Sir Malcolm Arnold
(1921-2006)
A Greater Composer
than Some Might Think
With the death of Sir
Malcolm Arnold on 23 September 2006,
England lost one of its national treasures.
This is tragic for at least two reasons.
First and foremost, of course, he was
adored and respected by many people,
ranging from fine musicians to ordinary
music-lovers – and film-buffs. The second
reason is rather less palatable: he
died with his music still almost completely
ignored by – for want of a better term
– the Musical Establishment of his native
country, and whilst his music does get
performed, to all intents and purposes
it is still barred from the most influential
venues and events. This crime is compounded
by effective misrepresentation – if,
by some chance, anything at all of his
is programmed in a relatively "high
profile" concert or broadcast,
you can bet your bottom dollar that
it’ll be one of his light pieces – never,
it seems, a symphony! Consequently,
whole swathes of the population must
be forgiven for dismissing Arnold as
merely a "lightweight" composer,
pure and simple.
It might seem paradoxical,
then, that Arnold is one of the – if
not simply the – most extensively
recorded of British composers. Moreover,
those companies that have taken Arnold
to their hearts and catalogues have
by no means fought shy of his major
compositions. This is just as well,
otherwise the entire population, never
mind mere swathes of it, would require
the aforementioned forgiveness. Yet,
it’s not really a paradox, but simply
a difference of opinion. I’ll leave
it at that – and leave you to make up
your own mind who you think is right
- because now is not the time for diatribes,
but for reflection.
On occasion, Arnold
has been called the "English Shostakovich",
and with good reason: the two have so
much in common. Yet, crucially, there
is a major disparity. Whereas Shostakovich
is wholly a child of the Twentieth Century,
Arnold is not. Let’s look at what is
arguably an even stronger parallel -
that between Arnold and Tchaikovsky.
Both were beset by, and to some extent
driven by, internal demons. Both could
write on the one hand the most delicious
confections and, on the other, the most
searing expressions of their personal
anguish and - if I could borrow a third
hand for a moment – they could encapsulate
the latter within the former. Certainly
in the case of Arnold, who made this
encapsulation into an art form, this
trick seems to be one of the things
that confounds – again for want of a
better term - Establishment cognoscenti.
Like Stalinist lackeys, somehow they
can’t see past the sugar-dusted surface.
But, just as with any "code"
of Shostakovich’s, to many ordinary
mortals, listening with their hearts,
the message is as clear as dew-bright
day.
A fair proportion of
the charm of Tchaikovsky comes from
his having one foot firmly planted in
the past, courtesy of his admiration
of Mozart, whose elegance and "formal
perfection" turned Tchaikovsky
green with envy. Tchaikovsky wins the
hearts of music-lovers not just because
he speaks their language but
because, able to see where he’s coming
from, they can better perceive where
he’s headed. The same is true of Arnold,
if anything even more so when you take
account of the musical environment he
inhabited.
In his days as an orchestral
trumpeter, he absorbed not only the
craft but also the music of many masters,
and even more than might at first be
apparent. For example, some years back
I had been puzzling over the supposedly
"Sibelian" opening movement
of the First Symphony. One evening,
on the telephone to Anthony Day, I mentioned
this. "Ask him yourself,"
Anthony suggested. So I did: "Was
Nielsen in the back of your mind
when you wrote that music?" The
bluff answer: "Yes!" Thankfully,
although he might well have, he didn’t
actually add, "Any fool can see
that." Yet, quite a few, fools
or otherwise, don’t.
As we all know, Tchaikovsky
was an absolute whizz at ballet music.
I’ve often heard it said that the Ballet
influenced his symphonies. Just as often,
I’ve reacted by thinking that the same
holds for so much of his music that,
really, it’s more a matter of the Ballet
being happily suited to his inherent
style. If for "Ballet" you
read "Film", then pretty well
the same thing applies to Arnold. Very
early on in his career – when his only
prior work of any significance was Beckus
the Dandipratt – he took to film
scoring like the proverbial duck to
water. Setting aside the purely practical
qualifications – confidence, craftsmanship,
quick-wittedness, and alacrity – what
made him so exceptionally good at this
job was an innate flair for drama.
Although Arnold’s absorption
of the past was evidently far broader
than Tchaikovsky’s, this did not make
him the outmoded, boring old "traditionalist"
that certain pundits would have us believe.
In particular, they would point to those
overtly "modern"-sounding
works, the two string quartets. "There!
You see?" they would exclaim, "He
can only pretend to keep up with
the times by parrotting Bartok!"
Nor, I suppose, did it help that the
first, and most obviously "Bartokian",
was written in 1949, with the ink on
Bartok’s own final essay in the form
only 10 years in the drying. Yet, back
then, nobody had really woken up to
Bartok’s quartets, so if anything Arnold
was pretty quick off the mark, both
perceptive and forward-looking in choosing
such a model. Naturally, those pundits
conveniently ignored the subtle but
distinctive tang that Arnold’s own unmistakable
character and ingenuity brought to the
form.
