Haydn String Quartet Project

My quartet friends and I have, over the past decade, made our way through all of Haydn's sixty-seven numbered string quartets in order, including the "spurious" quartets that were once attributed to him. And on Easter Sunday we are going to play (can you believe it?) the Seven Last Words. After that we will begin playing the Mozart "Haydn" Quartets, a truly delicious next place to go.

I noticed something yesterday while playing Opus 77 no. 2 in F major: the opening theme in the first violin part brings to mind the opening unison motive of Beethoven's F major String Quartet, Opus 18, no. 1. The opening of the Beethoven feels (at least to me) like a modernized and condensed answer to Haydn's graceful and gentile opening.

In 1798 and 1799 Prince Lobkowitz (of Vienna) commissioned both Haydn and Beethoven to each write a set of six string quartets, so both composers were at work: one at the end of his career, and one at the beginning of his career.

If you were to just look at the publication information it wouldn't seem possible that Beethoven, under ordinary circumstances, could have known what turned out to be Haydn's last complete string quartet. Haydn's Quartet Opus 77 no. 2 wasn't published until 1802, while the six quartets of Beethoven's Opus 18 were published in 1801. But Vienna was a small town, musically speaking, and the composers shared a patron. It wouldn't be beyond anyone's imagination that Beethoven might have had chance to see, through the good graces of the Prince, the manuscript score of what he believed would have been Haydn's last quartet long before it was published.

The F major Quartet was not the first of the Opus 18 quartets that Beethoven wrote; it was the second. Maybe he put it first in the publication so that his bold opening related-but-opposite F-major opening gesture to that of Haydn could more effectively and more immediately introduce his modernized approach to the string quartet.

After playing Opus 77 no. 2 we played Haydn's very last quartet, published as Opus 103. The final movement, which Haydn calls a Canon, is a puzzle to me because there is no way that it can be "canonized." Haydn, one of the greatest masters of the musical endgame, presents the end of his body of work for string quartet without making it come to a cadence. Wow.

The fragement Haydn uses of "Der Gries," a poem by Johann Wilhelm Ludwig Gleim that he set for SATB choir, soloists, and keyboard as Hob. XXVc:5, ends with a semicolon in its original form:

Hin ist alle meine Kraft!
Alt und schwach bin ich;
Wenig nur erquicket mich
Scherz und Rebensaft!

Hin ist alle meine Zier!
Meiner Wangen Roth
Ist hinweggeflohn! Der Tod
Klopft an meine Thür!

Unerschreckt mach' ich ihm auf;
Himmel, habe Dank:
Ein harmonischer Gesang
War mein Lebenslauf!

Avant Garde?

I have been spending time with Mozart's piano sonatas recently, and the other day I came upon K457, in C minor. I felt immediately like I was playing something by Beethoven, and my first reaction was to think of Mozart being "ahead of his time." But Mozart lived his very short life, with its particular and extraordinary creative path, in his own time. Beethoven might have found a clear and durable way of musical expression that really resonated with him through this particular sonata: a portal of sorts through which he could connect himself to the spirit of the teacher he always wanted to study with, but missed the opportunity.

Those of us who express ourselves through writing music, whether through notation or transmitting it only by sound, walk down many paths until we find a direction that appeals to us. It doesn’t matter a great deal if we have a personal relationship with a person who served as a guidepost or a particular way of thinking musically. The fruit is there for the picking. But we need to recognize it, and we need to reach for it.

So often when playing Haydn Quartets I hear tinges of Schubert in the Haydn. That might be because Schubert and his family would have played everything available to them that Haydn wrote. The eleven-year-old Franz Schubert, who sang in the Vienna Boys Choir, might even have had the chance to meet Haydn because of his relationship with Antonio Salieri. Franz entered the Choir in 1808, and Haydn died in 1809. I like to think that it was through Haydn that Schubert found his way to express himself, and I constantly need to remind myself that it is Haydn I hear in the Schubert.

It wasn't that Haydn was "ahead of his time," channeling what would become known as the Romantic Period. Haydn, like Mozart, was a person of his time. Schubert was of his time, as was Beethoven (and they lived in Vienna at the same time). But with all that amazing musical and creative energy dancing its way around Vienna, what a time it was!

Pleasure, Haydn, and DNA

I was talking with my father about Haydn the other day, and he revealed to me that as a child he loved the same Haydn piano sonatas that I am currently obsesed with (currently meaning over the last decade or so, or since I have had possession of the music that once belonged to my brother). Objectively one could say that all Haydn Piano Sonatas are great in their own specific ways, and that there are some that are so unique, so inventive, so engaging, and so physically pleasurable to play that anyone might choose the same "favorites." One could also say that the Haydn Sonatas that have been anthologized would be the ones that people would play as children, but it seems that Haydn is too often thought of as a "gateway" to Mozart, Beethoven, or Schubert. Maybe it has something to do with the way Haydn gives even non-pianists so much physical pleasure.

My love of Haydn and string playing feels so "hard wired" that I don't feel odd imagining that those specific and particular pleasures are inherited.

It has been documented that trauma, particularly physical trauma, can be passed from one generation to the next. The field of study is called epigenetics, and involves chemical marks that can be left on a person's genes that changes the way a gene gets expressed. It's a new field, and everything I have seen on the internets seems to focus on studies involving inter-generational trauma.

What I wonder if the experince of pleasure that results from a person having a profound and sustained experience with practicing music or art (or literature, or math, or science, or sports, or dance . . . ) early in life, and having the pleasure be so great that it causes the chemical changes necessary for that particular pleasure to pass the ability to experience that pleasure onto future generations. We know that physical traits are passed from generation to generation, and, at least in my family, pitch memory (as in absolute pitch) and, it seems, intelligence and personality traits are inherited (she "takes after" her father, or he "takes after" his grandmother). Then there is the environmental factor.

But the idea of pleasure, something that is so subjective and not easy to quantify, seems to have been under-studied in this way.

I have heard many people say that they inherited their love of this or that from someone in their family, and are thrilled when they do genetic tests that identify a distant ancestor as a great athlete, an artist, or a leader in a political movement. (We do tend not to identify with direct blood relatives with qualities we do not like.)

