Subtle Violin Colors in Brahms

Recently a dear friend sent me a recording of Johannes Brahms' Violin Sonata No. 1 in G major, Op. 78, made by the German violinist Isabelle Faust and Russian pianist Alexander Melnikov. It is a lovely, introspective performance of the sweet "Rain" sonata, so nicknamed because it sets melodic ideas that Brahms also used in his Regenlied (Rainsong), Op. 59. Yet there are fiery moments too. Both musicians are wonderful, but I was especially interested in the violin playing. Ms. Faust is not only a world-class artist who plays both modern and period violins, but a musical thinker who devotes herself to extensive research in advance of her performances, studying all the historical sources she can find for every work she plays, whether those be autograph manuscripts, early editions, or letters.

In a 2013 review for The Guardian, Anna Picard beautifully described Ms. Faust's sound—not in this recording but in other performances by the violinist—as possessing "stillness of focus and purity of sound". In the Brahms Op. 78 recording, I was astounded and delighted by subtle variations in timbre, or sound color, resulting from the violinist's sensitive and carefully chosen use of vibrato. Brahms' sonata received its premiere performance in 1879; we know from the great violin teacher Carl Flesch's discussion of the technique that continuous vibrato was not yet in general practice even in the early 1900s (from the seventeenth century well into the nineteenth, it had been considered an ornament). Writing in the 1920s and 1930s, Mr. Flesch says of the Belgian violinist Eugène Ysaÿe's vibrato that it "followed closely every mood of his admirable personality", but that it was Fritz Kreisler who "started a revolutionary change in this regard, by vibrating not only continuously in cantilenas [melodic lines] like Ysaÿe, but even in technical passages." Therefore Ms. Faust's decision not to use vibrato continuously in the earlier Brahms sonata seems just right.

What for me was a revelation was Ms. Faust's playing of double-stops or even complete chords with straight, vibrato-less tone. I realized suddenly that double-stops or chords when left to themselves—not enhanced by any tone-warming technique—provide not only harmony as we all know and expect, but special colors of their own. They widen the sound-universe. I invite you to listen for these magical moments in Ms. Faust's and Mr. Melnikov's recording. They occur, for example, in the first movement at 1:04 and 4:01. There are wonderful contrasts between vibrated single notes at 1:51 and plain ones at 1:59, and notice the unadorned rising scale starting at 3:01. The movement’s stunning conclusion is without vibrato, from 9:59. In the second movement, hear the passage from 13:41 to 14:46! These are but a few of the colors in Ms. Faust's subtle and varied palette.

[Carl Flesch's words, from a translation of his monumental work, The Art of Violin Playing (originally in German, published in two volumes in Berlin from 1923 to 1939) are as translated and quoted in Performance Practice Vol. II: Music After 1600, ed. Howard Mayer Brown and Stanley Sadie (Norton/Grove Handbooks in Music, 1989), p. 461. Ms. Faust's and Mr. Melnikov's recording of the Op. 78 sonata was originally released in 2008 and again in 2016 by Harmonia Mundi. Both play period instruments in this performance, which also includes the Brahms Horn Trio, Op. 40 with Teunis van der Zwart, horn.]

Photo by Alexandra Eddy

Music and Words

For several years I taught a university course called "Music and Words". The subject is vast (oh, wonderful!), and I pointed it toward relationships between sounds and words, which themselves of course contain both sound and meaning.

Among our topics was the music of poetry itself, in its myriad combinations of sounds and rhythms. In regard to this, word-sounds and rhymes always come to mind first, and they can be used in many ways, some quite obvious to us, others subtler. Ben Jonson's "Queen and Huntress", from his comedy Cynthia's Revels (1601) composed in homage to Queen Elizabeth, opens with the following stanza. We can easily enjoy its regular rhythms and cheerful end-rhymes: fair, sleep, chair, keep, light, bright.

Queen and huntress, chaste and fair,

Now the sun is laid to sleep,

Seated in thy silver chair,

State in wonted manner keep;

Hesperus entreats thy light,

Goddess excellently bright.

[https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44451/cynthias-revels-queen-and-huntress-chaste-and-fair.]

By contrast, the first few lines of Seamus Heaney's lovely "Blackberry Picking" from Death of a Naturalist (1966) contain just as much sound-music, but assembled in subtler ways. This kind of poem plays music my ears love, yet it is tricky to explain why it sounds like music! It is the small groups of words with similar sounds (partial rhyme): a few are August given; given heavy; given rain sun; For full; glossy clot. And then the slightly pounding rhythm of short words in line 4: red, green, hard, knot.

Late August, given heavy rain and sun

For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.

At first, just one, a glossy purple clot

Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.

[https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/50981/blackberry-picking.]

One of the most astonishing achievements in word-music, I believe, is George Herbert's "Easter Wings" from The Temple (published 1633, the year of his death). The poem takes as its subject the Christian story of sin and redemption. Its music is subtle, yet clear. It is easy to find end-rhymes, but what is spectacular is the arrangement of lines, whose changing lengths create a brilliant rhythm.

