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A Performer’s Guide to Schoenberg’s Opus 40, Part 1

by Ronald J. Swedlund

Ronald J. Swedlund is a specialist in German romantic music. He earned the DMA degree in organ performance from the University of Michigan and the MMus and BMus degrees from Wichita State University. His principal organ mentors have been Robert Glasgow, Marilyn Mason, and Robert Town. Additional keyboard study has been with Edward Parmentier (harpsichord) and Robert Hamilton (piano).

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Arnold Schoenberg (1874–1951) began composing his Variations on a Recitative, op. 40 for organ on August 25, 1941 and completed the work forty-eight days later on October 12. The work was premièred by Carl Weinrich at the Church of St. Mary the Virgin in New York City on April 10, 1944. It was published by the H. W. Gray Co. in 1947, after six years of quarrelsome negotiations.

Altogether Schoenberg wrote seven sets  of variations. Four of these are relatively brief movements in larger works; the other three are self-contained pieces of substantial length. The movements in larger works are the Litanei of String Quartet No. 2, op. 10 (1908); the passacaglia titled “Nacht” in Pierrot Lunaire, op. 21 (1912); the Variationen from Serenade, op. 24 (1923); and the Thema mit Variationen from Suite, op. 29 (1926). The independent pieces are Variations for Orchestra, op. 31 (1928); Variations on a Recitative, op. 40 (1941); and Theme and Variations, op. 43a for band (1943). These sets traverse Schoenberg’s four stylistic periods, moving from the tonality of the second string quartet to atonality (or, as Schoenberg would say, “pantonality”1) in Pierrot Lunaire, to serialism in the serenade and the suite, and finally returning to tonality in the organ variations and the band variations.2 The Variations on a Recitative is Schoenberg’s final and most extensive keyboard work, and his only completed work for organ.

The primary sources for a study of Schoenberg’s organ variations are the composer’s personal correspondence, articles by Robert Nelson and Marilyn Mason, two recordings of the work by Mason, and a letter from Max Miller to Paul Hesselink. The items from Schoenberg’s personal correspondence pertaining to the organ variations are published in an article by Paul Hesselink, which appeared in the Journal of the Arnold Schoenberg Institute; a review and abridged version of this article later appeared in The American Organist. Hesselink’s articles both present a single paragraph from an important letter Schoenberg wrote to René Leibowitz on July  4, 1947—the full text of this letter appears in Arnold Schoenberg Letters, edited by Erwin Stein. The Nelson article summarizes the content of six two-hour lectures presented by Schoenberg early in 1949 (and attended by Nelson) which dealt with Schoenberg’s variation sets. Marilyn Mason writes,

during the summer of 1949 I was privileged to have several lessons with Mr. Schoenberg at his home in Beverly Hills, California. Three lessons, in composition and in an analysis of the Variations, were so inspiring and stimulating! One of his special requests was that he hear the Variations on the organ, so I made arrangements to play them for him at a Los Angeles church. He was transported by car and  wheelchair to the church, where he heard, as he told us afterwards, the work performed for the first time on the organ. To my knowledge this was the last time too, for in two summers he had died.3

Mason’s article describes her session with Schoenberg at the Los Angeles church and reports Schoenberg’s wishes regarding the performance of his piece. Mason recorded the variations in 1951 and again around 1968.4 Hesselink’s first  article presents an excerpt of a letter to him from Max Miller5 who, as a graduate organ student in the fall of 1950, took a lesson with Schoenberg for “help . . . on interpretation” and “tempi, etc.”6 in the organ variations.

An important secondary source for a study of Schoenberg’s organ variations is an article by Martha Foltz, which presents a detailed analysis of the piece.7 The purpose of the present study is to present data from primary sources relating to the performance of Schoenberg’s Variations on a Recitative, op. 40. This data will address the areas of 1) edition choice, 2) articulation and phrasing, 3) tempo and rhythm, 4) registration, and 5) instrument choice.

Schoenberg’s Variations on a Recitative is available in two editions, the first published by the H. W. Gray Co., Inc. in 1947 and the second published by Belmont Music Publishers in 1975. Edited by Carl Weinrich, the first edition is written in conventional organ music notation and contains copious registration suggestions intended for the large, early 20th-century organ at Princeton University. The second edition is purged of Weinrich’s editorial suggestions and is written in Schoenberg’s original music notation, in which the pedal part is notated at actual (16¢) pitch instead of one octave higher.

Prior to the initial publication of his organ variations by the H. W. Gray Co., Schoenberg wrote the following comments concerning the forthcoming edition:

Now there is another problem: You know probably that since 1917 (when I published my Four Songs for Orchestra, Op. 21 [8]: “Vereinfache [sic] Studier-und Dirigier-Partitur, mit Vorwort”) I have excluded every transposition of my scores, even that of double bass, contra bassoon [sic] and piccolo.

Now I would like to publish also this work in the same manner. That is, writing exactly how it must sound and leaving it to the player to know how it has to be played. But as I do not want to produce this time more difficulties than those produced by the artistic conditions of my style, I am ready to allow this time to use the old fashioned notation. I know, organ players belong to the most conservative group among instrumentalists, and I assume they would not even try to play this.

I leave the decision about the problem to the publisher.9

[Letter to Donald Gray of the H. W. Gray Co.] There are now in my belief two possibilities how you could publish it:

(1) Without editorial additions, exactly as my original manuscript was written, which is quite possible because Mr. Weinrich . . . who has played it recently was able to do it without such remarks.

or

(2) Ask Mr. Weinrich whether he can edit it.10

The H. W. Gray Co. chose to ask Weinrich to edit the score. Upon Weinrich’s acceptance of the task, Schoenberg wrote to him:

I am also glad that you are going to edit the piece for H. W. Gray Co. . . .

I do not know whether my friends, Mr. Steuermann and Mr. Kolisch informed you about the one peculiarity of my writing, which might have seemed unusual to you at first: I write always the pitch which I want to hear: never transpositions are used, also not in the upper or lower octave; not in the manuals, nor in the pedal.11

After the publication of his organ variations in 1947Ï, the tone of Schoenberg’s comments changed:

Through the registration of a Mr. Weinrich, who has an unusually large organ in Princeton, the whole picture of my music is so confused that most people cannot make it out: but Mr. Stein has promised to give me a list which shows my original version. I will send it. The registrations by Weinrich I absolutely cannot judge. They appear to be invented entirely by an “organ churn.”12

[Letter to Donald Gray] . . . Mr. Weinrich’s registration is not understandable for other organists than himself.

I think it was not very good that my work was published in his version. . . . I must ask you to do something in this respect. I don’t want this work to be suppressed by such a mistake. Will you please tell me what you consider doing. I would say the best thing would be to have a second version without any registration and deliver this to the organist.

Complaints which I receive stem from prominent German, French and American organists.13

The registration of my organ variations is apparently perfectly designed for the Princeton University organ. This does not suit me at all and so many people have complained about it. I have also asked my publisher to bring out an unregistered edition so that each player can make his own registration. For me, an edition in which the bass is often higher than the tenor is really unreadable. It seems unmusical to me, and, besides, I believe that a well-educated musician doesn’t need this at all.

In my original draft, I included an occasional indication of sonority. But the point was to say whether something should be played tenderly and contabile [sic], or more roughly and staccato, or energetically—nothing more than that.14

. . . This Mr. Gray seems to be a hard-boiled man and he seems to be also very insolent. . . . . . . he charges so much . . . because he includes the fee which he has probably paid to Mr. Weinrich for his terrible registration . . . I had many complaints from Germany and from England and from France about this registration—all say that it is unuseable [sic], it seems to be made for a special organ and this is the organ of Princeton.

. . . I want . . . absolutely Mr. Weinrich’s registration to be taken out and my own version restored, with a remark that I give only the sound and every organ player might register it according to his own organ.15

[Letter to Donald Gray.] Weinrich made his registration exclusively for his Princeton organ. I have received many complaints about that, and questions whether American organs are different from European. And I have also heard a record made by an organist . . . [whose playing was based] on Weinrich’s ideas, and I tell you, it’s terrible. This fact that this version is not applicable to other organs, might be the reason why Weinrich himself, in an organ recital here in Los Angeles, did not play this piece; he, the editor!16

The 1974 Belmont edition apparently would fulfill Schoenberg’s wishes.17

According to Marilyn Mason, the phrasing indications in the H. W. Gray edition correspond exactly to the original manuscript. She writes that one of Schoenberg’s chief dictums to a performer of his music was “strict adherence to the score, especially regarding phrasing—all phrasing indications were to be strictly observed.”18 She notes that Schoenberg “was especially interested in clarity of performance, and this colored all his remarks to me.”19 During 1936 and 1937, the Kolisch Quartet recorded Schoenberg’s four string quartets under his coaching and supervision. Eugene Lehner, the quartet’s violist, writes that

one word was constantly repeated by . . . [Schoenberg]—clarity, clarity, clarity. For him, that was the alpha and omega of music making. His dictum was that you must play music so that the last person in the hall should be able to write up in the score what you do.20

A letter of Schoenberg to the conductor Fritz Stiedry describes how to achieve clarity in phrasing. Schoenberg writes,

phrasing is not to be used ‘emotionally’ as in the age of pathos. Rather it must

1. distribute the stresses correctly in the line

2. sometimes reveal, sometimes conceal the motivic work

3. take care that all voices are well-balanced dynamically, to achieve transparency in the total sound.21

Schoenberg observes that “an outstanding soloist (Kreisler, Casals, Huberman, among others) has a way of working at his part; he tries to make even the tiniest note sound, and to place it in correct relationship to the whole.”22

Consider for a moment the three soloists cited by Schoenberg. All were string players. Pablo Casals’ playing, compounded equally of fire and tenderness, “was memorable as much for beauty of tone as intellectual strength.”23 Time factors were

consciously chosen, avoiding a robotic pulse. Casals instinctively understood the dramatic value of delay—if only by a millisecond. He would speak of “posing” a note. He would “sculpt” every note dynamically . . . Casals’ playing [was] distinct from the unguency of a cello-playing dedicated to a seamless flow of beguiling sound.24

Bronislaw Huberman’s playing was, according to Flesch,25 “the most remarkable representative of unbridled individualism.”26 Huberman was “a towering personality who could fuse glowing intensity and visionary sensitivity into a grand design. His tone had a haunting quality, particularly in infinite shades of pianissimo.”27

Fritz Kreisler played without exertion, achieving a seemingly effortless perfection without

conscious technical display. The elegance of his bowing, the grace and charm of his phrasing, the vitality and boldness of his rhythm, and above all his tone of indescribable sweetness and expressiveness were marvelled at. Though not very large, his tone had unequalled carrying power because his bow applied just enough pressure without suppressing the natural vibrations of the strings. The matchless color was achieved by vibrato . . . Kreisler applied vibrato not only on sustained notes but also in faster passages which lost all dryness under his magic touch. His methods of bowing and fingering were equally personal.28

Kreisler had an unconventional bow arm: he disregarded the traditional . . . spun-out long bow, considered an important tool in a violinist’s technique; instead, he preferred short, intense bow strokes, changing the bow frequently and holding his right elbow rather high. He also tightened the bow hair far more than customary.29

According to Flesch in the mid-1890’s, Kreisler’s cantilena “was an unrestrained orgy of sinfully seductive sounds, depravedly fascinating,  whose sole driving force appeared to be a sensuality intensified to the point of frenzy.30 A photograph also taken about 1895 shows Kreisler and Schoenberg (the latter playing ’cello) as members of a whimsical instrumental ensemble called the “Fröhliches Quintett.”31

Hence, the artists Schoenberg admired, while noted for their clarity, were far from being the faceless automatons one might imagine from a superficial knowledge of Schoenberg’s style and aesthetic. To the contrary, each approached the rhetorical art of articulation and phrasing with blazing originality harnessed to intense communicative power.

These “outstanding”32 performers also played with beguiling rhythm and pronounced, individualistic rubato. Concerning rhythm and tempo, Schoenberg in 1948 wrote that

today’s manner of performing . . . [art] music . . . , suppressing all emotional qualities and all unnotated changes of tempo and expression, derives from the style of playing primitive dance music. This style came to Europe by way of America, where no old culture regulated presentation, but where a certain frigidity of feeling reduced all musical expression. Thus almost everywhere in Europe music is played in a stiff, inflexible metre—not in a tempo, i.e. according to a yardstick of freely measured quantities. Astonishingly enough, almost all European conductors and instrumentalists bowed to this dictate without resistance. All were suddenly afraid to be called romantic, ashamed of being called sentimental. No one recognized the origin of this tendency; all tried rapidly to satisfy the market—which had become American . . .

. . . As an expression of man it [music] is at least subject to such changes of speed as are dictated by our blood. Our pulse beats faster or slower, often without our recognizing it—certainly, however, in accommodation to our emotions. Let the most frigid person be asked a price much higher than she expected and feel her pulse thereafter! And what would become of the lie-detecting machine if we were not afflicted by such emotions? Who is able to say convincingly “I love you” or “I hate you,” without his pulse registering? . . .

Why is music written at all? Is it not a romantic feeling which makes you listen to it? Why do you play the piano when you could show the same skill on a typewriter?33

Schoenberg continues,

Change of speed in pulse-beats corresponds exactly with changes in tempo. When a composer has “warmed up” he may feel the need of harmonic and rhythmic changes. A change of character, a strong contrast, will often require a modification of tempo. But the most important changes are necessary for the distribution of the phrases of which a segment is composed. Over-accentuation of strong beats shows poor musicianship, but to bring out the “centre of gravity” of a phrase is indispensable to an intelligent and intelligible presentation of its contents . . . To people who have never heard  those great artists of the past who could venture far-reaching changes of every kind without ever being wrong, without ever losing balance, without ever violating good taste—to such people this may seem romantic.

It must be admitted that in the period around 1900 many artists overdid themselves in exhibiting the power of the emotion they were capable of feeling; artists who considered works of art to have been created only to secure opportunities for them to expose themselves to their audience; artists who believed themselves to be more important than the work—or at least than the composer. Nothing can be more wrong than both these extremes. Natural frigidity or artificial warmth—the one not only subtracts the undesirable additions of the other, but also destroys the vital warmth of creation, and vice versa.

But why no true, well-balanced, sincere and tasteful emotion?34

As one might expect, Schoenberg admired the conductor Furtwängler. Sounding slightly jaded by conductorial egos, Schoenberg writes that Furtwängler “is certainly a better musician than all these Toscaninis, Ormandys, Kussevitzkis [sic], and the whole rest. And he is a real talent, and he loves music.” 35 What sort of musician was Furtwängler?

He has been described

as “an ambassador from another world, a world holding him firmly in its power; he broke free of it only because he had a message to impart” (Kokoschka). “In listening to him, it is the impression of vast, pulsating space which is most overwhelming” (Menuhin). Such language is an attempt to put into words the almost mystical effect that Furtwängler’s conducting had on those who experienced it. He seemed to be searching for music’s essential being at a deeper level than anyone else. As Neville Cardus put it, “he did not regard the printed notes as a final statement but rather as so many symbols in an imaginative conception, ever changing and always to be felt and realized subjectively.”

. . . Furtwängler was a product, perhaps the supreme expression, of the interpretive tradition of Wagner and von Bülow. In Germany his conducting was regarded as the synthesis of Bülow’s spirituality and Nikisch’s improvisatory genius and sense of colour. Furtwängler’s performances combined in an extraordinary way lofty thought and spontaneity, impulsiveness and long meditation. Nothing for him was fixed and laid down. Each performance was a fresh attempt to discover the truth; rarely was one like another, or even like the rehearsal that had just preceded it. He deliberately cultivated an imprecise beat, so as to achieve a large, unforced sonority, growing from the bass. (The improvement of the cello and bass section, with the consequent enrichment of the whole body of string tone, and the introduction of continuous vibrato into German and Austrian orchestras, were among his important contributions to the development of orchestral playing.)

The freedom of tempo that he allowed himself was the opposite pole from Toscanini’s insistence on the sanctity of the printed score as a medium of the composer’s intentions (the interpretative tradition of Berlioz), in the light of which Furtwängler’s fluctuations of tempo struck many as arbitrary and unacceptable. Yet they were an inevitable concomitant of Furtwängler’s method, his constant quest for music’s inner meaning and hidden laws. He aimed at achieving, at the profoundest level, an organic unity which should be the result not of conformity but of a concentration on each particular expressive moment within a deeply considered general idea of the work. He was a master of transition, of the art of moulding musical phrases and periods into a spacious design, varied but grandly coherent . . . [his conducting had] a sweep, an urgency and tragic intensity that silenced objections.36

Schoenberg often paradoxically suggested in his compositions—through note values, changing meters, metronome markings, and tempo indications—the rhythmic freedom of a Furtwängler, Huberman, Kreisler, or Casals. The performer thus creates the impression of such freedom by taking fewer liberties in a Schoenberg work than in the work of an earlier composer.37

In the fall of 1950 Max Miller, then a graduate organ student at the University of Redlands, took a lesson on the performance of Schoenberg’s Variations on a Recitative with the composer. Concerning tempo and rhythm, Miller writes that Schoenberg

was upset by a too prolonged hold on the fermata on page 11 [m. 88] . . . It was clear that he wanted the variations grouped into larger sections as the music itself shows. In general, his whistling of the music was slower than his indicated tempo markings.38

For Schoenberg, as noted above, the most important concern of a performer of his organ variations was clarity. “Regarding actual sounds, he was interested in having clearness and precision above everything.”39 Schoenberg states that

the highest principle for all reproduction of music would have to be that what the composer has written is made to sound in such a way that every note is really heard, and that all the sounds, whether successive or simultaneous, are in such relationship to each other that no part at any moment obscures another, but, on the contrary, makes its contribution towards ensuring that they all stand out clearly from one another. . . . [This clarity] is the precondition of all music making.40

Elsewhere Schoenberg states, “If I was doing the registration [of the organ variations], I should work it out only in such a way that all the voices come out clearly.”41

How does Schoenberg achieve clarity of timbre? To answer this question, one must turn to his orchestration. In 1925, Schoenberg transcribed J. S. Bach’s chorale preludes “Komm, Gott, Schöpfer, heiliger Geist,” BWV 63142 and “Schmücke dich, o liebe Seele,” BWV 65443 for orchestra; in 1929 he transcribed as one piece J. S. Bach’s Prelude and Fugue in E-flat, BWV 55244 for orchestra. In 1937, Schoenberg transcribed Brahms’ Piano Quartet in G Minor, op. 25 for orchestra. Speaking of the Bach prelude and fugue, Schoenberg writes,

I have, so to speak, modernized the organ, replaced its slow, rarely occurring change of colours with a more richly varied one that established precisely the rendition and the character of the individual passages, and I have given attention to clarity in the web of voices.45

Speaking of Brahms’ op. 25, Schoenberg writes, “I wanted once to hear everything, and this I achieved.”46 Schoenberg discusses in more detail his reason for transcribing the Bach chorale preludes:

the purpose of the colours is to make the individual lines clearer, and that is very important in the contrapuntal web! . . . Our modern conception of music demanded clarification of the motivic procedures in both horizontal and vertical dimensions. That is, we do not find it sufficient to rely on the imminent effect of a contrapuntal structure that is taken for granted, but we want to be aware of this counterpoint in the form of motivic relationships. . . . [Otherwise] our powers of comprehension will not be satisfied . . . We need transparency, that we may see [the motivic procedures] clearly!47

Thus, Schoenberg achieves clarity of timbre by placing timbre in the service of motivic and contrapuntal delineation. Urging players of Bach’s instrument to strive for such clarity, Schoenberg commands: “The organist must use all registers and change them frequently.”48

Related Content

A Performer's Guide to Schoenberg's Opus 40, Part 2

by Ronald J. Swedlund

Ronald J. Swedlund is a specialist in German romantic music. He earned the DMA degree in organ performance from the University of Michigan and the MMus and BMus degrees from Wichita State University. His principal organ mentors have been Robert Glasgow, Marilyn Mason, and Robert Town. Additional keyboard study has been with Edward Parmentier (harpsichord) and Robert Hamilton (piano).

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Part 1 of this article appeared in the March, 1999 issue, pp. 16-18.

The four orchestral transcriptions cited above share the following trait: a sharp delineation both of the works' counterpoint and of the phrases and motifs which constitute the works' often long, soaring contrapuntal lines. This delineation occurs through the juxtaposition of contrasting colors--colors garishly brilliant and psychedilicly beautiful! Schoenberg noted, "today's organists cannot [achieve this delineation]"49 and that, indeed, such clarity "seems to be impossible on the organ."50

Schoenberg's avoidance of octaves in atonal composition influenced his thinking in regard to organ registration. Concerning the registration of his op. 40, he writes,

I am not very fond of unnecessary doublings in octaves. I realize that the organ can become louder only by the addition of upper or-and lower octaves. I realize that one must allow an organist to do this if there is no better way of balancing the voices according to their structural importance. But I would like to have such doubling avoided if clearness and transparency can be achieved without addition of octaves.51

Schoenberg particularly advises caution about using manual 16' stops. Referring to a specific, now unknown place in the organ variations, Schoenberg writes,

It is one of the basic principles of my instrumentation to give every voice or group a space where it can be--if possible undisturbed by the other voices. But here the lower octave (16') would interfere with the harmonies of the left hand and obscure both.52

Speaking of his oeuvre, however, Schoenberg states,

you find in all the works between 1906 and 1921 occasional doubling in octaves . . . The fear that it might produce similarity to tonal treatment proved to be an exaggeration, because very soon it became evident that it had--as a mere device of instrumentation--no influence upon the purposes of construction.53

Later, Schoenberg became even more lenient about octaves:

avoiding doubling of octaves was certainly a kind of exaggeration because if the composes did it, nature denied it. Every single tone contains octave doubling. Curiously, I still do it not all too frequently, though I am today conscious that it is a question merely of dynamics: to emphasize one part more distinctly.54

In regard to the organ, Marilyn Mason reports that Schoenberg did not care for a forte sound, except in certain dramatic, intense spots which demanded it. He especially liked the brilliance of the reed choruses. To the flutes and strings he was partial, saying that these sounds were pleasing to the ear. "Whatever you do," he would remind me, "choose a sound that is pleasing to the hearer." . . . He was highly conscious of the 8' tone, always urging the use of a strong basic tonal line, and preferring it to the brighter mixtures.55

Schoenberg realized that

a powerful forte cannot be attained [on the organ] by stronger wind pressure, not by adding more pipes of the same kind, but only by adding heterogeneous sounds. Also, for the main part to stand out, a more piercing colour is needed, since there are no individual dynamics [as in an orchestra].56

Schoenberg stated, however:

I am little interested in . . . [the organ's] colors--for me, colors have in general only the one meaning to make the idea clear--the motivic and thematic ideas are eventually its expressions and character.57

Thus, Schoenberg implores the organist to use all the color resources at his command ("the organist . . . must use all registers and change them frequently") to clarify motivic and thematic ideas,58 but absolutely prohibits the use of color as an end in itself. Schoenberg was "concerned that [his organ variations] . . . be played simply."59

Schoenberg wished for each performer to have freedom to choose his (or her) own tone colors. Referring to the unedited manuscript of his op. 40, he says, "my version was so that every organist could make his own registrations."60

What sort of instrument did Schoenberg envision? He writes in 1949:

I have set down my views about the organ more than forty years ago . . . Among other things, I demanded that such a huge instrument should be playable by at least two to four players at once. That eventually a second, third or fourth set of manuals could be added. Above all, the dynamics of the instrument was something very important to me, for only dynamics make for clarity and this indeed cannot be achieved on most organs.61

Schoenberg knew of and was interested in double touch.62 He continues,

If one did not remember the splendid organ literature and the wonderful effect of this music in churches, one would have to say that the organ is an obsolete instrument today. No one--no musician and no layman--needs so many colors (in other words, so many registers) as the organ has. On the other hand, it would be very important to have the instrument capable of dynamically altering each single tone by itself (not just the entire octave coupling)--from the softest pianissimo to the greatest forte.

