Last week I attended performances of the modern Scottish theatre epic, The James Plays. This week I'll be going to a performance of Shakespeare's famous (notorious?) "Scottish play", Macbeth.
Somehow, Scotland is in the air, and this seems like a good time to introduce a couple of Scottish composers and their magnificent orchestral works.
It's a curious fact that, although Scottish writers are known and admired widely, few people seem to be aware of other forms of artistic creation in Scotland. And yet, Scotland has a centuries-long tradition of revering and respecting the arts, and has produced many fine painters, sculptors, authors, and composers. In the late nineteenth century and early twentieth century, at the same time as there was a major renaissance in musical composition in England, a parallel musical boom was also under way in Scotland. John Blackwood McEwen was one of the finest Scottish composers of that time.
The first work I want to bring to your attention is a set of three symphonic poems which McEwen called Border Ballads. Although the name suggests singing, there is none. Instead, we have a symphonic form that can be related to the piano Ballades of Chopin or Brahms: structures which make use of multiple themes, and which proceed in a fashion that suggests narrative without any detailed narrative programme being followed.
The three pieces were all composed between 1906 and 1908, although the ideas may have begun to form as early as 1900. The style is conservative for the day, the music written in a post-Wagnerian Romantic vein. And yet, it is unmistakably Scottish. Perhaps a close parallel is found with the tone poems of Dvorak and Smetana which brought the rhythms and harmonies of Czech folk music into the musical mainstream.
The first of the three Ballads to be composed, Coronach, is an elaborate funeral ode, named after the dirges sung over the bodies of Celtic chieftains. The opening theme is a quiet funeral march on the brasses, accompanied by timpani rolls. Although there are louder eruptions from time to time, the music is predominantly quieter as befits its inspiration. The funeral march is gripping and impressive, but the contrasting themes which follow are more meditative than interesting -- until the march quietly re-emerges and seizes attention once again. A new march theme in major key then appears and lightens the tone of the music, building up until it ends the Ballad in a tone of majestic triumph.
The second Ballad, and much the longest, The Demon Lover, is inspired by a Celtic legend of a married woman lured away by the demonic spirit of her former sailor lover. But like the best symphonic poems of other traditions, this one does not take a narrative approach to the music. McEwen preferred to construct a symphonic structure related to the legend by tone colour and mood rather than in form. Sadly, the composer never managed to get this work performed.
It begins with swaying themes that suggest the sea. More so than the other Ballads, the spirit of Tristan und Isolde hovers over this music, especially in the harmonic procedures, yet it isn't derivative. A slow, mysterious theme based on a repeated four-note motif rising and falling pursues its way like a funeral march. After it rises to a shattering climax, a new andante melody suggests passion and longing. The sombre four-note motif recurs. The music then bursts into the extended allegro section which comprises the second half of the work. Here the surging waves of multiple climaxes create a melodramatic atmosphere amidst chromatic Tristan-esque harmonies. The last and greatest climax is followed, not by a full-scale recapitulation, but by a diminuendo passage which winds its way down to silence.
The last and most musically inventive of these three tone poems is called Grey Galloway. The title refers to the southwestern corner of Scotland, between Glasgow and Carlisle, a beautiful land of rolling hills and sea lochs, and yet a land which has seen much battle and bloodshed through the centuries. The music opens with a march-like theme punctuated by brass chords, making almost Wagnerian use of the large brass section of the orchestra. The dotted rhythm includes in its second bar a "Scotch snap", the rhythm of an eighth note followed by a dotted quarter. There follows an extended tranquil section whose lyrical beauty brings to mind the rolling landscapes of the Galloway hills.
A skillful crescendo passage leads into a turbulent militaristic battle scene incorporating another march theme. The effect is not unlike the battle music of Smetana's tone poem Sarka. A contrasting quieter passage contains wailing woodwind effects not unlike the keening of the pipes. Eventually the uproar of the battle bursts out again, leading into a final brass-heavy recall of the opening theme to round the work off.
In a later post I'll cover another important work by McEwen which doesn't really fit into my theme today because it is decidedly un-Scottish in mood.
From McEwen I want to turn next to Hamish MacCunn. I've heard a couple of recordings of his music which held my attention briefly. But the first piece of his which I ever encountered is one of those remarkable works which is so ingrained in my mind that I can quite easily find myself humming it over when I haven't listened to a recording for months on end. I'm humming it right now.
MacCunn's concert overture, Land of the Mountain and the Flood, declares itself Scottish by virtue of the title. It's a line from a once-famous poem about Scotland by Sir Walter Scott, a poem I recall memorizing when I was in elementary school.
