Forty Times Forty

-->

 

The Complete Piano Music of Neely Bruce: THIS IS IT!

The first of twelve recitals will take place on Sunday 29 September, 2013 at 3:00 p.m. in Crowell Concert Hall, Wesleyan University, Middletown, Connecticut

 (A brief note about blogging frequency — it is clear to me that I’m not going to be able to post on this blog every day. Not that I’ve ever been able to do that. But a pattern is emerging. I think I will be able to post three or four times a week, on a regular basis. Just in case you’re wondering…)

“Forty Times Forty” is a birthday present for Jacky Miles. Jacky is the wife of Bill Brooks, my closest friend from graduate school. I was best man when he and Jacky got married. Phyllis and I were invited to contribute something to an elaborate book that Bill assembled on the occasion of one of Jacky’s birthdays that ends in a zero. Phyllis’s contribution was an elaborate verbal fantasy on the word “forty,” a single page of text surrounded by a border made up of the word “forty” repeated over and over as it threaded its way around the edge of the paper. My contribution was this piece.

“Forty Times Forty” is a title that says it all. Forty one-beat licks, each played forty times. Ten measures of four-four time, forty ten-measure units. What you see is what you get. The reaction to this piece always brings me some amusement. Some people are very dismissive of it, others like it very much. I recently played it for a young Dutch couple I met. He couldn’t find little enough to say about it, and was almost intent upon changing the subject. She, on the other hand, liked it. When I played it in Birmingham in 2004 the reviewer singled it out as the best piece on the program. And when I played it last semester for the students in my twentieth century compositional techniques class they really got into it.

I think the people who like this piece react to it by counting the licks. Even if I don’t explain what I’m going to do, they catch on and begin to count sooner or later. It takes between nine and ten minutes to play, so sooner or later the pattern becomes irresistible, at least to those who get into it. For the performer, it is strenuous and virtuosic — an endurance contest that becomes more and more flashy and more and more dangerous.

My goal in compositing the various one-beat licks was to make memorable, brief gestures of maximum variety. The reader of this blog, and others who are familiar with my music, may have noticed that I am shameless about saying where I get my ideas. So it will surprise no one that some of these licks sound like Stravinsky, some like Chopin, some like all that motoric stuff by Prokofiev, some like Mozart, etc. There is even a lick modeled on the repeated chords at the end of “The Banjo” by Gottschalk.

For the most part this piece speaks for itself. There are some surprises, and I don’t want to go into any more details. But in preparing this piece, as in preparing this entire series, there is a general problem that rears its ugly head. I’m a composer in my late sixties, relearning a lifetime’s worth of work. The urge to edit, tweak or even revise, or (God forbid) rewrite can be irresistible.

As a matter of principle I believe that “What I have written, I have written,” as Pontius Pilate would say. So even if I have learned something about compositing in the fifty years I’ve been doing it, I refuse to second-guess my youthful self. No Hindemith am I — rewriting and revising are out. But tweaking is another matter, and editing is essential. In relearning all this stuff, and making final copies of much of it in FINALE, I found outright mistakes that had to be corrected.

But when one is practicing one gets ideas. A really good one turns out to be placing four specific pitches in the sostenuto pedal at the beginning of this piece. (They have to drop out on the second page.) These pitches, vibrating sympathetically, reinforce the opening licks in a very pleasing way. I didn’t think of that in 1995, but I sure thought of it in July of 2013. I decided to do it. This is certainly not an edit. But is it just a tweak or is it really a rewrite? It’s a conception that is far from my concerns when I wrote the piece in the first place. So I can call this a tweak, but to an outside observer it’s probably a rewrite. Tweak or rewrite? Truth or rationalization? You decide. (In the immortal words of Walt Whitman, “Do I contradict myself? Very well, I contradict myself.”)

Finally, a word about minimalism. This is not my only minimalist piece, but minimalism is a relatively small percentage of my output. (More on this topic when I talk about my Esercizi two years or so down the pike.) But I like the idea, I like the aesthetic, and I’d like to express my unreserved admiration for certain minimalist pieces. These include virtually the entire output of Tom Johnson; certain works of Alvin Lucier, especially “I am sitting in a room” and “Music on a Long, Thin Wire”; the haunting Time Curve Preludes of Bill Duckworth (OK, that’s postminimalism,, but let’s not quibble). And above all “Music for Eighteen Musicians” and “Drumming” by Steve Reich. Phyllis and I had our first date when “Drumming” was performed at Wesleyan in the late 1970s. After the concert we went to the old Lake Beseck Café in Middlefield and danced well into the night.

Tuckaway in Early Summer: Part Two

-->

The Complete Piano Music of Neely Bruce: THIS IS IT!

The first of twelve recitals will take place on Sunday 29 September, 2013 at 3:00 p.m. in Crowell Concert Hall, Wesleyan University, Middletown, Connecticut

In yesterday’s blog I gave some background about descriptive piano music and briefly discussed the method of this, my only descriptive piece (its structure, mode of sketching, producing the finished product). Today I’ll talk about the component parts of the piece and what I do with them, some of the nitty-gritty, so to speak.

First, a general outline. (To follow this, I suggest that you reread the indented paragraphs in yesterday’s blog.)

The piece begins with some generic walking-around music, followed by musical descriptions of the three smaller buildings — the woodshed, the playhouse and the workshop/boathouse. One then comes across the low-lying stone wall, and follows it to the edge of the property. Turning around, one has an excellent view of the grand house and notices the wind for the first time. Some more walking-around music gets us inside the house, where people are indeed  “singing songs of another time.” The wind outside the house kicks up and begins to howl, even, but one can still hear the singing, modulated by the gale. The wind subsides. Presumably folks go to sleep.

The first point to make is that none of this is specified in the score. The great master of the descriptive piano piece is of course Erik Satie. Satie’s pieces describe imaginary places, things and events, rather than concrete ones like Tuckaway, its various buildings, and singing around the piano. Satie also forbad the reading of his descriptions while the pieces are played — so the pianist is free to imagine a nightingale with a toothache, but the audience cannot share the conceit. I’ve gone one step further than my beloved ES. Aside from my aforementioned note, which I have modestly placed at the end of the score, there are no clues about what is actually being portrayed in this composition. What you’re getting here is insider information.

