Mahler–Symphony No. 4, mvt. 3

February 20th, 2010

Since I’m a trombone player by training, and this is the only Mahler symphony that doesn’t include my instrument, I have always felt that Mahler’s Fourth was the “little” Mahler symphony, the runt of the litter.  If any of the music disproves that, it would be this movement.  There is a lightness to this music that doesn’t require three trombones and a tuba, or an entire regiment of percussionists.

After the second movment’s digression to the key of C minor, this movement is firmly rooted in the key of the symphony.  The narrative tonal scheme from the Third Symphony has been abandoned, and the piece opens in an explicit G major, with some wonderful string writing.  My Instrumentation students would do well to study how the cello is often the preferred melodic instrument in lines that would be perfectly playable by the viola.  The lower instrument simply has greater resonance and by placing the melody on the higher-pitched strings, Mahler achieves greater expressive power.  I am frustrated by most orchestration texts that include several pages of paean to the violin and then give shorter shrift to the viola, but there is something to it, I’m afraid.

Mahler has structured this opening section in very clear phrases with very clear cadences, which is not always his habit.  In m. 37, after an imperfect authentic cadence on the home key, there is a long extension and transition to the next key.  Mahler signals that the section is nearly over in the same way that Bach often did, by introducing the subdominant.  In this instance, it sounds oddly fresh, even though every first-year music theory student knows that the subdominant (or IV chord) is not at all a rare bird.  It’s just that Mahler has done an effective job of holding it in reserve and now (m. 47), lands on it in a significant way.

The transitional passage that follows is masterful.  The pizzicato bass line from the first few measures gives continuity while the horns and oboe sound the notes that pivot us into the new key, e minor.  Mahler’s use of musical material is tightly controlled–even though he introduces new themes here, they are built over a structure that is related to the accompaniment of the G-major section.    One also can’t help but admire the way that, for Mahler, the orchestra itself is an instrument, rather than being a collection of instruments.  A great example is the dovetailing of the melody in m. 66 from oboe to the first violins.  Those three overlapping notes allow a smooth transition of timbre–more like a pianist coloring notes by managing flow of wrist and hand than an organist pulling stops.  Throughout this passage, the oboe and violins seem to be doing this trading off–the effect is like an impossible instrument.

One instrument that is used sparingly in this movement is the bass clarinet.  I’m intrigued by Mahler’s approach to this instrument in all of his music, but in a twenty-minute movement (by Bernstein’s baton), there are barely ten notes, all within the texture.  Mahler calls for the third clarinetist to “double” on bass, but many of the changes seem very quick for that.

The e-minor moment doesn’t last long–it is developmental in nature and doesn’t have the cleanly defined phrase structure of the G-major section, and in fact shortly (by measure 91) lands on a pedal D to prepare for the G-major material which follows.  The sense of contrast, though, in tempo, scoring, tonality and formal construction is crucial to building a movement of this size and scope. 

Measures 97-99 again show a transition in melodic responsbility that struck me first as an interesting heterophonic approach to changing orchestral color, but on closer inspection reveal that Mahler is using canonic technique, a relatively rare tool for him and for his era.

The next G-major section, beginning in m. 107, is, according to Mahler’s score, a variation.  It is developmental in nature, but also shares constructive elements with the first section in that it is composed of discrete phrases with clear cadences.  Mahler indicates a faster tempo, and so we move quickly through this section, which isn’t as developmental as it might be–perhaps because there is more of a tonal plan reminiscent of rondo form, where the tonic key returns several times rather than a rounded binary in which the tonic is always the goal of the music.  Strangely enough, the tonic is not the ultimate goal!

Orchestrationally, mm. 179-191 are fascinating.  A trio between oboe, English horn (another instrument used sparingly here in this movement) and horn moves between key centers, implying (but not comfirming) g-minor.  A fantastic color follows this trio as four flutes in their weakest register take on the melody for a moment before passing it on to the cellos, reinforcing the crucial intervals.

A conductor from years ago used to state that small intervals create tension, but large intervals create drama.  To that, I would add another function, suggested in Peter Schubert’s book on 16th-century counterpoint–a leap establishes a musical space which steps must then fill in.  In this instance (mm. 188-190), the flutes emphasize these space-defining leaps and the cellos fill them in without assistance.

The goal of this transition has been C-sharp-minor, and on arriving there, Mahler writes a passage that could have come directly from the music of Jean Sibelius–mm. 195 to 200–but immediately after, he is back to Mahler.   C-sharp-minor morphs to one of Mahler’s major-minor moments in mm. 214-221, this time on F-sharp.  This would seem to be yet another common-tone modulation, as the ambiguity of chord quality allows the pitch F-sharp to become the aural focus.  Mahler takes advantage of this by shifting F-sharps role from fa to ti, and making it the leading-tone of the home key, G major.

