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?

Scriabin 4: ...and there's more!

And for those of you who just can't get enough Scriabin, here are some of his pieces without opus numbers, nearly all early: 

For piano:
Canon in D minor (1883), written aged 11
Nocturne in A flat major (1884), composed aged 12
Valse in D flat major (1886), written aged 14
Valse in G sharp minor (1886), written aged 14
Sonata-Fantasy (1886), written aged 14
Egorova (Egoroff) variations (1887), written aged 15
Mazurka in F major (1889)
Mazurka in B minor (1889)
Feuillet d'Album de Monighetti in A flat major (1889)
Sonata in E flat minor (1889)
Fugue in E minor (1892)

For two pianos:
Fantasy for two pianos in A minor (1889)

For horn and piano:
Romance (1890)
(Yes, he did write a piece of chamber music after all!!)

For voice and piano:
Romance (1894)
(Yes, he did write a song!!)

Scriabin 3: Trill the End of Time

Critics just cannot agree about Scriabin. I've read summaries of his achievements over the years that rank him as a revolutionary great, while a few place him as being essentially a reactionary throwback and others position him somewhere in between. Are his late works atonal, do they pioneer a brand new kind of tonality or are they merely an extension of the old tonality? The critics have strong views on the issue, but they are in opposition to each other. I've read rather too many that seem to prefer highlighting the faults of other critics than in positively outlining their own positions, such that they read like axe-grinding. I particularly enjoyed (if that's the right word) one critic whose writing on Scriabin was largely about how other critics had got Scriabin completely wrong who, with a complete lack of self-awareness, then dropped in a crack at other critics for writing pieces that read like axe-grinding. Sheesh!

Having ground my own axe there, I'd like to very briefly state where I stand. I think Scriabin is a great composer. I don't doubt that Scriabin thought of himself as a revolutionary. The fact that his music evolves over time so naturally and gradually that his later innovations flow seamlessly from his earlier music without any sudden jolts doesn't make his music sound particularly revolutionary - especially if you listen to a lot of it in chronological order! I do think, however, that he achieved something original in music, comparable to the gentle revolution brought about by Debussy, by following the Russian path of exploring new soundworlds based on synthetic scales and taking it much, much further, doing so in such an accomplished manner that the step taken feels completely justified. Did his music become atonal? No, however much it may sometimes sound atonal. Key signatures were abandoned but his later works still seem to linger around a particular key or keys, however tenuously and however far they might wander from it (or them). It's rather in the nature of the 'mystic chord' to sound sort-of-tonal. So is his music merely an extension of the old tonality rather than being a brand new tonality? Well, to risk fudging the answer, I'd say that the truth lies somewhere in between those two positions. The 'mystic chord' opened up a new world for Scriabin. It was an innovation, it broke up the tonic-dominant harmonic scheme, it generated harmonic progressions that were unheard before. It does give his late work the feel of being brand new. However, the occasional resemblances to Debussy or the extended tonality of early Berg (the Piano Sonata especially) point me towards thinking that Scriabin's new language is less like Schoenberg's twelve-tone revolution (which completely overthrew tonality) than it is the whole-tone scale innovations of Glinka and Debussy or the closely akin octatonic scale of Rimsky-Korsakov and early Stravinsky (and, later, Messiaen), albeit systematised in a way that brings something radical to it (as Messiaen was to do with the octatonic scale). So, it is new but its an an extension of (or a twist of, or a spicing up of) rather than an overthrow of tonality. 

Does his work help the (musical) revolutionary cause then, assisting other revolutionaries to bring about the overthrow of the old tonal regime? I'd say it plays a small part in that. Of those who followed Scriabin, few were as thoroughgoing as Roslavets, who did push the 'mystic chord' idea far closer to Schoenberg-style dodecaphony. Roslavets, however, was not anywhere near so influential. Most of the other Scriabinists took more of the perfume of his late style that its radical possibilities (from our own Cyril Scott to early Prokofiev and Miaskovsky). Messiaen was something of an heir to Scriabin though his brief - and vastly influential - attempts to systematise pitch, rhythm, intensity and note values seem to have been provoked much more by Schoenberg's system that to the example of Scriabin.

OK, that's more than enough theorising. Back to the music and a final chronological overview of Scriabin's evolution as a composer.

3. The large-scale piano pieces

The First Sonata in F minor, Op.6 was written in 1892, when Scriabin was aged 20. This is the period of the Lisztian Allegro apassionata, Op.4 and the Chopin-like Impromptus à la Mazur, Op.7. So we are talking about a bravura work from very near to the start of Scriabin's composing life, when he was wearing his influences on his sleeve. The piece is in four movements and opens with an Allegro con fuoco full of a young man's passionate feeling. As so much of Scriabin's large-scale music was to continue to do, this opening movement follows sonata form. The exposition presents a stormy first theme, a forlorn second subject and an optimistic closing theme. The development section concentrates on the troubled and fiery spirit of the first theme. The recapitulation does what a recapitulation should do and the coda sums up the movement's basic conflict. As with so much of Scriabin's early work, the accomplished nature of the writing and the quality of the invention is remarkable. He may have been an imitator here but, boy, what an imitator! The Adagio that follows conveys a strong feeling of sadness and is a beautiful piece of writing. The main theme is song-like and is presented simply to begin with. When it returns later in the movement Scriabin sets it against a restless bass line. Scriabin's bass lines were only to grow in importance. The third movement Presto is in rondo-sonata form and replaces sadness with anger. The agitated main theme is the rondo subject, whilst a more tender melody acts as the second subject and the melancholy second subject of the opening Allegro is brought back to in an instance of cyclic form. The finale is a slow movement marked Funèbre and clearly owes something to the most famous funeral march of all, that of Chopin's Second Piano Sonata. It is potently gloomy, though it does contain a consoling song 'from afar' at its heart - a touch of angelic sweetness amidst all the grief. There's aren't too many great Romantic piano sonatas, so it's a crying shame that a work of such power, passion and potential public appeal should go largely unheard. 

The Second Sonata (Fantasy-Sonata) in G sharp minor, Op.19 was begun in the same year that the first piano sonata was finished and if you here the two pieces played back to back you will hear very clearly that the closing notes of the first sonata seem to be echoed by the opening notes of the second sonata. Co-incidence, or deliberate? I suspect the latter. In the finale of Sonata No.1 this three-note figure has the feel of a 'fate motif'. Similarly that very similar opening figure of Sonata No.2 also seems to function as a 'fate motif' (not unlike the extremely famous 'fate knocking at the door' figure in Beethoven's Fifth Symphony in some respects). The figure is embedded in the fateful main theme of the opening Andante but also infiltrates itself into the lyrical music that follows. Scriabin wrote a programme that might be helpful here: "The first section represents the quiet of a southern night on the seashore; the development is the dark agitation of the deep, deep sea. The E major middle section shows caressing moonlight coming up after the first darkness of night. The second movement represents the vast expanse of ocean in stormy agitation." The work is indeed in two movements and was written over the space of five years, being completed in 1897 - a period covering a whole swathe of opus numbers from the composer's early maturity (Op.7-Op.22). Unlike the First Sonata, this sonata has never fallen out of popularity. The reason for this is that it is a truly superb piece of music and even better than its predecessor. The Andante is one of my favourite pieces of Scriabin and I hope you'll discover why when you hear it. Its impressionistic evocation of moonlight on the sea is captivating and its themes are exceptionally beautiful. The second movement Presto is a bravura movement in sonata form. One moment to listen out for here is when the second subject, previously heard in the minor, re-emerges in the major (towards the end of the development section).

