If You Think You Hate Charles Ives On His Birthday
Not that I’m referring to anyone in particular who might have mourned the anniversary of Ive’s birth today on social media. But if you don’t do quarter-tones and all those other “intellectual” aspects of Ive’s instrumental music, there could be hours of pleasure in store for you in his deceptively simple songs.
I’m sitting in a search marketing conference right now, so I can’t say much. But the songs are catchy, melodic and walk a tightrope between the satirical and the sentimental.
Preview - Charles Ives: Songs by Jan DeGaetani and Gilbert Kalish - Rhapsody lets you listen to 20 full tracks per months without joining or paying. This wonderful album is a worthy use of those freebies.
For a totally free Ives song session, here is a wonderful playlist where you can listen to some of the songs and watch a scrolling score. The singing on this playlist is not always ideal (Ives songs are a student recital staple) but it’s a convenient way to get familiar with these songs.
“The Circus Band” is a favorite. I like it better as a song (and PLEEZ, pianists, DO shout “Hear the trombones” at the appointed time - really) but some prefer this totally raucus orchestra/chorus arrangement by Ives, performed here by a school group under the helm of Michael Tippett:
Sanskrit or English? Oddly, It Doesn't Much Matter-A Postscript to My Satyagraha Post
By any measure, the libretto for Satyagraha is extraordinary. For one thing, my printout is two pages long, for an opera that takes almost three hours to perform. For another thing, it completely disdains all theatrical and operatic conventions. It is also unrelentingly philosophical. The fact that it is adapted from the Bhagavad-Gita is perhaps somewhat less extraordinary-after all, Shakespeare, Dante, Tolstoy, and the Bible have been adapted operatically.
The Met’s study guide asked the reader to consider Glass’s decision to set the original Sanskrit, rather than an English translation. I think it is a sound decision, despite the fact that it would appear to be motivated by essentially the same factors which prompted Stravinsky to set Oedipus Rex in Latin. Latin, not Greek!
I am somewhat sympathetic to the argument that operatic libretti are at the very least, less important than the music, and even sometimes close to irrelevant. But I’d like to make two caveats: firstly, irrelevant or not, the listener better know what the words mean, because despite the patent lack of literary interest in most libretti, the words do motivate the type of music a composer writes, usually. There are some exceptions; and when I say motivate, I’m not excluding the possibility of ironic or counter-intuitive settings…magnificent operas such as L’Incornazione di Poppea and The Rake’s Progress indulge in considerable irony, for instance. And, secondly, a minority of operas do really elevate the libretto to a similar status to the music. No, not Verdi’s Otello and Falstaff…again I’m thinking of Monteverdi.
Even if the language an opera is sung in is the listener’s own, this doesn’t mean the words are going to be comprehensible! So why value comprehensibility at all? Why not take if off the table entirely, as in Satyagraha, and allow the listener to absorb the full impact of words and music in their pure state? Of course you can’t have a really dramatic piece this way, although the burning of the registration cards was sufficiently dramatic for me. Glass’s opera gives you time to meditate on the words; in fact, the opera felt like an accompaniment to the listener’s spiritual or philosophical meditation, which is provoked by the meaning of the words. So Sanskrit is the better choice of language, the lines of meditation and music are not crossed.
The use of text in Satyagraha may be unusual in the opera house, but it is de rigeur in sacred music; have you ever noticed how much music and how few words in the second half of Beethoven’s Missa Solemnis? Nevertheless, Satyagraha is an opera, not an oratorio. Please do not underestimate the importance of the pantomimic dimension; like the music itself, this guides and focusses the listener’s meditation.
Satyagraha-Pro and Contra
For the first time in my life I listened today, carefully, with full and undivided attention, to Philip Glass’s Satyagraha, in an admirable performance from the Met on its weekly Saturday broadcast. I read carefully the Met’s quite helpful materials published on its website, and followed the libretto from beginning to end. I neither had nor needed a score, because the musical matter per se was eminently graspable without the notes in front of me.
