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Category: concerts to ponder

how to listen to music if you don’t know your Beethoven from your Bach, XV – what’s a rhapsody

Rhapsody of Steel, 1959 - Eyvind Earle

        Rhapsody of Steel (1959)

                   Eyvind Earle

                       ________

so what’s a rhapsody

if you’ve been following at all my 

musical adventure, you’ll have 

heard by now several rhapsodies 

 

at first, I suggested that the rhapsody

was an evolution from the fantasia,

a piece of music in one movement

that allowed for any internal 

construction, but that, after the

Classical Period, became imbued  

with Romanticism, passion became 

a condition of music, mere technical

ability was no longer enough  

 

note that the audience was different,

rather than nobles who commissioned

artists to decorate their salons, the

burgeoning Middle Class was hungry 

for them to entertain, performers were

becoming the main attraction, not just

the background, see, for instance, 

Beethoven

 

but not only did rhapsodies spread 

from just one player to an entire

orchestra – see Brahms, then 

see Gershwin – but its essential 

structure, one movement, was 

challenged, see Ravel here, or 

Rachmaninov, whose rhapsodies 

are both composed of distinct 

movements, Rachmaninov even 

further refining his movements 

into variations, for years, I 

referred to his Rhapsody on a 

Theme of Paganini as his 

Variations

 

all this to say that a rhapsody is 

turning out to be not identified 

by its structure, its technical

parts, but rather by its intention,

a rhapsody is in the eye of its 

composer, like a nocturne, or 

a ballade

 

I’d thought that rhapsodies had 

been relegated to the Romantic 

Era, with the occasional later 

tribute

 

who, I wondered, could be

writing rhapsodies anymore

 

but here’s something, however

unexpectedly, you’ll be familiar

with, from 1975, Queen’s Bohemian

Rhapsodyin several movements 

– intro, ballad, opera, hard rock, 

outro – and including in all of them,

note, voice

 

all of which speaks of tradition

being a lot closer than one would 

think, ancestral, residual, but

defining, traces, like genes, 

however updated, however

posthumously interpreted,

pervade, infiltrate, pursue,

inexorably

 

rhapsodies are in our DNA, it

would appear, for better or for 

worse, ever

 

here’s to them

 

 

R ! chard

 
 
 

how to listen to music if you don’t know your Beethoven from your Bach, XIII – Antonin Dvořák

American Gothic, 1930 - Grant Wood

    “American Gothic (1930) 

 

                Grant Wood        

 

                      ______

   

if you were able to hear the difference

in my last communication between

Vienna and New York in the two

rhapsodies I compared, contemporaries,

incidentally, you might be interested in

European composer, highly

underestimated in my opinion, who

bridges both cultures by composing a

tribute to the country that receives him,

gloriously, for a couple of years, before

he returns, homesick, to his beloved

Bohemia, which is to say, Prague,

Antonín Dvořák, don’t ask, 1841 – 1904

 

here’s his 12th String Quartetnicknamed

the “American”, listen, you’ll understand

why

 

here’s his New World Symphonyagain

you’ll understand why

 

fun facts, Neil Armstrong brought a

recording of it, the New World

Symphonywith him to the moon

during the first manned landing,

back in 1969, can you get more

cool than that

 

also, this particular version is from

Pyongyang, which is to say, North

Korea, which is to say, the audience

here is nearly as interesting as the

symphony itself, do they even

speak the language, if they grew

up on Chinese opera

 

do you

 

 

R ! chard

how to listen to music if you don’t know your Beethoven from your Bach, XII – on rhapsodies 

Rhapsody, 1958 - Hans Hofmann

   Rhapsody (1958) 

           Hans Hofman 

                       _____

 

if, in my last instalment, I compared iconic

funeral marches, let me do the same for

a couple of iconic rhapsodies, another 

musical form that came and went, that’s

come and gone, but not forgotten

what’s a rhapsody

as far as I can make out, it’s much the 

same as a fantasia, if you can remember 

what a fantasia is, a free form composition, 

but with a Romantic, which is to say a 

heartfelt, twist, more pathos, less 

technical wizardry

 

Gershwin wrote his Rhapsody in Blue 

in 1924, you can hear New York, Times 

Square, Broadway, from the first wail 

of the languid horn

 

Rachmaninov’s Rhapsody on a Theme

of Paganini, written in 1934, ten years 

later, gives you, however, Vienna, its 

Romantic Period, the traditions of, 

a century earlier, Beethoven, Schubert 

 