The Piano Sonata No. 3 in F-sharp minor, Op.23 was begun in the year that the Second Sonata was finished and was completed by the following year (1898). It is contemporary with the lovely Rêverie for orchestra. The sonata returns to four movement form (for the last time) and begins with a movement marked Dramatico. It opens to a fine, heavy-hearted theme, shared between the hands, in the composer's 'manly' early style (with shades of Chopin) but is countered by the softer rhythms and melodic shapes of the 'feminine' second subject. Adhering again to sonata form, Scriabin works his themes in a convincing development section before an abridged recapitulation leads to a Wagnerian climax and a beautiful coda. The scherzo-like second movement Allegretto has one of the composer's significant bass lines which drives and accompanies its main theme. The trio section is delicate and elegantly-wrought. My favourite movement, however, is the Andante, which begins introspectively with a quiet theme of Schumann-like warmth and considerable beauty. This melody really does hit the spot. Though the second subject introduces a remarkable passage of chromaticism and brooding it does so in such a soft-spoken way that the meditative flow continues unabated and the song-like melody returns. The finale, introduced by a bridge passage build on the sonata's opening theme (cyclic form again) is a chromatic Presto con fuoco and many of its pages are certainly 'con fuoco' (fiery). There are lyrical passages though - including a climactic reprise of the Andante's great tune. I hear echoes of the infernal side of Liszt in parts of this movement (or should that be the 'Francesca da Rimini' side of Tchaikovsky?) The Third Sonata is a fine and fascinating work, even if it doesn't quite do it for me in the way that its predecessors did.

Before we come to the Fourth Sonata, we must pause to meet the superb Fantasie in B minor, Op.28 of 1900 - another major piano piece on a larger scale. Written a couple of years after the Third Sonata, the Fantasie is contemporary with the First Symphony. It has something of a symphonic quality to it. There are three fine themes - the first melancholy and heroic, the second tender ('feminine') and the third grand. Though I am fond of the second subject (one of Scriabin's lovely, intricate, intimate melodies) it is the thrilling third theme that most hits the spot for me. It has chromatic touches that render it 'Scriabinesque', though it also has something of a Rachmaninov-style 'big tune' about it. Though styled a 'fantasy' it follows sonata form, complete with development, recapitulation and a big-finish coda.

The Fourth Sonata in F sharp major, Op.30 came three years later (1903) and dates from after the Second Symphony. 1903 was a stunningly productive year for Scriabin, seeing the composition of a string of glorious miniatures - all the 'middle period' opuses from Op.31 right thorough to the 8 Etudes, Op.42. It should be no surprise then that it marks a significant shift in style away from the post-Chopin/post-Liszt Romanticism of its predecessors. It is in two movements, though the Prestissimo volando second movement follows on straight from the end of the Andante and later brings back the Andante's main theme at its moment of climactic ecstasy; thus, listeners might be forgiven for thinking that the sonata is in one movement. The Andante is one of its composer's loveliest sections. It is based on just one melody (though it has distinct phrases which are sometimes detached from each other) - a particular beautiful and wholly characteristic one - , and establishes a mood that is clearly intended to be erotic. The harmonies here are full of chromatic inflections, Scriabin makes enchanting use of trills (which are to become of great significance later in the cycle of piano sonatas) and, later, the melody is decorated with a delightful flow of shimmering semiquaver figuration. The second movement, in sonata form, then takes flight - the first, confident and rhythmically punchy, the second more lyrical but sharing is sense of elation - the elation climaxing with the return of the Andante's theme - a passage of especial exhilaration in an already-exhilarating movement. The Fourth Sonata in Scriabin's favourite and more fruitful key is a particular favourite of mine.

With the Fifth Sonata, Op.53 of 1907 we are firmly into the 'transition period' of Scriabin's musical life, when he has become fully Scriabinesque but hasn't moved fully over into the domain of the 'mystic chord'. The harmonies are frequently based on fourths and the work, while being vaguely centred around F sharp major, wanders far harmonically. The piece was written at the time of the Poem of Ecstasy and shares much of its spirit - moving from the low, dark rumble of its murky opening, through the delicate, languid melody of its introduction (which seems, as with that 'fate motif' figure I believe to be shared by the first and second sonatas, to deliberately echo the ecstatic theme of the Fourth Sonata) and onto the exuberant main theme of the Presto section (which darts about like a humming bird!) and its declamatory (challenging) and lyrical (languid) companions. Like all the remaining piano sonatas it in a single sonata form movement. Gloom, languor, grotesquery, mystery, ecstasy - all these emotions are evoked in the space of some eleven or twelve minutes-worth of exposition, development and recapitulation. The climax is an exciting glimpse of light, though the work ends (unlike the Poem of Ecstasy) veiled in murk again - though this time it is a brilliant murk! The Fifth Sonata remains Scriabin's most widely performed sonata.

Before moving on to the next sonata, another major large-scale piano piece must not be forgotten - the beautiful Poeme-Nocturne, Op.61 of 1911-12, a work contemporary with Prometheus and the Sixth and Seventh Sonatas. Again, the piece cannot said to be firmly rooted in any particular key, though it is, it can fairly be said, non-firmly rooted in D flat. It passes through stages of 'capriciousness', 'gloom', 'a confused murmur', 'voluptuous sleepiness', 'dreaminess', 'passion', more 'languor', 'charm', more 'passion'...and so on...Those markings of Scriabin's give a clear indication of what he was after, though sometimes it's hard for the listener to differentiate the moods quite so clearly - which is sometimes also the case in the late sonatas. The odd thing about this sensitive poetic movement of emotions expressed through music is that, being such a stickler for using sonata form, the same markings and moods come round all over again when the exposition is recapitulated! 

The Sixth Sonata, Op.62 of 1911-12 was actually finished after the Seventh Sonata but I will follow convention and consider it next. We are firmly in the period of 'late' Scriabin, the era of the 'mystic chord' - here a chord of G, C sharp, F, B, E, A flat and D. There's no key signature. The trills that began entering the sonatas as early as the Fourth and also played significant bit-parts in the Fifth - and were also heard in the Poeme-Nocturne - are heard again here, having become an essential aspect of the soundworld of Scriabin. (Their apotheosis is still to come). Scriabin, growing ever more mystical and occultist, felt that this mysterious sonata was a fearsomely dark and nightmarish one, corrupted by actual demonic forces, so much so that he would not play it in public. We travel from mystery, through a vague dream, and seem to seek fight, beset as we are with ominous premonitions of fear. Those fears are justified as all Hell is let loose and a battle between Good and Evil takes place which the forces of Evil appear to win. Well, that's the idea behind the piece. I have to say that it doesn't summon up any demons for me for all its talk (in the score) of "terror". Is that a failing on the part of Scriabin that his music doesn't convey anywhere near the scale of horror he is seeking to evoke/summon? I'll have to say 'yes' to that. I'd add a 'Ah, well. Never mind!' though. There are many striking and beautiful passages in the piece, though I will admit that it has never been a favourite of mine. It doesn't carry quite the same conviction as the best of the Scriabin sonatas.

The Seventh Sonata, Op.64 of 2011 is very closely related to the Sixth Sonata and bears the famous sub-title 'White Mass' and is widely said to be an exorcism to rid the composer's music of the rampant demons of the Sixth Sonata. The brutal forces are overcome by tender, ecstatic ones and the trills spread their benign influence throughout the piece. Bells-sounds, those other signifiers of late Scriabin, are another attractive feature of this sonata (single movement, in sonata form). Containing much that is beautiful, I find the White Mass more interesting and involving than its 'evil' twin. The fiercely dissonant climax of the struggle at the midway point of the piece, where bells toll furiously, is genuinely exciting and the ethereal ending is lovely. There are times, especially when the bell-chords return towards the close of the piece, where the soundworld of Messiaen seems close at hand (appropriately, if you pardon the pun, for such a messianic piece). 

