Hungarian Rhapsody #2

Ah, the good old days, when entertainment meant for children thought nothing of making a cartoon based solely off a piece of classical music over five minutes long.  What an interesting concept.  It certainly wouldn't work these days, but ah well.  What can you do?  I will say, though, that I have a feeling that Franz Liszt (yes!  I've finally done the post I've been promising for the past month) would not have objected too strenuously to the over-the-top performance done here by Messrs. Tom and Jerry.

With that brooding stare, you'd want his gloves too.  Don't lie.

Franz Liszt was born in 1811 in Hungary.  His father was a musician, and a relatively well-known one at that - he counted Josef Haydn and Ludwig von Beethoven as acquaintances.  Franz started learning piano from his father at the age of seven, and by nine, was giving concerts of his own.  With his newfound (if still rather local) fame, he moved to Vienna to study with Carl Czerny and Antonio Salieri (the man who, according to Amadeus, worked and frightened one Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart to death - though, of course, this claim is absolute nonsense).  Upon his father's death, Liszt and his mother moved to Paris where they would live for some time.  Like his father, Liszt was good at cultivating relationships - during his early adulthood, he became friends with Hector Berlioz and Frederic Chopin, to name but two.

Liszt married rather young and had three children with his first wife in rapid succession.  His daughter, Cosima, became rather well known for, y'know, marrying Richard Wagner and starting the Bayreuth festival.  (It's truly fascinating how tight-knit the musical world can be sometimes, isn't it?)  In the 1840s, Franz took up a touring life to support his growing family, and to say that it was a success is to put it far too mildly.  Liszt was a phenomenon - of the likes of Elvis.  Women (and, I'm sure, at least a few men) went absolutely wild over his performances, and would grapple for souvenirs of silk gloves and handkerchiefs.  He was so successful that he was able to retire from concert life at the age of 35, not only financially set for life but able to quit at the top of his game, so to speak.  He moved to Weimar and stayed there for quite some time, but the death of two of his children and a failed romance sent Liszt to Rome, where he lived in solitude for several years.  For the last ten years of his life, Liszt split his time between Rome, Weimar, and Budapest, composing and giving master classes.  He died at Bayreuth in 1886, during the festival his daughter started.

Though he probably should've bit the bullet and cut his hair later in life...

Though Liszt is known mostly for his piano music, it must not be forgotten that he was also the inventor of the symphonic poem, a genre of music without which 2001: A Space Odyssey would be decidedly less epic.  However, since Hungarian Rhapsody #2 is indeed a piece of piano music (or at least was originally a piece of piano music), it is there we shall stay.  Because Liszt was Hungarian, it only followed that he was strongly influenced by Romani music and made use of the Gypsy scale.  This scale is formed by taking an A minor scale (A B C D E F G) and raising the fourth note of it, giving A B C D# E F G.  This can clearly be used in any key - the Hungarian Rhapsody is in C# Minor - but for the sake of not having a million #s, A minor is the easiest to see.

The Rhapsody itself was composed in 1847 and published in 1851 as part of a set of 19.  Originally arranged as a piano solo, the overwhelming popularity of the pieces gave Liszt the opportunity to arrange it first for piano and orchestra and then for piano duet.  It became part of the standard piano recital repertoire very quickly, and for a time, almost every recital ended with the piece due to its outstanding virtuosity.  This near-ubiquity gave companies like Warner Brothers and Hanna-Barbera the license to use the piece all over the place; apart from the Tom and Jerry cartoon, there is a Bugs Bunny short, a few Disney cartoons, and even a song in Animaniacs.  I can't say that this would be the first piece of music I would personally pick to become the unofficial cartoon anthem, but it seems to have worked for the past 75 years or so.  Go figure.

Further listening:
Like Liszt, and also Mozart?  Try Reminiscences de Don Juan, performed by Valentina Lisitsa:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_xSZ860AbOw

Like Liszt, and also having lots of feelings?  Try Liebestraum no. 3, performed by Daniel Barenboim: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y4XEPdYO5mM&feature=related

And in honor of the beginning of school years across the world (but mostly Vassar's), here's his Gaudeamus igitur paraphrase: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P0s4zCFSLcw

And finally, for creepiness' sake, a cast made of his hands:

Peer Gynt

In an odd way, this post is a bit of a culmination of quite a few posts that I have made over the past month or so.  First off, it's another case of a multi-movement piece of music having more than one movement become wildly popular.  Second off, it's another case of incidental theatre music far outstripping the play itself in terms of being well-known.  And thirdly, the second piece illustrates a freaking sunrise.  Not a bad way to cap off a month of blogging, I'd say.  The piece, incidentally (I'm going to get so much griegf for this...) is called Peer Gynt, and the composer Edvard Grief.  I mean Grieg.

Grieg, age fifteen, wearing a wig and false mustache to appear older.

