De Falla, Suite from El amor brujo (Love the Sorcerer)
Most of de Falla’s music before 1920 was deeply rooted in Spanish traditions, especially those of his native Andalucia. Evidence of this can be heard in his opera La vida breve, which premiered in Paris in 1913. Two years later, he introduced Madrid to the first version of El amor brujo, which was even more heavily influenced by the sounds of flamenco song, dance, and guitar idioms. The work was not well accepted in Madrid. However, the following year Manuel de Falla (1876-1946) revised the score, producing the successful version we now know.
El amor brujo, a ballet with song, has to do with a gipsy girl haunted by the specter of a dead lover. She is troubled to the point that she can not return the love of a new suitor. The girl persuades another gipsy girl to help her distract the ghost with her charms. The belief is that if the new couple can seal their love with a kiss, the specter will have no further power. The plan succeeds, and the final kiss disposes of the ghost for good.
Certain high points of the 13-movement suite are important. De Falla’s genius for nocturnal tone-painting comes through in “The Cave: Night Time” and “Midnight: Witchcraft.” In contrast, other movements express the wildness verging on savagery of gipsy dance and of the ghost’s jealousy: “Introduction and Scene,” “Dance of Terror,” “The Scene,” and especially the famous “Ritual Fire Dance.” One writer describes this dance as “smoky trills, wailing oboes, baying horns, pounding chords on the piano.” The musical roots of that music are the garrotines, which were secret rituals celebrated by the Gipsies of Granada’s Sacro Monte. Positive relief from these movements comes in the placid “Magic Circle: The Tale of the Fisherman,” “Pantomine,” and the bright “Finale: the Bells of Morning.”
Piazzolla, Tangazo
The work of Astor Piazzolla (1921-1992) has been aptly summarized as breaking with the traditional form of the Tango in the same ways Ravel broke with the Waltz and Gershwin with the Blues. The “traditional form of the Tango” is a dance-song of Argentina developed before the 20th century out of such antecedents as the Cuban Habanera, which has a similar rhythm. Sudden, almost violent movements characterize this dance, performed by couples in a tight embrace. Similarly, the music contains sudden contrasts in rhythm and dynamics. Sentimentalized by American films, the “real” tango often contains song texts of an intensely emotional tone — sensual and bittersweet.
In many ways, Piazzolla was like an Argentine combination of George Gershwin and Aaron Copland. Learning first the bandoneon (a button accordion), Piazzolla became interested in elevating his native Argentine music to the level of European art music. He studied piano with Sergei Rachmaninoff and composition with Nadia Boulanger, only to be shunned in Argentina for attempting to revolutionize the national dance. Eventually, the Argentines understood and respected his music, and he went on to compose national operas and music for Argentine films and to present significant concerts in Buenos Aires and on the international scene. Piazzolla contributed music to the Marlon Brando film, “Last Tango in Paris,” and his last recording, Five Tango Sensations, remained at the top of the classical music chart for over a year.
Piazzolla composed Tangazo in 1967 on a commission from the Buenos Aires Music Ensemble, who played it during their U.S. tour. The music begins with an eloquent cantilena in the low strings leading to a lovely, lyrical answer by the violins. Gradually, this section unfolds as an essay in sad, deep longing, with mutual commiserations between upper and lower strings. Now, a bright, colorful, rhythmically lively section begins, focusing on woodwinds with a percussion accompaniment. The cheery, carefree spirit of this music dispels the mood of the opening for a while. Sentiment takes over in the horn and flute solos, as the music gradually becomes more “popular” sounding. A lush string statement seals off this mood as a light percussion group begins a gentle, seductive invitation to the dance. However, before the dance can warm up, a sudden silence leads back to the sadder melodies of the oboe and the horn. The cheery, carefree music also returns now, and we are treated to a refined climax of restrained excitement led by colorful combinations of instruments, always involving percussion. The music makes a polite curtsy and then exits.
