We need music! Now, I was thinking about Mahler's "Die zwei blauen Augen," the last of the four Wayfarer Songs --

Plus: We have a special musical bonus at the end!

Want a hint? I'll go you one better: Here's an audio tease --



Now could we have a post (of some sort?)


Irmgard Seefried sings Richard Strauss's "Morgen!," Op. 27, No. 4, in the composer's own orchestration, with Piero Bellugi conducting the Orchestre National de l'ORTF in Paris's Salle Pleyel, Jan. 20, 1965. Note -- as the camera does! -- the soloist playing the violin solos around which Strauss built his orchestration of the song. Isn't it interesting that in January 1965 the Orchestre National, at least for this concert, had a female concertmaster?

by Ken

This is a time, it seems to me, when we need more music. So that's pretty much what we're going to do today.

WHERE WE ARE NOW, BLOG-WISE?

Yes, I know we've got a growing tangle of loose threads, and I hope gradually to work our way through them. I'm even adding a couple of more. Last week's two-item "Rita Gorr sings Gluck" mini-compendium led me to want to listen to her performances of those two arias (Orfeo's "Che farò senza Euridice?" and Alceste's "Divinités du Styx") in context with other singers', to get a better sense of why Gorr's mean so much to me. As I've played with this, the project has become more and more intriguing, as to what makes these arias work and not work, so I still want to pursue this.

What's more, the SC vault has a good helping of Gorr as Saint-Saëns's Dalila, and a couple of snatches of her Walküre Fricka, which I want to bring out. And considering that I made particular reference to these roles along with Verdi's Amneris, I'd like to add some samples of that to what shapes up as yet another post.

AS FOR TODAY, WE NEED MUSIC NOW, DON'T WE?

Like it says up top, during the week I found myself thinking about, and hearing in my head, "Die zwei blauen Augen, the last of Mahler's four Songs of a Wayfarer, a song to which we once devoted a good deal of attention, icluding most of a post of its own (see below). I vaguely recalled that I had the Wayfarer Songs on a DVD of some sort, and finally tracked it down to an extremely miscellaneous one that EMI issued in its "Classic Archive" series, which they couldn't find a better way of titling than:

Schwarzkopf    Seefried
Fischer-Dieskau

Which is (let the record show) absolutely accurate. We get soprano Elisabeth Schwarzkopf in an October 1961 staged-for-TV excerpt from her most famous role, the Marschallin in Der Rosenkavalier, giving us the final chunk of Act I, starting in the middle of the Marschallin's great monologue, at "Kann ich auch an ein Mädel erinnern"her sudden, haunting recollection of her innocent younger self, "fresh from the convent," with mezzo Hertha Töpper (who died just a week ago Saturday, a few weeks short of her 96th birthday); then soprano Irmgard Seefried is seen in two orchestral song groups via French TV: five by Richard Strauss from January 1965, including the "Morgen!" performance atop this post, and three by Mahler; and Dietrich Fischer Dieskau singing -- yes! -- Mahler's Wayfarer Songs from Japan's NHK, October 1960, with an outstanding Mahlerian, Paul Kletzki conducting. (There's also a Fischer-Dieskau "bonus": four core-repertory Schubert songs from 1959, with the great Gerald Moore at the piano.)


I WOUND UP WATCHING EVERYTHING ON THE DVD

In a crazy world, we hear a bit more Freni, plus -- since the world needs music -- a bit (actually two bits) of "Rita Gorr sings Gluck"

As Act I of Carmen begins --


From Pierre-Auguste Lamy's famous series of lithographs, Act I of Carmen as given at its (not very happy) 1875 premiere at the Opéra-Comique


[fate motif at 2:13; start of Act I c3:37; Micaëla's entrance c5:33] Claude Calès (b), Moralès; Andréa Guiot (s), Micaëla; Chorus and Orchestra of the Théâtre National de l'Opéra (Paris), Georges Prêtre, cond. EMI, recorded July 1964
[Note: There are English texts for the whole scene farther down in the post.]

by Ken

Huh? "Rita Gorr sings Gluck?" You may wonder, what ever is he on about now?

Georges Prêtre around this time

We'll get to that, but first let me sort of explain the clip we just heard. While doing some wildly assorted Carmen listening for this series of posts remembering Mirella Freni, I happened to listen from the start to Act I as conducted with such unforced yet physically alive pulse by Georges Prêtre -- in a recording that most of us usually think of as "the Callas Carmen." Since the tiny bit of work we're going to accomplish this week calls for us to listen to just this 10 minutes or so of music, I thought we'd lead off with this performance, of a kind I haven't encountered in the here and now for, oh, several decades?