Edvard Hagerup Grieg was born in Bergen, Norway in 1843 to a musical family (though not nearly as intense about it as the Bachs), though his mother was his first piano teacher.  At fifteen, Grieg enrolled in the Leipzig Conservatory (again with the Bachs - Leipzig was, if you'll recall, where Johann Sebastian had his longest post).  His first major premiere, the Piano Concerto in A minor, was in 1869, but he was not even there due to conducting obligations in Oslo.  In 1870, he made friends with Franz Liszt (a man I've promised a post on for some time... I suppose I'd better get on that soon), and remained close with the man until Liszt's death in 1886.  Grieg's life was not marked by either great acclaim or tragedy, though he did always live in the upper echelons of musical society at the time; for one, the Norwegian government appreciated his nationalistic musical tendencies, so they supported him with a pension for the last third of his life.  He was not a particularly prolific composer either (he had great distaste for much of his work - his only symphony displeased him so much that he tried to suppress it entirely), but what is known of his is ridiculously well-known.

In 1874, Henrik Ibsen asked Grieg to write incidental music (for those who have forgotten or who have not been following this blog since its inception - and shame on you for that - incidental music is music written for a play that is not necessary for the plot's development) for his play in verse Peer Gynt, and Peer Gynt was premiered in February of 1876.  Though the play itself is performed quite often in Norway, its extraordinary length has kept it from being part of the theatrical canon pretty much anywhere else.  Besides which, as seems to be the case for much 'incidental' music, the music itself has gone on to wild international popularity.

The character Peer Gynt is a young man of rather disreputable character, often getting drunk and having to quickly leave messy situations he has created.  Booze is a central factor in many of Gynt's misadventures, be it stumbling into a wedding to try and wrest the girl he loves from her husband-to-be or, y'know, hitting his head on a rock and dreaming up an entire civilization of trolls.

What I sincerely hope Gynt saw.  Thanks, Harpsterdraws!

Which is what "In the Hall of the Mountain King" is about.  After getting well drunk with a trio of milkmaids, Gynt hits his head on a rock and dreams that he meets the daughter of the troll king.  The music accompanies them as they ride to the troll king's mountain hall.  Several other (mis)adventures occur, including Peer getting the troll king's daughter pregnant just by thinking it (the more I read about this play, the more I want there to be a production of it in the States).  Grieg did not actually like "In the Hall of the Mountain King" very much, which is not particularly out-of-character for him, but this time, his distaste includes a quote too good to pass up: "I have also written something for the scene in the hall of the mountain King – something that I literally can't bear listening to because it absolutely reeks of cow-pies, exaggerated Norwegian nationalism, and trollish self-satisfaction! But I have a hunch that the irony will be discernible."

"Morning Mood," or "That piece in every single morning scene in Looney Tunes," is the prelude to Act IV.  Also Sprach Zarathustra's more timid cousin, "Morning Mood" also tries (and succeeds, in my estimations) to paint a sunrise with music.  Though it is decidedly less epic and more pastoral than Zarathustra, sometimes that's just what is needed - particularly when milkmaids are concerned.

A small addendum: Peer Gynt also includes, much in the vein of Aaron Copland, a piece of fiddle music he couldn't seem to put down.  First he turned it into a solo piano piece:

Then he added it smack dab into the middle of the opening of Peer Gynt (skip to 1:50 to hear it):

Sometimes it's best to know when to put a good thing down, yes, but it's equally good to know when to milk it for all it's worth. 

Further Listening:

Like Grieg, and also heartbreaking works of staggering beauty?  Try "Solveig's Song" from Peer Gynt, performed by Anna Netrebko: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2AZL0FcQDV0&feature=related

Like Grieg, and also piano concertos?  Guess what this is going to be, then:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9ypR4VKi1TM&feature=related

Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring

Sometimes, I wonder just what I can get away with on this blog; and then I realize that I can get away with just about anything, as long as it's not factually incorrect.  Yes, that's Celtic Woman.  I'm almost sorry for posting it, but then again, after the atrocity that was "Handel's Messiah Rocks," this is just about beautiful and tasteful.  Yet another case of a piece with no delusions of grandeur becoming a beloved piece of music (and easily a Top Five contender in terms of wedding marches, though I've always privately wondered how one processes down the aisle in 9/8 time...), "Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring" does deserve the attention heaped upon it - though I must say, I'm not entirely sure anyone actually deserves Celtic Woman.

I've always wondered what wigless Bach looked like...

Johann Sebastian Bach was born in 1685 in Eisenach, Germany.  He was the youngest son of Johann Ambrosius Bach, a professional musician.  In fact, his whole damn family was comprised of professional musicians - his uncle taught him the rudiments of organ playing, and when he was orphaned at age 10, his older brother Johann Christoph (apparently, they were much more conservative with names in the 17th century) took him in and taught him more music fundamentals.  At 14, he received a scholarship to the St. Michael's School in Lüneburg, graduating at 18.  When he was twenty (which is a very good age for undertaking adventures such as this), Bach walked 250 miles to hear Dieterich Buxtehude, a prominent organist and composer, perform.  Buxtehude's work clearly impressed young Bach, and he stayed several months to learn from the older man.  His first grown-up job at Weimar began in 1708 and continued until his dismissal in 1717 (after being imprisoned for a solid month due to his disputes with The Man at Weimar - Bach was never particularly known for being an agreeable man).

In 1721, he met Anna Magdalena, married her that year and eventually had thirteen children with her.  Add that to the seven had had from his previous marriage and you have a very productive man.  True to the Bach heritage, many of his children became musicians and composers in their own right, including Carl Philip Emmanuel and Johann Christian (again with the Johann...), the latter of which moved to London and became friends with (and influenced) one young Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.  It all comes around, doesn't it?