Thus, I believe too that the instrument of the future will be constructed as follows: there will not be 60 or 70 different colors, but only a very small number (perhaps 2 to 6 would certainly be enough for me) which however would have to include the entire range of 7 to 8 octaves and a range of dynamic expression from the softest pianissimo to the greatest fortissimo, each for itself alone.

The instrument of the future must not be essentially more than, say 11/2 times as large as a portable typewriter. For one should not strike too many wrong keys on a typewriter either. Why should it not be possible for a musician, also, to type so accurately that no mistakes occur?

I can imagine that, with such a portable instrument, musicians and music lovers will get together in an evening in someone's home and play duos, trios, and quartets; they will really be in a position to reproduce the idea-content of all symphonies. This is, naturally, a fantasy of the future, but who knows if we are all so far away from it now? If tone can be transmitted quite freely into one's home (such as the radio transmits tone now) all that will probably be possible. . . .

Please do not consider that what I say about the organ is an unfriendliness. I would certainly not have written an organ piece if I didn't imagine that I could myself derive some pleasure from it, but I believe the instrument is in need of some improvements.63                        

Schoenberg thought of the organ as a large orchestra controlled by a console--or as a synthesizer capable of realizing complex polyphony.

Schoenberg's ideal led him to write a work which some commentators find unsuited for its instrument. Jan Maegaard writes,

when I began to study [Schoenberg's op. 40] . . . a question immediately came to mind: how can this texture, so dense, so rich in contrapuntal implications be rendered faithfully by one player with ten fingers and two feet at the organ? This question still remains open to me although, meanwhile, I have heard five or six performances of the work, some of then by brilliant performers, and each time I have observed that I could see more in the score than I could hear. Such observations can be made about many fine pieces of music. What is unique in this instance is the great discrepancy between the music read and the music heard. That led me to the conclusion that, however the performance is organized and carried out--and the ones I have heard differ significantly--it is not possible for one player to convey to the listener the wealth of counterpoint which the composer has poured into his score. The rhythmical shaping and contrapuntal intricacies obscure one another, and the voice leading is blurred. Quite often the result is a massive sound which may be rich enough in itself, but in which one cannot follow the composer's musical thought as he wanted the listener to follow it, and the way it appears to the eye in the score.64

Robert Nelson concurs:

the particular mark of [the organ variations] . . . is the fashioning of a motivic counterpoint so intricate that the thematic succession all but disappears as an audible element. In spite of the musical and technical merits of the Organ Variations, its style is not always well suited to the organ; the score demands nuances of color and dynamics beyond the instrument's capacity to provide. One wishes for the impossible: an orchestral version by Schoenberg's own hand.65

Schoenberg may have realized his op. 40 was unidiomatic. He writes, "I considered the possibility of making one or perhaps two transcriptions of this piece: (1) for two pianos (2) for orchestra."66

The purpose of this article has been to address--through primary sources--the issues of edition choice, articulation and phrasing, tempo and rhythm, registration, and instrument choice as they apply to Schoenberg's Variations on a Recitative, op. 40. These sources provide the following information: 1) Schoenberg found fault with the H. W. Gray edition and preferred an edition such as the Belmont edition; 2) he expected the articulation and phrasings in his score to be rendered exactly--with clarity, artistic intelligence, and creativity; 3) he paradoxically suggested through exact rhythmic indications (which may specify tempos faster than he intended) the inspired, spontaneous performance of a great artist; 4) he implored the organist to use all the colors at his command (preferring unison tone) to clarify motivic, thematic, and contrapuntal aspects of the composition, while absolutely forbidding the use of color as an end in itself; and 5) he envisioned an instrument which would have keyboards of at least modern compass,67 would offer a wealth of unison tone, and would embody the virtue of clarity coupled to enormous flexibility of timbre and dynamics.

Schoenberg viewed his op. 40 as a return--epitomized by the work's D minor tonality--to an outmoded, archaic style:

The organ piece represents my "French and English Suites," or, if you want, my Meistersinger-Quintet, my Tristan-Duet, my Beethoven and Mozart Fugues (who were homophonic-melodic composers): my pieces in Old Style, like the Hungarian influence in Brahms. In other words, as I have stated often, almost every composer in a new style has a longing back to the old style (with Beethoven, Fugues). The harmony of the Organ Variations fills out the gap between my Kammersymphonies and the "dissonant" music. There are many unused possibilities to be found therein.68

Nevertheless, Schoenberg's op. 40 is cerebral and often inaccessible to human aural perception.69

Written in 1941, the piece stands as a grim testament to the unfolding events of World War II, and to the anxious dread Schoenberg felt:

[Schoenberg's] distress at the course of events was as deep as that of many other Austrian and German exiles (including Alma Mahler, her husband Franz Werfel and the novelist Thomas Mann) who were gathering in California. Though he assumed American citizenship in 1941, Germany's corruption and subsequent long, bitterly fought defeat could not fail to arouse his fascinated sorrow, quite apart from the blows he received through the loss of friends and relatives. His brother Heinrich, long an opera-singer under Zemlinsky in Prague, was killed by a poison injection in a Nazi hospital; his cousin, Arthur, died in a concentration camp; several of his pupils met violent deaths, including the gifted Hannenheim, killed in an air-raid, the Pole Josef Koffler, murdered by the Gestapo in Warsaw, and Viktor Ullman, who perished in Auschwitz. Just after the war came the tragic death of Webern, shot by mistake by an American sentry. And Zemlinsky, a shadow of his former self, died in New York in 1942, never having attained the recognition Schoenberg felt was his due. His reaction to events can doubtless be sensed in the upheavals which wrack the Variations on a Recitative . . . 70

The work's difficult and often inaccessible idiom invokes the alienation symptomatic of the twentieth century. Addressing mankind in 1955, Erich Fromm writes,

We are not any more in the center of the Universe, we are not any more the purpose of Creation, we are not any more the masters of a manageable and recognizable world--we are a speck of dust, we are a nothing, somewhere in space--without any kind of concrete relatedness to anything. We speak of millions of people being killed, of one third or more of our population being wiped out if a third World War should occur; we speak of billions of dollars piling up as a national debt, of thousands of light years as interplanetary distances, of interspace travel, of artificial satellites. Tens of thousands work in one enterprise, hundreds of thousands live in hundreds of cities.71

Turning to mankind's creative achievements, Fromm observes that

whether we think of our new cosmological picture, or of theoretical physics, or of atonal music, or abstract art--the concreteness and definiteness of our frame of reference is disappearing.72

He concludes:

the dimensions with which we deal are figures and abstractions; they are far beyond the boundaries which would permit of any kind of concrete experience. There is no frame of reference left which is manageable, observable . . . While our eyes and ears receive impressions only in humanly manageable proportions, our . . . world . . . does not any longer correspond to our human dimensions.73

In that much of the cerebral richness of Schoenberg's Variations on a Recitative often does not "correspond to our human dimensions" (i.e., is inaccessible to human aural perception74), the work's effect on the listener represents in microcosm the alienation of contemporary society. Unable to apprehend the work's structure, along with its motivic and thematic development, the listener senses the work's intensity but is unable to partake of it: he is alienated. Cataclysmic and angst-ridden, Schoenberg's variations thus emerge as an expression of the twentieth-century human condition. The performer's challenge is to realize, through the  imperturbable tones of the pipe organ, this expression in all of its impotent power.

Bibliography

 

Campbell, Margaret. The Great Cellists. London: Victor Gollancz, Ltd., 1988.

Foltz, Martha. "Arnold Schoenberg's 'Variations on a Recitative,' Opus 40--an Analysis." The Diapason 778 (September 1974): 4-9. The Diapason 784 (March 1975) 7-10, 12, 19-21.

Hesselink, Paul S. "Variations on a Recitative for Organ, Op. 40: Correspondence from the Schoenberg Legacy." The American Organist 25 (October 1995): 58-68. The American Organist 25 (December 1995): 83-88.

Hesselink, Paul S. "Variations on a Recitative for Organ, Op. 40: Correspondence from the Schoenberg Legacy." Journal of the Arnold Schoenberg Institute 7 (November 1983): 140-96.

Fromm, Erich. The Sane Society. New York: Henry Holt and Company, 1955.

Jackendorff, Ray and Lardahl, Fred. A Generative Theory of Tonal Music. Cambridge: The MIT Press, 1985.

Keller, Hans. "First Performances: Schoenberg's op. 40." The Music Review 16 (May 1955): 145-47.

Leland, James Miner. "An [sic] Historical Basis for the Registration of J. S. Bach's Organ Works; Arnold Schoenberg's 'Variations on a Recitative,' Opus 40; The Organ Continuo in Bach's Leipzig Church Music." D.M.A. dissertation, Northwestern University, 1973.

MacDonald, Malcolm. Schoenberg. London: J. M. Dent & Sons Ltd., 1976.

Maegaard, Jan. "Orchestrating Schoenberg's Organ Variations," Journal of the Arnold Schoenberg Institute 3 (March 1979): 83-86.

Mason, Marilyn. "An Organist Plays for Mr. Schönberg." Organ Institute Quarterly 6 (spring 1956): 19-20.

Mason, Marilyn. Arnold Schoenberg--Variations on a Recitative for Organ, Op. 40: Erik Satie--Messe des Pauvres (long-playing sound recording). Esoteric Records ES-507 (mono), 1951 (?).

Mason, Marilyn. "Arnold Schoenberg--Variations on a Recitative for Organ, Op. 40" (long-playing sound recording). The Music of Arnold Schoenberg 7. Columbia Stereo M2S 767, 1968.

May, J. "The Use of the Bach Motif in the Music of Arnold Schoenberg." South African Journal of Musicology 13 (1993): 43-54.

Moldenhauer, Hans and Moldenhauer, Rosaleen. Anton von Webern: a Chronicle of His Life and Work. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1979.

Nelson, Robert U. "Schoenberg's Variations Seminar." The Musical Quarterly 50 (April 1964): 141-64.

The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, 6th ed. S.v. "Casals, Pablo," by Robert Anderson.

The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, 6th ed. S.v. "Furtwängler, (Gustav Heinrich Ernst Martin) Wilhelm," by David Carins and James Ellis.

The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, 6th ed. S.v. "Huberman, Bronislaw," by Boris Schwarz.

The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, 6th ed. S.v. "Kreisler, Fritz," by Boris Schwarz.

The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, 6th ed. S.v. "Schoenberg, Arnold (Franz Walter), by O. W. Neighbor.

Newlin, Dika. "A Composer's View of Schönberg's Variations on a Recitative for Organ." Organ Institute Quarterly 6 (spring 1956): 16-18.

Ore, Charles William. "Numbers and Number Correspondences in Opus 40 by Arnold Schoenberg: Pythagoras and the Quadrivium Revisited." D.M.A. dissertation, The University of Nebraska, 1986.

Radulescu, Michael. "Arnold Schoenbergs Variationen Über ein Rezitativ, Op. 40: Versuch einer Deutung." Musik und Kirche 52 (1982): 175-83.

Rochberg, George. "Arnold Schoenberg: Variations on a Recitative Arranged for Two Pianos by Celius Dougherty." Music Library Association Notes 14 (March 1957): 198.

Rufer, Josef. The Works of Arnold Schoenberg: a Catalogue of His Compositions, Writings and Paintings. Translated by Dika Newlin. London: Faber and Faber, 1962.

Schoenberg, Arnold. Style and Idea. Edited by Leonard Stein. Translations by Leo Black. New York: St. Martin's Press, 1975.

Schwarz, Boris. Great Masters of the Violin. New York: Simon and Schuster, 1982.

Shackelford, Rudolph Owens. "Problems of Editions and Transcriptions in Organ Music of the Twentieth Century." D.M.A. dissertation, University of Illinois, 1971.

Shoaf, Wayne R. The Schoenberg Discography. 2nd ed. Berkeley: Fallen Leaf Press, 1994.

Smith, Joan Allen. Schoenberg and His Circle: a Viennese Portrait. New York: Schirmer Books, 1986.

Stein, Erwin, ed. Arnold Schoenberg Letters. Translated by Ernst Kaiser and Eithne Wilkins. Boston: Faber and Faber, 1974.

Stuckenschmidt, H. H. Schoenberg: His Life and Work. Translated by Humphrey Searle. New York: Schirmer Books, a division of Macmillan Publishing Co., 1978.

Trabner, J. H. "Versuch Über ein 'Nebenwerk.'" Zeitschrift für Musiktheorie 5 (1974): 29-41.

Walker, John. "Schoenberg's Opus 40." Music (The A.G.O.-R.C.C.C. Magazine) 4 (October 1970): 33-35, 64.

Watkins, Glenn E. "Schoenberg and the Organ." Perspectives of New Music 4 (fall-winter 1965): 119-35.

Watkins, Glenn E. "Schoenberg and the Organ." In Perspectives on Schoenberg and Stravinsky, pp. 93-109. Edited by Benjamin Boretz and Edward T. Cone. New York: W. W. Norton & Co., Inc., 1972.

 

 

REFERENCES

                        49.              July 31, 1930 letter to Fritz Stiedry. Rufer, p. 94.

                        50.              February 8, 1949 letter to Josef Rufer. Hesselink: 177.

                        51.              May 16, 1944 letter to Carl Weinrich. Hesselink: 161.

                        52.              Undated (c. 1945) letter to Carl Weinrich. Hesselink: 163.

                        53.              October 1, 1945 letter to René Leibowitz. Stein, p. 236.

                        54.              July 4, 1947 letter to René Leibowitz. Stein, pp. 247-48.

                        55.              Mason: 19.

                        56.              Schoenberg, pp. 323-24.

                        57.              May 19, 1949 letter to Dr. Werner David. Hesselink: 178.

                        58.              See the July 31, 1930 letter to Fritz Stiedry, quoted above (Rufer, p. 94).

                        59.              December 28, 1983 letter of Max Miller to Paul Hesselink. Hesselink: 196.

                        60.              February 10, 1949 Letter to Donald Gray. Hesselink: 177.

                        61.              May 19, 1949 letter to Dr. Werner David. Hesselink: 179-80

                        62.              Hesselink: 179.

                        63.              May 19, 1949 letter to Dr. Werner David. Hesselink: 179-80.

.                      64.              Jan Maegaard  "Orchestrating Schoenberg's Organ Variations," Journal of Arnold Schoenberg Institute 3 (March 1979): 83.

                        65.              Nelson: 160.

                        66.              March 28, 1942 letter to the H. W. Gray Co. Hesselink: 152.

                        67.              Schoenberg writes a manual C#4 in m. 92 of his variations.

                        68.              July 4, 1947 letter to René Leibowitz. Hesselink: 248.

                        69.              For a penetrating discussion of twentieth-century music idioms as they relate to human perception, see Ray Jackendorff and Fred Lerdahl, A Generative Theory of Tonal Music (Cambridge: The MIT Press, 1985), pp. 296-301.

                        70.              MacDonald, p. 47.

                        71.              Erich Fromm, The Sane Society (New York: Henry Holt and Company, 1955), p. 119.

                        72.              Fromm, p. 119.

                        73.              Fromm, p. 119. Italics have been added by the author.

                        74.              See Jackendorff and Lerdahl, pp. 296-301.

An Interview with Stephen Dodgson

by Pamela Nash
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From the Harpsichord Editor:

 

Barnes, an area of London just south of the Thames across the Hammersmith Bridge, has been home to a succession of English composers: Gustav Holst lived here from 1909 until 1912, Herbert Howells settled in Barnes in the 1920s and stayed for more than forty years, and the current longtime "resident composer" is Stephen Dodgson.  Since a first meeting at a Bruges Harpsichord Competition more than thirty years ago, I have come to treasure Dodgson both as composer and as friend.  Several of our musical collaborations are noted in Pamela Nash's insightful interview with the composer.  It is my hope that curiosity will be stimulated, and that our readers will proceed to investigate Dodgson's music. As Hugo Cole wrote in The New Grove, "He is one of the few living composers to write with understanding for the guitar, harpsichord and clavichord." For further information concerning Dodgson's compositions for our instruments, consult Frances Bedford's invaluable catalog 20th-Century Harpsichord and Clavichord Music. Inquiries concerning the availability of unpublished scores may be directed via email to

--Larry Palmer

Stephen Dodgson has composed for almost every instrumental genre, his works for the guitar having brought him particular notice. However, Dodgson has also earned a place in 20th-century harpsichord history and he has probably the longest and most productive association with the harpsichord of any living composer. His affinity with the instrument has been nurtured by the developments in the harpsichord world over the last forty years, and his output now comprises 49 works, both solo and ensemble.

 In my capacity as a harpsichordist and performer of contemporary music, I regard Dodgson as a singularly gifted champion of the harpsichord whose works should have wider recognition. His strength of feeling and depth of intuition for the instrument produces writing that is wholly idiomatic; his economy of line, clarity of voicing, control of texture, and dynamic rhythmic treatment are always expressed in ways that bring the harpsichord to life. I asked Dodgson about his work with the instrument, and about his philosophy on contemporary harpsichord matters.

PN: Is your penchant for the harpsichord partly a practical one--an outcome of being exposed to the instrument in your working environment?

SD: I always seem to respond to its rhythmic clarity, and the vividness of texture and spacing. Perhaps "living with harpsichords" quickens this response, but it's certainly not the cause of it.

PN: Can you recall your first encounter with the harpsichord?

SD: I can pinpoint it exactly. It was an afternoon in early summer 1955, when Stanislav Heller introduced me to Thomas Goff and his instruments with the definite aim that I should become interested in composing for him and for them.

PN: How did marriage to harpsichordist and Couperin expert Jane Clark foster your appreciation?

SD: It quickly extended my knowledge of the repertoire and this has subtly infected my perception of the instrument itself.

PN: Are there particular works that have provided the inspiration and impetus to compose for the harpsichord?

SD: At the start, Scarlatti was uppermost. Then it broadened out; the inspirational factor has been a generalised one of character, not so much deriving from one specific work.

PN: With the exception of a few pieces such as the Falla and Martin Concertos [completed in 1926 and 1952], harpsichord music before 1950 was either a sort of adjunct to the piano repertoire and impractical to play, or it was a pastiche of old idioms. You were one of the first to break these molds by writing true and characteristic music for the harpsichord: were you prompted by the burgeoning interest in the harpsichord in the 1950s, and by the new generation of players who were pursuing modern harpsichord repertoire?

SD: I was a lot less aware than your question supposes. I just leapt in excitedly. But it happened to coincide with the explosion of interest among players and makers alike. George Malcolm, Stanislav Heller, Antonio Saffi were very encouraging. They liked what I wrote and played it.

PN: You have been an observer of the harpsichord revival from those early days of your career; has your harpsichord music reflected the changes and developments in the instrument during the past 40 or so years?

SD: I believe the evolution of the instrument is actually reflected in what I've written--with the "classical" instrument steadily in the ascendant. Going back where I began is unthinkable.

PN: Has the harpsichord been a technical factor in your development as a composer? Has it influenced the ways you write for other instruments?

SD: It occupies a place all of its own in my thinking. Which is why I am jealous of being as idiomatic as possible in my approach. But because I value economy of means in everything I write, and an "open space" approach is an essential factor in good harpsichord writing (in any century!) I'm sure there has been some cross-over influence.

PN: Your harpsichord music is very rewarding to play, the main reason being that its style and idiom coincide very logically and happily with the harpsichord's character. This enables the player to make the music speak easily and directly. How does this work; do your ideas originate at the harpsichord? How do you consider technical things like handshifts and fingering in your composing?

SD: I never take something new to the harpsichord until I'm pretty certain of it musically. I then find I may here and there want to move up or down an octave--and leave out still a few more notes than I'd been crossing out the week before. Handshifts and fingerings can actually be exciting things in harpsichord writing, because they are integral to the result in phrasing and attack. Some ideas have actually originated in this way: for example, Invention Set 5, no. 3. (Example 1)

PN: You also have a very strong symbiotic relationship with the guitar. Your harpsichord music seems to demonstrate how close the relationship is between the guitar and the harpsichord, and some of your ideas are found in the repertoires of both instruments. Do they have similar limitations that you can treat in the same ways?

SD: Of course, harpsichord and guitar must both have their limitations. One has heard music on each of them which palpably didn't suit. But there's so much that can be written on each successfully, I've never found it profitable to think about limitations. Rather, I've always preferred going for it positively, trying to develop an instinct for what will succeed and give the performer satisfaction.

PN: Combining harpsichord and guitar in Duo Concertante and Dialogues must have been uniquely difficult.

SD: When asked to write for harpsichord and guitar together, I simply couldn't persuade myself it could work. But Rafael Puyana and John Williams insisted it did, so I took courage in my hands, and as I worked began to believe in it more and more.

PN: Because their timbres are at once similar and different, how did you reconcile them, both in off-setting them soloistically, and in combining them homogeneously?

SD: The fascination is because they are similar yet different. My object was to make them homogeneous here, and by contrast very separated in other places; figuration, spacing are important factors; how to devise dialogues that bring out different facets in the relationship. Then there was the excitement of finding a dramatic structure to give such colorings purpose.

PN: You often end a phrase with an octave unison or an open fifth, which is very idiomatic for plucked instruments where chords can actually sound louder without the third (for example, the ending of the Duo Concertante, where it sounds as though there are several guitars and harpsichords playing!) You also juxtapose thick voiced harmonies of thirds with open fifths or unisons a lot, which seems to have to do with accentuating the pulse, and with rhythmical stress and energy. The notes often seem subservient to the pulse, as in Scarlatti. (Example 2: Invention Set 3, no. 3)

SD: Agreed! This is certainly something I learned from Scarlatti. Rhythmic stress does indeed require additional notes. In cadential situations the big bare intervals appeal through their primary force.

PN: Would you say there are other significant parallels between Scarlatti's harpsichord writing and your own? For example, in the use of harmonic texture: in leaving out the third of the chord and opening out the last chord in a progression to an octave or fifth; the use of an ornament on the off-beat; the tied chord on the last beat or the half-beat, which gives a syncopated weight or accent, significantly on the anacrusis. The use of rhythm and timing to create drama and suspense in the way the music breathes and is sometimes suspended is also similar. Although Scarlatti was specifically concerned with emulating flamencan rhythm on the harpsichord, your music seems to function on the same level as it too explores the harpsichord's ability to dance and "swing." Are these reasonable comparisons?

