Rachmaninov: The Four Sisters

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sea Pictures and a Popular Song

Edward Elgar isn't regarded too highly as a song-writer, with the exception of his orchestral song-cycle Sea Pictures. These are five marvellous songs. 

The set begins with my favourite, Sea Slumber-Song, in which the Sea-Mother lulls her unruly child to sleep. A theme for strings based on rising and falling arpeggios is only the first of several evocative 'sea themes'. The second is a gently rocking figure and the third is a deep, swelling accompaniment (a prophecy of Britten's third Sea Interlude). How beautifully the singer's opening melody opens out at that magical on 'slumber' and how wonderfully she rides the majestic waves of Elgar's orchestra. Those harp flourishes and flute responses instantly summon sea spray and gulls and the poem's tenderness is enhanced by the allusions to 'There's No Place like Home' (aka Home! Sweet Home!). 

Next comes In Haven, a strophic song that lightly hymns Love's power over the elements. It has a delicate accompaniment and a pretty tune. The curling figure that precedes each verse's climax (first heard on clarinet, then on oboe) is particularly attractive. Soft strings warmly shadow the tune during the final verse -  a lovely touch.

Sabbath Morning at Sea, standing at the cycle's centre, bows down solemnly in awe of nature and God. A rising phrase, appearing first in the opening bars, aspires to such a vision. Initially it seems that it might not meet it but a splendid surge of nobility at the song's heart as well as the memorable violin-entwined phrases that follow it change that and provide the song's satisfying climax. Most satisfyingly, the deep, swelling figure from the first song twice returns, heralded by some gorgeous harmonies - as also discreetly does the figure from the cycle's opening bars.

Where Corals Lie, in which the sea's allure conquers human love, is Sea Pictures' best-known song. It has an unforgettable melody and a supremely delicate accompaniment. At each verses' emotional climax - all triumphs of minor-to-major-and-back-again modulations - the strings bring in fresh warmth.

The final song, The Swimmer, paints a picture of the harm the sea can do and how friendly it used to do. The contrast is made by setting violent orchestral figuration and a complementary declamatory vocal manner against gentler lyrical material led by a strong, striding tune. Note the return of the alluded lullaby from the first song along the way. It's a grand show stopper and it's no wonder Elgar placed it at the end of his cycle. 

(All the texts for Sea Pictures can be found here).

As a coda, why not also try his lovely In Moonlight? Admirers of his glorious tone poem In the South will recognise the tune (which is also sometimes heard as his Canto popolare). Indeed, Elgar adapted the tune from In the South and used it to set a poem (or part of a poem) by Shelley. It's always good to hear this tune and this song is an endearing one. 

Symphonies from the Seas of Orkney

I wrote a post a while ago about the present popularity of that one-time modernist arch-provocateur Peter (now Sir Peter) Maxwell Davies. I mentioned the popularity of his tuneful orchestral piece (with bagpipes), An Orkney Wedding, with Sunrise, and the delightful miniature for piano, Farewell to Stromness. I neglected, however, to introduce you to another piece of his which is now widely-loved, a lovely choral miniature called Lullabye for Lucy. Like those other pieces, this is approachable, beautifully-crafted tonal music.

From those pieces, it's a leap towards the Maxwell Davies of the symphonies. I only know the first five, of which the First is a Mahler-length work in four movements, evoking a bleak but magnificent Orkney sea-scape flecked with light (tuned percussion) through goal-directed thematic processes. It's a fine piece, though it's a complex one that needs close attention. The Second and Third Symphonies seem like re-runs of the First and bring diminishing rewards. The Fourth is tougher than any of its predecessors, though again Max seems to be repeating himself in it. So after a fine start, it was downhill all the way...until we reach the Fifth Symphony, which not only restored the quality of the First but exceeded it. He achieved quite a success with it, audiences taking to its quality and its relative approachability.

In the Fifth Symphony, Max abandons Mahlerian length for a single movement piece along the lines of Sibelius's Seventh Symphony. The material is strong and frequently memorable and the use of orchestral colour banishes the greyness of Symphonies 2-4 - without overdoing the mascara! The processes at work are not always obvious, but then why should they be? One way of hearing this work, Max has said, is as an introduction (based on a pair of plainchant-derived themes) followed (Beethoven-like) by 33 variations (or 'moments'). This only partly helps, so better just yield yourself to the symphony's eventful ebb and flow.

That introduction is full of wintry lyricism. It is scored for flutes and clarinet. A thrilling incursion by massed brass brings in a note of Sibelius-like grandeur. Then the strings extend one of the themes beautifully in a memorable melodic phrase, which is accompanied mysteriously by flexitone. This phrase assumes a Scots folk flavouring as the woodwinds followed by the violins extend it (with further Sibelius-like bursts). More elusive passages, akin to those found in the earlier symphonies, also pass by but don't bamboozle this particular listener this time round. Take for example the early passage where cellos tremolo down a third over a timpani pulse against piccolo and crotale counter-figures, launching a short but haunting slow section. Isn't it magical?

Though a shorter work than its predecessors, the symphony has an epic quality to it that can stir the blood as well as passages of pure delight and singing melody. The central climax is bodily exciting and fully symphonic in feel. A colourful, graduated crescendo opens out into a hushed, mysterious Orkney landscape before louring down again dramatically. This process continues through another atmospheric hush and a new crescendo leads to another powerful, sustained climax. A little more colourful thematic play takes us to a final adagio of great beauty, including a single line that passages along the strings from high to low.

One feature found in all the earlier symphonies are bird calls (clearly sea-birds) and they return in the Fifth Symphony, atmospherically sighing on piccolo and flute. That's another thing to listen out for.

Yes, a Max masterpiece.

What of the Sixth Symphony? Well, I'm off to find out for myself now.

Panufnik: Polish spirit in another land

Andrzej Panufnik (1914-1991) was a Polish composer who defected to the United Kingdom in 1954. He went, to use a popular phrase, from hero (acclaim in Poland) to zero (being ignored in the UK) overnight. His music is of exceptional quality, however, and his ill luck shouldn't blind us to that fact. (By another twist of fate, his daughter, Roxanna, has now become quite a popular composer.)

