BBC - Philharmonic - Learning

Session B: Wednesday 2nd December 11.30 - 13.00

Tchaikovsky (1840 - 1893)
Swan Lake Suite, Op. 20a

Swan Lake is a ballet; ballet tells a story using dance and music, but without singing. The music remains the same in any production, but choreographers (=‘dance-writers’ in Greek), whose job it is to devise the movements that the dancers make, have a great deal of freedom in portraying the story. In this respect, they can be compared with directors of opera, or, indeed, any stage production.

Some composers’ music has been ‘borrowed’ for ballet, whilst others wrote music specifically for the purpose: one of the most important was Igor Stravinsky, a great composer of the Twentieth Century, who wrote several ballets for a company run by Diaghilev. Amongst his ballet scores, the Rite of Spring is of particular importance (if you can listen to a recording of it, you might think that some bits were written only last week, although the music is nearly 100 years old.)

Tchaikovsky wrote Swan Lake, the first of his three ballet scores, in 1875-1876; it was first performed in Moscow in 1877, and was initially badly received for a variety of reasons, none of which was Tchaikovsky’s fault. Russian folk tales, with a contribution from German legend, are the source for the story. There are several different versions of it, especially as far as the ending is concerned: it can be either happy or sad, or even a mixture of the two, but the essential elements are the transformation of the good fairy Odette into a swan through a curse put on her by an evil magician, von Rothbart, and the fact that Prince Siegfried falls in love with her and tries to break the sorcerer’s spell. Complication and tragedy follow when Siegfried is tricked into mistaking von Rothbart’s daughter Odile for Odette, a mistake he realises only after he has asked Odile to be his wife.

There may have been a connection in Tchaikovsky’s mind between the character Siegfried and the so-called ‘mad’ King Ludwig II of Bavaria, whose obsession with swans is evident in the extravagant decoration of the most spectacular of his three fairy-tale castles, Neuschwanstein (‘Schwan’ is German for ‘swan’.)

What is a Suite?
The term ‘Suite’ has different meanings at different periods of musical history, but in this case, it means a series of orchestral pieces extracted from a much longer work, usually a ballet or an opera. Sometimes the pieces are taken almost unchanged from the original work, sometimes they are reworked, arranged or adapted in various ways. Tchaikovsky intended to make a suite from Swan Lake when it was revived at the Bolshoi Ballet in 1882, but in the end, it was his publisher Jurgenson that did so, and the number of movements played varies. One practical reason why composers made suites from larger works is that in this way, the music had a better chance of being performed than if it had been left buried, as it were, in a work that was much more expensive and difficult to perform. So suites usually include particularly well known and memorable passages, and are often the way that people come to listen to the whole of the larger work.

The Music
The sections of the Suite are known as ‘movements’ (as are the sections of some other works such as sonatas and symphonies.)

First Movement: Scène
This movement, and the last, contains the most famous music in the ballet, associated with the moonlit lake, the home of Odette and other girls that have suffered the same fate of being transformed into swans. The technique of using easily recognisable melodies (sometimes called ‘leitmotifs’) to represent specific characters or places was employed by Tchaikovsky in both this ballet and, much later, in Sleeping Beauty. A string tremolo (when the players draw a short section of the bow very quickly back and forth over the string to produce a quivering sound) immediately evokes a chilly, tragic scene, and a solo oboe plays a beautiful melody accompanied by a rippling harp. The tune is then shared between horns and violins. A climax for full orchestra quickly follows, before the movement dies away with the first phrase of the melody being passed around various instruments.

Second Movement: Valse (Waltz)
After an introduction featuring a long, descending pizzicato scale, i.e. with the violins plucking the strings of their instruments rather than using the bow, Tchaikovsky sets up the typical waltz accompaniment, three in a bar, with a strong accent on the first beat, and we hear the lilting, swinging dance to which the guests arrive in Act III for a grand ball at the castle. A contrasting section follows, with light, delicate orchestration: listen for the tinkling of the triangle in the percussion section, and the high sounds of the piccolo, which in Italian means simply ‘small’: a small flute. The waltz tune returns, followed by more contrasting material, though the ONE-two-three beat of the waltz is always there in the background. Wait here for the lovely cornet solo – like a trumpet, but deeper and more ‘fruity’. As the evening progresses, the dancers begin to whirl faster (how much champagne have they had?) and the excitement increases to the end of the piece.

