Alexander RAHBARI (b. 1948)
My Mother Persia - Symphonic Poems, Volume 3
Symphonic Poem No.9 ‘Nohe Khan’ (version for baritone saxophone and orchestra (2018) [38:00]
Symphonic Poem No. 10 ‘Morshed’ (2019) [19:05]
Ladislav Fančovič (baritone saxophone), Reza Fekri (tenor),
Julia Kräuter (harp), Kiril Stoyanov (marimba, vibraphone and
percussion) and Parviz Yahayavi (Zurkaneh tombak, daf)
Prague Metropolitan Orchestra/Alexander Rahbari
Premiere Recordings
Rec. April 27, 2019, Czech TV Music Studio Prague and Tonstudio Room 66, Vienna
NAXOS 8.574208 [57:10]
Born in Teheran, in his youth Alexander Rahbari played both classical violin
and the traditional music of Iran. He studied violin and composition in the
city of his birth and, at the age of 17, became a violinist in the orchestra
of the Fine Arts Administration, before a scholarship awarded by the Iranian
Ministry of Culture and Art enabled him to continue his studies in
composition and conducting in Vienna with Hans Swarowsky and Gottfried von
Einem. He returned to Iran in 1973, becoming Director of the Persian
National Music Conservatory. Four years later he chose to return to Europe.
His reputation began to grow in the West when, in 1977, he was awarded the
Gold Medal at the Concours International de Jeunes Chefs d’Orchestre in
Besançon and, in the following year, the Silver Medal at the Geneva
International Conductor’s Competition. He came to the attention of Herbert
von Karajan and in 1979 he was invited to conduct performances by the Berlin
Philharmonic; in 1980 he was appointed Karajan’s assistant at the Salzburg
Festival. He later worked with such orchestras as the Czech Philharmonic,
the Leipzig Gewandhaus Orchestra, the Orchestre de la Suisse Romande, the
Prague Symphony Orchestra and many others. He was Chief Music Director at
the Belgian Radio Orchestra (1988-1996), Principal Conductor of Zagreb
Philharmonic (1997-1999) and Chief Conductor and Music director of the
Malaga Symphony Orchestra (2000-2004). In 1997 he organised an orchestra of
fellow Iranian expatriates, the Persian International Philharmonic. In 2005
he was invited back to Iran as Permanent Conductor of the Tehran Symphony
Orchestra, though his home is in Austria. He has made more than 150
recordings – many issued on the Naxos and Discovery labels.
This new disc is the third in a series devoted to a sequence of what Rahbari describes as ‘Symphonic Poems’, works which use western instruments (but see below), yet are imbued with memories and evocations of Iranian music and culture. Volume 1 (Naxos 8.574064) contains Nos. 1-3 in this sequence, Nohe Khan, Mother’s Tears and Children’s Prayers; all of them carry the date of 2018. Volume 2 contains Nos. 4-8, World Without War (2017), In Love With the World (2017), The Hymn of My Mother Persia (2013-17), Antari (2017) and Arabization (2017) (review). I am unsure whether or not this third volume concludes the recording of My Mother Persia. The booklet notes by Barbad Bayat speak of “the ten symphonic poems of My Mother Persia…”, phrasing which might be taken to imply that the sequence is now complete, but which doesn’t categorically rule out the possibility of further related works. The ten works spread across the three CDs are quite various, not least in terms of length, the longest (Symphonic Poem No. 9, on the current disc) being timed at 38:00, the shortest (Symphonic Poem No. 6, on Volume 2) at just 5:22. Alert readers will have registered the fact that the first work on this disc, ‘Symphonic Poem No.9 “Nohe Khan”’, is an adaptation of Symphonic Poem No.1. In the recording of that first version the soloist was the composer’s wife, Croatian violinist Paula Rahbari. Here on Volume 3 the soloist is saxophonist Ladislav Fančovič, playing the baritone saxophone. The Slovakian Fančovič is better known as a pianist but it appears (from the biography provided by Naxos) that he also works as a saxophonist in the Fats Jazz Band, “a swing orchestra” he leads.