1) General, walking-around music. Notice I do not say “promenade,” though obviously I had in mind an outdoor version of Pictures at an Exhibition. I’ve gone to some lengths to make my walking-around music totally unlike that of Mussorgsky, although he was hanging around in the back of my mind the entire time I was writing the piece. His promenade is very purposeful, full of rhythm and destination. My walking-around music is a casual, undirected stroll, NB being a flaneur for a few minutes.

2) The three smaller buildings. Each has its own character — repetitive, playful, or expansive. The sketches for these buildings are only a few measures, but they were indeed made on location, while I stood right in front of each of them and listened spontaneously to my inner compositional voice. When it came time to write out the whole piece, the woodshed and the playhouse are quickly taken care of. The development of the workshop/boathouse took some doing.

3) The wall. The music for the beautiful old stone wall, which I imagine slowly crawling toward the sea, needed to begin in a low register and end at the top of the keyboard. In real life, this wall, if faced so that the great house is behind you, runs from left to right as it approaches Long Island Sound. Based on my slender melodic sketch (a single voice) I devised a three-part canon that slowly inches its way up and up. I am very proud of this part of the piece. It’s a very successful marriage of the descriptive (and emotional) effect of the wall itself and the technique used to paint the wall in music. It’s also a foreshadowing, in 2008, of the unexpected ways in which counterpoint has taken over my musical imagination in recent years. (This recital has three fugues in it. If someone told me ten years ago that I would write something like twenty-six fugues, and many other contrapuntal pieces, over the next decade, I would have laughed incredulously.)

4) The great house, suitable for entertaining. The great house is represented by crashing chords, a stentorian bit of quasi-recitative, and some noisy development of some of the earlier material associated with the smaller buildings. The wind quickly asserts itself. One is glad to be inside.

5) The wind. The arpeggios that constitute this bit of wind music are derived from the arpeggios that waft around the woodshed (remember the woodshed?). I find that as I practice the wind music I want to play it in in a more and more exaggerated manner. Ideally I can make it whoosh and howl around the house, making everyone glad to be inside.

6) The song of another time. When I was writing this piece I was also practicing the Waldszenen of Schumann (opus 82, also known as Waldescenen and other spellings.) I decided I spent too much time practicing hard music, and I should learn some easier pieces. I had learned “The Prophet Bird” in my youth (that’s the only piece from the set that anyone plays these days) and liked it a lot. I took one look at the entire opus and was hooked. — a very imaginative, original and somewhat dark collection that seemed to have my name written on it. For various reasons I have not played Waldszenen in public, but I still practice it from time to time, for my own pleasure. The tune in Eb that floats in towards the end of “Tuckaway” is consciously modeled on the sixth movement, “Wayside Inn.” Looking at “Wayside Inn” today, I’m surprised at just how similar the tunes are. Mine is somewhat slower, and takes a deliberately grandiose and sentimental turn (in the manner of Percy Grainger's "Colonial Song"), but the shape of the two tunes is quite close.

7)  How all this ends. The wind swells and takes over. I imagined a movie camera looking in at the window, pulling back gradually so that one sees and hears more and more of the weather and less and less of the party inside. Eventually everything quiets down. Inside the cozy house everyone goes to bed, with little Ivesian touches as they settle down.

Having written “Tuckaway in Early Summer” I have no desire to write another descriptive piece. That being said, I’m very happy to have written this one.

Tuckaway in Early Summer: Part One

The Complete Piano Music of Neely Bruce: THIS IS IT!

The first of twelve recitals will take place on Sunday 29 September, 2013 at 3:00 p.m. in Crowell Concert Hall, Wesleyan University, Middletown, Connecticut

As I mentioned before, the first program in this series of recitals will begin with some of my most recent compositions for the piano and conclude with pieces written much earlier. (See the blog of July 30th for the list.) The one exception is “Forty Times Forty,” written in 1995. I’ll discuss that in due course. Today I’m going to write about the first piece on the program, “Tuckaway in Early Summer.”

For many years I was active as a performer at the Florence Griswold Museum, one of our state’s most beautiful small museums. Located on the shores of the Lieutenant River, only a stone’s throw from Interstate 95 (though you would never know it, so cleverly is the noisy highway masked by trees and water), the FGM is devoted to American art, particularly American impressionism. Before it was a museum it was the home of Florence Griswold, heiress, spinster, and patron of the arts. It became an artists colony, frequented by painters of all backgrounds and levels of reputation, including the great Childe Hassam.

As part of a silent auction in 2007, to benefit the museum, I agreed to write a piece for whoever made the high bid. The couple who did this wanted me to compose something inspired by their vacation property, named Tuckaway. In the fall of 2007 I made a visit to the site, manuscript paper in hand. I revisited the property in the spring of 2008, to make more on-site sketches. I composed the piece at my home, and played it informally at Tuckaway in June of the same year.

The official premiere of the piece took place at the FGM on Wednesday 23 July, 2008. It opened a concert called Piano as Palette,  a tribute to American impressionist composers, performed in conjunction with a major exhibit of paintings by American impressionists. The museum has a very fine piano, which was moved into the largest of the galleries. The music, presented in the middle of so many gorgeous paintings, made a wonderful effect.

After “Tuckaway” I played the Roman Sketches of Charles Griffes, “Impressions of the Wa-Wan Ceremony of the Omahas” by Arthur Farwell, and a virtuoso piece by Farwell entitled “Flame-Voiced Night,” inspired by a poem of Tagore. After intermission I performed lighter fare by Zez Confrey and Bix Beiderbecke. The evening closed with Phyllis singing Gitanjili by John Alden Carpenter—six of the finest Tagore settings you will ever hear.  (Phyllis loved this cycle and sang it beautifully. More on this subject in a later blog.) Here’s what I wrote in the program notes, which includes what I wrote in the score:

“’Tuckaway in Early Summer’ is my most recent piano piece. Its method of composition directly parallels that of many of the American impressionist painters working in Giverny. The listener will clearly hear the influence of Debussy, the master of musical impressionism, as well as other early twentieth century composers (including Ives). As I say in the score:

“This composition is inspired by property (buildings and grounds) atop a hill on Black Point, near Niantic, Connecticut. There are three smaller buildings (a woodshed, a playhouse and a workshop/boathouse) and a grand house suitable for entertaining. A magnificent stone wall crawls in the direction of the water. The wind is almost constant. One imagines people gathered around the piano, singing songs of another time. One is always aware of the weather.