My point of view is likely to be less valuable than that of a Glass aficionado, since love is a prerequisite for understanding. Furthermore, my comments may either seem like a betrayal to those who agree with my customary aesthetic agendae, or insufficiently laudatory to those who already esteem this work. This post is likely to please no one, more’s the pity. I have found it convenient to alter the order of the pro and contra positions depending on the issue addressed.
Pro: The tripartite organization of the work in (relative to Gandhi’s era) legendary past, present, and future, coupled with associations of morning, noon, and night is elegant and dramatically effective, and gives a certain welcome narrative dimension to a work which is otherwise patently static.
Contra: I have no effective counter-argument.
Contra: The harmonies are exasperatingly simple. For three hours of music.
Pro: They have to be. It is well known that the more piquaint the spice, the more sparingly it must be used. The sequence of tonic, V/III, VI, and V presented at the beginning of the work, for instance, justifies Sam Lipman’s complaint that the harmony is the sort one learns in first year harmony, but, given the textural and durational conception of the piece, which involves lengthy non-dramatic meditations on essential philosphical themes, delievered via arpeggio and ostinato, anything fancy would quickly become unendurable. Rice, bread or beans can be taken every day. It is basic sustenance, consonant with the communal message of the piece as well as Gandhi’s specific character.
Contra: It ain’t an opera. It’s a ritual.
Pro: Alright. Tell me your objections to Mozart’s Magic Flute, your beloved Smetana’s Libuse, Tippett’s Midsummer Marriage, or even the outer acts of Wagner’s Parsifal!
Contra: I thought tu quoque arguments were out of bounds!
Pro: It has social relevance.
Contra: Yeah, so? Does Cosi fan tutte have to justify itself with a better score than Le Nozze di Figaro?
Contra: There are way too many arpeggios, and the orchestral schemes are all too similar, scene to scene. It wouldn’t hurt to have some vertical organization time to time, or to utilize the registral dimension, which is strangely absent from a work that, for better or worse, is “process” or “permutation” or “additive” music; which technique leaves the field open for registral variation, of which there is nowhere near enough. And don’t invoke the merits of “homogeneity of style”; You can achieve that while providing variety.
Pro: I have to go to the bathroom.
Pro: I’m back. And I really did have to go to the bathroom, you! What a relief it is not to have chunks of recitative, or stupid filler, or contrived arias to show off this or that singer, or a patently meaningless plot. This opera invites mediation on essential issues. And the libretto, what there is of it, is first rate. (the libretto is derived from the Bhagavad-Gita).
Contra: No opera has ever survived in the long run on the strength of its libretto, and plenty of great musical operas have survived despite, to put it charitably, defective libretti.
Pro: But this isn’t a traditional opera! That’s the whole point! Dimensions that aren’t strictly musical assume considerable importance! And compare the status of this work within its operatic orbit with certain works in the legitimate theatre. Shaw, Ibsen, and Brecht, for instance, survive nicely although none of these writers have the poetry of a Shakespeare!
Contra: That’s a weird argument. We’re not even talking about that stuff. And there is no “a Shakespeare”; there’s only one.
Pro: Let’s not get into that.
MODERATOR: Back to the topic, Gentlemen. This isn’t a political debate!
Contra: The individual parts aren’t terribly interesting; neither the singers nor the orchestral players have enough to engage them in terms of purely musical nuance, and this may mean that the finest singers, at least, (orchestral players do what they’re told, most of the time) will eschew these roles.
Pro: Who is opera for! What is it supposed to be! Do you want a return to Bel Canto! Give me a break.
Contra: Gladly. Which limb?
MODERATOR: Enough, Enough! Patricians and Populace, Peace I cry!
Pro: The “printing press” sequence is physically exhiliarating; the Phrgian scales Gandhi sings at the end, whether because of text, music, or established context, is quite moving. Unforgettable, in fact.
