"Vers la Flamme" and Scriabin's Russia

Scriabin is a composer whose music I have always liked on a superficial level, but have never quite understood. I feel this way particularly about his later music. Scriabin’s late works, to me at least, have a very distinctive sound. The music is almost too static. I can never sense any real form, and the music, while beautiful, only makes the simplest movements. Vers la Flamme is a good example of this. It’s a one-movement, six-minute piece. And throughout those six minutes, there’s some sort of movement in that it’s different at the end than it is at the beginning, but I’ve never quite understood what Scriabin was trying to say.

In attempting to more fully understand what Scriabin was trying to express in Vers la Flamme, I looked into Scriabin’s religious beliefs. I knew beforehand that he was devoted to Theosophy, a sort of mystic religion popular in Russia during his life. I figured that Scriabin probably subscribed to some of these mystic beliefs, and Vers la Flamme was probably somehow tied to these beliefs. And boy, was I right!

Theosophy was often used by its followers to move toward a state of inner enlightenment, which is achieved by spiritual devotion. But Theosophists believe not so much in a God as in a one underlying Truth. This Truth is causeless and timeless, and enlightenment is discovered in this Truth. Theosophy also teaches that there are seven planes of being, or Cosmic planes of existence. (I know, it keeps getting better and better!) New states of enlightenment can manifest on each of these planes. The seventh plane is the physical plane, that plane which includes the five senses. It represents the everyday, physical state. The second plane is the highest plane that humans can reach, as the first plane is divine and, according to Theosophy, not reached by human beings. The second plane, called Anupadaka, is home of the divine spark of a human being. After learning all of this, Vers la Flamme starts to sound an awful lot like a movement to a new level of enlightenment in the Truth (with a capital T), or a new plane, home of a divine spark.

But wait! It gets better! Popular culture in Russia at the time was crazy. In late nineteenth century Russia, doomsday was the topic of the moment. Eschatology was everywhere. (Sound familiar?) Vladimir Solovyov, a great Russian philosopher of the late nineteenth century, had predicted the nearness of the “end of human history.” The Symbolist poets of the time were all writing about the Apocalypse. Dmitri Merezhkovsky wrote a well-known poem, “Children of Darkness,” which contains the following lines:

We are on the edge of the abyss,

Children of darkness awaiting the sun,

We see the light, and like shadows,

We die in its rays.

These lines remind me of Vers la Flamme. The piece begins darkly and ends in ecstasy. It is as if the hero of the piece is lifted to new heights and dies in the rays of the sun. This concept of ecstatic death, of seeing “the light” and dying “in its rays,” is enlightenment. It’s the apocalypse. It is a personal apocalypse, but all-encompassing, based on Scriabin’s beliefs of the self being a fully-contained world. It is also a joyful apocalypse, a “universal dissolution in Ecstasy.” It *is* nineteenth-century Russia. And it is perfect.

Brooklyn Phil, I Salute You

The Brooklyn Philharmonic has announced their 2011-12 season.

It's refreshing to see an institution like this, that has struggled for many years, doing something so radical.

I would say more, but Greg Sandow has already said it at least as well as I could.

On My Blossoming Love of Atonal Music

I was a romantic teenager. Chopin nocturnes made me cry, Haydn sonatas made me laugh, and Rachmaninov concertos sent me into little fits of Russian brooding. I had to feel the music in the very depths of my soul. Music wasn't an intellectual experience. It was an art form. If I had to study it in order to appreciate it, then it wasn't doing its job properly. If it didn't move me to some deep emotion, then it most definitely wasn't doing its job properly.

You can guess at what my first encounter with atonal music was like. It was Schoenberg's Klavierstuck, Op 33a. At the time, it was the first piece of music I had ever heard that didn't sound like music. To me, it was a jumble of notes. There was nothing I could express about it. For the first time in my life, I couldn't say, "This music makes me feel [blank]." I discarded it, and the entirety of atonal music. It wasn't worth my time. Not when there was Mozart to be listened to.