Here begins a truly fascinating passage from a compositional standpoint.  To be successful, any slow movement must build to some sort of climax that instead of quiet and mediative is full-bodied, energetic and provides the necessary contrast to make a complete statement.  For Mozart, the technique was often the Romanza structure, as in the D-minor Piano Concerto or the Grand Partita serenade.  For Beethoven and Brahms, the technique is often rhythmic diminution combined with fugato, as in the Eroica symphony or the Brahms’ Second Symphony. 

Mahler approaches this moment through the dance, by reference to folk and popular idioms.  A 3/4 version of the opening theme morphs into a landler in m. 237.  This landler becomes a polka in m. 263, barely before we have understood the first dance.  Very quickly, this polka comes off the rails with the instruction to bump the tempo up another notch in m. 278, where the dance seems to lose control completely. 

Measure 283 is a return to the opening material, and this section would seem to suggest a calm recapitulation that will cadence nicely in the home key, buy Mahler has two more surpises in store.

The first is an ending to this abbreviated G-major section (suggestive again of rondo form) that moves toward a tonic note of E, just as it did the first time.  The music should be wrapping up, but clearly Mahler is on his way out again.  Instead of e-minor, however, in m. 315 there is an explosion in E-major, the fullest, strongest texture of the symphony so far.  The brass are in full force, and take the lead.  G-major to E-major is a remote modulation, and the E-major section leads (with a note from the bass clarinet darkening the texture wonderfully in mm. 330-331) to C major, the subdominant.  

From here, it should be a quick move to a cadence on the home key.  The dominant, D, appears, but when the music moves to G major, in m. 340, we realize that D isn’t the dominant, but a temporary tonic.  G feels like a subdominant, then, which means that the movement can’t be over.  Over the last few bars, though, there is no move to a dominant-seventh on D and G-major has appeared for the last time in this movment.  Mahler ends the movement on a dominant chord, a half cadence.  A peek ahead to the last movement reveals that it, too, is in G-major and begins on the tonic chord.  The last two movements are, thus, inseparable.  The third movement is incomplete without the fourth, and the fourth movement has a twenty-minute introduction.

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Playing my own music

February 7th, 2010

Over the last eight days, I’ve played my own music in three different venues in three cities here in Oklahoma.  I played my trombone-with-electronics piece Let Everything That Has Breath Praise the Lord here in Guymon at a concert at my church.  Then on Friday, I premiered part of my unaccompanied trombone piece Twenty Views of the Trombone on a faculty recital at Oklahoma Panhandle State University.  Then, last night, Becky and I went to Norman, Oklahoma so that I could play both pieces as a featured composer at a Salon Concert of the Oklahoma Composers Association.  All the performances went well, and they bring me to a topic I’ve, understandably, been thinking about lately, and that is the need for a composer to write music for him- or herself to perform, and to perform it.

A Beethoven or a Gershwin could, of course, at the drop of a hat, find a piano and regale those assembled with any number of their original works; Schubert wrote for himself, and composers like Bach and Haydn had jobs that required them to compose, rehearse and lead their newest pieces in quick succession. 

No one can be as passionate a performer of a new piece than its composer, and there’s no better way to show how a new piece should be played.   If my ideal is to write with a performer in mind, then writing for myself is the closest relationship I can have with a performer. 

From a practical standpoint, playing my own music means that I can “take the show on the road” very easily–in my case, with only my trombone and perhaps a mute or the CD of the accompaniment.

While I avoided writing for the trombone for a while–I didn’t just want to be a trombone composer, and there were other media to explore–it will always be the instrument I understand best.  I love to play the trombone, and it will, hopefully, always be my primary instrument, even if I don’t get nearly the amount of practice I would like.   It only seems natural that I would combine my compositional and performing personae.

I would urge all composers to consider this avenue–and I intend to keep exploring it myself.

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Mahler–Symphony No. 4, 2nd movement

January 30th, 2010

A day-and-a-half of snow days this week means that I can get to this a little bit ahead of schedule.

I’ve chosen to examine Mahler’s work from a purely compositional standpoint, but for a summary of Mahler’s programmatic and spiritual understandings, I would direct the reader to this excellent note by Chicago Symphony program annotator Phillip Huscher.

The tonal center of the movement is C major, but with a contstant yearning toward D, beginning with the opening material.  The overall progression of the movement, from C minor to C major, F major, twice, then to a D major section, finally ending in C again.

Like the first movement, there is a tautness, a motivic clarity that isn’t present in Mahler’s Second or Third Symphonies to the extent it is here.   There is barely a single bar in this movement that doesn’t contain motivic material introduced in the first twenty measures of the piece.  The various motives have differing roles throughout the movement–some thematic, some transitonal.