“All of the musical ideas used in this work were scribbled on location, then made into a piece at my home studio, much as a visual artist might sketch en plein air and paint in his or her atelier.”

“Tuckaway in Early Summer” is my only descriptive piano piece. I have loved the genre of descriptive piano music, déclassé as it is, ever since I discovered it as a teenager—quite serendipitously. In a small volume of Elizabethan works for the virginals (selections from My Ladye Nevells Booke), I found “The Battell” by William Byrd. When I became so fascinated by American parlor music in graduate school, I discovered lots of other descriptive stuff. Although I never played the Byrd battle piece in public I made up for it by recording “The Battle of Marengo” by Bernard Viguerie, and playing many. many performances over the years of “The Battle of Trenton” by James Hewitt. There are lots and lots of other action-packed descriptive pieces in the American repertory — “Ben Hur’s Chariot Race” by E. T. Paull, for example, or “The Great Crush Collision March” of Scott Joplin.

“Tuckaway” is a description of a landscape, rather than an action, and it has a very different feel from the aforementioned battles, or even something like “A Day at Berkeley Springs” — a description of a famous resort hotel in West Virginia, composed in 1851 by Erneste Szemelnyi. (Now there’s an obscure piece! It’s wonderful, BTW.) Today’s comments are by way of introduction. Tomorrow I’ll talk about the music itself.

Brief autobiographical note

I’ve been traveling — to NYC for a lesson with Sophia Rosoff; to Brooklyn to rehearse Ives songs with David Barron; to the Fischer Center to see the current production of Oresteia; and to suburban Red Hook to visit Kyle and Nancy Gann. (That's the upstate Red Hook, not the neighborhood in Brooklyn.) Drove back to Middletown to play part of my September recital for Sarah (Starnes) Simonitis (Wesleyan '99), her husband Ken, and their two-year old son David. (A second Simonitis child will arrive in about two months.) Came home, took a nap, and started attending to all the Emails I hadn’t kept up with while driving around NY and CT, visiting, rehearsing, etc.

For Sarah, Ken and David I played “Tuckaway in Early Summer,” the two new fugues for Sophia and Maeny, the first three moments of A Partita for Wilhelm Gertz, and “Seven Variations on ‘Suzy, Little Suzy.’” David was very well-behaved, but it was clearly going to be a problem if my preview recital went on much longer. (I didn’t take it personally. Any toddler would have had a similar reaction to an all-Neely Bruce piano recital, I’m sure.) Lunch at O’Rourke’s was excellent, as always.

I am going to resist the temptation to write about Oresteia by Sergey Taneyev, except to say that I really liked it, it’s a fine piece, and that Bard and the Fischer Center are to be congratulated for putting it before the public. The singers were uniformly good, and occasionally better than that. The best thing in the vocal department was the chorus! They sang the best and had the best music. Thrilling actually. Kudos to chorus director James Bagwell and his splendid crew.

Tomorrow morning I start writing about individual piano pieces. I promise.

Addendum: Christopher Grundy went with me to my lesson with Sophia and sand the "Five Songs on Poems of John Finlay" for her. He sings those pieces so well! Come to the September 29th recital and you'll see what I mean.

The program for September 29th

The Complete Piano Music of Neely Bruce: THIS IS IT!

The first of twelve recitals will take place on Sunday 29 September, 2013 at 3:00 p.m. in Crowell Concert Hall, Wesleyan University, Middletown, Connecticut

* * * * * 

Here is the program for September 29th. You will note that the music is either very recent or written when I was a teenager (there is one exception). In addition, you will see a set of songs, which I offer as a change-of-pace number and also because Christopher sings them so well. The next step in this blog will be to talk about individual pieces, which I will start doing in the next few days.

Tuckaway in Early Summer (2008)

Forty Times Forty (1995)

A Fugue for Sophia (2013)

A Fugue for Maeny (2013)

A Partita for Wilhelm Gertz (2007/2012)

Five Songs on Poems of John Finlay (1964)

     with baritone Christopher Grundy

Seven Variations on “Suzy, Little Suzy” (1962)

Fantasy in C major (1963)

NB at the piano: I get started

The Complete Piano Music of Neely Bruce: THIS IS IT 
The first of twelve recitals will take place on Sunday 29 September, 2013 at 3:00 p.m. in Crowell Concert Hall, Wesleyan University, Middletown, Connecticut

* * * * *

My mother’s name before she married was was Mary Beulah Neely. Her mother was Lela May Hemphill. There are a number of references to my grandmother as a music teacher in various small towns in Mississippi. She married rather late in life (as did my mother). Once a year my father, Woodrow Wilson Bruce Sr, would pack his wife and three small children in the car and we would go visit Mrs. Neely in Mendenhall.

Visits to Granny were a highlight of my childhood. I have vivid memories of her, and of her plain but memorable house by the railroad tracks (across from the tower where the steam engines took on water) and two blocks from the famous Mendenhall Hotel which had (and still has) a fine restaurant, once written up in Ripley’s Believe It or Not. Granny had no central heating, and boiled water to get rid of the ants on the kitchen floor. We all went outside to use the privy.

The visits of which I speak took place took place in the late 1940s and into the 1950s. About 1958 my father became concerned that she could no longer live alone. He drove to Mendenhall, packed her things and moved her to Homerville, Georgia, where the family lived at that time. Granny and her only daughter (my mother) didn’t get along all that well, for reasons I never knew. But she adored my father, because he saved her from ending her life in squalor and he would slip her a bit of whiskey from time to time. She died in her sleep in December of 1964 at the age of 84. She is buried in Jackson, Mississippi next to her husband, John Todd Neely, who died two years before I was born.