From 1723 until his death, Bach worked in Leipzig as the Cantor of the Thomasschule (or Thomas School) at St. Thomas Church, and as part of the job, he had to conduct a cantata each Sunday.  True to form, he took it upon himself to write new works most of the time, eventually composing upwards of 200 of them.  At the end of his life, he began to go blind and opted for eye surgery, which was a huge gamble in the mid-eighteenth century.  Unfortunately, it was a gamble that cost him his life, and he died in 1750 at the age of 65 from complications due to that surgery.  To add posthumous insult to, well, death, his music was almost entirely ignored for nearly eighty years by the general public.  Composers, for the most part, revered him (Beethoven declared him the Father of Harmony, for one), but the public saw his work as old-fashioned and even stodgy.  Between you and me, though, I don't think Bach would have minded either of those two adjectives.  In 1829, though, Felix Mendelssohn performed Bach's St. Matthew Passion for the first time since the 18th century, and that set in motion a chain of events that led to Bach becoming one of the world's best-known and most-loved composers.

Let it be known that this is the first useful picture on this blog.

Before discussing "Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring," we must, unfortunately, discuss the cantata.  I say 'unfortunately' because 'cantata,' much like 'opera' and 'oratorio,' is another one of those fussy categorizing words that (in my humble opinion) tends to do less good than is hoped.  And again, much like the opera and oratorio, the roots of the musical form start with good intentions.  At the beginning of its existence, the cantata ("sung" in Italian) was a form of vocal chamber music, with one or two solo voices, a continuo and maybe a few solo instruments as well.  Continuo is usually a keyboard of some kind and perhaps a low string instrument such as a cello, playing figured bass (a bass line with notes plus numbers, sharps, and flats below each note to show what chords above the bass line should be played, assuming that a major chord, or notes 3 and 5 above the bass, is 'normal' - in the case of the picture above, the '6' below the second bass note is shown because C is six notes above E in the bass line, but the G is three notes above, which is still 'normal'... ya follow me?).

This would be a nice distinction, except for the fact that nothing can ever be a nice distinction when it comes to musical terms.  Cantatas became more and more theatrical, and in Bach's case, sometimes became indistinguishable from opera scenes and oratorios.  It is said that Bach never wrote an opera, which is technically true - he did, however, compose a 'cantata' about a young woman's coffee addiction, complete with arias, duets, and recitatives.  Furthermore, Bach's "Christmas Oratorio" is simply six separate cantatas bound into one whole.  One way cantatas can be distinguished, however, is their length - they tend to be shorter than operas and oratorios - so if you're ever presented with a short vocal piece in several movements that may or may not include a choir, you can pretty safely call it a cantata without incurring the wrath of someone who's decided they know more than you about classical music.

I didn't know people actually did this.

"Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring" is the tenth and final movement of Herz und Mund und Tat und Leben (Heart and Mind and Deed and Life), composed in 1716 during Bach's Weimar days.  The German title of the movement is "Jesus bleibet meine Freude," or "Jesus shall remain my gladness" - similar enough, but perhaps a bit more selfish.  The melody was actually written by one Johann Schop, and Bach liked it so much that he used it again in the St. Matthew Passion.  Its simple beauty gives it a heart-wrenching quality, and though Bach intended it to be performed at a rather brisk tempo, the slow, meditative pace used in most performances these days gives the piece an element of the sublime.  Hey - if it's good enough for Celtic Woman, it's good enough for me.

Further listening:

Interested in the advent of the cantata?  Try "Mad Bess" by Henry Purcell (sung by Drew Minter): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aUwCKkDIsRw

Like beautiful pieces by Bach that aren't actually by Bach?  Try "Bist du bei mir" by Gottfried Heinrich Stölzel (sung by Laura Heims): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FWnEUzUizkI

Like Bach, and also happiness?  Try "Wir eilen mit schwachen" from Jesu, der du meine Seele:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iY3XAPqGy_Q&feature=related

The 'Hallelujah Chorus' from "Messiah"

This piece, much like the few before it, has transcended the 'I've heard this somewhere' label and has graduated to 'I've heard this everywhere.'  Unlike the few pieces before this one, however, this was not a case of a small-scale work becoming surprisingly adored.  No, George Frideric Handel's Messiah was beloved in its time, never suffered a dip in popularity, and continues to be performed nearly constantly (particularly around the holidays).  But, as always, the story behind the piece (and of the man himself) is too good to pass up, and so here we are today.

Handel, looking only slightly incredulous.

George Frideric Handel (almost regretfully, a man with only three names given at birth) was born in Halle, Germany in 1685.  1685 was a very good year for musical births, as Johann Sebastian Bach and Domenico Scarlatti were also born in that year.  George's father, aged 63 at the time of George's birth (and also named George, but because he was German, it was Georg for him), is the star of a probably apocryphal story involving George's early musical lack-of-training.  See, Georg wanted Junior to be a lawyer, and when he discovered his son's nascent musical talents, he banned all musical instruments from the Handel houshold (while we're on the subject of linguistic accuracy, George was actually born with an umlaut over the 'a' in Händel, giving a pronunciation more like 'hendel', which explains the international sometime-spelling of Haendel.  Whew).  Little Georg(e) was having none of this, of course, and had a clavichord smuggled into the attic of his house, where he could sneak off and practice when his family was asleep.  Clavichords are very quiet keyboard instruments used mostly for household practice and play, so that part of the story holds water, but there is still the question on how a child was able to a) obtain, and b) smuggle a clavichord into an attic.  It's a good story, though, and certainly adds to the mystique of the man, so I'll take it.

