MUSIC GOES TO THE

MOVIES

Dr. Glen Olsen

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Welcome … OUTLINE of what we are about to do … SESSION 1 Benjamin Britten, A Young Person’s Guide to the Orchestra The Color of Sound Camille Saint-Saëns, The Carnival of the Animals Consonance and Dissonance SESSION 2 Sergei Prokofiev, Peter and the Wolf How Can We Tell a Story? SESSION 3 The Temporal Qualities of Music SESSION 4 Johannes Brahms, Die Nachtigallen Johannes Brahms, Von ewige liebe Franz Schubert, Die Erlkönig Music and Association/Identification The leitmotif Richard Wagner, The Ride of the Valkyries Programme Music Ludwig von Beethoven, Symphony Nr 6, IV. Allegro, “Thunderstorm” SESSION 5 Ludwig von Beethoven, Symphony Nr 5, I. Allegro con brio Absolute Music SESSION 6 Classical Composers and Film SESSION 7 Top Films and Their Scores, I SESSION 8 Top Films and Their Scores, II Music and Narrative SESSION 9 John Steinbeck, The Moon Is Down Igor Stravinsky, Four Norwegian Moods READINGS: Glen Olsen, “Interpretation in another Dimension” (unpublished manuscript) E.T.A. Hoffmann, “Beethoven’s Instrumental Music” (Kreisleriana I, 1815) Aaron Copland, “Music for Movies”

John Steinbeck, The Moon Is Down (1942) ASSIGNMENTS: 1) Bring in your favorite film score and tell us why 2) “Score” John Steinbeck’s The Moon Is Down

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MUSIC GOES TO THE MOVIES SESSION 1 Benjamin Britten, The Young Person’s Guide to the Orchestra (Variations and Fugue on a Theme by Purcell)

I. Theme A: Allegro maestoso e largamente (Full Orchestra) _______________ II. Theme B (Woodwinds) _______________

III. Theme C (Brass) _______________

IV. Theme D (Strings) _______________

V. Theme E (Percussion) _______________

VI. Theme F (Full Orchestra) _______________

VII. Variation A (Piccolo & Flutes) _______________

VIII. Variation B: Lento (Oboes) _______________

IX. Variation C: Moderato (Clarinets) _______________

X. Variation D: Allegro alla Marcia (Bassoons) _______________

XI. Variation E: Brillante—alla polacca (Violins) _______________

XII. Variation F: Meno mosso (Violas) _______________

XIII. Variation G (Cellos) _______________

XIV. Variation H: Comminiciando lento ma poco a poco accel. al Allegro (Double Basses) _______

XV. Variation I: Maestoso (Harp) _______________

XVI. Variation J: L’istesso tempo (French Horns) _______________

XVII. Variation K: Vivace (Trumpets) _______________

XVIII. Variation L: Allegro pomposo (Trombones & Tubas) _______________

XIX. Variation M: Moderato (Percussion) _______________

XX. Fugue: Allegro molto (Full Orchestra) _______________

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from Bernstein Favorites, Children’s Classics, Sony Classical CD SFK 46712 Benjamin Britten (1913-1976) composed The Young Person’s Guide to the Orchestra for a film, The

Instruments of the Orchestra, produced in 1945 by the British Ministry of Education. It is subtitled “Variations and Fugue on a Theme of Purcell,” and the theme comes from music that the English composer Henry Purcell (c. 1659-1695) wrote for a play called Abdelazar, or The Moor’s Revenge. The orchestra is made up of instruments, divided into four groups (or families), each of which makes its own sort of sound and makes it roughly in the same way. The strings are bowed or plucked by hand and are made of wood and are strung with catgut or metal wires; woodwinds are blown and are made of metal or wood; the brass instruments are also blown and are made of metal; and the percussion instruments are struck—except for the whip, which is snapped. Britten first presents the entire orchestra plying the Purcell tune or theme. After this, each group of instruments has its turn—woodwinds, brasses, strings, and percussion (with the timpani playing three rising tones followed by the snare drum), and then the whole orchestra repeats the theme. Next, Britten wrote thirteen variations or alterations of the theme; each variation highlights a particular instrument, and each is followed by a brief bit of scene-shifting music, just to move smoothly to the next variation. “Variation A” begins with the highest of the woodwinds, the birdlike flutes and piccolo. The harp accompanies them. “Variation B” presents the oboes in a gentler mood…. In “Variation C” two clarinets play leapfrog, sounding like one continuous instrument…. This is followed by “Variation D” with two bassoons, one sounding quite [classical], while the other moans out a blues tune. Britten then turned to the string family in “Variation E” with the violins accompanied by brasses; in “Variation F” the violas are made to sound very serious and solemn. The cellos waltz on for a Romantic moment in “Variation G,” and the heavy double basses try their best at a small melody, but then they just collapse (“Variation H”). In “Variation I” the harp lifts its lovely head above the rustling of the string tremolos (a kind of shaking sound). Now the brass enter in a mysterious mood (“Variation J”) with the French horns sounding … like hunters far away. The trumpets gallop past (“Variation K”) to the accompaniment of a snare drum. In “Variation L” the trombones announce their presence, followed by the pompous tuba. “Variation M” presents the percussion family. Getting a running start, the timpani give a three-note melody. This reappears between the solos of other percussion instruments, to set them apart; then all the percussion instruments join together, gradually quieting for a last word from the xylophone. The final section is a fugue where, one by one, the instruments enter again, playing follow-the-leader with Mr. Britten’s bouncy tune. First comes the piccolo, then flutes, oboes, clarinets, and bassoons. The violins, first and second, enter almost together, then the violas, cellos, and basses. Things quiet down momentarily to let the harp entrance be heard but get going again as the horns come in, then the trumpets, and then the trombones and tuba. Finally, the percussion jump into the glorious free-for-all, producing a truly beautiful confusion until, under all this, the mighty Purcell theme rises from the lower instruments. We hear it once, in full solemn uproar, and the music crashes to a close to the tattoo of the drums and cymbals. THE “COLOR” OF SOUND An analysis project in Music Theory 111 … TIMBRE: “Reading had to be done in the dim and flickering light of candles or oil lamps, which may have spurred disturbing fantasies…. [I]t has even been said that electric lights, with their steady brightness, brought the romantic era to an end.” (Peter Ostwald, Schumann [Boston: Northeastern University Press, 1985], 41.)

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MUSIC and SPACE: Pitch

Monophonic Homophonic

Polyphonic

MUSIC and TIME: Duration

Long Short

MUSIC and PERFORMANCE: Instruments

Aerophones Chordophones Idiophones Membranophones

Camille Saint-Saëns, The Carnival of the Animals

I. Introduction and Royal March of the Lion

II. Hens and Cocks

III. Mules

IV. Tortoises

V. The Elephant

VI. Kangaroos

VII. Aquarium

VIII. Personages with Long Ears

IX. The Cuckoo in the Woods

X. Aviary

XI. Pianists

XII. Fossils

XIII. The Swan

XIV. Finale

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CONSONANCE and DISSONANCE

I. STABILITY

“Some intervals produce the impression of stability …” Point of Articulation Movement

II. INSTABILITY

“… others the effect of activity or tension.”

(Edward Aldwell & Carl Schachter, Harmony and Voice Leading [New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich], I: 22) Conjunct Disjunct

The degree of dissonance … What is the “norm?” What creates variety? How often does stability and instability occur? Is dissonance prepared?

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MUSIC GOES TO THE MOVIES SESSION 2 Sergei Prokofiev, Peter and the Wolf 3 French horns =

Oboe =

Flute =

Clarinet =

Drum beats =

Bassoon =

Strings =

Peter goes into the meadow

First friend: a little bird

All was quiet, even the pond was still

Soon a duck came around

The little bird spied the duck

And she dived into the pond

They argued and argued

All of sudden something else caught Peter’s attention … a cat

The cat thought

“Look out!”