What interests me particularly, though, is if someone happens to find something early in life that offers extreme pleasure that is not necessarily something present in their family life ("I don't know where she gets it from"), and through the support and nurturing of adults who care enough to support that child's obsession, could that child be changed in an epigenetic way that might pass that pleasure onto his or her children?

Haydn Opus 33

I love the Haydn Opus 33 quartets. They were my first personal encounter with Haydn as a string player, and it wasn't long after starting to rehearse them that I began to think about trying to write for string quartet (the first step on my own journey as a composer). They were a true gateway drug for me, and the above recording made by the Cuarteto Casals that I have been listening to renews all my admiration for these pieces. Or maybe its obsession. This is my favorite recording to date of Opus 33, and I thought I'd share it here.

The liner notes mention that Haydn wrote these quartets almost ten years after writing his Opus 20 Quartets. I like to think that Titz had something to do with his return to writing string quartets.

These musicians play the Opus 33 Quartets like dramatic works--wordless operas with plots, sub-plots, comic relief, deep pathos, and lots of characters (as well as lots of character). Haydn (reportedly) was not crazy about writing operas. He was good at it (of course--he was Haydn and he was a pro), but it seems he didn't think much of himself as an opera composer. But like a brilliant mime, he could convey every dramatic nuance he wanted (and then some) without words.

Perhaps it was, in part, the operatic quality of these Quartets that impressed Mozart (who did enjoy writing operas) enough to come out of his own 8-year-string-quartet hiatus, and write a set of six quartets himself (and dedicate them to the great composer who inspired him). It seems that the first time Mozart and Haydn met was when they read the "Haydn" Quartets together. The rest is history.

John Simon's Search for the "Soul in Music"

I would love to visit a museum (or two) and/or go to a concert (or two) with John Simon because what seems to move him emotionally when considering works of music and art is so vastly different from what moves me emotionally when considering works of music and art. I have great respect for him as a writer and as a thinker, and find that he makes his case for "his music" eloquently in this recent blog post. I followed his suggestion to look at his book, John Simon on Music, which I could browse by way of Google Books. Rather than taking issue with anything in the book, I must make the observation that poor Mr. Simon's tastes seem not to have changed in 30 years. 30 years is one third of a hefty lifetime, and half of an adulthood.

In his blog post he dares the reader to define what "soul in music" might be:

But define it? I defy anyone to do so. I can only say that it is what moves me, stirs up my insides, would make me sing or hum it if I knew how. What, in a Hungarian phrase, crawls (caressingly) into the ear. What makes me forget my worries, my inadequacies, my mortality. What makes me want to hear it again and again.

Since I can't resist a challenge (and the only way to get the question out of my mind is to answer it), I'll give it my best try.

I would say first, given the context of this question, that the music that moves Mr. Simon is music that he knows and has known for a long time. He is a self-described music lover, which means to me, in this context, that he loves the music that he knows, and doesn't have much room for learning to love the music he doesn't know.

Perhaps it is a generational thing. Mr. Simon grew up at a time when there was very little in the way of "early music" around. His music-related writing from the 1970s seems to be uninformed by what we now call historically-informed performance practice, and it also seems to be focused on musical rarities and music that might have been considered on the fringe at the time. Why would someone who developed tastes off the beaten path want to trod the beaten path of Beethoven, Mozart, and Haydn? How can somebody dismiss Vivaldi when recent discoveries (within the past 10 years or so) show what a multi-faceted composer he was? And I wonder why Mr. Simon finds Haydn preferable to Mozart? Does he know everything by Haydn and by Mozart? Could he identify the Haydn influences in the Mozart "Haydn" Quartets, or the Mozart influences in Haydn's Opus 76 Quartets, or the Mozart influences in Haydn's London Symphonies? These kinds of comparisons need to be made on a piece-by-piece basis, and through making these kinds of comparisons most musicians and music lovers begin to learn more about what makes both of these composers great. Enough about this.

I'll go back to Mr. Simon's question about the "soul in music." My answer is simple: I don't think that there is "soul" in music. I think that everyone's musical experiences are singular, and everyone's musical loves are singular and very personal. Some of us have unconscious "libraries" of musical references that compel us to relate one piece to another, and some of us don't. Some of us appreciate structure (structures of all kinds) in the music we respond to, and some of us respond emphatically to music that defies the notion of structure. There are people who hate chocolate (I know two of them), and there are people who love chocolate more than anything in the world. Almost everyone loves their mother's cooking, regardless of how good (or bad) a cook she was (or is). Is there a soul in science? Scientists have always been on the lookout for some kind of truth, and they even constructed a really good method to do so, but there is always more knowledge that can throw a wrench into what we like to call "laws." Once in a while someone gets lucky in science or in math and comes up with something that really holds water. Once in a while someone gets lucky in music too. Composers we consider great usually have had (and those that are living have) technique, knowledge, resources, and luck.

I don't believe there is a "universal musical truth," but I believe that within a particular musical endeavor, whether it be a performance or a composition, there are periods of insincerity and periods of sincerity. There are also constant periods of success and lack of success in composing and performing. I can listen to a recording of a performance a few days after I played a concert and hear only the flaws. I can hear the same recording five years later, and the flaws might just fly by my ear, unnoticed (they flaw right by!). I can spend weeks writing a short piece of music that engages my imagination and keeps me happy while I am at work on it, and I can hear it five years later and wonder what the hell I might have been thinking. Or I can hear a terrific performance of something I that I didn't think much of after I wrote it.

Everything is subjective. Music is vast and entirely personal. People who disagree on everything from politics to chocolate can find common ground in music that they both love, and Mr. Simon does have some excellent music on his list of "fourteen sublime works by thirteen composers."

Gottfried van Swieten, a person I would like to have known

In my wonderings about Haydn's Opus 20 Quartets, and the relationship that Mozart and Haydn had in Vienna, I have been thinking about Gottfried van Swieten. Baron Gottfried van Swieten was the son of Gerhard van Swieten, Empress Maria Theresa's private physician, who also held the position of director of the court library in Vienna.

Gottfried had a career as a diplomat, and spent seven years (1770-1777) in Berlin working as an ambassador for Frederick the Great, the King of Prussia. While he was at Frederick's court, van Swieten spent a good deal of time studying music. He had the great fortune to study with a student of J.S. Bach.

