Musics With and After Tonality [PDF]

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Musics with and after Tonality

This volume is a journey through musics that emerged at the turn of the twentieth century and were neither exclusively tonal nor serial. They fall between these labels as they are metatonal, being both with and after tonality, in their reconstruction of external codes and gestures of Common Practice music in new and idiosyncratic ways. The composers and works considered are approached from analytic, cultural, creative, and performance angles by musicologists, performers, and composers to enable a deeper reading of these musics by scholars and students alike. Works include those by Frank Bridge, Ferruccio Busoni, Mikalojus Konstantinas Čiurlionis, Rebecca Clarke, John Foulds, Percy Grainger, Mary Howe, Carl Nielsen, Franz Schreker, Erwin Schulhoff, Cyril Scott, and Alexander Scriabin. In the process of engaging with this book the reader, will find an enrichment to their own understanding of music at the turn of the twentieth century. Paul Fleet is a Senior Lecturer in Music at Newcastle University, UK with research specialty in Authentic Music Theory. He is also a husband, father, National Teaching Fellow, QAA Subject Expert and Reviewer, Senior Fellow of the HEA all whilst remaining a music theory lecturer, keynote popular-​ music education speaker, and a published author.

Ashgate Studies in Theory and Analysis of Music After 1900 Series Editor: Judy Lochhead, Stony Brook University, USA

The Ashgate Studies in Theory and Analysis of Music After 1900 series celebrates and interrogates the diversity of music composed since 1900, and embraces innovative and interdisciplinary approaches to this repertoire. A recent resurgence of interest in theoretical and analytical readings of music comes in the wake of, and as a response to, the great successes of musicological approaches informed by cultural studies at the turn of the century. This interest builds upon the considerable insights of cultural studies while also recognizing the importance of critical and speculative approaches to music theory and the knowledge-​producing potentials of analytical close readings. Proposals for monographs and essay collections are welcomed on music in the classical tradition created after 1900 to the present through the lens of theory and analysis. The series particularly encourages interdisciplinary studies that combine theory and/​or analysis with such topical areas as gender and sexuality, post-​colonial and migration studies, voice and text, philosophy, technology, politics, and sound studies, to name a few. Compositional Process in Elliott Carter’s String Quartets A Study in Sketches Laura Emmery The Music of Pavel Haas: Analytical and Hermeneutical Studies Martin Čurda Concepts of Time in Post-​War European Music Aaron Hayes Heitor Villa-​Lobos’s Bachianas Brasileiras Intertextuality and Stylization Norton Dudeque For more information about this series, please visit: www.routledge.com/​ music/​series/​ASTAMN

Musics with and after Tonality Mining the Gap Edited by Paul Fleet

First published 2022 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2022 selection and editorial matter, Paul Fleet; individual chapters, the contributors The right of Paul Fleet to be identified as the author of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-​in-​Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-​in-​Publication Data A catalog record has been requested for this book ISBN: 978-​1-​138-​31636-​2 (hbk) ISBN: 978-​1-​032-​18286-​5 (pbk) ISBN: 978-​0-​429-​45171-​3 (ebk) DOI: 10.4324/​9780429451713 Typeset in Times New Roman by Newgen Publishing UK Access the companion website: www.routledgemusicresearch.co.uk Note for the Reader Supporting audio examples can be accessed via the online Routledge Music Research Portal: www.routledgemusicresearch.co.uk Please enter the activation word RRMusic and your email address when prompted. You will immediately be sent an automated email containing an access token and instructions, which will allow you to log in to the site.

For my Dad and Grandpa, who both lived remarkable lives and had such positive beliefs in the value of working hard by doing the best that you can do. My Dad passed away when I was 20 and my Grandfather when I was 31, yet their moral compass and sense of adventure remains with me every single day.

Contents

Under each title and author is a selection of listening that is recommended to help the reader engage with the content of each chapter. These are not all of the musics that are discussed in this book, rather each is a selection to be enjoyed before, during, and after reading the chapter.  List of music analysis abbreviations  List of contributors  Acknowledgements  1 Mining the gap of musics with and after tonality 

x xii xvi 1

PAU L F L E E T

•  Western European Art Music from roughly 1880–​1930

2 Mining the gap: what gap? 

11

AL I S TAI R H I NTO N

•  Arnold Schoenberg (1899), Verklärte Nacht •  Franz Liszt (1878–​9), Via Crucis  •  Frédéric Chopin (1847), Melodia  •  Leo Ornstein (1915), Sonata for Violin and Piano 

3 Savage minds in British early-​twentieth-​century music 

33

AN N I K A F ORK ERT

•  Cyril Scott (1914), Diatonic Study •  Rebecca Clarke (1918–​19), Sonata for Viola and Piano  •  Frank Bridge (1913–​17), Cello Sonata  •  John Foulds (1905), Cello Sonata 

4 Space and structure in metatonal musics  PAU L F L E E T

•  Percy Grainger (1916), ‘Pastoral’ from In a Nutshell •  Rebecca Clarke (1922), ‘The Seal Man’  •  Mary Howe (1928), ‘Sand’ 

54

viii Contents

5 Carl Nielsen’s musical vitalism 

85

C H RI S T OP HER TA R R A N T

•  Carl Nielsen (1894), Symphonic Suite •  Nielsen (1916), Fourth Symphony (‘The Inextinguishable’)  •  Nielsen (1922), Fifth Symphony  •  Nielsen (1924), Sixth Symphony (‘Sinfonia Semplice’) 

6 The cautious experiments of M. K. Čiurlionis (1875–​1911): tonalities and realisms in his art and music  106 G E ORG E K EN NAWAY

• Mikalojus Konstantinas Čiurlionis (1904/​5), ‘Besacas’ Variations (VL 265) •  Čiurlionis (1904), ‘Sefaa Esec’ Variations (VL 258)  •  Čiurlionis (1904), Prelude (VL 256)  •  Čiurlionis (1904), ‘Pater Noster’ VL (260)  •  Čiurlionis (1900), Fugue in B flat minor (VL 345) 

7 J. S. Bach and metatonality in the early piano pieces of Ferruccio Busoni 

126

E RI N N K N YT

•  Ferruccio Busoni (unknown), Fuga a 2 voci in stile libero •  Busoni (unknown), Invenzione in C Major  •  Busoni 1878), Racconti Fantastici  •  Busoni (1883), Macchietta medioevali  • Busoni (1884), Variationen und Fuge in freier Form über Fr. Chopin’s C moll Präludium 

The recordings for this section have been specifically made for this volume from the scores prepared by Erinn Knyt and performed by the following author Fred Scott. To listen to these visit [www.routledgemusicresearch. co.uk/​].  8 Ferruccio Busoni –​mirror and enigma: transcendence and the later piano works  F RE D S C OTT

•  Ferruccio Busoni (1904), Piano Concerto, Op. 39 •  Busoni (1881), Prelude in B minor, Op. 37, No. 6  •  Busoni (1912), Sonatina seconda  •  Busoni (1917), Sonatina in Diem Nativitatis Christi MCMXVII  •  Busoni (1921), Drei Albumblätter 

150

Contents  ix

The recordings of the Prelude in B minor and the Sonatina seconda have been specifically made for this volume and performed by the author. To listen to these visit [www.routledgemusicresearch.co.uk/​].  9 Diatonic refraction through metatonal spaces 

182

K E N N E T H SMI TH

• • • •

Franz Schreker (1912), Das Spielwerk und die Prinzessin Schreker (1918), Der Schatzgräber Schreker (1915), Die Gezeichneten: Overture Schreker (1916), Kammersymphonie

10 Transformed desire: Scriabin’s transition away from functional tonality 

205

J E F F RE Y S C OTT Y U N EK

• • • • •

Alexander Scriabin (1910), Prometheus Scriabin (1912), Op. 63, No. 2 Scriabin (1889), Op. 2, No. 2 Scriabin (1905), Op. 49, No. 3 Scriabin (1905), Op. 45, No. 2

11 Musicology, mediation, metatonality: rethinking the music of Rebecca Clarke and Erwin Schulhoff 

229

C H RI S D ROME Y

• Rebecca Clarke (1918–​19), Sonata for Viola and Piano • Erwin Schulhoff (1925), Duo for Violin and Cello

Index 

244

List of music analysis abbreviations

Twelve-​Tone Technique (Schoenberg, 1975) P Prime Form (also known as Basic Set (BS)) I Inversion R Retrograde RI Retrograde Inversion Set Theory (Forte, 1977) pc pcs

{ } [ ]‌ ic Tx WTx

Pitch class, one of the 12 chromatic pitches represented by numbers, usually C =​0 through to B =​11. A pitch class set, defined in two numbers separated by a hyphen, for example: • 3-​1 The set (group of pitches) contains three notes that when ordered are the most packed left, e.g. C, C#, and D. • 4-​11 The set (group of pitches) contains four notes that when ordered are the11th most packed left, e.g. C, D, E, and F. A set in normal form. A set in prime form. Interval class, the seven most compact intervals (e.g. a major seventh would be classed a minor second by inversion). The set under transposition by that number. A whole-tone collection of pitch classes.

Sonata Form Theory (Hepokoski & Darcy, 2006) P Primary Theme TR Transition MC or ’ Medial Caesura S Secondary Theme EEC Essential Expositional Closure ESC Essential Structural Closure C Closing

List of music analysis abbreviations  xi

References Forte, A. (1977). The Structure of Atonal Music. New Haven; London: Yale University Press. Hepokoski, J. A. & Darcy, W. (2006). Elements of Sonata Theory: Norms, Types, and Deformations in the Late Eighteenth-​Century Sonata. New York; Oxford: Oxford University Press. Schoenberg, A. (1975). Style and Idea: Selected Writings of Arnold Schoenberg (L. Black, trans. L. Stein ed.). London: Faber and Faber.

Contributors

Chris Dromey (Middlesex University, UK) wrote The Pierrot Ensembles: Chronicle and Catalogue, 1912–​ 2012 (Plumbago, 2013), co-​ edited The Classical Music Industry (Routledge, 2018), and is currently editing The Routledge Companion to Applied Musicology (Routledge, forthcoming). He has also written essays on neomodernism in music, British contemporary music, and Anglo-​Brazilian musical relations for Tempo (2018), Music in the Social and Behavioural Sciences (SAGE, 2014), British Music and Modernism, 1895–​ 1960 (Ashgate, 2010), New Makers of Modern Culture (Routledge, 2007), and Zemlinsky Studies (Middlesex UP, 2007). Formerly of PRS for Music and the Open University, Chris is now Associate Professor in Music at Middlesex University, where he teaches applied musicology and convenes the university’s Concerts & Colloquia series. Chris also serves as Trustee for the Society for Music Analysis. Paul Fleet (Newcastle University, UK) is a Senior Lecturer in Music at Newcastle University, UK with research specialty in Authentic Music Theory. He is also a husband, father, National Teaching Fellow, QAA Subject Expert and Reviewer, Senior Fellow of the HEA, all whilst remaining a music theory lecturer, keynote popular-​ music education speaker, and a published author. His publications include (2009) Ferruccio Busoni: A Phenomenological Approach to his Music and Aesthetics; (2017) ‘Do we need to teach music notation in UK Popular Music Studies?’; (2017) ‘Rethinking the Guidonian Hand for twenty-​first century musicians’; and is the co-​editor and author for (2021) The Routledge Companion to Aural Skills Pedagogy: Before, In, and Beyond Higher Education. Annika Forkert (Royal Northern College of Music, UK) is a musicologist and Lecturer in Music at the Royal Northern College of Music, Manchester. She held posts as Lecturer in Music at Liverpool Hope University and as Leverhulme Early Career Fellow at the University of Bristol. Before her PhD on British musical modernism at Royal Holloway, University of London, she studied Musicology and Philosophy at Humboldt-​ University Berlin. Her research centres on the techniques and philosophy of musical modernism, twentieth-​century women composers, and ideas of

List of contributors  xiii collaboration in music. Recent publications include an article on microtonal aesthetics (‘Microtonal Restraint’, JRMA, 2020) and on Elisabeth Lutyens’s serial technique (‘Magical Serialism: Modernist Enchantment in Elisabeth Lutyens’s O saisons, ô châteaux!’, Twentieth Century Music, 2017). Annika is currently working on a book about Lutyens and her husband Edward Clark’s work in music. Alistair Hinton (Composer and Founder of The Sorabji Archive, UK) was born in Scotland. Hearing John Ogdon playing Chopin’s 4th Ballade on the radio at the age of 11 encouraged his desire to be a composer. The largely post-​ war avant-​garde-​influenced tutelage of Emile Spira brought him to a cul-​ de-​sac and the need for a fresh start. Benjamin Britten’s interest in his work led to his attending Royal College of Music for lessons with Humphrey Searle and Stephen Savage. He persuaded Sorabji to relax his long-​standing embargo on performance of his music and founded The Sorabji Archive, a research source for performers and scholars. He published articles and reviews in various journals, acted as executive producer of numerous recordings and contributed to broadcasts in USA, Scotland, Netherlands, and England. The author of two chapters in Sorabji: A Critical Celebration, ed. Paul Rapoport (Ashgate), he assisted Marc-​André Roberge towards his substantial biography of Sorabji, Opus Sorabjianum, published online in 2013. His output includes pieces for orchestra with and without soloists, songs, chamber music, organ music, and a substantial collection of piano music, of which some is recorded on the Altarus label. George Kennaway (Performer and Conductor, UK) studied at the universities of Newcastle and Oxford, the Guildhall School of Music, and the University of Leeds. After a period as Director of Music at the University of Hull, he is now Visiting Research Fellow at the University of Huddersfield’s Centre for Performance Research, and Visiting Research Fellow at the University of Leeds. In 2008-​12 he was a post-​doctoral researcher at the University of Leeds, investigating nineteenth-​ century annotated editions of string music. His book Playing the Cello 1780–​1930 (Ashgate) appeared in 2014. Other publications include articles and book chapters on editions of Haydn cello concertos, opera orchestra contracts, theoretical aspects of historical performance and historiography, and the music of the Baltic states. He is the leading UK specialist in the music and art of the Lithuanian M. K. Čiurlionis, with publications on Čiurlionis in UK and Lithuania, and regularly lectures on Čiurlionis and on Baltic topics –​ most recently for the University of Leeds. In 2012 he was an invited keynote speaker at an international conference in Vilnius in honour of Prof. Jonas Bruveris, and he has frequently contributed papers at conferences in Kaunas, Vilnius, and Druskininkai. He has conducted orchestras in the UK, Russia, Uzbekistan, Kazakhstan, Italy, and Lithuania, and has taught at the Royal Northern College of Music and the Lithuanian National Academy of Music.

xiv  List of contributors Erinn Knyt (University of Massachusetts Amherst, USA) is an Associate Professor of music history at the University of Massachusetts Amherst. She received her BA in Music (Music History and Piano Performance) with highest honours from the University of California, Davis in 2003, an MM in Music from Stanford University in 2007, and PhD in Music and Humanities from Stanford University in 2010. Knyt specializes in nineteenth-​and twentieth-​ century music, aesthetics, and performance studies and has written extensively about Ferruccio Busoni. She has articles in the Journal of the Royal Musical Association, American Music, the Journal of Musicology, the Journal of Music History Pedagogy, and Twentieth Century Music, and has presented papers at conferences throughout the US and abroad. Her first book, which was published by Indiana University Press in 2017, documents Busoni’s relationship with early and mid-​career composition mentees, including Jean Sibelius, Edgard Varèse, Otto Luening, Louis Gruenberg, and Philipp Jarnach. She received a Faculty Research Grant for archival research related to her book. Fred Scott (City, University of London, UK) has been active professionally as performer and composer since the mid 1980s in multiple musical contexts. His works have been performed in significant venues in UK (South Bank, Alexandra Palace, Wigmore Hall, Royal Court Theatre) and Australia (Sydney Opera House). He made his London debut as a soloist in Beethoven’s Emperor Concerto whilst still a student at the Royal Academy of Music, subsequently performing widely in the UK, USA, Canada, Russia, and Europe. As a teacher he has run successful Summer Schools for many years and his students have won national prizes in for composition and piano. Several have made an impact in music professionally. In April 2016 the Kazakevich/​Zozina piano duo gave the premiere in London of his Toccata seconda for two pianos, a tribute to Busoni. Kenneth Smith (University of Liverpool, UK) is professor of Music Theory at the University of Liverpool and is president of the Society for Music Analysis. His first book, Skryabin, Philosophy and the Music of Desire, was published early in 2013, and his second, Desire in Chromatic Harmony in 2020. A third book is forthcoming for 2022, Listening to the Unconscious, co-​ written with Stephen Overy. Kenneth has published essays on Alexander Skryabin, Karol Szymanowski, Charles Ives, and Alexander von Zemlinsky. He analyses post-​tonal music from the perspective of neo-​ Riemannian transformation theory, combining music theory and Lacanian studies. Kenneth has also written about popular music analysis, editing a special issue of Music Analysis and co-​editing the Routledge Guide to Popular Music Analysis. Christopher Tarrant (Newcastle University, UK) has broad interests in art music of the eighteenth to the twentieth centuries. His doctoral research, at Royal Holloway, University of London, funded by the AHRC, focused

List of contributors  xv on Franz Schubert as a composer of sonata form. This research grew out of a critical engagement with recent theories of Classical form, especially Hepokoski’s and Darcy’s Sonata Theory. The research also drew on psychoanalytic approaches originating in Freud and Lacan, and which crystallized in the work of Slavoj Žižek. Since then, he has developed an analytical interest in the symphonic repertoire that emerged in northern Europe around 1900. Chris has a particular interest in the Danish composer Carl Nielsen (1865–​1931), but his work also engages with the music of Mahler, Bruckner, Sibelius, Elgar, and others. Jeffrey Scott Yunek (Kennesaw State University, USA) earned a master’s degree in music theory from Florida State University, and a doctorate in music theory from Louisianan State University. His dissertation work focuses on mapping Skryabin’s philosophical influences onto his post-​ tonal harmonic language. Yunek’s work on Skryabin has been presented at two international conferences at the Moscow Conservatory, as well as numerous regional conferences. He teaches theory, analysis, and aural skills at Kennesaw State University as a Limited Term Assistant Professor of Music Theory. His research interests focus round the music of Skryabin, key relationships in twentieth-​century Russian music, and the operas of Rimsky-​Korsakov.

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Acknowledgements

I would like to thank Heidi Bishop, Emma Gallon, Annie Vaughan, Kaushikee Sharma, Navin Prakash, and Martin Noble, who have invaluably steered this work towards its publication, and also Judy Lochhead as the Series Editor who recognized its contribution to the Ashgate Studies in Theory and Analysis of Music After 1900. I would also like to thank Richard Harrison for his historical, and at times hysterical, support; Fred Hollingsworth, David de la Haye, Kath Martin, and Annie Barrett for their software and technical solutions during these times of remote working; Liane Brierly and Anne Coxhead for their patience and ability to listen to my random ideas whilst working on other projects; Kent Cleland as the co-​editor of our book The Routledge Companion to Aural Skills Pedagogy Before, In, and Beyond Higher Education (2021) for his willingness to stray into discussion and support for my chapters in this volume, and Ruairidh Patfield during his stint as my research assistant. The musical examples were recorded at Phoenix Piano Systems Ltd, Hurstwood Farm, Kent, TN15 8TA by kind permission of Richard Dain. The piano used was a Phoenix Model 272 Concert Grand, the recordings were engineered and produced by Jack Scott and the piano technician was Douglas Chapman. The Sonatina seconda was recorded in a live concert performance at Royal Academy of Music, London and the remastering engineer was James Bacon. This book is borne out of patience and for that I am most grateful to its contributors who have spoken, conference called, and sent messages of support and encouragement throughout. Their contribution to this volume is more than their respective chapters, it is their wisdom and passion for music in a most fractious of musical periods that has made this a rewarding academic journey. We have grown together as colleagues and although we had previously published separately in this field of study, this book is the first of its kind where we come together in our love of such music with and after tonality; I am sure it will not be our last collaboration.

1  Mining the gap of musics with and after tonality Paul Fleet

There are three questions we need to ask: (1) what are the musics that are with and after tonality, (2) do we need yet another term for music at the turn of the twentieth century, and (3) what is the gap that can be mined? We need to address these questions not only because they help explore the central themes of the following chapters but also because they are the most likely questions a reader may have on picking up such a book. This chapter and the next are designed to create a virtual parlour before the narrative corridor that leads to the rooms which embody Chapters 3–​11. From its first usage, the ‘parlour was a space removed from daily work and reserved for social interaction’ (Logan, 2001, p. 13) and it is in this sense that we use the term here; as a place for speaking and for social and cultural debate. So, if you would care to, please join us, take a seat on the rather plush red-​velvet armchair and enjoy the conversation…

Question: what are the musics that are with and after tonality? At the turn of the twentieth century Berlin, Paris, Munich, and Vienna were capitals of modernity. In the visual, literary, and performing arts as well as in political and social thought these Central European cities contained the people and movements that helped define what can be understood as guiding principles of a movement which, as Christopher Butler (2010) summarizes, saw… the loss of belief in religion, the rise of our dependence on science and technology, the expansion of markets and the commodification brought about by capitalism, the growth of mass culture and its influence, the invasion of bureaucracy into private life, and changing beliefs about relationships between the sexes. This was a radical moment not only in social and cultural history but also in music history, which includes its own reading of social and cultural history. Composers in this time period were not suddenly set free from the chains of music for purpose or pleasure but they were more easily able to move around, express, and include the aesthetic and philosophic beliefs that informed their compositions. Within this freedom to move around previously DOI: 10.4324/9780429451713-1

2  Paul Fleet constructed ideals, many composers embraced such openness in their music, and between 1880 and 1930 a wealth of music was composed and performed that reconstructed the external codes and gestures of Common Practice tonality in reconsidered and idiosyncratic ways. To help put this into context, one of the most typical extroversive codes in a piece of tonally driven music is the perfect cadence. In its most simple form, the movement from the secondary-​dominant chord to the dominant chord then onto the tonic chord signals closure by the progression from secondary-​dominant to dominant acting as a preparatory step before resolution in movement from the dominant chord to the tonic chord. It does this by utilizing the harmonic energy of a tonally driven cycle of fifths whose Pythagorean energy and culturally coded movement from harmonic tension to resolution (leading notes ‘wanting’ to resolve to the tonic of the consequent chord) informs the progression towards closure (see Example 1.1).

Example 1.1 A simple Common Practice three-​chord perfect cadence in a generic orchestration of voices. Source: Author.

It is its externality that matters, not what particular key the piece of music is in nor where the individual orchestration of voices/​instruments are during the sounding. The movement from V to I is enough to carry with it the signals of closure. To further illuminate this point outside of musical pieces, such is the external ubiquity of a perfect cadence (and its partner the imperfect cadence) that these sounds when reduced to two single notes (dominant root-​ note to tonic root-​note) were adopted by Microsoft in the late 1990s and have since remained as the auditory notifications for the plugging-​in (opening) and unplugging (closing) of a USB device. Music that is with and after tonality is not bound to follow an external code to generate a sense of closure. Rather the idea of closure is introversive; the codes and gestures that signal tension and resolution throughout the music are reinforced through their repetition-​in-​context and therefore become themselves the signals of closure. Kofi Agawu (1991) discusses the coding of

Musics with and after tonality  3 tonal music and it is worth adapting his sense of play between the extroversive and the introversive for the purposes of understanding music that is both with and after tonality. Musical signs (topics) that consist of a signifier (in this example the form of a cadence to generate closure) and the signified (the conventional function of a cadence to generate closure) move beyond ‘Classical music [which]… is conceptually laden with topical signification’ (p. 49) to become music that is introversively structured with idiosyncratic signification. The following example is deliberately simple in its construction to show how such idiosyncratic signification can be created by a composer.

Example 1.2 A simple metatonal three-​chord closure in a generic orchestration of voices. Source: Author.

This closure does not use chord V or I in the key area nor a secondary-​ dominant connection, and the use of a secondary triad in first inversion has been deliberately constructed to avoid any sense of Common Practice extroversion. Instead, the sense of closure is created through a narrative declaration on a repeated chord that remains within the key area that does not seek to serve as a tonic. The movement from tension to resolution is still with three chords but it is done with the restatement and then prolongation of the harmony marked against the constant duration units (Parks, 2003, p. 199). We might imagine that the time signature and the presentation of harmony in the bars preceding this closure represent events on and across four-​beats in every bar. At the close of this imagined section a secondary triad is heard for two beats. It is then repeated to restate its position as a structural marker, and the two soundings of the same chord create tension by stasis which is in contrast to the flow of harmony heard beforehand. The chord is repeated again but this time it is heard for four beats, and this releases the tension of the stasis by creating a familiar space inclusive of the harmony we have just heard but over a longer period of time that includes a natural decay even if it is not orchestrated as such. The rule of three in defining the sense of connected events (Carlson & Shu, 2007) is the only common element between the Common Practice cadence (Example 1.1) and the Metatonal Closure (Example 1.2) and it is hoped that these two musical examples will help in providing an aural understanding of the extroversive nature of the former as a phrase in Common Practice music and the introversive nature of the latter as a simple exemplar of metatonal musics.

4  Paul Fleet The above is true not just for harmonic elements but also for all the elements of music including pitch, duration, loudness, timbre, texture, and spatial location (Burton, 2015). If we simply take the first on this list then a composer’s selection of major and minor seconds and thirds are controlled in tonal music by the scale of the current key area. For example, if a Common Practice composer is in the key area of C major then they will preference the movement from C to D (being a major second) and the movement from C to E (being a major third) over the movement from C to D flat (minor second) and C to E flat (minor third). These latter minor intervals are still in play but they would likely be used by the composer to challenge the authority of C major and potentially signal a new key area. Within music that is with and after tonality the major seconds and thirds hold reference to a recognized key area but crucially the inclusion of the minor seconds and thirds do not disrupt but rather work alongside the major intervals to create a sense of third-​space (Bhabha, 2006). Their function sits after their role as the other to an incumbent scale, outside any signalling of a new key area, but before their full inclusion into the equality of a chromatic scale. In essence, if we locate the tonality borne of Species Counterpoint (Fux, 1965) in one corner with its rules of consonance and dissonance clearly in place and serialism/​atonality in the other corner with its emancipation of dissonance (Schoenberg, 1975) in full throw then the music being discussed in this volume moves to just over the centre position where dissonance is accepted within a sense of tonality but is more than a chromatic inflection moving back to the preferred interval. We might recognize this as the same space that Dmitri Tymoczko (2011) places in between ‘the chromatic tradition, which rejects five-​to eight-​ note macroharmonies in favour of the chromatic scale; and the scalar tradition, in which limited macroharmonies continue to play a significant role’ and an environment where there are ‘new possibilities lying between these two extremes’ (p. 181). However, such descriptions are difficult to unpack further without the context of the music in question. This book does not seek to categorize all variables in this third space, but it does hope to represent the commonalities of the interplay of musical elements between a scalar and chromatic tradition as each author, in their respective chapters, explores the musical rethinking within the context the composer’s pieces. Therefore, it is perhaps worth leaving this description for the moment as having just enough detail to answer the question of ‘what are the musics that are with and after tonality’ with the answer that they are musics that consciously refamiliarize the codes and gestures of tonality in idiosyncratic ways.

Question: do we need yet another term for music at the turn of the twentieth century? In short, yes we do but I am firmly aware that this answer is more complex than a simple affirmation of need. Speaking for the collective of academics, performers, and composers in this volume who work in this time-​period we

Musics with and after tonality  5 have often felt conflicted with the not exclusive list of potential synonyms below. To select just four of these: neo-​tonal/​neoclassical (which we felt embodied the revival of Classical forms and structures (Whittall, 2021) rather than the fundamental re-​thinking of tonal possibilities), post-​tonal (which we felt uncomfortable with by its close association to serialism and particularly the theory of Allen Forte (1977)), nor pitch-​centric (which we could not completely align with as the term we were looking for needed to include elements of music that were beyond the control of pitch-​centres and Stanley Kleppinger (2011) has eloquently acknowledged the ‘tangled connotations of the term’ (p. 65)), nor pan-​tonal (which was discounted due to its preference by Schoenberg (1980) to represent music that was without tonal centricity) is quite right for the music by the composers listed in this volume who produced works in this time period. In 2009, I used the term metatonal in reference to the music of Ferruccio Busoni (Fleet, 2009) as the prefix meta holds the etymology of both ‘with and after’ (OED). Busoni was a composer who had a Janus-​like character and believed that tonality had yet to be fully explored. He proposed and developed junge Klassizität [young Classicality] in his teachings and compositions, and in a letter to Paul Bekker stated that this idea was ‘the mastery, the sifting and the turning to account of all the gains of previous experiments and their inclusion in strong and beautiful forms’ (Busoni, 1965, p. 20). In the conclusion to the aforementioned book on Busoni, I made reference to Anthony Pople’s ‘Tonalities project’ (Cross & Russ, 2004) where the late author had begun work considering music that sat in between the boundaries of tonality and atonality because it was such a ripe place for musical analysis. I suggested that my work on Busoni contributed to this engaging space but the idea of describing music as being with and after tonality was something that could equally apply to other composers who inhabited the same social and cultural period in music history. However, this was not the first appearance of the word ‘metatonal’ in published print regarding musical materials. Randy Sandke (1995), in his Hal Leonard publication, introduces Harmony for a New Millennium: An Introduction to Metatonal Music, where, and I quote, ‘scales and tonality are dispensed with’ (p. 6). Sandke’s use of the word metatonal is therefore employing the ‘beyond’ aspect of its construction and is defined in reference to its author’s classification of four-​note chords. Here I do not make any critical comment on his work, which I recognize as an engaging approach to improvisation in jazz music, but the term as read by Sandke takes only the ‘after’ element of the prefix and I do not feel that it has become too exclusive to not be adopted for our purposes. More closely but not totally aligned to this project is the use of the word metatonal by Yves Knockaert. As Kenneth Smith goes on to argue in Chapter 9 of this book, this usage is characterized in terms of tonality being ‘presented as an alien force’ and in Knockaert’s own words is described as being ‘about a reminiscence’ (2017, p. 162). A backwards-​facing definition –​like Sandke’s

6  Paul Fleet forwards-​ looking definition –​does not quite align to the bi-​ directional inclusivity of this useful noun and adjective. Therefore, given that there is only a single use of metatonal prior to 2009 and one use post 2009 –​and further noting that ‘metatonal’ has not entered widespread use in the lexicon of musicologists –​we, as a collection of authors who recognize its value for the time period, would seek to claim the word metatonal for current and future use: for music that is both with and after tonality. Most recently, and helpfully, the term overtonality has been introduced by Daniel Harrison (2016) to mean ‘a property of any tonal hierarchy that relies on spectral overlap for its stability conditions’ (p. 17). In other words, which are also Harrison’s words, ‘referential elements that can be said to function, act, or serve as to substitute for, and represent a tonic, and those elements that feel and sound traditionally like tonics’ (p. 17). The assembled authors recognize the value of these descriptors in the music of Bartok, Bernstein, Chen, Duruflé, Hindemith, Martin, Prokofiev, and Messiaen (which Harrison lists in his book), but do not feel it fully represents the music of Frank Bridge, Ferruccio Busoni, Mikalojus Konstantinas Čiurlionis, Rebecca Clarke, John Foulds, Percy Grainger, Mary Howe, Carl Nielsen, Leo Ornstein, Franz Schreker, Erwin Schulhoff, Cyril Scott, and Alexander Scriabin (which is considered in this book). These latter composers similarly fall into the same wide gap as the former set of composers, between the polar extremes of tonal and serial/​atonal music, but crucially their music can have elements that do not act nor represent the function of a tonic; and for some of their compositions the third-​space (as described above) is created by such musical elements being untied from a tonic. If we are therefore to be clear about why we are using a different term then we could rephrase Harrison’s words (but not to be against his position): metatonality has stability conditions that are held within the construction of the composition itself where the tonal hierarchies are weakened yet their signification remains. Further, these referential elements can function and act as tonics but do not necessarily serve as nor substitute for tonics. Metatonality is a term we are ready to use and confident to support in this proposed volume as a descriptor of music at the turn of the twentieth century that is both ‘with’ and ‘after’ tonality. It is these prepositions that are the glue that stick not only the term to the types of musics under consideration, but also cohere the collective understanding of the term as used by the authors in each of their respective chapters. For Hinton, Knyt, Scott, and Dromey metatonality is found within emerging spatial connections of the preposition that can be found in the compositional pull of tonality, the expansion of tonality through contrapuntal collisions, the polyphonic connections of tonal structures without the constraints of an overarching tonality, and the driving of new knowledge and structures from within tonality (Chapters 2, 7, 8, and 11 respectively). For Fleet, Tarrant, and Smith metatonality is found in the prepositional direction pulling away from an expectation of tonality but not so far as to not become disconnected by composers playing with tonal

Musics with and after tonality  7 language games, reconsidering codes and gestures from within tonality, creating structures that have a problematic relationship with tonality, and seeking filial alternatives to diatonic tonality (Chapters 4, 5, and 9 respectively). Whilst for Forkert, Kennaway, and Yunek metatonality is found in the prepositional space between tonality and serialism/​atonality in a bricolage between pastoralism and pantonality, the sense of poise just before a movement away from tonality into the fin-​de-​siècle but not quite, and the competing impulses of chromatic tension and tonal security (Chapters 3, 6, and 10 respectively). Whilst some of us choose to expressly use the term and others recognize its value without being so explicit, we collectively believe it is the most appropriate term for music that is represented by our collection of composers, and others, who considered and composed music between 1880 and 1930.

Question: what is the gap that can be mined? If we accept that a ‘gap’ is a break in the continuity then what is the continuity which has such a gap? The answer is a general perception in the timeline of music history, and the main culprit for setting this misperception is a music history curriculum. Any music curriculum has a tough job, it has to create sections of learning into discrete chunks for ease of understanding. But with this task comes the division of music into time periods. For example, a quick search on the internet using the keywords ‘Baroque+​music’ tells us that this period ended around 1750. Whilst this position can be helpful it does create a division between one period and the next. We should always be careful of what we read on the internet. However, the point still stands that there is a common perception that the Baroque period ended around 1750. James Webster argues ‘a periodization is not true or false, but a reading, a way of making sense of complex data; periodizations serve the needs and desires of those who make and use them’ (2004, p. 49) and it is this position we need to take into account when we consider the broader periodization of music history into the Western Classical Tradition (1650 to 1910) and Art Music since 1910. A division which is often read in the same curricula as the break from tonality and serialism/​atonality. At Key Stage 4 in England (as an example that is replicated in other education systems and is used here as a representative of the majority of educational journeys but is not singled out as such), school children who select Music as a GCSE (General Certificate of Secondary Education) have in their curriculum the following guidance regarding areas of study: ‘at least one area of study must be drawn from music composed in the Western Classical Tradition with all or the majority being composed between 1650 and 1910 and at least one other area of study must not be drawn from the Western Classical Tradition’ (DfE, 2015). This is an early and unhelpful divisional marker in an understanding of music history. Should the student wish to progress to ‘A’ Level then one typical exam board document states that there are seven areas of study of which the first is compulsory ‘Western classical

8  Paul Fleet tradition 1650–​1910’ and then there is a choice between ‘Pop music’, ‘Music for media’, ‘Music for theatre’, ‘Jazz’, ‘Contemporary traditional music’ and ‘Art music since 1910’. Should the choice be made to select the latter as an area of study then a helpful descriptor of the element ‘tonality’ in this area of study is given as ‘bitonality, tonal ambiguity, atonality and modality’ (AQA, 2019). Whilst the language of the A level curriculum for ‘Art music since 1910’ includes the useful addition of ‘tonal ambiguity’ it is unlikely that much time will be spent unpacking what this means. The area of study is up against more popular choices and if it is chosen, it is one of four descriptors that has the least chance of definition given its very ambiguity. Whichever this is, we find repetition of the earlier divisional markers Aligned to this unhelpful periodization is the association with tonality as a core element of the Western Classical Tradition and serialism/​atonality as a core element of Art Music since 1910. This can be found in the specifications for both GCSE and A Level qualifications that define the Western Classical Tradition as containing major and minor tonalities and modulations around related key areas, and Art Music since 1910 as representing movements away from tonality and including serialism/​atonality. To repeat my earlier position, I am not making any judgement upon any particular awarding bodies or guidance documents, as those selected are representative of the field, but in this typical educational journey a young musician is encouraged, either explicitly or implicitly by the curriculum, to think of a defined space in music history, around 1910 and with tonality on one side and something else on the other. This is the break in continuity which creates the gap, and which can unhelpfully inform the listening habits of those who stop their formal music education journey after GCSE or A Level qualifications (either by not continuing onto degree level education or by taking another subject at degree level). For those who do continue onto degree level education in Music they are met by educators who most likely have to disrupt such a preformed position and open the door to the multiplicity of musical modernity. Hinton picks up these points in greater detail, but it is safe to say there is the perception of a gap in music history which straddles the middle of this identified time period. So how do we explore this gap with the goal of it not being seen as a gap anymore? The latter part can only come with a change in perception, and to change the perception we need to mine that gap and see what lies between such divisional markers. At this point, I hold the hope carried in Gloria Ladson-​ Billings centennial address to the American Educational Research Association where she quoted Sylvia Wynter’s (1995) opinion that ‘new studies would change the shape and form of the curriculum because of the transdisciplinary and interdisciplinary ways they were shaped and articulated… and looked at those experiences across traditional boundaries’ (Ladson-​Billings, 2016). To then help move us into this transdisciplinary and interdisciplinary space we conclude this chapter with the words of Adolf Loos, architect and theorist, who was contemporaneous with our time period:

Musics with and after tonality  9 Do not fear abuse for being unmodern. Changes in the old building style are only permitted when they represent an improvement; otherwise stay with the old things. Because the truth, even if it is hundreds of years old, has more of a connection with us than the lie that walks beside us. Quoted in (Illies, 2013, p. 227) The ‘lie’ that walks beside us in this musical journey is that the periodization of music history, largely through curricula, has created a simplistic binarist division between tonality and serialism/​atonality. The music in between these spaces is ignored, or regarded as a path away from tonality, or as being tonally ambiguous whatever that may be, or reduced to being experimentations that led towards serialism/​atonality. But what if we confront that lie and consider the musics at the turn of the twentieth century that sought to rethink tonality from within themselves. Instead, and whilst it can be a way of making sense of the complex data it can create, what if we work with a truth that such periodization creates an unnatural continuity and leaves gaps for us to mine? If we do this, then the exploration of such gaps through transdisciplinary and interdisciplinary ways could eventually seek to change the shape and form of the curriculum, and ultimately change this space from being a gap to a recognized space in music history.

References Agawu, V. K. (1991). Playing with Signs: A Semiotic Interpretation of Classic Music. Princeton, N.J.; Oxford: Princeton University Press. AQA. (2019). A-​ level music (7272). Retrieved from https://​filestore.aqa.org.uk/​ resources/​music/​specifications/​AQA-​7272-​SP-​2016.PDF Bhabha, H. K. (2006). In B. Ashcroft, G. Griffiths, & H. Tiffin (eds), The Post-​Colonial Studies Reader (2nd edn, pp. 155–​157). London: Routledge. Burton, R. (2015). The elements of music: what are they, and who cares? Paper presented at the Music: Educating for life. ASME XXth National Conference Proceedings. https://​search.informit.com.au/​documentSummary;dn= ​649996699786780;res=​ IELHSS Busoni, F. (1965). The Essence of Music: And Other Papers. New York: Dover Publications. Butler, C. (2010). Modernism: a Very Short Introduction. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Carlson, K. A. & Shu, S. B. (2007). The rule of three: how the third event signals the emergence of a streak. Organizational Behavior and Human Decision Processes, 104: 1, 113–​121. doi: https://​doi.org/​10.1016/​j.obhdp.2007.03.004 Cross, J. & Russ, M. (2004). Editorial: an introduction to Anthony Pople’s ‘Tonalities’ project. Music Analysis, 23: 2/​3, 147–​152. Retrieved from www.jstor.org/​stable/​ 3700442 DfE. (2015). Music: GCSE Subject Content. London: Crown retrieved from https://​ assets.publishing.service.gov.uk/​government/​uploads/​system/​uploads/​attachment_​ data/​file/​397559/​GCSE_​subject_​content_​for_​music.pdf

10  Paul Fleet Fleet, P. (2009). Ferruccio Busoni: A Phenomenological Approach to His Music and Aesthetics. Cologne, Germany: Lambert Academic Publishing. Forte, A. (1977). The Structure of Atonal Music. New Haven; London: Yale University Press. Fux, J. J. (1965). The Study of Counterpoint: From Johann Joseph Fux’s Gradus ad Parnassum (J. Edmunds & A. Mann eds. Rev. edn). London: Dent. Harrison, D. (2016). Pieces of Tradition: An Analysis of Contemporary Tonal Music. New York, NY: Oxford University Press. Illies, F. (2013). 1913: The Year Before the Storm. London: Clerkenwell Press. Kleppinger, S. V. (2011). Reconsidering pitch centricity. Retrieved from https://​ digitalcommons.unl.edu/​cgi/​viewcontent.cgi?article=​1064&context=​musicfacpub Knockaert, Y. (2017). Wolfgang Rihm, a Chiffre: The 1980s and Beyond. Leuven: Leuven University Press. Ladson-​Billings, G. (2016). And then there is this thing called the curriculum: organization, imagination, and mind. Educational Researcher, 45: 2, 100–​104. Retrieved from www.jstor.org/​stable/​43996904 Logan, T. (2001). The Victorian Parlour. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. OED. ‘meta-​, prefix’: Oxford University Press. Parks, R. S. (2003). Music’s inner dance: form, pacing and complexity in Debussy’s music. In: S. Trezise (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Debussy (pp. 197–​231). New York: Cambridge University Press. Sandke, R. (1995). Harmony for a New Millennium. Milwaukee: Hal Leonard Corporation. Schoenberg, A. (1975). Style and Idea: Selected Writings of Arnold Schoenberg (L. Black, trans.; L. Stein ed.). London: Faber and Faber. Schoenberg, A. (1980). Harmonielehre. [Wien]: Universal Edition. Tymoczko, D. (2011). A Geometry of Music: Harmony and Counterpoint in the Extended Common Practice. New York; Oxford: Oxford University Press. Webster, J. (2004). The eighteenth century as a music-​historical period? Eighteenth Century Music, 1: 1, 47–​60. doi:10.1017/​S147857060400003X Whittall, A. (2021) Neo-​classicism. Grove Music Online. Retrieved 9 June 2021, from www.oxfordmusiconline.com/ ​ g rovemusic/ ​ v iew/ ​ 1 0.1093/ ​ g mo/ ​ 9 781561592630. 001.0001/​omo-​9781561592630-​e-​0000019723. Wynter, S. (1995). A new world view. In V. L. H. R. Nettleford (ed.), Race, Discourse and Origins of Americas (pp. 2–​28). Washington, DC: Smithsonian.

2  Mining the gap: what gap? Alistair Hinton

What follows is very much a composer’s-​eye (or -​ear) view of the subject of this book and, as such, it represents a stance originating in personal experience rather than an academic analysis of musical history since the so-​called ‘bonds’ of tonality were gradually released more than a century ago. My initial thought about the notion of Mining the Gap was ‘what gap?’, in that the frequently encountered implicit notion of a ‘post-​tonal’ age seems never fully to have manifested itself in practice, nor does it seem likely to do so. Whilst not everyone might agree as to whether or not music can be considered as a ‘language’ (as that term is generally understood), its purpose remains that of expression and communication, so it does at least share that characteristic with verbal language. In the present context, however, it might be more appropriate to write of the manner, matter, and methodologies of musical creativity rather than of ‘linguistic developments’ in music. Whilst some readers might have encountered attitudes to the ongoing history of musical creation that are predicated upon an assumption that developments in one era largely supplant and supersede those of previous ones (and should be expected to do so), the vast majority of music written since, say, 1900 suggests that this has rarely been the case. We continue, for example, to perform and listen to many styles of music, both ‘tonal’ and ‘atonal’, that seem not to seek to espouse such an agenda; not only have much jazz and popular musics of many kinds been dependent upon an overtly tonal persuasion, the sheer variety of what might loosely (and inadequately) be termed ‘art music’ since 1900 has continued to this day to evidence a similar recourse to tonality.

Musical creativity through its composers One particular example of this stance may be found in the polemical statements of Pierre Boulez (1925–​2016) in the years following the end of World War II, for example ‘any musician who has not experienced –​I do not say understood, but truly experienced –​the necessity of dodecaphonic music is USELESS...for his whole work is irrelevant to the needs of his epoch’ (Fisk, 1997, p. 419), yet he contradicted himself at the same time DOI: 10.4324/9780429451713-2

12  Alistair Hinton by describing serial dodecaphony as devised and practised by Arnold Schoenberg (1874–​1951) as ‘a direction as wrong as any in the history of music’. His further observation in the same essay that ‘creation exists only in the unforeseen made necessary’ (Fisk, 1997, p. 421) is less obviously dogmatic but might be taken as supportive of this idea. When, in 1951, his elder compatriot Henri Dutilleux (1916–​2013) had presented ‘his vibrantly diatonic First Symphony, Boulez greeted him by turning his back’ (Ross, 2007, p. 273). A piece in the UK daily newspaper The Guardian (Hazelton, 2015) usefully draws together several of Boulez’s often barbed pronouncements, spread across some six decades from 1952, in which composers as diverse as Dmitry Shostakovich (1906–​1975), John Cage (1912–​1992), Karlheinz Stockhausen (1928–​2007) and even, as we have seen, the widely accepted father of serial dodecaphony Schoenberg all fall under the maître’s marteau like so many lots at a musical auction. What –​especially in view of the irony of Boulez’s later comment ‘I don’t want my statements to be frozen in time’ (Hazelton, 2015) –​should we make of such trenchant observations today, almost seven decades after they began? In general terms, perhaps the most charitably pragmatic response might be the recognition of a perceived need to overthrow the past in the light of the most heinous aspects of the history of the first half of the twentieth century, as if in some kind of attempt at catharsis; this would be understandable insofar as it goes. His remark that ‘a civilisation that conserves is one that will decay’ nevertheless remains typically unrepentant –​and it dates from 1975, a full three decades after the close of World War II; in adding that it ‘attributes more importance to memory than [to] the future’, he seems to take another indirect swipe at Dutilleux, who the author Alex Ross notes ‘reflects his fascination with time and memory in his compositions, and uses involuntary memory to link past, present and future’ (Ross, 2007). The assertion that follows –​that ‘the strongest civilisations are those without memory –​those capable of complete forgetfulness’ –​smacks of effortful special pleading in an attempted defiance of overwhelming historical evidence to the contrary. Boulez concludes ‘conducting has forced me to absorb a great deal of history, so much so, in fact, that history seems more than ever to me a great burden…in my opinion we must get rid of it once and for all’, though quite how he might have envisaged consigning history to history is left unclear (and, after all, no one forced him to continue his conducting activities). For all the talk of a gradual softening in attitude in Boulez’s latter years, however, he wrote as late as 2011 that ‘they decry the Taliban for destroying everything, but civilisations are destroyed to be able to move on’ (and Boulez seems not to have commented on the attacks in his home city of Paris and its northern suburb Saint-​ Denis on 13 November 2015 for which another notorious terrorist organization, so-​called Islamic State, claimed ‘responsibility’). The common notion of fundamentalist terrorist destruction committed in the name of Islam might tempt one, however ill-​advisedly, to draw a parallel with Stockhausen’s much misunderstood, widely misinterpreted though

Mining the gap: what gap?  13 still profoundly unfortunate description of 9/​11 as ‘the greatest work of art imaginable for the whole cosmos’ (Rundfunk, 2001). As perhaps the most consistently vociferous of Stockhausen’s contemporaries in such matters, Boulez arguably has much for which to answer here and there can be no doubt that his dictatorial expressions exerted significant influence in the early days of the Darmstadt Ferienkurse. Yet even in its ardent championing of ‘modernism’ in the days when total serialist practices enjoyed their relatively short-​lived existence, it is clear that any suggestion that the pursuit of dodecaphony and concomitant rejection of tonality represented the ne plus ultra of musical progress is flawed on a number of grounds. Firstly, not only did Schoenberg’s own initial aim to undermine the dominance of the octave and sweep away other hierarchical relationships (as in ‘12 tones equal only to one another’) hold sway for but a brief period in his own music, he also continued to write the occasional tonal works almost until the end of his life. Secondly, other composers before him had toyed with similar experimental procedures for organizing tones, including Alexander Scriabin (1872–​1915), Nikolay Roslavets (1881–​1944) and Joseph Matthias Hauer (1883–​1959), but the ever-​questing Franz Liszt (1811–​1886) had given thought to such possibilities as long ago as the early 1830s, having attended lectures by the Belgian music theorist François-​Joseph Fétis (1784–​1871). From these, he derived the idea of an onde omnitonique (akin to a tone row) as a logical replacement for traditional tonality, based on the notion of an historical process from ‘tonality’ via ‘polytonality’ to an ‘omnitonality’ in which every note would become a ‘tonic’–​a concept that seems remarkably close in principle to Schoenberg’s ‘12 tones equal only to one another’ (Ramann, 2018) and which he referred to as an Endziel, or ultimate goal, of this process. As an illustration of his ideas on this, he composed a Prélude omnitonique, long thought to be lost but recently rediscovered, but he planned to take matters further in sketches for a treatise on modern harmony which do still appear to be lost; Liszt’s student Arthur Friedheim (1859–​1932) wrote of having seen and discussed them with Liszt who apparently replied to his questions ‘I have not published it because the time for it is not yet ripe’. The book was to be called Sketches for a Harmony of the Future, a title curiously predictive of Busoni’s (1911) Sketch of a New Æsthetic of Music. Thirdly, non-​ serially oriented undermining of tonality and tonal relationships and an ‘emancipation of dissonance’ had already characterized some of the music of such composers as Charles Ives (1874–​1954), Edgard Varèse (1883–​ 1965), Matthijs Vermeulen (1888–​ 1967), and Leo Ornstein (1893–​2002), all before Schoenberg’s first forays into serial dodecaphony in 1924. For all of that, it is significant in the present context that none of these composers ever abandoned tonality and tonal references altogether. Alex Ross’ intriguing reference to Dutilleux using ‘involuntary memory to link past, present and future’ brings to mind two other composers: one later, one earlier. The composer, pianist and author Ronald Stevenson (1928–​2015)

14  Alistair Hinton was a leading authority on Ferruccio Busoni (1866–​1924), even describing him as his mæstro in absentia. He regarded one significant feature of Busoni’s work as seeking to link the past and the future together in the present (Varèse, whom Busoni nicknamed l’illustro futuro [the illustrious future], apparently found this aspect of Busoni contradictory, with his Sonatina Seconda for piano seeming to look into the future while his extensive editing and transcribing work on the music of J. S. Bach (1685–​1750) suggested an almost devout embracing of the past). Busoni’s thoughts about this might have been inspired in part by H. G. Wells’ The Time Machine. Busoni was familiar with a number of Wells’ works and mentions this one in a letter written to his wife from Bergamo dated 26 September 1913 (Busoni, 1938, pp. 234–​235). Several allusions to his pensées about time are also to be found in the extensive collection of Busoni’s letters to his wife. From Chicago he writes ‘Kant is right; time is only an idea’ (Busoni, 25 April 1910, pp. 177–​178). From the same city, he states ‘I have almost accounted for the omnipresence of time; but I have not found out why we humans think of time as a line going from backwards, forwards, whilst it must be in all directions like everything else in the system of the world’ (Busoni, 30 March 1911, pp. 194–​195).… From Cassel he notes ‘the following idea occurred to me: if one admits that there are such things as ‘presentiments’ and ‘second sight’, and if one can look into the future (if only for the tiniest moment and shortest distance), it is logical that one should have the same capacity for looking backwards into time’ (Busoni, 26 February 1913, p. 219). This seems to fly in the face of –​or perhaps even render impossible –​the notion that the musical expressions of one era overthrow those of earlier ones; had Busoni lived for another quarter century or more, it would have been fascinating to hear him arguing with Boulez about such things! It might also be tempting to wonder what Busoni might have made of researches emerging from Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT) almost a century after his death, an article on which was published under the title A New Theory On Time Indicates Present and Future Exist Simultaneously (Unknown, 2019); speculations within the world of physics they may be, but their possible impact upon how we perceive time and its passage might seem to reflect and indeed support Busoni’s own speculations. Closer to Busoni’s own time and perhaps also related to his ideas on this was Chagall’s painting Time Is a River without Banks. One composer who revered Busoni from the time of his initial encounters with his music and piano playing was Kaikhosru Shapurji Sorabji (1892–​1988). Sorabji met Busoni in London in 1919 and played to him a piano sonata that he had recently completed (this is the one now known as his first, although he had already written another in 1917 which was never published). Despite some reservations, Busoni seemed impressed by the younger composer’s work and asked what he would like him to do, whereupon Sorabji asked for a letter of introduction to help him have the score published and Busoni duly obliged. Sorabji was a late starter as a composer; his earliest known works date from 1914 when he was already in his twenties, so the sonata that he played to

Mining the gap: what gap?  15 Busoni was very much a work from his apprenticeship (if one can deploy that term in the context of an auto-​didact). His prolific correspondence with the composer Peter Warlock (Philip Heseltine, 1894–​1930) commenced in 1913 and reveals Sorabji to be a fervent advocate of the latest trends in European and Russian music with which he had developed surprising familiarity for a young aspiring musician in the largely backward-​looking England of the early years of the twentieth century. He voraciously devoured the music of Bartók, Stravinsky, and Schoenberg and wrote about it with vibrant enthusiasm, much to the perplexity of some of his peers. As he developed during the 1920s, his music earned him a reputation as an outrageously modernist maverick. The perception of Sorabji the ‘modernist’ may unreasonably have clung to him for too long (due perhaps in part to a lack of performances of his work); he gradually came to find himself less and less sympathetic towards ‘new’ musical thinking as the century progressed, as evidenced in many of his published critical reviews in English journals (most notably The New Age and The New English Weekly) of the music of Stravinsky and Schoenberg in particular. Whilst his music struck some critics as uncompromisingly challenging, it was always largely tonal. His attitudes and responses to tonality identified that, for him, ‘tonality’ and ‘atonality’ were by no means mutually exclusive; his own compositional methodology espoused a freedom of expression that witnessed tonal harmony sitting side-​by-​side with music whose tonal roots were far less overt. He was to reject serialism, Stravinskyan neo-​classicism and many post-​war musical persuasions.

A composer’s view of such musical creativity In my own work, I have tended largely to adopt a similar stance that has encouraged me to regard stylistic developments over the years as effectively enabling the expansion of composers’ modus operandi rather than as a route towards any kind of narrowing factionalization. A number of composers have described initial encounters with particular works as springboards for their own creativity, Oliver Knussen (1952–​2018) and Colin Matthews (b. 1946) citing Schoenberg’s Gurrelieder, Elliott Carter (1908–​2012), and numerous others Le Sacre du Printemps by Stravinsky (1882–​1971) and David Matthews (b. 1943) the Ninth Symphony of Beethoven (1770–​1827). Having been raised in a music-​free zone, my first chance encounter with music was a broadcast by John Ogdon (1937–​1989) of the F minor Ballade of Fryderyk Chopin (1810–​1849); this had the same kind of impact. After the briefest of acquaintances with the Piano Trio and Trois Poèmes de Stéphane Mallarmé by Maurice Ravel (1875–​1937), the third and fourth symphonies of Albert Roussel (1869–​1937) and Stravinsky’s l’Oiseau de feu, my earliest education as a composer was very much Darmstadt-​oriented. I was immersed in the works of Boulez, Nono, Stockhausen and others at a time when I knew nothing of Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, and Brahms. With so little previous musical

16  Alistair Hinton experience, I accepted this as the music of my own time and pursued it for a while until finding that I seemed to lack a sense of perspective and that the initial excitement had begun to wear thin. Attending a live performance of Schoenberg’s Variations for Orchestra proved to be a catalyst to get me back on track, following which I began to familiarize myself with earlier music by Schoenberg as well as that of Mahler, then Wagner and then a great deal more from the nineteenth and twentieth centuries for the first time. Widening my experiences in this way led to a belief that, in much music of the past century and more, ‘atonality’ is often a matter of degree rather than something specifically quantifiable and that, in this and so many other aspects of music, listeners with different experiential perspectives will in any case perceive and respond to tonal and ‘atonal’ references differently. My early experiences with the work of Boulez et al had certainly proved to be of immense value in sharpening the ears and no doubt also came to influence my aural perceptions of tonal music.

Compositional creativity through its music The establishment of equal temperament arguably gave rise to a broadening vocabulary of tonal hierarchies and relationships; with this came ever wider means of expression. By the time that the dominance of and dependence upon tonality began to be called into question in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, Western European Art Music had come to embrace a vast variety of ideas of which most would have been unimaginable in Haydn’s day. The third and ninth symphonies of Beethoven and the music-​dramas of Wagner had opened the way for the vastness of scale to be espoused by Bruckner and Mahler in their mature symphonies; a concomitant expansion of orchestral forces and textural and polyphonic complexities –​the former enhanced in part by instrumental design developments and performers’ virtuosity –​reached its zenith in the first decade of the twentieth century in such works of high late-​Romanticism as the operas Salome and Elektra by Richard Strauss (1864–​1949), Mahler’s later symphonies and Schoenberg’s Gurrelieder. All of this was accompanied by a tendency towards increasing harmonic chromaticism, the ‘shifting sands’ of more rapid modulations and a lessening of a sense of ‘home key’ in that the tonal centre of the end of a piece might be different to that of its beginning; for example, of Mahler’s ten symphonies, only three –​the sixth, eighth, and tenth –​end in the same key as they begin. Even, then, however, in the heady years leading to the outbreak of World War I, a profound sense of building upon past traditions continued to inform even the most challenging scores, tempering any notion of the kind of ‘newness’ that seeks to overthrow the past; there are many fascinating examples of precedent here, which I will illustrate in no particular order.

Mining the gap: what gap?  17 Wagner had famously extended the scope of tonality in Tristan und Isolde and parts of Der Ring des Nibelungen (although the much-​quoted ‘Tristan chord’ seems still to be misunderstood by some as a new harmonic departure when it is not the harmony itself but the contexts in which it is used that is arguably ‘new’). Much of the Gurrelieder of Schoenberg seems to symbolize a Wagnerian apotheosis, yet its opening is one of its rare moments of tonal stasis; even here, however, the Wagner legacy is revealed as potent when comparing it to the opening of Das Rheingold, both works beginning firmly in the key of E flat major and remaining there for some considerable time, the Wagner slowly rising from the depths of the Rhine and the Schoenberg descending from the stars above it. Curiously, even the first change of tonality in each has a common factor, the Wagner dropping by a perfect fifth to A flat major while that in the Schoenberg rises by the same interval to B flat major. The two works are separated in time by some half century. That some audience members appeared to struggle to keep pace with developments in certain music early in the twentieth century seems evident from riots that broke out at a number of premières, notably Schoenberg’s String Quartet No. 1 in D minor, Op. 7 (1905), Varèse’s Bourgogne (1911) and, perhaps most famously of all, Stravinsky’s Le Sacre du Printemps (1913), although the last of these might have originated more in outrage at Dyaghilev’s choreography than Stravinsky’s music. In Schoenberg’s case, eyebrows had already been raised at the emergence in his string sextet Verklärte Nacht (1899) of one particular chord despite its place in a modulatory sequence whose logic is endorsed by the voice-​leading; it is no more out of the ordinary than a dominant ninth in which the ninth happens to be in the bass. Whether Schoenberg had seen the score of Liszt’s Via Crucis (1878–​79) is open to question, although he would not have heard it as its first performance did not take place until 1929; based on the Stations of the Cross, the fourth of them, Jesus begegnet seiner heiligen Mutter –​its tonal instability in many ways anticipatory of Busoni –​also has as its first harmony a dominant ninth with the ninth in the bass.

Example 2.1 From Schoenberg: Verklärte Nacht, Op. 4.

18  Alistair Hinton

Example 2.2 From Liszt: Via Crucis.

A decade later, Farben, from his Funf Orchesterstücke, Op. 16 (1909) finds Schoenberg obsessing over a similar ninth chord, this time with its third in the bass.

Example 2.3 From Schoenberg: Farben (Funf Orchesterstücke, Op. 16 –​iii).

Verklärte Nacht, which has long been one of its composer’s most popular pieces, nonetheless embraces passages that doubtless disturbed some of its early listeners in which modulations and progressions between distant tonalities abound; some of these can be quite rapid and, whilst they do not undermine tonality as such, they certain blur any sense of tonal centres:

Example 2.4 From Schoenberg: Verklärte Nacht, Op. 4.

Again, there are numerous earlier examples of this kind of practice, such as the following three from Chopin:

Mining the gap: what gap?  19

Example 2.5 From Chopin: Nocturne in B major, for piano, Op. 62, No. 1 (1845–​46).

Example 2.6 From Chopin: Ballade No. 2 in F major, for piano, Op. 38 (completed in 1839).

20  Alistair Hinton

Example 2.7 From Chopin: Piano Trio, Op. 8 (1829) –​ii.

The following passage, which opens Schoenberg’s symphonic poem Pelleas und Melisande (1902–​03), is unquestionably tonal, yet any sense of a ‘tonal centre’ is elusive if not absent:

Example 2.8 From Schoenberg: Pelleas und Melisande.

Mining the gap: what gap?  21 Likewise, the well-​known and oft-​cited 12-​note theme that opens Liszt’s A Faust Symphony (1854; revised 1857–​61 and 1880) is overtly triadic yet offers no hint of any tonal centre:

Example 2.9 From Liszt: A Faust Symphony.

Tonal harmonic practice had largely been predicated upon the dominance of triads and triadic progressions, yet any sense of a ‘comfort zone’ that might be afforded by this is ravaged by the famous agonizingly dissonant pile-​up of thirds in the first movement of Mahler’s Symphony No. 10 (1910):

Example 2.10 From Mahler: Symphony No. 10 (i).

A far gentler, though in some ways no less potent, example is found in Brahms’ Intermezzo in B minor, Op. 119, No. 1 (1893) which opens as follows:

22  Alistair Hinton

Example 2.11 From Brahms: Intermezzo in B minor, for piano, Op. 119 (i) and, in 1879, Liszt, in his Ossa Arida, undermines the sense of a triadic ‘root’ when piling up thirds, as follows:

Mining the gap: what gap?  23

Example 2.12 From Liszt: Ossa Arida.

The introduction of quartal harmony represented an enhancement of –​if not a departure from –​such traditions; a famous example is found in the opening measures of Schoenberg’s Kammersymphonie No. 1 in E major, Op. 9 (1906):

24  Alistair Hinton

Example 2.13 From Schoenberg: Kammersymphonie No. 1 in E major, Op. 9.

but, as in so many such instances, it has its precedents, among which are the following from Mahler’s Symphony No. 7 from the year before it:

Example 2.14 From Mahler: Symphony No. 7 (i).

and the third of Liszt’s four Mephisto Waltzes from a quarter century earlier:

Example 2.15 From Liszt: Mephisto Waltz No. 3.

Long before even these, Chopin had hinted at quartal harmony in his use of 13th chords, as in his aforementioned Ballade No. 2:

Example 2.16 From Chopin: Ballade No. 2 in F major, for piano, Op. 38.

Mining the gap: what gap?  25 His use of the 13th chord was undoubtedly an influence upon Scriabin, whose famous ‘mystic chord’

Example 2.17 Scriabin: ‘mystic chord’.

might be seen as having grown out of it. An even more striking example, albeit en passant, is found in the following passage from his Ballade No. 4 in F minor, Op. 52 (1842):

Example 2.18 From Chopin: Ballade No. 4 in F minor, for piano, Op. 52.

Another example of doubt being cast over a tonal centre is when a tonality is stated at the outset but then moved away from almost immediately; an instance of this is in Busoni’s Sonata No. 2, for violin and piano, (1900), which opens thus:

Example 2.19 From Busoni: Sonata No. 2 in E minor, for violin and piano, Op. 36a.

Although Busoni was familiar with some of Alkan’s music at the time of writing this, it is not clear whether he knew his Grand Duo Concertante, Op. 21 (1840), scored for the same forces, yet the above undoubtedly shares

26  Alistair Hinton more than a little with the sinister opening of its middle movement, a depiction of Hell:

Example 2.20 From Alkan: Grand Duo Concertante, for violin and piano, Op. 21 (ii –​l’Enfer).

Whilst the pedal point that informs the Alkan example gives it an impression of tonal underpinning, the sense of a tonal centre remains far from certain, as no principal tonality is established until the close of that movement’s first page. Though widely regarded as luminaries of the music of the first half of the twentieth century, Stravinsky and Schoenberg were largely poles apart, yet there is a striking similarity, not least of mood, between the opening of Part II of the former’s Le Sacre du Printemps and a passage near the close of the latter’s Pelleas und Melisande, each of which centres around conflicting tonalities over a pedal point:

Example 2.21 From Stravinsky: Le Sacre du Printemps, Part II.

Mining the gap: what gap?  27

Example 2.22 From Schoenberg: Pelleas und Melisande.

Written shortly after Richard Strauss’s ground-​breaking opera Salome, the ballet score Le Tragédie de Salome (1907) by Florent Schmitt (1870–​1958) was certainly known to Stravinsky –​he even cited it with some pride as an influence on Le Sacre du Printemps –​but it is unclear whether Stravinsky was aware of Schoenberg’s Pelleas und Melisande at that time or whether this passing likeness is purely coincidental. Another instance of coincidental tonal ambiguity may be found in the following motif from Wagner’s Die Walküre

Example 2.23 From Wagner: Die Walküre.

which might be seen as having its origins in Chopin’s song Melodia,

28  Alistair Hinton

Example 2.24 From Chopin: Melodia.

which itself bears some passing resemblance to a passage towards the close of Schubert’s Impromptu in G flat major, D899, No. 3. In citing numerous examples from Chopin, it is perhaps worth noting some contemporary views on his work. The pianist and composer John Field (1782–​1837), often mentioned as a significant influence on Chopin’s Nocturnes, called Chopin’s ‘a talent of the sick chamber’. Another pianist and composer, Ignaz Moscheles (1794–​1870), while admitting Chopin’s originality and the value of his pianistic achievements, confessed to dislike of his ‘harsh, inartistic, incomprehensible modulations’ which he regarded as ‘artificial and forced’. These opinions might seem extreme and even perplexing to us today, yet they –​or at least some memories of them –​seem to have prevailed for some time; the musicologist William Henry Hadow went so far as to write, as late as 1904, that ‘fifty years ago Chopin’s harmony was unendurable’ (Hadow, 1904). Whilst it is unlikely that Chopin ever considered his calling to embrace the notion of hurling of a lance into the future of music (as might be said of Liszt at certain stages of his development), it is clear that his influence, especially in terms of harmony, reaches across the nineteenth century and into the twentieth. In exploring the role of tonally oriented music in the century and more since ‘atonal’ music began to appear, I have sought not only to consider the

Mining the gap: what gap?  29 enrichments of tonal language in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries with illustrations from Chopin, Liszt, and several other composers but also to consider perceptions of time itself and its passage and direction as something open to examination rather than to be taken for granted and, accordingly in such a context, to throw open the question as to what might be regarded as ‘progress’. In remembering that Schoenberg and other composers of ‘atonal’ music never abandoned tonality altogether as an outmoded and antediluvian concept, it is arguably apposite to cite George Rochberg (1918–​2005) and Krzysztof Penderecki (1933–​2020) as more recent examples of composers who to some degree turned their backs upon ‘atonality’ as a compositional prerequisite. Perhaps one of the most remarkable and earliest examples of a similar change of heart (or maybe vacillation in his case) is Ornstein. One has only to consider the dissonances in his 1915 sonata for violin and piano:

Example 2.25 From Ornstein: Sonata for violin and piano, Op. 31.

