Discover… Love
Richard Wagner, Tristan and Isolde, WWV90: Prelude & Liebestod
Many—perhaps, most–of the respected and honored composers left little of themselves behind to speak for them except their immortal music. And that’s usually enough. But no great composer found the time to write, speculate, theorize, philosophize, and generally inflict his ideas expressed through the written word, as did Wagner. Much was brilliant and influential—and some was simply evil rubbish. His theories and the model of his own compositions changed the world of nineteenth-century opera in profound ways, brought to fruition in his great tetralogy—the Ring. In those four music dramas of his maturity his use of leitmotifs, myth as a basis for drama, continuous music, the virtual abandonment of set pieces (detached arias, duets, etc.), the absence of the traditional chorus, ballet—all pointed the way to the future.
Through the 1840s he had begun to enjoy his first major successes with more or less traditional operas: Rienzi (1842), The Flying Dutchman (1843), Tannhäuser (1845), and Lohengrin (1850). But in the midst of creating a successful career as composer of opera, he led a turbulent personal and risky political life, and was constantly reading voluminously in literary, philosophical, political, and aesthetic works from his large personal library. He wrote essays, libretti for future works, and letters to everyone. How he found the hours in the day to do all of this is a daunting thought. The philosopher, Schopenhauer, exerted a great influence upon his thoughts about the importance and meaning of music, and, yet, he was equally enthused in the prospect for a renewed, energetic role for a united Germany as a moral, patriotic, and military leader of Europe—in the face of the unsuitable French, of course. The essays poured forth, including a manifesto for the new kind of opera found later in the Ring; a screed on German virtues as political model; and then the scurrilous attack on Jews in music. His real life was equally colorful: escaping across borders in the night with no passports; participation in revolution; abandoning his wife and taking up with another man’s wife; and then proceeding to have a raft of children by the latter, while she was still married. It amazes one.
Wagner’s opera, Tristan und Isolde, stems from the time that he was living in Zürich, after having fled Dresden with his family following his abortive participation in the political upheavals of 1848. During the early years of the 1850s, while working on his magnum opus, the Ring tetralogy, two events converged to turn his mind in a distinctly different direction: his encounter with the theories of the philosopher, Schopenhauer, and meeting the wife of a wealthy patron, Mathilde Wesendonck. He had already immersed himself in medieval German Romantic literature in preparation for later projects, but was waylaid by his fascination with the legend of Tristan and Iseult. Obviously Wagner immediately seized upon the story of the adulterous love between the Cornish knight, Tristan, and the Irish princess, Iseult, as a perfect metaphor and reflection of his own complicated, often amoral, life. The legend centers around adultery, sensuality, impossible love, psychological intoxication as a thin excuse for sin, release only through death, and a raft of other entangling issues that Freud would have adored. In other words, a perfect expression of his own worldview and his attempts at its rationalization to himself and others! Mathilde Wesendonck became the object of his ardor, and major complications between the four principals of the two couples ensued. By 1857 Wagner was spending most of his time working on the opera as a very personal realization of the legend, and—why should we be surprised?—living in a cottage on the grounds of the Wesendoncks. He completed the opera in 1859, but owing to a myriad of difficulties, it was not given a première until 1865 in Munich. It is telling that the conductor of the première was Hans von Bülow; by then Wagner had dumped his wife, Minna, lost his infatuation with Mrs. Wesendonck, and was having an affair with von Bülow’s wife, Cosima—Franz Liszt’s daughter, and much later a pal of Adolf Hitler. Ordinarily, these facts would really be irrelevant, but the nature of the whole affair puts them in another perspective.
