A Symphony a Day

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Day 18 - Mennin, P.: Symphony No.5

Symphony No.5 Peter Mennin (1923-1983)

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

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

The Composer

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

He was awarded the inaugural Gershwin Memorial Award for his Symphony No.2 (a work later withdrawn by the composer), and the Bearns Prize at Columbia.

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

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

  Symphony No.5

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Recordings Used

  MENNIN: Symphonies Nos. 5 and 6 (Albany, Miller/Albany,  TROY260) [Available for Purchase Here]

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Day 17 - Barber, S.: "Symphony in One Movement" (Symphony No.1)

"Symphony in One Movement" (Symphony No.1)  Samuel Barber (1910-1981)

And so after a brief visit to Austria, we are back on American soil, where we'll listen to and briefly explore the first symphony from another giant among American composers, the very distinguished Samuel Barber.

I should mention that I was inspired to listen to this piece after reading an article Marin Alsop contributed to NPR.org, entitled, "Building a Career On Barber, the Enigmatic American". It should come as no surprise that the woman who gives (and gives and gives) us such wonderfully nuanced performances of American music as the conductor of the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra would also have a robust insight (and matching verbal expression of same) into the uniqueness of these composers. Ms. Alsop, if I may, you are an American treasure.

The Composer

Born in West Chester, Pennsylvania, Barber showed an early musical aptitude that landed him at the famed Curtis Institute in Philadelphia at only 14 years of age.

His early prodigiousness positioned him for wide success at a relatively young age: premieres by Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau, Vladimir Horowitz, Leontyne Price, and Francis Poulenc; accolades and support from Toscanini, Rodzinsky, and Koussevitzky (again!); and a quiver full of familiar awards:

two Pulitzer Prizes (for his first opera, Vanessa, and his Concerto for Piano and Orchestra

the Prix de Rome

fellowship in the American Academy of Arts and Letters 

"Symphony in One Movement"

I read a little bit of information on this piece while I was listening to it (unfortunately, "a little" is all I could find, as many of the books to which I refer are from the middle of the last century, and don't give much attention to these younger composers). I appreciated reading Barber's own notes, where he spoon-fed the location of the three melodic themes he uses throughout the composition. I am embarrassed to say that because of my lack of formal education in such things, I rarely pick up on these themes unless I'm looking at and marking a score, or have someone point them out for me. I suppose I'm perhaps a "macro" listener for the most part, without a score. Very much "micro" with one handy. I suppose that makes me like most people.

Anyway, it's the second theme that really grabbed my interest; presented at first (and then again later) by a solitary oboe over muted strings, the theme starts with a tritone, and continues to float upward—a tension and subsequent melodic contour that suggests growth or a hard-won optimism. 

Alsop says that Barber was vilified by some of his contemporaries for his "unabashed affinity for Romantic thought and tradition." I suppose that explains the draw toward Barber for me, and my almost total enjoyment of this work. Barber seems to have mastered the tools that composers like Brahms and Mahler used to express complex and intense emotions. This symphony displays a sense of balance and restraint that borders on elegance throughout. 

As I listen to more and more (particularly American) symphonies and other sundry works, I'll be looking to throw out some interesting programming ideas involving many of these pieces. For now, it will have to suffice to say that if I had between one and three years worth of spaces to fill, I would certainly make room for this piece. Perhaps alongside some Joan Tower. I don't know. We'll see. Thanks, as always, for reading.

More on Barber

Here is that really nice article that Ms. Alsop wrote for NPR.

Recordings Used

It only seemed right to use Maestro Alsop's Naxos recording of the Barber symphony, after linking to an article where she mentions the project:

BARBER: Symphonies Nos. 1 and 2 / Essay for Orchestra No.1  (Royal Scottish Philharmonic Orchestra, Alsop/Naxos, 8.559024) [Available for Purchase Here]

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Thought this article from NPR yesterday was interesting, and certainly germane to what I'm doing here. Great descriptions from Marin Alsop.