The Nohe Khan is a man who sings at certain religious ceremonies of Sh'ia Muslims (including those of Iran), most notably on the Day of Ashura; Ashura marks annually the day on which Imam Hossein, the grandson of the prophet Mohammad was killed at the battle of Karbala in 680 CE. This is a day of great significance for Sh’ia Muslims – for many a day of pilgrimage, for all a day of sad reflection. The singing of the Nohe Khan is appropriately mournful and elegiac. Early in the 1970s a work by Rahbari for violin and orchestra, called simply Nohe Khan, was awarded a special prize by the Viennese Academy of Music and was performed in the city. A few years later I heard (played for me by a friend in Austria) what must, I think, have been that work. Although I don’t remember it in detail, I do remember it as being in a single movement of less than 30 minutes. I feel sure that the piece I heard must have become the first movement of Symphonic Poem No.1, with the addition of two new movements. ‘Symphonic Poem I’, indeed, is described on the Naxos recording as a “2018 revision of Nohe Khan, 1972”. On balance, I prefer the earlier version for violin and orchestra to this new one in which the violin is replaced by the baritone saxophone. This is no reflection on the playing of Ladislav Fančovič, though the baritone saxophone is inevitably less agile than the violin. Above all, the homogeneity of sound between the soloist and the strings of the orchestra in the first version produces a more integrated effect and is, I think, more richly expressive. Heard as violin, the Nohe Khan seems a more eloquent version of his ‘congregation’. As a baritone saxophone he seems a quite different kind of figure to those attending the ceremony. In both versions, however, there is much to admire and enjoy in Rahbari’s work. The orchestral colours are bright and various, though I can’t help feeling that the first movement is a little longer than its ideas entirely justify. It is succeeded by shorter movements marked ‘Andante’ and ‘Allegro molto’ in which the control of rhythm is very impressive and the writing for the brass makes a real impression. It is very clear – if one started out with any such suspicion – that Rahbari is very far from being a mere purveyor of exoticism. He is profoundly well-versed in both Western classical music and Iranian traditional music and he can deploy both at a level which transcends mere juxtaposition. I wouldn’t describe the result as a ‘fusion’, so much as an outstanding example of creative interplay.
The first nine of Rahbari’s symphonic poems are written for a western orchestra, even if they incorporate elements of Iranian music, particularly in some of the vocal writing. In the second work on this new disc, Symphonic Poem No. 10
'Morshed', Rahbari writes, not for a western Symphony Orchestra, but for a vocalist and an instrumental quartet – and, strikingly, that quartet mixes western and Iranian instruments. The full personnel consists of Reza Fekri (tenor), Ladislav Fančovič (C melody saxophone), Julia Kräuter (harp), Kiril Stoyanov (marimba, vibraphone and percussion) and Parviz Yahayavi (Zurkaneh tombak, daf). Morshed (the word means ‘master’ or ‘leader’) is an aural representation of the Iranian tradition of zurkaneh (often transliterated as zoorkaneh), a system of physical and mental discipline rooted in pre-Islamic Iranian culture, with debts both to Zoroastrianism and Mithraism, but influenced in later centuries by Sh'ia Islam and Sufism. At the time of the Arab invasion of Iran in the Seventh Century CE, the gatherings of Iranian men to practice zurkaneh served both to make the participants stronger and fitter and to imbue them with a powerful sense of a distinctively Iranian identity. Exercises were – and still are – conducted in time with a rhythm established by the morshed, who strikes the tombak (a small wooden drum of goblet-shape) and recites/sings
prayers and mythical narratives of Iranian heroes, especially as retold by the great Persian poet Ferdowsi (c.940-1020). Every gathering begins with praise of Mohammed and as time has gone on the rituals of the zurkaneh have been influenced by the practices of the Sufi orders. On one visit to Iran (my wife’s homeland) I was fortunate enough to attend a gathering of a ‘real’ zurkaneh (rather than a performance put on for tourists) and found it both spectacular and moving.
Given the mixture of instrumental traditions, the sonorities in this piece are very individual; they are, however, immediately attractive and I can’t imagine that they will prove difficult for any listener. The piece is permeated by the love and respect Rahbari evidently feels for this ancient Iranian tradition. The work evokes the zurkaneh, though it is quieter, less hard-driven and less explosively percussive than the real thing. The sung text (of which an English translation is provided) is by the great Persian poet Ferdowsi (c.940-1020):
I quote just three lines from the translation:
In the name of the creator of the sun and moon, whose glory is
revealed to your heart by your reason …..
I have suffered a lot during the last thirty years, and I revived
Iranian history and culture with Persian speech …..
When you know and find out the creator of this world, you will not
encounter any fear. (translation by Alireza Rouhpoor)
Ferdowsi is of central importance to Iranians’ perception of their national identity. His huge national epic, the Shanameh (which powerfully relates stories of Iranian heroes and kings) is held dear by Iranians of all religious and political persuasions. It is only fitting that Alexander Rahbari should pay his musical tribute to these profound (and profoundly Iranian) traditions.
Many details of the traditions can be read in a scholarly article in the
Encylopaedia Iranica. (The cultural significance of the tradition was recognized by UNESCO when, in 2010, they placed zurkaneh on their Representative List of the Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity. There are numerous relevant videos online; one of the most valuable (prepared under the auspices of UNESCO) can be seen
here.
It is only fitting that Alexander Rahbari should pay his musical tribute to this profound (and profoundly Iranian) tradition. In doing so he has chosen to deploy a mixture of instruments from different musical traditions, rather than the western symphony orchestra used in all his previous symphonic poems. Pedants might suggest that Morshed is not really a symphonic poem at all; technically that may be true, but what matters more is that it is a beautiful piece of music which may, perhaps, point to a change of style in the composer’s future work? I would certainly be happy to hear further works that built on this model.
Glyn Pursglove
