BENJAMIN FRANKEL:
BMS Lecture-Recital
on Saturday, 6th May 2006
given by Dimiti Kennaway
see
also MusicWeb
Frankel pages
and
www.benjaminfrankel.org
(the
music cues have been left in but unfortunately
we are unable to provide sound samples)
Welcome to this talk
on the British composer Benjamin Frankel,
in this, his centenary year. I hope
you will excuse my informality if, as
a stepson, I speak of him simply as
Ben.
There are those among
you who may have known Ben personally
and professionally; others who know
him only through his music; still others
who know him only by name. This afternoon,
with the aid of recordings, I hope that
you will all feel you know him better,
both as a musician and human being.
Ben’s life and career
must rank among the most extraordinary
journeys in the history of our musical
culture, or, indeed, that of any nation.
There were scarcely any areas of music
upon which he didn’t make an impact:
jazz; film-scoring; musical theatre;
composing for the concert hall; conducting;
lecturing; teaching, broadcasting and
even acoustic engineering. Like many
remarkable stories, its beginning was
unpromising and would scarcely have
pointed to any sort of musical career,
much less the attainment of recognition
as "doubtless our most eloquent
symphonist", quoting a 1969 review
by the Times music critic William Mann.
Ben was born on 31st
January, 1906, at a house in London’s
Fulham Road. His father, Charles, had
come from Warsaw, after serving an obligatory
stint in the Tsarist army. His mother,
Golda, had come from the Polish town
Tarnopol which was then part of the
Austro-Hungarian Empire. The two met
and married in England. Charles, initially,
was a tobacconist but, being a devout
Jew, was to find his calling as a synagogue
beadle – a rather lowly paid position,
if personally rewarding to him. Golda
helped along by making kosher meals
for the Jewish pupils at St Paul’s School
in Hammersmith.
Like his elder brother,
Isaac, Ben was a musical child and together
the two played through countless piano
duets, including arrangements of the
orchestral repertoire – something he
regarded as having been a vital part
of his musical upbringing. He would
also visit the local music library and
borrow as many volumes as were allowed,
sight-read his way through them and
then return for a fresh collection.
In this way, he not only got to know
a great deal of music, both famous and
obscure, but developed into a marvellous
sight-reader. He later said that his
younger sister, Minna, was the most
musical of the three but that he, alone,
set his sights on a musical career.
Ben said he had never
been particularly adept at school and
didn’t intend to be. He was, however,
a voracious reader, like his mother,
and had a thirst for knowledge. While
still at school, he also developed a
flair for the violin, becoming quite
excited about it though not especially
disciplined in his practicing. He was
particularly delighted when he discovered
vibrato and could be heard, during breaks,
experimenting with it as he wandered
around the school yard. This met with
the disapproval of at least one teacher
who would lean out of his window and
shout "Ben, stop making that awful
racket!"
He recalled his childhood
with mixed feelings, having found his
father’s religious fervour to be stifling
– something which was later to lead
to an irreparable rift. At the same
time, there were vignettes he recounted
with humour and affection. One such,
concerned the local delicatessen who,
in rather non-kosher fashion, used just
one knife with which to cut everything.
Ben would go, at his mother’s behest,
to buy some cheese, with the admonition
ringing in his ears: "…and tell
him it shouldn’t smell from herring!".
Ben’s formal education,
at Hammersmith’s Latymer Foundation
School, ended at fourteen, when he was
apprenticed to a watchmaker, the choirmaster
at the local synagogue. Apart from two
stints as a shop boy, this was to be
his only taste of a career in business.
After one year of learning to clean
watches and finding out something of
their workings, he was sacked – as he
put it "very properly indeed."
Meanwhile, his musical abilities had
come to the notice of the American pianist
Victor Benham who, prevailing against
stern parental opposition, took Ben
under his wing, free of charge, for
two years. The last six months were
spent in Germany, where Benham had moved
to take advantage of the exceptionally
low cost of living, due to post-War
inflation. Such was the exchange rate
that Ben was able to live quite comfortably
on the monthly allowance of a pound,
from his father. When civil unrest broke
out, Ben returned to London, aged seventeen,
to earn a living.
His flair for the violin
stood him in good stead for many years.
Having absorbed the popular music idioms
of the day, he made a living as a hot
jazz fiddler and arranger, working for
many leading bands of the ‘20s and early
‘30s, among them those of Roy Fox, Fred
Elizalde and Carroll Gibbons. One of
his earliest gigs was with bandleader
Arthur Roseberry, an old school friend.
Ben’s contribution was not limited to
the fiddle, however: he also doubled
on Kazoo (a comb covered with grease-proof
paper and played between the lips)!
This makeshift instrument was never
to feature in his serious music.
Another of Ben’s earliest
engagements was as pianist in a dance
orchestra, at the Wembley Exhibition
during its first year.
During the late ‘20s
and early ‘30s, Ben continued his musical
studies, now with Orlando Morgan, at
the Guildhall School of Music, on scholarships
from the Worshipful Company of Musicians.
It was no easy thing combining formal
study with the hectic nightlife of a
jazz fiddler and sleep was often in
short supply.
His discovery of Delius
and Bartok freed Ben from what he called
his "otherwise complete dependence
on the German classics as a linguistic
base" and, during the ‘20s, he
began to note down some of his ideas,
producing the Three Miniatures for piano,
Op.1, in 1926. It was not until December,
1933, however, that he first exposed
his music to a semi-public audience,
when he held a recital at his studio
in St John’s Wood. The performers, drawn
from friends and colleagues, were the
violinists Hugo Rignold and Eric Siday,
the Violist Harry Berly, the cellist
Anthony Pini and the pianist Cornelius
Fisher. One of the works on the programme
– the Three Sketches for String Quartet,
op.2 – was recorded in the version for
strings a few years ago. Here’s the
first of the Sketches, played by the
Northwest Chamber Orchestra, Seattle,
under Alun Francis:
Music sample 1: Sketch No.1
from Three Sketches for Strings, Op.2
I think that there
are various points of interest here.