Rachmaninov is personal, introspective,

tragic, Gershwin is extroverted, social, 

fun

 

Rachmaninov looked back to his 

European, Old World, traditions, 

Gershwin augurs an entirely new 

voice 

 

listen, you can hear it 

enjoy

 

 

R ! chard   

how to listen to music if you don’t know your Beethoven from your Bach, IX

The Spanish Guitarist, 1897 - Pierre-Auguste Renoir

          The Spanish Guitarist” (1897)

 

                  Pierre-Auguste Renoir

 
 

                            ____________

 

just as I was about to relegate the trill

to Mozart and the Classical Period, I

inadvertently came upon something

wonderful by Joaquín Rodrigo, a

Spanish composer, 1901 – 1999, a

concerto for guitar

 

the trill had been decorative, meant to

appeal to aristocrats frequenting

salons

 

then the French Revolution happened,

and the growth of the Middle Class,

and consequently popular avenues

of entertainment for the liberated,

concert halls, for instance, looked

for a more emotionally powerful

experience, arpeggios took care of

that

 

the trill died

 

but in 1939, nearly two centuries

later, Rodrigo wrote his Concierto

de Aranjueza descendent pays

homage to an elder, trills abound

 

it should be stated that a guitar can

play only one note at a time, it might

be that trills lend themselves better

to such an instrument than an

arpeggio would

 

then again, I’ve found that Spanish

music, the tango, the tarantella, for 

instance, see above, has held more

rigidly to the imperatives of Western 

music I’ve spoken of here before,

tempo, tonality, repetition, it is not 

Debussy, Ravel, it is not even

Chopin, it is peripheral, maybe, to

the cultural establishment, but

potent, steeped in blood and

tradition

 

here’s Rodrigo giving you Mozart

 

enjoy

 

 

R ! chard

how to listen to music if you don’t know your Beethoven from your Bach, V

Waltz, 1891 - Anders Zorn

           

       Waltz” (1891)

 

        Anders Zorn

 

           ________

 

having brought up the idea of

longevity in my last communication,

the fantasiaa musical form that

lasted about 150 years, with hats

off nevertheless to the later Disney

classic, Fantasiaa tribute, which,

full of Classical music references,

followed in its spiritual mode, and,

after introducing Chopin, perhaps

the very representation of the

Romantic Era, that we carry, or

intuit, in our very bones, I thought

I’d talk about the waltz, a Chopin

specialty, where he created,

incontrovertibly, utter magic

 

who hears of the waltz anymore, an

antiquated curiosity, though even in

our not so distant blood we feel the

reverberations of its memory, the

throb of its still vibrant cultural

intensity, relevance, rhythm

 

tangos, incidentally followed, and

other intimate interactions, which

had been earlier frowned upon

 

the waltz had been the minuet,

the difference was the physical

contact, young nobles left their

aristocratic salons, however

discreetly, to frequent the

more liberal, if disreputable,

establishments – like to

speakeasies during Prohibition

– where they could explore the

new, licentious venues, as

young nobles, ever, would, for

the lure of intimate connection

with the partner

 

the waltz was thereby born,

couples touched, breast upon

breast, composers followed

 

Chopin was metaphysical, you

didn’t dance to his waltzes, you

experienced them, here’s his

Minute Waltz, Opus 64, no 1,

here’s his equally delightful

Opus 64, no 2, its companion

 

but Strauss ll, Johann l‘s son,

got all of Vienna to dance his, 

and everywhere else after, until  

the waltz fell out of favour 

somewhere in the 1950s, leaving

only its memories behind,  here’s          

his incandescent By the Beautiful

Blue Danubemakes you wish

you’d been there

           

in the one case, the waltz is

idealized, in the other, it’s the

waltz in action, listen, you can

tell the difference, you won’t 

want to dance, for instance, to 

Chopinthough you might give

it an ineffectual try, to Strauss

you’ll careen

 

 

R ! chard

Piano Concerto no 20, K.466 – Mozart (Uchida)

mozart-2015.jpg!Large

  Mozart (2015)

 

       Bernd Luz

 

          ______

 

having been immersed recently, indeed 

consumed by, Ovid, his Metamorphoses, 

for four months now, according to a 

friend, since, however improbably, April, 

and we’re now in mid-August, I’ve been 

redirected recently, not only for

metaphysical breath, but by friends 

who’ve brought up other ideological 

realities

 