In the meantime, I had taken my first theory classes at Baylor. My knowledge of theory prior to Baylor was slim, but I love knowing things, and theory was no different. I learned how to analyze chord progressions, pick apart fugues (this is still my favorite), and diagram forms. Obviously, this helped me to appreciate music in a new way. It was still emotional, but it wasn't quite so mystical. A Haydn sonata still made me smile, but now I knew why.

Eventually, I realized that I could (perhaps) enjoy atonal music in the same way. I read books. I took the requisite class on 20th century theory. And the learning worked! I could listen to Wozzeck without grinding my teeth, because I understood--at least to some small extent--what Berg was doing. I could listen to Webern and appreciate his sparse compositional style. Every piece a perfect miniature: focused, economical, almost spartan.

I still don't enjoy atonal music in the same emotional way that I enjoy, say, Schubert. But I don't think that's the point. The point is, I've realized that music can be enjoyed in different ways. Music can be emotional, but it doesn't have to stir the soul in order to be called music. Music can be enjoyed in a purely intellectual way. I appreciate atonal theory, and because of that, I appreciate the music itself in how well-constructed it often is. I'm not going walk around campus whistling a happy, little, atonal tune, but that doesn't detract from the music's value.

I'm almost embarrassed to post this, because it seems so obvious now. I think that any intelligent, thoughtful person would eventually come to the same conclusion. But still, I feel like I've discovered a vast treasure of music which I can reflect on, emotion aside. Also, I just really like learning new things.

PhDs

I've been spending time this week researching grad schools. This is exciting and terrifying. It means that I have to think about the rest of my life. I'm getting married, and going to grad school. That's the exciting part. The scary part is when I graduate with a doctorate and have to start looking for a job which I may not ever get.

I want to get a doctorate in musicology, and teach at a university. But that may not ever happen. I'll still go get a PhD, but that certainly doesn't guarantee that I will ever be able to teach at a university. There are so many people and so few jobs. Music is a popular field, and I understand that. But from everything that well-meaning professors have told me, the competition is downright cutthroat. The prospects are grim, to say the least. And I dislike that I'm less worried about getting into a good program, and more worried about being able to actually put my degree to good use.

Musicology is more exciting to me than just about anything in the world. I know that this is what I need to do. I know that I'm good at it. I know that I wouldn't be nearly as happy doing anything else. But when I hear from a tenth professor that it took him ten years to find a tenure-track position, it starts to get discouraging. What do I do when I hear horror stories from everyone who hears about my grad school plans? When a professor tells me, "Don't do it! It's not worth it!"? Not get a doctorate because it might not pay off? Disregard their advice and do it anyway?

Musical Invective

Lexicon of Musical Invective: Critical Assaults on Composers Since Beethoven's Time.

I found it in the library the other day. I'm quoting some of my favorites.

"We were afflicted by Preludes, poeme symphonique by the miserable Liszt."

(George Templeton Strong's Diary, May 4, 1867)

"I can compare Le Carneval Romain by Berlioz to nothing but the caperings and gibberings of a big baboon, over-excited by a dose of alcoholic stimulus."

(George Templeton Strong's Diary, December 15, 1866)

"To one critic, the music of Schoenberg's Five Orchestral Pieces suggested feeding-time at the zoo; also 'a farmyard in great activity while pigs are being ringed and geese strangled.' On another the identical section of the work produced the impression of 'a village fair with possibly a blind clarinetist playing at random.' The same listener heard sounds as of 'sawing steel' and the 'distant noise of an approaching train alternately with the musical sobs of a dynamo.'"
(London Daily Telegraph, January 24, 1914)

And my personal favorite:

"Poor Debussy, sandwiched in between Brahms and Beethoven, seemed weaker than usual. We cannot feel that all this extreme ecstasy is natural; it seems forced and hysterical; it is musical absinthe; there are moments when the suffering Faun in Debussy's Afternoon of a Faun seems to need a veterinary surgeon.