30  Alistair Hinton and contrast this work with the first of his two sonatas for cello and piano from 1918

Example 2.26 From Ornstein: Sonata No. 1 for cello and piano, Op. 52.

to note that, within a very short space of time, the composer had moved towards a kind of tonal lyricism that might not have seemed out of place in the music of Rachmaninoff (indeed, another of his sonatas for violin and piano that also dates from 1915 is so much more obviously tonally oriented than the example above that one might be given to wonder whether some kind of musical schizophrenia had set in –​and, after all, Ornstein is reputed to have remarked of the example above ‘beyond that lies complete chaos’). Ornstein had made quite an impression early in his career as a pianist intent on presenting piano works by the ‘avant-​garde’ of the day; his repertoire included Schoenberg and Bartók as well as his own music. The cello and piano sonata is, incidentally, dedicated to the cellist father-​in-​law of another composer whose early works (notably the first of his six string quartets) also explore a kind of ‘atonality’ but whose later ones have a greater tendency towards more overtly tonal expression, namely the Dutchman Bernard van Dieren (1887–​1936).

The compositional ‘pull’ of tonality It might be worth considering why such composers seemed exercised by a kind of ‘atonal’ expression at one time but evidently remained equally at ease in

Mining the gap: what gap?  31 writing more tonally based music thereafter (or even, in Ornstein’s case, simultaneously); might Busoni’s take on Wells’ time machine (Wells, 1895) and the thoughts that this might have inspired tell us something about this? Who can say with certainty? The fact remains, however, that a sense of ‘progress’ from tonal to ‘atonal’ writing seems at best questionable. It seems to me that, with the passage of time, an ever-​greater breadth of musical expression has taken hold –​one which respects no boundaries and takes no prisoners –​and the fact that technology has lately given us access to millions of hours of music from many centuries has helped to reveal so many richly varied seams of musical expression. I have refrained from including more recent examples of tonally oriented music because their sheer volume from such a vast variety of composers shows the continuing ‘pull’ of tonality to speak for itself with such eloquence that further illustrations seem unnecessary; there are likewise so many more examples of the expansion of tonality in pre-​twentieth-​century music that I could have cited but, again, as their numbers would have defeated the object, I have sought to concentrate on a handful of the more remarkable ones. In the above, I make no apologies for placing the word atonal within quotation marks. I think that the reasons for this are clear; they would doubtless be endorsed by Schoenberg (who famously deprecated the term) but, perhaps more importantly, different listeners’ perceptions of ‘atonality’ will inevitably vary according to listening experiences. Back in the latter 1960s, a course at London’s Royal Academy of Music sought to explore the subject Is the Symphony Dead? Clearly, it wasn’t then and still isn’t more than half a century later; likewise, as Mark Twain might have put it, reports of the death of tonality are exaggerated.

Acknowledgments All music examples in this chapter were prepared by Frazer Jarvis.

References Busoni, F. (1911), A Sketch of a New Aesthetic of Music, translated by Theodore Baker. New York, USA: G. Schirmer. Busoni, F. (1938), Ferruccio Busoni: Letters to His Wife, translated by Rosamond Ley. London, UK: Edward Arnold. Chagall, M. (1930–​ 1939), Time Is a River without Banks, oil on canvas, c.103cm×c.83cm: Collection of Kathleen Kapnick. New York, USA: © 2013 Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York /​ADAGP, Paris. Fisk, J. (ed.) (1997), Composers on Music: Eight Centuries of Writings, Pierre Boulez. Boston: Northeastern University Press. Hadow, W. H. (1904), Studies in Modern Music (Second Series): Frederick Chopin, Antonin Dvořák, Johannes Brahms. Oxford, Fifth Edition, London, UK: Seeley & Co. Ltd.

32  Alistair Hinton Hazelton, C. K. (26 March 2015), Boulez in his Own Words, The Guardian. London, UK; Retrieved from www.theguardian.com/​music/​musicblog/​2015/​mar/​26/​boulezin-​his-​own-​words. Ramann, L. (2018), Franz Liszt als Künstler und Mensch. Germany: Wentworth Press. Ross, R. (2007), The Rest Is Noise: Listening to the Twentieth Century. New York, USA: Farrar, Straus and Giroux Rundfunk, N. (24 September 2001), Tape transcript from public broadcaster, at Hamburg Music Festival, Germany, as reported by Julia Spinola in Monstrous Art, Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, 25 September 2001 and also commented on by BBC, UK. www.osborne-​conant.org/​documentation_​stockhausen.htm; similar observations were reported in Stockhausen provoziert Eklat mit Äußerungen zu USA, Associated Press, USA. Unknown (8 January 2019), A new theory on time indicates present and future exist simultaneously. Retrieved from: https://​physics-​astronomyblog. blogspot.com/​ 2 019/​ 0 1/​ a -​n ew-​t heory-​o n-​t ime-​i ndicates- ​ p resent.html?fbclid=​ IwAR1WT0TAIUbIFl8lYHnmXJcXs0O8-​1oZNQ9Hy-​H-4​ 30X6laPa1JMkiu2oa8 Wells, H. G. (1895), The Time Machine. London, UK: Heinemann.

3  Savage minds in British early-​twentieth-​century music Annika Forkert

Debates surrounding the emergence of middlebrow and anti-​intellectual sentiment in dominant strands in early-​twentieth century British musical culture have come to inhabit a deservedly central space in today’s scholarship about music written in Britain at this time (e.g. Chowrimootoo, 2018; Guthrie, 2021; Collins, Clinch, and Zuk, 2018). This chapter explores metatonal composition as a participant in these debates, because this music reflects in its own sounds some central oppositions and debates of its day through its use of metatonal strategies. One of the most hotly debated relationships at the time was that between what was seen as Schoenberg’s intellectual, systematic, rigorous music, and by extension its Germanness; and desirable alternatives that British music should provide. Could this new music of the twentieth century still be beautiful, meaningful, and, not least, intelligible for the listener glued to their radio apparatus? At the time, British composers and critics established debates around an understanding of two contrasting types of composer, which, following both the writing of the time and Claude Lévi-​Strauss, I will theorize as engineer (or mathematician) and bricoleur. Generally opposed to music exhibiting an engineering aesthetic, the metatonal music written in Britain in the early twentieth century is often eclectic and operates with a bricolage of new scales and chords within tonal frameworks. It is perhaps best introduced through an example. Cyril Scott (1879–​1970) took part in this game of adventurous tonal possibilities, both as a composer and as a writer. His Diatonic Study (1914) for piano is one of over 150 pieces he wrote for his own instrument (he had studied with Iwan Knorr at the Hoch Conservatoire in Frankfurt). The piece’s harmonic task as a ‘study’ is to explore the limits of tonality, while allowing pianists of all abilities to enjoy its melody and impressionist soundscape. Although set firmly and formally in D major, it lacks common signifiers such as perfect authentic cadences or indeed an ending in unfettered D major. The challenge to the tonic begins in the introductory left-​hand bars. While both D or A have a claim as a tonal centre here, the pitch content could be spelling out fragments of major Locrian on E or of a whole-​tone scale from B♭ to G♯ with an added A. DOI: 10.4324/9780429451713-3

34  Annika Forkert

Example 3.1 From Cyril Scott, Diatonic Study, bb.1–​6. Source: Author and reproduced by Permission of Hal Leonard Europe Limited.

The short piece travels through modal, diatonic, and quartal harmony to arrive via a neo-​Riemannian Leittonwechsel from F♯ minor with added B (the last confirmation of a strong quartal harmonic strand running through the piece) on a D major chord with added E and B. This D chord is also quintal (if stacked as D –​A –​E –​B –​F♯), as well as the major pentatonic scale (pitch-​ class set 5-​35).

Example 3.2 From Cyril Scott, Diatonic Study, bb.58–​61, where D major has an added sixth and ninth. Source: Author and reproduced by permission of Hal Leonard Europe Limited.

The strangeness of the Study lies in the diversity and number of the harmonic ambiguities and their overlap. Traditionally in a study of c. two minutes, one might expect one new element to be introduced, rather than five (quartal, quintal, whole-​tone, pentatonic, and modal elements). Did Scott want to cram as many ‘modern’ devices as possible into this piano piece without letting go of the idea of D major? Scott and other composers’ aesthetics of music and the wider musical climate provide a clue in answer to this question. For although no less split than Vienna itself between the avant-​garde and tonal traditions, specific factors

Savage minds in early-20th-century music  35 shaped the discourse in early twentieth-​century musical Britain. The most important was perhaps that British music traditions of instrumental and operatic music were felt to be younger and less robust than the omnipresent genres of German symphonics and Italian opera, and this feeling shaped what this new British music should be achieving or attempting. A symptom was the Royal College of Music, whose history from an idea of lighthouse builder George Grove to the nation’s ‘goodly house’ and foundation of British musical pastoralism has been criticized in Meirion Hughes and Robert Stradling’s book(s) on the English Musical Renaissance (1993, 2001). The Royal College had been founded with the aim to ‘enable us to rival the Germans’ (Stradling & Hughes, 2001, p. 29), but in 1900 was still merely 17 years of age. Challenges to this young musical tradition, whose intense self-​reflexion was coloured nationally from the beginning, drew immediate responses from composers and critics concerned with the state of their fragile national music. The most popular of these are probably Ralph Vaughan Williams’s essays on national music, which compare music to fauna in different climates, the outdoors, and in hothouses (written 1934, for a lecture series in the US). In recent interdisciplinary scholarship, the English Musical Renaissance with its pastoral and tonal conservatism has been perceived to send British music on an imaginary journey back rather than forward in time: ‘Although there was a handful of composers, like Joseph Holbrooke and Cyril Scott, who were prepared to explore continental modernism, Vaughan Williams and his fellow pastoralists had already mapped out the route. Theirs, however, was […] a journey back to a (largely imagined) English past’ (Hughes, 2002, p. 189). This past, according to Matthew Riley and Anthony D. Smith’s Nation and Classical Music, frequently centred on the idea of a Wesleyan ‘English diatonic dissonance’ (strong dissonances, which are, however, resolved immediately and orthodoxly; Riley & Smith, 2016, p. 124; Dibble, 1983).

Arnold Schoenberg, mathematician At the centre of this British anxiety over Germanness and Englishness, and over tonal and atonal music, sat Arnold Schoenberg, whose music served as a foil in order to explain specific British aesthetic preferences that also powered Scott’s Diatonic Study. Schoenberg’s music had been promoted during the early decades of the twentieth century in Britain, be it at the Proms or at the BBC (Doctor, 1999, 2008). The challenges offered by the Second Viennese School’s music were regularly presented to a wide audience. BBC Music Department personnel such as Edward Clark and Kenneth A. Wright programmed a mixture spanning Bach Cantatas and Schoenberg’s Verklärte Nacht or Stravinsky’s L’histoire du soldat (Doctor, 1999). But the BBC did not stop there: Herbert Howells and many other prominent figures gave music appreciation broadcasts (Guthrie, 2021; Clinch, 2018). Yet even before the foundation of the BBC Robert Newman and Henry Wood’s Proms fulfilled a similar popular mission to ‘educat[e]‌the public by interweaving novelties

36  Annika Forkert with the classics’ (Wood, 1938, cited in Doctor, 2008, p. 94). Contemporary European music –​including Schoenberg’s –​was performed here regularly and fired the debates about the direction music was taking. One consequence was that parts of British musical imagination began heated debates on what was perceived as modernist artificiality and intellectualism, and this can be traced along criticism of Schoenberg’s music. As Deborah Heckert has shown, commentary on Schoenberg’s music in the British press and music writing increased considerably with the premiere of Schoenberg’s Five Orchestral Pieces in 1912 (Heckert, 2010). One of the earliest and most candid reactions was a response to Philip Heseltine’s positive review in The Musical Standard the month after the premiere. One writer claimed: ‘I know a little of the writing of Schoenberg, and I hate it because I am convinced that it is ugly, brutally ugly.’ (S. O. G., 1912, p. 40). Dislike of this intensity reached another peak in a symposium on the occasion of Schoenberg’s death in 1951 in Music & Letters (vol. 32, issue 4, pp. 305–​323), which had assembled an all-​male cast of 25 living ‘greats’ of British music from John Amis to Egon Wellesz to comment on Schoenberg’s achievements shortly after his death. With the exception of Second Viennese School members such as Wellesz or Humphrey Searle, few contributors hid their dislike of Schoenberg’s music. Ralph Vaughan Williams led the consensus with his jibe ‘Schoenberg meant nothing to me –​but as he apparently meant a lot to a lot of other people I daresay it is all my own fault’ (Vaughan Williams, 1951, p. 322). Embedded within these broad typologies of intellectualism in music is a notion of Schoenberg’s music as engineered, and of the composer as an engineer or mathematician. Arnold Bax’s invective belongs in the same collection and rejected Schoenberg’s alleged mathematics and neuroses: I instantly developed an ice-​cold antipathy to Schönberg and his whole musical system on the far-​away day when I first came upon those three piano pieces, Op. 11. I conclude that […] he deliberately resolved to turn himself into the world’s premier mathematician in sound. I believe that there is little probability that the twelve-​note-​scale will ever produce anything more than morbid or entirely cerebral growths. It might deal successfully with neuroses of various kinds, but I cannot imagine it associated with any healthy and happy concept such as young love or the coming of spring. (Bax, 1951, p. 307) The concern that atonal and serial music is ‘cerebral’ and ‘mathematical’ (and, at the same time, hysterical) rang through the majority of contributions to this collectively critical obituary. Hans Keller defended Schoenberg from similar attacks in the British music press in 1951 (Zuk, 2018, pp. 334, 340) and Schoenberg himself had been painfully aware of this type of criticism, reflecting in ‘New Music, Outmoded Music, Style and Idea’ of 1946:

Savage minds in early-20th-century music  37 Adversaries have called me a constructor, an engineer, and architect, even a mathematician –​not to flatter me –​because of my method of compo­ sition with twelve tones. […] [T]‌hey called my music dry and denied me spontaneity. They pretended that I offered the products of the brain, not of the heart. (Schoenberg, Stein, 1975 , p.121)1 The fear of a modernist ‘system’ had found its way into various British publications on the state of music earlier in the century between the 1912 premiere and Schoenberg’s death in 1951. This stands out in the writings of generally progressively minded and internationalist writers and composers such as Scott, John Foulds, or Arthur Eaglefield Hull. In The Philosophy of Modernism –​Its Connection with Music, Scott (1917) defended an idea of romanticism underlying experimental music. He likened a composer leaving tonal, rhythmic, and formal constraints behind, to a ‘business man [sic] starting out from the dingy regularity of a town’ (p. 62) to have a holiday in the country. Scott claimed that one would expect this traveller to return to his dingy town, and the composer to write a recapitulation in the tonic key and a regular meter; but ‘the most artistic, interesting, and romantic thing to do would be for him never to return to it, but die in ecstasy amid those beautiful meadows, or wander away into some new and entrancing fairyland’ (p. 62). However, Scott was quick to reign in this daring idea by pointing to its potential excess: this supposed prerequisite for greatness on the part of the academically-​ minded, this admiration for mechanical adjustors and fitters of every musical, or rather unmusical, description, is on the high road to reduce music to the plane of mathematics, and to cause it to fall from the pinnacle of its artistic heights into the abyss of mere mechanicalism. (pp. 63–​64) The name Schoenberg was not mentioned in this warning against a profane musical ‘mathematics’. However, in a slightly earlier publication celebrating Percy Grainger, his friend from their days at the Leipzig Conservatory, Scott contrasted both composers and found that Schoenberg’s rigour and system ‘lead[s]‌us into the excruciating’ (1916, p. 433). Scott preferred Grainger’s more eclectic early harmonic experiments, which were at that point still couched in tunefulness, for example in the orchestral suite In a Nutshell from the same year as Scott’s article. Scott’s fellow theosophist John Foulds (1880–​1939) felt even more strongly about the dangers of systematization to the expressiveness of contemporary music. With regard to Schoenberg, he warned in Music To-​Day (1934, p. 253): The value of Schönberg’s contribution to the progress of music is that in the making it he has helped to hew out a new road. That he has become

38  Annika Forkert absorbed in his engineering to such an extent as to have forgotten whither his road leads; (so utterly obsessed indeed as to be indifferent to its leading anywhere at all), is all that need be said in depreciation of this sturdy iconoclast. […] Now in the case of Schönberg we have a specific instance of a composer elevating reason above imagination; allowing the machine to usurp instead of sub-​serving the higher function. […] Despite all of which, he may be considered the most stimulating figure in the musical world to-​day. Neither Foulds nor Scott were averse to post-​tonal innovations (Foulds even used quarter-​tones in several pieces to express musical ideas he felt impossible to convey in semitones; he also kept well abreast of Schoenberg’s development of atonality and later serialism). The comparatively internationalized outlook of Foulds and Scott was partly facilitated by their theosophical beliefs, which frequently break into their discussion of musical aesthetics and are one reason why these two found themselves outsiders among their native music scene, as van der Linden has argued (2008). Nevertheless, the vocabulary they chose to discuss musical innovation was similar to that of Bax and Vaughan Williams when it came to Schoenberg’s style. A similar language provides the backdrop of Constant Lambert’s Music Ho! (1934). In Lambert’s Sibelian world, Schoenberg was condemned as a master of the ‘Black Mass’ (p. 247) and the ‘violence of [his] revolution’ was attributed to an ‘extreme feminine emotional sensibility shown by [his] first works combined with [his] inquiring, mathematical and detached intellect’ (p. 250). According to Lambert, this meant that Schoenberg’s ‘peculiar methods of approach have degenerated into a mechanical and easily applied formula.’ (p. 246). A taste of this distrust of system and rigour can even be found in the contemporary music theoretical textbook Modern Harmony. Its Explanation and Application (1915) by Arthur Eaglefield Hull. The influential book sought to provide guidance through what its author presented as a thicket of growing possibilities among scales and chords, up to and including his description of Scriabin’s mystic chord (p. 72). Eaglefield Hull acknowledged the composition with twelve independent pitch classes without a tonal centre as well as whole-​tone and other chromatic scales, but wherever possible sought to ground them in the classics, mostly Purcell, Bach, and Beethoven (pp. 1–​7). His judgment of Schoenberg’s Piano Pieces, Op. 11, however, is damning. Eaglefield Hull lists the endings of Nos 1 and 3 as possible representatives of his worst type of music with ‘no tonal centre’: ‘the conveyance of ideas of a very hazy and nebulous type’ (pp. 50–​51). Nevertheless, his conclusions were of a more conciliatory nature; the student of music, Eaglefield Hull declares, should know ‘the whole technique’ (p. 192). After all, according to his credo, many modern experiments that may not even sound like music could be saved by an intelligent orchestration. While study of Schoenberg in particular is

Savage minds in early-20th-century music  39 neither condemned nor encouraged, Eaglefield Hull’s ideal music embedded ‘beautiful thoughts in beautiful language’ (p. 193). In conclusion of this brief survey among a variety of composers and theorists, the Schoenberg conundrum highlighted the perceived dangers of atonal music that was ‘engineered’, ‘mechanical’, ‘cerebral’, or ‘mathematical’ (but sounded chaotic, ‘cacophonous’, or primitive), and which was losing a desired ability to communicate, beautify, or forge nationality. If Schoenberg was an ‘engineer’, what might a British response be called, and what might this music sound like?

Bricolage in music In The Savage Mind, Claude Lévi-​Strauss (1966) juxtaposed ‘two types of scientific knowledge’, the engineer and the bricoleur. The French expression implies a juxtaposition of professional and amateur in method and habit (p. 17); but in this chapter the bricoleur, or the ‘savage’ mind, is no more connoted negatively than the engineer. Both are imaginary types, not real people; and while they are usually contrasted, both relate in their interest in ‘scientific knowledge’ in Lévi-​Strauss and in their shared search for new expression in music as explored here. Lévi-​Strauss defined the engineer as someone ‘always trying to make his way out of and go beyond the constraints imposed by a particular state of civilization while the “bricoleur” by inclination or necessity always remains within them’ (p. 19). The bricoleur is adept at performing a large number of diverse tasks; but, unlike the engineer, he does not subordinate each of them to the availability of raw materials and tools conceived and procured for the purpose of the project. His universe of instruments is closed and the rules of his game are always to make do with ‘whatever is at hand’, that is to say with a set of tools and materials which is always finite and is also heterogeneous because what it contains bears no relation to the current project, or indeed to any particular project, but is the contingent result of all the occasions there have been to renew or enrich the stock or to maintain it with the remains of previous constructions or destructions. (p. 17) In this appreciation of the ‘savage mind’, the bricoleur is credited with prioritizing the event or product over the tools necessary to create it; a notion that overlaps almost uncannily with what Sarah Collins identified as a British nineteenth-​century ‘fiction’ of ‘the English as “doers” rather than thinkers’ (Collins, 2018, p. 209). It is along these lines that Foulds’s criticism of Schoenberg’s alleged problem can be understood: ‘engineering to such an extent as to have forgotten whither his road leads’ (Foulds, 1934, p. 253). The ‘road’ or journey, for Foulds and his fellow composers, was not the destination,

40  Annika Forkert and any material innovation could never replace the main goal: music that communicated through its beauty and intelligibility. The notion of bricolage can also be useful in the analysis of the music stemming from this aesthetic. Musicological work on and with bricolage has sought to understand social groupings of popular music, and in particular the subcultures of British youth and their music of the 1950s and 1960s (Hebdige, 1979). With this bricolage came a rejection of conventional musical training, which could be perceived as the bricoleur’s rejection of ‘engineering’ (as Hebdige quoted, Punks were ‘into chaos, not music’ (1979, p. 109)). Bricolage, however, was never exclusively confined to the application to subcultures (Clarke, 2006). Generally, the bricoleur stands at the centre of a cultural practice that employs found or alienated objects, tools, methods, or materials and creates new art, events, and meanings with them. As Lévi-​Strauss argues, this may look ‘primitive’ or chaotic, but is used to create order or causality (or at least its illusion) within a specific cultural environment. It can ‘reach brilliant unforeseen results on the intellectual plane’ (Lévi-​Strauss, 1966, p. 17). In this sense, Scott’s Diatonic Study might be read as bricolage; it utilized quartal harmony, extended chords, and new scales in a ‘bewildering’ (Hebdige, 1979, p. 103) array, but created sense for listeners who were tired of Brahms and spooked by Schoenberg. Bricolage, in this wide definition, could be said to be at home in many different styles and pieces of the early twentieth century (and for different reasons: Ernest Bloch, for example, in his self-​reflexion as a genius and a Jewish composer, is known for his ‘eclectic use of Eastern and Western modalities, his frequent polytonality and less frequent experimentation with microtones, as well as his utilization of Gregorian chant, Renaissance-​style polyphony and of classical forms’ (Solomon, 2017, p. 1)). British early-twentieth-century metatonal music twentieth-​century metatonal music in the vein of Scott’s Diatonic Study can be conceived as its own particular subculture facing the perceived stylistic opposites of the mathematician Schoenberg on the one hand and English Musical Renaissance tonality and modality on the other. Using a bricolage approach of scales, chords, harmony, and form in an idiosyncratic array could be used in order to rejuvenate tonality.2 In doing so, these bricolage composers would have followed Clarke’s processes of transformation, translation, and adaptation to produce a new meaning: ‘when the object is placed within a different total ensemble, a new discourse is constituted, a different message conveyed’ (Clarke, 2006, pp. 149–​150). Wresting these modernist materials from their normal signification and placing them in a new, tonal environment follows similar lines of thought. What unites practices of bricolage is that their creator, the savage mind, and their context (what and why) must be credited as a giver and owner of meaning in order to understand associated practices (despite the danger of slipping into the intentional fallacy). In musical practice, the what of this bricolage often takes the shape of, for instance, small or brief innovative –​even atonal or otherwise modernist –​experiments nested like alienated or found objects more or less safely within an overarching tonal framework, thus giving their

Savage minds in early-20th-century music  41 surroundings an edge without losing tunefulness. In this sense, bricolage can be found across music of the later nineteenth and early twentieth century regardless of its composers’ nationalities (apart from Ernest Bloch, other examples might be the Russian ‘Mighty Handful’; Charles Ives’s interest in manifold new sounds, or Milhaud’s polytonality). Within these frameworks, the eclectic and sometimes bewildering mix of modernist collage, which often resists a standard analytic approach, becomes meaningful within the broader musical climate (the bricolage’s why, which in the case of British music of its time was the fear that music would be forced into an engineering tradition à la Schoenberg). In the remainder of this chapter, I offer three readings of such music and some of its metatonal devices in Rebecca Clarke’s Viola Sonata and the Cello Sonatas by Frank Bridge and John Foulds: combinations of quartal harmony, octatonic and whole-​ tone collections, modality, and quarter-​ tones. This is not an exhaustive list, but these elements are read here as found fragments within strong tonal contexts that are meant to stabilize and beautify modern music, preventing it from an engineered slippage into atonality. Apart from similarities in timbre and genre, all three pieces are commonly seen as milestones in their composers’ individual œuvres and are therefore comparatively accessible (scores and recordings are not yet easily available for the majority of Clarke and Foulds’s music), and their composers had international connections and an interest in modernism. Context and reception are interwoven with description of the bricolage and its nesting within tonal frameworks in these works.

Clarke’s quartal-​octatonic bricolage Strong quartal, modal, octatonic, and even whole-​tone elements account for the entire first movement of one repertoire piece by Rebecca Clarke, her Viola Sonata of 1919. The Sonata’s story is well known: how the piece tied with Bloch’s Suite for first prize at Elizabeth Sprague Coolidge’s Berkshire Festival of Chamber Music competition of that year, how Clarke lost the prize to Bloch by Sprague Coolidge’s own vote, and how, upon discovery of who the composer of this mysterious tied winner was, critics questioned whether a woman could have written this piece (Jones, 2004).3 This Sonata is not only a staple of solo viola repertoire, but it is also a complex bricolage by a British composer for an anonymized international competition in the immediate wake of the First World War. I concern myself here with the first movement, Impetuoso –​poco agitato, which, for want of a better label, has been described as romantic and impressionist (Kohnen, 2002, p. 130; Ponder, 1983, p. 84), although its widespread octatonicism was also noted by Bryony Jones in a comparative analysis of the Piano Trio and the Sonata (Jones, 2004). In the present collection, Chris Dromey adds to these challenges a warning about the piece’s ‘progressiveness’ (for more information, see Chapter 11 in this book). The piece questions all these labels. Within sonata form, the movement has an

42  Annika Forkert E-​dorian quartal Introduction, P and S zones dominated by three different octatonic collections, and a partly whole-​tone ‘modulation’ (see Table 3.1). Table 3.1 Rebecca Clarke, Sonata for Viola and Piano, harmonic structure and sonata form. Formal section

Thematic area Rehearsal Pitch content figure

Introduction Exposition

1-​[1]‌ P

[1]‌

in lieu of [2]‌-​1 modulation Transition [2]‌ [3]‌

Development

S

[4]‌, [5]

Codetta

[6]‌ [7]‌ [8]‌

Recapitulation P [9]‌ in lieu of [10]-​1 modulation Transition [10] [11]

S

Coda

[12] [14] [15]

E dorian (va), quartal pedal point (pf) (Fm7–​ D7–​ A♭7) pcs 6-​35 (pf & va) A7–​C; G7–​ E7–​ B♭7 quartal (D&G based) A♭–​ D G –​D♭–​ B♭ –​A G chromatic –​ F –​D –​C C7 C +​A♭ C –​G –​D7 G7–​Fm –​B♭7–​ D♭7 [9]-​6--1: standing on B♭, augm. 6th-​chord see Exp. see Exp. see Exp. quartal (D based) A♭–​ D G –​D♭–​ B♭ A E –​C; E –​C; ‘Tr1’ chord –​E –​ whole-​tone –​ E E

Pitch content dispersal modal & quartal octatonic coll. ‘P’ (w/​o B) whole-​tone fragments of oct. colls. ‘Tr1’, ’Tr2’ quartal fragm. of coll. ‘P’ fragm. of coll. ‘Tr2’ quartal-​quintal, +​ fragm. of coll. ‘P’ (A♭–​ B) bitonal diatonic fragm. of coll. ‘Tr2’

coll. ‘P’ whole-​tone colls. ‘Tr1’&‘Tr2’ quartal fragm. of coll. ‘P’ fragm. of coll. ‘Tr2’ IV -​-​ -​-​ I stabilization of E as tonic chromatic, quartal, whole-​tone elements

Source: Author

Quartal harmony is very much at home in twentieth-​century music, one of the best-​known examples perhaps being Schoenberg’s Chamber Symphony No. 1 with its stacked fourths leading into F major. (This is a bricoleur side of Schoenberg not fully appreciated in British reception and criticism of his time.)

Savage minds in early-20th-century music  43 Clarke’s own construction is cunning, because she invites her listeners in with an introductory staple of early-​twentieth-​century British music, a Dorian statement based on E, which, as the listener discovers later, is the movement and the whole sonata’s tonal centre. What follows this Introduction, however, is not the expected pastoral idyll and can perhaps be explained with the piece’s function as an international competition piece. The quick chase between octatonic collections (more of them fragmentary than complete) pervading the movement is not done justice by a description as romantic or impressionist. If anything, it resembles the Russian provenance through the early British Scriabin reception which Clarke might have been familiar with.4 But even this pedigree is not fully applicable because the three octatonic collections are dispersed sporadically and very often applied as triads, rather than seventh-​chords.5 In the transition ([4]‌+​9), for example, the right hand alternates A♭ and B major triads. However, even the modal beginning destabilizes the piece’s pastoral provenance. The viola recitative, while firmly in E Dorian, descends in forte and ‘impetuoso’, rather than peacefully rambling along as in Vaughan Williams’s The Lark Ascending. Clarke’s piano accompaniment consists of one single pedal of a quartal chord that is, and isn’t, E major: dropping A to G♯ is all that would be necessary to turn this fully tonal.

Example 3.3 From Rebecca Clarke, Viola Sonata, first movement, bb.1–​2. Source: Author and reproduced by permission of Hal Leonard Europe Limited.

The variety of non-​tonal events embedded into the Sonata presents a dense, albeit not unusual, level of British bricolage. It combines not one, but several metatonal devices, such as whole-​tone scales and quartal chords. Clarke did not play the tonal/​modal game of her mentors (above all Charles Villiers Stanford), in which ‘English diatonic dissonance’ is produced in the form of dissonant suspensions that are immediately and orthodoxly resolved (Dibble, 1983). There is but one structural –​plagal –​cadence in the movement, at the relatively minor point between the recapitulation’s Transition and S zone at [12]. Other cadencing moments deceive the listener; for example at [9]‌, where a French augmented sixth-​chord short-​circuits to D major, but not through A major,7 but A major’s hexatonic pole, F minor. However, F minor forms the

44  Annika Forkert first bar of the recapitulation’s P zone and therefore barely fulfils this cadential role anyway.

Example 3.4 From Rebecca Clarke, Viola Sonata, first movement [9]‌. Source: Author and reproduced by permission of Hal Leonard Europe Limited.

But at the same time, Clarke did not play an engineer’s game: E is set as a clear tonal centre at the beginning and pervades the movement, as well as the Sonata’s ending. Besides E, G major, and C major materialize as temporary tonal centres and overlap with the octatonicism in the S zone and Codetta of the exposition. The success of her bricolage finds expression in the praise the piece has been garnering for its beauty: labels such as ‘atmospheric’, ‘exciting’, ‘emotional’ (Kohnen, 2002, p. 132); ‘ardent Romanticism’ (MacDonald, 1987, p. 20); or ‘rich expansive’ (Curtis, 1996, p. 17) show this.

Bridge’s diatonic-​chromatic bricolage Like Clarke, Bridge benefitted from Elizabeth Sprague Coolidge’s patronage. It is likely that Clarke recommended Bridge’s music to the patron, who entered into an enduring patronship with Bridge (rather than just commissioning music, as she did from Clarke and several other British composers; see Banfield, 1986). Bridge’s music before the post-​tonal Piano Sonata of 1921 and Coolidge’s subsequent support shows a different type of bricolage at work, and it is useful to see his Sonata for Violoncello and Piano of 1913–​17 as representative of

Savage minds in early-20th-century music  45 a transitional phase that gently drifts away from tonality (see Huss, 2015, ­chapter 3, ‘Transitional period’). Rather than to retrospectively explain the eclecticism of this piece as an individual post-​tonal gesture, the Sonata’s closeness to such experiments as Clarke’s or Scott’s enable an alternative understanding. The powerful second movement of Bridge’s Cello Sonata encompasses a slow section and a scherzo with reminiscences from the previous first movement and allusions to the respective other section of this movement. The appeal of the Sonata, according to Huss, lies in its ‘continuous spans of sustained melodic material’ (2015, p. 119). This contrasts somewhat with its advanced, but elusive harmonic structure. Huss comes close to identifying the second movement as bricolage, when he speculates on Bridge’s harmonic decisions and alternative styles that might have been possible: neither neo-​Classical pastiche nor the complete chromaticism of serialism would have been congenial options, and the harmonic language he had begun to develop (based, significantly, on colouristic impressionism rather than escalating chromaticism) gave rise to highly idiosyncratic reinterpretation of traditional forms and structural logic that would satisfy his aesthetic proclivities and technical ambitions. (p. 125) Huss identifies four characteristics of Bridge’s pre-​Piano Sonata style in the Cello Sonata: chromaticism, added degrees, chromatic appoggiaturas, and non-​functional progressions (p. 123). Further elements include bitonality (between the two instruments or between right and left hand in the piano), and a bi-​harmonic rhythm, whereby the cello frequently obscures progressions in the piano by articulating the next harmonic section synchronically. The piece does not lack tonal key signifiers (every bar belongs to one key, sometimes several synchronous ones). But it discards unifying tonal means such as diatonic harmonic progressions or standard cadences, and instead uses bitonality or parallel triads. The loosening of tonality’s dictate is central to Bridge’s bricolage. The movement begins in F minor and ends its first, slow, section ([9]‌) in a stalemate of Fm7 and B♭, disguised as a pastorally sounding B♭-​F fifth pedal with parallel triads in the piano’s right hand. The scherzo section in [10] begins in A minor (albeit obscuring this in almost all but key signature), trailing along C major in [15] in a reminiscence of the last idea of the slow section (which had previously been in C flat, [5]), and reaching back to the initial theme in the ‘tonic’ F minor ([18]).

46  Annika Forkert

Example 3.5 From Frank Bridge, Cello Sonata, second movement [5]‌. Source: Author.

Bricolage does not just reside in the choice of this movement’s distantly related temporary tonal centres, but it is reflected in the freedom achieved by the non-​systematic avoidance of cadences and (even common-​tone oriented) modulation, in combination with a plethora of devices such as whole-​tone chords or chromatically enriched chords merging and diverging. Edwin Evans’s lucid review of Bridge’s music in 1919 (two years after the premiere of the Cello Sonata) acknowledged the composer as the ideal ‘good eclectic’ (1919, p. 55; one year later, in an article called ‘Extremists versus the Rest’, Evans referred to some examples of Schoenberg’s music as ‘horrible’ [1920, p. 381], by contrast). Evans’s ‘definition’ of this type of ‘good eclectic’ composer is a rare description of British bricoleurs… who, without being revolutionary in themselves, are in sympathy with modernity, or rather with those elements of modernity which can be assimilated into their own set style, for it is the test of such composers that they really have a personal style which acts as a solvent upon any ingredients they may introduce to enrich. (Evans, 1919, p. 55) The idea of an ‘assimilation’ of ‘elements’ taken from an undefined ‘modernity’ and integrated eclectically into a ‘personal style’ mirrors Lévi-​ Strauss’s description of the bricoleur, including the rejection of the engineer’s

Savage minds in early-20th-century music  47 ‘revolutionary’ structural processes. It is no coincidence that Evans held up the popular and controversial Bridge as the prime representative of this eclecticism/​bricolage found in the ‘modern British composer’. Even Lévi-​Strauss’s (and Hebdige’s) claim that the ‘bewildering’ elements of bricolage make sense to those in the same (sub-​)culture, is addressed in Evans’s musings: ‘[E]‌ven those, if there be any, who find nothing else to admire in his music, will readily concede to him the great quality of knowing exactly what he is doing, and doing it with remarkable precision’ (Evans, 1919, p. 55). In his review, Evans also remarked on Bridge’s allusions to Scriabin. Evans judged these to be ‘processes of harmonic thought which are, so to speak, in the air, and that composers of an adventurous turn of mind are bound to explore them sooner or later […]’ (1919, p. 59). The Cello Sonata, for example, utilizes a chord very similar to the mystic chord (pcs 6-​34; a favourite also in other pieces of Bridge’s at the time) in the ante-​penultimate bar of the second movement. It serves as a highly dramatized chromatic replacement of an A7 chord reaching towards its D major resolution.

Example 3.6 From Frank Bridge, Cello Sonata, excerpt of the coda of the second movement. Source: Author.

The conclusion of this tonally vagrant movement is reached by bricolage as well. From [22], D major drifts into focus, but is still veiled by manifold interjections. One such moment is the transition into the coda at [25]-​4,

48  Annika Forkert where the A-​phrygian cello scale over an A pedal in the piano’s left hand is complemented by a bitonal D minor/​B♭ major chord in the right. The end then comes swiftly. The piano’s rising D locrian scale somewhat mirrors the previous A phrygian one in the cello but gathers momentum through its dynamics, parallel octaves, animato character, and range. At its end stands a series of statement chords in the piano over a, now descending, D locrian scale in the cello and a D pedal in the left hand: C7, CØ7, pcs 6-​34 (mystic chord), and, finally, D major, albeit in inversion. Here, the bricolage lies in the combination of bitonality, extended chromatic chords, modal scales, and D major. In this movement, these dramatic and melodically beautiful elements are also very little restrained by sonata form; this makes their bricolage even freer than perhaps Clarke’s, but also less straightforward to categorize.

Foulds’s microtonal-​modal bricolage The fate of Foulds’s Cello Sonata is somewhat typical for its composer’s career. Written in 1905, while its 25-​year old composer still worked as a cellist in the Hallé Orchestra, the piece was only published in a revised version in 1928 by Editions Maurice Senart during Foulds’s time in Paris. Only in 1975 did it receive its British premiere in a recital at the London Purcell Room by Moray Welsh and Ronald Stevenson (Wood, 1975). The first recording followed in 1997 (English Cello Sonatas: John Foulds, Ernest Walker, York Bowen, BMS, 1997). After its premiere 70 years after its composition, Hugh Wood defended the Sonata’s ‘sheer vitality and natural musicality’, as well as its professionalism (which had been challenged in an unnamed newspaper article calling it ‘amateur’, that Wood referred to (Wood, 1975, pp. 50–​51)). Drawing on the names of no fewer than six major composers as possible influences (Rachmaninoff, Reger, Debussy, Strauss, Mahler, and Britten), Wood sought to situate the Sonata firmly among other modern repertories, and pointed to its richness in advanced techniques: whole-​tones in the first, quarter-​tones in the second, and ‘diatonic discord’ in the third movement (Wood, 1975, p. 51). In his Programme Note preceding the 1928 publication, Foulds himself described his bricolage combination of what Hepokoski has called ‘ “old-​ world” melody’ and modern style (Hepokoski, 1993, p. 4). There is, however, a more systematic rigour to Foulds’s bricolage and its intention. Foulds pointed out his use throughout all three movements of two English Puritan tunes ‘which had been in the composer’s mind since early boyhood’ (Foulds, 1928, n.p.). He then highlighted aspects of ‘modern style’ in each movement: the first movement’s minor-​major inflections, ‘some atonal writing’, and a sonata form recapitulation with P only in the coda; the second movement’s minor/​ major inflections, the cello’s ‘harp-​like pizzicato chords’, and quarter-​tones; and the third movement’s counterpoint and return of material from the previous movements. Each movement thus explores a new idiom within the frame of a strictly defined key area. At the same time, the Sonata’s cyclic idea

Savage minds in early-20th-century music  49 rests on the mediant and dominant key relationships within and between all movements (B –​D –​G), the infusion with the Puritan tunes of all movements, and the return of other thematic material in the Finale. Foulds’s post-​ tonal interjections in the first two movements have a modulatory function, in that both ‘atonality’ and quarter-​tones are used in transitional spaces. In the first movement, a strongly diatonic frame consists of the P zone in B minor and the S zone in B major (b.60, dolce consemplicita in the cello), and the recapitulatory S (which, following Foulds’s own thinking, emerges without prior statement of P) in G major in b.177 (dolcissimo). S is thus not in the traditional minor-​third mediant relationship, but is a major third away from the keys of the exposition. The movement closes in B major with an authentic cadence, the last of many such stabilizing events throughout the movement. This stability is only endangered in the brief episode without key signature functioning as a codetta after S.

Example 3.7  From John Foulds, Cello Sonata, first movement, bb.84–​87, calmo assai. Source: Author.

The cello ascends chromatically by a fourth, while the piano combines descending (RH) and ascending (LH) thirds beginning from E♭ major. These third parallels can be read two ways: either horizontally as four parallel scales which are partly whole-​tone, partly chromatic and partly octatonic; or vertically as a constantly changing bitonal or simply atonal chain of more or less chromatic triads and thirds (if one quaver’s delay between RH and LH is taken into account). Whichever way, at the beginning of each of these four bars, a tonal chord emerges in cello and piano: E♭, E, and B♭. Foulds thus integrates a fleeting glimpse of post-​tonality with reassuring tonal resting points. The second movement’s transitional quarter-​tones fulfil a similar function, and they appear in similarly strong and safely isolated surroundings. The first of these two quarter-​tone episodes appears at a regress from the first D major thematic area into a recapitulation of the D minor Introduction (b.49; the second quarter-​tone episode is similar). Foulds used quarter-​tones

50  Annika Forkert almost exclusively in parallel fifths (Forkert, 2020) and this movement is no exception. This particular use is typical for bricolage insofar as the metatonal device is limited to a particular interval and thus embedded like a found object within a D major/​minor frame. The dominant pedal of an A octave in the piano and what Foulds called ‘pizzicato harmonics’ in the cello prepare a quarter-​tonal slide between the two fifths F-​C and G♭-​D♭ in the cello, which might otherwise lead into the unknown. It is against this backdrop that Foulds juxtaposed his bricolage technique with his Puritan melodies. In this movement, this is his ‘amen’-​like fragment in the piano in A mixolydian in parallel triads, which are mirrored in left and right hand. The quick switch between small-​scale parallel modal triads and the ultra-​chromatic sound of the following quartertones is one of the strangest moments in the piece, but justified in Foulds’s reasoning with the need to introduce new elements in small doses and enclose the slippage through melodic modality.

Example 3.8  From John Foulds, Cello Sonata, second movement, bb. 45–​49, ‘amen’ fragment. Source: Author.

Concluding remark Scott, Clarke, Bridge, and Foulds all skirted the danger of ‘allowing the machine to usurp instead of sub-​serving the higher function’ (Foulds, 1934, p. 253). In this metaphor, the ‘machine’ would have been modernist dissonance

Savage minds in early-20th-century music  51 and chromaticism, which, if discarding its ‘higher function’, might risk losing its audiences together with its melody, intelligibility, and ultimately beauty. The solution these composers suggested was bricolage; the avoidance of rigorous, systematically emancipated dissonance (the ‘machine’ running wild) in favour of tuneful experiments with some of these very elements. Nevertheless, these British bricoleurs’ priority of retaining elements of tonality while creating new and original music led them to their own modernist metatonal aesthetic, a blend of music that is easy to lose sight of between the strong rhetoric of the two dominant camps of its time: pastoralism and pantonality.

Notes 1 Despite Schoenberg’s reference to dodecaphony, it is clear from the British reception discussed here that these accusations were levelled not only at Schoenberg’s 12-​ tone music. His hurt over these accusations is a reminder of their darker undertones in the context of the anti-​semitism Schoenberg had experienced (see Cahn, 2010). 2 In its intention, however, this bricolage approach differs somewhat from the ‘primitivist’ modernist approach of Stravinsky or Bartók, whose systems sought to ‘bypass the tonal language of German late Romanticism (Wagner and Richard Strauss) with a new kind of chromaticism no longer based on major/​minor harmonic tonality’ (Riley & Smith, 2016, p. 77). 3 In another article on this piece’s sonata form, Liane Curtis has also rightfully drawn attention to the sonata’s singularity in Clarke’s output as a ‘public’ composition in a ‘masculine’ formal tradition and with a male-​dominated jury in mind (Curtis, 1997, p. 407). 4 Although nothing is known about Clarke’s Scriabin reception, from her occasional writings re-​published in Curtis’s A Rebecca Clarke Reader (2004), it emerges that she was familiar with the String Quartets of, among others, Debussy, Ravel, Reger’s op. 109, Schoenberg’s no. 1 in D minor, and Bloch’s no. 1. 5 Dmitri Tymoczko (2011) argues that seventh-​chords are better suited to octatonic progressions, while triads lend themselves to hexatonic progression (pp. 97 and 220).

References Banfield, Stephen (1986). ‘Too much of Albion’? Mrs. Coolidge and her British connections. American Music, 4: 1, 59–​88. Bax, Arnold (1951). Arnold Schönberg, 1874–​1951. Music & Letters. 32: 4, 307. Cahn, Steven J. (2010). Schoenberg, the Viennese–​Jewish experience and its aftermath. In: Jennifer Shaw and Joseph Auner (eds.) The Cambridge Companion to Arnold Schoenberg. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 191–​206. Chowrimootoo, Christopher (2018). Middlebrow Modernism. Britten’s Operas and the Great Divide. Oakland: University of California Press. Clarke, John (2006). Style. In: Stuart Hall and Tony Jefferson (eds.) Resistance through Rituals. London: Routledge, 147–​161. Clinch, Jonathan (2018). The challenge to goodwill: Herbert Howells, Alban Berg and ‘The ‘Modern Problem’. In: Jeremy Dibble and Julian Horton (eds.) British Musical Criticism and Intellectual Thought, 1850–​1950. Woodbridge: Boydell & Brewer, 278–​303.

52  Annika Forkert Collins, Sarah (2018). Anti-​intellectualism and the rhetoric of ‘national character’ in music: The vulgarity of over-​refinement. In: Jeremy Dibble and Julian Horton (eds.) British Musical Criticism and Intellectual Thought, 1850–​ 1950. Woodbridge: Boydell & Brewer, 199–​234. Curtis, Liane (1996). A case of identity. The Musical Times, 137: 1839, 15–​21. Curtis, Liane (1997). Rebecca Clarke and sonata form: questions of gender and genre. The Musical Quarterly, 81: 3, 393–​429. Curtis, Liane, ed. (2004). A Rebecca Clarke Reader. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Dibble, Jeremy C. (1983). Hubert Parry and English diatonic dissonance. British Music Society Journal, 5, 58–​71. Doctor, Jennifer (1999). The BBC and Ultra-​Modern Music, 1922-​1936. Shaping a Nation’s Tastes. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Doctor, Jennifer (2008). The parataxis of ‘British musical modernism’. The Musical Quarterly, 91: 1/2, 89–​115. Eaglefield Hull, Arthur (1915). Modern Harmony. Its Explanation and Application. London: Augener. Evans, Edwin (1919). Modern British composers. I: Frank Bridge. The Musical Times, 60: 912, 55–​59. Evans, Edwin (1920). Extremists versus the rest. The Musical Times, 61: 934, 831–​833. Forkert, Annika (2020). Microtonal Restraint. Journal of the Royal Musical Association, 145: 1, 75–118. Foulds, John (1928). Programme Note. In: idem, Sonata for Violoncello and Piano op. 6. Foulds, John (1934). Music To-​Day. London: I. Nicholson and Watson. Guthrie, Kate (2021). The Art of Appreciation. Music and Middlebrow Culture in Modern Britain. Oakland: University of California Press. Hebdige, Dick (1979). Subculture. The Meaning of Style. London: Methuen. Heckert, Deborah (2010). Schoenberg, Roger Fry and the emergence of a critical language for the reception of musical modernism in Britain 1912–​1914. In: Matthew Riley (ed.) British Music and Modernism 1895–​1960. Farnham: Ashgate, 49–​66. Hepokoski, James (1993). Sibelius Symphony No. 5. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hughes, Meirion (2002). The English Musical Renaissance and the Press 1850–​1914. Watchmen of Music. Aldershot: Ashgate. Huss, Fabian (2015). The Music of Frank Bridge. Woodbridge: Boydell. Jones, Bryony (2004). ‘But do not quite forget’: the Trio for Violin, Cello, and Piano (1921) and the Viola Sonata (1919) compared. In: Liane Curtis (ed.) A Rebecca Clarke Reader. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 79–​99. Kohnen, Daniela (2002). Rebecca Clarke, Komponistin und Bratschistin. Biographie. Frankfurt am Main et al.: Hänsel-​Hohenhausen. Lambert, Constant (1934). Music Ho! A Study of Music in Decline. London: Faber & Faber. Lévi-​ Strauss, Claude (1966). The Savage Mind. London: George Weidenfeld & Nicolson. MacDonald, Calum (1987). Rebecca Clarke’s chamber music (I). Tempo, 160, 15–​26. Ponder, Michael (1983). Rebecca Clarke. British Music Society Journal, 5, 82–​88. Riley, Matthew and Smith, Anthony D. (2016). Nation and Classical Music. From Handel to Copland. Woodbridge: Boydell.

Savage minds in early-20th-century music  53 Schoenberg, Arnold and Stein, Leonard, ed. (1975). Style and Idea. Selected Writings by Arnold Schoenberg. London: Faber & Faber. Scott, Cyril (1916). Percy Grainger: the music and the man. The Musical Quarterly, 2: 3, 425–​433. Scott, Cyril (1917). The Philosophy of Modernism –​Its Connection with Music. London: Kegan Paul, Trench, Trubner. ‘S. O. G.’ (1912). What is cacophony? The Musical Standard. 28 September 1912, 40. Solomon, Norman (2017). Introduction. In: Alexander Knapp and Norman Solomon (eds.) Ernest Bloch Studies. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1–​11. Stradling, Robert and Hughes, Meirion (1993). The English Musical Renaissance 1860–​1940. Construction and Deconstruction. London: Routledge. Stradling, Robert and Hughes, Meirion (2001). The English Musical Renaissance 1840–​1940. Constructing a National Music. Manchester, New York: Manchester University Press. Tymoczko, Dmitri (2011). A Geometry of Music. Harmony and Counterpoint in the Extended Common Practice. New York: Oxford University Press. van der Linden, Bob (2008). Music, theosophical spirituality, and empire: the British modernist composers Cyril Scott and John Foulds. Journal of Global History, 3, 163–​182. Vaughan Williams, Ralph (1951). Arnold Schönberg, 1874–​1951. Music & Letters, 32: 4, 322. Wood, Henry (1938). My Life of Music. London: Gollancz. Wood, Hugh (1975). John Foulds’s Cello Sonata. Tempo, 115, 50–​51.

4  Space and structure in metatonal musics Paul Fleet

It would be quite tempting to begin with reference to a final frontier (Daniels, 1966), but I shall resist. Instead, and to help unpack the goal of this chapter, I will return to the reference of architecture made in Chapter 1. As we walk into a generic hotel room, we often know what to expect, and I am sure many of you will be familiar with the following spatial experience when attending conferences away from home. We arrive at the check-​in desk and greeted with a request for confirmation of who we are before we are given our key. Our room is reached by an ever-​familiar lift/​corridor experience that is remarkably universal, yet somewhat comforting in a new city. We open the door and on entering ‘our’ room, a bathroom is to the left (or right) whilst an open wardrobe is to our right (or left). We move beyond this mini-​corridor and on one side of the room is a bed with two table lamps helping to frame the duvet and pillows, whilst on the other side is a desk/​table/​TV area with the ever predictable quick-​boil kettle, a cup, a selection of dried beverages to rehydrate, and, if you are lucky, a few choice biscuits. This blank canvas quickly becomes homelike as we put down our luggage, hang up our coat and unpack our clothes for the next day, make a beverage, and then plug in the chargers to our electronic devices (not necessarily in that order). What we have done spatially is inhabit a room that could have been any one of the rooms in the hotel, and attach elements which belong to the current experience to structures that were ready to receive them. This story is not told to invite comments about how many times we may need a replacement kettle from reception (even if that happens a lot only in my experience). No, it is a story about how we interact with architectural spaces in order to make them our own. To make the analogy transparent to this chapter, Common Practice forms (hotel rooms) can be understood as architecturally similar spaces that do not define a piece as binary or sonata form (the generic placement of familiar places of interaction: bathroom, bed, or desk) but can be identified in connection with the placement of musical elements within those structures that are at the guiding hand of the composer. This position aligns with a long history of academic authors (notably including Dahlhaus, 1989; Hepokoski & Darcy, 2006; Rosen, 1980) who have all made the point that, for example, a piece in sonata form is just that: a piece DOI: 10.4324/9780429451713-4

Space and structure in metatonal musics  55 that exhibits the common characteristics of a structural sonata form pattern that was only collectively identified after a common understanding had been gained. To be clear it is not that such forms are without the influence of their generic architecture on the musical material, but that the musical material inhabits a structure that is most familiar without being too restrictive. As Christopher Small comments, ‘the concept and the vocabulary of sonata form that was developed through the study of scores… [has] misled musicians into viewing synoptically, as a structure, all of whose features exist simultaneously, what is actually a series of events in time’ (1998, p. 163). This is the key to unlocking the structural door –​by understanding the series of events in time neither as a ‘preformed’ structure nor as a random series of events but instead as a template, or if you will a ‘performed’ structure. But what do we do with pieces that do not exhibit a structure that is recognizable within a generic architectural space? More particularly, what do we do with pieces that are considered in this book and can be understood as being metatonal? There is a potential clue in solving this puzzle to be found in the opening pages of Ferruccio Busoni’s Fantasia Contrappuntistica (1910) where the composer produces the following image as a graphic contents page for his musical composition (see Example 4.1).

Example 4.1 Ferruccio Busoni, ‘Plan of Works for the Fantasia Contrappuntistica’, Source: https://​commons.wikimedia.org/​wiki/​File:Fantasia_​Contrappuntistica_Plan. jpg

56  Paul Fleet Busoni places the analytic (Analytischer) list of compositional titles, many of which define their generic structure (an idealized listener knows what to expect from a fugue or set of variations), above an architectural plan (Architektonischer) where 11 numbers are placed in front of the discrete faces of a building that the composer had imagined. Aside from the elephant in the room which I will return to in a moment but not be able to address (where is number 12, the Stretta, on the architectural plan?), we can quickly discount the structural proportions as being neither relative to the size of either the bar numbers nor performance timings. For example, within the three fugues (architecturally marked Nos 2, 3, and 4), the third (No. 4) is twice as long (172 bars, c. 6mins) as the first two fugues (Nos 2 and 3 are 61 bars, c. 2.30 mins; 73 bars, 2.30 mins respectively), yet they are shown as the same width and height on the drawing. In other words, the drawing is not to scale. However, the grouping of the materials in the structure makes more sense with the opening chorale being the start of the facing wall; the three fugues being grouped in the first set of arches; the intermezzo returning back to the main wall; the three variations standing proud again as three arches; the cadenza returning to the wall; the fourth fugue being a single large arch before a chorale returns back to the same plane as the first wall. And this grouping is supported in the musical analysis by Brett Kingsbury (2006) who argues that there are two kinds of musical development at play in this composition with the ‘transcription of the old in the first group, set in contrast with the use of the latest contrapuntal techniques applied to the fugue subjects in the second group [before the material] bursts forth in the final group in a kind of Hegelian synthesis’ (p. 33). This mapping makes sense: the wall behind the three transepts contains chorale material and is related to the B-​A-​C-​H motif (Boyd, 2001); the fugues are grouped together, as are the variations, and these two sections each contain three elements that are separated by an intermezzo. The final fugue, which brings together the elements of the first three fugues and the variations, stands as an important gesture towards the bringing together of the old and the new. Whilst we are not in danger of over-​reading any structural placement of elements in direct relation to any expected norm by consulting this architectural design, we are given a loose framework of understanding, a particular shape if you will, in which the musical elements will be performed. The puzzle of where is 12, the final chorale, on the diagram is not solved, but that is most definitely a question to be asked in any future research on this piece; this chapter is not about an analysis of the Fantasia Contrappuntistica, but instead it is about demonstrating a way of showing that the link between architectural design and musical form is not as restrictive, in extremis, as the three types of fundamental structure that Schenker (1979) proposes, and neither is it a whimsical sketch that bears no relation to the music. It is a way of understanding a structure that is particular and deliberate to the music. The composer has chosen to use elements of Common Practice structures

Space and structure in metatonal musics  57 (the foundations of a fugue or expected developments of a variation form) but place them together in an idiosyncratic form that combines old and new elements together (both Knyt and Scott develop this thinking in Chapters 7 and 8 respectively). If we continue the analogy of the hotel room, then in this example we find ourselves in a boutique hotel room that still has a floor, four walls and ceiling in which to provide a foundation, set boundaries and an enclosed space, but the layout is strangely familiar without being expected. For example, as we enter the room we are not greeted with the typical bathroom on one side and an open cloakroom on the other but instead with a small living space where two chairs and round table invite the occupant to immediately place their identity in the room by hanging their coat over the first chair they approach. Such a design does not cause us to immediately return to the desk and demand a different room, it rather invites us to consider the space in a way that is not predetermined before our arrival. The dichotomy between form and function is one that has been a consistent narrative in architectural design and one that Bill Hillier has grappled with in his book Space is the Machine (1996). He suggests that ‘through configuration buildings, like organisms, both contain and transmit information’ (p. 303) and that ‘the act of building, through the creation of configuration in space and form, converts these into a single world’ (p. 305). This is a most useful theory to consider, not for only the sake of this chapter but also for metatonal spaces. The composer, in their act of building, configures musical codes and gestures in space and form to contain and transmit information that can be understood by the listener. They are not seeking to prevent the listener from understanding their musical space but rather inviting a collection of imagined listeners to understand the interrelation through musical space. It is the duty of the listener to engage in this space and build a structure from the familiar and reimagined gestures that are experienced in space through time to create a single world. How music is experienced in time is once again a subject that has a long history of consideration by academic authors (Epstein, 1995; Kramer, 1988; London, 2012; Marsden, 2000; Ricœur, 1990).1 However, I would like to return to a book that is now over ten years old, and was driven by the need for an ISBN related publication soon after my PhD where I published a phenomenologically driven theory of music analysis based upon the compositions of Ferruccio Busoni (Fleet, 2009). Within that book I proposed a temporal model that represented the salient moments of the music in two linking axes: one of experience and one of memory. This was taken from the Husserlian model of temporal intentionality (Husserl, 1991) and the original methodology can be found in ­chapter 6 of my 2009 publication. Since then this methodology has been refined. Whilst its underlying principles of generating a ‘Temporal Intentionality Graph’ (TIG) remains, its presentation and its mode of creation has changed. The next few paragraphs will summarize the methodology and show how to create a spatial representation of the musical form, before we consider some case studies.

58  Paul Fleet

Temporal Intentionality Graphs A Temporal Intentionality Graph is really a rather simple concept. To understand the form of a piece of music, we shall consider its configuration in space as experienced through time. This is the ‘Intentionality’ part of the title, an understanding of the active yet holistic connection between the subject and the object and, to quote Husserl from which this theory is based: ‘the meaningful element in each such single act must be sought in the act of experience’ (Husserl, 2001, p. 79). Each graph represents the experience of an imaginary representative listener (there is no claim to a universal truth in this method, but rather a desire to find a common understanding of non-​generic musical structures). The graph has two axes: one is of the memory of the sound and one is of the presentation of sound. This is the ‘Temporal’ element of the title. Both axes run in parallel (a development from the initial methodology where they started from a single point of emergence, and to better show the connections in an equal rather than incremental representation of space) and are read from left to right. Along the axes are segments of material, moments of salience that Lerdahl and Jackendoff (1983) might refer to as divisions of the whole that ‘when confronted with a series of elements or a sequence of events, a person spontaneously segments or ‘chunks’ the elements or events into groups of some kind’ (p. 13). Such moments can consist of rhythmic, melodic, harmonic, dynamic, textural, orchestrational, or a mix of these and other characteristics to create saliency. The labels of the salient moments are shown in this chapter within curly brackets ‘{}’. There are no hard and fast rules for segmentation in this methodology; such a decision is left to the critical listener to make, but we can be reasonably sure that to employ this mode of putting the music into discrete sections there must be a consistent and critical rationale for each action. The lines that connect the salient moments along the axes are those that show recognizable similarity of material or exact repetition. The structure emerges from the density and spatial presentation of these lines along a temporal experience. Gaps between the lines emerge where new materials are heard, dense connections occur where material is repeated and reconsidered in quick succession, and connections are made between structural markers where the repetition of materials act as formal signifiers, such as opening and closing materials. To read this graph is not to identify a set of common structures across metatonal compositions, although we will find some top-​level commonalities, but to reveal the structure of the music that is being considered in a space that can then be discussed in its own terms and analytically unpacked without any need for the catch-​all of ‘moment form’. In 2009 I applied this theory to five representative compositions by Ferruccio Busoni and drew each graph using Microsoft Paint®. Thankfully, since that date and after a chance connection with a young academic studying computing, the task of generating the graph is much easier: https://​tiga​naly​ sis.com/​ For this I am forever grateful to Adam Chatterley who wrote the programme and to Jack Scott who has created the visual design. There is a ‘how to’ section on the opening page of the program and you will note that

Space and structure in metatonal musics  59 it has capabilities for showing harmonic and performance labels in the score, as well as performance tempo levels represented by a constant, thickening or thinning line (between the ranges of 1 and 10). For the moment, let us keep this simple and divide the explanation of how to use the graph into two parts. Firstly, by producing a short graphic analysis of a simple minuet attributed to J. S. Bach (but most likely written by his contemporary, Christian Petzold (Al Bakri, 2018)) that was composed to be a demonstration of keyboard skill and basic theory, and therefore its musical organization is helpfully explicit to this chapter (see Example 4.2). Then, secondly, by considering an imaginary metatonal piece that is 20 bars in length (see Example 4.4).

Example 4.2  Temporal Intentionality Graph of the Minuet in G. Source: Author.

The Minuet in G (BWV Anh. 114) has the typical structure of a piece in binary form: two sections, each contained within 16 bars. However what the graph reveals is something a little more complicated and a representation of the connections between salient moments (see Example 4.3).

Example 4.3  Salient moments from the Minuet in G. Source: Author.

60  Paul Fleet Each of these moments contains a melodic, harmonic, and/​or rhythmic identifier which is aurally significant within the piece. For example, {a} is the opening two-​bar melody that has a distinct harmonically driven melodic-​ pattern moving from the dominant note, with a decorative ascent back to the dominant, before dropping to a repeated tonic; this is rhythmically supported with the dominant note being heard on the strong beats. The material in bars 3 and 4 is an alteration of this pattern as it is recognizably related to the first sounding of this salient moment: there is repetition of the rhythmic elements whilst the melodic elements are stretched away from their dominant harmonic underpinnings. Such logic is true of each sounding of {a}, including its most diverse which is heard at bar 25. This time the harmonic directive is maintained (the dominant dropping to a repeated tonic, although there is quaver neighbour-​note decoration of the tonic) with the melodic skeleton remaining but losing the decorative ascent. There is no true version of {a}, not its first, second, nor last sounding. {a} is to be understood in its collective essentiality, where its recognizable aural (and visual, if consulting the score) traits create the connections (lines on the graph) across the time and experience of the minuet. This process of assigning letters to the salient moments is the subjective element of the analysis, but it must be defendable in terms of its aurality. Rather than go through the logic of each assignation in this well-​known musical piece, I will now look at what the graph reveals beyond the simple structural understanding of it being a piece in binary form. The graph does nothing to deviate from this position of material in two contrasting sections, yet it offers much more. For example, the role of {a} as the main element of the first half is shown by its presence in that section, but it is also important to note that it has a role in tying the sections together as {a} returns in the second half to announce the beginning of the closing of the piece. We can also note the presence of {h} in the second section as a strong, harmonically driven moment that utilizes the leading-​ note motion as a closing gesture and as a linking gesture to the consequent phrases. What the graph gives us in this tonal example is a framework for discussion beyond the generic, externally facing structural descriptors. It does not discount such collective labels but, and as we will find most useful in metatonal musics that defy extroversive structures, it offers more to the understanding of the piece being listened to than connections to others that share such top-​level descriptors. Now let us consider an imaginary metatonal piece of music. It is in the time signature of 38TS2 for ten bars and then 44TS for the next ten; and is divided into nine salient moments that are labelled {a}, {b}, {b1} (as a development of {b}) and {c}. This imagined piece has each salient moment allocated a section timing (with the first ten bars having a constant durational unit of 3 for the quavers and the second ten having a constant duration unit of 8 also for the quavers), and allocated a box with its label for the length of time it is heard within (see Example 4.4).

Space and structure in metatonal musics  61

Example 4.4 Temporal Intentionality Graph of an imagined piece. Source: Author.

