The complete idiot's guide to classical music (31 page)

Holder of a number of positions at court and church—among them, Keeper of the King’s Instruments and organist at Westminster Abbey—Purcell paid his courtly debt by writing coronation anthems, royal birthday odes, and welcome songs, even a funeral anthem for Queen Mary that, ironically, was sung at Purcell’s own funeral later that same year. The story goes, by the way, that Purcell’s early death (at age 36) was indirectly the result of a domestic battle. Mrs. P, annoyed at her husband’s penchant for staying out late at the local tavern, locked the door at midnight and ordered the servants not to admit the wayward composer. Forced to stay outside in the pouring rain all through the night, Purcell caught the cold from which he never recovered.

If his wife failed to appreciate Purcell’s independent spirit, his countrymen held his achievements in the highest regard. He was buried in Westminster Abbey, where a plaque over his grave in the north aisle reads “Here lyes Henry Purcell, Esq., who left this Lyfe and is gone to that Blessed Place where only his Harmony can be exceeded.”

Purcell’s
Dido and Aenaes
is usually listed as the first great English opera, but you can find many shorter examples of his vocal artistry in collections of songs, the two Odes to St.
Cecilia’s Day
, and the two works the composer dubbed “semi-operas,”
King Arthur
, and
The Fairy Queen.

Instrumental suites have been derived from many of these works, plus those he wrote for theatrical dramas. From there by all means proceed to the lively Trumpet Sonata in D, several harpsichord suites and lots of other chamber music.

Domenico Scarlatti (1685–1757) came by his musical instincts naturally. His father, Alessandro Scarlatti (1660–1725), was even more famous in his era and did for vocal music what his son would do for the keyboard sonata, namely turn them out by the hundreds. Papa’s list includes 20 oratorios, 50 motets, 100 operas, 200 masses, 600 cantatas . . . well, you get the idea.

Domenico started out meekly following in his father’s musical footsteps, playing organ at the Royal Chapel in Naples where Alessandro was music director, and composing operas. His passion for the keyboard soon overwhelmed everything else, though, and it was not long before he was being hailed as a supreme virtuoso. When Domenico met Handel in Rome, the two men engaged in a friendly performance duel, Scarlatti apparently carrying off the harpsichord honors while Handel reigned supreme at the organ.

Meanwhile, Scarlatti became music director to the Portuguese ambassador to the Holy See in Rome, and by 1724, he had moved to the Lisbon court, where his duties included teaching the king’s daughter, the Infanta Maria Barbara. When Maria married the Spanish Crown Prince Fernando five years later, she brought Scarlatti with her to Seville, where the composer spent the rest of his life in contented service to the royal family.

 
Bet You Didn’t Know
Another version of the story puts the first Scarlatti-Handel meeting in Venice, and the circumstance a masquerade party at which a man in a black mask was improvising at the harpsichord. Among the listeners was the 21-year-old Scarlatti, who marveling at the unknown player’s astonishing virtuosity and musical insights, said aloud, “This must either be the Devil himself, or that famous Saxon.” It was the latter, of course, and from that day forward, the flattered Handel and the admiring Scarlatti became friends for life.

 
Bet You Didn’t Know
Scarlatti became so associated with the musical life of his adopted country that some publishers decided to make his name more Spanish as well: They printed his pieces under the name of Domingo Escarlatti.

Speaking of contentment, on a visit to Italy, Scarlatti met and married Maria Caterina Gentili, with whom he had five children; later he wed Anastasia Zimenes of Cadiz, bringing his offspring total up to nine. None of them, however, pursued a career in music.

Scarlatti’s fame rests securely on his brilliant keyboard Sonatas, many of which were originally entitled “Essercizi.” Needless to say, these are “exercises” only in the sense that Chopin’s Etudes are study pieces: They do indeed pose formidable technical difficulties, but it is their depth of musical content and expression that have given them eternal life. Scarlatti wrote more than 500 of these dazzling Sonatas, obtaining novel and often striking effects by such innovative techniques as frequent crossing of hands, repeated-note figures, and other types of embellishments. Add to this mix daring modulations and dissonant (for that era) harmonies, and you have some of the most creative, original, and compelling works in the keyboard repertoire.

