Something for Thursday

Actor Howard Hesseman, perhaps best known (at least to my generation) as rock DJ Dr. Johnny Fever on WKRP In Cincinnati, died the other day. In a lovely remembrance post on Facebook, actor Wil Wheaton related a story that shows what a lovely person Mr. Hesseman must have been:

I also remember that one day on the set, we were sitting in cast chairs, talking, and the subject of jazz came up. I confessed that my familiarity with jazz musicians was ten feet wide and half an inch deep, but I enjoyed Miles Davis, Dave Brubeck, Chet Baker. He asked me if I had ever listened to Charles Mingus. I told him that I hadn’t hear OF him, much less heard him play music, so Howard walked to his car, which he’d driven up from Los Angeles, and came back with a cassette of Mingus Ah Um that I still have today.
“You will love listening to this while you burn through the 5 on your way back to LA,” he said.
I loved the image of burning through interstate, just setting it afire and letting it turn to ash behind you before it blew away, having served its (your) purpose. It was so much more romantic and rebellious than the reality of trudging through mile after mile of “are we there yet” and cattle yards during seven monotonous hours.
“How can I get this back to you?” I asked him.
“You won’t want to,” he said. “I’ll get another copy. Forget it.” I can still hear the glee and enthusiasm that was in his voice. He was giving me so much more than a cassette tape.
Anne, Nolan, and I listened to Mingus Ah Um on the way home, and Howard was right. We loved it. I still love it. And I have Howard Hesseman to thank for it.

I have to confess to not being terribly familiar with Charles Mingus, either, so I looked him up. I’d heard the name, but that’s about it, which is kind of a bummer, since Charles Mingus was actually one of the most important jazz musicians of the 20th century. His name is as important to jazz as Louis Armstrong, Duke Ellington, and Dizzy Gillespie.

While reading a bit about Mingus, I found that entire album, Mingus Ah Um, available online.

I honestly don’t have the familiarity with jazz to discuss it in any intelligent way at all, beyond “Hey, this is cool! I like this! It grooves!” This album is…well, it’s cool! I like it! It grooves!

I played in jazz bands in high school and college, but for some reason, despite my best efforts, I always felt like jazz was keeping me at arms’ length. There was always something about jazz, about the jazz approach and the way a musician has to think to be an effective jazz player beyond just being a decent section horn, much less being a good jazz player, that was just slightly beyond me as a musician. This used to bother me, and I would occasionally get irritated at my general inability to grasp jazz, but…well, I picture jazz itself, just standing there with its saxophone, smiling and saying, “Well, Kelly, that sounds like your problem, not my problem.”

And so it was.

In this album, beyond all the extraordinary virtuosity audible in the improvisatory work of these musicians who also have total control of their instruments, I hear harmonies of incredible complexity. Jazzfolk do things with chords that make my ear happy in that dizzy, “I’ve no idea what’s going on!” kind of way. I listen to something like the fourth track, “Self Portrait in Three Colors”, which drifts into and out of and back into ensemble playing and passages where it sounds like each player is doing something that is both entirely reliant on, and completely independent from, what the other players are doing.

I’m also struck by the tutti passages, where the whole group is playing. This album has some of the tightest ensemble playing I’ve ever heard. This is on par with what you might hear from the best string quartet playing Beethoven. Listen to the way everyone is on the same page in the first track! Amazing.

Often jazz musicians are working “on the fly”, thinking of what they want to say and how they want to say it, at the very moment they’re playing. This boggles my mind. Surely writing is partially improvisatory, you might object–and indeed it is, but even so, I have to spend long amounts of time thinking before I get around to execution. I was rather the same way in my music days, which might be a big part of why I was never able to really grasp jazz.

But you don’t always have to really grasp things, do you? I’ll likely always be unhappy with my general outsider’s view of jazz, but really, it’s perfectly OK sometimes just to say, “Hey, this is good! I like it! This grooves!”

Here is Mingus Ah Um by Charles Mingus.

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Tone Poem Tuesday

Last Thursday, in discussing Mozart, I hinted that today I’d be featuring a work by a composer whose promise really was cut short by a tragically early death.

Vasily Kalinnikov lived almost as long as Mozart did, dying of tuberculosis in January 1901, just shy of his 35th birthday. Unlike Mozart, Kalinnikov left behind a very small body of work, consisting of two symphonies, a handful of smaller orchestral works, some choral music, and a number of songs. What little we have of Kalinnikov suggests that a powerful voice in late Russian Romanticism was stilled by the tuberculosis that killed him.  He impressed many musicians of his day, including the great Sergei Rachmaninov.