Although my grandmother didn’t have a lot of things, she did have a piano. Her ambition as a girl was to be a concert pianist. As a young woman she travelled to Louisiana to hear Paderewski play. She told this story the rest of her life. The Polish virtuoso, whom she always called “Pader-ROO-skee” (like most Americans of the time), made an indelible impression on her. In her last years in Homerville her greatest pleasure was watching the Liberace show. She was fond of his playing  and she wholeheartedly approved of the doting attention he bestowed on his mother.

My first memories of music are singing in church, listening to the Grand Old Opry on Friday nights (a family ritual second only to church attendance) and climbing up on the piano bench at Granny’s house in Mendenhall to bang on the keys. Many years later I told this anecdote to Herbert Brun, who wryly observed “You’re still doing it.” (This was a reference to my performance of the cluster-laden assault on the piano that is the finale of the Lejaren Hiller Suite for Two Pianos — but I digress.)

Granny had severe arthritis and knew that she would eventually have to quit playing the piano at the Mendenhall Baptist Church. By the time I remember her, she had already stopped teaching piano pupils. Mama made a deal with her. When the time came that her mother could no longer play, she would send the piano to us in Birmingham so that I could have the piano lessons I repeatedly requested. When that time finally came, shipping the piano to Birmingham was prohibitively expensive. Granny sold the piano for $300 and send the money to Mama. She bought a sturdy upright, upon which all three of us learned to play the piano. (The instrument is still in the family, by the way. It’s in the home one of my inlaws on the Driggers side, in a comfortable farmhouse near Waycross, Georgia.)

My sister Linda inherited the contents of Granny’s piano bench, but she eventually gave them to me. I still have this music. It is completely typical of bourgeois taste in music in the early twentieth century: the Beethoven “Moonlight” sonata, a piano arrangement of the overture to William Tell, “In a Persian Market” by Albert W. Ketèlbey, the Chopin waltzes, and several songs by Carrie Jacobs Bond. Just typing this list of pieces gives me a bit of a shiver. So many of the issues in my musical life come straight out of Granny’s piano bench. My life-long love of Beethoven, my intense involvement with opera, my fascination with parlor music, the seminar I teach on Chopin, and those haunting, delicious tunes of CJB that Phyllis sang so beautifully — not a bad encapsulation of my entire musical career. Ives isn’t there, of course. I was to learn about Ives much later. But perhaps the music of Ives is just the Danbury equivalent of the contents of that piano bench in Mendenhall, long ago, all jumbled up together.

With our new (used) piano in place at 2867 Norwood Boulevard, Birmingham, Alabama, I was about to begin lessons. At the age of eight I started working my way through the John Thompson books with Mrs. Marguerite Groover. Her house was a twenty minute walk from ours. My life-long involvement with the piano had begun.

At the age of nine, while we still lived on Norwood Boulevard, I wrote down my first composition. It is a waltz, sort-of like Brahms, sort-of like Chopin. It takes about two and a half minutes to play. Eventually I will play it for the Wesleyan audience, but not now. My next blog will begin to discuss specific pieces that I will perform on 29 September. That recital will feature very recent work, along with a few things I wrote as a teenager.

One Opera, Two Reviews

First thing tomorrow I’m going to start writing about my current, and most exciting long-range project — I’m preparing to play and record my complete works for solo piano. This will be the focus of this blog for the next four years. Not my exclusive topic, to be sure. There are too many interesting things to write about. But I want to get my thoughts about the piano, and my contribution to its literature, down on paper, at least in cyberspace!

But first a comment on a subject Mary Jane Leach raised on Facebook. I find Facebook a remarkably stimulating arena of ideas about all sorts of things — politics, the state of American culture, how our friends overseas regard our fair country, how my relatives are getting on, who’s getting married, who’s had a baby, etc. But above all I enjoy posts about music.

On July 11th I visited Tanglewood and saw a semistaged concert version of The Great Gatsby by John Harbison. I had seen the premiere of the piece at the Met years ago, and had the privilege of hearing the composer speak on this opera, and his intentions to revise it, at Yale, shortly after the first production. Mary Jane reviewed the Tanglewood performance by Emmanuel Music in the Times Union, the newspaper serving the greater Albany (NY) area. Here’s the link:

http://www.timesunion.com/entertainment/article/Great-Gatsby-opera-brings-the-text-to-life-4662166.php

Her Facebook post was an invitation to compare what she had written about John’s opera with what Zachary Woolfe had written in The New York Times:

http://www.nytimes.com/2013/07/15/arts/music/john-harbisons-great-gatsby-opera-at-tanglewood.html?_r=0

If you ever wondered about what actually happened somewhere, and who’s telling the truth about what, there is no more perplexing field of enquiry than music reviews. Here’s what was said, back and forth, on Facebook. I’ll identify Mary Jane as MJL; I’m NB; another relevant comment shall remain anonymous. Call this writer SE (Somebody Else). Since the exchange can be viewed by any of our thousand-plus friends, I don’t see any problem with repeating it here, slightly edited and abbreviated.

MJL: After reading the review of Gatsby in the Times, I began to wonder if Zachary Woolfe and I had seen the same thing.

NB: Hi Mary Jane. I was at Tanglewood. I saw the opera you saw, not the one Zachary saw. Enjoyed it very much.

MJL:  The Times makes it sound as if it was a disaster — pretty mean spirited. Granted there were flaws, but there still was a lot to enjoy.

NB:  The good far outweighs the not-so-good in The Great Gatsby and none of it is bad. I would go see it again, for sure.

SE: I saw it at the Met. Not perfect, needed to be cut by about 45 minutes, which I heard he subsequently did. The music, when you focused on it qua music, was amazing.

MJL:  Agreed — Woolfe seemed needlessly hostile in his review, since there were many wonderful moments.

NB:  The NYT reviewer didn't get it. MJL got it. JH's opera is a subtle piece. It brings you in stage by stage, and then proceeds to a very satisfying conclusion, after you're totally on board. Not to everyone's taste, I know, but I enjoyed it immensely. As far as being "moved" by the piece, it's a contemplative take on the subject matter. A great deal to ponder, a great deal to admire, very little emotional manipulation.