If you insist, there are several recordings of Scarlatti’s “Stabat Mater” and a clutch of Cantatas, but for all practical purposes, your Scarlatti sessions can begin and end with the Sonatas. Purists prefer to hear them on the harpsichord, but Queen Maria Barbara was known to have had pianos at her Spanish court, so quite possibly Scarlatti conceived some of them for the more modern keyboard. In any event, there are dozens of recordings on both instruments (try the Igor Kipnis recordings if you prefer the harpsichord, but don’t miss the piano editions by the incomparable Vladimir Horowitz), while if you crave further sonic variety, you’ll find that quite a few of the Sonatas have been transcribed for (and sound exceedingly well on) the guitar.

Georg Philipp Telemann (1681–1767) started composing at the age of 10, and thereafter wrote music as if there were no tomorrow. Since he wound up having an unusually large numbers of tomorrows after all (he died at the ripe old age of 86), he quite possibly produced a greater bulk of pieces than any composer before or since.

Handel said that Telemann could produce an eight-part motet as easily as anybody else could write a letter, and Georg Philipp himself was quoted as saying that “a proper composer should be able to set a placard to music.” He churned out operas and oratorios by the dozen, chamber pieces by the hundreds, cantatas, and songs by the thousands. He wrote Installation Music for clergymen, Captain’s Music for the seafaring community, and Table Music for the Hamburg aristocracy. Telemann was the first composer to produce cantatas for every Sunday in the year, and in his spare time he wrote poetry, engraved scores, published a method book for harpsichordists, and completed his autobiography.

 
Bet You Didn’t Know
When he wasn’t producing music, Telemann was creating children. His wife gave birth to eight sons and two daughters before thinking better of the whole deal and running off with a Swedish army officer.

Telemann was popular during his lifetime, and while some contemporaries regarded him as a radical, it is precisely his fresh and imaginative ideas that make his works so highly attractive to modern ears. As Nicolas Slonimsky puts it, “while Telemann never approached the genius of Bach and Handel, he nevertheless became an exemplar of the German Baroque at its grandest development.”

How many hours do you have? Comparatively little of Telemann’s vocal music has made its way to CD (although you’ll find a bunch of Cantatas, a Magnificat, and even a
Messiah
on the list), so perhaps start with the popular Suite in A Minor for Flute and Strings, which has been recorded by James Galway, Jean-Pierre Rampal, Julius Baker, and other famous flutists. Another great piece is the
Don Quichotte Suite
, with its humorously pictorial account of the Man of la Mancha and his faithful Sancho Panza. It can’t match the descriptive power of Richard Strauss’
Don Quixote
(after all, Strauss got to use a wind machine, while Telemann had to make do with a rush of 16th notes), but it’s a lively and likable portrait nonetheless.

On the concerto front, take your pick amongst those for oboe, horn, trumpet, recorder, viola, and violin; if you want to double up, browse through the two-violas and two-horn concertos; for a triple play, there’s the Concerto for Three Violins—and upping the numerical ante yet again—the Concerto for Three Trumpets, Two Oboes and Orchestra.

There’s an endless fount of chamber music too, so don’t get us started.

If you find that you’ve developed a real taste for the Baroque, look for music by some of the other composers of the era, ranging from Albinoni to Zelenka. We’ve already talked about Tartini and Corelli in an earlier chapter; you’ll also find much to enjoy in Sammartini’s vigorous Harpsichord Concerto, the charming Sonatas for Guitar, Cello and Harpsichord by Geminiani, Torelli’s exciting Concertos for One and Two Trumpets. Look for music by the Marcello boys, including Alessandro’s lilting Oboe Concerto and the elegant Flute and Cello Sonatas by brother Benedetto, and if you need a lift at holiday time, ease into Manfredini’s warm-hearted
Christmas Concerto
.

 

• The music of the Baroque period is characterized by a formal structure and an ornate and embellished texture.
  
 

• Bach is famous for his
  Brandenburg Concertos.
  
 

• Handel is famous for his organ music.
  
 

• Vivaldi’s music is noted for its clarity, color, and energetic rhythms.
  
 

• Telemann is best-known for his chamber music.
  