Kalinnikov’s First Symphony is one of my all-time favorite works, and it’s a testament that his music still lingers on the periphery of the standard repertoire. The present work is Bylina, an “epic poem” or concert overture, and…that is literally all I’ve been able to find out about this piece. But like the Symphony No. 1, Bylina is lyrical and dramatic in the best brooding Russian way; at times it almost suggests a cinematic feel. And again, listening to this I wonder what might have come from Kalinnikov’s pen had better health and greater wealth been his.

Here is Bylina by Vasily Kalinnikov.

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Something for Thursday (Mozart’s 256th edition)

This scene from the great film Amadeus might be the best simple explanation of Mozart’s astonishing genius I’ve seen yet. In the film, there is an opening for a lucrative job for which Mozart would be ideally suited, but Mozart is a master of both spending calamitous amounts of money and burning his bridges with people he needs to impress (and usually not even realizing he’s burning those bridges). His wife, Constanze, decides to appeal directly to Emperor Joseph’s Court Composer, Antonio Salieri, for help. She doesn’t know that Salieri already loathes Mozart, despite being in utter awe of his talent. In fact, Salieri loathes Mozart because of the degree of Mozart’s talent: he sees Mozart as a profane, disgusting creature of a man, and yet it’s this profane, disgusting creature of a man that God has apparently chosen as the vehicle for a transcendent level of talent.

For this job, composers are required to submit examples of their work, and Mozart feels that his talent is so obvious that he shouldn’t have to jump through this particular hoop. So Constanze goes behind his back, and this unfolds:

I should point out that as wonderful a movie as Amadeus is, as brilliantly made and acted and shot and musically performed by Neville Marriner and his Academy of St Martin in the Fields crew, and as amazingly complex it is in its depiction of the relationship between two artists who are on different planets as far as their skill is concerned, Amadeus should not be watched as any kind of historical document. Salieri was not a mediocrity who schemed to steal Mozart’s own work as his own and who engineered Mozart’s self-destructive personality until the man went to an early grave. Nor did Salieri himself live a life of a frustrated loner who eventually went insane after decades of watching his own work be neglected. Antonio Salieri was a deeply respected musician who taught Beethoven, and by all evidence he and Mozart were friendly rivals, and that’s it.

But for this one scene, the film gets Mozart entirely right: he really was the staggering genius from whom music poured over the course of 35 short years, music that astonishes to this day with its degree of classical perfection. It’s tempting to think of Mozart’s youthful demise and think, “If only he’d lived on!” How tantalizing that is, to imagine what a Mozart who lived to see the rise of Beethoven and the end of Classicism and the dawn of Romanticism might have produced. Had Mozart lived to the same age as Haydn, 77 years, he would have lived to 1833: long enough to hear all of Beethoven’s symphonies, all of Schubert’s work, all of Weber’s, and perhaps he would even have heard the youthful works of a deeply odd composer from Paris, one H. Berlioz.

Historical counterfactuals are only interesting as thought experiments, though, and we have to ultimately console ourselves with what actually exists–and in Mozart’s case, there is nothing tragic at all about his final silencing in 1791. There are many composers whose early deaths truly did rob us of a voice that might otherwise have gone on to produce work of towering greatness, so amazing is the work of their unfulfilled youth (and you can tune in next Tuesday in this space for a citation of one such composer), but Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart is not one of them. I’m thankful that Mozart was here at all. Mozart’s music is one of the exhibits I would advance for the defense if humanity was ever put on trial and ordered to defend the value of its existence.

Here is one of my very favorite of Mozart’s works, the Sinfonia concertante for violin, viola, and chamber orchestra, K. 364. A “sinfonia concertante” is somewhere in between a symphony and a concerto, being a work featuring a soloist (or, in this case, two soloists) with orchestra, but the emphasis is more on collective music-making than in virtuoso display. As a specific form, the sinfonia concertante is mostly limited to the Classical era; Romantic composers would write “double” or “triple” concertos, depending on what their soloist needs were. The idea of reducing the focus on virtuosity and more on musical partnership between soloist and orchestra would live on, though, in works like Berlioz’s second symphony Harold in Italy, and eventually in a number of tone poems that featured soloists as “commenters” on the orchestral proceedings.

I love this work dearly…as I do Mozart. Long may he be heard and remembered!

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Tone Poem Tuesday

Every year when I watch the New Year’s From Vienna concert, there are pieces that are new to me. This makes sense! That concert draws from a big body of music, much of which is not heard much these days at all, but which was all once very popular. Once in a while, though, one of those new-to-me pieces lodges in my mind and I have to dig a bit farther into it.

The New Year’s From Vienna concerts focus mostly on the music of the Strauss family, presenting waltzes, galops, polkas, and other dance music from the height of Habsburg Vienna. Sometimes they do feature music by composers who were not Strauss family members: my boy Franz von Suppe is a common one, for example. And this year there was a waltz by Carl Michael Ziehrer, which is my focus today.