SD: Yes--to my mind they are very close indeed to my way of going about it, and you're right to point out my penchant for the anacrusis accent, perhaps with an ornament for extra emphasis. (Example 3: Invention Set 3, no. 4)

PN: It is often said that there is an English quality about your music in general. What is it do you think that gives this impression?

SD: I think I'm just very English--full stop!

Dodgson's use of dynamics (before Inventions/Set 4) is very economical for the harpsichord, which adds to the practicality of his music on the classical-type instrument. He has gone from using standard dynamics, to registration dynamics, to no dynamics at all with Set 4 of the Inventions. A decade later in the most recent fifth Set, all expression marks are eschewed to leave "just the notes." The dynamic and expressive feeling in the music has always been intrinsic, in the baroque sense; very often, a marking of 'p' or 'f' is reflected in the notes themselves, in a shift to a different tessitura, or a change of texture, pace or harmonic rhythm. Then to add the registration is merely an accentuation of the inherent musical dynamics. (Example 4: Invention Set 3, no. 1)

PN: Could you explain the evolution of the dynamic treatment in the Inventions? In some of the earlier writing where the registration dynamics cannot be realised on the classical harpsichord, are you happy for the player to revise them?

SD: I may have been reasonably consistent about dynamic markings at any one time, but, overall, I think there's no consistent development. At first I only thought in terms of 2-manual instruments. In general therefore the f & p invite a registration change, or an addition/subtraction of 4-foot or coupler. By the time of Set 5 I'd become concentrated on making all the coloring arise from the music itself, with the ambitious aim that the whole set could succeed on a single register throughout without seeming monochrome. In settling for "just the notes" notation I'd convinced myself anything else would be a distraction. I actually want to appeal to the imagination of the player! And this naturally applies too to those spots where my notated changes cannot be realised on the instrument being used.

PN: Have you also dispensed with the use of accents? In your earlier writing the accent or [-] tenuto dash is often poignant as an indication of the rhythmic intent, or the importance of a note. And although accent in the tonal sense (as on the piano) cannot be realised on the harpsichord, in some ways the spirit of it can be: for example as an agogic accent, or a tenuto or inégale form of accent.

SD: In general I'm a great supplier of accent signs, but more and more I question their relevance for the harpsichord. I'm also a great one for beaming notes according to their accentual grouping, and allowing these to criss-cross with the metrical organisation. This dispenses with most of any remaining need for accent signs. But who can deny the psychological impact of a Sforzando where the intention is dramatic? So I don't promise never to use accent marking in the future.

PN: You seem almost to have phased out the use of mixed meters as well: why is this?

SD: Modern music has often done itself disservice with over-complexity of time-signature and incessant change. The simpler the notational method the better. Constant change tends to result in constant choppiness in performance; OK if that's the purpose, but it's really never my purpose. Therefore I've a preference for the basic 3/4, 4/4, 6/8 standard and let the more capricious rhythmic elements fly about, since this is an inducement to continuity. If I can get the music to look simpler than it actually is, I take a pride in it.

Today's baroque, almost "vocal" approach to playing the harpsichord contrasts strongly with the generic pianistic approach of the early 20th-century school of harpsichord playing, but although piano technique is not desirable for early repertoire, the 20th-century repertoire is a different context. Some modern harpsichord works will sound basically the same regardless of the source of technique used to play them, but there are instances in Dodgson's works where real harpsichord sensibilities in the performer can be important. For example, Invention Set 3, no. 1 (Example 5) is a very expressive piece, improvisatory in feel, and it could be seen in the light of the unmeasured prelude. It is marked "largamente e liberamente" and "sempre sostenuto." This can be expressed on the harpsichord by overholding the notes of the broken chords and by "arpeggiating" between voices. For example, to play the E and the C in bar 1 fractionally broken is an example of harpsichord technique that gives a more expressive and resonant result, as well as a rhythmic emphasis by bringing out the duple time. The use of harpsichord articulations brings out phrasing and pulse, and this can be said for much of Dodgson's music where the voices are exposed, slow and melodic, and where harmonic and rhythmic emphasis are important.

PN: In general, how relevant is it that your music is played by a true harpsichordist? Perhaps the issue of technical style is less important when the right musician is playing it, regardless of their keyboard "persuasion"?

SD: As such, it's not so important; but I'm a bit upset if I find the player isn't as sensitive as I'd like to peculiarities of harpsichord sound. On the other hand, their keyboard persuasion can mean an overweaning devotion to one of the tenets of "performance practice." I remember begging a continental harpsichordist to play a certain passage in my Aulos Trio with the hands together in place of the exaggerated displacement which so appealed to him, after which he was less keen to have my opinions.

PN: The Fantasia movements in Set 5 and in Sonata-Divisions, and the unmeasured prelude style, seem to illuminate further the dichotomy between the piano and the harpsichord in your keyboard writing. (Example 6: Sonata-Divisions)

SD: I've developed an unmeasured style in writing for the piano too--but it's completely different. I love both instruments, but I do not let them meet!

PN: In throwing off the last vestiges of "piano writing" in your most recent harpsichord works, do you feel a greater sensitivity to the whole harpsichordaesthetic?

SD: Yes: it's an important reason why I've gone on writing for it--the search for an elusive ideal--a modern music that is intrinsically harpsichord yet carries resonances of its historic past.

PN: In writing for harpsichord in ensemble, what are the challenges in balancing the sonorities? For instance, how do you work round the predisposition of the harpsichord's treble register to get lost in ensemble?

SD: I agree that the harpsichord changes its nature in ensemble, and each ensemble situation is unlike the others. In nearly every situation its sustaining power is eclipsed by all the naturally sustaining instruments. To obtain a balance, it is the handling of those instruments which is the clue to success. Avoid the register where the harpsichord is to penetrate clearly; similarly avoid duplicating its busier figurations. Open spacing is always good; single notes rather than chords are better for a held background.

Dodgson demonstrates in his Arlington Concertante that harpsichord sound can "behave" very differently in a concerto context; it has a highly dramatic effect, sometimes of menace--particularly when re-entering with a burst of activity after a long rest. Dodgson projects this quality to compelling effect in his fondness for suspense and dramatic shifts of mood. Ornaments and fast arpeggiated movement are also fantastically effective inside a varied instrumental texture. (Examples 7 & 8)

PN: With the denser instrumental texture of the concerto, there is a propensity for the harpsichord to lose its rhythmic power. How did you compensate for this, for example in Arlington Concertante: in particular, writing rhythmic stress into the harpsichord part? In what ways did the orchestration allow the harpsichord to cut through the texture, particularly in tutti passages?

SD: Arlington Concertante was a challenge indeed, being on the face of it an impossible combination. There had to be an illusion of tutti, achieved by leaving "holes" in spacing and rhythm for the soloist. The thematic ideas were shaped by this--a case of making a virtue out of a necessity. I must have a perverse streak, because I really enjoy that sort of situation!

PN: What was the difference in your approach to scoring in Concerto da Camera in 1963? What were the reasons for its revision in 1979?

SD: Concerto da Camera is scored for violas, cellos and double bass only (I was thinking of the 6th Brandenburg); their natural compass is exactly where the harpsichord has its soul. It was a long time before it came to performance, and by 1979 I acted to improve its sonority, its transparency, in ways I knew little of when originally working at it.

Dodgson attended a week-long symposium of his harpsichord music in 1996 run by Southern Methodist University of Dallas. It was led by the organist and harpsichordist Larry Palmer who commissioned Dodgson's Duo alla Fantasia for harp and harpsichord in 1981. It featured masterclasses by the composer, and performances of Inventions, Sonata-Divisions and Carillon for two harpsichords.

PN: What was it like to be studied and performed so intensively and by such a diverse group of keyboard players?

SD: It was a new experience for me. I'd never previously thought of all my harpsichord music all at once, and was anxious about a good many of the earlier Inventions. Would they stand up to an intensive week? Would they fail to hold the attention of the participants? They were a very diverse group, in age and attainment. It was not only a true adventure for them, but it felt like one for me too--and I felt I'd been right to pursue harpsichord composition as long as I have.

PN: As a composer, you must have an ideal in your mind of how a piece should come across in performance. Is it more rewarding to collaborate with the performer, for example in a masterclass format, or is hearing what a performer makes of the piece on their own terms equally valuable?

SD: The most rewarding thing is the discovery that a performer has identified with what you've written, and found meaning and excitement in it. It actually adds to the interest if it's not identical with mine.

PN: You have written for many different media, but you show a predilection for non-mainstream "uncommercial" in-struments and ensemble combinations. The Duo Concertante for guitar and harpsichord, for example, while demonstrating that this is a fascinating medium, is still a relatively uncharted territory. Few players after Rafael Puyana and John Williams have explored the harpsichord and guitar ensemble, not least because of a dearth of major works like the Duo Concertante. Then there are the limitations in distribution and publication, etc.: doesn't it therefore deliver rather a small return on your investment? Or is it more important to you to follow your nose for a particular medium, regardless of its marketability?

SD: Don't forget that the larger part of what I've written for both guitar and harpsichord has been at specific players' request. It's not just my predilection; it's my willingness to be led where the prospect seems interesting. I should probably give more attention to marketability than I do and you are of-course right on the general point!

PN: Although there is a segment of the classical audience which still associates the harpsichord with unflattering antiquated recordings, it seems significant that harpsichord aficionados were often converted to the instrument by these early renditions; was it because one was listening without judgement or criterion, and so the spirit of the music came through regardless?

SD: Yes. The 20th-century history of the harpsichord is every way as fascinating as the original hundred years from circa 1660. Those early renditions from the dawn of the revival will never lose their fascination, and are so illuminating as to all that has happened since.

PN: Although the criteria for judging harpsichord performance style has changed dramatically since the dawn of the revival, there are still anomalies in current opinion when it comes to certain performers. Landowska's style, for example, is at odds with today's widely-held maxims of performance practice, and yet there is an almost universal reluctance to evaluate her style objectively.

SD: To evaluate Landowska's style objectively is hard, not just because she was so strong and individual herself, but almost as much because our standpoint is constantly shifting as to what is or is not a "good style."

PN: Most people, including yourself, now feel that there is nothing of any value the harpsichord with pedals (such as the Pleyel or the Neupert) can do that the classical harpsichord can't. And whilst it must be said that the tone and responsiveness of the classical instrument bears it little comparison, would we do better not to try to relate these two species at all, and simply to preserve the role of the pedal-supplied  harpsichord as it was? The instant registration, and the colorations and combinations therein can add up to 30 or more on some instruments, and there are certain pieces where this can still come into its own. For example, in Elliott Carter's Sonata for Flute, Oboe, Cello and Harpsichord, the treatment of the other instruments' dynamics and phrasing, and indeed the texture and form of the music revolve around the tone color possibilities of a pedal harpsichord.

SD: The pedal harpsichord is part of history. There has to be a preservation order before we lose them all! I heard a claim the other day that only two Pleyels remain in the UK in anything like working condition. Elliott Carter's Sonata is part of history as much as Ligeti's Continuum and Poulenc's Concert Champêtre.

PN: Aside from works where range of volume is a condition of the music, could pedal instruments still play a part, do you think, in championing new music?

SD: The classic, reproduction harpsichord IS the harpsichord of today; I suspect new music itself is out-of-date if it fails to recognise the march of time.

PN: But are there pieces which could be considered equally viable on both instruments?

SD: The Falla Concerto sounds wonderful on the classical harpsichord; but you learn something about its historical place hearing it on a Pleyel. The application of "authenticity" doesn't only apply to olden time.

PN: Players like George Malcolm always seemed to be compensating for the fact that the harpsichord wasn't the piano; perhaps his resultant "hybrid" style is another example of 20th-century "authenticity," particularly on the Thomas Goff harpsichords, since these were hybrid instruments anyway? Specifically, wasn't Malcolm in fact serving Goff's vision of the perfect harpsichord, along with composers like yourself?

SD: The Malcolm/Goff interdependency was unique. An adequate answer to this question needs a chapter to itself! Goff was undoubtedly ambitious with regard to his instruments being in the forefront of public attention--and they were!

PN: Do you think that the harpsichord still remains relatively obscure to the general public?

SD: I think there's complete public awareness of the harpsichord, but little knowledge of why it sounds the way it does, and only a little more of the reason for its existing today.

PN: How should we raise awareness of the harpsichord in the contemporary music field?

SD: A good first step would be for composers of contemporary music to understand better what the contemporary harpsichord is--to regard it as more than merely a timbre.

PN: You have a strong vantage point from which to view today's harpsichord scene, and to reflect on the changes you have witnessed. Do you feel there is a certain directness and simplicity lacking in some of today's harpsichord playing: that the currently received ideas under the banner of performance practice have had an intimidating effect on artistic intuition?

SD: Yes. The currently received ideas on performance practice seem to me largely outmoded. They were too academic in formulation to withstand the onrush of musical curiosity.

PN: There has also resulted a sort of cloning of playing style which appears to be more endemic in the US and in other parts of Europe than in Britain. There seems to be more independence of style and more individuality among British players. It is due partly perhaps to the absence of a "school" of British harpsichord playing, but is it also that we have a greater sang-froid and directness of character--a "no-nonsense" objectivity towards music in general?

SD: Yes, I think we are a little more sceptical, more suspicious of dogma. So, there again, you see how British I am!

PN: 20th-century music is not a medium for demonstrating "performance practice," as the context does not engender the same sorts of freedoms as early music does, and there is no assumed historical agenda other than the composer's own. The performer has to be open to this and technically versatile; in your own harpsichord music, there is a need for great clarity and technical precision and little margin for liberties within the style. Is this part of the question of why contemporary music is ignored by harpsichordists?

SD: Perhaps so. If I take your question aright, the "Performance Practitioner" finds his interpretative role diminished by the exact requirements of a contemporary score, and so retreats to his beloved old masters, who (he believes) give him this freedom. Something in the argument, but a bit simplistic I think.

PN: Do you see it as being rooted politically in the old factions that formed in the harpsichord world: those who endorsed contemporary harpsichord music were "politically incorrect" be-cause their wider musical concern was seen to detract from the cause?

SD: Rather more in this argument. Dabbling in contemporary music is avoided by some players (but only some!) as a dilution of their application to the old masters--that their seriousness as "specialists" is undermined thereby. The low-pitch factor plus meantone tuning also play their part in creating a chasm between old and modern music. A composer may want to write for the harpsichord in ensemble, but may not want the partnering instruments to be baroque.

PN: Has this chasm affected the harpsichord's credibility as a contemporary instrument in your view?

SD: Not too much, for I'm convinced that the contemporary composition that shows strong and idiomatic insight into the harpsichord and its players as they actually are won't need to struggle for its champions. As to the public, that may take a bit longer.

Playing for Apollo

The Technical and Aesthetic Legacy of Carl Weinrich

by Ray M. Keck
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In 1960, in an article about Glenn Gould for The New Yorker
magazine, Joseph Roddy harnesses Nietzsche's terms to describe a dichotomy he
perceives in the composition and the playing of piano music. Eighteenth-century
keyboard compositions "are Apollonian, adhering to classical formality and
reserve; those of the nineteenth century are Dionysiac, being notable for
poetic mood and emotional thunder." Keyboard compositions of the twentieth
century, "for all their involutions, have shown a tendency to return to
the Apollonian ideal."2 Rather than providing a clear example of either
Apollonian or Dionysiac tendencies, Glenn Gould's life and art enclose a
mesmeric opposition of both classical and romantic components: Dionysiac
frenzies during performance, behavior for which he became legend, and
Apollonian compositions and interpretations which are "essentially
dispassionate." It was Gould's interpretation of Bach's "highly Apollonian"
Goldberg Variations which established the young Canadian as a top-ranking
pianist. Playing the Variations, Gould accomplishes his technically flawless
performance, "lean, aloof and fleet," in ten minutes and twenty-one
seconds less than it took Wanda Landowska to complete her highly Dionysiac
performance of the same work.3

Joseph Roddy's description of Glenn Gould and his music
suggests a startling similarity to the Apollonian style and taste of Carl
Weinrich, organist and choirmaster of Princeton University from 1943 to his
retirement in 1973. There are, of course, many significant differences between
the two men.  Gould the pianist was
famous for his histrionics, swaying and singing and conducting himself as he
played. Weinrich the organist was just as known for a calm, classical manner,
an almost unnerving physical control which he exercised even during the music's
most intense passages.4 But, as we shall see, when Carl Weinrich compiled his
own canon of organ music, his choices were very like what the younger Gould
came to champion:  the music of
Sweelinck, of Bach, of Hindemith, of Krenek. In addition, few words could
better describe Carl Weinrich's playing than those applied to Glenn Gould:
"lean, aloof, fleet." And if Gould had his Van Cliburn, so, too,
Weinrich had his artistic antipodes. From his own era sprang the Dionysiac
Virgil Fox, whose preconcert foreplay, cavalier treatment of the printed score,
and wild technical high jinks asserted a violent contrast to Weinrich's
Apollonian creed. Most often compared with Weinrich was his exact contemporary,
E. Power Biggs, whose playing, though technically less precise than Weinrich's,
could hardly be called Dionysiac. Biggs's dedication to popularizing the organ,
however, eventually bred in him a Dionysian's taste, music of uneven artistic
merit from all periods, chosen because it appealed to the untrained listener.
In our own era, Anthony Newman, Simon Preston and Diane Bish are only a few of
the many outstanding Dionysiac recitalists.

Carl Weinrich's importance in American organ music, however,
reached far beyond the university where he made his home. Weinrich was both a
traditionalist and a revolutionary, the former because he chose to concentrate
his energies on the works of Bach, the latter because he was one of a group of
American organists who in this century thoroughly altered American practices of
organ playing and building.5 But what was Weinrich's method and how did he
acquire it?

Lynnwood Farnam: Beauty with Discipline

When Carl Weinrich began in earnest his study of organ in
the 1920s, instruments, the technique of playing, and attitudes toward organ
literature differed greatly from today's prevailing notions. Mechanically
sluggish consoles and the romantic organ's preponderance of 8¢ diapasons
and strings made intricate passages, particularly in the music of J.S. Bach,
difficult to hear and hence not rewarding to master.  Indeed, Bach's famous remark, "you need only to hit the
right notes at the right moment and the instrument does the rest"6
alleged, when Carl Weinrich began his career, not irony and understatement, but
impossibility. Lists of organ stops from those years read like a romantic
orchestral fantasy: flauto amabile, tuba mirabile, philomela. Weinrich was one
of a group of energetic, musically dissatisfied young organists who gathered
about the great teacher and player, Lynnwood Farnam, organist at the Church of
the Holy Communion in New York City until his death in 1930. Together they
reformed and refashioned American organ playing.7

As the first step toward unlocking music's subjective
components or its effect upon the soul, Lynnwood Farnam directed his students'
physical dexterity to the technical components or skeleton of organ music.8 To
approach music's aesthetic ends, Farnam first insisted upon absolute mastery of
the score, careful planning of fingering, endless practice of difficult
passages. Moreover, Farnam demanded an end to the physical pyrotechnics and
theatrical body thrusts which organists often affected at the console. Clear,
clean, precise playing soon brought a predictable dissatisfaction with the
sluggish, muddy sounds of romantic organs and led to an interest in Baroque
techniques of organ building, a return to the principles of construction,
design and stop selection practiced in Bach's era. Farnam's followers, then,
embarked upon a dual quest: more responsive instruments and clearer sounds to
convey more precise playing. Their vision for organ study proclaimed forcefully
the link between technical and aesthetic dimensions of music, the objective and
subjective components of art. And in his own practice, Lynnwood Farnam left
little to chance; before playing a recital, he insisted upon a minimum of
fifteen hours to prepare himself at the instrument he was to play.

In addition to his insistence upon technical perfection,
Farnam's notions of repertoire were built around the music of Bach. He
especially condemned the nineteenth-century custom of including transcriptions
or arrangements of piano music in organ recitals: études of Chopin or
Schumann, pieces such as Debussy's Clair de lune, Rachmaninoff's Prelude in
C-sharp Minor, and overtures and arias from opera. In a series of twenty
recitals, Farnam performed the complete organ works of Bach, a monumental
statement of his musical vision and a feat which his student, Carl Weinrich,
was to repeat many times. Weinrich's appointment as Farnam's successor at the
Church of the Holy Communion, following the latter's death in 1930, indicates
the high regard which Weinrich's playing enjoyed in Farnam's circle.

Weinrich's legacy to his students, and hence to all
musicians who followed him, is three-fold. First, he adopted, practiced, and
passed on Lynnwood Farnam's uncompromising standard of technical excellence as
the foundation of aesthetic satisfaction. Second, having at his disposal the
whole of organ literature, he offered to his students his own special views
concerning repertoire and its use. Third, Weinrich fostered in those about him
an artistic awakening, a refined musical judgment, the unerring aesthetic
sensibility which Plato attributes in the Republic, Book III, to a proper
education in music. Throughout his life, Carl Weinrich stubbornly refused to
practice or to perform any but the very best music composed for the organ.
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Legacy 1: Technique, Organ Design and Artistry

It is the first of these three legacies, Weinrich's efforts
to rescue organ playing from technical lassitude, which remains his most
difficult, his most heroic and his most far-reaching musical gift to us. To
begin with, Weinrich's Apollonian style rested upon an intense scrutiny of the
notes. His scores included extensive notations of fingering, and much of his
time with students was given over to searching carefully and slowly for the
best possible execution of difficult passages. Impatient with older theories of
fingering, Weinrich was an outspoken proponent of employing, whenever possible,
"the strong fingers," the thumb, index and middle finger of each
hand. He insisted that, especially in the works of Bach, one could always
devise a comfortable fingering for even the most difficult passages. He often
commented that "if the fingering of a particular passage isn't comfortable
when you practice it, the tension of a public performance will probably cause
you to stumble at that spot. A musical composition is like a string of
pearls--one weak knot, and the necklace breaks; one flubbed measure can destroy
the beauty and perfection which you achieve in all the others."

To be sure, a difficult measure or passage, properly fingered,
might require scores of repeated attempts to master. One should know a work
well enough to play each part separately, he insisted, and should practice a
piece for at least one year before performing it in public.
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As if to follow Bach's famous attribution
of his own success to hard work,9 Weinrich the student practiced at least eight
hours per day. At the time of his retirement, he still considered five hours
per day a minimum practice schedule for an active organist.

Weinrich's concern for precision even extended to noting
pedal passages with a "P.N." to remind himself which was the
"pivot note," the moment at which the body should shift its angle to
execute comfortably the pedal lines. 
And then, like Farnam, he allowed himself no other movement at the
console.  He was willing to discuss
diverse possibilities for phrasing, and hence for interpretation, only after a
student had demonstrated undisputed mastery of the work's skeleton. He liked to
say that his first concern was to help a student get the notes firmly in hand,
into the "strong fingers." "After that," he once said,
"we can discuss phrasing at our leisure.  My first job is to see that you can play these notes
correctly and with the same good fingering each time you approach this
piece."

