Response to Hannah on Libby Larsen's Deep Summer Music, Solo Symphony, and Marimba Concerto: After Hampton

I enjoyed reading Hannah’s journal entry on three of Libby Larsen’s compositions – Marimba Concerto: After Hampton, Deep Summer Music, and Solo Symphony. Hannah does a good job telling about each piece, and in fact, when I listened to each piece, I was unsure what relevant commentary I could add to her descriptions. What does strike me as something worth exploring more is Hannah’s analysis of Larsen at the beginning of the entry.
Hannah identifies Larsen as one of those composers who write “with a particular philosophical goal in mind.” At this point, more than at any other in the blog, a question jumped out at me: what is Libby Larsen’s particular philosophical goal? Hannah does not explicitly answer this particular question in her blog, but as I listened to and thought about Larsen’s music, I began to form what I think is a valid answer. Whether or not Larsen would say it in this way, all her music seems to be designed so as to make her audience think about that to which they are listening. Within the umbrella of this philosophical goal, Larsen asks different questions with each composition, or asks the same question in different ways. For example, as Hannah showed, Marimba Concerto: After Hampton raises questions about why a solo instrument is chosen and how visuals change the aesthetic experience of a piece. Just by choosing the marimba as soloist in a concerto, Larsen causes the audience (as long as they’re paying any attention at all) to question the nature of the soloist – at least in my experience, marimba concertos are rare. As the piece progresses, the audience is drawn to compare the use of marimba to the use of more traditional concerto instruments, such as piano and violin; clearly the virtuosity possible on a marimba is of a different sort than the virtuosity possible on a piano, even though both instruments are similar in appearance. I am sure that watching a performance of this concerto would leave me with significantly different impressions about the whole piece, because the marimba and the other percussion used in the accompanying ensemble are such powerfully visual instruments. Larsen’s composition is, in a sense, answering the question “how can a marimba be used in a concerto?” but it nonetheless leaves the audience to think about the way a marimba fits into our collective expectations about a concerto and how Larsen’s composition fits or stretches or defies those expectation. Two other examples of the questions Larsen raises were identified by Hannah in her journal entry. Both Deep Summer Music and Solo Symphony question the nature of a solo and suggest (in my understanding) that no perceived solo is ever truly alone, but take different approaches to do so. In Deep Summer Music, a solo horn line is joined to a supportive orchestra texture. In Solo Concerto, the solo seems to be something of a thematic element in itself – the “theme” of having an independent melodic line is passed from one soloist to another to a section, finally ending with the audience member seeming to be alone and independent (solo, so to speak) in his or her attempt to find a melodic line in the texture.
Although Hannah did not discuss Larsen in comparison to other composers, I think Larsen’s creation of music that elicits thoughtfulness and has a “philosophical goal” strikes a chord (no pun intended) with the intentions of numerous other late twentieth century composers. However, unlike the compositions of John Cage, for example, Larsen’s compositions raise questions about musical philosophy, such as the idea of a soloist, without forcing the audience to question what music is. In the era of Rampant Musical Gruel (thank you Dr. Granade for the visual), I think many people find it too much work to think about questioning the nature of music itself, but may be open to compositions by Larsen and other “milder” thought-provoking composers. Perhaps Larsen’s music is crucial to the reawakening of a generation numbed to music. I hate putting the designation mild on Larsen’s music though; mild suggests that Larsen hasn’t pushed her music as far as it could go or needs to go. I think a description I found in the CD jacket fits better: Larsen’s music is not self-consciously avant-garde. In other words, her composition does not reject Western musical heritage for the sake of being new and different, but departs from it or uses it as much as necessary to convey what Larsen needs to convey. If part of her goal (or all of it) is to inspire thought in an audience member’s listening (or watching) experience, what a noble goal to have.
I think Hannah is on to something when she suggests that Larsen’s music may not be in the canon only because now is not yet its time. I don’t know how distinctive or representative Deep Summer Music, Solo Symphony, and Marimba Concerto: After Hampton are when compared to the totality of Larsen’s composition, but I think it is reasonable to suppose that Larsen may eventually play a role in the canon, for the reasons I brought up in the last paragraph. Larsen’s music is a valuable contribution: not only is it new without rejecting the old, but most importantly it makes us think.