Ziehrer, it turns out, was a big name in 19th century Vienna–one of the bigger names outside of the Strauss family, actually. He was a rival of the Strauss family, developing a strong name for himself as a composer and bandleader. Sadly, his musical legacy, like many others, was doomed by the fall of the Habsburgs after World War I. Ziehrer’s work was forgotten and his earlier success disappeared entirely, and it was as a poor man that he died in 1922.

How nice, then, to see this work, a waltz of his, featured in a concert devoted to the Strauss family, but also to the larger heritage of the light dance music of 19th century Vienna, in the centenary of his death.

This waltz is called Nachtschwaermer, which apparently translates to Night Owl or The Night Revelers. I suppose it is therefore a depiction of the people who stay out until the darkest hours, trying to eke out one more drink, one more kiss, one more dance, before the lights go out. It opens with a trumpet fanfare, perhaps signaling the end of the day’s official business, and then a series of typically Viennese melodies spins out, including the orchestra singing as if engaged in a final folk tune and then whistling. It’s easy to listen to this and picture revelers, cavorting a bit drunkenly, staggering with good cheer through cobblestoned streets lit by torches as they sing the tunes they remember from the Viennese woods and hills.

Here is Nachtschwaermer, by Carl Michael Ziehrer, as performed just a few weeks ago by the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra under the baton of Daniel Barenboim.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rg8MPokT0aU

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Something for Thursday

The other day I saw this joke on Facebook and shared it:

That’s a funny bit about how easy it is to disappear oneself into a rabbit hole…plus, for an 80s kid like me, it’s a fun reference to one of that decade’s iconic pop songs!

And then a friend commented in reference to a slow acoustic version of the song.

Now, for reference, here’s the original (with the equally-iconic video, with comic-book style animation):

“Take On Me” is an 80s kind of bubblegum song: up-tempo, cheerful, and loaded with 80s synthy goodness. It’s ear-wormy as hell; everybody knows this song and it’s impossible not to hum it after hearing it.

But…that slow acoustic version. I had to hear it.

And now, so do you.

This is definitely an interesting take on the song (by the original artist!). The band, a-ha, has a reputation for being a one-hit wonder group in the 80s, but that’s only true if you think of the American pop music scene exclusively. a-ha was actually a big group in Europe for a long time. The band formed in Norway in 1982, and has been active ever since (with a few “break-up” periods here and there, never lasting for more than a few years). a-ha has recorded more than a dozen albums, and they parlayed their pop-cultural cachet from “Take On Me” in 1985 to performing the title song to 1987’s James Bond movie, The Living Daylights.

This live recording, by the way, was recorded in 2017. Thirty-two years after the original song hit MTV like a pipe-wrench through a plate-glass window. (Watch the video of the original, if you don’t get the reference.)

 

 

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Tone Poem Tuesday

What do you do when you’re a prestigious university and you award an honorary doctorate to one of the greatest composers of your time, and the composer deems to respond with a nice “Thank You” letter? Why, you tell him that won’t do, and that protocol demands that he respond with a musical offering!

And what do you do if you’re said composer and you suddenly find yourself oddly obliged to write a piece for this particular school? Why, you write a sardonically humorous concert overture that collects several drinking songs and the like.

Or, that’s what you do if you’re Johannes Brahms. And if you are Johannes Brahms, the piece you write as almost a joke still becomes–because you’re a genius and your base level is higher than that of most other composers–one of the enduring concert overtures of all time.

Here is the Academic Festival Overture by Brahms.

Brahms himself called this overture a “potpourri a la Suppe”, referring to Franz von Suppe, the composer of popular operettas and light music whose work is mostly forgotten today except for the always-scintillating (and often featured on this blog!) overtures to said operettas. The degree to which Brahms towers over Suppe is quite something to behold.

 

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Something for Thursday

Listening to SiriusXM last week, I was struck by a song I’d never heard before…or rather, a performance of a song I’d never heard before.

“Mr. Bojangles” is most famous as Sammy Davis Jr.’s “signature” song, I suppose; until the other day that was really all I knew about this song. I’m not a big Sammy Davis Jr. listener, so I’m therefore really not very familiar with this song at all. (Disclaimer: That is to say, Sammy Davis Jr. is an artist with whom I am largely unfamiliar. I’m not a big listener of his in the sense that I haven’t heard much of him, not in the sense that I don’t care for his work much. I have almost no opinion.) All I do know of this song is that it has a gently rocking kind of triple-time waltz rhythm and that it’s about a guy named Bojangles who dances.

But last week, SiriusXM’s 1970s channel served up “Mr. Bojangles”, performed by the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band. I’m not a whole lot more familiar with the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band than I am with Sammy Davis Jr., but I know that they’re a country band whose album Will the Circle Be Unbroken is one of the great bluegrass albums of all time, so this got me wondering about “Mr. Bojangles”, which I had always figured was an older song, to be so strongly associated with a Rat Pack guy like Sammy Davis Jr.

