The Seven Voyages of Sibelius: An Appreciation of His Symphonic Cycle

About a hundred years ago, when symphony orchestras still drew large—and young!—audiences, Sibelius’ music featured on many programs, particularly his series of romantic-modernist symphonies. Not since Beethoven and Brahms was a composer’s voice so naturally attuned to symphonic thought, yet without making the listener feel the heavy lifting of contrapuntal development and sonata form. Like his contemporary, Gustav Mahler, Sibelius began with both feet planted firmly in the late Romantic period, yet with each symphony, he ventured further afield into the thickets of Modernism—on his own terms. Sadly, though his music is still often played by orchestras around the world, the average listener knows little of his music beyond orchestral hits like Finlandia, Valse Triste, or an excerpt from a longer suite, The Swan of Tuonela. His symphonies are often seen as derivative of Brahms or Tchaikovsky by some, while others find them too thorny or difficult (particularly the later ones). Many people would much prefer to hear something more familiar and toothsome and call it a night. 

The Bard of Finland: Jean Sibelius

If you had asked music lovers 100 years ago (around 1915, in other words) which living composers were most likely to stake a claim at immortality, one of the leading candidates would be Jean Sibelius, the pioneering Finnish composer whose works had taken Europe—and then America—by storm.  Along with contemporaries such as Mahler and Rachmaninov, Sibelius represented the last gasp of Romanticism, which both he and Rachmaninov were doomed to outlive.  But whereas Rachmaninov largely held onto the principles of Russian Romanticism, Sibelius found his own way to adapt to Modernism, producing works that are today every bit as bold and enigmatic as they were in the early 20th century.  Strangely, Sibelius quickly lost his foothold after WWII, dismissed as a cheap Romantic, either jeered for his “big hit,” the sentimental Valse Triste, or grudgingly tolerated for his moody tone poem, The Swan of Tuonela.  Serialism and the twelve-tone technique had no place for such a throwback to fin di seicle emotionalism, even if concert halls never entirely banished him to the purgatory of forgotten composers.  Important works such as Symphonies 1, 2, and 5 remained in the repertoire, and occasionally masterpieces such as En Saga, Pohjola’s Daughter, and Tapiola would make an outing.  The advent of CD technology encouraged complete cycles of his symphonies (notably by Simon Rattle in the late 80’s), and forced a reassessment of his symphonic legacy.  For someone considered a purveyor of second-rate Tchaikovsky, Sibelius conjured up works which defied all the “isms” of his day, whether Romanticism, Serialism, or New Classicism.  His stark, introspective Fourth Symphony left most scratching their heads, as did its polar opposite, the sunny, lyrical Sixth (can something so undramatic be a symphony, many asked)?  And what about the Third Symphony, which is neither Romantic, nor classical, nor Modernist, but a strange form which the composer, himself, never really followed up on? 

The Universal Particular: Turgenev's Fathers and Sons

Sometimes a work is so much a product of its times that, for all its genius, it no longer translates beyond those times. I’ve read many works that are full of incredible satire, insight, and profound art, yet would be virtually meaningless to a modern reader. I think specifically of a great work like Fielding’s Joseph Andrews, which makes me laugh more than almost any book written; however, so much of the laughter comes from knowing the ideas and

culture of the early 18^th century, without which all the jokes at Colley Cibber’s expense fall rather flat. These books inevitably become the property of college classrooms, where a patient teacher can tease out the references so that the work, little by little, becomes enjoyable again. This is the Scylla and Chabrydis that any author must face: too topical, and the work doesn’t last a decade; too general, and the work speaks to no one at all. 

Focus on Sergei Rachmaninov, Part I: Symphony No.3 (1936)

Sergei Vasilyevich Rachmaninov is something of a 20th century enigma: he doesn’t fit neatly into the parade of modernist composers who blossomed in Europe and Russia in the early years of the 20th century, and he stubbornly resisted the tide of serialism that conquered the composing world soon after WWI. However, it is incorrect to call him an anachronism, either, as his music could not have been written in the 19th century, and throughout his works are subtle hallmarks of a ‘modern’ ear, one that combined the true sensibility of Romanticism with a world-weary, and at times, despairing 20th century outlook. Even before his death, the critical music world dismissed him as a has-been (and to some, a never-was), though his works stubbornly refused to disappear from the repertory. Audiences clamored to hear his 2nd and 3rd piano concertos, the Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini, his 2nd symphony, and numerous piano works, including the haunting, often Chopinesque Preludes. It wasn’t until serialism had run its course (and even academics were admitting that audiences would never completely warm to its rigors) that conductors, musicians, and critics began the ‘thaw’ of Rachmaninov’s legacy. Sure, some of the works never entirely fell out of favor, but what of all the other works—the 2 other piano concertos, the 3 other symphonies, and a slew of piano works that few pianists dared to attempt (such as the First Piano Sonata, or the unrevised version of the Second). Today, Rachmaninov is one of the most-recorded composers in the catalogue, his reputation as a 20th century master firmly established, and a true link between the generation of Tchaikovsky and the neo-Romantics, including many modernist-Romantics such as Samuel Barber and Erich Korngold. 