My-Size Clavichord, perfect for kids whose parents Just Don't Understand.

Handel did end up going to law school for a little while, but by 1703, he had a position at the Hamburg opera house, where his first two operas premiered in 1705.  In 1706, he traveled to Italy and learned all about Italian opera; but since opera was banned in the papal states (i.e. Italy) at the time, he composed Italian oratorios (more on this later) and sacred music while he was there.  1710 proved to be a red-letter year for young Georg (among other things, the final 'e' in his name was about to be appended); he became the Kappelmeister - literally meaning 'chapel master,' or someone in charge of all music-making in a certain church or court to Prince George, elector of Hanover and soon to be King George I of Great Britain.  In 1712, he decided to live in London permanently, and settled down for thirty years of near-uninterrupted musical and financial success.  He premiered Italian opera after Italian opera (and indeed, is said to be the one who brought Italian opera to England), worked in several opera companies, and culminated his operatic career with a position at Covent Garden.  Unfortunately, by the mid-1730s, English interest in Italian opera had begun to wane, and Handel's last Italian opera, Deidamia, premiered in 1741 to only three performances.

Luckily for him, however, he was about to strike musical gold.  In July of 1741, Charles Jennens wrote a letter to Handel (George by this time, having been adopted by the British as one of their own) mentioning a new libretto he had for an oratorio called Messiah.

At this point, I feel obligated to take a moment and explain the differences between opera and oratorio.  On paper, they are very similar pieces of performance art; both feature orchestral accompaniment, a chorus, and vocal soloists.  The difference - in theory at least - is in intent and subject matter.  An opera is a musical work written for the stage, while an oratorio is generally thought of as a concert work.  In terms of subject matter, operas tend to be mythological, historical, or literary, while oratorios tend to be based on sacred texts.  However, Handel's oratorios (particularly Samson) are often staged, and his oratorio Semele caused incredible consternation due to its basis on Greek myth.  If you are ever confused as to whether a work is an opera or oratorio, your best bet is to ask someone who has decided they know more about classical music than you and take their opinion as fact.  It works for me.

I can only guess (and dread) what this sounds like.

But yes.  Back to Messiah (this post is already dragging on as it is).  The music was written in a little over three weeks, which sounds incredible until the fact that that is generally the length of time Handel spent on his operas is taken into account.  That sounds even more incredible, until the fact that Handel often borrowed entire arias and choruses from earlier works is taken into account.  In an age of creative copyright and aspirations of originality, this sounds bizarre, but it was an often-used compositional technique, particularly for large, multi-movement works such as operas and oratorios.

Messiah was premiered in Dublin in 1742 to great acclaim, but when it premiered in London, receptions were decidedly more lukewarm.  Jennens himself was rather displeased, thinking that Handel's music did not do his libretto justice.  However, after a slow start, Messiah became a beloved piece of British music that has never left the repertory since.

A fun fact: the performanace of "Hallelujah" above is based off an arrangement done by none other than Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart in 1789 on commission from one Baron von Swieten.  Performances of Messiah got bigger and grander (one featuring a chorus of 2,000 and an orchestra of 500) until the twentieth century, when a revival in Baroque performance techniques led to an interest in hearing how it was performed at the time.

People do like things big, though, and so we can't always fault Andre Rieu - our conductor in the top video - for his excesses.

Further listening:

Like Handel, and also happiness?  Try "Happy We" from Acis and Galatea (performed by Les Arts Florissants, sung by Paul Agnew and Sophie Daneman): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ESKvWcTh4AE

Interested in Handel's Italian opera?  Try "Ciel e terra armi di sdegno" from Tamerlano (sung by Rolando Villazón): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8PnXEQKKp1U

Like Handel, and also really beautiful music?  Try "Un momento di contento" from Alcina (sung by Kobie van Rensburg): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VrMHHGR_KR8

Yeah, I know.  I like Handel.  So should you.

Serenade #13 in G, "Eine Kleine Nachtmusik"

There's a cruel reality in the music world; there is no way of knowing what work the public will latch onto and claim as Most Beloved Piece, and it is often the last piece of music the artist/composer would think (or wish).  From Bruce Springsteen's "Born In the USA" turning from countercultural protest song to the unironic anthem of red-blooded "Real 'Murrikans" to Chumbawamba, a British anarchist band (no kidding.  You can't make this stuff up) being known for their frat-boy drinking song "Tubthumping," there is no telling what music will stick in the minds of listeners.  Such is the case of Wolfgang Amadé Mozart's Serenade #13 in G, a title that means nothing to anyone until the subtitle is added - "Eine Kleine Nachtmusik".

Baby Mozart, composin' like a boss.

