Martinů and Julietta

by Leon Botstein

Written for the concert The Key of Dreams, which was performed on March 22, 2019 at Carnegie Hall.

The career of Bohuslav Martinů mirrors the decisive and tragic character of the century in which he lived. Martinů was born in 1890 and came of age as a citizen of a multinational dynastic empire, only to find himself, in his twenties, a patriot of a newly minted national unit: Czechoslovakia. The triumphant nationalism of post-World War I Europe coexisted, however, with a profound sense of cultural discontinuity, a resistance to the claims of late nineteenth-century romanticism, and an internationalist sense of modernity. Martinů chose to become an expatriate artist in Paris, but the Prague-Paris axis vanished when he was forced into exile in America on account of fascism, the dismemberment of Czechoslovakia, and a second world war. He died in exile, caught in the Cold War in which his homeland had become a Soviet satellite. Martinů’s music registers the tensions, ambiguities, and ambivalences that inevitably surrounded the writing of original music by a composer caught in the crosscurrents created by the invention of a new nation, the technological transformation of sound reproduction, the carnage of World War II, the display of a uniquely modern barbarism in Europe, the nuclear age, and the psychic toll of involuntary, as well as self-imposed, exile.

In the young, flourishing, nationalist environment in which he grew up, Martinů demonstrated remarkable gifts and quickly was poised to inherit the mantle of a distinctive Czech nationalist tradition—understood in the terms of the late nineteenth century—in the musical culture bequeathed by Bedřich Smetana and Antonín Dvořák. The 1919 re-drawing of the map of Europe according to notions of self-determination may have created independent and relatively homogeneous political nation states, particularly when compared with the Austro-Hungarian Empire, but at the same time, a countercurrent of internationalist ideals in culture and politics emerged that redefined the cosmopolitan and re-imagined its aesthetic possibilities. For this reason, in the early 1920s, Martinů settled in Paris.

Paris between the two world wars became the center of transnational movements in dance, theater, painting, and music. Arthur Honegger, Francis Poulenc, Maurice Ravel, Igor Stravinsky, and Sergei Prokofiev dominated the scene. Whereas the much older Leoš Janáček drew strength and inspiration from the new Czechoslovak republic, Martinů gravitated toward an international style. Even so, although he settled in Paris and French became his second language, Martinů did not sever his ties to the nascent national entity, the Czechoslovakia of Tomáš Masaryk. Martinů in this way resembled his nearest Polish contemporary, Karol Szymanowski. They both balanced their experiences in cosmopolitan Paris with an increasingly romanticized but limited construct of the native homeland to which they felt allegiance. Consequently, even though Martinů experimented with a variety of widespread, fashionable, international approaches to composition, the Czech language and Bohemian materials were never entirely neglected. As the composition and performance history of Julietta suggest, a delicate balance was continually in play. This opera derived from a French novel that then was turned into a Czech libretto by the composer. It premiered in Prague, only to be retranslated back into French later on. But the subject transcends culture; it is not tied to any particular nativist traditions. What distinguished Martinů from Szymanowski, however, was his exceptional compositional facility and productivity. Of his near contemporaries, perhaps only Darius Milhaud was as prolific; but Martinů’s output was better crafted and more consistent than Milhaud’s, and more of it will remain in the repertory.

Martinů fled to America in 1941. Here he came to the attention of Aaron Copland, who brought him to Tanglewood. Though Martinů enjoyed the support of old friends, among them George Szell, Rudolf Firkusny, and Walter Susskind, America never seemed quite right. He never fit in; moody and reclusive, Martinů was not happy. To make matters worse, Communist Czecholsovakia was anathema. Martinů returned to Europe in the 1950s and spent the final years of his life in Switzerland.

Martinů is now increasingly known for his orchestral music, which includes six symphonies, but it is the field of opera that preoccupied him most. In this he resembled the ambitions of the older Czech role models and masters: Dvořák, Smetana, and Janáček. Julietta is widely regarded as the finest and most daring of Martinů’s sixteen operas. Its story line and libretto fit the period of its creation perhaps a bit too neatly, making quick comparisons to Franz Kafka and Sigmund Freud easy. But the score has also been the object of all too facile critical dismissal; it has been described as hard to like, episodic, too dependent on one character, attractive but not memorable. Indeed, Julietta has never been a true success, whether on the stage or in recording, despite several recent and highly praised revivals, including one in Berlin.

