The Waltz III: Symphonic Waltzing

The waltz had entered the ballroom and crossed into the world of piano miniatures and great composers. It soon found its place in the symphony. That bold step was taken by the young Hector Berlioz in his Symphonie fantastique of 1830. The second movement of that revolutionary work, Un bal ('A Ball'), conjures up the scene - a glittering ballroom - with harps and tremolo strings. The vision then appears and it's a waltz. The theme (and especially its continuation) is a characteristic Berlioz melodic take on the typical waltz tune and its every appearance is accompanied by fresh orchestral colours. The symphony's famous returning theme - the idée fixe (a melody recurring in all five of its movements) - appears midway and is recalled at the movement's close, acting as a distancing device in a not dissimilar way to the 'invitation' elements in Weber's Invitation to the Dance. 

It was a while before the waltz reappeared in a symphony but when it did it became a regular player in that composer's symphonic team. Who was that waltz-loving composer? Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky. A full four of his symphonies contain waltz elements. The main section of the ballet-like Alla tedesca second movement of the underrated Symphony No.3 in D major, ('The Polish') is a waltz (and a lovely one at that). The main theme of the first movement of the fate-dominated Symphony No.4 in F minor (beginning at 1.19) is marked 'In movimento di Valse', though the waltz element is just one of several contending rhythms in a complex symphonic movement. For a full-scale waltz movement though we have to wait until the Symphony No.5 in E minor where the scherzo is replaced by a movement simply marked 'Valse'. "Replaced by?" Well, perhaps it's better to say that the waltz functions as if it were a scherzo. The trio section, indeed, brings more traditional scherzo elements more clearly into play. As the Fifth Symphony is almost as fate-dominated as the Fourth all this waltzing cannot go on forever without a reminder of Fate's fateful fatefulness and just as the movement has been especially tempting Fate by enjoying itself in a major key the symphony's ominous motto theme quietly intervenes to bring the movement to a sombre close. This gesture was obviously inspired by the return of the idée fixe in Berlioz's symphony. (Tchaikovsky was a great fan of Berlioz). The Symphony No.6 in B minor ('Pathetique') has a second movement also in waltz form, though any gentleman and his lady choosing to try to dance along to it (just like any listener attempting to conduct along with it, unsuspectingly) may well end up tripping up over each others feet as the movement isn't in triple time, but in 5/4 time (a constant play of 3 + 2) instead. This tricksy waltz establishes a broadly (if insecurely) relaxed mood. The Pathetique is, however, far from being a relaxed symphony and the movement's central episode - a long chain of melodic sighs over an obsessive pulse - saps away much of the movement's geniality and it ends in gloom.

If you've just taken a listen to it and feel in need of an emotional pick-me-up, there's none better than Leonard Bernstein's loving tribute to this very movement in his Divertimento for Orchestra, whose second movement is marked 'Waltz' and dances in an even tricksier rhythm - 7/4 time.

Elements of distancing, absurdity and irony have been detected by critics in some of Tchaikovsky's symphonic waltzes. There's no doubt about the presence of those elements in Mahler's use of the waltz in the  Im Tempo eines gemächlichen Ländlers second movement of his Ninth Symphony. As you can see from the marking, this isn't a movement in waltz form, adopting one of the waltz's main precursors instead - the Ländler.  However, the movement's indolent dancing takes a violent turn for the worse when the Ländler turns into a waltz - a nasty waltz that bites! Mahler had been down this route before, with the Scherzo of his Fifth Symphony being a double-satire on both the Ländler and the waltz. The waltz rhythms become dislocated, the melodies are distorted and the orchestration drains the music of any Viennese sweetness. The shadowy, ghoulish scherzo of the Seventh Symphony concentrates its satirical fire purely on the waltz. This is a fantastic movement, in every sense.

Where Tchaikovsky and Mahler lead Shostakovich was bound to follow. The scherzo of his Symphony No.5 in D minor is strongly waltz-like, albeit a heavy-footed kind of waltz. It has clear Mahlerian overtones of biting sarcasm (whilst also being great fun), reminding me of the equivalent movement in Mahler 7 especially. What (or who) exactly is being bitten remains a matter of intense and often bitter debate.

As you may have realised, all these waltzes take their partners in symphonies that have a sort of programmatic impulse behind them, however veiled and suggestive. The waltz isn't there for purely abstract reasons. The waltz may be too freighted with meaning and suggestion for it to lend itself to purely abstract use in a symphony.