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Day 16 - Mozart, W.A.: Symphony No.25 "Little G minor Symphony"

Symphony No.25 "Little G minor Symphony"  Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1756-1791)

Here's the thing about Mozart: when he's on, he can do no wrong. He's an animal, one of those really crazy geniuses who just breathes art.

When he's off (or really young, so you can't be too tough on him), his music can be mind numbingly boring and formulaic.

Some days you're on, some you're off. I've had a good streak of "on" going for the last three weeks, so I'm willing to absorb this one.

I wanted to listen to a Mozart symphony today, but didn't know which one to choose of the 41 numbered symphonies (not to mention several of spurious or doubtful authenticity) and rather than go for the really well-known ones, I dug a layer or two deeper. I tried to be clever. This impulse was not rewarded, I fear, but this won't be the last Mozart will hear of me (or vice-versa).

The Composer

There is scarcely anything I can say here that will be unique. Nevertheless, by way of introduction, I will note that Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart is one of history's most prolific, most brilliant, and most beloved composers. There are 626 numbered works in the Köchel catalogue of his works, and they encompass pretty well every format known in his time.

In addition to the aforementioned catalog of symphonies (41, give or take), there is perhaps nothing Mozart it better known or more loved for than his 20 operas. Though it's easy to dismiss some of his music as simple and trite, to listen to it through the lens of these operas reveals a genius—sometimes subtle, sometimes easily observed—that is decidedly rare in all of music history. For my money, there are few pieces of music ever written that match the Commendatore scene of Don Giovanni, and only a few choral works that can claim the sublimity and mastery of his Requiem.

All of which is to say, he can be forgiven for writing a few duds here and there. In my opinion, this is one of them.

Symphony No.25

His 25th symphony was written around 1773, by most estimates, which would have made Wolfgang a mere 17 years old. So it's easy then to excuse the rudimentary feel of the majority of this piece. At 17, Mozart was just getting his compositional legs under him when he wrote this "little" symphony in G minor, though I learned that it marked an important step forward in style and emotional power. 

This emotional power is on display from the downbeat of the first movement, "Allegro con brio"—I hear a tremendous balance between youthful urgency and discipline in the opening phrases of the piece that suggest that this is indeed an impressively mature young composer.

Unfortunately, apart from the first movement, there is little that is either memorable or particularly remarkable about Mozart's 25th. From a programming standpoint, I can see almost no reason to program this piece, unless you programmed this and the more famous Symphony No.40 on either side of the Bruch violin concerto or the Dvorak piano concerto for "An Evening in G minor". 

Hmm...

More on This Mozart Fella

Will you LOOK at the diversity of the pieces he wrote?

Recordings Used

MOZART: Symphonies Nos. 25 and 36 / SCHUBERT: Symphony No. 4  (Lamoreux Orchestra, Klemperer/Vox, VOX-7814) [Available for Purchase Here]

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Day 15 - Bernstein, L.: Symphony No.1 "Jeremiah"

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

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

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

  The Composer

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

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

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

Symphony No.1, "Jeremiah"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How she sits desolate--

The city once so full of people--

She is become as a widow!

...

She weeps, she weeps in the night,

And her tears are upon her cheeks.

...

She dwells among the nations,

She finds no rest;

All her pursuers have overtaken her

In the narrow passes.

...

Jerusalem has sinned, sinned greatly...

...

Lord, wilt Thou forget us forever?

How long more wilt Thou forsake us?

Turn us unto Thee, O Lord...

More on Bernstein's 1st

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

Recordings Used

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

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

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

BERNSTEIN, L.: Symphonies Nos. 1 and 2 / Divertimento (BBC Symphony Orchestra, Slatkin/Chandos, CHAN9889 [Available for Purchase Here]

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Day 14 - Ince, K.: Symphony No.2 "Fall of Constantinople"

Symphony No.2 "Fall of Constantinople" Kamran Ince (b.1960)

I can't even remember how this piece came to be on my list, but I'm glad it did. Here's why...