Chapter 15
 
Roll Over Beethoven: The Classical Composers

 

• The music of Haydn
  
 

• Mozart and Beethoven
  
 

• Weber and Schubert
  

The Classical era is usually dated from 1760 to 1820, though don’t take those dates too seriously. There were composers well beyond the first date who refused to give up the Baroque ghost, and some well before the latter year who were already pounding at the romantic gates. Basically, the major stylistic difference between the Baroque and Classical era was the latter’s focus on purity, simplicity, and formal elegance. In the Baroque, ornamentation and embellishment was an integral part of both composition and performance, singers and players not only allowed, but expected to improvise upon and embroider the written parts. Beethoven, on the other hand, would not have been amused had a singer added an extra roulade or two in the Ninth Symphony.

Even though you may still look on classical music as an impenetrable forest, you may have climbed more of the trees than you realize. You know about Beethoven, if only because The Beatles experts tell us you can hear the
Moonlight Sonata
backward in the song “Because” off their
Abbey Road
album. You know Mozart if you saw the play
Amadeus,
saw the movie
Elvira Madigan
, or watched the final episode of
M*A*S*H
. Well, in this chapter you’ll find out about these and other mighty people of music, along with some of the foibles and frailties that made them human, just like us.

If you have any concerns about classical symphonies being ponderous or dull, try Haydn (1732–1809). Listen to the barnyard squawkings in his
Hen
Symphony; the loud chords in the slow movement of his
Surprise
Symphony, designed to startle the royal audience out of its symphonic snooze; or the
Farewell,
during which the orchestral players pack up their instruments one by one and trundle off the stage, until the conductor has only the concertmaster left to fiddle with.

Franz Joseph Haydn, born in the little Austrian town of Rohrau, near the Hungarian border, grew up surrounded by music and siblings. One of 12 children, he had a clear and beautiful voice, so by the age of seven he was singing in the local church choir and learning to play the violin, keyboard, and any other instrument he happened to find around the place. One day, a talent-scouting choirmaster from Vienna heard the child sing and chose him for service in that city’s famous St. Stephen’s Cathedral. Haydn stayed there for nine years, but one day he cut off another singer’s pigtails as a joke. Unfortunately, neither the singer nor the headmaster laughed, and the next day Haydn was out of a job.

Undaunted (well, slightly daunted, but not too badly), Haydn stayed in Vienna for another seven or eight years, studying music on his own, reading books, and indulging in the occasional counterpoint lesson. In other words, he was an itinerant musician, available for dances, outdoor parties, and other paying gigs, while he patiently waited for his ship to come in.

When it did, the captain was Prince Paul Anton Esterhazy, whose family owned several palaces, including Eisenstadt, which had 200 guest rooms, and paintings that later became the founding collection of the Budapest Museum of Fine Arts. On May 1, 1761, the Prince made Haydn conductor of his court orchestra. He moved into Eisenstadt and agreed to conduct the orchestra and compose weekly operas and operettas, ceremonial music, chamber pieces, and anything else the Prince wanted. Haydn also was responsible for fixing broken violins, making sure the players’ uniforms were wrinkle-free, coaching singers, and turning in attendance reports on his musicians.

 
Bet You Didn’t Know
As befitting a high-class servant, Haydn agreed to wear “white stockings, white linen, and either a powdered queue or a tie-wig” and to refrain from “undue familiarity” with the other musicians.

Despite the oppressive list of rules, regulations, and assignments, Haydn realized his good fortune in having an unprecedented degree of musical freedom. He had at hand every composer’s dream: vocal and instrumental ensembles ready to try out every tonal experiment, every new combination of sounds. True, he was cut off from the mainstream of musical life in Vienna, but even that worked to his advantage. As he put it many years later, “I was forced to become original.”

A year after Haydn arrived, Prince Paul died and was succeeded by his brother, Nicholas. He modestly called himself “The Magnificent” because he owned 21 castles and liked to wear jackets covered with diamonds. Eventually Nicholas decided that he needed a little getaway house in the country. So he had a swamp cleared and another palace built, complete with flower gardens, game parks, hothouses, guest cottages, and a hall of clocks with golden cuckoos. It was called Esterhaz.