*As an aside, I had been curious about the title of Deep Summer Music ever since I heard the name. At first, I thought it might have referred to summer music that inspired deep thoughts or meditations, but a look in the CD jacket led me to assume that deep summer is equivalent to late summer, i.e., the harvest season, when all the fields are golden and idyllic…

A Survivor from Warsaw

As a narrator’s voice begins to overpower the orchestra’s eerie bursts of cacophony, I feel myself sucked out of my comfortable living room to the inhuman filth and violence of a Nazi concentration camp. I am listening to “A Survivor from Warsaw.”
“A Survivor from Warsaw” is a twelve-tone composition for narrator, men’s chorus, and orchestra, written in 1947. In addition to singing in a performance of the piece last year, I listened to it recorded by the Boston Symphony with Sherrill Milnes narrating. “A Survivor” is not performed very often, presumably because its twelve-tone writing makes it difficulty to sing and because it lacks the prestige of being part of the standard canon.
It is a shame to hear this piece so rarely, however, because the piece is both a beautiful response to the memory of the Holocaust and an opportunity to learn about the man that was Schoenberg. In fact, Michael Strasser calls this piece Schönberg’s “personal parable,” because it metaphorically illustrates his struggle to assert his Jewish identity in the face of persecution. Schönberg, who had planned to raise support from Americans for the Jews in anti-Semitic Germany, seems to have found his worst fears more than met in the Holocaust, a reality driven home by the loss of his brother and cousin (Strasser 58). Despite the importance he saw in his role as an artist, Schönberg wrote that he was willing to sacrifice his art to the Jewish cause, which suggests that this piece, an explicit tribute to those who died for their Jewish identity, might have held particular significance for him (57).
When I first performed “A Survivor,” I was unaware of most of this background information, but the combination of my knowledge of the Holocaust and Schönberg’s musical choices nonetheless had a powerful impact on me. For the most part, I prefer tonal to atonal (or, as Schönberg would say, pantonal) music, and I suspect it is Schoenberg’s treatment of the text that most draws me in, particularly his use of Sprechstimme and the chaotic melody of his ‘Shema Yisroel.’ Even before the narrator enters, however, Schönberg’s use of silence and cacophonous interjections of winds or percussion begin to set me on edge. The music lacks any sense of order, harmonically or rhythmically, so listeners do not know what to expect, just as the Holocaust victims, at the mercy of their captors, hardly knew to what further brutality they would be subjected. What I perceive to be chaotic, almost unnatural music, very vividly conveys the chaotic and unnatural realities of being in a Nazi concentration camp. When the narrator enters, Schönberg augments the text with duration and pitch cues, but refrains from using specific pitches, as he did when writing the Sprechstimme of Pierrot Lunaire. This manner of spoken performance caught my attention. It turns out that the notation in “A Survivor” is actually a later development of Schönberg’s concept of Sprechstimme. Through the rise of recording technology, performances of Pierrot Lunaire could be analyzed, and it was found that one of Schönberg’s favored Sprechstimme performers did not stay in pitch. According to Byron and Pasdzierny, “reproduction of pitch in Sprechstimme was not the main issue for Schoenberg,” and this accounts for Schönberg’s subsequent decision to notate Sprechstimme without actual pitches, but rather with note-heads a relative distance from a single staff line. For “A Survivor” in particular, Schönberg gave special instructions that the narrator’s part be less musical than any of his other compositions, specifying that “There must never be any singing, no real pitch must be recognizable.” I find I much prefer this type of Sprechstimme; although it does not mimic actual speech patterns, I find it heightens the emotional impact of the spoken text, while the sound of Sprechstimme in Pierrot Lunaire distracts me from the text and sends chills down my spine. Sprechstimme only accounts for one section of “A Survivor,” though, and it is balanced by my favorite part of the work. When a male chorus singing the Hebrew prayer “Shema Yisroel replaces the narrator, Schönberg drastically shifts the structure of his piece; the last nineteen bars are dominated by a melody that (except for two repeated pitches) exactly follows a transposition of the tone row. The melody strongly contrasts with the first eighty bars of the piece, which are athematic, much like some of Schönberg’s pre-serialism atonal compositions. Despite the technical rigidity behind this melody, I feel its unpredictable leaps and driving rhythm to powerfully convey the drama of the prisoners’ situation. This forceful declamation may be the prisoners’ last words prior to execution, and it is this exact assertion of Jewish identity that Schönberg found so noble.
I suspect “A Survivor” is typically omitted from the canon for two reasons. One of these is it doesn’t seem to stand out as representative of his work in a particular way. It is a short work, and many of its interesting qualities – Sprechstimme, an athematic serialist section, and a serial melody – are explored more fully in others of Schönberg’s works. Its real value seems to come extramusically, from the deep way that Schönberg’s own life and the emotions spawned by a tragic war come together in this little piece. The other reason is that Schönberg, who initially gained attention for doing something avant-garde , had not been at the edge of avant-garde for a decade or so by the time that this piece was written. Thus, “A Survivor” was not groundbreaking in its time, nor groundbreaking in the output of its composer. I like “A Survivor from Warsaw” a lot, and I consider that a surprising and significant achievement for a twelve-tone piece, but I know this cannot be grounds for its inclusion in the canon. For that matter, there is plenty of music in the canon that, aesthetically, I care little about. With or without the designation of “standard canon music,” I will encourage others to listen to and think about this piece.

