Weekly Listening: La Mer by Claude Debussy

Hopefully everyone knows this piece. The epitome of symbolist composition, La Mer is one of my favorite works of the early 20th century.

There are zillions of recordings of this piece, but I am a fan of the Ulster Orchestra's performance, which you can hear here, here, and here.

A Brief Overview of Debussy

Claude Debussy's influence is far-reaching whether contemporary composer's realize it or not. His music utilizes non-traditional tonalities (at the time, that meant using the whole tone and octatonic scales, among other modal devices.

Debussy received the majority of his musical training at the Paris Conservatory, where he was enjoyed the company of Paul Dukas. This education lead him to win the Prix de Rome, and further education in the French Academy in Rome. In Rome, Debussy discovered his extreme distaste for Italian opera, found a lasting influence in Wagnerian opera, and decided to pursue a career as a composer and pianist after the precedent of Franz Liszt—all things not exactly appreciated in French academia and music at the time.

Success was in and out for Debussy: he received regular work and support, but ultimately remained unsatisfied with how his music was described and received. His departure from standard European mediums of expression in favor of tonalities from the east—most notably Indonesian gamelan—would set the stage for contextual functionality in this music, requiring a vastly different approach to listening that many are still unable—or unwilling—to embrace. Famously, Debussy has been referred to as an Impressionist, though he despised that label and more readily fit in with symbolism than anything else.

After undergoing a significant emotional strain by the events of World War I, Debussy's writing slowly stalled out. He died 1918 of colon cancer a few short months after the completion of Evenings Illuminated by the Heat of Coal.

A bit about the piece

Many would consider La Mer to be the first symbolist work ever written. It is a wondrous dipiction of superb orchestration coupled with a complete departure from Germanic harmonic hierarchy. While it would be cliche to describe the piece as watching waves crest on the beach, it really is a full embrace of "moment music" in its freshest state, and requires a listening approach void of functional expectation that is typically brought to a concert hall.

La Mer was not received will upon its premiere. While many came expecting to hear "the sea," several critics panned it as more likely a drizzling day. Nearly four years later, while Debussy was prepping the piece for a tour to the United Kingdom, the same critic for the same publication praised it as a ground-breaking work of grandeur.

It is a bit of a pity how little this work is programmed today—sure, it still graces the stage far more than most contemporary works, but given its monumental impact on composers for the next century, one would think this would be a staple not unlike the Beethoven symphonies. Upon listening, one can immediately hear the groundwork for most major movie soundtracks, as well as the reshaping of orchestration approaches that had been solidified in the Germanic school of composition for decades prior.

Definitely take a listen to this piece with fresh ears. Approach as a new work with no expectations, and it might open a new space deep inside.

Weekly Listening: Four Parables by Paul Schoenfield

This piece is so absurdly difficult to find in nearly all respect, and I have no idea why! There seems to one complete recording available commercially (it is on Naxos, if you have access to that library).

Here is a recording of the third movement from youtube.

A Brief Overview of Schoenfield

Paul Schoenfield is a pianist, composer, and mathematics scholar at the University of Michigan, which his primary position at the University being on the composition faculty. His music is heavily influenced by Klezmer and Vaudeville styles. In short, his music is great fun!

A great deal of his music focuses on a comedic, lounge jazz piano part—usually premiered by Schoenfield himself—which pulls on the composer's time as a pianist for Murray's Steakhouse (this connection only seems to be documented between Cafe Music and the steakhouse, but if you listen to enough of his music in close proximity, one can easily pick up the same melodic fragment across about ten of his pieces).

A bit about the piece

This is such a fun piece! When it first starts, it sounds like one of the most dreary, contemporary pieces ever, but suddenly explodes into one of the most ruckus presentation of a concerto I have ever come across. What is really, REALLY nice about this piece is that it is void of pretension. It just is a fun, wonderful piece!

A great deal of this piece shares a great deal in common with Cafe Music (written in 1987) and his Trio (1990), and encapsulates the entertainment found in both these pieces, but amplifies it by the forces of a full orchestra!

Similarly to 1B, the publisher—this time Schirmer—is sitting on the rights to this piece and seems quite reluctant to let anyone get their hands on it. The difference this time is that Schirmer WILL rent the piece out for performance, but the humorously aggravating thing is that you cannot get a perusal score. This means you need to rent the piece without seeing any part of it, which means it almost never gets performed!

It really is unfortunate that such a neat and fun piece is under such tight restrictions by the publisher, but maybe if more people are aware of it, then more people will get it performed? I sure hope so!

Weekly Listening: 1B by Edgar Meyer

What a wonderful introduction for the Appalachian Journey album! Something about this particular track stands out significantly to me, and I cannot quite put my finger on it.

Though you really should check out the entire album, this particular track can be heard here.

A Brief Overview of Meyer

Edgar Meyer knows what is going on in music, whether you have heard of him or not. He is a visiting professor at the Curtis Institute of Music, a recipient of the enigmatic MacArthur Award, as well as a Grammy. The virtuosity he has achieved on the bass is astounding, more so once you consider that the bass is rarely an instrument considered to have virtuosos on with which to begin.

Of course, he is one of those people who began studying music at a very young age (4!), and is not only an accomplished performer, but also an established composer, having a number of "unusual" concerti in his catalogue, include three double bass concerti, a violin concerto for Hilary Hahn, and two double concerti—one for bass and cello (Yo-yo Ma), the other for bass and violin (Joshua Bell)—and a smattering of chamber pieces.

Much like my Bernstein post, you can probably find more complete and accurate information going straight to the source.

A bit about the piece

The fun thing about this piece is that it features the bass in a very wide register, including a little riffing section with the cello. Its drive is quite appealing to those more inclined to a Adams-esque minimalism, yet the section breaks give it a really nice, defined structure with some complementing contrast to keep the piece interesting for those who need a bit more change throughout their listening. A giant plus is that it is for violin, cello, and bass, which is not exactly a common instrumentation, but definitely a group that could be pulled together.

What is completely obnoxious about this piece is that no one can purchase it to program it. Boosey & Hawkes owns Edgar Meyer's catalogue, and has not released this piece for sale (they have been sitting on it for well over a decade). So good luck trying to program this ever (if you happen to have an in and can sell me the sheet music for this piece, I want it!). The one benefit to this is that, since no one can buy it, no one can perform it, which means the one irrefutable definitive recording for the work is still only available on the Appalachian Journey album as played by Yo-yo Ma, Mark O'Connor, and Edgar Meyer.

None the less, definitely a fun piece to have in one's listening repertoire!

Weekly Listening: Concerto for Orchestra, "Jubilee Games" by Leonard Bernstein

I remember stumbling upon this piece during my undergrad and being quite surprised by what I heard. It really is not your typical Bernstein, and it is unclear if that is for better or for worse.

