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Mark Austin  How we listen to music has changed considerably over time. The quasi-religious attitude to abstract music which emerged in the nineteenth century resulted in the dark, silent concert halls which to a large extent still hold sway. For many devotees the great works of the musical canon represented a mountain to be mastered: the summit offered an extraordinary view to those who reached it. This approach to the musical canon has shifted recently. Whereas music appreciation guides of the 1950s discussed musical works in terms of structure and the listener’s emotional response, now popularising commentators are likely to dwell on the identity of the composer, and indeed of the performer.
This shift is not something which interests Yiannis Gabriel, a retired social psychologist who held posts at Imperial College, Royal Holloway and the University of Bath. He has now added to his publications on organisation theory and psychology with a short book on music. Music and Story draws on multiple genres, mixing elements of memoir, musical criticism and psychological analysis. He recognises that his musical tastes are ‘mainstream and conservative’; the seventy years of the period performance movement remain suspect for their challenge to ‘beautiful sound’ and tradition. He is ‘loyal to many old-fashioned tried and tested interpretations’, admitting that they are ‘imbued for [him] with a certain nostalgia’. The book consists of a series of short chapters, which consider various aspects of Gabriel’s lifelong love of music. In a fashion which many will recognise, this love began at an early age thanks to the sustained musical advocacy of his father. Enjoyment of music, which commenced for him with Chopin’s Polonaise héroïque, is immediately associated with the idea of narrativity. ‘Much of the emotional power of music resides in the stories it tells, tacitly or explicitly’. This simple observation is an admirable way to bring music closer to the curious reader, and few would disagree that the whole range of composers' tools - harmonic relationships, melodic variation, orchestration, structural manipulation, programmatic narrative - can be considered a kind of tacit or explicit ‘story’. A reader looking for further detail on this approach may be disappointed. Gabriel chooses not to weave this idea consistently through the book, nor relate it in detail to music, which is a shame as he undoubtedly has interesting things to say. Ultimately some more clarity on the terms he uses might have been helpful. Phrases such as ‘what a composer intended to say’ are entirely subjective and may not mean much to some readers. He is most convincing when expressing his personal reactions to music. Many will share his response to hearing Tchaikovsky’s First Piano Concerto for the first time: ‘the thrill of those opening bars in the horns, the piano’s huge fusillades followed by the mighty octaves, and the puzzle and disappointment of the magnificent theme’s quick disappearance never to be heard again’. The real story in this book is that of Gabriel’s own involvement with music. His appreciation is avowedly conservative, but in our age a position like this almost becomes a radical act. He bases his ideas mainly on recordings, with no sense that live performance may be a superior form of musical experience. Chapters comparing different recorded versions of Mahler’s Sixth Symphony, or Verdi’s Otello are interesting, and provide a model for an individual engagement with music. Gabriel is unafraid to judge, critique and relate personally to what he hears. He demonstrates in exemplary fashion how the most rewarding way to listen to music is to listen actively, relating it to one’s own personality and values. There is a valuable reminder how in the past, avid listeners would agonise over the choice of one LP and transport it home in nervous anticipation. Gabriel rues that fact that ‘record collecting is no longer the art it once was’. It’s certainly the case that the relative scarcity of recorded music must once have stimulated demand. A tried and tested route into musical appreciation - the gradual collection of a personal library - would take a particularly determined avoidance of technology in the streaming age. All the more surprising that Gabriel did in fact transfer his entire collection onto iTunes. He describes a frustrating experience which many will have shared. The final sections of the book contain many interesting observations on aspects of leadership elucidated through reference to opera. Simon Boccanegra yields the insight that ‘conflict lies at the heart of leadership’. Boris Gudunov illustrates how ‘the same qualities that account for a leader’s triumphs also account for his or her downfall’. Gabriel feels on stronger ground here, able to draw on his lifetime of academic work. His suggestion that charisma is hard to portray in opera due to the need to create complex characters who reveal vulnerability through their music is thought-provoking. Ultimately, the question of who this book is for remains problematic. It is not enough of a memoir to leave the reader with a full sense of a clearly fascinating man, nor does it provide a coherent approach to music that would speak to a novice. A music lover with similar tastes will enjoy a feeling of kinship with the author, but the content is thoroughly personal, making the book hard to situate within a non-fiction space. Gabriel's approach is hard to square with recent developments in the musical canon, nor the fact that classical music must nourish a teeming ecosystem of live performance to survive. And yet his love for music shines through and it is hard not to delight in his company. As a record of how someone expert in a different field can draw lifelong stimulation from music it is a powerful rebuke to our age, in which the sense that music is vital and edifying is terribly diminished.