The bottom line, though, was that Nicholas loved music as much as his brother, so Haydn’s job was safe, and for nearly 30 years more he continued pouring out a glorious series of sonatas and symphonies and quartets. When Prince Nicholas died, leaving his musically indifferent son Antal in charge, musical life at Esterhaz began to fizzle and Haydn knew it was time to move on.

Fortunately, a British bigwig in the concert world, the violinist and impresario Johann Peter Salomon, offered Haydn a package deal that included commissions for a dozen new symphonies, various conducting gigs, and publication contracts.

 
Bet You Didn’t Know
The story goes that Mozart cautioned his friend Haydn about going to a foreign country so late in life, pointing out that he didn’t know a word of English. “My language is understood everywhere,” said Haydn, and started packing.

In London, his new symphonies were wildly successful, the audiences cheering so long and loudly that whole movements often had to be repeated. Haydn was wined and dined, and given an honorary doctorate from Oxford University. He didn’t know enough English to give a speech of thanks, so he just took off his scholar’s gown and waved it at everyone. Haydn also gave command performances at more than two dozen parties thrown by the Prince of Wales and even sang for the king and queen.

 
Bet You Didn’t Know
Haydn had a rather unhappy encounter with a London surgeon, one Dr. Hunter, who noticed that the composer had a nasal polyp, and suggested an office visit. Haydn, not understanding English too well, was under the impression he was being invited to high tea. “After the first greetings,” Haydn reported, “several big strong fellows entered the room, seized me and tried to seat me in a chair. I shouted, and kicked them black and blue until I freed myself and made it clear to Mr. Hunter, who was standing all ready with his instruments, that I would not be operated on.” With that, Haydn, his precious polyp intact, made his escape.

When Haydn was in his mid-60s he became homesick and retired to Vienna where he swore off composing symphonies, and contented himself with knocking off masses, oratorios, string quartets, hundreds of songs, and the Austrian National Anthem. In 1805, a London newspaper printed his obituary, starting a period of international mourning that continued until Haydn himself gently pointed out that he was “still of this base world.” “How can I die now?” he asked, “I have only just begun to understand the wind instruments.”

Four years later, Franz Joseph Haydn caught up with the press and left the world. He was wealthy, famous, and revered for his hundreds of masterful compositions. Haydn may not have been the creator of the symphony or the string quartet, but he defined their forms and produced an incredible body of exemplary works that gave music a majestic push down its evolutionary path. Said Mozart, “It was from Haydn that I first learned the true way to compose quartets.”

So much music, so little time. Start with the nicknamed symphonies, since they’re easier to remember, and you’re more likely to encounter them in concerts. On the list: the aforementioned
Farewell
(no. 45),
Surprise
(no. 94),
Horn Signal
(no. 31),
Hen
(no. 83),
Oxford
(no. 92), and the magnificent final four: the
Military
(no. 100),
Clock
(no. 101),
Drum Roll
(no. 103), and
London
(no. 104).

The Trumpet Concerto is a treat, so is the D Major Harpsichord (or Piano) Concerto, and you’ll find other concerto delights for oboe, horn, cello, and organ. The Trios for Piano, Violin, and Cello make wonderfully lighthearted listening, while any of the String Quartets would be perfect for more intimate moments. Here, too, you might do well to start with some of the titled quartets, such as the
Lark
(op. 64, no. 5),
Emperor
(op. 76, no. 3), and
Sunrise
(op. 76, no. 4).

They say it’s not over till the fat lady sings, so open your ears to Haydn’s mighty oratorios,
The Creation
and
The Seasons
, and some of the other sacred scores, including the bright-hued
Coronation Mass
or the heartfelt
Mass in Time of War
.

He may not have been the giggling cutup portrayed in the Oscar-winning film
Amadeus
, but Mozart (1756–1791) was certainly not the model of temperance that Haydn was required to be. On the other hand, Haydn was in awe of his younger colleague. “Friends often flatter me that I have some genius,” he said, “but Mozart stood far above me.” And in a letter to Mozart’s father, Leopold, Haydn referred to Wolfgang Amadeus as “the greatest composer known to me, either in person or by name.”