By the late 1770s Frederick's interest in music had waned considerably. I sometimes wonder if Frederick might have given van Swieten his music library when van Sweeten left for Vienna in 1777. We know from a letter Mozart wrote to his father in 1782 that the Baron invited Haydn and Mozart to his home every week to play manuscripts of music by Handel, J.S. Bach, and Bach's sons.

The historical record is sparse, but the musical record is rich. The Haydn Quartet Opus 20, no. 2 has material in it that sounds strikingly baroque, and three of the Opus 20 Quartets have fugues as their last movements. I wonder if Haydn and van Swieten might have know one another during the early 1770s, and I wonder whether Haydn, who was a well-known composer, might have been introduced to J.S. Bach's unpublished music by van Swieten earlier than the historical record shows.

When van Swieten returned to Vienna in 1777 he took over his late father's position as court librarian. And then he invented the card catalog.

Yes. The card catalog!



But he is best known as an important patron of contemporary composers like Gluck, C.P.E. Bach, Mozart, Haydn, and Beethoven (Beethoven dedicated his First Symphony to van Swieten). Van Swieten also supported revivals of out-of-fashion composers like Lully, Handel, and J.S. Bach. He also wrote music himself.

Exalted Reigns

Last night I had a wonderful Haydn experience. It was a performance of the whole Seasons with a large chorus, some fine soloists, and a very small orchestra (a viola section of two). I was unable to go to the single rehearsal, but I spent some serious time wrestling with some of the many difficult passages, wondering what some of the more seemingly obtuse harmonic situations would be like with all the voices. I listened only to the "incipits" I found on Amazon, but otherwise knew nothing of what was going to happen. I have played the viola parts in many Haydn quartets and in a few symphonies, but this was was also my very first time playing the viola part (or any part, for that matter) in an orchestra for a Haydn oratorio. I knew my part, and was excited about the experience.

I call this post "Exalted Reigns" because of the passage "He sole on high exalted reigns" from The Creation. "Exalted reigns" is a "term" I use to describe Haydn's glorious choral contrapuntal writing. The Seasons is filled to the brim with exalted reigns. It is also filled with harmonic puzzles: surprising dissonances with even more surprising resolutions. Because I was hearing the piece for the first time, I felt like I was both audience and performer. Because the piece is performed relatively rarely (nobody in the orchestra had ever played it before), I felt myself part of a small community (or viola section, if you will) with members that had a similar ear-opening experience to mine, through the whole of the 19th and 20th centuries, and all over the world. It felt like a piece of "new music" because of its boldness, its invention, and its surprising ability to be conventional and unconventional at the same time. Haydn also manages to put a little Mozart in (some Magic Flute and Figaro), while still sounding like himself. There are hundreds of details I missed the first time: I have to get my hands on a score!

The oratorio is probably performed (in its entirety) so rarely because it is three hours long, and it requires constant playing (and constant attention) on the part of the string section. My section-mate and I split the recitatives (which were played by solo strings): she played the first two seasons, and I played the last two. The person who plays the recitatives plays and concentrates constantly for an hour and a half, so I can understand why she wanted a break.

We took a brief intermission while the conductor changed scores. I told him (meeting him for the first time) that I was really enjoying the performance. He was, of course, tired. Here's part of our exchange:

Me: I guess a year is a long time.
He: That's why I prefer The Creation: it only takes 7 days.

Clever man. Clever composer.

I was physically worn out by the end, but I was emotionally giddy, filled with exalted reigns. After The Seasons, the two Messiahs I'll be playing next week will be a relative piece of cake, but I would love to play more Haydn.

Dol

I learned about the Dol scale, which measures pain, when I was at work on "Weights and Measures." The official name is the Dolorimeter, and it came into use in the 1940s. I spent much of the last week in the hospital, where I went through a series of tests, and was asked to rate my level of pain on a scale of one to ten every time I was given pain medication.

Armed with a diagnosis, a treatment plan, and some pain medication, I was able to leave the hospital on Saturday in the later afternoon.

It turns out that I have a highly treatable form of multiple myeloma, for which I began radiation treatments yesterday. I have eight to go, and then will start chemotherapy. I have great doctors, and I have great support from family, friends, and musical colleagues. I have every reason to be hopeful and grateful. 

This thing is literally a pain in the butt, since the tumor has taken residence where I sit and where I lie down. It is rapidly being destroyed, and as it becomes smaller, so will the pain.

Now that you know the background story, I can let you know how Haydn helped me survive.

During my first ninety-minute-long MRI, I was able to listen to the Haydn Quartets Opus 76 no. 6, no. 5, and no. 1 (in that order). Since I know these pieces so intimately, having played them all recently, I was able to stay completely still and follow the lines of the music through the bangs, squaks, bumps, and thuds of the MRI. It gave me such a sense of purpose to make it my business find my way through all the noise, and hear the music.

I was actually looking forward to my second MRI because I could listen to Opus 76 no. 2, no. 3, and no. 4. I recommend Haydn quartets as companions in such circumstances. My radiologist told me that they got really good images from the MRIs. I thank Haydn for that.

While I was in the hospital my pain level never went above eight, but before I entered the hospital (before I had adequate pain medication), Michael got to witness what level ten can do to a person. The only relief I could get (while waiting for the NSAID and muscle relaxer a critical care doctor perscribed for me over a holiday weekend) was having Michael sit next to me on the bed and play "Lotus Blossom" on his guitar. 

My first radiation treatment was yesterday. I didn't have any problems with the hour-long ride up, or during the procedure. But on the ride home I realized far too late that I should have brought along some muscle relaxer. 

My pain level reached level ten when we were about thirty minutes from home. Michael suggested that I might want to listen to some Haydn, so I found the Cleveland Quartet's recording of the Quinten (Opus 76, no 2) Quartet. Singing and crying along with it saved my sanity. My sciatica-like pain was so great that my leg actually went numb, but thanks to Mr. Haydn and the members of the Cleveland Quartet I was able to find considerable joy through the pain.

Michael didn't particularly like driving twenty miles over the speed limit on an empty rural road, with the person he loves writhing in serious pain next to him. He was not particularly keen on driving with intense music (all those melodic fifths create an amazing amount of tension) in the minor mode playing loudly over the car speakers, but he was a hero and pressed onward, getting us home safely. He found the second movement to be charming, and appreciated the canon in the minuet. We didn't get all the way through the last movement because we arrived it home in record time. 

