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.

Simples. Or not.

Nielsen's final symphony, the Sixth Symphony, bears the subtitle 'Sinfonia semplice' but, as you'll hear if you listen to the piece, it's anything but a simple symphony. Such ironic titles were clearly a part of the composer's dry sense of humour. As mentioned in the previous post, he called a movement from his Piano Suite 'Allegretto innocente' when it was far from innocent in character and the restless opening movement of the Second Violin Sonata is given the droll marking 'Allegro con tepidezza' despite there being nothing remotely tepid about it.

The opening movement is magnificent but you would have to have a brain the size of a planet to find it simple! Time for a fanciful analogy. Listening to this movement is like rock climbing. There's a great deal of effort needed but it is very rewarding and affords glorious views as you climb higher and higher and the sense at the end of a struggle won. There are steep ascents and potential pitfalls but they only serve to give an adrenalin rush to the committed listener and lead to heart-stoppingly stunning passages. The reference to 'heart-stopping' was deliberately chosen as the movement's main climax evokes the composer's own experience of suffering a heart attack. All is well at the very start as a glockenspiel chimes four times, gently, steadily. The violins sing a hopeful-sounding phrase and the woodwinds potter about. A jaunty new violin melody set to a jogging rhythm follows, sounding a neo-Classical note. A further theme follows - a memorable four-note figure on flute (the one thing that can be called 'semplice'), which is answered by a falling idea made from thirds and minor seconds over of a chromatic, wavy accompaniment. This chromatic clouding-over gathers pace threateningly and eventually evicts the jaunty tune. The mists descend poetically and an energetic fugue (full of dotted rhythms) is launched to disperse them, gaining in strength as earlier themes return. The flow of energy then abruptly changes direction, darkening again and gradually swirling upwards towards a furious climax out of which emerges a glorious blaze of major-key radiance as the hopeful-sounding phrase returns (in combination with the flute's theme) like a hymn. This breathtaking passage leads to a fascinating section where a piccolo pipes away at a single note while the strings play an archaic-sounding dance. A new fugue intrudes nervously and into it Nielsen throws further reminders of earlier themes, gathering together in a developmental ferment at the frenzied height of which a cry rings out and the glockenspiel sounds again, irregularly. This is the composer's depiction of his heart attack. Lower strings respond with a passionate song of grief. A high canon floats in on violins, flecked by glockenspiel, beautifully, sadly, and the lamenting resumes no less beautifully, again intensifying until fugal writing re-erupts. This climaxes then melts away. The closing bars are serene yet sad. We have travelled from G major/minor at the start to A flat major at the end. Yes, quite a journey and not a simple one. 

OK, so the listener has climbed all that way to the top of the rock-face and, panting, is looking out towards the second movement. What view greets that listener? An avant-garde circus! (Not what anyone would have expected!) This 'Humoreske' has worried critics since its first performance. It's so disconcertingly unlike the preceding movement, or either of the movements that follow. It's a sharply sarcastic caprice, written just for winds and percussion, made up of parodies of contemporary modernist styles and composers, with Schoenberg and Stravinsky very much Nielsen's main targets. (Koechlin's Les Bandar-Log is an interesting point of comparison). Varèse might also be a target, given the sneering siren-like trombone yawns as the movement's various perky little tunes proceed. The question is 'Can something be criticised for being out of place if it was clearly meant to sound out of place?' What was he getting at? There's no simple answer to that. Was he obliquely comparing the disorder inside his heart with the disorder inside modern music (and suggesting that Schoenberg, Stravinsky & Co. were giving it a heart attack)? Just a thought. Was he echoing Mahler's statement that the symphony must contain the whole world, including things that don't appear to fit at all?

The third movement brings back the strings in style, launching a beautiful fugato. This initial confidence soon collapses onto a strange unwinding rope of melody. Against it winds and then lower strings recall the fugato theme. The  flute launches a new theme and other woodwinds follow. The strings stop them in their tracks and the fugue and the unwinding rope tangle themselves together again to powerful effect. The woodwinds try again and a poetic passage of conflicting impulses results, quickly and mysteriously ending in a sunset glow. A fabulous movement.

Golden glows are not going to be the end-point of this symphony, however. It couldn't be that simple! The Finale is a set of dramatic variations on a quixotic bassoon theme that could only have come from the brain of Carl Nielsen. Variations I and II throw the spotlight on the winds, while the third variation is a strange fugato for the strings. Variations IV and V follow straight on and are tempestuous. Variation VI is a wry waltz and in both it and its successor this charming thing is repeatedly undermined and finally bullied into shutting up. Variation VIII comes close to being a lament and is followed by a dancing variation in which the glockenspiel's two-note ostinato, begun quietly, rises to audibility. The grim final variation brings back the soundworld of the 'Humoreske' (so there is a connection there!), with percussion foregrounded and a growling tuba prowling underneath. A mock fanfare provokes the strings to leap like bonfire flames over the side-drum. A brass chorale sounds over it and everything (Ives-like) shimmies to climax out of which comes a catchy fragment of a dance tune. This dies away and strings lead to the final flare-up, leaving the bassoon to blow a final raspberry as a 'goodbye'. 