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Mark Austin Like an unexploded WW1 bomb, The Rite of Spring electrifies the moment. Stravinsky’s music remains disturbing a century after the riots at its legendary premiere. Those who were present that evening in Paris - 29 May 1913 - experienced the high water mark of classical music’s course through modern European history.
How can one elucidate a legend without diminishing its vitality? Gillian Moore provides a stylish model in her short book exploring the cultural context, music and influence of Stravinsky’s most famous work. One of the darkest icons of modernity, the 30-minute ballet depicts a sacrificial ritual in which a young girl dances herself to death. Concert-goers in the west are now receptive to the violent music Stravinsky wrote, but probably less aware of the strongly Russian background to Весна священная. Stravinsky shared the desire of his earlier compatriots to “reconnect with a real or imagined Russianness”. This coincided neatly with a craze for Russian culture which swept Paris in the early twentieth century. Universally popular were the famous matryoshka nesting dolls, believed to be ancient Russian peasant art, but actually ‘invented’ in 1890 copying a Japanese design. Moore depicts the larger-than-life personalities whose proximity sparked the ballet into being. Stravinsky had previously collaborated with brilliant impresario Sergey Diaghilev on The Firebird and Petrushka. It’s astonishing to learn that Diaghilev had only approached the 28-year-old Stravinsky as his third choice for Firebird, the composer’s first major success. He soon spotted his error: “Mark him well. He is a man on the brink of celebrity.” Stravinsky was always happy to go along with Diaghilev’s flair for myth-making and shared the same instinct. Musicologist Richard Taruskin has observed that “Stravinsky spent the second half of his long life telling lies about the first half.” (Is this particularly unusual?) Stravinsky’s short account of a train journey from an artists’ collective at Talashkino may serve as an example of his talent for vivid imagery. He had missed his connection and instead bribed the conductor of a freight train to let him ride in a cattle car with a bull. “The bull was leashed by a single not-very-reassuring rope, and as he glowered and slavered I began to barricade myself behind my one small suitcase.” No devotee of opening night intrigue will want to miss Moore’s engaging account of the premiere. Her synthesis of sources is fascinating, not least because there were no smartphones on hand. It is uncertain whether the police were called, for instance, as some witnesses stated and others furiously denied, nor do we know exactly who was in the audience. It seems highly likely that Diaghilev carefully orchestrated the scandal in advance. The conductor Pierre Monteux had been told to continue the performance whatever happened; newspaper adverts for the premiere promised “a new sensation which will undoubtedly provoke heated discussions”. Despite reports of punches, duels, and noise such that the dancers couldn’t hear the orchestra, we also learn that there were five curtain calls and ovations for the orchestra and conductor. What role did the music play in provoking this riot? Moore offers a concise explanation of the novelty on display, and a listening guide which is helpful in aligning the plot of the dance with the sections of the music. The music moves far beyond the style of Firebird, which draws considerably on the language of Stravinsky’s great predecessor Rimsky-Korsakov. In brief, the choice Stravinsky made in the Rite was to piece together very short blocks of music, apparently without pattern, such that the listener is constantly challenged by interruptions and uneven pulses. The sketches of the work offer a striking visual reflection of this process. Stravinsky had invented a mechanical device to draw the five lines of a musical stave. This enabled him to jot down fragments in his plain notebook at any position and angle he wanted. When the score is performed, the listener who can find delight in this quasi-Cubist sound world will best appreciate what Debussy called the “beautiful nightmare” of the music. Moore’s descriptions of Nijinsky’s revolutionary choreography create a strong sense in the reader that the music was only partially responsible for the audience’s revolt. The work had been conceived as a total artwork in the Wagnerian mould (including scenery by painter Nicholas Roerich), and there can be no doubt that the dancing contributed strongly to the negative reaction. The critic Pierre Lalo was stupefied. “They shake their arms as if they were stumps and their legs as if they were made of wood. They never dance; all they do is jump, paw the ground, stamp and shake convulsively in place.” The nature of the original choreography (now lost) is probably the main revelation to be gleaned from this book for listeners who have previously