I went straight for my muscle relaxer, jumped into bed, put on my headphones, and listened to Opus 76, no. 4 (the Sunrise). And after that I was OK.

Haydn Sonata in E-flat L. 62 Hob. XVI:52

Haydn dedicated the 1798 Antara publication of his final Piano Sonata to Magdalene von Kurzbeck, but he wrote the piece four years earlier for the London-based pianist Therese Jansen Bartolozzi. The 1937 Peters edition (photographed above) has this Sonata as the first work of the first volume.

For some reason the first volume of my collection had been sleeping in a file cabinet. I found it yesterday, and playing through it, even with my rudimentary piano skills, was thrilling.

I wonder how many composers over the centuries have had the same reaction to the magic of this piece that I have. I wonder how many pianists over the centuries have felt the same series of thrills that I feel when playing this piece.

At first it was known only to Haydn. Then for four years it was known only to Therese Jansen Bartolozzi and the people she played it for. Then it was published, and was available to anyone with the money to buy it, or anyone with a friend who had the money to buy it.

Now it is available to hear on demand at the touch of a button, at any time of day, from anywhere in the world, played by great pianists, many of whom are no longer living.

Before the internets people all over Europe, and elsewhere in the world must have loved this piece as I do. And they would have loved it during times of peace and during times of war: the last year of the French Revolution (1789-1799) the Napoleonic Wars (1798–1815), the Second French Revolution (1830-1831), the Third French Revolution (1848-1849), the wars for Italian unification (1848-1870), the wars for German unification (1862-1871), the Crimean War (1853–1856), the Russian Revolution (1905-1917), the Balkan Wars (1912-1914), World War I (1914–1918), the Russian Civil War (1918–1920), the Spanish Civil War (1936–1939), World War II (1939–1945), and the other wars that happened between 1900 and 1944, between 1945 and 1989, between 1990 and 2002, and the twenty-first-century wars documented on this Library of Congress website, which seems to need almost daily updating in order to account for the daily "feeling" in a certain leader's bones concerning where to strike next.

I am convinced that this Haydn Sonata will continue to shine its way through the dark times we face now and the dark times ahead. Without doing anything (except for being played and heard) it stood and sang as a jewel of joy, balance, emotional sensitivity, and communication through the worst of times in our shared past (because as members of the human race the past is something we all share, regardless of which "side" of a situation we might have sympathized with).

I like to think that my personal experience with the healing nature of Haydn might be shared by others through this piece. It helps me keep a light shining when things get dark and foggy. Maybe it might help you as well.

Curiouser and Curiouser

Perhaps the problem with curiosity is that every time we find out something new (perhaps I should drop the "we" and speak for myself), er, I find out something new, it throws a wrench into everything that I thought was so. Every chronology, whether personal or historical, is subject to interpretation, and a new twist or insight can alter the map significantly.

Take the Classical Period. There's a hell of a lot of Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven to learn, study, play, and play again. A lifetime's worth, or perhaps three. I used to feel like I had a handle on the gist of the period, and I used to think I had a good narrative to give to my students to help them understand the music, the people who wrote it, and the times they lived in.

Now Pleyel has entered my life, much the way Titz did: through string quartets they wrote during 1780s, and I find it difficult to look at music the way I did. It's as if an easy-to-see triangle has become a polyhedron, with sides that interact with one another in ways I will never understand.

(Some of those "sides" are named Boccherini, Dittersdorf, Stamitz, Gluck, Clementi, Vanhal, Titz, and Pleyel.)

Everyone knows the name of Pleyel. Heck. There is even a website for the piano company that Ignaz Pleyel opened in 1807. He was born the year after Mozart in a lower Austria (the town that is mentioned in the Wikipedia article seems no longer to exist), and seemed to be a middle child (he was the 24th of 38 children) of a school master and his very fertile and always-pregnant wife. 38 children. Imagine. If she started at 14, she would have had to have one child per year until the age of 52, and live to tell the tale. Now this is curious.

Anyway, Ignaz had excellent teachers (Vanhal and Haydn), and he got a good job in the French city of Strasbourg (the border city with the German name). In 1791 (the year that Mozart died, and a tough year for musicians in France--what, with the Revolution and all), Pleyel went to London. Haydn, Pleyel's old teacher, was in London, so Pleyel had some healthy competition. So did Haydn, for that matter. It certainly made musical life in London even more lively. Pleyel happened to return to Strasbourg during the Reign of Terror, and to escape being put in prison or being killed, he wrote music to celebrate the Republic. He became a French citizen, and moved to Paris to start a publishing business. He began by publishing a complete edition of Haydn's string quartets, and made his fortune by publishing music by Boccherini and Beethoven, among others.

This is all very impressive, but what I find most impressive is the quality of his "Prussian" String Quartets, which are available in the IMSLP. You need to follow some complicated directions to get the score to print out properly, but the parts are original, intact, and very readable, both visually and playing-wise.

Here are the first three, the second three, and the third group of three.

I hope you're curious.

Haydn vs. Mozart

I have spent weeks trying to figure out how best to finger and bow the first violin part of the D minor Mozart "Haydn" Quartet. After a lot of thought, and after a lot of practice, I have come up with some solutions that work for me. The piece has so many sudden changes in dynamics that require being in different parts of the bow for different outcomes.

When I play the piece tonight with my friends, I'm sure to learn that my choices might, hopefully only here and there, not have been the best.

But that's the thing: Mozart opens up possibilities with his music that require a great deal of creativity. Maybe that's why we keep trying to meet him halfway throughout our musical lives. So many of us return to the same pieces again and again, hoping to achieve cleaner articulation, longer and stronger phrases, and emotional understanding.

I can proudly speak from experience concerning Haydn because I have practiced and played (not performed, however) the first violin parts of all of his quartets. I have found that there is usually one clever technical solution that makes a challenging phrase flow naturally. As florid as his phrases look on the page, they are a graceful pleasure to play, once you figure out exactly how. And then I have found cases where a clever technical solution I have found in an opening movement makes its way through all four movements of a quartet. That always gives me a thrill.