In the remarkably simplistic graph above some elements can be seen that represent the form of this imaginary piece. For example, the presence of {a} throughout is its main element, which acts as opening, golden-mean point, and closure; {c} appears to be a mode of preparation for closure in this piece as it occurs just before {a} at bar 11 and bar 20. One might argue then that the form is some kind of section B heavy binary structure, and if we were counting the bars in this graph then it would look so inclined. But as this graph is a representation of the music in time, the relative spatial distance of the 38TS against the 44TS clearly shows that material up to bar 11 is not equal in time and space as the material from bar 11 to bar 20, therefore the label of binary form is not helpful. We might push this even further and say that if we take into account the distancing to scale in the graph, then the piece could be a rounded binary form, with the salient moments outlining an a-​b-​a structure that equates to the {a}-​{b}-​{a} presence. And once again this would be a mistake as it would underplay the importance and recurrence of {c}. In both cases, such descriptions remain unhelpful when we consider that the label of binary form or rounded binary form comes with much Common Practice baggage that then needs to be either accepted or rejected upon investigation of the musical material. A Temporal Intentionality Graph takes a step away from the a priori and instead seeks to represent only what is given in the experience. However, the graph alone is not enough to justify any discussion of form, as an analytic commentary of the music within those salient moments is needed; as it is with many forms of graphic analysis. That said, and as will be explored in the following case studies, a Temporal Intentionality Graph is open enough in its format to represent the spatial identity of a metatonal composition; it seeks to understand a series of musical events in time as a performed structure

62  Paul Fleet that connects what is heard by the listener in between the experience and the memory of the music material, and it converts into a single presentation the configuration of the musical space in a representative form. The next three case studies are chosen as representative examples of metatonal music by composers who may not be as well-​known to a typical concert-​going audience, and to show this methodology working on pieces from a solo instrument to small chamber ensemble. In order of compositional date, the first is Percy Grainger’s ‘Pastoral’ (1916) from his piano suite In a Nutshell that he started composing and orchestrating from 1905 until 1916. The second is Rebecca Clarke’s ‘The Seal Man’ (1922) which sets John Masefield’s prose text for ‘medium-​high voice and piano’. The third and final is the first movement ‘Sand’ (1928) from Mary Howe’s chamber piece Stars and Sand, which the composer described as an ‘imaginative piece on the substance itself’ (D. Indenbaum, 1958).

Case study 1: Percy Grainger, ‘Pastoral’ (1916) for piano The obvious choice, on the surface, for such a potential case study from the composer Grainger, would seem to be his Immovable Do (composed between 1933 and 1939) which uses building blocks of material that centre around the note of ‘C’ in a dialogic manner and does not represent an identifiable form beyond a somewhat distorted binary structure. But the harmony of this piece better fits the description of overtonality (see Chapter 1) that Daniel Harrison identifies, and we are interested in music that is in keeping with our investigation of metatonality. It is important to note that Grainger, who is often known by an imagined concert-​going audience for his setting of English folk tunes, had a compositional side that ranged from overtly tonal and modal folk transcriptions right up to the extreme of his free compositions that were only realized after his death (Classic, 2019). Such was the flex of his compositional range that his composition ‘Pastoral’ comfortably sits within our defined descriptors of metatonal harmony. But not only that, what makes Grainger’s composition a suitable hunting ground for such an inquiry is that the composer ‘continually sought to avoid theoretical blueprints of musical forms that analysts could use for identification’ (Correll, 2009, p. 54). To make this point further and to return to our theme of architectural understandings, in an unpublished address to the American Guild of Organists on 29 December 1952, Grainger used the following subject heading: ‘Musical form freed from unsuitable “architectural” conceptions’ (Grainger, 1999, p. 376). ‘Pastoral’ from In a Nutshell is representative of this avoidance of blueprints and unsuitable architectural conceptions. This piece is one of Percy Grainger’s longest continuous movements. It has no section markings, and its nine minutes of music are differentiated by meter and tempo indications which range from a given number of beats per minute to the direction ‘very free in time’. It is written in a metatonal harmonic language where the central themes and opening melody are defined by F minor harmonies, which are indicative of a Dorian tonal field, at the

Space and structure in metatonal musics  63 beginning of the work to echoes of that same melody heard above and within charging arpeggios and block chords that mix major and minor sound worlds. The choice of the title is a little curious –​to give the impression of scenes of a rural life would seem to be a clear signal, but we should not be misled. Whilst Grainger is indeed using this label in the ‘New English Music’ sense as outlined by Tim Rayborn (2016), the incorporation of a folk melody into the composition is not a faithful translation. For example, in the opening melody, the act of splitting the tune into three phrased sections (labelled {a}, {b} and {c}) makes the flow a little uneven (see Example 4.5). A traditional player would instead more likely use the final note of each phrase not to close the tune but as an upbeat to the next, and therefore the phrasing is counter-​intuitive to the way a performer would naturally understand the melodic structure.

Example 4.5 Bars 1–​4 from ‘Pastoral’. Source: Transcribed by author and reproduced by permission of Schott & Co. Ltd (London).

With this information, that it is not quite a pastoral and that Grainger avoided blueprints in his compositional forms, we now have the permission from the piece to complete a Temporal Intentionality Graph. The graph is quite complex (see Example 4.6) and may take some time to decode, but that is exactly what I shall be doing in the commentary that follows.

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Example 4.6 Temporal Intentionality Graph of ‘Pastoral’.

Space and structure in metatonal musics  65 The piece begins with several consecutive statements of the main theme –​ salient moments {a}, {b} and {c} (see ­example 4.5) –​moving through gradually more developed harmonic surroundings that increasingly blur the early harmonies. By the time the music reaches bar 12, we have heard the main theme three times and it has moved from an F minor sound world to the presentation of {c} amongst the slipping major and minor thirds that characterize metatonal music that quickly moves through potential key areas. While this first section suggests that the composition is going to be about the presentation of this melody, once it begins to transform, it never returns with similarly clear presentations throughout the remainder of the piece. Unlike structural forms that welcome a recapitulation after development, this piece states the pastoral theme and then continues to weave its melodic and harmonic influence through the remaining material. A restatement or recapitulation is not the goal of this music; instead, the piece continues with its unrelenting transformations of material. This is a technique of such compositions where the larger view of a ‘section A’ followed by a ‘section B’ is too large scale to be able to understand the connections that the composer makes in their music, and it is evidence of the need to look at saliency in a composition in smaller moments before abandoning any description to ‘moment form’. From bar 13 two new salient moments are heard. Salient moment {d} is an arpeggiated pattern that is characterized by a rising flurry of thirds and fourths that chromatically inflect on each presentation, whilst {e} is characterized by a stepwise descending pattern of chords, most of which are in second inversion and are characterized by diminished and augmented intervals. It would be a misrepresentation to give a musical example of this material, as each sounding is a textural salient moment rather than an overtly harmonic or melodic salient moment. In other words, the description I give above is more useful than a single representation of its aural presence throughout the work. These chords appear in sequence, and are interspersed with soundings of {c} (shown as {c1} as it is a fragment of the end of the {c} melodic line that is harmonized) until a four-​bar passage breaks this weaving of material. This salient moment has an echo of {a} in its construction, but is aurally significant enough in its own right to be labelled anew (see Example 4.7).

Example 4.7 {f} first shown at bar 21 (note the tail melodic fragment of {a} shown which is heard within this phrase and highlighted with a darker note-​ head in the example). Source: Transcribed by author and reproduced by permission of Schott & Co. Ltd (London).

66  Paul Fleet After this point, {f} is not heard again until the close of the piece, and on thinking of this musical phrase as an intentional experience, we can associate this moment with closure at both a micro and macro level. At the micro level, its inclusion at this point is highlighted by it being the only moment which is heard for a significant period of time, by itself, and not in close repetition. At the macro level, its signification is the connection to the material being the closing sounds of the opening moment. Therefore, not only does it capture the sense of closure through its association to the closing of the first heard moment, but its presence is also heightened by its clear presentation at this point in the experience. As soon as {f} has finished its sounding, a second phase begins with the rippling arpeggios of {d}, signalling the return of the pastoral tune, now heard alongside and interwoven with {d} and {e} as the interplay of harmonic major and minor seconds and thirds moves through harmonies that deliberately avoid any sense of a tonal centre. If this chapter was concerned with a full analysis of the ‘Pastoral,’ it would be wise to unpack this dense metatonal harmony, but as we have another two case studies to consider, and that the purpose of this chapter is consider the spatial setting of the music, it is with some intellectual regret that we cannot explore this further at the moment. The next section of significant structural interest occurs at bar 57, has the performance marking ‘very free in time’, and is at roughly the half-​way point of the music. Whilst the piece has 125 bars and bar 57 is not the half-​way point numerically, it is important to note that the varying time signatures and tempo directions which are used throughout this music mean that bar 57 is roughly at the half-​way point, and the Temporal Intentionality Graph, with its scaled bar sizes and performance directions, means that the image has a more accurate representation than if we were working simply from bar numbers. This may sound obvious, and I apologize if it is, but it must be made clear that the spatial presentation of the music in metatonal compositions is not governed externally by pre-​existing forms. Nor is such music always equally balanced in time signatures, tempo, and performance directions. While the listener may perceive form, they experience the music not as a series of measures but as events that happen in time –​sensing the proportionalities not numerically (as in number of bars) but temporally (as in amount of time elapsed). As such, this information needs to be captured from what is given in the musical experience, and this presented methodology can account for the intentional experience of the music. Bar 57 is therefore a breathing space in the music: it allows the listener to process all the musical information that has been heard up to that point, and its freedom in time suspends the flow of materials with washes of rising arpeggios and descending major and minor thirds. The only element that lightly characterizes the sounding is salient moment {c1}. This closing fragment of the Pastoral’s tune is used in a similar manner to the closing fragment of {a} that we heard at bar 21 when {f} was presented to us. The technique is the same: as the ending phrase of {a} was delicately used within the setting of {f}, so is the closing phrase of {c} used in this section as

Space and structure in metatonal musics  67 an aural signifier that the material just heard has reached a point of closure. But here it is further emphasized by the pace of the music moving into space that is without a consistent time. As this freely timed section finishes, a tempo direction asks the performer to play at a speed which is slightly slower than the first speed and which moves the music into a third phase where materials from the earlier sections return. Significantly, from the last beat of bar 86, {a}, {b}, and {c} return in clear presentations but are supported by rising and falling arpeggios constructed by the now familiar interplay of major and minor thirds alongside perfect and diminished fourths and fifths. To be clear, these returning salient moments are designed to trigger memories of the opening of the piece rather than act as opening signals of a recapitulation section. The piece closes with three presentations of {f} that are heard in the simple, rather than previously compound, time signature of 24TS. The triplet pattern of octaves (shown on the note ‘F’ in Example 4.7) moves towards a tremolando pattern. Its constant repetition is like a bell ringing to signal the end of play-​time. It is heard first in a clear and simple time as quavers that iron out the triplet feel. After an interruption from {d}, again with the instruction ‘Top notes to the fore’ so that they sound striking above the harmonic movements below, a final return to the moment is heard where the tremolando pattern on the note ‘G’ crescendos through to a slowing decrescendo ending on pppp. The thrice repeated pattern is a clear signal of closure in the music and replaces the need for a traditional cadence. It uses both spatial and temporal gestures with a striking pattern coming to a gradual and softened halt. However, Grainger is not finished with this reimagination of Common Practice gestures. The repetition of the note ‘G’ is the structural force that creates closure, but in the final bar the composer cannot help but reframe the I –​V –​I gesture into a movement into the deep voices of the piano: moving from ‘C’ down to ‘G flat’ before playing the lowest ‘C’ of the standard piano range, with the instruction ‘Strike the strings of the piano with a medium-​wound Marimba mallet’. This piece has three distinct sections that are created by the presence of {f} at bar 21 and {c1} at bar 57. It would be wrong, however, to label the movement as being a ternary or a type of rounded binary. Such descriptions are akin to the act of ‘fitting’ an octagon in a round hole (think of the toy which invited the child to fit the correct shape into the correct hole) –​the octagon loses its shape through the process, and there is the unhelpful presumption of the round hole being able to accommodate the octagon. What we experience in this music are three sections that are bespoke to the piece itself. They are woven with the pastorlesque-​tune captured in salient moments {a}, {b}, and {c}, and use the harmonic and melodic structures of {d}, {e}, and {f} to weave a narrative that enables the music to sound coherent and planned without needing a preformed structure. It creates its own architecture as it is performed and has clear enough signals that are adapted from tonal practices to enable the listener to realize that structure in their mind, and which can be

68  Paul Fleet represented by the Temporal Intentionality Graph that enables a fruitful and revealing commentary upon the music itself.

Case study 2: Rebecca Clarke, ‘The Seal Man’ (1922) for medium-​high voice and piano The analyst Deborah Stein writes that this composition ‘mixes tonal elements, particularly the tonally resolving diminished seventh chord, with modal and non-​tonal elements’ (2004, pp. 53–​54), and if ever there was an invitation to consider a piece from a metatonal perspective, it would seem that this second case study offers a perfect opportunity. But not only that, in terms of selecting a work from Rebecca Clarke’s output to consider, we know that she began the piece in January 1922 and completed it (according to her diaries) on 24 January 1924, and, in an interview reflecting upon her work, the composer commented that it was ‘the best song I ever did, I think’ (Lerner, 2004, p. 218). This is justification enough. The piece is a setting of John Masefield’s (1878–​ 1967) ‘A Mainsail Haul’ that was part of a set of prose writings the author composed regarding Gaelic legends of the sea and its people (Babington Smith, 1978). Clarke adapts the wording of the poem rather than setting the words to music, so that Masefield’s original meanings are preserved but are not the driving force of the structure of the music. To note, this is not the first analysis of the piece, as Stein (2004) conducted a discussion of the work that made use of Fortean pitch-​class analysis to unpack the tonal and seemingly atonal elements. I do not seek to replace nor remove any of Stein’s work and talk more about the structure than the harmony per se (as we did with the Grainger case study), but as we shall discover it is difficult to consider one without the other in such works. The time signatures of ‘The Seal Man’ are in constant change from bar to bar but always have a consistent durational denominator of the crotchet beat. As such, and to show the Temporal Intentionality Graph working in a less complicated but still representational way, the bars numbers are no longer accurately represented in this graph. Instead, the material that is heard within a salient moment has been counted in its number of crotchet beats per presentation. For example, the first six bars have the time signature of two bars of 34TS, one bar of 24TS, one bar of 54TS, and then two more bars of 34TS. To show this on the graph, the total number of crotchet beats has been added together to give a count of 19 (see Example 4.8).

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Space and structure in metatonal musics  69

Example 4.8 Temporal Intentionality Graph of ‘The Seal Man’. Source: Author.

70  Paul Fleet The piece begins with the piano sounding moment {a}: a set of rising and falling arpeggios set as sextuplets moving to septuplets with a melodic construction based on a ‘C’ pedal, but with a motion featuring the stepwise progression of ‘A flat’, ‘B’, and ‘C’. This figure is only heard twice more in the piece: once as a fragment at bar 25 where the rising arpeggio in the piano line introduces a play of a minor thirds in a sparsely accompanied vocal section, and again at the close of the piece where the pattern of tuplets is reversed (moving from septuplets to sextuplets) with the movement from ‘B’ to ‘A flat’ under the return of the ‘C’ pedal (see Example 4.9).

Example 4.9 ‘ab’ bar 72–​75 (piano line only. No vocal part in this section) Source: Transcribed by author and reproduced by permission of Boosey & Hawkes Music Publishers Ltd (London).

Just before we move to the structural placement of salient moment {a}, it is worth exploring the closure created in these four bars which does not rely upon a typical Common Practice cadential gesture. The material that opened the piece returns, and in this way the listener is reminded of the start of the musical journey and brings the sound-​world full circle. It is not an exact repeat but instead a fading echo that decelerates in time (moving from quaver motion to crotchet to stasis), descends in registral voice (the way a spoken gesture can signal closure by using lower tones at the end of sentence), and decreases in volume (with diminuendos on each repeated phrase). These three elements signal closure in a way that does not need the external coding of a perfect cadence, but rather through a narrative gesture that slowly fades the music away. Such a technique can be found in many metatonal pieces, as they create closure within the piece by using material from within the piece to decelerate, diminish, descend, decrescendo, etc., which can be recognized as a technique that relies upon the use of introversive material more than it uses extroversive Common Practice gestures. The placement of {a} in this piece is structural. It opens and closes the music, and it is also heard as a fragment where its sparse texture sits in contrast to the density of the piano and vocal line that it precedes and proceeds. However, the music has two other structural markers that are presented on this Temporal Intentionality Graph. The first is salient moment {g} which is heard by itself as a repeated single note of ‘E’ at bar 25 in the piano and then

Space and structure in metatonal musics  71 at bar 59 in the vocal line. These moments act as ellipses (although there are five soundings rather than three dots), creating an audible double-​bar line for the listener. In any calligraphic presentation of music no bar line is ever heard, but a double-​bar line is a signal to the performer that a new section is beginning. These pips are the sonic equivalent of the double-​bar line.3 The second structural salient moment is {e} where it is not the timing of the material that signals a spatial marker but instead the harmonic make-​up of the phrase; but before we explore this we must digress in order to understand {e} in context of the piece as a whole. The majority of the music is based upon richly connected intervals that play with the a priori tonal convention of giving the major second and third preference over minor seconds and thirds in a major key and vice versa. Clarke dislocates such preferences, and we need only look at salient moment {i} to find rippling D major arpeggios and F-​sharp diminished seventh chords underneath a melodic arc that moves comfortably between major and minor intervals that belong to both keys and yet to neither at any particular point (see Example 4.10).

Example 4.10  Analytic reduction of {i}, bars 40–​56 showing the pattern of melodic intervals above a lightly-​held cantus. Source: Created by author and reproduced by permission of Boosey & Hawkes Music Publishers Ltd (London).

The term ‘cantus’ in the example’s descriptor is very loosely used (and I do not mean it in the full species counterpoint sense, but in the association of a underpinning harmonic note) but it does serve as an underpinning as the piano’s sounding of ‘D major’ arpeggios is the primary generator of the major thirds, and the ‘F sharp’ diminished arpeggios give the harmonic authority for the minor thirds. We can see in this reduction that such a harmonic underpinning plays with major and minor thirds spelled from the same first note (being careful not to use the term root-​note for this section as there is no connection to Common Practice tonality), but does so in a structural way: with careful repetition of those notes so that they carry weight underneath the melodic line above. The reduction of the top line is made by

72  Paul Fleet keeping only the first appearance of any consecutively repeated notes and using phrase lines to show the syntax of the vocal line. The presence of minor thirds in the vocal line is not a surprise given our understanding of the construction of a diminished arpeggio and that the upper third of a major triad is a minor interval. However, what is interesting is the placement of these minor thirds which do not relate directly to the intervallic structure of these chords, but which instead sit above them (for example, the motion from the notes ‘B’ to ‘D’ and back again is the movement of a minor third that is not used in either of these piano arpeggiations). As this moment nears the end of its phrase, the melodic line moves into major thirds in an act of word painting as the singer moves from the present tense of two lovers walking towards their watery graves to the reflective setting of love being stronger ‘than the touch of the fool’. The harmonic construction of this section is indicative of the piece as a whole: the careful intervallic use of paired major and minor intervals creates a metatonality that is neither in one key nor two nor three, but instead suspended above the control of key signatures whilst retaining the aural signifier of major and minor soundings. It is within this context that we can now understand why {e} stands out, for the presence of these two linked salient moments is characterized by open perfect fifths in bold descending patterns supported once again by a pedal note (see Example 4.11).

Example 4.11 {e} at bars 57–​58 (piano and vocal line). Source: Transcribed by author and reproduced by permission of Boosey & Hawkes Music Publishers Ltd (London).

Whilst we have necessarily strayed into discussing the harmonic composition of the piece rather than its structure, I hope it will have been understood that in metatonal compositions the two are largely inextricable. Where a pre-​ formatted binary form structure realized into a tonally elegant minuet or a sarabande can be analytically understood as two sections that are driven by reference to Common Practice tonality rather than the composition itself,

Space and structure in metatonal musics  73 Clarke’s composition relies upon internal references to create its balanced structure. The guiding hand of Masefield’s prose is present in the phrasing of the song, but the structure of the composition is most firmly the composer’s. ‘The Seal Man’ can be understood as a composition that begins with {a} and {b} setting the out the musical characters of a ‘C’ pedal and a stepwise melodic motion from ‘A flat’ up to ‘C’ which has four roughly equal sections (see Example 4.12). The first section closes with the bare fifths of {e}, and the second closes with the melodic punctuation of {g}, and the third, almost developmental, section draws to a close with {e} and {g} being heard in succession, as if to emphasize it was these two musical elements that were used to previously draw to an end defined but not concluded sections, before the final section returns to those opening moments of {a} and {b} and where the rising melodic pattern is now a descending interval slowing coming to a halt. It is the density of the lines on the Temporal Intentionality Graph which gives us the clue to its structure. These sections reveal themselves in an intentional listening of the music which can be transcribed onto a graph that then invites the listener/​analyst to explore what it is in the musical material that is spatially perceived yet cannot be understood through tonally conventional means.

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Example 4.12 Structural annotation of the Temporal Intentionality Graph for ‘The Seal Man’. Source: Author.

Space and structure in metatonal musics  75

Case study 3: Mary Howe, Sand (1928) for chamber ensemble Our final case study is deliberately chosen, not only because it is from a composer who is most under-​represented, but also because its content is one that would be resistant to traditional forms of melodic and harmonic analysis. Mary Howe was at the forefront of ensuring that the works of women composers were being heard. Alongside Amy Beach, she helped set up and organize the Society of American Women Composers in 1925, and was a significant part of the Women composers’ concerts that were held for Eleanor Roosevelt at the White House between 1934 and 1936. However, research into this composer is limited. Very few publications examine her music, and those that do are predominantly from one author. The preceding information is not justification for Howe’s inclusion in this chapter (for that would be patronizing), but instead show that there is much work still to be done to equally acknowledge the compositions of composers of all genders (binary and non-​ binary) in analytic musicology. While rehearsing the piece, Leopold Stokowski wrote to the composer: ‘I enjoyed so much conducting your short but masterful work. I have had much pleasure in rehearsing it and it has developed in me a new conception of staccato’ (Indenbaum, 1958). This letter to the composer reveals more than an admiration for a technique. Many musical elements could have been selected for comment by the conductor, but he chose a performance technique rather than an element of pitch or rhythm. This highlighting of a technique is not just because the majority of the composition relies upon staccato in the string or woodwind sections, but also because the pitches chosen for the melodies and harmonies are not tonally constructed. To be blunt, we are not left with a singable tune nor an easily repeated harmonic pattern after listening to the piece due to its use of melodic and harmonic minor seconds colouring the composition. Howe described the music as an ‘imaginative piece on the substance [sand] itself… what it appears to be when sifting through your fingers on the shore’ (Indenbaum, 1958). This gives us a clue as to why the staccato technique is so featured. It representatively breaks the phrasing of the material into the smallest possible units of the substance: the grains of sand being individual notes. These individual notes are accompanied with connected legato phrases –​for it is not a piece of musical pointillism –​but they are not the main feature, and one might argue that the long smooth phrases represent the collective movement of the individual units, or at least highlight through contrast the individuality of the notes moving across space and time. Its melodic and harmonic style (as terms used in the broadest sense) are a key to understanding Howe’s mode of composition which she called ‘ “spanning and bridging”, a style of composition reaching from the past through to the contemporary’ (Indenbaum & Oja, 2001). This descriptor of the piece by the composer and the evidence presented above is justification enough to consider this piece as being metatonal and to use it as a case study for demonstrating the value of spatial analysis in a Temporal Intentionality Graph (see Example 4.13).

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Example 4.13 Temporal Intentionality Graph of Sand. Source: Author.

Space and structure in metatonal musics  77 The piece begins with the triplet rhythm sounded on the rim of a snare drum. The salient moment is shown on the graph as {z}, and is represented by a dotted line. This is not only because the connections of the moments are incredibly dense and the dotted line helps show this important structural moment, but also because we can use this to graphically represent the rhythmic rather than melodic nature of the musical material. The rhythm of the element finds itself in two further salient moments –​{a} and {c}, see Example 4.14) –​and we will discuss these in due course but, to concentrate upon {z}, its placement at the beginning is more than a knock at the door of the piece.

Example 4.14 The five musical salient moments of Sand presented in their first hearing. Source: Transcribed by author and reproduced by permission of ECS Publishing (Missouri).

The rhythm carries structural and therefore spatial signification in its orchestration (either heard on an percussive or melodic instrument) as it is heard in structurally significant places (1) after the main musical elements have all been presented for the first time at bar 12 (just before the composer’s rehearsal mark ‘2’ on the score), (2) after the full chamber ensemble have finished sounding all of the musical material to be heard in this composition at bars 20 and 21 (just before the composer’s rehearsal mark ‘3’ on the score), (3) as the orchestration begins to thicken out at bars 37–​38 (just before the composer’s rehearsal mark ‘5’ on the score), (4) after the loudest collective presentation of the music descending through the registers of the string section at bars 64–​65 (and before the composer’s rehearsal mark ‘9’ on the score), and (5) finally at the close of the piece where the melodic material gives way to the characteristic triplet rhythm that first opening the music. This rhythmic element is therefore a deliberately placed, sonically structural marker given its occurrence

78  Paul Fleet after important musical sections. Its alignment with the composer’s rehearsal marks reveals an almost Fibbonacian-​style sequence (1, 2, 3, 5, and 9) which creates mathematically related lengths of sections that are heard not in terms of the equally placed rehearsal marks (they occur roughly every 7 to 8 bars), but instead as a gradually expanding space that is being progressively filled with increasingly orchestrated musical material.4 This salient structural moment has two further transformations that are heard in succession. The first is {a}, which is where the rhythm gains a melodic contour that is characterized by minor second ornamentation, and the second is {c} where the range of the interval is expanded to become ambiguous or ‘bridging’ triads that could be understood in individual triplets (in Example 4.12 we might label as ‘Am’, ‘Fm’, ‘Am7/​no third’ and ‘Fm7/​no fifth’). The movement between ‘Am’ and ‘Fm’ is not a tonally driven relation (at best it might be considered a leading-​tone relation in Neo-​Riemannian theory (Cohn, 1998)) but we need only consider the voice leading to see that the upper voice of each triad slips and slides carefully around a stepwise motion rather than being a tonal juxtaposition of key or chord areas. This is true for the further examples in the piece. As {a} preserves its semitonal ornamentation of the triplet through the music, each presentation of moment {c} could be perceived as hinting towards prior tonal construction of chords but does its best to avoid any direct relation by concentrating more upon individual voice-​leading in minor second steps across the three voices rather than forming any coherence as a tonally related sequence. The development of the triplet rhythm {z}, through the repetition its semitonal movement {a}, to its arpeggiated presentations {c}, not only increases in range but also in orchestration as it moves from the percussion section, to the wind section, to the string section, to both, and then into the whole ensemble in the moments leading up to rehearsal fi ­ gure 9 (bar 65) where the triplet rhythm on a single pitch returns and descends through the registers of the string section to draw this 65 bar development to a close. Accompanying this musical material is a contrasting element. Whilst the staccato rhythm of the triplets, as noted by Stokowski as a key feature, is developed across the ensemble, it is complemented by a smooth harmonic pattern that is either heard in long minims, moment {b}, or in connected crotches separated by rests, moment {d}. The motion between these harmonies once again avoids tonal reference and plays more with voice leading connections in stepwise movement and intervallic distances that avoid the major and minor thirds. Much like the harmonic construction of {a} and {c}, one could over-​read the tonal connotation of the construction (looking at the presentation of {b} in Example 4.12, we could read a progression of Am /​Fm /​C major/​flat 5 /​G minor and F5) but we would miss the intentional complexity of the voice-​ leading descending through these chords, and we would fail to acknowledge the later presentations where minor second inflections are used to continually throw us off any tonal scent.

Space and structure in metatonal musics  79 Whilst the presentation of {b} and {d} is not as prominent as the moments {a} and {c}, they are heard in contrast, firstly in the opening bars and then within the melodic motion of the triplet driven material. They follow the same harmonic logic, they work in the ensemble both within the instrument families (for example, as {a} is heard in the upper strings at bar 25–​26, {b} is heard in the lower strings) and across the ensemble as a whole (for example, as {a} is heard in the ‘cellos and bassoon at bars 41–​42, {d} is heard in the flute, oboe, clarinet, and violins), and their presence is never heard without association to moments {a} and {c}. However, they are as the ‘straight man’ is to the comedian in a double act: their importance can be easily overlooked but without their presence the overall effect would be much weaker. There is only one last salient moment to discuss in this piece and it is one that helps explain the structure of the piece in terms of the density of connections which increases until bar 49, where it is heard prominently after its first two unobtrusive soundings. Moment {e} is a melodic line, almost a scale, in each of its presentations. It takes the character of linear movement heard in the harmonic presentation of {b} and {d} and stretches this across a single instrument. When we hear it first at bar 29, it is amongst the soundings of {a] and {b}, and its French horn melody is almost lost within the texture of {b} of its related woodwind instruments. At bar 41 it is heard again in the French horn, but amongst the whole chamber ensemble sounding presentations of {a} and {d}. It is no theard again until bar 49, where it emerges from the soft middle registers of the horn and moves into the upper ranges of the flute. Its gradual emergence as a salient moment has been camouflaged within textures that have been using the granularity of {a}, {b}, {c}, and {d} to create an ever developing tapestry of sounds in a continually increasing orchestration and dynamic. When it is heard prominently at bar 49, it signals the beginning of the end of this development of musical material with its lyrical nature and vaguely tonal scalic nature acting in opposition to the fragmentation of material that has gone before. Moment {e} is heard again in bars 57 and 60 in an increasingly obvious presentation, and whilst the general movement of the music moves towards its structural climax –​as previously noted –​at rehearsal mark 9 (bar 65), this moment which is heard from bar 60–​63 soars above the material (see Example 4.15) and aids the closing of the layered salient moments by providing a fixed melodic line that the return to {z} at bar 64 emerges from.

Example 4.15 {e} at bars 60-​63 (flute). Source: Transcribed by author and reproduced by permission of ECS Publishing (Missouri).

80  Paul Fleet This figure announces the return of the main protagonist in its earliest form by its cross-​cutting presentation, in a way that is similar to a calm voice continually seeking to quieten the increasing noise of a crowd but gradually has to increase its presence to allow for the one who began the conversation to return to their main point. This is how the piece closes, with the motion of material in its fragmented and connecting forms reaching its most developed point. The gradual surfacing of {e} calls this movement to a halt, and the return of {z} creates closure as a moment that is heard three times in preparation, suspension, and then resolution across the soundings of {a}, {b}, and {c}. The preparation of {z} is heard at bar 64 in its single-​note melodic presentation emerging from the climax of material. The suspension of {z} is at bar 72, where it carries through the next three bars as a minor second interval in the violins; its dissonance provides the suspension. The resolution of {z} in the final bar is facilitated by the developed presentation of {a}. Moment {a1} begins at bar 72 where the rhythmically important triplet figure no longer acts as an ornament fluctuating between minor second, but is now a rising pattern moving from the bassoon, through the clarinet to the flute. This three bar ascent is not melodic in the sense of a heard tune, but a movement in action of the staccato rhythm rising towards an important point, a point of closure. After this reimagined structure of closing which uses the principles of tonal codes but not tonality itself, a single note on the triangle carefully brackets the final rise of the violin’s ascent creating an emphasis to the rhythm which began the piece. The construction of this piece is complicated yet its structure is not. If we were to approach this from a tonally or post-​tonally driven perspective, we would not have a meaningful understanding of its structure being composed of the interaction of the elements across the work as a whole, and not as might have been presumed a developing harmonic experience. Similarly, if we were to have approached this from a purely motivic perspective, we may well have reached a similar conclusion to the narrative analysis provided above, but we would not have had the overarching context of the graph that showed the spatial connections. The piece can be understood as the composer suggested: as sand running through our hands and falling to the beach below. A handful is picked up in the first few bars, and the rhythmic energy of the staccato triplets signals its slow slippage through the gaps between our fingers. As the sand falls more quickly and in greater volume, the materials of the composition increase but do not fully unify into a mass (the individual moments retain their presence by their individual characteristics but remain connected by recurring rhythms and semitonal construction in the voices). Slowly a sensation of flow is experienced as the sand falls steadily, represented by the melodic line of {e}; but as soon as it does, the sand begins to run out and the flow quickly dries up so that we become aware of the individual moments/​grains again. This would all seem to indicate one long presentation in space, were it not for the placement of these elements as structural markers

Space and structure in metatonal musics  81 to the experience. We cannot and should not try and fit such a piece into a Common Practice structure, neither should we be content with calling it ‘moment form’. The piece informs us of its structure in its intentional experience, and can be seen by considering the Temporal Intentionality Graph. The staccato rhythm, represented by the dotted line and the emergence of {e}, creates structural markers that help define the aurally significant elements of the music and provide a structure in space. Alongside these fixed points of recognition are the partially mathematical yet musically constructed series of {z} that create a forward moving organically driven form which is specific to the piece. As the piece progresses the increasing size of the sections could be argued to represent the increasing flow of sand falling through the opening fingers. It is this flow of materials that can be seen in the density of the lines on the graph and used to explore the material without falling into the trap of presuming a blank canvas or a preformed structure.

Revealing the architecture of metatonal music The above case studies have elements in common, but as was said earlier, that should not be taken out of context. Yes, there are common characteristics of metatonal harmonies (for example, the interplay of major and minor seconds and thirds), but these are elements that inhabit the space of the music and here we are more concerned with the architecture of the space that those elements create internally. Returning to the boutique hotel room that began the chapter, we still know that this is a hotel room that we can inhabit and occupy even though the placements of the items may not be in a familiar pattern, nor may those items be totally familiar in their design but instead are transparent in their function. For example, if there is an object which has a platform that is roughly under half the height of an average adult and is supported with vertical posts that keep it stable on the floor then it is a chair; even though it might not have the typical four legs at each corner of the platform, a soft leatherette padding, and a back rest. In short, if we think of mid-​century modern furniture and twentieth-​century decorative arts these pieces of furniture do not look much like chairs, but their function is nonetheless apparent. How we understand those elements in time which create the architectural space is through an open reading of reimagined Common Practice codes and gestures. For example, and as was found in each case study, the sense of closure was created through the same method as a tonally constructed cadence, but with its extroversive melodic and harmonic associations suspended. What sits above a perfect cadence is the sense of motion (preparation) being held at a point of interest (tension) before coming to rest on elements that are familiar to the piece (resolution). For a perfect cadence in a Common Practice setting, the movement from the prior harmony to the re-​established chord I is the preparation, the expression of chord V uses the harmonic tension of a dominant wanting to move back to the tonic, and that anticipated move back to the tonic forms the resolution when it arrives. Metatonal music has the

82  Paul Fleet freedom to move outside of these tonally constructed harmonic movements and lifts the tonal association away from the movement. In each case study, closure was created by the interplay of familiar elements that we had heard in repeated structural settings (replacing the need for a tonic chord), that were then held in suspense through temporal or textural presentations (replacing the need for a dominant), before coming to a rest with decreased, diminished, decelerated, and other musically related ‘de-​’ words. The prefix is important here, as its etymological root is one of ‘coming away from’ or when added to a noun or verb shows that the opposite process is in play. In each case the material that helps bring the moment to a stop is through the prior activity being halted by the use of the same materials in a different way. This is an openness, a request to engage in an intentional experience with the music, and it is one that enables such metatonal musics to be understood. Temporal Intentionality Graphs support an introversive reading of the musical elements: they rely upon the listener to unpack their spatial presentation, and –​to paraphrase Hillier –​they convert the configuration of space and form into a single world by being able to contain the transmitted and active information from the composer to the listener. The graphs are dynamic interpretations of the performance and the listener’s mapping of the connections made between experience and memory. It is hoped that the methodology behind these graphs are flexible enough to be used by anyone vested in the analysis of music. To be clear, there would be little point in using this technique on a piece which exhibited such a strong Common Practice structure but I would not confine such a method only to metatonal compositions. As a general principle, to approach a piece of metatonality with an idea of a preformed structure is to prepare to ignore the intentional experience of the music. As representative musics of this period, the composers of these case studies have signalled in their writing a desire to avoid blueprints or write music that bridged elements of old within the new, and that is not unusual in the composers that are featured in this book. What is therefore being proposed in this chapter is to invite you to consider this methodology for compositions that would otherwise seem resistant to predetermined forms, and instead not ask why they are resistant but allow them to inform you of their performed structure. By doing so, the moments that are comprehended by the imagined listener can be charted through space, connected through time, and ultimately plotted onto a Temporal Intentionality Graph to reveal the space and structure of metatonal musics.

Notes 1 This is not intended as an exhaustive nor representative list, merely a starting place for the curious from books that I have valued and that sit on the shelf behind me. 2 38TS is a short-​hand for the simple triple quaver Time Signature. This convention will be used throughout the chapter.

Space and structure in metatonal musics  83 3 Before we get too carried away with these metaphors it is worth pointing out that the time-​keeping signal of the six pips was first aired by the BBC in 1924, two years after the composition of this piece (Pollard, 2020). 4 It should underscored that this mathematical analogy is not perfect in terms of number of bars nor rehearsal marks to be an exact Fibonacci sequence, however that does not detract from understanding the more than coincidental association between the sounding of the rhythm and sections that gradually increase by a formula that does not confine the spacing of the material but expands in a pattern associated with nature.

References Al Bakri, T. (2018). J.S. Bach’s ‘Anna Magdalena’ as a basic tool for the development of beginner pianists. Journal of Educational and Social Research, 8: 2, 61. Babington Smith, C. (1978). John Masefield: A Life. Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press. Boyd, M. (2001). B–​A–​C–​H. In. Grove Online. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Classic, A. (2019). Percy Grainger’s synthesisers [YouTube]. Retrieved from www. youtube.com/​watch?v=​tYAaHG4cRkA Cohn, R. (1998). Introduction to neo-​Riemannian theory: a survey and a historical perspective. Journal of Music Theory, 42, 167–​180. Correll, P. A. (2009). Percy Grainger’s Wind Band Setting of the Immovable Do: Its History and Analysis. (Doctor of Musical Arts). University of Oklahoma, SHAREOK. Retrieved from https://​shareok.org/​handle/​11244/​320312 Dahlhaus, C. (1966). The Man Trap [television series episode]. In Daniels, M. (Executive producer), Star Trek: The Original Series. Hollywood, California: 1. Dahlhaus, C. (1989). The Idea of Absolute Music. Chicago; University of Chicago Press. Daniels, M. (Executive producer), Star Trek: The Original Series. Hollywood, California: 1. Epstein, D. (1995). Shaping Time: Music, the Brain, and Performance. London: Prentice Hall International. Fleet, P. (2009). Ferruccio Busoni: A Phenomenological Approach to his Music and Aesthetics. Cologne, Germany: Lambert Academic Publishing. Grainger, P. (1999). Grainger on Music (M. Gillies & B. Clunies Ross eds). Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hepokoski, J. A. & Darcy, W. (2006). Elements of Sonata Theory: Norms, Types, and Deformations in the Late Eighteenth-​Century Sonata. New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hillier, B. (1996). Space Is the Machine: A Configurational Theory of Architecture. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Husserl, E. (1991). On the Phenomenology of the Consciousness of Internal Time (1893–​1917) (J. B. Brough, trans.). Dordrecht and London: Kluwer Academic. Husserl, E. (2001). Logical Investigations (J. N. Findlay, trans. Vol. 1). London and New York: Routledge. Indenbaum, D. (1958). Sleeve notes from ‘Mary Howe: American Masters’. New York: Schirmer (ASCAP). Indenbaum, D. & Oja, C. (2001). Howe, Mary. In Grove Music Online. www. oxfordmusiconline.com/​grovemusic/​view/​10.1093/​gmo/​9781561592630.001.0001/​ omo-​9781561592630-​e-​0000049205.

84  Paul Fleet Kingsbury, B. (2006). From Bach to Busoni: Transcription as Visionary Process in Ferruccio Busoni’s Fantasia Contrappuntistica. (Doctor of Musical Arts). University of British Columbia, Retrieved from https://​open.library.ubc.ca/​cIRcle/​collections/​ ubctheses/​831/​items/​1.0105404 Kramer, J. D. (1988). The Time of Music: New Meanings, New Temporalities, New Listening Strategies. New York and London: Schirmer Books London: Collier Macmillan Publishers. Lerdahl, F. & Jackendoff, R. (1983). A Generative Theory of Tonal Music. Cambridge, Mass.; London: MIT Press. Lerner, E. D. (2004). Musicologist Ellen D. Lerner interviews Rebecca Clarke, 1978 and 1979. In: L. Curtis (ed.), A Rebecca Clarke Reader (pp. 203–​224). Bloomington, Ind.: Indiana University Press. London, J. (2012). Hearing in Time: Psychological Aspects of Musical Meter (2nd edn). Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press. Marsden, A. (2000). Representing Musical Time: A Temporal-​Logic Approach. Lisse and Abingdon: Swets & Zeitlinger Publishers. Pollard, J. (2020). The eccentric engineer: a tale of six pips and how the BBC became the national arbiter of time. Retrieved from https://​eandt.the​iet.org/​cont​ent/​artic​ les/​2020/​02/​the-​eccent​ric-​engin​eer-​a-​tale-​of-​six-​pips-​and-​how-​the-​bbc-​bec​ame-​ the-​natio​nal-​arbi​ter-​of-​time/​#:~:text=​The%20’pips’%20w​ere%20fi​rst%20tran​smit​ ted,and%20s​ent%20t​hem%20a%20b​ill. Rayborn, T. (2016). A New English Music: Composers and Folk Traditions in England’s Musical Renaissance from the Late 19th to the Mid-​20th Century. North Carolina: MacFarland. Ricœur, P. (1990). Time and Narrative. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Rosen, C. (1980). Sonata Forms (3rd [print] edn). New York: W.W. Norton. Schenker, H. & Oster, E. (1979). Free Composition (der freie Staz). [S.l.]: Longman. Small, C. (1998). Musicking: the Meanings of Performing and Listening. Hanover and London: University Press of New England. Stein, D. (2004). ‘Dare seize the fire’: An introduction to the songs of Rebecca Clarke. In: L.Curtis (ed.), A Rebecca Clarke Reader (pp. 43–​ 78). Bloomington, Ind.: Indiana University Press.

5  Carl Nielsen’s musical vitalism Christopher Tarrant

It is a well-​known fact that Carl Nielsen was an outspoken critic of Wagner’s music. Nielsen expressed this critique in his writings and especially in his compositions as he set himself apart from the Austro-​Germanic mainstream by forging distinctive and original approaches to tonality and syntax. Even this statement –​apparently a truism –​is complicated by the important early influence he drew from members of the Leipzig School. To mention only two of these, as a student he looked to Brahms and continued to admire his music throughout his career. The two men met in Vienna in 1894 where they discussed, among other things, a score of Nielsen’s recently completed First Symphony. He also drew influence from Niels Gade, another Leipzig graduate who later became director of the Copenhagen Conservatory where Nielsen studied. Carl Nielsen’s critique of Wagner bears a striking resemblance to the diagnosis of musical degeneracy made by Max Nordau in Entartung (1895), exactly at the time that Nielsen was coming to maturity as a composer. Although the two figures may seem at best unrelated and at worst at odds, a comparison of Nodrau’s and Nielsen’s responses to Wagner is helpful in developing our understanding of the latter’s approach to the nineteenth-​century symphonic inheritance –​a tradition that Nielsen strove to continue –​and especially his development of a distinctive harmonic idiolect in the decades around 1900. Vitalism (the theory that life is dependent on a force or principle distinct from purely physical or chemical phenomena) has become a key point of reference in the last ten years (Fjeldsøe 2009, 2010; Grimley 2010) for our understanding of Nielsen’s compositions and writings. While recent studies have focused on Nielsen’s well-​known aphorism, ‘music is life’, it is timely now to make a reassessment of his vitalist tendencies. This chapter situates Nielsen’s literary and musical output as a double-​rejection of on the one hand a conservative approach to absolute music, and on the other hand the perceived decadence and degeneration of the late nineteenth century that resulted not least from Nietzsche’s critique of Wagner as well as the writings of reactionaries such as Nordau. This manifested itself in various ways, which extend to Nielsen’s direct attacks on Wagner in his musical writings; his understanding of the creation of artworks and life in the natural world as two sides of the DOI: 10.4324/9780429451713-5

86  Christopher Tarrant same coin; his appeals to physical health and musical health being in close relation; admiration of ancient Greek art and culture; closeness with nature in his autobiographical Min Fynske Barndom (My Childhood on Funen); and crucially his musical output, in which the vitalist aesthetic is embedded. I am minded to be cautious in pursuing such an idea as vitalism with regard to Nielsen’s output, especially since in doing so I open myself up to the long-​ standing critical shortcoming that Anne-​Marie Reynolds recently described, namely that Over the years, Nielsen’s style has been characterized by a number of equivocal catchwords. For example, it is frequently posited, even by the composer himself, that his music is ‘organic’, not in any specific sense, but broadly and vaguely meaning that it unfolds in a manner analogous to the growth of a living organism –​a characteristic, it would seem, of everything from rhythm to form. (Reynolds, 2010, p. 38) To my mind, vitalism is a useful aesthetic category for discussion of Nielsen’s outlook and output, and my hope is that by the end of this chapter it will have been sufficiently defined as to escape the criticism of being a mere catchword. The opposite side of the problem, one identified by Fjeldsøe, is the perception that to define musical vitalism through analysis is a trap to be avoided. This trap is partly the result of a wider problem in vitalist aesthetics, notably in painting and sculpture, that Hvidberg-​Hansen and Oelsner identified, namely that ‘Vitalist art … relates –​although in very different ways –​ to “life” and to nature’s immanent life-​force. Vitalism cannot, like Realism, Impressionism and Symbolism, just to mention a few examples of the many stylistic directions of the period, be demarcated on the basis of any purely stylistic or formal characteristics, since Vitalist works have stylistic features from both academic-​classicist art and from the formal repertoire of modernism’ (2011, p. 16). For now, let it suffice to say that my aim is not to provide a catch-​all definition of musical vitalism –​a task that would demand significantly more space than is available here –​but to observe Nielsen’s music through a vitalist lens with the aim of focusing our attention on new ways of thinking about his output, his approach to tonality, form, and syntax, and his place as an early modernist. It would be simplistic to understand vitalism as being in crude opposition to late-​nineteenth-​century ideas of decline and degeneration. It may be tempting to point out the contrast between, for example, social degeneration resulting from urbanization and technological advancement and the vitalist predilection for a return to a harmonious, bucolic nature. Rather, it is beneficial to see the two ideas as sides of the same coin. In both cases, the cultural and aesthetic debates that were emerging in the 1890s were drawn initially from medical theory that had been developed decades earlier. In the case of degeneration theory, this was pioneered early on by Bénédict A. Morel in his

Carl Nielsen’s musical vitalism  87 Traite des dégénérescences (1857) but would only become a cultural or aesthetic concern three decades later. Vitalism arguably has a much more deep-​ rooted pedigree. Hans Driesch, in his 1914 study The History and Theory of Vitalism, traces it back through Schopenhauer and Kant, through the renaissance and all the way to antiquity with Aristotle as the historical anchor. Delving deeper into the specifically musical ramifications of degeneration theory, we can find yet more complications, not least the problem that, as Nordau argued, degeneration, which was perceived to be a threat to the health of individuals and the healthy aspects of society, would then be manifested in music, art, and literature as a direct threat to traditional aesthetic styles and techniques;1 however, the current of vitalism that was emerging in northern Europe around the same time, whose practitioners were often at odds with the kinds of works that Nordau was objecting to, thought of themselves as modernists and can hardly be credited with defending the sorts of styles and techniques with which Nordau was so concerned. Indeed, the idea of atavism in society and in art, which Nordau so lamented, seems to come across very strongly in the vitalist aesthetic –​certainly in painting and sculpture, but also, I’d propose, in music, with Nielsen’s instrumental works containing some important examples. Nordau’s attempt to harness the authority of science, and particularly medical science, through the identification of so-​ called ‘stigmata’ –​the markers of degeneracy as observed in physical, behavioural, and later aesthetic characteristics –​found many objects of focus including schools such as the French symbolists and the pre-​Raphaelites as well as individual artists and writers as diverse as Oscar Wilde, Henrik Ibsen,2 Friedrich Nietzsche, and Leo Tolstoy. Indeed, on reading Nordau’s Entartung (1892) it seems almost as if no nineteenth-​century creative mind could escape his gaze. Nordau considered Wagner to be the degenerate par excellence, not least because of his sustained project of bringing the different art forms together in the Gesamtkunstwerk, thereby allowing neither music nor poetry to flourish independently. It is in Wagner’s music-​dramas that Nordau identifies two important musical stigmata of degeneracy, namely leitmotif (in which the classical processes of motivic development and developing variation are replaced with the fixed musical symbol), and unending melody (which violates the classical principles of balance and closure). It was these markers of degeneracy that led Nordau to brand Wagner ‘the last mushroom on the dunghill of romanticism’ (2016 [1892], p. 72). Perhaps, therefore, Nordau might have approved of the vitalist aesthetic as it has been categorized by Michael Fjeldsøe, who has done as much as anyone to argue for a vitalist understanding of Nielsen, namely as ‘art dedicated to the aesthetic of vitality, health, youth and strength’ (2010, p. 27) in contrast to ‘weakness, effeminacy, affectation, or unnaturalness’ (2010, p. 35), all categories which Nordau attributed to Wagner. Given that there is seemingly no expression of modernism that could escape Nordau’s attacks in the 1890s it seems unlikely that he would have approved of the sorts of progressive compositional practices that Nielsen was engaging in, particularly to

88  Christopher Tarrant do with tonality. Most crucially, Nielsen would have been in the firing line for charges of atavism, which was for Nordau a key ingredient of degeneracy.3 One only has to hear the rhythmic pulses at the opening of Nielsen’s Third Symphony (the Sinfonia Espansiva) to perceive something primal or elemental at work. Furthermore, Nielsen was closely associated with the current of symbolism, especially in the 1890s, which reacted against the realism and naturalism of the 1880s (Jensen, 1991), and this is one of the currents in French literature that Nordau found particularly problematic (Nordau, 2016, Book II, §3). It therefore comes as a surprise that Nielsen’s comments about Wagner are scarcely distinguishable from Nordau’s. One of the most interesting intersections between Carl Nielsen’s vitalist tendencies and Max Nordau’s diagnosis of musical degeneracy can be found in their, apparently independent, arrival at Wagner as an object of attack. In this context, Fanning’s observation that ‘[Nielsen’s] initial enthusiasm for Wagner soon cooled’ (1995, p. 352) would seem to be an understatement. In 1909 Nielsen complained that ‘We are experiencing a strange, impotent, abnormal tendency to mix the arts one with another … a queer, emasculate desire to see monsters. The general confusion of ideas which prevails on this point is best seen from the fact that terms like music in painting, colour in music, pictorial effect in sculpture, and architecture in poetry are no longer just figures of speech but are taken quite literally by artists striving, in the sweat of their desperate brows, to express the essence of one art in the medium of another … it is an unmistakable sign that we are at the bottom in a period of decline. It’s time to go up!’ (Nielsen, 1968 [1909, 1925], p. 26). His objections were later intensified in an essay entitled ‘Musical Problems’, published in 1922, in which he wrote: The following theme from Wagner’s Ring seems ugly and dated, the more so since it was composed in all seriousness in the grand manner … It is the taste, the überschwängliche and unwholesome, in Wagner’s theme that is intolerable. The only cure for this sort of taste lies in studying the basic intervals. The glutted must be taught to regard a melodic third as a gift from God, a fourth as an experience, and a fifth as the supreme bliss. Reckless gorging undermines the health. We thus see how necessary it is to preserve contact with the simple original. (Nielsen, 1953 [1927], p. 51, see Example 5.1)

Example 5.1 Wagner’s ‘Brünnhilde’ motif.

Carl Nielsen’s musical vitalism  89 This sort of remark is characteristic of Nielsen’s more general concern for ideas of musical health. He wrote in his diary entry of 12 March 1893 that ‘I’m playing Bach every day at present. It’s almost as though one becomes stronger and healthier from Bach; yes, both spiritually and physically’ (Fanning and Assay, 2017, p. 101), and Fanning has also observed that ‘Nielsen’s opinions on his contemporaries frequently hinged on whether he felt their music to be “healthy” ’ (Fanning, 1995, p. 352). Soon after the completion of Musical Problems he wrote to his friend William Behrend in even more emphatic terms about the Brünnhilde motif, suggesting that his objection was not merely a passing dislike but a more fundamental revulsion: As you well know, I’m not so fond of Wagner. Indeed he shrinks more and more for me, and now the worms are even beginning to feed on those things in Die Meistersinger that I used to prize so much … I can’t disguise that there are motifs in Wagner that are not only without interest for me but which I find positively repulsive [‘widerlige’]. One such is the Brünnhilde motif, which I cite in my article [Musikalske Problemer] as an awful example. (Fanning and Assay, 2017, p. 536) Clearly the close relationship between musical, physical, and spiritual health was something that concerned Nielsen for much, if not most, of his life. A key aspect of vitalism is the idea of opposing forces. It is not simply a life-​affirming aesthetic, but one that assembles forces in a precarious balance. This was something Nielsen claimed specifically about music in a 1922 interview for the Danish daily newspaper Politiken. When asked by the journalist Axel Kjerulf what title he had given to his newly composed Fifth Symphony, he replied ‘Nothing. My First Symphony was untitled. But then came “The Four Temperaments”, “The Espansiva” and “The Inextinguishable”, actually just different names for the same thing, the only thing that music in the end can express: resting forces in contrast to active ones [de hvilende Kræfter i Modsætning til de aktive]’ (Fanning, 1997, p. 97).4 Similarly in his own writings, especially his autobiographical Min Fynske Barndom, we find a mixture of peaceful, idyllic imagery evocative of an idealized, bucolic vision of rural Funen life on one hand, and on the other a number of traumatic and harrowing experiences observed through a child’s eyes. An example of this appears about a third of the way into the book as Nielsen recounts his memories of a butcher visiting the family home to slaughter a pig: The blood squirted at first on to Mother’s hands, but she at once caught the thick jet in the pail. Mother seemed to me to change into someone else; I was sick at heart and went into the garden. Gradually the screams became weaker and less frequent, and I imagined that when all the blood had run out the animal would no longer be able to squeal. Turning to go

90  Christopher Tarrant back to the cottage, I saw that the sun had risen. It was blood-​red, and my eyes dazzled with all the red I had seen. (Nielsen, 1968, p. 51) This is a clear demonstration of how vitalism should not be understood simplistically as a purely life-​affirming aesthetic, but rather it is concerned with the immediacy and transience of life and the locking of horns of opposing forces. This also tallies with Anders Ehlers Dam’s ‘Essential features of the vitalist concept of life’, that Michael Fjeldsøe has identified in relation to Nielsen, namely ‘life-​affirming and life-​denying elements’ (2010, p. 33). There are countless examples of this tendency in his music, one of the most obvious cases being the format of the Second Symphony in which contrasting and opposing personality types are depicted in each of the four movements. It is perhaps most readily observed in the sharp change of mood between the lugubrious Andante malincolico and the carefree Allegro sanguineo. This trend, according to Jørgen Jensen, is synthesized in the Fourth Symphony in which, he argues, the pessimistic and optimistic qualities, which are generally treated separately in the Four Temperaments, are combined at a deeper, more essential level (Fjeldsøe, 2010, p. 30). Fjeldsøe argues that in the last phase of Nielsen’s vitalism, the ‘emphasis on life-​affirming, positive vitalism’ becomes less important compared with ‘a more all-​encompassing and essential concept of life as a [Nietzschean] condition beyond optimism and negativity, beyond good and evil’ (ibid.). While it is important not to fall into the trap, as Fjeldsøe identified, of thinking that vitalism is something that can be easily demonstrated through analysis, it is nevertheless important to attempt an interrogation of the music with the vitalist aesthetic in mind.5 It is here that Nielsen’s approach to tonality becomes relevant. Responding to Henrik Knudsen’s commentary on the Sinfonia Espansiva, Nielsen wrote: [y]‌ou talk about diatonic relationships. Isn’t there a contradiction between this expression and ‘all the tonalities in a mortar’ (good!), don’t you think? Doesn’t diatonic indicate precisely an established tonality or in any case relationships derived from a diatonic scale? Hasn’t something gone a bit awry here? Because a scale is surely usually regarded as a succession of ascending and descending notes belonging to a particular key. No?? But what do I know? We ought to move away from the keys for once, and yet at the same time make a diatonically convincing effect. That’s the thing; and here I feel in myself a striving for freedom. (Fanning and Assay, 2017, pp. 337–​338) We also have evidence from a letter Nielsen wrote to Julius Rabe on 18 September 1922 that he was consciously thinking of the harmonic series in his compositional process, and he included such a diagram (Example 5.2) in the correspondence.6 The fact that he stops at the B flat is important because

Carl Nielsen’s musical vitalism  91 it provides another piece of evidence that he considered the flattened 7th scale degree to be an object of interest, and we can add this to its widespread motivic use throughout his output.

Example 5.2 Diagram of the harmonic series included in Nielsen’s letter, dated 18 September 1922, to Julius Rabe.

Grimley has written about the flattened seventh in terms of a Danish musical style and has paired the use of the interval with a topical and timbral element, the horn call (2001). His critique of Dahlhaus’s reduction of musical nationalism to ‘a collection of historical ideas or “facts” ’ is welcome, especially in his rejection of the contentious suggestion that a work’s value as a contributor to modernism should be inversely proportionate to its sense of locality. The risk, though, is that any sense of Danishness we might hear in Nielsen’s music is founded on a circular argument: we hear it as representing something Danish because it was written by the most important Danish composer, and not because of anything inherent in the text. Rather than attempting to provide definitive examples of Danish vitalism, the following discussion attempts to bring theory and analysis to bear on some examples from Nielsen’s output and to read the results through a vitalist lens. There is a tantalizing and as yet underexplored area of research in directing the theory that has emerged from North America in the last 25 years toward Nielsen’s large-​scale works. This has the potential to benefit both the theoretical apparatus that we currently have available, as well as our understanding of Nielsen’s music. Daniel Grimley has made considerable inroads through his use of Sonata Theory, most notably in his landmark work Carl Nielsen and the Idea of Modernism (2010), but there is still much more to be done. What, for example, would a reading of Nielsen’s Fourth Symphony (‘The Inextinguishable’) look like through the lens of Steven Vande Moortele’s (2009) ‘double-​function’ model of sonata form? How would our understanding of the processes apparent in the Third Symphony (Sinfonia Espansiva) change when understood as being ‘in the process of becoming’, as Janet Schmalfeldt (2011) invites us to do? How might a modified Schenkerian approach help us to understand directional tonality in Nielsen’s music? And what would a Caplinian (1998) reading of syntax in the First Symphony look like? Nielsen’s precarious position in relation to theoretical writing may also be a symptom of his reception in the post-​war era, particularly in the UK and North America. Given, as Grimley argues, that the conditions for Nielsen reception in Britain were largely already set by the time Robert Simpson had published Carl Nielsen: Symphonist in 1952, it is unsurprising, but to my mind controversial, that Sibelius, Strauss, and Mahler have enjoyed continued centrality

92  Christopher Tarrant in the theoretical literature to the exclusion of other important figures of the ‘1865 generation’ (Dahlhaus, 1989). In the remainder of this chapter, therefore, I will offer some clues which point towards Nielsen’s potential status as a modernist with the vitalist aesthetic in mind. It is important to avoid discussion of music as being somehow mimetic in the context of vitalism. ‘Music is life’ is the epigraph, and not ‘music is mimetic of life’. Therefore, it is necessary to consider the music directly as music and not as somehow a metaphor or a reflection of some other human activity. One way of approaching Nielsen’s music with the vitalist aesthetic in mind is to think of opposing keys as the protagonists in a sometimes delicate and sometimes rather more barbaric interplay. In the early part of Nielsen’s career we often find him writing in an abrasive contrapuntal style in which the succession of key areas that are visited in the music rarely come to rest for any length of time. The ‘Intonation’ from his Symphonic Suite for piano, Op. 8, is a good example of this, in which the thoroughgoing two-​part texture restlessly scours the tonal map, seemingly able to visit, however fleetingly, any tonal destination it likes. As his style developed in the first decade of the twentieth century, Nielsen began to take an ever more fluid approach to syntax. The idea of ‘all tonalities in a mortar’ while continuing to make a ‘diatonically convincing effect’ serves to summarize this attitude, which can be seen especially well in the Third and Fourth Symphonies as tonalities begin not only to succeed each other quickly, but to struggle with each other over ever greater spans of time. The significant change comes towards the end of the First World War, by which time we begin to find tonalities in parallel, either sitting calmly side by side or arranged in antagonistic superimposition. The picture that I aim to build of musical vitalism as we find it in Nielsen’s output is based on the foundational idea of a creative antagonism caused by the intrusion of external musical forces which disturb the normal functioning of a system (tonal, formal, or syntactical). Such forces are rarely strong enough to completely destroy the system on which they intrude, but are enough to generate a delicate balance between classical order and modernist disruption. Nielsen expresses this in a number of different ways. In terms of form, for instance, the ‘breakthrough’ that occurs in the first and last movements of the Sixth Symphony is a clear example.7 For the present discussion, however, I will focus on the tonal antagonism that seems to pervade Nielsen’s music throughout his development and maturity as a composer. Such antagonism is most frequently registered through the chromatically altered flattened 7th sonority, which is present in his output right from the beginning. Robert Simpson was the first to remark on this in English, noting in 1952 that in the First Symphony Nielsen’s decision to connect the keys of G minor and C major could not, for him, to have been a difficult one to make. His long and close proximity with folk-​music made the major scale with a flat seventh (the so-​called Mixolydian mode) quite familiar to him, and it is also typical of his sunny

Carl Nielsen’s musical vitalism  93 disposition that when he composes in a minor key, the minor third may behave without warning as if it were a flat seventh in a major key. (Simpson, 1979 [1952], p. 24) This is an example of the antagonistic tonal agent –​the flattened 7th of C –​exerting an influence on the tonal design of the symphony as a whole: the symphony is billed as being in G minor, but it appears to open and (remarkably) close in C major. More recently, though, a more abstract and conceptual understanding has been developed –​one that does not rely solely on the influence of the folk tradition Nielsen was inducted into as a child. Grimley has identified a way of understanding the inherent tension in the diatonic system which Nielsen carefully exaggerated and exploited. Drawing on the theoretical work of August Halm, a contemporary of Heinrich Schenker, he states that ‘even the tonic triad itself, in Halm’s model, is inherently unstable. Just as the dominant chord moves toward the tonic via the upward motion of its third degree (the leading note), so the third degree becomes dissonant again in the chord of resolution, pulling the music forward once more in an endless cycle of tension, relaxation, and intensification’ (Grimley 2010, p.112). This is important for the present chapter since the flattened seventh in the context of a V7 harmony (i.e., scale degree 4) occurs in the complementary voice to Grimley’s major third and, in such a cadential motion, actually becomes the major third in the next chord of the sequence.8 The tonal energy that is bound up in this flattened seventh is, potentially, even stronger and more irresistible than the rising leading note since it is not only dissonant, but acts as the dissonance that provides tonal clarity to cadential motion. The caveat here –​which also generates the sense of modernist edginess that is palpable in nearly all of Nielsen’s music –​is that there is no guarantee that the dissonance will resolve. This is not to say that it never resolves –​that would produce a mundanely predictable effect –​but that Nielsen reserves the right to observe or flout the convention of resolution. This is the properly metatonal kernel at the heart of Nielsen’s idiolect. The Quasi allegretto from the Symphonisk Suite, Op. 8–​ii, is a representative example of the motivic use of the flattened seventh. The rising third from 5 ̂ to flat 7 ̂ is worked out in a classical fashion: it is set up as a proposition at the beginning (boxed in Example 5.3a) and then becomes contrapuntally saturated in the closing bars (Example 5.3b). In this example, the motif is constantly stretched out by sharpening the seventh. By doing this, the natural flatward tug of the seventh is denied, with the effect of charging up tonal energy throughout the movement. It is only in the final bars that the flatward tug of the seventh is finally allowed to discharge, at the same time opening up a four-​part counterpoint in which each of the upper voices is allowed to express the motif in its own time. Fjeldsøe has identified Nielsen’s vitalist tendencies to operate in different ways throughout his life and around 1900 this was expressed as an optimistic, life-​affirming vitalism in works such as the Helios Overture and the Sinfonia Espansiva. More generally, I would like to

94  Christopher Tarrant suggest that Nielsen’s attitude to tonality around this time, especially his restlessly chromatic counterpoint, which occasionally crystallizes into vivid triadic diatonicism, could be a useful musical analogue to the vitalist idea of a restless Nature that is constantly producing new life and never settling, and the first movement of the same suite is a useful example of this.

Example 5.3a Nielsen, Symphonic Suite, Op. 8–​ii, bars 1–​4.

Example 5.3b Nielsen, Symphonic Suite, Op. 8–​ii, closing bars.

A more mature representative example of this seventh can be found in the finale of Nielsen’s Fourth Symphony, Det Uudslukkelige (‘The Inextinguishable’ 1916), which is set in a sonata form subject to some particularly intriguing deformations. This example is at the other end of the rhetorical scale from the Helios overture; the Fourth Symphony exhibits the energetic vitalist tendencies that have been identified in Nielsen’s music by Fjeldsøe. Robert Simpson identified a particular movement ‘type’ in Nielsen’s symphonies, the fast-​tempo, triple-​metre, energetic movement whose main exemplars are the first movement of the Third Symphony and the finales of the Fourth and Fifth Symphonies. The important rhetorical and structural observation here is that this kind of energetic burst is the starting point of the Third

Carl Nielsen’s musical vitalism  95 Symphony, but with a change in style after the outbreak of the First World War, the result of the Fourth and Fifth. The flattened seventh is a feature of the first theme (Example 5.4) and returns throughout, but the main structural moment is the perfect authentic cadence (PAC) secured toward the end of the exposition, functioning as the essential expositional closure (EEC).9 This is the only passage containing an authentic cadence in the movement, and that should be reason enough to attract further analytical attention. With this flattened seventh in mind, however, I would like to investigate what might be going on either side of this moment of structural punctuation.

Example 5.4 Nielsen, Fourth Symphony (‘The Inextinguishable’), Op. 29, Finale, bars 1–​7.

Before the cadence is reached, the seventh presents itself as an energy-​generating element in the counterpoint –​it is something to be wrestled with and which continuously escapes resolution. This can be seen in bar 133 where the A flat is sounded over a B flat in the bass, but which does not resolve conventionally and is instead redeployed enharmonically as the leading note of A minor (Example 5.5a), producing an imperfect authentic cadence (IAC). This is followed by a passage that finally produces tonal closure with a perfect authentic cadence in A major (Example 5.5b), elided with the section marked Glorioso at bar 147 which functions as the closing zone of the exposition (Example 5.5c). After this crucial moment securing the tonality, the seventh takes on a completely different character. Rather than being a disruptive influence that somehow needs to be opposed or brought under control, it is now as if this powerful, energetic force has been harnessed, and can finally express its true tonal pull in the direction of the subdominant. This passage produces a complete middleground structure (Example 5.5d) which is decorated by a circle of fifths moving firstly to the subdominant (D), and then to the secondary subdominant (G natural, the original dissonant seventh) with the effect of discharging the tonal energy that had been dammed up prior to the critical moment of tonal closure at bar 179 where A major is finally confirmed with a PAC.

Example 5.5a Schenkerian reduction of Nielsen, Fourth Inextinguishable’), Op. 29, Finale, bars 130–​139.

Symphony

(‘The

96  Christopher Tarrant

Example 5.5b Schenkerian reduction of Nielsen, Fourth Inextinguishable’), Op. 29, Finale, bars 139–​147.

