Seattle Symphony, Rimsky-Korsakov and Alexander Raskatov, March 22, '14

There is one very large question that has been looming in my head for a long time:  Why has there been such an outpouring of music from Russia in the last 150 years?  The astonishingly disproportionate number of both composers and performers that has emerged from that vast, cold country makes me wonder about its musical heritage and work ethic.  Truthfully, this is yet another research project that will have to wait until I can give it full focus; until then, I'll just have to do the best I can with individual artists.

Last Saturday's concert at the Seattle Symphony caught my attention with the title, "Tchaikovsky's Pathetique".  It is true that I probably would have enjoyed this symphony more than the first half of the concert, but as usual, my weakness for new pieces I haven't experienced before tempted me in for Rimsky-Korsakov and Alexander Raskatov.  

Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov, who is best known to me through his seminal book on orchestration techniques, is not the most original or melodically gifted composer from his time period, in my opinion.  His artistry is certainly something to aspire to, but he has been vastly overshadowed by the great Tchaikovsky, and rightly so.  The incidental music to "The Snow Maiden" was entertaining, but insubstantial.  I remember the melodies were distinct and definite, but I don't recall a single note.  Their programmatic roles were played perfectly, but unfortunately the program itself was never meant to be anything but fairy-tale.

I was impressed with the instrumental interplay; and although I found myself thinking about Ravel's Bolero at times, the conversations in the woodwinds especially had very distinct speaking roles and conferred with one another as individuals, almost arguing, rather than passing melodic ideas back and forth.  I enjoyed the use of traditional Russian folk-songs and elements thereof, particularly the syncopated tambourine and other creative, "snowy" uses of tinkling percussion.  The suite ended with much fanfare, and that, I'm afraid, was that.  It was fun, but not extraordinary.

The evening also featured the US premiere of Alexander Raskatov's Concerto for Piano and Orchestra, "Night Butterlies".  I heard many mixed reviews from the audience afterwards; the general opinion was that it was interesting, but there weren't very many butterflies.  For my part, I found myself having very definite "I like this" or "I hate this" feelings about the various multiple movements.  For the most part, it was Bartok-school (see previous post), with a very pronounced quilted patch style (Theme 1, repeat, Theme 2, repeat, Theme 1, repeat, Theme 2, repeat).  I must admit that I have a pet-peeve against almost all post-Classical pieces that repeat anything verbatim--we are in a musical era where change and flux is a natural part of the language, where musical meaning has deviated from the court-musician model, and although I recognize just how difficult it is to write, let alone learn and perform, highly complex passages with no repetition, I think that it is more important to state and develop concrete ideas.  This is a much longer discussion that is highly subjective, so I'll move on.

True to modern classical works, there were too many effects to mention.  I deeply enjoyed the use of idiophones, as I have an aesthetic weakness for the marimba and xylophone.  For me, these tones have a certain bubble-quality that penetrates the other sounds of the orchestra, but rather than ringing solo (like the glock or orchestral bells), they meld to the other sounds and add a foreign dimension.  Another effect that was commented on more than anything else was the instruction for the pianist to sing during the last movement.  The concept seems very obvious, though I'm not sure who else has done it (another thing to research...) but I would have enjoyed it more if there were words--preferably in an Asian language.  "Ahhh..." is the choral equivalent of a full section of strings in slow counterpoint with a clarinet or horn solo over the top--it's there for atmosphere, not message; but since the pianist was front stage, I felt this effect was inappropriate.

It may sound like I'm taking a very negative stance on this concerto, but in actuality it was fairly enjoyable for its class (20-21st century "classical").  I loved the strong rhythms that came in about 1/3 of the way through, and likewise, 2/3 of the way through there was an effective use of a single, very simple melody that passed between instruments and evolved as it did so.  Although the harsh effects that were inserted between the eerie, floating parts were not enjoyable to me, I found myself considering the direct impact of contrast that they created.  But the point is that I had to think about it to enjoy it.

I'm not so sure that's a good thing.

The Tchaikovsky "Патетическая", which I missed for the most part, to my regret, made that sensation of ambivalence more certain.  I had the chance to sneak into the back for the final movement--and I was spell-bound.  I wanted to cry, yet I couldn't move.  The sheer physical power of that movement made me realize: "If it's truly beautiful, you don't have to analyze it in order to enjoy it".  I'm not saying that modern music cannot attain this standard of beauty, but I think that with the qualifications for originality that we affect ourselves with, much careful thought, and quite a lot of trial-and-error, will be necessary to grasp that high star.  In truth, this movement was written weeks before Tchaikovsky passed away; in all history, there is only one "Symphony Pathétique: Adagio Lamentoso".  How many staves of sheet music were crossed out before this sublimity was reached?  How many struggling composers have failed, so that this one exquisite work from a single man could survive and transport us heavenward?  That is the amount that will be necessary before another such work will appear.

And yet, it is the struggle, not the goal, that contains so much beauty.  A lesson for me.

Cheers,
-G

Seattle Symphony, Dvořák and Bartók, March 15, '14

Last night I went to the Symphony for Mozart; instead, I ended up lured by the prospect of Dvořák and Bartók.  Ushering at the Seattle Symphony requires a painful amount of decision-making, since I can only ever see half of the night's show.  Oh, well.

What stood out to me most about Dvořák's "The Noon Witch" was the intrinsic simplicity of melodic, harmonic, color and textural choices.   Because of the startling clarity, from the foreboding oboe birdsong in the midst of the playful pastoral theme, to the full string section in unison, clear-cut rhythmic patterns and harmonic progressions, it seemed like even the smallest error or oversight in orchestration would be glaringly obvious.  Yet there was none.  Suspense was created with time spun out, repeated phrases and everything understated, pianissimo passages effectively drawing the attention as close to the stage as possible.  After the 1st pastoral theme, a dark, stormy theme intervenes; when the pastoral theme reappears, for all intents and purposes a reiteration of what was before, the theme is eerie and ominous. The real action starts after this; in what is practically a development section, followed by an out-of-left-field bass clarinet solo (later accompanied by clarinet proper).  Add to this unique tone coloration with a tuba, and as the energy builds with the advent of the witch herself, threatening and cackling, the rest of the brass join, building to a shocking end.  I have noticed recently how much brass stands out, used effectively or not.  It's almost as if it's on a different physical plane from the other instruments.  In addition, I should mention the extensive use of percussion, including orchestral bells, used in this work; not a continual barrage of sound effects like Berlioz, but, like the rest of this work, subtly, effectively, transparently.

Béla Bartók's music does tend to all sound the same to me.  Oh, don't get me wrong, from the moment I heard "guitar" and looked in vain until I found the harp creating that deceptive tune, the thought that was incessantly running through my head was, "I love this, but I don't understand it."  Bartók has a very distinctive style, one which, like Debussy, has been copied since by overeager composition students with unfortunate results.  The violin sings directly through him, with a quality I can only describe nonderogatorily as "soapy".  What does that mean?  Waxy, suppressed, with a lot of surface area...whatever it is, that is the Bartók gypsy violin.  It crawls, buzzes; it doesn't fly or soar, but leaps and twirls with the sharp-cut grace of a modern dancer.  The violinist of the night, James Ehnes, has a very studied sort of expression--everything is clearly planned, but not quite spontaneous enough for my tastes.  His double stops were immaculate; the bent tones in the 1st movement made me catch my breath.  And, as aforementioned, I love the harpist.  And the timpanist.  You both rocked Bartók.

The end of the 1st movement made the word "virtuosity" pale and back away in embarrassment.  And a well-educated audience burst out into loud and long applause, such that at the end of the 2nd movement, the conductor (André de Ridder) swiftly moved onto the 3rd to avoid it from happening again, which I find understandable on both ends, a little sad, but mostly amusing.

The beginning of the 2nd movement reminded me strongly of Mahler, but for some reason the movement as a whole did not carry my attention.  Perhaps a second listening will cure me. I will say the the lushness of the accompaniment by the orchestra was delightful.

The 3rd movement, in addition to a lovely tongue-in-cheek dip into waltz, had some incredibly beautiful melodic elements. 

The percussion, once again, not the roller-coaster joy ride of Berlioz, but still full, detailed, and virtuosic in its own right, was an ear-fest of fastidious perfectionism.  Even such a small effect as a triangle sound had an astonishing effect; there were some effects that I couldn't even recognize; a few times I could've sworn I was hearing a piano, although I suspect it would have been more obvious if there was one on stage.  One effect that I particularly feel the need to "steal" at some point is Bartók's orchestration of snap pizzicato in low strings accented with the timpani in the 2nd movement.  The way he drew attention to the difference between snare, bass drum and timpani by having them "speak" to each other in the 3rd movement made me smile.  

In all, I can't say that I regret my decision to forgo Mozart in favor of Dvořák and Bartók...just this once.

Cheers!
-G