Maybe Haydn wrote his quartets with the idea of providing a satisfying way for musicians to interact socially. There are deep (very deep) emotional periods, and there are serious contrapuntal challenges as well as modulations in and out of remote-seeming keys, but the balances always seem to have been worked out in the composition process. And the challenges in Haydn seem, at least to me, more like opportunities for interesting music making than the challenges in Mozart that address every musician's capacity in the ensemble for introspection and intensely dramatic personal musical expression.

. . . After playing last night I can report that most of my bowing choices did not work in context, and that it really didn't matter at all. A great time was had by all. What a fantastic piece of music!

More Fun with Haydn

I always have fun with Haydn, but I have a particulary good time when Haydn has fun with me (and by extension us). Imagine how thrilled I was to come across this Minuet that he tucked into his 26th Piano Sonata from 1773:

He originally wrote the Minuet in the key of G major in 1772, and used it in his Symphony #47, which has been appropriately nicknamed "palindrome."

Haydn didn't write out the realization (the forwards and backwards directions) in the original score and parts. The piano manuscript doesn't include the Minuet movement, so we (who don't have access to the manuscript of Haydn's A major Minuet piano transcription) will never know if he intended pianists to try reading the piano music backwards as well as forwards. I also wonder about the form of this piano edition (and the piano edition I play from).

Should the repeat of each section backwards be the repeat? Or should the forward section be played twice, followed by two statements of the backwards section, with the trio played in the same way, making the Minuet twice as long as it otherwise would be? And what do you do with the da capo?

I think that following the form of the original orchestral version would be the better choice.

Haydn's Sweet Homage to Mozart

The Mozart G minor Piano Quartet was on the radio at lunchtime today. Michael recognized the theme immediately from a Haydn "London" Trio that I used to play on the baroque flute some thirty-odd years ago. This seems to be a case of Haydn paying homage to his late friend Mozart.

Here's the last movement of the Mozart Piano Quartet in G minor, K. 478, written in 1785:



Here's the last movement of the Haydn "London" Trio #1 in C major, Hob. IV:1, written in 1794 (it should start at 6:57):



Here's the Mozart:



Here's the Haydn:

Reviewing Reviews of Augustin Hadelich

Augustin Hadelich is now a musical household name, but I remember when knowing and loving his musicianship was like being in on a special secret. One of the great joys for me during the early years of Augustin Hadelich's career as an adult musician (I was, unfortunately, not aware at the time of the career he had as a child) was telling everyone I knew about him. Writing about Augustin Hadelich's recordings for the American Record Guide was a great pleasure.

HAYDN: Violin Concertos 1, 3, 4
Augustin Hadelich, v; Cologne Chamber Orchestra/Helmut Muller-Bruhl
Naxos 8.570483 60 minutes

It would be very easy to love Augustin Hadelich’s violin playing simply for his crystalline technical facility or his always-interesting singing sound, but I am partial to his long and deep sense of phrase, his sensual relationship to the pitches that really ring on his instrument, and his fresh approach to Haydn. There is something about his playing that excites my “inner violinist” (something that always seems to be at odds from my “outer violinist”) in a way that no other violinist excites it. There is something unique about Hadelich’s playing: perhaps a purity of intent, or a direct line to what is essential in music. It is difficult to describe, but it is easy to recognize.

He is able to let phrases soar in the air, making great and graceful arcs, and then lets them land lightly, yet decisively. Hearing him play Haydn makes me happy; not a giddy kind of happy, but a balanced kind of happy. While the music is playing, I have a feeling that all is right with the world.

This recording is one of his prizes for winning the 2006 International Violin Competition of Indianapolis. Another prize is the use for four years of the ex-Gingold Stradivari violin, the instrument that he plays on this recording. Each component of the trio of Haydn, Hadelich, and Stradivari brings out the best in the others, and Hadelich’s stunningly-beautiful cadenzas reflect (and sometimes even improve upon) the best moments in these concertos.

I am impressed that he chose these three Haydn Concertos for his Naxos recording. Even though they are extremely difficult to play, they do not appear to the non-violinist to be virtuosic pieces. Aside from the First Concerto in C, these works are not very popular pieces in the solo violin literature. Violinists and people who play with violinists know that they all require a tremendous amount of musicianship and technical strength to play well, and they also demand an excellent accompanying orchestra, which Hadelich has in Helmut Muller-Bruhl and the Cologne Chamber Orchestra.

I know that after hearing this recording you will agree with me that the future of great violin playing is safe and very bright in Augustin Hadelich’s 24-year-old hands.

September/October 2008

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TELEMANN: Twelve Fantasies for Solo Violin
Augustin Hadelich
Naxos 8.570563 65 minutes

I admit that I was was rather surprised at first to see these Telemann Fantasies as Augustin Hadelich's choice for his second Naxos recording, one of the prizes given to him for winning the 2006 International Violin Competition of Indianapolis. I had heard of these pieces, but, like a lot of people (and even a lot of violinists) had never heard all twelve of them played end to end. Because these Fantasies are mainly considered student works (by those who consider them at all), they are performed more often (if they are performed at all) by students than by professional violinists. If they are performed by professional violinists, the violinists are often early music specialists who play them on baroque period instruments.

Hadelich's Telemann is brilliant, intelligent, historically informed, and definitely modern. He offers these pieces as works of serious musical substance, shattering the long-held prejudice that Telemann must have been a a second-rate composer because he wrote so much music that is playable by people with an amateur's level of technique.

Telemann, who wrote these Fantasies in 1735, reached southward towards Italy for some of his influences. There are movements in these pieces that sound a lot like Corelli, particularly the Gigue of the Fourth Fantasie, which gives the solo violin its own accompanying bass line. Many movements of these pieces are written in a German rhetorical style, some use what sounds like a lot of counterpoint, and some exploit the violin's virtuosic qualities. No two are alike, though parts of some sound a bit like Telemann's Twelve Fantasies for solo flute that were written a couple of years earlier.

These pieces have obviously not enjoyed the place in the solo violin literature held by Bach, but they do offer a really attractive alternative to Bach. I ordered the sheet music immediately after my first hearing of this recording. I hope it arrives soon.

Perhaps Hadelich's background as a German-speaking person growing up in Italy adds to his deep understanding of the German-Italian nature of these pieces. Whatever the reason, this recording is a pleasure to listen to this wonderful music and stunningly-beautiful violin playing again and again.