The neo-baroque aspect of the Sketch
is unusual, if not unique, among Ben’s
concert works; the music has an instant
appeal; the mastery of the chosen instrumental
ensemble is clear. As a very early work,
it may not suggest the personal musical
voice that was to develop but some individual
characteristics do emerge: the quiet,
questioning ending; the surprising melodic
and harmonic turns, which seem, nonetheless,
to fit perfectly, owing to an innate
and unfailing musical instinct.
This period of Ben’s
life was one of turbulent change: in
1932, he married the first of his three
wives, Joyce Stanmore Rayner. The fact
that she was non-Jewish was something
that the orthodox religion of his father
could not condone and Charles, who died
three years later, never spoke to his
son again. Ben’s mother, caught in the
middle of the conflict, was later to
soften, as was his sister. His brother,
however, took after their father and
the two became estranged. Ben and Joyce
had three children of their own, Nicholas
in 1936, Julie in 1937, who died the
same year, in appalling circumstances,
and Jeremy in 1938. Julie’s death was
to have a lasting effect on Ben.
Professionally, the
‘30s were also a time of change. Ben
gave up playing jazz fiddle in about
1933 and concentrated on his arranging
work, most notably as Henry Hall’s assistant,
with the BBC Dance Orchestra. He began
arranging and conducting for musical
theatre in London’s West End (and out
of town), for the likes of Noel Coward
and C.B.Cochran. He also presented and
conducted a number of jazz and light
music programmes for BBC radio – "The
Song is Ended", "Rhythm Express"
and "This Thing Called Jazz".
Briefly, in 1937, he also fronted his
own band, recording a few sides and
conducted recordings for Gracie Fields
and Frances Day.
Of longer term significance
was his entry into the film industry
in 1934, when he scored the music for
the Will Hay comedy "Radio Parade
of 1935". During the next 36 years,
Ben composed for over 100 feature and
documentary films, including a number
for television. Many became much-loved
classics of the British cinema. I’ll
be playing excerpts later.
With the outbreak of
War in 1939, Ben attempted to enlist
but was thwarted by health problems.
He wrote to a friend and colleague,
in September:
"This is a
war to end Hitler, I think we would
all agree there; and I don’t think it’s
going to be so easy as a lot of people
seem to think."
In December, he wrote
again:
"I feel
we must talk out the war situation thoroughly,
though it is too much to hope that we
can get things clear. In my blacker
moments, I wonder whether anything will
be clear again.
I’ve been reading
the Einstein biography. Relativity seems
an admirable antidote to party politics
– in future, you can include me out
of the latter."
Whichever party politics
Ben was referring to on this occasion,
he became drawn to the ideals of Communism,
along with many contemporary colleagues,
seeing it as the antidote to the advancing
Nazis.
In a reinvigorated
wartime entertainment industry, Ben
contributed to morale-boosting shows
and broadcasts and composed for a number
of propaganda short films, among them
Alfred Hitchcock’s "Bon Voyage"
and "Aventure Malgache", both
intended to encourage the French Resistance.
There were also scores for wartime documentaries,
such as "The Broad Fourteens"
for the Royal Navy and "The Gen",
for the RAF, as well as "The Fire
of London" which concerned the
effects of The Blitz. Ben, himself,
was one of many engaged in firewatch
duty.
One of his most ambitious
personal projects was a concert at the
Royal Albert Hall on 4th
July, 1943, in which he conducted the
London Philharmonic Orchestra, in aid
of the Red Cross Prisoners of War Fund.
The concert was put on by the Post Office
Engineering Union. It isn’t known whether
the date – American Independence Day
– was coincidental but the programme
featured mainly music from the Allied
countries: Copland’s El Salon Mexico;
the premiere of Khatchatourian’s Violin
Concerto (with soloist Edward Silverman);
Dukas’ "Sorcerer’s Apprentice",
Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue (with soloist
Sydney Harrison) and Elgar’s Cockaigne.
Among those present was Ben’s friend,
the writer Laurie Lee who, as a talented
amateur violinist, used to play sonatas
with Ben at the piano. Also present
was a representative of BBC Radio, who
reported back very favourably to the
music department. Soon afterwards, Aubrey
Beese, personal assistant to music director
Sir Adrian Boult, wrote in a memo:
"In view
of so good a report on a conductor so
comparatively unknown, it was thought
that we should watch Benjamin Frankel’s
progress carefully in case he should
prove worthy of a trial with the BBC
Orchestra some day.".
Sadly, the BBC was
unable to broadcast the concert, as
Ben had hoped, and no recording of it
is known to exist.
Although busy with
such activity, Ben continued to compose
for the concert hall. Among the increasingly
individual works to emerge at that time
was the lovely Trio for clarinet, ‘cello
and piano, Op.10, from 1940. Here is
part of the slow movement, in a recording
by Paul Dean, Marcus Stocker and Kevin
Power:
Music sample 2: Clarinet Trio,
Op.10 – slow movt. Excerpt:
This music exemplifies
Ben’s late-Romantic style and his great
gift for melody. There is also a characteristic
melancholy which was considered by some
to be a reaction against his commercial
music.
Ben’s political leanings
also found expression in some of his
music at this time, as in the two string-orchestra
works "Solemn Speech and Discussion",
Op.11, of 1941, which depicts a trade
union meeting, and the tuneful four-movement
suite "Youth Music", Op.12,
from 1942. Composed for the Guildhall
School of Music and dedicated to its
then principal, Edric Cundell. This
work – originally called "Music
for Young Comrades" -squeezes an
extraordinary amount of invention into
its 12-minute duration. The ability
to express much in a limited time was
to become a Frankel trademark, even
in the later symphonies. Here is the
last movement – "Forward March"
– a rousing exhortation with a memorable
‘big tune’, beautifully crafted for
strings. It’s played by the Northwest
Chamber Orchestra, Seattle, under Alun
Francis:
Music sample 3: Youth Music,
Op.12 – last movt.
With the cessation
of hostilities, the British film industry
began to expand once again and for Ben,
it was the start of his most productive
years in the field, beginning with what
was to become a classic, "The Seventh
Veil", in 1945. This was his most
important film to date and one of his
first dramatic incidental scores. It
starred the youthful James Mason as
a somewhat sadistic guardian to Ann
Todd’s emotionally disturbed pianist
(is there any other kind?!). Herbert
Lom played the Freudian psychiatrist
charged with curing her. As revealed
in a recent British Film Institute survey
for Channel 4, it was to be the tenth
most successful film ever at the UK
box office, with ticket sales approaching
18 million. Remarkably, this places
it ahead of Superman, E.T., Jaws, Dr
Zhivago, Lawrence of Arabia and all
the James Bond films, among countless
others. Because of its great success,
it inevitably raised Ben’s profile as
a film composer, here and abroad.
