#mid20th

Symphony No.5 Peter Mennin (1923-1983)

American symphonists are becoming a particular point of obsession for me. As such, at the end of this week of blogs, I think I'm going to be looking to do a week or two devoted exclusively to music from European (or other non-American) composers.

But this is not that week, and my rabbit-trail research wandering has led me to today's symphony from a composer who shares a musical pedigree with several other composers featured here in previous posts, a man who would go on to lead two of America's (and the world's) finest conservatories.

The Composer

Peter Mennin was born Peter Mennini in Erie, Pennsylvania, in 1923. He studied at Oberlin under norman Lockwood, and at the Eastman School under Howard Hanson and Bernard Rogers, where he received his Bachelors, Masters, and PhD). In addition to his 9 symphonies, he composed numerous works for orchestra, wind band, and chorus.

He was awarded the inaugural Gershwin Memorial Award for his Symphony No.2 (a work later withdrawn by the composer), and the Bearns Prize at Columbia.

Mennin was appointed director of the Peabody Conservatory at Johns Hopkins University, and later succeeded William Schuman as president of the Juilliard School, where an award bearing his name is given to students showing exceptional leadership and achievement in the arts.

Notable students included Richard Danielpour, Jack Behrens, and Jacob Druckman.

  Symphony No.5

The first movement of Mennin's 1950 Symphony No.5 ("quarter note = 126") clocks in at a brisk 4:30ish, and presents a bouncy, rhythmic introduction that would have been at home in Disney's Fantasia. The two rhythmic themes I was able to grab on to were 1 + 2 e +... and 1 2 a 3 + 4 +, and both appear in augmented form later in the movement. To the extent that it makes any sense to say so, this movement was very clearly written by someone who wrote for wind band--it's brassy and punchy, with syncopated passages that brass players love to tear into.

The second movement is labeled "Canto", which in addition so being Italian for "song" or "singing", is a division of an epic poem, such as Dante's The Divine Comedy. I suppose he meant the former, but the latter is an interesting way to frame this movement. If I think about the piece in the latter sense, there is a sort of heroic sensibility to this slow movement: an abling with conviction (with the introductory oboe solo), further moments of introspection and wonder (the string section from 2:30 to a little after 3:00), and a persistent forward momentum--jolted at one point by a stray timpani flourish--no lingering allowed, it seems... then again, this piece has no program as far as we know, and so these are merely projections of mine.

There is a lightness (almost frustrating) to the second movement that almost jeopardizes the whole piece while simultaneously moving it forward in apparently the only manner it can possibly go.

The opening of the third movement (Allegro tempestuoso--a promising marking for a finale) is a nice, aggressive reminder of the composers affinity for brass and percussion, a sort of rhythmic reassurance that he hasn't forgotten us while we were sauntering through the Canto.

(Incidentally, my 6th grade teacher taught me the word "saunter" when she playfully teased me that I sauntered everywhere. Eighteen or so years later, the warehouse manager at Naxos jokes around with me about the same thing. It's apparently one of my defining characteristics: I'm a saunterer. This has never bothered me as much as it seems to amuse others.)

There's a bit of a horn/trombone fugue that pops up toward the end of the movement (but we just got here! more brass!), followed by a furious string pad undergirded by a stout melodic phrase in the low brass. Then, as suddenly as we began, we're through, and there's only the reverberation in the room left. Mennin, I hardly knew ye.

I am left with a general sense of indifference to this piece. It was neither challenging nor particularly inspiring. There were only a few short moments when I felt I wanted to pay close attention, and I'm left with nary a memorable passage to hang my hat upon.

From a programming standpoint, I suppose I would have a hard time justifying programming this piece, when there is so much in the American symphonic realm that would inspire some feeling of any sort. The last thing you want, if you're trying to build a sustainable audience for anything, is to present something to which all but a few of them are completely indifferent. Get them fighting in the aisles, calling each other's mothers names... but don't walk away saying "wasn't that... nice...?"

  Recordings Used

Symphony No.1, "Jeremiah" Leonard Bernstein (1918-1990)

Today, I'm listening to a man who is perhaps the quintessential American composer. I'll grant that that distinction may traditionally be applied more often to Copland, but it seems to me that Bernstein's life, character, and oeuvre are precisely the kind of thing you'd expect from a kid who grew up in this "melting pot" in the middle of the 20th century. So I give it to Bernstein.