The Composer

Kamran Ince was born in Montana, moved to Turkey at a very young age, and only came back to the States to attend college at Oberlin. From there, he studied at Eastman under Joseph Schwantner (this is a really small circle, you'll find), Christopher Rouse, and Samuel Adler.

He earned a few awards (Prix de Rome, Guggenheim Fellowship, and the Lili Boulanger Award) on his way to professorships at University of Michigan and University of Memphis, where he currently teaches.

Symphony No.2 "Fall of Constantinople"

As you can see from the title of the symphony, it is program music, and its subject is the fall of Constantinople. (An historical military event of this magnitude had to have been the subject of other musical tributes, of course, and it was) It is a formidable piece of music, totally worthy of the scale of the event it depicts. Ince chooses V (count 'em: I, II, III, IV, V) images to dwell upon in disparate movements:

I. City and the Walls

The city of Constantinople was one of the richest and best-defended cities in all of Europe at the time of the Ottoman siege in the mid-15th century. In the first movement of the symphony, Ince tries to make us see the city for the jewel that it was—to look upon it with wonder and admiration, the way all who called the city home—or who wished to—might.

But just after the halfway point, we hear what may be the jealousy, the covetousness, of the Turks—of those who aspired to Constantinople's wealth, power, and prestige. As she was the crown jewel in the Roman and Byzantine Empires, no doubt the Ottomans fantasized that it would one day be the crown jewel of its Empire, too.

We hear the majesty and seeming impenetrability of the walls—a mighty fortress erected around the glowing city on the water. We hear the serenity of the day-to-day for its inhabitants. These are salad days; Constantinople has been richer and more secure in her history, having fended off all threats since she last changed hands 450 years ago, but surely she was impervious to attack now.

The dissonance in the flute duet is one of the first hints that something may be wrong, and this dissonance swells to infect the entire ensemble before the movement ends—a harbinger of things to come.

The end of the movement is portentous and almost sarcastically regal. This is not the music of Constantinople under Constantine. The barbarians are at the gate. The beginning of the end, anyway, is nigh.

II. Hagia Sophia

With the walls breeched, Ince (and his invading horde) moves to what would have been the heart and soul of the city, the monolithic Orthodox church cum Mosque cum state museum, Hagia Sophia.

At the time of the fall of Constantinople, this was the seat of the Eastern Orthodox church—a seat once presided over by church father and liturgist, the Archbishop John Chrysostom, and the place where Michael I Cerularius was excommunicated from the Roman church, triggering the Great Schism (I don't see why we don't use the word schism much anymore).

Ince's music here is placid and reverent, as though acknowledging that for all the turmoil surrounding it, the space remains sacred—almost off limits, we imagine, for the conquering armies. This place is not for soldiers and violence, the music says. This place is for the faithful. This place is for God. This movement is also the most tonal and "western" in character. Each instrument in the string section gets to carry the plaintive melody here. This is also a place of parity and democracy.

III. Speeches of Emperor Constantine and Sultan Mehmet

If the march of human history has taught us anything, among them is surely that wherever there are armies and conquering hordes, somewhere not far behind them are political orators who try to frame the madness within a meaningful historical narrative, to assuage the sense of loss and vengeance with an assurance of destiny. And they're always right, aren't they?

The jaggedness and shrill dissonance of Ince's music in this movement suggests he may share my cynicism. The first voice is presumably Constantine's, and it is frantic and frenetic. He sees the Ottomans swarming, and may even suspect that despite their ample defenses, this is their last stand. As any good general, he tries his best to bolster the spirits of his troops, even as he runs mental tallies of those who will be lost. This is no Henry V at the Battle of Agincourt.

There is a cruel and haunting calm to the second "voice" here (presumably Mehmet's). He knows that the battle is won, perhaps before it is even fought. His voice is sly, and betrays a confidence that perhaps only a 21 year old sultan could have under such circumstances. The movement ends with a final outburst from Constantine, a desperate cry against the finality of the moment, perhaps a final plea for assistance from the west; and then a final, steady nod of satisfaction from Mehmet. He has counted the cost. The day (and the city) is soon his.