This is the first post of many where I will examine some of his ‘forgotten’ works, which even today, are lesser-known (though often prolifically recorded), and belie his status as an “old fashioned” composer, or as Stravinsky once accused him, a painter who abandoned fresh watercolors for stale oils.  Hearing this works alongside his more famous music gives us a complex portrait of an artist who continued to grow and evolve, even though his unique musical thumbprint appeared at an early age.  Though he would never be as radical as Schoenberg, or as innovative as Bartok, he offered profound solutions to the question of musical meaning in a disillusioned age.  Rachmaninov’s piano sounds like no one else’s before or since, and his orchestra, though spiced with the aromas of Tchaikovsky and Richard Strauss, finds its own solitary byways that few composers dared—or were able—to follow. 

Symphony No.3: This late, autumnal symphony was largely rejected by both the modernists and the traditionalists when it appeared in 1936.  Modernists, of course, found it another example of his mawkish melodrama, while friends more in sympathy with Rachmaninov, such as the composer-pianist Nikolai Medtner, exclaimed that he had jumped to the modernist’s camp!  The reasons for this confusing critical assessment are not hard to discern: the symphony marries Rachmaninov’s traditional melodies and flow with a growing appreciation for American music, as well as, perhaps, a deeper understanding of Stravinsky’s art.  His orchestration is leaner, more muscular, and yet more inventive than in previous works, such as the gargantuan, and sometimes densely scored Second Symphony.  Chief among his orchestral innovations is his focus on rhythmic elements, which to me suggests allusions to the American scene—jazz and Broadway above all.  The opening movement, however, is most memorable for its sense of overwhelming longing; it has been called his “Exile” symphony, for Rachmaninov had abandoned Russia after the Revolution and was never to return.  He spent his last decades in America, shored up in Southern California along other European ex-pats such as Schoenberg and Stravinsky.  For such a deeply Russian composer (at least in the sense that his music carries a significant national stamp), composing in America must have been a tricky proposition (all the more so in Beverly Hills!). Many attributed his long compositional silence to his exile, though it probably had more to do with an endless round of concert engagements to pay the bills. 

At any rate, the Third Symphony exhibits Rachmaninov at the height of his powers, and like the Second Symphony, it opens with a motto theme that provides material for the entire movement—a haunting tune for 2 clarinets, horn and muted cello, which then explodes into a rhythmic clatter.  This subsides into more typical Rachmaninov, a searching, wistful theme which seems to speak of exile and old Russia (it also slightly resembles a more agitated version of the slow movement of Piano Concerto No.4).  Rachmaninov develops this in many unusual ways, often more typical of his scherzo movements than a first movement.  His use of percussion and rhythmic effects nicely offset his familiar melodic strain, making the movement a refined, subtle, but always provocative masterpiece.  The slow movement is the most interesting movement, as it combines slow movement and scherzo, offering us one of his greatest romantic themes, but not letting it run the show as in the Second Symphony.  A jolly, sardonic march intrudes early on, dominating the movement until the gorgeous theme reasserts itself.  The finale that follows is cut from the same cloth as the opening movement, with boisterous, scherzo-like rhythm occasionally broken up by moments of painful nostalgia.  I honestly feel like this was Rachmaninov’s way of composing in an ‘American’ style without compromising his essential aesthetic.  It is more athletic and lean, yet everything sounds exactly like him.  I truly admire his ability, quite late in life, to unleash a side of him left dormant (to some degree) since his First Symphony, where melody was firmly held in check for symphonic development.  While I wouldn’t say this is necessary better than his more famous Second Symphony, it is surely its equal—and superior for its ability to conform to new styles and be influenced by his adopted homeland. 

I have never heard a bad recorded version of this symphony, though I would recommend the following versions highly: Dutoit with the Philadelphia Symphony, Jansons with the St. Peterburgh Philharmonic, Ashkenazy with the London Symphony, and Ormandy with the Philadelphia (the pioneer recording). 