OKAY, OKAY, I KNOW I SHUT DOWN LAST WEEK . . .

"Et vive la musique qui nous tombe du ciel!": Still remembering Freni, we want a Carmen mindset for our meetup with Micaëla

"Et vive la musique qui nous tombe du ciel!"
("And long live music that falls to us from heaven" [or "the sky"])

-- Carmen, in Act II (not to worry, we'll hear a fuller version later)

(Do I have to tell you who the singer is? Again, we'll be hearing more.)

Now, let's just meet Micaëla
(We hear her first appearance, near the start of Carmen,
via the three recordings of the role that Mirella Freni made)


"Don José? We all know him." Micaëla (France Bellemare), Moralès (Alexandre Sylvestre), and the rest of the soldiers at Opéra de Montréal, 2019. (Say, ya think it's easy finding pictures of Moralès?) (photo by Yves Renaud)

A square in Seville. At right the entrance to the tobacco factory. At left the guardhouse. MORALÈS and the soldiers are grouped in front of the guardhouse.

[In the scene so far, we've seen the on-duty company of guardsmen with their sergeant frankly killing time -- smoking, chatting, and watching the many passersby ("Funny people those people are") pass by.]

MICAËLA appears. Hesitant, embarrassed, she looks at the soldiers, advances, retreats, etc.

MORALÈS: Now look at this little lady
who seems to want to speak to us.
See, see! She turns, she hesitates . . .
SOLDIERS: To her aid we must go!
MORALÈS [chivalrous]: What are you looking for, lovely lady?
MICAËLA: Me, I'm looking for a sergeant.
MORALÈS [with emphasis]: That's me . . . here I am!
MICAËLA: My sergeant is named Don José . . .
[lightly] do you know him?
MORALÈS [light]: Don José? We all know him.
MICAËLA [with joy]: Really? Is he with you, please?
MORALÈS [with elegance]: He's not a sergeant in our company.
MICAËLA [disconsolate]: Then he's not here.
MORALÈS: No, my charmer, no, my charmer, he's not here,
but in just a bit he will be here, yes, in just a bit he'll be here.
[light but strongly rhythmic] He'll be here when the incoming guard comes to replace the outgoing guard.
SOLDIERS: He'll be here when the incoming guard
comes to replace the outgoing guard.
MORALÈS [very chivalrous]: But while waiting for him to come,
would you, beautiful child, would you be so kind
as to enter our place for a moment?
MICAËLA [frightened]: Your place?
MORALÈS and SOLDIERS: Our place.
MICAËLA [frightened]: Your place?
MORALÈS and SOLDIERS: Our place.
MICAËLA [delicately]: Oh no, oh no, many thanks, kind soldiers.
MORALÈS: Enter without fear, darling.
I promise you that we'll show for your dear self
all the consideration that's required.
MICAËLA: I don't doubt it. However,
I will return. I will return, it's more prudent!
I will return when the incoming guard
replaces the outgoing guard.
[delicately] I will return when the incoming guard
replaces the outgoing guard.
MORALÈS and SOLDIERS [overlapping]: You have to stay, for the incoming guard is going to replace the outgoing guard.
MORALÈS: You will stay.
MICAËLA: No, no!
MORALÈS and SOLDIERS [overlapping, surrounding her]: You will stay.
MICAËLA: Goodbye, kind soldiers!

with Bernard Demigny (b), Moralès; Vienna State Opera Chorus, Vienna Philharmonic, Herbert von Karajan, cond. RCA, recorded November 1963

with Claude Meloni (b), Moralès; Chorus and Orchestra of the Théâtre National de l'Opéra (Paris), Rafael Frühbeck de Burgos, cond. EMI, recorded mostly in July 1969

with Nicolas Rivenq (b), Moralès; Chorus of Radio France, Orchestre National de France, Seiji Ozawa, cond. Philips, recorded July 13-22, 1988

by Ken

And that's the extent of our first encounter with Micaëla. I think, though, that even this much is enough to suggest why Mirella Freni could make such an impact in the role, lousy French and all. There's the sheer beauty of the singing, of course, but just as important is that sense of "persondom" she brought to her roles, by whatever combination of natural charm and performing craft. If it's important that we care about Micaëla, and I think it's pretty important (my goal this week was a remembrance that could have run under the title "How much do we (should we?) care about Micaëla, and why?"), these are invaluable tools.