Mozart (christened as Johannes Chrysotomus Wolfgangus Theophilus Mozart - to give him choice, of course) was born on January 27, 1756 in Salzburg to one of the worst stage parents in history: Leopold Mozart.  Leo was an accomplished violinist - and indeed wrote a well-respected book on violin technique that was used for many, many years - and a decent composer, but when three-year-old Wolfgang climbed up on the family's keyboard and started playing chords while giggling to himself, one can only assume that a grin most recently seen on the latest episode of Toddlers and Tiaras lit up Leo's face.  When Wolfgang started composing his own pieces at the age of five, Mozart Sr. knew that his child (as well as his older sister Nannerl, but she, being female and living in the 18th century, was decidedly secondary - though her keyboard skills were actually more impressive) would be the family's new source of income.  A tour lasting over three years ensued, continuing until Wolfgang was nearly ten.  His first symphony was written at 8, and his first opera at 11.

It was around this point that Wolfgang reached the point that all child stars reach eventually; the end of childhood.  Mozart spent several years employed as a court musician in Salzburg, but did not enjoy his time there - among other things, he did not appreciate his treatment there (potentially an echo of being too used to his childhood fame).  To further dampen his early adulthood, in 1778, his mother fell ill and died while Mozart was in Paris.  Around this time, Wolfgang finally began to distance himself from his father's wishes (though, as far as we know, he did not shave his head and invite the paparazzi to watch the spectacle, though given the 18th century's propensity for wig-wearing, all sorts of shenanigans could have occurred...) and in 1781, he had a large argument with his employer, Archbishop Colloredo, and decided to pursue a freelance career in Vienna.

Don't tell Stephen Sondheim, though...

Things were looking up.  Mozart became friends with Joseph Haydn, and in 1787 he finally obtained a steady job under Emperor Joseph II.  It is in 1787 that we will stay; first, because the final four years of Mozart's life could fill up a good three more posts, and second, because 1787 was the year in which Eine Kleine Nachtmusik was written.

Eine Kleine Nachtmusik is an orchestral serenade, or a work for instrumental ensemble that is mainly for entertainment (and thus is more lighthearted than other instrumental works, such as symphonies, can be).  The word "nachtmusik" is actually a bit of a misnomer, or as they say in French, a "faux ami" (or false friend).  Translated literally, it means 'night music,' which is how it is generally translated; however, the word itself actually just means 'serenade.'

It is in four movements, with each movement being rather well-known.  Of course, it is the first movement, with its delightful example of a Mannheim Rocket in its first two measures, that is the most famous.

"What's a Mannheim Rocket, and what on earth is it doing in the 18th century?" you may ask.  Well, let me tell you.

Pictured: Five 20th-century Mannheim rockets, courtesy of SuperStock.com

In 1720, the court of Prince Elector Charles III Phillip (hey, I didn't name him - but then again, I didn't name Johannes Chrysotomus Wolfgangus Theophilius Mozart either) moved from Heidelberg to Mannheim.  This, on its own, would not be of much significance, but Charles was an incredible patron of the arts.  His orchestra in Heidelberg was already bigger than most orchestras in the area, and once the move to Mannheim was complete, the orchestra grew even larger and more prestigious.  Mannheim became a small center of musical innovation, and several techniques such as the Mannheim Crescendo (in which the entire orchestra gets louder) and the Grand Pause (exactly what it sounds like).  The Mannheim Rocket became a favorite way to start orchestral pieces; its rapidly ascending melody lines, usually via arpeggio (or broken major or minor chords), got audiences to sit up, stop ogling the noblewoman with the gigantic wig, and pay attention.  Eine Kleine Nachtmusik's unison opening is as obvious a Mannheim Rocket as they come, and as such, the piece has become one of the most well-known (if not the most) Mozart pieces ever.  Not bad for a little serenade.

Further listening:

Like Mozart, and also breathtakingly beautiful music?  Try "Soave sia il vento" from Cosi fan tutte (recorded at the 2006 Glyndebourne festival): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6Wi7UsXW1As

Like Mozart, and also copious amounts of silliness?  Try "Clarice cara mia sposa", an aria for tenor (sung by Marcel Reijans): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kz45Vtjfbpk

Like seeing what other pieces can be overlaid on top of Eine Kleine Nachtmusik?  Try "Eine Kleine Nichtmusik" by P. D. Q. Bach: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=enT9oAE0TxM&feature=related

"Bridal Chorus" from Lohengrin

Again, oddly enough, I could not find a specific scene in which today's piece is featured.  However, I did find a pretty ridiculous Queen cover, so that will just have to do.  Going with what is apparently this week's wedding theme, today's piece is the Bridal Chorus from Richard Wagner's Lohengrin.

Indirectly responsible for Disneyland's most iconic image.

A short disclaimer:  Richard Wagner is one of the most divisive personalities to have ever made a living in the world of classical music.  You will not find discussion of these controversies in this blog (though if you're interested to see how Wagner is still a touchy subject even today, check this article out:  http://www.guardian.co.uk/music/2011/jul/26/israel-chamber-orchestra-wagner-bayreuth ).  I do not pretend to know nearly enough about the man's dubious political leanings, though the fact that his writings and music provided much fodder for Hitler and the Nazi regime is indisputable.  That said, however, at least where my opinion is concerned, his music is no less worthy of listening or even enjoying.  Alrighty, disclaimer over - let's get to the man himself.

