Posts Tagged ‘scherzo’

Mahler, Symphony No. 6, 2nd movement

Tuesday, June 1st, 2010

I keep thinking of non-Mahler topics I would like to tackle here, but things have been busy.  I have some time over the next few weeks, so perhaps they will pop up, but for now, here are some observations on the Scherzo from the Sixth Symphony.

The  first time I ever heard this piece, in April 1995, as performed by the Cincinnati Symphony, I heard the Scherzo as a sort of reimagining of the first movement.  I feel less and less that this is true, but the opening bars of each bear a striking similarity with their pedal A and melodic figures that rise toward the meat of the piece–a Schenkerian inital ascent, as it were.

What is really interesting about the first section of the Scherzo is that it seems to be related to a device that Mozart and Hadyn used from time to time in their menuetto movements–the spot that later composers used for the Scherzo.  In a few of their minuets, Mozart and Hadyn employ a strict canonic construction, and if Mahler’s use of canon isn’t strict, it is at least suggested–very clearly in places like mm. 7-9, in which motives are repeated directly, and in Mahler’s use of invertible counterpoint.  It is, really, the same old trick that Zarlino teaches–using invertible counterpoint, write two sections of music at the same time.  Again, Mahler isn’t strict, but his motivic choices allow him to layer and relayer his material.

Orchestrationally, there is a great deal of sort of “standard” writing, with mixed scoring that is effective, but not particularly colorful.  Lutoslawski, with his single movement symphonic plans, criticized the Romantic composers for making two large statements in their symphonies–typically the first and last movements.  He had Brahms in mind, but surely Mahler is no less guilty, if not more so.  In the Sixth, the last movement is by far the most significant, with the first movement probably next so, if not least for beign the most memorable.  Where, then, does that leave this piece, the middle child?

In constructing a piece of this length, is it possible to fully engage the audience for the complete duration of the symphony?  It is difficult to imagine the audience not becoming slightly fidgety at some point.   In Shakespeare, there is frequently a pause in the dramatic arc at the beginning of the last act–some ceremony, or comic relief.  In the same way, Mahler has moments of intense drama that are contrasted with moments of thoughtfulness and repose–even, moments that are simply “vamp” that have us waiting patiently for a scene change or to let us relax.  Is it lazy to think of Mahler in this way?  He was a man, not a god.

This movement spends a great deal of time on the subdominant of its various keys, for example, in m. 44ff.  There is also a fair amount of sequential motion, although generally up or down by second.  This aids in getting to more remote keys, as at m. 62, which sees a modulation to C-minor.

The concept of key is beginning to feel a little stretched in some places, as in the long “D-major” section beginning in m. 273, which never arrives at a tonic chord (although, characteristically for this movement, it lands on the subdominant in m. 299).  At the same time, there are more meter changes in this movement than in any of Mahler’s work so far.  While the outer sections are somewhat canonic in structure, the frequent meter changes disrupt this by throwing a simple-meter wrench into a compound-meter machine.

The major-minor motto of this piece makes its appearance at some of the crucial formal junctures, but most importantly in the coda, beginning at m. 419.  The harmony moves down by step, with AM-am, GM-gm, FM-fm in the trumpets and flutes.  The motto returns again in A, and is repeated several times against motivic material from this movement. 

Berlioz and Tchaikovsky brought such motives into their symphonic writing; in a way, Mahler’s concept of the symphony owes a great deal to Symphonie Fantastique.  Mahler has been self-referential before, but this is the first instance of a “motto” in any of his symphonies, and so there can be little wonder about the attachment of such importance to it by musicologists.  As a composer, though, I am more interested in the musical effect–what does the listener with no knowledge of Mahler’s biography or any explicit or implicit “program” to the symphony make of this device?  It is a unifying element, certainly, but its application seems slightly ham-handed at times.  The motive itself, as I mentioned in my previous post, is clear and direct, and distinctly unconventional–a relatively rare occurence in tonal music.  Could Mahler have dealt with it in a way that is not so obvious?

Another month with this symphony, then, so another month to ponder such questions.

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Mahler, Symphony No. 5, third movement

Wednesday, March 31st, 2010

Here is another enormous movement–ironically, lying at the heart of this symphony, defying the traditional conception of the scherzo as a light-hearted respite.  Of course, there is nothing small, and very little that is light-hearted about Mahler’s music in general or this piece in particular.

