Rhapsody on a Theme by Paganini

Amidst all the lightly worn ingenuities and the late-style dryness of Rachmaninov's Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini - a dryness that at times reveals a surprising kinship with Prokofiev - there is also found the 'Old Believer' Rachmaninov, dreaming , chanting and, above all, singing with the fervour of a true Romantic. When many people think of the piece - and when it appears (massively abridged) on pop classic compilations - they tend to only think of the the variation that exemplifies this Romantic side - the 18th.

This is the variation where the beloved Rachmaninov of the Second Piano Concerto is re-born. Without such passages might not the Rhapsody be languishing alongside the Fourth Piano Concerto in the cupboard where composers' Cinderella works are put away? Possibly, although you would hope not as the other 23 variations contain gem after gem. 

Before we hear the theme itself, based, on course, on Paganini's 24th Caprice, Variation I presents its bare bones - an ingenious idea. The theme then enters on violins, against which the piano points out those self-same bones again before putting some flesh on them, brilliantly. The early variations flash by engagingly then, with Variation VI we enter a new, dreamier landscape - albeit one with bags of sparkle still. This is followed by a lovely variation where we meet the Rhapsody's second theme - the Dies Irae chant that ran like a leitmotif through the composer's output. Here is it set in counterpoint to the Paganini theme. Variation VIII is exciting and somewhat Brahmsian while its successor is chase-like music. This build-up of  energy climaxes in Variation X with the Dies Irae's return.

A pause, and then Variation XI. This is rhapsodic, with string tremolos setting a melancholy stage for the pianist's improvisatory flourishes. The Minuet variation that follows is melodically attractive. Variation XIII is an excellent, furious waltz and Variation XIV is just as gripping - a veritable cavalry charge of a movement! After a glinting, smiling scherzo comes an idyll featuring a pastoral oboe a lark-like part for solo violin. Variation XVII couldn't be a greater contrast - chromatic, sombre and sinister. It's an inspired stroke on Rachmaninov's part as it gets us in the mood for a return to the light....

and in Variation XVIII the light floods in with the piano's soft singing of the composer's best-known tune (an inversion of the Paganini theme). The strings then sweep in and take it over, singing with full throat to the accompaniment of the soloist's rich, resonant arpeggiated chords, climaxing with thrilling ardour then ebbing away gradually, like a sunset. A final tender reminder of the tune is the final masterstroke. The way this variation is 'staged' is unbeatable.

After this ultra-Romantic 'slow movement' in miniature comes the glittering finale comprising the final six variations. It offers the listener lots of virtuoso piano playing - and virtuoso composing. Pizzicato strings meet staccato piano first. Then the forest of strings seethes against heroic figures from the soloist. A fast tumble of rhythms leads to a climactic march variation, in which the Dies Irae returns, followed by the final pair of variations, both of which sparkle with colour and cadenza-like writing for the piano. Lest the Dies Irae's final appearance may strike too dark a note, the throw-away closing bars are guaranteed to leave the listener smiling.

The Waltz VII: The Waltz Heads East

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Follies (4)

The 20th Century's continuing love affair with La Folia included more variations for solo guitar, including the Variaciones sobre un tema de Fernando Sor, Op.15 by Miguel Llobet (1878-1938) and the  Variaciones & Fuga sobre La Follia by our old friend, the great Paraguayan Manuel Ponce (1882-1948).

Yes, La Folia had now global.

For another Nordic take on La Folia, the Lamb's Dance,  perhaps give Toivo Kuula (1883-1918) and his Lampaanpolska a try.

We now come to a substantial offering from Sergei Rachmaninov (1873-1943), his Variations on a theme of Corelli, Op.42 - the composer's final work for solo piano, sounding rather like a foretaste of the famous Rhapsody on a theme by Paganini. The theme is, of course, not really Corelli's; it's La Folia. The piece is very much in the composer's late style, with dramatic juxtapositions of contrasting moods, leaner, cleaner textures and somewhat tarter harmonies.