Okay, okay, once again I thought this post was going to be an easy one, or at least a relatively manageable one. The goal this week was a remembrance that would have run under the title "How much do we (should we?) care about Micaëla, and why?," and since l left off last week I was under the honest impression that the follow-up was almost ready to roll: to finish rolling out a theory of how Bizet's Micaëla, like Verdi's Nannetta, provided Freni with such a strong springboard to stardom, even though these aren't roles expect to lend themselves to this.

Alas, so often things that are supposed to be easy, or relatively manageable, turn out not to be. When his post is finally done (see the note on timing below), we're barely going to get through our investigation of Micaëla. Along the way we keep running into issues, issues of all sizes and shapes, and while I've ruthlessly turned a deaf ear to many of those diversionary lures, there are some issues I didn't think we could reasonably and we're going to touch on some issues I think it would be a shame to sidestep as we're passing through.

A QUICK, OR AT LEAST QUICK-AS-POSSIBLE,
NOTE ON DON JOSÉ'S (AND MORALÈS'S) RANK

"Sweet memories of our land fill him with strength and courage": Freni as Micaëla

Franco Corelli and Mirella Freni -- not as Don José and Micaëla, alas, but as
Gounod's Roméo and Juliette, at the Met in 1969 (photo by Louis Melancon)

MICAËLA: Your mother was leaving chapel with me,
and that's when, while kissing me --
"You'll go," she said to me, "to the city;
the route isn't long, once in Seville,
you'll search out my son, my José, my child.
And you'll tell him that his mother
dreams night and day about her absent one,
that she regrets and that she hopes,
that she forgives and that she waits.
All that -- right, sweetie? --
on my behalf you'll tell him;
and this kiss that I give you,
on my behalf you'll pass it on to him."
DON JOSÉ: A kiss from my mother?
MICAËLA: A kiss for her son.
DON JOSÉ: A kiss from my mother!
MICAËLA: A kiss for her son.
José, I pass it on to you, as I promised.
DON JOSÉ: My mother, I see her!
Yes, I see again my village!
O memories of other times!
Sweet memories of our land! etc.
MICAËLA [overlapping JOSÉ]: His mother, he sees her!
He sees again his village!
O memories of other times!
Memories of our land! etc.
BOTH: Memories of our land,
you fill his/my heart with strength and courage. etc.
DON JOSÉ [to himself]: Who knows of what demon
I was going to be the prey!
[Collected again] Even from afar my mother protects me,
and this kiss that she sends me,
[with élan] this kiss that she sends me
wards off danger and saves her son.
MICAËLA [like recitative -- animatedly]:
What demon? what danger?
I don't really understand. What does that mean?
DON JOSÉ: Nothing, nothing!
Let's speak of you, our messenger;
you're going to return to our land?
MICAËLA: Yes, this very evening . . .
tomorrow I'll see your mother.
DON JOSÉ: You'll see her! Well then, you'll tell her --
[with spirit that her son loves her and reveres her,
and that he repents today.
He wishes that back there his mother may be happy with him
All that -- right, sweetie? --
on my behalf you'll tell her,
and this kiss that I give you,
on my behalf you'll pass it on to her.
MICAËLA [simply]: Yes, I promise you . . .
on behalf of her son,
I will pass it on as I've promised.
DON JOSÉ: My mother, I see her!
Yes, I see again my village!
O memories of other times!
Sweet memories of our land! etc.
MICAËLA [overlapping JOSÉ]: His mother, he sees her!
He sees again his village!
O memories of other times!
Memories of our land! etc.
BOTH: Memories of our land,
you fill his/my heart with strength and courage, etc.

with Franco Corelli (t), Don José; Vienna Philharmonic, Herbert von Karajan, cond. RCA, recorded November 1963

with Jon Vickers (t), Don José; Orchestra of the Théâtre National de l'Opéra (Paris), Rafael Frühbeck de Burgos, cond. EMI, recorded July and September 1969
And finally, um, a 53-year-old Micaëla?

with Neil Shicoff (t), Don José; Orchestre National de France, Seiji Ozawa, cond. Philips, recorded July 13-22, 1988

by Ken

When last we convened, the immediate plan called for further consideration of three roles that (in addition to Nannetta in Verdi's Falstaff, which we've already considered as much as we're going to) figured importantly in the burgeoning international career of Mirella Freni: Micaëla in Bizet's Carmen, Adina in Donizetti's Elixir of Love, and inevitably her early-career signature role, Mimì in Puccini's La Bohème.

