Another fascinating work today by a composer whose work I’d never heard before: Zhu Jian’er, a Chinese composer who lived from 1922 to 2017. Judging by this piece, I need to hear a lot more of his work. A particular subgenre of classical music that I tend to love a great deal is the intersection of Western and Asian music, when Asian composers write music that blends compositional techniques, thematic material, tonalities, and instruments from both “worlds”. There’s something about the skilled and convincing synthesis of disparate artistic traditions that always excites me.
(This kind of approach to making art, in any form, can easily go awry if the non-native tradition isn’t treated fully and equally with respect as a tradition of its own; this is, I suspect, a part of where what we now call “cultural appropriation” starts. But I digress….)
This work is a four-movement suite called Fisherman’s Ballade Suite No. 1, and it deftly blends the pentatonic sound of Chinese folk music with the kinds of orchestral color that typify French Impressionism. The work sounds almost Ravelian at times, and is thus deeply evocative of a land of seas and rivers. I don’t know if the work quotes a specific folk song, a particular ballad that might be sung by the fisherman of the Yellow or Yangtze Rivers as they cast their nets, but it’s not hard to hear that kind of thing in the piece. In truth, I haven’t been able to find much specific information about this work’s background at all, but that’s not always a bad thing: it forces us to come to a work entirely on its own terms.
Here is Fisherman’s Ballade Suite No. 1 by Zhu Jian’er.
From what I’ve read, Qigang Chen (b. 1951) is one of the most performed of contemporary composers…and to my knowledge, I had never heard his music before YouTube served up his single-movement piano concerto, Er Huang, via its sometimes incomprehensible algorithm. Chen was born in Shanghai but eventually emigrated to France, which he calls home to this day. Er Huang is a work of serene contemplation that slowly becomes more and more openly dramatic, until it reaches a passage of almost breathtaking power before it subsides again to a peaceful, thoughtful conclusion. In the work, Chen deploys melodies from Peking (or Beijing) operas he saw as a child; the work is apparently a reaction on Chen’s part to the slow fade of Peking opera from the Chinese musical landscape.
I’ve never watched a Peking opera, which seems to me a pity; they sound like fascinating productions, combining music and mimes and stagecraft and acrobatics for something that sounds distinctly different from traditional Western opera. In addition to being a wonderfully listenable modern work, Er Huang also apparently serves as Chen’s nostalgic look back at a time that, for all its seeming strength in lasting for centuries (Peking opera began more than three hundred years ago) is now possibly fading under Western influence.
Of course, even Chen is not immune to these effects. He has, after all, written his work purely for the Western orchestra and the Western piano.
I suppose that I’m like many a classical music lover when it comes to Gustav Holst: aside from The Planets, I really don’t know much about him at all. I’m a bit better off than most, by virtue of having been in the concert band in high school and college, so I’m familiar with Holst’s two Suites for Military Band (which I should feature at some point anyway, because they’re terrific), but really, that’s about it. Holst was fairly prolific, and his work had many influences: Wagnerian opera, English folksong, Indian mythology, and more. His music, in my experience, rarely fits into a simple box, and his melodic gift is a subtle one that doesn’t always leave the listener with tunes stuck in the ear. For many reasons Holst’s output has been almost completely outshone by The Planets, which is the case with the sacred work I feature today.
Holst wrote The Hymn of Jesus in 1917, not long after the completion of The Planets, and listeners familiar with the more famous work may hear its echoes in the present one. It opens with a solo trombone playing a plainchant melody, and then the work grows until Holst’s plan becomes clear. For a relatively short work–only about 22 minutes in length–he deploys a large group of forces, with the orchestra supplemented by two choirs and a female choir all by itself. He also seems to have specified that the two “main” choirs be separated spatially, I assume for sonic reasons that could really only be appreciated in live performance.
The Hymn of Jesus is solemn and meditative and at times almost ecstatic. Its musical language constantly suggests the music of the ancient church, music that predates our system of Western tuning. All the vocal work is by choir; there are no soloists here, and repeated use of ostinato passages combines with the generally “angelic” sound of the choir to give the work a largely liturgical and at the same time otherworldly feeling. This is music that suggests a cathedral, with its great stone vaults, rising all about you.
For a very deep dive into this piece, check out this article; for now, here is The Hymn of Jesus by Gustav Holst.
A very short work today! Less than three minutes, courtesy Soviet composer Dimitri Shostakovich.
In 1943 Shostakovich entered a contest to write a new national anthem for the Soviet Union. Apparently he did not win, but he was able to repurpose his material for that project seventeen years later, for use at a war memorial dedication in the city of Novorossiysk. According to what I have found on this piece, the work Shostakovich presented for the war memorial has been played continuously there ever since. Wow.
The piece is only a few minutes long, starting off quietly before building and building to a fairly thundering climax that isn’t hard to imagine being central to a patriotic tableau of some sort. I’d never heard it before today, but if you has asked me to imagine what a Russian/Soviet “Land of Hope and Glory” tune would sound like, this is what I would have thought of: a slow, stately melody of obvious nationalism that nevertheless broods.