It is natural that, following Lynnwood Farnam's first steps,
Carl Weinrich's tireless zeal to perfect the technique of organ playing led
him, as it had led Bach before him, to a careful evaluation of the instrument
itself, to the impact of organ design upon technical and aesthetic
considerations. Determined that musical lines must be clear to the ear,
Weinrich was an early proponent of spare use of the 8' registers, of eliminating
the heavy Diapason stops and of developing a full Rückpositiv division for
proper registration of the music of Bach. Together with G. Donald Harrison of
the Skinner Organ Company, Weinrich toured the organ lofts of Europe in the
summer of 1936 and studied carefully the instruments whose design and sound he
admired. While head of the organ department at Westminster Choir College
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(1934-1940), he designed a Baroque
instrument for his studio, the celebrated "Praetorius Organ"
installed in 1939, one of the first instruments in this country built to
recover the clear tonal capacity and clean sounds necessary to the technical
perfection Weinrich sought.

After taking up his post at Princeton in 1943, Weinrich
began with Harrison a rebuilding of the University's enormous Chapel organ,
disconnecting many of the old, useless stops and adding the bright sounds of a
Baroque instrument.10 In later years, Weinrich collaborated with Walter
Holtkamp, Sr. in pioneering efforts to design organs following Baroque models.
The thirty-four stop, three-manual Holtkamp organ at General Theological
Seminary in New York, completed in October, 1958, is a monument to their
labors.11  Weinrich proudly used
this instrument for all of his later recordings with RCA Victor.

Improved technical articulation and improved organ sound
generated new possibilities for interpretation. Both inspired and enabled by
new instruments, Carl Weinrich began to play Bach's works at a far greater
speed than had been the custom. One need only compare Weinrich's early
recordings of Bach with those of Albert Schweitzer, a formidable Bach scholar
but a technically mediocre performer, to understand the very pleasing aesthetic
implications of superior technique, clear sounds and brisk tempi. Throughout
his life, Weinrich remained keenly interested in the relationship between tempo
and music's aesthetic effect. He checked himself regularly with a metronome to
ensure an accurate rhythmic rendering of each passage. He was forever warning
of the danger of rushing the sixteenth notes, even when playing with the
metronome. The margins of Weinrich's music, particularly his Bach scores,
contained a fascinating record of the diverse organs upon which he had
performed and recorded, and the tempi appropriate to each.
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But the happy marriage of superior
technique and intelligent organ design gave birth to unexpected musical
problems, unanticipated artistic discoveries.

In 1959, Carl Weinrich dedicated a new Holtkamp organ for
the First Presbyterian Church, now Nassau Presbyterian, in Princeton. Conceived
as an instrument similar to the organ at General Theological Seminary in New
York, the Princeton Holkamp included a complete Rückpositiv division,
three manuals and twenty-nine stops.12 Organist of the church for forty years,
Mary Krimmel was also Weinrich's brilliant student from his earliest days of
teaching, and she was determined that her congregation should enjoy the fruits
of Weinrich's research into organ design. But upon completion of the organ, a
problem which neither Weinrich nor Mrs. Krimmel foresaw quickly began to
manifest itself. Unlike the New York organ, First Presbyterian's instrument is
housed in an acoustically challenged space. Because First Presbyterian stands
approximately 150 yards from the Princeton Chapel, with its immense Aeolian
Skinner and endless echoes, the several organists who often performed on both
instruments experienced a technical, then aesthetic dichotomy. Detached, crisp
playing necessary for musical clarity in the cavernous chapel produced a
crumbly, thin, and altogether uninteresting effect in the church; stately tempi
suited to the chapel's great masses of sound became tediously slow in the
church. Each setting was an exaggerated circumstance: few rooms could be as
acoustically alive as the Princeton Chapel or as tonally unresponsive as the
First Presbyterian Church.

Efforts to find a technical solution to the aesthetic
dilemma surrounding these two fine organs led Carl Weinrich and Mary Krimmel to
undertake a search for improved articulation, an approach which would finally
produce aesthetically pleasing music in both the chapel and church. For
Weinrich, the subject was not a new one. Questions of how to achieve the best
articulation of a musical line began during his days under Farnam. Carl
Weinrich the student marvelled at his teacher's ability to play a legato line
as though there were tiny spaces of air between each note.13 In later years,
Weinrich often commented to his own students that he learned from Farnam the
secret of how to execute a singing legato without loss of definition and
clarity. Under no circumstances was the listener to sense a staccato touch.

The problem of fitting articulation to the instrument and to
its environment remained a matter of great interest to both Carl Weinrich and
Mary Krimmel to the end of their professional lives. It was my great good fortune
to be the student of both Weinrich and Krimmel and to prepare for many years a
weekly lesson on each instrument. What they learned and I absorbed from this
experience proved the most exciting and complete instruction possible in organ
articulation. Their endless discussions of articulation, of technical
exactitude, of how to execute the notes, would not have been novel in piano
pedagogy. For organ study, it was revolutionary. The following principles
slowly emerged.

First, neither strict legato nor detached, non-legato
playing satisfied the listener in either setting.  On both organs, a sensible alternation between detaching and
connecting notes produced the best effect.  Second, step-motion generally required a legato line, while
skips could be detached.  In the
church, the slightest change from a legato to a detached line produced an
immediate effect; in the chapel, only very pronounced, exaggerated articulation
reached the listener's ear. What in the chapel seemed to the performer a
slightly detached articulation became a singing legato as the sound moved out
to fill the nave. Finally, and most important, the same piece had to be
executed very differently on each organ. In the chapel, Bach's heroic Toccata
in F major had to be played at a tempo deliberate enough to allow an
appreciation of the work's massive chords punctuated by octave leaps and
cadenzas in the pedal. In the church, the Toccata had to move at much brisker
pace; sections following the second pedal cadenza unfolded most effectively if
the organist conceived of one beat, not three, to a measure.

Handel concerti proved to be the most difficult works of all
to tackle. In the chapel, a clearly detached line in all parts produced an
exciting interpretation; in the church, one had to cultivate a very slight
detachment, an articulation midway between staccato and legato, one which
obliged the organist to remain precariously perched on the edge of the keys.
Carl Weinrich, having thoroughly adjusted to the very live acoustics of the
Princeton Chapel, continued to employ a crisp, detached articulation; Mary
Krimmel, confronted with the dry environment, moved to a firm, legato style
made vital by a careful detaching of skips. The lesson is a clear one:
organists must approach each instrument, able to make even radical adjustments
in articulation to suit the organ's setting.

Legacy 2: Components and Uses of Repertoire

As he carried forward Lynnwood Farnam's technical legacy,
Carl Weinrich, like Farnam before him, exercised a formidable influence upon an
entire generation's notion of worthy repertoire for a superior organist.
Weinrich's clearest statement concerning organ literature came in 1950-51, when
Harvard University named him the Lamb Visiting Lecturer in Music, an honor
previously accorded Gustav Holst, Béla Bartók, and Aaron Copland.
For the first time, this prestigious post went to a performer, and the
compositions Weinrich chose for his series of eight recitals form what might be
called the Great Works for the organ.14 Weinrich's Apollonian tastes are never
more apparent: not one single work chosen for the eight recitals comes from the
nineteenth century.

It is here that the history of organ playing records an
accident, an irony, and an amusing juxtaposition. At the same time the
Apollonian Carl Weinrich was playing the eight Lamb recitals in Harvard's
Memorial Church, E. Power Biggs was continuing his custom, begun in the 1940s,
of broadcasting organ recitals from Boston's Symphony hall and Harvard's
Busch-Reisinger Museum. It would be an exaggeration to assert that these two
famous pioneers in organ study and building shared no common ground. As is
well-known, Biggs, like Weinrich, collaborated in the 1930s with his fellow
English ex-patriot, G. Donald Harrison, in the design and building of tonally
improved organs.  Biggs supervised,
in 1937, the construction of one of Harrison's early instruments, an organ for
Busch Reisinger Museum much like the "Praetorius Organ" Harrison
installed at Westminster Choir College for Weinrich. It is this instrument
which Biggs used for his famous broadcasts which began in 1942.15

Operating independent of both church and school, however,
Biggs's turf lay in the concert hall. Sensitive to that environment, he
cultivated a Dionysiac's taste and repertoire unlike Carl Weinrich's chosen
restraint. His programs, which contended with Weinrich's for announcement space
in the Harvard University Gazette of 1950-51, did include Bach, but also a
heavy offering of nineteenth-century music: Franck, Strauss, Schumann, and the
twentieth-century warhorse, Alain's Litanies. Biggs's Dionysiac programming was
conceived to make organ music accessible to untrained listeners, and to widen
organ repertoire to include all manner of popular and classical works.
Weinrich's Apollonian attitude gave no thought to popular taste or preference.
He was delighted with the environment which Princeton's chapel provided for his
recitals: absolute silence before the music began, and no applause at its
conclusion.

Among those Bach chorale preludes Weinrich played most often
were, from the Eighteen Organ Chorales, "O Lamm Gottes"; the
celebrated, double pedal composition on "An Wasserflüssen
Babylon"; and from the third part of the Klavierübung, a spectacular
little fugue, "Dies sind die heilgen zehn Gebot," and Bach's only
six-voice composition which has come down to us for the organ, "Aus tiefer
Not."

Perhaps the double pedal lines of "Aus tiefer Not"
and "An Wasserflüssen Babylon" appealed to Weinrich.
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Only an organist of superlative
technical accomplishment can handle these complex pedal parts, and at the same
time convey the sadness and deep feelings which pervade each piece. And his
playing of much smaller works reliably captured the same mystical quality of
more extended compositions; from the Orgelbüchlein, he often chose for a
recital's encore "In dir ist Freude," "In dulci jubilo" and
"Herr Gott, nun schleuss den Himmel auf"; each in his hands became a
small, flawless jewel.

Of Bach's great preludes and fugues, Weinrich played often
the Fugue in E-flat major ("St. Anne"), the Toccata and Fugue in F
major, the extremely popular Toccata and Fugue in D minor, the Prelude and
Fugue in A minor, the Fantasie and Fugue in G minor, the Toccata, Adagio and
Fugue in C major, the Passacaglia and Fugue in C minor, the Toccata and Fugue
in D minor (the "Dorian"), the Fantasie in G major, the Prelude and
Fugue in B minor, the Prelude and Fugue in G major and, curiously, the
strangely hybrid Pastorale in F. His playing of both the pedal and manual
ornaments in Bach's Toccata in F, the piece which for Mendelssohn "brought
down the roof of the church,"16 and his introduction of complex
ornamentation in Bach's subject for the Fugue in F major, perfectly executed
each time the subject appears, were spectacular examples of his technical
prowess.

Another of his favorites was the Concerto in A minor, Bach's
arrangement for organ of Vivaldi's double concerto for two violins.
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Weinrich performed the spare,
ravishingly beautiful middle movement at a very gentle, meditative pace,
employing a mournful reed for the solo passages, and then fell suddenly,
unexpectedly, with piercingly bright sounds upon the descending scale passages
which open the last movement. His breathlessly exciting tempo of this final
movement, notes spectacularly detached and perfectly articulated, formed a
thrilling contrast to the middle movement's careful legato touch and languid
mood. In addition, for the last movement of the concerto, Weinrich exploited
his talent for innovative registrations and the Princeton organ's resources,
employing two divisions located on opposite sides of the chancel; the result
accentuated the dazzling series of echoes and imitations for which Vivaldi's
music is famous, all played at a speed which no organist could match.

Weinrich regularly included movements from Bach's Trio
Sonatas in chapel services and on recital programs, and described playing these
most difficult of all pieces for the organ as "walking on eggs for twenty
minutes." He was, moreover, wonderfully inventive in selecting music for
the special needs of a university community. For the long academic processions
at all official university functions in the chapel, Weinrich chose, rather than
insipid voluntaries or marches, Bach's elaborately extended chorales and
chorale preludes on "Komm, heiliger Geist," from the Eighteen Organ
Chorales, and "Kyrie, Gott Vater in Ewigkeit" and "Kyrie, Gott
heiliger Geist," from the third part of the Klavierübung. Weinrich's
choice of Bach's most ornate four-part chorales for processionals at university
functions meant filling the chapel's nave with what are perhaps music's most
majestic chords, most ordered voices. It is hard to imagine a more perfect
blend of reason, sensual splendor, and art: the four musical lines moving
flawlessly toward their cadences as scholars of all ages and academic colors
process ponderously by.

While his primary interest and preference always lay with
the music of J.S. Bach, Carl Weinrich often commented that his favorite piece,
one which he played in public at least once each year, was Buxtehude's chorale
prelude on Wie schön leuchtet der Morgenstern!  And Weinrich's unbending fidelity to the score did not imply
monochromatic or uninteresting choices of registration. His daring, unexpected
use of reeds in Buxtehude's Wie schön leuchtet, preserved in a recording
made on the Holtkamp at General Theological Seminary, is a truly ingenious
interpretation of a masterpiece. He frequently performed Sweelinck's echo
fantasies and variations on Mein junges Leben hat ein End', Cabezón's
Diferencias sobre el canto del caballero, the preludes and fugues of Buxtehude
and Bruhns, Lübeck's Prelude and Fugue in E major, Noël #10 from
Daquin's book of twelve noëls. He recorded the Handel organ concertos,
Mozart church sonatas, and the Haydn organ concerto with Arthur Fiedler and the
Boston Pops orchestra. In addition, Weinrich released recordings of Baroque
Christmas music and organ music of the Bach family.

Although not as a group his favorite works, a few pieces
from Romantic composers appeared each year on his programs and among his
recordings; reviewers and concert goers frequently commented that it was
surprising to hear the organist famous for definitive renditions of Bach bring
such precision and sensitivity to later works.17 He played Mendelssohn's Sonata
I, Franck's Pièce Héroïque, and Brahms's chorale preludes
and Fugue in A-flat minor. The modern period received his enthusiastic study,
especially Hindemith's First Sonata for organ, Messiaen's Dieu Parmi Nous, and
Marcel Dupré's Cortège et Litanie, copied down when Weinrich was
a student of the great Frenchman. And Weinrich was very proud to have offered
the first public performance of Schoenberg's "Variations on a Recitativ,"
op. 40, a work which he edited for publication.

Weinrich's improvisations, or, rather, what we might call
Weinrich's theory of improvisation, deserve special mention. No Princeton
student interested in music could ever forget Carl Weinrich's spectacular
modulations and improvisations spun out between the organ's offertory and the
congregation's singing of the Doxology which followed.
style="mso-spacerun: yes"> 
Retaining the theme from his offertory
piece, Weinrich slipped adroitly through a succession of keys, adding ranks of
pipes with each phrase. Three special pieces reveal how he planned his
modulations or "improvisations," for in truth, Carl Weinrich was too
much a student of the classical principles of form, too Apollonian, to attempt
an unplanned or uncharted improvisation. 

The last movement of Mendelssohn's first organ sonata and
Bach's "St. Anne" fugue, two master works he especially favored for
offertories at Princeton, possess unmistakable, famous musical tropes which he
used to begin the improvisation and to establish its structure. The thundering
arpeggios of Mendelssohn's finale to his first sonata, the "St. Anne"
theme and the subject of the third movement's fugue--each became the germ for
an improvisation.  If the offertory
happened to include an anthem or composition by Mozart, Weinrich quoted the
great chords, dissonances, and dotted rhythms of Mozart's Fantasie in F minor,
K. 608.   Listeners awaited
the inevitable, climactic arrival of the dominant seventh chord, and then the
resolution in G major on which note the singing began. Because Weinrich never
played a preparatory phrase from the Doxology, one was obliged to listen
intently as the downbeat of an emerging tonic chord drew nearer and nearer.
Organists who must provide an improvisational bridge between an anthem and
doxology would do well to remember Weinrich's secret.  One should choose a theme or motif of the piece just
completed, and make that theme or motif the unifying idea of improvisation.

Legacy 3: Aesthetic Sensibility and a Life in Music

Carl Weinrich's third great legacy to organ study and
performance evolved from his decision, taken early in his career, to invest his
energy and effort in only those works he considered the very best compositions
for the organ. Having little patience with Romantic warhorses which merely
exploit the organ's capacity to sustain loud, rushing noise, Weinrich
withstood, in Apollonian fashion like Bach before him, many years of censure
from mediocre musicians and critics who felt him excessively inflexible,
narrow, and rigid in his adherence to Bach.

But Carl Weinrich's early recognition of those compositions
of greatest artistic value, and his fidelity to their study and performance,
widened his place in musical history from that of master performer to master
teacher. His dual authority, first over organ music's technical, then its
aesthetic, dimensions pointed students' interest and organists' labors toward
those composers and compositions capable of capturing one's imagination
forever. His life's work answers not only the question of how to realize the
full beauty of organ literature, but which portions of that literature merit
first, our endless technical effort to play accurately, and then, a lifetime of
sensitivity and reflection to interpret.

Perhaps because as a weekly performer for the Princeton
community, Carl Weinrich had to reclaim and defend his mastery of the organ
each time he sat down at the console, he retained throughout his professional
life both a student's wonder at the act of playing and a student's uneasiness
before the demands of the art. One could say without fear of overstatement that
Carl Weinrich remained, forever, frightfully respectful of the perils of
performance. It is not possible to over-practice great music or to arrive at a
definitive interpretation of its beauty, he liked to observe, nor does one ever
tire of returning "to polish once again an exquisite diamond."

As a teacher, 
Weinrich set before his students a three-pronged challenge which he
himself had answered: to identify within one's self a passionate devotion to
one field of inquiry and to remain forever its restless student; to train
discriminating eyes and ears to direct the efforts of imperfect hands and feet;
to recognize that mastery of a discipline is achieved only when one understands
that it is in the details of construction, in the skeleton, that all great art
is made. The process of intense scrutiny required to master a work's skeleton
teaches us that all art is not equal, all compositions not of a quality to
command one's study for life.

It is not surprise, finally, to discover that in his thirty
years at Princeton University's center, Weinrich's approach to the study of
music practiced the fundamental principles of a liberal arts college.
Princeton's president Robert F. Goheen, in his address to the Freshman Class at
Opening Exercises in the fall of 1965, insisted that a liberal education is not
merely to prepare one to earn a living, but also to open the mind to a field of
inquiry, a body of knowledge or learning capable of engaging the spirit and
intellect throughout life. In order to realize any of the great ends of
education, students must give themselves to a discipline, an intellectual and
artistic task which will command their life's attention, effort, and passion.

In music, a regrettable emphasis, often encouraged by
teachers, upon pursuing "what hasn't been done" occasionally leads
students to invest their time and talent in works or ideas too shallow for
repeated scrutiny, too jejune to sustain a mature spirit. By stating
unequivocally that organists should look to Bach, that the Master's greatest
works require a lifetime to execute and to interpret, that a life spent with
J.S. Bach is a life well spent, Weinrich's legacy can still spare all who will
listen from the sa

Interpretive Suggestions for Modern Czech Organ Works, Part 1

by Earl Holt
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Earl Holt is a graduate of Elon College, the University of Michigan, and Arizona State University, where he recently completed the D.M.A. degree in organ performance with Robert Clark. Dr. Holt served on the music faculty of San Jacinto College North in Houston from 1982-90, and is currently a full-time Visiting Assistant Professor of Music Theory at ASU. His article, "Interpretive Suggestions for Four American Organ Works," appeared in the August and September 1995 issues of The Diapason; and his article, "Interpretive Suggestions for Modern Swedish Organ Works," appeared in the January and February 1996 issues of The Diapason.

Subjugated by the Soviet Union after World War II, Czechoslovakia became a socialist state in 1948; Czech arts organizations were systematically dismantled by the Communist government. Music was subject to the Doctrine of Socialist Realism, whose tenets dictated socialist content and readily comprehensible language, to achieve the ideological goals of the government. Late Romantic and folk styles were encouraged; Western avant-garde styles were deemed morally decadent. In addition, the atheistic stance of the Czech government made artistic association with the Church a liability, as summarized in The New Grove: "Along with the musical societies and their network, the function of church music in the life of society was destroyed."4

Despite the restrictions, Czech composers sought renewed international contact in the early 1960s, and were allowed to attend international music festivals. Active organ composers of this period were Petr Eben, Karel Janecek, Miloslav Kabelác, Otmar Mácha, Karel Reiner, Klement Slavicky, and Milos Sokola. The Czech government, reflecting the Soviet Union's relaxation in the enforcement of the socialist realism doctrine, began to encourage the composition of contemporary organ music by providing state subsidies, encouraging composition and interpretation competitions, and allowing international publication and dissemination of the most successful works. Nevertheless, the official atheism of the communist party government undoubtedly influenced the composition of secular organ compositions by its continuing authority to prevent publication of liturgical works. Historian Marilou Kratzenstein writes:

With the exception of Eben, none of these [composers] has written extensively for the organ, but each has written at least one or two very fine works. All of them, excepting Kabelác, have relied heavily on folk melodies and rhythms and have worked in a style which is an outgrowth of post-Romanticism. In general, Czech organ compositions are meant for concert, not liturgical, use. They are often virtuoso pieces, often symphonic, and can best be realized on an organ which is able to accommodate Romantic literature.5

Since the end of the Soviet Union's domination of eastern Europe in the late 1980s, and the Soviet Union's subsequent disintegration in 1991, Czechoslovakia has separated into two autonomous regions, the Czech Republic and Slovakia, in 1993.

An important outlet for international distribution of Czech organ works during the last two decades has been Panton's series, Nuove Composizioni per Organo, a six-volume set of contemporary organ works. The pieces included in the set were all prize-winning compositions at the annual Prague Spring International Music Festival.6 Of the four Czech works selected for this article, three are published in the sixth volume of Nuove Composizioni.

 Editors of the fourth, fifth, and sixth volumes stated Panton's editorial policy toward registration data in the respective prefaces. The editor of the fourth volume, Alena Veselá, writes:

In revising this miscellany I first of all respected the registration data of the composers. As far as an author has not written his composition with a completely real conception of sound, I thought it right to leave inventive freedom to the interpreter and not to add registration suggestions of my own.7

Otomar Kvech, the composer of Prazské Panorama, one of the selected works in this article, served as editor of the fifth volume of Nuove Composizioni. In its preface, he writes:

All these compositions require a modern instrument with rich possibilities of registration. Their scores contain only such registration data that have been mentioned in the authors' manuscripts. An interpreter may use all his creative freedom in application [of] the rich scale of colour possibilities of [the] organ.8

In volume six, editor Václav Rabas comments further on registration, and the desired instrument:

Having revised the particular works I therefore respected composers' datas [sic] of manuals and registration that however are mostly general. For this reason it is above all the task of every interpreter to register and interpret the work in a creative way, according to his possibilities and possibilities of particular instrument. As far as an indication of manuals is mentioned, the organ under discussion is a three-manual instrument, the type most common today.

I. manual--great organ

II. manual--choir organ

III. manual--swell organ9

This article surveys four selected secular organ works by modern Czech composers and compiles relevant performance information in an attempt to make the compositions more comprehensible and accessible to recitalists, teachers, and students.