Symphony

(‘The

Example 5.5c Schenkerian foreground reduction of Nielsen, Fourth Symphony (‘The Inextinguishable’), Op. 29, Finale, bars 147–179. Example 5.5c Shows three harmonic stations in the closing zone, each with

a reference to its own dominant. With surface decorations removed in Example 5.5d, we can see that there is a complete middleground structure which is decorated by a circle of fifths moving firstly to the subdominant, and then to the secondary subdominant with the effect of discharging the tonal energy. At the point of this secondary subdominant, which is embedded within a prolongation of the subdominant itself, the music arrives at a harmonic station which acts as the antidote to the energetic and precarious seventh that has dominated the movement so far: a completely static harmony built on a series of stacked fifths. How does this contribute to our understanding of Nielsen’s musical style? It seems to me that there are at least two components that combine to produce something identifiably Nielsenesque. The first is the modernist edginess which has regularly been attributed to much of his music. The other is an identifiable and contrasting classicizing tendency in which Nielsen is reliant on a relatively traditional model of structural cadences which result in the concise and pithy forms that we find throughout his output. We might say, then, that Nielsen uses classical means to achieve vitalist ends. This case study concerns the attainment of expositional closure in a symphony, and the elements surrounding this structural moment in many respects are no different from what one might expect to find in a sonata by Haydn or

Carl Nielsen’s musical vitalism  97 Mozart: before the cadence emerges the music tantalizingly evades closure, and after the cadence there is a closing zone which references the subdominant. These are classical ideas that Nielsen reimagined in a modernist way. This is supported in Nielsen’s own writings in which he claimed that the music of the sixteenth and eighteenth centuries were the ‘summits of achievement’ in music (Nielsen 1968, p. 66). Does the conspicuous flattened seventh make a work ‘vitalist’? The answer must be an emphatic ‘no’, at least no more than, as Fjeldsøe put it, ‘a bunch of children swim[ming] at the beach’ makes a painting vitalist (Fjeldsøe 2009).11 But I will for now risk saying that this compositional element is essential to Nielsen’s status as a vitalist composer, and that Sonata Theory provides a useful apparatus for discussing this.

Example 5.5d Schenkerian middleground reduction of Nielsen, Fourth Symphony (‘The Inextinguishable’), Op. 29, Finale, bars 147–​179.

Fjeldsøe identifies a change of style around the time of the First World War, arguing that in the Fourth Symphony the life-​affirming and death-​affirming aspects of vitalism are synthesized; but I would like, for the sake of the discussion of tonality, to look at the opening of the Fifth Symphony. Fanning has noted that ‘In the first movement in particular [Nielsen] seems to crawl through the gaps between traditional harmonic functions and discover a strange new world of wandering, hovering, and superimposed tonalities and modalities, all subtly animated and inter-​related’ (Fanning, 1995, p. 360). There is an important change here from Nielsen’s earlier style, in which he opens his first four symphonies with explosive outbursts, to an interwar mode of opening with a quiet yet elemental presentation of the musical materials. Here we see the combination, once again, of the flattened seventh sonority and the horn-​call topic (see Grimley, 2001). Unlike the Helios, however, rather than meditating on a single Klang, the horn calls revolve around a central viola ostinato which creates a fixed point of reference. The problem here, as far as any reading reliant on conventional tonality is concerned, is that the violas outline the A–​C dyad which has no obvious relation to the eventual tonal goal of the symphony –​E flat –​nor to the surrounding horn calls, nor even to any fixed tonal centre in its own terms since the dyad is ambiguous: it can be heard as scale degrees 1 and 3 of A minor; degrees 3 and 5 of F major; or even as degrees 5 and flat 7 of a D7 sonority.

98  Christopher Tarrant

Carl Nielsen’s musical vitalism  99

Example 5.6 Nielsen, Symphony No. 5, Op. 50, bars 1–​40.

100  Christopher Tarrant The opening bars of the symphony, shown in Example 5.6, cement this dyad beyond any doubt, with four long bars of inactivity. The first point of reference is given by the bassoons, whose call outlines D minor, albeit with a modally inflected E flat, planting the tonal seed that will eventually flourish at the end of the symphony. They then move through E flat major before settling on B flat major, the A–​C dyad being ever present in the violas. The horns then outline D major in bars 22–​34 while alternating with the flutes whose call centres on C major. The uncanny effect of this opening passage is generated by the tension between the ostensibly fixed point of tonal reference in the middle of the texture and the continuous reorientation Nielsen generates by casting it in different contexts. Here we witness the slippage of the functions of pitch-​class and scale degree, shown in the table below. In this case we can propose the formula that tonal energy that had in previous works been exerted over time, with the disposition of forces in opposition being enacted in succession, is now presented in a kind of charged stasis, with discrete triadic harmonies being superimposed on each other. Bar

Horn call

Relative scale degrees of ostinato

1–​4 5–​8 8–​11 11–​16 22–​34

–​ Bassoons in D minor Bassoons in E flat major Bassoons in B flat major Horns in D major Flutes in C major Flutes and Clarinets in G Dorian

N/​A 5 and flat 7 Sharp 4 and 6 7 and 2 5 and flat 7 6 and 1 2 and 4

35–​39

The opening sonata-​form movement of Nielsen’s last symphony reproduces the idea of tonalities occurring simultaneously. In this case, however, the superimposition of harmonies does not give the impression of their passively resting side-​by-​side, but rather the effect of a climax in which the two keys are slammed together, bringing the narrative antagonism of the movement to a head. The symphony begins in G major with a lyrical theme followed by a march topic. The ‘new theme’ which emerges near the beginning of the development section presents one of the few relatively uncomplicated musical statements in the movement –​a period of respite E major. This, in my view, is an example of the ‘hypothetical music’ that Seth Monahan has referred to in Mahler’s symphonies (Monahan, 2015, p. 26). It proposes a situation in the sonata process where such an ideal state might be presented in the tonic. When this new theme reemerges later in the movement at bar 171, however, its role is reversed as it shatters the thematic framework of the movement, and is presented in B flat, a tritone away from its original appearance, and mirroring E major from the other side of the original tonic of the piece, G. In this work the breakthrough is enacted in a radically different way from what we have come to expect in classic examples from Mahler and Sibelius.

Carl Nielsen’s musical vitalism  101 In terms of narrative trajectories, the first movement of Sibelius’s Fifth Symphony charts a path from the difficult, dark, cadenceless opening to the energetic, directionalized Scherzo. In the case of Nielsen’s Sixth, the opposite is the case as the movement seems to have been barred from reattaining either the uncomplicated G major tonality or the child-​like march with which it began, and in its final stages the narrative is left marooned on A flat. This invites some speculation as to whether the breakthrough itself, in its original, positive sense as it has been directed at the music of Mahler and Sibelius, may not be the focus here. Rather, it may be advantageous to consider Adorno’s lesser-​known category of ‘collapse’, since this is what the music does after its bungled breakthrough attempt, and which can be traced to a particular harmony on which the music comes to rest (bar 185) –​a harmony which contains all the notes of E major, looking back to the innocence of the premonition, and all the notes of the enharmonic equivalent of A flat major, the remote destination of the movement (Example 5.7). Adorno writes that [t]‌he collapsing passages in Mahler … no longer merely mediate between others or conclude elaborations, but speak for themselves. While they are embedded in the progression of the form, at the same time they extend through it as something in their own right: negative fulfillment (1992, pp. 44–​45) Rather than breaking out into a new, more fulfilling and emancipatory musical form, the collapse disables the movement from attaining its proper tonal goal. This is clearly audible on the surface of the music in the first movement of Nielsen’s Sixth as the ‘new theme’, now presented as a brass bombardment, tumbles into a complex harmony which, when thinned out, comes to rest on a bare semitone. The combination of E major and A flat major is a collision of two tonal stations which are then forcibly torn apart, leading to the abandonment of the childlike innocence of E, and the eventual acceptance of the rather more experienced A flat.

Example 5.7 The ‘collapse chord’ in Nielsen’s Sixth Symphony (Sinfonia Semplice), first movement, bar 185.

It is possible here to identify an ironic response to the nineteenth-​century symphonic inheritance, and to Nielsen’s own earlier work. The trend in his

102  Christopher Tarrant pre-​war symphonies is to set a ‘problem’ in the exposition which inevitably is solved. The Sixth Symphony is different because of the collapse which permanently shatters the movement’s form, as well as the tonal symmetry of the symphony as a whole. Although directional tonality, as Harald Krebs (1994) and others have pointed out, is a commonplace in Nielsen’s music, it is typically treated as a positive musical narrative, often outlining the interval of a fifth. This is the case, for example, in the outer movements of the Sinfonia Espansiva, which trace a path from D to A –​an aspirational gesture in line with much of Nielsen’s early and mature music. The first movement of the Sinfonia Semplice, which rises by a semitone between beginning and end, is a different beast entirely.10 Although A flat minor is converted to A flat major at the very end, there is a particular sense of irony in its conclusion as the two contrapuntal bassoon parts finally come to rest on the desolate Neapolitan. As if to drive home the message that the optimism of E major has been completely destroyed, in the movement’s closing bars the note E is expunged from the score as Nielsen prefers to spell the penultimate harmony not with an E natural, but rather with an F flat in the 2nd bassoon. This music is therefore metatonal in the literal sense, that is to say, the narrative of the sonata form hinges on its own problematic relationship with the tonal system as Nielsen inherited it. Hvidberg-​Hansen and Olsner (2011) have described the vitalist aesthetic as a transition from romanticism and nineteenth-​century realism to something more properly belonging to modernism. I would like to add a further layer of nuance to this reading, which seems rather overburdened with value-​ judgements concerning what modernism comprises. Nielsen had never been a romantic and had not digested the late-​nineteenth-​century Wagnerian and Brucknerian mode in the way that Mahler and Schoenberg had. Nielsen had been a modernist from the outset while drawing influence from a more neoclassic mentality. J. P. E. Harper-​Scott’s (2011) Badiouvian model of musical modernism is helpful here. While it is difficult to claim that Nielsen’s response to the emancipation of dissonance was an uncomplicatedly faithful one, we might consider his approach as an important example of a third-​practice tonality that synthesizes elements of first-​practice functionality and second-​ practice chromaticism. In much of Nielsen’s earlier output the fluidity of his harmonic and contrapuntal work seems to supersede much of what we find in Wagner, for instance, while at the same time harking back to the last healthy high point in musical style (as Nielsen saw it), the eighteenth century (Grimley 2005). In much of his later practice, from the time of the First World War onward, we find that harmonies regularly crystallize into recognizable triads, but sit in delicate tension or antagonism with each other –​an idea that corresponds with the vitalist duality discussed above. This continued into the 1920s, but during the interwar period such tonal duality and tension began to operate not as a succession of keys through time, but as an amalgam operating simultaneously. In this sense, Nielsen sets himself clearly apart from a figure such as Nordau, who flamboyantly and often abrasively set out what he

Carl Nielsen’s musical vitalism  103 considered to be the problems with music, literature, painting, and sculpture, but who offered few solutions. Nielsen, by contrast, is positively overflowing with solutions, which seem often enough to coalesce around a return to the healthy styles and modes of the past –​the intervals, tight counterpoint, and pithy forms –​while shaping and responding to the dynamics of the present he found himself in.

Notes 1 See especially Book I, §3 and Book II, §5. 2 Like Nielsen, Ibsen was an important contributor to the ‘Nordic breakthrough’ –​ an intense period of literary, musical, and artistic productivity beginning in the 1890s in the broader Nordic region. Other important figures in this Nordic wave of early modernists include the Norwegian writer Knut Hamsun, the Swedish author Selma Lagerlöf, the Norwegian painter Edvard Munch, the Finnish architect Eliel Saarinen, the Finnish composer Jean Sibelius, the Norwegian author and feminist Amalie Skram, the Swedish writer and painter August Strindberg, and the Russian painter Ilya Repin. 3 ‘All the characteristics of [Wagner’s] talent point not forward, but far behind us. His leit-​motif, abasing music to a conventional phonetic symbol, is atavism; his unending melody is atavism, leading back the fixed form to the vague recitative of savages; atavism, his subordination of highly differentiated instrumental music to music-​drama, which mixes music and poetry, and allows neither of the two art-​ forms to attain to independence; even his peculiarity of almost never permitting more than one person on the stage to sing and of avoiding vocal polyphony is atavism’ (Nordau, 2016 [1892], p. 76). 4 The quotation comes from an interview printed in Politiken (24 January 1922) conducted by Axel Kjerulf. Nielsen’s description was of the title not only of Symphony No. 3, but also of Symphonies Nos 2 and 4. 5 See Fjeldsøe (2010, p. 33): ‘For det første må man undgå at falde i den grøft, hvor man foregiver, at Vitalisme er noget håndfast, man konkret kan påvise analytisk.’ 6 Letter to Julius Rabe, 18 September 1922: ‘Any conical object (even a water jug) produces a fundamental, its octave, then its fifth, and so on. What do people who think that the triad is a convention to have say to this? Probably there is some (small) justification in the urge for quarter-​tones, but not in the context of music-​making today; as a harmonic novelty I don’t think there’s any potential in them. On the other hand, maybe there is in the melodic dimension’ (Fanning and Assay, 2017). 7 I have written on this elsewhere. See Tarrant (2017). 8 Grimley has produced chord maps of the exposition, development, and reprise of the first movement of Nielsen’s Third Symphony which help to demonstrate this point (2010, pp. 107, 122, 124–​125). 9 For the purposes of this analysis I am using the terminology of Hepokoski’s and Darcy’s Elements of Sonata Theory (2006). 10 Krebs writes that ‘The last two symphonies … move beyond late nineteenth-​century tonal practice … the Sixth in particular, might well repay investigation from analytical vantage points other than those employed in Simpson’s book and in this [Krebs’s] chapter’ (1994, p. 247). 11 Fjeldsøe refers to Jens Ferdinand Willumsen’s Sol og Ungdom (Sun and Youth), painted in 1909, in order to contextualize his argument.

104  Christopher Tarrant

References Adorno, T. W. (1992). Mahler: A Musical Physiognomy, Edmund Jephcott (trans.). University of Chicago Press. Caplin, W. E. (1998). Classical Form. New York: Oxford University Press. Dahlhaus, C. (1989). Nineteenth-​Century Music. University of California Press. Dam, A. E. (2011). ‘Music is life’: Carl Nielsen’s vitalist musical philosophy. In: Hvidberg-​Hansen and Oelsner (eds), The Spirit of Vitalism: Health, Beauty and Strength in Danish Art, 1890–​1940. Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum Press, pp. 276–​305. Driesch, H. (1914). The History and Theory of Vitalism, C. K. Ogden (trans.). London: Macmillan Press. Fanning, D. (1997). Nielsen: Symphony No. 5. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Fanning, D. (1993 [Rev. 1995]). Nielsen. In: Robert Layton (ed.) A Guide to the Symphony. Oxford: Oxford University Press, pp. 351–​362. Fanning, D. and Assay, M. (2017). Carl Nielsen: Selected Letters and Diaries. Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum Press. Fjeldsøe, M. (2009). Carl Nielsen and the current of vitalism in art. Carl Nielsen Studies, 4: 27–​42. Fjeldsøe, M. (2010). Vitalisme i Carl Nielsens musik. Danish Musicology Online, 1: 33–​55. Grimley, D. M. (2001). Horn calls and flattened sevenths: Nielsen and Danish musical style. In: Harry White and Michael Murphy (eds), Musical Constructions of Nationalism. Cork University Press, pp. 123–​141. Grimley, D. M. (2005). ‘Tonality, clarity, strength’: gesture, form, and Nordic identity in Carl Nielsen’s piano music. Music & Letters, 86: 2, 202–​233. Grimley, D. M. (2010). Carl Nielsen and the Idea of Modernism. Woodbridge: The Boydell Press, 2010. Harper-​Scott, J. P. E. (2011). The Quilting Points of Musical Modernism. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hepokoski, J., & Darcy, W. (2006-​ 08-​ 31). Elements of Sonata Theory: Norms, Types, and Deformations in the Late-​Eighteenth-​Century Sonata. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hvidberg-​Hansen, G. and Oelsner, G. (2011). The Spirit of Vitalism: Health, Beauty and Strength in Danish Art, 1890–​1940. Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum Press. Jensen, Jørgen I. (1991). Carl Nielsen: Danskeren. Copenhagen: Gyldendal. Krebs, H. (1994). Tonal structure in Nielsen’s symphonies: some addenda to Robert Simpson’s analyses. In: Mina Miller (ed.), The Nielsen Companion. London: Faber, pp. 208–​249. Monahan, S. (2015). Mahler’s Symphonic Sonatas. New York: Oxford University Press. Morel, Bénédict A. (1857). Traité des dégénérescences physiques, intellectuelles, et morales de l’espèce humaine. Paris: G. Baillière. Nielsen, C. (1953 [1927]), My Childhood on Funen Trans. Reginald Spink, Hutchinson: University of California. Nielsen, C. (1968). Living Music. Reginald Spink (trans.). Copenhagen: Edition Wilhelm Hansen. Nordau, M. S. (2016 [1892]). Degeneration. London: William Heinemann. Reynolds, A. (2010). Carl Nielsen’s Voice. Copenhagen: Tusculanum Press. Schmalfeldt, J. (2011). In the Process of Becoming. New York: Oxford University Press.

Carl Nielsen’s musical vitalism  105 Simpson, R. (1952 [Rev. 1979]). Carl Nielsen: Symphonist. London: The Temple Press. Tarrant, C. (2017). Breakthrough and collapse in Carl Nielsen’s Sinfonia Semplice. Danish Yearbook of Musicology, 41, 32–​49. Vande Moortele, S. (2009). Two-​Dimensional Sonata Form. Leuven: Leuven University Press.

6  The cautious experiments of M. K. Čiurlionis (1875–​1911) Tonalities and realisms in his art and music George Kennaway Although the art and music of Mikalojus Konstantinas Čiurlionis are well-​known in Eastern Europe –​indeed, his art was internationally recognized rather earlier than his music –​his overall creative output is still unfamiliar in the West, notwithstanding recent recordings and the publication of high-​ quality facsimiles. This chapter explores aspects of both his art and music which have received relatively little attention in English.

Biographical information Mikalojus Konstantinas Čiurlionis was born in 1875 in Varena, northern Lithuania. Lithuania was then part of the Russian (Tsarist) Empire, but Polish was the language of the educated classes, reflecting a centuries-​old connection between those two countries. From the age of two his family lived in Druskininkai in south Lithuania, now the venue for an annual Čiurlionis conference. His father taught him the organ, and he could read music by the age of seven. In 1889 Čiurlionis joined the orchestral school run by Prince Michael Oginski at his estate in Plungė, in western Lithuania. He graduated from Oginski’s school in 1893 and studied at the Warsaw conservatoire until 1899, his expenses being paid by Oginski. After a period in Warsaw as a piano teacher, in 1901 Čiurlionis went to the Leipzig Conservatorium, again supported by Oginski. He had many difficulties in Leipzig, including poverty, homesickness, social isolation, a degree of anti-​Lithuanian prejudice, frustration with Carl Reinecke’s conservative teaching, and the death of Oginski in March 1902. Nonetheless, he graduated in June 1902. That autumn he returned to Warsaw and began to develop his interest in painting, enrolling at the new Academy of Fine Arts in Warsaw in March 1904. In 1905, nationalist uprisings disrupted life in Warsaw, and at this time the emerging Lithuanian nationalist movement started to influence him. In 1906 the Warsaw Art Academy exhibited its students’ work in St Petersburg, with Čiurlionis singled out for attention. He took part in the First Lithuanian Art Show in Vilnius in December 1906. Here he met his future wife, the playwright and translator DOI: 10.4324/9780429451713-6

The cautious experiments of Čiurlionis  107 Sofija Kymantaitė (1886–​1958). They prepared the Second Lithuanian Art Show in March 1908, and became engaged soon after. In 1908 Čiurlionis visited St Petersburg in search of new audiences, having had little success in Vilnius. In St Petersburg the painter Mstislav Dobuzhinskii (1875–​1957) befriended him, and introduced him to other artists, including Alexandre Benois, Konstantin Somov, Léon Bakst, and Konstantin Makovsky (editor of Apollon, the house journal of the Mir isskustva group [World of Art]).The Union of Russian Artists accepted him, and Mir isskusstva elected him as a member. He married Sofija Kymantaitė on 1 January 1909 [new style] in Lithuania, and then returned to St Petersburg for two months. However, Čiurlionis’s paintings did not sell and he had no success as a performer either. They returned to Lithuania, but Čiurlionis went back to St Petersburg yet again in the hope of something better –​but this visit also was not a success. He became mentally ill and in February 1910 was admitted to a nursing home near Warsaw. While there, his work was exhibited in Lithuania, Russia, Latvia, and France, but he knew little of this. That winter he contracted pneumonia, and he died on 10 April 1911. His paintings were housed in a dedicated gallery in Lithuania, where they remain today. Only in recent years have they been exhibited abroad due to their extreme fragility. Until the 1997 publication of the superb catalogue raisonnée (Verkelytė-​Federavičienė, 1997) they were badly reproduced –​partly a consequence of his chosen medium, tempera on cardboard, and his somewhat muted palette. There was considerable commentary on his art from around the time of his death onwards in Russia, and he was mentioned in passing in several English-​language art histories of the period. Awareness of his music outside Lithuania spread rather slower. Čiurlionis’s piano music did not begin to be published until 1925, in an unreliable edition (Šimkus, 1925), followed by an edition prepared by his sister Jagdvyga (Čiurlionytė, 1957, 1975), and his orchestral works were performed from manuscripts as late as the 1960s. Textually reliable editions have only been available in recent years, and the systematic study of his MSS has only begun in the twenty-​first century. There is relatively little published in English outside Lithuania in modern times concerning Čiurlionis. This chapter draws on my own earlier work on his octatonic compositions (Kennaway, 2013 –​I am grateful to Gražina Daunoravičienė and Rima Povilionienė for permission to use some of this material here), and also on Dr Darius Kučinskas’s work on Čiurlionis’s MSS (Kučinskas, 2003, 2004, 2005a, 2007), Rokas Zubovas’s recordings and commentary on Čiurlionis’s early piano works (Zubovas, 2012), the analytical study of Čiurlionis’s cryptograms by Gražina Daunoravičienė (Daunoravičienė, 2011), and Vytautas Landsbergis’s several books and his edition of Čiurlionis’s piano music (Landsbergis, 1992, 2004).1 Analytical relationships between his music and painting have been explored by Holm-​ Hudson and Kučinskas (2006).

108  George Kennaway

Art The great majority of Čiurlionis’s paintings, which total around 300, are in tempera on cardboard; there are also some drawings in India ink, and etchings on glass. He depicts fantastic cosmological landscapes, figures from Lithuanian folk tales, and architectural fantasies; human beings are almost entirely absent. Many of his paintings were grouped in cycles, using musical forms, with individual paintings given musical titles, such as the Sonata of the Summer (BVF 187–​190, 1908), consisting of four paintings entitled Allegro, Andante, Scherzo, and Finale, or the Fugue (BVF 130, 1908); many paintings, like his piano works, were simply entitled ‘prelude’. The musical element in his art inclined earlier commentators to relate his work to abstraction, to the extent that in the 1940s the Estonian poet Alexis Rannit claimed him as an abstract painter pre-​Kandinsky. Although he had come to the attention of Kandinsky, Kandinsky’s widow Nina strongly contested Rannit’s view, and later commentators do not make this claim. The papers in connection with this controversy are reprinted in Gostautas (1994). These are Rannit (1949, 1950), Kandisky and Grohmann (1953), and Plioplys (1994). An earlier article by Rannit (1946–​47) mentioned contrapuntal elements in Čiurlionis’s art but not (pace Gostautas) abstraction. The realistic basis of his art was identified very early by Valerian Chudovsky in 1914, in an issue of Apollon entirely devoted to Čiurlionis: ‘Čiurlionis is a realist. […] Čiurlionis looked at reality with a painter’s sharp and true eye and spoke of that and it which he saw’ (Chudovsky, 1914, p. 25). However, his realism is part of a wider, symbolic vision. Some elements in his paintings are connected with Polish fin-​de-​siècle nationalism, which Čiurlionis encountered in his time in Warsaw through the Młoda Polska [Young Poland] movement and the Sztuka [art] group. Many nineteenth-​century nationalist movements were designated ‘Young’ (Hobsbawm, 1962, pp. 132–​ 133); the Lithuanian nationalist poet Jonas Mačiulis-​ Maironis (1862–​ 1932) published an epic poem entitled ‘Jaunoji Lietuva’ [Young Lithuania] in 1907. The figure of Rex (BVF, 213, 1909)2 owes much to the concept of the ‘King-​spirit’, and elements of his landscape painting can also be found in contemporaneous Polish art (Okulicz-​Kosaryn, 2007). While in Warsaw, Čiurlionis was influenced by the Lithuanian-​born Kazimierz Stabrowski (1869–​1929), Ferdynand Ruszczyc (1870–​1936) who made a speech at Čiurlionis’s funeral, Konrad Krzyzanowski (1872–​1922), and Stanisław Wyspiański (1869–​1907). A founder member of Sztuka, Wyspiański was ‘the intellectual embodiment of Sztuka aesthetics’ (Mansbach, 1999, p. 92). Sztuka, officially formed in Kraków in 1898, dominated the teaching at the Warsaw Art School. The group became a more formalized organization with the aim of affirming national culture ‘through the improvement of artistic life in Poland and through participating in international exhibitions’ (Mansbach, 1999, p. 67). Their subject matter avoided contemporary reference, concentrating instead on timeless landscapes sometimes combined with subtle symbolic allusion to national history. Sztuka exhibited in Warsaw,

The cautious experiments of Čiurlionis  109 Kraków and Vilnius in 1903, and remained prominent in Polish art until around 1908 (Cavanaugh, 2000, p. 244; Mansbach, 1999, p. 237). A particularly good example of this subtle symbolic allusion is Wyspiański’s Chochoły –​Planty nocą [‘Capsheaves’, or ‘Straw Men’ –​‘the Planty by night’], in pastels on paper, from 1898–​1899. A night scene shows rose bushes covered by straw hoods to protect them from frost, standing in the Planty Park in Kraków, with Wawel Castle just visible in the upper right corner. It has been interpreted as representing the dormant spirit of Polish nationalism waiting to blossom in the spring (Gibson, 1999, p. 175; Cavanaugh, 2000, p. 270, n. 9). However, Wyspiański’s hooded bushes are also half-​human figures engaged in a mysterious rite (a dance? a conversation?) beneath the trees. Two street lamps are picked out as bright points of light casting rays across the road, but the scene is lit more powerfully by a bright moon just outside the frame. Patches of bare paper provide the earth tones (a technique also used by Čiurlionis). While the painting represents a specific time and place, the combination of the primeval bush-​figures amid the tangled trees with the modern lighting technology on the diagonally composed street (itself conflicting with the opposing diagonals in the wood) is disquietingly suggestive in a characteristically symbolist way. A strong diagonal composition is also used in Wyspiański’s three pastel landscapes from 1905 entitled Widok z okna pracowni artysty [view from the window of the artist’s studio] (two in Krakow’s National Museum, one in Warsaw). Čiurlionis’s landscape paintings, such as Seascape (BVF 2, 1901?), Landscape (BVF 89, 1906), or the triptych Raigardas (BVF 139–​141, 1907), lack specific ‘added’ national symbols of the more overt sort found in landscapes by Malczewski or Weiss, but they are nonetheless recognized as Lithuanian by Lithuanians themselves. They depict the sea and the forest, which have the same symbolic status in Lithuania as do, mutatis mutandis, the mountains of the Scottish Highlands or the white cliffs of Dover. More specific symbolic allusion is found in The Knight Prelude (BVF 212, 1909). The knight is the national symbol of Lithuania, also used in Čiurlionis’s poster design for the second exhibition of Lithuanian art in 1908 (BVF 169); the city in the background evokes Vilnius. Fairy Tale (BVF 209, 1909) shows two magical kings in a dark wood watching over a typical Lithuanian village glowing with inner light. The branches of the trees carry more little villages and a tiny man looks down on the scene (an untypically humorous gesture). The composition alludes to conventional representations of the Holy Family, with the village itself occupying the place of the Christ-​child. Čiurlionis appears to have suggested that it represents ‘the elevation of folk culture by the national liberation movement’ (Landsbergis, 1992, p. 108, n. 102). This understated national symbolism has clear affinities with Młoda Polska. However, Rasa Andriušytė (2000) has examined Čiurlionis in relation to Młoda Polska, finding that Čiurlionis was using a different artistic language, closer to modernism. In England, Čiurlionis was received as a Russian post-​impressionist (Kennaway, 2005), and there are recurring motifs

110  George Kennaway in his paintings which appear connected to Čiurlionis’s psychological fears (Kennaway, 2006). While Čiurlionis’s art is representational in terms of technique, it attempts to reach towards mystical higher truths that lie beyond surface appearances. In the process, individual elements can appear to be treated as abstract shapes. Examples include the cycle Creation of the World (BVF 21–​33, 1905–​06), Sparks (BVF 39, 1906), the two paintings entitled Sorrow (BVF 44–​45, 1906–​ 07), the Allegro from the Sonata of the Sun cycle (BVF 66, 1907), and the final three of the eight paintings in the Winter (BVF 99–​106, 1907). Typically, the abstractionist tendencies of Sparks obscure the more obvious debt to the treatment of highlights in, for example Pankiewicz’s Nocturne: Warsaw Droshky on a Rainy Night (1893). But there is also a strong anthropomorphic element: walls have eyes, an island can resemble a half-​submerged creature, trees become fingers, and the crest of a wave can resemble a hand. Čiurlionis himself is sometimes present in the form of his initials, as in the Finale of the Sonata of the Sea (BVF 142, 1908); the sea bird that appears in the first Allegro of that cycle is a version of his first initial M (Allegro, Sonata of the Sea, BVF 140, 1908). Thus, while Čiurlionis’s art represents real objects, it nonetheless attempts to reach beyond naturalism to evoke a higher reality. It may lean towards the abstract, in that some of his paintings seem to represent objects more as geometrical shapes, but the general context is one of representation. This idiosyncratic mixture of elements –​mysticism, naturalism, fantasy –​distinguishes his work as a whole from that of his contemporaries, although individual traits can be found there. Considered as a new direction in art, it only goes part way. When considered in relation to the various avangardisti movements in Russia, the semi-abstraction of Kupka, or even lesser-known artists a little  closer to home, Čiurlionis’s experimental art ultimately appears rather provincial. His Estonian modernist contemporary Nikolai Triik (1884–​1940) benefited from a more cosmopolitan experience of European art (Mansbach, 1999, pp. 182–​185); the Latvian Rūdolfs Pērle (1875–​1917), who claimed Čiurlionis as his spiritual teacher and was one of a small group of ‘rather odd St Petersburg artists who adored Čiurlionis’ (Andriusytė-​Žukienė, 2009, p. 159), also depicted imaginary landscapes and fantasies, but had a wider range of techniques and subject matter (Bužinska, 2005, pp. 15, 23, 95).

Music Although Čiurlionis died at the age of 36, his musical output, consisting of some 300 works, was nonetheless seen by Danutė Staškevičius (1986, pp. 87–​ 92) in terms of the standard nineteenth-​century model of three ‘periods’, with early works up to 1901, a ‘plateau’ 1901–​1903, and a final period 1903–​1909. These periods are difficult to separate, especially in his last decade, and the application of Beethovenian periodization is in any case questionable with its

The cautious experiments of Čiurlionis  111 implied canonic claims. It is more helpful to think in terms of four types of composition: •

•

•

•

A large number of short piano and choral works characterized by simple lyricism and uncomplicated textures or forms. Piano pieces of this type owe much to Chopinesque models. The choral works are arrangements of folk songs typical of southern Lithuania. More intricate, technically demanding, works. Those for piano are almost all entitled ‘Prelude’. Generally short, often using two-​or three-​ part contrapuntal textures (some are fugal), and often using ostinati. Čiurlionis’s string quartets fall into both these categories. Exploratory/​experimental works. These employ a range of compositional techniques including the use of partial or full octatonic pitch collections, musical cryptograms, ostinati, wide textures, and unconventional tonalities (rarely approaching atonality and never using serialism). Larger-​scale works orchestral and choral works. These include his two completed symphonic poems Jūra [The sea] and Miške [In the forest], a De Profundis for choir and orchestra, and a group of a capella settings of liturgical texts.

Just as claims were made for Čiurlionis as an abstract painter avant la lettre, so it used to be asserted that Čiurlionis was at least a proto-​serialist. This was on the basis of a few works which, although not employing all 12 tones, seemed to employ typical note-​row procedures, such as inversion or retrograde. A good example is his ‘Besacas’ Variations VL265 (1904-​05?). The theme (Example 6.1) consists of the musical note-​ names present in the name Boleslaw Czarkowski (BolESlAw CzArkowSki) (using German notation: B =​B flat, S =​Es =​E flat). In one variation (Example 6.2) the theme is presented in retrograde diminution, and in another (Example 6.3) the theme is transposed successively to each pitch of the theme in turn.

Example 6.1 ‘Besacas’ Variations VL 265: theme.

Example 6.2 ‘Besacas’ Variations VL 265: variation 5, theme in bass in retrograde diminution (note that for clarity, music examples in this chapter are given without dynamics or phrase markings).

112  George Kennaway

Example 6.3 ‘Besacas’ Variations VL 265: successive transpositions of the theme for each variation.

Several other works use musical cryptograms of this type (note that Čiurlionis only uses letter-​names that translate directly into musical note-​names, unlike, for example, Fauré’s Menuet sur le nom d’Haydn or Ravel’s Berceuse sur le nom de Gabriel Fauré). The set of variations on the theme ‘Sefaa Esec’ VL 258 (1904) takes its notes from the name of Stefania Leskiewicz (StEFAniA LESkiEwicz), Čiurlionis’s friend whom he met in the summer of 1904 (Example 6.4). (The most thorough recent exploration of Čiurlionis’s use of cryptograms and other devices is Kučinskas (2005b).)

Example 6.4 ‘Sefaa Esec’ Variations VL 258 (1904) –​theme.

Much of Čiurlionis’s work is tonal, although often highly chromatic on the surface. Apparently adventurous harmonies, such as augmented fifths, are rare, and seem to be used ornamentally. Occasionally he uses the French augmented sixth chord, or at least hits upon it almost by accident –​given that it is almost never conventionally resolved, he appears to be using it purely for its own sonority. Typical examples (Examples 6.5–​6.9) include the second of three movements comprising the piano work The Sea (VL 317(b), 1908), the prelude VL 325 (1908), the fourth of the Sefaa Esec variations VL 258 (in Landsbergis’s version), and the fourth of the Besacas variations VL 265 (1905).

The cautious experiments of Čiurlionis  113

Example 6.5 The Sea VL 317(b) (1908), bb. 11–​12.

Example 6.6 VL 325, bars 4–​6.

Example 6.7 VL 325, bar 12.

Example 6.8 ‘Sefaa Esec’ Variations VL 258, variation 4 (ed. Landsbergis), bar 1

Example 6.9 ‘Besacas Variations’ VL 265, bars 14–​15.

114  George Kennaway The prelude VL 256 (1904) also uses a repeated tone-​row, but one without any concealed cryptogram. It is based on 6-​note row [A-​d-​f-​B flat-​e flat-​g flat] consisting of D minor and E flat minor second inversion triads. The row goes through several cycles, interspersed by short interludes featuring chromatic descents which pass through augmented sixths and diminished and dominant sevenths en route. The final bars exemplify this –​note the D major resolution (see Example 6.10).

Example 6.10 Prelude VL 256, concluding bars 25–​31.

Several of Čiurlionis’s piano works employ a highly chromatic melodic language, while retaining a simpler underlying harmonic movement. Pater Noster VL 260 (1904) is one of his most chromatic piano works, characterized by minor ninth appoggiaturas and phrases often ending on a French augmented sixth. Nonetheless the underlying harmonic movement is clear (with a perfect cadence in C minor at the mid-​point), moving largely by fourths or fifths when not chromatic (see Example 6.11).

Example 6.11 ‘Pater Noster’ VL 260 (1904), bars 1–​8.

The Fugue in B flat minor VL 345 (1909) is Čiurlionis’s most strenuously neo-​ classical work. Conventional fugal techniques are applied to a theme comprising 11 tones (see Example 6.12).

Example 6.12 Fugue in B flat minor VL 345: theme, bars 1–​4.

The cautious experiments of Čiurlionis  115 As the fugue unfolds, rhythmic patterns and keyboard textures show the extent of the influence of the conservative teaching of Carl Reinecke at Leipzig –​ teaching which Čiurlionis strongly resisted at the time. Successive fugal entries appear on E, B flat, E, D, E, B flat, C sharp, A flat, C (major), F, and B flat. The C major episode marks a change of character with almost Prokofievan ‘wrong-​note’ harmonies –​a similar effect occurs in the prelude VL 327 (1909) (see Example 6.13).

Example 6.13 Fugue in B flat minor VL 345, bars 39–​42: C major episode.

The conclusion clearly evokes Bach, with a V-​I cadence, a major mode tierce de Picardie and an ornamented tonic chord (see Example 6.14).

Example 6.14 Fugue in B flat minor VL345, bars 51–​53: conclusion.

The Prelude VL319 (1909) is another example of this aspect of Čiurlionis’s cautious experimentation. Vytautas Landsbergis suggests that the group of piano pieces composed in 1908–​09 while Čiurlionis was on holiday at the Baltic coast relate to his work on a projected opera, Juratė (a sea-​goddess in Lithuanian folklore), and hence calls them ‘Sea Preludes’, while conceding that Čiurlionis himself gave them no titles of any kind (Landsbergis, 2004, p. 426). VL319 is the second of this group. Its improvisatory character reflects the way Čiurlionis was working at the time –​spending hours at the keyboard, but writing little down. This prelude combines stormy chromaticism with occasional moments of tonal repose, with a theme in bars 1–​2 which recurs several times. This theme itself comprises several distinct motifs, each in a different tonality. Thus, at the outset, G minor is followed by B major, G major, and A minor/​major before dissolving into chromatic material for a bar, after which the opening material reappears starting in B flat minor. As in his

116  George Kennaway octatonic compositions, Čiurlionis uses chromatic material horizontally, while adding chords which are entirely tonal (see Examples 6.15 and 6.16).

Example 6.15 Prelude VL 319, bars 1–​4.

Example 6.16 Prelude VL319, conclusion.

The Prelude VL 331 (1909), another of the so-​called ‘Sea Preludes’, is one of Čiurlionis’s more subtle and charming works. Each bar begins on a simple root position chord, linked to the next by mildly chromatic passing-​notes. A regular rhythmic pattern, and an unobtrusively repeated figure in the bass, give coherence, while the harmonic shifts themselves move easily to the flat side of C major –​A flat in particular (see Example 6.17).

Example 6.17 Prelude VL 331, opening bars.

The cautious experiments of Čiurlionis  117 One other type of composition merits examination. While the pieces based on musical cryptograms have attracted some attention, because more clearly potentially avant-​garde, this has been at the expense of other aspects of his music, in particular his experiments with octatonicism. Landsbergis (1992, p. 81), describing the tone-​semitone scale as ‘one of [Čiurlionis’s] favourite modes’, notes the octatonic character of the subject of the short Fughetta VL 316 (1908) but he does not pursue the topic. Here, the octatonicism is simply a by-​product of the theme’s being structured around a diminished seventh (the final B flat is of course non-​octatonic), so, rather like aspects of Čiurlionis’s harmonic language, it arises almost as an unintended consequence (see Example 6.18).

Example 6.18 Fughetta VL 316, bars 1–​4: ‘octatonic’ subject.6

Landsbergis (2004, p. 425) returns to this in his discussion of three preludes classified as being in ‘New Modes’: They are neither major, nor minor. They are simply invented or formed in a new way. Many innovative composers (even N. Rimsky-​Korsakov) used them. […] Čiurlionis gets progressively more interested in [… the] diminished mode and its modifications. The tonality […] can not be defined by the criteria of major and minor. […] It is not easy to determine the tonalities of these compositions […]. Landsbergis prefers to talk of ‘artificial’ or ‘diminished’ modes, and he does not examine their structure. ‘Diminished mode’ is a term originating with Yavorsky (1911, cited in Taruskin 1985, p. 113). His approach has the effect, intended or not, of stressing Čiurlionis’s originality and mystery. In one of the earliest discussions of Čiurlionis’s music in English, Staškevičius (1986, p. 94) drew attention to octatonicism only once, referring to the prelude VL300, discussed below, but gave no analysis, grouping octatonicism alongside modal scales, folk-​derived melodies and ‘tonally unstable patterns’. These simply support her general claim that with these techniques, ‘Čiurlionis started to break away from the traditions of the Classic-​Romantic era.’ Writers on octatonicism use a variety of subtly differing methodologies and taxonomies. There are three pitch-​specific octatonic scales, beginning [0, 1, 3, 4…], [0, 2, 3, 5…] and [1, 2, 4, 5…]. Strictly speaking, all octatonic pitch collections resolve into one (Forte 7–​28). Perle’s analysis (1984) of the octatonicism in Skryabin’s op. 74 preludes distinguishes the three octatonic pitch-​collections according to the diminished sevenths which generate them. Here I identify specific octatonic collections by means of the first two terms in the scale: [0, 1], [0, 2], or [1, 2]. In particular, [0, 2] consists of two minor

118  George Kennaway tetrachords, tone-​semitone-​tone [0, 2, 3, 5 /​6, 8, 10, 11]. Taruskin (1997, p. 423) has shown how Rimsky-​Korsakov sketched these two scales, treating [0, 1] as harmonically useful and using [0, 2] as a melodic scale –​I will return to this distinction in Čiurlionis later. Although the standard octatonic scale is produced by the simple alternation of tone and semitone, it can also be constructed by combining transpositions of four-​ note chords –​any two diminished seventh or French sixth chords can combine to produce an octatonic scale. Given the whole-​tone potential of the French sixth chord, and the obvious fact that both chords are rich in tritones, the potential for tonal instability is clear. But the octatonic collection can also include triads and dominant sevenths, with roots at the nodal points (the odd-​numbered notes of the scale) and inversions on non-​nodal points. Other chords, even the ‘Tristan chord’, are also possible. In an octatonic context a seventh chord cannot be conventionally resolved, so ‘dominant’ harmony can either imply a tonic which never arrives, or it can be entirely non-​functional. The potential in either direction –​towards, or away from, conventional tonality –​is considerable. Rimsky-​Korsakov uses octatonic scales in an entirely tonal context, to signify the magical or fantastic (as for instance in Sadko), but Skryabin’s Op. 74 preludes can remain strictly octatonic for long periods, verging on atonality. Čiurlionis never exploits the harmonic possibilities of the octatonic collection in this way (see Example 6.19).

Example 6.19 Skryabin, Prelude Op. 74, No. 3, opening bars.

He experiments seriously with octatonicism in four piano preludes: VL300 (1906), VL302 (1906), VL 337 (1909), and VL343 (1909). Prelude VL300 (1906) While diminished seventh harmony is uncommon in Čiurlionis, his treatment of the octatonic scale in the bass here shows that he is aware of its diminished seventh construction, but expressed in horizontal terms. In bars 1–​4 the scales in the bass begin in successive bars on the four nodal points (G, E, C sharp, B flat) and similar nodal marking occurs in bars 11–​12 and bars 25–​28 (a transposition of bars 1–​4). These nodes also occur in the treble in bar 5. Throughout the piece he uses only the minor tetrachord form [0, 2, 3] of the octatonic scale. Čiurlionis always harmonizes these scales according to the opening notes of this tetrachord –​G minor in bar 1, E minor in bar 2, and so on. Bars 1–​6 are almost entirely octatonic, with the addition of just two non-​octatonic passing-​notes (D, G sharp) in the treble at bar 7, which

The cautious experiments of Čiurlionis  119 enable a modulation to D minor –​note that the seventh chord in the treble is still within the octatonic collection. Bars 7–​12 are not octatonic but the sequential repetition in the bass in bars 11–​12 marks the same nodal points as the bass scales in bars 1–​4. After the chromaticism of bars 13–​15, B minor appears in bar 16 and in bar 17 the bass line returns to octatonicism for two bars, with bar 19 containing a modified octatonic scale. At bar 23 the bass is also octatonic (each group of six notes is from a different transposition of the scale). Bar 24 is chromatic but strongly based on tritones. Bar 25 is the start of the recapitulation, transposed down a fifth, with the equivalent additional chromatic passing-​notes in bar 30. From bar 31, in a rather surprising G major, there is no octatonicism, only an ambiguous tonality. Čiurlionis appears to experiment with polytonal effects here, especially in the final bars where F minor and C major are superimposed over G major, before the E minor close. The chordal element in the prelude only becomes prominent in the final eight bars –​until bar 31 the texture is almost entirely that of a two-​ part invention. In this prelude, octatonicism occurs wholly within a tonal context, as an alternative chromaticism, and not at all as a chordal resource. Prelude VL 302 (1906) A monothematic prelude in ternary form, the material in bars 1–​ 10 is transposed up a third and slightly shortened in bars 11–​18, returning slightly extended in the tonic with a few textural additions. Using the non-​standard key-​signature A flat-​B flat-​C flat, Čiurlionis restricts himself almost entirely to the pitch-​class set [2, 4, 5, 7, 8, 10, 11], making this prelude his most rigorous composition.3 This particular pitch-​class collection comprises a heptatonic subset of an octatonic scale. In terms of its prime form, there is only one heptatonic subset of pitch collection 8–​28, that is, 7–​31. Friedman (1990, p. 106) refers to this as a ‘‘nearly octatonic’ septad’. Skryabin used heptatonic subsets in his seventh piano sonata (sometimes modified further according to the requirements of voice-​leading), but sharpening the seventh note to produce a five-​note whole-​tone scale [3, 5, 6, 8, 9, 11, 0, 3, 5]. Debussy uses a heptatonic subset in ‘L’ombre des arbres’ (1885–​7) and the piano prelude ‘Brouillards’ (Book 2, 1913). It also occurs in Berlioz’s Symphonie Fantastique (1830) and the Stabat Mater from Verdi’s Quattro Pezzi Sacri (1898).4 E flat minor is often implied, largely because the C flat-​B flat semitone is heard as a 6-​5 appoggiatura and the A flat as a dominant seventh. B flat becomes an implied dominant while at the same time functioning as a pitch centre. This is particularly so at the end of the piece which clearly implies the dominant seventh of E flat minor. There is a similarity between the bass lines of this prelude and of VL 300. Both, perhaps fortuitously, use scales grouped in six-​ note units. This means that, as in the previous example, nodal points tend to occur at the start of each group of six. However, at the start of this prelude, these should be B flat, D flat, E, and G. Since D flat is excluded from the pitch-​collection, D natural takes its place. This irregularity disappears in bars.

120  George Kennaway 11–​18 with the transposition up a major third. Here the scale reads [2, 4, 5, 7, 8, 10, 11] and the nodal points [2, 5, 8, 11] are highlighted correctly. This prelude uses two octatonic scales, [0, 1] and [0, 2]. The prelude opens with [0, 1], switching to [0, 2] at bar 12 (VL 300 used [0, 2] throughout). The nodal points of the [0, 2] scale are quite clear, but those of the [0, 1] scale are not quite consistent. The more unorthodox the key-​signature, the more firmly does Čiurlionis cling to contrapuntal rigour. Fugue VL337 (1909) Structurally, this is an entirely conventional fugue –​the only unconventional aspect is the fact that it is octatonic. Using the [1,2] collection, the subject strongly implies D minor. The second fugal entry is on the ‘dominant’ (bar 5); the third entry is on the ‘tonic’. At bar 14 the scale is transposed to the ‘subdominant’ (‘G minor’). As so often, Čiurlionis left this work unfinished creating the most common editorial problem, as the implied da capo is not always clear. Landsbergis’s completion resolves the tonic to D major in the last few bars, and there are many examples of Čiurlionis closing with a tierce de Picardie. Nonetheless, Kučinskas (2011) suggests that Čiurlionis may have simply intended a reprise of the fugue subject and a close in D minor. Prelude VL343 (1909) This prelude uses other octatonic subsets. Bars 1–​11 use six notes [1, 3, 6, 7, 9, 10] from [0, 1]. In bars 12–​14 the bass ostinato moves up a tone, and a new theme appears. These bars use six notes [0, 2, 5, 8, 9, 11] from [0, 2]. Yet a further transposition of the bass up a tone in bars 15–​16 moves to collection [1, 2], although here only five notes are used [1, 2, 7, 10, 11]. Bar 17, with the bass raised a further tone, uses only four notes from collection [0, 1]. This would normally not be enough to imply an octatonic collection, but in context it seems clear enough. All the melodic material in bars 12–​17 is related in character and contrasts clearly with the opening theme. This theme now returns at bar 18, with the ostinato a fifth higher than at the beginning. With two exceptions, the A in bar 22 and the F sharp in bar 33, bars 18–​33 use a heptatonic subset [1, 2, 4, 5, 7, 8, 10] of collection [1, 2]. The non-​octatonic A simply maintains the parallel motion of the chords. The non-​octatonic F sharp has a more modulatory function, creating tension through the sequential repetition of the semitone figure from bar 32 and moving towards [0, 1] in bar 34–​36 [6-​note subset, 0, 1, 3, 4, 6, 9]. From bar 37 to the end the only ‘octatonic’ element is the bass ostinato consisting of a semitone and a tritone. Over this Čiurlionis brings back the opening theme but this time harmonized conventionally in G minor. The effect is to stress the tonal character of the theme, which was less apparent when heard at the start in plain octaves over the ambiguous ostinato. An unresolved element remains –​even though the last 17 bars are entirely in a diatonic G minor, the ostinato is left to end the

The cautious experiments of Čiurlionis  121 prelude alone for the last two bars. There is a change at its final repetition which ends the piece on D rather than A, implying G minor or possibly E flat. These examples are the most substantial, but there is occasional octatonicism in shorter passages elsewhere which are either incidental to the structure or are clearly contained within the minor mode. While one might reasonably look for octatonicism in Čiurlionis’s less clearly tonal works, or where there are many tritones, or even where there are simply many accidentals, well-​defined examples are rather fewer than appearances might suggest. For example, the five pitches of the Besacas theme [0, 3, 4, 9, 10] happen to be a subset of the octatonic collection [0, 1, 3, 4…] but they are never treated in this way. It is sometimes suggested that Čiurlionis’s music occupies a transitional position, poised midway between romanticism and modernism, and his art similarly can be seen as midway between realism and abstraction. More recent commentary, especially from Lithuania itself, stresses his individuality, with both his art and his music as sui generis. The ‘transitional’ Čiurlionis may be a manifestation of a trope about Lithuania’s own ambiguous liminality, poised between East and West, ‘entre deux mondes’ as the philosopher Stasys Šalkauskis (1886–​1941) put it (1919, p. 27): Et ce people, qui s’était autrefois organisé soudain en un puissant état, retrouve une nouvelle vigueur pour achever la tâche que le destin lui a réservé: synthétiser, dans la civilisation nationale, les éléments divers de l’Orient et de l’Occident. [And this people, which in former times was suddenly organized into a powerful state, rediscovers new strength to complete the task reserved to it by destiny: to synthesize in its national civilization, the diverse elements of the East and the West]. The teacher and theosophist Vydūnas (1868–​1953) located Lithuania between ‘le passé et le présent’ (Vydūnas, 1918, pp. 75–​76). The symbolist poet and critic Vyacheslav Ivanov (1915) suggested a linguistic cause, stressing the close links between the Lithuanian and Sanskrit languages, which, he argued, predisposed Lithuanians in general and Čiurlionis in particular to see the natural world as an illusion. In this loose sense, Čiurlionis’s graphic output certainly combines ‘Western’ and ‘Eastern’ elements, the latter including Japanese, Chinese, and Egyptian allusions as well as Indian. Čiurlionis would have encountered Japanese art while in Warsaw (Cavanaugh, 2000, p. 258, n. 43). John Bowlt suggests that he may have also seen Chinese art during his 1906 European tour (Senn et al., 1986, p. 59). An Oriental element was noted in his art by Vorobyov in 1943 (Vorobyov, repr. in Gostautas, 1994, p. 207), and the influence of Japan was explored in Yuniko Nunokawa’s doctoral thesis (Nunokawa, 2017). But to speak specifically of Čiurlionis’s musical style as ‘transitional’ is to over-​emphasize the significance of the experimental techniques he used at times in the period 1906–​1909, and also carries an

122  George Kennaway implied teleology. It is tempting to argue that octatonicism itself is transitional between tonality and atonality, but while that may be true, it is not supported by Čiurlionis’s practice. It appears that in matters octatonic, Čiurlionis was largely self-​taught, but the initial stimulus for this line of experiment is still unclear. The predominantly tonal context and his lack of interest in the vertical possibilities of the octatonic collection means that, while he was more experimental than Rimsky-​ Korsakov, he had already been overtaken by Debussy and Ravel (whose work was not known to him), and Skryabin and Stravinsky were about to do so –​to say nothing of Busoni’s experimental scales (see Erinn Knyt’s discussion of these in the following chapter) or the works of Russian avangardisti such as Lourié or Roslavets. Rimsky-​Korsakov seems not to have been part of his experience in Warsaw or Leipzig, and Młoda Polska composers such as Fitelberg, Szeluto, Różycki, or Symanowski do not appear to have experimented in this way. Had he been more established in St Petersburg, which, with Paris, was at least from 1900 a major centre of octatonic composition, these experiments might have produced a more substantial synthesis of octatonicism with dissonant neo-​ classicism. But, given the conservatism of his musical training, his sometimes difficult personality, his almost constant lack of money, his social and geographical marginalization and his relatively short creative life, it is more surprising that he experimented in this direction at all. The historian Leah Greenfeld (1992, p. 15) has very usefully identified a nationalist trope of ressentiment using Nietzsche’s term: a nationalist movement will adopt a system of core values which are the opposite of those of the dominant power and not necessarily ‘innate’ or ‘essential’.5 Nationalism in art music is often discussed within a Herderian model. It is signified by the presence of some or all of such elements as folk music and dance, a rehabilitated indigenous language, or a rewritten mythical heroic past. But national identity can also be expressed by what is not present. From this perspective, Čiurlionis’s experiments with musical languages can be seen as engaging with a nationalist agenda just as much as his epiphanic declaration of his pro-​Lithuanian stance to his brother Povilas: ‘Aš esu pasiryžes visus savo buvusius ir būsimus darbus skirti Lietuvai’ [I have decided to dedicate all my past and future works to Lithuania] (Ciurlionytė-​Karuzienė, 1960, p. 192). He is writing neither Russian nor German nor Polish music. Something very similar can be said of his Baltic contemporaries such as the Latvians Andrejs Jurjāns (1856–​1922) and Jāzeps Vītols (1863–​1948), or the Estonians Rudolf Tobias (1873–​1918), Heino Eller (1887–​1970), or Cyrillus Kreek (1889–​1962). A musical language which seems forever poised to leave fin-​de-​siècle romanticism and (only in retrospect) to move towards modernism, and an artistic language which uses realism while trying to transcend it, seems consistent with Čiurlionis’s self-​presentation and also with his position vis-​à-​vis Lithuanian identity. Mtislav Dobuzhinskii’s charming evocation of Čiurlionis at the Mir Iskusstva salon, ‘sitting quietly in a corner, poring over numerous collections of engravings and drawings, and listening to some often very interesting

The cautious experiments of Čiurlionis  123 conversations’ (Dobuzhinskii, 1938), perfectly captures his shyness, and his tendency to sit, literally and metaphorically, on the margins.

Notes 1 I examine aspects of Čiurlionis in the context of ‘northern-​ness’ in the forthcoming ‘Northern-​ness, marginalisation, and identity: the case of M. K. Čiurlionis, the reluctant Lithuanian avant-​ gardist’, in Rachel Cowgill and Derek Scott (eds), Music and the Idea of the North (in press, Ashgate/​Routledge). 2 BVF is the catalogue reference for Čiurlionis’s art. 3 Landsbergis’s edition gives this key-​signature in parentheses, implying that it is editorial, but Kučinskas’s Urtext (2011, pp. 76–​77) confirms that it is fact by Čiurlionis. 4 See Baur (1999), Forte (1991), Parks (1980, 1990). 5 Nietzsche uses this term in connection with the relations between the powerful politically superior Romans and the subject Palestinians, who believed themselves culturally superior. To maintain their own pride in the face of Roman domination, they had to evolve a system of values which contradicted those of Rome: emphasizing the spiritual and down-​valuing might, worldly riches and political power. For Nietzsche, the culmination of this process, driven by ressentiment, was nothing less than Christianity, which in these terms becomes ‘an act of spiritual revenge’ (Nietzsche, 1969, p. 34). 6 Landsbergis’s edition gives F♭ at b.3 n. 3, but all other iterations of the theme have F♮ (or its equivalent if transposed). (Landsbergis, 2004, p. 425).

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The cautious experiments of Čiurlionis  125 Mansbach, S. A. (1999). Modern Art in Eastern Europe from the Baltic to the Balkans, ca. 1890–​1939. Cambridge: University of Cambridge Press. Nietzsche, F. (1969). On the Genealogy of Morals. (W. Kaufmann and R. J. Hollingdale trans.). New York: Random House. Nunokawa, Y. (2017). Contextuality of the Artistic Language of M K. Čiurlionis: Links and Influences of Cultures of the East and the West Discovered in Čiurlionis’ Art. Unpublished doctoral dissertation, Kaunas Technological University. Okulicz-​Kosaryn, R. (2007). Litwin Wśród Spadkobiersców Króla-​Ducha. Twórczość Čiurlionisa wobec Młodej Polski. Poznan, Poland: Adam Mickiewicz University Press. Parks, R. S. (1980). Pitch organisation in Debussy: unordered sets in ‘Brouillards’. Music Theory Spectrum, 2, 119–​134. Parks, R. S. (1990). The Music of Claude Debussy. New Haven: Yale University Press. Perle, G. (1984). Scriabin’s self-​analysis. Music Analysis, 3, 101–​122. Plioplys, A. (1994). Čiurlionis and abstraction: a dissenting opinion. In: Gostautas (1994), 242–​247. Rannit, A. (1946–​47). M. K. Čiurlionis. Das Kunstwerk, 8–​9, 46–​48. Rannit, A. (1949). M. K. Čiurlionis 1875-​1911. Pionnier de l’art abstrait, Discours prononcé au 2ème Congrès International des critiques d’art. Paris: Maison de l’UNESCO. Rannit, A. (1950). An abstract painter before Kandinsky. Das Kunstwerk, 8, 34–​37. Šimkus, S. (ed.) (1925). M.K. Čiurlionis musikos kūriniai les oeuvres musicales. 5 vols. Kaunas: Švietimo Ministerijos Leidinys, Edition du ministère d’information publique. Staškevičius, D. (1986). Čiurlionis’s music in its time. In: Senn, A., Bowlt, J., and Staškevičius, D. (eds.), Mikolajus Konstantinas Čiurlionis: the music of the spheres (73–​109). Newtonville, MA: Oriental Research Partners. Taruskin, R. (1985). Chernomor to Kashchei: harmonic sorcery; or, Stravinsky’s ‘angle’. Journal of the American Musicological Society, 38, 72–​142. Taruskin, R. (1997). Defining Russia Musically. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Verkelytė-​Fedaravičienė, B. (ed.) (1997). Mikalojus Konstantinas Čiurlionis Paintings Sketches Thoughts. Kaunas: Fodio Publishers. Vorobyov, N. (1943). Modernizmo epocha Europos mene. Unpublished dissertation. University of Vilnius. Vydūnas, W. S. (1918). La Lituanie dans le passé et le présent. (A. Viscont trans.). Geneva: Atar. Yavorsky, B. (1911). Neskol’ko myslei v sviazi s iubileem Frantsa Lista. Muzyka, 45, 961. Zubovas, R. (2012). M. K. Čiurlionis Compositions for Piano. Kaunas: Rokas Zubovas.

7  J. S. Bach and metatonality in the early piano pieces of Ferruccio Busoni1 Erinn Knyt

Since composing piano works based on J.S. Bach’s music in the early 1900s (i.e. Fantasia nach Bach, BV 253/​Fantasia contrappuntistica, BV 256) Busoni has been as inextricably linked to Bach as to tonal experimentation. Busoni’s use of Bachian counterpoint as a foundation for experimentation with tonal codes and conventions, however, extends even farther back. Many of his youthful piano works, including those composed between 1877 and 1881, when Busoni was a student in Trieste, Vienna, and Graz, display indebtedness to Bach’s influence and exhibit early metatonal tendencies. The importance of Bach’s music for Busoni’s mature compositions has already been discussed by numerous scholars (Riethmüller, 1988; Beaumont, 1985; Sitsky, 1986; Berio, 1987). However, its influence on Busoni’s early compositions –​especially in relation to his developing metatonal approach (as described by Paul Fleet, 2009) –​has been largely overlooked. For more information on this please see Scott’s discussion in the following chapter. Through analyses of letters, essays, unpublished student exercise books, and scores, this chapter reveals the extent of Busoni’s youthful knowledge of Bach’s music and how he appropriated it in his early piano pieces to develop an idiosyncratic approach toward tonality. In the process, it not only conveys new knowledge about Busoni’s education and youthful compositions, but also about the evolution of his compositional style. In particular, it reveals how Busoni began to develop his own metatonal approach through an expansion of Bachian sequences, counterpoint, and chromaticism. In the process, the chapter shows how Busoni’s Janus-​faced music contributed to a burgeoning historicist modernism in which contemporary composers embraced historical music and tonality while challenging its codes and conventions.

Busoni’s early exposure to the music of Bach Busoni’s youthful exposure to the music of Bach was unusual, and it was through an expansion of Bachian compositional procedures that Busoni discovered a way to subvert tonal conventions.2 At the time of Busoni’s birth, Bach was not well known throughout much of Italy, and his music was not yet central to Italian music education.3 It was the vocal music of Italian masters DOI: 10.4324/9780429451713-7

Bach and metatonality in Busoni  127 that served as core material for instruction.4 Composition classes typically included realizing unfigured bass lines, writing fugues and melodies, and singing solfeggio. The main composition models were Italian, and Giovanni Pierluigi da Palestrina was especially revered.5 There was an assumption that nearly all of the great Italian music was vocal. In Italy, as opposed to Germany, music was taught primarily as an instinctive art. Theory was integrally linked to practice, even if exercises increasingly were written down as the nineteenth century progressed. Counterpoint, sometimes taught by voice professors, was learned primarily through singing, and harmony was taught at the keyboard.6 Piano instruction focused on the music of composers like Jan Ladislov Dussek, Johann Baptist Cramer, Fedele Fenaroli, and Muzio Clementi. Giuseppe Verdi, for instance, relied primarily on treatises by Fenaroli and Stanislao Mattei, and concentrated on the music of Italian composers (e.g. Arcangelo Corelli, Giacomo Rossini, Giuseppe Tartini, Francesco Vallotti, and Giovanni Battista Martini) with his composition students. Although the music of Ludwig van Beethoven, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, and Franz Joseph Haydn was also included in Verdi’s course of study, Bach was not part of the curriculum (Marvin, 2010, 32–​37.) Lessons covered counterpoint, harmonic theory, concert attendance, score analysis, partimenti over bass lines, and writing canons and fugues as the final lesson. Although Verdi emphasized historical awareness, his main model of the past was the music of Palestrina (Marvin, 2010.) Verdi was decidedly against relying too heavily on the music of Bach, as he considered it to be a tainting foreign influence: ‘If German composers, departing from Bach, have arrived at Wagner, they have done the work of [a]‌good German, and that is fine. But we descendants of Palestrina, by imitating Wagner, commit a musical crime, and do useless, or even damaging work’ (Verdi, letter of 14 July 1889 to Franco Faccio, in Marvin, 2010, 82.) Studying the music of older German masters in Italy in the later nineteenth century was not only looked down upon as anti-​nationalistic, it was also difficult due to a lack of access to scores (Bertoglio, 2012). The importing of scores was not done in many places, and there were few Italian publishers interested in producing the music. Complete works by Bach only began appearing in the mid-​1800s. According to Chiara Bertoglio, only in 1843 was a work by Bach printed in its entirety by an Italian publisher, the Capriccio in B flat Major, BWV 992, as part of the monthly musical supplement to the Gazzetta musicale di Milano (Bertoglio, 2012, p. 197). In 1863–​4, Lucca of Milan issued an edition of The Well Tempered Clavier and sections of The Well Tempered Clavier were included in an anthology of music published by Ricordi in 1864, L’arte antica e moderna [Ancient and Modern Art]. An edition of selections from the Well Tempered Clavier edited by Eduoard Bix appeared in 1873-​4, and the Hans von Bülow edition appeared in 1881, while Beniamino Cesi’s Bach edition came out around 1900 (Antolini, 2012, p. 191.) Knowledge of Bach’s music in Italy during Busoni’s youth was therefore mainly communicated to students one-​on-​one by teachers that had studied

128  Erinn Knyt outside of Italy, rather than through concert attendance, mandated conservatory repertoire, composition or theoretical training, or personal discovery. Few Italians performed his pieces, and interpretations by visiting artists were exceptions. According to Bertoglio, Bach was only played in Bologna on about ten occasions between 1874 and 1899 –​two of these performances were by Busoni. Those especially remembered for transmitting Bach’s music in Italy include Padre Martini in Bologna, Giovanni Simone Mayr in Bergamo, Antonio Angeleri in Milan, Beniamino Cesi in Naples, and Ludwig Landsberg in Rome.7 While there was interest in Bach in Italy in certain locales in the mid to late nineteenth century, knowledge about his music was not yet widespread. Busoni’s early exposure to the music of Bach is striking, because of his provincial roots, and because he never studied with one of the main Bach supporters at the time. Yet Bach’s music became an important catalyst for his experimentation with metatonality. His parents were his main piano and composition instructors, and his father, a clarinetist, was, like Busoni, born near Florence, in Empoli. His mother, although born in Trieste –​at that time part of the Austro-​Hungarian Empire, and now part of northeastern Italy –​received a predominantly Italian education. According to Busoni, his mother, a pianist, was the first to give him lessons. Anna Busoni taught him for about one hour per day, focusing on the music of Czerny, Clementi, and other Italians (Busoni, letter of 22 January 1872 to Ferdinando Busoni, quoted in Dent, 1933, p. 13). Surprisingly, it was his father who first exposed him to the music of Bach around 1873, when he took over his education (Dent, 1930, pp. 44–​ 53).8 Busoni expressed amazement that his father would have done this even despite the anti-​nationalistic implications of such an education: I have to thank my father for the good fortune that he kept me strictly to the study of Bach in my childhood, and that in a time and in a country in which the master was rated little higher than a Carl Czerny. My father was a simple virtuoso on the clarinet, who liked to play fantasias on Il Trovatore and the Carnival of Venice; he was a man of incomplete musical education, an Italian and cultivator of the bel canto. How did such a man in his ambition for his son’s career come to hit upon the one very thing that was right? (Busoni, in Dent, 1933, pp. 17–​18)9 Although it is unclear why Ferdinando Busoni would have chosen to teach his son Bach, Busoni’s earliest exposure must have been enabled by a move from Empoli to Trieste, which was in a geographic crossroads between the Austro-​ Hungarian Empire and Italy. The 1874 publication of Eduoard Bix’s four-​volume collection of works by Bach ordered according to difficulty level facilitated the exposure.10 Although the volumes contain many pieces, including two-​and three-​part inventions, a French Suite, partitas, and the Italian Concerto, it is uncertain what Busoni studied other than a few

Bach and metatonality in Busoni  129 preludes and fugues, some of which he performed in Trieste (Bertoglio, 2012, p. 168).11 Although Hungarian born, Bix studied piano in Vienna with Josef Fischhof, a collector of Bach manuscripts. In 1866, he settled in Trieste, where he was a music teacher at the Liceo musicale G. Tartini and a reviewer for the Triester Zeitung. Some scholars have speculated that Bix might have taught Busoni, but if he did, Busoni never mentioned it, and no record of correspondence exists.12 It is more likely that Ferdinando consulted Bix about repertoire for his son.13 That Bix and the Busonis crossed paths is no more than mere speculation. But what we do know for sure is that as a music reviewer, Bix heard Busoni and his parents perform in Trieste; Busoni performed Bach (an unspecified Prelude and Fugue) for the first time on 8 January 1875 (Dent, 1933, p. 19), and a performance of the Prelude in F Major and a Fugue in C Minor followed quickly thereafter in Venice.

