Thursday, December 29, 2005
Now, absence from the the forum is not a guarantee of Sibelius Music obscurity. There are several composers who have made few or no contributions to the forum, but are mentioned all the time and are familiar to most on the site. Peter Martin, Philip Buttall, Jay Anthony Gach, etc., etc., have never felt compelled to blow their own horns (or scrape their own fiddles) in the forum (although we do hear from Mr. Gach now and then), yet everyone knows their music, and knows about them. Sadly, there are many more like Mr. Wallace, who are seldom the focus of homepage publicity, do not participate in the forum, and are overlooked by almost everyone. This is unfortunate, indeed.
However, I am not advocating any publicity on their behalf, at least not within the SibMus forum. Listen to the music of Matthew Wallace, Raymond Warren, Geoffrey Alvarez, Horacio Uribe, Gonzalo Saavedra, and many others, and you'll see what I mean.
JJ has finished a song - There and back again - with the words taken from one of the verses I wrote long ago. The piece has attracted a bit of interest from other composers and musicians!
Andrew is making plans and constructions for a summer music festival in Muckleberry Gardens.
RAM is busy with many projects and duties, including teaching the little Duchess to appreciate and dance to the music of proper English.
Cedric Peachey's Fugal Fantasia for Clarinet Septet will be performed on March 18th 2006 by Southwark Consorts of Winds .
For news about Bernard, read his own report:
I'm working on two pieces simultaneously at the moment:
1. A children's opera for the W11 Opera company in London. Chincha-chancha cooroo is based on a Bengali children's story/animal fable and will be performed at the Royal College of Music in London on 9/10 December 2006 (book early to avoid disappointment).
2. A new piece for the BBC Singers based on the Norse myth "The Death of Balder." Initial ideas for the piece will be tried out in a public workshop at BBC Maida Vale Studios on 28 January, with the finished piece being performed at the Spitalfields Festival in London on 12 June 2006.
After these I shall have a rest!
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
Some of my most enchanting students ever. My favorites are Silvia - in the middle, holding her score - she has been my private secretary this term -; Miriam, the smiling girl, very smart and lively; and the little Fabiola, who is next to Silvia, playing her violin. Those girls are really special and charming. They always brighten up my day, and when I see them in the classroom I can almost forget that there are also those ugly, tasteless and tacky girls and boys.
These boys are rehearsing my arrangement of La mer, the swing ditty by Charles Trenet. Even the little horn player did well his part this time!
Andrés and Dana switching their instruments. I enjoyed the special, convivial atmosphere before the concert more than the concert itself.
These smiles from Silvia, Miriam and Fabiola have been my best Christmas gift.
This beautiful young lady performed the Cantabile Op. 17, by Paganini.
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
"For it is rather in nature that we see resemblance to art, than in art to nature; and we say a hundred times, 'How like a picture!' for once that we say, 'How like the truth!' The forms in which we learn to think of landscape are forms that we have got from painted canvas. Any man can see and understand a picture; it is reserved for the few to separate anything out of the confusion of nature, and see that distinctly and with intelligence."
— R.L. Stevenson, Across the Plains
Saturday, December 10, 2005
Having so publicly announced my awakened interest in Rutland Boughton some weeks ago, I feel somewhat compelled to reveal (or is it mull over?) the results of my investigation. I have not heard the symphonies which are available (I think perhaps the 2nd and 3rd?), but I have listened to some of his instrumental music, such as the Flute Concerto, and other music for strings, such as "Aylesbury Games," and some other things. Paramount during the past few weeks, however, has been The Immortal Hour, and after repeated listenings and long musings, I have to say that I think it has been consigned to oblivion unfairly. Perhaps, with the renewed interest in all things heroic and/or archaic, as attested by the wave of Tolkien mania which seems to be sweeping the world just now, the time has come for this opera and its Celtic Revival roots to be reawakened.
