Arnold Bax (1883-1953) - Tintagel
Bax was
an anachronism. Amid the Twentieth Century's rampant revolution, he admitted
to being a “brazen romantic”. Result? Neglect, even though many ordinary
listeners share his inclination (but then, we don't dictate “taste”, do
we?). His romanticism flowered in Celtic soils: Yeats' poetry, and Irish
seascapes and mythology. He also came to love Russian music during a visit
there in 1910, when he surely must have encountered Scriabin, with whom
he shared an ecstatic, mystical, chromatic opulence, keyboard brilliance,
and a tendency to over-complexity (which Bax, to his credit, tried to curb).
Consigned,
for his sins, to the “second division”, he nevertheless pegged this one
undisputed masterpiece to the public affection. In the score's preface,
while discounting any “definite programme” Bax recorded his inspiration:
“The castle-crowned cliff of Tintagel, and more particularly the wide distances
of the Atlantic as seen from the cliffs of Cornwall on a sunny but [N.B!]
not windless summer day”. On that very cliff, on a sunny, but (alas) relatively
windless summer day, I once gazed seawards. The music reverberated in my
mind, and it fitted a treat.
Tintagel
falls into three broad sections, and one continuous wave of exquisite orchestration.
The outer sections are majestic and grandiloquent, the first proclaiming
two main themes, each with a cluster of subsidiary ideas, the third a varied
reprise of gloriously ripe, ecstatic proportions. Dovetailed between these,
the “development” is more dangerously elemental. Detailed thematic description
would take pages. Luckily, it would also be counter-productive: the music
is highly rhapsodic, the form intuitive, the plethora of motives ever-evolving
and interweaving (well, I did say “tried to curb”!). Your best bet is to
simply ride the tide.
(Section
1) An iridescent shimmer of undulating strings, trilling woodwind and
a welling brass phrase quickly generate a majestic climax: jubilant horns
launch the gloriously nautical first main subject, a monument to the eternal
shame of the producers of The Onedin Line! The second subject is
a long, string-sung melody sailing over a swaying accompaniment. Somewhere
along the line (“Onedin” or otherwise), the weather clouds over . . . (Section
2) . . . the wind rises, storms pulse through the orchestra, light
flecking against darkness. There comes a “magic moment” for those who know
their Tristan und Isolde and its associations with local legend
. . . (Section 3) . . . Over rocking woodwind, brass intone their
welling phrase, urgency increasing as the first subject is injected. Through
huge Atlantic rollers the second subject emerges, resplendent in a resounding
climax replete with blazing horns. The first subject erupts in an equally
glorious, trumpet-capped tumult. Eventually, ecstasy abates; from glinting
mist brass chords press upwards, urging the music to a final billowing
of sails.
.
© Paul Serotsky
29, Carr Street,
Kamo,
Whangarei 0101,
Northland,
New Zealand
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