Listen to the Te Deum by Charles H. H. Parry, born this day in 1848.
Listen to the Te Deum by Charles H. H. Parry, born this day in 1848.
Among many protegés of the 20th Century’s greatest musical mentor, Nadia Boulanger, Polish Grażyna Bacewicz stands out as multi-talented and inventive. She was best known as virtuoso violinist, retiring after WW II to devote full time to composition. In her later years, she wrote a novel and short stories.
Listen to the Overture for Orchestra of Grażyna Bacewicz, born this day in 1909.
For me the work of composing is like sculpting a stone, not like transmitting the sounds of imagination or inspiration. The majority of contemporary composers work as systematically as bureaucrats. If there is no inspiration one does the menial “workshop” jobs, if there is inpspiration the creative work continues. Discipline, strict discipline in composition is essential to for me. There is a saying: the house will fall down if it were to be built without principles. However, since dodecaphony does not appeal to me very much I am sitting alone and working out my own system. [Letter of Grażyna Bacewicz to her brother, Witold (Vytautas Bacevicius), 23 October 1958].
We cannot know for sure if young Mozart was a delightful, innocent child or a petulant brat.
It may lie on the tip of the tongue to accuse Leopold Mozart of forcing his children into child labour. On the other hand, Wolfgang Mozart not only immensely enjoyed his performances, but his musical genius compelled him to perform. Mozart.com
But we can know Alma Deutscher as playful, spontaneous, and unself-conscious. Also with a belief in beauty and sensitivity to just about everything.
“By the time Alma was 4, I had taught her all I could about music. We were living in Oxford then so I talked to some music teachers there and suggested that they teach her theory. They laughed and told me to come back in 10 years.
“Then I found a book by Robert Gjerdingen about the Naples conservatory in the 18th and early 19th centuries and its method to teach the youngest students the principles of music — not as theory but through active experience. I knew this was the right way for Alma.
“Since Alma was 5, Gjerdingen has been monitoring her development from afar. Every few months he sends her exercises and we send him some of the pieces she’s writing. He returns them with comments, which she doesn’t always accept. We’ve never met him in person.”
— from an interview with Alma’s father
It took her three years to write her first opera, so she didn’t finish it until she was 11.
Before the first commercial radio broadcast, when vacuum tubes were large, expensive, and short-lived, Leon Theremin invented the first electronic instrument. Two antennas respond to the position of the hands, one for volume, one for pitch, without the need to touch the antennas. Anyone could make sound from it, and the most difficult thing is to get used to how exquisitely sensitive it is, so that tiny movements make notes of the scale.
The headline above came from a newspaper review after the 1928 Carnegie Hall debut by Леон Теремин himself.
The theremin has experienced a renaissance in the last 10 years. Its sounds can be made more like a human voice than any other instrument. Theremins excel at slow, sentimental melodies in the soprano range
but it’s not possible to play quick, exciting music on the theremin because no one can jump the hand with sufficient control.
(When she rises an octave for the second time through, all the hand motions have to be twice as precise as the first time.)
Some of the 20th Century’s most innovative composers were born the last week of October: George Crumb, Dominick Argento, Ned Rorem, Howard Hanson, not to mention Georges Bizet, Nicolo Paganini and Johann Strauss from the last century and a personal favorite of mine, Domenico Scarlatti from the Baroque era.
Today we celebrate two weavers of new sound tapestries, composers who keep us engaged with unexpected textures. Sofia Gubaidulina, turning 86 today, is still composing and Luciano Berio, born this day in 1922, left us a treasure of experiments in sound.
Listen to Dominick Argento’s setting of Wallace Stevens
Just as my fingers on these keys
Make music, so the selfsame sounds
On my spirit make a music, too.
Music is feeling, then, not sound;
And thus it is that what I feel,
Here in this room, desiring you,
Thinking of your blue-shadowed silk,
Is music. It is like the strain
Waked in the elders by Susanna:
Of a green evening, clear and warm,
She bathed in her still garden, while
The red-eyed elders, watching, felt
The basses of their beings throb
In witching chords, and their thin blood
Pulse pizzicati of Hosanna.
In the green water, clear and warm,
The touch of springs,
For so much melody.
Upon the bank, she stood
In the cool
Of spent emotions.
She felt, among the leaves,
Of old devotions.
She walked upon the grass,
The winds were like her maids,
On timid feet,
Fetching her woven scarves,
A breath upon her hand
Muted the night.
A cymbal crashed,
And roaring horns.
Soon, with a noise like tambourines,
Came her attendant Byzantines.
They wondered why Susanna cried
Against the elders by her side;
And as they whispered, the refrain
Was like a willow swept by rain.
Anon, their lamps’ uplifted flame
Revealed Susanna and her shame.
And then, the simpering Byzantines
Fled, with a noise like tambourines.
Beauty is momentary in the mind—
The fitful tracing of a portal;
But in the flesh it is immortal.
The body dies; the body’s beauty lives.
So evenings die, in their green going,
A wave, interminably flowing.
So gardens die, their meek breath scenting
The cowl of winter, done repenting.
So maidens die, to the auroral
Celebration of a maiden’s choral.
Susanna’s music touched the bawdy strings
Of those white elders; but, escaping,
Left only Death’s ironic scraping.
Now, in its immortality, it plays
On the clear viol of her memory,
And makes a constant sacrament of praise.
— Wallace Stevens was born this day in 1879
Master of intellectual humor and a bunch of other things, Glenn Gould anticipated P. D. Q. Bach.
Today would have been Glenn’s 85th birthday.
I was brought up as a Presbyterian; I stopped being a church-goer at about the age of eighteen, but I have had all my life a tremendously strong sense that, indeed, there is a hereafter, and the transformation of the spirit is a phenomenon with which one must reckon, and in the light of which one must attempt to live one’s life. As a consequence, I find all here-and-now philosophies repellent. On the other hand, I don’t have any objective images to build around my notion of a hereafter, and I recognize that it’s a great temptation to formulate a comforting theory of eternal life, so as to reconcile oneself to the inevitability of death. But I like to think that’s not what I’m doing. For me, it intuitively seems right; I’ve never had to work at convincing myself about the likelihood of a life hereafter. It is simply something that appears to me infinitely more plausible than its opposite, which would be oblivion. — Glenn Gould