Another puzzling aspect of this symphony is that only the first movement of this symphony conforms to the stated key of the piece–a riddle for a later post, perhaps.  The movement begins in D major with a horn call that introduces, as is Mahler’s way, some of the most important motivic material of the music that follows.  The first three measures emphasize beat two of the three-to-a-bar meter.  Clarinets and bassoons answer with continuing material that employs hemiola–a second important idea here.  At the beginning of the second phrase, in m. 16, the horn again takes the lead with a figure that emphasizes the second beat of the measure. 

The music moves to f-sharp minor in m. 40, with the first appearance of music that suggests a moto perpetuo approach.  These two ideas–the waltz-like material and the moto perpetuo alternate through the rest of the movement.  Imitation plays a role as well, with a motive introduced in the clarinets in mm. 43ff.  This imitative figure appears at times with entrances spaced by a single measure, but at other times with a displacement of two or three bars, as in m. 84, between trumpets and bassoons. 

The harmonic plan of this movement is highly complex, with key changes happening very frequently.  By measure 150, the music is in B-flat major, a highly remote key, with melodic material derived from the original motives and a more relaxed melodic idea centered around sol.  At m. 174, a direct modulation to D major is followed by a trio of trumpet, horn and trombone.  The material is the opening themes.  The moto perpetuo material returns, and leads quickly to F minor, and then to Ab major, keys as remote from D major as most composers would dare to go.

The relaxed sol-centered theme is combined with a motive derived from the opening notes in m. 252.  This leads to a fascinating moment in m. 270 in which harmonic motion pauses on D minor with an interesting orchestral effect–horns on F, entering at two beat intervals, creating timbral interest in an otherwise static moment.  This is followed by a low-voiced passage in the strings and woodwinds, interrupted by the solo horn, with the ultimate goal of D minor, which is reach in m. 308.

Slowly, the music returns to the tempo and textures of the opening, leading to the moto perpetuo material.  In m. 402, there is an intriguing ensemble of flutes, clarinets and trombone.   The full momentum of the music is reached by m. 448, with its key of G-flat major.  The formal function of this section remains developmental, and the harmonic basis shifts quickly.  Measure 486 shows the moto perpetuo material turned into thematic material that in its registral and motivic characteristics resembles the material that characterized the second movement (see second movement, mm. 9-11 in the violins, for example).  The resemblance is more in character than otherwise, but the two themes play similar roles, and are somewhat spasmodic in nature–throwing listener expectations into sharp relief against the composer’s actual choices. 

The music breaks off after this material to return again–for the third time– to the material of the opening in m. 490.  This repetition is precise, not simply implied like the earlier return. 

The moto perpetuo material brings the music now by m. 614 to a minor, in a section that had been in the more remote key of F-minor previously.  This allows the music to return to the original tonic pitch, D, by m. 763, employing the same tightly-wrought construction of the two previous movements.  A bass-drum solo begins the drive to the end of the movement, a coda of sorts, but more the final statement.  D, only just established as the tonic, becomes the third of a diminished-seventh chord that opens up the moto perpetuo, combined with rhythmic motives from the more thematic ideas of the opening of the movement.  The high point of this section is reached at m. 799, with the full orchestra presenting no fewer than five of the motivic ideas of the movement in a swirling, relentless assualt that leads to a final horn melody in m. 813, which strangely, abruptly, ends in D major, as though Mahler is in some hurry to get back to where he started.

Why the title “Scherzo” for this movement?  The translation “joke” is not altogether accurate, as there seem to be few moments of outright humor.  Perhaps a better idea would be “tall tale,” or “riddle,” both of which do a better job of describing the sprawling, playful-but-not-humourous nature of the piece.

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Opus 110

Saturday, May 30th, 2009

Here’s the May 2009 installment of my series of posts on the Beethoven Piano Sonatas.  This month is Sonata No. 31 in A-flat, Op. 110–next month will be the last month in the cycle, which means I will need a new analysis project–let me know if you want to start one with me and dialog on the compositional aspects of pieces from the standard repertoire.  I could, of course, spend another few years going back over the Beethoven Piano Sonatas, but there is so much great music out there that I’ve never even touched, that I feel like it would be better for me to move on.  So… I haven’t decided on my next project yet, but I do have some ideas… if one or more people were interested in working through some pieces with me, I would let them have some input in the decision.  I’ve considered the Mahler symphonies, Bach’s St. Matthew Passion, Beethoven’s string quartets, Chopin’s Preludes… let me know what you think!