IV. Ships on Rails: The Marine Battle

The camera fades and reopens on the Ottoman navy (we'll call them a navy, anyway). Constantinople is surrounded on three sides by water, and must have seemed vulnerable to a marine attack. But the city was well-fortified, and taking it from any angle would not be easy.

(If anyone can tell me the origin of the phrase ships on rails, I'd be most obliged.)

Ince orchestrates this scene with instrumentation that is powerfully evocative of naval warfare somehow—namely, lots and lots of low brass. He throws in these shrieks from the flute, clarinet, and possibly oboe, that I like to imagine are meant to portray a bunch of confused seagulls trying to find a safe ledge on which to perch. We hear the cannon fire, the impact against the fortified city walls, we hear the crash of the waves as defensive cannonballs miss their marks, and then, curiously, we hear what sounds a little like a dazed Big Band.

V. Fall of Constantinople

And then comes music that sounds regal and celebratory. The battle is lost. More cannons (presumably celebratory), and a fanfare of sorts—announcing the entrance of Contantinople's new ruler. Here, Ince uses an interesting effect in the strings that sounds like the players are bouncing the back of their bows on their strings, and it sounds like the crackling of clay, the crumbled aftermath of a once proud city. The percussion and winds take over in a dissonant processional fanfare; the strings strum underneath. There is nothing left to be done. All are exhausted: men, women, children, Greeks and Turks. The battle is lost (or won). Constantinople belongs to the Ottoman Empire.

Recordings Used

  INCE, K: Symphony No.2, "Fall of Constantinople / Concerto for Orchestra, Turkish Instruments, and Voices / Piano Concerto (Bilkent Symphony, Ince/Naxos, 8.572554) [Available for Purchase Here]

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Day 13 - Schwantner, J.: Morning's Embrace

I picked up this new recording from the Nashville Symphony for a couple of reasons: (1) they're my hometown orchestra--and a fine one at that, and (2) I was actually present on one of the nights that they recorded the fantastic percussion concerto that closes out the album. A good recording for the collection, I thought. 

As it turns out, the two other pieces on this recording, Morning's Embrace and the title track, Chasing Light were written by Joseph Schwantner (yet another Pulitzer Prize winner, and another esteemed member of the American Academy of Arts and Letters) at his home in rural New Hampshire (my home state—Live Free or Die!) as program music meant to evoke sunrises in that great state. Here, I thought, was something I was already an expert in!

So I decided to dig into the first of these pieces, Morning's Embrace, to see if I could hear what I'd heretofore only seen (and loved, and missed excruciatingly). I seem to remember that he lives somewhere in the mountains, perhaps toward Vermont. That gave me the images I needed: the leaves in shocking colors, the stark and majestic White Mountains, the Kancamagus, Lake Winnipesaukee, maybe the lovely campuses at Dartmouth, Exeter, or my alma mater (why not?), Pinkerton Academy.

Before I gush about Schwantner's ear for tonal color instrumentation, I will say that I never found those sunrises quite so percussive as he did; however, it seems percussion is kind of his wheelhouse, and he's at least creative with it (not just tympani, bass, and cymbals). Even as I write that, I think of how common it is when one is out and about in New Hampshire's woods to be startled by a deer, a fox, or even a moose, and then the outbursts of percussion make perfect sense. So what I'll say is that perhaps Schwantner watches his sunrises from outside (where one should watch them) and not behind a plate of glass, as I seem to have framed them.

Well, I'm glad we got that out of the way. I suppose it's time to gush a little.

The buildup of this piece is very much like the rising of the sun—gradual, and unpredictable. Just as you never know when the soft halo of light around a tree will cast a rogue beam of sunlight squarely into your eye (or your bedroom window), Schwantner's composition unfolds gently, punctuated by a pedal tone (of muted piano), occasional growls of brass, and the tinkling of bells and upper woodwinds which draw the music forward as the Earth's rotation appears to tug the sun up from its resting place.