Joaquín Rodrigo (1901-1999), composer of a very famous guitar concerto, wrote many other concertos - including the Concierto de Estío ('Summer Concerto') for violin and orchestra. The wistful, lyrical central Siciliana of this piece (7.50 into the link) is a set of variations of a theme closely based on La Folia. His polar opposite (in so many respects), Roberto Gerhard, also wrote a concerto - this time a Piano Concerto - featuring a movement (the finale, beginning at 18.49 in the linked video) based on La Folia. This is a tougher, menacing take on the old tune. Other Spaniards have kept the tradition going, including Gregorio Paniagua (b.1944), whose La Folia de la Spagna has an agreeably antique feel and plenty of colour.

Sinclairvisan (La Folia) by the Swedish jazz musician and composer Jan Johansson (1931-1968) is a beguiling jazz-tinged take on the old tune. Given the nature of La Folia - a snatch of melody and a short series of chord progressions - it is a natural for jazz treatment. (The other part of the title refers to a drinking song that grew out of our tune). If you liked that you might also like the La Follia of German composer Andreas Prittwitz (b.1960). I do.

The Dutch organist Joop Schouten (1907-1983) composed the far more traditional but attractive Variaties en Fughetta op "La Follia" for organ in 1971 and if an organ take was long overdue so was a choral (religious) one. Here's a pleasant example from the Frenchman Jacques Berthier (1923-1994): Laudate Dominum. 

And on they go. There's the French composer Nicolas Bacri (b.1961) and his approachable Folia: chaconne symphonique for cello and orchestra from 1990 and the Israeli composer Menachem Wiesenberg (b.1950) and his winning 2001 Concerto Da Camera (La Folia) for four wind instruments and string orchestra. There's also the La Folia of popular British composer Karl Jenkins (b.1944), a concerto for marimba and strings written for Evelyn Glennie. And here's one from last year: The Variations on La Follia by American composer Richard Einhorn (b.1952), written for that most beautiful-sounding of old ensembles, the viol consort. It is unashamed to sound rather old-fashioned itself at times and to have a bit of fun too. 

Let the madness continue!

P.S. ...and how about the famous theme by Vangelis from 1492: Conquest of Paradise? It's La Folia!!!

Arkhangelic Music

Alexander Arkhangelsky

I've previously published a couple of posts that reflect my attempts to understand how Russia's great choral tradition developed. Each new discovery, however, seems to complicate matters somewhat.

It turns out that the 19th century nationalist flight from Bortniansky's Western European-influenced style that culminated in Rachmaninov's Vespers might not be quite so straightforward and linear as I first thought. As you will probably be aware, 19th century Russian music is often said to have split into two opposing camps - a nationalist camp (most famously represented by the Mighty Handful) and a westernising camp (circled around Anton Rubinstein). Does the way Russian composers tried to re-invigorate their nation's Orthodox choral tradition reflect this split? 

Only up to a point. 

A simple account might run like this: One group of composers (let's call them 'the Lvov tendency') chose a certain direction. Inspired primarily by German composers, principally Mendelssohn and Schumann, they started writing music of greater simplicity where the melody was placed in the uppermost part and set in the context of Western-style four-part harmony. Another, more nationalist set of composers (let's call them 'the Kastalsky tendency') chose to draw deep on old Russian chants, bringing appropriate modal harmonies to bear on them and sometimes employing Russian folk melodies. 

This, however, is where things get more complicated. That account is far too simplistic.

For starters, the so-called Germanising tendency came first, historically-speaking. It was the initial stage in the reaction against Bortniansky and all that he stood for. The nationalist tendency arose later. 