(Louis Elson, Boston Daily Advertiser, January 2, 1905)

I want to be a music critic just so I can be paid to describe pieces as "musical absinthe."

(I picked some particularly cruel ones, but the whole book is delightfully mean-spirited.)

Beethoven Variations Op. 34

I promised to write about the music I'm playing in my recital, so here goes! I'm starting with this piece because it's what I've been working on for the last few weeks. And by "working on," I mean, "furiously memorizing because I can't perform anything well unless it's been in my brain for at least four months." I told Dr. Marks last semester that I wanted to play a variation set, and this is one of the few he suggested. It's lovely. I know I use that word too often, but it is truly lovely. I mean it.

I like particularly that the piece is dedicated to Princess Barabara Odescalch, one of Beethoven's pupils. Why do I like that so much? Because I pretend I'm a princess every time I play this piece. (Sometimes it's hard to let go of little-girl dreams)

The theme is beautiful, and almost Mozartian. There are sweet little trills and turns. It's very docile and pretty. It's worth noting that the theme is in F Major, Beethoven's pastoral key. However, the piece doesn't stay in that key, and that's what makes this variation set so interesting.

Each of the variations is in a different key. The variation set rotates through mediant relationships. This means that, if the theme is in F Major, then the first variation is in D Major, the second variation is in B-flat Major, etc. It's essentially a pattern of falling thirds. I should mention that I chose to play this variation set because of mediant relationship bit. I think mediant relationships are God's special gift from heaven. Really. I think God invented mediant relationships to make the world a happier place.

The variations themselves are fairly tame, for the most part. They all sound a bit flowery and sweet. It's the kind of piece fit for a stereotypical princess. It all flows along very prettily until the fifth variation. The fifth variation is like reading Hans Christian Anderson's The Little Mermaid. Where she dies at the end instead of marrying the handsome prince like Disney always told you? That's the best comparison I have for how the fifth variation comes across.* The previous variation ends in sunny E-flat Major. Then you hear these murky c minor triads way down in the bass, followed by crescendo-ing, descending arpeggios in octaves (so Beethoven-esque!). The middle section contains broken octaves arpeggios in the bass over a gut-wrenching melody. It's so dramatic, and I feel that it foretells Beethoven's more mature style.

You can hear the piece here. I'm giving you the Gould version, because he makes some entertaining faces.

*Actually, no. The closest comparison I can think of is this: Patrick Rothfuss recently wrote a children's book called The Adventures of the Princess and Mr. Whiffle. The subversive ending? Where the princess eats everything?! That's the fifth variation.

A Question

I would apologize for not posting, but May is a terrible month for students. I'm sure you'll understand. I've been busy taking finals and playing for juries. I also earned credit for that silly freshman comp. class that I never took. That adventure involved forays into subject-verb agreement and the proper use of capital letters. It was truly riveting, and I did not feel at all that I had wasted two weeks of my life.

The good news is, now I have a glorious summer ahead of me! I'm using it primarily to practice for my junior recital in the fall. There will be lots of lovely music: Scarlatti, Hovhaness, Beethoven, and Kabalevsky. By the end of the summer, I will have written excitedly about all of it. I will also be brushing up on my French and fostering my morbid fascination with the Soviet Union. (I'm starting with this.)

Speaking on Russians, I've been falling more deeply in love with Kabalevsky. I also want to know why I can't find much of his choral music here. Is it a silly copyright law? Is it because America thinks of it as Soviet propaganda? He did adhere much more strictly to socialist realism than either Prokofiev or Shostakovich. Is it because so much of it was composed during the Cold War? We weren't exactly buddy-buddy with Russia during Kabalevsky's lifetime. (Van Cliburn was greeted with ticker tape parades when he won the Tchaikovsky competition in Moscow in 1958. Generally, pianists don't get parades. It's like Cliburn was a war hero or something. He went into battle and stole that first place from the Russians! Hooray!)

In all seriousness, though, I really would like to know why so much of his music is not available to me. If anyone knows, please tell me!