SHOULD COMPOSERS
TELL ?
by Arthur Butterworth
Many years ago a most
distinguished and revered music critic
wrote an essay under this title. It
gave many musicians, especially composers,
cause for reflection. The main argument
being to question whether the composer
needs to give an explanation for the
thought processes involved in the creation
of his music. Whether he ought to reveal
the sources of his inspiration; and
indeed all the details of how, in the
end, the completed work is brought to
performance.
Since music itself
is a universal language, there would
seem to be no need for further explanation.
The great masterpieces of the past have
made their message universally understood
throughout times past and need no further
advocacy. There is no absolute certainty
as to when programme notes for recitals
and concerts were first provided, but
in this country at least, it seems to
have been about the middle of the nineteenth
century. Such analytical notes were,
of course, generally provided by someone
other than the composer himself. At
the present time almost all concerts
of any substance or importance are provided
with effusive explanatory comment, and
when a new work is being discussed it
is, as often as not, the composer himself
who is expected to provide analytical
notes, or an explanation of what motivated
the work’s creation.
Is this necessary ‘?
In earlier times when
the style and design of music followed
accepted conventions - the string quartets
of Haydn, the symphonies of Mozart and
Beethoven - probably the listener neither
needed nor expected a learned dissertation
delving into deep psychological reasons
for the way the music progressed. However,
with the growing complexities and subtleties
of musical design probably there arose
a justifiable reason to introduce it
with a verbal or printed explanation,
and so arose the programme note.
Now this is all very
well so long as such analysis can be
done by a disinterested third party
who can contemplate the new work objectively,
but creative artists, whether painters,
poets, novelists or composers, cannot
invariably be relied upon to be objective
about their own creations. There is
a danger - rarely perceived by the creative
artist himself - of indulging in a too
self-centred narcissism, or morbid self-adulation;
unconsciously he is tempted all-too-easily
to resort to the first person singular…
"I did this"... "My first
opera"... "My second piano
sonata"... "It seems to me"...
"An idea of mine".... and
so on.
However, unlike Elgar,
who had the almost unique advantage
of a shrewd, perceptive and enthusiastic
mentor, his publisher August Jaeger,
who for the greater part of the composer’s
career provided the explanation and
genesis of each successive new work,
it is almost invariably the case that
in default of such a champion, it falls
to the composer himself, being the one
who obviously knows more than anyone
else what his new work is about, to
provide an introduction or preface.
If this has to be the case it behoves
him to try to be as objective as possible.
Many years ago, on
the occasion of the première
of the First Symphony, a newspaper reviewer
took me to task for being over-enthusiastic
about the impact of my own work; pointing
out, quite rightly, that it was not
for me, the arrogant, ebullient young
man to tell the listener just how ‘astonishing’
the new work was; it was for the listener
to decide that for himself; he exhorted
me to be more modest and objective.
This was a lesson I took to heart immediately,
and have gratefully remembered ever
since: - "self-praise is no honour".
This has often brought
about a dilemma. Over the years many
people have sought, probably out of
genuine curiosity, to ask how a work
has been composed, so maybe one ought
to try to satisfy this urge to be enlightened.
As already suggested, some composers
are only too eager to provide an explanation
at great, and often tedious and boring
length; on the other hand Sibelius was
never willing to talk about his own
music, but would brusquely break off
an otherwise congenial conversation
with his guest at the first sign of
a too inquisitive prying into the workings
of his inner mind. Perhaps this seems
a bit hard on the honest interest of
an enquirer, so that perhaps some kind
of meeting the listener half-way in
the matter of communication might not
be inappropriate, for after all that
is what the music itself is trying to
achieve.
"Should composers
tell?" was the original question.
"Tell what?" might be an answer.
Some things can be told, especially
for the future guidance of student composers,
critics, academics, historians: prosaic
or factual details concerning musical
structure, harmonic substance, historic
style, orchestration, general musical
texture and design. Even to some extent
sources of inspiration. However, some
inspiration is not capable being explained;
it remains an inexplicable insight or
emotion, deeply ingrained in the mind
or soul of the composer, who probably
even himself could not, or would not,
be able to explain to another person
how it has happened.