I’d like to add a word of praise for the orchestration, which is uniformly good and sometimes thrilling. There is one special effect that is dazzling and not mentioned in either of the two reviews. When Harbison makes a transition into the party scenes, he does it by means of a clever and quite well-calculated spatial move. The stage band (that is, the jazz instruments playing at the parties) is at the back of the orchestra. The chorus, who sing flapperesque pop music and gossip about Gatsby, are against the upstage wall in a line. The jazzers are immediately in front of them. The orchestral music, which is never pop, never jazz, fades out by degrees, basically moving the sound from downstage to center stage to stage rear. As the symphonic music fades out (by stopping) the jazz fades in (beginning by degrees). As far as I could hear, the cessation of symphony sound spatially was quite strict — first the violins were out, then the cellos, then the other strings, then the winds and brass by degrees, as one became aware of the banjo and piano and the other members of the band. It worked like a charm!

The Great Gatsby is not going to replace Don Giovanni on the stages of the world, but I for one couldn’t care less. We need to think less about what pieces are not and far more about what they are.  What this opera is, as I said first on Facebook, is a contemplative take on the subject matter. We are invited to ponder the story of Gatsby and its implications. We are invited to listen to conversations and consider their nuances. The orchestra takes us on a couple of wild rides. This is a drama that takes place in the music, and inside the mind of the characters, far more than it takes place through the action. Indeed, the most dramatic events take place offstage, and are only referred to in passing.

The notion of introverted opera is not unique. Several come to mind. Pelléas et Mélisande (an extreme case), Eugene Onegin (which has the most beautiful sung conversations I know of in all of opera) and of course Tristan und Isolde. John Harbison is in very good company.

New oratorio by SMK — Two and a half months later

It is time to begin to blog again. There is too much I need to say and too many things I need to write about.

One of these is Letter From Italy, 1944, an oratorio by Sarah Meneely Kyder. LFI received its premiere on April 28, 2013 in the fine auditorium of Middletown High School. The Greater Middletown Chorale, with assisting soloists and a crackerjack freelance orchestra, under the direction of Joseph D’Eugenio, demonstrated a remarkable level of commitment to this new work.

They also were very savvy about marketing. The oratorio relates the true story of Sarah’s father in World War Two (in the Pacific theatre as well as Italy) and after he returns home. Chorale officers and their supporters got vets (from all our wars) to buy tickets, got local people of Italian descent to buy tickets, promoted the oratorio as an alternate way to study history, had lots of pre-performance events in different venues. It worked.  The premiere was sold out two weeks in advance, all 700 seats, so the Chorale sold tickets to the dress rehearsal. Well over a thousand people heard the piece, and they loved it.

In the interest of full disclosure, I must say that Sarah Meneely Kyder and I have been friends for decades. With the American Music/Theatre Group I performed another (smaller) choral work of hers many times, back in the day. I have heard a good number of her pieces over the years. However, being friends doesn’t mean that I can’t be objective about her work. So let me say, unequivocally, right off the bat, that this is one of the most emotionally engaging, well-crafted works I have heard in the last decade. It is also a work of powerful intellectual honesty, which can move both the general public and the hardboiled professional.

Sarah’s style is a subtle blend of modal counterpoint and small, unexpected touches. It is a beautiful way of writing music, but because it is so lovely on the surface one can miss the details if one is not careful. One hears an unexpected bassoon lick; a sustained chord that is just dissonant enough to be ominous but not so dissonant that it is out of place with the prevailing tone of loveliness; temporary eruptions of virtuosity in the flute; a most peculiar use of the high register of the English horn. Such details — and there are many more of them — are crucial to the effect of LFI. Without them the piece might be cloying, or even sentimental.

Of particular effectiveness is her judicious use of two trumpets and some drums. Suggestions of military music are few and far between, and only a couple of times are we really aware of the war. Nothing like crude battle music ever happens, and this makes the one quasi-jingoistic moment electrifying. The first part (act) of LFI comes to a rousing conclusion with somewhat free quasi-variations on “When Johnny comes marching home.” All I could think of when I heard the premiere was a much more sinister version of the words — “Johnny I hardly knew ye.”

You see, this oratorio, and the poems by Sarah’s sister Nancy Fitz-Hugh Meneely, upon which it is based, is not really about World War Two. It is about their father John Meneely, and his return to civilian life. He is not physically maimed, like the grotesquely wounded veteran in “Johnny I hardly knew you.” Rather, he is psychologically scarred beyond repair. After a brilliant medical career, after fathering three daughters, after suffering ever-deepening bouts of depression, he takes his life.

This story might seem to invite sensationalistic treatment, but all temptation to overstate is scrupulously avoided. So is all temptation to dramatize, to sentimentalize, in fact all temptation to do anything other than let the story speak for itself is avoided like the plague. What it was like for two sisters to tell this story at all is beyond my imagining. That they tell it with such honesty and discretion is almost miraculous.

Jack Pott, in the role of Dr. Meneely, was wonderful. The role is vocally strenuous and emotionally draining, and he rose to the occasion. The long-suffering women in his life, sung by Patricia Schuman, Patricia Barbana, Sheri Hammerstrom and Margaret Tyler, sang beautifully. The Middletown Chorale sang their hearts out. (It is so gratifying to see a chorus totally involved in a new work!) Joseph D’Eugenio was, as usual, a first-class conductor who lead his forces to ever-greater heights.

Since it seems de rigueur these days for reviewers to snipe at performances, especially new works, and especially in The New York Times, I guess I should say some negative things. (Not that I’m writing for the NYT, but hey, that’s the standard.) A little negativity might even get me some extra cred from folks who think what I’ve written above is nothing but hyperbole. So here goes.

The orchestra from time to time had a few intonation problems, and the trumpets didn’t always play their unexpected virtuoso moments with the required panache. The poetry can be quite dense, and sometimes the singers’ diction wasn’t up to delivering it. Fine conductor that he is, Joe didn’t always control the applause and the audience erupted after some breathtaking moments that should have lead into the next number without clapping. Sheila Garvey’s semi-staging was sometimes clunky, or even distracting — but the projections that she and Jijoun Chang produced were always effective and even provided necessary clarification of the action.