The movement begins with a horn solo that strangely emphasizes D–re in the key of the movement, and two keys removed from the tonic pitch.  There is a great deal of Mahler’s typical ambiguity between major and minor as the motives that are more thematic in nature begin to be revealed–first in the flutes, then in the strings.  If I had to type-cast the melody here, it would be moto perpetuo, in part because of the importance of the motive composed of six sixteenth-notes and that tends to run into itself. 

This reliance on motives allows Mahler to make extensive use of melodic sequences, just as in a Bach invention.  I’ve often told my students that the key to writing tonal music is to remember that there are basically two techniques–functional phrases and the sequences that connect them.  Mahler here is reinforcing my lesson.

The scordatura violin deserves a mention.  Mahler scores for it in such a way that when it is present, it is always at the orchestrational foreground.  Lesson–if you’re going to use a strange instrument, feature it.

The opening material returns in measure 110, preceded by a sequential modulation that points to the pitch D–the secondary center of the piece.  The recapitulation is largely similar to the first 100 bars, with some textural elaboration and rescoring.  At the end of this section, the sequential passage returns, and again leads to D–but this time to a large D major section.   This section seems to substitute for the C-minor section at the beginning of the piece, leading back to C major at m. 314. 

This brief C-major section leads to a coda a measure 329, substituting for the F-major music that ended the first two large sections.  What most impresses me is that the opening material here beomes the closing material.  The horn solo from the opening bars that acted as the door into this piece is now the door out.  Appropriately for a middle movement, the ending is somewhat abrupt.

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Mahler, Symphony No. 4, first movement

January 18th, 2010

After the enormity of the Third Symphony, Mahler now gives us a much more managable piece, in length and in pallette, as though after two such pieces, another of this scope were simply unnecessary, or rather, it has now become necessary to step back, to reconsider more modest means.

The Fourth has always been, in my mind, the “little one,” lacking low brass and with triple woodwinds instead of quadruple, and missing even Mahler’s trademark in orchestral writing, the section of eight horns.  “Little,” however, is not the right word.  In scope, it is no less than the pieces that precede it, and in breadth, it is still a long piece by the standards of a Brahms or a Dvorak, and uses a much larger orchestra than those composers typically demanded.

The correct word is not “little” but “taut,” at least in this first movement.  Mahler’s timbral materials are somewhat reduced, but more interesting is the fact that there is none of the sprawling motivic or harmonic architecture of the previous pieces.  All of the basic motives of the piece are introduced in the first two key areas, and this economy of means is not surprising, but I haven’t seen Mahler taking it to this degree until now.  In addition, Mahler’s formal construction is very traditional–the closest yet to a sonata-allegro form in the “textbook” sense. 

The piece begins with a very characteristic texture–flutes in fifths doubling sleigh bells, followed by oboe and clarinet figurations.  These three measures set the stage in a very specific, very unique manner.  Mahler does not continue with this music, but brings it back at key locations throughout the piece, and the open fifths become a motor rhythm that gives a propulsive aspect to the “exposition” of this movement. 

The “first theme” begins on the anacrusis to m. 4 in the violins, but most importantly, the down beat of that measure features a falling sixth.  This interval and its rising form are another crucial motive for the movment.  Measure 5 and 6 also contain material that is developed later–six-sixteenth notes leading to the down beat and a rising dotted eighth-sixteenth rhythm. 

In this sonata form, the transition from first to second key area begins in m. 18 with a modified version of the first theme.  A spinning out of the sixteenth-note motive leads to m. 38 and the entrance of the second theme, beginning with a rising sixth–a motivic relation between the two very different themes. 

Following the rising 6th are three repeated notes, which are echoed in rhythmic diminution throughout the rest of the piece (for example, in the clarinets in m. 47ff.  Following a half cadence in m. 57, oboe and bassoon present music that appears to sum up, in a way, the second theme area.  It, too, receives the same sort of developmental treatment upon its repetition in the clarinets in m. 67, this time in the mixolydian mode. 

Measures 72ff see a return of the opening material, at the same pitch level despite the key signature indicating the dominant.  The development section begins at this point, returning to a key signature of G major at m. 77 with a reappearance of the first theme.  This development section moves through G major, then A major, E-flat minor, F minor, and a return to G major.  The development ends not with a “standing on the dominant,” but abruptly, with a caesura after m. 238, followed by the recapitulation without transition.

Oddly enough, the recapitulation begins with neither the sleigh bell motive nor the first theme, but depends heavily on the material from each.  At measure 263, the second theme appears in the tonic key, in the same way we would expect.  Measure 330 is the end of the recapitulation, leading to a very typical coda section, emphasizing the subdominant to indicate “after the ending” sentiment.

