by Judy Jones
SCHERZO (literally, “joke”): A sped-up form of the minuet, much beloved of Haydn and Beethoven. Common today as a component of sonatas, symphonies, etc.
SFORZANDO (literally, “forced”): Designates a note to be played with special emphasis.
STACCATO (literally, “detached”): Opposite of “legato” (on previous page), with notes to be played in a sharp, highly differentiated manner.
TESSITURA (literally, “texture”): Refers to the basic range of a part, vocal or musical, excluding any very high or low notes.
TOCCATA (literally, “touched”): A piece that shows off the “touch”; originally often used of a trumpet fanfare, now more often of a free-form keyboard piece.
TREMOLO (literally, “tremulous”): A “trembling” effect, either from the rapid repetition of a single note (by, say, fast backward-and-forward bowing) or from the rapid alternation of two notes more than a whole tone apart.
VIBRATO (literally, “shake”): A rapid, slight wavering of pitch.
Five Composers Whose Names Begin with the Letter P
GIOVANNI PIERLUIGI DA PALESTRINA (1525–1594): No pioneer. A native Roman who composed almost entirely for the Church, Palestrina wrote masses, motets, and hymns in the same polyphonic texture—where separate strands of melody, each provided by an independent voice, count for more than the harmony they go to make up—that characterizes all music composed before 1600. But if he only marks the end of the medieval era, with all its ritual and mysticism, rather than the dawn of a new one, Palestrina’s still one of the most important figures before Bach and Handel. Think of him as the Homer of music.
FRANCIS POULENC (1899–1963): Wrote avant-garde music with the working man in mind. Poulenc belonged to the group of irreverent young composers called the Six, a fixture of between-the-wars Paris (Erik Satie, who’d made a career of irreverence, was the group’s sponsor; it also included Darius Milhaud and Arthur Honegger). Against authority (in this case, traditional French good taste), fond of jazz and the music hall, susceptible to the Dadaist and Surrealist movements in art, these guys would all be hanging out in yet-to-be-gentrified pockets of Brooklyn today. Of the Six, Poulenc was the most gamin, mischievous and flippant, squarely on the side of everyday music for everyday people. Who’d have predicted that, by the late Fifties, he’d be writing opera and religious music?
SERGEI PROKOFIEV (1891–1953): One of three Russian composers of this century you can’t not know something about. Despite some youthful iconoclasm (and an ongoing astringency), Prokofiev is about as accessible as good twentieth-century music gets: melodious but not bland, rhythmic but not blatant. He may also be the first classical composer you ever heard, if your first-grade teacher played you Peter and the Wolf the way ours did. The other two de rigueur Russians: Igor Stravinsky (see also page 273, with as many moods, phases, and ego needs as Picasso), and Dmitri Shostakovich (the heir to Tchaikovsky, but also the number one product—and victim—of Soviet musical training and strictures).
GIACOMO PUCCINI (1858–1924): If Italy were on fire and only a single Italian opera could be saved, it wouldn’t be one of Puccini’s. Though there’s no arguing with La Bohème, Tosca, and Madame Butterfly at the box office, they can, next to the best of Verdi, strike bona-fide opera lovers as a little, well, vulgar. A showman and crowd-pleaser (not to mention a pirate who wasn’t above stealing an idea or two from a colleague), Puccini has had his greatest influence on the development of the popular musical theater.
HENRY PURCELL (1659–1695): First, the good news. Purcell is virtually the only pre-twentieth-century English composer you have to know anything about at all. Now, the bad news. You do have to remember that it’s pronounced “PURS-el,” with the accent up front. For his short life, Purcell was the great Baroque master, not only of English music, but of European music in general; technically brilliant, exceptionally versatile, he was the first winner of the coveted Wünderkind Award that would later go to Mozart. Purcell’s gifts included an ability to adapt musical composition to the peculiar inflections of spoken English; it’s rumored that, had he lived a little longer, he’d have made something of English opera.