Wilhelm Richard Wagner was born in 1813 in Leipzig.  He did not have an extraordinarily musical childhood, though he definitely had artistic talent from a very young age - it was just more focused toward the theatre.  When he was in his teens, he wanted to be a playwright, and began writing plays inspired by works by Goethe and Shakespeare (if there was one thing Wagner never did, it was start small).  His musical training - formally, at least - was minimal during his youth, but he did hear Beethoven's Seventh and Ninth symphonies performed during his formative years.  In his late teens, he began to compose (still with very little formal training), and works such as his Symphony in C and early piano sonatas were published and performed before he hit twenty.  While in university, Wagner finally received some formal theory and performance training, though never to the extent of composers like Mendelssohn (to name but one).

At left, Neuschwanstein - or for our Anglophiles, Newswanstone.

Wagner's first 'mature' opera (he had early operas, including The Fairies and The Ban on Love, based on Shakespeare's Measure for Measure) was Rienzi, premiered in 1840.  This marked the start of his 'middle period,' which included premieres of operas such as The Flying Dutchman and Tannhäuser - operas still squarely in modern repertory.  Lohengrin, his final 'middle period' opera, was premiered in 1850 and conducted by Franz Liszt (don't think you know him?  Just wait for a soon-to-be-published blog post...).  And this concludes our biographical section, though there is much more to say (and we haven't even hit the Ring cycle yet!) - I've gone on too long as it is, and besides, I can devote an entire post to "Ride of the Valkyries."

Lohengrin is a special opera in two very different ways.  First, it was an opera so beloved by King Ludwig II of Bavaria that he built Neuschwanstein Castle based on the opera (and from there, became the inspiration for Cinderella's Castle of Disney Fame).  Ludwig's fanboy status gave Wagner the funds and clout to put on and produce the massive four-opera Ring cycle, as well as build a theatre space to his own exacting specifications.  That theatre is still in use today, and the Bayreuth summer festival is still owned and operated by Wagner's descendents.  Second, it contains the Bridal Chorus.

First page of 'Here Comes the Bride' image results.

A short (but pertinent!) aside: Neuschwanstein is named as it is because in the medieval romance from which Lohengrin's libretto is taken, there is a knight with no name who is simply known as the Swan Knight.  The word 'neuschwanstein' is, as many German words are, simply three words strung together without the convenience of spaces between them - in this case, 'new swan stone'.  The Castle Neuschwanstein is, then, Ludwig's attempt to live in a castle such as the Swan Knight would have lived in.  And people think Star Wars-themed man caves are weird - this man cave-dweller ran a sovereign state.

The story of Lohengrin is, as medieval romances tend to be, a tale full of intrigues, forbidden loves, knights, and deaths by broken heart.  Also as medieval romances tend to be, the plot of Lohengrin is quite convoluted, so I won't go into it in detail.  In fact, I won't really go into it at all.  It's worth seeing on your own, and the music is absolutely stunning.  The Bridal Chorus, however, begins the third act, in which our leading lady Elsa and the Swan Knight have just gotten married.

That's right.  The Bridal Chorus happens after the wedding ceremony is over.  In the scene, Elsa and the Swan Knight are walking back from the ceremony to the bridal chamber, accompanied by a gaggle of people who won't go away for a solid five minutes and just happen to be singing some of the most instantly recognizable music in the world.  Opera is funny like that sometimes.


Further listening:

Like Wagner, medieval romances, and also chord progressions musicologists are still puzzling over?  Try the prelude of Tristan and Isolde:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fktwPGCR7Yw

Interested in hearing Wagner as an adolescent?  Try the first movement of his Symphony in C:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nAvhVNfMf60

Like the idea of opera, but can't bring yourself to sit through 10-minute long arias?  Try The Beggar's Opera, by Pepusch and Gay*:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VAS6uMtQY18

*Every aria, or air, is based off an English folk/drinking song and is less than two minutes long.

"Wedding March" from A Midsummer Night's Dream

Surprisingly enough, there weren't any actual scenes that feature this piece on Youtube, but no matter; all anyone needs to recognize Felix Mendelssohn's Wedding March are the first two notes. So ubiquitous that it has fallen squarely into the realm of cliche, the Wedding March from A Midsummer Night's Dream is (like Carmina Burana) an example of a work that has overshadowed the composer itself - an incredible act, of course, but one that does not do justice to Mendelssohn, the man. And Mendelssohn, the man, is pretty incredible himself.

Mendelssohn as a child. No lies.

Much like our man Bizet, Jakob Ludwig Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy was blessed with a surplus of names. For our purposes, however, Felix Mendelssohn will suffice. Born in 1809 to a Jewish family that later converted to Lutheranism (Mendelssohn's grandfather, Moses, was a famous philosopher), Felix showed prodigy-like levels of musical talent at a very young age. However, decidedly unlike our men Mozart and Beethoven, Felix's parents did not attempt to cash in on his success, and did not actively encourage (though they did not actively discourage him either) his career. Despite the lack of stage parenting, Mendelssohn's first work, a piano quartet, was published in 1822, when the composer was just thirteen years old. At seventeen, he completed his "Overture to A Midsummer Night's Dream" (and concurrently invented the concert overture - that is to say, a concert piece for orchestra not tied to a theatrical work), and before he hit his twenties, was a respected young musician and composer.