But the cat was more interested in the bird

While Peter was watching the cat … he saw his grandfather

But Peter paid no attention

But Grandfather took Peter firmly by the hand

No sooner had Peter gone than

In a flash

The duck’s quacking

And bang

And now this is how the situation was

In the meantime, Peter

Suddenly he got a brilliant idea

Peter grabbed on to the branch

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Listen

The bird came so close

Oh how the bird teased that wolf

Meanwhile, Peter

Until he caught the wolf

The moment the wolf

But Peter tied the other end of the rope

The wolf’s jumping

Just then … Peter saw some hunters

They had been following … and shooting

But Peter high up in the tree

So there’s the story

Just imagine the victory parade

Peter, of course

And following Peter

And winding up the whole parade

And above them all

And if you listen very carefully

How Can We Tell a Story?

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MUSIC GOES TO THE MOVIES SESSION 3 THE TEMPORAL QUALITIES OF MUSIC

Rhythm Meter

“Film music is most often designed to help disavow or ‘soften’ cuts, to create a sense of seamlessness and continuity through what is essentially a violent and disruptive act of leaping from one time-space representation to another.” (John Corbett, “A Very Visual Kind of Music” in Daniel Goldmark and Yuval Taylor, editors, The Cartoon Music Book [Chicago: A Cappella, 2002], 281)

Synchresis (Michel Chion) THE FIRST MAIN FUNCTION OF MUSIC IN FILM:

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Interpretation in another Dimension: Rhythm and Meter in Two Songs of Johannes Brahms

Glen Olsen In the analysis of music, two primary areas, or dimensions, focus our attention in understanding the music. One dimension involves sound; the other, sound’s duration. The first area explores melody and harmony and the different ways in which a composer employs these elements. From pitch structure to melodic contour, from chord construction to harmonic progression, this dimension adds to our understanding of what we hear. The second dimension defines how long we hear musical sound. Metrical structure and rhythmic context—elements of time in music—focus our attention on the duration of pitch and how a composer manipulates time in a musical context. Two general concepts behind the idea of time help to define it further:1

Music is organized sound moving through time. Rhythm and meter establish the parameters for music to move through time and measure time’s progression in sound. Rhythm and meter create the experiences for music to subsist and also determine sound’s existence in time. There is debate about the degree to which rhythm and meter can function in both the measurement and experience of music. Some would say that meter simply measures sound and rhythm causes sound to move.

absolute time or, simply, a clock that keeps moving forward is the first concept and the common understanding of “time” in Western culture. This is a linear concept, a process with a beginning and an ending that lives minute by minute. The second general concept is non-linear: it encounters people, places and things; not concerned so much with “when,” its predominant questions are “how” and “why.” Primarily non-Western in its thinking, gestural time lives for the moment. The first concept “measures” time, the second “experiences” it.

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Johannes Brahms (1833-1897) maintained a rich and varied musical language. His expressive use of melody, his imaginative use of harmony, and even his understanding of counterpoint attest to this; however, one area where Brahms demonstrates remarkable achievement is in musical motion. From the beginning of a work, through its development of musical ideas, to its final conclusion, Brahms controls the rhythm and meter of his compositions and creates a musical experience in time. As David Epstein summarizes: “his music is structured with an uncanny sense for making what must happen inevitably happen, and what must move, move.”

Others would say that the elements that produce rhythm also produce meter so there is little, if no, difference between them. Both rhythm and meter can accomplish the same effects, yet there are limits to how far each can go; also, there are unique characteristics in meter that cannot be produced in rhythm and rhythmic characteristics that are absent from meter.

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1 These concepts, summarized here, are further developed in the beginning of Jonathan Kramer’s book, The Time of Music (New York: Schirmer Books, 1988). Also, David Epstein, in his two books, Beyond Orpheus (Cambridge, Massachusetts: MIT Press, 1979) and Shaping Time (New York: Schirmer Books, 1995), describes these two concepts that define a duality in time: they exist simultaneously yet are two distinct elements. Epstein calls these two concepts “chronometric” and “integral;” the terms used here are Kramer’s.

2 Included in this category are Maury Yeston and Fred Lerdahl and Raymond Jackendoff. The see meter as implying “measuring … its function is to mark of the musical flow, insofar as possible, into equal time-spans.” (Fred Lerdahl and Raymond Jackendoff, A Generative Theory of Tonal Music [Cambridge, Massachusetts: MIT Press, 1983], 19) Rhythm, on the other hand, is where the musical motion actually occurs: “… periodic and regular motion is metric, while irregular configurations of different time values are rhythmic.” (Maury Yeston, The Stratification of Musical Rhythm [New Haven, Connecticut: Yale University Press, 1976], 65) Yet, Yeston does identify meter as an “outgrowth of the interaction of two levels …” (Stratification, 66). 3 David Epstein, “Brahms and the Mechanisms of Motion: the Composition of Performance,” in George Bozarth, editor, Brahms Studies: Analytical and Historical Perspectives (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1990), 198.

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This article will explore how Brahms uses durational elements and musical motion, in addition to the different aspects of pitch structure to communicate a text. Beyond controlling the movement of his music through time, Brahms, when he sets a text, uses metric and rhythmic devices to add to the melodic and harmonic effects employed or even to communicate the essence of the text through purely durational elements. Brahms has moved from an absolute understanding of time to a more gestural approach in his compositions. Time, duration, and motion—these are the concepts that rhythm and meter seek to define in musical compositions. Twentieth-century theorists agree that musical motion occurs in “layers” or “levels.” Maury Yeston begins The Stratification of Musical Rhythm by stating: “the theory of musical rhythm has always been concerned with the elucidation of musical motion—motion that is differentiated by the durational value, pitch, or intensity of sounds but which, at the same time, presumably exhibits certain regularities.”4 He then goes on to refer to a “rhythmic structure that is characterized by levels of meaning … as a rhythmic stratification.”5 The tonal system of structuring pitch, through its “hierarchy” of sound—tonic, dominant, etc.—defines levels of meaning; rhythmic designs include this hierarchy in its interpretive structure, defining levels of meaning in the durations of and emphases within musical motion. It is the intersection of these “rhythmic levels” that define musical motion. In fact, Epstein points out that “by its network of rhythmic, metric, harmonic, melodic, and other constructs, all co-functioning and intersecting upon various levels, a musical work … moves until its scheduled point of conclusion.”6

“Rhythm may be defined as the way in which one or more unaccented beats are grouped in relation to an accented one.”

7 Grosvenor Cooper and Leonard Meyer later define meter as constituting “the matrix out of which rhythm arises.”8 Fred Lerdahl and Raymond Jackendoff describe the rhythmic complexities of tonal music as arising “from the interaction of a comparatively simple metrical organization with grouping structure and, above all, from the interaction of both components with a very rich pitch structure.”9

Meter, the overall measurement of rhythmic pulses, can be defined as the interaction of levels or “layers” of motion. In fact, Harold Krebs defines “the meter of a work as the union of all layers of motion … active within it.”

Rhythm, therefore, is the “event” that occurs within the music’s motion, and meter “measures” that motion.

10 Christopher Hasty goes further in Meter as Rhythm, and sets out to define “a theory in which meter is treated as an aspect of rhythm that is characterized by the creativity and particularity that we often ascribe to rhythm …”11 Rather than maintaining a dichotomy where rhythm defines events and meter simply measures them, Hasty sees little, if any, difference between meter and rhythm. The “measure,” or metrical group, is not merely a container for events; no, the measure is “itself an event--the measure happens in time.”12

Meter not only measures time, it also, through metrical grouping techniques and layers, becomes a part of the musical event.

In one of the songs composed before Johannes Brahms met the Schumanns,13

4 Maury Yeston, The Stratification of Musical Rhythm (New Haven, Connecticut: Yale University Press, 1976), 1.

layers of motion are evident from the beginning. The text of Nachtigallen schwingen (Op. 6, No. 6) has a three-part structure

5 Ibid., 4. 6 David Epstein, Shaping Time (New York: Schirmer Books, 1995), 27. 7 Grosvenor Cooper and Leonard Meyer, The Rhythmic Structure of Music (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1960), 6. 8 Ibid., 96. 9 Fred Lerdahl and Raymond Jackendoff, A Generative Theory of Tonal Music (Cambridge, Massachusetts: MIT Press, 1983), 18. 10 Harald Krebs, Fantasy Pieces: Metrical Dissonance in the Music of Robert Schumann (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), 23. 11 Christopher Hasty, Meter as Rhythm (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997), 6. 12 Ibid., 13 (author’s italics). 13 Brahms met Robert and Clara Schumann in October 1853; Nachtigallen schwingen was composed the summer before. Yet, the Schumanns may have had some influence: Op. 6 was not published until 1854.