Here, now, is the opening,
as played on the original soundtrack,
by the LSO, under Muir Mathieson:
Music sample 4: The Seventh
Veil – Prelude
A characteristically
gripping Frankel score. Before we leave
it, let’s listen to the ending – a romantic
flourish which nods in the direction
of Hollywood composer Max Steiner whom
Ben greatly admired:
Music sample 5: The Seventh
Veil – Ending
A great many fine film
commissions followed, among them "Mine
Own executioner", "London
Belongs to Me", "Give Us This
Day", "Night and the City",
"The Man in the White Suit"
and "The Importance of Being Earnest"
– the first of many scores for Anthony
Asquith who was to become one of Ben’s
closest friends.
In the year following
"The Seventh Veil", Ben demonstrated
his deep understanding of acoustics
when, with architect Felix Goldsmith,
he designed a floating ceiling and various
screens, for "The London Philharmonic
Orchestra to correct the acoustics of
Covent Garden Theatre for concerts with
the orchestra placed on the stage."
Ben’s reputation as
a serious composer really began to grow
from the mid-‘40s onwards, with the
Sonata No.1 for solo violin, Op.13,
championed and recorded by Max Rostal,
the song cycle "The Aftermath",
to poems by Robert Nicholls, from 1947
and the first four String Quartets.
The Fourth, premiered by the Amadeus
Quartet in 1949, is a poignant work
in which melody abounds, alongside often
complex harmonies, including a now characteristic
clash of major-minor chords. Here is
the last movement which begins with
a theme of almost childlike simplicity,
played here by the Nomos Quartet:
Music sample 6: String Quartet
No.4 – last movt.
By now, we can hear
Ben’s truly personal, mature voice.
Although Ben had written
a great deal of music for full orchestra
in his film scores, he was late in turning
his attention to the medium in the concert
hall. However, in 1948 he showed himself
a master with the kaleidoscopic overture
"May Day", Op.22. Written
in the composer’s occasional idiom,
this festive piece conjures up myriad
scenes, both urban and bucolic; comical
and sad; exciting and solemn. It was
subtitled, appropriately, "A Panorama"
and illustrates Ben’s fertile imagination
at its best. As a matter of interest,
a portion of it first appeared in his
score for the naval wartime documentary
"The Broad fourteens". First
performed in 1950 by the Liverpool Philharmonic
under Hugo Rignold, we’ll hear an excerpt
from a recording by the BBC Symphony
Orchestra, conducted by my brother,
Igor Kennaway:
Music sample 7: "May
Day", Op.22 – Exc.
The sense of colour
is a feast for the ear. Ben always regarded
his film work as an ideal opportunity
for experimentation and considered it
a vital part of his developing orchestral
ease. Would it be too fanciful to suggest
that scoring to picture for so many
years enabled him to compose a piece
like "May Day" with such a
great sense of imagery?
Ben and his first wife,
Joyce, had divorced in 1944 and he soon
married for a second time, to Anna Leat.
They had met at a meeting of the British
Communist Party and shared ideals.
In 1946, Ben joined
the staff of the Guildhall School of
Music as senior professor of composition
– a post he held for ten years. Vaughan
Williams and Walton were just two who
referred young composers to him for
study. During that time, a great many
had the benefit of his accumulated knowledge
and wisdom, not to mention his keen
analytical mind. Many went on to enjoy
distinguished careers of their own,
as composers, radio producers, teachers
and writers. They included Robert Crawford,
Alan Langford, James Stevens, Buxton
Orr, Harry Rabinowitz and Sir George
Martin of later Beatles fame. More often
than not, the Frankel master-class would
gather at his flat in Soho Square for
lessons and there were field trips to
the film studios, where pupils could
watch Ben at work and learn first hand
about the technique of film scoring.
His versatility and open-mindedness
meant that pupils could bring anything
to the class for analysis and comment,
be it a sonata, a tango, a symphony
or a piece of jazz. He was, however,
unwilling to give classes in arranging
or orchestration per se, as he believed
that composers should always think directly
in terms of the medium for which they
were writing: in other words, it was
a matter of composing, rather than arranging,
for the orchestra.
Ben was a proud and
passionate Jew, racially, though not,
as explained earlier, religiously speaking.
Early on, he had even sought to find
a Jewish musical identity, somewhat
in the manner of Ernst Bloch. He later
abandoned the idea, finding that it
limited him too much and also believing
that his Jewishness was present in his
work without the need for self-conscious
expression. Even so, early works like
the suggestively titled Sonata Ebraica,
for ‘cello and harp, and the Elegie
Juive, for ‘cello and piano, are interesting
examples of his earlier pre-occupation
and are fine compositions, deserving
of a place in the repertoire.
Unquestionably, though,
the most important musical expression
of his racial identity was to come in
his Violin Concerto of 1951, written
in memory of the six million victims
of the Holocaust. The work was commissioned
and first performed by his great friend
Max Rostal, for the Festival of Britain
that year, with Ben conducting the London
Philharmonic. For many, it is his masterpiece
and there can be no denying the sheer
emotional power that emanates from every
bar. Here is the opening, in a recording
by Ulf Hoelscher, with the Queensland
Symphony Orchestra conducted by Werner
Andreas Albert:
Music sample 8: Violin Concerto.
Op. 24 – 1st movt.
A rumbustuous scherzo
is followed by the prolonged slow movement
– a heartfelt lament which, surely,
carries the full weight of the concerto’s
dedication. Some were puzzled by the
short, at times light-hearted finale
which lilts along in triple time and
ends with a whisper. Others understood
that he would not have ended this, of
all works, with a showpiece. Instead,
this musical epilogue, as he called
it, offers a sense of hope and renewal,
with a smile through tears.
The Concerto was to
be Ben’s last large-scale orchestral
work until his first Symphony, Op.33,
in 1958: the demands on his time by
an increasing number of film commissions
limited his work for the concert hall,
in quantity and scope, if not in quality.