been exhilarated (or puzzled) by concert performances. Moore interviewed several conductors for this book, including resident figures at Southbank Centre, where she is Director of Music. It would also have been interesting to hear the perspective of orchestral musicians on Stravinsky’s score. What is it like to face a silent hall and play the opening bassoon solo at the outer edge of the instrument’s range? Moore also avoids much interpretation of the work beyond the impact it has in live performance. Strangely she waits until the final page to allude to its political significance. A contemporary critic Jacques Rivière saw in the primitive ballet “the movements of man at a time when he did not yet exist as an individual”. The girl who dances herself to death does not have any conception of herself as a distinct personality, nor does the music suggest much empathy for her situation. It would have been productive to explore this dimension of the ballet in greater detail. A ballet premiere rarely shocks today, but the same cannot be said of society’s treatment of individuals. Mark Austin Puccini’s ‘La bohème’ regularly tops lists of the best-loved operas. A rare evergreen in the repertoire, the work can justifiably be called a cultural phenomenon. Alexandra Wilson investigates the forces behind this in her absorbing new book in the Oxford Keynotes series.
Her decision to broaden the focus beyond a critical introduction to the opera allows fascinating insights to emerge. We learn that during the composition process Puccini worked in alternating phases with his two librettists in a rare example of successful committee authorship. Contemporary responses to the work reveal how a male viewer would often identify with one of the four Bohemians, prompting Wilson to compare it with the TV series Friends and its similar “depiction of twenty-something relationships in an urban loft setting”. A romanticised vision of Paris lies at the heart of ‘La bohème’. Puccini located four of his operas in the city: ‘Manon Lescaut’ (1893), ‘La bohème’ (1896), ‘La rondine’ (1917) and ‘Il tabarro’ (1918). Yet astonishingly he had not visited Paris before writing ‘La bohème’. The contrast with the specificity of place he sought in ‘Tosca’ (1900) is striking. (Puccini famously reproduced the exact soundscape of Rome's church bells at dawn, jotting down the pitches and locations across the city.) It’s clear that Bohemian Paris is an imaginary location, “more a state of mind, a way of dressing and behaving, than an actual place, arguably just as idealised as any ‘exotic’ operatic locale.” This has allowed directors to set recent productions as far apart as Brooklyn, Elizabethan London or the moon. At first ‘La bohème’ did not appear likely to become a mainstay of the repertoire. Puccini’s music suffered considerably from comparisons with Wagner, whose works enthralled audiences. The notorious Italian critic Fausto Torrefranca saw ‘La bohème’ as symptomatic of the decadence of Italian culture, blaming it and Italian opera generally (too bourgeois and effeminate) for the decline of the nation. In England it was regrettably labelled “one of the weakest operas Sheffield has ever heard”. Key to its eventual success was the soprano Nellie Melba, the greatest female star of her day, who studied the role of Mimì with Puccini for 6 weeks, and toured internationally. She still played the role in her sixties, retaining audience affection if not dramatic plausibility. Wilson is particularly strong on different approaches to staging the opera. The discussion often seems to transcend the focus on ‘La bohème’ to provide a philosophy for opera staging in general. Although Wilson recognises that updating the setting is “undoubtedly a welcome and necessary means of giving vitality to the art form”, her sympathies seem to lie with directors who, like her, attempt to get to grips with the context and detail of the original vision: The argument that updating operas to the present is obligatory in order to make them ‘relevant’ or to bring in new audiences is facile, indeed perhaps even insulting to the intelligence of these imagined novice audience members, who presumably have no problem ‘relating to’ characters in films and television dramas set in Roman times or the Tudor period. Her answer to decades-long “snobbery" about Puccini’s sheer accessibility is an invitation: “[Puccini] gave himself completely unto theatrical pleasure and…perhaps we ought to yield to it as well.” Given this open-mindedness, the reader may be surprised by her sanitized reading of Mimì, the tragic heroine of the drama. We are told several times that the first encounter between Mimì and Rodolfo is fortuitous, and it is “inconsequential” that she informs Rodolfo her real name is Lucia. This seems to misrepresent Mimì’s significance. Whereas the four men are relatively comfortable, in essence play-acting a Bohemian life, she is poor. She has very few possessions. The thinly-veiled implication in