Given the evident and long-overdue Martinů revival now underway, particularly with regard to the instrumental and symphonic music, the operas demand a new look. And that suggests that Martinů’s most celebrated and most uniquely twentieth-century opera, in terms of subject and plot, merits a hearing in the United States. The faint praise and condescending rehearsal of the so-called shortcomings of Julietta demand rebuttal through performance. That places it squarely in the mission of the American Symphony Orchestra. There is ample reason to suspect that the time for Julietta has now come, and that it has languished too long. Julietta deserves a place in the repertory of our opera houses as one of the great twentieth-century operas. It is, in my view, an operatic masterpiece.

Julietta, or Symphonic Music is a Sometime Thing

by Jon Meadow and Michael Beckerman

Written for the concert The Key of Dreams, which was performed on March 22, 2019 at Carnegie Hall.

Born December 8, 1890, in Polička, Czechoslovakia
Died August 28, 1959, in Liestal, Switzerland
Composed in 1936–37
Premiered on March 16, 1938, in Prague, at the National Theatre, conducted by Václav Talich
Performance Time: Approximately 3 hours including intermission

Introductions and Possible Bright Futures

On March 16, 1938, inside the hallowed walls of Prague’s National Theatre, Czechoslovak composer Bohuslav Martinů’s three-act lyric opera Julietta (Snář) [Juliette, or the Key of Dreams] made its successful debut. Audience members immediately recognized the power, warmth, and economy of means of Julietta’s often “jazzy” and undulatory music. The premiere’s conductor, Václav Talich, judged Julietta to be one of Martinů’s “creative peaks.” Similarly, many years later, on his death bed, the composer showed his estimation of the work’s quality by retranslating the libretto back into French. Like Antonín Dvořák’s Rusalka (1901) or Leoš Janáček’s The Makopulos Case (1926), the opera maintains an iconic status in the Czech Republic, and the work’s reputation has resulted in several excellent, commercially available recordings, a growing body of related scholarship, and an international proliferation of new and innovative productions outside of Martinů’s homeland, such as the English National Opera staging in 2012 and Oper Frankfurt’s 2014 production.

Musical Recognitions

Julietta is the story of a Parisian bookseller’s (Michel) pursuit of an elusive girl (Julietta) in a seaside town. Given the libretto’s oceanside setting, games of chance, sailors, peddlers of “narcotics,” and the elusiveness of its namesake, it is not entirely unreasonable to think that a discussion of Julietta in light of some of its musical similarities to one of opera’s most provocative and notorious coastal works, George Gershwin’s Porgy and Bess (1935), might yield something of consequence.

First, Julietta’s raw musical materials occasionally evoke Porgy’s. It is uncertain whether, when he started composing Julietta in May of 1936, Martinů knew the music (and stories) of Gershwin’s opera about a disabled gambling beggar living in an African-American tenement house on the South Carolina coast. However, as the echoes of Rhapsody in Blue (1924) in Julietta’s shopkeeper scene (Act I, scene ii) and the ostinati, syncopations, and accents of the orchestral interlude from Julietta and Michel’s meeting in the woods (Act II, scene v) attest, the composer was certainly no stranger to Gershwin’s globetrotting Jazz Age musical style more broadly. Moreover, even though Martinů had suspended his use of Jazz Age musical commonplaces at the start of the 1930s, his familiarity with Gershwin-esque music is as palpable in stage-works from the previous decade—like 1927’s Kitchen Revue and 1929’s three-act French-language film-opera Three Wishes, or Inconstancy of Life—as it is in select portions of Julietta.

Second, the way that Martinů thought about how symphonic music should interact with actions and words in Julietta shares assumptions with how Gershwin approached Porgy’s symphonic music. Around the summer of 1936, Martinů was able to secure Prague’s grand, late 19th-century National Theatre for Julietta’s premiere. Perhaps the nature of the venue emboldened him to bring into play the elsewhere, or rather the “elsewhen,” of the previous century, from which he salvaged a vaguely (Richard) Wagnerian manner of thinking about symphonic music’s interaction with words and actions that he had jettisoned in the interwar period. In his influential essay The Artwork of the Future (1849), Wagner had summarized the basic ideas of this late 19th-century way of thinking when he claimed that music’s historical progression necessitated that abstract, or absolute, symphonic music, which Wagner figured as a “vast, shoreless ocean” between words and action, would find itself superseded by a symphonic music that resembles a “bridge between [words and action].” Prior to Julietta or Porgy, Martinů and Gershwin had preferred the genres that made Wagner’s manner of thinking obsolete in many interwar circles, because similar to Gershwin with his pre-Porgy Broadway revues and one-act, hokum-filled opera Blue Monday (1922), Martinů had demonstrated a fondness for the one-act opera genre and the revue format with their looser, less-stringent relations between symphonic music and the libretto’s actions and words. Cases in point are stage works like the aforementioned Kitchen Revue, the one-act radio opera The Voice of the Forest (1935), and the prizewinning collection of one-act, Czech-language, neo-medieval opera-ballets The Plays of Mary (Premiered in Brno in 1935). In these pre-Julietta stage works, the manner in which symphonic music reinforces the actions and words of Julietta and Porgy can hardly be found.

