For The Love of Music: Invitations to Listening

For the Love of Music

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For the Love of Music Invitations to Listening

MICHAEL STEINBER G and LARRY ROTHE

OXFORD U N I V E R S I T Y PRES S

2006

OXFORD U N I V E R S I T Y PRES S

Oxford Universit y Press, Inc., publishes works that further Oxfor d University's objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education . Oxford Ne w Yor k Auckland Cap e Town Dare s Salaam Hon g Kon g Karach i Kuala Lumpur Madri d Melbourn e Mexic o City Nairob i New Delhi Shangha i Taipe i Toront o With offices i n Argentina Austri a Brazi l Chil e Czec h Republic Franc e Greec e Guatemala Hungar y Ital y Japa n Polan d Portuga l Singapor e Copyright © 2006 by Michael Steinberg and Larry Roth e Published by Oxford University Press, Inc. 198 Madison Avenue, New York , NY 1001 6 www.oup.com Oxford i s a registered trademark of Oxford University Press All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, i n any form o r by any means, electronic, mechanical , photocopying , recording, o r otherwise, without th e prio r permission of Oxford University Press. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Dat a Steinberg, Michael, 1928 For the love of music : invitations t o listening / Michael Steinberg , Larr y Rothe. p. cm.

ISBN-13: 978-049-516216-5 ISBN40: 049-5162164

1. Music—Histor y and criticism . 2 . Musi c appreciation. I. Rothe, Larry . II . Title. ML160.S84 200 6 780—dc22

2005026128 987654321 Printed i n the Unite d State s of America on acid-fre e paper

An excerp t fro m thi s book , "Th e Sound s W e Make," appeare d in Symphony magazine in November 2005. Grateful acknowledgmen t i s made fo r permissio n t o us e passage s from th e following: In "Sibelius and Mahler: What More Could There Be?": From Robert Layton's translation o f Eri k Tawaststjerna's Sibelius, Volum e II, 1904-191 4 © 1986 . Reprinted with permission, The Regent s of the Universit y of California. In "On th e Trail of W. A. Mozart": From A Mozart Pilgrimage: The Travel Diaries of Vincent & Mary Novell o i n th e Year 1829, edited b y Nerin a Medic i an d Rosemary Hughes, © 1955 Novello & Co. Ltd. Effort s t o contact the copyright owners hav e bee n unsuccessful . Should thos e claimin g legitimat e copyright ownership identify themselves , the author and Oxford University Press will be pleased to add appropriate acknowledgment in future printings . In " A Short Lif e o f J. S. Bach": Fro m The Ne w Bach Reader: A Life o f Johann Sebastian Bach in Letters and Documents by Hans T Davi d and Arthur Mendel , eds., rev. by Christoph Wolff. Copyright © 1998 by Christoph Wolff. Copyright © 1966 , 194 5 by WW Norto n & Company, Inc. Copyrigh t © 197 2 by Mrs. Hans T . David an d Arthu r Mendel . Use d by permission of WW Norto n & Company, Inc . In "B . H. Haggin th e Contrarian" : Fro m Music Observed by B. H. Haggin , © 1964 by B. H. Haggin, Oxford University Press (1964), and fro m The Listener's Musical Companion, New Edition , b y B. H. Haggin , compile d an d edite d b y Thomas Hathaway , © th e estat e o f B. H. Haggin , Oxfor d Universit y Press (1991). Used by permission of Oxford University Press.

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From M.S . t o Ayla, Julian, an d Rae From L.R. t o Karen and To m And from both of us to Katherine Cummins and to Bill Bennett, whose idea it was

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Contents Introduction x

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L BEGINNINGS How I Fell in Love with Music (MS) 3 Preliminary: The Professor' s Legac y (LR) 1

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II. CREATOR S Another Word for Mozart (MS) 1 9 Thinking o f Robert Schumann (MS ) 2 5 The Sacred, the Profane, and th e Gritt y Affirmations o f Music (LR) 3 3 Franz Schubert, " A Rich Possession" (MS ) 3 9 Encountering Brahm s (LR) 4 7 Schoenberg, Brahms, and The Grea t Tradition (MS ) 5 7 First-Rate Second-Class Compose r (LR ) 6 3 Sibelius and Mahler : What More Could There Be? (LR) 6 9 Remembering Rachmaninoff (MS) 7 7 Erich Wolfgang Korngold: A Meditation (LR ) 8 3 Tchaikovsky's Mozart (and Others') (MS ) 9 3 On th e Trai l of W A . Mozart (LR) 9 9 What They Sa w (LR) 10 7 A Shor t Lif e o f J. S. Bach (LR ) 11 7 Stravinsky's Ear-stretching, Joy-giving Legacy (MS) 12 7

III. THE RECENT SCEN E

A Visit with Lou Harrison (MS ) 1 37 George Perle: Composing a Way of Life (LR ) 14 A Quintet for American Musi c (MS) 15 1

3

Contents

x

Three American Composer s in Pursuit of the White Whale (LR ) 15 A Century Se t to Music (MS ) 16 9 IV. MISSIONARIES Making America Musical : A Salute to Theodore Thoma s (MS ) 17 9 Sigmund Spaeth, Someon e You Should Kno w (LR ) 18 7 Isaac Stern—On Music and Lif e (MS ) 19 B. H. Haggin the Contraria n (MS ) 20 5 V. AFFAIRS TO REMEMBE R Loving Memories of Movie Music (LR ) 21 Vienna Trilogy : Vignettes from th e Cit y of Music (LR ) 22 3 Music, True or False (LR ) 23 1 Why We Are Her e (MS ) 23 7 VI. POSTLUDE The Sound s W e Make (MS ) 24

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Introduction With a few exceptions, thes e piece s al l appeared originally (som e in slightly different an d other s i n ver y different form ) i n th e progra m book of the Sa n Francisco Symphony, an organization with which we have been affiliate d fo r many years, L.R. since 1984 , M.S. since 1979 . Among th e progra m books o f American orchestras , th e Sa n Francisc o Symphony's is singular in that, eac h month , a section i s devoted t o a feature article of fairly substantia l length, i n which writer s can tak e on virtuall y any musical subjec t they wis h t o address . These piece s ar e aime d a t a genera l audience o f educate d readers , no t a t thos e wit h specificall y musica l backgrounds. Our inten t is to inform and even t o proselytize , our ai m to be popular i n th e sens e tha t w e wish everyon e kne w an d love d th e musi c we know and love. Over the years, we have written many of these pieces ourselves, enough o f them t o mov e th e Sa n Francisc o Symphony' s Principa l Oboist , William Bennett , t o sugges t that w e collect the m int o a book. Bil l is a fin e artist and also very smart and very funny, a good guy, someone you take seriously, and we were happy to pursue his flattering suggestion. We're grateful to the San Francisco Symphony for giving us the opportunity to write these pieces. The ide a of such a forum was that of Peter Pastreich, the Symphony's Executive Director fro m 197 9 until 1999 . Peter loves music and words. He offere d stimulu s through an inspired fusion o f encouragement an d prodding, friendly motivation , an d periodic nagging. Peter was both good cop and bad. We have tried to realize his belief that a n audience deserves to know as much as possible about the music , and deserves that informatio n in a form that offers readers not simply facts, but respect. In Peter's successor as Executive Director, Bren t Assink , w e hav e bee n fortunat e t o fin d someon e equall y committed. At a time when symphony program books are becoming a species endangered by castration, by what is now with brutal frankness called dumbing down, we have been particularl y grateful t o work for an orchestra where th e assumption is that ou r audienc e i s intelligent, inquisitive , an d eithe r imbue d with a deep love of music or deeply interested in discovering what that kind of love can mean . We thank Bren t Assink especiall y for his excitement abou t this collectio n and the graciousness and readiness with which he granted permission to reissue material originally written for the SFS. The Sa n Francisco Symphony has also

xii Introduction been extraordinarily fortunate in its music directors of the past three decades— Edode Waart (1977-1985), Herber t Blomstedt (1985-95), and Michael Tilso n Thomas (sinc e 1995) . Eac h o f these men , whil e keenl y awar e that i t i s th e music itself that mus t finally tell , i s equally aware of how words can hel p a n audience find a way into th e music. We thank the m for their involvement an d encouragement no less than for the performances through which they continu e to explore music's beautiful an d perilous landscapes. Some of the pieces that follow were written in connection with San Francisco Symphony performance s or events , an d i n preparin g them fo r this boo k we have revised and in some cases updated them. S o as not t o tie our words to a particular time and place, we have usually removed topical references, though what remains may have been suggested by the occasional nature of these pieces. For example, the article on the sacred and profane in music, written originally in connectio n with a 199 7 festival , include s reference s to work s performe d during tha t festival , bu t thos e reference s ar e no t intende d t o sugges t tha t concepts such as "sacred" and "profane" can be illustrated only by those works; just as the piece "Three American Composers in Pursuit of the White Whale" focuses on a trio (Charles Ives, John Corigliano, and John Adams) whose music was spotlighted at San Francisco Symphony concerts during November 1991 , when tha t articl e appeare d originally. Because thes e piece s wer e written a t widely scattered times, a few stories and a few observations appear more than once. When we did not eliminate these very few repetitions, it was not because of carelessness but because we felt tha t eac h serve d well in its place. Because o f thei r origin , mos t o f thes e piece s hav e t o d o wit h Wester n orchestral music . Eve n withi n th e boundarie s o f European an d America n orchestral works, we are less than broad in th e subject s we address. You will find a concentration o n music of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries . Our subject, though, is broader than the specifics suggest. The subject is music, and ho w it nourishe s ou r lives . Unabashedly, our enthusiasm s hav e colore d our judgment. We have organized these pieces in thematic groups. Authorship is identified through the initial s a t the en d of each piece . We have already mentioned a handful of those who helped bring this book into being . W e want als o t o than k ou r respectiv e wives, Jorja Fleezani s an d Karen Borst-Rothe, for the toug h love with which they read so many of these pieces, again and agai n giving new life t o the ol d truth that n o writing is ever really finished. Throughout our years at the San Francisco Symphony we have been fortunate—blessed is the better word—to work with Katherine Cummins. Katherine is the program book's managing editor, but if we left th e descriptio n at that we would have said nothing abou t her merciless intelligence, no r would we have hinted at the friendship, affection, an d completeness with which she has improve d th e qualit y not jus t o f our work , but als o of our lives . Other s whose support and help we happily acknowledge are Karen Ames, Styra Avins,

Introduction xii

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Kathy Brown, KC Congedo, Rober t Guter, Margo Hackett, Rene e Harcourt , Caitlin Hartney, Barbara Heyman, Linda Joy Kattwinkel, Ralph Locke, Garrick Ohlsson, Thaddeu s Spae , Patrici a Spaeth , Lun a Steiner , Marku s Stenz, Ja n Swafford, an d James Utz. It has been wonderful to have and enjoy the support and encouragemen t o f Sheldon Meyer, our editor a t Oxford University Press. And, also at Oxford University Press, our warm thanks for their help and support go as well to Joellyn Ausanka, Betsy Dejesu, Norman Hirschy, Patterson Lamb, and Kim Robinson. Ou r gratitud e goes to all of these, an d we extend apologie s to any we should have named but haven't. Th e roste r of those who have had a part i n thi s projec t reminds u s agai n o f how nothin g lik e thi s i s achieved i n isolation, yet we acknowledge als o that responsibility for shortcomings i n what follows is ours alone. Michael Steinberg, Minneapolis, Minnesota Larry Rothe, Berkeley, California

]une 200 5

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L BEGINNINGS

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How I Fell in Love with Music

I

fell in love with music in a murky alley when I was eleven. Sometime s I ask friend s whe n an d wher e an d ho w i t happene d t o them , an d the y recount childhoo d memorie s of hearing a beautiful cousin play a Chopin etude, o f being stunne d b y a broadcast of the Saint Matthew Passion, o r sen t into reveries lying under the family piano while Mother practiced Songs without Words. M y own fal l was less romantic . More precisely , I was seduced an d the n proceeded t o fal l i n love . I t was Fantasia, th e origina l 194 0 version , tha t did me in. I saw it just once, a t th e Cosmopolitan, a dingy movie house in Cambridge, England, and although thi s was more than sixty-five year s ago , I remember i t more vividly than most of the movies I've seen in the last sixty-five weeks. I saw it just once because as a schoolboy on threepence a week in pocket money—even i n 1940 that bought hardly anything , an d surel y no t mor e tha n hal f a movi e ticket— I couldn' t afford t o g o again . Besides , th e guardian s o f Goo d Tast e woul d no t hav e encouraged, le t alon e subsidized , a return visit . But I also realized I did no t need t o se e it agai n because th e mos t importan t par t was available fo r free . Behind th e sweet little fleabag where Fantasia was playing, there was this alley where I could stan d ever y day after school , stan d undisturbed , an d liste n t o the soundtrack of Leopold Stokowski and the Philadelphia Orchestr a playin g Bach, Beethoven, Schubert , an d Stravinsky. On a recent visi t to Cambridge I was happy to see there i s still a movie theater o n th e sam e site, but i t is now called th e Arts Theatre and is a lot cleaner .

4 FO

R THE LOVE OF MUSIC

I should have been at my desk doing my homework, but these sneak auditions were one more escapade in my fairly consistently disreputable academic career. That afternoon music fix became a compulsion for as long as it was available. At least once at that time, Fantasia even entered my dreams. I saw the erupting volcanoes Walt Disney had set to the Dance of the Adolescents i n The Rite of Spring, hear d something like Stravinsky's so bafflingly irregular choom-choomchoom-choom-choom-choom-choom-choom-choom-CHOOM-choom-m CHOOM, and woke up to the real-lif e sounds of anti-aircraft fire. Not tha t Fantasia was my first encounter wit h "classical" music. I had don e the firs t phas e of my growing up in Breslau in a cultivated, affluent , Germa n Jewish househol d wit h a Bechstei n gran d an d a goo d radi o (bu t n o recor d player, no t a n uncommo n lac k fo r the day) . My mother an d olde r brothe r played the piano, not brilliantly, but well enough to impress me, though I have no recollection o f any particular item in their repertoires . I took lessons, bu t they were deadly finger lessons , not ea r and music lessons, and so I was bored and didn' t practice . Th e radi o was rarely switched on , bu t I recall—I must have bee n eigh t o r so—m y homeroom teacher , Fra u Garbell, tellin g u s th e story of Lohengrin, which was to be broadcast that evening. I found it fascinating and frightening, this business of the glamorous and wronged princess who was not allowe d to ask her savior and husband his name, and that evening I lay on the floo r nex t t o th e bi g brown Telefunken and waite d for Lohengrin, inde x finger extended i n warning, to tell Elsa, "Me sollst du mich befragen!" —"Never may you ask me!" What Frau Garbell didn't sa y was how long it would take Wagner to get to the point, how much of tedious King Henry and his tiresome Herald I would have t o pu t u p with first , an d I never mad e i t t o th e grea t moment. I eventually caught up with Lohengrin when I was a college freshman. It was my first visit to the Met, with the aging and rather improvisatory Lauritz Melchior, Hele n Traubel, Kerstin Thorborg, Herber t Janssen , an d wit h Fritz Busch conducting hi s first performance in that house. Going to concerts i n Breslau was out because by the tim e I was old enough to be taken , publi c events o f that sort were forbidden to Jews. Not knowin g what I was missing, I was much mor e bothered b y not bein g abl e t o g o iceskating or t o th e zo o anymore. So, while ther e wa s a general sens e a t hom e that musi c was A Goo d Thing , an d a few names an d title s wer e familiar— Beethoven, Brahms , Furtwangler, Adolf Busch , Eine kleine Nachtmusik, an d Die Meistersinger prominent amon g the m an d alway s pronounce d wit h reverence—I ha d nearl y nothing by way of actual musica l sounds t o ti e t o them. Th e exceptio n wa s The Threepenny Opera, whos e premiere had take n place not quite two months before I was born. I have been told that "Mack the Knife" an d Mr . Peachum's son g abou t th e perpetua l insufficiency o f huma n endeavor, "Der Mensch lebt durch den Kopf, "both sung to m e b y my brother, were the firs t music I heard, and that "Mack the Knife" was also the firs t song I learned t o sing myself.

Beginnings 5 At te n I went t o Englan d o n a Kindertransport. Ther e I spent mos t of the year in boarding school, the rest with the highly literate, politically aware, and quite unmusical English family that had taken me in. Even so, thepaterfamilias maintained a surprising totemic reverenc e fo r two symphonies, Beethoven' s Ninth and Elgar's Second, actuall y suspending his obsessive gardening whe n they showed up on the radio , which we still called "th e wireless. " Otherwise, indifference t o music was complete. No, no t quite : I remembermaterfamilias bristling indignantl y a t a broadcas t o f something fro m Verdi' s Otello, dark comments being made about "foreigners" and "our English Shakespeare." There was an upright piano in the house, and on that I played tunes from th eOxford Book o f Carols an d a score of Th e Mikado. Oddly , I knew a few of the Sulliva n songs, though with German words, because my mother ha d see n The Mikado in Breslau around the tur n of the century. I also continued no t t o practice for a continuing series of unstimulating and unenlightening lessons . When I visited my old school, the Perse, a few years ago I was happy to see that they now have varied and flourishing musical activities, but during my time there music only meant bawling Loch Lomond, Shenandoah, an d Th e Campbells Ar e Coming for an hou r a week unde r th e tutelag e o f the pompou s Mr. Macfarlane-Grieve, and thoug h I liked th e song s themselves , tha t hardl y stretched m y musical experience. A t m y first school s i n Germany , "music " als o mean t classroo m singing, but at least there one of my teachers was Erich Werner, a real musician who went on to a distinguished career in musicology. All of this meant that I had t o find m y way to music on my own. Or, rather, it found me. Fantasia came to the rescue at the right moment, and after tha t it was a questio n o f learning ho w t o stil l m y growing hunger. I remember th e happy distraction, o r so it seeme d a t th e time , o f jazz and othe r nonclassica l music. Someone at school must have had a record player; at any rate I remember delighting in Benny Goodman, the n the most idolized musician in the world, and my excitement ove r Artie Sha w and th e sizzlin g trumpet of Harry James (also m y disappointment upo n findin g a t th e librar y at twelv e o r s o wha t unreadable books he wrote when h e calle d himsel f Henry). Jazz or classical: that was an either/or questio n in those days . You chose u p sides and went for Beethoven o r Louis Armstrong but no t possibl y for both. Part of my fun with this musi c was in th e annoyanc e tha t m y pleasure, and fo r that matte r th e music itself , cause d th e Elders of the People . I had mad e tha t fundamenta l discovery of childhood an d adolescence—that i f the grownups hate it, it can't be all bad. To avoid pleasing them to o much, I went a little bit undergroun d with m y more "serious " musical passions, but i t wa s becoming clea r t o m e where my heart belonged . I discovered record stores, which in those day s had tin y listening room s in which on e coul d tr y thos e imposing , shiny, black, dangerousl y fragile disks . (When I revisited Cambridge for the firs t tim e more than twenty years later I

6 FO

R THE LOVE O F MUSI C

wanted t o go into Miller' s to thank the m fo r what, unwittingly and probably not happily , they had done for me on my journey toward music, but I am sorry to say I didn't actuall y do it.) I began by listening t o the piece s I had com e to know through Fantasia. My favorite at firs t was The Dance of the Hours played by what on English HMV labels was called th e Boston Promenade Orchestr a under Arthur Fiedler. Next came Schubert's Ave Maria because I had so loved that gloriou s Disney hokum when the siniste r trees of Night o n Bald Mountain magically turned into th e Gothic arche s of a sylvan cathedral. Trying different recordings of Ave Maria brought the amazing revelation that sung by Elisabeth Schumann i t sounded differen t fro m th e tarted-u p Stokowski orchestration , or that th e violi n versions of Heifetz and Menuhin wer e astonishingly unlik e even though the notes were the same. Miller's was a treasure trove, and I took pains to learn th e schedule s of the variou s salespeople so that n o one of them would se e me to o ofte n an d I would not wea r out m y thinly base d welcome. Even the Goldberg Variations cam e my way there, but I had not the slightest idea of what to make of Goldberg, variations, or harpsichord. I did, however, find th e name Wanda Landowska, whom I assumed to be a man, captivatingly elegant. After Fantasia's brief stay at the ding y Cosmopolitan was over, Miller's was virtually my only source of music during the schoo l year , a long desert of no radio, no records, no concerts, no sympathy. Piano lessons were as limited and unstimulating as they had bee n i n Breslau. But ther e wer e a few memorable concert experiences. Once, my mother took me to a Mozart concert conducte d by Herbert Menges , which brough t me my first encounte r wit h the G-mino r Symphony and in which I loved most the high horns in the Trio of the Minuet.1 On anothe r occasio n I managed, by virtue of looking pitiful bu t presentable , to get someone to take me into th e Guildhall to hear Myra Hess play a couple of Mozart concertos wit h an orchestra fro m London . An d o n one o f my only two dizzyingly exciting trip s to London, I was taken t o one o f the lunchtim e concerts sh e had starte d in the National Gallery, denuded fo r the tim e being of it s greatest paintings. I t was then that I heard m y first strin g quartet, th e Zorian, who played Schubert's Death and the Maiden. Hess was in the audience , and I watched her, as they say in England, "go behind" t o thank the performers . That, too, was a good lesson. What made more of an impact than any of these was a school concert—th e only one we were ever taken to—at the Guildhall by the London Philharmoni c conducted by Anatole Fistoulari , a name older record collectors will remember. I recall three thing s abou t that hour . One i s that fo r most of the othe r kid s it was not the most thrilling event of their lives thus far. Another wa s that Fistoulari conducted Weber' s Invitation to the Dance an d explaine d t o u s how th e livel y waltz is preceded by a tender cell o solo in which we were to imagine a young I

1 hav e mor e to say about tha t experience in the essa y Another Word fo r Mozart.

Beginnings 7 man askin g a lady for a dance, an d that it is followed by a postlude, also quiet and wit h sol o cello , whic h depict s hi s escortin g he r bac k t o he r chai r an d thanking her . Therefore, h e said, we should not applau d when th e waltz ends because the little scene of the postlude was yet to come. I need hardl y say what actually happened . Th e thir d thin g wa s that th e progra m ended wit h th e Hungarian March from Berlioz's The Damnation of Faust, and Fistoulari showed us the hug e bass drum and ha d th e playe r demonstrate that , amazingly , this instrument make s its most stunning effec t whe n it is hit as softly as possible. Sixty-some years later, that still gives me goosebumps. That morning hooke d me on orchestras, and it was a crucial step onto the road that led me to spending the happies t years of my professional life working for them . And ther e was Mr. Hardacre. The Pers e School was one of two in England that had a separate boarding house for Jewish boys. Its housemaster, Mr. Dagut, was a cultured and kind gentleman, bu t he was beyond being able to maintai n order, and the task of keeping things running fell to the assistant housemaster. For th e las t yea r I wa s a t Hille l Hous e tha t positio n wa s occupie d b y Mr. Hardacre—Kenneth Hardacre , a young pipe-smoking teache r o f English. I think this may have been his first job after university . He loved music, and h e had a small radio, some books about music, and a few miniature scores. Every now an d again—an d thi s ha d t o b e manage d wit h grea t discretion—whe n there wa s something o n th e radi o h e though t I shoul d no t miss , he would invite m e into his tiny, smoke-filled room to listen to a Brahms symphony or a Mozart piano concerto. H e offered a bit of instruction an d some opinions, an d he would also press the appropriat e volume of Tovey's Essays in Musical Analysis into m y hand i n preparatio n fo r our clandestin e listenin g sessions . Th e si x slender blue volumes had a place of honor o n his overcrowded shelves. In fact, I could hardly understand a word of Tovey's essays, but I was immensely flattered by thos e loan s an d love d carryin g those book s around . T o this da y I fin d i t amazing, sometime s incredible , tha t m y own book s bea r th e sam e Oxfor d University Press imprint a s Tovey's. Later, when I was in college , equippe d wit h som e mor e backgroun d an d more musical vocabulary, I looked fo r Tovey in the librar y and, one a t a time, acquired his writings. Reading Tovey and having him before me as a never-tobe-equaled example had, I am sure, everything to do with my landing u p as a writer o f program notes i n m y fifties. Soone r o r late r I would of course hav e found Tovey anyway, but because it was Mr. Hardacre who got my unprepared self there first , I have always mentally thanked hi m for setting my foot on that path. We corresponded fo r a while after I left th e schoo l an d left England, bu t eventually we lost touch. I mentioned th e role he had played in my life in th e introduction t o m y first book , Th e Symphony: A Listener's Guide, and a littl e later tried to locate him, only to learn that he was a widower completely lost in an Alzheimer fog.

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Radio also made a huge difference whe n I was home for the holidays . Th e BBC was generous with music, live and recorded, and I discovered—an ominous sign surely—tha t lik e peopl e i n wartim e gettin g outrageou s pleasure fro m reading cookbooks ful l o f recipes calling fo r the butte r an d egg s they hardly believe they will ever see again, I could generate shudders of delight simply by reading concert listing s in the Radio Times. When I arrived at my next home , St. Louis, the radio was on in my brother's apartment—I still remember that it was Toscanini and the NBC Symphony, with Horszowski playing, of all things, the Martucci Piano Concerto . I quickly got to know how and when to find Toscanin i myself (Sunda y late afternoon), an d als o the Ne w Yor k Philharmonic (Sunda y early afternoon), the Bosto n Symphon y (Saturda y night), th e Clevelan d Orchestr a (Frida y night), an d tha t astonishin g worl d opene d u p b y th e Metropolita n Oper a (Saturday afternoon). I could still reconstruct, stick by stick, the livin g room of our friends, th e Arndts, where, bug-eyed, I heard Jan Peerce sing Che gelida manina. "Talor da l mio forziere . . . "—nothing ha d prepare d me fo r being so swept away by a single phrase of music! Two stations tied to schools—WEW a t St. Louis University and KFUO a t Concordia Seminary—offere d a n hour or so o f record s a day ; thes e wer e limited , repetitious , wit h title s an d name s mispronounced, record sides played in the wrong order (they never seemed to look whether a set was in manual or automatic sequence), and they ALWAYS stopped Brahms's Alto Rhapsody during the long silence before the final "Amen" cadence o n "sein Herz " Tha t infuriate d my mother ever y time, eve n mor e than Marian Anderson's versio n of German vowels , and sh e always supplied the missing two notes herself. Still, it added up to indispensable nourishmen t and pleasure. All thi s wa s haphazard, determined b y the tast e o f the tim e an d what by today's standard s were the exceedingl y limite d content s o f record company catalogues. I am sure that by the tim e I went t o college I had heard only one symphony each of Mahler an d Bruckner , only the mos t famou s Tchaikovsky and Dvorak , hardly any chamber musi c or songs, virtually nothing from ou r century (though someone at KFUO was very fond of Howard Hanson's Lament for Beowulf). I also remained ignoran t o f everything t o do with music except how it sounded. I scarcely knew what harmony meant, certainly had no idea of what counterpoint was, and had only the vaguest sense of the history of music. By the tim e I was fifteen I had rea d only one book about music, The Orchestra Speaks, a still absorbing account by Bernard Shore, the BBC Symphony's witty and literat e principa l violist , o f what i t wa s lik e t o wor k with th e famou s conductors of the day. Of course that made me want to be a conductor. All in all, I don't think my long-sustained ignorance did me any harm. No doubt it is best to learn what is so oddly misnamed "theory" at eleven or twelve, which is also a good age to learn languages, but i t was all right at sixteen as well. As for

Beginnings 9 history, I enjoyed it more for getting to it when I already had a sense of what some of the music sounded like, so that it was an entertaining an d often even illuminating way of reexamining and ordering material to which, in some other and more important sense, I already had a key. By no means did I just bliss out t o every musical sound that came my way. For instance, brought up as I was in a thoroughly Austro-German orthodoxy, I was absolutely unequipped to deal with Debussy. I couldn't make head o r tail of him, though t hi m a fraud , an d stil l remember—and her e to o I can plac e myself exactly in the corner armchai r in the living room at 134 1 McCausland Avenue i n St . Louis—bein g rattle d int o blin d rag e b y Nuages an d Fete s (Stokowski's recording). Mahler seemed absurdly incoherent nonsense too , as did some of the weirder patches in Beethoven's lat e quartets like the scherzo in Opus 13 1 and the firs t movement of Opus 135 . For that matter I quarreled for year s with Wagner an d particularl y Brahms. Occasional encounter s wit h moder n musi c wer e mostl y dismaying . It bothered m e that Stravinsky's Symphony in C did not sound like my beloved Rite o f Spring. Afte r a promisin g half-minute waltz a t th e beginnin g I didn' t know what t o make of the res t of Schoenberg's Pian o Concert o o n a n NB C Symphony broadcast (Stokowski lost his job for insisting on programming it), and his Ode to Napoleon Buonaparte, whos e premier e was broadcast by the New Yor k Philharmonic , wa s equall y bafflin g an d th e weirdl y singson g declamation o f Byron's text was inclined to make me giggle. Even a few years later, when I should hav e know n better, Schoenberg' s Strin g Quarte t No . 3 was unintelligibl e t o m e whe n I hear d i t a t a Kolisc h Quarte t concer t a t Princeton, an d s o was Elliott Carter' s Pian o Sonata , whic h I stumbled onto not knowing what it was, having arrived late at a concert fo r which the program had been changed . This list could now serve as the beginning of an inventory of pieces I especially love. The firs t classical album I ever bought was Debussy's Violin Sonata with Zino Francescatti and Robert Casadesus, one of the most challenging and joyous experiences of my musical life has been the opportunit y to perform th e Ode to Napoleon a number of times as well as the Sprechstimme part s in Gurre-Lieder and A Survivor from Warsaw, an d Carte r i s for me one o f the mos t exciting of living composers. Every one of my musical loves began with a strong reaction, with passion. I can thin k of plenty of examples of love at firs t hearing (als o of the occasiona l crus h I mistook for love), but I cannot forget tha t sometimes the firs t powerfu l respons e was one o f rejection. What hav e I learned? In th e alle y behind th e Cosm o I learned—happily without realizing I was actually learning something—that I did not need Mickey Mouse or those bra-clad centaurettes o r even th e beautifu l image s of darting violin bow s in th e Bac h Toccat a an d Fugu e in D mino r t o mak e th e musi c enjoyable. I learned tha t music repaid repeated listening. Mos t music anyway.

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The Dance of the Hours did not get more interesting (thoug h it continued to be fun), but th e Bac h an d th e Pastoral Symphon y did, an d Th e Rite of Spring, whose sound s I had adore d fro m th e beginning , starte d t o reveal intelligibl e and remembere d shape s and patterns . I learned t o pay attention, because if I missed somethin g i t was gone, a t least til l the nex t afternoon . I learned tha t my focus change d fro m detail s to at least something lik e the whole , fro m th e raisins to the cake. And I learned tha t there was a lot to hear in some of those pieces and that they did not ceas e to be full of surprises. I could of course not have articulate d an y of this then. One Fantasia lesson I wish I had learne d mor e quickly, but her e I was slow on th e uptake . At som e point i t was revealed t o me that Stokowski, with his cuts an d splice s an d re-orchestrations , ha d treate d Beethoven , Schubert , Musorgsky, and Stravinsky pretty damn willfully, no t t o say brutally. I grew t o be awfull y sniff y abou t this sor t of thing. I t was years before i t dawned on m e that Stokowsk i ha d ultimatel y done n o seriou s harm, tha t firs t meetin g th e Pastoral Symphony or The Rite of Spring i n his versions did not kee p me or need not kee p anyon e els e fro m eventuall y discoverin g tha t what Beethove n an d Stravinsky ha d writte n wa s even bette r tha n wha t Stokowski—o r perhap s Stokowski and the Disney people—thought the y ought to have written. Making a piece sound unintelligible o r just plain boring is a worse sin. What else did I eventually learn? To pay heed t o my first reactions but als o not t o tak e the m to o seriousl y and certainl y no t t o assum e that the y hav e permanent value . Not to think too much at the beginning an d not to think at all about what I thought I was maybe supposed to be thinking. T o be patien t or—better—suspenseful, t o wait and see how the piece or I might change (th e former i s of course a n illusion) , an d t o remembe r m y fifteen-year-old sel f i n righteous indignatio n ove r th e Debuss y Nocturnes. That in the en d th e onl y study o f music is music, that goo d progra m notes an d pre-concer t talk s ar e helpful ways of showing you the doo r in the wall and of turning on some extra lights, bu t tha t th e onl y thin g tha t reall y matters i s what happen s privatel y between you and the music. That, as with any other for m of falling in love, no one can do it for you and no one can draw you a map. That listening t o music is not lik e getting a haircut o r a manicure, but tha t it is something fo r you to do. That music, like any worthwhile partner in love, is demanding, sometime s exasperatingly, exhaustingl y demanding . That—an d her e I borrow a perfec t formulation from Karen Armstrong's memoir, The Spiral Staircase —"you have to give it your full attention, wait patiently upon it, and make an empty space for it in your mind." That it is a demon that can pursue us as relentlessly as the Hound o f Heaven. Tha t its capacity to give is as near to infinite as anything in this world , an d tha t wha t i t offer s u s i s alway s an d inescapabl y i n exac t proportion to what we ourselves give.

—M.S.

Preliminary: The Professors Legac y

W:

hen my father arrived in the United States from Germany in 1925, he was already almost thirty. He spoke no English and was a veteran of the Western Front who had fought on the losing side. He moved in with a distant cousin, Wilhelm Alvin, who lived in Chicago—where, in a red brick three-story building at th e intersection o f Lincoln, Diversey , and Racin e avenues, h e ha d founde d th e Lincol n Conservator y o f Music. I n Germany , Wilhelm Alvi n had alway s been know n as der Alvin, and in the neighborhoo d around th e Lincol n Conservator y o f Music, heavily populate d with Germa n immigrants, you might have expected he would be called the same . (Alvin: My father alway s use d the Germa n pronunciation , th e accente d A l matching th e sound of the firs t syllabl e of olive, and th e vi n sounding like veen.) But thi s was America, and here Alvin was William A. His students and their parents called him Professor. His friends called him Bill. Or Big Bill. He had girth—the photos show that—and his bearing suggests power as well. He liked to drink, claimed to have cure d himself of malaria by a steady intake o f dark rum while serving in Cuba in the Spanish-American War, and despite Prohibition kne w how to slake his thirst. His hospitality made him popular, right down to a drinking friendship with the beat cop. He must also have had a genuine streak of generosity, else he would not have sponsored my father's emigration. My father suspected that Alvin's music background was more rudimentary than the titl e o f Professor suggested . He did not recal l ever hearing him play >

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any instrument, though in the obituary Alvin would write for himself, published in the Abendpost whe n he died in 1931, he claimed to have sounded a trumpet flourish a s the Star s and Stripe s was raised a t Morr o Castle i n 1898 . A t th e Lincoln Conservator y of Music, Alvin employe d a cadre of teachers, som e of them musicians down on their luck; one, at least, was an alcoholic ex-member of Frederic k Stock' s Chicag o Symphon y Orchestra . B y planting thes e me n throughout hi s studen t ensemble , Alvi n manage d t o giv e concert s tha t convinced parent s that their children were learning the basics of a craft, if not an art. And b y relying on the professional musicians in the group to take th e lead, Alvi n stoo d o n th e podiu m i n fron t o f a n orchestr a tha t essentiall y conducted itsel f while h e wave d his arms in a soulful wa y and pretende d t o cue entrances. Maestro s more famous tha n Alvin hav e sinne d mor e gravely, and since he was not famous , I think he deserves points for being resourceful . What I relate here abou t Alvin I know only fro m storie s my father told me , thirty years after th e fact. Though m y father remembered Alvin with affectio n and humor , he mus t have though t thi s od d relative an d hi s Conservatory of Music a parody of the world in which he himself had grow n up. That world was one tha t ha d bee n forme d b y nineteenth-century music . Indeed, m y father wa s born i n th e nineteent h century , in 1897 , i n th e ol d Kaiserstadt of Goslar, at the foo t of the Har z Mountains. The househol d he was raise d i n wa s ful l o f music, al l th e time . H e wa s th e thir d younges t of twelve children, six of each gender, one of those large Victorian families presided over b y an all-but-absente e father . His father was all-but-absent because h e was the town' s overworked Musikdirektor, th e one responsible for the music at municipal functions, and a respected teache r who , with a staff o f lieutenants he employed, oversaw the musical apprenticeships of adolescent boys who also lodged wit h th e family . A t an y give n tim e durin g my father's childhood, a minimum o f twent y student s live d i n th e household . Gosla r wa s als o a community that supporte d a silver-mining industry, and the miners had thei r own band, a Bergkapelle, for which the Musikdirektor was responsible. Through my father I have inherite d an ebon y baton whos e handle end is trimmed in finely wrought silver and engraved, in gratitude, to Musikdirektor Julius Rothe. So far as I can determine, my grandfather was the genuine article. Certainly he was a differen t articl e tha n de r Alvin, o r Bi g Bill, o r whateve r h e migh t b e called—the Professo r an d founde r of the Lincol n Conservator y of Music. Music in various forms, som e more legitimate tha n others, was part of my father's family, but my father was not a musician himself. As the ninth of twelve children, h e was hardly a novelty at home. The effor t m y grandfather gave to teaching, civi c responsibilities , an d hi s own studies of the violin , piano , an d French horn must have diverted his attention fro m the cause-and-effect realities of huma n reproduction . Perhap s h e wa s simpl y bewildered b y hi s youngest children, bu t b y the tim e chil d numbe r nine appeared he was tired an d ha d

Beginnings 1

3

pretty much stopped teaching his own offspring. My father had, however, grown up hearing music and loving it, and by the tim e he was fourteen, when he was already far from hom e an d a baker's apprentice, he saved his meager earnings so that now and then he could purchase a standing-room place at the opera in Braunschweig. From his apprenticeship h e went t o war, and afte r th e wa r he returned to the Weimar Republic and the deprivations and wrecked economy of those hard years. When an older brother, Siegfried, declined Alvin's offe r t o come to America, m y father eagerly took Siegfried's place. My father' s knowledge o f music's expans e remaine d limited , ye t h e wa s always concerned tha t I be steered in a "proper" musical direction. During one of our regular pilgrimages—I must have been nine or ten—to Chicago's Lincol n Avenue shopping district, where every other store window still boasted a handpainted sign proclaiming Hier wird deutsch gesprochen—German Spoken Here— my father steered me out the door of Kuhn's Delicatessen and, while my mother shopped fo r Wurst un d Schinken, led m e down th e stree t int o a record store . There he purchased a single black disc in a brown paper sleeve. It was Mozart's Overture t o Do n Giovanni, spread over bot h side s of a 7 8 RP M disc . Gray lettering o n a blu e Columbi a labe l tol d m e tha t th e Roya l Philharmoni c Orchestra performe d this music under the directio n of Sir Thomas Beecham . Perhaps m y father though t I should b e impresse d by this, bu t I was not. A friend o f mine who is a great lover of music maintains tha t we do a disservice to children by trying to make them like works they cannot possibly understand. Such a concept, base d on what is "age-appropriate," might not b e true in all cases, but i t was for me. Don't get me wrong. Even as a kid, I loved music; it was just that my father never thought my favorites were legitimate, ranging as they did from "Re d River Valley" to "The Bunn y Hop" t o "Love Me Tender" and Elme r Bernstein's music for the soundtrac k of The Te n Commandments. My fathe r did, to his credit, tolerat e thes e musica l tastes. Periodically he nagged me about not listenin g t o the classica l canon, an d one Christmas h e even gave me three installments of the fifteen- o r twenty-volume Philharmonic Library of Classical Music, the sort of record collection tha t used to be sold at supermarkets, a new volume each week, like the Funk & Wagnalls Encyclopedia set we had accumulated over half a year's shopping at the neighborhood Jewel store. Mostly, though, h e le t m e alone, an d when I was sixteen I discovered classical music on my own. Nothing, however , ever really happens on one's own , nor did my discovery of music . I' m sur e a lo t o f pump-priming had gon e on . Leonar d Bernstei n certainly ha d somethin g t o d o wit h it . I spen t som e snowboun d Sunda y afternoons i n fron t o f m y parents ' Munt z TV , watching Bernstein' s Youn g People's Concerts, an d it was Bernstein who, more than any other figure, became associated in my mind with classical music. If someone as engaging as he could get excite d abou t it , perhap s i t bor e examination . On e evenin g I caugh t a

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glimpse of a very different kin d of TV program that my father was watching. It was some cop or detective show , and t o background music that struc k me as sublime—slow an d stately , deliberately paced an d grandios e with fanfares — the scen e unfolde d in slow motion a s two thugs, their fist s cleavin g the ai r in gestures as graceful a s those of ballet, pummeled a man i n a back alley. What was tha t music ? M y father said he though t i t wa s from Beethoven' s Pastoral Symphony. Th e nex t weekend , I was at th e recor d bin s a t Pol k Brothers , a store that sold appliances and furniture but also, for some reason, records, and the recordin g of the Pastoral Symphony I purchased was Leonard Bernstein's . Of all the recordings of the Pastoral Symphony I saw for sale that day, Bernstein's was th e onl y one tha t cam e with a name I recognized. As it turne d out , my father had been wrong, though not by much. I learned late r that th e music to which tha t slow-motio n beatin g ha d bee n choreographe d wa s the secon d movement o f the Beethoven Fifth . The Pastoral ha d it s own merits, though . And a s far as music went, I was on my way. That was in 1966 . In the nex t eightee n year s I graduall y broadened my knowledge o f basic concer t repertory—throug h recordings, an d throug h concerts. I was lucky to discove r liv e musi c during th e glor y years of Georg Solti's Chicago Symphony Orchestra. In the early 1970s, gallery seats for Friday matinees cos t students two dollars, a bargain even by that time' s standards. In earl y 1984 , I had bee n livin g i n th e Ba y Area fo r a year. I was newly married and making a scrappy living in the on-again, off-again world of freelance writing. My wife and I had started coming to San Francisco Symphony concerts the previous year (she was completing a doctorate at the University of California and wa s able t o ge t he r hand s o n a student subscriptio n series, made even more affordable b y splitting the serie s with a friend). M y first encounte r wit h the Sa n Francisco Symphony was also my first encounter wit h the orchestra' s program book. In my years of concertgoing, I had learned not t o take program books seriously. I expected bad writing, incomprehensible with jargon, leeched of joy and passio n and lif e an d beauty . In othe r words , what was in program books ha d nothing , nothin g a t all , t o d o with th e music . In ever y way, the program book I held i n my hands tha t firs t evening a t Davies Symphony Hall was different. Th e progra m notes wer e written by a man, Michael Steinberg , who had the credential tha t seem s basic to every writer of music commentary but whic h I had neve r foun d before. He wrote with grace and wit and love of music. Not since my days in front of the TV set, listening to Leonard Bernstein talk, had I run into anythin g like this . It was probably in February 1984 that I learned the San Francisco Symphony was seeking a new editor fo r its program book. Neither m y academic nor my life credential s enable d m e t o cal l mysel f a musicia n o r a musicologist . But with degrees in English and American literature , plus seven years of magazine work behind me , I thought I knew a little about publishing, so I made my case. It was a whim, inspired by one o f those moment s when you want somethin g

Beginnings 1

5

desperately, believe you are unworthy to have it, but imagine yourself convincin g those with the powe r of granting the priz e to confer it on you. I won. My job would be to edit Michael Steinberg. I was terrified. I have calmed down over the years. Michael and I have continued t o work together, and out o f our work a friendship has grown. My writing about music is in many ways a correlative to the growth of this friendship. For it was through reading Michael an d i n editing an d absorbin g his work that I began to get a new appreciation for how love of music could be translated into words. I knew before I met Michael that music had important things to say about life, but h e helped m e understan d ho w t o conside r thes e things , an d hi s exampl e emboldened m e to write about them. In a way, my own lack of formal trainin g makes me proof that th e pleasures of music are open to all, and that th e route to experiencin g thos e pleasure s begins i n th e gut . Though min e i s only on e perspective on a subject that ca n tolerat e a n infinit y of perspectives, I have tried to reach music lovers with no more formal training than my own but who might, give n suggestion s and roa d signs , discover bigge r thrill s i n listening . Music speaks to each of us, and while we will not alway s concur on the thrus t of its messages, we can agree that i t springs from a common well , as natural and unknowabl e as life. In all this, I realize now, I am following in a family tradition . I like to think that I am continuing i n the wake of my grandfather, the august Musikdirektor, but it' s possibl e tha t I a m mor e aki n spirituall y to Alvi n an d hi s Lincol n Conservatory of Music. Neither musi c nor musica l matters, however, can b e neatly compartmentalized, and one may not cance l th e other. It comes down to this . I love music . To write about it a s though I have anythin g specia l to share is presumptuous. Music, whether it comes from a hundred-piece orchestra, the smok y chambers of John Coltrane' s sax , or a steel band i n the subway , is god and goddess, holy spirit. Music can be broken down into constituent parts just as the human body can be analyzed chemically, yet, like the body, only the whole for m say s somethin g abou t divinity . I a m no t music' s servant . I a m someone who wishes to be worthy of such servitude, and for me it seems tha t writing abou t musi c is th e onl y wa y to approac h tha t foreve r unattainabl e goal. For while it is never enough to say that, because the trut h is unknowable we should no t bothe r pursuin g it, I believe tha t Alvi n i n his unlettered way was o n t o something . I am confident tha t someon e i s the happie r toda y for having been led to music by the child of a child who sat on the edge of his seat, ready with his trombone, a s Alvin gav e the downbea t t o start the American Patrol March. We use music to shape and reshape our responses to the world, just as the book s we read and th e film s w e see become part of us. In th e end , music—the orchestra , Coltrane, th e stee l band—is what we make of it, an d what we allow it to make us.

—L.R.

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IL (P*1D IE A HTiOlD Q

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Another Word for Mozart

I

n 1991, the year of the Mozart bicentennial, a friend in Germany wrote to me that even she , who had no contact wit h the world of classical music, had noticed i t was "Mozarting like mad everywhere." She asked whethe r Mozart was born or died tw o hundred year s ago, and I liked her own answer that "i t make s n o differenc e really." O f cours e th e musi c historia n i n m e wanted t o ge t on hi s high hors e an d tel l he r no t onl y tha t Mozar t died i n 1791, on 5 December, a t 12:5 5 i n th e morning , bu t als o to point ou t tha t if Mozart had been bom that year, he'd be a contemporary, more or less, of Weber, Meyerbeer, Marschner, Loewe, Schubert, Donizetti , an d such characters, an d he would have written a very different sor t of music. Which actually raises an interesting question . Assuming that he would have been just as gifted, would we love his music just as much? In other words, to what extent i s his apparently permanent an d indestructible popularit y tied to the fac t tha t he composed in that specific style we call Classical? He was born in 1756 , on 27 January, a day I bet a few ancient Germans still celebrate silentl y a s th e birthda y o f th e las t Kaiser . I remembe r 1956 , th e bicentenary o f Mozart's birth, ver y well. We too k notic e o f the anniversar y with specia l concerts , oper a productions , an d tons o f recordings . A ne w complete edition of Mozart's music was begun, and there was even a scattering of new pieces composed in his honor (no t much of moment). I was in the army that year, stationed i n Stuttgart, and I have a happy and gratefu l memory of a

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FOR THE LOVE OF MUSIC

concert wit h Car l Schurich t conductin g an d th e wonderfu l Clara Haski l as piano solois t in the beautifu l baroque theate r a t Ludwigsburg, a visually rich and acoustically exquisite room of the kind tha t must have been very familiar to Mozart. Overall, though , 195 6 was nothing like 1991 . I n thirty-fiv e years, Mozart's popularity had soared. In trying to explain that phenomenon, I slide into a n attemp t t o answe r anothe r questio n m y friend pu t t o me : What i s it about Mozart? He was a child prodigy . That's a species not held i n much regard nowadays, but Mozart, immensely gifted, and shrewdly "managed" by his ambitious father, enjoyed a phenomenal caree r for a few years. He did not have a n easy journey through adolescence int o adulthood, partly because that is never easy, but no t least because his father, himself a distinguished musician, did his best to imprison his son in childhood. (Th e "child " was thirty-one whe n th e fathe r died.) For that matter, when Mozart visited Paris in his twenties, he had cause to complain that the publi c there treate d hi m as though h e were still seven, hi s age at his first visit . And equatin g Mozart with innocence, presenting hi m a s a child, a pre-Freudian child o f course, is an idea that has never quit e gone away . But Mozar t did become a grownup, impulsive, passionate, sexual , playful , moody, affectionate , not alway s clever abou t practica l matter s o r politically adroit, and, let us not forget, incredibly hard-working. Just once he fell achingly in love, with the teenage sopran o Aloysia Weber. She was cold and indifferent to him, and he later married her younger sister Constanze. I t was a contented and companionabl e union , ful l of sex, but I don't know that he ever got over Aloysia. It is about the tim e he realized he was getting nowhere wit h her that a persistent strai n o f melancholy enter s hi s music. At an y rate, marrying the beloved's sister is probably not the best cure (as Antonin Dvof ak would discover a century later). Aloysia herself entered a fairly unhappy marriage with Joseph Lange, an actor and painter who has given us the most sensitive a s well as the most famous of all Mozart portraits. At twenty-five , Mozart managed t o get away from Salzburg , which, bu t for his posthumous glory, would still be as oppressively provincial toda y as it was in the 1770s . He took the plunge and established himself in Vienna as a freelance artist. He woul d have preferre d the securit y of a well-paid position a t court , but that never cam e along, at least not on an adequate scale. Nonetheless, i n his firs t fe w years in Vienn a h e onc e agai n enjoye d stunnin g succes s a s a composer, pianist, an d teacher . Thoug h local , i t was a popularity so dizzying that it could no t b e sustained. Th e trul y musical public stayed with Mozart, but som e of his audience consiste d o f people who valued him less as an artis t than as the currently fashionable sensation, an d they lost interest . In the second hal f of the 1780 s he experienced a slump. He wrote only two piano concertos afte r 178 6 and no symphonies after the summer of 1788. That is indicative, for then composers always wrote in response to demand. In 179 1

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he foun d a new audienc e wit h The Magic Flute, produced not a t a n elegan t house i n th e city , but i n a suburba n musical comedy theater . Seve n week s later, ill , overworked , depressed , convince d a t moment s tha t h e ha d bee n poisoned, strugglin g to compos e a Requie m fo r whic h h e ha d receive d a mysteriously anonymous commission during the summer , he too k t o his bed. He died a fortnight later. People still argue about the caus e of his death, bu t even if you saw it at the movies or had read it in Pushkin long before that , h e was not poisoned by his admired colleague Salieri. That he died young is part of his fascination—"those who m the gods love" and all that. His early death i s also part of the mechanis m tha t seems to lock him int o perpetua l childhood. Becaus e i t invite s u s t o fee l superio r t o hi s contemporaries, we dearly love the story of his funeral in a snowstorm so terrible that everyone gave up and turned back before the y reached th e cemetery and his burial in an unmarked pauper's grave (I remember as a child being shown a picture of the hears e followed onl y by Mozart's little mutt) . When in 1959(! ) Nicolas Slonimsk y looked u p the weathe r report , it turne d ou t tha t th e day was mild, with just a trace of mist. If Mozart ended i n an unmarke d grave, so did nearl y al l Viennese wh o die d i n o r soo n afte r th e reig n o f Joseph II, a n idealist sorely lacking in common sense an d who insisted tha t death an d th e disposal of bodies be treate d a s a purely practical problem without regard for human feeling. A legend that is harder to dispel—and harder since Peter Shaffer an d Milos Forman—is tha t o f Mozart's name. No t onc e di d h e cal l himsel f Wolfgang Amadeus. Hi s famil y calle d hi m Wolfgan g an d it s variou s affectionat e diminutives. The "Amadeus " part appears in the baptismal register and in his father's firs t account s i n it s Germa n an d Gree k form s a s Gottlie b an d Theophilus. Mozar t himself liked the French and Italian forms Amade, Amadeo, and Amade. Once or twice when h e i s fooling around h e sign s as Wolfgangus Amadeus Mozartus; otherwis e Amadeu s i s a posthumous solemnization o f a very serious but blessedly unsolemn man . The musical world in which he grew up and worked revolved around opera. That was Mozart's strong suit, or let u s say the stronges t suit of an artist who had nothing but strong suits. Wherever it is that they give out particular musical gifts, the y don' t d o i t even-handedly . Ther e ar e oper a composer s who ar e musicians of the firs t order but who lack a sense of theater, of atmosphere and pace; then there ar e those who have the theatrical gif t in abundance but who do not writ e first-rate music. Mozart is one o f the ver y few who have it all. He ha d a n amazin g knack fo r observing his fellow human s an d o f getting down onto paper just what he saw. His effervescent letters are full of uncannily vivid descriptions and characterizations of people he met as he traveled about; that same gift of seeing (in this case in his mind's eye) and expressing (in music rather than in words) goes into the creation o f his operatic characters. Ofte n

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the orchestr a bring s the m t o lif e even befor e the y sing . Mozar t was blessed with som e ver y good librettos , bu t th e musi c tell s u s fa r mor e abou t th e individualities o f Susanna an d th e Countess , o f Fiordiligi and Dorabell a an d Despina, of the thre e wome n in Don Giovanni, than the elegantly and wittily fashioned texts . This magical transmutation occurs because Mozart has so much feeling for the complexity, the ambiguity of human creatures and therefore of the situations into which they maneuver themselves. He can to perfection express pure grief, as i n Pamina' s "Ach, ic h fuhl's," o r pur e gidd y joy, as whe n Papagen o an d Papagena plan their family, but he is most quintessentially and uniquely himself when smile s and tear s come togethe r a s inconsiderately an d perplexingl y as they can in real life, when we sense the remembrance of joy even as the Countess Alma viva laments the fading of her marriage, or in those countless places where the shado w of a minor chord o r of some strange harmonic coloratio n darken s the groun d for a moment. His dark side came as a surprise to me when I was a boy. The firs t Mozart pieces I remember hearing wer e Eine kleine Nachtmusik and th e Overtur e t o The Abduction from th e Seraglio. The forme r i s one o f his fe w works with very little sense of shadow; in the latter, which was my special favorite, the jolliness of the quick music with the triangle must have been what got to me, for I have no recollection o f the slower middle section in minor. When I was twelve or so, I was taken to an all-Mozart concert that included the grea t G-minor Symphony , No. 40 . I was completely unprepared for that turbulence. I remember being irresistibly drawn into the piec e but als o being confused an d even annoye d becaus e it didn't correspon d t o m y exceedingly sketchy idea o f who Mozart was. A while later, I had a chance to hear Myra Hess pla y a couple o f the pian o concertos , ever-presen t no w but ver y little performed sixt y years ago, and while I enjoyed that very much—and I damn well should have— I als o remember being confused because Mozart couldn't seem to make up his mind whether h e was writing happy or sad pieces. ( I had just developed a taste for the Tchaikovsk y Pathetique, partly no doubt because some grownup had warned me it was considered vulgar.) But t o ge t bac k t o th e operas . They no t onl y offe r u s a portrai t gallery unsurpassed in the theate r fo r vividness and insight, but the y also provide us with a sort of Rosetta Stone for the decodin g of Mozart's instrumental music. His concertos, strin g quintets and quartets, symphonies—whatever—all turn out soone r or later to be transposed opera. The ke y to their gestures is in th e operas, an d th e opera s are th e essentia l sourc e of our understandin g o f his music. Why does Mozart get to people so? Which indeed h e does. From my friend David Cairns, the great Berlioz scholar, I heard the story of the little boy saying to his mother, "You mean to say Mozart was a man? I thought it was just anothe r

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word fo r music." In composer s Mozart has inspire d aw e and lov e an d envy . Most performer s wil l tel l yo u tha t t o pla y an d sin g Mozar t i s th e mos t monumental challenge in their professional lives. The public has always taken pleasure in Mozart—or better, in many different Mozarts. He i s so complete. H e touche s u s everywhere—mind, heart, an d senses . We deligh t i n th e richnes s an d generosit y o f hi s inventio n (whic h hi s contemporaries often found overwhelming and disturbing), that inexhaustible plenty o f melodies, thos e recklessl y rich harmonies , th e amazin g sense o f instrumental color (m y single most indelible impressio n when I first heard th e G-minor Symphon y was that o f the hig h horn s i n th e tri o o f the minuet , a place I especially look forward to every time). Simplicity and complexity come naturally to him, and in equal measure. He is funny, too , though it makes me sad that audiences toda y seem not t o be trained t o hear that or to respond to it. He knows pain, but h e never feel s sorr y for himself, neither does he beg us to fee l sorr y for him. And I suppos e that i s th e special Mozar t characteristic, th e exquisit e balancing ac t between th e passion—the roilin g emotional content—an d th e unshakably perfect manners . Almost unshakable , I should say. There are two or thre e place s in Mozart where th e surfac e cracks , where for a moment th e harmonies and the rhythm reveal him to have been a potential master of excess. All Mozart-lovers know and cherish thos e places, and cherish the m th e more because the y ar e so extremely rare. It i s in tha t perfectl y calculate d tensio n between center an d surface tha t we find th e essenc e of Mozart. Perhaps—and who , afte r all , ca n d o mor e tha n speculate—th e restrain t and the nobility of spirit that this restraint implies are at the heart of Mozart's power over us. When I was first learning music, it was Beethoven, Beethoven , Beethoven. He was the ideal artist and our ideal voice. Yes, Schroeder in Peanuts spoke fo r million s o f us . Pete r Ustino v like d t o tel l th e stor y of a genera l knowledge test when he was a schoolboy. Having to name the world's greatest composer he put down "Mozart." He failed. The correct answer was Beethoven. Then i n th e las t quarte r of the twentiet h centur y we made Beethove n rol l over to allow room for Mahler, thus adding heterogeneity, unrestrained pathos, actually uninhibited everything, an d not least, extreme vulnerability. And now we have added Mozart—yes, always admired, always in the repertory, but never so fully a s now. We don't need t o castrate him, to make him into the innocent child he was not. His songs are songs of experience. Perhaps it does after all make a difference that he was not born in 1791 , that he lived and worked before Beethoven ha d made heroics an d the heroic ambitio n part of the common musical language. It is wonderful at thi s mess y moment i n th e world' s history to fin d someon e who can speak to us about everything: bathroom humor, a misplaced pin, th e sadness of lost love, and the awesome and incalculable powers of eros, thanatos,

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and forgiveness . As the novelis t Maev e Brenna n sai d abou t th e Andant e of the Symphon y No. 29 , "It is the voice you can say anything in." Wonderful, too, that he does all this without heroics, with delicious wit, and with an unruffle d sense of beauty. It was wry hyperbole, but on e knows just what Rossini had i n mind whe n h e sai d tha t whil e Beethoven wa s undoubtedl y th e greates t of composers, Mozart was the onl y one .

—M.S.

Thinking of Robert Schumann c?

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obert Schumann? Yes, of course. The name is one of the most reassuringly familia r o n ou r musica l landscape, ye t w e kno w Schuman n th e composer less than we sometimes assume. How many people reading these word s have heard , le t alon e performed , Das Paradies und di e Peri afte r Thomas Moore's Lalla Rookh; the opera Genoveva, the music for Byron's Manfred beyond its stupendous Overture; the Scenes from Goethe's Faust; the Requiem; the Overture, Scherzo, and Finale for Orchestra; th e Romances for Oboe and Piano; the Spanisches Liederspiel fo r vocal quartet with piano; the Justinus Kerner songs; even th e Piano Quartet? While Schumann ma y in some ways be surprisingly elusive, many of us can quickly summon up a picture: a handsome, distinctly Germanic face, the good looks in middle age slightly compromised by a bit too much fat and one of the more unfortunate hairdos in the history of Western music. And lot s of us must have cut our pianistic teeth on The Happy Farmer (in England, where I learned it, Th e Merry Peasant) o r anothe r o f the man y useful an d enjoyabl e gems he composed for beginners—no on e betwee n Bac h an d Barto k wrote such fin e keyboard music for teaching. And what an adventure it was, on first decipherin g that cheery little piece , t o wrestle down that for us right-handers so counterintuitive distributio n of playing the tun e in the lef t han d and the accompani ment in the right ! Moreover, Schuman n storie s and image s come flooding : the bo y growing up i n hi s father's bookstore, a n eas y and natura l pianist , bu t imaginin g hi s

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grown-up sel f a s a literary man, no t a musician; th e late r an d seriou s piano lessons wit h th e esteeme d an d fearsom e Friedric h Wieck ; th e amorou s complications whe n th e professor' s miraculousl y gifted daughte r Clara , jus t nine the first time Herr Schumann passe d through the Wiecks' fron t door, had grown into her teens—sh e fallin g in love first , h e being th e inconstan t one ; Daddy's determination t o put a stop to all that, willing even to take daughter and boyfriend t o court to do so; the mechanical devic e with which Schuman n sought to strengthen his fourth finger, but whose effect was to disable the hand completely; Robert's an d Clara' s marriage on th e da y before he r twenty-firs t birthday when he was thirty; the union at first ecstatically happy, marked in its first year s by a deluge o f passionate songs , succeeding th e fantastica l piano pieces fo r Clar a tha t ha d com e durin g th e year s of courtshi p an d secre t engagement; the strain of sustaining a marriage with rather too many children arriving to o frequently ; the angs t fo r Robert , a compose r o f "difficult " ne w music and not a dependable wage-earner, of sharing a life with an immensely loved virtuosa—a celebrity—and occasionally being asked backstage whether he was musical as well; the growing frequency of his bouts of melancholia, a s it was the n called; his failure a s a conductor (natura l shyness plus myopia plus too muc h vanit y to wear glasses in public); the brie f happiness o f friendship with the ver y young Brahms ( a friendship that in its loving and occasionall y scratchy way would sustain Clara to the end of her days when she had outlived her husban d b y fort y years) ; Robert' s suicid e attemp t b y jumping into th e freezing Rhin e one Februar y morning; an d th e las t wretched tw o and a half years in the asylum at Endenich outsid e Bonn, with Clara not allowe d to visit him fo r fear he r presenc e woul d excite hi m an d spee d his disintegration. H e was forty-six when he died. 1 We remembe r a s well that Schuman n wrot e copiousl y about music , and , being a practical and energeti c ma n a s well as one o f the grea t dreamers, he founded an d edite d hi s ow n journal , the Neue Leipziger Zeitschrift fu r Musik (New Leipzig Musical Times) a s a vigorous alternative to the more conservative publications around. Sometimes he signed his articles with an initial standin g for a poeti c no m d e plume—"F " fo r Florestan , representin g Romanti c exuberance and enthusiasm (only Berlioz could work up such a fever as a critic), or "E " for Eusebius, the voic e o f his contemplative , pianissimo , introverte d self.2 Doe s the Florestan/Eusebiu s split, as is sometimes asserted, portend th e future schizophrenic ? I think not: beside s acknowledging what i s to varying 1 How strange I have found it to be driving or riding around Bonn and see road signs for Endenich, as though it were just any old suburb. 2 We tend to forget about the occasional appearances of Doctor Raro, who was supposed to represent the sensibl e compromis e between the F . and E . extremes. W e lose nothing , though; he wa s a dul l fellow. Schoenber g was right when he observe d that th e middl e road is the onl y one tha t doe s no t lead to Rome.

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degrees true in all of us, it is an ingenious literary device that keeps Schuman n from being locked into single, simple-minded critical positions and allow s for interesting conversation s betwee n hi s Florestan and Eusebius selves. He an d like-minded literar y an d musica l friend s an d colleague s als o founde d th e Davidsbund, o r League of David, the swor n enemies of the Philistines . I remembe r readin g a s a boy that Schumann' s reputatio n a s a critic was exaggerated because he had the good luck to open his career by hailing one of his most extraordinary contemporaries, Frederic Chopin ("Hats off, gentlemen , a genius!"), and to close it when he welcomed another, Johannes Brahms ("This is the chose n one"). Thos e were indeed amazin g and enviabl e opportunitie s for a writer , but w e als o nee d t o remembe r tha t thos e tw o article s too k perception, no t jus t luck. You also cannot just dismiss the man y other words that come between 183 1 an d 1853 . Peopl e have pointed ou t that Schuman n could get wildly carried awa y as a critic, overstatin g the cas e for Niels Gade , for example , o r fo r th e prodigiousl y gifted, tragicall y short-lived Christia n Ludwig Schuncke. Bu t they were excellent composer s both, an d ar e not ou r newspapers and professional journals filled with what will surely come to seem quite wacky encomia, in less vibrant prose, too, and with less love, which is the element tha t speaks most compellingly in Schumann's writing s about music? And Schumann' s ow n music ? Each of his works is part of a puzzle which , put together , creates a complete picture, but mos t of us overlook some of the key pieces . Musi c lover s ar e les s likel y t o focu s o n composer s (wit h a few exceptions—most prominently Mozart, Wagner, Mahler) than to be segregated as orchestra audiences , oper a buffs, pian o aficionados , lieder lovers, and th e like. For instance the piano aficionado is likely to have recordings of Schumann's Concerto, Camaval, Kreisleriana, Davidsbundlertdnze , Scenes from Childhood, and the C-major Fantasy, maybe even in multiple versions, but perhaps none of the Violin Concerto o r Dichterliebe (Poet's Love). And Schumann—obviousl y not uniqu e in this respect—manifests i n highly characteristic fashion in a lot of genres: symphonies and concertos, chamber music in many colors and flavors , piano music, solo and par t songs, and large-scal e vocal works such as operas and oratorios. Not onl y is Schumann a composer rather to o narrowl y known t o most of us—as is of course not less true of Bach, Handel, Haydn, Schubert, Tchaikovsky, and Dvorak, among others—but he is also one who has been misunderstood and misrepresented in much of the writing and talking about him. Myth No . 1: He could not orchestrate, and his orchestral works are basically clumsily scored piano pieces. I well remember, forty-odd years ago, hearing Leonard Bernstein demonstrate this to a New York Philharmonic audienc e by deliberately making the orchestra play with bad balances an d raucous tone. In fact th e orchestra l works sound very well, though the y need car e from th e conductor . Moreover, their sonorit y ha s a strongl y persona l flavor : Schuman n i s on e o f thos e

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composers you can recognize from a single chord i n a blind tasting . Myth No . 2: He could not handl e larg e forms an d was successful only in miniatures and character pieces . Th e symphonie s ar e utterl y convincing bi g pieces, risky , personal, original , inspired , eve r fres h an d awaitin g our delighte d discover y and rediscovery . Myth No . 3 : Th e lat e work s are feebl e an d no t wort h ou r attention. But the late clarinet Fantasiestucke or the music for Byron's Manfred show no trace of a decrepit mind devoid of inspiration.3 Schumann wrot e a number of what I think of as "good boy" pieces, ones in which la w and order are of paramount importance an d where one can sens e Beethoven a s an exceedingly commanding and dauntingly masculine presence (as we know he could be for Brahms as well). Such pieces can be strong. Th e popular Piano Quintet, full o f energy and brio, is an example. But compare it to the Pian o Quartet, n o less vigorous and fiery , no less enjoyable to play, and you quickly sense that here is an utterance fa r more personal, more special. I have never left a concert hal l because the Quintet was about to be played and have often with great pleasure listened t o it at home, th e 192 7 recording with Ossip Gabrilowitsch and th e Flonzale y Quartet stil l being m y favorite. But I love more those pieces that show Schumann's quirk y side—sudden and drastic changes of mood, rhythmic dislocations, events passing by at a startling speed and vanishing. That is the music that invites us into his innermost self . We can also distinguish between Schumann's public and his private pieces— a distinction I believe firs t articulate d by Charles Rosen. 4 In the public pieces Schumann addresse s (and seeks to wow) an audience ; i n his private ones h e muses to himself and, t o cite th e vers e by Friedrich Schlegel h e placed at th e head of his C-major Fantasy, speaks "to him who furtively listens in." The Pian o Quintet is public, the Piano Quartet is private. The Fantasy's middle movement is public, between two very private ones. Also on the public side: the symphonies and concertos (th e Violin Concerto perhaps leaning toward the private), most of the bi g vocal works such as Das Paradies un d die Peri an d th e oper a Genoveva, the bi g piano sonatas, and Camaval. Private: Scenes from Goethe's Faust, thei r large scal e notwithstanding ; th e Requiem for Mignon; virtuall y all th e liede r (with a son g suc h a s Di e beiden Grenadiere t o remin d u s tha t ther e ca n b e exceptions); and among the piano works, Davidsbundlertdnze, Kreisleriana, and Scenes from Childhood. Yesterday I took a break from writin g this essay and filled par t of that hour with the magi c of Etsko Tazaki's recording of Davidsbiindlertdnze. I could have picked Kreisleriana or Scenes from Childhood, eve n the more "public" statements of Camaval o r th e C-majo r Fantasy, all of them musica l wonders, but—and 3

The lat e John Daverio's 1997 biography Robert Schumann: Herald o f a "New Poetic Age," a landmark in Schumann criticism, deals firmly with these mindlessly repeated canards. 4 Rosen's highly personal 199 5 survey The Romantic Generation is well worth knowing.