That ending is an enigmatic as anything by Shostakovich. If you listen to Shostakovich's own final symphony, the Fifteenth, after listening to Nielsen's Sixth, you might be struck by many similarities. I've no idea whether Shostakovich knew this symphony of Nielsen's but the coincidences of technique and tone (if they are coincidences) are striking. Just re-listen to the very opening of the Sinfonia Semplice and then listen to the opening seconds of the Shostakovich for starters...

Nielsen: Another hundred kroners' worth

...and another post does follow, straight on!

An area of Nielsen's output that gets less than its fair share of attention is his piano music. The Chaconne Op.32 is the place to plunge in here. There is a touch of the slate mine about it but that's just a surface impression. The piece (inspired by Bach's famous D minor Chaconne for solo violin) sounds an austere note at the very start - a ground bass of the kind it's not hard to imagine could have found a place in Bach's Art of Fugue - but, despite a dazzling display of brain-power (and finger power), this is a work of joyous fantasy, grippingly paced, so that it can cascade from variation to variation one minute and linger lovingly the next. Its sense of purpose is inspiring and its invention, which in its variety may be compared to Brahms, is brimming with pleasing things. Take the first variation (of twenty). It sounds a bit like a Bach counter-melody and yet has all the hallmarks of a lovable Nielsen tune. More lovable Nielsen-style tunes emerge from time to time. One melancholy variation (an absolute gem) marked by a 'falling third' motif sits at the heart of the set, just before the most exciting variations begin their run. The chaconne ends in exquisite ripples. 

Its equal is the Piano Suite, Op.45. This used to bear the subtitle 'The Luciferian', in the sense of the Bringer of Light rather than the Prince of Darkness! There is a sweep and a grandeur to some of the music that makes helps sense of that epithet. The opening Allegretto un pochettino begins coolly and calmly with a typical Nielsen melody against a no-less-typical counter-melody but soon chromatic figures rise in the left hand against lightning-like figures high in the right hand, resulting in a superbly stormy passage. This dies away gradually and the opening music returns, only to be assailed by echoes of this storm. The close is gentle but ambiguous. The second movement, marked Poco moderato, is strange and magical, shivering like a star on a icy night. This piece exploits the piano's high registers and sets a rocking motion against a melody that later becomes a duet of great if chilly beauty. Only one brief but powerful climax disrupts the unearthly spell that has been cast here. Next comes a Molto adagio e patetico, a dramatic tour-de-force that opens fortissimo with a grand theme, presented passionately, and whose flow of intense melody proceeds through storms and mystical lulls (and many unusual harmonies) very powerfully. The fourth movement's marking Allegretto innocente, like the 'semplice' (simple) marking in the Sixth Symphony's subtitle, is misleading. Yes it starts innocently enough with a gentle tune in F sharp major, but this tonal clarity is soon obscured. High registers again give this number an ethereal quality. The following Allegretto vivo combines delicacy with strength, caprice with conviction and, like Pan and Syrinx, shows Nielsen importing impressionistic elements without damaging his distinctive style. The suite's final movement, Allegro non troppo ma vigoroso, is the work's most sweepingly virtuosic movement. Its incisive rhythms and dynamic repeated notes generate considerable momentum.

After all that heaven-storming intensity, you might then like to try the Serenato in vano for clarinet, bassoon, horn, cello and double bass. It couldn't be more different in mood, being full of charm and Nielsen's dry wit. At the heart of the piece is the moonlit 'serenade' itself - a beautiful tune of the kind only the composer could write. Alas the serenade is 'in vain' and at the end the musicians slink away, but still in good spirits. Setting this genial little piece next to the rigorous Chaconne and the Piano Suite hopefully proves the sheer range of Carl Nielsen.

Two more overtures to finish. Firstly the Helios Overture. The opening passage sets horns calling (one in octaves, one in sevenths) over a deep pedal, depicting the rising of the sun. It's wonderfully primordial, isn't it? The sound gradually gets richer until a six-note figure emerges from it. This is an aptly warm and uplifting little idea that spread plenty of magic as it rises to a majestic climax. The splendour of this fabulous first section isn't really matched by the remainder of the piece.