The waking of birds and other fauna, the blossoming of flowers (as the stretching of one's arms at the apex of the morning's first yawn), the eerie stillness before the first car starts in earshot—they're all here. And as the piece builds, you get the sense that it won't be long now before there's not an inch of refuge from the light, and there's nary an animal still at rest.

I envy Mr. Schwantner what he gets to see from his house, or from his proch, or lawn, or a path in the woods. As far as I can tell, there are precious few places in the United States that can match New Hampshire's beauty at a given time of year. He has done the sunrise—at least this morning's sunrise—justice. It's a fine piece, with gorgeous color, interesting texture, and many moments of warming light.

I think this piece would sit very nicely next to any of the symphonies so far by those more pastoral American composers—Hanson, Ward, or Harris, maybe—or certainly Copland, who was sort of their spiritual father, so to speak.

Anyway, give it a listen—it's about the length of a short symphony, at 20 minutes, and if you like any of the aforementioned composers, there's probably something in there for you.

Recording Used

SCHWANTNER, J.: Chasing Light / Morning's Embrace / Percussion Concerto (Nashville Symphony Orchestra, Guerrero/Naxos, 8.559678) [Available for Purchase Here]

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A contingency plan (of sorts)

I'm learning things. This was the point.

Going from blogging never (or sporadically) to blogging every day is no joke. It is even less like a joke when each post requires 20-40 minutes of critical (or at least active) listening, flipping through memory to find references when and if appropriate, and then blogging.

So I have to be even more vigilant.

But I also have to be able to forgive myself if I can't get it done one day. Life happens, it seems, even when you have other plans.

My goal remains A Symphony A Day. The plan, though, is this: should I miss one, I will do my best to entertain you in other ways, probably by reviewing a shorter work: a concerto, a sonata, or even a tone poem. Who knows what will emerge? The sub-focus of this blog is to put these pieces in a programming context, and you can't just program symphonies, can you? No, I suppose you can't.

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Day 12 - Ward, R., Symphony No.3

Symphony No.3 Robert Ward (b.1917)

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

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

The Composer

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

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

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

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

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

Symphony No.3

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

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

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

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

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

More on Robert Ward

This interview with Bruce Duffie is enlightening. 

Recordings Used

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

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

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

WARD, R.: Symphonies Nos.3 and 6 / Dialogues / A Western Set (Triangle Chamber Orchestra, Muti/Albany, TROY929) [Available for Purchase Here]

[asymphonyaday]

Day 11 - Harris, R.: Symphony No.3, "An American Panorama"

Symphony No.3 "An American Panorama" Roy Harris (1898-1979)

The hits keep on coming: today, another Pulitzer Prize-winning 20th Century American composer who got a big bump from Serge Koussevitzky. Also, another Symphony No.3, by far the most frequently heard symphony by any composer yet profiled here (6 of 11 entries).

Incidentally, when a symphony is titled An American Panorama, I expect it to make me feel like Eustace Conway. This one darn near did.

  The Composer

Roy Harris' early composition training came from Arthurs Bliss and Farwell, and upon Aaron Copland's recommendation, was able to go to Paris for a couple of years to study with Nadia Boulanger (an important rite of passage for many young composers of the time, it seems).

Upon his return, he formed fruitful alliances with Howard Hanson (profiled here in an earlier post) and Serge Koussevitzky, both of whom provided him outlets (Eastman and the BSO) for the performance of his compositions.

He held multiple professorships across the country, most notably at Wesminster Choir College and the Juilliard School, and counted American composer William Schuman among his pupils.

Symphony No.3

According to Neil Butterworth's The American Symphony, Harris's Symphony No.3 was originally a commission for Hans Kindler at the National Symphony Orchestra, but Harris ultimately pulled it and gave it to (who else?) Serge Koussevitsky at the BSO instead. Not really a high-integrity move, but certainly a strong career decision at the time, as we have seen with other composers I've written about here.