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to it with a metaphor of a nightingale and a flower.14 Ira Braus focuses on the poet’s “intrusion upon the metaphor” saying that this middle verse of the three parts “binds together the poem’s ongoing metric, sonic, and rhetorical transformations.”15 With metric contrasts articulating the poem’s external design,16

Brahms begins the song in a state of metrical ambiguity: an anacrusis of two notes leads to an accented downbeat, the pattern repeated, at a higher pitch level, for the third beat of the measure (Example 1).

EXAMPLE 1: Brahms, Nachtigallen schwingen, Op. 6, No. 6, ms. 1-3

The accented first and third beats identify a duple pattern at one level of motion, with the pitch

change in the introduction (ms. 1-2) and the harmonic rhythm (which replaces the dynamic accent of the introduction) of the first stanza (ms. 3-16) reinforcing this duple pattern. Another level, or layer, of motion comes from the anacrusis: a triple pattern, not clearly defined until the voice enters and the accompaniment, moving in a constant pulse of triplets, underlies the metric duple pattern. This constant pulse is not clearly defined in the introduction, creating the metrical ambiguity that prepares for a metrical contrast when the voice enters (ms. 3). Two layers of motion have already been identified: one duple, the other triple. Each layer groups itself in a unique way: one metric, the other primarily rhythmic. And, the two layers interact creating first a metrical ambiguity that ultimately results in a metrical contrast.

In the introduction of Op. 6, No. 6 (Example 1), the marked accents, as pointed out above, reinforce the notated meter by emphasizing beats one and three. The singer’s melody and the harmonic rhythm will continue this duple pattern, or layer, of motion (ms. 3). The pulse, hinted at in the introduction, will occur on another, “submetric,”17 level—the eighth note triplets—creating another layer of motion that contrasts, even conflicts, with the metric layer. Without the score’s notation of 4/4, the meter would be difficult to understand (a better choice of meter might have been 12/8). Ira Braus begins his inspection of the surface of this Lied with the discovery of “a fair amount of rhythmic complexity.”18

14 Malcolm MacDonald in his biography on Brahms interprets this flower as the poet, the “one flower in the world that refuses to bloom” (Malcolm MacDonald, Brahms [New York: Schirmer Books, 1990], 73). In his dissertation, “Textual Rhetoric and Harmonic Anomaly in Selected Lieder of Johannes Brahms,” Ira Braus interprets this metaphor in a more erotic sense: the poet “fancies that his longing ‘becomes’ a nightingale seeking its ‘little flower’ … [that] will not bloom for him” (Ph.D. dissertation [Harvard University, 1988], 164).

15 Ira Braus, “Textual Rhetoric and Harmonic Anomaly in Selected Lieder of Johannes Brahms.” (Ph.D. dissertation, Harvard University, 1988), 164-165. 16 Braus identifies the first part as trochaic trimeter and “when the poetic voice changes to first person in the B section, the meter relaxes into a fluid tetrameter with anacrusis” (Ph.D. dissertation, 165). 17 Krebs, Fantasy Pieces, 30; “submetric” is Krebs’s term. 18 Braus, “Rhetoric/Anomaly,” 168.

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Certainly the two-against-three of the voice and the accompaniment (ms. 3ff.) support the notion of complexity. But is it rhythmic or metric? Moritz Hauptmann (1792-1868), in his treatise The Nature of Harmony and Meter,19 developed a theoretical system to define what he saw as the essential nature of harmony; part of this definition includes a meaning for consonance and dissonance. Consonance arises from a harmonic understanding: the nature of the triad, where the fifth is understood as a “duality,” or internal division of the octave, and the third, which brings the duality back into “union,” support this idea of consonance.20 Remove the third from the triad and you begin to create a situation for dissonance to occur. Hauptmann defines dissonance as “melodic succession sounded simultaneously” (54). Essentially, in a melodic interval, the second note “succeeds” the first in conjunct motion. But, according to Hauptmann, in order to fully understand the occurrence of dissonance, the two notes further find definition in an “element lying outside of them” (55). This “element” results from the conjunct progression, where the dominant, the common tone between the two notes of the melodic second, defines itself as a Fifth-meaning of the first note, and a Root-meaning of the second note (54).21

Hauptmann’s understanding of the major triad is crucial here, for the third of the triad fosters this notion of consonance. He sees three unchangeable, directly intelligible intervals: 1) the Octave, 2) the Fifth, and 3) the Third.

22 The Octave is heard as half of the Root, or, in Hauptmann’s notion of identity, “unity and equality with self” (5). The Fifth is two-thirds of the whole (the Root) – something “divided within itself” or a “duality” (5). The Third is four-fifths of the whole or “quadruple, twice the double … duality as unity” (6). This form of thinking, influenced by Hegelian philosophy, allows the third to define the triad, thereby creating a consonance; for it is the third that brings the dual nature of the fifth back into union: “the Third is the union of Octave and Fifth” (6).23

Hauptmann then completes his definition for dissonance through the same triadic reasoning: “harmony gains with dissonance its perfect notion of consonance …” (56). Because dissonance itself can be understood as an opposition, or a “duality,” then Hauptmann’s intervallic meaning for the Fifth can be applied to a dissonance. He states earlier: “dissonance requires a time precedent and a time subsequent for the justification of its existence, namely, a precedent time of preparation and a subsequent time of resolution” (54-55). This “preparation” for dissonance, according to Hauptmann, is equivalent to the meaning of the Octave; “resolution” of the dissonance equals the meaning for the Third. And harmony “gains” consonance through dissonance because “without dissonance consonance remains fixed in the immediacy of Octave unity, and cannot reach recognition of itself in the notion of the Third” (56). Or, to put it another way, without the activity of dissonance, harmony remains stable and musical motion remains fixed or cannot be recognized. The movement of tonal music is contextual and goal-oriented; consonance and dissonance define this motion.

Hauptmann applies the same logic to rhythm and meter. He first defines meter as “the constant measure by which the measurement of time is made,” and then defines rhythm as “the kind of motion in

19 Leipzig, 1853; English translation, 1888 and published 1893. Page numbers in parentheses are from the 1991 Da Capo Press (New York) reprint. 20 Hauptmann, in The Nature of Harmony and Meter summarizes his definition thus: “The third fills out the emptiness of the Fifth, for it contains the separated duality of that interval bound up into unity. Therefore the conditions of the notion of consonance are completely fulfilled in the combined sound of Root, Fifth and Third” (6). 21 In his discussion for the resolution of dissonance (specifically a suspension), Hauptmann further clarifies this “double meaning:” in the dissonance C-D, for example, “the relationship of the two notes is contained in the note G. But here by C and D sounding together G is determined to be at once Root [of D] and Fifth [of C] … This double sense neither allows the interval C-G to coalesce by the Third e into a triad, nor the Fifth G-D to be united by the Third b” (65). 22 Also known as the second, third and fifth partials (the fourth partial is the octave again) of the Overtone series. 23 The Octave, in Hauptmann’s reasoning, is no longer essential; the Root answers to the notion of “definite unity” (6) against the determination of the Fifth (duality) and the Third (union).

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that measure” (189).24 Christopher Hasty, in Meter as Rhythm, notes that “for Hauptmann, meter is not an aspect of rhythm but an autonomous phenomenon that brings order, comprehensibility, and aesthetic value to rhythm.”25

The first metrical determination, two-timed, involves a repetition of an interval of time. According to Hauptmann, this determination in meter is equivalent to the Octave in harmony: “a half; and in this meaning it opposes itself to its other self, … and taken together with this other, it ‘then’ fulfills the notion of itself as half of a whole” (190). The second metrical determination, three-timed, contains a “double meaning,” which is the essence of the Fifth. The third beat, in Hauptmann’s terms, is an “echo” of the second (just as the second could be seen as an “echo” of the first beat); “thus the second member of the three-part unity gets the double meaning of being second to a first and first to a second” (191). The third metrical determination, four-timed, adds another “echo.” The fourth beat actually creates a “twice-two-membered” meter: its nature involves a process of becoming and having become, for the fourth beat, after having passed through the second (determined to be the Octave) and third (determined to be the Fifth) beats, reaches a “successive union, a union in time, of Octave, Fifth, and Third,” or what Hauptmann calls the “metrical triad” (193). To summarize the discussion on meter, he states: “In meter, what harmony has already laid down is but repeated” (251). Meter now has a harmonic understanding and with it the application of consonance and dissonance.