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Mahler–Symphony No. 3, 6th movement

January 5th, 2010

Less than a week behind schedule now–I’ve been listening and studying the score, but to decide to sit down at the computer and type a bunch of words that maybe no one will ever read takes some fortitude.  Mahler’s 4th Symphony will follow, about two weeks on each movement through January and February.  I’m starting to think about what project will follow this one at the end of the year–let me know if you have ideas.

This movement conjours lots of memories, partly because in college we (that is, my brass player friends and I) were all crazy about it.  I’m hearing it with very different ears now than I had then.  All brass players who want to be more than just brass players have to work through their “louder, higher, longer” phase, and on the other side of that, I can say that I’m not as taken with this movement as I used to be.

Perhaps it’s because I’ve since read Philip Roth’s The Human Stain, in which the book ends (spoiler alert) with the protagonist’s funeral, which service is ended with this very movement.  Is this choice on Roth’s part meant to be ironic?  Who would actually play this entire movement for a church full of mourners?  The Bernstein recording lasts nearly 40 minutes, which I think may be a little bit drawn out.  I’m curious to know what Mahler’s tempi were in this case.

I’ve decided that this piece is musically meaningful because of several features, both internally and in relation to the rest of the piece.  In the overall structure of the piece, it is as much coda as it is finale.  Mahler is continuously bringing in plagal material–the subdominants and supertonics that have always signified the end of a tonal composition.  Just as Handel’s “Hallelujah” Chorus ends its portion of Messiah, this harmonic emphasis serves to signify that this enormous composition, this epic journey, is coming to a close.  This movement, like the epilogue to an expansive novel, celebrates what has come.  Ironically enough, there is no return of earlier thematic material or even the slightest reference to the other movements.  There is only pure, beautiful, very tonal music.

The internal structure of this movement is interesting, but not particularly surprising.  It seems to be cast in  rondo form, like many of the last movements of many Austro-German symphonies from Mozart on.  The refrain consists of the chorale that thrilled my friends and me back in college–the first forty measures, complete with their own coda (the long tonic pedal beginning in m. 29).

Measure 41, with its key change, presents for the first time a kind of transitional material, or perhaps it represents the first episode.  The music settles not in the written key of F# minor but in C# minor in measure 51.  The material that follows suggests F major, allowing the minor subdominant (g minor) of the home key to make an appearance that brings back D major, in a way, at m. 92.  Even though the tonic chord fails to appear, it is clear that the music is in D major from the presence of the dominant and by the return of the sequential theme from the refrain.  The refrain itself returns in m. 108.

As is typical of rondo form, the second appearance of the refrain is shortened–a mere reminder of the dominating material of the piece.  Measure 132 is the start of the second episode–after transitional material similar to that which appeared before the first episode, and beginning with material that is similar to m. 51ff, but which is now developmental in nature.  The sequential motive from the refrain and the do-sol-le-sol motive of the transitional material provide the fodder for this developmental section, which continues until measure 214, when the chorale theme begins to reappear.  We are back in the home key, but not yet truly home. 

The fullest tutti of the movement so far is in m. 220, and revealingly is a chord of undoubtedly plagal function–a minor subdominant, which further reinforces the coda-ness of this movement. 

The final refrain begins in m. 252 with the chorale theme in the brass.  Despite appearing over a dominant pedal instead of a full harmonization, it is clear that we have arrived at the end of the piece, and the basic structure of the refrain is intact.  From this point forward, any digression from tonic must inevitably lead back. 

The coda to this entire coda movement begins in m. 300, and from here the music speaks for itself.

This is the most extensive, most complex composition I have ever attempted to pull apart like this, and I am frankly still puzzled by it.  It is in many ways almost too large to understand in its entirety–while a painting can always be viewed from afar, I find it difficult to “step back” from this piece.  In many ways, too, it is a prototype for what is to come, for after the relative respite of the Fourth these next two months, the remaining pieces only get more difficult and more expansive in their scope, and four of them lack the tool of a song text to fall back upon.  I should be in awe, and a little bit intimidated, because this is the musical equivalent of hiking the Appalachain Trail.

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Mahler–Symphony No. 3, 5th movement

January 5th, 2010

After the premiere of my Five Rhythmic Etudes for orchestra in 2007, a person whose opinion I trust came up to me and told me that the first movement was a tiny masterpiece.  I don’t know whether the rest of the world would agree, but it certainly felt good to hear it.  This movement feels much the same.  One reason I’ve chosen to study Mahler’s symphonies is because of their sprawling, rambling scope, similar to novels by Tolstoy.  This movement, though, is focused and concentrated in the manner of a tiny masterpiece.