Forgotten Composers, Part 3: Hugo Alfven

In my last post, I praised the debut novel of Tone Almhjell, whose magical world conjured up fairy-tale visions of Norwegian mountains and forests.  Needless to say, I listened to a lot of Grieg, Wagner, Sibelius, and someone you might be less familiar with, Alfven, while reading it.  So as part 3 of my Forgotten Composers series, I wanted to highlight this forgotten late-Romantic Swedish master, each of whose works bear his unmistakable musical thumbprint.  Though he wasn’t an extraordinarily prolific composer, there’s still a good deal of music to explore, particularly in his stand-out orchestral works, including symphonies, tone poems, overtures, and an outlandish ballet.  Within a somewhat narrow late 19^th century range, Alfven’s works breathe the heady air of Wagner, Strauss, Mahler, and early Sibelius, with a bit of Scriabin thrown in.  His eclectic style forged no new paths, though I find him an essential bridge from the more pastoral Scandinavian composers such as Grieg and Svendsen, to the modernist masters of Sibelius, Nielsen, Atterberg, etc.  Below I will highlight a few great—and cheap!—downloads to start/expand your collection.  

Symphony No.1, Orchestral Works (Naxos):

http://www.amazon.com/Alfven-Symphony-Uppsala-Rhapsody-Mountain /dp/ B000QQPD3C/ref=sr_1_3?s=dmusic&ie=UTF8&qid=1386889107&sr=1-3&keywords=Alfven

Alfven considered himself one of the first Swedish symphonists, as demonstrated in his precocious First Symphony (1897) written when he was 18.  Surprisingly, it’s a fascinating work, strong, virile, yet heartwarmingly Romantic in all the right places.  The piece opens with a somber cello solo before exploding into the main theme, a driving motif for the full orchestra.  The piece becomes more lighthearted, however, and a certain Haydenesque humor is never far away (typical of the lighter Alfven).  The slow movement is based on a short, tragic theme, while the scherzo is light and whimsical.  The finale is exciting and full of bustle, much like Haydn with a late Romantic accent.  In short, it’s an enjoyable piece and very much “young man’s” music.  The disc also contains the suite from his magnificent ballet, The Mountain King, which opens thunderously before giving way to a very magical, Lord of the Rings type theme.  It sounds like an invocation, some arcane spell to awaken the sleeping gods of the mountain.  More beautiful, dance-like pieces follow, until the very last piece plays the ‘hit’ of the piece, the Dance of the Shepherdess, a catchy, almost silly, dance.  Also included is the enjoyable, boisterous Festival Overture and the slightly Brahmsian Uppsala Rhapsody, which is based on student songs (as was Brahms’ Academic Festival Overture, which is reminds me of).  A fun, well-played Naxos disc that bears many repeated listenings, and an ideal introduction to the lighter side of Alfven. 

Symphony No.2, Swedish Rhapsody No.1 “Midsummer Vigil” (BIS):

http://www.amazon.com/Alfv%C3%A9n-H-Symphony-No-Midsommarvaka/dp/B00EDPWJF2/ref=sr_1_13?s=dmusic&ie=UTF8&qid=1386889107&sr=1-13&keywords=Alfven

To me, this is one of the great ‘nationalist’ symphonies, as it breathes the air of folklore, myth, and landscape.  It’s another youthful work, composed right on the heels of No.1, but light years ahead of that work in melody, structure, and ambition.  Ironically, the work was born of rejection: Alfven submitted the first three movements as his ‘re-application’ for a music scholarship.  The scholarship was rejected, but only because (as he later discovered) he was required to submit a complete work.  Enraged and out for revenge, he wrote the symphony’s finale, a ‘learned’ prelude and fugue to show them he was a composer of skill and imagination.  Upon the symphony’s successful premier in 1900, the Musical Academy reinstated his scholarship without further ado.  And no wonder! 

The symphony itself is a stunning piece of music, similar in some respects to Sibelius’ much more famous Second Symphony in mood and orchestration.  It opens with a pastoral theme in woodwinds, very optimistic and wide-eyed, until a gorgeous melody takes over on flutes, perhaps his greatest lyrical inspiration.  After this rhapsodic first movement (which again reminds me a bit of Sibelius’ Second), the second movement is a somber, brooding piece, like dark waves lapping against a rocky shore (and indeed, the piece was largely composed by the sea, at the Stockholm archipelago).  A jaunty, agitated scherzo follows (no humor here, unless dark humor), which introduces the long finale, a Prelude and Fugue on a chorale with the words (not sung, of course), “All paths lead to death.”  Indeed, the prelude is a solemn affair, yet the fugue is anything but: exciting, dashing, and finally spine-tingling as the fugue winds its way through the orchestra.  I barely hesitate to call this work a masterpiece, though perhaps a masterpiece that occurred at a time crowded with masterpieces; hard to compete with what Sibelius, Mahler, Nielsen, and Schoenberg were writing at the same time. 