Fantasia by Jozka Matej

Background

Jozka Matej, born in Brusperk, Moravia in 1922, had his first music studies with Frantisek Míta Hradil in Ostrava at the Masaryk Institute of Music and Singing. He then studied organ with J.B. Krajs and composition with Emil Hlobil and Zdenek Hula at the Prague Conservatory from 1942 to 1947. Further composition study was with Jaroslav Rídky at the Prague Academy of Musical Arts from 1947 to 1951. He taught courses in music for drama students at the academy from 1952 to 1954, but retired from teaching to become a full-time composer.10

Matej has composed two symphonies, orchestral and chamber works, a fully orchestrated cantata, and widely known educational music for winds. His composition is heavily influenced by Moravian folk music of his native Lach region. Liner notes to a recording of the Concerto for Trumpet, French Horn, and Trombone describe Matej as "experienced in all types of music, with a firm, definitely established niche in Czech music."11

Besides the work selected for this article, Fantasia (Fantasy), no other organ works of Matej were found. The premiere of Fantasia took place at the Prague Spring International Music Festival in 1984.12

Structure

Mid-twentieth-century Czech composers often used the names of traditional polyphonic forms, including the chaconne, toccata, and fantasy, as carriages for their works.13 Such titles usually bear only a superficial relation to formal structure, however, and might have been arbitrarily selected for their ability to earn government imprimaturs as secular works appropriate for publication.

Fantasia exhibits a modern harmonic idiom, as other arbitrarily titled modern Czech works do. The work is comprised of five continuous sections, delineated by rhythm, tempo, and dynamic changes. The main rhythmic figure in sections 1, 3, and 5 contains continuous, four-voice triplets. Sections 2 and 4 have simple beats, primarily, although a few supertriplets occur in section 4. Passages at the ends of sections 2 and 4 are related motivically, but the two sections begin differently: section 2 begins contrapuntally, with two rhythmically imitative voices, whereas section 4 (religioso) begins as a four-voice, atonal chorale.

Matej uses simple meter, despite the extended sections of triplets that could be more easily scored in compound meter. Sections 1, 3, and 5 are in 2/2 meter, except for a few measures of 3/2 and 4/2 in sections 1 and 5. Sections 2 and 4 are in 4/4 meter, except for two measures of 5/4 in section 4.

Tempo changes also occur between sections. Sections 1, 3, and 5 are fast, and sections 2 and 4 are comparatively slower. Within each section, however, the tempo does vary slightly. Sharp dynamic changes occur between sections, except between sections 2 and 3, where the change is from pp to p. Table 1 is a structural outline of the piece.

Registration

The score is marked for a three-manual organ, although a two-manual instrument is adequate. The manual compass is Eb to f''', and the pedal compass is C# to c', so the work is accessible on virtually any instrument. Expressive divisions are not required. The frequent dynamic changes can be made by an adjustable combination action or with the help of a console assistant. The numerous stop changes make it difficult for the performer to handle registration and maintain continuity at the same time.

The score names only one specific stop--a 16' Pedal Bombarde in m. 35. All other registration changes are indicated by numerous dynamic markings that range from ppp to fff, a practice that permits the performer considerable freedom in stop selection. Table 2 presents registration suggestions based on the dynamic markings indicated for each manual in the score.

Interpretation

The most difficult interpretive challenge in Fantasia is to accommodate the constant rhythmic change that creates the molto drammatico character of the work. Changes in tempo, for example, occur thirty-eight times. Most of the changes in tempo within each of the five main sections are small, subito adjustments of four to six beats per minute. Larger tempo changes occur between the five main sections. A note at the beginning of the score addresses tempo: "Resulting tempo will be dependent on possibilities of particular instruments. Only the quick passages can be slowed down, however by not more than 4 speeds of [the] metronome."14 Exactly what constitutes a "quick passage" is unclear, but the fastest tempos occur in the first, third, and fifth sections of the work (mm. 1-47, 94-143, and 177-235).

Besides changing tempo frequently, Matej uses arrows of varying lengths to indicate gradual accelerandos ( ----------> ) and gradual ritardandos ( <---------- ). While the use of such arrows is not unique, they occur ubiquitously, effectively eliminating the perception of a regular pulse in many passages. Besides the ritardando arrows, allargando and ritardando markings occur at the ends of many phrases. Although distorted by the various compositional techniques presented above, the rhythmic pulse should reflect the composer's choice of meter: the half note gets the beat in sections 1, 3, and 5, and the quarter note gets the beat in sections 2 and 4, as shown in Table 1.

Matej precisely marks articulation, too. Slurs indicate phrasing, and accents (agogic and dynamic) are used liberally. Staccato articulation is not marked anywhere in the score, although some passages must be played detached, either for acoustic clarity or because of fingering in dense textures. Traditional Italian terms are used at tempo changes and might also suggest the character of the articulation--sostenuto, amabile, giocoso, agitato, pesante, leggierissimo, and marcato, for example.

Optional cuts, or vide passages, occur at mm. 42, 62-93, and 218. The cuts at mm. 42 and 218 are, in each case, a single chord held for four beats. Although the long chords serve as cadences, their omission creates a heightened dramatic effect, and those two cuts are recommended. The long optional cut in mm. 62-93, however, would reduce the second section of the work from forty-six to only fourteen measures, leaving it significantly shorter than, and thus out of balance with, the other four sections. Such a large cut is recommended only if time considerations are paramount.

No commercial recordings of Fantasia were found. The performance time is nine minutes and thirty seconds, if no optional cuts are made.

Improvviso by Jirí Dvorácek

Background

Jirí Dvorácek was born in 1928 in Vamberk, eastern Bohemia. He studied organ at the Prague Conservatory from 1943 to 1947. After graduation, and two years as an organist and music teacher, he began studies in composition with Jaroslav Rídky and Václav Dobiás at the Prague Academy of Musical Arts from 1949 to 1953. In 1953 Dvorácek was appointed as a professor of composition at the academy, and he became head of the composition department in 1979. The Czech government named him an Artist of Merit in 1983. He also served as president of the Union of Czech Composers and Concert Artists from 1987 to 1989.15

Dvorácek has composed a large number of works for orchestra, chamber ensemble, piano, and voice. His vocal works often have patriotic or political themes. For example, Male Choirs, sung often at Czech public concerts, was composed in 1955 for the tenth-anniversary celebration of the World War II liberation of Czechoslovakia. Another work, From the Diary of a Prisoner (1960) for mixed choir, is set to Vietnamese poems by Ho Chi Minh.16 The chamber music and instrumental music form the largest body of Dvorácek's works. Although his compositions require modern performance techniques, most are tonally based; even his dodecaphonic compositions are constructed to avoid atonality.17

Besides the work selected for this article, Improvviso (1982), Dvorácek has composed a Sonata for Organ (1979), performed at the Prague Spring International Music Festival in 1980, and Violin and Organ Play (1984). The premiere of Improvviso took place in the Prague Rudolfinum by organist Milan Slechta on March 19, 1983.18

Structure

Improvviso (Improvisation), as the title suggests, is a free work. Dvorácek writes: "By the title Improvviso I wanted to express spontaneity of the music development and non-complicated image in accordance with the thematic material."19 The work, which lacks an identifiable formal structure, has four continuous sections that are delineated by tempo changes. Structural unity is primarily created by rhythm--the use of a constant metronomic pulse of eighty beats per minute--and by repetition of specific compositional techniques (gradually piling up notes into clusters, or the extensive use of trio texture, for example).

Compound meter occurs throughout the work--all 6/8, except for four measures of 9/8 (mm. 145 and 187-89). The basic pulse of eighty beats per minute applies to the dotted quarter note in sections 1 and 3, and to the dotted half note in sections 2 and 4. The tempo therefore doubles in sections 2 and 4, but nevertheless retains the basic pulse. There is no discernible tonal center in the work. Large chords are often based on intervals of a perfect fourth, perfect fifth, or tritone. Table 3 is a structural outline of the work.

Registration

Improvviso is written for a three-manual instrument, labeled I--Great, II--Choir, and III--Swell, although it can be played on two manuals, if quick stop changes are made. The manual compass for the work is C to bb.''' The pitches a''' and bb.''' occur only in the right-hand part in mm. 269-72, however. Those four measures could be played an octave lower, allowing the work to be performed on a 56-key instrument. The pedal compass is C to g', requiring a 32-note pedal clavier. The highest pedal note, g', only occurs in m. 315, but there does not appear to be an acceptable way to alter the pedal part to eliminate the g'.

No expression pedal markings occur in the score. The performer or a console assistant can make all stop changes; an assistant would be especially helpful if no adjustable combination action is available. The score lists no specific stops or traditional ensemble registrations. Stop changes are primarily indicated by numerous dynamic markings that range from pp to ff. Occasionally, though, an organ stop pitch designation is given. Table 4 presents registration suggestions based on organ stop pitch designations and dynamic markings in the score.

Interpretation

The chief interpretive challenge for the performer of Improvviso is to maintain rhythmic pulse and dramatic intensity throughout. During passages with long note-values, constant internal counting of eighth notes will be necessary (mm. 269-81, for example).

Sections 2 and 4 are technically challenging because of trills in the manuals, and occasional pedal trills. All trills in the work begin on the principal note, as indicated by a footnote in the score.20 The pedal solo in mm. 289-318 is marked tutti, but 32' stops should be omitted because of the fast tempo. The long trill at the end of the pedal solo (mm. 319-35) must be played by the right foot, because of the double-pedal part. If the performer cannot sustain the trill, however, the ossia--which has manual and pedal parts, but does not require the extended pedal trill--may be substituted. Pedal trills elsewhere must be played by a single foot, because the pedal part is so active and the feet are so far apart.

Not only do the bar lines in Improvviso serve as an organizational convenience but they also imply regular rhythmic accents on strong beats. Phrasing is meticulously indicated by slurs. Staccato dots (pp. 6, 8, 12, and 15) and agogic accents (pp. 5, 7, and 8) indicate articulation. The term pesante occurs in mm. 73, 288, and 385; besides emphasis on each note, Dvorácek also uses the term to imply a ritardando, since the following measures are marked a tempo.

Dynamic changes occur often and are carefully marked. The final dynamic marking in the work occurs in m. 282; because this ff dynamic lasts for 119 measures, however, the registration must not be overbearing.

Dvorácek confirms that there are no notation errors in the Panton score. He also writes that Panton produced a live recording of the first performance (stereo 8111 0357).21 The work has a performance time of six minutes.

 

 

Notes

                        1.                  Marilou Kratzenstein, Survey of Organ Literature and Editions (Ames, Iowa: Iowa State University Press, 1980), 164.

                        2.                  Corliss R. Arnold, Organ Literature: A Comprehensive Survey, 2d ed., vol. 1 (Metuchen: Scarecrow Press, 1984), 251.

                        3.                  Felix Aprahamian, brochure notes for Concert Pieces for Organ, Hyperion Records, CDA66265, 2.

                        4.                  Stanley Sadie, ed., The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians (London: Macmillan and Co., 1980), s.v. "Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, §IX, 1: Russian SFSR, Russian art music, (iv) The political background to the Soviet period," by Rita McAllister; Ibid., s.v. "Czechoslovakia, §I, 1: Art Music, Bohemia and Moravia, (v) Since 1945," by Oldrich Pukl.

                        5.                  Kratzenstein, 165.

                        6.                  Václav Rabas, ed., Nuove Composizioni per Organo, vol. 6, trans. Jana Kuhnová (Prague: Panton, 1983), preface.

                        7.                  Alena Veselá, ed., Nuove Composizioni per Organo, vol. 4, trans. Jan Machac (Prague: Panton, 1974), preface, 7.

                        8.                  Otomar Kvech, ed., Nuove Composizioni per Organo, vol. 5, trans. Jana Hanusová (Prague: Panton, 1979), preface, 6.

                        9.                  Rabas, preface.

                        10.              Sadie, s.v. "Matej, Josef;" Cenek Gardavsky, ed., Contemporary Czechoslovak Composers (Prague: Panton, 1965), s.v. "Matej, Josef," by Cenek Gardavsky; Nicolas Slonimsky, ed., Baker's Biographical Dictionary of Musicians, 8th ed. (New York: Schirmer Books, 1992), s.v. "Matej, Josef.

                        11.              Gardavsky, s.v. "Matej, Josef;" Milan Kuna, liner notes to Josef Matoj: Concerto for Trumpet, French Horn, and Trombone, Panton 110456-F.

                        12.              Rabas, preface.

                        13.              Arnold, vol. 1, 251.

                        14.              Josef Matej, Fantasia, ed. Václav Rabas, in Nuove Composizioni per Organo, vol. 6 (Prague: Panton, 1983), 2.

                        15.              Gardavsky, s.v. "Dvorácek, Jirí;" Slonimsky, s.v. "Dvorácek, Jirí."

                        16.              Gardavsky, s.v. "Dvorácek, Jirí."

                        17.              Sadie, s.v. "Dvorácek, Jirí."

                        18.              Jirí Dvorácek, Improvviso, ed. Václav Rabas, in Nuove Composizioni per Organo, vol. 6 (Prague: Panton, 1983); Id., Letter to this writer, November 9, 1993.

                        19.              Dvorácek, Letter to this writer, November 9, 1993.

                        20.              Dvorácek, Improvviso, 4.

                        21.              Dvorácek, Letter to this writer, November 9, 1993.

Brahms' Chorale Preludes

by Joseph Horning
Johannes Brahms

Johannes Brahms, who died 100 years ago on April 3, 1897, composed the final installment of his musical legacy--the Eleven Chorale Preludes, Opus 122 --during the last year of his life. They were written during his summer holiday at Ischl, where Brahms had vacationed annually from 1889. But his final visit was clouded by Clara Schumann's recent death and his own illness, cancer of the liver, which had taken his father twenty-five years earlier and the symptoms of which he likely would have recognized.1

 

When considering Op. 122, it is valid to ask: "Are these works all that special?"--because no composer created an endless string of pearls. Indeed, Peter Williams revealed his reservations in a review in The Organ Quarterly:

[While] the stature of the man makes all his works interesting in some way or another, there is something depressing about this music.  I do not mean merely the death-centered theme of Op. 122 but the general tenor of the musical idioms found here, the kind of organ sound most suitable for them and the weird absence--considering who their composer was--of melodic flare or that dramatic sense of sonority and rhythmic impetus we know from the composer's symphonies.2

As these works are chorale preludes, Mr. Williams' mention of "melodic flare" is peculiar. And his comparison to the "sonority and rhythmic impetus" of Brahms' symphonies is irrelevant, as these are clearly miniatures, each wonderful and satisfying when played in an empathetic manner. But it is perhaps unfortunate that the complete organ works of Johannes Brahms--his four early works dating from 1856-7 and the "Eleven"--fit so conveniently on one CD, for they are becoming the most frequently recorded set of organ works, second only to Boëllmann's ubiquitous Suite Gothique. Unlike the latter, however, Brahms' "Eleven" are a collection rather then a suite, and their effectiveness is diminished when heard all at one sitting. I feel they have far more impact and are more enjoyable inserted one or two at a time into an eclectic program.

Clearly, what can be a small masterpiece in the hands of one can be tedious in the hands of another--and even more so for Op. 122.  For with these works, Brahms has hidden eleven treasures inside a maze. In this essay, we will examine the "Eleven" and discuss ways to make these treasures come alive.

Form of the Chorales

To begin, see Table 1 for a survey of the forms Johannes Brahms used in Op. 122.  In addition to simple harmonized treatments, Brahms embellished some chorales into aria form, extended some with interludes, or used each phrase as a motif for the accompanying parts (Pachelbel style), or surrendered to a free fantasy form in which the original melody is almost totally lost.3

One can see from Table 1 that half are on Passiontide or requiem themes.  But only number 10, based on the "passion" chorale, expresses the depths of the emotions implied by the text: "My heart is ever yearning for blessed death's release." Of those based on other themes, numbers 5 through 8 are warm, lovely and contemplative and number 4 is an outburst of joy. Even O Welt, ich muss dich lassen, the last of the "Eleven" and Brahms' final composition, is a gentle farewell to life. E. Power Biggs summed up these works very well in the Preface to his edition of Op. 122:

Composed in memory of his dearest and most faithful friend, Clara Schumann, at the same time the Preludes are a revealing document of Brahms' thoughts on his own life. One biographer, Niemann, points out that most of the Preludes are: "A retrospect and an epilogue, a salutation to youth and its ideals, and a farewell to this world which is, after all, so fair." Somber as many of the Preludes are, they yet have a warm, autumnal quality that is all Brahms' own.4

Baroque or Romantic?

Since the "Eleven" are cast in the traditional German form of chorale preludes, and since Brahms had applied himself diligently to the rediscovery of early music, in particular Bach with whose music he was quite conversant,5 there is the question of whether the interpretation should reflect performance practice of the late 19th century or early 18th century. The great body of Brahms' compositions show that he was a thoroughly Romantic composer of great power. His Classical inclinations, however, restrained him from some of the delicious excesses of, say, a Tchaikovsky. Brahms' "Eleven" require the performance practice of Brahms' age, not the Baroque. When Villa-Lobos' Bachianas Brasileiras, or Dupré's "Chorale in the Style of J. S. Bach" (Fifteen Antiphons), or Franck's Three Chorales are performed--all of which took their inspiration from Bach --the interpretive style should be that of the composer's age, not the 18th century.  So also with the "Eleven." Robert Schuneman makes a key point when he says:

One should not be deceived by the brevity of the chorale preludes, nor with an initial reaction to the printed page which makes them look like chamber music. Their religious nature, the sacredness, otherworldliness, the transcendental quality--all of this is expressed by Brahms (as in other Romantic music) with grandeur, monumentality, and weightiness in terms of organ sound in acoustic space.6

An initial look at the printed page has misled many an organist to think that the "Eleven" are as easy to play as they are short, but Brahms sophisticated writing often seems to jig where the hand wants to jog. Simply learning the notes is the organist's first task.  But it is remarkable how many organists confide that these works are often poorly played even if the notes are correct.  Indeed, Schuneman decried " . . . the stiff, unyielding, ungraceful and ragged performances which are so often heard . . . "7

A Romantic Framework

For idiomatic interpretations of Brahms' "Eleven," it helps to consider them within the context of the 19th century. Born in 1886 in Belgium, the renowned organ virtuoso Charles M. Courboin provides a link with that sensibility. His pupil, Richard Purvis, discusses Courboin's approach:

Courboin always returned to three elemental principles in the consideration of any piece. First, one had to consider the architecture of the work; second was texture; third was emotional content. The architecture was most important. "Where are the high points," he would ask, "and how are you going to do them justice? Where are the transitional points, at which you leave one mood and go to another?"

If the architecture defined the parameters of the piece, the texture was the actual landscape for which Courboin often used visual imagery as might describe an oil painting, an etching or a watercolor.  At other times he would discuss texture in more strictly musical terms: was it contrapuntal, harmonic, a combination of the two?  And what tools were you going to use to emphasize the texture rather than obscure it.  Once you had the architecture and had done justice to the texture, you could then afford to explore the fine points of the emotions you were trying to communicate.  Courboin constantly asked, "What emotions does the piece involve, conjure up, portray?"8

The Brahms Organ

Brahms did play the organ to some degree in the 1850s when he wrote the four early compositions. But as he was never a professional organist associated with a specific organ, there has been an active debate over the years concerning the ideal Brahms organ sound. For example, registrations recommended by Walter E. Buszin and Paul G. Bunjes reveal their ideal Brahms organ to be a Baroque affair on which one should draw no more than one 8' stop per division.9 The result is far from weight, grandeur and monumentality.

A key year in this discussion is 1833, the year of Brahms' birth and the year in which E. F. Walcker completed his first major achievement, a 3-manual, 74-voice trendsetter for the Paulskirche in Frankfurt.10 The Oberwerk had five 8' flues and the Schwellwerk had six. The structure of the 23-voice Hauptwerk was as follows: 32,16,16,16,8,8,8,8,51/3, 4,4,4,31/5,22/3,2,2,13/5,1,V,IV,V,16,8. Walcker built hundreds of organs based on similar principles throughout the 19th century, including a 3-manual, 61-voice instrument built in 1878 for the Votivkirch in Vienna,11 an organ which was certainly known to Brahms as he had settled permanently in Vienna in 1868.  The Oberwerk of the Votivkirch organ had four 8' flues and the Schwellwerk five. The structure of the 23-voice Hauptwerk is: 16,16,8,8,8,8,8,8,8,51/3, 31/5,4,4,4,22/3,2,2,VI,III,V,16,8,4.12 Franz Ebner, who recorded the "Eleven" on this organ, stated:

The instrument on which Brahms' art can most suitably be realized is not the Baroque organ but that type in which the endeavors of the 19th century to attain a full, warm, immediately arresting tone found fulfillment.13

However, a "Brahms organ" does not have to be huge or even large.  As Max Miller pointed out in his article, "The Brahms Chorale Preludes--Master Lesson," the small instruments in every organ culture aspire to the effects of large instruments and thus clearly indicate the idealized sound of the time.14 He offers this 1869 German stoplist in which 60% of the manual voices are of 8' pitch:

Hauptwerk: 16,8,8,8,4,III

Oberwerk: 8,8,8,4

Pedal: 16,16,8.

For a fuller discussion of organ design in 19th century Germany, see Robert Parkins' series of articles in The Diapason: "Rediscovering the German Romantic Organ" (January, February and March, 1989).

Registrations

Robert Schuneman devoted a full page of his Brahms article to excerpts from Hugo Riemann's Catechism of the Organ, which gives an insight into German organ playing from the period 1845 to 1895. This is most valuable reading for those who play Brahms. One of the key concepts is horizontal registrations.  That is, one first combines a succession of 8' stops--from the softest to the Diapason--to create a bed of unison sound to which one adds the Octave, the 16', the 22/3' Quinte, the reed, the 2' and the Mixture in that order. The manuals are coupled to achieve fuller effects, and "gap" registrations like 8'+2' are to be avoided unless the composer has specified it.15

In "Some Thoughts on the Sound of the Organ," John David Peterson offers valuable insights into the ideal Brahms "sound":

Brahms' orchestrations call for a rich blend of dark colors. His favored instruments were the horn, viola, violoncello and clarinet, and his piano works challenge the player to call forth half- and counter-melodies from the tenor register of thick textures. It is not surprising that his organ works share the same sense of musical color.16

The key word which sums up registrations for Op. 122 is "warmth." Thus it is surprising that Robert Schuneman would have said: "Strings, as we know them today [1972], and especially celestes, are not appropriate."17 German 19th century stoplists had many a Gemshorn, Salizional, Fugara and Viola da Gamba and the celesting stops Unda Maris and Voix Celeste were to be found.  If these sounds were part of the organ culture of Brahms' time, and if one of his favorite orchestral effects was massed cellos and violas, what better way can there be to realize Op. 122 than by including strings in the registrations? The quieter chorales--Nos. 5, 6, 8 and 11--are excellent candidates for a celeste. If one has a broad Violoncello Celeste, it might be just the thing for the pedal cantus in No. 10. And how better to let the final notes of No. 11 O Welt, ich muss dich lassen float up into heaven than with a quiet celeste?

Brahms' Markings

While Brahms didn't indicate registrations, he left dynamic indications which, coupled with the precepts in Riemann's Catechism, may well amount to the same thing (see Table 2).