July/August 2009

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Echoes of Paris
DEBUSSY: Violin Sonata; POULENC: Violin Sonata; STRAVINSKY: Suite after Themes, Fragments and Pieces by Giambattista Pergolesi; PROKOFIEV: Violin Sonata 2
Augustin Hadelich, v; Robert Kulek, p
Avie 2216 70 minutes

There are many excellent young violinists around, but I can only think of a few young violinists who have the creative imagination to make well-worn pieces of the standard violin literature sound as fresh and as sturdy as Augustin Hadelich. He brings a great deal of intelligence, an uncompromising dedication to accuracy and beauty of sound, and a hearty dose of emotional idealism to his readings of the 20th century music on this recording.

He and Kulek present the Poulenc as a deeply serious piece (which it is), and seem to draw on images from Poulenc's other serious pieces (the emotional weight of Dialogues of the Carmelites comes to mind). In this reading of the Prokofiev, a piece originally written for flute and piano, Hadelich adds a surprising array of flute-like colors and articulations; something I have never heard any violinist do before. His tempo choices allow the piece to flow lightly forward, particularly in III, and he and Kulek keep II and IV very light and crispy.

These musicians play the Debussy Sonata as one continuous and remarkable 13-minute phrase, and they play Paul Kochanski's 1925 violin and piano transcription of Stravinsky's Pulcinella, the piece known (from Samuel Duskin's more popular 1932 transcription) as "Suite Italienne". The Kochanski version is much more colorful and much more difficult to play than the Dushkin, but the violinistic technical difficulties in this transcription all become expressive devices in Hadelich's hands. The microphones pick up the full range of bold and fragile nuances that come from the 1683 Ex-Gingold Stradivarius that Hadelich used until September of 2010.

May/June 2011

The Difference is in the Doing

I think that one difference between what we call "classical music" and what we might call "popular music" or "commercial music" (including music written in the various idioms used for what we call "classical music") has a lot to do with the motivations of a composer. The same composer can, of course, write music that is intended to be commercial as well as write music that is done with little regard for how it sells (or is consumed). There have always been great composers who wrote both commercial (or popular) and non commercial music. I suppose it has a lot to do with who the consumer of the music happens to be, and how s/he consumes it.

I believe that commercial music is written primarily to engage audiences. Film music is written to manipulate an audience to react to visual images and narrative in a particular way. Opera is too, and even more so in the 20th century. What we call "pop music" is very intensely geared to appeal to an audience, and it is "consumed" mostly by people who are not practicing musicians. Vocal pop music is often defined by a singer (or THE singer) connected with a song rather than the composer of a song, unless it happens to be a rare instance when it is the same person. In the case of the singer-songwriter, the idea of writing the song in the first place seems to be about sharing an emotional experience directly with an audience, where it is often consumed like "pop music," but is then "covered" by people who want to sing it themselves (and often not for an audience).

I assume that I'm not alone when I mention that communicating something to an audience is the last thing I have in mind when I write a piece of music. I write music in order to communicate with musicians and allow communication between the musicians who are playing the music I write. It is their business to communicate their interpretation to an audience. My job ends (if all goes well) where their jobs begin.

I have read that Telemann's motivation for writing music was to give people music that they enjoyed playing. I believe that Bach's motivation was similar, but he also had a job where his music needed to demonstrate the teachings of the Lutheran church. He managed to combine the whole enjoyment of playing thing and the manipulation of spirit thing rather seamlessly. Even people who describe themselves as not the least bit religious are moved emotionally when they listen to Bach's religious music. Instrumentalists who play Bach's non-religious music find personal enjoyment in the process of practicing it. And the personal enjoyment is something that we experience daily. For most of us there is no need to perform Bach's music. We play it because of what it does for us in our own private spaces.

Haydn and his contemporaries published string quartets so that people could play them for collective enjoyment. The challenges and jokes that he put in his music are there to enhance the private musical discourse. When Mozart wrote his "Haydn" Quartets, he did so as a way of communicating with a composer he admired. I believe that the idea of performing them for an audience would have been the furthest thing from his mind. The commercial success for most of the composers of the Classical Period came from the sales of their music. It's kind of like the concept of commercial success for Milton and Bradley comes from the sales of their games.

Sure, Mozart and Haydn did write music that was intended for audiences, and those audiences were often important ones that included monarchs and patrons, but I believe that some of their "public" music was different from the music that they wrote for their friends and for musicians they admired. I think that they wrote chamber music and piano music primarily for people to enjoy playing, and I believe that they always wrote their orchestral music (particularly Haydn, who had standing relationships with the members of his orchestra) so that the musicians would enjoy themselves while playing it. In Beethoven's later years he cared a great deal about what audiences thought of his Quartets (like the late Quartets), but those people were often musicians themselves, and Beethoven was an exception to all rules.

Moving forward to the period of uncommon practice (a.k.a. today), composers write their music for musicians to play and enjoy. The idea of the standard musical ensemble has expanded greatly. There are a great number of percussionists who like to use large numbers of instruments. There are people who enjoy using sophisticated electronic instruments, people who have expertise using extended techniques, microtones, and multiphonics, and people who enjoy exploring non western scales. Many of these musicians are young, and many are interested in playing new music written by people of their generation. The existing repertoire would be very small (if existent at all) for an ensemble made of tuba, percussion, flute, harp, bassoon, and French horn, and for such an ensemble to survive as a performing group, it would need good new music to play. I like to think that composers who would write for a young ensemble like the hypothetical one above would be more concerned about how playable the harp part is, if the bassoon can be heard above the tuba, or whether the percussionist can participate in the ensemble without dominating, than how an audience will respond to his or her musical ideas.

Members of the listening public and consumers of recorded music should remember that there is a lot of new music that is not being written for your enjoyment. It is being written for the enjoyment of the intended performing musicians, and for the enjoyment of other ensembles made of the same instruments as the intended ensemble. If they succeed at communicating the essence of a piece of new music to you, they have succeeded in their mission. If they don't, it could have something to do with the composer (who, if given a chance to hear a performance, can correct the problems in the work), or it could have something to do with errors of judgement (or notes, or rhythms) made by the performing musicians.