The opera was a succès de scandale. It was condemned soundly by many luminaries for its salacious subject, and its musical style was unprecedented. Some choice comments: “ . . . an act of indecency”, “. . . the worship of animal passion”, and others no less condemnatory. But, its coherence as drama, its stellar musical quality, and its absolutely groundbreaking melodic and harmonic innovations soon trumped the shock of its narcissistic, sexual, and psychological elements. If the basic idea of the story is one continuous, unending, powerful delay and frustration of sensual passions, then the music is crafted perfectly for that. The opera, with its complex chromaticism, its constant delay of cadence and closure, and its soaring, continuous melodic style, is generally held as the locus of the beginning of the end of the Romantic style. The dissolution of tonality into atonality seems inevitable from Tristan on. Wagner leads us gradually and inexorably to Schoenberg, and the world of modern music crashes in on the old traditions. The ambiguity of Wagner’s harmony is famously stated from the very beginning. The first three measures are the groundshifting “Tristan chord,” with its unusual resolution. There has been more musicological ink spilt over this first measure than any other in musical history. But, that’s not important in the concert hall. Suffice to say that its shifting harmonies and uncertain meaning are admirably suited for the opera, and almost anyone can hear that. Music resolution delayed is perfect for sensual gratification delayed.
Wagner, himself, scored and arranged the “Prelude and Liebestod,” crafted from the overture and Isolde’s third act aria, “Mild und leise wie er lächelt” (Softly and gently, how he smiles). He knew that it was good, and its première took place in 1862, three years before the whole opera was first performed. After the initial portion of the prelude to the opera, the second part, the “Liebestod,” (Love-Death) is extracted from Isolde’s aria at the very end of the opera. Her lover, Tristan, lies slain, the nature of the fatal love potion is revealed, all lament his passing, and Isolde, consumed with a beatific vision of Tristan alive, rapturously sings of her love, and slips into death as well, in an ending that has few equals in opera.
–Wm. E. Runyan
©2021 William E. Runyan
Max Bruch, Violin Concerto No. 1, Op. 26, G minor
Bruch was a talented and respected composer whose musical style was firmly in the camp of his contemporary, Johannes Brahms. Not for him the extravagant and progressive orientation of Wagner, Liszt, and their popular followers. Rather, like Brahms he composed in the more conservative tradition of Schubert, Schumann, Mendelssohn, and their admirers. He was a precocious musician, composing from an early age, and displaying through his long career a remarkable gift for lyricism and the ability to craft a melodic line. Active in many genres—operas, symphonies, choral music, chamber music, and song—he is best known for his immensely popular first violin concerto. He wrote two others, as well, but they did not achieve any lasting success. He came to rue the popularity of the first, hoping musicians would perform more frequently his many other fine compositions, but alas! To be sure, a few of his other compositions garnered renown, though, including the Scottish Fantasy for violin and orchestra and the Kol nidrei for violoncello and orchestra. The reception of the majority of his compositions suffered to some degree owing to his living in the shadow of Brahms; the lack of appeal to British audiences (before and during WWI) of his often German-themed works; and the mistaken assumption by Germans in the 1930s that he was Jewish. To top it off, his dyed-in-the-wool romanticism was old hat by the time of his death in 1920. History is often not kind.
The first violin concerto has its origins very early on, in 1857, when Bruch was a student and only nineteen years old. He deemed it finished in 1865, when he was serving as court music director in Koblenz. It received its first performance a year later. But, it was clear that much revision needed to be done, and for that he sought the advice of the preëminent concert violinist of the time, the great Joseph Joachim (Brahms did likewise with his violin concerto, later). Joachim gave the première of the revised version in 1868, and, of course, the concerto went on to lasting popularity. Unfortunately, Bruch received only a pittance for his efforts, owing to a variety of reasons, basically being more or less swindled out of his autograph copy of the score. It finally ended up in the Morgan Library in New York City only a few decades ago.
The overall form of the work is a bit unusual, for the first movement is somewhat short, and serves rather like a prelude or introduction to the slow second movement. So, rather than a robust, significant first movement as is usual in solo concertos, Bruch was happy with an abbreviated Vorspiel, or prelude. It nevertheless does have two main themes, both firmly reminding us of Bruch’s legendary gift for melody. In the beginning, one hears a brief idea in the woodwinds, followed immediately by a brief, rather pensive, cadenza-like reflection from the soloist. All that repeats, and then the full orchestra starts the affair in earnest. Two main ideas follow: an emphatic, memorable first theme (which, it must be admitted sounds very much like Dvořák), and a much more tender, lyrical second one. Don’t bother to look forward to a typical exploration, or development, of the ideas, for after a robust diversion, very quickly we hear the woodwind introduction from the very beginning of this “prelude,” and it seems like there’s a premature recapitulation. After revisiting the two brief cadenzas of the opening, and an answer from the full orchestra, the movement quickly glides via a sustained low note in the violins to the meat of the concerto: the extensive slow movement.