[Before we get to these composers it might be helpful to be reminded of what they were reacting against:

Bortniansky, Let God arise

Bortniansky, Cherubic Hymn

Bortniansky, Glory to God in the Highest]

Also, much of this seemingly Germanophile music sounds very much like Russian Orthodox music to me. Why? Partly, I think, because a lot of Russian Orthodox music does sound like this! Also because these composers began using chants as melodies in some of their pieces and because they sometimes mingle their Mendelssohnian diatonic harmonies with Russian modal ones. Also, the chant-like phrasing of some of these pieces (even when the melodies aren't chant-based) makes them sound closer to the nationalist camp than a simple 'dialectical' approach would suggest they should. Yes, they do have German-style Romantic moments and passages but they also contain moments and passages that are freshly informed by the beginnings of Russia's first serious period of study into its ancient chant traditions. On a simpler level, of course, the Russian language and the distinctive sound of Russian choirs in performances should also be considered factors! 

So all of this was a break with the previous decades of Russian music. It was the beginning of the great revival of chant as a basis for musical works. So it was then a Russifying project, even if it brought in other non-Russian influences too. The nationalists would only take it a few stages further - 'purifying' it of those remaining Western vestiges. The comparison of this 'camp' with the Rubinstein camp doesn't really seem to be a particularly firm one to make then. Ah, so the linear narrative might be safe after all - even if it isn't quite so straightforward! 

This tradition appears to have been founded by Alexei Lvov (1798-1870), a friend of Mendelssohn's and the successor-but-one of Bortniansky as head of the Imperial Chapel. Lvov is best known for being the man who wrote the music for the old Russian imperial national anthem - the one most of us know from Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture, God Save the Tsar. An exemplary example of what he brought to the Russian choral tradition can be judged from Of Thy Mystical Supper, where (with occasional octave doubling) four-voice Mendelssohnian homophony and Western-style diatonic harmonies mingle with modal harmonies and the sound of a Russian choir singing chant-like melodies in Russian. It it almost as beautiful as the same composer's Lord Have Mercy, which might sound like every non-Russian listener's idea of Russian choral music were it not for the presence of some highly Western-sounding chords. 

Other composers followed him, including Gavriil Lomakin (c.1812-1885), a friend of Balakirev's (oh yes!) best known for his Cherubic Hymn. Keep listening to this piece and you'll hear how Western it turns in its final section. Another such composer was Mikhail Strokin (1832-1887), known for his charismatic setting of Let Thy Servant Depart in Peace (the Nunc dimittis). The tradition continued into the 20th century with composers such as Dmitry Allemanov (1867-1918), for a taste of whose music you might like to try the Nativity Kanon - and the main subject of this post, Alexander Arkhangelsky (1846-1924).

Before I get to Arkhangelsky though, it's time to take another detour and remind you of what the other side of the coin sounds like. The nationalist side's great name (before Rachmaninov came along) was my old friend Valery Kastalsky (1856-1926), whose works took up the emphasis on chants, thoroughgoing modality and Russian folk song - all of which can be heard in such pieces as On this day the Virgin, God is with us and Open the Doors of Compassion.

So onto Alexander Arkhangelsky then, and things get even more complicated. Arkhangelsky founded a highly influential choir. It had the distinction of being the first to features women's voices (instead of boys). The choir performed sacred music but also Russian folksongs and had a mission to revive the country's Orthodox repertoire and free it from certain of its westernised aspects. To that extent he too was in the nationalist camp. His music, however, certainly sounds to be closely in the spirit of Lvov.

Russian Orthodox churchgoers are, by all accounts, fond of their Arkhangelsky. The sheer number of videos on YouTube devoted to his music, especially when compared to these other composers, is testimony to his popularity. To those who are less sympathetic to his more Mendelssohnian brand of Orthodox liturgical music he can be found too sentimental - an accusation so often thrown at Mendelssohn himself. 

See what you think. 

In  Arkhangelsky's Vespers all the ingredients of the Lvov style are there - the four-part homophony, the touches of Mendelssohnian harmony, the essential simplicity, the melody in the uppermost part, plus the modal touches and chant-like melodies too. Lyrical warmth is the quality Arkhangelsky himself most brings to the table. For comparison (and for the sheer pleasure of hearing it), please then listen to Rachmaninov's ravishing Vespers, fully composed in the nationalist spirit and first performed in consultation with Kastalsky. In the Rachmaninov the voices packed into the harmonies rise beyond four as high (at one point) as eleven. Here Russian Orthodox chants (ten genuine, five of Rachmaninov's own invention) and modal harmonies reign supreme.

Further Arkhangelsky listening:

I Dread the Fearful Day

We have no other help

Hear my Prayer, O Lord

Let us come zealously to the Mother of God

The Lord looks from Heaven upon the helpless
I cried unto the Lord with my Voice

I doubt even now that I've really got to the bottom of all this. Even if I haven't there's been some very fine music along the way!

Rachmaninov: The Four Sisters

Back to Russia, one of its favourite sons - Sergei Rachmaninov - and, yes, some of the world's best-loved piano concertos! 

With a fanfare, the First Piano Concerto in F sharp minor  gets going and a cascade of helter-skeltering octaves from the soloist follows straight on. The fireworks have begun! The fanfare returns, heralding the main theme on violins (soon to be repeated by the pianist). This is a vintage Rachmaninov tune - ardently lyrical, rising with yearning them falling back wistfully, frequently moving by sequences, singing on strings and straying across several keys. A shimmering scherzando passage leads to the second subject, of which much the same as was said of the first may be said again. Its yearning appogiaturas are especially attractive. The orchestra kicks off the development section, drawing attention to motific connections between the two main themes before spiralling towards a climax. At this point the soloist gets to sparkle lightly before singing the main theme again gently. A new climax is built towards before we are eased into the recapitulation - the highlight of which is a brief, romantic counter-melody for solo violin. The cadenza is thematically-involved but is primarily a pianist's display ground. The coda is short and brilliant.

The Andante makes me think of a Chopin nocturne, though the lovely tune on which it meditates has something of Tchaikovsky about it. The movement sounds spontaneous (as if improvised) and the restrained accompaniment - at one point consisting of a single bassoon - is imaginative. 

The Finale could not sound more different to begin with - a coruscating caprice with gypsy material and playful rhythms. However, as the piano sparkles the violins anticipate (with the help of a brief counter-melody) the central episode, where lyricism returns, restoring the slow movement's dreamy spirit with a new melody - and what a melody! This new tune is entirely characteristic (see the list a couple of paragraphs ago) and is the star tune of the concerto. It is sung with tender love by the strings and decorated by the soloist. The effect is gorgeous. The piano then takes it over and rhapsodises over it. It's an unforgettable section. The caprice bounces back in after a full close and is reprised - with changes to its scoring and new counter-melodies. The coda is short but extremely brilliant.

Regularly voted as as the public's most-loved piece of Classical music and no longer disdained by the critics (save for a few holdouts!), Rachmaninov's Second Piano Concerto in C minor reigns triumphant. To which state of affairs I say, "Good!"

The opening Moderato puts melody on a pedestal and pays it due homage. The movement is rooted it two great tunes, each lasting many bars, every one of which breathes the air of truly inspired lyricism, and both of which obey the classic rules of Rachmaninovian melody (see above), except that the piano gets the first bite at singing the second subject. The piano, interestingly, does surprisingly little singing, being tasked with accompanying, decorating and elaborating. Given the fiendishness of its role, the poor instrument might begrudge the orchestra is possession of swathes of wonderful melody but I doubt it as no one listening is in any doubt that this is a piano concerto. From the famous sequence of depth-charged chords as the very start, the piano's part is charismatic in the extreme - quite a composition feat. The movement also demonstrates the composer's genius in other fields too -  those of harmony and those of architecture. He cues each move and stages each scene like a master dramatist.

The Adagio begins by artfully modulating from one key (C minor) to another (E major). The piano introduces a lovely accompanying idea and the flute and clarinet float a beautiful melody over it. Ah, heart-easing stuff! The soloist and orchestra then swap roles to re-sing the tune. The tempo quickens and the soloist presents a variation on the theme, with an exciting climax (which is reached twice!). A brief cadenza leads to a further quickening and a larger cadenza then a reprise sung by the strings (yet more beautiful!). The coda is blissful.

The Finale is marked 'Allegro scherzando' and, after another modulating introduction, presents a brilliant theme which tumbles like laughter. Attractive subsidiary ideas lead to another of Rachmaninov's great tunes - one everyone remembers. This perfectly-sculpted lyrical gem is the second subject, first sung by oboes and violas over warm horns and pizzicato strings then re-sung passionately by the piano. A splendidly mysterious passage leads to the main theme's return and some development-by-variation thereon (including a fugato). The second subject's own return follows. The mysterious passage then again results in more play with the main theme and prompts an ultra-romantic climax and the cadenza, out of which bursts the second subject in full glory - a thrilling passage. A short but brilliant coda follows. 

'Rach 3', the Third Piano Concerto in D minor, is now almost as popular as its ever-popular predecessor. Again, "Good!"

The first movement opens to a dotted figure in the orchestra - an idea that persists throughout many of the concerto's pages. In this movement, most obviously, it underpins both the main subjects on their initial presentations and plays a major part in the development section. The main theme is another great melody, encompassing a narrow range of intervals but emotionally as board as a Russian bear hug. The piano sings it first, then the violas, each time interestingly and variously accompanied. A brilliant passage erupts, then a beautiful orchestral passage that sounds as if its come straight out of a Russian Orthodox monastery. This is the bridge to the second subject. This new theme begins march-like with light exchanges between soloist and orchestra but is swiftly restated as a lovely, dreamy cantabile (lovingly accompanied). Rachmaninov lingers over this - rightly so! The development section works the main theme sequentially and highly dramatically before becoming a long, severely virtuosic cadenza. This accompanied cadenza takes under its wing much of the recapitulation, after which only brief reminders of the main themes are needed. It's structurally unconventional but works very convincingly.

The central Intermezzo takes the form off a set of variations on a lovely elegiac theme, introduced on oboe and sounding somewhat Grieg-like in character. Despite that it is a characteristic, falling Rachmaninov tune. The strings then re-sing it, then the piano enters, passionately, tumbling over various harmonies in its keenness to vary the melody, which it does in strongly contrasting moods, ranging from the tender to the wild, reaching magnificent romantic heights along the way. The only episode along the way is a folk-like one for woodwinds dancing over pizzicato strings, but this is swiftly swept away again.

A bravura link carries us into the Finale, where bravura is very much on the menu. The percussive main theme is powered by that persistent rhythm from the opening movement. The second subject begins just as percussively but turns cantabile and into a characteristic Rachmaninov tune within seconds. The movement's central section is given over to a set of elaborate variations on a theme that is audibly a fusion of the main theme with that of the second subject of the first movement. This cyclical turn deepens with the subsequent return of the concerto's opening theme. The Finale's own themes are then recapitulated and whirled towards a highly brilliant coda where the second subject achieves its apotheosis. Glorious!

Falling far behind its sisters in the affections of the public, the Fourth Piano Concerto in G minor shows the composer writing less lushly, less romantically. This is late Rachmaninov. That said, there's still much that will appeal to lovers of the earlier concertos, plus other compensations, and its stock can only continue to climb.

The opening is immediately exciting, with the orchestra leaping upwards to meet a long, characteristic melody (rising and falling) from the piano - an idea immediately repeated. This melody begins as a rising scale and rising scales rush through the following episode. This leads to the beautiful second subject - a languid, lyrical gem of a melody (vaguely Spanish in its sultriness). This is dreamed over gently by the soloist, with winning wind contributions, and is a passage of pure magic. The development section glitters with passage work, momentarily invaded by orchestral memories. There then begins a slow build-up, starting with ominously rising brass, decorated by the piano, which accelerates and intensifies to a grand climax - at which point the second subject soars in superbly on strings. Wow! It is then re-sung, gorgeously, gently, by the flutes and other winds with an arpeggiated accompaniment. If this is, again, magical then so is the return of the main theme, soaring heavenward to a rippling accompaniment - a masterstroke. The abrupt coda that cuts such beauty off feels like a mistake to me. Still, what a glorious movement. It's in no way inferior to its equivalents in the well-known concertos. 

The central Largo is much more chaste, taking a simple theme - which no review must neglect to point out has a certain resemblance to 'Three Blind Mice' - and decorating it in gentle exchanges between soloist and orchestra. The theme is ever-present. Even the sudden eruption that is the central agitato is based on it. A rising and falling string counter-melody provides a momentary contrast of material. The movement ends on a half close, which seems apt for such understated but beautiful writing.

The Finale is, at times, bound to remind the listener of Prokofiev in its dry but brightly-coloured vivacity and percussive scherzando style. Where is the big tune? Even Prokofiev usually gives up one! Alas, there's no big tune here, which might disconcert and disappoint some listeners. There is an episode where a fanfare figure is answered by a romantic horn call and a lyrical melody rises fleetingly in response - but 'fleeting' is the word for this episode, as it is for the dreamy interlude midway. Elsewhere it's all pretty much brilliance and punchiness. What a striking, highly imaginative movement this is - even if it's not what you might be expecting.

If you don't know the Fourth Concerto, please give it a try. I doubt you'll regret doing so!

A (Changing) Russian Christmas

A Radio 3 concert called 'A Russian Christmas', given by the BBC Singers, offered an intriguing survey of Russian Orthodox choral music from the Baroque to the present day, featuring much that was unfamiliar - though it ended with a short selection from Rachmaninov's much-loved 'All-Night Vespers' (a favourite work of mine) and, as an encore, a movement from the same composer's somewhat less familiar 'Liturgy of St. John Chrysostom'.

When I think of Russian Orthodox sacred music I think of chant-based modal melodies sung to rich, ancient-sounding harmonies in a purely homophonic style (where all the vocal parts move together in harmony - i.e. as a flow of chords - as opposed to polyphony where the voices go their own separate ways). Oh, and drones and deep basses (and, if I'm honest, big bushy beards) too.

I was in for a surprise.

The concert opened with a 'sacred concerto' (No.6) by the Ukrainian-born Dmitry Bortniansky (1751-1825), who was appointed Director of the Imperial Chapel Choir in 1796, the year of Catherine the Great's death. The music of Bortniansky and other court composers was, apparently, the official face of Russian Orthodox music for several decades - until the generation of Glinka ('the father of Russian music') came along and tried to free their country's sacred music from what they felt to be excessive European influence. That European influence is plain to hear in this 'concerto' (and, yes, YouTube has it!), 'Glory to God in the Highest' (setting Luke's take on the words of the angelic multitude to the shepherds abiding in the fields). That said, it conforms to tradition to the extent that it is for unaccompanied choir. This is significant because in Russian Orthodox liturgical music you are extremely unlikely to find any accompaniment. (You shouldn't find any at all). So expect no organs and no orchestras, just voices. As for the piece itself, it's a charmer for four-part mixed chorus with four short sections, the last revisiting the music of the first, in a style not too far from that written by many of the lesser lights of the Classical era (the ones we don't hear from very often, because it's nearly always Haydn, Mozart and Beethoven.). There's a little bit of counterpoint in the third section but also quite a few suggestions of folk music (those bagpipe-like drones at the end of the outer sections being the most obvious example).

The concert then took us even further back to the Russian court of the 1680s, where one Vasily Titov (c.1650-c.1715) sang and composed. We heard his 'O Virgin unwedded' for double choir. To my ears, this sounded hardly any more like the stereotype (in my head) of what Russian Orthodox music ought to sound like than did the Bortniansky. What a superb piece it was though! Titov wrote in the period usually described as the Mid-Baroque (and he is a leading figure in what's known as the 'Moscow Baroque') but his music reminds me most of the greatest German composer of the previous-generation-but-one, Heinrich Schutz. There's still something of a luminous aftertaste of the late Renaissance about it, with rich polyphonic writing, madrigalian touches and melodic phrases that, at times, remind me of Monteverdi. Sadly, this gem isn't yet available on YouTube but some pieces by Titov are and they seem to confirm my feeling that he composes in a style closely akin to a late-Renaissance/early-Baroque composer - pieces such as Glory - Only Begotten Son and The Angel Cried Out (though neither piece is as good as 'O Virgin unwedded'). It's a wonderful thing to find great pleasure in a composer you've never even heard of before.

The illuminating programme continued with two short, pleasing Christmas hymns, Today the Virgin (on YouTube) and Thy nativity, O Christ our God by Alexander Kastalsky (1856-1926), another composer I'd never heard of but whose influence, I learned, was huge. If you know Rachmaninov's two unaccompanied choral masterpieces, you'll recognise that they share the same roots as these pieces (if transforming them, through genius, into something considerably greater). What the nationalist Kastalsky achieved was to create a new style by taking the ancient chants of the Russian Church and fusing them with the singing techniques of Russian folk music. Now this is much more like what I always imagined Russian Orthodox sacred music would sound like.

The glories of Rachmaninov's great masterpieces I will leave for another time, but the concert included an early piece that the Russian didn't even consider worth publishing, O Theotokos, Ever-Vigilant in Prayer. (The Theotokos is a name for the Virgin Mary in the Eastern Orthodox tradition). It's a frequently lovely piece and I suspect you'll find it a likeable discovery, if (like me) you didn't know it already. Though it does exhibit a fair amount of licence, admitting polyphonic passages and some unOrthodox textures, it has everything that I mentioned near the start of this post when I listed things I think of when I think about Russian Orthodox music - chant-based modal melodies sung to rich, ancient-sounding harmonies, much purely homophonic writing and, yes, drones and deep basses too. (Can't tell about the big bushy beards though.) In these passages, the music feels timeless and age-old. As I've learned, however, though it may be timeless, it certainly isn't age-old.

The story of how we got to to where we are can, it seems, be simply told. So here goes.

Russian Orthodox chant (Znamenny chant) is indeed ancient, developing out of Byzantine chant. It was sung in unison and was melismatic in character. Accompanying drones were a common feature. Around two hundred years ago (at the dawn of the Romantic Era), something very new came into Russian Orthodox liturgical music - the rich, homophonic, chord-based sound we now know and love. It was an innovation. Kastalksy added fresh innovations at time passed...and doubtless so on and so on.

That's something I hadn't realised before. The timeless tradition changes.

Liturgical music, as you're doubtless well aware, was suppressed by the incoming communist regime following their takeover in 1917. This concert introduced us to several composers who reacted to this new state of affairs in contrasting ways. The options seem to have been: (1) to leave the Soviet Union, (2) to stay but to give up composing sacred music, (3) to compose sacred works in secret or (4) to compose and publish a few sacred works but claim to be doing so not out of any religious feeling but merely to contribute to Russia's cultural heritage.

Rachmaninov made for the exit door, as did his fellow Romantic Alexander Gretchaninov (1864-1956), whose gently radiant setting of the 'Glory to God in the Highest' was also performed. Though this piece is sadly unavailable on YouTube, you might like to try his Joyful Light instead, which happens to be even lovelier. Both are unaccompanied and keep to the then-current (and still-current) spirit of Russian Orthodox sacred music. Gretchaninov, however, attempted a modest  revolution of his own, risking (and receiving) accusations of blasphemy, by introducing the organ and the orchestra into some of his sacred works. That was an innovation that didn't really catch on.

Representing those who took the second option in reaction to Bolshevik rule was another composer whose name was completely unknown to me, Pavel Chesnokov (1877-1944). He was, it seems, a hugely prolific sacred composer prior to 1917 but was forced to write secular music thereafter, until the regime destroyed the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour in Moscow (pictured above) - an act that so depressed Chesnokov that he gave up composing altogether. (The Cathedral was rebuilt after the Soviet Union collapsed). His attractive but surprisingly wistful-sounding Eternal Council (a piece from before the revolution, according to the BBC presenter) tells the story of the Annunciation, with a solo mezzo-soprano singing the words of the Angel Gabriel, accompanied by a chorus of tenors and basses. It struck me as being closer to conventional Romantic choral writing, particularly in its harmonies, than anything else in the programme.

From a later generation, and choosing both options (3) and (4), was the neo-Romantic Georgy Sviridov (1915-1998), a younger contemporary of Shostakovich who (every account I've read tells me) has always been popular with his fellow countrymen. (On the strength of the pieces I've heard, I'm pleased about that!) We heard three mouth-watering pieces from a collection called 'Inexpressible Wonder' that, to my ears, show a composer in love with the traditions of Russian sacred music, though refracting them (fairly unobtrusively) through modern ears: an enchanting hymn to the Virgin Mary (not without a few bittersweet dissonances); a chordal, chant-driven song in praise of the birth of Christ; and a dramatised Gloria & (quietly luminous) Alleluia. I can't find these pieces for you on YouTube except for the Alleluia, but to get a flavour of the sacred side of Sviridov, please give this highly 'traditional' Trisagion a go and, if I say so myself, demonstrating what I'm saying about Sviridov, please also try out Unuttered Miracle. 

The concert also showed that the Russian Orthodox tradition (away with the inverted commas!) survives and is, thank goodness, still alive in the age of Vladimir Putin - a man who isn't averse to co-opting the magic of Russian Orthodoxy. We heard a couple of pieces (paradoxically) from composers now living in those former outreaches of the Soviet Empire, the Baltic States, namely a 'choral concerto', Svjatki, from Galina Grigorjeva and Three Chants by Andrejs Selickis (b, 1960).

Mr. Selickis is Latvian but, unusually, Russian Orthodox. His ascetic music is highly informed by the old tradition - the Byzantine chant tradition - of Orthodox sacred music, though there are a few concessions to the last two hundred years of innovations,  and the pieces presented were, for me, the most magical music of the evening. Four-part unaccompanied writing, simple flowing lines, often just one or two at a time, modestly sung either in unison or in octaves, or accompanied by chordal drones, this is beautiful music that I would love to hear a lot more of. Unfortunately, you won't be able to follow this up as his music has yet to find promoters on YouTube.

The piece by Galina Grigorjeva (b. 1962, pictured above), born in the Ukraine but now living in Estonia, was a 'choral concerto', (long) after the manner of Bortniansky. Galina, like Andrejs Selickis, works within the Russian Orthodox tradition, but her music seems to me to be more in keeping than her Latvian contemporary's with the open-to-everything spirit of our own age's contemporary classical music - especially those parts of it who inwardly digested the lessons taught by Bartok about talking folk melody to heart. Svjatki means 'Christmastide', but secular aspects of Christmas are as much a part of the work as the seasons's purely Christian side. It comes in six movements, beginning with a lively 'Slava', and Kastalsky would probably have been pleased by her use of folk-style singing techniques. I would use the damning-with-faint-praise word (word?) 'OK' to describe my feelings about this piece. The lady's music so far makes just one appearance on YouTube - an excerpt from a percussion piece called There is a Time for Autumn - where, rather tellingly I think, you will  hear a chant-like melody over a drone (in classic Orthodox style), alongside more conventional (and less engaging) modern percussion writing/doodling.

A joyous Christmas to every one of my many millions of Russian Orthodox readers!