The Day the Music Died
Depending on whether you’re one of the cognoscenti or just an average listener, atonality is either the biggest breakthrough of the twentieth century or what’s wrong with modern music. Before you can understand what atonality is, however, you have to know a little about what it isn’t—namely, tonality. Think, for a moment, of how nicely “do re mi fa sol la ti do” fit together—that’s tonality for you. It has to do with the idea that, of the twelve tones in a chromatic scale (all the notes from, say, one C to another on the piano keyboard), only seven have a natural affinity for, hence are capable of sustaining meaningful relationships with, each other. These tones interact as family members, experiencing their little tensions (dissonances) from time to time, but managing to work things out between themselves (consonances), and always, ultimately, gravitating toward one restful “home” note (the tonic), which determines their key. Such groupings—orderly, reassuring, full of familiar emotional associations—are the basis of tonality and of virtually all Western music from Bach to Brahms.
In the early 1900s, however, the Viennese composer Arnold Schoenberg, heavily influenced by Wagner (who had played around with dissonance in Tristan und Isolde), by twentieth-century malaise, by German Expressionism, by the radical thinking then rampant in Vienna, and by his own Teutonic angst, began to chafe under the old tonal tradition—and under the idea that music was supposed to make people feel better. In 1921 he did the first really new thing in three hundred years of musical history: He threw out tonality altogether and composed an opus in which he gave equal importance to all twelve tones of the chromatic scale. In order to keep his early compositions from slipping naturally into tonality, Schoenberg filled them with dissonance, in much the same way German Expressionist painters filled their paintings with the grotesque: Dissonance broke up the notes, kept them from forming cliques, as it were, and evoked a kind of unrelieved tension—near hysteria, in fact—which seemed right for the times.
There was still the problem of how to hold a piece together without tonality, however. Schoenberg eventually solved it by inventing the twelve-tone row, which became the basis for twelve-tone, or dodecaphonic, music, as well as for later serial music. Composing with twelve tones is a little like playing a very complicated board game, minus the entertainment value. First, the composer decides on a row—a particular order for the twelve pitches. The row then becomes the basic material of the piece, with variations unfolding according to a very specific set of rules. It can, for instance, be played forward, backward, upside-down, or upside-down and backward, so long as the whole row is played through before any of the tones is sounded again. (Are you beginning to see why twelve-tone music has failed to capture the popular imagination?) In short, the twelve-tone form was a necessarily arbitrary, highly intellectual way of exerting control over the chaotic elements of atonal compositions, of imposing the strictly rational over the basically irrational.
Later, the idea of the tone row as the organizing principle of a piece led composers to attempt to exercise the same kind of control over all the elements of a piece: pitch, rhythm, timbre, dynamics, you name it. This all comes under the heading “serial music,” which can include, but isn’t limited to, twelve-tone and atonal forms. Absolute control! To the public, this was simply not an idea whose time had come; to many critics, it was an idea whose time had come and gone. In fact, the whole business of atonal and serial music shouldn’t worry you too much; only composers really understand it and they rarely talk to anyone but each other anyway. Just keep in mind that atonality aims at a whole new concept of what music, and listening to music, is all about, and be aware that, silly as serial music can get at times, virtually every modern composer has flirted with its various forms at some point in his or her career—as contributor Ronald Varney documents here.
TUNEBUSTERS
In 1899, after trying in his early compositions to out-Wagner Wagner, the twenty-one-year-old Arnold Schoenberg composed a string sextet entitled Transfigured Night. It was a milestone in the history of music, perhaps the first really atonal work.
In 1904 Alban Berg and Anton von Webern, also Austrians, apprenticed themselves to Schoenberg in Vienna and became the two chief disciples of his radical musical teachings. While Berg, handsome and aristocratic, always displayed somewhat romantic tendencies in his composing, Webern, squinty-eyed and professorial, would become more daring and radical than the master himself. In 1910, with these two firmly under his wing, Schoenberg crowed, “In ten years, every talented composer will be writing this way, regardless of whether he has learned it directly from me or only from my work.”