Even better is the 'rhapsody overture' An Imaginary Journey to the Faroes. This also begins atmospherically, depicting the islands coming into view through a mist of low strings. Fog horns, distant fanfares and bird-calls pierce the stillness and a trombone begins a melody before the fantasy ship arrives to two horns and a hymn. This whole section is a carefully-staged slow crescendo. This hymn then sounds out resplendently on full strings, with wind counter-melodies, and climaxes impressively. After a short pause a drum brings forth a boisterous and brightly-scored folk dance. This is very ear-catching, especially when the timpani and percussion go their own way, sounding like a fireworks display. After this enjoyable and invigorating section, a wind band takes over and there's a little fugato on the tune that brings us towards the gentle and atmospheric close.

And talking of closes...

Nielsen: Worth more than a hundred kroner

There are many great Danes - Tycho Brahe, Søren Kierkegaard, Helena Christensen, Hans Christian Anderson, Brigitte Nielsen, Sandi Toksvig, Niels Bohr, Scooby Doo, Jørn Utzon, Peter Schmeichel to name but a few - but to music lovers the greatest Dane is (by common consent) Carl Nielsen (1865-1931).

First, an off-the-top-of-my-head overview of the man's music. His style evolved from being rather like Brahms to being highly individual. Or, to put it another way, from being broadly conservative and Classical-Romantic to being much more Modern. He became one of the pioneers (along with Mahler) of progressive tonality, where a work begins in one key and (after a prolonged harmonic struggle) ends up in a completely different key. Part of the appeal of Nielsen's music, for those of us who like it, is that it appeals to the heart and to the head. Others may find the contrasting aspects of his musical personality disconcerting. Sometimes, for example, you might find yourself enjoying lots of great tunes with all the catchy simplicity of folk song, smelling the fresh air of the island of Funen; at other times you might find yourself facing tough, contrapuntal writing that looms in your face with all the austerity of a slate mine. Yes, Nielsen can be open-hearted and easy-to-love but he can also be stern and less approachable. I love not knowing in advance what you're going to find in a piece by this composer. 

So, where to begin with Nielsen (if you're new to him)? Perhaps the best place would be his immensely good-natured cantata ('lyrical humoresque') Springtime on Funen (Fynsk Forår), one of my favourite pieces not just by Nielsen but by any composer. (There's no complete performance yet on YouTube, but there is an almost complete performance - linked to above). It's got loads of unforgettable fresh tunes, all penned by the composer however much like folk songs they might sound, and exudes warmth and humanity. It opens with a vibrant chorus celebrating the community and continues with an exceptionally beautiful soprano solo, whose melody is cast against luminous scoring (including a magical part for triangle) and whose original harmonies are captivating and ultimately exhilarating. One of Nielsen's loveliest melodies follows in the tenor's love song to Ilsabil. Having lost an Isabel of my own, this tune rather chokes me up.   Anyhow, then it's fun on Funen with the delightful swinging number which follows with its lilting tunefulness and 'tra-la-las' from the chorus. The heart of the piece though is the moving but very far from mawkish baritone solo 'The Blind Musician', with its beautiful melody and gorgeous scoring. Ah! Fun returns with as the children's chorus enters (an adorable section) and they are followed by a deeply lovely chorus of the elderly, an unaccompanied men's chorus. The closing 'dance ballad' provides a whirling finish. 

Perhaps the Second Symphony makes the best entry point into the glories of Nielsen's six symphonies. The piece has the subtitle 'The Four Temperaments', inspired by memories of an amusing painting the composer saw in a pub. Depicting these four traditional personality types, the symphony can be seen as programme music but this aspect of the piece is fully complemented by post-Brahmsian symphonic argument. By this stage in his career, his Brahmsian side was still quite strong but his individuality was now making itself felt. What I love this symphony for is the strength of that symphonic argument, but also for its many, many fabulous tunes. The opening Allegro collerico evokes the choleric temperament - not only its rages but also its gentler, nobler aspects. The rages are expressed in the main subject, which bursts in banging chords around like slammed doors! A transition based on rising thirds (important later) leads to the second subject, a glorious tune expressing the noble side of this type of character. The development section is powerfully worked, with a purposeful fugato and some fine stormy writing. The second movement Allegro comodo e flemmatico explores the phlegmatic personality and takes the form of a relaxed waltz, warm and gently humorous in nature. 'Che sera, sera' indeed. Just listen to the orchestral colouring here, as it's particularly winning. The third movement Andante malincolico touches great depths and is an unwallowing, sympathetic portrait of the melancholic personality. The violins give out the superb first melody, a tune that is quintessential Nielsen (though Mahlerians might like it too!) The sighing second subject on oboe is another memorable melody, with its poignant minor seconds and chromatic inflections. Both tunes form part of a majestic symphonic paragraph. The central passage is quietly contrapuntal, sounding resigned in mood. The brass rise to magnificence at the start of the reprise and there's a powerful climax and a beautiful coda. Finally, the Allegro sanguino introduces us to the sanguine personality, who is introduced with yet another 'instant classic' of a tune and who damns braces with a gusto. The second subject is less hectic and has many a Nielsen fingerprint. The recapitulation follows on straight away, without a development section. The second subject, however, enters an ill-lit maze of minor key harmony, groping for an escape which comes in the form of a stirring march. I never tire of this symphony & hope you'll treat yourself to it too. 