That said, my familiarity with his music primarily comes from West Side Story, his made-for-Broadway retelling of Shakespeare's "Romeo and Juliet", and the controversial MASS, written for the opening of the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts. Both have a brashness and honesty about them that so far, I've not seen in very many European composers. (That was purposely provocative. Prove me wrong, please. I need material.)

  The Composer

Louis "Leonard" Bernstein was born in Lawrence, Massachusetts (only 20 minutes from my childhood home), and evidently took to music very early on, despite his father's urgings to the contrary (in this, of course, he is no different from almost any other musician. Who makes a living at this stuff, anyway?). He attended the prestigious Boston Latin School en route to that school across the river in Cambridge, where he studied with Walter Piston, and came under the tutelage of Dimitri Mitropoulos (who was the music director of the Boston Symphony Orchestra at the time, and who Bernstein would later succeed at the helm of the New york Philharmonic). By all accounts, this was a very productive relationship for Bernstein, and was the impetus for Bernstein's interest in conducting.

Like many American composers of the time, Bernstein ascribed much influence to (though never formally studied with) Aaron Copland, and his compositions were championed early on by Serge Koussevitzky, a man whose fingerprint on American music may never be surpassed.

Bernstein later enrolled at the Curtis Institute of Music in Philadelphia where he studied further with Randall Thompson (orchestration) and Fritz Reiner (conducting). It was a few years later, at the Tanglewood Institute in western Massachusetts, that he studied conducting with the great Kossevitzky, to whom Bernstein's second symphony, "The Age of Anxiety", is dedicated.

Symphony No.1, "Jeremiah"

The first symphony of Leonard Bernstein is a program piece based on the biblical prophet Jeremiah, whose exceedingly emotional prophecies and pleas to Israel earned him the nickname, "The Weeping Prophet". The timing of this piece's composition is key to the understanding of the parallels Bernstein may have seen with this prophet's pointed words and emotions.

Bernstein, born to Ukranian-American Jewish parents, finished his first symphony in 1942, right as the American media was becoming aware that Hitler's threats to exterminate the Jewish population throughout Europe were coming to pass. As those of Jewish descent all over the world looked on--largely helpless to affect the fortunes of their relatives, friends, and others--a madman drove a country and then much of a continent into a hysteria that resulted in the deaths of 6 million innocents.

I have no proof, of course, that Bernstein had any awareness of events occurring in Europe in that time. It is tempting, though, to cast a shadow in that direction, because of the subject of his symphony. Jeremiah was a prophet who communicated with great urgency to a nation who seemed unable or unwilling to hear him. As such, his prophesying turned to condemnation and lamentation for Jerusalem.

Bernstein specified that this piece was program music intended to be emotionally evocative, but not evocative of any literal story. Thus, the following observations are merely my own:

In the first section, entitled "Prophecy", there is a great confidence to the music, even in softer passages, that suggests on whose authority Jeremiah delivers his warning. The high voicing of the strings throughout most of this section evoke something like the voices of angels; we hear a minor-key stirring, consisting of lower strings and brass--perhaps Jeremiah has ceased his fervent preaching and has adopted a quieter, more dire tone. But the prophet cannot sustain this tone very long; the urgency of the message demands that he prophesy loudly, urgently. Around the five-minute mark, Heaven's authority is on display, the winds seem to swirl ferociously, foretelling the fate of this doomed people.

The second section, "Profanation", is a remarkable (and characteristically American) scherzo--rhythmic and jagged, Bernstein effectively conveys the intensely mercurial emotional state of the scorned prophet through syncopated passages that would be at home on a dance stage or in a ballroom. This movement is pure conflict, voices piled on voices. As the end of the movement approaches, we hear the prophet's growing incredulity. And why not? Jeremiah was the mouthpiece for God himself in this moment and still no one listened (only in his hometown is a prophet without honor, scripture says). In the end, Jeremiah dismisses them all.

Bernstein himself said of the Scherzo that it was meant "to give a general sense of the destruction and chaos brought on by the pagan corruption within the priesthood and the people."