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this i s a s subjectiv e a s th e musi c itself— Davidsbiindlertdnze i s o f al l o f Schumann's pian o set s th e on e I a m most i n lov e with , th e on e tha t mos t surely get s thos e "energie s whic h animat e ou r psychi c life " goin g for m e ( a phrase I borro w fro m Roge r Sessions) , th e on e wher e th e sou l o f Rober t Schumann i s enshrined. Eighteen short pieces, amounting to about a half hour of music—six signed by Florestan, seven by Eusebius, four by both (including No. 1 , which is based on a motif by Clara), one unsigned . Ho w arresting the temp o an d characte r directions are : along with "lively" and "simply " we read Etwas hahnbuchen ( A bit outrageous), Ungeduldig (Impatient) , Sehr rasch und in sich hinein (Ver y fast and turne d into itself), Wie aus der Feme (A s though fro m a distance), an d of course we find that most indispensable and untranslatable of German Romantic adjectives, Inrdg (Inward) . Over the ninth piece, ardent edging on the desperate, Schumann writes : "And her e Floresta n stopped , and ther e wa s an agonized trembling abou t hi s lips. " A s fo r th e "no t fast, " deepl y innig closin g waltz , Schumann tell s us that "quite unnecessarily Eusebius added the following, the while great bliss shone i n his eyes."5 In all its intimacy, here is music of extremes. No composer was more joyfu l and ebullient, the music swept along on irresistible physical energy. No composer was ever possessed by such deep sadness. Neither Mahler nor Elgar could follow him into those dark places; Schubert, yes, his beloved Schubert, whom he was one of the first to appreciate fully—but only Schubert, no one else. Schuman n can als o create a sense of music coming from ver y far away, in time as well as place—and not onl y when he mark s a piece "wie aus der Feme." Hi s rhythms are all his own. He likes ambiguous, even deceptive beginnings—where is the downbeat? Beside s th e Davidsbiindlertdnze, th e Fourt h Symphon y an d hi s greatest orchestra l piece , th e Manfred Overture , offe r prim e examples. Th e ends o f hi s pian o piece s ar e sometime s strangel y unfinal . Melodie s floa t independent o f beat . Ho w mysterious , even uncanny , i t i s when i n th e seventeenth of the Davidsbiindlertdnze w e suddenly find ourselves back in th e midst o f the hauntin g phrase s of th e second . Ar e w e los t i n time ? Ar e w e dreaming? Is he? And in tha t last waltz ther e is a mystery, a melodic phrase that sounds like something in quotation marks—it must have had some special significance for him an d probabl y Clara a s well—which he will bring back a year late r i n Kreisleriana, anothe r gloriou s essa y in joyou s an d dar k an d humorous Romanti c music . (Somethin g no t t o miss : George Balanchine' s heart-breaking, poignant, profoundl y Schumannesqu e choreographi c settin g of Davidsbiindlertdnze, o f which you can ge t a New Yor k City Ballet DVD.) 5 Probably not withou t som e pressure from the devote d Clara , eve r bent o n wanting he r husband' s music to be more "accessible"—fatal quest—Robert prepared a revised edition in which he eliminated the F. and E. signatures, neutralized the tempo and character indications , made the suggested explicit, and normalized—sometime s one migh t almost sa y "dumbed down"—some of his more idiosyncratic musical procedures.

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Then there ar e Schumann's songs , about half of them, tw o hundred or so, written in the year of his marriage. Again, the range is tremendous. The poets include German masters such as Chamisso, Eichendorff, Goethe, Heine, Kerner, Morike, Platen, Riickert, and Schiller, but also Hans Christian Andersen, Burns, and Byron, all in German translation. The emotional and expressive range in the liede r is formidable. Some are as straightforward a s folk songs and hymns; others ar e of extraordinary and compacte d musical richness. Schumann was quick to learn from Schuber t what the pian o might be and do in such music and t o exten d thos e discoverie s boldly. In Frauenliebe und -Leben (Woman's Love and Life) an d Dichterliebe the pian o gets movements of its own, raised to exalted poetica l heights , especiall y in Dichterliebe. I t wa s there tha t Mahle r found th e possibilit y for the breath-stoppin g vanishings int o silenc e i n th e Kindertotenlieder an d Da s Lied vo n der Erde. I love th e symphonie s and th e concerto s (al l of them), an d I am foreve r grateful t o Eric h Leinsdorf for introducing m e fort y year s ag o to th e marve l that is the Scene s from Goethe's Faust. How right he was, too, in pointing ou t that Schumann's settin g of the sublim e closing lines comes closer to Goethe than Mahler's more famous one in his Symphony o f a Thousand. Still, the greatest Schumann, the essential Schumann, the music without which you cannot know who this man was, this man so gifted and at home in exhilaration, in melancholy, in mystery, in the uncanny , in the sometime s baffling pla y of time and space, that music is found in these works for solo piano and his songs. And ther e is a happy dividend. Hearing the familiar symphonies and concertos will be a richer experience when you revisit them from the perspective of the piano cycles and the songs. If this is territory new to you, begin with Camaval and Dichterliebe. Then, if they spea k t o you , go o n t o Kreisleriana, th e Davidsbiindlertdnze, an d th e wonderful feas t o f spook, nostalgia, an d joy , the Eichendorf f Liederkreis, op . 39. By sheer chance, the firs t piece of Schumann's I ever heard (asid e from my own clattering through The Happy Farmer) wa s Bird as Prophet fro m the rathe r late Waldszenen i n a haunting recorded performance by Alfred Cortot . Except for Franz Liszt's gnomic utterances in the last years of his life, is there a stranger four minutes of music in all of the nineteenth century? I would wish for that to find a place in your musical treasury as well. Strangely—as i t no w seem s t o me—amon g th e grea t master s i t was Schumann that it took me longest to get close to. I enjoyed hearing and playing him, bu t h e wa s no t on e o f m y indispensables , on e o f m y deser t islan d companions until late middle age. I don't know for sure what changed. Perhaps it was just the passag e of years. In part I know it was better understandin g of his life tha t captured me. Mary Oliver ha s a beautiful, deepl y understanding poem, Robert Schumann, which end s wit h a vision o f the nineteen-year-ol d musician on a spring morning, having "just met a girl named Clara," running

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"up the dark staircase, humming." I am haunted b y what he found a t the to p of those stair s and b y what became o f that happiness—i n so few years. I am haunted eve n more by two earlier lines in the poem: "Everywhere in this world his music/explodes out o f itself, a s he/could not. " With no other composer—not even Beethoven an d Mahler—is my hearing and love of the musi c so tied t o my sense of the ma n who invented it . Non e other make s a statemen t s o urgent , s o person-to-person , s o nake d an d vulnerable. Ho w clos e hi s greatest , hi s mos t innig musi c come s t o literally stopping breath and unsettling my heart. How deeply and dangerously human are th e strangenesse s in hi s music. How amazed , how humbled I am by th e command tha t allowe d him to translate his own vibrations into music , music that "explode s out of itself, as he could not." And ho w thankful I am that now I can say along with Mary Oliver, "Hardly a day passes I don't think of him . . ."

—M.S.

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The Sacred ? the Profane? and the Gritty Affirmations o f Music

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T he sacre d and th e profane : the concept s hav e bee n wit h u s all our lives, from ou r earliest days, even before we were able to name them . Growing up even i n th e mos t politicall y correct environment , wit h elders committed t o moral relativism, we still formed idea s about should an d shouldn't, abou t what separated the nic e kid s from th e others . Onl y later , as our sensibilities were formed with help from th e Bible or Torah or Quran, Joh n Milton, Herman Melville, Mozart, Bach, Beethoven, Lincoln , Gandhi , Hitler , Stalin, Superman, Darth Vader, Martin Luther King Jr., Mother Teresa, and an array o f hands know n onl y t o eac h o f us, and whic h continu e t o shap e ou r personal clay—only later did we develop and refine notions o f Good and Evil. Given th e either/o r method s in which mos t of us were raised, it is natural for us t o thin k abou t Goo d an d Evi l an d thei r counterparts , th e Sacre d an d Profane—the loft y an d th e raunchy , spirit and gland—a s thoug h the y were separate entities. But eventually we recognize what a volatile mixture of opposites we are. Those who can resign themselves to this fact take a step on the path to wisdom. Those who cannot, joi n the evangelical wing of the Republican Party. Great art—an d music, especially—will help steer u s toward the firs t o f these alternatives. In th e sprin g o f 1997 , whe n th e Sa n Francisc o Symphon y presente d Celebrations o f the Sacre d an d Profane , a festival that examined "sacred " and "profane" as expressed in works by Bach, Mozart, Schubert, Berlioz, Alban

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Berg, an d Kur t Weill, th e tim e wa s right t o reflec t on what thos e concept s can mean i n music. "Sacred" an d "Profane" are intangibles, ye t artists from th e beginning hav e fashioned representation s o f these gran d ideas , whic h encompas s ou r lives . The representations—in sounds and words and images—reflect what is at th e root of us all. Call it soul. Art i s the grave n image of God himself that Jehovah cautioned u s fro m creating—cautione d us , perhaps becaus e h e understoo d how images of the unknowable are not just misleading but rob it of its mysterious grandeur. Yet if we understan d tha t n o suc h imag e ca n b e definitive , i f we understand tha t suc h attempt s ar e just effort s t o comprehend ourselve s and where we are headed—for aren't we created in God's image?—the transgression is a virtue. And wha t abou t God' s image ? I n th e Ar t Histor y Museu m in Vienna , I overheard a woman comment o n Brueghel the Elder's Battle between Carnival and Lent. "It's so dirty," she said, and she was not speaking about the condition of the canvas . This is what she saw: a scene o f bedlam, solemn processions of the religiou s winding throug h th e marketplace , aliv e wit h carniva l revelers . She sa w swarming motion, a s if the frame d scen e wer e a hea p o f compost , buzzing and maggoty. She said it best: it's dirty. That is one of its glories. Consider another painting , th e Hell pane l o f Th e Garden o f Earthly Delights b y Hieronymous Bosch. "Bosch," say s a commentator whos e name is written in a notebook since lost in the compost heap of my desk, "showed that the tradition s and achievement s o f painting whic h ha d been developed t o represent reality most convincingl y coul d b e turne d around , a s it were , to giv e us an equally plausible picture of things n o human eye had seen." I n other words , using the most advanced method s o f his craft, Bosc h takes us to the fa r side of the soul, a plac e people d b y horrible creatures . Disturbing , repulsive—the y hav e n o name an d yet are terrifyingly familiar . But fro m wher e do we know them? We have t o be honest with ourselves if we want th e answer . Great ar t i s honest , and honest art alway s has room for dirt and grit. One o f the ironie s o f the cultura l scene i s that concert musi c is thought of as the province of the elite, as a super-sanitary adjunct of society's upper stratum, as the ar t form best suited to those who have little o r no firsthand knowledge of wha t it s critic s thin k o f as "rea l life. " Tha t notio n keep s th e man y fro m experiencing th e much . How to dispel it? Not b y the sor t of "crossover" that brings u s Pavarotti singin g "Stranger s i n th e Night"—that' s no t s o much a meeting of sacred and profane as it is a convergence o f opportunity and smart business. Pavarotti's i s a great voice, an d "Stranger s i n th e Night " i s a great song, but put together, each detracts from the other, and the result is distracting. Let's face it : th e resul t is ridiculous. But the greates t Western concer t musi c aims at the bull' s eye, and th e bull' s eye is a representation o f life a s real as it comes, maybe not in a picture you can recognize—any more than you recognize

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Bosch's creatures—but of whose truth you're convinced. Create d in sweat and hard labor—it' s no t b y accident tha t w e speak of a work o f art, an d no t b y accident tha t we speak of such a work as being born —it spring s from inne r need an d i s a respons e t o necessity : th e necessit y t o embrac e th e part s of ourselves that grow from th e earth along with the parts rooted in heaven, th e need t o see things steadily , as Matthew Arnold said , and t o see them whole . Let m e spea k i n specific s b y lookin g a t th e composer s represente d i n Celebrations o f the Sacred and Profane, and their attempts to discern the fin e line between spiritual calamity and salvation. Salvation becam e necessar y whe n damnatio n becam e a fac t o f huma n existence. In words less loaded with theological baggage, we invented th e sacred to save us from th e profane , or vice versa. We are made of dust and spirit, and no one knew this better tha n Mozart. Here i s a man who set both the sacred and th e profan e to music. His scatological canons see m the wor k of a trashmouthed teenager, and you can almost feel Mozart revving himself up by talking dirty—dealing genteel manners an especially low blow by setting his obscenities to elegan t music , th e kin d tha t anchor s itsel f i n th e memory . Then you encounter th e Requiem , which h e was still writing on his deathbed, an d you marvel that the ears that delighted in foul language set to engaging tunes could embrace the text of the Latin Mass for the dead and set those grand and serious words into the musical equivalent o f a baroque church: saints ' images haloed with stars, radiant gold-leafed sunbursts framing pastel frescoes, all resplendent in white light . Schubert, like Mozart, was one of those composers whose accomplishmen t and early death (h e lived to be just thirty-one, while Mozart was a month shy of thirty-six) make them a source of wonder and speculation (wha t might they still have accomplished!) . And, lik e Mozart , he wa s a man wh o had a good sense o f life's underside . H e ha d a n advance d acquaintanc e wit h tobacco , alcohol, an d prostitutes , an d th e delight s hi s fles h too k i n thes e pleasure s contributed t o its corruption. Those offended b y such facts migh t as k where justice was when such a man was given the insight tha t pulses in every bar of his Unfinished Symphony , music of vision that penetrates like an auger through the dimensions o f this world into something beyond. But t o create great music, composers are not obligate d t o talk dirty, drink heavily, or die early. Johann Sebastian Bach was among the soberest and hardest working of men. Force d t o hol d a steady job t o suppor t his larg e family , h e struggled throughout his career with bureaucrats whose imaginations appeared to shut down once they had hired him—and this was especially true in his last post, as Cantor a t Saint Thomas' s Churc h i n Leipzig, where the town counci l seemed no t t o notice how his genius was actually stoked b y the drudger y of churning out music for weekly services. Thwarted agai n and again ("No, Herr Cantor, a n extra soprano is not in our budget." "Herr Cantor , what gave you

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the idea tha t yo u coul d tak e a two-da y leave withou t approva l fro m thi s council?"), he still managed t o rise above circumstances and stay focused o n the sublime . For Bach, the profan e was launch pa d for the sacred. Closer t o our own time, Alban Berg and Kur t Weill were both methodica l workers who, lik e Bach , remin d u s that geniu s often blooms out o f diligen t application. Berg, combing through his experience for material that would make a fitting memorial to Manon Gropius, who had die d a t eighteen, uncovere d elements both sacred and profane. This is especially telling, for the enchanting Manon—"an angel," Berg called her—was the daughter of Alma Mahler. Alma had bee n married to th e compose r Berg revered abov e al l others, an d Berg thought of her and Manon a s links to this great figure who had done so much to father his own artistic consciousness. (Thi s musi c adds another dimensio n to th e comple x interpla y o f profan e an d sacred , fo r it s characte r i s als o determined b y those wh o ha d helpe d for m Berg' s human consciousness : h e makes code d referenc e t o Hann a Fuchs-Robettin , wit h who m h e ha d bee n carrying on a long-standing extramarital affair, an d to Marie Scheuchl, hi s first love and mother of his own daughter Albine.) Gusta v Mahler—perhaps more than anyone, including Charles Ives—managed to fuse in his music the coarsest elements wit h th e mos t heavenly. ("Th e symphon y must be like th e world," Mahler i s reputed t o hav e said . "I t mus t b e all-embracing." ) I n hi s Violi n Concerto, on e o f the greates t concertos o f the las t hundred years , Berg, like Mahler, pulled everything together: quotations from a Bach cantata, injection s of Viennese walt z and Austria n folk song, even elements o f jazz. As for Weill, his Seven Deadly Sins is in itself a work of mixed media, combining music, theater, and dance in ironic social commentary, based on a concept, the deadly sins, that has been with u s since th e Middl e Ages an d tha t provided subject matter t o many artists of the early Renaissance, among them Hieronymous Bosch. Bosch's image s brin g u s ful l circle , t o musi c o f Berlioz . His Symphonie fantastique, th e story of a romantic obsession, ends in a nightmare of a witches' sabbath tha t unfold s agains t a Boschian landscape . I n th e seque l to al l this, Lelio, which Berlioz subtitled The Return to Life, th e her o of the Fantastique has come to terms with a miserable past and comes to some kind of reconciliatio n with a love life that went wrong. Episodes of real life are not alway s granted sequels, and mistakes made in a profane world do not alway s find forgiveness , or resolution, in heaven. Bu t as much as anything, ar t can sho w us something abou t life's eb b and flow , it ca n help us understand the formula s of our spiritual chemistry, the DN A print s of heartbreak and emotional breakthrough. We need thes e formulas, these maps, because life passes so quickly. Sometimes the place s we have come from seem so far behind u s we can barely remember them. Music offers us a way of touching not onl y ou r collectiv e root s bu t ou r persona l past . Liste n t o Schubert' s UnfinishedSymphony. When did you first hea r thi s music ? Recal l that time.

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Recall it, and all that has come between that moment and this one, when you are hearing it again. Consider how your view of the work and your experience of it have changed. Time and change, those are the given s of life, alon g with birth and death, which are our personal borders of time and change. Time and change, beginnings and endings. Those ar e also the borders of music. Music is an art we experience by hearing it as it is produced by mechanical means—instruments. Bu t musi c is properly a physical art, a function of th e body. It arises from song—from the throat and the gut. We translate feelings of joy an d sadnes s and dejectio n and triump h into song , into music . What we hear in the concert hall is a translation into sound of another being's heartbeat and breathing pattern. When Mozart or Schubert, Berg or Berlioz are played, their sound-pattern s are recreate d an d par t o f thei r physica l presence is resurrected. This is what we mean when we say that music affirms life . It affirm s the genuin e physica l thing itself : sacred, profane, ful l o f sunlight an d eart h (from whic h w e came, t o whic h we will return), and, i n th e mos t real an d utterly nonreligious sense, everlasting.

—L.R.

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Franz Schubert, UA Rich Possession'1

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F ranz Schubert's first biographer was a Viennese jurist and civil servant

by name of Heinrich Kreissle von Hellborn. In 1861, he published what he modestly and accurately called a biographical sketch; at the en d of 1864, he came out with his full-length book. It appeared in English in 1869 as The Life o f Franz Schubert, translated by Arthur Duke Coleridge. Kreissle, who loved what he had heard of Schubert's music, was motivated to begin his work by his awareness that those who had known Schubert were growing old, that their fairl y imminen t departur e from thi s lif e wa s something t o b e reckone d with, an d that , onc e the y were gone, th e constructio n o f a biography would become incalculably more difficult. He therefore set about tracking down those whom h e calle d "th e witnesse s to Schubert' s externa l existence, " a s well as whatever he was able to pull together by way of scattered documents relevant to Schubert's life . It was Kreissle who laid the ground floor for Schubert studies, and everything that has been achieved in that field since his time rests on what he began. He was not , however , trained a s a scholar, and criticall y sifting th e materia l h e collected was not his strength. Speaking and corresponding with the survivors of the Schuber t circle , Kreissle gathered much that was valuable, vivid, and often deeply touching. But we also need to remember that he was dealing with aging me n an d wome n (mostl y men) wh o were reminiscing abou t someon e who had been dead for more than thirty years. Some of them misremembered

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plain an d simple . Som e misremembere d b y design , s o a s t o augmen t an d glamorize th e part s the y themselve s ha d playe d i n Schubert' s life . Some , although they were writing or speaking in the past tense, were—unconsciously— writing or speaking not about the friend with whom they had talked, made music, partied, played cards, drunk, smoked, and hiked, but abou t the Franz Schubert who had meanwhile com e to be ranked as a very important composer. Something tha t mad e th e situatio n whe n Kreissl e was at wor k peculiar was tha t s o many Schubert pieces—important , impressiv e ones—had onl y come into public view posthumously, among them th e great Masses in A-flat and E-fla t (publishe d 187 5 and 1865 , respectively) , the Unfinished Symphon y (first playe d in 1865) , th e Strin g Quintet (publishe d 1853) , alon g with many smaller works. It sometime s seeme d a s though Schuber t wer e still alive an d composing; indeed, on e French criti c was moved t o remark that he seemed , more than thirty years after hi s death, t o be both one o f the mos t prolific as well as most interesting o f contemporary composers. One result of all this remembering—and "remembering"—was the formation during the second hal f of the nineteenth century of a highly sympathisch image of Schubert . It s essential point s wer e that Schuber t die d ver y young (whic h always hold s a certain prurien t appeal ) an d tha t durin g his brief lifetime his genius was recognized only by a small and selec t grou p of discerning friends . The secondar y feature s o f thi s Schuber t portrai t wer e tha t h e compose d effortlessly, wit h uncanny eas e and speed, and that he was a dear little man— "Schwammerl," littl e mushroom , the y calle d him—eve n i f personal hygien e was not a high priorit y with him and even thoug h h e sometimes drank a few more glasse s of wine tha n were goo d fo r him . I t al l fit well with th e comf y Biedermeier spirit of mid-century Austria. It also helped create the impression, not yet completely erased, that Schubert was something of an amateur, although an inspire d one . Ther e ar e still thos e wh o see him a s the mos t seductiv e of charmers but deny him the greatness that would place him on the same level as Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven . Obviously, some truth lies curled up inside al l this mythology. Schubert was born on 31 January 1797, and when he died, at three o'clock in the afternoon on 19 November 1828 , he was about ten weeks shy of turning thirty-two. No othe r great composer died s o young—not Mozart, not eve n Purcell . The playwright Franz Grillparzer wrote the famous epitaph for Schubert's monument, erected i n the Wahring Cemetery in 1830: "Here th e art of music buried a rich possession, but eve n faire r hopes. " (I n 1888 , bot h Schubert an d Beethoven, hi s neighbo r just three graves away, were moved to Vienna's Central Cemetery. The Wahring Cemetery wa s late r deconsecrate d an d i s no w th e Schuber t Park. ) Later , Grillparzer was criticized for underrating Schubert's actua l achievement, bu t I would say two things in his defense. First, given that in 183 0 some of Schubert's most extraordinary works were still unpublished and unperformed, Grillparzer's

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perspective i s no t tha t badl y askew . Second , i f w e conside r Schubert' s achievements i n hi s last year—including th e thre e fina l pian o sonata s alon g with some remarkable shorter pieces, the String Quintet, the Mass in E flat, th e F-minor Fantasy for Piano Duet, and the songs later published as Schwanengesang (Swan Song) —and i f we als o keep i n min d tha t h e wa s only thirty-one , i t is understandable that one might fantasize abou t a transcendent futur e o f "even fairer hopes. " We still tend t o cherish th e pictur e of Schubert a s Neglected Genius . Yes, his reputation wa s local, an d even i n Vienna , compare d t o Beethove n an d Rossini, the tw o composers who most captivated tha t city during his lifetime (Rossini more than Beethoven, t o the latter's fury), Schubert was obscure. But he was far from invisible , even though it did happen that mail from a German publisher addressed to "Franz Schubert, Esq., Composer, Vienna" was delivered to a musician named Josef Schubert. And a certain Franz Schubert in Dresden was indignan t whe n a "piec e o f hackwork" b y his Viennes e namesak e wa s mistakenly attributed to him, the "Machwerk" i n question being the setting of Goethe's Erlkonig. But Franz Schubert's music—ou r Franz Schubert's—was performed, quit e often under the auspices of the Society of the Friends of Music, a high-prestige organization t o whos e directorat e Schuber t wa s elected i n 1826 . Admire d virtuosi took him up. And Johann Michael Vogl, principal baritone at the Court Opera (h e was the firs t Pizarro in the fina l version of Beethoven's Fidelia) an d a mos t compellin g artist , became a powerfu l advocat e fo r his songs . When Vogl sang Erlkonig at a charity concert i n March 1821 , Schubert's obscurity in Vienna was over. The fir m of Cappi & Diabelli published Erlkonig a month later: a hundred copies were sold at a single soiree when its availability was announced, and another thre e hundre d wer e turned aroun d in little more than a year. Important publishers became intereste d i n Schubert's music , although, t o his annoyance an d frustration, the y were inclined to be exceedingly cautious, willing t o tak e hi s song s an d smal l pian o piece s bu t turnin g dow n larg e instrumental works such as string quartets and symphonies. Still, for someone who was not a virtuoso performer and who, through general forgetfulness an d negligence, tende d t o derail his friends' effort s t o get him publicity and arrange useful contacts, Schubert managed to be quite a conspicuous figure in Vienna's musical life. In March 1828, his friends helped arrange the first concert entirel y of his music. It was a huge success, and when Schubert died, plans were in th e making for another suc h event. What turned out to be his last year, 1828 , had shown every promise of being a great and positive turning point i n his career. Schubert obviousl y ha d th e qualitie s tha t brough t hi m a grou p of extraordinarily devoted friends, some of them musicians, more of them literary people and artists. He was not an easy friend, though. He could be fine company, charming, delightful, and goo d for serious conversation, bu t h e could also be

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self-absorbed, peremptory, and rude, and his forgetfulness an d negligence could be wounding . A s yo u read th e evidenc e collecte d i n Ott o Eric h Deutsch' s Schubert: A Documentary Biography, a wonderfully engagin g book, and a s you learn t o decode hi s friends' tactfu l an d protective language , it becomes clear that Schuber t dran k recklessly (today he would be considered a n alcoholic), also tha t h e smoke d far too muc h an d smelle d lik e a n ashtray . The up s and downs o f his productivit y suggest that h e suffere d fro m cyclothymia , severe and clinical mood swings. In his later years, he tended eac h sprin g to fall int o severe depression that paralyze d his ability to compose. Most of all, Schubert distresse d his friends b y the recklessnes s with whic h he stilled his gigantic sexual appetite. Here again , we are dealing with veiled language, but wha t emerge s is that Schuber t contracte d syphili s toward th e end of 1822, that by 1828 the diseas e had entered it s tertiary stage, and that , his system catastrophically weakened by alcohol and nicotine , he die d fro m the effects of that disease, aggravated by some form of typhoid fever. His sufferin g in the primary stage of syphilis in the winter of 1822-1823, a condition probably worsened by the then-favored mercury cure, may have been the reason he was unable to continue wor k on the grea t B-minor Unfinished Symphony . Not surprisingly , Schubert's musi c is no les s complex tha n th e man , an d often no less dark. He composed a lot of what we might call social music, lighthearted songs , vocal ensembles, marches for piano duet, and reams of dances that must be just like the ones he improvised at parties. (He was always happier at th e pian o tha n out o n th e danc e floor. ) Mos t of this musi c you will never hear i n concert , bu t i t i s cherished b y those o f u s who pla y i t fo r our ow n pleasure, especially the piano music. If you go through a set of Schubert's landler or waltzes, polonaises, or marches, you will discover that h e was hardly more capable than Mozart of composing three minute s of music across which some strange and disturbing shadow does not pass , even if just for a single beat. We also cannot forge t that, hardly out of his adolescence, Schuber t could capture the sinister world of Erlkonig, the ballad of the spectral king who seduces a sick boy out from his father's arms into th e land of death. Nor that even earlier, on a numinous October da y in 1814 , he had, in Gretchen am Spinnrade, draw n a picture o f a desperat e youn g woman , an d ha d don e i t wit h a dept h o f understanding that ough t not t o be within th e reach of a boy of seventeen . 1820, th e yea r of the Mas s in A flat , th e unfinishe d cantat a Lazarus, and the Quartettsatz i n C minor, is a turning point, Schubert's entry into maturity. Another such critical moment i s the on e when hi s music loses its innocence for good . That happens toward the end of 1822. He had turned twenty-five in January, and it was the year in which his health was ruined and the one whose labors culminated i n th e tw o movements o f the B-mino r Unfinished, a work one praises inadequately by declaring that it is the greatest symphony between Beethoven an d Brahms.

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"At last I can pour out my whole heart t o someone again, " Schubert wrote in 182 4 to Leopold Kupelwieser, the mos t serious of his friends, a n artist who had moved to Rome to prepare himself for a career as a painter of ecclesiastical subjects: "Yo u are s o good an d s o faithful, yo u ar e sur e to forgiv e m e thing s that other s will only take very much amiss. To be brief, I feel mysel f to be th e unhappiest, the most wretched man in the world. Picture a man whose health will never be sound again and who, out of sheer despair over that, constantl y does everything he can t o make matters worse instead o f better. Picture, I tell you, a man whose brightest hopes have com e t o nothing, t o whom love an d friendship a t bes t offe r nothin g bu t pain , someon e whos e respons e (whos e creative response, at least) to everything that is beautiful threaten s t o vanish, and the n as k yourself i f this i s not a wretched, unhapp y man. 'M y peac e is gone, my heart is heavy. Never, but never, shall I find peace again.' That [lamen t of Gretchen's] coul d no w be my daily song, because each nigh t whe n I go to sleep, I hope neve r t o wake again, and eac h mornin g brings yesterday's grief back to me." Those who m Kreissl e von Hellbor n calle d th e witnesse s t o Schubert' s external existenc e notice d tha t when he sat at the piano to accompany Vogl, even whe n h e himsel f san g hi s song s i n hi s composer' s falsetto , somethin g transformed hi m beyon d thei r recognition . H e coul d inven t musi c tha t frightened an d dismaye d them, neve r mor e s o than i n th e death-possesse d songs o f Winterreise, whic h the y rejecte d even thoug h h e insiste d i t was th e best thing he had done. In the work of Schubert's last years, we find music that is madly driving and obsessed, strange and fantastical, deeply melancholic, an d as violent a s anything i n Beethoven. (Tr y the slo w movement o f his A-major Piano Sonat a fro m 1828. ) "Wha t I produc e come s abou t throug h m y understanding o f music and throug h m y pain," Schuber t wrot e in hi s diary , "and what is produced by pain alone seems to please the world least." He ha d warned his friends tha t Winterreise, thos e song s that chronicl e a young man's despairing journey through a bleak winter landscape, would make them shudder. Paradoxically, their rejection was a form of understanding and love, because in rejecting the songs they were rejecting Schubert's knowledge of death, his own death, the n jus t a year away . Joh n Harbison' s assertio n tha t Schuber t "go t closer to full metaphysica l revelation than any other composer" is a challeng e to take seriously. Schubert's self-awarenes s comprise d a keen sens e of his own worth, of his artistic goals and possibilities . He gre w up in th e shado w of Beethoven, wh o himself had overcom e that mos t daunting challenge o f following Haydn an d Mozart, ye t bi t b y bit h e cam e t o understan d tha t h e wa s qualified to ste p forward as Beethoven's heir. And contrary to the legend, Schubert could work hard, lik e Beethoven . Th e work s i n whic h h e declare s himsel f t o b e of Beethoven's lineage—fro m th e Octet, the A-minor an d Death and the Maiden

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quartets, and the Grand Duo for piano, all of 1824, to the compositions of the last year—all these involved sketches and erasures, and intense concentration . Schubert's final musical wish, fulfilled i n his sickroom five days before he died, was t o hea r Beethoven' s Quarte t i n C-shar p minor , op. 131 . "Th e Kin g of Harmony had sen t th e Kin g of Song a friendly biddin g to th e crossing, " said Karl Holz, the firs t violinist in the grou p that went to play for him. One of Schubert's last musical decisions had been to take some counterpoint lessons with the renowne d pedagogue Simon Sechter, who would later teac h Henri Vieuxtemps and Anton Bruckner, two names you'd not ever expect to find linked . Th e America n schola r Michae l Griffe l ha s suggeste d quit e persuasively that Schubert hoped, by strengthening his contrapuntal skills, to acquire the skill s for composing heroic finales in the manne r of Beethoven— no mor e unfinishe d symphonies ! In th e event , ther e wa s time fo r just on e lesson, o n 4 November 1828 . A t tha t poin t h e coul d surve y hi s amazing accomplishments of that yea r an d als o look ahea d a t a future onl y he could imagine. A t th e sam e tim e h e mus t have see n wit h inescapabl e clarit y th e likelihood o f an early death. In 1824 , he had written to Kupelwieser about readying himself to pave the road toward the "big symphony." He meant a symphony in the manner and on the scal e of one o f Beethoven's, an d i n the nex t paragrap h he mention s th e impending premiere of the Beethoven Ninth. Was it to equip himself for furthe r explorations of the road toward the "grosse Symphonic" tha t he went to Sechter? A week after that one lesson with Sechter, Schubert took to his bed for the last time.1 Whe n h e died , h e ha d mad e considerabl e progres s on a D-majo r Symphony, and what he had achieved there suggests that this work, melancholic and visionary , would have surpasse d anything h e ha d don e s o far by way of large instrumental compositions. And s o we come back to Grillparzer and his "even fairer hopes. " It is futile to speculate about the future that was cut off on the afternoon of 19 November 1828; at the same time, it is impossible not t o think abou t it. Schubert would surely not have abandoned writing lieder, and I imagine him beating Schumann to Heine' s Dichterliebe an d al l those Eichendorf f poems, and settin g Morik e thirty years before Hugo Wolf. He could have heard Brahms's First Symphony, unless hi s own symphonies, beginning wit h th e grea t D majo r o f 1829 , ha d made Brahms even more nervous than he already was about Beethoven. As an old man, but no t yet eighty, Schubert might have traveled to Bayreuth to see the firs t Ring . Schubert ha d i t in him t o become a very great symphonist, and h e migh t have come to enjoy the standing we now grant to Beethoven. In any case, the ^ohn Harbison has compose d a moving tombeau fo r Schubert, usin g som e o f the materia l Sechter had give n Schubert to work on. H e call s it November 19, 1828.

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view of Schubert would be very different for today's symphony audience, whose sense o f him i s now based o n occasiona l encounter s wit h si x charmers an d more frequent ones with one-and-a-half mature masterpieces. But Schubert's greatest chamber music, for instance the G-major String Quartet and the String Quintet, gives us a very good idea of his symphonic lungs. And o f course, for us to tak e th e measur e of who Schubert wa s and what he coul d do, the lat e piano sonatas are essentials, as are the great song cycles. Happily, Schubert has been fortunate in his recordings, going back to the 1930 s and the performances of the pian o music by Artur Schnabel an d thos e of songs by, among many fine artists, Gerhard Hiisch with Hanns Udo Miiller. And if you can play the piano— you don' t hav e t o b e a virtuoso—mak e th e F-mino r Fantasy , th e A-fla t Variations, the Divertissement a I'hongroise, an d al l those dance s an d marche s your own. Vast amounts of the works that most intensely illuminate who Franz Schubert was are unknown to most of us. The faire r hopes are fodder for our fantasy, bu t we do have th e ric h possession—on the page , on recordings, and sometimes (never often enough) i n concert. That possession is enough to give us joy and pain, astonishment an d ecstasy, for as long as we have our lives and our hearing.

—M.S.

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Encountering Brahms

n a mugg y Augus t evenin g i n 1966 , shortl y afte r m y seventeent h birthday, I go t o n m y bicycle an d pedale d eigh t block s acros s th e Northwest Sid e o f Chicago t o th e neighborhoo d shoppin g center . The charcoal clouds of a Midwest summer storm were building. From O'Hare, just minutes away across the subdivisions and parking lots, beyond an old farm acreage an d a new hotel strip , the 707 s lifte d of f and thundere d agains t th e low sky with Wagnerian grandeur. At Walgreen's I sorted through the bargain record bin—any record bin at Walgreen's was full of bargains. The fluorescent light abov e bounced bac k at me from th e cellophan e a s I flipped throug h th e titles. Th e Chipmunks Sing. 10 1 Strings Play th e Soul o f Italy. Florian Zabach Goes Gypsy. I stopped at an album whose cover bore a crude portrait of Johannes Brahms. I t wa s a recordin g o f th e Thir d Symphony , with Eric h Leinsdorf conducting a n orchestr a describe d o n th e fron t o f th e L P jacket a s th e Philharmonia an d on the back as the Los Angeles Philharmonic. The recording cost ninety-nine cents . I bought it, hiked home, and , as the rain began, put it on the turntabl e of the Grundig-Majesti c console stere o in the livin g room of my parents' house. I have never ascertaine d which ensemble was featured o n this recording—or, for that matter , whether Leinsdorf was the conductor. But since tha t evenin g I'v e determine d tha t th e musi c I was hearing was indeed the Brahms Third. Unti l tha t momen t I had never hear d th e Brahm s Third , nor ha d I heard an y Brahms but th e Lullaby , no r wa s I mor e tha n vaguely aware that Brahm s had written anything but the Lullaby.

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I had been listening t o the classics—for me, that meant Beethoven—onl y for a few months. Now , in thi s symphony , I encountered thing s I had neve r imagined music capable of expressing—regret, and a yearning for what is past or for what might have been, which in either case is a longing for the impossible. As I write now, I realize the incongruities both of scene and situation, how this deeply seriou s and spiritua l music completed o n th e bank s o f the Rhin e i n another centur y coul d consol e a love-forsake n teenage r who m n o on e understood, not God himself, while the Boeings passing overhead pounded on toward Toled o and Denver , an d i n th e othe r brow n brick bungalows up and down the stree t th e Chipmunk s san g and th e 10 1 Strings played the Sou l of Italy an d Floria n Zabac h wen t Gypsy . I t wa s all , I woul d late r realize , as implausible as Johannes Brahm s himself, who had been born and raised in the more squalid parts of the squali d port city of Hamburg. Where did that music come from ? Yo u may as well ask how the worl d was created. I have been dwelling on memories. I think that is the onl y way to convey the essence of Brahms—not the musical essence, but what the music implies. In "The Ar t of Memory," a wonderful essay on the composer in the September 1984 Atlantic, Richard Sennett, an accomplished amateur musician and author of the novel An Evening of Brahms, recalls that the pianist Rudolf Serkin dubbed Brahms " a memory artist." But al l artists mold their shape s out o f what the y have. We create out of our experience. "Bas e your stories on what you know," young writers are advised. So why is it an interesting observation to call Brahms a "memory artist"? For this reason: because of what Brahms chose t o do with his memories. Biographical criticism of art i s held i n pretty low esteem in literary circles, but narrativ e fiction at least offer s th e opportunit y to compare the detail s of plot wit h wha t i s known abou t it s author' s life , an d it' s ofte n eviden t ho w closely the ar t an d th e experienc e ar e intertwined—think of Thomas Wolfe , or Dickens, o r Philip Caputo, or Jim Harrison, o r Dave Eggers . Music allows no similar correlation. It may help us appreciate the music's emotional impact to imagin e tha t Beethove n wa s ragin g agains t hi s deafnes s i n th e Fift h Symphony, or that in th e Pathetique Tchaikovsky was trying to come t o grip s with bein g ga y in a homophobi c societ y almos t a centur y befor e th e ter m "homophobic" wa s coined. Thes e biographical tidbits say nothing about th e music itself , bu t the y ca n arous e our interest . Brahms' s biography include s nothing similar, no fate against which to rage or much of anything with which to come to grips. He was born on 7 May 1833, the second child of Johann Jakob Brahms, bass player, violinist, and flutist, and Christiane Nissen . (Johann Jakob was twentyfour whe n the y wer e married, Christiane forty-one. ) Johanne s bega n pian o lessons at seven, an d thre e year s later he came unde r th e tutelag e of Eduard Marxsen, who had studied with Ignaz Seyfried, a pupil of Mozart's (and conductor

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of th e firs t performanc e o f Beethoven' s Ninth) , an d wit h Car l Mari a vo n Booklet, a friend o f Beethoven an d Schubert . Thi s is not t o drop names, bu t rather to suggest that when Brahms came to think of himself as a descendan t of this great tradition, he was basing that self-assessment on more than a high opinion o f his abilities. The story , told by Brahms himself (accordin g to several sources who knew him), is that, a s a young teenager, Johannes contribute d t o the famil y incom e by playing in th e bar s of Hamburg's red-light district. The America n schola r Styra Avins has made the case that this sordid part of the Brahms legend never happened, whil e other s maintai n th e opposite , a s does Ja n Swaffor d i n hi s 1997 biograph y of th e compose r (Johannes Brahms, published b y Alfred A . Knopf). Brahms did admit to playing in bars. The controversy seems centered on how old he was when this happened, and what, if any, psychological damage he sustained as a result. Both sides have merits and inconsistencies, an d it may be that the complet e fact s will never come out—if, a t last, they matter. What seems true is that, beside s any barroom entertaining h e may or may not hav e done, th e young Brahms also gave lessons and arrange d music, and under a pseudonym he published light drawing-room pieces, just as a fledging novelist toda y might ghost-writ e romance fiction . When h e wa s twenty h e made a brief concert tou r with the Hungarian violinist Eduard Remenyi. At a stop in Hanover, Brahms met Joseph Joachim, who would become one of the century's greatest violinists an d with whom Brahms formed a friendship that lasted—despite an extended silence arising from a serious misunderstanding— for th e res t o f his life . Throug h Joachim , Brahm s was introduced t o Rober t Schumann, wh o was so impressed by the young man and his few compositions for pian o tha t he hailed hi m in the Neue Zeitschrift fu r Musik a s "the on e . . . chosen to express the most exalted spirit of the time s in an ideal manner, one who [sprang ] fully arme d from the head of Jove.... [A ] youth at whose cradle the grace s and heroes of old stood guard." "New Paths," Schumann title d his article. Perhap s he neve r imagine d tha t praise like that could sto p an artist. Perhaps he gambled on Johannes Brahm s being equal to the challenge . Schumann arranged for Brahms's first publications, and the young composer grew clos e t o th e Schuman n family , even takin g u p residence wit h the m a t their home in Diisseldorf. But Robert had battled mental illness for years, and in 1854 , exhauste d by the struggle , he thre w himself into the Rhine . He was dragged from th e water, still alive. Death would not com e for two more years, years he spen t i n a n asylum . During this time , Brahm s became confidan t t o Schumann's wife , Clara . Sh e wa s thirteen years his senior, but Brahm s ha d learned somethin g abou t age gaps from hi s parents. Clara was also beautiful, kind, on e o f th e mos t talente d pianist s i n Europe , an d a gifte d (thoug h neglected) composer . He could not hav e helpe d bu t fal l in love with her. He did this with a completeness an d a n ardo r characteristic no t onl y of a young

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man but of a young Romantic artist. He was devoted t o Clara, but thei r love , so far as we have any business knowing about such things, remained platonic . After 1856 , they became best friends, literally friends t o the death. At twentythree, however , Johannes ha d experience d a major disappointment . H e was powerfully draw n to Clara, but fo r one reason or another coul d not make th e commitment, or was not allowed to. He was growing as a composer. He labored at his art regularly and with the concentration o f a Michelangelo. He received ever greater recognition. At the same time, he claimed he wanted the steadiness he fel t possible only by becoming the regula r conductor o f an orchestra. An d though he settled in Vienna in 1869, he longed for his native city's recognition, but each time the Hamburg Philharmonic was in the market for a music director he was passed over. (An offer—which he declined—came at last in 1894, when he was sixty-one and had long since established his reputation as the greatest living composer of concert musi c in Europe.) He actually took a steady job in 1872, a s artistic director o f Vienna's Academ y o f the Friend s o f Music, bu t three years later he had had enough, and he quit and grew a beard. In 1876, at forty-three, h e publishe d hi s Firs t Symphony, which inaugurate d a serie s of large orchestral works that would indeed prove him heir to the great tradition. In 1895 , whe n he attende d th e openin g o f Zurich's new Tonhalle, h e saw on the ceilin g his portrait alongsid e the portrait s of Mozart and Beethoven . In 1896, shortly after Clara' s death, h e was diagnosed with liver cancer. He died on 3 April 1897 . By all accounts he was generous and openhearted. When an old friend asked him to use his influence t o ensure that her daughter receive a scholarship t o the Berlin Conservatory, he secretly paid the girl's tuition, taking care never to reveal what kind of "scholarship" this was. He could also be acerbic. A Viennese wit relate d th e story—apocryphal , but telling—o f ho w Brahms, standing i n the doorwa y as he prepared to leave a dinner party , turned back to the guests at th e table . "I f there i s anyone her e who m I have no t offended, " h e said , "I beg your pardon." He was an artist who worked and reworked his material until he felt it was ready to present t o the world. He burned th e sketche s fo r almost everything he produced. It has been estimated that he wrote some twenty string quartets before composin g the firs t tw o of the thre e work s he publishe d in the genre . He kep t clos e guar d over hi s privacy , and lat e i n hi s lif e h e aske d Clar a t o return the letters he had written to her decades before. When he had them in hand he destroyed them. He adore d musi c o f the seventeent h an d eighteent h centurie s an d was committed t o th e rigo r and disciplin e o f classical form s i n a n ag e when th e school of Liszt, Wagner, and Berlioz had abandone d them . He wrote a rugged, concentrated musi c that, even when it seems to be an expanse of spontaneous melody, i s built o f th e mos t tightl y containe d unit s arrange d i n th e mos t

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economical o f ways, as in the firs t movement o f the Secon d Symphon y or th e last movement o f the Fourth . In outline, thos e ar e the facts , non e of which I knew as I listened, fo r th e first time , t o m y new recordin g o f the Brahm s Third Symphony . I recall i n particular the third movement. Never had I heard music so tender—tender in the sense that a wound is sensitive to touch. This is the commo n ground that Brahms exposes in his art . His life, barre n of sensationalism—as most of our lives are—was full o f the kind s of domestic pleasures and disappointment s t o which we can al l respond. His own world was not particularl y tragic, but a s a more or less rational, well-balanced individua l who earned a good living, h e had a clear vision of the large r world's essential sadness and his own essential loneliness i n it. His experience wa s filled wit h melancholy, an d a s he looke d back on that experience a s he worked, it colored his art. He wrote about what he knew. Perhaps Frau Schumann wil l clarify al l this. Brahms's biographer Karl Geiringer has said that the composer adopted an increasingly "autumnal" style after th e episode with Clara Schumann—those years between 185 4 an d 1856 , whe n Brahm s fell i n love with her an d whe n their relationship was consolidated in their resolution to be "good friends." In Brahms: His Life an d Work (publishe d originally by Oxford University Press in 1947), Geiringe r speculate s as t o why , after Schumann' s death , Brahm s did not pursue Clara more aggressively: Certainly Clara embodied i n every respect Johannes' ideal of womanhood, an d he knew by experience ho w well suited they were to each othe r i n al l the lesse r and greater affair s o f life. A s a man, then, h e coul d not hav e wished for a happier fate than t o be united t o her, and the difference s i n their age s certainly did not dismay him. If, therefore, Brahms forcibly suppressed all the allurin g dreams of union with Clara, and was content to remain her true friend for life, it must have been because the artis t in him dimly felt tha t h e must not definitel y bind himself.

And Richard Sennett has said that, "If the two were not lovers in the physical sense afte r Schuman n wa s confined t o a n institution, the y acte d a s lovers in every other. The legac y of this affair was forty years of companionship, jealousy, and guilt between Clara Schumann an d Brahms. The artistic effect on Brahms was entirel y unexpected. " Sennet t mark s 185 5 a s th e yea r Brahms's music "suddenly changed gears. " Geiringer come s t o roughly the sam e conclusion . In 1856 , h e says , "th e romanti c exuberanc e o f [Brahms's ] firs t creation s gradually vanishe d fro m hi s compositions. I n hi s lif e an d i n hi s work a new period had begun." The theory of Clara's effect on Brahms is tempting, stimulating, and too simple. Brahms in 1856 was twenty-three, hardly an age at which an artist's style is fixed. Nor i s the chang e i n Brahms' s style as sudden a s either Geiringe r o r Sennett

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suggest. I f you liste n fo r them , yo u wil l hear hint s o f typicall y "Brahmsian" melancholy i n the D-major Serenade o f 1857-1858 and the A-major Serenad e of 1857-1860. But the Pian o Concert o No. 1 of 1859 i s a work that bears few of th e characteristic s w e associat e wit h th e matur e Brahms . An d even th e Piano Quintet , written as late as 1864 , exude s mor e Sturm und Drang tha n regret. The Hor n Trio of 1865 i s a different story . Here we find wha t we hav e come to expect: haz e hanging ove r a field on an October morning, th e smell of burning leaves . Brahm s wa s thirty-two whe n h e wrot e tha t music . H e ha d been through Schumann' s death , throug h th e attraction-repulsio n t o Clara , through another simila r episode with a beautiful young girl, Agathe von Siebold, for who m he even agreed to wear an engagement rin g before breaking off the affair with the explanation that , as an artist, he needed his freedom. And then, in 1865, Brahms's mother died. He had loved her deeply. Of course it is possible to hypothesiz e that , with he r death , h e fel t himsel f mor e a man i n hi s own right than a son, an d that as a result his music grew more assured, controlled , expressive—what followe d almos t immediatel y wa s the Requiem , an d wha t followed tha t were the symphonies, concertos, strin g quartets, and finally th e chamber work s for clarinet an d that music which sound s very often as thoug h it ha d bee n written t o accompan y th e transitio n t o th e othe r side , th e las t piano pieces . Yet to say that all this began in 1865 , wit h his mother's death , is as dangerous as saying that 185 6 marke d th e beginning o f a profound chang e of style . Perhaps w e need marker s suc h a s these t o explai n th e obvious , for what we are really talking abou t is the simpl e fact tha t Brahms was maturing. The markers we point out are those of progressive steps. And at each progressive step, he had seen more of life. As reflective and perceptive a n artist as he was, he was prepared to incorporate mor e of that experience i n his work. Certainly, Brahms can lead us to triumphs—the First and Second symphonies are familiar example s of this—but heartbreak an d longin g ar e never fa r away, and even in the Second Symphony, the melody that the orchestra embrace s at the ver y end i s a heroic transformatio n of one o f the mos t poignant passage s he eve r wrote—whic h we first encountered , i n th e guis e of the movement' s second subject , as a reminder tha t all exaltation ha s a darker side. To call th e first appearance o f the theme a memento mori would be an overstatement; bu t its existence i s one way in which Brahm s tries to give us the complete picture , reminds u s of the seriousnes s and clarity of vision we need to cultivate fo r any active encounter wit h the world. It is one of the things that makes him so great an artist. In his biography of Brahms, Jan Swaffor d describe s tw o remarkable scene s reported b y the composer' s frien d (an d firs t biographer) Ma x Kalbeck. The y are remarkable becaus e the y offe r glimpse s of Brahms in private , behind th e facade o f the reserv e he assume d in public. (Th e onl y other time he droppe d the reserv e wa s in hi s work.) Kalbec k present s thes e vignette s a s images of

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Brahms possessed by the demo n of artistic creation, but, as Swafford suggests, they are more than that. I think they confirm what we sense in Brahms's music— that it speaks of the almos t unbearable paradoxes and poignancies o f life, th e unfolding and receding in time of our experience, th e simultaneous becoming and dying, so like music itself. Consider Kalbeck's observations. Neither is dated, but bot h were made a t Ba d Ischl—the Baden-Bade n of Austria, a s Kalbeck says, where Brahm s spent nin e summer s between 188 0 an d 1896 . Swaffor d has suggested that they might be from 189 2 and have occurred in connection with th e pian o piece s o f Opus 11 6 an d Opu s 117 . Though w e do not kno w where these scenes fall in the Brahms chronology, my thoughts are stimulated by Swafford's conjecture . I like to imagine that these moments are from 1893 , the summe r of the Opu s 11 8 an d Opu s 11 9 Pian o Pieces—miniature s tha t range in characte r fro m ghostl y to heroic , an d whic h sa y everything o n th e subject of Brahms's power to render a sense of the world's ungraspable beauty into sound. Perhaps it was the musi c of op. 118 , no. 6—the Intermezzo in Eflat minor—that drove Brahms to the outbursts Kalbeck witnessed. (Kalbeck, incidentally, has taken his hits for occasional misreporting, but it is difficult t o imagine him inventing material ; and eve n if he did, these views of Brahms go to the essence.) Her e is Exhibit A: An earl y riser and natur e love r just a s he was , I went ou t fo r an earl y walk on a warm July morning. Suddenl y I saw emerging from th e wood s and runnin g across the meadow towards me a man whom I took to be a farmer. I feared I had trespassed and, even as I was anticipating all sorts of unpleasantness, recognized the supposed farmer a s my friend Brahms. But in what circumstances he found himself, an d how he looked! Bare-heade d and in shirtsleeves, without vest and collar, he swung his hat in one hand an d with the other dragge d his stripped-off jacket after hi m in the grass; he wa s running fast, a s if hunted b y an invisible pursuer. Already from afa r I heard him panting and groaning . As he neare d m e I saw how the swea t streamed down over his hot cheeks from the hair hanging in his face. His eyes stared straight ahead int o emptines s an d glowe d a s thos e o f a predator y beast—he gav e th e impression of being possessed. Before I recovered fro m m y shock h e ha d sho t past me, so close that we almost brushed against each other; I grasped immediately that it would have been awkward to call after him: He smoldered with the fire of creation. Never will I forget th e alarmin g impression of elemental power that th e glimps e of this sight left o n me.

Exhibit B: On anothe r da y Kalbeck visited Brahms and heard him at work, trying out passages at the piano . On a visit to the Salzburgerstrass e just before noon , I had climbe d th e outer steps in the garden and was about to enter through the wide-open door, when I saw that

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the doo r t o th e musi c room als o stood open . I heard magica l piano playing that bound me to the threshold. I t sounded as though he were improvising, but I realized, as I heard th e change s i n certai n frequentl y repeate d passages , that Brahm s was improving an d honin g a new composition tha t h e ha d alread y worked ou t i n his head. He repeated the piece several times part by part, then finally played it through without a break. Th e pleasur e would have bee n complet e an d would have bee n even greater than th e interest i n the evolutio n o f his work, had th e solo not bee n transformed into a strange duo. The richer th e shape of the work became, and th e more passionat e th e performanc e grew, ther e ros e u p i n increasin g intensit y a disconcerting growling , whimpering, an d groaning , which, a s th e musi c peaked, degenerated into a loud howl. Had Brahms , acting completely against his nature, gotten himself a dog? That he would have tolerated the cursed animal in the roo m struck me as incomprehensible. Afte r about half an hour th e playin g stopped, and with i t th e howling ; th e pian o benc h wa s pushed back ; an d I stepped int o th e room. No trace of a dog. Brahms seemed a little embarrassed and wiped the back of his han d ove r hi s eye s like a chil d wh o i s ashamed—he mus t have bee n cryin g heavily, for the brigh t drops were still hanging in his beard, and his voice sounde d soft an d halting . I pretended I had jus t arrived and notice d nothing. Soo n he was in good spirits again and ready to joke.

How can on e composer' s music suggest so much beyond itself ? What is it about the sound of a composer's music—the sound that becomes his trademark, unfolding blossom-lik e fro m a combinatio n o f intervals , chords , an d harmonies—that gives it its power to make us see? Brahms forces m e to pose these questions that I cannot answer. Perhaps it is the sheer beauty of Brahms's sound that is so gripping—the beauty that conjures an ideal world, as lost and beyond our reach a s Eden. For those lucky enough to have experienced som e of life's satisfactions, such things as love and friendshi p and al l that goes with them, th e past holds rich memories, and to such memories and the intimacie s and collision s tha t create d the m th e ambe r glo w o f Brahms' s musi c i s consecration. I n that sound, images are captured and suspended. Clara waits at the table, looking out across a Rhine that has started to catch the sunligh t just no w breaking throug h gra y clouds. Joseph Joachim tune s hi s violin an d glances at the freshl y scribbled page that Johannes ha s given him. My mother puts an arm around a boy—he can be no older than three—and points across the meadow' s tall grass toward the broo k where, as a child, sh e hunted frog s with her brothers. As I draw back from thes e thought s an d this last scene, my eyes suddenl y mee t thos e o f tha t smal l visito r fro m a n earlie r time . I a m ambushed by the past—th e past of others, and my own. As surely as it takes me back forty years to an evening at the farthe r edge of my adolescence, Brahms's music is the music of memory. That is not an aestheti c statement. Of course all music depends to some extent on memory to make its

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effect, o n ou r abilit y to assimilate the horizonta l events o f the musi c as they occur i n time—th e magnificenc e o f th e choral e them e playe d by th e ful l orchestra at the end of the Brahms First Symphony is the more magnificent for our recollectio n o f having hear d i t te n minute s earlier , played quietly by th e trombones, in a different context . Bu t in all that, Brahm s is not unique. What makes him special, at least for an artist of his era, is his willingness to look back and sa y that, afte r all , we cannot alway s hav e thing s a s we wish them. Hi s music of the late 1890 s has more in common with the terribl e things t o come in the next century than with the manic optimism of fin de siecle Europe. What would his art have become had he lived long enough, into his eighties, t o see the Great War, the ultimate severing of present and future fro m past , the pai n of a world remembering what has been, reenactin g o n a cosmic level our own personal regrets over an irretrievable past? Somehow Brahm s understoo d ho w musi c could rende r th e sens e o f th e past. The sound he creates is a sound always of parting, of that strange sense of suddenly realizing that the experienc e o f the momen t will never com e again, let alone the experience of a year ago, or two years, or forty. It is the sound , for lack of a better word, of mortality. It is a sound that brings us back to ourselves.

—L.R.

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Schoenbergj, Brahms , and The Great Tradition

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February 1931, Arnold Schoenberg , the n fifty-six, wrot e two essays on "National Music. " Neither wa s published until 1950 , th e year before his death, whe n the y wer e include d i n hi s boo k Style an d Idea. Bot h ar e characteristically contentious an d characteristically interesting. The second is also important a s a piece o f intellectual an d artisti c autobiography and self evaluation because in it, neither for the first nor for the last time, Schoenber g seeks t o establis h hi s place i n Th e Grea t Traditio n o f German Music—an d nothing less than capitals will do. "Nobody," h e write s i n a passag e in th e secon d essa y uncomfortably reminiscent o f Hans Sachs's harangue about "die heil'ge deutsche Kunst" —holy German art—a t th e en d o f Die Meistersinger vo n Numberg, "nobod y ha s ye t appreciated tha t m y music , produce d o n Germa n soil , withou t foreig n influences, i s a living example of an ar t abl e most effectively t o oppose Latin and Sla v hope s o f hegemony an d derive d throug h an d throug h fro m th e traditions of German music." This, by the way, is a recurrent preoccupation of Schoenberg's: in the early 1920s, when he had formulated but not yet published his twelve-not e metho d o f composition, h e le t ou t th e firs t hin t b y tellin g some o f his student s tha t h e ha d mad e a discover y tha t woul d assur e th e dominance o f German music for another hundre d years. Toward the en d o f that essay and i n its most interesting part , Schoenber g goes on to support his claim for the Germanness of his work by stating proudly

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that his teachers "were primarily Bach and Mozart, and secondarily Beethoven, Brahms, and Wagner.... I also learned much from Schubert and Mahler as well as from Strauss and Reger." Aside from a few technical points picked up from his friend an d quartet-partner, the astrologe r Oskar Adler, and his future brother in-law, the composer and conductor Alexander von Zemlinsky, Schoenberg was in fac t self-taught ; tha t i s to say , what h e neede d t o kno w h e learne d fro m studying the scores of his nine masters—and others. With Mahler an d Strauss, Schoenberg ha d considerable persona l contact . Strauss didn't really like what Schoenberg was composing, but he recognized a real musician in his younger colleague. It was he who gave Schoenberg a copy of Maeterlinck' s Pelleas e t Melisande, whic h le d t o th e compositio n o f hi s luxuriant tone poem on that subject. Later he encouraged Schoenberg to send him the Five Pieces for Orchestra, op. 16 , though he did not in the end conduct them, explaining that he "feared to offer them to the conservative Berlin public." As for Reger, who died in 1916, he had nothing good to say about Schoenberg , and Schoenberg kne w Reger only through his music. Of Schoenberg' s fiv e primar y an d secondar y teachers , Brahms , who was born i n 1833 , wa s the youngest . He an d Johan n Strauss , Jr., whom Brahms liked and admired so much, were Vienna's most eminent musica l citizens while Schoenberg wa s growing up there . Schoenber g share d Brahms' s delight i n Strauss and made loving and delicious chamber arrangements of the Emperor Waltzes and Rose s from th e South. When Brahms died in 1897, Schoenberg was twenty-two an d ha d bee n composin g seriousl y for abou t fiv e years . Beyond being awar e of Brahms as a grand presenc e abou t town , he had shake n the great man's hand at the Tonkunstlerverein, the Society of Composers, which he had joined an d a t whose functions Brahms put in an occasional appearance . The Fourth Symphony, the Double Concerto, th e D-minor Violin Sonata, th e two Clarine t Sonatas , th e Clarine t Quintet , th e las t pian o pieces , th e Four Serious Songs, the Chorale-Preludes for organ, all these the aspiring, intensely experiencing youn g man—who was even shorte r than Brahms himself—ha d met a s brand-new music . To the exten t h e coul d affor d it , h e wen t t o hea r them in concert, an d as soon as they were advertised he hurried to Doblinger's to buy the score s in their handsome cover s from Simroc k in Berlin. Characteristically mixin g Dichtung an d Wahrheit, inventio n an d truth , Schoenberg recounte d ho w hi s famil y subscribe d t o a multi-volum e encyclopedia; as it was coming out in installments, he waited impatiently for the projec t to arrive at th e lette r S so that he could lear n how to compose a sonata. But of course while that encyclopedia was slowly snaking its way through the alphabet , the growing boy with the big nose and the piercing eyes was not just twiddling his thumbs while waiting for P, Q, and R to go by. He learned t o get around on the violin and viola, and eventually the cello as well. He began to compos e marche s an d polka s an d waltze s an d landle r o f th e kin d tha t

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inundated Vienn a fro m ever y bandstand, cafe , an d restaurant . Then, a s his growing skill as a string player allowed him to play chamber music with friends , giving him direct access to a whole new world from the venerated Haydn to the modern and controversial Brahms, he had more and richer models to emulate. The earlies t piec e b y Schoenber g yo u ar e likel y t o encounte r i s th e unnumbered String Quartet in D major that he wrote in 1897. In that charming work you can hear just how much of a Brahmsian the young Schoenberg was. You ca n als o sens e th e alway s delightfu l presenc e o f Dvorak—second generation Brahms, so to speak. At that time musicians were either Brahmsians or Wagnerians, the gulf being wide and the difference s bitter. (Brahm s himself could no t b e bothere d wit h thi s sill y war. ) Tha t D-majo r Quarte t wa s Schoenberg's last unambiguous statement of allegiance to Brahms. Two years later, in 1899 , he composed Verkldrte Nacht (Transfigured Night), hi s first famou s work an d hi s firs t masterpiece . Ther e w e hav e entere d anothe r world . Schoenberg has tasted of the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge. Wagner has become part of his cosmos, and so has Richard Strauss, who had alread y written all of his tone poem s except th e Symphonia Domestica and An Alpine Symphony. B y this time, moreover, the notion that one had to pledge fealty either t o Wagner or Brahms, forever renouncing the other, had become absurd, and Schoenber g was one o f the firs t composers to draw happily from both sources. As h e wrot e i n National Music: " I shut mysel f of f from n o one , an d s o I could sa y of myself : m y originality comes fro m this : I immediatel y imitate d everything I saw that wa s good, even when I had not see n it first i n someon e else's work. And I may say: often enough I saw it firs t i n myself . For if I saw something I did not leave it at that. I acquired it in order to possess it. I worked on it and extended it , and it led me to something new. " Schoenberg's National Music pedigre e is specific abou t his debt s t o Bach , Mozart, Beethoven, Wagner , and Brahms. Here i s what he tells us he learne d from Brahms : "Muc h o f what I ha d unconsciousl y absorbe d fro m Mozart , particularly odd barring, and extension an d abbreviation of phrases." Among the other Mozartian virtues that Brahms confirmed for him are "coordinatio n of heterogeneous character s t o form a thematic unity . . . . The ar t of forming subsidiary ideas [and ] th e ar t of introduction an d transition. . . . Plasticity in molding figures ; no t t o b e stingy , not t o stin t mysel f whe n clarit y demands more space; to carry every figure through to the end.... Economy, yet richness." All this has mostly to do with the concep t of infrastructure and not wit h surface, wit h skeleto n mor e tha n wit h skin , wit h ide a rathe r tha n style . Schoenberg's music does not necessarily sound much like Brahms. Sometimes, to be sure , it can . Th e wistfu l slo w movement o f the Violi n Concert o i s an example, and the poetic opening of the Piano Concerto, hoverin g on the edge of a waltz, is a descendant o f Brahms's late piano pieces. Maurizio Pollini used to play a recital program in which he juxtaposed some of those last Intermezzi

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with Schoenberg's Three Piano Pieces, op. 11 . That must have opened many an ear to this relationship . Pelleas und Melisande o n the othe r han d i s hardly likely to bring Brahms to mind a t al l except perhap s for the striding , virile, rhythmicall y complicate d theme tha t represent s Golaud. Wagner an d Strauss are present, so is Mahler (the passage depicting Melisande's hair falling down the wall of her towe r is a direct stea l fro m th e Sixt h Symphony) , an d s o is what i s unmistakably th e entirely new voice of the twenty-eight-year-ol d Arnold Schoenberg . As the composition s of Faure, Debussy, Schoenberg, an d Sibeliu s show us, music fo r Maeterlinck's hauntin g pla y ca n g o in man y directions; I cannot , however, imagine a Pelleas by Brahms any more than a Brahms Tristan, nor for that matter a German Requiem by Schoenberg o r Wagner. Schoenberg not only had th e musica l vocabulary to allow him to get us to feel Pelleas's erotic feve r as Melisande's hair glides over his face an d hands, t o sense his claustrophobic terror when h e accompanies Golau d into th e subterranea n vaults, to see the scene darke n whe n th e servants , summoned by some sixth sense , ente r th e bedroom when Melisande dies. He had th e desire, the need t o translate such moments int o music . It wa s one o f the place s where he lived . Schoenberg' s expressive rang e i s not narrow , but h e i s most himself , and musicall y most brilliant, i n a world of the possessed , a world in which utteranc e i s rarely less than recklessly intense, a world of apprehension, angst , mystery, and pain, one where th e borde r between drea m an d realit y is blurred an d wher e drea m is more real than reality. That is not th e worl d of Johannes Brahms . Most of the tim e Brahm s and Schoenberg, by virtue of their vast difference of temperament, are worlds apart in expressive intent, worlds apart therefore in the sound surface of their music. The physica l sound of music and its expressive content, those ar e the thing s that reac h u s first. The y ar e th e onl y components reall y meant t o reac h us . The rest— how musi c is made—is o f endless interest , bu t tha t i s shoptalk , something for professionals. On the question of what matters most, Brahms and Schoenberg would have found commo n ground . In a letter t o the violinis t an d quartet-leader Rudolf Kolisch, Schoenber g stresse d i n passionat e pros e tha t fo r him th e essentia l thing was to help people to see what an object is, not how it is made. "My works," he wen t on , "ar e twelve-not e compositions, no t twelve-note compositions. " A s for Brahms, whose fascination with and knowledge of technique wa s second t o no one's, he was so concerned no t t o have anyone peek into his workshop, as he put it, that more than any other great composer he took pains to destroy his drafts, sketches , unfinishe d projects , and al l works tha t di d no t mee t hi s dauntingly lofty standard s of professionalism. Schoenberg sai d tha t h e ha d learne d fro m Beethove n "th e ar t o f being shamelessly lon g or heartlessl y brief." Along wit h Bac h it was Brahms who

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gave Schoenberg his most penetrating lessons in coherence, an d in that sens e he is a presence in everything valuable by Schoenberg, fro m th e smalles t (but never wispy) pian o pieces of Opus 1 9 to the "shamelessl y long" Pelleas. While neither Brahm s nor Schoenber g wante d hi s listeners to dig for the source s of what Sibelius called "the profound logic" of music, both wanted their listeners to fee l it s power. Both kne w tha t composition s ar e good when th e what an d the how, the idea and the style, are one. Both paid their listeners the compliment of assumin g intelligence, alertness , a n engage d memory , an ope n hear t an d mind, an d thu s of giving them lots to do. In his later years, after he left his and Brahms's Vienna for good, Schoenberg twice more publicly engaged with Brahms. One o f these engagements was truly public, namely his virtuosic orchestration of Brahms's G-minor Piano Quartet , op. 25. This i s like the unexpecte d gif t o f a fifth Brahm s symphony, and i t has given delight to thousands of listeners as well as to most orchestral musicians. (A few string players ar e inclined t o be sniff y abou t it.) Th e orchestratio n i s analytical a s wel l a s exuberant , jus t a s Schoenberg' s Johan n Straus s arrangements ar e a t onc e scrutinou s an d affectionate . Brahm s would hav e understood and liked that . The other engagement was more specialized—an essay first worked out as a lecture for the Brahm s centenary i n 1933 , then fully elaborate d in 194 7 and titled Brahms the Progressive. Even at that late date this was flying in the fac e of long-received opinion according to which "progressive" meant Liszt and Wagner while Brahm s stood fo r "classical " an d "conservative. " Th e essay , als o firs t published i n 195 0 i n Styl e and Idea, i s a brilliant demonstratio n tha t Brahms was more inventive i n rhythm and bolder in the transformatio n of ideas than Wagner. T o that exten t Schoenber g sa w Brahms as pointing towar d himself and therefore regarded him as extraordinarily progressive. Brahms the Progressive is a statement tha t change d th e cours e of Brahms criticism, an d lik e almost everything tha t flowe d fro m Schoenberg' s pe n i t i s an intensel y passionat e document—a declaration of love from so n to father . I should at last say the obvious, which is that Brahms too would have listed Bach, Mozart, Schubert, and Beethoven a s his masters. I cannot imagin e tha t he would have liked Schoenberg's music; he had enough trouble with Mahler's. I am sure, though, that he would have seen that Schoenberg's musi c was good, however alien its expressive intentions an d its language, and that the composer of the Haydn Variations, the Fourth Symphony, and the Opus 11 9 Intermezzi would no t hav e though t himsel f to o superio r or to o gran d t o acknowledg e Arnold Schoenber g a s his pupil.