The music opens with a simple melodic idea which, in its short two-bar span, has already incorporated the characteristic "Scotch snap" rhythm. This little melodic idea pervades much of the overture. After a few introductory pages, a long singing tune is heard which forms the first main theme of the overture. After some development, the opening two-bar motif returns, but in a more emphatic form which soon takes on a martial character. With flourishes from the brasses and winds it rises to the overture's one and only really loud climax. After that dies away, the singing melody returns and gradually leads to a joyful conclusion with brass fanfares. It's not great, heaven-storming music, but it's full of life and jovial energy, and the themes -- as I already mentioned -- are nothing if not memorable.
None of this music incorporates such "Scottish" elements as bagpipes, folk tunes, or dance music, yet the Scottish feeling is somehow unmistakable in each of these works. Taken purely as music, they are all definitely deserving of much more attention than they have received up until now.
The first of the three Ballads to be composed, Coronach, is an elaborate funeral ode, named after the dirges sung over the bodies of Celtic chieftains. The opening theme is a quiet funeral march on the brasses, accompanied by timpani rolls. Although there are louder eruptions from time to time, the music is predominantly quieter as befits its inspiration. The funeral march is gripping and impressive, but the contrasting themes which follow are more meditative than interesting -- until the march quietly re-emerges and seizes attention once again. A new march theme in major key then appears and lightens the tone of the music, building up until it ends the Ballad in a tone of majestic triumph.
The second Ballad, and much the longest, The Demon Lover, is inspired by a Celtic legend of a married woman lured away by the demonic spirit of her former sailor lover. But like the best symphonic poems of other traditions, this one does not take a narrative approach to the music. McEwen preferred to construct a symphonic structure related to the legend by tone colour and mood rather than in form. Sadly, the composer never managed to get this work performed.
It begins with swaying themes that suggest the sea. More so than the other Ballads, the spirit of Tristan und Isolde hovers over this music, especially in the harmonic procedures, yet it isn't derivative. A slow, mysterious theme based on a repeated four-note motif rising and falling pursues its way like a funeral march. After it rises to a shattering climax, a new andante melody suggests passion and longing. The sombre four-note motif recurs. The music then bursts into the extended allegro section which comprises the second half of the work. Here the surging waves of multiple climaxes create a melodramatic atmosphere amidst chromatic Tristan-esque harmonies. The last and greatest climax is followed, not by a full-scale recapitulation, but by a diminuendo passage which winds its way down to silence.
The last and most musically inventive of these three tone poems is called Grey Galloway. The title refers to the southwestern corner of Scotland, between Glasgow and Carlisle, a beautiful land of rolling hills and sea lochs, and yet a land which has seen much battle and bloodshed through the centuries. The music opens with a march-like theme punctuated by brass chords, making almost Wagnerian use of the large brass section of the orchestra. The dotted rhythm includes in its second bar a "Scotch snap", the rhythm of an eighth note followed by a dotted quarter. There follows an extended tranquil section whose lyrical beauty brings to mind the rolling landscapes of the Galloway hills.
A skillful crescendo passage leads into a turbulent militaristic battle scene incorporating another march theme. The effect is not unlike the battle music of Smetana's tone poem Sarka. A contrasting quieter passage contains wailing woodwind effects not unlike the keening of the pipes. Eventually the uproar of the battle bursts out again, leading into a final brass-heavy recall of the opening theme to round the work off.
In a later post I'll cover another important work by McEwen which doesn't really fit into my theme today because it is decidedly un-Scottish in mood.
From McEwen I want to turn next to Hamish MacCunn. I've heard a couple of recordings of his music which held my attention briefly. But the first piece of his which I ever encountered is one of those remarkable works which is so ingrained in my mind that I can quite easily find myself humming it over when I haven't listened to a recording for months on end. I'm humming it right now.
MacCunn's concert overture, Land of the Mountain and the Flood, declares itself Scottish by virtue of the title. It's a line from a once-famous poem about Scotland by Sir Walter Scott, a poem I recall memorizing when I was in elementary school.
The music opens with a simple melodic idea which, in its short two-bar span, has already incorporated the characteristic "Scotch snap" rhythm. This little melodic idea pervades much of the overture. After a few introductory pages, a long singing tune is heard which forms the first main theme of the overture. After some development, the opening two-bar motif returns, but in a more emphatic form which soon takes on a martial character. With flourishes from the brasses and winds it rises to the overture's one and only really loud climax. After that dies away, the singing melody returns and gradually leads to a joyful conclusion with brass fanfares. It's not great, heaven-storming music, but it's full of life and jovial energy, and the themes -- as I already mentioned -- are nothing if not memorable.
None of this music incorporates such "Scottish" elements as bagpipes, folk tunes, or dance music, yet the Scottish feeling is somehow unmistakable in each of these works. Taken purely as music, they are all definitely deserving of much more attention than they have received up until now.
No comments:
Post a Comment