I had always assumed that Aaron Copland was the de facto soundtrack to America's National Parks, but after listening to Mr. Harris's An American Panorama, I'm not so sure. This is another piece that is very kind to the sensibilities of the less-knowledgeable concertgoer, with lots of payoff throughout in the form of broad, mellifluous lines that evoke the plains in the middle of the American continent. That is not to say that it shouldn't appeal to veteran concertgoers; indeed I'd imagine that this is a piece that almost everyone can agree on. Turns out Bernstein was a huge fan, anyway.

An American Panorama begins with a gorgeous, plaintive cello theme (Tragic)—the kind of music that I imagine cowboys on the frontier used to play around campfires, tired from a long day of carrying their celli around on horseback. The mournful celli are soon replaced by the upper strings, and we hear some long, lovely phrases from the upper strings while the lower strings add a pizzicato undercurrent.

The second movement (Lyric) is very brief, and sounds to me more like a protracted modulation than its own musical thought. This illusion is created by a lot of chromatic movement in the lower voices (sounds like some sub-V action there), and continued in the earliest part of the third movement, where a motif of down-m2nd-up-4th appears.

The third movement (Pastoral) is characterized by this wonderful modal call and response that sounds a little like what might happen if your younger sibling with a good (but not great) ear tried to play back the first line after you played it. It's a whimsical and compelling stretch of music.

Movement four (Fugue-Dramatic) reminds me somehow of some works of Grainger. And Copland. And of the Lone Ranger. I'm sorry, I can't help it. The motif is based around an interval of a 4th (to drive the point home, we're treated to a delightfully Anglican stacked-4ths riff early on). This gives a great deal of bounce to this movement, and really helps to build momentum and drama heading into the finale.

The fifth movement (Dramatic-Tragic) is sort largely an anti-climax, but includes perhaps my favorite melodic passage in the entire work [1-5-1-3-2... 7-5-7-2----...]. The symphony itself kind of ends in a whimper, which isn't altogether out of character for the rest of the work, which is less heroic and more romantic-underbelly-of-heroism. Not off-putting at all. Merely saying, is all.

One of the nice things about this piece from a novice concertgoer's perspective is that it is played without breaks between movements, so there's no worry about being scoffed at for applauding in the "incorrect" place. It is also very short, clocking in at right around 16.5 minutes--well within my attention span, even on my worst day.

In summary, this piece is easily going to fall into my "listen again often" pile. Where some may hear schmaltz, I hear a keen lyric sensibility, and an unabashed sense of wonder, which I identify with, and which is tragically out of vogue in some circles nowadays. It's the kind of music I want to hear even when I'm mentally wiped out, which is often when I end up going to the symphony anyway. (I think there may be a post on that aspect of programming forthcoming... from a theoretical standpoint, of course, since I don't program anything right now, apart from this blog)

Anyway, listen. You should listen to this piece.

Recordings Used

  AMERICAN SERIES, Vol. 10 - HARRIS, R.: Symphony No. 3 / COPLAND, A.: Symphony No.3 (Detroit Symphony, Jarvi/Chandos, CHAN 9474) [Available for Purchase Here]

[asymphonyaday]

Day 10 - Gould, M.: Symphony No.2, "Symphony on Marching Tunes"

Symphony No.2 Morton Gould (1913-1996)

"Loooook! I'm Morton Gould!"

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

The Composer

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

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

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

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

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

Symphony No.2

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

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

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

Recordings Used

  GOULD, M.: Symphony No. 2 / STUCKY: Son et Lumiere / GOULD, G.: Watercolors / HARBISON, J.: Cello Concerto (Albany Symphony, Miller/Albany, TROY605) [Available for Purchase Here]

[asymphonyaday]

Day 9 - Schuman, W.: Symphony No.3

Symphony No.3 William Schuman (1910-1992)

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

The Composer

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

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

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

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

Symphony No.3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Recordings Used

  SCHUMAN, W.: Symphonies Nos. 3 and 5 (Seattle Symphony, Schwarz/Naxos, 8.559317) [Available for Purchase Here]

[asymphonyaday]

Get to know your lens

I thought it might be useful to know a little bit about the lens through which I'm hearing/writing all of this. I realize "lens" may not be the correct term, given the circumstances, but it'll do.