I'll end this post was one of my favourite symphonic waltzes, one which rather proves that point and yet also partly disproves it - the second movement of the magnificent Second Symphony of Carl Nielsen. This symphony is the one he based on 'The Four Temperaments' and this movement depicts his vision of the 'phlegmatic' man. In the great Dane's own words:

"His real inclination was to lie where the birds sing, where the fish glide noiselessly through the water, where the sun warms and the wind strokes mildly round one's curls. He was fair; his expression was rather happy, but not self-complacent, rather with a hint of quiet melancholy, so that one felt impelled to be good to him... I have never seen him dance; he wasn't active enough for that, though he might easily have got the idea to swing himself in a gentle slow waltz rhythm, so I have used that for the movement, Allegro comodo e flemmatico, and tried to stick to one mood, as far away as possible from energy, emotionalism, and such things." 

That said, you need not know anything about Nielsen's programme to relish every second of this movement as a purely abstract symphonic movement in an abstract overall structure. Knowing or not knowing, either way it's compelling music.

Mahler's Flower Maiden

Klimt

As it's Gustav Mahler's 152nd birthday today (and he doesn't look a day over 121), I thought I might present him with a bouquet of flowers, his Blumine. 

Blumine is the 'Flower Piece' movement discarded from the composer's much-loved First Symphony and rediscovered only in 1966.  If you fancy a bit of well-written music journalism, the still mysterious history of Blumine and the unsettled questions surrounding Mahler's reasons for rejecting it are aired by Jeffrey Gantz here. 

As for the contentious issue of whether the piece should be restored to the symphony - as it sometimes is in performances and recording - I have to say that I prefer my Blumine to be planted as either a separate movement or as an encore. It's far too good to neglect though and is anything but sugary (as some of its harshest critics have described it). 

Blumine is a lyrical, romance-style piece with an attractive melody played initially by a solo trumpet over a murmuring string accompaniment (with horn support). To me it's plainly a love song and this tune sounds like a man's outpouring of tender passion. The strings carry the first paragraph to a warm, suspension-soaked conclusion before the melody yields over a soft tremolo and the melancholy middle section, with its plaintive woodwind melodies - offshoots of the trumpet tune -, carries us out into the Austrian countryside. The first theme then re-emerges and a short but expressive climaxes carries us to further soft, warm restatements of the melody led by the strings before the trumpet and various other soloists usher in the lovely string ascent to the heavens in the closing bars. The scoring is as well-judged as you would expect from the composer of the familiar First Symphony. 

I must say that I've got a real soft spot for Blumine. It seems from reading Mr. Gantz, that Mahler might have had one too.

Taking Cinderella to the ball

BBC Radio 3 is broadcasting my favourite Mahler symphony tonight - the Seventh. It prefaced the performance with an interesting introductory talk by critic Stephen Johnson which examined the question as to why the work is often regarded as 'problematic'. Others have called it 'controversial' and it is regularly described as being its composer's 'Cinderella' symphony, so it has had a history of neglect. I've never understood why some people find it so difficult, so the comments that had me nodding most emphatically came from the BBC presenter who introduced Stephen's talk. He said he also fails to understand why the piece has such a reputation as he finds it one of the easiest Mahler symphonies to take to. As do I. 

Stephen Johnson's suggested explanations can be summarised as follows:

- the work being too full of ideas

- its lack of a purposeful unifying narrative

- its rampant thwarting of expectations

- its being harder to grasp as a whole than other Mahler symphonies

- its disconcerting ambiguity

- its manic qualities

- its ironic distancing effects

I have to say that, as well as he made his complex case, I'm sticking with the BBC presenter simpler take on the matter. None of these things is a problem for me and I can't really see why they are for anyone else either - especially all those who flock to and love the Fifth, Sixth and Ninth Symphonies. The question of whether it's a 'rag-bag' of a symphony or one of Mahler's most radical and successful experiments (Stephen's view) can, by a slash of the Gordian Knot with Occam's Razor, be dismissed by saying (as I feel) that it doesn't really hang together as a traditional symphony but who cares? Yes, the outer movements don't connect either with each other or with the three inner movements but who cares? If it troubles a musical taxonomist, then they should perhaps just think of it as Mahler's 'Romantic Suite' and relax!

The opening movement is another of Mahler's many funeral marches, but it is so full of life as to make such a tidy description redundant. The composer himself called it 'tragic' but I hear it as 'heroic, romantic and ultimately hopeful'. To my ears, it's Mahler's Heldenleben ('A Hero's Life'). The opening theme for tenor horn is one of the composer's very best and the introductory paragraph that grows out of it is superb, singing warmly and being magnificently coloured by the orchestra. The pace quickens and melodic ideas sprout prolifically. The horn sounds another gem, provoking an early, romantic climax marked out by riding rhythms, whooping brass and swirling strings. The 'second subject' (probably the 'tenth subject' in fact!) is a lovely string melody, utterly characteristic of that strain of lyrical generosity which Mahlerians love so much. Within the ongoing development comes the movement's most magical passage - a truly beautiful section, an Alpine vision full of intensely imagined nature imagery, including bird-calls, plus plenty of horn calls and trumpet fanfares, folksong-like tunes and chorale-like writing. This ravishing interlude climaxes serenely to the accompaniment of rippling harps and trilling flutes and the sweetest of violin melodies, singing as if in love. This leads to a thoroughly-rethought recapitulation where a dark night of the soul beckons but is fiercely resisted and defeated. This passage is an exciting as any Strauss tone poem and caps a glorious movement. Yes, I do like this!

