Cretans began harmoniously on light feet,
Carefree, to turn around
On the tender new grass.

Rendering unto Schubert

Hopefully most people have heard of Schubert's Unfinished Symphony (the Eighth), one of the best-loved symphonic works in the repertoire, but there's also what we might call the Barely Begun Symphony (the Tenth). The Italian avant-garde composer Luciano Berio took the fragmentary sketches of Schubert's Tenth and wove them into a work from 1989 called Rendering. If you like Schubert, please give it a try. You will be delighted!!

Rendering gives us what can be given of the Schubert, but in the gaps Berio provides his own dream-like interludes - washes of threads from myriad other works by Schubert. You'll know when these are beginning, as Berio uses the celesta as a herald. The technique was inspired, I read, by modern restorations of old frescoes - such as those by Giotto (whose paintings grace this post) - that don't seek to disguise the damages of time but concentrate on reviving the vividness of their original colours. The interludes are seamlessly linked to the 'true' Schubert and cast their own spell.

What sort of work was/would have been/is Schubert's Symphony No.10? Well, these are my impressions.

The theme Berio assumes (surely rightly) to be the first movement's opening theme is a fine one, characteristic of the composer when thinking big. There are powerful rhythms and a repetitive three-note figure - ideas open to development, modulation and colouring, as Berio shows. An ambitious work was clearly on the cards, but one with Dvorak-like touches (Dvorak, half a century in the future, was one of Schubert's spiritual grandchildren, so to speak). A transition with a momentary trace of Spain leads to...nowhere. When we pick up 'Schubert' again (after the Berio interlude) we find ourselves near the end of another stormy transition after which a dancing development of the main theme begins. A climax is reached and a delightful theme enters in Schubert's best and most tuneful vein (the second subject, presumably?). It is very song-like. Another exciting transition follows with what sounds like an heroic new theme but is in fact a wonderful variant of the main theme. Further transitional writing then dissolve into...well, we'll never know. We meet up with 'Schubert' next with a chorale-like passage. Reminders of the tuneful 'second subject' lead to a short crisis that passes swiftly and the main subject brings what would clearly have been a much-loved movement to a powerful close.

The sketches for the B minor Andante also reveal extraordinary riches. The third symphony of Mahler's First Symphony is made to feel close by Berio, for this is a funeral march. Over a march rhythm a fine melody and a related counter-melody process, mournfully but beautifully. A noble crescendo and a change to the major shows some of the near Brucknerian scope of Schubert's fragmented vision, as does the subsequent ebbing away. Magical!  We pick the movement up again (after a Berio interlude) as the march is obviously spreading towards heavenly length and a lyrical phrase rises sweetly against Brucknerian figuration - a brief but beautiful pastoral vision. Would we had much more! The next fragment of 'Schubert'  recapitulates the main theme as we first heard it before spreading again...or at least starting to spread again...

The Scherzo/Finale has another great theme, with a swinging, somewhat folk-like, almost Grieg-like character, which 'Schubert' sets dancing contrapuntally. A gentler second theme wanders over a classic jogtrot accompaniment before the main theme's return with an even stronger contrapuntal treatment. The next fragment continues this contrapuntal development with considerable vigour and then switches to lyrical lightness with a trio-like episode of some charm. The Grieg-like theme returns before a boisterous 'folk-dance' erupts and...then...inevitably...ah, well, we had a good run there! There's more 'Schubert' to come though - a fugue on the main subject and a varied reprise with symphonic 'goings-on'. What a movement this would have been! I suspect, given Schubert's previous, that it would have been a long and varied one.

I'm guessing that the Berio interludes, written in the spirit of avant-garde music of our day (or nearly 25 years ago!), have militated against Rendering become a popular classic ('Schubert's Tenth'), just as 'Mahler's Tenth' and 'Elgar's Third' would have suffered if their respective 'realisers' had done what Berio chose to do. Many people just can't take avant-garde music. That's a shame. Berio does Schubert proud throughout and writes very convincingly in his style (and in his own). He gives us some superb music. It deserves far greater fame.

As evidence for the point I was just making, I've heard significantly more broadcasts/performances of another of Berio's recreations of the past - one where he overlays several versions of the same movement by the original composer, yet achieves a thoroughly non-modernist result. It is the colourful, delightful re-working of Boccherini called Ritirata notturna di Madrid. Audiences love it!