The place to begin with Andrzej Panufnik is with his glorious Sinfonia Sacra (his third symphony). This masterpiece has something of the punch and the patriotic fervour of Janáček's Sinfonietta - but you don't have to be Polish to find it stirring! It falls into two parts. Part 1 begins with 'Vision I' for four trumpets, music of fanfares and fourths. This is followed immediately by 'Vision II', where the strings sing serenely and mysteriously (reminding me a little of the string writing in Charles Ives's The Unanswered Question). Then comes 'Vision III', an exciting scherzo begun by a thwack from the timpani. Part 2 consists of just one section, 'Hymn' - another serene section that begins high in the strings and grows in power, becoming ever more hymn-like until the four trumpets return to bring the symphony to a rousing climax. The symphony grows thematically from a five-note cell. This motif, however, is taken from the hymn towards which the symphony moves. The cell is twisted and turned, rather in the manner of interval-based constructivism of Bartok, and from this motivic development a symphony is built. Such a beautiful, noble work should be heard far and wide.

For a fabulous concerto, please try his masterly Violin Concerto. This has a pronounced Polish character with folkish elements to the fore from the very start, where the intervals of the fourth and fifth dominate the soloist's introduction. When the string orchestra enters enters pizzicato below the violin's high solo line you know that something special is under way. Bartok's brand of passionate motivic logic is Panufnik's friend here, so certain intervals dominate the action, shaping all the melodies and all the linking passages. Thirds are key players and, with fourths, guide the wonderfully expressive second subject. This 'Rubato' section is followed by an 'Andante', where another thirds-based theme rocks back and forth between major and minor. It sounds to me like a wistful lullaby. With the appearance of a stepwise melody the concerto very beautifully soars into harmonics until the lullaby begins again. Gorgeous, isn't it? The soloist begins to dance before a tender, longing tune enters, climaxing magically with an orchestral statement. A solo 'cadenza' drifts downwards and a movingly-harmonised passage rises upwards again. This is lovely, mystical music.  The 'Vivace' finale is a release of energy after all this gentleness. It is exciting stuff, which fans of Bartok's wilder side will appreciate, and only stops for a recitative-like passage for the soloist, each phrase of which is answered by the strings in a surprising way. Again rigorously constructed and interval-driven it manages to the dance-like and melodically appealing. 

A short orchestral work, his Katyn Epitaph, is a touching threnody that seems like a bleak look back towards the quieter sections of the Sinfonia Sacra. Very beautiful.

Please also try his excellent Nocturne for orchestra. This is an eerie affair in an arch-like single movement, a ghostly take on the essence of Mahler perhaps. It begins and ends with a procession of percussion and high, mysterious strings, effectively generating a nocturnal atmosphere. The initial tense mood persists as the strings moves ever higher over growling brass. A pause brings a beautiful, serene string passage (akin to that found in the Sinfonia Sacra again). Brass re-enter and dispel this luminous vision with a crescendo that leads to a remarkable passage with a drummed accompaniment that sounds half-march half-waltz and which has a nightmarish quality. A magnificent climax is reached and a solo trumpet braves the din. Ivesian/Mahlerian serenity begins to flow back in but the eerie mood of the opening follows and regains control. 

Another piece I hope you'll enjoy is Song to the Virgin Mary, an arrangement the composer made for string sextet of an earlier piece for voices. Here that peaceful, hymn-like side of Panufnik is heard at its simplest and most affecting, rising into passionate affirmation from time to time. An absolute gem.

Another Virgin Mary-inspired work is the late Sinfonia Votiva (his eighth symphony). This is a tougher yet still fascinating score where Panufnik's interval-based processes are put to use in an unusual two-part structure - unusual in that the second movement is a much faster version of the first. At the start, various solo woodwinds begin to unfold a gentle, supplicant melody against the accompaniment of a vibraphone. The melody changes shape and colour again and again until it becomes another song to the Virgin Mary. The second movement is a far fiercer affair and has an ending which I think will surprise you. It is said to have been written in the spirit of protest.

A wonderful composer then. And if those pieces have whetted your appetite...

Other pieces to explore:

String Quartet No.2, Messages
Concertino for Timpani, Percussion and Strings
Symphony No. 9 'Sinfonia della Speranza'
Autumn Music
Arbor Cosmica
Piano Concerto

The Orthodox Baroque

I was bowled over at Christmastide by a broadcast concert of Russian choral music from the past 350 years (see this post). One discovery was of Vasily Titov (c.1650-c.1715), a leading figure in what's known as the 'Moscow Baroque' and whose music reminded me of the greatest German composer of the previous-generation-but-one, Heinrich Schütz. I added, "There's still something of a luminous aftertaste of the late Renaissance about it, with rich polyphonic writing, madrigalian touches and melodic phrases that, at times, remind me of Monteverdi."

Well, digging a little further, Titov didn't get this influence of the old Baroque masters at first hand (obviously, given his dates!) but via a Ukrainian composer - the 'ur-composer' of Russian music so to speak, Nikolay Diletsky.

Diletsky's dates, like much of the rest of his biographical detail, are clouded in uncertainty. Let's say that he lived from roughly 1630-1690 then! When you hear the influential Mr. Diletsky's music, however, there's no uncertainty about its influences or its influence on Titov. My impressions of Titov's music also apply to Diletsky's. 

Well, that's the case for one of the works I'm about to link to. The other is a little different in that the Western influences are allied with Russian chant. So, it wasn't just the 19th Century that put chant to use in classical musical after all. Eyes duly opened!

We don't seem to have much surviving music from Diletsky, but what we do have (and is available to be heard) is beautiful and far from being of merely historical importance - as you can hear:

Easter Kanon, for eight voices (see also)
Divine Liturgy, for four voices

Lord, as You will, so let it be with me

Johann Sebastian Bach's Cantata No.73, Herr, wie du willt, so schicks mit mir, is one of the many neglected treasures in the composer's counting house. I urge you to give it a listen.

The cantata's title translates as 'Lord, as You will, so let it be with me' and the words Herr, wie du willt are given a little four-note figure in the cantata's opening movement. You will first hear the figure or horns in the bass line of the orchestra's introduction bars, though at the very end the chorus takes it up strikingly. The figure is reinforced by the strings who play in stealthy pizzicatos at many points in the movement. That's two layers. Over them you'll first hear a pair of oboes playing an attractive tune in thirds. The chorus then enters singing a reassuring four-part chorale - the first notes being the Herr, wie du willt motif -, the orchestra continuing to do its thing between each phrase of the chorale. Suddenly the harmony swerves to a halt and the choral fantasy becomes a dramatic, anxious recitative for solo tenor, with the oboes and the Herr, wie du willt motif accompanying. The Herr, wie du willt motif leads us back into the next phrases of the chorale. Another swerve and we find ourselves in an anxious bass recitative. The process continues until we reach the most dramatic recitative of all, that for the soprano. The chorus answers this will repeated, reassuring statements of Herr, wie du willt. It is a fabulous movement. 