Musical Misrecognitions and the Question of Leitmotifs

Regardless of their coastal settings, their common fund of situations and vocational types, the occasional similarity and contemporaneity of their musical “raw” materials, and their composers’ comparable manners of thinking about symphonic music’s role in opera, Julietta and Porgy’s librettos are dissimilar: they treat memory and the laws of physics differently, and their plots locate reality in disparate places and times.

On the one hand, Porgy’s “realist” libretto has a plot with a beginning, middle, and end, and its characters are subject to the laws of physics. This is a realm where bodies expire, and people are unable to bend spoons with their minds. This is the domain of the daytime. Also, the libretto’s words and actions have consequences and accrue meaning across all three acts. Memory, whether of the law, the individual, the community, a song, or a leitmotif, is essential to Porgy and Bess.

On the other hand, Michel’s “surreal” pursuit of who (or what) possibly exists behind an adulterated memory of a song fragment begins in medias res and unfolds moment by moment. The sequences of its situations across acts is not additive; its words (while clearly sung) have different inter-act, intra-act, and even intra-scene meanings, and the consequences of its characters’ actions are either suspended in ambiguity or they are cartoon-like in their denial of the laws of physics. This is the domain of nighttime, where and when memory is elusive.

After accounting for these differences, it stands to reason that the action- and word-reinforcing symphonic musics of librettos that have such dissimilar conceptions of reality, memory, and physical necessity are going to unfold in grossly dissimilar ways across three long acts. Because Gershwin both settles on Porgy’s “realistic” libretto and reverts to a late 19th-century call for symphonic music to reinforce words and action, he is emboldened to weave a network of Wagnerian leitmotifs from and through memorable songs and choral ensembles, and this enables him to ensure that every musical decision of Porgy and Bess will reinforce the drive towards the opera’s end, which is also the beginning of Porgy’s quest for the elusive Bess. Even Jasbo Brown’s often-cut onstage piano blues from Porgy’s opening scene provides ambiance and assists in orienting the audience in Catfish Row’s here and now, which is logically connected to its before and later.

This kind of practice finds no resonance in Julietta’s symphonic music. Throughout Julietta, Martinů employs the orchestra to provide unconventional but skillfully crafted and concretely shaped local operatic forms. Occasionally Martinů repeats melodic figures and sonorities that are appropriately associated in some vague, non-conceptual way with the elusive Julietta, and from time to time Martinů will repeat each act’s prelude whole cloth.  However, because the words and the actions of the libretto do not drive toward some univocal, unanimous meaning across all three acts, the symphonic music—because it is acting in accordance with the manner of thinking that Martinů adopted for the grand occasion of Julietta’s National Theater premiere—has no need for the coalescence of leitmotifs across all three acts.

In the end, it will be up to the listener to discover whether, despite this unreality, or perhaps because of it, Julietta, far from disappearing into the morass of non-memory, actually takes on a corporeality of enormous power.  We may imagine, then, that the “miracle” of Julietta, thinking back to Martinů’s previous opera, The Plays of Mary, is that in Martinů’s capable hands, absence becomes presence, dreams become true, and the lack of recall creates indelible operatic memories.

Jon Meadow is a Ph.D. student in Historical Musicology at New York University. His work is focused on the roles of humor and comedy in Bohuslav Martinů’s Great Depression theatre reforms.

Michael Beckerman is the Carroll and Milton Petrie Professor of Music at New York University. He is the author of numerous articles and books about Czech music.

Composers, Teachers, and New York

by Leon Botstein

Written for the concert Sounds of the American Century, which was performed on January 25, 2019 at Carnegie Hall.

This concert is exemplary of the original and ongoing mission of the ASO. The four composers on the program are all American, and they represent a thirty-year period, from Pearl Harbor to the Vietnam War, that witnessed unprecedented growth in the concert and classical music world of this country. These composers enjoyed enormous recognition and success in their lifetimes.

With the passage of time, however, memories fade and tastes change. Major figures are remembered largely as names in history books, and perhaps then only with a passing mention or a footnote. Their music is now more widely recorded and low resolution postings of performances can be found on the internet. Such a legacy, however, becomes academic, literally and figuratively.