I watched a concert on TV yesterday, 

my mother said this morning when I 

went over for coffee, she lives, 

providentially, to my mind, only a few 

blocks away, we touch bases regularly

 

great, I reacted, I’ve got it on tape, I 

was meaning to watch it later

 

the pianist, she marvelled, also

conducted, I’ve never seen that

 

I cheered her on, and couldn’t wait to 

see for myself when I got home

 

but couldn’t watch more than a few 

moments, the pianist / conductor, 

famous in his day, had become 

crotchety, decrepit, the piece was 

Mozart, you can’t play Mozart with 

arthritic fingers

 

which had me finding the mistress of 

Mozart on the internet, unmatched at 

Mozart to this day, Mitsuko Uchida, 

watch her transform Mozart’s flights 

of lyrical fantasy into utter, and 

irrepressible, magic, sent it to my

mom for incontrovertible 

corroboration

 

his 20th Piano Concerto, K.466

 

watch, marvel   

 

 

R ! chard

 

 

Chopin Piano Concerto no. 1

the-monument-to-chopin-in-the-luxembourg-gardens-1909.jpg!Large

   “The Monument to Chopin in the Luxembourg Gardens (1909) 

 

             Henri Rousseau

 

                   ________

 

                                               for Joselyn, thanks for the tip

 

 

one good Chopin Piano Concerto deserves

another, especially if it is, to my mind, superior,

however ever be these things entirely subjective, 

you decide 

 

here’s his First, listen, be mesmerized

 

 

R ! chard

 

 

an enlightening distraction / Chopin

friends.jpg!Large

   Friends (1895) 

 

        Konstantin Makovsky

 

                         ________

        

 

like a lover who needs to return to old and

trusted friends to find a sense of balance, 

where a recent infatuation might’ve rendered 

usual assumptions untrustworthy, is black 

white, is up down, is what I’m doing crazy,

I turned to Chopin, a muse of long and 

distinguished standing, this evening, for 

instruction, a different perspective from 

my recently all-consuming, though entirely 

exhilarating, fascination with Ovid, his 

highly engrossing, even enchanting, 

utterly beguiling, Metamorphoses

 

here’s Chopin’s Piano Concerto no 2, which 

reminded me that it’s good to pay attention

to your old friends, the ones who’ll be there 

when others won’t, when the going gets, 

well, disconcerting, tough, the ones who’ll 

ever stand by you

 

you get his Revolutionary Etude and his 

posthumous Waltz in E minor here too, 

as encores, equally sturdy, staunch, if 

only apparently metaphysical, supporters, 

who turn out to be, however miraculously, 

rocks when you need them

 

listen

 

R ! chard

“The Story of Phaeton” (II) – Ovid

the-sun-1916.jpg!Large

   “The Sun (1911 – 1916) 

 

            Edvard Munch

 

                _______

 

 


                    The Sun’s bright palace, on high columns rais’d, 

 

The Sun, Helios / Phoebus / Apollo


                    With burnish’d gold and flaming jewels blaz’d;
                    The folding gates diffus’d a silver light,
                    And with a milder gleam refresh’d the sight; 

 

since the folding gates of the bright

palace shimmered with a silver light 

rather than with the glow of the gold 

and flaming jewels of the palace itself,

their milder gleam was easier on the 

eyes, refresh’d the sight


                    Of polish’d iv’ry was the cov’ring wrought: 

 

the palace was covered with polish’d

wrought ivory


                    The matter vied not with the sculptor’s thought, 

 

the execution of the palace was  

everything that its sculptor, its

architect, had had in mind to 

create


                    For in the portal was display’d on high
                    (The work of Vulcan) a fictitious sky

 

Vulcan, god of fire, metal, smiths, 

metalworkers

 

at the entrance to the palace, the

portal, Vulcan had painted the ceiling, 

he’d display’d on high … a fictitious 

sky, I suspect Dryden must’ve had 

Michelangelo and his ceiling of the  

Sistine Chapel in mind during his 

translation of this passage of Ovid

 

                    A waving sea th’ inferiour Earth embrac’d, 

 

inferiour, Earth, surging from under the 

greater masses of water dominating it, 

especially after the flood, is, therefore, 

beneath the waving sea, inferiour to it


                    And Gods and Goddesses the waters grac’d. 

