Ralph Vaughan-Williams
(1872-1958) isn’t exactly a footnote in the musical history books, nor is he a
one-hit wonder. Nevertheless, he is
still somewhat neglected in the concert halls (in the States, anyway), which
rarely play his 9 symphonies, preferring his lighter works such as The Lark
Ascending or Fantasia from Greensleves (fine works though they
are). The reason for his neglect is
hard to fathom. His music is full of
gorgeous, memorable melodies, yet is hardly a throwback to 19th
century Romanticism, being bold, exciting, and often dissonant. Almost every bar of Vaughan-Williams’ music
bears his unique thumbprint, and you couldn’t mistake him for anyone else,
though others have freely borrowed from him (including his near-namesake, John
Williams, the film composer). He wrote
in almost every form imaginable, leaving masterpiece after masterpiece: a
gorgeous concerto for two (!) pianos, an outsized ballet on the Book of Job,
folk-like chamber works, and numerous stand-alone orchestral works, such as the
monumental Fantasia on a Theme of Thomas Tallis, which pits a solo
string quartet against a string orchestra.
Yet it is as a symphonist that Vaughan-Williams found his truest
voice. These nine works sing out with
incredible power and beauty, but also a sense of deep morality. They seem, in some respects, to represent
the voice of England’s conscience during the first 5 decades of the 20th
century. From the wide-eyed,
philosophic Sea Symphony (No.1) to the stark, sometimes sardonic,
mystical Ninth Symphony, his works seem a call to arms; not to fighting for king
and country, perhaps, but as a witness to humanity’s horror and heroism. Like his contemporary, the Russian composer,
Dimitri Shostakovich, Vaughan-Williams wrote for his generation in a voice they
would understand, and that we, listening backward from the ‘future,’ can
appreciate as one of the great hallmarks of orchestral literature.
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