The first Nachtmusik ('Night music'), the second movement, would - were it slightly shorter - be among the candidates for the most perfect Mahler movement in any symphony. It is definitely a little bit too long, proof that however good something may be (a fine wine, perhaps) you can still have too much of it. Having granted that point, it contains an astonishing amount of wonderful music, beginning with echoing horns and bird-evoking woodwinds (the symphony's best known passage, especially in the U.K., where it was used in a long-running advertising campaign). This is the sort of music that grew out of the earliest Romantic music - the music of Weber's forest, through which a nocturnal procession wends. The main theme is a splendidly tuneful extension of the opening fanfare - a tune most composers would have given a lot to have written. (How anyone could call it 'trivial' is beyond fathoming). Classicising elements try to counter this ultra-Romanticism or, as with the lovely cello melody that emerges later, complement it. The movement's centre-piece is initially rustic-sounding but turns into what sounds for all the world like a tango - a point reinforced by its reappearance in South American costume!

The extraordinary central Scherzo is sometimes described by commentators in scary terms (one called it "a nightmare vision of disintegration"), but I have to say that for all its hallucinatory qualities I also hear it as at times playful, parodic and mysterious. Moreover, its jokes and shadows alike seems to me to be assuaged by moments of tenderness. It's masterly, tuneful stuff, however you respond to it emotionally, and its expressionist elements - the keening seconds near the start and the daring harmonies throughout - appear to anticipate the world of Alban Berg. This is my favourite movement.

Guitar and mandolin join the orchestra for the fourth movement, the second Nachtmusik - an 'Andante amoroso'. Why? Because it's a serenade. The tone is warm and nostalgic and, again, touched by Classical-sounding elements. There are many lovely moments in it.

The Rondo finale is the movement most likely to be singled out by critics as being particularly 'problematic', 'unsuccessful' even, failing to consummate the symphony and doing so at excessive length with banal material. Grains of truth can be found in these criticisms and yet...its alfresco energy carries you along like a carnival parade and I love it. The 'Meistersinger'-ish main theme is its garish banner. The 'floats' generally possess the inconsequentiality of parody (and there's plenty of that!) - but also its appeal. There are a lot of 'floats' to watch though!

Listening to tonight's performance, I again found it easy to take to. So did the audience by the sound of it!

L'Hahn exquise

A far less familiar figure than Saint-Saëns is the French composer Reynaldo Hahn (1874-1947). Though Venezuelan-born, no one's music sounds quite so French as Hahn's. It's light, elegant and gives the impression of being unforced. He was a master of song, specifically the lyrical French variety known as mélodie - and it's his songs for which he's best known. There are some unforgettable ones, among which my own favourites are:

1. Si mes vers avaient des ailes (If my verses had wings). A setting of Victor Hugo by the 13 year old Reynaldo, this was an instant hit - understandably, as it has a beautiful, naturally-flowing melody for the singer and limpid writing part for the piano. A detail I particularly love - and it shows what a fine craftsman Hahn was - is the way the arpeggios in the piano part between the singer's two verses first rise by a fifth to their top note (A up to E) then unexpectedly rise by the expressive interval of a seventh (A up to G) when repeated. Such tiny things make a difference.

Mes vers fuiraient, doux et frêles,

Vers votre jardin si beau,

Si mes vers avaient des ailes,

Des ailes comme l'oiseau.

Ils voleraient, étincelles,

Vers votre foyer qui rit,

Si mes vers avaient des ailes,

Des ailes comme l'esprit.

Près de vous, purs et fidèles,

Ils accourraient, nuit et jour,

Si mes vers avaient des ailes,

Des ailes comme l'amour!

My verses would float, soft and frail, To your beautiful garden, If my verses had wings like a bird! They would fly, sparkling, To your laughing hearth, If my songs had wings like the spirit. Near to you, pure and faithful, They would rush, night and day, If my verses had wings like love!

2. A Chloris (To Chloris). This adorable song, setting the early 17th Century French poet Théophile de Viau, has a piano part which (evoking the spirit of Baroque pastoral) is pure pastiche Bach, with a walking bass (a bit like the Air on a G String) and a decorated upper line, between which slips the lovely, lyrical melody of the singer. The craftsmanship is impeccable but it's the emotional warmth of the music that makes it so special.