—M.S.

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First-Rate Second-Class Composer

m

M ore than most music lovers, I suppose, I'm inclined to think of

Johannes Brahm s and Richard Strauss in the same breath. This is probably because, just as my father was born roughly three month s before th e deat h o f Brahms, in 1897 , I was born thre e month s befor e th e death o f Strauss, in 1949 . That is nothing mor e than obscure coincidence , but i t makes a convenient plac e to begin talking about Strauss. For Brahms and Strauss are names tha t belon g togethe r a t the beginning . Strauss had started his career devoted to Brahms, but by the time he was twentyone he had rejected the aestheti c principle s to which tha t paterfamilia s of all serious artists subscribed. Those principles also happened t o be the intellectua l coordinates tha t Strauss' s father , Franz , firs t hor n o f th e Munic h Cour t Orchestra, use d to plot out his life. Conventional wisdom , patterns of archetypal behavior, and hormones hav e prett y much determined tha t father s and sons will come to a point where everything, possibly even the daily rising of the sun, is a potential source of disagreement. My own father and I, following the lea d not just of Strauss senior and junior, but of Adam and Cain, coul d find no way around this tragicomic axiom of existence, s o we embraced it. Upset at what he believed wa s my lowbrow taste in music—Elvis, the Top Forty, th e origina l soundtrack albums of Exodus an d Ho w th e West Wa s Won, and stuff tha t makes even me wonder today, like The Music Man—upset b y all this, my father "encouraged" me in the direction of Beethoven an d Mozart. To

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him these were just a little mor e than names. Yet in steering me their way , he had n o idea o f what h e wa s starting. M y teenag e hormone s wer e read y t o respond to Beethoven, an d in Beethoven I discovered a new musical obsession. Soon m y fathe r wa s askin g rhetorica l questions : "Don' t yo u fin d thos e symphonies a little long? " and "How can you sit through a whole concerto? " But if my father thought th e Beethove n Sevent h was a lengthy excursion , he was hardly prepared when I loaded the phonograph with Der Rosenkavalier, four LPs ' worth o f an oper a whose spa n crosse s a t leas t fou r tim e zones . By turns he deride d an d patronized the music . He was especially amused by the scene immediatel y precedin g th e presentatio n o f th e rose . Th e duenn a Marianne i s a t th e window , watchin g th e crowd s surroun d th e carriag e of Octavian, th e emissary come to deliver Baron Ochs's token of betrothal—the Silver Rose—to Marianne's charge , the seventeen-year-old Sophie . Mariann e can barel y contain hersel f a s she report s o n th e scen e i n th e street . A t it s climax she sings "Sie reissen den Schlag auf! E r steigt aus!" (The y fling open th e doors of the carriage ! He gets out!) Thos e three words—"E r steigt aus!"—are set t o the thre e risin g tones o f Octavian's theme , a virile, passionate fanfare , resplendently scored . It's a great moment. M y father thought i t was silly. "Er steigt aus!" he would say, with a sarcastic chuckle, as though a phrase so mundane were unworthy of a place in an opera, and certainly unworthy of such music— which, tie d a s it was to an admittedl y routine line , I suspect he considered a little pompou s (wha t he di d no t kno w wa s that, a few times, Straus s was as excited a s some of his characters, and unwittingly set Hugo von Hofmansthal' s stage directions t o music). My father was in his early seventies then—to o old, he would have told you, to acquire an appreciation of a composer who had no t figured among the operatic demigods he had discovered in his youth—Flotow, Donizetti, Meyerbeer , early Wagner—when, as a baker's apprentice, he would patiently sav e hi s pfennigs fo r standing-roo m ticket s a t th e oper a hous e i n Braunschweig, a small dark city in Northern Germany . By now you may realize that my father was a music lover—not a sophisticated one; bu t lovers , like doctors, composers , and bakers , come i n al l varieties of competence. H e neve r di d learn t o appreciat e Strauss , despite m y efforts t o bring him over, and almos t to his dying day he would repeat that phrase, "Er steigt aus!" with a laugh whenever I mentioned Richar d Straus s or his music. (To his credit , h e di d no t d o tha t whe n a sopran o frien d o f my wife's san g Strauss's song "Morgen" at our wedding.) H e may not hav e realized it, but h e was on to something i n his criticism of one o f my favorite composers. Almost from the beginning, Straus s was attacked for the not alway s peaceful co-existence i n his music of the sublime and the ridiculous. Barbara Tuchman, in The Proud Tower, her 196 6 history of pre-World War I Europe, quotes th e American criti c Lawrenc e Oilman , wh o i n 191 4 attempte d t o su m u p th e composer's caree r thu s far , when Straus s ha d alread y writte n no t jus t

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Rosenkavalier but, before that , hi s groundbreaking operas Salome an d Elektra, and th e ton e poems for which h e is still most admired. While Oilman foun d Strauss's bes t wor k sublime, h e faulte d th e composer' s capacit y fo r mind boggling bad taste and a tendency t o be aggressively "commonplace." Other writers have no t bee n as kind a s Oilman. Tuchman is one o f them. She take s specia l pleasur e i n storie s tha t cu t th e compose r dow n t o size , especially stories about the Strauss domestic scene, dominated by Frau Strauss— the soprano Pauline nee de Ahna, famously bitchy but i n Tuchman's accoun t reduced to a character Madeleine Kah n might have portrayed opposite Gene Wilder's Strauss in a Mel Brooks comedy. The Straus s household a s depicted in The Proud Tower shelters a composer who worked in response to a nagging shrew's harangues, not t o a muse's inspiration. He is more clerk than artist, a nine-to-five drudg e with a tid y des k an d meticulousl y kept files . Al l thi s manifests a common attitud e abou t Strauss. Yes, of course his music sounds glorious, but i s it really art? Shouldn't ar t be born ou t o f sweat rather tha n a desire t o pu t foo d o n you r family's table ? Tuchman goe s s o far a s t o chid e Strauss fo r his comfortabl y bourgeois appearance, which i s Brooks Brothers smug in comparison to the scowling, tortured Beethoven with his gravy-stained shirts or the sensitive , greasy-locke d Schumann. Afte r all, hasn't ever y artist you've eve r know n ha d a horribl e concep t o f persona l hygiene , an d aren' t deafness o r insanity prerequisites to the compositio n of great music? "Er steigt aus!" Straus s was no les s tidy on th e podium . He conducte d wit h th e mos t economical an d understate d gestures , which seeme d alway s t o resul t i n impassioned responses from th e orchestra. He maintained tha t the audienc e should have the damp palms, not the person holding th e baton . When Strauss's critics ask how a guy like this can be taken seriously as an artist, they may be voicing some fascination at a seeming perversity, one best summarized by George R. Marek in the introduction to his 1967 Richard Strauss: The Life o f a Non-Hero (publishe d b y Simo n an d Schuster) . "How, " Mare k asks, shall we "reconcile th e punctilious businessman—and Strauss was a good businessman—with the compose r of Don Quixote! How are we to explain th e difference between the dry dignitary, correct in dress and demeanor, and Strauss, the compose r of the fina l scene o f Salome! Th e ma n who saw the su n rise on Zarathustra's mountaintop—ho w coul d h e b e conten t wit h three-roo m domesticity? . . . The ma n who was able to organize the tou r of an orchestra and was aware of the last penny of expense that such a tour entailed, an d th e composer of mystic, dream-drenched songs, exquisite in their musical poetry— how could they have been one and the same?" The ver y fact tha t Stanley Kubric k appropriated the "Sunrise " fro m Also sprach Zarathustra for the openin g of 2001: A Space Odyssey wa s confirmation to some that Strauss's music had foun d it s proper place, introducing a quasiphilosophical fil m wit h a n overrate d sens e o f its ow n importance . ("Se e i t

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stoned," friend s urge d one anothe r i n 1968 , whic h say s a s much a s anythin g about th e appea l o f thi s movie , whic h wil l alway s be associate d wit h Zarathustra—by the composer who once in all seriousness described himself as the Tintoretto of music.) Strauss's reac h sometime s di d excee d hi s grasp . Often h e i s criticized for supplying the public with what he thought it wanted rather than forming public taste wit h th e powe r o f hi s art . H e di d both . Hi s styl e di d no t develo p significantly afte r Rosenkavalier an d Ariadne auf Naxos —that is , afte r 1912 , though in the 194 5 Metamorphosen, a lament over the destruction of the world as he kne w it, on e sense s th e distancin g device s ar e gone , makin g way for a new, mor e direc t wa y of communicating. Neithe r Metamorphosen, however , nor Rosenkavalier no r Ariadne tells u s much abou t th e Straus s who was once known a s a grea t radical . Almos t b y definition, h e wa s walkin g dangerou s ground. As th e compose r who discarded traditiona l pattern s o f compositio n and stretched th e tone poem as far as even that elastic genre could go, he had committed himsel f to a treacherous task , to writing music that tells stories— stories of Don Juan , of Till Eulenspiegel, of a hero's life , o f a man's death an d the subsequen t transfiguration of his soul. Brahms and his school maintaine d that suc h a thin g wa s not possible—tha t musi c i s an abstrac t ar t wit h n o meaning beyond itself. Writing out scenarios to guide his listeners through th e tales his scores attempted t o depict (thoug h the more he resorted to externa l programs t o sharpen hi s music's focus, th e mor e h e diffuse d it s effects), an d resorting t o eve r mor e "realistic " mean s o f portraying his subjects , until h e found himsel f writing for a wind machin e i n on e o f his last ton e poems, A n Alpine Symphony, Straus s saw that th e logica l continuatio n o f his life's work was no t i n orchestra l musi c but i n wha t h e ha d starte d bac k i n 189 4 wit h Guntram. Opera was where his future lay . In committing t o that direction, h e acknowledged that there are limits to the stories music can tell without relying on the human voice fo r help. Strauss always ran th e risk, as do all public figures, of being misunderstood, and th e professiona l jealousies provoked by his enormous succes s may hav e doomed hi s contemporaries ' effort s t o figur e ou t thi s irritatin g ma n whos e personal an d artisti c persona s were so at odds . At th e tur n o f the twentiet h century, h e ma y have bee n th e mos t famou s livin g compose r i n th e world ; certainly he was the most talked-about and probably the most highly paid. As this acclai m had come rather easily, the question was whether th e Tintoretto of music had a proper respect fo r his gift . "Th e puzzl e o f Strauss," wrote th e conductor Frit z Busch, "wh o i n spit e o f his marvelou s talent s i s not reall y penetrated an d possesse d by them lik e othe r grea t artists , but i n fac t simply wears the m lik e a suit of clothes whic h ca n b e take n of f at will—this puzzl e neither I nor anybody else has yet succeeded in solving: his decided inclination towards material things; and with his complete disinclination t o any sacrifice, the swor n enemy of social change." "E r steigt aus!"

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A mor e sympatheti c Straus s biographer , Michae l Kenned y (i n hi s 197 6 biography of the composer in Dent's Maste r Musicians series), gives us a more balanced insigh t int o th e composer' s legendar y preoccupatio n wit h money . Strauss, he says, "saw no reason why a composer should not be well remunerated for hi s work and persistently championed hi s colleagues' rights in this respect as wel l a s hi s own. " Beginnin g i n 1898 , h e wage d a successfu l seven-yea r campaign to reform German copyrigh t laws. He was generous with the influence he wielded, and he became the champio n of Elgar, Sibelius, Mahler, and other contemporaries . Muc h has been made of his ties to the Nazis before and during the Second World War, but his presidency of the Reichsmusikkammer had been conferred upon him by Goebbels in 1933 without hi s knowledge. As for his being "th e swor n enemy of social change, " Strauss simply wanted nothing to do with politics. Yet if he was apolitical, h e arrived at a firsthand understanding of Nazi tyranny. Stefan Zweig, his librettist for th e oper a Di e schweigsame Frau, wa s Jewish , an d whe n th e wor k was scheduled fo r its firs t performance , in Dresden , Straus s learned tha t Zweig's name had been omitted fro m th e posters. He demanded tha t it be restored. It was. But , a s Kennedy tell s us , "Hitle r an d Goebbels , wh o ha d promise d t o attend th e premiere , stayed away, an d afte r fou r performance s the oper a was banned throughou t Germany. At the same time Strauss was ordered to resign his presidency of the Reichsmusikkammer on the grounds of ill-health. Straus s then wrote an obsequious letter t o Hitler, but he was now desperate to protect not himself but his daughter-in-law Alice, who was Jewish, and her children. " The image of Strauss the Nazi sympathizer continues i n popular mythology, and even so fine a writer as Roger Kahn, in his 1993 baseball history The Era, refers t o "Richar d Strauss , who wa s still alive [i n 1947 ] an d bus y explainin g why he had not been—to put thi s charitably—mor e passionately anti-Nazi." True, a disturbing photo from those years shows Strauss enthusiastically shaking hands wit h Dr. Goebbels, wh o displays his swastika armband prominently for the camera . But is it really so remarkable that an eighty-year-old man migh t conclude tha t protecting hi s grandchildren wa s more important tha n takin g on the Fiihrer? Someone els e in Strauss's position might have acted differently , and the entire question of his moral responsibilities during this time is complex. He was not the hero we might wish him to be, but others in other time s hav e also fallen short on heroics. Whether the politically naive Strauss comprehended what the Nazis really were is anyone's guess. A nation is slow to acknowledg e any sens e o f its ow n culpability . The mor e outrageou s th e transgression s of political leadership , th e les s read y are th e governe d t o cal l thei r leader s t o account, fo r just a s we ar e incline d t o den y tha t a frien d o r famil y membe r might be guilty of theft or murder, we refuse to believe that great incompetenc e and wrongdoing can exist at such high level s of the state . Wouldn't someon e have exposed such criminal leadership by now? Since no one has, all must be

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in order. The Germans discovered that such thinking can lead to disaster. While it would do every nation well to heed Germany's example, perhaps Strauss was just like so many of us, waiting for someone else to set things right. In any case, to hav e bee n mor e publicl y anti-Naz i would hav e bee n dangerou s t o thos e Strauss loved . I t woul d als o hav e bee n ou t o f character. Al l w e can sa y for certain o n this subject is that Richard Straus s himself was no Nazi. Facts and sympathies aside, the basic dilemma about Strauss remains. "How reconcile th e punctilious businessman... with the composer of Don Quixote?" And why , at this point, do some writers still feel it necessary to belittle Strauss while other s fee l a n equa l need t o com e t o his defense? Straus s himself was pretty secure in his reputation. " I may not be a first-class composer, " he once said, "but I am a first-rate second-clas s composer. " Part of the reaso n fo r our discomfort with him comes back to that phrase my father took such pleasure in throwing at me whenever I mentioned Strauss . "Er steigt aus!" That phrase, and th e musi c to which i t i s set, sum s up Richard Strauss , who brough t th e commonplace an d the wondrous together i n the most surprising—though not always the most appropriate—ways. Today, it is difficult t o grasp just why Strauss was considere d s o ultramodern at the outset of the twentiet h century . He lef t no artisti c heirs , an d i t seem s t o u s now tha t hi s musi c represent s no t th e beginning o f a new era but the culmination an d conclusion o f an old one. Th e era fro m whic h i t emerge d ende d abruptl y with Worl d Wa r I . The opulen t textures of his music belong more to the nineteenth century than to any other, yet that opulence was always a part of his work, right up to his death. I t is that opulence i n Straus s that we treasure, althoug h som e listener s wil l equate i t with vulgarity , an d sometime s the y wil l b e right . Th e bi g gesture s an d encompassing sound s of his music represent a Weltanschauung whose validity was calle d int o question b y the Grea t War , and i n th e pas t few years I hav e wondered whether m y father's resistance to Strauss's beauties was solidified by his memories of trenches i n th e Ardennes , fo r his youth was conditioned b y that, too , not onl y by what went o n in the opera house in Braunschweig. Yet today, as cities burn and the innocent die in the crossfire, Strauss's music seems more and more necessary and utterl y valid. Beethoven an d Bach hel p us envision a perfect world in ethical terms . Strauss's music is not abou t ethic s and morality. It is not even abou t heroes, prophets , pranksters, or death an d transfiguration. It is about beauty itself, first-rate beauty: pleasure, which is its own reward.

—L.R.

Sibelius and Mahler: What More Could There Be?

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usicology doesn't ofte n lend itsel f to th e "wha t if " questions tha t haunt history and our personal chronicles. It's compelling to imagine what the world would look like today if JFK had canceled hi s trip to Dallas, and we all have our own stories of roads taken or avoided, for better or worse. Music's intrigues are confined to the music, but not always . So here is a question that can have a s much or as little t o do with music as you choose t o make of it: When is a composer's work complete? Take, for example, Gustav Mahler and Jean Sibelius. What if Sibelius, who lived until 1957—hi s ninetyfirst year—ha d continue d t o compos e afte r th e lat e 1920s ? What if Mahler, who died just before he turned fifty-one, i n 1911 , had lived as long as Sibelius and had continued working with his customary energy? What would twentiethcentury music have become? How different woul d our concerts sound? They wer e contemporaries . Mahler , bor n i n 1860 , wa s onl y fiv e year s Sibelius's senior. Mahler completed his First Symphony in 1888 an d his last in 1910—nine symphonie s i n twenty-tw o years. Sibelius complete d hi s Firs t Symphony in 1899 and his last in 1924—seven symphonies in twenty-five years. You could do the math and calculate that if each of them had continued working at approximately the same pace—had Mahler been given the time and Sibelius the inclination—the y migh t hav e lef t u s anothe r twenty-od d symphonie s between them . Such speculation might be more suited to the late hours of a cocktail party. For in an eerie way, the body of work each composer left u s seems complete, as

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though nothing more was left to be said. It is difficult t o imagine Sibelius going beyond the Seventh Symphony and Tapiola, difficul t t o imagine Mahler goin g beyond the Ninth Symphony or what we know of his Tenth, whic h he did not live t o complete . An d i f this seem s a tautology—i f i t seem s I' m sayin g that their work defines these composers because their work is all we know of them— think of others abou t whom we can't sa y the same : Mozart, for instance, o r Schubert, o r Schumann, wh o were all reaching strid e but wh o don't see m to have tappe d thei r reservoir s fully . As k yourself : Wha t mor e coul d w e hav e expected fro m Sibeliu s and Mahler? Perhaps thi s i s just a failure o f my imagination, o r perhaps they were such powerful individualist s tha t onl y the y coul d sugges t anything beyon d wha t they ha d alread y done. Conceivin g o f what the y migh t stil l hav e writte n is difficult becaus e eac h evoke s a soun d worl d uniquel y his . Earl y Sibeliu s i s unmistakably Sibelius, for all the influenc e of Tchaikovsky, and a s different a s the expansive Second Symphony of 1902 sounds from the concentrated, densel y packed Seventh of 1924- And Mahler , even in his Symphony No. 1 , appears to have sprung from nowhere with that strange and wonderful concoction of folk song and epic , ditty and declamation , tha t is a hallmark of his style. Yet even though thes e tw o were completely their ow n men, working in an era that saw composers searching for a language that would take them out of the nineteenth century int o th e twentieth—beyon d Lisz t an d Brahm s an d Wagner—the y shared a common passion: to capture in their music a sense of what it means to be alive. How they pursued this tell s us a lot abou t music, and abou t why we listen. In lat e Octobe r 1907 , Mahle r wa s i n Helsink i fo r a guest-conductin g engagement. Base d i n Vienna , h e wa s on e o f Europe' s mos t prominen t conductors—he was known in those day s as a conductor wh o also composed, though h e alread y had si x symphonies an d a n as-yet-unperforme d sevent h symphony to his credit. Sibeliu s was a composer who also conducted, an d h e was hoping t o carry his music beyond hi s native Finland . Althoug h onl y fiv e years separated them , Mahle r wa s a colleague fa r more senio r tha n that age span suggests, someone whos e work on th e podiu m and of f had alread y won him internationa l stature . I n th e cours e o f Mahler's Helsink i trip , th e tw o sought eac h othe r ou t an d engage d i n a now-legendary dialogue . Sibelius' s biographer Erik Tawaststjerna offer s th e composer' s recollections o f his talks with Mahler (i n Volume II of Sibelius, translated by Robert Layton and published by th e Universit y o f Californi a Pres s i n 1986 ; thi s i s th e sourc e o f al l th e quotations pertaining to Sibelius in this article). Writing twenty-five years later, Sibelius remembere d " a number o f walks together, wher e we discussed all of music's problems in deadly earnest. Whe n our conversation touche d o n th e symphony, I said that I admired its style and severity of form, and the profound logic that created a n inner connection between al l the motives. This was my

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experience i n th e cours e of my creative work . Mahler's opinion wa s just th e opposite. 'No!' he said, 'The symphony must be like the world. It must be allembracing.'" Sibelius had bee n strugglin g toward his position. Just a month earlier , his Symphony No. 3 had premiered . In it s tautness, it s clean lines , an d it s lea n textures—its "profoun d logic"—i t departe d radicall y fro m th e Secon d Symphony, which wa s one o f those richl y colored works , painted o n a broad canvas, tha t helpe d mak e Sibelius a national figure . Fo r Sibelius, that statu s was a double-edged sword. Finland was chafing under Tsarist domination. Th e country needed heroes. Even a composer could assume the role, especially one who gave the people works like Finlandia, the Legends from th e nationa l epi c the Kalevala, and a symphony such as the Second , inspire d now and agai n by folk son g and conjurin g visions of northern forests . Bu t Sibelius hated bein g described as a nationalist. He had higher aspirations, and when he outlined his symphonic aestheti c t o Mahler , he wa s talking abou t a way to realiz e thos e aspirations. His new Third Symphon y was an example of the Sibelian aestheti c at work . A s Tawaststjern a says, th e Thir d Symphon y wa s a fora y i n a n international direction, in which the composer moves from the overtly "Finnish" toward th e universal . Yet the Thir d als o showed tha t h e "wa s totally out of step with th e times"—time s tha t sa w orchestral musi c expanding i n size, i n works such as Richard Strauss's tone poem s and Mahler's symphonies. While Sibelius saw "profound logic" as a means to his ends, Mahler, at least initially, took the opposite path. Mahler sai d th e symphon y had t o b e "all-embracing, " an d h e live d tha t conviction. Conside r th e wa y he operate d righ t fro m th e start , i n hi s First Symphony. There h e reference s a fe w melodies fro m hi s ow n songs , quotes "Frere Jacques" an d score s it fo r a n ensembl e tha t suggest s a Klezmer band, works u p a lather wit h an Austrian countr y dance, an d end s with a finale of continually changin g character , fro m violenc e t o tenderness , culminatin g i n crashing cymbals and blasting brass as the eigh t hor n player s are directed t o stand wit h th e bell s of their instrument s raised , pouring out th e sound . You can't fail to get the point. Some listeners still think of Mahler more as a collector of found objects, who gathered bits and pieces from lif e an d expected the m t o reflect life. He never worked in that simplistic a way, yet Mahler can't often be accused of subtlety, especially not in the earl y symphonies. Mahler's subtlety grew ove r th e years , grew awesom e a t th e end , bu t h e alway s remaine d a composer of large gestures. And fro m th e start , his control o f vast orchestral forces an d vas t spans of musical time integrates thos e gesture s in a way that saves the m fro m bein g histrionic . H e goe s to th e edg e of what's acceptable , always risking overstatement bu t neve r quit e crossing the lin e tha t separates artistic genius fro m artisti c blunder. That great daring continues t o dra w us into his music.

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Unlike Sibelius, Mahler was no national hero, and he once described himself as homeless three time s over, as a Bohemian among Austrians, as an Austrian among Germans, an d a s a Jew everywhere. But i f Mahler i s the outsider , it is Sibelius whose sound has served so rarely as a model to others (though a composer as recent, and as different-sounding, a s John Adams has acknowledged his debt to Sibelia n artisti c strategies) . I n fact , th e on e compose r whos e soun d occasionally recalls that of Sibelius is New Zealand's Douglas Lilburn, author of engagin g musi c that ha s no t ye t mad e i t int o th e worl d arena . Mahler' s influence, on the other hand, was felt for many years into the twentieth century in the work of his closest spiritual compatriot, Dmitri Shostakovich, who learned from Mahle r th e tacti c of fusing th e quirky march with the stirring hymn, th e ridiculous and the sublime, and who not only enjoys an international reputatio n but i s a her o t o Russians . Sibeliu s an d Mahle r lef t legacie s tha t wen t i n unexpected directions . Yet if Sibelius and Mahle r seem dissimilar at first , thei r methods tende d t o converge a s they continue d t o pursu e their commo n goal . Mahler believe d that a symphony "must be like the world," while Sibelius called composition "a quest in the infinit e recesses of the soul. " Any attemp t to identify difference s that might make one the greater composer is to quibble—to relegate the eagerly encompassing Mahler to one corner of the ring and the calmly probing Sibelius to another . Th e poin t i s that each of them approache d hi s art a s something that, i n som e sense , wa s all-embracing. Mahle r work s toward tha t en d i n a more obviou s wa y than Sibelius, bu t Sibelius' s musi c ca n als o hav e tha t encompassing appeal. As Tawaststjerna points out, the Danish composer Carl Nielsen, anothe r "nationalist " whos e ar t goe s beyond nationa l boundaries , described the Sibelius Second Symphon y in exactly those words: all-embracing. What motivates an artist to embrace all, or to explore depths, and in either case to keep on working, even if your listeners don't grasp what you're about?— and bot h Mahler an d Sibeliu s encountere d puzzled , hostil e audiences . On e answer is obvious: the sens e tha t th e Muse' s offer o f inspiration i s good for a limited tim e only, that if you fail t o Act No w or don't Respon d by Midnight, the dea l migh t b e off . How Sibeliu s an d Mahle r responde d t o thi s sens e of encroaching tim e say s somethin g abou t th e wa y they prime d themselves . Sibelius, plagued by self-doubt, wa s always o n th e lookou t fo r disasters that might cut his time short. He imagined he had hearing problems. He feared h e had diabetes ( a fancied ailment that led him to a doctor who remarked on his "fine physical condition an d outstanding hypochondria"). He smoked too much. He drank way too much and tortured himself for his weakness. ("I am now in my prime," he wrote in 1907, "and on the threshold of big things, but the years could easil y melt awa y with nothing to sho w for them, unles s I am taken i n hand—above all , by me. This drinking—not that I don't enjoy it—ha s gon e too far." ) A t last , in 1908 , h e encountered th e rea l thing. H e was diagnosed

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with a throat tumo r and underwent surgery . The growt h was benign, bu t th e thought of what could have happened was terrifying enough to keep him away from cigars and alcohol for the next seven years. It was a time during which, as Tawaststjerna says, he "redoubled his activity" in the fac e of an early death. I t was i n thi s perio d tha t Sibeliu s create d on e o f the grea t symphonies o f th e twentieth century , or any century, his Fourth. This bleak , probin g music, say s Tawaststjerna , "with it s soundings o f th e innermost spiritual condition, i s one of the most remarkable musical documents of the Freudia n era." He continues : Sibelius portrays his inner landscape with a discretion bor n of discipline or, to pu t it anothe r way , with th e objectivit y of the greates t artists. . . . Indeed, thoug h i t may be a "psychological symphony," it is far from bein g a purely autobiographical document, a record o f his inner life , fo r once th e symphon y was in th e proces s of gestation, i t became his life . Thi s interactio n make s th e Fourt h particularly fascinating: the symphon y itself and his inner lif e reflec t each other. Here we have a tense yet ultimately harmonious balance between ar t an d life . Much the same might be said of another work being composed a t this time : the Ninth Symphon y of Mahler, again written in the shado w of death.

Mahler's Ninth has often been called a "farewell" symphony, but, as Michael Steinberg has written in his commentary on the work, it is not th e produc t of a man preparin g to leave th e world . Nevertheless, a s Mahler gre w older, he was force d t o confron t mortalit y i n th e mos t immediat e terms . H e wa s acquainted wit h death. Seve n o f his thirteen sibling s died in infancy, and his favorite brother died at thirteen. Non e o f this, however, prepared him for the death of his daughter Maria in 1907, when she was not yet five. That catastrophe was followed several days later by another, when Mahler himself was diagnosed with a heart conditio n tha t force d hi m t o scal e bac k th e physica l activities such as hiking and swimming that gave him such pleasure. The grandiose Eighth Symphony, that all-embracing hymn to the Creator Spiritus, had been completed in th e summe r tha t Mari a died , a fe w months befor e Mahle r declare d hi s symphonic credo t o Sibelius in their Helsink i talks . In Das Lied vo n der Erde, commenced shortl y thereafter, a new atmospher e fill s Mahler' s music , more reflective, a little bewildered by life, sometimes defiant, ultimately accepting. It is an atmosphere that come s to fuller fruitio n i n the Ninth Symphony, and that continue s i n the Tenth . The Mahler Ninth, and what we know of the Tenth—the composer completed only the firs t movement, almost finished the third, and sketched ou t the rest— offer music of almost incomprehensible poignancy . These ar e works that moved Arnold Schoenberg to comment, rather melodramatically, on the subject of Ninth Symphonies i n general: "It seems that th e Ninth is a limit. He who wants to go

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beyond it must die. It seems as if something might be imparted to us in the Tent h which we ought not yet to know, for we are not ye t ready." Mahler share d a superstition about Ninth Symphonies, but h e seemed t o have n o misgiving s about completin g hi s Ninth. Onc e again , intuitin g th e Muse's offer and perhaps fearing its withdrawal, he went from the Ninth straight into the Tenth. And in the Tenth he continues an d adds to what he had started in the preceding work. For the Ninth concludes with an adagio, which is how the Tenth begins. (Virtuall y no precedent exists for such an opening. Althoug h some Hayd n symphonie s d o indee d begi n wit h slowl y pace d movement s of more than usual gravity, such as nos. 22 and 49, these are exceptions so rare as to make Mahler essentially alone in starting a symphony the way he begins his Tenth, an d the Tenth's opening is of a different expressiv e world than anything in Haydn. ) Perhap s I'm readin g to o muc h int o this , bu t I choose t o believ e that Mahler' s od d decisio n t o ope n a symphony with a slow movement was prompted b y his nee d t o kee p explorin g th e expressiv e possibilities h e ha d created i n the Ninth. Those possibilitie s developed fro m a great leap forwar d he made in architectural mastery and in the wisdom with which he propelled his music; they developed fro m wha t seems a new understanding of dramatic transition, i n which th e movemen t fro m even t t o event i s as seamless as the movement o f life, self-containe d within term s more abstract than any he ha d ever conceived. In terms of today's New Age thinkers, we might say that Mahler gives us a sense of The Journey. As I said, almost no symphony until then had opened with an adagio, but at least two—Tchaikovsky's Pathetique and Mahler's own Ninth—had close d wit h adagios . In suc h a context, th e Adagi o o f the Mahler Tent h sound s more like a concluding movement . (Mahler' s sketche s also show the Tent h endin g in a long adagio.) Mahler an d Sibelius , lik e s o many other artists , were driven b y fear tha t they would not live to complete all they set out to do. Let us, though, assume for a moment that Mahler did indeed finish what he had intended t o complete. It's not a question we will ever be able to answer; yet his Ninth Symphony, and the Adagio from the Tenth, have their counterparts in works with which Sibelius effectively ende d hi s composing career, the Sevent h Symphon y and the ton e poem Tapiola. Thes e are works in which Sibelius realized his symphonic ideal. He mastered—a s did Mahler, in his own way—the art of transition withi n a new concision of form, at the same time creating a sound world entirely abstract and self-referentia l even while it suggests nature's vastness and huge interio r spaces. I don't mea n to suggest that Sibeliu s is engaging in musical landscape painting. His music moves—as does Mahler's—with an inevitability and forc e equaled onl y i n th e worl d o f forests , gatherin g thunderclouds , oceans , an d upward-thrusting peaks. When he finished Tapiola,, in 1926, Sibelius had thirtyone year s lef t t o live . Scholar s hav e speculate d o n wh y h e simpl y stoppe d composing. He was at work on an eighth symphony as late as 1943, but befor e

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the 1940 s were over, he ha d burned hi s sketches fo r that work, along with a bundle of other music . He had said what he had t o say. They had little in common, Mahler and Sibelius, and they were different i n their approache s to their art . Yet they realized every artist's goal: they attaine d ultimate control of their craft, using it to render a complete sense of life as though no ar t wer e involved i n th e rendering . Th e sens e o f life the y communicat e reaffirms why we continue t o turn to the greatest music. For the greatest music is a world unto itself , a world that shows us the ideal , a world of honesty, a world fre e o f pettiness. It i s that place we envision i n contemplation , whe n time pauses, when the sun drops below or rises above the horizon, igniting th e clouds, and we can think of nothing but gratitude for whatever has allowed us a moment at the center of things. So what more would Mahler an d Sibelius have given us, had Mahle r lived to be ninety-one, or had Sibelius continued to compose? Those are questions for th e lat e hour s of a cocktail party , t o be posed and the n forgotten. In th e time allotte d o r i n th e tim e the y chos e t o use , eac h o f them, i n differen t proportions, used all-embracing strategies and profoun d logi c to search. The y were searching for an ideal world, and when the search was over, they had arrived.

—L.R.

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Remembering Rachmaninoff c?

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doorbell ring s i n Hollywood . Answering , th e owner , fiv e foo t one , has to tilt his head bac k to look into the fac e of his unexpected an d tall, tall visitor. A "six-and-a-half-foo t scowl" is how Stravinsky described Rachmaninoff. But on this spring evening, Rachmaninoff is not scowling. He has come t o present a n immense jar of honey t o his fellow-expatriate an d fellow-composer. What a shame that Vera Stravinsky is not o n hand with her camera t o captur e thi s moment . (An d b y th e way , there ar e picture s o f Rachmaninoff smilin g most winningly.) The dat e of this scene is 1942. If I were making a movie about Rachmaninoff or Stravinsky , I would cheat an d sa y this wa s their firs t meetin g i n umptee n years, but i t wasn't quite. I don't kno w ho w much tim e ha d elapse d betwee n their las t encounter i n Europe and their firs t i n California, which preceded thi s one by some days. In an y case, as a result of the upheaval s in Europe they ha d both landed i n Hollywood, Stravinsky in 1940 , Rachmaninoff two years later. Greater Lo s Angeles an d Hollywood in particular had become th e magne t not just for expatriate actors, but for musicians, writers, and intellectuals, som e of them amon g the most brilliant i n their generation . Th e climat e was kinder than any they had eve r known, th e heatin g bill s were low, and besides, ther e was always the hope of work in the studios. Many of these new Californians a t once split into cliques and cabals, not speaking to but ever ready to badmouth each other, feeding and watering all the aesthetic an d political differences tha t

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had separated them in Europe.1 Rachmaninoff and Stravinsky were on opposite sides o f th e fenc e tha t separate d th e modernist s fro m th e anti-modernists . Rachmaninoff regarde d The Firebird an d Petrushka as works of genius but ha d no us e fo r Stravinsky' s late r compositions ; Stravinsk y ha d n o interes t i n Rachmaninoff's musi c at any time. But Rachmaninof f wa s no t a pett y o r a jealou s man . Thinkin g abou t Stravinsky, he sa w a Russian, an honorabl e (i f wrong-headed) musician , an d above all, a father whose children, lik e his own, were caught in occupied France . He telephone d hi s biographer, Sergei Bertensson, an d said : "As I know ho w much Igor Fyodorovich has always disliked my compositions. . . and he must know my attitude t o modern music , I'm not sur e whether I could invit e hi m and his wife to my house—which I'd love to do—because I don't know how he would receive my invitation. Woul d you be so kind as to send out a feeler?" Vera Stravinsky's response was positive an d led to cordial dinners a t both houses. One ca n imagin e th e atmosphere , th e passag e back an d forth across the tabl e o f the statel y an d sonorou s patronymics—Serge i Vasilyevich, Igor Fyodorovich, Natali a Alexandrovna , Ver a Arturovna. A t th e firs t o f thes e dinners, Stravinsk y mentioned hi s fondness for honey; hence Rachmaninoff's surprise visit a few days later. Bertensson, who was also one of the dinner guests, writes that "beside s comparin g notes o n thei r familie s in France, the y had a very lively discussion of musical matters—but not a word about composition . They talke d abou t managers, concert bureaus , agents, ASCAP, royalties. " Common groun d on which the y di d not touch—an d i t is understandabl e why not—was what it felt like to be composers who seemed t o have lost thei r hold o n thei r audience . Stravinsky , the n fa r fro m bein g th e adore d an d prosperous media figure h e became in his old age, was resented b y the publi c and battered i n the press because he had moved on from th e style of his great pre-war dance scores , The Firebird, Petrushka, an d Th e Rite of Spring. As fo r Rachmaninoff , sinc e th e en d o f World Wa r I an d excep t fo r th e Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini in 1934, his compositions had been rejected by those wh o yearned fo r more of the lushnes s o f the Pian o Concert o No . 2 and th e Secon d Symphony . Whe n audience s coughe d restlessl y during his Variations on a Theme of Corelli, which he wrote in 1931 , he would leave out the next variation; on one tour he was able to play the entire se t just once. Of his Symphony No. 3, whose final version came out in 1938, he said that he did not nee d al l the finger s o f one hand t o count it s admirers, who were himself, the violinis t an d composer Adolf Busch, and the conducto r Si r Henry Wood . Moreover, Rachmaninoff was in a double bind. As an almost exact contemporary 1 There is a large and entertaining literature on this period in Hollywood. Try Otto Friedrich's City of Nets o r Anthon y Heilbut' s Exiled i n Paradise, an d fo r a vie w fro m th e inside , Salk a Viertel' s Th e Kindness o f Strangers o r Thomas Mann's The Story o f a Novel.

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of Schoenberg and a slightly older colleague of Bartok, Stravinsky, Webern, and Berg, he had come to think of himself as an absurd and useless anachronism. Rachmaninoff's conservatis m as a composer is a prime fact about him, an d it is central to his reputation. The public loves him, and in recent years its love has become more embracing of at least some of his later music: the Symphoni c Dances, fo r example, have become a repertory piece and a major hit . O n th e other hand , th e academ y an d mos t professiona l criticism think s littl e o f Rachmaninoff. In Me of All People, a book of conversations with Martin Mayer, Alfred Brendel speaks of "a Bermuda triangle between Puccini, Rachmaninoff, and Lehar, in which primary , genuine, nobl e emotion s [are ] in dire danger of being sucked away." I don't recall hearing on e word about him in an y music course when I was a student, and I did no better in the music history classes I myself taught later. I loved to listen to his music, but it was the love that dared not speak its name, and I kept it private. A bit of unsystematic inquiry suggests that, overall , the situation in schools hasn't change d much . Rachmaninoff is one of many composers we know too narrowly. Once, when I gave a talk on Rachmaninoff, I titled it "Beyond Full Moon and Empty Arms " and began by playing Frank Sinatra's 194 5 recording of the son g Buddy Kaye and Ted Mossman concocted fro m th e las t movement o f the Pian o Concert o No. 2. It is a great tune in a style Rachmaninoff had learned from Tchaikovsky, and it is the kind of generous, heart-on-sleeve music that first comes to mind when you hear Rachmaninoff's name . Coming up with such tunes is a rare gift, but Rachmaninoff could also invent more subtle melodies that don't stick to the ear quite so immediately. One that stuns me every time begins the slow movement of the Symphony No. 2. Violins lead of f with a yearning phrase. Then the clarine t unwind s a long threa d of melody, a quiet musing on just a few notes. The violins continue it , turning the heat up, until the y come back to the yearnin g phrase from th e beginning. By this time, nearly four minutes have gone by, four minutes of continuous melody in which Rachmaninoff never repeats himself. How often do you find something like that? In par t i t i s th e quie t o f thi s passag e tha t i s s o moving . Often , th e Rachmaninoff w e thin k o f is th e splash y last page s of his concerto s o r th e Second Symphony . He can pull that sort of thing off to a fare-thee-well, but he also knows the beauty of restraint. You hear that in his songs. His range in that world i s remarkable, and bein g restricte d t o on e voic e an d tw o hands o n a keyboard stimulates his invention. The pian o i s a fully participatin g partner, now leader and inciter, now unobtrusive but firm and essential lender of support, and in the most exquisite moments—and always supposing the right pianist— the magica l second singin g voice. Th e grea t Russian bass Fyodor Chaliapin , who gave many recitals with Rachmaninoff, said that it was never a matter of "I am singing" but alway s of "we are singing. "

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In hi s later years , Rachmaninoff cam e mor e an d mor e t o lik e lea n musi c with sharp outlines. Th e Rhapsod y on a Theme of Paganini has its irresistible Variation 18—"Thi s one is for my agent," he said of that expansive tune—but most o f that work is crisp and spare . It i s witty, too. A n especiall y charmin g touch in its opening pages , cadaverous as Paganini himself, is the image of one of th e world' s great pianists playin g just a few notes—sixteen measures of a Rachmaninoff concert o tha t anyone can play! And liste n t o a much earlie r piece, th e E-mino r Prelude, op. 32, no. 4 , of 1910, in which the most diverse ideas interrupt each other an d are intercut i n a dazzlin g sequenc e o f deliciou s unpredictabilitie s an d productiv e discontinuities. Her e i s music that seems to look ahea d t o th e Stravinsk y of the Symphonies o f Wind Instruments. What will amaze someone brough t u p on Rachmaninoff' s concerto s an d symphonies, hi s Prelude s an d Etudes-Tableaux, an d th e songs , i s th e firs t encounter wit h th e All-Night Vigil. This is more tha n an hou r o f music for a cappella chorus , intended fo r a night-long service in Russian Orthodox churche s on th e ev e o f hol y days . The worl d o f secula r yearning , melancholia , an d virtuosity is far away. This rapt masterpiece was Rachmaninoff's own favorite among his compositions. On e o f its alleluias finds it s way into the Symphoni c Dances, an d he asked to be buried to the sound of its fifth hymn , "Now lettest thou th y servant depart in peace. " It is only by fortunate chance that we have thes e composition s at all. The premiere of the Symphon y No. 1 was a disaster, the performanc e terrible, th e reception brutal . Rachmaninoff , jus t abou t t o tur n twenty-four , ran fro m the hal l an d soo n destroye d th e score . Afte r hi s death , someon e i n Russia found firs t a two-piano reductio n an d late r th e orchestra l part s that he ha d not staye d t o collec t o n tha t terribl e evenin g i n 1897 . Th e symphon y was reconstructed, an d t o man y who no w know it , i t is the mos t powerfu l o f his three. The catastrophe of that premiere left Rachmaninoff convinced he could not compos e again, and only a course of psychotherapy and hypnosis with a n exceptionally understandin g docto r release d hi m t o emerg e wit h th e Pian o Concerto No . 2. 2 Rachmaninoff the composer was only one of three Rachmaninoffs . He was one of the great pianists in history and, by all accounts, hardly less remarkable as a conductor. H e di d a lot o f conducting i n his early years, opera as well as concert, an d was highly regarded enough to have been asked to take over both the Bosto n and Cincinnati symphonies. But in fact he rarely conducted afte r leaving Russia for good in 1918 , when, sacrificing time he would have liked to use for composing, he became virtually a full-time pianist to support his family. 2

Dian e Ackerman ha s written a touchin g poem about Rachmaninoff' s encounte r with Dr. Dahl, Rachmaninoff's Psychiatrist (i n Origami Bridges, HarperCollins , 2003).

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The concentration , clarity , nobility o f style, and beaut y of sound o f the fe w recordings h e mad e a s a conductor , al l wit h hi s favorit e orchestra , th e Philadelphia (th e grea t Philadelphi a o f the Stokowsk i an d earl y Ormand y years)—The Isle of th e Dead, the Vocalise, the Symphony No. 3—make believable every superlative one reads about his work on the podium. On th e other hand , Rachmaninof f the pianist is well documented. All the recordings he made for Victor, including those of his conducting, ar e available, plus transfer s o f some pian o rolls . The y includ e hi s fou r concerto s an d th e Paganini Rhapsody, sonatas by Beethoven, Schubert , and Grieg with his friend Fritz Kreisler, and a large sampling of solo works. Unfortunately, he was allowed to recor d onl y tw o o f th e bi g piece s i n hi s sol o repertory , Chopin's Funeral March Sonat a an d Schumann' s Ca.ma.val. The dozen s of little piece s includ e many transcriptions by himself, his cousin and teacher Alexander Siloti , Liszt, Rubinstein, Tausig, and others. And, in Mount Rushmore-sized majesty , ther e is even a Star-Spangled Banner, with which he would have begun every recital during the war years. Rachmaninoff th e transcribe r mad e dazzlin g solo pian o version s o f movements from Bach' s E-major Partita for Unaccompanied Violi n (o f which Bach himsel f ha d mad e a singularl y bold versio n fo r sol o orga n wit h ful l orchestra), Schubert' s Wohin?, th e Scherz o fro m Mendelssohn' s Midsummer Night's Dream music, The Flight o f the Bumblebee, and wonderfull y inventive , larger-than-life ones of Kreisler's Liebesfreud an d Liebesleid—all of them startling us with harmonies that were not in the vocabularies of their original composers. Yet these excursions never fail to highlight something salient and characteristic in the pieces. They have all the special charm of hybrids, but they never betray the origina l composition. Eve n when hi s conscious ai m was only to provide himself wit h spectacula r o r charmin g encor e pieces , Rachmaninof f alway s thought a s a composer. Much of what makes Rachmaninoff so extraordinary a pianist is that there , too, his perceptions and choices ar e those of a composer. He sometimes takes bold liberties with the text—by our standards, not by those of his day, when he was thought a rather severe interpreter. For instance, h e invents a completely new distribution of louds, softs, an d crescendo s fo r Chopin's Funera l March, and i t make s s o much sens e an d i s so convincing tha t som e pianist s today really wish they dare d emulat e him . O n bot h recordings of Chopin's Minute Waltz he pulls up to a stop on the B-flats at the tops of the melodic curves. The gesture is extreme, but the B-flati s th e top of the phrase, and so, even thoug h he exaggerates , h e i s no t jus t arbitraril y messing around , bu t drawin g our attention to one of the "facts " of the piece . Rachmaninoff i s among thos e performer s wh o alway s giv e you th e sens e that, preparin g to sound the firs t note , they know exactly when an d how the last is to arrive—and that the closing event is already implicit in the first . Th e

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characteristics o f concentration, clarity , nobility of style, and beauty of sound that I pointe d t o a s hallmarks o f his conductin g ar e equall y presen t i n hi s piano playing. He had an encompassing technique whe n it came to power and marksmanship. That he could play what he himself wrote attests to that. His rhythm was phenomenal. Th e littl e sequenc e o f chords with which th e pian o responds to the orchestra' s proposa l of a new theme i n the firs t movement of his Third Piano Concerto has , as he plays it, an incredible panther-spring . No other pianis t has come close , not even Horowitz , whose performance of that concerto Rachmaninof f thought bette r tha n his own.3 His playin g of the transcription s I mentioned earlie r i s electrifying in it s energy and the sharpness of its outlines. But I find myself returning most often to th e performance s of the quietes t pieces , Liszt' s transcription o f Schubert's Serenade, Siloti' s o f the Saint-Saen s Swan (somethin g ever y cellist need s t o hear), and Sgambati' s of the Dance of the Blessed Spirits fro m Gluck' s Orpheus. Rachmaninoff casts a spell. The playin g is amazing as a lesson in how to make a percussion instrument sing, how to make us forget that there ar e hammers in this machine. Chaliapin' s "w e are singing" comes to mind again . The melodie s move fro m beginnin g t o end with a n uncann y tensil e strength , an d the y are supported b y accompaniments exquisitel y responsive t o each fluctuation i n the harmony. Always expressive, he is never sentimental o r affected, no t in his own music, not in anyone else's. So many pianists use Rachmaninoff's concertos as showcase s fo r vulgarity, but whe n h e himsel f playe d them the y wer e on e more surface tha t reflected his own nobility of mind an d spirit. The musical world has changed s o much that it is startling to realize it is not much more than sixty years since 28 March 1943 , when Rachmaninoff died of a rapidl y progressing melanoma. Whe n h e went , th e worl d los t a man an d musician o f uncommon huma n an d artisti c integrity, sincerity, an d decency . "My poor hands," h e said on one of his last days. Perhaps he would no longe r be surprised—just happy—that he was not swept away by history after all , and that, thank s t o what thos e hand s did , whether the y held a pencil o r touche d keys of ivory and ebony , he i s still a presence amon g us , vivid, exciting, an d commanding ou r love.

—M.S.

3

Acknowledging the brilliance of Horowitz's first two recordings of this work, particularly the first (1930, with Albert Coates and the Londo n Symphony), I am still not convince d by Rachmaninoff's generous evaluation. Nobility was not in Horowitz's expressive vocabulary. One piece, though, where Rachmaninoff is, to my ear, bested by another pianist is his arrangement of Mendelssohn's Midsummer Night's Dream Scherzo. The champio n here is Benno Moiseiwitsch, who m Rachmaninoff regarde d both as an esteeme d colleague and a good friend .

Erich Wolfgang Korngold: A Meditation

n a gray Vienna mornin g in 1954 , Erich Wolfgang Korngold sits in a hote l room , tryin g to figur e ou t wha t wen t wrong . He i s fifty seven—too old to be a Wunderkind, as he said when he left Warner Brothers. Twenty-five years ago a newspaper survey of Viennese music lovers named hi m on e o f the tw o greatest living Austrian composers , along with Arnold Schoenberg . Las t nigh t h e attende d th e worl d premier e o f hi s Symphony in F-sharp. He had worked on it for five years, and to hear its first performance here , i n th e cit y tha t ha d nurture d an d adore d him , shoul d have bee n th e crownin g momen t o f hi s career . No w h e i s writing t o th e Austrian Radi o network , requestin g tha t th e tap e recordin g o f th e per formance b e suppressed— a reques t that will be ignored . H e ha d expecte d better an d ha d though t h e ha d a right to . But fiv e year s ago , when h e ha d returned to Vienna for the first time since before the war, he had been through the sam e thing. Th e Staatsope r premiere of his opera Die Kathrin had fille d him wit h hig h hopes , bu t Di e Kathrin wa s withdraw n afte r onl y si x performances, performance s as poorl y attende d a s th e rehearsal s wer e unfriendly. "Unfriendly " was a gentleman's word, and he was a gentleman in everything but his music, which was the work of a man whose honesty would allow him t o say nothing bu t wha t he believed, for better o r worse. He ha d learned his manners, along with his art, in another era . Maybe that was part of the problem.

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He knew what the other par t of the problem was. It was called Hollywood . Flashback. Th e screenin g room . Eric h Wolfgan g Korngold sit s a t th e piano . The reel begins to roll. Erroll Flynn and his crew of British pirates have broke n the chains tha t held the m prisone r in the hold o f a Spanish galley . They tak e the deck . The y clim b the riggings . They wres t control. The y strik e for the shores of Dover. "Once more, please," says the composer. He has watched thi s Sea Hawk footage eight times already, and he scribbles a few more notes. Agai n Flynn an d th e sailor s break thei r chains . Now , as they lea p t o th e deck , th e piano explodes , an d whe n th e musi c reache s th e edg e o f frenzy , anothe r inspiration flashe s throug h Korngold's inner ear. He hears a male chorus pick up the melody and carry it beyond the boundary of excitement. T o him, that is what movie s are all about. To him, the y ar e operas—hadn't he once told hi s orchestrator an d his fellow film composer Hugo Friedhofer that Tosca was the greatest movie score ever written? He had loved th e movies, though i t took Warners some doing to convince him t o write fo r them. Mayb e his detractors shoul d kno w that . Bu t he ha d always had detractor s in one form or another. A s we watch him now, we have the advantag e of knowing what he cannot know. That within thre e year s he will be dead, that his life will end in Hollywood when he is only sixty—hardly an advance d ag e even b y 1957' s standard s o f life expectanc y fo r prosperous males in nonhazardous occupations , an d that though th e caus e of death wil l officially b e hear t failur e i t i s almos t certai n tha t heartbrea k ha s bee n a contributing factor . We know that few will take special notice of his passing, and that fewer will understand ho w really hazardous his occupation ha s been. We know that German-language critics, from whom a good word would have brought special pleasure and who seem convinced tha t his reputation had long since started to rust, will nonetheless g o the extra distance t o try to corrode his memory. I n a n obituar y published i n Musica i n Februar y 1958 , Kar l Robert Brachtel will say that "it was a much-discussed question, whether hi s father's position opene d th e way for the young Erich Wolfgang or not. . . . Today one encounters Korngold' s nam e primaril y as th e arrange r o f classi c Viennes e operettas . . . or a s composer fo r various American films . . . . The bul k of Korngold's output lies qualitatively and quantitatively in his youth. His voice was hardly original—the premature heralds of his supposed importance place d him next t o Richard Straus s and Pfitzner. . . . He did not stand nex t t o them , but i n their shadow. " We know that for every moviegoer who had writte n i n 1942 t o as k hi m i f his score fo r Kings Ro w would ever b e recorded , million s more, though the y had been seduced by his music into embracing the worlds of Captain Blood, Th e Adventures of Robin Hood, Th e Se a Wolf, an d Deception, knew his name only as a sonorous mouthful of syllables. The thir d and fourt h of those syllable s were significant . Eric h Wolfgang, born in the spring of 1897 in the old Austro-Hungarian empire, owed his middle

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name to his father's love of Mozart. His father was Julius Korngold, Vienna's most revered an d mos t feare d musi c critic sinc e Eduar d Hanslick, who m h e had succeede d a t th e Neue Freie Presse. Like Mozart, Erich Wolfgang was a prodigy. He was also a musical dramatist from th e start , improvising themes a t the pian o for imaginary scenes that his father described . Eric h wa s a regula r boy, said Julius , except whe n h e wa s composing or playing the piano. At thos e times , he seemed to enter a trance . In hours presumably less trancelike he studied some counterpoint wit h Robert Fuchs, who ha d bee n a friend o f Brahms's, and a t te n h e playe d an excerp t from his cantata Gold to Gustav Mahler, who called him a genius and arranged for Erich' s studie s wit h Alexande r vo n Zemlinsky , himself a compose r of gorgeous late-Romantic scores. (That Zemlinsky was also Arnold Schoenberg' s teacher—and future brother-in-law—says something about the size of fin-desiecle Vienna's music world.) Everything came easily. In 190 9 Korngold's op. 1 , a piano trio dedicated t o "my dear Papa," was given its world premiere by Arnold Rose , Bruno Walter, and Friedric h Buxbaum . What ar e musician s suc h a s these doin g wit h th e music of a twelve-year-old? We can be certain that dear Papa's influence never hurt, but we also know that the muse who visited Korngold during those creative trances was no pre-teen spirit. In 1910 he emerged from a trance to find himself in the middle of the Vienna music scene. His ballet-pantomime, The Snowman, orchestrated b y Zemlinsky, had bee n give n a command performanc e at th e Court Oper a fo r the Empero r Franz Joseph. The succes s was complete, an d the wor k made its way throughout Austri a an d Germany , onto the stage s of forty opera houses, where audiences talke d of this young composer as though he were a young god. In 1972 the German writer Jodok Freyenfels, in the Neue Zeitschrift fu r Musik, looke d bac k on thos e day s an d recalle d tal k of anothe r kind in Vienna's coffeehouse s an d salons: rumor that Zemlinsky had not only orchestrated The Snowman but that he had composed it and been paid for this project by the father. "Thus th e thirteen-year-ol d Erich Wolfgang, on the day of his firs t success , was already the victi m o f backbiting an d env y that arose from extra-artisti c motives. And thi s fat e wa s to pursu e him throughou t hi s life, again and again." The world of the arts, like that of academe, seems inclined to interpret rapid success as evidence of inferior talent, to mask jealousy behind a commitment t o "standards. " Freyenfels has a name fo r this tendenc y a s it applied to Erich Wolfgang. He calls it The Korngol d Case. The Wunderkin d coul d no t escap e a les s malignan t for m o f natura l resentment, either . What , afte r all , give s an y thirteen-year-ol d th e righ t t o enjoy glor y when thos e thre e an d fou r time s his age are sitting around in th e obscurity of Vienna coffeehouses, debatin g the authenticity of a child's music? Certainly this child's music—full of big melodies and easy to hum or whistle— sounded as though it had been written by someone older, someone who looked

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back t o th e previou s century. Contemporaries suc h a s Berg and Schoenber g were heade d i n ver y different directions . The y though t littl e o f Korngold's work—and that , sai d the coffeehouses , wa s why Papa Julius thought littl e of theirs. Artists who embraced Erich Wolfgang were accused of using the son to curry favor with the father. But thoug h h e wa s assailed by various contingents whos e attack s sprang from envy, or skepticism, or artistic differences, Korngol d throughout the teen s and int o th e 1920 s became on e o f Europe's most cherishe d composers , his music championed b y such artists as Arthur Nikisc h an d Feli x Weingartner, Carl Flesch an d Artur Schnabel. In Berlin, at a performance of the Korngold Sinfonietta, Richar d Straus s sat nex t t o th e seventeen-year-ol d composer , declaring himsel f "protecto r o f his young colleague." I n 191 6 Brun o Walter introduced Korngold's first operas, a pair of one-act drama s called The Ring of Poly crates and Violanta. In 1920 , Korngold enjoyed what would prove to be th e greatest success of his life when, on 4 December, the oper a Die tote Stadt (The Dead City) wa s give n it s worl d premier e simultaneousl y in Hambur g an d Cologne. Within a year the work was presented on eighty different stage s and made its way to th e Met , th e firs t Germa n oper a to be presented ther e afte r the Grea t War, with Maria Jeritza singing the femal e lead . Memories. Korngold smiles as he looks out at the Vienna morning , the city coming to life. He is not consoled by the recollection o f cheering audiences. In retrospect, casual encounters seem so loaded, aimed at the target of the future . There was the day he began working with director Max Reinhardt, rescripting and reorchestrating Strauss operettas. Some thought h e was in it only for the money, but Di e tote Stadt ha d bee n a toug h ac t t o follow . An d whil e h e was working o n th e Straus s he wa s writing what h e though t o f a s his operati c masterpiece, Das Wunder der Heliane. Heliane's music is slow-cooked and densely flavored, and there is plenty of it, maybe a little too much, for under its weight the plot's ingredients are in constant dange r of separating. Though the opera contains muc h to please the ear, it disappointed more than it pleased when it appeared i n 1927 , an d amon g th e unhapp y wer e thos e i n th e marketin g department of the Austrian tobacco monopoly, who, expecting a hit, had just introduced a high-end cigarett e called "Heliane." This morning, the memory of Max Reinhardt i s haunting. It was because of Reinhardt tha t Korngold first cam e t o Hollywood . That was in 1934 , whe n Reinhardt shot a film version of his Hollywood Bowl production of A Midsummer Night's Dream and invite d hi s old collaborato r t o supervis e the music . Th e following year Korngold was back in California, working on a now-forgotten Paramount musical , Give Us This Night. H e remember s whe n Warner s approached him. Would he contribute a n original score for Captain Blood ? H e would not . Bu t Korngol d wa s a name, an d Warner s wante d hi s prestige . Someone—he can't recall who—persuaded hi m to attend a screening o f the

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film, an d tha t wa s really all it took . H e foun d th e movi e absorbing , an d i t inspired his first great original film score . Yet home remained Vienna, an d his artistic home remaine d th e opera house and concert hall . He agreed to score other film s a s they were offered, i f they happened t o appeal to him— Anthony Adverse was one, and The Prince and the Pauper—but he continued to refuse a long-term contract. Then , in 1937 , he began to grasp that his days in Europe were numbered. H e wa s a Jew. Hitler ha d forbidde n the stagin g of his latest opera, Die Kathrin, and Austri a an d German y were drawing ever closer , two countries on the verge of becoming one. What choice had he but to move his family? The logica l place to go was where work was waiting. He bought a house in Hollywood. Even Papa had a room in it. Then he settled i n with Warners. On his terms. No majo r compose r ha d eve r ha d a n extende d contrac t wit h a studio . Warners, so eager for Korngold's services, let him dictat e condition s tha t no other fil m compose r had eve r enjoyed . Korngold was required t o scor e only three picture s every two years. He coul d decline any project offered him . To get a n idea o f just ho w goo d a deal thi s was , consider th e fac t tha t "i n hi s twelve years with Warners"—this is according to William Darby and Jack Du Bois in their 199 0 study American Film Music (McFarlan d & Co.)—"Korngold worked on twenty films, fou r of which were essentially arranging assignments, and sixteen o f which wer e largely original compositions. In that same period Max Steiner, who worked under more typical studio pressures, was the principal composer on more than one hundred films. " Most film music ends up the product of committee approval. Not Korngold's. "In none of my assignments have I ever 'played ' my music first t o either th e [studio] music-chief, the director or the producer. And the studio heads never make the acquaintanc e o f my music until the day of the sneak preview." That was what he said in 1940 , in Music an d Dance in California. And wha t music he wrote. To him, a film scrip t was a libretto. Th e mai n title music, accompanying the opening credits, was an overture. A love scene was a duet. Listen to some of those main title sequences, and from their strongly defined themes you will draw an immediate impression of the nature and mood of the dramas they introduce—the sweeping minor chords and broken phrases of Of Human Bondage heral d it s protagonist's debasing struggle, the crashin g dissonance o f The Se a Wolf warn s us about the sadisti c Captain Wolf Larsen, the nobl e fanfare s o f Kings Row announce a tale in which lov e an d goo d are triumphant. This is music aimed for the heart , gran d and tender , generous of spirit and inexhaustibl e i n its wealth of melody—inviting, open, friendly . H e had learne d t o writ e thi s wa y in Vienna, an d th e richnes s o f that traditio n glowed in every passage he scored. Taken as a whole, Korngold's film music is a good example of what R. S. Hoffmann, his first biographer, identified as th e composer's "optimism."

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Besides, films wer e exciting. An d h e was proud of what he contribute d t o them. "When, in the projection room, or through the operator's little window," he wrote, "I am watching th e pictur e unroll, when I am sitting a t th e pian o improvising or inventing theme s an d tunes , whe n I am facing the orchestr a conducting m y music, I have the feeling that I am giving my own and my best: symphonically dramati c musi c whic h fit s th e picture , it s actio n an d it s psychology, and which, nevertheless, will be able to hold its own in the concer t hall.. . . Never have I differentiated betwee n my music for the films an d tha t for th e opera s and concer t pieces . Just as I do for the operati c stage, I try to invent fo r the motio n pictur e dramatically melodious music with symphonic development an d variation of the themes. " Korngold score d a movi e a s thoug h i t wer e a musica l drama , assignin g individual theme s t o character s an d puttin g thos e theme s throug h th e permutations that woul d reflect and advance plot . You have only to listen t o his score for Kings Row to get some idea of how his music worked. Every principal theme i s introduced withi n th e firs t te n minute s of the film . Durin g the tw o hours tha t follow , th e music' s eb b an d flow , acceleration s an d sudde n disintegrations, wil l ad d a thir d dimensio n t o th e performances , and whe n Betty Fiel d trie s t o seduc e Rober t Cummings , Korngol d i s helpin g the m convince u s that the y really are Cassie Tower and Parris Mitchell. Instead of stunting his growth as a composer, films gave him the opportunity to develop along the line s h e had s o clearly marked out fo r himself in a work such as Die tote Stadt, full of memorable melodies in the manne r o f a Viennese Puccini, tau t drama, and lus h orchestral sound. "It says much for Korngold's imaginative powers," says Christopher Palme r in Th e Composer i n Hollywood (published by Marion Boyars in 1990) , "that althoug h h e grew up steeped i n the traditions of an era already moribund at the time his own musical personality was developing, the conventions h e inherited ofte n seem in his hands not th e empty mocker y of a decayin g impuls e but th e nobl e expressio n o f one stil l living.... The combination o f a certain spiritual naivete with the most fantastic flights of melodic, harmoni c and orchestra l imaginatio n equippe d Korngold superbly for the medium of the fil m score." Korngold might have been amused by tha t referenc e to his "spiritual naivete." Ye t this morning , i n Vienna, i t is exactly his naivete tha t h e is lamenting. Was it naivete tha t mad e him think he coul d hav e i t both ways , tha t hi s music could star both i n Hollywood and th e concer t hall ? By 1946 Korngold was beginning t o feel as though he had to choose between the tw o worlds. He felt h e wa s at th e en d o f the roa d in Hollywood . Some sai d tha t hi s recen t scores were not u p to the standards he had set himself in his earlier days. (He agreed: "When I first cam e here, I couldn't understan d th e dialogue—no w I can.") Ma x Steine r tol d hi m h e though t hi s ow n musi c was getting bette r while Korngold' s was i n decline . ("Maxie , m y dear, you're absolutely right.