Busoni’s metatonality If Bach’s music was central to Busoni’s education and served as a model for his early compositions, it did not lead to conservative or retrogressive compositional styles –​quite the opposite. It became a model for ways to expand tonality in instrumental music, an area that had been overshadowed in Italy by innovations in opera. Bach’s play with chromaticism, his sequential cycling through keys, and the uncommon harmonic occurrences caused by the contrapuntal colliding of voices all ultimately helped Busoni break away from traditional tonality. Without rejecting tonality, Busoni learned from Bach to expand its possibilities. In the process, he joined several other composers (including Beach, Bridge, Čiurlionis, Clarke, Foulds, Grainger, Howe, Nielsen, Ornstein, Schreker, Scriabin, or Sorabji, many of whom are discussed in this book), in exploring new means of writing music in which tonal centres can be identified, but not established and developed in a traditional or Classical sense. Fleet has aptly called this phenomenon ‘metatonality’, a term referring to the expansion of tonality through such techniques as the simultaneous evocation of major and minor regions, or the combinations of new scales in a piece that retains a tonal centre, or the formation of harmonies through intervals of seconds or thirds (Fleet, 2009). In short, metatonal compositions expand tonal possibilities while subverting traditional expectations of tonal functions (Fleet, 2009, p. 109).

Bach and metatonality in Busoni’s early composition As Fleet has already demonstrated, Busoni was actively exploring metatonal possibilities in his compositions of the early 1900s, shortly after he penned his Sketch of a New Aesthetic of Music in 1906.14 However, the foundations for his metatonal approach were already laid in his childhood and were rooted in his study of the music of Bach. As Fleet has noted, Busoni’s metatonal

130  Erinn Knyt harmonic approach came from the layering of melodic lines that ‘resist a tonal reading’ (Fleet, 2009, p. 112). This new kind of polyphony, which Busoni wrote about and fully developed in the second decade of the twentieth century, nevertheless had its roots in the polyphonic practice of Bach that he studied in his youth. In addition, the practice of musical sequencing so common in the Baroque era provided him a model for moving between key areas, a model that he took to a level beyond Bach. While Ferdinando Busoni taught his son piano for four hours per day his early composition instruction was not similarly structured. Busoni initially learned by composing imitative pieces in the style of the composers he performed. His parents (primarily his father) then critiqued his work. Busoni’s first pieces were largely short and unadventurous tonal Italianate character sketches, but at the end of his first composition notebook, Busoni completed a Bachian fugue in two voices in what he described as a free style (see Example 7.1).

Bach and metatonality in Busoni  131

Example 7.1  Busoni, Fuga a 2 voci in stile libero, bars 1–​20. Source: Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Preussischer Kulturbesitz, Musikabteilung mit Mendelssohn Archiv, N. Mus. Nachl. 23.

Like many of his unpublished student compositions, the fugue has ‘C’ as its main tonal centre. Yet Busoni uses a traditional Baroque compositional procedure –​the sequence –​to expand upon tonal possibilities. He starts in C and eventually moves toward the dominant in bar 12, but it would be difficult to call the piece traditional. The opening subject (bars one to two) is repeated in bars three to four, but is varied chromatically in bar four. The

132  Erinn Knyt added F sharp on the downbeat through slight chromatic inflection starts the movement towards G major. The subject thus takes on episodic functions, a technique that was used at times by Bach as well. While this blurring of functions in itself might not be too unusual, the technique of linking together figurations belonging to different scale collections in bar four is notable, because Busoni frequently employs this technique in his later compositions to subvert traditional tonal functions. There are plenty of other idiosyncrasies in the piece, including the inclusion of sequential episodic material based on the subject in bars 5–​11 before the appearance of the answer –​thereby making the answer’s appearance in bar 12 a major moment of arrival. At the same time, the opening subject material is continuously varied freely throughout the piece, which is largely developmental, as fragments of the subject cycle through suggestions of harmonies as remote as G minor, E major, D major, A minor, B flat major, A flat major, E flat major, and D flat major, before a sudden four-​bar cadence in C major at the conclusion of the fugue (Busoni, SBPK, N. Mus. Nachl. 23). While not necessarily metatonal, this treatment of tonality marks a point of departure for Busoni. Tonal mutability and an avoidance of expected harmonic movement mark the piece as experimental. Bach’s influence thus served as a basis for tonal experimentation. Busoni described Bach’s influence as pervasive and long lasting: ‘Since early childhood I have played Bach and practised counterpoint. At that time it was a mania with me and at least one Fugato actually comes into every one of my youthful works’ (Busoni, 1912, p. 48). Pieces imitating and building upon Bach’s compositional techniques and forms became frequent in Busoni’s output in fall 1875, when Busoni began studying piano with Julius Epstein (1832–​1926) in Vienna at the Conservatory (see Example 7.2). Preludio Preludio Fuga a 2 voci in stile libero Fuga a 3 voci Invenzone Fuga per Harmonium-​Organo a tre voci Fughetta Invention Fuga in Sol Magg Invenzione Preludio Allegro fugato Preludio e Fuga in Do Magg per la mano sinistra sola Fuga in stile libero Preludio Preludium e Fuga for 2 pianos Fuga Preludium and Fuge Preludio e Fuge

Oct. 1874 Mar. 1875 23 Aug. 1875 2 Sep. 1875 2 Dec. 1875 5 Jan. 1876 9 Sep. 1876 31 Dec. 1876 23 Jan. 1877 20 June 1877 4 Sep. 1877 30 Sep. 1877 27 Feb. 1878 5 Mar. 1878 5 May 1878 5 Dec. 1878 n.d. Feb. 1880 May 1880

Bach and metatonality in Busoni  133 Invention Preludium and Fuge Preludium and Fuge

14 May 1880 Oct. 1880 1 Apr. 1881

Example 7.2 Childhood works by Busoni in imitation of Bach Source: Author.

This increasing allusion to Bach can, perhaps, be attributed to greater accessibility to scores and hearing more performances of Bach’s music in Vienna. At the same time, a study of Bach’s music was teaching him to become more adventurous with the musical language. It seems that this experimentation was his own, as he was still not receiving any additional composition instruction beyond his father’s. It was expected that he would stay at the conservatory for five years to finish the piano course, but he quit less than two years later due to frustration with the bureaucracy and standardized teaching methods. In a letter to his mother dated 25 October 1875, he wrote about being forced to learn Cramer études and Clementi sonatas. At the same time, the letter provides a rare glimpse into Busoni’s composition lessons, for he discusses corrections to a fugue in response to his mother’s suggestions: ‘Ricevei l’altro giorno la tua lettera dove dicevi di correggiere la fuga, la quale corrrezione la trovo giustissima ed eccola.’ [The other day I received your letter where you said to correct the fugue. That correction was most just, and here it is.] (Busoni, letter of 25 October 1875 to Anna Busoni, in Busoni, 2004, p. 35). In the letter, Busoni included a three-​ bar example illustrating his corrections. It consisted of a descending broken minor triad (E, C, A) in quarter notes, followed by ascending stepwise motion in eight notes (B-​C) in bar one. This was followed by a sustained pitch, D, held for eight counts (or two bars). By November, he had begun studying some Bach inventions at the Conservatory, and this seems to have made an immediate impact on his development, even if he was still dissatisfied with the instruction overall.15 Busoni composed his first invention on 2 December 1875, dedicating it to his mother, and he must have been especially proud of this piece, as he etched it out carefully on decorative manuscript paper and wrote out a dedication page in fine calligraphy, creating three copies. The invention alludes to Bach’s Invention in D Minor with ascending and descending 16th-​note scalar passages placed against triadic eighth notes. Busoni’s work, however, displays its youthfulness in a lack of variety in the articulations, textures, and rhythms. His own touch can be observed in the expansion of tonality through chromaticism and a late return to the tonic just before the end of the piece (Busoni, SBPK, N. Mus. Nachl. 31, 44, 46.) Although there are many conventional aspects of this invention, early tendencies toward non-​traditional treatments of tonality can be observed –​especially with respect to stacking scale fragments together to move to new keys. As in his fugue in liberal style, the invention

134  Erinn Knyt uses sequences to arrive at unexpected key areas, such as the minor dominant (from C major to F major, to G minor, to D minor to G, to A minor). Busoni modulates primarily through sequences, which was a common Bachian compositional device, and by stacking scalar fragments together. For instance, in bars 5–​6, the treble features six-​note scale fragments starting on the median (the tonic appears in the bass). Busoni repeats the scale fragment in transposition in bar six, starting on D –​thereby introducing a chromatic element (B flat). Although the scale stops on the tonic on the downbeat of bar seven, it has lost its function as the tonic. The descending scalar fragments in bars seven and eight end on the mediant, which is reinterpreted as a leading tone in F (see Example 7.3).

Example 7.3 Busoni, Invenzione in C Major, bars 1–​20. Source: Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Preussischer Kulturbesitz, Musikabteilung mit Mendelssohn Archiv, N. Mus. Nachl. 44.

By the time Busoni returned to Trieste in early 1876, he began regularly composing music in the manner of Bach, but with his own developing metatonal musical vocabulary. It became his practice to start each day by working on a fugue: Having finished the tea, I ask Mamma for manuscript paper and a pencil so as to compose. I try to write a fugue with my left hand; it is successful and well inspired; but, after a page, inspiration leaves me. So I set aside paper and pencil and begin to get dressed. Meanwhile 3 hours have passed and now the cathedral clock strikes eleven (Busoni, fragment of a diary, Wednesday, 8 March 1876, in Beaumont, ed. 1987, p. 6)

Bach and metatonality in Busoni  135 Busoni’s knowledge of Bach was augmented by time the family spent in the summer in Gmunden in 1876 and1877, when he studied harmony, theory, and counterpoint with Johannes Evangelist Habert (1833–​1896).16 He continued his studies by correspondence in Vienna in 1877 and (January) 1878, although Busoni apologized frequently for his delay in returning assignments due to his poor health at the time. In his letters to Habert, Busoni indicated that he completed Habert’s complete course on harmony: ‘I have copied out everything –​from the beginning to the end –​everything that you sent me, and wish also to do that each time so that I have the harmony book in order. That was, however, a task! I doubt that the general-​bass assignment will be right because it was rather difficult’ (Busoni, letter of 6 November 1877 to Habert (Wessely, 1969, p. 380)). Busoni must have been referencing and working through material that was later included in Habert’s posthumously published four-​volume composition treatise, which covers harmony, simple counterpoint, theory, and double counterpoint (Habert, 1899.) Dedicated to Palestrina, Habert’s treatise emphasizes Italian vocal counterpoint. Yet the text also references the music of Bach on numerous occasions, calling him one of the greatest composers along with Palestrina (Habert, 1899, vol. 2, p. 166). Habert’s text specifically references Bach’s Inventions and the Well Tempered Clavier when discussing contrapuntal technique. As a strong supporter of the instrumental tradition in Germany and Austria, his interest in Bach is hardly surprising.17 This is potentially the first time he received composition instruction from anyone apart from his parents, and it led to an explosion of creativity, including some of his first publications. Busoni composed several student works in imitation of Bach during these years, including a Fughetta in C Major (September 1876), a Fugue in G Major (January 1877), and an Invention in D Major (20 June 1877) (Busoni, SBPK, N. Mus. Nachl. 54/​61/​65). Works from this period display more rhythmic variety and increasing maturity in the treatment of middle entry subjects and the recapitulations of material. Also evident is the more adventurous expansion of tonality. The Invention in D Major bears similarity to Bach’s Invention in E flat Major –​with motivic material transposed and presented in new rhythms and articulations. It was quite possibly also informed by his new knowledge of Bach’s chromatic fantasy and fugue, which he performed in Vienna in 1877. Most significantly, Bachian counterpoint and metatonality became inseparable parts of his vocabulary in his original compositions at this time –​primarily in contrapuntal movements. In the Cinq Pièces pour Piano, BV 71, for instance, the final movement (which is a gigue in 9/​16) is very Bachian texturally, but chromatically extended. It is reminiscent of the final gigue in Bach’s French suite in G, although, shorter –​and has the climax near the end. However, the treatment of the musical language contains metatonal moments. Although starting and ending with D as a tonal centre, the tonality is not established traditionally and is not stable. Busoni quickly moves from one harmonic area to the next, including to remote keys, such as to A minor, G minor, C major, C minor, A flat major, A flat minor, B major, and more.

136  Erinn Knyt In some cases he uses enharmonic equivalents to move through keys, such as from A flat minor to B major in bars 16–​18, when C flat is reinterpreted as B and G flat is reinterpreted as F sharp for instance. This could be viewed as extended chromaticism of the late Romantic era. However, Busoni also moves to these key areas using non-​traditional means –​usually by stepwise motion as unrelated scales or unrelated tetrachords are joined or combined through polyphonic motion in separate voices. For instance, in bar five, the treble features the pitches of an E tetrachord (E, F sharp, G sharp, A) while the bass has an A minor tetrachord (A-​B-​C-​D), suggesting two separate scales simultaneously –​the tonic and the dominant. A similar approach is taken in the first movement, Duello, of the Racconti Fantastici, BV 100 (1878). It is an abstract fugato, while the second and third are descriptive character sketches. Although contrapuntal, Duello is clearly a product of Busoni’s time due to the descriptive play with register and texture as well as the periodic cadences and ternary structure. Metatonality can be observed in the independence of the lines when the treble and bass sometimes suggest different scales simultaneously. For instance, although the bass outlines a C minor scale, the tenor voice initially suggests G major beginning in bar 6. The piece also simultaneously suggests major and minor keys in different voices, such as F minor and D flat major in bars 31–​34 (see Example 7.4).

Bach and metatonality in Busoni  137

Example 7.4 Busoni, Racconti Fantastici, BV 100, ‘Duello,’ bars 1–​35. Source: Public Domain, typset by Benjamin Ayotte, edited by Author.

By the time Busoni received any systematic composition training at the age of 14 when he studied for 15 months from November 1879 to April 1881 in Graz with Wilhelm Mayer (1831–​1898), Bach’s contrapuntal style had become as fundamental as his subversion of traditional tonal expectations. Mayer only reinforced Busoni’s fascination with Bach and showed him how to blend

138  Erinn Knyt Classical clarity with Baroque counterpoint, for Mayer adored Bach and Mozart. The experiments with metatonality appear to have been of Busoni’s own imagining. Busoni wrote a homage upon Mayer’s death in 1898 in which he expressed his indebtedness to his teacher not only for exposure to the music of Bach and Mozart, but even more so for the detailed analytical insight he shared about Bach’s compositions: After Mozart, Bach took the highest place in his heart, and he was untiring in the analysis, elaboration, and the poetic interpretation of the Preludes and Fugues from the Well-​Tempered Clavier. He described the first four preludes as the four elements water, fire, earth, air; the theme of the C sharp major fugue he called the butterfly which rests on the flower. (Busoni, 1898, 118–​119) Busoni composed many pieces in the manner of Bach, including a ‘Fugue in F major on a theme of W. A. Rémy’ (BV 154), and he dedicated his Praeludium (Basso ostinato) und Fuge (Doppelfuge zum Choral) Op. 7 (Op. 76), for organ (BV 157) to his teacher.18 The fugue, which features dotted rhythms in French overture style, demonstrates his mastery of Bachian contrapuntal technique, and features a chorale melody presented in the pedals under which a sophisticated double fugue takes place. The prelude is filled with sequences and virtuosic writing, which is in many ways more conservative than what he had been composing. Yet, the time with Mayer exposed Busoni to even more Bachian counterpoint. Busoni created a canon with three voices of various characters and a canon with the main theme transferred between the top, middle, and bottom voices. He also composed a fugue over a subject written by Mayer with classic four-​voice entries. Mayer instructed him in the qualities of good fugal subjects and answers. In addition, the sketchbook contains exercises in three-​and four-​voice counterpoint –​subject, countersubject, countersubject two, three-​part counterpoint singly and then with parallel thirds. In total, Busoni takes eight different approaches to three-​part counterpoint (placed in top, middle, bottom voice), plus double counterpoint for piano. Under a two-​part invention in B minor, finished in 1880, his teacher wrote that this was the best among all the works he had yet written (Busoni, SBPK, N. Mus. Nachl., 360). Busoni also practised writing simple imitation in four voices. Besides contrapuntal exercises, Busoni composed a waltz, gavotte, sonatine, rondo, quartet, march, minuet, and lied. The two also discussed orchestration briefly, and Busoni learned to compose using the church modes. A single choral example has Busoni practising harmonizations with the cantus firmus in the different voices. He also studied traditional modulation techniques (Busoni, SPBK, N. Mus. Nachl., 360). After studies with Mayer, Busoni began exhibiting his mature style characterized by a synthesis of Bachian counterpoint and metatonality. Again, it is the polyphony that serves as the main basis for a Busoni’s tonal experimentation in a prelude and fugue completed on his birthday in 1881.

Bach and metatonality in Busoni  139 It represents a blending of Bachian counterpoint, rhythmic variety, and drive, with Lisztian flair replete with octave doublings and a gradual expansion of range (Busoni, SBPK, N. Mus. Nachl., 360). The opening bars simultaneously reveal Busoni’s metatonal approach with ambiguity between C major and A minor in the treble as an arpeggiation reaches upward (C-​E-​ A-​B-​C) even as the inner voices move from B major to E major harmonies. Taken together, the overall key could be read as A minor, but the key is not established traditionally. Instead, Busoni treats the voices independently. His 24 Preludes, Op. 37 (1881), although bearing homage to Chopin, doubtless also take into account Bach’s Well Tempered Clavier. The same key scheme of Chopin’s preludes is used, and some are fragments, while No. 6 is a chromatic chorale, No. 7 is a Bachian gigue, and No. 22 is a fugato. The fugato, however, does not follow traditional tonal expectations. Although the key signature suggests B flat major or G minor, any sense of tonal centre is obscured by intervallicaly varied motivic material. For instance, Busoni uses a motif of a rising third (C-​D-​E flat) in bar 2, initially suggesting C minor, to which he adds additional thirds in bars 2–​3 (e.g. A-​B flat-​C), suggesting several additional harmonic possibilities. This is followed by the reverse and a varied retrograde motif (F-​F sharp E-​D) in bar 4. Busoni keeps adding to the motif to create unconventional scales that are tonally ambiguous and that allow the piece to suggest key centres without establishing them. In bar five, for instance, the descending scale in the bass clef extends from E flat to E natural (E flat, D, C, B flat, A, G, F, E). This is an intriguing scale that represents a mixture of major and minor modalities. In the Macchietta medioevali, BV 194 (c. 1883), a collection of programmatic movements associated with medieval themes, the astrologo movement is fugal and mysterious, and represents the hybrid style Busoni was after. The movement displays a liberal use of canonic and fugal techniques to achieve programmatic ends in a newer treatment of the tonal language. It begins with a plaintive and chant-​like solo line in the bass that that foreshadows the complex metatonal treatment that is to follow. It vacillates between F minor and D flat major. When the tenor voice joins in bar 6 with a sinuous descending chromatic line, the interval of the second becomes central, and further obscures the harmonic regions and progressions. The lines themselves suggest diverse key areas linearly, such as C minor and F minor, even if their intersections create different vertical harmonies (see Example 7.5).

140  Erinn Knyt

Example 7.5 Busoni, Macchietta medioevali, BV 194, ‘Astrologo,’ mm. 1–​16. Source: Public Domain, typset by Benjamin Ayotte, edited by Author.

Contrapuntal techniques and metatonal approaches were interwoven into the fibre of most of his subsequent compositions. Consider, for instance, his Variations and Fugue on Frédéric Chopin’s Prelude in C Minor, Op. 28, No. 20 in 1884. Busoni turns a homorhythmic piece by Chopin into a contrapuntal playground, and uses the counterpoint to evoke non-​traditional tonal relationships. Busoni lets each voice function independently from a harmonic perspective in certain sections –​leading to unconventional approaches toward tonality. Fugal entrances in the opening exposition are followed by countersubject material four-​bars long that act as a musical interlude and which is varied each time, thereby creating a sense of fantasia-​like freedom within the stricter fugal form. A final (third) appearance of the subject, seemingly out

Bach and metatonality in Busoni  141 of place, turns out to be the beginning of the expected episode. During this third entrance (of the tenor voice), the subject is presented in the tonic in bar 13, as expected. Yet there is a slight chromatic inflection in bar 14 –​the addition of a D flat –​that starts movement towards new key areas. At the same time, the soprano and alto voices simultaneously occur in an unrelated key –​not in the tonic, but in D flat –​a half step above (n.b. the soprano features enharmonic spellings.) The alto voice simultaneously appears in D flat major with chromatic decoration. The soprano voice starts in D flat on beat three (see Example 7.6).

Example 7.6 Busoni, Variationen und Fuge in freier Form über Fr. Chopin’s C moll Präludium (Op. 28, No. 20), Fuge, mm., 1–​19. Source: Public Domain, typset by Benjamin Ayotte, edited by Author.

142  Erinn Knyt These music examples thus demonstrate ways Busoni’s early compositions used Bachian compositional devices to expand tonal possibilities.

Coda Busoni’s training in Bach’s music illustrates a broadening of the geographic areas touched by Bach. Living in the crossroads between Italy and the Austro-​ Hungarian Empire contributed to Busoni’s exposure to the music of Bach. This exposure, in turn, transformed his compositional approach. Busoni joined just a few other contemporary Italian composers for whom Bach’s music became a stimulus for creativity. Marco Enrico Bossi, for instance, composed instrumental suites that display a mixture of styles and used Bachian compositional techniques.19 Many of his organ works expressly allude to Bach, including his Fuga sul tema Feda a Bach, Op. 62. In addition, in 1892 he published the Metodo teorico-​pratico per lo studio dell’organo, which promoted the music of J. S. Bach in Italy and in which he included a newly composed preludiando ‘alla Bach,’ in a fantasia style with scalar passages and virtuoso figurations. Giuseppe Martucci also helped revive interest in Italian instrumental music based on the music of Bach with his arrangements for orchestra. Although his earliest compositions are mainly showpieces based on Italian operas (e.g. the Fantasia sull’opera ‘La forza del destino,’ op. 1 [1871]) or polkas and Italian dances, Martucci also experimented with Bachian styles as well. In 1874, for instance, he composed a Fugue in F Minor, Op. 14 that imitates Bachian traits, including rhythmic variety in the fugal subjects, experimentation with chromaticism, dissonance resolution, and the use of leaps for expressive devise. A more lyrical approach to the individual lines and more frequent use of parallel motion (i.e. parallel sixths) belies, however, its Italianate origins. In the inner sections, fragmentation of the fugal theme and its rapid movement through different keys also suggests a more modern developmental approach as does the division of the piece by major cadential moments. However Busoni was more adventurous than Martucci in his expansion of Bach’s compositional devices. Although Busoni initially mainly imitated Bach, what he learned eventually became integral to his hybrid compositional style, which combined Lisztian virtuosity, Bachian counterpoint, Mozartian clarity, and Latin melodiousness with tonal experimentation. This hybridity persisted to the end of his career, and well beyond short piano suites –​from the Violin Sonata No. 2, BV 244, to the Fantasia contrappuntistica, BV 256b to Arlecchino, BV 270 and Doktor Faust, BV 303. Busoni envisioned a new future of music in which polyphony would be a central technique. He hoped for a melodic art that was with and after tonality and in which the combining of independent lines would result in new harmonies. He idealized ‘the definite departure from what is thematic and the return to melody again as the ruler of all voices and all emotions (not in the sense of a pleasing motive) and as the bearer of the idea and the begetter of harmony, in short, the most highly developed (not the most complicated) polyphony’ (Busoni, letter to

Bach and metatonality in Busoni  143 Paul Bekker of January 1920, in Busoni, 1956, p. 21). This new polyphony could result from non-​traditional scales colliding. In 1906, Busoni stated that composers had only explored a small fraction of the possibilities: ‘What we now call our Tonal System is nothing more than a set of “signs”; an ingenious device to grasp somewhat of that eternal harmony; a meagre pocket-​edition of that encyclopedic work; artificial light instead of the sun’ (Busoni, 1911, p. 23). He hoped to expand upon the through tripartite divisions of the octave, and other scalar possibilities beyond major and minor. He wrote out 113 other scalar possibilities within the octave C-​C’, and he saw this new approach as the way forward: With this presentation, the unity of all keys may be considered as finally pronounced and justified. A kaleidoscopic blending and interchanging of twelve semitones within the three-​mirror tube of Taste, Emotion, and Intention –​the essential feature of the harmony of today. (Busoni, 1911, 30) Although a deep encounter with Bach was uncommon for Italians in the nineteenth century, it became more common with the passage of time, due in part, to an increasing accessibility of scores and more frequent transnational encounters, like Busoni’s encounter with Bix’s Bach edition. A consideration of past music as a means to a new musical future was, in fact, becoming foundational for an emerging modernist spirit in music around Europe, which Walter Frisch sees as starting around 1880, and which Joseph Straus sees as unequivocally involving the incorporation and interpretation of earlier music (Straus, 1990; Frisch, 2005). Axel Körner, writing mainly about the Bolognese musical scene, maintains that ‘modernism emerges out of the relationship between past and future’, even if the manifestations are quite varied from the decorative art of the French, such as in Claude Debussy’s Deaux Arabesques, patterned after Bach’s long ornamented lines, to the austere contrapuntal art of Max Reger (Körner, 2009, p. 268).20 A rediscovery of music of the past was becoming part of the emerging sound world as composers responded to an idealization of progress as much as to music from the past.21 Just as Beethoven had stood over the spirit of romanticism, leading to a blending of the arts and the dissolution of form, so Bach was central to the burgeoning modernist spirit in its many manifestations in that his music provided forms, textures, emotional depth without excess, and compositional methods that could be melded with newer styles and treatments of the musical language. Bach was viewed as healing for a culture that was seen as degenerating into decadence and extravagance, as Frisch notes. He claims Busoni both participated in what he calls historicist modernism (Frisch, 2005). His Bach allusions differed from those of German contemporaries like Johannes Brahms and Gustav Mahler in that he used Bach as a means to consciously distance himself from romanticism, and without a retrogressive attitude.22 The contrapuntal art of Bach, in particular, was seen as an antidote to romantic excess in its lending

144  Erinn Knyt of objectivity, that when coupled with chromatically extended scales, freer forms, and new timbres, helped usher in the strand of musical modernism in which older compositional methods and forms were seen as enabling musical progress by providing a framework for new sonorities and treatments of the musical language. Busoni’s youthful attempts to assimilate Bach’s music while developing a personal identity, however immature, were part of this developing historicist modernist spirit, and they laid the foundation for his later and more experimental style characterized by a metatonal treatment of the musical language. Threaded throughout his works is emotional objectivity and stylistic heterogeneity, based in part, on Bachian ideals: counterpoint, tonal experimentation, and hybrid musical forms. Bach became Busoni’s muse as he contemplated a future of simple, clear, and well-​formed music moving away from excess, extravagance, and the bloated instrumentation and textures as well as the emotional excess of Wagner and romanticism. He talked in his maturity of music that was eternally young and inventive, yet based on timeless compositional techniques that he discovered in his youth in the music of Bach: ‘Everything is multiform and vigorous here, and what is technical is placed without effort at the service of the chosen thoughts, foreshadowing much that is still in the future today, and setting a seal on its own epoch’ (Busoni, 1915, p. 96).

Notes 1 I presented an earlier version of this article at the following conference: ‘Bach in the Age of Modernism, Postmodernism, and Globalization’ on 22 April 2017. I am grateful to audience members for their feedback and to Matthew Mugmon and Louis Epstein for their ideas about resources related to the concept of Modernism. I am also grateful to Paul Fleet for his editorial comments, to Fred Scott for recording sound files to accompany this paper, and to Benjamin Ayotte for typesetting the score examples. 2 For more information about music education in Italy, see: Badolato and Scalfaro (2014). 3 For a description of composition lessons in late nineteenth-​century Italy, consult: (Baragwanath, 2011). 4 Students often enrolled in conservatories around the age of 12, studying with a single master teacher/​performer for 8–​10 years. There were few clearly established expectations about what needed to be taught, and so individual professors created distinctive musical lineages. 5 For more information about composition instruction in Italy in the nineteenth century, see: (Stella, 2007) and (Marvin, 2010). Italian composition instruction stressed Italian partimenti. Treatment of the partimenti became more contrapuntal in the nineteenth century, as Stella has revealed. However, they remained fundamentally based on seventeenth-​eighteenth century compositional practice. Raimondo Boucheron also wrote a text that melded the older partimenti style with updated harmonic practices: Esercizi d’armonia in 42 partimenti numerate [Harmony Exercises with Forty-​Two Figured Partimenti, 1867.] Stella argues that one of the

Bach and metatonality in Busoni  145 biggest changes in the nineteenth century was the gradual change from keyboard improvisation to written practice as the basis for composition instruction. 6 For information about standards at Italian conservatories in the nineteenth century (esp. Milan and Naples); see: (Caroccia, 2012); Francesco Passadore has also written about music instruction in Venice (Passadore, 2012). 7 Martini was an avid collector of scores, Mayr was a German composer who stayed in Italy after commencing studies there in 1787. Landsberg was a German tenor who settled in Rome after working at the Chorus of the Royal Opera House in Berlin. Cesi studied with Sigismond Thalberg. Martini’s library contained copies of several of Bach’s works, including the Well Tempered Clavier and music for organ. Mayr collected scores by Bach and made the study of his works compulsory for piano students. Cesi was a famed Bach interpreter. Preludes and fugues became accepted repertoire for keyboardists in Bologna and Venice around 1880. Cesi also created his own method for the piano that includes many pieces by Bach. Cesi placed the pieces in level of difficulty and added fingerings and dynamic markings. He extracted movements from larger works, such as suite movements to create an incremental method based on Bach. He concludes with the six French Suites (complete). 8 His father, Ferdinando Busoni was born and raised in Empoli Italy. His family was comprised of tradespeople, so his early education in music was sporadic, at best. His main teacher was Gaetano Fabiani, the town band director. Although a clarinet professor for five months in Novare at the Istituto musicale in 1862, he spent the rest of his life as a travelling virtuoso. During his travels, he stopped in Trieste, where he met Anna Weiss, a pianist. Although of Bavarian descent, Anna and her parents had become thoroughly Italian. Her main piano instructor was Ägidius Ferdinand Carl Lickl and she studied counterpoint with Giuseppe Alessandro Scaramelli and composition with Luigi Ricci. Lickl became a music instructor and orchestra director in Trieste in 1831. Dent, 1933, pp. 4–​6. Busoni claims that his mother’s technical approach aligned with the Thalberg school (‘very fluent, somewhat in the salon style, and pianistic in the purest sense’) (Busoni, 1956, p. 54). 9 Busoni also studied violin. 10 For more information about Bix, see: Radole, 1988. His students included Ernesto Luzzatto and Caterina Fröhlich. 11 See also: Dent, 1930, pp. 44–​53. 12 See, for instance, Elena Clescovich, n.d. Clescovich has suggested that Busoni studied at the Scuola di musica ‘Eckhardt,’ in which Bix taught, but does not offer supporting documentation. 13 Students under seven years of age were not admitted. 14 For an analysis of one of the elegies ‘Nach der Wendung,’ see: Fleet, 2009, pp. 129–​143. 15 In the same letter he also wrote about composing an overture and a violin sonata along with an invention in C major. 16 Habert was a parish choirmaster and organist who composed predominantly sacred works. He was against the Caecilian movement and he hoped to keep instrumental accompaniment for sacred Catholic music. Habert also wrote that Busoni had taken 12 harmony lessons with Martin Nottebohm in Vienna. J. E. Habert, letter of 12 December 1877 to P. Sigismund Keller, in Moser, 1976, p. 69). For

146  Erinn Knyt a copy of Busoni’s letters to Habert, see: Wessely, 1969). Goldmark was a composer and music journalist who was influenced by Richard Wagner and Viennese Classical composers. 17 For more information about Habert’s support of instrumental music and conflict with the Caecilian movement consult the following source: Ruff, 2007. See also: Moser, 1976. Habert was also known to have used Simon Sechter’s methods as well (Wessely, 1969, p. 382). Karl Goldmark (1830–​1915), who especially admired the music of Bach, Beethoven, Mendelssohn, Wagner, and Schumann, also counselled him about composing. For more information about Goldmark, see: Maitland, 1894 and Goldmark, 1922. Busoni helped prepare Goldmark’s vocal score for Merlin. 18 For more about Busoni’s time with Mayer, see: Prelinger, 1927, pp. 6–​10, 37–​ 40, 57–​61. 19 Bossi also studied at the Milan Conservatory. He earned diplomas in piano (1879) and composition (1881) before touring Europe as an organist. He later directed Conservatories in Venice (1895–​1901,) Bologna (1902–​1911), and Rome (1916–​1923). He composed more than 150 works for orchestra, piano, organ, and chamber ensembles. In addition, he wrote several operas, oratorios, and choral works. For more information about Bossi, see: Picchi, 1966; Bossi, 1966; Paribeni, 1934). For more information about Martucci see: Perrino, 1992. 20 See also: Walkowitz, 2012; Oja, 200; Calinescu, 1987; Albright, 2000; Habermas, 2000; Taruskin 2008.) 21 Anthony D. Smith argues that modernism and modernity went hand-​in-​hand with the development of senses of nationalism (Smith, 2013). David Roberts argues that the idea of a complete work of art was part and parcel of the modernist mind set (Roberts, 2011). 22 Messing, 1988.

References Albright, D. (2000). Untwisting the Serpent: Modernism in Music, Literature, and Other Arts. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Antolini, B. (2012). La ‘musica antica’ nei Conservatori italiani della seconda metà dell Ottocento. L’insegnamento dei conservatori, la composizione e la vita musicale nell’Europa dell’Ottocento: atti del Convegno internazionale di studi Milano, Conservatorio di Musica ‘Giuseppe Verdi’. Edited by Licia Sirch, Maria Grazia Sità, and Marina Vaccarini. Lucca: Libreria Musicale Italiana. Badolato, N. and Scalfaro, A. (2014). Music education in Italian schools from the unification to today. Musica Docta: Rivista Digitale di Pedagogia e Didattica della Musica. https://​10.6092/​issn.2039-​9715/​4312. Baragwanath, N. (2011). Musical Meaning and Interpretation: The Italian Traditions and Puccini: Compositional Theory and Practice in Nineteenth-​ Century Opera. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Beaumont, A. (1985). Busoni the Composer. London: Faber and Faber. Beaumont, A. (ed.) (1987). Ferruccio Busoni: Selected Letters. New York: Columbia University Press. Berio, T. ed. (1987). La Trascrizione Bach e Busoni: atti del convegno internazionale (Empoli-​Firenze 23–​26 ottobre 1985). Firenze: Olschki.

Bach and metatonality in Busoni  147 Bertoglio, C. (2012). Instructive editions of Bach’s Wohltemperirtes Klavier: an Italian perspective. PhD: University of Birmingham. Bossi, M. E. (1948). Metodo Teorico-​Pratico per Organo. Milan: Carisch. Busoni, F. (n.d.). Composition Exercise Book with Annotations by Mayer. Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin. Preussischer Kulturbesitz. Musikabteilung mit Mendelssohn Archiv. N. Mus. Nachl. 149. Busoni, F. (n.d.). Fuga a 2 voci in stile libero. (n.d.). Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin. Preussischer Kulturbesitz, Musikabteilung mit Mendelssohn Archiv. N. Mus. Nachl. 23. Busoni, F. (n.d.). Fuga in G Major. Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin. Preussischer Kulturbesitz. Musikabteilung mit Mendelssohn Archiv. N. Mus. Nachl. 61. Busoni, F. (n.d.). Fughetta in C Major. Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin. Preussischer Kulturbesitz. Musikabteilung mit Mendelssohn Archiv. N. Mus. Nachl. 54. Busoni, F. (n.d.). Invenzione in C Major. Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin. Preussischer Kulturbesitz. Musikabteilung mit Mendelssohn Archiv. N. Mus. Nachl. 31, 44, 46. Busoni, F. (n.d.). Invenzione in D Major. Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Preussischer Kulturbesitz. Musikabteilung mit Mendelssohn Archiv. N. Mus. Nachl. 65. Busoni, F. (n.d.). Preludio and Fuga for 2 Pianos. Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin. Preussischer Kulturbesitz. Musikabteilung mit Mendelssohn Archiv. N. Mus. Nachl. 98. Busoni, F. (n.d.). Preludium and Fuge in C Major. Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin. Preussischer Kulturbesitz. Musikabteilung mit Mendelssohn Archiv. N. Mus. Nachl. 360. Busoni, F. (n.d.). Primi Schizzi Musicali di Ferruccio Weiss-​Busoni. Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin. Preussischer Kulturbesitz. Musikabteilung mit Mendelssohn Archiv. N. Mus. Nachl. 1–​27. Busoni, F. (1882). Danze Antiche. Milan: Lucca. Busoni, F. (1898). Dr. Wilhelm Mayer. Allgemeine Musik-​Zeitung, 118–​119. Busoni, F. (1902/​1905–​1908). Two autobiographical fragments. In: Busoni (1956). The Essence of Music and Other Papers. Translated by Rosamond Ley. London: Salisbury Square, 53–​54. Busoni, F. (1911). A New Esthetic of Music. Translated by T. Baker. New York: G. Schirmer. Busoni, F. (1912). Self-​criticism. In: Busoni (1956). The Essence of Music and Other Papers. Translated by Rosamond Ley. London: Salisbury Square, 46–​49. Busoni, F. (1915). Introduction to the Bach Edition. In: Busoni (1956). The Essence of Music and Other Papers. Translated by Rosamond Ley. London: Salisbury Square, 96. Busoni, F. (1956). The Essence of Music and Other Papers. Translated by Rosamond Ley. London: Salisbury Square. Busoni, F. (2004). Lettere ai genitori. Edited by Martina Weindel. Rome: Ismez. Calinescu, M. (1987). Five Faces of Modernity: Modernism, Avant-​Garde, Decadence, Kitsch, Postmodernism. Durham: Duke University Press. Caroccia, A. (2012). L’istruzione musicale nei conservatori dell’Ottocento tra regolamenti e riforme degli studi. In: L’insegnamento dei conservatori, la composizione e la vita musicale nell’Europa dell’Ottocento: atti del Convegno internazionale di studi Milano, Conservatorio di Musica ‘Giuseppe Verdi, eds. Licia Sirch, Maria Grazia Sità, and Marina Vaccarini. Lucca: Libreria Musicale Italiana, 207–​329.

148  Erinn Knyt Cesi, B. (c. 1900). Metodo per lo studio del pianoforte. Milan: Ricordi. Clescovich, Elena. (n.d.) L’Infanzia di Ferruccio Busoni a Trieste (1875–​1876) www. triesterivista.it/​musica/​busoni.htm. Dent, E. (1930). Ferruccio Busoni. Rassegna musicale, 3: 1, 44–​53. Dent, E. (1933). Ferruccio Busoni: A Biography. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Fleet, Paul. (2009). Ferruccio Busoni: A Phenomenological Approach to His Music and Aesthetics. Cologne: LambertAcademic Publishing. Frisch, Walter. (2005). German Modernism: Music and the Arts. California Studies in 20th Century Music. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Goldmark, C. (1922). Erinnerungen aus meinem Leben. Vienna: Rikola Verlag. Habermas, J. (2000). The Philosophical Discourse of Modernity. Translated by Frederick Lawrence. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Habert, J. (1899). Beiträge zur Lehre von der Musikalischen Komposition. Leipzig: Breitkopf und Härtel. Körner, A. (2009). Politics of Culture in Liberal Italy from Unification to Fascism. New York: Routledge. Maitland, J. (1894). Masters of German Music. New York: Carl Scribner’s Sons. Martucci, G. (1956). Mostra di Autografi Cimeli e Documenti, Comitato nazionale per la celebrazione del centenarian della nascita di Giuseppe Martucci. Naples, n.p. Marvin, R. (2010). Verdi the Student-​Verdi the Teacher. Premio Internazionale Rotary Club Parma ‘Giuseppe Verdi’. Parma: Istituto Nazionali di Studi Verdiani. Messing, S. (1988). Neoclassicism in Music from the Genesis of the Concept through the Schoenberg/​Stravinsky Polemic. Rochester, NY: University of Rochester Press. Meyer, H. (1969). Die Klaviermusik Ferruccio Busonis: Eine Stilkritische Untersuchung. Zurich: Möseler Verlag. Moser, Josef Norbert. (1976). Johannes Evangelist Habert. Gmunden: n.p. Oja, C. (2000). Making Music Modern: New York in the 1920s. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Paribeni, G. (1934). M.E. Bossi: Il Compositore, L’Organista, L’Uomo. Milan: Erta. Passadore, F. (2012). Le Scuole di musica a Venezia nella prima meta dell’Ottocento. In: L’insegnamento dei conservatori, la composizione e la vita musicale nell’Europa dell’Ottocento: atti del Convegno internazionale di studi Milano, Conservatorio di Musica ‘Giuseppe Verdi’, ed. Licia Sirch, Maria Grazia Sità, and Marina Vaccarini. Lucca: Libreria Musicale Italiana, 365–​387. Perrino, F. (1992). Giuseppe Martucci. Novara: Centro Studi Martucciani. Picchi, A. (1966). Marco Enrico Bossi: Organista e Compositore. Como: Pietro Cairoli. Prelinger, M. (1927). Erinnerungen und Briefe aus Ferruccio Busonis Jugendzeit. Neue Musikzeitung, 48: 37–​40/​57–​61. Radole, G. (1988a). Le Scuole musicali a Trieste e il Conservatorio ‘G. Tartini’. Trieste: Italo Svevo. Radole, G. (1988b). Richerche sulla vita musicale a Trieste 1750-​1950. Trieste: Italo Svevo. Riethmüller, A. (1988). Ferruccio Busonis Poetik. Neue Studien zur Musikwissenschaft, vol. 4. Mainz: Schott. Roberts, D. (2011). The Total Work of Art in European Modernism. Signale: Modern German Letters, Cultures, and Thought. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Ruff, A. (2007). Sacred Music and Liturgical Reform: Treasures and Transformations. Chicago: Hildenbrand Books. Sitsky, L. (1986). Busoni and the Piano: The Works, the Writings, and the Recordings. Contributions to the Study of Music and Dance, vol. 7. New York: Greenwood Press.

Bach and metatonality in Busoni  149 Sitsky, L. (2009). Busoni and the Piano: The Works, the Writings, and the Recordings. 2nd edition. Pendragon Distinguished Reprints No. 3. Hillsdale NY: Pendragon Press. Smith, A. (2013). Nationalism and Modernism: A Critical Survey of Recent theories of Nations and Nationalism. London: Routledge. Stella, G. (2007). Partimenti in the age of romanticism. Journal of Music Theory, 51: 1, 161–​186. Straus, J. (1990). Remaking the Past. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Taruskin, R. (2008). The Danger of Music and Other Anti-​Utopian Essays. Berkeley: University of California Press. Walkowitz, R. (2012). Cosmopolitan Style: Modernism Beyond the Nation. New York: Columbia University Press. Wessely, O. (1969). Fünf Unbekannte Jugendbriefe von Ferruccio Benvenuto Busoni. In: Musa-​Mens-​Musici: Im Gedenken an Walther Vetter. Edited by the Institut für Musikwissenschaft der Humboldt-​Universität zu Berlin. Leipzig: Deutscher Verlag für Musik, 380–​387 .

8  Ferruccio Busoni –​mirror and enigma Transcendence and the later piano works Fred Scott

It is essential to an understanding of Ferruccio Busoni that this chapter be prefaced with two explanatory and context-​setting quotations. Busoni’s friend and first biographer, Edward J. Dent, records that ‘Busoni was resolved to put everything into Doctor Faust. It is the summing-​up of his life’s work and experience’ (1975, p. 305). Busoni’s opera, his magnum opus, was to remain incomplete at his death. In his own short book, Sketch of a New Aesthetic of Music, Busoni wrote: ‘I would go beyond the end’ (1962, p. 75). A synthesis of these two statements provides the hinterland necessary to grasp Busoni’s meaning and purpose as an artist. The range of activities that Busoni (1866–​1924) crammed into his 58 years of life have sometimes created doubt about the validity, depth, and scope of his achievement. It has been hard for critical opinion to define this sui generis character considering that he enjoyed a global reputation as composer, pianist, conductor, transcriber, writer, aesthetician, philosopher, librettist, editor, teacher, mentor, and visionary all at the same time. Waterhouse (1965–​6, p. 79) pointed out that: ‘The reputation of Ferruccio Busoni has always been a rather confused and unformulated thing, usually based on the sketchiest knowledge.’ In the present age of specialism this fact attracts suspicion and cynicism rather than engendering a broadening of artistic ambition and the inspiration to engage in a like catholicity of mastery. Busoni’s friend, and fellow composer Bernard van Dieren wrote in his essay Busoni, ‘(He) had a terrifying struggle all the time. When in Berlin he had already become what to his circle there seemed a world-​figure, he was still regarded by the wider musical public with “armed indifference” ’ (1935, p. 83). Russian pianist and pedagogue Grigory Kogan wrote, ‘Even more than his playing Busoni’s literary and compositional efforts encountered bitterly divergent opinions’ (2010, p. 4).

Music was born free Concessions once made to admit certain composers into the Pantheon of ‘greatness’ have been removed in our new Spirit of Enlightenment as the Canons are reviewed, revised, or reviled by the prevailing political currents of DOI: 10.4324/9780429451713-8

Busoni’s piano works: mirror and enigma  151 progress. Orthodoxy is always ripe for challenge but it must be acknowledged that Music, itself the very youngest of art forms, may be too young for the application of such a concept to have any real meaning as it still seeks to win its destined freedom. Ferruccio Busoni remains a divisive figure even today, having an abundance of both devotees and detractors. A clear line of influence upon artists reaching to this present day must lead to the assumption that he still offers promise to ‘those unborn’ (1987, p. 76). It is therefore essential to confront our own notions of whom we might think Busoni was, is or should be and to reconsider his enduring place in the forward progress of the young art of music. Arnold Schoenberg (1975, p. 446) writing on Franz Liszt said; Great men’s effect, if any, on life is infinitely slight. If one observes what Plato, Christ, Kant, Swedenborg, Schopenhauer, Balzac and others thought, and compares it with what people now believe and the way people now conduct their lives; when one sees that only a very small number of people think that way, whereas the others behave as if those ideas had never existed -​then one doubts whether progress exists. And the works of the great climb higher, into the very sphere of pointlessness. One realizes that their importance lies, at most, in the model they provide for those who would have come to the truth even without any model. In this sense evolution does perhaps take place after all; progress can never prevent the emergence of new men who think upon the truth. So we are approaching the goal! Although possibly positioning himself by association in the list of the ‘Great’, there must have seemed to Schoenberg a certain consolation that one of the most easily observable signs of greatness is the lack of later mass impact. In truth, it would perhaps have surprised Schoenberg, had he lived beyond 1951, to see that the two Titanic figures of music history from his time onwards would be Schoenberg himself and Busoni. The vicissitudes of their relationship are well documented by Beaumont (1987, pp. 379–​423). It is clear to see that this deteriorated after 1909 when Busoni, well-​meaningly but ultimately ill-​advisedly, suggested the simultaneous publication in the same volume of Schoenberg’s Op. 11, No 2. Klavierstuck alongside Busoni’s transcription of the same. This gesture of good will intended to promote the work of the younger colleague must have been a humiliation too far for Schoenberg who was not known for the quality of deference. As demonstrated by Knyt (2017, p. 118) Busoni’s support was genuine, after all he had organized a private performance of Pierrot Lunaire in his Berlin home at which Edgard Varèse was also present along with other such luminaries as conductor Willem Mengelberg and pianist Artur Schnabel. Busoni had routinely employed the ossia in his editions of the work of others, not being averse either to wholesale re-​writing or creative transcription, facilitation or, at times, simplification. His edition of Bach’s Wohltemperierte

152  Fred Scott Klavier in particular is instructive in this regard, not to mention the Liszt–​ Paganini Études, which are essentially transcriptions of transcriptions. It was from this practice that Busoni shaped modern pianism. A revival of such techniques and modes of study is overdue. It will be easily noticed after a little research that the so-​called disciples of Busoni were as eclectic and diverse a group as the Nazarene’s Twelve. Busoni’s support of and work with young contemporaneous composers helped Varèse, Sibelius, Weill and others to gain sufficient validation of their novel ideas to persist in their work developing the stature we now acknowledge them to have whilst consigning the fact of Busoni’s championing of them to the ‘memory-​hole’; the legacy of a true Great, by Schoenberg’s definition. If Schoenberg could be adversarial in his relationships, then Busoni’s streak of the Elitist was a divisive characteristic of his personality. It is impossible to conceive that two such strong personalities would have only positive impact on people in their respective orbits. On 23 December 1910 Busoni recorded that he was ‘anchored off the magical south coast of Ireland’ (1987, p. 181). In an article he wrote at the time, later to appear in a Berlin music magazine Signale fur die Musikalische Welt, we are offered the following insight into Busoni’s reverence for music which he says is; [Music is] the most mysterious of the arts. Around it should float something solemn and festival-​like. The entrance to it should be through ceremony and mystery as to a Freemason’s Lodge. It is artistically indecent that anyone from the street, railway train or restaurant, is free to clatter in during the second movement of the Ninth Symphony…The entrance to a concert hall should give promise of something unusual and should lead us gradually from secular life to the life that is innermost…into what is exceptional. (1987, p. 182) Busoni could hardly have anticipated that his next sentence would eerily find fulfilment in April 2020 during a global pandemic when the world’s population was required to practice ‘social distancing’. The article goes on: ‘In order to achieve this and before everything else, the number of musical performances should be cut down. Then every one of them would rise in value, be chosen and prepared more carefully, be anticipated differently, and enjoyed differently’ (1987, p. 182). Known also for a certain sardonic humour Busoni gave free rein to a sense of the sarcastic/​polemic much out of step with twenty-​first-​ century sentiments. Consider his opera Die Brautwahl (1905–​11). Based on a story of E. T. A. Hoffman the opera contains elements of satire, romance, and mysticism together with musical allusions to other composers. Couling (2005, p. 251) writes that the work might be ‘too erudite for its own good’. Among these is what appears to be a satirical reference to an immensely popular work of the time by Samuel Coleridge-​Taylor (1875–​1912), his Song of Hiawatha, Op. 30. During the opening scene of Die Brautwahl the character Voswinkel

Busoni’s piano works: mirror and enigma  153 concludes his song in praise of cigars with a pentatonic melody evoking Hiawatha and Mannahatta (sic), the central characters of Coleridge-​Taylor’s work (1914, p. 18). Busoni seemed at the very least not averse to the humorous.

Widening the gap In broad terms, early-​twentieth-​century music, after the undermining of tonality as a basis for formal structures, seemed readily to divide into successors of the 2nd Vienna School (Post/​ Neo serialists) and Tonalists, those still persisting in the perceived ‘old’ ways. The shibboleth of so called Serialism and the associated dogma developed a pernicious and near fatal stranglehold on the imagination of musicians, implicitly denigrating those not obedient to the historical march of progress toward a totalitarian, entirely rigorous organizing principle. Jorge Luis Borges (1970, p. 42.) wrote ‘any symmetry with a semblance of order…was sufficient to entrance the minds of men’ which, in explaining the irruption of the artificial world of Orbis Tertius into reality, shows the appeal of arbitrary structures to the human mind. Busoni (1962, p. 77) wrote that ‘Music was born free and to win freedom is its destiny.’ This dictum would appear to express the aforementioned polarity between highly organized pitch structures (the series) and free atonality. What Busoni asserted here as music’s destiny found a stark contradiction in a statement, recorded by Reich (1963, p. 51), as made by Schoenberg’s disciple Anton Webern in a 1932 lecture: ‘About 1911 I wrote the Bagatelles for String Quartet, op. 9, all very short pieces, lasting a couple of minutes -​perhaps the shortest music so far. Here I had the feeling, “When all twelve notes have gone by, the piece is over.” ’ (It is interesting to note that the emancipation of the dissonance was in reality thwarted by an absolute regimentation of pitches articulated through archaic forms, for example, Suite, Canon, Sonata, Rondo). The sought after freedom from the tonal hierarchy of tonic, dominant-​based harmony and associated forms turns into a grotesque distortion of those very forms. Though an organic inevitability when seen as the logical consequence of the functioning of the harmonic series, such presumably un-​ironic usage serves only to enhance the error of recycling Baroque and Classical structures to accommodate irrational pitch relationships. Busoni’s idea of freedom for music had to wait for Iannis Xenakis to articulate this dilemma (1971, pp. 8–​9), postulating an indivisible link between natural phenomena and musical form, and creating an entirely new music in which individual sounds, and their four-​fold properties of pitch, duration, rugosity, and intensity, are organized according to structures inherent in nature. Furthermore, both Busoni and Xenakis exemplified the kind of curiosity and striving to comprehend that is characterized by Hawking (Bantam, 2016, pp. 15–​16): But ever since the dawn of civilization, people have not been content to see events as unconnected and inexplicable. They have craved an

154  Fred Scott understanding of the underlying order in the world. Today we still yearn to know why we are here and where we came from. Humanity’s deepest desire for knowledge is justification enough for our continuing quest. And our goal is nothing less than a complete description of the universe we live in. The too simplistic polarity of tonal and atonal/​serial composition does not admit the actual breadth of the landscape. After having been consigned to the margins of history the time has already come for reconsideration of the somewhat more benign influences contemporaneous with the Schoenberg school. Pace (2014) gives important insight into this period. From this vertiginous maelstrom must emerge a figure we may recognize as Busoni, if only we have taken on the personal responsibility to exercise diligence in honest research. The fact that Busoni is more alluded to than understood is testimony to an enduring fascination. However, to know about the man is not actually to know the mind of the man who bequeathed such a rich and challenging legacy. This study will examine certain of Busoni’s mature piano works which were intended as sketches for scenes in Doktor Faust and later became, in that destined environment, key parts of the drama itself, and therefore revelatory of the composer himself.

‘The pianoforte must be esteemed’ (Busoni, 1987, p. 79) The piano is central to any serious consideration of the life and work of Busoni. He began his piano lessons aged four, at first under his Mother’s tutelage, and the piano continued to an important part of Busoni’s musical development defining various stages throughout his life as an aesthetician, teacher, composer, and performer, and for the purposes of this chapter it provides us with a useful narrative in which to understand his artistic development and creative philosophy. By the end of the first decade of twentieth century Busoni’s prestige as a pianist was being reflected in contemporary accounts. Kogan (2010, p. 17) records that ‘the musical press promoted the Italian virtuoso from a “star” to the “sun” of contemporary pianism’, and yet, as H. H. Stuckenschmidt (1970, pp. 67–​8) pointed out, ‘Busoni hated his fame as a pianist’, at least in part due to the attention it inevitably drew away from serious consideration of his other activities. As a composer, and from extremely conventional, even prosaic beginnings Busoni honed his technique, learning the craft and forming his technical executive gesturing from Brahms, Reger, and earlier classical composers. The first departure from convention sees Busoni’s embracing of the idea of re-​casting Bach’s great organ and violin works as epic, quasi-​symphonic solo-​piano transcriptions. Taking the Chaconne (1891) as the prime example, we see the emergence of a pragmatic yet boldly imaginative style of piano writing, derived perhaps from Lisztian models of transcription but suffused with elements of technical originality. Busoni (1894, Preface) characterizes

Busoni’s piano works: mirror and enigma  155 the Chaconne transcription as a kind of graduation or concluding work of a new school of higher piano playing. The Piano Concerto, Op. 39 represents the first true piano masterpiece of Busoni’s in terms of conception and execution. Here Busoni has so elevated the piano that the work itself is more like a ‘soloist-​orchestra’ being accompanied by the pianist in an unprecedented role-​reversal (see Example 8.1).

156  Fred Scott

Busoni’s piano works: mirror and enigma  157

Example 8.1  Piano Concerto, Op. 39, BV 247, pp. 12–​14. Source: Leipzig: Breitkopf and Haertel EB 2861.

The pianist is not engaged in the traditionally competitive heroic posturing to overcome the orchestra in a display of technical brilliance. Indeed, many of the admittedly fearsome problems of execution are understated. It is here

158  Fred Scott we find that Busoni is assuming in the would-​be performer a complete physical mastery over the instrument itself and here also that we see the genesis of a mature style as he begins to move away from convention and into an altogether more rarified domain of creation in terms of the piano. The true and transcendent nature of Busoni’s intentions and expressive language that culminate in the final opera, Doktor Faust, begin to find primary revelation in the piano works as early as Fantasia Contrappuntistica, the six Sonatinas, the ten volumes of the Klavierübung and ultimately the Toccata. In a consideration of the piano works from a technical, executive viewpoint there is much in the music revealing the way that Busoni uses and develops conventional tonally reliant pianistic writing set against how he expands this via the use of relatively novel configurations to suit purely expressive functions; technique becoming the servant of expression, rather than expression being limited by technique (see Example 8.2).

Busoni’s piano works: mirror and enigma  159

160  Fred Scott

Example 8.2  Piano Concerto, Op. 39, BV 247, pp. 32–​33. Source:Leipzig: Breitkopf and Haertel EB 2861.

Busoni’s harmonic language and mode of pianistic execution evolve also from the essentially traditional and diatonic in the Concerto to the metatonality and technical innovation of Sonatina seconda. Van Dieren (1935, p. 42) observed

Busoni’s piano works: mirror and enigma  161 that ‘He (Busoni) would call an ambitious work of whose value he was well aware “Sonatina”, inferring [sic] with esoteric pride that he might compose a “Sonata”, and till then left to others the use of a title which Beethoven’s practice links in our minds with the most monumental manifestations of genius.’ The later Toccata appears to revert to a more conventionally diatonic language; however, it is important to be sensitive to the fact that works later to be adopted into Doktor Faust necessarily reflect that work’s wide embrace of form, style, gesture, and harmony. The Toccata and Sonatina seconda taken as a pair synthesize elements of Doktor Faust and the earlier opera Die Brautwahl, both of the operas feature the trope of the Mystical Book, a relevant common thread hinting at a personal gnosis, an interior journey begun in Elegy No 1 ‘Nach der Wendung’ and to have been brought to extraordinary fruition in the intended final moments of Doktor Faust. We will see that lexicographic time is less important to Busoni than expressive need as his music described an inexorable trajectory towards the completion of Doktor Faust and the end of his own physical life. We see the composer attempting to transcend the constraints of harmony, form, musical expression, and perhaps even mortality itself in the fulfilment of his spiritual and artistic vision. The enduring and growing impact of the Busoni legacy continues to pervade the evolution of music to this day. A true understanding of these phenomena in Busoni depends upon the recognition that time, for Busoni, was omnipresent and that divisions into historical periods should be of no great significance. It can be argued with some justification, pre-​figured by Ben Johnson’s Eulogy (Shakespeare, 1623, Preface), that Busoni, like Shakespeare to Johnson was ‘…not of an age but for all time’ and not to be defined by a more or less arbitrary position in music history. That Busoni’s present resided also in the past and future alike ought to make us recall the archetypal Alchemist; Yates (1964, p. 1) has written ‘The great forward movements of the Renaissance all derive their vigour, their emotional impulse, from looking backwards.’ Busoni’s epigrammatic observation (Goebels, 1968, p. 69) that ‘Bach is the fundament of piano playing, Liszt the summit. The study of both make the playing of Beethoven possible’ shows how Busoni (1987, p. 194) perhaps saw music history as a manifestation in-​time of a process occurring outside-​time and not as a series of causal events unfolding in a linear procession. There is, however, an important sense where the arrow of time moved resolutely forwards –​a substantial number of works that pre-​dated Doktor Faust seem actually to be preliminary studies, later becoming integral to the magnum opus. We must suppose that the conception of this ultimate production had existed in the mind of Busoni since early years and, having become an idée fixe, needed to find consummation. The fact that the opera remained incomplete, at least outside the mind of the creator, deprives us of anything definitive. Herein lies the central enigma of Busoni, a life’s work of engaging in philosophical speculation centred on a form of art, immaterial in nature, which he described (1962, p. 77) as ‘sonorous air’, and disappearing

162  Fred Scott like vapour, all the while holding up the mirror to our physical and spiritual natures.

Towards Doktor Faust Doktor Faust was Busoni’s valedictory testament and so its intended message must be of primary importance provided that we subscribe to the notion that the work itself is symbolic in nature. The spoken Epilogue at the very end of the opera (1987, p. 76) contains the tantalizing phrase: ‘Still unexhausted all the symbols wait that in this work are hidden and conceal’d.’ The word ‘unexhausted’ presupposes that the work itself is somewhat enigmatic, that seeking is required or at the very least, a depth of apprehension that might reveal what is not immediately apparent. We may well be, as suggested by Borges (1970, p. 247) ‘looking in an enigma by means of a mirror’. Busoni’s Epilogue hints that the work of seeking is required to mine the symbolic nature of his opera for meaning. It will be helpful to establish parameters for an investigation into the ways in which the idea of transcendence was important to Busoni. Wilson (2013, p. 1) has observed that ‘the period encompassing the end of the nineteenth century and the beginning of the twentieth century experienced an occult revival is now well established’. Busoni’s time was one of spiritual exploration, and given his well documented sensibilities there was an inevitability that Busoni would engage with contemporaneous philosophical and spiritual issues. In her unprecedented study of Busoni and Sitsky, Crispin (2007, pp. 10–​12) writes: ‘It is undeniable that Busoni was fascinated by mysticism and occult philosophy in all its forms.’ The contents of Busoni’s library further endorse this observation, but as Fleet (2009) has pointed out in reference towards Busoni’s philosophic leanings, Busoni’s wide reading did not necessarily imply membership of or subscription to any particular school of philosophy or the occult. Busoni (Dent, 1974, p. 310) is recorded as having expressed the unequivocal view that, ‘Wagnerism and Christianity as well are nothing to me, and my feeling is that it is time to sweep away these two beliefs altogether or at least leave them in peace and not to poke about in them any more.’ If Busoni had anything approaching a personal credo I would assert that it can be inferred from the content of Doktor Faust. However, the version that was first performed in Dresden on 21 May 1925, as completed by Busoni’s student Philipp Jarnach, crucially excluded some of the most significant passages in the intended text as indicated by detailed sketches Busoni had made. These passages afford a radically different interpretation of the fate of Faust and also represent a version of the opera’s ending wholly consistent with Busoni’s manifest commitment to notions of transcendence and survival beyond physical death. Rather than the unfortunate protagonist being dragged off to hell, as described in Marlowe (1993, p. 197) ‘[The Devils] exeunt with him’, Busoni’s Faust enjoys the ultimate freedom gained by a repudiation of conventionally religious modes of thought. Beaumont (1985, p. 325) draws attention to an

Busoni’s piano works: mirror and enigma  163 article by Dent (1920, p. 844) which incorporates important text of Busoni’s missing from Jarnach’s completion of Doktor Faust; [So let the Work be finished,] in defiance of you, of you all, who hold yourselves for good, whom we call evil, who, for the sake of old quarrels take Mankind as a pretext and pile upon him the consequence of your discord. Upon this highest insight of my wisdom is your malice now broken to pieces and in my self-​won freedom expire both God and Devil at once. The intended final scene involves the bequeathing of Faust’s Eternal Will into the body of his child, which reanimates and moves off into new life, a symbolic act rich in resonances. The model of death and resurrection is as old as the many forms of religion itself. A clear atavistic reference to our shared agrarian past, as the dying and rising observed in nature became attributable to the characteristics of the deities that governed the cycles of life and death, reproduction and the progression of the seasons. For an exhaustive examination of the many representations of this, see Mettinger (2001). In his survey of Busoni’s piano music Sitsky (1986, p. 6) observes that ‘Busoni’s music can be legitimately described as a record of a mystic journey, and as the journey comes to fruition, the message to be deciphered in the record demands an understanding of the mystic vision from the listener.’ Sitsky (1986, pp. 318–​19) goes on to describe Busoni’s interest in the ‘mystical or occult state’ in terms of a lifelong fascination with the supernatural attested to by the earliest piano pieces right up to the ‘profound philosophy culminating in Doktor Faust’. Indeed, it is possible to trace significant milestones in Busoni’s compositional output where this engagement with themes of death, the supernatural and the occult is of primary importance in following the trajectory towards Doktor Faust. Two early works of Busoni from 1881–​2 are perhaps the first indicators of this. The third piece in the suite Racconti Fantistici, was inspired by Hauff (1882, p. 229). The Cavern of Stellenfoll relates the story of a fisherman pledging his soul to the devil in exchange for sunken treasure. The spiritual turbulence experienced by the protagonist, William Falcon, and his companion Kaspar Stumpf, is reflected in the adolescent Busoni’s music. A restless, energetic perpetuum mobile, the figuration and atmosphere of which are not unlike that of the final movement of Beethoven’s Piano Sonata, Op. 57. Both are also in the ‘stormy’ key of F minor. The early Prelude in B minor, Op. 37, No. 6, dates from 1881. Stevenson (1974, 4:59–​6:40 mins) describes the piece as ‘the inception of the Faustian element in (Busoni’s) music’. Elements of Busoni’s mature style in terms of the treatment of harmonic progression can be heard here. The atmosphere created by the metatonality is suggestive of Busoni’s later work usually given the descriptor Occulto, particularly passages in Fantasia Contrappuntistica and Sonatina seconda indicating a veiled, somewhat indistinct character. In 1893 Busoni gave the first performance in Boston, USA of his piano

164  Fred Scott transcription of J. S. Bach’s Chaconne in D Minor, the fifth and final movement of the Second Violin Partita. Although neither the first or last of Busoni’s transcriptions of Bach’s works the Chaconne has a particular significance in the present context. Thoene (2001) suggests that the Chaconne was conceived by Bach as a tribute or Tombeau to his recently deceased wife, Maria Barbara, demonstrating certain thematic references and encodings within the fabric of the music itself. For example, the Chaconne’s underlying structure is further articulated by allusions to Chorales whose texts reflect aspects of Christian theology. For example, the familiar Chorale Christ Lag in Todesbanden (BWV 4), the words of which were written by Martin Luther, is an Easter hymn specifically concerned with the propitiatory sacrifice of Christ for the sins of mankind and His subsequent resurrection. A true believer in Protestant theology, Bach would be confident that any separation grief caused by death in this physical life would be later subsumed under the joy of resurrection to eternal life. Thoene therefore asserts that the tripartite nature of the piece represents death, the hope of resurrection and ultimate resignation. These concepts are underwritten by quotations from Christ Lag in Todesbanden, Dein Will gescheh’ (BWV 245), Befiehl Du Deine Wege (BWV 272) and others. Given Busoni’s deep absorption of Bach in all his aspects it seems likely that the level of intellectual insight and understanding needed to penetrate an underlying referential architecture would not be lost on Busoni. If true, this would point to another incidence of Busoni’s acute focus on circumstances around death and its aftermath. In 1909 both of Busoni’s parents died within months of each other. This very great loss became the catalyst for two more important piano pieces. Fantasia Nach Bach bears a dedication to Busoni’s father Ferdinando. As an In Memoriam to the man who was largely responsible for Busoni’s relentless early focus on Bach’s music it is not surprising that the fundamentally elegiac Fantasia makes great use of Bachian themes and contrapuntal textures. Later in the same year Busoni composed the Berceuse Elegiaque, an orchestration of the earlier seventh piece in the piano Elegies of 1907. Profoundly impressionistic and metatonal, Busoni casts the piece as ‘A Man’s Contemplation at his Mother’s Funeral Bier’. Evoking the sound world of the opening bars of fifth movement of his own Piano Concerto Busoni produces here a contemplation of grief in an atmosphere of filial love that transcends death itself. The following year, 1910, saw the production of an early version of Fantasia Contrappuntistica, a truly monolithic, austere piece inspired by Bach’s final, incomplete valedictory work, The Art of Fugue. The particularly complex Contrapunctus XIV seems arbitrarily to finish soon after the point where Bach’s name (B flat -​A -​C -​B natural) appears as the third fugal subject. An early manuscript of this piece contains a note by Bach’s son Carl Phillip Emmanuel asserting that the fugue could not be finished due to the death of the composer. Woolf (2001, p. 1385) writes that there must have been a lost draft of the combinatorial possibilities of Contrapunctus XIV. Later completions were indeed made of Contrapunctus XIV, notably by the

Busoni’s piano works: mirror and enigma  165 editors Tovey (1931), Moroney (1989), Goncz (1992) and others; however, it was Busoni who, in the manner of other of his transcriptions, inhabits totally the Bach original and by complete immersion in and identification with Bach’s contrapuntal language extends the remnant to a powerfully compelling and metatonal conclusion, albeit far removed from the language and instrumental capabilities available to Bach in his time. Thus, Bach, or rather the essential part of Bach’s creative spirit, persists in co-​creative symbiosis with Busoni. The two musical wills unite to produce something rather more than a conjectural conclusion to an unfinished and problematic piece. Sitsky (1986, pp. 155–​157) points out that Busoni had further plans for the 1922 two-​piano version of the Fantasia Contrappuntistica: ‘(Egon) Petri told me that after writing the two-​piano version, Busoni wanted to re-​write the solo version in the light of what he had in the meantime discovered and score the work for orchestra.’ Busoni never achieved this. However Sitsky, incorporating the additional material provided by Petri, completed the work under the title Concerto for Orchestra: Completion and Realisation of Busoni’s ‘Fantasia Contrappuntistica’ (1984). In this version of the Contrappuntistica then, we see how Sitsky, calling on his close association with Busoni’s disciple Petri, enabled the two-​piano version to be re-​cast in orchestral form under the guidance of authentic transmission of the original intention from the most authoritative source available to him. Sitsky’s immersion in the Busoni vernacular qualified him in this regard to have attempted a feat not dissimilar to the Busoni completion of Contrapunctus XIV. Busoni’s fascination with the supernatural and occult began to focus more specifically on ideas of a large-​scale work based on Faust. In 1910 he sketched about half of the material that formed the basis for the libretto of Doktor Faust. Beaumont (1985, p. 315, n. 5) shows how two years later Busoni was expressing serious doubts about his opera: ‘The subject is too mighty, I shall have to develop still further’, and that it was four years later when, on 26 December 1914, Busoni read the completed libretto to his family. Three months later, writing to his wife, Busoni (1938, pp. 252–​253) revealingly describes the somewhat ‘automatic’ nature in which parts of the Faust story were emerging: ‘Faust himself says, “If life is only an illusion, What else can death be?” So that a doubt is raised as to the reality of the idea of the devil, which therefore lessens its importance. What has the last act got to do with the devil? A man, ill, disappointed, tormented by his conscience, dies of heart failure and is found by the nightwatchman. The last word, too, is “a victim” (and not “condemned,” or anything like it). What brought me to this conclusion was that I cannot feel it in any other way, and I was led straight to this point in the same strange state of somnambulism in which the whole seems to have been dictated to me.’ From this point on it becomes easier to see a direct line of progress towards Doktor Faust through what Beaumont (1985, p. 252) describes as ‘twenty-​three published satellite works’. Among these satellites, this study will focus on the mature piano music and how to approach it from a technical, performative

166  Fred Scott viewpoint. It is by playing Busoni’s music or by informed listening to it that progress towards understanding might be facilitated. The specific piano works that served as sketches and studies for, or transcriptions containing, material later included in Doktor Faust are Sonatina seconda (1912), Sonatina in Diem Nativitatis Christi MCMXVII (1917), Drei Albumblätter (1921), Toccata (1921–​22), Prélude et Étude en Aprèges (1923), and Klavierübung (1917–​24). Beaumont (1985, p.184) states ‘Busoni confirmed that the Sonatina seconda had been expressly conceived as a study for Doktor Faust.’ Indeed, the piano work has so much important material in common with the opera that it stands in a relationship with it not unlike that of Busoni’s Sonatina Super Carmen (1920) to Bizet’s eponymous opera. Perhaps more overtly framed as a Lisztian paraphrase, this sixth Sonatina displays a disquieting level of psychological penetration and re-​interpretation, distilling into a very few minutes the essentially tragic nature of Bizet’s narrative. Sorabji (1947, p. 215) wrote; The gay and occasionally rather trivial Bizet tunes become indescribably ‘charged’ and even sinister, undergoing a sort of dissolution and transformation in a manner that is…fascinating and haunting to the mind of the suitably ‘attuned’ listener, so that at the end of the process…such is the impression of the ineluctable and immense power behind the whole business -​this is a psychical invasion in musical terms. However, it is not exclusively Sonatina seconda that contains crucially important references to Doktor Faust. The previously mentioned works could all, it can be argued, be perceived as trials of Busoni’s ideas for later use. This is very revealing of the way in which musical ideas marinated in the mind of Busoni over years before finding fulfilment. The sheer number of piano transcriptions Busoni made of a great diversity of composers’ works demonstrates his propensity to penetrate into the mind of these creators, inhabit and absorb their style and produce what can only really be described as hybrids –​active recompositions, not mere arrangements. That much of the final content for Doktor Faust was made available from earlier works shows this process of transcription of his own material in action.