The Eighth Sonata, Op.66 of 1912-13 inhabits a more veiled, more withdrawn soundworld than the sonatas that preceded it. Probably for that reason, though also perhaps because for being difficult to play without sounding like a virtuoso showpiece, the sonata has always rather languished in the shadows, performance-wise. Ah, there is another reason too. The piece lacks the kind of melodies that linger in the memory, relying more on gesture-like themes which are whirled into a gentle vortex, powered by his strange harmonies. Though the sonata ends with one of Scriabin's cosmic dances, the composer considered it a tragic sonata and never publicly performed it. All this is unfortunate as the sonata deserves to be far better known. There are many very beautiful things in this most enigmatic of Scriabin sonatas ('Enigmatic' is one of its nicknames!). The extraordinary opening sequence of chords is just the first remarkable thing and they are followed by some consummate part-writing in the beautiful, hypnotic introductory sections. Trills, of course, play a significant role again, especially when the main Allegro section gets going. The main theme of that  sonata form Allegro is punctuated by delicious, Debussyan showers of figuration. You will have to discover what else this fascinating sonata has to offer by listening to it!

The Ninth Sonata, Op.68 of 1912-13 bears the notorious nickname 'Black Mass'. There are no thematic connections to the White Mass Sonata though, which - as we saw - in the 'good twin' of the Sixth Sonata instead. Chronologically, the Ninth was written more at the time of the Sixth Sonata and pre-dated the Eighth Sonata (which is closer in some respects to the Tenth Sonata). That is not surprising when you hear the piece. I prefer it, though, to either of those sonatas. The peculiarly dissonant quality of the piece arises through its pervasive use of the minor ninth (that elongation beyond an octave of the most dissonant of all intervals, the minor second). Often in Scriabin such dissonances don't sound unpleasant to the ear and, especially once you are acclimatised to them, sound almost consonant. Here, however, do sound pretty dissonant - particularly at the work's thrilling climax. The opening of this piece is one of those moments where the occasional similarity of Scriabin's soundworld to that of Debussy really stands out. These vague chords, with their trails of airy, tumbling arpeggios, are soon interrupted by a mysterious, dark figure that sounds like a sinister echo of Beethoven's 'fate knocking at the door' figure. The sinister effect is heightened by the tritones rocking back and forth in the bass. After a repetition of these themes, trills enter stage right and begin to cast their strange, luminous spell, first as part of a swaying theme. There's a beautiful second subject of languid character, though here the languor again has a strikingly Debussyan character. The trills here and the fast flurries of high-register grace notes (which remind me of the sound of crickets chirping) create a magical nocturnal atmosphere. The tritones steal back in at the bottom of the texture as the trills proliferate and we pass into the development section of this single-movement sonata form piece. The rhythms get more intricate, the bass register assumes centre-stage more frequently, and the diabolical elements contend with limpid writing of hypnotic beauty. The reverie and the sinister elements are in contention here. Who wins out? Well, during the recapitulation the second subject loses it Debussyan purity and is distorted in a remarkable way. A diabolical march enters with thunderous bell-like chords for accompaniment - a striking moment. Trills flood in bearing light, but the movement swirls upwards with the all-conquering march growing ever wilder, dissonant and exciting. In the wake of this thrilling climax, the vague chords of the opening return and the piece ends. Unless you are superstitious, I doubt you will feel that the piece evokes a truly satanic presence. That climax is, however, wonderfully Hammer House of Horror. The Debussyan beauty and the dissonant thrills and spills of this gloriously proportioned sonata have always given it a special place in Scriabin's output. I place it with the Second and Fourth sonatas as being one of my four favourites, which just leaves...

The Tenth Sonata, Op.70 of 1913, another of my four favourites, has no official sub-title, though it has acquired a couple of nicknames - 'The Trill' and 'The Insects'. The reason for the first nickname will be self-explanatory to anyone who hears the sonata. It is the apotheosis of the trill. It's a striking coincidence (if coincidence it be) that Scriabin's final piano sonata makes the spiritually cleaning power of the trill such an essential feature much as Beethoven's final sonata, Op.111, very deliberately crowned its final movement with a string of magical trills. The second nickname arises from Scriabin's description of the piece as a "sonata of insects...born from the sun; they are the sun's kisses." The magical nocturnal passages in the Black Mass sonata seem to be being re-imagined - with added crickets! - as if a new dawn. This really is a beautiful work, with another rather Debussyan introduction - a highly attractive and unusual melody, echoed quietly in the higher registers (by insects?) then replayed with gorgeous harmonies. This whole passage is delicious. It ends in trills. The Allegro section bursts in enthusiastically. Trills cover the continuation of its main theme. The second subject is full of trills and shimmering tremolos. Sonata form processes are followed, thematically-(not harmonically-)speaking and there's a development section that rises to a luminous, trill-saturated climax that always makes my day whenever I hear it. The recapitulation recolours some of its material and then launches into another of Scriabin's cosmic dances before the sonata returns to where it began. Late Scriabin is full of such delights - as you will know if you listened to the late miniatures. 

Ah, Scriabin. What a composer!

(P.S. the paintings in this post are by the Italian symbolist painter, Gaetano Previati). 

Scriabin 2: To Ecstasy and Beyond

Alexander Scriabin was certainly what Brits of a century ago might have called 'a rum cove'. His belief that he himself would become a god who could redeem humanity, chiefly by means of the piece he was working on as he died, Mysterium - which, incidentally, would involve hanging bells from clouds -, smacks of what we might charitably call a lack of modesty and, possibly, madness. Such juicy biographical details are fascinating to most people but, as a lover of Scriabin's music, I can't say they have much of an impact on the way I hear his wonderful music. I can hear no madness in it and all the undoubted egomania doesn't seem to translate into egomaniacal music (well, most of the time anyway!) His thoughts and writings may reek of such things, his music doesn't. So that's that!

On to the music then.

2. The orchestral works

Scriabin was essentially a composer of piano music but he wrote seven orchestral pieces, including five symphonies. These, as with the piano miniatures, help us trace a path through the composer's ever-fascinating growth into originality. His piano works may be his greatest legacy but the Poem of Ecstasy is held in such affection (indeed awe) by some listeners that the orchestral works are hardly secondary pieces. 

As we saw with the piano miniatures, Scriabin began as an accomplished disciple of Chopin and it is fitting that his first orchestral work was firmly in the style in Chopin - his increasing popular Piano Concerto in F sharp major, Op.20 (the Scriabin key) of 1896. To many people who know the piece it is quite staggering that it isn't already performed as often as the Grieg, Tchaikovsky, Chopin and Rachmaninov concertos. It is emphatically not inferior to any of them.

Forget harmonic adventure here. Melody and beauty are Scriabin's chief concern in the Piano Concerto. The opening Allegro has a fund of attractive melody. The main one is introduced by the soloist before re-emerging, Rachmaninov-like, on strings. The scoring here is warm and there is some especially lovely horn writing. The piano is employed to sing and to decorate and plays a lot of pretty figuration along the way. In the development section a particularly winning passage sets the woodwinds singing blithely over a restful drone richly built on horns and embroidered by the pianist. If you like Rachmaninov you will love this movement. The lovely central Andante is a theme and variations. Its theme, introduced by the strings, is a beauty - fragile, noble and melancholy (and surprisingly, to my English ears, like Elgar). The variations range from a simple re-singing of the theme on solo clarinet with liquid decoration from the soloist (Variation I) to a fast, dancing variation with squeals of delight from strings and woodwinds (Variation II). Variation III is sombre, like a dead march, and dominated by the piano. The following variation retains a wistful air in its string melody, but the piano and woodwinds provide us with hope. The Finale is, I have to say, less satisfying. Except for the beautiful second subject its material is less attractive. That second subject is sung by the soloist over his own rippling accompaniment. Both tune and accompaniment are embedded in warm horn writing and soon gain a string counter-melody (a variant of the theme). There's a lot of appealing Chopinesque figuration in this movement which guarantees pleasure throughout - plus the second subject's climactic return is thrilling. 

His orchestral Rêverie, Op. 24 of 1998 is short in length but long on attractiveness. It is such a lovely piece and yet hardly anyone knows it. There's lovely post-Wagnerian writing here, at times veering engagingly towards Tchaikovsky (even Rimsky-Korsakov at one point) but at other times anticipating by a few years a certain passage from Schoenberg's Verklaerte Nacht (and it's not just the notes that are uncannily similar.) The woodwinds introduce the theme over tremolos and the strings proceed to sing in long melodic lines. There are some highly gratifyingly harmonies here.  