Hauptmann goes on to determine that the measure will be either a two-, three-, or four-part unity, ending his introduction to the section on meter and rhythm by pointing out: “And here we shall meet again with the same elements of the notion, by which the triad was explained to us: namely, those of the Octave, Fifth, and Third, taking these intervals in their abstract meaning, i.e. of unity, opposition, and unified opposition” (189). Each of the parts determined in the metric unity has an equivalent understanding to the parts of the harmonic triad.

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Context enters in when consideration moves to the next level, the notion of accent, or emphasis. Hauptmann begins by defining metrical accent in context: “A first element of time, which metrically can only be the first of a second equal to it, is, in regard to its second, determining; the second is determined” (204). This “first element,” or beginning, Hauptmann identifies as the metrical accent. He takes this idea of a temporal context further, applying tonal terminology to metrical conditions where the determining and determined elements may be further understood. “We may imagine the metrical notion of major as a relation of present to future, and the metrical notion of minor as a relation of present to past” (226). The “present” is the accented element. In metrical “major” the second element is unaccented, what may result from an accented first element. This, according to Hauptmann, creates a downbeat, for what is to come depends on what is occurring. The upbeat, on the other hand, has already occurred. The first element now depends on the second element for understanding. In metrical “minor” the second element is accented, a result of or, better yet, an explanation for the first element. So, emphasis, or accent, relies on

24 So, according to Hauptmann, meter is a “measurement” of time and rhythm is the “events” that occur within the meter. Christopher Hasty, after maintaining Hauptmann’s “strict separation between meter and rhythm,” (Rhythm as Meter, 34) goes on to point out, correctly, that Hauptmann’s meter is actually “a process whereby duration is created … ‘organic’ … and in no sense ‘automatic’ or mechanical …” (Rhythm as Meter, 35). And, “because Hauptmann analyzes the phenomenon of meter as a process, he is able to avoid a reification of metrical units as objects that are given for the operations of multiplication and division” (Rhythm as Meter, 101). 25 Hasty, Meter as Rhythm, 34. 26 Dissonance in meter comes about through a five-timed or seven-timed formation. Hauptmann points out that in the “five-part each single part … is determined differently from two different roots, and remains disparate in itself, an unresolved dissonance” (200-201). He develops this reasoning by beginning with anything that extends beyond the “fourth member, beyond the end of the second pair, can no longer exercise an influence upon the interior of the first pair … a metrical formation going beyond the four-part lies outside the notion of unity, and consequently falls asunder into twoness” (197). By dividing five-timed or seven-timed into two uneven pairs (a two-part and a three-part for five-timed; a three-part and a four-part [or two two-parts] for seven-timed), Hauptmann identifies a “crooked” part (three) and a “straight” part (two or four) combining to form these meters. He then further states that the “crooked, the three-part, contains the element of dissonance, which finds its resolution in the straight, the two- or four-part” (199). The consonance/dissonance metaphor, already defined harmonically, can now be understood metrically as well.

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context for determination; by comparison, consonance and dissonance rely on the same, for what may be consonant in one context may become dissonant in another. Hauptmann sees rhythm as the elements in context, “the system of accents, their order, and their change, is that which in the chief sense we shall name rhythmical in meter” (253).27 And, once again, rhythm may be understood tonally: “in this meaning rhythmical in opposition to metrical may justly be compared to melody in opposition to harmony” (253).28

Hauptmann then identifies rhythmic possibilities within the two-, three-, and four-timed meters. By using the proportions of measurement determined by meter, he realizes four different rhythmic patterns for the two-timed meter, 12 different patterns for the three-timed meter, and in the four-timed meter, 32. “The thirty-two different manners of filling out the four-timed meter combined with the thirty-two different accent determinations of it yield a result of 1024 different rhythmical metrical figures” (Hauptmann 262). And, as found in music written before this time and certainly occurring in music written after this time, more possibilities than these 1024 exist; Moritz Hauptmann would agree: “the … work that is richer in contents and higher of purpose is precisely that which contains such deviations from the absolute transparent regularity of pure metrical structure …” (269), and would call such a work “art.”

This is exactly what Johannes Brahms has done in Nachtigallen schwingen. It has already been demonstrated that a state of metrical contrast, or, better yet, metrical ambiguity exists in the introduction to this song and then, when the voice enters in the third measure, metrical ambiguity becomes more prevalent as the rhythm supports a duple-triple conflict. This metrical ambiguity corresponds to a tonal ambiguity: the tonic triad (A♭) is not heard until the fourth measure, and then in the weaker first-inversion; the introduction, through repetition, alternates between subdominant (or supertonic?) and leading-tone (or dominant?) harmony; and, when the singer enters, the melody outlines B♭ minor! We can find some resolution by the fourth measure. As already mentioned, the tonic triad appears for the first time and the half-note harmonic rhythm of the third measure has been repeated. The melody slows to a quarter-note rhythm, allowing the rhythmic conflict to subside for the moment; metric interpretation, although, would still be 12/8 instead of the notated common-time (Example 2). EXAMPLE 2: Brahms, Nachtigallen schwingen, Op. 6, No. 6, ms. 4-6

27 This interpretation of rhythm and meter, from Hauptmann’s definition given above, would agree with those who see meter simply as a measurement of time and rhythm as the events that occur in time. 28 This comparison is more problematical: harmonies may be implied from melody and, in context; harmony may be defined by melody.

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The harmony becomes more active in the second half of the fourth measure; the borrowed V7 (from E♭) leads to an augmentation of dominant harmony. The fifth measure contains a V4-3 suspension: the first half supports the A♭ from the previous measure which then resolves down to the third of the V (G) in the second half of the measure. The sixth measure contains V7 harmony, which then reinterprets the first three measures of the song. With the preceding dominant note (E♭) carried over into the sixth measure, the major third (D♭ - F) of the introduction is now understood as the seventh (D♭) and the ninth (F) of dominant harmony (the G - B♭ then is understood as the third and fifth of the V). Returning once again to the I6 on the first beat of the seventh measure, the harmony then finds some rest on the root-position tonic triad, although in a metrically weak position and for a very brief duration. This dissonance of the harmonic opening to Nachtigallen schwingen does not find resolution until the end of the first stanza where finally the root-position tonic triad appears on the downbeat and lasts for the full measure (ms. 16), echoing into the next measure. Metrically, though, we are still not sure whether we are in 12/8 or 4/4. The rhythm of the accompaniment (triple) conflicts with the rhythm of the melody (duple) throughout the first stanza and even into the interlude that leads to the second stanza.29 This metrical dissonance, which briefly shifts,30

The interlude ends in a modal mixture: the major tonic triad that began the interlude (ms. 17) changes to the minor (ms. 18). The two notes that are left (A♭ and C♭) are enharmonically spelled as the third and fifth of an E-major triad when the second stanza begins.

does not find resolution until the beginning of the second stanza where Brahms effects a brilliant common-tone modulation to E major.