Sonatina seconda Franz Liszt had composed his Bagatelle Without Tonality as early as 1885. It has no strong tonal centre and seems to move through combinations of chords including major, augmented and diminished formations free of conventional relationships. A rather prosaic triple-​time dance metre anchors the piece to tradition and connects it to Liszt’s other Mephisto Waltzes. Nonetheless, the radical atonality of the piece helped set in motion the inevitable progress towards the ultimate dissolution of tonality. As Perle (1977, p. 1) observes: ‘Atonality originates in an attempt to liberate the twelve notes

Busoni’s piano works: mirror and enigma  167 of the chromatic scale from the diatonic functional associations they still retain in “chromatic” music.’ Busoni was very familiar with Schoenberg’s Drei Klavierstücke, Op. 11 (1909). Schoenberg, however, did not react particularly well to Busoni’s well intentioned suggestion of publishing his own transcription of the second piece along with Schoenberg’s original version, in which Busoni fundamentally re-​conceives the piano writing to clarify textures. It is tempting to speculate upon Busoni’s reaction to and opinion of the third piece of Op. 11 for it was in this piece that Schoenberg reached a pinnacle of unfettered creative boldness unmatched in his subsequent works for solo piano. The ambience of the piece is provided by piano textures unavailable after the application of certain of the restrictive regulations of ‘serial’ composing, for example, the prohibition of use of the traditional octave. Consider the potency of the introductory bars; the dramatic, powerful gesturing provides a link to an earlier tradition of writing for the instrument more rooted nineteenth-​century compositional practice, a clear reference to the legacy of Liszt, Brahms, Chopin, and others where textures were routinely thickened using octaves. Sonatina seconda comes from the most overtly experimental period of Busoni’s creativity. Stuckenschmidt observes (1970, p.117) ‘The principle of tonality is exploded more convincingly in this piece that in any other work by Busoni’. One of its most interesting, perhaps anomalous aspects, is the use of vastly different languages dependent on expressive need and in this way inhabits the gap between Late-​Romantic, essentially tonally based chromaticism, and fully organized atonality. The rather modal gesture that begins the piece is negated by an essentially quartal figure, marked ondeggiando (rippling), which sweeps up and down the keyboard.There follows much use of the jarring, dissonant interval of the major second culminating in a dramatic keyboard-​wide rising chromatic scale, the backdrop to a pre-​figuring of themes later to find significant use in Doktor Faust. The language remains in this vein until the Lento occulto with its extensive use of second inversion major triads centred around the key of E-​flat. An ethereal Andante tranquillo, immediately following, is canonic and utilizes intervals of the diminished fifth, diminished fourth and semitone achieving full atonality. As mentioned previously the designation Sonatina is ironic (perhaps in the same way as Liszt’s earlier use of Bagatelle), for such a revolutionary piece. The absence of time or key signatures, regular bar-​lines, and also a novel use of accidentals (Busoni (1996), p. 181) convey visually that this is indeed an extraordinary work. From the piece’s first moments the ascending, modal parlando theme implores our attention drawing us into a turbulent hallucinatory intensity vehemently driving the disquieting discourse. The boundaries of matter and the certainties of the physical world were being challenged by Busoni’s great contemporary, Nikola Tesla (1856–​ 1943), and together with Busoni’s awareness of the Occult, the existence of a world beyond our physical perceptions lent his music an ethereal and contingent quality setting it apart from both the formally rigorous dodecaphonic

168  Fred Scott atonality of the Schoenberg School and the sensuous exoticism of the French impressionists. There is also surprisingly little common ground with the music of Scriabin, in which occultism was couched in more obviously hyper-​ romantic and harmonically consistent terms, who nevertheless commanded Busoni’s respect (Busoni, 1938, p. 215): ‘It is not in Scriabin’s nature to compose big scores, but he tries to do it. I don’t consider that they will live, but I respect Scriabin for striving for such a high ideal.’ The Sonatina’s Lento section is characterized by an unprecedented but inherently logical flow of motifs leading to a bold restatement of the opening parlando theme marked quasi Violoncello. This recapitulates familiar material from earlier giving at least partial relief from the relentless flow of ideas. The irony of a calmissimo transition is felt as we are engulfed in deeply sinister marziale music also heard previously in the piece and ascribed in the opera to the mysterious trio of students from Krakow. This second appearance of the march-​like sequence of grindingly dissonant chords is recast in an atmosphere of deep dread. The work descends into the darkest sonorities of the instrument to a final estinto in sarabande rhythm. Some horrible finality is attained where silence is just the beginning of the inexpressible. As Wittgenstein was to write (2001, p. 89) ‘Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent.’ It was perhaps this combination of forces in the music that led to the uproar attending Busoni’s first performance of Sonatina seconda at Milan’s Verdi Conservatory on 12 May 1913. Couling tells us (2005, p. 255) that blows ensued as Filippo Marinetti, founder of the literary wing of the ‘futurist’ movement took on protesters prior to a presumably convivial dinner attended by, among others, the legendary conductor Arturo Toscanini. Whatever the motivation was for this melee, Busoni’s performance shared with other of his contemporaries the dubious distinction of inciting some measure of public disorder. On 31 March earlier in same year fighting ensued at a concert of works conducted by Schoenberg including his own music along with that of Berg, Mahler, and Webern. A month later the Paris premiere of Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring caused riotous consternation.

Performing Sonatina seconda Despite its relative brevity the Sonatina is a compendium of major technical challenges. Rather than consider the work from this perspective it is much more important to understand the sound-​world Busoni is attempting to articulate through the requisite technical mastery. My own personal experience of studying, performing and discussing Busoni’s original piano works over many years is that the music is often met initially with caution and reservation, sometimes regarded as ‘difficult’ to understand. The challenges of coming to terms with the physical and technical demands can be somewhat preclusive as well. It is true to say that Busoni’s music gains a form of wary respect that presupposes the journey of discovery will be too arduous, and

Busoni’s piano works: mirror and enigma  169 best left to specialists. Suspicion is an obvious response the zeal of the initiate, however, I would argue that Busoni is too important a figure in music history not to be explored and that such exploration will always bear good fruit. Consider the following passage (see Example 8.3).

Example 8.3 Sonatina seconda, BV 259. Source: Author

A distinctly novel and uncomfortable metatonal language serves the expressive purpose explicitly. Beaumont points out (1985, p. 325) that Goethe, in a letter of 1829 to Eckerman, expected music produced for his Faust would need to have ‘repulsive, unpleasant and terrifying qualities…out of tune with our age’. In Sonatina seconda we find Busoni’s discovery of this necessary language. Key words here would be finesse, subtlety, restraint, polyphonic control. Bombast, display, and effect are to be shunned. In understated fashion nothing in the work outstays its welcome or is repeated simply to fill time. Indeed, how many composers may have appended an opus number or two to works almost identical to each other with respect to content? It is undeniable that there is much redundancy in the tradition of classical music. Even the issue of performing exposition repeats in classical Sonata form begs us to consider whether we really need to hear that particular material again within such a short period of elapsed time. After all we are not living in C19 Europe, unlikely to hear large scale works more than a mere handful of times, if that, in a lifetime. The ubiquity of available music in concatenations of near-​identical duplicates is reminiscent of the nature of Borges’ Library of Babel (1970, p. 83): ‘The library is so enormous that any reduction of human origin is infinitesimal…every (book) is unique, irreplaceable, but…there are always several hundred thousand imperfect facsimiles: works which differ only in a letter or comma.’ We fail to seek out unfamiliar music at our own and future music’s peril. It is especially disheartening to realize the depth of ignorance of the wider repertoire that prevails even though we have greater access than ever before to texts, scores and recordings. That this astounding abundance should not be used more in the cause of self-​education is incomprehensible, the lack of curiosity disturbing. Dent (1974, p. 109) says of the relatively young Busoni (28 years old at the time and in the context of recital information and press criticism from 1894) that: ‘His recitals, even then were only suitable for a public of

170  Fred Scott regular habitués; he seemed to assume that his audience knew the classics as thoroughly as he did himself and had no need for them to be explained in the conventional manner.’ Later, in 1902, responding to the critic Marcel Remy, Busoni’s defence was telling (Dent, 1974, p. 110): ‘You start from false premises in thinking that it is my intention to “modernize” the works. On the contrary, by cleaning them of the dust of tradition, I try to restore their youth, to present them as they sounded to people at the moment when they first sprang from the head and pen of the composer.’ It is clear that Busoni’s attitude was uncompromising and unapologetic in having high expectations of his audience. Toccata In 1911 Busoni completed the five-​year span of work on his comic opera Die Brautwahl. In common with the Piano Concerto it is a work of prodigal fecundity that fully rewards the effort of seeking it out. In the middle of composing the opera Busoni (1938, p. 111) wrote to his wife, Gerda, on 13 July 1907, ‘…I am just completing one part of the Brautwahl. It was a bigger task than I thought it would be, and I could not master it more quickly because I have an invincible feeling that every bar must say something…’ Around a decade later material from Act 1, part 2 of Die Brautwahl is used in both the Klavierübung and Toccata; in the former as part of a series of studies in staccato technique, and in the latter as the first section of its tri-​partite structure. In The Gruesome History of Lippold the character Leonhard relates the story of how the discovery of a magic book allows Lippold to evade execution by being burned alive as Satan frees him (Busoni (1914, pp. 100–​103). The rhythm of the passage ‘Man fand das Zauberbuch’ permeates the first and second sections of Toccata like a motto (see Example 8.4).

Busoni’s piano works: mirror and enigma  171

Example 8.4 Toccata, BV 287 ‘Zauberbuch Motif’. Source: Author.

In the works final Ciaccona a traditional Sarabande rhythm is clearly derived from the second half of the Zauberbuch theme. The final accelerando page of the piece features a descending arpeggiated theme to which the name Meph-​i-​stoph-​e-​les could be articulated. Busoni’s references to the recurring themes of magic books and demonic forces powerfully link the Toccata, Sonatina seconda, and Doktor Faust. The material of the middle and final sections of the Toccata have important commonalities with those scenes in Doktor Faust relating to the seduction of the Duchess of Parma and outraged reaction of the Duke, her husband. The final gesture of the piece drives home its overall bleakness. An affirmative ascent to a cadence in D major is a short live hiatus of positivity before an abysmal descent into A-​flat minor, a tri-​tone removed from D major.The finality of the final a-​flat minor chord, pounded out in the Mephistopheles rhythm, may perhaps find a resonance, albeit enharmonically, in the final G-​sharp minor left-​hand chord of Sorabji’s Opus Clavicembalisticum and the association with the following passage in Goethe’s Faust (Goethe (1988), p. 160, l.1338): ‘I am the spirit that denies.’ Fitting commentary on the meaning of the Toccata’s atmosphere of unequivocal, bleak finality (see Example 8.5).

172  Fred Scott

Example 8.5 Toccata, BV 287, final chords. Source: Author.

Performing Toccata Busoni inscribed a quotation attributed to Frescobaldi above the Toccata, ‘Non e senza difficolta che si arrive al fine’. The would-be performer of this work will find the statement to be true of the execution of this demanding music. Busoni’s Toccata has little in common with those essays in the rather more motoric style of his contemporaries Debussy, Prokofiev, and Ravel. In fact, Busoni reaches back beyond the influence of Liszt and Schumann to the very inception of the form and its roots in renaissance Italy, hence the aforementioned invocation of Frescobaldi. Rather than focussing on prompting a display of muscular endurance and fortitude on the part of the performer Busoni seems to assert an almost ironically ascetic and anti-​virtuosic position. The considerable physical difficulty involved in the execution of the opening Prelude –​ Quasi Presto, arditamente (‘boldly’) is presented by continual staccatissimo arpeggio figures traversing the entire range of the keyboard at speed as the powerful chording of the Zauberbuch theme is to be forcefully enunciated in the midst of much activity. Attention must be paid especially to the necessary pedalling involved in sustaining this theme and yet not blurring the arpeggiated figures. In bar 11 transition occurs via the flattened submediant seventh to a re-​statement of the Zauberbuch theme in C major. In bar 21 we find an interesting technical solution to facilitate the fingering of the chromatic scale (see Example 8.6).

Example 8.6 Toccata, BV287, chromatic scale fingering. Source: Author.

This novel sequencing allows the hand to retain a more compact shape making the staccato more bitingly emphatic. Bars 23 and following display an elegant solution to facilitating the performance of rapid arpeggiated octaves;

Busoni’s piano works: mirror and enigma  173 note here how Busoni omits certain of the potential doublings, increasing accuracy, reducing strain and the possibility of an interruption to the relentless quaver flow. This rational deployment of resources serves the sound perfectly. Bar 30 recapitulates the first statement of the Zauberbuch theme with the roles of the hands exchanged. The unforgiving rapid leaps in bars 34 and following benefit from the essential requirement of boldness (and no little faith!) that Busoni indicates is necessary at the start of the Prelude. Sonatina in Diem Nativitatis Christi MCMXVII (1917) Important material used in Doktor Faust originates in this fourth Sonatina. Bearing a dedication to Busoni’s first son, Benvenuto, and conceived perhaps in some way to have metaphorical significance referencing in the Nativity one of the key events of the Christian calendar, this mysterious piece is steeped in symbol and allegory. The references to the day of Christ’s birth both reside in the title itself and also in the rustic music of the moderato vivace on pp. 6–​7 of the score. Reminiscent of the Pastorale music in part one of Liszt’s oratorio Christus and Busoni’s piano piece Nuit de Noel (1908) the atmosphere evoked contributes to a sort of nostalgic emotional affect. On page 5 of the Breitkopf Edition of the Sonatina we find the following passage (see Example 8.7).

Example 8.7 Sonatina in Diem Nativitas Christi MCMXVII, BV 274. Source: Author.

The rather disconcerting metatonality of these chords reappears in Doktor Faust at Easter time after Faust has signed the fateful pact with Mephistopheles. It is important to note that in Busoni’s version of the legend Faust’s initial summons is addressed to Lucifer (literally, ‘Light-​Bringer’). After his rejection of the subsequent apparitions and exit from the protective circle Faust is ‘summoned’ by Mephistopheles. It can be argued that Faust’s desire for ‘light’ is to a certain extent inversely satisfied as he succumbs to the temptation of Mephistopheles assurance that he is ‘as swift as the thoughts of man’. Perhaps

174  Fred Scott the nostalgia for childhood that follows illustrates a certain credulity in Faust and yet at the same time, given the opera’s final scene, a literal response to the necessity of a child-​like entry to the Kingdom of Heaven as spoken of in the New Testament (Matthew 18:3). A choir is heard intoning the words of the Credo. Faust remarks that Easter day is ‘Tag meiner Kindheit’ (‘day of my birth’) and this is literally true of Busoni who was born on April 1st 1866. One can only speculate on the use of this exact passage marking initially the Incarnation of the Christian Saviour (Sonatina) and Faust’s ‘rebirth’ into his Mephistophelian pact (Doktor Faust). It is possible that the choral setting of the Credo here emphases the high stakes of Faust’s decision and maybe the articulation of a certain mental scruple at the abandonment of traditional religious alignment. It is no surprise that these great issues must have vexed Busoni, especially in the years of global conflict during which he was living. The Sonatina, though it is not of great technical difficulty yet stands as a model of the deep compositional processes which engaged Busoni. The fruits of a mind saturated in philosophy, religion, occultism, fantasy, and musical speculation will always demand and reward deep study.

Drei Albumblätter The Drei Albumblätter (composed 1918–​21) appear as late as 1922 in first performance by their composer in London. The second and third of these pieces feature material later used in Doktor Faust. The second Albumblatt, composed in Rome, 1921, features a metatonal theme. The resulting three-​part fugal treatment is conducted along wholly conventional lines with the second (tenor) entry on the note G, analogous to the dominant in a traditional structure. The third entry, in bass octaves, returns the theme to C. A development follows, before the soprano’s final, partial statement of the opening theme. A typically ambiguous cadence resolves onto C major seventh. The theme used here occurs in Doktor Faust during the protagonist’s visit to Parma where, as part of his display of conjuring at the request of the Duchess, Faust causes the appearance of John the Baptist and Salome (see P. 173, bar 32 of the Breitkopf Klavierauszug). The second Albumblatt bears a dedication to Francesco Ticciati (1893–​ 1949), Italian composer, pianist, and London resident. Black (2013, webpage), writes: ‘In my opinion, apart from being a major influence in my development into a musician whose career took me up to Executive Producer, BBC Radio Music, (Ticciati) was in his own right a major pianist who reflected the wonderful influence of his great teacher Busoni.’ The third Albumblatt (In der Art eines Choralvorspiels) is a transcription of Bach’s Chorale ‘Christ Lag in Todesbanden’ which, as previously mentioned in connection with Busoni’s transcription of Bach’s Chaconne. On page 9 of the piano score Busoni points out that he has isolated the tenor line of the Chorale and transposed it into the soprano over an undulating quaver accompaniment. The character of the

Busoni’s piano works: mirror and enigma  175 resultant music is vastly different from the atmosphere of the rather sombre treatment in the Chorale. Here, the melody assumes a more overtly sensuous ambience. This passage is adapted for later use in Doktor Faust following the aforementioned conjuration scene in Parma (see p. 176, bar 780 foll.). In a passionate outburst Faust declares his romantic intentions towards the Duchess, imploring her to follow him, and become Queen of the whole earth, possessor of the East’s wealth and the West’s culture. The same theme is heard once more (see p. 187, bar 926 foll.) sung by the Duchess as she has now obviously succumbed to Faust and pledges to follow him. This intriguing treatment of Bach’s chorale melody shows a kind of alchemical transformation demonstrating how Bach’s original Easter hymn becomes the material for the seduction scene, the consequence of which, as we discover later in the opera, leads to the conception of a child, the dead body of which is delivered to Faust about a year later in the midst of the rowdy tavern scene. The lively debate involving Catholic and Lutheran students leads us tantalizingly back to the use of Bach’s chorale as precursor to Faust’s union with the Duchess, an example of Busoni’s enigmatic mirroring in this meeting of the archaic with the arcane. The backdrop of the use of the Easter hymn and the birth of a child is an irresistible reference to Busoni’s own birth and Faust’s later re-​birth in the resurrected body of his own dead progeny. This is preceded in the final scene by one further appearance of Bach’s Chorale, a choir announcing words of judgement and resurrection (p. 303, bar 380 foll.) simultaneously with the protagonist’s searching for the one good deed that will save him (see Example 8.8).

176  Fred Scott

Example 8.8 A: J.S Bach, Christ Lag in Todesbanden 371 Chorale Preludes, B: Busoni, Albumblatt No. 3, BV 289, C and D: Busoni, Doktor Faust, BV 303. Source: Author.

Busoni’s piano works: mirror and enigma  177 The Dritte Albumblatt bears a dedication to Felice Boghen (1869–​1945), Italian pianist, composer, conductor, and musicologist, who was editor of volumes of early keyboard music, in particular that of Frescobaldi. One such volume (Boghen, 1918) featured Frescobaldi’s Toccata Nona, the source, if somewhat paraphrased, of the quotation on the title page of Busoni’s own Toccata: ‘Non e senza difficolta che si arrive al fine’. Frescobaldi’s reads: ‘Non senza fatiga si giunge al fine’. In either case the sentiments are entirely apt for Busoni’s uncompromising piece.

Klavierübung Busoni had done his share of conventional, conservatoire teaching in Europe and America early in his career. However, it was in Masterclasses that Busoni created and cemented his legacy as the de facto heir to Franz Liszt in his roles of performer, teacher, composer and conductor. Sitsky (1986, p. 172) writes: ‘Busoni was not, by nature, a teacher; his masterclasses and composition classes were group sessions and special ones at that…but if by teaching we mean individual, painstaking tuition, with much probing and elucidation of technique and its problems…then Busoni was not a teacher’. It is significant that Busoni worked on the Klavierübung over the period of seven years leading up to his death. The fact that this project and Doktor Faust so occupied these last years is important, and I would assert non-​ coincidental. Beaumont (1985, p. 296) points out that: ‘Busoni…intended to pass on in concise form the fruits of his lifelong occupation with keyboard technique’. This establishes that Busoni’s priorities must have related to creating a legacy of pragmatic necessity, in terms of piano playing, and spiritual transcendence, in terms of the message of Doktor Faust. The relationship between Klavierübung and Doktor Faust becomes explicit if the content of Busoni’s sketches for the unfinished parts of the opera are consulted. Of the three conjectural completions the Jarnach material functions in the role of a prosthesis, affording a measure of utility by replacing a lost body part. The Beaumont and Sitsky completions were able to draw directly from Busoni’s sketches for the completion of his opera, a document not made available to Jarnach prior to the premiere on 21 May 1925. Busoni’s sketches make reference to several of the pieces in the Klavierübung showing their place in the economy of his ultimate vision. Accounts of the Beaumont and Sitsky completions are recorded extensively elsewhere (Beaumont, 1986, pp. 196–​199; Crispin, 2007, p. 75). The important point to note is that contained within these various, sometimes fragmentary pieces is a repository not only of boldly innovative performance solutions but also of ideas and sketch materials for the final moments of Doktor Faust. It seems wholly characteristic of Busoni that the impulse towards the didactic, illustrating far-​reaching notions of piano technique, should accompany music of high mysticism associated with the ultimately transcendental aspirations of the opera’s protagonist.

178  Fred Scott The value of the Klavierübung is the light it sheds on the pianistic secrets of an indisputably influential artist. Sitsky (1986, p. 173) writes: ‘What we have…is not so much a method as a record by Busoni of his approach to the keyboard: his fingerings, tricks, shortcuts, improvisations…it often stresses the unorthodox at the cost of the obvious…(it) can be useful in opening up new technical horizons.’

Gnosis Gnosis is a concept fundamental to grasping the purpose of Busoni’s work as composer. Indeed, Busoni (1962, p. 75) prefaced the Sketch of a New Aesthetic of Music by asserting his wish to ‘go beyond the end’, a formula redolent of the Alchemist’s perpetual search outside of the controlling realities inherent in nature. The appeal to Busoni of figures steeped in Mystical and Magical traditions is a clear illustration of the perception of the role of ritual magic in operating outside the constraints of what were generally perceived to be the immutable laws of nature. As Crispin (2007, p. 23) has observed ‘Like his contemporary Jean Cocteau, Busoni believed that art is not a pastime but a priesthood’. It would not be fanciful to suggest that Busoni saw himself fulfilling a high calling in this way, positioned vicariously between the mundane and spiritual worlds encoding and disseminating directions along the path toward spiritual knowledge. The momentum of Busoni’s work leads inexorably towards revelation in Doktor Faust. This can be clearly demonstrated by a consideration of key works, particularly the piano music, which broadcast seeds for later germination. Seen in this way a pianist attempting a performance-​based survey of these works will be enriched far more than building a repertoire centred primarily around the canonical. Like Bach, Beethoven, and Liszt before him, Busoni catalysed seismic change in keyboard playing, spawned a massively influential network of performer-​teachers, and exerted a profound influence over the lives and work of countless younger composers, and yet there is not a copy of Busoni himself. If there is a Busoni-​school it continues to resonate in the waves he initiated. The purpose of this study is to challenge the curious to approach the work of Busoni in the manner of an interior journey, the fruits of which may, as in the case of Busoni, result in a public communication of discoveries made along the way. We enter the world alone and we leave alone. How and why we arrived into life are vexatious questions without definitive answers. How and why we die and whether or not our consciousness persists may just be perceived in the insight granted by bold seeking. That Busoni (1938, p. 219) considered this possibility deeply is illustrated by the following extract from a 1913 letter to his wife: ‘If one admits that there are such things as “presentiments” and “second sight,” and that one can look into the future (if only for the tiniest moment and shortest distance), it is logical that one should have the same

Busoni’s piano works: mirror and enigma  179 capacity for looking backwards into time. That at least would be an explanation of the so-​called seeing of ghosts.’ Although nothing can be done to recover the experience of beginning our physical existence, we have the liberty to speculate on the nature of our ending. Life in physical or psychic form may indeed end in oblivion. Truly to comprehend this notion has informed much earnest contemplation and speculation and is a time limited process for all of us. Furthermore, I would argue that, inspired by the searching restlessness of Busoni, we may be led closer to finding the will to defy and seek out the highest insight of our own wisdom and therein gain freedom.

Bardo Thodol (In the gap between life and rebirth) (Baldock (2009) p. 10) An interpretation of the life and meaning of Ferruccio Busoni is as contingent and ambiguous as belief in the Supernatural; he continues to polarize opinion, inspiring both fanatical devotion and summary condemnation, but is certainly not to be ignored. A cursory examination of Busoni’s legacy will show how many have been and even today are under his influence to a great extent; it is unlikely that any aspect of contemporary music making can honestly be detached from some connection to the extraordinary network of students, pianists, composers, conductors, and visual artists Busoni inspired. An artist whose creative output was saturated in the esoteric, occult, and speculative presents an open invitation, even a challenge, to find the encodings concealed within the works produced and their wider implications. The richness and range of Busoni’s work, his wider, persistent significance finds definition in Steiner (2010, p. 375): ‘The wingbeat of the unknown has been at the heart of poiesis. Can there, will there be major philosophy, literature, music and art of an atheist provenance?’ That spiritual transcendence is the key to understanding the motivations of Busoni is clearly to be seen in the final clause of the spoken epilogue of Doktor Faust as it tantalizingly reveals a perception of ultimate possibility (Busoni, 1987, p. 76): ‘So, rising on the shoulders of the past, the soul of man shall reach his heaven at last.’ Is this the message out of the undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveller returns? At least we have the capacity to speculate on the nature of the ‘world elsewhere’… a world accessible to the sojourner in the immateriality of dreaming and ultimately to all after the transition out of physical life that we must all eventually undertake.

References Bach, J. S. (1989). The Art of Fugue BWV 1080 (D. Moroney, ed.). München: Henle. Bach, J. S. (2006). Contrapunctus 14 für Orgel/​Tasteninstrumentaus der Kunst der Fuge BWV 1080 (Z. Göncz, ed.). Leinfelden-​Echterdingen: Carus.

180  Fred Scott Bach, J. S. (2013). Bach's The Art of Fugue and a Companion to The Art of Fugue (D.F.Tovey, ed.). New York: Dover Publications. Baldock, J. (2009) The Tibetan Book of the Dead –​Introduction. London: Arcturus Publishing Limited Beaumont, A. (1985). Busoni the Composer. London: Faber. Beaumont, A. (1986). Busoni’s ‘Doctor Faust’: a reconstruction and its problems. The Musical Times, 127: 1718. Beaumont, A. (1987). Ferruccio Busoni –​Selected Letters. Columbia; Columbia University Press. Black, L. (2013). The Music Studio in Chestnut Close (W. Tibbitts, ed.). https://​ amershammuseum.org/​history/​research/​sport-​entertainment/​the-music-studio-inchestnut-close/ Boghen, F. (1918) Antichi Maestri Italiani: toccate per clavicembalo o pianoforte. Milan: Ricordi. Borges, J. L. (1970). Labyrinths. (J. Irby, trans.). London: Penguin. Busoni, F. (1894). J.S. Bach Klavierwerke Busoni-​Ausgabe Band 1 Das Wohltemperierte Klavier Erster Teil. Leipzig: Breitkopf and Haertel. Busoni, F. (1914). Die Brautwahl. (E. Petri, Arr.).Berlin: Harmonie-​Verlag. Busoni, F. (1938). Letters to His Wife. (R. Ley, trans.). London: Edward Arnold and Co. Busoni, F. (1962). Sketch of a New Aesthetic of Music. New York: Dover Publications. Busoni, F. (1987). The Essence of Music and Other Papers. (R. Ley, trans.). New York: Dover Publications. Busoni, F. (1996). The Complete Elegies, the Six Sonatinas and Other Original Works for Solo Piano. New York: Dover Publications Couling, D. (2005). Busoni –​A Musical Ishmael. Lanham: Scarecrow Press. Crispin, J. (2007). The Esoteric Musical Tradition of Ferruccio Busoni and Its Reinvigoration in the Music of Larry Sitsky. New York: Mellen. Dent, E. (1920). The Return of Busoni. London: The Athenaeum Dent, E. (1974). Ferruccio Busoni. London: Eulenberg. van Dieren, B. (1935). Down Among the Dead Men. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Fleet, P. (2009). Ferruccio Busoni A Phenomenological Approach to His Music and Aesthetics. Saarbruecken: Lambert. Goebels, F. (1968). Der Neue Busoni. Wiesbaden: Breitkopf and Haertel. Goethe, J. (1988) Faust. (W. Kaufmann, trans.). New York: Anchor. Hauff, W. (1882). Tales of the Caravan, Inn and Palace (E. Stowell, trans.). Chicago: Jansen, McLurg and Company. Hawking, S. (2016). A Brief History of Time. London: Bantam. Knyt, E. (2017). Ferruccio Busoni and His Legacy. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Kogan, G. (2010). Busoni as Pianist (S. Belsky, trans.).Rochester: University of Rochester Press. Marlowe, C. (1993). Doctor Faustus (Bevington, Rasmussen, ed.). Manchester: Manchester University Press. Mettinger, T. (2001). The Riddle of Resurrection ‘Dying and Rising Gods in the Ancient Near East’. Stockholm: Almqvist and Wiskell International. Pace, I. (2014). Yefim Golyshev, Arnold Schoenberg, and the Origins of Twelve-​Tone Music. https://​ianpace.wordpress.com/​tag/​yefim-​golyshev/​

Busoni’s piano works: mirror and enigma  181 Perle, G. (1977). Serial Composition and Atonality. Berkeley: University of California Press. Reich, W. (1963). The Path to the New Music. Malvern: Theodor Presser. Schoenberg, A. (1975). Style and Idea (L. Black, trans.). London: Faber. Shakespeare, W. (1623). Mr. William Shakespeares Comedies, Histories, & Tragedies. London: Jaggard and Blount. Sitsky, L. (1986). Busoni and the Piano. Michigan: Greenwood Press. Sorabji, K. (1947) Mi Contra Fa –​The Immoralisings of a Machiavellian Musician. London: Porcupine Press. Steiner, G. (2010). Grammars of Creation. London: Faber. Stevenson, R. (1974). Harlequin and Faust. https://​youtu.be/​mhDe3EsIYsU Stuckenschmidt, H. (1970). Ferruccio Busoni –​Chronicle of a European. London: Calder and Boyars. Thoene, H. (2001). A Secret Language –​Hidden Chorale Quotations in J.S. Bach’s ‘Sei Solo a Violin’. Munich: ECM Records GmbH. Waterhouse, J. (1965–​6). Busoni-​Visionary or Pasticheur? Proceedings of the Royal Musical Association, 92nd session. London: Taylor and Francis Ltd. Wilson, L. (2013). Modernism and Magic, Experiments with Spiritualism, Theosophy and the Occult. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Wittgenstein, L. (2001). Tractatus Logico-​Philosophicus (D. Pears, B. McGuinness, trans.). Abingdon: Routledge. Woolf, C. (2001) Johann Sebastian Bach –​The Learned Musician. New York: W. W. Norton. Xenakis, I. (1971). Formalized Music. (C. Butchers, G. W. Hopkins, and J. Challifour, trans.). Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Yates, F. (1964) Giordano Bruno and the Hermetic Tradition. Abingdon: Routledge and Keegan Paul.

9  Diatonic refraction through metatonal spaces Kenneth Smith

Sound, space, and speed Franz Schreker is noted for a particular type of sonority that can help us reconceptualize some of the spaces in which composers choose to operate. The plots of Schreker’s operas revolve around magical sounds that disrupt the social order. In his first opera, Der Ferne Klang (1910), a composer devotes his life to finding such a magical, distant sound; in Das Spielwerk und die Prinzessin (1912) a magical music machine controls the entire drama; in Der Schatzgräber (1918) a magical treasure-​seeking lute is the central concern. The list goes on. The music that becomes associated with these images, and which always seems to act as the kernel of the operatic tonal narrative, has been dubbed ‘Klangmusik’ by Mark Berger (2012). From Schreker’s own reference ‘Nachklang’ (echo /​reverberating sound) in the score of Der Ferne Klang, Peter Franklin employs this alternative term to describe the magical sounds that Schreker tries to create at key dramatic moments in his works, moments which in fact spread through the works themselves. Paul Bekker described geheimnisvolle Klänge [mysterious, secretive sounds] (Bekker, 1922, p. 38) in Die Gezeichneten (1915), and the ‘secretive’ nature of the sound is part and parcel of the enigmatic, eternal atmosphere that Schreker aims for in his Klangmusik. But a further aspect of the secret is that, although they are clearly not conventionally tonal, they act as keys to unlock the tonal dramas that follow. The process by which these timeless sonorities become temporalized can also help us to focus on how diatonic tonality passes through other spaces, new at the turn of the twentieth century, which coexist with tonality, but which seem to lie just outside of its grasp. What defines this Klangmusik? Bekker’s phrase (1922, p. 52), ‘schimmernden, silbrigen Glanz’ [shimmering silvery lustre] perhaps serves as a neat example of the kind of poetic adjectives that abound in the literature surrounding Schreker. The sounds created are certainly comprised from the ‘magical’ orchestral timbres such as celesta, piano, bells, and harmonium; these sounds always offer a certain timeless quality through layers of ostinati. And these ostinati always savour semitone clashes. On one level these sonorities become referential, but in fact it is the relationship DOI: 10.4324/9780429451713-9

Diatonic refraction through metatonality  183 between the separate tonal entities that comprise these Klänge which defines them, and this relationship is always much bigger and more far-​reaching than the world they initially habit. In concrete harmonic terms, different strategies are employed for creating these strange new sounds, mostly involving a highly blended variety of polytonality in which two or more normative chords merge together, generally serving as meeting point for either hexatonic relations (chords related by major thirds whose pool of pitches equates to the hexatonic scale) or octatonic relations (chords related by minor thirds whose pool of pitches equates to the octatonic scale). This chapter explores these illuminating moments of Schreker’s sound-​world and follows the Irrlicht –​ the ‘willo’-​the-​wisp’ he creates –​into the marshes of chromatic tonality, or in fact ‘metatonalities,’ to examine the relations between these hexatonics and octatonics, which may exist in the same universe but, come from Mars and Venus (respectively).1 Although Wolfgang Rihm favoured the term ‘neo-​ tonality’, Yves Knockaert, writing on Rihm, prefers to talk about ‘metatonality’ to describe instances where consonant tonality is presented as an alien force, or when a central pitch ‘auto-​installs itself’ (2017, p. 163). Fleet’s definition was stricter: ‘ “meta” is intended to reflect the fact that the association with tonality has not been totally lost. Rather, it encourages the idea that compositions that are within this field have a filial relation towards tonality yet are independent in their musical language and structure; they are both “with” and “after” tonality’ (2009, p. 109). The present chapter aims to explore the filiality of this relationship. Schreker’s Klänge are metatonal in both senses because there are elements of tonality within them, but they could never have happened within common-​practice tonal music. However, the process of labelling these moments as metatonal is not enough; what it important is to see how these metatonal sonorities work through alternatives to diatonic tonalities that could themselves be regarded as metatonalities –​ hexatonic, octatonic, wholetone spaces –​because they come after tonality and yet cooperate filially with it, and as I hope to show, exist as lenses through which it is refracted. The theory unpacked below posits that, as the elements of these Klänge unfold, what we find is a type of chromatic tonality which masks a fundamentally diatonic drive, which takes the V-​I route through the cycle of fifths as most direct paradigm, but refracts the tonal energy through octatonic and hexatonic filters. These filters alter the perceived ‘speed’ of tonal motion, like light bending as it passes through lenses that cause a change in speed. To help us, we appeal to some of the fruits of neo-​Riemannian theory, because many of Schreker’s chord progressions are rooted in the standard chords of chromatic tonality and their succession is often based on the common transformations found in that branch of North American music theory. Another aspect of music theory that we bring with us is Daniel Harrison’s notion of ‘discharge’ in chromatic harmony (1994); that particularly leading-​note to tonic discharge is the lifeblood of tonality and it is even more alive in chromatic music as it is in the common-​practice era. The flow

184  Kenneth Smith of leading-​note energy is very much associated with Schreker’s libidinal post-​ Wagnerian music. As Wolfgang Krebs conceives it, coming from the premise of Ernst Kurth’s energeticist reading of Romantic music, ‘the Thing-​in-​itself is a leading-​note motion, a leading-​note interval –​an energy which from the dark psychicical primordial ground of our existence steps into the world of appearances as intervallic melodic phrases’ (1994, 365).2 What Schreker helps to show is that the flow of leading-​note energy is very much alive in music that stretches beyond nineteenth-​century chromaticism and into a fin de siècle brand of metatonality. The fundamental theory is that diatonicism is newly dispersed, refracted through a variety of metatonal landscapes, and progresses through different spaces and at different speeds. Factoring in this tendency to associate Schreker’s tonal energy with the Leitton, we can see how major third hexatonics and minor third octatonics are fundamentally different species. Indeed, the interaction of octatonic and hexatonic relations within a broadly diatonic universe is an unresolved issue in neo-​Riemannian theory.3 Progressions of minor thirds that together amount to octatonicism famously create a static atmosphere of tonal timelessness. To my mind, this is mostly because any octatonic scale has the leading notes of its four component triads missing. If we have a progression that moves between D, F, A♭, and B triads (or even seventh chords), no succession of these will produce any 7̂-8̂ motion in any of these chords/​keys, because there are no 7̂s, the missing pitches being c♯, e, g, and a♯. Thus, a progression like this one that begins the overture of Schreker’s Das Spielwerk alternates F and D triads in a way that withholds tonal energy, or perhaps stores it. Note that Schreker adds a passing C triad on a weak beak in order to emphasize the F (with its major seventh, e) as the primary chord via a nested V-​I motion, reaching outside of the octatonic collection to do so.

Example 9.1  From Das Spielwerk, opening bars and §109.

He does a similar thing in the opera itself, when he reaches to the third octatonic node, A♭, articulating this now via a sequestered E♭ triad that acts as local, passing V. This creates an immobile atmosphere of minimal perturbation. Certainly, the diatonic pace here is at a minimum; the only voice we hear in this ‘slow, secretive’ sound world is the lone, nested V-​I, but as it discharges it reminds us that tonal functionality is still in force. Notice also how when the A♭ is explored as a new pillar in Example 9.1, the g leading-​note

Diatonic refraction through metatonality  185 is retained as an injection of dissonance to make sure we take note of it. Thus, octatonics arrest tonal energy and have a very slow speed. Only when ‘alien’ leading-​notes to the octatonic triadic pillars are added can the music become mobile. A clearer octatonic passage is the ‘Distant Sound’ of Schreker’s first opera, where the melody forms a complete, simple, descending octatonic scale (Example 9.2). The harmony beneath could very well have indicated the chords of A♭, F, D, and B to offer the four nodes of the scale, but Schreker rather gives us an arpeggiated static version of the other diminished-​chord node of the collection, outlining g♭, e♭, c, a pitches. Coming from another world, this distant sound evokes the glimpse of eternity that the composer-​protagonist longs for in the narrative. Even without the accompanying chords, this is octatonic speed in a nutshell. This all trades on the view that octatonic chord relations are functionally alike, a view offered in Ernö Lendvai’s controversial ‘axis system’ (1971). Without the support of a leading-​note theory, Lendvai struggles to convince us the minor-​related chords are functional kinsmen, though he shows that in Bartok’s architectonics, they at least replace some of the diatonic narrative of the common-​practice era. With the addition of a leading-​note theory we explore with more nuance what happens on chord to chord basis.

Example 9.2 The octatonic ‘distant sound’ of Der Ferne Klang.

Hexatonic major thirds, by contrast, are comprised of leading notes (Example 9.3). The hexatonic scale, like the octatonic, offers us semitones at regular intervals, but because these are dispersed with a full minor-​third between, a series of three triads (in both parallel modes) is produced, each with its own leading notes included in the scale. Thus, F, A, and D♭ triads offer us e–​f, g♯–​a, and c–​d♭ pitches, with each chord’s leading note present in at least one of the others (in fact, three out of four, because F’s leading note e is present in A major, A minor, and, enharmonically, D♭ minor, missing only from D♭ major). This means that progressions of major-​third-​related triads can discharge tonal tension though without the directness found in simple V-​I root motion. Thus, in a progression like this one from Der Schatzgräber (Example 9.4) the A–​F–​D♭ progression has a sense of forwards tonal momentum because A’s e discharges to f as 7̂-8̂. This is palpably felt as weaker than the real discharge that occurred on the previous metrical cadence point a bar earlier (in near identical circumstances) from A to D as clear V-​I

186  Kenneth Smith (though the D is capped with an added sixth, b). The F chord, then, comes as a substitution or (octatonic, minor-​third) replacement for D –​a deceptive cadence, but one which still allows the sense of leading-​note discharge. This F then progresses to D♭, having again contained its leading-​note (c). Thus, the passage can be said to flow diatonically through a hexatonic filter, slowing down the ideal circle of fifths propulsion through refraction. However, it is worth noting that if the progression were to be reversed, we would find a slower diatonic motion because there would be no discharge of consecutive 7̂-8̂s. Consecutive 8̂-7̂s act as a reverse progression that backpedals away from discharge through a form of hexatonic ‘plagal’ motion.

Example 9.3 Leading-​note potential within the hexatonic scale.

Example 9.4 Der Schatzgräber.

Why Schreker? Plenty of fin de siècle composers (and indeed earlier composers), can be used to explore the diatonic speed of hexatonic and octatonic spaces. Schreker has several characteristics that make him an especially apposite case-​study. Firstly, Schreker uses no single system but fuses various metatonal spaces (less often using whole-​tone relations) into a bricolage of interchanging spaces and speeds within a rapid timeframe.4 While the third-​relationships that form the crux of my analysis were examined by Krebs (1994) in relation to Schreker’s Die Gezeichneten, his is an analysis of melodic constructs rather than harmonic ones, but even so the third-​relationships so central to hexatonic and octatonic spaces are crucial to Schreker’s entire sound-​world. Secondly, the main tonal innovation of Schreker, when all is said and done, is the fusion of these metatonalities into spatial nebulae which occur at the inception of works, and then become differentiated temporally into the associated speeds of their component parts. Confirmation

Diatonic refraction through metatonality  187 that neo-​Riemannian theory is useful to Schreker comes when we consider that so much of his tonal interactions are founded on common-​tones (what neo-​Riemannians would call ‘voice-​leading parsimony’ (Callender 1999). As Berger notes: This Klangmusik, with its complex, extended tertian sonorities, polytonal chromaticism, and delicate orchestration, typically eschews harmonic progression in favour of the parallel planing of intervallically consistent vertical structures or harmonic motion via common tone between functionally unrelated sonorities. (2012, p. 62) These Klänge are nebulae from which distinct stars are born, and Schreker allows them to slip in and out of temporality and spatiality. Time and again spatial becomes temporal; polytonal becomes metatonal, metatonal becomes polytonal. The rest of this chapter will explore two entire pieces –​one overture and one symphony, both related by different types of nebulae –​one hexatonic and one octatonic –​that become temporalized and dramatized through the ensuing work. To help conceptualize this temporalization of the collision of hexatonic and octatonic space I use the visual interface of a cousin of the Tonnetz rather more reminiscent of François-​Guillaume Vial’s ‘Genealogical Tree of Harmony’ (turned at 90 degrees to read from left to right) which tabulates minor thirds on the y axis, and the circle of fifths on the x axis (see Figure 9.1). We will, however, heed Cohn’s warning (2011, p. 322) that the space is designed to capture progressions of chords and keys rather than the pitches that form chords (as is practiced on a neo-​Riemannian Tonnetz). This space assumes equal-​temperament, but also collapses differences in chord qualities into a single root. This can be problematic as chord quality is often associated with different spaces (triads are germane to hexatonic space, where seventh chords, half-​diminished chords, etc., are more commonly associated with octatonic space), but as this visualization is attempting to show the diatonic force at work in these spaces, the problem is partially side-​stepped. Fred Lerdahl refers to ‘space shifting’ between octatonic space and other tonal spaces, but we might rather propose that the space is fundamentally the same here; we pass through the space octatonically, hexatonically, diatonically, or in whole-​tone relations. On Figure 9.1 we can see that octatonic chord relations occur vertically and therefore arrest tonal motion (which would run from left to right on the lattice); diatonic motion is the cleanest form of discharge motion; whole-​tone chord motions (such as, say, chord progression IV–​V) progress diatonically downwards; hexatonics progress diatonically upwards. The examples given above as Examples 9.2 and 9.4 are plotted on Figure 9.1 to show the paths through tonal space: note the static octatonic progression of Das Spielwerk and the mobile but refracted line of motion in the hexatonic Der Schatzgräber.

188  Kenneth Smith

Figure 9.1 Tonal visualization of chord progressions.

Klangmusik in Die Gezeichneten: Overture (1915) Accounts of the opening of Die Gezeichneten are as enticing as the music itself. As Franklin tells us: ‘It opens with a soft, harmonically ambivalent ostinato that is highly characteristic of the mature Schreker: the magic atmosphere of a semi-​conscious state of passive anticipation that directly parallels Scriabin’s “languido” mysticism’ (1982, p. 142). On another occasion he calls it ‘an almost literally hypnotic and passionately engulfing presence’ (Franklin, 2006, p. 182); ‘And then there is the notorious Schrekerian ‘Klang’ –​the sound that is not distant here, as in his first staged opera, but present in the orchestra pit, with all its shifting Rosenkavalier colours and recherché harmonies’ (Franklin, 2006, p. 186). Christopher Hailey waxes lyrical about ‘that mesmerizing bi-​tonal shimmer of violins, harps, celesta and piano hovering over a sinuous, serpentine melody in the bass clarinet and lower strings. This is the music of fin de siècle Vienna, a city on the precipice, teetering between breath-​ taking vistas and terrifying chasms’ (Hayley, online). Die Gezeichneten begins with a tantalizing hexatonic melody while the bitonal arpeggiations above that blur together through their different speeds of arpeggiation (see Example 9.5). These intone a ‘hexatonic pole’ relationship (two triads that use the complementary pitches of the hexatonic scale, such as C minor and E major) which, for Richard Cohn, marks the Freudian ‘Uncanny’ (2006). These entrancing, repetitious, bitonal, interlocking textures also have a strange self-​fulfilling nature, because both D and B♭ minor triads possess the leading-​notes of each other (D has B♭m’s 7̂ as well as ♭6 ̂; B♭m has D’s 7̂ and ♭6 ̂). Both textures, with their ‘music box’ celesta and harp combinations, draw us into a mystery. Examining the constructs of Schreker’s bitonal triads we find compressed versions of harmonic constructions that will be unpacked across the opera, and, in the immediate present, form spatio-​temporal struggles throughout the overture in key moments. These moments are analysed as both a single ‘Klang’ and as composite elements that have the potential to temporally spread out. Already the temporal dimension is curiously compressed because

Diatonic refraction through metatonality  189 the bitonal chords of the Klang oscillate at different rates. Because these are two hexatonic poles, we also have the complete hexatonic scale with three leading notes to three full triads represented: D, F♯ and B♭. This blending may explain the unusual enharmony that mitigates against a ‘clean’ interpretation of two triads. Due to this, the effect is of a homogenizing interpenetration and continual discharge between chords into each other, self-​sustaining, and in the Freudian parlance contemporary with the opera, autoerotic. Yet at the same time, it creates a coil of wound-​up energy ready to be released.

Example 9.5 The hexatonic opening of Die Gezeichneten.

This relationship becomes temporalized in bar 22 (see Example 9.6) when we approach a climactic point that escapes the autoerotic self-​sufficiency of the initial Klang and unfurls the component hexatonic scale as triads. The inception chord of this climactic moment harbours the augmented triad that gives us hexatonic space in utero, but the b♭ pitch soon resolves downwards to the D’s a as clear ♭6 ̂–​5̂. The D then ushers in a descending major-​third progression through hexatonic space to B♭ (major this time) and G♭ major. We note now that G♭ major, although not featured as a distinct triadic formation in the Klang, was nonetheless present all along, all of its pitches being emergent properties of the interaction of D and B♭ minor. Note also that each move in this progression involves leading-​note ‘discharge’ (a→b♭ in the move from D to B♭; f→g♭ in the move from B♭ to G♭). This allows the diatonic leading-​note drive so clearly vital to the work’s libidinal energy (see Krebs, 1994) to control the harmonic force, passing through hextatonic speed (see Figure 9.2).

190  Kenneth Smith

Example 9.6 The hexatonic unfolding of Die Gezeichneten.

Figure 9.2 A visualization of the passage above.

But we jump ahead of ourselves; Schreker’s nebulous opening passes first from its hexatonic-​pole to an octatonic-​pole when in bar 4, the chords change relationship to alternating T6-​related triads. The F♯ emerging from the hexatonic interaction is the chord maintained in this new blend of F♯ and C. This creates a six-​note sub-​set of 8-​28, the octatonic scale, and is more static even than the earlier self-​satisfying relationship, which at least contained leading-​note to tonic resolutions. Schreker then releases this metatonal tension through a rising whole-​tone progression, resolving upwards through d in the bass to E and F♯ triads (as shown in Table 9.1, which charts a simple plan of the opening 17 bars of polytonal triadic interactions) bringing in a new whole-​ tone-​related bitonal complex (though not a whole-​tone scale). Ironically, all of the blended triads we have heard by this point –​B♭, C, D, E, and F♯ –​ create a whole-​tone relationship. This whole-​tone root motion does, however, progress to a new hexatonic-​pole nebula beyond, with A and Fm triads forming (see Table 9.1). But things are different now compared to the hexatonic nebula of the opening; the preceding E provides a V–​I discharge in A and thereby establishes the A as primary over Fm. This second nebula is therefore less static than the first and moves quicker through different states. Firstly, it backtracks through

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Table 9.1 Bitonal chord combinations in the Klang Music of the opening 17 bars 4 G♭ C

5 F♯ E

9 Fm A

C♯m E

10 B♭m D

F♯m A

11 F A♭

12 Gm A7

Gm F♯7

13 Cm E

Oc

Di

Hex

Oc/​Di

Hex

Oc

Oct

Dia

Chr

Hex Hex

G♯m7

14 Fm A Hex

16

E

15 G7 Cm

E7♭9

F C♯7

17 C♯ø7 Em

Hex→

Dia

[?]‌

Hex

Oct

Diatonic refraction through metatonality  191

b. 1 G♭ D B♭m Hex

192  Kenneth Smith a C♯m/​E (diatonic/​octatonic) complex back towards the D/​B♭m original oscillation but stretches further ‘back in time’ to a short A and F♯m alternation, the A of which provides a V for the original D, which can now be heard as primary ‘tonic’ in this complex hexatonic vortex. Thus, a I–​V–​IV–​I plagal progression is heard in the A–​E–​D–​A half of the bitonal blur. The latter A/​ F♯m notably changes the initial A/​Fm hexatonic to an octatonic–​diatonic relation, thus turning a mobile progression into a static one. At the foot of Table 9.1 are recorded the interactions of spaces that are determined by the chord relations. One can see the frequent exchange of relations in relatively unsettled successions, with some additional subtleties. Note how sometimes vertical polytonal combinations become temporalized and diatonic discharge occurs between them. Such is the case at the end of bar 14 where the E resolves hexatonically to its H-​pole of C minor (with the E acting as a substitute G and carrier of C’s leading-​tone b). The E/​C minor relationship stemmed from the previous bar, where both were mixed together as a hexatonic-pole. Even further back, in bar 9, we heard E/​C♯m –​ an octatonic combination, altered by a semitone (C♯/​C♮) to make a hexatonic relation repeated in bar 17. (In fact both instances demonstrate more hexatonic activity than recorded, because of the F –​C#m hexatonic discharge relations.) After bar 17, the dialogue settles on a more sustained octatonic E/​C♯/​B♭ exchange (of Example 9.7) and resolves first to A and then to D in readiness for the hexatonic D–​B♭–​G♭ cycle. An A–​D–​G progression then leads to another iteration of this in which the G♭ is substituted for a new Eø7. This segues us into the more obviously tonal ‘B section’ (see Table 9.2), which, rooted in E minor, uses alternations of F♯ and B as prominent elements in a fully fledged martial theme. Note that this is an unraveling of the ‘diatonic’ IV-​V combination of bar 5’s E and F♯. There are two small eruptions of hexatonic and octatonic spaces in this section. Firstly, a polytonal combination of G and E♭ triads interjects between bars 38–​40, moving in bar 41 to B♭maj7. This B♭ then moves hexatonically to its D colleague to create a new underlying pedal point on d. At bar 46 there is an octatonic invasion of F and B minor from this d bedrock, arresting motion only briefly before the entire B-​ section is played again verbatim. On the repeat, the F/​B interruption is more forceful through reiteration, and thus begins a short passage on F/​B and D roots, as an octatonically static pedal-​point upswing to a clear E major theme at bar 69. E minor now pertains for several bars in preparation as chord II for the most ‘Romantic’ moment –​the ‘Schwungvoll’ associated with the libertine character Tamare, whose ‘waltz-​melody’ is symbolic of his ‘hedonistic sexuality’ (Franklin, 1982–​1983, p. 145). That this purely diatonic passage becomes associated with the debauched character who always gets what he wants is scarcely coincidence. The success of this theme is that the diatonic climax is dependent upon a sudden surge of forwards diatonic energy, shown on the simple I-​II-​V-​I progression at the start of Figure 9.3a. The F that erupted earlier is now used as a shadow of a return to D that serves to take us not to the tritone octatonic deadlock of B minor this time, but to B♭ which allows it to follow its discharge potential. Having reached the B♭ –​the tritone

Diatonic refraction through metatonality  193 substitute for the Subdominant-​functioned supertonic in D –​Schreker now progresses down a chain of static, non-​discharging minor third chords –​G minor, Eø7, C♯ø7. The clarity of the D throughout the passage as tonal linchpin means that these non-​discharging octatonic exchanges occur on the subdominant functioning axis that centres around E/​G. Note in bars 95–​110 how the direct diatonic motions through the tonic–​ subdominant–​ dominant–​ tonic progressions now begin to explore more localized octatonic partners (moving up or down the vertical axis of the lattice). Furthermore, this same subdominant axis becomes each time the centre of exploration of the complete octatonic axis, this happening twice more. Note how this octatonicism now becomes fully inscribed melodically, more than as an emergent property of interchanging T3 triads (see Example 9.7). Schreker uses the melodic pitches g, a♭, b♭, b♮, c♯, d,e, f (an exclusive and complete OCT1,2 collection) to stultify the harmony in this octatonic region before propelling us back to D/​A for the recapitulatory gesture. The chord that serves as a bridge between these two worlds is another D/​B♭ hybrid, like the opening Klangmusik, but one which now ‘resolves’ playfully to G re-​emphasizing that the D, now as dominant, is the potent element here. Table 9.2 Snapshot of the overture from Die Gezeichneten’s form A (1–​31)

B (32–​84) C (85–​100)

Klangmusik Martial theme

D (101–​110)

E (111–​143)

A (144 –​151)

‘Schwungvoll,’ ‘Development’ ‘Recapitulation’ Klangmusik Tamare’s theme

Figure 9.3a Tamare’s Theme from Schreker’s Die Gezeichneten, bars 85–​95.

Figure 9.3b  Tamare’s Theme from Schreker’s Die Gezeichneten, bars 95–​110.

194  Kenneth Smith

Example 9.7 Die Gezeichneten Overture, bars 106–​107.

The novel aspect of this ‘recapitulation’ is that the polytonally blended harmony of before (see Table 9.1) is now purified into a monotonal series of chords that take us through the sharp keys, centred mostly on F♯ (with strong cadences from C♯ as V), through to D, with eruptions of B♭, these serving as our three hexatonic pillars. At bar 144 the Klangmusik returns as a ghostly coda and we are able once again to reflect on the interaction of the melodic and harmonic interaction of spaces for fresh perspective on it. The cello melody, repeated from the opening, is now heard as clearly octatonic, but with the note b♭ acting as a ‘sticking point’ that returns at different levels (chordal, key schematic) throughout the overture. This b♭ sticking point is encapsulated in a nutshell as the overture closes and the mysterious Klangmusik dissolves to a pure D triad, but a pesky b♭ keeps clashing alongside the a as a reminder of its attempts to derail the triad into a ‘hexatonic’ augmented chord. To summarize what we find in the overture to Die Gezeichneten, then: there is a collision of octatonic minor-​ third stasis, and major-​ third hexatonic slowness, both serving as filters for a fundamentally diatonic flow that breaks through in full flood in the most ‘hedonistic’ section at the centre. Even here, octatonics can serve to store functional momentum (or to prolong it), the four nodes acting as non-​discharging elements that together form lengthy static pedal-​points. Hexatonics serve as filters for complexifying the otherwise diatonic sense of charge and discharge that run through the piece. Yet fundamental to Die Gezeichneten is that both are heard in the chaotic ostinati inherent to the Klangmusik that frames the piece. This Klangmusik, for sure, is a metatonal phenomenon, but through time it becomes more palpably tonal, as it is broken down and its constituent elements are subject to temporal unfolding. This drama all plays on a meta-​narrative that takes us from a timeless Klang, through time-​stretching hexatonics into a militaristic B-​section where diatonic motion begins to emerge, to a hedonistic deluge of pure diatonic discharge, which is only occasionally arrested by octatonic filters that build on the subdominant function. Once this maelstrom has swept us away, we return to the opening nebula, ready for the opera to unravel the same drama on a larger scale.

Diatonic refraction through metatonality  195

Kammersymphonie (1916) Die tönenden Sphären was an abandoned opera project with a complete libretto sketched in 1915. This opera’s plot concerns an attempt to capture the mythical music of the spheres and is set in the imagined post-​war era. The musical ideas originally intended for the work were disseminated via the Kammersymphonie of 1916. This work belongs to the category of nineteenth-​ century multi-​movement works that are subsumed by a single, over-​arching sonata form –​what Steven Vande Moortele has called ‘two-​dimensional form’ (2009). Though the intricacies of this form are worth a study in themselves (and Vande Moortele indicates some of the complexities), only a brief snapshot is needed for the reader to be able to locate the harmonic areas that I wish to zoom in on.5 Thus, Table 9.3 shows the interactions of formal levels, building on readings by Neuwirth (1981) and Berger (2012).6 Naturally, I will focus on the introduction and explore the curious harmonic spaces that Schreker’s Klangmusik takes us through, but certain other vital passages in which the implications of the introduction are realized will be brought into the spotlight.