The third movement, "Lamentation", features a mezzo-soprano solo, and was originally sketched years before this symphony was begun. Here, all that is left for Jeremiah is to mourn the destruction of his people, the giving over to evil of the shining city of Jerusalem. There is an orchestral refrain throughout that is very familiar... I am sure it must have been used in other media since.

The text of the mezzo soloist sings is from the book of Lamentations in the Old Testament. I feel tempted to provide the entire translated text here, but I will refrain in favor of a few choice excerpts:

How she sits desolate--

The city once so full of people--

She is become as a widow!

...

She weeps, she weeps in the night,

And her tears are upon her cheeks.

...

She dwells among the nations,

She finds no rest;

All her pursuers have overtaken her

In the narrow passes.

...

Jerusalem has sinned, sinned greatly...

...

Lord, wilt Thou forget us forever?

How long more wilt Thou forsake us?

Turn us unto Thee, O Lord...

More on Bernstein's 1st

Program notes from the Los Angeles Philharmonic, among others, are available via a quick Google search.

Recordings Used

When possible, I like to use the Naxos Music Library to listen to albums I'm not allowed to buy in the US. I did that this time:

BERNSTEIN, L.: West Side Story (Symphonic Dances) / Facsimile / On the Town: Ballet Music / Symphony No.1 "Jeremiah" (Leonard Bernstein Orchestra, Bernstein/Documents, 290770) [Available for Purchase Here, if you're not in the US.]

If you wish to purchase a recording of this work from within the United States, here is another recording that I'm sure is equally worthy of your dollars:

Symphony No.3 Robert Ward (b.1917)

I am a few days late with this post, but life intervened, as life is wont to do, and so I offer you this review of another American gem as penance for leaving you hanging.

As with several composers I'll feature here, I knew nothing about or written by Robert Ward before finding his name along a Wikipedia rabbit trail. It proved to be a fortuitous "discovery".

The Composer

I find it really interesting that Robert Ward was born in 1917 in Cleveland, Ohio. That was one year before that city's orchestra--which grew into one of the American "Big Five"--had its first season. It must have been very exciting to be a musician there during those first years, as this fledgling orchestra grew in stature under the batons of Sokoloff and Rodzinski (the latter of whom pulled tours of duty at 3 other "Big Five" orchestras, plus LA).

Of course Ward wasn't in Cleveland for most of Rodzinski's tenure--he was studying under Bernard Rogers and Howard Hanson at Eastman, then under Frederick Jacobi and Bernard Wagenaar at Juilliard, and Aaron Copland in the Berkshires.

His Symphony No.2 had its premiere at the National Symphony Orchestra under Kindler, and found favor in Philadelphia with Ormandy, who also gave the piece its Carnegie Hall debut.

He is undoubtedly best known, though, for his opera The Crucible, based on Arthur Miller's play. For that, he received the Pulitzer Prize in music in 1962.

Ward served as Chancellor of the North Carolina School of the Arts, and finished his teaching career at Duke University.

Symphony No.3

My first reaction to Ward's Symphony No.3 was that it was in some way unlike any of the other symphonies I'd blogged about here. That's hard to substantiate, of course--he had many of the same influences and teachers as other composers featured here, and at its end, that observation was based on something purely subjective. But it's there. It was like synesthesia--this piece just sort of "glowed" a different color than the others. Not necessarily better or worse, just different.

Ward's third is a symphony in three movements-- "Adagio-Allegro", "Adagio", and "Allegro". (Ward ostensibly liked to be able to read his tempi off his wristwatch.) The entire work has a pastoral feel to it, to my ear. The first movement, "Adagio-Allegro" includes a pretty theme that approximates the first line of the lesser-known Christmas carol, "Lo, How a Rose E'er Blooming" (or, "Es ist ein Ros entsprungen"), and which is set against some nice chromatic pizzicato/staccato string/woodwind work.

The second movement, "Adagio" is the one that really threw me (in the good sense): after a wistful minor-key introduction featuring an oboe solo, Ward sneaks a PIANO in! I don't know whether the dearth of piano in symphonies is based on a rule of some sort or a lack of piano proficiency by many composers (though I suspect it is not the latter), but it was a nice surprise that sold me on this work.

The final movement, "Allegro", fulfills my apparent crusade to find cinematic-sounding music in all American compositions. The third is the shortest movement of the bunch, and stands alone in its playful character. I forget to which other composer I ascribed similar playfulness, but this movement--driven almost entirely by the strings (with only nominal interruption by winds)--is a little like listening to Bill Evans of Ahmad Jamal show off a bit. In short, I'm a fan.

At a very brief 22 minutes, this is another easily digested, easily sat-through American symphony that I'd almost definitely buy a ticket to hear in person.

More on Robert Ward

This interview with Bruce Duffie is enlightening. 

Recordings Used

When possible, I like to use the Naxos Music Library to listen to albums I'm not allowed to buy in the US. I did that this time:

WARD, R.: Symphony No.3 / STEIN, L.:3 Hassidic Dances (Cincinnati Symphony, Johnson/Naxos Classical Archives, 9.80315) [Available for Purchase Here, if you're not in the US.]

If you wish to purchase a recording of this work from within the United States, here is another recording that I'm sure is equally worthy of your dollars:

Symphony No.2 Morton Gould (1913-1996)

"Loooook! I'm Morton Gould!"

It is perhaps fitting that the first and strongest association I have to Morton Gould's name is a Broadway musical (more on that in a moment). The reference above, of course, is to a musical he had no hand in (Martin Guerre--anyone?), but still, it fits in a roundabout sort of way.

The Composer

From what I can gather, Gould was a bit of a Renaissance man--if we define the universe for that as "New York City music scene, early 20th Century"--in his early years. He was for a time a pianist at movie theaters and in Vaudeville shows, he composed a couple of Broadway scores, a couple of ballets, and was the first staff pianist at Radio City Music Hall.

But Gould was a "serious" musician first. As American music historian John Tasker Howard said, "Morton Gould is one of those who has approached jazz 'from above.' . . . That is, he did not come to serious music as an alumnus of Tin Pan Alley, but rather the other way around. . . . Gould has not let his work in the popular field swamp his serious activities, and he has tried to maintain a fruitful connection between the two. He has little use for the 'art-for-art's-sake' boys."

Though I initially bristled at Howard's suggestion that jazz and "serious music" were separate ideas, the matter-of-fact language leads me to believe this is more a reflection of a prevailing sense of the time (the quote is pre-1947) than a pejorative jab at jazz musicians. No harm, no foul, Mr. Howard.

[I wonder if "serious music" could work as a re-branding strategy? "I'm a fan of serious music. Oh you don't know what that is? Oh, well it's very serious... you should have a listen. Be sure to don your full English breakfast before winding up the ol' Victrola." Yeah, probably not.]

Anyway, much has been written about Gould, but for what it's worth, he's got way more shiny things than, say, Lebron James: Pulitzer Prize, Kennedy Center Honors, GRAMMY Lifetime Achievement Award, and he sat on the NEA's music panel and the board of the American Symphony Orchestra League. (Incidentally, no one will ever ask Lebron to sit on anything but the bench if he can't find some 4th quarter magic. Quoi? You say this is a music blog? Very well, then.)

Symphony No.2

A couple of days ago, I mentioned that Rorem's 3rd symphony needed a little more sinew, a little more connective tissue to convince the listener that his symphony wasn't just 4 short vignettes thrown together into one copyright. Gould's second symphony actually seems to survive this litmus test, despite the stand-alone possibilities of the four movements. The title of Gould's 2nd (Symphony on Marching Tunes) actually sets you up for the fact that it may be a bit disjointed, but the vignettes work, and work well.

His second symphony contains a little bit of everything we've come to know and love about Gould's music: a bit of a theatrical flair, reminiscent of early Broadway; sturdy marches in the vein of his many Americana-themed Salutes, Marches, et al.; some bouncy syncopated lines that hint at his dance explorations, and betray maybe a little bit of that Big Band bug that was going around (he wrote his share of "Boogie Woogie"s, too); and slow movements that demonstrate his expert lyrical sense.

I won't walk you through theme-by-theme or movement-by-movement, but I will say that my overarching sense here is that for audiences who love those safer American standbys, Gershwin and Copland, this piece is a programming no-brainer. I loved it. Plenty of give-and-take, plenty of Americana goodness (small town Memorial Day parade, amber waves of grain, apple pie), and nary a jarring transition. Also great for fans of wind band repertoire (who are likely already Gould fans)--Gould clearly loved and used brass. It's just a solid listen, top to bottom. I can't wait to listen to more Gould when I get the chance.

Recordings Used

Symphony No.3 William Schuman (1910-1992)

Another day, another American composer of considerable import. I'm constantly amazed at how much great American music I'm unfamiliar with. I would be embarrassed, but there's no time for that—too much good music to hunt down and listen to.

The Composer

William Schuman was born, raised, and educated in New York City. It is no surprise that one with such a cosmopolitan upbringing would rise to such esteem in the classical music world. Schuman attended Columbia University, and in 1945, at the tender age of 35, he was appointed to the office of President of the Juilliard School of Music.

As did many American composers of the time, it seems Schuman owes some of his earliest exposure and consequent acclaim to Serge Koussevitzky. His first two symphonies were withdrawn by the composer, but my understanding is that Koussevitsky was a very early believer in Schuman, and may have debuted his second symphony. It seems Schuman was studying with Roy Harris, who recommended his work along to "Maestro Kouss". (That of course is not a legitimate nickname for the conductor, but I'm getting as tired of typing his name as you will be of reading it, so, curveball.)

At any rate, this third symphony is dedicated to Koussevitzky, and received its world premiere under the maestro's baton at the Boston Symphony Orchestra in October 1941. It received its New York premiere a month later by the same orchestra, and under the same baton. The composition won the initial award from the Music Critics' Circle of New York City, an award set aside for the best new orchestral work played in city limits during the '41-'42 season.

As with several others I've profiled here, Schuman won a Pulitzer (for his 1943 cantata, A Free Song), as well as a couple of Guggenheim fellowships, and probably a handful of foot races in his day.

Symphony No.3

The third symphony is in a form that's somewhat unfamiliar to me: two movements, each divided in two connected sections. 

Section I [(a) Passacaglia & (b) Fugue] begins with the theme in the violas, but it turns out to be nothing you can really hum for any length of time. It just starts to sound like the musical equivalent of reciting pi to 20 or 30 digits after a while... (huh?). The first truly memorable theme comes in with the bass ostinato and the horn line around two minutes in.

It is at that point that I asked myself "what's the difference between a passacaglia and a chaconne? because this feels kind of like a chaconne..." Turns out, not much. They're pretty much interchangeable, it seems (though I'd welcome correction here—I don't have time to research every rabbit trail along the way).

Then, the violins take over, against what I can only think to describe as a kind of "swarming insect" backdrop from the rest of the strings. Then we are handed over to a delightful trombone quartet which leads us into the fugue, which is really a lovely, bouncy, intricate thing—everything you could ask of a fugue from anyone not named Bach, I think. (Did that sound like a compliment? It was.)

[And then, trumpets! All by themselves! Be still, mein Herz.] 

The remainder of the fugue is lovely. There's a rising and a swelling to it, as if we're being goaded into some sort of truly great adventure (I'm picturing here Kenneth Branagh's take on Henry V's battlefield speech). Schuman could scarcely have ended this fugue in a more thrilling manner.

Section II [(c) Chorale & (d) Toccata] begins with the violas and cellos, followed by a trumpet line that refers back to the Passacaglia. The Chorale is quite nice (wait... I swear I heard "Michelle, Ma Belle" in a muted trumpet. It must be the hour.), all told, if difficult to follow for a minute or two in the middle.

The Toccata is a gas. It reminds me a lot of Dixieland/trad jazz I love so much, in that for a while there, each instrument had its own melodic line that sort of moved around and through the others in this nimble, playful little dance. Only a few minutes from the end of the piece, Schuman applies gravity to the piece again in the form of an unexpected brassy interjection that leads us into the fireworks (so to speak).

All told, Schuman's Symphony No.3 has several extended flashes of material that might be of interest to listeners from outside the idiom. Ultimately, though, it suffers in that regard on the basis of those moments being too far apart sometimes. While I enjoyed the piece, and am sufficiently intrigued by it and Schuman's life to give more of his works a try, I think this one will need to sink in some more before I really recommend it to non-Schuman fans.

Recordings Used

Symphony No.3 Ned Rorem (b.1923)

Today, I'm listening to a composer whose words I've read, but whose music I've not yet really dug into. Fitting, I suppose, for a composer who is generally far better known for his songs than his instrumental works. That's okay; so am I. Ha.

The Composer

Ned Rorem is an esteemed American composer who has contributed works in nearly every medium: eight operas (two full-length), three symphonies, dozens of orchestral concert works, dozens of solo instrumental works, choral works, and solo vocal works, in addition to well over 100 songs in popular style for voice and piano.

He has received many of the highest awards and fellowships available to a composer: Guggenheim, Fulbright, Pulitzer, an ASCAP Lifetime Achievement award, and recognition at the highest level in both the US (National Institute of Arts and Letters) and France (Ordre des Arts et des Lettres). Not a bad four score, Mr. Rorem. Not bad at all.

Symphony No.3

All three of Rorem's symphonies were written by the time he was 35, which is at once stunning and kind of neat, I guess. Considering he's now 88 and presumably still composing, that's 50+ extremely prolific years since he wrote a symphony. His 3rd seems to be his best-known of the three, and received its world premiere by the New York Philharmonic under Bernstein at Carnegie Hall (April 1959).

Rorem's notes on Symphony No.3 for the Naxos release of his complete symphonies (8.559149) are as follows:

Of the five movements the second was written first, the first was second, the fourth was third, the third fourth, and the last was written last.

(Did you get that?)

I is a Passacaglia in C, a slow overture in the grand style.

II was written originally for two pianos eight years before the rest, and incorporated as the second movement of the symphony. It is a brisk and jazzy dance.

III is a short, passionate page about somnambulism, full of dynamic contrast, and coming from afar.

IV is a farewell to France.

V is a long and fast Rondo, in itself a Concerto for Orchestra.

These are not typical descriptions of a symphony's movements, I don't think. And it gives a tiny bit of credence to my impression that this symphony feels like a series of vignettes, more connected stylistically than thematically, than a complete, connected work.

But then, I don't really know what I'm talking about. These are just my impressions, and at any rate, that impression took decidedly little away from my enjoyment of the piece as a whole.

The first movement is a big, broad introduction--a pastoral overture with flares of early 20th Century jazz orchestrations (here we go again). Nothing mind-blowing, but a gorgeous listen.

The second movement is very lively, and I imagine that it sounds great on two pianos, as well. It's the kind of thing I remember hearing my dad play when I was younger, and he played more piano. It's joyful, playful music. In my opinion, its ending betrays its previous life as a stand-alone piece. There is an exuberant finality to it that doesn't sound much like the second movement of any other symphony I know. At 2:39, the party's over quickly, but you're glad you came.

The third movement (the "short, passionate page about somnambulism") is aptly described, I think, by the composer. Most of it sounds like two-handed chordal improvisations I heard while I walked (half asleep, anyway) to Berklee practice rooms in the wee, small hours. It's pleasant, and doesn't require a lot of thinking. It's a nice little interlude to help you gear up for...

The fourth movement, Rorem's farewell to France, starts off well (an English horn solo. I mean, come ON), and grows in short order into one of those classic, wildly cinematic (there I go again!) passages that I love so much. I'm easy, I think. Real easy, sometimes. This movement and the second are the ones that I think have the most appeal to those unfamiliar with the genre (whatever we might call this genre, anyway). They're both within the normal time constraints of a pop song, and contain melodic material that's easy to follow, and provides payoff in pretty short order.

The fifth movement's opening evokes Copland—almost too well!—which bodes well, I think, for audiences. Rorem quickly sheds that yoke, and the remainder of the movement seems to be an argument between the Copland reference and an inclination toward a more frantic-romantic sensibility.

This is not one of the "safer" pieces I've listened to, which is to say I probably wouldn't enthusiastically send friends to a concert that featured it on the program. That is primarily because of the disjointed nature of it, and not because I didn't enjoy Rorem's music. I did.

It might, however, be a nice piece to throw on a program that's balanced out with some other, safer American fare (read: Gershwin and/or Copland). It may be harder to follow, but hey, hush up over there... I just gave you Rodeo and Rhapsody in Blue, you ingrate! You bobbed your head for 15 straight minutes. Sit still and pay attention to these pretty chords... don't they remind you of a movie?

I'm going to be an awesome dad.

Recordings Used