Mahler’s text is from the venerable Des Knaben Wunderhorn, and as I mentioned in my previous post on the fourth movement, it seems to balance Nietzsche’s text.  The resources are somewhat different–children’s and women’s choruses and an orchestra without violins.  The music is wholly different in mood.  Where the fourth movement is solemn and seems to suggest a deliberate mode of expression, this fifth movement is joyful and exuberant.  The folk poetry of Wunderhorn recieves an simple, folk-like setting, as though we should know this song already.

A first for Mahler (at least in the symphonies) is the use of voices as a timbral resource rather than as pure textual exposition.  Throughout, the words “bimm, bamm,” to be performed “as the sound of a bell,” work in this fashion, but at other moments, the the voices perform similar roles, most strikingly in the highest women’s voices in mm. 96-99, where a melisma on the word “Stadt” contributes to the overall texture.

To break up the folk-like, sing-song approach to the text, Mahler frequently avoids strict hypermeter, with many three-bar phrases, and often constructing four-bar phrases in a 3+1 kind of structure (as in mm.13-16 and 96-99).  Another common hypermetrical structure here is groups of four bars plus two bars.  These asymmetries seem to break up the piece, giving it the same sophistication as other of Mahler’s movements.

Beyond the wonderful use of treble voices, the orchestration is fantastic.  The absence of violins (Brahms did this before, of course) immediately shifts the emphasis to the winds, with wonderful effects.  The bassoons and contrabassoons are featured in a way that hasn’t happened earlier in the piece, and is quite refreshing–by this time, it is necessary to exploit the orchestral palette a little bit to help maintain interest.  Measures 65-83 are an essentially instrumental treatment (the voices are treated timbrally) of the material, and work in the kind of developmental way that vocal writing doesn’t always permit.  While the shape of the movement is relatively small, the scoring isn’t.

The placement of this movement within the symphony is important.  Does the five-movement second part balance the gigantic single-movement first part?  We seem to contrast unity with variety, relatively organic form with a more sectional group of forms–a minuet, a scherzo, a recitative and a chorus, followed by the sixth movement.  Mahler’s world is fully articulated, as rich and as full as the natural world, compunded by the depth and variety of the creative world.

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Mahler–Symphony No. 3, 4th movement

December 28th, 2009

If one is creating a world, as Mahler said he intended to do in his symphonies, how does one choose a text to sum up, in words, that world?

In the Second Symphony, the two texts deal with, roughly, death and ressurection, that is, the end of life and the hope for a new life.  Mahler’s texts in the Eighth Symphony also combine ideas of sacred and profane, and seem to suggest that both modes of thought can lead to redemption. 

Mahler was not a composer of opera (at least, not successfully), but he was primarily an opera conductor.  He thought in terms of the blending of music and words, and the idea that music can be about ideas is central to his understanding of music as an art form and his approach to composition.

So, to deal only with the fourth movement of the Third Symphony, why this particular text?  What is Nietzsche saying here that Mahler deems important enough to include in his world?  Not only that, if, as a composer, I wanted to make sure that my audience and musicians took a text seriously, I would set it just this way–slowly, deliberately, with an accompaniment that stays out of the way, and with very little repetition, ironically.  In song, repeated words often shed their meanings, threatening to become mere rhythmic and timbral elements of the composition.

This movement acts like a way station in the overall plan of the piece.  It begins and ends on A, the dominant pitch, as though the music enters the room already in progress and leaves before it is quite finished.  An interesting parallel here with Gregorian chant–some practitioners of chant believe that it is a continuous cycle of worship, always being sounded in either this world or some other dimension, and that when Gregorian chant is performed or perceived, we are only joining worship already in progress, never ending, never diminishing.  Perhaps Mahler means to suggest the eternity (ewigkeit) of Nietszche’s ideas in much the same way.

The music opens with a motive heard in the first movement–again, Mahler’s preview technique in action, just as in the Second Symphony.   The motive always returns to A, much as the music will at the first entrance of the soloist.  The chromatic mediant relationship is again a part of Mahler’s vocabulary here–FM to am, F#m to am to FM, and then a falling third into the tonic key of D major for the bulk of the movement at m. 18.

Once the tonic key is established, much of the music is played out over a pedal D, sometimes suggesting D major, at other times, D minor–again, a Mahler schema.  Measures 20-23 are a palette of orchestral color unto themselves, and they succeed in causing the listener to do what the singer demands: “Attend” (Gib Acht!). 

