sonatas, continued (“String Quartet, Op. 76 no. 1” – Haydn)
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Category: Dmitri Shostakovich
December 24, 2023
sonatas, continued (Messiaen – “Quartet for the End of Time”)
“Red Quartet“
Raoul Dufy
_____
if a trio is a sonata written for three instruments,
a sonata, a piece of music consisting of more
than one segment, or movement, written for
four instruments, is called a quartet
a quartet is also what we call the group itself
of four players
quartets can play more than just quartets, they
can also play waltzes, nocturnes, rhapsodies,
for instance, just as trios, groups of three, can
play more than just trios
but quartets, the form, have had a long and
glorious history, from Mozart and Haydn,
the Classicists, through Beethoven, an
ardent Romantic, to the more political
Shostakovich, enemy, for a time, of his
repressive Soviet state, and on to
Messiaen, who composed his own
Quartet for the End of Time, in a Nazi
concentration camp
let me start with the Messiaen, now that I’ve
whetted your appetite, and work our way back
to Mozart to see where we came from, and
how
there are seven movements in Quartet for
the End of Time, not the Classical three or
four, atonality abounds, discordant, not
unexpectedly, progressions, repetition also
takes its punches, not easily identifiable
throughout, but tempo, the third pillar of
Western music, more or less holds its
own, keeping the tradition, however
precariously, together, listen
it’s 1941, we’re in a concentration camp,
Messiaen is caught between hope and
despair, give the guy a break, he hasn’t
many absolutes to hold onto, tempo
might be one of them, the heartbeat,
pulse, perseverance, an actual human
pace, a rhythmic instinct, by which
eventually, hopefully, meaning
transpires
hope is in one’s creativity, he says, each
individual answer can be a tribute to
one’s own tribulations, our responses
can be poetry, lessons rather than
invectives, epiphanies rather than
agonies, may the Force, in other words,
be with you, in the face of even the most
trying difficulties, honour can supplant
trials, he concludes, given grace and
integrity
Beethoven says pretty much the same
thing in his last piano sonata, remember,
his Opus 111, listen, a not not impressive
corroboration
R ! chard
November 26, 2023
November / Month of the Sonata – 26
“Portrait of Dmitri Shostakovich“ (1963)
Martiros Sarian
________
Shostakovich is especially interesting
for being a political composer, caught
up in the Soviet experiment, his soul
is Russian, you can hear it in the folk
music that grounds his compositions,
strict tempo, an aspiration towards
melody
but the tonality is off, the singer sings
off key, the dancer’s legs are broken
Shostakovich describes a people,
an exuberant people, lusty,
warm-hearted, whose spirit has
been broken, you can hear it
had there been a Nobel prize for music,
Shostakovich would’ve won it, along
with his contemporary, and compatriot,
Boris Pasternak, for literature, at the
time, whose Doctor Zhivago was a
phenomenon, back in the 1960s
both were, incidentally, persecuted
by their government
here’s Shostakovich’s Violin Sonata,
Opus 134, 1968, written for his friend,
the noted violinist, David Oistrakh,
for his sixtieth birthday
enjoy
R ! chard
December 31, 2020
“The Story of of Cadmus” (lV) – Ovid
“Cadmus Sowing the Dragon’s Teeth” (1610/1690)
Peter Paul Rubens
___________
Cadmus beheld him wallow in a flood
Of swimming poison, intermix’d with blood;
swimming poison, the venom the
dragon had spewed, intermix’d
with blood, after Cadmus had
struck the beast with his jav’lin,
if you’ll remember
When suddenly a speech was heard from high
(The speech was heard, nor was the speaker nigh),
the suggestion here is that the voice
is disincarnate, ethereal, otherworldly,
from high, not nigh
“Why dost thou thus with secret pleasure see,
Insulting man! what thou thy self shalt be?”
secret pleasure, the self-satisfaction
of the soul, unspoken
what thou thy self shalt be, a prophecy
as cryptic as oracular pronouncements
ever tended to be,also ever ominous
Astonish’d at the voice, he stood amaz’d,
And all around with inward horror gaz’d:
all around, the detritus, the waste, the
ravages that surrounded him, that
Cadmus viewed, gaz’d at, amaz’d …
with inward horror
When Pallas swift descending from the skies,
Pallas, the guardian of the bold and wise,
Pallas, the goddess Athena, of Wisdom,
of War, bold and wise patroness,
protectress of, among other Greek
cities, incidentally, Athens, site of, on
the Acropolis there, the Parthenon,
her temple
Bids him plow up the field, and scatter round
The dragon’s teeth o’er all the furrow’d ground;
we’ve seen this happen before, if you’ll
remember, with Deucalion and Pyrrha,
casting the stones, their mighty mother‘s
bones, to replenish, after the flood, the
resurgent Earth with people
Then tells the youth how to his wond’ring eyes
Embattled armies from the field should rise.
wond’ring, startled
He sows the teeth at Pallas’s command,
And flings the future people from his hand.
The clods grow warm, and crumble where he sows;
Cadmus is sow[ing] people, future
people, however, apparently, military,
at the command of the goddess, but
Pallas, remember, is goddess of War,
these metamorphosizing, ahem,
entities would be her progeny, her
spawn
And now the pointed spears advance in rows;
Now nodding plumes appear, and shining crests,
Now the broad shoulders and the rising breasts;
O’er all the field the breathing harvest swarms,
A growing host, a crop of men and arms.
an army – listen, this is how I think
Shostakovich would’ve heard it,
from his 7th Symphony, the
Leningrad, its first movement, a
searing allegretto, a movement
he’d initially entitled War before
deciding against it
here’s the entire symphony, should
you be, and I highly recommend it,
into it, a much more convincing, to
my mind, production, however
significantly extended
So through the parting stage a figure rears
Its body up, and limb by limb appears
By just degrees; ’till all the man arise,
And in his full proportion strikes the eyes.
as each of the teeth develops, grow[s]
warm, as each figure rears … and limb
by limb appears, men arise, recognizable
as such, each in his full proportion
Cadmus surpriz’d, and startled at the sight
Of his new foes, prepar’d himself for fight:
When one cry’d out, “Forbear, fond man, forbear
To mingle in a blind promiscuous war.”
forbear, hold on, desist, stop
promiscuous, indiscriminate
This said, he struck his brother to the ground,
Himself expiring by another’s wound;
Nor did the third his conquest long survive,
Dying ere scarce he had begun to live.
the new foes are slaughtering each
other, Cadmus doesn’t have to lift
a finger
what’s up
stay tuned
R ! chard
September 22, 2020
Serenade after Plato’s “Symposium” – Leonard Bernstein
“Plato’s Symposium“
Anselm Feuerbach
__________
imagine my surprise when having put
on a concert I’d recently taped from
television and, not having checked
out the program, apart from having
noted the featured violinist, someone
I, however peripherally, knew, then
heading out to the kitchen to do
some kitchen things, chop vegetables,
stir a pot, watch water, maybe, come
to a boil, a piece came up with which
I wasn’t familiar, thought maybe it
might be Shostakovich for its atonality,
though with, here again, his signature
decipherable melodies, ever, and
characteristically, maimed, twisted,
contorted, for, too, its Eastern
European rhythms, its apparent
Jewish folklore, touches of Fiddler
on the Roof, I thought, hints of
Schindler’s List, maybe, when the
work turned out to be, however
improbably, by Leonard Bernstein,
most famous, rather, for his Broadway
shows, West Side Story, for instance,
but especially as a conductor
his Serenade for violin, string orchestra,
harp and percussion, known also as
Serenade after Plato’s “Symposium”,
was written, in 1954, in commemoration
of a couple of personal friends, husband
and wife, after their demises
Plato‘s Symposium is one of his several
dialogues, a clutch of noteworthy
Athenians meet socially after an earlier,
more crowded, revel, a kind of debriefing,
and decide to each give his definition of
love, the work remains one of the great
disquisitions on the subject, not tackled
much since, surprisingly, in the history
of philosophy
there are seven people in attendance,
though Alcibiades, yes, the Alcibiades,
orator and statesman, stumbles into
the gathering, late and last
Bernstein has a voice for each
participant, though in five rather than
seven movements, two couples, the
first and the last, have no break
between their conjoined movements
I. Phaedrus: Pausanias – lento and allegro
II. Aristophanes – allegretto
III. Eryximachus, the doctor – presto
IV. Agathon – adagio
V. Socrates: Alcibiades – molto tenuto and allegro molto vivace
in the Symposium, Eryximachus speaks
before Aristophanes, yes, the Aristophanes,
the playwright, cause the bard has the
hiccoughs, and the doctor, Eryximachus,
agrees to go first, if out of the agreed upon
order, an order that Bernstein chooses not
to follow, for reasons to do with tempo, I
suspect, otherwise the progression is as
in Plato
Eryximachus, interestingly, advises
Aristophanes to make himself sneeze,
a cure apparently for hiccoughs, in
order to be ready for his turn, which
he does, and indeed manages
Agathon was a poet, his adagio here
is accordingly gorgeous, melting,
completely appropriate for a writer
of verse, and entirely, incidentally,
worth the price of admission
Socrates‘ molto tenuto, even and
tempered, measured, is, likewise,
totally apt for a philosopher
enjoy
R ! chard
March 30, 2019
String Quartet no 15, Opus 144 – Dmitri Shostakovich
Title page and key monogram of “The Mountain Lover” (c. 1895)
Aubrey Beardsley
___________
after John passed away, I read, at a
gathering we had for him, something
that I’d written in his honour, it began,
adagios always remind me of John,
John was a dancer, he walked like
one
a few days later, immersed as I
was in memories of him while
mechanically washing some
dishes, I heard, from a symphony
I’d put on in the background to
keep me company in my reverie,
its adagio
I dried my hands, put my arms
around myself, and we danced
to the end of the movement, I’d
found, I understood, utterly, I
believed, miraculously, a key to
the very hereafter, adagios
would henceforth always
remind me of John
some time later, flipping aimlessly
through string quartets, of
Shostakovich among others, I
happened upon this one, his 15th
String Quartet, Opus 144, which
had, to my astonishment, not one,
not two, not three, not even four
nor five, but six whole adagios,
this was John talking, I knew,
I’ve loved it ever since
listen
R ! chard
psst:
String Quartet no 15, Opus 144
l – Elegy: Adagio
ll – Serenade: Adagio
lll – Intermezzo: Adagio
lV – Nocturne: Adagio
V – Funeral March: Adagio molto
Vl – Epilogue: Adagio
Dmitri Shostakovich
February 18, 2019
on a personal note
“Roses“ (c.1886)
John Singer Sargent
____________
on a personal note, since I prefer longer
pieces, something I can sink my teeth
into – I like them when they’re long, I
always say – which led me into spending
33 years with Proust, for instance, page
by page, so that I could breathe it in, him,
I tend to veer towards music with several
movements, be they serial, as in sonatas,
symphonies, concertos, Classically
speaking, of course, or haphazard, as
in the more loosely associated suites
rather than smelling merely the rose,
as in a simple waltz, nocturne, étude,
I want to revel in the aroma of an
entire garden
therefore the three hours of Liszt‘s
“Années de pèlerinage“, for example,
even Wagner‘s daunting five hour
operas, individual portions of his
towering, indeed epic, four-part
“Ring” cycle, enthral me
these are high masses, and if you
subscribe to the faith, the experience
they allow can be transformational,
however such may still be,
nevertheless, a mere rose, a mere,
but epiphanic, rose, as is, for
instance, the exquisite Opus 10, no 3
of Chopin, “Tristesse”, or “Sadness“,
inveterately, for me
a rose, a creation as unique as we
are, in our shared, however unevenly
apportioned, mortality, proud, sturdy,
protected by thorns, even, meanwhile,
as we are, in our own manner, against
our own existential vicissitudes
but vibrant, also, ever, drenched in
any of its several arresting colours,
fragrant, poised, full of perfect grace,
as we should be ourselves, I’ve told
myself, not only with regard to their
beauty, but to their inspiration,
whether a deity exists that we
might be beholden to, incidentally,
or not
Shostakovich has something poignant
to say about that, also Beethoven, but
that’s another story, for later, maybe,
however, either, powerfully
consequential
until then, l’important, as we sing in
French, c’est la rose
or heed, it says, in other, but
nevertheless ever instructive words,
the wisdom of very nature
I live by it
R ! chard
July 13, 2018
why I believe in music, or “I Was Born For This” – Austin Wintory
“Joan of Arc upon Coronation of Charles VII in the Cathedral of Reims“ (1854)
____________________
many years ago, while I was volunteering
at our hospital’s palliative care unit, nearby,
recently installed as a response to, among
other pressing preoccupations, but most
urgently then, the AIDS crisis, I was asked
to sit by a lady in profound distress, her
family, Western Buddhists, would go to
lunch while I would sit by her to comfort
her as much as I could
she was dishevelled, of course, completely
disconcerted, all ajitter, lost, and evidently
confused, in her profound isolation, not to
mention in the crumpled state of her
harried bed, unable to communicate, or
reason
I found a chair, sat by her with earnest
concentration, my partner had died
there, only recently, on that very unit,
and I was expressing, to all of those
concerned in his unparalleled care,
my unlimited appreciation
I lay a hand gently upon her arm, to let
her feel, at least, the safety that my
touch could allow, to let it settle on
her, however removed might be her
remaining consciousness, began to
sing quietly a chant I’d been intoning
from a creed I’d turned to for comfort
in my own personal anguish, at the
loss of my own friend, a call, an
invocation, the continuous iteration
of a line that brought solace, Om Nama
Shivaya, I prayed, over and over again,
with the greatest intention, whatever
that phrase might’ve, I’ve forgotten,
meant
she relented, found her space, little by
little she became, as though grace had
descended upon her, calm, by however
infinitesimal degrees, while I continued,
now, my hopeful, helpful, it appeared,
manifestly mystical, intervention
she had become restful, I’d
accomplished essentially, I gathered,
my primary mission, though I
continued, with some sense, perhaps
even a glow, of personal pride, my
soulful incantation
then in a voice not much louder than a
whisper, but much less distraught than
a moan, she began to join in with row,
row, row your boat, tunefully, over and
over again, accommodating herself,
though, naturally, exceedingly weakly,
to my rhythm, I felt I was experiencing,
right there, and then, through the
power of cadence, a miracle
when I looked back, upon hearing
behind me a rustle, standing at the
door was her family, wrapped in
equal consternation
here’s something with someone singing
in several inscrutable languages for
most of us, mostly, words from historical
texts, in Greek, Latin, Olde English,
Japanese, and French, “I Was Born For
This“
that title, of one of the segments of a
longer work, “Journey“, by a contemporary
composer, Austin Wintory, is indeed a
translation of Joan of Arc‘s words on the
cross, “Ne me plaignez pas. C’est pour cela
que je suis née.”, do not pity me, she says,
I was born for this, Joan of Arc, my own
personal Jesus
Shostakovich has an entire symphony,
his 14th, composed of music to
accompany classic poems, all in a
variety of foreign, to him, tongues, but
translated back into Russian for his
purpose in this particular, and not
uncommon, instance, a nevertheless
pointed reference to music as a superior,
more direct, communication – note, here,
the word, communication – it, the 14th,
is profound, extraordinary, read here
first, then listen
R ! chard
May 13, 2018
“Mother with Children” – Gustav Klimt
“Mother with Children“ (c.1909 – 1910)
_______
Gustav Klimt has long been one of
my very favourite painters, a large
reproduction of a detail of his
masterpiece, “Music“, hangs even
on one of my walls
how much is that Klimt in the
window, I’d asked the merchant
when I saw it from the street in
his shop’s display
later, I invited people over, to see
my Klimt, I’ve got a very large
Klimt, I’d say – this is before
anyone even knew of him, I was,
I’ll admit, a bad boy
around all that, I’ve had the good
fortune to see many of his works
during the several times I’ve been
to Vienna, where most of his
wonders reside, where they grace
that immortal city, the great hall of
the Kunsthistorisches Museum,
the Art History Museum in English,
for instance, the Beethoven Frieze
at the Vienna Secession Building
and, of course, at Belvedere, the
summer palace, where among
other paintings of his, you can
still see the iconic “The Kiss“,
their national treasure
but the painting above, part of a
private, apparently, collection, is
utterly new to me, and therefore
striking,
note how stark the background is
here, above, compared to Klimt’s
usually more ornamented
constructions, how the subject is
starkly the gentleness, the
intimation of peace, even serenity,
in the rosy cheeks of not only the
children, but of also the mother,
the slumber and surrender, midst
the imprecations of the
surrounding, and portentous,
darkness, note the paradoxical,
genetically determined even, trust
and love, in the consonant colours,
cherry blossoms blooming in all
three sleeping faces, despite the
threatening miasma of encroaching
and engulfing primordial earth
Shostakovich also said something
like that in his 15th String Quartet,
a fundamental harmony develops,
despite even strident distortions,
disturbances, in otherwise
unbearable situations, to provide
some solace, redemption
listen, I urge you, if you dare
compare the crook in the mother’s
neck, above, a nearly Baroque angle,
to the same docile, though resilient,
bent in Klimt‘s lover in “The Kiss“
for his provocative, maybe even
enlightening, perspective on
women
happy Mother’s Day, mothers, for all
your invaluable attention
R ! chard
February 3, 2018
“The Seven Last Words of Our Saviour on the Cross”, opus 51 – Joseph Haydn
“Crucified Christ“ (1780)
_______
Haydn’s Opus 51 was commissioned
for the Oratorio de la Santa Cueva, the
Holy Cave Oratory, in Cádiz, Spain, a
church, as the name suggests, built
partially underground, it would be
performed, the Opus 51, for the Good
Friday service of 1787, Haydn therefore
put his Opus 50 on hold, six string
quartets, to finish this ecclesiastical
work on time
what had been required was a work for
small orchestra to inform the Seven
Last Words of our Saviour on the
Cross, it would therefore have at least
segments, movements, and would be
divided by the elaboration of the
bishop upon the significance of these
individual “Words”, or, in fact,
statements, see this example
Haydn added an introduction, and a
finale in the form of an earthquake,
quite, I think, wittily and ever so
appropriately
nearly simultaneously, Haydn
composed the orchestral
arrangement for string quartet, and
later for orchestra and voice, for, in
other words, an oratorio
to my mind “The Seven Last Words
of Our Saviour on the Cross” is
Haydn’s crowning achievement, in
all of its iterations
you’ll note that there is even first of
all a title, and the title asks for
something quite specific, indeed
words, which the composer would
have to render musically, somehow,
he’d need drama, something of a
musical narrative, no minuets
all of the movements, apart from
the end ones, are variations on
slow – adagio, lento, largo, even
grave – and how do you keep an
audience, or in this case a
congregation, happy, or even
interested, with seven potentially
lugubrious adagios in a row, all
profoundly melancholy
only Shostakovich has managed
to do that since, which I’ll talk
about at some point later
Haydn also undoubtedly inspired
Beethoven here with the
consequences of so many
movements, the possibility of
extending a musical intention
into something resembling,
indeed, a book, a story, the
introduction of narrative,
essentially, into our musical
history, which is to say, music
as literature
the orchestral version of “The
Seven Last Words” is performed
here at the very Oratorio de la
Santa Cueva, the string quartet
version, played not only better
than I’ve ever heard it played
before, but better even than any
other quartet I’ve ever heard,
period, includes the commentaries
in German by an attendant prelate,
as intended in the original
composition
the movements’ “Seven Words” are
indicated in Latin, not, incidentally,
the language of “Our Saviour”, and
move from “Lord, why have you
forsaken me” to “If it is Your will,
then let it be done”
the last version presented here is
the oratorio, for orchestra and
voice
all of them, utterly inspiring
listen
R ! chard
(to be, incontrovertibly, continued,
this piece is too loaded with
substance, it is transformational)
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