Symphony No. 4 “From the Outermost Skerries”, Festival Overture (Naxos)

http://www.amazon.com/Alfven-Symphony-No-Festival-Overture/dp/B000QQSNMK/ref=sr_1_7?s=dmusic&ie=UTF8&qid=1386889107&sr=1-7&keywords=Alfven

Symphony No.4 (1918) is perhaps his best—yet most eccentric—symphony, as it features two wordless soloists who sing throughout the piece. The ‘story’ of the symphony is one of tragic young love, perhaps a dash of Romeo and Juliet, as a young man falls in love, the love is reciprocated by the young woman, but tragedy intervenes and dashes all their hopes in one fatal blow.  Much of this symphony is hewn from the same musical edifice as the Second Symphony and his tone poems, “Legend of the Skerries” and the massive “Dalarapsodi.”  The score is the best musical impression I’ve ever heard of a soaking, gray overcast day with ocean waves crashing in the background—it reeks of dampness.  And also of unrequited passion, as the young man (a tenor) intones a melody of longing for an ideal—another gorgeous Alfven inspiration. His love song is gradually answered by the young woman (a soprano) singing the same song, though with her own distinct twist.  The symphony roughly combines elements of introduction, scherzo, slow movement, and finale in the manner of Sibelius’ Seventh, though as the music washes over you it sounds more like an enormous Straussian tone poem.  Either way it’s a gorgeous bon-bon of high Romanticism, sharing the same sound world as Scriabin’s more famous Poem of Ecstasy—and certainly capturing the same mood of sexual longing and frustration.  Humorously, the album couples this with the jolly, even farcical Festival Overture (not the same overture as in set with Symphony No.1), which highlights Alfven’s other side. 

Symphony No.3, Dalarapsodi, Suite from The Prodigal Son (BIS):

http://www.amazon.com/Alfv%C3%A9n-H-Dala-Rhapsody-Symphony/dp/B00EDPYLWQ/ref=sr_1_8?s=dmusic&ie=UTF8&qid=1386889107&sr=1-8&keywords=Alfven

For the final suggestion, another Jarvi/Stockholm disc featuring his brightest symphony, No.3, along with his most dramatic tone poem, the Swedish Rhapsody No.3 “Dalarapsodi”, and the suite from his late ballet on Swedish folksongs, The Prodigal Son.  Starting from last to first, the suite is very tuneful, easy-going fare, almost like Grieg with some modern twang.  Not much of the essential Alfven here other than his trademark orchestration.  The ‘big’ work is the Dalarapsodi, a darker-hued piece capturing this region (known for its carved horses) and the dramatic stories that have unfolded here.  The first third of the piece is dark and brooding—a trademark of Alfven—but this falls to a middle section of ferocious drama, concluding in a wicked danse macabre that unleashes Alfven’s full commandof early 20^th century orchestration.  The piece then sinks into the dark slumber from which it emerged, like a culture whose stories are fading with each generation.  It’s an enormously impressive piece, though requires a few listens to grasp the overall flow of the piece.

By contrast, the Third Symphony is all light and air—inspired by his sojourn in Italy where he met his second wife.  There’s a little of Mendelssohn’s Italian symphony in the first movement, which is all cheerful bustle, full of optimistic major-key melody and drama.  The slow movement is a gorgeous love song, certainly alluding to his wife, and drifts quietly through the orchestra—again, somewhat like the Nocturne from Mendelssohn’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream.  The scherzo is a close cousin to that of the First Symphony, cheeky and humorous; the finale is where the symphony truly shines, with an arresting fanfare that signals in a majestic march which gets quite dramatic by the end.  Yet it’s all in fun, and Alfven momentarily dispels all his doom and gloom for the promise—however fleeting—of love and renewal. 

There are other works available on both the BIS and NAXOS labels, including a Fifth Symphony (which he struggled with in old age) and some film and stage music.  But I think the above works represent the best of Alfven, and why he deserves to return to our concert halls alongside the more familiar names of Grieg, Nielsen, and Sibelius.