Contra: I agree, for today. Will I be exhiliarated and moved the next time I hear the piece? Will there be a next time? Time will tell. And let me tell you, this thing requires a lot of time!
Some Clarifications and Amplifications: Barber, Taruskin, and Snobbery
[Barber’s Violin Concerto attempts, and magnificently succeeds in, creating obviously beautiful and appealing melodies. Make no mistake, Violin Concerto though it may be called, the first two movements are luscious songs.]
Didn’t I just say that in my last post?
Am I permitted to say that my comment on listeners “being free to luxuriate in the beautiful melodies” of the Barber concerto is an observation, not a condemnation? At least I didn’t consciously try to put down Barber’s audience; and if I put down Barber’s audience subconsciously, it is probably due to my own insecurities, and not to a rational evaluation of the nature of his audience. Snobs are insecure people, let’s face it. For convenience, and because I’m heartily sick of semi-colons and other connective gammatical devices, I’ve arranged these in the form of a list:
1. The Barber Violin Concerto is a great work. I know that. And ironically, from my point of view, it would continue to be a great work even if only the size of Webern’s public liked it. What’s good for the goose is good for the gander. And you know, I’m not persuaded that it is always out of bounds to criticize public taste. Standards of discrimination has its value…I would hate to have classical music concerts become pops concerts. My problem is that I’m frustrated that what I value isn’t valued more generally, which I guess is a kind of immaturity. Don’t I get credit for defending the popular rep in my student days, at least? And I’m not always a snob. Didn’t I just run a class on Sibelius, for instance? And haven’t I praised Leonard Bernstein’s music at every opportunity?
2. Taruskin is a great writer and thinker. I know that. And ironically, he would still be a great writer even if he preferred Webern to Barber and if only a public the size of Webern’s liked his work.
3. I imagine it was some jackanapes and not The Great Man who claims I’m a snob who needs to be rebuked. But let me respond, as to being a snob: It’s a fair cop, Guv’nor, you got me bang to rights. As for a rebuke? Well, I deserve all sorts of rebukes for all sorts of transgressions. …ah, if you only knew!
4. For better or worse, a blog is the sort of forum where in order to generate interest, it appears that controversial or provocative claims get more readership and generate more interest than careful, sober posts. And I try to do my posts with humor, which is some defense. That’s why posts on Taruskin and even one on Alex Ross’s fine new book took issue with some of their views. The “off the cuff” nature of a blog reveals things about the writer that he would not perhaps want to reveal intentionally. Regular contributors to the comments, such as Ry and David, who happen to be friends of mine, are most often moved to comment when they disagree with something. I imagine it is easier to take shots from the sidelines than to create an interesting post a priori, which is fair, but I ask for some indulgence. I like to stir things up, it’s in my nature.
I’ve decided to turn over a new leaf. Who needs a snob? Here’s a new list of points that will indicate my new, reformed direction.
1. Aren’t puppies cute? I saw one crawl in a sock drawer once, just a-snoozin’ away! And kittens are cute, as well.
2. And so are composers. Especially ones who write nice music. Only meanies think that it’s appropriate to criticize each other’s taste. And I think you’re cute, too. Can’t we all get along?
3. Boy, those concert grand pianos sure are big!
4. Goshers, isn’t it amazing how the Chicago Symphony got through the whole 80 minutes of Mahler 6 without stopping or breaking down even once. They’re like super-men!
Oh no! I’m doing it again! These “reformed” comments smack of sarcasm! Oh, well, a chameleon may change his colors, but never his nature.