I really don't believe that contemporary composers should be judged against composers from a previous eras. I don't believe that living composers should be judged against dead ones. (The living composer can grow, and the dead one can't.) I also don't believe it is fair to judge a composer from the "common practice" period against a composer from what I call the "uncommon practice" of the present day. There will never be another Rameau, J.S. Bach, Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert, Brahms, Schumann, Debussy, Bartok, Ravel, Stravinsky, or Shostakovich (to give just a few examples). These were all singular musical personalities who continue, long after their lives ended, to challenge our imaginations and remain relevant and modern. I believe they all speak to the musicians who play their music now with the same voices they spoke with while they were living, but as "consumers" of music (everyone reading this post is probably, on some level, a consumer of music) we need to keep an open mind about what the music of today means to today's young musicians. The best stuff will survive because people will want to play it, and the stuff that nobody wants to play might have to wait for another generation to find musicians who appreciate. It could also simply fade into oblivion. Only time will tell. While we wait, musicians will still enjoy playing music written by the composers on the above list and by composers who may have not been as well respected or well known during their lifetimes.

I'll end this little rant by paraphrasing a statement I heard Stephane Wrembel make about the influence Django Reinhardt has on him: you can work under the shadows of great composers, or you can be illuminated by their light.

Some Suggestions About Listening to Beethoven String Quartets

A lot has been said and written about the sublime nature of Beethoven's late string quartets, but it seems that some people interested in listening to them might not know how to begin to appreciate or even understand the qualities that make them great. Some people might find it intimidating when someone like Cornel West casually tosses his love for Beethoven's late string quartets into his discussions about philosophy. "Understanding" a logical argument is very different from "understanding" a piece of music, because music strives to organize emotion and emotional experience in time. It would be interesting to hear a discussion about Beethoven between Cornel West and someone like Maynard Solomon. West might end up appearing to those "in the know" like the way Leonard Bernstein appeared when he attempted to talk about linguistics.

For string players the Beethoven String Quartets are like what the Pentateuch is to theologians: a constant source of study and wonder. Each one is like a complicated person who becomes an intimate friend. We all know that the more you try to understand the people closest to you, the more of a mystery they become. When you throw love into the mix, it is nearly impossible to really "know" somebody. By the same reasoning, it is nearly impossible to "know" any of the Beethoven Quartets, but it is sure compelling to keep trying. My purpose here is not to provide analysis and insight. It is simply to make an introduction and suggest a listening order. It is similar to the order that I use to introduce his quartets to my students, and it is extremely personal.

The best way to "understand" Beethoven's later quartets is by becoming familiar with his earlier quartets. One thing to bear in mind is that the six quartets of Opus 18, Beethoven's first set of quartets, are not "less mature" Beethoven. They do use many of the 18th-century conventions used by Mozart and Haydn, and the Opus 18 Quartets do show Mozart's and Haydn's influence, but they are not, by any stretch of the imagination, imitations. Not being able to "better" either Mozart or Haydn, Beethoven re-invented the string quartet with his Opus 18. He began his string-quartet-composing life at the age of 30, and he ended it at the age of 56 with his final Quartet, Opus 135, six months before he died.

The six Opus 18 Quartets are all in four movements. They were written at the turn of the century (18th to 19th), and each one lasts about 25 minutes (following the conventions of the time). The fourth Quartet of the opus (not following the conventions of the time) has two movements in ternary form, a Scherzo and a Minuet, and the third Quartet doesn't have a movement in ternary form at all.

I would begin listening with Opus 18, but I would start with #4, the very intense Quartet in C minor. Next I would listen to Opus 18 #1 in F major, leaving the rest of the opus for later listening. I would next suggest listening to the third of the Opus 59 Quartets, but I would first listen to the Mozart Quartet K 465 (the "Dissonance Quartet"), the last of the six string quartets that Mozart dedicated to Haydn. Beethoven's Opus 59 #3 is an out-and-out tribute to the Mozart. Listen to the introduction of the Mozart, then listen to the introduction of the Beethoven. You may not know how to put it into words, or how to analyze it, but you will understand the relationship immediately.

The other two Opus 59 Quartets are a bit longer than the Opus 18 Quartets, and they incorporate some very exciting Russian folk material. I would listen to #2 before listening to #1, but that's just personal (it's the order in which I first learned them). Go on to Opus 74, the "Harp" Quartet, and notice how, like two of the Opus 59 Quartets, the line between the third and fourth movements blurs. The tempo changes, but there is no pause between movements. Go back and listen to the rest of the Opus 18 Quartets. You will notice a distinct difference in style from the Opus 59 Quartets and the Opus 74, but you will not notice a change in quality: all of Beethoven's string quartets are masterpieces.

Now it's time for Opus 95, the "Serioso" Quartet. Written in 1810, and clocking in at 20 minutes, it is the shortest of the quartets. It is also one of the most intense, because there is just so much packed into those 20 minutes. There is also a bit of shape shifting going on here, with a sudden connection between the second and third movements, several abrupt changes in key, and a final movement that seems to have several different personalities. We have now arrived in the world of late Beethoven.

At this point, I would advise people new to this to start from the "back of the book." Opus 135 is only 26 minutes long, it's in the key of F major, and, aside from the final movement (called "Der schwer gefasste Entschluss"), it follows the shape of the quartets in Opus 18. I would advise listening to it with the score. Even if you don't read music, you will appreciate having it for the last movement. Go back and listen to Opus 18 #1 (here's the score), and then listen to Opus 95 again.

Beethoven wrote the Opus 127 Quartet in 1824, after taking a 14-year hiatus from string quartet writing. This piece sounds like the polar opposite of the Opus 95 "Serioso" Quartet, the last string quartet he wrote before his hiatus (during which he wrote his later Piano Sonatas and his 9th Symphony). Opus 127 is as expansive as the Opus 95 is contracted, and for me it marks Beethoven's leap from the more concrete to the more abstract in quartet writing.

Now it's time for Opus 132 in A minor. It takes 42 minutes or so, and there are a lot of tempo changes, key changes, and even more changes of mood. Allow yourself to hold onto the reins of the movement segments that seem to follow the laws of gravity, and allow yourself to be suspended when the music suspends you. The logic behind the structure of this one is all Beethoven's. You can't second guess him (even if you are playing). Sometimes when listening to this piece you can't even remember where you have been.

