I must admit I have been looking forward to these next few entries for several weeks. Some of my all-time favorite music comes from Romantic-era France. Many music scholars paint a grey but significant line between “German-Style” and “French-Style” music as general categories. Even music from other countries such as Spain, Italy, the Scandinavian countries and the British Isles are fitted loosely into either one category or the other.

A professor at my own university, quoting someone else, would always joke about the difference between French and German style music being this:

German music is profoundly superficial, and French music is superficially profound.

I looked up the actual source of this quote and it is by the American composer Ned Rorem. Here are more excerpts from the preface from which this quote is taken.

“…The entire universe is torn between two aesthetics: French and German. Virtually everything is one or the other. Blue is French, Red is German…No is French, Yes is German. The moon is French, the Sun is German…If French is to be profoundly superficial, like Impressionism, which depicts a fleeting version of eternity, then German is to be superficially profound…”

Ned Rorem

It’s quite literary and perhaps a overdone, but this small joke from my professor has stuck with me and I’ve pondered it often ever since. This is indeed a great introduction to French music, since we have given it little attention here in the blog until this point.

It’s difficult not to put Monet’s hazy-lensed watercolor in the same category as nearly any French composer from the 19th century onward. Most composers assigned the title “Impressionist” hated it and disagreed with the association. Debussy didn’t like the term, and Ravel liked it even less. Besides, I hear this “fleeting” aspect to French composition in works beyond the Impressionist period in France, both before and after. It must be an independent and more timeless element, intrinsic to music only, that makes French music French.

So let’s take a chronological look at the composers who spearheaded the Romantic French sound, and get an idea of this “French” sound.

Camille Saint-Saëns

An organist, pianist, conductor and composer, Camille Saint-Saëns (1835-1921) was a busy man, his legacy being equally significant in performance as in composition. His works have snuck into modern popular culture too. If you’ve seen the movie Babe, you’ve heard Saint-Saëns as the end credits. If you have heard Carnival of the Animals (especially The Swan!), that’s also Saint-Saëns. Let’s look at a few other works of his too, and see how even “pre-Impressionist” French music had a certain unique quality from all the other music we’ve discussed around Romanic-Era Europe so far.

Danse Macabre

This work is for solo violin and orchestra, and I’m sure you’ve heard this tune at least once, if not many a time! In its short introduction and quick dance sequence it illustrates a dance with death itself. The subject matter is already that of fleeting mortality, which reflects to the “Frenchness” we discussed above, even though this was pre-Impressionism. Saint-Saëns’ draws on Spanish dance to evoke a feeling of exotic, unknown territory, and even has the violin soloist tune their instrument with a tritone between strings. This interval is jarring, and was literally associated with the devil since the Middle Ages.

The A section of the the dance is spirited and sardonic, with rhythmic excitement and loud, brassy instrumentation. The B section, meanwhile, is seductive, romantic and has almost no rhythmic motion (review of A and B themes here). This side to the Dance of Death, along with the Spanish-dance style, also gives itself away as a very “French” composition to me. Its two emotions are spritely lightheartedness and seductive intrigue, despite being about a very scary topic!

Piano Concerto no. 5, “Egyptian”

If there’s another giveaway aspect to French-style music aside from the contrast between lighthearted and sensuous character, for me this aspect would be the idea of the “foreign.” Many French composers in the 19th century were absolutely fascinated with the music of non-European cultures, due in large part to Paris hosting an annual convention to showcase global art and music from the countries in which France was colonially involved.

This piano concerto is gorgeous, so I hope you enjoy a full start-to-finish listen. The first movement introduces a very simple theme in the piano, which has skittering, fleeting scales up and down the piano and in the accompanying strings. This alternates with another more sombre theme that is also very simple melodically. This simplicity in themes is classic aspect to Saint-Saëns’ writing. The entire movement feels light, even in the subdued B theme, and melancholy is never too present. This might also be considered “French,” since meanwhile in Germany and Austria (even Italy) composers were dealing with personal, heart-wrenching subject matter or heroic operatic writing.

The second movement is the musical center of the work, and the reason for the “Egyptian” subtitle. Saint-Saëns experiments with instrumentation, range, and harmony to evoke his trip down the Nile which inspired this piece. The exciting start to the movement outlines a harmonic minor scale, which in other words is strongly associated with non-western harmony. The slower section to follow is apparently based on a Nubian love song that Saint-Saëns heard on his travels down the Nile. He uses a huge range between the left and right hands of the piano part to evoke exoticism in the cadenza-like middle section. The end of the movement is supposed to emulate the crickets chirping on the bank.

If the second movement is a meditation on the banks, listening to the songs and crickets around us, the third is a frivolous jaunt back on the boat. The low, incomprehensible beginning to the movement is supposed to be the propellors of the boat starting up again. The rest of the movement is a fun adventure; I can imagine hitting some obstacles, splashes and perhaps even a crash, as well as the fun Saint-Saëns must have had despite it all.

Earnest Chausson

Here is a composer that may be a new name for you. Even among professional musicians, Earnest Chasson (1855-1899) isn’t a household name. Had he not died tragically at the age of 44 in a bicycle accident, just as his career as a composer was taking off, Chausson’s name might well be as recognizable now as Debussy’s. It’s a pleasure to discover his music for this entry, and a shame that we have so little of what might have been.

Chausson’s music is evocative, sensuous and atmospheric, but down-to-earth at the same time. His harmonic style reminds me of some of the German composers working in this time period, such as Strauss, and this gives the sound a sense of groundedness that perhaps Debussy’s hyper-atmospheric sound lacks. Still, the language is distinctly “French” in subject matter, sound quality (muted strings, waves of sound in loud/soft contrast) and orchestration.

Poème de l’amour et de la mer, op. 19 

This is a song cycle, meaning a collection of works related in subject matter for solo singer, with orchestra accompaniment. There are two songs, separated by an orchestral interlude, which add up to about 25 minutes of music. The songs are both based on poems written by Chausson’s friend, Maurice Bouchor. Here are the poems:

As you listen to each of the songs, keep the words in mind, as they will help you hear the orchestration, harmony and even word painting that Chausson employs. The sea is a very “French” subject, signifying how small we are as people and individuals, eternity, the circle of life, and literally going with the flow. The heartbrokenness of the narrator is evident by the dark, melancholy sounds that Chausson chooses. The Interlude, for example, features a bassoon solo and cello solo, and both of these instruments are considered dark sounds. Enjoy this gorgeous work which so closely evokes the character and words of the poetry it depicts.

Piano Quintet in A Major, op. 30

Once again I get a mixed sense of “nationality” when I hear this beautiful work of Chausson. The beginning almost sounds like a folk tune from the British Isles, or even somewhere very far east of Europe. I’m very curious about this sound that I can’t place on any particular part of the world. Surely this transience is about as French as it gets, in Ned Rorem’s eyes.

The character of this quintet is entirely different from the song cycle above; the melancholy is largely gone and things sound much more similar to Debussy, who would have been in contact with Chausson as a younger colleague during this time.

The piano writing especially sounds more akin to the wide-range, harmonically nebulous writing I’m used to in the more well-known names of French music. The strings are also frequently either playing individually or in unison, so that when they do play chords together, it sounds more dramatic by contrast. This liberal use of unison and solo part writing gives a joyous, carefree character to the sound. It would become a typical technique in Debussy’s and Ravel’s chamber music, too.