This is a bit long for a blog — it’s more of a combination review and remembrance. Whatever you want to call what I have written, I hope you enjoyed reading it. Even more, I hope that in some small way I can call attention to this excellent composition. Who knows, some conductor out there might read this and might decide that LFI should be done again. And he/she should conduct it! That would be great.

John Cage's Opinions

The following paragraphs were written for the SILENCE discussion group, an on-line, ongoing conversion about many aspects of John Cage’s music and writings. I am an infrequent reader and contributor, but I couldn’t resist jumping in on the recent discussion about Cage’s opinions about Beethoven, Mozart, jazz, politics, etc. Many people have participated in the discussion, which began as riffs on an article by Marjorie Perloff entitled “Constructed Anarchy” and a post called “Cage’s Prejudices.” (This latter might better be entitled “Cage’s Opinions,” since that’s what it’s really about. People use the word “prejudice” very loosely these days.) I thought I would post this here and see what response I might get from a very different readership.

“This is a very brief response to the fascinating thread developing about the Perloff article, anarchy, etc., etc. I have many thoughts and memories of all of these things, but I am practicing under deadline and have to get back to it. I will just say a couple of things.

“Artists' tastes say a lot about them, above and beyond the obvious, and even Cage's apparently glib statements about his likes and dislikes are at least provocative, sometimes very important.

“About Beethoven: I first encountered John's dislike of Beethoven as a graduate student at the University of Illinois in the fall of 1966. He visited Charles Hamm's class in American music, and most of what he said was about Beethoven. He compared Beethoven and Delacroix and talked about emerging radical individualism in the nineteenth century and how it was not going to solve the problems of the world in the middle of the twentieth century. He admitted that a pianist friend of his had played for him the late Beethoven bagatelles and he found them ‘quite lively.’ Notice that he stopped short of saying he liked them, but in the context he was clearly enjoying his memory of the pieces, if not the pieces themselves. After the better part of an hour of Cage bashing Beethoven, he was challenged by another graduate student, an excellent clarinettist named Doug DiBianco (quite skilled in performing new music I might add, and no Philistine). Doug practically exploded in rage and frustration. I quote: ‘But Beethoven was a great composer, and you're not.’ To quote John's response: ‘Yes, but he wanted to be.’

“Sorry to oversimplify such a rich and remarkable hour, but this thread is inspiring me to recollect and try to make sense of the many opinions I heard from John Cage over the years.

“His praise of Mozart, at least in my presence, was always a byproduct of his comparison of Mozart and Bach. John didn't like Bach much (though my impression was he liked Bach more than Beethoven). The reason was that scales in Bach (by which Cage meant extensive motion in the same direction) were always the same, i.e. diatonic. In Mozart, however, there are many more kinds of ‘scales.’ Not just diatonic, but chromatic, and arpeggios too, which are rare in Bach but common in Mozart. While this is of course an oversimplification of what goes on in the work of a couple of great composers, because the source of the oversimplification is a third great composer, it's worth looking into. It turns out John is more or less correct. And if your real purpose in all of this is to write a great masterpiece, in this case HPSCHD, oversimplifications are quite adequate to the task.

“In my presence John always spoke of Satie in reverential terms. He said of ‘Vexations,’ for example, that it was a great religious work, ‘as great as any of the Passions.’ (Another quote. John's choice of words was always vivid, and many of his sentences are burned indelibly into my brain.)

“Already I have written about twice as much here as I really have time to write this evening. I must say, however, that the readers of SILENCE (the discussion group, not the book) should be aware, if you are not already, that Cage is hardly the only major composer to dislike Beethoven. Except for a handful of pieces, Chopin disliked Beethoven intensely, and vastly preferred Mozart. (Mozart and Bach seem to have been the greatest composers, in Chopin's mind.) Chopin thought Beethoven noisy, crude and ‘expressive’ to a fault, not far from what Cage thought, it seems to me. Debussy had a similar dislike for Beethoven, for similar reasons. The only piece by Beethoven that Debussy really liked seems to have been the Ninth Symphony.

“I enjoy telling my students that there are three major composers who disliked Beethoven: Chopin, Debussy and Cage. I am collecting composers who dislike Beethoven, and I can add to the list my good friend Carver Blanchard. Carver thinks Beethoven is the most overrated composer who ever lived. I, by contrast, think Beethoven is the greatest composer who ever lived. You can imagine our discussions on this point.

“BTW, My claim that Beethoven is the ‘greatest composer’ is intended in the same spirit as Anthony Thommasini's list of ‘ten greatest’ composers. Not to be taken too seriously, but if one has to make a list, and one has to order it in magnitude of ‘greatness,’ Beethoven is #1 on my list, as he's #3 on Tommasini's. I also think that Cage, Chopin and Debussy (and Satie and Mozart for that matter) are ‘great,’ wherever they may appear on one's Top Ten list. Whatever ‘greatness’ may consist of. Now it's REALLY time to practice Duckworth...”

Ives recordings begin

Happy Flag Day! Last Friday Elizabeth Saunders, David Barron and I began recording Ives songs. We will do studio recordings of the entire Ives Vocal Marathon. Details about this unique project can be found on the IVM website:

www.ivesvocalmarathon.com

I am having trouble updating the IVM blog, so I will blog briefly about these recording sessions on this site until blogging can begin again at the other site.

We are working at Systems Two Recording Studios in Brooklyn, which has one of the three or so best pianos I have ever played in my life. We were scheduled for six hours, and we used all the time. However, everyone was pretty tired by the end, so in the future I’m going to schedule five-hour chunks. We planned to get twenty-five songs in the can. Instead, we got twenty-one. Still, not bad for a day’s work—about 10% of the total. These performances will eventually be available on-line, and of course I will keep readers of this blog posted about our progress.