In 1912 Schoenberg composed Pierrot Lunaire (see also page 272), a fully atonal, slightly bizarre song cycle which is considered his masterpiece. About it, Leonard Bernstein wrote: “This is a piece which never fails to move and impress me, but always leaves me feeling a little bit sick. This is only just, since sickness is what it’s about—moon-sickness. Somewhere in the middle of this piece you have a great desire to run and open a window, breathe in a lungful of healthy, clean air.”
Berg, though not prolific, wrote three works that have become recognized as major additions to the classical repertoire: his Violin Concerto and two operas, Wozzeck and Lulu.
The enigmatic Webern concentrated on chamber music, emphasizing silence as much as sound in almost painfully short works that reduce music to its barest elements. His Six Bagatelles for string quartet is only three and a half minutes long. Other works, like his Variations for orchestra or Symphony for Chamber Orchestra, seem to last a lifetime. “The pulverization of sound into a kind of luminous dust” is the way Virgil Thomson described one of Webern’s pieces.
It is ironic that, of atonality’s Big Three, Schoenberg probably enjoyed the least success. During the 1930s he fled Germany and wound up in Los Angeles, where he taught at UCLA and continued to compose. He died in 1951, embittered by his lack of recognition. And when atonal music and the twelve-tone theory swept Europe and the United States during the Fifties and Sixties, it was Webern, not Schoenberg, who was hailed as the high priest of atonality Webern’s works were so influential, in fact, that they prompted a binge of international experimentation. Some examples:
Iannis Xenakis: One of the most often booed of modern composers. Has written music based on far-out theories from math and engineering.
Pierre Boulez: Noted for his contempt for every composer in history (except himself, the Big Three, and maybe a few of his own followers). Has generally sought in his music a sound expressing, as he puts it, a “collective hysteria and spells, violently of the present time.”
John Cage: Achieved renown for cramming all kinds of junk, from bits of wood to weather-stripping, into his “prepared pianos” and then having the pianist strike the keys at random. Tireless in his efforts to do away with the role of the composer. Known for two particularly eccentric works: Imaginary Landscape No. 4, in which twelve radios are “played” by twenty-four performers; and the most famous silent piece of history, 4′33″, in which a pianist sits silently at the keyboard for four minutes and thirty-three seconds, creating a sort of musical vacuum in the concert hall. Also fun: his 0′0″, to be played “in any way to anyone.”
Karlheinz Stockhausen: A specialist in electronic music. Like Cage, explores the outer frontiers of musical pointlessness. In the epic cycle Gold Dust, asked the performers first to starve themselves for four days while living in complete isolation. Then, in his own words, to “late at night, without conversation beforehand, play single sounds, without thinking which you are playing, close your eyes, just listen.”
The atonality craze that began after Webern’s death in 1945 was, by the mid-1970s, already winding down. The music had become incredibly complicated; audiences felt increasingly bored and alienated by it; and the composers found themselves with nothing more to say on the subject. The next generation of avant-garde composers, such as Philip Glass and Steve Reich, while still in the atonal tradition, took to writing music that was less grating and more hypnotic.
Still, two things must be said for atonality: It broke classical music wide open, and it left audiences reeling. Neither has fully recovered.
Beyond BAY-toe-v’n and MOAT-sart
It’s not that music is strewn with unpronounceable names; in fact, if you can, fake your way in French, remember a handful of basic German pronunciations (like the two in the title), and treat all Italian proper names as if they were varieties of pasta, you’ll do fine. There are, however, a few classic pitfalls.
The sole Brazilian composer to achieve international status: Heitor Villa-Lobos (AY-tor VEE-la LOW-bush).
The German expatriate composer, now best known for his theater work: Kurt Weill (VILE).
The two Czechs, one best known for his symphonies, the other for his operas, Antonin Dvorák and Leos Janácek (AN-toe-neen DVOR-zhock and LEH-osh YAN-a-check).
The highly polished turn-of-the-century French composer: Camille Saint-Saëns (ka-ME-YA sanh-sawnhs; lots of nasality, please, and only one vowel sound in “Saëns”).