In fact, two of his finest chamber works
were composed during these years: the
Piano Quartet of 1953, and the Clarinet
Quintet of 1956. This, a commission
for the Cheltenham Festival of that
year, was written for Thea King, in
memory of her husband, the great Frederick
Thurston. Here is part of the lovely
last movement, played by Thea King with
the Britten Quartet:
Music sample 9: Clarinet Quintet,
Op.28 – last movt.
It is fascinating to
contrast the concert works of this period
with some of the necessarily light music
Ben was writing for film. In 1950, he
had enjoyed a hit with his "Carriage
and Pair" from "So Long at
the Fair" – a piece which went
on to become a standard of the light-orchestral
repertoire. Earlier, he had also enjoyed
success with other light pieces and
even songs, usually composed under his
nom-de-plume Ben Bernard. One of them,
"Bow Bells", - the main theme
from his score for the 1947 film "Dancing
With Crime"- made the top ten.
Generally, he didn’t record his own
film music except on the soundtracks
themselves. However, he conducted the
singer and actress Christine Nordern
in a commercial recording of two songs
he wrote for the film "Night Beat"
(also 1947). Let’s listen to one of
these now, "I’m Not In Love"
– a charming beguine of which Cole Porter
himself might have been proud. The words
are by Ben’s frequent collaborator,
Harold Purcell, perhaps best known for
his libretto to "Lisbon Story":
Music sample 10: "I’m
Not In Love" – Christine Nordern/Cond.Frankel
Among other things,
that gives a fine illustration of Ben’s
skill as a writer of dance band music.
Now let’s listen to
an altogether different kind of song,
from the same year: one of those from
his cycle "The Aftermath",
composed to the words of the First World
War poet Robert Nicholls. The poems
employ the imagery of the sea as an
allegory of life’s journey, against
the background of war. Ben dedicated
the work to his good friend Howard Ferguson.
The scoring, for tenor, strings, off-stage
trumpet and timpani might call to mind
Britten’s Serenade for Tenor, Horn and
Strings but there is no mistaking the
musical identity of the composer. Here’s
the second song, "Alone",
in a recording by the tenor R.Llewelyn,
with Constant Lambert conducting members
of the LSO, in a London Contemporary
Music Centre concert from 1950:
Music sample 11: "The
Aftermath", Op.17 – "Alone"
Could there be two
more contrasting songs than the latter
and "I’m Not In Love" which
we heard before it? It is remarkable
that both flowed from the same pen.
Before leaving behind
Ben’s ‘40s film music, let’s listen
to his "Gaiety Galop" from
the British musical "Trottie True",
from 1949. It starred Jean Kent as the
Gaiety Girl who marries a Duke. This
is exemplary light music of a kind that
recalls the late 19th and
early 20th centuries, and
composers like Offenbach:
Music sample 12: "Trottie
True" – "Gaiety Galop"
"Gaiety Galop",
played by the Queensland Symphony Orchestra,
under Werner Andreas Albert.
From the early 1950s
onwards, Ben took to conducting his
own film scores, much to the irritation
of music director Muir Mathieson who
remarked: "You do your job and
I’ll do mine." There was a certain
friction between the two and one exchange
is well worth recounting. In one of
Ben’s scores, Mathieson noted a somewhat
unusual trumpet effect:
"I suppose
you got that from your jazz days"
Mathieson remarked, snootily.
"No, actually,"
Ben replied, "I got it from
Berlioz!"
In 1950, Ben met the
musical writer and analyst Hans Keller
and the two became lasting friends.
The meeting proved musically significant
too. Hans was a proponent of Schoenberg’s
12-note serial method – broadly, composition
employing all twelve notes of the chromatic
scale, in an order pre-determined by
the composer. At the time, it was anathema
to Ben but his respect and trust for
Hans led to his re-evaluation of the
technique and this was to be the key
which unlocked the symphonic outpouring
of his later years. Ben had destroyed
at least two unfinished symphonies during
the ‘40s and was seeking a valid framework
for his symphonic ideas. After working
with Hans for a time, he was able to
find a very personal approach to serialism
which emphasized, rather then undermined,
a sense of tonality and which was fundamentally
melodic in outlook. Ever willing to
use his film music as a proving ground,
Ben slipped his first public experiment
with serialism, almost unnoticed, into
his score for the gripping 1955 political
film "The Prisoner", which
starred Alec Guinness and Jack Hawkins.
The film itself warrants further comment,
especially in terms of a sea change
in Ben’s own political views. Firstly,
though, let’s hear the title music from
the film, in a brand new recording by
Carl Davis and the Royal Liverpool Philharmonic.
At a certain point, you will hear an
imposing theme on the trombones, which
is a note-row; this is repeated by the
strings and then heard in its retrograde
or back-to-front form. Here, the music
is harmonized freely:
Music sample 13: "The
Prisoner" – "Prelude"
Motifs derived from
the note-row are heard throughout the
score.
Returning to the film’s
subject, it was the harrowing story
of a Roman Catholic Cardinal (Alec Guinness),
in a nameless Communist country, who
is arrested on grounds of treason, interrogated
mercilessly by the Inquisitor (Jack
Hawkins) and eventually brainwashed
into confessing to the trumped-up charges
against him, in a show trial before
the press. Adapted from her stage play
by the writer Bridget Boland, it was
allegedly based on the true-life story
of the Hungarian Cardinal Mindscenty.
The fact that Ben was in any way associated
with such a strong indictment of Communist
regimes, will tell you that he no longer
had any truck with the Party. In fact,
he had resigned in a storm of publicity,
over the 1952 summary trials and executions
of alleged spies, in Prague.
Since the Daily Worker
refused to publish Ben’s letter of resignation,
he wrote, instead to the New Statesman
which published his letter on 13th
December 1952. It began:
"Sir, -
Many of us have had a revulsion of political
feeling as a result of the recent judicial
proceedings in Prague, and this has
been brought to a climax by the indecent
haste with which the ultimate penalty
has been applied.
The letter ended:
I can no longer
remain a member of a Party which unquestioningly
accepts such standards of civil liberty,
and for whom the application of the
death penalty for "political deviations"
represents a triumph."