S'il est vrai, Chloris, que tu m'aimes,

Mais j'entends, que tu m'aimes bien,

Je ne crois point que les rois mêmes

Aient un bonheur pareil au mien.

Que la mort serait importune

De venir changer ma fortune

A la félicité des cieux!

Tout ce qu'on dit de l'ambroisie

Ne touche point ma fantaisie

Au prix des grâces de tes yeux.

If it is true, Chloris, that you love me (And I hear that you do love me), I do not believe that kings themselves Could be so happy as I. Death would be unwelcome If it came to change my fortune With the bliss of heaven! Everything they say about ambrosia Does not touch my fantasy Like the graces of your eyes.

Susan Graham (a superlative Hahn singer)

3. L'Énamourée (The enamored). Setting the Romantic poet, Théodore de Banville, this ravishing song made such an impression on me a few years ago that I keep finding myself humming the piano refrain that crowns each verse - a simple but powerfully expressive sequence packed with resolving suspended harmonies. That falling sequence must have entered my head getting on for a hundred times by now! I must have a thing about such sequences because one of its main competitors (in my head) is Mahler's rising sequence from Liebst du um schönheit (Rückert-Lieder).

Ils se disent, ma colombe,

Que tu rêves, morte encore,

Sous la pierre d'une tombe:

Mais pour l'âme qui t'adore

Tu t'éveilles ranimée,

Ô pensive bien-aimée!

Par les blanches nuits d'étoiles,

Dans la brise qui murmure,

Je caresse tes longs voiles,

Ta mouvante chevelure,

Et tes ailes demi-closes

Qui voltigent sur les roses.

Ô délices! je respire

Tes divines tresses blondes;

Ta voix pure, cette lyre,

Suit la vague sur les ondes,

Et, suave, les effleure,

Comme un cygne qui se pleure!

They say, my dove, You are dreaming, dead still, Under a tombstone: But for the soul who adores, You awaken revived, O pensive beloved! By the white nights of stars, In the breeze that whispers, I caress your long veils, Moving your hair, And your wings half-closed Which fly on roses. O delight! I breathe Your divine blond tresses; Your pure voice, that lyre, Follows the waves on the waters, And brushes them, suavely, Like a lamenting swan!

4. L'Heure exquise (The exquisite hour). Based on a poem by the great Verlaine, this is another song that shows the elegance and warmth of feeling of Hahn's art, with the piano part laying out a memorable pattern of arpeggios through which the singer's shapely line floats in rapt tranquillity, creating enchanting pools of harmony along the way. There's another wonderfully expressive rise of a seventh (from E to D sharp) on the word 'exquise'. It's a truly exquisite song.

La lune blanche 

luit dans les bois.

De chaque branche 

part une voix 

sous la ramée.

O bien aimée....

L'étang reflète,

profond miroir,

la silhouette

du saule noir

où le vent pleure.

Rêvons, c'est l'heure.

Un vaste et tendre

apaisement

semble descendre

du firmament

que l'astre irise.

C'est l'heure exquise!

The white moon glows in the woods. From each branch comes a voice beneath the tree. O my beloved .... The pond reflects, like a deep mirror, the silhouette of the black willow where the wind is crying. It's time to dream. A vast and tender peace seems to descend from the sky made radiant by the star. It is the exquisite hour!

5. D'une prison (From a prison)  Such a lovely, wistful song, this one, another setting of Paul Verlaine. The bell-like chords  from the piano at the very start of the song create an atmosphere of magical serenity for the opening lines, set to another of Hahn's shapely, lyrical melodies.

Le ciel est, par-dessus le toit,

 Si bleu, si calme!

Un arbre, par-dessus le toit,

 Berce sa palme.

La cloche, dans le ciel qu'on voit,

 Doucement tinte.

Un oiseau sur l'arbre qu'on voit

 Chante sa plainte.

Mon Dieu, mon Dieu! la vie est là,

 Simple et tranquille.

Cette paisible rumeur-là

 Vient de la ville.

Qu'as-tu fait, ô toi que voilà

 Pleurant sans cesse,

Dis, qu'as-tu fait, toi que voilà,

 De ta jeunesse?

The sky is, above the roof,  So blue, so calm! A tree, above the roof Cradles his palm. The bell, in the sky we see, Gently tinkles. A bird, on the tree we see, Sings a plaintive song. My God, my God! life is there, Simple and easy. This peaceful rumour then Comes from the town. What have you done, O you who are Crying constantly, Say, what have you done, tell me, with your youth?

I admit I am cherry picking some of the composer's very finest songs here, but what cherries!