Beth recorded the following songs:

To Edith

Two Little Flowers

Evidence

The Children’s Hour

The Light That Is Felt

Berceuse

Allegro

Night of Frost in May

Afterglow

David recorded:

Walking

The Cage

Because of You

Thoreau

Slow March

The Side Show

Abide With Me

Tarrant Moss

Marie (the first version, in German)

Minnelied

Ich grolle nicht

In Flanders Fields

There was a bit of time left over, so I recorded four brief improvisations. I have listened to the complete sessions, and the product is very good. We resume recording at the end of the month—two weeks to practice!

What I have been doing: A frivolous blog

I have been trying to catch up on some work at Wesleyan (yes, I know it’s summer and I should be doing other things) and some things around the house. But what has obsessed me is the libretto for my new oratorio on the subject of Aristides de Sousa Mendes. (If you don’t know who he was, google him—an extremely important person and an unsung hero of the mid-twentieth century.) Secondarily I have been obsessed with the title of this libretto. Both of these topics are subjects for next week.

At the same time I have been practicing, preparing to record twenty-five Ives songs tomorrow with Elizabeth Saunders and David Barron. This is the first day of recording (six hours! just over four songs an hour!) and I’ll know more about how this is going to work after we do it. Pretty intense. Ditto the libretto.

Well, the first draft of the libretto is finished and duplicated for the board of the Sousa Mendes Foundation. The die is cast for the recording session, though I will certainly practice later today. So I feel the need for an intellectual change of pace, and frivolous blogging is just what the doctor ordered.

First, my restless mind turns to my idea of a series of piano concerti modeled on Rhapsody in Blue. My first thoughts are of titles. (This is surely a backlash from the agony of finding a title for the oratorio.) It crossed my mind that colors would be good, excepting blue of course. Rhapsody in Taupe, for example. No sooner had I articulated the thought than I had rejected it. Such titles have no merit and there are too many colors associated with pieces of music already. (With the stunning exception of Rhapsody in Blue, of course.) But unbidden, titles containing fruits presented themselves. I offer the list as comic relief, but in the complete conviction that something will come of it.

Peach Rhapsody

Pineapple Rhapsody

Guava Rhapsody

Mango Rhapsody

Grapefruit Rhapsody

Fig Rhapsody

Persimmon Rhapsody

Cherry Rhapsody

Apple Rhapsody

Banana Rhapsody

Lime Rhapsody

Nectarine Rhapsody

Watermelon Rhapsody

Ugly Fruit Rhapsody

Cantaloupe Rhapsody

Grape Rhapsody

Strawberry Rhapsody

Star Fruit Rhapsody

Honeydew Rhapsody

Blackberry Rhapsody

Ideas for concerti

My friend David Barron, who is also the baritone who sang the Ives Vocal Marathon with me, lives in Brooklyn. I have made two trips recently to his spacious apartment where he lives with his wife Susan Barron, the visual artist. We are rehearsing the Ives songs that David sang on the IVM, in preparation for recording sessions, scheduled to begin on Friday 10 June. We also take advantage of the time to eat excellent Chinese or Thai food, catch up on the news, and occasionally take in a special event.

Yesterday was one of these. One of David and Susan’s young friends plays clarinet in a very good concert band, made up of Brooklyn teenagers. They played a concert in Green-Wood Cemetery, a very special Memorial Day event, featuring the music of Green-Wood’s “permanent residents.” On this occasion there were pieces by Fred Ebb, Leonard Bernstein and Louis Moreau Gottschalk.

But these works are not what I wish to mention in today’s blog. Rather, I’d like to mention a famous concerto by a famous Brooklynite, the Rhapsody in Blue by George Gershwin. The performance was perfectly good, better than that from time to time, and David and I were both struck (for the umpteenth time) by what a masterpiece R in B is. But two things made the occasion really memorable.

First of all, the concert took place behind the great gate to the cemetery, where the famous Brooklyn parrots have what is surely their finest nesting place. For a wonderful photo essay on the Green-Wood Cemetery parrots, see:

http://www.brooklynparrots.com/2006/03/greenwood-cemetery-parrots.html

These parrots, like most birds, like music, and enjoy singing along. But yesterday they were not interested in the band music, or even the piano solo (a performance of the Gottschalk “Pasquinade”). They were interested in R in B, particularly the piano solo sections where the right hand is high and tinkley. After a somewhat tentative start, the parrots chimed in most effectively every time a high, tinkley piano solo passage occurred. Sometimes they sang with delicatesse, sometimes with great gusto, but always as if they belonged in the music (which they most assuredly did) and as if they owned the place (which they do, for all intents and purposes).

All of this reminded me rather forcibly of a compositional problem that has been occupying my mind (or part of it, off and on) for about twenty years. That is, how to write a concerto, or series of concerti, that speaks to the concerns of today and uses today’s musical vocabulary, but is not virtuosic. Needed: concerti of moderate difficulty, for an orchestra of moderate size, not overpowering but with some interesting interplay between the soloist and the ensemble. I had long been thinking of how to make such a piece, using the Mozart concerti as a model, and even discussed the problem with composer-conductor John Kennedy (who assures me that his horn concert is just such a piece—I’ve got to check it out.)

But I realized yesterday afternoon that the perfect model for such a composition already exists, and it really works. Rhapsody in Blue! Through-composed, of moderate length, the soloist and the orchestra don’t get in each other’s way, the proportions are exquisite, etc. So I’m all set. As soon as I finish my other compositional projects (!!) I can turn my attention to a series of Rhapsodies for piano and chamber orchestra. More on this project as it develops. The basic idea is to analyze the R and B and use its structure as a model for new works—with parrots, of course. I have to make room for the parrots, where the piano part is high and tinkley.