Give it a listen here, here, here, and here.

A Brief Overview of Bernstein

There is very that could be said here that is not already covered in far greater details with far greater accuracy somewhere else (like here). He is probably best known as the resident conductor of the New York Philharmonic for eleven years (1958 to 1969), and as a composer of such mainstream classics as West Side Story, Trouble in Tahiti, and On the Waterfront. He was a prolific educator, lecturer, and humanitarian, and unabashedly championed the next generation of musicians while uncovering and promoting the pieces that might otherwise have been lost (eg. Charles Ives' Symphony No. 2).

A bit about the piece

Jubilee Games is one of Bernstein's last pieces, written in 1986 for the 50th anniversary of the founding of the Israel Philharmonic, with a slight nod to Bartok's Concerto for Orchestra, also celebrating its 50th anniversary with the Boston Symphony Orchestra. It is a four movement work for large orchestra and choir.

Decidedly, the first two movements are very un-Bernstein. They definitely pull much more from his more academic compositions such as his symphonies; definitely drawing on something much more Stravinsky-esque than previous works. However, the third and fourth movements easily pull back to a more familiar sound easily linked to Bernstein's Jeremiah Symphony (the third movement definitely recalls the 2nd of the latter).

The work as a whole has a really nice arc to it, and the magical lines that make up the final movement are made that much more sweet by the organized chaos that precedes it. It makes me a little sad that this work is not programmed as often as it is deserving, but is that not the case with most music?

Weekly Listening: Roll 'Em by Alan Menken

Given my upbringing on musical theater, I figured it was time to do something on a show I recently had the pleasure to see on Broadway. The show is A Bronx Tale: The New Musical, and the particular tune from it that caught my attention was Roll 'Em, which you can listen to here.

A Brief Overview of Menken

Everyone from my generation is familiar with Alan Menken in some capacity, as he is the voice of Disney for much of our youth—The Little Mermaid in 1989 through Tangled (2010).

He was born and raised in New York City with a boogie woogie pianist  / dentist father and an actor mother. He studied at NYU, where he floated between disciplines before finally settling on Musicology. His direction as a composer became clear not long after that when he attended the BMI Lehman Engel Musical Theatre Workshop.

His breakthrough piece is considered to be God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater, which he cowrote with Howard Ashman after the Kurt Vonnegut novel. This team also cowrote one of my favorite musicals, Little Shop of Horrors, which won Menken his first of eight Oscars (after it was converted to a film).

A bit about the piece

Upon listening to it, Roll 'Em is a pretty standard contemporary musical piece. It has the bizarrely formulated rhythmic schemes that provide a rhyming structure far less typical to the lyrics in any of his Disney songs (admittedly, this show is not G-rated, and definitely geared towards a more mature audience). While watching the opening of the show, I was a little perturbed by the sudden appearance of a child actor, who plays a significant part in the first third of the story. My initial thought was this was going to be plane crash like Tommy (yeah, I said it!), but thankfully, the kid was held in reserve and was used more for his movement than his voice.

This particular song is the first time the... hero? Supporting hero? Quasi-anti-hero..? Sonny takes the main character into his club and teaches him how to throw craps, as well as the first time you ever hear him sing. Though I have not yet seen the original movie from the early 90s, I have seen a number of editorials that describe this particular scene in the original as pure genius. The musical scene did not disappoint.

What is missing from the audio track are two significant things that I would say are important to the appreciation of the song: the recording removes the majority of interjections between stanzas of the song, mostly where Sonny keeps throwing members of his crew into the bathroom because he believes them to be bad luck for the kid. What is maybe more important—and impossible to capture with audio—is the exceptional movement and choreography that permeates the entire scene. The staging is quite simple: the kid and Sonny are center stage and Sonny's crew surrounds them in a semicircle. Movement across the stage is minimal, but the stunningly synchronized movements of shoulders and arms, presumably recalling the act of throwing dice, filled the stage with a visual counterpoint that made the song explode into color and intrigue. Even more subtle yet, if you can cue into the chattering counterpoint enters as the climax of the song is approached, you can hopefully imaging a feast for the eyes and ears alike.

Even if it is a bit off of the radar, this is a show I would highly recommend you go see when it inevitably goes on tour in the next year or so. Its striking simplicity, executed with the highest level of artists is something we are missing from the theatrical arts, and this approach is refreshing.

Weekly Listening: Suite No. 1 in E flat by Gustav Holst

Raise your hand if you have never played this piece.

If you participated in a band program in the United States, you have likely played this piece at least once, if not multiple times. It is a huge staple of music education in the wind band world, and a true gem of artistry. It suffers a little bit by how jaded people can become by being in a band and by the swath of "eh" that is composed for that ensemble, but the brilliance inherent in the work when you cast the baggage aside is something at which to be marveled.

I, myself, have only performed this piece in concert three times, each time playing a different part, so I may have escaped the overindulgence of such a work. You can take a listen to it here to refresh your memory.

A Brief Overview of Holst

Gustav Holst (1874 – 1934) had kind of a miserable upbringing. His mother died shortly after the birth of her second child (Holst's little sister), and both were heavily neglected by his father, who seemed to favor the piano over his children. Holst suffered from poor eyesight, rampant asthma, and neuritis of the hands, all of which went unchecked in youth—his official bio states that "no one seemed to bother" with any of his health issues.

He studied at the Royal Conservatory of Music, where he was described as shy yet absorbed with people. Peculiar for the time, he was a vegetarian, and did not smoke or drink. Since vegetarianism was maybe less understood at that time, he likely never received a fully nourishing meal in school, and thus continued to lose sight while the neuritis in his hands only increased.

Some of his earliest influences as a composer were Wagner's Götterdämmerung (conducted by Mahler), and J.S. Bach's Mass in B Minor. He was a trombonist—apparently excessively virtuosic while still an active performer—before quitting and completely diving into composition, and was a lifelong friend of Ralph Vaughan Williams. He remained a fanatic of Sanskrit texts, such as the Vedas and Bhagavad-gita, which permeated his earlier operas and songs.

Most notably, Holst is remembered for composing the Planets, a colossal work for orchestra which embraces the astrological signs as related to all of our neighbors in the solar system except Pluto (the prominent Holst scholar, Colin Mathews, later wrote a Pluto movement, but it is not... quite fitting of the previous masterpieces). His legacy as a great teacher, a neurotic composer, and proficient intellect a prominent in much of his compositions, which still remain largely unknown even by his own countrymen.