Third Movement: Dance of the Little Swans
This is the shortest movement, and the delicate, detached (staccato) notes of its melody are perfectly suited to the elegant, precise steps of the young swans huddling together as they pass across the stage. The woodwind section is the most prominent, over a chugging bass played by the bassoons; in the middle section, the strings join in, and some syncopations (when the accent is shifted onto parts of the bar where we don’t expect one) contrast with the regular ‘ticking’ movement of the tune. The whole piece is quiet except for the last two chords, which bring it to a sudden stop.

Fourth Movement: Scène – Pas d’Action
The harp introduces a violin solo, played by the leader of the orchestra. It is in three sections, using progressively higher registers (areas) of the instrument’s wide range. The first section is dreamy and romantic, the second and third turn into another waltz. Finally, the violin is joined by a solo ‘cello in a kind of conversation, where the violin is surely meant to represent Odette and the ‘cello Siegfried. Tchaikovsky once wrote in a letter, ‘Oh, how difficult it is to make anyone see and feel in music what we see and feel ourselves!’ but he surely contradicted himself in music like this.

Fifth Movement: Hungarian Dance (Czardas)
Composers have always turned at times to the characteristic musical styles of other countries for inspiration, and Hungarian dances were one of the most popular sources: Brahms and Dvořák, for example, both wrote a large number of them, as did Liszt, though he did have the excuse of actually being Hungarian! Tchaikovsky’s offering shows the typical characteristics: a slow, melancholy, brooding section in a minor key (A minor here), followed by a fast, jolly and rhythmical conclusion in the major.

Sixth Movement: Scène
After a stormy and passionate introduction, we hear again the oboe melody from the opening Scène, but Tchaikovsky varies (‘develops’) his material in several ways: the tune is faster this time, and the string accompaniment is syncopated, pulsing and agitated instead of being smooth as it was the first time. The speed increases further, and the music suddenly modulates (changes key) twice in quick succession while the opening bars of the tune are repeated, breaking off in mid-phrase. Then the tune is heard yet again, in full, at its original speed, against trumpet fanfares. This is a thrilling moment, as the full power of the orchestra is unleashed. The Suite ends with a final appearance of the great tune, but this time in the major key, as though reflecting the transformation from swan to princess, from sadness to happiness.

What else shall I listen to by Tchaikovsky?
Tchaikovsky wrote a large amount of music in many forms, some of it among the best known in the world: the Fourth, Fifth and Sixth symphonies (the Sixth is known as the ‘Pathétique’), the First Piano Concerto, the Violin Concerto, the 1812 Overture, and of course the Nutcracker ballet, which is a Christmas favourite. He had a wonderful knack of writing memorable tunes, and his music is always accessible and rewarding to listen to, so it doesn’t really matter which of his works you explore: the more you listen, the more you’ll hear, even if you’re listening to a piece for the hundredth time! And if you can read music, try to get hold of a score of the work you’re listening to: you’ll be able to see how it’s put together, and how the sounds are made, and you’ll get to know it much more quickly.

Things to do
i) Compare Tchaikovsky’s waltz with other waltzes, e.g. those of Johann Strauss, or the second movement of Berlioz’s Symphonie Fantastique, which also depicts the excitement of a grand ball. Also, the second movement of the ‘Pathétique’ symphony is a kind of waltz. Which of these pieces would be easiest to dance to? Try them!

ii) Waltzes are always in 3/4 time, but so are minuets, a different, older kind of dance. Listen to a minuet (there are hundreds of them available!) and think how the dance might differ from a waltz.

iii) See how many examples you can find of composers (and other artists) finding inspiration in swans. You might like to start with Saint-Saëns’s Carnival of the Animals, and Saint-Saëns wasn’t the only one. Which composer best captures the swan in his music?

iv) Choose an animal or bird and compose some music to describe it. You’ll need to think how the animal moves, as well as what it looks like.

v) What do you think the villain of Swan Lake, the evil magician von Rothbart, would look like (clue: his name means ‘Redbeard’ in German)? Make a drawing of him, or design a costume for him for a production of Swan Lake. Remember that he is disguised as a guest at the ball.