Prague was the last
straw: he had been at odds with the
Party for some time, due to its increasingly
illiberal attitude towards culture,
and music in particular. For at least
two years, he had felt isolated from
his fellow members.
So it was that Ben
divorced himself from the British Communist
Party and politics more generally.
Despite such disruption,
the film work continued at a pace, with
as many as eight commissions in a single
year. Ben came to regard his reputation
as a leading film composer to be something
of a curse when it came to finding acceptance
in his concert work. Musical snobbery
was prevalent in those days and Ben’s
versatility – which would have stood
him in good stead today – was frowned
upon by many. Nevertheless, in 1955,
Ben was honoured with a Cortauld Music
Trust award in recognition of his "outstanding
work as a composer."
His views on film music
were, understandably, ambivalent. He
once referred to it as "a strange
semi-art." Still, as with everything
he did, he could never give it less
than his best and it is worth quoting
from a BBC talk he gave in 1957:
"In starting
work on a new film score, I’m always
conscious of the way in which I first
look at the picture. At that stage,
I have a two-fold task. First, to see
the film through the eyes of the producer,
secondly to attempt to see it as an
ordinary member of the audience.
In serving the
needs of the producer faithfully, one
must help to project his "brain-child"
in the way in which he has always seen
it. To this end, it’s sometimes necessary
to underline an action which is not
quite so full of meaning as the producer
intended. Sometimes it’s useful to underline
a sound. Again, it’s sometimes necessary
to provide music to create an atmosphere
which is somehow missing from the film
as it stands.
From the point
of view of the audience the composer
has to assume a kind of explanatory
role. He may need in some way to link
together musically a series of scenes
which don’t look quite as connected
as the producer intended. Indeed, the
producer will often leave it to the
music to connect disjointed scenes.
On the other hand, the composer may
"explain" a scene musically
by deliberately playing against what
appears on the screen of the sound track.
A sad scene may sometimes be made to
seem sadder if the background music
comes in a very gay manner, either from
a radio or a gramophone. A comic scene
can be made to seem funnier by choosing
a deliberately sad kind of musical accompaniment.
He continued:
"Sometimes
a tune heard earlier in the film can
be recalled to make a dramatic effect.
In the film "The Net", Phyllis
Calvert is seen playing a little simple
tune at the piano. Her husband is an
inventor and he’s impatient to make
another flying test of the super-sonic
plane he’s designed. He decides to evade
the guards that night and take the plane
up. He goes to call his wife to tell
her of his intention and from the garden
hears her playing the little tune of
which I have told you. Their relationship
has been rather strained and, feeling
unwilling to alarm her, he goes back
to his room and starts to write her
a letter. The little piano tune plays
behind his letter writing.
His wife, waking
in the night and finding him missing,
becomes alarmed, goes downstairs and
finds his letter. She starts to read
and we hear his voice speaking the words.
The innocent piano tune, playing against
the tension of the scene, takes on an
unexpected sadness:
Music sample 14: The Net –
Love Theme
Instead of the original
soundtrack which Ben employed to illustrate
his point, we heard that lovely new
recording by Carl Davis and the Royal
Liverpool Philharmonic, which is now
available on the Naxos label.
The conductor Denis
Vaughn, much associated with Ben’s music,
was the pianist on the original film
soundtrack and later recalled:
" For my ear
many of his compositions have the Schubertian
quality of being entirely new, but that
I have always known them. It is this
quality which convinces me that his
music will last long after others are
gathering dust. Other films that I worked
on – "The Prisoner", "Orders
To Kill" – had some constants and
many novelties. His chiming bells, concatenations
of permutations of different clangs
and strokes were a signature tune for
many pieces, which no one else could
achieve. He often used a widely spaced,
gruff bass line which stood right away
from the rest of his upper writing,
and acquired a particular hollowness
on the film stage recording studios."
Vaughn wrote further:
"Ben’s
ear for orchestral sound was inspired
in particular by the sounds which the
conductor Victor de Sabata conjured
up. Ben identified with them and felt
that you could never get good strong
sound without a wide, sweeping conducting
gesture. He was fascinated with conducting
technique in general, and one of his
favourite stories was of a film composer
who had put in Mozart’s Figaro overture,
to be played during the sessions. But
when he got up to conduct it, he could
not get the orchestra to start. Three
times he made a gesture to the orchestra
which lacked the essential upbeat, and
so all he got from them was silence.
After the third defeat, the composer
turned to the men in the control room
and shrugged his shoulders – with that
the orchestra started playing because
at last he had given them the upbeat
they needed!"
In 1952, Ben and Anna
moved to Rodmell, near Lewes, where
they lived in a grand manor house, next
door to the political writer Leonard
Woolf, who was a frequent visitor. Ben
held court there and entertained a lively
artistic circle, including Terence Rattigan,
Cecil Day-Lewis and Anthony Asquith.
It was also close to Glyndebourne, where
he could indulge his love of opera.
Although rather short,
Ben cut an imposing figure, with his
high-domed forehead, resounding voice
and larger-than-life personality. His
interests extended well beyond music
and included a passion for cricket,
football and even boxing, though it
should be added, as a spectator. He
was also passionate about cars and was
an expert driver with a penchant for
trying to set new speed records. Food
and wine were another passion: he was
the quintessential bon viveur.
An apt moment for us
to pause for some refreshments.
INTERVAL
PART
TWO:
I’ve already mentioned
how Ben’s film work impeded his composing
for the concert hall, due to pressure
of time, and in 1957, he decided to
seek peace and seclusion abroad, to
devote himself to his serious music.
Although this reduced his film work,
he continued to compose cinema scores
for a further nine years, with some
of his most important still to come.
His resignation from the Guildhall prompted
the Principal, Edric Cundell, to write:
"Benjamin
Frankel….has now decided to live abroad.
It is a pity we are losing him for he
is a man of such distinction."
Ben, himself, had been
offered the directorship but, believing
that it would hinder his composing,
declined.
After six months in
Salzburg, Ben and Anna moved to Locarno,
in Switzerland, where for a time they
rented a splendid villa, high on a hill
overlooking Lake Maggiore. A busy social
life continued, as friends and colleagues
flocked to visit them, undeterred by
the somewhat greater distance involved.