The “tres calme” movement begins with a viola solo, which I certainly appreciate. Using unusual instruments to present themes is also a technique seen more in French music than in German. Perhaps French-style composers are more concerned with color than ideal range of the instrument, so being willing to showcase less-heard instruments gives them more colors to work with.. I have the impression that, in general, this is not the case for German writing, and instruments tend to be used to serve their best-sounding purpose. This means that the most audible (the highest) play tunes and the less audible are responsible for less audible roles, such as harmony or rhythm. This is a broad generalization, but having played the viola in plenty of German and French works of chamber music, I am more nervous to perform French works because of how intricate, and heavily featured, the middle parts can be.

The third movement is a “scherzo,” but even so it is still delicate, slow and refined. All of the stringed instruments are featured with melodic importance, as they were in the previous movement. Finally, the fourth movement is energetic, buzzing with excitement, and back to the style of unison playing in the strings, with chordal contrast. There is counterpoint too, but it’s mostly imitative, so it is easy to follow. The contrast of mood to the B theme is seamless, impressive for how different in character the two themes are. The themes from other movements make a return here; see if you can hear them all! Restating all of the themes puts us in a mysterious and confused harmonic place, but the first movement’s A theme comes to the rescue and takes us back to A Major in a stylish coda.

Enjoy the French Romantic sound so far; we have a long list of composers in this category left to cover next time!

Italy has a unique personality during the mid-and late Romantic period in that its compositional output is strongly associated with one particular genre: opera. Although other genres were present in Italy too, I associate Romantic-era Italy with Rossini, Verdi and Puccini. All of these composers are associated almost exclusively with opera, and they are responsible for a huge proportion of the operas most performed and recognized today. Even if you know very little about opera, whatever operatic singing you have heard is probably an excerpt from a Rossini, Verdi or Puccini opera. Today, we will pick up where we left off; Rossini had left a strong legacy in Italian opera writing and Verdi would take this style, run with it, and add even more emotion and depth. Puccini would create a new style of Italian opera altogether.

Guiseppe Verdi: an Italian Hero

Giuseppe Verdi (1813-1901) was as passionate about his country as he was about composing, and communicating this message in music was part of his legacy. Italy was a series of small city-states when Verdi lived, and he felt deeply about the need for Italy to be a unified, proud nation. In some of Verdi’s most famous operas, such as Nabucco and Rigoletto, choruses (numbers in which the entire cast sings together) refer openly to how Italy should be united and proud. Because of Verdi’s strong connection to this political cause, he is still considered a national hero. His music is played on holidays and at patriotic events.

Verdi is also a transitional figure between the Rossini-style, segmented opera format, and the through-composed methods used by Puccini later. Remember that, even as far back as our initial Baroque opera post, opera had become traditionally segmented into arias, solos for the singers, and recitative, where plot moved forward, dialogue happened, and the singers’ virtuosity and lyricism weren’t as featured.

Rossini took this to the extreme in his separation of recitative and arias (remember when Figaro stopped the plot of Barber of Seville for several minutes to brag about his barbering skills?). Verdi’s early operas carry this influence; some of the most well-known tunes in opera are from solo canzone in these operas. Canzone (literally “song” or “ballad” in Italian) are lighthearted and frivolous in contrast to the slow, lyrical aria. Here are some examples of the greatest hits you may not have realized were written by Verdi.

Rigoletto: La Donna è Mobile

You’ll recognize this famous canzone from the opera Rigoletto. The english title means “Woman is Fickle;” the tenor vents his frustration at how unpredictable and complicated women are, yet how much he loves flirting with them anyway!

The most interesting thing about this canzone is that, in the introduction, Verdi makes an unusual choice to omit the last bar of the theme and leave the audience in expectation through silence. It is a unique tactic to drive the music forward. You’ll hear this happen again in the next excerpt as well; one could consider it one of Verdi’s quirks!

La Traviata: Libiamo ne’ lieti calici

Again, you will likely have heard this famous duet many times before. It’s another wildly famous canzone that has become a stand-alone excerpt. In context, this drinking song is from the middle of Verdi’s opera La Traviata. It is a duet between Violetta, the main character, and her love interest Alfredo, shortly after meeting at a party. Alfredo’s friend convinces him to show off his voice to impress Violetta, and this is what he sings. Eventually, they both sing together, and their love story has begun.

Note that this a quite a realistic setting, literally singing to show off one’s voice. Opera was slowly becoming more of a realistic art form and Verdi’s works moved gradually toward this new style, called verismo, throughout his composing career. By listening to Verdi’s early, middle and later work, you can hear the movement from aria-recit-aria format toward a format in which the plot line takes more precedence over the format of the opera’s music. Where there are silly songs such as Libiamo, it’s likely because they actually make sense in the plot. We’ll see how Puccini takes this verismo style a step further.

Giacomo Puccini: Taking Melodrama to its heights

Giacomo Puccini (1858-1924) is another major figure in opera writing, having composed some of the other most popular operas in history such as La Boheme, Madame Butterfly, Tosca and Turandot. His operas also have many excerpts that are performed often in recitals and pops concerts, such as:

Turandot: Nessun Dorma

Sung so often by itself, few listeners know the context of Nessun Dorma. Knowing it makes the experience of listening to it much more meaningful.

A nameless prince, in love with the cold-hearted Princess Tuandot, has passed the three impossible tests required to marry her. However, she still doesn’t want to marry him. He gives her a chance to escape, saying that if she can guess his name (which she doesn’t know) by morning, she can execute him, but if she can’t, she has to marry him. She orders her servants to work tirelessly through the night to find the name of the Prince, ordering that “nobody sleeps” until it is found. The prince sings this aria while hearing all of this happen in the palace around him.

This is an example of the through-composed “Verisimo” style. The first two phrases of the aria, in which the tenor repeats “nessun dorma,” he is imitating the calls that he hears in the palace around him, reacting to his environment. His aria begins properly only after a few lines of commentary on the sounds he is hearing.

La Boheme: Che gelida manina

This aria is also fairly wall-known, but I chose to mention it not because of its fame but because it exemplifies the verismo-style writing that Puccini developed. There’s no particular place where this aria “starts” in terms of the singer standing at the front of the stage and starting the solo. He still has to say lines in a recitative-style, taking to his co-singer in stage, while the aria has already started. The first feeling of an aria-style solo is already the refrain, the most famous part of the aria, but it has already been evolving naturally out of dialogue for several minutes.

The context of this opera is that Rodolfo, a bohemian artist, meets his neighbor Mimi, a fellow free spirit, when she knocks on the door asking for a candle. She is clearly cold, malnourished and this candle is probably her only source of light and heat. Rodolfo takes pity on her and, because it’s opera, falls instantly in love with her too! In this aria, Rodolfo pities her cold hands and takes her inside, shows her around his flat and introduces himself to her.

Both Rodolfo and Mimi are poor, and the entire opera centers on the life of impoverished characters. This subject matter in itself is in the verismo style; operas previously didn’t highlight lower class as subject matter but instead told un-relatable tales of princes, aristocrats and mythological characters. Puccini’s choice to set this opera in a slum, and focus on the misery caused by poverty, was significant. In the subject matter and in the format of the music as it evolved from the dialogue, Puccini aimed to make the opera more realistic and emotionally powerful as an art form.