From there you might like to move on and explore the towering masterpiece that is the Fifth Symphony. It has that Beethoven-inspired dynamism which always makes Nielsen's 'big statements' so thrilling. Here it's directed into a dramatic two-movement structure through which the struggle from darkness to light is vividly staged. 

The first movement begins in a near-inert atmosphere with strings moving very quietly between two notes, creating a sort of wave motion, and two bassoons introducing a vague theme below. Harsher gestures hint at the menace to come but the grey mists remain, lit by soft echoes on horns and flutes. Suddenly, like ripples on a still pond, the wave figure creates a melodic shape - a theme. Another follows immediately, like a larger ripple, beginning with the interval of a third on which all the wave-like activity so far has been based, now taking the form of a wonderful yet indecisive-sounding melody. The oscillating figures persist but the wave motion passes to a solo clarinet. With the entry of the percussion, the struggle begins. The side drum turns the wave motion into a brutal march over which the strings sing a worried melody and woodwinds cry out in near hysteria. This passage introduces a whirling three-note figure which is left spinning in the air at its close. (Wonderful!) Earlier elements combine with it and the strings push on with the worried melody. A hush descends and a tense atmosphere is conjured poetically out of which emerges an Adagio section built on a new theme - a major key theme. This brings a golden glow into the movement. This great melody grows ever more beautiful as Nielsen lets his contrapuntal imagination work on it and gorgeous bright tonalities really help this passage sing. The song pauses but begins again, now graced by the wavy theme, and is soon touching on darker harmonies and sonorities as it faces the fury of the side drum, which beats against it wildly. This fiercely-fought battle ends in defeat for the drum and a glorious climax marks the moment of victory. The first battle is won, but not yet the war. The coda shows this by setting a mournful clarinet over a hushed G major chord.

The second movement Allegro erupts with an energetic theme, uncertain in harmony but positive-sounding nonetheless - especially in its leaping continuation. The tension created is palpable and contrasts sharply with the calm oboe-led passage that (briefly) follows. An exciting new paragraph comes after a pause and that is followed by a scurrying, increasingly tense 'development section'. This reaches boiling point and Nielsen keeps it there for some time. Nagging, repetitive notes are used to more the music in inertia. A fugue begins, which feels like a desperate escape bid and is met by renewed hysteria when it fails miserably. A new and more thoughtful fugue is needed if the second battle is to be won. This follows the movement's emotional low point and begins quietly on muted violins. It grows in warmth and becomes extremely beautiful, slowly winning the battle by spreading peace. It becomes apparent as it nears its close that its theme is a version of the movement's opening theme (which you only realise gradually). The latter springs back in at the climax and is recapitulated before the symphony ends triumphantly in E flat major. 

After this gripping, intense symphony, why not try the Flute Concerto? There's absolutely no froth in the piece, but there's plenty of humour in the second of its two movements that always cheers me up. Nielsen is also concerned with such things. Its first movement is closer to the Fifth Symphony in spirit, perhaps, being a drama of themes (all with distinct characters) in search of a home key, but doesn't lack geniality either. There are lots of good tunes to enjoy. 

Nielsen also wrote excellent short orchestral works, of which I'd like to single out Pan and Syrinx. This 'nature scene for orchestra' evokes the tale from Ovid with unerring skill. It opens by establishing a peaceful scene. Against tremolando violins a blissful cello theme falls and rises and a flute melody full of dreamy undulations responds. High, bright tremolandi, percussion and a capricious clarinet figure announce the arrival onto the scene of Pan. The tone-poem tracks the growing terror of Syrinx and Pan's lustful pursuit in music of deep imagination and melodic and colouristic appeal. It's beautiful and exciting. Listen out for Pan's coaxing central song and the its gloriously passionate climax (counterpointed by terror). Terror finally prompts a dramatic flight. The peaceful opening music returns and Syrinx is metamorphosized into a reed whose quivering on the breeze is evoked magically.

For the lightest side of Nielsen's output, please give his Aladdin Suite a go. Here he comes quite close to the Grieg of Peer Gynt. It's tuneful and very colourful. The movement to really listen out for is 'The Market Place in Ispahan' where the market's busy atmosphere is conjured by the overlaying of four contrasting musical ideas. The technique may be compared to Charles Ives, though Holst's Beni Mora is a more appropriate comparison. 

Hopefully, this will give you a flavour of Carl Nielsen's range and genius as a composer. More posts on Nielsen will follow.