Rodrigo, Concierto de Aranjuez
One of the most popular works in the classical repertoire is the Concierto de Aranjuez. People who know nothing of Mozart, Bach, or Beethoven have heard this concerto. Some, not even knowing its title, can hum the famous melody of its Adagio. This concerto was composed, of course, by Joaquín Rodrigo (1902-1999). It brought him world renown and made him a national treasure to Spain at a time, following the Spanish Civil War, when Spain very much needed national treasures. Composed in 1939 in Paris, the concerto was dedicated to Regino Sainz de la Maza, who premiered it the following year to immediate critical acclaim. This very colorful work suddenly came to represent the pinnacle of Spanish nationalist music.
The concerto begins simply enough, and the dominating force in the first movement is rhythm. With patterns of shifting accentuation, the “insistent rhythmic surge” (as Rodrigo puts it) animates the movement throughout.
The Adagio is considered by many to be the most hauntingly beautiful composition in all of guitar history and, indeed, its popularity has led to several popular and jazz adaptations. Rodrigo writes of the movement’s “mournful dialogue” between the guitar and orchestral soloists, notably the English horn.
The third movement returns to a spirit of shifting rhythmic impulse, this time in the form of a rococo-flavored court dance. Its “light, effervescent quality” is maintained throughout the buoyant finale.
The Concierto de Aranjuez was named for the lovely royal palace and grounds located between Madrid and Toledo. While the work is not programmatic in the strict sense, the composer has stated his intention to evoke the feeling of court life at Aranjuez around the turn of the 19th century, a period reflected in the court paintings of Francisco Goya. The retrospective and delicately nostalgic essence of the concerto is summed up by Rodrigo when he likens its sound to the hidden breeze in the tree tops of the Aranjuez parks. He goes on to characterize the work paradoxically with the words, “only as strong as a butterfly and as delicate as a Veronica.”
de Falla, The Three-Cornered Hat
The origins of The Three-Cornered Hat go back to a Spanish folk tale that was variously adapted as a poetic romance, a theatrical zarzuela, and a novel by Pedro Alarcón published in 1875 (the basis for Hugo Wolf’s opera, Der Corregidor). It was the novel that attracted Manuel de Falla (1876-1946), who then composed the music to a pantomime on it. This was produced in Seville in 1917. The following year, Serge Diaghilev, impresario of the Ballets Russes, visited Spain and heard portions of the score to the pantomime. With his infallible talent for sniffing out a masterpiece, Diaghilev enthusiastically commissioned de Falla to expand the pantomime into a full ballet. The result was a successful London premiere in July 1919 with Léonide Massine dancing, Ernest Ansermet conducting, and scenes and costumes by Pablo Picasso (in his first ballet design).
The ballet is in two parts. The scene is in front of the Miller’s house in a small Andalusian town around 1800. The Miller and his wife are happy together, but they occasionally test their love by flirting with others. As the couple go about their chores, various people pass by. Among them is the Corregidor (Governor), wearing an ostentatious three-corned hat, the symbol of his authority. The Miller’s Wife catches his eye, and when he later returns to court her, she toys with him to amuse her husband, who is hiding. Ceremoniously, she greets the Corregidor. She offers him grapes, then teases him amorously with them, causing him to stumble and fall. The Miller appears. As the couple help the Corregidor to his feet and dust him off, he becomes aware of their plot. Angrily, he marches off to the delight of the couple.
The Three Dances all come from the second part. It is evening, and the town has gathered for the feast of St. John. “The Neighbor’s Dance,” a seguidilla, enacts this celebration. Following this comes “The Millers’ Dance,” a proud and masculine farruca that is a highlight of the score. The police come and take the Miller away to give the Corregidor a chance at the wife. Imitating the mannerisms of a Don Juan, the Corregidor begins to cross the bridge to the Miller’s house. Startled by the moonlight, however, he stumbles into the water. He leaves his drenched uniform outside the Miller’s house and hides inside. Soon the escaped Miller returns, sees the clothing, assumes his wife’s infidelity, and decides to take revenge by impersonating the Corregidor, donning his uniform. There follows a whirling comedy of mistaken identities. In the “Final Dance” (Jota) all is set right, and in mock punishment, the villagers toss the Corregidor on a blanket.
PROGRAM NOTES BY DR. MICHAEL FINK
COPYRIGHT 2003 BY NOTES, INC.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