Perhaps one reason this text appealed to Mahler is the word tief (deep).  When I choose poetry for my vocal compositions, it is first and foremost the sounds of the words that appeal to me–I will read poems aloud while trying to select them–but ultimately, if they lack meaning or have meanings that I don’t wish to pass along, the poem will often fall by the wayside, or the project will fail.  Depth seems to be a very appropriate sentiment to this music–from the middle of this titanic symphony that is about creating a sound world.  By the time one is four movements in, quite a bit of depth has been undertaken, and I can’t help but wonder if Mahler recognizes this.

After a long pedal point, the music becomes more active beginning with m. 57.  The melodic material here seems to be related to many of Mahler’s other melodies.  Versions of it appear in the finale to the Second Symphony.  This interlude leads back to the opening statement, musically and textually, in m. 75.  The music is again centered on A for a recapitulation of earlier material from this point to the end of the movement.  The text is largely parallel, thus the music is as well.  The narrator’s sleep has been deep, and then his suffering, and at last his joy.

In parallel to the Second Symphony, then, this movement would seem to be Mahler’s explication of his belief in the human path to redemption, rather than a godly path.  Joy is possible in this world, of course, but only in balance with sorrow (Herzeleid).

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Mahler, Symphony No. 3, Movement 3

December 20th, 2009

Getting behind means I keep this one short–three more movements to hit by the first of the year, so a few questions for further thought.

The posthorn solo is, of course, the prominent aspect of this movement, although there is enough music here for a symphony in its own right.  Some questions–what is the significance of the most prominent musical element in a texture being placed off-stage–in a position of drastically reduced promienence?  Is the posthorn solo, with interjections from the orchestra, meant in someway to balance the trombone solo in the first movement?

A big question about the overall structure of the piece–do the two parts of this symphony balance each other?  Do five smaller movements hold their own against the enormous first movement?

Can Mahler’s style be addressed using schemata in the same way that, say, the Viennese Classical style can be?  Possible schemata–the alternation between major and minor chord qualities, found here, for example, in mm.57-58 on the small scale, and on a larger scale in the entire first section, alternating between C major and C minor.  Mahler also has a very typical cadence–for example, mm. 338-339.  Can these types of cliches be as important as those found in Haydn and Mozart?

As always, fascinating orchestration:  mm. 358ff, 437ff, especially.  I have come to feel that a hallmark of the Austrian symphonic tradition–from Mozart on–is the interplay between strings and winds, and Mahler is no exception so far, especially in interior movements.  Motivic material is frequently given to these two groups alternately in Mozart, Beethoven, Brahms, and here in Mahler as well, although Mahler now begins to separate the woodwinds and brass (especially the horns, now in an expanded section).  I’ve commented on this before.

So–short but sweet tonight.  With luck, the rest of the symphony will follow in the next two weeks.

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Mahler, Symphony No. 3, 2nd movement

December 13th, 2009

Still playing catch-up… as usual with the project, the music rarely gets the time I would like to put in on it, and especially not the time it deserves.  I wear, perhaps, more hats than would be ideal, but at the same time, it is nice to not have to plug away on the same work all the time, I suppose.

It is, perhaps, the tragedy of Mahler’s shorter, simpler, interior movements to be relegated to a certain level of obscurity.  In this movement, for example, there is no thundering bass drum, no jarring cymbal clash, no solemnly intoning trombone.  Yet, from any other composer, this movement would be a great work, standing out from the background.  I think, again, of Lutoslawski’s complaint (in the introduction to the score of either the 3rd or 4th symphony) that the Romantic composers tried to do too much in their symphonic writing–that three or four “big idea” sort of pieces was too much to handle in a single sitting.

This second movement is a great deal more subtle than the first, and than the corresponding movements in the first two symphonies.  It has a an interesting four-part structure, in which the third and fourth parts are varied repetitions of the first and second parts, respectively.  It suggests, in various ways, rondo and composite ternary without truly being either.

I am strongly considering requiring my students to engage in an in-depth study of this movement when I teach orchestration next fall.  Mahler does not overwhelm the listener with effects but simply writes melodies, develops them and orchestrates them well.  In only the first two systems of music, the transfers of melody from oboe to violins to clarinet are masterful, with changes in the accompaniment that take place accordingly.  For example, in the fourth full measure, where the oboe dips down into a range that requires a fuller sound of most players, the pizzicato accompaniment shifts from violas to celli, with their more resonant pizzicato, and then back to the violas when the second violins take the melody in m. 10, and again into the cello’ when the clarinet takes the lead in m. 13.  None of these shifts is strictly necessary, but each develops the depth of the color of the movement in a very short time, and each is able to be accomplished with barely an acknowledgement from the listener–like subtle changes in lighting in a painting.