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And I'll tell you why—it's because I've been stealing from you and you've been stealing from me.") When he finished work on the 194 6 Of Human Bondage, a film he did not much like, he decided t o have a look at the original, produced a decade earlier. One day on the lot he spotted Bette Davis, who had starred in the first version. He told her he enjoyed the film, but that he thought ten years had date d certai n scenes , which no w seemed a little ridiculous . "Of course," he added, "this new film is ten year s ahead o f its time. It's ridiculous already." For those who did not understan d his growing disenchantment, h e made it as clear as possible: "A film composer's immortality stretches all the way from th e recording stage to the dubbing room." The wa r was over. His fathe r was dead. " I feel I have t o mak e a decisio n now if I don't want to be a Hollywood composer for the res t of my life." It was time to reassess things—time, perhaps, to go home. He scored one more film , the 194 7 Escape M e Never, whose main title theme is a long-breathed, soaring Viennese melod y that tells us how much his native city was on his mind—and which, a year later, he use d in hi s song "Sonett fu r Wien." The n he calle d i t quits. He "onc e again gathered hi s powers," says Jodok Freyenfels, "with th e intention of ending his life work as meaningfully and a s fruitfully a s possible." He wa s happy writing concert musi c again , an d please d tha t hi s Violi n Concerto, whic h h e ha d finishe d eve n befor e leavin g Warners , wa s giving audiences much pleasure. By 1949 it was time to pursue the future by returning to his past. It was time to take his music back to Vienna . Yet the Vienna h e had lef t more than ten years before was itself a tote Stadt. One thin g tha t remained fro m th e past, however, was The Korngol d Case. In 1950, Die Kathrin was sacrificed on its altar. Freyenfels sums up the attitud e of Viennese critics: "If Korngold's opera fails, we can with good conscience rejec t the man y piece s h e ha s submitte d fo r th e purpos e of redeemin g himsel f artistically." He could not hav e it both ways. Korngold pushe d ahead—courageousl y o r naively. He wa s determined t o reenter Viennes e musica l life. I n 195 4 h e arrive d in Vienna lik e a n excite d child, carryin g his Symphony in F-shar p with him. H e di d not kno w he was entering a personal twilight, where appearance s and sometime s even friend s are deceiving. Wa s he awar e of a conversation suppose d to have take n plac e some years before betwee n Ott o Klemperer—th e sam e Klemperer who ha d led th e Cologn e premier e of Die tote Stadt i n 1920—an d Heinrich Kralik of Austrian Radio ? Kralik asked Klemperer, who was no stranger to the Unite d States an d who had eve n spen t tim e in Los Angeles a s music director of the Philharmonic, wha t Korngol d wa s u p t o i n America . "He' s doin g well, " Klemperer said. "He's composin g for Warner Brothers." Kralik thought i t was a shame that such a talent should be spent on film music. "Oh, well," Klemperer replied, "Eric h Wolfgang has alway s compose d fo r Warner Brothers . He jus t didn't realize it."

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At it s premiere , th e Symphon y wa s a disaster , victi m o f unintereste d performers and insufficient rehearsa l time. And so , says Freyenfels, "Korngold was finished off like a film compose r from Hollywood. " Possibly no one who heard tha t firs t performanc e of the Symphon y caught a poignant reference that the composer had inserted into the final movement . There, a theme fro m King s Ro w suddenly appears—tender musi c associated with Parris Mitchell's grandmother , a frail an d dignifie d woman who trie s t o maintain th e values of the Old World in which she grew up. In the film, as she nears death, a friend speak s this passag e while th e "Grandmother " theme — the on e tha t show s up in th e Symphony—i s playe d softly unde r th e words: "When she passes, how much passes with her. A whole way of life—a wa y of gentleness, an d honor, an d dignity. These things ar e going, . . . and they may never com e back to this world." For Korngold, who found himself so out of step with a world that had moved in a different directio n fro m th e on e h e had taken , thes e word s could be a n epitaph. He smiles once more. There is no self-pity here. Wasn't it a calculated irony, and a calculated risk, to include a film them e i n a concert wor k for the serious Viennese? He was honest with himself, and he was honest about himself with his audience . Now, as he sits in his room, the price of honesty must seem steep. He knows he is out of fashion. We look ahead and see that he will become almost as good as forgotten, though ther e i s always a small contingent tha t refuse s t o forge t him, an d fo r whom Hugo Friedhofer , who ha d orchestrate d mos t of his fil m scores, speaks : " I kno w ther e i s a tendenc y i n som e quarter s t o b e rathe r derogatory about his music but I don't thin k that anybod y with any spark of feeling ca n liste n t o Korngold and no t agree that her e wa s a man who knew exactly what he wanted t o say and said it beautifully. " And w e look ahead farthe r still—to 1972 , when RCA takes a gamble and releases two Korngold albums, a collection o f film music with Charles Gerhardt conducting the National Philharmonic, an d the Symphony, with Rudolf Kempe and th e Munic h Philharmonic . Bot h recording s are produced by Korngold's son George , an d bot h captur e brillian t performance s in soun d tha t a t las t communicates th e breadth and depth tha t neve r cam e through th e speakers while Anthony Adverse or The Sea Hawk flickered on late-night TV. The public hears the real sound of Korngold, and his music begins to come back from th e dead. Today, "Korngold" may not be the household nam e it was in the earlier years of the twentiet h century , yet i t is possible to hea r mor e of his music— both the film music and the concert works and operas—than it has been sinc e the late 1940s . "Only wha t is bad get s totally discarded," Christopher Palme r says i n Th e Composer in Hollywood. "What is good may go out of fashion in its more superficial

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aspects, but the principle, the essence, the core of quality—star quality—remains as a vital regenerative force. " Korngold's music, it is clear at last, will be with us for a long time. His spirit need no longer brood in a strange room in an unfriendly city. In the large r world of music, The Korngol d Case is closed.

—L.R.

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Tchaikovsky's Mozart (an d Others' ) The reaso n pictures slumber for generations is that ther e i s no one t o see them with the experienc e that awake s them. —Elias Canetti , Th e Torch i n My Ea r

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^^ rivin g on Route 10 1 south of San Francisco, I picked u p on my car 11 radio something b y Mozart that I could no t a t firs t identify . Befor e t**' long , a couple of strange bass notes mad e me suspicious, and then I realized I was making a mistake that I had made before: this was not Mozart at all, but th e Mozartian pastiche in the masquerade scene of Tchaikovsky's The Queen of Spades. I though t ho w delighte d Tchaikovsk y would have bee n a t taking someon e i n a t hi s ow n hallo i n maschera, so t o speak , an d I trie d t o imagine the joy he must have had writing this substantial patch of "eighteenthcentury music." Artists fin d man y kind s o f joy i n thei r work . Writing th e Pathetique, a consummate and original masterpiece, must have given Tchaikovsky the kind most easily understood by the outsider . Another, mor e special, is that whic h comes fro m usin g all one's ar t i n a n ac t o f homage t o a great an d belove d colleague, livin g o r dead . Writin g Eugene Onegin an d Th e Queen of Spades, Tchaikovsky felt particular emotion because it was a form of communing with Pushkin. I t was with a n even mor e intense devotion that , i n the summe r of 1887, h e mad e Mozartiana, delicatel y crafted , ap t orchestration s o f th e following: tw o of Mozart's most idiosyncratic piano pieces (th e Gigue , K.574, and the Minuet, K.355); the more centrist Variations on a Theme by Gluck, a composer for whom Tchaikovsky "felt sympathy... in spite of his meager creative gift"; and , by an interesting Romantic detour, Liszt's organ transcription of the

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Ave verum corpus. (I n 1893 , th e last year of his life, Tchaikovsky turned part of Mozart's C-mino r Pian o Fantas y int o a voca l quartet! ) Bu t ho w stil l mor e delicious it must have been for him, in the Queen of Spades masquerade , actually to slip into Mozart's clothes! For Tchaikovsky adored Mozart. To his patroness, Madame Nadezhda vo n Meek, whos e tast e i n music—excep t insofa r a s it le d he r t o suppor t hi m generously for thirteen years—drove him to despair, he wrote in 1878: "I don't just like Mozart, I idolize him." Don Giovanni, he tells her, is for him "the mos t beautiful opera ever written" and Donna Anna "the most superb and wonderful human portrai t eve r achieve d i n music . . .. I am so much i n love wit h th e music of Don Giovanni that even as I write to you I could shed tears of agitation and emotion. " Wheneve r h e ha s hear d Ferdinan d Laub' s quarte t pla y th e Adagio o f the G-minor Quintet , he has had "t o hide i n the farthes t corner of the room so that others migh t not see how deeply this music affects me . . .. I could go on to eternity holding forth upon this sunny genius, for whom I cherish a cult." He concludes: "I f I could do anything t o make you change you r mind, that would make me very happy. If ever you tell me that you have been touched by the Adagio o f the G-mino r Quinte t I shall rejoice." In this letter Tchaikovsk y suggests an explanation fo r this "exclusiv e love " of his. "The musi c of Don Giovanni was the first that stirred me profoundly.... It is thanks t o Mozart that I have devoted m y life t o music. He gave the firs t jog to my musical powers; he made me love music above all things in this world." Perhaps becaus e i t sound s a littl e to o homespu n fo r th e ton e o f thei r correspondence, h e does not tel l her that this came about because the Tchaikovsky famil y owne d a n orchestrion , a mechanica l orga n tha t imitate d orchestral sounds and for which one acquired "records" in the form of perforated discs or pinned cylinders. This particular orchestrion had in its repertory excerpts from Do n Giovanni as well as fro m opera s of Rossini, Bellini , an d Donizetti . Later, when h e was twelve, Tchaikovsky's Aunt Ekaterina too k hi m throug h all of Don Giovanni at the piano . But i n a lette r t o Madam e vo n Mee k writte n tw o week s afte r hi s first , expansive outpouring about Mozart, Tchaikovsky suggests a more interestin g reason fo r his love , obviousl y in respons e t o he r reaction : "Yo u say that my worship of [Mozart] is quite contrary to my musical nature. But perhaps it is just because—being a child o f my time—I feel broken an d spirituall y out o f joint, that I find consolation an d rest in the music of Mozart, music in which he gives expression to that joy in life that was part of his sane and wholesome temperament, not yet undermined b y reflection. It seems to me that an artist's creative power is something quit e apart from hi s sympathy with this or that great master." To this last sentence one might add an aside: interpreters of Tchaikovsky do well to remember Tchaikovsky's love of Mozart, just as Berlioz conductors should not forget Berlioz's adoration of Gluck (which Tchaikovsky cites as an instanc e

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of "glaring inconsistency"). What music a composer knew, admired, and loved is always a good question for a performer t o ask. On late r occasions , Tchaikovsk y returns t o thi s them e o f innocence, for example, i n Jul y 1880 , whe n h e write s to Madam e vo n Meek : "Mozar t is a genius whose childlike innocence , gentlenes s o f spirit, and virgina l modesty are scarcely of this earth. H e was devoid of self-satisfaction an d boastfulness: He seems hardly to have been conscious of the greatnes s of his genius." An d again three months later, when he has begun to study The Magic Flute (t o him a wedding of a "senseles s an d idiotic " subjec t to "captivatin g music") : "You would not believe, dear friend, what wonderful feelings come over me when I surrender t o [Mozart's ] music. It i s something altogethe r differen t fro m th e stressful delight s awakene d in me by Beethoven, Schumann , o r Chopin. . . . My contemporarie s ha d th e spiri t o f modern musi c instille d i n the m fro m childhood, comin g t o kno w Mozar t only in late r year s . . . but happily , fate decreed tha t I should grow up in an unmusical household, s o that as a child I was not fe d the poisonou s foo d o f post-Beethoven music. . . . Do you know that when I play Mozart I feel brighter and younger, almost like a young man again?" He had jus t turned forty . Under th e spel l o f Carmen, h e suggest s t o hi s brothe r Modes t tha t Mendelssohn, Chopin , Schumann, an d Glinka were "the last Mohicans of the Golden Ag e o f Music" (an d tha t Bizet, in hi s innocent pursuit of le joli, has captured some of their spirit ) until it occurs to him that "in their music , too, you can see a move away from th e grea t and beautiful to the 'tasty.' " Tchaikovsky is offering no t musi c criticism nor even declarations of love— not tha t thes e tw o categorie s hav e t o b e mutuall y exclusive—as muc h a s nostalgia. For one thing, in common with most nineteenth-century musician s (except for the occasional antiquarian like Brahms), Tchaikovsky did not really know ver y muc h Mozart ; whe n yo u trac k dow n th e reference s i n th e correspondence an d the diaries, you find hi m returning over and again to the same few works—above all Don Giovanni, for which h e shared a passion with most Romantic artists , the Jupiter Symphony , The Magic Flute (bu t rejecting, as we saw earlier, the raison d'etre for the music), and parts of the Requiem . His offbeat choice s i n Mozartiana ar e a s surprising as they ar e delightful. And i n spite o f his enthusiasti c commendatio n o f th e strin g quartet s i n a lette r t o Madame vo n Meek , h e write s elsewhere tha t h e find s th e on e i n D mino r "rather watery." Tchaikovsky also does not dra w any musical conclusions fro m hi s study of Mozart, neither in the shaping of his operas nor in the facture of his orchestral works. Haydn an d Beethove n an d Schuber t al l learned fro m Mozart , and so did Brahm s an d Strauss , Schoenber g an d Stravinsky , bu t Tchaikovsky' s adoration of him—except in special situations like Mozartiana an d The Queen of Spades —found it s place outside his composing life.

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What fascinates Tchaikovsky is not s o much Mozart's music as the idea of Mozart, the idea of na'ive, spontaneous, "sunny" genius, of "childlike innocence . . . not yet undermined by reflection," of "virginal modesty," the idea of a lost Golden Age . Tchaikovsky' s Mozart is a pre-Freudia n child , hi s earl y deat h undeniably a compelling part of the whole Mozart phenomenon; Tchaikovsky's worship of this child i s a game of make-believe. The make-believ e image of Mozart-the-Child persists. Mozart-the-PlasterCast, a s we see him on th e wrappers of Mozart-Kugeln, is with us yet. All thi s has a musical correlative i n a certain approac h t o performanc e that I hav e heard musicians refer t o as the Mozart-Never-Had-an-Erection style. Against thes e things, we might, as the critic Patrick J. Smith has suggested, set suc h revisionist manifesto s as Peter Shaffer' s Amadeus, which ha s show n admirable power to enrag e a s well as, less usefully , t o provok e blank denial : "He just can't have talke d that way or crawled around on th e floo r lik e that." Like the German novelist and playwright Wolfgang Hildesheimer, who published a stimulating Mozart biography in 1977 , Shaffer show s how the unit y of man and artis t is complicated: Mozar t did not behav e th e wa y the Adagi o o f th e Serenade in B-flat, K.361, sounds, an uncomfortable idea for those who would prefer a more simply arranged world in which wonderfu l music is written by wholly wonderful people. Hildesheimer looks with sympathy and insight at the problem of a pampered and exploite d chil d prodig y who need s t o gro w u p an d becom e a man . Particularly, he questions the reliabilit y of Mozart's letters, especially those to his father, th e mos t important an d th e mos t problematic person in his life, as guides to what was going on in his life an d mind . The prodigious child seemed, to those who encountered him , not just to be making magic, but t o be a magical personage himself. He was more than your ordinary extraordinary kid. Once he was grown and wrapped in a physically unprepossessing package, that sense of numen was available only to those who could hear it in his music. In that respect the Viennese, when they had tired of him a s a "sensation" an d wer e ready for the nex t marvel , failed him . Bu t h e always provoked reactions out of the ordinary—sober Haydn saying to Leopold Mozart, " I tel l yo u before God an d a s a n hones t ma n tha t you r so n i s th e greatest composer I know, personally or by reputation"; Beethove n sayin g to his pupil Ries at a rehearsal of the C-mino r Concerto , "Ah , we shall never be able to do anything like that"; Rossini putting it in his own wry way, "Beethove n of course is the greatest of composers, but Mozar t is the only one"; and , to step outside the fraternit y fo r a moment, Kierkegaar d in Either/Or, "I have you to thank that I shall not die without having loved. " For th e Viennese , h e becam e to o complicated . "To o man y notes, " sai d Emperor Joseph II about The Abduction from th e Seraglio. For the Romantics , for who m he had alread y been embraced by "the patho s of time," he was near

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to divin e becaus e of his simplicity, his "childlike innocence. " They canonize d him, a process begun with the changin g o f his name fro m Amad e to the more solemn Amadeus. As for their relationshi p t o his music, they tended t o value works like Don Giovanni and the D-minor Concerto tha t most nearly approached their own sensibility or those that embodied their ideal of simplicity, the Coronation Concerto, fo r example, and eve n a forgery lik e the notoriou s "Twelft h Mass," pieces rathe r blan d fo r curren t taste . O f th e tw o misunderstandings , w e sympathize more readily with the Emperor's. And Artur Schnabel was precisely on target when he said of Mozart's piano sonatas that they were "too easy for children an d to o difficult fo r artists." "To be great is to be misunderstood," said Emerson. There is more wit and, for tha t matter, more truth in Rilke's remark that "fame, afte r all , is nothing but th e sum of all the misunderstandings that gather abou t a name." Writers celebrating the Mozart tercentenary in 2056 will no doubt find late-twentiethcentury views of Mozart as expressed in performance and criticism as blinkered as those of our predecessors seem to us. Surely, in the realm of performance we shall be charge d wit h want o f humor and—wh o knows?—o f innocence : we know the humor is there but ar e inhibited abou t bringing it out. We do have some feeling for his emotional range , for the thi n line between laughte r an d tears, for his dissonances an d hi s rhythmic odditie s (thos e five-ba r phrase s I never hear d abou t a t school) , fo r th e colo r o f his sound . W e have hear d a wider rang e o f his musi c than an y generation sinc e hi s own , w e have som e sense o f historical contex t fo r him. W e know tha t h e to o worke d hard an d sometimes had troubl e making pieces come out right . I want to see him without even a trace of halo, to love him, but not to adore him or idolize him, t o come to him—as to all great music—with the ears , the goodwill, the attentiveness, th e heart, and, I hope, with the human experienc e to awaken him.

—M.S.

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On the Trail of W. A. Mozart

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incent Novello called Mozart "the Shakespeare of music." No phrase so grand or telling exists to describe Novello himself, and thoug h t o call him the Leonard o of musicians might suggest the breadth of interest and experienc e h e brought to his profession, h e would have dismissed that labe l a s grandios e o r stupid . At an y rate , composer s need peopl e lik e Novello. He was an organist, a choirmaster, a conductor, an editor, a publisher. He dedicate d himsel f t o preservin g and spreadin g the wor d about music he cared for . He ha d goo d tast e an d even bette r judgment , and th e musi c h e championed gre w healthy an d strong, into long and distinguished life . Novello's own life was distinguished—and long. He was born in London i n 1781, te n year s before Mozart' s death an d abou t a month before Cornwalli s surrendered a t Yorktown, and h e die d i n Nice i n 1861 , abou t thre e month s after the fal l of Fort Sumter. The son of an Italian immigrant who set up shop as a baker, h e wa s a ma n o f character, on e wh o believe d i n art' s powe r t o improve the huma n race , and during his time he applie d steady purpose and clear though t t o th e conscientiou s servic e o f music, with result s like these : editions of Handel's an d Haydn's oratorios; four-hand arrangements of excerpts from operas by Mozart and Spohr; the publication of five volumes of the sacred music of Henry Purcell, including fou r anthem s an d an Evening Service tha t Novello had copied by hand in one day from unpublishe d manuscripts at York Minster, manuscripts that a year later were destroyed by fire; th e editin g an d

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publication of The Fitzwilliam Music, a five-volume collection o f seventeenth century Italian church music; the presentation with his choir of the Masses of Mozart and Haydn; and, perhaps his greatest achievement, th e publication (at his expense) o f inexpensive edition s o f Mozart's and Haydn' s choral works in vocal score, with pian o o r organ accompaniment s h e ha d arrange d himself, and wit h separat e voca l an d orchestra l parts . This musi c ha d neve r bee n available i n suc h for m i n England , an d whe n th e Novell o edition s mad e i t available, choral societies began to be founded throughout the country. Novello's children , too , continue d i n th e traditio n thei r fathe r ha d established. Daughte r Clar a becam e a fame d sopran o an d san g i n th e firs t performance of Rossini's Stabat Mater. Son Alfred founded what would become the music-publishin g house of Novello & Co., which would go on to publish such composers as Elgar and Hoist. Musician, advocate, and patriarch, Vincent Novello somehow also found th e tim e to become a knowledgeable admirer of poetry, painting, an d architecture , an d h e was a lively conversationalist wh o was part of a circle that included Leig h Hunt, Charles an d Mary Lamb, Keats, Shelley, and, later, Mendelssohn. Th e inexhaustible Novello found many ways to serve the ar t he loved so completely, and he understoo d better tha n most the hollownes s of any attempt to serve by only standing and waiting. And so in 1829, when Novello learned that the widowed sister of his revered Mozart was lying on a sickbed in Salzburg—blind, seriously ill, and seriously in need o f money—his instinc t wa s not t o wrin g his hands , bu t t o act . H e approached fello w musician s to raise a fund fo r this woman who, in th e day s when she had been known by her nickname, Nannerl, had presented concert s across Europ e with he r brothe r Wolfgang , two little prodigie s on th e road . Now, at the age of seventy-eight, she was called Frau Hofrath Maria Anna von Berchtold z u Sonnenburg, a nam e tha t implie d wealt h bu t di d nothin g t o guarantee it. To help Frau Sonnenburg, Novello collected mone y from fiftee n subscribers. His own contribution, £10 , an d an equal sum from J. A. Stumpf f (who ha d bee n a friend o f Beethoven's), wer e th e larges t amount s i n th e total, which cam e to £63—not so insignificant a sum: The Britis h pound in the earl y nineteenth centur y wa s probably worth abou t fiftee n t o twent y current U.S. dollars. Funds in hand, Vincent Novello understood that he also had an opportunity by th e collar . H e had , i n effect , a perfec t pretex t t o cal l o n thos e wh o ha d actually been on Sacred Ground , i n the presenc e o f the Grea t Man . Mozart had bee n dead fo r almost forty years . If any impressions were to be gathere d from thos e wh o had know n him , th e tim e t o gather the m wa s now. Novello had question s t o ask, and his anticipation o f the answer s must have been as pulse-quickening as love. Vincent an d his wife, Mar y Sabilla Novello, set ou t to deliver their gift to Frau Sonnenburg personally. Their departure from Londo n was probably on 24 June 1829. They would stop in Vienna, o f course, as would

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anyone with even a passing interest i n music, and they would stop in Paris, to see t o thei r eleven-year-ol d Clara' s installatio n i n Alexandr e Choron' s Institution Royale de Musique Religieuse, where she would learn to shade and color th e lovel y soprano voice tha t wa s to entrance Rossini . But their majo r destination wa s never in question. It was Salzburg, a place that fo r them hel d the evocativ e powe r of a Lourdes or a Fatima. It was the ai r of Salzburg that had first filled the Great Man's lungs; and, when he was old enough to have his first encounter wit h a keyboard, it was the ai r of Salzburg that ha d resounde d with the firs t notes thos e small fingers had struck. In Salzburg they would find Madame Sonnenburg, an d ther e the y would find anothe r Presenc e a s well— the composer' s widow, Constanze. Fo r a wealth of intimate detail , she would be as good as going to the source. Through Calais , through Antwerp, throug h Cologne, throug h Mannheim, th e day s of travel began early and ended late . How do we know all this? The Novello s kept diaries, extensive account s of their travels. Yet their chronicle o f this visit to Salzburg, a visit planned in part as a way of glimpsing a genius through eyes that had seen him, was all but lost. Only i n 194 4 were the Novellos ' diarie s discovered. In 1955 , editor s Nerin a Medici an d Rosemar y Hughes publishe d the m a s A Mozar t Pilgrimage (i n a volume that appeare d under the Novello imprint). In this way, the Novellos' work was preserved, and t o thes e four—th e traveler s and thei r editors—w e owe shadings and details that ad d dimension t o our portrait of Mozart. The Novellos departed from Munich on 13 July, at six o'clock in the morning. Eighteen hours later, at midnight, Vincent mad e this cheery entry in his diary: "After one of the most delightful rides I ever enjoyed through one of the fines t days I ever saw, concluding wit h a bright Moonlight Night , we arrived at th e object of our Pilgrimage—Salzburg the Birthplac e of Mozart." What happened nex t seeme d a t firs t anticlimactic . Vincent's nerve s were not th e kind to create obstacles where he saw none. He decided simply to pay a visit to Madame Sonnenburg. Earl y the nex t morning , h e was strolling th e narrow streets that led to her house. He was disappointed when he arrived, for the lady was too ill to receive him. With this revision of his morning itinerary, he returned t o his hotel t o share the ba d news with Mary. What he di d no t know wa s that, even a s he wa s grumbling about th e foile d plans , Madam e Sonnenburg wa s sending a message to Mozart's widow, telling he r abou t th e visitors. When Vincent answere d the knock at the door, he was handed a note from Constanze. Would the Novellos care to visit her that afternoon? You can imagine wha t followed—coat-dusting , boot-brushing , tie-knotting : a scen e pungent wit h th e scen t o f Crabtree & Evelyn. At tw o o'clock a servant girl arrived t o conduct the m t o her mistress' s door. There, waitin g for them i n a room on the firs t floor , was Constanze. With her was her youngest son, Franz Xaver Wolfgang—called simpl y Wolfgang—who had been abou t five month s old when his father died, and who by coincidence happene d t o be in Salzburg

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for a visit . Constanz e wa s sixty-six now, an d a widow two time s over—he r second husband , th e Danis h diploma t Georg Nikolaus von Nissen, ha d die d three year s before. The youn g Wolfgang was thirty-eight. "I fel t durin g th e whol e intervie w a s i f hi s spiri t wer e wit h us, " writes Mary, an d ther e i s no mistakin g to whom the "his " i n tha t sentence refers . "When I first entere d I was so overcome with various emotions tha t I could do nothin g bu t wee p an d embrac e her . Sh e seeme d als o affecte d an d sai d repeatedly in French 'o h quelle bonheur pou r moi, de voir les enthousiaste s pour mo n Mozart.' " I t wa s in French , thei r commo n language , tha t thei r conversations continued . Vincent an d Mar y wanted t o fil l i n the outlines . What was he like? What were his work habits? They queried Constanze with reverence—not the most useful attitud e for an interviewer t o assume, as Larry King or Geraldo Rivera will tell you. But to the question s they asked, the Novellos received answers. They recorded these dutifully. They wrote down everything, all in the spirit of those wh o refus e t o wash the hand s tha t hav e touche d th e star . And whe n Vincent note s tha t Mozar t was "particularly fond offish, especiall y trout," we have a hint of what will show up on the Novellos' dinner tabl e that firs t nigh t back in England. "QUESTION. Whic h wer e th e greates t favorite s with hi m o f hi s own compositions?" "V [incent] N [ovello]. She said he was fond of 'Don Giovanni,' 'Figaro' and perhaps most of all 'Idomeneo,' a s he had some delightful associations with the time and circumstances under which it was composed. "There were three of his Sinfonias which he liked nearly equally and preferred to al l the others . Sh e coul d no t tel l m e i n what keys , but a s well as I could make out they were the ones in G minor, that in E flat, and the 'Jupiter' in C." [Corresponding to the keys, in the order in which Novello lists them, these are the fina l three symphonies , nos. 40, 39, and 41.] "QUESTION. Whether he was in the habit of playing and singing much,... or whether h e generally played extempore whe n alone . . . ?" " V.N. He did not pla y much in private, but would occasionally extemporise when he was sitting alone with her. . .. [H e did not] lik e playing to strangers [in private], excep t h e kne w the m t o b e good judges, whe n h e woul d exer t himself to the utmos t for their gratification. " . . . "QUESTION. In composing , whether h e sat a t th e instrumen t an d trie d over different passage s as they occurred to him, or whether he deferred writing down any piece until he had completely constructed and finished it in his own mind, and then scored i t at once?" .. . "V.N. H e seldo m wen t t o th e Instrumen t whe n h e composed . . . . I n composing, he would get up and walk about the Roo m quite abstracted fro m everything that was going on about him. He would then come and sit down by

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her, tell her to give him his inkstand an d paper .. . then [he ] went on writing by her side while she talked to him, without the conversatio n a t all impeding his occupation." . . . "QUESTION. Whether his general disposition was lively and playful—o r melancholy—whether he could draw, or paint well—or possessed any particular talent fo r any other ar t or pursuit than his own science." . . . "M [ary] N [ovello]. She told us that h e drew a little an d was fond of all the arts, that h e had indee d a talent fo r all the arts—tha t he was always in good humor, rarely melancholy . . ., indeed h e was an angel she exclaimed, an d is one now—there was no affectation abou t this, but said quite simply." The Novello s learned tha t th e bes t likeness of Mozart was, in his widow's opinion, th e unfinishe d portrai t by his brother-in-law, Josef Lange ; tha t h e "frequently sat up composing until 2 and rose at 4, an exertion which assisted to destroy him"; that "hi s death was at last sudden." Mary relates Constanze's account: " . . . But a few moments before h e had spoke n so gaily, and in a few moments after he was dead—she could not believe it, but threw herself on the bed and sought to catch th e fever o f which he died, but it was not t o be." They were satisfied with what they were learning, pleased with the rarefie d air of the Salzburg shrine. Constanze took to this gentle couple who had traveled so far to render a kindness, an d afte r th e fe w days they spent together sh e was ready to bestow upon them certain relics: a lock of the composer's hair, part of a lette r addresse d t o Mozar t by his father , an d " a small portion o f the littl e Hairbrush with which he arranged his Hair every Morning...." She also parted with something more substantial than commonplace objects rendered magical by th e rol e the y ha d playe d in Mozart' s life: sh e presente d Vincen t wit h a manuscript, that o f "Al desio" (K.577) , an aria composed for the 178 9 Vienna revival of Figaro, a more brilliant substitute for Deh vieni, non tardar. The Novello s were pleased, too, i n their eventua l meetin g with Madame Sonnenburg. Nanner l received the m graciously. She lay there on her sickbed, Vincent seate d to one side of her and Mary to the other, each of them holdin g one of her hands as they chatted. I n her room stood "the Instrument on which she had ofte n played Duetts with her Brother. . . . You may be sure," Vincent tells us, "that I touched th e keys . . . with great interest." Thre e months late r Nannerl woul d be dead. In her memory, Vincent woul d direct a performance of her brother' s Requie m in London's Portugues e Embassy Chapel, wher e h e had served as organist for twenty-five years. But here in the present, Mozart's sister was as touched as Constanze had been by the Novellos' graciousness and generosity. She gav e Vincent a portrait of Mozart, a token o f her estee m for this virtual stranger who loved her brother's work. Novello noted th e tenderness an d affection with which the composer's son Wolfgang treate d hi s Aunt Nannerl , an d h e wa s impressed with th e youn g Mozart's manne r an d bearing . Bu t it i s also in relatio n t o hi m tha t Vincen t

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records th e onl y melanchol y passage s in hi s journa l of pilgrimage : "H e i s (unfortunately, I think) a Professor of Music"—meaning a musician—"and seems to be impressed with th e idea , tha t everything he ca n possibl y do will be so greatly inferio r t o wha t wa s accomplishe d b y th e wonderfu l genius o f hi s illustrious father, that he feels disinclined t o write much, or to publish what he produces." An d again : "[He ] say s s o muc h i s expecte d o f hi m fro m th e circumstance of his name that it has become a burthen to him." The comparison was inevitable , an d thoug h tha t vilifie d lesse r master, Antonio Salieri—who was in fact one of the young Mozart's teachers—predicted that he would have a career "not inferio r to that of his celebrated father, " Wolfgang was haunted by a past he had never been part of. The catalogue of his works is small, and he spent most of his fifty-three year s as a teacher an d a sometime concert pianist . (His brother Kar l Thomas too k a wiser route and chose no t t o compete with his father's memory. He becam e a civil servan t i n th e Austria n kingdo m of Lombardo-Venetia and lived to seventy-four. ) Interviews and social hours with Mozart's wife, sister, son: in what they had set out to accomplish, the Novellos had been spectacularly successful. Granted , hero worshi p and th e Romanti c spirit—whic h by 182 9 permeated th e ai r of Europe—had blurred their sight and kept them from probing the complexities of thei r idol . In Vienna, Mozart' s friend th e Abb e Stadle r hinte d t o Vincent about a more huma n Grea t Man , on e wh o "woul d not tak e pain s i n giving lessons to any Ladies but thos e h e was in love with," one who "did not sho w the great genius in his conversation." Bu t these were suggestions that Novello chose no t t o pursue . Instead , h e woul d creat e hi s ow n evidenc e fo r characteristics he wanted his Mozart to possess, as when he maintaine d tha t Mozart could not have written the kind of music he did "If he had not been an enthusiastic admirer of nature." Who know s what Mozart, so cosmopolitan in his upbringing and sophisticate d i n his musical artifice, woul d have mad e of that? Bu t a belief in nature's inspirationa l power— a belie f in th e untutore d genius—all thi s wa s part o f the Romanti c Zeitgeist. Conside r Vincen t a s h e contemplates the cathedral at Strasbourg: "I should much like to hear a funeral service performe d in thi s nobl e churc h at midnight. " He had the Romanti c imagination in full force. How could he help but see what he wanted to see in "the Shakespear e of music"? None o f this matters when we glimpse Vincent and Mary strolling down a path in Salzburg, Constanze between them, her arms entwined i n theirs. It is a touching portrait , an d a reminde r tha t ar t i s made b y humans, no t gods . Whatever the shortcomings under which the Novellos labored as they pursued their ideal—and who doesn't work under similar shortcomings, in any era?— whatever thei r shortcomings , th e Novello s wer e to o wis e t o tr y t o answe r questions abou t the interpla y of art an d life . Their s wa s a tangible pleasure: they had been a hit with the people who mattered to them. Constanze, speaking

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to them one last time, assured them that their visit to Salzburg "had been one of the mos t gratifying compliments that ha d been paid for several years, both to hersel f an d t o th e memor y of 'her Mozart.' " An d speakin g to he r diary , Constanze gav e th e Novello s thei r privat e plac e i n he r memories . "Ver y attractive man," she wrote of Vincent; and of Mary, "altogether charming wife." And o f both: "goo d people. " Goo d people , an d servant s o f music. We owe Vincent Novell o thank s fo r man y things , no t th e leas t o f whic h i s hi s documentation, incomplet e thoug h it may be, o f moments in a great artist's life, a documentation that helps us follow, a s he did, the trai l of W. A. Mozart.

—L.R.

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What They Saw

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hen Michae l Tilso n Thoma s an d th e Sa n Francisc o Symphony announced a June 2003 festival built on the theme of Wagner, Weill, and the Weimar Republic, I did not get it. What path could there be from Wagne r t o th e composer s who worked in Germany between th e en d of World Wa r I an d th e powe r grab that pu t Hitle r i n charg e o f a natio n to o willing to nurse its grudges? The answe r came from a source I could not hav e imagined: my father. My father was born in a small German city in 1897 , when th e optimis m of one centur y was slowly being displaced by the pessimis m of a new century. I suppose Germans , a t leas t Germa n politician s an d militar y men, wer e stil l optimistic enough. Scarcely thirty years had passed since Prussia had crushe d France into submission and gathered the German states into a nation. Feelin g for th e Vaterland wa s strong—the Vaterland, an d th e grea t German destiny as enshrined i n th e heroi c myth s tha t Richar d Wagne r ha d launche d int o th e world with music of unprecedented an d unparalleled power. All this glory had a darker side. For as the nineteenth century ended, Field Marshall Alfred von Schlieffen sa t brooding ove r hi s plan t o achiev e anothe r quic k victory over France, this one a decisive blow to be engineered by sweeping through Belgium, encircling Paris , and destroyin g the Frenc h arm y within forty-tw o days . The great military historian Joh n Keegan , looking bac k i n 199 9 i n hi s book The First World Wa r (Knopf) , describe d th e schem e tha t Schlieffe n eventually

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produced—a blueprint for the firs t week s of World War I—as, arguably, "th e most important official document of the last hundred years, for what it caused to ensue on the field of battle, the hopes it inspired, the hopes it dashed, were to have consequences tha t persist to this day." Schlieffen was already starting to formulate his plan in 1897, essentially writing the death certificate for many who were just being born an d many yet to be born and who would not b e as lucky as my father was—lucky to come back from th e trenche s o f France. Al l this i s simply one mor e reason tha t Germany in th e wak e of the Grea t War became a byword for disillusionment an d cynicism , an d als o for a carpe diem hunger for life an d good times. Weimar Germany—the realities it came from , the dream s on which i t foundered, and the nightmare i n which i t ended—is an object lesson in the toll s of war, greed, and desperation , but i t also proves what great art can be born when great artists confront such things . Growing u p i n a househol d heade d b y a bandleader-and-music-teacher father, my own father was surrounded by a fair number of second-rate marches and waltzes but als o by Beethoven an d Weber and Flotow and Meyerbeer. He gravitated especially to opera, and in that genre, Wagner ruled. By the tim e I was born, my father had not hear d an y opera in years, yet certain works seem to hav e anchore d themselve s i n his memory and imagination . On e wa s The Flying Dutchman—which he never referred to by its English title, but alway s as Derfliegende Hollander. "Der fliegende Hollander!" h e would cry out a t moments when th e recollectio n o f the musi c leaped ou t o f hiding an d int o hi s mind . "Matrosen Chor!"—meaning the Sailors' Chorus, that great outpouring of sound and fur y towar d the opera' s conclusion. The n he woul d begin whistlin g th e music with which that chorus ends, complete with grace notes: "Nachschldge!" It wa s an od d musica l education tha t I had, odde r tha n his own. Bu t years later, when I first hear d th e Sailors ' Chorus performed, I understood why this music had made such an impression on my father. The Flying Dutchman seems part of the cultural consciousness of every musicloving German of his long-past generation. H e heard th e work only once. He had purchase d a standing-room ticke t a t th e oper a house i n Braunschweig, where he was serving his apprenticeship. This must have been around 1912 . He would have been fifteen, an d Dutchman would not yet have been a century old—the work had been premiered sixty-nine years earlier and had receive d its final revision s only some forty year s previously. The oper a kept my father and his friend, a fellow apprentice , out lat e that night, afte r thei r boss—wh o was als o their landlord—ha d locked th e doors . As they made their way back through narro w streets flanked by gingerbread facades lik e thos e silhouette d against the moonlit sky in Murnau's Nosferatu, the y were preparing their excuse. But when the light inside came on and the door opened, the Lehrmeister cut to the chase. If these two had been to see The Flying Dutchman, could they please tell hi m th e stor y of the opera ? The y obliged . Satisfie d that his charges ha d

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been occupie d wit h innocen t pleasures , der Chef le t the m i n withou t hi s customary verbal or physical abuse. Think of it. Thi s musi c is so potent tha t it coul d sin k into th e min d o f a fifteen-year-old an d exer t its power for the remainin g seventy-six years of his life. It has taken its hold o n others, too . If Weber's Der Freischutz marke d th e coming o f Romanticism t o th e oper a house, Th e Flying Dutchman marked a whole new way of uniting music and drama. In Dutchman, Wagner dispensed with set piece s an d voca l pyrotechnics fo r their ow n sake. The pla y was th e thing, an d the music was the thin g tha t carried the play . The pla y wa s also a goo d story , a stor y t o whic h anyon e wit h a shre d of Romantic sensibilit y could relate, a story of ghosts, damnation, an d love that has th e powe r to redeem . I n 1843 , whe n Dutchman was premiered, peopl e believed in these things—not the ghosts, perhaps, but love and its redemptive possibilities. People still believed in those things in 1912, although by then the modern worl d ha d begu n t o mak e it s incursions . Th e Prussia n chancello r Bismarck ha d picke d a fight wit h Austria in 186 6 an d wit h France i n 1871 . The othe r Germa n states , lookin g t o Prussi a for guidanc e an d protection , aligned themselves with that power, and the German nation was born. Germany: Before Bismarck , it had been an idea. Now it was a country. Not surprisingly , that great Teutonic saga, Wagner's Der Ring des Nibelungen, was introduced in this perio d o f burgeoning Germa n nationalism—th e entir e cycl e wa s firs t produced in August 1876, and those who experienced what Wagner had created in those fou r opera s might hav e been forgiven fo r believing tha t there really was something mystical and divinely inspired in German art. Not only Germans embraced such grandiose notions i n the nineteent h century. Americans saw Manifest Destiny—a term first used by journalist John L. O'Sullivan i n 1845— when the y looke d westward , and it was in 1869 , righ t aroun d the tim e tha t Bismarck was laying his plans to consolidate the German states, that the Unio n Pacific and Central Pacific railroads met at Promontory Point, Utah, and the last spike was driven into the tracks that spanned the North American continent. In any talk of destinies, whether national or personal, there is an element of the mystical , of what psychologists call "magical thinking"—grandiosity, th e poetic an d th e irrational . Th e Romanti c manifest o place s hig h valu e o n intuition, th e spiritual , the dar k power of the unconsciou s that will lead us to enlightened bliss . (See Dutchman: Why, but for her Romantic soul, would Senta be so drawn to the mysterious doomed sea captain rather than to Erik, who is dependable, straightforward , an d mad e of mortal flesh?) In the late r years of the nineteenth century, and as the new century began to take shape, Romanticism assumed new forms. Freud began his explorations of the mind , an d in painting such as Kokoschka's and music such as Mahler's and Schoenberg' s th e tendenc y towar d th e mystical , th e individua l consciousness, an d th e irrationa l begin s t o inclin e s o fa r fro m "realistic "

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moorings that the ties to the concrete worl d threaten t o sever. Sometimes we think of the period immediately after World War I as the great age of Modernism in art an d music, and it was, but th e Modernis t spiri t was born muc h earlier . Schoenberg's Herzgewdchse, a wild post-Wagneria n lea p int o th e unknown , was premiered in 1928 , but it had been composed in 1911 . How doe s suc h Romanticism , o r ultra-Romanticism , fin d it s plac e i n a n increasingly bourgeoi s world , where taste s ar e dominate d b y a n expandin g middle class ? Here th e idea s of national destin y and Romantic ideal s becom e confused. A s Pete r Ga y write s in hi s stud y Weimar Culture: The Outsider a s Insider (publishe d i n 196 8 b y Harpe r & Row , an d als o th e sourc e o f my subsequent references in this essay to Gay's work), "In August 1914 the Western world had experienced a war psychosis: the war seemed a release from boredom, an invitation t o heroism, a remedy for decadence. Bu t it was in Germany that this psychosis reached height s o f absurdity. The overaged, the adolescent , th e unfit, volunteere d wit h pure joy, and went t o death fille d wit h their mission . The wa r offered"—an d her e Ga y quote s Thoma s Mann—'"purification , liberation, an d enormous hope'; it 'set the hearts of poets aflame' with a sense of relie f tha t ' a peacefu l worl d had collapsed, ' a world of which 'on e was so tired, so dreadfully tired.' " That a cataclysm on the scale of World War I should have happened, whe n it happened, ma y strike us as incomprehensible today . Tracing the events that led t o th e outbrea k o f hostilities i s fairly simpl e (se e John Keegan' s The First World Wa r for a chilling exposition) , but on e wants to find cause s other tha n treaties, alliances , an d bruised honor fo r a conflict that took millions o f lives and whose repercussions were so profound. Destiny, Romanticism—all thos e great abstractions that are transformed by Wagner's music into pulsing, gleaming resonance tha t bypasses reason an d goe s straight fo r the gut : they coul d stil l enflame youn g men (an d old ) fe d u p wit h th e commonplace . Shortl y afte r August 1914 , a few years after h e sa w The Flying Dutchman in Braunschweig, my fathe r attempte d t o enlis t i n th e Kaiser' s army . H e ha d ha d i t wit h hi s baker's apprenticeship an d saw military service as the wa y to a better life—a s the way , at an y rate, t o a more adventurou s life . H e wa s only seventeen bu t lied about his age and was inducted, onl y to be discharged when somehow th e truth came out. Of course, he was back in the recruitment offic e soo n after his next birthday . This would have been in March 1915 . H e saw plenty of actio n in France , thoug h i t was probably not th e kin d o f adventure he' d bargaine d for. To the end of his long life, he had occasional nighttime episode s that began with low moans an d crescendoed i n horrible screams . He never remembere d what al l the noise ha d been about the nex t morning , an d in those day s I had never hear d th e term "post-traumatic stress disorder." When th e wa r ended , h e wa s released alon g wit h s o many other s int o a broken society. The Kaiser had been forced to abdicate. Worker unrest in various

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cities seemed based on the Bolshevik model that had toppled Tsar Nicholas II. In Weimar, city of Bach and Goethe and Schiller an d Liszt, a new government was formed, the first constitutional republi c in Germany's short history. It was a government plague d with problems from th e beginning . I t satisfie d neithe r left nor right, suffered takeove r attempts by the Spartacists—communists bent on establishing a Soviet-style government—and had to rely on the remnant s of the defeated German army to maintain order. And al l that happened before May 1919 , when the term s of the Versailles Treaty were announced, wrestin g Alsace an d Lorraine from German y and returning those territorie s to France, wresting away parts of the nation's eastern provinces, demanding that Germany admit full responsibility for starting the war, and imposing punishing reparations payments. Within a year a right-wing splinter group attempted to take contro l of the governmen t i n Berlin, and soon after, i n the industria l Ruhr District, a Red Army formed and was brutally suppressed. Perhaps the nadir came when, in 1923 , afte r German y defaulte d o n it s reparation s payment , Frenc h an d Belgian troops invaded the Ruhr. German workers there responded with passive resistance and went on strike. But the shutdown of factories was not an actio n that aided a faltering economy. The formul a for demoralization was so clear you could almost call it elegant: disillusionment ove r th e war , disenchantment wit h thos e wh o ha d le d th e country into that conflict, an d no w rage at thos e wh o had (i t was believed) betrayed th e natio n by accepting th e term s of Versailles. Not tha t Germany had been in a position to negotiate at Versailles. When its delegates arrived in Paris i n lat e Apri l 1919 , the y wer e met wit h contemp t an d presente d wit h peace terms that were fails accomplis. It was around this time, in 1920, that the Austrian novelist Joseph Roth published the first of the newspaper columns in which h e share d hi s sa d an d cynica l observation s o f contemporary Berlin , columns recently translate d by Michael Hofman n and collected i n a volume titled What I Sa w (publishe d b y W W Norto n & Compan y i n 2003) . "Sometimes, in a fit of incurable melancholy," Roth reported, "I go into one of the standard Berlin nightclubs, not to cheer myself u p , . .. but to take malicious pleasure at the phenomenon o f so much industrialized merriment." It was into a world like this that Berg's operas Wozzeck an d Lulu were introduced, dramas whose heroe s an d heroine s wer e not ghost s like th e Dutchma n o r gods like Wotan but soldier s and sluts. The nove l All Quiet on the Western Front, whic h appeared in 1929 , is as succinct an d powerful a s any statement of how dreams of glory died in the trenches . With the strikes in the Ruhr District, a major part of the country's economy came to a standstill. The treasur y suffered, but reparations had to be paid and striking workers looked after . Th e governmen t responde d b y printing mor e money, about the worst solution imaginable to an economic quagmire. Foreign investors, worried about Germany's financial condition, withdrew. The quagmire

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turned into a crisis of hyperinflation, with prices rising faster than money could be printed. My father told stories of handing over 3 million marks for a cigarette— cigarettes could be bought by the piece—and about how he was paid daily because the currency was so unstable. "By October 1923, " Peter Gay writes, "not millions, or billions, bu t trillion s o f marks were needed t o buy a loaf of bread or mail a letter." That November, Adolf Hitler's right-wing National Socialists staged their abortive attemp t i n Munich t o seize control o f the government . Bu t Nazis— Romantics intoxicated wit h that old sense of German destiny and willing to be vicious in its pursuit—were still thought o f as a fringe group , filled wit h what my mother (wh o grew up in the Weimar years, though she left fo r America i n 192 7, at seventeen) alway s called der deutsche Fimmel: Germans' crazy obsession with being German. Peter Gay has described the Weima r Republic as representing the ideal s of rationalism i n oppositio n t o th e Romantic-Wagneria n glorificatio n o f th e irrational. In that Weimar-rational spirit, a new chancellor, Gustav Stresemann, helped Germany shake hyperinflation. He negotiated a deal whereby American gold would back a new currency. He als o worked with American banke r and vice-president-to-be (in the Coolidge administration) Charles Dawes to devise a mor e realisti c schedul e o f reparatio n payments— a pla n tha t include d withdrawal of Allied troop s from th e Ruh r an d tha t would bring Dawes th e Nobel Peace Prize. The Dawes Plan went into effect in September 1924- Foreign investors returned, and the economy began to stabilize. My father had decided not t o wait for this. Determined t o find a better life , he booked passage for the Unite d State s in 1925 . One o f his last images of his homeland cam e i n Hamburg , the nigh t befor e h e wa s to boar d th e shi p for New York. He had been intrigued by a marquee outside a nightclub, promising that th e sho w inside woul d give patrons a look a t Hamburg be i Nacht, wie es weint und lacht—Hamburg a t Night: It s Tears and It s Laughter—a come-o n based on Hamburg's reputation for illicit pleasures. My father bought a ticket and took his place at a bar table in a room full of smoke and other adventurers. An entir e wal l was draped wit h heav y fabric , an d a s th e light s dimme d a tuxedoed waiter with slicked-back hair gathere d a fold o f curtain at on e en d and dre w it back t o the other . Th e curtai n had covere d a large window, and beyond that window now was the city, or at least part of it: buildings and docks silhouetted agains t a darkening sky. That was it. Hamburg at Night. This kind of show seemed t o sum up a society of promises only partially kept, in whic h the partie s to contracts had radically different understanding s of the term s to which they had agreed. In a world like this, you had to be your own person. My father understoo d that message, and he got out. Some migh t thin k he lef t a little to o soon. Fo r the year s that followe d i n Germany were the one s tha t people remembe r a s a sort of artistic paradise. They were the years of Marlene Dietrich an d Emil Jannings, of Kurt Weill and

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Lotte Leny a an d Bertol t Brecht (The Threepenny Opera opene d i n 1928) , of cabaret and experiments in cinema and music and theater. In this rejuvenated economy, Berlin and Munich were the foca l points of a kind of anything-goes cornucopia o f sensual and sexual liberation, ou t t o seize the day . In Octobe r 1925 th e Locarn o Treat y ha d bee n signe d betwee n France , Grea t Britain , Belgium, Italy, and Germany. The next year Germany had entered th e League of Nations . I t wa s back i n th e internationa l community . Jew s lik e Victo r Klemperer, wh o i n hi s two-volum e diary I Will Bear Witnes s document s th e maddening humiliation s h e an d hi s wife wer e subjected to by the Nazis , still identified themselve s during the Weimar years first as Germans, and they were proud of their service to the fatherland in the Great War. It was about as open a society as Germany had seen, and it seemed as though the wretched mistake that had been World War I could be righted if one could only have fun, make love, drin k fanc y cocktails , hea r th e lates t music, see the lates t theater , an d read the latest books. "The nam e 'Weimar Republic,'" write s Michael Hofmann in his introduction to Roth's What I Saw, "has a whiff o f fragility, o f scandal, of doom about it. I t denotes a tiny period of German history, the years from 191 8 to 1933; an interval of tremulou s republican government , betwee n monarch y an d dictatorship , between one catastrophic war and th e approac h of another; bu t mos t of all a period that was fast and febrile and fun, and... became practically synonymous with th e Jaz z Age o r th e Roarin g Twenties." Composers suc h a s Ernst Toc h and Paul Hindemith trie d to incorporate popular song and jazz into their concer t music. And i n fact the music of those years reflects the society: To think of the Weimar years is to think of music that is bitter, ironic, determinedly "modern," frequently sad , often funny, an d perhaps even touched b y nihilism. But th e Weima r years wer e ove r almos t befor e the y began , an d musica l exploration, alway s suc h a potent forc e i n th e country , came t o a halt. Th e Nazis banne d composer s such a s Toch an d Schoenber g no t simpl y becaus e they wer e Jewish but becaus e thei r musi c was somehow "degenerate"—an d you didn' t hav e t o b e Jewis h t o ear n tha t label , onl y quick-witte d an d questioning, an d a perceived subversive ; it was applied eve n t o Hindemith , "pure" German though he was. After th e war, German composers had catch up work to do, rediscovering their voice s and learning abou t techniques an d styles with which the y had had little contact fo r more than a decade. The Nazis : Where did they come from, an d how did the Weimar Republic finally die, that strange experiment in popular government followin g the rule of an emperor and leading to the terror of a dictator? By 1930, the whole world was feelin g th e effec t o f th e Wal l Stree t cras h o f 1929 . Th e Unite d State s demanded tha t Germany begin repaying the loans that the U.S. governmen t had made . Germa n companie s wen t bankrupt . Unemployment , whic h ha d doubled between 192 8 and 1929 , more than doubled again between 192 9 and

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1930, t o 3 million . B y January 1932 , mor e tha n 6 millio n German s wer e unemployed. The Nazi Party that had seemed so lunatic throughout the 1920 s and had almost gone bankrupt itself in 1928 now seemed to offer some hope of a better world, playing on thos e ol d feelings of Romantic destiny , and o n th e hurt feeling s of Versailles. It i s often sai d tha t Wagne r contribute d t o Nazi ideology. True, he was anti-Semitic an d seemingly proud of it, putting some of his ugliest thoughts on the subject into an essay called "Das judentum in Musik." Yet Wagner's anti-Semitis m i s confined t o hi s prose, which even a t it s most benign has a lot less appeal than his music. That music—that glorious music— does not in itself legitimize anti-Semitism, but to the extent that it romanticizes and glamorize s nationalism, thos e incline d t o xenophobia coul d embrac e it . Outsiders beware. Group identity can be dangerous when the group you identify with is any subset of the huma n race. Certainly Hitler wa s cynical enough t o use anything at his disposal to get what he wanted. Wagner's music was one of those things. Another wa s the Treaty of Versailles. Recently, historian Margaret MacMillan in Pari s 191 9 ha s reexamine d th e conventiona l wisdo m that th e Treat y led ultimately to World War II. She reminds us of how right-wing nationalists suc h as the Nazis kept a sense of German grievances fresh but proposes that "Hitle r did no t wag e war because o f the Treat y of Versailles, although h e foun d it s existence a godsend for his propaganda." This still does not dismiss the question of whethe r th e Versaille s Treaty helped spar k anothe r war . The framer s o f Versailles could not have foreseen the Wall Street crash, but had they displayed more imaginatio n an d exercise d mor e tact , the y migh t hav e stole n som e of Hitler's ammunition . Bu t Hitler mad e his ammunition on th e spot and as he chose. H e engineere d hi s appointmen t a s Chancellor i n January 1933. Two months later, the Reichstag—the German Parliament building in Berlin—was destroyed by fire. Presumably the blaz e had bee n se t by a Dutch communist , but i t has been speculate d that a Nazi cadre was responsible. For now Hitle r had wha t h e wanted: th e specte r o f national catastrophe , a country on th e verge of communist takeover. He declared a national emergency and suspended civil liberties . Wit h that , fo r all purposes, he becam e dictator . Th e Weima r Republic was dead. The world was about to enter a very bad phase. Joseph Roth had moved to Paris as soon as Hitler came to power. (Kurt Weill had moved to Paris, too, and his Seven Deadly Sins was composed an d premiere d there.) Writin g fro m th e French capita l in 1933 , Rot h spok e of Nazi book-burnings, pointing ou t tha t the Weimar Republic's last president, Hindenburg, once "openly admitted tha t he ha d never read a book i n his life." Rot h bemoan s thi s anti-intellectua l ben t but believes it has long been present—its roots are in that sens e of destiny, in Wagnerian Romanticism , i n de r deutsche Fimmel —and h e find s everyon e responsible. "I t wa s thi s icon"—Hindenburg—"tha t th e workers , Socia l

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Democrats, journalists, artists, and Jews worshipped during the war, and that the German people (workers , Jews, journalists, artists, Social Democrats, an d the rest of them) then re-elected president. Is a people that elects as its president an icon that has never read a book all that far away from burning books itself?" From Wagner t o the Weimar Republic, Romanticism t o Modernism, is not so long a trip. As a parable of where Romanti c illusio n ca n lead , thi s spa n of years an d th e musi c it produce d offer s muc h fo r reflection. Th e conclusion s you could draw would be unbearably depressing if the music , from Wagner t o Weimar, wer e no t s o compelling . "I t wa s th e cultura l tas k o f th e Weima r Republic," writes Peter Gay, "to restore the broken ties " of its people "both to the usable past and to the congenial foreig n environment. " Nations ma y try to identify part s of the pas t as usable or not; but what of a personal past? What parts of that are usable? The one s tha t continue t o give us pleasure , like a suddenly remembered choru s fro m Th e Flying Dutchman! Or th e one s tha t continu e t o haun t ou r dreams ? A persona l pas t alway s intersects wit h history , jus t a s th e composer s o f th e Weima r year s restored Germans' sens e o f cultural ties t o the world , looking t o a great heritage tha t went bac k t o Wagne r an d further . Th e spiri t the y communicate d foun d a n audience i n the world beyond Germany , an audience perhap s more receptiv e than in Germany itself. That spirit, forged i n the awfu l battle s tha t opened a new century, expressed a people's hopes and a nation's characte r n o less than did Wagner , i f mor e realistically . Th e greates t o f th e Weima r composer s championed a n honesty fo r which thei r ow n country was not full y prepared . Other battles would have t o ready that ground.

—L.R.

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A Shor t Life of J* S. Bach In the two hundred years since [Bach's ] death each rising generation ha s seen him differently; hi s creations hav e been analyzed and criticized, performed and deformed, used and abused ; books an d pamphlets, paintings an d plaster bust s hav e mad e hi m a commo n househol d article; in short he ha s finally been transforme d into a statue. It seems to me that having this statue constantly before our eyes has impaired our view of the true stature of Bach, both o f the ma n an d o f his work. —Paul Hindemit h

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he voice is Paul Hindemith's, the occasion the city of Hamburg's Bach commemoration o f 1950, and the tone woven through the words like a ground bass is one that tells us to beware. But the statue Hindemith speaks o f doesn't ben d o r mov e t o music , hewn a s it i s from a psychologica l granite o r marble—ou r conception s an d preconception s o f Bach. Wh o wa s Johann Sebastia n Bach ? "This genius, " say s Alber t Schweitzer , "wa s not a n individual but a collective soul." In other words, a statue. Bach the man remains a puzzle—both because we know so little o f his personal life an d becaus e we feel entitled t o know more. The correspondence h e left behind i s mostly official business—recommendations for students or organ builders, requests for work, hagglings ove r salary . I t i s as difficult t o dra w a sense o f the ma n fro m suc h documents a s it would be to piece togethe r a life from th e scraps of paper that litter your desk, or mine. Absent fro m Bach's writing is any mention o f his own inner workings—ho w he must have felt , fo r example, after th e deat h of Maria Barbara, t o whom h e ha d bee n married for twelve years and who had born e

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their si x children. Absen t i s any mention o f how he reacte d t o th e coming s and going s o f friends , o r th e seasons , o r nigh t an d day . To appreciate ho w private—or perhaps simply undemonstrative—Bach must have been, we need only compar e th e note s an d letter s h e lef t behin d wit h th e kind s o f letters Mozart wrote , b y turn s playful , intimate , an d grousing , or wit h tha t grea t document of spiritual torment and angst, Beethoven's Heiligenstadt Testament . It i s the differenc e betwee n eras , between way s of perceiving th e worl d and how you fit into it , but als o simply a reflection of one man's natural reserve. Our idea s o f The Artis t hav e bee n conditione d largel y by figures suc h as Beethoven, romanti c culture heroes who fashion their work from th e detail s of their lives, who invite us to share in the spectacle of their loves and frustrations . Our deman d fo r th e biographica l facts o r fictions surrounding, say, Berlioz or Tchaikovsky isn't so different fro m the demand satisfied by the National Enquirer and its siblings. We expect to be on familiar terms with our artists, and we expect our artist s to be celebrities. Bac h would have been surprise d to learn tha t his audience was interested in the "story" of his life. And he would have been appalled. For he was a worker—a pro: a musician and composer, with lower-case "m" and "c." Art may have been his vocation, but it was also his livelihood. To say that he wrote to eat may be a grossly simple way of saying why he composed, but it is not a gros s distortion. Throughou t hi s life h e hel d si x respectable and responsibl e positions—now as organist, now as court composer, now as city music director— in places scattered across east-central Germany, a small parcel of territory where he was born and within whose boundaries he remained, though he was willing to move t o where th e wor k was. From what w e can deduce , h e coul d writ e by inspiration or on demand. One o f the miracles is that th e qualit y of his music is as consistently high as the quantit y is great. Still the questio n is unavoidable, because we are, after all , creatures of our own time: What was Bach like? And the question becomes more nagging when we look at that portrait of 1746 by Elias Gottlieb Haussmann (th e eighteenth century equivalent of a photograph sent with the announcement o f an executive promotion). Here i s the master—wigge d an d well-fed , bu t with a look in his eyes and a pursing of the lips so suggestive and so undefinable that he becomes more enigmatic than ever. In his right hand he holds a slip of paper bearing the six-part cano n (BW V 1076) , hi s membershi p submissio n t o th e Societ y of Musical Sciences . Her e i s a pictur e tha t encompasse s th e tw o Bachs—th e "Bach" that is an edifice of musical literature and th e "Bach " who is one of us. Schweitzer may maintain tha t Bac h is "a collective soul, " but t o lose sight of Bach th e ma n i s t o d o ourselve s a disservice , allowin g ourselve s t o b e overwhelmed by Bach, the music. To the extent tha t he can speak, we must let him. Hearin g Bach' s voic e becam e suddenl y easie r i n 1945 , whe n Han s T David an d Arthur Mende l publishe d The Bach Reader, a collection o f letters and papers from th e composer's life. The documentar y biography that follow s is culled fro m Th e Ne w Bach Reader, a 199 8 revisio n b y Christop h Wolf f o f

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David and Mendel's work. I have added commentary (in italics) in an attempt to create a narrative. In this story, the voic e is Bach's, joined by the voice s of people who knew him. From the church records of Eisenach, where Johann Sebastian Bach was born on 21 March 1685, the entry of a baptism:

Monday, March 23, 1685 . To Mr. Johann Ambrosiu s Baach, Town Musician . . . , a son, gfodfathers] Sebastia n Nagel, Town Musician at Gotha, and Johann Georg Koch, Ducal Forester of this place. Name: Joh. Sebastian . Bach's mother died in 1694; after his father's death the following year, Johann Sebastian joined the household of his brother, Johann Christoph, who gave him musical instruction. B y 1 703 J. S. was organist at the New Church in Amstadt. It was here, on 4 August 1705, that his sharp tongue led him into the first of many disagreements with lesser talents. Th e source of conflict wa s a student musician a t the church, J. H. Geyersbach. David and Mendel offer a reconstruction from Church records.

[On Augus t 5 , 1705, ] Johan n Sebastia n Bac h . . . appeare d [befor e th e Consistory] an d stated that, a s he walked home yesterday, fairly late at night , . . . six students wer e sitting o n th e "Langenstein " (Lon g Stone), an d as he passed th e tow n hall , th e studen t Geyersbac h went afte r hi m wit h a stick , calling him to account: Why had he [Bach ] made abusive remarks about him? He [Bach ] answere d tha t h e ha d mad e n o abusiv e remarks about him, an d that no one coul d prove it, for he had gon e his way very quietly. Geyersbach retorted that while he [Bach ] might not have maligned him, he had maligned his bassoon at some time, and whoever insulted his belongings insulted him as well; he had carried on like a dirty dog's etc., etc. And he [Geyersbach ] had at once struck out at him. Since he had not been prepared for this, he had been about to draw his dagger, but Geyersbach had fallen into his arms, and the two of them tumble d abou t unti l th e res t of the student s . . . had rushe d toward them an d separated them... . He had said to Geyersbach, to his face, that he would straighten this out tomorrow, and it would not be becoming to him and his honor t o duel with him [Geyersbach] . As i t turned out, Geyersbach's attack wa s not unprovoked, an d on 1 9 August, the Consistory reprimanded Bach.

He migh t very well have refrained from callin g Geyersbach a Zippel Fagotist [ a "nanny-goat bassoonist"]; such gibes lead in the end to unpleasantness of this kind, especially since he had a reputation for not getting along with the students and of claiming that he was engaged only for simple chorale music, and not for concerted pieces , which was wrong, for he must help out in all music making.

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Ille: H e would not refuse , i f only there wer e a Director musices. Nos: Men must live among imperfecta; h e must get along with the students, and they must not mak e one another's live s miserable. In 1707 Bach became organist at Muhlhausen, in the Church of Saint Blasius. He decided to leave after only a year. When he approached the patrons, parishioners, and Church council to request his dismissal, he mentioned in passing some of the conditions and goals he considered professionally important.

[H]owever simple my manner o f living, I can live but poorly , considering th e house rent an d other mos t necessary expenses. Now, Go d has brought it t o pass that a n unexpecte d chang e shoul d offe r itself t o me , in which I see the possibilit y of a more adequat e livin g an d th e achievement o f m y goa l o f a well-regulate d church musi c without furthe r vexation, since I have received the gracious admission of His Serene Highnes s of Saxe-Weimar into hi s Court Capelle an d Chamber Music. Accordingly, I hav e fel t I mus t brin g m y intention i n thi s matter , wit h obedient respect , to the notice o f my Most Gracious Patrons, and at the same time beg them to content themselves for the time being with the modest services I have rendered t o the Church an d to furnish me at the earliest moment with a gracious dismissal. Bach was court musician at Weimar for nine years. When he left, his parting with his employer, the Duke Wilhelm Ernst, was anything but gracious. For Bach had received an offer to become Capellmeister at the court of Cothen, and he wanted desperately to break his ties with the Duke. We do not know what Bach did or said to evoke Wilhelm Ernst's extraordinary response, but we may speculate from this entry in the reports of the Secretary of the Weimar court:

On Novembe r 6 , 1717 , th e quonda m concertmaste r an d organis t Bach was confined t o the Count y Judge's place of detention fo r too stubbornly forcing the issu e of his dismissal and finall y on December 2 was freed fro m arres t with notice o f his unfavorable discharge. Bach spent six years at Cothen, the first few of which, as David and Mendel wrote in their original edition of Th e Bac h Reader, "must have been the happiest i n [his] life." Prince Leopold loved music an d wa s a friend. Fo r him, Bach composed th e Brandenburg Concertos. Th e Prince, however, married a woman wh o ha d little feeling for music, and this apparently caused his highness's own interest to wane. Again Bach looked elsewhere for work. What he found was the position in which he would spend the rest of his life—Cantor of Saint Thomas's Church and School in Leipzig, a post that brought with it the position of City Music Director, a higher

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salary, an d free schooling for hi s children. Christoph Wolff points ou t (i n th e Ne w Grove Bach Family) that the Leipzig position "was one of the most notable positions in German musical life," for it had been "associated with a wealth of tradition since the sixteenth century." It was, in short, the kind of position that a man of fortyeight—a ripe age in 1 723—would see as the consolidation of a career. Whatever Bach's high expectations may have been, he soon found he had become a member of a bureaucracy, and he ran into constant disagreements with the City Council, made up of men more concerned with protocol and propriety than with the demands and urgencies of art. Consider this excerpt from the Council proceedings of 3 April 1724, regarding a performance o f th e Saint John Passion.