The fact was that Arnold,
to an extraordinary degree, used the
past as a torch to illuminate the future
- his music may be rooted in tradition,
but it is also positively bristling
with innovation. It’s simply that, unlike
his heart, he didn’t flagrantly display
his technical achievements on his sleeve
or, for that matter, waste time writing
pages of pretentious "explanation"
– with hindsight, we can see that this
was probably a mistake! Instead, in
keeping with his expressed ethos of
the triumvirate of "composer –
performer – listener", he considered
that such technicalities fell firmly
in the corner of the composer, and certainly
not the audience.
Arguably, though, it
is those very technicalities that tickle
the listener’s subconscious. By way
of illustration, let me cite just a
couple of examples. Firstly, what about
the slushily romantic slow movement
of the Fourth Symphony? Its tunes
– not themes! - dripping honey laced
with saccharine, paraded like Mantovani
muzak to accompany a candlelit dinner
for two (nudge, nudge - wink, wink),
surely this is not worthy of a place
in a symphony?
Well, if that’s what
you think, or at least suspect, then
listen again. The movement’s overall
five-section arch-structure is like
a sonata form, whose "exposition"
and "recapitulation" comprise
rondo layouts, whilst the "development"
comprises two binary forms either side
of a central extended ternary form.
This complex, but beautiful, almost
crystalline symmetrical structure is
grown from variants of the first two
subjects, whilst the third subject,
unchanging in outline but ever more
erotically-attired on each appearance,
skewers the structure like the spike
through a kebab. I don’t know about
you, but I think that’s one hell of
a form to be considered unworthy of
a symphony.
Secondly, the Fifth
Symphony’s first movement can seem
bewildering, a rhapsodic confusion of
events bound together more by their
glorious sound than any sensible musical
form. What, then, other than that sound
- which in itself should not be sufficient
- draws us back to it time and again?
Simple: it is nothing less than the
elusive, cunningly concealed, and startlingly
original form. This I would briefly,
and hence unavoidably cryptically, describe
as "based on a pair of interleaved
pyramids" – as the Man himself
might have said, "Stick that in
your total-serialist pipe and smoke
it!"
So, we get this picture
of Arnold as a composer whose major
works are like the sonic equivalents
of high-powered "action movies",
and yet have plot-lines as subtle as
Shakespeare, and emotional undercurrents
that threaten to swallow up the unwary
in one gulp. "Dramatic narrative"
and "formal ingenuity" seem
like somewhat incompatible bedfellows,
whose union is sufficiently immoral
and likely to corrupt the innocent as
to scare the pants off the self-appointed
arbiters of good taste. If so, then
how come they have admitted Mahler and
Shostakovich, not to mention good old
Tchaikovsky, into their hallowed repertoire
– and having gone thus far, what’s so
different about Arnold’s case? To me,
that sounds a fair question. Does anybody
know the real answer?
I seem to be veering
dangerously close to the diatribe that
I was at pains to avoid. However, really
it is utterly unavoidable. It is a crying
shame that Arnold did not get his full
measure of recognition whilst he was
still alive – I sincerely hope that
this sin will not be compounded now
he’s gone. As I said, we have lost a
national treasure. Would the powers-that-be
please be good enough to realise that
fact? Fact? Yes – and for the
evidence they need look no further than
Antony Day.
When Antony took on
the job of looking after the shattered
remnant of Malcolm Arnold, he was more
or less told that it would occupy him
for, at best, six months or so. Antony
knew nothing of the man or his music,
and was thus about as unprejudiced as
it’s possible to be. But, as his ministrations
gradually drew Malcolm back from the
brink of extinction into the land of
the living, he learnt – and came to
love the man and his music. For Antony,
Malcolm’s music became as manna, providing
him with all the spiritual sustenance
he needed. In return, Antony’s selfless
devotion enabled Malcolm to enjoy some
twenty-odd twilight years of life.
Moreover, if it hadn’t
been for Antony, the seemingly enigmatic
Ninth Symphony – arguably "the
only Ninth, in spite of Beethoven"!
- would never have been written. Just
of itself, that’s a lot to thank him
for. Thanks, Antony - and thank you,
Malcolm, for all the "bloody music"
you once forcefully commanded me to
listen to. If there’s a heaven, you’ll
be up there, no doubt creating merry
hell – and, I hope, observing that I’m
still following your orders.
Paul Serotsky
Malcolm
Arnold Society
Malcolm
Arnold - an Obituary by Rob Barnett
[DVD -
Toward
the Unknown Region
Malcolm
ARNOLD – A Story of Survival
- A Film by Tony
PALMER]
[Complete
Symphonies: Naxos Whitebox/Penny
£20]