31 Rhythmically ending the interlude on a quarter note allows the accompaniment to join in the duple subdivision of the beat already insisted upon by the melody. The two-note anacrusis from the introduction retards the rhythm and then redefines it to a duple subdivision at the beginning of the second stanza (Example 3). “Brahms’s grafting of the two patterns causes, so to speak, a modulation of poetic meter, one that foreshadows a modulation of musical meter …”32

29 Ira Braus sees this metrical conflict as figuratively conveying an “underlying tension between the poet’s desire and his metaphorical projection of that desire as a nightingale.” (“Rhetoric/Anomaly,” 169) Lucien Stark cautions performers to be aware of this song’s effect; it “depends on the clarity of the contrast between its opposing emotions.” (Solo Songs, 29) 30 In measure 11 the harmonic rhythm augments to a whole note – subdominant harmony continues through the full measure – allowing other layers of motion to effect metrical definition. The pitch structure characterized by three repeated notes and interpreted from the beginning as involving a register change from low to high, shifts the meter by one eighth-note of the triplet. Without the harmonic change in the second half of the measure, the metrical accent is weakened and the tonic accent of the pitch structure gains prominence. Fortunately, this will only last for one measure, and the harmonic change in the measure that follows (ms. 12) reestablishes the metrical accent. 31 Modal mixture has already occurred: in measures 11-12 the harmony changes from the major subdominant to the minor subdominant. Interesting that this is also where metrical dissonance increases through displacement. Brahms punctuates the “awakening flowers” of the text with a heightened metrical conflict and foreshadows the poet’s expression of desire to become a nightingale by using modal mixture at this point in the first stanza and to bring in the second stanza. 32 Braus, “Rhetoric/Anomaly,” 171. The “two patterns” mentioned here are the poetic meters of each stanza: the “spry” trochaic trimeter of the first stanza and the “fluid” tetrameter with anacrusis of the second (Braus, 165).

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EXAMPLE 3: Brahms, Nachtigallen schwingen, Op. 6, No. 6, ms. 17-19

Ira Braus calls the second stanza the “poet’s intrusion upon the metaphor,” for here his desires are made known: “in the B part, the poet fancies that his longing ‘becomes’ a nightingale seeking its ‘little flower.’”33

The third stanza finds the poet standing silently by as the nightingales flutter around him; there is one flower that refuses to bloom, and this has caused him sadness. His longing will not be realized and, in the end, this desire is all that remains. Brahms reinforces this understanding by closing the song with a reprise of the beginning to the second stanza. Dissonance returns, yet not as forcefully as at first: this time the borrowed V7 (B♭7) of the dominant (E♭) initially harmonizes the melody (ms. 34) and then the tonic triad in root-position completes the first phrase (ms. 35). The rest of the stanza reiterates the harmonic progressions of the first stanza, yet employs more modal mixture through the use of the minor subtonic (ms. 41) and the minor dominant (ms. 45). Metrically, though, the conflict returns with the triple subdivision of the accompaniment heard first and then the melody following, in its duple subdivision, two

Clear metrical definition highlights this desire; and even when the duple subdivision of the beat changes to a triple (ms. 22), the metrical conflict of the first stanza is gone. Now the melody and accompaniment both paint “Nachtigall … fliegt” (“nightingale … flies”) by employing a triple subdivision of the beat. Consonance prevails not only metrically and rhythmically but also melodically and harmonically. Where there was dissonance in the first stanza, where the implied tonality of the melody conflicted with the harmony, now both firmly outline E major (even maintaining a tonic pedal point through the first and second phrases [ms. 19-23]). Dissonance, absent as the poet expresses his longing, though, will return once again.

33 Ibid., 164.

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bars later. There is no longing fulfilled; no desires have been met, for the poet is left standing with a flower that will not bloom. Brahms has deftly employed consonance and dissonance to heighten the poetry he sets in Nachtigallen schwingen. Not only does this happen tonally, but also metrically and rhythmically. This song, through the interaction of the different levels of motion present within it, creates a work of art that can speak for itself and, when coupled with text, shows the genius of the composer who set it. Probably the greatest song Brahms wrote, according to Hugo Wolf amongst others, was Von ewiger liebe, Op. 43, No. 1. This song speaks of a love that will never end; yet the path to eternal love is torturous and filled with doubts. The opening of the poem sets the scene: a dark, silent evening. A boy escorts his love home, speaking of different things. He worries that she is suffering because of him and even encourages her to leave as quickly as when they found each other. She will have nothing to do with departure from him, for, she says, their love must endure forever. The tonality and harmonies Brahms employs, along with the rich lyricism of the melody in this through-composed song, enhance the expression of this text. Eric Sams, in The Songs of Johannes Brahms, begins his narrative: “Dark, how dark, say the first piano notes, anticipating the first words.”34 The bass melody in the piano that opens this song (ms. 1-4) repeats, with some extensions, in the singer’s part when the poem begins (ms. 5-12). The darkness of this opening turns to insecurity and even desperation as the boy speaks. Lucien Stark, in his guide to Brahms’s solo songs, finds that the “many cadences without third represent his insecurity; the stepwise ascent with which all melodic fragments end reflects his need for reassurance.”35 After a tumultuous interlude,36 the music subsides, the tonality changes for, as Misha Donat in The Compleat Brahms finds, “here, in the major, the woman quietly proffers her assurance of love.”37 The woman affirms that his love for her is shared in her love for him, and this love will last forever. Sams adds that the renewed strength of a shared love “is symbolized by a union of his 3/4 and her 6/8 time into a mixture of both; in that strong bond the postlude reaffirms her conclusion …”38

As Sams points out, when the boy speaks the meter is 3/4; when the girl speaks, the meter changes to 6/8. The song opens in 3/4—the boy has something on his mind. Noticing the world around, he avoids the inevitable; through the phrase extension mentioned above, with the insertion of a half cadence in the first phrase (ms. 7-8), and chromaticism punctuated by diminished harmony in the second phrase (ms. 14-19), the music tries to avoid dealing with the issue as well. When he finally speaks, the gentler duple rhythms of the accompaniment turn to more agitated triplets. His world, so he thinks, is about to come apart. As he continues, the music grows intense: a crescendo continues throughout this stanza; as he is finishing, a stringendo hastens him towards what he intended to say. The few duple-triple rhythmic conflicts that occur in this stanza (ms. 47, 55, 63) infest the accompaniment when he finishes. His life, because of their love and what others are saying about it, is in torment. His meter, 3/4, is in conflict (ms. 70-74).

Analysts also mention the horn calls as evocative of the forest, octaves of assurance, triplets of agitation, and static qualities within the music. Allow me to add to this interpretation in another dimension.

Brahms pacifies him by inserting a hemiola in the left hand of the accompaniment, slowing down the rhythmic activity (ms. 75-76). The triplets continue throughout the interlude between the second and third stanzas, yet, as he begins to calm down, the triplets will descend from their higher register of the second stanza to a middle register when the girl answers. The uncertainty of the triplets is still present, yet she will reassure him by redefining them in her 6/8 meter. As she compares their love to iron and steel, the triple subdivision of the meter will rise again – he is still not so sure – yet she continues with the

34 Eric Sams, The Songs of Johannes Brahms (New Haven, Connecticut: Yale University Press, 2000), 123. 35 Lucien Stark, A Guide to the Solo Songs of Johannes Brahms (Bloomington, Indiana: Indiana University Press, 1995), 112. 36 Lucien Stark finds reason enough in this interlude between the second and third stanzas to consider this song a masterpiece (Ibid.). 37 Leon Botstein, editor, The Compleat Brahms (New York: W.W. Norton, 1999), 231. 38 Sams, Songs of Brahms, 123.

