Discover… Jubilation

Carlos Simon, Four Black American Dances

The Composer

Born in Washington, D.C., Carlos Simon grew up in Atlanta, with a long lineage of preachers and connections to gospel music to inspire him. His early piano studies were aimed at providing music for services at the church where his father served as pastor. He soon began composing his own songs and delved into the classical world after his grandmother gave him a classical masterpieces CD. His career path as a pianist and composer was set by the time he was in high school.

Simon earned his doctoral degree at the University of Michigan, where he studied with Michael Daugherty and Evan Chambers. He has also received degrees from Georgia State University and Morehouse College. He has served as a member of the music faculty at Spelman College and Morehouse College in Atlanta, Georgia, and now serves as an associate professor at Georgetown University.

Simon is the current composer in residence for the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts and frequently writes for the National Symphony Orchestra and Washington National Opera. He also holds the position of inaugural Composer Chair of the Boston Symphony Orchestra, the first in the institution’s 143-year history.

His burgeoning list of premiere performances includes the National Symphony Orchestra, Boston Symphony, BBC Symphony for the Last Night of the Proms (in his BBC Proms commissioning debut), Jacksonville Symphony, Cincinnati Pops Orchestra, Los Angeles Philharmonic, San Diego Symphony, New York Philharmonic, Minnesota Orchestra, Detroit Symphony, and Washington National Opera.

Simon was nominated for a 2023 Grammy Award for Best Contemporary Classical Composition. Acting as music director and keyboardist for Jennifer Holliday, Simon has performed with Boston Pops, Jackson Symphony, and St. Louis Symphony. He has also toured internationally with soul artist Angie Stone and performed throughout Europe, Africa, and Asia.

Simon was also a recipient of the 2021 Sphinx Medal of Excellence, the highest honor bestowed by the Sphinx Organization to recognize extraordinary classical Black and Latinx musicians, and was named a Sundance/Time Warner Composer Fellow for his work for film and moving image.

To learn more about Carlos Simon, read his interview with Tom Jacobs in San Francisco Classical Voice.

The Music

Four Black American Dances was commissioned by the Boston Symphony. Led by Music Director Andris Nelsons, they premiered the work on February 9, 2023. Carlos Simon has shared the following:

Dance has always been a part of any culture. Particularly in Black American communities, dance is and has been the fabric of social gatherings. There have been hundreds, perhaps thousands of dances created over the span of American history that have originated from the social climate of American slavery, Reconstruction and Jim Crow. This piece is an orchestral study of the music that is associated with the Ring Shout, the Waltz, Tap Dance and the Holy Dance. All of these dances are but a mere representation of the wide range of cultural and social differences within the Black American communities.

I. Ring Shout
A ring shout is an ecstatic, transcendent religious ritual, first practiced by enslaved Africans in the West Indies and the United States, in which worshipers move in a circle while shuffling and stomping their feet and clapping their hands. To evoke the celebratory nature of this dance, I have asked the percussionist to use a large stick on a wooden floor board paired with fast moving passages in the strings and woodwinds.

II. Waltz
Cotillion balls existed for “upper-class” families as they allowed aristocratic families to vie for better marriage prospects for their daughters. However, cotillion balls were segregated and expensive, and did not include Black Americans. Debutante balls finally appeared in Black social circles during the 1930s, in large part due to the efforts of Black sororities, fraternities, and growing number of affluent Black Americans. The waltz was the dance of choice in these environments.

III. Tap!
Tap dance is a form of dance characterized by using the sounds of tap shoes striking the floor as a form of percussion. For this movement, I have emulated the sound of the tap with the side rim of the snare drum in the percussion section. The strings play in very short, disconnected passages alongside the brass drawing on jazz harmonies.

IV. Holy Dance
Protestant Christian denominations, such as The Church of God in Christ (C.O.G.IC.), Pentecostal Assemblies of God, Apostolic, and Holiness Church, among many others, are known for their exuberant outward expressions of worship. The worship services in these churches will often have joyous dancing, spontaneous shouting, and soulful singing. The music in these worship services is a vital vehicle in fostering a genuine spiritual experience for the congregation. This movement calls on the vibrant, celebratory character that still exists in many churches today. I have composed music that mimics the sound of a congregation “speaking in tongues” (murmuring in an unknown spiritual language) by asking the orchestra to play in a semi-improvised manner. Often referred to as a “praise break,” the music propels forward continuously with the trombone section at the helm. The section moves to a climatic ending with the plagal “Amen” cadence.