Live performances of the music of the once central figures who have passed into history become rare, and not because the music falls short. Books can be reissued and paintings from the past taken out of storage and sold, downloaded, and hung in public gallery spaces more easily than music, especially music written for large forces, can be put on the stage. And music must be heard live and with an audience to be realized.

Music in the classical field deals with its history as if it were a winner-take-all proposition. But this is wrong because it distorts history and we rarely get the chance to change our minds. This concert of music by Mann, Fine, Druckman, and Schuman could catch someone’s eye because of the name Schuman, only to realize that it is not Robert, nor spelled the same way. The remaining three are not well enough known to be recognized by the audience we should be reaching. The ASO fights against these trends. We are determined to advocate for the unfairly neglected from the past and to push against the winds of fashion.

All these composers overlapped with one another and knew one another. They were centered, for a great part of their careers, in New York City, although some, like Fine, migrated to New York. And all of them taught. They were profoundly influential. Vivian Fine was a legend at Bennington. She, like Schuman, was a tireless organizer and performer in New York. This concert is a journey to our own past, to a different time, with different cultural ambitions and conflicts, and a time of great excitement, energy, confidence, growth, and faith in future generations of musicians and listeners.

It is a particular honor to perform a work by the late Robert Mann, the legendary violinist, quartet leader, and teacher. He was a fine composer and a great advocate of the new music of his time. Dimitri Mitropoulos, the fabulous conductor and music director of the New York Philharmonic, and also a partisan of the new, was himself a composer. Earlier this month I had the privilege of conducting the first performance of a new edition of a Concerto Grosso by Mitropoulos in Athens. Mitropoulos recognized Mann’s gifts and premiered his Fantasy for Orchestra, which opens tonight’s concert. Years ago Mann mentioned the work to me, in passing and all too modestly. The ASO dedicates this performance to Robert Mann’s memory. I would like to think he would be pleased to see the work revived and performed again in Carnegie Hall.

William Schuman is the best-known composer on this program, and his Symphony No. 3 is the one work being performed tonight to approximate a repertory staple. This symphony is a contender for the status of one of the major American symphonies of the twentieth century. We hope that it is brought back regularly, and that more of Schuman’s music gets played. Schuman, like his contemporary Leonard Bernstein, was a man of many talents. He was, like Fine, a terrific organizer and institutional leader, somewhat in the mold of musicians who devoted their time and energy to creating and leading institutions designed to sustain music. He headed Juilliard and Lincoln Center. If Rimsky-Korsakov and Gabriel Fauré could manage it, why not William Schuman?

Jacob Druckman was a widely admired composer until his untimely death in 1996. He taught for many years at Bard and two of his students later became famous as members of Steely Dan. He then moved to Juilliard, where he remained. In his lifetime he won many prizes and was noted for the subtlety, refinement, and distinctiveness of his structures and sonorities.

Vivian Fine was not only a great teacher and an avid performer, but mentor to many generations of American composers. She exemplifies the spirit of this program: a conviction in the potential of new music in America, great craft and ambition, a determination to reach the public, and an abiding belief in how important musical culture is to this city and the nation.

Robert Mann, Fantasy for Orchestra

by Matthew Mugmon

Written for the concert Sounds of the American Century, which was performed on January 25, 2019 at Carnegie Hall.

Born July 19, 1920, in Portland, Oregon
Died January 1, 2018, in New York City
Composed in 1957
Premiered on February 23, 1957 at Carnegie Hall, with the New York Philharmonic, conducted by Dimitri Mitropoulos
Performance Time: Approximately 13 minutes

A celebrated violinist who died last year at 97, Robert Mann was an outsize figure in the world of chamber music performance. He spent more than 50 years, from 1946 to 1997, as the renowned Juilliard String Quartet’s founding first violinist. By the time Mann’s Fantasy for Orchestra appeared on a New York Philharmonic program in 1957, he was a composer of some note. The Fantasy came about because Dimitri Mitropoulos, the orchestra’s music director, caught wind of some of Mann’s music and asked him for an orchestral work.

The New York Philharmonic never again performed the Fantasy after its premiere—or any of Mann’s other works, for that matter. Nor are commercial recordings available. But program notes for the premiere highlighted the straightforward multipartite structure of this single-movement work; it begins with “a slow introduction, in a somewhat reflective vein,” followed by a fast, bustling section, a return of the introduction’s sensibility, and, finally, “a brief allusion” at the work’s conclusion to the faster material.

