Picture Postcards from
Italy
Stravinsky
declared, “Music expresses nothing
outside itself!” That’s absolutely true,
provided you prefix it with “Of itself”.
However, even when unattended by either
words, images, or actions, music is never
(or rarely!) alone inside our heads.
Moreover, music is magnetic, attracting
tasty tit-bits from our mental bottom drawers
and joining with them, jig-saw style. Unlike
ourselves, music is utterly unprejudiced,
caring not whether these “tit-bits” are
acquired or genetically inherited: “if it
fits, plug into it”! This is why composers
can get away with “programme music”, and
send us “picture postcards” of the places
they visit - or inhabit. Which brings us,
rather neatly, to Berlioz - and Respighi.
If
you divided Romantic music like Twenties
jazz, Berlioz would be hot and Mendelssohn
cool. However, far from “never”,
the twain met often, in Italy, which must
have made for some interesting conversations.
Naturally both wrote “postcards”, though
Harold in Italy (1834) wasn’t directly
the result of a holiday. Having commissioned
a work to show off his pet viola, Paganini
was (shall we say?) disappointed
with the first movement draft and stomped
off in a huff. Berlioz, apparently trying
to kill two birds with one stone, was fathering
a hybrid: not a virtuoso concerto, but a
symphony with only an obbligato viola
part. Shrugging his shoulders the way only
the French can do, Berlioz cracked on regardless.
Several years later, Paganini eventually
heard a performance. He remained unimpressed
with the “concerto”, but the “symphony”
knocked him sideways, so much so that Paganini,
hardly renowned for holding open house on
his cheque-book, rewarded Berlioz handsomely.
Hmm - fail to deliver and still get paid
a princely bonus: nice work if you can get
it!
I
can, however, see Paganini’s point: even
now this particular Appennine Adventure
packs a powerful punch. In true Romantic
fashion, Berlioz uses the solo viola to
represent himself, and by setting the instrument
in a somewhat peripheral perspective he
places himself firmly in his proper rôle,
that of a visitor. However, given the viola’s
inclination to indulge in mournful meditation,
it’s obvious that he regards himself as
a somewhat less than typical tourist. We
can see a broad parallel to Byron’s impression
of a world-weary poet, but otherwise forget
about Childe Harold - first
and foremost this music is “about” Childe
Hector.
A
significant part of Berlioz’s amazing originality
lay not in turning tradition on its head,
as you might expect, but in setting the
cat of unconventionality amongst the patrimonial
pigeons. In the first movement the familiar,
firm foundation of the continuo bass becomes
as quicksand. In the second, Berlioz’s “pilgrims”
set off piously enough, but continually
stray from the paths of harmonic righteousness,
each time to be patiently returned to the
fold by a tolling “bell”. The third movement
seems set fair for a scherzo, but the skipping
“main subject” peters out surprisingly quickly
and the “counter-subject”ends up dominating
the movement. Finally, the finale (what
else?): a raucous outburst admits the symphony’s
opening bars, blackened, bloated by looming
brass - signalling a radical change of personnel
on the mountainside! Never mind any guff
about emulating the “recollections” idea
of the finale of Beethoven’s Ninth:
Berlioz’s viola is obviously asking, “What
happened to all the nice people?”
The reply is ominously prophetic of the
fate of many of today’s fashionable tourist
resorts, and at the end, a meek prayer for
sanity is given what sounds suspiciously
like the bum’s rush. Daft idea? I wonder.
Turning
from the “visitors” to the “home team”,
following World War I there was a minor
renaissance in Italy. A new generation of
composers dared to abandon the long-standing
operatic obsession, in favour of a national
style based on old masters like Vivaldi
and Corelli. Respighi, something
of a musical polymath, became a leading
light of this rather radical faction. He
found diverse inspiration in his wide knowledge
of ancient culture, from early Italian music
and Byzantine Chant, and from old paintings
and architecture. Although intrigued by
the likes of Stravinsky, Debussy and Strauss,
Respighi really only responded to his teacher
Rimsky-Korsakov, who nurtured his talent
for iridescent orchestral colour.
The
factors permeate his famous Roman Triptych,
composed in 1916, 1924, and 1928. While
acknowledged as masterpieces of orchestration,
they are often vilified for being mere baubles,
extremely pretty but utterly empty shells.
Maybe this is true, but “So what?” I could
similarly criticise, say, a cartload of
dances by the Strauss family, or the Spanish
Caprice by a certain N. A. Rimsky-Korsakov.
I could, but I won't, because that's
not the point - this is: there's
no law requiring music to have “depth”.
Respighi wrote plenty of music with abundant
“depth”, so presumably the triptych, of
which the Fountains of Rome and Pines
of Rome are the first two parts, was
composed expressly to titillate, to flood
our heads with gorgeous colour and vivid
images: Respighi as musical tourist guide
or picture postcard painter. And why not?
Can anyone give me one good reason?
They
are sumptuously scored for a velour-upholstered
orchestra, enriched where required with
deep-pile organ cushioning: no extravagance
has been spared in ensuring you the ultimate
in listening luxury. Each falls into four
sections, played continuously. I haven’t
said anything about the content of the music.
Do I need to? The composer’s explicit titles,
more or less reliably, guide your imagination.
These may be swallowed whole or taken with
a pinch of salt. Salt? Yes - don’t forget
that the images you get depend in part on
what’s already in your head. In my case,
for example, the central episode of The
Pines near a Catacomb carries an unshakeable
image that has nothing whatsoever to do
with “pines” or “catacombs”. Does this bother
me? Not one little bit!
Note
originally commissioned by the Vancouver
Symphony for a concert given on 28 February
2004
.
© Paul Serotsky
29, Carr Street,
Kamo,
Whangarei 0101,
Northland,
New Zealand
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