Mr. Johann Sebastia n Bach , Canto r o f St. Thomas' s School , wa s notified of the decisio n previousl y made by the Honore d an d Learned Council tha t th e Passion Music for Good Frida y should b e give n alternatel y i n St. Nicholas' s and St. Thomas's. But since the title of [the libretto to] the music sent around this year revealed that it was to take place again in St. Thomas's, and since th e Superintendent o f St. Nicholas's ha d requested of the Honore d an d Learned Council tha t thi s time the above-mentioned Passion music should be given in St. Nicholas's, therefore , the Canto r shoul d for his part act accordingly. Hie: He would comply with the same, but pointed ou t that th e booklet was already printed, tha t ther e wa s no room available, and tha t th e harpsichor d needed som e repair, all of which, however , could be attended t o at little cost ; but h e requested a t any rate tha t a little additiona l roo m be provided in th e choir loft , s o that h e coul d place th e person s needed fo r the music , and tha t the harpsichord be repaired. Senatus: The Cantor should , at the expense of the Honored an d Most Wise Council, hav e a n announcemen t printe d statin g tha t th e musi c was to tak e place this time in St. Nicholas's, have the necessary arrangements in the choir loft made , with the ai d of the sexton , an d have th e harpsichor d repaired. Six years later th e Leipzig Council admonished Bach for neglecting hi s teaching duties. In the minutes of 2 August 1730:

[I] t should be remembered tha t whe n th e Canto r cam e hither h e received a dispensation concerning th e teaching ; . . . [but the Cantor] di d not conduc t himself as he should (withou t the foreknowledg e of the burgomaste r in offic e [he] sent a choir student to the country; went away without obtaining leave), for whic h h e mus t b e reproache d an d admonished ; a t presen t i t mus t b e considered whether the [thir d and fourth] classe s should not be provided with a different person ; Magister Kriegel was said to be a good man, and a decision would have to be made about it.

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Court Councilor Lange: Everything was true that had been mentioned agains t the Cantor, an d h e coul d be admonished an d th e plac e fille d wit h Magiste r Kriegel. Court Councilor Steger: Not onl y did the Cantor d o nothing, bu t he was not even willin g to give an explanatio n o f that fact ; h e did not hol d th e singin g class, and there were other complaints in addition; a change would be necessary, a break would have to come some time, and he would acquiesce in the making of other arrangements . Diocesan Councilor Born: Adhered t o the abov e votes. Dr. Holzel: Likewise. Commissioner Dr. Falckner: Likewise. Commissioner Kregel: Likewise. Syndic Job: Likewise , since th e Canto r wa s incorrigible. Commissioner Sieber: Likewise. Commissioner Winckler: Likewise. Commissioner Hohmann: Likewise. I [the clerk]:—Likewise. Hereupon it was resolved to restrict the Cantor's [incidental ] income . Bach became so frustrated at Leipzig that he decided to seek another position, as he disclosed in a letter dated 28 October 1 730 and addressed to Georg Erdmann, a childhood companion, now the "Imperial Russian Resident Agent in Danzig": Most Honored Sir , Your Honor wil l have th e goodnes s t o excuse an ol d and faithfu l servan t for taking th e libert y of disturbing you with th e presen t letter . It must be nearly four years since Your Honor favore d me with a kind answer to the letter I sent you; I remember that a t tha t tim e you graciously asked me to give you some news o f what ha d happene d t o me , an d I humbl y tak e thi s opportunit y of providing you with the same. You know the course of my life from my youth up until th e chang e i n m y fortunes that too k m e t o Cothe n a s Capellmeister . There I had a gracious Prince, wh o both love d an d kne w music , and i n his service I intended t o spend th e res t of my life. It must happen, however , tha t the sai d Serenissimus should marry a Princess of Berenburg, and that the n th e impression should arise that the musical interests of the said Prince had become somewhat lukewarm, especially as the ne w Princess seemed t o be unmusical; and i t pleased God tha t I should be called hithe r t o be Director Musices an d Cantor a t St. Thomas's School . Thoug h a t first, indeed, i t did not see m at all proper t o m e t o chang e m y positio n o f Capellmeiste r fo r tha t o f Cantor . Wherefore, then, I postponed my decision for a quarter of a year; but thi s post

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was described to me in such favorable terms that finall y (particularl y since my sons seemed inclined towar d [university] studies) I cast my lot, in the name of the Lord , and mad e th e journe y to Leipzig , took m y examination, an d the n made th e chang e o f position. Here , b y God's will , I a m stil l i n service . Bu t since (1 ) I find tha t th e pos t is by no means so lucrative as it was described to me; (2) I have failed to obtain many of the fees pertaining to the office; (3 ) the place is very expensive; and (4 ) the authoritie s are odd and little interested i n music, so that I must live amid almost continual vexation, envy, and persecution; accordingly I shall be forced, wit h God's help , t o seek my fortune elsewhere. Should You r Hono r kno w o r fin d a suitable post in you r cit y for an ol d an d faithful servant , I be g yo u mos t humbl y t o pu t i n a mos t graciou s word of recommendation for me—I shall not fai l to do my best to give satisfaction and justify your most gracious intercession i n my behalf. My present post amounts to about 700 thaler, and when ther e ar e rather more funerals tha n usual, the fees rise in proportion; but when a healthy wind blows, they fall accordingly, as for example last year, when I lost fees that would ordinarily come in from funeral s to an amount of more than 100 thaler. In Thuringia I could get along better on 400 thale r tha n here wit h twic e tha t many , because o f the excessivel y hig h cost of living. . . . I shall almost transgress the bounds of courtesy if I burden Your Honor an y further, an d I therefore hasten t o close, remaining with most devoted respect my whole life lon g Your Honor's mos t obedient an d devoted servan t Joh. Sebast. Bach Erdmann never came through. By 1739, the feud between Bach and the Council appears to have become institutionalized. Both parties accept the fact that their personalities will never mesh. In the Leipzig Council Archives, 17 March 1 739: Upon a Noble an d Mos t Wise Council' s orde r I have gon e t o Mr. Bach her e and have pointed out to the same that the music he intends t o perform on the coming Good Frida y is to be omitted unti l regular permission for the sam e is received. Whereupo n h e answered : it ha d alway s been don e so ; he di d no t care, for he got nothing ou t o f it anyway, and it was only a burden; he would notify the Superintendent tha t it had been forbidden him; if an objection were made on account of the text, [h e remarked that] it had already been performe d several times. This I have accordingly wished to communicate to a Noble and Most Wise Council . Andreas Gottlieb Bienengraber Clerk With my own hand

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Thus the Bach who could close a letter with the assurance that he was his Honor's "devoted servant" could also speak plainly, and his bluntness was not reserved just for the Leipzig Council. In a note of 2 November 1748, Bach thanked cousin Johann Elias for a cask of wine, several quarts of his kinsman's best —and then asked that no more gifts like this be sent.

Although m y honored Cousi n kindly offers t o oblige with more of the liqueur, I must decline hi s offer o n accoun t o f the excessiv e expenses here. Fo r since the carriage charges cost 16 groschen, the delivery man 2 groschen, the customs inspector 2 groschen, th e inlan d dut y 5 groschen, 3 pfennig, and the genera l duty 3 groschen, m y honored Cousi n ca n judg e for himself tha t eac h quar t cost me almost 5 groschen, which for a present is really too expensive . If Bach could be crotchety, it was not because he was one of those geniuses whose accomplishments go unnoticed in their lifetimes. He was a major figure in the German musical world, as attested in this report, from a Berlin newspaper of 11 May 1747, of th e genesis of th e Musica l Offering .

One hear s from Potsda m that las t Sunday [ 7 May] the famou s Capellmeiste r from Leipzig , Mr. Bach, arrive d with th e intentio n t o hav e th e pleasur e of hearing th e excellent Roya l music at that place . In the evening, a t about the time when the regular chamber music in the Royal apartments usually begins, His Majest y wa s informed that Capellmeiste r Bac h ha d arrive d a t Potsda m and was waiting . .. to listen t o the music. His August Self immediately gave orders that Bach be admitted, and went, at his entrance, t o the so-called Forte and Piano, condescending als o to play, in His Most August Person and without any preparation, a theme—for the Capellmeister Bach, which he should execute in a fugue. This was done so happily by the aforementioned Capellmeister tha t not onl y was His Majesty please d to show his satisfaction thereat, bu t als o all those present were seized with astonishment. Mr . Bach has found the subject propounded to him so exceedingly beautiful tha t h e intends t o set it down on paper as a regular fugue and have it engraved on copper. On Monday, the famous man let himself be heard on the organ in the Church of the Holy Spirit at Potsdam and earned general acclaim from th e audience attendin g in great number. But this was late in Bach's career. In March 1750 the English eye specialist John Taylor attempted to restore the composer's failing sight by an operation. It helped only partially, and Taylor repeated the surgery in April. This, too, was unsuccessful, and it left Bach so weakened that his health declined steadily. He died after a stroke on 28 July 1750. On 3 August th e Spenersche Zeitung of Berlin carried this report:

Last Tuesday, that is, the 28th instant, the famous musician Mr. Joh. Seb. Bach, Royal Polish and Electoral Saxon Court Composer, Capellmeister of the Princely

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Court o f Saxe-Weissenfels an d o f Anhalt-Cothen, Director Chori Musici an d Cantor of St. Thomas here, [died ] in the 66th year of his age, from the unhappy consequences o f the very unsuccessful eye operation by a well-known English oculist. The los s of this uncommonl y able man i s greatly mourned by all true connoisseurs of music.

An uncommonl y able man greatly mourned. Let the closing voice once again be Hindemith's. I n Bach, Hindemith says, "we see a man who, in spite of a life spent i n peti t bourgeoi s doings an d surroundings , has built u p a completely independent worl d of artistic creation.... Any musician, even the most gifted, takes a place second t o Bach's at the start."

—L.R.

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Stravinsky's Ear^stretching? Joy^givitig Legacy

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he firs t tim e I heard Stravinsky' s name wa s when I was eleven o r twelve and sa w Fantasia, th e original , good 194 0 version. ( I say more about that i n "How I Fell in Love with Music," beginning on page 3.) I had no context, no awareness of what else he had composed or what it sounded like, and of course no idea that what Stokowski served up in that fil m was far removed from The Rite of Spring a s Stravinsky had written it. I was both excite d and puzzle d by this music, which was so unlike an y I had eve r heard before. I spoke about it to my mother, who, like a lot of intellectual an d artisti c types, disapproved o f Fantasia withou t havin g see n it , but sh e did recall tha t som e time in the 1920 s Furtwangler and the Berli n Philharmonic ha d brought th e Firebird Suit e t o Breslau, where my parents lived, an d ho w adventurous tha t had mad e the m feel . M y own first encounte r wit h Stravinsky's music in th e dingy Cosmopolitan Theater i n Cambridge, England, was the start of a lifelong love affair . By a pleasing chance, jus t as I was about to start on th e firs t version of this piece a few years ago, an ol d opera program fell ou t o f a score. It was from a performance in Rome of Boulevard Solitude, a reworking of the Manon Lescaut story by the the n very young Hans Werne r Henze. Th e dat e on th e program was 7 April 1954 , forty-five year s to the da y before its surprise reappearance. I was the n i n Ital y on a Fulbright fellowship , far more intereste d i n th e ne w music of Luigi Dallapiccola, Brun o Maderna, Luigi Nono, Goffred o Petrassi ,

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and Giacinto Scelsi than in that of Bartolino da Padova, the fourteenth-century Kieinmeister (sehr klein) about whom I was supposed t o b e writin g a doctora l dissertation. For some reaso n Boulevard Solitude scandalize d th e first-nigh t audience , but a s we learned, firs t throug h rumor s that circulate d i n th e hous e durin g the evening, the n in more detail in the next morning's papers, the real scandal had occurre d i n th e lobby : Igor Stravinsky, in tow n fo r a concert wit h th e Rome Radio Orchestra, ha d been refused admission . The Rome Opera had a strict rule that any man sitting in the orchestra or in a box had to wear black tie, and Stravinsky had shown up in a plain dark suit. Reporting this silly event, the musi c critic of one of the Roma n newspapers asked: "For Petrushka, might the Maestro not hav e been forgiven the dinner jacket , or the black tie for the Symphony o f Psalms? " Indeed. An d recallin g tha t writer' s questio n now , I g o to Rober t Craft' s Stravinsky: Chronicle o f a Friendship an d rerea d th e accoun t o f hi s an d Ver a Stravinsky's visit to th e composer' s grave on th e funera l isle of San Michel e just off Venice, thre e week s after hi s death i n April 1971 . "And again, " writes Craft, "w e follow the path to the Orthodox section , wher e lilacs and oleande r are in bloom, and it is full springtim e except for the ma n who created a spring of his own that of all mortally begotten version s will give Nature its longest ru n for everlastin g joy. . .. It is impossible to believe tha t the man whose immortal celebration o f the resurrection of nature, and all his other continuation s o f the highest humanizin g art of man, lies beneath that mound of earth." Thirty-four year s have passe d sinc e tha t deat h an d tha t funeral— a ful l generation—and for students, even for the younger members of our orchestras, Igor Stravinsk y i s alread y a remot e classic , almos t a s remote an d almos t a s classic as Brahms (wh o died only thirty-one years before I was born). What a feeling of emptiness Stravinsky's death left ! He was nearly eighty-nine, an d it was no secret tha t he was exceedingly frail , tha t he had not compose d sinc e 1966, the year he completed th e Requiem Canticles and The Owl and the Pussycat, and that he had conducted for the last time (the Pulcinella Suite in Toronto in May 1967). On tha t occasion Craf t noted i n his diary "the specia l warmth of the audience , whos e applause had distinctly said , 'This is the las t time we see Igor Stravinsky.'" But still , wha t a jolt it was, the new s o f his death, a death abou t which I learned i n such a strange way. Wearing my Boston Globe music critic hat, I was accompanying a European tour of the Boston Symphony. At one point I jumped ship for a few days to visit a friend wh o was a singer at the Diisseldor f Opera . While I was waiting for a performance of Eugene Onegin to begin, a n opera in which Fyodor Stravinsky, the composer' s father, had bee n a famous Gremin , my neighbor turne d t o me and asked, "Where do you suppose Stravinsky will be buried?" It seemed a strange opening gambi t for a conversation, an d onl y

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gradually did the reaso n for the questio n become clea r t o me. It was 6 April 1971, an d Stravinsk y had die d i n Ne w Yor k tha t day . I stil l remembe r th e surreal experience o f sitting in that theater , the sound s of Tchaikovsky filling the room , bu t thos e o f Petrushka, Th e Rite o f Spring, Th e Soldier's Tale, Th e Wedding, Persephone, Oedipus Rex, Apollo, the tw o symphonies from th e 1940s , the Mass , Orpheus, Agon , Threni, and I don't kno w what els e playin g in my head as a counterpoint both/wnebre and happy. It filled me with such happiness that thi s wonderful music existed, that I had been allowe d to hear it and even sing some of it, that I had even been granted the extra magic of here and there, most ofte n o n th e podium , once a t JF K airport, once fo r a handshake a t a reception in Rome, seeing the tiny man who had invented thes e amazing sounds, who indeed like d t o thin k o f himself as an invento r rathe r tha n a composer, who had create d worlds, who had change d th e fac e of music. And I wondered, now what? Again I turn to Robert Craft's diar y in which he quotes some of the messages that arrive d after Stravinsky's death: '"This is the firs t tim e sinc e Guillaum e de Machaut that th e worl d is without a great composer.' Claudio Arrau cables fro m London : 'No w he joins the immortals where i n an y case he ha s alread y been fo r fifty years. ' Bu t perhap s the mos t nearly perfect o f them all , from Lucian o Berio, simply says, 'Adieu pere Igor et merd.'" It is tempting to bristle at the message about Machaut. Some wonderful composers were left alive in April 1971, but every one of them, even Messiaen, would have acknowledged that Stravinsk y was in another league . I loved typin g that sentenc e tha t ha d both th e Requiem Canticles an d The Owl and the Pussy-cat in it, the on e a hieratic ac t of mourning for a woman he did not kno w and at the same time a memorial for friends who died during its composition—Edgard Varese , Alberto Giacometti , an d Evely n Waugh—the other, on e o f countles s message s o f love , musica l an d otherwise , t o Vera Stravinsky, who had come into his life in 192 1 and whom he married in 1940 , a year after the death of his first wife. The pairin g of the Mass for the Dead an d Edward Lear might seem incongruous, but each composition—or invention— is completely characteristic, personal , authentic, an d in each th e whole artist is involved, an d th e whol e man . An d ho w beautifully thos e tw o works, the canticle an d the little song for soprano and piano, begin to give us some idea of Stravinsky's range. Both ar e a long way from Th e Firebird an d Petrushka, even fro m Th e Rite of Spring. Fe w composers traveled so far in a lifetime. There was a fan who tol d Stravinsky how muc h she love d Th e Firebird, Petrushka, an d even Th e Rite of Spring, the n wailed, "But why did you stop?" To which Stravinsky replied, "Why did you stop?" That admirer of the earl y ballets was not alone . I n my teens— this mus t hav e bee n i n readin g I di d o n m y own; i n colleg e I don' t thin k Stravinsky was even mentioned i n Music 101—I was instructed that Stravinsky had indeed "stopped " after Th e Rite of Spring i n 1913 , that he had ru n dr y and taken refug e i n mannerism and masquerade.

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In recent years I had thought that with so much post-Rite Stravinsky having become central repertoire this canard had died, but it seems there is still some life in tha t toug h old duck . Browsin g in a bookstore , I too k a loo k at The Picasso Papers by Rosalind Krauss, one of our most provocative art critics. Like Stravinsky, Picasso has been accused of having no center, o f being like one of those dressmakers ' wire forms , decorate d b y one costum e an d disguis e afte r another, an d muc h o f Krauss's book appeare d to be accusatoria l in just tha t spirit. I wondered whether I would find Stravinsk y in The Picasso Papers, an d sure enough, ther e h e was , described a s writing in his so-called neoclassica l works, a label that would account fo r a large number of important works from Pulcinella i n 192 0 t o Th e Rake's Progress i n 1951 , "borrowe d musi c o f th e pastiche," whic h Kraus s goes on to characterize as "fake modernism, which is nothing but a betrayal of real modernist procedures. " She actuall y bases he r severe judgmen t not o n he r ow n listening t o Stravinsky' s music but o n th e strictures o f Theodo r Wiesengrun d Adorno , a passionatel y polemica l Stravinsky-hater—and Schoenber g booster—a t a time, on e tha t now seems remote indeed , whe n thos e tw o composer s wer e perceived , b y themselve s among others, a s representing irreconcilable opposites . Of course we find pastich e i n Stravinsky. Pulcinella is a delightful example, one in which he changed th e rules about the relationship to another composer' s works. It is a reworking of eighteenth-century pieces all believed a t the tim e to be by Pergolesi, undertaken a s an exuberant declaration o f "how I would have proceeded i f I ha d com e u p wit h thes e themes. " Stravinsky , moreover, was absolutely right when he observed that Pulcinella was Pergolesi's best piece. In 1928, for a dance score, The Fairy's Kiss, Stravinsky enjoyed himself with similar reinventions o f mostly obscure Tchaikovsky, a composer he loved deeply. Still later h e adde d ne w strand s o f counterpoint t o Bach' s las t orga n work , th e Canonic Variations on Von Himmel hoch ("with the Master's permission," says the scor e in German), an d fashioned exquisit e pulcinellization s o f madrigals and sacre d pieces by that sixteenth-century maverick, Carlo Gesualdo . An d let u s not forge t tha t brilliant one-minut e firework , th e Greeting Prelude fo r the eightiet h birthda y o f Pierr e Monteux , wh o ha d conducte d th e firs t performances ofPetrushka an d The Rite of Spring. That spirited salute is a bouquet of canons o n guess what tune . Stravinsky always found th e absorptio n of preexisting material stimulating. It als o got him into troubl e fro m tim e t o time . No t onl y had h e erroneously assumed that Happy Birthday wa s a folk son g in th e publi c domain, bu t year s earlier he had, under the same mistaken assumption, put into Petrushka a song he had hear d a barrel-organ play outside his window. When, in 1944 , he led the Bosto n Symphon y i n hi s new orchestration an d harmonizatio n o f "Th e Star-Spangled Banner, " h e foun d himsel f in violation o f a Massachusetts law forbidding "tampering with national property." He was arrested, and his Boston

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Police Department mu g shot is surely one of the oddest among the thousand s of images of this extraordinarily photogenic man . The stranges t cas e o f Stravinsky's tampering with nationa l property , as it turns out, is The Rite of Spring, a work that left as huge and indelible a mark on twentieth-century music as the Beethoven Nint h and Tristan ha d o n tha t of the nineteent h century. The Rite o f Spring—and isn' t i t remarkable how that phrase and variants of it have entered th e English language?—stands as a symbol of musical modernism an d it s rhythms can stil l jolt you. It is also full o f tunes: there is plenty to hum and whistle as you leave the hall . Stravinsk y declared that, while what the bassoon plays at the beginning o f the work is a folk song, all the other melodies were his own. Not so. Most of them come from published collections o f fol k music , includin g one s assemble d b y hi s teache r Rimsky Korsakov. It was the musicologist Richard Taruskin who blew Stravinsky's cover, and hi s researche s culminate d i n a doubl e tome , Stravinsky an d th e Russian Traditions, that is one of the most exciting books on music to have come out in the las t half-century , an d fo r reason s tha t g o fa r beyon d th e issu e o f th e composer's prevarications. Through muc h of his life, in countless interviews, but more weightily in his ghost-written Chronicles of M y life an d th e famous , also ghost-written, Harvard lectures titled The Poetics of Music, Stravinsky followed a strong urge to explain, justify, an d ever more to invent and reinvent himself . One think s o f Wagner, a composer wit h a n eve n greate r penchan t fo r explanation , justification , invention, and reinvention, an d one, moreover, who did it without ghostwriters. Stravinsky on Stravinsky can be as unreliable a s Wagner on Wagner. Whatever Stravinsk y did and whatever h e pretended i n his long life a s an inventor an d explorer, it allowed him to turn out masterpiece after masterpiec e in incredible profusio n an d with incredible confidenc e an d joy. To have been his contemporar y wa s a joyou s privilege . M y awarenes s o f hi m a s a livin g composer who was still writing began with my first radi o hearing o f the 194 0 Symphony in C, a n experienc e a s puzzling in its way as The Rite had bee n in Fantasia becaus e t o m y inexperienced ea r th e Symphon y seeme d t o soun d nothing like The Rite. My first actual sight of Stravinsky was at Carnegie Hall during my freshman year a t Princeton . I t wa s Januar y 1946 , an d th e occasio n wa s th e firs t performance o f th e Symphon y i n Thre e Movements , wit h Stravinsk y conducting th e New York Philharmonic, fo r whom he had written it. The new 1945 version of the Firebird Suite was on th e progra m and, I believe, Scene s de Ballet. Th e las t tim e I saw him wa s in th e summe r of 196 2 a t on e o f thos e Lewisohn Stadiu m concert s tha t were for so many years such a precious an d beloved source of summer refreshment for New Yorkers. That concert followe d what was by then a familiar pattern : Rober t Craft le d most of the progra m (it included Th e Rite o f Spring), an d the n Stravinsky came ou t t o conclud e th e

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evening, mos t often and on that occasion with the 191 9 Firebird Suite (which , he said, he had conducted well over a thousand times, but that another thousan d would not suffic e t o erase the memory of the terro r the firs t had caused him). In those sixteen and a half years Stravinsky's standing had changed entirely . I still remember how excited I was in 194 6 at the though t of seeing him in th e flesh—I coul d hardl y have been more fevered with anticipatio n ha d i t been Beethoven o r Brahms—an d ho w shocke d I wa s t o observ e tha t th e Philharmonic's subscriptio n audience didn't seem to give much of a damn and that th e applaus e for the ne w symphon y was pretty perfunctory. It wa s n o better, or maybe even worse, at a Carnegie Hall concert by the Boston Symphony a few years later when he conducted wha t in my years of working at programplanning for symphony orchestras I used to call a suicide program, one without a guarantee d hit . I believe the n we had th e Concert o i n D fo r Strings, th e Piano Concert o (th e solois t wa s Stravinsky' s son Soulima , an d i f you eve r wanted t o see genetics a t work .. .), and the new ballet score Orpheus. In the 1940 s Stravinsky was at the nadir of his reputation. The legend of his having long ago run dry had taken hold. Then, very late in the game he became transmuted into Grand Old Man. The publicatio n in 195 7 of his first book of conversations with Robert Craft ha d something t o do with that, an d so did a few television documentaries. One exception to the astounding lack of interest in Stravinsky in the 1940 s and 1950s , or even respect for him, was the balle t audience. They—we, I should say—always loved him, and when he appeared in the pit at the mosque that had so bizarrely become the New York City Center to conduct th e fina l numbe r a t one of the Ne w York City Ballet's Stravinsky evenings, there was an instant sense of festivity, and the cheering was loud and long. Anothe r happ y memory : attendin g rehearsal s fo r tha t wonderfu l company's firs t productio n o f Agon, with choreography of course by George Balanchine. Leo n Barzin , th e company' s musi c director , conducted , bu t Stravinsky was a watchful and swift-movin g presence i n th e auditorium . At one point h e wanted a more emphatic portamento from th e viola s and, with a wicked smile , h e leane d ove r th e edg e o f the orchestr a pi t an d said , "Lik e Ormandy." What was Stravinsky like as a conductor? He certainly understood how the pieces wen t (h e rarel y conducted musi c othe r tha n hi s own) . H e di d no t underline what did not need underlinin g an d even when he took interpretive risks—I recall an unforgettable Symphony o f Psalms at Saint Thomas's Churc h in New Yor k with a finale vastly slower than what th e scor e indicates—the result never came across as eccentric, self-indulgent , or, in that very dangerous page o f the Psalms , sentimental . Hi s best performance s had a n exhilaratin g toughness an d ruggedness . Famously , he fusse d a lo t abou t wantin g n o "interpretation," jus t get the note s an d th e rhythm s right. If, however, you go to th e piece s h e recorde d mor e tha n once , an d th e Symphon y i n Thre e

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Movements is a good example, you quickly hear tha t h e wa s anything othe r than an unyielding, unchanging, mechanical conducto r of his own music. Like Schoenberg and Copland, Stravinsky had one of the twentieth century's great composer faces. He was imperturbably elegant when he walked onto the stage, and even in his last years, when he used a cane an d had become tinie r than ever, he was a courtly host to his audience. When he turned to face the orchestra he hunched over , sank his head int o th e scor e as though the note s even of Firebird were startling news to him, and conducte d wit h symmetrical motions of both arms. No question, his technique was limited, and he knew it. There is a rehearsal tape where at a transition with a difficult mete r change h e coolly tells the orchestra , "I'm sorry, I cannot hel p you here." With no othe r conductor was it so hard t o figure ou t ho w what you heard was somehow th e result of the awkward and constricted performance you saw. Still, especially in his later years, his presence could impart magic to an occasion. There was that special crash of applause when h e appeare d in th e door , and thos e evening s were events. Robert Shaw liked to remind u s that creatio n did not sto p after th e Sixt h Day and that th e powe r to create is one of the great gifts granted us as human beings. Igo r Stravinsky's immense, light-shedding , ear-stretching , joy-giving legacy was perhaps the most potent evidenc e i n the sa d twentieth centur y of the human creative gift .

—M.S.

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III.

THE RECENT SCENE

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A Visit with Lou Harrison

hat's an awfully damn East Coast thin g t o say!" That scornful remark was addressed to me by the compose r and writer Charles Shere . I no longer remembe r what terribl e thin g I had sai d that elicite d Shere' s words. I do remember tha t h e spok e the m a t Tanglewoo d i n th e summe r of 1974 at a workshop on music criticism and that it came as a shock to me that there coul d be an "East Coast thin g t o say" or, by obvious inference, a "West Coast thing. " I was the Bosto n Globe' s music critic then , and we on th e East Coast though t o f our "thing" as central an d normative, an d of everything else as eccentric an d peripheral . To Michael Tilson Thomas, musi c director of the San Francisco Symphony since 1995 , one of the mos t significant things abou t that orchestra is that it is in San Francisco , "o n th e Pacifi c and facin g Asia, [an d thus ] geographicall y and sociologicall y th e righ t plac e t o be for the twenty-firs t century. " On e o f MTT's initia l plan s fo r th e Sa n Francisc o Symphon y wa s t o celebrat e th e orchestra's Pacificness, so to speak. That is one reason for special attention paid to Lou Harrison, a figure so lively and forward-looking that the word "senior" sat oddly upon him, although, a t almost eighty, he can be said to have earned it . Lou Harrison is very much a West Coast phenomenon. T o visit him, as I did in the summer of 1995, at the house in Aptos where he lived with his partner, the instrument-builde r Willia m Colvig , wa s firs t o f al l t o b e reminde d wh y some people love t o live in California. (Bil l Colvig died i n 2000 at th e ag e of

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82; Harrison, busy to the last, died in February 2003 while on the road.) In his directions t o the house , Harrison told me to look for "a jazzy-looking roof"— and it does indeed presen t a striking ballet of planes and angles—an d for the tallest chimney in sight. The house is on what he called th e thir d story above sea level, with just the sort of spectacular view of the Pacific that this suggests, but Lou immediately added that the way the world is going it might well be the second story before long. When I visited in August, he and Bill Colvig had not yet seen Waterworld, th e Kevi n Costner fil m abou t a future plague d with th e effects o f global warming, but i t was definitely on the agenda . I want to return to that scene in 1995. Like his music, Lou seems so much a part of the present . Befor e w e settle i n th e lus h garden to talk , Lou and Bill offer a quick tou r o f the house , wher e th e beautiful , th e practical , an d th e enchantingly kitsch y cohabit harmoniousl y and happily. Just to the lef t of the main entranc e i s the subtl y lit gamela n room—it s officia l nam e i s the Ive s Room—its ampl e floo r are a covere d wit h bronze , iron , wood , an d bambo o instruments, all built by Bill. A group of students and practitioners of all ages, most associated with the University of California at Santa Cruz, and including Lou himself, meets there regularly to study and practice. But this is California at its best, an open world, and so the gamelan shares space with a clavichord, several reed organs, and a beautifully carved, brown 1871 Steinway grand piano that was the favorite West Coast instrumen t o f the Australian composer and pianist Perc y Grainge r (1882-1961) , a forward-lookin g figure whos e disinclination to believe tha t wonderful music happened onl y in Europe and was produced only by white men made him highly simpatico to Lou. One o f the most conspicuous objects in the room , and surely the mos t startling, is a lifesize cutout of Patrick Stewart as Captain Picard. It is not tha t Lou and Bill are Trekkies; rather, the acto r has been assigned this central position in honor of his rol e i n th e ne w Pau l Rudnick/Christophe r Ashle y movi e Jeffrey, whic h focuses o n gay relationships in the shadow of AIDS. In th e garden , Lo u shows me a fin e growt h of English roses , these bein g raised not onl y for their look s but t o ensure a supply of rose hips for rose-hip tea and jam. Off in the background is a cutout of a comfortably 1940s-lookin g automobile by the sculptor Mark Bulwinkle. Lou points to the open-mouthe d figure in the back seat: "That's me, telling Bill how to drive." He laughs, as he does often . Hi s face , white-bearded , i s open an d serious , th e eye s almos t alarmingly scrutinous, but when he is amused and goes into his laugh mode, it happens withou t warnin g or modulation , th e ja w drops like tha t o f an old fashioned nutcracker, and the whole structure is realigned in a smile of totally enveloping warmth. I as k Lo u abou t th e Eas t Coast/Wes t Coas t Atlantic/Pacifi c thing . Hi s immediate response is that one of the salient difference s i s the interest on th e part of West Coast composer s in new instruments an d new tunings—new t o

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traditional European-base d music, that is : "None o f us can resis t making or incorporating ne w instruments. " Jus t th e thre e piece s tha t appea r on Sa n Francisco Symphony programs this season include ranch triangles, sleighbells, big bells made from large, gassed-out oxygen tanks that are struck with baseball bats, sweet bell tree, th e deep , bossed gong of the Javanese gamelan, spoons, tackpiano, iron pipes, brake drums, elephant bells , and tongued teponaztl i (a Mexican slit drum); the Varied Trio played on the orchestra' s chamber music series last season called for tuned rice bowls and bakers' pans. Among his allies in this kind o f exploring of colors and textures , Lou mentions Henr y Cowell , one o f the grea t California pioneers i n the firs t hal f of the twentiet h centur y and one of own his chief mentors, Janice Giteck, Morgan Powell, and of course Harry Partch , on e o f the boldes t o f all the explorers , inventor o f many new instruments (amon g them seventy-two-strin g kitharas, boos, cloud-chamber bowls, and blow-boys), and th e proponen t o f a forty-three-note scale . Lou Harrison was born in Portland, Oregon, i n 1917 , but h e was raised in San Francisco, where his family move d when he was nine. His father was the second Harrison in whom his mother had a romantic interest, and his business was "automobile s an d stuff, " an d h e wa s for a time th e proprieto r of one o f those gran d palace s o n Va n Ness Avenu e i n Sa n Francisco . H e wa s not a musician himself, but he got great pleasure from music, his favorite performe r being th e banj o virtuos o Eddi e Peabody . Lou' s mothe r ha d "on e o f thos e romantic Victoria n inheritances, " whic h cam e i n handy o n thos e occasion s when he r husban d wandere d int o financiall y uncertain waters , such a s th e establishment o f a factory fo r the productio n of Chinese jugs. She was a good pianist and her sister Lounette was a fine violinist. The so n and heir, for some reason expected to be a daughter, was to have been named for Aunt Lounette, "but when the y discovered I had ornaments the y cut of f the 'nette.'" In San Francisco, Lou studied Gregorian chant at Mission Dolores, went to dancing clas s where h e an d hi s brother dutifull y learne d t o maneuve r thei r way through waltzes, schottisches, an d polkas, and listened with curiosity and delight to whatever music came out of the Chinese and Japanese communities. It was a varied die t tha t le d naturally to a life i n which, alon g with being a prolific composer, Lou has at different time s been a florist, record clerk, poet, dancer ("whe n I was in shap e acceptable") , musi c an d danc e critic , musi c copyist, and playwright. Versatility and flexibility have always been among his outstanding attributes, and now there seem to be no barriers of geography and history that stand between Lou Harrison and the world's music. In 1934 , Lo u became a student o f Henry Cowell , which wa s probably the single most critical decision of his musical life, and although the formal teacherpupil relationship went on for only one year, the deep friendship endured until Cowell's death in 1965. He remembers with special gratitude a course on what later cam e t o be calle d "worl d music" that Cowel l taugh t fo r the extensio n

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division o f the Universit y of California a t Sa n Francisco . (Havin g falle n o n hard time s in 1940 , Cowell worked for a time as secretary to Percy Grainger, and i t wa s throug h th e goo d office s o f Cowell's wido w tha t th e Grainge r Steinway came to its present home in the gamelan room at Aptos.) At Cowell's suggestion, Lou went to Los Angeles t o work with Schoenberg . It is hard t o imagine two composers more different tha n Arnold Schoenber g and Lou Harrison, but Schoenber g was not the rigi d sort of a musician he is often mad e ou t t o be—h e had , fo r example , invite d Cowel l t o pla y fo r his composition class in Berlin in the 1920s—an d the relationship, thoug h brief , was thoroughly cordial. Lou remembers Schoenberg fondly: "He was very open and he took^ow seriously." The class was set up as a kind of Platonic symposium, "though we didn't drink. Schoenberg constantly moved me, and all his students, in the direction of simplicity—bring out only the salient; and when he dismissed me, he urged me above all to study Mozart." Lou notes extraordinary similarities between what he was taught about orchestration b y Schoenberg an d later by Virgil Thomson, anothe r pair of composers who could hardly be more different. Among hi s fello w students , Lo u particularl y remembers th e teenag e Dik a Newlin, who went on to write one of the first important books in English about Schoenberg, and the photographer Harold Halma, "author of the famous picture of Truman Capote e n odalisque." After Lo s Angeles, Cowell, as Lou puts it, "spread me around." He got him jobs, the firs t of them as accompanist for Tina Flade's modern dance classes at Mills College; durin g this associatio n h e becam e exper t in Labanotation for dance. It was also during this period that he had his first contact wit h the San Francisco Symphony : Pierr e Monteu x conducte d hi s Prelud e t o Th e Trojan Women o f Euripides (from incidental musi c written for a production at Mills), not o n a subscriptio n concert , bu t o n on e o f the popula r Standar d Hou r broadcasts. "He als o encouraged what became m y Elegiac Symphony" (begu n in 1941 , completed i n 1975) . Monteux regrette d not feelin g able to do more for th e gifte d an d original young composer: "If this were P a r i s . . ." he sighed. In the 1940s , Lou Harrison had his East Coast period. Again through Cowell, he had met Virgil Thomson, tha t fascinating amalgam of Kansas City and th e 7th Arrondissement , wh o ha d move d bac k t o Americ a afte r man y years in Europe t o become th e Herald-Tribune's musi c critic. No t onl y did Thomso n himself, on his best nights, spark true glory years in the history of music criticism in America, bu t h e engage d younger writers who also added t o th e luste r of the Tribune's art s pages. Lou wa s on e o f these , a s were Paul Bowles, Elliott Carter, Edwi n Denby , Arthu r Berger , B. H. Haggin , Joh n Cage , Willia m Flanagan, an d Pegg y Glanville-Hicks. At th e sam e time, Lo u contributed t o that invaluable journal Modem Music, served as editor for New Music Editions, and conducted. I t was he who, in 1947 , led the firs t complete performance of a symphony by Charles Ives—No. 3, a work then thirty-eight years old. It was at that memorable concert i n the tiny Carnegie Recital Hall (no w Weill Hall)

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that I firs t lai d eye s on Lo u Harrison; th e nex t tim e wa s in Rom e i n 195 4 when, a t a n in part dauntingly severe new-music festival, th e twenty-seven year-old Leontyn e Pric e san g his enchanting Rapunzel. Th e Ive s connection continued: Lo u became one of the musicians involved in preparing Ives's often chaotic manuscripts for publication and performance, and himself became one of the heir s of the Ive s estate, somethin g tha t allowed him to do much quie t good in the music world. It also made possible the establishment of the gamelan in hi s house, an d henc e th e namin g o f the roo m where i t i s housed fo r th e great American composer. Another vitally essential mentor—along with Cowell, John Cage (to whom he was also bound i n close friendship) , Thomson, an d th e Korea n musician Lee Hye-Ku—has been his own Javanese gamelan teacher, Pak Chokro. Lo u says of him: "There's nothing you could hope to surprise him with. Like Henry Cowell, he's all for mixing it up and having a good time." That double encomium says it all. When I visited Lou Harrison in August, it was in the middle of the amazing Cabrillo Festival , on e devote d primaril y to twentieth-centur y musi c an d commanding a n audienc e o f unsurpasse d loyalty and enthusiasm . Cabrillo , too, is one of Lou's gifts to the music world. He founded the festival at Cabrillo College in Aptos in 1963 together with the bassoonist, conductor, and scholar Robert Hughe s an d Te d Teows of the Cabrill o Colleg e faculty . A t Cabrillo , Lou Harrison is royalty. The applaus e was immense when h e an d Bil l Colvig walked onto the stage of the Santa Cruz Civic Auditorium to be the narrators for a performance of Lou's dance scor e Th e Marriage a t th e Eiffel Tower, an d when th e tw o sat in th e audience , ther e wa s an unceasin g strea m of visitors and friends wh o came to greet them . Lou Harrison loved it when people cared about his music, and he made no bones about that. At the same time, he noted ruefull y that the beautiful house at the top of Aptos had virtually become a business office where the telephon e answering machine an d the fax were constantly engaged. He and Bill harbored plans fo r th e purchas e o f a rea l hideaway . One o f hi s curren t project s was taking weekly classes in American Sign Language. That was something he had gotten int o becaus e o f a dea r frien d wh o wa s profoundl y deaf, bu t Lo u commented tha t on e o f th e thing s h e mos t treasure d abou t thi s cours e of learning was that it guaranteed him five hours of silence eac h week. Invitations t o concerts , schools , conferences , an d symposi a came i n constantly, an d s o did requests for new compositions. At th e hea d o f the lis t was one from th e choreographer and dancer Mark Morris. Lou remarked that he ha d recentl y bough t a set o f CDs o f the Beethove n strin g quartets . H e shook his head, laughed the Lou Harrison laugh, and said, "Maybe I'll actually have tim e to listen t o one or two before I die." Buson i said that only he who looks ahead i s truly happy. I saw that in action a t the hillto p in Aptos.

—M.S.

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George Perle: Composing a Way of Life

ad yo u been th e kin d o f clairvoyant who utter s pronouncement s over childre n a s they trad e th e wom b for daylight, you could no t have predicte d tha t th e chil d bor n i n Bayonne , Ne w Jersey, o n 6 May 1915 , an d named George Perle, would grow up making music: making it in the most literal way, by putting notes down on paper, but als o by discerning its inner grammar, the structural principles it demanded since th e breakdown of th e tona l languag e tha t Wester n composer s had spoke n fo r the las t tw o hundred years . The dee p currents of the music , the soul-piercin g insights of the discoveries—the y hav e bee n th e adventur e o f a lifetim e for this so n of Russian immigrants, a man whose father was a housepainter and whose mother was a housewife; a man who could not, but for the kind of brain that makes its own destiny, be doing what he is doing today. George Perle' s adventur e began in Chicago, wher e the famil y had move d shortly after Georg e was born. From the earl y gauze of memory he recalls th e first soun d i n his ears, Yiddish; short winter afternoon s when h e would wait with his mother in the front yard for the mail, for news from Russia—where an influenza epidemi c and political turmoil made relatives more uncertain tha n ever of what the next day would hold. From abroad, too, came a newly arrived older cousin, Esther, who was to live with th e famil y an d fo r whom George's father had saved enough to buy a piano. One day, when George was six, Esther played th e F-mino r Etude from Chopin' s Trois Nouvelles Etudes. It i s the firs t

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piece of music he recalls hearing, and almost seventy years later, he wrote that the experience "was so intense, s o startling, as to induce a traumatic change of consciousness." H e also knew—immediately—that he wanted to compose. It is Octobe r 1990 , shortl y afte r publicatio n of Perle' s fourt h book , The Listening Composer, and soon after he had begun the second season of his threeyear appointmen t a s the Sa n Francisc o Symphony' s composer-in-residence . He i s sitting no w in hi s studio on th e elevent h floo r o f Opera Plaz a in Sa n Francisco, three blocks north of Davies Symphony Hall. He and his wife, pianist Shirley Rhoads , hav e jus t move d her e fro m acros s town—thei r full-tim e residence i s in New Yor k City, where Perl e has been based for thirty years— and thi s roo m i s still waiting fo r a pian o an d a fe w more chairs . A des k is covered with sheets of music—he is orchestrating his Sinfonietta II, due for its world premier e b y the Sa n Francisc o Symphon y in February . A Macintos h computer, the grea t eliminator o f drudgery that he use s for tasks as various as writing books and summoning complete array s of chord relationships , drone s an incantation to technology , it s screen glowin g ocean-gray. A potte d whit e anthurium is in the corne r nex t t o the balcony doors, overlooking Van Ness Avenue an d a cityscape formed b y the Ban k of America building , a recently opened Marriot t hotel that has appalled local architecture critics , an d othe r symbols with which corporate America has defined the urba n skyline. George Perle is a long way from tha t day in 192 1 when th e Chopin entered hi s mind, but th e memor y is as vivid as the soun d of his own music. "Nobody tol d m e wha t compositio n was . I jus t kne w tha t tha t wa s my connection with music, not sitting there playin g the piano." He has the voice of a tough guy, rough-grained, and the accen t i s equal parts Chicago an d New York. The deliver y is unhesitating, th e words we 11-chosen. "I didn't know where this musi c came from . Ye t when I heard tha t firs t piec e I identified with th e source of the music , and not wit h my cousin's playing." The "sourc e of that music" was the person who conceived i t and translated the conception to the page. "I didn't know what that meant. I realized it only little by little." And without any help from Esther, who never understood what her youn g pupil was about, and whos e teaching day s ended becaus e of what George's father learned when he sat in on a lesson: that his son's mistakes were answered by a wooden ruler cracking across his knuckles. "She fel t that all the music worth knowing had alread y been written. I was stupefied b y my lack of communication wit h her." And frustrated . Bu t childhood ca n be a frustrating proposition in any case, and h e als o remember s mor e typica l aspirations—day s whe n h e imagine d himself sliding down the fire-pole and clinging to Hook and Ladder No. 1 as it leaned int o a turn. Always, though, h e knew that any dream but composin g was boun d t o remai n fantasy . An d the n on e day—h e think s h e wa s about seven—he scribbled a few bars he wanted t o present a s a gift t o a teacher a t

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school. H e showed his mother wha t he had written. She had no idea what it was, but her response, he believes, made all the difference, an d has ever since. It was simply this: "George , that's wonderful! " "I could go to my mother. She had complet e faith in whatever I wanted t o do. She ha d thi s ide a tha t th e mos t importan t thin g i n th e worl d was your inner life . I can't remember once when she asked me how much money I made. Isn't tha t extraordinary ? (It wa s alway s m y father's firs t question! ) I didn' t realize until much later—when I ran into peopl e who didn't kno w what the y wanted t o do, or who were scared of it or something—what a special piece of luck I'd had i n having a mother lik e this, an d the exten t t o which tha t early experience conditione d al l the res t of my life, right up to this moment. " He is talking about self-confidence, somethin g h e has had mor e than one occasion t o fal l back on. Becaus e for most of his life , Georg e Perl e has bee n trying to do something that only one other composer in the twentieth century— Arnold Schoenberg—tried to do: lay down a system of composition that would bring a common language back to music. If this is your aspiration, you are bound to run into two kinds of people among your colleagues, those who will hail you as a master, and thos e wh o will brand you as conceited (a t best) o r a lunatic (a t worst). George Perle has been called everything between those extremes. In 1937 , Perle first saw the score of Alban Berg's Lyric Suite. He picked it up himself. No one would have encouraged him to look at this music, for interest in the wor k of Schoenberg, Berg , and Webern was in eclipse. The encounte r with the Lyric Suite had tw o consequences. On e i s easy to describe. It led him to studies of Berg's music, studies of such completeness and depth that h e has become recognized as the world's leading authority on the composer. The other consequence i s more complicated. Th e Lyric Suite led Perle into th e wor k of the Secon d Viennes e School , an d the n almos t immediatel y int o a n understanding tha t Schoenberg' s theorie s o f atonality required modification. That modification has been the Polar Star of Perle's professional life, influencing everything he does , a goal that h e ha s approache d graduall y at times , more quickly at others. He has given his formulated concepts a name that sounds at first like a contradiction i n terms but which in fact holds the key to his search for unit y an d comprehensiveness , hi s attemp t t o reshap e th e strand s o f a fragmented ar t int o th e stron g and comel y whole i t once was : "Twelve-tone Tonality." This i s a still-evolving system of compositional rules and guideline s Perle has deduced over the years: by writing music, certainly, but also by analyzing the work of Schoenberg, Berg , Webern, Bartok, Stravinsky, Scriabin, Debussy: all in an attempt to give composers today the kinds of tools available to the great tonal composers—Bach , Mozart , Haydn, Beethoven , Schubert , Brahms—a n attempt t o embrac e th e histor y of the ar t i n a n all-encompassin g way and t o compose a music that does not break with, but rather continues the great tradition of Western music that grew out of the Renaissance. By 1941, Perle had begun to organize his ideas about twelve-tone tonality: The System, he calls it.

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"In the tona l system, you have very basic structural principles. You can say about two different piece s that they'r e in the same key. You can as k if a note is a leadin g tone , a passing tone, a structural tone. Thes e ar e th e thing s tha t define tonality. But already in the nineteenth century, we encounter details — in Chopin, i n Liszt, for example—that call the structural basis of tonality int o question. And no t t o recognize that we have a twelve-tone scale is to pretend that th e histor y of music since Schuber t neve r happened . Bu t I think music should be able to do what it has always done. I think i t should be coherent. I think it should have cadences an d phrases. A lot of contemporary music is like finger-painting—an impressionistic thing that makes no serious sense to me. I think people have forgotten what music is supposed to do. "For me, the tona l languag e is something miraculous . It has structure and coherence. I t is a language. I felt from the beginning tha t it was of unbelievable interest that you could take a chord and follow it with another chord , and that there wa s a wa y to d o thi s an d mak e a progression—the y weren' t jus t tw o chords nex t t o eac h other . Yo u could mak e choice s i n goin g fro m th e firs t chord t o the second. Eac h one said something different—don't as k me what. But I knew that going from a C-major chor d to an A-minor chord was not th e same thing a s going from a C-major chord t o an F-major chord . And anybody can hear this! You don't need to be a musician. I don't want simply to eliminate all this an d g o around finger-painting . I think I have a language—deducible from everythin g that ha s happened i n music." Though Schoenber g i s one o f Perle's heroes (" I think h e wa s a very great man"), Perle believes Schoenberg's work was unfinished. "He was looking for a language. And h e mad e a step towar d it i n th e twelve-ton e system . But h e didn't g o far enough. Whe n th e interna l combustio n engin e wa s invented , they stuck it in a carriage. And i t took a while before the y figured ou t tha t i t needed a different suspensio n system, different wheels , that i t didn't hav e t o look like a buggy. Schoenberg's twelve-ton e system was like that . H e too k a terribly bold step. But his system had to be modified again. And somebod y had to come in from th e outside to do it." Perle is speaking from experience. Hi s own system of twelve-tone tonalit y underwent what he calls an "explosive" development when a former student , Paul Lansky, approached it from th e outside and posed questions whose effec t was to help Perle complete various puzzles whose solutions had eluded him for years. Perle' s ne w understandin g o f his ow n syste m led t o hi s secon d book , Twelve-tone Tonality. I t also led to his understanding other music in a new way. He now perceived connections betwee n Bartok and Schoenberg—connections "infinitely mor e important tha n the stylistic features tha t separate d them"— and his own work, and he arrived at a broad conception o f twelve-tone music that wen t wel l beyon d Schoenberg' s system , even encompassin g Debussy, Scriabin, an d Stravinsky , going back t o development s a s early as some tha t

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appear in Rimsky-Korsakov's Cocf d'or Suite. "The System" today is very different from wha t i t wa s in 1941 - "An d whe n i t get s alon g furthe r i t ma y look very different fro m th e way it looks now. It is just the beginnin g o f a language. But for me, it provides a total structure with which I can think." This language, he believes, i s also what make s his musi c accessible t o a n audienc e o f musical sophisticates and novices alike . "I don't thin k directl y about an audience when I'm composing. I hear what I'm doing and decide whether what I'm writing is effective an d exciting. But I decide for myself. I think it has always been like this. When Beethoven started his Fifth Symphony da-da-da-DA, nobody had ever done that before. It had a certain impac t on him . H e wa s his own audience . Everyon e else eventuall y becomes the audience . "There's thi s mystiqu e tha t there' s a n elit e o f specialist s fo r who m contemporary music is written. I don't writ e up or down to anybody. I'm just doing what composers have always done. Some people have written about me as though I were a composer of inaccessible music." No doubt they were jumping to conclusions , extrapolatin g fro m th e difficult y o f Perle' s firs t book , Serial Composition and Atonality—those subject s cannot b e written about in an easy way—that an explicator of such stuff must himself write a tuneless, uncrackable code. "Bu t m y experience ha s bee n tha t peopl e who listen t o m y music are amazed by how accessible they find it. " When Perle's String Quartet No . 8 , Windows o f Order, had it s premiere in New Yor k i n 1989 , a criti c fo r one o f that city' s majo r papers , a ma n wh o loathes twelve-ton e music , raved abou t the ne w piece—despite the fact , h e suggested, that it had been written according to some sort of system. "Why didn't he consider the possibility that the music makes sense because of what I'm doing? Which is the case . I have a language that permit s progression, and cadences , and keys. I can think i n a systematic way about music. That's wha t you can do when you have a language—as with Mozart, Brahms, Palestrina, Schubert . "I can do what a tonal composer can do. I can look at what I have and say, 'I ca n d o thi s agai n i n anothe r mode . I ca n d o somethin g t o eac h o f thes e intervals that will transform it in an ordered way, and then I can transpose it so that I'l l be in anothe r ke y as well as in anothe r mode . And i f I go through so many progressions, I'll get back t o where I was at th e beginning.' " He grow s increasingly impassioned. "Now, that is not any different fro m what Beethoven did whe n h e composed , o r Mozart, or Chopin. They ha d a system. Havin g a system doesn't mean you're composing according to some abstract formula. It means just the opposite. I can go to my music and tell you what the connection is between the chord that ends one movement and the chord that ends another. And Beethove n coul d hav e tol d yo u th e sam e abou t hi s music. Any tona l composer coul d hav e tol d you . Composers toda y have forgotten abou t thos e things. Th e composer s at th e beginnin g o f the twentiet h century—Debuss y

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and Stravinsky and Scriabin, Schoenberg, Berg, and Webern, even Hindemith: They knew what music was supposed t o b e like. An d the y too k thes e thing s seriously, and they came up with answers." His own search for answers has often led him to reassess earlier works as he looks back on them from ever-new vantage points of further development . H e has withdrawn much music that no longer satisfies him . "But a composer can make mistakes about such things." When pianist Michael Boriskin asked him for some of his music for a recording of American piano works he was planning— it turne d int o a n all-Perl e collection—Perl e cam e acros s two pieces h e ha d withdrawn, the Suit e in C (o f 1970) and th e Fantasy-Variation s (of 1971). "I didn't understan d the m an y more. Well, Michae l learne d the m an d they'r e wonderful. The development that had happened in my work had been so great that I didn't even kno w how to analyz e the differenc e betwee n thos e piece s and what I was currently doing. I learned tha t that didn't tak e anything awa y from thei r integrity. " Another piano work, the Pantomime, Interlude, an d Fugue, which h e wrote in 1937 , had it s premiere forty year s after i t was composed. This early piece, which reveals Perle's kinship with those who put a premium on wit, composers like Haydn and Prokofiev, was introduced t o the world by—and thanks to the persuasive powers of—Shirley Rhoads , his wife sinc e 198 1 and a close frien d since 1946 . Herself a fine and perceptive musician, she is one of the few people whose judgment and criticism s he trust s completely, and sh e is also the onl y one allowed to hear works in progress. Perle admits that his belief in The Syste m has to some extent isolate d him, though it may be an exaggeration to call someone an outsider after he has won the Pulitzer Prize, two Guggenheim Fellowships, and a MacArthur Foundatio n "genius award, " and wh o ha s ha d hi s musi c playe d an d recorde d b y majo r orchestras, chambe r ensembles , an d soloists . H e write s goo d music , an d audiences genuinely like his work. One nee d onl y listen to a piece such as the Sinfonietta I to hear that this was not written in the antiseptic environment of the academy . It i s unafraid t o laugh , or make jokes. (Footnote : W e owe th e Sinfonietta I to Shirley, whose horror at learning that her husband had throw n out wha t she called "tha t beautiful stuf f yo u started the othe r day " made him retrieve the discarded pages and continue work on the piece.) The Sinfonietta I is the rea l thing. I t ought to be. Music is more than George Perle's job. It is a love and a passion, a sweetly caring mistress who has recompensed his attentions by granting him what seems to be the secre t of endless youth. To see George Perle at seventy-five, and to hear him speak, is to feel yourself in the presenc e of a man half his age. He talks about music old and new with equal enthusiasm. He revere s Berg of course, but als o Stravinsky. "Beethoven I never liste n t o when I' m composing—it' s to o intimidating. " H e laughs . "Yo u listen t o Beethoven i f you want to stop writing music.

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"Haydn i s a composer's composer. He take s suc h pleasur e in what music can do, and the fun you can have in the way you modulate, in having a couple of extr a bars where yo u don't expect them , i n fals e recapitulations . H e jus t enjoys doin g thes e things . It's no t a questio n o f an y message . It's a wa y of taking pleasure in being alive. " Being alive, afte r all , is what composin g is all about, th e idea s welling up from a source as mysterious as creation. Georg e Perle keeps odd hours , rising at four in the morning to begin work, catching up on rest with naps throughout the day . The genesi s of his musical ideas is a secret even from himself , though he recall s what sparke d some of them. H e wen t t o slee p on e nigh t i n 198 1 after reading about the imposition of martial law in Poland. He awoke thinking first o f the Solidarit y movement, the n made a mental lea p t o Chopin, the n heard the first phrase of what would become the second of his Six New Etudes. He leape d ou t o f bed, went t o th e piano , an d wrot e six bars of music. Later that morning he continued an d reached th e end of the first page. Then he got stuck. Fo r fiv e year s h e staye d stuc k wit h thi s piec e whil e h e bega n an d completed others. One day , as suddenly as the Etude had come into being, th e block to its continuation vanished , an d it was finished. Perle i s a constant worker . In th e month s jus t afte r ou r conversation , h e completed th e Sinfoniett a I I an d th e Firs t Piano Concert o withi n week s of each other. He was planning other music—a second piano concerto, a n overture for larg e orchestra for Carnegie Hall' s centennia l season, a symphony for th e New Yor k Philharmonic . H e wa s revising books an d writin g articles. I n th e forefront o f his mind wa s The System . It i s in th e forefron t o f his mind now. The System: that attempt to put the entire realm of music on a firm theoretica l and structural basis, to do for composers what one o f his literary idols, Henry James, did for writers when, a s Leon Edel says, he "pu t the hous e of fiction in order." If Perle has not achieved out-and-out popularity—and he would be the first t o tell you that he is not tryin g to win a popularity contest—one reason is that he disdains simple answers and easy solutions. There again, he is like James— who was also somewhat of an outsider in his time, though those who knew better also recognized the staggering importance of his work to those who write fiction. And, lik e James, Perle believes in himself, through and through . "I never asked myself how many other peopl e were doing what I was doing. I jus t mad e m y own judgment, and I never questione d it . Eve n i f it mean t people weren't interested in my music. I never thought about that. Of course I felt bad about the fact that I wasn't getting performances and that other people were more successful than I was. But I did what I was supposed to do. And I'v e often thought : Mayb e it all has been because, after on e of my cousin Esther's piano lessons, I went t o my mother an d she made me feel that, i f I wanted t o write music, that was just fine. I think it must have just settled with me at that point. And it's been there eve r since. "

—L.R.

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A Quintet for American Music

w*rilngaprogamnote nWilamSchuman'sViolnCocertofr

riting a program note on William Schuman's Violin Concerto for

some concert s i n Novembe r 1992 , I had , fo r th e firs t time , t o include th e dat e of his death, 1 5 February 1992. That brought to mind other recent losses—Virgil Thomson, Leonard Bernstein, Aaron Copland , John Cage. They wer e all more than just composers. All were possessed by a lust, throug h som e form o f teaching, t o chang e th e fac e o f American music , and the y all left a mark. And the y were, all five—this is dangerous because so hard to define—so essentially American . Thomson, bor n in 1896, was the oldest and the first to go (on 30 September 1989). He spent long and crucial years in Europe, which mad e him a curious mixture o f worldly Parisian an d Kansa s City organist . I a m sur e it annoye d him, a s it woul d any composer, that h e wa s better know n a s a writer about music than as someone who invented music . He certainly thought o f himself as a composer first. He was confident with and about words: "I like my book better than yours," he wrot e to Copland , comparin g his own Th e State o f Music wit h Copland' s What to Listen for in Music. He was our best critic, no contest ; in literary skill he was up there with Berlioz and Shaw. For him, clarity was the key to impact, and impact was everything. When he taught criticism classes, he never deal t with musical questions, concentrating instea d on good habits of precision and proper usage . None wh o survive d his classes ha s eve r writte n "prestigious " again (unles s of course the subjec t was juggling or legerdemain).

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When I started out a t Princeton a s a college freshman, one of my first act s was to subscribe to the New York Herald-Tribune, whos e music critic Thomso n had bee n sinc e 1940 . (H e staye d unti l 1954- ) Ho w I knew t o d o tha t I n o longer remember for certain, but it probably came about because B. H. Haggin, then the critic of Th e Nation and someone I read hungrily, had said good things about him. At th e stil l missed and lamented Trib Thomso n wa s a desperately needed antidot e t o the pompous and often tin-eared Olin Downes at the Times. Thomson was vivid in praise, deft in blame. He could hit home with a sudden dart o f colloquialism—"The Martin u Symphon y i s a beaut"—o r se t Ernes t Ansermet befor e ou r eye s i n metapho r a t onc e charmin g an d exact : "I n appearance a simple professor, touche d u p perhaps toward both Agamemno n and th e Kin g of Clubs, h e i s at onc e a sage, a captain, an d a prince. Wit h wisdom, firmness, and grace he rules his domain." Bu t the revie w of a Heifetz recital was headed "Silk-Underwea r Music, " and he described ho w a concer t by the duo-pianist s Luboshutz and Nemenoff included th e "masquerad e . . . [representing] a world-famous two-piano team being nice about modern music . . . false note s bein g throw n in to show that the piece probabl y wasn't worth learning completely. " Did h e mak e sense ? Not always . He spu n theorie s tha t wer e to o loosel y rooted in the soil of real life. He rode hobbyhorses to exhaustion—for example, about French music and French performance style. He was not shy about using his power at the Herald-Tribune t o the advantag e of his situation as composer. He was a notorious sleeper at concerts. Samuel Barber, present at a conversation between Thomso n an d Eugene Ormandy, wrote that "the amoun t o f musical politics shamelessl y exchanged betwee n thes e tw o made on e trembl e fo r th e American musica l world." Most of the time , we gladly put u p with al l that for the sake of the best of his perception and wit, and Thomson's writings—collected reviews, published correspondence, hi s autobiography—will long yield pleasure. In person, he was a teller of treasurable tales, often1 followed by the carefull y enunciated admonition : "O f course, if you use this I shall sue you for One Hun Dred Thou Sand DOLLARS. " Hi s voic e wa s lik e th e bes t butter , bu t wit h something gritt y and dangerou s ground into it. Speaking of butter, I think of Virgil often because it was he who taught m e that when scramblin g eggs you should put half your quota of salt into the mixture before cooking an d half on top just before eating: th e distinctio n betwee n sal t inside an d outsid e is real and worth preserving. And Virgil Thomson th e composer? Looking at the six-column work list in Grove, I am appalled at my ignorance. Som e strong impressions remain. If the critic and musical politician was Thomson th e Parisian, the composer was mostly Thomson fro m Kansas City, Missouri. His prescription for how to be an America n 'I had written "not infrequently " but immediately heard Virgil's admonishing voice.

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composer wa s straightforward: be a n America n an d writ e whatever kin d of music you like. His own music was open, simple. Hymns had forme d his language. Perhaps it wa s na'ive , perhaps not. Th e Seine a t Night an d Wheat Fields a t Noon ar e evocative pictures. The Stabat mater on a text by his friend Ma x Jacob, taken to a concentration cam p as a homosexual and a Jew, is a sweet tombeau. Above all, his two Gertrude Stein operas, Four Saints in Three Acts and Th e Mother of Us Al l (whos e heroine i s Susan B. Anthony), are , for me, with those o f John Adams, the most enjoyable American operas—and among the most touching, the mos t amusing, the mos t personal of any. There, too , a s in the bes t of his prose, he taught us clarity. Bernstein die d o n 1 4 October 1990 . A t seventy-two , though ravage d by cigarettes an d Scotch , h e wa s young. Composer, conductor , pianist , writer , teacher, endlessly inquisitive, energetic, bold, reckless, impulsive, he could have made a full-time caree r just out o f being a mensch . It happene d tha t I arrived in Americ a a s a boy of fifteen jus t tw o weeks after Bernstei n ha d mad e hi s sensationa l Ne w Yor k Philharmoni c debut , substituting for Bruno Walter without rehearsal on a coast-to-coast broadcast. Very hung over, too, he later confessed. Because of that success, he was given an extra assignment, to conduct the "Star-Spangled Banner" and Bloch's Three Jewish Poems a s a prelude t o th e Mahle r Second , t o b e conducte d b y Artur Rodzinski, the Philharmonic's musi c director. I was taken to that concert by a relative who knew Bernstein a bit. Aunt Annie also led me backstage afterward, and so he was not onl y the firs t conductor I heard in my new country but also the firs t Famou s Person I ever met. I remember his run t o the Carnegi e Hal l podium, a s though h e wanted t o star t conducting befor e h e even go t there , and I remembe r a s wel l hi s whirling , punching , singin g a s h e conducted . Afterward ther e wa s thi s shor t an d pencil-thi n ma n wit h bi g ears, chain smoking, hugging everyone within reach . Me in my new suit he checked out , asked somethin g abou t piano lessons , encouraged m e to keep listening. "W e need you, " he said, "we need you. " I left, a fan. The las t tim e I saw him was backstage a t Davie s Symphon y Hall i n Sa n Francisco after he had conducted a transcendent Mahle r Ninth with the Israel Philharmonic, stil l chain-smoking , stil l someho w engulfing . (Rathe r indiscriminate French-kissing now supplemented the hugs.) The years between had brought affectionate encounters, especially while my son Adam was dating one of his daughters—"We're machetaynes now," he exclaimed when he spotted me on the grounds at Tanglewood—and also rough ones, when I expressed my dislike for his Kaddish Symphon y and hi s Norton lecture s at Harvard . Then, the firs t tim e h e encountere d m e a s the Bosto n Symphony' s progra m note writer rather than a reviewer, he said: "You have alway s been such a bitch to me, but no w it turns out you love music."

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He gre w to be a larger-than-life phenomeno n i n every way. Someone wh o had grown up with him told me that as boys they had once talked about what they wante d ou t o f life. Hi s frien d sai d " I want t o fuc k ever y woman in th e world." Bernstein replied : "I want everybody in the worl d to love me." Years later, the friend observed: "I get further an d further awa y but Lennie gets closer and closer. " He was the ultimat e example of a musician baffled b y the challenge o f being more tha n jus t a composer, and h e couldn' t hel p spreadin g his energies int o conducting, playing the piano, writing about music, doing television and radio, sounding off on politics any more than Niagara can help doin g what it does. His tumultuous energy was a force not t o be contained. An d mos t of what he got into he did brilliantly much, perhaps even most , of the time . Because all his other desire s and talents were tugging at him, he did not always—perhap s not even often—compos e a t a leve l commensurat e wit h hi s gift . H e kne w that. I t paine d him , jus t a s it paine d hi m t o b e though t o f not a s a "real " composer but a s a conductor wh o composed, and even thoug h he knowingly invited adoratio n o n th e podium . It comforte d him slightly that his beloved Mahler ha d fel t similarl y misunderstood. Hi s prodigalit y frustrated him ; h e never seeme d a man at peace. He made an incredible difference . H e loved music and felt its balm and its pain deeply. More than anyone I have known, he had the gift for communicating his love. (Like a politician, he could also misrepresent things just amazingly, as I mention i n my essay on Schumann.) Hi s Young People's Concerts change d lives. His best conducting could create an almost disconcerting sens e of being in the composer' s presence. I think especially of Haydn, Beethoven, Mahler . That I often wanted to quarrel with the details made no difference . As for Bernstein's own music, perhaps, with his own commanding presence gone, we might become freer t o attend t o it and explore it. And th e composer who gav e us the Jeremiah Symphony , the Masqu e in Th e Ag e o f Anxiety, th e Serenade, th e delight s of "America" and "Somewhere " i n West Side Story, an d Songfest wil l be worth getting to know better. Copland die d not man y days after Bernstein , on 2 December 1990 . He was ninety, ha d stoppe d composing at seventy , and, a sad victim o f Alzheimer's, had hardly been seen in public since he turned eighty. The pianist Paul Jacobs told m e abou t visitin g Copland , the n in hi s early seventies, an d firs t seein g him through the window, seated at the piano, just staring. There i s a soun d tha t haunt s me . When Coplan d recorde d Appalachian Spring, Columbi a issued a rehearsal record along with the finishe d product. It is the usua l thing, i n more or less equal parts illuminating, amusing , routine. At on e point Copland' s voic e float s acros s the musi c in remembrance: "Miss Graham is dancing."