Each of the two stanzas is printed in the shape of a pair of wings; long lines gradually become shorter and shorter, and then increase. But this is not just a treat for the eyes! In line 1 of stanza 1,  mankind is created in the Garden of Eden, full and noble, surrounded by "wealth and store". Immediately in line 2, "he lost the same" (a shorter line!). He decays line by line, becoming smaller and smaller and more cramped because of his loss, until he is finally "most poore". But he will be redeemed: he starts tiny ("with thee"), and rises up, becoming gradually larger, flying up to heaven along with angels in longer and longer lines, until the "wealth and store" of his original condition are restored.

If we read the poem aloud, listening to the lengths of the lines, we discover Herbert's poetic achievement: to embed the story itself  in the rhythmic music of the words!

Lord, who createdst man in wealth and store,

      Though foolishly he lost the same,

            Decaying more and more,

                  Till he became

                        Most poore:

                        With thee

                  O let me rise

            As larks, harmoniously,

      And sing this day thy victories:

Then shall the fall further the flight in me.

 

My tender age in sorrow did beginne

      And still with sicknesses and shame.

            Thou didst so punish sinne,

                  That I became

                        Most thinne.

                        With thee

                  Let me combine,

            And feel thy victorie:

         For, if I imp my wing on thine,

Affliction shall advance the flight in me. 

[Norton Anthology of Poetry, 3rd ed. (New York and London: W.W. Norton, 1983), p. 254 and https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44361/easter-wings. Some notes about word-meanings: "this day": Easter; "the fall": of Adam and Eve from the Garden of Eden; “imp”: from medieval falconry; additional feathers were “imped” (grafted) onto a hawk's wing to enable it to fly more strongly.]

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Jean-Marie Leclair, Sonate IV à deux violons and T.S. Eliot, Landscapes

Photo by Alexandra Eddy

Beauty

When I was eighteen years old, I wrote a treatise on Truth, by hand, laboriously. It has not survived, I am grateful to say. But I remember my conclusion: that there was no such thing as Absolute Truth (much as I had longed for it and tried to prove it), only various relative truths.

Most of the world now takes relativity in all things as an axiom, in part because we can reason our way to its conclusions. But I no longer agree: Truth does exist. The trick is that it does not yield itself, at least not as a whole, to logical explanation. Rather it is found—among other places—in Beauty, whether of music, or words, or paintings, or certain ceremonies, or natural things. This is a very old idea; we might associate it with the writings of the 18th-century Irish author, orator, and philosopher Edmund Burke in A Philosophical Enquiry into the Origin of Our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful (1757; here is an early 20th-century edition). Mr. Burke associated Beauty, found in something pleasing and of lovely form, with a category he considered higher: the Sublime, which is so powerful that it can instill in us not only joy but even terror. Mere Beauty, for him, was far less a thing than Sublime Beauty, and some things that were Sublime were not beautiful.

What is interesting in Mr. Burke's way of thinking is that Beauty, if Sublime enough, calls out deep emotion—and, I myself would add, profound spiritual experience. It might invite us to an intense joy, or it might make us uncomfortable or even frightened as it overwhelms us, pulls us deeper into itself. In our fraught and violent present world, in our frantic domination by speed and technology, it does us good to contemplate this Beauty. It is a slow kind of Truth that presents itself to us whole, as transcendence. We find it by a difficult move: reaching upward, courageously putting our own selves aside.

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Photo by Alexandra Eddy

A Treasure of the Past

If you have visited Chicago, you have probably stopped at the famous Water Tower, but do you know about a treasure of the past just a mile from there? A magnificent building with a Baroque-style interior, this is St. John Cantius Catholic Church at 825 N. Carpenter Street. It was designed by the German-born architect Adolphus Druiding and completed in 1898 through the efforts of a devoted Polish immigrant community.

Enter the church, and you walk into an opulent beauty of marble and painted stone, rich decorations and stained glass, all suffused with a golden glow. Stay for a service, and you will experience Catholic worship performed in the old way, with both the priest and the congregation facing toward the altar. Listen, and you will hear the glorious, uplifting music of Mozart, Beethoven, and other Classical composers.

You are lucky: if you had visited in the early 1980s, you would have found a disintegrating, sad building slated for demolition, in a ghetto-like neighborhood ruined first by the stock market crash of 1929 and later by lengthy construction projects that made it difficult even to get to the church. But starting in the later 1980s, gradual improvement of the neighborhood and the heroic efforts of Pastor C. Frank Phillips brought huge numbers of new parishioners to St. John Cantius. Dedicated to their beautiful church, they raised funds and donated their own work toward its restoration. What you see today is its original glory. Watch this moving story here.

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St. John Cantius Church Photo by Alexandra Eddy