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metaphor, saying their love is even stronger and the triple subdivision subsides, returning to the middle register (ms. 86-95). Finally, when she declares that their love must last forever, Brahms, through cross-rhythms, returns the 6/8 meter to 3/4 in the accompaniment. She closes her melody in 6/8, yet not in conflict with him, but rather, shared. The rising arpeggios of the introduction are inverted, settling into one final statement of 6/8 and 3/4 before they end as one (ms. 120-121). Von ewiger Liebe synthesizes rhythmic and metrical motion with tonal interpretation to create a profound musical experience. The different layers of motion: melodic, harmonic, metric and rhythmic, combine to portray the text in a true work of art. Even more elemental than demarcation and pulse, rhythm and meter exist within layers of motion; a musical composition involves multiple layers that combine to define music’s metrical scheme, rhythmic patterns and accentual organizations. Also, pitch and harmony, technically outside of this “domain of time” yet extremely dependent on it, significantly contribute to defining motion at different layers in music. This concept of “layers of motion,” not one single pulse, but multiple durations from different sources, combine to create the metrical understanding for a piece of music. It works within the context of the music’s sound. The measurement of musical sound is certainly a primary function of meter; rhythm takes part, at times, in this measurement as well. The listener has a sense of music “going forward” in time and can measure this motion chronologically. Yet, the listener can also experience musical sound. In the interaction of melody with harmony, rhythm with meter, meter with harmony, rhythm with melody, or, simply, each one with itself, musical motion is begun, generated, arrested, or ceased. These interactions occur in context and begin to move the listener beyond a simple measurement into a more profound experience. Musical time, while constantly moving forward, may stand still for a moment, interacting in such a way as can only be described as an experience. Context, through the interactions taking place, determines whether music, at a certain point, is being measured or experienced. Consonance and dissonance occurs on both a rhythmic and a metric level. The existence of consonance and dissonance tonally is understood: harmonic motion begins from a point of stability, moves through a time of activity and then returns to that point of stability. We have already seen how rhythm creates musical events and can be understood, in addition to melody and harmony, as demonstrating consonant and dissonant moments. Meter, in the music of Johannes Brahms, is not simply keeping the pulse, or measuring time; rather, in addition to measuring the pulse of a work, meter also participates in defining musical events through consonance and dissonance. And why should meter and rhythm not fully participate in generating musical motion? For if, as Moritz Hauptmann theorized, meter and rhythm can find analogy in harmony, then consonance and dissonance, present in harmony, exist rhythmically and metrically. So, what must happen and, what must move? Brahms knows; he understands the workings of a text. He knows that pitch, when used in a certain context, will create some kind of melodic motion; that chords, in their context, will create harmonic motion; and that meter and rhythm can not only complement melodic and harmonic motion, but can also generate musical motion. Musical time is measured, minute by minute, rhythmically and metrically; musical time is also experienced, from moment to moment, metrically and rhythmically. Johannes Brahms has an uncanny sense for organizing sound in time. He does more than just measure it for us, he allows us to experience it. Where there is to be stability, he creates consonant musical structure; if there is to be activity, he controls the amount of melodic, harmonic, rhythmic and metric dissonance, coordinating them or combining them to generate musical motion. We are invited to exist in the worlds of sound Brahms fashions, to move with him each minute, to encounter each moment. His musical language—melodically, harmonically, and especially rhythmically and metrically—communicates beyond an absolute time into its gestural nature and we experience each moment he creates, measure by measure, consonant and dissonant, so that the effect of time in his scores brings a new understanding to sound’s course and music’s existence.

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Nachtigallen schwingen Nachtigallen schwingen

Lustig ihr Gefieder, Nachtigallen singen Ihre alten Lieder.

Und die Blumen alle, Sie erwachen wieder

Be idem Klang und Schalle Aller dieser Lieder.

Nightingales beat

Their feathery wings merrily, Nightingales sing Their old songs.

And all the flowers Awaken once more

To the tune Of these songs.

Und meine Sehnsucht wird zur Nachtigall

Und fliegt in die blühende Welt hinein, Und fragt bei den Blumen überall,

Wo mag doch mein, mein Blümchen sein?

And my longing becomes a nightingale And flies off into the blossoming world,

And asks everywhere of the flowers, Where my, my little flower can be?

Und die Nachtigallen

Schwingen ihren Reigen Unter Laubeshallen

Zwischen Blumen zweigen, Von den Blumen allen

Aber muss ich schweigen. Unter ihnen steh ich Traurig sinnend still: Eine Blume she ich,

Die nicht blühen will.

And the nightingales Perform their round dance

In leafy bowers Amid blossoming branches,

But I must be silent About all the flowers. I stand among them

Silently with my sad thoughts: I see one flower

That refuses to bloom.39

39 This translation is by Ira Braus (“Rhetoric/Anomaly,” 163-164).

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Von ewiger liebe Dunkel, wie dunkel in Wald und Feld! Abend schön ist es, nun schweiget die Welt.

Dark, how dark in forest and field! It is already evening, and now the world is silent.

Nirgend noch Licht und nirgend noch Rauch, Ja, und die Lerche sie schweiget nun auch.

Nowhere a light, nowhere any smoke; Yes, and the lark is now silent too.

Kommt aus dem Dorfe der Bursche heraus, Gibt das Geleit der Geliebten nach Haus,

Out from the village there comes a lad, Seeing his sweetheart home,

Fürht sie am Weidengebüsche vorbei, Redet so viel und so mancherlei:

He takes her past the willow-copse, Saying so much about so many things.

“Leidest du Schmach und betrübest du dich, Leidest du Schmach von andern und mich,

“If you suffer shame and sorrow, If you suffer shame in other’s eyes for my sake,

Werde die Liebe getrennt so geschwind, Schnell wie wir früher vereiniget sind.

Then let our love sunder suddenly, As fast as it once united us;

Scheide mit Regen und scheide mit Wind, Schnell wie wir früher vereiniget sind.”

Let it depart in the rain and depart in the wind, As fast as it once united us.”

Spricht das Mägdelein, Mägdelein spricht: “Unsere Liebe, sie trennet sich nicht!

The girl speaks, the girl says: “Our love will never sunder.

Fest ist der Stahl und das Eisen gar sehr, Unsere Liebe ist fester noch mehr.

Steel is firm, and so is iron, very much so, But our love is even firmer still.

Eisen und Stahl, man schmiedet sie um, Unsere Liebe, were wandelt sie um?

Iron and steel can be reshaped, But who can change our love?

Eisen und Stahl, sie können zergehn, Unsere Liebe muss ewig bestehn!”

Iron and steel can be melted down; Our love must forever abide.”40

40 This translation is by Eric Sams (Songs of Brahms, 122-123).

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Beethoven’s Instrumental Music (1815) E.T.A. Hoffmann In any discussion of music as an autonomous art, should one not always refer only to instrumental music which, disdaining support from or admixture of any other art (poetry), expresses the peculiar essence of this art in its pure form? Music is the most romantic of all the arts. I might almost say it is the only purely romantic one, for its motif is infinity. Orpheus’s lyre opened the gates of the underworld. Music unlocks an unknown realm, a world that has nothing in common with the surrounding, external world of man’s senses. There, he abandons all specific emotions in order to indulge himself in an inexpressible yearning. Have you ever had an inkling of this peculiar essence of music, you poor instrumental composers who worry over it and take such pains to represent exact emotions in great detail? How could it even occur to you to treat this art form in the same manner as the plastic arts, when it is precisely contrary to them? Your sunrises, your thunderstorms, your Batailles des trios empereurs, and so on, were ridiculous aberrations and well deserve to be completely forgotten.

In singing, where poetic words give some indication of specific emotions, music’s magic power works like the wonderful elixir of the sages: a few drops make every drink more delicious and exquisite. Every passion—love, hate, anger, despair—such as opera gives us, clothes the music in the purple glimmer of romanticism, and even lifelike events lead us away from reality into the realm of the infinite.

The magic of music is strong; growing ever more powerful, it had to burst the bounds of any other art. This is not only because of improvements in the means of expression (perfection of instruments, greater virtuosity of players); a deeper, more intimate perception of the particular essence of music has enabled today’s inspired composers to raise instrumental music to new heights.

Mozart and Haydn, the creators of modern instrumental music, first showed us the art in all her glory; but the one who looked on her with perfect love and penetrated her innermost being is—Beethoven! The instrumental compositions of all three masters breathe a similar romantic spirit and show the same insight into music’s peculiar essence, but their works exhibit marked differences in nature. A childlike cheerfulness dominates Haydn’s compositions. His symphonies lead us among a gay, colorful, happy throng into boundless green groves. Rows of dancing youths and maidens glide by; laughing children, behind trees, peeping from behind rose bushes, teasingly pelt each other with blossoms. Life is full of love and felicity, as it was before the Fall, in eternal youth; there is no pain or suffering, only a sweet, melancholy yearning for a beloved form that floats in the distance in the glow of sunset. It neither draws nearer not disappears, and as long as she is there, night never comes, for she is the sunset glow that colors the mountain and the grove.

Mozart leads us into the depths of the spirit realm. We are surrounded by dread but not torment; it is more like a foreshadowing of eternity. Love and melancholy resound in lovely spirit voices. Night begins in a bright purple glow and, with inexpressible longing, we approach figures who magnanimously beckon us into their ranks as they fly through the clouds in an eternal dance of the spheres. (Mozart’s Symphony in E-flat Major, knows as the “Swan’s Song.”)