As Scriabin wrote well over a hundred miniatures he is sometimes seem as a miniaturist. He was, of course, far from just being a miniaturist. The first three symphonies are certainly far from miniature!

As the 20th century dawned (1900), young Scriabin wrote his First Symphony in E major, Op.26. If you followed my survey of the piano miniatures and know only his Poem of Ecstasy you might be in for a surprise here. In fact, if I had been played the entire 50-minute symphony without being informed in advance that I was about to listen to a symphony by Scriabin I am not at all sure that I would have guessed the identity of the composer. In fact, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have done so. Yes, this is a late-Romantic symphony written firmly within that tradition. That is not a bad thing as Scriabin's First Symphony is, I hope you'll agree, a very attractive addition to that tradition. 

The Lento Prologue begins in a delicate Wagnerian enchanted forest over which dawn ascends with the warmest rays of melody. The two principle themes are both gorgeous - the first appearing initially on clarinet is a fresh, upward-reaching melody, while the second (first presented by woodwind alone) is more chromatic and Tristanesque. No wonder even some critics who are sniffy about Scriabin have been known to drool over this Prologue. It is exceedingly lovely, isn't it? The Allegro dramatico second movement plunges us into the world of passionate late-Romantic angst, post-Wagnerian in the luxuriant chromaticism of its language. It is a big, sonata form structure that could be summed up with the words 'moody but magnificent'. The dynamic first theme is stormy while the second subject is full of yearning - well, at least initially, as both themes partake of each others mood as the movement progresses. The ending is worthy of Tchaikovsky at his stormiest. The third movement Lento's long, expressive main theme grows from its tentative introduction on clarinet into a sumptuous vehicle for the expression of achingly romantic love music. A passage of 'forest murmurs' introduces a particularly lovely note as the main theme returns. The second subject is a happy Tchaikovskyan figure. This fabulous movement has so much to offer the listener who chooses to give it a hearing. Also deserving of wide popularity is the balletic Scherzo which follows. Again, unexpectedly, Scriabin turns Tchaikovskyan with a trio that could have come from The Nutcracker. Its theme is for piccolo and bells. Who'd have thought that! The fifth movement is another sonata form Allegro. Its main theme is strong and dramatic. I would say though that the second subject is rather anodyne and the weak link in the movement; however, given that the movement is such a successful piece of Romantic storming-and-stressing it can be forgiven. Scriabin's ambitious personality, partly manifested in the large scale of his first symphony, is made evident in what happens in the Finale. Mezzo and tenor soloists appear after the rather Dvorak-like opening bars and sing a Beethoven-inspired 'hymn to art' which sounds less like a hymn than a tender love duet from a Russian opera. His ambition goes even further than that though: A chorus then enters. The chorus sings antiphonally for a while before a choral fugue is launched. The expense of hiring solo singers and a chorus perhaps accounts for why such a delightful and accomplished Russian symphony should receive so few performances around the world. I can think of no other (good) reason.

The Second Symphony in C minor/major, Op.29 (composed in 1902, around the two of the Two Preludes, Op.27) is also a work of the composer's early maturity and is no less a late-Romantic symphony. To repeat myself: If I had been played the entire 50-minute symphony without being informed in advance that I was about to listen to a symphony by Scriabin I am not at all sure that I would have guessed the identity of the composer. Despite its lack of Scriabinesque traces, there is much to enjoy in the piece, even if it isn't as satisfying as the First Symphony. Even though it is much the same length as its predecessor it feels overly long to me. The first two movements in particular could have done with quite a bit of pruning. 

The opening movement consists of a lengthy Andante and an even longer Allegro. The Andante introduces two themes, both of which will return (in an example of cyclic form) in the Finale. A solo clarinet sounds the first - and more significant - of the themes, characterised by its use of the notes of the triad plus a falling scale fragment. The second theme, announced attractively in a rapturous violin solo, is lyrical, frequently leaping by a third or a sixth. The Andante makes both themes sound beautiful, draping them in lovely orchestral colours. The Allegro bursts in energetically with a rhythmically-springy main subject made from three short but detachable motifs. The fine theme is contrasted with the clarinet's second subject - a shapely melody, but one also possessing useful motifs too. Sonata form was ever to be Scriabin's way in large-scale works and his development section employs both subject vigorously. The main theme appears against itself in canon at the start of the recapitulation, effectively. The movement as a whole shows traces of Wagnerism (especially at its dramatic climaxes), just as his piano works of the time were also beginning to do. This influence is even more clearly heard in the slow movement where 'forest murmurs' and bird song meet Tristanesque harmony. The former gives rise to an especially beautiful chromatic melody which is the movement's main theme. This pastoral and romantic music flows expansively and winningly and floods the world with peace. The scoring could hardly be improved upon. The following Tempestuoso movement is, as you might expect from its marking, stormy, making hay with sequential figures and thunderous effects. Lyrical episodes briefly provide contrast. The brass then sound memories of earlier themes, preparing us for the martial Finale, where the triad-based theme of the whole symphony returns as a pomp-and-circumstance march. Its scampering string continuation is repeated interrupted by a solemn brass chorale. The second theme from the opening Andante also returns on woodwinds then strings with a spring in its step. The march passes by again, achieves peroration then yields to delicately dancing music. Wagnerian brass bring back solemnity and then the march (and a recapitulation) leads to a rousing and rowdy close. I have to say that I enjoy this closing movement immensely, though this is not a universally-shared sentiment - especially with devout Scriabinites. 

The Symphony No. 3 in C Major, Op.43, "The Divine Poem" of 1902-04 doesn't mark as much a step towards the future as might have been expected from its sub-title or from the titles of its three movements - Luttes ("Struggles"), Voluptés ("Delights") and Jeu divin ("Divine Play"); indeed, it ought to be bracketed with its two predecessors rather than with its two single-movement successors. It is another 50-minute late-Romantic symphony and, again, somewhat protracted. What a feast for the ears it is though! 

The Lento Prologue begins with an immediate presentation of the symphony's main themes - a stern theme on brass representing 'Divine grandeur', a rising trumpet figure representing 'The Summoning of Man' and a quiet falling figure on strings and woodwinds representing 'Fear in the face of God'. (Yes, I know!) These themes mingle throughout and new themes grow out of them. Luttes, the longest movement, leaps gracefully into action with a theme for violins. The theme is developed and other thematic ideas mingle with it, including a delightful soaring figure, before the second subject appears (if such it be, it being rather hard to say) - a theme of some nobility.  Other ideas follow. There are many Wagnerian moments. The movement has drama for sure but also moments of delicious languor and some of majesty and is well worth wallowing in. The slow movement Voluptés is, as you would expect, full of romantic lyricism and passion and has a main theme of much beauty. Scriabin marks it 'sublime' (which is rather tempting fate!) and, if not quite that, it certainly is one that I suspect will be loved by almost all listeners. The movement moves between chromaticism and diatonic harmony (rather as Wagner was doing all those years before in Tannhauser) and has another of those 'forest' interludes that help make these earlier symphonies so attractive, though romantic goings-on are the focus even there. The main theme of Jeu divin (derived from the motifs of the Prologue) is marked 'with radiant joy' and is announced brightly by a solo trumpet with a perky response from the rest of the orchestra. A theme representing the 'Ego' follows on the strings and this is followed by a lovely, limpid phrase on flute which combines with the 'Ego' theme very beautifully. The movement is in sonata form, so expect a development section, a recapitulation and a big, big finish. 