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Less spectacular and sexy as a personality than his old friend Bernstein , h e was n o les s versatile . H e compose d fo r Carnegi e Hal l an d Hollywood , conducted, playe d the piano , wrote about music with blessedly demystifyin g clarity, taught, did television shows , encouraged th e young . He defined what we have agree d to recognize as a distinctively "open" American soun d (eve n though it first appears in Roger Sessions's First Symphony). More than anyone, he symbolized the possibility of being a serious composer in his country and his century. He wa s a composer first, an d everythin g else was subordinate to his primary calling. He enjoye d acclaim, but fo r him it was not th e staf f o f life. He was quick, responsive, unfussed, generous. When I was the Boston Globe's music critic, I wanted to surprise Walter Piston, who lived just outside Boston, with a bouquet of greetings in th e Sunda y paper on hi s eightieth birthday . I asked several composers for a brief paragraph. Most eventually came through, though no t withou t a lot o f preliminary grandstanding abou t how busy the y were. Copland's response , handwritten, cam e by return mail. He was, likewise, always and indefatigably generous to younger and sometimes struggling colleagues. Schuman and Bernstein were two of them. When I lived in New York thirty and more years ago, I went to many concerts where music by young and unknown composers was played. These were evenings in dismal venues, wit h neve r a n audienc e whos e number s wen t int o thre e figures . Sometimes the concerts were rewarding, sometimes not. Often, just before th e lights went down, Copland, with that unforgettably sculpted head, exuberan t stride, and a smile composed in equal parts of benevolence an d mischief, would walk in. One o f those times , Milton Babbitt , another grea t man loyal to th e young, looked u p and said: "Aaron has really kept the faith. " Virgil Thomson's book, American Music since 1910, includes a photo of five composers in Thomson's livin g room. The host , seated, is commanding, self pleased, wearing just a touch of smile. Behind hi m stands Samuel Barber, eyes cast down . Copland , leanin g o n th e piano , observe s him coolly . Gian Carl o Menotti looks up at Barber, his longtime lover. And of f to one side—he might be in a different picture , even in a different room—sit s William Schuman . He looks rather as though, like that character in Moliere, he is wondering— but about himself—"What th e devil is he doing in that galley?" Like Thomson, Copland, an d Menotti, Schuma n was endlessly and usefull y busy attending t o matters othe r tha n composition—teaching , publishing , administering , adjudicating, power brokering. Had you found yourself sitting beside him on a plane, you would at once have "fixed " him a s a prosperous businessman. His knowledgeable talk about baseball and politics would not have disabused you. Like most American composers, Schuman got into college teaching because he had to make a living. The vigorou s Sarah Lawrence professor was a natural

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candidate t o be the new president at Juilliard; there hi s aim was quiet and at least reasonably courteous revolution. H e change d th e teachin g o f theory in ways tha t mad e waves all over th e country . He wen t afte r tha t ever-elusive goal o f lightening th e trade-schoo l atmospher e an d turnin g conservator y students into Complete Musicians . He decided th e schoo l neede d a resident string quartet to represent professionalism to the students and Juilliard to the world, and, not so incidentally, t o bring twentieth-century music, particularly twentieth-century American music , to the head table . Schuman turne d th e Juilliard presidency into a major powe r base. He saw the possibility, for the good of the art s and for the good of those who would get a cu t o f th e pie , o f bindin g Juilliard , th e Ne w Yor k Philharmonic , th e Metropolitan Opera, the New York City Ballet, the New York City Opera, and other organizations into an alliance which, one hoped, would not be too uneasy. He was a man with a sense of possibilities and a sense of realities. Inevitably, he became th e firs t rule r of the empir e created by the ne w alliance, th e Lincol n Center for the Performing Arts. To borrow a phrase from the philosopher Ernst Bloch, he love d powe r and th e tool s of power. He understoo d th e tool s too . His power was different fro m th e powe r of Thomson (loca l and laser-sharp) , Bernstein (engulfin g eras), and Copland (al l in the magi c of his music), but i t was real power and, for many years, immense. All that time, Schuman compose d some of our best music, music of hardedged, deeply felt Romanticism. It can be muscle-bound and loudmouth, but the best of it is tender, rich, fiercely athletic, funny, imposingly rhetorical, always forthright. Barber told him how much he envied his ability to write and control that giganti c crescend o i n th e Thir d Symphony . Hi s stuf f coul d b e wildly optimistic, and he enjoyed that mood, but his emotional range also encompassed the marvelous Symphony No. 6, which is, with the Sessions Seventh, th e darkest American on e we have. He wa s scrupulous about congratulatin g colleague s o n thei r ne w works, pleasing them because his comments were so attentive an d specific. (No other composer wrote letters on such creamy paper.) And, not to be taken for granted in his world, Bill Schuman coul d laug h about himself. He love d th e stor y of the woman in Macon, Georgia , who told him how much she had enjoyed his Violin Concerto "eve n though it was atonal." With characteristic and exquisite courtesy he pointed ou t tha t none of his music was atonal, tha t it was always centered o n a key. His new admirer set him straight. "Mr. Schuman," sh e said, "in Macon your music is atonal." The las t time I saw him was in Carnegie Hal l when Ed o de Waart was to conduct Schuman' s Symphon y for Strings wit h th e Minnesot a Orchestra . I was on the orchestra's staff then and was asked to sit with Schuman, look afte r him, se e that h e go t backstage a t th e end , an d s o on. Beethoven' s Secon d

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Piano Concerto was on the program as well. Schuman looked over the program, nodded, turne d t o me, and said: "I think I'll take a bow after th e Beethoven . I'll get a bigger hand." John Cage, who died on 1 2 August 1992, is the odd man out here. Sadness shot throug h me in a way that, I admit, surprised me when I saw the new s of his death. I was with my sons, rock musicians both, when the news came, and I was struck by the intensit y with which the y were affected . Cage presente d th e parado x of an important musicia n who really did no t write interestin g music . His work and his words called int o questio n nearl y everything Thomson , Bernstein , Copland , an d Schuma n stoo d fo r (thoug h among the many accomplishments of his seventy-nine energy-charged years was the co-authorship of a book on Thomson—praised by its subject for the car e of its analyses and the accurac y of its work-list). He had ver y little t o do with th e world of symphony orchestras, and the little was unhappy more often than not. His most famous piec e is one that contains, i n the conventiona l sense , n o music at all. 4'33" consists of that amount of silence. Or "silence." David Tudor sat at a piano. That was it. Our shuffling s an d coughs and whispers were th e piece, they and the noises inside our heads as we searched for sense. There was a phenomena l virtuos o doing what—i n som e sense—an y o f us coul d hav e done. "I n som e sense " i s importan t becaus e i t woul d no t b e i n th e leas t interesting t o have a nonpianist no t playin g a piano. Cage waked us right up. What are we doing here? What ar e our expectations? What do we or are we expected t o bring? 4'33" was self-destroying. Once an audience knew what was coming—or not coming—it was no longer a viable piece. That was typical Cage— in the ag e of the infinitel y reproducible art work (to borrow Walter Benjamin's phrase) to offer something that defied repetition. Not surprisingly , his questions got drowned in cheap mockery, dismissal, and ultimately "business as usual." Cage's impact was in the questions he asked or caused others to ask. Silence is a book worth knowing. As charmingly anarchic as a Warner Brothers cartoon, he wa s a brillian t ma n whos e min d ha d bee n forme d b y such inventor s a s Schoenberg, Rober t Rauschenberg, Marcel Duchamp, Jasper Johns, and Merce Cunningham a s well as by his profound knowledge of the writing s of Thoreau and Joyce. He was an expert mycologist, a superb cook, a skilled worker in wood and metal. He wa s a real American authority-defyin g rebel , but i n his celebration of the Bicentennial , Renga with Apartment House 1776, wit h it s Protestant , Sephardic, Native American, an d African American voices, he was completely the old-fashioned, idealistic American . Once, i n Buffalo , I hear d Cag e giv e a lectur e i n whic h Davi d Tudo r manipulated the sound electronically, distorting and chasing it through speakers that lined th e four walls, so that one could not understand a word. Inevitably,

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someone aske d him why, since presumabl y he ha d somethin g interestin g t o say, he had made it impossible for us to hear it. Cage's smile, then and always , was beatific: "It is to prepare you for your daily life." In Boston at the New England Conservatory, Cage and I did a pre-concert conversation precedin g the Frida y matinee o f his sweetly poetic Renga with Apartment House. Before movin g on t o Symphon y Hall fo r the concert , w e stood talkin g o n Huntingto n Avenue . I forge t why , but I remarke d o n something on the othe r sid e of the street. At th e ver y moment Cage looked up t o follo w m y pointing finger , a Bekins truck thundered by , blocking th e view. He laughe d alou d with delight . I t was , once agai n an d perfectly , th e World According t o Cage. He taugh t u s t o hea r an d t o see . Tha t muc h h e ha d i n commo n wit h Thomson, Copland, Bernstein, Schuman. To hear their music and to read their writing is to know these men best, and to meet any one of them that way is to be brought fac e t o fac e wit h more than the wor k of a single individual. For each pointed in the direction of something larger—music itself, and then life.

—M.S.

Three American Composer s in Pursuit of the White Whale

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hen w e want t o fin d ou t i f a fil m o r boo k tha t ha s caugh t ou r interest i s worth seeing o r reading , on e o f ou r firs t question s is "What is it about?" We don't ask that of music we've never heard. We've been taugh t that music is abstract, and t o ask what it means is as na'ive as trying to figure out the point of a white-on-white canvas. But three important works tha t spa n the twentiet h centur y and tha t tak e us into th e twenty-firs t point in directions beyond the music itself—each is "about" something. Perhaps we could focus on other works as well, yet these deal with monumental issues that in their own ways touch us all. Charles Ives's Fourth Symphony is a quest for nothing less than the meaning of life. John Corigliano's Symphony No. 1 is a tribute to those who have died of AIDS. John Adams's On the Transmigration of Souls is a response to the terroris t attacks of 11 September 2001. Perhaps it's coincidental, bu t eac h of these works is by an American . It's not tha t American musi c has a monopoly on public utterance. In fact , the best example of music that makes political statements, still maintaining its artistic integrity, is that o f Dmitri Shostakovich; an d th e Austria n dramatist Franz Grillparze r once tol d Beethove n tha t i f th e Imperia l censors coul d understand music the way they understood words, Beethoven would be in jail. Still, w e like t o believ e i t i s typically American t o le t one' s voic e b e heard . Think of writers such as Melville and Whitman, Stephe n Crane responding to the Civi l Wa r an d Joh n Steinbec k t o th e pligh t o f migrant farmers , abou t

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composers like Roy Harris and Aaron Copland, who wrote major works spawned by the Grea t Depression and World War II. Admittedly, th e greates t artist s everywher e have shouldere d th e tas k of helping whol e societie s mak e sense o f the thing s tha t shap e destiny. "Socia l responsibility" i s a prett y dreary way of describin g wha t stoke s th e forg e o f creation, but you get the idea. Abraham Lincoln, Susan B. Anthony, and Martin Luther King, Jr., wanted to change th e world; artists want to change th e way we see it. They to o are reformers. What does all this have to do with Charle s Ives, John Corigliano , an d Joh n Adams , an d ho w ca n w e say that the y ar e particularly American i n their musical outlook? The composer and critic Virgil Thomson said that the definition of American music was simple: It was music written by Americans. That's a good line, but it tells u s nothing. Concer t musi c has a national character—thoug h thi s doe s not necessarily mean it incorporates folk songs or popular tunes. Ives, Corigliano, and Adams help define a peculiarly American abundance . Their music—and the wor k of each o f them sound s ver y different fro m tha t o f the others—i s vastly different fro m the music of, say, the American composers Samuel Barber or Charles Wuorinen. Barber' s Adagio for Strings could—almost—have been written i n th e nineteent h century ; Wuorine n come s fro m th e post-tona l tradition tha t trace s its genesis t o Schoenberg, wh o in turn maintained tha t his development of the twelve-tone system expanded and extended the tradition of Beethove n an d Brahms . Yet audiences a t larg e have neve r responde d t o Schoenberg th e wa y they respon d t o Beethove n an d Brahms , nor d o the y respond t o Wuorinen th e wa y they respond t o Ives, Corigliano, an d Adams, composers who write in a traditio n tha t grow s fro m a fundamental tenet of this country : the traditio n o f the meltin g pot , of diversity, E pluribus unum— one out of many: the elemental force symbolized most profoundly in Melville's White Whale. Born of this society, their work has a strength multiplied by the many strands of its heritage. Every one o f us is the produc t of a heritage—we are al l literally "eclectic " and th e source s o f our huma n educatio n ar e many . As surel y as th e thre e composers we're viewing here, Barber and Wuorinen have strong and individual voices. But rightly or wrongly, we tend t o lump Barber with the Romantics and Wuorinen with the serialists. Neither Ives , Corigliano, nor Adams are open to such classification. Ives in fac t mad e eclecticism hi s trademark, juxtaposing the sublim e and the ridiculous, the serious and the comic. An amateu r marching band plays at full blast outside the church where the choir raises its voice in a stately hymn. Talking about his technique, h e once wrote : "This may not b e a nice wa y to write music, but it' s one way!—and who knows the onl y real nice way? " John Corigliano object s to the descriptio n of his music as eclectic, thoug h he incorporate s variou s style s an d strategie s int o hi s work , an d whe n h e

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characterizes hi s music , it' s clea r h e i s describin g a n eclecti c approach . Nevertheless, a s he tol d Allan Kozinn in a 199 1 Gramophone interview , "th e problem wit h eclecticis m i s that i t come s wit h a responsibility , which i s t o make the combinatio n o f styles and technique s see m inevitable. Ho w do you make them seem inevitable? Through structure and architecture. I truly believe that i n an y o f my pieces, I ca n sho w you why an y world that I inhabit i s a necessary part of the work." John Adams, a s Richard Stayto n wrote in th e Lo s Angeles Times Magazine in 1991 , ha s refuse d t o remai n consistent . Thi s "frustrate s critics , wh o alternately define Adams as neo-Romantic, neo-Expressionist , postmodernist or antimodernist." When Adams first began to be noticed, i n the early 1980s, he wa s indee d classified—a s a minimalist—an d hi s nam e wa s include d i n conversations abou t Terry Riley, Steve Reich , an d Philip Glass. But while his early wor k is characterized b y repetitiv e melodi c cell s an d slowl y changin g harmonies, anyon e who has heard Harmonielehre (1985) , the opera s Nixon in China (1987 ) an d Th e Death of Klinghoffer (1991) , th e symphon y (Adam s doesn't us e that word) Naive and Sentimental Music (1999) , or the multimedia oratorio E l Nino (2000 ) know s tha t Adam s ha s develope d i n a way that is anything bu t minimal . H e ca n spi n out lon g an d impassione d melodie s an d make an orchestra shine with rich and brilliant sound, or pummel the ear with densely interlocked textures . "What I think is the mos t wonderful aspect of American culture," he has said, "is that we are a culture with very few dividing lines. I grew up in a household wher e Benny Goodman an d Mozart were not separated." If their willingness to confront the White Whale of their heritag e is a sure sign that thes e composer s produce uniquely American work , another sig n is their nee d t o write music that, a s Daniel Barenboi m said before conductin g the world premiere of Corigliano's Symphony No. 1 in 1990, "is not disassociated from ou r societ y but reflect s ou r everyda y life an d th e problem s we fac e a s human beings. " O f cours e th e bes t music—fro m Bac h t o Beethove n t o Stravinsky and Carter—alway s speaks in some way to "the problem s we face as human beings, " eve n i f you can't sa y specifically what Beethoven' s Opu s 131 String Quartet o r Carter's Variations for Orchestra ar e "about." But Ives, Corigliano, and Adams, in publicly stating the "subject matter" of their music, follow i n th e traditio n o f the grea t American novelist-poet-compose r socia l commentators. This needs elaboration. As Tchaikovsky said, Beethoven's Fift h Symphony has a program, whether Beethoven owned up to it or not. Some program music, like Berlioz's Symphonic fantasticfue o r Richard Strauss's Till Eulenspiegel's Merr y Pranks, has an external program, and it describes a literal scenario. Other music has an internal program . Apparently abstract, it can only be re-created with

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the listener' s activ e participation . Lik e a drama in th e theater , it s actio n i s initiated, rises to a climax, and subsides. But what about the actors? The secret of dramas such as the Beethoven Fift h or the Brahms First—or the Ives Fourth, the Coriglian o First , the Adams Transmigration—is tha t we , the listeners, are the actors . By responding t o th e music' s urgings and followin g i t a s we wait expectantly for vacuums to be filled and energie s to be dispersed, we engage ourselves with the music, simultaneously assigning and discerning its meaning. In his Symphony No. 1 , John Corigliano has written a work that stands as a monument t o thos e wh o have die d o f AIDS. Woul d we know that simpl y by listening? Th e answe r ha s t o b e no , thoug h aske d t o characteriz e th e firs t movement afte r even a casual listening, you would probably describe the state of mind se t forth here a s "enraged." Fai r enough. Ou r experienc e lead s us to associate loud music in the mino r mod e with anger. In fac t thi s movemen t is subtitled "O f Rage and Remembrance. " Bu t what are we to make of it whe n the lou d musi c subsides and a n offstag e pian o introduce s a n Albeniz tango? The effec t o f this—it i s a very Ivesian move—is eerie, an d whe n th e violin s softly begi n t o sketc h th e outlin e o f th e tang o melody , th e effec t i s sad, overwhelmingly sad . Coriglian o ha s sai d tha t wha t h e wante d t o evok e "is what it feels like to lose someone you care about to a terminal illness, whether it be cancer o r AIDS o r whatever—the injustice of it, the rage. And the n you have these nostalgic remembrances of the person. " The composer' s inspiration for the symphony came one day in 1988, when he saw the AIDS Memoria l Quilt in Washington, D.C.—tha t gigantic fabri c in which the names of almost 10,000 people who had died of AIDS were woven. (By 2005 the number of names in the Quilt was almost 83,000—representing, according to The NAMES Project Foundation, approximatel y 17.5 percent of all AIDS death s in the United State s alone.) "I t was one of the most powerfu l and movin g huma n statement s I hav e eve r seen . I t mad e m e wan t t o memorialize i n musi c those friend s tha t I have lost—t o touc h concertgoer s the same way that I was touched." Coriglian o nonetheles s maintain s tha t he wants "the huma n part of it to be part of the subtext, but I don't want it to be the onl y thing wit h which peopl e identify thi s piece . I wanted thi s t o be an abstract work , because I think tha t abstrac t musi c can touc h th e deepes t and mos t basic emotions." I t invite s u s to become actor s in the drama . Yet what ar e our lines? There are no lines a s such. As Corigliano suggests , to tie music to specifi c scenes or ideas is to rob it of its evocative powers. In liner notes for a recording of his Symphony No. 2 of 2000, Corigliano is determinedly anti-programmatic, beyond stating a subject of the work : "chosen loss, " the los s of parting. Yet to experience thi s symphony is to be convinced tha t some underlying scenario is present, so suggestive is the music, so deeply serious, searching, dark, lamenting, anguished, compassionate: a beautiful nightmar e that , ultimately , we have t o

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accept on its own terms without attempting to dramatize (or melodramatize) the conten t an d s o diminish it . Goo d music , like goo d poetry , never mean s whatever th e listene r (o r the reader ) wants it t o mean ; i t communicates it s points in an odd and almos t paradoxical way, by allowing us enough room to bring our own experience an d intelligenc e t o it a s we receive it s sounds an d structures, and through some not-yet-understood but undeniabl y real process our minds interpret the physical and sensual impact that registers in our bodies. Music not tie d to a specific program becomes music for all who hear it, not just for th e on e who conceived it . Gustav Mahler, who offered detaile d programs for hi s first thre e symphonies and then withdrew them, understoo d this when he said that no music is worth anything if it needs a program to be understood. Yet Mahler, like Corigliano , kne w tha t even musi c with no specifi c program has points to make. It has points to make because it is about something—and though the firs t movement of Beethoven's Eroica Symphony may not b e about Napoleon, neithe r is it, as Toscanini said, simply about Allegro con brio. Back to Corigliano. Th e "program " of his Symphony No. 1 does not over shadow it. The second movement is, technically, a scherzo; programmatically, it is a craze d tarantella tha t i s a memoria l t o a frien d drive n insan e b y AIDS dementia. Yo u can appreciat e th e sombe r slo w movemen t a s a lon g an d mournful threnody ; i t isn' t necessar y t o kno w tha t i t i s built o n a them e Corigliano an d a cellis t friend , no w dead , improvise d almos t thirt y years before—a them e Coriglian o recalle d only through his accidental discover y of a tape recording they had mad e in 1962 . Technically, th e fourt h movement , the epilogue , recapitulate s th e work' s various themes ; programmatically , it weaves together the themes—the names—of Corigliano's lost friends in a quiltlike texture. By contrast, a s Elliott Carte r ha s said , "Ives's musi c is, for the mos t part, very programmatic." You might expect program s in th e musi c of a man wh o wrote pieces with titles like The Unanswered Question and Central Park i n the Dark. But how do you discern the meaning of a piece called Symphony No. 4? This work, says the conductor James Sinclair, "is the quintessential collectio n of all of Ives's inventions, al l of the chances h e was willing to take . .. all of the desire . .. to reach people in a deeper way": to invite listener s in, to act. Ives himself described "th e aestheti c progra m of the wor k [as ] that of the searching questions of 'What?' and 'Why? ' which the spirit of man asks of life. This is particularly the sense of the Prelude. The three succeeding movements are the diverse answers in which existence replies. " We know we are in larger-than-musical territory from th e outset, when in a hush th e choru s sing s a hymn: "Watchman , tel l u s of the nigh t / What th e signs of promise are." In purely musical terms, this introduction establishe s a mood shattered b y what comes next, somethin g Ive s called "no t a scherzo in an accepte d sens e o f th e word , but rathe r a comedy. " Thi s i s th e kin d o f

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everything-including-the-kitchen-sink musi c that gaine d Ive s notoriety . H e quotes dozens of tunes—"Camptown Races," "Turke y in th e Straw, " "Jesus, Lover o f My Soul," "Columbia , th e Ge m o f the Ocean"—al l played in wild cacophony punctuated by odd pianissimos that have the effect almost of silence. The progra m here, say s Ives, is similar to th e stor y of Hawthorne's "Celestia l Railroad," in which a train line to the Celestial City of Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress has rendere d obsolet e th e roughnes s of spiritual quest, though som e faithfu l pilgrims still choose t o walk the dangerou s path, t o th e grea t amusement of the train's passengers. Ives's thir d movemen t i s a sumptuou s fugu e o n tw o hymns , and , i n programmatic terms, "an expression of the reactio n o f life into formalism an d ritualism." In the concluding movement, built on the hymn "Nearer, My God, to Thee," program and pure music are inseparable. Over and over we hear th e tune. In the mind's ear, the listener—the actor—hears the words: "Nearer, My God, t o Thee." They becom e anguished , strained , an d a t one point yo u will swear that you hear the word "Nearer" repeated, over and over. In this spiritual pilgrimage, the art and the emotion ar e one. You don't have to be a practicing Christian t o b e move d b y th e Saint Matthew Passion o r Beethoven' s Miss a solemnis, and you need no t believe in an afterlife t o be moved by Ives's vision. Entering th e hear t o f his audienc e i s also fundamental t o John Adams' s artistic agenda. "My music is emotionally committed," Adams says. He describes Harmonielehre, for example, as being "about revelation and healing. Music is a means o f getting mysel f an d m y listener i n touc h wit h ou r deepes t selves. " Adams is a master of drama in music, a man who in the oper a Nixon in China made somethin g almos t mystical from a brief sequence o f repeated tone s t o underscore the lyricism of Chou En-lai's great visionary aria on the future an d life's potential ; an d who filled Nixon's response with short quick phrases and pounding rhythms , capturing th e kin d o f tension an d inne r discomfor t the thirty-seventh president exuded. Already in Nixon we heard intimations o f a languorous, almost impressionistic sound that even Adams's detractors admitted came t o blossom in hi s next opera , The Death of Klinghoffer, whic h ha s a s its subject the 198 5 murder of an elderly Jewish invalid by the Palestinian hijackers of the cruis e ship Achille Lauro, and which i s a plea for human understandin g among all sides in a Middle East whose people have been poisoned by hatred. Poisoned environments—natural as well as spiritual and political—concern Adams, and someone who uses the evenin g new s as subject matter for his art is clearly intent on making a statement beyond that art's boundaries. El Dorado is purel y orchestral. Th e titl e doesn' t refe r t o th e automobile , th e Cadilla c Eldorado, though that might come to mind as a symbol of a uniquely American brand of conspicuous consumption. Adams's subject is gridlock, the emotiona l gridlock that has become identified with the United States of the Reagan years, though th e titl e E l Dorado als o conjures an imag e of the real m of gold that

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Coronado and his conquistadors sought, and it's easy to imagine the Berkeleybased Adams writing a lament for the peaceful inhabitants o f an Ur-Californi a ravaged by those European intruders. In El Dorado, Adams says he is "exorcising my feelings about our maniacal concerns fo r material gains in the '80s. But the first movemen t i s the mos t terrifying, mos t violent musi c I've done yet"—h e said thi s i n 1991—"an d I' m sur e it was my own response to th e [First ] Gulf War, whic h als o needed t o come out." Always, though, th e responses he talks about are couched in purely musical terms (as when he refers to "those crashing E minor chords" that open Harmonielehre). In El Dorado, as at the conclusio n ofHarmonielehre, Adam s also taps into his minimalist heritage, playing different musical cells against each other i n a crest of sound that creates a sense almost of levitation, a genuine physica l high. Eight years after E l Dorado came Naive and Sentimental Music. Her e Adam s fuse s th e ideal s o f minimalis m an d Romanticism, an d hi s understanding of how those style s can intersec t yields music o f huge, pulsatin g energy. Adams call s thi s wor k self-referential, an d though it includes no specific quotations from his earlier music, it can strike a listener a s his Heldenleben. Michael Steinber g ha s written tha t "Adam s . . . believes i n his harmoni c style as a human necessity and is willing to risk taking the controversial position that ou r respons e t o tona l harmon y i s no t s o muc h cultura l a s genetic . 'Something tremendously powerful was lost when composers moved away from tonal harmony and regular pulses [Adams s a y s ] . . .. Among othe r thing s th e audience was lost.'" In listening t o Adams, the audienc e has won. Because for an entire legio n of concertgoers, he has reaffirmed th e continuin g vitalit y of concert music . Besides writing music of enormous appeal , Adams alway s treat s music as something men and women need t o help them make it through the world as it is today. His is a music, as I said, often based on the headlines, an d he has been criticized for that—and for his interpretation of the news. Nixon and Klinghoffer show us how much music can say about the way modern history has unfolded. Adams continues o n this path in his 2005 opera Doctor Atomic, whose subject is J. Robert Oppenheimer an d the Manhattan Project . But it was in 2002 that Adams too k o n wha t ma y have bee n th e mos t dauntin g o f the project s in which he responds to contemporary life. In El Nino, the multimedia "Nativity oratorio" introduced late in 2000 and created in conjunction with director Peter Sellars, Adams invented a hopeful piece suggestin g the possibilitie s of human lov e an d potential , somethin g t o herald the fres h slate of a new millennium. With On the Transmigration of Souls, Adams produced something genuinel y of the twenty-firs t century, something tied t o th e century' s first epocha l event , th e destructio n o f the Worl d Trade Center o n 1 1 September 2001 . Fiv e month s afte r th e terroris t attacks , th e New York Philharmonic announce d tha t it had commissioned Adams to write

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music commemorating that day. The week before th e Philharmonic reveale d the commissione d composer' s identity, Justin Davidson, writin g for the Web site Andante.com, expresse d his reservations about music to memorialize such horrific events. "Th e odds , it seems to me, are low that the music will be up to the occasion—tha t a composer, asked t o interpre t i n tone s a calamity mere months afte r it has happened, will have the clarity and the inner urge to write just th e piec e w e need." Wha t h e dreade d most , h e continued , wa s "th e possibility that the composer will resort to Shostakovichian scene-setting. " What was "the piec e w e need"? For Adams, livin g acros s the countr y i n California an d feeling frustrated b y his inability to offer somethin g immediat e to the relief efforts in New York, the commission was first of all "an opportunity," as he tol d Kerr y Frumkin in a radio interview afte r th e firs t performanc e of Transmigration o n 1 9 September 2002 , "to us e my abilities—what I have t o give—in a way that could contribute." Th e commission was for a choral work. Adams foun d hi s text s i n unexpecte d places : i n snatche s o f phone call s t o loved one s fro m thos e caugh t i n th e plane s an d building s tha t day ; in th e recitation o f victims' names; in "Portraits of Grief," those eloquent tribute s to the victim s tha t ra n dail y in th e Ne w York Times fo r almost a year after th e events. Incorporatin g sources from th e externa l world: it is a move worthy of Ives. Adams i n fac t wen t o n afte r Transmigration t o compos e a piece whos e title, M y Father Knew Charles Ives, pays tribute to hi s great forebear. An d fo r musical guidance in Transmigration, Adams looked to Ives and The Unanswered Question. "This whole event," h e told Frumkin, "and th e loss of all these lives so suddenly was—and is—an unanswered question." In Transmigration Adams embeds references to the Ives work—hear the muted strings under the repeated utterance o f the beautifu l an d ghostl y words, "I see water and buildings. " "I think of [The Unanswered Question] a s a kind of guardian angel for the piece, " Adams says. "It's there, hoverin g about it." Nor did Adams attempt any onomatopoeia in this music, which is essentially quiet an d contemplative . "I f pressed, " th e compose r tol d a Ne w Yor k Philharmonic interviewer , "I'd probabl y call the piec e a memory space. It's a place where you can go and be alone wit h your thoughts an d emotions. Th e link to a particular historical event—in this case to 9/11—is there if you want to contemplate it . But I hope tha t the piece will summon human experienc e that goes beyond thi s particula r event." The story—th e program—is part of the music, but there's more. Perhaps it was that more that a longtime concertgoer meant when , immediatel y after th e firs t performance , he tol d a n interviewer for the New York radio station WQXR-FM that this music was the most moving thing he had ever heard in a concert hall . Adams had set out to write a work, as he has suggested, for those left behind. In O n th e Transmigration o f Souls h e sough t to capture something o f the cal m majesty one feels on entering a great cathedral. "When you walk into Chartres

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Cathedral, fo r example , yo u experienc e a n immediat e sens e o f somethin g otherworldly. You feel you are in the presence of many souls, generations upo n generations o f them, an d yo u sense thei r collecte d energy . . . . " Wa s he attempting t o hea l wounds ? I n answerin g this , Adam s spok e bot h o f art's limitations an d of music's power: It's not m y intention t o attempt "healing" i n this piece. Th e even t wil l alway s be there in memory, and the live s of those who suffered wil l forever remain burdened by the violence and the pain. Time might make the emotions and the grief gradually less acute , but nothing , leas t of all a work of art, is going to hea l a wound o f this sort. Instead , th e bes t I ca n hop e fo r i s t o creat e somethin g tha t ha s bot h th e serenity and the kin d o f gravitas that thos e old cathedrals possess. We modern peopl e have learned all too well how to keep our emotions i n check , and we know how to mask them with humor or irony. Music has a singular capacity to unloc k thos e control s an d brin g u s fac e t o fac e wit h ou r raw , uncensored , unattenuated feelings. This is why during times when we are grieving or in need of being in touch with the core of our beings we seek out those pieces that speak to us with that sens e of gravitas and serenity.

Gravitas and serenity are but two of the pathways through which John Adams has led listeners to the place where they become actors in music that satisfie s deep needs : th e nee d t o liv e drama s of life an d death , goo d an d evil , love , hatred, injustice, salvation: th e need fo r beauty. All good composers want to lead their listeners to that place. And the work of Schoenberg, Carter , Sessions, Wuorinen—music that is not a s easy to ente r as that of Ives, Corigliano, an d Adams—is not abou t to vanish. Thei r music satisfies simila r needs, admittedl y in differen t way s an d sometimes , but no t necessarily, for different listeners . Art ma y serve political purposes, but ar t is not a political system. And unlik e politicians, composers, though their mean s may vary, are all after th e sam e thing . What is so thrillingly American abou t Ives, Corigliano, an d Adams—this trio whos e wor k remind s u s constantly tha t the y hav e sighte d th e Whit e Whale—may finally be found not so much in the characteristics of their music as i n th e fac t tha t i t ha s thrive d i n nativ e soi l alongsid e th e ver y differen t music composed throughout mos t of the las t century, adding more panels t o the tapestry and giving us—in the best sense of American capitalism—an ever broader rang e of choices. Here , i n thi s countr y that i s such a cornucopia of cultures an d style s an d ideals— E pluribus unum —is a richnes s o f musical experience tha t encompasses and confirms both diversity and heritage .

—L.R.

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A Century Set to Music

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he idea first came to me a few years ago when I was coaching a student group in Shostakovich's harrowin g String Quartet No . 8, the ide a of summoning on e o f the twentiet h century' s eloquen t artist s t o bea r witness about what that—mostl y dreadful—time wa s like. I imagined mysel f in som e futur e century , seekin g knowledg e an d understandin g o f what th e poet Murie l Rukeyser once called "th e firs t centur y o f world wars." Art ca n impart such knowledge. Picasso' s Guernica will send devastatin g news to our descendants. Thoma s Mann' s Doktor Faustus has its story to tell, and so do the writings of Franz Kafka, Alber t Camus , an d Heinrich Boll. Music can speak, too. I made a list, not of the twentieth century's most important or most beautiful pieces, not even of my favorite pieces, though I do feel close to most of them. I was after something else . I was looking for composers to bear witness. My list is completely personal. It is also ever in flux, some of its items perhaps claiming longevity, while other s ar e subject to shifting currents an d moods . I first pu t the lis t together on e weekend i n August 1999 , looked a t it again in Octobe r 2002, and once more in May 2005. I n August 1998 , i t would not hav e bee n the same , an d wer e I t o ventur e anothe r g o at i t i n Augus t 2006 , i t would almost surely be different again .

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1909: Gusta v Mahler: Dos Lied von der Erde (The Son g o f the Earth)

The poem s tha t Mahle r chos e fo r this grea t "song-symphony " encompas s a range of feelings from nihilis m t o deep, heart-unsettling delight in the earth' s manifold beauties. The glimme r of hope in the last lines is engulfed by some of the most heartbreaking music ever written. Mahler believed i n the propheti c power of artists, and Das Lied von der Erde is a hymn in advance to the twentiet h century as one o f unquenchable Weltschmerz.

1909: Arnol d Schoenberg : Fiv e Pieces for Orchestra

In a masterwork that helpe d chang e th e fac e o f music, the compose r of this century's mos t fiercel y intens e music enshrines th e nightmar e aspec t of our time as well as its yearning for what we try to believe was a sweeter past.

1911: Edward Elgar: Symphony No . 2

The wa r that was still three year s away would sweep away much of the world Elgar cherished . Thi s glorious , impassione d symphony , suffuse d wit h melancholy, is another prophec y in music, one that told the London audience , which hated th e piece—they heard and understood better tha n they knew— that the glory years of late Victorian and Edwardian England were not forever .

1913: Igo r Stravinsky: Le Sucre du Printemps (Th e Rit e of Spring)

This exuberantly inventive explosion of energy and color is music's most famous monument o f modernism. It , too , change d th e fac e o f music, and n o singl e composition has been so much imitated. At Stravinsky's funeral in April 1971, Robert Craf t reflecte d tha t i t wa s "ful l springtim e excep t fo r th e ma n wh o created a sprin g of his ow n tha t o f al l mortally begotten version s wil l give Nature its longest run fo r everlasting joy." Music to hear with a smile!

1913: Claud e Debussy : Jeux (Games )

If Schoenber g an d Stravinsk y were th e father s of musical modernism, the n Mahler an d Debuss y were it s forefathers . Non e o f thei r score s point s mor e provocatively into the future than Debussy's music for the ballet Jeux, introduced just a week after Le Sacre. The musi c is exploring, allusive, erotically charged.

1911-1914 (?) : Charles Ives: Three Places in New Englan d

Ives represents the comin g of age of American music , its emancipation fro m European models . Ou r grea t pionee r o f modernism was , all his life , los t i n nostalgia for a pre-Civil War America not yet transmuted from a rural society to an urban one. Her e h e yokes opposites—the thoroughly "modern" collag e

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in th e secon d o f th e thre e places , Putnam' s Camp , and , especiall y i n hi s evocation of the Housatonic a t Stockbridge, a longing for an idealized, rapidly disappearing pas t a s wel l a s hi s ow n vanishe d youth . Suc h a parado x is characteristic o f twentieth-century Zeitgeist.

1915: Charle s Ives : From Hanover Square North, a t th e End of a Tragic Day, th e Voice o f the People Agai n Rose (From Orchestral Se t No. 2 )

The Tragi c Day was 7 May 1915, the da y the Britis h liner Lusitania was sunk by a German submarin e off the coas t of Ireland. O f 1,95 9 person s on board, 1,198 perished. This wa s one o f the firs t i n a series of events tha t eventuall y led t o th e entr y o f the Unite d State s int o th e war . In thi s astoundin g an d visionary piece, Ives depicts his experience o f waiting for the "El " to take him home fro m hi s office, wit h the crowd on the platfor m singing the hymn In the Sweet Bye and Bye, which a nearby organ grinder had begun to play. Strangers are pulled together i n grief: it is like a rehearsal for 9/11. 1915: Alba n Berg: Three Pieces for Orchestra A powerfully imagined triptych by Schoenberg's phenomenall y gifted student , looking back longingly at a world that n o longer seems viable and at the same time descrying the disintegration t o come. 1916: Car l Nielsen: Symphony No. 4 , The Inextinguishable When I began to think about this list, it was the dark pieces that came rushing to mind. But then I remembered Nielsen's celebration of "the elemental will to life," which to him was an "inextinguishable" principle . Victory is not easy, but the fina l arrival is truly glorioso, to use one of the Danis h composer' s favorite adjectives. 1922: Alba n Berg: Wo^eck An oper a that depict s defeat, perhap s the opera that depict s defeat. It i s the defeat o f a commo n soldier , no t b y a n enem y i n war , but b y th e pla y o f callousness, betrayal, and his own innocence, all that projected through some of the mos t compellingly imaginative music ever invented fo r the theater . 1923: Bela Bartok: The Miraculous Mandarin Bartok wrote his most brilliant an d fantastical score for a ballet with a seamy subject. The character s on stage are a gang of robbers and killers, the woman they use as bait to draw their victims, and a Chinese gentleman who for all his wounds will not di e until he has achieved sexua l release. It is the creepiest of

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twists on th e thanatos-ero s connection. At what was supposed to be its firs t performances Th e Miraculous Mandarin wa s banished fro m th e stag e o f th e Cologne Oper a b y th e Mayor , none othe r tha n Konra d Adenauer . Her e modernism and supposed immorality collide head-on wit h The State . 1924: Jea n Sibelius: Symphony No. 7 Sibelius is an artist whose life work is of a piece, and his seven symphonies are the backbone o f that life work. The crunc h o f instruments convergin g in th e last bar s of the intensel y compacte d Sevent h Symphon y unmistakabl y says The End . With more than thirty years of life lef t t o him , Sibeliu s wrote just one mor e major work , the miraculou s tone poe m Tapiola, bu t th e writin g of symphonies was over. What was the despair that made Sibelius declare that it was enough, tha t th e tim e for the symphony , that glorious survivor from th e nineteenth century, was over? Was it private or was it the world he observed about him? 1934: Paul Hindemith: Mathis der Maler Symphony This is music taken from an opera. Matthias Griinewald was a sixteenth-century painter caught in the political and religious conflicts of the Thirt y Years' War. In hi s opera Mathis de r Maler (Mathis th e Painter) Hindemit h asks : Should a n artist engage i n th e struggl e or attend t o hi s art ? Ca n "non-engaged " art be justified? Goo d questions for a German in the earl y Hitler years. 1934, 1943 , 1947 : Ralp h Vaughan Williams: Symphonies 4- 6 Nourished by his love of English folk song and Tudor church music , Vaughan Williams remind s u s in hi s Fifth Symphony that horro r ca n b e transcende d and death swallowed up in victory. This work is the central panel of a symphonic triptych. The fierc e Fourt h Symphony ventures further int o modernis m than anything else Vaughan Williams wrote; the Sixth, begun during World War II and complete d tw o year s after it s conclusion , end s i n bleakness . Vaugha n Williams rejecte d topical interpretations o f these tw o works, the Fourt h as a commentary o n Europ e i n turmoil , th e Sixt h a s a pictur e o f post-atomic devastation. Bu t whatever RV W had o r did not hav e i n mind, whateve r h e perhaps had in mind but chos e t o conceal (excep t in the musi c itself), thos e two symphonies are dark, and the quiet beacon of the Fifth is the more moving by contrast. 1940: Olivie r Messiaen: Quartet for th e End o f Time The stor y is wonderful: a young French composer in a German military prison composes a huge and inspired piece for himself and three other musicians whom

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he meets there, and on a winter day in 1941 they play it for an audience of five thousand. What actually happened, while wonderful, i s slightly less wonderful than that. Some of the Quartet had been composed before Messiaen ever got near Stalag VIII-A, and Messiaen, who rivaled Ronald Reagan when it came to believing his own legend, exaggerated the siz e of the audienc e by a factor of twenty o r so . Bu t wha t matter s i s th e music , an d thi s meditatio n o n Th e Revelation of Saint John is one of the miracles in the history of chamber music— fiery, colorful , an d i n it s slow movements seren e beyon d anythin g sinc e th e last quartets of Beethoven. I t is a lesson in how to rise above circumstances.

1941: Michael Tippett : A Child of Our Time

This is a great humanist's far-seeing respons e to th e pogrom s in Germany in November 1938. Tippett was not interested in producing the musical equivalent of a documentary; rather, for him, this was an occasion for a searching look at the human condition. Incorporating influences as diverse as Handel's Messiah, African America n spirituals , and Jungia n imagery, h e compose d a powerfu l oratorio for soloists, chorus, and orchestra.

1943: Dmitr i Shostakovich : Symphony No . 8

Unlike Vaughan Williams, Shostakovich ha d n o compunction abou t writing topical music and admitting it; after all, the Soviet society in which he worked defined that as an artist's obligation. The Eighth Symphony mirrors a Russia in the mids t of World War II—intensely emotional, heroic , elegiac , an d wit h a quiet finale that is music of timidly awakening life.

1945: Benjami n Britten : Peter Grimes

A worthy successor to Wozzeck, wit h whose composer Britten alway s wished he could have studied. Here the setting is English and the situation civilian. It is a picture of how a "nice" community locked in self-righteousness can destroy a human being, helpless in the fac e o f hatred of "otherness."

1947: Arnol d Schoenberg : A Survivor from Warsa w

No on e wa s better verse d in th e languag e of nightmare, n o on e coul d hav e more vividl y told th e stor y o f a grou p of Jews bein g shippe d t o on e o f th e extermination camps—and compressed it into a six-minute drama for speaker, chorus, and orchestra. Survivor comes with the brutally realistic trappings of a documentary, but the flo w of time in the narrative is entirely unreal, a blurring that adds to the sense of nightmare.

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I960: Krzysztof Penderecki : Threnody fo r th e Victim s o f Hiroshima As pictorial as a tone poem, this documents one of the most horrifying moments in world history. Using only a string orchestra, but a s strings had neve r bee n used before, Penderecki als o works in utmost brevity. Terror. Screams. 1960: Dmitr i Shostakovich: String Quartet No. 8 Composed "i n memory of the victim s of fascism an d war," this quartet, full of self-quotations a s the compose r seem s t o reliv e experience s h e has , t o hi s amazement, survived , bring s u s musi c tha t i s no w brutall y drivin g an d frighteningly oppressive, now quiet and deeply inward. It is the most poignant music of mourning I know, not eas y to confront for players or for listeners. 1962: Benjami n Britten: War Requiem A powerful union of the Catholic Requiem Mass with writings by Wilfred Owen , the most eloquent o f the English war poets. And, I admit, a work that excep t in a few of the Owen songs, has meant more to many others than it does to me. 1970: Roge r Sessions: When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd In thi s requie m for Martin Luther King , Jr., and Rober t F. Kennedy, Sessions responds sensitively and with immense musical power to the Biblica l majest y and musical fluidity of Whitman's poem , a requiem for Abraham Lincoln. Lilacs reaches beyond its immediate occasion to become a lament for a world knotted in tragedy, and it is also one of the century' s great love letters to Nature. 1970: Georg e Crumb: Ancient Voices o f Children A death-haunted piece, daughter of Mahler's Kindertotenlieder, for me the most evocative of Crumb's many settings of the poetr y of Federico Garcia Lorca. It was written for the extraordinary mezzo-soprano Jan de Gaetani, with a chamber ensemble tha t includes , alon g wit h conventiona l instruments , to y piano , mandolin, musica l saw, and Tibeta n praye r stones. Crumb , whose voice was one of the freshes t o n the scene in the thir d quarter of the last century, writes that th e essenc e o f the poetr y "is concerned wit h th e mos t primar y things : death, love , the smell of the earth , th e sounds of the wind and the sea. " Th e music, or poetry-in-music, lets us experience i t all. 1985: John Adams: Harmonielehre Adams too k hi s titl e (whic h on e coul d translat e a s What Is Known about Harmony) fro m th e grea t treatis e o n harmon y an d compositio n b y on e o f

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Modernism's Founding Fathers, Arnold Schoenberg. This vibrant work, though, is a major monument of the counter-revolution. Like Schoenberg, Adams means more by harmony than the stud y of chords. Hi s Harmonielehre i s a hymn t o personal an d huma n harmony , an d i t end s i n a n upsurg e of hard-earne d optimism. Very American it is, too. Hearing it in the almost immediate aftermath of 9/11, as I had th e privileg e of doing, in a marvelous performance by Markus Stenz and the Minnesota Orchestra , was one of the truly uplifting moments of a musical lifetime.

1987: John Tavener: The Protecting Veil

Serenity an d stillness : Th e Protecting Veil, a series of meditations fo r cello an d orchestra, is more steadily consonant tha n anything by Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, or Brahms, but Tavene r ha s foun d a way of making those harmonie s fresh , a s though new-minted . Hi s music does not invalidat e th e musi c of, say, Babbitt and Carter, but it presents an alternative tha t is alive and imbued with spirit.

—M.S.

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IV MISSIONARIES

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Making America Musical: A Salute to Theodore Thomas

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ach's Two-Violin Concerto, Brahms' s Hungarian Dances an d Academic Festival Overture, the Hexameron by Liszt et al. and Liszt's orchestration of Schubert's Wanderer Fantasy, Mozart's Symphony No. 34, the Saint Saens Organ Symphony, the Sibelius Second, Th e Blue Danube, Till Eulenspiegel and Ei n Heldenleben, Tchaikovsky' s Rome o an d Juliet, th e Prelud e t o Di e Meistersinger: ever y one of those pieces was introduced in America by Theodor e Thomas, a name you have seen often if you look at the performance histories you sometimes find in symphony orchestras' program notes. A complete list of Thomas's America n premiere s woul d includ e an d b e les s tha n one-tent h exhausted by Beethoven's Great Fugue; Berlioz's Damnation of Faust, Harold i n Italy, and Romeo and Juliet; Brahms's Second Symphon y and Haydn Variations; the Bruckne r Seventh; The Sorcerer's Apprentice; Grieg' s music for Ibsen's Peer Gynt; Handel' s Royal Fireworks Music ; Schubert's Unfinished Symphony ; th e Nutcracker Suite; and th e Prelude and Love-Death fro m Tristan. And thi s list does not even include al l the famous pieces . Nor, remarkable though i t is, does this catalogue by itself certify Theodor e Thomas's greatness , althoug h i t i s symboli c o f what mad e hi m th e mos t important performe r in th e histor y of concert musi c in America. A centur y after hi s death, th e consequence s o f his life work are everywhere about us, in the prestig e an d ubiquit y o f symphon y orchestra s i n ou r country ; i n th e assumption that concert musi c is A Good Thing and an essential ite m on th e

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cultural consumer-goods shopping list; in the concept o f the Music Director, someone wit h power to hir e an d fir e an d t o determin e repertor y and larger artistic policies; in the establishment of subscription sales, pops programs, and children's concerts; even in the matter of having the bow-strokes in each string section in an orchestra coordinated so as to go up and down together. Theodore Christian Friedrich Thomas, the dedicated and prodigiously hardworking musicia n who lef t u s thi s legacy , was born o n 1 1 October 183 5 a t Esens i n Eas t Friesland b y th e Nort h Sea . Al l hi s life , h e remaine d deeply German i n outlook . T o some bu t hardl y a n extrem e extent , hi s musical predilections would always reflect that , bu t i n that matter he hardly differe d from th e mos t celebrate d Germa n an d Austria n conductor s o f th e lat e nineteenth and twentieth centuries, men such as von Billow, Richter, Steinbach, Nikisch, Weingartner, Walter, Furtwangler, Knappertsbusch, Bohm, Sawallisch, Masur, an d Thielemann . I t di d no t kee p Thomas , though , fro m bein g a responsible supporter of American composers, among them Chadwick, Foote, Loeffler, MacDowell , Paine, an d Parker. His father, a town musician in Esens, emigrated to New York with his large family i n 1845 . Th e nine-year-ol d Theodor e wa s already an accomplishe d violinist, and he helped support the family by playing in theaters and for dancing masters. H e had , b y the way , no violi n lessons , learnin g t o ge t aroun d th e instrument by imitating his father. I n fact , excep t for a few piano an d corne t lessons and, much later, a little instruction in counterpoint, he had no forma l training in music at all, nor did he attend schoo l of any kind afte r comin g to America a s a boy. In 1848 , fathe r an d so n joine d th e Nav y as bandsmen, becoming, respectively , firs t an d secon d hor n aboar d th e Pennsylvania, stationed at Portsmouth, Virginia. "Damn bad" was the son's later assessment of his own playing. A yea r later, Thomas, no w fourteen, made himself independent. H e ha d some posters printed announcing a concert by "Master T.T." and headed south. He woul d get permissio n to us e a hotel dining room , then g o around tow n tacking up his posters. "When the time for the concert arrived , I would stand at the door of the hall and take the money until I concluded that my audience was about gathered, after which I would go to the front of the hall, unpack my violin, an d begi n th e concert! " H e wa s driven ou t o f one Mississipp i town because the authorities believed the fiddle to be the devil's instrument. When he stepped on his violin while camping in the woods, he repaired and re-glued the instrument at the nearest carpenter's shop and played a concert o n it the next day. This resourceful boy is father to the conductor, manager, impresario, tour director , an d fund-raise r wh o woul d soon begi n t o chang e America' s musical life. At fifteen , Theodor e Thoma s foun d himsel f back in New York. He mean t to g o t o Europ e t o stud y but wa s snagge d instea d b y a n appointmen t a s concertmaster a t a newl y established Germa n theater . H e playe d in man y

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orchestras, in New York and on tour. His diet included a lot of opera, and what he hear d fro m th e grea t singers he worke d with—among the m Jenn y Lind, Henriette Sontag, Giulia Grisi, Giovanni Mario, Raffaele Mirate , and Adelin a Patti—gave him a lifelong ideal for phrasing and tone. In 1854 , he was elected a membe r of the Ne w Yor k Philharmonic , the n just beginning t o becom e a respectable professiona l orchestra. Wit h th e pianis t Willia m Mason , h e organized a serie s o f chambe r musi c concerts i n Ne w York , settin g a ne w standard in America for the performanc e of that repertory. Thomas's lust for expanding American horizon s is in evidenc e early . On thei r debu t program, on 2 7 November 185 5 a t Dodsworth' s Hall, he , Mason , and th e cellis t Car l Bergmann (late r conducto r o f th e Ne w Yor k Philharmonic ) gav e th e firs t performance anywher e of Brahms's B-major Trio , op. 8! His positio n a s concertmaste r o f th e Ullman n Oper a brough t hi m opportunities t o lea d th e orchestra , an d h e becam e America' s firs t rea l conductor—that is, an interpretive artist rather than just a time-beater. About 1860, Thomas realize d that his apprenticeship was over and he began to see the direction his life must take. In her Memoirs of Theodore Thomas, his widow, Rose Fay Thomas, quotes him in words of characteristic simplicity: "In 186 2 I concluded t o devot e m y energies t o th e cultivatio n o f th e publi c tast e for instrumental music. Our chambe r concerts had created a spasmodic interest, our programme s were reprinted as models of their kind , even in Europe, and our performances had reached a high standard. As a concert violinist, I was at this time popular, and played much. But what this country needed mos t of all to make it musical was a good orchestra, and plenty of concerts within reac h of th e people . The [Ne w York] Philharmoni c Society , with a body of about sixty player s an d fiv e yearl y subscriptio n concerts, wa s th e onl y organized orchestra which represented orchestral literature in this large country." It was obvious to Thoma s tha t what th e Ne w Yor k Philharmoni c offere d was insufficien t i n both quantit y an d quality . It wasn' t goo d enough an d i t didn't reach enough people. Thomas got New York's best players together and began to give concerts of his own. The firs t of them, at Irving Hall on 1 3 May 1862, included the American premiere of Wagner's Flying Dutchman Overture. Theodore Thoma s was on his way. Over the course of the next ten years he became conductor o f the Brookly n Philharmonic, retainin g tha t post almost continuously until 1891 . He established his "Symphonic Soirees" on a regular basis, giving New York programs comparable to the best that might be heard in London, Paris, Vienna, or anywhere. He established a series of lighter summer concerts, leading 1,227 of them in eight years, most of them in the brand new Central Park. But the most important thing happened in 1869. That was when he took his orchestra of fifty-four o n tour for the firs t time. Having given New York a first-class orchestral culture, he was ready to extend his missionary work to the res t of the country . One ca n say it simply: Baltimore, Boston, Chicago, Cincinnati, Cleveland , Detroit , Indianapolis , Philadelphia , Pittsburgh ,

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Rochester, San Francisco, Washington, an d a dozen other cities have flourishing symphony orchestras today because they were tour stops for Theodore Thomas , over and over , and becaus e he lef t a tast e for the soun d of Beethoven and Wagner, Mozart and Schumann, Berlio z and Brahms. Thomas sketched this itinerary for that first tour: New York—New Haven— Hartford—Providence—Boston—Worcester—Springfield, Massachusetts — Albany—Schenectady—Utica—Syracuse—Rochester—Buffalo—Cleveland —Toledo—Detroit—Chicago—St. Louis—Indianapolis—Louisville — Cincinnati—Dayton—Springfield, Ohio—Columbus—Pittsbur g (the n stil l without its h)—Washington—Baltimore—Philadelphia—New York. It followed the railway ; moreover, unlik e someon e plannin g a n orchestr a tou r today , Thomas di d not have to worry about the schedules of local orchestras: except in St. Louis, where one had been founded in 1860 , there weren' t any. The Theodor e Thoma s Orchestra , a s it wa s called, di d no t hi t al l thos e cities th e firs t tim e around , but tha t list, with occasional expansion s t o such places as Kansas City, Milwaukee, Minneapolis, and Omaha, pretty well defines what came to be known as the Thomas Highway . He and his players traveled this Highwa y on a n averag e of three time s a year from 186 9 unti l 1891 . On e year Thoma s toure d th e South , anothe r too k hi m throug h New England t o Montreal. In 188 3 and 188 5 he crossed the continent, once covering a whole series of Canadian citie s an d towns , the othe r tim e returning through Texas. In June 1883 , h e conducted a notable se t of seven concerts i n San Francisco, twenty-eight years before there wa s a San Francisc o Symphony , including a Wagner nigh t wit h thre e singer s i n selection s fro m Lohengrin, Tannhduser, Walkure, an d Gotterddmmerung, an d a Beethoven nigh t with the Consecration of th e House Overture, the Fift h Symphony, the variations from the Septet, th e first movemen t o f the Pian o Concert o No . 3 , and voca l pieces, endin g wit h the "Hallelujah! " Choru s fro m Christ on the Mount of Olives. The poin t of Thomas's tour s was summed up in an 186 9 article in Dwight's Journal of Music, the n the equa l of any musical periodical in the world. This is what Dwight's said of the Thomas Orchestra's firs t concerts in Boston: "Boston has not hear d such performances before.. . . We rejoice in the coming of this orchestra. It is just the kin d o f thing we, for years, have longed fo r in view of our own progress here.... We thank Mr. Thomas for setting palpably before us a higher idea l of orchestral execution. W e shall demand better o f our own in the future . The y cannot witness this example without a newly kindled desire , followed b y an effor t t o do likewise." That was what i t was all about. A goo d teache r work s toward the poin t when he or she becomes unnecessary. In the same sense, the goal of the Thoma s Orchestra tour s was t o becom e unnecessar y a s American citie s establishe d their own orchestras and concert series , though in some cities the dauntin g excellence o f th e visitor s inhibited loca l enterpris e fo r a fe w years. Boston, founding its Symphony Orchestra i n 1881 , was the firs t city fully t o rise to th e

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Thomas Orchestra's challenge, an d for all the satisfaction this gave Thomas, it was bitte r fo r him t o los e hi s best tou r cit y an d th e on e tha t offere d hi m a singularly cultivated and prepared audience. Later he twice turned down offer s to become the Boston Symphony's conductor. He finally disbanded the Thomas Orchestra i n 1888 , nine years after he had been named conductor of the New York Philharmonic. Th e missionar y task of traveling on behalf o f symphonic music wa s assume d afte r th e tur n o f th e centur y b y th e newl y founde d Minneapolis Symphony (now Minnesota Orchestra), which by the midpoint of the twentieth centur y had played more than three thousan d concert s i n over four hundred communities , most of which had n o orchestras of their own. Besides takin g hi s orchestra o n tour , Theodore Thoma s di d man y othe r things, not al l of them successful . H e was Musical Director of the Centennial Exposition in Philadelphia i n 1876, and as America's No. 1 Wagnerian offered a commissio n t o der Meister. Th e cos t wa s enormous , th e reward—th e undistinguished Centennial March—small. Thomas' s involvemen t wit h th e Centennial Exhibition was a fiscal disaster as well. Those crowd s simply could not be persuaded to go to symphony concerts. Thoma s foun d himsel f in debt to the point that th e Philadelphia Sherif f seized and sold at auction his library of score s an d orchestra l parts , plus books, percussio n instruments, podium , desk, and inkstand. Fortunately a friend i n New York, Dr. Franz Zinzer, heard of the disaster in time to come to the rescue by buying the lot, renting it to Thomas for $10 0 a year, and afte r tw o years making it over to Mrs. Thomas a s a gift . Another disappointmen t wa s hi s directorshi p o f th e newl y founde d Cincinnati College of Music (now the College-Conservatory of the University of Cincinnati) . He ha d hope d t o establis h a stron g scholarship progra m for gifted youn g musicians, but hi s board was interested onl y i n thos e student s whose parents could pa y the ful l tariff . A happie r relationship wit h tha t cit y evolved when Thomas founded the Cincinnati May Festival, still going strong, and directed it until his death. He was Artistic Director of the American Oper a Company, devoted to opera in English and opera without stars, but this proved another financia l morass, and Thomas los t his shirt in that misadventure. More happily, he was conductor o f the Ne w York Philharmonic fro m 187 9 to 1891 . In 1891 , he founded the Chicago Orchestra , rename d th e Theodor e Thomas Orchestra in his memory, and now the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. He had, all things considered, chosen a tough road, but then, from the time he had landed in New York as a boy, he was used to hard work. Still, the financial struggle to make his various enterprises go was unremitting, an d of course th e tours themselves were exhausting. When he gave them up in order to settle in Chicago, h e was, at fifty-six, a prematurely old man.1 1 Another her o amon g nineteenth-centur y musica l missionaries in America wa s the extraordinar y Norwegian violinist Ol e Bull, who, beginning in 184 3 an d continuin g unti l hi s death i n 1880 , gav e many hundred s o f concerts al l over thi s country . H e wa s a greater musical geniu s than Theodor e Thomas an d a far more flamboyant personality, but h e had non e o f Thomas's organizationa l skills.

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Chicago wa s a splendi d fina l chapter , whos e culminatio n wa s Thomas' s success at persuading the board to endow his orchestra permanently. "I would gladly go to hell if they gave me a permanent orchestra, " he had exclaimed i n 1889. He also talked the board into building him a proper hall. He conducte d the inaugura l concert a t Theodore Thoma s Orchestr a Hal l on 1 4 December 1904- The Salut e t o th e Hal l o f Song from Tannhduser, th e Beethoven Fifth , Death and Transfiguration, an d the "Hallelujah! " Chorus from Handel's Messiah were o n th e program . The Straus s tone poe m prove d a spookil y propheti c choice, fo r this gala was Theodore Thomas' s last concert. A cold progressed to pneumonia, an d he died in the earl y morning of 4 January 1905. I wish I had a clearer idea of what sort of music Theodore Thoma s made . Unassuming o n th e podium , h e regularl y rouse d audience s t o enthusiasm . Anton Rubinstein, Wieniawski, Nikisch, and Gericke were among the musicians who admire d him . Bu t neithe r newspape r review s no r th e comment s o f colleagues are specifi c enoug h t o give a picture of his style. Some o f what h e did surel y would no t sui t us : fo r example , hi s liberall y thickene d an d reorchestrated Bac h or his decision o n one occasion i n Chicago t o drop th e finale of Beethoven's Nint h from D to C so as to make it easier for the singers. But he constantly rethought such questions, just as he never stopped absorbing new scores or coming up with new ideas for the improvemen t o f the musical state of the union . He had difficulties an d his life was not fre e of friction, but he was recognized and appreciated , valued and loved, during his life as well as after his death. Of all the things I have read about Thomas, th e one that touched m e most was a letter written to him on 26 October 190 1 by the architect Daniel H. Burnham, the inspired designer of the Chicago Loop (including Orchestra Hall, Thomas' s last dream) and of such masterpieces as New York's Flatiron Building and th e Union Station in Washington, D.C. Burnham was in Washington with Frederick Law Olmsted, th e landscap e architect o f New York's Central Park , Yosemite, and the Stanford University campus; Charles Pollen McKim, architect of New York's Pennsylvania Station and the Boston Public Library; and Augustus SaintGaudens, America's greatest sculptor. "We have talked of you constantly," wrote Burnham, "and wis h you were with us and you have come in and take n part almost as if present in body as well as in spirit. The Senat e has appointed us to improve th e par k system. . . . Again ha s come th e ol d joy of creating nobl e things [and ] altogethe r w e have rise n where I never hope d t o trea d i n thi s existence. And you have been with us and we all think of how much of our power to dream truly we owe to you, dear friend an d comrade! " It is noteworthy that Thomas's entir e caree r took place in this country; he never played or conducted a single concert in Europe, though he was renowned and respected there. And when he was invited to conduct at the Paris Exposition of 1900 , his indignation ove r th e Dreyfu s tria l made it impossibl e for him t o

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accept. H e replie d t o th e invitatio n with characteristi c an d ters e dignity: "I regret sincerel y tha t circumstance s hav e s o change d o f lat e tha t I a s a n American, wh o lov e justic e an d liberty , a m prevente d fro m visitin g th e Metropolis of France next summer." His is the story , of course, of how our musical life came to be what it is, but more largel y it i s a stor y o f enterprise , resilienc e an d goo d humor , infinit e resourcefulness, a willingness to improvise, faith in education and improvement, belief in a land of unlimited possibilities. I see it also as a story of America at its best, and that makes it a special pleasure, at this dark moment i n our history, to look at it and to retell it.

—M.S.

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Sigmutid Spaeth? Someone You Should Know

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igmund Spaeth . Th e nam e hardl y seems real. Yet it wa s real enoug h between th e 1920 s and th e earl y 1960s, fou r decade s during which h e wrote thirty-two books—good sellers, most of them—and hundreds of articles in newspapers and such magazines as Esquire, The New Yorker, and Th e Saturday Evening Post. He was friendly with George Gershwin and recalled th e afternoon when he dropped in on the composer just as he was writing the last notes o f An American in Paris. He turne d page s for Richard Straus s on th e stage of Philadelphia's Academ y of Music while the grea t soprano Elisabet h Schumann san g the composer's lieder. He was a dinner companio n t o Albert Einstein, playe d chess with the violinis t Misch a Elman, and appeare d at th e White House , twice , a t th e reques t o f Franklin Roosevelt . A s "Th e Tun e Detective," h e took to the stag e at Radio City Music Hall. For years he was a regular on the Metropolitan Opera Quiz, the intermission feature of the Met's radio broadcasts. On television he appeared with Jack Benny, Steve Allen, Art Linkletter, Mike Wallace. He died in 1965 , a year that continues t o recede, as bygone years will do; but figure s fro m th e past sometimes seem even larger to us than they did to those who encountered the m every day—Gershwin, perhaps, or FDR . Yo u can't sa y that abou t Sigmun d Spaeth . Durin g hi s lifetime , h e seemed t o be everywhere you looked. Who know s him today ? Yet Sigmun d Spaeth' s lif e i s more tha n a n objec t lesson i n th e temporary nature o f human glory . During his time, h e was one o f America's best-know n

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music popularizers, an d h e i s still one o f the mos t tireles s workers on music' s behalf tha t thi s countr y has known. H e was a believer. "Music for Everybody" was not simply the title of his syndicated newspaper column; it was the motto he lived by. But perhaps he believed too strongly. Perhaps his intensity, the source of so much of his appeal, eventually got the best of him, cutting him off toward the end fro m th e trul y populist ideal he cherished . Fo r today Sigmund Spaet h i s a cultural artifact, part of a past we will eventually and inevitably forget, since so much els e i s so much mor e important—th e grea t music, fo r example, whos e rhythms and harmonies shape d him , an d which continue s t o extend it s living influence int o th e presen t an d into th e future . Sigmun d Spaeth' s subjec t was greater than he was. He wouldn't have argue d otherwise. He served music, but music also brought him celebrity that he enjoyed. In the end, as the world around him expanded an d the pond he swam in grew, he just displaced less volume. He was born in Philadelphia o n 10 April 1885, the son of a Lutheran minister who had emigrate d fro m German y twent y years earlier. His father compose d hymns, his mother playe d piano an d organ , an d sh e edited th e Church Book with Music an d wrote a book on Hans Sachs , her o o f Die Meistersinger, whic h would become Sigmund's favorite opera. Sig, second youngest of seven children , grew up in a household wher e music was a given. Everyone, but fo r one olde r brother, san g and playe d piano o r violin, whic h wa s not a s remarkable in a n upper-middle-class home o f the lat e nineteenth century as it would be today. "It was always taken for granted in the Spaeth famil y that anyone a t all could both sing and pla y on som e instrument, b y note or by ear," Sig wrote in th e "Personal Reminiscences" wit h which h e prefaced his Fifty Years with Music, a book publishe d i n 1959 , b y which tim e phonograph s ha d take n th e plac e of the famil y piano . " I cannot remember just when I learned t o read music, for I assumed i t wa s a perfectl y normal process , lik e learnin g t o spea k an d rea d one's ow n language." For the rest of his life, he would believe that "anyone a t all" could sin g or play music, and tha t conviction drov e him in his campaign on music' s behalf. He fel t "tha t if you understood [music ] a little better , lik e how the themes are put together, for example, that it would be more enjoyable," said his grand-niece, Patrici a Spaeth, i n 2002 . "So that you know what's going on. Like some of us go to a football game and have no idea of what's going on, and it's really hard to enjoy it if you just see this ball going back and forth. It's the sam e way when yo u hear al l these instrument s goin g back an d forth. " A musician herself, Patricia Spaet h recall s Sig's visits when sh e was growing up in Southern California : th e famou s uncl e fro m bac k East dropping in during his trip s to Hollywood , cheerin g u p her widowe d mother an d exercisin g hi s prerogative as an eminence, an d a childless on e at that, t o assume a paternal role t o th e youn g girl and he r brothers . Si g entertained th e kid s with corn y jokes, but he also played piano duets with Pat, reliving those parlo r musicales of his own childhood .