Next comes a lyrical tenor aria, whose text runs as follows:

Ach senke doch den Geist der Freuden

Dem Herzen ein!

_Es will oft bei mir geistlich Kranken

_Die Freudigkeit und Hoffnung wanken

_Und zaghaft sein.

Ah, only let the spirit of joy

sink into my heart!

_Often spiritual sickness

_makes joy and hope waver

_and despair.

This boasts a delicious melody which the tenor shares with an oboe. Bach was a word-painter and treats 'Freuden' with joyful melismas whilst treating with 'zafhaft' with sad, sighing, falling phrases.

This word-painting continues in the following bass recitative:

Ach, unser Wille bleibt verkehrt,

Bald trotzig, bald verzagt,

Des Sterbens will er nie gedenken;

Allein ein Christ, in Gottes Geist gelehrt,

Lernt sich in Gottes Willen senken,

Und sagt:

Ah, our will remains perverted,

quickly contrary, quickly dashed,

never considering death;

but a Christian, educated in God's spirit,

teaches itself to sink into God's will

and says:

Listen out for the remarkable dissonances on 'verkehrt', 'trotzig' and 'verzagt'. Bach's ability to use dissonance daringly and dramatically here shows what a word-painter he could be.

This recitative leads into a bass aria, whose opening words are our old friend, Herr, so du willt, here sung to a new four-note figure that is to play as key a role in this movement as its equivalent did in the opening movement.

Herr, so du willt,

So preßt, ihr Todesschmerzen,

Die Seufzer aus dem Herzen,

Wenn mein Gebet nur vor dir gilt.

Herr, so du willt,

So lege meine Glieder

In Staub und Asche nieder,

Dies höchst verderbte Sündenbild.

Herr, so du willt,

So schlagt, ihr Leichenglocken,

Ich folge unerschrocken,

Mein Jammer ist nunmehr gestillt.

Lord, as You will,

then squeeze, you pangs of death,

the sobs out of my heart,

if my prayer is only acceptable before You.

Lord, as You will,

then lay my limbs

down in dust and ashes,

this most corrupted image of sin.

Lord, as You will,

then strike, funeral bells,

I follow unafraid,my suffering is quieted from now on.

The aria unusually follows the three-verse form of the text. The bass has a noble line and the string writing is full of gorgeous suspensions, their dissonances reflecting the 'pangs' and 'sobs' of the text. Corelli, that master of the suspension, couldn't do any better than Bach in this movement and the string writing between the second and third quatrains is simply superb - as is the invocation of 'funeral bells' during the setting of the third quatrain. I won't spoil it by telling you in advance how Bach does that!

This wonderful cantata ends with a chorale harmonisation of the utmost beauty. 

The mysterious Mr. Hovhaness

Though he never won huge critical acclaim, the hugely prolific Armenian-American composer Alan Hovhaness (1911-2000) has always had a loyal following. His best music reassures the listener that all is well with the world (even when it isn't). Its gentleness and radiance is allied to a modal language that gives it a quality which anybody in my own country who treasures the hymn-like lyricism of Vaughan Williams (as found in the slow movement of his Fifth Symphony) will find attractive. Along with a taste for singing melodies (sometimes with an Armenian-tinged accent) his music also manifests a confidence with lively counterpoint that shows that the spirit of Bach is close to his heart. 

Hovhaness's best-known work is undoubtedly the Second Symphony (Mysterious Mountain), a work of considerable beauty that seeks to evoke the grandeur and mystery of mountains in general. There are three movements. The first shows combines rapt and intensely hymn-like modal writing with woodwind-led pastoral passages. The second movement is an expressive double fugue where exceptionally fluent polyphonic writing is first put in the service of lyricism before the pace picks up considerably and is built up excitingly on strings while Hovhaness's brass bring back the main theme in glory, rather in the manner of a chorale melody in a Bach cantata fantasia. An imposing climax is followed by the final movement which begins quietly before an oriental-sounding dance figure begins to rise up and sweep all before it - a remarkable piece of writing. After this mighty wind has passed the mysterious mountain looms back into view and the hymn-like modal radiance and pastoralism of the first movement returns. 

Another Hovhaness symphony that stands out from the crowd (and it is a crowd, given that he wrote nearly 70 of them!) is the Sixth Symphony (Celestial Gate). What makes it stand out is its main melody - one of the loveliest ever written. If that sounds like quite a bold statement, I doubt you'll disagree with it when you hear the tune in question. Due to his use of irregular rhythms and phrasing, the composer makes his music float above the earth. The chromatic gropings of the opening bassoon solo set a mysterious mood in play which the clarinet assuages with the main melody. As in the Second Symphony, a rapt serenity fills the music - a mood maintained when Hovhaness's characteristic fugal writing begins. This fugue builds to a radiant climax before yielding to a beautiful, peaceful vision on solo strings. The next section of this single-movement work returns to the chromatic gropings of the opening and the mood darkens. This chromatic writing alternates with aleatory swarm-like writing conjured by the unmeasured, uncoordinated repetition of short ostinato figures. Melancholy and hope contend, with the lovely melody most definitely conveying the latter. Then the music turns sinister with percussion, trumpet and Bernard Hermann-like slashing strings conjuring a dark vision of considerable power, underpinned by modal harmonies. A quiet dance-like passage for pizzicato strings follows, which is no less mysterious. The flute introduces an oriental-sounding melody above it. In time, however, the reassuring hymn-like side of the composer returns and all is well again. The trumpet sings to us, warmly. At the end the violins float up into the heavens in music of a deeply ethereal nature. 

If you enjoy the serene, radiant side of Hovhaness - and his lyrical use of trumpet - then please also try the short but lovely Prayer of St. Gregory, an intermezzo for trumpet and chamber orchestra. At its climax (when the trumpet falls silent) it glows like a Bach chorale. 