© Keith Hannis November 2009

Session A: Friday 6th November 11.30- 13.00

Sergey Rachmaninoff (1873 - 1943)
Symphony No. 2 in E minor, Op. 27 (1906 - 7)

Largo - Allegro moderato
Allegro molto - Meno mosso - Tempo 1
Adagio
Allegro vivace - Adagio - Tempo precedente

Rachmaninoff was one of the most prodigiously gifted musicians who ever lived. As a virtuoso pianist his reputation remains second to none; before leaving Russia in 1917 he was almost as famous a conductor as he was a pianist; and as a composer his legacy includes some of the most enduringly popular works of the 20th century.

Yet he was chronically insecure. Whether or not it was childhood traumas that left their mark - his father squandered the family fortune, his parents separated, his sister died of diphtheria - he seemed to experience a recurrent longing to be somewhere other than where he was. Amid the hurly-burly of Moscow he longed for the tranquillity of his relatives’ estate 600 miles to the east beyond the Volga, or to travel abroad to compose in peace. Yet during his 25-year exile he pined for the native soil which he regarded as his muse. In his composing scarcely a single major project was completed without agonising self-doubts on the way; often in performance he would make cuts in his own music, apparently fearful of boring his audience.

Yet it was the fusion of that colossal talent and that chronic dissatisfaction which makes his music unique. For the nostalgia and vulnerability are universalised thanks to the creative will-power which embodies them in massive coherent structures; and in the end they always have to give way to waves of triumphant energy. In this fashion Rachmaninoff’s self-conquest becomes our own, and we ourselves emerge invigorated.

The process is most dramatically symbolised in his four great piano concertos. But it is every bit as clear in his three symphonies, of which the Second is the most imposing. He composed it in 1906 and 1907, for the most part in Dresden, where he had taken refuge from the political and professional strains of life in Russia. As with the Third Piano Concerto of 1909, its massive dimensions are in part a statement about creative power.

Rachmaninoff’s First Symphony of 1895 had been a celebrated fiasco. Feebly conducted by Glazunov and likened in César Cui’s review to ‘a programme symphony on the Seven Plagues of Egypt’, it was destroyed by the composer (the score was reconstructed from orchestral parts discovered after his death). The depression and creative paralysis that ensued were lifted in equally celebrated fashion when the hypnotist Nikolay Dahl managed to restore Rachmaninoff’s spirits, unlocking the Second Piano Concerto from his blocked psyche. Operatic projects were soon to follow, but the prospect of another symphony was daunting. Rachmaninoff had something to prove to himself and to the world. He would have to lay to rest the sad ghost of his First Symphony.

He did so by drawing on the full arsenal of his technique, synthesising Russian symphonic trends with the glamour of the Lisztian symphonic poem. From Tchaikovsky he developed a vein of lyrical self-absorption and an obsession with fate, from Rimsky-Korsakov the notion of impregnable academic solidity in large-scale form, and from Taneyev (to whom the symphony is dedicated) the intricacy of motivic unity and of counterpoint. To all of these he added his own genius for expanding simple harmonic progressions from within until they cover huge spans of accumulating or dispersing tension. And he kept one inspired ploy in reserve for the finale, a ploy which makes this work unique in his output.

The symphony’s long, slow introduction could just as appropriately be the conclusion to a slow movement, reflecting on past events with elegiac sadness. Placed as it is here, it sets the emotional tone for the entire first movement. Heavy-heartedness is experienced to the full, then drawn upwards towards determination and energy, and finally transfigured into acceptance. This happens both in the introduction itself and repeatedly in the main body of the movement. The melodic material is spun from the stepwise turning figure heard in the opening bars, with almost all the interest residing in the long harmonic progressions on which it rides. So unobtrusive is the main theme of the Allegro that it features hardly at all in the development section or even the recapitulation. Instead, the middle of the movement draws mainly on the introduction. It builds up a huge storm, very much in the manner of Tchaikovsky’s ‘Pathétique’, eventually abating with the return of the consoling second subject before the final summons to defiance.