Apart from being shockingly bright at such a young age, Mendelssohn was also largely responsible for the revival in interest in Johann Sebastian Bach (and, in a broader sense, Baroque music in general). After Bach's death in 1750, his works were largely abandoned - even before his death, Bach was considered rather old-fashioned and passé. However, in 1829, Mendelssohn conducted the first performance of Bach's St. Matthew Passion since 1750, and it was met with great acclaim. In 1833, Mendelssohn helped start a German revival of George Frideric Handel with a performance of his oratorio Israel in Egypt in Düsseldorf. He edited the first scholarly editions of several Handel oratorios, as well as Bach's organ work. Much like Orff after him, Mendelssohn was active (and indispensable) in more areas than 'simply' composition. Unfortunately, his potential was cut short by a series of strokes, and at the age of 38, he passed away in 1847. Almost ironically - and much like Bach - Mendelssohn experienced a posthumous dip in popularity (brought about by composers such as Wagner, who disliked Mendelssohn's conservative style), and it took until the early twentieth century for his music to find a place in the canon.

Except for, of course, his Wedding March.

This is the first image that came up. Google is so weird.

Though Mendelssohn wrote his Midsummer Night's Dream Overture when he was seventeen, it was over sixteen years later that he was commissioned to write incidental music for the rest of the play. Incidental music has been around for a long time - at least since Ancient Greek drama. The difference between incidental music and, say, a musical or opera lies in the name; plays with incidental music function just as successfully without it, while if a musical or opera was stripped of its music, there would be very little left. Produced in 1843, the production of A Midsummer Night's Dream was structured so that from the entirely music-less Act I, the play became more and more filled with music until the final and fifth act. The Wedding March itself is 'merely' music between Acts IV and V - or at least was until Queen Victoria's daughter (also named Victoria) used it as the processional in her 1858 wedding, and thus started a trend that shows no signs of stopping, 150 years later.

This would be the point in the post in which I would make a short list of the movies and television shows in which this piece can be heard - but I don't need to. It's everywhere. Way to go, Felix - way to go.

Further listening:

Like Mendelssohn, and also Scotland? Try the Overture from Fingal's Cave: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a3MiETaBSnc

Like Mendelssohn, and also old Looney Tunes cartoons? Try "Spring Song" : http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8mz5Rtx-Eu0

Like Mendelssohn, and also beautiful vocal melodies? Try "Auf Flügeln des Gesanges," sung by Barbara Bonney: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xfj4thZrFj4&feature=related

(Yeah. I do like Mendelssohn. What of it?)

"O Fortuna" from Carmina Burana

This next piece is less than one hundred years old.  It's hard to believe that, given the piece's near-constant use.  Whenever there is a scene that requires high tension (or, y'know, is the opening montage of Jackass: The Movie), Carl Orff's "O Fortuna" from Carmina Burana always seems to pop up.

The family pet, Carl Arff (I'm sorry, I couldn't pass that one up)

Orff himself - one of the more long-lived composers featured thus far, living to the ripe old age of 88 - was born in 1895 in Munich, Germany.  He took music lessons (piano, organ and cello) as a child, but found he was more drawn to composition.  "Drawn to" may be one of the greater understatements I have typed thus far, as he was a published composer by the age of sixteen.  In 1912, he finished composition of a piece called...

Wait for it...

Also Sprach Zarathustra.  That's right.  And in the Straussian tradition of epic grandeur, he scored the piece for baritone solo, three choruses and orchestra.  This is all before he would have been able to drive on his own in New Jersey.  In 1913, his first opera was completed, but with the oubreak of World War I, his musical aspirations were forgotten for the duration as he served in the German military.  Once the war was over, he was free to create once again.

Seriously.  I'm sorry about that first caption.

Orff is the first composer featured on this blog (but, of course, not nearly the first one in history) to be known - and known well - for more than just his compositions.  He was a great lover of early theatre music, and could be seen to be part of the Baroque Opera revival with his adaptation of Monteverdi's 1607 opera L'Orfeo in 1925.  More than that, however, he is known for what is now known as the "Orff Approach" to music education.  Essentially, he viewed music education for children as a mix of music itself, movement and theatre, all of which was based off children's play.  Many rhythmic instruments such as xylophones and other tuned percussion are used, and the focus is on imitation, exploration, improvisation and composition.  Children learn about music by playing - not performing - but playing.  Mistakes are allowed, and creativity is encouraged.  There is no set 'method' for the Orff Approach, but its child-centered focus makes it a favorite in early-childhood centers.

Of course, Orff would not have been able to indulge himself with such vanity projects as music pedagogy and the revival of Baroque opera if he had not, as they say, "made it big."  And make it big he did.  In 1937, Carmina Burana was premiered at the Frankfurt Opera, and its instantly-memorable melodies (and, let's be real here, totally epic first movement) cemented Orff's place in the classical music canon.

Sometimes the Wheel of Fortune is on fire.  That's just how life goes.

Carmina, based off a set of medieval poems in Latin and medieval German, is what Orff liked to call a "scenic cantata."  Not quite an oratorio, not quite an opera, not quite a symphonic-work-with-choir, a scenic cantata is simply a staged work for singers with instrumental accompaniment.  The difference here is that the cantata need not have a storyline.  In Carmina, there are twenty-five movements split into five sections, with the overarching idea being the ever-turning Wheel of Fortune.  Going with that motif, our main melody, "O Fortuna," opens and closes the cantata. The rest of the piece is not nearly as awe-inspiring - if nothing else, that would be exhausting for an hour or more - but 'takes place' in a meadow, a tavern, and even (*gasp*) in the bedroom.  Nine of the movements deal directly with love, and four with drink.  However, it is "O Fortuna," the complaint to Fate, that has given us goosebumps in Jackass, Cheaper by the Dozen, and The Bachelor.