'Euphony' is a word that describes Hovhaness in this mood. You can also hear him being euphonious in the String Quartet No.4 'The Ancient Tree'. This isn't anywhere near so distinguished (backing up the critical contention that he is a variable composer) but it has a nostalgic quality that is quite sweet. Arvo Pärt's popular Fratres doesn't seem too far away, melodically-speaking, at times, though the 'Armenian' quality of the melody is not to be underestimated. That said, there's also a fugue-based section on a folk-like theme whose character again recalls Vaughan Williams (to these English ears) and the delicious closing section is clearly Bach-inspired. 

Another fine example of the composer's art is the Alleluia and Fugue, Op.40b. Vaughan Williams Tallis Fantasia meets Bach!

Hovhaness' appeal to 'conservative' listeners is understandable but even 'radical' listeners can find works in his voluminous output to appeal to them, such as this gamelan-inspired piece for four harps, Island of the Mysterious Bells. Fascinating, isn't it?

For a flavour of what he was like as a choral (and orchestral) composer, please try his rather magnificent Magnificat (entirely characteristic!) Hear eight-part writing in block chords, polyphony from ages past, oriental melismas, aleatory passages - in other words, pure Hovhaness. 

Having hopefully helped win you over to Alan Hovhaness, what are the objections to his music? That he is a primitivist, peddling a production-line that brings diminishing returns. There's certainly some truth in that, and I've heard one or two pieces (literally only 'one or two') by the composer than are toe-curdlingly bad (I remember The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, thankfully not on YouTube) and even his devotees tend to admit that his later symphonies aren't up to the standard of the earlier ones. Still, I've heard a good thirty or so pieces by the composer (a small fraction admittedly!) and it's been a case of 'so far so good' so far!

For those wishing to explore further:

----Prelude and Quadruple Fugue
----Symphony No.19 (Vishnu)
----Symphony No.22 (City of Light)
----Symphony No.50 (Mount St. Helens)
----Concerto for Two Pianos
----Anahid
----And God Created Whales
----Tzaikerk, "Evening Song"

Schumann's 'Humoreske'

Robert Schumann's Humoreske, Op.20 is a fantastic work in both senses of the word. It swings from section to section and from mood to mood and is as much a carnival as the famous Schumann piano piece which bears that name. 

The first section has a palindromic structure, beginning and ending with a beautiful melody set amidst a golden drizzle of figuration. The fast, teasing second idea encloses an even faster third idea - both modulating enjoyably, though the central passage's modulations are particularly magical (and exciting).

The second movement ('Hastig') has a mystery at its heart - a hidden melody that may be glimpsed by the ear in a strange variation of the shimmering main theme (a dazzling duet between the hands). There's an out-of-phase passage that climaxes sonorously (a stellar moment) and a glittering transition (another star moment) that leads to a march. The ending, however, is unexpectedly tender and suggestive.

The third movement ('Einfach und zart') has as its lead section a lyrical passage which may be called (after Mendelssohn) a 'song without words'. It's a favourite of mine. Of course Schumann's love of contrast means the spell must be broken and an extraordinary torrent bursts forth - an exultation of bells, as I hear it. The song returns though.

What does Robert do next? He re-imagines this movement's structure with fresh material. Significantly marked 'Innig' (inward), his new melody is also a beauty - and another favourite of mine. The rushing interruption this time is startling in its brevity (a gush of enthusiasm from Schumann to his Clara?) and the song resumes, going rich new places in the process - especially in the coda.

Enthusiasm erupts again in the next section - a virtuoso tour-de-force culminating in a veritable whirlwind. Exciting!

A swaggering march barges in, like a bull-fighter (or is its Spanish feel just in my imagination?). This enjoyable section disappeared back into its dressing room and leaves the arena to...

...love! This final section ('Zum Beschluss') always strikes me, for all its mellowness and beauty, as having that quality Brahms-lovers describe as "autumnal" - a wistful quality. Whatever, it's wonderful! Do I feel that the work's surprising coda is out of keeping? No, because this is a Humoreske!

Looking beyond Dana International...

Trying to get an initial overview of a country's output of classical music since its creation over sixty years ago is an interesting task. Whether the resulting survey gives anything even approaching a representative picture is for others to say.

After the State of Israel came into existence, many of its earliest composers - usually exiles from Europe -  began seeking to create a fresh kind of music for a new nation. Paul Ben-Haim (1897-1984) was the best-known of these composers. He could sometimes write like a late-Romantic, taking the path favoured by the underrated Swiss-American composer, Ernest Bloch, of writing music with Jewish themes. A short example is the Fanfare for Israel which, despite having a stirringly brassy start and finish, is dominated by a beautiful romantic melody. You might also like to try the haunting Lento from his Sonata for Solo Violin.

Another composer writing in a similar vein was Oedoen Partos (1907-1977), whose Yizkor (In memoriam) for cello and orchestra is in a similarly Romantic in character. By all accounts, Partos's music got tougher as he got older, eventually embracing Schoenbergian serialism. The Fantasy for piano trio recalls the tougher side of Bloch - as do the Psalms for string quartet, where Partos's folk-music side fuses with his modernist impulses to interesting effect.

Returning to Paul Ben-Haim. Many of his other works have much more of a French-influenced impressionist soundworld, though the near-Eastern vein of melody is usually prominent too. There are several beguiling examples of this - such as his Three Songs Without Words (arranged for flute and harp) and his Melody with Variations for piano, the song, I am the Rose of Sharon, the first movement of his Clarinet Quintet and the delicious Five Pieces for Piano, Op.34. If you like the music of Ravel and Debussy, you should love this chamber and instrumental music. Paul Ben-Haim is clearly a composer who should be much better known.

This attempt to marry impressionism with themes appropriate to the area where Israel lives (including Arabic music) was, it seems, a characteristic of what was known as the 'Mediterranean School'. Resisting the 'Mediterranean School' and its use of folk melodies - and impressionism - was Josef Tal (1910-2008). Like Partos, he also eventually went down the serial route, but his earlier music avoids any Israeli or Arab tunes and projects a modernist outlook balanced between tonality and atonality, as in his dramatic Piano Sonata.

Notwithstanding the likes of Tal, Israeli composers have continued to explore their own heritage and that of others who live in and around their country. Take Mark Kopytman (1929-2011). As his Alliterations for piano show, he isn't averse to composing in a modernist style. His String Quartet No.1, however, bears the subtitle Two Miniatures on Folk Tunes and is a melodically attractive work which listeners who like Vaughan Williams and Hovhaness will take to - tunes and beautiful part-writing abound here. His Kaddish for cello and piano follows in the post-Romantic line of Ben-Haim and Bloch.

Noam Sheriff (b.1935) is one of the better known Israeli composers. His highly accessible music remains strongly 'Mediterranean' at times, despite touches of modernism - as with his entrancing Song of Songs for flute and orchestra. His tonal-modal Sephardic Passion shows the influence of Stravinsky and Bernstein  and will make friends of many listeners. Jewish chant is a strong influence in Confession for solo cello.

Profiles of Tzvi Avni (b.1927) suggest he began as a 'Mediterranean' composer before becoming a modernist and then returning to a sort of tonal writing. This trajectory can be traced from the colourful, folkish song-cycle Behold Thou Art Fair, through the neo-Classical Piano Sonata No.1 onto the somewhat Bartokian Summer Strings for string quartet and Psalms for oboe and strings. With Leda and the Swan for soprano and clarinet we are into the world of the post-Webern avant garde (albeit rather gently so). If you've clicked on those links, you'll be aware that Tzvi Avni is a serious and rewarding composer, so when he made his return to tonality, as in There and Then - Prelude and Pasacaglia for piano, it wasn't to play to the crowds. Interestingly, Phoenix for solo viola, the composer's response to the 9/11 massacre in America, seems to mark a return to the composer's roots.  

Talk of the post-Webern avant garde brings me to a pupil of one of its key figures, Luciano Berio - Betty Olivero (b.1954). Strings, percussion and accordion accompany a solo viola in her beautiful recent Neharót Neharót, a lamenting yet ultimately hopeful work inspired by the Lebanon War of 2006. Accordion and percussion lighten the initial darkness before the soloist enters, continuing the accordion's spirit of lyrical, near-Eastern melody. Despite being a Berio pupil, Betty Olivero is no avant-gardist in this piece - though there is a role for electronics in manipulating female voices. If you want to hear the avant-garde side of her music then Sofim (Endings) for solo piano is a good place to begin. 

Among more recent generations, Yitzhak Yedid (b.1971) is rated highly and it's not hard to hear why. He is also strongly drawn to using Jewish and Arabic material, though you can also hear a bit of jazz in Passions & Prayers, Sextet in Homage to Jerusalem for horn, clarinet, trombone, viola, double bass and piano - a very arresting listen which shows the composer's dramatic sense to be acute. Even his recent solo harp piece, Out To Infinity, will keep you on the edge of your seat. His piano trio Sensations is no less hair-raising at times. Yitzhak Yedid doesn't seem like the sort of composer who is ever going to appear on a 'Relaxing Classics' CD! 

What to make of Lior Navok (b.1971), whose Veiled Echoes for the Debussyan combination of flute, violin and harp strikes a note of Frenchness that takes Israeli music back to its early days - and beyond? Gentle and elegant, the piece makes an attractive impression and sounds a world away from the music of Yedid. This impression of a Debussyan/Messiaen-like sensibility can be glimpsed in some of his piano works too, such as The Mad Hatter Goes to a Silent Movie, The Abandoned Jazz Club, Night Train and Smugglers' Boat-Coastguard Boat. You might also like to try his four-movement Piano Trio. From these pieces, it looks to me as if Lior Navok is a Western classical music traditionalist who aims at writing beautiful music. 

Gilad Hochman (b.1981) is the youngest composer in this short survey and, like Navok, is not afraid to strike an old-fashioned note in his music - nor to draw on his Jewish roots. Whom My Soul Loveth for cello and choir is a particularly winning example. The cello sings a soulful Jewish melody while the choir sing in a fresh, tonal style. That Gilad Hockman lyricism can assume a modern cast, try the flute writing at the start of his otherwise part neo-Classical/part-minimalist-sounding Concertino for string orchestra and flute obbligato. You can check out more of his music here.

Israel clearly has a rich, varied and ongoing classical music tradition. We hear so little of it in the U.K.

Balakirev at the piano

With Mily Balakirev we have a composer who drew on the consciously Russian innovations of Glinka but also took inspiration from Berlioz (orchestration, structure of his overtures) and Liszt (the symphonic poem, as well as the mainstream German tradition of Beethoven and Schumann. He loved folk music, especially that of his own country, and fed that into the mix too. That much is already apparent from my previous post. 

When we come to the piano works, however, another key influence emerges - Chopin. You can hear nocturnes, waltzes, scherzos and mazurkas dotted throughout his musical life and the style of Chopin is particularly obvious when you listen to his teenage First Piano Concerto in F sharp minor. (Compare the piece with Chopin's own First Piano Concerto in E minor to hear the influence most clearly). Being a virtuoso pianist himself, writing for the piano came naturally to him and the concerto certainly has plenty of dash. It's in a single movement and mixes brilliance with a Chopinesque vein of bel-canto-style poetry (especially in the second subject, introduced by a solo clarinet) that is enjoyable to hear. 

When we come to Balakirev's Second Piano Concerto in E flat major, on which the composer worked for nigh on fifty years before leaving it to Liapunov to complete, we find the Chopin influence still there but transmuted into something that sometimes doesn't sound too far from the spirit of Saint-Saëns but also inhabits a warm Russian soundworld. This is an endearing work that sings, dances and sparkles. Its material is diverse and memorable with short, lyrical themes dominating the opening movement, a Russian chant-like melody the second and Russian folk-like material the Finale. The balance between soloist in orchestra, as you'd expect from a composer with Balakirev's ear for orchestration, is gratefully weighted. The opening movement begins with an attention-grabbing theme that acts as the work's 'cyclical theme', returning in each of the other movements, albeit discreetly. This first movement makes a lot of one short theme. The second movement's theme might not sound out of place in Boris Godunov. The atmosphere here is a charming mix of Russian religious melancholy and Parisian elegance. I particularly enjoy the stirring climactic return of the chant-like theme, with full Rachmaninov-like chords from the soloist supporting the orchestra's grand statement of the melody. Also pleasing is the coda - a delicate series of 'Amens', each for the separate orchestral groupings, very prettily answered by the piano. A tremolo, a recall of the 'cyclical theme' and a fragment of the chant theme leads straight into the brilliant Finale, whose main theme spins swiftly between two harmonies, as if often the case with folktunes. This sort of writing looks ahead to composers like Khatchaturian. The second subject is a lyrical melody of the 'Central Asian' type Glinka and Balakirev himself made central to Russian Romantic music (albeit quite a lively one!). There's a fugue in the development section (again, not atypical in Russian music) though the tone throughout is amiably light. Audiences would love this concerto if it got regular performances. 