the libretto is that Lucia has a public identity as “Mimì”, probably not by choice. It’s not clear exactly what this means: actress, hostess, escort, or prostitute. Since she lives in the same apartment block as Rodolfo it seems unlikely that the famous candle is extinguished in a chance encounter. More likely she spotted him a while ago, now wants some company, perhaps needs some income, and has chosen her moment. On this it might have been interesting to interview some of the great singers and coaches of the role today to provide a theatrical perspective. This is a minor quibble about a text that is extremely well-written and engaging. Although the Keynotes Series is aimed at “performers, curious listeners and advanced undergraduates”, the book will appeal to any opera lover who has enjoyed Puccini’s most famous work. Hopefully directors too will absorb what Wilson has to say, and perhaps even consult her. 'La bohème' is often understood as a symbol for opera thanks to its irresistible music and emotional impact. Wilson’s book in turn is an exemplary demonstration of the importance of cultural context in keeping it alive. Mark Austin Is there any symphony that cries out for live performance more than Mahler’s 8th? Waves of sound emanating from hundreds of performers pin you to your seat; no recording can ever capture this. Stephen Johnson, in his new book The Eighth: Mahler and the World in 1910 describes the electric atmosphere at the first performance in Munich:
“The concert was billed to start at 7.30pm, but Mahler didn’t make his entrance onto the stage until exactly 7.45pm - a spontaneous decision, or a carefully planned one? Either way it had the desired effect, stoking up the tension to exactly the right level…The nervous, excited chatter built steadily during the quarter of an hour that followed the expected start time; and when the tiny figure of Gustav Mahler made his way effortfully through the close-compacted mass of performers, a thunderous cheer suddenly erupted throughout the hall.” This was a genuinely historic moment, not dissimilar to the first Ring at Bayreuth in 1876. The performance was attended by musicians (Reger, Richard Strauss, Webern, Zemlinsky, Dukas, Saint-Saëns, and Stokowski), writers (Thomas Mann, Hugo von Hofmannsthal and Stefan Zweig), royals, aristocracy and a vast intellectual and artistic elite. Many arrived in cars, creating unusual clouds of fumes. Modernity had arrived, yet this event was witnessed primarily by the old orders. Saint-Saëns, the musician whose life probably spans the most varied landscape in musical history (from just after Beethoven to a few years after the Rite of Spring) had also attended Wagner’s triumph in 1876. Johnson’s impressive study of the personal, cultural, and political landscapes of Mahler’s greatest public triumph is eloquent and passionately argued. Filled with fascinating moments, it will speak to any singer, orchestral player, conductor, or listener who has come into contact with the titanic creative energy of the 8th Symphony. (All the more extraordinary to read that the composition may have been a desperate musical offering from Mahler to dissuade his wife Alma from leaving him for her young lover Walter Gropius). Even today, the pressures on a conductor mounting this piece are such that we all recognise composer Ethel Smyth’s experience of working with Mahler - “like handling a bomb cased in razor-edges”. Johnson is particularly convincing in his exploration of Mahler’s distinct identities: Austrian, Germanic, Jewish and perpetual outsider. This is Mahler as an icon familiar to our own age. It is useful to be reminded of the historical contexts behind his symphonies, which as he famously said to Sibelius, aimed to contain the world. Thomas Mann’s son (not brother, as wrongly stated), historian Golo Mann interpreted the profusion of ‘world’-compounds such as Weltpolitik in the German language as an expression of imperialism. In this context Mahler’s decision to compose a symphony with text from Goethe assumes new significance. Alma is the hidden presence behind much of Mahler’s later music. Johnson avoids speculating about her affair with Gropius, but her powerful, self-obsessed personality is shown to stalk the composer throughout. It is well known that Alban Berg dedicated his haunting violin concerto to the memory of Alma’s daughter Manon, but perhaps not that the dying 18-year-old’s last words are recorded as: “You’ll get over it, Mummy, as you get over everything - I mean…as everyone gets over everything.” Mahler chose a medieval hymn ‘Veni, creator spiritus’ for the first part of the symphony. Johnson’s exploration of this choice is rigorous and insightful. It is a greater challenge to elucidate the second part with its text by Goethe - the very final lines of Faust. To what extent does the rest of Goethe’s complex text, written over decades, have any bearing on the symphony? It would be impossible to take a definitive position on this. Very few performers read texts as the author intended and Johnson avoids delving into Faust in detail. Highlighting Mahler’s emphasis on “musical argument” rather than “adding nuances of meaning to Goethe’s words”, Johnson even remarks how at one point Mahler’s setting seems completely to ignore the mood of the verse. Johnson’s narrative often takes the form of a series of open-ended questions, which may be frustrating for the reader seeking clear answers. But the tide of the argument flows in a convincing direction, and the refusal to force specific meaning on the music is true to Mahler’s own conception of his work. This speculative approach can nevertheless result in claims which may be outlandish, particularly when it comes to literary texts. Is Tadzio’s beckoning gesture at the end of Thomas Mann’s Death in Venice really a tribute to Mahler and his setting of Goethe’s “The Eternal Feminine/ Draws us on” or just a nod to Goethe’s text on its own terms? Johnson’s book brings this music to life with rare vitality. Words about music are always inadequate, and yet, when we learn that Mahler himself confessed not to understand Schoenberg’s Second String Quartet (1908), it is clear that they have a vital, transformative role to play. With this work, Johnson inherits the mantle of the late Deryck Cooke and establishes himself as the foremost commentator on Mahler for the general reader. Mark Austin  The identity of Beethoven’s “Immortal Beloved” has been a source of fascination ever since a letter to this unidentified woman was found in the composer’s desk after his death. Unsent, or perhaps returned, the anguished message was dated only “Monday 6 July”, which meant it could only have been written in one of a few years. Biographers soon advanced a number of candidates for the intended recipient. In the 1950s watermark analysis showed that the letter must have been written in summer 1812, and thus that Beethoven must have been in Teplitz. Recent scholarship has further narrowed the field, but the identity of the woman has never been conclusively determined.
The mystery surrounding Beethoven’s love - a love which pervaded his whole being - has proved an enduring ornament to the Romantic myth of the unfathomable genius. Sensing instead the potential of resolution in fiction, Jessica Duchen has chosen her woman - Josephine Brunsvik (“Pepi”) - and laid out the evolution of a great and destructive passion. Immortal takes a grand historical sweep, following the Brunszvik family and their aristocratic circles as events unfold across Europe from the 1790s until Beethoven’s death in 1827 and beyond. Central figures such as Beethoven - “Luigi” - or Josephine’s rakish brother Franz are deftly plotted alongside cameos for familiar names such as Franz Schubert or the violinist Ignaz Schuppanzigh, who premiered many of Beethoven’s quartets. The story unfolds through the eyes of Pepi’s sister Therese Brunszvik, who in old age writes letters to her niece. As Duchen's chosen response to Beethoven’s searing original, this device shapes the reader’s experience considerably. A thoughtful, rational person and a talented musician, Therese is dedicated to girls’ education; she seems particularly animated by her encounters with the pioneer of pedagogy Johann Pestalozzi. We gradually realise that Therese is the cautious Sense to Pepi’s impetuous Sensibility, and this has a strong influence on what we are permitted to glimpse in the novel. Each chapter quickly comes to life as events overspill the letter form, but the distancing effect of Therese’s personality remains. The overall impression is one of calm detachment, and despite the subject the narrator’s tone never reflects what Edward Said called the “intransigence, difficulty and unresolved contradiction” of Beethoven’s late music. Indeed, Therese admits during the narrative that she has personally known little of love, sexual longing and suppressed desire. Her emotional life has been shaped by the suffocating restrictions Viennese patriarchal society placed on women, here described in painful detail. Some of the most successful passages in the novel are descriptions of music, as Duchen draws on her considerable expertise in this field as author of excellent biographies of Fauré and Korngold. Therese’s precise, unadorned style proves itself well suited to a convincing paraphrase of Beethoven’s music. The second section from the Allegretto of Symphony no. 7: “A clarinet melody like a hymn, singing perhaps of idealism and hope; other voices shadow it while the rhythm treads on beneath. An interruption, a blockage; what next?…The strings bicker, while the woodwind keep a trajectory of beauty and eloquence.” The use of metaphor and vivid description here belong to the powerful tradition of emotionally-sensitive musical commentary exemplified by Donald Francis Tovey. In the afterword, Duchen set out her aims in writing this book. She sought to bring the Immortal Beloved to life for the general reader, and to tell the story principally through the eyes of its female characters. While the second of these aims inevitably limits the text’s ability to depict its most significant figure, on her own terms she has succeeded admirably. The result is an engaging novel which will appeal to readers with an interest in Beethoven or more generally in historical romance. Duchen’s rare ability to evoke the spirit of music in words will also encourage readers to listen to the works described when reading. In fact the text sometimes seems to expect this, and indeed exposure to the intensity of Beethoven’s compositions may be what is required to offset the calmness of the narrative voice. In the end, Beethoven’s music is the most direct channel to the anguish and joy he experienced with his Immortal Beloved. Review: 'For the Love of Music - A Conductor’s Guide to the Art of Listening' by John Mauceri2/1/2021 Mark Austin Conductor Sir Roger Norrington has described how for him music is not a matter of life and death; instead it’s the most wonderful game. His miraculous escape from a rare cancer may have something to do with this. He is a master of his sport whose performances exude a wonderful sense of fun and experimentation. Another elder statesman of conducting, John Mauceri, takes a very different view in his compelling new book. For the Love of Music is the product of a lifetime immersed in performing, teaching and writing. Mauceri expresses a deeply held view that music offers the possibility of spiritual and philosophical reflection on the human condition. This does not mean his writing is intimidating. It would be hard to imagine a more accessible and enjoyable book about music. Mauceri offers brilliant insights and listening advice on every page, writing in an enjoyably unpretentious style. A former pupil of Bernstein (whose presence haunts this book), he subscribes to the latter’s idea that classical music is defined by the “inevitability” of every note, and it is a tribute to his skill as a writer that we feel similarly about the way the text unfolds. The knowledge required of a listener is refreshingly modest. “Do you need to be able to take apart and rebuild your toaster in order to enjoy the toast it makes?” No, of course not. (We can still imagine Mauceri taking out a screwdriver to satisfy his own incurable fascination with what makes things tick.) Music can be experienced and felt on many different levels. It is good to be reminded how astonishing it is that Ravel’s Daphnis et Chloé can depict a sunrise in music. “This is not something you should take for granted. It is miraculous.” There is much here both for the experienced listener and the novice alike. Even detractors of Strauss’s Der Rosenkavalier will admire Mauceri’s take on its “porno-acoustic” opening. On the importance of structure, Mauceri straddles the distance between composer and listener with ease. Drawing on a wealth of metaphors, he discusses the differences between architecture and emotional narrative in music while pointing out that structures are necessary to create music in the first place. The discussion of opera overtures as an illustration of how music relates to memory is dazzling. Mauceri’s open-mindedness as a conductor distinguishes this book from other similar volumes. Eschewing Barenboim-like mysticism, Mauceri offers honest insights into what it is like to conduct the famously ambiguous finale of Shostakovich’s Symphony no. 5, poised between apparent triumph and ironic despair. Likewise, his retracing of the thoughts and practicalities behind concert programming will interest anyone who has ever wondered about this process. The author leaves himself vulnerable to criticism with his relatively dogmatic statements about the classical canon, although he insists he follows public opinion. His belief that classical music consists of great works composed between 1700 and 1940 is clearly open to challenge. Given Mauceri’s belief in classical music as a profound social and cultural mirror, the determination to avoid a more fluid sense of canon seems misplaced. What has happened to the conductor as champion of the unfamiliar? He has little to say about the institutions and structures which have cemented the canon as it now stands. The relatively late adoption of Mahler into the musical pantheon is seen as an anomaly rather than an interesting model for future development. All of this sits awkwardly in the context of his description of music as a living, breathing art form. Perhaps it is not at the end of a lifetime that one should be expected to point the way for the future. This book is a magnificent tribute to the spirit of a certain age still incarnate in a small number of elder maestri such as Muti, Haitink, Mehta and Mauceri. Their unshakeable belief in the importance and vitality of classical music is perhaps so strong that it cannot really grasp the very real possibility of diminishment. The next generations must take up the baton. |