Opus 131, in C-sharp minor, is a deeply serious work. Unlike anything we have heard in this particular order, it begins with a really long Adagio that serves as an introduction to a very short Allegro. During the piece's 37 minutes or so, it changes tempo thirteen times, and all of the movements are played "attacca" or without a pause between them, so it can be really difficult to keep track of where you are. The fourth movement, which is divided into several sections, and has the only repeat mark in the whole quartet, is almost a quartet within a quartet. You might recognize the fifth movement has a motive that Beethoven quotes in the last movement of his last quartet, Opus 135. If this quartet boggles your mind, you are not alone. You have generations of equally-boggled listeners. After repeated hearings, it often comes out as a real favorite.

Now we have arrived at Opus 130, which, complete with the Grosse Fugue, takes more than 50 minutes to perform. After listening to Opus 131 you should find this six-movement Quartet rather tuneful and easy to follow. It begins with a slow introduction (if you have heard any of the earlier Quartets of Mendelssohn, you will find it strangely familiar), and continues tunefully along. After the loveliest of Cavatinas, Beethoven tops this quartet off with a 16-minute fugue that is almost as difficult to follow by ear (or by score) as it is to play. This is one of the movements that scares listeners away from late Beethoven. I first heard it when I was in a class with David Diamond at Juilliard, and I didn't know what to make of it. Now I love it, but it has taken a long for that love to develop. It took me more than twenty years just be able to follow the workings of the counterpoint, so don't despair.

Beethoven's audience didn't like the Fugue, and his publisher suggested that the piece should be published with an alternative Finale. The Grosse Fugue was published as a separate opus (133). My preferred way of listening to this piece is with both the Fugue and the Finale!

I own many sets of Beethoven Quartets, so I can make a few recommendations:

The Borodin set on Chandos is one of my current favorites, as is the Alban Berg's set, which has also been recorded on DVD. The Leipzig String Quartet also has an excellent set. The Vegh Quartet's 1952 set is exceptional, as is the Quartetto Italiano's set. I like the Colorado Quartet's set a lot (they observe all of Beethoven's repeats), and I like the Eroica Quartet's set (they use 19th century instruments).

My favorite recording of Opus 130 (with the Grosse Fugue) is the 1984 Vermeer Quartet recording on Teldec. I don't know if it is still available on CD, but I did find an LP on ebay.

There are a lot more Beethoven Quartet performances on YouTube, and all the scores are available (for free) right here.

2019 UPDATE: Stephen Malinowinski and the Alexander String Quartet have made a complete cycle of Beethoven Quartets with graphical score animations (so you can see the score in colored animation as you listen) which is available on this YouTube page.

Notes from the Piano

Now that I am nearing the end of my first year of my (almost) daily relationship with the piano, I have returned to spending quality time with Mr. Haydn. Things are different now. Instead of simply being amazed at what he does with his material, I am now starting to ask the music to do something for me emotionally. Instead of turning to Haydn simply for inspiration and a little instruction, I am now turning to him as a way to express myself emotionally (there is much in Haydn to soothe an aching soul) and suddenly I want to play legato, which I can actually accomplish when I use the suggested fingerings in my Peters edition of the Sonatas. This requires me to use all my fingers, even the relatively weak ones.

I noticed today that my piano fourth finger on my left hand is the weakest finger of my two hands. I find this odd since it is the very same finger I consider the strongest when I am playing the viola and the violin as well as the flute and the recorder. I suppose that there are over-developed muscles and under-developed muscles in all the fingers, and as form follows function, the underused muscles in otherwise strong fingers reveal themselves and develop over time.

I find that I want to play more evenly and more in rhythm than I did during my maiden voyage through Haydn's Sonatas, and it seems that I can now play the quicker movements with a little bit more tempo (only a bit). I was surprised that yesterday I could actually play triplets in my left hand while playing sixteenth notes in my right without thinking about it. This is something that I could only do mathematically a few short months ago.

Haydn Piano Sonatas

In my quest to learn more about the piano, more about music, and more about Haydn, I have almost completed my first run through the 43 Haydn Piano Sonatas in my four-volume Peters Edition set. I usually limit myself to a movement or two, but today I played through the whole C major Sonata, Hoboken 16/50, because I found it so fascinating, so beautiful, and so much fun to play. My intuition tells me that Schubert probably loved this sonata too.

Here it is played (at the proper tempo) by Brendel:





My daily Haydn has become my refuge. I think that after tomorrow I'll just go back to volume one and start again.

How about a cleansing minuet?

Last night's playing of Haydn's Opus 71 Quartets (numbers two and three) was remarkably cleansing. The title phrase of this post was uttered by one of the violinsts (I was the other violinist) towards the end of the evening. We all smiled, and played on.

I had the comforting notion last night that these quartets have exercised their cleansing properties over generations and generations of musicians living in every corner of this round world. I think of the trials and tribulations associated with the changes in government we have to contend with these days, and that have proven to be a great drain on my psyche. But how many string players before me who have had to live their lives during the darkest days (months, years, decades) of history have found the same kind of respite from despair that I (and we) find in Haydn?

There are, of course, other areas of respite, but the Haydn seems to work its magic after the actual playing is over.

I have written a lot about Haydn in these "pages." You can read more, if you like, about my special relationship with him here.

Accidental Musical Detective Work

Christoph Willibald Gluck's Orfeo ed Euridice was first performed at the Burgtheater in Vienna in 1762. The piece below (in the picture above) is from the "Dance of the Blessed Spirits," which is the part of the opera that most people recognize. Haydn's Opus 9 Quartets were published in 1769. I'm not a betting woman, but I would bet that Haydn attended that 1762 production, and a lovely four-measure-long musical gesture from the "Dance of the Blessed Spirits" followed him out of the theater and found a home in the Adagio of this lovely, little-known quartet.

Why do I know this piece? I have the honor and privilege of having a long-term project that involves reading through all the Haydn quartets (in order) with a willing set of amateurs (and one former professional) at a local elder care facility where the former professional lives. I get to step out of my comfort zone and play first violin, which, in the case of this quartet, number 14 (of 83 Haydn quartets), was a real challenge.

We played Opus 9, No. 2 this evening, and it was a wonderful experience. So far it's everyone's favorite.