Here is Shostakovich’s Novorossiysk Chimes (Flame of Eternal Glory).
The operas of Giachino Rossini are staples of the operatic stage, and the overtures from those operas are staples of the concert world. But even within Rossini’s well-known work, some works are more well-known than others. William Tell and The Barber of Seville are some of the best-known works of all time, including their overtures, which have enjoyed (or endured!) second lives in popular culture outside of the context in which Rossini originally wrote them. Less well-known, but still a staple of the repertoire, is Rossini’s take on the Cinderella folk tale, La Cenerentola.
La Cenerentola was Rossini’s follow-up after the huge success of The Barber of Seville, and its success was more uneven than the earlier opera’s. La Cenerentola did not open particularly well, but it grew quickly in popularlity through the 19th century. However, the style of singing its music required did fall out of favor, and thus La Cenerentola fell into relative obscurity. The opera was revived in the mid-20th century and has enjoyed stable popularity and performance ever since.
The overture is pure Rossini, starting with an air of subdued mystery before giving way to the kind of infectious energy and earworming, propulsive melody that is his hallmark. I’m always interested in how many of Rossini’s overtures don’t start with any kind of Bang!, instead starting pensively and building up their energy.
Here is the overture to La Cenerentola by Giachino Rossini.
A contemporary work today, by Belize-born British composer Errollyn Wallen.Wallen’s family moved to London when she was just two, and it was there that she grew and matured into her professional life as a prolific composer and teacher.
Composing for the orchestra is my favourite challenge, [and this] work is an especially important one for me. It is an innate human instinct to be free, just as it is a low of nature that the river should rush headlong to the sea. That is the concept behind Mighty River.
Slavery claimed the lives of countless people, but somehow my ancestors found the grit and determination to persist in spite of the conditions in which they found themselves. I dedicate Mighty River to my great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother. Though I never kner her, I am driven on by her courage in the face of dreadful dods and am inspired by her example not merely to survive, but to thrive.
I first heard this piece the other day, and it’s quite amazing. This performance by the National Youth Orchestra is quite something, and I’m discovering a keen apprecation for the music-making that comes from youth orchestras and ensembles these days. What they sometimes lack in technical polish they often make up for in an ability to make accessibile to emotional heart of a work. I’m less and less drawn to the musical restraint of maturity as I get older.
Mighty River opens with a solo horn quoting “Amazing Grace”, and then as the rest of the orchestra joins in, the piece genuinely does settle into the kind of constant flowing motion that is suggestive of a river on its way to the sea. But throughout the piece, with all its rocking and flowing rhythms, bits and pieces of other spirituals are heard, including more quotes from “Amazing Grace”. The music takes several darker, more introspective turns, but somehow it always finds its way home to that rocking ostinato, and ultimately back to “Amazing Grace” before ending on a gentle major chord. One senses the constance of Black persistence and forced endurance mirroring against the constance of the river’s motion.
This one I owe to YouTube, which served this up as a completely random suggestion based on however their algorithms work.
In 1950, conductor Arturo Toscanini had plans for a large-scale symphonic suite inspired by New York City, but he never got the project finished. Before the idea foundered, though, he commissioned a part of it from Duke Ellington, who is only one of the great jazz musicians of all time–in fact, Ellington might well be the greatest jazz musician of all time.
The result of this was a symphonic work titled, simply, Harlem. Ellington intended the work as a musical tour of Harlem, exploring its character through musical interludes and sonic pictures. The work is jazzy, obviously, but unmistakably urban in its sound, as it takes us from a bluesy beginning to bustling streetscapes to percussion dances to mournful funereal passages. It’s quite a work, and I had never heard it until YouTube’s algorithm suggested it to me.
This performance is by my own local band, the Buffalo Philharmonic Orchestra, conducted by JoAnn Falletta. Here is Duke Ellington’s Harlem.
There’s a quote by composer Gustav Holst that strongly resonates with me:
If nobody likes your work, you have to go on just for the sake of the work. And you’re in no danger of letting the public make you repeat yourself. Every artist ought to pray that he may not be ‘a success’. If he’s a failure he stands a good chance of concentrating upon the best work of which he’s capable.
Those words come to mind as I consider the work of American Modernist composer Charles Ives. For much of his life his music was completely ignored, and thus he was able to toil on his own, following his own interests and go where his own ears took him. By the time his work began to gain some renown, Ives had produced some of the more shockingly original music of the 20th century, all by following his own guiding light. Ives lived to the age of 79, but he stopped composing almost entirely in his early 50s, for reasons that have led to much speculation. He did live long enough to see his work gain acceptance, though, as he finished out his working career not as a musician but as an insurance agent.
Ives is always an interesting listen, though he unquestioningly, unhesitatingly, and unapologetically puts unusual demands on the listener. This was very much a part of his character. He once said “I don’t write music for sissy ears,” and he responded to another audience member’s distaste for a dissonant work with a caustic rejoinder: “Stop being such a goddamned sissy! Why can’t you stand up before fine strong music like this and use your ears like a man?”
