The complete idiot's guide to classical music (21 page)

Many music lovers try, whenever possible, to hear a work interpreted by its creator. Even if other artists have better voices or greater powers at the keyboard, it’s always fascinating to learn how the composer really wanted the piece to go. Thanks to early recordings, we can actually listen to Grieg playing one of his piano pieces, or Gershwin sauntering through the “Rhapsody in Blue.” What wouldn’t we give to hear Bach playing his
Italian Concerto
, or Liszt tossing off one of his
Hungarian Rhapsodies
. Ah, dream on . . .

There’s a delightfully comic little piece called the “Toy Symphony,” delightful because it uses a cuckoo whistle, ratchets, and other toy instruments. There’s also a whimsical portrait of a “Musical Sleigh Ride,” complete with jingling bells (in German it’s called, you should pardon the expression, “Schlittenfahrt”). Both pieces were composed by Leopold Mozart, who obviously imparted his sense of musical humor to his son Wolfgang Amadeus, not to mention bringing him up with careful training and strict discipline.

Alternately domineering and nurturing, this 18th century stage father not only encouraged the musical talents of his amazingly gifted son, but schlepped the tiny Wolfgang all over Europe starting in 1762, when the six-year-old prodigy astonished the Elector in Munich and captivated the Empress Maria Theresa in Vienna. Later they continued on to equal acclaim at the courts of Paris, London, and Rome.

 
Bet You Didn’t Know
In London, Johann Christian Bach (Johann Sebastian’s son) said that Wolfgang’s playing “surpasses all understanding and all imagination”; but the stuffy Royal Society didn’t believe him and dispatched one of its members to determine the truth. He accordingly ordered Wolfgang to play and sing music he was given for the first time, to compose in various styles, and even to play with the piano keys covered. In due course, the Honorable Daines Barrington submitted a paper to the Society expressing his own astonishment at the eight-year-old Wolfgang’s prodigious abilities. He also added a personal note: “Whilst he was playing to me, a favourite cat came in, upon which he immediately left his harpsichord, nor could we bring him back for a considerable time. He would also sometimes run about the room with a stick between his legs by way of a horse. . . .”

At this point, Mozart could sight-read virtually anything that was put before him. He improvised brilliantly, turning opera tunes into piano “fantasies” (a practice Beethoven would emulate, and Liszt turned into a whole cottage industry). He wrote dozens of sonatas, variations, and fugues for piano (plus 17 organ sonatas), and 24 piano concertos, which he would frequently embellish upon for on the spot during performances.

Was Wolfgang really the churlish, giggling mischief-maker that we met on stage (1979) and screen (1984) in
Amadeus
? The music historians and mavens are still arguing about that one, but even the much-honored Antonio Salieri, Mozart’s chief rival (and possibly worst enemy) at the Viennese court, had to admit that Mozart was an unexcelled virtuoso, an improviser without peer, and a guy who wrote a lot of pretty good music into the bargain.

A recent
New Yorker
cartoon showed Ludwig van Beethoven (1770–1827) scowling over the piano keys in an elegant drawing room, while one fashionably dressed listener whispered to another, “His music is good, but can’t he comb his hair and smile a little?” Even without the film
Amadeus
, it’s easy to picture Mozart laughing and having fun. So much of his music has a lighthearted sparkle and the kind of graceful charm that puts a smile on the listener’s face. But Beethoven? Liszt compared Beethoven’s work to “the pillar of cloud and fire which guided the Israelites through the desert,” while Bizet referred to Beethoven as “this Titan, this Prometheus of Music.” (Prometheus was the Titan who defied the gods by giving mortals the gift of fire, and was punished for it when Zeus chained him to a mountain. He was finally freed by Hercules, but that’s another legend.)

 
Important Things to Know
Beethoven was a memorable character. He angered many of those around him with his manner even as he guided music into the 19th century with his fiery gifts of composition and performance. He saw himself as alone against the world, he railed against the niceties of manners, and with equal disdain, broke the musical rules laid down by pedants of far lesser gifts. He is famous for his refusal to submit to his deafness, continuing to compose long after he could hear the results. His inner torments colored both his life and his music.

Pushed by his father, Johann van Beethoven, who hoped to get rich quick by exhibiting his son as another Mozart, Beethoven was forced to learn the harpsichord, organ, viola, and piano, and to perform in concert at the age of eight (although his father pretended the lad was only six so his achievements would seem more impressive). Ludwig soon realized that while his most important creative outlet would be composition, he had to make a living, and even as a teenager, he was earning money as an instrumentalist. He became much in demand as one of the first virtuoso pianists, both at court and in the homes of the Viennese aristocracy. Even though he didn’t smile a lot.

 
Bet You Didn’t Know
Count Ferdinand Ernst Gabriel Waldstein, one of Beethoven’s first patrons, also helped the young composer to his first great success. At an elegant soiree, the Count announced that he had in hand the manuscript of a new trio by an anonymous composer. Beethoven played the piano, while two other guests volunteered for the violin and cello parts. A five minute ovation followed the performance, and the guests became wildly curious about the identity of its creator: The piece seemed too ardent for Haydn, too weighty for Mozart. Eventually, Count Waldstein gave credit where it was due, to the pianist Beethoven, who had just premiered what would later be published as his Opus 1, no. 1 Trio in E-flat.

Beethoven continued to write extensively for the keyboard, his works increasing in complexity and dramatic sonority as improvements to the instrument itself gave the piano sufficient power and flexibility to accommodate his ever-expanding ideas. His 32 piano sonatas (not to mention the 10 for violin and piano and the five for cello and piano), plus the five immortal piano concertos, rank among the milestone works of classical music.

Think of the aura surrounding Madonna or Michael Jackson today; that’s how many listeners looked upon piano virtuosos in the Romantic era. This, remember, was the age of individualism, of poetic extravagance, of breaking away from conventional manners and mores. For many a listener, hearing a high-powered virtuoso in action was as much an emotional experience as it was a musical one.

Liszt’s father was a good amateur musician who taught young Franz to play the piano in their comfortable home. Giving a recital in a small Hungarian town, the 9-year-old Franz impressed a group of noblemen so much that they organized a fund enabling the lad to study with Czerny in Vienna. Liszt proved to be a remarkably adept student, making his concert debut two years later, and while never a child prodigy in the Mozartian mold, he already was a composer at the age of 12, a touring pianist at 14, and a neurotic at 16 (who alternated between bouts of deep depression and periods of religious fervor, during which he considered both suicide and becoming a monk).

 
Music Word
Opus
comes from Latin, and means work. When it’s attached to a number, it usually signifies the chronological order in which a composer’s piece was published. The first is Opus 1, the second Opus 2 and so forth. When several works are grouped together as a unit (the 12 Etudes in Chopin’s Opus 10, for instance), a second number is used to indicate their place in the sequence: Opus 10, no. 4, or Opus 10, no. 12.

 
Bet You Didn’t Know
To give you an idea of Liszt’s incredible output, his 1,000-plus exercises were published in three volumes and seven different opus numbers (299, 300, 335, 355, 399, 400, and 500, if you really want to know). The umbrella title was
Complete Theoretical and Practical Pianoforte School
, which is enough to scare anybody. Czerny also published an arrangement of Rossini’s
William Tell
Overture for 32 hands at eight pianos.