A bit about the piece

This piece is about as tight as one can find for how early in the repertoire it comes. Written in 1909 and stemming from the British military band tradition, Suite No. 1 in E flat is a bit unusual in that it is not like a lot of more contemporary wind ensemble works where the piece was written as a collection of winds and percussion without strings, but also not falling into "that band sound" where the listener is assaulted by an army of saxophones and horns playing in unison. It is more like he conceived it as a chamber piece that just happened to have 18+ players in it (let me tell you, if you ever get a chance to program / hear / perform this work as a chamber piece with one player per part, it is like a brand new work!).

The entire piece comes from the chaconne melody from the first movement. Literally. The first movement itself is an architectural masterpiece consisting of a melodic presentation that is then embellished by variations and inventions of itself, working through a slow, orchestrated crescendo that culminates into one of the most magnificently textbook-scored Eb major chords ever to grace my ears (John Mackey actually lifted this chord, orchestration and all, and used it to end his piece Aurora Awakes).

The intermezzo is a spinout of the the first three notes from the chaconne, and the march is an inversion of those same notes. What is really refreshing about the work as a whole—or in part— is that the piece very clearly is not trying to be anything other than a work deliberately written for these instruments. The chaconne very much as that triangle shape in form, holding true to its passacaglia characteristics all the way to the end; the intermezzo is one of the most perfect encapsulations of the term; the march is one of the most clear-cut renditions of the form so codified by John Philip Sousa.

But what the whole point is for me is that this piece was written in 1909: it established these standards—these cliches, if you will—without falling victim to them. I find it curious that, with such a starting point (one could argue the "start of the wind band" all the way back to a Mozart Divertimento, though many give credit to Vaughan Williams' English Folk Song Suite as the "first" piece for band), how did all of that repertoire between then and the birth of the wind ensemble concept from Eastman get written? Almost like most composers just ignored Holst's orchestration prowess and defaulted to the shades of gray that jade our thought on what winds can, and should, actually sound like as a large ensemble.

Regardless, if you know this suite, dust it off and give it a new listen with fresh ears. If you do not know it, spend some time with it. It is a true masterpiece through and through.

Weekly Listening: Concerto for Soprano Saxophone and Wind Ensemble by John Mackey

It is an understatement when I say I adore this piece. It has so much in it that I rings with my beliefs in music, so I really wanted to make this one of the weekly listenings since it seems to be falling further and further away from the lime light it once had in the late 2000s.

Mackey is kind enough to provide a full recording of the piece along with a score on his website.

A Brief Overview of Mackey

If you have played in a wind ensemble or symphonic band—especially at the collegiate level—any time from about 2005 to the present day, you have likely performed or at least heard one of Mackey's works. He is insanely prolific in the wind band world, and rightfully so! He is one of those few who has figured out how to music for wind ensemble, which is in stark contrast to those who write "band music" (image your teacher saying this with a sneer and an implied level of sheer disdain for everything it represents).

John Mackey holds degrees from the Cleveland Institute of Music and Juilliard, and has such teachers in his pedigree as the late Donald Erb and John Corigliano. He has two ASCAP Morton Gould Young Composer Awards under his belt, some recognitions and support from the NEA and the American Music Center, as well as two ABA/Ostwald Awards (he is actually the youngest composer ever to win such an award). You can read his formal bio here.

His claim to fame is the Redline Tango, which seems to be permitting academia for his inventive use of an ostinato (several of my professors have mentioned it in a formal discussion setting at more than one institution), but has a number of gems in his catalogue, including an incredibly popular Harvest: Concerto for Trombone and Orchestra-without-strings, and Wine Dark SeaL Symphony for Band. From my personal experiences with him, he is a lovely and receptive human being who does not shy away from storytelling or offering an ear to an eager developing composer.

A bit about the piece

Mackey's Concerto for Soprano Saxophone and Wind Ensemble is his second of such pieces in his catalogue, proceeded by Drum Music: Concerto for Percussion and Wind Ensemble, and followed by Harvest and Antique Violences: Concerto for Trumpet. Since the trumpet concerto is getting most of the press now given its most recent creation, the soprano saxophone concerto has fallen by the wayside. It was heavily dwarfed by the trombone concerto as well, which still appears to have a great deal of steam left in it and, as expected, does not receive even remotely the same air time as many of his other straight wind ensemble works.

Admittedly, I have not kept up on Mackey's catalogue as much as I used to, but from what I can glean, my thought is that this piece is still his best work produced to date. My claim for this might be purely based on aesthetics, but given that I have written a paper or two concerning this piece's construction (maybe I should dust those off at some point...), I feel confident in that claim for now.

Here's why: this work embodies so much of what theorists have been arguing constitutes a great piece of music. It is so incredibly simple in how it is pieced together once you find the bricks and mortar that you realize that every note is essential and every gesture is rooted in three basic motivic elements structured within one of the most accessible forms available. Ultimately, Mackey relies on three motives: an additive rhythmic motive, something I call a slide motive, and then the melodic motive—arguably just an extension of the slide motive, which makes the piece that much cooler!

The beauty of this piece is that all of this comes at you in the Prelude, a 2-minute introduction to the piece that tells you everything the piece will consist of in no uncertain terms. The inner movements each draw from these motives with a little more focus, and then the Finale is literally a doubled up presentation of the Prelude, where everything that occurred in the first movement is presented twice in the last movement through the refined eyes of the inner movements. It really is genius, and the simplicity is astonishing! Who knows if Mackey would actually agree with any of this, but I would be curious if he had any input into this piece's construction since his website is mostly void of it.

On a personal note, I gained further love for this piece when I stumbled into a recording session of it while studying at Arizona State University, where I attended simply to meet him and ended up instead taking track notes and providing input to Mackey directly between takes. This recording is the one present on his website ☺️

Weekly Listening: Symphony No. 1 by Bohuslav Martinů

Not being much of a performer, Martinů was one of those composers that I just flat-out missed during my undergraduate studies. Several of his earlier chamber works would appear on some of my friends' recitals, but they never really registered as anything special and were often accompanied by complaints of the performers about how hard they were and how low the payoff ended up being.

This all changed in my masters when I was introduced to his orchestra music—namely his symphonies and concerti (it is ALL about his orchestral works!). Of these works, he often gets a lot of attention for his first piano concerto and his sixth symphony, albeit way after slogging through the importance of his chamber pieces. One of my more favorite pieces in this part of his output is actually his first symphony, which you can listen to here.

A Brief Overview of Martinu

Bohuslav Martinu was one of those composers who embraced a pretty typical trajectory of many early 20th Century composers. He was famously born at the top of a church tower in then-Czechoslovakia, and has stated that his residence in said tower drastically influenced his objectivity towards his own music. At the age of 16, he departed to Prague to study violin, and promptly earned expulsion. He "deputized with the Czech Philharmonic before playing three seasons as a full member," and then departed to Paris in 1923.