Even if the Fantasy faded from view after its premiere, Mann’s stature as a musician in New York certainly lent weight to the event; Harold C. Schonberg, in his review in The New York Times, wrote that Mann “blossomed out as a composer” with the work, which was dedicated to the memory of the distinguished patron Alma Morgenthau (1887–1953). Although Schonberg found the Fantasy to be more of a technical than a “personal” expression, he praised Mann’s orchestration, linked its “rhythmic devices” to American compositional trends, and offered an (admittedly backhanded) compliment about its cinematic quality (“One could easily imagine it as the background music of a very expensive grade A film”). In calling it “an elaborate mood piece with, possibly, a hidden program,” Schonberg hinted at the work’s potential to move audiences with its stirring soundscapes, characterized by what the critic described as pervasive dissonance.

Matthew Mugmon is Assistant Professor of Musicology at the University of Arizona.

Vivian Fine, Concertante for Piano and Orchestra

by Matthew Mugmon

Written for the concert Sounds of the American Century, which was performed on January 25, 2019 at Carnegie Hall.

Born September 28, 1913, in Chicago, Illinois
Died March 20, 2000, in Bennington, Vermont
Composed in 1943–44
Premiered in 1944
Performance Time: Approximately 17 minutes

Vivian Fine’s multifaceted output as a composer included vocal, chamber, orchestral, and theater works. Fine was also a highly regarded pianist, and her Concertante reflects her deep attachment to the keyboard. The work is readily connected to neoclassicism—a term that suggests a strong interest in forms and styles of the baroque and classical periods. A number of significant twentieth-century musical figures were associated with neoclassicism, including Igor Stravinsky and Aaron Copland. Both Copland and Stravinsky wrote piano concertos, but Fine’s term “concertante” suggests something subtly different: it points to the work’s heritage in compositions that featured multiple soloists. In Fine’s piece, the piano is obviously the highlighted soloist, complete with a cadenza in the second (and final) movement. But the title “concertante” invites us to hear the piano and orchestra as existing on a more equal footing than they might in a typical classical or romantic concerto. In fact, Fine said that the work was “modeled after the concerti grossi” of baroque composers. Following the spirit of such works, Fine’s Concertante eschews extended passages for the soloist in favor of a more extensive interplay among instrumental forces.

For Fine, its heritage in baroque music meant that the musical language of the Concertante was tonal—“deliberately” so, as Fine said, “while most of my other pieces, while not atonal, are freely atonal and freely tonal at the same time.” The Concertante begins with a study of contrasts: forceful, declamatory orchestral declarations yield to songlike piano passages. This alternation quickly gives way to a more fluid interaction between soloist and orchestra, but the basic sense of division—sometimes jarring and sudden—between sweeping and delicate melodies, on the one hand, and gritty, even strident passages, on the other, characterize the wide-ranging and dramatic opening movement. A faster and more playful second movement rounds out the work. Here, rhythmic energy and verve suggest a swirling dance between piano and orchestra. One highlight, though, is a brief, tender woodwind passage that temporarily interrupts the movement’s defining buoyancy. A lively piano cadenza flows into a jovial conclusion for piano and orchestra.

Matthew Mugmon is Assistant Professor of Musicology at the University of Arizona.

Jacob Druckman, Prism

by Matthew Mugmon

Written for the concert Sounds of the American Century, which was performed on January 25, 2019 at Carnegie Hall.

Born June 26, 1928, in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Died May 24, 1996, in New Haven, Connecticut
Composed in 1979–80
Premiered on May 21, 1980 in Baltimore, with the Baltimore Symphony, conducted by Sergiu Comissiona
Performance Time: Approximately 22 minutes

Jacob Druckman’s Prism is perhaps best understood, at first, through the lens of a work Druckman admired: the Italian composer Luciano Berio’s Sinfonia (1968), which Druckman called “a masterful example of the general tendency to reach backwards and forwards simultaneously.” The third movement of Berio’s Sinfonia employs the scherzo of Gustav Mahler’s (1860–1911) Second Symphony as the backdrop for a dizzying array of sonic explorations. Composed twelve years after the Sinfonia, Prism, like its predecessor, carries its own blend of reminiscence and innovation. In Druckman’s case, the “backwards” is not just the operatic work of the seventeenth- and eighteenth-century composers he quotes—Marc-Antoine Charpentier (Médée), Francesco Cavalli (Il Giasone), and Luigi Cherubini (Médée)—but the ancient myth of Jason and Medea, the subject of those operas. The “forwards” is in Druckman’s inventive use of the orchestra, what Bernard Holland in a New York Times review described as “timbral devices” that “whirl around us in Cineramic brilliance.” It is also, to some extent, in the idea of splicing together a composition out of old masterpieces, fascinating effects, and surprising juxtapositions, allowing Druckman to capture not the myth itself but what he called “the many-layered quality of the telling and re-telling of the story. It is a reflection on the persistent re-emergence of the myth that lies at the center of the new work.”