The Ricciotti Ensemble, PART TWO

On Sunday 15 May the combined Ricciotti Ensemble(s) from the 1970s, 1980s, 1990s, 2000s, with the current Ricciotti interspersed, played in the Openbare Verlichting in the Westergasterrein. I have described the space in an earlier blog. In addition to Gijs Kramers and myself, there were four other conductors: Wim Witteman, Leonard Van Goudoever, Leon Berendse, and Bas Wiegers. The program was announced as follows:

Jurriaan Andriessen: De gepikte vogel (quadraphonic version)

Wim Van Binsbergen: Cordon bleu (Ricciotti ’70)

Willem Van Manen: Divertimento (R ’80)

Leonard Van Goudoever: Vers (R ’90, with Marga Grooff, soloist)

Konrad Koselleck: Daddy’s nightmare and the birthday of his son (R ’00)

Neely Bruce: Grand Polka de bataille (version for four orchestras)

PAUSE: all Ricciottis combine to make a gigantic 180-piece group

Willem Breuker: Onleesbaar III

Ricciotti/Van Wassenaer: Concertino II (the tune)

Wim Witteman: Just for you

Richard Wagner: Meistersinger overture

Chiel Meijering: No night no day

Chiel Meijering: Budhead (world premiere)

Van Dyke Parks: The Four Mills Brothers (with eight interpolated soloists)

In forty-one years certain traditions have established themselves in the Ricciotti, and this concert brought several of these to the fore. With this orchestra the first rule of programming is spontaneity, and the corollary to that is “Never trust the printed program.” The first half opened with their trademark composition, almost their theme song, De gepikte vogel of Jurriaan Andriessen (Louis’s less-famous older brother, alas deceased). “Gepikte” can be seen on YouTube in at least three versions by the Ricciotti. (I wonder if any other orchestra has played the piece.) There is a certain amount of flexibility in this composition, and it can be stretched in various ways. Sunday night it came to a resting point and Orchestra One (Ricciotti ’70) began to play Cordon bleu. Of course anyone who knew “Gepikte” (and many in the audience did, being die-hard Ricciotti fans) expected it to be completed, but when? Each of the orchestras did its thing, and I conducted the Grand Polka, which went off without a hitch (almost—there still was that strange silent measure that was not supposed to be there).

I should mention the singing of Marga Groff. Marga was the manager of the Ricciotti when I was most involved with them, in the late 1980s and through the American tour of 1991. She is a remarkable performer, over the top in some ways, but always captivating. The solo part in Vers was written for her. Leonard Van Goudoever is better known as a conductor than a composer I think, but the pieces of his I have heard are uniformly excellent. A violinist himself, he writes very well for strings, which are featured in this piece. The text ends with “In my heart a bizarre tango is playing,” which Dutch syntax allows to end with “a bizarre tango.” Marga has a remarkable dynamic range, and the piece ends with the orchestra singing to accompany her. A fragment of a violin solo and the piece is over. There are several pieces in the Ricciotti repertory that require the orchestra, or part of it, to sing. This is one of the best. I heard it many times twenty years ago, and I’m happy to report that it holds up very well.

So far this was a concert that followed standard expectations, more or less. Of course there are four orchestras in four different locations in the hall, and six conductors, and the first piece on the program wasn’t finished yet, but perhaps these are details. The pieces were performed in the order listed, and even if Orchestra Three, from the ‘90s, was singing a good deal of the time, they mostly played their instruments. (By the way, I attended a good chunk of the rehearsal of Vers, and a lot of attention was paid to the singing part of it. That paid off in spades. No hesitation, no bad intonation, just a Ricciotti singing a bizarre tango…)

The second half was a different matter. This is a blog, not a book, so I will just summarize the irregularities. First of all, as the evening progressed, more and more instrumentalists arrived, opened their cases, took out their instruments, went to the appropriate section and began to play. (This would have probably happened in the first half too, if the four orchestras had not been arranged quadraphonically.) Second, there was an extra piece by Ricciotti/Van Wassenaer (see my blog of 17 May for the lowdown on this composer and his music) performed by a handful of string players who were in the very first concert. This item does not appear on the program. Also, a video of rare, fuzzy footage of the Ricciotti in Moscow and lots of other places showed up unexpectedly. The overture to Meistersinger with over a hundred strings, at least a half-dozen saxophones, a tuba player (he only appeared in this one piece), extra drums but no timpani, and God knows what other irregularities, had to be heard to be believed. It was wonderful, but certainly not for purists.

Sidebar comment: I asked Gijs if this was the only Wagner the Ricciotti had played. He said it was not. He had arranged for them an eight-and-a-half minute Readers Digest version of The Ring, based on his earlier Ring reduction for the Amstel Quartet.

Continuing with the list of irregularities: the two Chiel Meijering pieces were not played back-to-back. Eight different soloists (singers, speaking actors, a hammered dulcimer player) strutted their stuff briefly, in between the characteristic opening of “The Four Mills Brothers” by Van Dyke Parks (another Ricciotti staple, for decades), used as a ritornello. Just when you ask yourself how many soloists there are, and if the piece will ever end, a quick and dirty transition gets us into the inevitable, but only dimly remembered, missing conclusion of De gipkte vogel.

There are theatrical aspects of this piece that have become ritualized. I don’t know if Jurriaan Andriessen put these elements in the score, but every performance of the piece I have witnessed contains them. At one point the violins and violas begin to move out of place and into the audience, playing by memory. At another point all available clarinets (in this performance six or seven, I couldn’t tell for sure) move to an unexpected place and begin to play a particularly aggressive solo line, in unison. (This was really effective in this performance, with all of the clarinets suddenly blaring forth from the gallery, spread out from one end to the other.) The piece doesn’t really end. It just dies. The members of the orchestra collapse on the floor. They jump up almost immediately, of course, to tumultuous applause, resounding bravos, cheers, etc.

Suffice it to say that this concert undermined virtually every convention of the symphonic concert. (I have not even mentioned the way they dress. Go to YouTube and see for yourself.) The 1960s were a time when composers devoted a great deal of attention to music as theatre. The Ricciotti Ensemble, child of the early 1970s, has taken this particular aesthetic concern and made it a way of life.

I must reluctantly close this series of ruminations about the world’s greatest orchestra, at least for the time being. Just one final note. The concert was brilliant, entertaining and altogether wonderful from beginning to end (even if the second half was a tad too long). But I have to say that the single most beautiful performance of the evening was the Concertino II by Ricciotti/Van Wassenauer, conducted by Leonard. It was expressive, in tune, and altogether satisfying. On top of all the theatre, all the dazzling imagination, the wonderful new and unusual pieces—these guys can really play.