As was the case at the time, Martinu's existence was steeped in the influence of Igor Stravinsky, French Impressionism, and American Jazz idioms. He admittedly embraced the influence of the Russian prodigy, observing a severe change in Stravinsky's output from piece to piece due to inventive and unabashed experimentalism. Many of his pieces from this time reflect the culmination of these influences and include some of his most-performed works.

Upon the occupation of France by the Nazis in 1940, Martinu fled to the United States, where he received a sudden and warm embrace by many of the major musical forces on the East Coast, most prominently from Serge Koussevitzky and the Boston Symphony. It was in this period of his output that he began producing much larger works, including a symphony a year nearly every year in the early 40s, and some truly remarkable works like his Concerto for Two Pianos. Some typical elements found in his music during this time included musical chattering, focus on the construction of phrase over meter—typically resulting in atypical patterns within a written meter, strong references to Czech folksong, and more minor aspects such as the near-exclusive use of minor modes for pitch, and the heavy use of orchestral piano.

Boosey and Hawkes' Patrick Lambert makes the claim that Martinu's music was a pre-cursor to aleatory—I find them hard pressed to credibly back this up—but there is speculation that his compositions, if examined more readily and significantly in academia, might yield great insight into the trajectory of American music given his status as a composer and pedagogue for the better part of a decade.

A bit about the piece

This piece reminds me that there was a whole of cool stuff going on in the 40s and 50s that just get ignored by academics across the world. First off, this work basically hits you in the face to start with some masterfully orchestrated ascending strands that snap into a full-on presentation of a Czech lullaby. Its charm is in the delicate and deliberate colors that support a lesser-common metric presentation of a melody (I say lesser-common in the sense that the piece really is just in a constant compound meter in which the melodic contours do not readily fit).

His harmonic palette is pretty tame for the time, except for a wonderful flavor of blue notes that permeates the textures of the second movement and characterizes the melody of the third movement. By today's standards, it is not anything terribly different or new, but at the time standard harmonic convention was unconventional as it were (think of what was going on in the output of other compositional giants such as Bartok, Stravinsky, and Schoenberg). Later symphonies—most notably his sixth symphony—relied heavily on pitch saturation, depicting clearly Martinu's interest in planing 4th and 7ths instead of 3rds and 6ths as a way to create a larger sound with a more-complete harmonic resonance than was typical in more Germanic styles of composition.

What I find his works following this one is the apparent direct link to Martinu's famous falling accident. As described on many a website, Martinu took a "near-fatal fall off of an unprotected terrace." This accident resulted in "complete deafness in one ear for the remainder of his life.". More interesting, though, is that his letters indicate that he was not deaf, but was plagued by an incessant buzzing in one ear, a characteristic that apparently not only significantly influenced his output from that point on, but was audible pre-fall and only became louder post-fall, as was confirmed by several of his students over the years. It reminds me so much of Percy Grainger's piece, The Immovable Do, except that it was for EVERY piece after that moment, and not just the one piece written on that one instrument.

My thought is that the significance of most of Martinu's works written during and after World War II remain to be discovered, but for those interested in exploring a very different facet of a composer typically boiled down to a handful of early chamber works, this is the gateway to something extraordinary!

Weekly Listening: Telaio: Desdemona by Susan Botti

A piece that a friend brought to me several years ago was Telaio: Desdemona by Susan Botti. It features a string quartet, harp, piano, percussion, and soprano, and is a psychological trip through the character of Desdemona from Shakespeare's Othello. This piece ultimately launched the Colorado New Music Ensemble.

Since the piece is relatively new and the only regular performer of it is the composer, there does not seem to be a full recording or performance of it anywhere online. Thus, I highly recommend checking out Botti's album, Listen, It's Snowing, to get the full effect of the work.

A Brief Overview of Botti

One of these days I'll do a weekly listening for someone who might benefit from some of the attention (if anyone actually would), but Ms. Botti gets a similar statement that I have made about many of my previous picks: she does not need the help.

Her career is expansive to say the least, with such credentials as the Rome Prize, a Guggenheim Fellowship, support from the National Endowment for the Arts, and on and on. She was formerly on the faculty at the University of Michigan, and currently holds faculty positions with the Manhattan School of Music and Vassar College. Her music has been performed by the Cleveland Orchestra, New York Philharmonic, and many other top organizations.

In addition to all of this, she is also an active performer of not only her own works, but also works of her contemporaries, including George Crumb, John Cage, Harry Parch, and James Matheson. On top of all of this, she is also a wonderful and responsive human being with whom to correspond, offering great insight into her own works and the performance therein willingly and without question.

A bit about the piece

As Botti describes, the piece is a character sketch of sorts on the character of Desdemona organized in an alternating recitative and aria structure. Each recit is a setting of from Shakespeare's prose about Desdemona, while the arias consist of settings of Italian folksong or the poet Gaspara Stampa. It is a compelling and vivid depiction of the tragedy that befalls the leading lady.

The curious—and quite ingenious—aspect of this work is that the Shakespeare text is taken from OTHER characters in Othello, and never provides direct insight into Desdemona's self. Furthermore, when she is singing directly, she uses words other than her own (Stampa and folksongs). By developing her character through the eyes of others, this emphasizes how incredibly out of her control Desdemona's fate really is.

Be it staged or not, this chamber work is vivid and enthralling, providing a full evening of sorrow and depression fitting of even Shakespeare's great tragedy.

Weekly Listening: Musica Boema by Zdeněk Lukáš

There are not a huge amount of specific pieces I can point to as direct and significant influences on my own compositional voice. The exception is Music Boema, which I had the great pleasure of playing my sophomore year of undergraduate, and hearing again in tandem with the performance of my master's thesis, Supernal Dragonfly, by the same ensemble many years later. 

I have found it VERY difficult to find a recording of this piece that I legitimately like, since I feel I was spoiled by the nuance of Robert Ponto's interpretations, but some of the better sounding ones are Rutgers Wind Ensemble playing both movements here and here.

A Brief Overview of Lukáš

Lukáš was immensely prolific, creating a catalogue of music well over 300 works. He prominently served as a choir director to Česká píseň, as well as the program director for the National Broadcasting Company. As such, he is most known for his works in radio theatre and choir, though he is by no means lacking in other areas of compositional output.

He is kind of an anomaly in the grand scheme of a composer in that he was not financially privileged, he went to school almost exclusively to become an educator. From what I can tell, it was purely by his sheer incessant writing and output that he developed such a unique compositional voice while still retaining a bizarre level of universal accessibility.

He wrote music up until the end of his life in 2007.

A bit about the piece

I have found that one of the best speakers on this piece is my former professor and always teacher, Robert Ponto.  Here, I present his program notes for this work, which so eloquently illustrates the work:

“Musica Boema (Bohemian Music) was commissioned in 1977 and premiered in 1979 by the University of Wisconsin – Milwaukee Wind Ensemble under the direction of Stanley DeRusha. Because of the hostile relationship between the United States and the Warsaw Pact of nations during those years, the music had to be smuggled out of [then]-Czechoslovakia for its scheduled premiere.