Similarly, Beethoven’s instrumental music opens us to the realm of the enormous and the boundless. Glowing rays pierce the profound night of this realm, and we perceive giant undulating shadows encircling us ever more tightly until they

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crush us. But the pain of infinite longing persists; all the desires that had so quickly soared in jubilant notes now founder and perish. In this agony that consumes but does not destroy love, hope, and joy, our breast feels ready to burst with a full-voiced harmony of all the passions, but we survive to become enchanted visionaries.

Romantic taste is rare; romantic talent, still rarer. Few, therefore, are able to strike that lyre whose sound unlocks the wonderful realm of the romantic.

Haydn conceives the human in human life as romantic; he is more proportionate, more comprehensible for the majority. Mozart calls more on the superhuman, the miraculous that resides within the mind. But Beethoven’s music moves the lever that raises fear, terror, horror, and agony, exciting the infinite longing which is the essence of the romantic. He is, therefore, a pure romantic composer. May this not be the reason he is less successful in vocal music: definite emotions are presented only through words, which do not lend themselves to representing the characteristic of indefinite yearning sensed in the realm of the eternal.

Beethoven’s powerful genius lays a heavy burden on the musical rabble; in vain he tries to rebel against them. Wise critics look around with an air of superiority and assert that, although B. does not lack a very rich, vivid imagination, he does not know how to bridle it! And one can take their word for it, for they claim to be men of great intelligence and profound insight. It is not just a matter of selecting and shaping ideas, they say; he flings everything down according to the “inspiration method,” just the way it is delivered to him in the fiery working of his imagination! What does it matter if the profound, intimate coherence of each Beethoven composition eludes your puny glance? Isn’t it your fault that you do not understand the master’s language—which is understandable to the initiated—and that the gates to the inner sanctum remain closed to you?

The genuine master (prudently setting Haydn and Mozart aside) actually divorces his own personality from the inner realm of music, where he reigns as an absolute monarch. Critics of the arts have often lamented a total lack of inner unity and coherence in Shakespeare. A closer look reveals a beautiful tree, with leaves, blossoms, and fruit sprouting from a tiny germ and growing to maturity. In the same way, only a thorough scrutiny of Beethoven’s instrumental music reveals that great presence of mind which is inseparable from true genius and nourished by the study of art. The instrumental work of Beethoven that most confirms all this is his immeasurably lovely, pensive, Symphony in C Minor. How this wonderful composition, through an ever-rising climax, leads the listener irresistibly into the spirit realm of the infinite! Nothing can be simpler than the main themes of the first Allegro, which consists of only two beats. This theme, beginning in a unison, does not at first even fix the key for the listener. The character of anxious, restless longing borne in this phrase only elucidates the melodious secondary theme!

In piercing tones, the breast, frightened by monstrous visions that weigh on it and threaten to crush it, seems to be desperately trying to exhale. Soon, however, a gleaming, friendly form approaches and illuminates the deep, dreadful night. (The charming theme in G Major first treated by the horn in E-flat Major.)

How simple—let it be said again—is the theme upon which the master bases the whole, but how wonderfully he arranges all the adjacent and intermediary phrases to develop through their rhythmic relationships the character of the Allegro merely suggested by the main theme. All the phrases are short—nearly all consist simply of two or three beats—and they are always dispersed, constantly shifting

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between the wind and string instruments. One would think only something choppy and unintelligible could result from such elements, but, on the contrary, it is precisely this arrangement, as well as the successive repetitions of phrases and individual chords, that elevates the feeling of ineffable longing to the highest pitch. Quite irrespective of the fact that the contrapuntal treatment indicates a profound study of the art, the incidental phrases, by constantly alluding to the main theme, demonstrate how the great master conceived and thought out the whole composition with all its passionate features.

The delightful theme of the Andante in A-flat Major rings out like a lovely spirit voice that fills us with hope and consolation. But here, too, walks the dread spirit that seizes and terrifies the heart, threatening to burst at any moment from the storm cloud into which he has disappeared, while the friendly forms that surround us flee before his lightning bolts.

What shall I say of the Minuet? Listen to the odd modulations and to the conclusion in the dominant major chords. The bass picks these chords up as a tonic for the succeeding theme in the minor key and constantly enlarges that theme around a few beats. Are you not seized again by a restless, inexpressible yearning, that presentiment of the miraculous spirit realm where the master reigns? But the magnificent concluding theme shines like blinding sunlight upon the joyous celebration of the whole orchestra. What wonderful contrapuntal twists tie the ending back into the whole! Some people may well find all this intoxicating, like a brilliant rhapsody, but every sensitive listener’s heart will surely be profoundly moved by a sense of that ominous, inexpressible yearning and, right up to the final chord – and even in the moments after it – be unable to escape the wonderful spirit realm where pain and delight, taking the form of notes, embrace him.

Everything—in keeping with the inner structure of the musical phrases, their development, instrumentation, and sequence—works toward a point; but the themes are also perfectly correlated, a manifestation of the only unity capable of holding the listener in a single mood. These relationships often become apparent to the listener when his ear picks them out of the transition between two phrases or discovers a common bass part underlying two different phrases. But a more profound relationship, having nothing to do with structure, often speaks only from mind to mind. This is what rules beneath the phrases of both Allegros and the Minuet and grandly proclaims the master’s brilliance.

How profoundly your glorious piano compositions are imprinted in my heart, Great Master! How insipid and insignificant now appears everything that does not belong to you, to thoughtful Mozart, or to the powerful genius Sebastian Bach!

With what delight I received your seventieth work, the two lovely trios, for I well knew that, after a little practice, I would hear them quite beautifully. I have been so content this evening, I am still like one who wanders deeper and deeper through a maze of tangled paths in a fantastic park among all sorts of strange trees, shrubs, and amazing flowers. I may never find the way out of the wonderful twists and turns of your trios. The charming siren voices of your scintillating, variegated phrases lure me deeper and deeper into the maze.

The brilliant lady who played the Trio No. 1 quite beautifully today to honor me, Kapellmeister Kreisler, and at whose piano I am still sitting and writing, showed me quite clearly that only what creative genius provides is worth anything; all the rest is bad.

I have just repeated from memory a few striking alternative variations of the two trios on the piano. It is true that the piano (pianoforte) remains a more useful

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instrument for harmony than for melody. The finest expression of which this instrument is capable does not lend life to the melody in the way the violinist’s bow or the wind instrument player’s breath can elicit thousands and thousands of nuances. The player wrestles in vain with the insuperable difficulty presented by the mechanism that strikes the strings to make them vibrate and resound. On the other hand, no instrument (except for the even more limited harp) equals the piano’s ability to embrace the realm of harmony in fully struck chords; it reveals the treasure of harmony to the connoisseur in the most wonderful shapes and forms. Should the master’s imagination conceive a complete tone picture with rich clusters, bright lights, and deep shadows, he can summon it to life on the piano and make it emerge in glowing colors from his inner world.

The full-voiced score—a veritable book of musical magic that preserves all the miracles of the art of composition and the mysterious chorus of the multiplicity of instruments—is worked out on the piano under the master’s hands. A piece with a good, complete score, executed this way, might be compared to a well done copper engraving drawn from a great painting. The piano is perfectly suited for improvisation, for excerpting from the score, for individual sonatas, chords, and so forth. In the same way, trios, quartets, quintets, and so on, in which the usual string instruments appear, already belong within the realm of piano composition, for, to compose them correctly (in four or five parts or more, for example), is wholly a matter of elaborating the harmony, something the predominance of individual instruments in brilliant passages precludes.

I harbor a true antipathy toward all actual piano concertos. (Mozart’s and Beethoven’s are not so much concertos as symphonies with a piano obbligato.) The virtuosity of the individual performer is supposed to be demonstrated in wonderful passages and melodic expression. The best player on the most beautiful instrument, however, strives in vain for what the violinist, for example, achieves with little difficulty. Beside a full ensemble of violins and wind instruments, any piano solo sounds stiff and dull. People marvel at the quickness of the fingers and such things, without their emotions being properly addressed.

How well the Master has comprehended the peculiar spirit of the instrument and provided for it in the most suitable fashion!