Measure 21 gives a contrasting theme in C# minor.  Not only does the key change, but Mahler uses rhythm to set the music apart–instead of a stately minuet, there is  now a triplet rhythm that propels the music in a drastically different direction–I am led to wonder if my reference recording (Bernstein with the NY Philharmonic) may be a somewhat to langourous tempo for this movement; is it intended to be more like the first Scherzo of the Second Symphony?  Just what sort of “Tempo di menuetto” did Mahler have in mind?

The music is quickly back in A major, and the triplet-based theme doesn’t last on its own.  By m. 35, it has given the music back to the original set of motives, and a reprise of the original material (roughly) lasts until m. 50. 

A new section in 3/8 begins at m. 51, an example of Mahler’s use of metric modulation.  The theme here is highly figural, where the material of the minuet section was much more lyrical.  For a composer such as myself who views music through the lens of rhythm, this section is the more intriguing one, because in the answer to the opening theme, Mahler employs polymetrical devices, beginning with 5:4 rhythms in m. 61.  The result is a much more hectic texture–full, and yet not polyphonic, what a conductor I once had used to call a sonic scrim.  No aliquot division of the bar lower than 7 goes unrepresented, and the second violins have a trill to boot.  The mto the stately first section is magnificent.

To complicate matters further, a section in 2/4 follows.  Mahler has essentially exhausted the rhythmic options available to him in twenty bars, and now requires a change of meter (from compound to simple) to keep up this exercise in rhythmic exploration.  In m. 80, this change is reversed–a masterstroke, really.

Mahler wishes to return to the material of the opening of the movement–the minuet music.  In order to do so, he must somehow return to a triple meter to make a smooth transition (intergral to Mahler’s understanding of the requirements of his time, I believe–there can be no cadence and then restarting in the old meter because it would disrupt the coherence of the movement and display the disparate parts for what they are).  Thus, the 3/8 of m. 52 becomes 9/8 in m. 80 and the duration of a full bar becomes the duration of a single beat, then transfered through ritardando and a final meter change to 3/4 at mm. 90-94, with m. 94 being the return of the opening material.  This transition has another masterful orchestrational moment–the composite rhythm between the flutes in m. 91 results in a doubling of the sixteenth-notes in the first violins in the same measure.  The rhythm played by the second and third flutes–dotted-eighth plus sixteenth–then becomes the main rhythm for the next two measures and changes the rhythmic language firmly back to simple meter.

As one begins to expect of Mahler, the return of the opening material is more thickly scored and more fully developed.  There can be no mere restatement.  The doubling of clarinets and violas in m.104 and m. 106 in an otherwise strings-only texture is a subtle detail.  The passage would work well enough without it, I believe, but with the clarinets, it sings in a slightly different way–these sustained notes were absent from the first presentation of this material, and reinforcing them orchestrationally reinforces them in the listener’s mind.

The return of the 3/8 and 2/4  material at m. 145 is significantly longer than its earlier counterpart–mostly in the lengthening of the 2/4 section.  Again, Mahler develops very interesting rhythmic textures, as that at m. 193ff.  There is a persistent argument between simple and compound divisions of the beat.

The A material stages a comeback in m. 218.  I am fascinated by the wind accompaniment for the flute and solo violin beginning in m. 234–effective yet completely unobtrusive.  A brief coda.

This movment is simply a study in how to write a good piece of music–there is economy of material without being repetitive; excellent orchestration without being flashy; clarity of design without being overly formal.  A composer would do well to emulate such things.

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Mahler–Symphony No. 3, 1st mvt.

December 6th, 2009

I’m finding myself behind schedule on this piece, but it’s also the end of the semester, so hopefully I will be able to catch up on this piece.

This movement comprises Part I, and roughly half of the total piece.  Lutoslawski commented that there was a tendency of Romantic symphonists to overwhelm the listener with multiple significant statements–a justification for his own later symphonies, perhaps, which are signle movement works.  As in the first movements of his previous two symphonies, Mahler presents us with a “big idea” that could almost stand on its own.  And yet, unlike in previous outings, the overall tonality of the movement is incomplete.  It is literally impossible for this movement to be taken as a complete piece in the harmonic language of the late 19th century, and strange indeed for a piece to end other than where it began.  Despite its weight, despite its musical significance, this movement is incomplete on its own.

Where Mahler’s first two symphonies begin by developing motives, the Third begins with a theme–a wonderfully memorable one scored for eight horns.  What is interesting about this opening is that the theme is stated and then left completely until a later portion of the piece.  The theme is followed by relatively unrelated material that unfolds slowly over the next 200 bars.  This very clear initial statement followed by a “putting together” of new material is somewhat unique.

This part of the movement is very static from a harmonic sense–the music is centered on D minor and A minor chords, and much of the music is about gettingb to A–from a half-step above and a half-step below.  Perhaps for Mahler’s narrative tonal design, it is necessary to firmly establish the home key to make clear that the ending is not in the home key.  The sheer length of the movement may be a reason for this.