The most fun, certainly, would (or rather will) be Adina, because, while the role may not have figured all that prominently in her career, her assumption of it unleashed an opera-long explosion of sheer vocal joy. But I thought we needed to hold off on that, at least to consider Micaëla, because, as I noted last time, it's such an extraordinary thing to have a singer achieve international sizzle status off of what we normally think of as second-line (if not third-line) lyric-soprano roles like Nannetta and Micaëla. As I said before, other future stars have sung one or both of these roles on their way up, but I can't think of another soprano who was sprung to stardom by either.

Falstaff, to begin with, is such a resolutely ensemble piece that you wouldn't think Nannetta, so carefully threaded by Boito and Verdi through the opera's Merry Wives scenes, before being let loose in the magical final scene in Windsor Park as the Queen of the Fairies, the wives' secret weapon for the tormenting of Falstaff, could be that kind of attention-getter. My theory is that Nannetta embodies the most magical of the many strands of magic woven into the opera: the love and hope invested by the near-octogenarian Verdi in the children, Nannetta and Fenton.

Ostensibly Falstaff is "about" Sir John's grotesque attempt at wooing the Mistresses Ford and Page and the comeuppance delivered by these Merry Wives of Windsor. But in the end, it seems to me, the really important thing that happens is Alice Ford's triumphant thwarting of her husband's monstrous plan to marry their daughter off to the wildly inappropriate Dr. Cajus. There are a lot of reasons why I return so frequently to the 1963 RCA-Decca Falstaff recording conducted so wonderfully by Sir Georg Solti, but certainly one indelible attractions is the performances of Freni and Alfredo Kraus as Nannetta and Fenton.


NOW, AS FOR MICAËLA

"When the thaw comes, the first sunshine is mine": Still more Freni

Freni as Micaëla in 1965 (photo by Bisazza)

BIZET: Carmen: Act III, Recitative (not by Bizet) and aria, Micaëla, "C'est ici des contrebandiers le refuge ordinaire" . . . "Je dis que rien ne m'épouvante"

A mountain pass. A wild rocky place. It is a dark night. The stage has been populated by smugglers and Gypsies including CARMEN and her gal-and-guy cronies and also the AWOL, hopelessly smitten DON JOSÉ. They've all filed out now, leaving JOSÉ behind, posted on a high rock to watch. Unseen by him, MICAËLA, accompanied by a guide, enters. The guide points out the smugglers' camp, then quickly withdraws.

Recitative (by Ernest Guiraud)
This is the smugglers' usual hideout.
He's here, I will see him,
and the duty his mother charged me with
I'll accomplish without trembling.
Aria
I say that nothing frightens me.
I say, alas, that I can take care of myself.
But I play the valiant woman in vain.
Deep in my heart I'm dying with terror!
Alone in this savage place,
all alone, I'm afraid,
but I'm wrong to be afraid.
You will give me courage,
you will protect me, Lord!

I'm going to see close up this woman
whose cursed wiles
have wound up making an outlaw
of the man I once loved!
She's dangerous, she's beautiful,
but I don't want to be afraid!
No, no, I don't want to be afraid!
I will speak boldly in her presence!
Ah! Lord, you will protect me!

Ah! I say that nothing frightens me, etc.
Protect me, o Lord!
Give me courage!

[in Italian] Munich Radio Orchestra, Ino Savini, cond. Eurodisc-Vanguard Cardinal, recorded 1959

Vienna Philharmonic, Herbert von Karajan, cond. Live performance from the Salzburg Festival, July 27, 1966

by Ken

Thus far in our remembrance of Mirella Freni (1935-2020) -- first here, then here -- we've gotten as far as hearing her sprinkle abundant vocal magic as young Nannetta Ford impersonates the Queen of the Fairies in the final scene of Verdi's Falstaff, a role she learned on shorter notice than she thought she could when the call came from Covent Garden, where she wound up winning the heart of the young Carlo Maria Giulini with her debut in 1961 -- and attracting lots of other international attention, including that of Herbert von Karajan, who seems pretty quickly to have thought of her for a couple of other roles he needed to cast.

One was Micaëla in Carmen, which he was doing at Salzburg and (in November 1963) recording for RCA. This was a role Freni didn't have to learn, except perhaps in French (if we can really call what she's singing French); it was the first role she sang onstage, in her hometown of Modena, at the age of 20. (The 1959 Italian-language recording of Micaëla's aria we hear above comes from the same Eurodisc operatic recital from which we've heard her first recordings of Gianni Schicchi's darling daughter Lauretta's "O mio babbino caro," Suor Angelica's "Senza mamma," and Nannetta's "Sul fil d'un soffio etesio.") One thing we might say of Micaëla, though, as we might have said of Nannetta, is that while they're both roles that many up-and-coming singers have sung on their way to bigger opportunities, it's not often that either of these roles is itself a career-builder. For that to happen, the singer has to be something special.