Turns out, though, that “Me. Bojangles” was written in 1968 by country singer-songwriter Jerry Jeff Walker. The song got covered a bunch over the next batch of years, but Sammy Davis Jr. really made it his song. For more on that, read this wonderful article–but for now, here’s that rendition that stopped me in my tracks, the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band and “Mr. Bojangles”.

 

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Tone Poem Tuesday

Somewhere in my online life, I saw someone recently mention Japanese composer Takashi Yoshimatsu. I don’t remember who or where, though! This is what happens when you scroll too quickly: some things make enough dent that you remember them, but try and give credit, and…nothing. So if you’re the one who clued me in, thank you!

Takashi Yoshimatsu is a Japanese composer, still living, who was born in 1953. I’ve only heard a very small portion of his work, so I’m not really comfortable describing his style, but from what little I’ve read, Yoshimatsu composes in a neo-Romantic style, preferring lyricism and harmony over modernism, atonalism, or avant-gardism. The present work is meditative and evocative, almost impressionistic in nature; its structure reminds me somewhat of Alexander Scriabin, though without that Russian giant’s wild leaps of color and range.

Ode to Birds and Raibow apparently memorializes the composer’s sister, who died in 1994. He does not call it a “requiem”, but rather an “ode to a soul at play” (credit). The work is full of complex chords and deft orchestral writing, with snatches of melody constantly coming and going, almost the way birdsong is always just there but never sounds really complete in our ears. The work is by turns gentle and passionate, but the overall emotional tone is one of warmth.

Takashi Yoshimatsu has a large body of work for exploration, and I look forward to digging into it more. Here is Ode to Birds and Rainbow.

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Random Music….

OK, it’s the 26th, which means I’m out of scheduled posts. I want to post something but I’m still too jetlagged, two days after arriving home, to really come up with something coherent (the reason why will be a post of its own), so here’s what I’m going to post: a randomly selected concerto.

I will be using random.org to roll a die. The results will determine our concerto for today.

Roll One: A violin or a piano concerto? Odd numbers: violin; even numbers: piano.

The roll: 2

A piano concerto it is!

Roll Two: A major-key or a minor-key concerto? Odd numbers: major, even numbers: minor.

The roll: 5

minor-key piano concerto it is!

OK, now the meat of it: what composer shall we hear? I’m going to pick twelve composers who have all written minor-key piano concertos, using this Wikipedia page as my source. Then I will switch from random.org to Google’s dice roller gadget (just search “dice roller” and it comes right up) to roll a d12 to determine our composer. OK? OK!

Here are our composers (this could get awkward if it turns out I can’t find the resulting concerto on YouTube, but I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it):

  1. Beethoven
  2. Amy Beach
  3. MacDowell
  4. Rachmaninoff
  5. Chopin
  6. Glazunov
  7. Balakirev
  8. Dvorak
  9. Tchaikovsky
  10. Schumann
  11. Brahms
  12. Saint-Saens

Some of these composers wrote more than one minor-key concerto…but first, let’s roll!

[clicks]

And…Glazunov!

OK, let’s see what we can find on YouTube…and, here it is. Enjoy the Concerto No. 1 in F minor for piano and orchestra, by Alexander Glazunov!

I have never heard this piece before, and in fact, as I write this I still haven’t, because I’m going to proceed with publishing this before I’ve even listened to the work at hand. That’s how I roll, y’all. I’ll give this a listen soon, but for now, I gotta go make more coffee.

Maybe I’ll randomize more music in the future….

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Your Daily Dose of Christmas!

It’s Christmas! May the day bring light and joy to you, whoever you are, wherever you are!

(I personally tend to associate Handel’s Messiah more with Easter than Christmas, but I’ve noticed the great oratorio making more of a Christmas presence in recent years. This particular performance is rather idiosyncratic, recorded in 1959 and conducted by Sir Thomas Beecham. Musical purists would likely cringe at this now, were it to be offered as something new, because the work was re-orchestrated by Eugene Goosens, a friend of Beecham’s, who wanted to record a spectacular version of Handel’s work touched up for the modern symphony orchestra in the still-new “Hi-Fi” age. The result–a Messiah for gigantic forces, with percussion that Handel would never have actually employed–is absolutely contrary to the standards of fidelity to composers’ intent and constraints of the time period that we enjoy today, but even so, the Beecham Messiah is somehow a classic all on its own, by virtue of its excesses instead of in spite of them. Anyway, there it is.)

And finally, here’s one of my favorite Christmas hymns, performed in 2012 by the talented folks at my college’s main rival!

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays, everyone!

 

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