And a lovely one it is, accounting, no doubt, for much of the concerto’s timeless appeal. Bruch composed a wealth of music, much of it first rate in every regard, yet he takes his place in musical history for this concerto, and this movement, to be sure. Here, his gift for soaring, lyric romantic melodies is supreme. In the last movement, the soloist enters after a brief introduction with the dramatic main theme, with its memorable multiple stops. The second theme comes quickly—another winsome example of Bruch’s innate lyricism–heard first in soaring iteration in the full orchestra, taken up quickly by the soloist. And just as quickly, the development begins working through both ideas. Bruch was not one to “pad” his compositions, and the scintillating conclusion of this timeless work comes without delay. Bruch may have bitterly rued the popularity of this work at the expense of most of the others of his many worthwhile compositions, but a hundred years on, he no doubt would have welcomed the apparent immortality of just one of them.
–Wm. E. Runyan
© 2015 William E. Runyan
Anna Clyne, Within Her Arms
The Composer
Anna Clyne was born in London in 1980 and raised in the UK, growing up surrounded by jazz and folk music. The gift of a piano — with some randomly missing keys — stimulated her interest in classical music and the 7-year-old began writing music as she explored the world of sound. Cello lessons also offered an avenue of expression. She moved to Scotland to attend the University of Edinburgh intending to study literature but switched to music, beginning formal lessons in composition with Marina Adamia. Moving across the Atlantic, she studied first with Marjan Mozetich in Ontario and then Julia Wolfe at the Manhattan School of Music.
Early years in New York were stereotypical: a talented young composer juggling a variety of day jobs and composing at night. Her break came when renowned composer Steve Reich looked at one of her scores and connected her with composer/conductor John Adams. This eventually led to a commission from Carnegie Hall and a residency with the Chicago Symphony. Numerous other residencies followed, including stints with the Baltimore Symphony, Helsinki Philharmonic, L’Orchestre national d’Île-de-France, Philharmonia Orchestra, Scottish Chamber Orchestra, Trondheim Symphony, and her current role as Composer in Residence with the BBC Philharmonic.
Clyne’s music has been commissioned and presented around the world, including London’s Barbican, Carnegie Hall, Kennedy Center, Los Angeles Philharmonic, MoMA, Philharmonie de Paris, Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra, San Francisco Ballet and the Sydney Opera House, among many others. She often collaborates on creative projects and is one of the most in-demand and widely performed composers today, working with orchestras, choreographers, filmmakers, and visual artists worldwide.
To learn more about Anna Clyne, read her interview with NPR’s Tom Huizenga.
The Music
Anna Clyne has shared the following dedication:
Within Her Arms is music for my mother, Colleen Clyne, with all my love.
Earth will keep you tight within her arms dear one —
So that tomorrow you will be transformed into flowers —
This flower smiling quietly in this morning field —
This morning you will weep no more dear one —
For we have gone through too deep a night.
This morning, yes, this morning, I kneel down on the green grass —
And I notice your presence.
Flowers, that speak to me in silence.
The message of love and understanding has indeed come.
— Thich Nhat Hanh (From “Message” in Call Me By My True Names, 1999, with permission of Parallax Press)
In 2008, Clyne was a vibrant twenty-something composer who had been commissioned to write a work for the Los Angeles Philharmonic for its Green Umbrella series. A phone call brought the news that her mother had died and Clyne immediately returned to her family’s home in London. Sitting at the piano in candlelight with a photo of her mother, Clyne channeled her grief into music, completing Within Her Arms over the next 24 hours. Esa-Pekka Salonen conducted the Los Angeles Philharmonic in the work’s premiere on April 7, 2009.