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Sig attended Haverfor d College and did graduate work at Princeton, wher e he wa s concertmaster o f a string orchestra conducte d b y Philip Mittell . Sig claims that Mittell had been a friend of Brahms's, but the name Mittell appears in no Brahms literature I have seen, an d when I asked one of the composer's recent biographer s if he had encountered i t in his research, he drew a blank. None of this means that Mittell had no Brahms connection, bu t it does suggest that Sig—o r perhap s Mittell—was overstatin g th e relationshi p b y using th e word "friend." Throughout his college days Sig sang in glee clubs and arranged music fo r theatrica l productions . H e listene d t o concert s b y th e Ne w Yor k Philharmonic, which , he says, visited the Princeton campus under the directio n of Gustav Mahler—though this informatio n is also difficult t o confirm . Th e New York Philharmonic ha s no documentation o f having played at Princeto n under Mahler, but its records from thes e years are incomplete. I am not out to prove tha t Sigmun d Spaet h wa s deliberately misleading hi s readers, nor d o two questionabl e assertion s tha t can' t b e verifie d o r conclusivel y disproved establish a pattern; yet it is hard not t o feel that Sig was trying to deflect some glory i n hi s direction. Bu t othe r publi c figures , mor e famou s tha n Sigmund Spaeth, have done worse, and his contentions her e ar e pretty innocent. Sig took hi s Ph.D. no t i n musi c but i n English , German , an d philosophy, and for a brief period after his graduation in 1909 he taught German at Princeto n as a member of Woodrow Wilson's faculty . In 1912 , after a few years teaching at a boys' school i n North Carolina , wher e he als o coached football , soccer, and swimming, he went to New York to work half time at the publishing house of G. Schirmer. Then he got his break—what he calls his "surprise appointment" as music critic on the Evening Mail. The staf f included sports writer Grantland Rice, cartoonist Rube Goldberg, and reporter Ed Sullivan. The offic e boy, B. P "Benny" Schulberg, would go on to become a motion pictur e magnate and to father a son named Budd, who achieved even greater celebrity as the author of What Makes Sammy Run ? an d screenplay s for such films a s On th e Waterfront and Th e Harder They Fall. Only i f you were made of granite would you not b e shaped by company such as this. Spaeth's nex t caree r move , afte r a stint coverin g sport s for the Ne w York Times, seems a retreat into calme r territor y from th e charge d atmospher e a t the Evening Mail, bu t i t was really what pushe d hi m int o th e fron t line . H e took a position as educational director and promotion manager for the electri c player pian o calle d th e Ampico . I n hi s new capacity, he bega n speakin g o n music, and h e made his first radi o appearances. His public life ha d begun . I n 1924 he published his first book, The Common Sense of Music, which he calle d "the first serious attempt to approach music in general from the layman's point of view and in everyday language, completely eliminating technica l terms. " His goal was noble. I t was to bring music to the people. His method wa s to demystify, t o reduc e complexitie s t o simpl e forms . H e woul d disassembl e a

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Haydn symphony, say, taking care to number the gears and valves and gaskets before spreading them out for examination, an d then he put them back together again. He coul d com e u p with felicities of phrasing that spoke directly to his audience, suc h as this from "Symphonies for Business Men," an article written before th e onse t o f the Grea t Depression an d included i n his 1929 collectio n They Still Sing of Love: "For m in music is very much th e sam e as form i n golf . Essentially it represents the power to secure the greatest results with the leas t waste of effort. " In the same piece, he expounds on aesthetics fo r Everyman. '"Why do men write symphonies? ' ask s th e Practica l Busines s Man . 'Ther e i s certainly n o money i n it.'" Granted, say s Spaeth. Bu t "th e tru e creative artis t alway s has the urg e t o d o somethin g i n th e gran d manner , an d this"—her e come s th e punch—"applies even t o th e books , th e drama s an d th e epi c poem s o f th e world, man y o f which ar e a dea d los s commercially." H e continue s wit h a n object lesson in listening, renderin g the abstract concrete b y appealing to what his "Practical Busines s Man" already knows: "The bes t advice to the business man who would like t o enjoy a symphony is that he shoul d liste n t o it in th e same way that he looks at a cathedral o r a great picture or a group of statuary. With a book o r a play , i t i s different, an d rathe r easier . For a book o r a play presents only one thing at a time, out of which a complete impression is gradually built u p . . .. You cannot completely enjoy or appreciate a symphony in a single hearing an y more tha n you can gras p th e significanc e o f a cathedral wit h a passing glance. " Wha t effec t migh t hi s word s hav e ha d o n thes e practica l commercial gents of the lat e 1920s , many of whom were just a few years away from becoming tragi c figures, stepping into eternity from thei r offic e windows fifteen stories above Wall Street because a system they trusted had failed? Would any o f th e acquaintance s the y ma y hav e mad e throug h Spaeth—say , th e recollected beauty of a passage from Mozart—have brought them back to safety? Spaeth almos t always had som e genuine knowledg e t o impart, and almos t always he began by imparting it in a n engaging way, as he doe s in his tips for "businessmen." Ye t once on to a good thing, h e found i t all but impossibl e to stop, like an evangelist who will not res t his case until th e las t member of his congregation step s forwar d t o b e saved . I hav e quote d fro m th e firs t thre e paragraphs o f "Symphonie s fo r Business Men." Th e essa y continue s fo r te n more pages, and the variations Spaeth writes on his theme prov e only that he was no Elgar or Brahms. Yet he could cut to the chase. As early as 1929, in "What's the Matter with Music?" Spaeth addresse d a question that has yet to be resolved. "The athleti c coach in an American schoo l or college would not drea m of seriously urging his pupils to adopt a professional athletic career . . . . Yet the musi c teacher, with a smaller an d les s lucrative fiel d tha n that o f professional athletics, encourage s any more-than-average talen t t o 'go in for a career.' As a result, the ver y ones

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who shoul d b e developin g int o goo d amateur s an d therefor e eve n bette r listeners, ar e strugglin g with th e problem s o f professionalism , eventually becoming, at best, the tradespeople of their art." This is gutsy writing. It shows how much he cared. The Spaet h metho d o f demystifying reache s it s culmination i n one o f his most ambitiou s projects , his 193 6 Great Symphonies: Ho w t o Recognize an d Remember Them. To my mind, this sums up his inconsistency a s a writer and as a proselytizer , for i t i s perhap s als o hi s bigges t miscalculation . I n Great Symphonies, Spaet h fit s lyric s of hi s ow n t o staple s o f th e basi c symphoni c repertory. He was not th e firs t t o do this, an d others hav e don e i t since, no t always with as noble a n intent as Sig's; but whe n a certain Mabell e Glenn of Kansas City asked him t o prepare a set of mnemonic aid s for a convention of music teachers i n her hom e town , h e was on hi s way to becoming th e mos t celebrated o f these unlikel y collaborators. His Kansa s City project gave him the idea for an entire boo k devoted t o what he called "symphoni c texts." H e outlined hi s guiding principles: The text s "must be simple and direct enoug h to appeal to children, but not so silly as to offend intelligen t adults. " The point , again, is to render what might be intimidating a little less scary for new listeners. Once that is accomplished, he can go for the bull's-eye and get down to teaching musical form: "Th e compose r does things with these tunes, " he points out in his first chapter, "like a playwright or a novelist working with his characters, so every symphony really has a musical plot, in which each movement i s like a n act i n a play. " Throughout hi s book, Spaet h manage s t o conve y lesson s i n musical structure . There i s alway s a caveat , however , an d i n thi s cas e i t is Spaeth's "lyrics. " Eve n a s you rea d this , h e ma y b e answerin g fo r the m t o Beethoven, Mozart , and Haydn . A s generou s a s one want s t o be , Spaeth' s verses tend to range from th e odd to the out-and-out bizarre. They have a sort of inspired goofiness about them, an d the y swell with unintended humor—th e sorts of things with which graduate students in the liberal arts might entertai n each othe r a t partie s afte r havin g ha d to o muc h t o drink , lik e reciting , fro m memory, the first twenty lines of The Canterbury Tales Prologue in Middle English. All thi s said , I must share som e of Spaeth's lyrics . Here i s the openin g of Mozart's Symphon y No. 40 , which onl y h e an d Rober t Schuman n see m t o hear a s happy music. With a laugh and a smile like a sunbeam, And a face that is glad, with a fun-beam, We can start on our way very gaily, Singing tunes from a symphony daily; And if Mozart could but hear us,

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Here is what he does with the melody that opens the second movement of Beethoven's Fifth : When the moon rises in the sky, And all the stars of Heav'n are shining clear on high, We fear no Fate, No task to o great, We are masters!

And then this, for the great blaze of C major that opens the last movement: Fall in line, and let your armor shine! We have won, we have won, And all the struggle with our enemy is done!

(Personally, I may never forgiv e hi m fo r that one. I first encountere d thes e lines when I was in high school. To this day I have difficulty thinkin g o f that great momen t withou t Sigmun d Spaeth' s nutt y verse s bangin g aroun d between th e trumpet s and the violins , threatenin g t o turn the whole thin g into a Looney Tune.) Here is the opening of the "Merry Gathering of Country Folk" in Beethoven's Pastoral Symphony: The peasants are dancing and prancing together, The weather means nothing to them, ha, ha, ha! Now swing your partner and don't let her go, A dance in the country is never too slow!

More: The openin g of Schumann's Rhenish Symphony: Rhineland, lovely Rhineland, Superfine land, Full of beauty, song, and story, Land of legend, land of glory!

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My personal favorite is the openin g of the Brahm s Fourth: Hello! Hello! What ho! What ho! Hello! What ho! Hello! What ho!

This give s you a n ide a o f what t o expec t fro m Great Symphonies. I thin k these verses are ridiculous, and I take pleasure in sharing them. But Sigmund Spaeth was not a ridiculous man—not even in his role as the "Tune Detective," in which he found surprising though usually not very meaningful correspondences between famous tunes. He points out, for example, the similarities between th e Westminster Chimes of Big Ben and one of the tune s in the las t movement of the Brahms First Symphony—the one played by muted horns over shimmering strings, jus t befor e th e bi g chorale them e make s its firs t appearanc e in th e trombones. The ability to spot things like this may strike you as a perverse sort of talent, yet Spaeth was often called on to testify i n songwriters' plagiarism suits. His writing could be stylish and elegant, o r plodding. He wrote a lot, an d one has the impression that he did not spend much time revising or agonizing over his words or his purpose. He knew he was right. At th e sam e time, he was a realist. In Opportunities i n Music, publishe d in 1950 by a firm calle d Vocationa l Guidance Manuals , he produce d an entir e volume on the various niches th e music business offers, fro m performing artist to agent. And wh o can quibble with advice such as this: To those who honestly believe that they can win out as independent artist s on a big scale one can only say, "Be absolutely sure that you have no t merel y an impressive talent bu t suc h extraordinary gift s a s to amount t o positive genius . Do not accep t the flatterin g opinions o f your friends and relative s as to your ability. Get yourself heard if possible by experienced an d unprejudice d judges and by neutral audience s whose reaction s ar e presumably sincere. Convinc e yourself that you have worke d honestly and thoroughly, under competent teaching , an d that you are fully equippe d for a professiona l performanc e befor e askin g anyon e t o pa y t o hea r you . Mak e perfection your ideal, and do not be satisfied with anything 'good enough' even if it is indulgently accepted . Whe n there i s no longe r an y reasonable doub t a s to your fitness fo r a professiona l career , ge t hol d o f th e necessar y capita l someho w an d begin th e arduou s campaign of'winning friend s and influencing people.'"

Sigmund Spaeth did not focus solely on concert music, nor was his emphasis merely on listening . H e wante d people to make music . He love d barbershop quartets and thought their performance within virtually everyone's grasp—or

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every man's, a t any rate. Barbershop quartets still exist, of course, and maybe I'm jus t revealin g th e limitation s o f my taste whe n I sa y that a littl e bi t o f "Sweet Adeline" in four-part harmony goes a long way. But I think that Spaeth's fondness for barbershop quartets really places him in another era , an era whose ideals were summed up by the 1950s , and which ended with JFK's assassination, Vietnam, an d Watergate. Concer t music survives such assault s on humanity . Barbershop quartets do not . Today, much of Sigmund Spaeth's writing can be read as social documentary, not just as a document o f musical taste and teaching. Jus t consider th e estee m in which h e was held b y those wh o had forgotten that they were ever young. The stiffnes s o f an entire generatio n i s summed up when Eugene Ormandy, in a foreword t o a 1952 reprint of Great Symphonies, says : "If every member of our concert audiences , plu s the multitud e o f radio an d recor d listeners , forme d the habit of approaching great symphonies in this entertaining an d informative manner, the enjoymen t of the masterpieces of music would unquestionably be vastly increased, fo r the benefit of all concerned." Th e prose , sapped of heart and color , ha s al l the eloquenc e o f an Eisenhowe r speech , an d i n th e smu g assurance of this defender of the old guard we get a sudden flash of why, in just a fe w years, Elvis would be s o adored, an d o f what, i n a few more years, th e 1960s woul d rebe l against . Ormand y i s not even hones t i n hi s introductory words. He claims that "these eas y little jingles are actually forgotten once the music is firmly established in the memory, having served their obvious purpose." Perhaps—but only if you encounter the m from Ormandy's perspective, which is the perspective of someone who has long known the music minus the words. For th e res t of us, these eas y little jingles , once the y hav e hacke d thei r way into brain cells, seem to replicate themselve s lik e computer viruses. Sig Spaeth stoppe d bein g a ma n o f his time . I n Januar y 1963 , tw o years before h e died , i n hi s prefac e to hi s las t book , Th e Importance o f Music, h e sounds a bitter chord that had been absent in his previous work. "The opinion s expressed ar e purel y personal, a s they shoul d be , an d i f they creat e violen t disagreement, o r even significan t controversy , s o much th e better . A t leas t they ar e completely honest , an d unfortunatel y complete honest y stil l seems difficult t o achiev e i n th e comple x fiel d o f music , wit h al l it s prejudices, exaggerated enthusiasms as well as criticisms, its frequently false values and its continued vulnerabilit y to the ancien t handicaps of snobbery and hypocrisy." Snob an d hypocrite are not word s to describe Sigmund Spaeth. Bu t for all his dedication t o the commo n man , t o music for everyone, he faile d t o grasp something essentia l in music's nature. Cal l it spontaneity an d improvisation . "It ha s lon g been a rule with popula r singers to sta y off the bea t a s much as possible, slowing up one phrase and hurrying another s o as to keep up a running fight with the basic time marked by the instrument s o f percussion," he writes in a 1952 review of Peggy Lee's recording of Richard Rodgers's "Lover," a review

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that becomes a condemnation o f song stylists—"one of the pe t abomination s of thi s reviewer. " He continues : "Distortion s o f melodic line ar e als o a fairl y old story, with classic models in th e 'breaks ' an d 'hot licks' of jazz." Then he assesses Peggy Lee's treatment o f the Rodgers : "The fac t tha t i t is done wit h fiendish skill makes it all the more objectionable." Sigmund Spaeth did not get it. Sigmund Spaeth did not realize that he didn't ge t it. He hated rock 'n' roll—hated it—and he believed it was his responsibility to say so. Perhaps it was just that change was coming too quickly for Sig, turning him into a proto-Patrick Buchanan . I n 1957 , he wrote this in his newspaper column: "Recen t newspape r headlines hav e emphasize d the fac t tha t th e illiterate gangsters of our younger generation are definitely influenced in their lawlessness by the parod y of music known as 'Rock 'n' Roll.' Either it actually stirs them t o savage orgies of sex and violence , o r they use it as an excuse for the removal of all inhibitions an d the complete disregard of the conventions of decency." Then he really let s go. "In a theater no t lon g ag o an ushe r an d severa l spectators were stabbed during a general riot of teen-agers. The picture which apparently aroused these violent emotion s was something called jamboree"—a B movie featuring Jerry Lee Lewis, Carl Perkins, Fats Domino, Slim Whitman, Franki e Avalon, Coun t Basic, Connie Francis, and Dick Clark, not name s tha t com e t o mind whe n you think about performers who might inspire a riot. In Jamboree, Sig continues, various reputabl e disc jockey s lent themselve s t o th e exploitatio n o f a serie s of Rock 'n' Roll specialties featuring imitators of Elvis Presley, whose leering, whining, moaning, an d suggestiv e lyrics blandly offered a vicarious sexual experience. If anyone missed the point of these filthy performances, a practically unique naivete would seem to be indicated. Ho w this picture ever passed the censor s is a mystery. Perhaps they are still unacquainted with the fact s o f life. Aside fro m th e illiterac y of this "music," it has proved itself definitely a menace t o youthful moral s and a n incitemen t t o juvenile delinquency. There i s no poin t i n soft-pedaling thes e fact s an y longer . The dail y papers provide sufficien t proo f of their existence .

All this strikes us as so much wind today, but i t is not th e rantin g of some old fuddy-duddy. These are the words of a man who felt th e essenc e of his lif e being threatened. Hi s great-niece Patricia, reflecting on this , think s tha t Sig fell prey to "the feeling you tend to get when you're fifty o r sixty, that the world is passing you by, and that suddenly there's all this incomprehensible stuf f going on—music, modes of dress, modes of art. I'm not certai n [Sig ] was necessarily just negative, but h e wa s saying Don't forget tha t thes e othe r peopl e are still

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there. I think he had a feeling that maybe Mozart and Beethoven weren't going to survive without their champions. " As hard as Spaeth worked on behalf of the music he loved, he campaigned against music he abhorred. In the 1950 s and 1960s , the Encyclopaedia Britannica Book o f the Year, fo r which h e wrot e critiques of the previou s twelve months ' worth of popular music, gave him an annual forum for this. Here we read him decrying "the menace of'rock 'n' roll'" that continued throug h 1959, the "curse of 'rock 'n' roll' [that ] stil l hung heavil y over most of the widel y heard songs [of 1960 , when ] mor e tha n 90 % o f thi s materia l coul d b e dismisse d a s unadulterated trash." He describes the rock 'n' roll of 1961 as "nauseous," and that year "even the titles appearing most frequently were singularly unattractive. Often the y consisted o f a single word—'Twist,' 'Kiddio,' 'Yogi,' 'Stay,' 'Sleep,' 'Hucklebuck,' 'Ruby, ' 'Calcutta,' 'Wheels,' 'Runaway,' 'Apache,' and 'Cryin'.'" The shee r intensity o f his fury say s much about the beast consuming him . Where did it lead ? In a follow-up to the colum n in which he describe d the "general riot of teen-agers," Spaeth reveals some responses to his evaluation of rock. He quotes one teenager's letter "verbatim, without correcting... spelling or English": "Elvi s Presley is the bes t singer in th e U.S . as proved by a recen t pole (sic) . He sing s wonderful and surle y (sic) acts well. That something you couldn't d o ... yo u are a square." "You are a square." It is a sad epitaph for a man s o dedicated t o populism, who eve n towar d th e en d o f hi s lif e coul d say , "Progressive educators no w realize that th e snobber y of the pas t was a serious mistake and kept million s from a n hones t enjoyment of music by making it a mystery and a matter of special privilege, talent an d experience. 'Musi c for Everybody' ha s become a literal possibility." He wante d peopl e to enjoy music . Imagine what he would think today, with Elvis an icon and five-CD collections o f rock 'n' roll classics of the 1950 s for sale on late-night TV . "I just couldn't seem to stop /Watching while other musical styles /Came stumbling to the top," wrote Patricia Spaeth's younger brother, Thaddeus Spae , in "Uncl e Sig, " a song he compose d abou t his famous relative. "Psychedelic and surf came through," Spae's lyrics continue, Heavy metal glitter and disco too Punk and funk and reggae, thrash and new wave Uncle Sig's whirling in his grave . . .

Maybe Sig died i n time , befor e h e ha d t o se e the pun k an d fun k comin g through, and the pilgrimages to Graceland. But had he witnessed it, might he have com e t o som e inner reconciliation , seein g a t las t that th e worl d is big enough fo r rock 'n ' roll and concert music , and mayb e discovering—though this is probably too much to hope for—tha t a love of one does not preclud e a love of the other ? In a n ideal world, he might have see n tha t the impuls e to

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make music, whatever form the music takes, was the same for Bach and Chuc k Berry. That we may not lik e all the music we hear, but that the reason music is bigger than any one o f us is that it—all of it—is so much a part of us all. An d that his work on music' s behalf was good work, despite its shortcomings an d occasional failures of vision. He lived, as Richard Rodgers said, "a productive and purposeful life." He died having earned th e right to be satisfied with what he had done. I hope he was.

—L.R.

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n 198 7 Isaa c Ster n playe d th e Brahm s Violin Concert o wit h th e Los Angeles Philharmonic , conducte d b y that orchestra's then favorite guest conductor, Kurt Sanderling. The opportunity to visit both these musicians was too good to miss, and wanting to ask Stern some questions about his early years in San Francisco, I called on him at the Beverly Hills house of his friend Richard Colburn , a generous patron of the art s with whom he was staying. I had hit , i t turne d out , on a topic especiall y dear t o him . S o here, fro m tha t sunny morning, is a bit of Stern on Stern . "I love Tokyo , I love Paris, New Yor k has been hom e fo r more than fort y years, and I always enjoy being there," h e said, relaxing after a rehearsal. "But San Francisco! One touc h of that fragran t fog, to see and smell the sunlight in some street—the memories that bring s back: my first tenni s gam e on a hard court, a place a t th e corne r o f Van Ness and Lombar d where the y had thes e fabulous thic k milkshakes , learning t o drive on on e of those Mode l T's wit h three pedals—I worked for a while with a pianist who lived right on one of the S-curves of Lombard, and when you've driven that you can drive anywhere— the Esse x that ble w a gasket on Californi a somewher e between Powel l and Stockton, m y whole childhood, everything. " Stern had last worked with Kurt Sanderling when they had done the Brahms Concerto wit h the Leningrad Philharmonic thirt y years ago. And it was in the Brahms that, fou r months sh y of his seventeenth birthday , he made his officia l

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debut with Pierre Monteux an d th e Sa n Francisc o Symphon y on 1 9 and 20 March 1937 , the Orchestra' s Silve r Jubilee season. The "rea l but unofficial " debut had happened th e year before with the Saint-Saens B-minor Concert o under th e directio n o f the Symphony' s Assistant Conducto r an d Principa l Cellist, Willem Van den Burg , with whom he had just enjoyed an unexpecte d reunion a few days before. "I was disappointed that Monteux wouldn't let me play the Sibelius," Stern remembers . "I didn't know any better." Did he recall the first time he heard the Brahms? A long, thoughtful silence yields the name of Kreisler, but tentatively . He shakes his head. " I don't know . Look it up and see who played it then." It was not Kreisler, who performed with the Symphony only once, in 1914, but it could have been Enescu, concertmaster Mishel Piastre, Nathan Milstein , Efrem Zimbalist, Heifetz, or the not quite fourteen-year-old Yehudi Menuhin . San Francisc o is where Isaac Stern gre w up, but i t was not hi s birthplace. That was a small Ukrainian tow n called Kremenetz . How did he com e to be raised i n San Francisco ? "First of all, ther e wa s a revolution i n Russia. That was the reason for getting out. We settled in San Francisco because my mother had relatives there. In Russia, my father had been trained t o be an amateur— an amateur in painting, in music, in living. When he came to America he had to mak e a living, s o he becam e a hous e painter . H e die d i n 1945 , o f leadpoisoning." Estranged for a time, father and son were closer again toward the end: "H e mad e folders an d file s fo r my music, kept track of my clippings. H e lived lon g enoug h a t leas t t o se e th e possibilitie s of my life." Stern' s mother , who sang and from whom he learned muc h in childhood, live d until 1981 . Where di d th e Stern s live ? "Al l ove r th e place . O n 43r d Avenue , o n California, on Buchanan near Mr. Blinder"—Naoum Blinder, the San Francisco Symphony's concertmaster an d Stern's principal teacher. "I n 193 2 we moved to New York so that I could work with Louis Persinger"—former San Francisco Symphony concertmaster and teacher of Yehudi Menuhin. "W e stayed for four months, bu t mone y an d opportunit y ran ou t an d w e cam e back. " B y then Stern ha d bee n studying violin fo r four years . " I began a t th e Sa n Francisc o Conservatory when I was eight. M y very firs t teacher ? Somebody. I'll ge t i n trouble fo r no t remembering . The n a t th e Conservatory , ther e wa s Ada Clement, Lilia n Hodgehead, Natha n Abbas, Robert Pollack—Lord, these are names I haven't spoken in years. Ernest Bloch was Director of the Conservatory and conducted th e orchestra, and I was his concertmaster before my feet could reach th e floor. " He laughs : "Everybody created m y career; some really had a hand in it." Stern continues t o think of those who "really had a hand i n it." "There was Miss Lutie D. Goldstein—it was always Miss Lutie D. Goldstein—who bought me my first fiddle, and Cantor Reube n Rinder, who made the shittach [di d the match-making]. And Dr . Leo Eloasser, a brain surgeon, so high"—Stern levels

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his hand about four feet off the floor—"a most execrable violist and a remarkable man a t whose house we used to play chamber music." At twelve , Isaac Stern was alread y somebody on th e Sa n Francisc o musica l scene. "Yes , all right, I was the talente d ki d on the block. I began at eight, when violinists ar e really already over the hill . Yes, my parents were surprised and the y were delighted. They were not fulfillin g a lack in their own lives by forcing me to become what they hadn't become. I learned musi c to be educated, not t o become a fiddler. You weren't educated i f you didn't pla y music." Stern's retur n t o Sa n Francisc o als o marke d th e beginnin g o f what h e remembers as "the mos t seminal period" of his young years, those years fro m twelve to seventeen whe n he worked with Naoum Blinder, always referred t o as "Mr. Blinder." Stern learne d a lot o f violin fro m Mr . Blinder, but wha t h e learned abou t musi c more generall y and abou t attitude , ethica l stance , an d commitment wa s no les s important . Th e endles s quarte t partie s with olde r musicians, most of them members of the Symphony, were an important part of that—"quartet upon quartet upon quartet, then an enormous meal, then another couple of quartets. Hausmusik, that's real living with music. That's why someone like Sanderling is so familiar t o me, someone who comes out o f that culture of living music, where music is essential. And ho w important it was to learn no t just at lessons but in the doing . And thes e experience d musicians , with great love they didn't hesitate t o give me hell." That was his real education. "I went to school for about a year. Then I got what they fancifully calle d tutors, people who ha d rea d a little mor e tha n I . When I was eleven I too k th e Stanfor d intelligence test . I tested out at sixteen. 'G o home,' they said." He began going to hear a lot of music as well. The peopl e who left the most powerful an d lastin g impression , tim e havin g sorte d ou t s o much , wer e Rachmaninoff, especiall y whe n h e playe d Beethoven ; Artu r Schnabel ; Bronislaw Huberman (who m Thomas Mann called "the ugl y little sorcerer"— der hdfiliche kleine Hexenmeister), th e grea t Polis h violinis t wh o wen t o n t o found what is now the Israel Philharmonic; "an d of course Yehudi." Later there was Heifet z ("yo u really want t o thro w you r fiddl e away" ) an d als o Joseph Szigeti, whos e performance s of Bac h an d twentieth-centur y musi c mad e tremendous impact . Th e Symphony' s conducto r the n wa s anothe r grea t musician and memorable personality, Alfred Hertz, "bald as an egg and with a beard as dense as Rasputin's. He was the man with the hair in the wrong place. He was Jovian and jovial in one. He and [hi s wife] Lil y were the artisti c bosses in town, there was no question about that." Opera was important too. "Most of all I remember my first Ring. Bodanzky conducted, an d we had Flagstad and Melchior and Lotte Lehmann in the same Walkure, and Friedrich Schorr, when you could still tell which note he was singing." Not onl y did Stern lo g hours of chamber music each week, but he went t o hear other s pla y it a s well. "I first hear d al l the Beethove n quartet s with th e

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Budapest, an d the y playe d Bartok an d othe r moder n composer s too. Th e members of the Quartet wer e younger than all the young quartets today, but mature! And those recordings stand up! Joseph Roisman"—the quartet's leader from 192 9 until th e grou p disbanded i n 1967—"i n thos e day s ha d th e bes t bow arm around. Heifetz use d to come and watch him. It was from Roisma n that I learned the essential thing, that you let the phrase determine the bowing and that you have to have the flexibility to do any bowing the phrase requires. Did you notice at the rehearsal that I got them to change some bowings in the first movement?" I had. Stern had done it wordlessly, with body language alone, and concertmaster Sidney Weiss and his section had picked it up without missing a beat. "That came right out of what I learned fro m watching Roisman." Stern wa s sixtee n whe n Pierr e Monteu x cam e t o th e Sa n Francisc o Symphony, an d tha t bega n anothe r crucia l an d wonderfu l chapte r i n hi s education. He went to Symphony rehearsals constantly. First he watched Mr. Blinder. "Whe n h e wa s leading, NOBOD Y sa t lik e THIS! " Ster n collapse s into th e bac k of his chair. "Th e conductor-concertmaste r relationshi p i s aid with respect in one direction, comradeshi p with respect in the other." Seein g Mr. Blinder and Monteux work together taught him this. "With Monteux the question was always 'What is it all about?' Why do you play, not how. Going to those rehearsals, I learned how to look. I learned how to know. Once, someone asked William Steinberg how he learned al l that music, and he said—a thic k layer o f German accen t suddenl y covers Stern's comfortabl e voice—'I don' t learn zem, I know zem.' Monteux was like that. He was imperturbable. There was no way you could shock him. He shocked me , though. When I first me t him he aske d me about girlfriends. I stuttered around and said I didn't hav e time. And h e said, 'When I was your age I already had my sixth mistress.' You know, he'd starte d as a fiddler a t the Folies-Bergeres. I told him that was what I really called starting from th e bottoms up. He liked that. I was supposed to have playe d the Brahm s with hi m i n Londo n o n th e 4t h o f May 1964" — Monteux, a t eighty-nine , wa s the n i n th e thir d yea r of a twenty-five-yea r contract a s Chief Conducto r o f th e Londo n Symphony . "It didn' t happen , though, an d h e die d tha t summer . Once I was together wit h Monteu x an d Casals, an d I realized those tw o had 16 0 years of experience betwee n them . Not jus t experience, but digested experience." In 1937 , Stern ventured to New York for his first recital there. "I didn't tear up th e world . Chotzinoff, th e Ne w York Post critic , wrote , 'From th e lan d of sunshine, orang e juice, and Hollywood comes yet another on e . . . ' In thos e days all the radi o networks had thei r ow n orchestras, and Mutual offered m e their concertmastership . I was seventeen. Th e da y afte r m y debut recita l I spent fiv e hour s riding on th e to p o f a double-decker bus, from Washingto n Square t o Washingto n Height s an d bac k again , u p an d down . I decided t o stick with it, and the next year it went better." The strengt h for that decisio n

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came in part from Mr . Blinder. "What he left m e and what I look for in others was tha t h e kep t me from doin g th e eas y thing . H e taugh t m e how to teac h myself, whic h shoul d be th e goa l of every teacher , an d h e taugh t me how t o listen, whic h i s the beginnin g an d en d o f all musicianship. Now ho w abou t some lunch?"

—M.S.

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B. HL Haggin the Contrarian

F

or twelve years or so in my thirties an d fortie s I was the musi c critic of the Boston Globe. From time to time someone would ask me what had led me to that position and why I had wanted to become a music critic. My answer usually began: "Well, there was this man called B. H. Haggin . . ." Haggin was a bewildering mix of the impossible and the admirable, and I cannot overstate what I learned fro m hi m and how important he was to me. As a high school student in St. Louis, I lived with my mother for a year and a hal f o r s o in th e hous e o f a Miss Pickett—H. Lorin e Pickett—wh o wa s a superlatively successful insurance underwriter and wonderfully feisty, energetic , and generou s woman to whom I owe much. Th e capaciou s basement o f her house, a big Midwestern box on a corner lot, embraced by a screened porch on two sides , wa s occupie d i n par t b y testimon y t o he r Ne w Dea l politica l convictions, namel y about fifteen year s of back issues of Th e Nation and Th e New Republic, th e latte r still very far from makin g its swing to th e right . This wa s a treasur e trov e fo r me, a recen t arriva l in th e Unite d States , brought up to be sympathetic to left-wing causes and ideas, history loving, and eager t o lear n abou t m y new country . I was discouraged fro m bringin g th e magazines upstairs because of the clouds of dust that moving them generated , and so I spent many hours in a corner of the basement. In the cours e of being instructed abou t the WPA, CCC , NR A (the National Recovery Act, no t th e rifle people) , and Roosevelt's other ne w alphabet-soup government agencies ,

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reading about the Spanish Civil War, and learning from James Agee about movies and Malcol m Cowley about literature, I noted tha t The Nation had a regular column on music—with occasional diversions into ballet—written by someone named B. H. Haggin. Once in a while there was also a Haggin column on jazz. I ha d nex t t o n o contex t fo r reading Haggin. I knew almos t none of th e music he wrote about, an d mos t of the performer s whos e work he discussed were only names to me, if that. I had just begun to explore books about music, and although I was an eager newspaper reader, I don't recall reading newspaper reviews of musical events. In sum, I was unaware at first how different Haggi n was from other s who wrote about music for magazines and newspapers. I was, however, drawn in by his firm-textured, clea n writing, and even more by how sure he seemed t o be of who he was, what he heard, an d what he valued. At fifteen, I wouldn't hav e know n ho w t o expres s any o f that. Mr . Hecker, my senior-year English teacher, constantly insisted on "specific reference" to bolster assertions we made in what we wrote, and somethin g els e that impressed me about Haggin was that clearly he too subscribed to the "specific reference" creed. What most fascinated me about Haggin, at least to begin with, was that he wrote shocking things about famous musicians, those people my mother referred to as "Respektspersonen"—Koussevitzky ("italicizin g distortion"), Bruno Walter ("flaccid"), Heifetz ("mincing, wailing little swells... sentimenta l and vulgar"), Horowitz ("th e alternation o f brio and affettuos o teasin g that is the sum total of his playing"), Menuhin ("coars e and blowzy [tone ] . .. finicky and chopped up [phrasing]") , and Serkin ("playin g which when it isn't violent i s nerveless and without force") - 1 As he wrote in 1964 in the introduction to his compilation Music Observed: " I wasn't pai d t o genuflec t before eminence s o r before th e limited perception s o f the genera l public , but wa s paid, instead, t o giv e th e non-professional listeners who read me the benefit of my professional listener's sharper perceptions, by pointing ou t what those reader s might otherwise no t notice." Fo r th e benefi t o f readers suc h a s th e on e wh o characterize d hi s criticisms of Heifetz "snide and ill-mannered impertinence, " h e added: "If any of them couldn' t hea r what I pointed ou t or preferred t o ignore it, this didn' t mean I was wrong in hearing and reporting it." No less interesting was the fac t that Haggin did not hesitat e t o give most of those performer s generou s credit when he heard something that touched him by its grace or color or some other quality he admired, although I can't recall an exception being made for Heifetz, ever. Here wa s an important early lesson that reviewing needed t o deal with particularities, not generalities . From time to time Haggin would refer t o letters he received fro m younger readers, many of whom impressed him by how smart they were. Perhaps hoping 1 Some of these quotations come from late r years, but the y are consistent with what I would have read in 1944-1945 .

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to impress him too, that gave me the courage after I had gone off to college to write to him about some of the concerts I had heard. That first letter and those that followed alway s got prompt and ample replies. I realize in retrospect that Haggin's letters often had something of the air of religious indoctrination abou t them; fo r example , afte r I ha d writte n abou t a n excitin g performanc e of Schubert's Wanderer Fantasy, he assured me that I too would in due time achieve disillusionment abou t Rudolf Serkin. When our chapel choir togethe r with a chorus fro m wha t w e the n calle d a girls ' colleg e pu t o n a performanc e of Beethoven's C-majo r Mass , then even les s known tha n it is now and not ye t recorded, I suggested he come down to Princeton t o hear it. As he sat in th e chapel for the dress rehearsal, I immediately recognized him from th e photo— by Walker Evans, no less—on the dus t jacket of one of his books: tall, slender, with black hair an d penetratin g eyes . On a brilliant Sunda y morning with a flawless blue sky, he carried a furled blac k umbrella. As I continued t o read Haggin in The Nation, also in the New York HeraldTribune, where for a while he had a column on music on the radio, there were more letters back and forth. Later, when I was settled in New York as a teacher and occasiona l writer of record reviews, my first wif e an d I would sometimes visit him. That involved takin g the subwa y all the way up to 243rd Street, its northernmost statio n in Manhattan. Ther e he would meet us and guide us the last few blocks to his apartment on Seaman Avenue. Gradually I got a picture of the auster e life he lived. He told us he had the same dinner ever y night, a n eight-ounce stea k and half a package of frozen peas. His one indulgence was a preludial ounce o f bourbon with a n equa l quantity of water but n o ice , a drink I still call a Haggin. Once we persuaded him to come to dinner a t our apartment. No sooner ha d he accepte d th e invitatio n tha n he sent a letter with a long list of foods he couldn't o r wouldn't eat. We did well until dessert. Partly because this was a special occasion, partl y to compensate fo r making him clim b seventy-two steps to ou r sixt h floo r cold-wate r flat o n Mulberry Street, m y wife, who held Haggi n in great regard, had mad e a delicious port wine jelly . Thi s h e eye d doubtfull y fo r a few moments, the n said: "D o yo u mind i f I don't have any ? It quivers." Haggin spent summer s in Camden, Maine , unti l i t was spoiled for him by the filmin g o f Peyton Place there . Ever y night dinne r i n Camde n wa s lobster salad made and delivere d to his doorstep by a neighbor. He owned an elderly Packard, which was kept on blocks in a garage in the Bron x and brought out only for the annua l tri p to Camden an d back. In hi s apartment I saw iconic objects tha t occasionall y mad e came o appearance s i n hi s writings— a reproduction of a Cezanne still-life with apples and a framed note from Toscanini about th e placemen t o f th e mute s i n th e Lov e Scene o f Berlioz's Romeo et Juliette. Hi s recor d review s sometimes go t highl y specifi c abou t ho w thing s sounded on a particular pair of speakers or with a certain setting on his amplifier,

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and there indee d wa s the equipmen t I had read about so often. In fact a t one point, when he was ready to graduate to some new speakers, I bought his old ones, an d I admit it was a thrill for me to have them . He played recordings for us, mostly unpublished Toscanini, who was as near to a cynosure and ideal as he had amon g performers. It was loud, and he tol d us tha t hi s upstair s neighbors, a Germa n Jewis h refugee couple , sometime s complained. H e had no t actuall y ever met thos e people , but onc e he got on the elevato r t o fin d the m alread y on board. The wif e looke d meaningfull y at her husband and said, "Unser Feind"—our enemy. Having enemies was somehow important to him. Haggin had a photographic-phonographic memory for dinner parties thirt y years in th e past , of who had sa t next t o whom an d sai d what wrong-headed thing . H e wa s ful l o f storie s abou t interestin g peopl e i n th e musical, literary , and artisti c world he ha d known . Almos t al l those stories , though, ended with a tight-lipped "but we're no longer friendly." In later years, I to o wa s on th e "n o longe r friendly " list . Th e intensit y o f his passion s an d convictions wa s an essential par t of what made Haggin a good critic an d for me a n immensel y importan t one , bu t th e dar k sid e o f thos e passion s an d convictions wa s that he was not good at even small disagreements and that in his personal life he was absolutely unforgiving of lapses from fealty . A story he enjoyed tellin g was of a dinner a t the hous e of Ira Hirschmann, wh o used his fortune as founder and CEO of Bloomingdale's to establish the New Friends of Music, fo r year s Ne w York' s mos t distinguishe d chambe r musi c series . Hirschmann's wife , Hortens e Monath , wa s a pianis t wh o ha d studie d wit h Artur Schnabel , mos t o f whos e playin g Haggi n love d immensely . Th e Hirschmanns enjoye d Haggin's outspokenness, but when once he ventured a critical opinion of Schnabel ther e was an instant reproo f from th e host: "Now you go too far." (That is still a household sayin g in my present life. ) In hi s musica l opinions, Haggi n coul d b e quit e flexible , though thi s was rarely acknowledged. He was famous fo r his often shocking dislikes, not onl y of som e famou s performer s I mentioned earlier , but o f much o f Brahms an d Wagner. At New Friends concerts he would flee to the lobby of Town Hall and sit in one of two majestic chairs, the other one occupied by the Brahms-hating Hermann Adler, a musicologist and record producer from Brahms's home town of Hamburg, and one of the more striking characters on the New York musical scene. Compan y was comfort to neither man, for they disliked each other a s much as they did Brahms. Haggin also thought of most twentieth-century music as "arid" or "hideous." In tha t category , though, h e sometime s underwen t a conversion , perhap s brought abou t b y a particularl y illuminating performanc e an d sometime s because a Balanchine choreograph y allowed him to hear through his eyes, as it were, somethin g tha t h e ha d no t caugh t throug h soun d alone . Balanchine , whom he considered th e twentiet h century' s greatest creative artist , brought

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him aroun d t o lat e Stravinsk y an d even t o som e Webern . Haggi n actuall y enjoyed reporting that he had changed hi s mind or—this applied especially to performers—that he could not understand how he had written so pallidly about some lon g ag o event suc h a s his firs t hearin g o f Flagstad on a Metropolita n Opera broadcast or that it had taken him so long to understand what he called the "plasti c continuity " an d th e greatnes s o f Toscanini's performance s and, conversely, to be put of f by the distortion s in those of Willem Mengelberg. When Haggi n wrot e abou t Brahm s and Wagne r his devotio n to specific reference kicked in, as it did not in his brusque dismissal of most modern music. With Brahms he eve n cite d th e exac t beat i n the exac t measur e of the slow movement of the F-major Cello Sonata where he felt that Brahms had stopped inventing an d wa s jus t churning . Wagne r ha s o f cours e alway s been controversial, an d dislikin g Th e Nibelung's Ring wa s an d i s no t al l tha t remarkable. But Brahms! To this day you can fin d people who say that George Bernard Shaw, not surprisingly one of Haggin's heroes, was a remarkable music critic except fo r th e absurdit y of hi s negativ e writin g abou t Brahms . What bothered Haggi n wa s when peopl e called hi s dislike a prejudice, which self evidently it was not. For me , Haggin' s heterodo x view s on Brahm s an d Wagne r prove d very productive. Partly because I was young and easily influenced, more importantly because I had alread y learned s o much from Haggi n about Mozart, Schubert, Berlioz, and others, I took his response to Brahms and Wagner seriously, actually to the point of trying to go with him on these issues. Mostly it just didn't work. But if I ended up in disagreement with him on these topics, my own relationship to thos e tw o composers became th e riche r fo r the thinkin g tha t Haggin ha d made me do. I had, so to speak, earned my love of Brahms and Wagner rather than simply accepted their greatness as a cultural given. Through the WagnerBrahms experience I learned the importance of something Haggin often stressed in his own writing, the importance of believing the testimon y of my ears rather than th e declaration s o f authorities, o f responding t o acousti c an d musica l realities and not to the glamorous aura of a great reputation. It also encouraged me to move off on paths of my own. After all, the best teacher i s the on e who ultimately makes himself unnecessary. That is the heart of a critic's job—to make readers think—and that Haggin could do. I always found i t interesting tha t a significant part of the readership that too k hi m seriously—an d critically—wa s i n th e intellectua l an d literary community, where he was enormously respected. You can find a vivid account of that in Poet s in Their Youth, th e wonderfu l memoir of Eileen Simpson. Sh e writes of the devotio n t o Haggin's writing of her ow n forme r husband , Joh n Berryman, and that of others in that circle such as Dwight MacDonald, Irving Howe, Mar k Van Doren , Randal l Jarrell , and Star k Young . I t wa s als o no t surprising that afte r h e lef t Th e Nation, Haggin found a home a t a somewhat

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esoteric literary quarterly, The Hudson Review. To the testimon y of those writers I would add tha t o f Virgil Thomson, no t alway s praise d by Haggin eithe r a s critic o r composer , but wh o deeme d Haggin' s opinion s "sound , a s well as refreshingly non-canonical." Among still others I would mention James Levine; my wife, wh o studied with him a t th e Clevelan d Institut e o f Music, tells me that Haggin was required reading for Levine's students . In 1944 , Haggi n publishe d a boo k title d Music fo r th e Ma n Wh o Enjoys "Hamlet," i n which he discussed in some detail works he thought would provide an entrywa y into grea t music . Hi s poin t o f departur e wa s a no t entirel y convincing portraya l of a man who responds to poetry but no t t o music, and whose wife has dragged him to hear a recital by Schnabel. A t first he is frustrated because "the musi c seems to mean a lot to Schnabel, an d I suppose it means something t o all these othe r people ; but i t doesn't mak e sense to me." By the time Schnabel is into Beethoven's Opus 111, frustration has given way to anger at not being home after "a quiet dinner, [with ] slippers, easy chair, and a much read copy of Hamlet," an d he thinks: "I'l l bet it doesn't mean any more to th e others or to the old boy on the stage than it means to me. It doesn't make sense; and they'r e onl y pretending i t does." Th e notio n of people being conne d or pretending i s still voiced, particularl y by people who lik e t o thro w th e word "elitist" around . At an y rate, from thi s donnee, Haggin goes on t o show that Schubert's an d Beethoven' s sonata s are , lik e Hamlet, example s o f "th e employment, on large scale, of an artistic medium," conveying "insights o f . .. mind an d spirit, " but throug h a different artisti c medium. If Schubert's an d Beethoven's insight and their play of fantasy "do not get through to your mind, it is because the medium is one to which, at the moment, you are not susceptible." In what follows, Haggi n is an excellent, helpfu l guide. But here—an d thi s i s an exampl e of how maddening h e coul d be—i s a n example of Haggin on Brahm s from his Listener's Musical Companion (1956) : "I recall a broadcast of a performance of the Piano Concerto No . 2 by Toscanini and th e NB C Symphon y with Horowitz as soloist. Sounds cam e throug h my radio that were evidence of attentive, purposefu l activity by Brahms, Toscanini, Horowitz, the orchestra, the audience; but what also came through powerfull y was the impression that this was the activity of people under a spell continuing to go through a long-established ritual that was without reality or meaning— performers and listeners going through the motion s of esthetic respons e to a piece o f music in which th e compose r went throug h th e motion s o f estheti c creation. Anyon e no t unde r thi s spell , anyon e abl e t o liste n freshl y t o th e agitated statements of the piano that broke in on the quiet opening of the firs t movement, would, it seemed to me, perceive that they were the noisy motions of saying something portentous that really said absolutely nothing; an d listening further h e would discover that th e entir e movemen t wa s a succession of such attempts at now one such effect and now another." He goes on to cite Tchaikovsky,

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who criticizes in Brahms (in Haggin's summary ) "th e consciou s aspiratio n to something for which there is no poetic impulse, the striving for something tha t must be unstrive n for , the consciou s attemp t a t Beethoven's profundit y an d power tha t result s in a caricature of Beethoven" and , i n Tchaikovsky' s own words, "so many preparations and circumlocutions for something which ought to come and charm us at once." Here Haggi n i s doing exactl y what h e condemn s a t th e beginnin g o f th e Hamlet boo k where th e poo r man in the titl e assume s that everyon e aroun d him is under a spell and ha s been conne d int o mistakin g pretend activit y for real. And howeve r wrong that is, it is also unanswerable: if I have come round to rejecting Haggin's and Tchaikovsky's assessment it only proves how powerful the spell is. Haggin is saying, "I hear it and therefore it is so." He actually liked quite a lot of Brahms, chiefly thos e work s in which, an d her e h e quote d th e Australian criti c W. J. Turner, he wa s not "goin g forth t o war, " was "entirel y natural and self-forgetful" an d "not obsessed by the tramp of Beethoven behin d him." That is an understandable argument, and I would have t o say of myself that o f the Brahm s symphonies, fo r example, I like th e Firs t least (an d stil l think i t an extraordinary work) and love the Third most . In the Hamlet book, Haggin recommended recordings, citing exactly where on the 78-rpm disk something to which he wanted to draw particular attentio n would be found. "T-l: .1.5-, B-1.3 + " meant side 1, just before IVi inches fro m the rim , o f Toscanini' s recordin g o f Mozart's G-minor Symphony , while B indicated th e locatio n o f the sam e passage on th e Beecha m set . To help th e reader, the book included a little white ruler to enable one to find these places. The measurement s and th e rule r caused great hilarity, but the y were in fac t useful, much as citations given in minutes and seconds are now useful in detailed reviews of CDs. (I n fact this updated method appear s in a later edition, whic h also go t a ne w title , Musi c for On e Wh o Enjoys "Hamlet.") I n he r memoir , Simpson touchingl y describe s John Berryman , ruler in hand , locatin g thes e musical gems . A certai n penchan t fo r pedantry als o cause d Haggi n a t on e point i n hi s caree r t o classif y composers ' work s as "incandescent, " "great, " "important works of lesser stature," and so on. Silly as that seems, his judgments were discriminating and made a lot of sense. From Haggin I also learned something crucial about performance. His praise of th e performer s h e admire d an d i n som e case s even revered—Toscanini , Schnabel, Bjoerling , to cite thre e ver y different ones—alway s related to what they did to the music itself. The same was true when he rejected a performance by, say, Heifetz or Horowitz . Tirelessly he pointe d ou t tha t a performance is not a free-standing, independent object : it is a rendering o/something and can only be judged in relation t o that something , tha t symphony , sonata, aria , or whatever. This led him to make a crucial distinction, one difficult not only for lay listeners to grasp but also for some professionals and most students—namely,

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the distinction between the ability to play an instrument well, a skill Heifetz and Horowitz commanded t o a superlative degree, and the abilit y to communicat e the musica l content of a composition, where they were not dependable . Tha t distinction becam e a cornerstone o f my own later activity as a music critic. I admired Haggin's ability to face th e trut h that sometimes, as Horace tol d us long ago, sometimes Homer nods. Some truly great composers do too, notably Bach. Again, it was good to be reminded tha t th e important thing was to deal, not with a great and revered generality called Bach, but with particular works, or even particular parts of those works. It is amusing to watch someone slowly and reluctantly, but ultimatel y with some relief, admit that her e an d there we find arias in the cantatas that are really boring or that the fugues in the sonatas for unaccompanie d violin were excruciating even when Milstein played them. As a boy I learned from Haggin to face up to that truth even though expressing it invariably brought disapproval. And it has not affecte d m y love for the many works I cherish an d that I can't imagin e not havin g in my life. Something else Haggin did that was entirely unconventional wa s occasionally to write about other critics. It made him a kind of outlaw in the fraternity. For him, though , i t was as natural and a s important a s writing about performer s and composers. Critics were, after all, a highly visible part of the musical scene. He di d no t thin k muc h o f most o f them . Th e one s h e valued—fo r thei r perceptions, their honesty, and their excellent style—wer e Berlioz most of all, Shaw, W. J. Henderson, wh o wrote for various New York papers between 188 7 and 1924, and David Cairns, whose work he discovered when Cairns's collectio n Responses was published in 1973 . He admired the virtuosity and grace of Virgil Thomson's styl e but wa s often put of f by his spinning of theories tha t seeme d to have little relation to musical realities. Clean writing was important to him. Not surprisingl y he loathed th e swollen prose of the Times's Olin Downes and effusion lik e Jay Harrison' s abou t Amahl an d th e Night Visitors: "Onc e agai n Mr. Menotti has demonstrated tha t th e lyri c stage is his destiny. It is a destiny that become s hi m a s golden robe s do a prince." Haggin' s ow n respons e was rather different: " I listened... with incredulous amazement—finding it difficul t to believe I was really hearing those sugary , trashy tunes, that the y could eve n have occurred to anyone operating as a serious composer today, that he could not have been too embarrassed by the mere thought of them to let anyone else hear them, and that other people could have considered them worth publishing to th e world. " Bu t gettin g bac k t o language , an d thi s tim e no t a critic's , discussing Bernstein's Kaddish, h e observe d tha t "th e basi c Norman Corwi n style of vocal rhetoric is infused with a vulgarity of Bernstein's own, giving the words an awfulness tha t forbid s quotation. " Haggin ma y hav e bee n unparallele d a t excoriation , bu t h e wa s als o extraordinarily war m an d emotiona l i n appreciation . Thi s come s acros s especially i n th e bes t o f his danc e writing . And I just rerea d hi s accoun t of

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Kirsten Flagstad's last concert i n New Yor k in 1955 . H e describes , as always hewing carefully t o just what he heard, the shock , whe n she began to sing, of the los s in vocal beauty since th e las t time; then th e amazemen t as th e voic e gaine d i n luste r of lowe r note s an d powe r of higher ones, as it went with complete assurance wherever the phrase required it to go, an d a s i t operate d wit h complet e flexibilit y i n th e inflection s th e phrasin g required it to make. With all this, certainly, there was a loss since the last time: one noted that when th e voic e ros e to a soft hig h note it produced tha t not e carefull y as a head tone; that climactic high notes, thoug h astonishingly clear and powerful , were les s powerful thi s time . Nevertheles s i t was true thi s tim e a s last that eve n with what it had lost, the singing—the lustrous lower notes, th e clear and powerfu l high ones, in the sustained phrases so exquisitely and touchingly inflected by musical feeling an d taste—woul d have been considere d remarkabl e if it had been done by a woman of thirty; and on e hear d it being done b y a woman of sixty. That brings me to what there was to see. . . . There was an additional shoc k in the change s in her appearance : the grayin g blond hai r now totally gray, th e hea d and shoulder s slightl y hunched together , th e fac e shadowe d an d impassive . All this a s she stood waitin g and listening ; then , whe n th e momen t cam e fo r her t o sing, one saw her fac e amazingl y become animated, transfigured by what produced the beautifu l phrase s one heard . An d thi s made th e occasio n movin g in th e way Toscanini's concerts had been in recent years, when one had seen the manifestations of increasing age and the n the manifestation s of continuing grea t musical powers.

As I look back o n wha t I learned fro m Haggi n an d th e way s i n which h e helped for m m e a s a teache r an d a writer, I a m mos t gratefu l fo r the way s i n which he opened u p so much music to me when I was young and my taste and understanding were first being formed. And eve n thoug h Haggi n saying those unthinkable thing s abou t Brahms may come to mind firs t fo r many people, h e loved a huge amount of music from Renaissance madrigals and motets onward. From Haggin I learned, as I would never in a million years have learned from th e music columns of the Times or even the far better Herald-Tribune wit h the brilliant but mentall y all-over-the-place Virgil Thomson, abou t the greatness of a lot of repertory not taken seriously in popular discourse on classical music in the 1940 s and 1950 s nor much heard i n concert then—th e Mozart piano concertos, th e Schubert piano sonatas, or anything of Berlioz beyond the Symphonie fantastique. I have mentioned hi s intense feelin g for Balanchine, whic h also brought about some of his most gripping writing, and thi s a t a time when John Martin at th e Times threw dead cats and dog s at Balanchin e a t ever y opportunity. Bernard Haggin ma y i n man y respect s hav e bee n a n eccentri c crank , bu t th e enlightening aspect s of his work outweighed his strangenesses, and b y far.

—M.S.

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V. AEFAIRS TO REMEMBE R

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Loving Memories of Movie Music

H

ad i t no t bee n for a movie, I might hav e ha d t o wai t anothe r te n years before I knew how completely th e soun d o f an orchestra ca n immobilize everything in your life but th e presen t moment . The movi e was The Seven Wonders o f the World, th e thir d i n tha t serie s of Cinerama epic travelogues made during the 1950s . Cinerama, if you don't recall, was the ultimate wide-screen process, and some film buffs maintain tha t it has not bee n equaled . Thi s wa s the origina l moviegoin g experience, on e tha t promised to give viewers a genuine sens e of reality. The Cineram a camer a was loaded with three synchronize d fil m magazine s positioned side-by-side , in a n arc. When the image s captured by this tri o were put together—cas t by three synchronized projector s on a huge curve d screen—th e resultin g panorami c montage duplicated the arc of human vision. Cinerama promise d to put "you" in the middl e of the action , an d when th e unwield y camera was perched i n a car on a Coney Islan d rolle r coaster or at th e hea d o f a rubber raft findin g its way through th e rapid s of the Indu s River, Cinerama delivered . A big part of the successfu l dupin g of the ey e was the way Cinerama dupe d the ear . Seve n channels o f sound, fe d throug h speaker s distributed behin d th e scree n an d throughout th e theater , create d a sonic image as realistic as the picture . All thi s migh t see m tam e t o u s today, in a fil m worl d dominated b y loud digital blockbusters an d b y IMAX. But t o audience s i n 1956 , Cineram a wa s stunning. Part of its strategy to astound an audience was surprise. Things starte d

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out smal l and slow. As the light s went down we were made to sit through a n introduction by Lowell Thomas, the narrator. The image on the screen seemed no larger than what you'd see in a home movie, and as Thomas, sittin g at his desk, ticked of f in his slightly manic delivery some trumped-up raisons d'etre for th e spectacle in which we were about to participate, the growing boredom threatened t o annihilate an y hope o f entertainment, le t alone th e adventur e we had been assured . And then suddenly the picture expanded to three times its "normal " size , w e were hovering fa r abov e Iguag u Falls , an d a hundred piece orchestra loaded with brass and percussion pounded out crescendo upon crescendo. M y stomach rolle d a s the pitc h o f the aeria l shot delineate d th e curve of the earth. But what really set my pores vibrating was the sound, bursting from a n audio system so perfect it seemed the players were here, in this room. I had neve r experience d anythin g remotel y like it, an d I knew tha t thi s was how music was meant t o sound. Looking back, the effect was obviously cinematic, not what you'd call a true "musical" experience. Fo r me, that cam e alon g roughly eight year s after tha t day I heard th e musi c over Iguagu Falls, when I first encountered th e scherzo and final e o f th e Beethove n Fift h an d wa s suddenl y thrus t int o a similar epiphany, the visio n of my inner ey e expanding to three time s its normal size. I am speaking of Cinerama an d Beethoven i n the sam e breath because music for film s can offer a key to how "serious" music gets to us. What we hear in th e background when we'r e at th e movie s can tel l u s a lot abou t how to get th e most fro m othe r music . For the note s i n an y film scor e ar e linked t o what is happening on the celluloid as certainly as the notes of the Beethove n Fifth — or an y of a thousand othe r concer t works—stan d for their ow n set of images and emotions . Think of it. Might not Beethoven, give n the chance, hav e written for films? With hi s profoun d sens e o f drama , hi s knowledg e o f how , lik e th e bes t screenwriter or director, to build an audience's expectations an d then fulfill or shatter them , h e would have been a filmmaker's strongest ally. All his life h e loved the theater. He would have been the first in line for a movie job. Motion pictures have been a seductive medium almost from th e start , certainly long before anyon e conceived o f wide-screen, wide-sound extravaganzas. Arnold Schoenberg, o f all people , wante d t o writ e fo r film s bu t neve r manage d t o accommodate himsel f t o th e wa y Hollywoo d worked . Hi s 193 0 Music to Accompany a Film Scene exemplifies his ambition. Stravinsky, too, was a motion picture hopeful, but he also had ideas about artistic control, an d about music, that Hollywoo d didn't share . He was approached to score both Jane Eyre an d The Song o f Bemadette, an d althoug h th e plan s cam e t o nothing , producer s continued t o fantasize about the classiness his name might lend to their efforts . As late a s the mid-1960 s he was considered fo r the Din o D e Laurentiis epic The Bible. Perhaps the Symphon y in Three Movements o f 194 6 tells u s why

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Stravinsky's movie aspirations never came to anything. It includes passages he claimed t o hav e compose d i n respons e t o documentar y fil m an d newsree l footage—music so aggressively personal that it would have overshadowed any images it intended "merely" to accompany. You wonder whether movi e music would be held i n such contempt b y the intelligentsia i f more first-rate composer s had writte n fo r films. Ye t who ca n say that Ralph Vaughan Williams an d Aaron Coplan d an d Hug o Friedhofer and Eric h Wolfgan g Korngold ar e anythin g les s than first-rate ? W e tend t o forget that , a t leas t i n th e golde n day s o f Hollywood, ver y good composers were often at the command of those who didn't kno w much about music but who kne w wha t the y liked . I n N o Mino r Chords, a memoi r o f hi s day s i n Hollywood, Andre Previ n tells story after story about the struggles waged with otherwise intelligent an d even brilliant individuals by those who wrote music for films . He recalls how Miklos Rosza, "during Ben-Hwr,... was beside himself with impotent rag e when th e director , William Wyler , suggested that 'Silen t Night, Holy Night' be played during the Nativity scene." Rosza won that fight. And in scoring that scene he managed both to preserve his own artistic integrity and t o create music as memorable and moving as a hymn. But thi s i s not a guide t o tellin g goo d fil m musi c from bad . We al l know what bad movie music is: bombastic, sappy, overblown ersatz Rachmaninoff or Richard Strauss—though Korngold, for one, wrote some distinguished movie music whose cholesterol content is dangerously high. We should take to heart these generou s words of one o f the fines t composer s to have written fo r th e movies, Bernard Herrmann, wh o said that he kne w no "good composer who felt h e wa s being degrade d by writing for films." An d Miklo s Rozsa, lookin g back o n hi s caree r i n hi s 198 2 memoi r Double Life, aske d himself , "[W]as I right t o devot e s o much creativ e energ y to th e writin g of film music ? Di d I betray my heritage?" He concluded he had not, "inasmuch as I never lost sight of my real profession: that of composer, not o f music to order but simpl y of th e music that was in me to write.... I have no time for any music which does not stimulate pleasur e in life , and , even mor e importantly , pride i n life. " (I n A Heart at Fire's Center, his 1991 biography of Bernard Herrmann, Steven Smit h quotes Herrmann expressing a similar sentiment i n virtually the same words.) Likewise, the musician s who play for soundtracks, whether th e scor e calls for an ensemble of symphonic or chamber proportions, are among the best around, and they're drawn from major orchestras and conservatories. Previn has praised these men and women, who read through often complicated scores, often before the in k is dry. "These players were genuinely amazing . . . . The fac t tha t th e music might have been second-rate, or even tenth-rate, ha d no bearing on its degree of difficulty, but I never saw any of these instrumentalists come unglued." While this isn' t a checklist o f things t o listen an d watc h for, it migh t be a good idea to hear what some of film music's most eloquent practitioner s have

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to say about it. In a 1972 interview with Ted Gilling in Sight and Sound, Bernard Herrmann lai d out a virtual poetics of the genre : When a film i s well made, th e music' s function i s to fus e a piece o f film s o that i t has an inevitable beginning an d end. . . . Music essentially provides an unconscious serie s of anchors fo r the viewer . It isn' t always apparent... but i t serves its function. I think Coctea u sai d that a good fil m score shoul d create th e feelin g tha t on e is not awar e whether th e music is making the fil m g o forward or whether th e fil m i s pushing the musi c forward. . . . I think tha t fil m musi c expresses what the acto r can't show or tell.

Ralph Vaughan Williams, bes t know n fo r nine symphonies that represen t one of the twentiet h century' s grea t musica l achievements , is another who relished his film work. (In fact his Seventh Symphony, the Sinfonia antartica, is a reworkin g o f hi s score fo r Scot t o f th e Antarctic.) "Ther e ar e tw o way s o f writing film music," he said. "One i s that in which every action, word, gesture or inciden t is punctuated i n sound . Thi s . . . often leads t o a mere scrappy succession of sounds of no musical value in itself.... The other metho d . . . is to ignor e th e detail s an d t o intensif y the spiri t o f th e whol e situatio n b y a continuous strea m of music." "Intensifying th e spiri t of the whol e situation " i s really what Herrman n i s talking about , an d i t i s also th e essenc e o f what th e Russia n director Serge i Eisenstein said about Prokofiev when the tw o of them collaborated on Ivan the Terrible. Prokofiev's music, said Eisenstein in his Notes of a Film Director, "presents a wonderful picture of the inner movement of the phenomenon an d its dynamic structure, which embody the emotion an d meaning of the event.... Prokofiev knows how to grasp the structural secret which conveys the broad meaning of the phenomenon." This "grasp [of] the structural secret" is the mark of film music that does its job—that reinforces and projects a director's technique. See n in this light, th e blast of sound tha t accompanie s th e broa d image of Iguagu Falls lying below becomes no t jus t a perfect wedding of sound an d image but a union o f sound and cinematic strategy , a means by which the filmmaker reaches his end, whic h in thi s cas e i s (obviously ) to overwhel m us . (Incidentally , I don't kno w wh o wrote the Iguac, u Falls music, but it was one of three composers who collaborated on the scor e for Seven Wonders o f the World: David Raksin, perhaps best known for th e them e fro m th e Ott o Preminge r fil m Laura; Jerome Moross , a fin e composer of concert music who in his score for William Wyler's The Big Country gave us music by which al l other score s for Westerns ar e measured; and Emi l Newman, wh o score d a string of minor film s includin g Pi n Up Girl an d Four

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Jills in a Jeep, wh o serve d as music director o n Guadalcanal Diary, an d whos e brother Alfred went on t o far greater fame a s a film composer.) Filmmakers an d composer s can als o collaborat e i n mor e subtl e way s t o communicate with the audience . Alfred Hitchcock's Vertigo, as Steven Smit h has pointe d ou t i n hi s Herrman n biography , is a fil m base d o n th e Frenc h novel D'Entre les Marts (b y Pierre Boileau and Thomas Narcejac), an updated version o f th e Trista n myth . Muc h o f Herrmann's musi c for th e fil m coul d almost b e mistake n fo r Wagner's Tristan music , an d Herrmann' s strategy — withholding resolutio n virtuall y until th e end—i s similar to Wagner's i n his opera. In th e fina l seconds o f Vertigo, Scotti e Ferguso n (James Stewart) looks down from th e bel l tower of the missio n at San Juan Battista, an out-of-theway village down the California coast from San Francisco. The terro r of heights that has plagued Scottie sinc e th e film' s openin g is gone at last, and th e film' s conflict i s resolved. Now the music , which for most of the pas t two hours has mirrored Scottie' s ordea l in it s search for ways t o escape the mino r mode , is suddenly free to rise into the major mode. (It has done so only twice previously, in scenes d'amour—I borrow that title from Herrman n himself—tha t en d with the musi c shifting into majo r an d th e scree n goin g dark: structural devices, but als o metaphors for completion an d th e petits marts of love.) Here is another example of how director and composer can join in conveying a point of view. In Elia Kazan's On the Waterfront, Terr y Malloy (Marlon Brando) finds the body of his brother Charley (Ro d Steiger), a mob operative who has been murdered for not following orders to kill Terry. Terry lifts Charley's corpse off a longshoreman's hook and onto his shoulders. For this grim scene, Leonard Bernstein conceive d heartbreaking , tende r music—musi c that , si x minutes earlier, ha d firs t appeare d i n th e "Contender " scene : "Yo u was my brother, Charley," says Terry . "You shoulda looked ou t fo r me a little bit . . .. I coulda been a contender. I coulda been somebody, instea d o f a bum, which i s what I am." No w Terr y look s ou t fo r hi s slai n brothe r i n a scen e accompanie d b y music that, in another context , migh t be construed as a lullaby—or perhaps in this context , too : jus t as , two hundred year s earlier, Johann Sebastia n Bac h had created a sorrowful lullaby to the dead Christ at the end of the Saint Matthew Passion. The dirg e for Charley in On th e Waterfront i s in stark contrast t o th e harsh dissonance s t o which we'v e become accustome d i n Bernstein' s score . This lovely music tells u s that Terry has a side we have no t ye t seen. I t als o signals a turning point in the narrative. Call al l this wha t you will—"grasping th e structura l secret," "intensifying the spiri t of the whol e situation, " "expressin g what th e acto r can' t sho w or tell." Wha t i t come s dow n t o i s the communicatio n o f ideas an d emotion s through sound. The most memorable film music, whether grand and epic (BenHur, Star Wars) o r intimat e (T o Kill a Mockingbird, Ou r Town), convey s th e spirit of the momen t an d contribute s t o th e overal l impact. In othe r words,

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film music does exactly what we expect of concert music. It exists as a coheren t entity tha t touche s ou r hearts, and it can make us feel anything imaginable. Movies made me fall i n lov e with th e soun d o f the orchestra , but there' s more to this story. When we watch a film, we begin, after themes are introduced and recur a few times, to associate music with various characters and states of mind and places and situations. Usually we have no idea we're doing this. Part of our satisfaction at the end is created by the music that has been working on us. Music has become inextricably linked t o the drama we've witnessed. This sens e of music as drama offers a n enormously rich point of entry int o the world of concert music. Personally, I have a debt of gratitude to repay men like Miklos Rosza and Alfred Newman. They provided much pleasure in their own right. They also led me to the music of their colleagues, Bach and Mozart and Tchaikovsky. For when we listen to the Dvorak Seventh, th e Brahms Fourth, or the Bruckner Fifth as dramas, we need not concern ourselve s with questions of key, harmony, development, o r recapitulation an y more than we would be consciously concerned wit h the technical aspect s of lighting or camera position while watching The Treasure o f the Sierra Madre. What do I mean by listening t o music as if it were a drama? Not attachin g images to it in the manner of Fantasia, or correlating the sound with a succession of scenes a s outlined b y Richard Straus s and Mahle r i n thos e program s they sometimes provide d fo r their music . What I mea n i s listening t o wha t th e music says i n its own terms—hearing the pattern s of loud and soft , swee t and bitter, slow and fast; recognizing tunes when they recur or come back in slightly different forms : loude r or softer tha n when you heard the m last , or slower, or played by one instrumen t instea d o f sixty instruments. Never agai n will any listener who discerns these patterns have to fear the revelation of an ignorance of sonat a form . Musi c speaks, an d i t speak s as directly a s any actor . But yo u have to be listening t o hear what it has to say. If you haven't don e s o already, try, the nex t tim e you're at a concert, givin g an orchestra th e kin d o f attention yo u give the scree n when th e trailer s end and th e light s g o all th e wa y down. Liste n a s thoug h yo u were listening t o dialogue—because yo u are . A s thoug h t o mis s a lin e no w wil l lessen you r comprehension o f what ma y happen i n fiv e minutes—becaus e i t will. More often tha n you think, yo u will encounter musi c that speak s to you. Imagine that thi s is the scor e for some drama of particular import. Because it is. From it, you will take a memory of sound that will be yours forever, tha t will become part of you and accompany you as another dram a unfolds: the one that means the mos t to you, the stor y of your life .