If the piano concertos aren't well known outside Russia, there is a work for solo piano that is - his 'oriental fantasy' Islamey. This is widely considered to be one of the toughest pieces to play in the entire piano repertoire. Ravel wrote his Scarbo in reaction to it. (He wanted to write something even more difficult!). It is a swashbuckling tour-de-force full of whirling rhythms and lyrical repose, boasting two wonderful folk-inspired Caucasian melodies. The outer sections spin continuous variations on their tune while the central passage brings us romantic dreams from Russia's exotic South.  It is one of the great Russian classics. (The Italian composer Alfredo Casella's orchestration came be heard here.)

Among the other miniatures for piano, I'd like to begin by recommending La fileuse ('The Spinner'). It's a charming if virtuoso piece whose constant figuration evokes the motion of the girl's spinning wheel. There are two tunes to enjoy. For the more introspective side of Balakirev's piano writing, please try the lovely Nocturne No.2 in B minor. Yes, there's certainly a flavour of Chopin there, as there is in the  Polka in F sharp minor - though both are far from being pale imitations. The Polka turns delightfully 'Central Asian' midway. The more piano music you hear by Balakirev the more you realise you've stumbled into a hidden treasure-house of mid-Romantic keyboard writing. You might also like to try his three superb Scherzos for a further sense of the composer's range: The first is a teenage work and very much in the dramatic style of Chopin; the second is another masterpiece (written much later), very original and characteristic; and the third is almost its equal.

And if you want range...Not as famous as Islamey but widely considered to be another of Balakirev's masterpieces is the Piano Sonata in B flat minor, a highly original piece whose opening movement is a unique fusion of fugal and free writing, oriental, ornamental and rather melancholy in character. A lively and charming Mazurka comes second, providing a necessary contrast of mood before Russian melancholy flows back in with the lovely, inward-looking third movement Intermezzo (shades of Schumann there) and the dizzying Finale. As you'd expect, there's a folk flavour to many of Balakirev's themes. Yes, some of the technical aspects of the sonata clearly owe a lot to Liszt, but this is pure Balakirev throughout and is undoubtedly one of the greatest of Romantic piano sonatas.

As a coda - and to honour two of Balakirev's main sources of inspiration - there's always Balakirev's popular and enchanting transcription of Glinka's song The Lark to enjoy and you will perhaps be intrigued to hear Balakirev's orchestration of Chopin's Scherzo No.3. 

Balakirev: Towards Tamara's Castle

If Glinka was the Father of Russian Music then its Uncle was surely Mily Balakirev (1837-1910). Balakirev was Glinka's true heir and raised the flag of Russian nationalism in music. Read any biography of Tchaikovsky (who he encouraged and advised) or of one of the Mighty Handful composers and you quickly grasp just how influential and significant he was.

So a vastly influential man, but was he also a great composer? Well, if you like the music of the Mighty Handful (and why wouldn't you?) you should also take very easily to the music of Balakirev, given that it inhabits a similar soundworld - a soundworld Balakirev himself forged. Just how good he could be can only be calculated after hearing a representative selection of pieces. As a prelude to doing just that, this post will examine his overtures - all early works, though given the composer's tendency to keep revising his works, not always heard in their original forms - as well as his slightly late symphonic poems. This much-mentioned tendency to keep reworking pieces over many, many years (like a 19th century Pierre Boulez) has certainly obscured the chronology of his influence - to his detriment.

Perhaps the place to begin is with the Overture on Three Russian Themes of 1858. Glinka's acorn Kamarinskaya continues its growth towards the mighty oak of Russian music in this piece, modelled on the Glinka piece but taking a different, original, symphonic slant on it. The work opens with an accelerating bell-like flurry based on a phrase from a folksong that was to achieve even greater fame as the main subject of the finale of Tchaikovsky's Fourth Symphony. This gives way to the beautiful slow introduction where high strings sustain a high sky-like note beneath which woodwinds sound the first Russian theme in a way that anticipates the open grassland's sound of Borodin's In the Steppes of Central Asia. In the manner of Glinka, this tune is then repeated against a changing background. The lively main section begins with the second Russian theme - the one Tchaikovsky used - and treats this in the same imaginative manner, whilst also treating it as a main subject in a symphonic sonata-form. The second subject is the third Russian theme, also known to many from its use in Stravinsky's ballet Petrushka. All the colours of the orchestra are deployed to make this a treat for the ears, setting the stage for later Russian composers - from Tchaikovsky to Rimsky-Korsakov and Stravinsky - to make the orchestra their plaything. If the piece was heard without the listener being aware of when it was written that listener would be forgiven for thinking it derivative of half a dozen famous Russian composer. Of course, the reverse is far closer to the truth. This Overture was the template on which those later composers' imaginations fed.

There's no YouTube link to the entertaining Overture on a Spanish March Theme but should you ever hear it you will find the Balakirev of 1857 moving rapidly towards the Overture on Three Russian Themes and following Glinka's lead in repeating his tunes, each time in new clothes - as well as in writing overtures on Spanish themes! (He wasn't the last Russian composer to do that either!) It doesn't sound particularlySpanish though; no, it sounds Russian through and through, featuring one of those 'oriental' melodies that floats in on the warm airs of Central Asia.

Probably under the influence of Berlioz, Balakirev brought the Shakespearean overture to Russia in his fine King Lear Overture (written c.1860). A long line of Russian Shakespearean overtures and symphonic poems followed in its wake. Another influence brought into Russian music here is that of Robert Schumann - an influence also felt in the future music of Tchaikovsky and Arensky. After colourful fanfares, the main theme is announced regally on brass before fading away and re-emerging plaintively with the woodwinds. The tragedy begins. The main allegro begins stormily before yielding to the attractive second subject (surely portraying Cordelia) on winds - a touch of Schumann hinting at Tchaikovsky. These two themes dominate the piece with much use of sequential development and costume changes. The development section - storm, bell and gentle dance - is the bit that sounds most like 'Russian music' with anticipations of everyone from Mussorgsky to Tchaikovsky. The exciting start to the recapitulation looks forward to the dramatic climaxes of Tchaikovsky symphonies while the coda, when it comes, is "all passions spent" funeral music, complete with muffled drums.