The only really important pre-twentieth-century English composer: Henry Purcell (PURS-el).
The Hungarian-born conductor: Sir Georg Solti (SHOAL-tee); pronounce the Georg part “George.”
The New Zealand–born soprano: Kiri Te Kanawa (KIR-ee Tuh-KON-a-wa). And then there’s the one about how Barbara Walters calls her “Kiwi.”
Those two composing, conducting, former enfants terribles of contemporary music, one French, the other American: Pierre Boulez and Leonard Bernstein (it’s boo-LEZ and BERN-stine (stein, as in Steinway).
Finally, the iconic German composer: Richard Wagner (RICK-art VOG-ner). Germanicize the first name too.
Opera for Philistines THE ITALIANS
Invented opera, the Mediterranean equivalent of baseball, c. 1570. Encouraged enthusiastic audience participation. Had knack for creating catchy tunes. Ruled the roost until the twentieth century.
Claudio Monteverdi (1567-1643)
Opera’s first musical genius; turned early academic theory into stage success by hitting his audiences where they lived. Speak his name with respect.
Heavy on recitative and short on show-stoppers, but the passion and musicianship still come across; highly respected museum pieces. The masterpieces, Orfeo and L’Incoronazione di Poppaea, continue to draw crowds, especially in Europe, where Baroque opera (of which Monteverdi’s work is a prime example) has periodic revivals.
Alessandro Scarlatti (1660-1725)
One of the fathers of classical opera; a scholar’s composer. Historical landmark only.
Of the 115 he wrote, about 70 are extant and you’ve never heard of any of them. Big deal in their day, however. Established opera as a going concern. Laid structural foundation for opera seria—serious opera, Italian style, of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, with heroic characters, tragic predicaments, usually mythical settings, strictly delineated arias and recitatives.
Gioacchino Antonio Rossini (1792–1868), Vincenzo Bellini (1801–1835), Gaetano Donizetti (1797–1848)
Hottest composers of their time; big box-office draws.
Rossini’s The Barber of Seville was the pinnacle of opera buffa (comic opera about common people and everyday life, usually revolving around boisterous romantic intrigues; a reaction against the stuffy formality of opera seria). Bellini and Donizetti, on the other hand, were rivals in the bel canto category. Major entries: the former’s Norma, the latter’s Lucia di Lammermoor. Donizetti’s operas were sloppier but contained more memorable tunes and the most sentimental atmospheres. Bellini’s works were more meticulous but thin on story line and orchestrally clumsy; he might have won in the end, but he died young.
Giuseppe Verdi (1813-1901)
Mr. Opera; the greatest Italian composer in a predominantly
Italian art form. Like Shakespeare, had innate sense of theater: instinct for constructing plot, creating character, moving action along, suffusing the whole with universal themes; wrote unforgettable melodies. Of humble origins; a patriot. Changed the nature of traditional Italian opera simply by outgrowing it.
For the most part, melodramas that transcend their genre. Any Verdi opera is considered a class act, but the three of his “middle period,” Rigoletto, II Trovatore, La Traviata, are the most popular; Atda is the grandest; Otello and Fa/staff, his one comedy, are the prestige choices, both “mature Verdi.”
Giacomo Puccini (1858-1924)
Most bankable composer ever. The Steven Spielberg of opera. (See also page 279.)
Superficial, sentimental, border on the vulgar and, in some cases (notably Turandoi), the perverse. But Tosca, La Bohéme, and Madame Butterfly are supremely accessible, undeniably heartrending, and laden with catchy tunes. Watch for the earmarks of verismo, the trendy gutter realism of the period. THE GERMANS
Heavily into symbolism, weighty themes, philosophical and sometimes erotic undertones, and, after Wagner, orchestration. Top of the charts in the twentieth century.
Christoph Willibald von Gluck (1714-1787)
Opera’s first great reformer; attempted to streamline the form, do away with the florid excesses of opera seria, create a balance of power between drama and music. Of great historical, but little practical, importance, because no one followed his lead.