— Eric T. Williams

Johannes Brahms, Double Concerto for Violin and Cello, Op. 102, A minor

“This is a chosen one.” Robert Schumann so characterized Johannes Brahms in his famous article that introduced the young Brahms to the public. Little did he know! Brahms went on to become the last great successor of the artistic mantle of musical Classicism that led from Joseph Haydn, through Mozart, Beethoven, and Schubert. That’s taking the rather narrow view, of course, for there were others who followed who revered the classical attributes of restraint, balance, clarity of form, elegance, and general equipoise that came to characterize the collective features known as classical musical style. And they stand in clear contrast to the sweeping trends and excesses of music Romanticism that came to dominate European music until the cataclysm of World War I.

Roughly, the composers of the nineteenth century after Beethoven tended to divide themselves into two groups. The progressives were true “Romantics,” and were greatly influenced by the extra-musical ideas that were the subjects of contemporary literature, poetry, and painting, among others. They devised new genres, such as the tone poems of Smetana and Liszt, the music dramas of Wagner, and the characteristic piano pieces of Chopin. Much of this music, to use a phrase still common among seekers of meaning in music, was about “something”–meaning something familiar to human experience. Liszt and Wagner, et al, while respecting the music of the past, saw no future in continuing that tradition.

Others, Brahms most significantly, still adhered strongly to the rather musically abstract style of Beethoven. He and other conservatively minded musicians held that the traditional forms of sonata, concerto, and symphony had not nearly exhausted their viability, and that music should continue to speak in an integrated language that referred to itself, alone, and certainly not to extra-musical ideas. So, he and his ilk continued to write “pure,” or “abstract” music, like sonatas and symphonies (a so-called symphony is just a sonata for orchestra). Today, most of those who compose, perform, and listen to art music see no contradiction at all in valuing both broad aesthetic viewpoints—so we enjoy the best of both worlds.

Double concertos, primarily those for solo violin and violoncello with orchestra are not uncommon—there being more than four dozen by recognized composers over the centuries. Of those, the past decade or so has seen some by significant composers such as Roger Sessions, Ned Rorem, and André Previn. Nevertheless, one stands almost alone in its towering reputation and frequency of performance, and that is Brahms’ work. Although composed in 1887, ten years before his death, it is the composer’s last work for orchestra. It is dedicated to his life-long friend and musical collaborator, the violin virtuoso, Joseph Joachim, one of the most celebrated violinists of the century. Joachim’s wife was also a close friend of the composer, and after a nasty divorce between the couple, Brahms was estranged from the violinist. Finally, reconciliation came in the form of the Double Concerto, which Brahms had composed as a kind of peace offering to Joachim. The ‘cellist for the première was also a longtime friend and collaborator with Brahms, Robert Hausmann.

The work was first performed in Cologne in October of 1887, and received a mixed reception from the critics. Many considered it a somewhat austere—even overly modern composition–and not a particularly brilliant showpiece for the soloists. And many newcomers, indeed, still encounter it as a somewhat intellectual exercise in compositional virtuosity. Those observations have adherents, but veteran Brahms listeners adore the work. It certainly does not fit the stereotype of the typical romantic concerto, one that emphasizes showy pyrotechnics and warm, lyrical melodies. It does, nevertheless, require two virtuosos in the solo parts, performers who are skilled at close musical communication and mutual expressivity.

In addition to simply “inventing” themes, composers over the years have often looked for clever ways to generate their ideas–and at the same time, limit them to drive the challenge. The motivic material that Brahms chose stems from a familiar idea that he and the violinist, Joachim, had shared years before. Joachim had chosen as a kind of personal motto, Frei aber einsam (free but lonely). The first letters of each word, F A E, provide the musical motif that Brahms had used years earlier in the F-A-E Sonata, that he, along with Schumann and Albert Dietrich, had written for Joachim. In the double concerto, as in Brahms’ movement in the sonata, the composer slightly rearranged them to provide the motif, A E F, which one will hear transformed and integrated thoroughly throughout the first movement. Listen constantly for the intervals of a fourth and a step. They’re everywhere, frontwards, backwards, and upside down, turned in and out. You can’t miss it. The process is a tour de force of compositional integrity and unity—a milestone on the path from Beethoven to Schoenberg in the eyes of many.

The orchestra opens the first movement with a powerful, brief statement of just this little motive, but the ‘cello immediately jumps in with an energetic cadenza. It doesn’t last long, for the woodwind section then announces the second major idea (unusually this early, for a typical first movement), a gentle, signing idea. That provides an opening for the violinist, who starts his own cadenza, but it joined by ‘cello for a joint affair. Here, as in much of the work, Brahms treats the two soloists as a kind of super, solo stringed instrument that takes two people to play—an ingenious approach that eschews a simple alternation between two players. Soon, the full orchestra takes over, the traditional exposition begins, and we clearly hear the themes in the orchestra. When the soloists respond, again the little three-note motive is clearly perceived. When the sighing, lyrical second theme inevitably comes, again, the ‘cello announces it first. Both the solo violin and ‘cello together begin the development of these ideas, playing the familiar three-note fourth and a step. Brahms then goes on to work his inimitable wizardry by wringing myriad ideas out of the simple material that we’ve heard. When the recap comes, it’s easy to spot, for it sounds just like the opening of the movement. The whole movement is eloquent testimony of the composer at the top of his game.

After all of the technical compositional complexity of the first movement, the second is warm, lyrical Brahms at his most memorable. The horns, followed by the woodwinds, open with—what else?—the interval of a fourth that played such an important rôle in the first movement. The two soloists jump right in octaves with the eloquent, singing, theme—opening with, of course, our old friend, the interval of fourth. After working through the tune a bit, Brahms then introduces contrasting material, led by the woodwinds. Here, the orchestra plays a soft, hymn-like background while the soloists rhapsodize over it alternatively and together. Soon, a return to the sonorous opening material—but, of course, slightly varied—takes us to the end of this most Brahmsian of lovely slow movements.

The last movement, as one may expect, is a galloping rondo—simply a striking idea that returns after a couple of contrasting diversions. In this case, Brahms returns to a style that from time to time had interested him since his early days—the so-called “gypsy” influence. But it must be said, in this work, it’s a rather vague allusion. Nevertheless, the opening, main idea has the élan and vivacity of that tradition. The first diversion is characterized by double stops in both instruments, as they exchange back and forth. After a return to the opening idea, the second main diversion comes—a rather more intense affair that includes the overlapping arpeggios of the soloists in the first movement. After that, the whole first section returns to round things off, pausing only briefly with a moment of lyricism before the dash to the end.

There may be dozens of other “double” concertos over the years, but, in reality, there is only one of this consequence. Although a late work, with all of the gravitas that is associated with Brahms at his most disciplined and accomplished, it is one of great riches for the patient listener. The composer deftly solved the difficulties of balancing two equal, virtuoso soloists with the orchestra and created a marvelously attractive concerto, as well.

–Wm. E. Runyan
© 2018 William E. Runyan

Igor Stravinsky, Pulcinella: Suite

Stravinsky’s reputation as one of a handful of the most respected and influential composers of the twentieth century has been secure almost from the beginning of his career. Yet, as he grew older, the bold changes in the nature and sources of his musical style stand as almost unique among his peers. We may speak of Brahms’ or Tchaikovsky’s “style,” and although both certainly showed clear evidence of musical growth from youth to maturity, most folks have a rough idea of what any particular composition by either of them may sound like. Sure, Beethoven, went through his stylistic “periods,” but his artistry evolved from beginning to end more or less as a continuum of advancing growth and mastery in a coherent personal voice. Not so, with our Stravinsky. The fundamental conceptual and technical basis for his compositions underwent distinct and radical changes as he moved from one “period” to another, from youth to old age. His smashing early successes with the ballets, The Firebird, Petrushka, and The Rite of Spring stem from Russian nationalism, were followed shortly by a more severe, experimental style around WWI. By about 1920 he turned to neo-classicism, which dominated his approach until around 1950, followed by more experimental changes until the last decade of his life, during which he astounded all by adopting a personal approach to twelve-tone and serial procedures. The latter style, of course, had been championed by Schoenberg and his followers for almost half a century, but certainly not Stravinsky—until he did! He cheerfully confessed to his musical “kleptomancy.” The real Stravinsky wore many guises, but they all represented a unique musical genius, who regardless of style and labels, always shone through as perhaps the singular composer of the century.

Pulcinella stands at the beginning of the major shift in his musical thinking that occurred a few years after the end of WWI. It was a marked departure from the works that had secured his reputation, and a harbinger of the new, spare style that looked back to the music of the eighteenth century for many of its precepts. When art has “gone about as far as it can go” in one style, it simply flops over into something radically different. And that is roughly what happened to the works of late romanticism, with their extended tonality and growing length—to name only a few traits that simply suffered little further evolution. This is as true of Stravinsky’s three early ballets as it is of, say, Mahler’s symphonies. Hemlines go up, and then they go down. Representational art is followed by abstract art, and then by representation again. Simplicity and complexity always seem to alternate.

In 1920 Stravinsky was living with his family in Switzerland, in difficult financial straits, and in the midst of a deep quarrel over contracts with the great impresario of the Ballets Russes, Sergei Diaghilev—his collaborator in the big early successes. About this time, Diaghilev had found some music in the Naples Conservatory supposedly by the baroque composer, Pergolesi (1710-1736). We currently know that many of the attributions were incorrect—but it really doesn’t matter, now. The upshot was that Diaghilev more or less made peace with Stravinsky by commissioning him to compose a brief ballet based on these short works. Stravinsky wasn’t sure that he wanted the project, but finally assented, and responded with a score that was a startling throwback to the simple, graceful harmonies and rhythms of almost two centuries earlier. Picasso provided stage and costume designs, based upon a re-interpretation of old, traditional Italian themes, and the choreographer did likewise, using eighteenth-century ballet steps. Stravinsky preserved much of the nature of these old pieces, simply adding some pungent harmonies here and there, displacing the beats, and orchestrating them with a distinctly modern feel. But, all in all, the winsome, conservative, and charming result was a far cry from what the world then knew as Stravinsky. What is more, the startling simplicity of Pulcinella clearly was a harbinger of the composer’s major shift into what would be called “neo-classicism.” He stayed with the approach for decades, melding concepts from two different centuries into a personal style.

Pulcinella (the name is that of Punch or Polichinelle from seventeenth-century Neapolitan commedia dell’arte) was given its première in Paris in May of 1920, with the orchestra suite receiving its first performance two years later by Monteux and the Boston Symphony. It opens with a little “sinfonia,” essentially a miniature overture, and perhaps the most well known of the movements. After a “serenata”—a graceful interpretation of the traditional siciliano rhythm—there follows a scherzo in two brief contrasting parts. The tarantella is a vivacious Neapolitan dance (said to ward off the effects of a tarantula bite) that leads right into the “toccata.” Toccatas customarily are instrumental showpieces and this one features the winds, especially the two brass players, ending with a “blat” from the trombonist. The Gavotta is our friend from the Bach orchestra suite, with the usual accents—although this one is unusually pastoral in nature. After two variations the brass noisily start the “Vivo,” which doesn’t last long, but is interesting for the “scratchy” solo in the double bass, and notorious for the constant rude interruptions from the trombone—smearing away in a most un-classical style. The Horns and bassoons begin the graceful minuet, which includes an elegant solo in the trombone, but as it approaches the end, Stravinsky’s modern harmonic tendencies come to the fore, as some pungent dissonances prepare the arrival of the finale. It’s a scurrying mad dash, familiar to those who know Histoire du soldat, from about the same time. All in all, it’s easy to understand the positive reception accorded Pucinella in Paris at its première; it was tuneful, unassuming, imaginative, and a new breeze in music for the times. It remains so today.

–Wm. E. Runyan
© 2015 William E. Runyan

Arturo Márquez, Conga del Fuego Nuevo

A native of the Mexican state of Sonora, Márquez is known for his adroit incorporation of Mexican musical forms and styles into his compositions. One of Mexico’s eminent contemporary composers, he is widely popular with Latin Americans for the accessibility and attractiveness of his compositions. Educated at the Conservatorio Nacional in Mexico, he went on to graduate study in California and Paris. Recipient of an impressive list of honors, his recent works include a commission from the San Antonio Symphony, a cello concerto, and a homage to Emiliano Zapata, the Mexican revolutionary. His father was a traditional mariachi musician, but early on, like so many young composers, the son composed in the latest, modern styles, often in the usual dissonant and obscure manner. But, he later gravitated to a personal idiom that made full use of traditional Mexican urban music—but not necessarily “folk” music.

“Conga” variously refers to groups of musicians, to a kind of drum, and to a specific dance, as well. All are popular in Latin-American countries, most especially in the street carnivals of Havana and Santiago de Cuba. These musical groups are part of the camparsas that parade down the streets in jubilant, often riotous carnival celebrations. We are all familiar with those in Rio de Janeiro (where they are called carnival blocks) and in New Orleans and Mobile, Alabama (where they are called krewes). The term, “conga” has a long and somewhat ambiguous history, but it certainly stems from the belief that the dance, itself, was taken to Cuba by black slaves from the West Indies.

The dance is characterized by a strong pulse on the beat for three beats, followed by a syncopated “thump” just before the fourth beat. In the late 1930s and 1940s the US seemed obsessed by the congo: think of Desi Arnaz, Xavier Cugat, the nightclub conga lines in RKO musicals, and even Warner Brothers cartoons. Americans were mesmerized by the screen sophisticates dancing to one-two-three-kick! Today, not so much. But, Marquez has taken this somewhat passé dance and infused it with new life in a sophisticated symphonic guise. Lyrical melodies seem to “float” above the welter of syncopated rhythms churned out by the large battery of Latin percussion. Who could resist?

–Wm. E. Runyan
© 2018 William E. Runyan