Barber's Violin Concerto
If I approach this work (composed in 1939) with hostility, I can say nothing valuable about it. And if I object to the piece’s seeming lack of complexity, this only says that I personally prefer complex music, which I do, but which is totally irrelevant to any meaningful discussion of the Barber. One of the comments in these pages expressed incredulity that I could even consisder the possibility of Barber’s popularity waning. Well, I can conceive this possibility because of what happened to me from my conservatory days to the present, which is the central musical irony of my life. I used to love Barber, and American populism generally. I’ve always been attracted to the song literature, and Barber, Britten, and even Rorem meant a lot to me when I was 18-22 or so years old. The irony is that my conservatory teachers had total contempt for this literature and my enjoyment of it, and pushed academic modernism on me as the only possible aesthetic. I pushed back, and my conservatory career was less successful than it could have been because of my stubborness. And I loathed Webern. This was unfortunate, because of the climate I inhabited at the time. Nowadays, it is perfectly acceptable to prefer Barber to Webern. The irony is that my personal growth has led me in the completely opposite direction. So I’ve been at loggerheads both in my past and present. I should’ve grown out of academic modernism and into neo-romantic lyricism instead of the other way around. That would’ve been convenient, alas.
Barber’s Violin Concerto is very close to certain aspects of “popular” music; it (the first two movements) exhibits complete unconsciousness. It attempts, and magnificently succeeds in, creating obviously beautiful and appealing melodies. Make no mistake, Violin Concerto though it may be called, the first two movements are luscious songs. The extraordinarily clear and simple use of textbook sonata form in the first movement is there simply because the tunes have to be ordered in some way, and sonata form is as useful a vehicle for this purpose as anything else. Barber didn’t know much about the possibilities inherent in sonata form however, and most probably didn’t care about these possibilities; the mature Haydn or Beethoven at any time wouldn’t be caught dead concocting such a simple, textbook design. Notice how Barber telegraphs the beginning of the development and the beginning of the coda with a similar textural device of tense timpani thumps undergirding a pensive passage in the violin. Anyone can follow the design with absolute ease, as rarely happens in the classical masters. Also, notice the clarity of the second subject, with its trademark “Scottish snaps”, can’t miss it. In a quartet by Haydn or Mozart one is often hard put to categorize passages as subject, variation, or transition…not here. This is pleasing for many people, they can grasp the formal design with minimal effort, and are thereby free to luxuriate in the beautiful melodies. The orchestration is great, by the way; rich but non-intrusive, luminous and vivid.
If I say I don’t perceive any particular inner necessity in this piece, what does that mean? If I think the piece is “irrelevant” what does that mean? What piece in all the musical literature needs to exist? Is my response infected with what Taruskin calls the (dying) idealogy of German Romanticism? I guess so, but to quote Martin Luther, “Here I stand; I can do no other.”
A couple notes on the piece: apparently the hot-shot violinist who had the piece commissioned for him didn’t like it, for whatever reason, and never performed it. What an idiot. He plays junk by Wienawski and Sarasate and won’t play this piece, which just about screams, “I am going to be one of the most popular violin concertos in history, and I will make your career.” Dumb, dumb Dexter. The finale is a problem. No, not because it’s in a different style than the first two movements (the finale is a toccata like perpetuum mobile). I laughed out loud when the liner notes said the finale was in “a harder edged, uncompromising style”-it is just as simple and accessible as the first two movements. Also risible was one of Barber’s biographers saying that “Barber grew impatient with self imposed restrictions” in the first two movements. The finale is a problem because the work doesn’t feel like it is over when in fact it is over. Barber wanted to end with excitement, when in fact the piece ought to have ended elegiacally. Barber had problems with finales, generally.
Listening to this piece was a chore for me. It felt like a guy seeing an old girlfriend he used to find attractive walking down the street and realizing that he no longer finds her attractive, although everybody else continues to find her attractive. And I sacrificed something by going to bat for this literature in my conservatory days, and it feels like it all went for nought. Oh, well. I solaced myself by listening to another conservative concerto from roughly the same time period, Hindemith’s magnificently quirky viola concerto, weirdly called “Der Schwanendreher” that I enjoyed, let me tell you.
Barber concertos for violin, piano and cello, conducted by Leonard Slatkin with the Saint Louis Symphony Orchestra. Soloists: Kyoko Takezawa (violin concerto), John Browning (piano), Steven Isserlis (cello).