With its blurred and overlapping gestures, the music is a sonic caress released from metrical bounds, giving the sensation of timelessness. Each of the 15 parts contributes to the swells of sound and glistening sonorities that paint an image slowly moving in and out of focus. With delicate slides and ethereal harmonics layered over gentle bends of pitch, Clyne creates what she calls the “sonic illusion of ambient reverb.” The music ebbs and flows, building a meditative state that is interrupted by sudden silence. This cessation of motion is followed by an outpouring, sometimes tender, sometimes overwhelming. The piece gradually recedes into the distance, plaintive wisps of sound dispersing…but the music persists in memory.
— Eric T. Williams
Piotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky, Symphony No. 4, G major, Op. 36, TH 27, F minor
Even a cursory review of the lives of most of the significant composers of the nineteenth century–from Berlioz to Verdi–shows them to have been fascinated with the timeless art of Shakespeare. In fact, it is a major trait of Romanticism as an intellectual movement to have plumbed the depths of his work for archetypes of the human condition. And it is telling that generations of young composers took personal initiative to school themselves so. Tchaikovsky is representative, and his concert overture, Romeo and Juliet, is typical of the many compositions of the times that drew inspiration from the playwright.
Composed just as Tchaikovsky turned twenty-nine years old, it’s a relatively early work. The composer had composed his first programmatic work, Fatom (fate)—he soon tore up the original score—only the year before, and the first version of his first symphony three years previous. So, almost all of the orchestral music that has established his durable popularity was yet to come. In fact, his beloved fifth and sixth symphonies, as well as The Nutcracker, lay roughly two decades in the future. But, withal, this work has taken its place with the masterpieces of his maturity. That being said, Romeo and Juliet did not take that place without a somewhat checkered history.
Three versions of it evolved, as the composer labored to create the successful, final iteration. The première (1870) of his first take was not successful at all, owing to numerous technical and conceptual problems, and Tchaikovsky made extensive changes, most of which are in the final version. Finally, about ten years later, the composer made a few more changes, and that is the version we all hear, today. All throughout the initial composition of Romeo and Juliet Tchaikovsky was guided in great detail by Mily Balakirev, the informal leader of the famed group of Russian nationalistic composers known as the “mighty handful,” the others being Cui, Borodin, Mussorgsky and Rimsky-Korsakov. Located in St. Petersburg, they were self-taught followers of Glinka, and sought to establish a Russian school of musical style. Balakirev and Tchaikovsky (by then, living in Moscow) had established an informal relationship earlier, and Romeo and Juliet was the result of a kind of collaboration between the two men. Balakirev had suggested the subject matter, and even the rough sonata form, which associated the introduction with Friar Laurence, the first theme with the conflict between the Capulets and the Montagues, and the second theme with the lovers. Balakirev made significant suggestions for revisions to the composition, and evidently Tchaikovsky took several of them to heart–even dedicating the work to him. On the other hand, most scholars seem to agree that the result is still totally Tchaikovsky’s composition, and that Balakirev cannot legitimately be considered the younger man’s mentor.
The “Friar Laurence” introduction is a solemn evocation of the church through skillful writing for low woodwinds that masterfully imitates a small reed organ. Little by little Tchaikovsky draws the ominous mood out, teasing us with intimations of the conflict to come, in the manner with which so much of the drama in his later ballets is spun out. Eventually, the main theme explodes as the Capulets and the Montagues battle, and, after a bit of teasing, the familiar “love theme” is heard, colored poignantly by the English horn. Now, that all three protagonists have been introduced, Tchaikovsky builds the conflict with a vengeful return to the battle, replete with palpable swordplay from the percussion section. You’ll find the same pictorial talent displayed years later in the attack of the mice in the Nutcracker. But, love triumphs—if only for a bit—and the theme of the lovers soars out in the quintessential orchestration so familiar from a thousand cultural uses: lush strings and “heart-throbbing” horns. Conflict resumes, this time with sinister bits of Friar Laurence’s theme, and finally the death of the star-crossed lovers is clear. The timpani taps out a dirge as an epilogue, with an intimation of the pair’s transfiguration in the rest of the orchestra. Dramatic orchestral hammer-strokes seal their fate and conclude the tragedy.
–Wm. E. Runyan
© 2015 William E. Runyan