A simple, yet prolific and singable theme, suited to the various contrapuntal twists, reductions, and similar technical figures, underlies each phrase. The incidental themes and figures are inwardly related to the main idea so that, through all the instruments, they are bent and organized toward the greatest unity. This is the structure of the whole, but the wondrous images of joy and pain, sorrow and bliss that emerge beside and within each other in this artistic construction are constantly being transformed. Strange powers begin an airy dance, now fading to a luminous spot, now separating, sparkling and glittering, then chasing one another in a multiplicity of groups. And in the midst of this wide open spirit realm, enchanted souls hearken to the unknown language and understand the most secret presentiments that possess them.

Only a composer able to affect the emotions of men through harmony has truly penetrated its secrets. The proportional calculations that, to the grammarian who lacks genius, remain dead, rigid problems in arithmetic, are magic charms a gifted composer uses to conjure up an enchanted world.

Despite the tranquil coziness that completely dominates the first trio (not even excepting the melancholy Largo), Beethoven’s genius remains grave and solemn. It is as if the Master (even though he may be intimate with them, and feels

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cheerfully and joyfully exalted) intends to address the profound and mysterious never in ordinary, but always in sublime and glorious terms. The dance music of the priest of Isis can only be a hymn of jubilation!

Instrumental music meant to create only a musical effect and not to serve any particular dramatic purpose must avoid facetious clowning and trivial lazzi. It seeks a profound emotional response to the presentiment that crosses over to us from an unknown land—a foretaste of joy more lovely and beautiful than is our lot in this cramped and narrow world. This presentiment ignites an inner delight, inexpressible in mere words that refer to our perplexing earthly desires. Beethoven’s gravity banishes all the break-neck passages played up and down with both hands, as well as all the strange leaps, the ludicrous capriccios, the notes built far up in the air by stacking five or six lines above the staff. All fashionable piano compositions nowadays are filled with them.

If simple finger dexterity is the only concern, the master’s piano pieces present no special difficulty, for every practiced pianist should have the few runs, trills, and such well in hand. And yet their performance is fairly difficult. Many so-called virtuosi reject the master’s piano compositions with the complaint that they are “very difficult!” and, they add “very unrewarding!”

As for the matter of difficulty, a correct, easy rendering of Beethoven’s work requires nothing less than that one understand him. One must enter into his mind and, conscious of one’s own inspiration, dare to step into the circle of magical apparitions evoked by his potent spells. Whoever does not feel this inspiration within himself, whoever considers holy music suitable only to be a plaything, a pastime for empty hours, a momentary stimulant for dull ears, or an opportunity for personal ostentation, ought to stay away from Beethoven’s music! Only for such a one is the fitting reproach “and most unrewarding!”

The true artist lives solely in the work in which he has grasped and then rendered the master’s intent. He refrains absolutely from interjecting any trace of his own personality, and all his writing and striving have a single goal: calling to life, in thousands of glowing colors, all the lovely, gracious images that the master, with magic power, locked up in his work. Then the bright, sparkling apparitions encircle mankind, ignite his imagination, inflame his innermost being, and bear him in swift flight into the distant spirit realm of music. (from Fantasy Pieces in Callot’s Manner, translated Joseph M. Hayse. Schenectady, New York: Union College Press, 1996, pp. 31-38)

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Music for Movies Aaron Copland

“Music for Movies” is a five-part suite for small orchestra drawn from material used in three film scores: “The City,” “Of Mice and Men,” and “Our Town.” The originals were composed in 1939 and 1940, and the rearrangement was completed in 1942. “Music for Movies” was first performed by the Saidenberg Little Symphony, Daniel Saidenberg conducting, at an all-Copland concert in Town Hall, New York, on February 19, 1943. The score is dedicated to the French composer Darius Milhaud. The first and third sections—“New England Countryside” and “Sunday Traffic”—derive from the documentary film “The City.” “New England Countryside” depicts the quiet and peaceful living of a typical small town in that section of the United States. “Sunday Traffic,” which supplies the scherzo of the suite, originally accompanied scenes that ironically pictured problems that beset the Sunday driver in urban America. “Barley Wagons”—the second movement—was lifted intact from the soundtrack of “Of Mice and Men.” It evokes the broad vistas of a California landscape, with distant wagons slowly bringing produce back to the barns. The fourth section—“Story of Grovers Corners”—was used as a kind of leit-motif in “Our Town.” The final movement—“Threshing Machines”—was also taken from “Of Mice and Men.” Here the composer attempted to combine the mechanical noises of the machines with passing reference to the dramatic action. The rather grandiose coda of this movement draws upon material from the title music of the film. “Music for Movies” represents one of the infrequent examples of Hollywood background film music being made available in concert form. (from Aaron Copland, A Reader, edited Richard Kostelanetz. New York: Routledge, 2004, p. 245)

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MUSIC GOES TO THE MOVIES SESSION 4 Johannes Brahms, Nachtigallen schwingen Johannes Brahms, Von ewige liebe Franz Schubert, Der Erlkönig First, what is the “color” of the music you hear in the introduction? How many “characters” are there in this song? What is the story? MUSIC and ASSOCIATION/IDENTIFICATION THE NATURE OF A SYMBOL

Discursive

Presentational “A sign indicates the existence—past, present, or future—of a thing, event, or condition.” (58) “Symbols are not proxy for their objects, but are vehicles for the conception of objects.” (61) Suzanne K. Langer, Philosophy in a New Key (New York: Mentor Books, 1942, 1951) the leitmotif (“leading motif”) “… those musical motifs used in Wagner’s later works in association with particular characters, situations, ideas, etc.” (272) The Harvard Concise Dictionary of Music (Cambridge, Massachusetts: Belknap Press, 1978)

Identification

Foreshadowing/Remembrance

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“However, the leitmotiv technique that distinguishes [Wagner’s] ‘music dramas’ … can be viewed as a method intended to ‘sublate’ the symphony into the music drama at the same time that it serves to ‘externalize the poet’s intentions for the sensory faculties’ …” (196) Carl Dahlhaus, Nineteenth-Century Music (Berkeley, California: University of California Press, 1989) Richard Wagner, The Ride of the Valkyries SOME PROBLEMS:

change of meaning or form

refining fundamental meanings – the “maelstrom of meanings”

the “risk” of attaching labels

signification and/or expression FUNCTIONS OF MUSICAL LEITMOTIFS IN FILM:

presence of character, object, locale

presence of someone or something obscure

psychological presence “Thus, we may establish a rule of thumb for distinguishing referential from nonreferential themes in a score: a referential theme must have a short, distinctive opening that can readily serve as a leitmotif, and it is the leitmotif that functions as the musical analog of the proper name…. Long-winded themes, which may be appropriate for underscoring and entire shot or scene, or for providing continuity between scenes, are far less apt for use as leitmotifs.” (92) Justin London, “Leitmotifs and Musical Reference in the Classical Film Score” in James Buhler, Caryl Flinn and David Neumeyer, eds., Music and Cinema (Hanover, New Hampshire: Wesleyan University Press, 2000) PROGRAMME MUSIC DEFINITION: Ludwig von Beethoven, Symphony Nr 6, IV. “The Thunderstorm” What musical elements help to advance the “program?

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MUSIC GOES TO THE MOVIES SESSION 5 Ludwig von Beethoven, Symphony Nr 5, I. Allegro con brio ABSOLUTE MUSIC DEFINITION: MUSIC GOES TO THE MOVIES SESSION 6 “CLASSICAL” COMPOSERS and FILM

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MUSIC GOES TO THE MOVIES SESSION 7 TOP FILMS and their SCORES – you first …

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MUSIC GOES TO THE MOVIES SESSION 8 TOP FILMS and their SCORES – my turn … MUSIC and NARRATIVE MUSICAL ELEMENTS THAT ADVANCE DRAMA:

genre

character

notes

scoring

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MUSIC GOES TO THE MOVIES SESSION 9 John Steinbeck, The Moon Is Down Where would you place music in this story? What would be the character of each musical placement? Igor Stravinsky, Four Norwegian Moods What is the character of each of these four moods? Where do you think Stravinsky placed these pieces in the story?

1. Film music …

2. Film music …

3. Film music …

4. Film music …

5. Film music … from Tony Thomas, Music for the Movies (Cranbury, New Jersey: A.S. Barnes, 1973), 17.

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Dr. Glen Olsen www.glenolsen.org

973.865.3738 (cell) olsenglen@aol.com