If you’d like to hear more beautiful opera writing, I would recommend the following clips from both Verdi and Puccini:

Verdi‘s opera Don Carlo has many beautiful standalone moments, such as this one, “Dio, Che Nell’alma Infondere Amor,” a duet. It’s not even a duet between lovers; the main character has hit rock bottom after many dubious acts earlier in the drama, and his only friend comes to encourage him to get it together and face the enemy alongside him. It’s a testament to friendship.

Puccini’s opera Tosca depicts yet another tragic love story, this time with a Romeo-and-Juliet twist of trickery and misunderstanding. Mario and Tosca are in love, but the corrupt Scarpia wants Mario dead and Tosca for himself. Tosca forms a plan to fake Mario’s execution that, unsurprisingly, ends up being a real execution. In this aria, Mario has been imprisoned and faces the (un)real execution. He seems to know the plan won’t work, and bitterly reflects on his memories with Tosca as his execution grows closer.

Scandinavia has many great composers to talk about, and these Northern countries take particular national pride in their Romantic composers. These composers took their native Norwegian, Swedish, Finnish and Danish folk song to heart and developed a sound distinct from the rest of Europe. In countries where there previously were no national “schools,” or styles, of music composition, these Romantic era composers created them. Today we will discuss two of the most famous examples of Scandinavian composition and how their music sounds distinct both from the rest of Europe and each other.

Edvard Grieg: Father of the Norwegian Sound

Norwegian composer Edvard Grieg (1843-1907) is known as the first major contributor to Norwegian classical music. He took folk melodies from his home country and incorporated them into his works, gaining a reputation for inventive harmony and lyrical, emphatic melodies. Grieg’s music is highly emotive, charged with folksy energy, and harmonically unlike the trend in Germany, Austria and Russia. The orchestration (reminder definition here) choices he makes are shimmering and atmospheric. Grieg’s fame was widespread, and he toured Scandinavia and the rest of Europe performing his works. His legacy is significant in the canon of favorite classical works, as we will hear below.

Peer Gynt Suites 1 and 2

Although Greig’s Peer Gynt was intended to accompany a play, it was so successful at its premiers alongside the play that Grieg extracted particular movements and made them into two stand-alone works for orchestra. The music’s original purpose, having to depict stage events, shines through in the colorful orchestration, sudden changes in character, and vivid dynamic range.

You will absolutely recognize some of these pieces, such as Morning and In the Hall of the Mountain King. For these and for the less familiar movements, notice things that set it apart from Brahms or other composers we’ve discussed recently. For me, the harmonies are less dense than in music written by Brahms or the Schumanns, and the cadence of some of the phrases is, similar to with the Slavic composers from last week, shorter or longer than I expect. Some melodies are quite folk-like and even reminiscent of Musical Orientalism in their cadence; this was Grieg’s depiction of the play character, Peer Gynt, traveling the world on his adventures.

Here are the movement titles:

Suite 1:

• Morning Mood: sunrise
• The Death of Åse: a lament for the love interest in the play
• Anitra’s Dance: evoking Peer Gynt’s travels to the Middle East.
• In the Hall of the Mountain King: Peer Gynt’s battle with the Troll King.

Suite 2:

• The Abduction of the Bride. Ingrid’s Lament: Peer steals a bride away at her own wedding to another man!
• Arabian Dance
• Peer Gynt’s Homecoming (Stormy Evening on the Sea)
• Solveig’s Song: The theme for the woman Peer loves, but who does not love him.

More Grieg Suggestions

Greig has many gorgeous works to choose from, so narrowing it down is difficult. I particularly enjoy his first string quartet due to its monumentally emotional quality. The first movement is almost outrageously dramatic, the second is a beautiful song, the third is a compelling and stately scherzo, and the fourth brings everything together in an almost programmatic recap of the first movement followed by a harmonically colorful, powerful finale.

Grieg knew how to write a great melody, and nothing shows this off more than his collection of Lyric pieces for solo piano. These miniatures all evoke different characters with color and imagination, all in just a minute or two each.

Jean Sibelius: Finland’s National Treasure

Jean Sibelius (1865-1957) is synonymous with Finnish music; he wrote what would become the Finnish national anthem (Finlandia) among an enormous collection of works for large orchestra, voice, small ensembles and solo instruments. Similar to Janáček, Sibelius was an offbeat personality and known for his vices, particularly the alcoholism that eventually killed him. His unique, quirky mind shines through in his music, which sounds entirely unlike anyone else’s, even within Scandinavia.

Sibelius’ music is known for its pioneering use of metric modulation, which is a gradual and smooth change of pulse to downplay the sense of pulse and crate a sweeping, landscape effect on the listener. In Sibelius’ music, you will often have trouble staying in time, tapping your foot or nodding along to the music, due to this effect. It is incredibly difficult to write Sibelius’ music down from hearing it. Sibelius also uses fantastical color in his orchestrating, switching quickly between sweeping melodies and rhythmic, almost mathematic sequences, and uses Finnish folk melodies which give a rustic character to the more cheerful passages.

Symphony no. 5, op. 82

Sibelius wrote several symphonies and they are perhaps the works for which he is best remembered. These works for large orchestra all showcase his classic rhythmic idiosyncrasies, metric modulations, and vibrant orchestration techniques. Symphony 5 is probably the most often performed. Its format is already a source of curiosity; it’s quite short by Romantic era standards at 30 minutes long, and it only has three movements.

The first movement begins with a heroic chorale in the horns, and already the rhythm is unclear to the listener. Try to tap along with the many melodies from this movement as you hear them. You will soon find it difficult to stay with the orchestra! Gradual, almost glacial movement from one tempo to another happens without the listener even noticing.

When Sibelius isn’t presenting a gradually shifting wall of sound, he is creating manic excitement with absolutely unison rhythms, such as the end of the first movement which races to the finish with unison, almost mathematical-sounding rhythm throughout the orchestra.

The second movement, although slow, has a clearer sense of pulse than the first movement’s slow section. It sounds like a simple folk melody, another of Sibelius’ favorite sources of material. The strings provide interesting, rhythmic commentary on strange, dissonant woodwind chord progressions. These harmonies sound nothing like what Brahms would have written!

The final movement takes up half of the symphony’s run time, and it contains one of Sibelius’ most famous melodies. The movement’s form is loosely based on a two-theme form (like sonata form). The strings open the movement with a frenzied tremolando (fast repetitions of the same pitch), and the next section is the famous “swan call” melody. Sibelius is said to have seen 16 swans take flight at once, and this event inspired this epic, film-score-worthy chorale in the brass and winds, accompanied by the strings. The meter is unclear and doesn’t seem to be important anyway; it is about the harmonies going by at a slow pace. Similar to the first movement, the shivering, chattering figure in the strings returns. This time it will build over the entire rest of the movement and finish with the swan call chorale again. The end of the piece, after all of the multi-rhythmic walls of sound, is starkly different: Sibelius writes several short chords for the entire orchestra to play in unison. No other composer had used a technique like this before.

More Sibelius

Sibelius has many other compelling and contrasting works to listen to. First I will suggest his violin concerto. This incredibly beautiful work could easily be used as a film score! The first movement is stirring and inspiring, the second is lyrical, and the third is a spritely peasant dance.

A new piece for me, this piano quintet was written early in Sibelius’ career and already shows his unique style. Listen for atmospheric, rhythmically off-kilter sounds, folklike tunes and very long “sentences,” or phrases, as phrases repeat and build on themselves..

Moving away from Germany/Austria, consistently a hotbed for classical-style composition, we will look today at a few examples of music from another musically fascinating part of Europe. In central Europe, Czech-speaking composers Bedřich Smetana, Antonin Dvořák and Leoš Janáček among others, capitalized on folk melodies in their compositions, as well as setting vocal compositions in their native language. Their contribution to the arts is immensely significant not only in their homeland but around the world.

Slavic-inspired music has several unique qualities that set it apart from music in rest of Europe. You will hear an unusual, “spoken” quality to melodies and rhythms. Even wordless melodies seem to be taken from folk songs that have words, and those words are not in a cadence typical to a Germanic or Romance language speaker. Harmonies are usually rich, expressive and colorful. Many pitches outside of the designated key are used. As we discuss Smetana, Dvořák and Janáček in chronological order, notice how these elements evolve through time.

Smetana: Ma Vlast (My Homeland)

Bedřich Smetana (1824-1884) was educated in music under the influence of the great programmatic composers like Liszt and Wagner who were using music to tell grand, sweeping tales. The concept of the tone poem, literally a story told in music, was fashionable, having been used by Berlioz who we discussed in regards to his Fantastic Symphony. Smetana was also living during a time of rallying for Slavic pride and heritage in his native region of Bohemia (Central, Slavic Europe). Therefore, he combined his interest in the tone poem with his pride for his homeland and made this composition, Ma Vlast.

It has six individual parts, and they all represent some aspect of Bohemia, be it a landmark, a river, a folk tale, a peasant dance, etc. The most famous is the second part, The Moldau. The idea is that the listener is traveling down the Moldau River, depicted vividly by the strings and winds at the beginning, and the listener passes a variety of scenery on their ride including a mysterious old castle, an enchanted forest and a peasant wedding celebration.

The entire work is very beautiful and worth listening to the entire way through! Its movements depict the following scenes; see if you can visualize them as they go by.

• Vyšehrad (The High Castle)
• Vltava (The Moldau River, using Slavic folk melodies)
• Šárka (a folk tale)
• Z českých luhů a hájů (From Bohemia’s Woods and Fields, a depiction of the countryside)
• Tábor (A city in Bohemia. The theme is based on a Hymn tune)
• Blaník (A Mountain. Legend says that a great army sleeps here, ready to awaken during the country’s greatest hour of need)

Antonin Dvořák: Folk Song Around the World

Antonin Dvořák is one of the most timelessly popular composers. Many of the most famous melodies in pop culture, film and individual performance are folk melodies that he set to harmony. While he may not be able to take complete credit for the melodies, he was a great orchestrator (assigning certain sounds to certain instruments to create a desired atmosphere) had an ear for harmony, and wrote interesting, idiosyncratic rhythms that imitate speech. There are several works to mention for Dvořák, so I’ve chosen just a few favorites.

Rulsalka, Song to the Mooon

You may not realize that you know this melody until you hear it. It’s performed on its own often in concert, used in movies, and has found its way into the ear of many a person without them perhaps even being aware.

This song is in fact an aria (vocal solo) from Dvořák’s opera, Rusalka. This opera tells a Slavic folk tale not unlike The Little Mermaid; a water spirit (called a rusalka) falls in love with a human prince and implores a witch to turn her into a human to be with him. This song is from the beginning of the opera, when Rusalka has seen the prince from afar and fallen in love with him. She begs the moon, which shines over them both, to bless their love and allow them to be together. She makes her vow to become human whatever the cost.

This song, as well as the rest of the opera, is sung in Czech, which is not a usual language for an opera singer to know. Singers must train to be able to sing in Czech in order to perform this opera as it was intended. The language adds an interesting element to the singing and the story, and makes the rhythms that Dvořák so often uses in instrumental parts make more sense to my ear.

Symphony number 9, “From the New World”

Perhaps Dvořák’s most famous composition, the New World Symphony is a product of Dvořák’s time in the United States. Dvořák worked for several years as director of the National Conservatory of Music in New York, and during this time he became deeply interested in Native American music and African American music. Dvořák had an African American student there who sang folk melodies to him. Dvořák got many of his ideas for the New World Symphony from a combination of his scholarly research on Native American music and these Afro-American songs. Here is a quote from Dvořák about his studies of folk music in the United States:

I am convinced that the future music of this country must be founded on what are called Negro melodies. These can be the foundation of a serious and original school of composition, to be developed in the United States. These beautiful and varied themes are the product of the soil. They are the folk songs of America and your composers must turn to them.

Antonin Dvořák

In addition to the beautiful melodies which you may already know very well, see if you can follow the craftsmanship too: The first and last movements are in a clear sonata form, the second movement is in ternary (ABA) form plus a mini-scherzo, and the third movement is a proper scherzo in ABA form (Review of form here). Dvořák manages to keep to the satisfaction of good craftsmanship while making all of his thematic material singable and highly emotional.

More Dvořák: String Quaret no. 14 in A Flat

One of Dvořák’s many beautiful string quartets. Not the most famous (no. 12, “American”), this one has all the fabulous melodies, colorful accompaniment and rhythmic excitement of no. 12 but, I think, is even better!

Leoš Janáček: A Style All His Own

Leoš Janáček (1854-1928) was, as a person, probably insane, but as a composer this sentiment made him unique and incredibly interesting. An individualist for the sake of it, he was known as a stubborn and unhesitatingly critical student, colleague and teacher. His love live was scandalous and, with obsessive one-sided pursuits of “muses,” perhaps bordering on the illegal by today’s standards. He worked tirelessly as a musicologist, composer, teacher, leader of several educational institutions, and under still more job titles all at once. His hyper-energetic and unpredictable disposition shows very clearly in his music.

This music a fascinating middle ground between romantic era sentiment and 20th century modernism. Chronologically, that is exactly where Janáček’s life falls. As you listen to his works, take note of how odd they sound, yet how they still relate to the works of Dvořák and Smetana, and the Slavic folk tradition that Janacek spent his life obsessively researching.

In The Mists: Suite for Piano

This four-movement work for solo piano is a microcosm of essential “Janáček” style. It has brooding, dark moments of repose with unexpected interjections of boisterous, almost insane activity. Regardless of whether it’s a slow or fast fast movement, whether the sentiment is jolly, melancholy or manic, his music seems to have a split personality.

In The Mists is unique just in its format; all four of its movements are a similar format and all of them are, essentially, slow movements. Somehow Janáček still manages to get contrast between the four, which in itself is impressive.

The first movement, Andante, presents two starkly contrasting characters that switch between one another with little warning. The A theme is chromatic, difficult to sing, and somehow still very beautiful. It cascades into emotional outpouring, a highly active and manic B theme, made more wild by repeated, rhythmic arpeggios. You will hear lots of this effect in Janáček’s music. This B theme melts back into the A theme to round out the ABA form.

The second movement, Andante, also begins with a more sombre section. This melody sounds more like a call with no response; it doesn’t fit nicely into the 4-or 8-bar phrases that we are used to hearing. Perhaps this is due to Janáček’s quirkiness, but it could also be a folk melody with a Slavic language cadence. This strange melody is cut off by a mysterious, atmospheric sound that says not all is well. This transitions slowly into another wild section of activity, but it’s very brief. The lopsided A theme and the atmospheric noise return to round out the ABA form again.

The third movement, Andantino, is a similar format to the previous two. Its A melody, clearly based on a folk tune, is gorgeous and the most singable of the four movements. It also is oddly cut off before it seems to be over, as if lost in thought, and it never concludes “properly” to my ear. The B section of this movement is the most related to its A section; instead of new material, it just restates the A melody in a much different mood. I absolutely love the third movement for this unity of the two sections, as well as the ending of the movement, which capitalizes on the A melody’s trailing-off quality.

The fourth movement is marked “presto,” meaning very fast, but it’s only fast by comparison to the other movements and the faster-moving notes are within a suspended, slow-moving harmonic progression. Somehow Janáček makes this feel like both a fast and a slow movement at the same time. The A theme is not very melodic at all, jumping intervals and very difficult to sing. Janacek presents it at the beginning of the movement as the right hand’s cadenza-like melody. He then develops it by playing it very slowly in the left hand, the bass line, at the high point of the movement. He ends the movement by a restatement of the opening.

If you would like to hear more Janáček, I would recommend also listening to his Sinfonietta for orchestra. It follows a similar trajectory to In The Mists, so you will be prepared for the Sinfonietta if you enjoyed In The Mists.

All of the Listening Club entries so far have focused on vocal music, and there’s a reason: music that has words is usually more accessible to the untrained ear. Word painting is a powerful technique that anyone can appreciate if made aware of it. With no words to paint, instrumental music is easy to listen to passively but difficult to make sense of on a more attentive level. It requires at least some music theory knowledge, and nobody looks forward to a music theory course when they’d just like to be entertained.

But, instrumental music is worth the work. Just as we get more out of vocal music with some contextual knowledge, the difference between passive and active listening to instrumental music is even greater.

So, bear with us. We encourage you to have some of today’s listening suggestions playing already while we get some essential theory out of the way.

Theory Crash Course Part 1: Keys, Rhythm, Counterpoint

In general, from this point forward in Western history, music will appear as being in a diatonic key, e.g. C Major or d minor. In writing, Major keys are capitalized and minor keys aren’t. Being in the key of C means that this piece of music will use the notes comprising the C Major scale— coincidentally these are the white keys on a piano. To get any other major key besides C, notes have to be altered to make the do-re-mi pattern work out correctly. This is what the piano’s black notes are for.

The human ear associates Major keys with happiness, celebration or toe-tapping on a dance floor, and minor keys with sadness, introspection and sometimes even anger, although in the Baroque period the minor keys were used for dancing too.

Our trio sonata for today is a good example of that. It’s in the key of g minor but has several moments that invite the listener to dance. There will be several changes in mood throughout the piece which we separate into “movements.” In the Baroque trio sonata this means different dance-inspired sections, some fast and some slow. They will almost always alternate within a larger work; today’s trio sonata has a slow-fast-slow-fast format.

In Two or In Three?

While the tempo (speed) can vary, rhythm in general tends to fall into one of two categories: either two beats to the bar or three. Within the general pulse of a piece of music, the brain will break what it hears into the smallest denominators—it’s no coincidence that the smallest prime numbers are 2 and 3. This concept can be difficult to describe, but the way you move to what you hear can give you a clue as to whether you’re listening in two or three. Imagine a dance in which you could waltz, either slowly or quickly, versus a dance where you’d probably move left and right equally. This general feeling of “in two” or “in three” is the biggest takeaway from today by far; while it’s a hallmark of the Baroque period, it continues to shape the western sense of rhythm throughout history going forward, even today.

Counterpoint

A general but critically important term. Simply put, more than one voice at a time is counterpoint. Even in the Middle Ages, people had harmonies they did not like, such as the tritone, which was associated with the devil. Therefore, composers had to be careful when writing for more than one voice to ensure that a tritone never accidentally occurred between the voices. Counterpoint became increasingly complex (lots of voices at once) in the Renaissance and reached a high point with J.S. Bach in the late Baroque period. Here are some of the ways counterpoint looks and sounds:

• Imitative: One voice copies the previous voice.
• Parallel: Both voices move in the same direction and the same number of pitches, so they always stay the same distance apart.
• Contrary motion: Voices move in opposite directions.
• Oblique motion: One voice stays on the same pitch while another moves up or down.

See how many of these types of counterpoint you can hear in the music we have for today, and in all music you hear from this point forward. You could easily go back to the Renaissance and earlier to apply these concepts too.

Corelli: Trio Sonata in g minor, op.1

Archangelo Corelli is best known for developing the trio sonata and the concerto grosso, two instrumental formats that would influence Vivaldi, Bach and many other great composers who came after him. Corelli was in direct competition with George Frederick Handel, as they were both highly respected court composers who were welcomed in the highest levels of aristocracy, and both served some of the same patrons.

Today’s main listening example is Corelli’s Trio Sonata no. 10 in g minor, from his collection of 12 Trio Sonatas. It is a great example of a typical trio sonata format, and has some unique points of interest as well. Its four movements are simply named by the tempo marking at the beginning of each of them. The “trio” consists of two violins and a gamba, or cello, and there is also a continuo of organ and theorbo (lute).

Here’s some analysis to keep in mind, movement by movement. First is the Grave (slow) processional in two, full of suspensions to add to the mournful tone. The continuo section generally just provides chords and baseline, but occasionally we hear the theorbo add passing tones and embellishments to the baseline, as continuo performers were given considerable freedom to add their own decoration to the notes on the page. The next section is marked Allegro and has a unique two-part format. The same music is presented in each of our essential rhythmic categories, first in two, then in three. See if you can feel the slight difference in how move or tap along with the music. An Adagio (slow) section follows, again with many suspensions. You will hear the bass move, or “walk” into several keys before the home key (g minor) is reached. The final Allegro section is a fast dance in three; flourishes of scales up and down are separated by contrasting pillars of chords.

This sonata has many classic Baroque giveaways, described more below. See how many you can hear. It’s important to mention these because they won’t go away; many of these techniques continued shaping Western music well after the Baroque era was over.

• Sequence: the same pattern played several times over, but ascending or descending in pitch. This differs from imitation in that it happens in one voice only, but imitation can sometimes be in a sequence if the conversation between voices follows a repeated, ascending pattern.
• Imitative counterpoint: Running rampant in this and most other Baroque compositions, imitative counterpoint will be most noticeable in fast dance movements.
• Suspension: The harmony changes, but one voice stays in the previous harmony a moment longer to build tension. We already saw this in the Renaissance.
• Walking bass: The voices seem to switch roles in that the upper voices hold a series of chords, probably with suspensions, while the bass voice is comparatively more active. Commonly occurs in slow movements.

If you enjoyed Corelli’s trio sonata, you’re ready to listen to the other 11 in this collection, which will have much in common with this one. You can also listen to his concerti grossi, which apply many of these rules but use a group of soloists against an accompanying orchestra (and always a continuo section too). Handel is also well-known as a master of the concerto grosso. Here are some suggestions:

You’ll hear lots of counterpoint between solo voices amongst themselves, and also between soloists and accompaniment, so two separate levels of interaction between voices. Listening to instrumental Baroque music and making sense of it is a great exercise for anyone, especially someone new to art music. Baroque trio sonatas and concerto grossi are some of the most timelessly popular genres for the general listener; St. Martin in the Fields hosts a performance of this genre nearly every other night and the hall is full and enthusiastic every time. If you can stay actively involved for the duration of Baroque instrumental work, you’ll be aptly prepared to make sense of music from eras both before and afterward.

A German composer of the mid-romantic period, Johannes Brahms (1833-1897) is known today for his humble, perfectionist personality and his straight-laced, crafted-yet-heartfelt music. He burned many of his works out of fear that anyone would discover what “awful” music he had composed, and there are stories of contemporaries and friends forcibly stopping him from destroying works that are now well-loved in the Romantic repertoire. Scholars estimate that only a minuscule number of Brahms’ works ever even made it to the publisher, and we are thankful for every single one that did.

Brahms studied Renaissance, Baroque and Classical counterpoint seriously, and his reverence of these traditions was one major factor in his perfectionism. Some of his contemporaries, such as Franz Liszt and Richard Wagner, considered Brahms’ music academic, boring and too much of the same old traditions that Beethoven had already exhausted a generation ago. While it’s undeniable that Brahms’ music sounds researched and crafted, and in the tradition of Beethoven’s, Brahms’ music manages to connect meticulous craftsmanship and refinement with humility, introversion and more romantic sentiment than Beethoven and his predecessors.

Brahms’ “romantic” sentiment is due not just to his time period but also his personal relationships, which inspired his compositions. He was close friends with the violinist Joseph Joachim, and wrote many works for him, which we will hear later in this entry. Brahms was also close with both Robert Schumann, who he considered a mentor, and Clara Schumann. When Robert was institutionalized, Brahms visited him when Clara was not allowed to. After Robert’s death, Brahms managed the Schumann family’s finances and logistics while Clara continued to perform and work for all of her surviving children.

The relationship between Johannes and Clara was deep, highly professional, and perhaps romantic, but nobody is sure. In their correspondence, Johannes revered Clara as an artist, colleague, and as an “ideal of womanhood.” Their relationship is often romanticized and is brooding question while listening to Johannes’s heartfelt compositions.

Brahms never married, but had a brief engagement in which his fiancee left abruptly and ended contact with him. He was deeply saddened, and confided in a friend that this fiancee was his last love.

Overall, Brahms had many personal relationships that had deep effects on him, positive and negative. These relationships added an extra element to his “academic” and meticulous writing, and the combination made for a truly exquisite style of composition.

Early Brahms: 4 Ballades, Op. 10

These four movements for solo piano are great examples of Brahms’ signature sound, already present despite this being early in his life and career. Like many of Brahms’ works, these pieces are dedicated to one of his close friends. These pieces were also written during Brahms’ early association with the Schumanns, and the beginning of Brahms’ lifelong bond with Clara.

Ironically, the first of these Ballades is a rare moment of programmatic inspiration for Brahms. It is based on a poem called “Edward.” Brahms would have known this poem, which has many variants, in German. However, it is said to be a Scottish legend, so Brahms added what he felt were elements of a gaelic, mythological past. These are open harmonies, meaning chords without middle pitches, and large gaps in range between the left and right hands.

The second ballade is lyrical and has a lullaby-like quality to it. It is very “Brahms” in its pleasant, calming relationship between melody and accompaniment. The contrasting section is boisterous, masculine and energetic.

The third ballade is a scherzo. Brahms played these pieces for Robert Schumann while in the asylum, and Schumann particularly loved this movement for its wild, exciting quality that perhaps he didn’t know Brahms had in him!

The final ballade has the most mystery to me, and it is nearly three times as long as the other three. It seems to be a wrestling with complicated, upsetting emotions. Its form is interesting because it does not end in B Major, as it begins, but in b minor. Brahms, already a strong proponent of counterpoint, form and all the rules, doesn’t even bother returning to the right key at the end of this ballade. Why? Perhaps it was too exhausting to do so; to me this inability to get back home to the happier key adds a strong element of emotional pain. Robert was dying and Johannes was (probably) in love with his wife. Not a happy state to be in.

Middle Brahms: Schicksalslied, op. 54

In addition to writing about old favorites, I have enjoyed discovering new pieces while writing this blog. I’m amazed that despite playing classical concerts professionally, there are still works by composers as well-programmed as Brahms that I’ve never heard. This single-movement choral work is one of them, and I’m very happy to have found it.

I wanted to include choral music in the Brahms post because he is well-remembered for choral works such as Ein Deutsches Requiem (A German Requiem), in which he takes the then-traditional Requiem text and sets it in his native language instead of Latin. That is a great piece, too, and it deserves many listens, but why not have a new piece for both you and I?

This Schucksalslied (Song of Destiny) follows a poem of the same title by the author Friedrich Hölderlin. Here is the text:

Take note that the first two-thirds of the poem are serene, optimistic and celestial. The last third is very grim. This gave Brahms issues while writing the piece; originally he considered having a full repeat of the beginning, an ABA form with the B portion being the grim reality, sandwiched between happier thoughts. He didn’t want to nullify the sentiment of the poem, which did end with the grimness, so in typical Brahms fashion he refused to publish the work and gave up on it for a few years.

He went back at the suggestion of conductor Hermann Levi, who would conduct the premiere of this piece once it was finished. The suggestion was a repeat not of the entire first section, but just the orchestral prelude. Brahms decided on this, and copied the gorgeous orchestral beginning again after the terrifying B section. He transferred the material into a new key, C major, and added even more richness to the harmonies.

It’s interesting that the last words the choir sing are, unsettlingly, the end of the poem, true to the text. The last sounds we hear are gorgeously calm, uplifting and peaceful. Brahms ended up with a thought-provoking and satisfyingly structured work indeed!

Late Brahms: Double Concerto, op. 102

Brahms became estranged from his lifelong friend, violinist Joseph Joachim, when Joachim went through a divorce with his wife and Brahms took her side in proceedings. Brahms wanted to repair their friendship, and he also had a commission for a new concerto. Having already written a stunning violin concerto and not wanting to be compared to himself with the same format, Brahms made use of his opportunity, writing this double concerto for violin and cello. It was dedicated to, and performed by, Joachim and Brahms’ other close colleague, cellist Robert Hausmann.

Brahms had written two sonatas each for violin and cello, and a concerto for violin, all of which are fabulously written and well-loved today. Still, he was worried about writing for instruments that weren’t his own (the piano), so this piece gave him a considerable amount of stress. Brahms had high ambitions for it, even making use of an inside jokes at a foundational level. Joachim had a motto, Frei aber einsam (free but lonely), and Brahms enjoyed using the pitches F-A-E as significant motives in works dedicated to Joachim. This double concerto uses these pitches immediately as the opening motive of the first movement, and the motive appears in more hidden places throughout the rest of the piece.

The movements alternate in a fast-slow-fast succession. The first movement is in classic sonata form (What’s that? Click here). The second movement is beautiful, lyrical and features the signature Brahms rhythmic figure: both 2 and 3 at the same time. Listen for a heartbeat-like figure, both douple and triple rhythms superimposed, usually in the accompaniment. (Need a refresher of douple and triple rhythm? Click here) This figure can be found in nearly all of Brahms’ slow movements; it was one of his favorite effects. The third movement is a lilting, folk dance-inspired theme and variations. Offbeat accompaniment gives an almost pedantic heaviness, and this seriousness is carried over through all of the variations. The piece ends with a massive-scale statement of one of the more positive variations.

I particularly love the harmonies in the second and third movements of this piece. It wasn’t well-received at its premiers, but respect for it has grown considerably and it’s now performed often. It evidently did its job of ensuring that all three parties became friends again; Brahms conducted several performances during this piece’s premiere year, all of which had Joachim and Hausmann as soloists.

More Brahms: Chamber Music Suggestions

Brahms has much, much more to offer any interested listeners. Here is an abridged list of smaller-scale works that deserve as much attention as Brahms’ Symphonies, concerti and choral works.

Piano Quartet no. 1 in g Minor, op. 25

String Quartet no. 3 in B Flat Major, op. 67

Clarinet (or viola!) Sonata no. 2 in E Fat, op 120

One of Brahms’ last works, also written for a friend. He did the viola transcription himself, which he thought “clumsy,” but that hasn’t stopped it from becoming a staple in both clarinet and viola recital repertoire. Which do you prefer?

After our week in Russia, we’ve returned to Western Europe to resume our discussion of programmatic versus absolute music. Last time we talked about this topic we saw some highly programmatic examples, so this week we will look at the other side of the debate. As a reminder, absolute music adheres strictly to rules of form, such as sonata form, and does not depict a specific story, place or person. Its beauty comes from a talented composer’s ability to stay true to “the rules” and simultaneously create something emotionally compelling. The audience is inspired to think in a narrative manner despite the music being “above” a sense of one person’s personal narrative. It is, some say, “music for music’s sake.”

One of the most musically interesting couples to have lived, Robert (1810-1856) and Clara (1819-1896) Schumann were dynamic duo of both virtuoso piano playing and composing. Their marriage was evidently one not only of love but also of artistic vision. They kept a joint diary of their artistic goals, performed each other’s music, gave criticism for each other’s compositions, and held each other to incredibly high standards of artistic merit.

Clara was one of the most respected virtuoso pianists of her time and was also a great composer, but few people know her name as well as her husband’s. The demands of 19th-century society on women, especially one such as her who eventually had several children to raise, a mentally unstable husband to support and a household to keep functional, limited her opportunities to shine as an artist.

Robert struggled with mental health for his entire life, a good example being his self-made “hand-stretching” apparatus to help him play larger intervals on the piano that eventually destroyed his hands and stopped his playing career entirely. He was eventually institutionalized with what may well have been syphilis, and died young. Clara continued performing, writing, and forging deep relationships with other now-famous names in music, such as Brahms, Joseph Jochim and others, for decades afterward.

Here we will explore the different approaches each member of the Schumann partnership had to composing music. Both composers experimented with programmatic, even nationalistic, writing too, but most of their writing was un-linked to any particular place, person or story. This will be this category of works we discuss today.

Robert Schumann: String Quartet in A Major, op. 41 no. 3

Robert Schumann wrote three string quartets, but my favorite is the third string quartet, which is light and uplifting. It’s a wonderful example of how emotionally distinct a piece of “absolute music” can be.

The first movement begins with a slow introduction that presents the main themes in a melancholy fashion. When the sonata form starts properly (the faster section), these two themes gain a two warmer, optimistic tone which persists throughout not just the movement but the piece as a whole. The sonata form of the first movement is relatively simple, but even the choice to make both themes tuneful and optimistic is interesting. The “heartbeat” rhythmic accompaniment (to the second theme) is the epitome of a romantic sound, literally depicting the most romantic of organs. This heartbeat appears in all movements; can you find it in each one?

The second movement is a scherzo, we think, but we realize soon that it’s actually a theme and variations. The “off-beat” first theme is interesting in that it’s difficult to dance along to it! The variations are vastly contrasting in character to each other. Some are romantic and melancholic, some are heavy-handed, and some are even mini-forms in themselves, such as the fugue variation. The third movement is a tender, romantic ballad. The harmony is rich with suspensions and there are clear melody/harmony roles in the voices so that the tune is always heard. Many performers will add slides, lots of vibrato, and other “romantic” sounding ornaments to this movement in particular. The fourth movement is a “Hungarian” style dance, rhythmically folklike and driven. Hungarian dances were already a popular tradition as last movements; Haydn, Mozart and Beethoven all used them often. Schumann knew this and built on that with his own compositional voice.

You can tell Schumann was deeply influenced by Beethoven (and therefore Mozart and Haydn before him), since there are dark moments and they sound similar to something Beethoven might have written a generation before. Try listening to this work alongside one of Beethoven’s string quartets and see how they sound similar, but also how Schumann’s quartet never gets quite as dark or stormy as one of Beethoven’s.

Clara Schumann: 3 Romances, op. 11

While most classical music fans have heard of her husband Robert, Clara Schumann’s music deserves as much attention if not more. Clara was in the highest circles of music alongside her husband, and long after he died. I hope you enjoy listening to her music and discovering a new composer you may not have known before!

Clara’s three romances for piano are in a similar style to that of her husband, but only in that they lived at the same time and learned from similar teachers. Other than that, she has a unique and compelling voice all her own. All of these Romances are in AB form, and do not depict a particular event or story, but the mood they create is vivid and imaginative. Enjoy them!

Romance 1 in E Flat Minor is already in a dark key seldom used by composers even today. This key requires six accidentals, or black keys, on the piano, and mellows the sound significantly. It is brooding, emotionally mature and grand. The second Romance in g minor is slightly more upbeat but still dark and emotionally compelling. The harmonies are beautifully in step with the rhythmic walking created by the accompaniment. Romance 3 in A Flat major is the only one of the three in a Major key, yet still it feels dark, searching and sombre.

What is particularly interesting is that such emotionally serious writing came out of someone, woman or man, who was only 20 years old. When Clara wrote these Romances she was under heavy pressure as a performer and in her personal life. She was in the middle of a performing tour in France and on her return she would be married to Robert, who had been arguing with her father for permission to marry her for a long time already. Clara must have been fully aware of what marriage meant for her already sparkling career as a pianist, composer and artist.

These Romances were one of the last compositions she completed before marrying. They are already gorgeous works, and the potential they show for her talent is, in a way, heartbreaking. Though she managed (somehow) to continue writing and performing after marrying, her energy was split, and it’s hard not to wonder how much more she could have written if she had the time.

Our entry next week will be about Johannes Brahms, who had a fascinating and mysterious relationship with the Schumanns. There are too many compositions by Brahms that I would like to explore here for me to include him in one post alongside the Schumanns, but you’ll want to keep the Schumanns in mind while reading about Brahms.

In the mean time, here are a couple more works by both Schumanns that I enjoy. Their instrumentation is exactly the same (piano, violin and cello), and they are both in a minor key. Therefore, we can appreciate how both composers approached writing differently with minimal variables. Which do you prefer?

Last entry focused on the Nationalism-charged, folk-inspired and Eastern-looking sounds of many Russian composers of the Romantic era. Meanwhile, Peter Ilyich Tchaikovsky (1840-1893) grew up surrounded by multiculturalism, and this would color his identity as a Russian and a composer. His mother was of French descent, and he learned German and French from his governess by the age of 6. As a young composer he listened to the music of Schumann and Brahms, studying and critiquing it. He fell in love with Mozart’s operas, Chopin’s solo piano works and other Western European sounds. He was one of St. Petersburg Conservatory’s first students, and there he learned counterpoint and harmony just as his European contemporaries did.