The dynamic markings and performance indications would seem to be clear enough, with the possible exception of "dolce." In Dynamics in the Music of Johannes Brahms, Imogen Fellinger says that dolce implies a weakening of the given preceding dynamic strength, just as expressivo is an intensification of the predominant dynamic strength.18 This may well be so where the dynamic marking is forte. Thus "forte ma dolce" in numbers 1, 3, and 11 would translate "loud but sweetly" or "loud but not strident." However, it seems a bit of a stretch to say that "dolce" in numbers 5 and 8 actually implies a dynamic slightly softer than the indicated "piano." It probably calls for a "sweet" or "gentle" interpretation and has nothing to do with dynamics. In support of this, note that only numbers 2, 7, 9 and 10 are without the "dolce." What is different about them from the rest? Both 2 and 9 are sturdy and forthright (the latter remarkably so), number 7 is a combination of urgency and melancholy, and number 10 is characterized by great pathos.

Tempo

In preparing this article, I studied fourteen organ recordings of Op. 122 and two of the Busoni piano transcriptions of Nos. 4-5 and 8-11. The range of tempi is remarkable. The slowest interpretations of the complete "Eleven" take 42 minutes whereas the fastest last but 21 minutes--half as long, or twice as fast.  The median19 duration was 321/2 minutes. See Table 3.

It is easier and clearer to discuss the tempos of these works, which as Romantic works are subject to considerable rubato, using the duration of the piece rather than metronome indications. The player who wishes to play Brahms musically would be well advised to avoid the extremes of tempo. Speeding through these works with the fastest tempos renders them meaningless and trite, but performances with the slowest tempos lacked energy and were often boring and stultifying. I found it of passing personal interest that the tempos at which I play these pieces are, in most cases, pretty close to the median. These median durations would seem to be a good starting place for those attempting to discover the ideal tempos.

Rubato

In his essay, "Playing Around With Tempo," Robert Schuneman describes tempo rubato:

Most music is mechanical without it in some form. On the other hand, the same music may turn into a caricature of its own intent and content with too much of it poorly applied. It is the most difficult of all musical terms to describe in words, and it takes an extremely sensitive player to use it well.20

As rubato is so difficult to describe in words, I would recommend Arthur Rubenstein's renditions of the Chopin Nocturnes as a most exquisite example of rubato in 19th century music.21

One might divide music into two types: objective and subjective. With objective music, of which Brahms' early a-minor and g-minor Prelude and Fugue are two good examples, if you play all the notes in a reasonably steady tempo, you achieve 80% of the composer's intent.  With subjective music, of which the "Eleven" are an excellent example, if you simply play all the notes in a reasonably steady tempo you realize absolutely none of the musical content the composer put into the work. The worst performances (with the notes played correctly) one will ever hear of Op. 122 are those in which, to paraphrase the popular song, "the beat goes on."

Schuneman makes an excellent point which is quite relevant to Op.122:

With the emergence after 1830 of free forms, program music, salon music, and the seeking out of emotional content over form, declamatory expression (free tempo rubato) became much more indispensable to good performance.  Furthermore, as the 19th  century progressed, tempo rubato became increasingly tied to dynamics. Accelerando means crescendo and vice-versa; ritardando means diminuendo and vice-versa.22

The most important performance points here are that in Op. 122, the beat itself is modified, which is a considerably further modification of tempo than the 18th century notion of rubato, where the melody in the right hand was subject to rubato but the beat in the left hand was not.23

Chorale No. 5, Schmücke dich, provides a clear illustration of the above points. Consider Figure 1, which is a harmonization of the chorale, as it would be sung. The added crescendo and decrescendo markings--not to be overdone, of course--simply indicate what any good choir would do intuitively. This music, all music, for that matter, is meant to be performed expressively. So apply this dynamic pattern to Brahms' realization of the chorale in Figure 2 (expression marks added to the Henle edition). If played on the Swell 8' flues, subtle opening and closing of the swell box is no problem. Per the above discussion of rubato, a subtle accelerando would accompany the crescendo and a ritardando comes with the diminuendo. One might alternatively describe this as a slight increase and decrease in intensity. Then there is the syncopated rhythmic pattern in the left hand which Brahms notated as shown in Figure 3, the way George Bozarth would have preferred to notate it in the Henle edition.24 Then there are the delicious dissonances, Brahms beloved major seconds, which Samuel Swartz always said "Brahms put there to linger over." And finally, there are the notes here and there to which, in expressive playing, one gives agogic accents. Integrate all of this into a performance and one has a small masterpiece. Play it straight on through ignoring these factors, on the other hand, and one has a very trite rendition.

Another excellent example of the necessity for rubato is in Chorale No, 11, O Welt, ich muss dich lassen. The structure of the work has a forte section followed by a piano section followed by a pianissimo section--which is repeated six times. Whether Brahms is simply using a series of echos or is referring to the vigor of youth, the mellowness of middle age and the weakness of old age we cannot know. But all of the pianissimo sections need to end with a ritard and a pronounced pause before beginning the next forte section. It is truly amazing that many play this work as if a metronome were clicking inside their heads, rushing past the pianissimo to get at that forte just in the nick of time. See Figure 4 for the interpretation marks I would suggest, and heed Max Miller's advice:

The variables of building and organ will dictate how much time is to be allowed and how freely the echoes should be taken. The non-harmonic tones require spaciousness and breadth in performance.  Time, for Brahms, has with this last composition ceased its hurry and its very meaning.25

Yet another reason for rubato is to give meaning to one of Brahms' favorite rhetorical gestures, the sigh motiv.  Consider the first four bars of O Gott, du frommer Gott (Figure 5), where the sigh motives are indicated by a bracket.  They are descending in mm. 2-3 and inverted in mm. 4-5.  Played in a metronomical tempo, these gestures are as musical as the regular clicks and whirs of factory machinery.  Played with a slight relaxation of tempo, they define the essence of Op. 122.

Indicated Phrasing

In addition to the dynamic and tempo markings, Brahms indicates a wealth of phrasing. Consider the first four bars of No. 1 in Figure 6. Brahms clearly and deliberately sets out a phrasing pattern which leaves little doubt of his intentions. In No. 3, however, there may be some question about the two-note slurs (see Figure 7). Some organists misinterpret these slurs as phrasing marks, and play the two eighth note figures as an eighth and a sixteenth, with a sixteenth rest before the next group begins. This misguided approach gives a jerky, frenetic sound which is the antithesis of the feeling of the chorale, O Welt, ich muss dich lassen. What Brahms meant by these markings was to give a slight stress to the first note of the groupings of two eighth notes. If strings played this piece, there would be the slightest, almost infinitesimal, pause in the sound as the bows changed direction between the eighth-note groupings. And this is precisely how it should be played on the organ.

It is in the very pianistic No. 4 that the precision markings in the Urtext Henle edition clearly communicate Brahms' intentions--markings which are changed or omitted in some other editions. See Figure 8 for the first four bars of No. 4. The quarter notes in the alto voice form a melody in which some notes are held longer than the precise note values, as indicated by the secondary slurs. In bars 1 and 3 the notes marked A are held for two beats,26 in bar 2 the note marked B is held for five beats, and in bar three the note marked C is held for three beats. This is consistent with 19th  century piano practice.

Leslie Spelman, who has spent a good bit of his extraordinarily long career promoting the "Eleven" in both recital and masterclass, sees a parallel to the above technique in No. 10 (see Figure 9). The notes with the horizontal bars added above them form a melody, and Dr. Spelman suggests holding them beyond their indicated value. The notes with the added slurs are to be held even longer. All the while, observing Brahms' molto legato indication and keeping the pulse nicely articulated in the bass.27 This exquisite chorale is also very pianistic and, in fact, is marvelously realized on the piano with a cello playing the cantus. Organists have been ending this piece with an a minor chord for nearly a century, and the A Major ending in the new editions--correcting an error in reading Brahms' autograph by the original editor Mandyczewski--sounds very strange to ears accustomed to the minor ending. But Henle edition editor George Bozarth points out that all of the minor-key preludes in the "Eleven" do, in fact, end with a Picardy third.28 A pronounced ritard in the penultimate measure and a generous observance of Brahms' indicated Adagio in the final bar does "set up" the A Major chord.

Soloing Out Melodies

In several of the Chorales, Brahms allows a clearly discernible melody in the soprano to move moments later to an inner voice where it can be obscured by the accompaniment above it. For example, this happens in measures 5-6 and 14-16 of Es ist ein Ros' entsprungen and measures 28-31 and 38-41 of O Gott, du frommer Gott. There are two schools of thought on this challenge.  Vernon Gotwals feels it is wrong to solo out melodies because this:

. . . shows an unawareness of the abstract nature of Brahms' conception.  It is wrong to emphasize any voice in the manner of the piano in these organ pieces, as Brahms knew that the melody would be lost when it dipped into the tenor in No. 7 or climbed from tenor to alto in No. 8. His subtle conception is destroyed by those who cannot forebear going beyond his precise registrational directions simply because it is physically possible to do so.29

Of course, this implies that in Op. 122 Brahms' conception was a total departure from almost everything he had written before. In his previous compositions, the pianists, instrumentalists and vocalists were able to emphasize and bring out musical lines in a way most suitable for the performance. I find it very unlikely that Brahms would prohibit emphasis of these obscured melodic lines--in fact, he probably would find the very question incomprehensible.

There are two ways to treat these lines. One can choose "solo" stops of exactly the same character as the accompaniment so that the principal difference between solo and accompaniment is volume, or one can choose a contrasting tone color. The former approach is probably more characteristic, although I must confess that the temptation to solo the tenor portions of Es ist ein Ros' on a Clarinet is very strong. The Clarinet was one of Brahms' favorite instruments, and if one has a nice one it may serve quite well. One doesn't have to play these works exactly the same way each and every time. The tenor melody in Es ist ein Ros' can be played on the pedals as suggested in the Biggs' edition (see Figure 10). But an alternative solution, which Leslie Spelman learned from Joseph Bonnet, is to play both the bass and tenor on the pedals starting on the third beat of m. 5, leaving the left hand free to solo the melody (see Figure 11).30

O Gott, du frommer Gott is one of the longest and most graceful of the chorales. One can very easily play the cantus on the Pedal 4' Chorale Bass. Draw 8' stops (at least the 8' Diapason and flute) on both the Great and Swell and couple them. Thus in the forte sections played on the Great, the Swell box can give an arch to the line. And in the piano sections played on the Swell, the box allows expression and perfect balance whether the solo soars out above or is buried within the accompaniment. The timbre of the Chorale Bass would be quite similar to the Diapason and flute of the Swell, with just a boost to the volume (see Figure 12). For emphasis one can add the Swell 4' Octave in measures 22-26, 50-54 and during the final five bars, but there is no indication that the forte section with which the work concludes should be significantly louder than the forte section with which it begins.

Repeated Notes

In the slower of Brahms' chorales, repeated notes in the soprano and bass should always be articulated, but there are some decisions to make about the inner voices. No. 11 O Welt, ich muss dich lassen is an excellent case in point. Though instances occur throughout the piece, the final three bars with their implied molto ritardando are critical. One might very well separate all the repeated notes in a room with five seconds reverberation. But see Figure 13 for a suggestion of adding ties on the inner voices to have the feeling of repetition without choppiness. This is not to say that Brahms should "ooze." In mm. 24-25 of the same chorale are two instances where added phrasing marks in the left hand and pedal can help set up the ending (see Figure 14).

Conclusion

Brahms' Chorale Preludes are very special compositions. As Fenner Douglas once observed, it's too bad for organists that Brahms didn't have a church job for a while, so that we might have more works from this master. I would urge those interested to seek out the cited articles by Bozarth, Gotwals, Miller, Peterson and Schuneman for a broader scope and fuller understanding of the problems and possibilities these works present. Playing these works expressively on the piano is also very helpful, as is experimenting with legato and super legato touch on the organ. Those who unlock the secrets of Op. 122 will not just have gained eleven lovely pieces for their repertoire--they will have learned things of inestimable value which they can apply in countless other works. n

Appendix: Survey of Opus 122 Recordings

The Early Recordings

Of the four late '50s and early '60s recordings, the best are by Robert Noehren and Franz Eibner, but none of them leaves you wishing for a reissue on CD. Dr. Noehren's Brahms (Lyrichord LLST 7123) is well played with sufficient rubato and convincing transitions between sections. But both of the Noehren organs he recorded on were totally unenclosed 2-manual organs with Positiv rather than Swell. The lack of a swell box and absence of registrational variety limited this recording.

Franz Eibner (Teldec SLT 43018-B) had the best organ of the early LPs. The 3-manual, 61-voice Walcker in Vienna's Votivkirche dates from 1878 and was certainly heard by Brahms. The organ's sound--with its rich palette of flutes, strings and principals--is most appropriate to Brahms. Eibner's playing, though consistently a bit stiff, borders on satisfactory, with suitable rubato at times but some awkward transitions. Some chorales, like Schmücke dich, he trots through with no regard to musical subtleties.

The other two early recordings are very disappointing. Karl Richter's recording on the Steinmeyer in the Herkules-Saal in München (Deutsche Grammophon 138906 SLPM) features a most unattractive organ sound. His registrations overemphasize screechy upperwork and de-emphasize the fundamental, sometimes creating a "music box" effect. Richter's playing is completely insensitive to the music, charging right through Opus 122 from start to finish.

Kurt Rapf's recording on the organ of Vienna's Ursulinenklosters is even worse, with an organ sound lacking fundamental but featuring prominent chiff on the manuals and a loud, deep and murky pedal sound. The plenum on No. 11 has searing mixtures, snarly reeds, booming bass and no "middle." Rapf's playing displays the fastest tempos at which these pieces have ever been recorded. All of the notes are there, but none of the music.

The Best of the Modern Recordings

(Note: All the CDs except Arkay include the complete works of Brahms.)

One of the most satisfying recordings to date is by Carole Terry on the 4-manual Flentrop of St. Mark's Cathedral in Seattle (Musical Heritage Society MHS 512523M). Blessed with a rich palette of principals and flutes in a gorgeous acoustic, the organ has a fine sound although the pair of Gemshorns on the Swell are a far cry from real strings. This recording was made before the recent rebuild added a wonderful 32' Posaune to the Pedal and an 8' Trumpet to the Great, plus enabled the 32' Prestant to actually speak. Ms. Terry's playing is simply elegant. She has a real empathy with Brahms and uses rubato and phrasing to create a truly musical result. The two settings of Herzlich tut mich verlangen are the high point of the recording: No. 9 is quite virile on a big registration and No. 10 is the essence of sensitivity.

Another fine recording on LP, unfortunately out of print, is by Bernard Lagacé (Titanic TI-38).  He recorded Opus 122 on the 1977 2-manual 23-voice Wolff organ in New York's Eighth Church of Christ Scientist. The neoclassic design has its limitations for Brahms, but Lagacé uses it fully and well. His playing is inventive, lively and sensitive.  Hopefully this recording will be reissued on CD.

Nicholas Danby made an elegant recording on the organ of the Church of the Immaculate Conception in London (CRD 3404). This 3-manual 44-voice organ is of some historical interest, having been built by Anneesens in 1876, rebuilt by Bishop in 1914, and completely remodeled in 1926 by Henry Willis III to the designs of G. Donald Harrison and Guy Weitz (organist from 1917 to 1967). Its virile plenum (with tierce mixtures), typically English reeds, rich foundations and colorful flutes make for a varied listening experience. Unfortunately, Danby failed to use the two sets of strings, but his playing is imaginative, solid and sensitive. A high point is an attractively up-tempo rendition of Herzlich tut mich erfreuen with well handled transitions between the forte and piano sections, and a sensible (that is to say, slight) volume differential between the sections. All in all, a rewarding experience.

The Interesting Middle Ground

Georges Athanasiadès has made a charming recording on the huge 103-stop Jann organ of 1989 in the lush acoustics of the wildly Baroque Basilica of Waldsassen (Tudor 790). It missed the first tier only because of a severe lapse of taste on the chorale No. 1, where the cantus in the pedal is registered on flue stops plus a set of tubular bells--the effect is ghastly. But in the remaining ten chorales, Athanasiadès proves to be a resourceful player who provides the most tasteful registrational variety of all the recordings. In Herzliebster Jesu and O wie selig he goes to an extraordinary effort to solo out the melody--unnecessary, but interesting and not at all unpleasant. He makes tasteful use of the tremulant on the pedal cantus of the second Herzlich tut mich verlangen and on a splendid rendition of Es ist ein ros'. In the final chorale he exhibits a sensitive balance between the forte, piano and pp sections, with a very attractive string celeste based pp section. Clearly Mr. Athanasiadès has many good ideas and much to offer on this CD.

Jean-Pierre Leguay, one of the four titular organists of Notre Dame in Paris, has made an impressive recording on the monumental 4-manual 1890 Cavaillé-Coll at the Abbey of Saint Ouen in Rouen (Euro Muses 590073 AD 184).  This organ--lavishly equipped with diapasons, a great variety of flutes, several sets of strings and reeds galore--is actually not far from what one might consider an "ideal" Brahms organ. All the stops are colorful, and there is a great amount of variety in the 8' range. The massed unison stops, which are exhibited in Herzliebster Jesu, sing beautifully. For a climactic effect, nothing in the recorded literature of Opus 122 quite matches the final section of the first chorale, where Mr. Leguay adds the 32' Bombarde to an already grand plenum. Some of the chorales, Nos. 4-6 and 11 for example, are given a rather indifferent treatment, but O Gott, du frommer Gott sparkles in a high-energy high-volume treatment with reeds in both the forte and piano sections. A tasteful Es ist ein Ros' alternates a beautiful string celeste with a quiet flute. Opting for contrast and clarity, Mr. Leguay gives the pedal cantus in Herzlich tut mich verlangen to a Trompette. This recording is recommended for generally excellent playing and a quite stupendous sound.

Jacques van Oortmerssen chose the 1906 Setterquist organ of the Kristine Church in Falun, Sweden for his recording of the works of Brahms (BIS-CD-479). This 2-manual 30-stop instrument is based on the French Romantic organs of Cavaillé-Coll, but the sound is a far cry from St. Ouen. There are some lovely individual stops, but the plenum with pedal is murky and a 2' Octava sticks out rather than blending. Oortmerssen's usually elegant playing is uneven, with one chorale singing and soaring and the next plodding quirkily along. He does observe the implied crescendo in O wie selig and builds to a satisfying forte.

Herman Schäffer chose a 4-manual 92-stop 1911 Steinmeyer at the Christuskirche in Mannheim for his Brahms recording (Motette CD 10711). This instrument offers generally attractive sounds and great variety, but Schäffer's playing is uneven. Herzliebster Jesu has no energy and a painfully slow O Welt, ich muss dich lassen (No. 3) falls flat, but these are followed by an energetic and stylish Herzlich tut mich erfreuen.  Schäffer loves contrast, and solos the melody in Schmücke dich on an oboe, the pedal cantus in Herzlich tut mich verlangen (No. 10) on a trumpet, and the melody in O wie selig on a Nazard combination (with the bass played on a heavy and murky 16' pedal). In Es ist ein Ros', Herzlich tut mich verlangen (No. 9) and O Welt, ich muss dich lassen (No. 11) the contrast between the forte and piano sections is far too great. Within these works, however, there are registrations of great beauty, including some luscious string celestes. In sum, the playing and interpretations are uneven and the largely original historic organ is of interest.

Recordings Of Lesser Merit

One might think that recording Brahms on a 1965 4-manual 56-stop Marcussen organ would give a thin, chiffy and uncharacteristic sound (Nimbus NI 882 286-909). On the organ at the Odense Domkirche this is not so, although the upperwork (used only in the first chorale) is too intense. Kevin Bowyer's registrations prove that this instrument can give an appropriate sounds to Opus 122. His playing is another matter, though--tempos seem either to be too fast or too slow. For example, he makes a race out of Herz-lich tut mich erfreuen. But whether the tempo is fast or slow, he doesn't offer much more than the notes. In O Welt, ich muss dich lassen (No. 3) he misinterprets the slurs over the two eighth note groups for a very choppy result. His favorite chorale would seem to be Herzlich tut mich verlangen (No. 10), as he gives a very sensitive performance of it (at 4:38 the slowest of all the recorded performances) with a lush sound and a lovely articulate solo flute with tremulant for the cantus solo. Would that the other ten chorales had had this degree of attention.

Jonathan Dimmock recorded Opus 122 on a 2-manual 26-stop Frobenius at St. Stephen's Episcopal in Belvedere, California (Arkay AR 6113). A visceral involvement with the music seems to be missing, and there are some note problems. Dimmock followed a basically conservative approach to registration, passing on the opportunity for a true forte even for No. 9 Herzlich tut mich verlangen. Although he did make good use of the Gambe Celeste in two chorales, it was an unfortunate choice to solo the melody in O Gott du frommer Gott on the Swell Oboe, because this precluded a significant contrast between the forte and piano sections, a key element of the work.  Whereas O wie selig is satisfying with a nice Oboe combination, No. 11 O Welt, ich muss dich lassen receives a perfunctory performance without the crucial implied ritards between the pp and forte sections.

Robert Parkins recording on the large Flentrop in the Duke University Chapel would seem to have a lot going for it (Naxos 8.550824). A lush acoustic, large organ, talented performer. Large as the Flentrop is, however, is has no expressive divisions and no strings--one wonders how Opus 122 would have fared on the spectacular Aeolian at the front end of Duke Chapel. Parkins gets around this limitation well, however, and the massed 8' tones provide needed warmth. His tempos are the key problem--Nos. 1, 2, 3, 7 and 9 are or are among the slowest tempos on record. The energy of these pieces drains away and you are left wanting to shout "Get on with it!" Balance this criticism with artful performances of No. 4, 6, 10 and an especially sensitive rubato in No. 11. Interesting though flawed, but at a bargain price.

Rudolph Innig's performance of Opus 122 has little to recommend it (Dabringhaus and Grimm MD+GL 3137). The 3-manual Klais organ at St. Dionysius in Rheine is a lightweight neoclassical design with lots of mutations which Innig, unfortunately, uses.  His interpretations feature separated pickups, which are decidedly un-Brahmsian, and a general lack of sensitivity to the music.

 

Notes

                  1.              Heinz Becker, "Johannes Brahms," The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, 1980, Vol. 3, p. 161.

                  2.              Peter Williams, Review in The Organ Quarterly.

                  3.              Anonymous essay on "Brahms' 11 Chorale Preludes" on Lyrichord LP (LL 123).

                  4.              E. Power Biggs, Preface, Brahms' Chorale Preludes, Mercury Music Corporation, 1949, p. 2.

                  5.              Becker, op. cit., pp. 173-174.

                  6.              Robert Schuneman, "Brahms and the Organ," Music/The AGO-RCCO Magazine, September, 1972, p. 34.

                  7.              Schuneman, op. cit., p. 34.

                  8.              Jonathan Ambrosino, "Lessons with Dr. Courboin--A Conversation with Richard Purvis," The Erzähler, Volume 4, Number 3, January, 1995, pp. 3-4.

                  9.              Brahms' Complete Organ Works, ed. by Walter E. Buszin and Paul G. Bunjes, Edition Peters.

                  10.           Peter Williams, The European Organ 1450-1850, published by The Organ Literature Foundation, 1967, pp. 94-95.