To my knowledge, the composer never offered program notes or source materials for Musica Boema. Consequently, I do not know whether the composition is derived from folk music, original themes, or a combination of both. The work, consisting of two movements, is highly sectionalized. Formally, it is almost cinematic in nature—perhaps a reflection of [Lukáš’] work in radio theater.

As a descendent of Central Europeans myself, I have long been fascinated by the sociological and artistic consequences of living in a part of the world that has served as a battleground for much of Europe’s history. Bearing in mind this notion, here is my wholly personal narrative of this music:

The first movement begins with alternations of trumpet calls and solemn processions, each growing in numbers and intensity with each repetition. Spurred on by ‘war drums’ (five tom-toms), these give way to other resolute hymns and dances, each one more restive and belligerent.

The opening trumpet calls soon return—and fade—as we are drawn in to an entirely different scene: a flute transports us to a dreamlike space suggesting, perhaps, reminiscenes of other times and places. Harp, bells, and xylophone create a guileless, almost childlike, atmosphere. This trio, along with droning clarinets, are soon joined by an optimistic quartet of saxophones. As is the case with all good Central Europeans however, the cheerfulness must soon end as more militant voices—first heard at the beginning of the movement—return and demand obeisance.

If the first movement is a call to arms, the second is the battle proper. From the very beginning, martial fanfares grow and spread throughout the ensemble. During these, we hear brief vignettes, as though we briefly glimpse remote events concurrent with the battle in progress: war songs; poignant farewells to loved ones; and the like.

A solo clarinet then calls for quiet, perhaps out of respect for a fallen soldier’s funeral cortège. Outbursts of grief and anger can be heard as the procession passes. Eventually, after oration by the bassoons, the military music resumes.

The battles and piece soon end—victoriously we presume—as the opening trumpet call from the first movement is heard once more, but this time in a major key. The music is strong, optimistic, and indomitable.”

–Robert Ponto

Weekly Listening: Le Destin by Nikolai Tcherepnin

A more—in my opinion—off the beaten path piece by possibly an off the beaten path composer, this work is just kind of interested all around. This week, I have 'Le Destin,' Three Symphonic Fragments on a Ballad by Edgar Allan Poe, op. 59 by Nikolai Tcherepnin.

You can check out this piece in three movements here.

A Brief Overview of Tcherepnin

Tcherepnin is actually three people if one is not specific about their nouns: Nikolai Tcherepnin (1873 – 1945), Alexander Tcherepnin (1899 – 1977), and Ivan Tcherepnin (1943 – 1998). Obviously, I am looking at the eldest of the group.

Admittedly, I do not know a whole lot about this guy, but that is simply because I learned about him a few weeks ago while forcing my way through the Grawemeyer Award recipient playlist, which is grandson, Ivan, won in 1996. Nikolai had some significant contributions to western music over the years, including conducting and having his ballet, Le Pavillon d'Armide, performed in the inaugural season of Ballets Russes, taught at the St. Petersburg Conservatory where he got on the bad side of Alexander Glazunov for interest in modernistic experimentation, and had many works dedicated to him, including Prokofiev's first piano concerto. According to his bio from the Tcherepnin Society, his success as a composer was greatly overshadowed by Igor Stravinsky, who had come into the fold of Ballets Russes a few years later.

Like many across the world, WWI and WW2 obliterated much of a national support for Tcherepnin's music. He did follow into the company of Serge Koussevitzky at the Boston Symphony, and his completion of the Mussorgsky opera, Sorochinsky Fair, was added to the repertoire of the Metropolitan Opera, but he was never quite able to get back to his pre-Stravinsky success and seemed mostly doomed to fade into obscurity.

His music in general is remarkably French—not Russian—another aspect that seems to have played as a disadvantage. While many of his works are quite compelling, masterful compositions by themselves, it seems that his uprooted national identity, "confused" compositional voice, and duel career as a composer and conductor seemed to dilute his notoriety in the contemporary world. His catalogue on a whole is pretty neat, and quite refreshing in contrast to the limited examples of early 20th century Russian Primitivism or French Impressionism that academia is able to provide.

A bit about the piece

'Le Destin,' Three Symphonic Fragments on a Ballad by Edgar Allan Poe is based on Poe's writing, The Mask of the Red Death. As the title suggests, there are three fragments, each based on a different part of the story. The work was popularized by Serge Koussevitsky during his summer tours with the Boston Symphony Orchestra.

Though it seems to be a heavy criticism of his music, this piece is a mix of Russian and French aesthetics, drawing on the characteristics of primitivism and impressionism, veiled with a glimmering sheet of symbolism. While the titles provide the most explicit indication of a program, the exact story captured in the notes is more up to interpretation than I would have thought, which is a positive in my book!

While it seems unlikely this piece will be programmed by any ensemble in the near future (at least in this country), I highly recommend giving it a few listens to indulge in this refreshing mixture of textbook styles. It really is a wonder in form and orchestration from beginning to end and does not disappoint!

Weekly Listening: Serenatas by Kaija Saariaho

Another composer who just does not need any help, this week we are going to listen to some Saariaho. The piece in particular is one of her chamber works, written for cello, piano, and percussion, called Serenatas.

You can check out this piece here, here, here, here, and here.

A Brief Overview of Saariaho

One of the reasons why I say Kaija Saariaho does not need any help is because she is considered to be one of the most prolific composers ever to live. Her education includes the Sibelius Academy in Finland, Freiburg, the Darmstadt summer courses, and IRCAM.

She is most often lumped in with the spectralist composers, but I pick up a very clear difference between her music and that of others in the same category in that her music often has a modal anchor to it. This anchor definitely provides more orientation in what otherwise could be a cloud of sound, and focuses the piece with more perceivable intent and direction. One can hear these attributes in later works such as Notes on Light, as well as the Serenatas. Apparently, Saariaho attributes this to her vocal writing.

Her list of awards, teaching assignments, and commissions is extensive, and her catalogue of compositions is in the 400s of this publication.

A bit about the piece

Saariaho's program notes are pretty solid on this piece. Each movement is based on her attitude towards the material, and the impetus of the piece is emotion. What I greatly appreciate about the piece is that it is five single-servings of a splash of modal spectralism; something I would refer to as a "gateway piece." Each serenade is a miniature, and thus long enough to let you listen to something interesting while also being short enough to let you hear something new with very little waiting. They also are high in contrast, which is alway a plus for me!

On top of all of this, the movements can be reordered as decided by the performers, so the progress can be dictated on the context of the performance. It means the piece is versatile in that it can serve most purposes, can be broken up across a concert, or can be its own isolated event. Obviously, you can tell that I like this one, but hopefully you will like it as well!