A visit to Prague and the surrounding countryside inspired the delightful 1867 Overture on Czech Themes, In Bohemia. This was much later revised from an overture into a symphonic poem. Here Czech folksongs are the material on which the composer works. As in the Overture on Three Russian Themes, there are three contrasting themes. We meet the first on oboe and then strings. This is repeated in the context of changing colours and backgrounds in the manner of Glinka. The second, launching the allegro section, is a lively dance-like tune introduced by the strings. The third is introduced on brass before being re-presented in all kinds of fresh colours (including to the accompaniment of a tambourine). The ideas are developed in both the conventional (Western) way and in the Russian (Glinka) way and the opening theme (and mood) is winningly revisted. In Bohemia ends in festive triumph.

Also reworked as a symphonic poem (1884) was his second Overture on Russian Themes, Russia (1863-4) - another first-rate work (my favourite of the overtures), based on folktunes though with a symphonic heft. As ever, three tunes are used as the main themes and the first appears in an atmospheric slow introduction before the other two tunes appear in the main fast section. The noble, melancholy tune of the opening is treated in accordance with Glinka's 'changing backgrounds' technique though phrases from the melody are also separated off for Western-style symphonic development. The second theme, opening the Allegro section, is introduced by clarinets and bassoons. The third theme, also on woodwinds, makes its cheerful entry after a recall of the first tune. Balakirev is particularly good here at combining the colourful treatment of folksong with the drama of a symphonic poem, with some contrapuntal working in the development section. Unlike the other overtures though, a fourth tune - an 'oriental' one - plays a role in certain transitional passages and is well worth listening out for. 

The other symphonic poem by Mily Balakirev is Tamara (composed between 1867 and 1882). The influence of this great masterpiece was not just on Russian composers like Rimsky-Korsakov (think Scheherazade) . It wowed French composers like Debussy and Ravel when it was performed in their country during the early 1880s and influenced their raising of the importance of orchestral colour as a key feature of composition. It's even better than Russia and a piece that should be in the repertoire of all the world's great orchestras. The story is that of a beautiful but evil princess who dwells besides the river Terek and lures male travellers to her castle atop the surrounding gorge. After a night of sensual delight, their bodies are borne away by the river as Tamara blows them a final kiss from her tower above. (What a way to go though!) The structure is the usual one of a slow introduction, setting the scene, followed by a sonata-form allegro depicting the fate of the unwary men. The string figuration which opens the work weaves a dark spell, evoking the river as surely as Wagner depicted the Rhine in Das Rheingold or Smetana the Vltava in Ma Vlast. Ominous low brass convey the Gorge's deep gloom and the castle is conjured by the higher brass. Woodwinds provide a fragment of one of Tamara's themes - a lovely romantic phrase - and this and the others are spun into a moody tapestry. It's a powerfully-worked vision. A chromatic-modal woodwind theme, anticipating the famous 'Scheherazade' theme from Rimsky's great work, summons up the wicked princess's exotic ancestry. So, wonderful thematic working plus deeply pleasurable orchestration so far. The Allegro's main subject sounds like manly horse-riding music and being free from the exotic touches of melody, harmony and scoring associated with Tamara herself must 'represent' her victims. Another theme comes to greet them - a modal woodwind theme perhaps 'representing' her black eunuch servant. A dramatic bridging passage takes us to the second subject - a definite vision of the exotic female herself on oboe over a side-drum, chromatic, modal, Caucasian-sounding. This tune is a classic Russian 'Central Asian' tune and the romantic Tamara theme from the introduction follows closely on, first on clarinet - as lovely as ever. Devilishly beautiful! At length we move into the development section, which begins as a fugato but quickly returns to fantasy. This is lively, colourful action music. The recapitulation is one huge re-write of the exposition, emphasizing the growing excitement of the story as it nears its climax as male and female themes alternate wildly (hmm, now just what can that be depicting?) Death follows. Hear how for yourself! Grotesque gloating follows but this yields to the music of the opening, beautifully and richly so, as the river bears the corpse away. The final harp-frequented bars are blissful. What a piece of music!

From symphonic poems to symphonies and piano concertos...in a later post!

Feldman: Oboe on a desolate sea

Impressionist art (Sisley) goes well with Impressionist music (Delius), Expressionist Art (Kirchner) with Expressionist music (Schoenberg), Cubism (Picasso) with certain works of Stravinsky. What music does Abstract Expressionism best go with? (I'm sure you've always wondered that!) How about a piece by Morton Feldman (1926-1987) to accompany that particular painting by Mark Rothko?

Unquestionably of Feldman's finest pieces, Oboe and Orchestra is a poetic, hypnotic work that creates a mood of melancholy beauty and brings to mind (well, to my mind at least!) certain images - a scorched desert or the desolate southern oceans over which the oboe floats alone like an ever-migrating bird. Sometimes it floats calmly on gentle air currents of orchestral sound, at others it is buffeted by rougher winds over harsher, louder landscapes of sound. Some such impressions are, probably, inescapable when listening to such music - music that is generally quiet and at times ritualistic (those soft-sounding gongs!), oriental even (Japanese garden music!). The orchestra, though (surprisingly) large, is used precisely, sparely, atmospheric. Often it hums. It does have dramatic, even startling moments - as Feldman presumably doesn't want complacency to replace quietude! The oboe sings a long, sad, angular song, a line containing many memorable, frequently-returning gestures (those falling semitones, that octave-displaced three-note chromatic scale fragment) as well as many unpredictable turns (including piercing, bird-like cries). Structurally, the opening is sustained and quiet (and beautiful). A striking, more turbulent passage follows (like the sound of muffled howling winds). The two moods and types of music then alternate. In passing the harmony is highly dissonant, though you'd often feel it to be consonant. When the piece pauses on the note D - a D that spreads over several octaves - a new peace comes, marked by spellbinding magic, though the melancholy mood remains, deepens even. It's very beautiful, strange and haunting. The piece halts again, as if holding its breath.  From the sound of a low harp to the keening of the oboe and the aggression of the brass we move towards the looming 'crisis' - though, this being Feldman, it's a far from overstated crisis. The brass grow thuggish. The oboe's song grows yet sadder, lonelier, lovelier in response. The final minutes return us, delicately, to quietude. 