On to the piece:  A study in contrast this one, and highly indicative of the “official” traits of Beethoven’s late style as it has been taught to me.  I’ll dive right in.

The first movement, if not in textbook sonata form, at least seems to reference it.  I’m not Donald Tovey, who looked for sonata form in every piece he ever analyzed (the last movement of Schumann’s Piano Quintet is a Rondo with sonata aspects, not a straight sonata-allegro), but it seems reasonable to assert that Beethoven is working with thematic groups and a strong sense of motivic unity.  His use of core technique is somewhat fascinating, as it is built on a descending thirds sequence instead of the usual stepwise sequence.  I’m puzzled by the modulation to E major in what corresponds to the recapitulation.  This isn’t Beethoven opening up a window to another tonal world but rather knocking out a wall–a very unexpected place, although it makes sense that something different needs to happen where the exposition modulated to E-flat (the modulatory technique to E is an enharmonic respelling of a borrowed chord… IV becomes iv, which is vi in the new key; Beethoven gets out of that key by a fascinating use of common-tone technique and sequence).

To understand Beethoven’s use of sequence is often to gain understanding of his medium-scale structure (and in some cases, large scale, as in the “Spring” Sonata).  In Las Cruces last week, I spoke with Fred Bugbee about NMSU’s music theory track, and eventually the conversation came around to sequences.  One reason I’ve decided to part company with my current theory textbook, Kotska & Payne’s Tonal Harmony is that their treatment of sequences simply lacks body.  The new generation of theory textbooks is much more realistic about the use of sequence in tonal music, and, truthfully, it was teaching from Clendinning & Marvin’s The Musician’s Guide to Theory and Analysis that really got across how important sequence is.  My study of Beethoven has only reinforced that.

The second movement, Allegro molto is diminutive in proportion, but as will all Beethoven’s scherzi, I am amazed at the sheer craft involved.  Every time I make the mistake of listening to a Classical or Romantic scherzo as merely a light, intermezzo sort of movement, I tend to realize that I’m not doing it justice.  With some composers, it’s an easier mistake to make than with others.  Much of Mendelssohn’s genius seems to lie in his scherzi, for example, while Dvorak has a tendency to revert to folk dances.  Nearly every time I look closely at a scherzo, however, I see a level of compositional craft that equals the outer movements.  It is as though composers were freed from the strictures of sonata-allegro or rondo (although most rondos have wonderfully original moments) and could pull out the tricks they worked on as students–canon, invertible counterpoint, rhythmic surprises, and the works.  What fun!  Beethoven doesn’t use contrapuntal tricks, but in this tiny scherzo, he gives us the most rhythmically ingenious and formally cogent plan of the piece.  Why should this tiny movement have a coda when the first movement has none?  I suspect it is more necessary here because we have heard the A-section twice, and the listener needs to have a fuller sense of closure than a simple cadence.

I could puzzle over the last movement for quite some time.  Here is Beethoven’s late-style interest in counterpoint (the fugue, complete with a second exposition in inversion), side-by-side with harmonic innovation (a common-tone diminished-seventh chord with a modulating function), and a confusion about rhythm and key signatures that simply doesn’t make sense at this point.  To wit:  for much of the piece, the key is A-flat minor, at least until the start of the fugue, but the expected seven-flat key signature never appears.  Instead, the movement begins in B-flat minor, shifts to E major and then is written in E-flat minor.  Are these key signatures simply flags of convenience?  At the same time, Beethoven indicates “Recitative,” and breaks out of the signified meter (common time).  How free is this meter?  And how, precisely, is the performer to understand the subsequent barlines?  The “Klagender Gesang” in 12/16 meter is another puzzling aspect–it is almost as though Beethoven is writing a fantasia, a written-out improvisation, at the end of which he launches into the fantastic three-voice fugue. 

Then this full-bodied G minor and G major review of earlier material–the “Klagender Gesang” in G-minor paralleling the A-flat minor section and the fugue (in inversion) in G-major (although we get only an exposition and a long episode).  At last, the retuirn (recapitulation?) of the fugue subject in the original key–part recapitulation, part coda, really. 

One more Beethoven sonata–I look forward to Ludwig’s valedictory effort in the genre.

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