Who Am I?

I'm James Harrington, native of southern New Hampshire (Live Free or Die), son of a lifelong musician/teacher and English teacher, a semi-professional musician and raving fan of Boston sports.

How'd I Get Here?

I'll make this as brief as I can.

I grew up listening to my dad play jazz piano--that really great, old jazz. He brought me up listening to Dixieland, trad jazz, and big band records in a room downstairs at my childhood home. That's where I learned to love music.

I started playing trumpet at 9, and singing around 15. I earned college scholarships for both, and chose singing. I attended the University of New Hampshire and Berklee College of Music, two wildly divergent experiences.

I have for about 15 years been singing and arranging contemporary a cappella music, much of which was in a professional context. There, I said it.

I currently sing with the Nashville Symphony Chorus, Nashville Opera Chorus (with occasional comprimario and supporting roles), the choir at St. George's Episcopal, and Music City Baroque. I work at Naxos Records, and am a fan of a fairly broad swath of the music world. Facebook lists my 5 favorite bands as: Squirrel Nut Zippers, Chicago, James Taylor, Kurt Elling, and Hyannis Sound (the last betrays a bias of some sort).

I like music that captures my imagination, melodically, harmonically, or otherwise. Therefore, to the chagrin of my wife and those sharing a car with me, the aforementioned 5 share airspace with Rufus Wainwright, Barry Manilow, Ahmad Jamal, Take 6, Mahler, Great Big Sea, Martin Sexton, Toad the Wet Sprocket, bluegrass, Simply Red, and too many others.

What Am I Doing Here?

As I said in my Raison d'Etre post, I'm trying to fill in gaps in my knowledge of orchestral repertoire--primarily in the American slice of that.

What Do I Want?

For now, I want to learn a bunch about American and other orchestral music, learn how to communicate what I appreciate to the uninitiated, and hopefully suck a few others into that vortex with me. What I've heard so far is inspiring and enlightening. I think we can do this.

Eventually, who knows? Maybe I end up singing, maybe I get to work on programming with an American orchestra. Art is long, time is fleeting, as Longfellow said.

When Am I Leaving?

Not soon. Get used to me.

[asymphonyaday]

Day 8 - Rorem, N.: Symphony No.3

Symphony No.3 Ned Rorem (b.1923)

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

The Composer

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

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

Symphony No.3

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

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

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

(Did you get that?)

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

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

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

IV is a farewell to France.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm going to be an awesome dad.

Recordings Used

  THOMPSON, V.: Louisiana Story Suite / ROREM, N.: Symphony No.3 / SCHUMAN, W.: Symphony No.7 (Utah Symphony Orchestra, Abravanel/Vox, CDX-5092) [Available for Purchase Here]

[asymphonyaday]

If we could get behind the term "orchestral music", (or something like it, like "art music") then we could include beautiful pieces like this one, from the Brooklyn-based collective, Hem. This is "Eveningland".

(Wherever that music lives, I want to go to there.)

[asymphonyaday]

Day 7 - Theofanidis, C.: Symphony No.1

Symphony No.1 Christopher Theofanidis (b.1967)

This one just popped up in my Facebook feed this morning, when Naxos of America announced that it was available on iTunes, and streaming via Naxos Music Library. I thought, "good NY Times quote, good orchestra, American composer I've never heard of, super-new symphony (2009)--what's not to like?!" And so I liberated myself from my daunting (but obviously flexible) queue and dug into this piece.

  The Composer

Christopher Theofanidis is a Texas-born-and-based composer who has received more than a handful of impressive awards and performances in his relatively young life. His awards are legion:

Fulbright

SIX Morton Gould ASCAPs

Guggenheim Fellowship (whatever)

a GRAMMY Nomination (yeah, but me too)

Tanglewood Fellowship

et cetera

and his works have been performed by the London SO, Philadelphia Orchestra, National SO, Baltimore SO, Detroit SO, St. Louis SO, American Ballet Theatre, and of course (on this recording, in fact), Atlanta SO.