When I first encountered the magnificent Le Poème de l'extase, Op.54 ('The Poem of Ecstasy') of 1905-08 (contemporary with the opus numbers that surround it - the late 'transitional' works) it felt to me like the love-child of Stravinsky's Firebird (still to be written) and Wagner's Tristan und Isolde. It's more than that of course, but I can still see a bit of truth in that idea. The piece is a single-movement magic garden for orchestra in which human love "in the fullest sense" is celebrated, characteristically in large-scale works via the medium of sonata form (Prologue-Exposition-Development-Recapitulation-Coda), and in which several themes flower in ever-changing beds of context. With the Poem, however, we are entering again into Scriabin's late style. The old-fashioned sonata-form outline is deceptive in this respect. It is a skeleton largely (if far from completely) devoid of its old harmonic flesh. The old tonic-dominant-modulation-tonic harmonic scheme is abandoned and it is largely the play of themes that conforms to the old pattern. 

The mysterious Prologue features a haunting flute theme, marked by alternately wide and narrow intervals, and a chromatic clarinet theme, both entwined languidly. Only a trumpet offers any challenge to this lazy beauty. The Allegro starts with a delightful dancing theme - a firebird has entered the garden! A violin solo introduces the love-filled, chromatic second subject (Tristan extended) and Scriabin indulges it. Two new themes follow on solo trumpet, both assertive and dynamic. The first is sharply angled while the second (and more important) is a string of rising fourths (with a falling chromatic tale). All themes now present correct Scriabin can now allow them to co-mingle, become intoxicated and grow ecstatic. Trombones kick off the stormy development section where, with the aid of percussion, this process reaches a mighty climax. Such stresses eventually yield to the gentle themes of the Prologue. These usher in the recapitulation. The most thrilling is yet to come though - in the coda. This uses a 'victory theme' to screw up tension excitingly before ejaculating at a huge climax - a passage where a solo trumpet rises to glory, withdraws briefly then exults again in a luminously-scored diatonic blaze. A gentle afterglow (on several themes) then results in a re-girding of the loins, a lunge forwards and another explosion. The 'victory theme' comes again in majesty on eight horns, gloriously, accompanied by a panoply of percussion. An explosion of bells follows. The end? No. Scriabin holds off one last time before C major blazes in, conclusively. It's all very exciting - and completely justified. 

Like an enlarged Scriabin sonata, the tone-poem/symphony Prometheus: Poem of Fire, Op. 60 of 1910 is a single-movement work that also follows sonata form, albeit on a larger canvas in terms of duration (lasting about 25 minutes) and scoring (a very large orchestra with a fiendish concertante piano part) -  "follows sonata form", of course, in much the same way and with the same caveats as described a couple of paragraphs ago. We are in the world of the 'mystic chord' here, at the start of Scriabin's 'late period', with the work being grounded on a version of it comprising the notes A, D sharp, G, C sharp, F sharp and B.  

Prometheus is an often very impressive piece, though I confess that I find it five minutes too long for full satisfaction and the extravagantly brief use (twice) towards the close - for the purpose of climax-enhancing) - of a wordless chorus is too extravagant to sound totally effective. Those impressive stretches, however, contain much that is beautiful, the work being at its best (generally-speaking) in its most lyrical passages. 

A fog of harmony brings forth a basic theme on horns, as if emerging into visibility. This will appear fully-formed as the work's beautiful main theme a few minutes further on. Another great theme, however (the other theme!) must preoccupy us first - a lushly-harmonised subject for winds which sounds for all the world like Messiaen. Its every appearance brings magic along with it. Piano and strings dwell on its beauty before transforming it (almost beyond recognition) into the lively joyeux theme which kicks off the second phase of the exposition - a desire-filled mingling of themes and moods, alternately languid and excitable. The majestueux main theme is its goal - and, when reached, it's worth it! The development section takes up the second phase's mingling strategy. In this section Scriabin's scoring becomes even more exquisitely coloured, as if Debussy were mentoring him. The piano kicks up a storm and a climax results and from it - at length! - emerges...a waltz. This splendid, short-lived surprise prompts an exultant climax and a precisely ravishing aftermath. The recapitulation brings many more instances of such beauties and more exultation. It is an engrossing listen, with the Messiaen-like theme playing its part. Lively writing follows the first choral passage, along with a lyrical violin solo. The work ends in a blaze of Scriabin's beloved F sharp major.

As a symphonic cycle, the Scriabin symphonies just don't seem to get the attention they so obviously deserve so, if you share my enthusiasm for them, please spread the good news!

(P.S. The paintings in this post are by the Belgian symbolist Jean Delville.)

Scriabin 1: Towards the Flame

As Debussy was working his graceful musical revolution in France so Alexander Scriabin (1872-1915) was working something not too dissimilar in Russia.

Scriabin's development from Op.1 to Op.74 is one of the most interesting in music, changing him from an accomplished imitator into a total original. He began as a follower of Chopin, though with an added dash of Liszt. An ever-open ear took in Wagner and his ever-more-chromatic German followers, plus - even more tellingly - those French looseners of tonality, Debussy and Ravel. Such influences, however, fade into insignificance as Scriabin began ploughing his own furrow. He started to systematically undermine tonality by developing harmonies and synthetic scales derived from what he called 'the mystic chord' - a dissonant chord comprising six notes built on fourths:

As you listen through the opuses of Alexander Scriabin, proceeding chronologically, the trajectory becomes clear. Beginning as a harmonically-conventional composer writing late-Romantic piano music, his works gradually begin to import chromatic elements that destabilise the traditional triadic-based scheme of things, weakening the old tonic-dominant progressions until, in time, Classical-Romantic tonality becomes so weak that key signatures in Scriabin's pieces became surplus to requirements. Eventually the rupture with traditional tonality becomes complete. The 'mystic chord' and all that flows from it create an entirely new system of tonal progressions.

Scriabin's music doesn't sound like most peoples' idea of what Russian music should sound like yet this systematic exploration of made-up scales and their resultant harmonic novelties was something of a Russian speciality. Glinka had explored the whole-tone scale (later taken up famously by Debussy) and Rimsky-Korsakov claimed the credit for inventing the octatonic scale (later adopted so thoroughly by Messiaen). Scriabin, however, went much further than any of his compatriots in systematising such discoveries and making them his own. This helps give his music a quality that was completely new - a quality captured by the word 'Scriabinesque'. Many other composers were to write 'Scriabinesque' music in his wake; none before him.

If there is sometimes a similarity of sound between passages of Scriabin and passages of Debussy, especially in the piano music, this is probably because the scale derived from the mystic chord is quite close to Debussy's beloved whole tone scale. It's also doubtless because Scriabin, like Debussy, pioneered a new way of composing for the piano - flooding the keyboard with fresh sounds in a way we tend to think of as 'impressionistic'.

I'd like to provide you with three chronological surveys of Scriabin's music, giving you three separate approaches to the very pleasant task of hearing how Scriabin became an original composer. (I will place an asterisk next to my personal favourites). In later posts I'll look at the orchestral pieces (including the symphonies) and the larger-scale piano pieces (including the ten sonatas).

1. The miniature piano pieces

If you want proof that Scriabin began as a Chopin disciple then you need listen no further than to his first published piece, the Waltz in F minor, Op.1, written when he was just 13. Even here, however, there are a couple of chords that create clashes which seem (with the benefit of hindsight alone) to anticipate the composer to come. Purely in the spirit of Chopin, however, and with no anticipations of such things is the lovely Etude in C sharp minor, Op.2/1* - a piece (written a couple of years later) that, despite being a child's work, has won the affection of many a famous pianist and charmed the listeners who know it. The tune is one that, unusually for Scriabin, does sound like a Russian melody.

From the same set, and providing the first example of a Scriabin prelude - and Scriabin continued to inspired by the form(s) of Chopin's glorious Preludes, Op.28 throughout his life - comes the tender and just as beguiling Prelude in B major, Op.2/2*. The set is completed with the first taste of a Scriabin mazurka (that quintessential Chopin dance-form) - the Impromptu à la Mazur Op.2/3. A complete set of ten mazurkas followed, his Op.3. Though these are the work of a seventeen year-old, they are remarkably assured and far from inconsequential. If you like Chopin's mazurkas then you will like these too. Signs of the Scriabin to come are few and far between, except for the way he sometimes seems to fill the whole keyboard with sound. I'm particularly taken with the sixth and tenth numbers from the set - the latter one of Scriabin's most Tchaikovskyan utterances.