Further listening:
Intrigued by Baroque opera?  Try "Vi Ricorda, O Bosch' Ombrosi" from Monteverdi's L'Orfeo:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vrSpC8nByUI

Want to hear one of Orff's inspirations (as well as hear what a harpsichord trying to sound like bells sounds like)?  Try "The Bells" by William Byrd:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GOuqz__cvrw&feature=related

Like the idea that 20th-century composers still looked to the 18th century or earlier for inspiration?  Try the first part of "Pulcinella" by Igor Stravinsky*: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X4KYuhfag5I

*yes, I know it's cheating since Stravinsky didn't do much more than arrange pieces by Pergolesi, Gallo and other 18th-century composers, but it's still nice to listen to.

Carmen

That's right.  We're going for a whole opera - that's how well-known Carmen is.  It's so well-known that people sometimes even know the name of the opera itself.  Besides which, most operas contain one really well-known piece; this one has three.  All in all, not bad for a composer who barely made it to 36 and never really saw success in his own lifetime.

Bizet at 11 - the beard was added posthumously.

This composer, of course, was Georges (Alexandre César Léopold) Bizet.  Born in Paris in 1838, he soon proved to be an adept pianist and all-around musician and was admitted to the Paris Conservatory of Music just shy of his tenth birthday.  He won the Prix de Rome (essentially a prize in which budding composers and musicians won grants to study in Rome for a year, hence the name) at the age of nineteen, and his early works showed great promise.  Unfortunately, it all sort of slid downhill from there - and not in a big, dramatic way (as when Stravinsky's Rite of Spring incited riots).  No, Bizet was plagued with the mantle of mediocrity for the rest of his short life, which is truly a shame, given the ubiquity of his works today.

His first full opera, Les pêcheurs de perles (The Pearl Fishers) was premiered in 1863 to middling-to-unfavorable reviews - though a tenor/baritone duet, "Au fond du temple saint" is part of the vocal repertoire for many budding singers.  Carmen itself premiered in 1875, and though its first run had over forty performances, Bizet did not live to see all of them.  At age 36, he died from heart failure, disappointed at the cool reception (despite the long performance run) of Carmen.  Performances of Carmen ceased almost immediately after Bizet's death, but only five years later, the opera was revived in Paris and has not left either the opera repertory or the public consciousness since.

Just in case anyone was worried, that last caption was a lie.

Carmen itself was based on a novel of the same name published in 1845.  But before we get into the piece itself, I feel it's probably necessary to get some sort of definition of opera across.  That is far easier said than done, of course - the opera has been around longer than the symphony (since 1597, for those keeping score) and operas can sound like just about anything, from Italian baroque to jazz to even rock-flavored music.  For our purposes, opera will be distilled down to this: it is a piece of art for the stage with music set to words (most of the time, at least) where the music takes precedence over the poetry of the words.  I think that just about covers 80% of opera, so that's a pretty good blanket statement.

But yes.  Back to Carmen.

It was commissioned in 1873, and two years and many, many disputes later (one of the producers wanted Bizet to change the tragic ending to a happy one - a request Bizet flatly refused to accomodate), was premiered.  Musically, this opera is important because up until that point, there were essentially two kinds of opera - opera comique and serious opera (not to be confused, of course, with opera seria - but that is another day).  Carmen managed to marry the two forms together to create an art form that is not bereft of humor, but also manages to convey great emotional weight.

In the opera, there are three extraordinarily well-known melodies.  The first of these is "L'amour est un oiseau rebelle," more commonly known as the Habañera (as sung by our friend the Sesame Street Orange in the first video).  In Carmen, the piece is sung by Carmen herself, a sassy, saucy cigarette factory worker.  The lyrics of the piece, sung after a great gaggle of men all ask her when she will love them, state that love is a rebellious bird, and that it knows no laws. 

For those not clear on the Toreador lifestyle.

Second, we have the Toreador song.  This can be heard in the second half of the second video.  In the opera, it is sung by Escamillo, a toreador.  The lyrics are about... well... being a toreador.  Hey - I never claimed Bizet was a master of subtlety.  I will claim, however, that once you listen to the Toreador song, it will be in your head for the next six hours.

Third, and finally, the beginning of the overture.  This music is most often found in commercials (though oddly enough, I haven't heard it on television for a while).  This music is from act 4, during which the characters are all preparing for an impending bull fight.

So there we have it, folks.  Not one, not two, but three melodies that show up in places as diverse as Meet the Parents, Babe, and The Hudsucker Proxy.  If only Bizet could've known that his music would be one day as loved and well-known as any classical music can be.

Further Listening:

Like Bizet, and men singing?  Try "Au fond du temple saint," from Les pêcheurs de perles: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4tLrPVkfCIQ

Like French opera from the the 19th century?  Try "Les oiseaux..." from Les contes d'Hoffman, by Jacques Offenbach:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e1k5l4oiCEc

And finally, a bonus video: