Scenes from the City

A precocious musician, Strauss benefitted from an outstanding family life that was immersed in music. He studied musical composition early on, was well grounded in all aspects of harmony, form, and orchestration, and participated in the orchestras that his father, the eminent horn player, conducted. By his teens a series of youthful symphonic works were pouring from his pen: concert overtures, symphonies, marches and, of course, the famous two Serenades for winds, and the horn and violin concertos, which are recognized and frequently performed today. He furthered his intellectual development at University with studies of philosophy, Shakespeare, art, history, and æsthetics. Soon, with his fame as a composer growing, he found opportunities to conduct, and soon landed a minor conducting post in Meiningen. There, apprenticed to the great conductor, Hans von Bülow, he honed his conducting skills and advanced rapidly. And it was there that he began his move away from the conservative musical style of Johannes Brahms and embraced the more extravagant “music of the future” of Wagner and Liszt. That, of course, included a pivotal encounter with Liszt’s symphonic poems, or “tone” poems. An important genre that more or less originated with Liszt, it became the quintessential orchestral means of “telling a story” with a symphony orchestra. More or less the antithesis of a symphony—as in Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, and Brahms—the symphonic poem takes as its subject matter, not just an abstract musical theme, but something in the real world and develops a depiction of it, and perhaps a narrative. It is the darling of those who prefer music to be “about” something, and went on to become an important part of romantic musical style in the orchestra. Some choice subjects of Liszt’s symphony poems included: battle scenes, a Shakespeare play, a philosophical idea, poems, a Victor Hugo story, and so forth. 

Young Strauss adopted the idea with zeal, and took his first steps in that direction with Aus Italien (1886)—a reflection of his trip to Italy. Macbeth and Don Juan both followed in 1888 and soon Death and Transfiguration (1889). The latter two works brought him great recognition, and firmly established him as a master of writing for the orchestra. He knew exactly how to extract the most from its instrumental resources–so much so that generations of players complained of the “difficulty” of his works. His mastery of orchestration, and the ability to depict realistic, non-musical events and objects still amazes one. Whether sunrises (Also sprach Zarathustra—remember the movie 2001?), the bleating sheep in Don Quixote, or even the silverware on his breakfast table in Symphonia Domestica, his descriptive ability with a symphony orchestra is exceeded by no one. After Death and Transfiguration, he took a break from the composition of symphonic poems, and a six-year hiatus occurred while he turned his efforts to his conducting career and the composition of operas. 

Attention to symphonic poems returned in 1895 with his riotous, lighthearted setting of the traditional German folk legend of Till Eulenspiegel—a scamp, a miscreant, and general all round rascal who managed to offend just about everyone before society hanged him. Strauss’ setting of several of these misadventures provided a perfect vehicle for a series of entertaining music scenes, carried along by spectacular orchestral effects and a scintillating musical style. The work is a simple succession of putative episodes in Till’s life, tied together by a few simple, recognizable musical themes. 

The gentle opening in the strings—and the epitaph at the end—most conceive as the narrator: “Once upon a time . . .”, etc. Immediately, though, Till’s ubiquitous theme is heard in the solo horn, and will tie much of this work together. Later, the solo clarinet plays a little “yuck, yuck” theme that stands for much of his pranks and essential cheekiness. As the tale unfolds, listen for his riding a horse through marketplace, upsetting all the stalls of the vendors in his mad dash; his wooing of a fair maiden (a tender theme, lushly scored in the violins); and his mocking of the academics, played by the bassoons. For all of his efforts, he is condemned to the gallows, so there is a funeral march, a vivid drag up the stairs of the gallows, and his actual execution, all colorfully and accurately depicted in the orchestra using those familiar themes from the beginning of the work. A little silence observes his passing—followed by a bit from the narrator of the opening and it’s over. But, no! Till, at his obstreperous best, has the last say—from the great beyond, presumably—in one last chortle of his famous theme. 

It’s just about as far away from a Beethoven symphony as one can get, in formal structure, modesty of orchestration, melodic economy of means—and just about every other fundamental of symphonic tradition. But it is a work of genius, and simply shows the diversity of accomplished art. 

–Wm. E. Runyan 

Thirty-five years after Leonard Bernstein’s death, the critics are still arguing over the meaning and impact of his legacy.  What is clear, however, is that the world rarely enjoys the genius of someone who excels supremely in so many artistic endeavors.  Pianist, conductor, television personality, teacher, mentor, social gadfly, and composer of both popular musical theatre and “serious works,” Bernstein wore all hats with avidity.   And he enjoyed stunning success in most.  He had a passion about everything that he essayed, whether conducting the Mahler that he loved so well, or in his many teaching roles, helping audiences “peel” apart the mysteries of music.  He knew so much, and could do so much, that he genuinely thought that he could do it all.  His leadership of the New York Philharmonic Orchestra and other orchestras is legendary, but everyone knows there were some concerts that, frankly, got away from him in his self-indulgence.  He worked assiduously as a composer of “serious” music, but those works—from youthful successes to his late efforts–have enjoyed only mixed success.  All that says is simply that he was human.  Other than his epochal conducting, there is one field in which he garnered almost universal acclaim, and that is musical theatre.   When all is said and done, he possessed a talent and a facility for the stage that was as deep as it was prolific.  He understood the genre and its demands well. 

He plunged in early, writing for student productions at Harvard, and working with a cabaret group (that included Judy Holiday) while a student at the Curtis Institute.  When he was twenty-six, his ballet Fancy Free was first performed at the Metropolitan Opera and On the Town opened on Broadway.  Wonderful Town, Peter Pan, Facsimile, Candide, and, of course, West Side Story, followed in succession.   But, the music that Bernstein provided for Fancy Free was the beginning.   The ballet is by the giant of choreography, Jerome Robbins, and went on to be reincarnated that same year (1944) as the Broadway musical On the Town.   The Broadway show subsequently was made into a film in 1949; however, most of Bernstein’s music was thrown out by Hollywood as too “complex and operatic.”  Those who have seen the show in any of its versions will easily remember the simple premise of the plot:  three sailors on liberty in New York City, looking for female companionship, engage in a series of ritual dances of courtship, competing for the affections of the girls, all the while romping through the remarkably diverse cityscape of the “Big Apple.” 

Bernstein extracted the three subject dances from the musical, and the concert piece was given its première by the San Francisco Symphony early in 1946. Taken together, the three dances are a marvelous period piece of New York urban musical culture circa 1944.   The young Bernstein, totally smitten with the energy of his adopted city—especially the swing, blues, and bebop jazz of the time—put it all into the show.  Stir into this a completely obvious and conscious adoption of the musical style of the young Bernstein’s musical idol and mentor, Aaron Copland, and you have accounted for most of what you hear.  All cities constantly change, and there’s not a lot of the present New York City of today in On the Town—of course.  Jazz has changed and not many composers write like Copland, today, but it’s all well done, and infectiously appealing.  Upon the occasion of its revival in 1971, the drama critic of the New York Times snarkily wrote:  “The music…has worn less well, too many of the nostalgic ballads sound like sub-Puccini filtered through Glenn Miller.”  But, never mind.  It’s New York!  It’s Leonard Bernstein! And memorably, it’s “New York, New York, it’s a helluva town!” 

The first dance, “The Great Lover,” is the Act I scene with our hero, the sailor, Gabey, early in the day (the whole show is set in a single day) asleep on a subway car, after having seen a poster of the beauty queen of the rails, “Miss Turnstile,” and dreaming of wooing her.  The punchy, dissonant accents over a jazzy, frantic tempo perfectly depict the sleepy sailor valiantly trying to get forty winks on the lurching, noisy New York subway.  A variety of short, melodic “licks” punctuate the relentless tempo.  Some are jazzy, and some are just plain banal—all reflective of the kaleidoscopic thoughts of the sailor. And, of course, throughout, the familiar metrical displacements and accents of Copland inform the young composer’s score.  Each of the dances is dedicated to someone from the production, and the first dance is dedicated to none other than the ballerina, Sono Osata, who was “Miss Turnstiles.” 

The second dance, “Lonely Town,” is a short little pas de deux between a worldly sailor and a young high-school girl encountered Central Park.  While surely occurring in the daytime, it has an almost nocturnal, melancholic mood.  In Bernstein’s words: it’s “both tender and sinister” as the sailor woos her, and then callously casts her off.  It adroitly evokes the almost desperate, hopelessness under the circumstances of the two souls having anything but a fleeting relationship.  It is dedicated to one of the immortals of American musical theatre, Betty Comden, who wrote the show, along with Bernstein, and her long-term professional partner, Adolf Green.  And—while Bernstein wrote the great tune in the dance, any informed music lover who was unfamiliar with the show, would understandably think it was composed by Aaron Copland, so perfect is the evocation of the latter’s musical style. 

The last dance is dedicated to the great Nancy Walker, a member of the original cast—you know her from a thousand appearances on fifties and sixties TV, not to mention her indelible performance as the waitress in the Bounty paper towel commercials.  It’s called “Times Square Ballet,” and a better depiction of that mad, tourist-crammed, light show cannot be imagined.  Our sailors meet to embark on a night on the town, go to the famous Roseland Dance Palace, and, well—do what sailors do.    Opening with a jazzy, solo clarinet, the dance quickly segues to the evergreen, “New York, New York,” and after a slow down and a rhythmic change to swing time, a solo saxophone contributes its own transformation of the famous tune.  Anything goes in the city, and apparently anything goes in the music, too, so, we hear a rather stylized rendition of what seems to be a chicken-clucking fiddle tune, in the best vaudeville style.  A growling trumpet leads to what appears to be the aftermath of a bit too much to drink, followed by a crashing, rhythmically-layered conclusion, in the best Bernstein style.  Not a bad way to start a fantastic career. 

–Wm. E. Runyan

After the rousing success of Rhapsody in Blue Gershwin’s financial security was assured; he moved his family to a spacious apartment in a fashionable section of the Upper West Side, and began to not only collect art, but began to paint, himself.  He established his place in the smart set of New York society—no party was complete without George at the piano surrounded by his admirers, as well as the usual social butterflies.  Oh, to have been a “fly on the wall” for those affairs!  He continued to compose for the musical theatre, but began in earnest serious composition lessons, as well—and with some distinguished composers, including Wallingford Riegger and Henry Cowell. 

In the early Spring of 1928 through the month of June, he and his family traveled to Europe, where he met many of the most distinguished composers of the time:  Ravel, Berg, Prokofiev, Milhaud, Poulenc, and others.   By then he had composed his Concerto in F, which he heard, along with the Rhapsody in Blue, at a concert given in his honor.  He evidently was anticipating details of the composition of a tone poem about Paris, for he dug around in Parisian garages and brought home with him used taxi horns that were used in the première performance.  That took place on 13 December 1928, with Walter Damrosch conducting the New York Philharmonic.  The eminent music critic and composer, Deems Taylor, and Gershwin had been in Paris at the same time, and had met at several parties in the city.  Later, in the fall, they went over the completed score and collaborated to create a detailed program or story for Gershwin’s inspiration.  The program is too long to repeat here in its entirety, but it may be paraphrased somewhat like this: 

“In early summer an American is walking down the Champs-Elysées, enjoying the sounds of the city, including taxi horns, passing by a café and hearing a tune from the old century in the trombones.  He continues walking with a new theme in the clarinet.   Yet a new walking theme takes him across the Seine to the Left Bank, where perhaps a whiff of anise muddles him a bit (accompanied by the little cadenza in the solo violin—the attentive listener here may think of Debussy, and the composer more or less acknowledged it.).  Our hero becomes a bit homesick, and we hear the blues, but as he sinks lower he is rescued by the Charleston, announced by a pair of trumpets.  Various previous tunes are recapped, as the American obviously decides to enjoy Paris, and the “orchestra, in a riotous finale decides to make a night of it.” 

–Wm. E. Runyan