For a flavour of other early influences - clearly Liszt, and (maybe) Brahms in the passages of cross-rhythms - please try the Allegro appassionata in E flat minor, Op.4. There's plenty of brooding high-Romantic rhetoric here but also a sensuous, highly lyrical second subject that I suspect you will find as attractive as I do. The two Nocturnes, Op.5, however, fall firmly into the Chopinesque category. The second nocturne has an especially winning melody and a lovely ending. The first of the Impromptus a la Mazur, Op.7 is a lesser piece in mazurka style while its companion engages more interestingly in cross-rhythms (four against six).

These works are those of a fine young composing mind but with the Twelve Études, Op.8* we have made a great leap forward into adult mastery. Yes Scriabin still shows himself to be composing as a faithful disciple of Chopin (the title itself says as much) and there are few pieces that sound Scriabinesque (in the sense that most people mean) but this set is such a masterpiece that its landmark status must be registered. It really is worthy of Chopin himself. Favourites of mine are No.1 in C sharp minor (a luminous downpour of triplets), No.4 in B major (a tender entwining of five-note figures in one hand against three-note figures in the other that conjures up the image in my hand of lovers holding hands), the dashing No.5 in E major (with its glinting octaves), No.6 in A major (a captivating study in sixths that sways like reeds in a summer breeze), the vertiginous No.10 in D flat major, the Tchaikovsky-tinged No.11 in B flat minor (with its sorrowful tune) and, finally, No.12 in D sharp minor - that passionate echo of Chopin's great Revolutionary Study and always the most popular piece of the set. Also well worth listening out for is No.8 in A flat major, a nocturne-like number where a glimpse of Scriabin's coming sense of harmonic daring can be heard, ever so gently, and No.9 in G sharp minor - an heroic struggle, complete with trumpets and horses' hooves. The rest aren't bad either!

The Prelude and Nocturne for the Left Hand only, Op.9 (apparently composed after injuring his right shoulder blade) are also exceptionally fine pieces. Chopin is the guiding spirit behind the Prelude while the presence of Liszt might be felt in the Nocturne*. Both should win your heart through their warmth and melodic attractiveness. Of the Two Impromptus, Op.10, the first is the best and boasts a fine hymn-like second theme.

Along with the Op.8 Etudes, the Twenty Four Preludes, Op.11* comprise one of the great large-scale sets of Scriabin's early period and are, if anything, even finer. Those composed over several years, they are carefully arranged (like their inspiration, Chopin's Op.28), to be heard as a set, though individual numbers can be relished for their own sake - and often have been! Little here anticipates the later style of Scriabin but pretty much every piece is a little gem. Beginning with the tender delicacy of No.1 and the thoughtful beauty of  No.2 (with its lovely right-hand figure and interesting harmonies), we pass through the charming spinning wheel motions of No.3 and the bare, solemn No.4 (closer in spirit to the Scriabin of the future), to arrive at the romantic warmth of No.5. No.6 seems to betray the capricious inspiration of Schumann, while No.7 flutters by dreamily. No.8 is fine, delicate and very Chopin-like, while No.9 has a dignity that shines out through its rich textures and No.10 grows from pensive beginnings to a restrained yet heroic climax. NNo.11* is particularly lovely and one of the greatest treasures of the set. No.12*, with its halting phrases, is even dreamier and just as winning. No.13 continues in a peaceful vein before No.14 bursts in with brooding intensity. After this number's abruptly triumphal close, No.15* sounds like a series of tentative questions being asked in response. It establishes a fascinating mood. No.16 ('Misterioso') is a funereal march through a Lisztian landscape. No.17 is a rare dud and No.18 is hardly any more interesting. After this strange, sudden and unexpected dip, No.19 returns us to where we want to be, quality-wise, with a warm, richly-textured, Chopinesque number. No.20 is like a short, sharp wave of energy passing over us while No.21* is deliciously serene and intimate, with a right-hand melody floating on liquid, left-hand arpeggios. No.22 carries us from the same mood through agitation to a gentle if exhausted-sounding close, while No.23 flutters by on butterfly's wings. No.24, the closing prelude, provides a big close - stormy yet stirring.

More preludes and impromptus followed. Of the two Impromptus, Op.12 the second*in B flat minor is the greater; indeed, it is a deeply poetic piece with a truly magnificent climax. Of the Six Preludes, Op.13, the opening piece in C major is unusual in having a Bach-inspired religious aura and sounds not unlike the kind of character piece many Romantic composers (Chopin, Mendelssohn, Schumann and Liszt among them) wrote to evoke churchy scenes. Scriabin does add some individual touches and this is a lovely specimen. A short butterfly-like caprice in A minor comes second, followed by a tranquil piece in G major that has something of the character of one of Liszt's Swiss-inspired numbers. Another butterfly-like caprice in E minor comes fourth (containing trills - harbingers of the future) followed by a light, charming Chopinesque number in D major. The final prelude in B minor is tempestuous in a way that recalls Schumann. The first and third pieces are my favourites from Op.13. Of the two Impromptus, Op.14, the first has the sort of tune that Tchaikovsky might have written for one of his charming piano miniatures though the tune is soon engulfed in an improvisatory-sounding flow which also characterises its extremely dreamy companion - a lovely reverie.

The Five Preludes, Op.15 are a less engaging gathering of pieces. The first is no great shakes, despite revolving around a short turning figure (a musical pun, for you there!) while the second is agitated (which is about all that you can say about it). The third creates a rich soundworld through deep bass notes and arpeggios that ripple across the keyboard bearing aloft its easy-on-the-ear melody. The fourth piece is gentle and attractive (and the best of the set) while the fifth is a dreamy sweet nothing.

The Five Preludes, Op.16* are Scriabin back on form. The first piece in B major is especially beautiful, using the keyboard in a way that suggests a melody reflected on gently rippling waters. What a captivating melody it has! The soundworld of early Debussy is close here. The second piece in G sharp minor has a charming, stuttering theme that begins modestly but soon blossoms into passion. No.3 is nocturne-like, unwinding an elegant melodic line against a repeating pattern in the accompaniment. No.4 simply presents a tune in three-bar phrases (highly unusual for Scriabin) with perfectly-judged chords for accompaniment. The tiny No.5 sounds rather as if Schumann's Prophet Bird had turned into a Prophet Butterfly.

The Seven Preludes, Op.17, another fine set, begin with a wistful waltz-like number before moving on to a piece with a Chopin-like melody and a powerful left-hand accompaniment. No.3* is another of Scriabin's reveries and I suspect will cast quite a spell over you. Scriabin's left-hand writing has been growing in strength as the years pass and by now it was quite capable of leading the right-hand in graceful duet, as in No.4. The fifth prelude of Op.17 is heroic in character, while No.6 tugs gently at the heart strings through a thorough-going use of suspensions - resulting in bitter-sweet harmonies that hint at the Scriabin to come. The set ends with an emotionally-wrought number.

A couple of public-sounding works are up next. First the Allegro de Concert, Op.18 - a piece written for virtuosos to play at concerts, so full of dash and drama. The second subject is a romantic and lyrical one which will hit the spot with most listeners. When we next catch up with the Scriabin piano miniatures we find him writing a one-off (for him), a polonaise. The Polonaise in B flat minor, Op.21. This certain has the swagger and glamour of that aristocratic dance but doesn't strike a warm response from me.

With the Four Preludes, Op.22 we have arrived in the world of Scriabin's full maturity. Or half arrived. No.1* in G sharp minor is a melancholy number of much beauty, timid yet passionate, ending on a half cadence. Scriabin's harmony is beginning its journey away from conventional tonality. With No.2 in C sharp minor, chromaticism begins to infiltrate every pour of the music. However, there's a flavour of the mazurka about the charming third number in B major while the closing number of the set in B minor is another charming piece in the old style.

With his style evolving, the Chopin influence fades - albeit gradually. With the masterly Nine Mazurkas, Op.25 (starting at 31.40) Scriabin revisits the dance form most closely associated with his great inspiration and makes it his own. You don't have to listen long to realise that Scriabin's growing intricacy - in terms not just of harmony and texture, but also of rhythm and melody - is taking the mazurka places it hasn't been to before.

After the nervous yet stormy number in F minor that opens the set, the piece in C major* that follows, dancing on air, proliferates its melodic strands most attractively. No.3 in E minor withdraws into melancholy, though it has some luminous key changes along the way. High spirits temporarily banish introspection in No.4 in E major, but darker moods flood back in with the fifth mazurka, the one in C sharp minor - and with them comes chromatic harmony. After such a searching piece, No.6 in F sharp major dances along with sweet wistfulness before rising to a triumphant close. No.7 in F sharp minor is a tense and intricate piece, a tension that is relieved by No.8* in B major - a charming piece with more lovely changes of harmony. The set ends with a mazurka in E flat minor where Scriabin is at his most characteristic.

Scriabin now enters the 20th century and does so with the Two Preludes, Op.27 of 1900. No.1 is a piece full of grieving phrases and shows the power of another chord Scriabin was very keen on:

That chord is put to a lot of use in this piece. The power of harmony was something Scriabin was already a master at harnessing, and here the effect is somewhat Wagnerian (Tristan specifically). The Wagner influence was making itself felt in the contemporaneous First Symphony too. However, it's with the second of these two pieces that Scriabin's harmony shows further evidence of the leap forward he was making at the time. As Debussy was to exorcise Wagner's influence by assimilating all that he needed from it and transforming it into something new, so did Scriabin.

This process can also be heard in the captivating opening piece* (in D flat major, but ending in C major) of the Four Preludes, Op.31. This sensuous number makes telling use of a chord Scriabin was to make much of - the Augmented eleventh:

Op.31 No.2 breaks the spell like a slammed door. It is an aggressive little piece, with punchy rhythms and some crunchy dissonances. No.3 is an agitated study-like affair, while the closing piece* ("in C major") is the set's most harmonically daring number. Its daringness allied to an attractive simplicity rather outs me in mind of Charles Ives. I like it a lot.

When we reach the next opus number there's a sign that we have reached another milestone on the advance of Scriabin towards being 'Scriabin'. There's a new, non-Chopinesque title - and it's going to be an important one for the composer: Two Poems, Op.32*. Oddly, despite that, the melody of the first poem is one of the most Chopinesque of Scriabin's for some time! This piece of nocturnal intimacy is followed by one that, like the second piece in the preceding opus, breaks the spell like a slammed door (or King Mark interrupting Tristan and Isolde). This companion poem is splendidly fierce and impassioned (no, that's not Bartok at the start!) and crammed with fully-packed chords.

This disruption of reverie by violence is beginning to become a recurring feature of Scriabin's music. We might all be relaxing to the soothing, sensual strains of the first two of the Four Preludes, Op.33 - the first* (lovely!) being the more soothing, the second* (even lovelier!) the more sensual - when, wham!, in comes the stormy (if tiny) third piece, followed by the first of the composer's menacing 'belligerent'/'war-like' miniatures.

The progress of Scriabin's ascent to Mount Scriabinesque was not without its delightful moments of backtracking. The Poème Tragique Op.34 is one of two pieces which show Scriabin's Lisztian side at its strongest. All begins with fervent high spirits, but - to the effect of shock and awe - tragedy invades and the music reels, briefly. However, all works out for the best and the fervent high spirits return, ending triumphantly. That's a very Lisztian ground-plan. With the Three Preludes, Op.35 we pass from the wind-swept Chopinism of the first piece, through the gloomy, transfigured Wagnerism of the second and onto the surprising Schumann-like japes of the third, this is one of the most variegated of all Scriabin's sets of piano miniatures. The Poème Satanique in C, Op.36 is the other work that shows a clear Lisztian influence, as Liszt was the great pioneer of the Mephistophelean in music. However, the use of 'the devil in music' - the tritone - which Liszt used in his devilry was also to be a key interval in Scriabin's late style (the 'mystic chord' contains two of them):

Therefore, the Poème Satanique shows further progress up the harmonic slopes. The ironic-sounding and the sensuous-sounding contend in this attractive piece, which is well worth getting to know.

The Four Preludes, Op.37 begin with a warm piece in the romantic style of Scriabin's younger years but follows it with a piece in the composer's favourite key F sharp major where, among the many rich chords, appears for the very first time the 'mystic chord' itself. Here, however, it is but a passing harmony. No.3* is pure Scriabin, a peaceful unfolding of a chromatic melody against warm chords with firm bass notes and little answering figures in the registers. Ah, but now we know not to succumb too wholeheartedly to such easeful sensuality as Scriabin might be about to spring one of his 'belligerent' pieces on us, as indeed he does with the final prelude of the set - a short, aggressive piece with pouncing rhythms and rich arpeggios. The Waltz in A flat major, Op.38 is surprisingly old-fashioned and has a little more pianistic stardust than might have been expected from the composer at this stage in his development. It's good fun. The Four Preludes, Op.39 get off to a confident start with a passionate piece in the old style before switching in No.2 to a radically different mood and harmonic world  - gloomy Wagner transfigured into gloomy Scriabin. No.3* is deliciously mysterious, a languid murmur full of the composer's cross-rhythms and boasting a beautiful melody. No.4 is, in contrast, loud and forceful with rich, sonorous, deep chords and strange harmonies.

Of the Two Mazurkas, Op.40 (from 1:00:20) the first in D flat major* is a gem - full of delicate poetry and passion, as well as possessing a fine melody. Its companion in F sharp major is exquisitely delicate. Sharing the confiding character of these pieces is the gorgeous Poème in D flat major, Op.41*, where one of the composer's most beautiful melodies is caught up an increasing intricate and passionate web of caressing figuration.

Maintaining the high standard of the early 40s, opus-wise, are the superb Eight Etudes, Op.42*. No.1 in D flat major is a study in cross-rhythms and creates a feeling of vertiginous soaring. No.2 in F sharp minor is also a study in cross-rhythms but here the melody is a wistful one and the figuration around it generates an anxious mood. No.3* in F sharp major is a magical study in trills. It has earned itself the nickname 'The Mosquito', though I suspect that might not have been the fluttering image Scriabin himself had in mind! No.4, also in F sharp major, is one of the composer's intimate, romantic numbers. As you might now be expecting, its dreamy spell is broken by No.5* in C sharp minor (‘Affanato’, meaning 'breathless'), a piece full of tense, agitated writing. Scriabin contrasts this, however, with a second melody that gives hope amidst the engulfing darkness. The climax is thrilling. This is one of the greatest of all Scriabin pieces.

No.6 in D flat major bears the marking ‘Esaltato’, meaning 'elated’ - a definite sign of things to come. Cross-rhythms swarm and the harmony swims deliriously without finding resolution (until the end of the piece!). After such a forward-looking piece, the genial No.7 in F minor shows Scriabin backsliding again (but how delightfully!) No.8 in E flat major, a final study in cross-rhythms, again conjures up the feeling of being borne aloft on the wind, like a leaf, in its main section, though the piece has a serious middle section of some harmonic adventure for contrast.

We are getting near to the late pieces now. The first* of the Two Poèmes, Op.44 opens with falling tritones, which continue to be a feature of the piece, giving it a mysterious quality. It is also written in the bass clef for both hands, further darkening the piece's sound. The melody is a beautiful, song-like one. No.2 is unusual in its use of ten-bar phrases and is one of the composer's war-like dances. Of the Three Pieces, Op.45, the first is a dreamy, lyrical Album-Leaf* of exquisite beauty, the second a tiny but harmonically-remarkable Poème fantasque (many tritones, lots of chromaticism) and the third a beautiful Prelude* full of appoggiaturas, unexpected harmonies and rapid flights towards the unknown. The last pair can be justly called 'Scriabinesque'. We have arrived at the 'Scriabinesque' - though the journey towards the full, final style is still far from complete. 