Nevertheless, the move
was to prove an artistic Godsend, enabling
Ben to begin his most productive years
as a composer for the concert hall,
beginning with the first in his cycle
of eight symphonies, in 1958. First
performed by the Westphalia Symphony
Orchestra under Hubert Reichert, in
Germany, we’ll hear the opening, in
its premiere recording by the Queensland
Symphony, under Werner Andreas Albert:
Music sample 15: Symphony
No.1 – 1st movt.
The symphony – Ben’s
first serial composition – set out many
characteristics of the cycle as a whole:
slow outer movements, often ending in
a mysterious whisper; lively central
ones; a clearly tonal and melodic presentation
of the note-rows. Ben conducted the
British premiere himself, with the BBC
Symphony Orchestra, at the 1960 Cheltenham
Festival.
In 1959, there was
a setback with far-reaching consequences:
while working on the score to Asquith’s
film "Libel", Ben suffered
a heart attack and spent a number of
weeks in Guy’s Hospital. Years of running
in all directions and leading the good
life had taken their toll. Yet, in what
was to become a typically courageous
manner, he continued composing, while
in hospital, producing his Bagatelles
for 11 instruments, Op.35.
Ben recovered well
initially and one of his next undertakings
was to compose the score to Hammer’s
1960 film "Curse of the Werewolf".
This is credited with being the first
serial score for a British feature film.
In it, Ben decided to use two different
note-rows: one, almost entirely melodic;
the other, built on four triadic chords
using all 12 notes of the chromatic
scale. The result is decidedly tonal
in effect, with some splendidly spicey
harmonies. Let’s hear the Prelude, from
the first complete recording, with Carl
Davis conducting the RLPO once again:
Music sample 16: Curse of
the Werewolf: Prelude
Suitably dramatic music,
setting the tone for the ensuing tale
of horror. Even so, the film afforded
one or two opportunities for music of
an altogether different mood. Here’s
the delightful "Pastoral"
which accompanies the afflicted, central
character when, seemingly cured of his
curse, he ventures forth as a young
man:
Music sample 17: Curse of
the Werewolf: Pastoral
A rustic piece, complete
with horn calls and depictions of birdsong,
suggesting Ben’s affinity with Mahler.
Before moving on, I’d
like to play the closing moments from
this landmark score: the werewolf has
been shot and killed with a bullet,
fashioned from a silver crucifix, so
ending the tragic curse. There is, I
think, a tremendous power and sense
of catharsis to this music:
Music sample 18: Curse of
the Werewolf: Finale – exc.
As you may have gathered,
the score is not exclusively serial.
Not long after composing
that, Ben wrote a concert work for piano
trio and orchestra – the "Serenata
Concertante". Op.37 – intended
as a piece of lightish entertainment.
He wrote:
"The work
can be listened to either pictorially
or formally. Pictorially, the piece
suggests a street scene in which all
manner of night sounds are heard: people
gently ambling around, traffic passing,
sounds from distant band music, jazz
from nearby cafes, sudden pursuits,
lovers in shadowy corners, a remotely
waltzing couple detached from their
surroundings, street musicians and so
on."
I’m not going to quote
him here on the formal structure, for
reasons that will be clear in a moment.
Here’s an excerpt, played by Stephen
Emerson, Alan Smith and David Lale,
with the Queensland Symphony under Werner
Andreas Albert:
19: Serenata
Concertante, Op.37 – exc.
I chose not to mention
anything technical beforehand, as I
wanted you to listen to the music purely
as the light entertainment it was intended
to be. Now, however, I can reveal –
perhaps to your surprise – that the
work is written in strictly serial form!
I wanted to leave this till now, being
well aware that many associate serialism
with music that is entirely discordant,
tuneless and generally unappealing.
Sometimes, that is true but – and it
is a very big but – this is down to
what the composer chooses to express.
I think, in the foregoing excerpt, you
will have heard that Ben was able to
write tuneful, tonal, witty music –
above all, musically expressive – within
a serial framework.
I’m going to follow
that with the opening of his very next
work – the imposing and solemn Second
Symphony, Op.38, composed for the Cheltenham
Festival of 1962 and played there by
the New Philharmonia under the composer’s
baton. Aside from his very last work
– the opera "Marching Song"
– this is by far Ben’s most substantial
work, at nearly forty minutes. This
excerpt is from the premiere recording
by the Queensland Symphony, under Werner
Andreas Albert:
Music sample 20: Symphony
No.2 – opening
Once again, despite
the strict serialism, I think you will
have noticed just how tonally based
the music is and, in a way, how rooted
in the mainstream of symphonic tradition.
It was composed against a background
of great personal difficulty, when Ben
and Anna – the work’s dedicatee – were
separating after some twenty years.
Despite this turmoil,
Ben continued to compose both for the
concert hall and film. His Third Symphony
followed soon after the Second, in 1964,
and it was also at about this time that
he wrote one of his most important and
personal film scores, for John Huston’s
version of the Tennessee Williams play
"Night of the Iguana". This,
with its stellar cast of Richard Burton,
Ava Gardner and Deborah Kerr, has become
a classic. I’m going to play the "Prelude",
which exemplifies so many of Ben’s qualities:
the orchestral colour, the intriguing,
highly individual harmonic style, the
simple and direct melodic ideas and
the unfailing ability to encapsulate,
musically, the character of a story:
Music sample 21: Night of
the Iguana – Prelude
Music from "Night
of the Iguana", in which a defrocked
clergyman, now an alcoholic tour guide
in Mexico, finds himself caught up with
three very different women: a feisty
widow, a repressed spinster and a nymphette.
(Who wouldn’t be a defrocked
clergyman?!)
This commission was
followed, in 1965, by Ben’s last for
the cinema, the epic "Battle of
the Bulge" – Hollywood’s version
of World War Two’s last great land battle.
With an all-star cast, headed by Henry
Fonda, Robert Shaw and Robert Ryan,
the film was a model of big budget ‘60s
film making. The subject matter and
the film’s impressive length – at nearly
three hours, gave full reign to Ben’s
orchestral virtuosity and symphonic
outlook and must be regarded as his
musical testament where film music is
concerned. The score – some ninety minutes
long – was nominated for a Hollywood
Golden Globe the following year. Let’s
hear an excerpt, from a recent, award-winning
recording by the Queensland Symphony,
again conducted by Werner Andreas Albert.