 

remember that Ovid is describing a 

painting here, on the ceiling at the

entrance, the portal, to the palace 

of the god of the Sun


                    Aegeon here a mighty whale bestrode; 

 

Aegeon, marine god, god of storms,

note the similarity of the name with 

that of the Aegean Sea, but which 

came first, the chicken or the egg, 

the god or the expanse of water, 

remains, as far as I’ve been able 

to determine, undetermined

 

                    Triton, and Proteus (the deceiving God) 

 

Triton, another god of the Sea, you’ll 

remember him coming to the aid of 

Neptune, his father, in settling the

waters after the flood at the request 

of Jove / Jupiter / Zeus

 

Proteus, still another sea god, 

described as deceiving, for his 

ability to effortlessly, and 

spontaneously, change his shape, 

from which, incidentally, we get 

the adjective protean, for easily 

changeable, or versatile 

 

                    With Doris here were carv’d, and all her train, 

 

Doris, sea goddess, and all her train,

her following of nymphs, the Nereids,

her fifty daughters, if you’ll remember,

are carv’d, etched, given graphic 

representation

 

                    Some loosely swimming in the figur’d main, 

 

figur’d, painted, depicted, drawn

 

main, the open ocean, but, probably 

also here, the main, or central, part 

of the painting itself


                    While some on rocks their dropping hair divide, 

 

their hair divide, they loosen strands 

of their wet hair 


                    And some on fishes through the waters glide: 

 

sea gods and goddesses are often

shown riding sea creatures, dolphins, 

seahorses, even whales, see Aegeon

above

                    Tho’ various features did the sisters grace,
                    A sister’s likeness was in ev’ry face. 

 

the sisters, the Nereids, all have different

features, but a family resemblance, sister’s 

likeness, can always be detected in each

individual sibling’s rendering

 

                    On Earth a diff’rent landskip courts the eyes, 

 

Earth doesn’t look, court[ ] the eyes,

at all like what’s painted on the 

palace’s ceiling

 

landskip, landscape


                    Men, towns, and beasts in distant prospects rise, 

 

distant prospects, from a distance, one 

can see [m]en, towns, and beasts 

appear, rise, arise


                    And nymphs, and streams, and woods, and rural deities. 

 

nymphs, consigned, it appears, to 

earthly duties, streams, and woods, 

are not a feature of the Sun god’s 

palace


                    O’er all, the Heav’n’s refulgent image shines; 

 

the Heav’n’s refulgent, brightly shining,

image, expression, is manifest [o]’er all,

everywhere, the rays of the sun cast a

light on everything

 

                    On either gate were six engraven signs. 

 

again I’m reminded of a Renaissance

wonder, Lorenzo Ghiberti‘s gilded bronze 

doors for the Florence Baptistery, which 

Michelangelo himself called the Gates of

Paradise, a work nearly as famous, then 

and now, as his own Sistine Chapel ceiling   

 

Ovid would never have known of these 

masterworks, of course, having lived 

over a millenium earlier, but I suspect 

John Dryden, a cultured man, a couple 

of hundred years later than these 

cultural icons, would no doubt have 

been fully aware of them, much as we, 

however disinterested we might be, 

can’t help but have heard of, say, 

RembrandtChopinCharles Dickens,

for instance, though they be, similarly, 

centuries separated from us 

 

my point is that, without knowledge of 

the original Latin, Dryden‘s cultural

heritage must’ve slipped, I think, 

consciously or not, into his 

translation, for better, or for worse

 

it should be remembered, however,

that Dryden was writing for an early 

18th Century audience, much as I 

am presently doing myself with 

Dryden for a 21st, and maybe also

similarly skewing his idiom to better 

adapt it to our own time, for better, 

also, or for worse 

 

                    Here Phaeton still gaining on th’ ascent, 

 

gaining on th’ ascent, going faster 

and faster, climbing higher and 

higher

 

                    To his suspected father’s palace went

 

suspected father, Phaeton doesn’t

yet know if Helios / Phoebus / Apollo

is indeed his father


                    ‘Till pressing forward through the bright abode,
                    He saw at distance the illustrious God:
                    He saw at distance, or the dazling light
                    Had flash’d too strongly on his aking sight. 

 

had Phaeton not been as far, at

distance, from what he was seeing,

the illustrious God, the dazling, or 

dazzling, light would’ve hurt his 

eyes, hurt his aking, or aching, 

sight

 

                     The God sits high, exalted on a throne
                    Of blazing gems, with purple garments on; 

 

Tyrian, surely, purple, a hue we’ve 

seen here before, indicative of 

stature, of imperial, if not even

divine, as in this instance, 

pedigree


                     The Hours, in order rang’d on either hand,
                    And Days, and Months, and Years, and Ages stand.
                    Here Spring appears with flow’ry chaplets bound;
                    Here Summer in her wheaten garland crown’d;
                    Here Autumn the rich trodden grapes besmear;
                    And hoary Winter shivers in the reer. 