The Scherzo, Op.46 is a piece full of Scriabin-style fantasy and rich chords, with its ebullience (main section) and ardour (trio) suddenly and surprisingly clouded at its close. No recording of the Quasi valse, Op.47 is available for me to link to yet, but it is another piece where appoggiaturas and tritones bear the dance towards new regions of harmony. 

The Four Preludes, Op. 48 are a wholly characteristic set. They open with one of Scriabin's little bundles of aggressive energy (impetuous rhythms mingling with harsh dotted rhythms, sudden harmonic side-shifts), move on to a delicious amorous number* (a lovely melody intimately entangled in duet with delicate, melodically-shapely arpeggiated figuration, very dreamy) followed by an agitated piece with cross-rhythms (slightly sinister) before ending with a brash and brilliant number marked as 'festive'. The Three Pieces, Op.49 begin with a scampering Etude, before moving on to a 'brusque', 'irate' Prelude* full of imperious gestures and sumptuous chords and ending with a beautiful Rêverie*. The first chord of Rêverie shows how beautiful dissonance can be. It consists of five notes  - D, E flat, F, G, A.  The D (acting as an appoggiatura) then 'resolves' onto C, making it somewhat less dissonant (C, Eflat, F, G, A). The effect is bitter-sweet.   

The Four Pieces, Op.51 open with Fragilité*, a charming airborne piece with a tenor melody drifting romantically below lightly dancing triplet chords in the treble clef and above a quietly leaping bass. The following Prelude* bears the marking 'Lugubre' and the piece's mood fully reflects that marking. The piano pieces of Rachmaninov seem quite close here. The third piece, Poème ailé ('Poem of wings'), sends us airborne again in a light caprice. The set closes with a Danse languide. This is exactly what it says it is. The Three Pieces, Op.52 consist of the entrancing Poème* (where Scriabin sails close to Debussy), a fantasy-filled Enigme (which sounds to me, perhaps fancifully, as how Scriabin might have written Petrushka!) and another aptly-named Poème languide .

The works from around Op.38 to Op.52 have often been described as the works of Scriabin's 'transitional period'. They are some of his richest creations.

Before we enter the late period of Scriabin's piano miniatures, it is perhaps time to pause and reflect that there is a lot of music by Scriabin that doesn't sound 'Scriabinesque' in the sense that people seem to mean when they use such a word - meaning 'written in the composer's late manner'. Some listeners don't take to these late pieces (and their cosmic pretensions - which, in my view, are best ignored), with their strange harmonies and other quirks. Such listeners will have found, however, - especially if they've been following this survey! - that the vast bulk of Scriabin's works do not inhabit this late world. There is a feast of fabulous early and middle-period pieces for them to enjoy, without having to ever meet the 'mystic chord' and all its consequences. 

That said, it's time to meet the 'mystic chord' and all its consequences. The late period beckons.

The swaggering opening Prelude Four Pieces, Op.56 hovers between keys (A flat and E flat major) and moods (aggression and ardour) while the following Ironies* is a scherzo that hovers between sarcasm and tenderness. Nuances is regrettably short given how beautiful it is. It is followed by the mischievous fairy-music of the closing Etude. The first of the Two Pieces, Op.57*, Désir, is a dreamy number that chromatically seeks to aspire towards its erotic goal. As it is only a desire, that goal is not reached and the music sinks back. Its companion, Caresse dansée, is a slow, listless dance that dreams its way through various keys, its phrase ever falling. Both are exquisite. As is the Feuillet d'Album Op.58, a mystical nocturne written without a key signature. The 'mystical chord' underpins its harmonies - just as a four-note chord derived from it (based on C, F sharp, B and E) underpinned the pair of Op.57. The air floats in from another planet, cool and strange. As it does in the beautiful Poème from the Two Pieces, Op.59*. The air here is mysterious but also fresh and sweet. The Prelude, however, is an extraordinary, bellicose piece full of Bartok's favourite fourths and makes for a dramatic contrast. 

The miniatures of the 60s opuses, far from being daunting, are uniformly a pleasure to hear. There is so much pleasure and charm (and genius) to be found in them that they really ought to be much better known. The Two Pieces, Op.63* are probably Scriabin's most Debussy-like set and are absolutely delightful. They are, of course, underpinned by Scriabin's new harmonic language. The grace and charm of them - the first entitled Masque, the second called Étrangeté - should win them many friends. The Three Etudes, Op.65* tackle in turn melodies played through in ninths (No.1), sevenths (No.2) and fifths (No.3). Some of the sounds we associate with Messiaen's are anticipated here as a result. This is a particularly beautiful set, full of shimmering light. The first, my favourite, is spectral and magical. The second is languid and delicious, with momentary flutterings. The third is an exciting tussle between aerial dance and aggressive energy. 

The first of the Two Preludes, Op.67 meditates with gentle obsessiveness over a short phrase and a set of vague harmonies. A fascinating, poetic piece. Its companion is a charming dance that shimmers before our (musical) eyes and is notable for its striking mobile left-hand. The effect of the latter was compared at the time to hundreds of multi-coloured night moths fluttering about in the semi-darkness. The Two Poèmes, Op.69* are another loveable pairing. The first piece is tender, dreamy and lyrical while its companion is a good-natured-sounding caprice that always makes me smile. 

The attractiveness of Scriabin's late miniatures continues as we encounter the final opuses. The opening piece, Fantastique,  of the Two Poèmes, Op.71* is full of attractive bell sounds (worthy of Ravel and Debussy) and is as beautiful as can be. Its gorgeous companion, En rêvant, is an intimate piece full of lyricism and gently caressing trills. 

The famous Poème: Vers la Flamme, Op.72* has been called one of the most effective crescendos in music. It travels from murky mystery at the start with slow-moving, introspective harmonies, gathers pace as it moves ever higher in register, erupts into light with brilliant trills and resonant bell-sounds and finally reaches a triumphantly blazing conclusion. It's a magnificent piece.

The Deux danses, Op.73* are subtle and rewarding pieces. It is initially hard to hear the first, Guirlandes ('Garlands'), as a dance at all, but repeated listening reveals it to be the sort of mystic dance that Debussy also wrote in his Danseuses de Delphes. I would be intrigued to see Flammes sombres ('Dark flames') choreographed as it would make a fascinating piece of ballet music. As the title suggests, this is music that murmurs and flickers. 

Well, here we are. The final set of miniatures has arrived - the Five Preludes, Op.74*. The titles of the five pieces give a very good idea of their individual characters - (1) Douloureu. Dechirant, (2) Tres lent. Contemplatif, (3) Allegro drammatico, (4) Lent. Vague. Indecis and (5) Fier. Belliqueux. The set as a whole captures many of the moods we've met before in various guises many times in this survey. The first piece is short but touching, while the second (my favourite) has a gentle funereal tread (sounding like low, distant bells) and sings a sad song around falling chromatic figures. After this hypnotic gem, the third prelude is dramatic in the tragic sense, while the fourth takes Scriabin's harmony as far towards atonality as it ever got, at least in the way it sounds to the listening ear. It remains beautiful, however dissonant it is. The final piece is a final proud, bellicose number, using more bell-sounds as it dances and swirls its way to its final half-cadence. 

Well, that's the first run-through done. It has been a very pleasant experience getting to know some of the pieces I didn't already know and reacquainting myself with those I did. Hopefully this survey will have given you a decent overview of Scriabin's development from Op.1 to Op.74. A deeper look at how we should think about Scriabin's achievement overall will have to wait for another day. There are various hot topics that hover around Scriabin that will be discussed in the later posts, which will discuss the larger-scale piano pieces (the sonatas & a couple of other pieces) and the orchestral works. Those will come over the next couple of weeks.

(P.S. The paintings in this post are by three of Russia's major symbolist painters, Mikhail Nesterov, Victor Borisov-Musatov and Mikhail Vrubel.)