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196  Kenneth Smith

Table 9.3 ‘Two-​dimensional’ form of the Kammersymphonie INTRODUCTION EXPOSITION ‘K’ C♯/​D I. Allegro

P1⇨Tr S1 ‘K’ S2 S3 S4/​’K’ 43 80 119 128 140 156 Dm A♭ C♯/​D C♯ B-​C♯ A/​F♯m II. Adagio

DEVELOPMENT

INTRO RECAPITULATION

CODA

A B C/​’K’ B A’ ‘K’ P1⇨Tr /​ T5→ S1 ‘K’ S2 S3 Codetta 198 280 292 311 542-​584 422 430 435 438 468 507 516 529 542-​584 G♭ B♭-​F F♯-​ C♯m B♭-​C B Dm F♯/​G F♯ E-​F♯ D III. Scherzo IV. Allegro V. Adagio

Diatonic refraction through metatonality  197

Introduction(s) Regarding the opening of the symphony, Franklin describes a ‘hovering dream-​haze’ that has ‘the character of Nachklang’ (1982–​1983, p. 144). This Klangmusik surely must have been intended for the music of the spheres that was central to the plot of Die tönenden Sphären. The intended use in operatic form partly explains the symphony’s overture-​like kaleidoscopic procession of melodic ideas where, from the Klang’s incipit, a series of melodic upswings emerges that draw us gently towards the start of the sonata form first movement proper in bar 43. This Klang returns to haunt us on six occasions and is noted for an octatonic form of bitonality in the piano, harmonium, and celesta. As shown in Table 9.4, the arrangement alternates and overlaps a C♯7♭9 chord and an E7♭9 chord, both sharing the same diminished seventh as common denominator. Note how both chords have not only a ‘double-​third’ here, (the C♯, taken with the E means that it has a double third too - e/e♯) but a ‘split root’ (the C♯7 chord, for example, has an additional d pitch). Together these two chords form 6-​27, a subset of 8-​28, the octatonic scale (only g♭ and b♭ are missing). The melodic interest begins as an octatonic fragment but becomes chromatic to lubricate the transposition of the whole Klang downwards by a whole tone in bar 4 to B7♭9 and D7♭9, creating a subset of OCT0,2. In bar 5 Schreker settles us on a pure double-​third D major/​minor triad (like that found by Krebs as crucial to Die Gezeichneten). Thus, we have traversed two octatonic cycles and alighted in a diatonic (albeit modally confused) world. However, we soon make a brief foray into hexatonicism with the subsequent C–​E move at bars 6–​7. This is doubly poignant as the C itself has both a raised and perfect fifth (g/​g♯), making the horizontal connection to E all the more seamless. The combination of these chords would produce an E(♭6) chord, which is an alternative conception of Berger’s ‘augmented triad with major 7th’ (2012, p. 20). After two bars, this discharges into A major and kickstarts a new phase of more diatonic orientation that edges us slowly towards a strong sense of arrival in B minor at bar 21. This B minor section plays a forceful alternation of B and F♯ minors like a funeral march, making us feel temporarily diatonically secure, though a stasis is formed from the simple regular oscillation. By and large, this pertains until chord IV, E, intervenes as an E7♭9 in the piano and harp, ushering in a subtle intrusion of the Klang music. This resolves diatonically to A, recalling the similar first cadence of the piece at bar 8. However, this then moves to F♯ø7 and on to C to close the section with static octatonic relations. These shifts through tonal and metatonal spaces confirm that Schreker’s practice is one of broadly diatonic discharge that is routed through hexatonic and octatonic spaces, and that there is a temporal unfolding through chord progression of items initially blended.

198  Kenneth Smith Table 9.4 Tabulation of metatonal spaces traversed in the opening of Schreker’s Kammersymphonie 1 4 5 6-​7 8 21 28 29 31 34 E7♭9 C♯7♭9 D7♭9 B7♭9 Dm C–​E A Bm E7♭9 A–​F♯ø7–​C D–​B♭m–​F♯ Bm Oct Oct Dia Hex Dia Dia Oct/​ Dia Oct Hex Dia

Thus far, the introductory part of the movement broadly operates as an interchange of spaces, and diatonic charge is only diffused through small moves, often backwards along a discharge path (i.e. C–​E, where the leading-​note motion happens in reverse). This soon changes in readiness for a primitive instantiation of one of the more characteristically hexatonic passages which discharge runs through; one that will feed into the material of the ‘Adagio’ slow movement (and S2 in my reading of the two-​dimensional form). Bar 31 opens with a simple move from D to B♭ minor (a hexatonic pole, as in Die Gezeichneten) and on to F♯ minor. This latter moves on to B minor and alternates back and forth as in the previous B minor section. The chord progression registers a chain of leading-​note discharges (a→b♭;f→f♯; a♯→b), making the passage diatonically mobile, combined with a homophonic rhythm (minim-​crotchet | crotchet-​minim) that marks the moment as special. Interestingly it also recalls an earlier progression from bar 19 (not shown on Table 9.4) which was much more rhythmically blended and the B♭m–​F♯ was interpolated with a G triad that slowed down the discharge by the G forming an octatonic relation with B♭m and neutering the leading-​note drive. This prepares us for the full exposition and, just as an overture prepares the opera-​ goer for the musical characters that follow, so this introduction prepares us for all the spaces and speeds that we will be operating in, often for more sustained passages. P1⇨Tr –​S1 (I: Allegro)

P1 is broadly static, focused on D minor (bar 43), changing up an octatonic gear to F (bar 47) and back to D minor (bar 53). Here we witness a neat neo-​ Riemannian ‘Slide’ transformation to D♭ back-​pedalling in the direction that registers a reverse leading-​note motion, d→c♯.7 However, the D♭ discharges to G♭ (bar 57) and B (bar 59) through a pure segment of the circle of fifths, the most direct form of diatonic motion, which signals the beginning of the transitional phase of high mobility. However, between bars 61 and 70, this diatonic speed slows down and comes to rest on the octatonic equivalent of a pedal point before the medial caesura announces the end of the P themes, giving us the full OCT0,2 axis of G♯m–​Bm–​D–​G♯ø7–​Faug. But this passes to a quicker alternative axis of OCT1,2 (with just two chords Eø7 and G7♭9) and then OCT0,1 (D♯ø7–​E♭7), which is responsible for the direct E♭7→A♭ into the new tonal centre for the S-​zone. That OCT0,2→OCT1,2→OCT0,1 move through the

Diatonic refraction through metatonality  199 same tonic, subdominant, and dominant functions as a D-​G-​A progression means that these temporally static octatonic sections, which ‘in themselves’ arrest tonal motion, through their sequential interchange actually continue (and accrue) tonal motion. Of course, in this view of octatonic functionality, D and A♭ share the same collection, to which we should be alert when the S-​zone appears to begin in A♭ –​an alternative octatonic ‘tonic’ and ‘tritone substitute’ of D. We might then wonder whether the S-​zone does not begin later, at the inception of the Adagio, with C♯ (in the subdominant octatonic region), but the transposition of the A♭ theme at T5 in the recapitulation more forcefully suggests to me that this is intended to be the S-​zone. ♭ arrives, it begins a section that has clear teleology towards a diatonic goal. This goal arrives at bar 107 in full C major orchestral glory, moving unambiguously V–​I–​ii7–​I–​IV–​V. But the chord I that would follow it contains a ♭6 ̂, and this ‘spanner in the works’ begins a period of tonal entropy and chromatic disintegration that gives us Cm–​C♯m–​Cm–Bm–​B♭–​F7–​Em (bars 110–​119) as the melody and orchestral texture wind down to almost nothing. Note that a chromatic root descent serves some degree of tonal discharge in the same way that a German sixth can discharge to V, sounding the same pitches as ♭VI7–​V. And this gesture (particularly the F7–​Em) can be conceived of as discharging, though not perhaps forcefully, certainly not in comparison to the heightened diatonic state that preceded it. S2–​S4 (II: Adagio) Daniel Harrison discusses the opening of this S2 theme from the perspective of major and minor ‘modal mixture’ (1994, p. 20), though he does not focus on the hexatonic means of arriving here. An A triad moves to F minor (hexatonic pole) and on to C♯ major/​minor triad (a neo-​Riemannian LP transformation)8; an f is heard as a suspension, but clearly dissonant with the e of the chord. The C♯ chord alternates first with F♯ (the B minor version earlier alternated with F♯) and then replaces F♯ with its hexatonic relative B♭7 before discharging diatonically to E♭ minor. Thus, Schreker takes a purely diatonic path out of the woods. But the E♭ minor transforms to E♭ major (by P transformation) and then to E minor (via a Slide transformation which involves the leading-​tone discharge d♯→e) and back to B minor for S3. S4 is cathartic because it gives us the Klang music texture, but with a long, pure F♯m7 basis, much clearer than the mist that began the piece. This prepares the way for further unravelling of the geheimnisvoll mystery that will soon happen in the central moment of the scherzo. The majority of the chord progressions in this section are diatonic in the region of A or F♯ minor, the ambiguity between the two forming a relatively diatonic–​octatonic bond. The ‘movement’ closes in C major (a third octatonic node), like the earlier climactic moment, closing now with a characteristic minor tinge with the move to F minor and back to C, with F minor then changing subtly into the pregnant Dø7.

200  Kenneth Smith Development (III. Scherzo) Unlike the development section of a self-​contained sonata form, this ‘two-​ dimensional’ scherzo movement is formally tightly knit (ABCBA) and tonally moves from F♯ (G♭) to B with some emphasis on G♭’s hexatonic relative B♭. It is, however, noteworthy for the singular breakthrough of the Klangmusik, a breakthrough which is temporally more fragmented and now tonally dispersed very differently. The ostinati that set this nebula in motion now lose their polytonal origin, first articulating F♯ (bar 296), E (bar 298), Em–​Eo (bar 299), Gm (bar 300), C♯ (bar 304), B (bar 305), D/​Bm (306), B♭ (307), and C♯m (308). Broadly speaking, the opening’s polytonal motion of C♯/​E moving to D/​B is here dispersed further amongst its octatonic companions, but now horizontalized. The string of E variants, C♯ and G minor give us the complete OCT1,2 8-​28 collection (pitches c♯, d, e, e♯, g, g♯, b♭,b), before moving to the D and B minor complex of OCT0,2 and a small return to OCT1,2 afterwards. This novel section recontextualizes the opening polytonal Klangmusik and gives it a different type of stasis by linearizing and completing the octatonic profile of the opening. This arrests the diatonic speed at the centre point of the Kammersymphonie with octatonic speeds that, as has often happened, stalls the forwards propulsion. Recapitulation and coda (IV. Allegro - V. Adagio) As noted in Table 9.3, at bar 438, the movement begins the rigorous T5 transposition to move the S-​zone into tonic region, while variety is carried by the many changes to orchestral colour. The S4 theme from the exposition is replaced by a lengthy coda. The hexatonic S2 theme is perhaps the most intriguing as it is now presented in the tonic while relating to its earlier instantiation as a hexatonic oddity in bar 31 (in the introduction). As Berger notes, the recapitulation does not relate tonally back to the opening of the Adagio, but rather to the theme’s first F♯ major/​minor appearance in the introduction, thereby creating a harmonic arc that spans the entire symphony. In this sense, the Adagio cannot be understood as a self-​contained movement, but rather as part of a larger narrative that was initiated by the introduction. (2012, p. 65) For me, and within the context of this chapter’s argument, the narrative of the Adagio movement embeds part of the over-​arching form’s S-​zone, and its hexatonic motion is elevated to a much higher level of tonal drama. The final cadence of the work (Example 9.8) is one of the most telling moments of the symphony’s tonal operations. Berger hears the cadence as having a parenthetical aspect, whereby a iiø7–​I (a ‘strange type of plagal cadence’ [2012 60]) is interrupted by I–​VI–​iv in E♭ minor). While I can

Diatonic refraction through metatonality  201 hear it this way, I also hear an alternative, where, on a strict chord to chord basis in terms of diatonic speed, we find a simple subdominant–​dominant–​ tonic progression in D major (that would normally move G-​A-​D) dispersed through hexatonic and octatonic filters to discharge the tension less forcefully diatonically. D has already been established through lengthy ostinati passages, and so these chords serve as clear deviations from D, to which we must return. The G minor iv, contained within the Eø7 as iiø7, first resolves to E♭ minor via an LP-​transformation (with leading-​note rising d-​e♭). The E♭ resolves to B by the reverse process of a PL transformation. Because this hexatonic progression moves downwards by major thirds, it discharges leading-​notes at hexatonic speed. But the resolution to B is then shifted to A♭ and finally D, octatonically related chords that do not discharge any leading-​tone tension and create a kind of numbness, as if the music is searching for the ‘best fit’ resolution and finds it on its third attempt. The very final move from A♭ to D is the tritone which is furthest removed in the octatonic cycle of thirds (an RPRP transformation) and is reminiscent of the first movement’s key relationships.9 This final cadential conundrum exhibits in a nutshell the interchange of speeds in the entire symphony, and perhaps in Schreker’s early operas (before his style became starker in Der Singende Teufel [1924], Christophorus [1925], and Der Schmied von Ghent [1929]): hexatonic relations refract diatonic tension, octatonics store it.

Example 9.8 Kammersymphonie, closure.

Postscript From the opening ‘Klangmusik’ of many of Schreker’s works, a sense of temporality slowly emerges from the static nebulae of mysterious chord relations, as if space is becoming time. Speed is being born. Although the idea of different speeds is metaphorical (i.e., a hexatonic discharge from E to C literally takes the same time as a diatonic one from G to C), it is a workable way of conceptualizing the strength of discharging progressions. The metaphor is really a by-​product of the more deep-​rooted idea of refraction. When diatonic motion meets different types of spaces that we might categorize as part of the metatonal world, these can act as filters that alter the course and ‘speed’ of diatonic propulsion. We might then risk speed as an apt metaphor. Temporality and musical form are relatively well theorized,10 but our experience of time in harmonic terms is less well formulated. In her study

202  Kenneth Smith of temporality in Schubert’s G major Quartet Anne Hyland describes the hexatonic passage in the S-​zone as ‘a weightless, nonteleological hexatonic cycle’ (2016, p. 95). Certainly the passage concerned that runs F♯–​D–​B♭–​F♯–​D has less forwards propulsion than a I–​IV–​V–​I progression, but the discharge of leading notes in this direction (i.e., a sequence of descending major thirds) means that, to my hearing, the passage has more teleology and directedness than either a hexatonic progression in the opposite direction (i.e., ascending major thirds), or an octatonic exchange of minor third related chords would have. The metaphor of tonal speed also helps us to conceptualize the way that these spaces emerge from a sense of deep-​seated timelessness which is created in such works as these, spaces in which diatonicism simultaneously exists and precedes, but nonetheless still passes through.

Notes 1 Dmitri Tymoczko remarks that triads (which are more associated with hexatonic relations) are from Mars, whereas seventh chords (which he associate more with octatonic cycles) are from Venus (2011, pp. 97 and 220). 2 ‘das An-​ sich einer leittönigen Bewegung eine Leitton-​ Spannung sei –​eine Energie, die aus dem dunklen pszchischen Urgrund unserer Existenz heraus als spannungsvolle melodische Wendung in die Erscheinungswelt tritt.’ 3 See for example, approaches taken in Tymoczko (2011) and Cohn (2012), and a consideration of the topic in Smith (2014). 4 Attempts to analyse Schreker’s musical language have been unsystematic in the main and generally relate to a single opera (see Neuwirth, 1972). For a discussion of ‘bricolage’, see Annika Forkert’s chapter in this volume. 5 Moortele notes: ‘Although by no means modeled on Schoenberg’s Chamber Symphony, Schreker’s eponymous composition does adopt the former’s two-​ dimensionality as a generic convention. It consists of an introduction and a sonata form, into which the interior movements of a sonata cycle are interpolated. More specifically, the (relatively brief) development of the overarching sonata form is preceded by a slow movement and followed by a scherzo. Surprisingly, the slow movement reappears in its entirety between the recapitulation and the coda of the overarching sonata form’ (2009, p. 198). Departing from Vande Moortele, I do not regard the interior movements of the cycle as being ‘interpolated’, rather see them as an ‘identification’. 6 My reading of the form departs slightly from that of Berger, because I locate the Adagio as part of the S (secondary key area) space of the over-​arching sonata form. This is how I explain the fact that the entire Adagio movement is recapitulated at T5. Note also that the recurring Klangmusik is abbreviated as ‘K’ in the diagram. Note that I use the abbreviations found in Hepokoski and Darcy (2006): P (primary themes, delineated by superscript numbers), S (secondary themes), Tr (transition). 7 Discussed by Lewin (2007), the ‘Slide’ transformation maintains only the third of a triad while the outer fifths slide chromatically upwards (from a minor chord) or downwards (from a major chord). 8 In neo-​Riemannian parlance, the P (parallel) transformation takes a chord to its modal variant (i.e., C minor to C major), the R (relative) takes a chord to its major or minor relative, where L (Leittonwechsel) raises the fifth of a minor chord by a

Diatonic refraction through metatonality  203 semitone (E minor to C) or lowers the root of a major triad (C to E minor). The L transformation is the only one which involves leading-​note motion, which is why it is the most mobile. R pertains to octatonic relations; L pertains to hexatonic relations; P is common to both. These transformations can be concatenated (hence, LP, RP, RL and so on). 9 On the topic of the ‘tritone link’, see Jeff Yunek’s chapter in the present volume. 10 See for example Benedict Taylor 2011, 2016.

References Bekker, P. (1922). Klang und Eros. Stuttgart and Berlin: Deutsche Verlags-​Anstallt. Berger, M. (2012). Klang and structure: Franz Schreker’s Chamber Symphony (1916), and an original composition, Upon a Wheel of Cloud (2008). PhD Thesis, Waltham, Massachusetts: Brandeis University. Callender, C. (1999). Voice-​leading parsimony in the music of Alexander Scriabin. Journal of Music Theory, 42: 2, 219–​233. Cohn, R. (2006). Hexatonic poles and the uncanny in Parsifal. Opera Quarterly, 22: 2, 230–​248. Cohn, R. (2011). Tonal pitch space and the (neo-​)Riemannian Tonnetz. In E. Gollin and A. Rehding (eds.), The Oxford Handbook of Neo-​Riemannian Theories (322–​ 350). New York: Oxford University Press. Cohn, R. (2012). Audacious Euphony: Chromaticism and the Consonant Triad’s Second Nature. New York: Oxford University Press. Fleet, Paul. (2009). Ferruccio Busoni: A Phenomenological Approach to the Music and Aesthetics. Köln: Lambert Academic Publishing. Franklin, P. (1982–​1983). Style, structure and taste: three aspects of the problem of Franz Schreker. Proceedings of the Royal Musical Association, 109: 134–​146. Franklin, P. (2006). ‘Wer weiss, Vater, ob das nicht Engel sind?’ Reflections on the pre-​fascist discourse of degeneracy in Schreker’s Die Gezeichneten. In N. Bacht (ed.) Music, Theatre and Politics in Germany: 1848 to the Third Reich (173–​184). Aldershot: Ashgate. Hailey, C. (n.d.). Franz Schreker: discovering a distant sound. Universal Edition Musik Salon (http://​mus​iksa​lon.unive​rsal​edit​ion.com/​en/​arti​cle/​franz-​schre​ker-​ disc​over​ing-​a-​dist​ant-​sound) [accessed 28/​01/​2021]. Harrison, D. (1994). Harmonic Function in Chromatic Music: A Renewed Dualist Theory and an Account of Its Precedents. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Hepokoski, J. & Darcy, W. (2006). Elements of Sonata Theory: Norms, Types and Deformations in the Late Eighteenth Century Sonata. Oxford & New York: Oxford University Press. Hyland, A. M. (2016). In search of liberated time, or Schubert’s Quartet in G Major, D. 887: once more between sonata and variation. Music Theory Spectrum, 38: 85–​108. Knockaert, Y. (2017). Wolfgang Rihm: A Chiffre. Leuven: Leuven University Press. Krebs, W. (1994). Terzenfolgen Und Doppelterzklänge in Den ‘Gezeichneten’ Von Franz Schreker –​Versuch Einer Energetisch-​Psychoanalytischen Betrachtungsweise. Die Musikforschung, 47: 4, 365–​383. Lendvai, E. (1971). Béla Bartók: An Analysis of His Music. London: Kahn & Averill.

204  Kenneth Smith Lewin, D. (2007). Generalized Musical Intervals and Transformations. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Moortele, S. (2009). Two-​Dimensional Sonata Form. Leuven, Leuven University Press. Neuwirth, G. (1972). Die Harmonik in der Oper ‘Der Ferne Klang’ von Franz Schreker. Regensburg: Gustav Bosse Verlag. Neuwirth, G. (1981). ‘Vorwart.’ In Franz Schreker, Kammersymphonie in einem Satz. Wein: Universal Edition. Rihm, Wolfgang (1997/​1998). Neo-​Tonalität? [1984/​1997]. In: Ulrich Mosch (Hg.) ausgesprochen. Schriften und Gespräche Band 1, pp. 299–​233. Schreker, F. (1924). Die tönenden Sphären, Operndichtung in zwei Aufzügen (drei Bildern) und einem Epliog. Vienna: Universal Edition. Smith, K. (2011). Skryabin’s revolving harmonies, Lacanian desire and Riemannian Funktionstheorie. Twentieth Century Music, 7: 2, 167–​194. Smith, K. (2014). The transformational energetics of the tonal universe: Cohn, rings and Tymoczko. Music Analysis, 33: 2, 214–​256. Taylor, B. (2011). Mendelssohn, Time and Memory: The Romantic Conception of Cyclic Form. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Taylor, B. (2016). The Melody of Time: Music and Temporality in the Romantic Era. Oxford University Press. Tymoczko, D. (2011). A Geometry of Music: Harmony and Counterpoint in the Extended Common Practice. New York; Oxford: Oxford University Press. Vande Moortele, S. (2009). Two-​Dimensional Sonata Form: Form and Cycle in Single-​ Movement Instrumental Works by Liszt, Strauss, Schoenberg, and Zemlinsky. Leuven: Leuven University Press.

10  Transformed desire Scriabin’s transition away from functional tonality Jeffrey Scott Yunek

Most scholars agree that Scriabin’s compositions progressed from functional tonality to music based on pitch-​class (pc) invariance. The perspectives on pc invariance can be grouped into (1) those based on parsimonious motion in pc space (Callendar, 1998; Bazayev, 2018; Reise, 1983) and (2) those based on maximally invariant transposition (Baker, 1986; Dernova, 1968; Ewell, 2005; Taruskin, 1997; Cheong, 1993; Yunek, 2017). While the former avoids discussing Scriabin’s transition away from tonality, the latter typically describes this transition as a progressive prolongation of extended dominant chords via maximally invariant transposition until their continued presence neuters their functional desire to resolve to tonic.1 Accordingly, these previously dominant-​function chords are then treated as inert collections that provide the harmonic structure of the work. This diminishing dominant-​function theory infers that Scriabin’s music becomes more static as he progresses into his late period, which Taruskin reinforces by showing how the loss of dominant function aligns with Scriabin’s philosophical aspirations to extinguish desire (1997, 2005). Naturally, this perspective suggests that performers should play in a progressively more ethereal and detached manner as they dive deeper into Scriabin’s late music to reflect their increasingly attenuated functional desire and an ultimate philosophical goal of completely extinguishing desire. But this image of a composer who is denying musical and philosophical desires comes into stark contrast with the actions and statements of this famously eccentric composer. Far from being a demure ascetic, Scriabin divorced his wife for a paramour in heart of the Russian Orthodox Church and claimed to be bringing about the end of life as we know it through his music. More specifically, he explicitly references employing desire in his philosophical statements and encourages performers to play with passion via the performance indications in his late works (Bowers, 1973, p. 54; Ivanov, 1985, p. 223; Schloezer, 1987, p. 122; Sabaneev, [1916] 2000, passim). This raises the question: how can the existing literature on pc invariance and denied desire be related to this willful and colourful composer? My research into Scriabin’s philosophical influences answers this question by revealing a two-​part notion of desire, which explains the preceding conflict between negated and fulfilled desire. The first is individual desire, a self-​serving DOI: 10.4324/9780429451713-10

206  Jeffrey Scott Yunek impulse that is best extinguished. Following Taruskin, this is represented musically by denying the individual resolutions of tendency tones by keeping them in stasis through pc invariance (1997, 2005). The second is universal desire, in which one aspires to assimilate oneself into the greater whole. This unifying type of desire is found in many of Scriabin’s most significant philosophical influences, including Blavatsky, Ivanov, Schopenhauer, Solovyov, and Nietzsche. I correlate this desire with maximally invariant transposition, which preserves pitch classes between collections through uniform (i.e., parallel) motion (Yunek, 2017). This idea can then be substantiated by relating maximally invariant transposition to the tonal concept of closely related keys, which builds on Scriabin’s personal explanation of his late music and mirrors Schopenhauer’s explicit association of closely related keys with the desires of universal will (1909). The revelation of a two-​part conception of desire suggests a far more nuanced view of Scriabin’s late music. Instead of denying desire in general, this music is focused on signifying universal desire through pc preservation, which results in the negation of individual desire through a lack of parsimonious tendency-​tone resolution. This brings a new understanding to Scriabin’s transition to his post-​tonal music –​that is, his metatonal period. Rather than a gradual neutering of dominant-​function chords via pc invariance, these chords are increasingly related by a key-​based operation –​closely related transposition –​to engender universal desire. This perspective brings a whole new dynamic to the analysis and aesthetic interpretation of Scriabin’s transitional works. Analytically, Scriabin is not abandoning tonality outright. Rather, he is transitioning from chord-​based functional harmony to key-​based harmony. Accordingly, one can track Scriabin’s departure from tonality based on whether his collections are resolved parsimoniously like dominants or by maximally invariant transposition like keys. Speaking in metatonal terms, Scriabin’s works become progressively less with tonality and more after tonality. Aesthetically, instead of viewing these works as having progressively impotent dominants, these pieces are viewed as battlegrounds for the competing impulses of individual and universal desire. This exploration of desire in Scriabin’s music begins with a review of the musical and philosophical theories on his late works; examines his philosophical influences to reveal a complementary understanding of desire; maps individual and universal desire onto tendency-​tone resolution and maximally invariant transposition, respectfully; and ends by tracing the increased use of maximally invariant transposition to delay –​and ultimately deny –​tonal closure through four of Scriabin’s piano miniatures.

Scriabin’s negation (and creation) of desire One of the first Western scholars to explore Scriabin’s progression from tonality to atonality is James Baker (1986). His theory was based on the most prevalent

Scriabin and transformed desire  207 theoretical tools of the time: Schenkerian analysis (for tonal music) and pcset theory (for atonal music). His description of Scriabin’s progression to atonality can be summarized in three steps: 1) Scriabin wrote tonal music, which conforms to relatively standard Schenkerian graphs for late Romantic works. 2) Scriabin then wrote works that were globally tonal, but featured atonal procedures on the foreground level. 3) Scriabin wrote works that were purely based on the atonal procedures seen in his transitory works. While Baker explores a wide variety of atonal procedures, he puts the most emphasis on Scriabin’s use of pc invariance.2 Most of Baker’s examples involve maximally invariant transposition, where the highest number of possible pitch classes are held invariant under transposition. In Scriabin transitional works, Baker notes the prevalence of T2 and T4 (1986, pp. 92–​93), which keeps the majority of Scriabin’s ic2-​and ic4-​saturated sonorities (e.g., the whole-​tone and mystic chords) maximally invariant under transposition.3 In addition, he notes a shift to the use of T3 in Scriabin’s later works as he began to use ic3-​and ic6-​saturated collections (e.g., the octatonic and its subsets). Taruskin’s review of Baker (1988) criticized him for overlooking extant Russian/​Soviet scholarship on Scriabin. Most importantly, Dernova’s application of Yavorsky’s theory of lad (Taruskin, 1968).4 In Yavorsky’s system, chords are assigned harmonic function according to their intervallic content (McQuere, 1983, pp. 109–​164). The most relevant aspect is the tritone’s association with dominant function, which is based on the traditional resolution of the tritone by semitone to the tonic and mediant of major tonic chords (see Example 10.1).5

Example 10.1 Dernova’s single symmetrical system (imploding and exploding tritones) Source: Author

Progressing through Scriabin’s output, Dernova assigned an increasing number of his chords dominant function due to the proliferation of tritone-​ laden sonorities in his middle and late works (see Example 10.2).

208  Jeffrey Scott Yunek

Example 10.2 Expanded dominant constructions in Scriabin’s middle and late music. Source: Author.

According to Dernova, the use of tritone-​infused chords became so profuse that it resulted in endless strings of enharmonically related dominants that never resolved to tonic (1968). Instead, tritones were held in stasis by transpositions that preserved the original tritone (i.e., pc invariance). As a result, Dernova’s application of this theory produced a similar account of Scriabin’s transition to atonality as Baker: 1) Scriabin wrote tonal works where dominant-​function chords consistently resolved to tonic chords. 2) Scriabin then wrote tonal works where the resolution of dominant to tonic is delayed through maximally invariant progressions of dominant-​ function chords. 3) Scriabin wrote works without tonics, in which dominant-​function chords remain perpetually unresolved through chains of maximally invariant transpositions. While Dernova never explicitly refers to the concept of pc invariance, she does mention enharmonic equivalency. Accordingly, a wide variety of authors have associated the concept of pc invariance to her tritone link, enharmonic, and linked progressions (Gawboy, 2010, 2017; Taruskin, 1997, 2005). One thing that sets Dernova’s theory apart from Baker is the interpretative implications of her inherently tonal theory. In Baker’s system, the maximally invariant transpositions operating on the foreground of Scriabin’s transitional works eventually supplant tonality. This interpretation provides no clear guidance on how to interpret Scriabin’s later works since there is no standard expressive connotation attributed to pc invariance. In contrast, Dernova’s system suggests an evolution of the tonal system in which dominant-​function chords pervade the entire work. Her reading suggests that Scriabin’s late works are highly passionate because they are built on an endless series of yearning dominant chords that are never satisfied.

Scriabin and transformed desire  209 However, this concept of prolonged dominant function has long been questioned by Scriabin scholars. The American translator of Dernova’s Scriabin’s Harmony (1968), Roy Guenther (1979), notes that one can easily come to the opposite functional reading as Dernova –​that Scriabin’s late works are a series of stable, tonic chords. He writes: Furthermore, if such a chord [Scriabin’s tritone-​infused collections] seems to be a point of focus, both as to structure and as to root location (i.e., the same transposition of a chord structure appearing at both the beginning and end of a work), the term tonic would seem more appropriate than dominant (Original emphasis). (McQuere, 1983, p. 169) This sentiment is examined in Ewell’s reading of Scriabin’s progression to atonality, where these alleged dominant chords take on a consonant quality (2006–​2007). His reading is based on Scriabin himself, who contradicts the dominant-​function reading of his friend, Leonid Sabaneev. Referring to his mystic chord, Scriabin says the following: This is not a dominant harmony, but rather a fundamental one, and a consonance. Isn’t it true that it sounds smooth and completely consonant? (Sabaneev, [1916] 2000, p. 46) Taruskin builds on these concepts by associating the negation of the tritone’s dominant function with the philosophical concept of the ‘petty I’ from one of Scriabin’s main philosophical influences, Viacheslav Ivanov. As Taruskin has shown, Ivanov was a close personal friend to Scriabin who shared very similar philosophical ideas (1997, pp. 308–​320). In fact, Ivanov explicitly laid out a three-​part understanding of Scriabin’s philosophical belief system shortly after his death, given here (Ivanov, 1985, p. 115; Taruskin, 1997, p. 320): The content of Scriabin’s work may be defined, it seems to me, as a threefold idea, a threefold emotion, a threefold vision: 1) The vision of surmounting the boundaries of the personal, individual, petty ‘I’ –​a musical transcendentalism. 2) The vision of universal, communal mingling of all humanity in a single ‘I’ –​or the macrocosmic universalism of musical consciousness. 3) The vision of a violent breakthrough into the expanse of a free new plane of being –​universal transformation. In Taruskin’s reading, the lack of tritone resolution –​reflecting the individual wills of the leading tone and chordal seventh –​maps onto Ivanov’s first concept, the denying of the petty ‘I.’ Accordingly, the extinguishing of desire is

210  Jeffrey Scott Yunek a common philosophical idea throughout Scriabin’s philosophical influences. One of Scriabin’s first philosophical influences, Vladimir Solovyov, believed that unity with God could only be achieved through the denial of personal desire –​a sentiment that is still held in most Christian faiths of today –​and one of Scriabin’s last philosophical influences, Helena Blavatsky, believed that reunification with the all-​unity of Atma required the dissolution of the individual body and spirit. On one hand, it is natural to associate the philosophical notion of negated desire with Scriabin’s music because he widely proclaimed that his music represented his philosophical ideas: I cannot understand how to write just music now. How boring! Music, surely, takes on idea and significance when it is linked to a single plan within a whole view of the world […] The purpose of music is revelation. What a powerful way of knowing it is! (Bowers, 1973, 108; Sabaneev, [1916] 2000, p. 139) Examples of Scriabin’s melding of philosophy and music are well documented in his unification of colour and key in his Prometheus (Gawboy, 2010, 2012). The extent of this urge to unite music and philosophy is exemplified in his attempt to bring about a cataclysmic unification of man and spirit through his Mysterium. This famously led to his plans to build Mysterium’s venue, a spherical temple in India, by soliciting donations from Theosophy groups in Great Britain (Sabaneev, [1916] 2000, pp. 309 and 343).6 On the other hand, Scriabin and his associates clearly state that he aspired to actually create desire in his late works. In his 1903–​1905 notebooks, Scriabin writes, ‘The universe represents the unconscious process of my creative work…I have a will to live. Through the force of my desire I create myself and my feeling for life…I know that I wish to create. I create already. The desire to create is creation’. (Bowers, 1973, p. 54; Schloezer, 1987, 122) This creation of desire in his music is literally imprinted on his scores through his performance indications, which include: de plus en plus passionne, avec une joie débordante, and avec une douceur de plus en plus caressante [with more and more passion, with joy overflowing, and with increasingly gentle caressing].7 Even Ivanov –​ the main source substantiating Scriabin’s negation of desire –​states: Scriabin desired or rather had to be a hero as an artist and an artist as a hero. He could not reject either of these two natures, nor divide them in his actions: his will was his knowledge, and his knowledge was his will, but he could know and will only while creating beauty. (1985, p. 223) This desire was even reflected in Scriabin’s performance practice. Sabaneev noted that Scriabin took on a different persona when he played the piano, saying:

Scriabin and transformed desire  211 Now his face changed. I have always noticed this, that as he sat at the piano he always transformed somehow…It seemed very new and wild. I saw changing emotions on his face. Some of the most spastic sections [of Prometheus] were highlighted by his nervous playing. Scriabin even jumped on his chair during these sections trying to emulate the power of the orchestra. ([1916] 2000, p. 50) Needless to say, this is hardly the picture of a man who is trying to eliminate desire from his music.

Two forms of desire and their harmonic analogues Thus, there is a clear issue regarding the interpretation of desire in Scriabin’s later music. Many sources provide clear evidence that Scriabin attempted to negate desire in his music, while other evidence –​often from the same sources –​state that Scriabin attempted to create desire in his music. This discrepancy is resolved by examining a wider range of Scriabin’s philosophical influences, which reveals a common belief in two complementary forms of desire. The first is individual desire, a self-​serving impulse that is obliged to be negated. The second is unifying desire, a positive impulse that reflects communal joy. This two-​part understanding of desire suggests a more nuanced understanding of Scriabin’s representation of desire in his late music, in which both the negation of individual desire and creation of unifying desire are simultaneously present. I correlate this dual nature of desire with Scriabin’s shift from functional harmony –​and its individual tendency-​tone resolutions –​to key-​based harmony (and its closely related transpositions). This suggests a more dramatic interpretation of pitch-​class invariance. Instead of expressing a negation of desire through harmonic stasis, I suggest that overlapping pitch-​class content signifies joyful preservation between different collections. This two-​part understanding of desire can be seen by comparing Ivanov’s two distinct manifestations of ‘I’ (see quote on currently p. 209). As Taruskin notes, the first type of ‘I’ in Scriabin’s vision is a personal, individual, and petty ‘I,’ whose desires should be surmounted or extinguished (1997, p. 320). This petty ‘I’ is immediately followed by a second form of ‘I’ –​the single ‘I’ –​ that is never fully explored by Taruskin. Standing in stark opposition to the individualistic nature of the petty ‘I’, the single ‘I’ involves a universal, communal mingling of all humanity. This contrast of individual (petty) and universal (single) ‘I’ is best understood as a complementary relationship, in which the attainment of one type of ‘I’ is mutually exclusive to the attainment of another.8 That is, one cannot be individualistic and self-​serving without negatively impacting their relationship to others. It is only through abnegation that one can be fully immersed within a greater community. This complementary relationship is

212  Jeffrey Scott Yunek reflected in the majority of Scriabin’s other philosophical influences, such as Schopenhauer’s contrast of representation and Will, Nietzsche’s Apollo and Dionysus, and Ivanov’s masculine and feminine (Garcia, 1993; Gawboy, 2010; Peacock, 1976; Taruskin, 1997; Wetzel, 2009; Yunek, 2017). In addition, it reflects the first tenet of Theosophy in Blavatsky’s Secret Doctrine, which states: ‘there is an omnipresent, eternal, boundless, and immutable reality of which spirit and matter are complementary aspects’ (Blavatsky, 1888, pp. 14–​ 18; Sellon, 1987). Two of Scriabin’s philosophical influences specifically explicate how their philosophical ideas are represented in music: Blavatsky and Schopenhauer. Of these two, Blavatsky is often considered the stronger influence, which can be substantiated by the vast number of theosophical books and periodicals Scriabin possessed. According to the listing of Scriabin’s books at the A. N. Scriabin House Museum in Moscow, Scriabin had 52 books and journals that focused on Theosophy, compared to the eight books that focused on the philosophies of Kant, Nietzsche, Solovyov, Schopenhauer, and Ivanov.9 The most specific reference to music is Blavatsky’s association of the major scale to colours (Example 10.3). Her use of a major scale to align with her overarching philosophy is two-​fold: first, the unification of individual notes within a greater complex represents the subsuming of the personal into the collective. Second, the number of notes in a major scale is seven, which is a sacred number in Theosophy.10 The correlation of colour and music is meant to underscore their mutual cyclicity, which represents Blavatsky’s belief that all existence is an eternal process of reincarnation or manvantara.11 Blavatsky viewed scales as representing this cyclical process because they progress to where they begin: tonic. The colour wheel emulates this process through its seamless transition from one colour to the next (e.g., red transitions to orange by slowing adding yellow, while orange transitions to yellow by slowing taking away red) until you return to the original colour (Example 10.3).

Example 10.3 Colour/​key correlation comparison between Blavatsky and Scriabin (cf. Sabaneev 1929). Source: Author.

Scriabin and transformed desire  213 Although Scriabin was clearly influenced by Blavatsky, his depiction of colour-​ music correlations is distinctly different. The most obvious difference is that Scriabin’s system features twelve different notes (Sabaneev, 1929; Galeev, 2001), which greatly exceeds Blavatsky’s sacred number of seven (2004, p. 534). More importantly, Scriabin’s system involves closely related major keys that are related by perfect fifths, not individual scale degrees related by seconds. As Galeev and Vanchinka note (2001), the similarity of Scriabin’s colour-​music correlations to the circle of fifths is no accident: First of all, let’s note that in Scriabin’s list, Sabaneyev designates tonalities with capital letters: C, G, D, etc. (without the extension ‘dur,’ i.e. major). This is widely accepted among musicians, especially in twentieth-​century music […] It is unfortunate that some researchers, especially those who are not musicians, take these signs –​C, G, D, etc. –​for designations of notes and ascribe to Scriabin a nonsensical version of ‘colour hearing.’12 A deeper understanding of Scriabin’s colour-​ key associations can be gleaned through Schopenhauer, who explicitly discusses keys and modulation throughout his writing.13 In Schopenhauer’s philosophy, music is seen as a conduit to universal Will since it does not explicitly reflect the physical world.14 In particular, Schopenhauer states that modulation reflects the death of individual will and the continuation of universal Will: The transition from one key to an entirely different one […] is like death, for the individual ends in it; but the will which appeared in this individual lives after him as before him, appearing in other individuals, whose consciousness, however, has no connection with his. (Schopenhauer, 1909, p. 337) This raises the question: what does Schopenhauer mean by the continuation of individuals? This question is addressed later on in The World as Will and Representation, in which the continuation of individuals is related to continuation of pitch classes as different scale-​degree members: When the key-​note [i.e., tonic] is changed, and with it the value of all the intervals, in consequence of which the same note figures as the second, the third, the fourth, and so on, the notes of the scale are analogous to actors, who must assume now one role, now another, while their person remains the same. (Schopenhauer, 1909, p. 238) To give a specific example, when one modulates from C major to G major, the note B changes roles from leading tone to mediant. In this way, the individual note remains, but it has changed roles from a tendency tone to the stable third of a tonic triad.

214  Jeffrey Scott Yunek The importance of pitch-​ class invariance in Scriabin’s philosophical influences is also noted in the research of Anna Gawboy (2010; 2012). She refers to the complementary concept of polarity, in which diametric opposites constitute a greater unity.15 One way this unity is expressed is through mutual inclusiveness, or pitch-​class invariance. Citing A. B. Marx’s definition of polarity between tonic and dominant chords, Gawboy points to the common scale degree 5 ̂ between tonic and dominant triads as a manifestation of mutual inclusiveness between functionally inverse chords (Burnham, 1997, pp. 308–​309; Gawboy, 2010, p. 119). Continuing this line of thought, she notes the duality expressed by Scriabin’s use of tritone transpositions. Specifically, this transposition is the largest possible motion in pitch-​class space, yet it represents minimum pitch-​class change between Scriabin’s tritone-​infused sonorities (Gawboy, 2010, pp. 128–​131). However, Gawboy never relates this concept to key relationships, as expressed in Scriabin’s colour-​ key correlations or the philosophies of Schopenhauer. Instead, her theory of mutual inclusiveness and polarity are tied to the chord-​based theories of Dernova (1968). Instead, I argue that it is best to view mutual inclusiveness between keys –​rather than chords –​because Scriabin is documented as referring to tonal keys (тональносты) and not chords (аккорди) when he technically describes his compositional method in Prometheus: ‘For every note there is a corresponding colour’, [Scriabin] announced, as if this was a widely-​known axiom. ‘Actually, not for every note, but for every key [tonalnost]. For example, I mix the keys of A and F♯ at the beginning of Prometheus’. (Sabaneev, [1916] 2000, p. 53) In my previous work (2017), I established how the collections in Scriabin’s post-​tonal music emulate key relationships in terms of their parallel voice leading, uniform orthography change, and use of maximally invariance (Example 10.4).

Example 10.4 Maximally invariant transpositions in Scriabin’s Op. 63, No. 2, mm. 14–​15 (cf. Example 10.5). Source: Author.

These characteristics can be seen in Scriabin’s Op. 63, No. 2. In bars 14–​15, there are three different manifestations of an octatonic subset 7-​31. Although

Scriabin and transformed desire  215 this passage could be seen as one Oct2,3 collection, the sections are clearly three repetitions of the same musical gesture by T3 that features distinct changes in pitch-​class orthography (especially notable in the shift from flats to sharps between segments 2 and 3). As with key modulations, these transpositions maintain a uniform orthography: a minor third and augmented second, respectfully. In addition, these modulations are closely related/​maximally invariant (see Example 10.5). That is, just as diatonic collections are considered closely related when they keep the highest possible number of common tones (i.e., 6) invariant under transposition at T5 or T7, members of 7-​31 can be considered closely related when they maintain the highest possible number of common tones (i.e., 6) when transposed at T3, T6, or T9. Accordingly, the closely related key relationships of any collection can be ascertained by its interval-​class vector, and Scriabin’s music consistently implements the distinct closely related transpositions for every distinct collection featured in Scriabin’s late music.16 Diatonic collection’s ic vector

Common tones Under transposition

Octatonic subset’s (7-​31) ic vector

Common tones Under transposition

ic1

ic2

ic3

ic4

ic5

ic6

2

5

4

3

6

1

T1/​11

T2/​10

T3/​9

T4/​8

T5/​7

T6

2

5

4

3

6

2(1x2)

ic1

ic2

ic3

ic4

ic5

ic6

3

3

6

3

3

3

T1/​11

T2/​10

T3/​9

T4/​8

T5/​7

T6

3

3

6

3

3

6(3x1)

Example 10.5 Correlation of interval-​class vectors to invariance under transposition. Source: Author.

This key-​ based approach challenges prior understandings of desire in Scriabin’s late music. As shown earlier, some interpret Dernova’s theory on Scriabin’s late music as a series of dominant-​function chords, whose inability to function (due to pc invariance) makes them tonic or non-​functional chords that convey negated desire (Ewell, 2005; Ewell, 2006–​2007; Taruskin, 1997). Conversely, Kenneth Smith recently argued that Scriabin’s multi-​ tritone collections suggest multiple resolutions and, therefore, an increased sense of desire, which aligns with Dernova’s original reading (Smith, 2016).17 However, this theory raises the problematic issue of perceiving simultaneous keys (Baker, 1993; Huron, 1989; Kaminsky, 2004; Krumhansl, 1986; Thompson 1992) and ignores pc invariance, which has been shown to be a consistent element in Scriabin’s late music.18 As stated earlier, my approach suggests both the denial

216  Jeffrey Scott Yunek and realization of desire in Scriabin’s late music by separating desire into two distinct forms: (1) individual desire, in which the desire of individual tendency tones is denied through pc invariance, and (2) universal desire, in which the desire of a key/​collection to preserve its members (i.e., be closely related) is achieved through maximally invariant transposition. This perspective impacts the perceived nature of Scriabin’s progression away from tonality and the extent of his progression into atonality. Instead of viewing his decent into atonality through his increased use of non-​functional dominant chords, I view this progression as a movement away from chord-​ centred harmony to key-​centred harmony. This movement away from chords is suggested in the following conversation with Sabaneev: This is both melody and harmony at the same time … After all, this is how it should be, harmony and melody are two sides of one principle [прынцыпа], one essence. First, in classical music, everything became separated from each other. This process of differentiation –​this fall of the spirit into matter –​resulted in melody and accompaniment, as in Beethoven. And now we begin their synthesis: harmony becomes melody and melody becomes harmony … And I don’t distinguish between melody and harmony. They are one and the same. (Sabaneev, [1916] 2000, p. 54) I interpret this synthesis of melody and harmony as the avoidance of segmenting harmonic collections (i.e., keys) through chords (via accompaniment). That is, Scriabin removed functional tonality from his late works by removing functional chords –​and their associated tendency tones –​altogether. Accordingly, Sabaneev’s biography rarely documents Scriabin describing his music in terms of chords (аккорди), in stark contrast to the numerous times he refers to keys (тональносты) (see Yunek, 2017, pp. 189–​190). In particular, Scriabin explicitly corrects Sabaneev when he refers to functional chords in Prometheus: ‘It is not a dominant ninth harmony, this is the fundamental harmony, a consonance’.[…] ‘That’s what it is in the key of A. In C Major it would be this!! And Scriabin played C-​D-​E-​F♯-​A-​B♭.’ (Sabaneev, 1929, p. 54)19 Conversely, this passage underscores that tonality never goes away completely because the tonal concept of keys is personally used by Scriabin to describe his late works. Put in metatonal terms, Scriabin’s music maintains tonal elements through its reference to keys, but is beyond tonality through its elimination

Scriabin and transformed desire  217 of functional chords. Put in a philosophic light, Scriabin completely removed the tonal element that signified individual desire from his music: functional chords and their individual tendency-​tone resolutions. What remains is closely related keys, which signify the continuation of universal desire

Transitioning from chord-​based desire to key-​based desire This raises the question: how did Scriabin transition from his earlier chord-​ based works to his key-​based works? In alignment with previous scholars, the resolution of the dominant chord is increasingly delayed or denied via pc invariance until it become the overriding transformation, which can be shown by setting tonal and atonal analyses side by side. However, unlike previous scholars, I interpret this transition from functional tonality –​and the stepwise resolutions it involves –​to maximally invariant transposition through the bifocal lens of individual and unifying desire. Accordingly, this transition can be seen as the gradual yielding of individual desire (i.e., functional, parsimonious resolution) to unifying desire (i.e., pc invariance). This transition will be shown over four works which were chosen for their following similarities: (1) they all have harmonically ambiguous beginnings (e.g., auxiliary cadences) and (2) they all feature two, short phrases that are related by maximally invariant transposition. The pieces are ordered to show a steady increase in maximally invariant transposition over dominant resolution: Op. 2, No. 2 is completely tonal, with maximally invariant transposition only relating the tonicized keys; Op. 49. No. 3 delays dominant resolution via maximally invariant transposition until the end of each phrase; Op. 45, No. 2 delays dominant resolution until the very end of the piece and; Op. 58 denies dominant resolution completely. Being one of Scriabin’s earliest works, Op. 2, No. 2 naturally features functional tonality throughout. The work begins ambiguously with a single E-​ D♯ pianto motion, which can retrospectively be interpreted as an anticipation gesture from a IV chord to the ensuing viiø7/​V (cf. bar 13). What follows is an extended cadential six-​four resolution that cadences in the home key, B major (see Example 10.6). This phrase is followed by a transposition of the opening phrase in the dominant, F♯ major, that quickly reverts back to tonic in bar 10 through the addition of E natural.20 Reading this passage through a philosophical lens, the constant resolution of dominant-​function chords’ tendency tones reflects the complete satisfaction of individual will. On the phrase level, however, the progression from B major to F♯ major reflects the unifying desire of the keys to be related by maximally invariant transposition, which preserves the majority of notes between the two collections.

218  Jeffrey Scott Yunek

Example 10.6 Tonal analysis of Scriabin’s Op. 2, No. 2, mm. 1–​9. Source: Author.

As in Op. 2, No. 2, Scriabin’s Op. 49, No. 3 opens on a non-​tonic chord, but this chord defies any definitive tonal analysis. If read as an applied dominant-​ function chord, it would be an extended V/​♭VII that fails to resolve to ♭VII. If this chord is read as an extended subdominant chord, the following G-​based dominant chord catastrophically fails by resolving to the extended, chromatically lowered mediant chord in bar 2. Instead, an atonal analysis of the opening bars appears more promising because it reveals a consistent use of members of 6-​33, which encompasses the entire piece except for the major triads in bars 5, 8, 16, and 24. Accordingly, all the non-​collection tones can be analyzed as unaccented appoggiaturas that occur in the middle of triplet figures (Example 10.7).

Scriabin and transformed desire  219

Example 10.7  Comparison of tonal and post-​tonal analyses of Scriabin’s Op. 49, No. 3, mm. 1–​8. Source: Author.

These opening pcsets are consistently related by the primary transformation seen in Scriabin’s post-​tonal music: maximally invariant transposition. The maximally invariant transpositions of 6-​33 are T2, T5, T7, and T10 because its ic vector is highest at ic 2 and ic 5 (cf. Example 10.5). Accordingly, the opening pcset is related to the following two collections by T2 and T10, respectively (maximally invariant transpositions are noted with arrows in Example 10.7).21 This progression is followed by two additional maximally invariant transpositions by T5. These key-​based operations appear to give way to functional tonality as the music approaches the C-​major cadence in bar 4.22 This C-​major tonic in bar 4 is preceded by an extended dominant (as a member of 6-​33), which clearly arpeggiates its root, chordal seventh, and leading tone above the bass. The preceding D♭-​based chord could be understood through a number of tonal readings, including an extended Neapolitan chord or Dernova’s tritone

220  Jeffrey Scott Yunek link. This tonal reading can be stretched back further to the E♭-​and A♭-​based chords in bar 2, which can be retrospectively understood as a series of applied dominants leading to the D♭-​based chord in bar 3 (applied dominants shown by arrows). Taken together, the opening phrase (bars 1–​4) could be heard as a steady progression from maximally invariant transposition (key-​based harmony) to functional harmony, in which the middle could be heard as transitional because it conforms to both operations. The opening transpositions of members of 6-​33 are best understood through maximally invariant transposition because they have no clear tonal analysis. The interior transpositions by T5 could be read as either as maximally invariant transpositions or a series of secondary dominants. The cadence, however, is best understood through functional tonality –​as there are no maximally invariant transpositions. This progression is repeated in the following bars (5–​8) and results in an overall motion from the key of C major to G major, which are closely related/​maximally invariant collections. Seen through a philosophic lens, the piece could be read as the delay of the impulses of individual desire (i.e., functional harmony) through the satisfaction of unifying desire (i.e., maximally invariant transposition). Although individual desire ultimately succeeds via the dominant resolutions in C and G major, these local satisfactions of individual desire are tempered by an overarching satisfaction of universal will via closely related keys. Instead of merely delaying functional tonality, Op. 45, No. 2 denies all tonal cadences until the end of the work. Not only does the piece begin with a harmonically ambiguous whole-​tone collection,23 but the only triad of the entire piece –​an inverted C-​major triad –​occurs on the last beat of music (Example 10.8). The rest of the piece can be primarily analysed as alternating WT1 and WT0 collections, which –​as in Op. 49, No. 3 –​mainly features unaccented embellishing tones that occur in the middle of triplet figures (cf. Example 10.7). The four exceptions are the bass C in bar 2, the bass G in bar 5, the bass C in bar 14, and the octave G’s in bar 15.

Scriabin and transformed desire  221

Example 10.8  Comparison of tonal and post-​tonal analyses of Scriabin’s Op. 45, No. 2. A) Ending: mm. 12–16 B) Beginning: mm. 0–6 Source: Author.

These four exceptions serve as the tonal lynch pins of the piece. As mentioned earlier, the only tonal cadence occurs at the end of the piece, which is where my tonal analysis begins (Example 10.8A). Noting the final C-​major chord in bar 15, bar 13 can be interpreted as an extended dominant G chord that arpeggiates its root, chordal seventh, and leading tone –​as seen in Op. 49, No. 3 (cf. bars 3 and 23). The resolution of this dominant to a C-​major triad, however, is staggered. The expected C and G appear in the bass in bar 14, but the remaining upper notes retain the previous WT1 collection (as if a series of suspensions). In bar 15, the chord eventually resolves to C major, but only after the WT0-​derived F♯ and A♭s resolve by semitone to G. This delayed semitonal resolution to tonic mirrors the ending of Op. 49, No. 3, in which B and D♭ in bar 24 resolve by semitone to tonic, C. This progression is mirrored in bars 0–​3a (and at T7 in bars 3b–​7), but without the final resolution to a major triad (Example 10.8B). Instead, the chord remains a WT0 subset whose resolution to a major tonic triad is unfulfilled. Put another way, these whole-​ tone dominants appear to be resolving to whole-​tone ‘tonics.’

222  Jeffrey Scott Yunek I suggest that these dominant resolutions to whole-​tone ‘tonics’ engender the larger WT0/​WT1 alternations in the piece. The desire of the whole-​tone G dominant to resolve to C major results in a transposition by T7 (realized down a perfect fourth). Accordingly, any odd transposition of a whole-​tone collection results in a shift to its complementary collection. That is, instead of the whole-​tone G dominant resolving to a C-​major triad, it resolves to a whole-​tone collection that accommodates C (i.e., pc 0): WT0. With the tonal lynch pins in place, one can now analyse the harmony of the entire passage. The anacrusis begins with a Neapolitan-​based WT1 that is transposed at a maximally invariant T6 to a dominant-​based WT1, which eventually resolves to a C-​affiliated WT0 collection in bar 3. The same passage is repeated down a fourth to a G-​affiliated WT1 collection in bar 6 resulting in a maximally invariant T7 relationship between the implied major keys, but a maximally variant relationship between the given whole-​tone collections. Taken collectively, this passage features a similar –​but more dramatic –​ frustration of functional harmony via pc invariance as the previous work. As in Op. 49, No. 3, the piece begins with a maximally invariant progression that gives way to a tonal cadence. However, the satisfaction of the dominant is highly undermined –​if not negated –​by its resolution to a whole-​tone collection. This frustration persists throughout the entire piece until the final beat, which remediates this whole-​tone tonic through its semitone resolution to an unambiguous major triad in first inversion. As in Smith’s analysis of Schreker in the previous chapter (Chapter 9), Scriabin’s chromatic collections mask and refract underlying tonal desires for dominant resolution. Accordingly, the dominant potential of these chords is obscured by their presentation as scale-​like collections until their tonal desire is realized at the end of the piece. Referring back to our philosophical lens, this piece can be read as a prolonged effort of individual will to eventually break universal will. The opening of the piece features a completely invariant transposition of the WT1 collection, which signifies the continuation of universal will. The subsequent resolution of the G-​based WT1 dominant to C-​based WT0, however, reflects the momentary satisfaction of individual will. This causes an ensuing disruption of universal desire (i.e., the shift to WT0). Instead of all pitch classes continuing on through maximally invariant transposition, none continue, suggesting a negation of unifying desire. This relationship sympathizes with Schopenhauer’s complementary understanding of desire. Just as universal desire is achieved through the denial of individual desire, so is universal desire denied by the striving of individual desire. The final piece to be explored is Scriabin’s Op. 58, which many scholars consider his first completely atonal work (Baker, 1986; Bazayev, 2018; Dernova, 1968; Ewell, 2006–​2007). Accordingly, these scholars analyse the piece as a series of mystic chords, which are all related by maximally invariant transposition (Baker, 1986; Pople, 1989; Cohn, 2012).24 As in the previously discussed works, the vast majority of embellishing tones are rhythmically unaccented

Scriabin and transformed desire  223 (cf. Example 10.9). However, such analysis fails to account for five prominent bass notes: the Fs in bars 11 and 13 and the Bs in bars 18, 20, and 22. These bass notes are significant, as these bass Bs and Fs are followed by arpeggiations of B-​and F-​major diatonic collections in the left hand.

Example 10.9 Comparison of tonal and post-​tonal analyses of Scriabin’s Op. 58. Source: Author.

I suggest that these bass notes suggest an underlying functional tonality that is never fully realized. Looking at the end of the piece, the bass Bs are each approached by perfect fifth motion, suggesting a dominant-​tonic relationship. Accordingly, the preceding chords can be analysed as extended dominant chords (spelt as mystic chords) that attempt to resolve to B-​major triads, as seen by the initial B–​F♯ arpeggiation in the bass (see Example 10.9). This progression closely mirrors the progression seen at the end of Scriabin’s Op. 45, No. 2, in which a bass arpeggiation of the root, chordal seventh, and leading tone of the dominant leads to a bass arpeggiation of a root, fifth, and suspended fourth of the tonic (see Example 10.8). As in Op. 45, No. 2, the upper voices preserve the pitch classes of the previous collection. Unlike Op. 45, No. 2, the dominant resolutions in Op. 58 are continually delayed until they are ultimately denied. Looking at the first two attempted resolutions in bars 18–​19 and 20–​21, the fourth suspensions eventually resolve to D♯ (albeit up an octave), but the upper notes fail to coalesce into a B-​ major chord. This frustration of B-​major is driven home by its opposition by B♯ in the right hand (shown with arrows), which references the previous mystic-​chord collection.25 The resolution of the progression is attempted a third time in bar 22, which brings the opposing B/​B♯s into stark relief through simultaneous grace-​note arpeggiations in the left and right hands. I suggest that the B♯-​aligned mystic-​chord collection wins the altercation through its maintained presence in the upper register, while the grace-​note B fades into obscurity.26 One could argue that the lack of a concluding tonic chord negates a tonal understanding of the piece entirely, one which lends itself to a more consistent analysis through purely atonal procedures. But this purely atonal reading of the piece is diametrically opposed to the concept of denied tonality, which lies at the heart of previous scholars’ interpretation of Scriabin’s late

224  Jeffrey Scott Yunek work (Dernova, 1968; Ewell, 2006–​2007). That is, Scriabin’s atonality is not defined by the absence of tonality; it is defined by the rejection of it. The will of the dominant to resolve to tonic in Op. 58 is presented as a viable expectation, which would reflect the expectations of Scriabin’s audience based on the tonality of all of his previous works –​not to mention the vast majority of music at that time. However, this piece ultimately avoids the strivings of the dominant for tonic resolution by negating B major by displacing its tonic through a mystic-​chord affiliated B♯. In denying the dominant’s desire, the piece embraces the desire of the collections to be closely related: every mystic chord is related by maximally invariant transposition and the piece ends with the same collection it began with. In short, the piece completely embraces unifying desire and completely denies individual desire.

Denying denied desire: performance implications These four works show decreasing occurrences of dominant resolution in lieu of maximally invariant transposition. Op. 2, No. 2 (1887) exclusively featured dominant resolutions throughout; Op. 49, No. 3 (1905) only featured dominant resolutions at the ends of phrases; Op. 45, No. 2 (1904) only featured dominant resolution at the end of the work; and Op. 58 (1910) denied all attempts of dominant resolution. I suggest this increasing use of maximally invariant transposition to delay or deny dominant resolution results in the perceived degradation in functional harmony ultimately leading to his post-​ tonal period. While analyses of Scriabin’s late music denying tonal closure in lieu of pc invariance exist in the literature, my account differs in that it establishes pc invariance as a signifier of unifying desire that complements Taruskin’s notion that dominant affiliated tendency-​tone resolution signifies individual desire. Therefore, the denial of tritone resolution cannot be exclusively interpreted as a reduction in desire overall. Instead, the negated individual desires of tendency tones via maximally invariant transposition should be viewed as a consequence of fulfilling the key-​based desire of the collections to be closely related –​that is, their universal will. Furthermore, this perspective clarifies the notion in Russian scholarship that Scriabin’s late music is an extension of tonality. As shown earlier, Scriabin’s late harmonic practice certainly defies common-​practice tonality by removing denying dominant-​chord resolution, which thwarts the perception of both the tonic and the tonic triad. However, this loss in functional, chord-​based harmony is replaced by a focus on key-​based harmony that continues the tonal practice of using closely related (i.e., maximally invariant) keys. Accordingly, one of the most significant aspects of Scriabin’s post-​tonal music is predicated on a historically tonal operation. This shift in philosophy has a significant impact on the interpretation of Scriabin’s transition to post-​tonal harmony. Instead of viewing the progression as solely undermining tonality through delayed and/​ or denied

Scriabin and transformed desire  225 dominant resolution, I suggest that Scriabin’s music is increasing infused with key-​ based, closely related (i.e., maximally invariant) transpositions, which signify increasing levels of unifying desire. This process results in an increasing degree of tonal abeyance until dominant resolution is completely negated. Accordingly, the pc invariance resulting from these closely related transpositions results in sublimely smooth harmonic shifts, which rest upon a series of dominant-​like chords that constantly yearn for resolution. This interpretation also suggests changes in interpreting and performing Scriabin’s middle and late works. The prior understanding of Scriabin’s late music as a series of non-​functional dominant collections suggested a zen-​like performance practice that emulates the negated desire of these suppressed dominants. Instead, my interpretation suggests an ongoing battle between individual and universal wills, in which the dominant strivings of these collections is increasingly superseded by a key-​based desire to be closely related. In short, Scriabin’s late music displays a negation of the ‘will’ of the tone in favour of the will of tonality, or to reference Schenkerian terminology: a negation of the Tonwille in lieu of Tonalitätwille.

Notes 1 Although Taruskin specifically employs (completely) invariant transposition and Dernova references enharmonic equivalency, both fall under the broader operation of maximally invariant transposition (see Yunek, 2017, 393–​400). 2 These other procedures include complementation and similarity relations. 3 Baker also notes that T5 and T7 are the second most likely transpositions. Accordingly, this results in minimal invariance between many of Scriabin’s chords in his transitional periods, but simultaneously result in maximal invariance between diatonic-​based harmonies (1986). 4 The term lad is often translated as mode. As others have pointed out, this translation is insufficient because it conflates classical notions of mode with Yavorsky’s new and distinctive theory of lad (McQuere, 1983; Bazayev, 2014). 5 Furthermore, any chord containing two tritones has a doubly dominant function, and any chord containing three tritones has a triply dominant function (cf. McQuere, 1983). 6 He even prepared for this trip by purchasing a safari hat to protect himself from the harsh Indian sun (Bowers, 1973, 262–​263). 7 Examples are drawn from Opp. 61, 62, and 64. The importance of Scriabin’s performance indications are explored in Garcia (2000, 273–​300) and MacDonald (1978, 22–​25). 8 Note that Ivanov states that Scriabin’s visions are threefold, suggesting that they are interrelated concepts. 9 This preference for theosophy is also reinforced by accounts of Scriabin’s theosophical literature by Sabaneev ([1916] 2000, 63) and Schloezer (1987, 71). 10 The transformation of the spiritual into the physical (and back) is a seven-​part process (Blavatsky, 1888, 1: 242; Carlson, 1993, 120.) 11 This is represented in the theosophical seal by the image of Ouroboros, the snake that swallows its own tail. This theory is also an extension of Blavatsky’s

226  Jeffrey Scott Yunek combination of Hinduism and Nietzsche’s concept of eternal recurrence (see Yunek, 2013, 53–​118.) 12 Multiple scholars have concluded that Scriabin did not have conventional chromesthesia (Baker, 1997, 73–​ 78; Galeev, 2001; Gawboy, 2010, 173–​175). Rather, he had deeply held philosophical beliefs on colour-​key associations (see Yunek, 2013, 101–​116). 13 For example, §52 in the third book of the first volume of WWR; ­chapter 39, entitled ‘On the Metaphysics of Music,’ in the supplements to the third book in the second volume of WWR; and §§ 218–​220 in c­ hapter 19 of the second volume of Parerga and Paralipomena, entitled ‘Towards a Metaphysics of the Beautiful and Aesthetic.’ 14 The reading of this passage as a continuation of the universal will through individuals is confirmed by Sorgner (2010, 128). 15 This concept directly equates to the complementary notion of Ivanov’s eternal feminism, which contrasts the masculine/​physical with the feminine/​spiritual (see Gawboy, 2010, 112–​115). 16 All octatonic subsets that feature high ic3 and ic6 content are related by T3, T6, and T9. All mystic-​chord and whole-​tone collections are related by T2, T4, T6, T8, and T10. In rare instances, diatonic collections are featured and are related by T5 and T7, while diatonic subsets (like 6-​33) are closely related by T2, T5, T7, and T10. 17 This viewpoint is highly congruent with Yavorsky’s theory of lad, which views chords with multiple tritones as having multiple dominant function (McQuere, 1983). 18 Even scholars who do not cite pc invariance infer it in their approaches. For example, Reise’s system of semitonal resolution between central collections and subsidiary collections is predicated on the high pc invariance amongst collections in Scriabin’s late music in pc space (1983). 19 Note how Scriabin lists the C-​major version of the mystic chord as a scale, which proceeds stepwise from C. Scriabin’s compositional sketches –​currently contained in the Glinka Museum Archives –​for Prometheus reveal that he initially viewed the collection as a seven-​note acoustic scale: C, D, E, F sharp, G, A, B flat. His sketches show Scriabin writing the collections in various formats, including in seconds, thirds, and –​quite famously –​in fourths. Accordingly, it is hard to interpret the collection Scriabin lists as a dominant in C, as some have implied, because it lacks the tradition root (G), leading tone (B), and chordal seventh (F). 20 The G♯ sharp suspension in the melody resolves on the next beat. The bar was truncated to align the phrases. 21 The second and third collections are not directly related by maximally invariant transposition since they only retain two pitch classes, instead of four, which is why I highlight the third collection’s maximally invariant relationship to the first chord. That being said, I find this indirect reading is stronger than a tonal reading. 22 The T6 motion in bar 3 is not maximally invariant and the clear C-​major triad arrival eschews an atonal reading, which is already problematic because of the cardinality differences between a member of 6-​33 and a major triad. 23 According to Dernova’s extension of Yavorsky and Protopotov’s theory of lad (1968), this collection would simultaneously suggest six different possible tritone (and, therefore, dominant) resolutions because of its three tritones and their two possible resolutions (i.e., imploding and exploding). 24 Being a whole-​ tone variant, the mystic chord shares its maximally invariant transpositions of T2, T4, T6, T8, and T10 (see Yunek, 2017, 397).