Far from another retelling of the myth, then, Druckman’s Prism views the myth, and the operas that use it as the subject, through a kind of musical prism. Prism also hints at a narrative shape of its own through a fairly straightforward, even conventional, three-movement format. In the introductory first (and shortest) movement, what Druckman called Charpentier’s “pageantry”—complete with regal brass motifs—emerges from and recedes behind a dissonant, mysterious orchestral wash. The mostly slow and atmospheric but also whimsical second movement follows Cavalli’s interpretation of the myth “as a tender and comic love story.” The pace quickens in the finale, which takes as its starting point the way Cherubini “drives relentlessly toward [the myth’s] tragic conclusion.”

Matthew Mugmon is Assistant Professor of Musicology at the University of Arizona.

William Schuman, Symphony No. 3

by Matthew Mugmon

Written for the concert Sounds of the American Century, which was performed on January 25, 2019 at Carnegie Hall.

Born August 4, 1910, in New York City
Died February 15, 1992, in New York City
Composed in 1941
Premiered on October 17, 1941, with the Boston Symphony Orchestra, conducted by Serge Koussevitzky
Performance Time: Approximately 31 minutes

When William Schuman completed his Symphony No. 3 in 1941, he had an illustrious advocate: Boston Symphony Orchestra conductor Serge Koussevitzky, an active supporter of American music. It was Koussevitzky who led the premiere of Symphony No. 3; he had already performed Schuman’s Symphony No. 2, and Schuman would go on to write his Symphony for Strings (1943) as a commission for the Koussevitzky Music Foundation.

Schuman shaped his Symphony No. 3 into two parts, each divided into two contrasting subsections and named for baroque precedents. The first section of Part 1, “Passacaglia,” refers to a slow work in the mold of a theme and variations, with an illustrious heritage in the finale of Johannes Brahms’ Fourth Symphony. Schuman’s similarly solemn movement builds gradually from a lone viola to the entire string section to the winds and brass, and it follows Brahms’ example in its fiery contrasts of mood and sensibility, ranging from delicate melodic wanderings to sturdy climaxes. This leads seamlessly into the next section of Part I—the spiky, colorful “Fugue.” Especially exhilarating, early on in the section, is a stretto—a series of melodic imitations in quick successions—in the trumpets that serves as a rousing fanfare before a calmer pastoral passage for winds. Schuman’s textures accumulate quickly, with focuses on single instruments and sections giving way to full-bodied orchestral outpourings; one such accumulation gives way to a brief unaccompanied timpani solo with a response in the French horns and, soon after, an amassing of forces.

Part II returns to the passacaglia’s musical world, with an opening section (“Chorale”) that begins with another pensive string passage; wind instruments are invited in, starting with a languid trumpet solo over a hazy string accompaniment, and followed by a flute. Despite its similarities to Part I, the “Chorale” lacks the polyphonic mayhem of Part I. It leads to the animated “Toccata”—a term that suggests spontaneity and virtuosity. Schuman makes a special point to highlight percussion in this movement, particularly in the opening (in which a snare drum engages with various wind instruments) and in the electrifying finish.

Matthew Mugmon is Assistant Professor of Musicology at the University of Arizona.

Whitman and Democracy

by Leon Botstein

Written for the concert A Walt Whitman Sampler, which will be performed on October 17, 2018 at Carnegie Hall.

Among the most arguably difficult of literary enterprises is the art of translation. Vladimir Nabokov was obsessed about the matter; his complicated and controversial views on the processes of transferring the sensibilities evoked by one language to another have themselves inspired volumes of commentary. The challenge resides in an irresolvable paradox: if the translator aims for laser-like accuracy of meaning, the intangible qualities of linguistic usage that allow us to employ language in more subtle ways than Google Translate are lost; but if one aims to replicate the artistry of the work, then the result is something other than the “original” work. This is evident in many of the great translations made by poets of the works of other poets. These are valued not as “accurate” but as artistic works in their own right: Alexander Pope’s translation of The Iliad, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s translation of The Divine Comedy, August Wilhelm Schlegel and Ludwig Tieck’s German translation of Shakespeare. These translations achieved recognition as autonomous new works. Fidelity to the original was no longer the main critical criterion. They became cherished because they resembled the translator’s other beloved original works.