The Four Ages of Aaron Copland

Aaron Copland's Appalachian Spring is one of the handful of pieces which first turned me onto classical music in my late teens. (What the others were you will doubtless discover in due course!) I used to listen to it over and over again. I listen to it far less often these days but, even now, I still get a tingle down my spine whenever I hear its quiet opening bars.

Appalachian Spring is a piece I will save for another post. I want to use it, however, as a beacon on the landscape of Copland's output - the highpoint of his 'American' style, where that style appears at its simplest and most accessible. Other scores in his 'American' style cluster around Appalachian Spring and there are foretastes and aftertastes of it among his early and late works. Copland, however, wrote in several styles throughout his composing life and his music was not always so simple or accessible - it could also be tough, dissonant, modernist. He was a composer not only the music of prairies but also the music of the city. He could write in a populist folksong-inspired style but was no less capable of composing in a potentially crowd-displeasing abstract vein - the kind of music that could famously make the likes of Jackie Kennedy exclaim, 'Oh, Mr. Copland!' (after a performance of the late serialist work, Connotations).

To simplify (and how!), Copland began as a composer of the Jazz Age, passed into an Age of Modernist Austerity, embraced the New Deal ideals of American 'music for the people' and then reverted to modernism for a final Cold War Era of serialism. Of course, it's far from being as neat and tidy as that! Still, even if 'The Four Ages of Copland' is a simplistic concept I think it's not entirely unhelpful. I will chose four representative pieces from each 'Age' to give you a flavour of the range of Aaron Copland's wonderful music. The Jazz Age is represented by the Piano Concerto of 1926, the Age of Modernist Austerity by the Piano Variations of 1930, the New Deal 'Americana' period by the Violin Sonata and the Era of Serialism by the orchestral work Inscape.

The Piano Concerto comes from the time of Gershwin and his Rhapsody in Blue and Piano Concerto and is the jazziest piece Copland ever wrote. I've long felt that the sort of symphonic jazz we hear in, say, Bernstein comes much more from this piece than from the more famous Gershwin pieces. The first part is influenced by the blues while the second part takes its inspiration from the livelier side of jazz. The arresting opening fanfares for trumpets and trombones, soon joined by the strings, are typical of Copland throughout his output. They have the confidence of 1920s skyscrapers. They repeatedly sound a three-note figure which is treated in canon, with cross rhythms. A memorable bluesy melody (with much use of the minor third) flows out from them in a blaze of lyricism. The soloist then enters and rhapsodises on this tune attractively. The three-note figure opens that melody too and continues to be influential throughout - and not just in the first movement - as orchestra and piano take turns in singing the blues. The movement moves between gently dreaming on this theme and bursting out in fresh fanfares and/or creating a complex cityscape of sound. With the second movement comes a dramatic switch of mood. There's a cocky-sounding piano solo in the style of a lively jazz improvisation to begin with.The jazzy writing in the piano part is reflected in the orchestra, especially when Copland begins making the orchestra sound like a jazz ensemble. Wild and catchy (it has another memorable main theme), this section should get you tapping your toes - at times. 

From popular music (jazz) and catchy tunes, it's onto something very different with the severely abstract  and unquestionably modernist Piano Variations. Bernstein - a great enthusiast for the piece - is often quoted about this piece saying that he could empty a room at parties just by playing it! Once you get to know it though, it's a piece you can get very enthusiastic about. It may seem like a strikingly dissonant and austere score but I would compare it to Bartok in its fierce energy and it's not all about percussive piano writing and sharply-angled phrases as there are also consoling, inward-looking passages and memorable ideas. The Piano Concerto drew a lot on that three-note figure and here Copland takes a five-note figure and makes that the basis of his piece. Here, though, he treats in a way closely akin to serialism - i.e. as a tone row. He keeps his harmonic language tonal though and the result is very far from dry. I find it a gripping work and love it to bits - as much as I love the Piano Concerto. 

On though to the Violin Sonata. Here we are recognisably in the world of Appalachian Spring, with simplicity, uncluttered textures, themes that sound like folk songs or hymn tunes and a pastoral atmosphere that is far from the urban jazz of the Piano Concerto and the abstracted cityscape of the Piano Concerto. This is music that aims to speak straight to the American people. What remains constant though is the composer's ability to make a lot from simple starting ideas. As in the Variations a five-note figure (which you will hear the violin play straight away) plays a key role, generating much of the material of the lovely first movement. If the Variations were fierce then the Violin Sonata is serene but the flow of lyrical melody is set alongside exhilarating and joyous passages. The central slow movement is remarkably simple - especially if heard after the Variations! The piano plays its own tune and the violin plays another, though there is no disharmony between the two whatsoever and they often walk hand in hand. The closing Allegro presents a highly puckish first subject and contrasts it with a more lyrical second theme before a jubilant dancing third theme enters. At the end, things slow and the music that began the first movement returns wistfully. 

When we enter the Age of Serialism and come to Inscape (the title comes from Gerard Manley Hopkins) we find Copland returning to his own serial technique - that of the Piano Variations - but fusing it with the serial techniques of Schoenberg and his disciples. I chose Inscape rather than Connotations because it is more representative than Connotations in trying to keep tonality in play while simultaneously writing 12-note music - and also because I prefer it! Those twelve notes are all packed into the open chord before two-line writing begins - writing that does sometimes sound like the Copland of the open prairies. It changes places with further assertions of dissonant chords of the kind that recall the abstract urban landscape of the Piano Variations. Though he is wearing someone else's suit to a certain extent, Inscape still sounds like true Copland. Serial music seems to be plummeting out of fashion at a moment - not that Copland's serial works were ever really in fashion! - and part of me regrets that Copland felt he had to pursue the 12-tone path, but Inscape is a grand and often beautiful work and I'm glad he wrote it. 

None of these scores gets played very often in the United Kingdom, which is a shame. Radio producers and concerto programmes here should look beyond El Salon Mexico and the three great ballets (Billy the Kid, Rodeo and Appalachian Spring)!