Psalmus Hungaricus by Zoltán Kodály

I noted that although Kodály is known for dedicating much of his life to collecting and studying Hungarian folk music, this oratorio is not chiefly concerned with transferring that sound to a large-form work or characterizing Hungarian culture. Rather, this work focuses on creating a moving and politically significant setting for Psalm 55, and nonetheless exhibits Hungarian sound. The ability to convey such nationalism even when focusing on expressing a powerful text evidences Kodály’s development of a compositional language of folk music elements.

I enjoyed digesting the sounds of Psalmus Hungaricus, for which Kristina’s description had whetted my appetite, even before I looked up the text. It was in looking up the text, however, and subsequently the setting in which the piece was premiered, that I found the deep meaning Kodály sought to convey. An English translation of Psalm 55 revealed to me a prayer rife with grief and angst – and yet also faith. The psalmist begins by praying for vindication in the midst of suffering and betrayal, and then shifts his tone to reiterate his confidence in the Lord and to urge others to a similar faith. At first it might seem ironic that this text, full of suffering and demanding vindication, was premiered at a celebration – the 50th anniversary of the merging of Buda, Pest, and Óbuda into a single capital city for Hungary. A deeper look reveals that Kodály’s choice had political connotations – it reflected his views about Hungary’s “immediate, tragic past and distasteful present” (All Music Guide). Understanding this powerful reason behind Kodály’s writing gave me a greater sense of connection to the work.

The Hungarian nationalism exhibited in the compositions of Bartók and Kodály gives their music a particularly distinctive sonority, hence their work has had widespread influence, and to this day is an important part of music history education. Kodály and Bartók’s compositional styles differ, however, and studying the work of both composers together adds important dimensions to our understanding of Hungarian sound and 20th century compositional practices that we miss by studying either composer to the exclusion of the other. For this reason, I think we ought to include Kodály’s work alongside Bartók’s in the canon. In particular, I think Psalmus Hungaricus merits inclusion. It is significant that Kodály was able to evoke Hungarian culture in his music, not only without specific folk melody quotations, but also in the absence of an established “Hungarian” compositional tradition.