To take it even further, because language is not a stable human instrument, within a single language, distance in time and place between author and reader may affect comprehension. Translating from one language to another over a wide timeframe deepens the problem. Modern English speakers from the American East Coast cannot comprehend the English of Shakespeare or even Jane Austen without some reflection. (Indeed, even the space between one generation and the next can be daunting.) But this is because language is a living thing. There is a decided family resemblance over time within a language, but the differences in usage and meaning and in rhetoric and significance are always developing. Hence reference works such as the Oxford English Dictionary or Vladimir Dahl’s dictionary of the Russian language (Nabokov’s favorite) are so essential to readers—even native speakers.

The barrier that exists between languages has been responsible for one of the most powerful modern uses of language—the establishment of discrete large-scale national identity, particularly in the nineteenth century. The standardization of language in post-unification Italy or in Napoleonic France and certainly after the unification in 1870 of Germany was a crucial instrument in forging a unified modern national consciousness. Dramatic regional differences in these countries came under scrutiny and weakened. The masters of a national language—writers and poets—were celebrated as giving voice to a consciousness that was quintessentially emblematic of a nation; Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Alexander Pushkin, and Charles Baudelaire shaped the shared self-image of Germany, Russia, and France. Although the works of these writers have been translated into numerous other languages, these translations are often accompanied by a discouraging tagline, especially dear to “native” speakers: “You can’t really appreciate them unless you read them in the original language.”

One would be hard put to argue persuasively that Walt Whitman does not belong in the category of poets and writers who helped shape the dominant vision of the American nation. He expressed a quintessential American voice. His ecstatic, arresting eloquence celebrated democracy, freedom, and individuality that continues to capture American readers. What made Whitman’s poetry truly American was not mere patriotism or chest-beating about how great the country was (or could be), but rather the unspoken values of the country from which he came that allowed him to express individual and dissenting reflections of love, nature, sexuality, and humanity in poetry, just as his contemporary Herman Melville did in prose. Whitman’s poetry could only have come from a land that believed that it valued freedom, democracy, and plurality.

As we celebrate the bicentenary of his birth, the influence of Whitman has not diminished. Saul Bellow once jokingly constructed a genealogy in American letters in which Allen Ginsberg, the author of Howl, was actually a direct descendent of Walt Whitman. Whitman’s vision inspired generations of artists, painters, and photographers, notably the circle around Alfred Stieglitz (Georgia O’Keefe, Paul Strand, and Walker Evans, for example), as well as politically progressive composers such as Aaron Copland and Charles Ives. And Whitman was a favorite among émigrés fleeing autocracy and dictatorship in Europe.

Indeed, what is extraordinary about Whitman is the extent to which he gained an enormous following in Europe in translation. It was reminiscent of the European enthusiasm for Edgar Allan Poe. Many of these Whitman translations were rather undistinguished, but somehow, the essence got through. Whitman inspired German and British composers to set his words to the medium of music that demands no translation, at least on the surface. Whitman’s international influence debunks the myth that translation cannot work and is without value. Indeed, Homer and Virgil have triumphed in translation, as have all the Greek tragedians. The Divine Comedy has made its way beyond readers of Italian. For all the complaints leveled at Constance Garnett’s translations of Tolstoy, the popularity and reputation of War and Peace and Anna Karenina in the English-speaking world owe a permanent debt to her work. The music you will hear tonight sidesteps the controversies about translation and nationalism in favor of an example of the universality of the humanistic sensibilities contained in Walt Whitman’s poetry.

Three of the composers on tonight’s program came from German-speaking Europe, albeit from distinct linguistic regions. Kurt Weill was born in Dessau. Franz Schreker had his roots in Austria and spoke a Viennese dialect, and Othmar Schoeck was a proud Swiss with a lifelong allegiance to the peculiarities and beauties of Swiss German. The main work on tonight’s concert is by an Englishman with political sympathies that were easily associated with Whitman.

Whitman was one of the first American poets to gain a foothold as a major literary figure with readers who are not native English speakers. It is the international reputation of Whitman, his role as a conveyor of the most cherished of American hopes and dreams—democracy and inclusion that inspired a unique aesthetic—that the ASO celebrates in this bicentenary. Whitman’s success in speaking to peoples well beyond the borders of America speaks well for the enterprise of poetry—the power of language, despite the difficulties of translation. Poetry, like music, can communicate, despite seemingly unbridgeable differences in history, religion, geography, and ethnic identity. Whitman’s poetry was a natural candidate for music. The composers on our program shared divergent political views, but Whitman inspired them to create a common ground of the imagination.

Othmar Schoeck, Trommelschläge

by Byron Adams

Written for the concert A Walt Whitman Sampler, which will be performed on October 17, 2018 at Carnegie Hall.