                  11.           Vernon Gotwals, "Brahms and the Organ," Music/The AGO-RCCO Magazine, April, 1970, p. 42.

                  12.           Günter Lade, Orgeln in Wien, Austria, 1990, p. 184.

                  13.           Franz Ebner, Program Notes to Teldec LP: SLT 43018-B.

                  14.           Max B. Miller, "The Brahms Chorale Preludes Master Lesson," TAO, April, 1979, pp. 43-46.

                  15.           Schuneman, op. cit., pp. 32-33.

                  16.           John David Peterson, "Some Thoughts on the Sound of the Organ," The Diapason, April, 1981, p. 16.

                  17.           Schuneman, op. cit., p. 34.

                  18.           Imogen Fellinger, Uber die Dynamik in der Musik von Johannes Brahms, (Berlin and Wunsiedel: Hesse 1961), p. 20. Translated by and cited in Schuneman, op. cit., p. 34.

                  19.           The "median" is the middle value in a distribution of data--half of the times are shorter and half are longer than the median.

                  20.           Robert A. Schuneman, "Playing Around With Tempo," The Diapason, May, 1970, p. 16.

                 21.           Arthur Rubenstein, The Chopin Nocturnes, RCA 5613-2-RC (two CD set).

                  22.           Schuneman, "Tempo," op. cit., p. 16.

                  23.           Peter Hurford, Making Music on the Organ, Oxford University Press, 1990, p. 67.

                  24.           George S. Bozarth, "Brahms Organ Works: A New Critical Edition," The American Organist, June, 1988, p. 56.

                  25.           Miller, op. cit., p. 46.

                  26.           Less a brief "lift" on the first quarter note in measure one, so it can sound again on beat three.

                  27.           Leslie Spelman, in a February, 1995, masterclass.

                  28.           Bozarth, op. cit., p. 57.

                  29.           Gotwals, op. cit., p. 48.

                  30.           Masterclass, February, 1995.

Permission to reproduce segments from Werke für Orgel granted by G. Henle Verlag.

 

Other articles of interest:

Franz Liszt and Johann Gottlob Töpfer: A Fruitful Relationship in Weimar

Théodore Dubois and César Franck at Sainte-Clotilde

Brahms Opus 122 in score

Interpretive Suggestions for Four American Organ Works, Part 1

by Earl Holt
Default

Earl Holt is a graduate of Elon College, the University of Michigan, and Arizona State University, where he recently completed the D.M.A. degree in organ performance with Robert Clark. Dr. Holt served on the music faculty of San Jacinto College North in Houston from 1982-90, and is currently Director of Music at the First United Methodist Church of Gilbert, Arizona.

Introduction

In Organ Technique: Modern and Early, George Ritchie and George Stauffer summarize the contribution of American composers to organ music of this century:

If the seventeenth, eighteenth, and nineteenth centuries belonged to Europe as far as organ building and composition are concerned, the twentieth century belongs to the United States. For it has been America, with its extraordinarily eclectic culture, that has set the standard for the Modern Era.1

Organ building in the United States since the late 1960s has returned, more and more, to seventeenth- and eighteenth-century principles of design and construction; the interest in the tonal resources of these instruments may account, in part, for some American composers' renewed interest in the organ. Another contributory reason for interest in organ scoring is the possibility of early public performances, in comparison to the relative improbability of having large-scale modern orchestral works performed. Logistical difficulty and expense of paying multiple performers, combined with a lack of acceptance of modern art music by aging concert audiences, make orchestral conductors reluctant to program such works. In contrast, compositions for solo instruments or small ensembles are more likely to receive an early hearing. Some composers have written works for organ in combination with other instruments, particularly percussion; an important example of the genre is William Bolcom's 1967 work, Black Host for organ, percussion, and electronic tape.

In her book, Survey of Organ Literature and Editions, Marilou Kratzenstein attributes renewed interest in American organ composition to the Hartt College Annual Contemporary Organ Music Festival, held during the 1970s and early 1980s. She writes that "it is at least partly due to the efforts of this festival that an impressive number of composers not formerly associated with the organ have begun to view the organ as a viable vehicle for expressing contemporary ideas."2 Commissions have undoubtedly played a major role in the creation of new organ works, too. In particular, all four of the American compositions examined in this article resulted from commissions.

Viktor Lukas writes in A Guide to Organ Music that modern American composers "have recognized and been encouraged by the organ's diversity today, but that diversity along with, in the minds of some, the instrument's association with liturgical functions seems to have discouraged many gifted composers from writing on a scale similar to their output for other instruments."3 Lukas cites only Igor Stravinsky and Norman Dello Joio as examples, however, and his observation is more characteristic of the first sixty years of this century than of the last several decades. Lukas's comment has validity, nevertheless; it is questionable, for example, whether the sole organ works of George Crumb or Ellen Taaffe Zwilich would have been composed without commissions.

Major American organ composers of the past two decades have turned increasingly to programmatic, secular subjects. They have also incorporated modern performance techniques into their writing (tone clusters and cluster glissandos, for example), most of which are unassociated with past or present church usage. As a result, works that display these techniques are often inappropriate for church services. Even Bolcom's Gospel Preludes, based on church hymns, are at present more suitable for concerts than for church services. If western-European trends in organ composition are a paradigm, the secularization of the organ is likely to continue in the United States.

This article surveys four selected secular organ works by modern American composers and compiles relevant performance information in an attempt to make the compositions more comprehensible and accessible to recitalists, teachers, and students.

Mysteries by William Bolcom

Background

William Bolcom, born in Seattle, Washington in 1938, attended Mills College, the University of Washington, and Stanford University. At Stanford, he studied composition with Leland Smith; Bolcom also studied composition at the Paris Conservatory with Olivier Messiaen, Darius Milhaud, and Jean Rivier in the 1960s. Bolcom's career has included piano performance and composition; he has written organ, piano, choral, vocal, and orchestral works. In the 1980s he completed his fifth symphony and a violin concerto. The premiere of his first opera, McTeague, was at Chicago's Lyric Opera in October, 1992. Since 1973 Bolcom has taught at the University of Michigan, where he is a professor of music composition.4

Bolcom's organ works are Black Host for organ, percussion, and tape (1967), Praeludium for vibraphone and organ (1969), Chorale Prelude on "Abide with Me" for organ solo (1970), Hydraulis for organ solo (1971), Mysteries for organ solo (1976-77), Humoresque for organ and orchestra (1979), Three Gospel Preludes for organ solo (1979), Gospel Preludes, Book Two for organ solo (1980-81), Gospel Preludes, Book Three for organ solo (1981), and Gospel Preludes, Book Four for organ solo (1984). In all, the Gospel Preludes comprise four books of three pieces each. The third and fourth books, previously available only in manuscript, were published in 1994. The publication of the third book of Gospel Preludes also includes the 1970 Chorale Prelude on "Abide with Me" as an extra piece.5

The work selected for this article is Mysteries.6 Organist and composer William Albright, professor of music composition and associate director of the electronic music studio at the University of Michigan, played the premiere. The performance took place at the University of Hartford's Hartt International Contemporary Organ Music Festival, held July 21-25, 1980.7 Walter Holtkamp Jr. commissioned the work for the festival; it was subsequently published in 1981.8

Structure

Mysteries is a suite of four through-composed movements that are unrelated in motivic material. The movements are "The Endless Corridor," "Eternal Flight," "La lugubre gondola," and "Dying Star." In a note to the player, Bolcom states his preference that "the four movements be played together as a set, for cumulative effect."9

"The Endless Corridor" is a trio, and is the only movement with changing meters. Little stepwise motion occurs in the three voices of the trio, which move almost entirely by leaps of fourths, fifths, sixths, or sevenths. The voices are not imitative and the rhythm of individual beats is varied, so the same rhythm rarely appears simultaneously in two voices. This compositional technique makes each voice appear to move independently. Although the form of the movement is not ABA in the traditional sense of repeated motivic material, the registration does create that impression; one registration in mm. 1-9 and 20-32 flanks a differently colored registration in mm. 10-19, the central one-third of the movement.

"Eternal Flight" is a pointillistic movement with spatial rhythmic notation. It is in three continuous sections: (1) staccato figures and clusters that increase in frequency, tempo, and dynamic; (2) whole-note clusters that increase in texture and dynamic to full organ, and then reverse the process; and (3) staccato chords and short figures that decrease in frequency, tempo, and dynamic.

Viktor Lukas writes that the third movement, "La lugubre gondola," "suggests a gently rocking gondola through soft dynamics and an emphasis on lower registers and gently moving chord changes."10 Except for one short section (11/2-11/3), the movement is unmetered; that section is marked "all values relative," however.11 As in "Eternal Flight," this movement has three continuous sections: (1) low-pitched arpeggios with long note values; (2) overlapping, ascending melodic figures that lead to a few seconds of eighth-note figuration; and (3) another (abbreviated) section of long note values to end the work. Characteristic of this movement is the frequent use of pauses of various lengths that serve as sound objects.

"Dying Star" begins with rapid, scherzo-like figuration in spatial rhythmic notation. A pedal citation of the chorale melody An Wasserflüssen Babylon then joins the texture. Later, a fragmented version of J.S. Bach's harmonization of the same chorale, in 3/4 meter, alternates with the spatially notated figuration, which gradually becomes more widely dispersed. To heighten the effect of disintegration, which Bolcom describes as "floating in and out, like a radio signal from a distant star," he uses dramatic pauses ranging from seven to thirteen seconds.12 The movement ends with a pppp chorale fragment, and a final pause.

Registration

In a note to the player, Bolcom writes about the desired instrument for Mysteries: "The object is that this music should be equally effective on any type of organ, large or small, Romantic or Baroque--even on electronic organs."13 Each movement can be performed on a two-manual instrument, although a three-manual instrument is optimum. Because the score rarely indicates crescendos or diminuendos that require expression shades, the work can be performed adequately on an instrument without expressive divisions.

Although a large list of specific stops is not required, two movements recommend registrations that are often unavailable on small instruments. First, "La lugubre gondola" requires a 32' pedal Bourdon, but a footnote indicates that a 16' stop may be substituted if a suitable 32' stop is unavailable. Second, "Dying Star" requires a pp 16' and 2'  stop combination for the Bach chorale harmonization.

Bolcom writes that "registration is largely left to the organist, except for a few suggestions here and there."14 Because of the wide latitude given to the performer, and the variety of acceptable instruments, there are many possible registrations. Table 1 has an appropriate registration for a three-manual instrument.

The beginning of "The Endless Corridor" requires a "cool-sounding" 8' pp stop for each manual and a pp 16' pedal stop.15 The upper voice (right hand) requires a "different color" in m. 10 and the middle voice (left hand) requires a similar substitution in m. 14. The change in timbre can result from substituting a different 8' stop, adding a soft mutation, or substituting a 4' stop and playing an octave lower. It is important to maintain the pp dynamic; therefore stops of significant dynamic contrast should be avoided. The two manual voices return to their original registrations in mm. 18-19, and continue to the end of the movement.

No specific stops are indicated in "Eternal Flight." The opening section (5/1-7/2) requires at least two manuals, one with a pp registration, and the other somewhat louder for the sf material. If three manuals are available, the pp material is divided at random between two of the manuals, as indicated in the score.16 The pedal has to alternate between pp and sf dynamics in the opening section; this switch can be accomplished by quickly coupling soft pedal stops to the Great manual for the sf spots only. The middle section (7/2-8/2) is played on the Great manual alone. For the crescendo to fff and the subsequent diminuendo to pp, the crescendo pedal and other expression pedals may be used; if neither is available, a console assistant can add or remove stops. Registration for the final section (8/2-9/4) is the same as at the beginning, with the exception that the Great manual is not used.

The registration shown in Table 1 for "La lugubre gondola" is specified in the score. For the two manuals, Bolcom wants stops of "different but related color."17 In the pedal, a 32' flue is best, although the piece can be performed with a 16' pedal stop.

"Dying Star" requires an "8' soft flute with much 'chiff'''  for the flute figuration that continues throughout the movement.18 On a large instrument, a combination of 8' flute stops, instead of a single stop, is often necessary for sufficient dynamic. Registration for the harmonization of An Wasserflüssen Babylon (16/1), is "2' and 16' only--with a distant, otherworldly registration."19 Because of the ppp dynamic, there is often little choice of stops, however. On a large instrument it may be possible to couple manuals together for the desired pitch combination and timbre. The same chorale registration is coupled to the pedal, because the chorale cannot be played on manuals alone. The 4' pedal stop that was added for the "subliminal" chorale melody at the beginning of the movement (13/1-15/1) is removed before the chorale harmonization begins.

Double pedal technique is necessary for all movements except the first. In addition, pedal clusters are in "Eternal Flight" and "La lugubre gondola." Because of the slow tempos, however, the clusters are easy to play. The pedal clusters in "Eternal Flight" have to be carefully practiced, nevertheless; some require awkward positions--the C to E-flat interval played by the left foot in 8/4, for example.

Interpretation

Because of the programmatic theme of Mysteries, each movement should be interpreted in a way that is consistent with the text associations. For example, in the trio "The Endless Corridor," Bolcom creates the aural impression of three slowly moving, endlessly drifting voices. No tonal, motivic, or rhythmic relationships exist between the voices, no suggestion of cadence or phrase structure occurs, and the angularity of the voices discourages melodic perception.

The rhythm of "The Endless Corridor" is played precisely as written; because the irregular motion of the voices has been created rhythmically, further rubato is unnecessary and contrary to the character of the movement. Legato articulation further enhances the intentional monotony. Selection of thinly voiced, distant-sounding stops is consistent with the "cool-sounding" stops mentioned in the score. Slight shading with expression pedals is appropriate at locations indicated in the score.

In contrast to the precisely notated rhythm of the first movement, the spatial rhythmic notation in "Eternal Flight" allows considerable freedom in rhythmic interpretation. Creating a sense of immense space is important at the beginning, with a certain unpredictability when the pointillistic staccato clusters are played. Near the end of the opening section (6/3-7/1), the clusters and figuration become more densely packed, as if drifting closer and closer in space; the increased density should not be perceived by the listener as an increase in tempo, however. Bolcom indicates short accelerandos at irregular intervals by using arrows (----> ).

A series of ritardando arrows ( <----) reduce the tempo at the beginning of the middle section of "Eternal Flight" (7/2). The middle section has the broadest tempo, the thickest texture, the longest note values, and the loudest dynamic of the movement. The legato, parallel clusters in this section require a considerable amount of finger substitution, but the long note values allow sufficient time.

The third section of the movement (8/2-9/4) reverses the motion of the first section in a gradual process of disintegration: (1) clusters that are at first close together become spaced farther and farther apart; (2) the dynamic decreases; (3) pitch becomes gradually lower; and (4) texture thins to single notes. The performer helps to communicate the disintegration by allowing playing gestures to become gradually slower, to the point that notes in the final few systems are gently pressed down. If the console is in view of the audience, it is vital that the performer not relax his/her body posture, so that intensity is maintained during the increasingly longer periods of silence between the final notes.

"La lugubre gondola" has a stifling, airless quality created by the long note values, low pitches, and pauses of various lengths. Although the movement is almost entirely unmetered, the note values are relative, and must be played precisely in rhythm. Because of the difficulty in counting the long note values, the performer can count quarter notes, at the rate of one per second, as a basic pulse, and write the number of quarter-note pulses over each note in the score as listed in Table 2.20

The comma symbols used for the long pauses of varying lengths are unexplained in the score. The same symbols appear, however, in a previous Bolcom work, Hydraulis, and are defined in a foreword as "pauses, ranging from long to very short, depending mainly on context of the passage." In a recent letter, Bolcom confirmed that the Hydraulis pauses also apply to Mysteries.21

The eighth-note figuration that appears in the metered middle section of the movement (11/2-11/3) is played with light, elegant articulation. In the unmetered final section (11/3-11/4), playing gestures become increasingly slower; intensity must be maintained during the pauses, though.

The title "La lugubre gondola" is from an 1882 piano piece of the same name by Franz Liszt. Liszt had the inspiration for the piece while watching funeral processions by gondola through the Venetian canals, when he was staying with Richard Wagner and Cosima (Liszt's daughter, who had married Wagner) in Venice. Anecdotally, Liszt abruptly quit working on his final oratorio and wrote two versions of La lugubre gondola in December 1882, after he had a strange presentiment--presumably of Wagner's impending death. Irrespectively, Wag-ner died in Venice two months later, and his body was borne by gondola in the funeral procession.22 Although not widely performed, several pianists have recorded the piano piece La lugubre gondola, No. 1; listening to such recordings is helpful in establishing the mood of the Bolcom movement, because the central, metered section of the Bolcom movement quotes the Liszt work.

"Dying Star" begins with thirty-second-note flute figuration marked "legato, even throughout."23 A more detached articulation is appropriate, however, if the room is acoustically live or if the selected flute does not have enough chiff for articulative clarity. Nevertheless, the articulation should not be a mechanical staccato.

The thirty-second-note figuration in the right-hand part continues to the end of the movement, and it is impossible to play all four voices of the An Wasserflüssen Babylon chorale fragments (beginning at 16/1) in the left hand alone. It is therefore necessary for the pedal, coupled to the manual, to play the tenor and bass voices of the chorale. Articulation for the chorale is molto legato for both manual and pedal parts. Bolcom commented on the significance of An Wasserflüssen Babylon to this movement: "That chorale prelude always gave a chilling intimation of eternity; I could imagine a dead Earth with some eternal record[ing] of it [An Wasserflüssen Babylon] playing (or a ghostly organist)."24

During the long blocks of silence (beginning at 16/4 and continuing to the end of the movement) it is important to follow Bolcom's instructions: "These pauses are exactly timed--be sure to remain physically suspended during them so that the tension is not lost."25 As in the second and third movements, the fourth also ends with a gradual disintegration of musical texture in space and time.

No errata were discovered in the score, and Bolcom confirms that he knows of none. Mysteries has not been commercially recorded. Bolcom lists a performance time of seventeen minutes and ten seconds for the entire work, broken down by movement as follows:

The Endless Corridor  [3:35]

Eternal Flight   [2:40]

La lugubre gondola     [5:45]

Dying Star       [5:10]26

Pastoral Drone by George Crumb

Background

George Crumb, born in Charleston, West Virginia in 1929, studied composition at Mason College of Music and Fine Arts (B.M., 1950), the University of Illinois (M.M., 1953), and the University of Michigan (D.M.A., 1959), where his principal composition teacher was Ross Lee Finney. His compositions include chamber, orchestral, vocal, and instrumental works, and he has received many honors, including the 1968 Pulitzer Prize for the orchestral work Echoes of Time and the River. Since 1965 Crumb has been professor of music and composer-in-residence at the University of Pennsylvania.27

The work selected for this article, Pastoral Drone, is Crumb's only solo organ work.28 David Craighead, professor emeritus of organ at the Eastman School of Music, played the official premiere at First Unitarian Church in San Francisco on June 27, 1984, at the national convention of the American Guild of Organists, which had commissioned the work for the occasion.29

Structure

Crumb wrote the following notes about Pastoral Drone in Don Gillespie's book, George Crumb: Profile of a Composer:

Pastoral Drone, commissioned by the American Guild of Organists and composed in the summer of 1982, represents my first essay in the solo organ genre (my Star Child of 1977 included organ as an addition to the orchestral resources).

Pastoral Drone, cast in one continuous movement, was conceived as an evocation of an ancient "open-air" music. The underpinning of the work is provided by relentless drones executed on the organ pedals. The periodical "bending" of the basic drone sound (a lower D-sharp and a higher G-sharp, spaced as an interval of the 11th) announces the principal structural articulations of the work. The drone is overlaid by strident, sharply etched rhythms in the manual parts and the dynamic throughout is sempre fortissimo ("boldly resounding"). The characteristic sound of Pastoral Drone will suggest a kind of colossal musette.30

In the Gillespie book, theorist David Cope writes about Crumb's works from the early 1980s, including Pastoral Drone:

These later works show a progressively more inclusive use of tonality and interesting new approaches to formal organization. Although Crumb's stylistic "fingerprints" are indelibly impressed on every page, one also perceives an ongoing tendency toward new modes of expression.31

Two drones are in Pastoral Drone: a pedal drone based on a perfect eleventh (D-sharp to g-sharp), and a manual drone based on the perfect fifth. The pedal drone continues from beginning to end, interrupted at times by chromatic movement, but always returning to the same interval. The manual drone changes pitch six times, however. These pitch changes delineate the seven main sections of the work.

Each section contains the same three parts: (1) simultaneous pedal and manual drones with ff chromatic clusters constructed from neighboring tones to the drone; (2) a double pedal solo during which the feet move chromatically; and (3) a freely composed part, consisting of rapid manual figuration over the drone bass in the pedal. In sections 2-6 the three parts are presented exactly in that order. In section 1, however, the pedal solo is delayed, occurring in the middle of the manual figuration part. Section 7 is differently ordered, too; it begins with alternating pedal solos and manual figuration, and then concludes with a ff chromatic cluster in both manuals and pedal. Table 3 is a structural outline of the work.

As shown in Table 3, the manual drones, built on the pitches G-sharp, B, D, and F, outline a diminished-seventh chord. The symmetrical structure outlined by these tonal areas forms an arched rondo, with the distinctive manual drone, punctuated by clusters, serving as a ritornello. Besides using the tonal shifts of the manual drone, Crumb emphasizes the symmetrical structure in other ways: (1) quasi danza triplets in sections 3 and 5 flank the central section; (2) the parallel pedal movement from the first section returns, expanded, in the last section; and (3) the order of the parts is skewed in sections 1 and 7, as noted above.

The freely composed parts of each section are improvisatory in character. Each part is based on a unifying rhythm, headmotive, or harmony, and the end of each phrase is dovetailed. For structural material, Crumb uses tritones, perfect fourths in parallel motion, pentatonic sequences and clusters, and both whole-tone scales in simultaneous parallel motion.

The work is in changing compound meter, with only two exceptions to regular compound beats: (1) a single simple beat at m. 44, beat 2; and (2) pedal stop additions that occur on the second half of the simple beat in m. 72, beats 2 and 3, and m. 75, beats 2 and 3. Crumb uses traditional notation for the work, except in mm. 68-69, where a single enlarged accidental affects all five notes of each pentatonic cluster.

Registration

A three-manual instrument is necessary to perform Pastoral Drone. Because the manual compass is F-sharp to c'''', 61-key manuals are recommended. The score indicates three ossia passages (mm. 40-48, 56-58, and 78-84), marked come sopra, that are intended to make the work playable on an instrument with 56-key manuals by playing the passages an octave lower. A 56-key instrument's top key is g''', however, and the pitch a'''--requiring a 58-key compass--occurs in m. 66. In a recent letter, Crumb acknowledges that the pitch a''' was overlooked. He writes: "I was unaware that one note was outside the 56-key range. Perhaps the 56-key notion should be abandoned!"32 Although less common than 56-key instruments, 58-key organs can encompass all pitches, if the performer follows the octave displacement directions in the score.

The same ff registration, listed in the score at the beginning of the work, is needed each time the manual drone ritornello occurs:

            Gt.--full

            Sw.--full with 16'

            Pos.--full

            Ped.--32'16' 8'4'

            No couplers--Sw., Pos./Gt.

At the ritornello, a 16' reed plenum with mixtures is appropriate for the Great manual, with full registrations on the Swell and Positive manuals, too. The pedal drone is marked f sempre. Because the same pedal registration sounds, unaltered, through the first seventy-one measures, it should balance the Swell and Positive manuals, and must not be oppressively loud.

The registration direction "No couplers--Sw., Pos./Gt." is ambiguous at first glance, but apparently refers to the continuous alternation between coupled and uncoupled manuals: the Swell and Positive manuals are coupled to the Great manual during the ff introduction to each section, and then uncoupled for the rest of the time.

Manual changes are clearly marked and should be followed exactly. Additions to the pedal in mm. 72 and 75 are on simple divisions of the compound beat. Table 4 lists an appropriate registration for each section.

If the ossia passages are taken (on an instrument with manuals of fewer than sixty-one keys), the registration must be adjusted to mask the jump to one octave lower (mm. 40-48, 56-58, and 78-84). A footnote in the score that gives directions for this adjustment is unclear, however: "Ossia: play this passage (concluding at *) down one octave without 16' or 8' (come sopra)."33 What it should state is that (1) if 16' stops and couplers are the lowest-pitched stops used in the measure before the ossia, those 16' stops and couplers are removed for the duration of the ossia; or (2) if 8' stops and couplers are the lowest-pitched stops used in the measure before the ossia, those 8' stops and couplers are removed for the duration of the ossia.

Because of the large number of registration changes within the work, an instrument with an adjustable combination action is optimal. Otherwise, the performer will need a console assistant for stop changes.

Interpretation

Clean articulation clearly aids the "precise and sharply etched rhythm" that Crumb prescribes.34 Crisp articulation is particularly necessary in the rapid thirty-second-note figuration that occurs throughout the work. Furthermore, the dynamic, which is never less than f, creates a level of sound that takes time to disperse, particularly in a room that is acoustically live.

Except for the quasi danza parts, the freely composed parts are always introduced by an articulative element that imitates the percussive attack of bagpipes or musettes. Grace notes serve this purpose in sections 1 and 4, mordents in section 2, quintuplets in section 6, and arpeggios in section 7. The grace notes are played before the beat of the principal note; all other figures are played as written. In section 3, a distinction exists, and should be observed, between the dotted and triplet rhythms.

In the final cluster that ends the work, the right thumb has to play three notes at once: f-double-sharp, g-sharp, and a. The tip of the thumb plays the g-sharp, and the base of the thumb plays the two white keys. This maneuver is made more difficult by the position of the hand that is necessary to play seven notes at once.

A tenuto marking occurs at the pentatonic clusters in section 6 (mm. 68-69) and at the arpeggios in section 7 (mm. 73, 76, and 78). The tenuto causes a temporary broadening, and not a dramatic slowing, of the tempo; the passages that flank the tenuto passages are a tempo.

The pedal part is simple; throughout most of the piece, the organist merely holds down the two-note drone. Nevertheless, because of the wide distance between the two notes (a perfect eleventh), the length of time that they must be sounded, and the fact that they must be played by the toes, it is imperative that the organ bench be low enough that relaxed leg weight can be used to maintain the drone. Chromatic movement in the pedal part is marked legatiss. sempre, as opposed to the articulative clarity that is necessary in the manual parts.

C.F. Peters has published two versions of Pastoral Drone. The earlier version is an excellent-quality manuscript reproduction and the later version is typeset. Both are dated 1984, and both have the same cover, title page, and catalog number. Nevertheless, minor revisions in pitch, notation, registration, performance directions, dynamics, and scoring were made for the typeset version.35 Asked about the differences in the two versions, Crumb writes: "The typeset version is the definitive version. I checked the typesetting very carefully (I prepared it myself!)--so I hope there are no errata."36 Table 5 contains a comparison of differences in the two versions.

At the beginning of the manuscript version there are also two short instructions that are not in the typeset version: (1) the beginning registration has the direction "Sw. and Pos. balanced dynamically;" and (2) a footnote on the first page states "All long notes should be full value!"37

Pastoral Drone has not been commercially recorded. Gillespie lists a performance time of eight minutes, but the work is actually only six minutes and twenty seconds in length when played at the tempo indicated in the score.38

Praeludium by Ellen Taaffe Zwilich

Background

Violinist and composer Ellen Taaffe Zwilich, born in Miami, Florida in 1939, graduated from Florida State University and the Juilliard School. Her composition teachers were John Boda, Elliott Carter, and Roger Sessions. Besides becoming the first woman to take a composition D.M.A. degree at Juilliard, Zwilich was also the first woman to receive the Pulitzer Prize in music, which was awarded in 1983 for Symphony No. 1. Most of her compositions are chamber and orchestral works, including two symphonies. She has accepted numerous commissions from major orchestras.39

The work selected for this article, Praeludium, is Zwilich's only solo organ work.40 It was commissioned by the Boston chapter of the American Guild of Organists and published in 1987. Organist James David Christie played the premiere at the Church of the Advent in Boston, Massachusetts on May 1, 1988.

Asked in 1993 if she were planning any other organ compositions, Zwilich wrote: "YES! I will be writing a work for chorus and organ for next season, and I'd love to write more--I love the instrument."41 The work, A Simple Magnificat for SATB chorus and organ (1994), has now been completed and published. The premiere was recently performed at the Yale Institute of Sacred Music, which commissioned the work.42

Structure

In the preface to the score of her first symphony, Zwilich describes her approach to composition:

First, I have long been interested in the elaboration of large-scale works from the initial material. This "organic" approach to musical form fascinates me both in the development of the material and in the fashioning of a musical idea that contains the "seeds" of the work to follow.

Second, in my recent works I have been developing techniques that combine modern principles of continuous variation with older (but still immensely satisfying) principles, such as melodic recurrence and clearly defined areas of contrast.43

This organic approach to the composition of Symphony No.1, whose premiere was in 1982, is similar to the organization of Praeludium, published five years later. The opening Maestoso of Praeludium contains the compositional techniques that shape the work: (1) complex harmonies and dense textures that result from piling up thirds; (2) distinctive articulative elements, or headmotives, used to begin melodic lines; and (3) frequent changes in texture.

Brochure notes in a 1986 recording of Zwilich's Symphony No.1 describe the first movement of the symphony, but they also accurately describe the genesis of Praeludium:

Everything in the work arises from the melodic and harmonic implications of the first fifteen bars, music Zwilich says she felt compelled to write. These [evolutions] work up to a sustained allegro that ultimately subsides into an ending as quiet as the beginning. All the most complex harmonies come from piling third upon third upon third.44

Praeludium develops according to the same construct. It contains four continuous sections: Maestoso, Più mosso, Allegro moderato, and Tempo I. Material from the Maestoso is later developed in both the Più mosso and the Allegro moderato. Both the tempo and dynamic increase gradually until the climax (mm. 168-73). The final section, Tempo I, has the tempo and dynamic of the Maestoso. The structural organization of the four sections of Praeludium is illustrated in Table 6.

Registration

In a note to the player, Bolcom writes about the desired instrument for Mysteries: "The object is that this music should be equally effective on any type of organ, large or small, Romantic or Baroque--even on electronic organs."13 Each movement can be performed on a two-manual instrument, although a three-manual instrument is optimum. Because the score rarely indicates crescendos or diminuendos that require expression shades, the work can be performed adequately on an instrument without expressive divisions.

Although a large list of specific stops is not required, two movements recommend registrations that are often unavailable on small instruments. First, "La lugubre gondola" requires a 32' pedal Bourdon, but a footnote indicates that a 16' stop may be substituted if a suitable 32' stop is unavailable. Second, "Dying Star" requires a pp 16' and 2'  stop combination for the Bach chorale harmonization.

Bolcom writes that "registration is largely left to the organist, except for a few suggestions here and there."14 Because of the wide latitude given to the performer, and the variety of acceptable instruments, there are many possible registrations. Table 1 has an appropriate registration for a three-manual instrument.

The beginning of "The Endless Corridor" requires a "cool-sounding" 8' pp stop for each manual and a pp 16' pedal stop.15 The upper voice (right hand) requires a "different color" in m. 10 and the middle voice (left hand) requires a similar substitution in m. 14. The change in timbre can result from substituting a different 8' stop, adding a soft mutation, or substituting a 4' stop and playing an octave lower. It is important to maintain the pp dynamic; therefore stops of significant dynamic contrast should be avoided. The two manual voices return to their original registrations in mm. 18-19, and continue to the end of the movement.

No specific stops are indicated in "Eternal Flight." The opening section (5/1-7/2) requires at least two manuals, one with a pp registration, and the other somewhat louder for the sf material. If three manuals are available, the pp material is divided at random between two of the manuals, as indicated in the score.16 The pedal has to alternate between pp and sf dynamics in the opening section; this switch can be accomplished by quickly coupling soft pedal stops to the Great manual for the sf spots only. The middle section (7/2-8/2) is played on the Great manual alone. For the crescendo to fff and the subsequent diminuendo to pp, the crescendo pedal and other expression pedals may be used; if neither is available, a console assistant can add or remove stops. Registration for the final section (8/2-9/4) is the same as at the beginning, with the exception that the Great manual is not used.

The registration shown in Table 1 for "La lugubre gondola" is specified in the score. For the two manuals, Bolcom wants stops of "different but related color."17 In the pedal, a 32' flue is best, although the piece can be performed with a 16' pedal stop.

"Dying Star" requires an "8' soft flute with much 'chiff' for the flute figuration that continues throughout the movement.18 On a large instrument, a combination of 8' flute stops, instead of a single stop, is often necessary for sufficient dynamic. Registration for the harmonization of An Wasserflüssen Babylon (16/1), is "2' and 16' only--with a distant, otherworldly registration."19 Because of the ppp dynamic, there is often little choice of stops, however. On a large instrument it may be possible to couple manuals together for the desired pitch combination and timbre. The same chorale registration is coupled to the pedal, because the chorale cannot be played on manuals alone. The 4' pedal stop that was added for the "subliminal" chorale melody at the beginning of the movement (13/1-15/1) is removed before the chorale harmonization begins.

Double pedal technique is necessary for all movements except the first. In addition, pedal clusters are in "Eternal Flight" and "La lugubre gondola." Because of the slow tempos, however, the clusters are easy to play. The pedal clusters in "Eternal Flight" have to be carefully practiced, nevertheless; some require awkward positions--the C to E-flat interval played by the left foot in 8/4, for example.

Interpretation

Because of the programmatic theme of Mysteries, each movement should be interpreted in a way that is consistent with the text associations. For example, in the trio "The Endless Corridor," Bolcom creates the aural impression of three slowly moving, endlessly drifting voices. No tonal, motivic, or rhythmic relationships exist between the voices, no suggestion of cadence or phrase structure occurs, and the angularity of the voices discourages melodic perception.

The rhythm of "The Endless Corridor" is played precisely as written; because the irregular motion of the voices has been created rhythmically, further rubato is unnecessary and contrary to the character of the movement. Legato articulation further enhances the intentional monotony. Selection of thinly voiced, distant-sounding stops is consistent with the "cool-sounding" stops mentioned in the score. Slight shading with expression pedals is appropriate at locations indicated in the score.

In contrast to the precisely notated rhythm of the first movement, the spatial rhythmic notation in "Eternal Flight" allows considerable freedom in rhythmic interpretation. Creating a sense of immense space is important at the beginning, with a certain unpredictability when the pointillistic staccato clusters are played. Near the end of the opening section (6/3-7/1), the clusters and figuration become more densely packed, as if drifting closer and closer in space; the increased density should not be perceived by the listener as an increase in tempo, however. Bolcom indicates short accelerandos at irregular intervals by using arrows (----> ).

A series of ritardando arrows ( <----) reduce the tempo at the beginning of the middle section of "Eternal Flight" (7/2). The middle section has the broadest tempo, the thickest texture, the longest note values, and the loudest dynamic of the movement. The legato, parallel clusters in this section require a considerable amount of finger substitution, but the long note values allow sufficient time.

The third section of the movement (8/2-9/4) reverses the motion of the first section in a gradual process of disintegration: (1) clusters that are at first close together become spaced farther and farther apart; (2) the dynamic decreases; (3) pitch becomes gradually lower; and (4) texture thins to single notes. The performer helps to communicate the disintegration by allowing playing gestures to become gradually slower, to the point that notes in the final few systems are gently pressed down. If the console is in view of the audience, it is vital that the performer not relax his/her body posture, so that intensity is maintained during the increasingly longer periods of silence between the final notes.

"La lugubre gondola" has a stifling, airless quality created by the long note values, low pitches, and pauses of various lengths. Although the movement is almost entirely unmetered, the note values are relative, and must be played precisely in rhythm. Because of the difficulty in counting the long note values, the performer can count quarter notes, at the rate of one per second, as a basic pulse, and write the number of quarter-note pulses over each note in the score as listed in Table 2.20

The comma symbols used for the long pauses of varying lengths are unexplained in the score. The same symbols appear, however, in a previous Bolcom work, Hydraulis, and are defined in a foreword as "pauses, ranging from long to very short, depending mainly on context of the passage." In a recent letter, Bolcom confirmed that the Hydraulis pauses also apply to Mysteries.21

The eighth-note figuration that appears in the metered middle section of the movement (11/2-11/3) is played with light, elegant articulation. In the unmetered final section (11/3-11/4), playing gestures become increasingly slower; intensity must be maintained during the pauses, though.

The title "La lugubre gondola" is from an 1882 piano piece of the same name by Franz Liszt. Liszt had the inspiration for the piece while watching funeral processions by gondola through the Venetian canals, when he was staying with Richard Wagner and Cosima (Liszt's daughter, who had married Wagner) in Venice. Anecdotally, Liszt abruptly quit working on his final oratorio and wrote two versions of La lugubre gondola in December 1882, after he had a strange presentiment--presumably of Wagner's impending death. Irrespectively, Wag-ner died in Venice two months later, and his body was borne by gondola in the funeral procession.22 Although not widely performed, several pianists have recorded the piano piece La lugubre gondola, No. 1; listening to such recordings is helpful in establishing the mood of the Bolcom movement, because the central, metered section of the Bolcom movement quotes the Liszt work.

"Dying Star" begins with thirty-second-note flute figuration marked "legato, even throughout."23 A more detached articulation is appropriate, however, if the room is acoustically live or if the selected flute does not have enough chiff for articulative clarity. Nevertheless, the articulation should not be a mechanical staccato.

The thirty-second-note figuration in the right-hand part continues to the end of the movement, and it is impossible to play all four voices of the An Wasserflüssen Babylon chorale fragments (beginning at 16/1) in the left hand alone. It is therefore necessary for the pedal, coupled to the manual, to play the tenor and bass voices of the chorale. Articulation for the chorale is molto legato for both manual and pedal parts. Bolcom commented on the significance of An Wasserflüssen Babylon to this movement: "That chorale prelude always gave a chilling intimation of eternity; I could imagine a dead Earth with some eternal record[ing] of it [An Wasserflüssen Babylon] playing (or a ghostly organist)."24

During the long blocks of silence (beginning at 16/4 and continuing to the end of the movement) it is important to follow Bolcom's instructions: "These pauses are exactly timed--be sure to remain physically suspended during them so that the tension is not lost."25 As in the second and third movements, the fourth also ends with a gradual disintegration of musical texture in space and time.

No errata were discovered in the score, and Bolcom confirms that he knows of none. Mysteries has not been commercially recorded. Bolcom lists a performance time of seventeen minutes and ten seconds for the entire work, broken down by movement as follows:

The Endless Corridor  [3:35]

Eternal Flight   [2:40]

La lugubre gondola     [5:45]

Dying Star       [5:10]26

lists stops suggested in the score for a three-manual organ.

Because the Trompette en chamade 8' is used as a solo stop against the full Great manual, the stop is most convenient on a secondary manual or floating division. If a chamade is unavailable, another loud trumpet or combination of reeds can be substituted. For the last pedal notes in the work, a 32' Bourdon is effective, although a footnote in the score indicates that a 16' Bourdon may be substituted, if necessary.46

Interpretation

 

In the preface to the score, Christie writes: "Praeludium was conceived in the spirit of the 17th-century North German 'Stylus phantasticus' and is to be performed as a fantasia with interpretive spontaneity and much freedom. The articulations are indicated to encourage clarity in all lines and textures."47 Besides working for clarity, the performer should observe the tempo markings in the score. As illustrated in Table 6, the tempo increases at major structural posts until the climax of the work (mm. 168-72).

A vocal 16' principal is specified in the score for the short pedal solo at the beginning of the Maestoso; if the principal is unavailable, 16' and 8' flutes are substituted. The pedal voices should be articulated cleanly, with attention paid to agogic accents that are marked above or below some of the notes. The molto legato marking in m. 3 applies to stepwise movement in m. 3 and mm. 8-10. Because of the wide leaps in double- and triple-pedal textures, an entirely legato articulation is impossible.

The pedal solo is followed by a section of densely textured harmonies that arise gradually out of piled-up thirds. The aural effect of piling up thirds is one of individual melodic lines coalescing into a chord; this recurrent compositional technique serves as a unifying characteristic of the work. During the process, the gradual change from Choir manual to Great manual in mm. 15-18 requires the left hand to "thumb up" to the Great manual while simultaneously holding three notes on the Choir manual. Depending on the instrument and the location of the manuals, it may be possible during this section to "thumb down" to the Great manual from the manual above, thus making this manual change less difficult.

The pedal motive at the beginning of the Più mosso is marked non legato, but the sixteenth notes should be given sufficient length for the pedal reeds to speak. The low pedal thirds in mm. 34-47 can be played by the left foot alone. In mm. 50-55, the accel. poco a poco increases the tempo to 112; restraint is necessary, however, because of a natural tendency to accelerate too much during the long note values. The right-hand part in mm. 62-64 is played one octave lower if the instrument has a short upper octave.

The climactic section, Allegro moderato, is a fugato that contrapuntally combines its subject with motives from the first two sections of Praeludium. Articulation of the staccatos and slurs in this section should be observed exactly as marked in the score. At m. 153 the Trompette en chamade may be coupled to the Great manual to achieve the fff dynamic. Alternatively, additional intramanual couplers or a sfz mechanism can be used.

Three short passages in the third section (mm. 131-34, 153-56, and 160-63) are marked: "Omit upper notes if not available."48 Even if the upper notes are available, though, it may be necessary to omit them if the sound is too overbearing. The extreme dissonance, in combination with full organ and high register, is excessively loud on some instruments.

At the climax in mm. 168-72 it is necessary for the left thumb to take the top two notes of the left-hand chord, because of the thirteen-voice texture at that point. Also, a meter change from 4/2 to 4/4 occurs in mm. 171-74; the note values remain constant, however. At m. 174 the pedal has to be reduced quickly from fff to subito mp.

Finally, the short closing section, Tempo I, serves as a soft codetta to Praeludium. In m. 185 the final pedal interval, a perfect octave, has the instruction: "32' Bd. alone or play the lowest 'A' on Bd. 16' only."49 Another possibility, however, is to play the pitches A and e on the 16' Bourdon; the resultant harmonic produces the desired 32' tone.

The score has one error: Page 6, Measure 81, Beat 2: the sharp in the bass clef should precede the F, not the A.

Praeludium has not been commercially recorded. The performance time is approximately eight minutes, if played at the score tempos.   

Notes

 

            1.         George Ritchie and George Stauffer, Organ Technique: Modern and Early (Englewood Cliffs: Prentice Hall, 1992), 304.

            2.         Marilou Kratzenstein, Survey of Organ Literature and Editions (Ames, Iowa: Iowa State University Press, 1980), 190.

            3.         Viktor Lukas, A Guide to Organ Music, 5th ed., ed. Reinhard G. Pauly, trans. Anne Wyburd (Portland, Oregon: Amadeus Press, 1989), 229.

            4.         John Woodford, "His Night at the Opera," Michigan Today 24, no. 4 (December 1992): 1-3.

            5.         Michael Lawrence Mazzatenta, "The Gospel Preludes of William Bolcom" (D.M.A. diss., Arizona State University, 1991), 95; William Bolcom, Letter to this writer, October 20, 1993; Id., Gospel Preludes, Book Three (New York: Edward B. Marks, 1994).

            6.         William Bolcom, Mysteries (New York: Edward B. Marks, 1981).

            7.         "Hartt Contemporary Organ Music Festival," The American Organist 14, no. 7 (July 1980): 22.

            8.         Bolcom, Mysteries, 1.

            9.         Ibid., 2.

            10.       Lukas, 238.

            11.       The symbol 11/2-11/3 refers to page 11, system 2 and page 11, system 3 of the score. All score references to movements 2, 3, and 4 of Mysteries, which are unmetered, will use this system.

            12.       Bolcom, Mysteries, 16.

            13.       Ibid., 2.

            14.       Ibid.

            15.       Ibid.

            16.       Ibid., 5-6.

            17.       Ibid, 10.

            18.       Ibid., 12.

            19.       Ibid., 15.

            20.       A footnote on page ten of the score defines a stemmed double whole note as two times as long as a double whole note.

            21.       William Bolcom, Hydraulis (New York: Edward B. Marks, 1976), 2; Id., Letter to this writer, October 20, 1993.

            22.       Stanley Sadie, ed., The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians (London: Macmillan and Co., 1980), s.v. "Liszt, Franz," §4: Rome and the last years, by Humphrey Searle.

            23.       Bolcom, Mysteries, 12.

            24.       Bolcom, Letter to this writer, October 20, 1993.

            25.       Bolcom, Mysteries, 16.

            26.       Ibid., 2.

            27.       H. Wiley Hitchcock and Stanley Sadie, eds., The New Grove Dictionary of American Music (London: Macmillan Press, 1986), s.v. "Crumb, George," by Edith Borroff.

            28.       George Crumb, Pastoral Drone (New York: C.F. Peters, 1984).

            29.       Byron Belt, "AGO National Convention San Francisco 1984," TAO 18, no. 8 (August 1984): 29.

            30.       George Crumb, "Annotated Chronological List of Works," in George Crumb: Profile of a Composer, ed. Don Gillespie (New York: C. F. Peters, 1986), 112.

            31.       David Cope, "Biography," in George Crumb: Profile of a Composer, 14-15.

            32.       Crumb, Letter to this writer, Oct. 14, 1993.

            33.       Crumb, Pastoral Drone, 9.

            34.       Crumb, Pastoral Drone, 4.

            35.       References to the score in the text of this article are to the later, typeset version.

            36.       Crumb, Letter to this writer, Oct. 14, 1993.

            37.       Crumb, Pastoral Drone (manuscript version), 3.

            38.       George Crumb, "Annotated Chronological List of Works," in George Crumb: Profile of a Composer, 112; Two hundred seventy-nine total beats divided by forty-four beats per minute equals 6.34 minutes.

            39.       Hitchcock, s.v. "Zwilich, Ellen Taaffe."

            40.       Ellen Taaffe Zwilich, Praeludium (Hillsdale, New York: Mobart Music Publications, 1987).

            41.       Zwilich, Letter to this writer, October 21, 1993.          

            42.       Zwilich, Telephone conversation with this writer, April 24, 1995.

            43.       Richard Dyer, brochure notes for Ellen Taaffe Zwilich: Symphony No. 1, New World Records NW336-2, 4.

            44.       Ibid., 5.

            45.       Zwilich, Praeludium, 2.

            46.       Ibid., 11.

            47.       Ibid., 2.

            48.       Ibid., 9-10.

            49.       Ibid., 11.

This article will be continued.

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