Things you really should not say to a composer....

It is always astounding what people are willing to say to composers. And what makes stuff it worse is that these statements are usually made by encouraging individuals who are attempting to offer their support, or from another composer who really should know better, like a teacher or musical peer. After receiving some of these comments first hand, I think it might be time to actually compile this list that has unintentionally bruised so many of us in this shark tank of an industry. It mostly consists of the ones I hear regularly and, yes, they all have a similar flavor, but man are they obnoxious!

Also, if it were not already clear, please accept this sentence as a hyperbole alert!

11. Pieces will be considered only if they have a high quality live recording, and have never received a performance before.

Maybe a weird one to start this list on. Admittedly, no one has ever said this to me in person, but it is a common thing that is published for various call for scores, competitions, and new music festivals. My question in response is always "why would I put in all of the work to get such a recording without planning to perform it?" Usually, if a piece has not been performed, there is no live recording of it... usually....

10. I love new music! I'm a huge fan of Bartok.

Yes, sure, in the grand scheme of things, Bartok is relatively new, and the term "new music" is deceptively vague, but why is this something that people say? Maybe this is just an issue I have with semantics, but my preference is to use the term "contemporary music," which is defined by context. If you look at it from that perspective, Bartok was long dead before I was born, thus making him not contemporary—at least not to me. More humorously, though, is that the people who usually make this comment are performers usually in the ballpark of my age group, so Bartok is no contemporary of theirs, either.

Additionally, if you repurpose this term to apply to other nouns, it becomes more ridiculous:
"I love new computers! I'm a huge fan of the Apple II!"
"I love new movies! I'm a huge fan of Casablanca!"
"I love new books! I'm a huge fan of Dante Alighieri's Divine Comedy!"
"I love new architecture! I'm a huge fan of the Pyramids of Giza!"

Yep....

9. We decide on who to commission based on who other people commission.

I have heard this one about three times total in my life, so my guess is that it is not as common as most on this list. It does make sense in some capacity because it reduces risk for the commissioning body by considering composers who have a longer track record of successful commissions with professional contacts over people who only write for their friends. But at the same time, it is very much the retail paradox in that you need the experience to get the job, but you need the job to get the experience and thus are left with neither. This really should be a tertiary consideration, with the primary focus being on the quality of the music and the interactions with the composer.

8. What festival or program are you going to this summer?

Oh man! With my millions of dollars and ability to take off work for months at a time without significant consequences, which one am I NOT going to!? The comment that often comes after this is, "well, if you get the program paid for, then what's the problem?" For one, you are competing with hundreds of other composers for that funding. It is great if you can get a festival or program completely funded, but more often than not, money for travel and maintaining your existence while attending is not covered. And it still does not address the fact that you need to figure out how to pay rent while you are away, let alone continue to pay rent upon your return after not working for a chunk of the summer.

7. I don't know what I'm supposed to be listening to!

Admittedly, I have greater issue with this comment than most, but I still want to address it. A skilled composer has control over what is heard over all else in their music at any given point in time. Typically, lack of clear focus is a sign of a younger composer struggling with the balance of clarity versus their excessive amount of ideas. Where this comment gets me is when it implies that the other happenings in the music are not important. The response to this comment is "listen to all of it! It is ALL important!" Yes, if there is something in the music that is otherwise ignorable and not missed upon its removal, one does not need to listen to it, but if it is something intrinsically woven into the experience that is the piece, maybe try to listen to everything as a whole rather than just one part of it.

6. Your music would be more successful if you wrote what people want to listen to.

Yes, it would be. The implications of monetary income and fame as the only forms of success aside, if we all knew what would make our music more successful and could execute it, do you not think we would already be doing that? More often than not, we write what we want to listen to and hope that others can extrapolate that taste to something they want to experience.

5. This piece is so successful. Why isn't the rest of your output like this?

Gee, I have no clue.... A friend of mine actually had this comment made to him by a faculty member, prompting a response that went something like this: "Yeah, I usually strive for mediocrity but I guess I was way off the mark for this one." We always want to write our best piece, which is totally not possible all of the time. Additionally, you may have just told someone to write more music like a piece of theirs they do not particularly like.....

4. I encourage you to work with this person.

This one is maddening, and something I ran into often during my doctoral studies. If someone is a stellar performer and will undoubtedly be a huge boon for your career in some capacity, of course we should work with them! But what if that person does not want to work with us? What if they do not like our music, are not interested in pursuing the same goals we have, or require something prohibitive to enter into the relationship (eg. absurd payment, unbalanced workloads, or other unreasonable requirements not readily within your means)?

Again, this comment is usually made to identify who could be a beneficial collaborator and offer encouragement, but more often than not we already know or have otherwise attempted without success.

3. You should have continued your performance study.

This is a tricky one, because studying performance with an instrument is a HUGE learning tool for composition, allowing someone to gain insights into music that might otherwise be missed. The issue I take with this comment is that it sounds like you are being told not to give up your day job. Conversely, you may put your composition at risk by sacrificing the time you put into it by splitting it with an instrument. In actuality, a lot of composers should NOT be performing, since so many of us are awkward as all get out, lacking the charisma that allows for success.

What I have come across more times than not is that, while the composer/performer package can be immensely successful, they often do one of a few things: they only write for themselves (this is fine; Steve Reich did this for most of his active performing career), they only write music for their instrument (composer/pianists and composer/choral singers are especially guilty of this), or all of their music sounds like it was written for their instrument and then transcribed (again, composer/pianists are particularly guilty of this). All three of these are fine except for the inherent result of eliminating diversity in your musical portfolio.

By no means am I encouraging people to stop performing, but it is a bit annoying to get this comment when many of us actively opted to stop performing to focus more on our writing.

2. I wanted to do this, so I did.

Another unintentionally obnoxious comment I hear visiting composers say regularly is something like this, "Well, I really wanted to study with Luciano Berio, so I did." It negates circumstance and privilege, and implies that anyone can do the same things they did when they were of similar age. Even if one is on equal footing demographically, financially, and capability as the commenter, what often happens is that they forget that they hold degrees from Oberlin and Yale, and that they are presenting at University of Southern North Dakota at Hoople, which is a significant difference in available opportunities, and will drastically impact the evaluation of one's work for most of their career. Comments like this are one of my least favorite, and provides a nice segue to one of the worst...

1. Why don't you just [XYZ]?

This one gets me more than anything I have heard over the years, and the biggest culprits are music professors or visiting artists already established in their field. It implies ease of accomplishment, and unintentionally puts down the recipient of the comment since it is likely that they have not yet had this achievement, or has not been successful in their attempts.