—L.R.

Vienna Trilogy: Vignettes from the City of Music

I

I. Attitude on a Day in Old Vienna had m y first tast e of Vienna attitud e i n th e summe r of 1996 , when my family and I spent a few days there visiting our friends Luna and Richard. Luna, who has become a proper Viennese lady, picked up her name when she was a hippie and fel t a special kinship with the moon . Her birth name is Gertrud, but even today only Richard calls her that. They pass their winters in an old high-ceilinged apartmen t in Vienna's Firs t District, near th e Rathaus and University, a residence Richard found year s ago and which is kept within their means by rent control. During the summer their home base is at the edge of the Vienna Woods, in Baden, a spa town where the Roman s once diverte d the hot spring s into baths , where Constanze Mozar t went t o take the waters while Wolfgang was working on The Magic Flute and th e Requiem , and where Beethoven composed parts of his Ninth Symphony. Midsummer temperatures in th e resor t are rarely as incapacitating a s Vienna's, whic h is one o f Baden's many attractions. So it was from her e tha t we set out t o explore the bi g city, boarding the blu e tram called th e Badene r Bah n on e morning for the hour long ride tha t terminate d nea r th e bus y intersectio n o f Karntnerstrasse an d the Opern-Ring. When we disembarked, we found ourselves diagonally across from th e Vienna State Opera, a grand temple of art that was bombed in World War II, restored to its original splendor, and today wears a cassock of Ringstrasse soot and the residue of pollutants unknown when it opened its doors in 1869 .

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Groups wer e gathering behin d guide s at th e Oper a House , read y to b e led through its sacred corridors. When I asked a t th e ticke t des k if an Englishlanguage tour were available, the cashier' s eyes narrowed and sh e gave me a smile, tight-lipped and ambiguous . "]a," sh e sneered. "Especially fo r you." I hadn't expecte d to purchase attitude with the Schillings I handed over, in bills bearing the likenes s of Dr. Freud. But I was a guest, so I simply returned the cashier' s smile and picke d up the tickets . No offens e taken . As attitudes go, this woman's was mild. I had been warned about the Viennese, not only by Luna, who gre w u p near th e Czec h border of Austria, but eve n b y Richard, who is Viennese himself. Yet I never reached a verdict. Having spent a total of three days of my life in Vienna, I did not grow intimate with the collective soul of its citizens. (Anyon e who wishes to explore that subjec t is directed t o Th e Viennese b y Paul Hofmann, wh o approache s th e issu e with humo r an d th e authority of a native.) And i n Vienna, there is more than one kind of attitude to attrac t your focus . Becaus e I was fortunate enough t o encounter th e cit y through friends, I could enter it as I would enter a n embrace, never mind one surly cashier. I approached it, you could say, with the righ t attitude. That attitude led to some discoveries. They were not unique . Even if you have never experienced Vienna yourself , you have undoubtedly heard it said that thi s city is an amazing place. That is a truth I repeat with no hesitation . Everywhere yo u look , Vienn a meet s you r attitud e wit h it s own : wit h it s commitment to grandeur, to beauty, and to elegance, a commitment that takes the for m o f public stance an d spiritua l position. It is an attitude expressed in the magnificenc e o f the grea t Ringstrass e buildings, lavis h monument s t o aspiration, architecture that exudes unashamed emotionalism and sentiment. It is expressed in the forma l restraint of the garden s that connec t the Upper and Lowe r Belvedere palaces, in th e lus h geometries of the ground s around Schonbrunn, in the overwhelming presence of Saint Stephen's Cathedral, whose every stone seem s to thro b wit h hot energy , reinforcing the impressio n tha t this is some prototypical star cruiser about to lift of f on a shot for heaven. An d many of this attitude's most profound manifestations are in the reams of music conceived here , masterwork after masterwork— conceived here, as though th e intersection o f latitude and longitude in this corner of the eart h had create d an elemental force that shook music into being, a kind of Bermuda Triangle in reverse. Here, instead of vanishing down a bottomless tube of darkness, men and women regain a sense of priorities through the grea t life-giving forces of the harmonies that have taken shape and been born in this spot. All this, in its most superficial form , make s it easy to mistake Vienna fo r a cultural theme park , a Straussland that cater s t o thos e i n searc h of SacherTorte and a look at some of the houses once inhabited by Haydn and Beethoven. True, Vienna ha s it s version—classier , of course—of th e Hous e o f Wax an d the Mystery Spot. This is the Mozart Concert, hawke d throughout the cente r

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of town by characters who seem to have come from anothe r ag e but wh o you soon discove r ar e depressingly from ou r own . Dressed in powdered wigs an d eighteenth-century breeches, they will give you a hard sell—in German, English, French, Spanish , or Italian—for a performance at the Musikverein, where for an outrageously expensive ticket you can have the privilege of hearing a pickup ensemble in period costume play excerpts from Mozart' s most popular works. Mozart Concerts an d even the Rings trasse buildings can make Vienna seem a great monument t o the past, as fixed i n time as the statue of Maria Theresa that stands in the plaza between the Museum of Art History and the Museum of Natural History, massive twin edifices that stare across at eac h other lik e mirror images of vanished empire . But when you see a billboard in front of the Art Histor y Museum advertising an upcoming concert b y Tina Turner at th e Prater Stadium, you realize that here, as elsewhere, the minutes and hours and days an d year s continue t o pass . Everywhere in Vienna , image s remind yo u that time does not stan d still . Here ar e some images I brought back with me: Schonbrunn, the countr y home of the Hapsburgs , is now surrounded by the city and accessible from a subway stop that bears its name. On a stage erected outside the palace entrance, a n American jaz z orchestra plays a brassy version of "Twis t and Shout. " A t th e Centra l Cemetery , where Vienna' s grea t lie in rest, I ask a caretaker where Brahms's grave is, but I realize even a s I phrase it that m y question— "Wo is t der Brahms?" —must com e acros s a s thoug h I' m talking abou t an acquaintance wh o might be waiting around th e corner . No matter. The ma n responds in the same spirit, and I realize that this is perhaps the onl y plac e o n eart h wher e Johanne s Brahms , d . 1897 , ca n stil l i n al l seriousness be der Brahms. Yet when we reach his grave, right next t o Johan n Strauss, Jr.'s , an d jus t opposit e Beethoven's, w e discover tha t no t even thi s place is static, for a funeral processio n is marching u p a nearby walk, and th e people gather before th e pries t to murmur prayers for their dead . Outside th e Hofbur g Palac e lies the Heldenplatz , a great open fiel d wher e in 193 8 Hitler gav e his first addres s to the Viennese afte r th e Anschluss. This evening another crow d is gathered here. From what I can make out, they have assembled for the openin g of a conference on diversity in Austrian society. A poster is displayed prominently near the podium. It depicts photos of four brains. Three of these brains , equal in size , respectively bear the label s "European," "African," an d "Asian. " The fourth , which is tiny, is labeled "Racist. " Thoug h Vienna has been rebuilt to look as though the bombs of 1945 had never fallen, memory will not b e deceived. Th e past , indeed, i s a very mixed bag. At th e Uppe r Belvedere Palace, we find othe r pasts . Part of the Austria n Gallery i s house d i n thi s seventeenth-centur y building , an d jus t no w a retrospective on "Painting at the Turn of the Century" is on display. The Klimts and Kokoschkas evoke an era, and to be in their presence is suddenly to grasp Mahler an d Schoenberg , t o be reminded o f the backgroun d from whic h the y

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emerged: the astonishin g intellectua l cauldro n that churne d wit h the likes of Freud, Wittgenstein, Erns t Mach, Theodor Herzl , Alexander vo n Zemlinsky, Otto Wagner, Hugo von Hofmannsthal, Adolf Loos. Here, at the outside edge of Western Europe—Vienna lies farther east than Prague—this abundance of mind and emotion onc e hurtle d forward a t such speed that the weight of new insights far exceeded that of old spiritual and intellectual supports. The shakin g of society's inner ground could have been measured on a seismic scale, and the energy released helped shap e an attitude that carried civilization to the brink of World War I, the faul t line tha t divided th e world into The n and Now. But there are attitudes and there are attitudes. If you hear a waltz in Vienna, it represents yet another stance , one poised to make the most of life as we find it—predating, coinciding with, and outlasting disaster. At a sidewalk cafe where we had had lunch, we now settle down for an evening snack—gently bucking tradition with an order not fo r strudel or Sacher-Torte, but fo r a veggie pizza. The redhaired waitress with whom I had chatted i n both English and German is back at our table. We spoke English before, I remind her. "And did you want to d o tha t again? " she asks , her voic e suffuse d wit h th e faintes t hint o f yet another kin d o f Vienna attitude . A s nigh t falls , w e rush back t o th e Bade n tram station at Opernplatz. The train, which runs only every hour, is preparing to pull out. I cannot ge t the ticket machine t o accept my fifty-Schilling piece . The drive r notices m y desperation, get s out, an d trie s th e machin e himself , but hi s luck is no better tha n mine. H e point s t o the waitin g train car . "Ge t on," he tells us. "You're riding for free tonight. " I am struck, as the tra m finally makes its way out o f the cit y and pick s up speed unde r a gleaming moon, a t how quiet the crowded car is. No one, it seems, would even thin k of playing a radio here. Time s hav e no t change d that much . Bu t I wonder: If anyone di d switch on some music, what would we hear? Would it be "The Blu e Danube"? Or would it be Alanis Morrissette ? II. Back to the Future with Viennese Operetta What is the sensibility we have come to call "Viennese," somethin g as difficult to pu t int o word s a s Gemutlichkeit i s t o rende r i n English ? It i s a sens e o f cheerfulness, but also of wistfulness, tha t at its worst is sentimental bu t that at its best makes your throat lump up—immediately. Is this aura of nostalgia built into Viennes e operetta ? Or doe s i t aris e only fro m ou r ow n yearning for th e idealized world these works represent as we look back and hear them a hundred years after the y were born? Some of their bittersweet appeal comes from what we ourselves bring to them, but more is inherent, a s when Alfred and Rosalinde in Di e Fledermaus sing , "Glucklich ist, wer vergisst wa s nicht zu dndem ist" — "Happy is the person who forgets what can't be changed"—and of course "what can't b e changed" i s another wa y of saying "the past. " This brand o f worldly

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wisdom, which admit s regrets but refuse s t o let the m sto p forward motion , is echoed by Richard Strauss's Marschallin in Der Rosenkavalier—an opera whose setting, plot, and reliance on dance rhythms reveal its heritage in the operetta tradition to which Strauss's namesake had contributed so brilliantly. "One must be light," the Marschallin sings, "light of heart an d light of hand, t o hold an d take, hold an d let go. .. . Life punishe s those tha t ar e not so ... an d God has no mercy on them. " Sentiments suc h as these ar e especially suited to the New Year season and to that nigh t o f nights, Ne w Year's Eve—a time t o celebrate th e ol d and th e new, a time to look backward and forward , thankfu l for what we think o f as a chance t o begin again . And wha t could be more musically expressive of this simultaneous parting and greeting—and the pain in the gut created when our hearts ar e yanked in two directions a t once—than the bittersweet sounds of the waltz, and the cheerfulness and heartbreak encompassed in the form tha t relies so heavily on the waltz, the operetta . Operetta was a popular genre that blossomed for only a short time, from th e middle of the nineteenth century until early in the twentieth, i n Vienna—and in other places as well, though because Viennese operetta s by Johann Strauss, Jr., and Franz Lehar scored international successes , we tend to think of operetta as an almost uniquely Viennese form . It came from France, and it was Jacques Offenbach wh o in 186 4 suggested to Strauss Junior that h e should tak e tim e out from composing waltzes and give operetta a shot. For operetta had a readymade audience, an d in the las t half of the nineteenth century that audienc e ballooned. Between 1860 and 1890 , Vienna's population grew by 259 percent. The ne w immigrants were hungry for fashionable entertainment tha t taste d great and was easy to digest—Lite Opera, Ninety-nine Percen t Angst-Free . Von Supp e ha d alread y produced wha t i s considered th e firs t Viennes e operetta in 1860 with Die Pensionat, but Offenbach's French productions were still what drew crowds to the Theate r a n der Wien and th e Carltheater . Al l that changed in 1871 , when Strauss's Indigo and the Forty Thieves was produced. This set the style for Viennese operetta, with its emphasis on music built around dance forms , especiall y the waltz. Of the man y operetta composers in Vienna between the 1870 s and the 1890s , few are remembered today. Always there is Strauss, and of course von Suppe, but of someone like Hellmesberger—Joseph, Jr.—we hear only occasional numbers, in the United States at least. Lehar was responsible for the last great flowering of the Viennese operetta, and The Merry Widow, produce d in 190 5 an d approachin g an almos t operatic integration of story and music—looking back to the Singspie l tradition of which Th e Magic Flute is a part—breathed lif e into th e for m even a s it was expiring. The Grea t War ended man y things, an d while it is impossible to establis h cause and effec t betwee n tha t upheava l and th e declin e o f operetta, th e war made clear that the world as it was before August 1914 was now as uninhabitable

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as the moon. With the horrible knowledge of mortality and darkness brought home so indisputably, how could anyone take seriously plots of petty infidelities and mistake n identity , o r militar y characters whos e clai m t o distinctio n la y more in the cut of their uniform s and the luxuriance of their whiskers than in what the y had don e a t th e front ? I n Th e Waltz Emperors: Th e Life an d Times and Music o f th e Strauss Family, Josep h Wechsberg quote s Pau l Henry Lang , who sai d tha t th e reason s Viennes e operett a die d ou t wer e part o f its very essence: "senseles s action , insipi d content , insincer e feelings , laboriously invented jokes. " These ma y not be characteristics of the operettas we remember and love today, but i f they describe the bulk of the genre , they explain why, by the 1920 s an d 1930s , thoug h composer s continue d t o writ e operettas — operettas full o f charming moments—the form itself belonged t o the past. Fortunately, the best operettas have refuse d t o go away. Strauss and Lehar will be with us always precisely because the sentiments thei r music touches— despite an y inadequacies o r inanities o f plot an d character—ar e sentiment s that neither conflagratio n nor world calamity can eras e completely, and we might even say that it is because of the bitter tragedies of the twentieth century and the beginning o f the twenty-firs t tha t w e look back with fondness on th e simple sweetness of those ligh t an d tunefu l Viennese dramas . In tha t worl d love triumphs, the good guys win, and the music is invigorating and beautiful. We know that i s how it should be, and we want to believe tha t tha t i s how it will be. Which is what makes this music so appropriate as an old year ends and a new year begins, a s we look back at what we have lef t behind , fo r better o r worse, and ahea d t o what, for better or worse, will come. III. Ne w Year' s Eve , Vienna , 190 0 None o f them aspire d t o a dinne r invitatio n a t th e Hofbur g Palace . The y understood that th e guests at Franz Joseph's table—a table that seated twenty and more—were served, each i n turn, afte r th e Empero r of Austria and King of Hungary had been given his portion. He sat there, self-satisfied i n his muttonchops and medals. Claiming privilege of birth, he began eating as soon as the food wa s arranged on his plate. When he finished a course, it was a sign that you, the guest , were finished with it too, no matte r if your place a t th e tabl e meant you had not yet been served . The Empero r was not a big eater, but h e was a fast one. Depending on where you had been seated, you could conceivably be a guest for a dinner yo u would never taste . Instead o f eating, you could sit with you r hands i n you r lap, admirin g th e shadow s an d pattern s tha t th e candlelight cas t on th e ivor y walls. You could coun t th e facet s i n th e crystal serving tray that overflowed with grapes and apples and bananas at the table's center, frui t tha t woul d never be touched an d that, whe n th e guests had left , would be tossed into the trash with the rest of the uneaten meal while Vienna's

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poor huddled agains t the late-Decembe r cold , just a century after Loui s XVI lost his head. Yo u would leave hungr y and sober . With luck, you would still have time to stop at a restaurant or Lokal for Schweinsbraten and sauerkraut. Since the y had never aspired to a dinner invitatio n a t the Hofburg, the y sat in their armchair s in this high-ceilinge d roo m whose far corners were barely visible in the electric light, newly installed, that shone from the single chandelier. The room was in a large apartment in Vienna's First District, near the University and jus t of f the Opera-quadran t o f the Ringstrasse , a walk of no mor e than fifteen minute s fro m th e Hofbur g i f you measured the distanc e i n footsteps, though using other measure s you might conclude tha t th e space between th e two places could no t b e covered i n a lifetime. It wa s New Year' s Eve , 1900 . The guest s at th e Hofbur g migh t still be unfed , bu t th e tri o gathered i n thi s humbler room had full bellies and now they sipped plum brandy. Those Hofbur g dinners were part of the collective past, just as the Emperor himself was, though he had been secure in his seat of hereditary power for five decades and seemed destined t o live forever. That had no t bee n th e fat e of his beautiful wife , who two year s ago had bee n kille d b y a n anarchist . He r lif e ha d symbolize d old ways an d a n ol d world order. Sissi's assassin had use d murder to restructure society. The me n in this roo m had thei r ow n tools for dismantling th e world and puttin g i t bac k togethe r again . The y wer e Arnold Schoenberg , Gusta v Mahler, and Sigmund Freud—the unmusical Dr. Freud, who might not hav e had muc h t o do with the ar t of his distinguished contemporaries , thoug h h e certainly coul d relis h th e stimulatio n o f their talk . The y were , al l of them , forces o f th e futur e i n a cit y preparin g t o launc h civilizatio n int o a ne w understanding of itself, for better or worse. They were bent, a s Carl Schorske has said, on "creating a new culture from an old," on "th e excavatio n o f the instinctual. " O f course their gatherin g o n that New Year's Eve is pure fantasy, but had they met that evening, what would the talk have been like? Schoenberg would go on to speak for all of them in his Harmonielehre, but he could as easily have spoken the words that night : "Th e organ of the Impressionis t is a ... seismograp h which register s the quietes t movement. .. . [The Impressionist ] is drawn to the still, the scarcely audible, therefore mysterious . His curiosity is stimulated to taste what has never bee n tried." In their own ways, they were all Impressionists, each o f them. Yet on tha t night , lookin g ahea d int o empt y space, at virgin time no t ye t ravished b y incidents o n th e Marne , an d a t Auschwit z an d Hiroshim a an d New Yor k City , di d the y sens e ho w muc h the y woul d contribut e t o th e vocabulary for understanding a new century? Surely they could not have known that here , i n Vienna, i n just fourteen years, the fat e o f the centur y would be outlined followin g Archduke Fran z Ferdinand's assassination , when Austria's offended hono r sparke d a Great Wa r tha t woul d be a rehearsal fo r an eve n greater conflict two decades later. Surely they were on the verge of more than even their vast imaginations could conceive .

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They looke d ahead . The y ha d n o us e for Hofburg dinners . Ye t they, wh o were standing a t th e edg e of a new century just as we are, must have neede d anchors, certainties tha t would stabilize their flight into unexplored terrain. In theory their goal s might have been allie d more closely with those o f Vienna's Secession artists , but thes e thre e als o kne w th e valu e o f tradition . An d i f tradition too k the form , a t leas t once a year, of a Viennese waltz , they would have understood. The waltzes , like the seasons, keep returning. They remin d us of certainties—not in a sentimental association with Vienna's Imperial past, which i s the stabilit y of rigor mortis, but becaus e of what the y say about our aspirations fo r beauty . The Straus s waltzes: if Freud simply tolerated them , surely Schoenberg an d Mahler loved them, just as Brahms had loved The Blue Danube, loved it so much that h e once confesse d he wished he had written it himself. Those waltzes, like all great art, fulfill a craving for stability even as we search for the new, always hoping that our craving for the one will not scare us into abandonin g ou r searc h fo r the other . Mayb e Stanley Kubric k really was telling u s something deepe r tha n we imagined whe n h e choreographe d th e graceful fligh t o f his rocke t shi p i n 200 1 t o Th e Blue Danube —music we're pretty sure will still exist years from now , as doubtful a s its longevity (o r ours) might have seemed in 1968 , when Kubrick's film was released. Strauss may represent the old culture, the lif e tha t continue s steadil y even on th e fa r side o f upheaval, a s it di d i n 191 8 an d agai n in 1945 . Freu d an d Mahler and Schoenberg could not have known it then, but the beloved waltzes of the Viennese, a s much as that musi c might be identified with the old order, would outlas t the ol d order by a century at least. And thoug h non e of them might hav e aspire d to a dinner invitatio n a t th e Hofburg , the y woul d hav e taken the opportunity to sit down for a beer with Johann Strauss, Jr., someone who would have taken pains to make sure his guests were attended t o properly. Had tha t maste r still been aliv e on 1 January 1901, perhaps they would have gathered with him after th e New Year's Day concert. The y would have take n their seat s around a table near th e Musikverei n and studied the sunligh t of a new century, absorbing what it taught about continuity. Reassured, they would have raised their glasses. They would have thought of all they had lef t behin d and of all they carried with them into th e future. They would have toasted th e known an d th e unknown . Then, ears full o f waltzes and appetite s keen, the y would have wished each other a Happy New Year.

—L.R.

Music? True or False

discovered concert music when I was sixteen, afte r watching a Wonderful World o f Disney life of Beethoven, with the Germa n actor Karl-Heinz Bohm portraying th e composer . Beethoven' s rag e agains t hi s deafness , his struggle to write a kind of music that would be the ultimate obscene gesture to a Fat e tha t ha d deal t hi m a lous y hand o f cards—all thi s appeale d t o m y adolescent sense of injustice and isolation and defiance. The idea of Beethovenas-hero was appealing. To me he seemed a role model, with a disdain of manners and social convention that could match any teenager's, and with a moral and artistic superiority that set him apart and made him untouchable. Who would dare take on the compose r of the Fift h Symphony for having a messy room? I discovered music , you see , throug h unmusica l means. I sa w it a s a huma n being's stance in relation to his life, something to be worn as a label that listed the ingredient s of the soul . I cam e to musi c by identifying its beauties and dramas with a kind of ethical position . That sounds severe and Germanic an d pompous but, when you come to think of it, is really the onl y way to approach music if you approac h music through Beethoven , wh o i s not pompou s at all . Music, and what it could say and where it could lead: all this was a discovery like one o f the man y discoveries tha t teenager s continu e t o make , believing tha t certain fact s abou t life hav e lai n i n hiding fo r centuries. An d I suppose those facts actually do remain hidden, awaitin g detection jus t as a volume of Keats or a recording of Bach sits dormant until a reader or a listener comes along.

I

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When I sa y that I wa s attracte d t o th e ethical conten t o f music , I' m distinguishing this from the technical content—from an awareness of harmony, meter, an d an y theoretica l boundarie s tha t composer s take int o accoun t a s they go about their work. I am talking about an idea rooted in the nineteenth century, when art was supposed to instruct and delight. I can sympathize with Stravinsky's insistence, year s afte r h e ha d writte n The Rite of Spring, tha t th e music was intended not a s a depiction of life in pagan Russia, but a s a series of abstract sonic images. Sure, we can approac h The Rite of Spring a s something abstract—and we can approac h the Beethove n Fift h fro m tha t point o f view as well. In eithe r case , th e beaut y of the forma l structur e will still appeal to something personal in the listener, because all of us hear the music in our own way. Am I just stating the obvious ? So I go t hooke d o n Beethoven , an d tha t le d t o harde r stuff . I mea n my tastes wer e expanding , an d befor e I kne w i t I wa s immerse d i n th e basi c orchestral repertory. In an earlier time and place this might have take n more years than my patience o r ability would have allowed . But by the lat e 1960s , the long-playing record was a fact of American life. The catalogue of Columbia Masterworks ("36 0 Sound" ) wa s dominated b y Leonard Bernstei n an d th e New Yor k Philharmonic , Eugen e Ormandy an d th e Philadelphi a Orchestra , and Georg e Szel l an d Cleveland . Londo n Record s ("Ful l Frequency Rang e Recording") gav e u s Ansermet an d LOrchestr e d e l a Suiss e Romande. O n RCA ("Livin g Stereo"), w e foun d Reine r an d th e Chicag o Symphony , and Leinsdorf an d Boston . O n Ange l an d Deutsch e Grammopho n (n o catch y nomenclature o n their jacket s t o describ e th e soun d o f thei r vinyl ) w e encountered Klempere r an d th e Philharmoni a (nothin g wron g with you r turntable—that first movement of the Pastoral Symphony was being played at half-speed) an d Herbert von Karajan and the Berlin Philharmonic (deep-pil e Beethoven, accompanie d b y liner note s i n thre e languages , in a prose style that fed a sense of intellectual inadequacy among readers in the United States , the UK , France , an d Germany) . Among them , thes e artist s duplicated jus t about every big symphonic work of the nineteenth century (the symphonies of Joachim Raff and Alexander vo n Zemlinsky would have to wait for the CD era for anythin g lik e name recognition) . One o f my great delights was spending time at Rose Records on Wabash Avenue, unde r the "L " tracks in the Chicag o Loop. There , I flippe d throug h th e bin s an d avoide d th e salesmen , wh o all spoke in jaded tones and strange accents—possibly British, but probably not— and who were always irritated by the imperfectly phrased questions of a novice. I fantasized about owning Stokowski's recording of the Ive s Fourth, and about Szell's box of Brahms symphonies. I was a geek. My friend Peter was a geek, too—a science geek who was intrigued by hightech sound, circa 1967 . Today he would be called a n audiophile. He built his own speakers and powered them with a tuner and amplifie r i n the day s when

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most of us were still playing LPs and 45 s on G E portables, the one s with th e speakers you unsnappe d fro m eithe r sid e o f the cas e an d positione d aroun d the room as far as the wires reached. Our parents , most of whom remembered playing platter s a s fragil e a s glas s o n crank-woun d turntables , calle d thes e machines recor d players, and so did we. When I listened t o Beethoven o n my record player at home, I got a good idea of the sound's outline. When I played the same LP on Peter's system, I heard the music's soul. Actually, the sound he was able to conjure probably wasn't much better than what you get today from a boom-box you've picked up on sale at Circuit City, but i n 196 7 it was pretty wonderful. S o as my collection expanded , I made a point regularl y of taking my new records to Peter's, to hear what they really sounded like. I should tel l you that, Peter's fascination with recorded sound notwithstanding, hi s idea of music wa s forme d b y jus t a fe w favorit e albums . Thre e tha t I recal l ar e Leinsdorf's Boston Symphony recording of the Mahler First; a collection calle d One Stormy Night, a precurso r of "environmenta l music " b y a n ensembl e identified a s the Mysti c Moods Orchestra , featurin g strin g arrangement s of "Misty" and "Girl from Ipanema" played against the background of falling rain; and Holiday i n New York, a stereo demo disc disguised as an odd sonic travelogue, in which you heard things like a subway rumbling under the Manhattan streets and th e gentl e tap-tap , fro m lef t t o right speaker and back, o f a table tenni s match a t a local "Y. " All thi s wa s a mixe d bag , a bag whose content s were offered with such regularity that one album seemed to shift shape into another, and sometimes I still feel the urg e to whack a Ping-Pong ball or check th e sky for gatherin g clouds when I hear Mahler. Peter's tastes stayed pretty close to home, yet he could enjoy a n occasiona l experiment, an d on e da y h e brough t hom e a recordin g o f Karlhein z Stockhausen's Gesang derjiinglinge. H e was more intrigued by that melange of electronically generated sounds than I was—because I approached music from the perspectiv e of drama, beginning-middle-end, an d I was clueless when I encountered anythin g tha t didn' t fi t that mold . For Peter, the soun d was th e thing, and though he always seemed to like hearing my latest acquisition, he was clearly more interested i n the quality of reproduction than in the music itself. One day , I visite d Pete r wit h m y ne w recordin g o f Bruckner' s Eight h Symphony, Solti conducting the Vienna Philharmonic i n London's latest FFRR sound. Part s o f Bruckner' s Eight h ge t abou t a s lou d a s anythin g acousti c instruments can generate. Those of us who love this sort of thing characterize it as "sublime," and to us it signifies the heavens opening. It sounded magnificent on Peter's stereo equipment. If you know the Bruckner Eighth, you know that, by the time you reach the end, more than an hour from where you started, you feel you've been through a struggle for your life. In the final seconds, Bruckner (never one to miss beating a point into the ground) hammers away in a kind of religious ecstasy, having discovered how to tie up all the strands of his symphonic

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argument and bring it to an end, which (yo u guessed it) leaves us standing a t heaven's gate . You are liberated and for a moment carried into anothe r world. What you want when the music stops is a little space to gather your thoughts . But without pausing for breath as the stylu s rose from th e fina l groove of Side 4, Peter switched on his reel-to-reel tape recorder. "I want you to hear something I picked up off the radi o yesterday," he tol d me . A woman began singing Hank Williams's "Settin' the Woods on Fire." Her voice was clear and pure and as happy as a beauty queen's smile—none of the pepper an d ho t sauc e of a country singer here. He r enunciatio n wa s perfect. This wa s the G-rate d versio n of Hank's song . All th e gri t and sexines s o f his original were gone, which meant that this wasn't Hank at all. It was Phony Hank. "Isn't that a great voice?" Peter asked, his enthusiasm on the rise. "What a sound!" At this point Peter's mother, attracted by what was coming from the speakers, popped he r hea d int o hi s room . " I like that! " sh e announced . "Somethin g different*." The n sh e looke d a t me , barel y abl e t o contai n herself , and sai d something tha t seeme d t o giv e her grea t satisfaction. "It doesn't hav e t o be boom-boom all the time! " What? Oh: Bruckner. Boom-boom. Somehow I knew that it wasn't the sound level tha t wa s nagging her. We had cranke d u p the volum e often, an d ofte n quite late , an d not onc e ha d we heard a n objection. Fo r that matter , Phony Hank himsel f was blasting pretty loud. No. Boom-boom wasn't a question of loud. It was something else . I dismissed Peter's mother's objection at the moment, but over the years her words have stayed with me and nagged me. Often I wonder: Does it or does it not hav e t o b e boom-boom al l the time ? Wh y woul d anyon e prefe r a sani tized versio n o f Hank William s t o Bruckner ? Why woul d anyon e prefe r a sanitized version of Hank Williams t o Hank Williams ? As I said, the year was 1967. It was a time of protests against the war in Vietnam. In Chicago, wher e we ha d bee n listenin g t o Bruckne r an d no w were listening t o Phon y Hank , Martin Luther King, Jr., had marched through white neighborhoods th e summer before i n suppor t of open housing , an d w e had see n ho w quickl y neighbors could turn into hater s once yo u started talking racial integration. I n anothe r year, with King dead, the city's West Side up in smoke, and Mayor Daley issuing his infamous "shoot t o kill " order , the atmospher e i n Chicag o wa s ugly, an d Chicago's atmospher e was no differen t fro m th e res t of the country's . Every day pitted th e individua l agains t the rulin g powers, the independen t agains t the machine. You didn't have to be a teenager to be angry, you just had to have a sense of social justice, like Beethoven's. I n August 1968, when th e Chicag o Police Department demonstrate d its unique version of crowd control in fron t of th e world' s TV cameras , most Americans believe d tha t thing s coul d only get better , an d the y wer e wrong . Peter's mothe r truste d Mayo r Daley an d President Johnson, and she had once told me that anyone who chose to question

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his elected official s wa s best advised to go live in another country . America: Love it o r leave it, sh e said, with th e blun t eloquenc e o f a bumper sticker. I think sh e sensed that Bruckner's sublime disregard of all this was an attitude that could poison the mind of impressionable youth. Bruckner might send you off in search of the ideal world he was referring to with all his boom-boom, but it was a search that was likely to land you in jail. Best to clean up "Settin' th e Woods on Fire." Forget boom-boom. For tha t matter , th e rea l Han k William s als o come s wit h a prett y hig h quotient o f boom-boom—not horns an d trombone s an d timpan i at ful l blast, but Boom-boom, with a capital B: the explosive and dangerous element Peter's mother detected in Bruckner and all the other concert music I schlepped over to pollute her son' s mind. She sensed something there. Sh e just didn't know what to call it. I don't reall y mean tha t as a criticism. None of us knows the proper name for Boom-boom. But none of us has seen the Almighty, either, for he want s no grave n images of himself, an d th e wor d Yahweh wa s conceive d because God's name is not t o be uttered. The choic e w e ar e give n in ar t i s really a choice betwee n Boom-boom or Phony Hank . Boom-boom i s serious, it deal s wit h th e issues , and i t ca n b e intimidating. It is not usuall y something that we understand perfectly on firs t acquaintance, which means that it has different layers , which is a code phrase for complexity, which, if you believe focus groups and Hollywood , is something Americans would rather avoid. Those in the business of producing concerts of "serious" music are constantly on the lookout for new audiences, and a perennial theme is the need to recruit young listeners. These days , we tend t o fea r tha t shortene d attentio n span s make concert musi c less appealing. Yet the averag e symphony or concerto is shorter tha n th e averag e movie. Fo r tha t matter , an entire concert generally lasts about two hours, not much longer than the average movie. The problem seems to be more one of language than length, though for a listener, the language of music has little to do with technical expertise , or the abilit y to read a score. Most of the works in the basic concert repertory were conceived t o be enjoyed as drama s by a n audienc e a t leas t a s attentiv e a s th e audienc e a t a movi e theater—and not necessaril y an audienc e of specialists. Most works in the basic concert repertor y are full o f emotional peaks and valleys, gathering and dissipating tensions. To pay attention t o these is to grasp musical narrative. To grasp this is to leap an important language barrier. But what about complexity? Complexities in art grow out of the complexities we inherit a t birth—the consequence o f our ancestors having eaten th e frui t in Eden. When you turn out the lights at night, those complexities come down to questions of life and death, of how to live most completely and most fully as a hedge against the inevitable, which is a simple question, with many answers. A questio n of life an d death—it' s what all good music is about, whether th e

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music is Beethoven, Bruckner, Hank Williams, or Bruce Springsteen. The music you love is a stance in relation t o life. It is on Boom-boom, in its various forms, that we can rely in the end. When our hearts are plummeting to the ground at supersonic speed , i t i s the interwove n fiber s o f the thin g calle d Boom-boom that will be our safety net. Complexit y means only that you're alive. Passion is better than indifference. A soul that comprehends Eros is closer to understanding its fellows than one tha t i s emotionally celibate . The world is bigger than Bruckner and Beethoven and Haydn and Stravinsky and Ive s and Adams , but i t i s also bigger because of them. The y ar e not th e only one s wit h somethin g t o sa y about it , an d even thei r commentarie s ar e different. What they have in common is Boom-boom, the basic ingredient. Does it have to be Boom-boom all the time ? Maybe the answer depends on what we mean by all the time. I would ask Peter's mother t o clarify this , but i n the years since she uttered her pronouncement we have lost contact, an d I keep turning to Bruckner and Beethoven an d their colleague s for the answer.

—L.R.

Why We Are Here

I

t i s now mor e tha n twent y year s sinc e I cam e acros s a n articl e i n th e Sunday pape r o n ho w th e roc k generatio n o f th e 1960 s an d 1970s , approaching middle age, was turning into "the pop cultural establishment." It discusse d such phenomen a a s Pau l Simon's albu m Hearts an d Bones an d Linda Ronstadt' s What's New, he r recordin g o f pre-rock standards suc h a s "Someone t o Watc h ove r Me"—an d tha t doe s see m t o be somethin g agin g stars do , recor d song s that hav e age d better tha n the y have . O f Hearts and Bones, th e write r noted tha t i t was "marketed a s a pop record, b u t . .. in its sophistication is more like a collection o f art songs." I bought Hearts and Bones, listened t o it , an d foun d i t quit e engagin g bu t no t a bit lik e Winterreise o r Winter Words. As Stravinsky once remarke d in anothe r context—an d wit h no intent of denigration—it is a different fraternity . I intend no denigration either, but I do want t o make a distinction. Th e musi c we are involved wit h in th e concer t hall, tha t musi c w e hav e neve r manage d t o agre e o n a nam e for , neithe r "classical" nor "serious" serving quite convincingly, but th e music responsible for bringin g us by such diverse paths into concert hall s and t o read books like this one—in sum, Why We Are Here—this music has aspirations beyond those of Hearts an d Bones. At least this music is capable of such aspirations, and here I need t o make a distinction withi n a distinction. W e take som e stuf f to o seriously , seate d i n

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rows an d facin g the front , attending , a s thoug h t o " A Solemn Musick, " t o what Telemann or even Mozart intended a s Muzak, for which there were names such as Tafelmusik an d cassazione. It is also true that Mozart' s Muzak include s moments tha t ravish the sense s an d pierce th e heart—privat e addresse s to the dinner guest who is undernourished by the pompous ass on the left and th e airhead o n the right, and who has started paying attention t o the band. Th e language, the musica l language, is capable of that, an d ther e i s a continuou s spectrum from elegantl y turned-out musique de table to Figaro or Beethoven' s Opus 13 1 or the Mahle r Ninth or wherever you choose t o locate heaven . Musical heaven, i n any event, i s attainable. I t offers thre e sorts of pleasure or deligh t o r nourishment—sensuous , intellectual , an d emotional . Th e perception o f sensuous pleasure in music requires no preparation, only clea n ears. With experience your receptiveness will become broader, and with it your idea of pleasure. I think of Schoenberg, sayin g about a passage of deliciously idiosyncratic scoring in his Variations for Orchestra: "I hope tha t som e day these sound s will be foun d beautiful. " For that matter , I recall my own no w long-ago dismay upon first hearing a countertenor o r a harpsichord or a Baroque organ that didn' t soun d like a Cavaille-Coll in a French cathedral . The two other pleasures , the intellectual an d the emotional, require, along with clea n ears , preparation—o r readiness—i n tha t ther e i s a languag e t o understand, and als o a set of conventions. Th e languag e is rich and complex. Musical discourse speaks to experience and , ideally , to a generously stocked and well-functioning memory. Obviously a musical event exists in the present, at th e momen t o f its sounding, but i t also has a past, a history. It comes fro m somewhere. Even if it stands at the beginning o f a piece it comes from silence , and music can emerge from silence in different ways . Think of the Beethove n Fifth, the n thin k o f the Pastoral —and thos e difference s matter . Each even t also has a future, somewher e to go, even i f only into silenc e an d applause . In 1939, Thomas Man n onc e gav e a lecture to students at Princeton abou t The Magic Mountain. He advised them to read it twice, "unless you were bored th e first time." Mann went on to point out the musicality of the composition of his stupendous novel, declaring that was precisely the reason behind hi s "arrogant demand t o read [it ] twice. You can only fully tak e the measure of the comple x o f . . . relationships and enjoy it when you already know the themes and are in a position to interpret the allusions forwards as well as backwards." To remember a musical event is, so to speak, to put money in the bank, to make an investment in future pleasure. Form, Walter Pater said, is the lif e history of an idea. The pattern s made by these life-threads , by this pla y of backward and forward , o f being here an d i n the pas t and in the futur e al l at the same time, are in themselves fascinating, beautiful, and, to those sensible to their speech, moving. The mind—the ready mind—can find transcendenc e an d be stirred to ecstasy as much as the body and the heart .

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And the emotions? One road to the heart goes directly through the senses. We ca n b e touched , stirred , move d b y th e beautifu l ton e o f a voic e o r a n instrument, by the insistence of one rhythm or the teasing suppleness of another, by the tensio n i n a leap, by a stimulus as simple as the soun d of a full orchestr a at flood tide or by a barely audible hush. A rock musician I know—a colleague of one of my sons, a producer of rock recordings—attended his first symphony concert a few years ago. I recall his marveling not onl y at th e richnes s o f the percussion writing in Leonard Bernstein's HaUl but also his thrilled astonishmen t at how much volum e unamplified acoustic instruments could generate , how plain loud an orchestra could be. Another roa d t o th e heart—no t s o easy a road—goes throug h th e mind : the play of form, the unfolding of the life histories of the composer's ideas, that is not onl y lovely in itsel f but i s also where th e riches t par t of the expressive content o f a piece resides . By "richest" I mean tha t which wil l longest yield new perceptions and where the familia r will longest stay verdant. We respond to th e releas e of tension an d suspens e when w e return to th e hom e ke y and when we land in a recapitulation. And—if you have been paying attention— we ca n respon d withou t havin g an y intellectua l concep t o f "tonic " o r "recapitulation." I learned tha t mor e tha n half a century ag o when I was a teaching assistan t in an Introduction to Music course. One o f my duties was to run sessions in which we played the recordings of that week's assignment and where I was available t o answe r questions. Always there wer e students who swore they couldn't follow what we were trying to tell them about sonata form ; always, when the recapitulation of a Beethoven symphony movement arrived, those sam e student s shifte d in thei r chairs , visibl y relaxed, and (remember , this was 1951) reache d for a cigarette. The sens e o f recognition, whic h depend s o n attentio n an d memory , is essential to musical experience. The mos t subtle of the musician' s resources, the one that challenges our most delicate attunement, i s harmony, the sting— or the ache—of dissonance (t o think in terms of detail) or the grandly farsighted strategy o f a whole Beethove n quartet , a Bruckner symphony , or a Wagner opera. Tristan und Isolde, th e ver y symbol for all that is recklessly emotional i n art, depend s for its effect o n presenting a dissonance fiftee n second s into th e piece an d refusin g t o melt i t into consonance unti l fiftee n second s fro m th e end—something lik e fiv e hour s later . Al l tha t feve r fro m a n unresolve d dominant seventh! And a work like Tristan, where the compose r so carefull y and s o skillfully tie s specifi c musica l sounds t o specifi c emotiona l jolts , als o shows us how something in us vibrates to reminiscence, allusion , quotation . I know tha t suc h tal k can scar e people an d anno y them . Bu t it's th e talk that doe s it , th e words—"dominan t seventh, " o r eve n worse , "unresolve d dominant seventh," "fla t submediant," "Neapolitan sixth"—not the music itself. The words are useful: precise terms make conversation efficient an d agreeable.

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Imagine th e nuisanc e o f no t bein g abl e t o sa y "bunt " o r "bechamel " o r "backhand"! Th e ter m "fla t submediant " ma y alar m you. But I kno w your heart is pierced when, in Elgar's Enigma Variations, the strings sneak an E-fla t under tha t delicat e bridg e o f a suspende d G t o begi n tha t nobl e paea n t o friendship, th e Nimrod Variation . Bu t agai n I have t o say , only i f you've been paying attention! Hamlet speak s to you, or King Lear, in a way that Lamb's Tales from Shakespeare (th e original Classics Comics) cannot, but you don't sit in the theater or in your living room counting t o ten in your anxiety over the iambic pentameters or keeping track of just how many sibilants occur in There's hell , there's darkness , there's th e sulphurous pit, Burning, scalding, stench, consumption . . . .

"If you'v e been paying attention," I said a moment ago. Great music is something for you to do, not jus t something for you to pay for and hav e done t o you or for you. And s o we come back to the issu e on which I touched a t the beginning . We are talking here about a human activity of high aspirations in the matter of touching peopl e in their inmos t regions. Each time I hear th e Mahler Ninth , for example , I think what a frightening invasion o f privacy it is. And i t is an activity as rich in possibilities as it is ambitious in aspiration. But again, this works only if we do our part. Music, this music, is a demanding partner in love. Those elements of musical experience that touch us most deeply, most lastingly, that ca n change ou r lives, are below the surfac e of experience. They ar e not mean t fo r effortless access . Oh, an d ho w many of our musical love affairs hav e begun in frustration an d anger ! How easy it is to say, "That's not what I call music!" The violinis t Rose Mary Harbison has written: "[Music] requires [from us] an intentional reachin g o u t . .. a willingness to probe its rich intricacies, th e capacity to be startled and dismayed, to have one's sou l tormented a little, t o come unadorned , emotionall y fresh , t o stan d alon g with other s an d witness the hope s and th e visio n of the composer . And a truly great performer i s one who is willing to reveal the hidde n an d difficul t sid e of a piece." Music ha s hidde n an d difficul t side s an d i t offer s ric h intricacie s fo r ou r delighted unraveling . Don't misunderstand me. I am not saying that music, or any for m o f art , shoul d b e a gri m experience . I n a n articl e title d "Th e Degradation of Work and the Apotheosis o f Art," Christopher Lasc h cites one of my favorite history books, Johan Huizinga's Homo Ludens, a favorite in part because it i s so ungrim. Huizinga writes: "The grea t archetypal activities of human society are all permeated with play from the start.... [Language, myth, and ritual], law and order, commerce and profit, craft an d art, poetry, wisdom, and scienc e [ar e all] roote d i n th e primeva l soil of play." Lasch comments :

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"The seriou s business of life, i n othe r words , has alway s been colore d b y a n attitude tha t . . . finds mor e satisfactio n in gratuitou s difficulty tha n in th e achievement o f a given objective with a minimum of effort. Th e play-spirit , if you will, values maximum effort fo r minimum results." Compelling i n al l this i s the intercuttin g o f the seriou s and th e playful . Goethe referre d t o his Faust—chose serieuse, if ever there was—as "diese sehr ernste Scherze," thes e very serious jests. That we are capable of serious jests is one of the things that we, as human creatures, can be proud of. Lewis Thomas put it this way: "Computers will not take over the world, they cannot replac e us, becaus e the y ar e no t designed , a s we are , fo r ambiguity." The designe r who wired us for ambiguity blessed us at th e sam e time with appetite s bot h for complexit y and simplicity , with a lust for solving problems, with deligh t in lookin g fo r th e secre t door , with th e sens e t o realize , sometimes , tha t surfaces ar e only surfaces, wit h th e jo y of knowing tha t next tim e w e hear the Mahle r Nint h we shall hea r an d understan d mor e an d be move d tha t much more. Once at a concert I found myself seated next to a lively and charming woman, a retired professor, and at some point during our chat she said, "Of course, the greatest livin g artis t i s X. " No w X i s indee d a first-rat e musicia n an d instrumentalist a s well as a most beguiling performer. What bothered m e was the idea tha t ther e shoul d o r could be such a creature at al l as "the greates t living artist. " I t i s typica l o f th e distraction s tha t th e wizard s o f caree r management set in our path daily. It is a distraction from musi c itself, and it is a disservic e in tha t i t promote s th e li e that a Beethoven concert o become s worth our attentio n onl y when i t i s performed by a superstar. Those eterna l cocktail party questions, "Which do you think i s the greatest orchestra in the world?" or "Wh o d o you think is the greates t conductor?" are fatiguing and discouraging, not just because I don't know the answer, not even because there can be no answer, but because of the confusion about values that lurks behind those questions . An outstandingl y successful concer t pianis t remarked to me once tha t w e were fast turnin g into a society where merely to be very good at something is regarded as a birth defect. We are her e becaus e of music. That musi c is a profession and a business cannot b e written out o f the world order, but le t us remember in the mids t of the swir l that i t i s also the subjec t of a contract ful l o f words like attention , listening, meditation, reflection, remembrance, wit, joy, torment, delight, heart, brain, spirit. Yes, the elevation of the spirit is the ultimate reward, the one tha t comes after we have learned to take that nourishment o f the senses, the brain, and th e heart , o f which I spoke earlier. When I read th e secon d volum e of Elias Canetti's autobiography , The Torch in My Ear, I came acros s a though t that struck me hard. Canetti i s speaking about painting, but what he says works

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for musi c too: "The reaso n pictures slumber for generations is that there is no one to see them with the experience that awakes them." There we have quite a challenge, but haven't we all had some searing moment of learning what may be given us, what we might become, when we do face u p to tha t challenge? The reaso n we are here is, as Friedrich Nietzsche said so simply, that "without music, life would be a mistake."1

—M.S.

1 1 found the Nietzsche quotation in an obscure piece of writing, I think maybe an introduction to a book by someone else, by Thomas Mann. My essay was originally a talk at a function of the American Symphony Orchestr a League i n Sa n Francisc o in 1984 , and I suspec t tha t wa s the origi n o f th e subsequent floo d o f T-shirts, coffe e mugs , an d s o on, emblazone d with the Germa n philosopher's excellent sentiment.

VL POSTLUDE

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The Sound s We Make

A

n odd bit of theater too k place at a recent concer t here . Beethoven' s Emperor Concert o wa s on th e program , in a performance that ha d everything you would want by way of lyricism, intelligence, an d crackling virtuosity. The wa y the firs t movement end s i s unmistakably designed t o elicit applause; at this concert, however, almost complete silence greeted those closing chords. "Almost, " because there wa s in fac t on e singl e handclap, bu t the author of that sound, apparently feeling that he or she had done somethin g wrong, immediately retreated fro m action . Th e pianis t turned an d nodded i n the directio n o f the solitar y clapper, but i t wa s and remain s unclea r t o m e whether he was being courteous or sardonic. The audience, though, interpreted his actio n a s a messag e tha t the y probabl y should hav e applauded . The y proceeded t o d o that , heartily , whereupon th e pianis t stoo d an d responde d with a full bow from th e waist. It was not tha t peopl e hadn't enjoye d the performance. This pianist is well known to this audience and popular, he had drawn a full house, and the ovation at th e en d o f the concert o wa s huge; rather, it seemed t o me that to o many members of this audienc e ha d bee n tol d to o often that i t is bad for m t o clap between movements . Tha t notio n i s constantl y reinforce d b y soloists an d conductors wh o respon d t o applaus e between movement s b y presenting a posture of "I don't hea r anything. " I imagine tha t th e smirkin g of orchestral musicians on those occasions has its effect too . This time , though, the solitary

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clapper was quite right, and I was happy that whe n th e concert wa s repeated the followin g evening th e crow d burst into applaus e at th e en d o f the firs t movement. Audiences ar e unpredictable. Beethoven woul d have bee n appalle d by that silenc e a t th e firs t concert . When Brahms, surely no applause hound, played his D-minor Piano Concert o in Leipzig for the firs t time , he wrote in distress to his friend Joachim that no t only was the work badly received at the end but that there was "no reaction at all to the first and second movements." Thirty-eight years later, when Brahms, then a dying man, went to a performance of his Fourth Symphony in Vienna— it was the last concert he was able to attend—each of the fou r movements was greeted b y a n ovatio n gladl y acknowledged . A t th e premier e o f Elgar's Symphony No. 1 in Manchester i n 1908 , th e applaus e at the en d o f the firs t movement wa s such tha t th e compose r had t o leav e hi s box and tak e bows from th e stage . Back in 1778 , Mozart was thrilled whe n a particularly witty stroke of his in th e final e of the Pari s Symphon y stirred the audienc e i n th e French capital to clap and cheer while the music was actually under way. Every time Haydn introduced one of his new symphonies in London in the 1790 s the movements were not only all applauded, but many of them had to be repeated then an d there . Comin g bac k t o th e Emperor, th e grea t nineteenth-century pianist Hans von Billow reported that he regularly got a big hand a t the end of the series of three cadenzas that ope n that work. When the thirteen-year-ol d Bronislaw Huberman performed the Brahms Violin Concerto in the composer's presence, he was deeply chagrined because the audience applauded at the end of th e cadenza , blotting ou t par t of the poeti c coda . Brahms , far from bein g offended, simpl y consoled th e boy , patting hi m o n th e shoulde r an d saying, "You shouldn' t hav e played it so beautifully." We seem to have forgotten all that. Applause in the "wrong" place is now a sin, like driving an SUV, eating red meat, and smoking cigars. What happened and what does it mean? In the last part of the nineteenth century people became interested in the question of what held a large, multi-movement work together as well as in the delight s of its individual movements. One reaso n for this was fascination with the ver y long-range compositional strategies in the operas of Richard Wagner; another was the appearance of cyclic works in which theme s from earlie r movement s o r section s ha d crucia l part s t o pla y i n late r ones . Theorists an d critics often cared more about such matters than the composers themselves. Mozar t and Beethove n n o doubt too k pain s t o make the various movements of their pieces be well suited to one another, but neither compose r hesitated o n occasion t o swap movements around. Mozart also had no qualms about playing three movements of a symphony at the beginning of a concert an d ending the evening with the finale. Beethoven mad e what seem to us appalling suggestions abou t th e re-orderin g an d omittin g o f movement s o f hi s Hammerklavier Sonata. At an y rate the idea that th e flo w of an entire work was

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an essential part of its musical character and one that ought not to be interrupted began to take on more weight, and there is something to be said for that. No less important is what happens at the ends of movements. In the Emperor, Beethoven build s a subtle harmonic bridg e from th e firs t movemen t t o th e second. Th e forme r E-fla t keynot e reappear s as the firs t melod y note o f th e Adagio, though now written as D-sharp in what sounds like very far-away B major. That is precious and wonderful, but is it really more important than the rhetoric of the dramatic gestures with which the Allegro ends? After all, getting excited by a soloist's artistry, virtuosity not excluded, is an essential part of the concerto experience, especially in a piece in which keyboard bravura is so central an element. Moreover , do we have to assume that fifteen second s of applause necessarily blot ou t al l memory of the E-fla t harmonie s wit h which th e firs t movement s o emphatically ends? Stayin g with th e Emperor, w e will come t o that mos t magica l place i n it , tha t supremel y happy-making moment whe n Beethoven leaps without pause from the meditative and poetic slow movement into th e exuberant finale. He links movements in this manner in quite a few works, and many composers emulate him in this. This would seem to eliminate the applaus e problem. One exceptio n occurs , surprisingly, i n Mendelssohn , who is a bit maladroit in handling the bridge between the first two movements of his Violin Concerto, s o that th e quie t emergence of the Andante from th e seemingly applause-biddin g clos e o f th e Allegr o i s sometime s drowne d i n clapping. (Elsewhere in this book I tell a similar story about Weber's Invitation to the Dance.) It can g o the othe r wa y as well. Movements can arriv e at thei r las t notes and stop, but stil l be open-ended enoug h to need th e firs t sounds of the nex t movement t o complet e o r continu e th e musica l thought. Th e storm y firs t movement of Beethoven's Opus 111, his last piano sonata, ends on a repressed C-major chor d wit h th e hand s ver y fa r apart on th e keyboard . The secon d movement begins with another quie t C-major chord, but with the hands now in mid-range, filling in the empty space in the preceding sonority. It would be horrible to interrupt that connection with applause. Another reason, one that probably speaks to listeners more immediately because it is directly connected to emotion an d temper , is that endin g in pianissimo is not b y itself enough t o defuse th e turbulenc e o f that firs t movement : i t wil l take th e whol e o f th e second movemen t t o accomplis h that . I n othe r words , the firs t movement , even though it ends, is not really finished. Similarly, in the Appassionata Sonat a you can't stop at the end of the firs t movement for brow-mopping or applause or anythin g else : tha t las t F-minor chord, even thoug h th e harmon y hasn' t shifted for six measures, is profoundly restles s and the musi c has to move on into the Andante. In the Waldstein Sonata , on the other hand, you can, without harm t o th e music , fling you r arm s into th e ai r on th e firs t movement' s last chords and even stand to take a bow if the audience responds to your invitation.

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So OK, sometimes you mustn't, sometimes you may, sometimes you should. How d o yo u kno w whic h i s when? In th e eighteent h centur y i t wa s not a problem: you waited for your host or the highest-ranking nobleman present to applaud. If you clapped before His Highness you were being exceedingly impolite and you would not be invited t o dinner again . The psychology of appealing to a singl e listene r is very different fro m tha t of seekin g to inflam e an entir e audience, an d tha t i s why Bach's Brandenburg Concertos don' t en d with extra temperature-raising chords but simply finish with the last note of the last phrase. That, however, is not ou r situation today, and the inciden t I recounted a t the beginnin g fascinate d m e as evidence o f how uncertai n w e can b e i n our relationship t o classica l musi c an d it s performance . To clap afte r th e firs t movement wa s bad for m a t on e moment , bu t te n second s late r i t wa s OK. Much o f ou r concer t lif e i s determine d b y convention s abou t al l sort s of matters—what performer s wear , havin g th e concertmaste r a t orchestra l concerts make a solo entrance (o r not), the tuning ritual, and what constitutes a normal amount of applause (very different convention s obtai n for rock, jazz, classical music , opera , ballet , an d regula r theater) . Toda y we expec t th e conductor to be recalled to the stage two or three times at the end of a concert, but no t muc h more than a hundred year s ago even a single recall was worth special notice i n a newspaper review. In th e las t couple of decades, applause inflation ha s le d t o th e standin g ovatio n changin g fro m a specia l an d rar e tribute to an obligatory event. We also take it for granted that th e conductor will ask the orchestra to rise and share in the applause; only half a century ago that was an uncommon and therefore a remarkabl e gesture . Righ t now , i n fact , w e ar e witnessin g a convention i n the process of change. When a conductor gets the orchestra up, the player s have usuall y stood facing the podiu m just as they had done whil e seated and playing, and, I must add, most of them look as though all that nois e out front cannot possibl y have anything to do with them. In the last few years, though, som e conductors hav e aske d the musician s to face th e audience , a n innovation i n whic h I believ e Neem e Jarv i i n Detroi t wa s th e pioneer . Surprisingly, ther e i s still som e resistance t o this , bu t whe n an d wher e i t is done th e effec t o n th e atmospher e is happy. Finally, and no t least , eve n th e very fac t tha t w e express pleasure—or jus t goo d manners—b y clappin g th e palms of our hands together is a convention. A t every concert there is someone for whom the experience is new and the ritual and convention unfamilia r and probably in par t irrational o r at leas t incomprehensibl e an d confusing . How many times, for example, have I been aske d about the concertmaster walk ? But let us think about what the music itself tells us. Loud, flashy, harmonically unambiguous endings ar e easy. They tel l us: "Clap!" I would even g o so far as to say that i f the feve r pitch seems to demand it, it would really be all right to start clapping right into the last long C that ends the Beethoven Fifth . That is

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very rare at concerts, but we routinely do it at the opera. That's wha t all those tonic chord s at th e en d o f a Verdi aria like Sempre libera are all about. German audiences tend to be very earnest about not disturbing the music, a good impulse, but i t alway s feel s funn y t o sit in solemn silence throug h thos e rabble-rousing noises tha t ar e really not mean t t o be listene d t o a t all . Once i n a while we experience the converse of this when a conductor starts the music right into th e applause welcoming hi m t o th e stage . I still remember th e hair-raisin g effec t when th e eighty-three-year-ol d Stokowsk i whipped int o th e Flying Dutchman Overture that way. That can be exciting, but it is a gimmick to be used sparingly. It is the quie t endings tha t caus e trouble. They leave us in a different kin d of moo d fro m th e excite d ones , perhap s dream y (Afternoon o f a Faun), transported to a faraway, private place (Beethoven Opus 11 1 or Mahler's Song of th e Earth), unsettled (th e Sibelius Fourth), or dark (Tchaikovsky's Pathetique or th e Eight h Quarte t o f Shostakovich). A spel l has been cast . Then what? Silence ma y be the ideal response. Applause rudely shifts th e focus awa y fro m the musi c or wherever th e musi c has take n u s back t o th e performers , t o a world of bows and smiles , embraces and bouquets. Just a few days ago I heard a profoundl y moving performanc e of Elgar' s The Dream of Gerontius, and I must say I both hated th e applause that burst out after ten seconds of beautiful silence an d tha t I joined in it. But even i f we do recognize that silence i s the right response we really don't kno w how to do that at a public concert. Habi t (or convention ) an d th e desir e t o expres s our gratitud e t o th e performer s interfere, an d so does our need t o release tension i n ourselves. At the very least, though, we need a n interval of silence before the noise we make begins. More often than not, a conductor, pianist, violinist, or whatever can command silence at the end of a piece with body language and sheer forc e of personality; there is, however, no defense against the person who just has to demonstrate h e owns the C D an d know s when Tapiola i s over. He wil l shout his "Bravo!" before the music has stopped resonating in the room ("he" because this seem s to be a peculiarly male obnoxiousness). Some musi c needs t o be cushioned by stillness, before and after: no less than sound, silence is an essential component o f the musica l experience. A s the conducto r Davi d Zinma n has put it: "Silence i s the canvas on which the composer paints." Might it help to remind concertgoers that LISTEN is an anagram of SILENT? It is all a question of sensitivity, of tact, of experience, of the willingness to allow someone else to be in charge of the flo w o f events, an d you can't legislat e any of those things . Nothing, not even coughing, enrages musicians more than an audience's denia l of tha t stil l moment i n which t o let th e musi c sink in . What doesn't hel p is that we have become a society that abhors silence. Rock music does not know silence, an d peopl e brought u p on i t tak e ever y silence a s a signal that th e music is over. Silence i s also frowned o n i n radio , and to o ofte n announcer s leave no space between th e en d of a piece of music and the next words.

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I mentione d coughing , an d tha t i s our othe r sonorou s contributio n t o concerts. Applause can be iffy, but coughing is always bad. Less than one tenth of the coughin g at concerts i s caused by bonafide respirator y distress. For th e rest, the pianist Claude Frank years ago put it to me very simply: "It means just one thing: they'r e not listening." Now the word "listen" has become devalued. People say they "listen" t o classical music while studying or doing their taxes . That's not listening, that's hearing, overhearing, half-hearing. I know someone who calls some classical music "thinking music, " meaning musi c that allow s her to think about other, serious matters. Most coughing comes from inattentio n or ou t an d ou t boredom . A Hayd n symphon y is as ingeniously plotte d a s a good crime novel, but the cougher, who would not read a book by Donna Leo n or Henning Mankell with such inattention, i s not followin g the story , else he would not tur n his bronchial tube s inside out, fortissimo, a t a hushed momen t of greatest suspense. When it comes to gender, coughing is more of an equal opportunity pastime than premature clapping, but b y and large it is the me n who dominate . Somethin g I hav e foun d interestin g i s tha t mos t coughin g happens in the expensiv e seats, an observation that open s quite a few cans of worms regarding the sociolog y of our musical life. I also find it remarkable that it does not occu r to people, most of whom act with reasonable intelligence i n other area s of their lives , that i t is possible to cough other than fortissimo. Bu t this, I have come to believe, is less an issue of intelligence tha n of morality. The loud , uninhibite d coughe r i n a pianissimo passage or worse, in a silence, is inattentive, unmusical , and unmannerly. Most crucially and infuriatingly , he i s arrogant—someone who take s it for granted that h e i s the mos t importan t perso n i n th e room , mor e importan t tha n Beethoven, tha n th e musicians , tha n th e res t o f the audience . ( I have no t even touche d o n th e plagu e of cell phones.) Coughin g i s a singularly touchy subject, and more than one conductor ha s told me that th e nastiest mail they get i s in response , no t t o playin g music by Schoenberg o r Wuorinen, but t o their comment s o n audienc e noise . "Hey , thi s i s America, we'v e pai d good money, we're entitled. . . . " You wonder, though: ho w did these peopl e ever find thei r way into a concert hal l and get mixed up with Mozart and Mahler? For a long time I took "it's simple, they're not listening" t o be the end of the story, but I have come to think it's more complicated. Not long ago I attended a coupl e o f performance s of Britten' s Wa r Requiem, widel y regarded a s a n important an d meaningfu l work, and o n thes e evening s sun g and playe d as beautifully a s I have eve r heard it . Bot h performances , though, wer e blotted out b y an unceasin g tempes t o f coughing. I believe wha t happene d ther e i s that Wilfre d Owen' s poetr y and thos e specifi c projection s of it adde d u p t o something too eloquent, to o urgent, too immediate for many in the audience , particularly at a time—April 2005—when much of the population was deeply troubled by this country's recent an d current military history. The air was alive with acut e discomfort , and th e reactio n wa s squirming, unrest, coughing . I t

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doesn't hav e t o be discomfort from tha t kind of a source either. A friend call s this th e Embarrassmen t Theory o f coughing. Fe w pages in th e symphoni c literature ar e i n thi s sens e mor e dangerou s tha n th e las t fiv e minutes—al l pianissimo and less, and with many silences—of Mahler's Ninth Symphony. The emotional stakes are clearly so high, the tension so great, that some people simply cannot remain still. This is a story not of insufficient attentio n and engagemen t but of a need t o escape frightening demands on one's emotional capacity. The perfec t audienc e doe s exist . Whe n an d wher e yo u wil l fin d i t i s unpredictable, like so much else about audiences. The subscriptio n system, so necessary to the financial stability and health of performing arts organizations, not t o forge t th e menta l healt h of their administrators , can militat e agains t getting the ideal audience into the hall. You get people who are there because it's Friday, not becaus e they specifically wanted t o hear th e Bruckner Eighth. And wha t d o the y bring t o concerts ? Everything, I suppose: their whol e lif e history and also what the parking lot attendant sai d at 7:45. At th e Gerontius performance I mentioned, a single event i n a fine church building, everything was just right. I don't know who that audience was. Some mixture, probably of oratorio buffs, Elga r lovers, devout Catholics, an d that most important subset among concertgoers, th e inquisitive , th e peopl e with open ears, open hearts , open minds . But then again, I heard Mahler' s Sixt h Symphony , not a n easy listening experience , emotionall y o r i n an y othe r way , played fo r a totall y concentrated an d silen t audienc e tha t wa s the sam e subscriptio n audienc e that had obliterated th e Britten War Requiem a couple of weeks before. Is it all just a part of chaos theory? There is music such as Renaissance madrigals that is addressed primarily to those performing it, and there is private music, for example the late Beethove n quartets, for which one might ideally want to be an audience of one (o r maybe two). But symphonies and operas and oratorios address crowds. The audienc e is, a s it were, built into th e piece . Ho w embarrassing it i s to experienc e th e soapbox rhetoric of the Beethoven Nint h or a Bruckner or Mahler symphony all alon e i n you r living room ! Onl y yesterda y someone sai d t o me : "Book s separate people, but music brings them together. " When you do get the righ t audience i t is a beautiful reminde r of music's power to unite us. —M.S.

I append a very short reading list: Elias Canetti's fascinating study Crowds and Power (Continuum ) Lisel Mueller's poem Brendel Playing Schubert (i n Alive Together, Louisian a State University Press) Alfred Brendel' s poe m Cologne (in On e Finger To o Many, Englis h versions by the author with Richard Stokes, Faber and Faber), or in the original German as Koln (i n Fingerzeig, Car l Hanser Verlag)