I am not one who particularly favors the division of past composers into "major" and "minor" categories. Mr. Boughton's music easily stands comparison to that of his peers and contemporaries. What instrumental music I have heard is quite well-crafted, and can easily stand with that of Vaughan Williams, Finzi, Bridge, Bliss, Butterworth, Holst, Brian, etc., etc. I suspect that much of Boughton's later obscurity had more to do with his politics than his music, for the same socialist stance that ultimately separated him from the Glastonbury Festival (apparently the authorities did not like King Herod portrayed as an upper class, top-hatted English gentleman, among other things) probably condemned him to a more or less official shelving. But for those who insist that there are no English operas between Dido and Aeneas and Peter Grimes, I honestly believe that The Immortal Hour should be nothing less than a revelation. Of course, anyone who believes such is willfully overlooking such works as Savitri, The Wandering Scholar, and Sir John In Love, as well as innumerable others, but that is another discussion entirely.
This is not meant to be a proselytizing document, but rather a belated attempt to provide some impressions for others—something that few seemed able or willing to do for me when I began this inquiry. First, let me say that it appears the idea that Boughton got caught up in the Edwardian fairy fascination is quite mistaken. There is a distinct difference between "fairy" and "Faery," and there is no pigwiggery about Fiona MacLeod's realm of the Lordly Ones. Having mentioned Tolkien above, let me also say that I think this impulse to create or promote a British mythology was certainly in the air in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Fiona MacLeod (aka William Sharp) pursued a certain Celtic angle, whether Scottish or Irish, building her writings on existing legend and mythology, whereas Tolkien decided to strike out on his own (apparently around the time that The Immortal Hour (the opera) was written, as it turns out) and write a new mythology for England (as opposed to Britain, you understand), but some of the same ideas, sentiments, and language are common to both efforts. If you are familiar with The Silmarillion I think you will recognize much of the style of the original play. (Strange to think, isn't it, that while Tolkien has been lionized almost beyond belief, the authors of similar efforts have been thrown away as "old-fashioned." There is something rather sad in that.) But I digress.
Some interesting points:
1. Boughton does, indeed, use musical mottos or leitmotivs, but they seem distinctly un-Wagnerian. Owing to the relative brevity of the opera (and having read the original play, I think Boughton...or his librettist?...did an admirable job of compressing and editing, although what remains is still recognizably Ms. MacLeod's original language) the motives/mottoes are easier to remember, and on repeated listenings lend the utmost assistance to the drama and its subtexts. The manipulation of the motives, i.e., their use, distortion, introduction, variation, etc., is very subtle, and charms the listener's ear immeasurably.
2. The harmonic and melodic languages of the opera are of the same family as those of Boughton's peers, with an extra Celtic (i.e. Irish) influence distinctly palpable, probably owing to the subject matter. Other works of the composer that I have heard do not necessarily share the same language, so it does not appear that this was his habitual mode of expression.
3. The use of the pentatonic scale is common, and in this The Immortal Hour seems to share much with some American works of the same period, or the period just preceding, at least to my ear. An interesting side-note is the perceived resonance with many of the forgotten works of the Native American-inspired dramas and operas of the late 19th and early 20th centuries. It would seem that this search for "roots" occurred on both sides of the Atlantic, but how strange that music inspired by Irish myth and Native American legend should end up sharing so many characteristics.
4. One thing that makes this work stand out is the liberal use of the chorus, much of the time unaccompanied or with a simple instrumental obbligato. The chorus is an overwhelmingly important part of the drama, and is given a prominent musical role, as well. In this, I believe, the work is tied even more firmly to English taste and tradition.
In conclusion, let me urge any readers to find and study the fine recording of this unjustly forgotten work. I would imagine it might not be easy to stage, but I believe The Immortal Hour deserves to regain its place in a list of highly regarded English operas. (Check the link at the title of this entry for a copy of the referenced recording.)
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
Monday, December 05, 2005
Where goes the uttered music?
Transformed, our exhalations fly
Aloft, and live an invisible and
Fervent moment, then pass away into
Colored, yet colorless,
Moving, yet motionless,
Ardent, yet insensible,
Music moves the world with but a shrug,
Yet dies as it is born.
Where goes the uttered music?
Where sleeps the uttered music?
It floats, ethereal and clear,
Over nations and serrate centuries
Until its resurrection—new empowerment.
Wakened to life and
Music is an art ever new
Which speaks the language of the dead.
Where sleeps the uttered music?