Examples of this include (not void of hyperbole, but still very true examples):
"Why don't you just go study with John Adams?" Yes, I would love to study with the most prolific American composer ever, but I have not quite gotten around to it.
"Why don't you go to Aspen this summer?" Yes, I would love to spend my summer in one of the most competitive, unique, and hive mind-y musical atmospheres on the continent, but I would rather hang out at home and eat ramen.
"Why don't you send your music to the Kronos Quartet for them to play?" Admittedly, the Kronos Quartet DOES review everything that is submitted to them, though it is unlikely you would get an answer from them unless they happen to want to program your work. HOWEVER, it is not like the most successful chamber music enterprise in the world is completely off the radar and unknown to young composers....

What makes this comment particularly egregious is that it is typically made with the best intensions, attempting to encourage the pursuit of a lofty goal or desire that the commenter believes to be attainable. However, in the short term, it really just feels like a kick in the stomach while you are already down and struggling.

Weekly Listening: Gates of Gold by Joseph Curiale

How many people have ever heard of Joseph Curiale? Mostly no one as far as I can tell. He is very much an outsider as far the classical music world is considered, writing music that sits quiet nicely within the cinematic genre. Some people describe his music as new age, but it is much more in line with Japanese-influenced movie score than anything.

You can check out his piece Gates of Gold here.

A Brief Overview of Curiale

Truth be told, I do not know much about Joseph Curiale. He does not seem to have a website of any type, his web presence in general is quite limited, and his musical output seems to have dropped off significantly since about 2005 or so. His biographical information is also surprisingly limited on Wikipedia, though it is indirectly supplemented by his apparent faculty position at the LASALLE College of the Arts in the School of Contemporary Music. Curiale also has a profile of sorts on IMDB, but activity in that avenue of music seems to have stopped in 1997.

What I find most striking is his significant humanitarian shift in 2006 when he founded the Joseph Curiale Foundation to help impoverished women and orphaned children in India caused by the mass suicides of Indian farmers. It is around that time where I begin having a hard time finding more current output from him—or any output, for that matter—but given the nature of his foundation, I would say he might be a little busy.

A bit about the piece

Gates of Gold is a dorky, lovable piece. It is so Hollywood that you cannot help but laugh. But its saving grace is twofold: the refreshing Japanese influence that permeates the entire piece, and the masterful orchestration. The first movement comes across almost as an orchestration exercise, exhibiting what Samuel Adler would describe as foreground, middle ground, and background in textbook accuracy.

The second movement is pleasant, and has some gorgeous colors throughout it, but it really is all about the third movement, Call of the Mountain. It is an amalgamation of the previous two movements, marrying the cinematic orchestra, flowing melodic lines, and subtle minimalism into what really is a formally interesting, compositionally enjoyable aural experience.

Weekly Listening: Piano Trio by Jennifer Higdon

When I was an undergrad at the University of Oregon, Higdon came in with a residency with the Eugene Symphony. She was invited to present for a class I was taking as a freshman and it struck me—albeit nearly a decade later—that she did not present on the work the symphony was playing; her Concerto for Orchestra which put her on the map as a new force in the orchestral world, but rather opted to present the second movement of this work. At the time, I hated it and have no idea why. However, while in my doctorate and searching for works to perform with the Colorado New Music Ensemble, I came back to this piece and fell in love. It is charming, genius in its simplicity, and about as Higdon as you can imagine.

Note that this piece is very much still in copyright, but there are a few recordings floating around youtube such as this one of Pale Yellow, and this one of Fiery Red.

A Brief Overview of Higdon

Hailing from Brooklyn, NY, Higdon is one of the most performed contemporary American composers in the United States. She holds a degree in flute performance from Bowling Green State University, an MA and PhD from the University of Pennsylvania, and an Artist Diploma from the Curtis Institute. Her breakout piece is the stunning work Concerto for Orchestra (2002), which has lead to a number of other orchestral commissions across the country, including her Pulizer Prize winning Violin Concerto and her Grammy Award winning Percussion Concerto.

Despite all of that, it is VERY important to note that Higdon's musical growth was forged in her chamber music output and that she spent a great deal of her pre-concerto days sustaining herself on chamber work commissions. As a result—and in my humble opinion—Higdon's best, most inspired, and ingenious output is found in her chamber catalogue; something I am reminded of each time I dig deeper into that part of her repertoire and find myself maybe slightly tarnished by her larger orchestral works. Though I do love her Concerto for Orchestra, the inner three movements of which are particularly tasty, and the first movement of her Violin Concerto is a much needed reimagination on the standard sonata form concerto (admittedly, I liked the third movement of the piece until I realized that John Adams wrote it first, and better), her chamber works show a level of honesty and craft that cannot be hidden by the force of instruments, preventing her from the use of this weird planing pitch saturation thing that she does every time she has a huge tutti moment in one of her orchestral works.

A bit about the piece

Given the titles Pale Yellow and Fiery Red, I bet you can guess what the piece is about. Higdon herself asks the question, "can colors actually convey mood?" And while colors do have psychological links to emotions, both falsely perceived and scientifically legitimized, the fact that she modifies Yellow and Red with Pale and Fiery, respectively, she is already placing a filter of personality to use as a starting point. While the program notes give pretty standard composer fluff, I pick up a great deal of bare bones in this piece: the first movement is rife with directionless counterpoint, wrapped in a beautifully modal harmonic palette that seamlessly marries the length of the strings with the decaying ping of the piano. The second movement is a testament to her ability to make the instruments sound identical to create an undulating and exciting fabric of quick conversations. You really can see the budding seeds of a piece like Zaka buried in this trio, as well as her more elegant writing in the second movement of her Violin Concerto. 

Weekly Listening: Lagrime Mie by Barbara Strozzi (1619 – 1677)

I remember first hearing this piece in my undergraduate music history courses. It was quickly glossed over by my professor as an example of Baroque aria, but when he played it, I jumped! My guess is that many people may have had a similar experience, so I want to provide the opportunity to revisit this one.

There are hundreds of recordings of this piece, but one of my particular favorites is this one.

A Brief Overview of Strozzi

Strozzi was an Italian singer and song writer in Venice. Her origins are unclear, though the prevailing thought is that she was the illegitimate daughter of the poet and librettist Giulio Strozzi. During her lifetime, she was considered to be the most prolific composer in Venice of secular vocal music, with the majority of her works being published during her lifetime.

Her output is unique in that it consisted almost entirely of secular song for soprano, though she has a set of sacred songs. It remains unclear if she specifically wrote for other voices or if they were later transcribed.

A bit about the piece

The title translates to "tears of mine" and a sort of asymmetrical madrigal with inconsistent syllable patterns that help distort any discernible rhyme scheme. What I really enjoy about this piece is that it is a real song. It has a freedom that lends itself to actual singing, and requires the singer to use their voice to move the piece along. More striking, though, is that the entire setting seems quite unpolished, like it has been out exposed to the elements rather than carefully manicured to fit in a nice little parlor box. It is not your typical song from the Baroque era, and for that it should be praised!

Weekly Listening: Azul for Cello, Obligato Group, and Orchestra by Osvaldo Golijov

This week's listening is brought to you by a gem of a composer and rockstar of the 21st century, Osvaldo Golijov. Golijov was THE composer for the better part of a decade coming into the 2000s, with an absolutely sensational new take on story of Jesus with his work La Pasión según San Marcos. His reign was peppered by additional works such as his opera Ainadamar, a major song set called Ayre, and a number of other chamber works and large orchestral works. The music is fierce, guttural, earthy, and—most importantly—real, with a highly collaborative energy that is more mediated by him as a composer rather than ruled. Sadly, his popularity declined significantly moving into the 2010s as he began to miss deadlines for his commissions and was stained by an incredibly controversial plagiarism accusation.

Azul is maybe less on the radar than some of his other works, but Golijov's version of a cello concerto, paired with his standard small orchestra and chamber group of minions, is worth a listener's ear for its 24-minute journey.

A brief overview of Golijov

Much of Golijov's story has not been written yet, as he is still very much alive and active as a composer and teacher. His background is often a topic of great interest as it is immensely diverse and has significantly informed his style: he was born in Argentina to a Jewish family of immigrants that had relocated from Romania. In 1983, his compositional studies took him to Israel, and then to the University of Pennsylvania in 1986 to study with George Crumb. He has been teaching at the College of the Holy Cross since 1991, and has held a number of significant positions in tandem, such as the Richard and Barbara Debs Composer's Chair at Carnegie Hall, as well as serving on the faculty at Tanglewood.

Likely due to his close collaboration relationships, I have always found his music to require a fair amount of guess work to put everything together, probably because the work done to produce his music does not always result in an updated score. However, all of the pieces I have been apart of by either producing or simply as an audience member, is ALWAYS worth the effort.

A bit about the piece

Despite not appearing in the score itself, there is a nice collection of notes available on Golijov's website concerning the piece. It is a work designed to undergo a spiritual journey and quest, and is heavily influenced by an excerpt from The Heights of Macchu Picchu by Pablo Neruda. As the composer openly states, though it is effectively a cello concerto, he draws more on baroque formal structures to even out the terrain between the soloist and ensemble.

Admittedly, this piece is WAY cooler live—as most acoustic music  is—but some of the things I am still amazed by is his use of color, especially with the strings. The opening alone is a simple descending bass (a passacaglia, if you will) peppered with glimmering harmonics in the upper strings. And at the end, you are bombarded with unceremonious seagull effects that provide a sense of lifting into the air. In addition to all of this, there is also the Golijov "WTF" moment, where I cannot help by suddenly feel like I missed part of the piece or think I am listening to something completely different (I have a similar experience when listening to Ayre between the second and third songs, and several of his other pieces that use the Kaddish and Gallop), as well as the ever-present use of the hyper accordion, always performed by Michael Ward-Bergman.

If you are new to Golijov, I think this can be a good piece to start with for his orchestral music, but I would definitely encourage you to explore his larger-scale orchestral works from earlier, as well as attempt to see them live since the music is only about half of the experience.

Weekly Listening: Aladdin Suite, op. 34 (FS89) by Carl Nielsen (1865 – 1931)

This week's listening is brought to by not-entirely-forgotten Danish composer Carl Nielsen. Though Nielsen is likely best-known for works such as his Wind Quintet, Clarinet and Flute Concerti, and, to a much lesser extent, his fourth symphony, I have found his Aladdin Suite to be one of his more imaginative works, containing the best of his compositional output in one condensed work. If you are not already familiar with the piece, give it a listen here.

A brief overview of Nielsen

Nielsen was no slouch. His compositional output consists of 419 works as compiled by the Royal Library of Denmark, including but not limited to six symphonies, three concerti, a huge number of songs and solo piano works, two operas, and a healthy collection of other orchestral works and chamber music. Originally trained as a violinist, Carl Nielsen served more as a conductor and performer than as a composer for the majority of his life.

His compositions have a fun energy to them—they are not as heady so much of the German Romantic music that is force-fed to us in academia, but has maybe a little more... intellect, for lack of a better term, than his Scandinavian counterparts Sibelius and Grieg. Aesthetically, he is very much a mid to late romantic, while his orchestration technique is more wildly creative and "unorthodox" to his contemporaries. His music was in much more demand in the theater than for the concert stage, implying a more operatic approach to his use of the orchestra.

Though his works were considered a success during his life time, he was not without criticism. Humorous by today's standards, he was hammered by critics for not ending movements of his symphonies in the same key which they had started (scandalous!). A comment that definitely stuck out to me when asking a colleague why Nielsen's orchestral works are not programmed more, he said without hesitation, "because it is so f***ing hard!"

Despite his notable absence from most of the American academic institution, Nielsen and his music is rightly preserved as national treasures in Denmark. There is a rather informative biography of Nielsen put out by the Carl Nielsen Society that I would encourage everyone to read who is searching for more information.

A bit about the piece

The Aladdin Suite is actually a set of excerpts from a much, MUCH larger work called Aladdin: Fairy Tale Drama in 5 Acts. The latter, completed in 1919, is his largest-scale work, and is only beaten by his operas in duration. Not unlike many of his contemporaries, the drama is heavily influenced by what Nielsen thought would evoke the Middle and Far East, and is packed with questionable movement titles such as Negro Dance, and Hindu Dance (a sign of the times, I know, and Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker has a similar issue yet remains the most performed piece of music ever).

The suite was actually published after Nielsens death and released in 1940, meaning that, while the fairy tale drama is public domain, the suite is not. The seven parts of the suite were actually slightly reordered from where they appeared in the drama—likely to create a more cohesive piece—and consist of the sections that Nielsen enjoyed conducting the most.

What I do find interesting about this suite is that it is one of those pieces where you listen to and then look a score and think, "well, that is unexpected simple, but how else would it be notated?" I liken it to Dvořák's music in that the music on the score looks... well... dumb, but the audial experience is quite compelling. A great example of this is The Marketplace in Ispahan, which consists of several loops of music that are played on top of each other and then subtracted. How is it notated? It is different sections of music with repeat bars around them with the instructions to cue them in as desired. Nothing remarkable but, again, how else WOULD it be notated?

I do not know if there is a recording of Nielsen himself conducting it—as stated above, he did die before it was published—but performances and recordings of this piece seem to vary widely. Tempo is all over the place, and even some major orchestral elements are modified, most notably the addition or subtraction of the choir. The good thing about that is that if you do not like the recording I posted above, you can likely find a different one that suits your needs better.