Is there any question that Freni was something really special?


LET'S SAMPLE TWO OTHER ROLES, INCLUDING THE
OTHER ONE THAT KARAJAN HAD FRENI IN MIND FOR

"On the breath of a fragrant breeze": More from Mirella Freni

After singing Nannetta at Covent Garden in 1961 (with Carlo Maria Giulini conducting), Freni made her La Scala debut in the role in January 1962 -- alongside Luigi Alva as Fenton. [photo by Erio Piccagliani © Teatro alla Scala]

FENTON [singing as he goes out]:
Kissed lips don't lose their good fortune.
NANNETTA [continuing FENTON's song as she joins the other women]: Instead they renew themselves as does the moon, as does the moon.

Luigi Alva (t), Fenton; Mirella Freni (s), Nannetta; Concertgebouw Orchestra (Amsterdam), Carlo Maria Giulini, cond. Live performance from the Hague, June 20, 1963

by Ken

If you were here for last week's first installment of a Mirella Freni remembrance, you know our immediate destination. Following the tease of one of the amazing stolen moments between Nannetta and her adored Fenton thrread through the first Garden Scene of Verdi's Falstaff, we have on promise "Nannetta's shimmering aria in her disguise as the Queen of the Fairies in the magical masquerade final scene."

So let's listen just to the aria, which just happens to have been included in that 1959 Eurodisc operatic recital we heard from last week. As part of the tormenting of Falstaff planned by our Merry Wives of Windsor, Sir John has been lured to the scary depths of Windsor Park at midnight for what he expects to be a tryst with Mistress Alice Ford. For this scheme, Mistress Ford has cast her radiant daughter Nannetta as the Queen of the Fairies.

VERDI: Falstaff: Act III, Scene 2,
Nannetta, "Sul fil d'un soffio etesio"

NANNETTA: On the breath of a fragrant breeze
fly, nimble spirits;
through the branches appears
the blue gleam of the rising moon.
Dance! and let your soft steps
fit the soft music,
joining magic
dancing to the song.

Let us wander beneath the moon,
choosing among the flowers;
every blossom carries
in its heart its own fortune.
With lilies and violets
let us write secret names;
from our enchanted hands
let there spring words,
words illuminated
with pure silver and gold,
poems and charms. The spirits
have flowers as their cyphers.

[translation by Lionel Salter]

Munich Radio Orchestra, Ino Savini, cond. Eurodisc-Vanguard Cardinal, recorded 1959


WE'RE NOT GOING TO GET FARTHER TODAY, BUT WE CAN
AT LEAST HEAR THE SCENE AS IT OCCURS IN THE OPERA

Mirella Freni (1935-2020)

O my dear daddy,
I like him, he's handsome, handsome.
I want to go to Porta Rossa
to buy the ring!
And if I loved him in vain,
I would go to the Ponte Vecchio,
but to throw myself in the Arno!
I'm pining and am tormented!
O God! I'd want to die!
Daddy, mercy, mercy!
Daddy, mercy, mercy!

Munich Radio Orchestra, Ino Savino, cond. Eurodisc-Vanguard Cardinal, recorded 1959

by Ken

This one is personal. I was a couple of years into operatic consciousness when Mirella Freni burst onto the international scene, and it was hard not to be won over by such a lovely lyric soprano backed by such a warm, winning personality. The "O mio babbino caro" we've just heard dates even a few years farther back, from an operatic recital she recorded for Eurodisc in Munich in 1959, which Vanguard shrewdly licensed in the '60s and issued as the above-pictured Vanguard Cardinal LP, which I'm here to tell you I listened to a lot back then.


JUMPING AHEAD

Hey, we've got a bit of music this week! (Glass a tiny bit full or mostly empty? You be the judge)

by Ken

Now I ask you, is that something, or what?

Maybe I should explain just a little. I've been playing records lately -- well, CDs, to be exact, but to me they're records too. This is pretty unusual in itself, and I thought I might want to talk about it, but not now. I thought I might want to talk about the unexpected reasons and ways I've been listening, but I don't want to talk about that either right now. However, I did want to share this bit of music that, in the course of this listening, practically knocked me off my feet. So that's what I'm going to do: share it. Or rather that's what I've just done, so maybe we should all just get on with our lives.

Of course it might be objected that "sharing" is maybe a tad misleading, inasmuch as this music doesn't belong to me and a person can hardly be said to be "sharing" stuff that wasn't his to begin with, can he? Which is the tip of another story I thought I might want to talk about, but again not now.

What I've been doing is reorganizing/reshelving/interfiling a section of the CDs: the non-operatic by-composer section from A ("Albéniz," to be exact) through roughly Nielsen -- excluding Haydn, Mahler, and Mozart, who have sections of their own. It so happened on this particular afternoon that while I was listening to CDs from this section more or less at random, or maybe at will, I happened to think of two that would be a snap to locate and might be fun to hear for the first time in ages. They were by the same composer, but imagine my surprise when I realized that in my filing system the two happened to be right next to each other! I wound up listening to both, but the part that's relevant to today's story is that when I first put on the first of them, a few minutes or so in it happened -- the near-knocking-off-my-feet, I mean.

It wasn't the music, or at least not just the music, gorgeous as it is. But the music I've heard by conservative estimate dozens of times, and pretty much always loved, but not with this feet-near-knocking-off-of effect. No, there was something more, and I wonder if the little clip I've made will have this kind of effect on anyone else. Which is all I'm going to say about it, except that if one lousy 2:21 audio clip seems a mighty stingy musical offering for a whole Sunday, it could have been worse. My original idea was to offer only the first 37 or so seconds, or maybe just 18 seconds, since really that was all it took to blow my mind. Which isn't to say that things don't get a whole lot mind-blowinger as the full version of our clip, which is to say the whole 2:21 you wrung out of me, blows on.

So this could have gone something like so:

37-second version of clip


18-second version of clip


Instead, however, you got that whopping 2:21's worth. Wanna hear it again? We can do that! (To be strictly technical, I can't actually hear what the clip sounds like, for computer-technical reasons I should probably note for the record but don't, you know, feel up to talking about just now, not even now that there's reason to think we've got the room pretty fully cleared.)




IF YOU'RE THAT GREEDY AND YOU STILL
WANT MORE, GO ON AND CLICK THROUGH

Special Thursday edition: Here's some music so beautiful that it almost doesn't matter whether it matters at all

Including a note from Kurt Vonnegut expounding
his "canary-in-the-coal-mine theory of the arts"


"I was perplexed as to what the usefulness of any of the arts might be, with the possible exception of interior decoration. The most positive notion I could come up with was what I call the canary-in-the-coal-mine theory of the arts."

-- K.V. (who else?), a full half-century ago -- see below, just a bit

ALL RIGHT, TIME TO GET TO WORK



Music Sample No. 1

Chamber Music Society of Lincoln Center: Wu Han, piano; Ani Kavafian and Arnaud Sussmann, violins; Paul Neubauer, viola; Fred Sherry, cello. CMS Studio Recordings, recorded in New York City, April 2007


NOW, EXCERPTED FROM MR. VONNEGUT'S "Address to
the American Physical Society, New York City, February 5, 1969":

Many of you are physics teachers. I have been a teacher, too. I have taught creative writing. I often wondered what I thought I was doing, teaching creative writing, since the demand for creative writers is very small in this vale of tears. I was perplexed as to what the usefulness of any of the arts might be, with the possible exception of interior decoration. The most positive notion I could come up with was what I call the canary-in-the-coal-mine theory of the arts. This theory argues that artists are useful to society because they are so sensitive. They are supersensitive. They keel over like canaries in coal mines filled with poison gas, long before more robust types realize that any danger is there.

The most useful thing I could do before this meeting today is to keel over. On the other hand, artists are keeling over by the thousands every day and nobody seems to pay the least attention.

(appended in Vonnegut: Novels & Stories 1963-1973, Vol. 2 of Library of America's four-volume Kurt Vonnegut Edition)

by Ken

Okay, so I've missed yet another Sunday, in case it matters, which of course it doesn't -- and, oh yes, a Monday, Tuesday, and I guess Wednesday too, if you insist on counting every last gosh-darned day. But since I more or less had the components of this, er, post ready to go, or at least readyish, I've somehow summoned the determination to proceed, on the slim (slimmest?) chance that it might somehow matter, or come to matter. Somehow.

I'm pretty sure you don't want to go there, though. How 'bout instead we listen to more music? Perhaps a somewhat larger and sort-of-semi-self-contained chunk.

Schubert's "Die Krähe": A pretty little song overlaid with creepiness or a creepy little song overlaid with prettiness?

"A crow has flown back and forth over my head"

José van Dam, bass-baritone; Dalton Baldwin, piano. Forlane, recorded in Villeneuve-lès-Avignon (France), January 1990

Wolfgang Holzmair, baritone; Imogen Cooper, piano. Philips, recorded in Salzburg, November 1994

Olaf Bär, baritone; Geoffrey Parsons, piano. EMI, recorded in London, December 1988

by Ken

I haven't been writing much lately -- well, at all, at least not that I've actually posted. (I don't expect the reasons are of any importance to anyone but me.) One day this week "Die Krähe" ("The Crow"), no. 15 of the 24 songs of Schubert's Winterreise (Winter Journey), the all but unique song cycle (the only close kin I'm aware of is Schubert's own Die schöne Müllerin, also set to poems by Wilhelm Müller) popped into my head and wouldn't go away. You know how that goes, right? Sometimes you can trace by which the thing lodged in your brain, but sometimes you can't, and I still can't figure how "Die Krähe" took possession of me. More worryingly, I'm not sure what to make of it -- I can't help feeling there's nothing good about it.

I started gathering recordings, in particular by singers I respect who've made multiple recordings of Winterreise. Some of you may have seen this compendium taking shape, since for technical reasons the pile proved easier to keep track of and spot-check in posted form. One thing I discovered quickly is how surprisingly different performances of the song are. "Surprisingly" different because, suggestive as the song is, it's such an unassuming one that I don't think the considerable differences in tone and emphasis (what does this whole overflight-by-crow business mean to the singer-narrator, let alone to us?) necessarily register. If you want a real jolt, listen in succession to the 1954 and 1961 Hotter recordings.

The 1962 Fischer-Dieskau and 1961 Prey take pride of place here, likely because the former's 1962 Winterreise and the latter's 1961 one were my first recordings of the cycle. (And I still enjoy the latter a lot. The Fischer-Dieskau Winterreise I really like, from which we've heard excerpts, is the 1971 DG one with Gerald Moore.) The singleton performances up top, by the way, are simply by performers whose Winterreise recordings I really enjoy.

I should probably want to talk about this a little. Who knows? Maybe I will. One thought for now, though: If "creepy" in the post title doesn't sound quite right, how about "spooky"? "Morbid"? "Foreboding"? For that matter, "pretty" isn't quite what I mean, I don't think. But isn't there something decidedly and weirdly, um, charming about a song whose subject matter is so weird?


Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau, baritone; Klaus Billing, piano. Broadcast performance, Berlin, Jan. 19, 1948 (mono)

Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau, baritone; Gerald Moore, piano. EMI, recorded in Berlin, Jan. 13-14, 1955 (mono)

Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau, baritone; Gerald Moore, piano. EMI, recorded 1962

Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau, baritone; Jörg Demus, piano. DG, recorded 1966

Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau, baritone; Gerald Moore, piano. DG, recorded in Berlin, August 1971

Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau, baritone; Alfred Brendel, piano. Philips, recorded in Berlin, July 1985
[This by no means exhausts even Fischer-Dieskau's commercial Winterreise recordings. When, with great difficulty, I rolled aside an audio cart that blocks the relevant section of my LP shelves, I found a 1979-ish DG one with Daniel Barenboim which I'd forgotten about, and even after the Brendel version there's a 1990 Sony one (audio and video) with Murray Perahia.]


Hermann Prey, baritone; Karl Engel, piano. EMI, recorded in Berlin, October 1961

Hermann Prey, baritone; Irwin Gage, piano. Italian Swiss Radio performance, Locarno, Oct. 2, 1978

Hermann Prey, baritone; Philippe Bianconi, piano. Denon, recorded in Hamburg, Apr. 3-6, 1984


Hans Hotter, bass-baritone; Michael Raucheisen, piano. DG, recorded in Berlin, November 1942 (mono)

Hans Hotter, bass-baritone; Hans Schörter, piano. Live performance from Frankfurt, Mar. 27, 1947 (mono)

Hans Hotter, bass-baritone; Gerald Moore, piano. EMI, recorded in London, May 24-29, 1954 (mono)

Hans Hotter, bass-baritone; Erik Werba, piano. DG, recorded in Vienna, Dec. 15-18, 1961
[There's also an April 1969 live performance from Tokyo with pianist Hans Dokoupil, recorded and released by Japanese Columbia, which I've been curious about since I first learned it exists but have never been able to lay hands on.]


Jon Vickers, tenor; Geoffrey Parsons, piano. EMI, recorded in Paris, July 9-13, 1983

Jon Vickers, tenor; Peter Schaaf, piano. VAI, live performance in Canada, Oct. 2, 1983

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What's the big deal with the Kreutzer Sonata?

Zino Francescatti and Robert Casadesus play the first movement of Beethoven's Kreutzer Sonata, of which our immediate concern is the brief but incredibly potent introduction:


Zino Francescatti, violin; Robert Casadesus, piano. American Columbia, recorded in New York City, Dec. 28, 1949

Zino Francescatti, violin; Robert Casadesus, piano. Columbia-CBS-Sony, recorded in Paris, May 13, 1958

by Ken

The video clip featuring the well-established duo of violinist Zino Francescatti and pianist Robert Casadesus (1899-1972), which seems to postdate both their commercial recordings of Beethoven's Kreutzer Sonata, as sampled above, offers us the whole first movement, even though our immediate concern is going to be the minute-and-a-half-or-so Adagio sostenuto introduction, again as referenced above. As a matter of fact, the EMI Casadesus DVD from which the clip is presumably derived included not just the whole of the sonata but also Beethoven's Op. 96, his next and last violin sonata. However, it's useful for us to hear the whole of the Kreutzer's first movement because, as you may recall from last week's post ("Q: What connection is there between these beautiful works by Beethoven and Janáček that have 'Kreutzer Sonata' in their names?") our point of departure is an interesting chamber concert I attended recently at which these two works made up the program.

The program, titled "Liebestod," was the third of five programs in the third season of PhiloSonia, a season dubbed "Literati," which "explores works inspired by literature and poetry." No, there was no Liebestod, just the two, er, "Kreutzer"-themed works:

Leo Tolstoy’s haunting short story “The Keutzer Sonata” places Beethoven’s celebrated work at the center of a scandalous love affair with a tragic ending. PhiloSonia’s third installment pairs the sonata which served as Tolstoy’s inspiration with Janáček’s musical retelling of the work.

The program began with Janáček's First String Quartet (After L. N. Tolstoy's "The Kreutzer Sonata), in which PhiloSonia's enterprising young founder, Stanichka Dimitrova, played second violin, then after intermission stepped out front to play the Kreutzer Sonata itself. As I noted last week, the two works really aren't directly connected: The Beethoven sonata indeed plays an important role in the Tolstoy novella (which seems to me a better description than "short story," though both labels are used), but the Janáček quartet refers only to the Tolstoy story.

Yet somehow the works are connected, and beyond the pleasure of hearing the two works, hearing them paired got a person to thinking. And reading -- I'd never read the Tolstoy, and this seemed the time.


IT'S ALWAYS FUN TO RETURN TO THE KREUTZER SONATA

And you know, we could listen to it in one fell swoop.

BEETHOVEN: Sonata No. 9 in A, Op. 47 (Kreutzer)
i. Adagio sostenuto -- Presto
ii. Andante con variazioni (at 10:53)
ii. Presto (at 24:34)

Fritz Kreisler, violin; Franz Rupp, piano. EMI, recorded 1936

TO BE CONTINUED

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Q: What connection is there between these beautiful works by Beethoven and Janáček that have "Kreutzer Sonata" in their names?

However limited the connection, it's more than
either work has with anybody named Kreutzer


Leoš Janáček's First String Quartet ("After L. N. Tolstoy's 'The Kreutzer Sonata'") gets a no-nonsense performance by the Kubín Quartet (Luděk Cap and Jan Niederle, violins; Pavel Vítek, viola; Jiří Hanousek, cello) at a concert in Ostrava (Czech Republic), Jan. 28, 2013.
i. Adagio -- Con moto -- Vivo [at 0:10]; ii. Con moto -- Energico e appassionato -- Tempo I [at 4:00]; iii. Con moto -- Vivace -- Andante -- Tempo I [at 7:56]; iv. Con moto -- Tempo II -- Adagio -- Maestoso (Tempo I) -- più mosso, feroce [at 11:32]

by Ken

If we take the post-title question ("What connection do these beautiful works by Beethoven and Janáček with 'Kreutzer Sonata' in their names have?") to mean "What direct connection?," and if we specify apart from (1) having 'Kreutzer Sonata' in their names and (2) being both very beautiful, then the answer is: well, no connection, really.


WE'LL GET TO THE BEETHOVEN WORK THAT HAS
"KREUTZER SONATA" IN ITS NAME, BUT FIRST --

A handful of notes: