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 other Rusalka

My post last year on the music of Alexander Dargomyzhsky - the 200th anniversary of whose birth falls this year - found him to be an interesting rather than an inspiring composer. Now, however, I've come across a 1971 film of his other great opera Rusalka and I've enjoyed watching it. The piece is one that gets occasional mentions outside Russia (and the Ukraine) for being "the other Rusalka" (i.e. not the popular opera by Dvorak). It also gets occasional mentions in articles and books about music acknowledging its steps towards the "melodic recitative" Dargomyzhsky made famous in The Stone Guest and which had such an influence on Russian composers to come. Mentions, however, are all his Rusalka gets. We never get to hear the piece here in the United Kingdom. 

Rusalka, based (like The Stone Guest) on Pushkin, follows in the paths of Glinka by displaying strong elements of Italian opera (Bellini, Donizetti & Co., arias, duets, terzettos and cavatinas) alongside Russian-sounding, folk-like elements. The style is predominantly a lyrical one, such as would be found in the still-to-be-written operas of Smetana. 

The story tells of how a Prince courts a miller's daughter called Natalia (in disguise of course). The Prince, however, then goes on to marry a wealthy foreign lady instead. Natalia, having fallen pregnant, despairs and throws herself into the river. Time passes. The Prince is unhappy in his marriage to the Princess and lurks by the river pining for Natalia. She, in the meantime, has become the queens of the rusalkas (water nymphs) and, though still in love with the Prince, plots revenge and gets their young daughter to draw him into the waters. Her father, incidentally, has gone mad. The Princess tries to save the Prince but he hears Natalia's voice and follows her into the waters.

The passage with the daughter is an unusual one in that the girl playing the role has to speak rather than sing over the orchestra. The orchestra's importance is growing towards its key role in The Stone Guest. 

Please take a listen and see what you make of it. Just don't expect to hear the Song to the Moon! 

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?

Who's afraid of Tikhon Khrennikov?

This little blog holds to the principle (doubtless a political principle in itself) that the morals of a composer and the awfulness of his beliefs are all very interesting but will not be discussed here. They can be read about elsewhere. Only the music will be discussed at Serenade to Music (as serenades aren't meant for deep philosophical argument). It's very difficult to hold to this principle while discussing Soviet music, however, as the whole field is strewn with countless politically-charged mines - mines people keep insisting on laying. The so-called 'Shostakovich Wars' - an insanely heated squabble over Shostakovich's presumed political opinions - show this danger at its clearest. So much bile has been wasted by critics over the issue.  It comes to something when reviewers in some of the most prestigious music magazines give the strong impression of preferring to write about the booklet notes accompanying a new CD (giving their writer an ideological kicking wherever necessary) rather than giving us their considered judgement on the music and the quality of the performance.  

That said, I shall now dip a little toe into these murky waters and say that the former 'good boys' of Soviet Music - those who wrote and enforced the conformist music demanded of composers by the authorities in the USSR (especially at certain periods) - now appear to be largely seen as the 'bad boys' and, as a result, find their music dismissed and ignored. The most controversial of these one-time 'good boys' is Tikhon Khrennikov, born 100 years ago this year, dying as recently as 2007 - a man whose long life encompassed the rise and fall of the Soviet Union, with room to spare. Stalin made him the all-powerful Secretary of the Composers' Union in 1948 (the year of the infamous decree denouncing many of the country's best-known composers for 'formalism'), a post he retained until 1992 (following the collapse of the Soviet Union). Wikipedia's (largely unsympathetic) entry on him will give you a flavour as to why he is so controversial - and two contrasting obituaries (one broadly sympathetic, one unsympathetic) can be read here (from The Economist) and here (from The Daily Telegraph). 

Having made those concessions to political concerns, the questions I feel much happier dealing with now loom up, enticingly: What sort of composer was Khrennikov? Did he produce nothing but conformist hack-work? Is he a 'bad composer', unworthy to be heard? Is he unfit to wipe the boots of Shostakovich, Prokofiev & Co., musically-speaking? Ah, bring on the music and let's judge for ourselves!!

My first port of call was the 1959 Violin Concerto No.1, Op.14. Let me say straight away that I liked the piece. There's not a lot to dislike about it. To give it its full title, it's his Violin Concerto No. 1 in C major opus 14 - and that 'in C major' tells you that this concerto is going to be resolutely tonal music. It's also highly traditional in structure and feel, with solo writing that is firmly within the familiar virtuoso manner (including old-style cadenzas). Khrennikov's opening Allegro con fuoco contains two main themes. The first is fast , optimistic and open to passionate restatement, with more than a tinge of Prokofiev about it - the sort of tune a giddy Juliet might dance to. It isn't quite in the same league of melodic memorability as Prokofiev, but it's not bad. Nor is the second theme, which is sweetly lyrical and 'oriental' in character - the sort of folk-like melody Russian composers had been writing (to the delight of their admirers) for generations; indeed, I think it's a clear descendant of such things as Rimsky Korsakov's Song of India. The scoring, again, has something of Prokofiev about it. The working-out is conventional but enjoyable, with cymbals crashing away in the coda. The central Andante espressivo is another outpouring of sweet, affecting lyricism - its romantic sweetness tempered (as it so often is in Prokofiev's music) by touches of cool fantasy in the orchestral accompaniment and an occasional, very slight dryness of harmony. That sweetness isn't tempered very much though and the impression given is of heart-on-sleeve stuff - or at least music that sounds like heart-on-sleeve stuff. Fleeting orientalisms and Prokofievisms add to the movement's considerable charm. If it's kitsch, it's first-rate kitsch. The closing Allegro agitato is old-fashioned piece of virtuoso showmanship, guaranteed to bring the violinist plenty of applause at the concerto's end. There are two themes again - the first fast and (as the marking suggests) agitated (albeit in an optimistic, Soviet way), the second lyrical and once more flavoured with 'oriental' colouring. If you like the lighter side of Prokofiev's music, you should like this. I do.

Was Khrennikov versatile enough to write something different in his other concertos, or do they all sound like Prokofiev with added sweeteners? Well, his Cello Concerto No.1 in C major, Op.16 of 1964, for one, is certainly cut from much the same cloth as the First Violin Concerto. If you like one you'll surely like the other. In three movements, its opening Prelude opens with a gentle if passionate outpouring of lyricism from the soloist, set against various counter-melodies and an insistent if unobtrusive throb. The strain of lyricism on offer here is much the same as that found in the violin concerto, with an 'oriental' turn-of-phrase in the main melody that is strikingly similar to the 'hook' of the second subject in the first movement of the earlier piece. This may be a Khrennikov fingerprint. After this lovely start, the second movement keeps to the Prelude's 'Andante' marking and is even more lyrical in character, with no trace of 'orientalism' to be found anywhere. It bears the title Aria and brings forth a flow of warmly expressive melody. The mood may initially surprise you in that it takes us away from straightforward Soviet optimism into something rather more wistful and inward-sounding. Khrennikov adheres to his own principles, however, and refuses to indulge in fruitless introspective gloom, soon bringing into his music plenty of major-key warmth. It is another beautiful, heart-on-sleeve-sounding movement that should appeal to anyone who loves the Korngold Violin Concerto. (The tunes aren't as memorable though). The closing Sonata, the most lively movement (an 'Allegro'), brings more tunefulness and some opportunities for audience-pleasing display from the soloist - though fireworks aren't really the order of the day here any more than they are in the concerto as a whole. There is a little Prokofiev-style garishness (and even dissonance) from the orchestra in this movement, but the soloist remains essentially a singer of melodies. 

Had his style changed by the time of the Cello Concerto No.2, Op.30 of 1986? Well, there are certain differences. For starters, there are only two movements. There's also no key marking in the title and the ruminative opening suggests that the composer might be about to venture into harmonic territory he had previously forbidden (not just himself but every other Soviet composer too). He doesn't, but his harmonic palette is certainly a little wider here. That opening passage has a strong flavour of Shostakovich for example. Still, the essence of Khrennikov's music remains much as it was in the earlier works. Lyricism certainly stays as a constant feature and this Adagio first movement is soon pouring out a stream of expressive melody, strongly rooted in rich tonal harmonies - and sounding far more romantic than the sort of melodic writing you tend to find in Shostakovich's music. There are dramatic passages and some virtuoso passage work for the soloist, but the singing of melodies is the movement's main motivation. There are some lovely movements. The second movement Con Moto has plenty of Prokofiev-style action in its fast sections and is more openly virtuosic in character but, as you may be beginning to expect by now, there are lyrical passages too. I wouldn't class this movement as being so involving, just as I wouldn't say that this short concerto is enjoyable as its earlier counterparts, but it isn't unengaging.

None of these three works scorches its way into the gut and the memory in the way that Prokofiev's two great violin concertos or Shostakovich's equivalent concertos do. Khrennikov is undeniably a lesser composer than either of those two mighty figures of Russian music. He isn't a negligible figure though and I'm sure many of you will find all three of these concertos to be highly attractive pieces and will be as pleased as I've been to encounter them.  

What though of the old apparatchik's symphonies? The first one I encountered was his final effort, the Symphony No.3 in A major, Op.22 of 1972. It is the best thing I've yet heard by Khrennikov. It starts with a very energetic fugue that demonstrates the composer's ability to sound a bit like Prokofiev and a bit like Shostakovich while being himself. Far from being an anaemic, academic fugue, it's a somewhat grotesque-sounding jaunt. If it were by Shostakovich, you'd suspect irony and subversion. Being by Khrennikov, it ain't irony or subversion. It's absorbing stuff though. The central Intermezzo is strange and rather beautiful. It contains an ethereal theme that, surely by coincidence, sounds like a prominent theme from Shostakovich's Fifth Symphony slowed down, placed high in the violins and made to sound like a tune from a Prokofiev ballet. The central climax is splendidly dissonant in much the same way as Prokofiev's dissonant climaxes in Romeo and Juliet are splendid. This movement is where the composer's bias towards lyricism blossoms and his scoring is full of imaginative details, such as the poetic ending (shades of Prokofiev's Cinderella). The Finale sets hectic toccata-like music, marked out by the prominent use of the xylophone, around a rather mysterious central lyrical passage. A fine piece I believe it will repay your time getting to know.

As will its predecessor. Though the first movement was written before the German invasion of the Soviet Union in 1941, the bulk of the Second Symphony in C minor, Op.9 was composed during the Great Patriotic War. This is a big, traditional symphonic statement, opening with an Allegro con fuoco that combines heroism, high spirits and idyllic lyrical visions. This is, I assume, a vision of Stalin's glorious Soviet Union before Hitler went and spoiled the party by invading, though there are anticipations of the war sorrow and fighting to come. Intriguingly, the climaxes show the residual influence of Tchaikovsky. The lovely second subject is the lyrical one, with characteristic sharpened notes (redolent of folk-music). The following Adagio is said to be an evocation of the suffering caused by the invasion, though it clearly doesn't set out to wrench the listener's emotions in the way that other such symphonies might, sounding regretful and stoical rather than despairing and angry. Again, I would note that the spirit of the 'pathetic' Tchaikovsky is not too far away, with a smidgeon of Prokofiev in some of the orchestration. It is melody-driven and essentially lyrical. The ending may remind you a little of the ending of the equivalent movement in the A major Symphony. If that movement wasn't quite what you'd expect from the description of what it was intended to evoke, then the third movement Allegro molto sounds even further removed from what it is said to evoke - the fight against the Nazi invaders. Such a description might lead you to expect something full of fire and desperate energy. What you get instead is a colourful, somewhat balletic scherzo that makes a generally good-natured, occasionally slightly grotesque yet overall utterly charming impression. Only the closing bars sound remotely war-like. The final Allegro marziale looks forward to victory and is much more like what you would anticipate from such a description, with lots of brass and percussion, marching rhythms and tattoo-like figures. Still, scherzo-like episodes that seem to hearken back to the preceding movement and lyrical asides add unexpected aspects to the movement, though the music swiftly reverts to heroic battle music. For a serious wartime symphony, it's an unexpectedly entertaining affair. That presumably was what Khrennikov intended it to be, to lift his listener's spirits at a time when they most needed lifting.

Two fine symphonies then - not the equal of the best of the Shostakovich and Prokofiev symphonies, obviously, but worthy of an occasional outing (if your scruples about the man don't get in the way).

I've not yet heard the First Symphony, Op.4 of 1933-5, but for a flavour of early Khrennikov there's always his Piano Concerto No.1 in F major, Op.1 of 1932 - a work that is full of youthful high spirits and virtuosity. Some of the cheek of early Prokofiev and early Shostakovich finds its counterpart here, though there's that impulse to lyricism already present and correct in the central Andante (along with the odd 'oriental' turn of melodic phrase). For a work written by a man on the verge of his twentieth birthday, it's a  convincing and attractive piece of writing. It many ways, this is a different type of concerto to those for strings with which this post began. There is versatility in Khrennikov's art.

By the time of his 1972 Piano Concerto No.2 in C major, Op.21 the virtuosity found in the First Concerto returned with a vengeance. It begins as an extended cadenza for the soloist, building contrapuntally towards an exciting torrent of sound. The climactic passage brings in the orchestra in a blaze of C major, with an off-key note ringing out against it like a bell. The strings bring out the composer's characteristic sharpening and flattening of the melodic notes of a romantic, lyrical tune but the bell effect returns, with real bells, to wonderful effect to bring the Introduction to a dramatic conclusion. The central Sonata is a tradition piano-versus-orchestra conflict, full of dramatic energy. Again, we seem to be in a different place from the string concertos. There is still a feel of Prokofiev about the music though, yet it's the toccata-like, driven side of Prokofiev that is recalled here. It's not all sound and fury, as there's a scherzo-like central episode to enjoy - though that quickly sounds out furiously too. It's an exciting roller-coaster ride of a movement. Where's the lyricism? A Khrennikov work without page after page of lyricism? Surely not! But yes!! The closing Rondo keeps to the spirit of energetic élan found throughout the concerto as a whole, though it does so in a more cheerful manner, with some of the cheek from its predecessor concerto returning. Towards its close (and after another cadenza) the climactic music from the first movement returns and brings the piece to a rousing close in true cyclic fashion. What a fine piece this is!

There's another one to go. (I've not yet heard the Fourth Piano Concerto of 1991). The Piano Concerto No.3 in C, Op.28 from 1983-4 is a slightly lighter affair than the Second. The opening music reminds me somewhat of the gamelan-style music from the end of the first movement of Poulenc's delicious Double Piano Concerto. I wonder if Khrennikov had it in mind. After the woodwinds echo it most attractively, the piano introduces a lyrical melody of the kind we have grown to expect from our composer, though its continuation again has a surprising amount of Poulenc about it. Much of this passage is for the piano alone, though the woodwinds get the tune shortly after. The mood shifts again to something more boisterous and garish before we are swung into a spot of cheeky neo-Classical charm...and so on. Who else composes like that? Poulenc. (I think I'm onto something here and I bet you can guess what it is!). After such an entertaining movement, the listener must have high hopes for the central Moderato. They are mostly met. It takes the form of a slow, lyrical waltz - a valse triste, so to speak (though as ever with this composer, it's not especially triste) - at least to begin with. Cadenza-like passages for the pianist, however, carry us away from this initial music and the opening theme returns transformed into something loud and brash. The movement has moved somewhere very different. The piano tries to assuage the violent mood that has entered the music and the music drifts away in a spirit of hesitant lyricism, poetically. The closing Allegro is closer in spirit to the Second Piano Concerto than either of the other two movements and brings the work to a bravura close, with a few surprises along the way.

All three of these Khrennikov's piano concertos would prove a pleasant experience for concert-going and home-staying listeners alike. Will the man's bad name stop this from happening any time soon?

For Khrennikov on a smaller scale, there's the Cello Sonata, Op.34 from 1989. The main melody of the opening Andantino has a variation on that little 'oriental' melodic hook found in the First Violin Concerto and the First Cello Concerto. The movement as a whole has other elements those of you who have followed me through the composer's music will recognise from other pieces, but it's none the worse for that. The piece will strike a particular chord with those whose favourite side of Khrennikov is that found most conspicuously in his string concertos. The central Andante is soulful-sounding and lyrical while the closing Allegro is lively and tuneful.

Among other treats from Tikhon Khrennikov to be found on YouTube, I expect you'll enjoy his Song of the Drunks from the incidental music to Much Ado About Nothing, Op.7 from 1935-6), and how about his Five Romances for voice and piano after Robert Burns, Op.11 from 1942?

So, what do you make of the music of this extremely controversial figure? Attractive, isn't it? Would you have preferred it to have been complete rubbish? 

Putting the Catoire among the Pigeons

A symphony is a piece of music that should carry you away, body and soul, into its own unique world. Any symphony that fails to do that hasn't really worked for the listener. 

Such a truism sprang to mind while listening to a symphony by the Russian Silver Age composer Gyorgy Catoire (1861-1926). The Symphony in C minor, Op.7 from 1899 was completely new to me but it soon swept me up and carried me along, happily. 

It is a remarkable thing just how many Russian symphonies there are, most of them unfamiliar to us. Yes, the Tchaikovsky and Borodin symphonies get regular airings, as do two (or three) of the Prokofiev canon, Scriabin's Poem of Ecstasy, the very occasional post-Soviet/post-Schnittke effort and - of course - many of the Shostakovich symphonies, plus the Rachmaninov three and Stravinsky's various masterpieces bearing the word 'symphony' in their title. Still, that really is the tip of the iceberg. 

Several of those from around the end of the 19th Century share a number of features, and this spacious symphony by Catoire is quite typical of them. It sounds like a loving extension of the great Golden Age Russian symphonies - principally those of Borodin -, with more than a dash of Rimsky Korsakov and Tchaikovsky chucked in for good measure. The heroic first movement mines a couple of short phrases with something approaching obsessiveness, spinning them out through sequences into broad, singing paragraphs. Just as Tchaikovsky's symphonies fell foul of Germanophile critics who described their structures as being weak at the joints, so Catoire's symphony often seems to come near to grinding to a complete standstill at the transition from one section to another. I have to say that I find it in endearing quality, though if you're after rigorous symphonic logic throughout you might find the habit a little disconcerting. Many of the melodies found in the symphony are of that lyrical, folk-inflected variety which lovers of Russian music so treasure, with touches of unpredictably in their phrasing and occasional metrical irregularities too. As occasionally happens in the Tchaikovsky symphonies, you could easily get caught out were you ever tempted to conduct the beat whilst listening along. The main theme of the scherzo is one such theme and I think you'll enjoy it. The lyrical theme of the trio section of this same movement is particularly lovely and will, I suspect, prove most popular with you. It has a warm, waltzing lilt at times that I found rather irresistible. The slow movement also has a strong lyrical appeal, with the melancholy of winter daydreams seeming to breathe through its main theme and consoling optimism coursing through its broad second subject. The symphony is scored throughout with considerable concern for colour and you would have to have a strong puritanical streak not to relish the Rimsky-like fantasy of the orchestration found in parts of the finale - a movement that mingles Russian Romantic fairy dust with Russian Romantic symphonic drama. It's perhaps not wholly convincing in its attempts to fuse them together but it's enjoyable nonetheless. I'm sure you'll notice the return of a familiar theme as this movement's second theme - an instance of cyclical form, long popular with Russian composers. As you approach the end, please also try to guess whether the symphony is going to end quietly or loudly. 

Is this lush, colourful and very Russian-sounding late-Romantic symphony representative of the music of Gyorgy Catoire? Not as far as I can tell. Catoire's music has begun to obtain a little more purchase in recent years, primarily thanks to the Hyperion label's championing of his chamber and solo piano music. These reveals different facets of the composer's rich and fascinating art. I'm not sure (were I to have listened to them blind) that I'd have connected the composer of the Symphony in C minor with any of them.

The place to plunge in next is with the Piano Quartet, Op.31. Would you have taken it to be by the same composer?

This is a work that fans of French Wagnerian music - the likes of Franck, Lekeu and Chausson - will take to most readily. Catoire was very keen on Wagner (not that you'd know it from his symphony) and, as you can probably tell from his name, he had a bit of a French streak too, so his music's ability to sound like French Wagnerian music shouldn't be too unexpected. This is serious, heady, chromatically-inclined stuff, not meant for light listening but capable of bearing you aloft on its flow of perfumed passion. The first movement best captures such a characterisation, though the central Andante breathes only slightly less hothouse air. It has a lyricism allied to harmonic interest that makes it the quartet's star movement. That said, the delicious delicacy of the closing movement is hard to resist either. In this movement especially, you can hear the exquisite intricacy of the the composer's piano music...

...wherein may be found a commingling of virtuosity and lyricism that will bring great delight to many a lover of late-Romantic keyboard heroics. The Caprice, Op.3 is towering in its demands on the performer and in also being a confection grounded in essential simplicity. 

Genre pieces abound in this area of the composer's art. The Valse, Op.36 shows Catoire entering Chopin's territory, albeit a Chopin viewed through the eyes of a composer enthusiastic about the innovations of early and middle period Scriabin. Scriabin is a key figure in the music of our composer.  The Poeme is a very Scriabinesque genre. and Catoire's Poeme, Op.34/2 is a very Scriabinesque piece. The delectability of Scriabin allied, I think, with the sensibility of late Brahms may also be glimpsed in in the Réverie from Catoires's Op.10, though fans of Tchaikovsky's much-maligned but, in fact, magnificent piano music may also recognise their man there...as they might in the lovely, poetic Nocturne, Op.12/3.  

Such is the confusing nature of wonderful minor composers - a plethora of influences and sound-alikes! Add Liadov, Rachmaninov, Medtner and Debussy to Scriabin, Wagner, Tchaikovsky, Franck, Rimsky Korsakov, Brahms, Borodin (etc) and you might get the picture. 

Further listening

Elegy

Piano Concerto 

Etude fantastique

Violin Sonata No.2 

Russia's first song-writer?

Who was Russia's first art song composer? Certainly not Glinka, who was merely Russia's first great art song composer! It seems to be one Grigory Nikolaevich Teplov (1711-1779), a murky statesman close to Catherine the Great. 

His songs, which appear to have been popular in 18th Century Russia, feature the singer (or singers) as a voice (or voices) within a trio sonata-style texture. They have a winning simplicity, sweetened by the pervasive use of parallel thirds and sixths. I have only two examples to offer you, When you will start, my dear, believing and Although my road to happiness is closed. Neither sounds particularly Russian and both (to my ears) belong very much of the Age of Pergolesi.

If Glinka is the known as the 'father' of Russian song and Teplov should be seen as the 'great-grandfather', then the 'grandfather' of Russian song is Nicolai Alexeyevich Titov (1800-1875). He worked within the French-inspired sentimental 'romance' tradition, as can be heard from songs like The Blue Scarf, Singer or To Morpheus. Simple, often suffused with melancholy, they provided a model many a Russian composer (including Glinka, Tchaikovsky, Rachmaninov, even Shostakovich) was to follow. 

Hebrew Melodies

The Russian-Jewish composer Joseph Achron (1886-1943), born in Lithuania, died in Hollywood, sounds like another fascinating neglected figure. 

The summary of his career seems to run as follows: A pupil of Liadov, he became keen on writing "Jewish music" initially through applying his studies of folk music. After falling under the spell of Scriabin for a while, he left Russia after the Revolution and passed through Mandatory Palestine before emigrating to America in the mid 1920s. The short stay in Palestine resulted in a renewed determination to write in a new Jewish idiom, this time based on traditional Biblical cantillation. Late on, perhaps influenced by his friendship with Schoenberg, he began writing atonal music. 

I wish I knew some of his Scriabinesque music and I would love to hear some of his late radical music too; in fact, so neglected is Achron that I can only bring you three of his works.

His best-known piece is the Hebrew Melody of 1911 - a piece for violin and orchestra (more commonly heard arranged for violin and piano) which freely arranges a number of Jewish folk-tunes in a warmly Romantic fashion. It's a very easy piece to like.

The other two pieces both date from just after Achron's post-Middle Eastern arrival in America. They are both wonderful works and ought to be in the mainstream repertoire. 

The first movement of the two-movement First Violin Concerto (Pt2,Pt3) show Achron's attempts to write in a new Jewish idiom most clearly. The themes of the movement are all closely based on ritual chants used to recite Biblical passages in synagogues, where musical motifs are associated with specific signs. The result is rhapsodic and passionate music of a very attractive melodic character. The second movement reverts to folksong inspiration and is subtitled Improvisations on 2 themes Yemeniques. The two Yemenite Jewish folksongs are alternated and occasionally woven together polyphonically. Anyone who enjoys the concertos of Szymanowski should respond with enthusiasm to this beautiful piece - as will many others besides. 

The Children's Suite for clarinet, piano and string quartet is also inspired by Jewish melody but, in its twenty short movements, has a good-humoured character that is far removed from the serious mood of the First Violin Concerto. It is full of wonderful tunes and has a Prokofiev-like sense of colour and mischief allied to an un-Prokofiev-like warmth. Audiences would just love it - and hopefully you will too. 

Rebikov: What a composer!

“Rebikov was already a forgotten figure by the time of his death at age 54. He was bitter and disillusioned, convinced wrongly that composers such as Debussy, Scriabin, and Stravinsky had made their way into public prominence through stealing his ideas. Ironically Rebikov is best known by way of his insubstantial music in salon genres. Rebikov's role as an important early instigator of twentieth-century techniques deserves to be more widely recognized.” (Uncle Dave Lewis, Allmusic)

That's an intriguing portrait of a forgotten figure of Russian music, Vladimir Rebikov (1866-1920). True to Uncle Dave's words, quite a bit of his "insubstantial music in salon genres" is available for listening but I've also been able to hear some of his experimental works where Wikipedia tells us he used "seventh and ninth chords, unresolved cadences, polytonality, and harmony based upon open fourths and fifths," many of which are beautifully-crafted and highly pleasurable to listen to. They also back up Dave's claims for his significance. Ladies and gentlemen, we have a real discovery on our hands here!

One of the wonders of YouTube is the dedication of many of its channel owners. One such is the pianist Phillip Sear whose channel is a treasure-trove for lovers of forgotten composers, including Rebikov. Phillip's dedicated performances will feature a lot in this post.

The best place to begin is with his Tondichtungen (Tone poems), Op.13 (Pt2, Pt3) of 1897, where titles like 'Fate', 'Wish', 'Troubled Atmosphere' and 'Daydreams' show the collection's roots in Schumann and Tchaikovsky, with a touch of Russian Nationalism in 'In the Caucasus'. I have to say I think lovers of Romantic piano music will find the Tone Poems highly attractive. There are, however, increasing signs as the set progresses of the more experimental composer to come. I will pick out a few numbers. The first piece, Fatalité ('Fate') has a winning melody of the kind you find in the piano works of Tchaikovsky and builds to a powerful climax, aided by bell-like notes and chords. It sounds thoroughly Russian. Au Caucase ('In the  Caucasus'), the second piece, juxtaposes a melancholy tune over alternating chords with a faster Caucasian-style folk theme (full of triplet figures) over a bagpipe-like drone. It is as charming as a Grieg Lyric Piece. The fifth piece, Au berceau ('At the cradle'), makes charming use of parallel fourths in its melody and uses sevenths in its accompaniment - creating a gently dissonant chiming effect. The seventh piece Reveries ('Daydreams') - or Träumerei in German - gives its rather conventional melody more little touches of freshening dissonance, beginning with the clash of a major second in the right hand followed by a clash of a major seventh in the left and ends, after a charming chiming effect, on an unresolved cadence. You might even hear momentary glimpses of Scriabin-like harmony in the (recurring) opening chord of the main melody of the eight piece, Appel ('Appeal') (not a favourite of mine though) and the opening theme of  the following Morceau Lyrique ('Lyric Piece') opens with a sequence of rising fourths and uses fourths in its harmony too, ending on another unresolved cadence. The closing tone poem Doute ('Doubt') pushes Rebikov's harmony to its furthest limits, though the chromaticism clearly has Wagnerian roots, and also ends on an unresolved cadence. 

Moving on in time to 1900 and Dans leur pays (In their Land), Op.27 (Pt2) we find Rebikov's style has advanced quite some way, with a charming opening number called Les géants dansent ('The giants dance') that has touches of what might be called Debussyan harmony. The harmonies and some of the textures of its  attractive successor Il chante (He sings') are also somewhat Debussyan, though its lyricism is rather Lisztian.  These opening numbers give promise of a fine set of piano pieces, and that promise is delivered. The third piece Les enfants dansent ('The children dance') is as irresistible as a Schumann Scene from Childhood, as is Elle danse ('She dances') - a number that bursts in with élan and whole-tone harmony. The fifth number, Ils passent ('They pass by'), builds up a quite remarkable amount of tension in the lead-up to the return of the dancing main theme. For a piano miniature this is one exciting piece! Ronde ('Round dance') returns us to he world of the whole-tone scale for a dance over ostinato figures, while the seventh piece, Les vielles femmes dansent ('The old women dance'), has a little of the harshness of sonority found in late Scriabin (before its time) and the closing Les vielliards dansent ('The old men dance') brings Dans leur pays to a bracing close with the biting interval of the tritone ('the devil in music') playing a major part in the number. What wonderful, imaginative pieces these are!! 

The tie-ins between this music and the advanced soundworld of Debussy (and Ravel for that matter) are intriguing to say the least. I suspect all Debussy-lovers out there will find the piano reduction of Dance of the Chinese Puppets from the composer's 1903 opera Yolka ('The Christmas Tree') a source of surprise and delight. (The Waltz from the opera is, however, far closer to Tchaikovsky in style). 

Moving forward to 1907 and the set of miniature miniatures Une Fête (A festival), Op.38, we find Rebikov consolidating his genial, colourful style in music that sounds remarkably advanced for the time. Try the opening Vivo and see if it doesn't make you think of Béla Bartók - a composer who was just then embarking on his evolution into modernity. These seven numbers are vibrant, tuneful and full of dissonant harmony - and the jaw-dropping parallels with Bartók keep on coming (the fifth piece especially). Fabulous music!  

There's even an anticipation of the 'white-on-white' Stravinsky in the Chansons blanches, Op.48 of 1913 - four pieces played entirely on the white notes of the piano. The closing sequence of chords in the final piece is highly Stravinskyan. (Did Stravinsky know these pieces?) They are again soaked in fourths, though you might not notice their presence as much as they are concentrated in the harmonies and the accompanying figuration more than in the melodies of the pieces (with the strong exception of the third piece). My favourite is the second, with a tune that could have been written by Ned Rorem.

Where has Vladimir Rebikov been all my life?

Further listening:
Rêves de bonheur (1890)
Tristesse
Valse Mélancolique  
Conseil Inutile ('Useless Advice')
3 Ballades (1901)
Feuilles d'automne (1904)
Fleurs d'Automne (1910)
Les Feux du Soir (1910) (Pt2)

Not to be confused with...

Lovers of Russian music (and readers of this blog) may have heard of the fine late-Romantic composer Sergei Taneyev, but how many have heard of his distant cousin Alexander Taneyev (1850-1918)? Alexander was a civil servant (the Director of the Imperial Chancellery no less)  with intriguing connections to Russia's royal family. His daughter Anna was the lady-in-waiting and best friend of the Empress Alexandra. His wife, on the other hand, was a cousin of Tolstoy. 

Like Borodin he was a part-time composer. His teacher was Rimsky Korsakov, so it's hardly surprising that his Symphony No.2 in B flat minor has the stamp of Russian nationalism about it, though it sounds to me to inhabit a soundworld rather closer to Tchaikovsky. Set next to the symphonies of Borodin and Tchaikovsky (or the Fourth Symphony of Sergei) the symphony may appear to be that of a minor composer - but then that remark applies to most Russian symphonies and is surely an unfair comparison. There remains much to recommend this unfamiliar symphony. 

Alexander's daughters,  Anna and Alexandra

The atmospheric slow introduction to the first movement is beautifully scored, demonstrating that Alexander had a flair for colourful orchestration. This is an excellent section. The fine main theme of the first movement Allegro has the character of a Russian folk-dance and is complemented by a lyrical second subject (announced by the woodwinds) - a tune which starts off well though it rather trails off as it goes on. The development section works on the main theme in a somewhat predictable way before doing something similar for the second subject then climaxing energetically with the aid of cymbals and beginning the recapitulation in the same forceful spirit. The Scherzo is pleasing, with yet more delightful orchestral colours and strong rhythm made interesting by all manner of unexpected accents. The trio section is lyrical with a Borodin-like tune, complete with oriental turn (admittedly not in the same league as a genuine Borodin tune, but likeable nonetheless). The Adagio may lack a memorable melody but it's a beautiful movement marked by warm textures and a melancholy nobility. The finale is bright and triumphant in tone, though it has a lyrical second subject for contrast - a sub-Tchaikovksyan tune with Borodinesque turns. As so often with Romantic symphonies, the finale is the least successful movement, though it has charming passages. 

For more Alexander Taneyev, please try this lovely Orthodox Easter chorus.

There are so many interesting hidden corners in Russian music. 

From bells to accordians

I do like the simplicity of the idea behind Arvo Pärt's tintinnabuli style. You start with a the tonic triad of a particular key, say F minor:

In a four-voice piece you will then have two of the voices sounding the three notes of the triad (F, Ab and C) and their part will consist of arpeggiated lines made from just those notes. The other two voices sing any of the notes from the scale of the tonic key, including those three notes - except for obeying the simple rule that the movement of those two voices must only proceed stepwise. They can, however, change direction - upwards or downwards - at will. The piece is thus rooted on and around a single chord and its various inversions. The effect is to compared with the pealing of bells - hence tintinnabuli from the Latin word for 'bell'. That may all sound very constricting, but the results can be rich, beautiful and expressive. Take Pärt's setting of the De Profundis for male chorus, organ and percussion for example. Tenors and basses emerge from the depths, crescendoing slowly against flickering figures from the organ, with barely audible drum beats and occasional chimes from a tubular bell, before fading back into quietness again and ending. Beautiful, isn't it?

Arvo Pärt is, of course, continuing the long tradition of setting Psalm 130, Out of the Depths. Having looked at Renaissance and French Baroque setting, I thought I might leap forward to settings by  composers written since the end of the Second World War (before moving back in time again in later posts). I think you will find that there is a great deal of variety out there!

John Rutter's Requiem features an English language setting of De Profundis as its second movement. It is one of my favourite Rutter movements. Forget about the John Rutter of the carols and all thoughts of sugariness. Here his style sails very close to Vaughan Williams at his most serene and the warmth of harmony and sound he draws from his forces (mixed chorus, solo cello, orchestra and organ) achieves a deeply consolatory effect. The solo cello's soulful pleading meets the beauty of a modally-inflected melody at the start is immediately winning and the composer certainly knows how to write a radiantly tonal climax. 

Now, if Arvo Pärt and John Rutter take a solacing view of the text of Psalm 130, the same cannot quite be said of Arnold Schoenberg, whose unaccompanied choral work De Profundis, Op.50b encompasses all the moods of the psalm, including anguish. There are many contrasts of texture, usually proceeding simultaneously, with solos, duos and full 6-part choral writing. Most of the music is sung but against these lines are counterpointed chanted phrases, cries, whispers (Sprechstimme), very effectively - as if many voices are crying out from the depth, in whatever way they can. Listen out in particular for the gorgeous passage (setting "My soul waits for the Lord", beginning at 4.10 into the linked video) where Schoenberg's writing becomes almost Brahms-like. Yes, the piece is twelve-tone and, thus, atonal, but the harmonies often strike a passing tonal note and you can feel as if you are hearing tonal music where the keys are modulating so fast that the mind cannot catch them. The setting is in Hebrew. The composer dedicated the piece to the newborn State of Israel. If performed with passion, this piece can really hit the spot. (Dry performances do it no favours). I love hearing it. 

Krzyzstof Penderecki's Symphony No.7, Seven Gates of Jerusalem (a cantata/choral symphony written in honour of Jerusalem) features an a cappella movement called De Profundis that seems to me to contain clear echoes of the Schoenberg. His language combines (or juxtaposes) tonality with chromaticism and modality and has space for writing that comes close the the spirit of the gorgeous passage in the Schoenberg and other writing that nears the various Sprechstimme effects of that other piece. 

Naturally, there are also instrumental works that draw on the words of Psalm 130 for their inspiration. You might (or you might not) like to try Sofia Gubaidulina's extraordinary De Profundis for solo accordian, a piece whose opening certainly does evoke the sound of voices crying out of the deep. After a while you will hear a slow chorale. This begins to make repeated efforts to escape from darkness to light, from the depths to the heavens. In the end it succeeds. The range of sounds she conjures out of the instrument have to be heard to be believed. An organ could hardly do more. It's not always a comfortable listen but it is worth hearing and makes for a dramatic contrast to the Pärt piece with which this post began.

Dargomyzhsky: The Stone Guest

If you're the sort of obsessive (like me) who loves reading about music and composers and if you also have a penchant for Russian music, the name Alexander Dargomyzhsky (1813-69) will have kept popping out at you. He is one of those composers whose names are ever-present in the history books but whose music is never - or hardly ever - heard. (This may be different within Russia). So what does his music sound like? Well, there's only one way to find out...

Dargomyzhsky was a slightly younger contemporary of Mikhail Glinka and is considered, like him, to be a spiritual father of the Mighty Handful. He is most famous for his Pushkin-based opera The Stone Guest - a take on the Don Giovanni story, albeit a tragic rather than a tragicomic one. It's the work which gets him all the mentions in the history books. 

Like many of his contemporaries, Dargomyzhsky aimed at realism in the arts and pioneered the use of speech rhythms in opera. His innovation was to make them fit a new type of "melodic recitative" (as Cui christened it). The result, when you listen to The Stone Guest, is an overwhelmingly recitative-driven through-composed opera which, for the most part, avoids set-piece arias (except when the drama demands a song - as with Laura's songs), duets, ensembles (etc). That the recitative style invented by the composer is a 'melodic' one will be heard immediately. There was enough melodic material in the work (as Dargomyzhsky left it) for its orchestrator Rimsky-Korsakov to fashion an overture from it. However, the fact remains that the prime purpose of The Stone Guest - to project Pushkin's words and create a naturalistic sung drama - means that there isn't too much that lingers in the memory after the opera has ended. That doesn't make it a failure, of course - if you watch as well as listen to the opera (as you are meant to do!). Still, I've seen it now and have no great wish to listen to it again for pleasure. 

As an example of a later opera directly influenced by Dargomyzhsky's The Stone Guest, please try Rimsky Korsakov's Mozart and Salieri.

What else does Dargomyzhsky have to offer? 

Well, he was also a composer of songs. As an enthusiast for the music of Glinka, I can clearly hear the influence of the elder composer in each stage of what follows. I would say that Glinka was, by a long way, the better composer but that Dargomyzhsky was the one who took what Glinka began and nudged it on towards his famous successors. 

He seems to have started out writing French-influenced romances (of the kind Tchaikovsky was to specialise in), as well as 'Russian songs'. An early example where the French influence is all-pervasive comes with Au bal. As later examples of his straightforward romance style, please give his melancholy Mne grustno ('I'm sad because I love you') or his stoical Rasstalis' gordo mi ('We parted proudly, without a word or tear') a try. Both are lyrical pieces but ones with character. Even better is the short but memorable Ya vas ljubil ('I loved you') - understandably the composer's most popular song. His glorification of free love Svad'ba ('The Marriage') was a popular piece in the composer's time, but Ya vas ljubil seems to have beaten it all hands down these days. Other songs in this vein you might like to listen to are his Bolero and Tutschky nebesnyje ('Heavenly clouds'), with its touches of gypsy passion.

As he developed, however, his style - moving in the direction of The Stone Guest - began to change towards the 'realist', with declamatory, character songs assuming primacy in his output. An interesting example of this is Starzy kapral ('The old corporal'), a ballad about an old soldier condemned to death for insulting a young officer, who urges on the reluctant firing squad with the words 'In step, lads...one, two!' It has definite echoes of Glinka's magnificent The Night Review but its 'natural' speech rhythms carry us one step closer to the dramatic songs of Mussorgsky - as does Mel'nik ('The Miller'), a comic song about a drunken miller coming home at night and getting an earful from the missus. It's in these songs where you see the great talent, if not necessarily the genius, of Alexander Dargomyzhsky. The satirical side of Mussorgsky is most closely anticipated in Chervyak ('The Worm'), a song where a man grovels and cringes towards a count, and Titulyarniy sovetnik ('The Civil Servant').  

Many of you will know the old Russian witch Baba Yaga from her appearance in Mussorgsky's Pictures at an Exhibition or in Liadov's tone poem Baba Yaga - two masterpieces of Russian music. Now, our man Dargomyzhsky got there first with an episodic orchestral piece depicting the old girl's flight from the Volga to Riga. Now, it's interesting to hear some of the colours the composer brings to his depiction - a very Russian sense of colour, learned from Glinka and inherited by all and sundry. Dargomyzhsky's Baba Yaga really takes off, so to speak, when the pace picks up and, though it's not a patch on those two later pieces, it has passages when it makes a strong impact and will (I hope) be one of the more pleasant surprises of this post. 

For another side of the composer, his salon-friendly side, please try the Valse melancholique - and, for my final piece of music, why not give this arrangement of his Tarantelle a go? It was made by one of his admirers, a composed who enthused over his originality - one Franz Liszt. 

There's certainly no denying his originality nor his significance in Russian music. I think I've gained a sense of why he gets so many mentions in histories of Russian music. I think I've also gained a sense of why his music is so rarely heard (outside of Russia). It just hasn't got the imaginative clout - the genius - of a Glinka or a Balakirev. Hopefully, you will be forming your own opinions about Dargomyzhsky.