 

this is no longer a picture, but the 

real thing, Phoebus / Apollo / Helios

sits high, exalted on a throne /  Of 

blazing gems, with purple garments 

on, while Time and all of the Seasons 

hold court around him


                     Phoebus beheld the youth from off his throne;
                    That eye, which looks on all, was fix’d in one. 

 

Phoebus, who sees everything, who 

looks on all, beholds, fixes his eye on, 

his son


                     He saw the boy’s confusion in his face,
                    Surpriz’d at all the wonders of the place;
                    And cries aloud, “What wants my son? for know
                    My son thou art, and I must call thee so.” 

 

Phaeton, according to Phoebus / 

Apollo / Helios‘ forthright admission,

is truly his son


                     “Light of the world,” the trembling youth replies,
                    “Illustrious parent! since you don’t despise
                    The parent’s name, 

 

despise, refute

 

                                                some certain token give,
                    That I may Clymene’s proud boast believe,
                    Nor longer under false reproaches grieve.” 

 

your word is good, Phaeton allows,

but incontrovertibly, now, prove it, 

some certain token give, he 

challenges 


                     The tender sire was touch’d with what he said,
                    And flung the blaze of glories from his head, 

 

flung the blaze of glories from his head, 

reduced the intensity of his presence,

the impact of his charisma, took off 

his dazling crown, if only, maybe,

metaphorically, to be father to his son


                    And bid the youth advance: “My son,” said he,
                    “Come to thy father’s arms! for Clymene
                    Has told thee true; a parent’s name I own,
                    And deem thee worthy to be called my son.
                    As a sure proof, make some request, and I,
                    Whate’er it be, with that request comply;
                    By Styx I swear, whose waves are hid in night,
                    And roul impervious to my piercing sight.” 

 

an oath upon Styx is incontrovertible, 

like swearing on a Bible, as earlier 

noted


                     The youth transported, asks, without delay,
                    To guide the sun’s bright chariot for a day. 

 

Phaeton wants to drive his father’s 

car, the sun’s bright chariot, how 

contemporary, how immediate, 

how timeless 

 

stay tuned

 

 

R ! chard

 

 

 

on Beethoven’s Symphony no. 6, the “Pastorale”

the-sound-of-the-flute.jpg!Large

      The Sound of the Flute 

 

               Xu Beihong

 

                 ________

 

 

                                    for Susan, who urges

                                               me ever to write

 

 

a friend wrote recently, extolling a

performance of Beethoven’s Sixth

Symphony he’d just seen, a 

noteworthy conductor conducting 

 

then again, how can you go wrong, 

I wrote back, with that already 

enchanting music, sent him, in

return, a version I’d ferreted out,

tried out for him, had been duly

enchanted, had laughed, had cried, 

taken shelter from the storm, come 

out the other side transported, again  

 

I wondered about the power of music, 

during my intermittent musings

throughout the variegated movements, 

as the peregrinations ambled on along 

their own magical explorations, long 

irrepressible arpeggios running up or 

down the scales, performing 

arabesques at their peaks, rumbling 

tremolos at their grumbling bottoms, 

before returning to the more stable 

middle ground of the melody

 

where, wondered, does it all find its 

source

 

sounds, individual sounds, would 

have been signals of danger, 

originally, a single note from a horn

warning of strangers on the way to

a community of otherwise peaceful

cohabitants if not only family, twig 

cracking in the forest when you 

believe you’re all alone

 

individual sounds would’ve picked

up meaning beyond their own pitch

and volume, resonance, reverberation,

rotundity, through Darwinian, even, 

time

 

a mother’s voice, for instance, 

identified immediately, upon a single

note, perenially, by any of her brood

 

 

it’s a long way from there to a symphony

but those are its roots, why we laugh, why

we cry, take shelter from the storm, and 

come out the other side transported

 

notes are written, emblazoned, on 

our consciousness, our lives depended,

depend still, on it 

 

listen

 

 

 

R ! chard

 

psst: interestingly, our Darwinian evolution

          has produced pitch as an identifying

          factor for our species, a female voice 

          is higher than a male’s, this has 

          allowed us, as a species, to sing