This music accompanies a sequence in
which a supply train brings vital artillery
to bolster the besieged US forces.
Music sample 22: Battle of
the Bulge – Armaments Train
It was not Ben’s intention
to cease composing for the cinema after
"Battle of the Bulge" but
changing times worked against composers
of his generation, with more and more
pop soundtracks and electronic scores
, and less demand for orchestral or
symphonic ones. So, Ben turned his attention
to television, working on a number of
projects for the BBC and ITV, up until
1970, when he composed his last incidental
score, for the Thames Television play
of "The Suicide Club".
If his career as a
film composer was winding down, that
for the concert hall was in the ascendant,
with a fourth symphony in 1966, and
a fifth in 1967 which also saw the production
of his Viola Concerto, a BBC commission
for the Cheltenham Festival that year.
Another Cheltenham commission, two years
earlier, was the Fifth String Quartet,
Op.43, dedicated to Hans Keller. This
was to be Ben’s last string quartet
and his only one composed in serial
form. We’ll hear now the fourth of its
five movements – a short intermezzo:
Music sample 23: String Quartet
No.5 – 4th movt.
That lilting music,
characteristic of the work as whole,
again illustrates Ben’s accessible use
of serial technique.
The Fifth Symphony,
first performed in the German town of
Recklinghausen, by the Westphalia Symphony
under Hubert Reichert, was a more extrovert
affair than its predecessors, ending,
for the first time, with a rousing finale
which Ben described as being "of
brilliant and fiery gesture." The
first movement, of moderate tempo, has
a pastoral lyricism about it. Let’s
listen to excerpts from both, in a recording
by the BBC Symphony Orchestra, conducted,
once again, by my brother Igor. First,
the last pages of the opening movement:
Music sample 24: Symphony
No.5 – 1st movt. Exc.
Now we’ll hear part
of the finale, leading to its triumphant
conclusion:
Music sample 25: Symphony
No.5 – finale exc.
For those interested,
that serial movement ends with a plagal,
or "amen", cadence!
It was in about 1966,
aged eight, that I first really came
to know Ben myself, although both he
and Anna had been friends of my grandparents
and parents for a great many years.
As may be gathered, Ben was a good bit
older than my mother. They had always
been fond of each other and when Ben
and Anna separated in the mid-1960s,
and my mother was contemplating divorce
after years of misery, they became close,
during his frequent visits to London.
His appearance on the scene was a miracle,
for he brought a warmth and humanity
into the house and made each day seem
special. Illness and a growing spirituality
had mellowed what was a sometimes fiery
temperament in earlier years. His coronary
arterial disease was becoming a major
factor at this point and he developed
a severe and chronic pectoral angina,
which required him to take tablets by
the handful. The extraordinary thing,
which I recall vividly, was the way
in which he discouraged any fuss and
attention during the many painful, daily
attacks. He would simply stop whatever
he was doing and stand quietly while
the tablets did their work. After a
moment or two, the pained expression
would give way again to a characteristic
smile and he would resume his activity,
be it walking in the mountains, playing
table tennis, or concocting his latest
gourmet dish.
Alas, the daily attacks
of angina were only the tip of a deep
iceberg: the ensuing years saw Ben suffer
a cerebral haemorrhage, from which he
recovered, and further heart attacks.
In 1969, ten years after his first attack,
he was again in Guy’s Hospital, with
severe doubts about whether he would
survive. Yet, with customary resolve,
he asked my mother to bring manuscript
paper and composed almost all of his
Sixth Symphony there, dedicating it
to her.
The Seventh Symphony
followed with no other works between
and was composed, again, in appalling
health. At times, he hadn’t the strength
to lift his pen to the manuscript. The
work, full of references to clocks and
chiming mechanisms, revealed his awareness
of time running out, even to the extent
of quoting from Marlowe, at the head
of the first movement:
"That time
may cease and midnight never come"
while at the foot of
the last page:
"The stars
move still, time runs, the clock will
strike"
As Ben put it:
"One may
say that the whole work lies between
these extremes"
First performed at
the Royal Festival Hall by the LSO,
under Andre Previn in June 1970, here
are the closing pages, played by the
QSO, under Albert:
Music sample 26: Symphony
No.7 – ending:
It would be appropriate,
here, to listen to Ben, himself, on
his illness and its effect on his work,
recorded in a discussion with the producer
Robert Layton in the early ‘70s:
Sound
sample 27: Ben on ill health:
Despite such thoughts,
Ben remained positive and retained his
celebrated sense of humour. He also
enjoyed some degree of respite from
poor health, partly due to the frequent,
gentle walks he would take. He was able,
in fact, to walk in the Swiss Alps,
when we stayed at Max Rostal’s chalet,
in 1970. It became an endearing characteristic
that, when he felt he had walked far
enough, Ben would plant himself on a
comfortable rock, take out his pocket
manuscript book and make notes, while
the rest of us completed our meanderings.
He was always enchanted
by nature – animals, the mountains,
waterfalls and birdsong. Many years
earlier, he and Anna had adopted some
nineteen stray cats, while living at
Rodmell. Ben also owned a much loved
terrier – "Little Pinkie".
The visit to the Alps was to be the
first of three and Ben would hire a
car with power-steering, enabling him
to drive without unduly triggering his
angina. He remained an expert driver
and negotiated the winding mountain
roads with great panache!
It has often struck
me how quiet and modest Ben was about
his many and varied achievements. He
hardly ever discussed his years in jazz
or film music and one was not even aware
when he was composing his television
scores. One was aware, of course, of
his work on the symphonies and other
works, though in a very mild way. Mostly,
he composed in his head, occasionally
going to the piano to check some detail.
Although he had to cut himself off from
other musical sounds while working –
not always easy in a house where my
mother would practise the piano for
hours every day - he always liked having
someone around to talk to, while he
wrote out a finished score.
One particular pleasure
at that time was playing piano duets
with my mother, especially those of
Schubert. I’ve already mentioned Ben’s
sight-reading ability and I once witnessed
this most impressively, when he read
through Rachmaninov’s complex and demanding
transcription of Kreisler’s charming
"Liebesleid". There was never
a moment’s hesitation as he negotiated
the intricacies of Rachmaninov’s writing.