Measure 99 has a temporary change to Bb minor–a mere half-step from A minor.  If A minor is expected, we are denied this, as within a few measures we return to D-minor.  Measure 132 introduces new material which will later be expanded.  Mahler’s use of the chromatic mediant relation is striking and clearly divides this music from the rest of the piece.

D-minor returns in m. 164 with what I, as a trombone player, of necessity considered to be the most significant portion of the piece.  The only earlier trombone solo I am aware of that is this expansive and which is more important is the middle movement (“Funeral Oration”) of Berlioz’ Symphonie funebre et triomphale.  The trombone writing also bears a certain resemblance to Rimsky-Korsakov’s Russian Easter Overture.  However, this project has given me a new perspective–most of the material of the solo has been introduced previously in the horns. 

Finally, more than 200 measures into the piece, Mahler begins to head toward a new key area–m. 225 has the return of the chromatic mediant material, leading us to a presentation of thematic material in Db major.  Another ten measures sees the music in C major with the first appearance with music in the strings that continuously is  transitional music–mm. 239-273. 

Measure 273 also finally has the return of the opening theme–transformed into a major mode (F major).  The composer and conductor in me has to snicker at the notation Mahler gives to the first violins in m. 276, which has three anacrusis eighth notes.  Mahler feels the need to write “Keine Triole,” “no triplets.”  In conducting rehearsals, I have often had to clarify what should be obvious from the notation–if three eighth notes are preceded by an eighth note in common time, they are almost certainly not triplets.  But who did Mahler imagine was going to play his music?

Measure 302ff has an interesting orchestral effect–trumpets echoed by woodwinds.

Measure 330 has a change to D major, but the harmony is a long pedal point on A until 351.  A return of the march theme, and then a climactic passage that ends in measure 369 with another key signature change (although the key is G major (or G minor) despite the indication of one flat).  The brightness of the march leads us to a darker place–leading back to the more sublime, more subtle music that appeared just after the opening.

The solo trombone reappears in measure 423, this time in F major instead of D minor.  I always used to practice this solo more delicately than the first, with more lyrical qualities.  It is as though it lies between the frenetic celebration of the martial music and the dark brooding of much of the other material.

There is a fantastic transformation of the initial theme in solo clarinet and bassoon in mm. 478–barely recognizable yet completely familiar; such is the power of developmental technique.  The chromatic mediant material returns in m. 482–this time sequenced so that the resulting key is Gb major for a wodnerful duet between horn and violin–what composer would have considered such a thing?

Measrue 514, still in Gb major has a restatement of the march theme over a subtle scrim effect in violins and harp more French than German.  This leads to material in Bb minor. 

Measure 530 sees the transitional material from earlier in the strings now become developmental in nature.  Mahler builds to a return of the march theme, but with additional counterpoint.  The march transforms from the glorious music of earlier to some sort of nightmare version, swinging through Eb minor and C major to land on Db major.  The march fades into the distance, and the percussion battery retransitions to the opening material at m. 643.

I’ve been teaching Forms and Analysis this semester, and one thing I’ve emphasized to my students is that a restatement of earlier material is rarely verbatim, and is usually truncated in some way.  The same is true here.  While Mahler opens with the same music, he cuts about 100 bars to bring back the solo trombone at measure 681.

This third solo is a combination of material from the first and second solos.  Measure 708 is indicative of Mahler’s frequent decision to score the low register thickly.  This is something I avoid in my own writing–I’ve read the orchestration texts too closely, perhaps, because Mahler’s scoring is very effective.  I resolve to attempt something like this in my next large-ensemble piece.

The solo section ends with a direct modulation to C minor, with material related to the earlier transitional passage.  The march music returns in F major and a repeat and elaboration of earlier material.  A succession of 6-3 chords, first in D-flat major, then in G-flat major, pulls back to F major in measure 867–the transitional material now becomes the coda.

Any piece of this size–nearly 40 minutes and 900 measures of music–has to have an internal structure that is coherent but not repetitive.  Mahler’s approach is to continuously develop a few basic themes and pieces of material.  This is not, of course, unique to Mahler–only a few composers have eschewed repetition to the extent that Schoenberg did in Erwartung.   There is a balance between harmonic stasis and harmonic progression, and of course the large orchestra provides a highly varied timbral pallette.

As a composer, I must now ask myself whether I am capable of the same sustained kind of writing, abandoning, as I usually do, Mahler’s use of a basically functionally tonal idiom.  The truth is that I don’t know–studying Mahler is a way to at least see how it can be done, but my longest single movement is about twelve minutes.  This is the challenge that lies before me.

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