The second-movement scherzo is a muscular affair, relaxing into one of Rachmaninoff’s great string tunes; the latter is supported by modal harmonies inspired by his love for Slavonic church music, and yet again it is restrained in its predominant stepwise movement. In a quid pro quo for this unscheduled lyrical effusion the traditionally relaxed trio section is replaced by an aggressive fugato on the scherzo’s opening violin phrase.

Two memorable ideas provide the scaffolding for the slow third movement. The burgeoning violins, with their opening arpeggio ascent, soon peter out, but the clarinet tune they spark off is one of the most glorious melodies in the entire symphonic repertory. Once again it moves almost entirely by step. In between the two statements of these ideas comes a prolonged meditation on the introduction to the first movement, building inexorably towards a radiant affirmation of the ascending arpeggio. Violins restate the clarinet tune, as they do in the Second Piano Concerto.

As if in celebration of the psychological growth experienced in the slow movement, the finale opens in ebullient mood. This will be a movement that settles all previous scores. Its first episode takes on some of the unfinished emotional business from the scherzo in a threatening quiet march soon disposed of by a return of the opening theme. Then it is time for the masterstroke. A massive string theme breaks the mould of stepwise movement and takes possession of musical space with confident arching lines over pulsating triplets in the wind and brass. There is more coming to terms with the past to be done in this movement, but it is this theme, in even more triumphant guise, that will return to crown the entire work.

Programme note © David Fanning

David Fanning is Professor of Music at the University of Manchester, the author of books on Nielsen and Shostakovich, and a critic for ‘Gramophone’ and ‘The Daily Telegraph’.

Composer Portrait: Sergey Rachmaninoff

Rachmaninoff was born into a family of Russian landowners in financial decline and his parents separated when he was still at school. Despite this, family connections were important: he married a cousin, and another cousin, the pianist Alexander Siloti, taught him at the Moscow Conservatory. There, his studies were supervised by a musical ‘godfather’, Nikolay Zverev, with whom he also lodged. But Zverev wanted Rachmaninoff to be a pianist and threw him out of the house when he persisted with composition. Rachmaninoff got his revenge when his one-act opera Aleko (1892) won the highest possible marks in his final exam. This led to a publishing contract and a premiere at the Bolshoi Theatre.

Meanwhile, Rachmaninoff had written his Prelude in C sharp minor, whose popularity was to hound him in later life. He began his First Symphony in 1895, the disastrous premiere of which in 1897 led to a creative block of almost three years. Rachmaninoff was no mean conductor himself and, when he found it almost impossible to compose, he launched what was virtually a third career - conducting opera. Though he recovered from the crisis in creative self-confidence with the help of Dr Nikolay Dahl, he always doubted the worth of his music, which he often revised with substantial cuts.

In 1906, shortly after the first signs of political unrest in Russia, Rachmaninoff and his family left for Dresden, where he wrote his Second Symphony and First Piano Sonata. For his first tour of America as a pianist he composed his Third Piano Concerto (1909). His earnings enabled him to buy a car, and in the same year his uncle made over to him the country estate of Ivanovka. But Rachmaninoff’s world was to be shattered by the Revolution of 1917, although the composer attempted to recreate it in the USA by buying a house there, giving it the same name as his Russian estate and filling it with Russian friends.

Considered one of the greatest pianists of his time, Rachmaninoff was never poor. But his luxurious lifestyle depended on exhausting concert tours and took him away from composing. Arguably, his exile from Russia, as well as radical changes in the arts, made his type of epic Romanticism impossible to sustain. Yet he didn’t remain altogether aloof from contemporary musical developments, for his Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini (1934) does have, as well as tender passages, a lean and biting quality, characteristics also present in the Symphonic Dances of 1940.

Profile by Adrian Jack © BBC

Adrian Jack is a composer, writer and broadcaster, who for 17 years was a scriptwriter for BBC Radio 3.

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