I haven’t heard a great deal of Ives, but he is always fascinating and, indeed, moving. His work stands outside most of the traditions of his time: he is certainly not a jazzman, though he does incorporate popular songs here and there, nor is he exactly an atonalist, though he does experiment with alternate tonalities and things like quartertones.
The piece I feature here is a chamber work called Central Park in the Dark, and it’s one of Ives’s early works, written when he was just thirty-two. It starts as an atmospheric piece of tone-painting, but it becomes more and more raucous to the point of sheer cacophony, and we hear snatches of popular song and general noise. Of this piece, Ives himself wrote:
This piece purports to be a picture-in-sounds of the sounds of nature and of happenings that men would hear some thirty or so years ago (before the combustion engine and radio monopolized the earth and air), when sitting on a bench in Central Park on a hot summer night….The strings represent the night sounds and silent darkness – interrupted by sounds from the Casino over the pond – of street singers coming up from the Circle singing, in spots, the tunes of those days – of some “night owls” from Healy’s whistling the latest of the Freshman March – the “occasional elevated”, a street parade, or a “break-down” in the distance – of newsboys crying “uxtries” – of pianolas having a ragtime war in the apartment house “over the garden wall”, a street car and a street band join in the chorus – a fire engine, a cab horse runs away, lands “over the fence and out”, the wayfarers shout – again the darkness is heard – an echo over the pond – and we walk home.
This is what Charles Ives was composing in 1906. By way of context, George Gershwin was only eight years old at this point, and Igor Stravinsky was still seven years away from premiering the work of his that would hit the musical world like a lightning bolt of intense Modernism, The Rite of Spring.
Returning to the work of Black American composer William Grant Still today, and yet another work by a Black composer that makes me think, “Why have I never heard that before?” It’s a work of American Impressionism called Kaintuck, and from what I’ve read it’s intended to express Still’s own feelings and impressions of mist-covered blue grass meadows of Kentucky. It’s not a long work, but it packs a lot of thoughtful lyricism and introspection into its roughly ten minutes. We open with the solo piano playing a motif of leaping intervals, and then the orchestra comes in and meanders thoughtfully with the soloist before fading out with just the soloist again. It’s quite an evocative, wonderful work. So, why have I never heard this before?
As with most such cases, I’m afraid I have a pretty good idea what the answer is…or at least, what it partly involves.
Here’s a curiosity: a film music tone poem that’s actually a tone poem, and not a group of film music cues arranged into one. Composer Michael Kamen (much missed, he died too young and vibrant in 2003) scored the movie Mr. Holland’s Opus, from which this piece comes.
The movie–which I quite like–tracks something like thirty or forty years in the life of Mr. Holland (Richard Dreyfuss), a young man at the start of the film who envisions himself as a composer of serious music. He quickly finds that he’s not going to be able to support him or his wife on that at the outset, so he does the reasonable thing that a lot of people do when they figure they need something to do until they attain artistic success: he becomes a teacher.
At first, his efforts at teaching are not encouraging. He doesn’t see it as his actual job, and it shows, to the point that his students hate the drudgery of his class and he hates the drudgery of teaching them and his principal (played wonderfully by Olympia Dukakis) has to call him out on his awful attitude, saying something like “You actually beat some of the kids to the parking lot when the final bell rings.” Eventually Mr. Holland makes a turn in his teaching when he decides to employ rock-and-roll in his lessons (this is the 1960s, so this doesn’t go over spectacularly well with some folks) and when he actually realizes that a particular student who is struggling with the clarinet is trying to reach him.
Mr. Holland discovers that yes, he can teach high school music, and teach it he does, for the rest of his career: through the Viet Nam War and through his own child’s birth and through the discovery that his son is deaf and through a strange attracted protectiveness he feels toward one very talented pupil who comes along and through the inevitable budget cuts to the music program that will cost him his job in the end. He does compose through all this, and at the end of the film, the school band, along with some of the many alumni he has touched–including that unconfident clarinetist from years before, who is now Governor–sets up to perform the last minute or two of this piece. (Asking questions like why does a high school and alumni band sound so good and when did they rehearse is churlish behavior that should be swatted down with great harshness.)
So Kamen wrote this roughly nine-minute work, called “An American Symphony”, which purports to be the serious composition that Mr. Holland has been writing for all his many years of teaching. Kamen’s music is always impressive, and I miss his film music voice. He tended toward the big and the dramatic (there’s zero doubt in my mind he would have scored at least one MCU movie), and his melodies don’t always exactly leave you humming them, but they reward repeated listening and become quite familiar as you do. For this piece he even paid tribute to Mr. Holland’s breakthrough as a teacher, the realization that he could use rock-and-roll as a means to bringing the kids into more serious music, by adding the electric guitars to his orchestral palate.
It’s an interesting piece, a long-form tone poem written specifically for a movie whose central message is along the lines of “Life is what happens to you when you have other plans.” Here is “An American Symphony” by Michael Kamen, from the score to the film Mr. Holland’s Opus.