The piano was also
an area of particular interest that
I shared with him. As a budding pianist,
I was fascinated with the recordings
of the great pianists of the golden
age, many of whom Ben had heard in the
flesh. Often, we would listen to their
recordings together, marveling anew
at their wizardry. It was endearing
to see Ben get tears in his eyes over
some breathtaking phrase, or laugh at
some audacious pianistic fireworks.
Despite his own lofty musical ideals,
he was charmed by the salon music of
the 19th century and was
especially smitten with a little Waltz
by the pianist Mischa Levitski, played
by the composer himself. I recall that
Ben harboured some regret over not having
pursued a career as a pianist, alongside
his composing. He took great pleasure
in listening to my mother play and ,
so too, my brother who had become a
student at the RAM. Ben also shared
my sister Nadia’s passion for the violinist
Jascha Heifetz. Touchingly, he treated
the whole family as his own and I recall
how interested he was in people generally
making everyone feel important and cared
for.
Here’s Ben speaking
again, this time on his manner of working:
Sound
sample 28: Ben on composing:
Ben felt himself drawn
to works of a tragic nature and it is
certainly true that his own music was
predominantly melancholic. Yet two of
his last works offered some contrast:
the "Overture to a Ceremony",
commissioned for the St Cecilia’s Day
Royal Concert in 1970, and the finale
of his Eighth Symphony, composed in
1971 and first performed by the RLPO
under its dedicatee, Sir Charles Groves.
For only the second time in the cycle,
there is a positive, energetic ending,
pointing, perhaps, to some sense of
hope. Here’s a part of that finale,
once again with the QSO under Albert:
Music sample 29: Symphony
No.8 – finale – exc.
Was that serial or
was it not? One might think, with its
distinctly tonal fanfares and melodies,
that it wasn’t. One would, however,
be wrong! It is one of the best illustrations
of how Ben used serialism not to undermine
tonality and melody but to assert it
positively.
Ben and my mother were
married, at last, in 1972, after her
acrimonious divorce had been granted
its Decree Absolute. Sadly, it was only
about a year before his death, though
they had enjoyed some years of loving
companionship, despite their respective
difficulties.
The last work Ben completed
– only days before his death – was the
opera "Marching Song", after
the play by John Whiting. It had been
commissioned by the ENO for the Belgian
celebration of the EEC, and was to have
been staged in London and Brussels concurrently.
However, the ENO was hit by a financial
crisis during the mid-1970s and "Marching
Song" was one of several new productions
to be axed. It has yet to be staged,
though it received its premiere in a
BBC Radio 3 studio production, in 1983.
The completion of the
opera was another heroic triumph of
the will over the adversity of dire
health. His doctor had told my mother
that only a third of Ben’s heart was
still functioning. Three days before
he died, Ben attended a performance
at the Coliseum, to hear a singer who
was being considered for the lead in
"Marching Song". During the
interval, he suffered one of his most
severe attacks of angina, leading my
mother to wonder if he would make it
home. Following a troubled weekend and
a visit from his doctor, Ben died during
the early hours of Monday, 12th
February 1973, despite heroic efforts
to revive him, in the emergency room
at New End Hospital in Hampstead. Even
during the ambulance journey, among
his last words to my mother was a request
to bring manuscript paper to the hospital
where, no doubt, he still planned to
thwart the grim reaper and, perhaps,
to write out his choral Ninth Symphony
which, he had revealed to a friend,
was complete in his head. It had been
commissioned by the BBC for the Proms
later that year. Alas, it died with
him and, inexplicably, no other work
of his was substituted in memoriam.
As Buxton Orr was to
comment, this was an ominous augury
of the near total neglect that followed,
which, 33 years after his death and
in this centenary year, is still a great
problem. Not as much as before the acclaimed
recordings of his works began to appear
on the CPO label, during the 1990s,
but a problem nonetheless. These reversed
the almost complete absence of his music
from the record catalogues during his
lifetime (only two of his works were
recorded commercially) but the frequent
broadcasts and performances his music
enjoyed while he was alive dwindled
almost to nothing. Ten years ago, and
again this year, Ben was featured as
Composer of the Week on Radio 3. In
1998, to mark his 25th anniversary,
there was also a BBC Archive programme.
Yet many a year has passed without a
single broadcast of his music and there
are almost no performances to speak
of. It is over fifty years since a note
of his music has been heard at the Proms
and this year’s season offers nothing
to mark the centenary.
I feel strongly that
this is our loss. It isn’t unique to
Ben’s music, it must be said, but it
is extraordinary that one who had achieved
such a pre-eminence during his lifetime,
should be so overlooked.
Sometimes, people ask
why Ben didn’t receive any kind of honour
during his lifetime. He clearly deserved
one but did not receive a knighthood,
or a CBE. Was it his early adherence
to left-wing politics? Probably not,
bearing in mind that such leanings did
no harm to, say, Britten or Tippett.
Was it his reputation as a composer
of film music? Possibly. Perhaps, in
the end, it had much to do with Ben’s
humility and lack of personal ambition:
he did not make a point of being in
all the right places, or befriending
all the right people.
I suspect that the
honour which would have mattered most
to him, was that of having his life’s
work acknowledged through performances,
recordings and broadcasts.
We must be duly grateful
to the German label CPO and the Australian
Broadcasting Corporation, for their
enterprise in undertaking to record
all Ben’s major works and much of the
film music, which they did to great
acclaim. Grateful, too, to the Queensland
Symphony Orchestra and Werner Andreas
Albert, as well as to all the soloists
involved in the recordings. This month
sees the release of a wonderful new
film music album, on the Naxos label,
with Carl Davis conducting the Royal
Liverpool Philharmonic, some of which
we’ve heard this afternoon. So, we can
be thankful that much of Ben’s output
has been preserved for posterity.
I feel it right that
his music should have the last word,
so to speak, and I’m going to return
to the recording of the Violin Concerto,
which we heard earlier – this time,
the last movement, with it’s characteristic,
whispered ending. I think it captures
much of his personality, especially
the sense that, through all of life’s
suffering and struggle, there is still
room for hope - and still time for a
smile.
Thank you for being here today – I
hope it has been both interesting and
revealing.
Music sample 30: Violin Concerto, Op.24 -
finale
END