Ever born anew,
Where rests the uttered music?
[January 13, 1994]
Sunday, December 04, 2005
O Wondrous Thing, to find love here—
To lie enwrapped in music and his arms—
Mahler bleeds in the darkened room—
“O Röschen rot!” she sings, and breathes a
Miracle of sound—a benediction laid upon us
Softly, like a mantle of wandering snow.
“Ach nein! Ich liess mich nicht abweisen!”
Fingers touching lips, motionless in admiration—
Music heard as never before, two hearts listening,
Eyes half closed, glittering with unbidden tears.
“Hör’ auf zu beben! Bereite dich zu leben!”
Tenderness unlooked for, softness once disguised,
Hearts opened in sudden understanding—
“Dein ist, was du gesehnt!”
O Wondrous Thing, to find love hidden here—
“Aufersteh’n, ja aufersteh’n wirst du…”
[December 2, 1993]
Friday, December 02, 2005
Saturday dawn; snow-striped lawn.
On I go. Away from you.
Now I must yawn!
Out in the city, with myself I had pity.
But time-table I got, and the sorrow was not.
This bus is so pretty!
And when I arrive, completely alive,
from a road covered with ice,
it is probably nice I survive!
Here is my place. The star's is the space.
On I go, thinking of you.
Can you lift this case?
I walk on the road, with a heavy load.
On I go. Back to you,
in a tiring mood.
City of Shadows
Our world is a dark one.
We illuminate it with hundreds of
yellow and red and blue lamps.
Nobody knows a real face
- not even his own - as it
looked in the rare, green daylight.
Our city is a bundle of
shadows and coloured lights.
Like withered flowers on a grave
rustling in a dance with the
cold wind by night.
Nobody knows the sun or the moon.
Our souls are of melting ice.
We cool it down with fluid lies.
Or struggle on with trickling truth
in head and heart, and pebbled shoes.
Nobody knows a Holy Ghost
more good than marmalade on toast.
..and, no, this has nothing to do with music! But the texts are offered as original lyrics for unwritten masterworks, if someone wants to make a fool of himself and set them to music!
Because I could not stop for Death—
He kindly stopped for me—
Cause they’re hangin’ Danny Deever in the mornin’.
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.
And I have a rendezvous with Death
At some disputed barricade, but
Breathes there the man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land—
And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England’s mountains green?
Of course the Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea-green boat, and
The sea is calm tonight.
But by the shores of Gitche Gumee,
By the shining Big-Sea-Water,
Stood the wigwam of Nokomis,
Daughter of the Moon, Nokomis.
Water, water, everywhere,
Nor any drop to drink, but
I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree, and
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
Where yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin’d choirs where late the sweet birds sang.
This is the forest primeval.
Now, whose woods these are I think I know.
But then I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils.
So, gather ye rosebuds while ye may, but
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row.
There he saw King Jesus. They were face to face,
And he knelt a-weeping in that holy place.
Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?
Yes, the blessed damozel leaned out
From the gold bar of Heaven,
But jest ‘fore Christmas I’m as good as I kin be.
In fact, ‘twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse,
Nor some rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouching towards Bethlehem to be born.
Hail to thee, blithe spirit!
Little Lamb, who made thee?
His name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on his works, ye Mighty, and despair!
For in Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure dome decree.
There, come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove—
Let me count the ways.
One: My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun.
Two: She walks in Beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies,
And three: she was a phantom of delight.
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
I raged, raged against the dying of the light, but
Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
So, blessings on thee, little man,
Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!
Unlike Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn,
Who grew lean while he assailed the seasons;
He wept that he was ever born,
And he had reasons.
But tell me not in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream.
They also serve who only stand and wait.
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done.
So, shoot, if you must, this old gray head,
But spare your country’s flag—
For the gingham dog and the calico cat
Side by side on the table sat, and
The little toy dog is covered with dust,
But sturdy and stanch he stands, like a
Tiger, Tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
Piping down the valleys wild.
But, quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
When I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me,
Nor let it be brillig, with the slithey toves
That gyre and gimble in the wabe.
Please—Terence—this is stupid stuff.
[December 5, 1993]