For the entirety of what would be a prolific and celebrated career in music, Tchaikovsky would be at personal odds with his taste for European music and his own identity as a Russian composer. Nationalistic composers had a tenuous relationship with him. Instead of picking a side, Tchaikovsky developed a distinctly personal sound somewhere in between European style and the folk sounds we heard last entry. This sound is characterized by soulful melodies, daring harmonies, repetition for dramatic effect, and huge contrast between the most tender and most bombastic of moods.

We have Tchaikovsky to thank for blockbuster ballets like Swan Lake and The Nutcracker, the pan-patriotic 1812 Overture, Symphonies, and many other gorgeous works for large and small ensembles, piano and more. Where do we start? I’ll just start with my favorites.

The Nutcracker: In the Pine Forest

Tchaikovsky’s legacy is most iconic in the Ballet repertoire. Sleeping Beauty, Swan Lake and annual runs of The Nutcracker are firm favorites that draw millions of people to theaters that might not go otherwise. As a musician in the ballet pit I know Tchaikovsky’s ballets at a perhaps uncomfortably intimate level, but each of his scores have moments that I admit I look forward to in each and every show.

We all know the Swan Lake theme, Dance of the Sugarplum Fairy and the rest of the Greatest Hits, and frankly I’ve played them enough times lately not to dwell much on this section on the entry. However, I must highlight a particular, lower-profile movement of the Nutcracker that is my personal favorite track from any of Tchaikovsky’s ballets.

As a pit musician I can’t see any of the actual ballet, and can only hear the score around me. Most of my love for this scene is the score itself regardless of the story, but the story that goes along with it is helpful to know.

This movement, called “In the Pine Forest,” is (apparently) a dance between Clara and the Nutcracker Prince. After a battle with the mouse king during which the Nutcracker becomes a prince, Clara and the now-prince have escaped on a sleigh to a magical pine forest. This is their first meeting as two humans instead of a nutcracker and a human, and they have their first dance.

Regardless of the story, what I enjoy most about this scene’s score is the rich harmony and counterpoint between voices. The highest voices are equal to, not greater than, the middle and lower voices for most of this movement. Some of the most compelling moments are in the bass clarinet, lower strings, and middle voice woodwinds. Contrary motion (two voices moving exactly opposite directions) make two voices equally interesting. The harp adds atmosphere, but not as an outright soloist, and remains part of a bigger texture.

The overall trajectory of the piece is also attractive due to its bell-curve shape. Despite all of the contrary motion, a songful melody line is repeated, followable for the entire movement. It clearly builds to a high point, the high point is illustrated with unison strings, brass, percussion, etc, and at the end we hear another iteration back in a place of calm.

Enjoy this excellent and underrated movement from the Nutcracker!

Piano Concerto no. 1

Tchaikovsky loves a good scene of drama. When it comes to chords, dynamics and repetitions: the bigger, the more, the better. His first piano concerto has a larger-than-life quality as soon as it begins. As we discussed with Beethoven’s 5th concerto, it’s surprising when a concerto features the soloist immediately because usually both A and B themes are introduced before the soloist’s first entry. Tchaikovsky’s violin concerto follows this tradition and the soloist doesn’t play their first note for several minutes.

Not so with Tchaikovsky’s first piano concerto. Within just a few seconds of the stately opening phrase, the pianist makes themselves proudly known. The opening piano phrase isn’t even a melody; it’s just a series of emotionally packed chords that usher in the real A theme in the strings. When the piano finally takes over the A theme it adds repeated pitches, ornamental scales, arpeggios, and more. The ornamentation on the melody gets so verbose that the music eventually becomes a full cadenza for the soloist, as if the accompaniment gives up waiting for the soloist and the soloist takes off on their own.

This is all within essentially the opening phrase of the concerto, so Tchaikovsky has started big with barely anywhere bigger to go. Therefore, the B theme is a completely different universe of introversion, tenderness, and mysterious cycles of chords.

The relationship between these two contrasting and equally tuneful themes makes for an epic first movement, and the cadenza at the beginning was only a shadow of the emotional journey contained in the “traditional” cadenza (at the end of the first movement).

The second movement is a showcase of classic Tchaikovskian melodies; it’s easy to imagine singing them and tempting to actually do so! Enjoy the creative harmonies, the mercurial scherzo variation, and various instrumental solos included this theme and variations.

The third movement is a rondeau, so you’ll hear the A melody several times with different contrasting material in between. Each other piece of material is a classic Tchaikovsky sound; Romantic melodies, skittering chromatic-infused scales, rich string and woodwind blend, brass chorales (like a choir: instruments playing the same rhythm, together in harmony, as a main feature), athletic bass lines, and chromatic (jarringly close together) harmonies.

By now many of these technical terms should be familiar, and if they aren’t make sure to brush up on earlier entries where the older terms are explained!

The coda, or ending tag, is extended to several minutes of music and is as large-scale and heroic as you’d expect. The orchestra plays with the piano in a giant chorale presenting melodic material one last time before a frenzied, chromatic race to the finish.

1812 Overture: Let’s really listen to it

Commissioned to celebrate the Russian victory over Napoleon before Tchaikovsky was even born, Tchaikovsky wrote this now wildly famous overture with sarcasm and spite. In his own words, the overture is: “… very loud and noisy, but [without] artistic merit, because I wrote it without warmth and without love.” 

Yikes. Would he be surprised that this would become the title track for patriotism around the world? Maybe not.

The first several times I performed this overture at patriotic events, I only played the very end. As a young player I admittedly never listened to the piece since I knew it by ear. Finally I was booked to perform the entire thing, start to finish. I discovered how much I had missed before the cannons: this overture is 16 minutes long, full of interesting color, and the very beginning has some of the most beautiful string playing in the Romantic period.

The reason 1812 Overture made it onto this list is this; many people don’t know what they’re missing by never hearing the entire thing. There are great A and B themes, it’s in sonata form just like so many other overtures, and it even has a fugue!

The theme at the beginning is most important, played by violas and cellos, because of its return at the end. About 3/4 of the way through the overture, as the strings have been playing a furious, scale-based fugue for several minutes, there’s a short brass chorale (with the cannons, if used). We think, “this is it!”

But it’s a fake out. Anyone who has listened from the beginning and remembers the rules of sonata form (both themes come back at the end!) knows that one theme hasn’t been brought back yet. The scales in the strings come back, descending very dramatically downward. This evolves into a heroic brass and bell chorale (canons pyrotechnics etc), and guess what it is? It’s the theme from the low strings in the beginning. Look how much it has changed over its 15-minute journey! That is quite a bit more heroic than cutting straight at the end of the piece just for the cannons.

Everything about 1812 is indeed overkill, but somehow in the best of ways. It beings a smile to my face every time I hear it, even if it’s overplayed and ridiculous. Enjoy what even Tchaikovsky himself admitted was just too over-the-top.

Tchaikovsky’s signature compositional style won him immense popularity not only in his own lifetime (which isn’t always the case) but also one of the most significant positive legacies in popular opinion of classical music. Thank you, Tchaikovsky, for encouraging so many people to love music!