Born September 1, 1886, in Brunnen, Switzerland
Died March 8, 1957, in Zürich, Switzerland
Composed in 1915
Premiered on March 5, 1916 at Tonhalle, Zürich, with the Tonhalle-Orchester
Performance Time: Approximately 5 minutes

The horrors of the First World War intruded upon the Swiss composer Othmar Schoeck personally: the only manuscript copy of one of his songs was destroyed when a German U-boat torpedoed the Lusitania on May 7, 1915. The song was lost at sea forever, along with over a thousand men, women, and children. Of course, Schoeck was far more horrified by the loss of life and the barbarism unleashed by the war than by the loss of a single song. He clearly understood that this cataclysm had changed everything, including, as it turned out, his own lush late-Romantic musical idiom.

Schoeck’s turn toward Expressionism can first be heard in his brief, violent, and harrowing Trommelschläge, Op. 26, for chorus and large orchestra. German-speaking composers who sought to comment musically on the First World War faced a paucity of German-language poetry that dealt with war, so Schoeck turned to the American verse of Walt Whitman. Sometime before August 1915, Schoeck’s friend, the painter and poet Gustav Gamper, introduced the composer to Whitman’s poetry through Johannes Schlaf’s 1907 German translation. Schoeck turned to “Beat! Beat! Drums!,” one of Whitman’s Civil War poems, finishing the score of Trommelschläge (“Drum Taps”) on August 16.

Schoeck wrote pessimistically to a friend, “I have vented all my anger about the present into a choral piece. It will perhaps break the neck of my position in Zürich.” The position to which he was referring was his conductorship of the Lehrergesangverein, one of Zürich’s leading choral ensembles. Predictably, the singers detested Trommelschläge, which they considered to be a bewildering example of musical ultra-modernism. Some of the singers ceased attending rehearsals as a protest. The choral society’s president begged the choristers to refrain from criticizing the score publically before its premiere. Despite these ill omens, the work proved to be a critical and audience success. Schoeck’s conception of a five-minute work that transformed both chorus and orchestra into a gigantic demonic drum proved overwhelming to its first listeners. In later years, Schoeck proudly asserted that Trommelschläge was his “first piece of modern music.”

Byron Adams is a Professor of Musicology at the University of California, Riverside.

Kurt Weill, Four Walt Whitman Songs

by Byron Adams

Written for the concert A Walt Whitman Sampler, which will be performed on October 17, 2018 at Carnegie Hall.

Born March 2, 1900, in Dessau, Germany
Died April 3, 1950, in New York City
Composed in 1942–47
Premiered in 1947 for Concert Hall Records, with tenor William Horne and pianist Adam Garner
Performance Time: Approximately 18 minutes

Unlike some émigrés who fled Europe ahead of the Nazi menace, Kurt Weill never indulged in backward glances or nostalgia. Even before he became an American citizen on August 27, 1943, Weill had proudly declared in a radio broadcast that he had “never felt as much at home in my native land as I have from the first moment in the United States.” Musicologist Kim H. Kowalke has related that in 1937, Weill declared to the playwright Paul Green, “I have the feeling that most people who ever came to this country came for the same reasons which brought me here: fleeing from the hate, the oppression, the restlessness and troubles of the Old World to find freedom and happiness in a New World.”

That same year, Green sent a copy of Whitman’s Leaves of Grass to Weill as a celebratory gift. The choice of poet was hardly at random, as Green gave Weill the work of the most American poet imaginable, a book that eloquently welcomed aspiring future citizens of the United States just like Weill. The composer had certainly encountered Whitman in Germany—German readers were familiar with Leaves of Grass through a number of expert translations. In 1926, years before his emigration, Weill saluted an upcoming broadcast recitation of Whitman’s verse in Der deutsche Rundfunk: “Walt Whitman was the first truly original poetic talent to grow out of American soil.”

After the attack on Pearl Harbor in 1941, Weill quickly composed three settings of Whitman’s Civil War poems: the first, “Beat! Beat! Drums!” is martial and defiant; the second, a setting of Whitman’s famous poem, “O Captain! My Captain!” is touching and poignant, with gentle echoes of Mahler’s Lieder; and the last, “Dirge for Two Veterans,” is both bluesy and deeply moving. In 1947, Weill revisited Whitman with a setting of “Come Up from the Fields, Father.” He positioned this as the third of his Four Walt Whitman Songs, which were recorded by tenor William Horner for Concert Hall Records. (“Another émigré composer to America, Carlos Surinach, orchestrated “Come Up from the Fields, Father” in Weill’s manner.)

Byron Adams is a Professor of Musicology at the University of California, Riverside.