There's not a lot of information it seems, on Mr. Theofanidis, save what is provided by him on his website, so if you're interested, that's where you'll find him.

Symphony No.1 

Theofanidis' first symphony was a commission by Robert Spano and the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra. At 4 movements and 35 minutes, it's on the longish side of the works I've looked at so far, and what seems to be the going length for modern symphonies... but that's not to say he doesn't make it worth your while.

I'll give you the summary up front: This is a BIG, bold symphony. A Texas-sized symphony. Theofanidis doesn't play around; there are orchestral bells, about 40,000 horns (give or take... ear was a little fuzzy), and moments where I'm quite sure he ran out of "f"s and just wrote, in a Mahleresque taunt, "I bet you can't play this loudly enough, you sallies." (That's my second use of "Mahleresque" in as many days. Whoops!)

In his program notes, Theofanidis says that he studied how first movements shape the character of symphonies, and it seems he made a conscious decision to make an out-sized statement from the start. "Hello, world. I am Christopher Theofanidis, and I am here. And I have brought an orchestra the size of Texas with me. Your puny halls are too small to contain my gargantuan symphonies! Bring me the finest meats and cheeses in all the land for a green room feast!"

Okay, nothing quite so brash as that, either. I just felt like going old-school SportsCenter on you.

The first movement is huge, as I said, but it's also playful. If you can picture dinosaurs stomping around, crushing things while little sparrows flit carelessly about their feet, you'll get a sense for the scale of the push-and pull of this movement. Huge brass and percussion. Playful little woodwinds. Huge brass and percussion... see?

The composer describes the second movement as "quite lyrical, but not slow", with "raining" phrases throughout. It's really a nice contrast to the first. Nocturnal in feel. (The dinosaurs are sleeping.) And he lets the orchestra sing a little bit, too! Atmospheric neutral syllables add a little more color to his soundscape.

There's a real feeling of anticipation at about the 6' mark of the movement, in this ascending line that rocks back and forth at its apex. It really had me anxious to hear what came next. Or if there WAS a next. And then, at the end, another flourish, an eruption in the forward direction that propels us to the Scherzo.

As the 3rd movement breezes along, I find myself almost incredulous: where does he get all this energy?!?! I mean really. Did he have an espresso IV while he was composing? What an exciting piece this is... but I mean, it's almost exhausting. And then, the brisk scherzo ends an... oh no... safety belts, friends. There's one more to go.

The composer calls the 4th movement the mirror image of the 1st; where the first was mostly joyous and ebullient, the 4th is mostly brooding. In fact, in the composer's own wonderfully-chosen words, the last movement is "quite dark and monolithic in character, but is occasionally tormented by flashes of light and beauty." And don't we all know someone like that?

This is an outstanding symphony for the uninitiated, especially younger ones. This is a musical joyride for the it-ain't-a-movie-until-something-explodes generation. You can't possibly be bored by this symphony. If anything, you can be agitated by it if you try to take a minute off. Theofanidis never lays off the gas, even in the slower sections.

This symphony is unbridled intensity.

And good Lord I loved the heck out of it. What a triumphant composition. It is, as the kids say, epic. In fact, that's almost the only word that does the piece justice. It makes me wish I had taken that trumpet scholarship so that I could maybe someday be in an orchestra that played this. For now, I'll have to be content to listen to the very capable Atlanta Symphony Orchestra play it, and frankly, from where I'm sitting, that's not a bad deal.

More on Theofanidis' 1st

The composer has provided program notes for this piece at his website.

Recordings Used

  THEOFANIDIS, C.: Symphony No.1 / LIEBERSON, P.: Neruda Songs (Atlanta Symphony, Spano/ASO Media ASO1002)[Available for Purchase Here]