Scriabin and transformed desire  227 25 In pitch-​class space, there is a parsimonious change from a Mystic-​chord collection [3,4,6,8,10,0] to a B-​major diatonic subset 6-​33 [3,4,6,8,10,11], which is achieved by B-​sharp (pc 0) moving to B-​natural (pc 11). 26 To realize how close the piece came to cadencing in B major, the reader is invited to recompose the ending with a B-​major triad.

References Baker, J. (1986). The Music of Alexander Scriabin. New Haven: Yale University Press. Baker, J. (1993). Post-​tonal voice-​leading. In J. Dunsby (ed.), Models of Musical Analysis: Early Twentieth-​Century Music (pp. 20–​41). Oxford: Basil Blackwell. Baker, J. (1997). Scriabin’s music: structure as prism for mystical philosophy. In: J. Baker, D. Beach, & J. W. Bernard (eds.), Music Theory in Concept and Practice (pp. 53–​96). Rochester, NY: University of Rochester Press. Bazayev, I. (2014). The expansion of the concept of mode in twentieth-​ century music theory. Music Theory Online, 20: 3. https://​mtosmt.org/​issues/​mto.14.20.3/​ mto.14.20.3.bazayev.html Bazayev, I. (2018). Scriabin’s atonal problem. Music Theory Online, 24: 1. www. mtosmt.org/​ojs/​index.php/​mto/​article/​view/​68 Blavatsky, H. (1888). The Secret Doctrine: The Synthesis of Science, Religion, and Philosophy. 2 vols. London: Theosophical Publishing. Blavatsky, H. & Besant, A. (2004). Occultism of the Secret Doctrine. Whitefish: Kessinger Publishing. Bowers, F. (1973). The New Scriabin; Enigma and Answers. New York: St. Martin’s Press. Callender, C. (1998). Voice-​leading parsimony in the music of Alexander Scriabin. Journal of Music Theory, 42: 2, 219–​33. Carlson, M. (1993). No Religion Higher Than Truth: A History of the Theosophical Movement in Russia, 1875–​1922. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Cheong, W. (1993). Orthography in Scriabin’s late works. Music Analysis, 12: 1, 47–​69. Cohn, R. (2012). Audacious Euphony: Chromaticism and the Triad’s Second Nature. Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press. Dernova, V. (1968). Garmoniia Skriabina [Scriabin’s harmony]. In S. Pavchinsky & V. Tsukkerman (eds.), A. N. Skriabin: Sbornik Statei. Moscow: Sovetskii kompozitor. Ewell, P. (1993). Alexander Skryabin and Russian symbolism: plot and symbols in the late piano sonatas. D.M.A. dissertation, University of Texas at Austin. Ewell, P. (2005). Scriabin’s dominant: the evolution of a harmonic style. Journal of Schenkerian Studies, 1: 1. Galeev, B. & I. R. Vanechkina. (2001). Was Scriabin a synesthete? Leonardo, 34: 4, 357–​361. Garcia, E. E. (2007). Scriabin's Mysterium and the Birth of Genius 1, https://​citeseerx. ist.psu.edu/​viewdoc/​download?doi=​10.1.1.568.1541&rep=​rep1&type=​pdf Garcia, S. (1993). Alexander Skryabin and Russian symbolism: plot and symbols in the late piano sonatas. D.M.A. dissertation, University of Texas at Austin. Garcia, S. (2006–​2007). Scriabin and the harmony of the 20th century. annotated translation of article by Yuri Kholopov, Journal of the Scriabin Society of America, 11: 1, 12–​27. Gawboy, A. (2010). Alexander Scriabin’s Theurgy in Blue: esotericism and the analysis of Prometheus: Poem of Fire, Op. 60. PhD dissertation, New Haven, Connecticut: Yale University.

228  Jeffrey Scott Yunek Gawboy, A. & Townsend, J. (2012). Scriabin and the possible. Music Theory Online, 18: 2. https://​mtosmt.org/​issues/​mto.12.18.2/​mto.12.18.2.gawboy_​townsend.php Guenther, R. (1979). Varvara Dernova’s Garmoniia Skriabina: a translation and critical commentary. PhD dissertation, Washington D.C.: Catholic University of America. Huron, D. (1989). Voice denumerability in polyphonic music of homogeneous timbres. Music Perception, 6: 4, 361–​82. Ivanov, V. (1985). Selected Essays. Edited by Michael Wachtel. Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press. Kaminsky, P. (2004). Ravel’s late music and the problem of ‘polytonality.’ Music Theory Spectrum, 26: 2, 237–​264. Krumhansl, C. L. & Schmuckler, M. A. (1986). The Petroushka Chord: A Perceptual Investigation. Music Perception, 4: 2, 153–​184. MacDonald, H. (1978). Skryabin. London: Oxford University Press. McQuere, G. (1983). Russian Theoretical Thought in Music. Ann Arbor, MI: UMI Research Press. Peacock, K. (1976). Alexander Scriabin’s Prometheus: Philosophy and structure. PhD dissertation, University of Michigan. Pople, A. (1989). Skryabin and Stravinsky, 1908–​1914: Studies in Theory and Analysis. New York: Garland. Reise, J. (1983). Late Skriabin: some principles behind the style. 19th-​Century Music, 6: 3, 220–​231. Sabaneev, L. ([1916] 2000). Vospominaniya o Scriabine [Memories of Scriabin]. Moscow: Klassika-​XXI. Sabaneev, L. (1929). The relation between sound and color. Translated by S. W. Pring. Music and Letters, 10: 3, 266–​67. de Schloezer, B. (1987). Scriabin: Artist and Mystic. Translated by Nicolas Slonimsky. Berkeley: University of California Press. Schopenhauer, A. (1909). The World as Will and Representation. Translated by R. B. Haldane and J. Kemp. London: Kegan Paul, Trench, Trübner. Sellon, E. (1987). Blavatsky, H. P. In: M. Eliade, C. J. Adams, et al. (eds), The Encyclopedia of Religion. New York: Macmillan. Sorgner, S. L. & Fürbeth, O. (2010). Music in German Philosophy: An Introduction. Translated by S. H. Gillespie.Chicago: The University of Chicago Press.Taruskin, R. (1988). Reviews of The Music of Alexander Scriabin by James M. Baker and Scriabin: Artist and Mystic by Boris de Schloesser. Music Theory Spectrum, 10: 143–​169. Taruskin, R. (1997). Scriabin and the superhuman: a millennial essay. In: R.Taruskin (ed.), Defining Russia Musically: Historical and Hermeneutical Essays (pp. 308–​ 359). Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Taruskin, R. (2005). The Oxford History of Western Music, vol. 4. Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press. Thompson, W. F. & Mor, S. (1992). A perceptual investigation of polytonality. Psychological Research-​Psychologische Forschung, 54: 60–​71. Wetzel, D. (2009). Alexander Scriabin in Russian musicology and its background in Russian intellectual history. PhD dissertation, University of Southern California. Yunek, J. (2013). Scriabin’s Transpositional Wills: A Diachronic Approach to Alexander Scriabin’s Late Piano Miniatures (1910–​ 1915). PhD dissertation, Louisiana State University. Yunek, J. (2017). (Post-​)tonal key relationships in Scriabin’s late music. Music Analysis, 36: 3, 384–​418.

11  Musicology, mediation, metatonality Rethinking the music of Rebecca Clarke and Erwin Schulhoff Chris Dromey

Two incontrovertible yet apparently contradictory facts about tonality coexist, and each has a huge influence on how we learn about, perform, hear, and analyse music. The first fact is that, as a conceptual category coined in the early nineteenth century and refined by musicologists of all types ever since, tonality occupies a proud and privileged place in music theory and, by extension, in the telling and retelling of music history. This is why received wisdom continues to teach students that tonality’s ‘evolution’ is a primary factor in the division of musical epochs, and to attune listeners to new thresholds of consonance and dissonance (and, relatedly, of continuities and discontinuities). Such qualities have become central to comprehending and enjoying many kinds of music –​a reality that, for better or worse, is ultimately rooted in the concept of tonality being entwined with that of an historicizing narrative almost as soon as it had been conceived.1 The second fact about tonality highlights a chasm that separates this first set of truths from another: that tonality, for all its undoubted significance, is virtually absent in public discourse about music. It is tempting to assume that we simply take tonality for granted; that it is the proverbial invisible hand, shaping countless musical choices, each subject to a vast number of cognitive, personal, and social biases. Similar assumptions have long been fruitful starting points for psychologists and sociologists keen to understand how musical judgements are formed and enacted, and for scholars setting out to disabuse the exceptionalizing notion that Western music between the seventeenth and early twentieth centuries renders other musical cultures and epochs subservient to it because of its tonal framework (Small, 1977). However, the ‘taken for granted’ argument does not adequately recognize the tangible problems that the discussion and teaching of tonality typically pose, nor the interesting implications of such issues for musicologists and pedagogues alike. To compound matters, pedagogical perspectives are rarely examined by musicologists, and this neglect is reciprocated as musicological advances struggle to influence (pre-​tertiary) curricula. Two prime features of musicology in the 2010s were to advocate for more equitable representation in music historiography and to fashion a new sense of applied practice, including public-​oriented musicologies. Yet, analytical musicology has been DOI: 10.4324/9780429451713-11

230  Chris Dromey slow to embrace such trends. This is not for want of the tools to unpick and celebrate musical accomplishment. Rather, its own august history has evolved alongside wider musicological narratives that have served to narrow its scope of influence and widen the perceived incompatibility of public and analytical knowledge. The power of these narratives (or dogmatic metaphors, as we might describe them, e.g. the ‘death’ of tonality or successive ‘waves’ of modernism) is such that, as Lloyd Whitesell has observed, ‘the cultural symbolism brought to bear on the concept of tonality is extremely telling. As a “common practice” of harmonic conventions, it has the prestige in the minds of many, whether vanguard or conservative, of a repressed, shadow image of modernism’ (Whitesell, 2010, p. 104). The schisms embedded in this quote are as chronologically and thematically relevant to this volume’s ‘with and after’ reading of (meta)tonality as they are to this chapter, which will adopt public-​oriented and analytical approaches in order to elucidate certain mediative problems music faces today and to recalibrate our understanding of tonality in the interwar period. The chapter duly explores the subject of tonality from three related perspectives: broadcasting, programme notes, and pedagogy. Then, against this backdrop, it examines two dual-​ heritage composers, Rebecca Clarke (1886–​ 1979) and Erwin Schulhoff (1894–​1942), whose music has deservedly begun to be revived in the last twenty years. The interwar years are generally understood as being crucial to the development of both classical music and musicology. They also marked the tragically brief highpoints of both composers’ careers: Schulhoff was a victim of the Holocaust and suffered critically for his eclecticism; Clarke suffered because of her gender and eventually stopped composing. To rewrite music history by recognizing such neglected composers is not a new challenge, but the perspective of metatonality, being a mutable and referential concept, brings the potential or even the imperative to add a significant new dimension to analytical musicology. This chapter’s structure reflects this by framing its analytical findings with discussion of tonality’s multivalency and of musicology’s modern purpose, including its relationship with the public. In short: how metatonal-​inspired readings might help us look afresh at tonality and musicology themselves. Broadcasters make daily decisions about how they frame music for their listeners. In the context of classical music broadcast on UK radio, I have shown elsewhere how presenters’ language falls into several overlapping classes (Dromey, 2018), e.g. emphasizing musical quality, including specifically canonizing language; distancing music from quotidian experiences, or relating it to them; stereotyping; and/​or ‘bracing’ listeners for what they are about to hear. For the purposes of the present chapter, the absence of technical language from any of these categories, but particularly the last, is most noteworthy. Only a tiny fraction of the vocabulary broadcasters use to contextualize classical music cites or even alludes to tonality: 2 of 901 references

Musicology, mediation, metatonality  231 (0.002%) in the aforementioned study, namely ‘modal’ and ‘atonal’, neither of which terms were clarified or defined. This is not to judge broadcasters, whose arena is one that generally assumes, and often explicitly acknowledges, a passive style of listening and engagement. The concert hall, on the other hand, offers another case study for public musicologists, and one where active listening is customarily encouraged by such modern concert-​going rituals as self-​policing audience silence and the provision of programme notes. More so than broadcasters, then, note-​writers face basic, even existential, dilemmas about their public-​facing practice. What tenor and vocabulary are most effective to reliably inform and engage readers while enhancing their musical understanding? To meet these presupposed aims by ‘signposting’ listeners has been a principal task for note-​writers ever since Charles Henry Purday (often acclaimed as inventor of the modern programme note) called for the adoption of ‘some means… to render musical performances as intellectual as they are sensual’ (Purday, 1836, quoted in Hogarth, 1934, p. 795). To signpost is to follow one or more of three likely paths, each with their own degrees of accessibility and applicability according to the musical context: highlighting the music’s timbral characteristics, typically the most straightforward of the three; defining prominent motifs that arrest listeners’ attention as they reappear in identical or varied guises; and describing the music’s harmonic structure. The longer the piece of music, the more relevant this third approach becomes to note-​writers and to concertgoers. But by pairing musical elements and, ordinarily, explaining their teleological consequences to audiences, the approach is also the most holistic and the least straightforward. When broached, discussion of tonality draws on a harmonically oriented lexicon that is generally either taxonomic (‘C major’, ‘consonant’, ‘atonal’, etc.) or processive (e.g. ‘modulatory’, ‘cadential’, ‘tonal relationships [between sections or movements]’, etc.). It is also technical, assumes prior knowledge (or implicitly demands its acquisition), and therefore collides with programme notes’ one-​size-​fits-​all medium. Enabling concertgoers to gain, much less apply, such knowledge is therefore inherently difficult. A broader consequence of this tension between medium and message is that some concert administrators, wary of classical music’s ‘elitist’ image, encourage writers to adopt a more anecdotal, historically focussed approach (Bergauer, 2019).2 Other organizations are responding innovatively to classical music’s communication crisis, for example by trialling digital programme notes (drip-​feeding bitesize notes to phone-​ glancing concertgoers in real-​ time), persuading orchestral conductors and musicians to address audiences directly from the stage, and commissioning graphical listening guides (Hartley-​Chan, 2016). For now, such novelties remain just that, being introduced in the name of accessibility –​and, ergo, of commerce –​and eschewing long-​ form prose altogether. Their effects on audience enjoyment and understanding are therefore not yet fully understood. Earlier studies have proven a more

232  Chris Dromey general correlation between a lack of lexical understanding and dissatisfaction among first-​time classical concertgoers (Dearn/​Pitts, 2017), and, separately, how the presence of programme note-​like text can actually reduce musical enjoyment (Hellmuth Margulis, 2010). Yet, there is no silver bullet for concert administrators (or for musicologists) to find in existing research on the problems musical mediation can pose. While studies such as these tend to agree that the power of discourses surrounding music are emotionally strong, and, worse, can be unwittingly exclusory, the need for a framework to aid musical understanding evidently remains. In relation to modernist and contemporary music, this need is arguably most acute for the twin reasons that these genres are particularly prone to misrepresentation and misunderstanding, and because classical music’s prospects are most naturally tied to theirs. Initiatives such as Molly Murdock and Ben Parsell’s Music Theory Examples by Women (https://​mus​icth​eory​ exam​ples​bywo​men.com/​, launched in 2017) and the Institute for Composer Diversity (f. 2019) belong to a movement that seeks to perpetuate (and whose impact relies on) further advocacy, i.e. it succeeds only if its musical discoveries are mediated and its protagonists collaborate. This scenario implicates an inseparable group of musically interested parties: musicologists, programmers, musicians, and, of course, the public. To this list we should add educationalists; musicologists and music teachers alike are effectively tasked with conceptualizing what is readily heard in music, providing the means of refining understanding (including what is heard less readily), and thereby facilitating thinking and conversations about music. Moreover, if we turn our attention to how music, and specifically tonality, are taught and ‘encultured’, then clues as to why musical engagement can be so polarizing quickly appear. At an elementary level, the absence of tonality identified towards the start of this chapter is again conspicuous. The latest version of the UK’s National Curriculum (DFE, 2013a), for example, mandates learning to include music’s ‘inter-​related dimensions’, in which tonality, at best, is implicit in the teaching of pitch and structure; harmony is omitted altogether, an act carried over from 1999’s overhaul of the original National Curriculum (DES, 1992).3 The upshot is that single melodic and rhythmic lines are teachers’ main preoccupations at Key Stages 1 and 2, encouraged by a curriculum that prizes creativity and music-​making,4 and which no longer references ‘chords’ or sets the attainment target, as it did previously, to ‘sing songs, in unison and two parts’ (DFEE/​QCA, 1999: p. 129). While creativity and understanding should and can be compatible aims, a distinction between the two (and a blurring of the latter) easily arises for three reasons. First, the National Curriculum was dramatically streamlined in 2013, broadening its interpretability by schools but leaving (typically non-​ specialist) music teachers largely to fend for themselves. Second, the stereotypes that beset classical music –​that it is esoteric, irrelevant, and notated with indecipherable symbols –​are germane to its pedagogy because, historically, the genre has been the prism through which music theory has been

Musicology, mediation, metatonality  233 predominantly taught. Third, then, is the uncomfortable but important truth that the teaching of tonality and related harmonic concepts, and of music in general, worries many teachers. Low teacher confidence and negative self-​ perceptions of ability have been investigated elsewhere (e.g. Zeserson et al., 2014; Garrett, 2014), yet these challenges continue to be amplified by others, e.g. a general lack of level-​appropriate resources (or a failure to access existing resources) and a related tendency to identify rhythm-​based exercises as being more kinaesthetic and therefore more accessible to young children. More broadly, these factors prolong a more longstanding problem whereby, pedagogically, music theory and practice are often mischaracterized as being independent of each other (Welch, 2001). That tonality is expected to be identified and used at KS3 would appear to be positive (DfE, 2013b), however it can also be regarded as belated: studies have long indicated that children as young as five comprehend diatonic scale structures and have sensitivity to key membership (Dowling, 1988; Lamont/​ Cross, 1994; Koelsch et al., 2003; Schellenberg et al., 2005), and one recent study found that children as young as three exhibit some knowledge of appropriate harmonic progressions (Corrigall/​Trainor, 2009). Moreover, a deeply bifurcated system of music education in the UK serves to stratify musical learners,5 in turn creating a damaging sense of irreversible musical ‘haves and have-​nots’ by KS3, such that introducing concepts such as tonality as this stage of learning reinforces the perception that musical knowledge is, and can only be, specialist. We can extend this charge to the Associated Board of the Royal Schools of Music (ABRSM, still the most popular exam board for extracurricular learning), whose practical exams assess Aural understanding of the difference between major and minor tonality only from Grade 4. The same organization’s series of Theory exams are also admired but are pedagogically contentious (e.g. the labelling of inversions as ‘b’, ‘c’, and ‘d’ irks those who regard figured-​bass as the more accurate, nuanced system) and can be bypassed by teachers and their musicians defecting to exam boards who do not require Theory as a prerequisite for advanced practical grades. More broadly, Aural and Theory training is notoriously prone to falling between the cracks of music education, with teachers sometimes uncertain about who is responsible for what, and both domains potentially neglected as a result. Such matters problematize a students’ transition to higher education, whose courses typically retrain students in music theory, aural, and musicianship skills. This training is often ideological, prioritizing practical and theoretical systems over the nurturing of a critical approach to music’s fundamentals, e.g. that ‘loyalty’ to a tonic is culturally contingent and analysable in a quasi-​ scientific way. Meanwhile, students and scholars of analytical musicology –​ itself a marginalized discipline –​still grapple with twentieth-​century-​derived divergencies, including those explored in this volume, which have populated and expanded their field, but which have also had an encumbering effect on its pedagogy. An overarching example, already referenced, is music historiography and its related value systems, which modernize very slowly

234  Chris Dromey (the supremacy of classical music in music departments is a case in point). Another example, in relation to tonality when it is taught, is the complicated legacy of its association with a ‘chord of nature’, and, separately, of its much looser definitions, devised decades ago to give other musicologists a foothold when analysing specific ‘progressive’ twentieth-​century styles.6 This has had three further consequences: these styles have themselves become pedagogically canonized; rule-​setting and -​breaking in pedagogy, analysis, and historiography is valourized; and the lexicon of tonality comes with a panoply of prefixes (e.g. bi-​, poly-​, a-​, post-​, pan-​, neo-​), each with different degrees of legitimacy, and often tying students in knots and prompting audiences who encounter them to wonder: ‘are we intelligent enough to understand this music?’ The various mediative challenges this chapter has already outlined go a long way towards explaining why music that does not conform to dominant narratives still struggles to find a place in contemporary life. The four examples that this section will analyse –​in order to reassess our understanding of tonality in the interwar period –​are cases in point: classical, dual-​heritage, non-​ canonical, and twentieth-​century yet not conventional modernist. The first is Rebecca Clarke’s Sonata for Viola and Piano (1918–​19). Clarke’s tonal idiosyncrasies were under-​appreciated during her lifetime. We have Liane Curtis to thank for retelling Clarke’s story and unearthing much of her music, most of which remains to be analysed; happily, this volume marks a new chapter in the championing of Clarke’s cause (see also Chapters 3 (Forkert) and 4 (Fleet) in this book). Worse, her achievements were mischaracterized: Walter Willson Cobbett’s eminent Cyclopedic Survey of Chamber Music, to which Clarke herself contributed entries, brands the Viola Sonata ‘atonal’ (Evans, 1929, p. 282) –​an error we can perhaps fathom (through a metatonal lens) by remembering that ‘atonal’ is more polysemous and historically contingent than we might care to assume, and by seeking to understand and ‘recapture’ the disorientating effect of Clarke’s episodic tonal structures.7 In the sonata’s opening movement (Impetuoso), for example, E4 underpins a 12-​bar-​long modal melody whose prominent bugle-​like motif, an A-​E-​A fifth, immediately ambiguates the tonality: E-​dorian and A-​mixolydian share pitch content, and we soon learn that modality is one of several types of tonality Clarke will employ. The impressionistic Poco agitato (bar 13) that follows the introduction is harmonically sequential (Example 11.1), unfurling extended chords connected by diminished motion in the bass (i.e. minor-​third symmetry around F) and by the augmented triads that these chords’ minor sevenths, ninths, and raised-​elevenths twice produce. The passage bears little relation to its E-​minor key signature; Clarke eventually drops the key signature altogether, albeit only for the outer sections of the Adagio finale.

Musicology, mediation, metatonality  235

Example 11.1  Rebecca Clarke’s Sonata for Viola and Piano (1918–​19), harmonic sequence starting at bar 13. Source: Author.

The broader connection here is between the two suspended chords –​a perspective that can be extended to account for the second thematic area (Poco meno mosso), which begins with a G-​major triad in bar 39. Indeed, Curtis cites bar 31 as a dominant preparation (Curtis, 1996: p. 394); the question, analytically, is one of emphasis, in that to identify a cycle of fifths (E-​A-​D-​G) is to risk downplaying the aural significance of those chords’ extensions as well as the local significance of the A♭ evident in Example 11.1 and again in bars 324 and 332 (latterly as an aurally important whole-​tone pivot from D). Besides, the Poco meno mosso is itself tonally unstable, unfurling a fragile G-​ major/​-​diminished clash that has attracted attention before for its octatonic implications (p. 396). The same section introduces further tonal ideas whose structural importance becomes apparent only much later. Bar 98, for example, signals a stark mood-​shift, offering respite from the rapid-​fire development it follows as the sonata’s principal theme makes its return. But the music is disquieted by a static, extended augmented sixth chord (bars 98–​101),8 a version of which we first hear in bar 33. Neither chord is easy to explain from a traditional and, in reference to our first fact in this chapter, privileged tonal perspective. The first is a (German) augmented sixth (E♭-​G-​B♭-​C♯) that underpins and dovetails with the right hand’s voices, which prolong a remnant of the passage’s major/​diminished idea, but which also form an octatonic pentachord (G-​ A♯/​B♭-​B♮-​C♯-​D) above E♭. The second augmented sixth is even more ambiguous: it combines the familiar theme (and A-​E-​A motif) with B♭, G♯ and D in the bass –​the melody’s repeated E makes this a French sixth –​such that the music contrives to sound melodically modal, harmonically whole-​tone-​influenced (B♭-​D-​E-​ G♯), and bitonally derived. To understand the third part of this claim, it is necessary to observe how A’s chromatic neighbours are isolated in the chord’s spacing to help emphasize the B♭ centricity (i.e. the modal melody ‘versus’ the

236  Chris Dromey bass pedal, with the texture pared down to a B flat ‘7’ trichord in bar 101), and how the Vivace movement’s second theme deploys a further paired-​tritone, augmented-​sixth-​based idea in a more overtly bitonal fashion, stacking E♭ and A major arpeggios from bar 574. For all the Viola Sonata’s tonal intrigue, it is important not to fall into the historiographical trap of valorizing Clarke, or any composer, solely for ‘progressive’ musical qualities, or indeed to search for and laud ‘vestiges’ of tonality for being singularly progressive. Indeed, the challenge of analysing modernist tonal music, and of understanding the consequences of that analysis for modernism itself, has been a notable feature in recent musicology (Grimley, 2010; Harrison, 2016; Borstlap, 2017), and is advanced by this volume’s positing of metatonality. Accordingly, the second of Clarke’s works to be examined is Ave Maria (1937), her first choral work to be published, as late as 1998. If there is a model at play here, it is the sixteenth-​century motet, however Ave Maria’s approach to tonality elevates it far beyond pastiche. Nor does it yield easily to conventional analysis, despite the fact it is tonal and employs none of the Viola Sonata’s extended harmonies. No less beautiful or interesting, Ave Maria adopts an altogether different tonal strategy, setting out as though to maximize the potency of an exclusively triadic palette. It achieves this within, and in tandem with, an upper-​voice texture (SSA) and serene stop-​start phrasing, such that 16 different tonal centres are traversed in just 42 bars. The piece is short enough to map these centres and to explain the idiosyncratic way in which they progress (see Example 11.2). Bar 1 43-​4 7 8 10 15 16 18 20 22 28 29 31 32 373 374 40 42

a G A C a F D

=​ i ♮ VII I# ♮ III I ♮ VI IV

B​♭ C c c# g# d F D G a A

♭​ II III iii #iii[#5] #vii[#5] iv ♮ VI iv ♮ VII i I#

i-​♭II-​i-​V4-​#3-​i3 (cadential 64) perfect cadence minor plagal cadence ( ) annuls I# ♮VI-​i [of a] ii-​I-​​♭VII-​ii-​I [of F], ending ‘…tui,’’ ♭​ II-​iv-​♮III-​I [of D], ‘…tui,’Jesus.’ annuls D, suggests V-​III#-​I [of B​♭] ♭​ VII-​IV4-​3-​i-​ii-​I [of C] […] i-​V♭​ 3-​iv-​V♮3[of c]( ) A​♭ respelt G#: V3-​i [of c#] minor plagal cadence ( ) V3-​i [of d], clarifying G♮-​G#-​A voice-​leading perfect cadence, trailed by iii6-​I III-​​♭II-​i-​♮VII-​i, all in first inversion v-​iv-​v-​I ♮VII-​v-​♮VI-​V-​i-​ ♭​ II-​i-​V4-​#3-​I# (cadential 64) ( )

Example 11.2 Clarke, Ave Maria’s tonal centres Source: Author.

Musicology, mediation, metatonality  237

Most (nine) of A minor’s chromatic scale-​steps are visited –​I/​I♯, ♭II, III, ♯iii[♯5], iv, IV, ♯ VI, ♯ VII, and ♯vii[♯5] –​but never the dominant. Instead, the key centres are evidently diverse and highly fluid. Ave Maria includes multiple cadences –​another contrast with the Viola Sonata –​albeit rarely as unambiguously as in the opening phrase, which segues to G major, via a Neapolitan idea that will recur, then back to A (major).9 The absence of the dominant as a tonal centre is partly explained by the thirds-​related scheme that characterizes the next section. C major ‘annuls’ A and initiates a pattern whose taxonomy (C-​a-​F-​D-​B♭) is much clearer than its function, in that the abrupt introduction of D (bar 16, after a musical and textual comma), coupled with Clarke’s next tonal cancellation (B♭, two bars later), begs questions as to which, if any, tonal centre will prevail. Ave Maria, then, is tonal but creatively ambivalent, dwelling on each key centre equally and, usually, fleetingly. The music is therefore open to an unusual degree of interpretation: in the thirds-​related sequence cited, is it as logical to relate F to B flat, with D a tonal and phrasal ‘interloper’, as it is to connect A minor and D major, signalling an unusual but aurally unmistakeable ♭ II-​iv-​♮III-​I cadence. Lurking behind both associations is the largely tacit influence of G, a symmetry-​giving dominant pole of A minor elsewhere (bars 43-​4 and 374), and a key that is recast as an orthodox dominant once C minor arrives and is belatedly confirmed. A protracted Phrygian cadence achieves this, but only after C major has been briefly tonicized, in a further play on major/​minor tensions. The purpose of G’s influence is disclosed by the penultimate section (from bar 28), where chromatic voice-​leading (G♮-​G♯-​A) binds a tonal and phrasal sequence that, again, is otherwise fragmentary and fluid. Turning now to Schulhoff, it is curious that appreciation of his output has rightly acknowledged his stylistic eclecticism, yet so rarely examined his approach to tonality. In part, this is understandable; chameleonic composers, content to work in and absorb different musical styles, commonly baffle musicologists, teachers, and the public alike. This helps explains why Schulhoff has been described as having had an ‘almost too prolific gift for composition’ (Black, 1995, p. 231), or that ‘he searched for himself and for a home in multiple genres’ (Jones, 2018, p. 31), that is, positing and amplifying the possibility of aesthetic problems, rather than creative satisfaction. Schulhoff wrote the Duo for Violin and Cello (1925) at a time when his fortunes were at a high: he had more works accepted for publication by Universal Edition than any other composer in late 1920s (Black, 1995, p. 230). Its opening movement (Moderato) is immediately striking for its mixture of diatonic (pentatonic and triadic) and chromatic (atonal and octatonic) ideas, producing music which, to borrow Anthony Pople’s phrase (on Alban Berg), ‘the word ‘atonal’ seems inapplicable, and yet which cannot easily be held up as exemplifying ‘tonality’ either’ (Pople, 2004, p. 153). Both the metatonal context and the ‘ingredients’ Schulhoff shares with Clarke are therefore similar, and their effect is sometimes comparable. But, to explore Pople’s conundrum

238  Chris Dromey further, the creative inconsistencies of Schulhoff’s approach to tonality set the Duo apart. In each of its movements except the second-​movement ‘Zingaresca’, stable tonal passages are subservient to their atonal development. (In ‘Zingaresca’, where C-​mixolydian is prominent, the opposite is true, ironically so given it is the only movement not to make use of the Duo’s principal theme, which begins pentatonically.) Yet, because tonal passages frame the first, third, and final movements, this balance is much clearer audibly than it is during score-​based analysis. A similar ploy of ambiguation propels the whole of the Moderato, whose contrapuntal lines Schulhoff traps in a perpetual conflict between tonal centricity and motivically ‘stretched’ elaboration. Centricity, moreover, is frustrated at most turns: the pentatonic violin points to D, the minor pentatonic cello to G, and the next most stable passage (Allegretto, bar 16ff.) unfurls four two-​bar iterations of a melody centred around E. Yet, this passage is heavily (and octatonically) embellished, and is recontextualized by the cello’s idiomatic spread triads. This idea recurs in the third-​movement Andantino, where the structural significance of comparably extended chords is just as clear, e.g. bars 39–​40 comprise C♯117, anticipating the finale’s C-​lydian conclusion. The interplay and distinction between violin and cello create something akin to an instrumental theatre, which the movement’s episodic structure serves to enhance: triadic rhetoric is deployed more transparently at the movement’s diatonic midpoint (Tranquillo, bars 43ff.), and the instruments finally ‘agree’ as they join to voice false harmonics in the pentatonic conclusion (bars 83–​86). An even clearer example of how Schulhoff’s generic and tonal allusions interrelate is provided by his series of ‘ten syncopated studies’ for piano, collectively titled Hot Music (1928). Strategically placed, the virtuosic outer movements lodge manic mono-​rhythms in their listeners’ minds, and while the impression is resolutely atonal –​the only ‘melody’ to emerge from either study is a chromatic scalic fragment (Study I, bars 5–​8) –​both studies end with aberrant, witty tonal allusions: an F7 chord and a D9-​Gm7 cadence respectively. The prevalence of perfect fifths elsewhere in the texture also complicates any unambiguously atonal reading. The connection of these intervals by chromatic and occasional whole-​tone motion in the opening study produces a very different effect to when they are connected by minor thirds in the last, allowing the final study to be understood as beginning and recapitulating in E. The true extent and nature of this understanding begs questions that hark back to twentieth-​century analysts’ struggles to rationalize linear and harmonic structures in music lacking obvious tonal orientation (e.g. Pearsall, 1991; Baker, 1993; Whittall, 2001 –​we should also remember the first theorists to spread the Schenkerian gospel, Adele Katz (1945 [1972]) and Felix Salzer (1962), who accepted the structuralist, quasi-​scientific basis of Schenker’s ideas but interpreted them more liberally to accommodate modal and post-​ tonal music). Hot Music similarly resists easy classification: the significance of rhythm, and of rapid harmonic rhythms, cannot be decoupled from the music’s

Musicology, mediation, metatonality  239 use of tonality.10 Schulhoff’s play on genre reinforces the highly reflexive effect: a (parody?) waltz in Study VI, ending teasingly on G116 ; another perpetuum mobile in Study IX, but now hybridized by a rag, whose ‘vertically’ logical harmonies acquiesce to the relentless syncopation of the propelling cells above; and a bluesy, modernist habanera in Study III, where a C♯ tonality is strengthened by the music’s relatively slow harmonic rhythm, weakened by the separating-​out in the texture of chords that extend and distort that tonality (e.g. C♯♮9/​11, thereby also referencing D7, and joined by F-​B ♭-​E natural), and then stabilized again by the structural use of less extended chords (Emaj7 from bar 6 and 22, C7 from bar 12). A reflexive approach persists in Study V, which is the most consonant-​ sounding study because of its static, parallel fifths-​based melody. Quadruple-​ metred and transparently ‘quint-​tonal’ (Schuhardt, 2019: pp. 117/​206), this right-​hand melody is heard above a triple-​time figure that begins on C79​ but soon rotates around A79 and E ♭79. The intervallic pattern 0-​2-​4, configured 0-​ 11-​13, is transposed eight times until bar 8, when A79 gives way to A♭7 and then to G117, whose C♯ is both a Lydian fourth and major third beneath the melody’s A-​E fifth. If this double function suggests a bitonal impulse, then this is in keeping with the study’s cross-​rhythmic context and the distinct tonalities of each hand. Yet, this is not clear-​cut: of all of tonality’s prefixes listed earlier, ‘bi’-​tonality is often decried as being the least legitimate because of the impossibility of sustaining two operational key centres simultaneously; Schulhoff’s 9 extended chords here, including his E67 ending, bear that out. Nevertheless, Hot Music reminds us that ‘tonality’ and ‘atonality’ can imply much more than the presence or absence of a solitary referential key centre. The inescapable, if counter-​intuitive, inference is that Hot Music’s allusiveness and reflexivity serve to make it both tonal and atonal, i.e. ‘with and after’ tonality. This chapter has chronicled and critiqued several mediative challenges that music faces today, and has demonstrated how music by Rebecca Clarke and Erwin Schulhoff broadens our understanding of the ways in which tonal schemes can be deployed. These two areas of study might not ordinarily belong together, but their adjacency allows us to address a final issue: whether analytical findings carry an obligation to reassess not only tonality, but also musicological purpose. A metatonal approach, by definition driven to generate new knowledge and to modernize analytical perspectives, would surely advocate so. Going further, it follows that a mode of musicology that is more inclusive, less delimited than traditionally defined and practised, and able to embrace not only new interpretations and discoveries but also new narratives, is close in spirit to the state of self-​renewal implied by metatonality. There are, admittedly, pragmatic and ideological difficulties with this suggestion, but they are surmountable. Whereas musicology at large can struggle to effect change, much less ‘enact’ inclusivity, musicological practice that is public-​oriented is more intrinsically responsive to social and educational developments. Even the act of focussing on mediative issues –​an act that may once have been

240  Chris Dromey branded insufficiently musicological to belong to the discipline –​is readily compatible with the sort of analytical subjectivity we have witnessed in parts of Clarke and Schulhoff’s music. Content to acknowledge this elusiveness, metatonality and musicology, be it public or analytical, are here as one. Some readers may nevertheless be uneasy about the potential blurring of analytical and public musicologies, or about the need to treasure, or at least not to devalue, hard-​won knowledge. Yet, it is possible, and highly desirable for the future of classical music, to protect knowledge and its acquisition without straying into protectionist behaviours. That much of Clarke and Schulhoff’s music remains inaccessible, even today, only underlines the musicological imperative to appreciate not only how such composers influenced their eras, but also how they might guide ours.

Notes 1 Bryan Simms (1975) describes how tonalité became engrained in nineteenth-​century musical discourse, having been conceptualized by Alexandre-​Étienne Choron (Sommaire de l’histoire de la musique, 1810) and developed by the Belgian musicologist François-​Joseph Fétis, whose subsequent writings on the subject have recently been reassessed (Christensen, 2019). While Fétis can be credited with theorizing and popularizing tonalité, both musicologists noticed the ‘gravitational’ tritone (which Fétis branded a ‘minor fifth’) and both employed such intervals historiographically, to connote and critique stylistic differences. 2 ‘More and more of our audience are single ticket-​buyers, [so] we’ve chosen to gravitate toward the ‘stories’ behind the music, that aren’t so musicological. It’s our job as arts administrators to fill in knowledge gaps… [else] we perpetuate the idea that arts organisations are for the few.’ Aubrey Bergauer (California Symphony), interview with the author, 23 March 2019. 3 The full list is: ‘pitch, duration, dynamics, tempo, timbre, texture, structure and appropriate musical notations’. That texture is regarded as a fundamental dimension is particularly interesting. It was defined, albeit later (in 1999), in a neutral way (the ‘different ways sounds are combined’) that arguably made any explicit reference to harmony seem superfluous. This was also a legacy of the original National Curriculum, which defined texture in a gradated and polysemous way, from ‘one sound [or] several sounds’ (Key Stage 1) to ‘melody, accompaniment, polyphony’ (KS2), and adding ‘solo [textures, and] density of instrumentation’ to this definition at KS3. Harmony and tonality were again implicit, even if, at the same level of learning, harmonic rhythm was referenced alongside ‘pace’, i.e. ‘rapidity of change [of pace], e.g. of harmony’ (DES, 1992). 4 Across all Key Stages, Music’s current programmes of study begin with the well-​ meant but needlessly hierarchical statement: ‘Music is a universal language that embodies one of the highest forms of creativity.’ 5 That is, music pedagogy is susceptible to an unusually high degree of variance and inequity because it is the responsibility of multiple agents, including classroom teachers, music co-​ordinators, and peripatetic teachers, across multiple arenas, e.g. whole-​class ensemble tuition and other music lessons in the classroom, and, for those that choose and can afford to progress beyond WCET, one-​to-​one or group

Musicology, mediation, metatonality  241 instrumental tuition in schools and/​or at centres run by music hubs and similar organizations. 6 Two such examples are: ‘Music is tonal when its motion unfolds through time a particular tone, interval, or chord. It is this tone, interval, or chord, called the tonic, which identifies the tonality.’ (Travis, 1959, p. 261); ‘One might call tonality any method of setting up recognizable relationship between musical elements’ (Krenek, 1940, vii). 7 Notably, Clarke’s Piano Trio (1921) would be criticised for lacking ‘consistency of style’ (anonymous Times review, 1922, quoted in Jones, 2004, p. 295). 8 Curtis misidentifies this chord as a G♯-​diminished triad beneath A and E (p. 395). 9 Incidentally, bar 1 also exemplifies the aforementioned argument over how to label certain second-​inversion chords, i.e. Ic, after ABRSM, or V64, accounting for contrapuntal-​harmonic context, in that both are plausible: the second-​inversion B flat cannot be labelled VI64, for it chromatically neighbours the subsequent chord, a second-​inversion A minor that can be labelled V64, as it resolves to E4-​♯3 (the complete progression, disregarding inversions, is given in Example 11.2, row 1, col. 3). 10 Schulhoff’s aphoristic call in the late 1910s for music to be freed from ‘the imperialism of tonalities and rhythms’ is salient (Black, 1955, p. 231).

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Musicology, mediation, metatonality  243 Travis, Roy (1959). Towards a new concept of tonality? Journal of Music Theory, 3: 2, 257–​ 284. Welch, Graham (2001). The Misunderstanding of Music. London: Institute of Education. Whitesell, Lloyd (2010). Twentieth-​century tonality, or, breaking up is hard to do. In: The Pleasure of Modernist Music: Listening, Meaning, Intention, Ideology, ed. Arved Mark Ashby. Rochester, NY: University of Rochester Press, pp. 103–​120. Whittall, Arnold (2001). Plotting the path, prolonging the moment: Kurtág’s settings of German, Contemporary Music Review, 20, 89–​107. Zeserson, Katherine, Graham Welch, Sarah Burn, Jo Saunders, and Evangelos Himondes (2014). Inspiring Music for All: Next Steps in Innovation, Improvement and Integration (Paul Hamlyn Foundation Review of Music in Schools). London and Gateshead: Paul Hamlyn Foundation and Sage Gateshead.

Index

Agawu, K. 2 Alkan, C.-​V. 25–​26 Allegro (Čiurlionis) 108 Amis, J. 36 Andante (Čiurlionis) 108 Andriušyte, R. 109 Angeleri, A. 128 A. N. Scriabin House Museum 212 Apollon (Čiurlionis) 108 Arlecchino, BV 270 (Busoni) 142 Art of Fugue, The (Bach) 164 Assay, M. 89 atonality 166–​168, 216 Ave Maria (Clarke) 236–​237 Bach, J. S. 59; The Art of Fugue 164; Busoni’s early exposure to music of 126–​129; long term influence on Busoni 142–​144, 164–​165; and metatonality in Busoni’s early composition 129–​142; Wohltermperierte Klavier 151–​152 Bagatelles for String Quartet, op. 9 (Webern) 153 Bagatelle Without Tonality (Liszt) 166 Baker, J. 206–​208 Bakst, L. 107 Ballade No. 2 in F major (Chopin) 19 Ballade No. 4 in F minor (Chopin) 25 Bax, A. 36, 38 Beach, A. 75 Beaumont, A. 151, 162–​163, 165, 166, 169, 177 Beethoven, L. van 127, 161; Ninth Symphony 15 Behrend, W. 89 Bekker, P. 5, 182 Benois, A. 107 Berceuse Elegiaque (Busoni) 164

Berceuse sur le nom de Gabriel Fauré (Ravel) 112 Berger, M. 182, 195 Berlioz, L.-​H. 119 Bertoglio, C. 127, 128 ‘Besacas’ Variations VL 265 (Čiurlionis) 111–​112, 113 Bix, E. 127, 128–​129 Blavatsky, H. 210, 212–​213 Bloch, E. 41 Borges, J. L. 153, 162, 169 Bossi, M. E. 142 Boulez, P. 11–​13, 16 Bourgogne (Varèse) 17 Bowlt, J. 121 Brahms, J. 21–​22, 143 bricolage in music 39–​41; diatonic-​ chromatic 44–​48; microtonal-​modal 48–​50; quartal-​octatonic 41–​44 Bridge, F. 6, 41; diatonic-​chromatic bricolage 44–​48 British early-​twentieth-​century music 33–​51; Arnold Schoenberg and 35–​39; Cyril Scott and 6, 33–​35, 37; diatonic-​ chromatic bricolage in 44–​48; emergence of bricolage in 39–​41; English Musical Renaissance 35, 40; microtonal-​modal bricolage in 48–​50; quartal-​octatonic bricolage in 41–​44 Bülow, H. von 127 Busoni, F. 5, 6, 14, 58, 122; Arlecchino, BV 270 142; atonality and 166–​168; Berceuse Elegiaque 164; Chaconne 154–​155, 164; childhood works of 132–​133; Contrapunctus XIV 164–​165; Die Brautwahl 152–​153, 161, 170; as divisive figure 151; Doktor Faust, BV 303 142, 154, 158, 161, 162–​166; Drei Albumblatter 166, 174–​177; early

Index  245 exposure to music of Bach 126–​129; Fantasia Contrappuntistica, BV 256 55–​57, 142, 158, 163, 164–​165; Fantasia nach Bach, BV 253 126, 164; Fantasia sull’opera ‘La forza del destino,’ op. 1 142; Feda a Bach, Op. 62 142; freedom in music and 150–​154; Fuga a 2 voci in stile libero 130–​132; gnosis and 178–​179; influence of Bach on 126–​144, 164–​165; Invenzione 134; Kaikhosru Shapurji Sorabji and 14–​15; Klavierubung 166, 177–​178; Macchietta medioevali, BV 194 139–​140; metatonality of 129–​142; Piano Concerto, Op. 39 155–​160; pianoforte and 154–​162; Prelude et Etude en Arpeges 166; Racconti Fantastici, BV 100 135–​136, 163; Sketch of a New Aesthetic of Music 129, 150, 178; Sonata No. 2 in E minor 25; Sonatina in Diem Nativitatis Christi MCMXVII 166, 173–​174; Sonatina seconda 160–​161, 166–​170; Sonatina Super Carmen 166; Song of Hiawatha, Op. 30 152–​153; spiritual transcendence and 179; study with Wilhelm Mayer 137–​138; Toccata 161, 166, 170–​173; transcendence and later piano works 150–​179; Variationen und Fuge in freier Form über Fr. Chopin’s C moll Präludium 140–​141; Violin Sonata No. 2, BV 244 142; widening gap in music and 153–​154 Butler, C. 1 Cage, J. 12 Carl Nielsen and the Idea of Modernism 91 Carl Nielsen: Symphonist 91 Carter, E. 15 Cavern of Stellenfoll, The 163 Cello Sonata (Clarke) 44–​48 Cello Sonata (Foulds) 48–​50 Cesi, B. 128 Chaconne (Busoni) 154–​155, 164 Chamber Symphony No. 1 (Schoenberg) 42 Chatterley, A. 58 Chochoły-​Planty nocą (Wyspiański) 109 Chopin, F. 15, 19–​20, 140; Ballade No. 2 in F major 19; Ballade No. 4 in F minor 25; contemporary views on work of 28–​29; Melodia 27–​28

chromatic tradition 4, 167 Chudovsky, V. 108 Čiurlionis, M. K. 6, 106–​123; art of 108–​110, 121–​122; ‘Besacas’ Variations VL 265 111–​112, 113; biographical information on 106–​107; Fughetta VL 316 117; Fugue in B flat minor VL 345 114–​115; Fugue VL 337 120; octatonicism and 117–​121; Pater Noster VL 260 114; Prelude VL 256 114; Prelude VL 300 118–​119; Prelude VL 302 119–​120; Prelude VL 319 115–​116; Prelude VL 331 116; Prelude VL 343 120–​121; The Sea 112–​113; ‘Sefaa Esec’ Variations VL 258 112; three periods of music of 110–​111 Clark, E. 35 Clarke, R. 6, 40, 239–​240; Ave Maria 236–​237; quartal-​octatonic bricolage 41–​44; Sonata for Viola and Piano 234–​236; suffering of 230; ‘The Seal Man’ 62, 68–​74 Clementi, M. 127 Cobbett, W. 234 Cohn, R. 188 Coleridge-​Taylor, S. 152–​153 Collins, S. 39 Common Practice 2–​4, 54, 56–​57 Concerto for Orchestra: Completion and Realisation of Busoni’s Fantasia Contrappuntistica 165 Contrapunctus XIV (Busoni) 164–​165 Corelli, A. 127 Couling, D. 152, 168 Cramer, J. B. 127 Creation of the World (Čiurlionis) 110 creativity, compositional 7–​9, 11; composer’s view of 15–​16; compositional pull of tonality in 30–​31; through its composers 11–​15; through its music 16–​30; understandings of tonality in education on 232–​234 Crispin, J. 162, 178 Cyclopedic Survey of Chamber Music 234 Dam, A. E. 90 Das Rheingold (Wagner) 17 Das Spielwerk und die Prinzessin (Schreker) 182, 184, 187–​188 Daunoravičiene, G. 107 Deaux Arabesques (Debussy) 143 Debussy, C. 119, 122, 143

246 Index Dent, E. J. 150, 163, 169–​170 Dernova, V. 207–​209, 214–​215 Der Ring des Nibelungen (Wagner) 17 Der Schatzgräber (Schreker) 182, 186, 187–​188 diatonic-​chromatic bricolage 44–​48 diatonic refraction see Schreker, F. Diatonic Study (Scott) 33–​34, 39 Die Brautwahl (Busoni) 152–​153, 161, 170 Die Ferne Klang (Schreker) 182, 185–​186 Die Gezeichneten (Schreker) 182, 186, 187–​188; Klangmusik in 188–​194 Die Walküre (Wagner) 27 Dobuzhinskii, M. 107, 122–​123 Doktor Faust, BV 303 (Busoni) 142, 154, 158, 161, 162–​166 Drei Albumblatter (Busoni) 166, 174–​177 Drei Klavierstucke (Schoenberg) 167 Driesch, H. 87 Dromey, C. 41 Duo for Violin and Cello (Schulhoff) 237–​238 Dussek, J. L. 127 Dutilleux, H. 12 Eaglefield Hull, A. 38–​39 Elektra (Strauss) 16 Eller, H. 122 English Musical Renaissance 35, 40 Entartung (Nordau) 85, 87 Etudes (Liszt) 152 Evans, E. 46–​47 Fairy Tale (Čiurlionis) 109 Fanning, D. 88, 89, 90, 97 Fantasia Contrappuntistica, BV 256 (Busoni) 55–​57, 126, 142, 158, 163, 164–​165 Fantasia nach Bach, BV 253 (Busoni) 126, 164 Fantasia sull’opera ‘La forza del destino,’ op. 1 (Busoni) 142 Farben (Schoenberg) 18 Fauré 112 Faust Symphony, A (Liszt) 21 Feda a Bach, Op. 62 (Busoni) 142 Fenaroli, F. 127 Field, J. 28 Fifth Symphony (Nielsen) 94–​95, 97–​101 Finale (Fugue) (Čiurlionis) 108 First Symphony (Nielsen) 91, 92–​93 Fischhof, J. 129

Five Orchestral Pieces (Schoenberg) 36 Fjeldsøe, M. 87, 90, 93, 97 Fleet, P. 129–​130 Forte, A. 5 Foulds, J. 6, 37–​38, 39, 41; microtonal-​ modal bricolage 48–​50 Fourth Symphony (Nielsen) 91, 94–​97 Franklin, P. 182, 197 Friedman, M. L. 119 Fuga a 2 voci in stile libero (Busoni) 130–​132 Fughetta VL 316 (Čiurlionis) 117 Fugue in B flat minor VL 345 (Čiurlionis) 114–​115 Fugue VL 337 (Čiurlionis) 120 Gade, N. 85 Galeev, B. 213 Gawboy, A. 214 Gazzetta Musicale Milanese 127 gnosis 178–​179 Gostautas, S. 108 Grainger, P. 6, 37, 62; ‘Pastoral’ for piano 62–​68 Grand Duo Concertante (Alkan) 25–​26 Greenfeld, L. 122 Grimley, D. M. 91, 93 Grohmann, W. 108 Guenther, R. 209 Gurrelieder (Schoenberg) 15, 16, 17 Habert, J. E. 135 Hadow, W. H. 28 harmonic chromaticism 16 Harmony for a New Miillennium: An Introduction to Metatonal Music 5 Harper-​Scott, J. P. E. 102 Harrison, D. 6, 62, 183 Hawking 153–​154 Haydn, F. J. 127 Heckert, D. 36 Heseltine, P. 36 hexatonics 189–​195 Hillier, B. 57, 82 History and Theory of Vitalism, The 87 Hoffmann, E. T. A. 152 Holbrooke, J. 35 Holm-​Hudson, K. 107 Hot Music (Schulhoff) 238–​239 Howe, M. 6, 62; Sand 75–​81 Hughes, M. 35 Hull, A. E. 37 Husserl, E. 58

Index  247 Ibsen, H. 87 Immovable Do (Grainger) 62 Impetuoso-​poco agitato (Clarke) 41 impressionism 86 In a Nutshell (Grainger) 37, 62 Intermezzo in B minor (Brahms) 21–​22 Invenzione (Busoni) 134 Is the Symphony Dead? 31 Ivanov, V. 121, 209 Ives, C. 41 Jackendoff, R. 58 Jarnach, P. 162 Jensen, J. 90 Johnson, B. 161 Jurjāns, A. 122 Kammersymphonie (Schreker) 195–​202; development section 200; opening of 197–​199; recapitulation and coda 200–​201; two-​dimensional form of 195–​196 Kammersymphonie No. 1 in E major (Schoenberg) 23–​24 Kandinsky, N. 108 Kant, I. 87 Katz, A. 238 Keller, H. 36 Kjerulf, A. 89 Klangmusik 188–​194 Klavierubung (Busoni) 166, 177–​178 Kleppinger, S. 5 Knight Prelude, The (Čiurlionis) 109 Knockaert, Y. 5–​6 Knudsen, H. 90 Knussen, O. 15 Knyt, E. 151 Kogan, G. 150, 154 Krebs, H. 102 Krebs, W. 184 Kreek, C. 122 Krzyzanowski, K. 108 Kučinskas, D. 107, 120 Kymantaite, S. 106–​107 Ladson-​Billings, G. 8 Lambert, C. 38 Landsberg, L. 128 Landsbergis, V. 107, 117 Landscape (Čiurlionis) 109 Lark Ascending, The (Vaughan Williams) 43 L’arte antica e moderna 127

Leipzig School 85 leitmotif 87 Lerdahl, F. 58, 187 Le Sacre du Printemps (Stravinsky) 15, 17, 26, 27 Leskiewicz, S. 112 Lévi-​Strauss, C. 39–​40, 47 L’histoire du soldat (Stravinsky) 35 Library of Babel (Borges) 169 Liszt, F. 17–​18, 21, 23, 151; Bagatelle Without Tonality 166; Etudes 152; Mephisto Waltzes 24, 166 l’Oiseau de feu (Stravinsky) 15 Loos, A. 8–​9 Lucca of Milan 127 Macchietta medioevali, BV 194 (Busoni) 139–​140 Mahler, G. 16, 100–​101, 143; Symphony No. 7 24; Symphony No. 10 21 Makovsky, K. 107 Marlowe, C. 162 Martini, G. B. 127 Martini, Padre 128 Martucci, G. 142 Marx, A. B. 214 Masefield, J. 62, 68 Mattei, S. 127 Matthews, C. 15 Matthews, D. 15 Mayer, W. 137–​138 Mayr, G. S. 128 Melodia (Chopin) 27–​28 Mengelberg, W. 151 Menuet sur le nom d’Haydn (Fauré) 112 Mephisto Waltzes (Liszt) 24, 166 Metatonal Closure 3 metatonality 6–​7; of Busoni 129–​142; of Schreker 184 metatonal music 5–​6; British (see British early-​twentieth-​century music); Fantasia Contrappuntistica 55–​57; revealing the architecture of 81–​82; space and structure in (see space and structure in metatonal musics); Temporal Intentionality Graphs (TIG) 57, 58–​82 Metodo teorico-​pratico per lo studio dell’organo 142 Mettinger, T. 163 microtonal-​modal bricolage 48–​50 Min Fynske Barndom (Nielsen) 86, 89 Minuet in G 59, 59–​60

248 Index Młoda Polska [Young Poland] movement 108, 109, 122 Modern Harmony: Its Explanation and Application 38 Monahan, S. 100 Morel, B. A. 86–​87 Moroney, D. 165 Moscheles, I. 28 Mozart, W. A. 127 Murdock, M. 232 music: absence of tonality from public discourse about music 229–​233; with versus after tonality 1–​4; broadcasters’ decision-​making about 230–​231; limitations of discussions of tonality in 231–​232; new term for turn of the twentieth century 4–​7; orthodoxy and freedom in 150–​154; value of mining the gap in continuity of 7–​9 Musical Standard, The 36 Music Ho! 38 Music & Letters 36 Music Theory Examples by Women 232 Music To-​Day 37–​38 Mysterium (Scriabin) 210 mystic chord 25 Nation and Classical Music 35 neo-​tonal/​neoclassical music 5, 183 Neuwirth, G. 195 New Age, The 15 ‘New English Music’ 63 Newman, R. 35 New Theory On Time Indicates Present and Future Exist Simultaneously, A 14 Nielsen, C. 6, 85–​103; Fifth Symphony 94–​95, 97–​101; First Symphony 91, 92–​93; Fourth Symphony 91, 92, 94–​97; on harmonic series in his compositional process 90–​91; imperfect authentic cadence (IAC) used by 95–​97; Min Fynske Barndom 86, 89; ‘Musical Problems’ 88–​89; Sixth Symphony 101–​102; Symphonic Suite for piano 92, 94; Third Symphony 88, 92, 94–​95; on Wagner 85, 87–​88 Nietzsche, F. 87, 122 Nocturne in B major 19 Nocturne: Warsaw Droshky on a Rainy Night (Pankiewicz) 110 Nordau, M. S. 85, 87–​88, 102–​103 Nunokawa, Y. 121

octatonicism 117–​121 Ogdon, J. 15 Oginski, M. 106 Ornstein, L. 6; Sonata for violin and piano 29–​30; Sonata No. 1 for cello and piano 30 Ossa Arida (Liszt) 23 Pace, I. 154 pan-​tonal music 5 Parsell, B. 232 ‘Pastoral’ for piano (Grainger) 62–​68 Pater Noster VL 260 (Čiurlionis) 114 Pelleas und Melisande (Schoenberg) 20, 26–​27 Penderecki, K. 29 Perle, G. 117–​118, 166–​167 Pērle, R. 110 Petzold, C. 59 Philosophy of Modernism-​Its Connection with Music, The 37 Piano Concerto, Op. 39 (Busoni) 155–​160 Piano Trio (Chopin) 20 Pierluigi da Palestrina, G. 127 pitch-​centric music 5 Politiken 89 Pople, A. 5, 237–​238 post-​tonal music 5, 49 Povilionine, R. 107 Prelude et Etude en Arpeges (Busoni) 166 Prelude in C Minor, Op. 28 (Chopin) 140 Prelude Op. 74 (Skryabin) 118 Prelude VL 256 (Čiurlionis) 114 Prelude VL 300 (Čiurlionis) 118–​119 Prelude VL 302 (Čiurlionis) 119–​120 Prelude VL 319 (Čiurlionis) 115–​116 Prelude VL 331 (Čiurlionis) 116 Prelude VL 343 (Čiurlionis) 120–​121 Prometheus (Scriabin) 210–​211, 214 Purday, C. H. 231 Puritan tunes 48–​49 quartal harmony 23–​24 quartal-​octatonic bricolage 41–​44 Quattro Pezzi Sacri (Verdi) 119 Rabe, J. 90–​91 Racconti Fantastici, BV 100 (Busoni) 135–​136, 163 Raigardas (Čiurlionis) 109

Index  249 Rannit, A. 108 Ravel, M. 15, 122; Berceuse sur le nom de Gabriel Fauré 112 Rayborn, T. 63 realism 86; of Čiurlionis’ art 108 Reger, M. 143 Reinecke, C. 106 Remy, M. 170 Rémy, W. A. 138 ressentiment 122 Rex (Čiurlionis) 108 Reynolds, A. 86 Rihm, W. 183 Riley, M. 35 Rimsky-​Korsakov 118, 122 Rite of Spring (Stravinsky) 168 Rochberg, G. 29 romanticism 87 Roosevelt, E. 75 Ross, A. 12 Rossini, G. 127 Roussel, A. 15 Ruszczyc, F. 108 Sabaneev, L. 209, 210–​211 Šalkauskis, S. 121 Salome (Strauss) 16, 27 Salzer, F. 238 Sand (Howe) 75–​81 Sandke, R. 5–​6 Savage Mind, The 39 Schenker, H. 56, 91, 93, 95–​97 Scherzo (Čiurlionis) 108 Schmalfeldt, J. 91 Schnabel, A. 151 Schoenberg, A. 5, 12, 13, 152; British early-​twentieth-​century music and 35–​39; Chamber Symphony No. 1 42; criticisms of 36–​39; Drei Klavierstucke 167; Eaglefield Hull on 38–​39; Five Orchestral Pieces 36; Foulds on 37–​38; Gurrelieder 15, 16, 17; Kammersymphonie No. 1 in E major 23–​24; on Liszt 151; Pelleas und Melisande 20, 26–​27; Scott on 37–​38; Variations for Orchestra 16, 17–​18; Verklärte Nacht 17, 35 Schopenhauer, A. 87, 206, 213 Schreker, F. 6, 182–​202; Das Spielwerk und die Prinzessin 182, 184; Der Schatzgräber 182, 186; Die Ferne Klang 182, 185–​186; Die Gezeichneten 182; Kammersymphonie 195–​202;

Klangmusik and 188–​194; neo-​ Riemannian theory and 186–​187; sound, space, and speed used by 182–​188 Schulhoff, E. 6, 230, 237–​240 Scott, C. 6, 33–​35; Diatonic Study 33–​34, 39, 40; The Philosophy of Modernism-​ Its Connection with Music 37; on Schoenberg 37–​38 Scott, J. 58 Scriabin, A. 6, 25, 47, 205–​225; negation (and creation) of desire interpreted by 206–​211; performance implications of denying denied desire 224–​225; philosophical influences on 205–​206, 210; progression from tonality to atonality 215–​216; transition from chord-​based desire to key-​based desire 217–​224; two forms of desire and their harmonic analogues interpreted by 211–​216 Scriabin’s Harmony 209 Sea, The (Čiurlionis) 112–​113 ‘Seal Man, The’ 62, 68–​74 Searle, H. 36 Seascape (Čiurlionis) 109 Secret Doctrine 212 ‘Sefaa Esec’ Variations VL 258 (Čiurlionis) 112 Shostakovich, D. 12 Sibelius, J. 100–​101 Signale fur die Musikalische Welt 152 Simpson, R. 91, 92–​93 Sinfonia Espansiva 90, 93, 102 Sinfonia Semplice (Nielsen) 102 Sitsky, L. 163, 165, 177, 178 Sixth Symphony (Nielsen) 101–​102 Sketch of a New Aesthetic of Music 129, 150, 178 Skryabin 118, 119, 122 Small, C. 55 Smith, A. D. 35 Smith, K. 5 Solovyov, V. 210 Somov, K. 107 Sonata for Viola and Piano (Clarke) 234–​236 Sonata for violin and piano (Ornstein) 29–​30 Sonata No. 1 for cello and piano (Ornstein) 30 Sonata of the Sea (Čiurlionis) 110 Sonata of the Summer (Čiurlionis) 108

250 Index Sonata of the Sun (Čiurlionis) 110 Sonatina in Diem Nativitatis Christi MCMXVII (Busoni) 166, 173–​174 Sonatina seconda (Busoni) 160–​161, 166–​170 Sonatina Super Carmen (Busoni) 166 Song of Hiawatha, Op. 30 (Busoni) 152–​153 Sorabji, K. S. 14–​15, 166 Sorrow (Čiurlionis) 110 space and structure in metatonal musics 54–​86; Fantasia Contrappuntistica 55–​57; ‘Pastoral’ for piano 62–​68; Sand 75–​81; Temporal Intentionality Graphs (TIG) 57, 58–​82; ‘The Seal Man’ 62, 68–​74 Space is the Machine 57 Sparks (Čiurlionis) 110 Species Counterpoint 4 Sprague Coolidge, E. 41, 44 Stabrowski, K. 108 Stars and Sand (Howe) 62 Staškevičius, D. 110, 117 Stein, D. 68 Steiner, G. 179 Stevenson, R. 48, 163 Stokowski, L. 75, 78 Stradling, R. 35 Strauss, R. 16, 27 Stravinsky, I. 122; Le Sacre du Printemps 15, 17, 26, 27; L’histoire du soldat 35; Rite of Spring 168 Stuckenschmidt, H. 167 symbolism 86, 87 Symphonic Suite for piano (Nielsen) 92, 94 Symphonie Fantastique (Berlioz) 119 Symphonisk Suite (Nielsen) 93 Symphony No. 7 (Mahler) 24 Symphony No. 10 (Mahler) 21 Sztuka art group 108–​109 Tartini, G. 127, 129 Taruskin, R. 118, 205, 206, 207, 209, 211 Temporal Intentionality Graphs (TIG) 57, 58–​82; ‘Pastoral’ for piano 62–​68; Sand 75–​81; ‘The Seal Man’ 62, 68–​74 terrorism 12–​13 Tesla, N. 167 third-​space 4 Third Symphony (Nielsen) 88, 92, 94–​95 Thoene, H. 164 Time Is a River without Banks 14

Tobias, R. 122 Toccata (Busoni) 161, 166, 170–​173 Tolstoy, L. 87 tonal centre 20–​21 Tovey, D. F. 165 Triester Zeitung 129 Triik, N. 110 Tristan und Isolde (Wagner) 17 tritones 207–​209 Trois Poèmes de Stéphane Mallarmé (Ravel) 15 two-​dimensional form 195–​196 Tymoczko, D. 4 Vallotti, F. 127 Vande Moortele, S. 91, 195 van der Linden, B. 38 Van Dieren, B. 30, 150, 160–​161 Vanechkina, I. R. 213 Varese, E. 151 Variationen und Fuge in freier Form über Fr. Chopin’s C moll Präludium (Busoni) 140–​141 Variations for Orchestra (Schoenberg) 16, 17–​18 Vaughn Williams, R. 35, 36, 38; The Lark Ascending 42 Verdi, G. 119, 127 Verklärte Nacht (Schoenberg) 17–​18, 35 Via Crucis (Liszt) 17 Vial, F-​G. 187 Violin Sonata No. 2, BV 244 (Busoni) 142 vitalism see Nielsen, C. Vītols, J. 122 voice-​leading parsimony 187 Vydunas, W. S. 121 Wagner, R. 17, 127; ‘Brünnhilde’ motif of 88–​89; Die Walküre 27; Nielsen’s critique of 85; romanticism of 87 Warlock, Peter 15 Webern, A. 153 Wellesz, E. 36 Well Tempered Clavier, The 127, 135, 139 Welsh, M. 48 Western Classical Tradition 7–​8 Whitesell, L. 230 Widok z okna pracowni artysty (Wyspiański) 109 Wilde, O. 87 Wilson, L. 162 Winter (Čiurlionis) 110

Index  251 Wohltemperierte Klavier (Bach) 151–​152 Wood, H. 35 Woolf, C. 164 World as Will and Representation, The 213 Wright, Kenneth A. 35

Wynter, S. 8 Wyspiański, S. 108–​109 Xenakis, I. 153 Zubovas, R. 107