The
Five Symphonies
Some things about the
five symphonies that I’ve been able
to create are generally known already:
that one of the main sources of inspiration,
for reasons I’ve never been able to
explain, has ever been a fascination
for the northlands of Europe - Scandinavia,
Scotland and northern England, and the
aura of things connected with the north
in general: climate, weather, landscape,
the natural world, other living creatures,
history, language, culture, but hardly
ever people themselves or human relations.
Opera, that prime vehicle for expressing
the nature of human passions holds virtually
no interest for me at all. The music
I have written is generally about uninhabited
landscapes.
SYMPHONY No. 1 Op.15
First performed at
the Cheltenham Festival on 19th July
1957 by the Hallé Orchestra under
Sir John Barbirolli. This was begun
in September 1949 but put aside for
several years while the composer was
an orchestral player with the Scottish
National Orchestra. The aura of Scotland,
more especially the far northern highlands
was the genesis of this work, although
the last movement, a long moto perpetuo,
was, to some extent, the outcome of
a long non-stop train journey in which
the ceaseless movement of the train
suggested the notion of a moto perpetuo
in musical design. Along with this
was the contemplation of the journey
fleeing ever northwards, yearning to
reach some indefinable and remote landscape.
SYMPHONY No. 2 Op.25
This was commissioned
by the Bradford Concerts Society for
the centenary of the Society’s association
with the Hallé Orchestra - 1865-1965
- and to commemorate the centenaries
of Sibelius and Nielsen (both of whom
were born in 1865). It was first performed
at the opening of the 100th season in
Bradford in October 1964, by the Hallé
Orchestra conducted by Sir Adrian Boult.
Its three movements draw parallels with
the symphonic styles of both Sibelius
and Nielsen.
SYMPHONY No. 3 Op.52
("Sinfonia Borealis")
Although no specific
motive lay behind the writing of this
work other than a general awareness
of the north, hence the sub-title "Sinfonia
Borealis", there had been, in hindsight,
an awareness of wide stretches of lakes
bounded by dense pine forests reaching
out to the infinitely distant horizon
of a northern summer night. It was first
performed by the BBC Northern Symphony
Orchestra conducted by Bryden Thomson
at the Royal Northern College of Music
on 30th November 1979.
SYMPHONY No. 4 Op.72
This symphony was first
conceived on the high moorlands of North
Yorkshire one clear, bright and cool
November day in the early 1970s, although
it was put aside for some time until
another similar experience, in December
1981 around the sand dunes of the Moray
Firth, brought it to mind again. The
last movement bears a very close structural
affinity with the finale of the First
Symphony: they are both founded on a
moto perpetuo, based on gradually
changing facets of the twelve notes
of the scale. It was first performed
on 8th May 1986 by the BBC Philharmonic
at a public concert in Manchester conducted
by Bryden Thomson.
SYMPHONY No. 5 Op.115
The orchestration of
this work is on a more slender, classical
scale than the previous four symphonies.
It is more concerned with line, shape
and structure than instrumental colour.
There are, for instance, only two horns
in place of the usual four, and very
sparing use of percussion. It was the
outcome of a journey across Rannoch
Moor in the central Highlands of Scotland:
....Within a ring
of distant mountains, wreathed in
mist and cloud, covered with the
lingering snows of winter, lies
the moor... a remote and desolate
landscape of silent and lonely lochans,
watery peat bogs, boulders and heather.
An ancient burial mound under the
shadow of a ruined kirkyard, where
the March wind roans through a copse
of gaunt and withered firs....
It was first performed
on the 15th October 2003 at a Public
concert in Manchester by the BBC Philharmonic,
conducted by Jason Lai.
Arthur Butterworth
The above article first
appeared in The FRMS Bulletin
